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Dragon Age: The Veilguard Just Went From A Good RPG To One Of BioWare’s Most Important Games

In light of BioWare scattering some of its most foundational veteran talent to the winds, Dragon Age: The Veilguard sure reads like something made by people who saw the writing on the wall. The RPG leaves off on a small cliffhanger that could launch players into a fifth game, but I’m skeptical that we’ll ever get it. The quickness with which publisher Electronic Arts gutted BioWare and masked it with talk of being more “agile” and “focused” shortly after it was revealed The Veilguard underperformed in the eyes of the power that be makes me wonder if BioWare was also unsure it would get to return to Thedas a fifth time. Looking back, I’m pretty convinced the team was working as if Rook’s adventure through the northern regions of this beloved fantasy world might be the last time anyone, BioWare or fan, stepped foot in it. But that may have only made me appreciate the game even more.

Yeah, I might be doomsaying, but there’s a lot of reasons to do so right now. The loss of talented people like lead writer Trick Weekes, who has been a staple in modern BioWare since the beginning of Mass Effect, or Mary Kirby who wrote characters like Varric, the biggest throughline through the Dragon Age series, doesn’t inspire confidence that EA understands the lifeblood of the studio it acquired in 2007. The Veilguard has been a divisive game for entirely legitimate reasons and the most bad-faith ones you can imagine on the internet in 2025, but my hope is that history will be kinder to it as time goes on. 

A Kotaku reader reached out to me after the news broke to ask if they should still play The Veilguard after everything that happened. My answer was that now we are probably in a better position to appreciate it for what it was: a (potentially) final word.

The Veilguard is just as much a send-off for a long-running story as it does a stepping stone for what (might) come. Its secret ending implies a new threat is lurking somewhere off in the distance but by and large, The Veilguard is about the end of an era. BioWare created an entire questline essentially writing Thedas’ history in stone, removing any ambiguity that gave life to over a decade of theory-crafting. As a long-time player, I’m glad The Veilguard solidifies the connective tissue between what sometimes felt like world of isolated cultures that lacked throughlines that made the world feel whole. But sitting your cast of weirdos down for a series of group therapy sessions unpacking the ramifications of some of the biggest lore dumps the studio has ever put to a Bluray disc isn’t the kind of narrative choice you make if you’re confident there’s still a future for the franchise. 

Unanswered questions are the foundation of sequels, and The Veilguard has an almost anxious need to stamp those out. Perhaps BioWare learned a hard lesson by leaving Dragon Age: Inquisition on a cliffhanger and didn’t want to repeat the same restriction. But The Veilguard doesn’t just wrap up its own story, it concludes several major threads dating back to Origins and feels calculated and deliberate. If BioWare’s goal with The Veilguard was to bring almost everything to a definitive end, the thematic note it leaves this world on acts as a closing graf summing up a thesis the series hopes to convey.

Pushing away the bigotry that has followed The Veilguard like a starving rat digging through trash, one of the most common criticisms I heard directed against the game was that it lacked a certain thorny disposition that was prevalent in the first three games. Everyone in the titular party generally seems to like each other, there aren’t real ethical and philosophical conflicts between the group, and the spats that do arise are more akin to the arguments you probably get into with your best friends. It’s a new dynamic for the series. The Veilguard doesn’t feel like coworkers as The Inquisition did or the disparate group who barely tolerated each other we followed in Dragon Age II. They are a friend group who, despite coming from different backgrounds, factions, and places, are pretty much on the same page about what the world should be. They’re united by a common goal, sure, but at the core of each of their lived experiences is a desire for the world to be better.

This rose-colored view of leftism doesn’t work for everyone. At its worst, The Veilguard can be saccharine to the point of giving you a cavity, which is far from what people have come to expect from a series in which Fenris and Anders didn’t care if the other lived or died. It also bleeds into a perceived softening of the universe. Factions like the Antivan Crows have essentially become the Bat Family with no mention of the whole child slavery thing that was our first introduction to them back in Origins. The Lords of Fortune, a new pirate faction, goes to great lengths to make sure you know that they’re not like the other pirates who steal from other cultures, among other things. I joked to a friend once that The Veilguard is a game terrified of getting canceled, and as such a lot of the grit and grime has been washed off for something shiny and polished. 

That is the more critical lens to view the way The Veilguard’s sanitation of Thedas. To an extent, I agree. We learned so much about how the enigmatic country of the Tevinter Imperium was a place built upon slavery and blood sacrifice, only for us to conveniently hang out in the common poverty-stricken areas that are affected by the corrupt politics we only hear about in sidequests and codex entries. But decisions like setting The Veilguard’s Tevinter stories in the slums of Dogtown gives the game and its writers a place to make a more definitive statement, rather than existing in the often frustrating centrism Dragon Age loved to tout for three games.

I have a lot of pain points I can shout out in the Dragon Age series, but I don’t think one has stuck in my craw the way the end of Anders rivalry relationship goes down in Dragon Age II. This is a tortured radical mage who is willing to give his life to fight for the freedom of those who have been born into a corrupt system led by the policing Templars. And yet, if you’ve followed his rivalry path, Anders will turn against the mages he, not five minutes ago, did some light terrorism trying to free. In Inquisition, this conflict of ideals and traditions comes to a head, but you’re able to essentially wipe it all under the rug as you absorb one faction or the other into your forces. So often Dragon Age treats its conflicts and worldviews as toys for the player to slam against one another, shaping the world as they see fit, and bending even the most fiercely devoted radical to your whims. And yes, there are some notable exceptions to this rule, but when it came to world-shifting moments of change, Dragon Age always seemed scared to assert that the player might be wrong. Mages and Templars, oppressed and oppressors, were the same in the eyes of the game, each worthy of the same level of scrutiny.

Before The Veilguard, I often felt Dragon Age didn’t actually believe in anything. Its characters did, but as a text, Dragon Age often felt so preoccupied with empowering the player’s decisions that it felt like Thedas would never actually get better, no matter how much you fought for it. While it may lack the same prickly dynamics and the grey morality that became synonymous with the series, The Veilguard’s doesn’t just believe that the world is full of greys and let you pick which shade you’re more comfortable with. It’s the most wholeheartedly the Dragon Age universe has declared that the world of Thedas can be better than it was before.

Essentially retconning the Antivan Crows to a family of superheroes is taking a hammer to the problem, whereas characters like Neve Gallus, a mage private eye with a duty-bound love for her city and its people, are the scalpel with which BioWare shifts its vision of how the world of Thedas can change. Taash explores their identity through the lens of Dragon Age’s longstanding Qunari culture, known for its rigidness in the face of an ever-changing world, and comes out the other end a new person, defined entirely by their own views and defying others. Harding finds out the truth behind how the dwarves were severed from magic and still remembers that she believes in the good in people. The heroes of The Veilguard have seen the corruption win out, and yet never stop believing that something greater is possible. It's not even an option in The Veilguard's eyes. The downtrodden will be protected, the oppressed will live proudly, and those who have been wronged will find new life.

That belief is what makes The Veilguard a frustrating RPG, to some. It’s so unyielding in its belief that Thedas and everyone who inhabits it can be better that it doesn’t really entertain you complicating the narrative. Rook can come from plenty of different backgrounds, make decisions that will affect thousands of people, but they can never really be an evil bastard. If they did, it would fundamentally undermine one of the game’s most pivotal moments. In the eleventh hour, Dragon Age mainstay Varric Tethras is revealed to have died in the opening hour, and essentially leaves all his hopes and dreams on the shoulders of Rook. After our hero is banished to the Fade and forced to confront their regrets in a mission gone south, Varric’s spirit sends Rook on their way to save the day one last time. He does so with a hearty chuckle, saying he doesn’t need to wish you good luck because “you already have everything you need.” He is, of course, referring to the friends you have calling to you from beyond the Fade. 

Varric, the narrator of Dragon Age, uses his final word to declare a belief that things will be okay. This isn’t because Rook is the chosen one destined to save the world, but because they have found people who are unified by one thing: a need to fight for a better world. But that’s what makes it compelling as a possibly final Dragon Age game. Reaching the end of a universe’s arc and being wholly uninterested in leaving it desecrated by hubris or prejudice is a bold claim on BioWare’s part. It takes some authorship away from the player, but in return, it leaves the world of Thedas in a better place than we found it.

The Veilguard is an idealistic game, but it’s one that BioWare has earned the right to make. Dragon Age’s legacy has been one of constantly shifting identity, at least two counts of development hell, and a desire to gives players a sandbox to roleplay in. Perhaps, as Dragon Age likely comes to a close, it’s better to leave Dragon Age with a game as optimistic as the people who made it. I can’t think of a more appropriate finale than one that represents the world its creators hope to see, even as the world we live in now gives us every reason to fall to despair.

In my review for The Veilguard I signed off expressing hope for BioWare’s future that feels a bit naive in retrospect. Would a divisive but undeniably polished RPG that felt true to the studio’s history be enough when, after 10 years of development, rich suits were probably looking for a decisive cultural moment? That optimism was just about a video game. Having lived through the past 32 years, most of the optimism I’ve ever held feels naive to look back on. I think I’m losing hope that the world will get any better. But even if we haven’t reached The Veilguard’s idealized vision, I’ll take some comfort in knowing someone previously at BioWare still believes it’s possible. - ken shepard, shepardcdr.bsky.social

[whytheylosttheirminds]

june gloom - r.c.

(Rafe Cameron x pogue!reader, 4.5k words)

summary: After 8 beautiful months tangled up with the richest man on the island, your trist comes to a screeching hault when it's time for him to find a girl more suited to his lifestyle. Even though you tried to move on, a photo of a new girl on his arm sends you both into a spiral that ends with him back in your bed.

content: angst/smut, drinking, smoking, what could be perceived as infidelity but technically isn't. this story is 18+ minors do not interact.

You met him in September, at a nightclub on the mainland. You had been dancing with your girlfriends all night, celebrating your best friend’s bachelorette party. It was the fourth bachelorette you’d been to in a year, now at the age when all of your friends were settling down and getting married. There was no ring in sight for you, though. Your friends would laugh and call you the wild stallion, a running joke among the group that no man could tame you. You never saw the point in marriage. You were stubbornly independent, insistent that you would make your own way in the world, promising yourself you’d never be just someone’s little wife. 

You knew this choice meant you’d struggle a little more than your friends, most of whom ‘married-up’ financially. You didn’t grow up with money, and you didn’t have any now. You had spent your whole life on The Cut and you had no problem spending the rest of it there. If the trade off for living your life however you wanted was hustling and jumping between dead-end jobs, so be it. You were much more interested in collecting stories anyway, always looking for wild nights and strange characters to fill your life with, briefly, not keeping anyone around for too long.

You went out every weekend, no Monday 9-to-5 looming over your fun. You’d brought many guys back to the little shack by the water that you rented, your barely-one-bedroom, as you called it lovingly. All the other bachelorette parties ended up with you bringing some guy back to your apartment for some pretty good sex and a completely ingenuine “I’ll text you sometime.” So when you stepped off the dance floor, sweat making your silk-slip dress cling to your curves, and the bartender handed you a drink that was a gift “from that guy over there” you smiled wide, knowing this night would go exactly as planned.

You smiled slyly at the tall blond in the corner as you took a delicate sip of your drink. He was gorgeous, eyeing you up and down like he was starved for you. His large frame was crowding the booth of the VIP section as he winked and lifted his glass to you in salute. 

This time, there was a problem. This time, the sex wasn’t pretty good. This time, the sex was earth shatteringly incredible. You genuinely didn’t know sex could be that good, that a guy you met at a bar could ever be capable of making you feel so euphoric, or come so hard, so many times. You didn’t know your own body was capable of the things he got it to do. You didn’t think you’d ever want to stay up talking and laughing with one of your hook-ups like you did that night. You didn’t think you’d ever wake up disappointed that the guy from the night before wasn’t in the bed next to you. And you definitely didn’t think you’d ever be the one to pull out your phone and text him first.

After that night, you saw each other regularly. It turned out he lived on the island too, though his estate was on the rich side of town. That first night, he only told you his first name. But when he had you put your number in his phone and text yourself so you’d have his, a note popped up at the top of the text thread that said “maybe: Rafe Cameron.” You recognized the surname immediately, it was everywhere on this island. After he left the second time, you googled him. Thousands of hits came up, articles about his family, pictures of them at their estate, on their yacht, at charity galas and property groundbreakings. Even though you knew his drive back from your place was only a couple of minutes, every night when he snuck out into the darkness, you couldn’t help but feel like he was retreating to a completely different universe.

After a few weeks, Rafe’s late night visits started getting longer and longer. After he’d fold you into shapes you didn’t know you could make and fuck you breathless, you’d lay in your bed, his head on your chest, smoking a joint and talking for hours. You talked about everything, the conversations weaving between casual chats about your common interests, to deep talks about purpose, values, and trauma, to joking around and teasing each other until you were giggling below him and he was smiling into the skin of your neck. 

You’d tell him about your plans to never settle down and keep chasing the next adventure. He’d tell you about his asshole of a father and the grand plans he had for him. Neither of you ever acknowledged how antithetical your life plans were. The truth that nothing real would ever work between you would hang in the air everyone once in a while, but you’d just push away the tension with a joke and fuck again. 

Even though your nights together would bleed well into the early morning, Rafe never stayed over. It was an unspoken rule between you, he never told you he wanted to stay and you never asked him to. You told yourself it was a good thing, exactly what you wanted, as you shivered in your empty bed and cursed the loss of his warmth.

One night, that May, you and Rafe sat on your bed, eating the take-out he had ordered to your apartment after you’d finished fucking. He was quieter than usual, distracted. Just a little earlier, he had gone down on you for longer than he ever had. Taking his time, praising every inch of you with kisses. He whispered little nothings into the soft skin of your inner thighs before devouring you. “So beautiful” and “so good to me, baby” and “all I can fucking think about.” He always talked to you sweetly, saying the nicest words while doing the filthiest things to you, but this time was different. Typically he was rough, which you loved, but this night he moved slowly, without his usual urgency. He brought you to orgasm on his tongue twice, before fucking you in missionary, his forehead against yours as you came at the same time. Since that moment, he’d barely said anything to you outside of asking what you wanted for dinner.

You sat in silence and picked at the Chinese food he’d gotten from your favorite place. You watched him as he shifted uncomfortably on the mattress and twirled a chopstick between his long fingers.

“You don’t like your food?” You asked him hesitantly.

“Hmm?” He looked at you for the first time in several minutes. “Oh, no it’s fine, it’s good.”

His smile was tight as he set the containers on your nightstand, out of the way.

“Really? ‘Cause you didn’t eat any of it,” you pointed out. You hoped your teasing would loosen him up a bit, but he just sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Hey, is everything okay?” You asked quietly, your hand reaching out to gently pat his leg. You had never seen him like this before and had no idea how to proceed.

He looked up at you and leaned back against the headboard, biting the skin around his thumbnail. You were getting nervous.

“Rafe?”

“I, uh, had a talk with my dad today,” he muttered.

“Oh?” You raised your eyebrows in curiosity. “And how did that go?”

“About as good as you might think,” he chuckled humorlessly. 

Even though you didn't know his dad, after the many stories Rafe had told you about his father’s temper and general disapproval of him, you hated him.

You sat in silence, hand still on Rafe’s knee, as you waited for him to tell you more.

“He said, uh…” Rafe stalled, like he was struggling to find the right words.

“He said what?” Your heartbeat quickened in anticipation, the unfamiliarity of his tone throwing your thoughts into chaos.

When he still didn’t answer, you whispered, “Rafe you’re making me nervous.”

He responded to this, clearly feeling bad when he realized he had you on edge. He placed his hand over yours and finally made eye contact with you. You tilted your head and tried to read his expression with no luck.

“He told me he wants to make me the VP of Acquisitions at Cameron Development,” he finally said.

You shook your head slightly as a big smile of relief spread across your face.

“Oh,” you half-chuckled. “Well, Rafe, that's great! That’s what you wanted right?” You placed your other hand on his forearm and shook him playfully. “That’s good news, why are you acting like someone died? Jesus, you scared me!” 

He smiled at the gesture, you knew he liked the way you’d mess with him. But then he straightened up more against the headboard, pulling away from you slightly.

“That’s not all he said,” he explained.

“What else? He’s going to give you a million dollars?” You joked.

“No,” he said sternly, making the smile fall from your lips immediately. “He said if I want this promotion that I need to get my shit together and…settle down.”

“Oh,” your brows furrowed as you considered his meaning, not quite understanding at first. When it hit you, you pulled your hands away from him completely. “Oh.”

“Y/n,” Rafe whispered, observing the way your lips curved down slightly.

“You’re ending this,” you said flatly, gesturing between the two of you.

“I didn’t say that,” he winced.

“But you are, though, I mean you have to,” you had steeled yourself into an impassive tone, trying to come across as unaffected.

Internally, you were on fire, feeling so foolish for how happy and giggly you had just been, oblivious to the fact that you were essentially being dumped.

Neither of you had ever said this was exclusive, you weren’t a couple, there was no commitment made. Still, the way he’d talk while he was inside of you made your head dizzy with the possibility of it all. There was an alternate universe out there somewhere in the cosmos, where he made you his for real, claimed you in public, put a ring on your finger. Sometimes, when he was so deep you were seeing stars and telling you how much he “loved being inside of his girl” you’d allow yourself to get lost in the fantasy, just for a minute.

Then you’d wake up alone, still poor, still a pogue. You’d light up a cigarette and let the smoke engulf your delusions.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “He made it very clear that he expects me to find someone soon, to get married and start a family. I can’t do that with you, obviously.”

Obviously. Your throat tightened at the hurtful assertion.

“Right, obviously,” you agreed. “I mean I’m just a pogue who lives in this shithole and you should be with someone more worthy of you.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Rafe muttered, closing his eyes tight in frustration. “I meant, ‘cause you know, you don’t want all that.” 

You rolled your eyes. “It’s okay, Rafe, I get it,” you scoffed. “This was never meant to be a long term thing anyway, we’re just fucking.” 

It was such a ridiculous assertion, your trist had gone so far past just fucking, but you needed to convince yourself it was true otherwise there was no way you’d make it out of this unscathed. 

Rafe just blinked back at you for a minute before standing from your bed. You were grateful he was moving quickly, the last thing you wanted to do was let him see you cry.

“Right, just fucking,” he agreed. “And I need someone who can run a house and have a family, y'know, and understands my world.”

Every single word felt like a knife in your gut. You nodded like you couldn’t agree more, shuffling down in your bed and pulling the covers up.

“Okay then,” you fluffed your pillow, as if it was any other night and you were just getting ready for bed. “I hope it all works out. This was fun, though. Lock the door on your way out?”

Rafe looked down at you for a few seconds, your back to him as you settled into your pillows. 

“You got it,” he answered. 

And then he was gone. And for the first time in your life, you cried yourself to sleep.

