This blog is 18+ only. MINORS DNI. This is where I will be putting all of my original fanfics. I'm a long-time fic reader but a new fic writer. Be gentle with me!
My main blog is @startrekfangirl2233.
My requests are now open! Leave me an ask if you'd like me to write you something!
Reblogs and follows come from my main account @startrekfangirl2233
I'm Star. I'm 28 and go by She/Her pronouns. I will block any minors who follow or interact with me through the ask box or in my DMs. I will also block blank blogs that follow me or interact via the ask box or DMs. This blog is for adults (18+) only. DNI. You've been warned.
PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR AGE IN YOUR BIO OR ABOUT ME PAGE IN YOUR BLOG. I BLOCK BLOGS WITHOUT THAT INFORMATION IN THEM.
I started this side blog to share my writings and fan content. I've been reading fanfic for years and love writing, so I decided to see how I do.
This is my master list of the things I write! My asks are open, and I do take requests!
Currently, I'm only writing for Top Gun: Maverick, but if there is a request I'm intrigued by, I will write for other fandoms! I also predominantly write Reader-Inserts at the moment, but I could be convinced to write for another fandom pairing as well.
Everything I write is also cross-posted to AO3 and Wattpad!
Response to reblogs come from my main account @startrekfangirl2233!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
We Don’t Fit in Well (‘Cause We Are Just Ourselves)
James T. Kirk (AOS) x Reader
Description: It feels like you're finally breaking down some walls with James. He isn't the same cocksure person he was before everything. Neither are you. It feels like the more time you spend trapped in the snow with him, the more you understand about him. But it doesn't hide the mission Starfleet has given you. It doesn't gloss over the pain and horror of those few moments in space. Nothing ever will.
These will change from chapter-to-chapter. I will do my best to denote all happening as faithfully as I can. If any of these items bothers you, please do not read. One chapter of this fic includes non-graphic descriptions of Torture. All trigger warnings will be clearly demarcated in this fic.
Author’s Note:
Hiya lovelies! Sorry I went MIA on you all! I've been kind of in a weird mental headspace where writing was concerned and a lot of that goes to how toxic Tumblr has been to my mental space. I'm not on Tumblr very much anymore, so it took me a while to come back to this story on here. I've had it fully written, I just wasn't sure if my words were reaching any of you or if you even cared this story was still in progress.
The bold and italicized sections come straight from Star Trek 2009 and are the words said by Captain Christopher Pike when he drags Jim off the bar floor at the beginning of the movie.
Also this is the chapter where we get a little bit of smut, because apparently I can't write angsty moments without some spice to move them along.
I of course have to thank my faithful beta readers (and biggest cheerleaders) @desert-fern, @horseshoegirl and @sarahsmi13s for reading bits and pieces of this fic and making sure I was doing it justice. I also want to thank @a-reader-and-a-writer! Vee sent me this ask around then and nearly a year and a half later, we have this fic!
This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
Word Count: 3982
AO3: Cross-posted here!
My Masterlist
Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part
You wake up alone for the second time in your acquaintance with James Tiberius Kirk. The throw, something knit which is impossibly soft and warm, is tucked around your shoulders and covers you from your neck to your toes. It's so tightly tucked in fact, you have to fight to free yourself of it. The fire has long since burned down to gray ashes and the floor is unpleasantly cold when you place your feet on it.
It should drive you to a rage rather like the one you felt in San Francisco all those months ago when he left you without even a note. But you can hear music spilling out of the kitchen and the sounds of singing. You peek around the kitchen doorway, cocking your hip against the doorframe as you curl your arms around yourself. It's cold in this drafty old farmhouse. The clouds of your breath fog out in a fine mist with every exhale. The winter sun is just rising over the fields, and everything seems to sparkle.
The pale sunlight glances off his hair, setting the pale gold alight until it looks like an angel has stepped into the kitchen and decided to make you breakfast.
“You like what you see, Sweetheart?”
You shrug, letting him tug you into an impromptu jig across the floor. It’s discordant and a little jarring, completely at odds with the swing-style tune pouring out of the speaker, but it feels right. The whole time you keep your eyes on his face, drinking in the sight of his eyes, blue beneath the chunky frames of his glasses, how the bags under his eyes are smaller, lighter. When he spins you into one of the chairs at the table, you’re breathless, cheeks hot from relentless laughter, stomach aching from the constant giggles.
You watch him, pillowing your head on your arms as he dances through the kitchen, even when you’re not in his arms. You drink in the long planes of his torso, still blessedly bare, counting the ridges of his ribs and his enviable abs as he beats eggs and hums tunelessly. It should be easy. It should be light, seeing him dance in his kitchen with a huge smile on his face. But it’s not. Because what you’re here to do weighs on you. It’s a constant litany in the back of your mind.
Bring Captain James T. Kirk back to San Francisco.
Two days haven’t been long enough to delve into his psyche to broach the topic of Starfleet. It hasn’t been long enough to broach the topic of you and him.
“You look awfully serious for someone who was laughing just a little bit ago, sweetheart.”
You smile sheepishly, accepting your plate and coffee from him.
“I’m just thinking.”
He winks at you, blue eyes sparkling.
“I know, sweetheart. Eat before it gets cold.”
You find yourself enraptured by the way he eats, how his big hands dwarf the cutlery, and the smile on his face at each satisfying mouthful making your toes curl. You eat when his eyes float up to your face, hiding your staring with mouthfuls of your own. It’s a simple meal, hearty and hot. You clear the plates away when your appetite is sated, soaping the pots and pans while watching how his broad shoulders relax as he lingers over his coffee.
“Why’d you join Starfleet, Jay?”
You’re unsure why the question spills out of your lips so suddenly. It’s one step forward, two steps back with him, you think, seeing his shoulders climb back up towards his ears, the ease draining out of his frame.
“You don’t pull your punches, do you, sweetheart?”
You turn the water off, twisting the kitchen towel between your palms meticulously as you dry each digit.
“Wasn’t aware I was hitting anything.”
It’s almost an apology. There’s something contemplative in his face as you step closer, a tremor shaking his shoulders as you rest your hands, still a little damp from the dishwater, on his skin.
“I joined Starfleet on a dare.” His laugh as he buries his head into your stomach is mirthless. His hair feels like silk against your fingers, and he groans when you massage his scalp.
“Captain Pike picked me up when I was lying dazed and bleeding on the floor of that dive bar outside of the shipyard. I was drunk off my ass and lost, so lost, sweetheart. I wasn’t sure what I was doing in Riverside. I was buried in the bowels of the Enterprise, with a wrench and grease splattered all over me all day and drunk all night. I didn’t have the purpose you were talking about last night.”
He’s so warm as he wraps an arm around your waist.
“I can still remember what he said.”
“You can settle for less than an ordinary life. Or do you feel like you were meant for something better? Something special? Enlist in Starfleet.”
“You know, your father was Captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives, including your mother's. And yours. I dare you to do better.”
“I dare you to do better.”
He’s laughing again, something strung out and painful.
“He dared me, sweetheart, and I took that dare like I was an addict at a craps table in a seedy casino. So, I applied myself for what had to be the first time in my life. And I made it through the Academy in three years.”
You tip his head up, fingers tender as they smooth away the wrinkle in his brow and trace over his cheeks.
“That’s amazing, Jay.”
You’re not lying when you say it, either. Not many people, unless they are Vulcan, could graduate from Starfleet Academy a year early. You certainly couldn’t have. Just finishing the academy in four years nearly killed you. You can’t count how many all-nighters you’ve pulled in the engineering bays working on some project or the papers you wrote while half delirious with jittering hands from all the coffee and energy drinks you’d been mainlining. From what you remember of seeing Jim on campus as well, he was always carrying a stack of PADDs in his arms and running around.
“Yeah, sweetheart, you could say that.”
He nuzzles your stomach and you can feel goosebumps at the tender touch.
“But that’s just academics. Once you’re on a ship, your intellect is only half as important as other things. Vulcan, and the Narada, they both showed me how vital it is, what Starfleet does. We managed to save the world this one time, sweetheart. But one decision differently, one choice made too late, and we would have lost everything. And it would have been my fault.”
Your heart breaks at the despondence in his voice.
“It wasn’t your fault, Jay. It wouldn’t have been your fault. There were hundreds of people on the Enterprise. Thousands of people in Starfleet that morning. Their decisions affected what happened in the skies above Vulcan just as much as yours. Captain Pike made hundreds of decisions when we were in warp to Vulcan. Each of those decisions could have affected the outcome of that harrowing day as much as yours did.”
You sit down in his lap, ignoring his wide-eyed gaze and soft gasp as you straddle his thighs. Something tells you this particular message will be better received if you and he are seeing eye to eye.
“Here’s the facts as I see them. Fact: We were both on the Enterprise as it came out of warp and to Vulcan.”
It makes your pulse jump just to think of the events of the day Vulcan was destroyed.
You remember the steady timber of Captain Pike's voice as he'd stated, “Shields up, Red Alert,” and the whoop of the siren whipping past your ears as you bolted for Engineering, where you were stationed. You remember being thrown to your knees, the ache of the bruises on them, when the ship is ricocheted out of warp. But more than anything, you remember staring wide-eyed and uncomprehending out one of the windows at the shards of starships floating past.
Your memories feel overwhelming, and your eyes are brimming with tears when you look into Jim's.
“Fact: The Enterprise was 2.74 seconds behind the rest of the fleet jumping to warp.”
His face twists, as does yours, and for one breathless second, you feel like you're seeing starship hulls before your eyes, people in uniform, frozen, gone, floating past the Enterprise as the ship reaches Vulcan.
“It saved our lives.”
His hands are warm as they cup your cheeks, fingers coming away wet with tears. You're not sure when you started to cry.
“Fact: Captain Pike sent you and Sulu and Chief Engineer Olson diving onto the drill platform so we had a chance to save Vulcan. It was only a chance - a slim chance, a slight one. But it's a chance nonetheless. It's a chance we wouldn't have had if he hadn't given himself up.”
You can see the shock on his face, how his brow creases and his lips purse like he's trying to disagree with you. You kiss him then, just a soft press of your lips to his, brushing your tear-stained skin against his own.
“Stop. Jay, let me get this out.”
“Fact:” At this point, your voice breaks, heart thudding a fatalistic tattoo in your chest. “We lost Vulcan. Billions of people. Gone in an instant. Old. Young. Nero didn't care. He wanted vengeance for a perceived crime Vulcan committed on Romulus in a different universe a hundred years from now. He succeeded in his goals.”
Jim’s hands are warm through the thin fabric of your shirt as they bracket your waist.
“Fact: Nero set his sights on Earth, our planet, our home. As acting Captain, Spock decided to reroute us to rendezvous with the remainder of the fleet in the Laurentian system.”
You grimace a little, thinking of Len’s vehement hatred of the Vulcan man for his actions.
“Fact: You spoke out against his decision and were marooned on Delta Vega. I don’t know what happened there,” you wink, “it's over my clearance level. But I was in Engineering when you and Scotty beamed aboard. I followed you up to the bridge and saw you wrest control of the ship from Spock.”
Your hands fly to his throat, ringing them gently, a mockery of the bruises he’d gained during the altercation with Spock.
“Your actions on the bridge saved Earth. You won the hearts of the crew that day, Jim. You did that. None of the captains in the Laurentian System could have made it to Earth in time to save the planet. You pushed the Enterprise, pushed her crew, pushed yourself to the point of breaking down.”
He scoffs, turning his head to press a kiss against the inside of your wrist.
“And what did that buy us? The universe is a mess, sweetheart. That was one day. One frantic, nightmare-inducing day. It almost feels like the hard work is still ahead of us. Work for Starfleet, rebuild, renew, re-engage. There’s no time to breathe - no time to grieve.”
A tear slips down his cheek.
“Am I supposed to forget all the people who we lost? My dad. Gaila. All the people we went to class with, partnered on assignments with, who we weren’t necessarily close to, but miss nonetheless?”
“I can’t forget them, sweetheart.”
His eyes are fierce, burning into you as he stands, setting you down on the tiles.
“I won’t forget them.”
His hands are gentle as they cradle your jaw, fingers firm as they splay over your cheeks.
“The Admiralty wants to reduce the people we lost to a statistic. They want me - they want all of us - to go out there and rep Starfleet, gloss over the senseless pain of Nero’s actions, and pretend it didn’t happen. That’s not something I think I can do.”
His words echo in your ears long after he leaves the kitchen. He’s right. The Admirals only care about rebuilding Starfleet. Sure, there had been memorials and funerals - so many funerals you’d worn black for two weeks straight. The world had been in shock, mourning for the loss of Vulcan, for the deaths of billions of people. But it seems like the mourning only went on for a few weeks before time started to move again. Everyone else seems to have moved on. The Vulcans scouted for a new planet to settle on, focusing on rebuilding their civilization's tattered remnants. Starfleet is doing much the same. But you haven’t. You can see the pain, the grief, on Len’s shoulders, Nyota’s, and everyone you’ve come to know. The Enterprise crew feels like boulders jutting above fast-moving waters, holding fast to the silty ground, fearing being washed away.
You mull it over as the hours pass, curled up on the kitchen chair Jim sat in over breakfast, vacantly tracking the sun as it rises overhead. You answer your communicator on muscle memory when it rings.
“Lieutenant,” Your title shocks you out of your thoughts. “What is the progress of your mission to Riverside?”
You can feel the frown on Admiral Barnett’s face as you detail the progress or lack thereof, you’ve made over the past few days.
“I understand you’ve faced some challenges, Lieutenant, but you have to be back by the New Year. We’re shipping the Enterprise out. Either your captain is here to accept his orders for the shakedown cruise, or we’re discharging him from Starfleet.”
“A lot is hinging on the success of this cruise, Lieutenant. If this mission isn’t a success, none of you will be leaving with the Enterprise on future missions. We’ll stall all of your careers if we have to.”
You hang up with a yawning pit at the bottom of your stomach. It’s not every day a Lieutenant gets a call from an Admiral, forget an Admiral bearing ultimatums like stalling the careers of everyone on a starship. You feel dazed as you walk up the stairs.
“Hey, Jim?” Your voice is quiet and rough as you lean against the door. “Can I come in?”
It feels like you’re constantly stuck behind a door with James Tiberius Kirk, like there will always be an obstacle between you and him. You’re holding your breath when you try the doorknob, surprised to feel the give as it turns in your hand.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
He’s sitting against the window, a book open in his lap.
“What’s up?”
“Didn’t want to be alone anymore.” You murmur, tugging the book out of his hands, stuffing a stray sheet of paper between the open pages.
“So what do you want?” His eyes are so blue behind the frames of his glasses, icy in color, but so warm as you crawl into his lap, burrowing into his skin like you’re trying to chase away your problems.
“You.”
There’s a smirk on his face when you kiss him, mouth pliant under your hungry lips as he steadies you with his hands, bracketing your waist. You shiver, back arching as he tugs you closer, arms locking around his neck as his lips leave yours.
“Jay,”
You’re babbling his name, fingers carding his soft hair into unruly peaks as he trails kisses over your pulse. His blunt teeth drag over your pulse, sinking bruises into the delicate skin. His hands are hot against your hips as you grind down, chasing your high like a woman possessed.
“Slow down, sweetheart.” He’s laughing as he tugs your shirt off, pressing kisses against every inch of your newly bare skin until you’re bare and completely naked in front of him.
“We have time.” He murmurs the words onto every inch of your skin he can reach, and you relish in every moment in which he steals your ability to string together words with his talented tongue. His fingers are a blunt kind of torture as they press between your folds, each slow thrust making your heart stutter.
You know you don’t have quite as much time as you think you do. The deadline is ticking ever faster in your mind, mirrored by the hummingbird pace of your heart as Jim makes your head spin and your heart dizzy.
“I’ve got you, beautiful.” He groans the words out against your pulse. He’s so warm hovering over you (god, when did that happen), skin flushed with heat, salty with exertion. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing your heels against the firm muscles of his ass, aching to drive his fingers even further into you. They’re thicker than yours, but they’re still not enough.
“Need you, Jay.” You sob, desperate, all composure floating away as the persistent itch of arousal builds on your skin.
“You’ve got me, beautiful.” His eyes are fever-bright as he tugs the soft flannel pants he is wearing down just far enough to expose himself. It’s an exquisite bite of pain-pleasure as he presses into you, and you see stars more perfect than any you’ve ever seen on a starship.
You’re never getting over this. If one night with Jim Kirk was unforgettable, this second encounter will embed him so far into your skin, you’ll never get over him. You feel yourself on the cusp of falling, falling irrevocably in love with him, with the sharp gasps he presses into your skin, the drugging kisses, the sweet grins. How do you give this up? How do you give him up?
There are goosebumps on your back when you come back to yourself. Your hair is a mess, tangled all too easily by Jim's hands. There's a pleasant ache in your muscles and between your thighs.
“What're you running from, Sweetheart?”
Jim's lying on his side facing you, his palm warm against the bare expanse of your back. His lips are kiss-bitten, and his hair is just as messy as yours. He's trailing his fingers lightly up and down your spine as you melt into the mattress.
“I mean, you don't have to run from something to have sex with me.”
You grin at him from behind your hair, curious to see where he’s going with his babbling.
“I like doing this with you.”
His brow furrows as he snuggles down under the blanket with you.
“But, sweetheart, you’re not the running away type. I am… but well, we both know that.”
He manhandles you until you’re lying on his chest, the blanket pulled up over your shoulders. You’re both completely naked and yet, you’ve never felt more at ease.
“What’s bothering you, sweetheart?”
The rumble of his voice in his chest weakens your resolve. So you let the entire mess spill out of your lips, starting from the Admirals sending you to Riverside, culminating in Admiral Barnett's ultimatum to you today. You almost wish you could claw the words back into your mouth when you finish. Jim is tense, all of the languid ease of multiple orgasms drained out of his body.
“So what now, sweetheart? Where do we go from here?”
You kiss the rounded muscle of his shoulder before standing, searching for your clothes scattered everywhere in his enthusiasm.
“I - I don't know.” Your voice is quiet, maybe a little too quiet, as you speak from within the fabric of your shirt. “I want you back in San Francisco. I want you back in Starfleet.”
Maybe it's a little selfish, but you feel Jim Kirk needs to hear this.
“The Enterprise needs you back, Jay. The Admirals are waiting to break us up. It all hinges on the outcome of the shakedown cruise. There's chatter that they'd rather split us all onto different ships and restaff the flagship than put us all together on a ship without you. You're our lynchpin. Our captain. We can’t do this without you.”
When you stand in the doorway, his face is stripped bare of masks, confused and so sad. The afternoon light is dimming by the minute, and soon, you know, all you'll be able to see is the white sheen of his teeth and the twinkling of his eyes.
“I think the Admirals are afraid that if they appointed someone else her Captain, the crew would mutiny in favor of you. I think there's a chance they still might split us up, even if you come back, even if the shakedown cruise goes well.”
It doesn't escape you, the reality of how easy it had been to dismiss your physical connection with Jim in favor of your mission. You want nothing more than to crawl into his arms, kiss him, and tell him you'll be his forever - if he'll have you. But you can’t. Because this whole messy, awkward situation - a situation you've overcomplicated twice over with sex - isn't half as important as making sure Jim is set on the right path.
You know it is the right path for him. James T. Kirk was made to be in Starfleet. You've known it ever since you'd wandered into your beginning Xenolinguistics class on the first day of your second year at the Academy and saw him standing in the TA's spot in his cadet reds. You've never seen anyone else with his ease, his wit, his joy and his fascination with everything Starfleet holds dear. He was made to command a ship - made to command the Enterprise.
Your thoughts chase each other round and round in circles as you sit in the bathtub, hot water nearly sloshing out with each movement. But you can’t think of a way out of this situation. Only two roads are branching from here. On the first, you're both left with broken hearts - yours a different kind of heartbreak from his. On the second, you're ecstatic, possibly in love, but Jim's unhappy. You’re not sure which is worse. Both seem equally bad to you.
It shouldn’t surprise you when you walk out of the bathroom in just a towel, your dirty clothes in a bundle under your arm, to see Jim sitting on your bed.
“So the Admirals want me back, or they're going to kick me out?”
You nod mutely.
“And they’re threatening to destroy your career, and Spock’s, Sulu’s, Chekov’s, Bones’, Uhura’s, everyone’s on the Enterprise?”
There’s rage in his voice, barely withheld and viciously sharp.
“How are we going to fix this, sweetheart?” Your head jerks up so fast it nearly hurts, the towel slipping from the loose grip you’re using to hold it around your body, falling to the floor with a wet thwap.
“Y-you want to come back to Starfleet?”
“Yeah,” His eyes glow as they take in your damp skin. “Got a sweetheart in Starfleet, you know? Might just kill me if I have to stay planetside while she's further away than I can bear it.”
You kiss him then, fighting your pleased grin. But you stop him when he tries to kiss you again, covering his lips with your fingers.
“You have to make this decision for yourself, Jim. Not for me. We would be great together. The sex is proof.”
