#i made so many blue hawaiians.

[axisplazaradio]

drink making is hard

[wannabehockeygf]

Feels Like - Quinn Hughes

“We almost got away, we cut it close,

The city’s getting loud, if I choke,

It’s only ‘cause I’m scared to be alone,

Been trying to work it out you should know,

I would do whatever you wanted.”

***

part 2 // quinn hughes x gracie abrams albums fic trilogy

part 1

***

Summary: Quinn’s been up to no good, and it’s about time you find out.

Word count: 6.8k

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x fem!reader

Warnings: cheating, alcohol

Notes:

- me saying I’m so busy and won’t have time then I crank this out in a day !!

- this was so heart wrenching to write …

- not proof read as always

***

Quinn Hughes had a good head on his shoulders. At least, that’s what everyone always told him. Coaches, family, even the media—they all saw Quinn as the level-headed one, the smart one, the kid who knew what he wanted and went after it.

Except when it came to you. When it came to you, Quinn's head was anything but good. It was a mess—confused, conflicted, weighed down by the guilt that had been gnawing at him since last night.

Quinn ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He sat on the edge of his hotel bed in Boston, staring at his phone like it was some kind of bomb he had to defuse. Your name was still at the top of his recent calls, your last text a blue bubble of worry and reassurance.

“Heading your way, Q. On a train. Didn’t book a flight because it was too much, but I’ll be there in the morning. I love you.”

He swiped out of the messages and into Instagram, his thumb hovering over the search bar. His heart pounded against his ribs, each thud a reminder of just how much he had screwed up. He was still in last night’s clothes, a blue Hawaiian shirt that Jack had bought him as a joke and black slacks that clung to him uncomfortably. He hadn’t slept; instead, he’d gone out, did so much more than emotionally cheat on you, and then spent the night pacing his room, trying to figure out how to make this right—how to fix something that might be beyond fixing.

His phone buzzed in his hand, a new message from you: “Quinn, are you awake? Call me when you see this.”

Quinn's stomach twisted. He could picture you right now, curled up on that train seat with your eyes heavy from lack of sleep, your hair mussed from running your hands through it too many times. You were coming all this way for him, despite everything. You were coming to see him even after he’d hung up on you. He felt a pang of guilt so sharp it made his chest ache. You deserved so much better.

He knew that. God, did he know it. But knowing it didn’t make things any easier. If anything, it made things worse, because he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop thinking about you, couldn’t stop needing you. And yet, he was too weak to stop what he was doing—the other thing he couldn’t seem to stop needing.

His fingers hesitated over the search bar for just a moment longer before he typed in the name, quick and almost subconscious, like he was on autopilot. The profile came up instantly: smiling photos of her on some beach, her hair wild in the wind, sunglasses perched on her nose. She looked carefree, happy. The last photo was from a week ago, captioned with a simple heart emoji.

Quinn’s heart clenched. God, she was beautiful. And she made him feel things—things he didn’t feel when he was with you, his girlfriend, things that scared him as much as they thrilled him. She was everything you weren't: spontaneous, wild, a bit reckless. She didn’t make him feel like he had to be perfect all the time.

Which was probably why he’d ended up here in the first place.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to quell the guilt that surged up his throat like bile. He thought back to last night—the way she’d looked at him across the bar, her eyes dark and knowing, the way she’d smiled like she knew every secret he was trying so hard to hide. The way her lips felt against his, the heat of her breath, the sound of her voice when she whispered in his ear.

And then he thought about you. About your laugh, your smile, the way you looked at him like he was the most important person in the world. How you never hesitated to drop everything for him, even when it meant putting your own life on hold. Like right now. Like this very moment, when you were probably sitting on some cold, uncomfortable train seat to get to him because you thought he needed you.

He was such an asshole.

Quinn tossed his phone onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He felt like he was being torn in two—one part of him screaming at him to get his shit together, to be the guy everyone thought he was, the good guy, the guy who didn’t screw over the people he cared about. And then there was the other part—the part that was scared, insecure, the part that wanted so desperately to feel something real that he didn’t care if it meant hurting the one person who had always been there for him.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the word barely more than a sigh. What was he supposed to do? He didn’t know. He was in too deep, caught between two worlds that couldn’t coexist, caught between two versions of himself that he couldn’t reconcile.

He stood up, pacing the small hotel room, the carpet rough under his bare feet. His mind raced, thoughts bouncing around like ping-pong balls in his head. He couldn’t keep doing this. He had to make a choice. He had to choose.

But how do you choose between the girl who makes you feel safe and the one who makes you feel alive?

His phone buzzed again, and this time he couldn’t ignore it. He snatched it up, expecting another message from you, another plea for him to call, but instead, it was from the other girl. A simple text: “Had fun last night. When can I see you again?”

Quinn stared at the message, his heart hammering against his ribs. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? He wanted to smash the phone against the wall, to shatter it into a million pieces, to shatter himself along with it. But instead, he just stood there, staring at the screen, torn between guilt and desire, between what he wanted and what he knew he should do.

“Quinn?” A voice called from outside his door, sharp and insistent. It was Petey, knocking lightly. “You in there, man? We gotta head out to practice soon.”

Quinn stood frozen in the middle of his hotel room, his phone buzzing persistently in his hand. The screen glowed with the picture of you he had made his lockscreen, and every time he looked at it his heart dropped. His stomach churned, a sickening mix of guilt and anxiety that had been gnawing at him for the good part of twelve hours. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the mess of curls that he hadn’t bothered to tame since last night.

Last night. God, what a disaster.

He could still taste the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, still feel the phantom touch of her lips against his. She had been all over him, pulling him in with that damn magnetic smile of hers. And Quinn, the idiot that he was, hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it. Now, standing here, he felt like he was drowning in the aftermath.

“Huggy?” Elias’ voice came through the door again, more insistent this time. “You good?”

Quinn glanced at the clock—barely enough time to get his shit together before practice. Not that it mattered. His head was so scrambled, he doubted he’d be of any use on the ice today.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to move. One foot in front of the other, like he was on autopilot. He tossed his phone on the bed and headed for the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face in a vain attempt to shock some sense into himself. The water dripped down his cheeks, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror, searching for some sign of the guy everyone thought he was. The guy who had it all together.

But all he saw was a mess. A guy who couldn’t make up his mind, who was screwing over the one person who had always been there for him. The guy who, deep down, was terrified that he was going to lose everything if he didn’t get his shit together.

He grabbed a towel and dried his face, then ran a hand through his hair again, trying to make himself look halfway presentable. But no amount of water or towels could wash away the guilt that clung to him like a second skin. He was stuck with it, like a tattoo he couldn’t scrub off no matter how hard he tried.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. He shook his head, running his hands through his hair once again, feeling the strands tug against his fingers. He needed to get it together. He needed to get out of this room before he went completely insane.

He grabbed his practice gear from the chair by the window, where he’d tossed it last night when he’d stumbled in. The memory made his stomach twist: the way he’d pressed the button to hang up on you, the way his thumb had hovered over it like it weighed a hundred pounds. And then the other girl’s laugh, soft and sweet in his ear, her fingers trailing down his arm as she whispered something he couldn’t quite remember anymore but knew had made him feel like he was floating.

Quinn pulled off his clothes, replacing them with a questionable smelling sweatshirt and gym shorts, his movements jerky and stiff like his body was protesting every step. He glanced at the mirror on his way to the door, catching sight of himself—his face pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed with fatigue. He looked like hell. He felt like it, too.

With a sigh, he opened the door to find Elias leaning against the wall, one brow raised. “Dude, you look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it too,” Quinn muttered, stepping out into the hallway. The bright lights made his eyes sting, and he squinted, wishing he’d grabbed his sunglasses. Or maybe he just wanted to hide behind them.

Elias clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a once-over. “Rough night?”

Quinn forced a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Something like that.”

“Yeah, well, better shake it off. Coach is on one today, and he’s not in the mood for anyone dragging ass.” Elias started down the hall, and Quinn followed, trying to push everything to the back of his mind. Practice. Focus on practice.

But his thoughts wouldn’t settle. They kept bouncing back and forth like a damn tennis match: his girlfriend’s face, her worried messages, the way she always seemed to know when he needed her without him even having to say it. And then the other girl—the way she made him feel like he could breathe, like he could forget everything for just a little while.

He clenched his fists as they reached the elevator, trying to steady his breathing. Elias was rambling about something, but Quinn couldn’t focus on the words. His mind was a blur, a mess of emotions that he couldn’t untangle.

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped inside, the metal walls reflecting their distorted images. Quinn caught sight of himself again and grimaced. “I look like shit, don’t I?”

Elias snorted. “You said it, not me.” He glanced at Quinn, his expression shifting to something more serious. “But seriously, man, you okay? You’ve been off for a while now.”

Quinn swallowed hard, his throat dry. How could he even begin to explain what he was feeling? How could he tell Elias that he was standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between falling and flying, and he didn’t know which one he wanted more?

“I’m fine,” he lied, the words heavy on his tongue. “Just tired.”

Elias didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he just nodded, letting the subject drop as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open to the lobby.

They walked out into the warm Boston morning, the humid air biting at Quinn’s skin through his clothes. He shivered, shoving his hands into his pockets as they made their way to the team bus. He tried to lose himself in the routine, in the familiar motions of getting on the bus, finding his seat, putting in his headphones. But even the music couldn’t drown out his thoughts, couldn’t silence the nagging voice in his head that kept telling him he was screwing up.

He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes, willing himself to focus on the day ahead. Practice. Game plan. Not on the texts waiting on his phone, not on the girl he was supposed to love and the girl he couldn’t stop thinking about.

But his mind wouldn’t cooperate. It kept circling back, like a dog chasing its tail, never quite catching it but never stopping either. He thought about you, about the way she made him feel grounded, like he had a purpose. And then he thought about the other girl, about the way she made him feel alive, like he was on fire.

God, he was an idiot. A selfish, stupid idiot who didn’t deserve either of them.

He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the seat in front of him. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to choose between two things that felt like they were pulling him in opposite directions, like they were tearing him apart?

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out without thinking, his heart lurching in his chest. It was a text from you, and his stomach twisted as he read it:

“I’m here. Just got to the station. Can’t wait to see you.”

Quinn closed his eyes, a wave of guilt washing over him. You were here. You were here for him, because you thought he needed you. And maybe he did. Maybe he needed you more than he’d ever realized.

Quinn’s mind was spinning as the team bus rumbled through the streets of Boston, the city waking up around them in a blur of brick buildings and early morning light. He stared out the window, his reflection a pale, drawn ghost in the glass, looking back at him with tired eyes. The weight of his phone in his pocket felt like a lead ball, dragging him down deeper into the mess he’d made for himself.

He glanced around the bus, his teammates absorbed in their own routines—some with headphones on, nodding along to whatever music was blasting in their ears, others chatting quietly, their voices low and relaxed. Elias was beside him, scrolling through his phone, occasionally chuckling at something he saw. Quinn tried to mimic that ease, but his stomach was tied in knots, and every breath felt like it caught in his throat.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make him feel like he was about to crawl out of his own skin. But no matter how he twisted or turned, the guilt was there, gnawing at him, a constant reminder that he’d messed up in a way that couldn’t be easily fixed.

His phone buzzed again, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip, his hand twitching towards his pocket before he stopped himself. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at it. Not yet. The last thing he needed was to see another text from you, filled with love and concern, when all he could think about was how he didn’t deserve any of it.

But of course, his brain wouldn’t let him rest. As much as he wanted to ignore it, your last message played on a loop in his mind: “I’m here. Just got to the station. Can’t wait to see you.” He could picture you standing there, suitcase in hand, maybe looking around for him, your eyes bright with anticipation. The thought made his chest tighten, a painful squeeze that sent a ripple of nausea through his gut.

He thought about how you’d always been there for him, how you never hesitated to drop everything and come running when he needed you. And now, here you were, doing it again, without knowing that he’d spent the night with someone else, that he’d betrayed the trust you’d placed in him so completely.

God, he was a piece of work.

Quinn shifted again, his knee bouncing nervously as he tried to focus on anything else—the pattern of the bus seat, the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, the hum of the engine beneath his feet. But everything came back to you, and the way he was going to have to face you in a few hours, knowing what he’d done.

A part of him—the rational, level-headed part that everyone always said he had—knew that he should come clean, that he should tell you everything and deal with the consequences. But the other part, the part that was scared and ashamed and desperate to keep you in his life, was louder, drowning out the voice of reason with a hundred excuses and justifications.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to look you in the eye and pretend that everything was okay, when he knew it wasn’t? But then again, how could he tell you the truth and risk losing you forever?

He pressed his head against the cool glass of the bus window, staring out at the passing streets of Boston. The city looked bright and sunny, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in his mind. It was the kind of day that would normally have him in good spirits, maybe even cracking jokes with the guys. But not today. Today, he felt like he was carrying a mountain on his back.

The bus jolted as it hit a pothole, and Quinn’s head banged against the glass. “Ow, fuck,” he muttered, rubbing the sore spot. Elias glanced over from the seat next to him, eyebrows raised.

“You good, man?” he asked again, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation. Quinn knew Elias was just trying to help, but right now, all he wanted was to be left alone with his own stupidity.

“Yeah, just...headache,” Quinn lied, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. He didn’t know how to explain the real problem without sounding like the world’s biggest jerk. He wasn’t ready for the questions that would follow, the judgment, the inevitable “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Elias nodded, turning back to his phone, but Quinn could feel his eyes lingering, like he was trying to solve some kind of puzzle. Quinn wished he could give him the answer, wished he knew it himself. But all he had were a bunch of jumbled pieces that didn’t seem to fit together.

As the bus pulled up to the arena, Quinn grabbed his gear and followed the rest of the team inside. The familiar smell of a rink—ice, rubber, sweat—usually calmed his nerves, but today it just made him feel queasy. He trudged to the locker room, his legs feeling like lead, and sat down on the bench, staring at his skates like they might somehow offer him some guidance.

“Hey, Huggy,” Brock called from across the room, already halfway into his gear. “You gonna put those on, or are you just gonna stare at them all day?”

Quinn blinked, realizing he’d been sitting there for way too long. “Right, yeah,” he mumbled, pulling off his shoes and shoving his feet into his skates. The process felt mechanical, like he was going through the motions without really being there. He tied the laces tight, almost too tight, like he was trying to squeeze out the guilt that sat heavy in his chest.

As he laced up, his mind wandered back to last night. He remembered the way her fingers had grazed his wrist, the light touch sending sparks through his skin. He remembered the look in her eyes, that dangerous mix of desire and something else—something that made him feel like he was balancing on a razor’s edge. And then he remembered your text, the way your voice had sounded over the phone, so soft, so worried. The contrast made him feel like he was being split down the middle, two halves of a person who didn’t know how to be whole anymore.

Quinn dragged his skates across the locker room floor, the sharp blades scraping against the concrete as he walked to the bench. His hands moved on autopilot, grabbing pads, buckling straps, all while his mind replayed the same scene over and over again: your smile, your eyes, the sound of your voice. The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, like a dog with a bone it refused to let go.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice Brock sidling up next to him until the guy was practically in his lap.

“You look like someone ran over your puppy,” Brock quipped, pulling on his jersey with a grunt. “What’s up with you today?”

Quinn forced a laugh, but it came out more like a wheeze. “Just didn’t sleep well, I guess,” he lied, his stomach twisting into another knot. Brock, bless his soul, nodded, accepting the excuse without question.

“Yeah, well, try to pull it together, man. You’ve got that ‘I just accidentally liked my ex’s Instagram post from 2017’ face.”

Quinn blinked, momentarily pulled out of his spiraling thoughts. “Is that...a thing?”

“Definitely. Don’t ask me how I know.”

Quinn couldn’t help but chuckle, a real one this time, and for a moment, he felt a little bit lighter. But the moment passed quickly, like a cloud drifting over the sun, and the heaviness settled back in.

He needed to tell someone. He really did, and he thought about telling Brock, someone a little older, with a little more experience, but he knew it wouldn’t go well. The man had a wife and kid, and admitting to him that he’s a cheater couldn’t go any way but sideways.

He finished gearing up, the ritual of it providing some small comfort, like if he could just get everything on right, he’d be okay. But as he stepped onto the ice, the cool air hitting his face, he knew it was only a temporary reprieve.

The practice rink the Bruins had given them was buzzing with activity, the sound of skates cutting into the ice, pucks clattering against the boards, the low hum of voices. Normally, this was his sanctuary, the place where he could clear his mind and focus on nothing but the game. But today, the rink felt like a prison, every noise amplified, every movement too sharp.

Quinn skated a few laps, trying to shake the feeling, but it clung to him like a second skin. He saw you in every reflection, heard your voice in the echoes of the arena. And every time, it was like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him.

“Quinn! Heads up!”

He barely had time to react before the puck came flying toward him, and he fumbled to catch it, the black rubber slipping off the tip of his stick and skidding across the ice. A chorus of laughter erupted from the other guys, and Quinn forced a grin, trying to play it off.

“Nice hands, Huggy,” one of them called out, and Quinn gave a mock salute, his heart pounding in his chest.

As practice dragged on, Quinn found it harder and harder to focus. His mind kept wandering, and every time it did, it went straight back to you. He thought about the last time you’d visited him, how you’d spent the weekend curled up together on the couch, watching movies and talking about everything and nothing. He thought about the way you’d looked at him, like he was the only person in the world, and how he’d felt like the biggest fraud alive.

He thought about a few mornings ago, when he’d kissed you goodbye before heading to the rink, your sleepy smile still lingering in his mind. He hadn’t known then what he was going to do later, hadn’t known how everything would spiral out of control. But now, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop replaying the night in his head, wondering how he’d let it happen.

The worst part was, he knew he didn’t deserve you. Not after what he’d done. But he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, couldn’t imagine his life without you in it. And so, he found himself trapped, caught between his guilt and his fear, unable to move in either direction.

When practice finally ended, Quinn was the first off the ice, practically sprinting to the locker room. He needed a moment to breathe, to think, to figure out what the hell he was going to do. But as soon as he sat down on the bench, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he knew without looking that it was you.

He stared at it, his heart in his throat, his fingers trembling as he reached for it. The screen lit up with your name, and for a split second, he considered ignoring it. But he couldn’t do that, couldn’t just pretend you weren’t there, waiting for him, loving him, trusting him.

With a deep breath, Quinn swiped his thumb across the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Hey,” he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

Quinn swallowed hard, his heart racing as he heard your voice on the other end of the line. It was like a balm and a burn at the same time, soothing yet searing into him with the heat of his own guilt.

“Hey! I’m here at the station,” you said, sounding bright and cheery, completely unaware of the emotional storm that was tearing him apart. “I was just wondering if you’re on your way or if I should grab a coffee or something?”

Your words were so casual, so normal, that they felt almost surreal to him. He closed his eyes, the images of last night flashing like a movie reel against the backs of his eyelids—her laughter, the way she’d leaned in close, her lips brushing his neck in a way that had sent shivers down his spine. And then he’d see your face, smiling up at him with that same soft look you always gave him, the one that made him feel like he was exactly where he needed to be.

He forced a laugh, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yeah, I’m, uh, just finishing up at practice. I’ll be there soon.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he didn’t know what else to say. How could he tell you the truth? How could he explain that he’d been weak, that he’d betrayed you, that he didn’t deserve to have you waiting for him?

“Great! I can’t wait to see you.” Your voice was so full of warmth and excitement that it made his stomach twist. He could picture you standing there, probably wearing that old Canucks jacket of his that you loved, the one that was two sizes too big but somehow looked perfect on you. The thought made his chest tighten with an ache that he couldn’t shake.

“Yeah, me too,” he managed to say, his voice cracking just a little. “See you soon.”

As he hung up, Quinn let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The guilt felt like a heavy stone lodged in his gut, pressing down with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. He dropped his head into his hands, fingers tangling in his hair as he tried to make sense of his own stupidity.

He should have never gone out last night. He should have stayed in, watched TV, gone to bed early—anything other than what he did. But instead, he’d let himself get swept up in the moment, let himself be led astray by a smile and a soft touch, and now he was paying the price for it.

Why couldn’t he just have said no? Why couldn’t he have just kept his distance, like a rational human being?

But no, Quinn Hughes had to be an idiot. A complete, utter, monumental idiot.

He glanced around the locker room, hoping for some kind of distraction. Most of the guys were still milling around, showering, changing, talking about the upcoming game, like it was just another day. Like his whole world wasn’t collapsing around him.

Quinn stared at the locker room ceiling, the fluorescent lights casting harsh, white beams that felt like an interrogation spotlight. The thought of meeting you at the station had his stomach in knots, guilt gnawing at him like a relentless beast. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to find some semblance of calm, but the images of last night wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Why did I do that? Why am I like this?” Quinn muttered to himself, rubbing his temples as if he could erase the memory with enough pressure. The smell of sweat and damp gear filled his nostrils, a stark contrast to the sweet perfume that had lingered on his skin just hours ago. He grimaced, suddenly aware of how sick it made him feel.

His phone buzzed again. Without even looking, he knew it was another message from you, probably asking how long he’d be. He couldn’t ignore you forever, but he also wasn’t ready to face you. He needed more time—time to figure out what the hell he was going to say, time to gather the pieces of his shattered conscience.

With a groan, Quinn grabbed his phone and quickly ordered an Uber. The bus to the station was out of the question; the last thing he needed was more time to wallow in his guilt with nothing but his own thoughts for company. As soon as the confirmation buzzed through, he grabbed his gear, barely acknowledging his teammates as he rushed out of the locker room.

Within minutes, a car pulled up, and Quinn slid into the backseat, barely managing a greeting to the driver. He stared out the window as the city blurred by, the buildings and people blending into a haze of colors and motion. His reflection in the glass looked haunted, a man on the brink of losing everything.

His mind kept replaying the events of last night, a relentless loop of regret and self-loathing. He thought about the way he’d let himself be drawn in, the way he’d ignored that little voice in his head telling him to stop, to walk away. But he hadn’t listened. He’d let his guard down, let himself be led by his desires instead of his brain, and now he was stuck in a mess of his own making.

Quinn squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images, but they kept coming—her smile, her touch, the way she’d looked at him like he was the only man in the room. It had been intoxicating, a rush he hadn’t felt in a long time. But now, it felt like poison, spreading through him with every thought, every memory.

He opened his eyes, staring down at his hands, noticing the way they shook. He felt sick, his stomach churning with a mix of fear and guilt. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thrown away everything he had with you for a moment of weakness?

The driver made a comment about the weather, but Quinn barely heard him, his thoughts too loud, too chaotic. He just nodded absently, his mind a million miles away. He couldn’t focus on anything but you, waiting for him at the station, completely unaware of the storm raging inside his head.

The car finally pulled up to the station, and Quinn could see the throngs of people milling about, all of them blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil raging inside him. He thanked the driver and stepped out, his legs feeling like they might give out beneath him. With every step towards the entrance, his resolve weakened, the weight of his guilt dragging him down like an anchor.

There you were, standing near the entrance with your suitcase by your side, your face lighting up as soon as you spotted him. Quinn’s heart lurched painfully in his chest at the sight of your smile—so warm, so genuine, so undeserved. He forced a smile in return, even though it felt like a mask, a flimsy attempt to cover up the disaster he’d become.

“Hey, you,” you greeted him, your voice as bright and cheerful as ever. “I missed you.”

Quinn swallowed hard, the lump in his throat nearly choking him. “Missed you too,” he replied, his voice cracking just slightly. He leaned in to hug you, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation that he hoped you wouldn’t notice. But even as he held you close, the guilt gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the mess he’d made.

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with those eyes that always seemed to see right through him. “You okay? You seem…off.”

“Yeah, just tired,” Quinn lied, his smile faltering for a moment. “It’s been a long morning.”

Quinn watched your expression as you searched his face, and he felt a pang of anxiety strike deep in his gut. He couldn’t remember a time when lying to you had felt so awful. You were the one stable thing in his chaotic life, the person who always knew him better than he knew himself. And now, all he could do was lie to you, feeding you half-truths like they were the easiest thing in the world. The guilt twisted in his stomach like a knife.

