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inseobts · 2 months ago

Note

can you please write one of law and the reader is very quiet but as time goes by she and feels comfortable with him, she starts to open up....maybe later catches feelings for law

Echoes in Silence

law × reader

a/n: tried to make it cute af lmao

words count: 2.1k

tags: introvert reader, law being law, soft, sfw

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The Polar Tang is quiet, the way you like it. Or maybe the way you need it to be. The hum of machinery and the distant slosh of water against the hull are the only sounds that fill the narrow corridor. You sit with your knees pulled up in a corner of the hallway outside the medbay, half in shadow, half in thought.

You hear him before you see him. Light footsteps. The brush of a coat hem against the floor.

Law stops a few feet away. Doesn’t say anything.

You look up.

He looks down at you, then glances at the closed medbay door “Why aren’t you inside?”

You shrug.

He doesn’t push. He never does.

“You can come in. I’m just organizing.”

You stand without a word and follow him inside.

The room smells faintly of antiseptic and paper. He moves efficiently, always with purpose. You sit on the low bench by the cabinet, folding your hands in your lap.

“Too loud in the mess?” he asks after a while.

You nod.

Law glances over his shoulder, his voice quieter now “You don’t talk much.”

You meet his eyes for a beat, then murmur, “Neither do you.”

A pause.

“Fair.”

He finishes arranging some vials, then leans against the counter across from you. He doesn’t fill the silence, and that is what makes you speak again.

“I like it here” you say. Your voice is soft, unsure.

“I know” he says “You sit in the same spot every time.”

Your lips twitch. The closest thing to a smile you’ve had all day.

He notices.

Over the next few days, it happens without planning.

You’re there again. Quiet. Reading. Watching. Thinking.

Law says nothing when you show up. Just gestures toward the corner, or leaves a cup of tea on the table near you. Some nights, he asks about what you’re reading. Other nights, you ask what he’s writing in that notebook he guards like a secret.

You don’t expect him to answer. But he does.

“Patient notes” he says one evening.

“About me?” you ask.

He glances at you “Would you be flattered or offended?”

You think “Depends on what you wrote.”

He gives the faintest smirk.

One night, it’s late. You’re sitting in your usual spot, legs crossed, head against the wall.

Law sets down his pen “You’re less quiet lately.”

You lower your gaze “I didn’t notice.”

“I did.”

You let the silence stretch.

Then “Does that bother you?”

He shakes his head “No.”

You look at him. Really look this time.

He’s quiet, like you. But in his silence, there’s space. Not pressure. Not judgment.

Just… presence.

You don’t say anything else. But you stay a little longer than usual. And so does he.

The next time it happens, it’s accidental.

You’re in the storage room, checking inventory for the kitchen. You hear the door click shut behind you, then feel his presence before he speaks.

Law leans against the shelves “Did Penguin guilt you into helping?”

You glance over “He bribed me with some sweets.”

He lets out a small breath, almost a laugh “Figures.”

You go back to counting jars.

“You missed medbay last night” he says casually.

You pause.

“You noticed?”

He shrugs “Hard not to.”

You glance up at him again, unsure if he’s teasing. He’s not. Law’s face is unreadable, but not closed off.

“I was tired,” you say “Just wanted quiet.”

“You could’ve come anyway.”

You stare at the row of labels, letting the silence hold the weight of his words.

“I didn’t think… you’d notice I wasn’t there.”

“I did.”

You don’t answer. Not with words. But something shifts in your chest, small, but definite.

Two nights later, you’re back in the medbay.

Law’s at his desk, writing in that same black notebook. You sit across from him this time, not off in your usual corner. He doesn’t comment.

You watch his hand as he writes, neat, controlled script. Everything about him is precise. Sharp.

“What are you writing now?” you ask.

He pauses.

Then slides the notebook your way.

You blink “You don’t usually—”

“It’s not classified” he says.

You read it. Notes on medicine. Anatomy. A sketch of a spinal structure. It’s dense, but fascinating.

“You have good handwriting” you say before you can stop yourself.

Law glances at you “You’re the first person to say that.”

“It’s easy to read.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You smirk, just a little “You know I read more than I talk.”

“Then maybe I should start writing you notes instead.”

You don’t expect that. And judging by his own slight shift, he didn’t either.

The room goes still. Not tense. Not awkward.

Just still and warm.

Later that night, as you walk back to your room, you catch yourself smiling.

It’s quiet in the halls again. But not the same kind of quiet.

It’s not empty anymore.

The next time Law finds you, you’re on the observation deck, tucked against the glass where the sea slips by in shades of green and blue. You’re holding a book, but not really reading. Just staring out. Thinking.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just steps in and sits beside you, mirroring your posture, shoulders slightly forward, hands resting on his knees.

You don’t look at him. You don’t have to.

“You come here a lot?” he asks after a long pause.

“Only when it’s calm.”

Law hums “You like the ocean?”

You nod “It doesn’t talk.”

He glances sideways “Like you.”

You smile without showing teeth “You keep saying that, but I talk more around you than anyone else.”

He raises a brow “That’s saying something.”

“I know.”

Silence again. But it’s… companionable.

You tilt your head against the glass “I didn’t think we’d get along, you know.”

“Why?”

“You’re quiet. I’m quiet. I thought it’d be… awkward. Too much silence.”

“And?”

You glance at him. His eyes are half-lidded, watching the ocean like it’s revealing secrets only he understands.

“It’s not awkward” you say.

“No,” he agrees, voice low “It’s not.”

Another day. Another quiet room. You’re in the medbay again, this time sitting in his chair while he leans against the desk nearby, arms crossed.

“You’re comfortable here now” he says, not really asking.

You nod “It feels… safe.”

Law looks at you a moment, unreadable. Then “You feel safe with me?”

You meet his gaze.

“I do.”

He doesn’t look away.

“Good” he says quietly.

Your chest flutters, sharp and unexpected.

“You don’t mind?” you ask “That I stay?”

He exhales, slow “I mind when you don’t.”

It’s the closest thing to vulnerable you’ve ever heard from him.

You don’t answer. Just reach across the desk and nudge one of his notebooks, fingers brushing the edge.

“Teach me something.”

He lifts a brow “Now you want to talk?”

You smile softly “Only if it’s with you.”

For a second, the corner of his mouth twitches, just barely but it’s there and you don’t miss it.

It starts happening more often now, these moments where it’s just the two of you.

He doesn’t ask why you’re always around. You don’t ask why he never tells you to leave.

Tonight, you’re both sitting on the floor of the medbay. He’s leaned back against the cabinet, legs stretched out. You’re across from him, sitting cross-legged, a small anatomy guide in your hands.

You trace a diagram with your finger “Do you ever forget things?” you ask.

Law lifts his eyes from the chart he’s sketching “Details?”

You nod.

“Sometimes,” he admits “But not often.”

You study his face “You don’t seem like the type to forget anything.”

“I remember what matters.”

You pause, lowering your voice “And what matters?”

There’s a flicker in his gaze.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds your eyes.

“You do.”

The air shifts. Quiet stretches between you like thread, thin, trembling, real.

You open your mouth to speak, but the door creaks. Shachi pokes his head in.

“Oh sorry, Captain. Didn’t know you were busy.”

Law’s voice is even “I’m not. What is it?”

Shachi hesitates. Glances at you, then back at Law “We were gonna run maintenance checks. Just checking if you needed anything.”

“No,” Law says, already half-turning back toward you “I’m good.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The door closes again.

You’re still quiet, but your eyes are on Law.

He sighs through his nose “They think something’s going on.”

You tilt your head “Is something going on?”

He looks at you. Not cold. Not guarded. Just… steady.

“I don’t know yet,” he says “But I don’t mind the idea.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I thought we were just… quiet together” you say, softly.

Law leans in a little, elbows on his knees “We are. But it’s never felt empty, has it?”

You shake your head “No.”

“Exactly.”

For a while, you both just sit there. Breathing in the same silence. Feeling how close it’s becoming.

Eventually, he glances at the clock “You should rest.”

You stand, slow, reluctant “Will you still be here in the morning?”

His voice is softer than usual “Yeah.”

You smile at him, the first one tonight.

“Good,” you whisper “I sleep easier when I know that.”

You’re sitting in the mess hall, rare for you. But it’s late, and the quiet is comforting. A mug of tea warms your hands while your book rests open on the table. You’re not reading, just letting your thoughts drift.

Penguin walks by, stops when he sees you.

“Well, hey,” he says, friendly grin on his face “Didn’t expect you out here.”

You glance up “Couldn’t sleep.”

He plops down on the bench beside you, a little too close but not enough to make you uncomfortable “Yeah? Same here. I usually find Shachi and mess with him ‘til he throws something, but this works too.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

He leans a little, peering at the title of your book “That the one you’re always reading?”

You nod “Third time.”

Penguin stretches his arms with a low groan “Guess it’s a comfort thing, huh?”

You smile faintly “I like the ending.”

Then—“Y/n.”

You both look up.

Law stands in the doorway. Calm. Still. But his eyes are sharp.

Penguin straightens a little “Hey, Captain. You need something?”

Law’s gaze moves to you “I need you in the medbay.”

You blink ��Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

There’s a pause. Penguin scratches the back of his neck “Everything alright?”

Law’s eyes don’t leave yours “It will be.”

You close your book and stand quietly, brushing past Penguin. As you walk beside Law down the hall, you glance up at him.

“…There’s no emergency, is there?”

“No.”

You slow your steps “Then why—”

“I didn’t like how close he was.”

You stop walking.

Law stops too.

Your chest tightens “Penguin?”

His voice is flat. But not cold “He’s loud. He doesn’t notice how quiet you get when you’re uncomfortable.”

You look at him carefully “You were watching?”

He meets your eyes “I always watch you.”

You stay quiet. The silence feels different now, electric.

“You’re jealous” you say softly.

He doesn’t flinch “Maybe.”

Your heart is pounding “You didn’t have to make up an excuse.”

“I didn’t.”

You raise a brow.

He steps closer “I do want you in the medbay.”

“Why?”

His voice lowers just slightly “Because I like having you there.”

You breathe in slow. Then “You could’ve just said that.”

Law gives you the smallest, smallest smirk “I’m saying it now.”

And this time, it’s you who starts walking first, back toward that quiet room that’s started to feel like it belongs to the both of you.

The medbay is quiet, warm with the faint scent of paper and tea.

You sit on the bench beside Law, shoulder to shoulder, a single book balanced between you. You’re both reading, each on your own side of the page, turning it together in near-perfect rhythm.

You don’t talk.

You never really have to.

His arm rests beside yours, close. Steady.

Your fingers shift as you adjust your hold on the book.

His do too.

Your pinkies brush.

Neither of you moves away.

You pretend to keep reading. So does he.

But his hand shifts again, slow, barely there, until his fingers gently, tentatively, find yours. A light touch. Testing.

You let him.

More than that, you curl your pinky around his, your thumb brushing softly against his hand.

