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new-author3 · 2 months ago

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Buried in the Dark

Pairing: Tim Bradford × Reader (Y/N)

Based on Episode 2x11 of The Rookie

Summary:

In the shadows of an operation spiraling out of control, the unexpected happens. Amid growing tension, risky decisions, and a bond that stretches far beyond protocol, the ending of this story holds an emotional weight you might not be ready to carry...

Warnings:

Contains psychological tension, abduction triggers, emotionally intense language, and scenes that may cause discomfort. Recommended for ages 16+.

Author’s Note:

It wasn’t supposed to be this long… but it came out exactly the way my heart wrote it. I hope you like it, even if I’m still unsure about it. 💭

*Gif is not mine*

I never imagined my day would begin like this.

I mean… sure, being a cop is anything but predictable. You learn to expect the unexpected — chases, shootouts, violent arrests. But getting kidnapped by the accomplice of a serial killer? Not even my worst nightmares could’ve come up with that.

It all started when Rosalind Dyer — yes, that Rosalind — agreed to reveal where her victims’ bodies were buried. But she didn’t want to just point to a spot on the map. No... She wanted to guide the police herself. She wanted to see the reactions. See the pain written on every face.

She feeds on that.

So, a major operation was put together. No one trusted her, obviously — but the DA saw it as an opportunity: bring peace to families, close cold cases, bury the dead. Hard to swallow... but understandable.

Tim walked beside me as we headed to Sergeant Grey’s office. The air was heavy, like it knew something was about to go wrong.

“This doesn’t feel right,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

“Of course it’s not right,” Tim answered, his jaw clenched. “She wants an audience. That’s all. She wants everyone dancing around her like puppets.”

I nodded, keeping my composure. I could feel the tension building in my chest, but I refused to let it show. Getting emotional around someone like Rosalind was dangerous.

She could smell weakness like blood in the water.

We arrived at Sgt. Grey’s office.

“Ready, Officer Bradford?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Tim replied.

“Sir, may I ask something?” I ventured, a bit uncertain.

“Of course, Officer,” he said, looking directly at me. “What’s on your mind?”

“What do you really think about all this?”

Grey sighed before answering.

“I hate it. The idea of a serial killer walking around free, even in cuffs, makes me sick. But… if it means bringing the victims home, giving their families closure… then we swallow the bitterness and follow through.”

I nodded respectfully.

“I understand. I just wish there were another way.”

“There always is. But sometimes justice is made from bad choices.”

He held my gaze for a second longer before concluding:

“Don’t show weakness. She’ll see it. Feed off it. Stay in control, Officer.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

When Grey stepped away, Tim gently took hold of my arm.

“He’s right. No matter what she says, no matter how she looks at you… you’re stronger than that.”

“I know… I just… I don’t like this. Even though I know those families will finally be able to bury their loved ones.”

He seemed to weigh my words for a second. Then he said:

“If she crosses a line with you… I’ll be there.”

There was a brief silence, full of meanings neither of us dared to name.

I just nodded.

His presence was an anchor I hadn’t even realized I needed.

..........

Rosalind arrived under escort.

Orange jumpsuit. Handcuffs. That smug little smile.

But what really unsettled me was the way she looked at me.

Like she already knew me.

Like she’d been waiting for me.

“You,” she said, dragging the word out like she was savoring it. “I knew you’d be here.”

I didn’t respond. Just kept my gaze firm.

“So serious. So… in control,” she stepped closer, within the limits set by the officers. “You’re a good actress.”

“Keep walking, Rosalind,” Tim said, voice sharp.

She laughed, like this was a private game between us.

“You like her, don’t you?” she said, eyes fixed on me. “It’s all over your body language. You stand between us like a guard dog.”

“Shut up and get in the car,” Tim snapped, the edge in his voice slipping.

Her comment about Tim liking me caught me off guard, but I didn’t react. Maybe that’s exactly what she wanted... or maybe not. Still, I didn’t look away.

She was trying to provoke me, but she wouldn’t break me.

Maybe that’s exactly what kept her intrigued.

“You’re different,” she finally said. “That’s why I like you. This is going to be... fun.”

The car door shut with a sharp click, but her words still hung in the air.

“That was personal,” I murmured, exhaling like I’d just released a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“Yeah… I noticed,” Tim replied, watching me more intently than usual. “She doesn’t talk like that to just anyone.”

“Great. One more reason to keep my eyes open.”

“And I’ll keep mine on you.”

Tim didn’t smile. Neither did I.

But there was a silent agreement in the space between us: whatever she tried — we’d face it together.

..........

The convoy moved in silence. Rosalind was cuffed in the back of the lead vehicle, flanked by two armed officers. Tim and I followed close behind, both lost in our own thoughts. The overcast sky mirrored our mood — heavy, ominous.

At the location Rosalind had pointed out, the area was already sealed off. Forensics teams, diggers, cadaver dogs — everything meticulously prepared. The press was kept far back under court order, but the tension was tangible, pulsing in the air.

Rosalind stepped out of the car with a satisfied smirk, like she was stepping onto a stage. Her eyes scanned every face until they landed on me. That look — invasive, dissecting — like she was trying to dig something out of me.

“Someone going to uncuff me, or are we playing scouts in the mud?” she said, eyes locked on mine.

Before I could respond, Tim stepped in.

“No one’s playing anything. Say where the body is. The less you talk, the better for everyone.”

She shot him a disdainful glance, but turned back to me.

“Let her handle it. I bet she’s got steady hands.”

My face stayed neutral.

“Keep talking like that and you’ll be back in your cell before you can say another word.”

I was firm. Clear. For the first time, Rosalind stared at me and said nothing. Just smiled — a small, knowing smile that said, you’re learning fast.

......

She walked toward a specific area of the property, stepping carefully, as if she wanted to dramatize every step. As she led the team to the spot where the bodies were supposedly buried, the silence was absolute. The kind of silence that weighs on your shoulders. The agents knew she was enjoying every second of it.

"Here," she finally said. "A meter and a half below the surface. You’ll find Marcus’s bones."

Tim signaled for the team to start digging, and the movement was immediate. Rosalind couldn’t contain her excitement and went on:

"You really think you can understand what happened to them?" she asked, not looking directly at me, but clearly speaking to me. "You feel too much. I can see it. But you’re good at hiding it, and that’s rare... that’s why I like you."

"That’s not liking. It’s a sick obsession," I replied, my tone steady.

Rosalind said nothing after that, but gave a smile that sent a chill down my spine and stood still, watching, her eyes gleaming with twisted pleasure. Then, without warning, she turned to me again.

"Did you know he screamed for hours before he stopped breathing?" she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.

My jaw clenched. I remained still, my gaze locked on hers, but I didn’t react. I didn’t give her the show she wanted. I simply shifted my eyes to the forensics team and took a deep breath. Control. Always.

Tim, however, noticed something. He came closer, standing beside me.

"What is it?"

"She’s trying to destabilize me. That’s all."

He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there. Present. Close enough to remind me I wasn’t alone.

"One more step, Rosalind, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in a windowless cell," he said, his voice low but sharp.

"Oh, the protective knight..." she sang. "That’s so... cute."

She walked away again, but now I felt something had changed. Rosalind was... far too excited. Her presence was suffocating, but I refused to give in.

That’s when Rosalind spoke again, louder this time, drawing the attention of those nearby:

"You know why he chose you, don’t you?"

"That’s enough, Rosalind," Grey intervened, stepping closer. "You got what you wanted. Now it’s our turn."

She didn’t reply. She just gave me another long, intense look — and smiled again, satisfied with the unrest she left behind.

But that was when everything began to fall apart.

As the forensics team unearthed the body, one of the agents shouted:

"Hey! There’s something else here... besides the bones!"

There were wires, electronic components... something strange.

"Is that a camera?" asked another, alarmed.

Grey approached, and as he confirmed what they were seeing, his eyes widened.

"She wanted to record our reaction. She set us up."

Rosalind let out a low laugh. "I told you it’d be fun."

Before we could process it, a sharp sound came from behind us — a pop. One of the police vehicles partially exploded, smoke rising quickly. Chaos erupted, officers scrambling to contain the confusion.

Then someone shouted:

"The prisoner... she’s gone!"

But Rosalind was still there. The scream wasn’t about her...

---

A strong arm grabbed me from behind as the smoke spread. I tried to fight back, but there was something about the strength, the speed, the precision — this wasn’t improvisation. It was a cold, calculated abduction.

The last thing I heard was Tim shouting my name.

...

I woke up with a dull ache in my head and a suffocating sense of stale air. The smell of mold, rust, and something acidic surrounded me. It was dark — truly dark. The kind of darkness where you can’t even see your own hand in front of your face.

I was sitting, tied up. Wrists and ankles bound. A loose gag still hung beside my mouth — a sign that whoever brought me here wasn’t in a hurry. That was the worst part.

The man in front of me wasn’t someone I recognized right away — not that I could see much. But his eyes...

A faint light flickered on, revealing a room with concrete and rusted walls. He was standing. Still, there was something off about the way he looked at me — like he knew me.

"You’re even more beautiful in person," he said. "She won’t stop talking about you."

Rosalind. Of course. I was her new favorite toy. And him... the partner.

He stepped closer.

"The famous officer. The one Rosalind picked... her next victim," he said, as if amused by my presence.

I stayed silent, but tension coiled in my chest. I was scared.

He continued:

"I noticed you even before she mentioned you. You stand out. No wonder she chose you... I’m sure this will be fun for me, and for you, well — you’ll be begging to die before it even starts."

My heart raced, but outwardly I stayed calm. Fight? Not yet. Too early. I had to understand. Map things out. Survive.

"Who are you?" I asked, voice steady despite the dryness in my throat.

"I’m... a spectator. Like Rosalind. But unlike her, I like to take part in the show. To create it. Shape it," he said, smiling.

That smile... the same as Rosalind’s.

"So you’re Rosalind’s shadow? The one who does her dirty work while she’s locked up?" I asked.

Provoking him wasn’t smart, but I needed a distraction — for what, I didn’t know yet.

After my words, the smile vanished from his face. He stepped closer — and slapped me.

My head whipped to the side, dizziness spinning through me, and I tasted blood.

“I think you’re talking too much. So, let’s play a little,” he said, the twisted smile returning to his face as he stepped away, heading toward a small table in the corner.

I managed to glimpse what was on it—knives, sharp objects, and other tools. A chill ran down my spine. It was going to be a long day... a very long one.

“Shall we begin, sweetheart?” he asked, looking at me with that macabre grin.

I swallowed hard, praying Tim and the others would find me soon...

Meanwhile...

Tim was barely holding it together. But outwardly, he wore the mask.

“I want every helicopter, every patrol unit, and every damn camera in this city scanning every inch,” he barked at the agents.

“Bradford,” Grey tried to interject, “I know she means a lot to you, but—”

“I’m not losing her,” Tim cut him off, voice like steel.

He said nothing more. Just looked around like a man who would not rest until she was back. And whoever had touched her... was marked.

Back in the captivity...

“Shall we begin, sweetheart?” he repeated, twirling a knife in his hand as if it were a dance.

Cold sweat trickled down my back. I kept my gaze steady, but my mind screamed. Every second there felt like an eternity—and yet, I had to stay lucid. Had to remember someone was coming. Tim was coming.

He picked up one of the smaller knives and walked toward me, grazing the blade along the side of my face. Just touching.

“So calm… That excites me. Rosalind said you were special. Thought she was exaggerating. But no—you are,” he said, letting the blade trail down my shoulder, pressing just enough to slice through the uniform and skin.

A shiver ran through my body, but I didn’t scream. Not yet.

“It’s gonna take more than that,” I muttered, voice hoarse, heavy with whatever courage—or stupidity—I had left.

He paused.

“I like a challenge. But you’ll regret provoking me.”

He turned, grabbing something I couldn’t see. That’s when the pain started...

Time stopped making sense.

I didn’t know how long I had been there. Hours? Days? The darkness, the stench of rust and blood, mixed into a constant fog in my brain. Pain throbbed in various places—some cuts shallow, others deep. Dried blood stuck the uniform to my skin, but I kept my head up by a thread.

Because he wanted me to break.

He wanted me to beg.

“You know what I like most about you?” he said, circling me slowly, spinning the knife between his fingers. “You’re still trying to look strong. Even now. Even after all I’ve done.”

My breathing was uneven. I fought to stay focused, though my vision blurred.

My fingers ached; the ropes cut circulation. The last time he sliced me—a thin, burning line across my abdomen—he smiled like a kid unwrapping a present.

“Rosalind always had refined taste. But with you…” He knelt in front of me, eye level. “She got obsessed. Wanted to see how you break. Wanted me to dismantle you.”

He ran his blood-stained fingers down my cheek like he wanted to mark me.

“You don’t scream. Don’t cry. That pisses me off.”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you don’t know what you’re doing... or you’re just weak,” I spat, voice faint but steady.

He punched me in the stomach.

Air fled my lungs. I tasted metal again, like biting into iron. Groaning, I tried to recover.

“You’re just a fake cop. Wearing the badge ‘cause someone protects you. Maybe your little guard dog—Bradford, right?” he laughed.

He knew.

He was using Tim’s name to provoke me, knowing exactly the weight it carried. I didn’t answer, focusing on catching my breath.

“It’ll be even better when he finds the body. Or maybe… he’ll get here just in time for the finale.” He grinned. “I know how to make cuts that don’t kill. At least, not right away.”

“You’ll be dead before you get the chance,” I rasped.

“But before that... you’ll cry. You’ll beg.”

He pressed the cold blade to my forearm. The skin, already raw, burned on contact. The pressure increased. The blade slid deep.

The scream escaped before I could stop it.

“NO!” I thrashed, the chair creaking under me. The ropes dug into my wrists and ankles. The pain exploded, tearing through not just skin—but something deeper.

Tears filled my eyes. My body recoiled, trying to escape itself.

I cried.

Almost begged.

Almost.

Instead of words, I bit my lip until I tasted my own blood.

My vision spun. Darkness crept in, point by point.

Dizziness swallowed me.

Cold sweat drenched me.

The world spiraled into a void.

Even the strongest can't endure pain like this.

