Not to be mentally ill rn, but Illi Mcmillin is the kind of girl you meet at the ward and get painfully attached to.
She’s been there longer than anyone else. No one really knows why she’s there. Her chart is colour-coded and thick, her med list is a novel, and the staff calls her “complex.” Patients whisper theories, but she never confirms, changing the subject to Houdini's water torture cell or the best way to fold a paper crane.
The day you're admitted, she watches you from the common room, pretending to read a copy of Rue Morgue while her eyes flick up every few seconds.
That night, she sits across from you at dinner without asking.
“The meatloaf gave someone in unit C food poisoning last week,” she says flatly. “Doing you a favor.”
She quietly adopts you, teaching you little things. How to negotiate dosages getting lowered, which nurses are charmed by compliments so they'll write "good progress" in your file, how to fake cry your way out of group time.
“You don’t fight them,” she explains, very matter-of-fact. “That’s stupid. You make them think you’re no longer a problem. Then you get room to breathe.”
She volunteers for every art therapy session — not because she cares about the meditative experience of watercolour painting, but because it means more hallway time, more information, more of whatever it is she's always quietly collecting. She comes back with contraband graham crackers, fresh gossip whispered in your ear during lunch, and occasionally a new nurse wrapped around her finger thinking she's going to be a success story.
Days accumulate. You start giving her your chocolate pudding at lunch. She leaves you newspaper comic cutouts folded into neat squares. You find her unsettling at first. Then fascinating. Then necessary.
Some nights, she sneaks into your room. You always know it's her. The careful way the door closes, the coldness of her touch.
She'll slide under the thin blankets and press herself against your back, mouth resting between your shoulder blades. Her fingers, clumsy and icy, find your hair.
The moonlight catches the stupid, lumpy bracelets she made for the two of you in art therapy, beads spelling out your names. She wore yours. You wore hers.
“We're getting out of here."
She never says it like it's a silly daydream. It's simply a fact.
"Houdini escaped from a locked crate at the bottom of the East River. Submerged, chained, and he got out.” A pause. “A fucking nuthouse is amateur hour.”
She paints a picture of a world outside the facility. Real food that doesn't taste like cardboard. A date in the bookstore her brother works at. A normal life where you can have the strings in your hoodie and the freedom to just breathe.
"We could have sex," she says, trying very hard not to laugh and failing slightly. "Like. actual sex. With a door that locks. In a bed with a frame. Crazy concept, huh?"
The concept was crazy, impossible even.
But she has a way of making the impossible seem within reach.
A/n: some Leon smut with fem reader hehe. Requiem Leon in mind!
Contains: 18+, Minors DNI. Explicit sexual content, smut, established relationship, body worship (chubby/plus-size reader), praise kink, slight possessiveness, unprotected sex, mentions of alcohol (whiskey), post-mission intimacy, Requiem Leon Kennedy being a soft dom for his girl.
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The air in the dimly lit room was thick with the scent of whiskey and something uniquely Leon—a mix of gunpowder, leather, and the faint, clean smell of his cologne. He sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his back to her. The broad expanse of his shoulders, tense even in rest, was a testament to the years of survival etched into his very being.
She watched him from the doorway, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Leon now was harder, colder, the years of fighting having carved away the boyish charm she remembered from stories, leaving behind a man forged in fire. But his eyes, when he turned to her, still held that flicker of something vulnerable, something that made her ache.
He finally looked over his shoulder, his piercing blue eyes catching the low light. "You gonna stand there all night?" His voice was a low rumble, a gravelly sound that vibrated through her.
She took a hesitant step into the room. "I was just... thinking."
He turned fully, swinging one leg up onto the bed, his gaze sweeping over her. It wasn't a judgmental look, but an assessing one, as if he were memorizing every curve. He'd seen her naked before, touched every inch of her soft, ample body, yet his intensity never failed to make her feel like the first time. It made her feel seen, truly seen, in a way no one else ever had.
"Come here," he commanded, his tone softening just enough to be an invitation rather than an order.
She moved to him, stopping between his knees. His hands came to rest on her hips, his thumbs tracing circles over the fabric of her simple cotton shirt. The warmth of his touch seeped through the material, sending a shiver up her spine. He leaned forward, pressing his face against the softness of her stomach, his breath hot through the thin shirt.
"You're so soft," he murmured, his voice muffled against her. It was a statement of fact, but it sounded like worship. He nuzzled deeper, his hands sliding around to grip the generous curve of her ass, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hard press of his arousal through his jeans, a stark contrast to the yielding softness of her body against his face.
His hands roamed, mapping the landscape of her with a reverence that made her breath catch. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her leggings and tugged them down, his eyes never leaving hers as the fabric pooled around her ankles. He helped her step out of them, his gaze darkening as he took in the sight of her—her thick thighs, the soft swell of her belly, the curve of her hips.
"Perfect," he breathed, the word a raw, honest confession.
He stood then, his movements fluid and predatory, backing her toward the bed until her legs hit the mattress and she fell back with a soft gasp. He followed her down, caging her in with his body, his weight a welcome pressure. He was all hard lines and lean muscle, a beautiful, dangerous contradiction against her softness.
His mouth claimed hers, a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted of whiskey and longing. It wasn't gentle; it was a claiming, a reminder that they were both alive, here, in this moment. His hands were everywhere, tugging her shirt over her head, unhooking her bra with practiced ease until she was bare to his appreciative gaze.
He kissed his way down her body, his lips and tongue worshipping every inch of her soft skin. He lingered on her breasts, taking one peaked nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, his teeth scraping just enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to her core. His other hand kneaded her other breast, his thumb flicking over the sensitive bud.
She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He moved lower, his mouth tracing a path over the soft curve of her belly. He didn't shy away from it; he reveled in it, his tongue dipping into her navel, his hands gripping her thick thighs, pushing them apart.
"Leon," she gasped, his name a plea on her lips.
He looked up at her from between her thighs, his eyes dark with lust and something deeper, something that looked terrifyingly like love. "I've got you," he promised, his voice a low growl.
And then his mouth was on her, hot and insistent. He licked and sucked with a single-minded focus, his tongue delving into her folds, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it mercilessly. She bucked against his mouth, her hands fisting in the sheets, her breath coming in ragged sobs. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave building deep inside her.
He slid one finger inside her, then another, curling them just right to hit that spot that made her see stars. He worked her with his mouth and fingers, pushing her higher and higher until she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her with a force that left her trembling and breathless.
He didn't give her time to recover. He moved up her body, his own clothes disappearing in a flurry of motion until he was as naked as she was. He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her still-sensitive entrance.
He looked down at her, his blue eyes burning into hers. "You're mine," he said, his voice a raw, possessive rasp.
"Yours," she whispered back, her hands coming up to cup his face.