The silence stretches, thick but easy.

And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Law turns the next page with one hand, and laces the other fully with yours.

He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him. But your hands stay like that. Warm. Steady. Connected.

You keep reading together.

No words. No glances. Just two quiet souls, finally finding comfort in the space between them.

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horny-marbles · 1 month ago

Note

eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum—most definitely over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm—it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed—whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment—he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no décor. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbing since your last mission—one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without biting down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door—just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand—and knock once.

No answer.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth—mistake—and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconscious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably keeps it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost sparkle.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands—already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later—alcohol, something minty, clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that house no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless. Still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him stepping into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples.

You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips. Slowly. It hurts.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, and tendon. His head tilts slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats the word, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You—what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree—just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. It hurts again, surprise.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trembles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there—but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused. Professional. Detached.

And it’s that—exactly that—that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath hitches. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing—what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen—

He keeps going. Calm. Professional.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing beneath your chin.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practically vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary—never does—but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp—sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't speak right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way—listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself—almost—but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he says. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked—if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just prescription.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue—but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you—doesn’t help guide you down or force your head. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare—up at him, at the soft shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from his touch or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with more than clinical interest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Not for them. So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, like him. And yet, here you are—kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already-bruised jaw. So you ease into it—inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests—dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts—settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn—and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, pooling around the base. It’s getting messy now—your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive—but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, low, strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it—sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffens above you—not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of slick arousal is thicker in the air, heady and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic—but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Dripping down your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed—tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers—the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters around his cock—

That changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental—observational, but something darker coils beneath it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond—can’t—too full of him.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips red and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion—strong, sure, impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence—thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or threatened.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way—not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, glistening from your spit. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely—calmly forcing your thighs back until you’re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there—palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly—almost cruelly—he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy—he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales—sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open—but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep—like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably—already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It was almost humiliating how close you were already.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk—he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls—his voice now tinged, barely, with something darker, something less restrained. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this—then let it last.”

He starts fucking you—really fucking you—like your desperation and your body bursting at the seams in need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises—slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out—like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again—not with medical intent now, but need—fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing painfully. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it—a snap, the high-pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you—groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged—driven not by logic but need. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward—body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest—barely a warning at all— before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred—savoring it. Your flesh parts around his fangs with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again—making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again—but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock.

“Cum,” he growls—against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash—blinding, consuming, full-body spasms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls—then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow—somehow—it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it—deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from the overstimulation.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you—thick, hot, and neglected for too long—filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then—for the first time—he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over—when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe—you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves—no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another case. Another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you—but he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side—hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep—ugly, violent—but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next—swabbed, sealed, wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively—even as your eyes roll, unimpressed—and he presses a thumb along the hinge—palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something—anything—about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

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simmerkate · 6 months ago

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Pet Stuff 🐾

Upgrade your Sims’ pet spaces with this adorable and functional Pet Stuff set! Perfect for any pet lover, this CC pack is designed to add cozy and stylish elements to your furry friends' lives.

Features:

🐾 Cozy Pet Bed: A plush pet bed for your Sims’ cats or dogs to nap in style.

🐾 Wire Pet Crate: A sleek, black metal pet crate with an open door, complete with a soft interior cushion.

🐾 Toy Storage Bin: Keep your Sims’ pets organized with this chic gray toy basket labeled "Toys."

🐾 Slip Mat: A cute bone-shaped mat with "eat, play, love" printed on it, perfect for preventing food and water spills.

🐾 Wall Sign: A charming hanging sign that reads "No Muddy Paws Please," adding personality to your pet-friendly homes. Please be careful using high poly cc on low end pcs Public Release - 8th Of January Follow me on insta @SimmerKatex Patreon (xx) ad-free

#ts4 #the sims 4 #ts4cc #the sims 4 cc #the sims cc #skcc #thesims4 #thesims4cc #sims 4 pets

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wheeloffortune-design · 8 days ago

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what are some of your favorite "hacks" for working with an ADHD brain?

I love optimizing my house to make things easier. Stuff that works for me:

Phone chargers in every spot where I tend to hang out (bed, couch, desk, kitchen table). They need to be long chargers, so I can lie down however I want, not fold myself uncomfortably because it's too short.

Bins where I tend to hang out, always at arms reach. I need to be able to immediately throw the trash or it'll stay there forever.

I removed the doors to the pantry, from my closet, I took off the drawers of the fridge, so I can always see what's in there and reduce the lack of object permanence.

I have a ton of clothes, so I can do laundry like, once every two weeks, or sometimes in dire circumstances, once a month.

Dry shampoo and baby wipes for the times where even showering is too hard.

Snacks and granola bars when eating is too hard.

I fold my clothes vertically in the drawers so I can see them all and stop forgetting they exist.

My jewelery is in transparent plastic boxes with little divisions (they're craft boxes from the dollar store). I can see what's in there and again STOP FORGETTING THEY EXIST

The phone alarm is not enough to wake me up so I got an old fashioned radio alarm and placed it outside my room. It's hell, but whatever it takes.

Hooks over doors, in every room. In my bedroom, that's where I hang my jeans, hoodies, whatever I use often.

On the doors again, shoe organizers, the kinds you hang. That's where the hats, mittens, scarves, belts, end up.

Never closed storage, always open shelves. Closed storage is where things go die.

The hooks near the front door are for keys but also small earphones, since I only need them when I go out. (the earphones are the ones with cable because i lose the airbuds and never remember to charge them)

Cleaning wipes in every room.

Face cleaning wipes on every desk. Careful not to confuse them.

The mop is the kind with a water bottle attached where you just spray and clean. That's like a million steps removed and you can easily clean that tomato sauce stain.

So many shelves, guys, I added shelves on the top of dressers. Things I use rarely go in labeled transparent plastic bins. always transparent.

Actually everything needs its own spot. Mess comes from things that have no specific spot. I'm still figuring out how to optimise some stuff. This week I bought a modular shoe rack from the dollar store, assembled it vertically, and it fit in a corner of the bathroom. Now I know where towels can go.

The spots where I hang out need to be comfortable. My bed, the couch, the desk, there's always a blanket, a fan, a humidifier near. Discomfort is the concentration killer.

A huge pan. I need to be able to cook massive portions because I don't cook often. My go to recipe is tons of veggies in a spaghetti sauce.

Boxes to drop my hairties, earrings, etc, in every spot I hang out.

Seriously, shelves, bins, dividers, displays, presenters, the dollar store is a treasure trove of adhd tools. The best ailes are: home organisation, crafts, school supplies, and strangely, makeup organizers. The point is to find the way to organize your stuff so it pleases your brain, and make living and cleaning easier. You go with your brain, not against it.

.... that’s most of it, I think. also no amount of organization will beat medication and therapy, but it all comes together for an easier life.

(oh yeah, this might confuse you into thinking my house is clean. is it definitely not.)

#adhd

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egomiso · 7 months ago

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the dressing room

your love for kenyu wins over common sense when you decide to visit him at his shoot one day chara: kenyu yukimiya x f!reader warning: nsfw content: oral, praise, mirror k!nk, creampie

Kenyu Yukimiya was a well-rounded guy.

A little too well-rounded. Excellent in soccer, an attractive model, and a charismatic personality, there was nothing he couldn't achieve. Too perfect and no rough edges. You wondered if you were undeserving of him, if that one day he would realize it and discard you to the side like the garbage you were.

Well, too bad. Because you were selfish and could never be the saint that lets him go. Rather, you would drag him down, straight down to hell, tainting his pure qualities.

He was so beautiful. And you loved him for that.

As you walked into the studio that Kenyu Yukimiya was supposedly working in today, you set down your bag containing his food and looked around. The studio was draped in white and organized, with cameras set up in the corner. You noticed a lot of familiar faces, including his manager and other employees under the same company, but your boyfriend was nowhere in sight.

You decided to go look for him.

Approaching one of the narrow hallways extending out from the main room, you peeked through doors that led to restrooms and storage rooms. Eventually, there was a door labeled Dressing Room. There was a likely chance he was in here, so with a deep breath, you raised your hand and knocked on the wood surface.

It took a few seconds, but a voice could be heard behind the door.

One that could only be described as Kenyu's.

You turned the knob and opened it, to see him there, sitting in a chair before the mirror. Surprisingly, it was empty except for him, the silence of it unusual. By now, the makeup artist would generally be in here, shouting orders to her minions.

"Love!" His eyes widened by your presence. He instantly got up from his seat, coming towards your way. "Why didn't you call me when you got here?"

You smiled. "I wanted to surprise you. I got you food too... but I left it out in the studio room."

Just as you were about to turn around to look for the forgotten food, his hand was on your arm, the warmth suddenly surrounding you like a thick fog. "No, it's okay. I can eat later."

"Is that so?" You tilted your head.

"Yes, because I'd rather eat you," he said jokingly, but the way his eyes darkened in hunger made it not so jokey.

You leaned on the door to shut it, your fingers twisting the key fob to lock it without looking back once. Your eyes stayed trained on your boyfriend. "You're so naughty, Ken."

With that, you closed the distance between the two of you, crashing your lips onto his. Soft and warm, they gave you a rush of butterflies as they always do, your heart beating against your chest, similarly to the day you first shared your kiss. As your tongue slithered into his mouth to dance alongside his, the rhythm of the kiss deepened and fastened. You held tightly onto him, feeling the heat of his proximity, causing your lower region to grow wet.

You pulled away first, smirking at his disappointed look. With your hand in his, you pulled him back to the mirrors and pushed him into the seat he originally sat at.

You pretended not to notice the outline of the hard-on that was showing on his pants, or the flustered red look on his adorable face. You loved seeing this side of him, something so much more vulnerable compared to the leader persona he kept. It was why it was too goddamn hard to let him go.

"[Name]..." he whined, eyes flitting about.

You picked up the glasses he left on the counter and held it up to him. "Put your glasses back on."

He blinked at you for a moment, surprised. "It's lame, isn't it? I hate being so blind."

"No. It's not. I love your glasses. You're fucking hot in them."

"I do...?" He instantly took the pair from your hand and put them on. He had the brightest grin on, now that he could see you fully. Not that it was helping his hard-on though... "This is why I love you."

You wrapped your arm around him and sat on his lap, grinning at the feeling of his boner. As you pressed your weight down against it, he grabbed your face into his direction. His orange eyes glimmered dangerously behind the rims, impatient and ready to devour. No longer so gentle and kind, he was ready to tear you apart.

"You're asking for it," he growled.

He kissed your neck, sucking succulently at the skin to mark you whole. "Mhm... I am." As he was about to take off his glasses again, you stopped him. "Don't. Fuck me in your glasses."