Pain carved into flesh... and deeper, into the mind.

He smiled, satisfied, as if my suffering fed him.

“Yes. Much better now. Rosalind will love hearing about this.”

Outside, the hunt was on.

Tim Bradford sat in the surveillance van, eyes locked on the monitor. Jaw clenched. Fists tight.

Every second was a blade in his chest.

“Rewind that footage.”

“There!” he pointed, sharp as a blade. “That car. Leaving the perimeter right after the explosion.”

Angela zoomed in.

“Plate’s fake. But the model and route match. Multiple cameras show it heading into an abandoned property in the west sector.”

Tim was already on his feet.

“I’m going in.”

“Tim, wait!” Grey tried to stop him. “You can’t go alone!”

“I’m not asking permission, sir. She’s there. I’m not wasting another second.”

Grey sighed—he knew he couldn’t stop him.

“Fine. But you’re not going alone.”

He turned to the radio.

“All available units, get ready. We found the target. Move now.”

Tim was already in the patrol car before the order finished transmitting.

Not knowing where she was had hurt more than any bullet ever could.

He needed to see her. Bring her back. And deep down, he feared just one thing: being too late.

“You’re going pale. Weak. You’ll pass out soon... what a shame,” he said, as if mourning a broken toy—still smiling. “But before that, one more cut...”

Inside

The man watched my trembling, hunched body.

I braced myself, trying to prepare for the pain as he lowered the saw to my arm...

“POLICE! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”

The crash of the door bursting open thundered through the room.

He tried to run.

Didn’t make it two steps.

Tim stormed in like a force of nature, gun raised, rage in his eyes.

“GET ON THE WALL! NOW!”

The man hesitated—but didn’t get the chance. Angela and two more agents stormed in and pinned him in seconds.

But Tim... Tim only saw her.

His whole world was there. Bleeding. Shaking. Barely upright.

“S/N…”

He holstered his weapon and rushed to her, slicing through the ropes with a knife.

“Hey… it’s me. You’re safe now. I’ve got you,” he said, lifting her from the chair and lowering her gently to the floor.

Her eyes opened slowly. Pupils wide. Skin cold. Face stained with dried blood. She tried to speak—but couldn’t. And then... she passed out.

Tim caught her like she was made of glass.

“Call the paramedics! NOW!” he shouted, holding her close. “Stay with me, okay? Just stay with me…”

He rested his forehead against hers, eyes brimming with tears he refused to let fall.

“You’re not leaving me. I found you. And I’m never letting you go again…”

_________________________________________

Beep… beep… beep…

S/N jolted awake, chest rising fast as if the air in the room wasn’t enough.

White ceiling spinning. The sterile smell. The cold light. The machines.

But in her mind... darkness. Rust. Pain.

The blade.

His voice.

“No… no… no…” she whispered, panicked, fighting against bindings that were no longer there.

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay!” Tim’s voice rose, deep and urgent, as he sprang up from the couch.

“S/N, look at me. It’s Tim. You’re safe. It’s over.”

She turned her head sharply toward him, eyes wild and terrified.

“He… where is he? He was here, he—”

“No.” Tim held her gently, one hand on hers, the other on her face, careful not to touch any wounds.

“He’s locked up. You’re in the hospital. With me. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Her breathing was still fast, chest heaving like she couldn’t accept it was real.

His touch, his voice, his eyes so close to hers…

“Tim...?” she whispered, voice cracking.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Can you hear me?”

She nodded slowly. Tears spilled down her cheeks—not from fear now. From relief.

He knelt beside her, his hand still holding hers.

“You’re safe.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, just breathing. When she opened them again, she whispered:

“My throat… it’s dry…”

“Of course. Hold on.”

Tim grabbed the cup with the straw from the side table and brought it to her lips with the utmost care.

She drank slowly, not looking away from him once. And only then, with her mind a little clearer, she noticed:

He was wrecked.

But he was there.

Like it was the only place in the world he could be.

“You stayed the whole time?” she asked, voice soft.

Tim smiled—a sad, tired smile.

“I rode with you in the ambulance. Yelled at half the hospital until they gave you a room. Then... I just sat here. And waited. The whole time. I... I needed to see you open your eyes.”

She swallowed hard.

“I felt it when you found me. I don’t know how. But it was like... like I could breathe again.”

Tim looked away for a moment but didn’t let go of her hand.

“Hey. Look at me.”

He did.

“I’m alive. And that… is because of you.”

“No,” Tim shook his head. “It’s because of your strength. I just... caught you at the end.”

Silence fell. The tension of fear still hung in the air, but now there was something else—everything left unsaid.

“When he put that knife on me… I thought I was going to die.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” he answered, voice cracking.

“And that scared you?” “It destroyed me.”

She took a deep breath.

“Tim...” “I love you.”

The words came out raw. Bare. Honest to the bone.

She stared at him, stunned—but it wasn’t fear.

It was recognition. Like something inside her had just clicked.

Like she’d always known.

“You took your sweet time. If I knew being kidnapped would make you confess, I would’ve done it sooner,” she whispered with a soft smile, teasing.

“Don’t even joke about that... You don’t need to be kidnapped for me to say it.” He chuckled, teary, no longer hiding it. “I know now. And I’m not wasting any more time.”

And then, as if the world outside could wait, he leaned in and kissed her.

Soft at first, so he wouldn’t hurt her.

Gentle, like a question.

She kissed him back—despite the pain, despite the exhaustion—with everything she’d been holding in for so long.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead on hers, eyes locked on hers, and whispered:

“I love you. And we’re going to get through this. Together.”

She smiled, tears in her eyes.

“I know... I love you too.”

The End.

Masterlist

#tim bradford imagine #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #the rookie #tim bradford #fem!reader #the rookie x reader #tim bradford fic #the rookie series #the rookie imagine

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new-author3 · 2 months ago

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Hello! Welcome to my blog✨

Here you'll find a safe space filled with heartfelt stories and emotions I’ve poured into my writing. I’m always open to suggestions, requests, and kind conversations. Use the links below to find my fanfics organized by character or theme💌

Down here are some of the stories I’ve ventured into — I hope you enjoy them! 💖

#Lewis Hamilton🏎

A Red Encounter

More Than a Number

#Bucky Barnes 🦾

Between Consciousness and Darkness

#Tim Bradford 🚓

Under the Stars

The Weight of Loss - Part 2

#Zlatan Ibrahimovic ⚽️

Buried in the Dark

You Remembered Too Late

Between Lines and Glances

#Aaron Hotchner 🧑🏽‍💼

At the Edge of Silence - Part 2 - Part 3

While It Still Hurt

The Line He'll Never Cross

You're My Priority

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x you #f1 imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford x reader #the rookie x reader #zlatan ibrahimovic imagines #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #fem!reader

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new-author3 · 2 months ago

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The Line He'll Never Cross

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner × Reader (SN)

Warnings: Contains psychological tension, obsessive behavior, emotional protection, suggestive language, and an established couple dynamic. Age rating: +16. Set in the Criminal Minds universe, focused on drama, investigation, and protective romance.

Word Count: 1257 words

SCENE: BAU Interrogation Room. One-way mirror. SN is present as part of the team, but the suspect seems obsessively fixated on her. Hotch watches closely, maintaining firm control, but visibly disturbed by the direction of the conversation.

*Gif It's not mine*

[Interrogation Room – 2:17 PM]

The clock ticks with an irritating beat, each second echoing off the cold walls of the room.

The suspect sits with his cuffed hands resting on the table. He smiles — a smile that never reaches his eyes, the kind that sends a chill down the spine.

SN stands, arms crossed, trying to maintain a neutral stance. But the man’s eyes are glued to her, and it makes her tense.

Hotch stands in the corner, observing with calculated attention, but his clenched fists at his sides give away his tension.

SUSPECT (in a low, almost intimate voice):

— Funny... I never imagined you'd be even more beautiful up close. The camera doesn’t do you justice.

SN doesn’t respond. Her gaze is steady, trained, but inside she feels nausea rise in her throat.

HOTCH (firmly intervening):

— Focus on the questions, Mr. Laughton. Tell us about the last victim. Where were you Tuesday night?

SUSPECT (eyes still fixed on SN):

— I was thinking about her. Just like I am now. You know, she has this way of walking... so light. Like she doesn’t belong in this dirty world.

He tilts his head slightly. SN doesn’t step back, but she briefly breaks eye contact.

HOTCH (coldly):

— Look at me when you answer. You don’t talk to her. One slip, and I’ll pull you out of this room.

The suspect finally looks at Hotch. His smile fades for a moment, replaced by a defiant expression.

SUSPECT:

— She scares you, doesn’t she? The idea that someone sees her in a way you can’t control. I bet you try to protect her… but you can’t. You’ll never protect her from me, Hotchner.

Hotch takes a step forward, body taut like a wire about to snap.

SN gently touches his arm — a silent plea for restraint.

SN (calm, but firm):

— You think you know me. But everything you built is a fantasy. A sick obsession. I'm a federal agent. And you... are screwed.

The suspect lets out a raspy, hollow laugh.

SUSPECT:

— But you thought about me, didn’t you? When you got the letters. When I described your steps, your clothes... You felt it. Part of you wanted to know who I was.

HOTCH (low voice, full of threat):

— Enough.

He steps closer to the table, hands pressing firmly against its surface. His dark eyes lock onto the suspect’s.

HOTCH:

— You're going to tell us where the next victim is. Now. Because if you keep playing games, I promise you’ll wish you had spoken sooner.

The suspect hesitates. For the first time, a flicker of fear crosses his eyes.

SUSPECT (muttering):

— I just wanted her to listen...

HOTCH (immediately):

— She listened. And now, she’ll never have to see you again.

He signals to the security guard. The suspect is yanked from his chair. As he’s led out, he tries for one last look at SN — but Hotch steps in front of her, blocking his view like a wall of steel.

In the silence that follows, Hotch slowly turns.

His eyes meet hers — and for a moment, professionalism fades into pure concern.

[Interrogation Room – After the suspect's removal]

The silence is heavy. Almost sacred. As if the room itself needs a moment to process everything that just happened.

Hotch still stands in front of her. The sharp look from earlier is now replaced with something softer — worried, protective, intimate.

SN lowers her arms slowly and exhales, only now realizing she was holding her breath.

HOTCH (low voice, concern clear):

— You okay?

SN (nodding, releasing a breath):

— I am now.

She tries to smile, but exhaustion and tension linger in her features. Hotch sees it. Without hesitation, he steps forward.

HOTCH:

— I’m relieved we got him.

She meets his gaze for a moment. The weight of everything from the past days finally feels lighter. Her smile is tired but genuine.

SN:

— I’m relieved too. So relieved...

He pulls her into a hug. A rare gesture, especially here. But she allows herself to sink into his chest.

And he holds her tightly, without urgency — like he needed the contact just as much as she did.

Even knowing they weren’t alone in the building, that cameras might be watching, Aaron doesn’t care.

She feels his breathing begin to calm with hers. The warmth of his body chasing away the cold the suspect left behind.

After a few seconds of quiet, he murmurs against the top of her head, voice soft and low.

HOTCH:

— How about we stop by that café on the way home? Get some hot chocolate with marshmallows?

She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, a small smile forming on her lips.

SN:

— Yes, please. But... will there be extra marshmallows?

He arches a brow with that look only she knows — a mix of tenderness and subtle playfulness.

HOTCH:

— Of course. I’m not risking your disapproval after surviving that interrogation.

She lets out a soft laugh. The first genuine one of the day.

He watches her carefully, as if memorizing every expression, every trace of the relief that finally begins to wash over her.

Before they leave, Hotch extends a hand and gently touches her arm.

The touch is discreet but full of meaning. A silent reminder: You’re safe. I’m here.

She doesn’t pull away. She never would — not from him.

Author’s Note:

I hope you enjoyed this story! I really wish I could write more often, but time doesn't always cooperate… Still, I poured a lot of heart into this piece. I'm just a beginner in this writing journey, so any feedback is more than welcome! It helps me grow and improve with each story. Thank you so much for reading 💛

Note⚠️

I read a similar story by an author here on the platform, but unfortunately, I can't remember their profile name. Still, I hope you don't mind that I was inspired by the same plot. I wrote this with care and respect for the original work.

Masterlist

#aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x reader angst #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x you #criminal minds

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new-author3 · 3 months ago

Text

An Heir: Part 3

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: You and Feyd intend to be together forever--marry, have children, lead Giedi Prime side by side--but your plans are disrupted when the Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit reveals Lady Fenring is pregnant and, to Feyd's utter shock, the baby is his.

Notes/Warnings: Based on a request from @tgmreader. Pregnancy.

Words: 3300

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Part 1, Part 2

When you agreed to be kept on Giedi Prime, you had a plan. You knew what to tell your parents: that you were ill and wished to return home before the House meetings concluded. Three more days of meetings were to take place on Giedi Prime, and once they finished, it would be two more days of travel back to your planet before your parents would discover you were not home. That seemed enough time for Feyd to remove Lady Margot and bring you out of the shadows. But when he went to have her arrested, she was gone. Vanished, as if she had never set foot in the fortress.

Feyd only became more determined to keep you well-hidden. The Baron had not yet been informed of your pregnancy, and not until your safety was guaranteed would Feyd reveal the truth to his uncle’s court. If the Baron knew, it would quickly reach the Gene Besserit, and that would only make it harder to protect you. Not worth the risk, Feyd had told you. He didn’t trust that the Bene Gesserit were not lurking about somewhere.

But days passed, so many that you had no choice but to send a transmission to your handmaid back on your home planet, asking her to imitate your handwriting in a letter explaining that you had gone to Corrino to spend time with the Princess. Your parents would find it upon their return, and while there was a chance of confusion on their part, you and the Princess had a bond, and it was unlikely they would be so distraught at your sudden departure to feel the need to verify your whereabouts.

Since then, two more weeks have come and gone. Feyd has found nothing from his search for Lady Margot; his men have returned with no clue as to her whereabouts on Arrakis; his spies have not sent word of her presence on Wallach IX, and you are getting restless, struggling to find the difference between yourself and a prisoner within a room once built for royal concubines.

