#his hands almost always smell like bleach

[nadvs]

the act of unravelling (part three)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

< prev

Being in Rafe’s truck again is like being thrown back into a bad dream you can’t wake up from. You remember every detail from that night, the smell of bleach, the ache in your bones.

He parked by the edge of the country club lot, and as he settles in his seat and shuts the door, he wraps both of you in privacy behind his tinted windows.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice cutting through the tension. Rafe rakes his hand through his hair. He seems nervous, a contradiction to the smugness you’ve gotten used to.

“You were right,” he admits. “Cops aren’t even sniffing around yet and people think it was me.”

You meet his eyes, the blue hue bright and striking. The night it happened, you’d only seen him through the dark. Now, in the daylight, he almost looks innocent. But then you remember the loudness of the gun and how angry he looked when he fired it.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Last night,” he begins, “a few of us were hanging out and people were talking about how something might’ve happened to him. This guy had his name in my mouth… said some shit about how they should probably ask me.”

You nod slowly, taking his words in. You expected as much. As someone who openly hated Porter, Rafe’s likely at the top of everyone’s list of suspects.

“What’d you do?” you say.

“I swung at him.”

You exhale defeatedly, looking up at the ceiling of his car. He’s such a loose cannon that for the first time since that night, you worry that he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut.

“Damn it, Rafe,” you complain. “And you were giving me shit for being obvious?”

His temper flares like a match thrown into a pool of gasoline.

“I’m not gonna sit there and let some asshole say that shit about me,” he mutters. “This is why we need to have our story straight, alright? If you even think about ratting me out, you’ll regret it.”

You tense up. So, this is why he so desperately needed to talk to you. You can’t believe you thought you could find any comfort in him.

“You don’t need to threaten me,” you say sharply. Rafe is taken aback by the confusion on your face. You look like you’d never even considered selling him out. But maybe you’re just a great liar.

“We said we’re in this together,” you continue. “Neither of us leaves the other, no matter how messy it gets. That’s the whole point of being each other’s alibis.”

Rafe sucks his teeth. You realize just how on edge he is about this. He was so comfortable the night it happened. Almost careless. Irritated at how anxious you were. Now, it’s like he’s spiraling.

“I won’t let this ruin my life,” Rafe mumbles. He huffs an unamused chuckle, looking out of the driver’s side window. “I’m not going to jail. I’m not…”

He trails into silence. You stare at his profile. The coldness you’ve always seen in him has been shadowed by a deep paranoia.

“I’m freaked out, too,” you admit. He looks at you again. “But this is only going to work if we trust each other. We need to stick to our story so well that even we start to believe it.”

He tilts his head, looking at you with skepticism, a wrinkle between his brows.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about screwing me over, Pogue,” he says. “You could say I did it and scared you into staying quiet.”

“Are you that paranoid?” you ask. “I won’t go behind your back. I promise. Even if it’s just a cover-up, we need to act like we’re friends now.”

Rafe gives you a once-over, the hardness in his face slowly fading.

“And don’t call me that,” you say. “You know my name.”

He breathes a real chuckle this time. Despite your better judgement, your heart flutters that you’ve earned a smile from him.

“You’ll take it to the grave?” he murmurs.

“I will. You, too?”

“Yeah,” he says. He studies you again, realizing that you don’t have a guilty conscience at all. “You really don’t regret it.”

“No,” you state. The agony of reliving what Porter did to you hurts more than any sort of remorse you feel for taking his life.

Rafe is surprised to hear you don’t wish you could take what you did back. You’re as cold-blooded as he is. You might be the only person who comes close to understanding what it’s like being controlled by anger this intense.

“I just hate how I can’t stop thinking about if we left any evidence,” you say.

“Yeah.” He settles back, adjusting in his seat with ease, the tension between you dissipating. “We were rushed.”

You nod as you chew on your lip.

“At least nobody saw us,” you say. “And if the cops check our phones, they won’t find anything.”

“Good thinking to turn them off.”

Your face creases in surprise.

“What?” he says.

“Just throws me off when you’re not an asshole.”

He scoffs, his jaw tensing. But beneath the irritation, he wishes he could undo the way he’d spoken to you when you first got in the car.

It’s like his mind is speaking a different language to him when he feels any sort of shame. He usually tries to shut it up. When he looks at you again, he decides not to.

“I didn’t mean to… threaten you,” Rafe mumbles.

“Yeah, you did,” you say with a humorless laugh. “But I’m on your side here. Don’t forget that.”

You check your phone. You have plans to hang out with the guys after work and after what you put them through a few nights ago, you’d rather not leave them hanging again.

“I should go,” you say. “My friends are waiting on me.”

“Did you tell them the truth?”

“No,” you say. “This stays between you and me only. Trust me.”

Rafe stares at you, longer than he ever has before. It’s not anger in his face. Not worry, either. It’s something new. Vulnerability.

“I don’t trust anybody,” he says.

Your lips twitch into a frown. Even though this is a man who’s relentlessly teased you for your place in the classist system he seems to worship, your heart twinges in sympathy.

“Nobody?” you ask quietly.

He looks out the window again, tense and distant. He doesn’t say anything else.

“I have your back,” you reiterate to him. “To the grave, right?”

“Yeah,” he offers, not looking at you again. You exit his car, the confusing knot in your chest only tighter now.

·········

The police start knocking on doors a day later. When they come to yours, you do your best impression of a clueless nobody who just wants to help.

The lead on the case introduces himself as Detective Brading, settling in your living room like he’s been here before. He’s so confident that it’s intimidating. You can imagine Porter’s wealthy family are doing everything they can to find out what happened. The man staring at you is likely the best of the best.

You’ve rehearsed your story so many times that it feels natural. The two men nod along as you lie to them about how you’d fallen asleep in the bedroom, how you’d woken up to him and Rafe arguing, how you convinced Rafe to leave with you.

Your parents stand close by, arms crossed. This is the most they’ve heard you speak in a long time. They hardly ever ask you anything about your life, so it feels odd to have their attention.

“We think you two might have been the last people to see him before he went missing,” Brading tells you. “Porter didn’t say anything about going anywhere?”

“No,” you answer. “Rafe and I left pretty quickly.”

The detective looks up at your parents with raised brows, asking them to give you a moment. When they leave, he leans a little closer.

“We know he dealt drugs,” he murmurs. “And we know you bought from him. We’re not interested in getting anyone in trouble for that. We just want to know what happened to Porter. Is there anything you didn’t mention about that night in front of your parents? Be honest.”

“I fell asleep because I smoked too much pot,” you say quietly, looking back through the doorway your parents left through. It’s taking everything in you not to cry as you think about why you really lost consciousness in that room. “But I only ever bought that from him. He offered other things. Like cocaine. It’s why he and Rafe argued.”

It’s what you agreed on saying, but it still feels like you’re selling Rafe out. It’d be suspicious if you didn’t tell them this version of the truth, though.

The detective nods, clearly having been told this already. Your chest twists in unease as you think about Rafe’s name in everyone’s mouth, leading the cops to him. And possibly to you.

“How close are you to Rafe?”

“We've been talking more since I started my job at the country club,” you say. “We started hanging out a little bit ago. We’re friends.”

“Do you think he would’ve done anything to Porter?” Brading asks.

You meet his eyes, swallowing hard.

“No,” you say resolutely. “I don’t.”

·········

A man is missing and possibly, at this point, presumed dead. But that doesn’t stop Kooks from wanting to party.

You’re in the passenger seat as JJ drives to the north side of the island while John B and Pope talk in the back. You’re gazing out the window, watching the landscape go from dilapidated front yards to gated communities.

You’re heading to a party that you heard about from one of Porter’s friends and the way the police questioned you earlier today is spinning in your head.

“You good?” JJ asks.

You look over at your friend, flattening your lips together. You can never tell the whole truth, but you can offer bits and pieces.

“The cops told me they think I’m the last person who saw Porter before he disappeared,” you say. You can’t bring yourself to tell them the version of the story that includes Rafe yet. They’d never believe you. They’d judge you. “It’s kind of scary to think about.”

“My money’s on that he went on a bender,” JJ says. “Sampled his own product. Maybe even too much of it.”

“You think he overdosed?” you ask.

“More like Rafe offed him,” Pope chimes in.

“Is that what people are saying?” you ask, blood cold, turning back to look at him.

“It’s what I’m saying,” he answers. “The guy’s unhinged.”

You want to defend Rafe. To say he wouldn’t go that far. But it’d be suspicious. And a complete lie.

“It’s a small island,” John B says. “It’s only a matter of time before we find out what happened.”

You hope that’s not true.

·········

You make it to the house, reminding yourself over and over that you have to live as if you believe your own lie. You want to erase that night from your memory. Erase what Porter did to you.

You chug the first drink you can get your hands on. Your friends rib you for how quickly you down it. You blame it on a rough day at work.

Soon after, you’re at the keg, not even close to buzzed yet, but desperately needing to be. Discussing Porter with the cops today, pretending like he was just a dealer you had a few short conversations with, hearing that his family is concerned for his wellbeing made your pulse spike.

Does his family know what a monster he is?

You have to correct yourself.

Was.

“Slow down,” you hear.

Rafe towers over you, his eyes on your cup.

“What?” you shout over the music and conversations surrounding you.

“You’re on your second drink already.”

You look over your shoulder to make sure your friends don’t see you talking with him.

“I don’t even feel anything,” you reply sharply.

It’s a half-truth. Your sadness and anger are weighing heavy on your soul. That vile man took away your power, but you took it back, so you hate that you’re still so rattled by what he did. You just want peace.

“And why are you keeping tabs on me?” you ask.

Rafe stares at you, his lips just slightly parted. He can lie and say he wants to make sure you’re not setting yourself up to get hammered and potentially admit to someone what you did.

But even he’s not that selfish right now. The truth is he can’t stop thinking about you. And he doesn’t like seeing that look on your face, sad and absentminded.

He knows you hate him. He wishes he could hate you back.

“I need to be sure you’re not a liability,” he lies. “And people think we’re friends now, don’t they?”

You look over your shoulder again, anxious the guys will see you. You need privacy if you’re going to continue this conversation.

“Come on,” you say, dipping your hand in his, dragging him through the crowd. His palm is warm and soft and you don’t know what you were expecting, but the way Rafe feels is the opposite of it.

You open the first door you see, stepping into a narrow closet. You shut the door and switch on a light and suddenly he’s standing right over you, all breadth and intimidation.

Your heart races from the way you’d just touched him, from the way he’s just about pressed up against you right now. Something must be short-circuiting in your brain, because the fear you used to hold for him is entirely gone.

The attraction you’ve always felt is overpowering now. You can’t make sense of your own emotions.

“I haven’t told my friends our story,” you confess.

“What?” Rafe snips, his tone low.

“I can’t handle telling them right now, okay?” you say. You cross your arms. “I just said I was with a guy. Telling them that guy was you is… They’ll be so disappointed in me.”

“Disappointed,” he repeats with a scoff.

“Rafe, think back to every encounter you’ve had with us. All you’ve ever done is insult us. I don’t even want to think about how hurt they’ll be to hear I’m friends with you.”

“Who gives a fuck?” he mutters. “We need to make sure our alibi is solid. If the cops find out your friends don’t know we–”

“I’d tell the truth,” you say. “That I was worried about what they’d think.”

“I can’t believe you.” The thought of you being concerned about someone else’s opinion is ridiculous. “Why do you care so much?”

“They’re the only family I have,” you admit. It comes out before you even realize it. You look down, sighing. “You don’t get it. You’re like… an enemy to us. They know how shitty you treat me when I’m at work. Telling them–“

“How the hell do I treat you shitty?” he interrupts.

“I know that those tips are all a degrading show of how you’re so much richer and better than me,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then? Charity?”

Rafe’s jaw tightens, his nostrils flaring. Charity isn’t the right word. He hides behind a forced ego, but he’s always wanted you. And through excessive tips and constant teasing, at least he can talk to you without risking the chance of you rejecting him.

You have him all wrong. He doesn’t think he’s better than you. He’s afraid you’re better than him.

“I’ll tell my friends, okay?” you say when he doesn’t speak. “But I talked to the cops today and they seemed convinced. We’ll be fine.”

“They talked to me, too. I can tell they think it was me.” There’s an almost imperceptible tremble in Rafe's voice. “Everyone thinks it was me.”

“Even your friends?”

“Yeah,” he says. If he can even call them friends. Hearing you call yours family made his jealousy flare. Envy is all Rafe ever feels. Like he’s missing the one thing that deems everyone else loveable.

But he’s hanging on how you said they’re your only family. He doesn’t have a family, either. Not really. Not one that cares about him. Maybe you understand him more than he thought.

“Well…” You clear your throat. “They can believe what they want. You can trust me that I won’t ever tell anyone what really happened.”

“Why?” he finally asks. “Why not just snitch on me, Pogue?”

“Because that night, I told you to do it and you did. The world is a better place without him in it. You did me a favor.” You uncross your arms. “And I told you to stop calling me that.”

Rafe clears his throat, giving in, remembering how you’d saved his life and offering a quiet sorry before he says your name.

It’s the gentlest you’ve ever seen him. It’s a shock to your system. You search his blue eyes in the dim of the closet as if you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to make a snide joke.

But he doesn’t. He just stares at you, his breaths shallow, and you rethink everything you thought you knew about him.

He’s violent and aggressive and condescending. But you don’t see that right now. You see a man who doesn’t seem to be able to believe that someone would want to protect him. Is that who he is behind all the bravado?

The world continues to turn on the other side of the door, music blasting, bass rattling, but time has stopped between you. He’s looking at you through low lids. Like he wants you.

You shouldn’t. Shit is already complicated enough. But what’s one more tangle in the string tying you together?

Your fingers are at the collar of his button-up, pulling him towards you, lips meeting with abandon.

Rafe kisses you back immediately, hungrily leaning into you, cupping your face. His heart is racing. He doesn’t know how or why this is happening, but he wants it so bad that it hurts.

Your mouths part and finally, you taste him against your tongue. It feels so right, like you were always meant to do this and were both too stubborn to.

His hands press tighter against your jaw. Fear floods you. You’re back in that bedroom. You pull back.

“Not so hard,” you say.

“Okay,” he whispers, his grip loosening. He stays hovering over you, nose nudging yours. “Just… please…”

You nod, tilting your head to kiss him again, his hunger for you palpable. You’re with Rafe again, not in that bedroom, but here with a man you want who listens to your wishes.

Your head is swimming with bliss as he kisses you, smelling like cologne and desire, every piece of you wanting him. Then, his hands drift down over the curves of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

And it’s too much. You’re back there again. Begging for it to stop.

“No,” you snap, both hands roughly pushing his chest.

Rafe hits the shelves behind him, his head radiating in pain from how hard he smacked against the wood.

“What the fuck?” he mutters. He was just living in a dream. Why the hell are you pulling him out of it?

“No,” you repeat breathlessly. “You can’t touch me like that.”

“Okay,” he groans. “I won’t. Jesus.”

He clutches the back of his head, wincing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your throat raw. “I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”

“Why’d you even kiss me?” he says. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. You step towards him, trying to meet his eyes. “You can’t… I need you to ask before you touch me like that.”

His lips are glossy from the kiss, his face pinched in pain. You take a risk, gently placing your hands on his cheeks.

Rafe should be angry at you. But goddamn it, your touch feels so good that he melts. His gaze is heavy on yours, both of you breathing deeply, coming down from the sudden outburst.

“I didn’t mean to,” you repeat softly. “Just don’t take me by surprise. I can’t handle it.”

Rafe searches your face, silently asking for an explanation.

You shake your head, not having it in you to answer right now. Your goal tonight was to forget. Not relive. You pull him closer, and thankfully, he lets you.

Your lips are tender after you part, having lost count of how long you’ve been kissing.

Things just got so much more complicated. But you wouldn’t take it back. Not for a second. Nothing else makes sense right now, but having Rafe the way you always secretly wanted him is the one thing that does.

“Don’t fuck me over,” he says, a note of cynicism in his tone as his forehead brushes against yours. “No matter what happens, don’t fuck me over.”

“I won’t,” you promise.

·········

The next morning, you’re walking through the club hall towards the golf course to start your shift. You still can’t get the way Rafe’s mouth felt against yours out of your mind.

He kissed you like he’s been waiting to kiss you for ages. Like he felt lucky that he got to.

You’re about to step through the glass doors leading outside, but the sound of your name makes ice go through your veins. You know that gravelly voice.

You turn to see Detective Brading, his stare intimidating.

“You have a minute to talk?” he says.