It was June now, a month had passed since the night you last spoke to Rafe. You had started going out even more than you were before you met him. You friends joked that you were alive from the dead, since you had chosen nights in with Rafe over social events for so many months. 

You were dancing at the same club where you met Rafe so many months earlier. You joined a few of your girls at the bar and waved down the bartender for another drink. 

“...posted on her story,” you leaned in to catch the end of your friend’s sentence. The girls were all leaning over to look at something on one of their phones.

“What are we looking at?” You slurred, already a few drinks deep.

The girl holding the phone told you they were looking at the instagram of a local influencer you all knew of.

You made a fake gagging noise. She was one of the richest girls on the island, infamous among you and your friends for her obnoxiously lavish lifestyle and her overly edited social media pictures.

“Ew, why?” you questioned them, accepting your usual drink from the bartender with a wink.

“Look at what she posted tonight,” your friend holding the phone showed you the screen. 

You studied the photo, your grasp around the cold glass got tighter as you took it in, your knuckles going white. It was a selfie - the girl you couldn't stand all done up in diamonds and red lipstick, gazing up lovingly at Rafe Cameron.

There was no caption, just a little heart-eyes emoji and his instagram tagged.

You never told your friends about you and Rafe. You felt strangely protective over what you had with him, not willing to hear any negative feedback about fucking around with a Kook prince. You knew they wouldn’t understand how perfect and intense your nights with him were. They wouldn’t believe that he was funny, sweet, tender. No one would ever know him like you did.

Like you used to know him. 

You took a sip of your drink and tried to act unaffected by the picture. In reality, your world was crashing around you. You knew he’d find his perfect Kook princess eventually, but you didn’t know it would be so soon, or that it would be her. You half-listened as one of the girls explained that she heard from a mutual friend that they weren’t official yet, but you knew they would be soon enough. Everything would go to plan for him, he’d get everything he ever wanted and you’d just watch through a screen. 

After telling your friends you had a headache, you took a ferry back to the island and walked to your apartment in the dark. It was a questionable choice in this part of town, but you needed the early summer night air to clear your brain. By the time you got back to your apartment you were sober, and yet you still felt like you might throw up.

You ran the shower in your tiny bathroom, letting the steam fill up the space and sink into your pores. The hot water turned your skin red and blotchy, but you couldn’t feel a thing.

BANG BANG BANG.

Your eyes flew open and you turned the faucet off quickly, hands shaking in panic. It was nearly 2 a.m. and someone was pounding on your front door. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded lightly over the front door. 

“Who is it?” You yelled, trying to sound as menacing as possible.

“It’s me,” a deep voice answered from the other side. You peered into the peephole, even though you didn’t need to see him to know who the voice belonged to.

Rafe stood on the other side, his white button up untucked and his tie loosened. It must be the same outfit he was wearing in the picture.

Your body and brain both paused, unable to process the shock of seeing him standing under your porch light.

“What do you want?” You questioned.

“Can I come in please?” His voice was strained, weak even.

“Why?” You said with a guarded edge to your tone.

“Y/n…” Rafe pleaded.

Despite every instinct you had, you opened the door.

He looked frenzied, his hair tousled, and the hem of his suit pants splattered with mud. He still looked fucking hot, his sleeves rolled up a bit, revealing his muscular forearms.

“What happened to you?” You asked.

“I walked here.” His eyes flickered up and down your figure, taking in the sight of you in just a towel, licking his lips.

Your stomach tightened at the hunger in his eyes, but the pain of the last month burned fresh in your mind. Getting over him was the hardest thing you’ve ever done, and the long, painful process wasn’t even over yet. Seeing that picture tonight was just another sharp spike in the barbed wire he had wrapped around your heart.

“She couldn’t have given you a ride?” You spat at him.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t need to ask who you were referring to.

“I asked her not to post that picture, I didn’t want you to see that,” he huffed.

“Why not? I knew it was coming." You summoned the same unbothered tone from the night he left you.

“We’re not-” he stumbled over his words, looking down at his feet. “She isn’t my girlfriend…”

“Yet." You jumped to the end of his sentence for him. His eyes flew up to yours. “But she will be,” you surmised with a sad smile.

He doesn’t disagree with you.

“She’s perfect,” you continue. “Gorgeous, rich, part of your world.” 

He sighs regretfully, both of you recognizing the words he said to you a month earlier.

“I know,” he agrees.

“Then why did you come here?” 

He doesn’t answer you, just clenches his jaw and keeps his eyes firmly locked to yours.

“She’s everything you wanted,” you point out. 

He nods his head in agreement again, “you’re right.”

“So then why are you here?” You repeat.

He cocks his head to the side ever so slightly, blue eyes locked onto your lips.

“‘Cause she’s not you.”

You wish it didn’t make your heart race, wish it didn’t make your stomach flip, and you really wish it didn’t make you let out a small, nearly inaudible gasp. His heavily lidded eyes fogged over with need as he studied your face intently. Your gaze dropped from his eyes, to his lips, to his heaving chest, to his wringing hands. He flexed his fingers anxiously, and you wished you didn’t know what they felt like buried inside of you.

Your mind was racing, a million thoughts and most of them were warnings. You knew how this ends, the morning would come and he wouldn't be there. And a year from now they’ll be married and you’ll be haunted by this night. Every self-protective instinct you have left screamed in your head, pleading with you to make the right choice.

You were ready to appease the voices, about to close the door in his face, when his fingers reached towards you and just barely grazed the seam of your towel, tugging slightly with the most restraint you think he’s ever shown. All the noise in your head just stopped. Suddenly there was nothing in the entire world except for the man in front of you.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you breathed out hard and fast before grabbing his face in both of your hands and crashing your lips into his.

He lost it at the sound of his name on your lips and the taste of you on his tongue. His hands landed firmly on your waist, squeezing hard. His lips parted yours and his tongue invaded your mouth, hot and greedy. His hands slipped to your lower back, caging you into him with a flex of his biceps. You let out the sweetest little grunt as you jumped up, your arms and legs wrapping around him so he could carry you.

With you in his arms, he walked into your apartment. Still kissing him, you reached out and slammed the door closed. He let go of you with one hand to reach back and turn the lock, a sign of strength as he held up your whole body with one arm like you weigh nothing. He walked you both through your small apartment, not needing to look where he’s going to find your bedroom.

He bent low to drop you on the bed, you released your grip around his shoulders just long enough for him to roughly rip his shirt open and pull it off. He was back on top of you in seconds, lifting you up to scoot you both up to the top of the mattress. 

As his lips moved to your neck, you realized you’re already falling back into your old patterns, with Rafe controlling the tempo and doing most of the work. The familiarity made you anxious, you had gotten so addicted to the way he commanded your body and you weren’t sure you’d survive another detox. When he started rolling his hips against you, you could feel how hard and ready he was under his slacks, and made a decision.

You reached up behind his head and laced your fingers through his hair, tugging hard to separate his lips from your skin. A gasp passed through his lips at the sensation.

“You want me, baby?” You purred.

His brows furrowed, but he was too desperate to play games.

“So badly,” he admitted.

“You want to be inside of me?”

His eyes rolled back slightly at the sound of your dirty words. When he didn't answer, you arched your back and pressed up into his aching cock, letting the towel open just enough to expose your bare core, your wetness soaking into the soft fabric of his pants.

“I need it,” he groaned. “Need to feel your pussy around me again.”

At this confession, you released his hair and pressed against his chest to roll him onto his back, straddling him. You kissed him again, just as fevered as before. While your mouth clashed with his, your hands undid his belt and he lifted his hips to allow you to pull his slacks down, leaving him in his snug briefs. You bit his lip, smiling smugly when he moaned. You licked a stripe up his neck, loving the salty taste, Rafe already sweaty from how worked up you’ve got him.

You kiss up his neck, until your mouth is pressed into the shell of his ear.

You whispered, “Does she feel as good as me?”

Rafe said your name in warning, clearly not wanting to talk about her while you were on top of him like this.

You pulled his earlobe between your teeth and bit down, making him wince, pleasured by the pain.

“Answer me,” you demanded.

“N-no,” he stuttered as you pressed your hips down hard, your now dripping pussy sliding over the outline of his cock. 

You sat up straight, and he tried to follow you, his head lifting from the pillow, but you laid your hand softly on his chest and pushed him back down.

Rafe watched as you slowly open the towel and dropped it to the floor, revealing yourself completely. He lifted his hands subconsciously, reaching for your tits. You grabbed his wrists and held his hands back, just inches from your skin. 

“Does she make you as hard as I do?” You said with another circle of your hips.

He shook his head back and forth rapidly, relenting to your game. You lowered one of his hands, raising your hips off of him slightly, one more question in mind. 

He inhaled sharply as you dragged his hand against your pussy, his fingers instinctively rubbing with the perfect pressure.

“Does she get this wet for you, baby?”

“Fuck,” he grunted through clenched teeth, “No.”

You leaned back over him, lips hovering over his, your breath intertwined.

“Then fuck me like you’ll never be able to fuck her.”

Rafe’s restraint snapped in half and he flipped you on your back. He ripped his briefs down with one hand, while the other ran over your calf and brought it to his shoulder.

He filled you like only he can, like he was tailor made for you. You clenched around him hard as he pounded into you, eventually lifting your other leg so you could dig your heels into his shoulder. No more words were exchanged, the ecstasy and exertion and emotion all too intense for either of you to form words. 

This is it, you told yourself, tomorrow he’ll belong to her. 

The tops of your thighs pressed into your stomach as he bottomed out over and over again. You hoped he would think the water in your eyes was just a result of the pressure. He must've noticed it though, because he threaded his fingers with yours to soothe you, pressing his forehead against your temple, and panting desperately into your ear.

It only took a few more strokes for you both to come. The last time you heard his voice, he was crying out your name. He filled you completely, and you were still dripping with him when he climbed off of you, pulled his clothes on wordlessly, and left.

You laid still for a long while. No tears came to you this time, a bitter acceptance washing over you. 

He’s gone for good now, leaving you with another wild story to tell and freeing you to throw yourself into the next adventure. And he’ll have a picture perfect life, with the perfect girl.

You both got exactly what you wanted…

…right?

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

part 2

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

[clockwayswrites]

@redghostbirdy Dick/Danny, skeleton shaped sugar cookies cw blood and stitches

Of course Dick still had to take his trash out after getting back from patrol. He was exhausted and wounded, but the trash had really gotten untenable and now had bio-waste in it. He had to take it down to the dumpster. It was almost a compulsion at that point to get it taken care of, or he knew he wouldn’t sleep well. As much as his family teased him about the state of his apartment he had his limits.

So, Dick tied up the bag, tugged it free of the bin, managed to slip on some shoes after a few attempts, and headed out into the hallway. And right into his neighbor.

His hot, brick wall of a neighbor that could totally bench press Dick in all the meanings of that phrase that Dick had totally been thinking a little too much about for the last few months.

“Whoa, careful there, darlin’,” Danny drawled, steadying Dick with large hands on both of Dick’s shoulders. “What are you doing wandering around out here at this time?”

“Um, trash?” Dick said ineloquently and raised the bag a little. The bag which apparently was leaking because his hand was wet.

Dick looked down at his hand and the red blood that coated it. Did his stitches pop?

“Ah, fuck,” Danny cussed and stepped back a little.

(Embarrassingly, Dick almost swayed after him.)

Danny lifted up the edge of his shirt, which may have killed what was left of Dick’s brain functions, to show blood flaked skin and—

“Is that a menstrual pad covering a wound?!”

Danny shrugged. “It’s just a little knife wound and Jess, the bouncer, hand one handy.”

“Oh my god. Just, come on, we’re getting that stitched up or at least bandaged properly,” Dick said. He set his bag of trash down by the door and grabbed Danny’s hand with his clean one to drag the bemused man into his apartment.

Luckily the first aid kit was still out on the little island counter and Dick all but pushed Danny onto one of the stools. Dick peeled the offending pad off maybe a little more harshly than was necessary and found a plastic bag to drop it into.

“I can’t believe that’s what you were using. And you call that little? How did you even get that? You’re the bartender! You’re supposed to be behind the bar.”

Danny just shrugged, an easy going and not at all repentant grin on his face. “I had to stop someone from being a creep.”

Dick just glared, mildly, at him as he washed his hands. He couldn’t really argue with that. He snapped on some gloves instead and set about cleaning Danny’s wound.

“I think this could use some stitches. I can do them, but I can also just get you patched up enough to go to urgent care if you’d feel more comfortable with that.”

“You can do them.”

“…yeah?” Dick asked just to be sure and glanced up at Danny.

Danny shrugged again. “I mean, you do have a very well stocked first aid kit on your counter already. Why was that?”

“Hush.”

Dick covered the area around the wound with a numbing agent while Danny chuckled at the non answer.

“If I promise to be a better patient than your students, do I get a cute bandage?”

Dick smiled despite himself as he threaded the needle. “All the cute bandages are at the gym. Stay still now.”

“Damn,” Danny said, and then waited until after Dick had started the stitches to ask, “What about a lollipop?”

“I might have some jelly beans still,” Dick said, grinning now. He kept his eyes on his work though, not wanting to give Danny uneven stitches.

Thankfully, Danny didn’t need that many and Dick was soon tying them off and taking a step back.

“No fun bandage, no lollipop,” Danny sighed, “what about a kiss to make it all better?”

Dick’s gaze shot up to look at Danny and his cheeky little smirk.

“Or did I miss read things completely?”

Dick rolled his eyes at Danny’s confidence, though it made him smile. “I think a kiss to make it better I can do.”

Danny’s smile turned into a full on grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dick said and leaned in to press his lips to Danny’s.

He tasted like spice, lime, and sugar.

[imaginespazzi]

All Fell Down ~Part 1~

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

* masterlist in collaboration with @azzibuckets *

summary: paige and azzi have never really been just best friends

a/n: Hello, hello my lovies <3 Welcome to Part 1 of mine and Cessa's brainchild. The parts of this fic will be relatively shorter than you're used to from me. In all honesty, we've been playing writing tag and just letting inspiration guide where this story goes but nevertheless, I'm very excited for all of y'all to read it!

It’s almost two in the morning and Azzi’s furiously googling how to save roses from dying. She glances at the vase of flowers whose once beautiful pink hue is giving away to a murky dirt brown color. They’re wilting over the side of their glass container, their soft petals barely hanging onto the receptacle. Azzi wipes furiously at the red hot tears that threaten to blur her vision and she thinks the roses look almost as pathetic as she feels. Her entire team is at the bar -likely drinking and dancing their hearts away as they celebrate their most recent win- and she’s holed up in her room sobbing over fucking flowers. 

The girls had tried everything in their arsenal to have her come along with them. Amari had even dramatically fallen to her knees, swearing she wouldn’t have any fun if Azzi didn’t comply but the brunette had been staunch in her stance. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go out tonight. Really, she thinks the numbing effects of alcohol would have been the perfect ointment for her stupid heart that she’s kept stitched together with a flimsy thread of things will get better; they always do. 

But going out with the team meant going out with Paige. It meant having to watch as the blonde would have the time of her life, laughing and being silly with the rest of their teammates before seeing that large grin slip off her face as her gaze would accidentally lock with Azzi’s. It meant watching her best friend’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before she would quickly turn away, smile returning as bright as ever as she re-entered the chaos. It meant being stricken once again by that wretched, all consuming, feeling that she’s losing Paige. 

It’s all Azzi’s felt for the past two weeks. Really, she’s drowning in it and she keeps looking at Paige, hoping the other girl will throw her a lifeboat but instead the blonde decisively averts her eyes and Azzi feels the water rise further and further above her head. More than anything, Azzi wishes she just knew why any of this was happening. Things had been fine; better than fine. Being at UConn -being at UConn with Paige- was better than any dream Azzi’s mind could have conjured up. Yes, the practices were grueling and yes, her first couple of games hadn’t been quite as prolific as she hoped, that nagging foot injury slowing her down considerably. But every night had ended with Paige’s reassuring smile, her best friend’s hand clasped tightly in Azzi’s and a promise of it takes time Az, we’ll get through it together and that was enough. 

Then they’d gone down to the Bahamas. 

And Azzi had come back with a foot injury that had gotten progressively worse and a best friend who could no longer stand to be in the same room as her. 

She stares at herself in the closet mirror, a sarcastically self-pitying smile taking over her feature as she looks at her tear stained face; her nose is red and there’s dark circles under her eyes. Azzi sneers at the pathetic girl in the mirror, hurling acidic insults at herself in her mind. She wonders how she could possibly have been so foolish, so careless to have lost it all. Because somehow, no matter how tightly she thought she was holding on, she’d let it all slip through her fingers; the game she loved and the girl that it had given her. The girl she loves even more than the game. 

She catches sight of the roses in the mirror; the beautiful pink bouquet that Paige had given her two weeks ago. Azzi can still picture the blonde’s shy smile as she’d sheepishly shuffled her feet in the doorway, can still feel the ghost of Paige’s fingertips brushing against her own as her best friend had handed them over to her. She’d made a silent promise to herself that somehow she’d keep the flowers alive forever just because they were from Paige. 

But the roses are wilting. 

And Azzi thinks, maybe she is too. 

[wittyandobsessed]

𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 | Tim Bradford x Reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | Some violence, slight angst (if you squint).

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘛𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘪𝘮'𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘵 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘱?

The precinct in this part of Los Angeles was large and impressively modern. As you stepped through the front doors, you couldn’t help but look around, taking in your new surroundings. The space was bright, almost sunlit, and it immediately lifted your spirits. It was a refreshing change from your previous office—a cramped, dark room with no windows.

You were just about to approach the officer behind the front desk to introduce yourself when a tall, broad-shouldered man with a commanding presence walked toward you. His dark suit was perfectly pressed, and his badge gleamed against his chest.

"You must be Detective Y/N Y/L/N," he said, his voice deep but friendly.

"That’s right," you replied, shaking the hand he extended. His grip was firm, exuding authority, but his welcoming smile put you at ease.

"I'm Sergeant Grey. It's a pleasure to have you here," he said with a nod. "I was about to start the morning briefing. If you’ll follow me, you’ll have a chance to present your case to the team."

"Of course," you answered, falling in step beside him.

The transfer to this precinct had been a last-minute decision, but one you had no choice but to accept. The case you’d been working on was of the utmost importance, and its threads had led you here. Lieutenant Grey had been nothing but accommodating when you spoke on the phone. He’d assured you that his team would provide the resources you needed to crack this case and bring it to a close.

As you followed him through the bustling precinct, you caught snippets of conversations and observed the officers at work. It was a hive of activity—detectives pouring over evidence, uniforms heading out to their patrols, the hum of phones ringing. The atmosphere felt charged with purpose, and it filled you with a sense of determination.

Tim had started his day like any other—ready to patrol the streets and put bad guys behind bars. It was routine by now, the rhythm of his life as predictable as the sunrise. He was chatting with Lucy, his former rookie, as they made their way to the briefing room. Settling into his usual spot, Tim crossed his arms and leaned back, waiting for Sergeant Grey to start the day’s orders.

