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certifiedcodbabygirl · 1 month

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Simon Riley crying and praying for the first time in years bc you're hospitalized

(self indulgent as fuck, based off of personal medical history bc it'll be more accurate)

You hadn't ate or drank for 5 days, unable to keep anything down. You thought it was the flu at first. Fevers, puking, extreme fatigue. It didn't seem like anything out of the norm. Except for when your fevers started casing full body convulsions that made you look possessed. Chills and cold sweat turned to groaning and crying, muscles all over cramping and clenching, breathing becoming difficult. You figured it was because you hadn't had the flu in years. How wrong you had been.

Once your puke turned green, which was later found out to be bile from your kidneys, Simon rushed you to the hospital. Unable to stand, he pulled a wheelchair from the entrance and pushed you everywhere. Within 2 hours, the nurses had you admitted and on IV meds. Pain meds, IV Tylenol, and bags of fluid were hooked up to you, rehydrating you being high priority. Your body is in shock, resting heartrate being 140. He sat by your side the entire time, holding your puke bag in one hand, and your hair back in the other. The doctors drew blood, running blood cultures, searching for a more accurate answer.

The night you were admitted, they informed you that your kidneys were so infected that one got injured. The bile that was thrown up was caused but how hard you were puking, pulling it up from your kidneys.

He stayed the night, sleeping in the rocking chair, right next to your bed. He woke up when your fevers came back, holding your hand and telling you how good you're doing, calling in a nurse. The morning that followed, he had to go back to the house to make a bag of your immediate needs, clothes, deodorant, hairbrush, and anything else he could think of. When he came back, a doctor and a couple med students came in with important news.

"We ran blood cultures to see if there was possible an infection in your blood due to your symptoms leaning towards that. They came back positive. We are going to give you antibiotics and run cultures every 12 hours to track if the antibiotics are working" The doctor says as gently as possible.

The room begins to feel like it's spinning. Sepsis has a 68% mortality rate, and knowing how deadly it is, it feels like you're already being buried. Simon looks to you with a confused look, not knowing exactly what that it, but knowing it isn't good.

"I have sepsis?" You ask in a quiet voice, throat constricting.

"Yes" The doctor says softly.

"Oh fuck I'm gonna die" you whisper under your breath, tears forming.

Simon looks to you, eyes widening. 'Not again'

"Wait, the hell is Sepsis?" He demands, but not sounding confident, more scared than anything.

The doctor explains it to him, how it when your blood is infected, how the infection can latch onto your other organs and slowly kill you from the inside out. Once it reaches your brain, it's too late. His grip on your hand tightens. The doctor tries to give hope, but she can only do so much without lying. She leaves to give you privacy.

It's silent, neither of you speaking out of shock. The only noise in the room is the quiet hum of the IV machine and Simon's shaky breathing. Your thumb softly glides back and forth over the back of his hands, trying to ground him.

"Si" you softly call.

It takes hour to get him to loosen up a little. It's only when you manage to keep down a popsicle that he feels like he can breath a little easier. Like maybe you'll be part of the 32% that pull through.

That sliver of hope is crushed that night, being woken up by his arm being slapped repeated by you in a panic. His eyes meet yours, concern instantly written on his face. Your hand is on your chest as short, sharp breaths are the only thing you can manage.

"I,, can't,, breath,," you whisper between breaths, unable to say a sentence in one go.

"Baby it's alright, jus' try to breath wit' me, hm?" he tries to demonstrate slow breathing, mistaking it for a panic attack.

"not a,, panic,, attack,, please,, nurse,," you try to tell him.

He nods in a panic, running out to the nurse station and explaining. They rush in and take your pulse-ox just to see your oxygen percentage is at 86% when it should be above 95%. They try to do the deep breathing again before Simon interrupts them.

"It's not a bloody panic attack, she literally can't breath. Get her oxygen or somethin' before she fuckin' suffocates!"

They put you on oxygen until they can get you an X-ray. The nurses try to chalk it up to a panic attack until in the morning they see you still can't breath. They give you an X-ray and when the results come back, they send the doctor in. She informs you that the nurses gave you too much IV fluid and that caused your organs to swell so much that they pushed up on your lungs, collapsing them by 3/4ths. 1/4th of your lungs are still open and they're going to take you off fluid, start you on exercises to open them back up, and keep you on oxygen.

That's the last straw for Simon. Once you fall asleep for a nap, he heads outside to the bench area and punches a wall. His knuckles split but he barely feels it, ringing in his ears drowning out the surrounding noise. With no one around, he sits on a bend, elbows on knees and face in his hands. His breath picks up as his throat tightens and tears threaten to rip out of him.

"Why would ya let this happen to 'er? Aren't you supposed to be lovin'?" He whispers into the wind, looking up at the sky, "That girl in't like me. She's the fuckin' sunshine in human form and she's on death's bloody doorstep."

Tears cloud his vision, unable to keep it in any longer. He blinks them away, falling onto his clenched fists. Years of praying, to a god he later grew to resent, for him to fix his family. A child kneeling at his bed, begging him to get his family out of his father's grasp. Once he got to his teenage years, his desperation became resentment and anger. His jaw began to clench when his drunken father would spew bible verses at him to condemn him. He realized God wouldn't save him, nor would he when Simon's family was ripped from him.

Yet here he was, back to that same god, desperate that maybe, just maybe, he'd have mercy on him this time. He believed himself a rotten man, even if it was subconscious, unworthy of the angel sent to him. His light, reparations for the mistreatment The Father had destined for him.

"You sent 'er to me, it's gotta be for a reason. You've never listened to my prayers before but just this fuckin' once, please don't ignore me." His voice breaks, openly sobbing with no sound, "You sent 'er to me and now I can't live without 'er. She's fuckin' everythin' to me. Don't take back your gift, please" The end of his sentence slips into a whisper.

He wipes his tears on his sleeve and sniffles hard, trying to erase the evidence of his vulnerability. He stands and walks to the door, looking back at the bench before turning back to the door and walking in. 'Amen'

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goggles-mcgee · 5 months

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Phantom Fudge

I love the fics of Danny settling into Gotham and having some sort of business and just absolutely confusing the Batfam with how flippant he is about the crime.

My take is, instead of a coffee shop or bookstore or occult shop, Danny opens a fudge shop!

His parents taught him, and he found he actually really loved it, and besides, his dream of being an astronaut was out of reach due to his unique medical readings. In this au, his parents learned about him being Phantom and took it well after a good period of spiraling because-Holy shit they shot their son. You may be asking, Goggles, didn't you just make a post that was all about Jack and Maddie not taking the news well? Yes. Yes, I did.

I go back and forth with wanting to salt them and not. I like both.

So anyways, Danny is the heir to the Ghost Throne, but he won't actually take up the official title until his time on Earth is naturally over. After everything got better with his parents and his regular ghost fighting buddies, he actually was able to raise his grades and graduate. Many teachers were amazed at the progress but really, Danny may not have been as smart as his parents and sister (he is an unreliable narrator and is actually very smart just not as conventional as his family) but before his accident he had done pretty good in school. The GIW was still a thing, but without the Fenton technology, they weren't doing as well as they previously did. His parents broke their contract after they rescued him from the GIW labs, it was a little after he told his parents about his halfa status and they came storming in to save him and all the other ghosts that were captured. After that, life got so much better. His parents listened to him, and he got to teach them all about his people. They started publishing more papers with actually accurate information and were doing their best to overturn the anti-ecto acts. They haven't accomplished it, but Danny was sure they would.

That's actually why he moved to Gotham. Tucker had the idea of contacting the Justice League to help with the anti-ecto laws, but their calls weren't being answered. Neither were the...strongly worded emails Sam sent in. So Danny did what he did best and jumped into something not entirely thought out but hoping for the best. He moved to Gotham so he could get close to Batman and ask for help. He got accepted into Gotham University on a scholarship. But he wanted to make some money on his own without his parents sending him some kind of allowance, and he didn't want to work at Bat Burger. He started selling fudge around winter at his school, and he got permission to do so.

From there, he got enough money to actually open a small fudge cart. Then he got enough for a small shop near his apartment which was rather close to Crim Alley so he hired some working girls to help with the shop and he employed any Alley Kids looking for some cash as delivery workers. (They only delivered in Crime Alley, though, but that was fine with Danny.) Danny loved his little fudge shop that he lovingly named Phantom Fudge, and the sign had a cute little ghost eating some fudge on it. When he was in school for classes, he left the shop in his friend Ginger's hands. She had been a working girl before, but before that, she had had experience working a small mom & pop kind of shop, so Danny felt good leaving her in charge. When Ellie visited, she helped out with the shop too.

Danny was thriving. Then he started getting customers of the ecto variety because, of course, he would. Apparently, he was something of an ecto filter for the shades and ghost of Gotham, so they would visit his shop to soak up some of the pure ectoplasm in the air. Then he experimented and made some ecto-fudge, which is what he gave to any ecto beings that entered his shop. Most couldn't pay, but they would give him a heads up if they saw anything shady happening around his shop.

Like a little heads up that some robberies were happening in the area, or some rogue was getting close. It was a nice little system they had. Though some ghosts came in just to tell him their unfinished business and like...he wasn’t King yet, but these were his people, so he tried to help them out as best they could.

One particular couple showed up a lot and would ask him to help warn their son of any danger they heard was brewing. They would ask him to leave messages for the son or any of his kids but also the butler if needed. Danby thought this guy had some great parents. They didn't cross over because they needed to make sure their son was safe and taken care of. It was most likely that they wouldn't cross until their son did by the sounds of it. He got permission to call them Grandma and Grandpa, which was weird, but he didn't question it.

Martha and Thomas were nice spirits, so he had no problem helping them out. But Danny is Danny and his well-intentioned help of course caught the eye of the whole batfam.

They had been receiving letters in the Manor that appeared mysteriously. The first one they had all thought was a prank from the many people there. It was a simple, 'Don’t go to the gala. Something bad will happen.' That started it all. They were all baffled but laughed it off, and those who went to the gala didn't know how to feel when the seeming wait staff took over the event and held the guests hostage.

A coincidence surely.

Then they got another note, 'Freeze is planning to do a B&E and snatch some equipment from a Wayne lab. Idk which one since you have so many.' And just like last time, the note was speaking the truth. It continued from there, and everyone tried to capture whoever or whatever was leaving the notes, but any cameras they had glitched out before returning to normal and showing a new note had showed uo somewhere in the Manor. Bruce was going crazy trying to figure out who or what their messenger was.

Alfred once found a note that said, 'Tim has been awake and pushing himself too far. He is going to crash.' He took it to heart though and made Tim rest and take a break. He would not let the note happen. Tim had had far too many crashes the past couple of months.

The note that broke Bruce, though, was small in words, but it made him feel crazy. It was his parent's death anniversary, and when he went to visit the exact spot, he saw a sticky note on the floor. He shakily picked it up to see all it said was, 'It's okay.'

Now he is really worked up and determined to find the note messenger.

While that's going on, Danny also gets some local vigilantes visiting his shop, and he is so excited to see them and try and be their friend so he can ask for help. Plus they seem to be fans of his fudge and that just makes him happy.

The batkids thing the Phantom Fudge shop owner is suspicious, but hot damn did he make some bomb ass fudge.

#dpxdc #dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp prompt #dc x dp au #dc x dp ficlet

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yesimwriting · 4 months

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thinking about bestfriend!felix who's known for being touchy within his social circle, so when he holds your hand as you walk around campus and leaves giggly kisses against your cheek, your jaw, your neck after a few drinks, you think nothing of it.

especially because it comes up in conversation from time to time. everyone that hangs out with him regularly enough has at least one story: felix smoothed circles against my back until i fell asleep on the bathroom floor after a party; he's kissed the top of my head twice; i've never seen him end a hug first.

and you've seen things--at parties, while studying, while out with friends in general. so you genuinely have no reason to think there's anything strange or different about the way he treats you, and neither does anyone else.

at first.

one night, when you're still new enough to felix and his world that you feel extremely out of place at a party that he invited you to, he calls you over to where he and his friends are sitting. you walk over to them, greeting everyone politely before moving to take the available space next to felix.

he grabs your wrist before you can actually sit. you're confused, but given little time to react. felix mumbles an absentminded, "c'mere" before pulling you towards his lap. it's a little flustering, but you sit, because that's just how felix is.

okay. normal enough. conversation continues. no one thinks twice about it. farleigh thinks it's a bit of overkill, but just assumes it's a combination of alcohol and maybe an attempt at laying the groundwork to hook up with you a little later in the night.

then, someone asks about potential vacation plans over break and farleigh brings up an inside joke from the last trip he and felix went on. it's casual, but it's clear that felix is supposed to say something.

farleigh looks over in time to see felix holding one of your hands to his lips. alright. still not the most egregious display of platonic affec--felix takes his time pressing kisses to each of your knuckles.

it's not just the gesture. it's the way felix watches your reaction through his lashes and the amount of care in his focus. as if you're the only one in the room. there's a patience there that's practically devoted.

maybe farleigh had it wrong. he thought you were just one of those platonic friends that felix would cart around for a few months before getting bored. maybe it's more romantic, or at the very least sexual.

then felix's eyebrows draw together. "you're cold." you start to say that you're fine, but before you can get the words out, felix is holding both of your hands between his.

in the beat that it takes farleigh to recover from the slightly nauseating display, the rest of the group has gone quiet. they're all watching felix dote on you like you're the reason for the moon hanging in the sky. annabel whispers something about the "unsuspecting".

farleigh eventually tries again, directly stating felix's name. he finally looks up, a little confused, as if coming out of a trance. farleigh repeats his earlier comment, finally getting a reaction from felix. the group recovers because while the moment had been almost uncomfortably intimate for something so casual, this is far from the first time felix has started (casually) seeing an 'outsider'.

some time passes and you finish your first drink. when felix notices, he asks if you want another. you tell him that you don't mind getting your own, but felix is insistent. you stand so that he can get up.

a part of you wishes you could have found an excuse to go with him. the gesture, in theory, is nice, but without felix's protection, being left with his friends feels like he's thrown you to the wolves.

annabel, a little tipsy and now curious asks, "so, how long have you and felix..." she trails off with a knowing look.

you kind of get what she's implying, but it feels like too random and too unfitting of an assumption to be accurate. "oh, we've been friends since around right after syllabus week, felix ask--"

"no," she shakes her head, "i mean--" she tries again, this time asking with precise language.

your face grows a few degrees warmer. "oh." the slight laugh that follows the syllable is too genuine for it to be you playing coy. "no, it's not--we're friends."

friends. you genuinely believe it. annabel fixes you with a tight lipped smile that makes something in your stomach knot.

you decide that her question must have been prompted by you sitting on felix's lap. you've also heard enough stories about them to assume that they have an on again off again, sort of thing, and because you really don't want to make an enemy of her, you try to justify it, "that was just--you've known him way longer, he's just like that."

oh my god. he's fooled you. completely convinced you that that's normal. before annabel can really react, felix comes back. he hands you your drink and kisses your cheek before sitting down next to you. he doesn't ask you to go back to where you were sitting before, but he does keep a hand on your knee.