"Yes, my queen," he responded. Pulling your white blouse apart to reveal your bra, he continued to trace kisses down your body, from your collarbone to your torso. The peppered kisses tickled your skin, contributing to the heat between your legs. Eventually, he unbuckled the bra to reveal the blossom of your breasts.

His eyes widened, taking it all in, savoring it bit by bit. "You're a goddess. My goddess."

He kissed your breasts and started sucking at the nipples, sending a rush of euphoria through your head. You moaned with your head leaning back, clutching at the lengths of his brown hair.

And with that, he yanked at your pants to reveal your panties, already sopping wet. You worked your fingers to take his clothes off as well, pulling him up from the chair. His body was sculpted pristinely, built from his years of soccer, slender but with muscle rippling along his limbs. He was incredible to look at, and you wondered what you ever did in this lifetime to earn such a view.

"You're so fucking hot," he whispered.

"Then prove it."

He kissed you once more, and while doing so, stuck his fingers into the folds of your pussy. You moaned into the kiss, feeling the motions of the fingers sliding up and down in repetitive motion, sending you into orbit at the sensation.

"Ken-- mmph!"

He fiddled them expertly as if playing on a string instrument, knowing exactly where to hit the right spots.

"Shit," you moaned.

He pulled his fingers out the moment you were getting close, edging you on by the second. "You like my fingers, hm? I bet you'd like something bigger more."

You breathed out, feeling wet, slimy liquid rolling down your leg. However horny you were, you were also not going down without a fight. Kenyu somehow always flipped the switch to your competitive side -- and for that, you wanted to see him beg today. "You're not the only player on this field." Your hand wrapped around his large dick, feeling the layered folds of its skin. It was real hard, perfectly ready for your pussy. You massaged it up and down, before getting down to take it with your mouth.

A kiss on the tip of his member left him groaning instantly. "Fuck, [Name]." Your lips parted as you leaned forward, taking in the huge thing. The walls of your cheeks wrapped around it, as the tip hit the back of your throat. It was huge, but you loved it, because it tasted just like him.

His hips buckled and he shoved forward, lodging his penis deeper into your throat. Grunts sounded the still air, his sexy voice turning you on even further.

"Your mouth is so good," he moaned, his hands grabbing each side of your face. "Give it to me, love. Urgh!"

You savored his taste, his gifts, his love. Seeing him this way, so opposite from his put together persona, you only wanted him even more. More, more, more! He was yours, and it should stay this way until the end of this lifetime. You would give him this outpour of love that he could never find elsewhere. If he were to ever astray, this ensured he would make his way back to you.

Because you kept him addicted to you.

As you face fucked him, slithering your tongue along the edges of his dick, you watched his expression carefully. From the sweat sheened forehead to the ecstatic, high glint in his gaze, to the lull of his mouth hanging, you could feel your pussy grow tighter from the sight of it. Your beautiful Kenyu. Your shining star. To satisfy him was a gift from the heavens above.

"I-I'm going to..." he trailed off. Knowing him, you released the hold of your mouth from his penis, grinning mischievously. He was breathing heavily, wiping at his mouth. "Can we make love now, my love?"

"Is that what you really want?" you asked, grabbing hold of his chin.

An orange gaze full of yearning beneath lopsided glasses, he wanted it so bad -- wanted you so bad.

You kissed him, once, and then nodded in approval. "Mirror."

That was all it took. He pushed the weight of your body against the counter, clearing the makeup products with the swipe of his arm. Those same muscular arms created a makeshift cage on either side of your hips, trapping you in with his heat and testosterone. You watched the mirror closely, as he slowly leaned over your shoulder to kiss your collarbones.

With that, he pressed you down and your breasts landed on cool surface, spreading before the mirror. With a concentrated furrow of the brow, he held his member and inserted it into you, the feeling of it leaving you nearly reeling. So good!

Your eyes shadowed in lust, your mouth painted in a lopsided, crazed smile. Without missing a beat, you watched his reaction closely, the way it darkened of his own ego.

Love me like it is your last day.

"You're so tight," he told you with a grit.

"Just for you," you exhaled, as he started to shove his dick deeper, lodging it to the depths of your core. You were one with him, your ass to his waist, together and forever. He was the other half of your heart, the piece that filled the gaping hole that was your existence.

His hips buckled back and forth, the rhythm of his penis accelerating, pounding into your pussy. It hit the spots that brought you to a high. Skin on skin contact slapping rough became the sound of music to your ears.

"God save me!" you breathed out.

"I am your God," he said in response, sending a shiver down your spine. It reminded you once more why you loved him so. His true ego, his true self, only that was shown to you in these moments. He had multiple faucets to him -- multiple layers like an onion to peel. And everyday, you would continue to learn more about him. He could never grow boring. Not to you.

"Mmph!" you moaned, your fingers scratching the counter, trembling.

It was so hot, watching him through the mirror, tearing you down like lion's prey.

He fucked you like there was no tomorrow, made love to you like there was no tomorrow, in this small dressing room.

He made love to you in a place he shouldn't have, crossed a boundary at work when he should have stayed professional instead.

But you were honored. He made an exception just for you.

The friction of his dick against your vagina was heating up, the sensation comforting and delightful. It felt so good, so worth it, and so hot to do something so risky.

"You're so naughty, boy." Your words left as a slur, mouth dry and jumbled by it all.

As if your words were a catalyst of a jinx, a knock on the door outside of the dressing room echoed suddenly. The two of you stilled, eyes wide and frozen in place. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, but the pulse of your vagina was louder.

"Kenyu, are you in there?" It was his manager. "We'll begin the photoshoot soon."

"Y-Yes! I'm eating my lunch first, I'll be there soon!" he called to her. His tone was light and pure, the cheeks of his face tinted in red. He played it off smoothly, as if his dick wasn't lodged deep into you, yearning for more. You almost laughed. What a bad, lying boy he was, lying straight through pearly, white teeth to his manager while in such a deranged position. Oh how you loved every second of it.

Footsteps faded away, and it appeared his excuse had been bought for the time being.

You giggled and he sighed a breath of relief. "You always get me in some sort of trouble, [Name]."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"..."

"Exactly. So finish what you started."

He did it without any objections, ramming his cock into you even harder than before, your vagina accepting its length and girth naturally. This time, the two of you attempted to stay quieter, the thrill of the dangers adding onto it. You muffled your moans and he muffled his grunts, the temptations endless. Steadily, his thrusts were slowing down as his teeth grind harshly.

"Love, I'm c-coming soon."

You were nearly reaching your climax as well, the dam of stimulation ready to burst open. He groaned deeply and his head hung low, his chin grazing your head. Heat of his semen poured into you, oozing and creeping into your body's system. And you accepted it, because you accepted all of him.

It caused you to reach yours too and the high of a climax had your knees weak, taking you everything not to howl. So, so good. So damn good.

The cum dripped down your leg and to the floor, a beautiful mixture of yours and Kenyu's creation.

He pulled himself out of you and you turned around to embrace him with gentle arms. Despite how sticky and sweaty his body was, you were fine with it, because this was the product of your work. His arms squeezed tightly around you, the strength of them undeniable.

"Your motivation for today," you whispered.

"Nearly, got me in trouble, but it was worth it."

"Because someone couldn't control himself.''

"Just being in your presence makes me feral."

You grinned, petting his face softly. "Don't feed into my ego."

He tilted his head innocently. "But you already have the biggest one."

You lightly smacked him in the head, shooting him a glare. If he wasn't careful, he was going to gain some blue balls the next time. That would show him.

"I love you," he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the fog off. You fought against the growing smile. Someone was breathing a little hard. How cute.

"I love you more."

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justposting1 · 5 months ago

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Embracing Identity Beyond Success: A Journey Toward Inner Peace

Navigating the Fear of Professional Decline In today’s world, discussions about identity politics dominate every corner of society. We’re constantly identifying ourselves by political affiliations, beliefs, or roles: “I’m a Democrat, you’re a Republican,” or “I’m a liberal, you’re a conservative.” While these labels can be meaningful, they often overshadow deeper, personal aspects of identity.…

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bluebnny · 9 days ago

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Out of control - part 2

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

trafalgar law x reader

contents: reader teases law, suggestive, but probably counts as smut, established relationship, everything that happens is consentual

warnings: NSFW, MDNI, law feels up reader, a lot of teasing from law in general, very light bondage - reader is technically gender neutral (ie. no use of pronouns), but has a vagina

a/n: ok, so remember how i wrote in the last one that i would make a part 2 because i'm too much of a yapper to actually get to the smut? yeah... i didn't get to the smut this time either, sorry. This part is the foreplay and setup, so the next and final part will definitely be smut :). Mostly proof-read. Dividers made by me. I hope you enjoy <3

word count: 3.504

The steady hum of the Polar Tang’s engine greets you once more as you leave Law’s office. You don’t immediately go back to work like you had let him believe. Instead, you make your way to the old storage room, walking fast.

The old door creaks a bit as you enter, but this level of the ship is almost always deserted, so you know you have nothing to worry about. Still, you don’t slow down once inside the room, your destination clear in your mind. Aside from the fresh layer of dust coating everything, the storage is in pristine condition, which is a fairly recent development.

A few months back, Law someone had made a huge deal out of some dumb old medical textbook getting misplaced. You and a few other crewmates had been tasked with cleaning out the room, spending the better part of a month tidying, scrubbing, and sorting everything in there until the air in the entire level felt clearer. You had taken your job very seriously, having turned the dingy and disorganized old room into a proper archive.

Everything is now so well organized that every single item has its own place, even some unusual ones you and your crew mates had had a lot of fun arguing over the categorisation of. You had ended by rounding up all the weirdest items no one could agree on and decided on their categories by coming up with funny ways to use them. The rule had been that whatever category could fit the most items in it would win, the logic being that it was more efficient than judging each item separately.

That’s how you had decided on the name of the box you’re headed to, now. You reach the desired row of shelves and don’t hesitate before diving into a box jokingly labelled “emergency supplies: use next time captain rejects bedrest while sick” which had been occupying your mind for months. Because aside from a few running jokes between you and your fellow crewmates, the odd items you found had also given you a new idea.

You rummage around between the various objects in there, pushing aside some random pieces of rope that weren’t rotten enough to discard, an old toy gun no one knew the origin of, a foam knife that must have been a prop for a halloween party at some point, a leather belt no one had claimed, and a real taser that no longer worked. Your hand finally closes around the item you were looking for.

“Still there.” You smirk, quickly closing the box again and sneaking out of the room before anyone notices the open door.

…

Dinner is lively as usual, and a very welcome opportunity for you to avoid Law a little longer. Not that he would ever do something in front of the crew, that’s not what you’re worried about. This time, there is a different reason for you not meeting his gaze. You have a plan. A way to take your revenge. But you know that if you look at him, Law will immediately know something is up. So, the best option is to immerse yourself in the conversation around you, letting him think that nothing is out of the ordinary, and that your avoidance is simply still due to being flustered from earlier.