You can tell by his tone that it isn’t a question.

to be continued

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[zushimart]

washing dishes is beneath him (he gets the ick so bad he almost throws up from touching dirty, wet plates)

[cute-sucker]

smile for the camera

˚❀༉‧₊˚

rafe called you his prized trophy, and you didn't mind it. you trotted in your tight skirts, black card and tiny heels. it was a ritual, something calming. you needed a label, something to stand by.

something that branded you to be his. but you didn't mind his demands, sometimes you were sweet about it. sometimes you let things go wild, but you knew he would take care of you. that was the important thing. that was what you needed most of all/  

there was something about him that made you feel protected. and he liked that you let him do that. you fueled his male insecurities of having to be a strong, strong man, because of how desperately you needed someone like that.

you used to be a pageant queen, a girl who had gems stuck to her forehead, makeup drowning her face, teeth bleached white, and the constant need to be loved. one of your vivid memories was getting dragged to get your hair done, your mother screeching about how needy you were. the whole appointment you cried your eyes out, arms flailing out, whispering questions.

"do you love me mommy?"

and she would pull you up, her lipstick clashing againts her leopard orange jumpsuit. you could already hear the insult, and braced yourself.

"would someone love their cash cow?" then she paused watching your expression. you were five. you didn't know what that meant, but you could feel yourself being inspected like an insect, and then finally when you cowered your gaze to the floor, she hummed with contempt.

"no. now, shut up" then her harsh hand would graze against your chin to fix your hair. you whimpered, hands aching to take out your outfit. the rest of the memory was too painful to remember.

but those days were gone. rafe had caught your eye the first time you worked at the country club. you lacked the vanity or the items that would attract someone who had money, but there was something about your smile.

you were dazzling no matter what, and that was when rafe had seen you. you had gone to the bathroom before to serve him, and came back with pink glossy lips and doe eyes that showed him that you were innocent. you needed protection. you needed someone to give you the firm hand, and then kiss you with forgiveness.  

so there it was. within weeks he would only call you to serve him, and you would do so quickly, the same smile plastered on your face, and finally as if he was pissed he pulled you down. your mom had always told you that the one thing she liked about you was your winning smile. but, something was wrong.

"nah, i don't like that."

you snapped to look at him, your fake smile wavering for a moment, "what's the problem, mr. cameron?"

sometimes that would earn a chuckle out of him, and you could tell the way he was sitting that he liked it but - but there was something wrong, and suddenly he was pulling you down to sit with him. you felt shocked seeing him so close. you could smell his breath, and you felt your heart drum faster.

"get that-" he pointed to your face, "-fucking fake smile outta here. if you wanna make me happy? give me a real smile."

and that was it, and then he grunted almost pushing you up. you sniffled, and then got up, hands reaching to fix your skirt and then hurried out to the backdoor. no one called back for you, and it was almost as if his words echoed all the way home as you caught the bus.

you spent hours crying over that moment. as you got home you rushed to the bathroom. your disgusting apartment smellt of cockroaches, and burnt food, and you sat there in your sink. you smiled. stopped. smiled. stopped. smiled. it hurt the way the cracks of your smile etched into your mouth.

what was wrong with it?

for god sakes what was he talking about?

x

those days were now long gone. no longer did you wait tables, or go back to your crappy apartment that made you feel gross. instead you slept in a warm bed in tanyhill waking up to rafe's firm hands on your body. you snuggled closer to him, placing your hands on his chest.

"hey?" he murmered, head buried in the fluff of his pillow. you giggled at his strange expression, and he quickly stuck his head out, eyes squinted, "what's wrong?"

you sighed, "nothing rafey. i-"

he looked at you again, a pointed look on his face, "spit it out."

you bit your lip, your voice a whisper when you asked your question. you had always been told to never ask questions unless you wanted the backhand, but rafe waited patiently.

"um," you sputtered out, "um, you remember that day when you came into the country club and i was serving-"

he hummed appreciatively, "yeah you were so hot, goddamn-"

at this you giggled again, before placing your hand on his mouth, "gotta shut up for a second-" and then you bit your lip before tilting your head, "remember that day when you told me to stop smiling, or something like you didn't like my smile?"

rafe seemed to furrow his eyebrows, "no, baby, i don't really remember that," he muttered out, and you felt your heart prick.

your eyes watered the way they always did, as your throat clogged up, "i was wondering what you meant by that?"

he sighed finally, looking at you. you looked so small in your pink nightgown, lip stuck out as you seemed to clench your fists to the sides of your body. you watched him carefully, hoping that something - some emotions would show on his face.

he sighed again, before reaching out for you, "baby, come here. you seem so far away," he said soflty, pulling you closer until you were in his lap. he held you close, his words humming a sweet vibration through your body. you felt safe, you felt at home.

you felt your breathing calm, as you listened to his steady beat. his hand moved up and down your back.

"listen," he began, his voice a low rumble, "when I said that, i didn't mean I didn't like your smile. i just meant i wanted to see the real you. not some fake, plastered-on smile you thought i wanted to see."

you sniffled, tears brimming in your eyes, but you felt a small flicker of relief. "but why didn't you just say that?" you whimpered, your voice small and vulnerable.

he tilted your chin up, making you look into his eyes. "i was a dickhead, and you seemed like a sweet girl. i wanted to know you as that sweet girl"

you blinked, a tear slipping down your cheek. he make a soft sound of protest as he wiped the tear away with his coarse thumb, touch tender

"you mean that?" you whispered, your voice barely audible. you felt shy now, folding into your self, as rafe smiled against your skin.

"of course, i mean it," he replied firmly. "y'think i'd lie about something like that?"

finally he pulled you up to give you a firm kiss, "my princess."

you buried your face in his chest, letting his words sink in. the weight of the past seemed to lift, if only a little, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. "thank you, rafe," you murmured against his skin.

he held you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "no need to thank me, baby."

for the first time in a long time, you felt a genuine smile tug at your lips.

[yannawayne]

if i bend under the weight + sun bleached flies

synopsis: tim's super! s/o gets hit with kryptonite and gets stuck under a building tags: gn! reader, blood, broken bones, needles, panic attacks part of my dc augu-whumpers series ; requests for this are open!

⋅────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰────⋅

PREVIEW.

"Was that a crash? Damn, that was loud."

"A building collapsed in the far east. Supers is in charge of that area."

"Supers? You there? Status report. What happened?"

“Shit! Shit! Shit! They’ve been hit with Kryptonite. Vitals are unstable! Someone get there now!”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Tim cried too, tears mingling with the grime on his face. “I’m sorry, I know, I know, baby. Please! Come on, we have to get up.”

⋅────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰────⋅

You were a super.

A near-indestructible hero with strength beyond measure. People watched in awe as you deflected bullets, halted runaway trains, and shattered barriers that would have left ordinary heroes in ruin.

To them, you were an immovable rock, impervious to life’s storms, a being untouched by doubt or weakness.

You had grown used to this. You were used to being seen as strong, so much so that you rarely had backup on missions. You were often sent out alone, expected to handle every crisis on your own. After all, you were a super. You fought solo, without regret, without asking for assistance. You believed you could bear it all.

But now, you found yourself beneath the skeletal remains of a collapsed building, the wreckage pressing down on you with a force that should have been a mere inconvenience. Dust and debris swirled around you in the dim light filtering through cracks in the rubble. The once-sturdy structure groaned and creaked as if protesting your struggle.

Normally, you would have lifted the wreckage effortlessly, but something was terribly wrong with your powers. Your hands, usually so strong, trembled as they strained against the concrete. You could feel the weight of each individual slab pressing down on you, pinning you to the ground.

Kryptonite, you thought, the realization hitting you with a force almost as crushing as the debris. The last memory you remember is being hit with a green glow.

Whimpering, you took a deep breath, strands of damp hair fell over your eyes, clinging to your sweat-soaked forehead. The burn in your side, a sharp and unfamiliar sting, pierced through the usual numbness. Your breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhale heavy with the smell of dust and despair. You had grown so accustomed to invincibility that pain felt like an unwelcome stranger. The once-mighty walls of your strength seemed to be crumbling, just like the debris around you.

There was a ringing in your ears, a harsh buzz that grew louder. You realized it was your communication link, crackling with urgency. You heaved, your head lolling to the side as you struggled to keep the building aloft. Every muscle screamed in protest, and the once-lightweight concrete now felt like it was made of lead.

"Supers? You there?"

Someone's voice echoed in your ear, Batman you think, steady and calm.

"Where are you? We need some backup here, stat."

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump in your throat. Your eyes drooped, the weight of your exhaustion pulling them down. "S… Sorry. I'm in a situation right now. I can't provide backup. Might actually need some..."

There was a pause, a brief silence that felt like an eternity.

"How serious is your situation? I don’t think anyone will be able to help you for a while. Think you can handle it?"

You could hear the detachment in his voice, the cold, clinical tone that expected you to push through just as you always had. There was no urgency, no hint of concern—just an unwavering belief that you would somehow manage.

Belief that a super could hold their own.

You blinked away the growing tears, shifting your position slightly to alleviate the burning in your side. The ringing in your ears had subsided, replaced by the dull roar of your own heartbeat.

"O—okay. I think I can hold on for a bit." Your voice was barely more than a whisper, the words forced out through gritted teeth.

The comm-link clicked off, the abrupt silence leaving you alone with the weight of the world pressing down on you.

You struggled as you lifted the building, feeling the bones in your wrists start to give way under the pressure. A sharp, searing pain shot through your arms as the bones cracked, the sickening sound lost in the groaning of the collapsing structure.

Your palms were now raw and bleeding, cut by the jagged edges of the debris. Warm blood trickled down your arms and you heaved, throat dry.

Tears mingled with the sweat on your face, blurring your vision. You blinked them away, focusing on the task at hand. You had to hold on. You had to keep fighting. The world above depended on it.

Slowly, agonizingly, you managed to lift the building a few inches. It was a minuscule shift, but it was enough to make a difference. The weight shifted slightly, and you could see a small gap forming. With a final, desperate effort, you managed to lift the wreckage high enough to create a gap wide enough for you to fly out.

As you emerged into the open air, you collapsed onto the ground, your breathing ragged and uneven.

For now, at least, you had held on.

 ༻⊰───⋅

"Was that a crash? Damn, that was loud."

"A building collapsed in the far east. Supers is in charge of that area."

"Supers? You there? Status report. What happened?"

“Shit! Shit! Shit! They’ve been hit with kryptonite. Vitals are unstable! Someone get there now!”

There was a cold, icy feeling sinking deep into Tim's bones as he heard the announcement through his earpiece. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat feeling slower and more labored than the last.

He quickly checked his location on his communicator. The display flickered with stark, cold reality—he was indeed the nearest to the scene, but still a grueling 15 minutes away. The distance seemed to stretch into an endless expanse, each second feeling like an eternity.

Without hesitation, he sprinted to his bike, his movements driven by sheer adrenaline. The cold, numbing fear was replaced by a burning urgency as he mounted the bike and roared to life. He maneuvered through traffic with reckless speed, weaving and cutting corners as if each second lost could mean a life.

As he drove, the cold, numbing fear slowly began to ebb away, melting into a fiery, scalding anger.

"Why the fuck weren't there reinforcements?!" he shouted into the earpiece, his voice laced with frustration and desperation. "Did no one think to check the fucking area? Is everyone just sitting around with their heads up their asses?!"

The bike roared beneath him, and his driving became even more reckless. Tim leaned into every turn, the engine's growl mingling with his furious breaths. He spotted a fence ahead, a barrier that seemed to mock his urgency.

Without a second thought, he gunned the throttle, launching the bike into the air. The bike soared, crashing through the fence with a deafening crack. Concrete and debris exploded around him as he slammed into the ground on the other side. The impact jarred his bones and rattled his teeth, but he barely registered the pain.

He tore through the final stretch of the city streets, his bike a blur of metal and fury. The wreckage came into view, a twisted maze of steel and concrete.

Tim skidded to a halt, his heart pounding furiously as he dismounted. He spotted you, hunched over right beside the collapsed rubble, your blood seeping into the grass.

Tim’s heart felt as though it was being torn in two as he saw the state you were in. His rage gave way to the deep, icy fear again as he rushed forward.

With trembling hands, he carefully rolled you onto your back, his gaze sweeping over your injuries.

Your face was ghostly pale, streaked with a grimy mix of dirt and blood. Each shallow, labored breath you took seemed to cut through the air with an echo of a sob. The severity of your injuries was laid bare—cuts and bruises marred your skin, each wound a painful testament to the violence you had endured. Blood pooled around you, a dark, crimson stain against the surrounding debris, making his stomach churn with a sickening nausea.

His eyes fell to your wrists, and he was horrified by the sight of them—clearly broken, twisted at unnatural angles.

He leaned down, his voice softening with a tender, almost broken affection.

“Hi, pretty bird,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“Kryptonite,” you rasp out, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“I know, I know,” he whispers back, his voice low and soothing. He reaches into his utility belt, pulling out a syringe with a green needle, filled with a bright, clear liquid. It was an antidote, a precaution he had hoped never to use.

Tim was always prepared for every situation, his mind a labyrinth of strategies and contingencies. One of the many things you loved about him. His meticulous nature meant that nothing was left to chance, and that care extended to you, his lover.

His hand was steady as he moved to insert the needle, but when you thrashed in pain, he realized too late that the entry had been rougher than he intended.

The sharp intake of breath you took, the wince that crossed your face—these were things he had rarely seen, and he realized just how fragile you were in this moment.

Tim had always relied on your metahuman durability, knowing that you could handle whatever force he threw your way, trusting in your strength without a second thought.

Then you screamed and cried, your sobs echoing through the night. The pain was unbearable, a relentless pressure squeezing you from every angle. Tim’s face crumpled in horror and panic, his usually calm demeanor cracking under the weight of your suffering.

He administered the antidote with trembling hands, his movements hurried yet tender. The needle was pulled away with a gentleness that belied his growing panic.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, moving to comfort you. “I didn’t mean for it to hurt. Please, just hold on. I’m right here.”

His hands were unsteady as he brushed the sweat and tears from your face, touch as gentle as he could manage despite his own mounting panic.

Tim was losing his grip. The sight of you, so vulnerable and hurting, was terrifying and so, so, so unfamiliar, driving him to a near hysterical state.

The antidote began to take effect, the green glow from the syringe slowly dissipating as it worked to counteract the kryptonite’s effects. But Tim’s relief was fleeting. The urgency of the situation pressed down on him, and he realized with a jolt that he needed to get you to a safer location.

“Come on, pretty bird, I need to get you up,” he said, his voice quivering with desperation.

Each attempt to lift you was met with new waves of agony, your screams slicing through the air like a jagged blade. Your cries were heart-wrenching, each one a brutal slash against his soul, unraveling him with every tortured note. The dark, red stains seeped into his heart, a reminder of how he was failing you.

Tim cried too, tears mingling with the grime on his face. “I’m sorry, I know, I know, baby. Please! Come on, we have to get up.”

With a desperate heave, he dragged you into his arms. You shuddered violently, your body wracked with ragged, sputtering sobs. Tim's heart squeezed with each gasping breath you took, and then, with a final, shuddering exhale, you fainted, your body going limp against him.

Panic surged through Tim like a tidal wave. His breath came in frantic bursts as he cradled you, trying to stay calm despite the overwhelming fear clawing at him. His hand fumbled for his comm device, his movements erratic and desperate.

He knew he had the skills—both medical and analytical—to assess your situation and manage it. His training had equipped him with the ability to stabilize injuries, evaluate critical conditions, and make quick decisions under pressure. But now, those skills felt useless against the crushing weight of his fear.

“Someone, please!” he screamed into the device, throat raw. "Help me!"

 ༻⊰───⋅

[skzstoryvault]

Impromptu (Hyunjin, spicy)

Snippet I wrote on the fly

Hyunjin x f!reader

Warnings: smut, athletic sex, Hyunjin has a big dick but knows how to use it, dancer stamina, multiple orgasms

If this is not your thing, please scroll on.

If you're a minor, please scroll on, this is not for you yet.

Please be kind.

If you enjoy the read, please leave a comment or reblog with a few words of your own.

The song you're singing in the beginning is "Van Gogh" by Mette.

***

“... I could be Van Gogh, shorty you could be my muse!” You sang, remembering the tune Spotify played you this morning in the car on the way to work.

No one was in sight, the idols were all practising and the admin folks had a big assembly kind of meeting in the conference room upstairs. You were the only one on your floor and for a moment you allowed yourself to forget you were at work and dared to have a good time. 

“Having a good day, I hear.”

You could recognise that nasal voice anywhere, but you didn’t have to, because its owner, the beautiful Hwang Hyunjin, walks up to you from behind a wall separating two corridors.

“Is it against the rules? Is it even a breach if no one’s here to be bothered by my off key singing?”

“I didn’t think it was off key. I thought it was really cute. You suits always look so stern and distant. Must be all the numbers you deal with.” He offers. 

“Thank you. I didn’t mean to mock you guys and your talent… I just…”

“Hey you were feeling yourself, you’re allowed to have a good time, and not everything is about us.” Hyunjin says, watching you curiously. “Have you done something new to your hair?”