----

some bestfriend!reader concepts ft oliver

another bestfriend! felix blurb :)

bestfriend! felix and reader basically dating

#kind of want to write more bestfriend!felix at some point #saltburn x reader #saltburn imagine #felix catton x reader #felix catton #bestfriend!felix #jacob elordi #jacob elordi x reader

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katrafiy · 1 year

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I think about this image a lot. This is an image from the Aurat March (Women's March) in Karachi, Pakistan, on International Women's Day 2018. The women in the picture are Pakistani trans women, aka khwaja siras or hijras; one is a friend of a close friend of mine.

In the eyes of the Pakistani government and anthropologists, they're a "third gender." They're denied access to many resources that are available to cis women. Trans women in Pakistan didn't decide to be third-gendered; cis people force it on them whether they like it or not.

Western anthropologists are keen on seeing non-Western trans women as culturally constructed third genders, "neither male nor female," and often contrast them (a "legitimate" third gender accepted in its culture) with Western trans women (horrific parodies of female stereotypes).

There's a lot of smoke and mirrors and jargon used to obscure the fact that while each culture's trans women are treated as a single culturally constructed identity separate from all other trans women, cis women are treated as a universal category that can just be called "women."

Even though Pakistani aurat and German Frauen and Guatemalan mujer will generally lead extraordinarily different lives due to the differences in culture, they are universally recognized as women.

The transmisogynist will say, "Yes, but we can't ignore the way gender is culturally constructed, and hijras aren't trans women, they're a third gender. Now let's worry less about trans people and more about the rights of women in Burkina Faso."

In other words, to the transmisogynist, all cis women are women, and all trans women are something else.

"But Kat, you're not Indian or Pakistani. You're not a hijra or khwaja sira, why is this so important to you?"

Have you ever heard of the Neapolitan third gender "femminiello"? It's the term my moniker "The Femme in Yellow" is derived from, and yes, I'm Neapolitan. Shut up.

I'm going to tell you a little bit about the femminielli, and I want you to see if any of this sounds familiar. Femminielli are a third gender in Neapolitan culture of people assigned male at birth who have a feminine gender expression.

They are lauded and respected in the local culture, considered to be good omens and bringers of good luck. At festivals you'd bring a femminiello with you to go gambling, and often they would be brought in to give blessings to newborns. Noticing anything familiar yet?

Oh and also they were largely relegated to begging and sex work and were not allowed to be educated and many were homeless and lived in the back alleys of Naples, but you know we don't really like to mention that part because it sounds a lot less romantic and mystical.

And if you're sitting there, asking yourself why a an accurate description of femminiello sounds almost note for note like the same way hijras get described and talked about, then you can start to understand why that picture at the start of this post has so much meaning for me.

And you can also start to understand why I get so frustrated when I see other queer people buy into this fool notion that for some reason the transes from different cultures must never mix.

That friend I mentioned earlier is a white American trans woman. She spent years living in India, and as I recal the story the family she was staying with saw her as a white, foreign hijra and she was asked to use her magic hijra powers to bless the house she was staying in.

So when it comes to various cultural trans identities there are two ways we can look at this. We can look at things from a standpoint of expressed identity, in which case we have to preferentially choose to translate one word for the local word, or to leave it untranslated.

If we translate it, people will say we're artificially imposing an outside category (so long as it's not cis people, that's fine). If we don't, what we're implying, is that this concept doesn't exist in the target language, which suggests that it's fundamentally a different thing

A concrete example is that Serena Nanda in her 1990 and 2000 books, bent over backwards to say that Hijras are categorically NOT trans women. Lots of them are!

And Don Kulick bent over backwards in his 1998 book to say that travesti are categorically NOT trans women, even though some of the ones he cited were then and are now trans women.

The other option, is to look at practice, and talk about a community of practice of people who are AMAB, who wear women's clothing, take women's names, fulfill women's social roles, use women's language and mannerisms, etc WITHIN THEIR OWN CULTURAL CONTEXT.

This community of practice, whatever we want to call it - trans woman, hijra, transfeminine, femminiello, fairy, queen, to name just a few - can then be seen to CLEARLY be trans-national and trans-cultural in a way that is not clearly evident in the other way of looking at things.

And this is important, in my mind, because it is this axis of similarity that is serving as the basis for a growing transnational transgender rights movement, particularly in South Asia. It's why you see pictures like this one taken at the 2018 Aurat March in Karachi, Pakistan.

And it also groups rather than splits, pointing out not only points of continuity in the practices of western trans women and fa'afafines, but also between trans women in South Asia outside the hijra community, and members of the hijra community both trans women and not.

To be blunt, I'm not all that interested in the word trans woman, or the word hijra. I'm not interested in the word femminiello or the word fa'afafine.

I'm interested in the fact that when I visit India, and I meet hijras (or trans women, self-expressed) and I say I'm a trans woman, we suddenly sit together, talk about life, they ask to see American hormones and compare them to Indian hormones.

There is a shared community of practice that creates a bond between us that cis people don't have. That's not to say that we all have the exact same internal sense of self, but for the most part, we belong to the same community of practice based on life histories and behavior.

I think that's something cis people have absolutely missed - largely in an effort to artificially isolate trans women. This practice of arguing about whether a particular "third gender" label = trans women or not, also tends to artificially homogenize trans women as a group.

You see this in Kulick and Nanda, where if you read them, you could be forgiven for thinking all American trans women are white, middle class, middle-aged, and college-educated, who all follow rigid codes of behavior and surgical schedules prescribed by male physicians.

There are trans women who think of themselves as separate from cis women, as literally another kind of thing, there are trans women who think of themselves as coterminous with cis women, there are trans women who think of themselves as anything under the sun you want to imagine.

The problem is that historically, cis people have gone to tremendous lengths to destroy points of continuity in the transgender community (see everything I've cited and more), and particularly this has been an exercise in transmisogyny of grotesque levels.

The question is do you want to talk about culturally different ways of being trans, or do you want to try to create as many neatly-boxed third genders as you can to prop up transphobic theoretical frameworks? To date, people have done the latter. I'm interested in the former.

I guess what I'm really trying to say with all of this is that we're all family y'all.

#transgender #third gender #hijras #femminielli #trans women are women #trans solidarity #trans rights #transmisogyny #transunity #transunitism #this is what trans unity looks like

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newluvrs · 22 days

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Anton ₊ ⊹₍ᐢᐢ₎ mdni!! 18+ currently listening to: JUNO - CHOKER word count: 1.8k

“is this okay?”

The room is hazy from the glow of your bedside lamp, the smell of weed perforating your room as a result of your shitty roommate hotboxing your apartment last night. Your hoody is pushed up over your hips at present, everything feels sticky and hot from too much body contact with too many layers of clothing on. The sheets are kicked down by your feet, your legs at present hanging over Anton’s shoulders. His lips are all swollen, having spent the last half an hour lip locked with you. At this point in your relationship(?) neither of you had gone past make outs coupled with grinding and feeling each other up. When he started to kiss down your body you felt nervous, but your need to be touched screamed louder than any doubt in your brain.

“Please.”

You know Anton asked for reassurance more for himself rather than you, his own nerves and excitement getting to him. It was one of the first things you had noticed about him, and something you adored, how he could be simultaneously awkward and self-assured. Like he didn’t need validation from anyone, but he so badly wanted yours.

“please what?”

Okay now he was just fucking with you.

“Anton.”

“I was only joking..”

He flashes you his boyish half-smile, pulling your sweats off as he does so. His hair is all fucked up from his beanie and the amount of times you’ve ran your hands through it in the last half-hour. You can only imagine your own hair looking mussed as well. But none of this matters when he settles between your legs at the end of your bed, face to face with your boy shorts. He glances at them, then at you, half-amused half extremely turned on.

“Sorry if you were expecting lace.” You let out a scoff, trying to hide how vulnerable you feel right now. Now you really were thinking to yourself maybe you should have dug out your nice underwear, the ones reserved specifically for situations like this.

When he doesn’t answer, you look away from him, choosing instead to stare at the ceiling. It’s quiet for what feels like too long to you. Neither of you making a sound, the only thing playing in the room being your playlist accurately titled “music to kiss boys too.” You’re starting to feel really fucking awkward, even with the heavy bass of the current song thrumming through your body.

“Anton-“

Your cut off by your own gasp when you feel him lick you through your shorts. His arms are wrapped around your legs, helping you hold them up. He bites the inside of your thigh, making you buck your hips towards his face.

“you’re so pretty, and you don’t even have to do anything.”

He stares at you now, rubbing his hands up and down your thighs.

“you could wear a trashbag and I would still think you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You turn away from him again, a blush taking over you. You can’t remember the last time you felt shy, it’s always you who makes him feel flustered. Showering him in compliments endlessly about how cute you think he is. How hot you think he looks doing simple everyday things. You liked watching the way he stumbled over his words after, his face turning a pretty shade of pink. You didn’t ever feel like you needed compliments, or at least you never voiced your need for them. But now, laying here under him, it’s all you want to hear.

His fingers dip under your shorts, groaning when he comes into contact with your wet heat. Your hips shift in his hold, trying to move closer to that single touch. He giggles at this, pulling his hand from your boxers.

When you open your mouth to complain he finally gives you what you want, putting his mouth back on your cunt. The material thin enough for you to feel his tongue prodding at you. It’s taking you everything to restrain yourself from fucking up into his face. Especially when he starts sucking on your clit. Your hips jerk up, your hands balled into fists and coming up to grab at your pillows, resisting the urge to pull his hair.

“Fuck, Anton please.”

Your voice is so whiney, a breathless edge to it. He pulls off of you briefly, bringing one of his hands to thumb at your clit as he speaks.

“What is it baby?”

When you look back down at him, you realize his hoody is also still on, making this whole thing look hotter but also making you wonder why you’re the only one half-naked.

“I- fuck, please.”

He’s still rubbing at your clit, making it hard for you to talk, upping the speed when you open your mouth to speak. You know that he knows this, and you know that he thinks this whole thing is fucking hilarious but god you just want more so bad right now you don’t even care. He decides to throw you a bone.

“Want me to pull your shorts off?”

You’re so embarrassed right now, all you can do is whine, covering your face as you nod your head.

“Sorry, what was that?”

He mumbles this into the side of your thigh, trying to hide the shit-eating grin adorning his face right now. You feel like you’re going crazy.

“Anton, I swear to god-“

“I’ll pull them off if you admit you look sexy in them.”

His request throws you off-guard, he speaks up again as he takes in the confused look on your face.

“All you have to do is say that you think you’re sexy.”

“you can’t be serious.”

When he stares back at you incredulously you realize he is in fact serious.

“okay i’m sexy, now pull them off.”

He tsks, rolling his eyes as he moves to pull his hand away from you. You could scream you’re so frustrated.

“please just take them off.”

“not until you give me what I want.”

Before you can protest he goes back to lapping at your clit through your panties, the fabric starting to turn obscenely wet from the combination of his spit and your juices. You toss your head back, hands scrambling against the sheets now, the sudden stimulation overwhelming. You look down at him again, noticing for the first time how he humps against the mattress as he goes down on you. You whine out his name again, pleading with him to give you what you want already.

“Sorry baby, I can’t hear you.” He mumbles into your pussy.

It’s just not enough, its everything and its so much but its not enough. Your hands fly to his hair now, unable to stop yourself from humping his face. In between your whines you could swear you hear him let out a ‘cute’. Desperation overtakes you, fueled by the need to get off.

“’m sexy.”

You say it so quietly he can barely hear over the obscene sounds of his mouth sucking on wet fabric.

“baby?”

He glances up at you, and he nearly cums in his sweats right there. Your eyes are half lidded, cheeks pink with your hair all fucked up, whimpering as you still have a grip on him, trying to fuck your hips up into his face as he pulls off of you.

“I look so sexy….”

You sound embarrassed as you say it still, but it’s good enough for him, just happy to have you look so fucked out and shy just because of him.

He sits up briefly to pull his sweats down to his knees before he finally, finally, pulls off your boy shorts. It’s obscene the way they stick to your cunt, completely drenched from the previous activities. For the second time tonight, Anton nearly cums again just from finally seeing your pussy. He spares a glance at your face and you just look dazed and breathless, too needy to be touched to think of anything else.