When you’re done eating, you don’t immediately go back to your shared room even though you can barely contain yourself from anticipation. It’s important to act normal, to not let your nervousness show. So, despite how tired you are, you linger a little like you usually would, chat a little more, and join in on a few activities, acting like you don’t have a care in the world.

Law is already in the room, having left with a glance to you that clearly communicated that he wanted you to join him. But you had simply pretended not to get the obvious message, instead smiled at him innocently and said, “Oh you’re going to bed? Good idea, you must be exhausted after working so late yesterday.” Quickly trying to focus your attention on the card game, as if you weren’t already losing from your lack of concentration.

When you do finally decide to get up about an hour later, you rush to your room, not knowing if the rapid beating of your heart was due to excitement or nausea. You don’t even look at him upon entering, heading directly to the bathroom, and quickly grabbing your toothbrush. You hear his footsteps follow behind you, and he speaks after a moment.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Law’s voice is level as usual, and you look into the mirror over the sink to see him standing in the doorway. You’re already brushing your teeth, having done it partly in the hope that it would hide the way your hands were shaking a little, partly to have an excuse not to speak. But Law is, unfortunately, patient, and stays where he is.

You can’t help but admire him a little. His hat is off again, and the way he’s casually leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed highlights his toned physique and broad shoulders. He had put on the white tank top and light grey pyjama pants that he usually wears to sleep. He also has that look on his face again, the same one he had in his office earlier, and you’re starting to wonder if Law knows how ridiculously attractive he is.

You have to quickly spit out the toothpaste to hide the fact that you were just about to start drooling. “Have I?” You ask him, still trying to sound innocent. You’re not turning around, unable to pull your eyes away from his reflection.

He steps behind you now, hands on your shoulders, gaze locked on yours through the mirror. The dark circles framing his lower eyelids only deepen the effect that his bedroom eyes already have on you. It’s quite unfair, really. You also see how flustered your expression is, and he smirks at that and leans down to trail some light kisses down the side of your neck. Your sharp intake of breath only spurs him on, becoming a bit rougher and sucking down, clearly aiming to leave bruises.

He turns you around, still holding your shoulders, leaning in as if to kiss you, but not letting your lips touch. He’s taller than you and can easily stay out of reach of your lips, which just about reach his shoulder. “Yes, you have.” He mutters.

“Well, I’m not anymore.” You respond, trying to reach his face “I’m actually trying my very best to kiss you right now.” Deciding to wrap your arms around the back of his neck in an attempt to pull him down by sheer strength alone.

“Good, because I wasn’t planning on letting you avoid me much longer.” There’s a moment at first where he doesn’t budge, his only purpose to show you how easily he could overpower you if he wanted, demonstrating that he’s only kissing you because he chooses to, not because you’re putting most of your body weight into it. But he finally obliges and catches your lips in a heated kiss.

Together, you stumble to the bedroom, both trying your best not to break the kiss. You subtly push him backwards against the bed until the backs of his knees are touching it, and press on his chest a little, indicating that you want him to sit down. He completely ignores this, however, instead spinning you around and guiding your waist in a similar way. When you don’t budge, he doesn’t hesitate to simply bend down and pick up your legs, so your now unsupported torso drops back onto the bed.

You let out a surprised yelp when your head sinks into the soft blanket, but he ignores it. Instead, he spreads your legs and kneels down between them, bending down to continue making out as if nothing had happened. His hands are on your sides again, and before you know it, he gently lifts your torso and drags you further up the bed. Simply positioning you the way he wants you if you won’t take the hint and do it yourself.

His mouth is hot against yours, and just like every other time you’re in this position, you’re taken aback all over again by how good of a kisser he is. He’s kissing you so well you feel a little lightheaded, struggling to regain control. But you’re not giving up this easy, although it’s definitely tempting.

“Wait, Law. Stop.” You manage to breathe out between kisses.

“Hm?” He looks up, clearly confused, but respects your request. “Do you not want to?”

“No, I do! It’s just…” You look down a little flustered “Just, can you lie on your back? Maybe?” God, is it always this tough to meet his gaze?

His expression immediately turns to one of mischief. You can’t ignore the fact that he looks quite intimidating when he’s turned on, his lean frame towering over you with ease, eyes fixed on you like a predator about to devour his prey. It’s probably helped by the fact that he only smiles when he’s either about to fuck you, or about to murder someone. Your stomach tightens deliciously.

“Why.”

It’s not spoken like a question. It’s a challenge. He sees right through you, knows exactly what you’re trying to do. And he’s not going to make it easy for you. If you’re going to attempt being in charge, you can’t expect him to simply comply. Still, he doesn’t want to push back too much just yet, wanting to see where this is going.

“I uhm… I don’t know. Just want to change things up a bit, that’s all.” If you were looking at him, you would see the way he smirks darkly at you, but you’re too preoccupied with fiddling with the neckline of his tank top to notice.

For the second time that night, he lifts you up without warning, by your waist this time. Before you can understand what happened, he’s falling back against the mattress, with you on top, straddling his lap. His hands are firmly planted on your sides, eyes still locked on your face. In your surprise, you look at him, noting his cocky expression.

“Well?” God he’s a bastard.

You just lean down to kiss him again, knowing it’s best to avoid answering. Law is too smart for his own good, so trying to win an argument against him now that you’re not thinking straight is an even worse idea than it is usually.

You do everything you can to show him you want to take control this time. Pushing down on his chest when he leans up into the kiss a bit too much, holding his face and neck like he always does when kissing you. And you see why he does it. God, this feels good. You start to feel a weird sort of craving, a longing. The feeling of needing to be close to him overcomes you, and you almost forget you were about to have sex from how deeply you’re enjoying just being intimate with him.

It's when his hands move from your waist to your shoulders that you remember you were trying to take back control. It takes everything in you to grasp his hands and lift them off you. You pin them on either side of his head, leaving him completely exposed. Vulnerable. But you keep kissing him.

You almost squeal when he forcefully shoves his hips up into you, the way his bulge roughly collides with your clit making you lose your composure for a split second, and he takes his chance to once again move his hands to your body while you’re distracted. Neither of you break the kiss, but you can definitely feel his smirk against your lips now. You lightly bite him through the kiss, but it just makes him hum in amusement. You should have known better than to think he would make it that easy for you.

Realizing that you have to resort to your backup plan – and secretly delighted about it – you reach your hand under his pillow, where you had hidden your secret weapon after fetching it from the storage earlier. Your other hand is busy taking one of his arms and placing it above his head again. Finally, having found what you were looking for, you pull out the pair of handcuffs from under the pillow and quickly fasten one of the manacles around his wrist. Law makes a noise of surprise but doesn’t stop you from wrapping the chain behind one of the bars of his headboard and tying his other hand up too.

You both pull away from the kiss now. You, to admire your handiwork, Law, to look between you and his tied hands in utter surprise and shock. Seems he didn’t see through you all the way after all.

It’s your turn to smirk now, straightening up a bit and placing your hands on your hips. You playfully narrow your eyes at him, challenging him to make his next move. Of course, the handcuffs aren’t made from seastone, only normal metal, so Law isn’t actually trapped and could easily get out of them if he wanted to. He quickly regains his unbothered composure, but humours you, it seems, and rests his head down on the pillow again.

“Didn’t see that one coming, did you, captain?” you tease him, and he just scoffs. Law looks mildly annoyed; the type of exasperation that makes you want to agitate him further to see where it leads.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t.” He responds, tone unreadable. But the recklessness in his eyes gives him away.

So, you decide to resume making out with him, glad he didn’t put up more of a fight, and thinking you’ve got him where you want him now. But you’re quickly proven wrong when he roughly pushes his hips into yours a second time and again manages to elicit a moan from you at the intense sensation.

“Speaking of seeing things coming…” he murmurs into the kiss, and you don’t have to open your eyes to know he’s grinning at the state you’re in. “Someone’s sensitive.”

But the fight hasn’t left you yet, lowering your hands to his chest and your mouth to his neck, you start grinding your hips roughly into his while sucking a hickey into the place under his ear. The reaction is immediate, Law letting out a breathy groan before he can stop himself.

“Fuck.” He lets out and you look up just enough to throw him a little smirk back before trailing little kisses all the way from his jaw to his collarbones, nipping at his skin every now and then.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Who’s sensitive?” you ask him in between kisses, and the breath he lets out at that sounds more like a barely contained growl than anything else. However much Law can seem pissed off sometimes, you quickly learned from dating him that he loves it when you talk back. Not that he would ever admit that. Not that he even realizes it himself.

But the pushback excites him. As someone who has learned to expect every good thing in his life to fall apart, being with someone too calm would only stress him out. He would try – and fail – to figure out their sick and twisted mind games, finding the person unpredictable, and therefore dangerous. That’s why he loves when you fight back, allowing him to push further under the guise of standing his ground, loving the challenge. It makes it all the more satisfying when you break apart for him.

And his excitement is clear from the way he’s instinctively pulling at the shackles still tying his hands to the bed and from the hard bulge forming under his pyjamas. You know he’s about to start bucking his hips into yours again, wanting to take back control. Trying to abuse all your weak spots to make you fall apart for him, depend on him. Law desperately needs to reduce you to the mess he is so scared of becoming himself.

But this time, you see it coming and refuse to let him get to you again. You place the top of your feet over his thighs behind you and move your hands to his hips, right where you can feel his pelvis, and hold him down like that. The position makes you unable to reach his neck, so you simply sit as straight as your can with your hands firmly planted on his sides and give him a teasing smile that you hope makes you look confident.

God, he looks utterly wrecked already. The way his eyelids are heavy and his mouth half open, the overall effect greatly enhanced by the way his chest heaves with every deep breath. His head is thrown back on the pillow a bit from how you were attacking his neck, and the look he throws you through half-lidded eyes is one of pure lust and need. The sight makes you want to fuck him right now, but still, you hold back, wondering how much self control he must have to be able to do this to you every single time. But you’re not done messing him up, not yet.

Still sitting over his hard cock, you start grinding your core over it again, this time making sure to give him as little friction as you can. You manage not to roll your eyes but can’t stop yourself from biting your lip at how good it feels. Fuck, you could cum just from this. He’s fully hard beneath his pants now, and you can perfectly feel the outline of his thick cock from how you’re dragging your clit against it.

Law is trembling slightly beneath you, clearly struggling to cope with the fact that you can get him just as needy as he can get you. “Y/n, if you don’t do something soon…” He urges through gritted teeth.

“You know, this is where you would usually make me beg for it.” You answer him, not able to stop yourself. It’s the truth, but you don’t actually plan on it, knowing he wouldn’t let you be on top ever again if you tried. Plus, you’re enjoying it too much to give it up. When he shoots you a menacing glare, however, you stop your teasing and lift off of him. He lets out a low groan at the loss of touch but doesn’t want to stop you now that you’re at least doing something.