He pushed into her in one smooth, deep thrust, and they both groaned at the sensation. He filled her completely, stretching her in the most delicious way. He started to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, building a rhythm that was both punishing and pleasurable.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies moving together, their harsh breaths, and the soft, desperate sounds of their pleasure. He bent his head to her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin, marking her as his.
The pressure built again, a coiling heat in her belly that grew tighter and tighter with each powerful thrust of his hips. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight, firm circles.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice strained with his own impending release.
That was all it took. She shattered again, her inner walls clamping down around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. With a guttural groan, he followed her over the edge, his own release pulsing deep inside her.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting, grounding presence. They lay there for a long time, their bodies tangled together, their breathing slowly returning to normal. He rolled off her, pulling her into his arms, her head resting on his chest, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring rhythm against her ear.
He kissed the top of her head, his fingers stroking her hair. "Stay with me," he murmured into the darkness.
She tightened her arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Always."
In the quiet aftermath, with the weight of the world outside the door momentarily forgotten, they were just two people finding solace in each other's arms, a soft, chubby woman and a hardened survivor, two halves of a whole, bound by something far stronger than just desire.
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Tag list: @leon-must-die if anyone wants to be added to the tag list lemme know!! For all my future works for resident evil and Leon as well!
Also gonna put the link to me and the bfs server here as well! For anyone who wants to join!! We are all crazy and feral in good ways haha. I also share my writings over there as well!
Check out the Raccoon City Police Department community on Discord - hang out with 16 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
. . ᡣ𐭩 your older boyfriend is home. which means pancakes at 4 a.m., road stories, and another tour souvenir ˎˊ
a/n: hello again ! another post from lil miss illi, i have free time during weekends so i thought why not write a bit. long ago i saw this twitter post and its been on my mind ever since. i swear i can write outside of frank i just really like him.. | wc: 1322
The world was quiet, just the soft whirr of heat from the vents and a Hong Kong Fuck You EP humming low in the background. The dashboard clock blinked 4:07 a.m., the wet pavement shimmered in the headlights. You were curled in the passenger seat, knees up, cheek pressed to the rain fogged window, half asleep. The air inside smelled like him— stale coffee, lingering cigarette smoke, and the faint, spicy smell of that Gucci cologne he'd splurged on months ago.
Frank's hand rested on your thigh, a calloused palm warm against your pajama pants, his thumb tracing slow circles, both a habit and quiet apology for his absence. His eyes were half lidded, but his driving was steady, fixed on the empty, rain slick roads.
Three hours ago he’d texted:
'Landed. 🛬 You awake? '
You didn’t even think. Hoodie on, shoes half-tied, out the door before your brain could snap some sense into you. Anyone else at that hour would've gotten a groan and a roll over into the blankets. But Frank was different. Frank was the exception to every rule you ever made
He eased the car into the cracked lot of Kelly’s Kitchen, a place that had probably been around since the election of JFK. The neon sign flickered weak pink and blue, sputtering like a tired heartbeat about to give out. It wasn’t pretty, but it was yours. It was the place he always brought you when he came home.
Inside, the air hung heavy with grease and burnt coffee. A couple of truckers hunched over their steaming mugs; a pair of nurses whispered over pie in a nearby booth.
Frank’s hand found the small of your back, guiding you to your usual spot, the one in the far corner with the cracked red vinyl that snagged your clothes and the jukebox that only worked if you smacked it just right.
A waitress who knew your faces shuffled over and dropped two sticky, laminated menus onto the table. Frank didn't glance at his.
“Two coffees. Black. Pancakes, extra butter, side of eggs, scrambled. And whatever she wants.” His voice rough from the road.
You mumbled something about eggs and toast, still shaking the sleep that clung to you. He smirked, eyes crinkling, the crow’s feet you adored deepening.
As the waitress walked away, Frank leaned back, stretching his legs until the toe of his boot nudged your sloppily laced sneaker
You looked at him properly, comparing him to the last time you’d seen him. His hair had grown out, dark curls brushing the nape of his neck. His face was scruffier, the road never left time for shaving. He looked more tired than usual, large hands rubbing at his eyes with a drawn out sigh.
You bit back a smile. This was your old man.
“Missed you.” He said, the words simple, direct, as if he was stating a fact. He fished into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in crumpled newspaper, sliding it across the table with a nudge of his knuckles.
“Here. Got it in Boston. Gee dragged me to a comic shop.”
You peeled back the paper carefully, your heart doing a slow, painful squeeze seeing what was inside. It was a small figurine— a cartoon cherub with oversized eyes and pink rabbit ears, its chubby cheeks painted a faded rose.
“Sunny Angels? Sonic Angels? Whatever the hell kids are into these days.” He shrugged it off with a tired wave. “Made me think of you. Big eyes, stupid smile.”
You laughed quietly, tracing the edge of its ear. You had a collection of these little knickknacks Frank often brought home from tour— a snow globe from Seattle, a painted shell from some beach in Florida, a keychain from New York with Snoopy plastered on the back. They crowded your bedside table, but they often made those quiet nights alone a little less hard.
"Good to know my smile's stupid," you chuckled to yourself, falling back on sarcasm to keep your tears from falling.
Frank didn’t laugh. He just watched you, his head tilted, his expression unreadable in the dim diner light. His boot nudged you under the table, aware of your deflecting habits.
"It is," he finally spoke up, voice low and rough. "Stupid enough to make me do stupid shit. " Like flying home half-dead from stage and driving straight from the airport to your place instead of his own bed. Like texting you at 1 a.m. because he couldn’t sleep without seeing your face.
The coffee arrived, thick and black as motor oil. Frank’s tattooed hands wrapped around the mug and took a much needed sip. You cradled yours, letting the heat wake you up a bit. For a while there was only the clink of your spoon stirring in sugar, the distant sizzle from the kitchen, and his quiet breathing.
For most of the silence he stared out the window watching the rain fall and hit the pavement. His mind was a thousand miles away, recalibrating from tour life.
"You look tired," you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
He turned his gaze back to you, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Try sleeping next to Ray's snoring for eight hours and see how you look."
Your smile was fragile. Reunions were always like this at first, awkward and tender, like having a first date all over again.
He seemed to feel it too. He reached across the table and brushed his fingers over yours, thumb circling your knuckle once, twice.
"Gonna be home for a while this time," he murmured, eyes locking on yours. "Three weeks.”
Three weeks. Realistically, it wasn't a lot of time. But God, was it better than nothing.
The food arrived, breaking the moment. A tower of pancakes for him, eggs and toast for you. He buttered the stack with quiet concentration, syrup pooling at the edges, and ate like a starved man. After weeks of gas station protein bars and sad microwave burritos, anything warm felt like heaven on his tongue.
You watched him between bites, picking at your eggs. “How was the show?”
He swallowed, chasing it down with a swing of coffee. “Loud. Sweaty. Mikey almost broke a string during ‘This Is the Best Day Ever.’ Crowd lost their shit, Philly kids always do.” He said it all in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, like he was reading from a grocery list. These were the stories that made fans scream, and to him, it was just a regular day.
