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[bamsara]

There are ten billion personal Lamb interpretations and all of them are correct (and also the other characters but I suffer from lamb favoritism)

If you're looking for an excuse to ramble about your Lamb or AU (or any cotl character you have) take this post to do it NOW

[danysdaughter]

Sweet On The Job

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 9.9k words

summary | when newly-appointed congressman bucky barnes reluctantly hires the sweetest, most radiant assistant imaginable, he doubts your place in the cutthroat world of politics—until you prove you can run it and melt his guard all at once.

tags | slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, office romance, unspoken feelings, miscommunication, overhearing a conversation, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, bucky is bad at feelings but good at kissing, reader cries a lot, it’s fine, sensitive!reader

a/n | reader’s based on our amaya papayas personality, we love our sensitive gangsta. based on this request

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

Congress. Of all places. The marble halls, the high ceilings, the egos inflated enough to float over the Capitol dome. And then there was him—James Buchanan Barnes—who could barely make it through a two-minute speech without sounding like a half-defrosted android.

His suit itched. The tie choked. And don’t even get him started on the shoes.

He sat behind his too-polished desk in his too-expensive office, staring blankly at an inbox full of emails with subject lines that made his eyes twitch. Urgent: Appropriations Strategy. Reminder: Agriculture Committee Briefing. Lunch with Donor—Move to Friday?

Lunch with a donor. Christ.

He rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to lay his forehead flat on the desk. This wasn't him. He was a soldier, not a politician. He gave speeches like he gave orders—short, dry, and with zero charisma.

Every time he opened his mouth in public, he could see reporters wince. His team had tried coaching him. “Smile more.” “Loosen up.” “Try not to look like you're about to gut someone with a bayonet.”

So far, the best he'd managed was a half-smirk that came off more like a nervous tick.

Bucky sighed. Deep, soul-weary sigh. He looked at the framed picture on the wall—him shaking hands with someone he was pretty sure hated him. That was politics, apparently. Pretending to enjoy small talk with people who could and would stab you in the back with a regulation-sized American flag pin.

His phone buzzed again.

Another email.

Subject: Staff Assistant Interviews – You Still Haven’t Picked Anyone

Bucky groaned. That damn assistant position. He’d pushed the interviews for three weeks now, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting through a dozen conversations with people who’d use phrases like “synergize the legislative workflow” without flinching.

He didn’t want someone who talked like a press release. He just wanted someone who would show up, get shit done, and not ask too many questions when he had to disappear for an afternoon to punch a wall in private.

But apparently, you couldn’t say that in a job posting.

He glanced at the stack of printed resumes on his desk. He’d skimmed a few. Too polished. Too eager. Too… not him. None of them had that quality he couldn’t quite define—something real. Something normal. Someone who wouldn’t blink if he came into the office looking like he’d fought a raccoon on the metro.

The door creaked open slightly. It was Sam. Again.

“Still haven’t picked anyone?” Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Bucky didn’t look up. “They all talk like LinkedIn threw up on a resume template.”

Sam chuckled. “Want me to just find you someone?”

“God, yes.”

And just like that, he handed off the decision. Delegated. Efficient. Which, ironically, made him feel even more like he didn’t belong here.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling like a man twice his age. He looked at the ceiling. It stared back.

Congress. Jesus.

────────────────────────

Some Days Later

Bucky didn’t look up when the door opened.

He figured it was Brenda. Maybe Sam again. Hopefully not another reporter asking for a quote he’d regret later. He was mid-email—something about committee assignments and a lunch reschedule—when he heard it.

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I’m a tiny bit early—traffic was a dream, can you believe that?”

Not Brenda.

The voice was too bright, too chipper, and far too comfortable for someone stepping into a federal office for the first time.

Bucky looked up slowly, pen still in his hand, and there you were—framed in his doorway like a damn Hallmark commercial. Floral dress under a structured blazer, hair bouncing, smile like you’d just walked into brunch, not a congressional office. You carried a leather bag and a clipboard and somehow radiated the scent of confidence and cinnamon.