You smile crookedly when he gently bites the pad of your thumb.
“If returning to Starfleet will make you miserable, then we’ll figure something out. I don’t want you to regret coming back. I don’t want you to hate me if you come back. We can get over a lot of things, but hating each other isn’t one of those things, Jay.”
You squeak when he rolls you over, the heat in his eyes making heat rise on your skin.
“I promise I’ll decide with a clear mind, sweetheart.”
A part of you doesn’t believe him, but you think you have to. So you let yourself be distracted, letting James Tiberius Kirk chase the thoughts out of your mind the way only he can.
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
We Don’t Fit in Well (‘Cause We Are Just Ourselves)
James T. Kirk (AOS) x Reader
Description: Seeing the snow fall used to be one of your favorite things. But now, you're not sure. Everything seems so messy now. Your thoughts, your feelings, your mind, your heart - it's all in a disarray. Jim's just as discombobulated as you are. You've made some inroads with him since you got snowed in. But it's not enough. You're not sure it ever will be.
Warnings: Arguments, Mentions of Drunken Behavior, Injuries, Rough language
These will change from chapter-to-chapter. I will do my best to denote all happening as faithfully as I can. If any of these items bothers you, please do not read. One chapter of this fic includes non-graphic descriptions of Torture. All trigger warnings will be clearly demarcated in this fic.
Author’s Note: Hello my lovelies! I'm back again with a second part to this fic! The snowed in saga continues and I hope you all love it!
I of course have to thank my faithful beta readers (and biggest cheerleaders) @desert-fern, @horseshoegirl and @sarahsmi13s for reading bits and pieces of this fic and making sure I was doing it justice. I also want to thank @a-reader-and-a-writer! Vee sent me this ask around then and nearly a year and a half later, we have this fic!
This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
Word Count: 5038
AO3: Cross-posted here!
My Masterlist
Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part
“So you want to clean my house?”
He sounds incredulous, but you’re not sure why - the house is beyond filthy. In the two days you've spent in Riverside, you've spent your time either eating, reading or sleeping. Jim's been doing much the same. The wound on his forehead has scabbed over, the bruise turning green and then yellow as it heals. Both of you have been too worn out, too shy to break the comfortable silence to talk much, content to just be in the same room - together yet alone with only your respective thoughts for company.
“I'd kind of like a bed to sleep in, you know? Your sofa is great, but it's not great for more than a couple of hours napping. It’s wreaking havoc on my back.”
“Then I'll take the sofa, and you can take my room.”
He says it as a matter of fact, but you're not sure you can take him up on that offer. There are bags under his eyes, and you’re sure he hasn’t slept any better than you have been.
“I’m not taking your bed from you, Jim.”
You sigh, leaning back on the couch with the throw over your lap. He’s rumpled and sleep-worn, settled on the other end of the sofa from you. Both of you are staring at the wall of snow building up outside the window, steaming mugs held securely in your hands. It looks oddly peaceful, seeing your reflection and his. In another universe, another happier time, you’d be curled up under his shoulder, and you’d both be smiling.
“We both need to be able to sleep. And this sofa isn’t going to help.”
“What, you need the sleep so you can nag me back into the arms of ‘Fleet?” You can hear the sardonic, sarcastic edge in his voice, but you won’t fall for the trap he’s setting. He doesn’t look ready for a fight either. It’s more like he’s throwing out sarcastic barbs rather than facing the real reason why you’re here. Instead you drain the last of your coffee and stand, stretching out the kinks in your back.
“Are you coming, Kirk?”
You inject false cheer into your voice, trying to keep your mood light as you walk up the stairs.
“I would hate to find something you’d rather have hidden up here.”
It’s not a big house. Upstairs, the hallway is short, with four doors branching out. There’s one door to your left and three to your right. There’s a sign on one of the doors to the right, and the door next to it is half open, showing off white tiles. It feels like you’re in a completely different place. Upstairs, it’s dusty, but it’s not a mess. It feels like nobody’s been up here in years, a deceptive thought because Jim’s been disappearing up here every night. You stand in the hallway for a long time, dragging in lungfuls of the dusty air, thinking furiously. How do you approach this? How do you walk into sacred territory without permission?
“I would’ve thought you’d have blundered into any room that caught your fancy.”
You startle out of your contemplation, head jerking up to see the ghost of the easy grin you’re used to seeing on Jim’s face.
“I-” You swallow noisily as he steps in closer. He’s so warm, so alive even when he looks broken, beaten down. The bags under his eyes are so purple and dark they’re as livid as bruises. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“So you need me?” His hands are big-boned yet oddly delicate as they take yours, long fingers intertwined with yours as he drags you to the door with the off-kilter sign proclaiming, “Jim’s Room - Keep Out Sam!”.
“What, Kirk? Does that give your ego a boost?” There’s a twin bed pushed under the window, sheets mussed, the sand-blue sheets trailing onto the floor. The sheets match the walls, a mockery of the clear blue shade of the eyes of the man holding your hand. It feels like a memorial to the boy, the man he used to be in here. There are still childhood novels on the shelves, the real paper impossibly precious in an era of PADDs, a baseball bat in the corner and the desk is strewn with the guts of some machinery you couldn’t name if you tried.
“Sweetheart, that boosts my ego like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Hmm?” You’re dragged out of your perusal of the books when his hand wraps around your elbow. “Did you say something, Kirk?”
You look up into those blue eyes, twinkling a little.
“Yeah, sweetheart. But it’s not important. You like books? The paper kind?”
You nod almost too eagerly, gingerly smoothing your palm over the fragile, delicate, soft pages.
“There’s something special about a physical book. The feeling of them in your hands, the scent of the paper, the smell of the ink. It’s a completely different experience reading a book instead of a PADD.”
His hands shake just a little as he takes the book from you.
“Yeah, those are some of the reasons why I love them, too.”
The cover is worn. A copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne. He tugs you to sit on the bed, the sheets cool and smelling strongly of his cologne.
“It’s pretty clean in here, right?”
You nod.
“Would you be comfortable sleeping here if I take one of the other bedrooms?”
You’re not sure you can take his bed from him. It sounds a little like torture - being surrounded by his cologne, curling up in his sheets, and wishing you could be curled up in his arms instead.
“Where will you sleep if I’m here?”
“I can take one of the other bedrooms.” His smile is gentle.
“Do you need any help cleaning one of the other rooms?”
“Nah, sweetheart. Why don’t you go make us lunch and get a headstart on dinner?”
You squeeze his forearm gently before banishing yourself back downstairs. His quick refusal of your help, the way his eyes had shifted when he told you to sleep in his bed and how he’d so easily told you he’d be okay taking one of the others? It sounds like he’s hiding something. But you’re trying not to pry, to overstep the lines he’s so clearly drawn in the sand. They’re so deep they might as well be ravines. But how do you broach what is bothering him when he oh so clearly doesn’t want to talk about it?
It’s the question on your mind as you fall into the relaxing activity of making a pot of stew for the two of you to share. The kitchen smells like rich tomato and fragrant meat when Jim walks in, exhaustion heavy in the slope of his shoulders, smears of dust staining the dark hoodie he’s thrown over the sweatpants he’s been wearing all day.
“That smells amazing.” His eyelids flutter as he leans over the bubbling pot, breathing deeply. He takes the ladle from your hand and nudges you to the side with his hip. He drags it through the broth and sips from the ladle. The moan leaving his lips has you freezing in your tracks. After only a single night, his musical moan shouldn’t have heat swirling in the pit of your stomach, making sweat bead up on your brow. But it does, and you’re not sure whether you can stomach confronting how it - how he - makes you feel.
“Damn, sweetheart.” He groans as he sets the ladle back on the spoon rest and turns to face you. “If I’d known you could cook like this, I would’ve had you cook for me a long time ago.”
“It’s nothing much.” You murmur, bending your head over the cutting board where you’ve been cutting some vegetables for a salad to serve on the side.
“It’s amazing, sweetheart.” He steals a carrot from the cutting board, munching on it with what you know is an infuriating grin on his face. “I’ve been living off cereal and takeout for the past few months.”
“You have to take better care of yourself.”
You admonish him gently, a half-smile on your lips. He’s like a whirlwind in this kitchen, dancing around you like it’s second nature to have you here. You’re not sure where he pulled the bottle of wine out from, but it’s in his hands, and the cork is out before you can blink. He pours a healthy glassful for each of you but nabs one to start drinking immediately.
“Let that breathe, Jim!”
You bump him out of the way, stealing the glass from his hands.
“You don’t call me by my name very often.” He murmurs, fishing a cherry tomato out of the salad bowl despite your disapproving look.
“You infuriate me enough that I don’t think you deserve it - most of the time.” You shrug as you carefully transfer the stew into two bowls and set them on the table.
“And what about right now?”
You settle down into your seat. “Right now, I just want to eat a nice meal, drink some wine and do all of it with a friend.”
“We’re friends?” There's a naked shock in his tone at your honest statement.
“Of course we’re friends. I didn’t make the trip to the middle of nowhere, Iowa, in the middle of a blizzard for just anybody!”
There’s a smile on his face as he dips his spoon into the stew, steam bringing a blush to his pale cheeks. The kitchen is filled with the soft clatter of cutlery against ceramic for several minutes. When you push your bowl away, the apples of his cheeks are pink, a blush rising up his neck. He hasn’t been drinking any more than you have, and you know it is just the heat of the hot stew settling easily into his pale skin.
By unspoken accord, you wash up together, domestically, him washing while you dry, sipping on the wine. The easy banter, how he laughs every time he succeeds in flicking soapy water your way, makes your heart ache. You want this to be your everyday life one day, you and someone you love living together, building a life together. Your heart aches more because before the night you’d shared with the man standing on your left, you’d never thought you could have it. Now, all of your dreams have been rewritten, and remade in his image.
You don’t want the night to end. When you dry your hands and grab your wine glass, migrating your way to the living room, he follows you. There’s a roaring fire on the hearth, and you curl up on the sofa facing the bank of windows. Jim settles a cushion away, curling up an arm's length away from you on the other end of the sofa. The snow is still falling, fluffy and soft-looking, the sky gray with heavy clouds, every light bouncing across the pristine white.
“Tell me a secret?” His voice is so low you can barely hear it over the crackling logs on the fire.
“What kind of secret?” You turn a little on the sofa to face him.
“Something you’ve never told anyone else.”
You tip your head to the side, pillowing your cheek on the backrest as you peer blearily, exhaustedly, into his blue-eyed gaze.
“You first.”
His brow furrows as he chews on his lip. You have to fight the urge to reach over and pull the abused flesh away.
“I haven’t been back to this house since I was thirteen. It was my nightmare coming back here. But right now, it doesn’t seem so bad.”
The questions rise up in your mind like a tidal wave. Why hasn’t he been back if he grew up here? Why did he leave? Why did he hate coming here? If he hated being in Riverside so much, why did he come back?
What can you tell him in return? He wants a secret you've never told anybody. But you're not sure you have a secret so precious, so carefully guarded.
“I don’t know why I joined Starfleet anymore. I wanted to see space, explore, and work with the best engineers in the galaxy and beyond. But after Vulcan and the Narada and everything that's happened since, I don't know what I'm doing here anymore.”
He hums, and you feel uncomfortably exposed. But he skirts past it, ignores it, returning the small kindness you’d granted him in turn.
By the time the bottle of wine is empty, you feel languid and loose. You’re both sprawled over the sofa, legs intertwined over the middle cushion, with your feet pressed up under his thigh.
“Why didn’t we work, sweetheart?”
It’s a question which hits you out of the blue. Of all the questions you’ve been expecting him to ask, the ones you’ve been lobbing back and forth all night haven’t hit quite so hard.
“You left.” You say it simply, as gently as you can bear. “I woke up the next morning, and you were gone. I couldn’t find you. It was like you disappeared. So how could we work with all of this distance between us?”
He curls a big hand around your ankle.
“I don’t think there’s any distance between us right now…” He’s got a gentle grin, his eyes twinkling in the dwindling firelight.
You tug your foot out of his grasp. “There’s plenty of distance between us, Jim.”
“Yeah?” You nod, tugging the throw blanket off the back of the sofa and onto your lap, playing with the fringe on the end.
“Where?”
You point to your heart and then draw a line to him.
“I don’t see anything there.”
You chuckle mirthlessly. “Well, you wouldn’t. The distance is for everyone else to discover. Ravines and No-man's-lands sprinkled through every interaction you have with other people.”
He blinks, blue eyes wide and uncomprehending.
“You’re a sweet guy, Jim.” You lean forward and press your lips against his cheek. “But you have to let other people in. You shouldn’t have to shoulder all the weight yourself. Others can and will help you. If you let them.”
You pretend not to hear the devastation in his voice when he calls your name as you walk away.
Hours later, the words you uttered and the secrets you shared are running amok in your brain. You haven’t been able to sleep a wink. It’s been too much, being wrapped up in the sheets still scented like his cologne, the cotton perfectly cool against your skin yet wreaking havoc on your self-control. You’ve been tossing and turning, rolling the pillow over and over, chasing the cool side like it will help you rest. But the rest hasn’t come. You haven’t heard a sound from Jim either, not since you heard a door close, loud in the quiet night.
At least until a hoarse shout rends the still night air, you rocket out of bed with a curse, fighting your way out of the bed sheets ensnared around you and to the door. There’s nobody else in the house. The pained shouts you hear have to be Jim. They’re heartbreaking and grow louder with every step you take to the room Jim’s sleeping in while you’re here.
“Jim?” Your voice is quiet, hesitant as you rap lightly on the door. “Are you okay?”
All you can hear is pained whimpers. After minutes of bated breath, of the continued shouts and screams interspersed with names you recognize, you crack the door. The bedroom you find yourself is a mirror image of the one you were just in. Far fewer books are on the shelves, but your quarry is the twin bed pushed up against the wall and the man lying on it.
“Jim?” He’s writhing on the bed, droplets of sweat on his brow. You cup his face in your hands, sinking down on the bed near his hip. “Jim, you’re safe. You’re okay.”
“It’s me,” You plead. “Wake up.”
Your pleas don’t work. He’s trapped in the nightmare’s clutches, every muscle tense as he spasms on the bed. You keep up a steady stream of soothing chatter, dabbing the sweat from his brow, cradling his head in your hands in a futile effort to show him he’s not alone. It breaks your heart when he finally jolts awake, a pitiful scream escaping his throat as he jerks upright.
He staggers to the restroom dazedly. You’re not sure he even registered you in the room with him. You let your head thud against the aged windowpane, hearing the pained, sputtering gasps as he spits bile into the toilet. Every muscle in your body is fatigued as you pour water into a glass from the pitcher you’d brought to your bedside and carry it into the bathroom. By the time you walk in, the light is on, and he’s bent over the sink, splashing water into his face like he wants to drown himself.
“Here,” you murmur, cupping the back of his neck. “Drink this.”
It shouldn’t hurt so much, how he flinches at your touch, but it does. He still takes the glass from you, draining the cup in thirsty gulps.
“W-why are you helping me, sweetheart?” His voice is ragged, hoarse from the screaming.
“Shhh, Jim.” You soothe, carefully tugging the glass from his unresisting fingers. “I told you earlier. Nobody should shoulder the weight of what happened on their own.”
“I couldn’t sleep anyways,” You hum as you trace the damp washcloth over his skin. His eyes are heavy as they peer down at you, the dark a heavy blanket over you both.
“How about some hot chocolate?” You’re graced with another shadow of his customary Kirk smile as you intertwine your fingers with his and lead him down the stairs.
It feels like another world in the kitchen downstairs as you skirt around Jim, putting a pot on the stove.
“What’re you making, sweetheart?”
He still sounds a little bit like death warmed over, the bags under his eyes even darker, his skin pale. For the first time since you walked into his bedroom you see James Kirk as he is in this minute. He’s not the hero the Federation and Starfleet like to make him out to be. He’s a man - a broken-down, exhausted, heart-worn man. With hair mussed and wearing only low-slung sweatpants, you want to wrap him up in a blanket and kiss him (just a little).
“The hot chocolate I promised you.” You pour cream and milk into the pot, setting it to simmer gently on the stove before turning around.
“You don’t have to do that, sweetheart.”
“I don’t.” You cup his jaw tenderly, fingers warm against the waxy coolness of his skin. “But I want to. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore, and I had a feeling you couldn’t either.”
“So, hot chocolate?”
“So hot chocolate.”
“And then what, sweetheart? You're going to make me spill my guts and fix me?” He sounds defensive again. A gritty voice stripped bare of any emotions, flat and lifeless.
“No. I’m too tired for that.” You attempt a smirk, but you have the feeling it falls flat. “We’re going to drink the hot chocolate sitting on the sofa. It’s going to be light and easy. If you want to talk to me? Then I’m here to listen. If you don’t, then it’s fine, and we’ll see where the rest of the night takes us.”
He snorts, tiredly running his hand through his hair, making it stick up even further. “It sounds so easy when you say it like that.”
He may be objecting just a little to your plans for the night, but he takes it anyway when you hand him his mug, topped with a mountain of whipped cream and a couple of hearty splashes of bourbon.
“I thought alcohol wasn’t the answer to everything, sweetheart.”
If he’s grousing, then he must be feeling better. You’re smiling as you take his other hand, loath to let real life, the life where James T. Kirk doesn’t even think you’re good enough for more than a one-night-stand, intrude on this night. The sofa makes you groan as you settle into the cushions. By unconscious accord, you settle back into the positions you were in this morning, facing each other.
“Why do you want me to tell you what’s bothering me so much, huh, sweetheart?”
“Why do you keep calling me sweetheart?” You counter in return.
There’s something which looks a lot like heat in his eyes as he looks at you.
“I keep calling you a sweetheart because you genuinely are sweet. I haven’t had someone care for me like this in a long time.”
You have to hide your giddy smile behind the rim of your mug. Some of the spirit of the game you’d been playing after dinner soaks into your veins.
“I keep asking you to tell me what’s happening because I believe bottling things up isn’t good for your health. Whatever this is, it can’t be made worse by putting it into the air, where nobody can hear it except for me and the snow outside. What is worse is letting the bad things fester, until they’ve destroyed the good man at the heart of who James Tiberius Kirk is, until they overshadow all of the amazing things he’s done.”
“I’ve done amazing things?”
You shrug, winking playfully over your mug.
“Sweetheart?”
He tugs at your ankle.
“What?”
“Put your mug down and c’mere.”
You do so willingly, letting Jim tug you in until your head is pillowed on his chest.
“We might as well get comfy while I tell you my biggest nightmares.”
He slips his hands under your soft t-shirt, ignoring your grumble at how cold his fingers are as they collide with the small of your back.
“I know you were on the Enterprise during the Battle of Vulcan, sweetheart.”
You nod with your cheek squished against his chest.
“It was terrifying, seeing so many fleet ships ripped apart by weaponry they couldn’t counter. Terrifying seeing the Narada looming on the horizon like a futuristic squid-like robot hell-bent on destroying a mostly innocent world.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be on the Enterprise at all. I was supposed to be in San Francisco, grounded until the Admiralty decided on the outcome of my academic hearing. Bones pulled me onto the Enterprise as my primary physician after infecting me with the symptoms of a virus contracted from Melvaran mud fleas.”
He’s breathing raggedly, heartbeat racing under your palm. His hands flex as they clutch you closer.
“Then I was being volunteered for death-defying stunts, plummeting through the atmosphere with only a parachute to show for my troubles, working to disable the drill. I’m an adrenaline junkie. I know I am, sweetheart. But I think that was too much for me. Sulu was on the drilling platform with me that day. And that’s my first nightmare.”
He’s shaking, eyes unseeing as he looks out the windows, the blue you love so much vacant in a way you’ve never seen before.
“I see him plummeting down to the ground. I can’t reach him like I did. And he’s gone. Screaming my name.”
You curl in closer, unwilling to let go or move a muscle, when you hear the tremor in his voice and feel the goosebumps covering his skin.
“I see every death the Narada caused in high definition, sweetheart. Billions of nameless, faceless Vulcans verbally eviscerating me the way Spock likes to, children asking me why I couldn’t save them. How do I go back to captaining a ship when those thoughts haunt me? How do I convince myself I’m not the monster I see in my dreams?”
He’s sniffling, and you shuffle closer, tipping your face upwards to press a gentle kiss against the underside of his jaw.
“Because you didn’t kill them, Jimmy.”
“Why does it feel like I did?” He’s loud, distress raising his voice, and you can hear the heartbreak in it as he swallows harshly. “I should have seen the signs!”
You squeak when he rises from the sofa, keeping you in his arms. You curl your arms around his neck, pressing your cheek against his, relishing the prickle of his stubble against your cheeks, loath to give up the contact.
“I’ve been researching what happened the day I was born practically my whole life - ever since I realized how much my mom hated my birthday. I knew all the signs - all of the extraplanetary phenomena, all the signs of an attack. I’ve been over the logs from the U.S.S Kelvin a hundred times. But I didn’t see it, sweetheart. Why didn’t I see it?”