He settles back between your legs, letting out a groan at the way his cock feels through the thinner material against the mattress. He runs a thumb against your clit once, just to see the way it throbs when he pulls away.

“s’cute.”

He plants an opened mouth kiss to your cunt, not even complaining when you move your hands back to rest in his hair, gently guiding his mouth back to your pussy. You could cry when you finally feel his tongue come into direct contact with your clit, letting out an obscene moan into the thick air. From there the two of you fall into a steady rhythm, you humping against his face as he humps against your sheets, both dazed and mesmerized by the other, just watching. When he brings two fingers to your entrance, you’re so wet theres hardly any resistance when he slides them in. You cry out as he crooks them up, pushing and pulling them slowly in and out of you. He’s gentle as he does it, just petting your insides, feeling the way you squeeze around him. He pulls away from your clit to rest a cheek on the inside of your thigh, just watching his fingers stroke in and out, watching the way you cling to them not wanting to let him go.

“anton.”

“mm.”

“m’gonna cum.”

He smiles at this, moving to suck on your clit again with an “okay baby.”

You cum exactly like that, watching your boyfriend fuck your mattress as he presses against that gummy spot inside you, lapping at your clit. When the stimulation becomes too much for your tired body you push his head away from between your legs. He moves away from your cunt to rest his head on your thigh, just staring up at you with starry eyes as he speeds up his movement against the mattress. You reach to bring his hand up to your face, sticking your tongue out to suck on the fingers that were previously inside you. He lets out a full body shiver, groaning and cumming as soon as you wrap your lips around his fingers.

“so sexy y/n, pretty baby.”

When his hips still, you both lie there, catching your breath. In the midst of your panting you notice your playlist keeps looping on a single song, you wonder to yourself how many times its played before you noticed. Quietly, so quietly you can barely hear yourself, you ask.

“you really think I’m pretty?”

You’re looking away again, trying to come off as nonchalant to ward off the vulnerability. You hear shuffling from the edge of your bed. Then his hands are gentle on your chin, pulling you in for a kiss. This one is sweeter than any of the ones before, his mouth gentle against yours, fingers delicately placed on the sides of your face to keep you in place. When he pulls away, he leaves one more kiss on your forehead.

“the prettiest.”

#riize smut #riize x reader #anton lee #anton smut #anton x reader

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milfs-milk · 3 months

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NO MATTER WHAT YOU ARE [18+]

CHAPTER ONE - ADORATION [MINORS DNI]

[PAIRING] Female!Trafalgar Law x Reader [SUMMARY] Turned into a woman only temporarily, Law still needs a proper wardrobe. You take your now girlfriend out on a shopping date, and despite her initial reluctance, you hope to help her enjoy the experience and her new body. [CONTENT + WARNINGS] Female Law, Genderbend, Reader is femme, Established Relationship, Fluff. This chapter isn't NSFW but the next will be, so minors DNI! [WORD COUNT] 5k

“This is ridiculous.”

Not for the first time, Law hesitates. Your partner, or more accurately, girlfriend for the time being, comes to a halt just before the entrance of the lingerie store. You can see her reconsidering the necessity of buying clothes for this new figure of hers, her sharp jaw tight and full lips slightly pursed—a scowl to most, yet a pout to you. Despite being in an entirely different body, her mannerisms stay familiar.

The change is temporary. It was neither expected nor asked for, a complete accident that doused her with feminization fruit. The Heart Pirates, responsive as ever, were quick to erupt into a chaotic blend of amusement and fawning, all while their irritated Captain demanded quiet as she rummaged through her medical books in search of a remedy. But the pages offered no immediate cure, only assuring that the effects will last a few weeks before naturally subsiding.

Which is short lived in your opinion, and entirely too long in Law’s.

She doesn’t seem to harbor the same appreciation you do for her new figure, seeing this change as an inconvenience more than anything. So you hoped to make it less so, however you could. In need of a new wardrobe, you tried swapping her now oversized shirts and jeans for some of your own clothing. The two of you didn’t have much luck. She seemed frustrated with it all, annoyed, sitting on the edge of the bed surrounded by all the clothes that might’ve fit. You sat with her.

“We can always go shopping,” you gently suggested, rubbing her back as she gave you a stubborn look of reluctance, but not entirely refusal. “It could be fun. Just think of it as a date, and we’ll get you something comfortable.”

And she agreed, as much as she didn’t want to.

You couldn’t blame her. Having spent her entire life in the body of a man, the abrupt transformation into something feminine left her with a certain sense of discomfort, and perhaps what could be considered mild embarrassment. There was no reason to feel shame; not in your opinion, at least, but given the circumstances, Law’s hesitance is only natural.

Still, as the two of you stand in front of the lingerie store, you try to make light of the situation.

“Cmon, hun. Have some fun with it.” You grab her wrist, encouraging her inside with playfulness to your voice. “Doesn’t every man wonder what it’s like to have boobs?”

“I’m not a pervert,” she firmly insists. Even so, she lets you guide her, her long legs begrudgingly following along.

You huff in amusement. Maybe it isn’t entirely apparent on the surface, but if your time with Law has taught you anything, it’s that she tends to feel more than she lets on. Her reserve comes with all emotions, vulnerable or not. Laughter is stifled into subtle smiles, distress leads to emotional withdrawal, care translates into gentle gestures and quiet support.

The same pattern can be seen with all things intimate. Attraction, affection, arousal… You had to admit, she did a good job suppressing what she could for as long as she could. The sheer lust she felt wasn’t exactly controlled, but rather hidden—until she finally got a taste of you.

Only then did it become apparent. The subtle hints in her behavior that you couldn’t quite place were suddenly given a reason. You found a name for those lingering eyes, that intense gaze, her tense body language—yearning, to the point of perversion. It was a deep desire, depraved from being deprived for so long, devolving into desperation.

Not a pervert? Debatable.

“Well…” you say, tone skeptical. She shoots you a look you expected, simultaneously daring you to keep talking and advising you to shut your mouth. You always thought she was fun to tease, and she always thought you were fun to discipline. You pretend to give in, a smile on your face with your hands raised in feigned apology.

“Alright, alright. Don’t…” You let out a chuckle before you can finish, and then another as you try again. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“I already told you,” she’s quick to retort, but slows and hesitates to consider her wording. She never liked saying the P word. “I won’t be wearing… those.”

“I know, hun.” You let her have this one. Despite any teasing, above all, you want her to be comfortable. She knows that. Still, you place a hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle pat in a gesture of support. “We’ll find you the closest thing to boxers we can. Boyshorts are more comfortable, anyway.”

Technically, they’re still considered panties, but you don’t say that. You had to get her to wear them somehow.

The two of you stand inside the store, greeted with dim lighting and a pallet of pink and black decor, the air carrying a strong floral scent from the perfume shop next door. You’re already familiar, but Law takes a moment to scan the wide array of options—different colors, certain styles, sections of specific types of lingerie that she probably doesn't know the names of. You can tell what she’s thinking.

“Yeah, it’s a lot,” you empathize. “But we’ll be quick, okay?”

She grunts in affirmation, following where you lead.

And really, you meant it. Initially, at least. It wasn’t your intention to spend longer than necessary browsing the selection of bras, but the more you thought about it, the more it became necessary. Law already insisted she wanted something simple, but this matter needs careful consideration. There’s push ups to sports bras, full coverage to strings and lace, pretty pinks and bold blues and gentle greens… She’d pull them all off, this much you know, but which would suit her best?

You glance at her chest, obscured by the oversized shirt she’s wearing. Still, your memory serves you well. You’re able to make a decent guess of her cup size after taking the opportunity to thoroughly examine her figure when she first tried on clothes. You called it studying, she called it ogling, and maybe she was right. In your defense, it was hard to resist. You sat on the bed behind her, a clear view of her front and backside as she stood before a mirror. Occasionally, she’d glance at you through the reflection between slipping on shirts and bras, but you often didn’t meet her eyes.

Your attention was fixated elsewhere, memorizing her new yet temporary features for safekeeping. Her chest wasn’t exactly flat, but wouldn’t be considered big either. She was endowed with slight handfuls that fit her slender figure, complemented with the framing of an inked heart. Long legs led to the gentle curve of her hips and pert swell of her ass, faint dimples resting right above on either side of her lower back, indents that were perfect for thumbs. Her defined back line trailed towards another familiar tattoo, up to sharp shoulder blades and shaggy, short black hair.

She didn’t stand at her usual 6’3 and a half, but she was still above average height. It was a combination of lankiness and toned athleticism. Muscle definition was apparent in the sculpted contours of her biceps, sinewy strength of her back and tightness of her stomach. Her proportions were long and lean, assets small and perky, movements fluid and poised. She always had an irresistible allure, captivating and mesmerizing, but in the form of something more feminine, you could only define her physicality as pure elegance.

“You said we’d be quick,” Law mumbles under her breath. You’re only momentarily interrupted from your thoughts of her figure, eyes meeting hers before falling back down.

“I know,” you hum leisurely. This matter can’t be rushed. You look at the two bras in your hands, and up to her chest again. “But I can’t decide if you’d look better in black or red.”

“Does it really matter?” she asks, voice a mixture of exasperation and amusement. She seems to find something entertaining in how much consideration you’re putting into this.

It takes just another thoughtful second before you come to a decision. “Well, if you insist,” you say, putting them in your hand held shopping basket, “we’ll just have to get both.”

“I said no lace.” She looks down at the lingerie in mild disapproval. Still, she doesn’t make an effort to stop you. They’re good choices, if you do say so yourself.

“Yeah, but you’d look really nice in—“

“Are you ladies finding everything okay?” An employee interjects with a friendly smile, all while Law promptly tugs at the brim of her hat, lowering it just enough to shroud her eyes. It’s a habitual gesture you’re familiar with, one she uses to shield herself when she feels too exposed, too vulnerable. You’ve seen it most when she smiles, but right now, it’s driven by embarrassment. She tries to deflect as much attention away from her as possible. You handle it.

“Just fine, thanks,” you respond. “Where are your dressing rooms?”

The woman guides you both, and Law follows in silence just behind you. The moment the employee is out of hearing range, Law’s quick to mumble a question, looking around to make sure every other person in the store is out of hearing range too. “You’re coming in with me?”

“Mmhm.” You don’t look up at her, taking a moment to organize the lingerie you’ve decided on. “Gotta make sure they fit, don’t I?”

“I think I’ll be able to tell.” She sees through your excuse, a thin veil poorly masking a desire to see her naked again.

“Well,” you say, not bothering to deny it. “It’s not every day I get to help you pick out lingerie. Better enjoy it while I can, hmm?”

You give her a cheeky smile, and still, she’s unimpressed. Holding all of her new lingerie, you open the dressing room’s curtain with your free hand and gesture her inside with exaggerated politeness.

“After you.”

Law doesn’t like to put on bras correctly. You watched her try to reach back and connect the hooks when the two of you first tried on clothes, but she quickly found another way. She said it was easier, just raising it above her head and slipping it on like a shirt, and didn’t seem to care when you said that’ll stretch it out. She does the same this time, looking unsatisfied with the result.

“It doesn’t fit.”

“Not when you put it on like that,” you say, looking up from her chest to meet her eyes through the mirror. “Remember what I told you?”

Law sighs, but listens. She seems to find something embarrassing in cupping her breasts and adjusting them into place, insisting it wasn’t necessary when you first told her it’s the only way to fit into a bra comfortably. Despite her stubbornness, it didn’t take long for her to learn you were right. With a slight forward lean, she scoops her breasts in better accordance with the bra cups, just the way you taught her.

“There you go.” You smile at the snug fit, giving full coverage and support. Even she seems a bit impressed with the cleavage it creates. “You fill it out nicely.”

She huffs at the compliment like it didn’t just make her blush, the color of her cheeks a growing tinge of red as she quickly averts her gaze from the mirror. With deft fingers, she starts pulling the bra off. Up and over her head, of course, not bothering with the hooks.

“Are we done here?” Law asks, masking bashfulness with impatience.

You nod towards the remaining lingerie hanging on the wall. “Try on the rest, hun.”

“Why? They’re all the same size.”

“Yeah, sizing is a scam. Every bra fits differently,” you tell her, taking your seat on a bench in the cramped dressing room. Eyes on her, you lean back.

“Go ahead.”

And she does. Law looks at the assortment of lingerie, hesitating for a moment before making a skeptical choice. She begins with the less intricate, going from boy shorts and sports bras before gradually making her way to the few matching sets of lace and pushups you convince her to at least try.

You evaluate each one, fully appreciating the array of colors and clothing you've never seen her in before. Each piece brings out something different in her—deep tones of scarlet and midnight blue intensifying the richness of her aura, simple yet bold black aligning with the harder side of her personality, delicate pastels tenderizing her usual toughness as the gentle hues bring out a subtle yet inherent softness. All harmonize with the ink of her tattoos, all compliment her figure, and all, in some sense, are distinctly and uniquely Law.

It’s hard for you to say no to a lot of them. She makes the decision easier by saying no herself, most options not appealing to her the same way they do to you. Still, she takes some of your input into consideration and entertains a few pieces she doesn’t directly admit she likes. Her choices, coupled with two of your own, sit to the side waiting to be bought.

“Don’t get used to this,” she makes sure to warn you when she slips on the last bra. “Once I’m back to normal, we’re burning these.”

“You say that.” Coming to a stand, your arms loosely wrap around her from behind. Wandering fingers draw attention to the set of lingerie she wears, and the two of you watch through the mirror as your nails trace along the lace in a mixture of examination and admiration. “…but they look nice, don’t they?”