“I get it,” you said, giving him a small, understanding smile that made him feel even worse. “Traveling always wears you out.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, trying to muster a laugh that sounded more like a cough. He reached for your suitcase, needing something to do with his hands. “Here, let me grab that for you.”

As he lifted the bag, he could feel your eyes on him, studying him. He turned his head slightly, avoiding your gaze, afraid that if he looked at you for too long, he might break down right there in the middle of the station.

The two of you walked toward the exit, and Quinn’s mind raced, trying to find a way to change the subject, to steer the conversation away from any topic that might reveal just how messed up he was feeling inside. He felt like he was standing on a tightrope, trying to balance between the truth and the lies, between who he was and who he pretended to be.

“So, how was your trip?” he asked, hoping to sound casual, but his voice came out a little too high-pitched, like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. “Everything go okay?”

“It was fine,” you replied, glancing at him sideways, deciding not to tell him about the woman with the accent who preached how much men sucked. “Kind of boring, actually. I kept thinking about you.”

Quinn’s heart sank. Of course, you were thinking about him. You always were. And here he was, thinking about someone else. His stomach twisted with a fresh wave of nausea.

“Yeah?” He forced a grin, trying to keep the mood light. “You didn’t have too much fun without me, did you?”

You laughed, the sound like a melody he didn’t deserve to hear. “Not a chance. You’re the fun one, remember?”

Quinn managed a weak chuckle. “Yeah, right. Me, fun. That’s a good one.”

As you two stepped outside, the warm air hit him, and he took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head. The sunlight was blinding, making him squint as he tried to navigate through the crowds. He was grateful for the distraction, for anything that would keep him from focusing on the dark cloud hanging over his head.

Quinn tried to focus on the city around him, on the way the skyscrapers loomed overhead, their glass windows reflecting the blazing sun. He tried to lose himself in the noise of the traffic, the blaring horns and the distant chatter of people passing by. Anything to distract him from the overwhelming guilt clawing at his chest. He wished he could just disappear, sink into the pavement, and let the earth swallow him whole.

As you reached the hotel, Quinn fumbled with his key card, his hands shaking so badly he could barely swipe it. You gave him a puzzled look, and he managed a weak smile, hoping you couldn’t see the panic in his eyes. The door finally clicked open, and he hurried inside, dropping your suitcase by the bed.

“Home sweet home,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, but his voice cracked, betraying him. He turned away, pretending to adjust the air conditioning, but really just needing a moment to collect himself. The room felt stifling, the walls closing in on him, each breath a struggle.

You wandered over to the window, gazing out at the city below. “It’s a nice view,” you said softly, and Quinn’s chest ached at the sound of your voice. You were always so kind, so thoughtful, and here he was, lying to you every step of the way. He hated himself for it.

“Yeah, it’s… something,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the tension coil up his spine. He knew he needed to tell you, to come clean about everything, but the words felt like lead in his throat, heavy and impossible to get out. How could he explain something like this? How could he make you understand when he didn’t even understand it himself?

He took a step closer to you, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it. He hesitated, his hand hovering over your shoulder, before finally giving in and wrapping his arms around you from behind. You leaned back into him, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, breathing in your scent, feeling the familiar warmth of your body against his. It was almost enough to make him forget, to pretend that everything was okay, that he hadn’t completely screwed up the best thing in his life.

Almost.

“Quinn, are you sure you’re okay?” you asked again, turning in his arms to face him, your brows furrowed in concern. Your eyes searched his face, and he felt like you could see right through him, like you knew every dirty secret he was trying to hide.

“I…” He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “I need to tell you something.” His voice was barely a whisper, the words sticking to his throat like glue.

“What is it?” You tilted your head, looking up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and he felt like the worst person in the world. How could he do this to you? How could he destroy everything you had together?

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned down and kissed you, hard and desperate, like a drowning man grasping for air. You gasped in surprise, your hands coming up to cup his face, and for a moment, he lost himself in the kiss, in the feel of your lips against his, soft and familiar and everything he didn’t deserve.

When he finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You blinked, confusion etched across your features. “Quinn, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

“I messed up,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I messed up so bad, and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I can.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and Quinn felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He wanted to hold you, to comfort you, but he knew he had no right. Not after what he had done.

“I need you to know that I love you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I love you so much, and I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“What did you do?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Quinn took a deep breath, his hands shaking as he tried to steady himself. He knew he couldn’t keep lying, couldn’t keep hiding the truth from you.

You deserved better than that.

You deserved so much more than he could ever give you.

[midastouch013]

Seasick

I'm sorry, I just had to use this gif, but it has nothing to do with the fic, I swear.

Based on this request

Summary: You're on a cruise with your girlfriend, and so why do you snap at her?

Warnings: None, unless you count throwing up.

P.S This one's short, I'm sorry, I've been kinda stuck on my writing

----

The cruise had been your idea—a chance for Natasha to unwind, away from the constant demands of being an Avenger. You knew how much she loved the sea, the gentle rocking of the waves, the endless expanse of blue stretching out as far as the eye could see. So, you planned this getaway, a luxury cruise away from the bustling city.

As the ship set sail, Natasha wasted no time in making the most of the luxurious accommodations. You found her stretched out on the private deck of your cabin, soaking up the sun in a black bikini that left little to the imagination. Her red hair was fanned out around her, and she wore sunglasses to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight.

You, on the other hand, opted for comfort over style, dressed in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt on a black tee and cargo shorts, a beer in hand as you admired the view (both of them).

"Enjoying yourself, Nat?" you asked, taking a sip of your beer.

Natasha cracked one eye open, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. "More than I can say, Y/n. This was a brilliant idea."

You settled into the deck chair beside her, reaching out to brush your fingers along her bare arm. "Just wanted to spoil my favorite Avenger a little."

Natasha chuckled, shifting to make room for you on the lounge chair. "Well, mission accomplished."

You hummed, giving her a forehead a peck followed by her lips

"I'm glad"

---

As the day wore on, you suggested exploring the ship and trying out some of the activities it had to offer. Natasha agreed enthusiastically, and soon you found yourselves participating in a salsa dancing class on the upper deck , against your many protests which had been override by a simple plead from the redhead.

However, Natasha couldn't help but notice that you kept disappearing at odd intervals. She watched you slip away multiple times, always with a mysterious expression on your face. Concern started to gnaw at her when you came back every time just a minute level paler, but she pushed it aside, not wanting to ruin the mood.

After the third time you disappeared, Natasha finally approached you, a slight frown marring her features. "Y/n, you keep disappearing. Is everything okay?"

You turned to face her, your expression neutral. "Yeah, everything's fine, babe. Just needed to take care of something."

Natasha's brow furrowed with worry. "Are you sure? You've been disappearing all day."

You felt a surge of frustration, your patience wearing thin. "I said I'm fine, Nat. Can you please just drop it?"

Natasha's concern turned to hurt as she recoiled slightly. "I'm just worried about you, Y/n. You've been acting strange all day."

You snapped, unable to contain your frustration any longer. "Well, maybe if you stopped hovering over me, I wouldn't feel the need to disappear!"

Natasha's eyes widened in shock at your outburst, hurt flashing in her eyes before she quickly masked it. "Fine," she said, her voice cold. "I'll leave you alone then."

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving you standing there, regret washing over you in waves.

You stood there for a moment, your stomach churning with a mix of regret and guilt. But as you took a step to go after Natasha, a wave of nausea hit you like a ton of bricks. Clutching your stomach, you stumbled back towards your room, moving as quickly as you could.

By the time you reached the door, you were feeling light-headed and queasy. You barely made it to the bathroom before you were retching into the toilet, the taste of bile burning in your throat.

After what felt like an eternity, the nausea began to subside, leaving you feeling weak and exhausted. You groaned as you rinsed your mouth and splashed some water on your face, trying to soothe your frazzled nerves.

Feeling utterly defeated, you crawled into bed, pulling the covers up around you. You closed your eyes, hoping that when you woke up you'd fell better and apologise to your girlfriend.

--

As you lay in bed, trying to calm your queasy stomach, you felt another wave of nausea hit you. Rushing to the bathroom once again, you barely made it in time before you were retching into the toilet for what felt like the fourth time since your argument with Natasha.

You were so focused on trying to keep your stomach under control that you didn't hear the door open, or the soft footsteps approaching you. It wasn't until a gentle hand was on your back, rubbing soothing circles, that you realized you weren't alone.

Looking up, you saw Natasha kneeling beside you, her eyes filled with concern. "Babe, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

You wanted to respond, to reassure her that you were fine, but another wave of nausea hit you, and you were back to retching into the toilet.

Natasha didn't hesitate. She pulled your hair back gently, holding it out of your face as you emptied your stomach once again. Her touch was gentle, her presence a comforting anchor in the midst of your misery.

After what felt like an eternity, the nausea began to subside, leaving you feeling weak and exhausted. You leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily as you tried to regain your strength.

Natasha didn't say anything, just reached for a washcloth and wet it with cool water before gently wiping your face clean. Then she helped you to your feet, guiding you back to bed and tucking you in with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.

"Thank you love," you whispered, your voice hoarse from retching.

Natasha smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. "Anytime baby. I'm here for you, always."

After you had gotten back under the covers of the bed, you felt a pang of guilt as you looked at Natasha, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, near your legs, watching you with concern.

"I'm sorry, Nat," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I forgot to bring my meds for my seasickness, and I didn't want to ruin our holiday."

Natasha's expression softened, and she reached out to take your hand in hers. "You don't have to apologize. I'm just glad you're okay."

You shook your head, feeling the need to explain further. "But I wanted this to be special for you. I wanted you to have a perfect holiday, with all of the recent missions and the government being on your back. I'm sorry I messed it up"

Natasha stood up and pulled you into a gentle hug, holding you close. "Y/n, you already make every day special just by being here with me. And as for the holiday, well, I hardly ever let myself have one, but being here with you is more than I could ever ask for."

"I love you, Nat. I just want you to have a good time"

"Anywhere with you is a good time" she assured, before a smirk creeped up her face,

"And I'm sure you'll show me an excellent time tonight"

" No walking for you tomorrow, that's for sure"

----

[freelancearsonist]

in shades of gray and candlelight

➔ Marcus Pike x fem!Reader - 7.2k

➔ Nothing good starts in a getaway car, but you sure do have fun delaying the inevitable.

➔ Rated MA for artist!reader my beloved (reader is able-bodied, basic female anatomy and feminine pronouns used, reader is described as having hair that is long enough to be put up but otherwise she’s a blank slate), unprotected p in v sex, cum swallowing, creampie, semi-public sex acts, oral (r + m receiving), handjobs, fingering, very light switchy dom/sub dynamics, a couple spanks, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, baby, honey), heavy praise kink, light size kink, consent king!marcus, just like the song it does not end happily [please let me know if i missed any at all :)]

➔ this is my (first 😈) submission to @beskarandblasters Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! i really did mean for this to be a drabble especially since i didn't know anything about marcus before receiving this prompt but he has my whole fucking heart and mind now 😩 thank you so much for the challenge lovely kel, and special thank u to my baby @fhatbhabie for betaing and screaming with me ily <3 (dividers by the amazing and talented @saradika-graphics)

You meet Marcus Pike on a Friday night and it’s obvious from the start that he’s going to change your life forever.

He looks a little disheveled when he enters the gallery–brown hair ruffled and standing up in places, tie loose, top shirt button undone. There’s an alluring five o’clock shadow burgeoning across his jaw and cheeks. He looks like he’s had a long day, and it’s only going to get longer. It’s all part of the plan, of course. He’s supposed to look like a standard blue collar worker, and he pulls it off with ease.

It’s the exhibition’s opening night, so it’s a little more packed than the gallery normally would be. It works in his favor–he’s able to collect a plastic cup of champagne from the refreshment table and blend seamlessly into the crowd.

His eyes are diligent as they scan the faces that come and go. He tries to commit them all to memory–the tall woman with the slight limp, the short guy wearing the Hawaiian patterned shirt. There’s dozens of people that pass by, and so many of them are forgettable. It’s exhibitions like these that make him dread undercover work.

The art on the walls isn’t exceptional, but it’s not bad. Nothing that seems worth stealing, that’s for sure. But his source is good, and his source said that this place was getting hit tonight. So he keeps his watchful eyes vigilant and pretends to sip the champagne in his hand.

Until he finds your exhibit.

There’s a depth to your art that he’s come to be familiar with–something he sees often in work of high value. Anyone can make abstract art, it’s as simple as flicking paint at a canvas. But few can charge it as emotionally as you have. To convey feeling and passion and heart through abstraction is a separate art form all its own, and it’s one you’ve mastered.

He’s seen original Rothko’s, Van Gogh’s, Kandinsky’s; he’s held their frames in his own two hands. But nothing’s ever made his breath hitch in his throat quite the way yours does.

He stands in front of a canvas simply labeled “Waves In Motion” with your name printed neatly underneath, brow creased with a concentration that seems a little unnecessary given the subject matter of the painting. It’s all shades of blue and violet, swirling together in a way that seems partly sensuous, partly violent. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he takes a step closer. That’s when he notices it: a single dot of red paint right in the middle, a focal point of all the swirling cobalts. So small that he wouldn’t notice it if he wasn’t close; so small it could almost be interpreted as a mistake.

But he knows without having to ask that it’s not an answer. He wonders who that dot represents: you, the artist? Most likely.

Without meaning to, he smiles. It’s been a long time, years really, since a piece of art provoked such thought. 

“Hi.”

The voice Marcus hears next to him is soft, dulcet. He doesn’t turn to the noise quickly–from the tone in that word alone he senses a hesitance, as if you’re a fawn that’s lost its mother and you’re bound to run if he makes any sudden movements.

And, truth be told, part of him thinks he might not be able to look away even if he tried right now. There’s something so beautiful about this painting–and underneath, something so ominous. There’s an air about the work that says he might unlock the secrets of the universe if he just keeps looking.

“Hi there.” He keeps his eyes trained on “Waves In Motion” as he responds–playing the game. He’s here to brush shoulders, after all; to be the right amount of forgettable yet memorable. 

“This is my best, I think,” you murmur while taking a step closer. “It took the least time of all of them, surprisingly. But… I think when you know exactly what you’re trying to convey, it just comes to you easily.”

“These are yours?” There’s admiration in his eyes and an air of something akin to disbelief in his voice as he takes in the group of canvases proudly displayed on the plain white gallery walls.

And then he turns and lets himself take you in. More specifically the curling strand of hair that falls out of your updo to frame your face, the deeply plunging neckline of your dress, the way your calf muscles work even standing still in your high-heeled shoes. You’re a work of art in your own right; the most beautiful piece he’s seen in a long time.

“Yeah.” You duck your head–shyly, modestly–and he’s hooked. There’s one thing in this building that deserves awe and reverence more than your painting, and it’s you. “You know, you’re only the second person who’s come over tonight.”

“No way. They’re all just working their way back here,” he whispers before he can calculate a more articulate response.

But it works in his favor–your giggle is gorgeous, if a sound can be described that way. Sweet and syrupy, it seeps over him as if he’s standing under a cracked honeycomb. He hasn’t actually taken a drink of his champagne, and yet he can feel his nervous system tingling. You’re just that intoxicating.

“The gallery closes in half an hour,” you tell him–a little wistfully at that. “In my defense, I don’t have any family or friends in the area. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to show, not with so many other talented artists here.”

It seems so indignantly unfair to Marcus. That you’re shoved into the far back corner of the gallery, that people haven’t come in droves from all over the country to see your work.

“Where are you from?” He asks as his mind finally starts to clear from the haze it’s been in the past few minutes. With only half an hour left on the job, he allows himself a small sip of the drink that he’s been cradling all night.

“New York. This is actually only my second exhibition,” you explain, and you almost sound shy about it; as if you need to be embarrassed about being young and fresh-faced in the art industry, as if you aren’t the most talented artist Marcus has ever met in person.

He hums in response, eyes unconsciously dragging over you once more. “You came a long way for this.”

You smile so prettily up at him, and in that moment he sees something in your eyes. He can’t describe it–maybe it’s something akin to longing. Something incomplete, unexplored. It’s familiar; it’s the red dot from your painting. Solitary amidst the swirling, lost yet not hopeless.

And just like your painting, he finds himself wanting to get lost in your eyes.

“Well, it’s not every day a gallery wants to host you,” you say after another sip of your drink. “Plus, I’ve never been to Texas before, and I needed a change of scenery.”

There’s something so charming, so boyishly intoxicating about the smile he graces you with. “How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s hotter than I’m used to,” you say with a chuckle that he echoes. “And I haven’t been able to do any exploring yet, my flight only got in a couple hours before I had to be here.”

“That’s a shame,” he hums in a tone that reveals deeper meaning. “How long are you here for? Do you have any plans?”

“A week,” you murmur. Subconsciously he leans in closer, on the edge of his proverbial seat. To seal the deal, you lean in too. “And not a damned one.”

There’s no air between you and Marcus. You exist in a vacuum for this moment–unable to breathe, choking on anticipation. He’s so close, yet way too far away. You want to be consumed by him–for him to be swirling blue; and you, a single speck of red in his midst.

The moment shatters with an audible sound–a deep, penetrating voice. “He’s still not here, huh? I don’t think your boyfriend’s coming. If he even exists.” There’s something strange in the raspy voice that drawls these words–something strange enough to immediately put Marcus on the alert.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion into your vacuum, but you recover quickly. You have to, because this intrusive stranger is standing way too close and has way too much alcohol on his breath.

And then something strange happens–you worm your arm around Marcus’s waist and press yourself firmly into his side.

“Actually, he’s right here,” you say. There’s a quality to your voice that wasn’t there before when you were just talking to Marcus–it’s firm, clipped, bordering on hostile. “He just got held up at work. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Thankfully, Marcus has always been one to think quickly on his feet. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, unconsciously moving an inch or two in front of you. Protecting without really meaning to. “I’m sorry, honey. I got here as soon as I could.”

The man–burly and balding, probably a good twenty years older than you–scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

“Is there a problem here?” Marcus draws up to his full height–towering a good few inches over this strange intruder.

Whoever this guy is, he’s not completely stupid. He senses this isn’t going to be a fight he’ll win, so he backs off. “Not at all, man. Just didn’t want little miss standing here all alone the whole night.”

“Thanks,” you say with bitter reprehension. You wind even closer to Marcus–closer than this sudden farce demands. “But we’re fine now.”

He nods once–curt and unhappy, but seemingly satisfied that he’s not going to get what he wants. “Have a good night, ma’am. Sir.”

Marcus takes a mental inventory of the man as he storms off, committing his physical description and his outfit to memory. He doesn’t look like a casual art viewer, and he doesn’t look like a collector. He’s exactly the type that Marcus came here to look out for.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you step out of Marcus’s personal space. “He’s been hovering all night, asking me who I’m going home with and shit.”

“That’s the other guy who came over to talk to you?” It brings a deep frown to his face, a crease forming between his brows. It certainly raises a red flag–if the guy has any eye for value, of course he would be drawn to your exhibit. And if he has an eye for value, he could be the guy Marcus came for.

“Yeah.” You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and avert your gaze, as if you should be embarrassed for drawing that guy’s attention. “It’s not been the greatest night.”

Marcus hates that. He hates that you came all this way to be let down, that this is only your second exhibition and you’ve had such a bad experience with it. More than anything, he hates that he can still see the spark in your eyes when you look up at him, and he can tell that it’s dimmed.

“Gimme just a minute.”

He doesn’t mean to be so abrupt, but he wants to make it quick. He hustles to the single-stall men’s room and tugs the radio out of his inside jacket pocket to call in the man’s description. Then he turns it off, tucks it back into its concealed pocket, and goes over to the sink.

He thought he looked perfect for the part he had to play when he left his house to come here. Now, he’s too disheveled. He wets his fingertips and tries to tame the mess on top of his head; he re-buttons his shirt and tightens his tie. He looks flustered, and he’s not even surprised by it. You’ve got his heart pounding with anticipation in a way he doesn’t think it ever has before.

Butterflies fluttering on in his stomach, he emerges from the restroom to resume his position by your side.

Except you’re not by your exhibit anymore, and the crowd has thinned considerably. He checks his watch and realizes there’s only five minutes before the gallery closes for the night. Maybe you’ve decided to cut your losses and leave early.

He hates the way his gut twists with disappointment, but then he reminds himself that he didn’t come here for you. He’s working, and he needs to stay vigilant. No distractions, no complications.

“You’re still here.”

There’s a wave of relief that washes over him as he hears your voice, and this time he’s not too timid to turn towards you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Thought I might’ve scared you off.” There’s a fresh cup of champagne in your hand and a hint of vulnerability in your voice, and it makes his heart pick up pace just the slightest bit. You duck your head–that shy, modest gesture again. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just done that without permission.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, more earnestly than he’s ever said anything in his life. “I didn’t mind at all, I swear. Just had to hit the head.”

You look so deeply into his eyes he almost wonders if you aren’t looking through him. But whatever you find, you must like it.

He clears his throat and tries to not show how thoroughly unraveled he is by your gaze. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” You pause for a moment, and he can tell that there’s something else lingering on the tip of your tongue–so he remains silent in hopes of drawing it out.

“Do you have someone to go home to?”

There it is–the invitation he was both dreading and hoping for. He should really lie. He’s here on a job, after all–he’s supposed to avoid complications, and some instinct tells him you’re going to be much more than a simple distraction. But he’s told you the truth so far, and he doesn’t want to stop now.

“No. No, I don’t.”

This is everything that Marcus has never even considered doing. It’s late, it’s dark, it’s a little chilly for spring in Austin. The alley is grimey and drafty–your hair blows in the breeze even as you kneel down before him.

All he can do is stand there, dumbstruck with his back up against the rough brick wall, and stare down at you. 

He’s still breathless from the way you’ve been kissing him–all heat and passion, fire and brimstone. Your hands ran through his hair and undid the effort he put in while in the bathroom, and his hands clutched your waist in a futile attempt to ground himself. Your lips are so soft; he thinks he could kiss you forever and never get tired of it. He was certainly planning on finding out, until you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“You… you don’t have to–”

But the way you look up at him through your lashes makes his throat close up around whatever protest he was going to try.

“I want to,” you assure him–more of a purr than a spoken statement.

And this really isn’t the place. He shouldn’t let you do this here. But he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t make him harden in his boring gray work slacks.

Marcus has never been about excitement. He’s always strayed to the comfortable and familiar–he falls into the sweet, caring companion role with grace and ease.

And tonight doesn’t have to be that different. If you’re going to suck his dick in a dark, dingey alley, he’ll let you. But he’s going to lay his jacket down on the ground so you don’t scrape up your knees first.

You keen at the thoughtful gesture and grace him with a grateful smile as your adept fingers work his belt open. He’s straining against the seam of his pants now, begging for the attention that your gaze promises him.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think you’re every bit as eager to get his trousers and boxers down as he is.

And Lord help him, he delights in the gasp you emit when his cock springs free from its confines.

“Fuck, Marcus.” Your lips actually part as you freeze for a moment, just taking him in. He’s thick, maybe an inch longer than average, swollen head peeking through uncut skin as if begging for your waiting mouth. He curves to the left just a little bit, and you can almost see his pulse thrumming through the prominent vein that runs along the length of him.

“S’not that impressive,” he mumbles, and you know that he knows that he’s full of shit.

Your fingers almost don’t wrap all the way around him, and suddenly you’re second-guessing this back alley stint, too. You want him in bed. You want him deep inside you, kissing your face as he fucks you, hands all over your body, thrusts hard yet slow. You want it languid, you want it desperate, you want it any way he’ll give it to you. You don’t want to blow him and say goodbye.

He calculates your hesitation as something other than pure unadulterated lust, and he lifts your chin gently with his index and middle fingers.

“Hey, we don’t have to–”

Again, you cut him off–this time, by dragging your tongue from the seam of his balls all the way along his length to swirl messily around his tip. You taste every heady inch of him and then moan at the salty foreshadowing on your tongue when you catch a droplet of precum leaking from his slit.