You curl your fingers through his hair, feeling the hitch in his breath as tears splatter hot against your shoulder.
“Because you’re human, Jay.”
He clutches tight to you like you’re slipping through his fingers aching with the need to be connected to you.
“Because for someone as smart as you are, and God,” you sigh, “you are incredibly smart. You don’t have the answers to the universe. It’s why you joined Starfleet. To search out those answers in the stars, out in galaxies we don’t know anything about. To find a purpose beyond drifting without a thing to anchor you.”
He freezes against you, body tense. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, you would think you were wrapped around a wax statue. His body unfreezes in sections, hands flexing around your waist as he squeezes you close. You shudder at the feeling of his lips against your pulse. They’re soft kisses, tender and gentle.
“How did I get so lucky to have you here with me?”
You hum as you scratch his scalp, just to feel how he shivers at each soft press of your blunt nails.
“Blame Len and Admiral Barnett.”
“You call him that to his face?”
“Len?” You giggle when he rubs his stubble against your pulse and collarbones, just gently enough, the brush of hair tickles over your sensitive skin. “That’s his name, Jay! We can’t all call him Bones!”
“Baby, can we please stop talking about Admirals, Bones, and my nightmares?”
Your heart jolts at the sweet roughness in his tone as he calls you Baby.
“W-what do you want to talk about instead, Jay?”
“I don’t want to talk at all.”
When his lips meet yours, you sigh into the kiss. He tastes like rich chocolate and smokey bourbon, and you melt into his arms. The last time you kissed James Kirk, you were drunk. So you don’t remember what he felt like, how he sounded, what his mouth tasted like. Now it feels like you’re getting the full force of his attention, and it’s a heady sensation. His tongue slides languidly against yours, turning the soft, sweet kiss steamier and hotter. You pull away when you need to breathe, and you’re grinning goofily.
“What was that for, huh?” You sound breathless, too. His fingertips rub gentle circles against your back, warm against your skin where your shirt has rucked up.
“You look beautiful.”
You feel giddy, cheeks hot at the unexpected compliment. You kiss your thanks into the side of his head before untangling yourself from his embrace. You have the feeling you’ll need the distance for the next part of this conversation.
“But Jay, we need to talk about the night you left. I thought we had fun. But then you disappeared. I wanted to wake up and kiss you, curl into you in the early morning. Maybe have some sweet morning sex. Instead, I woke up to an empty, cold bed, feeling like a complete slut.”
He’s stammering, crawling forward on the sofa when you hold up your hand. His chest is warm and alive against your palm.
“I know, Jay. ‘m not a slut. But you have a reputation. You know you do. And I felt like I was falling for that reputation instead of the man I’ve come to adore.”
When you pull your hand away, he collapses onto you, smothering you with the weight of his body.
“Baby, you know I don’t think that about you. And that’s not why I left.”
He presses a wet kiss against your collarbone, the gentle brush making you squirm a little.
“I was a mess that night. I think I’ve been a mess since we returned to Earth, limping on a quarter-impulse all the way home.”
“Then, there was no time to process what happened. Everybody wanted a piece of the great Captain Kirk. When we were drunk off our asses that night, and we gave into the chemistry between us, it was the kick in the ass I needed. I realized I needed to sort my head out.”
You run your fingers through his hair again, relishing the way he almost seems to purr against your collarbone.
“So you ran.”
“So I ran.”
“So where do we go from here?” You ask the question a little hesitantly, not sure if you’re going to like the answer you’re going to get.
“I think right now, sweetheart, we need to sleep. We can figure all of this out in the mornin’.”
He's slurring the words, exhaustion in every syllable, until you can finally hear the Iowa in his voice. He's right. It's not a bad idea to have this conversation when cooler, more relational, heads will prevail. The two of you have time to kill, at least until this snowstorm passes you by and everything opens up again. You press a kiss against his lips, gentle and sweet, before letting him manhandle you until your head is pillowed against the arm of the sofa. You're pressed between Jim and the back of the sofa, legs intertwined and the throw laid over you both. The last thought you have before sleep takes over is how desperately you want to be able to kiss this man in daylight. No more clandestine shenanigans. No more hiding under the cover of night.
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Description: When a blind date leads to disaster, you’re almost ready to give up on men. Until he sits down on the bar stool in front of you. This man is different - sensual, gorgeous, confident. He makes you want to live a little on the wild side. What do you do when a night you don’t want to forget turns into a forbidden relationship by light of day? How do you cope, especially when he doesn’t seem to want a thing to do with you?
Warnings: Rough sex, illicit relationship, dom/sub overtones, toxic relationship, imbalance of power in the work place
This chapter includes sections which may be too much for sensitive readers. They will be denoted by
*** Trigger Warnings ***
Please do not read these sections if you believe you will be triggered by it. Bradley is rude, cruel and incredibly rough while having sex with the reader and she feels it acutely.
Word Count: 4893
Author’s Note: Hiya lovelies! It’s been a while since I’ve posted a story on here. I kind of lost my muse and had to find her, and my love for writing all over again.
Thanks to @horseshoegirl @sarahsmi13s and @desert-fern for chatting with me about this story and making sure I’m handling all of the things which happen in the best way I can!
This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
AO3: Cross-posted here!
My Masterlist
Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part
Part II
“Garcia!”
It would normally be funny to see your training partner’s head stick up over his files at your mentor’s shout from his office across the bullpen if you weren’t so desperately waiting for your own to be called every once in a while. You’ve been working at Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw for three months. But it has been three months of digging through files and typing out the transcripts of interviews while Mickey gets to sit in on the interviews and learn how to prosecute a breach of contract case. It stings, the outright rejection. Outwardly, your mentor is all smiles, never hesitating to include you in the trial and pre-trial preparations.
But you know your mentor won't call your name. He hasn’t looked twice at you, not since that disastrous first day. And you're not sure there is anything you could do to change how he feels. You’ve pulled long hours, working ceaselessly to make yourself irreplaceable, make him see you’re worth keeping on at the firm. But all your effort hasn’t made a dent; your hard work, for naught. He talks to Mickey, only Mickey. Any time he needs someone, he calls for Mickey.
The others all look at you like you’re some pariah or martyr, seated in your cold, dismal cube night after night, long past the time when everyone else is packing up to go home. You have ears after all. And they’re not subtle in the slightest with their snarky mutters of how, “she must’ve pissed Bradshaw off already, goody-two-shoes.”
It’s true. You have pissed him off already. Nobody knows how, nor are you inclined to share the secret either. It’s a filthy little thing you keep trapped behind iron gates in the back of your mind. You swallow the glib words down with every word they say, ignoring the harsh observations. Instead, you smile blandly as they poke and needle at you over the lunch table, when you eat with them and not in your cube, of course.
The office always feels colder, almost menacing when you’re left here alone. It’s dark and silent in the room, only the rustling of the papers in front of you and the absent-minded tapping of your pen echoing in the room.
“What are you still doing here?”
You squeak, knee colliding painfully against the underside of the desk, pen rolling away as the tremors cause a paperwork avalanche.
“M-Mr Bradshaw!” You’re stuttering as you stand, trying desperately to remember whether your hair is as much of a mess as you remember it being the last time you wandered into the restroom. You undid your braid hours ago, your head aching from the pressure the length of your hair was putting on your scalp. You’ve been running your fingers through your hair ever since. So you wouldn’t be surprised if your hair is climbing to the rafters by now. But more importantly, there isn’t supposed to be anyone left in the building. Even the janitors ignore you sitting hunched over your desk as you sob pathetically into your paperwork.
Honestly, you’re not sure why you’re surprised. Who else would it be on a Friday evening? His eyebrow quirks up higher the longer you scramble for your heels under the desk. You don’t find them, but instead, do your best to hide your toes as well as you can.
“I was going over the briefs for Monday morning.”
He blinks then, one curl slipping free over his forehead.
“Seriously,” he sighs, running a big hand over his face. “Go home. You’ve done more than enough work this week. Don’t you have Friday plans like all the rest of them?”
You would have been gratified all those months ago at the compliment couched in an observation. You would have been touched, maybe even pleased. Now, though, you’re starting to see red.
How dare he? How dare he be nice to you when he’s the reason why you don’t have a life? You’re moving into his space before you’ve even thought about the movement, your bare toes toe-to-toe with his polished leather brogues.
“And whose fault is that, Mr. Bradshaw?” Your voice is still quiet, hushed in the dark office space. He looks taken aback by the vitriol in your voice, eyes widening imperceptibly. “I’ve been here every night because my mentor, the person who is supposed to be teaching me how to be a lawyer, Kazansy, Mitchell and Bradshaw would be proud of, simply can’t bother.”
You smirked then, all the hurt you’ve been plastering band-aids over finally spilled over.
“And why is that, Mr. Bradshaw?” You hum condescendingly, relishing how his nostrils flare at your flippant, impertinent tone. “Could it be because you picked me up in a bar before I started working for you? Because you fucked me?”
“Or is it because you liked it?” There’s a flush building across his cheeks. He swallows then, Adam's apple bobbing as he licks his lips.
You laugh then, the sounds harsh and cruel as they echo through the space.
“Oh, look at you, Mr. Bradshaw!” You trail a finger over the triangle of skin exposed by the undone top button of his shirt. His breath hitches gorgeously as you turn away, an exhale of breath following you. “Oh wait…. You like Bradley in bed.”
You sit on Mickey’s desk across the way, the surface clear where yours isn’t. When you cross your legs, your skirt rucks up a little. His eyes trace over the inches of exposed skin like they’re the best thing he’s ever seen. You are. You’re not so insecure as to pretend otherwise. Bradley Bradshaw had wanted you three months ago, and it’s abundantly obvious he still wants you now.
“See?” You grin wickedly. “You did like it. So why am I the problem here?”
You lean back, trusting in your splayed out arm to hold your weight. His eyes are on your breasts now, scorching as they trace over your figure on display.
“I agreed to your deal, Bradshaw.” You chuckle mirthlessly at the words. “I mean, you didn’t exactly give me much of an option otherwise. I wanted to keep my job. I wanted to work for Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw. I told you we wouldn’t talk about that night. So why are you going out of your way to torpedo my career?”
The hurt shows itself for the first time since your anger spilled out of your crimson-stained lips.
“Either mentor me, switch me to work with Trace or Seresin, or fucking fire me. I’m done playing this game. I’m not doing a single thing for this firm like this, and I refuse to waste any more of my time when I could have gone to any other firm in the state.”
Your ultimatum has his lips flattening.
“Sure, sweetheart.” He rolls his sleeves up, then, something derisive in his tone as he ignores you. “Maybe you can get a job at another firm in California. Maybe they’d give you a little bump in pay and set you up to be a perfectly average lawyer. But you won’t be a Kazansky, Mitchell, and Bradshaw lawyer. We’re the best of the best, sweetheart.”
It’s his turn to smirk as he takes a step forward.
“But you know that.” He curls a lock of your hair around his long fingers. “You wouldn’t have applied here otherwise. And we wouldn’t have hired you if we didn’t think you could flourish here.”
He hums then, undoing a single button in your blouse, one of the little ones at your cuff. He doesn’t seem to mind how inconvenient it is, your sleeves having been rolled up to your elbows hours ago. “But you may have a point. I have been unfair.”
You’re ready to jump for joy at his words. Is he finally, finally going to give you a chance?
“What was it you said?” His hands are just a little cruel as they yank on the lock of your hair. “Mentor you, switch you to work with Trace or Seresin or fucking fire you, right?”
You nod then, head falling at the cold, hard look in his eyes. You can’t bring yourself to face it, unable to keep eye contact as he looms over you.
“How about if I just fuck you, instead?”
Your head snaps up fast at those words.
“What do you mean?” Your voice sounds as lost as you feel. “Y-you can’t do that.”
He just smiles, pinching your chin between his fingers.“What can’t I do, hmm?”
His tongue flicks over his lips as his eyes twinkle.
“You can’t be serious.” Your voice is stuttery, paper-soft as your chest heaves under his steady gaze.
“We can’t fuck each other. Not anymore.”
He ignores your words, curling a warm hand around your hip. You know what he’s doing is wrong. He’s supposed to be your mentor, to teach you how to be a good lawyer. He’s not supposed to be propositioning you in the office like this.
“Why not, sweetheart?” Bradley smirks at you, then. You’re a little disgusted to find how turned on you are. He feels so good, despite the danger and all the reasons why you shouldn’t and can't.
You’ve thought about him. About the night you shared quite a bit over the past few months. But you also thought you’d laid the feelings to bed. When you voiced your frustrations earlier, you only wanted an honest conversation with your direct supervisor. You’re not sure what you were expecting. You should step away, leave him standing in the center of the dark office. If you had any integrity at all, you’d go to HR as soon as you can, to report him for his inappropriate conduct. But it’s obvious your integrity and morality are just as flawed as his own. Because you curl into the warmth of his skin, relish in the scent of his cologne.
He laughs as you draw him even closer, just a little cruel, as his arms clasp around your form. They’re insistent and searching, tugging your skirt up and squeezing your ass periodically. His lips slant over yours, claiming and ferocious. It's a series of rough kisses, his mustache and stubble abrading over your sensitive skin as he steals your thoughts from your head. Every kiss disarms you more, which is why you shouldn’t be doing this. The arguments for why you shouldn’t do this dissipate like you’d never thought of them at all. It’s passion, pure and simple, which has the buttons of your blouse scattering with one tug as his teeth sink into the muscle at the side of your neck. It stings, the ache acute and echoing the persistent throb of your heartbeat between your legs.
He doesn’t let you take control. Not when his big hands cradle your skull, tangling in your hair.
“God, look at you, sweetheart.” His voice is a harsh purr. “You’ve been waiting for this, huh? Three months with that little pussy wet?”
He tugs your bra off with another insistent yank. It falls to the floor in a pile of rags, the pristine pastel lace in shreds, underwire bent out of shape, the clasp ripped free. You’re kneeling before you can blink, skin bare, lips parted.
*** Trigger Warnings ***
He hisses as he pulls himself free. Your lips, your tongue are forced wide as he pushes himself between your lips. He cradles your skull in his hands as you take him to the hilt. You’ve never done this before. He treats you like a doll, like you’re expendable. Yet you’ve never been so turned on. He pistons his hips into your face, uncaring of how your eyes tear at the rough treatment. He’s using you for his pleasure, eyes dark as his hands position you as he wants. You’re choking and gagging on his length, saliva dribbling from your parted lips in long strings. The only sounds in the office are his grunts and growls. Your whimpers are cut off quietly.
But you’ve never been wetter. You can barely breathe when he pulls you up.
*** Trigger Warnings ***
“Shh, sweetheart.” He brushes the tears away as you cough. “C’mon. Let’s go to my office. Grab your clothes.”
Your bra is nearly torn to shreds. The pretty blouse you donned this morning was definitely damaged beyond repair. Your skirt has survived, rucked up around your waist as it is.
Your panties, however?
They’re probably ruined, just from how wet you are. On the other hand, Bradley is nearly pristine, only the unbuttoned state of his trousers showing what the two of you have been up to. It makes you feel cheap and tawdry as you pick your way to his office. It’s dark as you step in. You should pull on what is left of your clothes and walk away. A glance towards the deserted bullpen gives you pause, you don't have to continue, you can leave.
And if someone walks in on you? On the two of you in Bradley’s all-too-visible glass-walled office? Everything would be over. But you can’t bring yourself to walk away. His touch is seductive, elusive, and you chase after it like an addict chasing their next high. So, you set your blouse and bra in a wrinkled bundle on the chair in front of his desk and sit on the sofa.
“Mmm, don’t you look pretty sitting on my sofa like this.” He pulls you up by your hair. “But I don’t remember giving you permission to sit there.”
You shiver as he pinches one taut nipple.
“Nuh, uh, beautiful. Take off that skirt and your panties.”
You feel like you’ve been bewitched, spellbound as you wriggle gracelessly out of your skirt and panties. They join the bundle of your blouse and bra on the chair. You can feel his eyes on you with every motion. When you turn around again, your heart is in your throat, and you are fighting your need to hide yourself from his piercing, intense eyes.
“On the floor, sweetheart. On your hands and knees.” The carpet stings against your skin as he pushes you down. You expect to settle on your haunches, staring up at him like you were earlier. But when he pulls away, your forehead rests on your folded arms, nipples brushing against the fibers.
You’re completely exposed, knees parted, and cold air brushing over every bit of you. The clink of his belt buckle echoes through the small space as he frees himself. But he doesn’t touch you, content to have you there instead. You can hear him walking around behind you, the rustle of papers. It’s the second time he’s had you splayed out for him. You can’t help but muse how different it feels this time.
Last time, you had the pleasure of feeling his lips against your skin, his mouth lapping at your wetness like you’re the sweetest nectar. Last time, you felt like the most precious thing in his eyes. This time, he swats at the meat of your ass, jolting you forward as your nipples brush over the carpet. It’s harsh and hard—your skin stings and prickles with every swat. You crave the roughness and how he makes you feel so small, yet wholly owned, like you are his.
“Oh, you’re so wet, sweetheart.” Finally, he laps over your folds. The touch is light, teasing. And maddening. Every pass of his tongue over you drives you crazier. But he doesn’t let you come.
“Please!” You’re begging. But the more you beg, the less likely it seems Bradley will give you what you so desperately want. His hands pull away just as you’re about to orgasm, once, twice, thrice. By the final time, you’re practically sobbing as he pulls away. His laughter is mocking and harsh as he settles in the chair he’d pushed so carelessly to the side before this latest round of his game began. His eyes crawl over every inch of your exposed skin. He swats the meat of your ass with every motion, watching silently, mercilessly as you yelp.
*** Trigger Warnings ***
“You’re so pathetic.” There’s a dark curl to his voice as he watches you beg and writhe on the carpet. He’s been saying similar things for a while now. You hate it, hate how it makes you feel. But you love it, too. Love how small the words make you feel. You know they aren’t true. But they curl into your brain and burrow into your thoughts. Every growled phrase, every sharp smack drives them deeper. They also make you wetter, needier and inexplicably louder. You no longer care that someone could walk in and see you with your boss. All you want is Bradley’s hands on your skin, big, hot, and so rough you could cry as he positions you as he wants.
Maybe you’re a little messed up to crave this as much as you have. But you’re starting to realize how strong a hold Bradley has on you, even months later. During the first night, Bradley Bradshaw had fisted an iron hand around your heart. It was perfect, then, just tight enough to make you want to give up the control you chase after on a daily basis. Tonight, with you laid out on his office floor, it feels stiflingly hard and harsh. You’re strung up like a marionette on its strings, lips sewn shut like the most pathetic of little dolls. You can whimper, sure. You’re not completely silent. But you’re a slave to his demands, a slave to his desires and a slave to your own.
Bradley lets you beg until tears are dripping down your face, creating damp drops on the carpet below. Your face feels red, eyes puffy and swollen as you sob for the second time in as many hours. There has to be something wrong with you. Why else would someone want to tear you down so easily? Why else would you like it? Bradley’s shuddery growl when he finally buries himself in you is like a balm for your shivery muscles and cotton-filled head. There’s no slow glide, no adjustment period. From the beginning, it is harsh and rough as he pounds away at you. It’s a relentless assault as he teases you, strung out and wet, so wet. Your muscles twinge as he fucks into you. The abused flesh between your legs stinging and aching, the pain melding with pleasure as he yanks you where he likes. You squeal and sob, begging for more, begging for your release, begging for the pleasure and satisfaction of his.
“Bradley!”
You meet every thrust with pumps of your hips. He drags you up until you can feel the heat of his chest against your bare back. He traps your arms between your bodies, using the firm grasp he has on your crossed arms to move you on his cock. He pinches your nipples harshly as he bites at your throat, every action calculated to make you cum with a scream.
He continues to fuck you like that, skin slapping wetly as he pounds into you over and over. You cum for the second time just like that, your head thrown back over his shoulder. He lets go of you shortly after, pressing you into the carpet in his office, as he chases his release. The sounds of flesh meeting flesh echo through the room as he fucks into you, interspersed with the moans, mostly pained, leaving your lips.
And when he cums, it’s with little concern for your comfort.
He pulls away soon after, leaving you sprawled over the carpet with your mixed releases cooling over your aching skin.
*** Trigger Warnings ***
There are no gentle kisses or soft touches, not tonight.
Your knees ache when you stagger to your feet, muscles twinging painfully as you pull your clothes back on. Bradley looks unbelievably smug, a lit cigar perched on his pouty lower lip as he looks coldly over you. It takes only a few minutes for you to tie your blouse over the ruined rags he’s reduced your undergarments to. You feel a little more put-together than you were before. But it doesn’t ease the knowledge that anyone who sees you will be able to see exactly what you were up to.
“Well, don’t you look deliciously fucked, sweetheart.”
You can’t read the expression on his face any more tonight than you have any other day since you started working at Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw. But you do know the expression isn’t nice, kind, or even loving. It’s distant, oddly amused, with a cruel tint to it.
“Go back to work.”