She doesn’t deny it. Instead, she almost agrees, the low mumble unenthusiastic like she doesn’t want to admit you’re right.

“…They’re not terrible.”

“Nothing ever is.” Your touch moves downward, fingertips grazing her tight stomach in a way that makes her suppress a shiver. You settle with placing your hands on her hips, your thumbs slowly caressing the silk lining of her panties. “Not on you.”

“You’re persistent.” The words may be muttered, exasperated, but as she leans back into your touch, you feel the appreciation and affection behind them. You give her a light squeeze before pulling away.

“I’m right,” you correct her. Picking up her clothes, you hand them to her and gather your things to leave. “I’ll show you. We’re not done.”

More casual clothes are next on the list—shoes and shirts and jeans that Law isn’t too excited to shop for. Not that she was thrilled with the lingerie either, but you like to think she ended up finding some enjoyment, at least as much as she could. A familiar, soft smile became increasingly apparent with each genuine compliment and playful comment you gave. There’s a subtle yet gradual shift, her initial reluctance giving way to something more comfortable.

It’s progress, but more still needs to be made.

Outside the privacy of the dressing room, Law’s demeanor tightens just as before. She grows quiet, walking alongside you throughout the shopping center with her gaze lingering on the displays of stores you pass by. It’s not the natural, easy silence that sometimes characterizes the space between you two, but rather something more reserved, more restrained. Through polished glass windows, she watches her feminine figure in the reflection.

Something’s on her mind. Something has been on her mind. You noticed a shift since the transformation, and at first, attributed what seemed to be unease to the adjustment period. While that may play a part, it’s apparent there’s something deeper beneath the surface. And though you like to think you’re attuned with your partner, always recognizing changes in behavior and always familiar with subtle cues, you can’t quite grasp the full extent of Law’s thoughts right now.

You don’t ask. You look towards her, her mind seemingly stuck somewhere else, and even as impulse urges you to, you don’t reach out to hold her hand. Knowing what does and doesn’t make her comfortable, you move at her pace, allowing room for Law to initiate if she feels to.

Still, indirectly, you do what you can to guide her back to the present with you.

Upon your suggestion, you both stop to eat after walking past a shop that’s closest to her favorite food you’re able to find. It’s a small gesture, but still helps—sitting together and sharing a meal, taking a break from the constant movement of shoppers in every direction, tuning out the chatter of voices atop voices… In environments and situations she doesn’t enjoy, Law adapts. She always does. Even so, you offer a moment of stillness. It’s simple enough to ease some tension in her shoulders.

A bit looser, the two of you continue throughout the shopping center.

“Let’s make this quick,” Law tells you upon entering the next store, keeping her insistence on getting this over with.

You pause almost immediately. Drawn to a display of mannequins, your eyes trail over their cardigans, down to skirts with matching tights and complimentary boots. Your gaze shifts onto Law, then back, and onto Law again, just to visualize her in the outfit. If she notices, she doesn’t seem to pay it much mind. Or, perhaps, she just doesn’t want to entertain it, walking past and expecting you to follow.

“I’ll try,” you say, and hope not to get too distracted.

Though just as with the lingerie, you can’t help but muse, spending a bit more time than strictly needed looking at potential options. You have suggestions, but you don’t give them. You already know what she’ll say no to, noticing the way she seems avoidant of the more revealing and feminine options.

Instead, Law focuses on simplicity. The casual clothes are tentative choices, her demeanor even more so when it comes time to try them on. Despite any doubt or hesitation, each piece proves to be flattering. You knew they would. With a body like that, every outfit is practically made for her—a slender waist sculpted to flaunt in form fitting shirts, her defined collarbones and slight cleavage meant for low necklines, her long legs perfect for a good pair of jeans.

You approve, but Law has her own thoughts.

“They’re too tight,” she grouses, looking in the dressing room’s full body mirror with skinny jeans practically painted onto her thighs.

“They’re supposed to be.” You watch her from behind, and step closer to lift her top just enough to adjust the low waistband. “As long as it’s not tight around the waist, it fits.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” She shifts, turning slightly to assess the fit.

“Does it really matter when they look that good?” you ask. Law stays quiet, not seeming to have any complaints about their appearance. You take it as slight satisfaction. Only subtly, you test her. “I can go get you a different size.”

“It’s fine,” Law tells you, suspiciously quick. When she meets your gaze, giving her a knowing smile that’s well aware of her fondness for the outfit, she defends herself. “I don’t want to wear it,” she clarifies, “but I’m not staying here longer than we have to.”

“Whatever you say, hun,” you tease lightly. Still, her words are half the truth—hours into the shopping trip with just a few more clothes to try on, Law seems eager to leave. There’s no need to draw it out by experimenting with different sizes. You sense her impatience, prompting you to hand her the next set of jeans to continue.

The checkout process doesn’t take long. As the two of you purchase a week’s worth of clothes, a persistent thought tugs at your mind. Though you know you shouldn’t, and though you know it’s unfair to her, you feel a slight bit of disappointment as the stubborn desire to see her in different styles shifts into longing.

It’s not that the choices she made were unsatisfying; far from it. Everything looks good on her. That’s exactly why there’s such an allure to more tempting options, skirts and fishnets and crop tops that are certain to enhance her features even more, but are a territory she’s not quite comfortable with. You try not to push it, letting your eyes linger on the earlier display of mannequins before looking away.

Only when you’re about to leave do you let some selfishness show.

“Law.”

You call for her attention, her name wrapped up in a wistful breath. You’re sure she’s already able to tell you’re not up to any good. From the corner of your eye, you see her turn towards you, watching with what must be a frown as you look at yet another piece of clothing. She speaks firmly.

“I’m not trying on more—“

She stops mid-sentence when you hold it out for her to see. It’s a dress, certainly nothing you can expect her to wear, but it still catches her attention. While Law may not be big on fashion, she has a sense of style. From the subtle intricacies of her earrings to the bold statements etched onto her skin as tattoos, it’s her way of expression. Even a tailored wardrobe captures her story, each piece a deliberate choice reflecting her crew, her past, and everything she values.

The dress isn’t custom made, no, but it might as well be. Slender, black and sleek, Law’s gaze lingers on the heart-shaped cutout adorning the front. It’s positioned on the center of the chest, aligned almost perfectly with her jolly roger tattooed in the same area.

There's a pause. The silent question of if she’ll entertain it lingers in the air, and for only a moment, she lets herself consider. As you watch her expectantly, you can see the contemplation in her eyes, a slight flicker of possibility. Her comfort zone has her quick to push it down. Tearing her focus away from the dress, Law forces an answer.

“No.”

But you know her better than that. That subtle softening in her gaze, you recognize it as openness. The dress may seem too feminine for her usual preference, but there’s something to it that appeals to her, embedded in both personal significance and aesthetic allure. It’s not that she dislikes it. Law’s receptive, but reluctant. All she needs is a bit of encouragement.

“Hun, this shit is practically made for you.” She already knows it, but you want her to hear it. You want her to see it, too. Lifting the dress just enough to outline her figure, you invite her to visualize it on herself. “It’s your size too. Should be long enough…”

As Law looks down at herself and the dress, another moment of uncertain consideration passes. Surely, she can see the appeal, but hesitance lingers. “We don’t have to buy it,” you reassure. “Just try it on, see how it looks.”

She’s wavering. There’s a slight shift in her expression, lines of reluctance turning inward. The furrow of her brows shows a tinge of irritation, but only because she knows she’s caving. When her eyes meet yours again, you give a gentle push that you know will tip the scales.

“For me?”

Law’s quick to snatch the dress from your hands. In a mixture of both frustration and determination, fueled by the stubborn desire to please you, she struts past and into the direction of the changing area. She doesn’t need to turn to know you’re following.

“We’re leaving after this,” Law tells you, disappearing into the confines of the fitting room before she can change her mind.

You wait. There’s a rustling of fabric behind the curtain, and the passing minutes make you wonder if you should’ve gone in with her to help zip up the back. She seems to manage, but not without apparent difficulty. Once her complicated movements settle, Law stands quiet for a few moments. You decide to speak up.

“You done in there?”

Another beat of silence passes before she responds. “…Yeah.”

“Come on out, then,” you encourage.

She’s slow to open the curtain. Law looks off to the side as she reveals herself, exposing curves she still seems to be adjusting to. They’re accentuated, the sleek dress hugging every dip and contour of her body, from slender hips to a pinched waist and up to the soft swell of her chest. You can see the sculpt of her muscles through the thin material, faintly outlining her tight stomach with wrist-long sleeves snug around her lean arms.

Only subtly, skin shows. There’s a slit opening extending from the bottom of the dress up to her lower right hip. It’s cheeky, alluring, offering a hint of her toned, shapely thighs, all while the heart-shaped cutout on the chest perfectly frames her jolly roger tattoo—just as you expected.

Law moves in the silence. Her fingers instinctively reach up to fidget with the short strands of her hair, an absentminded motion of subtle nervousness. She's quick to stop once she looks down and realizes what she’s doing, tucking the strands behind her ear in self-composure before lowering her hand. Lost in your own thoughts, you watch her, not noticing how quiet you are until she speaks.

“Well?” she huffs. In a frustrated search of your response, her gaze finally shifts towards you. You make an effort to snap yourself out of your enamored daze.

“Well,” you repeat. The right words are hard to find, but you suppose Law’s never been one for dramatics. You settle for a simple way to express her indescribable beauty. “You’re stunning.”

It’s straightforward, blunt, honest. Just the way she likes it. She’s flattered, you can tell, but she shouldn’t just take it from you. Walking towards her, you place your hands on her shoulders and turn her towards a nearby mirror to see for herself.

“What did I tell you?” you hum, a glint of pride in your eyes as Law’s gaze trails up and down her body. “You make everything look good.”

She knows. She has to—her demeanor may still be a bit tentative, but there’s a growing approval, rooted in satisfaction upon seeing how objectively flattering the dress is. For the first time since the change, she sees herself through your eyes, a vision of beauty and strength staring back at her. You hadn’t expected her to embrace the dress, or to fully grow accustomed to her new figure, and she doesn’t. But she’s beginning to tolerate it.

That’s good enough for you.

The moment is somewhat short lived. You’d admire her for hours if you could, but people around you seem to think similarly. Enthralled glances from onlookers become apparent, unwanted attention that Law promptly avoids. She tugs her hat down accordingly and turns away from prying eyes, redirecting her focus to the dressing room.

“We’re leaving now.”

That was the deal, after all. You don’t prolong it any more. Law changes back into her regular clothes, and the two of you soon find yourselves walking throughout the shopping center, straight into the direction of the island’s rocky ports. Home isn’t too far, the Polar Tang docked nearby. Despite Law’s eagerness to return, something catches her eye along the way.

An antique shop lies just ahead. Law’s gaze lingers, surely trying to peek through the glass windows for a glimpse of what the shop could offer. Her collection of commemorative coins is something you’re fond of, something endearing, a hobby she could spend hours rambling about if she let herself. Whenever the topic comes up, you always indulge her, but you feel encouraging her interests isn’t enough. She needs to be spoiled.

“I’ll buy you something,” you offer, already knowing she’ll want to see if there'd be anything to add to her collection.

“You’ve bought me everything.” Law glances at the bags of clothes you insisted on holding for her.

“I’ll buy you more.” Your assurance carries a subtle playfulness as you head towards the entrance, coaxing her to follow with the soft chime of the door’s bell.

Above all else, you want Law to enjoy herself. It’s only natural as her partner, prioritizing her happiness and comfort like it’s second nature. Still, you know she never wanted to spend her day clothes shopping. You feel as if this could help, inviting her to shop for something she wants to buy rather than has to.

Yet despite your continuous efforts to help her enjoy herself, and to perhaps ease her into the unfamiliarity of her changed body, there’s still an apparent weight lingering on her mind.

Even as Law becomes engrossed in an intricately crafted coin display, her focus soon shifts back to you. You can feel it. Pausing from across the shop, you meet her eyes with a questioning look. She simply blinks, breaking the momentary connection to redirect her attention back to the coins as if nothing is wrong.

You’d believe it and chalk her silent stare down to her usual introspective awkwardness, if not for the touch of vulnerability in the depth of her eyes. It was like an unsaid question, a stubborn thought part of her wants to voice, but can’t quite find the words to do so.

You hope to give her the opportunity. When the two of you continue back to the submarine, distancing yourselves from the island’s townscape and the eyes of its people, your affection turns more physical. The way your hand lingers on the small of her back offers a subtle sense of security. It expresses openness, reassures support, softly reminding her that you’re here.

She stays quiet throughout the walk, and you don’t mind. She doesn’t need to force it. Aware of how difficult it can be for her to express complicated emotions, you’re patient, staying by her side to listen when she’s ready. It’s unconditional, nonjudgmental, tender and genuine and devoted. All you want is for her to know that.

Maybe tonight, you can remind her exactly how much you love her.

#one piece fanfiction #one piece x reader #trafalgar law smut #law x reader #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #my writing

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h4ndwr1tten · 11 months

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𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭?

characters — nanami kento x reader

note — this took me a long ass time to write. if it seems familiar to any other works, i requested something with the same plot on someone else's blog lololol. THIS IS PART 1 AS IT'S A LITTLE LENGTHY!!! dividers by benkeibear.