You pull at the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, and he lifts his hips to help you pull the fabric down his legs. Much to Law’s displeasure, yours remain on. He usually undresses you fully and toys with you a little before he even thinks of pulling down his own pants, often making you cum a few times first, but sometimes opting to simply edge you until you’re almost sobbing.

Your hands find his cock. It’s hard, twitching, and leaking almost as much as you must be from all the teasing and foreplay you’ve both endured from each other.

Law watches you reposition yourself and bow your head down, your tongue out. He braces himself and manages to only let out a shuddering breath when it makes contact with the sensitive underside of his shaft. You slowly lick a stripe up his length, taking your time to savour it, occasionally applying a little more pressure by sucking the side of it with your lips. You do this a few times, but always make sure to avoid his sensitive tip, where you know he needs you most.

“Y/n, if you don’t do something now, I’m going to make you regret not using seastone cuffs on me.” He growls through his clenched jaw, and you know he means it.

Law likes to be a bit rough with you. Nothing extreme, he doesn’t want to hurt you or anything like that, but he loves to mess you up a little. There’s something so delicious in being able to make you so desperate, to lovingly break you, knowing it’s all because of him. You’re surprised he even let you go as far as you have, since he usually ignores it every time you attempt to take the lead.

“Someone’s getting worked up, huh?” You answer, but you’re quick to take off your remaining clothes and go back to sit in your initial position over his cock. You take it into your hand once again and use your other hand to lift his tank top a little, exposing his stomach up to the bottom of his chest tattoo. The sight almost has you drooling again. Hovering above him, with one hand on his chest to steady yourself, you slowly guide his tip to where you’ve both needed him for hours.

Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you liked it :D (This is my fic, don't repost! Reblogs are always appreciated <3)

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

#one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law smut #one piece x reader #one piece fanfiction #one piece fluff #one piece smut #trafalgar d water law

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rottenpumpkin13 · 4 months ago

Note

How would it go to ask AGSZC (+ Rufus and the Turks) for a menstrual pad?

Sephiroth: Is awkward but diligent. "...Follow me." *leads you through 7 security checkpoints to R&D's medical storage* "These should last approximately 3.7 cycles based on average flow calculations." *hands you four boxes*

Angeal: Without missing a beat, pulls out an organized kit with labeled sections from his office. "Wing or no wing? Regular or overnight? I've got three options here..." *proceeds to lay out an entire care package* "There's also a heating pad, some painkillers, and I picked up those chocolate-covered almonds the cadets said were good for cramps." Mother hen strikes again while casually holding enough supplies to support half the female SOLDIER population.

Genesis: "Ah, the monthly tribute, a crimson dawn that brings forth the—" *barely dodges your irritated swipe* "Loveless speaks of the suffering of women in Act II, verse—ow! I'm trying to be supportive, you philistine."

Zack: "OH NO! Don't worry, I got this!" *grabs your wrist* "HEY EVERYONE! WHO'S GOT A PAD? MY FRIEND NEEDS ONE!" *proceeds to ask literally everyone in the building* "See? Team effort! High five! ...No? Okay, maybe later!"

Cloud: "Oh! Um..." *turns slightly pink* "Just... wait right here? Please?" *practically sprints away, returns exactly 8 minutes later slightly disheveled but triumphant* "The receptionist on 3rd gave me a few different kinds... wasn't sure which... um... hope these help?" *awkwardly helpful and genuinely concerned*

Reno: "What's wrong with free bleeding? I think it's badass."

Tseng: *wordlessly reaches into his suit pocket, produces exactly what you need* "....." When questioned about why he carries these: "The Turks are prepared for all scenarios." Refuses to elaborate further, returns to paperwork as if nothing happened.

Rufus: Barely looks up from petting Darkstar and says "Here." *slides corporate card across desk* "Get whatever you need. And since you're going out, bring me back a latte from Sector 8 and a puppuccino for Dee."

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #angeal hewley #zack fair #rufus shinra #tseng ff7 #reno ff7

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pukefactory · 1 month ago

Text

•☽────✧˖°˖ RELAXING EVENING ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Pokémon Trainer Reader Where ENA Somehow Ends Up In Your World

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ ENA arrives in your world mid-rant, faceplanting into tall Galar grass. A flicker—then a crash. One moment, the fog of the Lonely Door; the next, dew on her cap and a Wooloo nosing at her cheek. She sits up groaning, “What kind of commerce-void dimension throws you into the ground without a greeting committee?” Her new humanoid body wobbles, too soft, too warm—“Ugh. I’m made of jelly.” She stretches her hand and recoils. Fingers. Fleshy fingers. “Oh no. Am I squishable now?”

☆ She doesn’t understand the concept of a Trainer at first—she thinks you’re a war general. “Wait, wait, wait—you tell them what to do? And they just… obey??” Her voice pitches into her saleswoman register, clapping your shoulder. “So what’s your retention strategy, General? Profit-sharing? Treat-based incentives? Can I sign up as a subcontractor?” She is immediately distracted by your Hydrapple, whose scent reminds her of a dream she once had about apple cider and funeral hymns. “Are these ones edible?”

☆ ENA is convinced Pokéballs are cursed. She refuses to touch one. “Why would you trap someone in a sphere smaller than their head? That’s not storage, that’s emotional repression in orb form!” You try to explain the tech, the comfort inside—“Sure, sure, next you’ll tell me they like it there.” She begins drawing little angry faces on your Pokéballs with a Sharpie when you’re not looking. You find one labeled: “Prisoner of commerce.”

☆ You gift her an Applin one warm evening, your hands slightly trembling—and she doesn’t get it. At first. She beams: “Oh! A fruit with a face! I love gifts with souls in them!” Then she pauses. Her Meanie side blinks. “…Wait. Is this a bribe?” You explain, awkwardly, what the Applin means in Galar. Romantic intent. Like a proposal in fruit form. ENA stares. “…A fruit with intentions? So you’re trying to date me through agriculture?!” There is a long silence. Then she holds the Applin close to her chest. “…I accept this fruit of fate. You sly organic demon.”

☆ She doesn’t want to be a Trainer—not really. She wants to negotiate with Pokémon. She crouches next to wild Rookidee and whispers, “What’s your dream, little feather capitalist?” ENA’s approach is bizarre, but somehow effective. Pokémon like her. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t try to catch them, just talks to them. Offers them choices. Bargains. Once, you watch her exchange a berry for the loyalty of a Sableye, who now refuses to leave her side. She names him “Tariff.”

☆ ENA meets Arceus, and the encounter almost breaks reality. She’s staring at the Alpha Pokémon—her body flickering with instability, her voice echoing like a radio trying to scream. “YOU’RE THE BOSS?” she yells, incredulous. “You’ve got the worst HR department I’ve ever seen!” Arceus says nothing. Just glows. She throws her arms up. “I WENT THROUGH TWELVE DIMENSIONS, LOST TWO ARMS, AND GOT SOFT JUST TO FIND OUT THIS WAS ALL A CELESTIAL MLM?!” Arceus blinks once. Then it disappears. She turns to you and mutters, “They KNOW.”

☆ When she sees Zekrom and Reshiram, she immediately begins comparing you two. She points to Reshiram: “Truth. That’s you. You brush your teeth and cry when Pokémon faint.” She points to Zekrom: “Ideals. That’s me. I believe sandwiches should be legally tax-deductible.” Then she pulls you into a dramatic pose with her arms around your shoulders, shouting to the heavens, “TOGETHER, WE FORM—AMBIGUOUS ETHICAL GRAYNESS!!”

☆ Camping with ENA is surreal, domestic, and absurd. She tries to cook curry but ends up throwing random berries into the pot while narrating like a soap opera host. “This Sitrus Berry… bitter. Like the betrayal of my past life.” The curry is weirdly good. You eat beside her under the stars, your Applin snoozing between you. She tilts her head at you. “This is the part where you confess your feelings again, right?” she says flatly. You sputter. She smirks. “Gotcha.”

☆ One night, she asks if Pokémon ever get homesick for other worlds. You say you’re not sure. She stares at her Applin and quietly mutters, “I think mine might.” But you know she’s not talking about the Applin. Later, you find her sketching the Uncanny Streets in the dirt with a stick. She doesn’t notice you watching. She hums a tune under her breath like a lullaby. You sit beside her and don’t say anything, but she leans into your side.

☆ She evolves in her own way, too. Not by battling. Not by experience points. But through days spent laughing at Pikachu memes, yelling at Zigzagoon, dancing through wildflower fields in her patched-up socks, and letting you braid her hair. And one evening—when your hand brushes hers and she doesn’t pull away—she says, “I still don’t understand what I am. Or why I’m here. But you make it less unbearable.” Then she adds with a smirk, “Also, you owe me another Applin. That one evolved and now it’s cranky.”

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 2 months ago

Note

You’re writing is amazing! I had two things

1: What is a trope you love writing?

2: Can there be a Bad batch x reader, where she’s loves to cook. When she joins them she cooks for them and they love her cooking (once they get used to having something other than ration bars). Maybe she even sends them with packed lunches for when they go off.

Thank you x

I don’t have a trope in particular I like writing, but I’m a sucker for a good enemies to lovers or anything angsty or tragic

⸻

“Seconds”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

⸻

They weren’t sure what to make of you at first.

A civilian-turned-ally. Handy in a fight, steady under pressure, and weirdly good at organizing their storage crates. But most of all, you cooked. Like, really cooked.

No one had expected it—not after surviving off ration bars, battlefield meals, and the occasional mystery stew Crosshair pretended didn’t come from a can. But then you’d shown up with a patched-together portable burner and the stubborn attitude of someone determined to make something edible from nothing. And you did.

The first time you cooked, it had stunned them into silence.

The scent of simmering broth wafted through the corridors of the Marauder, followed by spices and roasted meat and something buttery that made Wrecker’s eyes water.

Tech was the first to speak, nose twitching. “That is not protein paste.”

“Unless someone’s finally weaponized it,” Echo said, cautiously hopeful.

Hunter didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned in the doorway of the galley with arms crossed, watching the way you moved—calm, focused, humming to yourself as you stirred a bubbling pot. There was something disarming about the scene. Domestic. Gentle. Strange.

Crosshair gave a low whistle from where he lounged. “Are we keeping this one?”

No one answered. But no one said no.

⸻

It became tradition fast.

You cooked whenever there was downtime, wherever there were ingredients. You scavenged herbs on jungle moons, traded for spices in backwater towns, stretched every credit and crumb into something warm. Something human. You’d hand them plates and bowls and containers like they were weapons before a battle—only these made them feel… grounded.

Every day you could. Breakfasts on quiet mornings. Late dinners after brutal missions. You adapted what ingredients you had, learned what they each liked—Tech hated onions but loved citrus, Crosshair liked spicy food that burned the tongue, Echo had a sweet tooth he tried to hide, and Hunter… Hunter liked comfort food. He’d never say it out loud, but you caught the softness in his expression whenever you made something simple and warm. Like home.

They never asked you to. But they stopped saying no.