It’s a dismissal, clear and simple. You feel dirty as you limp away. There is cum trickling into the ruined lace of your panties with every step you take. Why doesn’t he seem to care about you anymore? Where is the sweetheart of a man who wiped you down, peppered gentle kisses across your skin? Inexplicably, your throat feels tight, breath hitching as you try to swallow back the tears welling in your eyes. It’s horrifying, looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward, using wadded-up up damp paper towels to clean yourself up, at least a little. The odd sob leaves you as you try your best to undo the damage and put yourself back together, at least outwardly.
Your head is spinning, muscles aching just as much as your heart does. Why did you try to reason with him? He’s only made it clear over and over again what your worth is in his eyes. Yet you’d still tried to reason with him, professional to professional. But he’d subverted your questions, turned them into a tug-of–war set within the sex game he’d wanted to play with you all along.
You can’t believe you fell for his games. It was different when he was a stranger. Then you’d found his dominance sexy and willingly submitted to it. You thought he wanted you as his equal. But he’s made it clear since then where you stand with him. You’re a subordinate, an employee, and not even a good one.
Now you’ve broken the only rule you had since you started working here.
You can’t ever have sex with him again.
Well, you’ve gone and done it now, breaking the rules like they never existed in the first place. And you can’t help hating him and yourself just for doing it. The heat of his body had drugged you, the scent of his cologne. You’d let him destroy you. You let him drop you into the most vulnerable place you’ve ever been in, keep you there while he uses you for his pleasure. And you hadn’t been enough to keep him with you after everything was over and done. You want his hugs, his kisses, the soft pressure of his limbs as they curl around you.
But he didn’t want to stay. He didn’t see anything in you worth sticking around for. He isn’t the first, and you know, he won’t be the last. You should go home, but somehow you can’t make yourself leave, can’t allow yourself the comfort of one of your safest places. But the longer you sit at your desk, the screensaver on your company laptop cycling in front of your eyes, the worse you feel. The papers are still stacked around you, a flimsy wall of protection as your skin cools and the aches become known.
The clock ticks onward to midnight, even though you would desperately like to freeze it, to turn the time back. But you can’t. It would be easier to forget what just happened. You turn your feelings over and over in your mind until you could be sick. All you want is to forget everything, or barring that, become numb to the actions, the words, and above all, the feelings themselves.
What's that phrase people like to use so often?
You made your bed. Now you have to lie in it.
They make it seem so binary. You made a choice. You - in the singular. What happens if multiple people are playing the game, multiple decisions colluding into a perfect storm? Who is to blame then? Obviously, you are, for letting a man make a fool of you, deceiving you so thoroughly. You're frozen in your office chair, angrier than you've ever been before. But you can blame him, too.
He's made choices of his own tonight, damaging choices, vicious, cruel choices. His choice was to blur the line between mentor and mentee, employer and employee. It was his choice to rip at the softest parts of you until he saw blood. His prerogative was to mark you up in the scarlet substance until you bore the letter A like Hester Prynne did. But the act has marked him, too. His fingers, his person, are now just as smeared with the shade as yours are.
How come he doesn’t feel the weight of that brand like you do? Maybe it’s because you’re the only person physically branded here. When you finally drag yourself home, it’s to find bruises blooming on your knees, and on the meat of your hips. The bites he’d left against your skin, littered all the way from behind your ear lurid and deep to your jugular are lurid and deep, the crescent impressions tender to the touch and burgundy from where blood has pooled under the skin. He’s left you feeling like one big bruise, tender and sore.
That disquieting, uncomfortable feeling niggles at you through the night. Your thoughts don't let you sleep, not a wink, nor does the ache of your muscles. All you can think about is Bradley. You drag the memories forward in your mind over and over again, trying to figure out what you did. Trying to make it okay. Sure you were maybe a little flirtatious when you sat on Mickey's desk. But you'd never hid how much you wanted him, not once since the day you met him. You had goaded him into acting, into making the move he made so easily. But he had taken your interest and ran with it. Maybe you’d wished he would take you out for dinner, and then brought you back to his gorgeous apartment in the city. Maybe you’d hoped he would lead you into HR on Monday morning, ready to disclose your romantic relationship. But now? Now, how do you walk back into the office on Monday morning? How do you know Bradley didn't go out with Trace or Seresin later that night and bragged about getting to fuck you again?
He'd said he doesn’t want his mother to know. But she’s going to find out. She might not find out now, or even in the next week or month. But now that the seal has been ripped away, eventually somebody will find out. Knowing corporate America, you'll be the one to blame.
So what can you do? You love your job. It’s something you’ve always wanted to do. How do you work with a man who has so little respect for you that he’d leave you hurt when you didn’t ask for the pain? It’s obvious you won’t get the chance to practice or learn how to practice what you love at Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw.
But how do you keep one bad decision, a string of bad decisions really, from ruining your life? Leaving behind everyone you know in San Francisco is definitely an option. After all, who hasn’t thought of running from their problems? But you’re an adult. You can’t run quite so easily. Your mind keeps circling back to how Bradley has treated you. And over and over again, you come back to the thought of running away. But you don’t desert the city and disappear halfway across the country.
Instead, you draft an email.
to: Human Resources <[email protected]>
subject: I humbly tender my resignation
CC: [email protected]
To whom it may concern,
I joined Kazansky, Mitchell, and Bradshaw with the goal of becoming the best lawyer I could be. I wanted to learn from the esteemed partners and develop my own style as a law professional. But over the past three months, I have spent more time with the law books, doing the work of a glorified paralegal, rather than learning how to prosecute and apply the law. I want to explore opportunities where I can do so.
So, it is with a heavy heart that I take this step.
Please consider this my formal resignation from the law firm of Kazansky, Mitchell and Bradshaw, effective immediately.
The past three months have been an amazing experience. I appreciate the opportunities you've given me to learn and grow, and I value all of the professional relationships I've developed here. They weren’t quite the lessons I hoped to learn, but they were vital lessons nonetheless. I hope to stay in touch.
Sincerely,
It shows none of the pain you feel, nor does it show the exhaustion, the rage. It’s bland as well as short, sweet and to-the-point. But the moment you hit send, you feel a weight you’ve unknowingly carried for months dissipate. The pre-dawn hours feel easier to face. Obviously, hard work is coming your way in the coming days, but for now, you put your weary mind and body to rest.
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Description: Just when everything is going swimmingly in your relationship, life just lives to throw a wrench into the situation. You love your soulmate. You know it wholeheartedly. But you're not sure you can trust yourself to not worry if he is sent on another mission. But what if you're sent off on the mission instead of him? Can he cope with having you away and in danger? Or will it come down to one of you giving up what you love?
Disclaimers: Misogynistic speech. Mentioned Homosexual Relationships. Angst. Flagrant disregard for protocols or Authority. Angst. Anguish.
This content presented in this story is for audiences age 18 and over only. MINORS DNI. I will not be accepting tag-list requests from Blank or Ageless Blogs for this story.
Warnings: Female!Reader
Word Count: 3954
A/N: Hiya lovelies! I hope you haven't all forgotten this story! I promise I'm still working on it. Miss Muse decided to disappear into the ether and I've been looking for her ever since!
AO3: Cross-posted Here!
Wattpad: Cross-posted Here!
My Masterlist
Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part
Tinkerbell
There's a hush in the air of North Island when you step out of your car one bright morning. Temperatures are finally cooling from summer's dizzying heat. It makes the hot paper cup you're clutching feel even better. Though maybe it's the fond smile on Bradley's mouth as he levers all six-feet of his lanky frame out of your tiny car making you feel like you're immersed in a bubble bath, buoyed by the heady mix of his emotions and your own. He complains about your little car endlessly, but every time you get into it, he can usually be found in the passenger seat - or on rare occasions, driving it himself. You love him for that. You love him for so many things, you could talk about him endlessly. Just ask Jake and Javy. The last time you were over at their house for what Roo likes to call your ‘girl’s night’, you’d spent half the night gushing about your soulmate.
It’s how you know you are in love. You know it with every heady pulse of your heart sending sickeningly sweet love down the bond to his chest. You know it with every moment he comes to your mind. You want to tell your soulmate everything. He’s the first person you want to celebrate your successes with. He’s your entire world.
If only the universe would note down, “Tinkerbell is in love with Rooster, give the happy couple a year at least before throwing another wrench into the situation.” It's obvious the universe doesn’t take memos, because you are standing at attention only two hours after syrupy sweet warmth filled your veins. Bradley's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, enthusiasm so tightly held in you can see it only in the glint of joy in his eyes and the imperceptible bounce in his step as he takes his seat. But you can feel his excitement pulsing through you. Where his love for you is sweet, filling up all the caverns of your soul like it was meant to be there, his excitement is a coiled ball at the pit of your stomach.
If only you were half as excited as he seems to be. It's dread mingling through your veins, anxiety wearing a midnight mask, dark and cloying. He's been looking your way ever since the Admirals started laying out the mission parameters, worried looks shooting your way from whiskey-colored eyes like he's not not sure how to handle you. He's wrong. He knows how to handle you now, and he will handle you beautifully. You're not sure you can handle yourself. How can you live with the tension, the unknowns of sending the man you love out on a mission like this one? A mission where you’re not sure if he’ll be safe, if he’ll come back to you.
It’s the biggest risk in finding your soulmate in the modern world. You’re not sure you’ll ever grow out of the fear and worry when he’s out of your sight. But you have to figure out how to let him go. You have to somehow trust that your soul tether will hold you close to him in all the ways that matter. After all, how else is this relationship going to work if you don’t? You’d be miserable giving up your career and so would he. Giving up something you each love isn’t an option.
“I need to fly, sweetheart. It scares me, of course it does. But I can’t let an accident stop me from doing what I’ve dreamed of my whole life.”
He’d confided those words to you one moonlight night, his eyes glimmering as he held you close. You had returned the feelings with truths of your own, how you wanted a family one day, how much you wanted to grow old with him by your side. It felt like everything was possible when he was with you that night. It felt like it clicked into place, the knowledge that you could each be yourselves while being with each other. What if this mission changes that? Could you live with yourself? Could Bradley forgive you if it did?
The briefing finishes in what seems like no time at all. Despite your preoccupation, you’ve still managed to fill most of a notepad with notes. Bradley smiles at you, quicksilver bright as he walks out of the hangar. He doesn’t try to track you down or hold you. He knows as well as you do the fine line you have to toe when you work with your soulmate. He’s laughing as he slings an arm around Bob’s shoulders. But you can see the worry in his eyes. You can feel it too. You smile just a little in return, glancing over the notes you’d taken absent-mindedly as you wait for Commander Grayson to finish the conversation he’s having with the admirals. You’ve got some specs for a new training regimen to go over with him.
“Lieutenant Commander, come with me.”
Commander Grayson’s clipped, measured tones shock you into awareness, your preoccupation falling to the wayside as your curiosity peaks. You follow half a step behind him as best you can, half-jogging to keep up through base until you reach the office he’s claimed as his own. You’ve never seen this particular look on his face before as you assume parade rest in front of his desk.
“What do you think of the mission, Lieutenant Commander?”
You’ve never been asked what you think of a mission. Your COs have usually been more of the type to order you to do something. Your opinion, not required. So you’re not sure how to respond. You ask a question instead.
“Why do you ask, sir?”
He steeples his hands in front of him as he looks at you.
“Barring the recent incident with Lieutenant Junior Grade Taylor, your career has been flawless. You have multiple commendations for your work. And some would argue you didn’t need any oversight from me over your team at all.”
Pride curls hot in your chest at his words. It’s always good to be recognized for your efforts. Despite all your ambition, you crave that feeling. Call it the people-pleasing aspect of your personality or just love for your job, but you wouldn’t give it up for anything.
“You’re insightful and clever. You grasp the problems at hand adequately and recommend reasonable solutions for them. Overall, I would consider you a fine AMDO. As such, I’m inclined to recommend you for this mission, Lieutenant Commander.” He smiles infinitesimally, lips quirking as you fold into the chair in front of his desk.
“Why me, sir?” You weren’t sure Commander Grayson even liked you. You work well together, somehow, even though scuttlebutt indicates the only person he works well with is his own soulmate. But liking? You know from experience how you don’t have to like someone to work well with them. So it’s a shock to hear such praise from a man who doesn’t praise many.
“Because this mission can catapult your career into the greatest heights, Lieutenant Commander. If this mission is a success, you’ll have the pick of duty stations for the rest of your career in the Navy. A promotion would be the natural next step, of course. You’d get the chance to lead your own team, truly this time, work on your pick of projects. And you’d have the leverage to keep your soulmate on any patch of dry ground you choose.”
You’re struck by the realization of what he’s offering. How could you shackle your soul to your side until he’s forgotten what it feels like to fly? You couldn’t, you’d probably lose him if you tried. But does it make you cruel for wanting that power in the palms of your hands, ready to wield at a moment’s notice? Is it cruelty when you could use it to protect someone you love? If Iceman could do it for Maverick then why couldn’t you?
“I couldn’t do that, sir.”
The Commander’s lips quirk. “No, no more than I could do so to my own soul. But that doesn’t mean your career stagnates because you’re worried about getting hurt or your soulmate getting hurt.”
His fingers are steepled in front of him as he looks across the desk to you.
“Think about this mission, Lieutenant Commander. I will be putting my recommendation forward at the end of the day.”
You half expect him to chase you out of his office. Instead, he tugs your stack of files forward, a stern almost-furrow to his brow as he looks them over. When he pulls out a blue pen, you know you’re going to have to redo at least a few of the plans you were hoping to get approved. You settle back in the chair, back slightly less straight than it was before. Now that he’s started you down this path, you can’t think of anything but the mission.
The USS Seahawk, a Nimitz class aircraft carrier, is incapacitated in the water a few clicks south of Russian waters. There are two other Nimitz class aircraft carriers in the vicinity, the USS Enterprise and the USS Kitty Hawk. All three ships were engaged in war games in an effort to test a new automated defense platform, codenamed MARS. All was well until MARS went rogue. It took over communications, all defenses and control of the engine room of the Seahawk within 20 minutes of the first test. Neither the Enterprise nor the Kitty Hawk were able to scramble their complement of F-18s to provide air support. Per it’s programming, MARS was supposed to tag any aircraft on radar with simulated fire from the Seahawk’s complement of anti-aircraft weaponry. But the one Super Hornet in the airspace of the Seahawk after the incident took live fire from its complement of missiles. The aviator and WSO piloting the craft were able to eject from their craft to safety. Nobody has been able to determine why MARS switched from using laser tagging to arming the Seahawk’s weapons. Thankfully, the Enterprise and Kitty Hawk were able to attach towing cables to the Seahawk in order to keep the carrier from drifting into Russian territory.
With few other options, the US Navy is putting together a mission to get a small team on board the Seahawk to incapacitate or reprogram MARS to bring the ordeal to a halt. The Seahawk has enough food and supplies for nearly three more months at sea. But with other missions requiring the Enterprise and Kitty Hawk coming up, there’s only so long the carriers can play at being tugboats in international waters. The normal shut-off algorithms are unresponsive. MARS has all but locked out everyone on board. To make things worse, there are four Russian ships dogging the Seahawk’s every move. With MARS active, the squadrons on all ships are unable to scramble jets to provide aerial support.
The Navy hasn't been able to determine whether there is foul play at work or if there is an unforeseen bug in the platform. It’s obvious if given the chance the Russians would take any opportunity to steal MARS. It’s also possible the Russians are more than aware of MARS’ radar targeting any aircraft in the vicinity. Why else would they send four light troop carrying ships to dog the Seahawk’s tracks rather than a bigger aircraft carrier or larger troop carrier ships?
You can’t believe Commander Grayson thinks you could lead this team. It’s true, you’re one of the few AMDO’s on North Island with the requisite security clearance to look into the specs of MARS. But you’re not sure you can do this, not with the full confidence the Commander seems to have in you. But you want to try.
The Commander’s head is bent over the last of the files you wanted him to review when you finally speak.
“Commander?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Commander?” He’s got a smug look on his face, one which screams he believes he’s won. You don’t blame him for the look on his face, because he has won.
“Thank you.”
He inclines his head, and you walk out of the door grinning from ear-to-ear twenty minutes later. You’ve got the stack of folders under your arm when you walk into Hangar Three. As expected of the power of the US Navy’s grapevine, the hive of activity surrounding your desk goes silent the minute your team sees you. Nobody approaches you until you’ve set the files down on your desk and settled down to look over the equally large fresh stack of files left in your absence.
“Is it true, ma’am?” Lieutenant Green’s eyes sparkle as she comes bounding up to you.
You grin and wink. “I’m afraid, Lieutenant, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really, ma’am?” You can hear the wheedling curiosity in her voice.
You set your notebook down, stuffing your pen between the open pages. “I have absolutely no idea, Lieutenant. But even if I did, I probably couldn’t tell you anything.”
She blinks, before a devious grin curls her lips. You have a sneaking suspicion every AMDO will know about the mission to come once Green leaves the hangar today. But she doesn’t press you on any of the details.
“What do we have on the docket today, ma’am?”
Maybe Lieutenant Green should’ve asked what wasn’t on the docket. It ends up being an extraordinarily busy day. By the time you pull into the driveway an hour past sunset, your head is pounding. Bradley’s Bronco is parked in the driveway, and right now, all you want to do is collapse into your soulmate’s arms.
There’s the most delicious smell spilling through the house when you unlock the door, rich and savory and comforting in the best way. You toe your shoes off in the foyer, setting your low, comfortable - though never comfortable enough for a full day on your feet - Navy uniform approved heels on the shoe-rack next to Bradley’s combat boots. His leather jacket is in the closet and you melt into the fabric, nuzzling the smooth fabric. It smells amazing, like his cologne, fresh air, and jet fuel. The aviators were up in their jets nearly all day today, and you’re sure Bradley must be even more exhausted than you are. Yet here he is, in your house, making you dinner. You can’t believe you’re so lucky. You don’t live with your soulmate, not yet. Bradley still has his apartment on base for convenience's sake. That he went out of his way, driving nearly an hour off-base to get to your little house to make you dinner? You could fall in love with him for this alone.
You’ve been meaning to ask him to move in with you. The question has been on the tip of your tongue for nearly two months at this point. But you haven’t been able to ask him that question. Something always seems to come up when you’re about to ask. So you keep pushing it off. But now, you’re wishing you had. He hasn’t slept in his bed in months, but just once you’d like to send him off on a mission with a plea of “come home” and know he understands that home is your little house near the beach.
“Bradley?” Your voice echoes gently through the house.
“Hey sweetheart! I’m in the kitchen.”
Just the endearment makes your exhaustion lighter and your chest warm. You follow the savory smells into the kitchen, cocking your hip against the door jamb as you drink in the sight of your soul dancing in your kitchen. There’s music spilling softly out of the speakers as he stirs a pot on the stove.
“Wow, what smells so good?”
He’s smiling when he turns around, your novelty “Kiss the Chicken in the Kitchen” apron tied around his slim hips.
“Other than me, beautiful?”
You roll your eyes as you tug him in. He tastes like wine and spices when he kisses you, and you melt into his warmth.
“Long day?”
When you growl, he tugs you in even tighter. All you can hear is the comforting thud of his heartbeat, and it makes everything better.
“It was probably just as long as yours, Roo.”
You haul yourself up on a clear stretch of counter, fishing a carrot out of the salad bowl to nibble.
“My day can’t possibly have been worse than yours was. I swung by the hangar to ask if you wanted to have lunch with me and found you buried under what has to have been a mountain of paperwork while fielding four questions simultaneously.”
He laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t know how you do it.”
You steal his wineglass and take a sip. “I don’t know, either. I guess I just do what needs to be done.”
“So what’s got you so busy?”
You hum when he proffers the spoon to you, wiggling in your seat on the counter as the flavors of rich meat and acidly sweet tomatoes hit your tongue. You’re not sure how to respond to his question. Because if you mention the mission, you’re going to have to mention the possibility of being chosen for it.
“I love when you cook for me, Roo.” His smile makes butterflies flutter at the pit of your stomach as he steals a kiss from your lips.
“Stop changing the subject, Tink.” Hemmed in between your soulmate and with cabinets behind you, there isn’t anywhere you can go.
“It’s the mission,” you confide in a near whisper. “It’s big, Roo.”
His hands are warm as he takes your hands in his.
“You’ve had big missions before, sweetheart.” He turns to the stove to stir the pot of sauce on the burner. “I’ve seen your file, darling. What’s bugging you about this one?”
“It’s not bugging me, exactly.” Words are escaping you. “I guess I’m still taking it in.”
He presses a kiss against your forehead. “You usually don’t worry a hole into your stomach or give yourself ulcers thinking about missions or assignments, sweetheart. C’mon, baby doll. Talk to me.”
You clutch at the soft fabric of his singlet, curling into the warmth of his skin. You trust Bradley, you do. But you can’t find the words to talk to him about why you’re so worried. You just want to bury yourself away, let yourself be wrapped in his broad arms and never see the light of day again. But you can’t. All you can do is live through this mission and make sure he lives through it too.