Your hand springs into action with a long, slow stroke along his cock, and then you sink your mouth around him and he moans. Without caution or pretense, like you’re not in an alley that anyone could walk down at any moment. It’s a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be and his head thumps back against the brick wall hard enough to hurt, and even still he’s never felt so overwhelmed with pleasure before in his life.

Your nose meets the neat patch of hair at his base and your free hand comes up to his hip, effectively pinning him against the wall when he tries to buck greedily even further into your mouth.

No one’s ever taken him so relentlessly before. You’re insistent, pressing onward even as you gag on his length, and it makes his balls tighten in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like you’re hungry for him; like you’re doing this more for your own pleasure than for his.

Marcus Pike has been a giver his whole life. Tonight, with you, he finally decides to take.

He’d be embarrassed about how fast he comes if you weren’t so eager for it. You moan around him and push yourself as deep as you can, throat working around him desperately not to choke on the size of him. Before he can warn you he’s spilling into your mouth, maybe more than he’s ever come before, thick and salty but undeniably sweet too. You allow yourself a moment to savor him as he pulses in your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive head of him in a way that makes him shiver and whine.

He’s panting, nearly light-headed, when you finally pull off of him and press one last gentle kiss over his slit.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, because there’s nothing else to say.

You giggle, and he realizes with a strange wistfulness that he would do anything to keep this girl–a girl he’s just met, a girl who’s leaving to go back to her home on the other side of the country in just a week–smiling and laughing the way she is now.

“My hotel is only a couple blocks away,” you tell him as he helps you to your feet. “Would you like a nightcap?”

You pick up his jacket and dust the grime off it–it makes him chuckle. Everything about this encounter has flown in the face of what he’s used to. 

He’s never felt so alive.

“I would love a nightcap.”

Your senses wake up slower than normal.

First it’s your eyes–they tune in on the bright mid-sunrise light streaming through the open balcony blinds on the far wall. It falls in slivers and shards over the rumpled white hotel-standard bedding–the second thing your senses tune into. Everything is so soft and light, but it’s a little cold too. Especially the other side of the bed; there’s no heat remaining there at all.

You push yourself up with a grunt and let the sheets fall away from your bare torso, tired eyes scanning around the room. You notice clothes scattered all over the floor while your ears wake up enough to hear water running in the bathroom, and you can’t help the involuntary smile that spreads over your face. He’s still here.

Marcus lets the too-hot water wash over him in scalding waves, muscles still a little sore after a long night tangled together with you.

He checked his phone first thing this morning, and the gallery was quiet all night. They think the suspect he radioed in was the guy they were looking for, but they weren’t able to apprehend him. The running theory is that he might’ve recognized Marcus and decided low-value art wasn’t worth the hassle, but one guess is as good as the next until they can bait and catch the guy.

It’s the weekend now, and Marcus is thanking his lucky stars. Not only does he have a successful mission to celebrate, but he has the most beautiful woman in the world to celebrate it with.

He emerges after a few minutes, wet hair messily scattered over his forehead and wide hips straining against a low-slung hotel towel. He’s a languid Saturday morning wet dream on two legs.

“G’morning,” he hums with a smile–he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dip down to hungrily take in your naked torso.

“Good morning, Marcus.”

He stalks towards you slowly, eyes darkening with each advancing step. It doesn’t take more than a second to realize he didn’t get his fill of your body last night, but you’re certainly not complaining.

He’s already starting to harden as he drops his towel and crawls over the foot of the bed, surging forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. If last night was desperation and passion, this morning is syrupy and sweet. He explores your mouth slowly, tongue sweeping between your lips and tracing every curve and ridge he can–almost like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

There are universes in the depths of his dark eyes. He may not say exactly what he’s thinking, but you can see it playing out in those baby browns of his. There’s something simmering underneath the surface–something more than just lust or desire.

Something dangerous.

You tug him closer and cup his face in your hands, enjoying the gentle scratch of morning stubble underneath your palms. He surges forward and presses you into the pillows as he settles himself comfortably between your spread legs. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs through kisses scattered along the length of your jaw.

You know you probably look like you got run over by a bus–you toss and turn in your sleep, and it always leaves your hair a matted mess. And that’s not even mentioning the slight tremble in your thighs, left over from Marcus’s enthusiastic attention last night. But there’s so much sincerity in his voice; you don’t think he would waste his breath saying it if he didn’t mean it, and that fact alone makes your heart pound with desire.

There’s a syrupy slowness to the way he moves down your body, lips leaving behind heavy wet kisses as he works down your chest and over your stomach.

And it’s almost like he senses the protest working its way up your throat when you feel his hot breath on your thighs, because he looks up at you and there’s sternness in his gaze. You got your fill last night, and now it’s his turn.

“May I?” He looks up at you from the apex of your thighs with big, round puppy eyes that are impossible to refuse–so you nod eagerly and don’t even try.

If you were eager to have him in your mouth last night, he’s desperate.

There’s no hesitation, no build-up. It’s almost aggressive, the way he buries his face in your heat. He laps like a dog at a bowl, hips canting into the mattress involuntarily as your taste floods his mouth.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls into your sopping cunt. “You taste incredible.”

You keen at the praise and card your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the damp, spiky strands when his tongue laves heavily over your sensitive clit.

Marcus’s greedy hands grip underneath your thighs and push them as far as you can comfortably spread them. You’re still so sensitive after at least three orgasms last night–you lost count after a point–and it serves to wind your nerves tighter than they’ve ever been wound before.

One hand slides to the junction of your thigh and his thumb comes to take over the pressure on your clit as his tongue plunges between your soaked folds. It’s even more overwhelming like this, and there’s not a thing in the world that you want to do more than let him have his fun. Especially when that hand and his tongue switch spots–his lips seal and suck around your clit while he presses two achingly thick fingers into your waiting entrance.

It actually makes your muscles tighten and your back rise off the bed as he curls his fingers just right to find that spot that makes you fall apart for him. 

He can tell you’re getting close–he’s already so intune with the way your muscles twitch, the change of pitch in your moans. You whine and cry for him the tighter he winds the rubberband, and he’s eager to make it snap.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he says over the overwhelming flutter of his fingers scissoring and curling inside you. “Let me have it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly as pleasure wracks through your body that you can see constellations. Large hands come to pin your thighs open as his tongue keeps working, lapping and gliding against your cunt with ease as a wave of arousal gushes from your entrance.

You’ve never been so wet in your life, and he’s just getting started.

He trails open-mouthed kisses up your body as you catch your breath–his slick-soaked lips coat your skin with your own arousal as he works his way up to allow you a taste of yourself.

The first wet lick of his tongue into your mouth makes you moan. It’s not the first time you’ve tasted your own slick–you’ve had a moment or two of curiosity–but it’s never been quite as enjoyable as it is on his tongue. It pairs so perfectly with the minty tang of toothpaste left on his breath and makes you hungry for more.

He moves fluidly under your direction as you push him onto his back and roll to straddle his lap all in one graceful movement. It’s perfect like this–he doesn’t have to support his weight so he can run his big meaty hands all over every inch of you, and you can kiss him as deep as you want while you grind down on his aching length.

“Shit, baby,” he pants against your lips. Those aforementioned beefy palms grasp hard at your asscheeks to guide your hips, pulling you into a slow, long grind that bumps the head of his cock against your clit deliciously.

Your pulse thrums with desperation until you’re seeing white–no more teasing, no more preamble. You take his girth in your hand and give him a firm stroke; if you had a little more presence of mind, you might be embarrassed at how wet his dick is simply from grinding against you for a few seconds.

“Go ahead, baby, take it when you’re ready.”

He gasps at the first press of his cockhead against your entrance, head flopping back against the pillows as his hands squeeze your asscheeks with bruising force.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he murmurs, throat working around a thick gulp. “You can take it baby, I know you can. Did so good for me last night.”

You think you would honestly do anything he asks of you so long as he just keeps talking like this.

It takes a moment for you to work your way down his length–he’s so mouth-wateringly thick and the curve of his cock hits the most delicious spot inside you that you didn’t even know existed.

“Atta girl,” he praises breathlessly as your hips settle flush against his. “Just sit there for a minute. So pretty on my dick.”

God, he makes your entire body flush with heat. He turns your blood to molten lava with his words, lighting every inch of skin on fire. You’ve never felt a sensation like this–so overwhelming yet so intoxicating.

You start with slow movements as his hands trace up and down your sides sweetly–it’s more like you’re grinding on him than anything else. His thumbs rub abstract little patterns into your skin as his hands work up to your tits; when he finally takes them in the palms of his hands and squeezes all pretense of soft, sweet morning-after sex flies out the window.

You drop down hard on his cock and it nearly punches the wind out of him. 

“Yes!” He growls darkly. His eyes flash with something dangerous–it’s the only warning you get before his hand slaps the meat of your ass and grabs a greedy handful. “Just like that baby, use my fuckin’ dick.”

And maybe, if he was someone else, you wouldn’t be nearly as eager to follow instructions. But with Marcus, you’re nothing if not obedient.

Last night was exploration and discovery–hours into the early morning spent learning each other’s bodies, finding what makes the other squirm and whine and beg. This morning is in perfect juxtaposition to that sweet, soft, probing sex–you know what drives each other crazy now, and you each use it to your advantage. Aggressively.

He surges up to suck a pert nipple into his mouth as you set a hard pace on him, long fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He lands another sharp smack to your ass when your thighs start to shake–a reward for using his cock exactly how he asked.

”M-Marcus—”

”I know, sweetheart,” he purrs through a guttural moan. He cants his hips up to meet your thrusts at just the right moment—he hits something so devastatingly pleasurable that your vision prickles white around the edges. “I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? It’s okay, you can let go. Come for me.”

There’s a condescending note to his voice that only makes you squeeze harder around his cock, and within seconds you’re hurtling uncontrollably into ecstasy.

He fucks you through the telltale fluttering of your cunt even when your hips stop moving; strong hands hold you in place and work you through the ebbing waves of pleasure that wrack through your entire body.

”M’so close, honey,” he grunts with a particularly sharp thrust upward. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Where do you want me?”

”I-inside,” you gasp. “Come inside me, Marcus.”

He fills you as soon as he has your instruction—hard thrusts punctuated by breathy moans as he pumps you full of his release.

There’s a long, silent moment where Marcus pulls your bare chest tightly against his own and you pant into the crook of his neck while trying desperately to even-out your breathing. His fingertips dance across your skin-feather-light, soothing.

The sun is higher in the sky now and meets your eyes with blinding rays through the balcony shutters when they finally open again.

”That was amazing, honey,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. He’s caught his own breath now, but he doesn’t make any attempt to let you go. “How’re you so perfect?”

”M’not perfect,” you mumble into his shoulder; but even to your own ears, it sounds half-hearted. The truth is, he’s so earnestly honest that you believe him.

He hums his dissent with a kiss pressed to your hairline. ”You are to me.”

And you so desperately want to believe him that you don’t even try to argue.

You bask in this warm, lovely afterglow for a few moments longer before Marcus gently taps your hip. ”Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

You pull off of his softened cock with a whine and try not to get worked up all over again at the feeling of his cum leaking down your thighs. ”Th-there’s a free continental breakfast downstairs.”

”Oh, then I’ll definitely pick up the tab,” he jokes with a smirk—all you want to do is kiss his goofy, stupidly handsome face.

He pulls you into the bathroom and starts the water running to fill the tub—he’s never really been a bath guy, but your legs are a little too shaky to endure a shower. He’s so attentive—from running a damp cloth between your legs to helping lower you into the water. He doesn’t complain in the slightest when you catch his hand and ask him to join you; he just shuffles you forward and slides in behind you like it’s a casual act that he performs with every hookup.

It’s intimate. That’s really the only way to describe it. You sit between his spread legs, back to his chest, head rested back against his shoulder while his fingers ghost idle paths over your skin. You don’t talk; you don’t really need to. Somehow, you fit together like souls who have known each other for years. Like all you’ve been missing is each other.

You drift off in his arms as he traces soap over all the curves and ridge of your body, the steady beat of his heart thumping in your ear.

It breaks his heart a little bit to wake you—the fact that you’re so comfortable with him, that you trust him with such vulnerability, makes his head spin a little bit. But the water’s turning cold, and the last thing he wants is for you to come down sick or something.

He rouses you with gentle, feathery kisses scattered over your rosy-scented shoulders and neck.

”Mmm… what time is it?” You grumble, pressing your sleep-addled face further into the crook of his neck.

”Just after noon,” he whispers into your hair after glancing up at the clock on the wall.

He can feel the way your mouth shifts into a pout. “Shit. We missed breakfast.”

The adorable downward tilt of your frown as you lift your dad to look at him makes his heart flutter. “Let’s go out, then. The first farmer’s market of the season is going on downtown. I’m sure we can find something good for brunch.”

”Kinda sounds like you’re asking me on a date,” you hum with a slight smirk dancing at your lips.

”Maybe I am.” His tone is light, his meaning clear—he knows this goes beyond a one-night stand, and there’s no harm done if you’re not wanting to cross this boundary. He’d understand not wanting to get too serious about someone who lives thousands of miles away from your home, of course. He’d never blame you.

You give him your best appraising look, staring deep into those constellation-filled brown eyes. ”You’re not sick of me yet?”

”I have a feeling I couldn’t get sick of you if I tried.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, in his eyes. He genuinely wants to spend time with you, even if there’s nowhere for this to really go.

You hum thoughtfully. “I do love farmer’s markets.”

You’re with Marcus more often than not over the course of the next week.

He takes you sightseeing to some of his favorite spots around Austin, brings you to his favorite restaurants, shows you his favorite movies. But he multitasks—while teaching you about himself, he learns as much as he can about you and picks activities he knows you’ll love, too. 

He’s a pragmatist; he knows your time together is short, and he wants to make himself unforgettable. If he never sees you again, he wants you to think about him every once in a while and look back on this time fondly.

You spend your days while Marcus is at work painting or drawing or lingering around the gallery, and you fall asleep in his arms every night. With shades of gray moonlight and candlelight cast over your hotel room, it almost feels like this could go on forever.

He tells you to wear something nice before he picks you up on the last night–he wants to celebrate in style, which starts with reservations at an up-scale restaurant. 

He’s so achingly handsome. He’s in a matching gray suit over a white button-up, top two buttons undone and no tie to be seen. His face bears the slightest five o’clock shadow and your eyes gravitate to the curve of his lips–the instant smile that takes over his face when those gorgeous brown eyes of his land on you.

If you never see him again, this is exactly how you want to remember him.

“Wow,” he whispers reverently. “You look amazing.”

It’s not the most impressive dress you own, but he looks at you like you’re wearing something worth millions–like you’re worth millions.

You lean up and kiss him, and everything feels right. His hands rest on your waist and it’s so easy to pretend that you won’t be on the other side of the country twenty-four hours from now.

The restaurant is beautiful. Dimly lit and romantic, tables spaced enough to give you some privacy. He takes your hand on top of the table and holds it the entire meal. The conversation is light and airy–you’re both stubbornly dancing around what really needs to be said.

Dessert is cleared and the wine bottle is empty by the time Marcus finally works up the courage to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“I don’t want you to go.”

You knew this would be coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. You avert your gaze, instead focusing on his large hand wrapped around yours and the windshield wiper motion of his thumb tracing back and forth over your palm. No one’s touch has ever sent such electric tingles through your nervous system the way his does.

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.

“Look, I…” He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine a little bit, hand leaving yours to gently cup your chin. He forces you to look him in the eyes as he breaks your heart. “I think this could really be something, if we gave it a shot.”

You haven’t lied to him yet, and you don’t plan to start now. “I… I think it could, too. If I didn’t have to go back.”

“Don’t go back then.” There’s a firmness to his voice, but it couldn’t be any more obvious that he’s begging if he actually got down on his knees. “Stay here with me. We’ll figure this out. Just… don’t go.”

And here–with his earnest eyes on yours and his gentle, loving touch on your skin–it’s easy to pretend that it’s that simple.

He takes you back to your hotel room and sheds you easily out of your dress. As cliche as it sounds, it’s not just sex this time. Things that it’s too early to say are buried deep within every kiss, every thrust. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and looks deeply into your eyes while he fills you and you’ve never felt so overwhelmingly connected.

The thud of his heartbeat is insistent in your ear as you come down from your high–so calming, so heartbreaking. You lay on his chest while his breathing evens out and soak up these last few moments of bliss. And then, once you’re sure he’s sound asleep, you carefully worm out of his grip. There’s one more thing you have to do before you go back to New York.

Loud, insistent ringing pulls Marcus from the depths of sleep. He tries to ignore it and go back to sleep, but now that his senses are alert, the sound in combination with bright Saturday morning sunlight won’t allow him the luxury. He presses his face deeper into the pillow that he’s somehow wound himself around in his sleep, but that damned ringing won’t stop.

He sits up slowly and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes–and that’s when he notices the empty sheets next to him. Your side of the bed is long cold, and he knows. Before he even sees the note on the dresser and your room key next to it, he knows you’re gone.

He finds his trousers discarded halfway between the bed and the door and pulls his blaring phone out of the pocket.

“The gallery got hit sometime early this morning. They took everything. Every goddamn piece. You need to get here now.”

His body moves on autopilot as he pulls yesterday’s clothes back on, fingers numb to all sensation as they work to button his shirt. This can’t be happening. It can’t be you.

He notices the note on the dresser as he’s threading his belt through the loops of his trousers, and his gut twists with a sickening sense of foreboding.

I really did fall for you, Marcus. But nothing good starts in a getaway car.

He’s not sure if you knew who he was the whole time and this whole thing was calculated, or if you just got lucky. He doesn’t want to believe you’re that cunning and cruel. He wants to believe that this is just a misunderstanding, that you’re out for ice or something and you’ll walk back through the door at any moment.

But you don’t.

The note is enough of a confession for him. He’ll have the power of the FBI on his side to find you–and he will find you. What he’ll do when he does, he’s not sure. He guesses he’ll know when he sees you.

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!

[violetmina]

Chokehold - Ch. 11

Chokehold Masterlist

Accepting taglist requests!

Taglist: @roundroald @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night @sexytholland @scraftsku35 @avastrasposts @missihart23 @ladyvillainous @elementress44 @haibara-ai-tsii @123passwort @sanscas @lulzbrokenbyfantasy @icantevenchoose @marksassybanana @a-rogue-tiddy-bot​ @itsyellow​ @lmarina2000​ @d3adite666 @casualfansoul @missrandomheart @cvstle @elianamarie-blog @1970sbitch @depressed-but-make-it-cute @loversjoy @raktajinoaddict @trisaratops-mcgee

Pairing: Billy Butcher x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5,623

Warning: Swearing, adult themes, sexual tension and...well, Butcher.

A/N: I'm back~! Its finally here! After several months, the next chapter of this series! I promised that I would not abandon it, and I meant it. If it feels off in any way, I do apologize. And many thanks to all of you for your support and your patience. If I forgot anyone that wanted to be on the taglist, please let me know asap so I can fix it.

Two things ripped you from sleep that morning. The first was your final alarm blaring from the coffee table. The second was the abrupt awareness of a particular body missing behind you. The combination of the two had your muscles spasming into a flailing upright position, immediately revealing a slight kink in your neck as your brain tried to catch up. Your fingers fumble and flutter over the table in search of the obnoxious sound coming from your phone. Just as your hand starts to slap against the wood in groggy frustration, your eyes just make out a different set of fingers.

“Billy?” It comes out cracked and garbled from sleep.

The alarm dies quickly under his fingers and the blur in your vision shifts in time to bring him into focus, kneeling before you beside the couch. “Morning, sunshine,” he greets you with that crooked smile. “Gotta tell ya, I hear that alarm again, I'm throwing your fucking phone through the wall.”

“You -ah!” You wince as your neck twinges sharp at your attempt to swing your legs to the floor.

“Yeah, your couch did the same number on me,” he mutters. He slips his fingers to your nape, rubbing the smallest of circles there, just on the new knot. It's brief, his hand withdrawing before you can even sink into it, reaching back to bring forward a cup of coffee.

“Here. Can't send you off to Hughie with bags like that under your eyes.”

You give your thanks, taking a long draw before turning back to him. “Speaking of not looking so good, what about-?”

“Nuh-uh.” He wags back a finger at you as he stands to head out of the living room. “We had a deal. You're done playing nurse.”

You roll your eyes, knowing full well you're not going to argue with this mule. Butcher appears unfazed from the previous night's events, strutting in your apartment as his usual. The only outward indication of his escapade was the faintest peek of the liquid stitches on his head and the missing Hawaiian atrocity the blue t-shirt replaced. A very good looking replacement if anyone bothered for your opinion. But bravado and machismo are not enough to throw off what you already know - he was probably bluffing.

Taking a full gulp of coffee, you shuffle behind him towards your kitchen. The pizza box sits empty and abandoned on your counter. But next to it Butcher rifles through an unfamiliar bag, pulling out to-go boxes.

“You brought me breakfast in bed?,” you ask, smirk tight against the rim of your mug.

“Breakfast on couch,” Butcher replies without missing a beat, sliding warm styrofoam towards you before hooking a palm onto your hip. “Since ya made such a point of avoiding your bed.”

“Actually it was you making a point of avoiding my bed. You did say you wouldn't go near it if I wasn't in it, did you not?”

“Awfully cheeky for just starting that coffee.” He pushes away from the counter and pulls you in as you shrug in response. “And we could remedy that in a hurry, yeah? Being in your bed, I mean.”

“I, on the other hand,” you continue, bluntly brushing off the reply, “was avoiding sinful acts so as not to kill you.”

“Not a bad way to go, innit?” Butcher manages to wrap his arm around your back without sloshing your morning brew over either of you.

“Maybe not. But I'd hate to traumatize the others with the vivid details of what you look like naked,” you grin.

“Fuck off,” he hums before hushing you with a kiss. Then, purring into your ear, “You still haven't answered me…Your bed?”

Butcher doesn't give you much of a chance to respond. Not verbally that is. He kisses you again, longer, firmer. Warm steadily turning to hot, a slow delicious simmer. Your free hand slips along his side, just hitching under the hem to brush skin, and you can't remember this shirt feeling this soft. But you're not going to forget now.

Until he gives you something else to remember.

Butcher's grip on your hip grows firmer, and when you part your lips in invitation, his response is no different than how he handles much else - he does not hesitate. He delves to taste and you're quickly preoccupied with his own, enough to kiss back with more fervor. He nips your bottom lip and you know it's still not safe for him, not really. The concussion is still a danger…but you feel your bed pull at you like his fingers starting to tug at your jeans.

Until his phone buzzes loudly in his pocket.

“Billy…”

He shakes his head, whiskers whispering against your face. “It's nuthin’,” he breathes between kisses. “So? This a yes, lov-”

Another buzz.

You catch his wrist as he rips the cell from his pocket, barely saving the offensive thing from a warp speed trip across your apartment. When yours buzzes too on the other side of the room, the noise that rumbles out of him makes you bite your lip. He leans back from you snarling to the roof, “Fuckin’ cockblocks every fuckin’ one of ‘em!”

“That confident were you?” It comes out just a tad breathless.

He stabs a brief glare at you with a snort before finally looking over the interrupting notification. “Surprise, surprise. Hughie.”

“What did he say?”

“New orders, new case. And a little under the table meeting. Same bullshit,” Butcher grumbles. “I'm sure yours is near identical.” He looks up at you, some of the frustration leaving his face to give you a hint of a smile. “All things considered, I'm guessing you'd like me to let him know we'll be each other's plus one to the meeting?”

Butcher gives a little wink before you place your hand over his phone. His hint of humor falters when he sees you staring with furrowed brow at the text message waiting to be answered.

“...No.”

His face mirrors yours. “No? No what?” 

You look up at him, shaking your head.

He stares for only a second. Then, “Ah, I get it. I'm your new dirty secret, eh? That it?”

“No,” you reply louder, more abrupt. Had that been the tiniest edge on his playful tone? You look up at him, shaking your head. “I didn't mean that. You're not that. I mean I don't know what you - we-!” 