You know why he chose the room for your cell. Only the Harkonnens are supposed to know of its location. But still, something bitter fills your belly whenever you rehash the fear you had at ending up in this very space when you learned Feyd had impregnated a Bene Gesserit.

I was not going to be your concubine, is what you’d said. Yet by not being permitted to leave, you’re hidden more than any concubine ever would be. While Feyd is preoccupied day and night with the hunt, you dine alone, you sleep alone, you read stories to your unborn baby alone.

Just a bit longer, you tell yourself. Then surely, you will have the freedom you crave, the freedom that allows you to join him at his side.

—

Freedom does not come in the form you expect. There is no open door for you to step through. No light of day. No fresh air. Freedom from your room comes in the form of a gag shoved between your lips as you sleep, a bag thrown over your head, and two thick arms around your waist, lifting you from your bed.

You scream for Feyd, but you can hardly hear your own muffled voice. You thrash in the grasp, but the arms holding you are locked. You’re hanging over a shoulder for what feels like hours due to the panic that rises with each step away from where you are supposed to be, and you can’t think clearly long enough to focus on where you’re going. You don’t count the steps. You lose track of the turns through hallways.

Then suddenly, the air is different, stifling. You’re set on your feet. The grip on you is replaced by a hand on your back, shoving you forward. You stumble and catch yourself before you rip the bag from your head and the gag from your mouth, tossing them aside.

Another room encases you. One you’ve never seen, empty of all furnishings and windows. The walls and floors are the same shade of black, shiny and smooth like sharpened metal, and their sameness makes them appear blended together. It’s a hollow cube. And you’re trapped.

Your nerves spike. Your baby kicks, but it’s unlike the kicks you’re used to. This one is sharp, quick, as if in warning.

“Be still,” you hear.

And then you feel it, the way it weaves through the sections of your brain and latches on with the pointed fangs of a serpent. The way it settles deep into your gut. The way it spreads through you, infecting every motion and function of your body.

You imagined many times what it might feel like, but in none of your imaginings did you suspect such…pain. You never imagined that your heartbeat would no longer feel like your own, or like your lungs and your bones and the blood in your veins might betray you at any moment.

Is this what Feyd felt when she had hold of him?

You hope not.

Another stabbing sensation pierces through the shell of your skull as you uselessly fight and struggle to gulp more than a molecule of air down your throat. Your arms throb from the heavy pressure that is holding them down at your sides.

“Turn” is an echo bouncing between your ears, and before you can even process the word, your legs are complying. Your body twists, bringing you face-to-face with the only other souls in the space.

Her expression is blank, though her downturned lips leave her in a permanent frown. A hood is draped over her pulled-back blonde locks. Her hands are clasped, resting at her stomach where a baby should be, but a bump is missing from under the compressing corset of her black dress.

She nods to the man at her side—a Harkonnen guard. You try to memorize his face for later. You’ll tell Feyd and he’ll have the man dealt with. But then again, if he is allowing his face to be shown at all, it’s unlikely he believes you will survive through the night.

“Leave us,” Lady Margot says, and with a grunt, the guard does.

As the door closes behind him, she watches you, expertly prying, skillfully examining. Her eyes trail from your face down your body. They stop at your stomach. Your hands push against their invisible bindings in an attempt to protect your unborn child, but the power over you is too strong.

The Bene Gesserit moves forward, her heels clicking with each languid step. As she comes to a halt in front of you, a long breath leaves her nose.

“You’re ruining him,” she then says. Blue eyes flick to yours. “You know that, don’t you?”

Her lips thin and her brow pinches, but her gaze softens, almost as if remorseful over what she has to do to you. But you know better. You know an act when you see one, and you see sliminess behind those irises, violence tapped into. She’s like Feyd, willing to do what she must to get what she wants, unashamed about what that may be.

“You’re interfering with destiny,” she continues, a gentle, unsettling tone to her voice. “Our child has been seen to have great potential. She will be a leader. She will change our worlds. Why would you want to meddle in something so significant?”

Even if you could respond, you’re not sure what you would say. That Feyd wants your child? That the love you share should be what determines his fate? It would not be enough to sway her. No one of power cowers to love, certainly not a Bene Gesserit, one of many women who live by mission over morals.

Her head tilts. “You’re young. I understand this. But you’ve made a mistake.”

Lady Margot looks down and slides her left hand's fingers into the right sleeve of her gown. She pulls something free that you immediately identify once catching a reflective glint in the lower edge of your vision.

“This must be done. You decided so the moment you permitted him to keep you,” she says. Her open palm holds the small knife out to you. “Take it.”

Your arm thrusts forward and your fingers wrap around the hilt. Dread fills your gut.

“Place it at your throat.”

A tear forms, trickling down your cheek as the sharp edge of cool metal settles against your skin. You close your eyes. You picture Feyd, your baby, what could have been, what was so close to being, and another droplet squeezes out from under your lashes.

Lady Margot’s Voice infiltrates the beauty of your thoughts. “Now, cut your–”

A deep wail of fury forces her words to surrender to a gasp. Your eyelids snap open to find Feyd’s arm slashing horizontally toward Lady Margot’s neck. She trips out of the way, narrowly missing the edge of the blade in your lover’s hand. Feyd practical growls. He lunges for her once more, but again misses her small frame, her body skittering to the side just in time.

Ever so slightly, the intangible strength holding you still loosens. Your fingers twitch. Your arm feels the weight of being held up for too long and your elbow dips an inch.

With her back to you, Lady Margot retreats a step in your direction, then another, slowly, as if subtle movements might blend her into the walls like a small prey concealing itself within the grasses to avoid its predator. But it’s a wasted effort. Feyd is honed in, tracking her every motion. Her hands fist into the skirts of her dress as if preparing to lift them to better aid her escape.

“Guard!” she then shouts.

Your lungs take in the air they’ve been craving.

“Dead,” Feyd responds, and another strike of Lady Margot’s panic finally tips the aura of the room.

She continues her cautious attempt at fleeing, her head turning from left to right and back, searching for a second exit unimpeded by Feyd’s monstrous frame. He continues to descend upon her, the distance between them closing. Your limbs begin to regain their own power as the tendrils woven into your brain unwind and recede.

“S-Stop,” her Voice tries, but it only results in a moderate jerk of Feyd’s head and a tick in his jaw before his sights are targeted back on her. He takes another step. As does she. Your arm falls to your side. The blade nearly drops from your grasp, but you grip it tighter, keeping it firmly against your palm.

Then she is within reach.

You act on instinct.

The gurgling you hear first, a sound that breaks through the ringing in your ears. Crimson is what you notice next. The color seeps around the edges of the metal. Then it’s the disgustingly unique scent of iron, and the feel of flesh almost gripping the blade in desperation to keep as much blood in the body as possible. When you pull it free, a waterfall drains down the side of her neck.

Feyd watches, his expression unchanged, as Lady Margot’s knees give out and her head slams against the floor. A puddle forms beneath her, but you’re too stunned to move away from its rapid growth. Blood touches your toes, breaking into rivers around your feet.

Both your blade and Feyd’s race to the floor as you feel his gaze latch onto you. You don’t meet his eyes, your own wide and stuck to the wall ahead.

He rushes forward. Your wrists are encased and he pulls you from the body’s reach. With his hands planted on your cheeks, he tips your head back to get a good look at your neck. You can sense a light, warm droplet running down your skin that he brushes away with his thumb. An expelled breath coats your face as he rests his forehead on yours. You haven’t blinked, and your eyes are going dry. You start to quiver as the reality of what you’ve done sinks in.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“I-I didn’t–”

Feyd pulls back and forces you to look at him. “You protected our baby.”

You protected our baby. You protected the baby. Your baby. His baby. Yes, you protected.

That statement sinks in, allowing you to finally blink. You take in his face—the worry, the pride, the relief. Your nod is shaky and unsure, but he nods with you.

“How…How did you know?” you ask.

“You weren’t in your room,” he tells you. “I found the guard away from his post. He squealed after one stab.” He wraps your arms around his waist and presses your head against his chest and holds you.

You hug him, his form in your embrace being the one thing that can keep you sane in this moment. “What do we do?”

“You do nothing. I will handle it.”

—

It wasn’t nothing that Lady Margot’s life had been taken. You both knew that. But Feyd had a way of working around the truth when he needed to. So he told the Baron and Reverend Mother that a guard had killed her, thinking she was an intruder at the late hour, and that he had killed the guard for the mistake.

To the Baron, that detailing of events was accepted as an unfortunate incident. Any emotion on his part was subtle and driven by the disappointment of losing an heir. The Reverend Mother, however, appeared much more skeptical.

Not once during Feyd’s twisting of the truth did the Reverend Mother’s stare drift from you, or more specifically, from your slight bump of a stomach that was hidden under your dress. You wanted to shrink away from her, that desire doubling when Feyd officially revealed both your pregnancy and that Lady Margot was at no point bearing his child. A flicker of surprise set in the Baron’s eyes, but nothing altered the Reverend Mother’s expression. Nothing said changed the frown etched onto her face.

It was a look of silent, composed frustration for ruining the stability of their plans, and it reminded you so much of Lady Margot that it wreaked havoc on your nerves. You recalled the light that left her eyes, the warmth of her blood at your feet. Your hands began to shake. Your throat went dry. What you had done was a stain on your conscience, unforgivable.

For many months following the meeting, you expected retaliation to come at any moment. Feyd assured you otherwise, claiming that all of Giedi Prime knew of your pregnancy and so the Bene Gesserit would not unleash devastation on the planet’s people by murdering the Harkonnen heir and the woman who would birth him.

Still, you were unsure.

Not until many weeks of their silence passed did you start to entertain his explanation. But only once it was brought to attention that the son of Arrakis was due to have an heir, a child carried by a Bene Gesserit, did you stop looking over your shoulder.

They were done with you for the foreseeable future, and that was enough.

Regarding Feyd, you never gained the strength to ask if he had somehow discovered the truth before he’d pointed a blade at Lady Margot. But deep down, you knew the answer. The day he attacked her for attacking you, you could see in his eyes that truly nothing would have stood in the way of protecting you, that no circumstances would have severed his determination to keep you safe. He was and always will be unstoppable. And you know the only guilt he has felt is for failing to end her life before she could threaten yours.

He didn’t want this to be your burden. You were meant only to worry about your health and the health of your child. It was for your baby that Lady Margot had to die, and there should be no shame in that—so he claimed—not for your actions or his.

“You must let this go,” he’d often say. Those words never did much for you in the way of alleviating your own guilt. But then he would follow it with, “All you were in that moment was a mother,” and it was that which eventually unknotted the remainder of the coils in your muscles.

He was right. You had acted as a mother. You had not shoved a blade into Lady Margot’s neck to protect yourself; you’d done it guided by the need to preserve the life growing inside you. And reminding yourself of that is what saved you. It kept you from inflicting stress on your body and child for the final months of your pregnancy. You were finally able to focus on the health Feyd was so desperate for you to conserve.

—

He takes after Feyd in nearly every available physical aspect: the outline of his face, the tone of his skin, the puffiness of his lips. It is his eyes that differ. The shape and color match yours so closely that peering into them is like looking in a mirror. But you thank the gods that those eyes in their youth and smaller form have not seen what you have seen; that he did not have to witness the events that brought him here. He will only ever know that his parents did their job in safely bringing him into the world, as parents are meant to do, and no other detail deserves to reach his ears.

As you run the tip of your finger down your son’s tiny nose, Feyd comes up behind you.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

Cradling your baby, you turn to face your husband. “Are you?”

Feyd reaches up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes along your skin. He lightly smiles. He smiles more now than you have ever seen in the time you’ve known him, and it’s a sight you’ve quickly and happily adapted to.

“I’ve been ready,” he says. “For months.”

You snort. “There was no baby to show for before last week.”

Feyd hums and wraps his arms around your waist. You grin at how your son fits perfectly between you. “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t eagerly await this day.”

A soft kiss touches your forehead, and you settle into the peace of the bubble around your small family. This is all you’ve wanted, all you’ve desired from the first night you were pulled under Feyd’s sheets. And though it may have required a fight through obstacles to be where you are, at least the universe gave you the opportunity to right the wrong and join you with Feyd as you were always meant to be. You’re not so naive as to believe everyone is granted that chance.

“My Lord,” you hear, the bubble popping. You both turn your heads to the guard. “Everything is in place.”

Feyd returns a sharp nod, then, meeting your eyes, awaits your own nod of agreement. When you give it, he slides his hand into your free one. His palm is warm against yours. Your fingers intertwine, and together you walk out onto the balcony of the fortress.

Your body is coated in a wave of heat and the light of the glaring sun blinds you, but you can hear the cheers, the many voices shouting your husband’s name as they await their moment to meet the Harkonnen heir.

---

A/N: thank you for following this short series. If you enjoyed it, let me know. It always makes my day :)

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new-author3 · 3 months ago

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Title: While It Still Hurt

Pairing: SN x Aaron Hotchner

Summary: After an intense operation, SN is injured but insists she's fine — yet Aaron doesn't believe it for a second.

Warnings: Contains physical pain, emotional tension, sensitive language, intimate care masked as professionalism, unresolved feelings, and a hint of vulnerability.

Word count: 1,196 words

The sound of sirens still echoed in the distance, muffled by the persistent ringing in SN's ear. Dust hung in the air, particles suspended in a slow, silent ballet, contrasting with the adrenaline still pulsing through her bloodstream. She leaned against the side of the van, feeling the stubborn throb in her rib, as if each breath were a knife pushing deeper. But she was standing. She was alive. And that was enough.

— “I’m fine.”

The words came out before she even registered his presence. Like an automatic defense. Like a shield.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was. She already knew. She could feel him.

— “No.”

Aaron’s voice came firm, laced with that dangerous calm. The kind that always came before a storm.

— “You’re not.”

She turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze — dark, tense, devastated inside. His hands were stained with blood that wasn’t his, and his eyes… his eyes gave him away. He had seen her fall. Saw the moment the suspect shoved her against the wall, the dull sound of impact, her body giving in for a second that had felt eternal.

— “It was just a hit, Hotch. I’ve taken worse in training.”

He stepped closer.

— “Training doesn’t have concrete walls.”