(am i posting this on nanami's birthday? yes.)

cw — not proof read, established relationship, kinda ooc nanami? like one mention of sex, pregnancy, strong language, arguing, crying, accusations of cheating, hurt/no comfort.

synopsis — the test results are positive and you aren't ready. when you try to hide this from your boyfriend of 5 years, he assumes the worst.

part 1 | part 2

this wasn't supposed to happen. it shouldn't have happened. you both took every precaution possible to prevent an outcome neither of you were prepared for — from condoms, to birth control, to plan b. it had kept you safe for as long as you started having sex. you never found yourself worried about carrying a life in you for 9 months.

so why now does the test read positive?

it felt like the world stopped moving. you didn't even know if you were still breathing. your heart had fallen into the pit of your stomach, your eyes wide and full of disbelief. you couldn't believe it. it couldn't have been correct. the 99% accurate claim on the kit had to be lying. there was no way it could've been true.

it took some time, but you were able to tear your gaze away from the test. you looked up to the ceiling, blinking away the hot tears you could feel building up. you took a few deep breaths and tried to swallow down the lump in your throat, your fingers trembling around the test.

you've thought about having kids before. you did want them, just not now. you were unprepared for this. how do you raise a kid when you aren't ready, when you aren't even married?

then it hit you — nanami's involved in this too.

the realization made you feel 10x worse. if you weren't ready for a child, you could only imagine how he would feel about this. his life was going so well right now. he was happy with his career and his salary, he was content with the apartment you both shared, and he was even more happy to be with you. he had his whole life and future planned out. he knew when he would retire and even what he'll do in life after he retires. nanami saw you in his future, you were always there when he would think of it. but would you still be there if he found out you were currently pregnant with his child?

you two had never fully talked about having kids together. you both were confident that you would spend the rest of your lives together. you've discussed marriage, homes, and briefly, kids. it was never a deep conversation — you only ever talked about having them and how many there would be. but never about having them earlier than expected.

gosh, you felt like shit. utter, absolute shit. you felt even worse for nanami. you felt like you were going to ruin his life plans. you felt like this would be the downfall of your relationship. and if it was, who knew if you would ever recover.

your phone buzzed with a notification, pulling you back to reality. you didn't realize tears had fallen until one slipped from your chin and landed on the hand gripping the test. you stood from where you sat on the closed toilet and checked your phone. it was a text from nanami.

i'll be home soon, my love. do you want me to bring anything home?

he was so caring. always considering you, always putting you first. you couldn't help but feel even more guilty.

hi ken. could you get some takeout pls? i'm sorry, i'm not in the mood to be cooking rn.

of course. want anything specific? are you feeling alright?

i'm fine. you can choose tonight :)

alright then. i'll be home soon, i love you ❤️

i love you too 💕

you shut your phone off and placed it back on the counter, screen facing down. you felt horrible — he was always thinking of your needs before his. would this end now that your carrying his child? certainly he wouldn't want to have to worry about another person in his life at the moment. you wouldn't want him to worry.

you stood from the toilet seat, about to leave the restroom when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. your face was bright pink and red, your eyes also red but not super puffy and swollen. some people might think it was allergies, but not nanami. nanami wasn't some people — he knew you better than anyone, perhaps even yourself. he could see right through you, read you like a book. you began to worry what he would say if the pigment in your face didn't fade in time, if he would ask if you had been crying.

what would you say if he did ask? he knows you so well, it's nearly impossible to lie to the man. you could say you were rewatching your favorite show and got emotional, or reading another chapter or more of the book he bought you the other day. but nanami isn't dumb. he would catch on before you could even finish your excuse, he'd know something's up.

you sighed, inhaling and exhaling deeply. you didn't know how this was going to play out. you didn't know how to act or what to say to nanami when he came home. you were just hoping for the best.

the lock on the door clicked once, twice, and then the door opened. you had been in your shared bedroom, watching some corny rom-com to ease your mind. you had hidden any evidence of the pregnancy test. you threw away the box and instructions, then threw out the trash bag you tossed them in. you kept the test, however, and hid it in your purse that was now laying on your bed. nanami wasn't one to snoop. if he wanted to check something of yours, he would ask permission. and if you didn't grant it, he would respect your boundaries like he always does.

"my love?" you heard nanami's voice echo throughout the apartment. normally, you would've been waiting by the door for him and greeted him excitedly, but for obvious reasons, you weren't.

leaving the bedroom and walking to nanami, who was walking in the hallway and you assumed he was looking for you, you gave him a small smile.

"hi ken," you said quietly, wrapping your arms around his waist instead of his neck where you usually do. you stood up on your toes to reach his lips, kissing them gently and not for long. when you pulled back, nanami leaned down for another, a longer one. were you ever going to get these kisses again if he found out you were carrying his child?

for real this time, you both pulled away. you still smiled softly up at nanami, but he was observing you closely, worry swimming in his honey brown eyes.

three things were running through his mind right now: why were your cheeks and eyes tinted a bright red, as if you had been crying? why didn't you seem as eager to see him after work like usual, wrap your arms over his shoulders and around his neck, and kiss him for more than a second? something was wrong. did he do something? did you know what food he bought and were you not pleased by it? were you feeling sick?

"ken?" you asked, breaking him out of his thoughts. "are you alright?"

"are you alright?" he returned, worry still plastered throughout his face.

you then looked confused, though you weren't, slowly nodding your head, "yeah... why?"

nanami stayed quiet for a second. maybe you were just tired, maybe he was overthinking this. but that idea didn't sit right with him. it was like his gut was telling him that something was up with you. but he didn't know what.

not wanting to push you, he answered, "nothing. i missed you though. let's go eat?"

throughout dinner, nanami noticed how quiet you were. if it were any other day, you would have been telling him about your day, the latest gossip, about the episode you watched or the chapter you read. you were barely even touching your food too. you occasionally took small bites, but most of the time, you were just poking it with your fork.

while he was putting the dishes away, you grabbed yourself a glass of water. that's when nanami asked you, "love, are you sure you're alright?"

"yeah, i'm fine. why do you ask that?" you replied unsurely, looking down at your water.

"i'm sorry. you just seem... off." nanami washed his hands, looking you up and down carefully.

that was another strange thing he noticed. you hadn't looked in his eyes when you told him you were fine. you always make eye contact with him. you're never afraid to and you're not one to break it so quickly, much less avoid it.

he was beginning to question whether you were really fine.

you had just finished getting ready for bed, teeth and hair brushed, skin care routine done. nanami had finished getting ready before you, so he was waiting for you by the bed. but instead of reading a book or even scrolling through his phone, his eyes were glued to you in worry. you could tell he was becoming suspicious of you, and you wished you hadn't made your troubles so obvious. your head was beginning to ache and you were desperately hoping that nanami wouldn't ask any questions.

those hopes were left unsatisfied.

"my love, are you sure you're okay?" nanami asked for what felt like the hundredth time today.

you sighed deeply. "yes, kento, i'm fine," emphasizing the fine. "my head just hurts right now. have you seen the tylenol?" you added, hoping that it would be enough to stop his questioning.

"no, do you want me to check your bag?"

you felt stupid for having kept an small extra bottle of tylenol in your bag. nanami reached over to your side of the bed, grabbing your purse. he had pulled the zipper open when you realized what was about to happen.

"no!" you yelped, practically sprinting to the bed and snatching the bag away from him. you checked to see if the bag had been open enough to see the test, which it hadn't, and some relief washed over you. but then you realized how much worse you had made your current situation with nanami.

fuck. i fucked up. i'm fucked.

nanami's brows were furrowed together, his face painted with a mix of frustration, confusion, and concern. he looked you up and down over and over again, gaze switching from you to your bag repeatedly.

"okay, y/n, seriously. what the hell is going on with you? first, i come home and you don't seem as excited as you tend to be. then your face is all red like you had been crying. then you—you barely talk to me, hell, even look at me throughout dinner! you touched your food like, what, 5 times? and then when i try to look through your bag to help you, you panic and snatch it away from me?"

kento's ramble had you silent. you didn't know how what to say, what stupid excuse you could use, how to explain your behavior. you only avoided his gaze and stared down at your bag. the thick, suffocating silence lasted for a moment longer, then nanami finally spoke again.

"y/n, are you..."

he paused and took a deep breath, as if to prepare himself for what he was about to say.

"are you cheating on me, y/n...?"

you were dumbfounded. in absolute, utter shock. how could nanami, the person who you believed to have the most trust in you, think that you would be unfaithful to him? yes, you realized how skeptical your behavior was. but for him to come to the assumption that you'd cheat on him? it stung a little—a lot, actually.

"what? no... no, of course not, kento! how could you say that?" you retorted, finally looking him in the eyes.

"gee, i don't know, maybe 'cause you can barely even look at me and you're very obviously hiding something!" his voice raising more with each word spoken.

you had no argument to counter what he had just laid out to you because he was right. you couldn't look at him for more than 5 seconds and you were hiding something. you eyed the floor beneath you, opening and shutting your mouth as you tried to think of something to say. nothing ever came out though.

a heavy sigh cut through your thoughts. you looked up from the floor and saw nanami shaking his head, running his hand down his face. he was so disappointed, you could feel his hurt radiating off of him.

"i'm going to sleep," he muttered, reaching for the lamp and dimming it. lying down, nanami shuffled into a more comfortable position, facing away from your side of the bed, and pulling the covers up to his shoulders.

"ken—"

"night, y/n."

you didn't know what you were going to say anyways. tears slid down your cheeks and the least you could do for nanami was keep quiet and let him rest. you realized that you wanted to apologize. apologize for the way you had been behaving towards him this entire evening, for making him doubt your faithfulness to him.

you slid into bed next to him, facing away from him as well. your body shook with the sobs you fought hard to keep in, nose stuffy and pillow quickly becoming soaked. you thought that the positive pregnancy test would have been the downfall of this relationship—now you wonder, will this argument turn these past 5 years into a mere memory?

m. list

#this has been in my drafts forever #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami x you #nanami angst #nanami kento angst #hurt/no comfort #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #nanami kento #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

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rogueddie · 6 months

Text

Steve and Robin initially get a piece of land with hush money bc they have the brilliant idea that it'd be better to build a house instead of buy one. But, as they quickly learn, they do not know how to build a house. Or wire it... or anything really.

Luckily, Eddie steps in to help. More accurately; he brings Wayne over to help. Their only condition is that, if the house ends up being big enough, they can temporarily stay until they find a house for themselves.

It's not intentional that they end up split into two teams of Robin with Wayne and Steve with Eddie. Robin is just better with things like wiring and planning whilst Eddie and Steve are better at shifting the heavy stuff and generally building.

And maybe Wayne and Robin start figuring out ways for the boys to have alone time but that's neither here nor there.

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #robin buckley #wayne munson #longficidea

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cordeliawhohung · 4 months

Text

In Limbo [Prologue]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist

| mafia!Simon x fem!Reader - violence, death, gambling, gang/mafia violence |

Everyone knew not to ask the Riley brothers what they did after dark. Don’t ask Tommy why he looks so skinny, and don’t ask Simon about the bruises on his hands and face; it’s better that way. Even if you did, neither of them would tell the truth, though they lied for different reasons. Tommy lied because he didn’t want anyone to ruin his fun. It was already bad enough with his brother getting on his ass about his addictions, he didn’t need anyone else trying to play hero for him. Besides, he was perfectly content couch surfing, drinking all his friend’s booze, and shooting up in order to numb anything that the alcohol couldn’t.

Simon only lied because he was ashamed.

But it wasn’t shame that stuck him in that boxing ring. No, it was something else. Loyalty, most likely. Servitude, more accurately. Whatever word that could be used to explain Simon Riley’s undying need to take care of his family, even at the cost of his own wellbeing. Even if that meant spilling someone else’s blood and destroying himself in the process.

It was difficult to hear the sound of his own thoughts in that room. Long abandoned, the pool house bounced around the voices of all the men looking down at him and the poor bastard he would have to fight. Nothing but cracked concrete walls surrounded him and his opponent as they stared at one another from opposite sides of the empty pool, sizing one another up. An announcer using a jerry-rigged auditory system mumbled something into the microphone about last call for bets that sent a few people scrambling. Maybe it was the dull, grey concrete prison he found himself in, but the men in charge had a way of making boxing feel like being put in the colosseum.

In five minutes, one of them would leave a bloody mess. Simon had every intention of leaving in one piece.

While he waited, Simon adjusted the wraps on his knuckles and the balaclava obscuring his face. He always refused to show his face in that place because the last thing he wanted was for any of that to come back and bite him in the ass. Underground boxing wasn’t the most legal thing in the world, but being a butcher wasn’t exactly a well paying job, either. The only reason he risked his life in that hole was because the winner got to take home twenty percent of the pot, and he had family to take care of.

Once everyone began to line the edge of the pool, Simon knew his five last minutes of preparation was almost up. Pressing one thick soled boot against the concrete at his back, he pushed himself off of the wall and towards the large spray painted circle that decorated the bottom of the pool. The line was drawn long ago and was so faded he had a difficult time telling the paint and the bloodstains apart. His contender mirrored his actions as he lazily sauntered up towards the ring, oozing a confidence Simon wasn’t sure was well founded.

The referee was a bored man who looked like he was nineteen going on forty. Out of all the spectators, he was the only one brave enough to sit down with his legs hanging over the side of the pool, despite how easy it would be to snap one of his scrawny legs should he get caught in the crossfire. Like all the other men who were in charge of the fight, he wore all black which made the silver whistle hanging around his neck all the more eye-catching.

“Alright boys,” he shouted over the commotion swirling around them, “you know the rules.”