“Uh, yes, I was a brunette until last week. Bleached it all out to grow my natural hair out.”

“It’s striking. I like it.” He says, leaning close to you. Very close.

“Are you sniffing me?”

“Yes, you’re wearing a nice perfume. And I don’t usually like perfume.” 

“It’s not a perfume,” you say. “It’s my overnight deo.”

It’s a foreign notion to Koreans, since their sweat doesn’t stink so they don’t use deodorants. To prevent smelling like a dead horse under the scorching summer sun, you use an overnight deo which smells almost identical to the original smell of Nivea cream. Clean and comforting, but not harsh on the olfactory nerves. 

“Mmm, I love it. Do you have time to go for coffee with me?”

“Sure.”

“My treat. Americano ok?”

***

One thing led to another, but you don’t know exactly how. You just know you somehow made it back home and you’re in the shower, with Hyunjin, and you can still feel his plush, soft lips all over your body, although now they’re on your clit, sucking at it like there’s medals being given out.

You look down, and you nearly pass out. This is a god, and he’s currently on his knees on your shower floor, the water soaking him all over and of course making him at least 10% hotter than usual. He’s looking at you with hunger and adoration, and that’s the kind of look people reserve for their new spouses on their honeymoon, where fucking is the only thing on the agenda. 

His hands are spreading you so he can eat you better, suck on parts of you you normally don’t even know you have, let his tongue sneak and curl into folds and crevices no one ever sees, let alone touches.

You’re like an abandoned house whose owner died a while ago and he’s an heir rummaging around the place for hidden treasures the will might have overlooked. 

He dries you and himself, only enough to not leave puddles and ruin the sheets. 

You want to cry - the sharp, almost frightening pleasure he’s giving you highlights how neglected and starved for touch and attention you’ve been. But no tears come, drowned out by the waves and waves of pleasure making your abs twitch and contract sharply - right before he pulls a squirting orgasm out of you.

“I could do this all day,” he says, his face now dripping wet too and smiling. “I want more.” 

You also feel as though it would be a crime to turn him down. Suddenly grow a moral compass when faced with having him between your thighs. That’s the kind of thing you’d regret on your deathbed. 

Once in your bedroom, he smiles at the cat-print bedsheets.

“Cute. I hope you have spares.” Is his comment, and you feel your womb squeeze in arousal at the idea. Fuck.

You normally don’t do this, you know better than to fuck people from work, and you definitely feel bad at the idea of riding the dick carousel like some men so grossly put it. You’re worried that Hyunjin thinks of you as a whore now, but until half an hour ago you thought he was gay, so maybe your thoughts aren’t the most reliable source of reality. 

You are too ashamed to tell him you love it when he fucks you with just his fingers, but he can likely tell from how slippery you get. You also get surprised by your second orgasm, it’s so easy and so good, different in feeling than the first but still leaving you boneless and floating, while still somehow clinging to Hyunjin and begging him not to stop. 

He takes his time bringing you to a low simmer, the warmth from his kisses and touches seeping under your skin as he again takes his sweet time getting to know every corner of you. Normally, guys are in a hurry to put it in so they can start feeling good for the thirty seconds it takes them to nut.

Hyunjin is truly a god, or one of God’s favourite creations. Even sweating and panting above you, with his hair clinging to his face and neck, he looks straight out of Vogue. 

He kneels up and pulls you in his lap, watching closely as his cock spreads you open, biting his lips and throwing his head back when he feels wrapped in your snug heat. 

“F-fuck, this is that thing. Better than anything else.” He says, and you feel like the words aren’t meant for you. Still, you agree.

Hyunjin is hung and you thought you’d never care either way. But he knows what he’s working with and how to make it pleasurable without causing pain and discomfort first, and that’s sexier than any inch number.

It hits you that you let him hit without a condom, but your insurance does cover emergency contraception. You don’t even fuck enough to need a steady form of birth control, so you’re not as worried. Plus, you know he’s clean, you see all the idols’ personal data at work. 

He holds you through it and comes more like an afterthought, awed at how much he was able to get you off. 

Somehow, the position he has you in, in his lap so he can thrust up into you, with your legs and arms around him, is also helping him last for ages, until the point where he pulls out and turns you around. At first you think he’s just going to hit it from the back, but he pushes you flat on your belly, spreading your cheeks and pushing back in.

You hear him lick something and then you feel the slick pad of his thumb rub across your asshole, which wrings another release from you, making you writhe beneath him like a fish on dry land. He rolls off you to one side, pulling you with him without even pulling out, and lifts your upper leg so he can touch you more, his fingers stroking your clit while he’s still moving inside you.

It’s too much, too much sensation at once after so long going without - he makes you squirt again, and this time you burst into tears too. Your body tries to push his cock out but he keeps moving inside you, making you shake and sob through the almost unbearable pleasure. 

You’re convinced that when you wake, after he’s finally in the mood for some cuddles, you will find him gone, only to have a very awkward year of random bumping into each other at the JYPE offices. 

You still barely believe it. 

But Hyunjin stays. He stays the night, the week, the month, the year and then, finally, the day he stands before you with a ring in a fancy box. 

[buckyarchives]

second, first meeting | chishiya shuntarou

spoiler warning for ending of aib season 2

after the meteor, chishiya notices the all too familiar person. their a pull towards you - like maybe you’ve met somewhere? (gn reader)

words - 1.1k

a/n: WOW AIB 2 FINALLY OUT AND THE ENDING WAS REALLY GOOD I THINK. anyways arisu and usagis ending was so cute and i needed literally the “have we met?” scenario with ALL of them. and i’m a weak so i made this, very shoot, not beta’d, just a small and sweet drabble. enjoy reading!!!

—

Chishiya is alive.

He sure as hell didn't feel like it, but he was. The meteorite took a lot out of him, physically and mentally. Waking up in the beeping hospital room with a sudden new look on life, and he was going to do something about it. No more being a messenger for bad news, slowly tearing down people's hope one referral after another.

Dozens of people just experienced the same pain and trauma as he walked around him, some looking better than others. A girl with an amputated leg, a man in a coma as he passed by his room, and a girl and boy walking hand in hand with injuries littered over them. Humanity– always finding love in terrible suitaions.

Chishiya stood in one of the hospital common rooms, people-watching as he always does. God– it feels like a lifetime had passed since the meteorite. Chishiya was familiar with the whirring and beeping sounds of hospitals, people chatting and crying, and the strong smell of disinfectants and bleach. He was a doctor, all these things filled his life to the brim, it was familiar.

Even you.

You, who stood across the room; tucked into a corner (like chishiya), people-watching, snacking on crackers, and keeping yourself comfortably hidden. Yes, you’d caught his eyes. But something felt off deep inside his stomach, something was off about you. Almost like you were too familiar, chishiya could see a lifetime in your eyes and this is the only time he's ever seen you. Maybe, it wasn't?

Chishiya knew better than to laser focus on one person in the room, because your head perked up. Right into his direction, but chishiya’s gaze didn't falter– he couldn't even if he wanted to. The pull towards you was too intense, it made him dizzy. shock, confusion, remembrance? Flashed across your face, similar to him.

A small, sweet smile grew on your face. Fuck, what medication did they put him on? That meteorite really did a deal on him because suddenly he can’t breathe. For a moment he thought maybe his stitched came undone, half expecting to see blood soaking his scrubs when he looked down. But no– it was just you. Chishiya’s has never seen a smile so familiar, yet foreign.

Your eyes narrowed in his direction, like you were trying to read him. Something many people found difficult in the past, Chishiya didn’t put up a fight or a stone-cold face. Chishiya narrowed his eyes back, like a challenge.

So wrapped up in you that he didn't see the teenage boy wheeling a little too close to his toes in a wheelchair. “Ow!” chishiya yelped.

“Ah! I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” the boy began to spew out a plethora of apologies, frantically bowing his head to the elder.

“It's okay!” chishiya reassure, the sting in his toe had already been subdued– an easy injury compared to the bandaged and stitched-up ones he gained a few days ago. “Seriously, it’s okay.”

The boys' apologies slowed and he wheeled off, practically still bowing. Chishiya chuckled under his breath at the gesture. Looking back up to find you again, weird– what's got into him? Your spot ghosted empty and chishiya’s eyes frantically searched for you, only to find your back now turned to him and trudging down the hallways. Right as his eyes landed on you, your neck turned and you glanced back at chishiya.

A challenge indeed.

Chishiya curiously cocked his head, looking something like a cat. And then one foot in front of another, chishiya was following you down the hallway. He wasn't sure why, maybe he didn’t need a reason. I mean, he almost died, chishiya felt like he didn’t need a solid reason to do anything anymore besides what he wanted. And he wanted to follow the beautiful, mysterious, and weirdly familiar person around in a hospital. Like cat and mouse.

And that's how chishiya ended up in a quieter, more intimate area. Middle of a hallway, near a set of tables and a vending machine. Usually, where loved one would sit weary-eyed and waiting for good news. You came to a halt, chishiya stopped. You turned around slowly, that sweet smile that made chishiya’s stomach feel weird (apart from the wounds.)

“You're following me.”

Something that would so usually sound like a question, was a statement. Because it was meant to be, because you knew he was from the beginning. You intended on it. Chishiya already likes you. And hell– your voice almost gave him whiplash, so silk and sweet. Echoing distantly in his head, like he's heard it a million times before.

“And you wanted me too,” chishiya replied coyly. His voice felt so scratching and his throat burned as he spoke, being without water and unconscious for too long. Shoving his hands in his pockets, leaning back slightly. Even half dead he must keep up his cool-guy image.

You didn’t reply, only a wider grin growing on your face. And chishiya found it hard to bite back one of his own. How so uncharacteristic of him – he felt so warm.

“Maybe.” you finally said.

Chishiya hummed, beginning to close the distance – one foot in front of another – between the two of you.

You watched him intently, chishiya knew it. Normally he’d perceive this as someone sizing him up, but your eyes told a different story as they trailed up his body. Something that'd make his ears hot and red.

“Meteor?” you asked, gesturing to his wounds. Chishiya nodded. “Me too.”

It was awkward for a moment, but not uncomfortable. The silence was deafening as if it wasn't meant for the two of you. Like there were so many words only on the tip of his tongue, words unsaid, words he didn’t even know – but they were begging to be spoken.

You were the first to break the silence, stepping closer. Now only 2 or 3 feet in front of him. “Have I, sorry, this is weird– but, have we met before? Like even passed each other on the streets.”

“Not to my knowledge.”

You hummed, looking around to avoid the intense eye contact that tugged you closer, and closer and–

“Would you like to know me?” chishiya said, his eyes not leaving yours. A weird sense of home lay in your eyes, chishiya was ready to jump fully in.

You tried to cover the eagerness in you, waiting a moment. Dramatically tapping a finger to your chin as you thought. “I think that’d be nice.”

Chishiyas lip quirked up, following yours.

He may not know you the way he feels, but he will.

[dicejpg]

You should have left a note - {Five Hargreeves x GN!Reader}

Synopsis: Five is ordered to kill his ex-commission partner. He doesn't want to.

Note: I made this really late at night. I would really appreciate requests for Five :)

(Not edited)

WORD COUNT: 1K

2nd POV:

Five peers down at the paper that bears your name, hands shaky. He was ordered by the Handler--just this morning--to terminate you for immediate extraction.

It’s been a year since you left Five since you left the Commission. He'd been rightfully frustrated since your abrupt departure. He didn't get a note, nor a goodbye. Sure, you two weren’t all that close as partners, but he at least deserved a warning, he thought.

He doesn't know how to feel about the idea of blowing your brains out with his M1935.

You’ve been gone for approximately a year, leaving no trace or hints as to where you may be. But, the Commission finally tracked you down to a small town in New Jersey, 1978.

When he arrives in front of your supposed living quarters, he is taken aback by the rundown apartment complex in front of him. A real shithole. Its bricks are chipped and sun-bleached, presumably from old age. Police sirens and gunshots are audible from a neighborhood away, giving away the unsafeness of the area.

It’s twelve o’ clock at night. Five quietly blinks up to your numbered room. If he remembers correctly from the paper, it's room 395. Third floor, second door to the left.

Your apartment is dark, gloomy. Five does not turn on the lights, not wanting to give away his existence. But, he assumes you’re not home anyways. Your job as a bartender at a rundown restaurant downtown would have you occupied for at least another hour.

He wonders through the confined living space, taking note of a few books scattered on the coffee table, and an unmade bed. There's a small pile of dishes in the sink, a pot and two bowls. There are no picture frames, or wall decor. The room is barren with no personality at all.

Five would not even know that you lived here from the looks of the place.

It smells like you though, he unwillingly notices. He finds it oddly comforting nostalgic.

He’s in the middle of examining some scattered papers on the ground when he hears the jingling of keys outside the door. Along with your whistling.

Five blinks behind a window curtain in no time at all, blood pumping fast. You must have gotten off early.

Your humming becomes more prominent as you enter your living space. The sound of keys being thrown on the kitchen counter makes Five jolt, but he still goes unnoticed.

You make no move to turn on the lights, so Five risks a glance at you.

Your head is blocked by the freezer door, but he notices your disheveled work attire. Some black slacks and an untucked white button down shirt. Your apron hangs on a hook by the door.

When the freezer door is closed, he notices your face. It's the same as when he last saw you, but with sadder eyes and dark eye-bags. His heart sinks, he starts feeling uncharacteristically torn.

He watches you crack open a frozen dinner meal and place it in the microwave. You roll your sleeves up to your elbows while you wait for the food to heat up. Five always thought you had nice, toned forearms. He stares at them, at you.

His eyes are intense, observing as you lean against the counter, stretching and running your fingers through your hair. He feels his stomach knot.

Five was definitely the wrong person for this job. He readys his gun quietly.

You freeze at the almost imperceptible sound of a gun clicking, slowly turning your head in Five's direction. He doesn't see the way your eyebrows furrow because he's fully behind the curtain again.

The microwave beeps quietly, but you make no move to retrieve your dinner.

The sound of footsteps approaching Five's hiding spot makes sweat bead on his forehead. He debates letting himself be caught, but decides against it. Five blinks behind you, aiming his gun.

But you've already kicked the thing out of his hands, fully expecting his maneuver. You tackle him to the ground, gripping his wrists and pinning his legs with yours. Not before kicking the gun far away, under the couch.

"God, of course they sent you, Five." You breathe, glaring down at him in dismay. "The Handler's such a sadistic- I mean, sending my own partner to kill me? Is she kidding?" You ramble is distress, cursing your ex-employer.

Five gazes up at you, swallowing thickly. He fights thoughtlessly against your grasp, but tries nothing else to get loose. He does not want to kill you.

"Let go of me." He warns, feeling fuzzy and not knowing what else to say. His eyes never leave yours.

"Why don't you just blink away? You're fully capable of getting out of this." You accuse, getting close to his face. Your breath tickles his nose. It's minty.

Five hesitates, his eyes fluttering for a moment as he fails to regain his train of thought.

He remains quiet.

"You don't really want to kill me." Your grip on his wrists falters slightly when he doesn't object.

He softly pulls his wrists free, and you let him sit up. But you keep his legs pinned just in case. There is a strangely comfortable silence as you wait for Five to find the words.

"You should have just told me you were going to leave." Five whispers finally. His tone is unreadable. "Or at least left a note."

You look at him with a pained expression. "You're right. I should have." It's something you regretted for months after abandoning him. There is an intake of breath right before you add: "I missed uh- I miss you." You redden, not looking at him.

He exhales with a hidden smile. "Me too."

[teatreeoilll]

𝐎𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐚 𝐇𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

˚• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • .

w/c - 1.2k content - MDNI! 18 + , fem!reader, porn with lil backstory, oral (m!receiving), nobody's really objecting to this lol

• . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . ° . • . °

The second-floor bathroom of the Tokyo District Court always smelled like bleach. No one could entirely solve the mystery of why the cleaning lady always spilled more than a gallon of it on the white-tiled floor of that specific bathroom - but it was precisely why Higuruma Hiromi preferred to fuck in it. And after a long day at court, you didn't mind it much either.

Hiromi nuzzles his face into your neck, pressing soft kisses against the exposed skin like he knew made you shudder. "Fuck," You tighten the grip your fingers hold on his hair, "That was terrible."

"Huh?" You feel his confused, warm breaths at your neck, debating what he'd done that was so wrong.

"I said it was terrible, Higuruma," you mutter, mind still occupied with the trial, "This old prick Saito has the hots for your client, so he won't even look at our evidence."

"You shouldn't call the purveyor of justice an old prick. Besides, could you not mention him when were - " He presses another gentle kiss on your neck, "having a moment here?"

"Why not?" You chuckle, "The toupee doesn't do it for you?"

Hiromi lets out a snort before his face falls on your shoulder, laughing. You almost forgot he could laugh. Your heart flutters as his body trembles against yours, shaking you along with it.