You laughed, a real one this time, and he hid a smile behind his mug. That was the real gift. Not the knickknacks, but these small glimpses into chaotic life.
When the waitress came with the check, you reached out of habit, but Frank snatched it first, fishing crumpled twenties from his wallet and tossing them down.
"Keep your money. You got college textbooks to pay for.”
Outside, the rain softened to a mist. He held the door, hand settling at the small of your back again as he walked you to the car. You slid into the passenger seat. He cranked the engine but didn’t pull out right away. Instead, he just sat there, hands loose on the wheel, staring into the lot as the diner’s neon streaked his profile in alternating pink and blue.
Then he turned, really looking at you. His dark eyes scanned your face, memorizing every little detail to make up lost time.
He reached over, rough palm squeezing your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek. Frank wasn’t the lovey type, most of his affection came dressed in sarcasm and dry dad humor. But once in a blue moon, he allowed soft moments like these.
He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Just a peck, quick, but it said everything he wouldn’t.
I HAVE A REQUEST- one piece, buggy x fem reader, i want some smut that includes him using his devil fruit power during it, you choose what happens hehe
𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑴 𝑻𝑶𝑼𝑪𝑯
A/N: here you go wifey!! Enjoy!!
Contains: Explicit sexual content (smut), use of devil fruit powers during sexual activity, detached body parts, fingering, orgasm. Does mention Cross Guild briefly so can be seen as a spoiler?
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The salty air of the Grand Line clung to her skin, a familiar scent that now mingled with the musky, ozone-like aroma that was uniquely Buggy. They were in the captain's quarters of the Cross Guild's flagship, a room draped in crimson and gold, a chaotic mess of maps, treasure, and ego. But tonight, the ego was temporarily set aside.
Buggy stood before her, his trademark blue hair slightly disheveled, a smirk playing on his lips that was equal parts cocky and genuinely excited. His gloved hands, usually gesturing wildly or clutching at his daggers, were now tracing the curve of her hips. "You're sure about this, dollface?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Can't say I've ever tried this particular trick before."
She met his gaze, her own eyes dark with anticipation. "I'm sure, Captain. Show me what you can do."
That was all the encouragement he needed. With a theatrical flourish that was pure Buggy, he detached his hands. The sensation was bizarre and thrilling. His gloves hands remained on her body, one still gripping her hip, the other sliding up to cup her breast, while his main body stood a few feet away, watching with an intense, focused expression. It was like being touched by a ghost, a phantom that possessed all the skill and desire of the man himself.
His thumbs began to circle her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt, the friction sending a jolt straight to her core. She let out a soft gasp, her head falling back. From across the room, Buggy chuckled, a low, predatory sound. "Like that, do ya?"
His hands moved with a mind of their own—or rather, with his mind, just disconnected from his physical form. They deftly unbuttoned her shirt, parting the fabric to expose her chest to the cool air. The cool leather of his gloves was a stark contrast against her heated skin as his palms fully covered her breasts, squeezing and kneading. She could feel his eyes on her, burning with a possessive fire that was far more intense than if he were touching her with his own two hands.
Then, one of his hands began its journey south. It slid down her stomach, tracing the waistband of her shorts before dipping lower. She held her breath, her body trembling. The fingers, still clad in their leather, were expert as they teased her through the fabric, stroking and pressing until she was writhing, desperate for more.
"Please, Buggy," she breathed out.
"Patience," he commanded, though his voice was strained with his own arousal. His other hand continued its work on her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a symphony of sensation conducted by a man who wasn't even touching her.
Finally, with a smirk she could see from across the room, his hand slipped beneath her panties. The leather was slick against her wetness as his fingers found her clit. He circled it slowly, deliberately, drawing out the anticipation until she was panting his name. He watched her every reaction, his detached fingers moving in perfect sync with his desires, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan.
He slid one finger inside her, then another, the leather stretching her, filling her in a way that was both strange and intensely erotic. He began to pump them in and out, his thumb still working her clit. The pressure built, an unstoppable tide. She was completely at his mercy, held captive by disembodied hands while their master watched, his own body now showing clear signs of his arousal.
As she teetered on the edge, he decided to up the ante. "Hold on tight," he grunted.
She felt a strange tingling sensation, a sudden chill. She looked down and saw that his fingers inside her had detached. She gasped as she felt them separate inside her, moving independently, stroking her inner walls from different angles at once. It was an impossible, mind-bending feeling. His thumb remained on her clit, while his other hand continued to torment her breast. She was being stimulated by four separate pieces of him, all while his smug, beautiful face watched her fall apart.
That was it. The sheer, decadent weirdness of it, the skillful touch, the visual of him standing there fully clothed, orchestrating her pleasure with detached body parts—it sent her over the edge. She cried out, her body arching as her orgasm crashed over her, powerful and all-consuming.
As the waves of pleasure subsided, the detached pieces of him slowly reformed, his fingers pulling out of her and reattaching to the hand on her breast, which then flew back to his wrist. He was on her in an instant, his real body pressing against hers, his mouth claiming hers in a hungry, demanding kiss.
"Told you it'd be good," he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. "And we're just getting started."
A/N: I am taking one piece requests! For those who are fans of one piece as well me! I will soon be making a one piece Masterlist but knowing me and my love for Trafalgar Law he will have separate Masterlist haha check out my pinned post to see who I write for! It will be updated a lot so be sure to check periodically!
Contains: fluff, soft domestic moments, gentle kissing, Law being soft, mild overworking/exhaustion, comfort, established relationship
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The sea was calm that evening, a rare mercy for the crew of the Polar Tang. The submarine drifted gently beneath the surface, its metal hull humming softly as it cut through the water. Inside, most of the Heart Pirates were either asleep or scattered through the corridors, keeping their usual watch.
In his office, Law sat hunched over a stack of medical charts and maps. The dim overhead light cast shadows across his sharp features, and his spotted hat rested beside him on the desk. He had been working for hours, long after he had told everyone else to get some rest. It was typical of him—shouldering responsibility in silence, convincing himself he functioned better that way.
The door creaked open softly.
He did not look up at first. “If it’s Bepo, I already said I’ll be done soon.”
“It’s not Bepo.”
Her voice was gentle, warm in contrast to the sterile quiet of the room.
Law’s pen paused mid-scratch. He glanced up, and the tension in his shoulders eased almost immediately when he saw her standing there. She wore one of his oversized hoodies, the sleeves falling past her hands, and her hair was slightly messy from sleep. She looked far softer than the cold steel surroundings deserved.
“You should be asleep,” he said, though there was no bite in his tone.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “I could say the same thing to you.”
Law exhaled quietly through his nose, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t need as much sleep.”
She raised a brow at that. “That’s a lie.”
He almost smirked.
She walked around the desk without asking permission, because she never needed it, and stopped in front of him. For a moment she simply looked at him, studying the faint dark circles beneath his eyes, the crease between his brows that only appeared when he was overworking himself.