The door opened, and Grey walked in, clipboard in hand. But the figure following him stopped Tim in his tracks. His body went rigid, and he uncrossed his arms, sitting up straighter in his chair. His eyes locked on you, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Beside him, Nyla Harper, ever perceptive, noticed his sudden change in demeanor. She leaned toward him, her voice low. "You good?"

Tim didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was racing, caught somewhere between disbelief and shock. It had been years since he’d seen you, years since your lives had drifted apart. And yet, there you were, standing just a few feet away, looking almost exactly as he remembered. The flood of memories hit him like a tidal wave—familiar, bittersweet, and overwhelming.

Sergeant Grey’s voice broke through his haze. "Detective Y/L/N has been transferred here to assist with a high-priority case. I expect everyone to give them their full cooperation. Detective, the floor is yours."

Tim watched as you stepped forward, your posture straight but your hands clasped tightly—a small tell he remembered from all those years ago. You’d never liked speaking in front of a crowd, and that hadn’t changed.

"Good morning, everyone," you began, your voice calm but carrying the faintest hint of nerves. "I’m Detective Y/N Y/L/N, and I’ve been assigned to this precinct to work on a case involving stolen art pieces. As you may know, there’s an upcoming exhibition here in LA in a few days, and we have reason to believe the suspect is planning to make an appearance. We don’t have much to go on—just that the media has dubbed him..."

You paused, glancing at the file in your hands before continuing, "...‘The Phantom.’ He’s believed to be a white male in his thirties, highly skilled, and meticulous. So far, he’s evaded capture, but our goal is to change that."

As you continued outlining the details of the case, Tim found himself staring, unable to tear his eyes away. You were older now, more poised and confident, but the spark he’d always admired about you was still there. And then it happened—your gaze swept across the room, scanning the faces of the gathered officers, and landed on him.

For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Your voice faltered mid-sentence, the words slipping from your mind as recognition washed over you. Your heart skipped a beat, then picked up a frantic pace, pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. Tim Bradford. The name echoed in your mind as you struggled to process his presence.

His expression mirrored your shock, his blue eyes wide, lips slightly parted as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. The moment felt both fleeting and endless, and it was all you could do to keep your composure. You forced yourself to look away, back to the faces of the other officers, but the damage was done.

Clearing your throat, you picked up where you’d left off, though your voice wavered slightly. "As I was saying, this case requires discretion and coordination. I’ll need everyone on high alert, especially during the exhibition itself."

Tim didn’t hear much after that. His mind was stuck in the past, replaying memories of you—the way you laughed, the way you challenged him, the way things had ended. 

As you wrapped up your briefing and stepped back to let Sergeant Grey take over, Tim’s thoughts spiraled. He hadn’t seen you in years, hadn’t expected to see you ever again. And yet, here you were, standing right in front of him, bringing with you all the feelings he thought he’d buried a long time ago.

Nyla nudged him. "Hey, you’re staring," she whispered with a smirk.

Tim shook his head, pulling himself together, but his jaw tightened as his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer. This day had taken an unexpected turn, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for what came next.

The debrief wrapped up with Sergeant Grey assigning tasks and dismissing the room. As the other officers shuffled out, Nyla Harper didn’t move from her seat next to Tim. Instead, she leaned back, arms crossed, her eyes locked onto him with the kind of knowing look that made him immediately uncomfortable.

“So,” she began, drawing out the word. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”

Tim didn’t flinch. “What are you talking about?” he replied, keeping his tone steady, his no-nonsense demeanor firmly in place.

Nyla raised an eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb, Bradford. I saw the way you tensed up the second Detective Y/L/N walked in. And then the look you two exchanged during the debrief—yeah, I’m not blind.”

Tim sighed, rubbing the back of his neck but refusing to meet her gaze. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, his voice clipped. “Let it go, Harper.”

But Nyla wasn’t one to back down. “Oh, it’s definitely not nothing,” she shot back, her smirk widening. “I’ve worked with you long enough to know when something’s rattled you. And that rattled you.”

Before Tim could shut her down, Lucy appeared at his side, her curiosity written all over her face. “What’s going on?” she asked, glancing between the two of them. Then, as if piecing it together, she grinned. “Wait—this is about Detective Y/L/N, isn’t it?”

Tim groaned internally, knowing there was no escaping now. “Drop it, Chen,” he warned, his tone sharp. But Lucy was undeterred, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

“No way,” she said, leaning closer. “Come on, Tim, spill. Who is she? An old flame? An ex?”

“High school,” Tim admitted grudgingly, cutting her off before she could keep guessing. “We went to high school together. That’s it.”

Lucy’s jaw dropped, and Nyla leaned forward, her interest piqued. “And?” Nyla prompted. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

Tim hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “A long time ago. It’s been years.”

Both women exchanged a look before turning their teasing grins back on him. “Well, well, Bradford,” Lucy said, her tone playful. “This is... unexpected. I didn’t think you had a high school sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” Nyla added with a smirk. “It’s always the stoic ones, isn’t it?”

“That’s enough,” Tim said firmly, his no-nonsense tone cutting through their amusement. “You’ve had your fun. Now, Chen, go prep the equipment for the patrol. Harper, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Nyla chuckled, standing up and stretching. “Fine, fine. But this conversation isn’t over,” she said, pointing a finger at him before sauntering out of the room.

Lucy gave him a cheeky smile before following orders, leaving Tim alone to gather his thoughts.

As he walked through the precinct corridors toward the motor pool, Tim kept his head down, replaying the awkward exchange in the briefing room. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice you coming from the opposite direction until it was too late.

“Bradford,” you said, your voice even, stepping back slightly after the accidental bump.

“Detective Y/L/N,” Tim replied, his tone professional, though there was an undeniable tightness in his voice.

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, the air between you thick with tension. You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, your expression polite but guarded. “I didn’t mean to hold up the hallway,” you said, stepping slightly to the side.

Tim nodded, shifting slightly as well. “No problem. Happens.”

There was a pause, long enough to feel noticeable. You searched his face, looking for any hint of what he might be thinking, but he kept his features neutral, his stance rigid. It was just like him, you thought, always putting up walls when emotions were involved.

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence, “it looks like we’ll be working together. I look forward to it.”

Tim’s jaw tightened slightly before he nodded. “Yeah. Same here. Welcome to the team.”

Neither of you mentioned high school, the past, or the way things had ended between you. The unsaid words hung heavily in the air, but neither of you made a move to address them.

“Good luck on the case,” you said, your tone light but clipped, as if trying to distance yourself from the awkwardness.

“You too,” Tim replied, stepping aside to let you pass.

As you walked away, Tim glanced over his shoulder briefly before shaking his head and continuing toward the car. The professionalism had been maintained, but the tension—unresolved and heavy—remained.

During their patrol, Tim and Lucy stumbled upon a lead regarding the elusive art thief entirely by accident. What started as a routine stop for coffee turned into an unexpected discovery—a name tied to a suspicious hotel reservation. Tim immediately informed Grey, who looped you into the situation. With the pieces falling into place, a plan was set in motion, and you and Tim were paired up to follow the lead.

The drive to the hotel was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the police radio. You kept your eyes on the road ahead, pretending not to notice how Tim glanced at you every now and then. The tension between you was suffocating, like a thread pulled taut, ready to snap at any moment.

When you arrived at the hotel, the two of you approached the front desk, flashing your badges as Tim asked about the room in his no-nonsense, authoritative tone. The clerk nervously confirmed that the suspect had checked in but hadn’t been seen in hours.

Now, standing outside the door of the suspect’s room, the air felt heavier. You could feel Tim’s presence beside you, solid and unyielding as always, a contrast to your own restless energy.

“Alright,” Tim said, his voice low and professional. “We wait. If he comes back, we take him quietly. No risks, no unnecessary moves.”

You raised an eyebrow, your tone tinged with challenge. “Quiet and subtle, huh? Because suspects always just walk right into custody.”

Tim’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s called procedure, Y/L/N. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall near the door. “Procedure doesn’t always get results. Sometimes you have to think outside the box, take risks.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thinking that gets people hurt,” Tim snapped back, his blue eyes narrowing.

The tension between you was palpable now, years of unresolved feelings bubbling to the surface. You both fell silent, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on the narrow hallway.

“Still cautious and by-the-book,” you muttered under your breath, unable to stop yourself.

“And you’re still impulsive,” Tim shot back, his voice low but sharp.

You turned to face him fully, frustration evident in your expression. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Not everyone wants to live their life tied to rules and plans, Tim. Some of us actually want to experience things, take chances.”

Tim scoffed, shaking his head. “And where has that gotten you, exactly? You’re standing right here, doing the same job as me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the sting of his words left you momentarily speechless. The memories of your past arguments—so similar to this one—flashed through your mind. Back then, you were the dreamer, chasing the thrill of life’s possibilities. Tim had been the anchor, dedicated to his studies and his future. Your perspectives had clashed over and over, each of you stubbornly refusing to bend for the other. It had torn you apart, despite how much you’d loved each other.

Before you could fire back, Tim spoke again, his voice softer this time. “I’m just saying... not everything needs to be a risk.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “And not everything can be planned, Tim. Life doesn’t work like that.”

Another heavy silence settled between you, the weight of your shared history making it impossible to fully focus on the task at hand.

Finally, Tim broke the silence, shifting slightly. “Look, we’re here to catch this guy, not relive the past. Let’s just focus on the job.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Fine. Strictly professional.”

But as the minutes stretched on, the awkwardness only grew, each moment filled with the kind of tension that came from knowing someone too well—and not knowing them at all anymore. Neither of you mentioned the past, the arguments, or the brutal way things had ended. But the echoes of those memories lingered in every glance, every exchange.

The sound of footsteps down the hallway snapped you both to attention. Your hands moved instinctively to your weapons, your argument momentarily forgotten as the suspect rounded the corner.

For a fleeting second, your eyes met Tim’s, the tension replaced by silent understanding. Whatever had come between you, whatever unresolved feelings still hung in the air, you knew one thing: when it came to the job, you could rely on each other.

And for now, that had to be enough.

The arrest of the thief had been a small victory, but any sense of accomplishment was short-lived. During the interrogation, the pieces began to fall into place, revealing something much larger than either of you had expected. This wasn’t just a series of petty thefts; it was a massive art trafficking operation spanning cities, maybe even countries.

The stakes were suddenly higher, and the pressure to act swiftly was palpable. With another lead in hand, you and Tim were assigned to follow up, bringing you once again into uneasy proximity.

The drive to the old warehouse was quiet, the tension between you filling the silence like a storm cloud ready to burst. Neither of you had addressed the simmering undercurrent of unresolved emotions, and now wasn’t the time. Still, the weight of it made every shared glance feel heavier than it should.

Tim broke the silence as the warehouse came into view. “We go in quiet. No risks. If this is as big as it looks, we don’t want to tip anyone off before backup arrives.”

You bit back a retort, nodding instead. The sight of the dilapidated warehouse, its rusted exterior looming in the dim light, was enough to quell your instinct to argue. You both knew the risks, and for once, you agreed on caution.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint, metallic tang of rust. Your flashlight beam swept across rows of crates and shelves, each stacked with treasures that should have been in museums or private collections, not hidden in a forgotten corner of the city. Paintings, sculptures, artifacts—billions of dollars' worth of stolen art surrounded you, the scale of the operation staggering.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, your voice hushed as your eyes scanned the priceless hoard.

Tim nodded, his jaw tight. “This is bigger than anything we thought.”

But before either of you could take another step, the sound of footsteps echoed through the warehouse. Then came the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.

“Get down!” Tim hissed, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind a stack of crates just as bullets ricocheted off the metal shelves around you.

The air filled with the deafening roar of gunfire. Your heart pounded in your chest as you crouched behind the crates, adrenaline surging through your veins.

“We’re pinned!” you shouted over the noise, peeking out to assess the situation.

Tim was already working on a plan, his face grim. “Stay here,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“No way,” you shot back. “We’re in this together.”

Before he could argue, another barrage of bullets forced you both lower. Tim pulled you into a safer corner, shielding you as much as he could.

“Stay down,” he said, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “I mean it, Y/N.”

But staying still wasn’t in your nature. As Tim fired a few rounds to keep the men at bay, you noticed a stack of crates teetering precariously near your attackers. Thinking quickly, you grabbed a length of metal pipe and swung it at the base of the stack. The crates toppled with a deafening crash, scattering the gunmen and buying you and Tim a precious few seconds.

“Go, now!” you yelled, pulling Tim toward a different set of cover as the chaos unfolded.

When the gunfire finally subsided, Tim leaned against the wall, catching his breath. His gaze flicked to you, his expression a mix of frustration and gratitude. “That was reckless,” he said, his voice tight.

“But it worked,” you countered, adrenaline still coursing through you.

Tim shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “You’ve always been like this. Always jumping in without thinking about the consequences.”

You arched an eyebrow, your tone sharp. “And you’ve always been the one playing it safe. Good thing we balance each other out.”

Before he could respond, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air, signaling the arrival of backup. Tim exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“Thanks,” he said finally, his voice softer. “For saving my ass back there.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “We’re a team, right? You’d do the same for me.”

Tim’s expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I would.”

The moment hung between you, charged with more than just the adrenaline of the fight. But before either of you could say anything else, officers began flooding the warehouse, securing the scene.

As you watched the operation unfold, the weight of what had just happened settled over you. The danger had been real, too close for comfort, but it had also forced you and Tim to rely on each other in a way that felt oddly... natural.

The precinct’s parking lot was quiet, the hum of the city muffled in the cool evening air. The adrenaline from the stakeout had faded, leaving you with an exhausted calm. Tim stood a few steps away, leaning against his car, his hands in his pockets. His usual guarded expression was softer now, almost contemplative.

“You did good tonight,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, but there was something vulnerable in the way he avoided meeting your eyes.

“So did you,” you replied, folding your arms as you leaned against the car next to his.

He hesitated, then glanced your way. “I was scared for you,” he admitted quietly. The words seemed to cost him something, his jaw tightening as if bracing for a response.

The confession caught you off guard, the raw honesty cutting through the usual stoic exterior he wore so well. “Tim…” you started, but he shook his head, looking down.

“It’s not like me, I know,” he said. “But seeing you in the middle of that chaos tonight, knowing how close things got… It made me think.”

He trailed off, his words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, he pushed off the car. “I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

As he turned toward his car, you acted on impulse, reaching out to grab his wrist. “Tim, wait.”

He stopped, his hand stiff under yours, his body tense. His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw the same mix of frustration, hurt, and confusion that had been simmering between you for years.

“I can’t keep pretending this is just professional,” you said, your voice firmer than you expected. “Not after everything. We need to talk about what happened. About us.”

Tim’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Y/N, this isn’t the time—”

“No, Tim,” you interrupted, stepping closer. “We’ve been avoiding this for years. You walked away, and I’ve never understood why. I deserve to know.”

The tension between you spiked, the weight of your unresolved history pressing down on both of you. His eyes searched yours, his frustration evident. “You want to know why?” he said, his voice rising slightly. “Because I couldn’t keep up with you. You were always dreaming bigger, wanting more. And I—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think I was enough. Not for you, not for the life you wanted.”

You stared at him, stunned. “Tim, that’s—” You swallowed hard, your own emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “That’s not fair. You didn’t even give me a chance to decide that for myself. You just… left.”

His shoulders sagged, and for a moment, he looked completely worn down. “I didn’t know how to handle it. You had all these plans, these goals, and I was just… me. Sticking to what I knew, following the rules, doing what I thought I was supposed to do. I thought I was holding you back.”

Your grip on his wrist loosened, but you didn’t let go entirely. “You weren’t holding me back, Tim. You were my balance. I needed you. But when you left…” Your voice wavered, and you forced yourself to keep going. “I felt abandoned. Like I wasn’t worth fighting for.”

He looked away, his expression pained. “You were worth it. You always were. I just didn’t see it then.”

The weight of his words hit you hard, the lingering hurt mixing with the vulnerability in his voice. “I’ve learned a lot since then,” you said softly. “About what really matters. I used to think I had to choose—my career or my personal life. But I don’t. You can have both, Tim. You just have to want it enough to make it work.”

He finally looked at you again, his eyes filled with regret. “I should’ve fought harder for us. I see that now. And if I could go back…”

“You can’t,” you said, cutting him off gently. “But we’re here now. So what do we do with this?”

Tim was silent for a long moment, the weight of your question hanging heavily in the air. His eyes flicked between yours, searching for something—maybe understanding, maybe courage. Finally, he let out a shaky breath and stepped closer, the space between you disappearing.

“I don’t know how to fix everything I messed up,” he began, his voice raw, almost a whisper. “But I know one thing. I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Not back then, not now. And it’s been hell trying to pretend otherwise.”

The confession hit you like a tidal wave, your heart racing in your chest. You hadn’t expected him to say it—to admit the very thing you’d been too afraid to hope for. For a moment, you were frozen, your mind spinning with emotions you couldn’t fully process.

But then you acted on instinct, closing the final gap between you and pressing your lips to his.

Tim stiffened in surprise at first, his breath hitching, but it lasted only a second. The next thing you knew, his hands were on your waist, pulling you closer as he melted into the kiss. It was everything you’d remembered and more—warm, consuming, and filled with the emotions you’d both kept buried for so long.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, his eyes still closed as if savoring the moment. His voice was barely audible, but the honesty in it was unmistakable. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again,” he admitted, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as if afraid to let go.

You smiled softly, your hand coming up to rest against his cheek. “We’re here now, Tim. That’s what matters.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tension between you eased, replaced by something far deeper. This wasn’t just a tentative step forward—it was the beginning of a second chance. And this time, neither of you intended to let it slip away.

[ddejavvu]

eddie brock wanting to go out with reader, so she dresses up but venom takes over and compliments her in his own weird ways <3

Your ring nearly snags a thread on the inside left cup of your dress, and you carefully retract it before it can tear the garment. There's a lace edge beneath your bra that's itching something fierce, and you can't wait to take the dress off tonight.

Or, of course, have it taken off of you.

"Eddie?" You call through the apartment, now peering down at your necklace as you try laying it against your chest in a particular way, "Ready to go, babe?"

"Yeah," He calls from the kitchen, the soles of his dress shoes clicking against the wood floor as he comes to find you, "I was thinking we could- woah."

His abrupt stop makes you glance up, and he's got his eyes glued to your dress. It's a new one, a rich brown hue that drapes down your frame like you're a modern-day Jessica Rabbit.

I take it you like the dress," You laugh, watching Eddie's cheeks go pink. He needs a moment to recover, and you're patient enough to give it to him, but venom isn't.

With a series of ungodly squelches the symbiote envelops your boyfriend, sharp, jagged teeth already set in a grin that barely holds back his massive tongue. His eyes are narrowed and it makes his grin that much more predatory, a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I do not know why Eddie will not talk." Venom leans in, hulking figure crowding your own smaller one, "But I want to. You look delicious. You look like chocolate."