She raised an eyebrow, forcing half a smile, even as the pain pulsed sharper.

— “You’re overreacting.”

And then she winced, betrayed by the pain.

— “And you’re bleeding.”

The worry was written all over his face. But it was more than that. It wasn’t just a boss looking after an agent. It was something intimate. Or maybe she was hallucinating… the pain in her back and head was unbearable.

She tried to hide her arm instinctively, but he had already seen — the gash on her side, just below the rib. Deep enough to cause concern. Deep enough to awaken something in him she hadn’t seen in a long time: fear.

She hadn’t even known that was possible. That the Chief of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit — Aaron Hotchner — could feel fear.

— “Give me five minutes. I can drive…”

Her vision blurred. She felt weak.

— “Not a chance,” he cut in, already pulling out his phone. “You’re going to the hospital now.”

She tried to take a step, maybe to stop him, but her body gave out. The world spun. Aaron was there before she could fall. He held her by the waist — firm, tense — and she groaned in pain. His face was inches from hers.

— “I’m sorry…”

The words came out slow, dragged.

— “Why, SN? Why the hell do you always think you have to carry everything alone?”

She took a deep breath, trying to hold back the dizziness, trying not to pass out.

— “Because I can.”

His eyes burned.

— “Not when you’re hurt. Not when I’m here.”

For a moment, the silence between them was louder than all the noise around. She could feel his breath. The warmth of his hands on her cold skin. And something inside her — something she had buried beneath layers of pain and professionalism — wanted to give in.

What if someone could finally take care of me?

But would I let myself be taken care of… after everything I’ve been through?

— “I’m fine,” she insisted, but her voice no longer had strength. It was weak.

She could give in right now… but she was still too stubborn for that.

Aaron looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to see beyond skin, beyond pain, beyond armor.

— “You can lie to the whole world, SN. But not to me.”

She didn’t answer. Because he was right. Because deep down, she was far from fine. Because the physical pain was just the surface. And because, in that moment, more than hiding the wound… what truly hurt was the way he looked at her.

Like he still cared.

— “Come on,” he said, his voice softer now. Almost a whisper. “Before you pass out again.”

She scoffed, exhausted.

— “I didn’t pass out. I just… lost balance.”

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, barely there.

— “Right. Tell that to the doctor when we get there… if you’re still awake, that is.”

Aaron picked her up as if carrying a bride. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. And no matter how hard she tried to fight the wave of warmth it brought, SN allowed herself.

She rested her head on his shoulder. Just for a moment. Just until the pain eased. Just until the fear gave way to something she no longer had a name for.

Masterlist

#aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you

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new-author3 · 3 months ago

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Title: More Than a Number

Synopsis: After a difficult race, Lewis is consumed by frustration and the feeling of being just another number to his team. In the silence of his driver’s room, it’s SN’s presence that brings him back to himself.

Content Warnings: Mild emotional tension, post-race comfort, strong emotional bond, soft romance, and Formula 1 setting.

Word Count: Approximately 1,000 words

The door shut behind him with a dull thud. The room felt far too small to hold everything he was feeling. The helmet was thrown onto the couch with more force than necessary. The gloves followed, yanked off with frustration. And then, silence. A silence louder than any team radio.

Lewis sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands over his face. Eyes closed, trying to steady the storm in his chest — a bitter mix of helplessness and indignation. A feeling that would linger far longer than this race, all because of a strategy that so clearly favored his teammate. This... this wasn't teamwork.

The door opened slowly. He didn’t need to look — he knew it was her. SN entered with the calm of someone who already understood his silences, closing the door behind her as if sealing the world out.

“You heard everything, didn’t you?” he asked, still not looking up.

She approached quietly and knelt in front of him, resting her hands gently on his knees.

“I did... we all did,” her voice was low, steady. “I heard you being brilliant. And I heard them acting like it meant nothing.”

Lewis finally looked at her. His eyes were damp, not from tears, but from rage held in. Frustration only she could read.

“They told me to hold position for the DRS. Used me to protect Charles.” He shook his head, voice tight. “I didn’t come here to be just a number. But today... that’s exactly what I was.”

SN moved closer, cupping his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“You’re not just a number, Lewis. You never were. They might try to reduce you to that, but you're the reason so many people still believe in Formula 1. And me... I believe in you. Always.”

Lewis exhaled deeply, his hands sliding to hold hers, gripping them tightly.

“I felt alone out there.”

“But you’re not,” she whispered, leaning in to press her lips softly to his — just for a second, like sealing a promise. “I’m here. And as long as you keep fighting, I’ll be right beside you. On good days, on days like this... and on every one still to come.”

He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breathing just a little calmer.

“Thank you… I needed this. That race was hard.”

“Always. Because I know you beyond the helmet, Lewis. And nothing — not team orders, not paddock politics, not bad tyre calls — can take that away from you. I believe in you. Your fans believe in you. I know it's tough... but we’ll get through it together.”

There, in the refuge of his driver’s room, Lewis finally allowed himself to breathe. The weight hadn’t lifted entirely, but it was a little easier to carry after hearing her voice. With her by his side, the outside world could wait. And maybe, just maybe, he had found something even more important than victory… a home.

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

Author’s Note:

This story was born from my own frustration with Ferrari during the Miami GP. It was disappointing to see how they treated Hamilton — especially considering everything he represents in this sport. The strategy, the orders, the disrespect... it was all incredibly frustrating. And if we, as fans, felt that way, I can only imagine how heavy it must have been for him. This story is my way of giving him some comfort — even if only in fiction. Because in the end, we all need someone who reminds us who we are, especially on our hardest days.

Masterlist

#lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis x reader #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton imagines #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x y/n #lewis hamilton x black reader #lewis hamilton x black oc #f1 imagine

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new-author3 · 4 months ago

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Title: Between Lines and Glances

Summary:

During a relaxed interview, a young journalism intern surprises Zlatan Ibrahimović with sincere questions and a gaze that sees beyond the fame. Between playful provocations, subtle flirting, and charged silences, they discover more than expected — perhaps the beginning of something far from the spotlight.

Words: Approximately 1,294 words

Warnings: No sensitive content. Subtle flirting, light emotional tension, and the early spark of a possible romance.

Author's Note: A light, engaging oneshot full of nuance, where Zlatan's charisma meets the quiet strength of a young reporter at the start of her career. Perfect for those who enjoy stories filled with chemistry, lingering glances, and unspoken emotion.

He hadn’t expected it to be her.

Not that he knew the name — SN, an intern from a media outlet he barely remembered ever giving an interview to. But that wasn’t it. It was the way she looked at him.

Like he wasn’t Zlatan Ibrahimović.

Like he was just a man… waiting to be understood.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, adjusting the recorder and notepad on her lap. Her hands were steady, but her eyes… oh, her eyes studied him with a quiet, almost anxious curiosity.

“I prefer writing things down. Helps me pay more attention,” she added with a small smile, trying to sound professional, even though her heart was racing.

He leaned forward in his chair, intrigued.

“That’s old school. Or is it charm?”

The tease came out lighter than usual, almost playful.

She looked away for a second, surprised, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. A brief smile slipped.

“Maybe both,” she replied, trying to sound casual, though the way she gripped the pen a bit tighter gave her away.

That made him smile.

She didn’t speak loudly. Didn’t gesture much. She was quiet — but not invisible. There was presence in her. The kind that didn’t ask for space but somehow filled it.

And that… intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

“So, SN… what do you want to know?” he asked, his voice lower, more intimate than he intended.

She hesitated for a moment, then looked up, determined.

“Who are you… when no one’s watching?”

That landed. He blinked, caught off guard, then let out a soft, almost proud laugh.

“You go in strong.”

“I like getting to the point,” she said with a small, sincere smile. “Promise I won’t ask how many goals you’ve scored.”

She chuckled nervously.

“What a relief. I’ve lost count.”

He laughed with her, more relaxed now than in any recent interview.

“But you… you’ve got guts? Asking what no one else dares?”

She bit her lip gently, almost unaware.

“I’m trying to seem braver than I feel. Is it working?” she asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.

He looked at her a second too long.

“It is,” he said with a slow smile, like he’d just found something rare.

He wasn’t sure if he was admiring her beauty, or the spark in her eyes — the way she seemed to see past the public image.

The conversation flowed. Natural, intense.

She asked about fear, solitude, legacy.

And he answered. No filters. No masks.

As if she’d created a safe space — even if her heart was racing.

With every honest answer from him, SN felt more exposed too.

As if they weren’t just exchanging questions, but revealing themselves, little by little.

He was showing a side of himself the media never touched.

And she… was seeing more than she probably should.

In a brief pause, she flipped through her notebook, avoiding his gaze.

Zlatan watched in silence, noticing how carefully she tried to stay in control — even though her cheeks were still tinged with pink.

“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

He didn’t even know why.

He knew you weren’t supposed to ask that.

But the curiosity slipped through.

She looked up, surprised.

“Twenty-four,” she replied cautiously. “Why?”

He nodded, thoughtful.

“That… explains a lot.”

He smiled, enigmatic, like something had just clicked into place.

“You have the eyes of someone who’s seen the world differently.”

She raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

“Was that… a pickup line?”

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Only if you want it to be,” he replied, winking.

She laughed softly, lowering her gaze, just a little shy.

“Do you always flirt during interviews?”

“I only show who I am to those who deserve it. And you…”

He paused, holding her gaze.

“You’ve already seen more of me than most people have in years.”

“And do I deserve it?” she dared to ask, her voice lower now, heavy with tension.

He leaned in slightly, like he was accepting a challenge.

“You don’t owe me anything. And that… that’s what I like most about you.”

She stayed quiet for a few seconds, trying to control her breathing, then closed the notebook gently.

“Thank you for letting me see that side of you,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“You didn’t even have to force it. It just came out.”

His voice was lower now, almost hoarse, filled with something unspoken.

She felt a lump form in her throat but held her composure.

She smiled — composed on the outside, but inside, something was stirring hard.

She stood. So did he.

They didn’t shake hands.

Just exchanged a look.

One of those looks that say everything words cannot.

“SN…” he called, just as she was about to leave. She stopped at the door.

“If you ever want to continue this conversation… outside the interview…”

His voice was soft. Too intimate for a headline.

She hesitated. Smiled, a bit unsure.

“I’ll… think about it.”

“Think carefully. But not for too long. Retirement comes fast.”

And she walked away.

With her heart pounding.

With a notebook full of answers.

And with the strange feeling that this story… wasn’t over yet.

Note: I apologize for any mistakes in Portuguese or English. English is not my first language, but I’m doing my best to improve. Thank you for your understanding!

Masterlist

#football fanfics #football imagine #zlatan ibrahimovic #zlatan ibrahimovic imagines #zlatan ibrahimovic x you #zlatan ibrahimovic x reader #Zlatan Ibrahimovic x yn #Imagine #zlatan x reader

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new-author3 · 4 months ago

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At the Edge of Silence - Part ³ end

Summary: SN is Hotch’s ex-girlfriend from their college days. They reunite when she joins a case as a consultant. Old feelings resurface, but the danger is real: the serial killer involved in the case develops an obsession with her, and Hotch must protect the woman he once loved.

Genre: Drama, Suspense, Emotional Romance

Word count: approx. 1,583

Warnings: Moderate violence, kidnapping, emotional triggers (abandonment, manipulation), psychological tension.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Masterlist

Silence.

“I made you believe he didn’t deserve you. That he’d leave you. And he did. I planted doubts. Used fake messages. Took your phone once at a party. Sent him something from you and sent you something from him. Things out of context. False. Just enough to shake the foundation.”

My world shattered.

“That can’t be true…” I whispered, staring at the ground, feeling everything collapse.

“But it is, darling. And now that the truth is out… let’s play.”

His last words made my body go cold. He held something sharp, and on the table were pliers, hooks, and blades.

“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, voice trembling, uncertain.

“I need to create a work of art out of you. For Aaron to see. But don’t worry… it’ll only hurt a little.” He smiled, moving closer.

It felt like hours, days, or maybe weeks—or maybe pain and blood loss blurred my sense of time. That’s when Aaron came.

He would always come.

He found me.

The relief on his face was so clear that, for a moment, I forgot about the pain in my body. He untied me from the chair and held me with care, with desperation, with something I knew was love. But I couldn’t say it out loud.

“Are you okay, SN?” His voice was low, steady, trembling.

I just nodded. I wasn’t okay. But he was there. And that was… something.

He didn’t speak again. He only pressed his lips to my forehead. A small gesture, but devastating. The kind of gesture that says everything words never could.

My tears came like a flood held back for far too long. Aaron held me tighter, but with the same care you give to something fragile. I trembled. He trembled. And in that moment, there was no FBI, no mission. Just the two of us.

“I’m going to take care of you, sweetheart.” He whispered, picking me up. I leaned my face into his neck, and then everything went dark.

____________________________________________

I woke up in the hospital.

The light was soft, the sound of the monitors comforting. My body ached, but I was whole. Beside me, him. Tired. Still. Eyes locked on me like he was afraid I’d disappear again.

“You came back to me.” I whispered, without thinking.

He smiled. A sad, broken, but honest smile.

“I never wanted to leave.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. I still felt weak, but there was something I needed to know.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me? We could’ve figured it out…” I asked, after a silence heavier than any pain.

He lowered his head, running a hand through his hair, like searching for strength. When he looked back at me, his eyes were full of regret.

“Because I thought I was protecting you. I… was scared, SN. Scared of dragging you into the chaos of my life. Scared I couldn’t be the man you deserved. And when those messages came, when the doubts started… I thought you’d be better off without me.”

“You left me alone, Aaron. With too many questions. With too much pain.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, and he leaned closer to the bed. “And I regret it every day. But if I had known—if I had known someone was manipulating everything—I would’ve done anything to stop it.”

“You should’ve trusted me. Trusted us.” I said, tears running down my face.

He nodded slowly, eyes gleaming with a kind of silent desperation.

“I made a mistake. But I won’t make it again. I’m not leaving, SN. Not without fighting for you.”

For a moment, we stared at each other in silence. The pain was still there, but there was something stronger too—the love that survived time, fear, and lies.

“I still love you.” he said, simply, like it was the only truth that mattered.