“Okay, sweetheart.” You can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest as he cuddles you close. “Go on up and get out of uniform. Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes.”
Your loungewear isn’t anything special, just a soft, loose t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts that have seen better days. Bradley’s just setting plates down on your small kitchen table when you walk in. There’s a long taper lit on the table-top, comfortably flickering away. After long days, your meals together are quiet, comfortable. There’s little conversation until there are only dregs of sauce left on your plates. You wash the dishes shoulder-to-shoulder, the moment dripping domesticity until it seeps molten through your veins.
By the time you’re curled up in your living room with a book on your lap, you’re nearly relaxed. Relaxed, that is, until Rooster walks in wearing a pair of ratty sweats and bearing two more glasses of wine.
“So what about this mission do you have to think about?”
You should have known you wouldn’t get out of talking about your reticence where this mission is concerned.
“Roo!” You try demurring, curling up in a corner of the sofa as you take the glass he offers you in your hands.
“Baby, don’t even.” You barely manage to take a sip before he tugs you in until you’re curled up on his lap. You leave your wine abandoned on the coffee table with only the tiniest squeak of dismay. “C’mere.”
He crushes you against his chest. His embrace is strong, snug and secure. You’ve never understood why your mom said, “Your dad makes me feel safe. He’s my home.”, until you found your own soulmate. Now there is no other place you would rather be than in your soul’s arms.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He waits you out for several long moments, tugging at the collar of your shirt as he peppers tickly kisses across the sensitive skin of your throat.
“Roo!” You giggle at the scrape of his stubble. “Fine, Fine!” The syllables come out punctuated by your breathy laughter.
“This mission, Roo. Grayson wants to recommend me for it. He wants me to lead the AMDO team to infiltrate the Seahawk. He thinks a team led by me will have the best chances for disabling MARS.”
When you open your eyes, you’re not sure what you were worried about. Rather than worry or jealousy, Bradley’s eyes are crinkled with the face of his huge grin.
“Wow!” He draws you in for a kiss, licking into your mouth as arousal curls through your veins. “You’re on Grayson’s shortlist? Baby, that’s amazing!”
With each word he presses another kiss to your person.
“I’m so proud of you. My sexy, sweet, kickass soulmate is taking on a life-changing mission? Where do I have to sign up to be your cheerleading squad?”
“Stop, stop!” You squeal the words out, legs kicking a little at the press of his fingers against your ribs. “You don’t have to sign up at all, Roo!”
“Yeah?” His voice is throaty and sweet as he leans over you, a hand planted on the cushion near your head. He looks angelic like this, with a halo of light behind him.
“Yeah.” You push one of his overgrown curls out of his face, futilely. “You’re already the number one cheerleader in my books.”
He snorts lightly before pressing his lips to yours.
“Then why were you worried?”
It’s a valid question. It’s not one you can answer so easily. He presses kisses against the palm of your hands as you cradle his heavy head against your chest. You don’t often get to cuddle, well really, use your soulmate as the best weighted blanket on the planet.
“I wasn’t sure if I should take the risk, Roo. I love you. I love being with you. It's just…” When you exhale, it feels like the lump of anxiety is back to sitting on your chest. “It feels wrong. It feels like I never should be nominated for a mission as serious as this one. How could I risk us in the face of everything that could go wrong during it? How could I rationalize it?”
His lips are hot against your exposed shoulder, your shirt having twisted earlier.
“You don’t have to rationalize it, baby. You just have to do it. We don’t work. I mean, our relationship doesn’t work if we’re stifling each other in the face of our dreams. Our dreams, individual and together, matter just as much as our relationship does. I would never make you choose me or the career you’ve spent years building. You wouldn’t be the person I fell in love with, without it.”
He rolls you over until you’re lying on top of him. The sofa creaks ominously beneath you, but settles.
“If you’re chosen for this mission, I want you to go. Don’t worry about the things you can’t control. Worry about what you can. We’ll deal with what happens when it happens. Together.”
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON TUMBLR, WATTPAD, OR AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN ON TUMBLR, WATTPAD, OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
We Don't Fit in Well ('Cause We Are Just Ourselves)
James T. Kirk (AOS) x Reader
Description: Riverside, Iowa. You've been here once before. Back then, everything was different. Now, you're not sure you're even in the same universe anymore. The man you might love? He's disappeared into thin air. The job you love? It might just disappear too. When everything hinges on one person, what lengths will you go to in order to save him? Can you save him while following the harsh demands you've been ordered to fulfill?
Warnings: Arguments, Mentions of Drunken Behavior, Injuries, Rough language
These will change from chapter-to-chapter. I will do my best to denote all happening as faithfully as I can. If any of these items bothers you, please do not read. One chapter of this fic includes non-graphic descriptions of Torture. All trigger warnings will be clearly demarcated in this fic.
Author’s Note: Hello my lovelies! This is my first Star Trek fic (ever), and I've been agonizing over how I could write it for so so long. This fic has been in the works since late-November 2023 and I think it's finally ready to share with you all!
I of course have to thank my faithful beta readers (and biggest cheerleaders) @desert-fern, @horseshoegirl and @sarahsmi13s for reading bits and pieces of this fic and making sure I was doing it justice. I also want to thank @a-reader-and-a-writer! Vee sent me this ask around then and nearly a year and a half later, we have this fic!
This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
Word Count: 3770
AO3: Cross-posted here!
My Masterlist
Series Masterlist | Next Part
The last time it snowed, the world was a very different place. Vulcan was still one of the biggest influences in the Federation, still orbiting its sun and still home to billions of souls, which were now snuffed out. Starfleet was thriving, with thousands of cadets and personnel boldly going into the unknown on peacekeeping and exploratory missions. What you have now is a world spinning on a different, tilted, off-kilter axis. It's like there is a hush over the grounds of Starfleet Academy still, cadets flinching, fighting their laughter when before it used to ring through the central square, melding with hundreds of conversations. The ghosts of everyone who walked the halls and never got the chance to graduate, to live, encroach on the spirits of those who remain.
It's no wonder the Admiralty have pushed for accelerated courses, aching to balloon the skeleton complement staffing the vessels still operational after the Battle of Vulcan. But the appetite to join Starfleet isn't present anymore. You've been riding a recruitment desk since graduation; you know what you're talking about. It’s like Starfleet had been inexplicably linked with the disaster on Vulcan and been found culpable for it.
Nobody wants to be affiliated with the paramilitary organization responsible for the violent death of an entire planet. The Admirals have given countless interviews on the resettlement of the surviving Vulcan people. Ambassador Sarek himself has spoken about the loss of his wife, a prominent Terran herself, and the path to healing for the Vulcan people as a whole. Time and again, he's stressed how, without Starfleet, nothing of Vulcan-that-was would have been saved. But it doesn't seem to have worked. Every day, public sentiment on Starfleet has waned, the mercury dipping lower and lower and sinking into the red until you're not sure anything will bring it back out.
Well, there is one thing that could possibly save Starfleet. But nobody’s sure if he'd agree to do it.
It's why you're in Riverside, Iowa, of all places. The last time you were here, it was in 2255, and the summer sun shone golden from a blue sky over the shafts of fragrant wheat swaying in the hot breeze. You can still recall how your uniform had stuck to the small of your back, how wisps of your hair had been snatched from your braid only to get plastered against your face and neck. Back then, only a little over three years and yet a lifetime ago, you'd been awed at the mechanisms of the Riverside Shipyard, awed at the skeleton of the Enterprise as she was built piece by piece and paid little attention to the town in the shipyard's shadow. One bar fight and a pair of new cadets on board your shuttle later, you'd forgotten all about the place.
Until now.
Your communicator trills loudly in the cold air, the tinny sound hushed between buildings blanketed in snow drifts.
“You find him yet, kid?”
“I'm 28, Doctor McCoy! I'm far from a kid.”
“You’re all kids to me.” You can hear the irascible doctor in the background, grumbling and growling. “So, did you find him yet?”
“No, and before you ask, I'm trying to remember whether I ever knew how to walk in this much snow and if the Riverside transporter station had Eskimo dogs and sleds for rent,” you snark back.
“Touchy, touchy, kid.” You don’t have to see McCoy's face to know he's smirking at you. The man may be a southern gentleman - most of the time - but a friend still amuses him in a tough situation of their own making. “Anyone would think you didn't want to see him anymore.”
“Len …” You sigh noisily, pretending your fingers aren't trembling, like snow isn’t seeping into your boots. “This was a bad idea. There’s a reason I've been riding a booth in recruitment instead of working with Scotty on his ‘wee lass’.”
“Give him a chance to explain, kid. And if he breaks your heart, tell me, and I'll come right over and getcha. Even if I have to brave a transporter to do it.”
“You're one of the good ones, Dr. McCoy.”
His laugh makes the bile roiling in your stomach ease a little.
“I hope you know you're one of the good ones too, kid. Now bring him home.”
The comm goes dead with a sharp click, and suddenly, you're alone again, looking at the small farmhouse in front of you. It’s two-storied and quaint, with a wrap-around porch surrounding the ground floor and dark windows peering out onto the street. Snow-covered fields surround it on either side, and you think you can see bushes buried under the relentless snow.
You think it used to be white once upon a time, when it was new, with white siding, cheerful blue shutters and a dark red shingled roof - the mid-1950s American dream. The blues have faded and blended with dust, the roof browned with age. As you walk, forcing yourself to lift each foot, you catalog the way the grass has grown up through the wooden planks of the porch over long hot summers, how there is a carving which might just spell out the words “JTK was here” hidden to the side of the door.
Because, well, if you can see the jagged lines of a pen knife on aged wood, then you're definitely too close to your goals to go home. The only part of the house which doesn't look aged is the doorbell and you press it with fingers trembling with both the cold and your nerves. But you don’t hear a bell ringing. A camera unshutters, the movements well-oiled and precise. You stand still and let it scan you, holding your Starfleet identification up when prompted. But the door doesn't open.
It feels anticlimactic. All the stress, the well-meaning, gruff pep talk from the Doc, the trembling in your fingers. Who is to say he's even home? Who is to say he'd even open the door for anyone? Why did Len think he'd open the door for you? The thought of someone you adore, and yeah, you've gone way past denial to even delude yourself into thinking you like him any less than pure adoration, seeing you standing on his doorstep and refusing to open the door, hurts like a kick to the chest.
You can’t breathe as you knock gently on the wood, ignoring the splinters as they catch on your skin.
“J-Jim?” His name leaves your chapped lips like a prayer, echoing through the cold stillness around you. “Open the door, please. It's me.”
You knock until your knuckles ache, and when you pull away, there's a rusty smudge of blood on the wood. One of the splinters has done more than catch on your skin, ripping a jagged hole against the ridged bone of your hand, embedded there like the man you're trying to find is in your heart.
“I know I'm the last person you want to see out here. B-but Len suggested to Admiral Barnett that you wouldn't come back for anyone else. I tried to tell them otherwise, but nobody listened. We're worried about you, Jim. Please. Worried sick.”
You wait with bated breath for any sign of life. But none comes. You turn, fumbling for your communicator with aching fingers because at least you can tell the Admiralty you tried, right?
“If you were worried sick, why didn't you come sooner? Took ya six months to come out here … to see the famous Captain Kirk for yourself.”
Your knees go weak at the sound of his voice, but when you whirl around, your concern doesn't fade. Because you've never seen James Tiberius Kirk in such a bad state of disrepair. The just-been-fucked state of his hair is par for the course. Bloody bar fights might very well have been normal - after all, you've seen the results on his face far too many times. But drunk, so drunk you can smell the cheap alcohol seeping from his pores, hair greasy and blue eyes dull? You've never seen James T. Kirk fall so far from the pedestal he's set himself on.
“Jay…” He snorts crudely at the pet name on your tongue like he knows you don't deserve to call him that, wheeling around and back into the yawning doorway with little grace.
“Don't haveta like ya to keep you from freezin’.”
He's slurring, and your heart cracks at the rudely dismissive tone in his voice.
“Get in ‘ere, call Bones and get out.”
Jame T. Kirk is a lot of things, you know. He's smart - smarter than anyone has rights to be - and works endlessly for his crew like he'd never work for himself. But he's not a sloppy drunk. He likes alcohol as much as the next man, preferring a light buzz to quell the jitters of a perfectionist attitude without stifling his ridiculously brilliant brain. This is so far past buzzed you're not sure he even remembers what a buzz is.
Empty bottles clank and clatter against the toes of your boots as you walk in, closing the door gently. You're hit with a cloud of dust, the musty smell coating your mouth without it even being open, the fine particulate sinking into your clothing with each step. It smells like dust and rot and spilled alcohol in the enclosed space. The pungent bouquet makes your nose wrinkle, hand rising to cover your mouth and nose in a futile effort to stave the smells away. You follow Jim through the trail he's making, circumnavigating the towering piles of bottles, avoiding the puddles on the floor that may have once been bile.
The kitchen is mostly clean, even if it does smell just as bad. But at least here, there is room to move and sit. The glare you're given as you perch on the very edge of one of the cracked vinyl chairs pushed up against a small table is vitriolic enough that you can feel your resolve, cracked and patched together with string and duct tape, begin to burn.
“I told ya. Get in. Get warm. Call Bones. And get out. I don’t care what you're doing here. I just want you off my property.”
He stares at you for several moments, warm blue eyes now flinty and cold, before turning around and walking further into the house. You can hear the clattering as he knocks into things, the hushed expletives as he no doubt bashes his elbows and knees into the sides of furniture and door jambs. Once upon a time, you would have laughed, trailing after him to ask if he needed a kiss on a fresh bruise or two marring his skin. Now you’re left paralyzed between your need to make sure he is okay and your fear of overstepping.
You’re not sure how it went so wrong. One night, you’d been curled up against his side on his ratty old couch in San Francisco, warm and comfortable, soaking in the scent of his cologne. It had been a perfect night, with friends hanging out, eating good food, and drinking good alcohol. But it didn’t stay a hangout between friends. Jim was just as distracting as usual, with his pretty blue eyes and wide grin. You’d woken up the next morning, bare and aching in the best way, in his empty bed to a cold, deserted apartment.
You weren’t sure what you’d done to make him leave. Was giving into the sexual tension with your commanding officer why he disappeared? It was a shot to your confidence and ego. He was just gone, with no note, all the clothes still in his closet, and everything untouched. You couldn’t even tell when in the middle of the night he left or where he went. It’s taken you six months to track him down. You’re not sure how long he’s been in Riverside or if he was alone the entire time, but you’ve finally found him.
It’s probably time to make some decisions. How do you convince him to come back to San Francisco? You’re not charismatic or particularly charming. Most of the time, you’re being charmed, not doing the charming. You’re yanked viciously out of your musing by the sharp thud of a body colliding with the floor. Jim’s lying at the foot of the stairs, blood seeping sluggishly from a slice on his forehead.
“Shit, Jimmy.” You soften your voice to a whisper as you lever him up. “What have you done to yourself?”
He’s sluggish and barely responsive as you sling his heavy arm over your shoulder and stagger upright. He’s completely unresponsive as you maneuver him to the living room and lay him down on the mostly clean sofa. The wound isn’t too bad, already scabbing over, but you’re more worried by how he’s been knocked out. He’s motionless, almost lifeless, were it not for the imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. You call Len three times that night - first to make sure you’re doing the right thing, second to treat the swelling, and third to get Mama McCoy’s recipe for chicken noodle soup and her award-winning pancakes.
He'll be fine, kiddo. If he's got a bump on his noggin and was as drunk as you say, he'll sleep through the night. You'll want to get some coffee in him in the morning. He'll have a bear of a hangover, but he'll be fine. Call me if you need anything, kid.
Len's advice, while comforting from a medical standpoint, only partially alleviates your worry. You spend the night in a sleepless, manic haze, focused on only two things: making sure Jim is alright and cleaning up his house, at least the kitchen and the stairs. You venture out into the cold multiple times, hauling bag after bag of trash to the big cans in the side yard, stamping the snow off your boots and shivering as you try futilely to warm up.
By the time the sun's risen, the kitchen is spotless, smelling softly of lemon cleaner, and you're no less scared than you were walking into Riverside the day before. You're terrified. Terrified at the thought of seeing censure in those blue, blue eyes. Terrified to hear James Tiberius Kirk tell you that you were only a passing flame, a quick, convenient fuck. Terrified that you’ll never be able to make him realize how much Starfleet needs him, how much you do.
The fear settles in your veins as you make an early morning trek to the grocery store. You pick up all the essentials: coffee and enough food for at least a few days more, and accept the offer of a ride back to the Kirk farmhouse. By the time the soup is bubbling away on the stove, following Mama McCoy’s exacting recipe, your nerves have soothed a little.
Jim rockets awake at 9 o’clock on the dot, retching into the bucket you'd set by the side of the couch. Hearing him cough wretchedly into the bucket makes you feel worse than you did before. It’s a relief, knowing he’s okay, that he isn’t hurt. But he’s awake now, and you’re paralyzed. The gentle scents of coffee and buttery pancakes waft through the bright kitchen. You take comfort in it as you suck in greedy breaths to keep your rampaging heartbeat under control.
“The hell is this?” His voice is rough, deeper than usual, and just a little wondering as he takes in the magic you've wrought on his kitchen.
“Breakfast and coffee.”
He huffs, drawing his arms up across his chest, blue eyes squinting your way.
“I can see that.”
He's stoic. Stiff-lipped and tense as he stands in the corner of the kitchen. You can feel the weight of his gaze as you flip the last few pancakes and pour the fresh coffee into a pair of mugs. You're not sure why you do it, but you step forward gingerly and press the mug into his hands. You back away slowly, like you're dealing with a spooked animal.
His lips twitch as he looks down at the mug, his expression warring between exhaustion and anger. It's your turn to hide a grin when he takes a long sip, a grumble rather akin to a domesticated cat leaving his mouth as the rich, dark, slightly bitter liquid hits his tongue.
“What are you doing?”
You should have been expecting the question. You've had a day, a night, and months of searching to think of why. Ultimately, you stick with the simplest answer you can give him.
“I'm making breakfast. I got hungry.”
You shrug and hold out your hands, palms up to the feast laid out on the sparkling counters: buttery pancakes, golden-brown and fluffy, out-of-season blueberries piled high in a bowl, crispy strips of bacon glistening with fat in the sunlight, and the pot of coffee steaming on a trivet.
“Bullshit.”
He yanks one of the bacon strips off the platter and crams it in his mouth. It disappears in two quick bites before his tongue darts out and laps at the grease on his fingers. You're a little weak-kneed at the motion because, unlike him, you can clearly remember what those fingers, what that tongue, can do.
“You're not here just to make me breakfast. You're here because they sent you. The Admirals. Starfleet. They want Captain Kirk as their poster boy, their golden goose. They want to parade me around, drum up more recruits and ‘boldly go’ again. They could care less about how the Federation was handicapped mere months ago - how an entire people was destroyed. Because they didn't see it coming.”
His voice is ragged, chest heaving as he sets the mug down with a sharp clack, the liquid sloshing over the sides.
“That's right.” Your voice is barely a whisper as you mop up the spill. “The Admiralty sent me. But they're not why I agreed to come to Riverside. I came to Riverside to make sure you were okay. Nobody's heard from you, Jim. We were all worried - Bones, Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, Admiral Pike - I, well, I was worried. We all wanted to make sure you were okay. The Admirals just allowed me to do so without taking leave.”
“So what are you going to do?”
You grab two plates from the cabinet and start serving up some food. You mull over your response as you set the table, giving him a wide berth as you circle him to retrieve the coffee in a second trip. You settle into one of the chairs with a sigh, your aching bones relaxing into the cushioned seat, and sip the coffee doctored how you like.
“Well, for the next few days at least, I'm going to make sure you're eating and sleeping and not drinking yourself to death. Then I'm going to ask if you would ever want to come back to Starfleet if you'd ever want to be my Captain again. Regardless of your answer, I'd head back to San Francisco.”
He sits gracelessly, long limbs splayed out until his foot collides with yours, icy against your ankle. You push his mug of coffee, the expensive, real coffee you’d spent way too many credits to purchase, his way. You’re gratified at the small smile on his face when he cuts a piece of pancake, dredges it through the frankly ridiculous pool of blueberry syrup on his plate (the only syrup Len said he wasn't allergic to) and shoves it into his mouth. It’s good to see him looking a little more relaxed, to see him eat, even if he is too thin for comfort.
“So if I tell you to leave and never look back, to forget I was ever your Captain, you'd do it?”
Your heart lurches at the thought of forgetting James T. Kirk and what he means to you. But you're sure this is a test, that he's expecting you to say you can't forget him, that you won't. You're just as sure he'll never forgive you if you say those words. Because he'll take them as a betrayal and you'll lose any ground you've gained over Eleanora McCoy's pancakes and blueberry syrup.
“I promise. But only if, after I leave, you promise you'll take care of yourself. No more drinking yourself to death.”
He quirks an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging his lips up.