Eventually, you started packing lunches for them. Personalized. Thoughtful.

Crosshair’s were spicy and wrapped with a snarky note.

Wrecker’s came with double servings and a warning label.

Tech’s included clean utensils and clear labels, because of course they did.

Echo’s always had a little dessert tucked in the side

Hunter’s would just have little doodle/picture you’d drawn

⸻

They’d left you behind this time. Not because you couldn’t handle yourself, but because someone had to stay with Omega. She wasn’t ready for this mission, and neither were you—still recovering from the last one, a blaster graze healing at your ribs.

The ship was quiet. Omega wandered in around dinner time, drawn by the smell of whatever you were cooking.

She climbed up onto the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world, chin resting on her hands as she watched you slice vegetables and stir broth.

“That smells better than anything I’ve ever had on Kamino,” she said dreamily.

You smiled. “I’ll take that as the highest of compliments.”

She watched you for a while, head tilting. “You always look really happy when you cook.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

You thought about it as you stirred. “Because food makes people feel safe. Even in the middle of a war, a good meal can remind you what it’s like to be human.”

Omega was quiet for a beat. Then: “You make them feel safe.”

You didn’t answer right away.

She squinted up at you. “You really care about them, huh?”

You nodded. “They’ve been through hell. They deserve someone to care.”

She grinned slowly. “You’ve got a crush on one of them.”

You almost dropped the spoon.

“Excuse me?”

She giggled. “I knew it!”

You tried (and failed) to play it cool. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, sliding off the counter. “You pack lunches. You make special snacks. You stitched Wrecker’s sleeve when it ripped, even though he didn’t ask. You added hot sauce to Crosshair’s meal because he once said it tasted better. You kept Tech’s favorite tea even though no one else drinks it. And you stayed up all night once just to make sure Echo’s respirator didn’t fail after that dust storm.”

She paused, smirking. “One of those meant more.”

You turned back to the pot. “You are way too observant.”

She laughed. “So, who is it? Wrecker?”

“No.”

“Tech?”

“Definitely not.”

“Echo?”

“Closer.”

“Crosshair?”

You gave her a look.

She grinned wide. “Fine, fine. I won’t guess. For now.”

You stirred the pot again and said, softly, “It doesn’t matter.”

Omega’s voice was gentler. “Why not?”

You shrugged. “Because maybe it’s safer this way. Just being part of this… this crew. This little found family. It’s enough.”

She looked at you for a long moment. Then she slid onto a nearby stool and rested her chin in her hand again.

“They’ll be back soon,” she said. “You gonna tell them dinner’s ready?”

You smiled quietly, not looking up. “They’ll smell it.”

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lou-struck · 22 days ago

Text

Cold Panic

Barbatos x reader

Wc. 2.7k

~ The Castle's annual garden party is tomorrow, but after a mix up delivery, the whole event is in jeopardy.

The first thing you notice when the castle doors open for you is the rich smell of the freshly cut arch of roses decorating the entryway.

“Cool isn't it?” Little D Number 2 smiles popping up next to you. “Barbatos made it this morning, he even picked all of the roses himself.”

“So that’s why he wasn’t answering my messages earlier,” you sigh looking around at the cleaner-than-normal foyer. “The Garden Party tomorrow is a pretty big deal huh?”

The demon nods furiously, “Super Big. Are you here to see Lord Diavolo?”

“Barbatos actually,” you reply. “I was worried he was overdoing it and wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help him.”

“That’s so nice of you,” the little demon says. And with a flash of his pointed teeth, he scampers down the hall. “He should be in the kitchen, I’ll walk you there.”

The kitchen is organized chaos. Aside from the overflowing island of ingredients and baking equipment, every surface is covered in platters of expertly prepared treats that look like they came straight out of a Michelin Star restaurant.

Barbatos stands over a tray, piping some kind of cream over the freshest batch of goods. He looks exhausted and his apron is dusted in flour. But when his eyes land on you, they light up.

“Oh Mc, this is a pleasant surprise.” he smiles walking around the kitchen island,“ What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” you smile, giving him a hug when he is close enough to do so. “I just wanted to see how everything was going. Do you need any help with anything?”

“Actually I am just finishing up here,” he says proudly. “The ice sculpture I ordered for the head table should be arriving tomorrow morning and the last round of deliveries got dropped off an hour ago.”

“Even the Candles?” you ask excitedly as the image of the flower-shaped candles you had designed appears in your mind. “Those will make great gifts for the guests.”

“I agree,” he nods, “I had heard they arrived but haven't had a moment to quality check the shipment. Would you like to come along?”

Eagerly you shake your head and take the butler's extended hand, still gloveless from his baking, and follow him through the kitchen to the storage bay. Under the dim hallway lighting, the dark pavement ripples under your feet as you scan the mountains of parcels and deliveries.

Ripples?

“I think I stepped in a puddle,” you say sloshing through the thin layers of water coating the ground. “I hope you guys don’t have a leak.”

Barbatos stops in his wet tracks and with a flick of his wrist illuminates the room. He doesn't breathe, not as he follows the trail of water to a crate tucked away in the corner. The color drains from his face, “It can’t be,” he breathes, splashing over to the source of the mess.

“What is it?” you call after him.

“I believe,” he sighs reading the shipping label stapled to the top of the crate. “This was supposed to be the ice sculpture for tomorrow.”

Coming up alongside him, you watch as he pries open the lid and looks inside the container. Instead of finding the majestic blue phoenix ice carving the butler had commissioned, the bottom quarter of the drate is filled with water, a floating red ribbon, and several bobbing ice chips. “Oh no,” you breathe watching the ribbon bob in the water as more and more droplets steadily leak through the holes in the crate. “I thought the sculpture was supposed to be delivered tomorrow?”

“It was,” the Butler frowns. “There seems to have been a mixup on their end. With such a high-profile client, this kind of accident shouldn’t have occurred.”

“What are we going to do?” you ask, the stress of this situation flips your stomach.

It only takes an instant for Barbatos to return to his usual, unfazed self. With a deep breath, he forces away the troublesome emotions that inconvenience him and flashes you a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. “First, I must clean up this mess. And check the other shipments for signs of water damage.”

“ I can help with that,” you offer quickly.

“You needn't trouble yourself Mc,” his voice all politeness as he tries to shoulder this burden himself. “I should’ve been around to check off the deliveries as they came. You shouldn't have to do anything to fix my previous mistake.”

Barbatos can do just about anything. Anything except asking for help when the going gets tough, all you want out of your special relationship with him is for him to trust you to help him, even when it’s not an emergency. “It’s not your fault,” you say stubbornly. “You said it yourself that the shipment was expected to arrive tomorrow. I’m here, and I’m helping whether you like it or not.”

The room is deathly quiet for a moment as the last of, what you thought was a pep-talk, echoes through the storeroom. His face is unreadable as he stands in the pool of water, growing higher by the second as the remains of the ice sculpture leaks through the cracks in the wood.

And then… He laughs

The sound isn't one of those usual polite chuckles he makes when one of Diavolos guests tells an overused joke over tea. This laugh is unrefined, merry, and something you would do just about anything to hear again. “I apologize for my rudeness Mc, it’s simply no one has spoken to me like that in quite some time.”

“I felt like you needed it,” you say gently. “I want to be able to help you out more.”

His lips brush against your temple as an apology you are more than happy to accept. “In that case, I would love to spend more time with you.” He scans the room and his eyes land on a set of three stacked packages. “I think the candles are over there, would you please check and make sure the water hasn’t damaged the shipment?”

You nod and slosh through the puddle to the cardboard, water has begun to seep up the surface of the containers, darkening the exterior considerably. The top one looks to have been untouched by the mess and with a sigh of relief, you move it to the side and look at the ones below that weren't so lucky.

Fearing the worst, you peel off the damp tape and open the flaps. “How are the candles?” he calls. “Are they damaged?”

“The box is wet,” you respond, pulling out a tightly packaged candle, a few droplets of water drip from the outside, but it seems to have not been able to reach the product itself. “The candles are still wrapped up so it looks like the water didn't get to them.”

“That’s a relief, those candles are so lovely, it would be a pain to have to remake them ourselves.”

“You can do that?” you ask, clocking the intricate waxy floral design of the rose candle in your hand. If it weren't for the thin wick poking out from the center, you would think it to be a living blossom.

You can hear his amused laughter from the broom closet, “Of course I can Mc. I figured my position as a Butler may one day require it so I picked it up. I hate to ask, but do you think you can unpack these and dry off the packaging for me?”

“Of course,” you smile, jumping at the chance to take something off his plate.

“Thank you, you are such a big help,” he says, placing an enchanted mop into the center of the puddle. The fibers drink up the mess, and you watch as the water ripples and flows inward, shrinking in size until it disappears completely.

“Woah, I have to get one of those mops,” you say in amazement.

“You think so?” he hums regarding the tool. “I think I have another laying around somewhere, after I finish making a new ice sculpture I’ll find it for you.”

“That would be gre~ Wait” you stop and take a moment to decipher that nonchalant second thing. “Are you really going to just whip up a whole new ice sculpture?”

He laughs warmly, making your insides feel as if you have just had a fresh cup of tea. “Whipping would be absurd. But I can crave one fairly easily.”

“Is there anything you can’t do?” you tease lifting one of the boxes and following behind the butler to the kitchen.

He holds the door for you giving you a glimpse of his knowing smile. “I’m sure there are a few things.”

Hundreds of floral candles sit atop the kitchen counter air drying as Barbatos works diligently on the giant block of ice he had stored in the bowels of the freezer. 'Just in case’ he had told you as he emerged with a red nose and frost on his fine eyelashes.

The sound of metal chisels on ice is remarkably soothing to you as you continue to cross a few more items off of the Butler's list.

The frigid air brushes against your skin, but you keep a careful eye on the open door just in case it were to close, turning him into the Devildom’s most perfect popsicle.

A kettle hums on the stove, not quite whistling, as you search through his tea collection for something warm-tasting to help him fight that bitter cold.

You flip through the fruit, the florals, and the strange until you find an interesting smoky sage flavor and toss it into the pot with some honey crystals.

The sweet, amber liquid flows into one of the larger mugs that warms your hands as you carry it into the freezer, passing racks of rare demonus bottles, meats, and something that resembles a body until your shoes crunch the curled shavings of ice leading up to the nearly completed ice sculpture.

“Hey, I made you something warm but it looks like you’ve been working up a sweat.” You tease, holding out the mug which he graciously accepts.

“ I admit, I have made more progress than I ever hoped I would tonight. I believe it has to do with your presence. Inspiring me with every hammer of the chisel.”

He steps back to take a sip of the tea, giving you a full look at the design he has created. A hyper-realistic icy floral display. The frozen petals look as if they have come straight from the garden itself. You cannot imagine that the sculpture the Castle had commissioned looked anywhere near as beautiful as the statue standing before you.

“This is… wow” you sputter out, unable to think of any other word that can describe the piece of art in front of you. “I’m blown away.”