And it was.

I reached out with what little strength I had left. He took my hand like it was an anchor.

“I forgive you.” I murmured. “But you’ll have to prove, every day, that you’re here. That this is real.”

He leaned in slowly, eyes locked on mine, and pressed his forehead to mine.

“I will. I promise.”

Then he kissed me.

It wasn’t rushed, or desperate. It was a kiss full of everything that was never said, of everything that endured, of everything being reborn right there—among machines, pain, and silent promises.

Because this time, he wasn’t going to leave.

Not without me.

And I wouldn’t go without him.

End..

#aaron hotcher #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds

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new-author3 · 4 months ago

Text

At the Edge of Silence-Part²

Genre: Drama, Suspense, Emotional Romance

Word count: approx. 1,583

Warnings: Moderate violence, kidnapping, emotional triggers (abandonment, manipulation), psychological tension.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Masterlist

I kept looking at him, unsure of what to do.

“Alright.” I replied, swallowing the tension rising inside me.

He started walking, and I followed. When the office door closed behind us, the sound was muffled, but the impact inside me was deafening. He sat down, and for a few seconds, we just stared at each other. The air was too heavy.

“You’re on this case, SN. Not just for your expertise, but because you’re personally involved. You know what that means.”

“I know what we’re dealing with, Hotch.” My answer was rigid, dry. I wouldn’t let him cross that line.

He took a deep breath, eyes cutting through me.

“SN, I… you know I’m not here just as an agent. I’m here for you.”

His words hit like a gut punch. I couldn’t give in.

“You might be here for me, Hotch, but that doesn’t change what happened.”

“I know. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I need you to trust me, SN. In this case. We need to do this together.”

“I trust you, Hotch. I just don’t know if that’s going to be enough.”

Seeing his expression shift, seeing how I hurt him, gave me a strange satisfaction. It wasn’t fair, but part of me felt he deserved a taste of the pain he left in me.

After that, we got back to the case. But it was impossible not to notice how he stayed closer—like he needed to make sure I was there, real, alive. Like he was trying to redeem himself with gestures he couldn’t name.

Then came the kidnapping.

It happened too fast. A cold morning, an isolated location, and suddenly... darkness. The man who took me wasn’t a stranger: Thomas Blake. A former college classmate. Quiet. Reserved. With a silent obsession I had never noticed.

He brought me to a familiar place—an old academic retreat. And then, his words became knives.

“You were mine, SN. He didn’t deserve you. He never did.”

“You don’t have to do this.” My voice trembled.

“Shut up.” The slap was sharp. The physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked once I regained my senses.

“I’m the reason you two broke up.”

Continue....

#aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotch fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds

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new-author3 · 4 months ago

Text

At the Edge of Silence

Genre: Drama, Suspense, Emotional Romance

Word count: approx. 1,583

Warnings: Moderate violence, kidnapping, emotional triggers (abandonment, manipulation), psychological tension.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Masterlist

I remember the day he left.

There wasn’t much to say. I knew it. He knew it. But still, he tried.

“The job at the FBI takes everything from me, SN. You deserve more.”

Those words, spoken like they were nothing, fell heavy on what was left of us. He looked at me for a second, but avoided eye contact for longer than I wished. I knew, in that instant, he didn’t have the courage to say what he truly felt. And worse, he didn’t want me to know.

He never looked me in the eyes when he spoke. And he never spoke again.

In that moment, I knew he was lying—not to himself, but to me. Because it was never about the job. Never about letting me go. It was about fear. Fear of falling again, of losing himself again. And deep down, I knew that.

I was angry. But I also missed him. Missed what we were, what we could have been. I tried to bury those feelings, day after day, because I couldn’t afford to be consumed by them.

Life went on. I moved forward, because in the end, it was the only thing I could do. But every now and then, memories of us would visit me, like ghosts refusing to let my heart rest.

That’s when the case started.

Four victims. All connected to me. A former college classmate, a professor, a coworker, a friend. But the strangest part was how each one died. The crime scenes were marked by messages—something only someone from my past would know how to do.

The FBI called me in to help.

And with that came the reunion.

Aaron. Hotch.

He was there, standing in front of me like time hadn’t passed. I could see him clearly, but he felt distant, like every step he took drove us further apart from who we used to be.

“SN.” His voice was deeper, more tired. Not much had changed, but something was different. The pain wasn’t hidden anymore.

I just looked at him. I didn’t want to show anything. But inside, my body was at war. I couldn’t, wouldn’t—but I still felt something for him. Something I had buried so deep, and now it was resurfacing like time had never passed.

“Agent Hotchner.” My voice came out firm, like I was a stranger. Like it was just another day at work.

He stared for a moment, like trying to read something in my expression.

“SN, I…” He stopped himself. What was he going to say? I knew he wanted to explain, to apologize, but he couldn’t. He never could.

“What do you need?” I cut him off, trying to stay practical, professional.

He blinked, clearly caught off guard by my coldness. But still, he answered.

“I… think we need to start with what’s going on, right?”

“This isn’t the time or place, Hotch.” I replied, trying to stay composed.

“Let’s talk in my office, please.” He said, his tone softer but still serious.

Continue...

#aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotcher #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic

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new-author3 · 5 months ago

Text

The Weight of Loss-part²

Pairing: Tim Bradford x S/N

Warnings: Grief, mention of death, strong emotional content.

Note: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes. I did my best to convey the story as clearly as possible, and I hope you enjoy the read!

Part 1 - Part 2

Masterlist

Then, without thinking too much, he approached.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice firm but lacking the usual authoritative tone.

S/N looked up, surprised. “Now?”

“Now.” She sighed, as if she wanted to argue, but then gave up, closing the file she was looking over. She stood up and followed him without questioning. He led her to a more private area, away from the curious eyes of their colleagues.

Once they stopped, he crossed his arms and stared at her. His gaze wasn’t as hard as usual — it was worried.

She crossed her arms. “What’s going on?”

He studied her for a moment before speaking. “You don’t have to do this.”

S/N blinked, her body stiffening slightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tim let out a soft sigh. “Pretend you’re fine.”

S/N looked away, tightening her arms around herself. “What do you want me to do, Tim? Cry? Break down in the middle of the precinct? That won’t bring him back.”

“No, it won’t,” he admitted. “But pretending you don’t feel anything won’t either.”

S/N felt a knot tighten in her throat. She wanted to keep denying it, keep saying she was fine, but... she was tired. Tired of pretending that nothing affected her. Tired of holding everything in by herself. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to maintain control. Acting like she could just move on... all of it was draining her strength.

“He was a good man,” she whispered, finally allowing part of the pain to escape through her words.

Tim nodded. “He was, indeed.”

S/N didn’t realize her breathing had started to tremble until she felt his hand on her arm, a firm but unhurried gesture. She opened her eyes and found him watching her with that serious, worried expression that few people saw.

And then, without saying a word, Tim simply pulled her into an embrace.

She froze at first, surprised. Tim Bradford wasn’t the type to hand out hugs. But as she felt his arms around her, an unexpected warmth enveloped her.

Her body wanted to resist, but... she couldn’t.

The tension in her shoulders started to ease, and before she could stop herself, she closed her eyes and allowed that moment to happen. Her face found a space on his shoulder, and she felt the firm hold, as if he wanted to keep her there, to make sure she didn’t break down alone.

Tim didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to force her to fall apart, nor did he let go too quickly. He just stayed there, holding her firmly, making it clear that no matter how much she tried to hide it — he was there.

The silence between them was heavy, but comfortable. He didn’t try to force her to crumble, nor to say more than she could. He just stayed there, present, ensuring she knew she wasn’t alone.

Author's note: It didn’t turn out exactly the way I wanted, but I tried to convey the emotions as best as I could. I hope you can feel the intensity of the story and the connection between the characters. Sometimes, words aren’t enough to express everything, but I hope this reading touches you in some way. Thank you for reading!

#tim bradford imagine #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x reader #the rookie #tim bradford #tim bradford x you #tim bradford x fem!reader #fem!reader #tim bradford the rookie #the rookie x reader #the rookie series

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new-author3 · 5 months ago

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Title: The Weight of Loss

Pairing: Tim Bradford x S/N

Summary: The loss of a dear friend can leave invisible scars, and S/N knows this better than anyone. Between reports and the daily routine at the precinct, she tries to move forward, hiding her pain behind an unshakable mask. But some people see beyond appearances. Some people know that being strong all the time can be too heavy a burden. When Tim Bradford decides to intervene, S/N realizes that sometimes what we need most isn’t words... but a simple gesture capable of keeping us on our feet.

Warnings: Grief, mention of death, strong emotional content.

Word count: Approximately 950

Note: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes. I did my best to convey the story as clearly as possible, and I hope you enjoy the read!

Part 1 - Part 2

Masterlist

Jackson West is gone.

The phrase hammered in S/N's mind like an incessant echo. She couldn’t shake it, no matter how hard she tried. It was strange how the world kept turning normally, how people went on with their lives, laughing, talking, making plans for the future… Meanwhile, a piece of her life had been brutally torn away.

The wake had been a test of endurance. Everyone was there, sharing the same pain in different ways. Lucy was devastated, holding back tears as best she could but failing miserably. Angela and Nyla maintained serious expressions, struggling to stay strong, while Grey, despite being a man of few words, made it clear in his tired eyes the weight of the loss.

S/N, on the other hand, didn’t cry. She didn’t allow herself to.

She stood firm, staring at the closed casket, listening to the empty words of comfort people repeated like a mantra. All the while, she felt a tight knot in her throat, but refused to let it win.

Because if she allowed herself even a single moment of weakness, she knew she could completely fall apart...

Now, back at the precinct, she sat at her desk, picked up a random report, and tried to focus. But the numbers and words blurred in front of her eyes. Nothing made sense. The environment felt unreal. As if Jackson were going to walk through the door at any moment, making one of his sharp observations or trying to relieve the tension with a joke. But he wouldn’t come in.

The emptiness he left was a hole no one could fill.

On the other side of the room, Tim was watching her.

He wasn’t the type to interfere in people’s personal matters, but he knew S/N well enough to see that, behind that mask of indifference, something was broken.

Tim had seen this behavior before. He had done it himself more times than he could count. Pretending to be fine, that he could just move on, that he was strong enough to handle everything on his own. He knew how that kind of pain worked — and he knew that sooner or later, if she didn’t find a way to face it, it would consume her.She was hurting. She just didn’t want to show it.

continue....

#tim bradford imagine #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford x reader #the rookie #tim bradford #fem!reader #tim bradford the rookie #the rookie x reader #the rookie series

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new-author3 · 5 months ago

Text

WRECKED

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Words: 9k

Plot: It's your first time with Jason. You thought you knew what to expect—until he ruined you. (yep, I'm officially a whore, and my old crushes are coming back lmao)

CW: established relationship, 18+, smut, oral sex, overstimulation, praise, creampie, aftercare

It starts the second you're outside the bar. Jason's hand finds your waist, pulling you close like he can't bear the space between you any longer. His lips crash against yours—hungry, rough, possessive. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, tongue sliding against yours as he walks you backward toward his bike.

You don't make it far. His hand—big, calloused—cups the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devours you. His other hand grips your ass, fingers digging in like he owns you already. He groans when you grind into him, hips meeting yours with a delicious friction that has you whining.

"Fuck," he mutters against your lips. "Can't wait to get you home."

The ride to his apartment is a blur—his hand on your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles that make your pussy throb. The second you're inside, the door slams shut, and he's on you. His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your bottom lip before he bites just enough to make you moan. His hands slide under your thighs, and—fuck—he lifts you like you weigh nothing, pinning you against the door.

You gasp, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling how hard he is through his jeans. He rolls his hips, grinding against you, and you whimper, clutching at his jacket.

"Jesus, listen to you," he growls, lips trailing to your jaw, then your neck.

His teeth scrape over your pulse before he sucks a bruise there, and your head thumps against the door. His big hands squeeze your ass, lifting and dropping you just enough to rub you against the bulge in his pants.

"Jason," you gasp, hips moving on instinct.

"Yeah, baby? Feels good?"

His voice is low, rough like gravel, and you can feel the smirk against your skin. He carries you to the bedroom effortlessly, tossing you onto the mattress with a grin. You barely catch your breath before he's climbing over you, tossing his jacket, kissing you like he's starving.

"You're so fuckin' pretty," he murmurs, fingers working at your clothes. "Bet you taste even better."

Your shirt goes next, then your bra, and shit, the way his eyes darken has heat flooding your cheeks. His palms—warm, rough—cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You arch into him, moaning when his mouth replaces his hands, tongue flicking before he sucks one into his mouth. His other hand kneads your other breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

"You like that, baby?" His voice is a growl against your skin. "So sensitive... fuck, I could play with these all night."

He trails kisses lower, teeth grazing your stomach, and your breath hitches. His fingers hook into your waistband, dragging your pants and panties down slow. His gaze never leaves yours—hungry, possessive.

"Fuckin' gorgeous," he mutters, spreading your legs. "Look at this pretty pussy."

"Jay," you whimper, hips lifting.

"I've got you," he promises, voice thick. "Gonna make you feel so fuckin' good, baby."

Then fuck, his mouth is on you. His tongue drags through your folds, slow and filthy, making your back arch off the bed. He groans against you like you're his favorite meal, licking you like he can't get enough. His tongue flicks over your clit—soft at first, then harder when you moan—and you feel the smirk against you.

"Goddamn, you taste good," he mutters, voice rough.

His tongue dips lower, fucking into you, and you sob, fingers tangling in his hair. He sucks your clit, tongue flicking just right, and your hips grind against his face, chasing the heat coiling in your belly.

"That's it, baby. Take what you need," he growls, tongue relentless.

Your legs shake, toes curling as the pleasure builds, sharp and hot. His hands—huge, strong—hold your thighs open, keeping you right where he wants you. You moan his name, voice wrecked, and he groans against you, the vibrations shooting straight through you.

"Fuck, Jason—"

You're close, teetering on the edge—your whole body strung tight, nerves buzzing—when one thick finger pushes in. It's slow, intentional, stretching you inch by inch. Your breath catches, walls fluttering around him, so full from just his finger.