It shouldn't make your heart flutter. You promised - it's strictly professional in court and strictly physical after it. Neither of you had the time for the things that come with a fluttering heart and an earnest laugh.

He breaks away from you, his hands still resting on your thighs where he let them run under your pencil skirt when he first pushed you against the bathroom stall door. His cheeks flush red, and a small smile still unusually graces his lips. Another flutter, fuck.

You can't help it, running a hand up to his cheek, caressing it with your thumb. "Haven't seen you laugh in a while," you admit, feeling the warmth of his skin under the soothing movements of your thumb, "You're the only one in our class who didn't stray away from the righteous path."

Righteous. Higuruma hated that word coming out like that, it made morality sound miserable. Right would be a better word, but it would mean you were on the wrong path - and he couldn't bring himself to tell you that.

He fights the urge to let his head fall into your palm, and the light quickly leaves his eyes, "Objection, your honor," he says, "the prosecution is leading the witness."

"Accepted," you sigh, removing your hand from his cheek to move it along the fabric of his shirt down to unbuckle his belt, eliciting a quiet gulp from Hiromi. "Sorry," you mutter as you get down on your knees, your hands working on the zipper of his trousers.

"Don't - " his words are cut off by the rush his body gets from your hand rubbing against his rapidly hardening erection through his boxers, "Apologize," he breathes. You look up at him, and he thinks he might come just from your big doe eyes staring at him while you pull down his boxers, freeing his cock to wrap your fingers around it.

It's his favorite sight. It's been that way for years. Since the first exam season in law school, when you turned to him and said he looked like a good study partner. He knocked on your dorm room door with his hands overflowing with textbooks, only to drop them when you opened it with nothing but a towel wrapped around your body. "It's good to get the blood flowing to your brain first," you said.

"Fuck - " He hisses when your lips wrap around his tip, his hand jolting to press against the stall door to hold himself steady while the other hand finds its way to your hair, digging his fingers into it.

You don't take your eyes off the way his face twitches with pleasure, hollowing out your cheeks as you bob your head on his length. "Shit - you're so - " he groans, lost in the feeling of the wet heat engulfing him as you quicken your pace, letting the saliva run from the corners of your mouth, "beautiful, fuck - " his hand runs to where you hollow your cheeks, lingering there so he could feel himself inside your mouth.

You place a hand on his thigh to steady yourself, feeling the shake in his legs every time the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. You pull back from his cock with a lewd 'pop', taking in a sharp breath before flicking your tongue against the flushed tip of his cock to lick the beads of precum forming there. His knuckles go white when his fingers try to dig into the stall wall.

"God," he moans when you wrap your lips around his cock again. He holds his hips steady, trying not to gag you as he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, "I love you."

You stop. His cock is still halfway in your mouth when you look up at him, but he knows what you want to say, We don't say that, Hiromi. His eyes widen, large apologetic brown orbs that stare down at you as you resume your pace, pulling up a hand to stroke the part of his length that doesn't fit in your mouth.

His face grows hot, fuck. His cock twitches inside your mouth, and you smile against it for a moment before your swollen lips tighten their grip around it to suck him hungrily. Fuck it, he thinks as his heart races, and he bucks his hips to reach deeper into your throat, "I love you," he moans, chasing his release, "fuck - I love you."

Your stomach turns at his words, the heat rushing to warm your cheeks, and you're desperate to hear these words leave his mouth again and again as your fingers dig deeper into his thigh as you let out soft moans that vibrate around his cock.

He doesn't manage to give out any warning when his muscles tense, his mouth half open with a quiet "I love you," leaving his lips followed by breathy moans of your name as you gagged on his release flooding your mouth.

"S-Shit, I'm sorry - " Hiromi pulls out from your mouth, his hand gently cupping your face. Your teary eyes still pointed at him as you wiped the remainder of his seed from the corners of your lips.

You get up from your knees as he fixes himself back in his trousers, "Hiro," you mutter, and his breath hitches. You never call him that, so that's it, fuck.

"Listen - I - " He stutters.

"Isn't the guy supposed to be on his knees when he says that?"

"Huh?" His heart about to burst from his chest.

"Isn't the - ah, never mind," you chuckle, "how about you buy me a coffee?"

He'd buy you a house if you asked him, "Sure," he says, pausing for a moment, "I do - love you, you know?"

A blush creeps to your cheeks, "I know, just - " you sigh, "I - uh," a speechless prosecutor, that's a first, "I love you too." Coffee won't cut it, I need a drink.

[harryscherrypie]

It's been a long time coming.

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summary ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Charles and her are childhood best friends. His win in Monaco proves that some promises are worth waiting for.

triggers - mentions of underage drinking, y/n (ugh)

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She watched his every move on the track. It was Monaco, the most important race of the season to him. As if on purpose, everything went to shit, dampening his mood and spirit in the upcoming weeks before the race. Leo had gotten sick and needed to stay out of the paddock with his compromised immunity. His girlfriend had broken up with him, saying she didn’t feel the passion she thought she did in the past few months. He didn’t particularly care; it was just too much hustle with the media and their constant meddling in his business. His car wasn’t performing as well as he would like, and he barely got P1 in qualifying. Now, Piastri was almost up his ass as he kept the lead for the 45th lap straight.

She remembered when they were kids; it was his favorite play pretend. Running down the sidewalk of the famous first Monaco corner with their fake carton steering wheels, Charles always had the lead. She ran as fast as her much smaller legs could carry her, but in the end, the advantage of one extra year of growth always helped him to cross the finish line first. She remembered crying to his parents and them scolding him for getting too carried away. He would sulk a little before coming to her and mumbling an apology as he wrapped his arms around her.

She watched from the Ferrari garage, as usual. She hadn’t been to a lot of races these past few months, mainly wanting to avoid his, thankfully, now ex-girlfriend. The girl didn’t like her at all, and (y/n )didn’t mind. She would be definitely doing something wrong in her life if a girl like that would like her. She was just another bleach-blonde stereotypical dumb girl, wanting to live the WAG life while she didn’t even understand the basics of the sport. It was laughable to (y/n).

He dived into the tunnel. She remembered being nine and sitting on their balcony, their feet stuck through the railing as they watched the cars zooming below them, leaving behind the stench of gas and rubber. She never liked the smell. Charles reveled in it. It was clear, even when he was ten, what his desired career path was. She admired it—him knowing what he wanted to do. She didn’t. She liked sleeping in and watching cartoons. She supposed it was in the way he had to act more mature. By that time, he was slowly racing in the big local leagues, being on the track almost every week. She hoped he wouldn’t leave her behind when he made it into F1.

Another lap passed, and she could feel the desperation and hope radiating from his onboard. She started pacing, praying to whatever was up there to let him make it. She couldn’t handle seeing him disappointed at a home race again. She had seen enough of that in the past few years. Coincidentally, he was always single when he raced in Monaco, his relationships never really reaching this milestone of his girlfriends seeing him race on the home soil. She knew she would be the one to console him if this didn’t work out. They would skip the celebrations of whoever won, and he would lock them in his apartment, taking both Leo and her into his bed and holding them tightly as he worked through the bitter taste of resentment and feelings of inadequacy. Some prior years, his hands would wander, taking her closer and holding her in a way friends shouldn’t do. But she allowed it. Just this one misstep if it would make her soothe his racing mind. She hoped it would be different this year.

She remembered them getting drunk in the bar overlooking the last corner of the track when they were teenagers. He was freshly 18 and snuck her 17-year-old ass in. His old classmates dragged him there, and he didn’t want to spend his birthday night without her. He had never done it before. They didn’t like it there. Even though it was an under-the-radar local bar with prices catered towards the locals and not the millionaire visitors, he still found it quite expensive. He was finishing up F2 and talking of an F1 contract. The whole group pregamed, as young people do, and already came into the bar more than slightly drunk. She didn’t have as much, nervous about her parents finding out she was sneaking into a bar. As his friends announced another round, Charles and y/n looked at each other knowingly. They bought one beer to split and keep the buzz going and snuck out.

They found themselves on a rocky beach. In most places, it was very uncomfortable to sit on and quite dangerous if the wind picked up. They liked it there, though. It was October, and cold enough for them to be wearing jackets and long pants. He popped the cap with his keys and offered her the first sip. She took the bottle with a thankful smile. They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to talk. There was an unspoken understanding and never an awkward moment of silence between them. He took her hand into his and placed it in his palms, trying to keep it warm. She was always freezing. As the minutes went by, they got closer to each other, intertwining their limbs.

It was long after both of their curfews when they were turning the corner to her street. He was holding her hand as he led her to her front door. He turned to look at her and he already found her staring at him with a knowing look on her face. His drunken haze was long gone, but the alcohol confidence stayed as he stepped closer and ducked his head to place a gentle kiss against her lips. They parted soon after and smiled at each other sadly.

“I know,” he softly whispered and kissed her forehead. He knew she just wasn’t ready. And it was alright; he understood.

“Ask me again when you win a home race in red,” she whispered with a slight smile playing on her lips, masking just how sad it made her.

He only nodded as he pressed another kiss to her forehead before he took a step back and watched her get inside her house. Once she waved at him from the window of her room, he was comfortable with going back home.

Tears streamed down her face as she watched him drive past the checkered flag. She could feel Pascale wrap her arms around her as she shook with sobs, watching her son achieve something he and his father wanted for so long. She was pretty sure she dissociated. It was an out-of-body experience watching him get out of that car and pull his helmet off. His eyes were crinkled as the biggest smile he had possibly ever sported made its way onto his face when he saw his entire team behind the metal barricades. She was thankful everyone in the team was mindful because she was sure she would be squashed against the railing in front of her. He made his way to the team. She thought he would jump into the crowd of the Ferrari workers, but he simply stood in front of her. It was another one of those knowing moments. They didn’t have to say anything as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. She could feel him trembling and knew he probably needed some emotional grounding.

“I won in red,” he whispered into her ear, a hopeful look in his eyes.

She tilted her head back to look up at him. He was a Monaco race winner, something he wanted since they were kids. Her hands traveled from his shoulders to the nape of his neck and to the back of his head where she tangled her fingers in the slightly sweaty hair. She didn’t care. He looked at her tenderly. They both knew.

“A promise is a promise,” she whispered teasingly before she guided his head down to her face and pressed a loving kiss on his lips.

She felt a tear down his cheek, and she discreetly wiped it from his skin. She knew he waited for a long time. She did too.

[vickyzangels]

hii!! can you write smut about tom were you're sucking his dick for the first time? hes just looking down at your teary eyes and getting more and more turned on GAHHWD🤕🙏

% “always be my boy, i'll always be your girl.”

# synopsis ; what the ask said‼️‼️

# pairing ; tom kaulitz x reader

# word count ; 490

# tags ; nsfw (mdni), oral (m receiving), degradation, should’ve pumped this bitch out in a day but i got stressed while procrastinating it and adhd made me deep clean my bathroom instead (who knew bleach could make a tub smell like a public chlorine pool) so who knows if its bad

a/n ; i’m hitting post and running away this was so bad I’M VOMITTINH

tom is a head pusher. you probably would have gathered that if you assumed based off what he’s said in his interviews before, but nothing could’ve prepared you to be kneeling in front of him for what was close to a consecutive hour. do you remember what led up to this point? no, if that doesn’t count giving each other hickeys almost aggressively after a big interview on a show.

regardless, you were practically being used. head rolled back, offering a view of tom’s jawline as he groaned up into the air about how you were on your knees letting him fuck into your mouth with your hands braced against his legs. you’d been doing nothing but letting him use you, gagging around his length as reward for cooperating so well.

spit from your mouth starts to spill down your chin, mirroring the tears and whatever smoky makeup you had put on before the show from your eyes actively running down your face. your gagging starts to get a little louder from his quickening pace, and in taking notice, he looks down to mock and smile at you.

“..was für eine schmutzige hure.” what a dirty whore.

he groans, making sure to emphasize each word with a hard thrust down your relaxed throat, “take it, take it all like a good girl since you want it so bad.”

and you do. maybe it was the way the interviewer kept making sly advances towards your boyfriend the entire time, and yet he dodged every one of them so naturally but he even made sure to mention you in nearly every answer he could, maybe that was why you wanted his thick cock in your mouth so bad.

through your eyes rolling back and tom hitting the back of your throat over and over again, you gathered enough composure to start swirling and lapping your tongue around his length, keeping extra attention aside to keep your cheeks hollow.

his thrusts faltered a bit, his hips slowing down stuttering but nevertheless still rocking himself into your mouth. continuing his pace, both hands you braced on his legs slid up to paw at his length and pull your head back to the tip just to fall back to the hilt of his cock. tom’s guidance began to fall short, moving to just rest on your head while you started to control the moving.

the simple up-and-down motion evolved into a maneuvering to give special attention to his tip and make space for your hands that stroked and rubbed with the pace of your lapping, using spit that spilled from your mouth to make a messy lube.

if you told tom from however long ago that you weren’t sucking the soul out of his dick that you’d never gave a blowjob before and were later going to give him possibly the most earth-shattering orgasm of his life with little to no guidance, he might’ve laughed.

a/n ; long time no seeeeee 😋😋 im not even gonna lie to you guys cause this is tumblr i dont have to live in fear >:( but i did suck dick to method write for this, love you guyssss

a/n 2 ; if yg on my taglist dont fw the tagging anymore lmk i’ll take you off‼️

© ALL RIGHTS BELONG TO VICKYZANGELS. do not steal, repost, plagiarize, or use my work for anything.

taglist ; @lixs-l4cefairy @imabitchh @arquiiva @verelace @iovemoonyy @bl1ngringz

[roosterforme]

How You Play the Game Part 6 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You find more comfort in Bradley's home and in his arms than anywhere else. But time is ticking down, and only a win by the Angels on Saturday evening will give you more of both. Bradley tries to make a compelling argument, because he knows it's finally time to start speaking his mind.

Warnings: Swears, fluff, angst, oral and smut (18+)

Length: 7600 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! How You Play the Game masterlist. Banner by @thedroneranger

You woke with a small jump as soft lips and a bristly mustache met your cheek. "Bradley?" you mumbled as his deep chuckle next to your ear made you shiver. When you started to push the covers off and open your eyes, you felt a hand on your shoulder. 

"I'm leaving for work, but you should stay in bed. You deserve a day off."

Now you were looking up at him standing next to his bed in his khaki uniform with all of his pins and his name tag. And he looked so good, you knew you were staring. It was almost startling seeing him like this when you were so used to all the Padres shirts and snug fitting jeans. Most of the people in his life were probably more used to this look. The Lieutenant Bradshaw look. But it was rendering you speechless. 

"Can I come to work with you today?" you asked him, earning another chuckle. Spending the day at his house doing your laundry, relaxing and eating everything in his refrigerator sounded actually pretty perfect, but you'd just rather be doing all of that with him here, too.

"It's not Take the sports writer you're completely infatuated with to work day."

Now you were the one laughing as you set up in bed and reached for him. "When's that day? I'll make sure I'm off."

He kissed you sweetly as his hand found your hip. "I think it's in April."

You were giggling against his smiling lips when he suddenly groaned. "I need to go. Text me if you need anything? Or if you just want to distract me?"

"I will."

"See ya, Ace."

When you heard the front door open and then close, you rolled over in his bed and buried your face in his pillow. Then you squeezed it to your body. Bradley smelled incredible, especially since you were so used to the sterile bleach scent of hotel bedding and the stale air of ballpark press boxes. You wished you could bottle this up and take it on the road with you. Take a little bit of Bradley wherever you went. 

Before that thought could take further shape, you climbed out of his bed and shivered in just his TOP GUN tee shirt. Since he told you to make yourself comfortable, you allowed yourself to root around in his dresser drawers in search of a pair of socks. Your eyes caught on the frame of his mirror hanging over the dresser, and you smiled at your reflection as you reached up and touched the ticket from game one. It was the media pass he won from the radio program, and you traced the corners of it before you sat on his bed and put on a pair of his comically large socks. 

It was early, but you were hungry, and you found a fully stocked refrigerator when you went to the kitchen. Bradley's home was a treasure trove of things that were normal for other people but not for you: bedding that smelled like heaven and a delicious assortment of fresh food. You pulled out a container of berries and then found oatmeal in his cabinets. Your stomach was growling loudly as you poured yourself some coffee from the pot he left out for you. 

You sat on his living room couch with your breakfast and looked out the window. It was probably always this sunny here, always this inviting. Bradley's cottage was easily five times the size of your apartment, which you rarely thought about beyond it being a place to hold all of your things that didn't really matter. You didn't have time for stuff; just the clothes on your back and your computer. 

When you finished the last bite of oatmeal, you felt tears in your eyes. You were so lonely. You were so tired of forcing yourself to work harder and harder to make up the deficit between yourself and your colleagues. You just wanted to hide here, in San Diego, with Bradley. You felt safe and desirable, and he wasn't yelling at you or telling you that you needed to go to Boston.