Both men nodded before turning their attention to one another where they took their last few seconds to fully size one another up. Simon was taller, but that wasn’t exactly anything new. He was always well aware that his height and size was larger than the average man, but that rarely seemed to get anyone to shy away from fighting against him in the ring. His opponent had forgone his shirt, which was something Simon himself would have done if it wasn’t for the tattoos and other identifying marks he covered with the cloth on his back. Less clothes meant less things for someone to grab onto during the fight, but the man knew how to adapt. He wouldn’t have been alive that long if he didn’t learn to do that much.

Neither of them wasted any time getting to work the moment the whistle blew. His nameless opponent didn’t bother to wrap his hands, and he flaunted his tightly wound fists as he danced around the ring. Simon, however, was not that flamboyant, and instead chose to keep his arms guarding his face as he waited for either the man to make a move, or for an opportunity to attack. He had no need to show off, to prove himself to the people who bet on him; his only objective was to survive. To win.

The man’s first punch was slow. Sloppy, even. A quick duck of his head and adjustment of his hips had Simon avoiding the blow like it was child's play, and he responded with a quick and sharp jab to the man's exposed abdomen. The move got him a sharp grunt in response, followed by a half-assed punch intended for his face, but was easily blocked by Simon’s forearms. Bit by bit the fight started to pick up momentum. A quick jab on the right. A wide swing that sent one of the men ducking. Each blow was punctuated by roaring applause mixed with slight grimaces and groans from the audience.

Two minutes had passed and Simon had managed to receive a decent hit to his cheek, but his opponent suffered from a bloody nose that bled profusely, wetting the skin of his chest. His blood mixed with the rest of the stains that coated the concrete floor of the emptied pool, but neither man paid it any mind as they were too busy sizing up opening opportunities.

The crowd began to grow restless with the match, as fights usually only lasted a minute maximum if the fighters were good enough. They wanted their results. They needed their winner so that they could claim their share of the prize, should they be so lucky. Instead of continuing the fight, of picking up pace and doubling down, Simon’s opponent placed his hands on his hips with a heavy sigh. There was a slight pull to his lips, some sort of twisted grin that Simon refused to trust.

“Look… I really need that money.”

Now that was new. Simon was no veteran in the career of illegal underground boxing, but he had never seen or heard of anyone begging to win. Refusing to let his guard down, he stayed braced as he watched the man take a step forward, his movement far too confident to be grounded in good will.

Though Simon hadn’t been expecting anything friendly from the man, he certainly didn’t expect something as insidious as him pulling a pocket knife from the pants of his jeans. Its edge glistened deadly in the dull lights of the pool house, and he couldn’t stop the way his eyes widened at the sight of it. A deafening uproar sounded from the crowd at the blatant display of rule breaking, and the referee blew his whistle in an attempt to halt the fight.

“The fuck did I say about following rules?” the man shouted after letting the whistle drop from his lips. “Give that here before you get yourself hurt.”

Despite the man’s warning, no one exactly rushed to defend Simon. Not that he could blame them. They weren’t the ones stuck in that pool with that man. They were perfectly safe and had no intention of spilling their guts just to save their entertainment.

Ignoring the referee, the man continued to stalk closer to Simon who refused to waver even in the threat of the glinting blade in the man's hand. It was a beautiful knife, obviously well loved and kept without a single hint of rust or other ailment. But Simon knew knives, and he knew them well enough to know that the grip the man used was not the telltale sign of a man who was confident in his abilities. Just as sloppy as his punches were, his grip was that of a novice, someone desperate for an easy way out.

“Just step outta the ring,” the man said as he approached close enough to Simon that he was within reaching distance. “This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

Simon didn’t even bother giving the man a reply, and he certainly didn’t wait around for him to make the first move with a knife in his hand. Instead, he grabbed the blade by hand, taking great care to avoid putting the edge along the fleshy part of his palm as he did so, and used his other hand to twist the man's wrist into submission. His yelp cut through the shouting of the crowd around them as Simon yanked the knife out of his feeble grip and then swung him to the side. Blood and bone crunched on the cement of the pool wall as the man’s already tender nose collided with the rough and unforgiving surface.

“Sorry mate,” Simon said as he watched the man’s face slide down the wall, “shoulda fought harder.”

Violent cheering and shouts brought a whole new deafening sound to the crowded room as those who betted on Simon reveled in their win. The man himself stood in the center of the ring as a few workers surrounded his opponent, all roughly grabbing him and yanking him out of the hole, certainly to drag him off to teach him a lesson. Boxers dying during fights wasn’t exactly good for business, and those who placed bets usually got pretty sour when their lucky contestant was too injured to play.

Folding up the pocket knife and shoving it into his pocket to keep as a souvenir, Simon turned towards the pool ladder where he quickly yanked himself up out of that bloody hole. Several people were brave enough to give him a pat on the back as he cut through the crowd, but most others stared at him with slight terror and the respect he deserved.

He had won, and that was the only thing he cared about.

Things were significantly more quiet in the cash room. What used to be a locker room had been turned into something of a makeshift bank with large, heavy duty safes that housed all the cash from that evening's bettings, as well as everything left over from previous weekends. As Simon was the victor, he got priority on the dispersal of money, which meant he found himself standing for quite some time in front of a rickety folding table while the banker, so to speak, counted out his winnings by hand.

Eight thousand was how much he would take home that night. With a minimum required bet of five hundred, and then some choosing to place even higher bets, his payout was always eye-catching, though usually took some time to count out. Not that he was in a hurry or anything, certainly not at that time of night. He didn’t have anyone waiting for him back home, anyway.

“Ghost?”

Unlike most of the other fighters, Simon refused to reveal not only his face but his name as well. In fact, he had peeved the sign up rep a little when he refused to give the man his proper name and in some sort of fit of annoyance he was given the name Ghost. It was a name that had gotten him laughed at when he had first stepped in that bloodied pool as he was seen as nothing but some stupid boy who dreamed too much of being in the WWE. After a few matches, people learned to respect both the name and the man behind the mask.

Simon turned around to face who spoke to him and wasn’t much too surprised to find a well dressed man with an easy smile. He stood only an inch or two shorter than him, which was something to notice, and he could catch a slight whiff of expensive, woody cologne mixed with tobacco. Though that abandoned pool house was meant for the grunts, it wasn’t rare to find the occasional well off business man or two feeding into their gambling addictions with something a bit more bloody than your average horse race.

“Yeah?” Simon responded as if bored.

Much to his surprise, the man held out his hand for him to shake. He was quick to notice the watch band on his wrist, though it wasn’t as expensive as Simon had anticipated it to be. Still, he courteously took his hand as he allowed the man to introduce himself.

“John Price. That was some good fighting you did down there,” he congratulated as they both returned their hands to their sides. It was obvious the man wasn’t from the area based on his accent. London, Simon guessed, which was quite a ways away from Manchester.

Simon hummed as he quickly glanced over his shoulder. The sudden quietness hadn’t been lost on him as every soul in that room eyed John Price with suspicion. Even the bank guards looked apprehensive despite how obviously armed they were. He turned his attention back to John as he gestured to the table behind him.

“Too excited to wait patiently for your winnings?” he asked.

John laughed, and it rumbled deep in his chest as he glanced down at the ground with a friendly smile. “No, my wife doesn’t like it when I gamble. I came here to offer you a job.”

It was as if the ambiance of the room itself silenced the very moment those words left John’s mouth. Anyone shuffling and counting cash ceased, as did their breathing by the sound of it. There didn’t seem to be any insidious intent or tone behind the man's voice, and yet his offer stopped the very turning of the world.

“Must be an interestin’ job if you’re scoutin’ in a place like this,” Simon noted.

“Interesting and well paying,” John agreed. “I think it would be a shame to let those talents of yours go to waste.”

Talents? Simon nearly laughed at the compliment. He wasn’t a trained fighter by any means, just obnoxiously big and brutally strong in a way that most other people never had the misfortune of being. There were very few reasons why Simon would want to turn to a life like that, a life full of nothing but violence and fighting, and simply being offered decent pay was not one of them.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’m interested,” he said as he turned his attention back to the man at the table. Apparently he had finished counting his winnings quite some time ago because he held the stack of cash in his hands out for him impatiently, almost as if he begged Simon to leave.

Relieving the man of whatever awkward tension had built up in his body, Simon took the cash and quickly shuffled through it before tossing a few bills back as a tip. The man muttered a soft thanks before his gaze turned back to John Price. Whoever this man was, no one else seemed to trust him even with his kind demeanor.

“Have a good night,” he said to John with a simple nod.

Just as Simon walked to the side of the man, he put his hand up in front of his chest, forcing him to stop in his tracks. That same hand then slowly snaked into the pocket of his pants, and he half expected him to pull some sort of weapon on him for denying his offer. Wouldn’t have been the first time that night. Instead, John pulled out a small, rectangular card, which he held out for Simon.

“Take this before you go. In case you change your mind,” John insisted.

Simon stared at the card for a long moment, studying its features. It was nothing but plain white cardstock with a phone number handwritten on one side, which was oddly simple for someone with a powerful aura. It was almost like the man had scribbled it down before he even entered the building, as if he had anticipated Simon’s rejection. Seeing no harm in taking the card, and also wanting to get the man off his back as soon as possible so he could go home, he took the item and shoved it in his pocket.

“Just know that if you do decide to change your mind, I always take care of my men. Always,” John said, his eyes unwavering.

Unconvinced, Simon gave the man a curt nod. “Sure,” he responded gruffly before he turned to leave John Price and that dilapidating building far behind him.

Simon didn’t take his balaclava off until he was halfway home. Well, the house he grew up in as a child wasn’t exactly home anymore, but his mother still lived there, and that was close enough. It hadn’t changed much since he was younger; it still had the floral patterned curtains and the cement stairs with the railing that squeaked as he approached the front door. The inside had changed considerably, though. Significantly less toys than he remembered, and his mother was able to keep it more tidy since the death of his addict father.

When he reached the kitchen, he flipped the light on and did a quick glance around the room. Several hand washed dishes sat neatly in a drying rack next to the sink, and the fridge was adorned with old photographs of him and his brother Tommy from when they were younger. Annoying bastard used to be cute back then.

Digging his hands into his pocket, Simon pulled out the cash he had earned that night and began to shuffle through the bills. Six thousand would have been plenty for him to live off of for a little while in addition to what he already made at work as a butcher. His mom could use the extra two thousand, although she’d chastise him and attempt to give it back to him. No, maybe he should give her three thousand just in case his brother came around asking her for cash. Begging seemed to be a bad habit of his.

“Tommy?”

Simon stopped in his tracks when the sound of his mothers tired voice cut across the quiet kitchen. She stood in the doorway with a hand bracing against the wall while she attempted to squint into the bright light of the room. Surprisingly, her hair was kept fairly well despite her having been roused from sleep, though her pajamas had been wrinkled from her tossing and turning throughout the night.

“Oh, Simon,” she said in surprise. “Everything alright sweetie?”

He felt like a kid again getting caught red handed trying to steal snacks at some ungodly hour, except instead of stealing he attempted to give something. It was too late to shove the cash into his pocket and pretend he was there for some other reason, her eyes had clearly scanned the bundle in his hands as soon as she had made herself known. Instead of drawing more attention to it than had already been done, Simon continued to count out the cash like it was of no importance.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he spoke softly. It didn’t take him much longer to count the amount he wanted to give to her, and once he was finished he set it in a neat pile on the counter before shoving the remaining amount deep into his pocket. “Just droppin’ something off real quick. Go back to bed, mum.”

Ignoring his request, she continued further into the room as she made her way to the fridge where cold air soon brushed against Simon’s arm as she searched around in the freezer. It wasn’t long before she pulled out a bag of frozen peas and shoved it his way, all but forcing it into his hand.

“If you ice it now the swelling should go down by Monday,” she said while her eyes watched him meticulously.

Sighing, Simon turned so that his hips leaned against the counter while he pressed the cold bag of peas against his eye. The pain from the impact was hardly there, and it felt more like a dull throb than anything else, but he supposed nothing could beat a mother’s intuition. Not like it would have mattered if his eye did swell up. There were very few people he visited, and he always hid in the back of the butcher shop when he worked.

“You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself, Simon,” she sighed as she shut the freezer door. Despite her short stature, she stared up at her son with her hands on her hips to scold him as if he was still a child and not a twenty-six year old man. “Whatever money you’re making from this isn’t worth what you’re putting your body through.”

“It is if it helps get you through the month,” he retorted bluntly. Crackling plastic sounded as he adjusted the bag on his face. His fingertips already ached from holding the ice cold object.

“I know your mother is getting closer to being a helpless old lady, but I’m not there quite yet,” she chuckled. “I’m not going to be living out on the streets, sweetie.”

“You will be if you keep givin’ money to Tommy as often as you do.”

It was difficult for her to come up with a response because deep down Mrs. Riley knew her son was right, even though she didn’t want him to be. The oldest of her two sons grew skinnier and more pallid every time she saw him, and the only thing he ever seemed interested in consuming was cash. His expensive diet was insatiable, and she didn’t have the fortitude to deny him his favorite meal.

“If he comes around again, tell him to come talk to me,” Simon continued. By that point his cheek felt completely numb and he hastily pulled the frozen bag of peas off his face in order to offer his skin a little reprieve from the biting cold. “Kick him out if you have to. Unless he’s tryin’ to sit for tea, he doesn’t need to be harassing you for money.”

There wasn’t much more to be said for their late night kitchen conversation. Sleep pulled heavy at his mothers eyes, and all Simon wanted to do was wash away the filth of that night down the drain. So he placed the bag of peas back in the freezer before giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. They quietly muttered their goodbyes before Simon quickly slipped out of the kitchen and towards the exit. His hand had hardly brushed against the dull, brass door knob before he heard her call out to him from the kitchen doorway once more.