"Fuck," Jason groans, voice rough. "God, you're tight."

His eyes—dark, blown wide with lust—stay on yours, drinking in every twitch, every gasp that slips from your lips. His free hand holds your thigh open, firm but gentle, like he wants you spread just for him.

Then—without warning—he adds a second finger. The stretch is intense, burning in that delicious way that has your back arching, hips tilting to take him deeper.

"Easy," he murmurs, soft, despite how wrecked he looks. "Gotta stretch this pretty little pussy out for me, baby. Can't have you strugglin' with my dick."

God. Your cheeks burn, heat flooding through you at his words, pussy clenching tight around his fingers. He feels it, and the groan that rumbles from his chest is obscene.

"You like that?"

His grin is crooked, cocky. His fingers curl—fuck—pressing right against that perfect spot inside you. Your mouth falls open, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as your hips jerk.

"There," he breathes, eyes locked on your face. "Right there, huh?"

His pace picks up—slow but deep, fingers fucking into you like he's got all the time in the world. He twists them just right, dragging along your walls with a rhythm that has your thighs trembling. The wet sounds echo in the room, filthy and soaked, each thrust squelching louder as your arousal drips down to his palm.

"Jesus, baby," Jason groans, gaze dropping to where his fingers disappear into you. "Look at this pussy—so fuckin' wet for me. I haven't even fucked you yet, and you're already drippin'."

Your head falls back, heat swirling in your belly, pleasure winding tight. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, precise circles that make your vision blur.

"That's it," he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh as he presses kisses between filthy praise. "Take it, baby. Just like that... fuck, you're squeezin' my fingers so good."

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your clit, and you cry out, hips jerking. The combination—his fingers curling deep, tongue working your sensitive bundle of nerves—has you unraveling fast.

"Jay—fuck—I—I'm gonna—"

"I know, baby," he growls against your pussy, voice wrecked. "Cum for me. C'mon, lemme feel you soak my fingers."

And fuck, you do. The coil snaps—white-hot and all-consuming—as you cum hard, walls clenching around his fingers. Your whole body shudders, pleasure crashing over you in waves. You sob his name, hips rocking through it, chasing every last spark.

Jason keeps going, drawing it out, his fingers fucking into you through your orgasm. Your slick coats his hand, dripping onto the sheets, and the sounds—messy, obscene—only make the high hit harder.

"Goddamn," he mutters, watching you with a look that's part worship, part starving. "Look at you. So fuckin' pretty when you cum. Feels so good around my fingers... can't wait to feel you around my dick."

You're panting, body wrecked—but his mouth finds you again, fingers slipping out of you, and he's licking you clean, tongue dragging through your folds, tasting every drop you've given him. You whimper, overstimulated—but he groans, sucking your clit just to hear you whine.

"You can give me another one, baby," he murmurs against you, voice dangerous. "Haven't even started yet."

Your orgasm barely fades before Jason's mouth is back on you, tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe through your folds. Your hips jerk, thighs trembling from the overstimulation, but his hands—big and firm—press your legs open, keeping you spread wide for him.

"Jay—" you whimper, trying to close up, overwhelmed, but his grip tightens.

"Uh-uh, baby," he murmurs against your soaked cunt, voice rough and dark. "Told you, I'm not done. Not 'til I taste everything you've got for me."

Fuck. Heat swirls in your belly, a mess of pleasure and desperation, nerves alight. You try to squirm, try to close your legs again—but it's useless. His arms are strong, holding you open like you're nothing to him—just something to devour.

And God, the way he eats you out...

His tongue moves slow, deliberate, fucking into you with wet, obscene strokes that make your head spin. It's messy, his spit mixing with your slick, dripping down to the sheets below. Every flick, every press of his tongue is precise, like he's studied your body—like he knows exactly how to pull those sounds from you.

Your back arches, hips trying to ride his face, and he groans, the vibration shooting through you. His hands grip your thighs, thumbs pressing bruising marks into your skin as he guides you over his mouth.

"You taste so fuckin' good," he mutters, pulling back just enough to breathe you in, his lips slick with your arousal. His eyes—dark, pupils blown—drag up your body, gaze heated. "Could eat this pussy all night."

Your mind reels. No one's ever eaten you like this before, ever. The guys you dated? Please. They'd barely been able to find your clit, let alone worship you like this, like you're the best thing Jason's ever had in his mouth. And God, the way he looks at you—like you're his. Like he lives for the way you moan, the way you fall apart under his tongue.

"Jay," you gasp, fingers threading through his hair, tugging—but he just laughs, deep and hungry.

"You can pull all you want, baby," he grins against you, fucking into you with his tongue again. "Not lettin' you go 'til you cum on my face."

His tongue fucks into you deep, and fuck— your legs shake, your whole body strung tight. Pleasure coils low in your belly, building fast, dizzying. Jason knows. Of course he does. His gaze stays locked on your face, watching every gasp, every shudder. Loving how you fall apart for him.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, lips dragging over your clit before he sucks—hard, perfect. "Give it to me. I wanna feel you cum again, wanna taste it."

And fuck, you do.

The second orgasm hits hard, ripping through you with white-hot intensity. Your thighs clamp around his head—but he doesn't stop, hands holding you open as he devours you through it. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body writhing, sobbing his name.

So good—too good.

Jason groans like he can't get enough, tongue dragging through your soaked folds, drinking down everything you give him. In his head, it's a mess of thoughts—she's so fuckin' beautiful, so tight and wet and perfect. Could spend hours between her legs, make her cum until she's cryin'— mine.

When you finally go limp, chest heaving, body wrecked, he pulls back with a filthy grin. His lips, chin—soaked. His eyes burn into you, warm and starving.

"Fuck," he breathes, kissing your inner thigh. "So good for me."

Your chest heaves, vision hazy as you blink down at him. His mouth is slick with you, lips curled into that cocky grin—but his eyes are soft, like you're the only thing that matters.

Then he moves up, muscles shifting beneath flushed skin, body radiating heat. His hand comes up, fingers threading into your hair, cupping the top of your head just right. The touch sends a shiver down your spine—gentle, but possessive. He tilts your face toward him, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, and then he kisses you. God.

It's messy, hot and filthy, your mouths sliding together. His lips are soft but urgent, tongue pressing past yours like he needs you. You can taste yourself on him, thick and salty, spreading across your tongue—fuck. Your fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into hard muscle as you suck on his tongue, drawing a deep, hungry groan from his chest.

He presses closer, crowding you against the bed, hand tightening in your hair. The kiss turns sloppy, wet noises filling the space between gasps and moans. His lips drag over yours, breathing you in, swallowing the soft whimpers you can't hold back.

Then, he pulls back. Barely. Just enough to look at you. His gaze roams over your face—flushed, lips swollen and slick from him—ruined. His thumb brushes your rosy cheek, tender amidst the heat.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful, baby," he murmurs, voice thick with something soft, something real. His eyes catch yours—burning, sincere. "Don't be shy."

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Fuck. You blush, lips parting to speak but words fail you. All you can do is nod, heart pounding.

And then you pull him back in.

Another kiss—this one deeper, needier, tongues tangling like you can't get enough. Because you can't. Not with the way he holds you, not with the way he tastes, not with the way his body presses into yours like you belong there, like this is where you've always belonged. And God, maybe you do.

Your hands are all over him—fingers dragging across heated skin, nails scraping over the hard planes of his back as you kiss like you'll die without it. It's frantic, messy, lips sliding, teeth clashing, tongues greedy. His hands are everywhere—gripping, squeezing, grinding you against him until you can feel how hard he is through his jeans, thick and aching.

Somehow, between kisses that leave you breathless, you fumble with his shirt, tugging it up. Jason breaks away just long enough to yank it off, tossing it aside—fuck.

God, he's all muscle. Broad chest, pecs firm, shoulders so wide they make you feel small. His abs are cut, ridges begging to be traced, and fuck, you do—running your hands down his stomach as he groans, head tipping back. His skin is warm, stretched over powerful muscle and old scars, stories written across him.

Your gaze drops—oh God.

He's stripping out of his jeans now, pushing them down along with his boxers—and fuck. You knew he was big. You knew it from the way his hands dwarfed yours, the way his fingers stretched you open when he prepped you, the way his cock felt heavy against your belly when he first laid you out beneath him.

But seeing it— really seeing it—makes your throat go dry. He's long and thick, veiny, the head flushed and leaking. Precum beads at the tip, dripping down the shaft, smearing across your skin when he presses close again. You can feel it, sticky warmth spreading over your stomach—fuck.

Your legs are already spread, body pliant under his touch, flushed warm from how long he's spent kissing every inch of you. But now that you're here, staring down at that thick length, your confidence wavers.

"Jay," you breathe, voice softer than you expect—half awe, half holy shit.

He knows. Of course he does. His hands are already smoothing up your thighs, squeezing gently as he leans over you. Dark hair falls forward, that white streak that you like catching the dim light, casting shadows across his wrecked face. His eyes—fuck—dark, pupils blown wide with lust, consuming you.

"You still good, baby?"

His voice is low, thick with restraint, like he's holding himself back by a thread. Your mouth opens—but nothing comes out at first. Instead, your fingers flex against his shoulders, gripping hard. He's just... so big.

Jason lets out a quiet chuckle, dipping down to kiss your nose—sweet, soft. "You're lookin' at me like I'm about to break you."

You swallow, heart pounding. "You are."

His jaw flexes, something raw flickering across his face—heat, hunger, something tender too.

"Nah." His lips brush yours—soft, a promise in the wreckage. "Gonna take care of you." Another kiss, deeper this time, stealing your breath. "Gonna make it feel good."

He lines himself up, cock heavy in his hand, and fuck, you can feel it—hot and throbbing against your soaked folds. His other hand rests on your thigh, holding you open like it's the easiest thing in the world.

You're panting, skin flushed, every nerve lit up as he drags the thick head of his dick through your slick, smearing precum and arousal together until it's messy, sticky, filthy.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, voice rough, wrecked. "Look at this... look at how wet you are for me."

His gaze drops to where you're spread wide for him, cock nudging your clit—a jolt shoots through you, your hips twitching—but his hands hold you down, firm and unchanging.

"You hear that?" he rasps, rolling his hips just enough that the head slides against your swollen clit—slick noises filling the air. "Soaked, baby. Shit, you're fuckin' perfect."

Heat flares through you, cheeks burning, but you can't stop the needy little whimper that escapes when he teases your entrance again, tip pressing just barely inside.

His gaze lifts—hungry, dark, soft. Like you're his whole goddamn world. "You ready for me, pretty girl?" His thumb brushes your cheek, tender despite the weight of his cock poised at your entrance. "Gonna take care of you, yeah?"

You nod, breath catching. "Yeah... Please."

Jason's jaw tightens, like he's barely holding on. "Good girl."

And then—fuck—he starts to push in.

The stretch is instant, your pussy straining around the thick head of his cock. It's too much, too big, and your fingers scramble for purchase, gripping the sheets tight as a gasp rips from your throat.

"F-fuck—"

"Shhh, I've got you," Jason soothes, voice gentle even as his hips press forward. His hand slides up, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. "Just breathe for me, baby. So good, takin' me so fuckin' well."

You try, you really do, but God, the burn. It's sharp, making your legs twitch, hips jerking. His cock splits you open, inch by slow, agonizing inch.

Jason groans, head dropping to rest against your shoulder for a beat, shaking. "Jesus, baby... you're—fuck. Squeezin' me so fuckin' tight."

His words send heat pooling in your belly, but it's so much, stretching you to your limit. You bite your lip, eyes squeezed shut as he pauses, hips still, letting you adjust. His hand cups your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"You okay?"

His voice is soft, earnest. Like he'd stop if you asked. Like he wants you to feel good more than anything.

You nod, chest heaving. "Hurts... but fuck, it's so good."

"Yeah?" His lips brush yours, achingly tender. "You're doin' so fuckin' good for me, baby. So fuckin' tight, can barely—shit—barely fit."

And then he rocks his hips, just a little, just to test the water. White-hot pleasure sparks, the pain melting, shifting into something else entirely. Your walls clench around him instinctively, trying to pull him deeper, and fuck—your whimper slips out, soft, shaky, helpless.

Jason's breath catches, body tense, every muscle flexing. He looks down at you, pupils blown, lips parted. "Fuck, do that again," he rasps, voice barely there.

Your mind swims, overwhelmed—but when he rolls his hips once more, your body betrays you, another whimper falling free.

Jason growls. Deep, rough, like he's losing it. He pushes in slow, cock thick and unforgiving as your pussy clings to every inch, stretching around him. There's a burn, sharp and intense, making your breath hitch, but fuck, it feels so good, hurts just right.

"Shhh," Jason soothes, voice low, thick with restraint. His hands frame your face, holding you steady, his muscles taut beneath your fingers. "Doin' so good, baby. Just a little more. Almost there."

He pauses, lets you breathe, lets you feel. His cock throbs inside you, barely halfway in, and you're already so full. You gasp, head tilting back, chest heaving.

"Fuck," you whisper, walls fluttering. "So big..."

Jason's jaw flexes, a soft groan spilling from his lips. "Yeah? You're takin' me so fuckin' well. Goddamn, look at you." His gaze drops, watching where his cock disappears into you, your slick coating him. "Messy already, baby. So pretty."

He eases in further, slow, careful, letting you adjust. Your cunt struggles to take him, every inch a stretch, a burn, but it melts, shifts into pleasure, thick and all-consuming.

And then he bottoms out.

You gasp, a soft cry escaping as his hips press flush against yours. "Oh God—" so deep, so hot, so full.

Your pussy clenches, overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Jason leans down, kisses you. Slow, deep, hot. His tongue slides against yours, coaxing you into a messy dance that makes your walls tighten around him.

He groans softly into your mouth—low, rough, and fuck, you feel it everywhere. His tongue dances with yours, messy, heated, but not rushed, like he wants to savor you, to taste every little sound you make. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he leans into it, deepening the kiss until your lungs burn and your head swims.

Your pussy flutters around his thick cock, gripping him with every shift of his hips, the fullness inside you making your toes curl. Every swirl of his tongue sends sparks down your spine, feeding that deep ache between your legs. God, you're so full of him, your slick walls clenching like your body is begging to keep him there.