You took a deep breath as you went to the kitchen sink with your bowl and mug. There were a few other dishes there, so you washed everything for him and set them out to dry. It had been years since you hadn't done at least a little bit of work on a day off, so you went to get your computer out of his bedroom. But it smelled too good, so you carried your computer back to his bed and snuggled in where you could work on the beginning of your next article before the game tomorrow afternoon. 

Your inbox was completely filled with offers from recruiters with other newspapers and online outlets. You knew some of them would send you a job offer in an instant without even asking you to interview with them. Some of them had even managed to corner you when you were on the job; they knew your schedule as well as you did. You were always sent to the most high profile matches and events. And while some aspects of what they were offering you sounded very enticing, you were already at The New York Times. 

After you took some deep breaths, you deleted all of them and opened up a blank document and got to work. But you didn't get far before you closed your laptop, because writing baseball stats was a lot more fun when you were sitting on Bradley's lap. You decided to text him.

How's work?

Then you remembered he told you that you could check out his collection of baseball cards in the garage. You jumped out of bed and walked down the short hallway, peeking in the extra bedroom on the way. You opened one door, but it was just a linen closet which he actually had organized by color, which you found charming. The next door led you out to the small, attached garage which was also very tidy. You looked at everything on his shelves before you found some boxes that said Nick Bradshaw- Baseball Cards. The marker was very faded on the cardboard, so you slid the first one down very carefully.

When you carried it back inside to the living room, you felt your phone vibrate in your hand. Once you set the box down, you saw that you had a new message from Bradley.

Bradley Bradshaw: Work is not as fun as playing hooky with you. What are you up to, Baby?

You took a selfie with the box of baseball cards which you assumed had belonged to his father. You added the caption 'About to dig through these and swoon all over your living room.'

The collection was impressive to say the least. You didn't collect cards, because you didn't have the time or space for them, but you knew which of his were valuable when you looked through them. You thought about how much fun it would be to organize these a little better with him. Your phone was vibrating again.

Bradley Bradshaw: You look gorgeous. Send me another picture?

You sent him another selfie, and then he asked for another one. This game went on and on until lunchtime when you decided to mess with him a little bit. 

Now send me one, and you'll get something sexy in return.

He didn't respond immediately, and you figured he must be busy. You made a sandwich for lunch and ate it with some potato chips. Then you found his washer and dryer in a little closet across from the bathroom door and started a load of your dirty clothes. And then you got ready to get in the shower. 

Your phone vibrated on the sink vanity, so you grabbed it before you stepped under the spray of hot water. And you almost dropped it when you saw a set of two photos of Bradley out in the bright sunlight in his uniform. In the first one, he was wearing some aviator sunglasses and smirking. In the second one, the sunglasses were gone, and he was smiling. 

"Fuck," you moaned as you looked at the photos, making sure you didn't get your phone wet.

Bradley Bradshaw: Now where's my sexy Ace?

Before you could tell yourself what a big mistake you were making, you snapped a photo of yourself, water cascading down your breasts and a grin on your face. You sent it with the caption 'You look so good in those aviators, I'm about to start touching myself.'

You were standing there thinking about it. Your nipples were hard, and you were thinking about the scratch of Bradley's mustache on your skin. But his next message had your hand pausing before you could touch your clit.

Bradley Bradshaw: Jesus Christ, Baby. How am I supposed to focus when you send me something that good? Don't you dare touch yourself. I want you dialed up to eleven for me when I get home.

And now you were a whimpering mess as you tried to shower without letting yourself get off, wishing you had brought some sexy underwear on this trip with you.

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

Well now Bradley was a mess, thinking about your body while he was supposed to be listening to a safety demonstration out on the tarmac. Why had he bothered to come to work today? He should have taken a second day off and spent it with you. 

But you were leaving soon, and that was why he decided to try to keep to his normal routine. And you were exhausted whether you thought so or not, so he wanted you to have time to relax and unwind. 

"Hey," Nat whispered, nudging his arm. "You okay?"

Bradley sighed and nodded, and then he held up his phone with a photo of you with the baseball cards for her to see. Nat pushed him a little further away from the group and hissed, "She's at your house? Are you insane?"

"Nat," he started, running his hand through his hair. "I know-"

"No, I don't think you do, Rooster. You're going to get your heart broken."

He nodded and looked down at their feet. "It's already unavoidable at this point. And she makes me feel so good."

His best friend sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You know you're supposed to come to the Hard Deck for Mickey's birthday tonight, right?"

His plan was to bring you along, buy you a few drinks, maybe dance to the horrible collection of songs in the jukebox with you. "Yeah," he replied. "I'll come if she wants to join me, but I don't want you giving her the stink eye all night."

She scoffed. "I'll be perfectly nice to her."

Bradley shook his head, starting to get pissed off. "Will you though? See, the thing is, I'd like to think that I'm not the only one headed for some heartbreak here, Nat. I'd like to think she feels the same way I do. Like maybe I'm too good to be true, too. And maybe spending time with me now is worth the pain later."

Her face softened immediately. "You are, Rooster. You're too good to be fucking true. I promise I'll be nice. At the Hard Deck and next week if you want to talk about it then."

After that, Bradley just left early instead of hanging out on the tarmac with the others. He skipped the showers since he'd barely even done anything today. Then he could get home sooner and see you and just shower there. When he climbed in the Bronco, he texted to let you know he was on his way. And then he sat there with his key hovering next to the ignition. 

You'd be gone by Monday morning. This was the only time he'd ever get to tell you he was on his way home to you. More than anything, he wanted to know if you were falling in love like he was. He wanted to know if there was even a tiny part of you that wanted to stay. 

Ace: Hurry! I'm making dinner. And you should keep those aviators on when you get here... I'm dialed up to eleven.

He shoved the key into the ignition. He was pretty dialed up as well, but he knew it was at least in part because his heart was invested. He lived so close to base, it only took him a few minutes to get home. When he reached to remove his sunglasses and leave them in the cup holder, he smiled. Then he dashed up the walkway to his front door with his keys in hand and his aviators perched on his nose.

You were right there when he walked inside, wearing one of his favorite tropical print shirts and a pair of his socks and a bright smile. His house seemed more inviting than it ever had before. It even smelled like you were making something delicious. And then you were in his arms, and his hands were inside the unbuttoned shirt all over your soft skin.

"I missed you. Been thinking about how good you look in this thing all day long," you moaned, running your hands up and down the front of his uniform shirt. "But the sunglasses make it magical."

"I missed you, too." Bradley kissed you as your hands made their way slowly down to his pants. "You had me dialed up all day and I wasn't even with you." He wanted to ask you so many questions right now, but you were kissing his mustache and bumping his sunglasses with your nose while you wrapped your hand around his cock and started jerking. And then he couldn't remember anything except how happy you made him.

When you sank to your knees in front of him, Bradley yanked his aviators lower on his nose. You were smiling up at him as you yanked his pants down a little lower and licked away the bead of his precum before you kissed his tip. "Why is this so hot with you in your uniform, Lieutenant?"

Bradley groaned loudly as you took a few inches of him with a smirk. "Why is this so hot with you in my shirt and socks?"

You popped him free and giggled. "All my clothes are in your washing machine. Even my underwear."

"I love that for myself," he grunted as you took him deep. With gentle fingers, he stroked your face as you gave him head in his living room. It was like some depraved housewife fantasy, the way you felt so familiar to him. The way he could smell dinner cooking. The way you bobbed your head and moaned for him.

You sucked on his balls and ran your tongue slowly back and forth as you looked up at him. You had one hand wrapped around his length, and you were touching your tits with the other. Your gaze was the neediest thing he had ever seen as he stroked your cheek. Every time you released him, he groaned for you, and then you just started sucking on him again. He could feel himself tightening up as you kissed his balls and whimpered. 

"Fuck," he growled, hauling you to your feet and getting his lips back on yours as you gasped in surprise. "I wanna fuck you."

"Please," you gasped, nodding and looking toward the couch. 

He shook his head and lifted you up with both hands on your bare ass. "In my bed, Ace." 

"That's even better," you whispered, sucking on his neck and raking your fingers through his hair. "Your bedroom smells like you. I love it in there."

"Fuck," he grunted again, his cock slapping against your ass as he carried you to his bed. And then you were on your back with your head on his pillow as he took off his aviators and tossed them down next to you. His shirt was hanging open on you, and his socks looked ridiculously adorable on your feet, and your legs were spread wide, your pussy already so wet for him. "You are the hottest thing I have ever seen," he announced before burying his face in your pussy and making you scream his name. 

"Bradley!" you screeched and gasped over and over again as he got his face all wet from you before bringing his lips up to yours for a kiss. His uniform pins were brushing against your breasts and you were grinding your pussy against his cock. 

"Shit," he gasped, pulling your lip between his teeth and releasing it. "Where are the condoms?"

"In my suitcase in the hallway," you whimpered. "Skip it if you want. I have an IUD."

And if Bradley thought he was losing his mind ten seconds ago, it was nothing compared to letting himself slip inside your warm, wet pussy with no protection at all. "Ace," he rasped, watching your face as he pushed himself deeper until your back arched off the bed. He fucked you with his hands on your hips until your legs were shaking. You had your hands all over his face, continuously pulling him in for kisses. 

"You feel so good," you gasped, running your feet along his thighs.

He pressed his lips to your ear and asked, "Are you getting close for me?"

"Yes," you moaned, reaching for his hand and drawing it up to your lips. You sucked on his fingers for a few seconds, taking him painfully close to the edge, and then you pressed his fingers to your clit. 

He worked in quick strokes, listening to the sounds you made as you got louder. When you pulled him closer for more kisses, he indulged you before he said, "I wanna watch you come for me, Baby."

And then you did. You came apart with his fingers on your body and his name on your lips. Your face was beautiful as you gasped and babbled nonsense as your pussy drained every drop of cum from him. You were perfect as you reached for him and said, "Now you better kiss me."

You and he had your lips all over each other for so long after you both caught your breath that he was surprised and delighted all over again when he started to pull out of you and remembered he came inside you.

"You're blushing," you whispered as you looked up at him on his knees between your legs.

His cum was slowly oozing out of your opening and dripping down to your ass. "Baby, if you could see what I see, you'd understand." He was transfixed. Obsessed. He leaned down to kiss your pussy and taste himself there, licking along your skin with a soft grunt. 

You propped yourself up on your elbow and tugged him by his hair, and he just knew you wanted to taste it, too. So he kissed you, letting you suck on his tongue. Then he jerked away from you and turned toward the door.

"Is something burning?"

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

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Bradley said for the hundredth time as you sat on his couch with him eating pizza. "This isn't as good as yours would have been."

You just laughed. "Seriously, this is probably better. I'm not great at cooking. I was just trying to impress you."

Why exactly, you weren't sure. What difference did it make to Bradley if you could cook a chicken casserole that was good or not? He wasn't yours to impress. You weren't going to be here past Sunday night at the very latest, and that was only if the Angels won game six tomorrow. 

"I'm impressed," he replied, his cheeks a little pink again.

"Yeah," you said, trying to push your feelings to the back burner. "I could tell how impressed you were with me in your bedroom."

"That's not what I meant," he said, looking down at his lap with a frown that made your heart ache. You tossed your pizza crust into the box and climbed on his lap. You and he had taken a quick shower together after he called in a pizza order, and now you were both in your own clothing. 

You kissed him and tried to change the subject. "What time are we leaving for the bar?" you asked. 

When he met your eyes again, he said, "We can go whenever. And we don't have to stay long. Just long enough to say happy birthday to my friend and have a drink?"

You could hardly believe he wanted to take you with him. His friends would want details about who you were and why you were together, so you would just follow his lead. 

It was a short drive in his cool Bronco to the bar, and he sang along to the radio and held your fingers laced with his the whole way. And then he paraded you inside with him like it was the most natural thing the two of you could be doing. "That's Mickey, the birthday boy wearing the blue Captain America shirt. And that's my best friend Natasha wearing the annoyed expression because someone is talking to her."

You laughed, and he leaned down to kiss you as you walked toward the pool table. As you walked past the bar to meet everyone, you noticed the bartender's gaze following you and Bradley as you went. Her expression was one of curiosity as she mixed a drink. 

"Ace, this is Nat," Bradley was saying, and you turned in time to grasp hands with the woman that he referred to as a 'mean little spitfire'. 

"It's nice to meet you," Natasha replied. She didn't look happy exactly, but she didn't look like she was upset that you were here. "I've heard a lot about you."

You looked up at Bradley, a little surprised. "Oh. I've heard a lot about you, too. Bradley said you're smarter than all the guys."

She nodded and smiled. "Yes. Yes, I am. Thanks for acknowledging it, Rooster. You two want drinks?" she asked. 

"Go ahead," Bradley replied. "We'll get some in a minute."

"Hey, Rooster!" Mickey shouted as he waved in between taking shots. 

You laughed. "I don't know if I'd ever get used to everyone using your call sign," you told him. "It's so amusing to me."

Then Bradley wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you in closer. He kissed your forehead softly, but he looked serious. "If you stick around in San Diego, I bet you'd get used to it, Ace."

You swallowed hard as you looked up into his brown eyes. You could tell he was being sincere, which made everything hurt a little more. But you were saved by the group of guys all calling for him. Bradley sighed and kissed your forehead one more time before you and he were absorbed by the group. 

A few minutes later, your head was swirling with names and faces when Bradley asked, "Do you want me to get you a drink?"

"I'll come with you," you told him, and he nodded before taking your hand a little hesitantly. You were confused, because then he wrapped his arm around you just like he always did, and his fingers were softly stroking your side through your shirt. But then when the bartender turned your way, it clicked. She and Bradley had slept together before. You could just tell. 

"Hey, Bradley," she said, already reaching for a pint glass and pouring what must have been his usual beer. The way she looked at him and talked to him was just a tiny bit too familiar. 

"Hey," he grunted before turning your way. "What do you want to drink, Baby?"

You met the bartender's eyes and couldn't help but smile as Bradley brushed his lips along your temple. You weren't his, but he was choosing you right now. And it felt incredible. "I'll have the same thing," you told her before turning your face so he could kiss your lips. 

Bradley dug out his wallet without really looking at her, and she ran his credit card as you sipped your beer. He wasn't being a jerk, and she didn't seem overly jealous, but you just knew they had a past. 

Then the two of you threw some darts and played some pool, and Bradley was more than happy to point out that mini golf was probably your worst game. "Happy to see you can handle a pool cue better than a putter," he whispered with a grin.

"Be nice, or I'll leave my golf ball behind at your place," you replied. 

He looked a little sad as he shook his head. "I want you to keep that." You knew you would, and he knew you would. You could picture the perfect spot for it in your apartment, but you already knew it would never make it there. You'd keep packing that stupid blue golf ball from your date with him in your luggage and take it everywhere with you. 

"Can we go now?" he asked suddenly, his face a little sad. "Back to my place?"

"Yeah," you agreed, and after a round of goodbyes, he led you back past the bar with his arm around you. The bartender tracked your movements, but you didn't care. He was yours right now, the way he was touching you. 

And he was yours when you got back to his house, the way you were touching him. "Ace," he sighed as you rode him in his bed. His body was delicious, but his voice was what had you a mess. "Baby, you're so good. Can't get enough of those little noises. Keep going." The feel of him once again inside you without a condom as he verbally coaxed you to orgasm was only part of what you knew you were going to miss. 

Because the rest of it came next, when he was curled up with you in the dark, quiet room, his arm draped around you, pulling you close. The only sounds were his breath next to your ear and his deep whisper. "Night, Baby."

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

"Stay in bed," Bradley whispered again. It was Saturday. Game six was this evening, and he was trying his hardest to draw you back to him again. He had successfully made you snuggle in and fall asleep with him again after the first time you woke up.

"You'll mess up my sleep cycle for when I'm in Boston," you murmured before you snuggled against him with the covers pulled up to your chin. "But you're so warm."

Bradley indulged in a brief fantasy where you would fly out to Boston, complete your assignment, and then fly back to San Diego to be with him until you had to go somewhere else. And you'd be here when he got home from a long deployment. Ready to take him to bed and hold him just like this.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked as you ran your nails along his cheek and kissed his nose.

He couldn't tell you, no matter how much he wanted to. "Thinking about how I'm still the worst Padres fan ever. The Angels better win today. We deserve seven games, Ace."

"We do," you agreed, and Bradley was delighted that you fell asleep in his arms again. 

When you and he finally got out of bed, you went to his dresser and pulled on one of his tee shirts like this was a normal occurrence. "Will you let me make you breakfast?" you asked with a smile.

"I was going to make breakfast for you," he replied, patting your ass on his way to the bathroom. "But we could make something together."

You were already in the kitchen, kneeling on the countertop and looking in his cabinets when he came out of the bathroom. "Do you have chocolate chips?" you asked. "We can make chocolate chip pancakes, eggs, maybe some oatmeal. Sorry, I'm just so excited for something other than a free continental breakfast."