“Fine. Okay. I promise I'll take care of myself. Now, will you leave me to eat all this food by myself, or will you help me?”
Your response is to oh-so-maturely launch a blueberry at his face, a blueberry he catches on his tongue.
The shaky truce you’ve brokered extends until mid-afternoon when the doorbell rings, and Jim comes back with more boxes of food than you thought you'd ordered.
“This has to be a mistake,” you groan as you set vegetables in the crisper and load the freezer with meat.
“It's not a mistake.” Your eyes are wide with something starting to feel a lot like hope as you look at him. He'd showered after breakfast, and clean-shaven and sober, he looks a lot like the Jim you remember. You’re hoping he ordered the extra supplies and wants you to stay longer. But your hopes are shattered when he gestures out the kitchen window.
“Take a look outside.”
The sky is dark, the clouds heavy and gray as they blot out the sun. Fat snowflakes spiral heavily down, and you have a sudden lurch in your chest as it accumulates far more quickly than you'd expect on the ground.
“You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd suspect you'd planned this.”
He's hovering just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin. Your fingers clutch at the counter because that accusation means he might not trust you even so much to take your words at face value.
“This is a blizzard in Iowa. It'll snow for days on end, and we'll be snowed in for longer than a few days. So buckle up, buttercup. Looks like you're stuck with me!”
You stick your tongue out at him in a state of childish pique because if one day was enough to have you in a cold sweat, weeks might just kill you. The Admirals will probably be glad when you tell them. After all, it gives you more time to convince Jim Kirk to return to Starfleet. If only you were so sure it's what he wants in the same way they are.
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Sneak Peek: We Don't Fit In Well ('Cause We Are Just Ourselves)
Hiya lovelies! I'm going to be posting the first chapter of this story this week, and I wanted to share a little sneak peek for it!
It feels anticlimactic. All the stress, the well-meaning, gruff pep talk from the Doc, the trembling in your fingers. Who is to say he's even home? Who is to say he'd even open the door for anyone? Why did Len think he'd open the door for you? The thought of someone you adore, and yeah, you've gone way past denial to even delude yourself into thinking you like him any less than pure adoration, seeing you standing on his doorstep and refusing to open the door, hurts like a kick to the chest.
You can’t breathe as you knock gently on the wood, ignoring the splinters as they catch on your skin.
“J-Jim?” His name leaves your chapped lips like a prayer, echoing through the cold stillness around you. “Open the door, please. It's me.”
You knock until your knuckles ache, and when you pull away, there's a rusty smudge of blood on the wood. One of the splinters has done more than catch on your skin, ripping a jagged hole against the ridged bone of your hand, embedded there like the man you're trying to find is in your heart.
“I know I'm the last person you want to see out here. B-but Len suggested to Admiral Barnett that you wouldn't come back for anyone else. I tried to tell them otherwise, but nobody listened. We're worried about you, Jim. Please. Worried sick.”
Find this story interesting? Let me know if you want to be tagged in it by commenting on this post!
We Don't Fit in Well ('Cause We Are Just Ourselves)
Status: IN PROGRESS
Last Updated: May 21st, 2025
Disclaimers: Female!Reader
Summary: When Vulcan is destroyed, quieter than a whisper, surrounded by the carnage of almost all of Starfleet, everything changes. In an instant, there's a power vacuum in the United Federation of Planets. Everyone wants to take Vulcan's place. Nobody knows how to cope without a founding civilization.
The effects of Vulcan's destruction are far-flung and more deeply felt than anyone could guess. For the fledgling crew of the Enterprise, staffed mostly by Academy graduates on their first posting, its tantamount to an earthquake. Broken and battered, they came back to Terra Firma after saving the universe as most people know it.
Their captain? He disappeared without a trace.
Given orders to find him and bring him back, you're faced with an impossible choice. Do you destroy the fledgling heartbeat of a relationship just spreading its wings for 'Fleet? Or can you convince him to fight for Starfleet, the Enterprise, and you without losing himself in the balance?
Themes: Canon-typical violence, Serious conversations, Smut, Angst, Torture (In one chapter. All instances will have Trigger Warnings present)
We Don't Fit In Well on AO3
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Epilogue
Taglist
Want to be added to the Taglist for this fic? Leave a comment on this Masterlist or drop me a message in my inbox!
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Description: When a blind date leads to disaster, you're almost ready to give up on men. Until he sits down on the bar stool in front of you. This man is different - sensual, gorgeous, confident. He makes you want to live a little on the wild side. What do you do when a night you don't want to forget turns into a forbidden relationship by light of day? How do you cope, especially when he doesn't seem to want a thing to do with you?
Warnings: Rough sex, illicit relationship, dom/sub overtones, toxic relationship, inbalance of power in the work place
Word Count: 5766
Author's Note: Hiya lovelies! It's been a while since I've posted a story on here. I kind of lost my muse and had to find her, and my love for writing all over again.
Thanks to @horseshoegirl @sarahsmi13s and @desert-fern for chatting with me about this story and making sure I'm handling all of the things which happen in the best way I can!
This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!
AO3: Cross-posted here!
My Masterlist
Series Masterlist | Next Part
Part I
The noise washes over you in waves, inane chatter and shrieking from the velvet booths lining the walls, combined with the genteel clacking of cutlery against china in a migraine-inducing din. The bar you’re in is popular, with tables occupied from wall to wall. Normally, you’d consider yourself fortunate to be seated at one of them. There’s one reason why you’re not. Blind dates have never gone well for you. Either your dates are drab and dull, or you’ve been partnered with the worst men on the planet. Rude, boorish, vulgar, you name it, you’ve been on a date with a man bearing the unsavory trait. Tonight’s date isn’t shaping up to be any better.
You’re sitting at the tiny bar-style table playing with the wine in your glass, watching the carnelian liquid slosh as the liquid warms by the second. Your attention is completely on the droplets of wine sliding down the sides of the glass. Your date could care less. He doesn’t seem to notice your boredom or frustration. In fact, you’re not sure he’s even looked at you all night. He’s chattering about something involving stocks and bonds, the details so boring your eyes nearly roll back into your head while peering over the rim of his pint glass at every cocktail-dress-clad girl in sight. Drinks at this swanky bar were supposed to turn into dinner. You’re not sure this date is going to go that far.
Moreover, you’re not sure you want it to. You’re on this date as a favor for a friend. She’d sworn up and down that this guy was a real gem when she was setting you up with him. She’d spent days talking him up, pointing out how kind and hot he was. Sure, he hasn’t been the worst date you’ve been on. He is easy on the eyes, and nice at first impression. But he isn’t anything special. Maybe you have loftier expectations for your relationships than most. Or maybe you just want to go on a date where you can have a conversation, not be talked at in a mockery of one. In any case, you don’t find yourself too disappointed. You’re starting a new job in the morning and you should be fresh for your 8 AM orientation time - an early night would have been your preference. But your watch says it is already past 7 PM and getting later by the minute. This man can’t seriously think he’s so suave, can he? He’s been sending you alluring gazes and smug grins all night long, uncaring of your silence.
“So, whattaya say to skipping dinner and heading back to my place for the rest of the night?”
You’re not sure you heard him right. Mind churning, you sip on the wine, barely tasting the liquid. You’re not sure what he expects. Did he expect you to jump him the minute he offered? You’re resettling your mental estimation of his intellect downwards by the minute.
“I’m awfully hungry,” you demur. “Dinner sounds pretty good to me.”
“I’ve got something that’ll fill you up back at my place.”
His voice is greasy enough that you feel a little disgusted just hearing it.
“Yeah?” You make your voice breathy like you’re a little turned on by his display. You lean forward, knowing the deep vee of your dress is showing off the slightest hint of the lace edging your bra. He smirks pompously, chest-puffing outward, eyes tipping to your exposed cleavage like iron ore to a magnet. He has the audacity to lick his lips, and while before you would have let him down gently, now you want to hit him where it hurts - his ego.
“Well, I hope you enjoy it all by yourself.” Your grin is sharp. “Like you probably have been every night for the last few years of your life.”
He looks a little like he’s been slapped, this finance bro, with his lips gawping unflatteringly.
“Do you have any idea who I am in this town?” He’s turning red under the collar, eyes bugging out.
“Nope.” You say the words flippantly, sipping on the last inch of the red wine at the bottom of your glass. You may not like the man, but he has good taste in wine. “Nor do I care to.”
You lean in then, your off-putting grin widening across your cherry lips.
“I have no interest in getting to know a pompous, over-blown man-child who loves to flaunt their success in other people’s faces. So no. I won’t be coming home with you for a night in. I think I’d throw up if I saw the ‘something that fills me up’ you’ve got over there.”
He’s so angry, his face screws up at your words, the flush creeping up to his face.
“Bye-bye, now!”
He nearly knocks over a waitress and two fellow patrons on his way out of the door, sputtering impotently the entire way.
You’re still chuckling to yourself ten minutes later when a fresh glass of wine is set in front of you.
“That was artfully done.” You startle a little at the words, your head whipping up so fast that your neck hurts at the sudden motion. The new man settling into the barstool before you is a cut above the gentleman you spoke to. Your face must show some confusion because he continues, “I saw you chase that guy away.”
He’s gorgeous, broad shoulders clad in a perfectly fitted suit. Every inch of his appearance screams luxury and class, from his auburn hair to his well-groomed mustache. He’s got long-fingered hands, one holding a cut crystal glass holding amber liquid, the other bearing a signet ring on the index finger as it rests on the table between you. There are eyes on him from all over the bar, and yet he doesn’t seem to notice. His whiskey eyes settle only on you like you're all he wants to see.
“Thank you.” You grin, sipping on the wine, the rich red liquid delicious on your tongue. “But it was necessary, I’m afraid.”
You nearly gag just thinking about the last words that idiot said to you before he left. At least you had the good sense to cut him off before he tried to strong-arm you into getting in bed with him.
“I kind of overheard what he said.” This stranger is smirking, confidence exuding from every pore. You’re drawn by his easy demeanor, as much as you are by his opening words. Hopefully, they’ll lead to an actual conversation. “It’s obvious he has no idea how to get to know a beautiful woman like yourself.”
“Is that so?” You lean forward again, wondering if a flash of your cleavage will take him in. But he doesn’t take the bait you’re presenting so alluringly. All he does is take off the suit jacket he's wearing, revealing the tanned vee of his neck in a white button-up shirt. You have to hide your hungry glances behind the rim of your wineglass when he rolls the sleeves up to the crook of his elbow.
“Yeah, sweetheart. I’d much rather get to know you instead.” He leans forward too, and as he does, you see gold glinting from between his pecs.
“I promise I’m nothing like that idiot you chased away with your cherry-lipped smile and acid words.”
You shrug, running a finger over the rim of the glass. “I don’t know anything yet.”
He shrugs then, sipping on his drink nonchalantly. You drag your eyes up and down his person. He lets you check him out with good grace, a smirk tipping his lips up and eyes hot as they return the languid glances. “But maybe, just maybe, I’d like to.”
As he’d introduced himself to you, Bradley is a breath of fresh air. You find yourself on the edge of your seat, hanging on his every word. He’s flirty, kind, yet down-to-earth. He's a professional working in the city, loves his family and friends, and reads actual, genuine books. If only your friend had set you up with Bradley instead. Under his knowing gaze, you find yourself spilling things you’ve never told another soul.
The crowd surges around you as the night deepens. But still, you stay, sitting on the stool, downing glass after glass of plush, rich reds and fruity, dry whites while wishing Bradley was drinking his whiskey off your lips. With each word shared, each story, the spark of attraction smoulders between the two of you. Between one trip to the bar and the next, he settles on the stool next to yours.
If you thought he was breathtaking across the table, he's heart-stopping sitting next to you. His effect on you is worse because when he's close, you just have to look down to see the mile-long expanse of his legs, muscular thighs practically straining against the expensive wool blend of his trousers.
“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong, beautiful.” His eyes are searingly hot a few inches away from you. He’s got an arm wrapped around your waist, a big hand splayed just under your breasts. “But I’d very much like to take you home tonight.”
You gasp at the feeling of his breath across your lips. One inch closer, and you’d be kissing him.
“I shouldn’t.” Your voice is quiet, a little hoarse from the alcohol, nonstop chatter and laughter. “I don’t usually go home with strange men at the bar, no matter how attractive they are.”
He smiles, tipping his head to the side. His voice is a rumble as he whispers into your ear, tone wheedling, his other hand trailing down the neckline of your dress, fingers hot over the delicate skin of your chest.
“I promise if you want me to stop at any time, I will. I’ll call you a cab and send you home with my number saved in your phone as soon as you say the word.”
You’re losing your words, your arguments at his voice. All the reasons why you shouldn’t go home with a near stranger dissipate with every minute you stare into his eyes.
“Take me home,” You gasp, sucking in greedy breaths as he plays with your necklace. You knew he was tall when he walked away to get your new drink, but when he helps you off the stool and drapes his suit jacket across your shoulders, he dwarfs you easily. You have a sneaking suspicion you may be in trouble.
He leads you out of the bar with a steady, warm hand at the small of your back. Despite the crowded streets, a taxi shows up the minute he raises his hand, power and confidence an aura emanating from him. The taxi ride to his apartment downtown is an alcohol-fueled swirl of sensation. Your focus is split between the broad palm splayed over your bare thigh and the filthy litany spilling out of his bitten lips. He keeps the words just barely audible, a placid grin on his face every time the cab driver looks back, and you’re fighting the urge to drag him into filthy kisses the entire way.
Would you be able to taste the whiskey on his tongue? Or would he taste like the mints, sharp and peppery with an underlying hint of sweetness he’d popped as you left? You can’t know for sure, not until you’ve finally got him behind closed doors.
And what doors they end up being. When Bradley unlocks the doors and ushers you in, your jaw drops to the floor. His living room is a gorgeous, high-ceilinged room, with walls half distressed brick and half grey-toned wood panelling. The floors are soft, sandy wood. While you very much would like to see the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining two of the four walls, complete with a rolling ladder like you’ve only ever seen on television, your eyes are drawn to the massive windows showing off the beautiful San Francisco skyline, lit up in the night.
“Your apartment is beautiful.”
“It’s not the only thing that is.”
You whirl around at the words, fighting the heat threatening to overtake your face. If Bradley looked practically edible languidly sprawled over the barstool, long legs brushing against yours, he looks divine standing in his living room with his bright white shirt unbuttoned to his navel.
“I-I don't usually do things like this.”
You curl an arm around your waist, hugging yourself. Standing here in the center of his cookie-cutter-perfect living room, you feel like an outsider, like the speck of lint or dust spoiling the facade. You don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to stand opposite a man this beautiful, be propositioned or devoured by him. Yet when you glance upward, his face shows you nothing but heat and hunger.
“Shh, sweetheart.” The pet-name makes you shiver, gooseflesh forming on your bare arms and pimpling over your collar bones. “I know you don’t. But we have all night to figure out what you like. We'll go as slow as you need.”
You’re not sure what you’re looking for in his face. Reassurance? Compassion? Want? Hunger? You see all those things and more. He lets you stand there in silence, eyes drinking you in, comfortable just watching and being watched. The more you see, the more you can feel your mind change. With the haze of alcohol thrumming through your veins fading a little, your brain is making more decisions. It was lust, pure and simple which got you here. Now your brain has to decide what you want to do here. More and more, the decision seems to be following him, letting yourself fall. You’ve never been impetuous, not where matters of the heart are concerned. Maybe you should be for once. The words end up tripping off the edge of your tongue of their own volition.
“What if I don’t want to go slow at all?”
You know what it means when a man smiles at you like that, eyes molten, tongue sliding out to wet his lips. He prowls forward then, feline grace rippling the muscles of his torso. His arms feel like silk over steel as they crush you to his chest. Your heart stutters, breath catching as he leans forward. But he doesn’t kiss you. He seems content to breathe you in, foreheads pressed together. His mustache traces ticklish and light over your upper lip with every breath. You want nothing more than to smash your lips to his.
“I bet you don't, beautiful.” His eyes sparkle in the darkness as he traces one calloused fingers over your lacquered lips. “But I get the feeling you don't know what you want. You've spent all night so far telling me you don't let people take you home on the first night. But here you are, practically gasping for every touch of my skin to yours. So what’s going on in that pretty little head?”
The words make you squirm a little, thighs rubbing together futilely.
“I wonder,” His tone goes soft and contemplative yet light as he slides his hand up the expanse of your soft thighs, tenderly squeezing the muscular flesh. “Were you searching for a man to take you in hand? Someone who would smack that pretty little ass when you're being a brat? Is that why you chased that guy away so easily? Did you know instinctively he wouldn’t be able to do that for you?”
When you moan, it feels like you've lost the game he started playing. But you're not disappointed, not when his lips quirked upwards in a proud grin. And not when you feel his finger sweep over the damp gusset of your panties, teasing and light.
“Fuck, I knew you'd be gorgeous like this.”
You shiver against him, muscles trembling, fighting against the urge to move his hands where you want them most. But even the slightest motion has those big hands clamping down over your wrists or swatting at the meat of your thigh, just harsh enough that you jolt. Your head is spinning already.
“You're so quiet, so compliant and obedient, my good girl.” You have to swallow your whimpers at the term of endearment. “I can’t wait to see how good you can be.”
You nod, maybe too eagerly, if the smirk taking over his face is proof.
“See?” The phrase is almost mocking as he purrs, “So damned pretty and soft and sweet.”
Your voice shakes as you try to collect your composure, breaking despite all the force of your will.
“I'm not that sweet. I can be rude and domineering and brash.”
He chuckles, pointing to a dark hallway, branching off the living room.
“Go to my bedroom, sweetheart. Take that sinful little dress off and sit on the bed.”
You're so gone for this man already. You don’t know his last name, what he does for work, or anything important. But you don’t care. As you trot into his bedroom, all you can think about is how his lips looked as they said, “good girl,” and how desperately you want to be good for him. Your hands are rough as you tug at the suddenly constricting fabric of your dress. You want it off; need the suddenly scratchy fabric away from your skin. When the dress lands on the ground in front of the bed in a bundle of dark fabric, you feel like you can finally breathe.
“Such a pretty girl.”
You startle at the whisper. You hadn't turned the lights on when you walked in, navigating in the half-light of the streetlights below. A switch clicks in the silence, and you're surrounded by a halo of light. Bradley's in the shadows still, and you can’t see even a glint of his eyes.
“Turn around, baby.”
You feel exposed all of a sudden, wearing only your lacy bra, barely there panties, and heels. His voice seems to echo around you, muddled and sibilant as they murmur words - orders - your way.
“Hands on the bed frame, beautiful.”
You stumble over your own feet as you rush to follow his instructions. With your eyes next-to-useless in the cool darkness of the room, it feels like your other senses are in overdrive.
“You look hotter than sin standing there like that, gorgeous.”
You can feel the puffs of his breath over your sensitized skin, the fine hairs covering your arms standing on end at his presence ghosting over you.
“Fuck, you’re so sweet, so compliant and obedient for me. Keep those legs apart for me, now.”
He chuckles darkly, the sound deep and velvety soft. You have to fight your whine as your knees nearly buckle at the way he sounds.
“You like that?”
You whine when his big hand smooths over the expanse of your back.
“I knew you’d like having someone tell you what to do. I knew you’d look delicious like this, spread out for me like that. Pretty girl, my pretty, pretty baby.”
Your brain fritzes out at those words, all higher-level thoughts blanking out at the possessive curl to his voice. Your prior dalliances - you'd never call them relationships because they were too short to be labeled as such - were never bold enough to become so possessive with you. You never thought you would like it. But hearing Bradley call you his, even when you know this is only for tonight, makes your toes curl and your panties uncomfortably wet.
“What happened to that fire, huh? What happened to the feisty little thing who sent a man away for asking you to hop into his bed on the first meeting?”
His words are a little mocking as those big hands smooth over your waist, plucking at the waistband of your panties.
“Bet his eyes would fall out of his head if he could see you standing here, just like this. With your pert little ass on display and your pussy all wet for me.”
You moan at the words, gasping at the feeling of his hands as they tug the lacy fabric down, flinching at the snap of the clasp of your bra as he pulls that away, too. Your skin flushes with heat at the feeling of the soft kiss he presses to the small of your back. But the tender teasing touches disappear shortly after. He leaves you standing there, wearing only your red-bottomed heels, aching for his touch, shivering as the cool air wafts over your heated skin. You have a feeling he’s still there, your ears picking up each infinitesimal rustle of fabric and soft brush of footsteps on the floor. He’s just left you standing splayed out for his own amusement.
How is it possible for you to feel both turned-on and uncomfortably exposed at the same time? Your fingers ache from holding onto the smooth wooden surface of the bed frame. As your patience wanes, your fidgeting increases.
“Bradley?”
You’ve never heard yourself sound like this, plaintive and strung out, aching for someone else's touch. It feels like you’re breaking down walls you’ve never known you had put up. All you can do is hold onto the bedframe and pray you aren’t vulnerable with someone dangerous.
“Nuh, uh, uh, pretty.” The hushed admonishment comes with the press of lips against your shoulder blade.