And underneath it all, that steady throb of him inside you, every flutter of your cunt making him curse softly against your lips, hips stuttering as your body squeezes him tight.

"Shit, baby," he groans into your mouth. "Clampin' down on me like that—fuck—feels so fuckin' good."

Your head spins, drowning in heat and him. When he pulls back, breaking the kiss, his eyes are dark, soft, wrecked.

"You alright?" he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath shaky. "Please... move."

That's all it takes. Jason pulls out almost entirely, the thick head dragging against your sensitive walls—your slick making a wet sound that has him groaning, hips trembling.

Then, he pushes back in. Slow. Deliberate. Every inch filling you perfectly.

Your mind blurs, overwhelmed by the stretch and heat. Fuck, he feels so good, so full, your pussy molding to him like it was made for this. And bare, skin-to-skin—it's different. Better. Raw. Intimate.

No barriers. Just him. You. Heat. Friction.

Your thoughts spiral, remembering how sweet he'd been—getting tested just for you. "You don't have to, baby," he'd said, so sure, so trusting. But you had anyway. Wanted to reassure him. Wanted this. Bare. Real. And God, you hadn't known sex could feel this good. Jason's pace is slow, deep, torturous. His hips roll, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.

"Fuck, baby—" his voice is rough, wrecked. "Pussy's perfect. So fuckin' tight. So good. You hear yourself? Best fuckin' sounds I ever heard."

Your moans spill free, soft, needy, mixing with the slick sounds of him fucking into you. His lips find yours again—kissing you, worshiping you, every thrust measured, deep, making you feel every inch.

Jason moves slow, deep, fucking you with a rhythm that makes your whole body ache for more. Every thrust has him sliding against your walls, every drag of his cock making your pussy tighten like it never wants to let him go. And fuck, he feels it—feels the way you're so wet, so hot, your cunt pulling him in like you were made for this.

"Shit," he mutters, voice rough as his forehead drops against yours. "You're gonna kill me, baby."

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, his breath ragged, every exhale heavy with restraint. "Sound so fuckin' sweet."

You can't hold still. Your hands scramble for purchase, gripping his arms, his back, nails digging into the muscle that flexes with every roll of his hips.

"Jay, I—"

"I know, baby," he whispers, voice strained, thick with want. "I know. I've got you. I've got you."

And fuck, he does. His hands are everywhere—one sliding down your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts your leg higher against his waist, adjusting the angle. And when he thrusts again—

His hips roll slow, deep, dragging pleasure through your veins, making your body tremble beneath him. You're stretching, adjusting, but it still feels like too much—too big, too deep—but you love it, love how he's holding you together even as he's pulling you apart.

"Fuck," he groans, voice shaking. "Look at you."

You barely have the strength to open your eyes, but when you do—fuck. He looks wrecked. His jaw is clenched tight, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands—his big, gentle hands—stroke along your body, like he's memorizing every inch of you. And then he leans down, lips brushing your temple, voice low and possessive.

"Mine," he murmurs, rough and raw. "All mine."

Your breath hitches, body clenching around him at the gravel in his voice.

Jason grins, breathless, his nose brushing yours. "Love those little noises, baby." His hips roll again, slow, teasing, making your toes curl. "You gonna keep whimpering for me?"

You can't stop. Not when he has you like this—stretched out beneath him, held so gently even as he fucks you deep.

He groans, lips trailing down your throat, biting lightly at your shoulder. "Fuck," he mutters, voice rough, words punctuated by another deep, perfect thrust. "Gonna make you feel so fuckin' good."

Your body arches, thighs shaking, and Jason—God, he feels everything. How you clench when he kisses you, how your cunt squeezes him when he praises you.

You cling to him like you'll fall apart if you don't, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, pulling him down until his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is deep, sloppy, hot, all teeth and tongue, your moans spilling between his lips as he fucks you faster. His hips snap forward, each thrust deeper, harder, making you cry out against his mouth.

"Fuck—baby," he groans into the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, tasting every little sound you make. "So fuckin' sweet—"

His skin slaps against yours, the squelch of your slick coating him every time he bottoms out, his pelvis rubbing right against your clit—right there—and fuck, it's too much. Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, pulling him closer, tighter, like you can anchor yourself to him.

"Jay—oh my God—"

"Yeah?" he grunts, lips dragging down to your neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks that'll sting later. "That feel good, baby? Fuckin'—God, you feel so fuckin' good around me."

Your moans get higher, softer, desperate, your body trembling beneath him as he pounds into you. Every thrust hits that spot, the pressure building so tight you can barely breathe.

"C'mon, pretty girl," he pants, voice wrecked, hips grinding deeper. "Give it to me. Wanna feel you cum on my dick."

That pushes you over. Your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train, pleasure exploding through your veins, blinding, hot, overwhelming. Your back arches, mouth falling open in a cry that's half moan, half sob, your cunt clenching so tight around him it pulls a growl from his chest.

"Fuck, fuck, baby—"

He keeps moving, hips grinding through it, dragging out your orgasm until you're shaking, your thighs trembling around his waist. Every thrust makes you feel it everywhere, your clit rubbing against his skin, sparks of pleasure crackling through you with every squelching slide of his cock.

"Goddamn," Jason groans, head dropping to your shoulder, panting, his voice rough in your ear. "Pussy's squeezin' me so fuckin' tight—shit. Feels so good, baby, so fuckin' good."

Your fingers scrape down his back, desperate for more, even as your body twitches with aftershocks. His cock drags against your over-sensitive walls, making you whimper, and he smirks against your skin.

"Look at you," he pants, fucking into you slow now, deep, making you feel every inch. "Takin' me so good, baby—fuck, love how you cum for me."

Your brain's mush, your body boneless, but you want more.

"Jay..."

It's half a moan, half a whimper, and fuck, the sound makes his hips stutter. His eyes snap to yours, brows furrowing with instant worry. Shit. His brain short-circuits, thoughts racing—Did I hurt her? Push too far?

The last thing he wants is to hurt you, to ruin this. His heart twists, the rush of panic making his grip ease but then you lick your lips, breath shaky, eyes dark with need.

"H-harder," you whisper, voice barely there but wrecked, needy, and so fucking hot it punches the air from his lungs.

He goes dumb for a second—blinking, brain lagging—because holy shit.

"You sure, baby?"

His voice is rough, low, edged with concern but fuck, there's heat burning bright in his eyes. You nod, brows furrowed, lips parted, dripping for him, and God, he's gone. So fucking gone.

You have no idea how completely wrecked he is over you, how your face, your sounds, the way you look right now is burned into his soul. Fuck, he doesn't think he's ever wanted anyone this badly—no, not badly. Desperately.

"If something doesn't feel right," he rasps, leaning in, voice serious beneath the hunger, "you tell me, yeah?"

You nod again, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, and that's it—he loses it. His hips snap forward, harder, deeper, faster, dragging a sharp cry from your throat as your head throws back, mouth falling open. God, the sound, the way your tits bounce with every thrust—it's too much.

His gaze locks on them, entranced, like they're the prettiest fucking thing he's ever seen—soft, perfect, fucking begging for his mouth. He leans down, tongue flicking over a pebbled nipple, sucking, licking, his lips wrapping around it hungrily.

"Fuck—" he groans against your skin, teeth scraping just enough to make you shiver.

He moves to the other, sucking deep, leaving faint hickeys, marks he wants burned into your skin because you're his right now—all his.

"Look at you," he pants, thrusting deep, hips grinding against you, rubbing your clit just right. "So fuckin' gorgeous... bouncin' for me like that—shit, baby, you're unreal."

Your nails dig into his back, scraping, making him groan against your chest. His thrusts pick up, relentless, dragging wet, filthy squelches from where he's buried deep, your pussy clenching around him so perfectly.

"Fuckin' God," he grits out, "feel like you're made for me." His voice breaks, wrecked with pure need, hips slamming into yours, making the bed creak, skin slapping loud and obscene. "So tight, baby, takin' me so fuckin' good—shit, you hear that? Hear how wet you are for me?"

Every thrust makes your breath hitch, your body rocking with his. His mouth moves between your neck and chest, tasting, licking, biting, leaving you marked, claimed.

"Fuck, baby—fuck," he pants, hips relentless, his abs flexing against your stomach, body hot and solid. "You're gonna ruin me. Shit, you already have."

He pulls away, your nipple leaving his mouth with a wet pop, and fuck, the way your chest heaves makes him want to dive back in—but no. Not yet.

He sits upright, hands gripping your hips, and Jesus, the sight wrecks him. His gaze locks on the place where his dick slides in and out of you, slick and glistening, soaked with how fucking wet you are.

"Shit, baby—" his voice catches, rough and wrecked, "look at this."

Your pussy stretches around him, tight and perfect, swallowing him whole. Every thrust drags a filthy squelch, his cock gleaming with your slick, and fuck, you’re making a mess—dripping down to his balls, coating him. His abs flex with every deep thrust, jaw clenched as he watches your cunt take him, take all of him.

"Goddamn," he groans, hips rolling, eyes glued to where you're joined. "Look at you takin' it—fuck, baby, you're takin' my whole dick—" He grits his teeth, pulling out slow, just to watch your pussy cling, desperate to keep him inside. "You're gonna kill me, baby. Shit."

You squirm, sheepish, a flush burning across your skin. "Don't... don't look at me," you whine, voice small, embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze, the way he's devouring you with his eyes.

His gaze snaps to yours, dark and hot, but there's warmth in it—soft, reassuring beneath the feral hunger.

"Hey," he murmurs, hips still moving, deep, slow, "don't do that. Don't hide from me." His thumb brushes along your hip, gentle despite the rough pace. "You're fuckin' gorgeous, baby, every part of you. Watching you take me like this—shit, it's the hottest thing I've ever seen."

And then—fuck—his hand moves, sliding down until his fingers find your clit, puffy and needy. He circles it, slow, deliberate, just as his hips pound into you, dragging a choked whine from your throat.

"Jay—oh, fuck... too much," you whimper, hips jerking, trying to squirm away, but his grip tightens, holding you right there.

"No, baby," he pants, hips relentless, dick hitting deep, stretching you wide. "You can take it. You're my good girl, right? Gimme one more, c'mon, I'm so fuckin' close."

Your mind spins, thoughts scattered, every thrust punching pleasure through your veins. He's big—God, so fucking big—stretching you to the limit, filling you so deep it feels like you can feel him in your throat. Every thrust hits that spot, sparks exploding behind your eyes. This is the best fuck of your life, no contest.

And fuck, people call him scary, say he's dangerous—but not here, not with you. Not like this. Not when his touch is careful, when he's so mindful of your pleasure, his voice gentle even as he wrecks you.

"God," he groans, hips slamming into you, his thumb rubbing against your clit with every thrust, making your thighs shake. "You feel so fuckin' good. Tight, wet, takin' me so perfect. Baby—shit—you got no idea what you're doin' to me."

Your nails dig into his arms, desperate, overwhelmed, his dick dragging against your walls, making you see stars.

He pounds into you, hips slamming against yours with bruising force, each thrust dragging a broken moan from your throat. His fingers circle your clit, faster, harder, until you're falling apart, babbling, a mess of whimpers and cries.

"Fuck, Jay... oh my God, please—"

You can't think, can't breathe, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your back arching, body tightening beneath him.

"That's it, baby. Fuck, you're takin' me so good. C'mon,give it to me... cum for me, doll—wanna feel you squeeze me," he growls, hips relentless, cock dragging against your sweet spot over and over.

And fuck, when it hits—it's devastating. Your vision whites out, body snapping taut as your orgasm crashes through you, intense, all-consuming. Your pussy clamps down around him, pulsing, milking his cock, making him curse, a ragged moan tearing from his chest.

But he doesn't stop.

He leans over you, his mouth crashing against yours in a bruising kiss, messy, desperate. His tongue tangles with yours, claiming, consuming, swallowing your gasps and whimpers as he fucks you through your high. His hips drive deep, faster, rougher, chasing his own release, and you melt under him—helpless, wrecked.

"God, Jay, you feel so good," you whimper against his lips, voice wrecked, slurred with pleasure. "So deep, fuck... so good—"

His eyes flutter shut, hips slamming into you with single-minded focus, cock dragging against your sensitive walls. "Fuck, baby," he pants, voice rough, wrecked, "you got no fuckin' idea—shit—drivin' me crazy."

He moans—deep, guttural—right in your ear, making your whole body shudder. "Where d'you want me to cum, doll?" His voice breaks, hips still pounding, "Tell me—fuck—where d'you want it?"

You don't hesitate, eyes glassy, lips parted, "Inside me, God, please—"

And fuck, that's it—he's gone.

"Shit, fuck, fuck," he growls, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hips slamming into you like a man possessed.

His dick throbs, swelling inside you—then he breaks, hips jerking, and he cums, hard, deep. Hot ropes of cum flood your pussy, the pressure blinding, making you cry out, pussy clenching around him.

God. His load is huge. You can feel it—hot, thick, endless. Spurts of cum paint your insides, flooding your pussy so much it spills out, leaking around his thrusting cock in wet, sticky streams. Each pulse of his dick sends another gush of cum deeper, so warm and slick you swear you feel it spreading, coating every inch of your clenching walls.

And fuck, your cunt's puffy, swollen from how hard he's fucked you, stretched so perfectly around him, gripping him like your body refuses to let him go. His cock's still thick, throbbing, buried balls-deep as he grinds his hips, like he needs to push it all in—like he wants his cum everywhere.

The pressure's too much.

Your clit's throbbing, overstimulated, slick and sensitive from how he rubbed it raw, from how his skin keeps dragging against it. And with his cum gushing inside, with his cock pounding it deeper, it tips you over again—one last time.

Your orgasm slams into you like a fucking freight train.

"Oh, fuck, Jay... oh my God—"

Your back arches, mouth dropping open in a silent scream before broken moans spill out, babbling, wrecked. Your pussy clamps down so tight around him it makes him curse, hips jerking.

"Shit, baby, fuck—" as you milk his cock, your walls spasming, pulling every last drop from him.