Without a word, she reached up and brushed her fingers against his temple.
Law stilled.
Her touch was soft and careful, like she was afraid he might disappear if she pressed too hard. She traced the line of his sideburn gently, then slid her hand down to cup his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her palm.
“You’re tired,” she said quietly.
He did not argue this time.
Instead, his hand came up to wrap around her wrist, not to move her away, but to hold her there. His thumb brushed lightly over her pulse, slow and steady. It grounded him in a way nothing else did.
“I had things to review,” he murmured.
“And they’ll still be there tomorrow.”
Silence settled between them, but it was comfortable. It always was with her.
Law finally pushed his chair back slightly and reached forward, pulling her closer by the waist. She let out a soft sound of surprise before settling easily between his knees. His hands rested at her hips, fingers spreading possessively but gently against the fabric of his hoodie she wore.
He tilted his head up to look at her.
For someone so stoic and intimidating to the outside world, the way he looked at her was something else entirely. His golden eyes softened, the usual calculating sharpness melting into something tender and almost vulnerable.
“You worry too much,” he said quietly.
She smiled. “Someone has to.”
His thumb brushed under the hem of the hoodie at her waist, tracing idle patterns against her skin. He leaned forward slightly until his forehead rested against her stomach. It was an unguarded gesture, one he would never let anyone else see.
She froze for a second, surprised by the intimacy of it, then gently ran her fingers through his dark hair.
Law closed his eyes.
Her nails lightly scratched against his scalp, and a soft sigh escaped him before he could stop it. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer as if anchoring himself to her presence. In this small room beneath the ocean, with miles of water pressing around them, she was the only thing that made him feel light.
“Stay,” he murmured, voice quieter now.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He shifted, guiding her carefully until she was sitting sideways on his lap. His arms wrapped around her fully this time, one hand resting at the small of her back while the other settled over her thigh. She curled into him naturally, one arm looping around his neck.
The room no longer felt cold.
She pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Then another to his cheek. When she reached the corner of his mouth, he turned slightly and caught her lips with his.
The kiss was slow and unhurried. Law was not rough, not demanding. His hand slid up her back, fingers splaying gently between her shoulder blades as if memorizing the shape of her. He kissed her like he had nowhere else to be and no battle waiting for him tomorrow.
When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together.
“You’re going to bed,” she whispered.
He huffed lightly. “Bossy.”
“And you love me for it.”
A pause.
“…Yeah,” he admitted quietly.
It was rare for him to say it so plainly, but when he did, it meant everything.
She smiled softly, brushing her nose against his. “Come on, Captain.”
He stood, still holding her, refusing to let go even as he moved. His hand slipped into hers as they left the office, fingers intertwining naturally. The hallway lights were dim, the submarine quiet except for the low mechanical hum.
Inside his cabin, he finally removed his coat and hat, setting them aside. She crawled into his bed first, pulling the blankets back invitingly.
Law hesitated for only a second before sliding in beside her.
The moment he settled, she moved closer, pressing against his chest. He wrapped both arms around her instinctively, pulling her flush against him. His chin rested on the top of her head, and his fingers slowly traced lazy patterns along her back.
The world above the ocean could be chaotic and cruel. There were enemies to defeat, alliances to navigate, storms to survive.
But here, in the quiet hum of the Polar Tang, wrapped around the woman he loved, Trafalgar Law allowed himself to relax.
His breathing evened out first.
She felt it before she heard it—the slow, steady rhythm of sleep finally claiming him.
Her fingers continued to move gently against his chest, and she smiled softly in the dark.
Because no matter how fierce the sea became, she would always be here to bring her captain home to rest.
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Taglist: @dixontardis lemme know if anyone else wants to be added to the taglist for my one piece things!
Heyyy if you are taking requests could you do DILF frank with maybe some breeding? Or age gap? <3
── ୭ ˚. dilf!frank / headcanons ₊ ֹ ˖
. . ᡣ𐭩 it's so funny you sent this, a few days ago i was thinking to myself "kinda miss this dude". here are some overall headcanons and some nsfw ones sprinkled in, kisses xx ˎˊ
⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ୨୧ cw: age gap. the word 'daddy' is used like, once.
Frank is big on expanding your worldview. Sights, music, art, all of it. He believes it’s important for everyone, and because you’re young, he’s eager to share the things that shaped him. He’ll put on movies from his youth with commentary throughout (“Look at the hair on that guy, we all looked like Edward Furlong clones. Fuckin’ awful.”), hands you books with highlighted paragraphs and notes scribbled in the margins, or drag you on impulsive trips when he’s home long enough to breathe.
Music is his favorite way to connect. He’s always sending links, making playlists, or pulling out a record from his collection. “You don’t gotta like the whole album,” he’ll say, already lowering the needle. “Just listen to track five. Trust me.” He loves introducing you to new interests and watching you grow more well-rounded.
Speaking of well-rounded, he stays on top of your school life. Insists on paying for the overpriced textbooks. Calls or texts after exams to see how you did. He’ll offer help even when he doesn’t understand what’s in front of him. “I went to school for psychology; this is outside my realm.” Much better at providing support and 2 a.m coffee than at helping you figure out linear algebra.
Unfortunately, Frank is the older guy who uses a lot of emojis when he texts, even when they make no sense. He’ll scroll straight to his contact list to find “favorite grrrl” and send his daily updates:
“had a sandwich 🧐 did not like that shit 🧘♀️”
“saw a dog in a little hat 🎩 thought of u. my back hurts. fuuuuhk. i miss my wife 👎"
(Often sends voice memos that’s just 45 secs of rustling by mistake. Hates tech. Tech hates him. Complains daily)
There are days when Frank feels his age. He’s healthy, still active, but his body remembers every stage dive and long drive. A knee will act up, a calf will cramp, and he’ll pause to curse under his breath, more frustrated than hurt. Nights like that can go two ways. Sometimes it’s lazy touches under the covers and quiet sighs until sleep takes you both. Other times, you take the lead, soothing his frustration with a whisper, “Let me take care of you, Daddy.” He eats it up. He’ll guide your hips with rough hands, his eyes glued to you, completely smitten. "That's it, baby. Use me. Show me what you need."
Loves the idea of breeding before leaving for another tour. The night before he goes, sex is slow and deliberate. He keeps your face cradled in his hands, thumbs stroking along your cheekbones like he’s trying to memorize you, his body warm and solid against yours as he peppers your face with soft kisses. “Oh, that’s the spot, huh?” he murmurs against your mouth, lifting your hips just enough to hit the place that makes you sob. “Fuck. I should just knock you up. Keep me here with you.”