“If you want me, then you have to tell me exactly what you want.”
You tremble at the words, grip tightening on the burnished wood until all you can feel is the tug of stressed muscles. You let your head fall until your hair is obscuring everything from sight. You’re not sure you can say these words, not without feeling horribly, uncomfortably exposed.
“Touch me, please.”
It’s the barest whisper, but you know he hears you. His hands are hot against your skin as they draw you up. You surrender to the sensations of his calloused fingers trailing over your stomach. They’re teasing and light as they shape your breasts, palms hot as they hold you close.
“Oh, baby, you feel better than I even thought possible.”
Pleasure sinks molten and sweet through your veins at the gorgeously rough purr in his voice. You sag against him, barely trusting in your limbs to hold you. You can feel his smile as he presses hot kisses down the side of your throat. The scratch of his stubble makes you gasp. With every press, the ache between your thighs intensifies even further. But Bradley doesn’t move his hands, no matter how you wriggle or try to push his hands down to where you so desperately need them.
“Please, Bradley.”
It feels like you’ve been begging for his touch forever when he finally moves. His hands twirl you around, and you find yourself crushed to his chest. His eyes are molten, prismatic as he tugs you close. It feels like you’re drowning in him. You curl your arms around his muscular neck, staring deep into his eyes as he peers at you.
“Please, what, baby?”
There’s a mocking tilt to the smug grin on his face as he looks you over.
“I told you what I need from you tonight.”
You whimper at the words, trying to surge up, aching for some more contact from him.
“Kiss me.”
“Good girl.” You’re not sure you’re ever going to get tired of hearing him call you a ‘good girl”. But then his lips cover yours, and you’re not thinking about anything but him. These kisses, just like all of the others tonight, are hot and claiming. You twine your fingers into the curls at the base of his skull, gasping at the press of his tongue.
“You’re such a good girl, sweetheart.” His lips slip down the side of your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse in a knee-weakening manner. “Mmmm, darling, do you want this to go any further?”
You nod, not trusting your voice to respond in anything other than a breathless, needy moan.
“Well, you know what you have to do, beautiful.”
You’re growling when you wrench his mouth back down to yours. “I just want you to make me cum.” You say the words between needy kisses, pushing the shirt up until you can finally wrest it off. The heat of his skin feels so good against your own. When you look up, the smile taking over his face is breathtakingly gorgeous, eyes blown wide as he lays you down on the pristine, cool sheets of his bed.
“You’re too beautiful to be real.”
You shiver as he places a kiss against your sternum, open-mouthed and wet. The shiver turns into a moan when he wraps his lips around one taut nipple and sucks. Each rough pass of his tongue has pleasure coiling in the pit of your stomach. It feels like you’re searching for oxygen like you’ve never breathed it before when he finally pulls away. You’re half expecting him to tease you again, when he laves his tongue over the other, nipping and biting. Your moans spiral through the air. You know what he’s doing when he traces those kisses down your torso, but you don’t have the patience for any more teasing.
You tug him into a messy kiss. Your teeth clash against his somewhat painfully, but when he crawls over you, you can’t find it in you to mind.
“Baby, you have to let me make sure you’re ready.”
“I don’t care.” You’re aware you sound like a complete brat, but Bradley seems endeared by it. He lets you manhandle him onto the bed, eyes shuttering as you settle on his lap, core settled over the sizable bulge in his trousers.
“I want you,” you’re practically sobbing as you grind down in his lap. “I’ve wanted you since you sat down on that bar stool.”
“Please.” It’s a desperate plea. “Stop teasing me. I’m ready.”
“Shh, beautiful. I’ve got you.” He smoothes a hand over the plane of your stomach, uncaring of all the places you hate about yourself.
You can’t believe your eyes when he finally pulls the remainder of his clothes off. He’s golden and gorgeous, tan glowing as the moonlight loving highlights every muscle. You’re still not sure why a man like him wanted to take you home, not when he looks like he does. His hands smooth over you, parting your legs as he kisses you. Each press of his lips to yours are deep and tender. You search for his lips every time he pulls away and gasp when he nips at the pout on your lips in retaliation. You can feel the blunt head of his cock against your folds as he grinds into you, the rough slide of skin against skin easing as you grow wetter, needier beneath him.
When he presses into you, you nearly come at the first thrust. He’s big and thick, stretching you in a way you’ve never been stretched before. He settles into a languid pace. You feel claimed with each slow thrust, all friction and heat, pressure collecting at the pit of your stomach.
“Please,” you babble, pleading for him to continue, “Don’t stop, please.”
It feels like there’s lightning in your veins. Lightning which crackles and sparks until it feels like you’re one exposed livewire lying on the bed. He gathers you up then, settles you down on his lap, hands clamped on the corded muscle of his shoulders as you go ragdoll-limp in his arms.
“There” It’s a soft, sub-audible moan as he hits that sweet spot inside you that makes you see stars. He fucks you slow and sweet, right there, until you can barely feel your face and your eyes roll back in your head. You jolt when he brushes the pads of his fingers against your clit, massaging the hardened nub until you’re practically screaming his name. That’s how you cum, with soft kisses, shaking in his lap. His hands are big as they cradle your ass. You shiver as he thrusts half-a-dozen more times before finishing, his head resting on your sternum, breath hot against the sweat-drenched skin.
You slump to your side, boneless and exhausted, relishing in the cool press of the sheets. He slumps with you, still buried in you, closer than you’ve ever been to another person. You could drown in the molten sweetness in his eyes, the deep caramel depths drawing you in until it’s all you can see. He kisses you until your lips feel puffy and bruised. When he slips out of you, you ignore the mess, beginning your slow progress as you slide to the edge of the bed. He doesn’t stop you, long limbs sprawled over the sheets of his bed like a Greek god in repose.
He lifts his head, eyes blinking blearily, sleepily as you collect your clothes, pulling on each piece methodically.
“What are you doing?”
You flush in embarrassment. “I’m heading home.”
You can hear the rustle of the sheets as you pull the wrinkled fabric of your dress on. His hands are hot as he turns you around. You’re unbalanced, only one heel on as you look into his eyes.
“You could stay, you know?”
You shiver, tugging him into one final, soft kiss.
“I could. But I won’t.” You step into the final heel before turning around again. His hands are gentle as they tug the zipper on your dress up.
“I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
Bradley nods, curls bouncing, throat working as he looks you over. You’re trying to look at anything but him, not wanting the temptation of his lean, muscular body.
“Be safe.”
Your Uber home is quiet, tense. Half your heart, it seems, is left in that posh bedroom, wrapped in cool Egyptian cotton, drowning in whiskey eyes. Your sleep is just as disturbed.
You wake in the morning sweetly sore and groggy. But you can’t focus on a mind-blowing fuck, not this morning. Warring with exhaustion this morning as you take a tram downtown are your nerves. You’re nervous. This is the job you’ve been working towards your whole life. Call it fascination from a lifetime of watching legal dramas combined with a love for arguing and here you are. Three years of law school at Stanford and near perfect exam scores and here you are. Standing in a richly appointed conference room with five other rookie law school graduates waiting for orientation to start on your first day.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Law Firm of Kazansky, Mitchell, and Bradshaw.”
Your head seems to fly up at the words, and at first, you’re not sure whether you’re still asleep or drunk out of your mind. Because your eyes have to be deceiving you. There is no way Bradley is standing in the conference room with you. He’s flanked by a tall flaxen-haired man with a cocky grin and a buxom brunette in the snazziest pantsuit you think you’ve ever seen.
“I’m Bradley Bradshaw, senior counsel at the firm. My specialty is contract law. With me are my colleagues and fellow senior counsel, Jake Seresin, with a speciality of criminal law, and Natasha Trace, with a speciality in corporate law. We’re going to be your mentors at the firm. Let’s get one thing clear. We ask you all to jump, you ask us how high. Work hard, and we’ll have you taking cases of your own in no time.”
You feel like your skin is crawling with each word and each elapsed minute. Your palms are sweaty and your heart is racing as you distractedly count each minute until you’re left in a barren corner of the office in front of two empty cubicles with your training partner, a sweet-hearted brunette with a labrador retriever’s friendly personality named, Miguel “call me Mickey” Garcia. He’s already digging deep into the files Bradley handed over while you take a short walk to Bradley’s corner office. It’s just your luck you’d ended up having the man whose bed you were in last night as your mentor. And it’s just your luck that the first file you’d picked up had a post-it note on it asking for you to come by when you could.
Almost all the shades are drawn when you knock.
“Come in.”
He holds one of those long fingers up as he finishes up the conversation he’s having on the phone. You feel like you’re seconds away from being fired with every insolent look he sends your way.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Bradshaw?”
He smirks then.
“Yeah, I did.” He shapes your full name with his pouty, kiss-bitten lips, lips you bit last night, as he looks over you.
“Obviously you know nobody can know what happened between us last night.”
“Yeah, obviously.” You wrap your arms around yourself, pretending not to notice how your body aches at the sight of him, for want of him. “So what do we do?”
“Nothing,” He leans forward with a grin. “I'm not sure what last night was like for you, but for me, it was just like any other. I met a passably pretty girl at a bar and took her home. She left in the early hours of the morning after a mediocre fuck. That's it.”
You can feel rage rising, cold and sharp enough that it occludes the edges of the bleeding wound he’s caused with a few callous words.
“Now, I'm your mentor and boss. Professionalism is everything to me. My mom is the best lawyer I know, and one of the partners. She can’t know I fucked up so prodigiously with one of our rookies. And I will do anything to make sure she never does.”
It’s obvious last night meant little to him, much less than it meant to you. You wanted to track him down tonight, wanted to see if he would want to go out with you again. Obviously that isn’t an option anymore.
“Enjoy the files. Let me know if you or Garcia see something I didn't see in them. That will be all.”
Your head is reeling when you walk away, and you're quiet, withdrawn. Garcia doesn’t notice how your skin crawls with every footstep walking past the door of your small office or how you flinch at every laugh and loud conversation. Last night you were a nervous professional, worried about the job but hopeful for your date to go well. Now you’re the rookie who slept with her boss. You're his dirty little secret and he's yours. Your career, your life, and everything you've ever worked for hangs in the balance.
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
A/N: When a blind date leads to disaster, you’re almost ready to give up on men. Until he sits down on the bar stool in front of you. This man is different - sensual, gorgeous, confident. He makes you want to live a little on the wild side. What do you do when a night you don’t want to forget turns into a forbidden relationship by light of day? How do you cope, especially when he doesn’t seem to want a thing to do with you?
Themes: Rough sex, illicit relationship, dom/sub overtones, toxic relationship, inbalance of power in the work place
Law and Order on AO3
Part I
Part II
The taglist is Open!
Want to be added to the Taglist for this fic? Leave a comment on this masterlist or drop me a message in my inbox!
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Hi all! I know it's been a while since I've been on here. I've been busy writing away. So without further ado, here's a sneak peek of my latest fic, coming to a blog near you!
How is it possible for you to feel both turned-on and uncomfortably exposed at the same time? Your fingers ache from holding onto the smooth wooden surface of the bed frame. As your patience wanes, your fidgeting increases.
“Bradley?”
You’ve never heard yourself sound like this, plaintive and strung out, aching for someone else's touch. It feels like you’re breaking down walls you’ve never known you had put up. All you can do is hold onto the bedframe and pray you aren’t vulnerable with someone dangerous.
“Nuh, uh, uh, pretty.” The hushed admonishment comes with the press of lips against your shoulder blade.
“If you want me, then you have to tell me exactly what you want.”
You tremble at the words, grip tightening on the burnished wood until all you can feel is the tug of stressed muscles. You let your head fall until your hair is obscuring everything from sight. You’re not sure you can say these words, not without feeling horribly, uncomfortably exposed.
Taglist: The taglist for this fic is now open! If you're interested, leave a comment below and I'll tag you in it!
Description: It's hard, making a name for yourself as an investigative journalist in a city as big as Metropolis. It seems like everyone and everything is against you, just because you weren't born and raised in Metropolis. But you're determined to make it. When a run-of-the-mill article turns into a hostage situation with armed criminals, you're not sure you'll be making it out of this situation alive. Can a run-in with Metropolis' own Superman light the flames of your passion once more? Or are you destined to pack up and go back home?
Disclaimers: DC canon-typical violence. Armed gunmen. Some language.
Warnings: Like most of my fics, this fic features a Female!Reader
Word Count: 3313
Author Note: Hiya lovelies! I've been thinking about this fic for a long time. I started writing it sometime early this year and never actually got very far. Several rewrites later and here we are!
First and foremost, I want to dedicate this story to the beautiful @sarahsmi13s, since it is her birthday! Vinny! Happiest of birthdays to you! I hope the upcoming year is bright and filled with as much joy as you've brought to me!
Second, I feel like I am permanently obligated to thank @horseshoegirl for being the Comma Queen she is and making sure my ramblings are well-written and actually make sense. This fic wouldn't be possible without you, Lucky!
This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged!
AO3: Cross-posted here!
Wattpad: Cross-posted here!
My Masterlist
Series Masterlist | Next Part
"I'm sorry, he what?!"
The mumbling on the other end of the phone makes you even angrier and more frustrated than ever. The frustration isn't new to you, not at all. It's part and parcel of being one of The Daily Planet's investigative journalists. The other thing the Planet appreciates in its journalists is people who have a nose for stories. You think you have one. Which is why everything is telling you that Peabody is prevaricating because he's trying to hide something.
"I understand your position, Mr. Peabody, but your contact is my biggest informant. If we don't have his testimonial, we'll never be able to publish this article on LexCorp."
There's more irate, increasingly loud yelling spilling down the speaker, but you could care less. You've been working on this article for months, carefully building layer upon layer of evidence, crafting the perfect hard-hitting expose. You're not taking his bullshit at face value anymore. Your mind is whirling as you lean back in your chair. Peabody is still spilling excuses into your ear, not that you care. Maybe you’re a little rough and brusque with Peabody as you hang up, but something about this situation is pinging in your head.
Your office is a bright space, all white walls, glass panes and metallic accents. From up on the 68th floor, Metropolis looks like a heaving anthill. Across the cityscape, another skyscraper glints tauntingly at you. You know Luthor is wrapped up in this. Okay, sure, corporate espionage isn’t exactly his deal, but who else could it be? You’ve carefully counted out every other potential culprit. Only Luthor is left. Turning around, there’s an unholy rage in your countenance as you glare down at the twisted mess taking over your walls. There are newspaper clippings, articles, string and scribbled notes all over the walls. Just looking at it is sometimes enough to give you a headache. But you desperately need to get to the bottom of this situation. There must be a reason why all roads seemingly lead to Lex Luthor’s shining obelisk to his ego. You wouldn't be surprised if Peabody is clamming up because someone is blackmailing him.
Before you can further dig into the LexCorp situation, a whistle rings out through the air. You're the newest investigative journalist at the Daily Planet. It means you have the smallest office with half-broken heating and air conditioning, which nobody else wanted. It’s also the office furthest away from the bullpen.
The editor-in-chief of the Planet, a gruff, peppery older man named Perry White, only calls all of you together if there is something big brewing in Metropolis. You have to shove your way to the front of the circle loosely gathered around Perry. You're short, so you couldn’t see over the crowd if you tried.
“Alright, alright, settle down you lot.”
Perry's voice is gruff, carrying the tones of a person who grew up in Metropolis or one of its boroughs. Of course, most of the office hails from Metropolis. Sometimes you think your upbringing in the cornfields of Iowa has something to do with your distance from the other journalists on staff. After all, despite living in Metropolis for the past five years, your voice still holds the slightest twang. You can dress like a Metropolis professional, walk like one, and talk like one, but everyone makes it abundantly obvious you will never be a citizen of Metropolis.
The hazing is par for the course. You’ve seen more than your fair share in the three months since you started at The Daily Planet. The source of your struggles is, you’re sure, one person. She’s standing at the other end of the circle of reporters waiting with baited breath as Perry doles out assignments.
Natasha Trace.
She gets all of the best assignments from Perry, just because she’s his niece or something like that. The vindictive smirk she gives you as she accepts the latest city hall press conference is proof. Your own assignment is a little more dangerous, 300 words on the newest homeless shelter opening in Southside. According to the mayor, Southside isn’t dangerous anymore, but you don’t believe him. Perry quotes the same thing every chance he can get, especially because he sends reporters out to Southside pretty often. It’s all part of the Planet’s “For the People” reporting strategy. Every day, you hear people talking about another mugging or shooting or what have you. So you’re under no assumptions that Perry and Natasha are giving you an assignment they want you to succeed in.
You're cursing them more and more the next day when you're kneeling with a puddle of spilled tomato soup seeping into your sensible dark trousers. It was just your luck that masked gunmen waltzed into the shelter in the middle of your interview, wasn’t it?
It was also just your luck that one of them had sent a spray of bullets into the air the moment hands went up. Cue some well-deserved screaming and a near-stampede for the doors, and you’d been pushed to the floor. So now you’re crouching in spilled soup with your hands up, trying and failing to moderate your breathing.
What the hell does a soup kitchen in Southside have for a gang of armed robbers, anyway? It’s not like it has much money. After all, this is only one of a string of new food shelters opening up in Metropolis. They’ve all been funded by the government, and they’re all supposed to be as clean as can be. Supposed to be, anyway. Obviously something isn’t right in the state of Denmark.
What’s just as interesting is the sight of the photographer you’ve been sent to the shelter with. Mickey Garcia is one of the Planet’s best. He’s got an eye for taking those photographs nobody else can. You’re not sure why Perry sent him with you. Usually he’s buddy-buddy with Natasha. He’s probably wishing he were with Natasha at City Hall right now. You know you are. But he doesn’t look scared or worried. He’s just kneeling in the soup next to you, hands up with his head cocked to the side and eyes staring into the distance.
It’s almost like he expects the police to come roaring up. Just as the lead invader turns his head, there’s a rush of wind and you see an imperceptible smirk on his face before he disappears between one blink and the next. You can smell ozone in the air, bitingly sharp, but it seems like nobody else notices but you.
Who the hell is Mickey Garcia? You almost wish you were hiding behind one of the tables. Because then you can pull out your notebook and start writing. Instead, it seems like all you have is your eyes and ears. How did he disappear so quickly? Metahumans aren’t exactly new in the world (or well, at least in the country). You remember reading about metahuman related events across the country. After all, everyone knows about Gotham City’s Bat. But recently there have been more and more reports. A meta-human in red-and-gold streaking through Central City. Villains with the power to freeze anything in its tracks and heroes with the power of the seven seas and beyond. And of course, everyone has seen the fluttering blue cape of Metropolis’ own metahuman.
So where does that leave you? Wishing for Superman, as you’ve heard him called, to save you? You’re not even sure he’ll show at all. There have to be a million other things happening in Metropolis more important.
“ALL OF YOU ON THE FLOOR!”
You’re not on the floor long when a hand grabs you by your hair and yanks you up.
“What do we have here?” A greasy voice growls the words into your ear as cold metal presses into your temple. “A little reporter eagerly waiting for a scoop?”
You shudder, your skin crawling at the hunger in this man’s voice as he traces his index finger up and down your throat. Your press badge thwaps against your chest with every movement.
“P-please.” You’re trembling in earnest, teeth chattering. “These people are innocent, th-they have no money. They’re here to get some food. The only money the shelter has is for food.”
His cackle chills you to the bone. “Oh, you’re so naive, you sweet little thing.”
“We’re not here for the shelter’s money. We’re here for the city’s money.” He grins, blowing his foul-smelling breath in your face. “And if the city doesn’t cough up the goods, we’ll just take you in exchange.”
“And what if he comes to save us?”
You’re not sure who asks, but it sparks a rising tide of questions. People are shouting the questions out, and the men grow angrier and angrier. From your new vantage point with a barrel pressed to your temple you can see how uneasy they actually are. Their fingers tighten around the weaponry, paling at the joints as they grip at the metal. The more people ask, bolstered by the sounds of the sirens outside and the crackle of voices through bullhorns, the angrier your captor gets.
“All of you, shut up!” It's a roar of sound which leaves your ears ringing. The gun hurts as it presses into your throat. It’s hard to breathe, to swallow, to think. Something tells you you're not getting out of this stand-off alive. Your pulse is thudding in your ears and your chest aches. You hear the tell-tale click and your eyes are screwed closed.
Please. Please. Please. I promise I'll be better. I promise I'll be a better daughter, a better employee.
You're not sure who you're praying to, but you’re praying nonetheless.
There's so much I haven’t done yet.
It shouldn’t be so sad, thinking about how pathetic your life is - how empty it is. You're braced to hear the sound of a gunshot, braced to feel pain and then feel nothing ever again. You can feel the silk of your blouse, the expensive one you never wear, sticking to your back as you heave in thready, unsteady breaths.