Something twitches in his face at ‘we’, something that makes part of you flinch, and you take a breath before speaking. “What I meant,” you answer slowly, “is that we shouldn't say anything just yet. Not to the others. I don't want anyone thinking that I didn't earn my place here, pull my weight. Especially Hughie.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“He's already shown me once how quickly he can change his mind, even more so when it comes to me doing field work. I hope I won't need you to speak to him on my behalf. But if I do, how much will your word weigh to him if he thinks it's only because we're past being friends…coworkers…what have you…” 

You trail off on that thought, cutting back to the point. “Anyway, more importantly, we've got a big mission here. And I think it would be best if the team has no questions or doubts about where everybody's heads are at. No distractions. Right?”

Butcher gives a slow nod as your words sink in. “That'd be the thing they'd do wouldn't it?” Then with a humorless laugh, “Like they don't question me, bust my balls enough already. And Hughie!” He makes a tsking sound. “Yeah, none of that. We'll deal with this Persuasion business proper first.”

He nods and makes a quick reply to Hughie before sliding his cell back into his pocket. “I best get a move on, meet up with MM while it's still early. And you best get your ass in gear. You need to keep an eye on the congresswoman.” 

Butcher smirks as he shrugs on his coat. “Real shame,” he drawls, giving you a long, parting kiss before beginning to back to your door. “Still wouldn't have minded breaking your bed.”

“Could've died,” you sing-song at him.

“Sounds like a good way to go.”

“Sounds like you're trying to tell me you wouldn't be worth a second round,” you tease.

Butcher shakes his head, a dark, heavy look rolling in his eyes at your sass. “When did I ever say it’d take only one round?” He pauses in your door. “That's a shame, love. I thought you knew me better than that.”

With a smirk your way and a glance over your apartment, he closes the door. You let out a sigh somewhere between relief and disappointment, picking at your to-go box as you remember the coffee somehow still in your hand. “Not yet,” you smile in response to his parting words.

As you eat the breakfast Butcher had delivered, you did your best to focus on the little spark of excitement in you, and ignore the last look he'd given your apartment. Ignore the sharp flicker he'd given the windows.

^^^

“We got one!”

You nearly jump as a news article slaps onto your desk. Hughie beams down at you, almost smug before sliding it closer to you. “Got one?”

“A supe. That fungi one, what's-his-face -”

“Cordycep?”

“Yep,” Hughie grins. “The asshole who was caught spraying those spores everywhere to hypnotize people. His case finally went to the judge. And the judge threw the book at him.”

You skim over the article as he leans against your cubicle wall, clearly pleased. “You're not kidding. Found guilty of all twenty-six counts of fraud, identity and grand theft, and forgery.”

“Every single one,” he says. “A long sentence. And no chance of parole at this time, or bail. We did that. We did that!”

You suppress a laugh as he takes back the article with a fist in the air. “That's kinda the point, isn't it? That's why the bureau exists.”

“I don't mean the bureau. I mean us,” he replies. Then he continues with earnest, “I know that the team has been kinda frustrated lately. We covered this case, and several like it, and it feels like we've been trying to climb shit mountain every time. But this shows that it's working. We're making a difference. And we didn't have to scrub blood out of our clothes to do it.”

“This time,” you emphasize. “We didn't have to this time. Forgive me for raining on your parade a little. But let's keep a little pragmatism here. Cordycep was a push over. Most of the supes aren't.”

He waves you off but you still notice the slight slump in his shoulders. “Whatever. Point is that we are making a little progress.”

You feel a twinge of guilt for being a bit of a realist on him. But despite that, part of you wants to celebrate with him. There has been progress for both the Boys and the bureau. Slow, grinding, frustrating progress. But still progress. Although, if Butcher were the one to measure, you would be found short today. You hadn't been able to keep an eye on Neuman as intended. Even those at work had only seen her in passing glimpses by her office.

With that in mind, you lower your voice just slightly. “Speaking of progress, are we still going over reports tonight with the team? That quarterly thing?”

Hughie nods as he straightens a little, eyes scanning for the congresswoman. “Yep. Right. Quarterly reports. Gotta make sure we're within budget and all that.”

“And are Annie and I still on for girls night?,” you ask, absently shuffling through some files. Not like you care what they are.

“Yes. Actually she hinted that she might - might - be able to stop by tonight. You know, say hello. Iron out some stuff for your upcoming bonding time.”

That certainly puts a little edge in you. You'd be lying to yourself if you thought you weren't hesitant about how the meeting would go. Yes, the whole mission and its variables were certainly part of that. But so was the fact that you now had to keep pretending like nothing was going on between you and Butcher, jiu jitsu or otherwise. Throw in the ever looming threat of Neuman's shadow, and the mutual disdain to put it politely between Annie and Butcher…

“That sounds great,” you smile wanely. “Is everybody else in on that particular detail?”

“Butcher knows,” Hughie deadpans.

“And how many new expletives did you learn from him after telling him?”

“None. Not yet, I mean. He's probably composing a whole list to shove down my throat after the meeting as we speak.”

“Wrapped with a C4 wire bow, I'm sure,” you smirk at him. You slap three files into his chest. “Here. You'll need those for tonight.”

He glares at the manila as if it's offended him while he thumbs the pages. “The hell is this?”

“Budget reports.” Your expression goes flat when his remains confused. “Neuman would want you to have those for the meeting…?”

A beat passes before you see the light bulb come on. “Oh,” he smiles sheepishly. “Riiight. Need those.”

“...How the hell are you my boss again?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles before pushing away from your cubicle to avoid the return of your smirk. Before he dips out of sight he peeps around the corner one more time. “Oh, by the way…”

“Yeah?”

Hughie spares a genuine smile. “I just wanted to let you know that, uh…I'm glad you're working again. You're kicking ass already.”

Fondness fills your chest and you return the smile before he jokingly barks an order to “kick those papers asses!”, and heads further into the bureau. You sigh at the small mountain of work on your desk before dragging a file towards you. 

Kicking more ass than you know, Hughie. Just you wait.

^^^

Homelander's too-piercing blue eyes stare at you through a thin veil of false contrition as you stare back from your seat in the Flatiron. The act is thinner than a blade's edge, and you're grateful for the filter of the LCD screen and a brown-nosed interviewer hired by Vought between you - and everyone this side of the screen - and the supe. It's the second time you've seen it air today, but it still irks as bad as the first time as Homelander lays his woes and regret about Stormfront for the first time publicly since she'd been “apprehended”.

“Fuck him,” Frenchie mutters, snapping your attention away from the TV and back to the crew. He snaps off the TV just as viciously. “And fuck that nazi bitch, whatever is left of her.”

“Can we focus?,” MM asks at his desk, his fingertips burrowing deep in his temples. “We got a lot to cover and very little time to do it.”

Hughie heaves a sigh and nods, looking at each of those present to recollect the room as he stands in the center of it. “He's right. We gotta crunch these last numbers. I'll make it quick. Let's see…MM is good on the books. You submitted that last bit of papers for that druid-wannabe supe, right?”

“Yes. Ready for you to hand off to your attorneys.”

Hughie flashes a thumbs up before turning to the seats near your desk. “Cool. Frenchie, Kimiko. Looks like I just need that last budgeting sheet for…is this a flamethrower? This looks suspiciously like a flamethro- why?”

Kimiko signs before Frenchie grins, “Research purposes.”

You hold back a snicker as Hughie presses on. “Fuck, fine, whatever. Mallory can deal with that, I guess. So that just leaves-”

“Yours truly.” Butcher's chair creaks next to you at his desk, opposite side of Kimiko, as he swivels slowly with a bit of impatience. “It's all there, mate. Double checked the numbers me self.”

“All of it?,” Hughie presses. “Your ammo and armory form was off a couple digits last month.”

“Yep. Even corrected the pornhub subscription cost on the miscellaneous page.”

“Okay, okay. That was lovely news,” Hughie grimaces as everyone else shares a chuckle. “Bleaching that from my mind and moving on. Budgeting is done. Now for the real meeting.” He glances back and forth between Butcher and MM. “Any new leads on Persuasion or Walsh?”

“Only that Walsh is hiring third party goons to try to keep Vought from crawling up his ass. Ambushed me at the club the girl talked about,” Butcher shrugs. “Patched myself up away from the hospitals, so we don't have any tails there.”

Your mind slips into the memory of your fingers running through Butcher's damp locks. It hazes briefly at the memory of calloused hands and warm lips before you remind yourself that there's a reason you and Butcher are not sitting directly next to each other right now.

“I found two other cases from the same night,” MM cuts in. “One male and one female victim, not as lucky as our first. They were from different sides of town. Vought got to them long before me though. But from what I could gather, the situations are uncannily similar. If this is a test run, this drug is going to spread fast.”

“No faster than what Walsh will allow, you mean,” Hughie interjects. “He still has to keep ahead and under Vought’s radar.”

“Any clues what it's for?,” you ask.

“I have less leads than them,” Frenchie replies, rubbing the back of his head in agitation. “After what happened with the last sample, I've had to take the experiments a little slow.”

Hughie shakes his head. “Not gonna lie, that's not great news for our timeline before the gala. How are we coming on that?”

Frenchie perks up a bit. “That I do have good news. My surveillance equipment should be here within a few days. But I will need to know where in the gala we are playing our roles. I need just a little time to make any necessary changes to it.”

Butcher gestures around the room. “So? Where do you lot all wanna be?”

There's the crackle of paper as Frenchie smooths out the schematics splayed out on his desk, Kimiko and MM leaning to peer behind him. “We all start at the top and work down, right?,” MM begins. “Fifteen floors down. We should stack. Nobody more than one floor apart from each other. So I'll take fourteen and every third floor on.”

Hughie starts ticking off fingers. “So that means…”

“Means MM,” Butcher says, rising from his desk to stride to view the schematics, “will take fourteen, eleven, eight, five, and two. The love birds have to split what's left, and they all converge in the sublevels.”

Kimiko types rapidly into her phone before showing the display to everyone. I want to be closest to either of them if they need backup, it reads. I'll take thirteen down.

“I guess that leaves me with levels divisible by three,” Frenchie shrugs.

“What kind of modifications are you thinking?,” you ask him.

“Mostly wardrobe, so I know how to disguise your surveillance gear.”

Kimiko and Hughie smile, confusing you until you hear a voice behind you pipe up, “I guess I snuck out at the right time then.”

All eyes turn and you find Annie coming into the office. While you feel Butcher's not-so-welcoming smirk bloom from his spot, you and Kimiko each greet her with a warm hug before she greets Hughie the same with a kiss tagged on. “I'm guessing this isn't the budget report we're talking about?,” she asks the room.

“We could go back to that,” Butcher grins. “Being the altruistic soul you are, Starlight, I'm sure you'd be more than happy to make a generous donation to our cause, no? And using that Seven member payroll to stick it to Vought?” He lets out a low whistle. “It'd be poetry.”

“Tempting,” she responds tersely. “But even my money is micromanaged. Getting my charity for at-risk youth off the ground has been like pulling teeth, even with all the good PR Vought is expecting. And the last thing all of you need is for Vought to be sniffing further into my ‘donations’. Don't you think?”

“If you're a stingy bitch, you can just say that.”

“Okay!” Hughie quickly cuts in, placing his thin frame in the direct heat of their glaring. You're surprised he doesn't melt like butter in the thick of it. “Let's remember we're all on the same side here. We'll give you ladies a chance to talk over things while we, uh, find the best place to put our surveillance team.”

“I won't keep her long. The less I know, probably the better. At least in this case.” Annie gives Butcher one more pointed glare before shuffling you off a few paces. “It's been awhile since he's worn a shirt that didn't look like he stole it from a Miami retirement home,” she grumbles.

Oh, you had definitely noticed. He was still wearing the blue shirt from your closet, and Hughie had made a similar comment when he had walked into the Flatiron. Butcher merely brushed it off with something about laundry day. Thwarting away the image of what lay beneath said shirt, all stretched out on your couch, you asked, “We're still on tomorrow then?”

“Yes. I know a guy from my Christ for Capes days, his name is Torsten. He doesn't work for Vought but a lot of his clientele have been supes. He's got a hole in the wall for a shop in Manhattan. He can definitely tailor something for what you need.” 

She glances at Hughie, who is preoccupied arguing with Butcher that no, they can't park the van in the goddamn venue lobby. Then says, “I get wanting to wear something you can fight in. But can you? Not saying you don't know how to take care of yourself. I'm just hoping you're going to have enough time to learn what you need.”

You wave at the team as MM seems to get them back on track over the schematics. “If there's anybody that can get me ready with this kind of time crunch, it's these guys. Right?”

Her eyes crinkle as she looks over each of them. “I mean…kinda? A little. I don't think their insurance would agree, but...”

“Says the one who can take a bullet to the chest,” you jibe back.

“Well I don't know what the hell they'll teach you. But we'll get you fitted for it.”

The idea of pitching Annie to supplement your training flits in your brain. What better way to learn than from the one friendly supe in your corner? But immediately you reject it. Annie is already under constant suspicion from the Seven, Homelander most of all. Not to mention what little spare time she has is just that - very little. And again, would she be able to hide your training from Hughie till the right time? Especially if she knew Butcher was involved, in more ways than one?

Not likely, the little voice huffs.

“Hughie told you about meeting at the apartment at 4, right?,” she asks, dragging you from your thoughts.

You nod.

“Okay. We'll meet there, then head to Torsten's. My window will be small though before I have to get back to the tower. So think about what you might like for the gala. He's a damn good tailor but not a miracle worker, and we're calling it pretty tight as is.”

“Sounds good. But one problem. I don't exactly have a budget for a custom fit. And Butcher wasn't completely wrong about needing financing for this.”

Annie shakes her head. “Don't worry about it. Torsten owes me a favor anyway. And it helps me get away from the tower for a time. Which…” She glances at the clock on her phone. “...I am nearly out of myself already.”

“You're not staying?”

“No,” she sighs. “I wanted to get the details to you in person, less risk of our plans being tracked or leaked that way. That and I need to talk to Hughie for a bit. I meant what I said about knowing less. Our resident asshole-”

“Which one?,” you ask in a cheeky tone.

“Our resident asshole,” she continues, “doesn't need any more reason to doubt my intentions. The less I know, the safer all of us will be if shit hits the fan, especially with Vought. Gotta keep my nose clean after the last time I was accused of treason, too.”

“I appreciate your help, Annie.” You glance over at Hughie and Butcher, still mapping out the eventual parking spot of the surveillance van. You notice MM approaching you. “I'll let you talk to your boy toy and see you tomorrow. I have a feeling I'm needed now.”

“That would be correct,” the big man says as he steps up beside you. “We need to start working on your ability to read the room. More like you should've started yesterday. So if you need anything, snacks, restroom break, whatever - now is the time. We're gonna be here late tonight.”

You give Annie another hug before she motions for Hughie to join her for a hushed discussion. You move back towards the others and the venue map with MM. “So what does this entail?”

“Body language is the big one. You use it all the time, you just don't know it. A lot of social cues are given and read more subconsciously. Your role in this depends on it.”

As Hughie and Annie call out a good night, explaining that they needed to headout, Butcher waves them off dismissively and walks towards his desk at the end of the office. “Already we got a snag in your little lesson here, MM. You think four of us is gonna be the same as reading a packed ballroom?”

“No, I think we are her training wheels and that's better than nothing.” There's a hint of exasperation in his tone. You have the distinct impression that Butcher has voiced his charming opinions to the crew on you being their spy for the event. If said impression was right, then at least you knew the crew was on your side.

Frenchie slides across his own desk with a small smile at the corners of his mouth. He disappears for a brief second before bobbing back up with a Bluetooth speaker, and begins setting it up with his phone.

MM watches him incredulously, palms up in confusion. “The fuck is he doin’? The fuck you doin’, Frenchie?”

“I am setting up for the lesson. We are teaching her body language cues, the gala is in a ballroom…” He thumbs over his phone screen before beaming at you. “So dancing serves for both, non?”

MM wipes a hand over his face as Kimiko sticks out her hands in invitation to Frenchie. “Oh my god, fucking really?”

“We're working, not fucking about!,” Butcher growls as a song comes on at random. The sound of a howl and three single notes flow out of the speaker, and Frenchie looks at it with doubt. But he shrugs and begins to turn and shuffle about with Kimiko.

You recognize now that his random playlist had chosen “Lil’ Red Riding Hood”. Not something you even expected with all the French rap you usually heard him play. You highly doubt this will be played at the gala either, but you just smile, enjoying the duo's antics as MM vents his frustration. 

“As you can see, Kimiko's body language is open. She smiles! She is relaxed!”

“Fuckin’ Christ, Frenchie…”

You nod with thick enthusiasm, ignoring Butcher grumbling. “Yes, yes. I see.”

The duo continue to wheel about in the limited space as the song progresses. “Now notice that both of us have some tension in our shoulders? That is from suppression. Why?”

“Why?,” you play along.

“To not laugh at these two boring fuckers!”

MM flips them both the finger, which they return in kind. After another moment, MM finally steps forward. “Hold on, hold on. Let's at least do this proper. Kimiko? May have your hand?”

They paused, confused. But you catch a glint in MM's eyes and you give her the thumbs up. To Frenchie’s surprise, MM takes her hand, doing his best to maintain proper dance form with the size difference. He makes a “eyes on me” motion at you.

“Watch and learn. If you didn't notice, poor Kimiko's body language was giving all the subtle signs of distress.” He begins to move into a different dance than the awkward shuffle from before. “And why? She needed saving. Because he, and his white ass, ain't got no rhythm, and this is clearly a motherfucking tango!”

“Oh fuck you! You think I can't fucking tango?”

MM sweeps Kimiko further away. “Nah, you don't get her back now. You hijack my lesson, I hijack your dance partner.”

You can't help but laugh as Frenchie stomps after them, apparently offended, and MM dancing just out of reach round the office with Kimiko standing on his toes. After the apprehension you'd had about this meeting, this is a pleasant change of pace. But you know the song is just about over, and there's still work to be done. Not to mention there was still the hardass who definitely would not be dancing.

You tear your eyes from the three cavorting about, ready to catch Butcher scowling across the room. Instead, you catch him taking advantage of the trio's distraction to stare right at you. A small knowing smirk appears as the last verse plays.

Lil’ Red Riding Hood

You sure are looking good

You're everything a big bad wolf could want.

You're hit with the memory of that night at the motel, him staring up at you with that same damn look. Those wolfish eyes. He's being awfully bold, right in front of the others. But was he really anything else?

You are not going to make this easy, are you?, you think.

And in the blink of an eye, it vanishes and he is glowering at the others. Teaching you not to be distracted it would seem. He approaches them as they settle. “Turn the music off, and it stays off,” he snaps. “All she's learned in the last three minutes is how to look like a right wanker in a crowd. Which is exactly what she doesn't fucking need when she's supposed to sneak in, and then sneak the fuck out.”

He snatches Frenchie's phone and tosses it to him. Giving the other two one last huff, he turns to you. “Let's start with identifying when someone has a concealed weapon. Something you'll actually fucking use…”

^^^

Hours later, far later than you had even expected, you sit in Butcher's car, head propped against the cool glass of the window. You had originally hoped that he would insist on a rolling session after the training you'd done with the Boys. Or rather a rolling session and seeing where it would lead. But when Butcher had volunteered to drive you home - before the others could - on the ride in the elevator down, he had informed you that he would be out looking for leads again.

You admit, you were a little disappointed. But turning your head to look at him in the passing lights, you see just a trace of fatigue in the wrinkles by his eyes. A ghost of his concussion. And to be honest, you were still a little haggard from a long day, and the long night before playing Florence Nightingale to his stubborn ass. It was better this way.

That didn't stop him from cursing your fatigue. He peeled his hand off the steering wheel and placed it on your knee, rubbing firm circles there with the pad of his thumb. Just like that night at the motel, whistling low and slow that damn song in the Flatiron, as if in case you weren't remembering it.

You arched one eyebrow at him as he parked at the curb outside your building. He arched one back at you with a devilish look. “What? Something on yer mind, love?”

“Just wondering if I'm going to have to patch you up again tonight.”

“Are you now?” His voice is thick with disbelief. He gives your thigh a warm squeeze. “That all?”

“Yep.” You make sure not to bat an eye. “Not much else to think about tonight.”

“Well in that case…” The seat creaks as he leans in and kisses you. Firm and slow. Like that hand that glides up your thigh. Like the way he presses it against the center seam of your jeans…

And he pulls away just as you inhale sharply. “...In that case, since you got nothing to think about, I'll let you dance on up to bed for the night.” He unbuckles your seat belt for you with a cocky twist of his lip.

Fucker.

“Yeah. Not much to think about.” You make no attempt at hiding the frustration in your tone. You hear Butcher chuckle as you step out of the car.

“Give Tinkerbell my regards tomorrow,” he nods. Then with a wink, “And keep that bed warm in case I need a nurse, yeah? Be seeing you real soon, love.”

He closes the door and peels out into the road. You grit your teeth at how painfully aware you are of exactly how your jeans sit now. But you shake your head with a smile as you watch his taillights shrink. Because something tells you that the reason he peeled out was to keep him from stepping out of that car with you.

[foreverrandomwritings]

Guys My Age

Summary: Guys your age just can't seem to treat you right. What's going to happen when you set your eyes on a tall mustached aviator? This is based on the song Guys My Age by Hey Violet.

Pairings: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Afab!Reader (No use of Y/N)

Warnings:Plot and then filfth. MINORS DNI 18+. Mentions of alcohol, drugs, sex, strip clubs, age gap like 15ish years, rowdy men and catcalling. If I missed any please inform me.

Word count: 4362(pretty sure this is the longest thing I have ever written)

Masterlist

I haven't seen my ex since we broke up

Probably 'cause he didn't wanna grow up

Now I'm out and wearing something low-cut

'Bout to get attention from a grown up

It had been months since you and your ex had broken up. His lack of maturity made the relationship unbearable. He claimed to be comfortable with your job as a club owner and exotic dancer when the two of you first started dating. But as time went by you could clearly tell he despised what you did. It had been about 6 months since you had danced, deciding to stay behind the bar for the most part serving the patrons. The occasional crowd work thrown in here and there. Tonight you adorned one of your favorite lingerie pieces: a pale yellow lacy corset bra with matching high waisted bottoms and heels in the same pale yellow were on your feet.

You were desperate to get attention from someone older and wiser,  that actually knew what they were doing. So when you saw a group of guys walk into the club that you instantly recognized as aviators from the way they carried themselves you figured you’d pick one off from the group. It didn’t take you long to find your target. A tall mustached brunette stood at the back of the crowd, a floral Hawaiian shirt thrown over a white t-shirt. 

You watched from behind the bar as they found a table to sit at that wasn’t far from the stage but not too close as to miss the rowdier groups. As one of your regulars came up to the bar you turned away from where the group was to grab his drink. You handed him his drink and got a thank you in response. Turning back around you noticed one of the aviators propped up against the bar with a cocky smile on his face. 

“What can I get for you boys?” You asked him with a polite smile on your face glancing over his shoulder at the rest of his group. 

“I’m gonna get two pitchers of blue moon and a couple bottles of rootbeer please.” he answered you while sliding his card across the bar top to you giving you a wink you were sure had other girls falling on their knees for him “I’m going to open a tab while I’m at it as well dollface.”  

“Sure thing. I’ll bring them over to your table as soon as I have them for you.” you said as you took his card putting it next to the register. He tapped the bar twice with his right hand before turning and walking back to his table. You made quick work of gathering the drinks before putting them on a tray with the cups and carefully weaving through the slowly growing crowd. Once you reached the table you put the tray in the middle. 

“If you aviators need anything else let me know.” You said as you looked around the table your eyes finally catching on the tall brunette you saw earlier. You sent him a wink before turning back around making sure to sway your hips a bit more than usual. 

'Cause you hold me like a woman

In a way I've never felt before

And it makes me wanna hold on

And it makes me wanna be all yours

It had been almost an hour since you delivered their drinks. The same blonde as before had been up again for another pitcher. You had made eye contact with the handsome stranger numerous times within that hour. You were growing very antsy behind the bar wanting nothing more than to have his full attention on you. Finally you decided enough was enough and called for one of the other girls to come and stand behind the bar in your place. 