“You approve of it?” he asks, and you can tell from his tone that he is searching for your admiration, desperate for your warmth to be directed towards him.

“It’s breathtaking,” your voice is soft as your hand moves on its own, entranced by the crystal petals that may or not be an illusion. You have to check. He doesn't stop you when you touch the icy surface, he knows you would never damage anything he has created with his own two hands. “How much more do you have to do?”

“Not much longer,” he says, looking over his creation critically. “There are a few imperfections in the leaves I need to smooth out but then I believe I could call it a night.”

“Can I watch you work?” you ask hopefully. Getting the chance to watch Barbatos hard at work is more entertaining than most of the stuff on TV nowadays.

“If that is what you wish, I would love your company.” he smiles a cloud of condensation spills from his lips, fogging his safety goggles as he reaches for a small silver chisel on a nearby shelf. “But if you get too cold, don’t force yourself to stay in here.

“I won't,” you assure him. The cold from the freezer begins to prick at your cheeks but you don’t mind it, not when you look at the Butler's rosy ones and the delicate shavings of frost that stick to his eyelashes.

If he can brave the depths of the freezer for as long as he has, you can bear to spend a few more minutes with him.

His movements are precise as he makes dozens of tiny angled jabs at the shaved ice block, the last few leaves and flowers bloom under his care, looking just as real as the others. His eyes never leave the project, but you have a slight suspicion that he is showing off just for you.

You’re hypnotized by his concentration, watching his skilled hands create life out of water with bated breath. Your body shivers as it is overtaken by goosebumps but you barely register the sensation until the near musical sound of scraping and shaving ceases and he pulls up his goggles revealing his vibrant, jade eyes.

“I believe I have finished,” he says, stepping back to look over his work with a semi-proud smile. “Do you see anything I may have missed?”

You look over the stature as he steps behind you. Although he has been sitting in the freezer far longer than you have, his arms still feel warm when they wrap around you from behind. “It’s perfect, Barbatos. But I think there is one thing missing.”

“Oh?” He sounds momentarily surprised as he places his chin on your shoulder. “And what would that be?”

Looking down at the blank base of the statue, you lean back and sigh against his frame“There’s no signature. Don’t artists usually sign their work?”

You can feel his chest leap with his laughter. “Would that amuse you?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I suppose I can oblige this request of yours and take credit for the work I have done.” He picks up the smallest chisel for the last time and kneels to reach the very bottom of the ice sculpture. The part that will be covered by the table runner and begins to etch his name on the ice. “There, now we are finished.”

“But no one will be able to see it in that spot,” you pout.

“That’s the point,” his smile is devilish as you approach the base. You know that malicious compliance is kinda his thing but you were hoping he would allow himself to receive a bit of praise for doing the impossible. But then, you see it, gleaming proudly on the bottom. Barbatos x Mc.

“Why is my name on it? I didn't carve anything,” you ask, stunned by the gesture. Your relationship with Barbatos isn't really one he likes to show off, so him doing this, declaring you are his on this centerpiece of the Garden Party is pretty big for him.

Even if no one else can see it.

“If it weren't for you, Mc I never would’ve caught the melted Ice Sculpture in time. So sculpture is just as much yours as it is mine.”

“That’s s-sweet,” you shiver as the biting cold finally gets the better of you. “N-now can we go somewhere a bit warmer.”

“Of course,” He says, guiding you through the freezer urgently. “I’ll make you a cup of cocoa and draw you a bath in my quarters.”

“In your quarters?” you repeat, a smile tugs at your lips as his cheeks redden.

“I figured you should stay here tonight, it is far too late for you to walk back to the House of Lamination and I would hate for you to catch a cold.

“I see, that is very considerate of you.” you smile, “And since you have been working so hard today, I see no point in preparing a guest room.”

“Now that is considerate,” his fingers massage the small of your back as he leads you down the warm hallway. “I suppose there is enough space in my bed for the both of us.”

Tagging: @pixelcafe-network

#obey me!#obey me nightbringer #x reader #obey me #obey me x reader #barbatos #obey me barbatos #barbatos x reader

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sematarygirls · 8 months ago

Note

stop i’m literally so in love with your acc, it’s gorgeous!!!! missed you sm. need to start writing or creating something again tbh but idk what.

anywaysss had this super cool drummer!rafe idea where they’re all like mid-20s and were suspected of murder (maybe a roadie died or an ex bandmate??)

buttt there you are interning with the local police department (aka nancy drew nerd) and go poking around (woah somehow you end up in rafe’s arms what a coincidence). maybe he did it or maybeee he didn’t, who knows. ur just a silly little inter.. right?? unless ofc this wasn’t the first time you met and you both did it together?

anyways do what you wish with this, feel free to let it rot. ur a genius mastermind either way. ily mwahhh

(here’s some drew pics mini moodboard bc why not)

Partners In Crime — Rafe Cameron.

pairing: drummer!rafe x policeintern!reader

summary: your internship at the kildare county sheriff's department proves extremely useful after ex-bandmate of local rock sensation, morphine animals, is found murdered.

warnings: smut! semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, murder, inaccuracies regarding police work

word count: 3.6k words !

a/n: this request is AMAZING omg!! your mind is literally so incredibly brilliant. i am so incredibly jealous. i just want to scoop it out and study it because your plots are always so genius it's insane. also, i got a little freaky with this request. i don't know where it came from, but i hope yall enjoy. side note, i know nothing about police stations or internships beyond what I've seen on tv, so this is most likely very far from anything that would happen in real life.

✶ . ࣪ ׅ You cursed quietly, swatting a mosquito away from you as your fingers danced along the collection of files, skimming through the box of evidence labeled "Ryder, Elliot". It was July, and the summer was in full swing. the air was thick and heavy, causing a layer of sticky sweat to cling to every inch of your body. The cramped storage room seemed to be at least 10 degrees hotter than the rest of the police station, and it had the added bonus of recycled air that smelled of dust and mildew.

Your gaze flickered between the door and the police report in your hands, readying yourself to be caught any moment now. Technically, you weren't supposed to be looking at anything in this room. You were simply an intern, and as such, your jobs mostly consisted of clerical work like running the front desk, answering phones, and filling out the occasional police report—typically for some misdemeanor offense that they had granted you competent enough to navigate your way around.

On a normal day, you did not have clearance to be in this little room with all the important documents pertaining to cases ranging anywhere from vandalism to first-degree murder. However, on this particular day, you had been instructed to organize and clean the records room, ensuring that everything was dusted off and placed in alphabetical order.

You knew you weren't really supposed to take a peek into any of these boxes, but when you saw the name Elliot Ryder on one of the boxes, you simply couldn't help yourself. It was the biggest case your town had seen in the last decade.

"Local rock legend Morphine Animal's ex-band-mate found murdered" had been splashed across headlines for weeks, each news site ranging from local to national discussing the case and their theories, but surprisingly much of the case had remained a mystery.

Morphine Animals had been practically untouchable ever since they skyrocketed to fame. It was truly fascinating how quickly they went from small-town rockstar wannabes to household names. They became a national sensation practically overnight, and it all started when Elliot Ryder was fired as the band's drummer and replaced by Rafe Cameron.

You remembered it vividly. Elliot went around telling everybody who would listen how he was cheated out of fame. The other three band members had been his childhood best friends. The band was their passion project and they had vowed to do it all together, but then, one night, they just dropped him out of the blue, and Rafe Cameron took his spot.

People couldn't help but wonder if the band's colorful history had anything to do with the murder. The whole situation would've made more sense if Rafe was the one murdered. It would be open and shut. Elliot killed Rafe to get back at him for taking his spot and stealing the fame that was "rightfully" his, but revenge just doesn't quite sit right with the case being turned around.

Rockstar drummer that has it all kills small-town drunk nobody? It just doesn't fit.

You turn your attention back to the police report in hand. You didn't have much time left before someone inevitably needed a file or came to check on you, so you needed to focus, read it, and put everything back where you found it before that happened.

Case Number 0608

Responding Officer: Sheriff Susan Peterkin

On 06/28/2023 at approximately 2100 hours, I responded to a noise complaint at 2971 Shorecrest Drive.

I knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. I announced myself as the police and knocked once more, but again, received no answer. I looked into the window for signs of life, and saw Elliot Ryder laying prone on the living room floor with a pool of blood around him. I immediately radioed for assistance and kicked down the door. I checked his pulse and discovered that Ryder was deceased. While I waited for assistance, I secured the scene. At approximately 2110 hours, Deputy Victor Shoupe, Officer Danielle Lyonne, and Officer Franklin Hewitt arrived on scene. Officers Hewitt and Lyonne canvased the surrounding homes and took their statements to find out if anyone had seen or heard anything. Their individual statements are enclosed. Deputy Shoupe called for the coroner and cordoned off the area while I began assessing the crime scene in a spiral method. Pictures included document the blood patterns and shattered glass discovered at the scene. No murder weapon was discovered.

I instructed Deputy Shoupe to stay at the scene and await the coroner's arrival while I headed back to the station. At approximately 2330 hours, I left the scene.

Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you read over the report. You used the back of your hand to wipe the beads of sweat that had formed on your forehead—created from a mix of the unbearable heat and your growing nervousness as the moments ticked by—stopping them from dripping down your skin.

Your gaze darted to the door once again before returning to the files, pulling out a series of pictures that documented the crime scene.

He was found on his stomach, the hair on the back of his head matted with blood. The cause of death was blunt force trauma, and it was very evident from the crime scene photos.

You turned your attention from the photos documenting his body to the ones showing the state his living room had been left in. There was broken glass from a shattered mirror near the front door coating the carpet, and the living room looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Furniture had been turned over, his belongings strewn about in a disorganized fashion. It seemed like whoever had been there was looking for something.

Something in one of the photos caught your eye. It was small, almost imperceptible, but the flash from the camera reflected off something imbeded into the cream colored carpet just beneath the table that Elliot's body was found beside.

Your brows furrowed as you brought the photo closer to your face, squinting to get a better look.

The sound of footsteps approaching made you jump. You quickly folded the picture and shoved it into your pocket before placing the photos and police report back into the box and hauling it onto the shelf.

"Hey, kid," Deputy Shoupe peeked his head inside, the sound of him chewing his gum seemingly reverberating off the walls. You turned, your face flushed, and your heart practically beating out of your chest. You had managed to get everything in order moments before he opened the door.

"Uh, yes, sir?" You cleared your throat, brushing away a strand of hair that had gotten stuck to your sticky forehead.

"Boss lady needs the Ryder files," he informed you, still smacking his gum. The sound filled your ears, somehow louder than the beating of your own heart.

You nodded, swallowing hard as you turned and grabbed the box, the piece of paper in your pocket feeling like it weighed a ton as you carried the heavy box over to him. "Can I ask why?" You worked up the courage to ask, handing him the files, your palms sweaty as you pulled back.