He blinked.

You didn’t flinch. Just walked right in like you’d been doing it your whole life.

“Congressman Barnes, right?” You extended your hand, polished nails and all. “I’m the assistant Sam recommended. So nice to meet you.”

He didn’t take your hand right away. He was still trying to process the human sunbeam in front of him. You looked like someone who hosted charity galas and had a Pinterest board for every holiday.

Eventually, he stood. Shook your hand. Warm grip. Firm. No hesitation.

“Right,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sam said you’d be coming by.”

You smiled even wider. “I brought a printed copy of my resume, just in case. I know Sam already sent it over, but you never know. Oh! And I made you a little overview—color-coded—of what your schedule might look like if we streamline some of the overlapping committee times. Brenda said Wednesdays are chaos.”

You placed the papers on his desk like you’d done this a hundred times.

Bucky glanced at the overview. It was in soft pastel shades, each block of time cleanly labeled, with footnotes. Actual footnotes.

He looked back up at you. Still smiling. Still sparkling, somehow.

“You always this organized?” he muttered.

Your laugh was soft but definite. “Only when I’m awake.”

Christ.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really do… interviews.”

“Good,” you said, cheerful as hell. “I don’t really do bad interviews.”

He had no idea what to do with that.

“I work hard,” you went on, tone bright but grounded now. “I don’t miss deadlines. I know how to read people. I’ve handled CEOs, campaign donors, and one very angry florist. And I’m from New York, so I’m nice—but only as long as you need me to be.”

That part made him pause.

Your smile stayed sweet, but your eyes—sharp. That flicker of edge.

He exhaled. “You’re hired.”

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

The thing was—Sam hadn’t exaggerated.

You were, somehow, even better than advertised.

You had shown up the next morning with a personalized planner, a labeled filing system, and two different cold brews—one for him, one “just in case he preferred oat milk.” Within three days, his inbox was tamed, his schedule was tight, and his meetings started and ended on time.

You smiled your way through logistical nightmares. You turned budget briefings into organized, annotated packets. You once managed to reschedule an entire committee meeting without pissing anyone off. That alone should’ve won you a medal.

And the worst part?

Everyone adored you.

Brenda now referred to you as her “angel girl.” The intern, Emily, had started mimicking your outfit choices. Even grumpy old Greg from Finance smiled when you passed him in the hall, and Bucky hadn’t seen Greg smile since the start of his term as Congressman.

Meanwhile, Bucky… didn’t know how to talk to you.

You were polite, always. Sweet. Occasionally too sweet—offering him snacks mid-meeting, asking if he needed a moment to breathe after intense calls. Once, you said “You’re doing amazing, by the way,” after a disastrous media interview.

He’d stared at you like you’d spoken another language.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of warmth. He knew how to handle tension, confrontation, icy professionalism. He could navigate sharp words and sharp eyes. But compliments? Softness? Your sunny little “good morning!” every day before you sat down to absolutely decimate his workload?

It threw him off.

And you never tried to throw him off. That was what made it worse. You weren’t fake. You didn’t flirt or suck up. You were just… like this. Bouncy and competent. Bubblegum and brute force. Warmth wrapped in weaponized organization.

He wasn’t sure if it made him uncomfortable or impressed. Maybe both.

He heard you laugh in the hallway one afternoon. Loud. Joyful. Brenda was giggling too. Probably over that dumb plant someone brought in. You’d named it. Called it Marvin. Marvin the Money Tree. Bucky didn’t understand why that made everyone so happy.

He sipped his coffee. It was oat milk. He hadn’t asked for that.

You’d just noticed.

One month in, Bucky realized you might actually be magic.

You handled press requests like a PR veteran, fielded donors with the grace of a diplomat, and had somehow convinced the coffee cart guy downstairs to give the staff a “Capitol Crew” discount.