Stars burst behind your eyelids—white-hot, blinding. Your whole body shakes, overwhelmed, nerves lit up, toes curling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you, relentless, all-consuming.

You can't stop shaking, can't stop moaning, a wrecked mess under him, drenched in sweat, skin tingling from how good—how fucking good—he makes you feel.

And he's still there, still grinding, fucking his cum into you, hips rolling slow, making wet squelches fill the air—filthy, messy, your combined slick and his cum making a sloppy mess between you. You feel it leak out, thick streams oozing past where you're stretched wide around him, warm as it dribbles down your ass.

"Look at you," he pants, voice wrecked, dark eyes devouring you. "So fuckin' pretty, makin' a mess all over me. Shit, baby, takin' me so good."

Your breath hitches, heart racing, head spinning. You're ruined. Destroyed. And fuck, you love it. Your body trembles, and you sob—not from pain, but from too much pleasure, from how overwhelmed you are.

"Shhh, pretty girl," he murmurs, voice soft, soothing, as his lips brush over your skin—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips—gentle pecks that ground you, anchor you to him.

His big hands roam your body, soothing touches that chase away the lingering tremors.

"It's okay, baby. Got you," he whispers, thumb rubbing soft circles along your hip.

His body's so warm against yours, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, damp with sweat. He's careful, so careful not to crush you with his weight, propped up just enough to let you breathe, but still close enough that you can feel him everywhere.

And fuck, his dick's still inside you, still thick, still faintly throbbing. The stretch makes you whimper, a soft, shaky sound that tugs at his heart. He smiles, leans down, and runs a hand through your hair, fingers gentle, comforting.

"You did so good for me," he murmurs, voice rough but tender. "So fuckin' good, pretty girl."

Your lashes flutter, heart pounding, and you murmur, voice wobbly, "God, that... that was... so fucking good."

He chuckles, low and warm, a sound that rumbles through his chest. "Yeah, baby?"

His dark eyes soften when you nod, your nose brushing his, eyes big and beautiful, looking at him with this adoring gaze that wrecks him all over again. Fuck, you let him fuck you like that—hard, deep, relentless—and now you're looking at him like he hung the stars, like he didn't just ruin you, like he's something good. And God, that does something to him. Warms him, unravels him, makes him want to kiss you again and again.

So he does.

He leans down, lips brushing yours, and the kiss unfolds slow, lazy, messy. His tongue slides against yours, soft moans mixing between your mouths. Your lips part, welcoming him, and he tastes you, deep and slow, like he's got all the time in the world. His fingers thread through your hair, cradling you, keeping you close as you melt into him.

Your breaths mingle, warm and shaky, tongues sliding together in a sloppy kiss that's all soft sounds—wet licks, gentle sucks, hushed moans. You cling to him, nails digging into his back, and he loves it, loves you like this—soft, wrecked, beautiful.

He breaks the kiss after a few lingering licks, breathing heavy against your lips, and slowly, he begins to pull out.

You hiss, a sharp, shaky sound, and your thighs tremble, cunt sore, swollen, molded to the shape of his cock. The drag of him leaving your puffy, overstimulated pussy has your eyes fluttering, jaw slack, as warm, sticky cum begins to leak out—his load, thick and hot, spilling down your messy folds.

And fuck, his eyes are glued to the sight.

Your pussy is glistening, wrecked, stretched from taking him so deep and so good, and there's so much cum, sticky strings connecting your swollen lips to his slick, flushed dick. His jaw clenches, fingers itching to push it back in, to watch you drip around his cock again. God, the urge is unbearable.

But then you whimper, soft and tired, and he shakes himself out of it, soothing a hand over your quivering thigh. "Easy, baby," he murmurs, voice rough but gentle, "I know."

He plops down beside you, muscles relaxing, and you instinctively snuggle in, nuzzling against his broad, sweaty chest. His heartbeat's steady, comforting, and without hesitation, his arms wrap around you, pulling you close. He presses a kiss to your temple, warm lips lingering as his fingers trace soft shapes along your damp skin.

"You okay?" he asks, voice low, concern threading through the roughness.

You nod, so sleepy, so fucked out, eyelids heavy. "Mhmm," you murmur, content.

He chuckles, that deep, warm sound rumbling through his chest, and god, it soothes you. His calloused fingers glide along your sweat-slicked skin, slow, comforting, as you breathe him in—warm, safe, so good.

You tilt your head up, blinking lazily, and pout, voice soft, "Can I stay?"

He pauses, brows knitting as he glances down. "What?"

Your cheeks heat, and you look away, suddenly sheepish. Fuck. He doesn't exactly scream cuddles after fucking. Not with the reputation that precedes him.

But then his fingers gently tilt your chin up, urging your gaze back to his. "Hey, talk to me, baby."

Your heart skips. You swallow, nervous, "I mean... I... can I stay the night?"

For a beat, there's silence, then—he laughs, a surprised, genuine sound, and cups your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your warm skin.

"I didn't know leaving was an option."

Your eyes widen, taken aback, and then you giggle, nose scrunching. "You like me that much?"

And God, you've only been together a few weeks, and yeah, maybe you thought he was just waiting to fuck you, toss you aside after—but fuck, he's been so good to you from the start.

You just... believed the talk, like a moron. He's Red Hood, Jason Todd. He fucks and leaves. That's what everyone said. But he never made you feel like that. Not once.

"I do," he says, simple, honest, and it hits you right in the chest.

Your heart flutters, and you see it—the sincerity in those bright blue eyes, something soft and real that makes your throat tighten.

His hand trails down from your side, and then—he cups your ass, big hand kneading the soft flesh before giving it a playful slap.

You yelp, giggling against his chest, and he grins, "Couldn't help myself," he murmurs, teasing.

You almost fall asleep against him, nuzzled into his warm chest, surrounded by the steady beat of his heartbeat and the faint scent of his skin—clean, a hint of gunpowder, and something uniquely him that makes your head spin. God, he smells so fucking good.

His fingers trace soft patterns along your sweaty skin, gentle, soothing, and fuck, it's impossible not to drift. Your eyelids droop, breath slowing, body boneless against him.

But then—he shifts slightly, muscles tensing as he moves, and you whine, voice small, "Nooo..."

He chuckles, the sound deep and fond. "C'mon, baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "We gotta clean up."

You pout, half-asleep, mumbling, "M'tired..."

And fuck, he melts. Heart just gone. You're too cute, all sleepy and clingy, eyes heavy and lips pouty. "I'll clean you quickly, I promise, okay?"

You grumble, but when he pulls away, you whimper, instinctively clinging to him. His brows lift, a bit surprised. He's not that guy—not the cuddly type, not the one for soft aftercare. But for you? Fuck. For you, he is.

"Alright, baby," he murmurs, and then he scoops you up, effortless, like you weigh nothing.

His arms cradle you against his broad chest, warmth radiating off him as he carries you to the bathroom. The tile's cool beneath his bare feet, and the soft glow of the bathroom light makes everything feel hazy, dreamlike. He sets you down gently, but you cling, arms wrapped around his torso, cheek pressed to his skin.

"Jesus," he laughs softly, "you're really not lettin' go, huh?"

You mumble something incoherent, and he just grins, wrapping an arm around you while he reaches to turn on the shower. The pipes groan, and warm steam begins to fill the air.

"Just a bit more," he says, voice low, chin resting on your shoulder as you lean back into him, "and we'll go to sleep, yeah?"

You nod sleepily, and he presses a soft kiss to the curve of your neck, lips warm against your cool skin. The water heats up, steam curling around you both, and he guides you into the shower cabin. The first rush of warm water hits your skin, washing away the sweat and stickiness, and you sigh, body relaxing further.

He steps behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close. One of his hands spreads over your belly, rubbing slow circles.

"God," he hums, mouth brushing against your damp hair, "you did so good for me, baby."

Your heart flutters, but you just nod, too tired to do much else.

"Just a quick shower," he murmurs, reaching for his body wash.

He pours some into his hand—and God, his hands are so big compared to you—before he starts lathering you up. His fingers glide over your skin, gentle but thorough, slick suds sliding down your tired body.

He washes you carefully, every curve, every dip, soothing touches along your arms, shoulders, hips. He's fast but soft, intent on making sure you're clean without keeping you up too long.

When he finishes, he guides you under the spray, rinsing you off, and you just lean against him, boneless, letting him take care of you.

"See? Told you I'd be quick," he grins, fingers brushing along your waist.

"Mhmm," you murmur, sleepy satisfaction settling in your bones.

Then, it's his turn. He grabs the body wash, lathering up quickly, and you step back slightly, half-lidded eyes drifting down his broad chest, strong arms, defined abs, water cascading down his tattooed skin.

God. You bite your lip, not even subtle about staring. His muscles shift with every movement, abs flexing as he runs suds over his chest, water tracing every dip and ridge. And when he turns around to rinse off—fuck.

His back is just as unfair, muscles rippling, tattoos stretching over his skin, and your gaze drops lower. His ass is perfect, firm and sculpted, like something out of a fantasy, and those thighs—Jesus.

Thick, powerful, covered in droplets that slide down to his calves. You can see the sheer strength there, thighs that could crush you without trying, legs that hold him steady when he wrecks you.

And then—yeah, he catches you.

"Caught you starin', baby," he teases, grinning, "like what you see?"

Your face heats, and you huff, "Shut up."

"Didn't hear a no," he laughs, water streaming down his face, blue eyes bright with amusement.

You pinch your nose just as he turns off the water, a little scrunch of your face that makes him snort softly.

"Such a drama queen," he mutters, grinning as he steps out first, water dripping from his tattooed skin.

He grabs a towel, gives it a quick shake, and then turns back to you. Warmth flickers in his blue eyes as he wraps you in it, pulling the soft fabric snug around your damp body.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek.

He offers his hand, and you take it, stepping out carefully. The bathroom tile is cool against your feet, and you shiver—but it's not from the cold.

Because holy shit.

Your eyes catch on him—the broad chest, water sliding down sculpted abs, and then... yeah. Your gaze drops. And even soft, his dick is huge. Like, what the fuck. Thick, heavy, resting against his thigh, and God—it's pretty.

Veins running along the length, flushed at the tip, and that happy trail above it? Dark, perfect, practically begging you to lick your way down. The kind of sight that makes your mouth water, heat curling low in your belly.

Your brain short-circuits for a second, and all you can think is how the fuck did that fit inside you? No wonder you felt stretched to the brink, stuffed full, wrecked. God, he ruined you.

He smirks, noticing your stare, but says nothing—just grabs another towel and wraps it around his waist. Barely. It hangs low on his hips, dangerously close to slipping, teasingly casual.

"C'mon, baby," he murmurs, guiding you back to the bedroom.

The sheets are rumpled, still bearing evidence of what he did to you, and heat rushes to your cheeks. He tosses open his closet, rummaging for a second before pulling out a t-shirt.

"Here," he says, grinning, "this'll do."

It's worn soft, the fabric faded but smelling like him—that clean scent, mixed with cologne and something uniquely Jason. Your head spins, heart fluttering.

He gently dries you off, hands warm as he rubs the towel over your arms, shoulders, legs, taking careful time with your still-sensitive skin. Then he slips the shirt over your head, and it swallows you whole.

Like, drowns you. The hem hits mid-thigh, the neckline wide, slipping off your shoulder. The sleeves hang loose, practically devouring your arms.

Jason leans back, takes one look at you, and laughs. "Jesus," he grins, "you look like you're wearin' a damn dress."

You huff, slapping his chest. Which, of course—does absolutely nothing.

He's built like a fucking wall. Solid. Unmoving.

"Ouch," you deadpan, "my hand's broken now."

He catches your wrist easily, grinning, and then pulls you into him. His arms wrap around you, big hands sliding beneath the hem of the oversized shirt—and yep, they go straight for your ass.

He cups it, kneading shamelessly.

You huff, "You're obsessed."

"Yeah," he says, zero shame, grin widening. "I am."

Jason grabs a pair of boxers, slides them on, the waistband snapping against his hips. He picks up both towels, tossing them into the laundry basket.

"Hang on," he says, waving you off as you yawn. "These sheets are trashed."

You flop face-first onto the bed anyway, muffled, "Don't care. Tired."

"Yeah, I know," he grins, peeling the sheets off on his side.

They're ... yeah. Destroyed. Wrinkled, soaked, and holy shit, he really did a number on you. You roll to the side, watching him wrestle with the fitted sheet like it's personally offended him.

"Need help?" you mumble.

"No," he grunts, "I got it. Fucking—goddamn thing—"

He finally manages, cursing under his breath, and throws on fresh ones. Then, without warning, he turns, grins, and scoops you up so he can fit the sheet on your side too.

"Jason!" you squeal, legs kicking weakly, "I can—"

"Shhh," he teases, "you love it."

He plops you onto the fresh sheets, and you bounce, letting out a giggly little noise. "Asshole."

"Yup," he agrees cheerfully, dropping down next to you. His arm snakes around your waist, dragging you in, and you go willingly, curling against his chest.

"God," you yawn again, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

His skin's warm, smells like him—that clean soap mixed with his natural heat. One arm drapes over his waist, your fingers splaying over solid muscle.

His hand finds the back of your head, gentle, fingers threading through your damp hair.

"You okay?" he asks softly, voice rumbling in your ear.

You nod, murmuring, "Mhmm... just tired."

"Sleep, baby," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You melt, mumbling something incoherent, and he chuckles, pulling you closer.

And as you drift off, Jason just... lays there. Holds you. He wasn't expecting this. Not the clingy post-sex cuddling, not you nuzzling into him like he's safe, like you trust him.

Not the way his chest feels tight, not in a bad way, just... fuck. He's not soft. Not really. Not supposed to be. But you curl into him, and it's like his body knows what to do, like holding you is instinct.

You're small against him, your breathing evening out, little puffs of air against his neck. And shit, he could get used to this.

Your leg hooks over his, possessive even in sleep, and he smirks, shaking his head.

"You're somethin' else," he murmurs, so quiet you don't hear.

But yeah... he's already all fucking in.

P. S: I didn't forget about your requests, guys. I have the Nightwing one you suggested, imma post it these days 🤭 I'm just a slut for both Dick and Jason rn ✋🏻

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