"Yeah?" You grin at Venom, fingers fiddling with the silky fabric of your dress, "Thanks, Venom."

"Do you know what I do to chocolate?" Venom leans in farther still, until you can feel his breath fan over your face. He's intoxicatingly large, and your vision is entirely taken up by him.

"I do," You laugh, reaching up to cup his cheek, "I've found enough massacred remains of hershey bars around this place to know you're not gentle with them."

"I would like to do that to you." Venom's tongue comes out to lick over his teeth, a slimy, dripping, circular path, "But for your comfort I think that we should do it on your bed."

"Not right now," You lament, leaning your forehead against his and kissing the space where his nose should be, "We have to eat first. But maybe you can arm wrestle Eddie for me later, big guy."

"I would win an arm wrestle." Venom boasts, thinking literally instead of picking up on the broader meaning of your words, "Eddie is a weak loser."

"A weak loser who's paying for my dinner tonight," You pinch at Venom's arm, though you're sure it doesn't hurt him, "Lemme see him again, V. We can't be late to this place or we'll lose our table."

Venom is very polite with you. He follows orders seamlessly, shrinking back into Eddie until the man's tanned skin breaks through the black goop that had been swarming it. He's on you in an instant, hands against your hips and nose knocking into yours, "You think I'm a weak loser?"

"No!' You laugh, kissing the smile he's trying to tamp down in the name of dramatics, and wriggling from his grip to grab your helmet off of the counter, "I just think Venom could beat you in an arm wrestle."

"It's true," Eddie calls after you, jogging to catch up as you head for the door, "But it's not nice!"

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

141 and König crying in front of the reader for the first time? Can be angsty, can be sweet. Just how would that look like? Short lil blurbs would be MUCHOOO apriciated! ☺️

Hey! I can do this. I did a little mix of both. Hope this is what you were looking for😊🩷

141 + König Crying For The First Time In Front Of Reader

Warnings: crying, swearing, slightly angst, fluff

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Simon Ghost Riley-

You and Simon were taking a bath together, enjoying each other's company after a long week. You were facing him, legs planted firmly around his waist as you ran a bar of soap along his body.

Your eyes followed the bar as you began to observe the various scars that littered his torso. You'd seen them in passing, but your eyes never lingered on them like they were now.

Simon's breath hitched slightly as the feeling of the bar was soon replaced by your fingers, tracing over one of the larger scars that marred his skin.

Your fingers traced thoughtfully any scar within reach, and Simon watched how you admired each of them. Your bottom lip tucked in between your teeth as you traced a particularly large one.

"There is nothing ugly about you. You're so beautiful, Simon." You murmured, your eyes still transfixed on his scars, your fingers continuing to dance on his abdomen.

"You tryin' to memorize them?" He teased, his hands falling to rest on your arms gently.

"I want to know everything about you. Down to the last scar." You spoke, your eyes not lifting from his skin.

"They are the ugliest part of me."

Simon's world came crashing to a halt the moment those words left your mouth. Beautiful? You thought he was beautiful? Simon had been called a multitude of things, but beautiful? Never.

When you finally lifted your eyes back up to him, you were surprised to find a few stray tears rolling down Simon's cheeks. 

"Simon? Are you alright?" You asked, your voice dripping with concern. You'd never, not once, throughout your entire relationship seen the man cry and it broke your heart. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

Simon said nothing, only pulled you into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. Before you, he'd never had anyone touch him like you were just now. The gentleness of not only your voice but of your touch had Simon's cold heart thawing rapidly. You made him feel unequivocally safe, safe from the years of torment that followed him, and loved beyond a shadow of doubt.

"You make me feel like I'm worth loving." His voice came barely above a whisper next to your ear as he continued to hold you.

"That's because you are, Simon. More than you'll ever know."

König-

König awoke with a start, his heart stammering out of his chest. He looked over to you, in hopes to find some solace, but it did little to ease his racing mind.

You awoke moments later to the sounds of slight sniffles and heavy breaths from next to you.

"Kö? Honey, are you okay?" You asked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you sat up.

"You were…you were gone…and there was nothing I could do." He breathed out, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to regain his composure. He was sitting upright, and his grip was iron tight on the sheets in front of him.

Panic attacks weren't an uncommon occurrence for König, but this seemed to be taking a heavier toll on him than normal. 

"König, baby, what happened? Did you have a nightmare?" You asked as you gently cupped his cheek, turning it so he was facing you.

Your heart shattered as you took in his tear stained cheeks, something you'd never witnessed on him before. "Kö, talk to me."

"It felt so real, Maus. You were..you were dead. Right in front of me. And I couldn't save you." His body racked slightly with silent sobs as he threw his head into his hands. "They killed you. You were dead."

"Honey, I'm right here. Come here." You spoke, pulling your large husband into your arms. He laid his head against your chest, and you began to thread your feelings through his light brown locks, soothing him gently. "I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here."

You could feel Königs breathing begin to go back to normal, but he continued to cling into you as if you'd dissapear if he let go.

"Don't ever leave me, Maus." He spoke, his voice shaking slightly. "I can't live without you."

"I'm not going anywhere, Kö. I'm yours." You continued to massage his head soothingly before feeling his chest rise and fall deeply, signaling he fell asleep.

He awoke the next morning to find that he was still tucked into your chest, your arms still firmly wrapped around him. He decided it wouldn't be such a bad idea to sleep in, just a little longer.

Kyle Gaz Garrick-

"You don't have to go on this mission, Kyle. Even John said that it's optional. Our anniversary is next week. Does that mean nothing to you?" You felt tears beginning to form in the corner of your eyes as you watched your husband pace the kitchen.

"Y/N, you're not listening to me. It's not like I have a choice. It will make me look bad if I say no." Kyle exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"We always have choices, Kyle." Your voice was eerily calm, and it scared the shit out of him. "It's obvious I'm not yours."

"Babe, please don't make this out to be something it is not. You always do this. My job is important to me."

"And I'm not?" You asked, your voice shaking. "I..I can't do this anymore."

"What?" His heart dropped into his stomach at your words as he made his way toward you. "Don't say that."

"I'm going to go out for a bit. Clear my head." You gently pushed him away as you made to grab your car keys.

"Y/N, wait we need to talk about this." He rushed toward you, grabbing your wrist gently. "Please."

"There's nothing to say that hasn't been already said. I just need some air." You pulled your wrist away from him, and left the house.

~

You came home a few hours later, after some much needed alone time to parse through your thoughts.

"Kyle?" You asked, walking through the front door. "I'm home."

You made your way into the living room and found Kyle on the couch, his face stained red with tear marks.

"I…I thought you left me." He spoke, aggressively wiping away at the remaining tears. "I didn't know if you'd come back."

"Oh Kyle, I wouldn't have left you, not like that." You said, sitting next to him on the couch. "I just needed some air before I said something I'd regret. I just don't want to fight anymore."

"I don't, either. And I really, really don't want to lose you Y/N. I can not imagine my life without you." He grabbed your hands gently, holding them in his as he spoke. "I'll call of the mission. I was so wrapped up in impressing Price I didn't give a second thought to our anniversary, I'm so sorry."

"I know your job is important, but sometimes it feels like it's all that matters to you." You said, your eyes flickering down to your joined hands.

"That's not true at all, and I'm so sorry you feel that way. I'm going to do everything in my power to prove otherwise. I love you so much."

You gave him a warm smile before engulfing him in a tight embrace. "I love you too, Kyle."

John Price- 

John's heart was leaping out of his chest. He'd just gotten a call from Simon while he was driving home after a mission, letting him know the base had received a ransom letter, saying that they had you in their custody.

John had never driven so fast in his life, his hands white knuckling the steering wheel as he drove well over the speed limit to get to your shared home.

~

"Y/N?" John called out, barging through the front door. His heart dropped when he heard no immediate answer. "Y/N, where are you?!"

He sprinted across the entire home, frantically looking for you, to no avail. He felt tears begin to pool at his eyes as he dropped to his knees on the floor. He'd never be able to live with himself if you'd gotten hurt because of him. You were his everything.

It was a few moments later when he heard the front door opening, and the sound of rustling bags.

"John! Baby, I didn't know you were coming home early. I would've been here!" You called out, walking through the front door, your hands filled with grocery bags. "I was just out doing some grocery shopping."

John felt the immense weight on his shoulders immediately vanish upon hearing your sweet voice and quickly turned to validate that you were, in fact, here, right in front of him. 

"Sweetheart?" You saw a few tears fall down his cheeks as he huffed out a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself. 

Your heart shattered as your eyes fell on his face. You'd never seen him cry before and didn't know what to do as tears continued to pour down his cheeks. "John, honey, are you okay?"

He stood and ran toward you, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could, his mind still not comprehending that you were there, that you were safe. "I thought they had you."

"Who? I'm safe, John. I'm here." You spoke, wrapping your arms around your fiancees' shoulders. "I'm okay."

"I was told that a group of mercenaries took you for ransom. I thought you were gone." John stood like that for some time, his firm grip not easing up in the slightest. "I'd do anything for you, you know what right?"

"I know. And I would do anything for you." You said, pulling away slightly to wipe at his wet cheeks.

"Let's go away this weekend. You and me." He set you down, watching your brows furrow at his words.

"John, I'm okay, we don't have-"

"I want to. I want to get away from the world, from this place. Just be you and I. Let me have that. Let me at least have a few days where I know you're safe." He pressed a kiss to your temple before smiling down at you. "Please."

"A weekend away with you doesn't sound so bad." You giggled, laying your head back down onto his chest.

"Damn right, it doesn't."

Johnny Soap MacTavish-

"Quit jittering MacTavish, you're even making me nervous." Simon teased, shoving the groom playfully.

"Away an bile yer heid. What if they changed their mind?" Johnny couldn't control the anxiety he was having. He'd heard of wedding day jitters, but swore he wouldn't have them. How wrong he was.

"They love you, Johnny. I know they'll be here." Simon patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't know what git in their right mind would marry you, but what do I know."

Johnny's retort died in his throat as the music began, signaling your arrival. He clasped his shaking hands together in front of him, his eyes making their way to the aisle.

Johnny felt his breath hitch in his throat as you made your appearance, you looking as beautiful and radiant as ever, making your way down the aisle toward him. 

Unable to control his array of emotions, he felt tears begin to pool in his eyes as he kept his eyes locked on you. You'd never looked more beautiful than you had in that moment, and the fact that you were about to commit yourself to him and him alone for the rest of your life had Johnny nearly in a fit of tears.

Your smile was lighting up the entire room, and he was unable to keep his eyes off of you. The whole moment felt surreal to him, and he couldn't possibly think of a moment where he'd been happier than he was right now. The tears continued to stream down his face as you made your way down the final bit of the aisle to him.

When you finally made your way to him, the person who walked you down the aisle gave your hand to Johnny, and he swore he felt his heart stop beating at the way you looked at him.

Johnny had been through hell and back in his life, and the one constant beacon of hope, of light, was you. He'd never made any better decision, than the one he made to marry you.

"You look so beautiful, sweeheart." He cooed, a few final stray tears running down his cheeks. "I can't believe we are getting married."

"No cold feet?" You teased, your smile still melting his heart.

"Never."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[wearysparrows]

Never Quite Heaven

ao3/masterlist

Part 1 (here) / Part 2

Summary: After he had rejected your initial advances, you and Sylus had become the closest of friends. But your relationship still takes on a shape neither of you can quite define. Sylus regrets. You’re kept in the dark.

cw: AFAB reader, term 'sister' is used, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, hurt and no comfort, Suggestive Themes, Cigarettes (Sylus smoking), depictions of Sylus hurt and healing, Sylus POV and your POV, no use of 'Y/N', reader is MC, written in snippets, Not Beta Read

Sylus had been your closest friend for years now.

When the two of you had first met, you had tentatively hoped for the possibility of more between you. Sylus had everything going for him – and what did you have to lose? After the deaths of Caleb and Gran, hardly anything fazed you, anymore. You had joked about the prospect once – you and Sylus as a couple, in the early days. He had quickly dismissed the possibility, telling you not to be delusional. You didn’t need to be told twice. One rejection from Sylus was enough for a lifetime. Still, he insisted on staying in your life, so much so that he carved out a permanent place in it. The two of you carried on as friends, and had grown into a deep, easy closeness that only the passage of time could bring. The wound had smarted, initially, but now it only occasionally ached with a dull thud, like an old scar you accidentally raked your nails over.

Sylus had come at your request to an upscale bar, following along with your intentions to meet up with your other close friend – Tara. There wasn’t any reason for you to invite him, but you did. It felt wholly unnatural to be away from you, anyway. Sylus always came. It was as if you were one of his essential organs – your removal would spell his end.

You had frequented this place so often that Sylus had opted to purchase the bar. The alcohol was replaced with something of a higher quality, the lights dimmed just a little. You had complained of their burning blue fluorescence, once. Now, they glowed a soft yellow. You had commented on the changes, seeming pleased, but were none the wiser to his meddling. Sylus said nothing of it.

He had one arm perched innocuously on the dark wood of the booth behind your back, fingertips just barely a ghost on the skin of your shoulders. A touch that told others you were his – even if you yourself weren’t aware of it. The booth was large enough that he could spread his legs wide, and his knee touched your thigh under the table. None of this seemed to faze you in the slightest. You were deep in conversation with your friend, gesticulating excitedly with one hand. Your other, ever needing something to occupy it, had been threading its fingers in and out of one of his belt loops, repeatedly. Tugging on it. Stroking the etched leather of his belt, dragging a nail over the texture. He let you, wordlessly. You always touched him like this – mindlessly, assured that it didn’t affect him. He watched the curve of your lips as you spoke, as you drank from your straw, as you opened them to eat. The soft spread of the muscle of your thighs on the deep green leather of the booth seat. His pants had been uncomfortably tight for nearly the entire night. He never lost his composure in front of you, though. Composure was something he was very, very good at. He had been given nearly infinite time to practice, after all. Still, he didn’t need you seeing him like this. He excused himself with a low word to the restroom to collect his faculties.

Sylus thrust the cold running water from the sink onto his face with open palms. It cooled his skin, and his nerves. He was so tightly wound around you. And he was always around you. His arms, the span of his body, his spirit. His muscles were endlessly taught with his grip on his self control. Sylus looked at his reflection in the mirror. Nothing was out of place. You looked best standing next to him, and he next to you. This body, clad in leathers instead of scales, moved with singular purpose.

His pupils had returned to a normal degree of dilation. The tightness in his pants was beginning to ease. He adjusted his belt, touching the places your fingers had left their traces. Exhaling through his nose, he stepped with trained silence back out into the adjoining hallway. As he walked, Tara’s voice reached his ears, just on the other side of the adjoining wall.

“Why don’t the two of you date? I mean, the only thing that would change would be the addition of sex, right? Everything else, it’s like you’re already together. You have his black card in your wallet, for fuck’s sake.”

Tara’s question made Sylus stop in his tracks. The hallway to the restrooms hid him from view, and he leaned against the wall there, listening intently for your response. Your voice, the sound he adored so much, more than any other. You spoke of him. 

“Remember when I called you years ago after I first met him? He told me I was–”

“Delusional? Yeah, I remember. Don’t you think he could have changed his mind by now? That was a long time ago. Have you ever brought it up?”

Barbs weaved and clenched around Sylus’s insides at the memory. He hadn’t been truthful in that moment – he was a creature that hadn’t experienced love for an age, and suddenly having it thrust in front of him from the one he desired the most – he lashed at it. His words had been biting, teeth snapping at the one person he didn’t want to sink them into. He had been more than careful never to imply anything of a similar nature since. Now he was careful. Calculated. He became everything you needed, and a little more. You molded him now as you had then.

“No way. He just doesn’t see me like that. I mean, I’ve been practically naked in front of him more times than I can count, and he never bats an eye. I think he sees me like a sister, or,”

Sylus’s hearing was so acute that he could hear you pause to swallow your drink. He could hear it slide down your wet throat. Even from this distance, he could catch the faint sound of your heart beating in your chest, so long had he been attuned to its particular rhythm. The delicately powerful sound of your existence. Supporting your body that had carried you through so many trials and tribulations. You had only become more beautiful for it, and Sylus had the grand privilege of watching you change and grow.

 Your words, however, caused him to pinch the bridge of his nose. A headache threatened to overtake him. Never bats an eye? He must be doing an excellent job of hiding his true feelings for you. So much so that it had only driven home his original lie further, a permanent nail in his chest. Even just the sight of you getting into the passenger seat of his car (an ancient thing with a stick shift, because you said you liked men who drove them,) got him half-hard, let alone the times he had seen you practically naked. But he would rather have shot himself in the chest a hundred times over, feeling the flesh sew itself up over and over again than make you feel uncomfortable with that knowledge – so he held back. He was always holding back. Restraint had become second nature, the thing he wanted most tantalizing him all of the time. He had an iron fist around the shape of his desires. Sylus found any excuse to keep you as near as possible. He had endless excuses, endless reasons to be by your side. He made certain he was the only man you needed in your life. And you had grown to need him. Of this, at the very least, he was certain.

“No, that’s not quite right. Maybe I’m like, a concept to him?”

The barbs dug themselves further into Sylus’s insides, twisting, threatening to shear him in two completely. Your habit for reducing yourself in the ways of which he thought of you was a particularly nasty one. Not even a sister, but a concept? He couldn’t fathom what dark directions your mind must have taken to draw that conclusion. Sylus was angry – not with you, but with himself. He had dug his own grave, years ago. As if he wasn’t thinking of you all of the time. As if he didn’t acquiesce to your every whim. As if he hadn’t modified Mephisto to watch your every move, to ensure your safety when he couldn’t attend to it personally. As if he didn’t give you everything you asked for – which wasn’t much. He wished desperately that you’d ask him for more. That you’d be a little greedier with him. If you had asked for his still beating heart, he would have torn it from his chest and given it to you. But you did no such thing. It rotted inside him, instead.

Sylus wasn’t a man who was free from sin – and he knew you knew that, too. But you didn’t know how he kept other men away from you – intercepted their paths, ensured no one ever got close. Those others who had predated his entrance in your life were allowed to stay only because he knew you would never forgive him for removing them from yours. You would know it was him, even if he did the work to make it look like an accident, because your mind was endlessly sharp. There was your work partner, with a certain darkness behind his eyes that you didn’t seem to acknowledge. Your doctor, who had chosen his life path to change the course of your own. That artist friend of yours who had attended your college as a professor, watching you from a distance. He had vetted them all, and couldn’t quell his jealousy or suspicions of their place in your life. But despite all your acuteness, your hypervigilance that you couldn’t turn off, earned through struggle –  you seemed not to notice the way they looked at you. Sylus did, because they were the same eyes that he had for you. He knew you needed people other than himself, emotionally. Friends. Coworkers. That was healthy.

All he wanted was you.