“Stay safe, Simon.”

Hesitating for only a moment, he continued to twist at the knob until the door swung open and the night air seeped into the entryway. He glanced over his shoulder and looked to where his mother’s small frame stood, blocking the illumination from the kitchen. A small smile appeared on his lips, but his face felt too numb to give her something more proper.

“Always.”

The thing about Simon Riley was that his hands were always dirty. No matter how much pink tinged water swirled down the drain, he could never quite get the stench of death and raw muscle out of his skin. But that was alright. Men like him, large and burly and utterly terrifying, were meant to be that way. Hidden in the back of butcher shops, transforming once living creatures into something so unrecognizable that the average person would be able to stomach consuming something that once looked at the same stars as them.

Just as Simon had finished washing and drying his hands, the small pitter-patter of feet caught his attention. Looking up from his station, he caught sight of Meara, the young girl who ran the register up front. She was kind enough yet always seemed eternally bored with the work at the shop, but her usual dull expression was replaced with one of slight concern. Meara leaned against the doorway and jammed her thumb over her shoulder as she cleared her throat.

“There’s someone up front asking for you,” she said. “He’s uh… very adamant about speaking to you.”

Sounded about right. It was a Monday, and for some reason that usually attracted the frustrated white collar workers and the absolute loons. Simon tossed his paper towel into the bin next to the sink before following Meara up front where he was met with neither office worker nor freak but his own brother. Each time Simon saw Tommy, he looked worse with gauntly cheekbones and heavy sunken eyes. His skin was so pale it looked as if it had been rotting for some time, and yet he still smiled at Simon as if nothing was wrong.

“Simon, hey man,” Tommy greeted as he placed his hands on the counter. His scuffed knuckles didn’t go unnoticed, but Simon didn’t bother to mention it. “How’s work?”

“What do you want?” he questioned, skipping the pleasantries and getting straight to the point. “Got tired of freeloadin’ off of mum?”

Whatever kind persona Tommy wore quickly morphed into something a bit more desperate at his little brother’s comment and he slumped forward over the counter. He was close enough that Simon could smell his breath; it was as if he had rotting flesh stuck in his teeth.

“Come on, Simon,” he said, nearly begging, “I know it sounds bad, but I just- this is serious alright? Look, I couldn’t tell mum because she’d freak the fuck out, but I… I owe some guys a bit of money, and they’re getting a little impatient with me.”

Feet shuffled behind Simon as Meara not-so-secretly eavesdropped. Papers slapped against one another as she messed about, pretending to be busy when he knew that she didn’t have any work to be done. Ignoring it, he kept his attention on his brother, and more importantly the bit of information he had dropped.

“How much?” he asked.

Sweating, Tommy rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I’d just need a couple hundred to keep them off my back for a while.”

“That’s not what I asked you,” Simon snapped. “How much, Tom?”

Avoiding his gaze, Tommy looked down at the counter. “Seventy five.”

“Hundred?” Simon pressed.

“Thousand.”

Simon nearly laughed at the absurdity of the number. He was well aware his brother was an idiot, but he never imagined he would get into that much trouble. Tommy refused to look at him, which gave Simon the time he needed to get his thoughts together and stay as level headed as possible, lest he scare Meara.

“How the fuck did you manage that?” Simon asked as he kept his voice low.

“That’s not important right now,” Tommy retorted, though he backed off when he saw the glare his brother gave him. “I-It’s a long story, I can explain later but right now I need you to help me. Please.”

A small bell rang with the opening of the shop door and Tommy anxiously turned around to greet the two men like he knew them by their presence alone. Both men were dressed similarly with large bulky coats that Simon knew couldn’t be hiding anything good. Neither brother had time to react before one of the men threw a punch that hit Tommy’s diagram. All the air in his lungs left him with a pitiful heave before he was promptly shoved onto the cold linoleum. Meara’s gasp came shortly after followed by what sounded like a sob when the other man pulled out a knife and pointed it towards Simon in a warning.

“Let’s not get any ideas,” the man chuckled as his partner sauntered over to Tommy’s crumpled form on the floor.

Stuck on the other side of the counter, Simon’s eyes flickered between the two men in assessment. Average height and build, neither of them were all too intimidating and yet they both sauntered into the shop like they owned the place. The man who stood above Tommy chuckled as he knelt down to his height like some ravenous beast ready to eat his meal. This was Simon’s work, but this was their territory.

“Time’s up,” he said as he held his hand out, but all Tommy could do in response was sputter and attempt to catch his breath. “Do you have the cash or not?”

Suddenly, Simon was in that empty pool again with its cracked cement walls and stained floor. Adrenaline pumped through his body so furiously the only thing he could hear was his brothers groaning and the blood rushing in his ears. He could freeze up. He could stand there and watch his brother get beat to a pulp or stabbed beyond recognition. It was easy to give in to fear, to be nothing but a helpless bystander, but it wasn’t in his nature. No, a man like Simon Riley would do the thing he did best: fight.

Mimicking his movements from the other night, Simon grabbed the blade of the knife with one hand and the thugs wrist with his other before bending them in opposite directions. A loud crunch reverberated through his hands as the man’s forearm shattered in his grip, causing the man to scream louder than anything he had heard in his life. There was nothing left in Simon’s grip than powdery bone and mushy meat. Yelping, Meara took that as a sign to get the hell out of dodge, and she quickly dove through the doorway and into the back of the shop.

All it took was a simple shove to get the man to lose balance, and with him out of the way Simon was able to step around the counter. The man closest to his brother was no longer concerned with Tommy and instead turned his attention to Simon. He looked to his comrade who squirmed and moaned on the floor as he gripped his flopping arm, and it was in that moment that they finally realized they should have taken Simon seriously.

Cursing, the man fumbled with one of the pockets in his coat and Simon’s stomach dropped at the sight. This was the moment where the man would try and level the playing field by drawing his own weapon, and though Simon was strong, no amount of fortitude would stop a speeding bullet. Bracing himself, Simon charged as fast as he could towards the man with his new weapon held tightly in his hand. Strong and powerful steps propelled him forward, and they collided seconds later where they both toppled to the ground right next to Tommy like dominos.

Ensuring that he was ready for whatever came next, Simon jumped to his feet and looked down at the man he had tackled. His breathing was short and sputtering, and at first he thought that was just because he had knocked the wind out of him; until he realized the knife was no longer in his hand. A long blade had been embedded into the thugs stomach and it fit so snugly as if it had never known any other home. All the man could do was lie there on his back with his hands pawing at his abdomen as if he could will the pain away. But nothing could get the blood to stop oozing from the wound.

Simon had just washed his hands.

“Fucking… Jesus fucking… holy shit,” Tommy stuttered, still gasping for air. “Simon… oh my god, he’s gonna fuckin’ die. W-What do… what do we do?”

Simon’s heart felt like it was about to jump out of his chest, and each thump rattled painfully throughout his entire body. Both intruders laid on the ground, one still half conscious moaning in pain over his arm, and the other slowly losing the light in his eyes. It was then that Simon realized he was scared. Terrified, even, but he had a difficult time deducing what had spooked him. The fact that he had killed a man, or the realization that taking a life was just as easy as butchering a pig?

Ignoring his brother, Simon dug around in his pocket where he quickly pulled out his phone and a small card. He wasn’t sure why he still even had that useless piece of scrap that John Price had given him. Maybe he lugged it around because he knew that there was no escaping a life of violence, no matter how fast he ran. He unlocked his phone and hastily punched the numbers on the keypad before bringing it up to his ear. The line rang for so long he was a little worried no one would pick up, but eventually it stopped and the silky smooth voice of John Price came through the speaker.

“Hello?”

“This is Ghost,” Simon answered. His voice was terrifyingly calm despite the fresh corpse that rested on the ground next to him. “That job offer still on the table?”

here's our little introduction for the boy. still not quite sure how i feel about it, and updates will be slow to come, but i'm excited to get more of his lore out there. hope you all enjoyed. we'll get to see reader in the next part

#mafia!simon #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #in limbo

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queer-n-here · 2 months

Note

Making Poe/Sigma ride a dildo PLS.

Also you're a great writer

Hey, thanks! Hope you like this one, too.

Also, I fucking love Sigma. I fucking love him. Him and Tanizaki are the two characters that I simp so hard for I would do anything to have them.

Contents: Making Sigma ride a dildo cuz you had a wet dream about it

Warnings: Smut, top male reader, masturbation, sex toys, nipple play.

It had been on your mind for a while now. More accurately, ever since you'd had that dream about Sigma riding a dildo like a bitch in heat, eyes glued to yours and hands bracing against the floor.

You wondered now, stepping into your shared room at the Sky Casino with a bag in your hand, if Sigma would agree to your little request.

You found him sitting at his desk the way you always did. Him, hunched over numerous sheets of paper spread out so he could see all of them at once. You walked over to him, wrapping an arm around Sigma's shoulder and placing a kiss on his temple.

He barely even looked up, murmuring a, "Welcome back," half-heartedly. You didn't mind, ruffling his hair gently and putting down the bag in your hands on the bedside table to go freshen up. When you emerged from the shower, hair dripping water onto the fabric of your T-shirt, neither Sigma nor the bag had moved. You plopped down on the bed, grabbing your phone to pass time.

"Say, baby," You said casually, and Sigma hummed to show that he was listening. "I went down today for an emergency supply run."

'Down' meant back to the surface of earth.

"Mm-hmm," Sigma's eyes were still glued to his paperwork. "See anything interesting?"

You couldn't help but smirk at his words. "Why, I did actually."

"Hmm," Was his only reply, attention stolen completely by his work.

You didn't mind; being in a relationship with someone with the personality of Sigma had that requirement of patience. His work could wrap him around him like deadly vines sometimes. Only when it started suffocating him could you step in, beating back its branches and freeing your boyfriend from them.

And Sigma himself had agreed to your suggestion that after 10 o'clock, he should forget work and just be your boyfriend. So you waited.

The very second the clock in your room struck ten, you threw your phone down and left the bed, going to stand over Sigma instead. You bent down, and picked Sigma up from his chair, making him yelp in surprise and latch onto your neck for balance.

"[Name], what-" He began, but you cut him off.

"It's ten," You jutted your head towards the clock.

Sigma glanced at it, sighed, and then wrapped his arms more firmly around your neck, his expression resigned. "Fine."

You grinned unapologetically, and carried him to the bed, setting him down on the soft mattress and laying down beside him on your side, an elbow propped up against the bed to support your head up with your hand.

"So," You said, looking down at Sigma with a mischievous combination of a smile and smirk plastered on your face. "Did you hear what I said earlier about going down for an emergency run?"

He racked his brains. "Oh, yeah, you said you saw something interesting. What was it?"

Your smile-smirk-combination turned into a full smirk, and you reached over to the bedside table to grab the bag you'd brought with you, depositing it on Sigma's chest carefully.

"Is it a present?" His face lit up, eyes shining as he scrambled to sit up to open the bag.

"Mn," You nodded, eyes glued to that expression of his. "Two, actually. One of them is for you, and the other one might be for me."

Sigma frowned. "But if you brought it for yourself then-"

"Just open it," You raised your head to kiss his lips gently. "Either way you're gonna use it."

He shrugged, "Okay," and reached into the bag. The first thing he pulled out was a small jewellery box made of oak wood, its surface shiny and well-polished. His face lit up again, throwing you an excited glance before opening it, making you smile at him fondly.

It was a silver bracelet, somehow sturdy and delicate at the same time, which was why it had reminded you of Sigma when you'd seen it in the glass case of a jewellery shop you'd been passing.

"It's beautiful," Sigma said, looking up at you with that ecstatic expression on his pretty face.

"You like it?" You asked, and he nodded earnestly. "That's good, then."

You sat up to place a soft kiss on his forehead, and he turned to hug you tightly.

"Thank you," He whispered against your chest as you stroked the back of his head. "I'll cherish it."

You smiled. It felt so good to be able to make him smile, it was surreal.

Sigma got up from the bed to carefully put the bracelet in a drawer, face all split from that wide smile on . He returned for the second gift, the one you had deliberately placed lower in the bag so he would see it later.

Sitting down next to you again, he took up the bag and reached into it for a second time. When he pulled his hand out, sitting on his hand, all innocent looking and perfectly stationary, was a bright purple dildo.

His eyes widened, and a heavy blush rose up to his cheeks. He dropped it back into the bag, turning to you accusingly as his face burned with shame.

You met his gaze with a calm one of yours, smirking. "How d'you like it?"

Ten minutes later, you received the answer to your question.

You had somehow managed to convince a very flustered Sigma into cooperating with your plans. Now, he was on the floor next to you, hole tight and pathetic around the dildo that you'd stuck to the floor.

You sat close to him, letting him clutch your shirt in his hands as he huffed and panted, eyes wet and shoulders shaking.

"I think you're ready to move now, right, baby?" You asked, supporting most of his weight as he leaned against you.

Sigma nodded, and slowly began moving. He raised his hips till only the tip of the dildo was in him, before engulfing the entire thing again. His thighs shook, and moans spilled from his pretty mouth as he began riding it. You let him bury his head into your chest, knowing full well the shame that made him red now would be gone soon.

Sigma began gaining a rhythm slowly, his hips speeding up as your hand reached for your own waistband. Supporting him with one hand, you used the other to pull your cock free from its retraints. You began stroking just as Sigma's moans grew louder, each thrust of the dildo against his gummy walls making him more breathless than before.

"Look at me, baby," You said, hands fast on your cock.