He wrapped his hands around your waist and lifted you down as you squeaked. "Not up there," he whispered, kissing your neck as he set you on the floor. "In the pantry."

You turned and scampered across the kitchen, and now Bradley was sincerely hoping he had all the ingredients you'd need for pancakes just so he could make you happy right now. "Found them!" you announced, holding up a bag with a smile that made him weak. 

"Let's get started." 

It was too much fun being with you. The pancakes you made turned out beautifully, and you and he ate on his couch again. This time he accidentally dripped maple syrup on his bare abs since he wasn't wearing a shirt. "I feel like you did that on purpose so I'd either buy you another shirt or lick it off of you."

He smirked. "I mean, I wouldn't be mad if you did."

You sighed dramatically as you set your plate on the coffee table next to the box of baseball cards. "Fine. Extra large shirt? You want the Padres this time?" Bradley laughed at your words, and then you leaned down and licked him clean as you looked up at him. Then you climbed into his lap and kissed him. 

"The Angels better win tonight," he murmured against your lips. "I need them to."

"Do you want to go back to bed?" you asked, and he carried you there, expecting maybe some more tongue exploration. But what he got was you curling up in his arms again, your lips pressed to his chest. You were quiet for a bit before you asked him softly, "What would it be like being in a relationship with you?"

This was an echo of his question from Thursday night, and now he could appreciate that he had really put you on the spot then. How could he describe something spectacular that he wasn't going to get to experience with you, in a way that would make you remember him fondly. Bradley made sure his breathing was calm and even as he said, "Probably just like this, Ace. A whole lot of this right here."

You didn't say anything for a long time, and you kept your face buried against him. But eventually you nodded and said, "I would like that."

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

When Bradley held your hand during the game at Petco Park, everything seemed a bit more somber today. The press box was quieter than usual even though the crowd was going crazy. During the seventh inning stretch, when you leaned in close and kissed his cheek, Quincy turned around and asked, "You bring him to every game now?" as he nodded at Bradley. 

"He's my intern and my sex slave, Quince. And that's strictly on the record." 

But Quincy was undeterred today even as you and Bradley laughed quietly together. "Heard Greg was thinking about pulling you out of here early to send you to the Bruins? He only pays you so much because you're useful to him. Being a woman and all."

Bradley watched your head snap to face Quincy with a look of barely concealed rage. "Try not to cry too hard over the fact that I make more money than you even though you're twice my age." 

Quincy grunted and muttered, "Same old, same old with you. Always gotta be on top. Always gotta get the last word in."

Bradley watched you press your lips together like you were trying your hardest to not have the last word right now. It was obvious that wasn't why you made it as far as you had. It was also obvious Quincy was trying to bait you. Bradley just felt a little bit bad that he could be used as ammunition against you. "You want something to drink, Ace?"

When you nodded, Bradley stood and went to get you a water bottle. "Thanks," you muttered, looking down at your keyboard as he handed it to you. 

"Hey, don't let these assholes get to you," he whispered as he slipped back down into his seat. 

He was drawing little shapes along your back with his fingers as you looked up at him in surprise. "I don't fucking care about Quincy.... the Padres are up three to zip." You laughed sardonically. "You know I'll have to leave in the morning if they win, right?" you asked him.

Bradley nodded. He couldn't even say the words out loud. So he focused on the game and held your hand tight. The Padres were using their relief pitcher a little early, and he looked fatigued. His pitches were wild, and he was walking batter after batter. Then right at the top of the eight inning, Bradley heard the crack of a perfectly hit ball. 

"That's a grand slam," you whispered before the ball was even beyond the fence. Instead of marking it down on your stat sheet, you tossed your pencil aside and kissed him. "Angels up by one run," you said against his lips. 

"They need to hold the lead," he replied, letting his forehead rest against yours. "They need to. I don't care who wins the World Series, but they need to do it in game seven, not game six."

His words made you smile so much, he wrapped his arm around you to keep you as close as he could. And when the final score was the Padres with three runs and the Angels with four, you were practically on his lap. You were even smiling when Greg called you a minute later to tell you to get to Boston first thing on Monday morning after game seven on Sunday night. 

"I'll have to book my flight," you said to Bradley as everyone started to flood out of the press box ahead of the crowd. "But we have two more nights together instead of just one."

You and he were quiet after that, your fingers laced together as you walked out to the parking lot and rode back to his house. He didn't feel like he needed to rush right now as he unlocked his front door and followed you inside. You pulled him in for a kiss that was so sweet, he was surprised. Just your arms around his neck and your lips moving gently on his. 

"We have some time before my midnight deadline. Can we get changed and snuggle in bed like earlier?" you asked him, your eyes closed as your lips hovered near his. "I want to change into your Padres jersey."

Bradley had goosebumps on his skin as he whispered, "It's your Padres jersey now." 

You looked so damn pleased with yourself as you ran toward his bedroom, shedding your clothes on the way. Bradley undressed down to his underwear while you did the same and then slipped his jersey on before heading for his dresser. "Your floor's cold," you mumbled as you grabbed a pair of his socks and put them on before jumping into his bed. "And now I look ridiculous."

Bradley shook his head as he stared at you. He'd been holding back enough, and he just didn't want to do it anymore. "Nah, Ace, you look... like everything I want." 

"Bradley," you whispered, pulling his blanket up over your face. "You can't."

He slipped in bed and burrowed under the blanket with you. Your eyes were bright as you looked at him in the dim bit of light. "I can't help it," he replied, and you eased yourself into his arms. "There's nobody like you. You're the Ace for a reason."

"God," you whimpered, kissing his lips and his cheeks, and teasing your fingers through his hair. Your palms were warm on his cheeks as you traced every single scar and the curve of his lips. You ran your nose along his mustache, and you just snuggled closer and closer to him. "I can't think straight when I'm with you. It's like, I feel like I could..."

"Like you could what, Baby?" he begged. He needed you to finish that sentence, but you didn't. You just kissed him until you were the one begging and pleading. It was so easy to give you what you wanted right now, because he wanted it, too. He yanked his underwear down and pulled yours to the side, and when he slipped inside you, he watched you pull the blankets down. And now he could see you a little better, and you really were exactly what he wanted. 

It was slow and sweet, and he knew he'd never feel this good with anyone else. He didn't want to let you go. He held your thigh on his hip and rocked into you, thrusting as he thought 'stay, stay, stay'.

"Bradley," you moaned, pushing him onto his back and riding him until you came. He was afraid he was saying exactly what he was thinking now as words like need and permanent surfaced in his mind while he babbled. You told him to cum inside you again, so he did. And when you curled up on his chest, he kissed the top of your head. 

Your lips were on his neck as you silently ran your fingers through his hair. "Ace," he whispered, but you just shook your head. So he pressed his lips together and rubbed his hands up underneath the jersey, and you shivered against him. 

A few minutes later, when he was nearly soothed to sleep with his cock still nestled inside you, Bradley felt your body jerk. "Oh no. What time is it?" you gasped. You climbed off of him abruptly, a look of panic on your face as you searched for your phone. "Fuck!" 

Bradley climbed out of bed as you fumbled your phone and ran for your computer which was charging on his chair. His cum was on his abs and your legs, but you didn't stop to get cleaned up before you ran for his kitchen table. "What can I do to help?" he asked as he followed you.

"Nothing," you snapped, booting up your computer. It was almost 11:30, and Bradley wasn't sure exactly how much you'd written before and during the game; he had been too concerned about the Angels winning tonight. 

He got you some water and whispered, "I can help you proofread it," but you didn't respond. You just typed away frantically while he hovered around the living room, glancing in your direction constantly. Your brow was creased in frustrated determination, and Bradley felt like an asshole for not suggesting that you or he set an alarm before climbing in bed. Because he could absolutely lose all track of time when he was with you, whether you and he were fucking, talking or cuddling. And he knew it.

When he looked at the clock on the microwave, he winced. It was nearly midnight, and you were still typing and looking at your stat sheet. "Anything I can do?" he asked again, but you just shook your head, so he went to the bathroom. He got himself cleaned up and then just leaned on the sink vanity with his head cradled in his hands. 

Fuck. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel any stress when you were with him. He felt like an idiot. When he finally returned to the table, the clock said 12:01 and you were still typing. He was waiting for your phone to ring. Greg would be calling you to start screaming any second now. And he had to stand there and watch it all unfold. You submitted your article at 12:07, and you looked up at him with sad yet determined eyes before you answered your ringing phone. 

"Greg," you said, your voice sounding strong and sure even though your face was defeated. And then Greg was hollering nonstop as you held the phone a few inches away from your ear. Bradley hated it so much. He leaned down to kiss your forehead and then your cheek while Greg reminded you not too kindly that you missed your deadline by seven minutes. Then Bradley cupped your face in his hands and held eye contact with you while you told Greg it wouldn't happen again before you ended the call. 

The silence was almost deafening as you held your phone and looked up at him. Bradley swallowed hard, but his voice was still a harsh whisper as he said, "I hate it when he yells at you."

You shook your head and grimaced as tears filled your eyes. "Well, I missed my deadline, so he had every right to-"

"No," Bradley said, dropping to his knees in front of you on his kitchen floor. "He doesn't, Ace. He shouldn't do that. It's just seven minutes."

"But it's a deadline for a reason," you supplied immediately, looking down into his face. "One minute is the same as seven is the same as sixty. It shouldn't happen at all."

Bradley scoffed. "So he sits up until three in the morning in New York just to call you and scream? That's fucked up."

You swiped at your eyes as you whispered, "I let myself get distracted by you. This is my fault. But when I'm with you, I can't think straight. Which is bad."

"Ace," he whispered helplessly as you cried. "But if we were together-"

"We can't be together," you told him. Your voice was soft and sorrowful, but it felt like a gunshot to Bradley. His ears were ringing from the sound of it. He could tell you were stubborn, but right now, he felt stubborn, too. It wasn't very often that he allowed himself to want something, and never on the scale of how badly he wanted you, but he thought right now it would be worth fighting for this.

"I've seen your email inbox," he whispered, and your eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't need Greg or the New York Times to be successful, Ace. You bring everything to the table, and clearly other people see that."

"Bradley," you said, shaking your head sadly. "It's the New York Times. The pinnacle. There's nowhere else for me to go that wouldn't be a step backwards in my career, and that's a fact. My job is important to me. Writing is important to me."

"But you're more than who you write for-"

You cut him off as you raised your voice. "You knew immediately who I was when you saw my name, because I work for The Times!"

Bradley buried his face against your thigh as he tried to will his heart to stop pounding so hard he could barely hear. He kissed you there before he looked up at you again in agony. "People would follow your writing anywhere, because you're that fucking good. Have you ever thought about writing for someone else?"

You swiped at your eyes as you whispered, "No." "Baby, you could make a big name for yourself on an independent platform. Your style is fun and it flows. You can find something better for yourself than the New York Times. This doesn't have to be that hard."

"It's not that easy either. I told you how it would be, Bradley," you said, your voice taking on a pleading tone. "You would hate it when I was away for long stretches. You would want someone else. Someone easy to be with. Someone who was always in San Diego."

"That's a fucking lie," he growled. "And you know it."

You were silent for a minute as your eyes settled on your lap. "New York is my home. I'm settled there. And you're settled here."

He felt sick. The words had too much finality. But you were waiting for him to confirm, and the last thing he ever wanted to do was let you down. "Yeah. I am." Then he realized he was crying as well when he reached up to cup your cheek again. You melted into his touch before you slid off the chair and onto his lap on the floor. "Ace. Look at you," he whispered, and you met his eyes as your lip quivered. "You're perfect. The perfect woman. I want to be with you. And I think you want to be with me, too."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, and he held you while you cried. "I'm sorry, Bradley," you murmured against his shoulder. 

He knew you were scared to even think that something might be a better fit for you, and maybe he was wrong. Maybe it would be career suicide if you left your job. He didn't know a damn thing about it really. All he knew was everyone wanted you with them. Including him. It was hard for him to breathe as he asked, "What do you have in New York that you couldn't have in San Diego? Here. With me."

But you didn't answer him. You just stayed curled up on his lap until after one in the morning with your arms wrapped around him and his securely at your back. He tried his best to memorize how good and yet terrible this felt, because in a few days, he knew he'd probably give anything to feel you in his arms. 

When you finally eased away from him and kissed his lips, you tried to smile as you said, "Let's just enjoy our last day together."

Bradley closed his eyes against the pain. "Sure, Ace."

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

All I feel right now is pain. I miss feeling joy. The final game is next. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 7

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[imagining-in-the-margins]

Clean Shaven (S.R.)

Summary: Reader helps Spencer shave after prison. Request: reader comforts spencer shaving for the 1st time after prison? maybe he gets triggered w a knife near his face? Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Comfort Content Warning: Razors, shaving, PTSD generally Word Count: 1k

MASTERLIST

Spencer’s bathroom is more sterile than it’s ever been before. The scent of bleach is both calming and terrifying. He breathes it in, anyway. He stares down at his hands that are holding onto the counter like he might be able to break through the granite.

“Spencer?” you call.

He looks up and into the mirror. He doesn’t see you, though, because his eyes capture his full attention. They are still sunken, still bruised. It’s been two weeks, but it feels like yesterday. He knows how long it’s been because half of his face is covered by stubble.

The reflection feels alien. He runs a hand over his face to remind himself that it is real, only to find that it feels foreign, too.

“I can’t do it,” he whispers.

You know he’s talking about more than shaving.

There are no magic words to make these moments better. You have already exhausted every iteration of beautiful cliches, and you were left with the same broken heart.

You watch as your boyfriend paws and pulls at his skin while he scrutinizes his appearance in the mirror. You know there is a risk that he will slip away too quickly to stop himself.

There is a risk that he will forget where he is, but you have faith in him. So, you wrap your arms around his waist and hold him. Your hands settle over his heart that is beating quicker from the shock of kindness.

“You don’t have to do it,” you tell him.

He releases a shaky breath but holds back tears.

“But if you want to, you don’t have to do it alone.”

Spencer sits in the quiet, clean atmosphere. He breathes in the smell of bleach now mixed with your perfume. He closes his eyes. The world feels brighter without the light. Behind the thin skin of his eyelids, there is only the happiest versions of you and him.

This is exactly how he made it through.

This is exactly how you did it, too.

“Will you help me?” he says. His voice is small, and his hands are shaking when they rest over yours.

“Of course,” you assure him.

He lets out a breath with more force. The first thing you do is turn him away from the mirror. You can see his eyes moving quickly behind the lids, always searching for the origin of new sounds.

When the faucet turns on, he opens his eyes. His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. His grip loosens almost immediately when you smile. Eventually, his hand falls back into his lap.

You are careful as ever when you bring the warm washcloth to his face.

It feels too much like fabric filled with rocks.

He flinches. You wait.

“It’s just a washcloth,” you whisper.

Spencer is breathing heavily through his nose. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are strained to stay fixated on the fabric in your hand.

You touch him again. He accepts it begrudgingly at first. After a few moments, however, it feels familiar. Although the minutes dragged on and the cloth turned lukewarm, you are more than happy to wait. You would wait at each step until he was nuzzling against your hand or smiling through shaving cream.

The second part doesn’t take nearly as long. The airy fluff feels nothing like anything sharp. It is smooth and soft, and it reminds him of you. You rinse off your hands but do not pick up the razor just yet. Instead, you use freshly washed hands to push back his hair.

Spencer looks up at you with the most pitiful stare. His eyes are wide and filled with longing for something he feels unequipped to provide.

You know he wants to kiss you, but the lower half of his face is out of commission.

You kiss his forehead instead. You do this to make him happy because you know as soon as you pick up the razor, things will change.

They do.

“Wait,” he says.

You set the razor back down.

“We don’t have to do this,” you remind him. With a lopsided smile and a chuckle, you run your hands through his hair once more. “I love you just as much when you’re scruffy.”

“I know,” he replies, and you are surprised to see it’s also through a smile.

Even more to your surprise, Spencer is the one to pick up the razor.

“I want to do it, though,” he decides. “I want to do it myself.”

He turns his back to you. Almost immediately, he glances back to ensure you’re still there.

“You’ve got this!” you chirp happily with both hands raised triumphantly.

He laughs. When he looks in the mirror, he sees you. Between each swipe of the razor, he returns to find your smile.

His motions are imprecise and hurried. There are a few moments where he stops to catch his breath again. In those more difficult moments, he finds relief in the shape of your hand on his back. It is difficult, but it is not insurmountable anymore.

As the last bit of hair is rinsed from his face, he lifts his head once last time. You are waiting behind him, with a dry fluffy towel in hand to catch whatever droplets might remain—whether they be saline or tap water.

He is quick to turn to you. The razor clambers to the floor and his hands find their place on each of your cheeks.

You try to catch his damp face with the towel, but he pushes past your hands until your lips touch, instead.