His eyes didn’t drag over your body as so many others did as you neared him. He kept his eyes on your face, a sly smirk making its way onto his face. You returned the smirk, a spark of mischief dancing in your eyes. Luckily his chair was angled away from the table so it gave you a perfect opportunity to get your plan rolling. His eyebrow quirked up as you came to stand between his legs. You bit your lower lip between your teeth as you lowered yourself onto his lap. You leaned your back against the table, crossing your legs and draping your left arm around his shoulder. 

You heard a cough somewhere behind you but paid it no mind as you moved your head next to his. “Hiya handsome.” you purred into his ear before pulling back to look at his face. He had a slight blush blooming over his cheeks and his eyes had widened a bit in surprise “What’ca fellas up to tonight?” You asked him bringing your right hand up to play with the chain around his neck. 

“We’re out celebrating a successful run at life.” Someone said from behind you while the man you were perched on looked down at your hand seemingly speechless. As you leaned back you felt his arm come up to buffer between your back and the table. His hand splayed across your side. A chill worked through you as his thumb lightly stroked the lace of your bra.  

You’d rarely had someone in here touch you so respectfully. It was normally rough grabby hands trying to get to any part of you they could. Some hands made you feel a little sticky and gross by the time they were off you. But his hold on you made you feel respected. You couldn’t help but think about what it would feel like to have his hands all over you. Claiming you as his with every brush across your skin. You knew just by looking at him that he’d ruin you for every other man. 

Guys my age don't know how to treat me

Don't know how to treat me

Don't know how to treat me

Guys my age don't know how to touch me

Don't know how to love me good

You continued to sit upon his lap as he asked you questions about yourself. He started with a simple question asking you what your name was. You gave him your stage name rather than your actual name. No matter how attractive he was, you still had to be cautious. Then you asked his name in return.

“Well Honeysuckle since we're going with callsigns my names Rooster.” He told with a playful smirk on his face. That had you letting out a small giggle. Then he was asking you some simple things like your favorite color and how long you had been working at the Garden of Eden. He was pleasantly surprised when you told him you owned it. 

“My best friend Lilac and I have worked here since we were 18 and in business school. Once me and her turned 21 the old owners talked about selling and we decided to go in on it together. So we’ve owned it for 3 years now.” His smile faltered a little at that, the hand that found its way to your knee fell back to his side. He cleared his throat a little before speaking. 

“So you’re 24 then?” he asked you barely above a whisper, if the music wasn’t so quiet you wouldn’t have heard him. A sheepish smile adorned your face, a light blush working up your neck to your cheeks. 

“Is that an issue?” You asked him quietly, your confidence slowly diminishing. 

“I’m just slightly older than you, honey that's all.” His mustache twitched as a comforting smile formed. 

“That’s alright Roo, guys my age don't know how to treat me. They don’t know how to touch me. They don't know how to love me good.” You whispered into his ear, nipping it slightly as you pulled away. You don’t know if he shuddered at the nickname, your words or your actions but you smiled at him all the same. Your eyelashes fluttered a few times as you stared into his eyes. 

Guys my age don't know how to keep me

Don't know how to keep me

Don't know how to keep me

Guys my age don't know how to touch me

Don't know how to love me good

“Would you mind walking me home? I don’t live too far but I'm awfully afraid of wandering around by myself.” A lustful look worked its way into his eyes as you slightly adjusted yourself in his lap. You could feel the hardness of his cock straining against his jeans as you moved. You already knew if you slipped your hand between your legs you’d find a wet patch. 

“Do you have a shift to finish honey?” He asked you breathlessly. 

“I don’t think they’ll mind you keeping me from them for a night.” Though really he’d been keeping you all night anyways. Your eyes nor your thoughts had wandered from the man underneath you since you sat down. You’d never been so inraptured by a guy before. There was just something about Rooster that had your mind fuzzy. It was your turn to shudder this time as his fingers on your back slowly dragged down your spine. 

All he ever wanted was to go down

What we supposed to do with all his friends around? Yeah

Smoking weed, he'd never wanna leave the house

Got an empty cushion on that sofa now

Told him, "Good luck with the next one."

Maybe she'll be just as immature

Gotta thank him, he's the reason

That I'll find out what I'm looking for

Rooster moved you so you were standing up between his legs. He turned to the table and told his friends that he was gonna head out and he’d find his own way back home. After grabbing your coat you swapped out your heels for a pair of vans. You told lilac you were heading out. Then found yourself walking hand in hand down the street with rooster towards your apartment. Your thoughts briefly flashed to your ex. 

He’d never been interested in spending time at your place or with your friends. It was rare that you guys were intimate with each other. His friends made it hard for anything to happen. He’d always wanted to spend time getting high with them while watching trashy tv shows. It was a relief for you to finally get off of that sofa. 

You’d wished him luck when you broke things off. The only way he’d be happy was with someone as childish as he was. At the moment you thought about sending him a thank you note. If he hadn’t been so immature you’d never have found what you were looking for. Not a boy like your ex but a man like rooster. 

Guys my age don't know how to treat me

Don't know how to treat me

Don't know how to treat me

Guys my age don't know how to touch me

Don't know how to love me good

Your mind cleared up from your thoughts as rooster tucked you into his side. You hadn’t noticed the group of guys standing near one of the bars until then. He glared at the guys over your head as you walked by. They were letting out low whistles and catcalls. Rooster moved his hand down to the small of your back. You followed the silent direction quickly, walking a little faster trying not to trip. 

The feeling of his hand on your back thumb stroking lightly like it did in the club had warmth blooming between your legs. You had decided to keep on the lingerie set since you were heading straight home and could change there. Unless the night went where you hoped it was. The thought of the aviator at your side having his hands all over you had your head slightly spinning. Luckily your apartment building came into sight as your legs wobbled a little. 

Guys my age don't know how to keep me

Don't know how to keep me

Don't know how to keep me

Guys my age don't know how to touch me

Don't know how to love me good

He let you lead him inside as he held the door of the apartment building open. You grabbed his hand as you passed him, dragging him along behind you. He followed you with a grin on his face and lust in his eyes. His thumb smoothed over the back of your hand as you neared your door. Your other hand dipped into your pocket and fished for your keys. You paused before inserting the key into the lock. You turned to him suddenly. 

“You’re not allergic to cats are you?” you asked him curiously. 

“I am not honey, I love cats actually.” He gave you a beaming smile. You nodded your head and unlocked your door. You dropped your keys into the bowl next to your front door before toeing your shoes off. “Would you like a glass of water or anything?” You asked him as you shrugged your jacket off hanging it on the rack by the front door. He shook his head as he toed his shoes off next to yours. His eyes found their way back up to your face. You moved to him then in a few quick steps until you were almost nose to chest. 

“Kiss me?” you asked him in a hushed tone. The only answer he gave you was his lips crashing against yours. 

So I'm never going back

No, I'm never going back

His mustache tickled your face as he kissed you slowly. One of his hands came up to cup your face as one of yours came up to his chest. As the kiss deepened you took to working his shirt off his body. The hawaiian shirt fell to the floor at your feet before you were pulling back to work your hands under his t-shirt. He moved a hand behind his head before pulling the shirt off and throwing it somewhere in the apartment. You moaned as his lips came back to yours. 

You fumbled with the button of his jeans trying to get them off as well. He stilled your hands once you got the button undone. Pulling back you cocked your head to the side. He must of seen the question in your eyes because he was cupping your face in his hands. “How about you show me to your bed honey.” he asked you. You nodded enthusiastically before turning and walking towards your bedroom swaying your hips much like you did in the club. 

He followed you quickly, his hands reaching for your waist as you entered your room turning on the lights. He moved your hair off your neck to make room for his lips. He worked from below your ear down to your shoulder. Once he reached the strap of your bra he slipped it off your shoulder. Then he was moving his fingers up your back to the clip of your bra. 

“This okay honey?” he rasped out. 

“More than okay Roos.” You answered him. He made quick work of removing your bra letting it fall to the floor. He moved his hands down your chest which had your back slamming into him as the breath was taken from your lungs. His fingers worked your nipple until they were pebbled between them. He groaned as you ground your ass into the front of his jeans. 

“I know honey we’ll get there. Just gotta be patient. Can you do that for me?” You moaned out his name at his words furiously nodding your head. “I’m gonna take good care of you honey.” he said as one of his hands moved into your underwear. A finger dipping between your folds. Your legs gave out at the feeling of one of his rough fingers swirling around your clit. He held you up with an arm wrapped around your middle. There was no going back now. He already had you putty in his hands.

Guys my age don't know how to treat me

Don't know how to please me

Don't know how to read me

Guys my age don't know how to touch me

Don't know how to love me good

“You can tell me to stop anytime honey. Just gotta say so.” he said as his finger continued to work your clit he moved one down to your entrance. He slipped the finger inside you causing you to clench your thighs together. He groaned at how tight you felt around his finger. He slowly curled the finger inside you working you open to fit another one of his long digits inside you. Once he deemed you ready he slipped one more in. 

You let out a whimper as he started sucking marks into your neck. He worked at a gentle pace as he sucked the mark then dragged his tongue over the spot soothing it instantly. Your eyes rolled back as he slipped a third finger into your cunt. “You’re doing so good for me.” he whispered into your ear as he worked his fingers into you at a quicker pace. Finding that spot inside you that had your climax quickly approaching. 

“I-i-i’m so cl-close.” You stuttered out your head lullying to the side. He moved the hand up that was wrapped around your middle and rolled your nipple between his fingers again. That was your undoing; you let out a whimper that was utterly pathetic but you had no mind to care as your climax slammed through you. 

Once your mind cleared up slightly he pulled his fingers from your underwear. You watched through lidded eyes as he slipped his fingers between his lips. He let out a choked groan at the sweetness that met his tongue. “I think I know why you’re called honeysuckle now. You’re as sweet as everyone I’ve tried.” 

Guys my age don't know how to tease me

Don't know how to leave me

Don't know how to need me

Guys my age don't know how to touch me

Don't know how to love me good

He dipped down bumping the back of your knees softly causing you to fall into his arms. He carried you bridal style over to your bed. Laying you down he stood up working to take his pants off. He was left in just his underwear as he moved onto the bed bracing his arms on either side of your head holding himself up. You looked up at him through lust hazed eyes giving him a lazy smile. Your hand worked it’s way up into his hair pulling his lips down to yours. One of your hands moved down to his boxers slipping underneath to grab at his cock. 

He moaned as you gripped him, your thumb running along the tip spreading the precum that had leaked out. You used the opportunity to slip your tongue inside his mouth, tasting some of yourself on him. You wrapped your hand around him slowly working up and down. Your thumb occasionally grazing his tip. 

“I won’t last much longer if you keep that up honey.” he told you, pulling back slightly to rest his head against yours. 

“I want you inside me.” Is all you managed in response, hips grinding up to meet his. He nodded his head, his mustache tickling your forehead in the process. He moved down your body as your hand slipped from his underwear. His fingers moved into the sides of yours. You lifted your hips allowing him to slip them off your legs. Once he got to your feet he pulled them all the way off then worked his own down his legs. You gulped as you took him in. He was bigger than any other guy you'd been with and you worried for a second how he would fit. 

He seemed to notice your worry as he stalked back up the bed to hover over you again. One of his hands resting between your legs again. He worked his fingers back between your folds but this time he ghosted over your clit. You tried to close your legs desperate for some relief but he stopped you moving one of his legs between yours. He brought it up further until it was resting where you wanted him at most. You ground down along his thigh, your slick coating his skin.  

He let you do as you please for a moment, loving the way you whimpered and shuddered under him. Shaking slightly as another orgasm slowly worked your way. He ducked down so his face was at your chest and took one of your nipples between his lips. Sucking lightly at the bud his tongue swirling around it. Just like that your second orgasm came crashing through you like a tidal wave. Your moan getting stuck in your throat. 

“Good girl honey. Think you can give me another one?” he asked as he moved to line himself up with your entrance. 

“Please, please, please.” You begged him, hands scratching at his back, legs coming to wrap around him pulling him closer to you. 

“Take a deep breath for me.” He whispered to you, so you followed his instruction. Then he was fully sheathed inside you causing the both of you to moan loudly. Your head rolling to the side as his fell to your neck breathing you in. 

“You can move.” you told him after a moment of enjoying the stretch he gave you. He nodded against you. He moved his hips back before slowly moving back in. His mouth fell open, his tongue coming to lick a stripe up your neck before he was connecting your lips to his. One of his hands intertwined with yours on the mattress next to your head. His other hand was holding your hip to keep him stable. Your hand that wasn’t in his was tangled in his hair. 

“Faster.” you whispered out into the calm of your room. He obliged the request pulling out before slapping his hips back into yours. He set a faster pace, the both of you moaning and whimpering. His breath fanned along your neck as he shuddered above you. You could tell he was close with the way his hips started to stutter. Much to your surprise he moved a finger between your bodies and started to circle your clit. The pace of his finger matching the pace of his thrusts. 

You let out a loud whine as you clenched around him, your third orgasm wrecking its way through your body. He moaned and lightly bit down on you where your neck and shoulder met. His hips jerked erratically before he was spilling into you. He collapsed onto you but somehow kept his full body weight from crushing you. You both lay there your fingers scratching at his scalp as you both calmed down. 

So I'm never going back

Don't know, don't know, don't know

No, I'm never going back

Don't know how to touch me

Don't know how to love me good

So I'm never going back

No, I'm never going back

“Where’s your bathroom at?” He groaned as he slipped out of you. You lazily pointed to the door attached to your room. You sat staring at your ceiling thoughts racing through your head as he slipped from the bed. There was no way you could ever be with another guy after him. 

You were starting to drift off as you felt a hand on your leg. Blinking open your eyes you saw him grinning at you and noticed he had slipped his boxers back on. You also noticed he had a washcloth in his large hands and slowly whined as he worked it between your legs slowly and gently cleaning up your aching cunt. 

“There ya go honey.” he said as he withdrew his hand. He stood back up and walked over to your hamper, throwing the rag away. He then held a bottle of water out to you that you hadn’t even seen him get. Slowly you sat up leaning against the pillows on your headboard taking the water from him. “We’ll get you to the bathroom when you’re ready.” he said softly, watching you drink the water. 

“I’m ready now.” you said as you finished the water. He helped you stand up which you were thankful for as your legs wobbled beneath you. He walked you to the bathroom letting you have some privacy as you went to the bathroom and washed your hands. When you made your way back out of the bathroom he had his shirt laid out on the bed and your cat was laying at his feet. You put his shirt on silently. 

“Are you gonna stay the night?” you asked him hesitantly. Not sure if he was planning to stay for a little while longer before leaving or if he was in fact going to stay the night.

“I was hoping to if that's okay with you?” He said with a dopey grin. Sliding to the other side of the room you flipped off the lights. Then you made your way back to your bed slipping in beside him. He reached out for you in the darkness of the room until he found your hand. He gently pulled you to him. You laid there for a moment, your head laying on his chest. His hand was moving through your hair slowly soothing you into slumber.

Before you could drift off he spoke up. “Are you by any chance on the pill?” he asked to which you giggled. 

“I have the IUD.” You answered him and he let out a relieved sigh. 

“My names Bradley by the way.” you once again giggled and told him your name. 

“Goodnight Bradley.” You whispered to him. 

“Goodnight honey.” He replied, mustache tickling your forehead as he gave it a gentle kiss. Your last thought before you slipped into sleep was that there was no way you were going back to guys your age.

A/N: This is my first time ever writing Rooster so forgive me if this was terrible. Please be careful about bringing home strangers. Always have the condom talk before sex. Aftercare is a must and going to the bathroom is the safest thing you can do to avoid any infections!

Tags(open): @wkndwlff and @sylviebell

[apeekintothepantry]

Happy Pokémon Day! February 27th is the anniversary of the first two Pokémon games’ release in Japan, and it’s a minor holiday in my house, as a fun excuse to make Pokémon inspired food, watch some Pokémon shows or movies (we’re going to watch Netflix’s new Pokémon Concierge this year!), and get excited about upcoming games and releases. This year, we’re making a Pokémon Sword and Shield inspired burger-steak curry and I’m making a dessert from the Pokémon Cookbook by Victoria Rosenthal. It’s one of my favorite fandom cookbooks – all the recipes are vegetarian or vegan, to get around the awkward question of where does the meat in the Pokémon universe come from?

But that’s not all we’re making! Ever since Nicki and Isabel were released, I’ve been dying to do a post about them and Pokémon’s infamous “Jelly Filled Doughnuts”, better – and more accurately! – known as onigiri.

Pokémon was released in the United States in 1998 via two Gameboy games: Pokémon Red and Pokémon Blue. The games quickly caught on to be one of the biggest pop culture phenomenon of the late 90’s and early 00’s, and as a kid at the heart of this explosion, I can’t overstate how much of a big deal it was. One of the great things about Pokémon – and probably why it has such lasting, widespread appeal – is that there are so many ways to interact with the franchise, and the marketing doesn’t skew hugely towards one gender or the other. Cool, tough Pokémon like Charizard got pretty similar billing to cute, pink Pokémon like Jigglypuff, and there were so many options for potential favorites that it was easy for any kid to find some creature to attach themselves to.

One of my petty complaints with Nicki and Isabel’s collection and books is the almost complete lack of mention of Pokémon and other anime that was really popular among kids in 1999. I know AG probably didn’t want to shell out for licensing deals with Nintendo or The Pokémon Company, but their stories just don’t feel accurate without discussing their prized binder of Pokémon cards or begging their parents to take them to see the Pokémon movie in theaters. Maybe the authors were just a little too old to get caught up in Pokémania?

I’ve also always thought its close overlap with the Beanie Babies crazy helped get millennial children like me very into the “gotta catch ‘em all” aspect of the franchise. Is this why I’m such a crazy toy collector as an adult? Who knows.

The Pokémon anime was one of the main ways kids like me got hooked on the franchise, because not everyone was allowed to have a Gameboy of their own (me), and not everyone liked video games, but even if you didn’t like video games, the cartoon might appeal to you. Although it was far from the first Japanese cartoon to air on US television, Pokémon was one of if not the first truly mainstream favorites of the 1990’s. 4Kids, the company in charge of dubbing the show into English, decided that American kids wouldn’t understand or be open to certain aspects of the show that reflected its Japanese roots, and so made a lot of strange choices in rewriting the script. One of the most notorious was deciding Brock’s rice balls were actually jelly filled doughnuts:

Onigiri – also known as omusubi or nigirimeshi – are balls of rice with a variety of fillings inside. They’re often compared to sandwiches, as an easy, quick, cheap meal or snack that combines carbs and other ingredients. While the concept of taking a rice ball and stuffing it full of other tasty treats goes way back to ancient Japan, the triangle shape became popular in the 1980’s thanks to a new machine that automated the filling process. Further developments over the last 40 years have created unique ways to prepackage onigiri without making the nori wrapping sticky. The ones we made were an attempt at recreating the “Hawaiian” (spam and pineapple) rice balls from our favorite food hall back in DC. One of my favorite pandemic indulgences was getting take out from the food hall, which often included a sampler of some of my favorite onigiri, and I haven’t been able to find anything close to similar where we are now. One of the many reasons I’m excited to move!

Even as a kid, I wasn’t convinced the food in the anime was fried dough with fruit jelly inside, because they sure look like rice. I also think 4Kids didn’t anticipate that Pokémon’s widespread popularity would inspire many of its fans – including me – to become absolutely obsessed with Japanese food and culture. I would’ve been more excited if they’d just been straight with me and shown more Japanese food on the show, and then probably begged my parents to make it or take me to a restaurant that made it. While I can’t confidently cite numbers of how many other people were first exposed to Japanese culture and food through Pokémon and franchises like it, I do think it’s a bit of a missed opportunity to highlight how things like this exposed kids like Nicki and Isabel to parts of a culture outside their own!

[writemekpop]

Home Alone | Kim Jongin (Kai)

Summary: Your husband Kai accuses you of not trusting him with your baby daughter.  

Genre: New parents AU, domestic, angsty, house hubby Kai

Word Count: 0.8k

You were trying to balance the dangerous job of straightening your hair while buttoning up a onesie for your one-year-old. The hot blades wavered ever closer to the soft blue cotton.

That was when you got the call. You threw down the phone. “My mother’s sick! She can’t take Jasmine!”

Your husband Kai sprang up. He had been kneeling on the floor, building a house of cards in the pristine emptiness of the living room you had just cleaned. The house collapsed with a sigh.

“I’ve got to leave,” you groaned, lifting your baby daughter Jasmine into your arms. “Hey Jazzy, have you ever been to a board meeting before?”

The baby giggled.

Kai stepped forward, running his hands through his disheveled hair. “Hey, I can take her!” He frowned. “It’s not like I’ve never looked after Jazz.” He paused, his face falling blank. “Actually… you have never asked me to look after Jazz. How come?”  

Your heart rate was increasing just hearing his words. Everything came into sharp focus. Kai’s odd combination of Hawaiian shorts, a silk shirt and flip-flops. The cigarette butts still smouldering in the ashtray on the balcony he thought you didn’t know about.

The sound of your phone alarm, titled, LEAVE THE HOUSE BITCH, began to buzz like an angry wasp in your ear.  

“Um, yes, sweetie, of course I want you to look after Jasmine, it’s just-“ you scrambled for a lie. “You’re… too… busy! I don’t want to get the way of your fancy actor work!”

He frowned. “But baby, you know shooting hasn’t started yet.”  

You needed a better excuse. “But your lines. You have to learn them. I would rather than die than keep you away from your lines.”

You could almost hear the drone of the station announcer: “Last call for the 8:05 train. Last call…”  

Kai grinned in disbelief. “You’re saying I can’t look after Jazz… because I have to read a script?” He frowned. “Do you not trust me to look after our daughter?”

“Oh, Kai.” You squeezed your temples. “I don’t have time for this. Fine You want the truth?. No, I don’t trust you with my child.”

“Our child.” Kai scoffed. “And you can’t say that! How could you?”

You gestured to the pigsty that was the apartment. “You’re irresponsible. You’re untidy. You’re out partying every night-“

You were about to say more, but you stopped yourself. Some things were too true to say. Everybody deserved a few lies to cling onto.

Kai sighed, and you hated how well he knew you. “Go on. Say what you’re thinking.”  

You sighed. “Oh… and acting is not a real job!”

Kai bit his lip, pain flashing over his handsome features. “So, what was your big plan? Keep her from me for the next eighteen years?  

You tried to deny it, but fell silent when you saw the pain in his eyes. “N-not eighteen. Maybe… ten.”

And suddenly, you felt like an awful person. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You- you’re a great father, you just… don’t have the skills yet to look after her. The knowledge.”

Kai sighed. His voice was very quiet. “I know that she naps between eleven and one. I know that Fuzzy is her favourite toy. I know that she can’t sleep on her tummy, or drink cow’s milk, or have too many baths.”

“How did you…” you started. “I read those parenting books that you aways leave lying around,” Kai said, crossing his arms.

You stepped towards him, smoothing your hands over his face. “I had no idea…”

You pressed your lips to his, and in the shape of his firm body, his scent, you almost lost yourself.

Kai gently pulled away, crooning, “Go. As much as I’d like you to stay, your genius is needed at a board meeting. I’ve got her.”

You smiled, picking up your bags. “Okay. But I am FaceTiming you in an hour. Every hour, actually.”

Kai grinned, that lopsided grin that made you giddy when you were still nineteen and an extra on some unknown TV show. You may have given up on acting, but you never gave up on the boy of your dreams.

You left a little piece of your heart with Kai and Jasmine, then shrugged on your blazer and stepped out into the brightening morning light.  

—

MAIN MASTERLIST

Let us know what you thought in the comments or on anon! 💋

[suugrpop]

ONLY IF YOU WANT TO | chapter one

Pairing: Bradley 'rooster' Bradshaw x female reader

Summary: When you ask your childhood friend to be your fake boyfriend for a week, his feelings show and you're a complete mess.