"Just got done interviewing Rafe Cameron," he told you, propping the box under his arm. Your eyes widened a fraction. Why was Sheriff Peterkin reinterviewing him? Was there new evidence to connect him to the murder? "So, she wants to take another look at the evidence."

"Oh," you simply said, the room seeming to grow hotter. "Whew, god, it's hot," you huffed, fanning yourself. "Are you hot?" You asked, clearly not doing well at playing it cool.

"You alright kid?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow curiously at your odd behavior.

"Yeah, I think I'm just gonna step outside and get some air," you nodded, suddenly feeling very suffocated in the stuffy atmosphere.

"Sure, whatever," he shrugged, clearly not all that interested in you or your actions as he turned on his heels to deliver the box to Peterkin.

You hurried down the long, grey corridor, pushing the backdoor open harshly when you arrived at it. Outside wasn't much cooler, but the small, shaded alleyway provided reprieve from the sun's unrelenting rays. You took a few deep breaths, feeling better now that you were breathing fresh, clean air.

"You look like shit," a voice piped up. Your head whipped to the side, eyes finding the source. Rafe Cameron was leaned up against the wall, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He was wearing a white tank top that clung to him like a second skin. the heat was just as unforgiving on him, his muscles glistening and his hair sticking out in all directions, a few strands clinging to his slick forehead.

"Excuse me," you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Truthfully, you knew you probably did look like shit. You were sweating like a pig, your clothes clinging to you uncomfortably, and after hours of running your hands through it and being subject to intense humidity, your hair was undoubtedly frizzy and wild.

Rafe pushed off the wall, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette onto the ground and crushing it under his boot. His blue eyes locked onto yours, amusement dancing in them as he approached you. "I'm just sayin'," he drawled, his voice a low rumble.

"Yeah, well, you don't look too hot yourself," you rolled your eyes. It was a lie, of course. Somehow, he even made sweating to death in the sweltering July heat look sexy. It was utterly infuriating.

He grinned, amused at your attempt to insult him, but he could see right through you. "You mad at me or somethin'?" His hand reached out and wrapped around your wrist, his grip sending shivers down your spine.

"You just said I looked like shit," you glared at him. The heat was making you irritable, and it didn't help that his stupid fucking earring—that you'd told him twenty goddamn times to take out—had showed up in a crime scene photo.

Rafe's thumb began to trace circles on the inside of your wrist, his touch sending electric jolts through your body. "C'mon, you know I was just teasing you, baby," he murmured, his voice soft and seductive. He knew how to play your body better than he knew how to play his drums.

You stubbornly pulled away from him, ignoring the way your body reacted to his touch. "You're lucky I got saddled with file room duty, asshole" you gritted out, pulling the picture from your back pocket and shoving it into his muscular chest.

Rafe wore a silver stud in his ear, a staple of his rockstar persona, and that little glimmer of reflected flash in that crime scene photo was that stud, which had fallen out during the murder.

Thankfully, it hadn't been logged into evidence and had been completely overlooked by the bumbling small town crime scene techs, so you only had to take the photo to keep that little piece of incriminating evidence from ever being discovered.

Rafe glanced down at the photo, his expression unchanging as he took it in. He looked back up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You worried about me, babe?" He asked, his voice laced with mockery, but there was a harder edge to it that betrayed his unperturbed demeanor.

"No," you shot back, your brows furrowing in frustration. God, the heat was making you bitchy. "I'm worried about myself. I mean, I covered up your little fuck up perfectly. The last thing I need is for you and your lame ass jewlery to fuck me over."

Rafe's hand snaked out and wrapped around your throat, his grip tight but not painful. He backed you up against the brick wall, his eyes boring into yours. "You think I can't take care of my own shit?" He asked, his voice a low growl. His patience was clearly wearing thinner and thinner by the second. He was already agitated at being ripped away from band practice to do this little song and dance with the police. The last thing he needed was you bitching at him and challenging his capabilites.

"If you could take care of your own shit, you wouldn't have called me in the middle of the night panicking because you fucking killed someone," you retorted, not backing down. You weren't afraid of him in the slightest. You knew what he was capable of, but it didn't scare you. In fact, there was a twisted part of you that liked knowing about his violent side.

Rafe Cameron had been the one to kill Elliot Ryder in cold blood, and he'd called you up moments after because he knew your experience as a police intern would come in handy. You had rushed over and helped him stage the whole thing as a burglary gone wrong. Unfortunately, Rafe hadn't realized his little wardrobe malfunction until it was too late to go back and retrieve it.

His face darkened, his hand tightening around your throat. "I had it handled," he hissed. "Until you showed up and decided to play detective." His other hand reached down, gripping your hip possessively. "You're supposed to be on my side, not throwing my mistakes in my face."

"Then stop making dumb fucking mistakes," you spat, your jaw clenching in annoyance. You could feel your panties growing wetter by the second, which only fueled your frustration toward him. You hated how he could still make you want him even when he was being a complete asshole.

Rafe's face twisted with anger, but beneath it, you saw a flicker of something else—desire. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. "You know, I should just shut you up for good," he muttered, his grip on your throat unyielding.

"Yeah?" You asked, your voice almost taunting. "You gonna kill me, Rafe?" You looked him in the eye, not backing down. "Who's gonna clean up your messes then, huh?"

His expression turned grim, and for a monent, you thought he might actually do it. But, then, without warning, he crushed his mouth to yours in a rough, bruising kiss. His hands tightened further on your hip, pressing against your body and pinning you in place.

He bit down hard on your lip, drawing blood. His tongue darted out, lapping up the blood and soothing the wound as his thumb rubbed over your pulse point, feeling the way your heartbeat quickened with desire. His mouth tasted of nicotine, stale beer, a slight hint of mint, and then the metallic taste of your blood on his tongue. If it were anyone else, you would've recoiled in disgust, but something about him was intoxicating.

He was so close you could feel his bulge pressing into you, and it only made you want him more. You didn't care that you were pressed against a wall in the back alley behind the police precinct, in fact, something about it, the potential thrill of getting caught, turned you on more.

Rafe's hands moved to grip your ass under your skirt, roughly palming the fatty flesh with his rough hands. He broke the kiss, his lips moving to your neck, where he bit down hard enough to leave a mark. "You drive me fucking crazy," he growled.

"Yeah, well you're fucking insufferable," you said breathlessly, tilting your head to the side and threading your fingers into his hair as he continued his assault on your neck.

He grunted in response, his hands squeezing your backside painfully before he pulled away to fumble with his belt, the buckle clanking loudly in the otherwise quiet alley.

As he fiddled with his belt, you took your opportunity to latch your lips onto his neck, the salty taste of his skin mixed with the thin layer of sweat coating him danced on your tongue as you sucked and nipped at the areas you knew would drive him wild.

Rafe's breathing hitched as you marked him, his body stiffening. He finally got his belt undone and his pants unbuttoned, shoving them down just enough to free his hard length.

He gripped your thighs, hoisting you up and pressing you hard against the wall as your legs wrapped around his waist. "Think you need to learn your place," he said darkly, pulling your panties to the side.

With one swift movement, he thrust deep inside you, filling you completely. He held you pinned against the wall, his hips rolling into yours in deep, punishing thrusts. "You're supposed to worship the ground I walk on," he muttered, his voice ragged.

You gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he began to move, his powerful hips snapping back and forth as he pounded into you. His blue eyes, darkened with lust, locked onto yours, watching your face intently.

"Answer me," he demanded, his voice low and menacing. He slowed his pace, his hips rolling leisurely, his thick length stretching you wide. He knew his slow pace was like torture to you. "Tell me you worship me, baby."

"Fuck," you moaned, your face scrunching in a mix of pain and pleasure as the brick wall dug uncomfortably into your back. "I worship you, Rafe."

A smug grin spread across his face at your words, his pace quickening as he continued to slam into you, his hips rolling in that way that always hit that spot inside you, making you practically see stars. "Good girl," he praised, his lips finding yours again.

Your arms snaked around his neck, fingers curling into his hair and tugging slightly as his mouth swallowed your little whimpers and moans.

He released your mouth, his head tilting down to watch where you were joined. He let out a low groan, his body tensing as he watched himself disappear inside of you. "Look at you taking me so well," he gritted out, his pace quickening.

You gasped when you felt his thumb begin rubbing tight circles on your clit, drawing you closer and closer to the edge. "Such a dirty fuckin' girl," he growled. "Letting me fuck you in an alleyway, behind a police station no less." His lewd words only served to heighten your arousal.

His other hand reached up to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you dizzy as he continued to pound into you. "I'm going to fill this pretty little cunt with my cum," he snarled, his voice echoing off the brick walls.

His words paired with his grip on your throat and the way he was pounding into you sent you over the edge, your eyes rolling back as you moaned his name.

His hand on your neck tightened possessively as you came apart for him, his own release following shortly after as he felt your walls squeeze down on him, milking his cock. He buried his face against your neck, his breathing hot and ragged against your skin. "That's my girl."

You panted, your head falling back against the brick as you caught your breath, your mind reeling as the weight of what you'd just done crashed over you. It was reckless and stupid to have let that happen, especially behind the police station you worked at. If anyone saw you, it could raise some serious red flags.

Rafe slowly lowered you back to the ground, pressing one last kiss to your swollen lips before tucking himself back into his underwear and pulling his jeans up, refastening his belt. He leaned against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette as he looked you over with a lazy smirk. "Try not to look so guilty."

"Don't be an asshole," you shot him a sharp look, fixing your skirt and blouse. Now, you had to go back to work and act as if you didn't have a murderer's cum leaking out of you.

Rafe took a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a slow stream. He watched you intently, his eyes glinting with amusement as he observed you straighten your hair and adjust your collar, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. "I'll pick you up after your shift. We've got a few more things to discuss."

"You can't pick me up here," you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, pushing off from the wall and taking a few slow steps closer to you. "And why not?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. He knew very well why not, but he wanted to hear you say it.

"Don't play dumb, Rafe," you rolled your eyes. He could be so very infuriating when he wanted to be.

"Say it," he insisted, his voice firm. He took another step closer, towering over you. "Tell me why I can't pick you up here." His hand reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a deceptively gentle touch.

You huffed frustratedly, narrowing your eyes at his insistence. "Because you killed Elliot Ryder, and I'm your fucking accomplice," you relented.

Rafe's hand tightened, gripping your cheeks firmly, his touch bordering on painful as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Shhh," he whispered, his voice dark and threatening. "You shouldn't go around saying things like that, baby."

You glared up at him, your annoyance evident in your gaze. Everything always had to be a game with him, and sometimes it utterly maddened you.

Rafe's lips curled into a smirk as he pulled back, his hand falling away from your face. "I'll pick you up around the corner," he said, as if the matter was settled. He took another drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and heading down the alleyway to his car.

You watched him leave, your gaze burning holes into his back for a moment as he retreated before you shook your annoyance away, pulling the back door to the station open and heading back inside.

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