He did, fingers of both his hands clenching you so tight you wondered if he'd be able to tear your skin through the shirt. His eyes were leaking tears down either side of his red face, and his sweat-soaked and messy hair was sticking to his forehead. His eyes were wide, pupils all blown out and blurred up. You leaned down and kissed him, swallowing each of his moans as he bounced on the dildo.

You continued jerking off to the sight of your boyfriend riding that dildo, knowing full well it could have been your cock if you'd asked for that instead.

"Move faster, baby," You told him, and with tears streaming down his face, he did as he was told.

As Sigma bounced wildly, your eyes glued themselves to the point where the dildo plunged in and out of his already swollen hole. He bit his lips, throwing his head back and letting you lower your head to bite at his pale flesh and kiss his nipples. His shame, as you had predicted, had already vaporized into thin air, and he made eye contact with you as he rode the dildo, mouth open and spilling lewd sounds. You licked and bit and kissed and teased to your heart's content as Sigma's body moved beneath your lips.

Soon, his moans turned into cries, and his movements grew sloppily and wilder, arms wrapping around your neck desperately and pulling you closer. Your hand sped up around your cock, knowing from his mannerisms that Sigma was close to his orgasm.

"Let's finish together, hmm?" You said, and Sigma nodded, leaning up to catch your lips in a kiss.

You reached over with your free hand to stroke his length, making him gasp and try to pull away, but you held on firm. You stroked both cocks in rhythm till he was crying, burying his face into your chest and just sobbing, his orgasm strong and unavoidable as it washed over him.

Ropes of cum shot out of your cock as Sigma collapsed onto you, breathless and tired. You reached forwards to pull him up and away from the dildo and onto you, wrapping both your arms around his shaking frame.

You let him calm down and come down from his high, stroking his back and pressing kisses into his temple. Soon, he pulled away to look at you, tears dried on his cheeks.

"Was that good?" He asked.

You nodded, smiling. "So good, baby. Now that you've had practice, d'you wanna try the real thing?"

Sigma's eyes widened, and he flushed impossibly darker.

#dom male reader #top male reader #dom reader #bungou stray dogs #sub bsd #sub bsd x you #bsd x you #sub bungou stray dog x you #sub bungou stray dogs #sub sigma #sub character #sub character x you #sub sigma x you

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biggameplayertrentaa · 3 months

Text

III. Trippin', Fallin'

“Girl, he ate your pussy for the back and YOU LEFT HIM?” Your best friend Nicole sits directly across from you, french manicured tips outlining the rim of her now empty mimosa cup. The two of you sat in a secluded corner of your favorite brunch spot. Every Friday morning, the two of you would meet and discuss a myriad of topics that ranged from work to menstrual problems. Today’s brunch topic of discussion: Jude.

“Do you mind lowering your voice when speaking about MY business in public? Thank you.” You simply retort, bringing your mimosa flute to your glossed lips before quickly downing the rest of the citrussy substances. You couldn’t help but sink in your chair as her words triggered the wakening of your already guilty conscience. Her summarization truly made your actions seem so…brutal. Brutality was never the intention, neither was hurting him; you were merely protecting yourself. You viewed the situation as his heart or yours, and a week ago, you had chosen yours.

“You are absolutely in the wrong.” Nicole’s tone mirrors that of a disappointed parent disciplining their school-age child. It made your skin burn and forced you to focus your attention to the crumbs on the cloth of the table. “You’re in the wrong and you need to apologize to him.”

You roll your eyes at this. “He’ll be fine; if anything it’ll encourage him to chill out.” You motion to your server, knowing that Nicole was going to hammer away at this situation until the two of you were blue in the face. You might as well be a little drunk for it.

“Why do you want him to chill out?” Her eyes are trained on you, even when the server comes back with two new mimosa flutes.

“Because we’re not ready to be in a serious relationship.”

“But you’re ready to see each other naked and touch genitals? Consistent logic, maam.”

“You don’t know him-”

Nicole raises a dismissive hand, silencing you. “But I know you and I know that your ex fucked you up and now you’re scared that every guy you come across will do the same.” You shrug, once again taking a rather large sip of your mimosa. Though you always considered the restaurant large, under the gaze of Nicole’s judgemental eye–coupled with her ability to quickly and accurately read you–the space felt stuffy and suffocating.

“Okay, Ms. Iyana Fix My Life, so what? I’m protecting myself.”

“No, you’re blocking potential blessings and hurting an innocent person in the process.”

“Equating a man to a blessing is very out of character of you. Are you sick?” You hope a joke will ease the tension and hopefully force your bestie to change the subject. After you left that morning, you did everything in your power to suppress every thought and feeling pertaining to Jude and that incredibly passionate night. It was difficult; you can’t even eat Chinese anymore without feeling sick with guilt.

Nonetheless, you do not regret it…At least that is what you have been deluding yourself into believing this past week.

“Friend, I love you. I think you are the most beautiful, intelligent, funniest woman I know and I am so sorry that you’re ex made you think you were anything less.” Nicole reaches for the hand that was not wrapped around your mimosa flute. You hesitantly allow her to take it, relaxing slightly when she squeezes it. “But from what you’ve told me about Jude, there are no similarities between how he has consistently treated you for six months and how your ex-boyfriend treated you.”

You open your mouth to challenge her, but no words form; your mind blanks as her words resonate. She was right. Jude was everything your ex wasn’t and more. And most importantly of all, he treated you with kindness, respect, and dignity. And yet, I still broke his heart, you think, a guilt and shame-infused knot not only forming but making its presence known in the pit of your stomach.

“What if I get hurt?” Your voice comes out in almost a whisper. You were embarrassed of your actions–ashamed. You were also scared as you could literally feel the thawing of your heart.

“What if you don’t?”

The simplicity of the statement did nothing to undermines it profoundness. *

The moment you get home from your brunch–slightly tipsy from all that you had downed during Nicole’s intervention–you immediately go to call Jude.“We’re sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service…”

You pull your phone away from your ear before you can hear the harsh sound of the dial tone. You look at the device with furrowed brows and a slight gaped mouth. Did he fucking block me, you think, quickly going to call him back. Once again, you are immediately sent to voicemail. But it isn’t until your third try when the conclusion you had reached two phone calls ago finally settles in.

Jude blocked you.

Your hands are shaking slightly as your fingers dance over the instagram app, only to find, a few seconds later, that you were blocked there too.

“There’s truly a sassy man epidemic amongst us.” You quip out into the void, hoping your wit can save you from the weight of the realization of your actions.

It didn’t.

Your stomach sinks, the cocktailed feeling of immense guilt and shame envelops your body in a way that makes your skin burn and your head hurt. It was never your intention to become a villain, to treat Jude as cruelly as you did. Your heart ached as your mind taunts you with the thought of never speaking to him again. It was a thought you never had to grapple with before. Unbeknownst to you, Jude had interwoven himself so beautiful into the fabric of your life, that the undoing of it–his threaded presence–could be emotionally catastrophic for you.

Why are you realizing this now when it may be too late?

You shake the negative thought from your head, deciding this him blocking you was for the best; the apology that Jude deserved was meant to be done in person.

* Monday morning came slowly.

As you walked the short commute to The Ciudad, you gnaw at your bottom lip as you attempt to orchestrate an appropriate apology. The clouds were low and thick, greying the typically blue skies and chilling the Spanish air. Though you have on a coat, you are still shaking. You genuinely don’t think you’ve ever uttered the words I’m sorry to a man before; that was never your brand. Accountability was, though. So it, and your now definite feelings for Jude, kept you from cutting your losses and living silently with your guilt.

You’re at the training ground before you know it. You leave your belonging in your office, grabbing your camera, and making your way to the field. The air is unusually thick with humidity and the smell of freshly cut grass is consuming. Before you could think to make a comment to one of your coworkers about the weather, you and Jude suddenly lock eyes.

Your breath hitches slightly, body immediately warming as the two of you held eachother’s gaze intensely. He’s the first to break, averting his gaze to Kroos who was yapping away beside him. You see him clench his jaw and–thanks to the season–notice the slight flush to his cheeks. His cold disposition tints your own cheeks.

As the boys begin to warm-up, you start filming a few Instagram Reelz and TikToks. Jude is almost obnoxious in the way he is purposely avoiding you and the camera. Even going as far as ducking behind Vini (of all people) to dodge you.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Training seems to drag on forever. You are completely miserable, riddled with nerves and thoughts of him. It felt as if Ancelotti was almost tantalizing you the way he was conducting this session, slowing it down with his lectures and stories. Just as you were begin to suspect he was somehow doing it to purposely fuck with you, a low rumble, followed by a few raindroplets save you from your misery. It isn’t long before the light showers morph into something more intense, forcing Ancelotti to yell out his dismissal.

You are one of the first to make it into the facility.

You stand to the side, rising slightly on your tiptoes in hopes of catching Jude, desperate to quickly make amends and put an end to this entire ordeal. Your stomach immediately knots at the sight of him; he’s trailing behind the managers with his head down and shoulders slumped. As he steps inside, eyes still glued to the ground, you intake a sharp breath before stepping directly in front of him. Jude stops, raising his gaze slightly with knitted brows. You go to speak, but before you can form a syllable, he is walking past you, bumping your shoulder lightly in the process.

You’re in shock, sticky-glued to your spot–did he just?

Rejection is bitter and nauseating; it makes the inside of your nose prickle and your throat lump with the urge to cry. The sound of the now harsh rain against the panes of the facility’s window forces you to gather yourself and ignore the little voice in your head reminding you of your pride. Your ego is bruised–severely, but you bury the bitter feeling and instead head to your manager’s office, excuses already formulating.

Because of the downpour–and your impatient, nervous disposition–the drive to Jude’s house seems a lot longer than it typically felt. Your mind is racing; you dance between possible apologies and thoughts of heavy doubt. Is it too late?

Was this the final straw?

His demeanor gave you the impression that it was…yet there was something preventing you from giving up. You weren’t sure if it was pure delusion or hope. When you get to his house, you immediately note the car in the driveway but refuse to dwell on it as you park along the curb. As you briskly trek the short distance to his front door, you’re silently praying that its he who answers it and not his mother. These silent pleads are echoing in your mind as you pressed a finger to the little bell.

It feels like an eternity when the door finally swings open. A small sigh leaves your parted lips as your eyes dance over Jude’s tense figure. He looks shocked at first, a similar sigh leaving his own lips as he instinctively reaches to shelter you from the weather. But just as fingers ghost over your arm, he stops himself, the hand falling limp beside him.

“What are you doing here?” Jude’s voice is hard and robotic. It makes you step back further into the rain.

“Why did you block me?” The words leave your mouth before you can garner the restraints to stop them. A deep crease forms in the space just above Jude’s furrowed brows as he clenches his jaw. He steps forward, closing the door softly behind him. Your chest is almost touching his now. You can feel the heat radiating off of him and the smell of his laundry detergent.

“Excuse me?”

“I didnt- I don’t know why I said that.” You stammer out. You see him roll his shoulders back, his tense posture relaxing just slightly. This encourages you. “What I meant to say was-” You suck in a large breath, heart hammering almost distractingly against your chest. Jude’s gaze is piercing and intense and you have half a mind to look away. Instead, you return a more soft and loving look.

“You scare me-” He quirks his head to this side, signaling his confusion. You shake your head in frustration, why is this so fucking hard?

“I mean how you make me feel scares me,” You begin to rush out, “and I can go on and on about why I did what I did, but none of it would be enough.” Jude’s gaze softens. Bolden, you lean into him. “I hurt you and I am so sorry.” Jude says nothing, but this doesn’t stop you from continuing.

“Jude, I love you, which is very scary and almost embarrassing, but I do. I love you and I want to be with you.”

His mouth falls open but no words are uttered. The Spanish showers are anything but light, making the coat clinging to your body feel incredibly heavy. For a moment the two of you stand there, staring wordlessly at each other. Your eyes eventually fall to your feet; Jude’s silence was deafening.

“Right,” You nod, a sad smile playing at your lips, “I get it. I meant everything I said, though.” You throw a final glance at Jude’s frozen figure before turning on your heel. The feeling of rejection weighed you down, slowing you as you made your way to your car. It’s indescribable and visceral—you don’t think you’ve ever felt this gutted before. Your shaking fingers wrap around your doorhandle, but just as you go to open it, a large, calloused hand wraps around your wrist.

It’s embarrassing how quickly you whip yourself around.

Jude take’s half a step closer to you, pressing you between your car and his chest. His eyes were soft, but the hurt and doubt they contained was still evident. For a moment, he searches your face as if he’s looking for something.

“You left me that night.” His voice is soft, barely audible over the pressured showers.

“I know. I am so sorry, baby.”

“How do I know you won’t do that again. I can’t–” He sighs deeply before continuing, voice noticeably shaking. “I don’t think I can stomach that feeling again, Y/N.” The look in his eyes forces you to reach forward and cup his cheek. You caress his stubble and rid its surface of raindrops in vain.

“You won’t have to.” You say earnestly. “Not with me. Not again. I’m all your’s, Jude.” Jude leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his lids hooded. With his chest pressed to yours, you can feel the quick beating of his heart. The tempo relaxes you, warming and fuzzing your body. You snake your arms around his neck, raising yourself to your tiptoes as you nudge your nose against his. Jude breathes out a laugh that you mirror.

You lean in, hovering your lips against his for a brief moment before finally taking it upon yourself to close the distance between the two of you.

THE END

Author's final thots: y/n did all that just for Jude to take her back...city girls up! Also so sorry for dragging this out. To be frank, I'm just a lazy piece of shit.

#Spotify #jude:)#jude x reader #jude bellingham #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham angst #Jude bellingham fanfics #jude bellinghams drabbles

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