Author's note: This one's a little bit longer but I hope you enjoy. Sorry for not posting, finals are making me crazy. Send help.

~

"Bradley! I need you right now! " You screamed at the top of your lungs. He was sitting in the sofa watching a football match with Hangman.

"What is it now, Y/N."

"It's in private. Please." You say, giving Hangman a forgiving look because you destroyed their "besties night". Bradley gets up and you take him to your room to talk. You and Bradley are sitting on your bed.

"Promise me you're not gonna get angry".

He has a drunk look on his face, probably because he had too many beers already

."My auntie says he wants to meet my boyfriend". Bradley gives you a confused look.

"I told her I had one because if not I'm going to marry a wooer she picked for me."

"But, you're single, aren't you?". He asks, taking another sip to of beer.

"Not anymore. Because you're gonna be my fake boyfriend". You said, trying to sound optimistic. His head falls into his hands. Maybe this was a bad idea.

"So, what do you think?." Fuck. You fucked up. And good.

"This isn't a great idea, you know? Lying to your aunt and everything." Bradley says.

" We can make a deal. Remember that blonde girl that you talked to the other night at the Hard Deck? I think she likes you. I can get you a date with her if you go with me to to meet my auntie." You replied.

"Well, if you put it like that... Then it's a promise."

"Really?" You screamed of happiness. Just thinking about not wanting to marry that jerk made you happy. You hugged him so hard he needed to pat your back asking for air.

The next few days, you've been trying to find any information about the girl at the Hard Deck. You only found that her name was Sarah, and she was into pilots. She was pretty, you didn't denied it. Long, blonde hair (the type of the hair you'd whish you have, but you were a pilot, and your job didn't allow you to have long hair) and blue eyes. You could stare at her all day, but you don't want to see like a stalker, so your eyes go back to your drink.

You notice how some footsteps approach to you, and from the corner of your eye, it's her. You take a deep breath and relax your muscles.

"Do I know you. You've been staring at me all night". How couldn't you? She was everything you wanted to be.

"Uhm.. it's nothing". You tried to say without sounding nervous.

"You know who Rooster Is, right?" She gave a surprising look. You got her.

"Of course I know him. We met here. In fact I'm waiting for him for a second date." He didn't told you he already had a second date with her. Then, why are you here? You promise him you'll get him a date with her, but it seems he doesn't needs you. He really doesn't have to try, just look at him. He's a really hot guy, and a pilot.

"That's amazing! I know you're going to have fun with him. I don't want to ruin your date, so I'll get going. Goodnight."

You tried to sound excited, finally happy to see Bradley with someone he loves. He only had one night stands and causally dates, but maybe this one's for real. You picked up your things and say goodbye to Penny.

When you arrive home, you take s shower and go to bed. Your mind's still thinking about Bradley. Why didn't he told you anything about that date? Probably because he's busy.

A week has passedd, and the day finally came. Your hairs in a ponytail and you're wearing a red dress with low high heels and little to no makeup. Simple, but just to play it safe. You're waiting outside your house to meet Bradley.

He finally arrives and you get into his bronco. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt with denim shorts. You don't know why, but you love seeing him like this. Casual, wearing some else than the pilot tracksuit.

"Hey, you look beautiful." He says. "Thank you. You're not bad at all."

"So, how is this going to go. " He stars the car to your aunties house. "Simple, you just have to pretend that you're my boyfriend. But we need to make it seem that we like each other. There's need to be a connection between us." You tried to not be nervous. Why everytime you're with him, he makes you feel this way?

"Can I kiss you?" Your eyes got bigger. Wait? What? "Yeah, you can" you're stupid. You never kissed anyone before.

The ride's not so long so you make it there fast. You knock the door to your auntie's house and wait for her come and open the door. Before she does, Bradley gives a reassuring look. You just nod and smile.

"I knew you'd come" your auntie says and give a warm hug. Then, her eyes reach to Bradley, who smiles and takes her hand. "You're dating Bradley!?" She looks surprised. How wouldn't she? You never had a boyfriend before, and you don't go out much.

She lets you inside and you take a seat to have dinner. She keeps asking questions to Bradley, about how he date you even though you're an antisocial freak and germs give you the ick.

"It just happened, you know. I knew I wanted to spent the rest of my life with her". You just smile. Does he always lies this good, or is he telling the truth?

"Do you remember the wooer I picked up for you? You almost forgot. Spending time with Bradley made you dizzy, feeling things that you can't explain.

"Uhh... Yes, I do. Is something wrong with him? Your nerves get the best of you and your leg starts shaking. Bradley notices and his hand touches your knee, putting the tiniest bit of pressure. His hand is warm and relax.

"Nothing. I need to call him to tell him that I don't need him anymore. Bradley looks so in love with you". Fuck. Fuck. What are you going to do now? At least you won't have to see his face any more. He did horrendous things to do just for you to like him.

"Yeah, I think Y/N doesn't need him anymore, right baby? You look at him. Gosh, he's so handsome. His tan, sunkissed skin and his beard that matches his hair color. You could stare at him all day.

"Well, I have someone in my life so". You replied. His hand is still on your knee, and you'd whish he never took it from there. It feels nice.

The rest of the night went well, until your auntie opened her mouth and asked you if you had any plans on getting married.

"We're still thinking about it, don't worry." Your auntie has always been interested in your romantic life. She wanted you marry someone who you're happy with, and have kids. Unfortunately, you were scared. How are you going to tell Bradley about your feelings? Does he feel the same way?. Tonight made you realize that you have feelings for him, but you're scared.

Bradley just looks at you, maybe waiting for all of this to be over and go home. Both of you didn't have to work tomorrow, but it was a long day anyway. You say goodbye to your auntie and walk to Bradley's bronco.

"Are we going to fake the weeding too? He asks. He looks pissed. "Look, if you don't want to do this anymore just tell me, okay?" You get on his car, waiting for an answer.

"I can't do this anymore" he says.

"Do what, Bradley?

" I love you"

[jonsimstwitchyeyeballs]

The Magnus Archives Cast Designs - Season 1 Part 1

Hello Magnus Archives crowd, I've decided to share my designs for the characters in multiple parts (if I manage to draw them all lol) so of course I'm starting off with Season 1! I will also add some commentary on why I made certain design choices.

That being said, let's start of with:

I've posted this guy many times before and I feel S1 Jon is incredibly straightforward in terms of design. He's very serious and has this sort of dark academia vibe (I think?). Also I know he doesn't smoke often but come on.

Next up:

Martin! I definitely think he's a sweater person! And a fan of lighter colors! Also I feel like the fandom has already decided how him and Jon physically look like so I'm just kind of following that idea, but with my own style I guess?

And now:

Unpopular opinion: I don't think Tim is a Hawaiian shirt guy, BUT I do think he's a 90s retro shirt guy and I live and die by this idea. Other than that, I tried to make him hot but I can't draw hot people.

Who could forget the unforgettable:

I wanted to go for that librarian/academia look. Like Jon, she's a sweater vest and shirt person, every serious skeptic with glasses has to have this combo!

Bonus because I said so:

Gertrude has been described as an old woman with gray hair and a bun so there's not that much one can do, but I wanted to draw her very austere and with dark, oily colors. Every Archivist comes with a chain on the glasses.

Left this for the end:

I want him to look as bastard-y as possible. I've noticed a lot of people draw him with a green color scheme, but I kind of think green is Jon's color so for Elias I chose gold (and blue). Evil monocle is a must.

That's all for now! Part 2 will have some other characters from S1 but mostly statement givers that are more important than most...

[themusingsofmitsuki]

“It’s beautiful.” You were awed at the white sand beach of Redang Island’s Long Beach, but even more impressed with how the colors of the sky and sea mixed into a beautiful gradient of blues.

 

“Definitely beautiful.” There’s no denying that, but Kento had his eyes on you—the view was merely complementary. The image of you in a sundress, a wide brimmed hat, with glittering eyes and a beaming smile made it hard for him not to whisk you away somewhere private. Instead, he chose to wrap his strong arms around your waist and bury his face in the crook of your neck.

 

“Thank you for coming here with me, love. Even if this was all hastily planned."

In reality, you were thankful that he was taking a break at all. Something has shifted in the jujutsu world, and even you, a teacher who floats between Tokyo Jujutsu High and Kyoto Jujutsu High, have observed the building tension and unease among the students and teachers. Sorcerers were dying, curses have become increasingly aggressive, and Kento has been working overtime more frequently. You’ve always known the risk of loving a man whose life is in constant danger, but his last brush with Mahito made you understand the weight of your love for him.

 

“I’ll go where you go,” you turned to him, “and you’ll go where I go.” You flashed a cheeky grin at him, and without warning, you took his hand in yours and rushed into the cool and crisp waters. It didn’t matter that he was still in his silly Hawaiian shirt or if your sundress would be drenched—you both haven’t been this free since you and Kento both graduated high school.

 

You still remember Shoko and Utahime devising a plan to make both you and Kento confess to your little crushes for each other. Shoko thinks you’re a couple of hopeless idiots, and Utahime just found it painful to watch both of you mindlessly pine for each other and still have doubts about what the other felt.

 

Maybe Shoko’s thoughts still rang true; you both are hopeless idiots, even at this moment. Kento has something to say, but he’s been holding back for your sake. Maybe it can wait—after dinner, after you’ve visited the city of Kuala Lumpur, when you go back to your shared apartment in Tokyo—perhaps when he retires.

 

“What’s gotten you so serious, handsome? "You peck his cheek and giggle a bit, and he snaps out of his thoughts. “Just a little hungry,” he said, briefly glancing down at your lips, “it’s been a long flight and I’m starving.” Your cheeks burned at the comment, and you’ve lost all your mischief. “I heard there’s a floating restaurant not too far from here." Kento found it adorable at how flustered you’ve become. “So let’s ditch the beach and have an early dinner. You wouldn’t want to miss the sunset now, would you? I heard Redang has amazing sunsets.” He’ll let you go for now, but not tonight.

 

The floating restaurant on the beach isn’t a common experience, but the food was the best part of your experience. That, and seeing Kento finally eat heartily. The convenience of eating sandwiches could only do so much for his health, which is why you’ve taken to cooking his lunches. Satoru once joked that you’re both “so married" after seeing bunny-shaped rice balls in your boyfriend’s bento.

 

You really wish you were, but that’ll have to wait. For now, you’re satisfied with cocktails by the ocean and seafood grills with Kento on an island far, far away from Tokyo.

 

By the time you both finished dinner, you'd drank one too many cocktails. Shoko was right. You were idiots, and you both still are.

 

The sun was setting, and Kento had a shawl wrapped around you as you sobered up with him by the shore. “Someone had an appetite for strawberry daiquiris."

 

You hiccuped, “I know you can fight.” You rested your head against his firm shoulder. The subtle waves and the mix of reds and blues could bring anybody peace, but you’re probably the luckiest person on earth to have the love of your life to experience it with you.

 

“Marry me.” The words escaped your lips, and Kento nearly choked on his beer. Maybe he had too much to drink, too. “Love, what?”

 

“I said,” you said, looking him in the eyes. “Marry me.” It was a command, but there was a painful twang about the way you said it—it came off as a firm, yet desperate plea.

 

He fondly called your name, “You have a long life ahead of you. A future free from curses and all the troubles of sorcerers.” He smiled fondly at you, but there was a somber look in his eyes. Kento also wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, but it’s taking everything in him to pull the ring you’ve been eyeing out of his pocket and make you his. He was going to make it happen—a proposal by the beach on one knee during a candlelit dinner. But he’s been holding back for your sake.

 

“I’m a sorcerer too, you know,” you pouted, and while that was true, your technique wasn’t one suited for specifically fighting.

“Besides, we can spend the rest of our lives together, even if it’s as short as the sunset.” You knew he wouldn’t agree, but part of you felt like he was going to slip through your fingers if you didn’t ask him now.

“I don’t want you to wait for somebody who might never return home. That’s not right,” he says, tucking some of your hair behind your ear. “One day, you’ll find a man who will come home to you without fail because he’s not fighting curses. He’ll learn how you like your coffee in the morning and tuck your kids to sleep at night. I’m just being selfish with you for now.”

“Not selfish enough to spend the rest of your life with me.” You averted your gaze. Both of your hands managed to find their way to his hand against your cheek, and you held his hand between your palms.

“If you’re saying no because you can’t see a future with me, I can accept it.” A few of your tears fell. “But if you don’t want to be with me for my sake, I know I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting everything we could’ve been.”

The sound of the gentle waves rippled against the shore, and he said nothing. Instead, he reaches into his breast pocket to fish for something.

It was a ring—the same one you’ve been looking at for months.

“I can’t promise you a lot,” it was his turn to hold your hand. “I won’t be able to quell your worries or come home to you on time," he said as he slid the band onto your ring finger, “and one day, I might never come home to you at all."

He looked into your eyes, and you were still too stunned to speak. You must be dreaming; the world is too cruel for this to be what you think it is.

“But I’ll do everything in my power to come home to you every night for the rest of our lives. We might not go on vacations like this every year, but I’ll be sure to make every anniversary, birthday, and festival we spend together full of fireworks and laughter.”

 

“Most importantly..." He paused, and your breath hitched. “I promise to get your cup of coffee right every morning. Please let me be greedy with you just this once and be mine. ”

“I’ve always been yours, silly.” He gently grabbed your chin and savored your lips. You reciprocated with your lips and tongue—it was love, hunger, and longing all at once. You were left breathless when he pulled away. “You’re no fair, I asked first.” He chuckled. “It’s a shame you beat me to it."

He leaner closer to your ear, “Maybe I shouldn’t be making you wait for things you’re very eager to have.” You weren’t escaping this time.

[Author’s Note: I am revising history for fellow Nanami stans and simps. This one is for us.]

[britt-kageryuu]

Donnie and Leo are on the beach set again, with some drinks, and snacks. They're dressed in their color coded board shorts, Hawaiian Shirts, and crocs.

Donnie wielding a purple folding fan dramatically greetsthw audience, "Greetings Our Lovely Balemates! Today, even if we may not seem qualified to do so, we will be looking over pictures from various events and judge the fashion choices of the people."

"I'm mainly here to judge if they actually pulled it off. Because according to my twin here, I have the fashion taste of a '80's fashion disaster'. Which is understandable my one good fashion choice was this:" Leo presses a button, and his outfit switches to his bomber jacket outfit from the clothes don't make the turtle. "Though I did get some insight from Dee, so I'm just here to see the pretty people in possibly stupid fashion choices." He changes back to his previous outfit.

"Okay, the first set of photos are from some beauty pageants. These were set to the theme of 'Historic Beauty', so outfits fashioned around classic fashion, or older vintages." Donnie says as he repositioned them on the screen, and brought up the screen where the audience will see the photos, and the twins scores for them.

"Alright let's get started." Leo says then pauses at the first picture, "Is that lady wearing a vetro Jupiter Jim themed poodle skirt, with a Lou Jitsu themed Shirt! That doesn't work what so ever!! And at a major event!!"

Donnie nodded, "Yes, your eyes do not deceive you. And I agree, she did not do a good job with her choice." They both gave the picture a bad score. "Now let's continue to the next picture before we nit pic the hell out this girls poor decision."

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

"So this was Mr. New York huh, didn't know there were Male Beauty Pageants." Leo says while looking at the picture, "Do you think we could win one of these Dee?"

"Oh, I'm sure we could, but it would probably be unfair to the other contestants. Now for his outfit. Any thoughts Blue?" Donnie asks.

"I want to know how he was made Mr. New York, sure he looks nice, but his idea of fitting the theme, they told him the theme right?" Leo asked, "You said these were 'Iconic to the State', then why does he look like he was styled for Mr. Texas? And wow I just noticed how terrible he actually tooks."

"You're guess is as good as mine, dear Blue." Donnie answers, "So score. I give it a 3.5. Could be worse."

"Same."

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

"You know when I was gathering these pictures, I never realized that so many runway and Met Gala styles were so... how to put this politely? Weird? Strange?" Donnie pauses while snapping his fingers, trying to think of the right words. They were looking at a group of photos that were apparently considered the worst outfits from a few events.

Donnie lets out a confused noise, "You've been staring at this picture in silence, and you only want his outfit?" Leo just nods his head. "Okay then, let's give our scores and move on. We have a good number of pictures left, and only so much time left for this."

"A waste of fabric? Like how did they expect to do anything but stand there in thoss clothes?" Leo says, pointing to an outfit that looked like a glorified mummy costume studded in gems with a long train of fabric spiraling around the person on the floor. "Didn't you look into tons of fashion events for your clothes plans?"

"Yes, though I can only guess that some of these were buried, or not as photographed as the others. Which is not fully surprising, they were probably overshadowed by the best of the best. Or somehow the fashion side of social media didn't pick these up, and question them." Donnie remarks while zooming in on the details of a few outfits. "I know these are supposed to be For the Art, but still."

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

Leo's sitting wide eyed at the picture on the screen.

"Blue, I asked you if you had any opinions?" Donnie says while looking towards Leo.

"I want his outfit." Leo says simply.

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

Both brothers have been staring at this picture of someone in an elaborate kimono style dress. Leo eventually broke the silence, "Are we both trying to figure out how that one piece is floating, or is it because this Guy is unfairly pretty?"

"Both, I've been studying the tricks Cosplayers have used for this kind of thing, and I can't tell how they did it. And yes they're very much to pretty." Donnie comments while moving the picture around or zooming in at parts.

"Wait, the model's profile says their a Guy! We're not try to mock them! It's not fair how fabulous he looks!" Leo shouts after some comments in chat popped up.

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

Donnie clicked to the last photo, and they both jolted because it was picture of Lou Jitsu in a thankfully very modest maid outfit.

"I didn't put that in there!! Truffle Mac and Cheese! At least it wasn't worse!" Donnie shouts while covering his face.

Leo turns to his twin, "Wait if you didn't choose the pictures where did you get them?" He askes.

Donnie peeks out, "I put out a request on the Softshell Discord Patreon Server, and the mods, after they checked the photos, sent me the file. I didn't want to be spoiled, okay!" They shout back, while they put in their scores, and Donnie quickly closed the flie.

"Well that wasn't too bad, even with the Maid Lou Jitsu jumpscare. What do you say Dee?" Leo says while taking a drink.

Donnie lets out a sigh, "Sigh, definitely could be worse. I'm almost afraid to see which pictures were vetoed from the file. Any let's finish this stream!"

They both try to say the outro at once, but were out of sync, "See you next time Balemates! Dee and Blue swimming off!"

The stream ended, but the clips for various reactions circulated around the fans, and started some more memes in the fandom.

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

Masterpost

This was originally going to be about a specific event, but I figured it would be better for them to be looking over a set of randomly source photos that came with Notes from the Discord.

[islandtarochips]

The Warriors Task Force

The WTF is an elite team that helps and protects the Pacific side of the world. They are the ones who are doing most of the rescue missions. Mostly about Trafficking. Knowing the numbers of how many drugs or innocent people have been kidnapped and being shipped off to somewhere.

Captain Kanoa Toa is the one who made this Task Force and is in charge. The reason why he called the “Warriors Task Force”, is not only because it’s the meaning of his last name. But to show the world that the Island Pacific is being protected by the bravest and the strongest soldiers around.

The WTF has mostly been recruited by many Polynesians. Samoan, Maori, Tongan, Fijian, Hawaiians- MANY. There are some Americans too.

Kanoa and his Task Force was also strictly under the direct order of General Alana Kalani. The most trusted and respected woman that Kanoa had known for a LONG time.

The WTF has FOUR main members that started this Task Force. Here are the people that is famously known for:

Captain Kanoa Toa (The Leader) First Sergeant Tiala “Shark” Toa (2nd-in-Command) Sergeant Nigel “Squirrel” Harrison (Sniping/VIP Protection) Sergeant Agnes “Blast” Falagi (Demolition Expert)

These are the four first members of the Warrior Task Force.

They even have a Combat Medic to join them in the field.

Aelan Kalani (Combat Medical Expert)

These Task Force are very known for rescuing hostages, stopping human and drug trafficking. Between the Pacific and Asia. From both land and seas. 

They will get these things done FAST since that’s how the Marines are, right? Get it done. Get it fast. For their patch. This will be very hard for me to explain of how it looks like. But I was thinking of their weapon called the "Nifo Oti". Meaning "Sharp Tooth" in Samoan. Also knows as the "Samoan Fire Knife". This is what it looks like:

THAT'S the weapon. So for the patch. I was thinking of having TWO of these and put it in a X form in the back and in the front will be the spear in the middle. The color will be red, blue and white. Representing for Kanoa, Tiala and Agnes's Island home. American Samoa.

That's all for now but I might come back here and update it sooner or later. So I hope you guys like this team!

[footprintsinthesxnd]

Chapter 5: You Will Always Have My Heart

Eugene Roe x Violet Elwood

Summary: Eugene didn’t know that love could hurt so much, until he met Violet and then all he could think about was her. As Violet’s condition worsens, Eugene grows to realise just how fragile love is. Warnings: mentions of hospitals, critically ill oc, heart break, grief, death

November 20th 1941

Eugene tapped his foot against the cool, tiled floor of the hospital waiting room, knocking along to Artie Shaw on the radio on the nurses station. Violet was in for a check up with the Cardiologist but she’d been gone a little while now and the longer she was away the more anxious Eugene became.

A few minutes later, Violet pushed open the large double doors and made her way down the corridor to greet him, pulling him in for a hug.

“What happened? What did the doctor say? What’s the…?”

“Eugene calm down,” Violet laughed, pulling back from his arms and cupping his cheek, “Everything’s fine, well as fine as things can be. I’m fine, Gene.” She reassured him, pressing her lips to his. He melted into the kiss, the thoughts rushing through his mind slowed as her lips moved on his own.

“But what…” kiss “did the…” kiss “Vi…” kiss. Eugene gave up trying to speak and instead kissed Violet back firmly, his hand coming to rest on her lower back.

“You talk too much, Gene,” she grinned, smoothing her fingers through his dark locks, playfully pulling at the strands and causing him to sigh at the contact.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Vi,” he mumbled, burying his head into her neck and holding her close.

“I’m afraid that I’ll be the one dying first, Gene,” she smiled sadly, holding him close to her.

The hustle and bustle of the hospital faded around them and nothing else mattered in that moment. All Eugene could concentrate on was the woman in his arms, the woman he loved so dearly.

Violet felt a small tear trailing down her cheek as Eugene held her. She hated lying to him but she knew how upset he’d be if she told him the truth. At least this way they could still enjoy their time together without having the time limit the doctor expected hanging over them. Violet tried to push the doctor's words from her mind as Eugene led her from the hospital and towards the bus stop. She hated being so reliant on other people but as simple daily tasks grew ever harder and even breathing was an effort she knew she didn’t have much choice. As they took their seat on the bus, the exertion of the morning caught up with her and she slipped into a dreamless sleep in Eugene’s arms.

December 8th 1941

Violet was sleeping peacefully in her hospital bed, the early morning light creeping through the blinds, illuminating her pale features. She looked tired, with dark, purple circles painted underneath her bright, blue eyes, her cheeks hollowed and her cheekbones protruding more than they used to. But she was still his beautiful girl, Eugene thought to himself as he pushed her blonde locks from her forehead.

The radio was buzzing dramatically in the corner and Eugene stood to move closer, turning up the volume as the president, Franklin D Roosevelt’s voice filled the room.

‘Yesterday, December 7, 1941 a date which will live in infamy the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.’

Eugene froze beside the radio, listening to the president addressing Congress. The speech continued and he took a seat beside the radio, turning up the volume and listening as the president's words resonated with him.

‘The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost.’

His words flowed out of the radio, sickening everyone in the hospital, no one walked past the door.

‘I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire’

Eugene took in a sharp breath, the US had declared war on Japan. They were going to war. What would that mean for him? For Violet? Before he could get too lost in his thoughts, Violet stirred under the covers.

“Gene?” She mumbled sleepily and he was by her side in an instant, smoothing his hand over her cheek.