Afterwards, he works his cum back inside you with two thick fingers, unhurried pumps, pushing it deeper while his other hand settles heavy over your lower stomach. He presses gentle kisses along your inner thighs, whispering sweet nothings under his breath. “My girl, my girl, my girl.”
a/n: hello ! long time no write. originally, i was working on another boss!gee, but midway through i was tagged in a moodboard for an old idea and my attention shifted—oops. despite this being a black reader concept, anyone can read. however, race will be mentioned down the line, especially if the story continues. speaking of continuation, i’m unsure if there will even be a part two. truly depends on how this goes. regardless, i hope you all enjoy.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ November 2003. Belleville, New Jersey. ⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒
Peaceful Mel Records was never big enough for two people who refused to be wrong.
Every morning, Mel, the owner—a man who never outgrew the 70s—lit a stick of patchouli incense behind the counter. He said it was to “cleanse the energy,” to invite good vibes and prosperous sales. It never worked. Ever since Frank was hired in July, you’d been at each other’s throats and no amount of Mel’s hippie smoke could change that.
Frank was already in the C section, flipping through cases with quick, practiced hands, as if he’d waited all week. He pulled out Chain of Strength’s The One Thing That Still Holds True, raising it like a small trophy under the fluorescent lights.
“Monday.”
You didn’t blink. You just tapped the edge of the Love Deluxe case waiting on the counter. Its smooth, minimalist cover a sharp contrast to the chaotic imagery in his grip.
“I’m ready when you are.”
The air between you was thick with anticipation for the coming weekend—a stretch of time you’d both spend dissecting, replaying, and filing away arguments in your heads. You gravitated towards artist who mastered control; albums built with intention, songs engineered to last longer than their makers. Frank liked things loud and with a message; if the artist's throat wasn't raw by the end of the album, he wasn’t interested.
This was the exchange. Every Friday, a silent trade. Every Monday, a debate over bagged lunches. The goal was never agreement. It was to prove, again, that the other person still didn’t get it. No one ever won, but neither of you stopped trying.
.ೃ࿔*:･
Monday came in grey and damp, leaving the shop a ghost town. No regulars digging through bins, no students killing time between classes, just the long, empty stretch of hours waiting to be filled.
You spent the late morning alphabetizing the used CD bins, a task you found meditative on days like these. With a stack of misfiled CDs cradled in the crook of your arm, you tackled the used rock/pop section. Your fingers moved with practiced ease. Snick. The Cardigans slid in front of Carole King. Snick. The Cranberries nestled against The Cure. Snick. Snick. Snick. Each plastic case finding its proper home was a satisfying visual. Sonic Youth, Soundgarden, Sparklehorse.
Behind the shops counter, Frank was in his own world. He’d been slouched on the same wobbly stool for over an hour, disconnected from everything around him. His elbows were planted on the countertop, chin propped in his hands, completely absorbed in a copy of Weird New Jersey. The drawstring of his red hoodie was between his teeth, something he chewed absently as his eyes scanned the pages.
“Did you know,” he began, the words muffled around the string, his gaze never lifting from the page, “there’s a house in Clifton where people swear the walls bleed? Like, actual blood. Not moisture. Not rust. Blood. People have samples. Had it tested. Came back human. We got the same blood type.”
Your hand found a misplaced Squarepusher album shoved between Spice Girls and Spiller. Fucking weekend staff — why was everyone so stupid? "Did you know being on the clock means performing tasks related to your employment?"
A page turned with a slow crinkle. “I am performing a task. I’m giving you entertainment and educating you on the great state of New Jersey.”
“Mel doesn’t pay us to be entertained.”
Frank let out a puff of air through his nose. “Mel barely pays us.” He let the magazine slump onto the counter, its pages splaying open to a grainy, black-and-white photo of the alleged bleeding house. “No one’s here. Today’s basically a paid day off. You don’t get a bonus for pretending to be busy.”
You slid Squarepusher into his rightful place with a thunk. "Keep it up, and you’ll be the next missing person report that magazine covers.”
A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face—this was exactly the reaction he wanted. "Ouch. Direct hit." He leaned back on the stool. "You're right. My bad. I should be more like you. Employee of the year. Do you get a little rush every time you slide a CD into its correct position? Does it, like—" He made a small, circular gesture with his hand. "—scratch some deep psychological itch?"
Your mouth tightened into a thin line. You were running on four hours of sleep and a shitty Dunkin' coffee, far from equipped to indulge in Frank’s bullshit. “It scratches the itch of not having to listen to Mel bitch about inventory being a disaster for the thousandth time,” you corrected, finally turning your head to glare at him. “But by all means, Freud. Please keep dissecting me."
"Jesus Christ.” He chuckled, “You're extra snappy this morning."
He swung his legs off the stool, the worn soles of his Converse slapping the floor. As he stretched his arms high above his head, the hem of his hoodie rode up—revealing a strip of tattooed skin, the faded band of his boxers, and the dark, fine trail of hair that disappeared suggestively beneath it.
Your jaw clenched, an unwelcomed heat flooding your body. You looked away, but not quick enough, the image already burned in your minds eye.
“So.” Frank lowered his arms, the fabric falling back into place. "Sade."
You moved to your next self-assigned task, crouching by the listening station near the window and attacking the bird’s nest of headphone cords someone had left knotted together. "So. Chain of Strength."
Finally leaving his post, he drifted toward the vinyl section in the back, his fingers lightly brushing their covers as he passed. “Bingo.” The creak of the floorboard filled the pause. "You actually listen to it?"
"Did you listen to mine?”
“I asked first.”
You yanked a knot free. “I listened.”
“And?”
"Lunch," you tugged at a stubborn knot, fingers tight around the plastic. “We have rules. We do this at lunch.”
"Come on. Just a preview. One thing you liked." He inched closer, leaning against the ‘New Arrivals’ rack now, watching you work.
"Frank—"
"One thing you didn’t like, then. That’s easier for you, right? Critical analysis is your happy place.”
The heat returned—not embarrassment this time, but irritation, the kind only Frank could pull out of you.
"I have thoughts," your voice was a dangerous calm, your focus laser-like on the headphones to keep yourself steady. "Fully formed, multi-layered thoughts. You'll hear them at lunch."
"Multi-layered." He mocked in your voice, slumping against the rack. "You know what your problem is?"
"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."
“You’re stiff. So fucking stiff. Everything about you. The way you stand, the way you talk, the way you file CDs. It’s all rules, order, structure. Do you not like living?”
You gave him a look, warning him to choose his next words carefully. “Your problem is that you think life is a free-for-all.”
Frank shrugged. “Better than living like there’s a handbook for everything.”
"Having standards isn't the same as having a handbook."
"Standards." He said it like the word had a funny taste. "That's what you're calling it?"
You returned to the knotted disaster in your palms, fantasizing about choking him once they were untangled. “What would you call it?”
"Being fucking annoying."
Your hands stilled mid-loop, the cord slack between your fingers.
"Annoying," you repeated, voice flat.
Slowly, you rose, letting the forgotten cord slither from your grip to pool at your feet.