Sylus peeled himself from the wall, righting himself into his usual posture of confident ease. He returned to the booth, and leaned close to you to speak into your ear. Your instincts were sharp – he knew you heard his approach, even after a few drinks. From his vantage point, he could see the glowing drip of the red gem you wore around your neck decorating the slope of your collarbones. A gift from him. You never took it off, anymore. He spoke against your ear. Softly, gently. It came as barely a rasp.

“We should head out soon, kitten. It’s getting late.”

He felt you lean into his words, against his lips, like you were trying to hear him better over the din of the other patrons. So close that he could have licked the shell of your ear, had he let himself. How many times had he wondered about the taste of your skin? Of your insides? There were nights where he watched you sleep – and he had practically outright told you as much. You were wholly unperturbed, teasing him for it, instead. Telling him he needed to rest more, but not too much, because you liked those dark circles under his eyes.

“Damn, you’re right. Let’s go before it gets too cold out.”

You had turned to him to speak, and now the soft line of your mouth was practically touching the side of his own. Sylus thought about grabbing your chin. About putting his tongue down your throat. 

He righted himself instead, admiring the soft curve of your back from behind as you stepped out of the booth after him. His hand frequented your lower back, especially in a crowd. You were saying goodbye to Tara, hugging and ensuring her that you would see her outside of work again soon. Even the top of your head was perfect. It was what he saw the most when you weren’t looking up at him with boundless depths of trust in your eyes. So sure of him were you that he could hardly stand to keep up the facade of lack of feelings – but he must to keep you by his side. Selfishly, selfishly. 

He couldn’t betray your trust with the burden of his own emotions. There was nothing to do but bury his love in the hot sand.

Sylus had stepped outside for a smoke, and you had insisted on coming with him. You could have stayed inside, protected from the stinging nettles of the winter air, but so used to Sylus’s presence were you that being away from him was a strangeness you were unwilling to bear. Linkon’s buildings, dark and made of fragile glass, towered over your view of the sky. Sylus was leaning against a wall of red brick, looking like he was born from the sulfurous fires of Hell itself, all red and white. He lit a cigarette, long and black. Cloves, which he liked so much. The scent clung to him, if only you came close enough to inhale it. He used the lighter you had purchased as a gift for his birthday the previous year to spark it up. The engraving on it read thus:

‘WHEN I GO TO HELL

COME WITH ME.’

 Soft snowflakes had begun to fall from the dull greyness of the air, the large kind that seemed amalgamations of many little ice crystals.You shuddered, despite your jacket and scarf. The cold was creeping underneath them. There was a time in your life, before Sylus, when you would have intentionally sought the feeling of the breeze tearing your skin from your flesh. Not now. You felt Sylus turn towards you, and you met his gaze. The lit cigarette was hanging from his mouth, and the red of its end was nearly the color of his eyes as he looked at you. A color that burned. He opened his coat. 

“If you’re cold, just tell me.”

You settled into his open coat without question, your back leaning against him. He wrapped it around you with his free hand, keeping it closed around the two of you. You could feel the hard line of his muscles underneath the places where your bodies touched. Capable, unwavering. He was the embodiment of assurance in your life, always heeding your call.

“I don’t need to tell you. You can basically read my mind at this point, anyway.”

Sylus chuckled at your response, a sound that made you feel secure in him. His warmth was already radiating into you. You weren’t certain that Sylus even got cold – it was like the jacket was merely a formality. You were frequently inside of it, flush against him, like now. The snow melted on him before it could touch you.

“If I could read your mind, my life would probably become much easier.”

His voice was full of his familiar teasing mirth. You elbowed his side underneath his coat. Gently. Sylus ashed his cigarette, flicking it with a lithe finger,  holding it away from you.

“And what if I could read yours?” 

You leaned against him a little harder as you asked, looking up at him. He looked down at you in kind, expression unchanging. He took a moment to answer, as if he were searching for the right words. His eyes flicked away from yours, and then back. You never grew tired of that red. To your ears, he sounded strangely serious when he spoke. 

“You probably wouldn’t like me so much anymore, kitten.”

For someone with such an impenetrable mind, Sylus had these strange moments of deprecation that you couldn’t comprehend the origin of. He was without quarter in nearly everything, but it was as if there was some strange hole in him. He was carrying some sin he couldn’t put down, and he wouldn’t let you share in his burden. You loved him for his strangeness, but were unsure how to console him for it. Nothing you said could seem to convince him of the hole he had filled for you.

“Bullshit. I know everything about you.”

You were lying. It would have been more truthful to say that you wanted to know everything about him. There were many things you did know – and many things you didn’t. Sylus didn’t offer a response, and instead wrapped his free arm around your midsection. His hand was flush with your ribcage, and he rubbed idly between the bones there, as if he was making sure none of them were missing. The steady rise and fall of his chest caused you to rise and fall with him. You eyeballed the lit cigarette in his fingers. It was stark on the color of his skin. He got much paler in the winter, and tanned in the summer.

“I thought you were going to quit?”

You gestured to the offending object in his hand, but quickly retracted your fingers back into his coat when you felt the nip of the air against your bare skin.

“Yeah.”

He took a drag, like he was mocking you. 

“You always smell like cloves.”

You turned towards him in his hold, pressing your face into his chest and inhaling there, as if to prove your point. It wasn’t just the smell of smoke that clung to him – the mix of his cologne and the scent of his body were there, too. So familiar to you that you could recall it even in dreams. You would recall it when you were six feet under. Sylus looked down at you. He pinched your waist with two fingers.

“You like the smell, though.”

Sylus had it backwards, you thought.

“I mean, it’s your smell. Of course I like it.”

Sylus’s arm around your waist squeezed you even tighter. It almost hurt.

You were in his home now. It had shocked you at first, with its over the top gothic decor and blackout curtains hanging from every window. Not a speck of light could make an unwanted entrance. Now, you were as used to it as your own apartment. Maybe even moreso. You preferred to be here, with him. You had opted to steal one of Sylus’s shirts to wear for lounging purposes. You had found it rummaging around in one of his many drawers, all of which you knew the contents of now. Sylus had wordlessly watched you pilfer through his belongings. The shirt came down to the tops of your thighs. Pants just weren’t a necessary affair, anymore.  You crawled into Sylus’s lap, and he accepted the intrusion, adjusting so that you could straddle his thighs. He draped a blanket around your back, tucking it in underneath your calves so it wouldn’t fall. You pressed your cold cheek against his neck. You could feel his pulse thrum there, against your face. It was always quick, it seemed. No matter what. Sylus adjusted your hips with his hands, slotting them further away from his own. 

His house had taken a turn for the warmer, these days. When you had first begun spending time together, it was always cold. Now, being against him was almost too warm. You spoke into his neck, the words coming out muffled against his skin.

“Whoever you end up dating is lucky. They’ll have their own personal space heater. I’m going to soak it up while I can.”

It was something you knew would happen eventually. Sylus was perpetually occupied with his work, and hadn’t taken a lover in the time you knew him – at least, that you were aware of. You supposed it was possible, but you didn’t think he had a good reason to hide such a thing from you. He was a man, after all. A good looking, successful one. It was only a matter of time. Your heart threatened to sink at the thought, but you dragged it back up, hauling it by a chain. You would be happy if he was happy. You really, really would. Time had helped you accept it.

Sylus snorted above you. His big hand was supporting you by the small of your back, warm and firm. He spoke in a near whisper, voice vibrating pleasantly through his throat against your cheek.

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

You looked up from his neck, peering into his face. You were so close, practically nose to nose. You could see the bags under his eyes. They darted around your face, red-hot like brands, before settling back on your own. 

“Why not? You haven’t dated the whole time we’ve known each other, right? Guy like you has to have options. You’re handsome as hell, good with your hands, capable…don’t tell me you don’t have options. Or that you haven’t thought about it. Or is there already a special someone that you’re keeping from me?”

You poked him in the chest, accusatorily. He picked up your hand, and pressed it against his jaw. You could feel his stubble, there. It was virtually invisible, between the hair being white and him somehow always being freshly shaven. His eyes slipped closed. Touching Sylus like this felt good. It was right. It was practically second nature to you, now. At first, his desire for platonic physical contact from you had surprised you – but these days, it was stranger when he wasn’t touching you in some way.

“I’m not keeping anyone from you. Keep praising me, though, and I might share what I focus my attention on instead of dating.”

You rolled your eyes at him, though he couldn’t see the movement. You already knew what he would say. Running Onychinus kept him occupied enough. He was married to his work – though he seemed to make time for you, anyway. It was good enough. Any time spent with Sylus was good enough. You scratched your nails over his stubble, and he leaned into the touch.

“Fine, keep your secrets. You know you can tell me anything though, right?”

“I do, my dove.”

Sylus rarely shared what he was feeling with you with words, in the beginning. He shared other things – thoughts on art, music, philosophy. He shared meals with you you couldn’t have even fathomed in your dreams. You had traveled more places with him on his dime than you could count. You gathered that opening his world to you was his way of connecting without the need for emotionally charged language. So you accepted him as he was, and he opened to you more and more. Now, his were the only words you hung on.

“Sy? Sylus. Please. Sylus!”

Your voice came to him through a haze of nerves reconnecting, blood vessels reattaching themselves in their rightful places under his skin, fragments of bone slotting themselves back together, one by one. The same puzzle, taken apart so many times in so many different ways, a brilliant pain so familiar. 

Sylus could feel his left arm – his dominant arm – knitting itself back into place. Nearly shorn from his body. Hardly a part of him. Above the pain, more important, your voice. Your hand, cupping his face, skin unusually warm from your exertion. Sylus focused on these feelings instead of the gnawing his flesh did to reconstruct itself into the shape of a man. His eyes slipped open. There was a reason he had this body, and it was hovering above him, cradling his face, cheeks wet with angry tears. He needed this body, for you. He willed it to recover more quickly.

“Why do you always do this? Do you think I’d prefer it to be you instead of me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Sylus couldn’t control his face. Not when you were like this. So passionate, so stalwart in your loneliness and goodness. Your attention was fully on him when things were like this. The sweetest of blisses. When he was hurt, it was always like this. A smile slipped over his lips. Speaking disrupted the feeling of the alveoli in his lungs reinstating themselves, a shuddering breath racking him. But it didn’t matter, because your eyes were on him. With his good arm, he brushed hair that was stuck to your face from its wetness away from your cheek. The sensation had to have been uncomfortable on your skin. He only wanted you to feel pleasure in this life.

“How,”

He had to try again. Get it out this time.

“ – how many times have I told you to use my body?” 

Another breath. His left lung, freshly alive again. Now came the incessant twitching of the nerves as they made their reconnections. He could feel each individually, thousands. His fingers spasmed involuntarily, full of an empty static. Still useless, unable to hold you. You were opening your mouth to say something, but he stopped you with his right hand, a thumb over your lips. Admiring their softness. The water of your tears had wet them, entering from the edges of your mouth. There was so much he wanted to say. So much he couldn’t. He said the only thing he could.

“I’d prefer it be me.”

The residual protofield was finally beginning to dissipate, crackling with the last vestiges of raw energy. The healing process could have gone faster had he resonated with you – but that would have slipped his pain into you. You would have had to share in it, to walk on your hands and knees for miles in the mud, repenting, to see the desolation of his interior. The only thing that truly still lived inside him was you. His body had remade itself so many times he was hardly sure he could call it himself anymore. You were him, and he was you. You were holding his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers in his. Pleading, desperate. Your voice. The name you gave him; all that he was.

“Please resonate with me. Sylus. Please. Pleasepleaseplease…”

You trailed off, your voice raw. A  desperately warm light from your palm, threatening to enter him. Offering sanctity, ease. A respite. His body wanted to accept it. His own dark mists wanted to crawl out, embrace your glow. To consume it. You inside of him, him inside of you.  One, just like you used to be. It was already flowing into his wrist, down into his forearm – but no, he couldn’t. If he sank his teeth in now, he would never let go. You would know the truth. It was the only thing he couldn’t give you, no matter how much you asked. It was already yours, anyway.

Sylus sat up, though every nerve ending screamed in protest, still static and limp on his left side. He drew you in between his open thighs, your head against his chest. He hated that you sat in the dirt. You were meant to be high up above everything. You both were.

“Why won’t you let me help you? What are you trying to protect me from?”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Sylus steadied the beating of his own heart underneath your ear. Hoping it would soothe you. The sound of a body undying, cursed by the one in his arms. He held you a little tighter.

“Pain.”

[santaasi]

santa doesn’t know you like i do

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

summary: in the warmth of christmas, amidst love, healing, and a new beginning, jj and you find your imperfect paradise, where home is wherever you're together

warnings: fluff fluff fluff, establish relationship, talking about kids, no use of y/n, jj calls reader angel, english isn’t my first language

word count: 5.4k

a/n: it's kinda part two to die with the smile. but I think you can read it as a stand alone. requested by this ask. thank u for request, love <з.

ᯓ★ now playing…

sabrina carpenter – santa doesn't know you like I do

Santa Doesn't know you like I do I've been there through the good and bad Know how to make you laugh Kiss all your tears away, babe Ooh, only I can do that

JJ MAYBANK ALWAYS LOVED CHRISTMAS. It was, perhaps, the only holiday that truly felt magical to him. The colorful lights that danced against the dark winter nights, the shop windows adorned with glittering displays, the endless loop of silly Christmas songs filling the air — each element wove a comforting cocoon of warmth around him. Christmas had a way of making the world seem softer, more forgiving, and in those moments, JJ could almost believe in something like peace.

But it hadn’t always been this way.

In the broken Maybank household, Christmas was just another day — unmarked, unnoticed, and devoid of joy. The house sat like an unlit beacon in a sea of festivity, its cold walls and empty halls an unspoken testament to everything JJ lacked. There were no strings of lights, no wreaths on the door, not even the faintest scent of pine. It was an iceberg of indifference, floating through a season of cheer.

His father rarely even bothered to come home during Christmas. Sometimes he was locked away, serving another term; other times, he was lost in some forgotten corner of a bar, drowning his bitterness in cheap whiskey, unaware — or perhaps unconcerned — that his son was alone.

Yet, despite it all, every Christmas morning, there was always something waiting for JJ. Beneath the sad excuse for a tree — a cactus he’d once rescued from the roadside and jokingly dubbed "the Maybank pine" — he’d find a small gift and a postcard. The presents were modest: a toy car from a roadside stall or a bag of store-brand candy. The cards bore messages scribbled in rushed handwriting, sometimes just his name. But to JJ, they were everything. Those tiny, clumsy gestures felt like a fragile thread connecting him to something hopeful, something magical.

Even in the coldest, loneliest moments of his childhood, Christmas held onto him. It was his reminder that even in a life as messy and cruel as his, there could still be flickers of wonder.

But as the years passed, the childish magic of Christmas began to fade. JJ found himself watching from the sidelines as families like John B’s, Pope’s, and Kiara’s gathered around large tables, their homes alive with laughter, love, and the glow of holiday cheer. He watched them string lights and hang delicate ornaments on real Christmas trees — the kind that had once mesmerized him through storefront windows. And as much as he tried to bury it, a quiet ache settled deep in his chest.

It wasn’t just envy. It was the sharp sting of absence, a longing for something he’d never truly had. JJ had never known the comfort of a family coming together, the warmth of being part of something whole. He’d never sat at a big table on Christmas Eve, hands joined in prayer, giving thanks for love and blessings. He’d never felt the security of being surrounded by people who cared for him simply because he existed. And though he masked the pain behind his signature grin and easy bravado, it festered inside him — a quiet storm of hurt and resentment.

He wanted what they had. He wanted it desperately. But instead, his Christmases were spent alone. A pack of chips served as his feast, the flickering light of a static-filled TV his only companion. Lying on his bed, he would flip through the sparse free channels, hoping for some distraction, some escape. And always, in the back of his mind, he clung to the faintest hope that come morning, he’d find a small gift beneath the cactus — his father’s feeble, unspoken attempt at connection.

For years, this was his Christmas: quiet, lonely, and hollow.

But then, one year, everything changed.

JJ was fourteen when his father was imprisoned for the first time for an extended period, leaving him utterly alone. John B. and his father did what they could to help, but JJ bristled at the idea of being anyone’s charity case. The weight of feeling indebted was too much for him to bear. That summer, he decided to fend for himself, searching for his first job.

It wasn’t easy. JJ quickly discovered that no one wanted to hire a scrappy, imperfect Pogue with a tarnished family name. The shadow of his father’s reputation loomed large over the island, and people assumed that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. He could still recall the sting of rejection, the way doors closed in his face, and the cold, judgmental eyes that dismissed him before he even had a chance to speak. With each failure, his hope dwindled, until desperation weighed heavy on his young shoulders.

And then, like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, your father entered his life.

JJ often saw him at the docks, heading out for early-morning fishing trips. A few times, when the catch was plentiful, your father had even handed JJ a couple of fish — no questions asked, no pity in his eyes. Your family wasn’t wealthy like the Camerons, but you weren’t struggling at the bottom of the Cut either. You lived modestly, running a small fishmonger’s shop that was well-loved by locals for its unmatched quality.

That day, as JJ sat dejectedly on the pier, contemplating yet another fruitless search, your father approached him. With a kind smile and no hesitation, he offered JJ a job. Weekend mornings spent fishing, helping with traps and unloading — the kind of honest work JJ had been searching for. It felt like a lifeline, a stroke of fortune for a fourteen-year-old boy who had nearly given up.

From that moment, your father became more than an employer. He became a steady presence in JJ’s life, someone who saw the good in him when others refused to look past the Maybank name. In time, he even became a friend — a surrogate father in ways JJ hadn’t realized he desperately needed.

Your family’s kindness extended beyond the job. Your father often invited JJ to join your family dinners, but JJ rarely accepted. The idea of intruding on something so warm and whole made him uncomfortable. He already felt like he owed your father too much, and the last thing he wanted was to overstep. Still, on the rare occasions when your mother’s insistence won out, JJ would find himself sitting at your table, silently marveling at the life you lived.

And then there was you.

At every dinner, JJ’s eyes inevitably found you. You were radiant, an unapproachable beauty that reminded him of the star atop a Christmas tree — brilliant and captivating, yet forever out of reach. The two of you didn’t talk much, just polite exchanges and fleeting smiles, but it was enough. For JJ, it was more than enough.

He fell for you quietly, deeply, and without reservation. To him, you were a dream — a glimpse of something he could never quite have but couldn’t help but long for.

But one day, everything changed — and with it, JJ’s love for Christmas was born.

It was the same year, during the heart of winter. JJ wandered aimlessly through the deserted streets of Kildare, his hands buried deep in his pockets as the howling sea wind tugged at his threadbare jacket. Shop windows, darkened in honor of the holiday, glimmered faintly with leftover lights, their cheerful displays feeling like a world apart from his reality. Everyone else was inside, basking in the warmth of family and celebration. His friends were home — John B. spending the day with his father, Pope and Kiara with their own families — while JJ walked the streets, searching for something he couldn’t name, a place where he belonged.