Bucky didn’t know how you did it—maybe you smiled at the guy too nicely, or maybe you just offered to reorganize his inventory out of the goodness of your glittery heart.

You never stopped smiling.

Even when the job sucked. Even when schedules collapsed, or the media spun things sideways, or the office printer jammed for the fourth time in a single day—you smiled. Not in a fake, corporate way. In a real way. Like the chaos never got to you.

It made him suspicious.

He watched you from behind his desk more often than he meant to. You always moved like you were dancing to some rhythm he couldn’t hear. Laughing with interns, giving Brenda a shoulder squeeze on a bad day, complimenting someone’s shoes before dropping a twenty-slide briefing deck into their inbox.

And every time you turned that blinding kindness on him, Bucky froze like you’d aimed a spotlight at a feral cat.

He didn’t know how to respond when you handed him color-coded notes for a hearing and said, “I highlighted your speaking points—if you want to wing it, I backed up the quotes with data so you sound casual but still super smart.”

Or when you brought him soup from that one hole-in-the-wall deli because he coughed once and you “just had a feeling.”

He grunted. He nodded. He said “Thanks,” but it always came out dry, stiff, like someone had to wring it out of him.

You didn’t seem to mind.

You never flinched. Never made it awkward. Just smiled and moved on to the next task like your kindness didn’t require a thank you. And that bugged him more than anything.

He was used to people playing politics—smiling with their teeth, angling for favor. But you? You brought him homemade banana bread on a Monday because “Mondays are brutal and I didn’t want you to suffer more than necessary.”

Who does that?

He watched you now, through the glass wall of his office. You were standing in the hallway, coaching the new comms kid on how to navigate a donor event, switching between “babe” and “sweetheart” like it was a dialect, your hands moving as fast as your mouth. You were wearing some lavender thing today. Smelled like citrus and resolve.

Bucky looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t typed in ten minutes.

He hated this.

Not you. Just this feeling.

────────────────────────

Three Months In

It started with a meeting.

A routine one—just a few junior reps and a legislative strategist who looked like he’d swallowed a thesaurus. You had prepped Bucky flawlessly. Briefing notes, talking points, key players—all in a soft yellow folder with a post-it that said, “You’ve got this :)”

He didn’t got this.

The strategist spent the whole meeting throwing jargon like darts. Bucky kept pace, mostly. You even leaned in halfway through to quietly remind him which bill number they were referencing. Still, when the room cleared, Bucky felt like he’d just walked out of a storm.

You stayed behind, re-organizing his desk without being asked. “You did really well,” you said softly. “I know this guy was wordy but you held your ground.”

Bucky nodded.

But something in his chest pulled tight.

You were too kind. Too gentle about it. It made him feel like a child being praised for tying his shoes.

He didn’t say anything then.

But it stuck.

You were good at your job—he knew that. But politics wasn’t just about competence. It was brutal. Ugly. People chewed you up and spat you out for smiling too much, for being too friendly, too soft. And you… you glowed like you didn’t know the world could be mean.

He couldn’t shake the worry. That someday soon, someone was going to say the wrong thing to you in the wrong room, and you’d come undone. Or worse—you wouldn’t. You’d just… leave. Quietly.

So a few days later, when Sam called, Bucky didn’t think twice before stepping into his office, closing the door, and letting the words out.

“She’s not cut out for this,” he said.

Right outside the door, you were balancing two coffees—his preferred dark roast and your own sugar-heavy concoction—and a muffin from the café down the street. You’d been about to knock.

You didn’t.

“She’s good at the job,” Bucky went on, his voice low but firm, “but I don’t know if this is the right setting for her. Politics isn’t about being nice, Sam. She’s too… bright. Too open. That’s not sustainable here.”

Your stomach dropped.

It was the way he said it. Like being who you were wasn’t just a mismatch—it was a liability.

Too bright. Too open. Too much.