“I’m here, Sweetheart. I’m here. How are you feeling?” He crouched beside her bed, resting his head on their clasped hands.

“My… chest hurts,” she mumbled, her eyes sliding shut before she opened them again. She had a procedure the other day and it had taken its toll on her, she was weaker now. Every day seemed like a struggle and he heard one of the nurses mention it was unlikely that she’d be going home again.

“I know, Sweetheart,” Eugene moved so he could lay on the bed beside her and she snuggled against his chest. He could feel her heart beating slowly beside him, lub dub, lub dub.

“What was on the radio?” Violet asked, glancing up at Gene.

He smiled sadly at her, unsure of how to break the news to her, “You know Pearl Harbour was attacked?”

She nodded slowly. “Well the US has declared war on Japan.”

Violet pushed herself up carefully so she could face him properly, “Does that… does that mean you’ll have to go? Go to war?”

Eugene shook his head, “I don’t know yet, but I promise I’m not leaving you unless I have to. You hear me?”

Violet smiled, reaching up but Eugene craned his neck so she could reach his lips easily, planting a small kiss before laying back down.

Violet soon slipped back into her slumber but Eugene couldn’t rest, his mind drifting to the President’s words. What would that mean for his future?

December 11th 1941

“Good mornin’, Sweetheart,” Eugene greeted her, a bunch of flowers in his hand as he moved around the bed, pressing a sweet kiss to her lips.

“Good mornin’, Gene, she smiled weakly, reaching out her hand to hold his. He squeezed it gently, pulling up a chair to sit beside her bed. “How are you feelin’ today?”

“She shrugged her shoulders, “Same as yesterday, Gene.”

Eugene nodded slowly, she’d been having a bad week, lots of chest pains, lots of episodes of breathlessness. She was now on oxygen full time and had a nurse coming in every half an hour to monitor her vitals.

Eugene knew that things weren’t going to get better than this, they could only get worse. One of the nurses warned him that she may eventually slip into a coma if she became too weak. It broke his heart to see her suffering so much. She barely ate, most of her nutrition was given via liquid food, and she could barely move. Eugene had taken her for a walk around the hospital grounds in a wheelchair the other day and it was nice to see her smile again.

“How’s your family?” Violet asked, raining her head from the pillow to glance at him, her blue eyes shining brighter than ever but the rest of her seemed to be fading faster by the day.

“They’re okay. They said they’ll be poppin’ by later to see you. Wanted to check on you,” Eugene reassured her. He picked up her hairbrush from the bedside cabinet, smoothing it carefully through her blonde locks. She’d always taken such care of her hair, always neatly curled and pinned, but now it lay flat against her head, lifeless.

“Thank you, Gene. For everything.”

“Of course. I love you, of course I’m gonna look after you,” he pressed his lips against her forehead and she sighed sleepily. “Do you want me to go so you can get some rest?”

“No, no please stay,” Violet shuffled cautiously across the bed to make room for Eugene, “Will you hold me for a while.”

Eugene smiled widely at her, “Of course, Sweetheart.” He slid in easily beside her, wrapping his body around her tiny, weak frame.

December 14th 1941

“I’m afraid it’s not good news, Eugene,” Violet's father explained.

The family were sitting in the waiting room, her mother and sister crying quietly in the corner. Her father had tears in his eyes but he was fighting them, trying to remain strong for his family's sake.

“The doctors don’t think she has long. I’m so sorry, son.” Violet’s father placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze before moving back to be with his family.

Eugene was frozen to the spot, the noise of the hospital fading around him into a blur of white noise. The flowers he’d been clutching fell limp to the floor, their petals splaying across the tiles. His mouth was dry, air barely reaching his lungs before it escaped in a sharp breath. He felt his knees buckle, hitting the ground hard, but he didn’t notice the pain. He didn’t feel anything, not anymore.

December 16th 1941

Violet’s breaths were short and shallow, her eyes closed as she rested peacefully against Eugene’s shoulder. Her family all sat around her, their eyes rimmed red and puffy. They had all cried enough over the last few days that Eugene thought he’d never cry again. How could he ever cry over anything else when the worst possible thing had already happened?

“Gene,” Violet mumbled weakly, causing Eugene to jump slightly.

“Yes, Vi.”

“I don’t want to die here, not in this hospital,” she glanced up at him, her hand cupping his cheek. “I want to go back to the lake, it’s our place. I want to go back to the lake, Gene.”

Eugene looked down at her sadly, “We can’t go the lake, Sweetheart. You’re not well enough.”

“Gene, I’m never going to get any better than this. The worst thing that could happen is that I’d die and I’m dying anyway,” she retorted, she understood his anxiousness but at the same time she needed to do this, it was her last chance.

Eugene glanced up at Violet’s family, trying to gauge their reaction. Eugene’s father stood up, giving Eugene a curt nod.

“I’ll bring the car around.”

The drive to the lake was a short one. By the time Eugene had carried Violet out to the car and her mother had carried out her oxygen bottle, her father had brought the car around.

They all bundled in, no one moaning about the tight squeeze or the stuffy air. Violet was sitting on his lap, clinging tightly to the front of his shirt.

“Thank you, Gene, she mumbled, pressing her lips gently to his neck. Eugene had to fight back the tears as he looked down at her, trying to steady his breathing so she didn’t realise he was crying.

When the car pulled up as close to the lake as they could, Violet’s family hurried out of the car, helping carry the oxygen as Eugene carried Violet. They picked a quiet spot, the same spot where Eugene and Violet had their second date.

Violet’s mother lay down a blanket from the back of the car, laying it on the grass so they could sit down. Eugene sat down first so that Violet could sit between his legs, leaning against his chest.

Violet’s mother hovered behind them until her father ushered her away. “Give them some time, Love. She wants to be with Eugene.”

Eugene watched as they walked back to the car, he knew he was hurting but how much pain must they be in losing their eldest daughter?

The sun was hanging low in the sky, just like it had been on their second date. It cast a bright orange glow, like the sky was burning, a lit the flames. The lake itself glowed orange, reflecting the setting sun's rays. It felt as though the whole world was alight.

Eugene grasped Violet’s hands, wrapping them in his own and pulling them close to their chests. He could feel her heartbeat, weak but steady beneath his hands. He could feel her breaths, short and sharp.

“It’s so beautiful,” Violet whispered, her eyes shining brightly in the setting sun and it reminded Eugene of the old Violet before she was sick. The time when they had everything to live for.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbled into her hair, burying his face and taking a long, deep breath. She didn’t smell like she used to, of roses and lavender. She smelled clinical, like the hospital. It was as if that place had drained the life from her instead of trying to save it. “You’re perfect.”

“But my heart’s not, that’s far from perfect. I’m sorry my heart wasn’t good enough” she mumbled, glancing up at Eugene, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be perfect for you, Eugene.

Eugene but back a sob, “No, no don’t you ever say that. You are perfect, Violet. God, you are so perfect. Your heart was all I could have ever asked for. I love you so much.” He pulled her in tighter so that she was sat in his lap, her head resting against the crook of his neck.

“I wish we could have had longer,” Violet cried, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed, her breath becoming short, small gasps escaping her. Eugene placed the oxygen mask over her mouth, rubbing her back comfortingly as she coughed.

“It’s okay, Vi. It’s alright. We had the time that God decided for us and it was the best time of my life. I love you so much, don’t ever forget that.”

Violet nodded slowly, unable to speak as she breathed as best she could through the oxygen mask. He placed his lips on her forehead, kissing her lightly as he closed his eyes and began to hum quietly. Violet's breathing became slower, shallower as he hummed and she relaxed into him.

Eugene smoothed his hand over her hair, watching as her blue eyes slid closed, small breaths leaving her lips. “It’s okay, Violet. It’s okay to let go, I’ve got you now.” He whispered into her ear, rocking her slowly, “I love you.”

Violet’s body relaxed in his arms, her breathing slowed until it became inaudible, and her heartbeat slowed beneath his hand.

“Thank you, Gene. Thank you for loving me,” she whispered, taking one last deep breath before she fell silent, slipping away from the world. Eugene watched as her body relaxed, her ragged breathing stilled and her heartbeat stopped under his hand. She looked so peaceful, her face no longer lined with worry, but her flesh smooth over her gaunt features. She was finally at peace.

Eugene’s tears flowed freely now, he didn’t want her to see him crying, didn’t want her last memory to be of him in a state, but now he could. He didn’t hold anything back, clutching her lifeless body as if she could anchor him to this world as he fell apart.

“Goodbye Violet,” he sobbed, “I love you.”

December 20th 1941

Eugene bundled some belongings into his kit bag, mainly a few spare pairs of clothes, some smart shoes, and a book for the train journey. His parents were going to drop him off at the station to start his journey to basic training. He’d never managed to tell Violet he’d enlisted on December 12th, it seemed so far away at the time.

His parents were waiting outside as he collected up his last few things, shoving the photo of his family into his book so it wouldn’t become damaged.

The scrapbook Violet gave him for his birthday sat on his bedside table, pride of place. He’d looked through the photos every night since she passed, reading over her words of encouragement. She knew him so well. Each phrase or paragraph made him smile, they got him through each day without her.

As he turned over the final page of the book he noticed a white piece of paper sticking out the edge of the book. He pulled it free, unfolding the paper and revealing a letter written in Violet’s hand. Eugene felt the scrapbook fall from his hands and onto his bed. His eyes trained on the letter.

To My Dearest Eugene,

By the time you read this letter, I will be gone. I wish we could have had more time together, but then all of the time in the world would still not have been enough.

To be loved by you was the greatest treasure of my life. You are a special man Eugene Roe. You filled my life with light and I don’t want you to hide that light from the world. I want you to show the world how wonderful you are Eugene and you have to promise me that you will love again. I know that there is someone else out there for you and I want you to find her. She will be so lucky to have you Gene.

Thank you for everything Eugene, thank you for making me feel special and for loving me despite knowing our ending. I wish you all the luck in the world, my love. I love you with all my heart.

Yours always

Violet

Eugene didn’t find the usual tears slipping down his face but instead, a wide smile spread across his lips. He folded the letter, placing it alongside the picture of himself and Violet, before doing up his kit bag and sliming it over his shoulder. He gave one last glance at his childhood bedroom, unsure of when he would next see it. He walked down the familiar stairs and along the corridor. He looked back at the house he had occupied for the last 20 years, filled with so many memories.

“Thank you, Violet.” He closed the door, following his way down the familiar path and towards the car. He’d soon be in another State on a very different path than he’d imagined but at least he knew that no matter what Violet would be watching over him.

Tags: @blueberry-ovaries @mads-weasley @coco-bean-1218 @she-wolf09231982 @georgieluz @docroesmorphine @liptonsbabe @hesbuckcompton-baby @allthingsimagines @bucky32557038ww2 @iceman-kazansky @yeahcurrahhe-e @msmercury84 @blvestxr @dustyjumpwjngs @theflyingfin @jump-wings @kafka-ohdear @kmc1989 @hanniewinnix @inglourious-imagines @l13bg0tt @xxluckystrike @hogwartslegacypics @softguarnere

[strafepanzer]

fangs | g.jaegerjaquez

chapter one: shit | chapter two (tba) | chapter three (tba)

▸ ▸ ▸ warnings: dark content, 18+! a/b/o stuff (pheromones, fangs, alpha-omega, animalistic tendencies), blood (a LOT), biting, drugs, gangs, fighting, (more to be added as chapters progress)

▸ ▸ ▸ wordcount: 3k+

▸ ▸ ▸ a/n: this has been in the works for a while but i finally have a bit of energy to put into it, so that's fun! also ive taken parts of omegaverse lore and made it my own, so if things get confusing, feel free to ask questions! thanks for reading!! ♡

“Shit,” he hisses, tongue running over the split in his lower lip. His glare intensifies as he shoots it over his shoulder, landing on the little turd shaking in his boots, wooden baseball bat held tight in two white-knuckled fists.

“I didn’t even do that! Y-you bit your lip with those freakish fricken fangs!” The kid argues, blue eyes wide with terror, that distinct childish whine caught in his throat.

“Right, so you swinging that bat at me had no impact on the state of my face at all?” He turns his body towards the boy, cracks his neck as he rolls his shoulders. “Sounds like a crock a’ shit, squirt.”

“Uncle will be mad if you hit me!” He reasons, knees knocking together.

“Oh, but you can hit me?” Grimmjow raises his brows, wiping the blood with a knuckle as he stalks towards the kid.

“You’re the gang’s Mad Dog! You’re supposed to be too good for me to hit!” He frowns, stepping back as the predator steps forward.

Grimmjow grins then, his hulking canines pressing uncomfortably into his lower lip, the one on the left shining with blood. “Maybe I wanted a reason to discipline the young master.”

“Jaegerjaquez,” Tousen appears out of nowhere, like usual. “Boss has a job for you.” Is all he says before turning to the kid. “You know how your mother feels about you using that bat for violence, young master.”

The kid’s pouting, obviously happy to have been spared, but upset that he’s being scolded and losing his babysitter-slash-impromptu-martial-arts-instructor all in one fell swoop.

“Where’s he want me?” Grimmjow straightens, rubs the sweat from his hands down the thighs of his faded blue jeans, re-pops the collar of his barely buttoned Hawaiian shirt. Tousen regards him coldly through the lenses of ridiculously priced glasses, as usual, like Grimmjow is worse than the dirt beneath his stupid black leather loafers.

“The usual place.” Tousen turns his nose up at Grimmjow, and gestures back to the kid. “You need to stop sneaking out of the house when Starrk falls asleep; let’s go.” He orders, heading towards the winding forest path that leads back to the main house.

“We were training.” The kid argues back, pouting. “Everyone always talks about how strong the Mad Dog is, and I’m gonna be stronger.”

“Strength isn’t necessarily how hard you hit, or how many bones you break, Kaiden. Remember that.” Tousen sends Grimmjow one last look before the pair disappear behind the yellowing Japanese Maples, the young master waving frantically and promising to return.

This makes Grimmjow grin, smirk elongating as he heads back into his shack, imagining how Aizen’s prissy bitch of a left hand man has to listen to the kid praise him. What makes the young master’s idolisation of him that much sweeter is the fact that the little brat hasn’t presented yet; Tousen can’t blame the kid on being affected by Grimmjow’s Ridiculously Potent Dominant Alpha Pheromones, has to accept that he just likes the way he is. Thinks he’s fucking cool.

Betas, as a rule, tend to harbour a little bit of hatred towards alphas or omegas, especially in their line of work, but Tousen takes the goddamn cake.

With a spring in his step, Grimmjow packs a duffel. His little house— if you can call it that— is a bit of a mess, so finding what he needs is a pain in the ass, but he manages. Ten year old Motorola Razr (in ice blue), wallet, and switchblade are all on his bed, still there from being dumped out early this morning when he got home from a job. His first aid kit, pheromone patches, and inhibitors are all in the stall he calls a bathroom, and— he checks the package— he’s running low on patches. The last thing on his mental list— his knuckle dusters— are in the kitchen sink, still caked in dried blood, but he throws them in the bag anyway.

He leaves his leather jacket and just opts for his keys; the summer’s been long and hot, and he loves the way the air feels on his skin as he speeds the streets of Karakura.

+

Ichimaru’s Ikeman Fantasy is a front that even the blind can see, yet it’s been untouched by the law for years. Grimmjow parks his bike in its usual spot, holds the duffle by the handle and tosses it over his shoulder, before strolling past Yammy and the other bouncers, and in through the front door.

Smells like easy omega in here.

“Afternoon, Jaegerjaquez!” Nel hollers, tits bouncing as she waves from her spot behind the bar. They never used to get along, but the years of living and working in close proximity forced them into a friendship of sorts. Now they dye each other’s hair.

“Nel,” he nods, duffle landing on the bar with a thud. “Aizen here?”

“‘Course he is,” she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “He’s always here.”

“Like you.” He grins. “You’re part of the furniture, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs, nodding back towards the kitchen. “Someone’s gotta keep Nnoitra in place. I do miss you being here, though.” Her nose scrunches up. “All the new boys are boring.” There’s a bit of bite behind her bark, and usually that’s what he looks for in a woman, but she’s never affected him. He can’t get hard for other alphas; all part and parcel of being a dominant himself. Omegas or nothing.

“Maybe if I was better at lip service.” He shrugs, tossing his feline stare over his shoulder to sus out the place.

“Or if you were worse at brawling,” she leans on the bar, those too big breasts pushing up and together in a way that makes them look like they might pop out of her shirt. “They’ve started calling you The Grim around here, you know? You come and go, then someone shows up dead.”

“That’s dramatic; I don’t kill people.” Always.

“Keep your secrets, Jaegerjaquez, I don’t want them.” Nel shakes her head, perks up a bit when someone else comes in.

It’s too early to open, and Grimmjow has no idea who this girl is. She’s cute, nervous-looking. Undoubtedly omega with her candy-apple scent.

“You’re getting girls in here now?” He asks when the candy apple omega is escorted through the lounge and into the back rooms.

“Yeah, Gin’s wanting to expand with the beauties.” She whispers, leaning close. “But you know Aizen: don't fix it if it ain’t broke.”

“Fox face wants to bring girls in here?” Grimmjow balks, a little too loud. “To work?” He questions, voice dropping.

“Yeah, for the back room stuff.” Nel looks undoubtedly uncomfortable. The main draw for the club is that it’s catered to women; less violent outbursts, less brawling, less police attention.

“Huh, never would’a picked it.” Grimmjow sighs, brows raising. “Matsumoto’s surely against it.”

“Yeah, so’s Ai—“

“You’re here,” Aizen’s voice isn’t loud, but it's commanding. There’s a quiet cruelty there that keeps people on their toes, a suppressed dominance that he’s master at concealing. “Come, Grimmjow, I have a task for you.” He’s across the lounge, standing in front of his office, the door right next to the one the candy apple omega disappeared behind.

“Sure thing,” he nods, suddenly professional. He gives Nel one last look before grabbing his duffel and slinking off towards his boss— The Boss.

+

Aizen’s office is the epitome of old European money; velvet chaise, dark filigree wallpaper, gold accents, cherry stained hardwood. Grimmjow feels like a stray dog attempting domestication each time he stalks into the room, can’t bear to sit lest he destroy or dirty something. The Boss doesn’t even offer him a seat anymore, just places a lowball of whiskey in his hand and starts on the task at hand.

“There’s a small motorcycle gang that’s started to sell on our turf,” he says, opening a beige folder and tossing its contents on his desk. “Need you to rough ‘em up a bit before they get too big for their boots.”

“Kids?” Grimmjow scowls, picking up the pile of photos and tossing them back to the desk as he looks at them. They’re in their late teens to early twenties, with their black leather jackets and little white baggies. “You’re sending me to deal with kids?”

Aizen sighs and sits down in his polished leather chair, taking a sip of his own whiskey. “You’re right.” He nods, leaning over the table and picking up one of the photos Grimmjow’s tossed down. “Normally, I’d send Yammy, or even Tousen— if I wanted to deal with it diplomatically— but this kid,” he holds up the picture of a blonde, his head tossed back in laughter, canine-like fangs protruding out of his mouth. “Is a dominant like you.”

He takes the photo from Aizen and looks it over, then goes through the ones he tossed and picks up a clearer one of his face. “He’s not even wearing patches,” Grimmjow shakes his head, glaring at the glossy photos. “Just swinging his dick around like he owns the place.”

“Exactly,” Aizen stands and gathers the photos, holds his hand out for the ones Grimmjow’s still scrutinising. “I’ll send the lot of them to your phone.”

“Boss, I can’t see shit on my phone,”

“I told you to buy a new one.”

“Why fix something if it ain’t broke? Besides, I got the little fucker’s face memorised, don’t sweat it.”

“They hang around by the train station at the end of the street most nights. Rough them up a bit, feel free to knock some teeth out.” Aizen smiles then, golden eyes shining as he shows his own fangs.

To the naked eye, he looks like a beta or omega with his average-sized canines, but Grimmjow knows better. Knows he’s had them filed down; that he does so on the regular.

Dangerous fucker he is.

+

After sticking around for a couple more drinks with Nel, he pockets a knuckleduster and leaves her with the rest of his shit. "I'll come get it when I'm done with the job." He drawls, tapping his scent blockers to test their saying power— excellent, considering he replaced them after Aizen dismissed him.

"Don't kill too many, Grim." She calls a little too loud, smiles a little too broadly. It draws attention from the other patrons, the few older women sitting at and around the bar suddenly interested in him.

"Don't lose my shit." He glares back, fang grinding on the still fresh wound from this morning when he tenses his jaw.

Undeterred, she waves him off with a smile, before undoubtedly weaving tales about his murderous escapades to the nosey hags asking too many questions. He doesn’t stick around long enough to confirm or deny his own suspicions.

The damp heat of early summer clings to Grimmjow like a second skin; seeing others unaffected— still dressing in light layers and boots, some with scarves and gloves— makes him feel a little claustrophobic, even outside in the streets. He knows it’s him who’s wrong, knows his medication has side effects and his second gender has drawbacks as well as perks, but still it’s enough to plaster that scowl to his face. At least it makes people avoid him, gives him a little bubble when it’s crowded, even in rush hour.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, that glare is set straight ahead. He’s on a mission, and it’s something he’s not too happy about. Sure, he’s used to cleaning up Aizen’s messes, used to brawling, bleeding, biting, and bitching; but dealing with pups never ends well. These kids probably think they’re kings, think that their blonde ringleader is gonna make them rich or famous, or both.

Probably both.

Flashing fangs like that around here, though… that’s gonna get you killed.

Grimmjow’s nothing if not morally grey, however, so seeing the little posse down an alley on the way to his destination brings a rush of excitement. The sooner he can get this over with, the better.

“Oi,” he calls, entering the alley. “Heard you’re selling.”

“Who’s askin’?” One steps away from the wall— not the blonde— and tilts his chin up at Grimmjow. It takes all the willpower in the world not to match that snarl with one of his own, but he just shrugs and tries to act innocent, keeps his shoulders hunched so he seems smaller than his six-four frame.

“Just some guy,” he drawls, keeping his fangs concealed. “Why, you discriminate?”

The kid snarls at him again, infuriated, “Discrimin—”

“Cool it, Tetsu,” the blonde finally steps forward, and his pheromones are no joke. It’s been a hot minute since Grimmjow’s come across a dominant who doesn’t conceal what he is, and he has to physically stop the warning growl that wants to vibrate up his throat. “This old man just needs a hit, don’tcha grandpa?” He grins, condescending lilt to his brow.

“Nah, you got me all wrong, kiddo,” Grimmjow stands tall— taller than the blonde by at least five inches— and cracks his knuckles, apathetic grin turned evil. “I just need to relay a message to you little fuckers about who’s turf you’re selling on.”

The blonde postures, baring his fangs as his pupils blow wide, “Bring it on, old man!” He yells, pheromones turning the alley sour and crippling his friends.

Grimmjow says nothing, just mirrors the young alpha, and roars.

His pals throw up, one passes out, and the blonde’s pupils revert before his fight or flight kicks in, and he launches himself at Grimmjow. He knows the fight would be over if he just removed his scent patches, but where’s the fun in that? What kind of Grim Reaper would he be if he let it end at that?

Blondie lands a hit to Grimmjow’s jaw, and he feels it crack his bone. Adrenaline and anger mask the pain, and in an instant he’s above the kid, landing blow after blow after blow to his face with his bare knuckles, colouring his face crimson in a matter of seconds.

“Old man?” Grimmjow grunts sarcastically, the adrenaline subsiding with each moment of non-resistance. “This old man better not see you on this side of the tracks with intent to sell again, or I’ll rip those useless canines straight outta your face, got it?” He finishes, holding the blonde up by the front of his bloodied leather jacket and glaring down at his swollen, weepy face. Blondie can only groan in pain before going limp in Grimmjow’s grasp.

He drops him to the cement and glances up at the rest of the gang. With both alphas done with their brawl, the pheromones in the air have thinned, and the rest of the kids are in the process of regaining their composure.