"Yeah." He pushed off from where he’d been leaning and took a step forward, closing the distance between you. "You're pretentious. It's annoying. You take all the fun out of everything and turn it into another one of your university term papers."
He was well inside your bubble, the air between you charged. You could see the stubble shadowing his jaw, the chicken pox scar on his t-zone, the way his lip ring shined up close. He smelled of cigarettes and cheap soap, sharp and medicinal. For a beat, neither of you moved. Your pulse kicked in your throat. Every part of you screamed to step back, to say something cutting, something that'll shove him back to his side of the store. Hell, say anything. Anything at all. But your feet stayed planted—and so did he.
Your lips parted, a useless intake of air for a retort that died on your tongue. His eyes briefly flickered to your mouth, taking in its soft curve before snapping back up to meet you. Your chest tightened.
He leaned in. It wasn’t dramatic. It was barely an inch. A subtle shift of weight, a slight tilt of his head. But it was enough. Close enough that if you tilted your head, if either of you moved—
JINGLE-A-LING-A-LING!
The bell above the door rang out—a bright jingle slicing through the tension.
You flinched apart. Frank stumbled back, drawn to a promotional poster for the new Strokes album. You spun toward the door, a customer-service smile stretched too wide across your face.
“Hi! Welcome to Peaceful Mel’s!” Your voice was the equivalent of a greeting card—cheerful, false, and a little desperate.
A woman in a raincoat dripping in mist entered the shop, ignoring both of you as she headed straight for the jazz section. The silence she left behind made the air between you feel even heavier. Frank awkwardly cleared his throat, running a hand through his already wild hair. When his eyes met yours again, the tension melted into a sly smile.
"Lunch." Not a question. Not a request. A statement. "We're finishing this at lunch."
His gaze lingered, analyzing your customer-friendly smile, the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands curled into small fists. Then he turned away, returning to his magazine and leaving you alone with tangled cords and the memory of what almost happened.
.ೃ࿔*:･
The breakroom was practically a closet. Barely big enough for the wobbly table, the groaning mini-fridge, and the stained microwave that smelled like burned popcorn no one could get rid of.
You sat at the table, unwrapping a turkey sandwich on wheat. Frank dumped a bag of Doritos onto a paper towel and cracked open a can of Diet Coke. The two CDs sat between you, waiting.
For a few minutes, there was just the sound of chewing, the crinkle of bags, the hum of the fridge. Tense. Familiar. Pre-game silence.
"Alright," you finally acknowledged his presence, taking a polite bite of your sandwich. “I give you permission to bother me now.”
Frank wiped orange dust from his fingers onto his jeans and picked up the Love Deluxe case, examining it under the sickly glow of the overhead light. "Love Deluxe. 1992." He shrugged, a loose, dismissive motion that started in his shoulders and traveled down his arm as he tossed the case back onto the table. "It's fine. Like, it's pretty. But it's background music, y'know? What you put on when you want to feel sophisticated but don't actually want to feel anything."
You chewed slowly, swallowing before you trusted yourself to speak. “Elaborate.”
"There's nothing there,” Frank said, reaching for another chip. “Pretty girl, pretty voice, but what else? I put on ‘No Ordinary Love,’ waited for something to happen—a build, a break, something that would grab me. And it just… didn’t. It’s similar to the other CDs you showed me. Every note is exactly where it’s supposed to be. No surprise. No risk."
You set your sandwich down carefully, aligning it with the edge of the wrapper. “So your critique,” You wiped your fingers one by one on a napkin. “is that it’s produced well? That the artist has too much control? That it’s… deliberate?”
"It didn't make me think." He crunched his chips, sound muffling his argument. "Not dissing her. Talented as hell. But it's not an album that challenges you. It's an album for people who drink pinot noir and think they're smarter than everyone else."
You stared at him, eyes wide as if he'd grown a second head. Was he hearing himself? Did he not realize how crazy he sounded?
“You say a lot of dumb shit, Iero. But this takes the cake.”
Frank leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his calm grating on your last nerve. "How was any of that dumb? I said she was talented."
"Sade Adu is a musical genius, Frank. Love Deluxe isn't background music—it's intentional. Every note, every silence, every transition is chosen. She wants us to feel that intention. It's a story about love and loss—" You could hear yourself gearing up, like you were writing a paper instead of having a conversation, but you couldn't stop. "—and you're telling me its not thought provoking?"
Frank's expression didn't change. He took a long, slow sip of his Diet Coke, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then set the can down with a fizzy hiss. "Okay..? Thanks for the Wikipedia article. You just proved my point."
“Excuse me?”
"Listen to yourself. 'Intentional.’ ‘She wants us to feel.’ You’re not describing what you felt listening to it. You’re describing the blueprint. You’re telling me how it was made and what the album believes you should feel."
He pointed a Dorito at you like a tiny, cheesy weapon. "That's the problem. A good album doesn't tell you how to think. It shows you something and lets you sit with it."
You swatted his hand away, the Dorito falling to the table. "This is rich coming from the guy who only listens to people screaming into microphones."
"Here we go.” He rolled his eyes, fixing his attention to the ceiling waiting for another one of your classic outbursts.
"No, seriously." You snatched the Chain of Strength CD, holding it up like evidence. "This is what you think challenges people? This?"
Frank opened his mouth but you steamrolled over him.
"It's twenty-three minutes of the same three chords and one emotion. I couldn't tell where one song ended and another began. The lyrics—if you can even call them that—are diary entries from an eleven-year-old screamed into a microphone."
“You done yet?”
"Barely." You were on a roll now, the words coming faster. "There's no craftsmanship. No artistry. It's angry white boys making music for other angry white boys. The only challenge this album gives you is getting your IQ back after listening to it."
The silence that crashed down was different. It wasn’t the tense quiet from before. This was sharp, brittle. The hum of the fridge seemed to grow louder.
Frank dragged a hand down his face. A short, fatigued laugh escaped him, devoid of any humor. “Jesus fucking Christ, man… This is what I was talking about earlier. You suck the life out of everything.”
You rolled your eyes, throwing your hands up in theatrical surrender. “Yknow what, I’m done. I refuse to take criticism from a college dropout who thinks screaming equals talent."
Something in Frank’s face shut down. The classic smirk he wore vanished, replaced by a flat neutral expression. "What is your fucking problem?"
Before another low blow could leave your mouth, he shook his head sharply, raising a hand—shut up, stop. “Actually, don’t answer that.” He leaned in, elbows on the table. The room shrank, the aura radiating off Frank uncomfortable and foreign. "You're not just stiff. You're a snob. You think you're so much better than everyone. Better than this shop, the customers, everything."
Your throat tightened. You looked down at your sandwich, the turkey pale and the lettuce limp. "You know nothing about me.”
Frank’s chair shrieked as he stood up. He snatched his CD, waving it as he spoke. "I know you don't care about anything that doesn't have your stamp of approval."
“Fuck you, Frank.”