His own house was cold and hollow, a silent reminder of all he didn’t have. John B. had invited him over, but JJ declined, unwilling to intrude on his friend’s rare moments of peace with his dad. So, he drifted through the morning, each step pulling him deeper into an abyss of loneliness.

A sudden chime shattered his thoughts — the soft jingle of a shop bell as its door swung open. JJ looked up, his breath catching as the sound of laughter echoed down the street.

It was you.

You stepped out of the grocery store with your dad, your voice lilting with a joy that made the bleak morning feel brighter. A red knit hat perched on your head, mirroring the one your father wore, and you both sported matching festive pajama sets. The sight was almost absurdly charming, but to JJ, you looked radiant — more beautiful than ever. The soft sunlight seemed to halo around you, making you seem like an angel come to life.

As if sensing his gaze, you turned toward him and waved, your smile lighting up the frosty morning. JJ’s heart stuttered, and before he could fully process it, you were already standing in front of him, your breath visible in the chill air, your cheeks flushed pink.

“Merry Christmas, Jay,” you said warmly, tilting your head slightly. A strand of hair escaped from beneath your hat, brushing your face. JJ had to fight the overwhelming urge to reach out, to tuck it back behind your ear.

“Merry Christmas, angel,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. It was only when he saw the faint blush dust your cheeks, your gaze darting downward with a shy smile, that he realized what he’d called you.

“We... my dad and I were thinking,” you began hesitantly, your voice a little rushed, “do you want to spend Christmas with us?”

JJ blinked, caught off guard.

You bit your lip nervously, shifting your weight. “We haven’t opened presents yet, and Mom made that cherry pudding you love, and we always watch a movie after that and-”

You were rambling, your nose wrinkling slightly as you spoke, and JJ couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t want to impose, didn’t want to accept and risk feeling like a burden. But the nervous hope in your voice, the way you avoided his eyes as though bracing for rejection, made it impossible to refuse.

“Thank you. With pleasure,” he interrupted softly, his smile widening.

Your eyes snapped up to meet his, wide with surprise, and then they lit up with excitement. Before JJ could react, you grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the car with a burst of enthusiasm. “He said yes, Dad!” you called out, beaming.

That Christmas was the best of JJ’s life.

The warmth of the fireplace, the soft glow of the Christmas tree, the unexpected gifts waiting under its branches — all of it was magical. But none of it compared to the feeling of being part of something he’d always longed for. Sitting with your family, sharing laughter and stories, tasting your mom’s cherry pudding, JJ felt something he hadn’t dared to dream of: belonging.

And then there was you.

You, who had reached out when no one else had. You, who had brought him in from the cold, both outside and within. You, who had become his Christmas angel, saving him with your kindness and warmth. That day, you didn’t just give JJ a happy holiday — you gave him a family.

You became his home.

And now, JJ sat on the bed in the bedroom you shared, in the house you’d built together — not the grand mansion with big windows and a sprawling garden he had once promised you under a starlit sky, but a modest, white, slightly weathered two-story home. It had a cozy front yard with space for flowers yet to be planted and a back door that opened onto the soft sands of the beach. It wasn’t the picture-perfect dream you once painted together, but it was real. It was yours.

This house had become his sanctuary. Each day, he came home to your arms, finding solace in your laughter and warmth. Each morning, he woke beside you, basking in the light of a love that grounded him. And tonight, you would celebrate your first Christmas in the home you’d built — not just of wood and stone, but of trust and shared dreams. It wasn’t perfect. Neither were you. But it was home.

For JJ, it was more than he had ever thought he could have. The boy who once wandered lonely streets at Christmas, who stared longingly at shop windows and dreamed of belonging, had found it here — with you. The memory of those cold, empty nights and his childhood filled with longing still lingered at the edges of his mind, but they no longer haunted him. You had rewritten his story, replacing loneliness with joy and pain with purpose.

He glanced toward the living room and leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed as he watched you bustle back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. You were radiant, your hair cascading down your back in soft waves as the skirt of your red dress shimmered with each step. A familiar Santa hat perched on your head, the same one you wore on the Christmas that changed everything—the one where you gave him the gift of belonging for the first time.

The air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of the turkey roasting in the oven, mingling with the faint, sweet scent of pine from the decorated tree in the corner. Your favorite Christmas playlist hummed in the background, and you hummed along softly as you worked, pausing to adjust the napkins on the table with a perfectionist’s touch. JJ’s lips curled into a smile. You were always like this, always striving to make things special for everyone else, pouring your heart into the smallest details.

He could see the excitement in your every movement — the way your cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the kitchen, the way your eyes sparkled with anticipation. It reminded him of the first time he saw you that Christmas morning years ago, standing on the icy street in your matching pajamas with your dad. Back then, you had invited him into your family, into your world, without hesitation. Now, here you were, creating that same magic, not just for him but for the friends you both cherished.

JJ felt his chest tighten with gratitude. He didn’t need the mansion or the grand promises anymore. He didn’t need a perfectly landscaped garden or the white picket fence. He already had everything he’d ever dreamed of — and more. You were his dream, his home, his Christmas angel.

Pushing off the doorframe, he walked toward you, his steps soft against the wooden floor. You didn’t notice him at first, too focused on the final touches of the table. But when he slid his arms around your waist from behind, you let out a small gasp, laughing as you turned to look up at him.

“Jay,” you chided playfully, though your smile gave you away.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as he breathed you in — the scent of cinnamon, the faint traces of your perfume, the essence of you. “You know,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with affection, “you don’t have to do all this. It’s already perfect.”

You shook your head, a strand of hair falling into your face, which he gently tucked behind your ear. “I just want it to be special,” you said softly.

“It is,” he said firmly, his blue eyes locking onto yours. “Because of you. Everything you touch becomes special.”

Your cheeks flushed deeper, and you bit your lip, momentarily speechless. JJ smiled, leaning down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss. The chaos of the kitchen faded, the playlist in the background becoming nothing more than a faint hum. In that moment, there was only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of the home you’d built and the love that had carried you here.

As if jolted from a dream, you broke the kiss and stepped back slightly, your hands pressed firmly against JJ's chest. His heartbeat thrummed under your palms, steady and sure. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, your brows furrowed in a mix of exasperation and amusement.

“JJ,” you scolded softly, your voice tinged with urgency. “This isn’t the time. The Pogues are gonna be here soon, and we’re not even close to ready!”

JJ’s lips curved into that infuriatingly smug grin of his, the one that made your heart race despite yourself. He leaned back as if he hadn’t a care in the world, his eyes flicking upward with deliberate mischief.

“Relax, angel,” he drawled, his voice warm as honey, smooth as the waves lapping the Cut. “It’s tradition. Had to honor it.”

Your gaze followed his, and you gasped. A cluster of mistletoe hung innocently above you, tied with a red ribbon that swayed gently in the air. You turned back to him, jaw dropping, and gave his chest a light shove.

“When the hell did you do that, Maybank?” you asked, laughing despite yourself.

He shrugged, a picture of nonchalance. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re under it, so-” He grinned wider, tugging you back a step. “Less talking, more kissing.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hold back your smile. “You’re impossible.”

Yet even as you said it, your lips met his again, soft and lingering. Kissing JJ was like freefalling into the ocean, exhilarating and all-consuming, like the scent of salt air in the morning or the taste of wild blackberries in summer. He was chaos wrapped in warmth, the kind of boy who made you believe in stars aligning and fates intertwining.

As his hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your lips, you felt the world tilt for a moment. It was easy to forget the chaos of the house, the mess still to be cleaned, the impending arrival of your friends. But you forced yourself to pull away just as he began to deepen the kiss.

“Uh-uh,” you teased, breathless but resolute. “Get busy, Maybank. We’ve got work to do.”

JJ groaned dramatically, his pout almost childlike as he tightened his grip on your waist. “I am busy. Busy kissing the prettiest girl in the Outer Banks,” he purred, his lips brushing against your cheek, then trailing to your neck.

“JJ,” you protested weakly, though your hand found its way into his hair, tugging lightly at the golden strands.

Before he could retort, the sharp chime of the doorbell broke the spell.

You froze, your brows knitting together. “What the-” you murmured, glancing at the clock. It was still an hour before Sarah and John B. were supposed to show up. Kiara was stuck at the diner until late, and Pope and Cleo were busy helping out at the store.

Your eyes snapped to JJ, who was now grinning like the cat who’d caught the canary.

“What did you do?” you demanded, narrowing your eyes.

His smile only widened, his blue eyes sparkling with a secret he wasn’t ready to share. “Guess you’ll just have to find out, angel.”

It wasn’t good. Not one bit.

“Go on, angel. Open the door,” JJ said, his voice low and teasing as he let you slip from his arms, giving you a gentle nudge toward the entryway.

You turned back to him, eyebrows raised in suspicion. His smirk was maddening, and his ocean-blue eyes sparkled with mischief, like he knew something you didn’t. “JJ…” you warned, taking slow, hesitant steps.

“Trust me, angel,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed. The way he looked at you — like you were the only thing that mattered in the world — made your heart skip. His eyes always held that same soft, unspoken promise, and you couldn't help but feel a rush of warmth spreading through your chest.

Biting your lip, you reached for the doorknob, casting him one last skeptical glance before opening the door. The cool winter air rushed in, bringing with it the scent of pine and saltwater from the sea just down the road. At first, you saw nothing unusual — just the empty driveway, lined with snow that glimmered faintly in the moonlight, and the quiet stillness of the evening. But then, something shifted near your feet.

You froze. The soft sound of rustling paper followed by the creak of a box wobbled slightly on the porch. You jumped back with a startled squeal, your pulse racing. “JJ! JJ!” you called out, your voice a mix of fear and excitement. “There’s… something out here!”

Your eyes darted to the object on the porch — a large box tied with a perfect red bow. It didn’t move at first, but as you took a tentative step closer, the box wobbled again, and a muffled noise came from inside.

Behind you, JJ’s laugh rang out, low and warm, like he was thoroughly enjoying your reaction. “Relax, angel. It’s not gonna bite… much,” he teased, the grin on his face devilishly charming. You could almost hear the glint of mischief in his voice as it wrapped around you, tugging at your nerves.

You whipped around to glare at him, your arms crossing instinctively over your chest. “This is your doing, isn’t it? What is it, JJ?”

His grin widened. “Why don’t you open it and find out?” he said, shrugging like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Pretty sure Santa dropped off an early delivery for you.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, still skeptical, but the curiosity was too strong to resist. Slowly, you lowered yourself to your knees, inching closer to the box. Another sound came from inside — a soft, almost pleading whine that made your heart skip a beat. You shivered, but couldn't stop your hands from reaching for the bow. Your fingers trembled slightly as you untied it, the red ribbon falling away like the final barrier between you and whatever lay inside.

“JJ, if this thing jumps out and eats my face, I swear-”

“Just open it, angel,” he said, crouching beside you now, his voice soft and coaxing, like he was trying to keep you calm, though you knew he was just enjoying the show. You could feel his breath tickling the back of your neck, his presence so close that it made your skin heat up despite the cold night air.

With trembling fingers, you tugged the bow loose. The moment it fell away, the lid popped open with a gentle creak, and out came a tiny white muzzle, followed by two shiny black eyes that sparkled like polished onyx. You gasped, covering your mouth with your hand.

“No way…” you whispered, your heart racing as the fluffy creature let out a tiny bark, its tail wagging furiously, causing the box to shake slightly.

JJ chuckled beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder, his laughter warm and full of pride. “Told you Santa came through this year.” His voice was teasing, but there was something deeper there too — a tenderness that you didn’t always hear. It was the same tenderness that had drawn you to him all those years ago, when everything in his life had been so broken, but he had found a way to build something together with you. The soft thrum of your heart matched the beat of his, and it felt like time had stopped just for you two, here in this small moment of joy.

You turned to him, your eyes wide. “You said no dogs. You said the house wasn’t ready!”

JJ shrugged, completely unbothered, his grin stretching wider, a glint of mischievous pride dancing in his gaze. “Guess I lied. Couldn’t resist, angel. I mean, look at him.” He leaned forward, his finger brushing against the puppy’s tiny, soft ears. “He’s got ‘JJ Maybank’ written all over him.”

The puppy let out another excited yip, struggling to climb out of the box. Gently, you lifted him, his soft fur warm in your hands. His tiny paws pressed against your chest as he wiggled excitedly, licking your face with reckless abandon, causing you to giggle uncontrollably.

You laughed, the sound light and free, the way it hadn’t been in years, your heart so full it could’ve burst. “Oh my God, JJ. He’s perfect.”

JJ watched you with a lazy smile, leaning closer to press a kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering there just a moment longer than usual. “I think he’s already got a favorite human,” he teased, brushing your hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made you feel as if the entire world had stopped just for you two.

You cradled the little ball of fluff in your arms, his tiny paws pressing against your chest as he snuggled closer, his warmth filling the empty spaces of your heart. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t care. For the first time in a long while, you felt whole — like all the pieces of your life had finally clicked into place. You looked back at JJ, your voice soft and filled with gratitude.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your heart swelling as his smile deepened.

“Anything for you, angel,” he murmured, his hand brushing over yours as he leaned in to kiss you again. It wasn’t a kiss full of urgency or passion this time, but one that was slower, deeper — full of a love that had built up over years of quiet moments, of shared dreams, of both the good and bad times that had shaped you. A kiss that spoke of promises made and promises kept.

His arms were wrapped around your waist, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns along the back of your neck as the soft, playful puppy nestled in your lap. The warm weight of the small creature was a perfect contrast to the warmth of JJ’s body pressed against yours. He kissed the delicate curve of your neck, his lips lingering as if he could never get enough of you. He moved to your cheek, then your cheekbone, leaving a trail of tenderness that sent shivers down your spine.

You turned in his arms, your lips finding his in a kiss that spoke volumes. It wasn’t hurried, it wasn’t filled with desperation — no, this kiss was full of everything you’d wanted, everything you had built, everything you had fought for. After everything that had happened in Morocco, the terror, the near loss of him, you never thought you'd find this peace, this quiet joy. But here you were, wrapped in his embrace, feeling more alive than ever.

After that incident, after the nightmare of nearly losing him, JJ had changed. He was different. More gentle, more mindful of your every need, and more focused on building a life with you. You had always known he loved you, always felt the weight of his affection even when he didn’t say it aloud, but now — now it was deeper, tenfold. His love was a constant, a steady presence that made you feel safe in a world that had once felt like it was falling apart. And it was enough. More than enough.

His lips met yours again, soft and slow, each kiss full of meaning, of promises he’d made to himself to make you the happiest woman in the world. And as he kissed you, he whispered against your lips, his voice rough with emotion.

“I love you,” he said, each word wrapping around your heart like a warm blanket.

You smiled, your chest swelling with love as you pulled him closer. The puppy, now content in its new home, wandered around the living room, sniffing at the new surroundings with an inquisitive gleam in his eyes. You didn’t care that the front door was wide open or that you were making out on the living room floor, in full view of anyone who might pass by. There was no one else in the world but JJ and the life you were building together. You just wanted to show him, to remind him, how much you loved him. How much you appreciated him.

“What's the next step?” you teased, pulling away just enough to look into his eyes. Your hands, without thinking, brushed a lock of blond hair away from his forehead, your heart fluttering as you took in the depth of his gaze. “A house, a dog... what's the next thing in our list?” You giggled, the sound light and free, like a melody you could listen to forever.

JJ’s smile deepened, and his voice softened, filled with a warmth that had once been so foreign to him. “Oh, that’s easy. A mini you or a mini me — or a mini us,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear before he kissed you again, this time with a little more passion. You shivered at the thought of what he wanted — a family. Your family.

The idea of children, of a future together, made your heart race. It wasn’t a dream you had ever imagined for yourself. But now, with JJ, it felt right. It felt like it was meant to be.

“But first,” he continued, his voice playful as he broke the kiss, “we deal with this dog, because it seems to me he’s already gnawing on our pillow.”

You laughed, shaking your head, your heart full as you watched the puppy eagerly attack the pink pillow you had bought from the flea market, its fluffy stuffing spilling out onto the floor. The mess didn’t bother you, not at all. You were too caught up in the joy of the moment, in the warmth of JJ’s arms around your waist, in the paradise you had built.

It wasn’t perfect. The house was small, a little worn around the edges, but it was yours. Your home. A place where laughter and love filled the air, where memories were made, and where the future you dreamed of was slowly taking shape. It was paradise. Small, imperfect, but paradise all the same. And you couldn’t have asked for anything more.

But then, something shifted. You smelled it before you saw it — the faint scent of something burning, sharp and sudden. Your heart skipped a beat, and your eyes snapped open as the realization hit you.

“Damn, Jay, the turkey!” you exclaimed, your eyes widening in panic as you bolted upright, the puppy’s ears perked up in alarm as you scrambled to your feet.

JJ laughed, deep and carefree, lying back on the floor as he watched you rush toward the kitchen. He felt like the happiest man on earth, like everything in the world had finally fallen into place. But as you disappeared into the kitchen, he let his mind wander for a moment, and he couldn’t help but think back to the time before all of this.

Back to the dark days when Morocco had nearly torn you apart, when you had held him in your arms, desperate, praying he would survive. You had nightmares for weeks after, haunted by the memory of him almost slipping away from you forever. The weight of that fear had lingered, thick and suffocating, even after you returned to Kildare, when everything should have felt safe again. But it hadn’t been easy. It had taken time. It had taken effort. It had taken healing.

You both had scars from that experience. You, from the sleepless nights and the anxiety that gripped your heart whenever you thought about the what-ifs. And JJ, from the deep, quiet trauma that you knew he didn’t always talk about. But despite all of that, you had found your way back to each other. You had found peace. Together.

Now, as he lay there on the floor, listening to the sound of your frantic steps in the kitchen, he smiled softly to himself. The memories of Morocco were still there, lingering in the background, but they no longer defined him. No longer defined you together. You had rebuilt your paradise, and no amount of darkness could take that away.

JJ Maybank had always been reckless, wild, untamed. But now, he was grounded. Not because the world had suddenly become perfect, but because you were his. Because he had found his anchor in you. You were his home. And no matter what happened, he knew you would always be there, side by side.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the peace of the present wash over him. There was no place he’d rather be. No place but here, with you. His family. His paradise.

And for Christmas, that was all he could ever ask for.

The smell of burning turkey wafted in from the kitchen, and he couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe paradise wasn’t perfect, but damn, it was perfect for him.

thankx for reading <3

it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

okay, this work my first kinda christmas special and I like it so much. also 'santa doesn't know you like I do' is such a beautiful song and maybe the meaning of the song is not connected to the whole vibe of this work but first lines is so jj and angel coded, idk.

but thank you again for reading my work and as usual you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox :3

                                    – your santi 🪐

masterlist

[vivwritescrappythings]

take it all

toxic!simon riley x afab!reader

You meet Simon at a pub and go home with him.

an: i imagine this as after Soap’s death (sorry if this is a spoiler) and Ghost is trying to cope the best way he can. also i personally think Ghost is bi, sue me.

part 2

tw: smut!, toxic simon, afab and fem reader, drinking, mild dubcon (they were both drinking), biting, dry humping, oral m!receiving, cum play (in not a fun way), not proofread and bad writing.

word count: 2.6k

masterlist

MDNI!