“I fucking mean it,” Grimmjow continues with his warning. “I know you think you’re fucking invinci—”

He’s frozen by a sharp stinging sensation in the side of his neck, and when he swipes at it, something small, cylindrical, and plastic hits the ground next to his knee and rolls away from him.

A syringe.

They’ve drugged him.

“Run!” Someone screams from behind him, lurching with speed and strength Grimmjow knows wouldn’t be possible from anyone other than another dominant alpha. He grabs for Blondie, tosses his limp body over his shoulder and takes off down the alley as the rest of the gang scatters.

Grimmjow stumbles as he attempts to give chase, his vision swimming and heart pounding. He stops and crouches there in the alley behind a dumpster, closing his eyes and trying his goddamn hardest to regulate himself, to pinpoint the problem. His limbs are fine, and there’s no numbness, so that’s a plus, but he’s dizzy as all hell, and—

Slap.

He opens his eyes to see one of his scent blockers— a shriveled-looking skin-toned bandaid— lying there on the cement like it’d been used more than a few times. But he knows that’s not the case, knows that was a brand new fucking blocker and that it should’ve lasted him until at least tomorrow morning even if he wanted to sleep with it on.

He reaches for the one at the other side of his neck, and that one, too, slides off, looking a little more than worse for wear.

His pheromones have sweat the patches off.

This hasn’t happened to Grimmjow since he was going through goddamn puberty and the doctors couldn’t find the right dosage of inhibitors for him. He’s early thirties now, has been on the same goddamn pills since, and has never missed a dose. If there’s one thing Grimmjow cannot fucking stand, it’s an alpha who can’t control his fucking ruts.

And now he’s one of them.

Those shifty little fuckers have thrown him into rut.

“Motherfuckers!” He roars, knuckles meeting cement out of pure frustration, the pain that’s supposed to come with maiming oneself simply not present.

Grimmjow gets up and braces himself against the wall, breathing heavily and glancing between the mouth of the alley and the direction in which those little shits ran off. It’d be absolutely insane for them to want to stick around and try jump him, especially considering Blondie wasn’t using blockers, so there’s no doubt the end of the alley isn’t a completely dead end. Heading towards the street would only end in mayhem, so he stumbles deeper into the alley, using the brick wall for support when the cramping takes over and he needs a moment to breathe.

Fuck, he’s forgotten how this felt; forgotten just how base he goes when his hormones are running rampant, forgot how primal he is. He’s hungry. For food, for sex, for a good fucking fight.

His cock aches.

Still, he fights it. He’s not completely gone yet, but he can feel it pulling at him, irritating him, can feel it tickling his brain like a loose thread; one tug of it, and he’ll be feral. He’s exhausted, fighting the urge to pull the string, finds himself panting as he clutches at the spray paint covered brick with a bloodied hand, sweat dripping into his eyes, plastering powder blue hair to his forehead.

He briefly wonders if Aizen knew that they had this little ace up their sleeve, before deciding— with a baleful chuckle he didn’t know he still had in him— that he doesn’t even wanna know.

The last thing he sees before the world goes black is his own reflection in a shiny metal baseball bat

[lostfirefly]

Life Must Have It's Mysteries (Ch.2)

Nobody asked me, but the thought of sending my beloved couple on a new journey didn't let me go. Welcome to a new adventure! No idea how many chapters there will be :) Pain continues leading me to art :)

English is not my native language, errors may occur. As always, feel free to share your thoughts :) Masterlist is here.

Description: Our heroes are on a quest to find the blue diamond! Hooray!

Warnings: Fun (Sanji's small appeareance is just for fun), fluff, NSFW part is included (sorry not sorry), MDNI

Words: 4000 (sorry-y-y-y again)

Buggy x OC from my “You’ve Got the Same Dream as Me” series.

Taglist: @gingernut1314 (thanks for the red-blue striped pants idea!), @operationroots, @hey-august, @rorywritesjunk

The title is taken from "Life Must Have It's Mysteries" by Hans Zimmer (OST Inferno).

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Chapter 1

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Smack. Smack. Smack.

"Geez, if I'd known you'd react like that, we'd have gone somewhere a long time ago." Buggy couldn't contain his laughter as he looked at Catherine, who was squeaking all over the living room, clenching her fists happily. 

"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!!" She collapsed onto the couch, throwing her legs over it and wrapped her arms around Buggy's neck. Smack. Smack. Smack. "I’m so happy! Love!” Smack. "Love!" Smack. "Love love love you!" Smack. Smack. Smack. "Where do we start?"

"We'll start when you calm down, Cathie-pie. Repeat after me, please" He took three deep breaths.

"Okay! Okay! I'm calm!" She made a concentrated face and took one breath. Then a second. Then blurred into a smile and started squealing again.

"Oh my goodness!" Buggy grabbed his head and fell on the back of the couch. 

"Sorry!! I promise! I’m calm! So.. you told you know the guy.. Who.. Who…" She froze and began to smile again.

Buggy looked at her intently and sighed heavily. "Okay, squeal!"

Catherine attacked him with hugs and squeals again. 

"Are you finished?" 

"Yes!" Smack. 

"You sure?"

"Yes!" Smack. Smack. 

"Ok! Our first step. I'm gonna go to a restaurant in the morning. I’ll talk to a man about this thing from your sheets. In theory, he can give us directions or if there's a map or something. We need to figure out where to start."

"Can I come with you? Ple-e-ease!" Smack. 

"Are you squealing done for the day?"

"Yes!" Smack. Smack. 

"You sure?"

"Yes!" Smack. Smack. Smack. 

"If you behave well, woman, I’ll take you with me." 

"You're the best!!" Smack. Smack. Smack. 

⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭

In the morning, Catherine made the biggest and most delicious breakfast. Poured him the biggest cup of coffee. Gave him the longest morning kiss. She miscalculated a little with that last point, as Buggy immediately wanted to forget about breakfast after that, but she fought back. Catherine sat back in her chair, watched him eat and tried to appear calm. He sighed and told her to get ready. 

They reached a small restaurant, the sign resembled a wave, the fronts were blue-green in color. 

"Water 7. Another weird name of another weird place." Catherine whispered under her breath and squeezed Buggy's hand. "Is there someone scary inside?" 

"Nah, there's a trio running this restaurant. They and one of their little buddies really piss me off sometimes. But I gotta hand it to them, this place has good scotch." 

They went into a fairly bright room. Everything inside looked like water. Drawings and paintings on the walls, chairs in the shape of waves. 

"Oh my god! Why is he in just his underwear?!" Catherine didn't expect to say it so loudly. She threw a glance at Buggy, who rolled his eyes. 

A large man in an unbuttoned shirt that resembled a Hawaiian shirt, wearing underpants and barefoot walked up to them. Instead of the usual human nose, he had a metal nose. 

"Buggy the Sneak!" Said the man in shorts. 

"Franky!" 

"What happened in your life that you came to get scotch at 8:00 in the morning?"

"Scotch later. I'm here to see you on business. Catherine, give me the papers." Catherine kept her gaze on the man in his underpants. She considered the color of his hair, his nose. 

Franky in turn considered her. "Who's that?" He pointed a finger at Catherine. 

"She's with me" Buggy took Catherine lightly behind him. 

"With you? You mean.. Dear Lord! I can't believe someone messed with you, also sleeping willingly, Honey, if you're being held hostage, tell me." 

"Hey!" Catherine shouted.

"Let's get back to our business. Have you heard anything about this?” Buggy pointed to the sheets.

"The blue diamond? Yeah, but I think it's just rumors or maybe not. No one knows exactly. What? Why are you asking?"

"Just curious." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Stop lying to me. You're one of the biggest losers in treasure hunting. And I don't believe that you are asking me about that diamond because you're "just curious."

"Hey, you! The man in the underwear! It's not your business at all. If you need money for the information, I’ll pay you." Catherine took three steps forward.

"Catherine, calm down!" Buggy put his hand on her shoulder and tried to pull her in behind him.

"No, we're here to get information. Instead, a grown man who can't spare the money to buy his own pants sits there and insults you." Catherine glanced at Franky. "How much do you want for coordinates, information, or whatever it is you have?"

"Let's go to my cabinet." Franky patted Buggy on the shoulder and gestured him into his office.

A chill ran down Catherine's back. She felt a little uneasy that because of her inability to keep quiet, Buggy might get hurt. She put her hand on his back and looked at him anxiously.

"It's all right. I'll be right back."

Franky and Buggy walked out. Catherine sat back in her chair and put her elbows on the table. "You should be silent sometimes, Catherine.." She muttered to herself.

"Oooooh! God, what a beautiful girl I have behind my counter!!!" Suddenly there was a loud squeak or squeal.

Catherine turned around and noticed a tall blond man in a suit running towards her. "Geez, who are you?"

"Pretty-swaaaan!!!! Where did you come from?"

The stranger grabbed Catherine's arm.

"Go to hell, who are you?!" She yanked her arm back.

"Sanji-san!!! And who are you, oh beautiful girl?"

"C-Catherine!"

"God, what a beautiful name, Cathie-swaaaaaan!!!"

"Don't call me Cathie! There's only one person in the world who can call me that!"

"I’m sorry, Cathie-swaaaan!!" 

"Fuck!!!" She rolled her eyes.

The strange blond man continued to circle around Catherine and tried to take her hand until he was stopped by a loud "Hey, step away from her!" She turned around and saw Franky and Buggy.

Catherine jumped up from her seat and quickly walked over to Buggy. "Save me, this blond guy is crazy!" 

"So, sorry, clown. That's all I know about the blue diamond." Franky uttered with a slight smile.

Catherine lookd upset.

"The blue diamond? I know something about it!" The blond man stopped spinning and sat down on the chair.

"Yeah! So, honey.. Tell me!" Catherine said and put her chin on her hand. 

⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭

"Forgive me, I have a habit of writing everything down. So, first.. we’re going to this city. And there we will find her?" She pointed to the notes in her notebook. "Do you feel similar vibes, my Buggy Bear?" She asked loudly from the bedroom, started rummaging through the closet. "I've almost got all the things I need!"

"Finally! The car is ready. You're late again, my cotton candy." 

"I’m not late! I needed to pack some women's things. Stop grumbling! I’m comi…" Catherine suddenly stopped talking and scanned him with her eyes. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He imitated her gaze.

"I just…" She tried to find the words. “Sneakers, Jeans. T-shirt. The black denim jacket, and your hair is in a ponytail. You look too sexy, Buggy the Clown." She took several steps towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Are you going to hook another girl?" 

"God, no, of course not. I got enough of this little shit in my life." He pointed at her nose with one hand.

"My blue-haired asshole…"

"I’m listening."

"Stop grabbing my ass!"

They drove for a couple hours in the car. Catherine practically kept her eyes on Buggy, constantly repeating that he looked sexy and hot as hell in his outfit, with his tail and driving. He was embarrassed and turning as red as his nose.

They reached a town called Little Garden, got a motel room and at Catherine's insistence went looking for the bakery Franky had mentioned.

"Onward to Arabasta." Catherine read the name of the bakery. "Do you guys get normal names around here?"

As soon as they entered the room, they immediately saw the young woman of medium height with long wavy light blue hair.

"Wow, her hair color is similar to yours. Are you two related by any chance?" Catherine whispered into Buggy's ear.

"Do you seriously think all people with blue hair are my relatives?"

Catherine shrugged.

"How can I help you?" Asked the girl behind the cash register.

"Two coffees, five raspberry jam donuts, three blueberry muffins and we're also looking for Vivi." Catherine shifted her gaze from the display case to the girl.

"Then you're in luck. It's me." Replied a rather pleasant voice and began putting the order into a bag.

"Oh, great. We're looking for information on the blue diamond. All we have so far is information about a scepter divided into three parts, hidden somewhere in the pyramids. Can you give us any clues?"

"First of all, good morning!"

"God, here we go again!!!" Catherine rolled her eyes and dropped her forehead onto the counter near the cash register.

"Cathie-pie, you're starting conversations the wrong way again." Buggy stroked Catherine's back, took her hand and led her to a table. He went back behind the cash register counter and had a very long conversation with Vivi about something. Catherine watched them with her arms crossed and an unfamiliar feeling visited her.  She thought for a second that she was jealous.

Buggy and Vivi walked over to her and sat down at the table. Catherine instinctively pulled her chair toward him.

"Anyway, he and I have had a talk. I have a condition. I'm telling you what I know..."

"Great!!!" Catherine clenched her fists joyfully.

"But!" Vivi interrupted her. "You're going to play a game of liar’s dice with me. And every time I lose, I'll tell you part of what I know."

"Fuck!!!" Catherine grabbed her head and practically flopped off her chair under the table. "Ok! I’m in!"

Vivi silently got up from the table and walked out into the back room.

"Are you sure?" Buggy whispered.

"Do we have a choice? God, why doesn't anyone ever just want to tell everything they know. First, that damsel tricked me into some caves and I almost died there. Now that girl wants to play around so she can tell me something. Maybe she's just bored and doesn't have anyone to play with? Dear God, make friends and play with them!"

"Well thanks to that girl from our previous adventure you have me now." He laughed, put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the temple.

"Yep. And now you piss me off every day, fucking clown. I hate you!" She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. 

"Cathie-pie, that's the eighth time today. You're going for the world record!" 

Vivi returned with aspiring cups and five dice. She sat down at the table and silently slid everything toward Buggy and Catherine. They looked at each other, took one of their dice and rolled it. 

"Five." Vivi said.

"Three." Buggy said.

"Four.. Fuck!" Catherine's head fell back on the table. Buggy lifted her back up.

"I'll start." Vivi spoke.

They put dice in their cup and shook them up. They flipped the cup face-down on the table to keep the dice hidden and secretly roll their dice at the same time.

"Three 3s." Vivi replied. 

Catherine peek at her own dice. "Four 3s."

"Two 4s." Buggy said calmly.

They raised their cups.

"Three 3s.." Catherine whispered. "Fuck! Next round!".

Of the six rounds, Catherine and Buggy won only 2 of them 

They shook dice under the cups again. 

"Four 6s!" Catherine said loudly.

"Five 2s." Buggy said calmly again.

"Three 2s." Vivi replied.

They raised their cups.

"Four 6s!!! Yes!!! Tell! Tell us something more!!"

Vivi smiled. "Ok. The scepter will lead you to the diamond, but they are hidden in different pyramids."

"We know that!" Catherine furrowed her brow.

"Do you want information or do you want to argue?" Vivi questioned, shaking the dice in the cup. 

"You will need a cryptex to open the place where the diamond is stored." 

"Where to find it?"

"Next round!" Vivi rolled the dice in the cup and set it on the table.

"For fuck's sake!" Catherine dropped her head back on the table. Buggy picked her up again. "Okay. Eight fives! Buggy, you got what?"

"Five threes." Buggy said calmly. He could already hear the irritation in Catherine's voice. 

"Six twos." Vivi swirled the cup around the table. 

"Liar!" Catherine shouted and lifted everyone's glasses. "Oh my god! We won!!! Now tell me more!" 

Catherine listened intently to Vivi's story and took notes on everything. 

"Well, not as much information as I would have liked, but thanks anyway! And by the way... Where's our coffee?" 

Catherine jumped out of the bakery, squealing. "Yaaaay! Well! We have some new data, copies from the books. We'll have to see if there's anything in them about the cryptex. We also have donuts and muffins!" She ran in a circle around Buggy and couldn't hide her happiness. 

"I'm tired and excited! Tired and excited!" She threw herself around his neck. "Let's go out to eat! And have a drink! And get wine for our room at the motel!"

⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥫⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭⥭

They got back to the room quite late.

"God, I'm tired and I wanna sleep!" Buggy practically collapsed on the bed.

"Thanks…" Catherine said quietly.

"What?"

"Thank you for supporting me in this endeavor."

"Come on, cotton candy! Two fools in pursuit of something that may not even exist!" He laughed and sat down on the bed.

"But fools are lucky…" She whispered under her breath. "Okay, I'm going to take a quick shower and get back to you. Drink your beer or whiskey or whatever you want." She tiptoed over to him and kissed his cheek. "I love you!"

Catherine came out of the shower wearing only Buggy's t-shirt and her underwear. 

"My pajamas need more time to dry completely." She walked over to the table near the TV and poured herself a glass of wine. She looked at Buggy, who was lying calmly on the bed in red and white striped underpants, leaning his back on the headboard and clicking the remote control through the channels. 

"What are you doing?" She asked quietly. Catherine took a sip of wine and took two small steps towards the bed. 

"Nothing, just looking for something interesting, but so far I've only found shitty shows. How’s the shower?" 

"Okay. I missed you there." She tilted her head and watched carefully as the dim light from the lamp on the night table fell on his face. 

He extended his hand and called her to him with his fingers. She took another sip of wine and put the glass on the table. 

Catherine took three steps forward, climbed onto the bed, sat on his lap so that his legs were between hers and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Hi!"

"Hi, my pretty girl."

She didn’t take her eyes off him for a long time, running her hands over his hair, shoulders and arms.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Should I be afraid?" He narrowed his eyes and asked in surprise. 

"Sh-h, clown!" She looked into his eyes for a moment, took the red-and-white rubber band out of his hair, then tilted her head and kissed him on the lips. Buggy instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist. Her kiss became deeper and more passionate, her breathing quickened.

She ran one hand over his chest and lowered it down to his boxers. She felt something hard between her legs. "Well, good evening, Captain Buggy!" She smiled slightly, took off her t-shirt and ran her lips along his neck.

"Fuck, cotton candy!" He placed one hand on her thigh, then moved it on her stomach and gently lowered his hand into her panties. She felt his fingers digging into the soft skin near her crotch. 

"Do it." She whispered in his ear.

"My little Cathie-pie always swears at me when I do that, and now you’re asking me to do that?" He replied sarcastically and kissed her neck.

"Shit, clown. Are you gonna chat or are you gonna do your job?" She replied and moaned slightly when she felt his fingers found his way to her clit, rubbing it vigorously. 

"Fuck…" She arched her back and head backwards, her breasts in his face. He flicked a nipple with his tongue and she sighed in pleasure. She felt him slowly move inside her, her walls sending waves of pleasure against him. She whimpered in response, her body once again arching, not knowing what to do with the arousal. He was holding her back with his free arm, amused at how quick she was to react. 

"You ok, my little pie?"

"Stop asking stupid questions, fucking clown. Just d-d-don't.. fuck.. stop, ok?" 

"That’s my girl." He smiled widely. He adored the expressions she made. And he made sure to push his digits in and out in a rhythm that resembled that of her moanings. Catherine's moans intensified when he gradually moved his fingers to get faster, more forceful. Catherine lost her breath when she felt his fingers on her special spot. "Oh god. Fuck! That's it.."

"You like that?"

"You will be the death of me, Buggy-sama!" She whispered in his lips.

"Ugh! Don't call me that, baby." 

"Fuck you. I will.. fuck..ca-all you.. yeah.. as I wa-ant..fuck." She kissed him eagerly and couldn't stop moaning through the kiss. She clutched her fingers into his back, realizing that she was almost reaching orgasm. "Fuck, shit!" She buried her head in the crock of his neck and kept silent for a moment. He felt her heavy breath on his skin.

Buggy pulled out his hand and wiped it on the towel. "Is my pie happy now?" He stroked her hair.

"Your pie is really happy. But wait, my Captain. I have news for you. We're not done yet." She kissed him on his lips, stood up and took off her and his underwear. 

She knelt on the bed and gently ran her hand over his cock. "Tell me… Buggy the Genius Jester, do you have any orders? Wishes?" She whispered, continuing running her fingers along the entire length. 

"You're playing with fire, cotton candy.” He tried to take her hand. 

"Na-ah!" She threw his hand back on the bed. "You can watch but touch.. No!" She barely pressed her lips to the head of his cock.

"Cathie-pie…?" He looked at her with a surprised look.

"I’m listening, my silly clown. Don't you like it? Don't you want it?"

"I…I just didn't…expect…" He mumbled. 

"Okay, if you don't like it.." She shrugged her shoulders and reached out for her t-shirt.

"No, no, no!! Wait! Wait! I liked it! I loved it!!"

Catherine leaned over him. "Are you gonna be a good boy?"

He silently nodded. 

"You will be silent, won't you?"

He nodded. 

"Wanna see what else I can do?" She whispered.

He nodded again. 

She kissed him on his lips, winked at him and slowly moved down, flicking her tongue over his nipples, down his belly. She wrapped his length with her fingers and touched it with her lips. She could practically feel him arch up as she slowly closed her mouth over the head of his cock, curious, wondering if he'd beg..

He tried. He really tried. He tried so hard to remain silent for the next few minutes, but he didn't do it well. She felt his hands gripping the sheets. She could hear his weak voice, accompanied by "oh, holy shit", "fuck, baby, yes", "more, please, be-e-ging you", "that's it", "i love you, my co-t- fuck c-c-a-n.. fuck". 

After she finished, Catherine raised her head and looked at him. 

"Are you still alive, my silly clown?" She stood up and sat on top of him. Buggy's gaze was clouded. 

"Wow, I’m impressed by your reaction." She laughed and kissed his neck.

"What was that? What just happened?" He asked in a slightly high voice and shook his head to regain his senses. 

She grinned and whispered in his ear, her voice a low purr.

"My little revenge on you, blue-haired brat." 

"Fuck! You're a bad bad girl, Catherine Mitchell!!"

She couldn't help but laugh. "It's all your fault, Buggy-sama." She put her hands on his shoulders and started tracing her finger over his bicep.

"I told you not to call me that. It's ve-e-ry dangerous!" He croaked in a whisper and put his hands on her shoulder blades.

"I don't give a shit, you know that perfectly." She tilted her head and ran her lips over his lips. “I have one piece of news for you. Right now I want you inside me.”

"Damn! I can't hold you back from this but don't you dare make any claims against me again." He put his hands on her waist.

"Fuck you. You bet I will." 

"Stop talking and c’mere, my little shit!" 

She kissed him again, rose a little and slowly sat on his cock, letting out a moan. 

"Fuck, you're so good!" He whispered and smashed his lips into her.

"Yes, I’m.." She smiled during the kiss and started slowly moving her hips from back and forth. Every movement made his pulse pick up, pleasure shooting through his body. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He started growling and kissing any part of her he could reach. She felt him squeeze her ass and grind herself against his hips.

With every kiss from him, Catherine quickened her pace. "I want to feel you deeper." She whispered, digging her nails into his back. 

She let her knees slide apart a little further, taking him just a little further and felt how his cock filled her completely. Inside, it felt enormous, thick and tight. She started rocking her hips again, slow at first, then alternating with up and down strokes. He kissed her hungrily, sliding his tongue against hers, moaning into her mouth when her movements picked up speed. 

"You feel so right, my Cathie-pie. I just can't get enough of you." He said between kisses. 

"It’s my superpower." She said quietly, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. 

Catherine was grinding her body against his, her hips snapping back and forth. She took his hand and squeezed it. "I’m so– close, fuck. I want us to come together."

She picked up her pace even more, breaking the kiss just to moan his name loudly, squeezing his hand more and more tightly. The ecstasy was peaking unbearably, building every time he or she moved.

"Fuck, baby, I’m close. I’m gonna c…"

He kissed her shoulder, her hips moving in short frantic thrusts against his cock. Right before he lost his mind completely Buggy looked at Catherine to see her beautiful face intent on him, and that was the last thing he could think of as he came.

Catherine pressed her whole body against him, feeling every rapid beat of his heart. She didn't let go of his hand and ran her free hand through his wet hair.

"You ok? You're breathing so hard." She asked quietly and pressed her forehead to his.

"I’m totally fine. You?"

"S'okay." She kissed him on his lips. "You’re my other half and I love you so so much my Buggy Bear. Remember that, okay?"

He gazed intently into her eyes. "You’re not just my other half, cotton candy. You're my better half."

"Wow!! My beloved blue-haired asshole said that to me! I need to be on top of you more often so that I can hear such phrases more often." She laughed and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. 

"Little shit!" He stroked her forearms, then wrapped his arms around her waist and put his head under her chin. "I love you. And I promise, I’ll never hurt you."

"I know."