He kisses you and there is no scratching of stubble.

There is one fewer sign of the torment on his body.

You kiss him back and drop the towel in favor of him.

He is made warm enough to melt into your embrace before he lets out a final breath of relief.

He smiles with clean cheeks, and he is as beautiful as he’s always been.

(Tell me what you thought about this fic here!)

Looking for more to read? Check out my Masterlist here!

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[courtingchaos]

Unclean

Gator Tillman x Fem Reader

Warnings: Religious themes, menstruation: sex and talk of, fingering, blood in various places, allusions to physical abuse (not reader) it’s period sex!

A/N: Listen, I am an ex-for-almost-20-years-Catholic who grew up around a lot of Southern Baptist, so excuse my (probable) misinterpretation of Leviticus okay? I just think Roy Tillman is a real Old Testament guy. I’ve had this little one shot in the wings for a while and only got the guts to finish it recently. I’m also deeply aware that I am interpreting this character much differently than the fandom at large so like, peace be with you.

18+ NSFW No Minors

Nothing but low lights behind the pulpit and a few along the aisles to let you see the outline of him in the first pew. Leaned forward, still and quiet in the cold dark that seeps into the small wooden church. Outside, the calvary congregates and converses after their Sunday dinner provided by their shepherd and in here, in the small family chapel, it’s just the two of you in the glow of old bulbs. Warm yellow gives the bridge of his nose a highlight and shines off the sun bleached strands in his hair. When your footsteps reach his radius he looks over his shoulder, tense and sharp, but the golden glow reflects off his eyes to give him a softer look than he deserves.

You stop two pews back and he gives you a once over, nervous eyes flitting from your head to your feet and up again before he begins chewing on his bottom lip. “You go home?”

“Yes.”

“Why you still in your dress?”

“It’s still Sunday.”

He laughs through his nose and turns back to the pulpit, thumb rubbing lightly against his reddened lip. “Did you stop at the house?”

You step forward one more length of pew and stop again to watch him fidget with the vape in his hand. “No, Roy wanted to talk to my father so I came back out here.”

Gator hums, a twitch of his lip letting his displeasure show for just a moment. The smack of the metal against his palm is loud in the small space like the yell you know he’d like to let loose would be. Sharp and mean like his demeanor, trying to be like his father but just south of right.

“Did you eat?” You ask while creeping up beside him. The smoke from the pit nearby has snuck in through the gaps in the doorways and mingled with the dry smell of wood and old hay. This chapel has always reminded you of an attic with its exposed beams but the scent of decades old pine makes you the most nostalgic.

“No.”

“Not hungry?”

He looks up at you before he sits back against the bench, takes in your pieces before the whole of you, eyes flitting again from your open coat to the hem of your dress fluttering just below your knee. Vape set aside he reaches out to drag a finger up from your knee and under that hem where you keep some of your secrets. Lines of ink not even your parents have seen, another cut you’ve inflicted like the hundred others while trying to claw your way out of this compound.

Fingers dig into the back of your thigh to hold you in front of him, lets the heat from his palm sink in while he doesn’t answer you.

“What was this morning about?”

He tilts his head in lieu of opening his mouth.

“Roy was on his ‘god honoring woman’ kick again. Did Karen piss him off last night?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t home.” His other hand snakes between your thighs to hold higher up. “She didn’t look upset.” He drops his gaze then to stare at the yellow flowers dotted over the black fabric of your dress, the one your mother bought you as a threat veiled in a peace offering.

“A little too much Leviticus for my taste.”

“Mm.”

Your coat lands on the floor behind you and his fingers inch higher on the inside of your thigh. He seems fixed on the way your dress bunches over his wrist instead of the soft touch behind his ear where you tuck an errant strand of hair finally falling out of its place. Outside there’s a muffled uproar of laughter that makes you cast a sharp look through the foggy windows and Gator takes the opportunity to move his warmth away to pluck at the buttons at the top of your dress.

“Little low cut for church.”

“My mother doesn’t think so.”

“I’ll thank her later.” An actual smile this time as the first button slips through silky cotton, followed by two more before you stop him. The wood creaks under your knee as you shift your weight to it, sliding it up against his hip. Again his hand finds your thigh, up high to find his favorite ink, a simple black line cross that his thumb rubs small circles into.

He hasn’t noticed yet that you tucked your underwear in your coat before you walked all the way out here. Risky since this morning left you with a bloody visit and now you sit unclean under the rafters his family raised. Your dress slides up easily enough, almost up enough to share your secret, and finally he pulls you close. Tugs at you to get you over his lap, your other knee colliding dully with the bench back.

It’s like a switch with him sometimes the way his mood will turn. Sour petulance that makes you roll your eyes will break for roaming hands that map out your body. Sullen quiet suddenly loud with his wants, with his questions, with his panting and moaning. Any place he can have you but more often in places that would bring down his father’s ire if you were found.

Flush against him now he pulls you down to meet the seat of his hips before he pushes your dress up around your waist and pauses mid grope to laugh.

“Does your mother approve of this too?” Fingers move again along the crease of your hip until they reach soft curls. He catches your eye and doesn’t look away as he dips his fingers into your heat, his lip caught between his teeth again, this time with a smirk. He pushes up slow, thick fingers dragging against oversensitive flesh, his palm flat so you can grind against him. Words seem caught in his throat, probably something goading and whispered, something laughed out on a breath. You know he wants to make you blush about how wet you already are and how loud you’re panting but he changes his angle and moves his hand, pulls it back in front of himself and stops to stare at the red staining his fingers.

“Oh.” You don’t pretend to sound surprised. He frowns but doesn’t push you away like you thought he might’ve, instead he seems frozen in place and you don’t miss the blush beginning to trickle down his cheeks. “It’s okay.” You grab his fist hovering between you. “It’s okay.” You repeat and he looks at you then, wide eyes searching for something. Leaned in close you bring his hand up slow, up towards his lips parted around a whispered sound of protest.

“Is-isn’t this breaking a r-rule or something?”

He doesn’t curl his fingers away when you press them to his mouth, a long line of blood from his cupids bow to his chin. With your free hand you fumble with his belt and his pants, keeping his doe eyed gaze glued to yours.

“Your father walks in here without burning.”

Confusion has nestled its way into his features, eyes squinted at you until you wedge your hand in between thick fabric and hot skin. His gaze droops when you pull him free, mouth splitting open with a quiet gasp. You move then, sitting up on your knees to look down on him wanting and blooded, dragging your hands down his long arms along the back the of the pew outstretched to grip the hardwood with white knuckles. Fear, you think at first, from the wild print you’ve left on his face. Anxiousness maybe that he might be found like this, not just compromised but marked now, cut off from the flock finally.

“Gator…” You barely whisper and he’s chasing you upwards. Against the restraints of your hands on his wrists he pulls when your lips don’t descend to meet his.

A choked off whine, “Please.” His hips wiggle between your knees for some kind of friction, anything to get closer. “C’mon, come back.” He pleads through clenched teeth, tacky red turning matte on his full lips. It draws you back in and he smiles when you close the distance with a brush of a kiss, something light that makes him huff before you consume him.

He doesn’t taste like when you bite your cheek or suck on a paper cut. It’s a foreign taste on a familiar tongue, faint passion fruit from his habit and a metallic tinge that makes you groan into him. He feels good. Pinned like a fluttering moth looking for an escape, for a saving grace that he seems to find in your lips and the dip of your tongue. His breath comes in sharp puffs through his nose smushed against your cheek and again you hear him whine when you don’t let him raise his hands.

A shake of his head to break the kiss to get his point across to take a deep breath-

Outside there’s heavy footfalls on the old wooden steps. Both of you freeze like deer, your eyes trained on the heavy door and his boring through your chin, waiting to bolt at the first sign of discovery.

Muffled voices, a click of metal and your heart in your throat when this unsuspecting intruder has a change of pace. A muffled question. A pause. Quiet laughter and parting footsteps.

Your fingers simply drape and Gator takes the opportunity to surge into you. Hands grabbing at your hips to hold you closer, pushing you down on him. He guides himself in with his thumb, a quick brush over that ache of yours amplified through thrill and nature.

You miss him watching your face scrunch up in apprehension. Lips parted like his, pink lipstick smudged with blood, only you hiss out an “easy” that he answers with a shush. Lets his hands run back up under your dress to find his favorite little scar of ink, smearing red along the way. Almost dry now but his fingerprints in your mess between the two of you make him forget his reservations for a few minutes. He forgets the crowd outside and the house ten minutes away. Pushes the expectations away. He instead watches you relax into him, the way your hands unwind from his shirt only to feel them slide up behind his neck to wind back up in his hair. Your tongue rolls over your bottom lip before you bite down on a moan when he bucks his hips up gently.

This wet heat, new to him in this taboo, draws him in when you roll your hips in earnest suddenly. You’ve angled him to find that magic spot he’s usually still searching for by this point, your head rolling back on your shoulders to ride your knees raw against the wood. The deep heat of you almost scorches him, a small voice in the back of his thoughts reminding him of hellfire and naked founts.

“Fuck.” Said out loud in the hopes of chasing away a voice tinged with vitriol and a release of the climbing pleasure up his spine. You writhe in his lap and he gropes at your hips, slides long fingers down and under to grab at your thighs. Slick with sweat you slip in his grasp, heavy breaths blown over his locks when you finally reach behind him to hold onto the bench.

The open top of your dress brushes his face enough times he bites at the buttons, finally catching them between his teeth. Through his lashes he watches your face, glued to the peek of teeth behind your lips. The way you glitter in low light and muggy air. The dip of your collar bones when you roll your body into his and he can feel you tighten all around him, core and arms and air.

A not gentle hand suddenly wrapped around his jaw, fingers prodding into his mouth to hang and pull. Wandering lips messily find his own and then trail off over his cheek to end at his ear, your peak whined against him. Pulsing that makes him hold you closer so he can chase after you to find his own end.

He’s been on the precipice since you threw your coat on the ground and all it takes is a few gentle thrusts before he chokes on a groan and suddenly he feels bottomless. No floor, no bonfires, no congregants too close for comfort. Just your face in his neck and the shared messy warmth pressed between you two.

There’s a swing of headlights over the front of the chapel that breaks whatever tandem calm you two have created. Separated wordlessly with barely a glance at the extra mess, Gator quickly readjusts his pants and you snatch your coat on your way to the small ladies room in the foyer. More muffled voices tonight that intrude on your privacy while you scrub smudged lipstick off your face and rebutton your dress, jumping only a little when there’s a knock at the door.

“You fall in?” Your father jokes on the other side.

“Give me a minute!” You snap while trying to slide your underwear back on. A final look before you walk out to make sure the surface of you is presentable, no visible marks or smudges. Out in the entryway your father gestures at you to follow and Roy gives you too long of a look when he waves. You wonder if he can see it all over your face even though you scrubbed the evidence off. Wonder if he can smell it on you two like a predator sniffing out wounded prey.

Can he see your handprints all over his son? Invisible blood that marks him different now. The tang of sin sits all over your tongue and when you run it behind your teeth to savor you catch Gator staring again. Catch him watching your hands twist in your coat pockets and his eyes flit back up to your mouth. You can feel the faded touch of him worrying at your tattoo even across a courtyard.

“Hey Gator?” You holler at him while climbing into your father’s truck. “Don’t forget dinner.” A simple smile for him before you slam the door, a break in the tension and your phone is vibrating seconds later. You wait to look until your home but it still makes you laugh even when you’re starting your laundry.

Thank your mom for me.

[steddieas-shegoes]

how are you even alive?

for @steddielovemonth prompt ‘love is watching them do stupid things’

rated t | 1,351 words | cw: minor injury, suggestive language | tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, the hurt is Steve being stubborn, the comfort is Eddie loving him even though he should accept help

♥️❤️♥️❤️♥️❤️♥️❤️♥️❤️♥️❤️♥️

Twice a year, Steve deep cleaned the house.

Eddie had never witnessed anything like it before.

It’s not that he and Wayne were slobs, but they just did what was necessary, never spending an entire week going over a checklist a mile long to cover every inch of their house.

Steve did.

He said that when he was young, his parents hired people to do it and he was always fascinated with the way the house smelled so fresh for weeks after. He loved watching something go from dusty to shiny, loved seeing the way the windows glistened without any fingerprints from him.

And as he got older, his parents stopped hiring people and just expected it to get done, so he did. And he loved it.

Eddie couldn’t understand it, but he did love the way Steve’s eyes lit up when they got to his cleaning weeks in March and September. He’d plan it all out on a notepad by room, made a list of cleaning supplies he needed, and put stars next to things Eddie would have to help him with.

There were few stars, thankfully.

Eddie didn’t really mind helping. It was his home, too, and any time spent with Steve was time well spent. But the bleach sometimes bothered his sinuses and he’d end up coughing and sneezing for two days after.

He checked the lists now and noticed his name was only on three things:

Flip mattresses

Gutter cleaning (hold ladder and refill pressure washer)

Bookshelves (remove all books, dust, put books back)

He fist pumped once at the realization that he got off easy this time, much easier than he’d been expecting.

Actually, he almost always was enlisted to help with holding the ladder when Steve dusted the-

A bang interrupted his thoughts and he ran without even thinking what it could be.

He walked into the kitchen to see Steve on their ladder, some kind of homemade cleaning solution in a spray bottle in one hand and a washcloth in the other.

“What was that noise?” Eddie asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Steve reach as far as he could without falling off the ladder. He’d probably land on his feet from that height and be fine, but it wouldn’t exactly feel great.

“Dropped the other bottle I had hanging on my belt. It’s fine, just furniture polish. I can get it when I’m done dusting,” Steve was busy, barely even glanced back at Eddie as he answered.

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed a supervisor?” Eddie found the furniture polish and set it on the counter, watching as Steve furiously rubbed at the top of the cabinets.

“I don’t. But gutter cleaning is tomorrow and I’ll need one then.”

“Steve…”

“Don’t Steve me. I’m fine! I’m already halfway done.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and stepped away, not wanting to argue with Steve when he was at his happiest.

“Can you put the radio on please, baby? I forgot to before I climbed up here.”

Eddie went over to the radio on the kitchen table and turned it on, surprised to find it tuned to the rock station instead of the hits station.

“Well color me shocked! Were you listening to,” he gasped and held his chest. “Rock?”

“Yes, I was. But if you’re gonna make a big deal about it then change it to the hits,” Steves eye roll was almost audible.

“No, no. Let’s listen to Def Leppard, sweetheart. It’s been my dream for one whole minute to check out your ass while listening to Pour Some Sugar On Me.”

Steve snorted, but continued his work.

Eddie continued watching.

And then Steve wobbled a little. He caught himself, but Eddie stood up straighter.

He wobbles more and Eddie started to move towards the ladder to hold it steady.

But it was too late.

Steve was already falling.

He landed on his ass with a yelp and a groan, the washcloth and bottle flying across the floor.

“Shit, Stevie, you okay?” Eddie crouched down next to him, hands cupping his cheeks as he looked him over.

“Yeah. Just twisted my ankle a little when I tried to catch myself,” Steve gestured down at his ankle. “Might need to ice it before I clean more.”

“Maybe you should rest so it doesn’t swell.” Eddie rolled the sweatpants he was wearing up and saw the way it was already swelling. “Okay, you have no choice but to rest since it’s swelling.”

“Fuck me.”

“I can do that after we ice it,” Eddie said as he gently moved his ankle left and right to see if it was broken.

Steve snorted. “Of course this would happen the first day of my spring cleaning.”

“Maybe if you’d let me supervise earlier…”

“I never lose my balance on the ladder! I thought I’d be fine.”

“Steve, you remember how last year when you were cleaning the pool you insisted the water wouldn’t overfill because of the filters?” Eddie smirked. “And then 6 hours later we were trying to rescue your pool chairs from floating away?”

“That isn’t the same!”

“And then when we first moved in and you insisted you could paint the ceiling yourself and you insisted on handpainting instead of a roller because it wouldn't be even to you and then you dripped paint everywhere and we had to get new carpet? Remember how you ended up breaking your finger because you insisted on rolling the carpet yourself?"

"Okay, that was just bad luck."

"And when you put out the Christmas decorations last year while I was helping Wayne with his truck and I came home to you stuck on the roof?"

"Listen, I am almost 100% sure one of the neighbor kids knocked the ladder over. There was no other way!"

Eddie kissed Steve's forehead. "I'm not sure how you're even alive. You're asking for an accident to happen."

"Weren't you supposed to be getting me ice?" Steve pouted.

Eddie leaned in and nipped at his bottom lip. "You want help getting to the couch first?"

"Nope. It's cleaning week. 20 minutes with an ice pack and then I'm back to dusting."

Eddie shook his head. "You're ridiculous. We'll ice it for 20 and then you're gonna rest for at least an hour so we know if we need to wrap it and keep weight off of it."

"I'm fine, Eds."