—

Simon wanted nothing to do with you at first. He was at a pub on university night and you’d been dared to go up to the man sulking at the edge of the bar by your friends. You accepted with a nervous giggle, going through the methodical motions of fixing your hair and adjusting your top and making sure you had nothing stuck in your teeth before you approached.

You didn’t even get to open your mouth before he grumbled at you. “Not interested.” He didn’t even bother to look your direction, gulping down his Guinness like it was water and flagging down the bartender for another. It was hard to hold your scoff, your brows furrowing in indignation.

“Arrogant of you to assume I was coming over here to talk to you,” you snapped, arms crossing over your chest and your posture straightening. The force of your glare could’ve seared a hole in the side of his head as you focused on the ridge of his nose. It looked like it had been broken in the past. His fair skin was littered with scars that varied from shiny white tissue to an irritated red hue.

That made one side of his mouth lift into a smirk, dark brown eyes glancing at you out of the corners. It was a look you promptly ignored. You moved to the stool on his other side, sliding onto it and ordering another drink. The man next to you slid the bartender a bill before you had the chance to grab your wallet out of your purse. A form of olive branch, you assumed.

Somehow the night devolved into more drinks and a clumsy, vague introduction before you were following Simon back to his home. He lived walking distance away, his thick fingers circled around your wrist like a bracelet—or a shackle. He didn’t slow his stride for you, making you nearly jog along with him until he got you to his doorstep.

It was a whirlwind. He caged you against the front door, forearms against the painted wood above your head as his face dropped into your shoulder. His lips sucked and nipped at your neck like a madman, scraping his teeth over your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

“M’not a good guy, don’t want nothin’ more than a shag,” he mumbled into your throat. You found yourself nodding despite the fact that you firmly didn’t believe in one night stands. And you didn’t believe in going home with random men you met at bars. Simon had a way to convince you into things without even trying.

Your mouth sought his, desperate for a touch of his lips when his calloused fingers gripped your chin, turning your face away from him as he continued to pin you to his front door. “No kissin’,” he muttered against the curve of your shoulder in a way that didn’t leave any room for negotiation. You felt dizzy as you looked at the lights in the building across the street, your eyelids fluttering as his teeth dug into a sensitive spot on your neck.

“You gonna let me inside or try and screw me out here on your front step?” you asked, your voice sounding more strained than you would’ve liked. You could already feel how soaked your panties were getting, Simon’s thick thigh was shoved between yours—you wouldn’t be surprised if there was already a spot forming on his dark jeans.

He barked a harsh laugh against your ear, one large hand cupping the curve of your waist while the other produced a sparse key ring from his back pocket. It only took a bit of fumbling to thread it into the door. Opening it was a precise and smooth motion, keys getting dropped in a dish near the door and his hand swooping up to flick on the light in practiced moves.

The neatness of the space added a check mark to the box you’d already suspected he fit into: military—or serial killer. Only necessities were present, empty walls aside from the coat hooks near the door and the pot rack in the kitchen. It should’ve made you nervous, should’ve set off some sort of alarm bells. But Simon’s hands were all over you the instant the door clicked shut and he didn’t give you a second to breathe. He yanked the pretty denim jacket off your shoulders smoothly, hanging it up before crowding you further inside like a cattle dog nipping at your ankles.

Before you knew it, you were perched on his lap on the black leather couch and your purse was discarded on the coffee table. Simon’s hands found their way to your hips, rocking you against him as you planted sloppy, wet kisses on the wide column of his throat. He was so solid and warm beneath you, the skirt you were wearing pooling on his couch as the thin fabric of your panties continued to catch against the zipper of his jeans.

Your hips rolled against his as you desperately sought the friction. Pretty, soft moans fanned against the scarred, tattooed skin of Simon’s neck as your hands pressed against his broad, barrel chest for some stability. A heartbeat was already pounding between your legs, your clit nudging against the hard ridge of his cock with each glide of your pelvis against his. His fingers dug into the fat of your hips so hard that you were sure there would be bruises in the morning.

It wouldn’t take you much more to come, as pathetically fast as that was. The hazy smell of him had your chest bound in knots, dirt and cigarette smoke and the sharpness of his citrus-scented soap. You sucked a mark behind his ear, laving your tongue over it to soothe the reddened skin.

You were on the edge of it, mewling and twisting his shirt in your fingers as electricity raced up and down your spine. The alcohol made you feel so warm, your cheeks heated and eyes partially lidded. You didn’t know if it was the booze or the company or both, but everything was buzzing and it made you almost too sensitive.

Simon ripped you from the precipice before you could enjoy the sweet release. His hand closed around your throat and the other locked on your waist, stilling you on his lap. “No!” you yelped, your palm hitting his chest as your brows pinched together. The sound was strangled, his calloused fingers squeezing just enough to tighten your windpipe without truly choking you.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you on your perch. “You’re not comin’ ‘til you use that pretty mouth of yours,” Simon grunted, manhandling you until you were on your knees between his legs. Again, there was no space for negotiation or protest.

You swallowed thickly, still reeling from your orgasm being ripped away so suddenly. The blistering euphoria fell away from you, wax melting from its feathers as it plummeted back to the earth and left you cold.

You watched Simon’s hands begin to undo his belt, your mouth going dry. His hands were divine, huge and veined along the backs of them. Nails were bitten to the quick and clean, thick and calloused fingers moving deftly to open his belt and unbutton his jeans. There were lines of tattoos on his wrists, faded and feathered from age.

You could’ve been a deer caught in the headlights with how you were staring, eyes wide and your weight back on your heels. If another man acted like Simon was, you would’ve scoffed before picking yourself up off the floor and storming out of the apartment. But there was something about him that made you stay, kneeling obediently as he reached into his blue and gray checkered boxers and pulled himself out.

Simon had a pretty cock, to say the least. It was thick and curved a little to the right. Your gaze traced a thick vein up the length of it, making you swallow. His tip was a flushed red, almost purple. It made you wonder when the last time he came was. You were willing to throw away years of promising yourself that you would never let a guy use you again just to get your mouth on a cock like that, saliva pooling on your tongue.

You didn’t make him wait long, your hands settling on his thighs as you moved forward to take the hot tip of it into your mouth. It tasted like salt and clean skin, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock. You were rewarded with a groan, his hands tightening into fists on either side of your head.

Letting out a breath through your nose, you sucked as much of his cock into your mouth as you could. Lips tucked over teeth and cheeks hollowed out, you always felt like you were in your element when you were giving head. There was something about the ability to bring a man to his knees with just your mouth and hands that delighted you, it made you feel like you had the power.

Simon was the same as the rest. He grunted pretty for you when you wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, moving it in tandem with your mouth. You couldn’t fit him all without choking, drool and spittle already leaking from the edges of your mouth and making the entirety of his shaft a slick mess. It was all over your lips and jaw, your foundation starting to rub away in places and your lip gloss smeared across his shaft and on your palm.

You had to take breaks to breathe, jerking him off as you sucked in desperate breaths. It was the only time you looked up at him, his dark brown eyes looking through you. He made all the right sounds, the grunts and the whimpers that he didn’t mean to let out. But he looked at you like you weren’t quite there, weren’t quite real.

It was the last time you looked up at him, your gut twisting in a way that you didn’t like but could blame on the alcohol.

Simon’s hand fitted to the curve of your jaw, three fingers stretching to the nape of your neck as he guided your mouth back to his cock. He bucked his hips up to cram more of himself down your throat, the hand on the nape of your neck keeping you in place.

His cock cut your airways off with every thrust, making your lungs burn. You focused on sucking in short breaths through your nose in between, your hands clenching against the hard muscle of Simon’s thighs. It was then your suspicions were confirmed, definitely military. There was no room for mercy in the palm of his hand as it molded to the top of your spine.

You choked and spluttered, your saliva turning viscous as his dick churned your throat. Tears began to prick at the corners of your eyes. The soft sound of him sighing met your ears, a hushed “fuck” muttered under his breath.

His eyes were shut tight, his head resting on the back of the couch as he fucked up into your throat. It almost hurt to turn your gaze that far up, but you felt too unmoored—you needed to see him. His free hand was wrapped around what looked to be two sets of dog tags around his neck, holding them so tight his knuckles turned white. You didn’t even see them earlier, they must have been tucked into his shirt.

Simon’s curses became louder, his hand squeezing around the back of your neck and giving you no escape. The laminate wood floor was imprinting its pattern into your knees, the caps of them aching. You still didn’t even try to get him to let you up, working on relaxing your jaw and throat and wanting to take it all. Something about him made you all too complacent, leaving you slack-jawed for him to fuck into like a fleshlight.

His nails dug into the skin behind your ear as he pushed you down all the way, your nose pressed firmly into the soft, curly blonde hairs across his pubic bone. He was so hot and heavy in your throat that it made you want to beg him to ruin you. Your jaw and throat burned, but you melted into the pain as it licked at you.

“Gonna fuckin’ come.” The words were rushed and low as they spilled from Simon’s mouth. You felt battered and bruised, your throat raw and aching. He took from you, and continued to, grinding his hips against your face to move his cock millimeters deeper into your throat. You swallowed obediently to milk his shaft, hearing him moan out a disgruntled name. Johnny? Maybe? You’d have to ask to know, your own heart pounding in your ears muffling the rest.

The pleasure of satisfaction still bloomed in you at a job well done, but it mixed with something nauseating when you realized he was thinking of someone else the whole time.

Simon’s cock pulsed like a wound against your tongue when he came, liquid pleasure like molten lava spilling down your throat with each breathless groan. “That’s it, take it all.” It didn't feel like praise anymore, his blunt nails scratching at the back of your neck combined with his grunts making you feel like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over you.

You didn’t swallow a drop, eyes screwed shut as he dumped rope after rope of come into your throat. Swallowing would’ve been the good thing to do, the obedient thing. But there was so much, some of it spilling out the seam your lips made and disappearing into the scratch of his blonde curls. It was insane, you wondered for the second time how long it had been since he even jerked off.

His hand dropped off you, letting you pull away in an instant. You thought to run to the bathroom or kitchen and spit into the sink, the salty white liquid dripping from the corner of your mouth starting to taste vile on your tongue. You just wanted to get rid of it like the memory of this night.

Simon was already tucking himself away, leaving you sitting like an idiot between his legs. You knew a half-assed apology was next, a pathetic fake compliment about how your mouth felt too good and made him blow his load early. It wasn’t his fault, it was yours. But sorry, no shag tonight.

Rose colored glasses were exchanged for red ones as his dark brown eyes met yours. They were blank, dark rings beneath them almost making him look like a corpse. He didn’t even have the good manners to pretend to be sheepish, his gaze settling on you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You couldn’t even process what you were doing before you spat the mouthfuls of his come onto his black long-sleeve shirt. The white liquid was frothy from being mixed with your saliva, viscous as it landed on the center of his sternum and splattered. You spat again for good measure, making sure it landed on the silver dog tags before you wiped your mouth on your sleeve.

“Asshole,” you seethed, rolling yourself to your feet before you could even take in his surprised expression. Or the way the corner of his scarred, chewed up mouth twitched like he was going to smile. There was a flicker of recognition in his eye, like you reminded him of someone.

“Next time you just need to come, how about you call that Johnny fella or get a goddamn toy or something,” you hissed, not bothering to look at Simon as you stormed toward the door. You had the good sense to grab your purse, rummaging through it to find some gum as you saw yourself out. The slam of his front door was deafening, leaving the two of you in silence on either side of it.

You didn't realize you forgot your jacket hanging neatly on the hook next to his door until you woke up in the morning.

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine Law accidentally hurting you with ‘shambles’…

It was an accident.

Law was focused on the bounty hunter, determined to put the man in his place after the hunter had launched a surprise attack on his crew.

Law knew that there was no better opportunity to do so while his Heart Pirates kept the rest of the attackers at bay.

What he didn’t know was that you had broken away from the fight to find him.

…not until it was too late.

Law had the enemy pinned inside a blue dome. Cockiness exuded as Law also summoned the ruins of a stone and wood house that sat abandoned on the edge of the shore. He had it poised above the head of the trapped man.

The bounty hunter hardened his resolve and lunged forward to escape the bubble and swipe at the Heart Pirate.

But Law was faster. “Shambles.”

The house disappeared. The bounty hunter disappeared. Your wide eyes met his before, they too, disappeared.

No… how had he not seen you? Why were you even here?

Rushing over to the edge, Law’s hands gripped the rails lest he accidentally launch himself over. He saw the field in the distance where the teleport had taken place. He saw the debris and a dark figure underneath. But as he watched gravity bring the wood splinters to earth, he recognised that the dark figure was in fact comprised of two bodies before they were swallowed by the house.

A scream ripped through Law’s throat and he wasted no more time. He hurled himself over the barrier, airborne for a few moments before his feet found purchase on the hard ground. Then he sprinted - heart in his throat, fear replacing his blood as it pulsed in his ears.

What had he done?

Every speeding step forward felt agonisingly slow but he pushed through until he reached the damaged field. Had he been thinking straight, Law would have done a scan of the area and found you. But he was hardly thinking (or breathing) when his fears won out and he cast his sword aside. Then, like a madman, Law clawed at the broken wood and shattered glass desperate to find you.

A minute passed. Then two. Then five. Each second passing with dread and attacking what small shred of hope he held onto.

He screamed for you, begging that it would rouse you enough to make a sound but he was met with silence.

Law grabbed a thick wooden plank and raised it carefully, blood-stained glass rolling off its edges like a hellish waterfall. That’s when his eyes caught a familiar fabric. It was the hem of your pants. The one he grew to admire over the course of your stay on the Polar Tang.

With a harsh movement, Law tossed the beam away revealing a small space in the mess. It should have relieved him now that he had found you - but it didn’t.

Your body was littered in scrapes and blooming bruises but, worst of all, you had been pierced by thin metal bar in your thigh.

Law crossed the space carefully. He bent down and touched your face, moving away the loose bits of glass. He expected your skin to be as cold as death but there was a warmth… better yet, there was a pulse and faint, haggard breaths.

He hadn’t killed you.

The relief that he felt escaped his body in a sob. Looking around wildly, Law needed something sharp to cut around the pole so he could get you out. His sword was somewhere at the top of this mess but he refused to leave your side.

And as if by a miracle, a large polar-bear shaped shadow appeared holding the very blade he had been in need for.

Bepo tossed him the sword and Law made two decisive slashes against the metal which effectively freed you from being pinned. Setting the sword down, he carefully threaded an arm under your knees and behind your back before lifting you as he stood. With slow steps, Law got you through the clearing onto safer lands. Bepo had been telling him about the crews success with the bounty hunters. The bear also expressed his regrets in being unable to stop you from rushing to aid Law mid-battle.

But it fell on mostly deaf ears. Law was only occupied with your health. He wanted to summon another room and teleport you to safety aboard the Polar Tang. But when he let the thought enter, his vision was clouded by your face and the few precious seconds of fear in your eyes when you knew it was too late to escape.

No. He wouldn’t let his powers hurt you.

Never again.

~ More imagines here ~ (for more One Piece)

A/n: Writing angst at 5am? Okay, brain.

[lemoncrushh]

You're Never This Quiet

Summary: Harry has been quiet all evening and you wonder why.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1330

A/N: From my 2016 collection, based on a prompt given. Fluffy reader fic with a little bit of trepidation in the beginning.

You and Harry had been dating for two years. Actually, by this point, to say you were "dating" sounded a little silly and juvenile. You were in love. Simple as that. The way he treated you was the way you wanted to be treated, and you gave it back to him tenfold. Sure, it wasn't always easy. You'd had a few bumps in the road, some twists and turns. But to look back at your time together made you burst with pride. Nowadays, any celebrity romance that lasted more than a few months was not only shocking but commendable.

Tonight, you and Harry had gone to a party in Malibu. It was a casual affair on the beach, and like at most parties, you mingled with others throughout the evening, some people you knew, some you were meeting for the first time, but you always managed to circle back to each other. Harry would pull you close, kissing the top of your head before returning to his previous conversation, or perhaps walk with you to a nearby bar to get a refill on drinks.

This time, however, you noticed something different about him. Harry was never really one to stand still, always fidgeting if he wasn't chatting or telling a silly joke. Even if he was being affectionate with you, he wouldn't be serious for long before doing something like tickling you or commenting to others about how great you are. Tonight, he wasn't doing any of those things. Tonight, he was almost...quiet.

You watched him from across the room as he sat in the middle of a semi-circle sofa. For once he wasn't the center of attention. He sipped on his drink and nodded a few times, but you barely even saw his mouth move. A couple times you even saw him rub one of his palms down the leg of his jeans before switching his glass to his other hand and repeating. It was a little disconcerting to be honest, and you felt your stomach tighten. Someone said something to you, but you barely heard. Instead, you smiled politely and excused yourself.

"Hey," you whispered in his ear from behind the couch.

Harry nearly jumped up from his seat before turning to look at you.

"Oh, hey," he grinned when he realized it was you. "Come 'ere."

He gestured with his hand for you to sit next to him. You walked around the sofa and squeezed in. He gently took your hand and threaded his fingers through yours, making you feel a little more at ease. But you were still a little concerned.

"You okay?" you asked.

Harry nodded, giving your hand a little squeeze. But the fact that he swallowed hard was not lost on you. You knew something was up.

You continued sitting with him until his glass was empty and he set it down on the coffee table in front you. When he sat back and ran a hand through his hair, he leaned toward you to whisper.

"Wanna go for a walk?"

"Sure," you nodded apprehensively.

You knew your eyes had to be big as saucers and your heart was just about beating out of your chest as you followed him outside to the large deck. The summer wind hit you in the face, the temperature warm even in the late hour.

Heading toward the edge of the deck, you were surprised when Harry took the stairs and stopped at the bottom one.

"We're going on the beach?" you questioned as you saw him take off his shoes.

"Yeah," he replied, trying to roll up his jeans. "Although I probably shouldn't have worn these."

You giggled lightly, feeling odd that this was the first sign of humor he'd shown all night. You slipped off your own shoes, grateful to be wearing a sundress, and took his awaiting hand before stepping out onto the warm sand.

You cringed slightly at the sensation of sand between your toes. You waited for Harry to say something, expecting to hear his usual comedic comments, but still he remained silent. As you got closer to the ocean and the sand became more compact, you gingerly swung your connected hands between you, hoping to lighten the mood. When Harry looked at you and smiled, you felt your heart flutter.

"I love you," you declared bravely. It was something you said regularly now, but somehow his reserved personality tonight made you a little afraid to say it out loud.

"I love you, too," he echoed.