"No, fuck you." He tossed it back onto the table, the plastic case spinning before settling. "You want to talk about craftsmanship? About artistry? This album—" He jabbed a finger at the CDs title. "—is one of the most important youth crew records ever pressed. Kids barely older than us, with goals bigger than themselves. No label. No money. No one on their side. Just DIY ethics and a message that actually meant something to people who needed it. You dismissed an entire movement because it doesn't fit your narrow-ass definition of 'good music.' If you actually listened instead of judging it, you'd understand it's about community, being your own person, dismantling the mainstream, showing up for each other when no one else gave a shit."
You picked at the crust of your sandwich, tearing off tiny, useless pieces. You didn’t eat them, you just needed to keep your hands busy. For the first time all afternoon, you didn't have a response ready. The silence stretched. You hated it. You hated him.
Frank stared at you, searching your face. "You really don't get it, do you?”
The need to win, to be right, surged back, a toxic push. "No, I don't. Because there's nothing to get. You're romanticizing mediocrity and calling it authenticity."
He picked up his Diet Coke, taking one long final swig before crumpling the can with a metallic crack. "You know, I feel bad for you. You're a control freak with an ego that's scared to let go."
"Scared?" The word came out sharper than you intended. "I'm not scared of your music, Frank. I just think it's juvenile."
"Juvenile. Yeah. Okay." He tossed the crumpled can into the trash with a clatter.
He stood in the silence, staring at you as the gears in his head turned, like he was weighing something.
"You know what, come see my band."
You blinked. "What?"
"Friday night. House show in Bloomfield. My band's playing." He said it flat, like a challenge, not an invitation. "You think it's meaningless? Come see it for yourself."
You stared at him. "Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because you’re so sure of yourself.” He grabbed a forgotten pen from beside the microwave, snatched a napkin from the stack, and began to scribble, his handwriting a cramped mess. “You think hardcore is just screaming and violence. Come to a show. Actually experience what youth crew built. The energy, the community, the point of it all.” He slid the napkin across the table, sliding it through a smear of orange dust. “If you still think it’s meaningless after that, fine. You win. No more CDs. No more debates. I’ll leave you the fuck alone forever.”
Before you could refuse, he scooped up his bag of Doritos, the empty paper towel, and turned for the door.
"Your choice."
He made his way out of the breakroom, leaving you alone with crumbs, two CDs, and the silence of a challenge your ego couldn't ignore.
You looked down at the napkin. His handwriting was terrible—chaotic and slanted, half the letters bleeding into each other. He drew 8’s funny, or was it a 9? It was hard to tell but luckily you could make out the address.
"Scared," you muttered under your breath, the words echoing in the empty room. "Yeah right."
hiii beautiful!! could you pleeeease write some jealous ray pulling me out of the crowd in a bar and some roughhh fucking in the bathroom,,, thank you u_u 🦴
a/n: hi, hello ! im gonna be sooo real with you, this was a tricky one. im a huge realism freak when it comes to stories, aus, whatever. originally, i wasn't going to touch this ask because its tough for me to imagine ray super jealous. but, i couldn't stop thinking about this scenario and decided to challenge myself. hope you enjoy and i captured what you wanted (or kinda captured girl idk), very nice challenge ^.^ | wc: 2133
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ June 2004. ⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒
The bar pulsed with New Jersey life. Sticky floors, neon beer signs buzzing, a local band performing a Misfits cover with more passion than precision. The air was a heavy mixture of spilled Lager, cigarette smoke, and the humid heat of a Friday-night crowd working hard to forget the week.
It wasn’t Ray’s scene. Not even close.
But tonight wasn’t about him.
It was about the album.
Their album.
After months of nonstop grinding, Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge was finally out. To celebrate, Gerard insisted a night out at their hometown dive. Ray would’ve preferred the quiet of his apartment, your head on his chest, the low hum of a movie playing in the background. But one by one, the guys convinced him. Frank promised “objectively terrible, subjectively great” live music, Mikey mumbled something about bar nachos, and Gerard sealed it with a simple, “We fucking earned this, man.”
So here you were, the five of you squeezed into a corner booth. Gerard and Frank were deep in an animated argument about Batman lore, gesturing wildly with their bottles. Mikey was hunched over his flip phone, a small smile on his face as he texted some girl from last week’s show.
And you—
You were on your third appletini, sparkling with that warm glow only alcohol could give you. Your head rested against Ray’s shoulder as you lifted your empty glass up to the flickering Budweiser sign, studying it with a look of betrayal.
“Oh no…” You pouted, your words slightly syrupy. “My drink is empty.”
Ray softly chuckled, his thumb stroking your knee under the table, a soothing motion more for himself than you. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear to be heard over the noise.
“Hey… maybe that’s enough for tonight? Let me get you some water, okay?”
You shook your head, the movement making you sway into him. “Nu-uh. S’a party! Album party!” You grinned up at him, tipsy and sweet. “One more. I’ll be fast.”
Before his brain could formulate another gentle protest, you were sliding out of the booth. His hand shot out, landing on the small of your back to steady you. You patted it. “I’m fine, Ray. Promise.”
He watched you go, his heart unpleasantly squeezing his chest. Your crop top rode up a fraction of an inch. Your low-rise jeans hugged your swaying hips in all the right places. He didn’t like how unsteady you looked. He didn’t like how crowded the bar was. And he really didn’t like how many strangers watched you pass as if you were a free walking drink.
Don’t be that guy, Ray told himself, forcing his eyes down to the sticky table. She’s fine. She’s a grown woman. Don’t be possessive. Don’t be weird.
You made it to the bar, squeezing into a sliver of space. With a wave, you flagged down the bartender, ordering another cocktail. Ray let out a slow breath. Okay. You’d order, you’d come back. Everything is fine.
Until he saw him.
A few people down, a guy leaned against the bar with a bottle. His friend nudged him, chin jerking in your direction. The guy’s gaze didn’t skim; it dragged. Over your legs, your back, the line of your neck. He said something low, something that made them share a smirk.
Don’t be that guy. Ray’s knuckles were white around his own beer bottle. She’s fine. She can handle herself.
But the mantra was crumbling. He could practically feel the weight of the man’s stare, his eyes following your movements with unworthy entitlement.
“—Worst issue ever, the dude died from heart failure instead of Batman whooping his ass—” Frank’s voice cut through the noise, palm slamming on the table.
“Motherfucker, you try fighting while your heart’s giving out!” Gerard retorted, shouting over the music. “That issue was tight, and you know it!”
Ray didn’t laugh. He couldn’t even muster a smile. The bar noise, the band, his friends, they blurred into background hum. His world narrowed down to the space around you.
And the space was shrinking.
The guy had shifted. He was in your space now, his body angled to block you from the crowd. You, sweet, trusting, and three appletinis deep, let out a giggle—a sound of pure, unguarded amusement. The guy mistook your drunken warmth for an invitation. He stepped fully into your orbit, his hand slapping down on the bar table beside your hip, caging you in. He leaned down, his mouth too close to your ear, holding his posture like a man who’d decided something was his.