"Humor me, sweetheart."

It's a damn good thing Steve did because an hour and a half later, they were on their way to the emergency room for x-rays.

As the doctor told them both that Steve seemed to have fractured a small bone in his ankle, Eddie did his best not to look too smug.

"It won't require a cast or boot, but I do recommend ice every couple of hours and staying off of it as much as possible for the next week or so. If anything starts to hurt worse, come back for a boot."

"Thanks, doc." Eddie waited until the doctor left the room to turn to Steve. "How about next time you want to dust above the fridge and the top of the cabinets, you let me be there to catch you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine."

Eddie kissed his lips softly, barely brushed them just in case someone decided to walk in again. "You want me to stop on the way home to get some more pain meds?"

"Please."

"You hurtin'?"

"A little."

"You want me to take your mind off it?" Eddie wiggled his brows suggestively. "I can keep your ankle elevated, even."

"We'll see when we get home. But you know what?"

"What?"

"Someone has to do the cleaning, baby. Since I can't, looks like you've got a checklist to get to."

"Or we could just put off the cleaning until your ankle heals."

Steve shook his head. "No, I think you can handle it. I'll supervise."

"You're lucky you're so pretty," Eddie groaned.

"Don't forget I'm also very good at sucking your-"

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. Let's go before you get us discriminated against."

[thelittlestoflives]

Thank You

soooo i sort of have a whole backstory to the Unravelling the Mystery fic and i just thought welllll i might as well post that too lol!! (i actually have lots of parts and stories)

again, very new to fic writing and i've thrown in some y/n lore in there too!! it's so vulnerable and scary to post stuff you've written (again i suck at proofreading so forgive pls)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

sanji x strawhat!reader, or the story of how y/n became a strawhat and gravitated towards the chef

use of YN, afab reader

cw: stuff to do with horrible exes, forced eating of a devil fruit, being severely injured, slight angst to fluff but mostly fluff i think

wc: 2.7k

It was like a ritual. The breathing in the room evening out, slipping out from under the covers and creeping through the halls towards him. His arms were your salvation, every gentle kiss burning your skin with love, each touch so heavenly you could almost believe in a higher power.

You can barely remember how it began. It's like it's just always been this way.

But it wasn't.

Not when you were stuffed in that barrel, just you and the darkness and the splashing of the waves against the wood, the drip drip drip onto your already soaking clothes. You can't remember how you survived it, how you endured the minutes and the hours and the days you remained in there, physical wounds nowhere near the pain of the scarring on your soul.

And like words out of the holy texts, there was light. A piercing, bright light. But unlike the holy texts, soft mutters echoed in your ears.

"Shit. It's a girl."

"Dammit. So, it's not treasure?"

"She's injured."

"How long has she been in there?"

"Why does this always happen to us?"

“Get her out of there, for fuck’s sake! Why are you all just standing around?!”

Just like that, the light vanished and darkness returned.

When you came to you were in some sort of medical infirmary, the light streaming through the windows so intense that you could barely open your eyes. An assortment of smells hit your nose; disinfectant, bleach, salty sea air, and a bowl of rich chicken noodle soup that steamed as it sat on your bedside table.

Maybe that's when it started. The soup. You stared at it for god knows how long, tears streaming down your face at the act of kindness. The trauma of what you'd just been through vanished staring at that bowl, feeling the love of whoever made it poured into it. Your body had been wrapped in bandages and cleaned, and you wore soft pyjamas that weren't your own, your hair had been brushed, and someone had made you fucking chicken noodle soup.

A couple of days went by as your body slowly healed. The only interaction you had was with the ship's doctor as he tried to make you feel comfortable and safe. You didn't see any of the other crew, but each time you woke from a restless, haunted sleep, there was a steaming dish beside you. Before long, you were strong enough to walk around. Chopper held your hand as he led you above deck to meet the crew who sat around the kitchen table.

You felt shy and nervous. Sure, you'd spoken to pirates before, but always in a controlled environment, never on their turf.

But they were vastly different from the pirates you'd encountered, offering easy smiles and gentle words, coaxing you to tell them what had happened to you. You caught eyes with a man with a cigarette hanging casually out his mouth a couple of times, quickly looking away. Was this where it started?

You explained that you're a journalist on your home island. Or rather, were a journalist. Now? You were dust in the wind, not taking any sort of discernable shape, floating with no direction, no intention, nothing. You thought you had it all; a home, a job you loved, family, friends, and someone who you thought was the love of your life. In less than a week, it was gone.

You had been investigating a cult on your island and stumbled across a giant conspiracy involving the World Government. You had written a tell-all piece, ready to blow the whole damn thing wide open. But you made a mistake, you told your then-boyfriend about it. Turns out he wasn't who he said he was, he was one of them. Sent to keep an eye on the local journalists, he’d pretended to fall for you to keep you close. The cult that terrorised truth seekers from the shadowy underworld was an unstoppable and dangerous force and he was one of them.

They'd captured you, and when the darkness was lifted there was no heavenly bright light. Just a dank basement dimly lighting up your boyfriend's face, grinning from ear to ear as he told you in laborious detail what was about to happen to you. You would eat a Devil Fruit, they would drug you, and you would be forced to do their bidding. No choice, no control, this was it. They’d already done this to every other person who had been investigating them. They had a small army now, he informed you. An army of ‘nosey bastards who didn’t know what they were getting themselves into’. Despite your pleading, he laughed and said that you better get ready for what’s about to happen.

And so they did it. They had it all figured out. They forced you to eat the Devil Fruit, and as its powers flowed through your veins you realised that perhaps they didn’t have it all figured out after all. They didn’t account for the fact that you would be damned rather than be bested by a man.

Your powers erupted out of you, flowing with such a force that all you could do was let out a silent scream, as the shadows wrapped themselves around the foundations of the building they held you in and it collapsed into rubble. 

An arm roughly grabbed you, pulling you out of the wreckage. It had stuffed you in a barrel, and an unfamiliar voice hissed the words: “It’s better if they think you’re dead. If you survive, never return.” 

As soon as the last word of your tale left your mouth, a straw hat was placed on your head, and that’s how Luffy obtained another stray to add to his collection. You became the Strawhats’ Chronicler, your job was to forever immortalise the crew’s journey towards the One Piece and to document how Luffy became the King of the Pirates. Although it was a difficult adjustment at first, you became fast friends with the crew. Robin in particular was a huge help for you, as it was she who understood your plight the best.

Sanji kept his distance at first. You were so beautiful that he knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself from flirting, and that was probably the last thing you needed right now, so he resigned himself to being helpful in the background, finding out information about you from Robin and Nami and incorporating it into his cooking. But the two of you were like magnets, unexplainably drawn to one another and soon neither of you would be able to stay away.

You were ripped from your nightmare with such force that you shot upright, sweat dripping down your back. It was the same as always, but tonight you didn’t want to wake up Robin with your tears.

And that’s how you found yourself in the kitchen, face-to-face with a certain chef. He tried not to make a fuss as he saw your hunched, small frame in the doorway, tear-stained cheeks and sleepy eyes. Really, he did. But he’s only a man, after all. He gave you a warm hug and sat you down, making his own special sleepy tea (“I promise you, you will be knocked out after this. No bad dreams for our sweet Chronicler!”).

“I meant to say thank you,” you said quietly as you sipped your tea.

He arched an eyebrow, a gentle blush on his cheeks. “For?”

“The food. When I was in the infirmary, your food made me feel…” you trail off, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Made you feel what?”

You look up at him, an amused expression on his face. 

“Your chicken noodle soup made me cry,” you admit softly. “It was the first thing I saw when I woke up, and it’s my comfort food. And I cried. I was so touched that I forgot everything else. I can’t thank you enough for that. I could’ve lost my mind, but that small act grounded me.”

The blush was no longer gentle but furious as his eyes diverted from your face. “Ah. Well, it’s an honour to cook for a pretty girl like you, and even more so that it makes you feel something. So really, I should thank you for your high praises.” 

Your mouth twitched into a smile. “No, thank you!”

His mouth echoed yours. “No, no, thank you!”

And you continued like that, thanking each other more and more dramatically through laughs. The silliness wore off, and Sanji’s face turned slightly more serious.

“Look, I wanted to say something to you too,” he began. “I’m sorry that your ex betrayed you like that. No beautiful lady should ever have to suffer at the hands of a man, much less a man who should love her.”

You blink, suddenly remembering why it was you were here in the first place.

“It’s okay,” you say with a small shrug. “Well, no, it’s not okay but… I dunno. What else can I say? ‘My ex gave me up to an evil cult and altered my life forever and because of him my family think I’m dead and I didn’t even get the t-shirt’? I appreciate that though. I appreciate all of you.”

He blew air out of his nose softly as you tried to make light of what was clearly a horrific situation. 

“Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you.” “Thank you, Sanji, same goes for you,” you smile.

He grins back. “No, no, no. Thank you!” 

You laugh and lightly hit his arm. “Cut it out or we’ll be here all night!”

His grin widens. “Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do.”

And maybe that’s where it starts. Those late nights in the kitchen when you both couldn’t sleep, sharing easy conversations and trying to make the other laugh. Warm mugs of tea and knees touching each other under the table. A bubble you created with just the two of you, a sacred space, with none the wiser as to these secret meetings of yours.

It would become routine for a couple of weeks. The nightmares jolt you awake, so you pad through to the kitchen for tea, smiles, and chats. 

“You know, I reckon you’re the beating heart of this crew,” you say as you blow on your tea to cool it down.

Sanji scoffs in derision. 

“No, I’m serious! If Luffy is the soul, then you’re the heart. I see everything you do for the crew, Sanj. You’ve got a kind soul.”

You wished you could frame the look on his face to cherish forever. A mix of gratitude, embarrassment, confusion, denial, and something else. Something you couldn’t quite place. 

“In saying that,” you continue, sipping on the now-cool beverage. “You look tired. If you’re looking after everyone else, who’s looking after you?”

He froze.

Your eyes are trained on his. “Look, there’s a reason we’re both here in the dead of night. You can’t sleep either, can you?” 

He looks down.

“Let me in, Sanj. Let me look after you.”

And he does. He tells you everything, and now the bond runs so deep you’re afraid. After all, the last person you fell in love with lied about it and broke your heart. You couldn’t take much more. But this was different, somehow.

Maybe it started the first night you slept in his arms. 

It was just a normal night. As usual, a nightmare ripped you from sleep. It was a particularly bad one this time, your cheeks wet with tears as you made your way to the kitchen. But when you got there, the lights were off. Panic clawed up through your chest. You’d come to rely upon the chef in the dead of night, and now that he wasn’t here, you were scared to face your demons alone. So, fuck it, you thought. I’ll just go to him.

The men’s quarters were loud. Zoro’s snores cracked through the room, and general grunts and smells and sleepy noises were prevalent, but it didn’t matter. He was there, and he would make you feel okay again.

And once you’d crawled in beside him, and his arms automatically wrapped around you, you knew that there was no going back. You woke up in your own bed, having slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

That night when you met in the kitchen, there was a slight awkwardness that hadn’t been there before.

He cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, did you sleep okay last night?”

“I did. Best I have in a while, really. I’m so sorry if I overstepped or-”

“No! No, I’m sorry for not being here at our usual time-”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Thank you for-”

“Thank you for-”

You both stopped and he cleared his throat again, cheeks bright red.

“Well, honestly? That’s the best I’ve slept in a while too. So, thanks. And I…” He paused as if building up some courage. “I wondered if you would maybe want to… Do it again sometime. But, you don’t have to and I don’t want you to feel like I’m coming on to you because I know you don’t want, like, romance or anything because of the situation with your ex and-” He began to ramble anxiously, bringing a small smile to your lips.

“Sanji, Sanji, stop! It’s okay! I… I would like that a lot. And so thank you.”

He stopped blabbering and clasped his hands together. “Really?” There was a sparkle in his eyes.

“Really,” you nodded. 

You both built a little routine together. If Sanji wasn’t already in the kitchen, then you’d go to him. Otherwise, you’d meet in the kitchen for your cup of tea, before retiring to his hammock in the men’s quarters. The noises of the sleeping crew around you didn’t bother you at all as you lay entwined in Sanji’s long arms.

One night, you made your way into the kitchen and stopped quietly in the doorway. Sanji had fallen asleep at the table waiting for you. You took in his sleeping figure, the way his sleep shirt clung to his arms and revealed some of his chest. His face was relaxed and peaceful, and god, was it beautiful. Shit, you thought. I’m in way too deep now.

You gently woke him up, and the look in his eyes when he saw your face sent your stomach dropping and mind shortcircuiting. 

“It’s you,” he whispered.

You nodded. “It’s me, Sanj. Let’s go to bed, hmm?”

He had that look on his face again, the one from before when you couldn’t figure it out. But now? Now you knew what it was. It was love. It was adoration. It was ‘you’re my comfort, my safety, you feel like home and I’m at peace’. He stood up and pulled you to his chest, groaning softly as he rested his chin on top of your head. You looked up at him, fondness in your eyes.

“Sanj?” You whispered.

“Yes, my darling YN?” His sleepy voice and eyes were too much. You stood up on your tiptoes and pressed a soft, swift kiss to his lips.

He stiffened, eyes wide. 

“Are you sure?” He whispered. 

You nodded.

His face brightened and burst into a lovesick grin, one hand settling at your waist, the other snaking up to hold the back of your head. He nudged his nose against yours as your lips met, the world melting around you both. He pulled back and rested his forehead against yours.

“I want to promise something to you right now,” he murmured. “I promise to protect you, to keep you safe, I promise I will never do anything that could possibly hurt you, and I will hunt down anyone who does. Thank you, YN, for showing me what love could be.”

“No, Sanj… Thank you for showing me.”

His eyes were brimming with tears too, but he laughed softly, unable to resist the urge to say:

“No, no. Thank you.” 

And with that, you went to the safety of Sanji’s hammock, entangled with one another as you pressed burning kisses to each others’ skin, his heavenly touch making you forget what life was like without him. You don’t know exactly when it started, but you know this will never end.

[kaialone]

Official Guilty Gear Anthology- Short Story "Paper Bags Are Neat" (English Translation)

This will be a full English translation of the short story "Paper Bags Are Neat", written by だばば (Dababa)

It's the second out of five short stories included in the "Official Guilty Gear Anthology", which was available online for a limited time only from April 1st to April 8th 2024, as part of April Fools' Day celebrations.

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Paper Bags are Neat

"Ahh…"

It was a day with heavy rain. And although Faust held tightly onto his umbrella while he was out on a walk, a car recklessly passed by him at tremendous speed. He was pelted by a torrent of large water droplets, drenching him from head to toe. Of course, the paper bag he was wearing got completely soaked as well.

Stumbling, Faust hurried back home. Without delay, he washed his hands, gargled, and dried off his entire body. Then, he gingerly removed the now soggy and limp paper bag from his head…

And rather than throwing it away, he placed it on a well-ventilated shelf—which he called "the waiting room"—before rushing to the closet.

He opened the door to reveal a large variety of paper bags stuffed inside.

"Which… to choose…?"

With fingers as thin as dead twigs, he browsed through the paper bags, one by one.

A paper bag that would suit his current mood… A paper bag with a style he hadn't chosen recently…

A rainy, splashy, blue kind of mood…

"Blue…?"

He pulled out a thick, glossy, deep blue paper bag. It was durable, and even seemed water-repellent, so maybe he could get back at the rain with this one.

Triumphantly, Faust jabbed the bag with his finger, to poke a hole into it.

"…Ow."

It was too durable, so that wasn't gonna work out!

"Next patient, please…"

His next pick was a white paper bag with an embossed floral pattern, and foil stamping on all four corners.

He'd forgotten how he obtained such a whimsical, lovely paper bag, but he just quickly poked a hole in it, put it on, and looked in the mirror.

"Ah… cute…"

He was so cute. To think that he had the potential to be this cute…

…To think that just one choice could make him feel this excited about himself…

"Mustn't… get hooked…"

He really shouldn't be relying on something such as this to get attention. So, he shook his head, and decided to pass up on it this time.

"Next patient, please…"

For now, he wanted to choose the same type of paper bag he always wore.

To the untrained eye, they looked like completely ordinary kraft paper bags with no strings. However, according to Faust, kraft paper not only comes in unbleached, semi-bleached, bleached, and other variants, plus hundreds of different colors—but if you also consider aspects such as the thickness of the paper or jagged edges, no two paper bags in the world are the same.

Therefore, two thirds of the closet were filled with what looked like regular paper bags. But to Faust, each and every one of them was both precious and priceless.

One of them caught his eye, so he picked it up to try it out. It seemed almost ideal in terms of texture, size, how easy it was to poke a hole in it, and how secure it felt to him.

He swiftly poked a hole into it and put it on.

"Whoa…"

It smelled of delicious bread. If it ends up being sunny tomorrow, he should go out and get another paper bag like this one.

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