If Harry heard the loud breath you exhaled, he didn't acknowledge it. You continued to walk together in silence, sans for the crashing waves and the wind in your ears. Finally, you couldn't take it any longer.

"Is something wrong, Harry?" you inquired.

"No...why?"

"You've been pretty quiet this evening," you commented.

There was a slight pause before Harry said, "I have?"

You stopped walking then, releasing your hand from his.

"You're never this quiet, what's wrong?"

Harry turned to look at you, a mixture of worry and confusion on his face.

"Nothing's wrong," he blinked.

"Yes there is," you nearly choked. "C'mon, Harry. We've been together for two years. I know you. Something's up."

Harry bowed his head and ran his hand over his face.

"Yeah, it has been two years," he agreed.

You narrowed your eyes, now confused yourself, and also more worried than ever. Your stomach was now doing somersaults, and you swallowed and wrapped your arms around your middle to try to settle it.

"I...uh...was..." Harry took a deep breath, "trying to decide the right time to do this."

"To do what?"

You watched as Harry shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled something out, though you couldn't quite see what it was. But when he knelt down in front of you in the sand, taking your hand in his, you had to cover your mouth with the other to block the scream that was rising in your throat.

"[Y/N]," he said loud and clear, "I'm sorry I've been such a dope today."

He chuckled lightly, shaking his head.

"I'm so fucking nervous," he muttered before clearing his throat. "My love, will you marry me?"

That was when you saw the ring in his other hand as he held it up. It glistened in the moonlight, reflecting the colors of the night sky and the water.

"Harry!" you barely got out as the tears were already welling up in your eyes. "Oh my God!"

"Is that a yes?" he asked.

You half laughed, half cried. "Oh my God, yes!"

Harry grinned as he swiftly slid the ring onto your finger, giving it a kiss. Then he stood up, taking your face in his hands and kissing your lips.

"I'll make you so happy," he promised, his eyes twinkling.

"I know, baby," you nodded. "You already do."

He kissed you again, this time deeper and longer. Your fingers tangled in the back of his hair as you tried to get as close to him as possible.

"I love you so much," you murmured against his mouth.

After holding each other for a while, and much more kissing, you both decided to ditch the rest of the party. Instead, you continued to walk down the beach, hand in hand, as a newly engaged couple. The idea made you giddy when you thought of it.

When Harry suggested you walk up the beach and sit down for a while, you eagerly agreed. He put his arm around you, and you leaned into him, draping your arm around his bent knee.

"Sorry about your jeans," you said as you felt the wetness from the sand.

"What?" he wondered before realizing what you were talking about. "Oh," he laughed. "It was totally worth it."

You smiled as he nuzzled your neck.

"I'm sorry I was being so quiet," he added.

"It's okay," you assured him. "That was totally worth it, too."

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[jjungkookislife]

Sunday, Monday: Thursday Halloween

pairing: bar tender!jungkook x bar tender! f. reader

genre: established relationship, 18+

summary: It's Halloween at the bar.

wc: 1.5k

warnings: sexual content, unprotected sex in a car, some fluff, jealousy, alcohol mention, daddy joke,

date: October 29, 2024

Sunday, Monday Masterlist

“Why aren’t you in your costume?” Jungkook asks as he opens the door to his SUV for you. You climb in, setting your bag in his backseat. 

“Because I knew you’d rip it off me before we even got inside,” you respond as you take a sip of your energy drink. 

“Fair,“ Jungkook giggles. “Are you wearing that silky soft maid outfit?”

“No,” you giggle, shaking your head. “You stained it with cum last weekend.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jungkook blushes. “Sorry!”

“No biggie, I had a backup.”

“Oooh, show me,” Jungkook pouts, but you kiss him before downing your energy drink. Jungkook watches you with hungry eyes as you set the drink in his cup holder. You lean over his lap, using the lever to push his seat back.

You straddle him, kissing him immediately.

Jungkook tilts his head back, allowing you to kiss his neck. His hands grip your hips, guiding your body on his lap.

“I don’t know why we couldn’t do a couple’s costume,” Jungkook whines when you nip his earlobe. He curses. He moves his hands to the small of your back as you kiss up to his jaw.

“Because we won’t get tips if they know we’re taken. You know our customers like to flirt,” You remind him.

“But Yoongi and Hoseok get to,” Jungkook pouts when you sit up, gripping his t-shirt to pull over his head. You toss it in the backseat, mindful to keep it close so you two won’t be late again.

“They’re married,” you snort, laughing when his eyes widen at the sound.

Jungkook furrows his brows as he thinks for a moment. You don’t notice as you pull your tank top over your head to toss in the empty passenger seat. Should you both move to the backseat? He’d get you on all fours and fuck you so deep. You moan at the thought.

“What if we do?” Jungkook suggests as he grins when you press your tits against him. You kiss him, your fingers threaded in his black hair.

“What, baby?” You murmur in between kisses as his hands grip the back of your thighs. He pushes your panties to the side. He doesn’t know why you still wear any around him when you know they’ll end up pushed to the side or lost in his SUV.

“Koo, what if we do what?”

Jungkook blinks. He’s captivated by your beautiful smile. Your hair frames your face beautifully, and his heart skips a beat. How was it possible to be so in love?

“Koo?” You wave your hand in front of him. “Hello?”

“Sorry,” Jungkook feels heat rush to his cheeks. “I just meant if we got married, we could do a couple’s costume.”

“You’d get married just to match one night of the year?” You ask with a raised brow, judging him.

Jungkook shakes his head. “No, of course not! I just meant…”

You kiss Jungkook, moaning softly when he holds the back of your head with his large hand. The two of you kiss as your clothes get removed, or pushed out of the way.

“I’m not proposing… yet,” Jungkook assures you as he slides home. You bite his shoulder to muffle your cries of pleasure, the stretch driving you wild. 

The windows are fogged up as you ride him slowly.

“I would hope not,” you whisper as you rock your hips. You cup his face. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he affirms as he kisses you.

You moan, cursing when he takes your breast into his mouth. Your fingers card through his long hair, moaning when his teeth nip your sensitive skin.

“I would though,” you whisper, breathily.

Jungkook looks up at you. The stars in his eyes shine brighter than ever before.

“I would,” You repeat. “I want it all with you.”

Jungkook nods, too overwhelmed to answer as he swallows the knot in his throat.

~

Security is tighter tonight. Masks aren’t allowed nor fake weapons. 

The bar is crowded as well as the dance floor.

Jimin’s shirt is already off, his costume hanging by the threads as he pours a bottle (of water) down his abs. The crowd goes wild as he empties the bottle on his incredible abs.

Yoongi surveys the crowd from the second floor. Hoseok is at the end of the bar with his private security. Namjoon tries to calm the waiting club goers in line as the streets outside fill with people out on Halloween weekend.

“What are you supposed to be?” You ask Jimin when the crowd finally calms down. Jimin giggles and points to the tiny headband on his head. “I’m an angel.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Uh-huh.”

Jimin rolls his eyes at you. “Tae’s the devil. Doesn’t he look cute?”

You watch Tae clear the empty glasses on the bar before heading to the back. The tiny headband on his head is red with tiny horns.

“How’d you get him to do that?” You ask as you wipe the counter.

“I have my ways,” Jimin smirks before he gets back to work. 

Seokjin approaches the bar, fanning himself. “A water please.”

You get him a bottle of water, opening the cap for him. He chugs half of it down before he sets it on the bar top. 

“It’s so hot in here,” He groans as he continues to fan himself. “Why is everyone here? There are other bars on this block.”

“Because we’re the best?” You supply, and Seokjin laughs.

“Mhmm,” He waves you off as he heads back to the entrance.

Jungkook is at the other end of the bar. His Suguro Geto costume is torn to bits. He rakes in the tips as he flirts with some of the customers.

You feel silly in your bunny costume. You still get a handful of tips in your jar, but watching Jungkook smile and flirt easily with others makes your heart sink. It’s just work. You’re the one who takes him home at the end of the night, the one he loves, the one he holds at night.

You smile, forcing those dark thoughts out of your mind. You need to make rent tonight so you giggle to stupid jokes and flirt with randoms.

“Oh, excuse me,” you giggle as you walk in front of Jungkook to reach the liquor bottle at the end of the bar. Your ass rubs against him, and he resists the urge to moan.

Jungkook tries to focus on his clientele, grinning when they buy him a shot. He pretends to wash it down with beer, but he spits the alcohol into it instead. Tips fill his jar as he moves to the next group, turning the charm to ten. If he wanted to get you the ring he thought you deserved, he would need lots of cash.

Break time comes quicker than he thought. Being busy at the bar, makes time fly as he heads up the stairs to the break room. He chugs a bottle of water by the time you walk in.

“Come sit on hubby’s lap,” Jungkook pats his lap and you giggle.

“Hubby, huh?” You question him.

“Would you prefer Daddy?”

“Boy, bye,” you cackle as you slide off his lap. His hands reach out for you, tugging you back. You laugh with him as you straddle him. He tugs on your bunny tail, giggling as he presses his forehead to yours.

“It’s so hard watching you flirt with others,” Jungkook admits.

“Same. Do you think I like seeing your top torn to shreds? Those customers need to keep their hands to themselves,” You huff.

“Actually,” Jungkook rubs the nape of his neck. “I ripped my top open. I thought body shots would rake in the cash.”

You laugh, shoving him. “Wow, Kook!”

“I made money,” he smiles before he kisses you. “Besides, you’re the only one I want.”

“Mhm.”

“You know I only want you, baby. Come home with me tonight. Wear the bunny ears.”

“You little freak,” you giggle. 

Jungkook shrugs. “I like what I like.”

“Is that right? Gonna breed me like a bunny? Pull my tail just to make me moan?”

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans. “Please, don’t tease me.”

You giggle, shaking your head before Yoongi pops his head in. He has a hand over his eyes, not wanting to see the two of you going at it.

“When you’re done making babies or whatever, can you help Jimin at the bar? Taehyung is doing well but Jimin’s doing body shots and dragged Seokjin into it.” Yoongi explains as he risks a peek at the two of you.

“Sure thing,” Jungkook nods as you get off his lap. You take his hand in yours, kissing him quickly before following Yoongi back to the bar.

Tomorrow you’ll hit the grocery store for discount candies, and Jungkook will plan your costumes for next year. Perhaps by then, you’ll be living together, handing candy out to all the neighborhood children.

Jungkook smiles at the thought as he joins you back at the bar.

[waitforyrlove]

slytherin ! matt pays for you, as you didn’t bring money.

you step off the carriage, your boots sinking slightly into the snow-covered cobblestones of Hogsmeade. The winter air nips at your cheeks, and a shiver runs down your spine. The faint glow of fairy lights hanging from the eaves of the shops twinkle through the falling snowflakes, making the whole place look like something out of a storybook.

you inhale deeply, the comforting scent of pumpkin pasties and the spiced aroma of butterbeer mingling with the crispness of the snow. The stress of recent exams slowly begins to melt away with every breath you take. This was exactly what you needed—a day to yourself, to wander through the village.

pushing open the heavy wooden door, a little bell jingles overhead, announcing your arrival. Inside, the warmth is immediate, and you smile as you take in the rows upon rows of sweets, each more colorful and whimsical than the last. You approach the counter, where a friendly witch with rosy cheeks stands ready to take your order.

“Just a simple Honeydukes bar, please,” you say with a soft smile, your voice almost getting lost in the lively hum of the shop. As she nods and turns to prepare it, you let your gaze wander around the cozy interior. Your eyes trace the shelves stacked with Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's every flavour beans, and glittering sugar quills.

but then, as your eyes move towards the far end of the shop, they land on a familiar figure. Matt, with his brunette hair and that unmistakable crooked grin, is standing with a group of his friends, laughing at something one of them just said. Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly turn your head, hoping he hasn’t seen you.

why no matter where you went, Matt always seemed to be there? It was like an invisible thread tied you together, pulling him into your orbit every time you tried to get some space. You can’t help but wonder if he feels the same, if he ever notices this strange connection as much as you do

you try to focus on something else, anything else, but it’s impossible to ignore the way your heart races whenever he’s near. The bell on the door rings again, and for a split second, you think about leaving before he spots you, but before you can move, you hear the familiar, almost musical sound of his laughter.

taking a deep breath, you remind yourself that today is supposed to be about you, about finding peace and enjoyment in the little things, like a simple chocolate bar from Honeydukes. You try to center yourself, grounding your thoughts on the warmth of the shop, the comforting smells, and the gentle hum of people around you.

but as you glance up, you catch his reflection in the glass display case—a small, almost imperceptible moment where his eyes meet yours through the array of shimmering sweets. It’s brief, just a flicker, but enough to send a rush of warmth through you, even in the middle of the winter chill.

you couldn’t help but glance at Matt’s outfit as he walked past, your eyes drawn to the boldness of his red and black plaid jacket. The large checks of the fabric seemed to suit him perfectly, the rich colors standing out against the muted tones of the snowy surroundings. The jacket had an intriguing design—both classic and modern, effortlessly blending style with comfort.

his baggy black pants completed the look, adding a casual, laid-back vibe to his ensemble. They hung loosely around his legs, the fabric swaying slightly as he moved, giving him an air of confidence.

you quickly snap out of your trance, Matt’s presence momentarily forgotten as the witch behind the counter breaks the silence. “Honey? That will be $2.65, please,” she says kindly, her voice warm and patient. You reach for your skirt pocket, expecting to feel the familiar texture of your coin pouch. But your fingers meet nothing but the smooth fabric. A wave of panic washes over you as you realize you’ve left your money back in your room. How could you have been so careless and forget about a important thing?

“I-I didn’t bring…” you stammer quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Embarrassment colors your cheeks as the reality of your situation sets in. The thought of having to tell the kind witch you couldn’t pay, and possibly upsetting her, knots your stomach with nerves. You curse yourself inwardly, feeling foolish.

but before the witch can respond, a shadow falls over you, and suddenly Matt is beside you, his presence both unexpected and disarming. He doesn’t say a word as he smoothly places a bill on the counter, paying for your purchase without a second thought. The witch smiles and takes the money, handing him the change before moving on to help the next customer.

your mouth falls open in shock, eyes wide as you look up at Matt. Of all people, he was the last person you’d expected to step in and help. Yet here he was, composed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You’re surprised, and more than a little flustered.

“Sweetheart,” Matt says with a chuckle, the nickname rolling off his tongue with ease, “I expected you to be smart enough not to forget your money in your room.”

His tone is teasing, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes your heart skip a beat. You feel a mix of emotions—gratitude, embarrassment, and a flutter of something else that you can’t quite place. All you can do is nod, managing a small, sheepish smile in response, the words you want to say tangled up in your throat.

"Why would you ever pay for it?" you blurt out, the words slipping past your lips before you can catch them. Gratitude hangs somewhere in the back of your mind, but curiosity and confusion push it aside.

Matt’s response is a low chuckle, the sound rolling effortlessly off his tongue, as if the whole situation is amusing to him. He glances at you, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, and shrugs nonchalantly.

“Felt generous,” he says, as though it’s the simplest explanation in the world. “Didn’t really feel like watching you embarrass yourself in front of everyone in here.” His tone is teasing, but not unkind, more like he’s pointing out something endearing rather than a fault. “Besides,” he adds, his grin widening, “forgetting about money? That’s quite a move. Thought you might need a little saving.”

you shake your head, trying to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “Well, it’s not like I planned to forget,” you retort, but your voice is softer, the initial embarrassment slowly fading.

“That’s the nicest I’ve caught you being," you chuckle, your voice softening as you glance up at Matt. Your eyes linger on his jawline, tracing the sharp angles, before drifting down to his hands. Two silver rings catch the light, glinting like promises unspoken. You can't help but imagine what it would feel like to have that cold metal brush against your skin, preferably, feeling it against your thighs, his fingers pumping in and ou- no, you can’t think about dirty thoughts,not certainly with Matthew.

Matt’s smirk deepens as he catches the flicker of something more in your eyes, something that sends a subtle charge through the air between you. He leans in just slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "Careful. I might start thinking you’re enjoying my company."

your heart skips a beat as the space between you seems to shrink. His words are laced with a hint of challenge, a dare that you can feel humming beneath the surface. You let out a soft laugh, trying to keep things light, but the tension lingers, wrapping around you like a slow, tightening coil.

“Maybe I am,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them. There’s a boldness to your tone that surprises even you. You glance back at his hands, those silver rings now a magnet for your gaze, drawing you in with a pull that’s hard to resist.

Matt’s eyes follow yours, and for a moment, it feels as if the world has stopped, leaving just the two of you suspended in this moment of possibility, and once again, you’rs wondering what it would feel like if he reached out, if those cold bands of metal met your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You should be careful with thoughts like that,” he murmurs, his voice smooth, but there’s an edge to it—a warning, or perhaps an invitation. The way he looks at you now, his gaze steady and unreadable, makes your breath catch. It’s as though he’s daring you to take the next step, to close the gap that hangs between curiosity and something much more dangerous.

and as you meet his eyes, a thrill runs through you—a thrill that whispers of all the things you’ve only ever imagined but never dared to reach for.

the air between you thickens, charged with an electricity that neither of you can ignore. Matt’s eyes darken, and there’s a tension in his jaw, a flicker of restraint that only makes your pulse race faster. He shifts slightly closer, his presence overwhelming in the best way, making it harder to remember why you should be cautious, why you should hold back.

“Am I being too reckless?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, though it carries the weight of a deeper question. You’re not just talking about your words; you’re talking about the line you’re both toeing, the unspoken boundary that’s grown thinner with every second.

his gaze flickers down to your lips, just for a heartbeat, but it’s enough to send warmth pooling low in your belly. “Maybe,” he replies, his voice rougher now, the careful control slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the desire simmering beneath. “But that’s never stopped you before, has it?”

the way he says it, almost like a challenge, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, makes you ache with a need that’s becoming harder to deny. You don’t move away, don’t even flinch, as he reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm, the heat rising in your skin each second passing.

it’s the smallest touch, barely there, but it feels like a touch you wanna feel it every minute. His thumb traces a slow, deliberate path, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and you can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes your lips. Your eyes meet his, and you see the resolve in them waver, just for a second, before he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear.

“I can’t promise you this won’t end badly, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice so low it sends a shiver down your spine. “But if you want to keep going… I won’t stop you.”

his words hang in the air, heavy with anticipation, and you realize the decision is yours now. The space between you is a heartbeat away from disappearing entirely, and the temptation to cross it, to feel his hands—those rings��against your skin, grows stronger with every passing moment.

but just as the tension reaches its peak, Matt pulls back, his expression shifting to something more guarded, but the smirk still there. The warmth that had been building between you cools in an instant, leaving you feeling suddenly exposed.

“This is not the end of our banter,” he says, more to himself than to you, as if wrestling with some inner conflict. His hand drops from your arm.

for a moment, he lingers, his eyes searching yours, as if he’s about to say something more. But then, without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there with a mix of needing and disappointment churning in your chest.

but you’re not letting him tease you with his touch like he’s winning.