The last thread of Ray’s polite restraint snapped.
“I’ll be right back,” he muttered to no one, already on his feet.
He didn’t shove, he didn’t storm. He carefully weeded through, apologetically murmuring “S’cuse me, sorry, coming through” as he navigated the crowd. His heart anxiously fluttered, his mind trying to piece together what to say. Be cool. Be firm. Don’t make a scene. Just get her out.
The guy didn’t see him coming. He was too busy enjoying the view, leaning closer as you mindlessly babbled.
Ray arrived at your side, frantically wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into him.
The sudden contact made you jump, but that quickly melted away once you realized who it was. “Ray! Look, I got another one!” You chirped, pointing to the fresh, neon-green drink. “This nice man bought it for me!”
He looked at the drink, then at the man. His voice wasn’t angry, but it sure didn’t hold its classic warmth. It was tight, polite, and vibrating with anxious energy.
“Hey. Thanks, man, that’s… real cool of you.” He didn’t sound grateful. He sounded like he was reciting lines while at gunpoint. “We’re actually gonna head out. Appreciate it, though.”
You blinked, slowly registering the tension in the air. “Head out? But my drink—”
“Now, sweetheart,” Ray said, cringing at how his voice cracked around the word. It wasn’t a command; it was a strained plea. He began steering you away, long legs quickly guiding you down the dim hallway, past the pool table, toward the single bathroom.
He fumbled with the knob and pulled you inside. The door closed and locked, drowning out the noise of the outside world.
You stared at him, dazed and confused. “But my appletini..."
“Forget the appletini,” He ran a hand down his face, pacing the two steps the tiny room allowed. “You can’t just…people aren’t nice like that, okay? They see a pretty girl alone and they think…” He trailed off, shaking his head, his mind too scattered to properly articulate. “He was all over you. You didn’t even see it.”
“I was just getting a drink,” you mumbled in a way that made Ray sigh. He felt like he was scolding a puppy.
"I know. I know you were.” He took a step toward you, then stopped, running both hands through his hair with frustration. “God. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m...I’m new to this relationship shit.”
The raw confession cut through your buzz. “Ray..” Your hand reached out, fingers brushing his chest.
That undid him.
He closed the gap, his mouth finding yours, desperate and clumsy. His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks like he was memorizing the shape. The kiss tasted like panic and beer. You melted into it, fists curling in his shirt, pulling him closer until his belt buckle dug into your stomach.
He broke for air, forehead pressed to yours, “I just… I needed…”
“I know,” you whispered, and you did. You kissed him again, slower this time, your tongue brushing against his. His hands slid down, gripping your hips, backing you against the cold porcelain of the sink. The shock of it made you gasp into his mouth.
“Okay?” He breathed, pulling back just enough to search your eyes.
“Yeah,” you hooked your fingers in his belt loop, pulling him flush against you. “Yeah, Ray.”
A shudder went through him. His kisses moved to your jaw, your neck, open-mouthed and hungry. His hands shoved your crop top and bra up, his calloused palms skimming your ribs, making you arch. When he took a nipple into his mouth, heat pooled at your core. You cried out, the sound loud in the cramped room.
“Shh, shh, I got you,” he murmured against your skin, glancing at the locked door. Biting the bullet, he fumbled with the button of your jeans, fingers shaking. “C’mon, c’mon…” he muttered to himself, a frustrated groan escaping him when the zipper jammed.
You helped him, pushing your jeans and panties down your thighs. Ray sucked in a breath in awe, like it was the first time all over again. He dropped to his knees on the dirty floor without a second thought, drawn to you like gravity.
“Ray—”
His mouth was on you before you could finish, his tongue licking a slow stripe through your folds. You bucked, a hand flying to his curls, gripping tight. He groaned, the vibration making you see stars. He worked like a devoted man. Eager, messy, always wanting to learn what made you gasp.
“You taste…” he panted, lifting his head for a second, his lips glistening, eyes full of love. “Fuck. My girl.”
He dove back in, worshipping you with desperate, hungry laps until you came apart with a broken cry. Before the tremors could finish, he stood and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His own jeans were open, his erection straining against his boxers. Turning you around, he guided himself to your entrance, his tip nudging against your slick heat.
“Wait—” he choked out, suddenly remembering your state, “Can I—”
“It’s okay,” you breathed, reaching back to tap his forearm. “Please?"
He slid into you with a deep, helpless groan. The stretch made your fingers clamp around the edge of the sink as he sank deeper… deeper… until his hips finally met yours. He didn’t move at first, just trembled around you. Inhaling through his nose, he began to thrust with a slow desperation that stole the air from your lungs. Every push made him choke—uh, uh, uh.
“You feel…” he tried, words failing. “I can’t… when I saw him…”
“I’m here,” you soothed, your hands tightly gripping the porcelain. “I’m with you, Ray, I’m right here.”
That shattered him. His hips moved with a mind of their own, uneven, desperate, each thrust pushing a whimper out of you. His eyes flicked to the mirror, just for a second, and the sight of you made his heart skip. Your flushed face, the dazed eyes, the way your lips parted for him. He looked away again quickly, almost shy, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to see something that pretty.
“Ray—gonna—” you gasped, pleasure overwhelming, alcohol amplifying every sensation.
“Gonna cum,” he gasped, a warning and a plea. “Can’t—fuck—can’t stop—”
His thrusts stuttered. He was falling apart. You broke first, moaning his name, walls clenching around him. He followed with a groan, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you, his whole body locking up before collapsing against you. For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breaths mingling, the wet squelch of him still inside you, and the distant thump of the bass from the bar.
Slowly, reality seeped back in. The chill of the porcelain. The ache. The smell of sex and bleach. Ray moved first, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before carefully pulling out. He winced at the mess, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Oh, man,” he breathed, leaning his forehead against the mirror. He looked at your reflection, then down at his jeans around his ankles, then back at you. A hysterical little laugh bubbled out of him. “We just… in a bathroom. At this bar. Oh my god.”
He turned, his eyes wide. “Are you okay? I didn’t… that was a lot, I’m so sorry, I just—”
You kissed him, stopping the spiral. When you pulled back, you smiled. “I’m okay. Really.”
He searched your face, the anxiety slowly easing. He let out a long, shaky exhale. “Okay. Good. That’s… good.” He glanced around, as if seeing the grimy room for the first time. “…This bar sucks.”
You snorted. “Yeah,” you agreed, looking around your environment. “This place fucking sucks.”
He helped you get dressed, his touches gentle, apologetic. As he fixed his own clothes, he caught your eye in the mirror, and a slow, real smile spread across his face—the first one you’d seen all night that wasn’t strained with worry.
“C’mon,” he said, taking your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “I wanna put my two cents in the Batman debate.”