It's almost anticlimactic, the way it happens. You smell the same sharp ozone scent you did earlier and the hand wrapped around your throat, the gun pressed to the hinge of your jaw disappears. You keep your eyes screwed shut, trying to ignore the yells of pain and cut-off curses as people get beaten up. You keep expecting to feel the acute pain of a bullet lancing through you, burning through your skin. But you feel nothing. You hear nothing, and obviously all you can see is the underside of your own eyelids.
“Miss, you can open your eyes now. It's all going to be okay.”
You know what this voice is saying as you stand stiff-backed in the center of the room. Your muscles are locked in place and your hands are curled into fists at your side. You're not sure you could move if you tried to.
The hands that hold yours are warm, warmer than they have any right to be. But they feel good, and you can feel yourself relaxing into the touch. When your eyes open, you're not sure what you expected to see. But what you get is Metropolis's own Superman. He is smiling at you, pearly teeth on display, big brown eyes gentle as he talks you out of your panic. You're enraptured by how his dark hair curls just so over his forehead and how his jaw is so well-defined it could cut diamond.
More than anything, you wish you were still holding your notebook and pen or a dictaphone or anything. If there was anyone you want to interview here and now, it's him. But something is bothering you about him. He looks oddly familiar, something in the turn of his cheek and the fall of his hair.
Your statement to MCPD takes the longest. Long after all the other hostages have headed home or been shuttled to other shelters in the city, you stand, ignoring the way tomato soup is crusting on your clothes and how your fingers ache. Maybe your statement wouldn’t have taken quite so long if you weren’t trying to interview your interviewer back. In any case, by the time your throat is dry and aching, it’s late, approaching midnight and the only person left other than police personnel is Superman.
“A-are you okay, Miss?”
You blink at his words, because he sounds oddly bashful, and that is a look you never expected to see on a superhero’s face.
“I’m fine.” You grin, the motion only halfway genuine. “I'm just about to head out. I'm sure a superhero like you has better things to do, other people to save and whatnot.”
“U-um, no actually.” He tips his head to the side, using his hand to fix his already immaculate hair.
“Do you always wait around at crime scenes to walk a gal home?”
“W-would it be alright if I walked you home?”
Your questions collide in midair against each other. You huff out an exhausted laugh, but he just blushes a little, golden cheeks flushing as his eyes twinkle at you.
“N-no. I don’t make a habit of waiting at crime scenes to walk girls home. Guess that's something only for you.”
Now it's your turn to battle hot cheeks. You can't even fan your face off because you don't have a thing to fan yourself with. Flapping your hands makes you feel stupid. So instead, you let Superman lead you out of the shelter and onto Metropolis’ streets. The city is alive with the sound of cars and ambulances. Someone has a radio on their window playing music. It feels like you're in an entirely different place.
“So, what about that walk home?”
He smells good. For the first time you notice how good he smells, this Superman, now that your nose isn't clogged with the smells of spilled tomato soup and sandwiches. You want to spend time with him. You want to forget what is waiting for you in the morning, how angry Perry is going to be when you didn't get a scoop on the shelter or any pictures that you know of. Maybe if you spin the Superman angle to this? It doesn't feel right, exploiting this man when he's so clearly doing it to help people. You also don't want to stop talking to him yet.
“Sure.”
Honestly you wish you'd clarified, because when he said walk, you thought he was actually going to walk with you. Instead he sweeps you up in his arms and shoots up into the sky. You scream the whole way, hands scrabbling for purchase against his suit, finally settling for an arm around his shoulder. You're shaken and shivering when he finally stops moving.
“Shit, sorry.”
You grumble into his broad chest at the cheeky apology.
“Just thought you'd want to see the city how I see it.”
When you finally screw up the courage to take a look, your lips part in a gasp. The entirety of Metropolis is laid out in front of you. Lit in gold from all of the lights, you're grinning from ear-to-ear as you peer out over the city.
“It's gorgeous!” There's a pleased smirk on his face. “I can't believe you get to see the city like this!”
“Yeah,” He grins, something soft. “I didn't fall in love with the city until the first time I saw this view.”
“I can see why,” You gasp, witnessing how soft your colossal city looks in the moonlight, how it seems like a world filled with such promise.
“Let's get you home.” There's a blush on his cheeks as he swoops you down, following your murmured instructions like he knows every inch of the city.
You feel a little bit like a princess when he sets you lightly down on the doorstep. He's still floating in the air, the navy blue suit he's wearing clinging to every muscle. Now more than ever something feels familiar about him. He stays outside your door watching with the same smirk on his face, his head cocked to the side like he's waiting to hear your deadbolt slide home.
You're a little giddy when he flies away, and you curl into your bed like you're in a dream. You sleep well, for the most part, not half as traumatized as you expected to be after being held hostage at gunpoint. At least, until you jolt up in bed, your hair a mess around you and growl, “Garcia!”
He'd disappeared when the police came to the shelter with their bullhorns and their posturing. You'd smelled the same sharp ozone-tinged scent in the air when he'd disappeared and when Superman shot into the room. But there is more too. The shape of his face, the way he smiled, the almost compulsive way he pushed his hair off his face. He acts just like Garcia does, too.
What is the likelihood your first encounter with Metropolis' own Superman would give you insight into his alter-ego? After all, nobody would suspect that quiet, bespectacled, sweet Mickey Garcia, a photographer for the Daily Planet, is Superman. Nobody, it's obvious, but you. Forget your conspiracy board on LexCorp and their shady dealings. Right now, an exclusive interview with Superman seems like just the ticket to rocket you into fame.
But you can’t let on that you know. You spend the day typing up a lackluster article on the shelter opening, your eyes peering over your computer every time you hear footsteps coming your way. The people walking past you never stop by, not even to chat. You're practically sprinting for the door when you see Garcia, chunky headphones around his neck.
“Hey, Garcia!”
He turns and looks oddly surprised to see you.
“You got a sec?”
“Y-yeah, of course.”
His stutter is adorable. You have to remind yourself he is Superman.
“I wanted to take a look at the pictures you shot yesterday. Obviously the opening wasn't what we expected, but it should be an interesting public interest piece anyway.”
When he's sitting in the chair next to yours, fingers flying over your keyboard as he shows you all of the photos he took as well as a few of the aftermath, you're questioning your gut instinct even more. How is it possible he got pictures of the police helping people, interviewing you, if he was Superman?
It's nice, working with someone who smiles at you instead of spitting insults out behind your back.
“This looks great.”
There's a smile on your face as you look at the finished article.
“Yeah, not bad for an article about a shelter opening turned into a hostage situation, right?”
“Y-yeah.”
You turn, and rest your arm on his forearm. You let your reporting instinct take the driver’s seat. When he's relaxed, maybe you'll get some answers out of him.
“I completely forgot to ask! How are you holding up after yesterday? You know what Perry always says, ‘We're a family here at the Planet!’. I was terrified when those gunmen burst in.”
You prattle on and on, seeing his face change, almost fall, when you mention Superman.
“You know, he's awfully handsome, Superman is. He took me home, made sure I was alright.”
You grin, wickedly, though you know for sure nobody here in Metropolis knows you well enough to tell.
“And then he blushed.”
All of your suspicions are proved true when Mikey Garcia blushes the same way Superman did.
“You know something? Superman blushed just like that when he was showing me Metropolis how he sees it.”
There's panic in his eyes now. You're just fast enough to block him at the door, arm flung out to stop him from walking past you.
“So…. How long have you been Superman, Mickey Garcia?”
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Description: It’s hard, making a name for yourself as an investigative journalist in a city as big as Metropolis. It seems like everyone and everything is against you, just because you weren’t born and raised in Metropolis. But you’re determined to make it. When a run-of-the-mill article turns into a hostage situation with armed criminals, you’re not sure you’ll be making it out of this situation alive. Can a run-in with Metropolis’ own Superman light the flames of your passion once more? Or are you destined to pack up and go back home?
Disclaimers: DC canon-typical violence. Armed gunmen. Some language.
Warnings: Like most of my fics, this fic features a Female!Reader
Look! Up in the Sky on AO3
Look! Up in the Sky on Wattpad
Look! Up In The Sky
Taglist is Open!
Want to be added to the Taglist for this fic? Leave a comment on this masterlist or drop me a message in my inbox!
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Description: Bradley Bradshaw is in love. He's so in love with his beautiful soul his heart aches when he's around her. So when she lobs an offer - to be hers, to make her his - his way, he takes her up on it. Now that he’s been given permission to chase what he’s been longing for, he’s chasing her with everything he’s got.
Disclaimers: Misogynistic speech. Mentioned Homosexual Relationships. Angst. Flagrant disregard for protocols or Authority. Angst. Anguish.
This content presented in this story is for audiences age 18 and over only. MINORS DNI. I will not be accepting tag-list requests from Blank or Ageless Blogs for this story.
Warnings: Female!Reader
Word Count: 2620
A/N: Hiya lovelies! Here we finally, finally, are! This is the smut chapter for Rooster and Tinkerbell! It's been a long time coming (both for Roo and Tink, and for how long it took me to write this). I hope you all adore this chapter as much as I adore all of you!
AO3: Cross-posted Here!
Wattpad: Cross-posted Here!
My Masterlist
Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part
Rooster
“Who said I was saying goodnight, Roo?”
She’s going to be the death of him. Only thirty-five years old and his gravestone is officially going to say “Here lies Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw, a sad, horny, sappy fuck for his soulmate”. It’s a little wordy, sure, but as far as epitaphs go this one is probably right on the money. Tinkerbell just had to say something like that, didn’t she? She has no idea how hard he finds it to keep his hands off of her. He’s wanted to touch her ever since the first night he met her. He can still remember the feeling of her skin, how her soft curves had looked in that sundress, how she felt against the palms of his hands. She’s seared her way into his memory, visceral and unreal. How is it possible he can touch her whenever he wants to now?
Standing in the half-light of the lone street light shining down over The Hard Deck’s parking lot, Bradley’s struck with the realization he wants to do a lot more than just touch his soulmate. But he can't, he won't. He’s been forcing himself to be respectful. He promised her after all, promised they would go at her speed. But it’s been torture. There are only so many kisses and far from chaste makeout sessions a man should have to endure with his soulmate before he explodes.
Now that he’s been given permission to chase what he’s been longing for, he’s chasing her with everything he’s got. He’s not one of the best aviators in the US Navy by luck, and he can drive just as well as he can fly. But the name of the game isn’t beating her. The name of the game is showing his pretty soul how much he wants her. So he stays right behind her cherry convertible as music blares softly from the radio. He catches the lyrics in snippets and snatches of sound, humming tunelessly to the beat. She leads him to her house, a cute, homey, little beachside house like the one he once dreamed he would raise a family in. Right now, there’s only one woman he would ever think about starting a family with. She’s standing right in front of him, with the prettiest sparkling eyes and wearing a sundress to rival the dress she was wearing the summer night he met her for the first time.
“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes, beautiful.”
He's completely in love, head-over-heels for his sweet soul. Now, he's going to take the chance to show her how much, starting with a kiss. She smells like orange blossoms, the delicate scent tracing over the curve of her jaw and dripping down her smooth curves. It’s no wonder he can’t resist tracing his nose over the same sweet jaw. Her breathy moans and tender gasps send fire through him. When he finally kisses his beautiful soul, a press of lips against her clavicle, he drinks her in like the air he needs to breathe. His kisses travel over her skin, featherlight as he follows the thud of her pulse up her jaw, traveling until he captures her parted lips with his own. They’re sweet, tasting like lime and sugar and summer all rolled into one. She feels like velvet on the pads of his fingers, skin hot as he traces his hands up her thighs, squeezing the firm flesh tenderly just to hear her moan. The little sundress rucks up with each sweeping brush, until he’s clasped his fingers around the junction of her thigh.
“Fuck.” The word leaves him in a groan against her perfect pout, because he was expecting to feel a scrap of lace around her waist, not bare, silken skin.
“You’re not wearing panties tonight, darling?”
“Nah.” Her voice sounds just as wrecked as his is, just from tender touches and even sweeter kisses. “Wanted you tonight.”
“So you were walking around all night, wearing this pretty little dress, knowing one spin on the dance floor would be enough to show everyone there your pretty little pussy? My pretty little pussy?”
Bradley’s sure he’s going to lose his mind. As if his sweet soul hasn’t been killing him all night already, with her sweet smile and infectious laugh. If he’d known what she was - more likely what she wasn’t wearing under her pretty dress, he would have dragged her out of the bar hours ago.
“Your pretty little pussy?” Her laugh is ethereal in the moonlight, her eyes fever-bright as he kisses her again, just because he can.
“Mmmhmm.” He growls his response against the long line of her throat, if only to feel her shiver at the vibration of his voice, the brush of his mustache over her skin.
“You gonna let me take you upstairs, pretty girl?” Her eyes are blown so wide, he could count the stars in them. The moan slipping off her tongue as she shivers in his arms has to be the definition of the sexiest sound on earth. It's also an answer he'd love to explore, so he muscles the door open, gentle with his pretty soul crushed between the door and his bulk.
She squeaks, honest to god squeaks when he lifts her up, his hands sinking into the plush skin of her thighs, velvety soft as they cling to his torso. If she’s going to be this pliable, this sweet, Bradley’s going to sweep her off her feet whenever he can.
But sweeping Tinkerbell off her feet again will have to wait for another day. Right now, all Bradley wants is to see what other sounds he can make spill out of her perfect lips. Kissing her makes her sigh and curl her fingers through his hair, each soft exhale making his dick twitch, trapped beneath layers of cotton and denim as it is.
“God, Roo.” She’s moaning his name and Bradley’s so turned on he can't think straight. So while he very much would like to ravish his soul on her bed for the first time, he's not sure he can wait any longer. He sets Tink down on the sofa in her living room, tugging her until her ass is off the edge.
She smells so good, like the ripest orange as he rucks the dress up over her waist, big hands caressing the pillowy soft skin of her stomach, sweeping the undersides of her breasts.
“Roo, please!” Hearing his soulmate beg, he's not embarrassed to report, makes him groan, low in his chest.
“Fuck, sweetheart. ‘M right here. But you gotta tell me where you want me, pretty girl. Until you can find the words, I'm gonna stare at your pretty pussy and kiss your soft skin.”
She gasps at his words, eyes widening as her hands scrabble to tug the rest of her dress off. When she's standing in front of him, just in her heels, bare with shafts of moonlight glistening on her skin, Bradley has to groan again. He thanks the universe vacantly as she tugs his hands up until they're resting over her breasts, her nipples peakdd against his palm. She fits his hands like she was made for him - well, she was.
“Roo!”
He grins as he tucks his head against her sternum, nuzzling the swell of her perfect tits as he tugs her closer. The kisses he trails over her skin now are wet and hot. By the time he's kneeling on the floor at her feet, her chest heaves, nipples peaked.
“You gotta tell me where you want me, sweetheart. Or it's only kisses you're going to get tonight.”
Her little growl of frustration shouldn't be just as sexy as it is cute. But she shivers under the sweep of his hands over his thighs anyway before croaking, “Want your mouth on me, Roo.”
It's a start. He presses a kiss against her hip, before looking back up with the closest grin to one of Hangman's shit-eating smirks as he can muster.
“What else, pretty girl?”
“No, Roo! No!”
Her words must be failing her, and isn't it a gorgeous sight? Pretty, poised, sharp-tongued Tinkerbell robbed of her tongue just because she wants him so desperately.
“You have’ta tell me what you want, beautiful. Every word. As detailed as you can.”
He can almost see the rage in her as she cups his cheek, as he kisses the pads of her fingers absentmindedly.
“I want you, Roo. I want you to put your mouth on me, eat me out like a man starved. I want you to make me cum because of your fingers and your mouth. Then I want you to fuck me so hard I see stars and can't walk straight.”
He's impressed she was able to string so many words together when he can already see the sheen of her arousal staining the insides of her thighs.
“Good girl.” He murmurs, before kissing the smooth skin below her navel. She squeaks again at the endearment before going pliant under his palms as he manhandles her onto the sofa again. This time, her thighs part eagerly, and he kisses each long muscle before sinking into her like a man starved.
She comes alive under his hands, his soulmate, her muscles arching like a live wire with every lave of his tongue. Her fingers clutch at his hair, tugging, and Bradley finds he likes the pleasure-pain when it's his soulmate doing the pulling. She's so wet he can feel her dripping onto his tongue and by the time he presses one finger into her, she's already sobbing his name.
He's so hard, he's not sure he'll make it to the second part of her request, but he's going to try. His pretty soul takes in two of his fingers, and when he slides up to kiss her, hand still pressing into her wet cunt, she mewls his name so hard the kiss is harsh. When he pulls away, her lips are swollen from the force and her tits bounce with each thrust. His pretty soulmate's hips meet his palm with a slap and she looks strung out already.
While he's there, he sucks one perfect nipple into his mouth, flicking the bud with his tongue. Her walls clench tight around his fingers and if he were in her, he probably would have cum already. Right now, what he needs is for her to. She's so close, all it would take is a little more.
“You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?”
He growls the words against her nipple, mustache brushing over the wet peak with each word, and she cums with a moan that will reverberate through his dreams. Her arousal coats his fingers when he pulls out of her, and she moans in embarrassment when he licks it away.
When he stands, stretching out his sore legs, he decides this is his favorite view of his soulmate. Eyes blown wide, hair in disarray, chest heaving, pretty wet pussy on full display. If he had his dad's polaroid, he'd snap a pic to save for long deployments. He's sure it would be a paltry substitute for the real deal, but at least he'd have a part of her with him.
“You like what you see, Roo?”
“If you only knew, Tink.”
“Then why aren't you naked?” She's like a siren-call on stormy seas when she pulls him closer by his belt loops hands gentle as she pushes off the Hawaiian shirt he's wearing. She's less gentle as she rips the tank top underneath off, but he can't think when she kisses his chest while her hands cup his dick through the jeans.
“Off, Roo. Take these clothes off!”
Bossy Tinkerbell is a turn on of his, too. God forbid he ever has to be ordered around by his perfect soul on base because he'd probably be hard in milliseconds at the confidence in her voice. He tells her as much and is treated to the most perfect laugh, this one mixed with a breathy moan when he pinches her nipples. When he's as bare as his soul he kisses her, taking the opportunity to knead her ass cheeks and hear her breath hitch.
“Mmm, fuck me, Roo.”
Tink's begging when he pulls away, and when he tries to push her back onto the sofa, she pushes him down instead, straddling his waist. It's his turn to fight for breath as his soulmate sinks down, slowly, lips parting in an ‘o’ of pleasure as she takes him, inch by inch. She's tight and perfect, walls spasming around him as he fills her.
“Take it slow, beautiful.” He groans at the first fast piston of her hips.
“We've got all night to make each other feel good.”
“I make you feel good?” She gasps, tits jiggling as she bounces on his dick. There's a little insecurity in her voice, insecurity he definitely doesn't want to hear from his perfect soul.
“You feel so good for me, Tink. Perfect. Like you were made for me.”
She moans, light and throaty, the sound barely audible over the pace of their joining. Bradley’s so in love, his head is spinning. Every iota of his focus, his brain, his eyes, everything about him is focused on his pretty soulmate, with her dark eyes and perfect mouth, sharp little cries leaving kiss-bitten lips.
“Please, Roo!” Her voice echoes through her empty beach-side house, hands clutching at his shoulders as her rhythm falters.ters.
“You ready to cum for me, baby girl?”
Bradley can’t believe he’s here - that he gets to be here. He’s been pushing back the stirrings of his own orgasm all night, but her breathy moans now, coupled with how tight and wet his soul is, is too much. It crashes over him like a tsunami, headier than any orgasm he’s ever had before. It’s obvious she can feel it too, because his soul laughs, her voice filled with just as much cheeky humor as arousal.
“Mmm, you ready to come for me, Roo?”
Bradley’s only a man, too lovesick for his soul. He tugs her into a kiss, both of their skin streaked with sweat and aching for each other. The new angle gives him the leverage to thrust up, and he continues the steady pace Tink can’t keep up. It’s not long before she’s moaning, walls fluttering around his length as he bounces her. She begs for him, and he gives in, pressing into her harder and faster until she spasms around him. He barely notices his own release, he’s so enraptured by the sight of his soul. She has her head thrown back, the long line of her throat exposed to his view. Her perfect tits are in his face, gooseflesh covering every inch of her soft flesh, and he tugs one perfect globe into his mouth in an open mouthed kiss.
When he pulls away, he ends up with an armful of his soul. They’re still connected, and he feels like he couldn’t be closer to his perfect soulmate.
“God, I love you so much, beautiful.” He murmurs the words into her hair, sweat-damp yet still smelling like the orange blossoms he adores.
“I love you too, Roo.” She’s yawning, yet wearing the most gorgeous smile on her face. “Now take me to bed, my lovely soul.”
“Gotta clean you up, pretty girl.”
She moans and whines, but acquiesces anyways, pliable and sweet as he maneuvers her into the shower, cleaning their mixed releases off her skin. Yeah, he muses as he curls up next to her in the sheets of her big bed an hour later, this is exactly where he wants to be.
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON TUMBLR, WATTPAD, OR AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN ON TUMBLR, WATTPAD, OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.