You’d heard that before. Too sweet, too emotional, too loud, too bubbly, too soft. Always a smile, always a “thank you,” always a goddamn post-it note. And it was never enough. It never counted. People liked it until they didn’t.

You blinked hard, eyes burning suddenly. You hated how fast the tears welled—hated that he’d never even raised his voice, never said it cruelly. That somehow made it worse. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d just meant it.

You stayed frozen, heart thudding.

Then Sam, through the phone, “You sure this is about her not fitting in… or you not knowing what to do with someone like her?”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You set the coffee and muffin on the side table near his door, the yellow post-it stuck neatly to the lid. It said “You looked tired today. Hope this helps.”

But you didn’t knock.

And for the first time since you’d started, you walked away without smiling.

────────────────────────

It started subtly.

You didn’t stop smiling—but it didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

Bucky told himself he was imagining it at first. That maybe you were just tired, or busy, or maybe it was allergy season. But the longer he watched you—really watched you—the more certain he became that something had shifted.

You still did your job. That was never in question.

Emails answered. Calls returned. Schedules maintained like clockwork. You still handed him briefing packets with neat highlights, still walked him through the day’s chaos each morning.

But the post-its stopped.

No more “You’ve got this!” or “Don’t forget to drink water :)”

Your voice, once full of light and little jokes and endearing asides, had gone quieter. Measured. Professional. Nothing personal. You didn’t ask how his weekend was. Didn’t tease him for frowning at your color coding. You didn’t call him “bossman” anymore.

You just called him Congressman.

That one hit the hardest.

The rest of the office noticed too. Jimmy asked where your “sparkle” went. Brenda had quietly asked Bucky if you were okay. He’d just shrugged, said you were probably busy. But deep down, something pulled at him.

You hadn’t brought him coffee in nearly two weeks.

He hadn’t realized how much he noticed it until it was gone.

You still smiled at other people—still lit up when interns needed help, still made time to compliment someone’s new haircut. But with him, there was a wall now. Polite. Distant. Not cold, exactly. Just… not warm.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t laugh with him anymore. You didn’t look at him like you had before—like he was something worth rooting for.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know why.

He couldn’t remember doing anything—saying anything—that would’ve caused it. But then again, he hadn’t been paying enough attention, had he? You’d been right there, every damn day, and he’d barely looked up. Barely said more than necessary.

He didn’t realize he missed you until the version of you he knew was gone.

And now, sitting at his desk, watching you work across the office with that tight-lipped expression and that perfectly put-together posture, he felt something sharp twist in his chest.

He missed the sunshine.

And somehow, he was sure it was his fault.

────────────────────────

He should’ve canceled everything.

But he didn’t.

Bucky woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, the kind that reversed and hit him twice. Fever high, head pounding, body aching like his joints had finally decided to unionize and strike.

But he had a subcommittee meeting at 10 a.m., and three calls with constituents scheduled after that, and some damn transportation proposal that needed his signature.

He could barely see straight.

He tried emailing Brenda, but it took him ten minutes to type two lines. Gave up. Called you instead.

You picked up on the second ring. “Good morning, Congressman—”

“Hey,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I, uh… I need you to bring some files from the office. And… maybe a laptop. There’s stuff I gotta do.”

You paused. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

“Mr. Barnes?” This time your voice had real concern in it—soft but sharper, like it used to sound before he ruined everything.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a cold. I just… I need the budget report and that meeting brief for the committee.”

There was a pause. Then, “Text me your address. I’m coming over.”

Before he could object, you hung up.

You showed up 40 minutes later.

He didn’t expect you to let yourself in, but you did, like you belonged there—like someone had to keep things running. You had the laptop, the folders, your phone already out and your expression focused.

You were still in your usual outfit—put-together and professional—but there was something else in your eyes when you saw him slumped on the couch, pale, sweaty, and looking every bit like a man who shouldn’t be left alone with political responsibility.

“Jesus, Mr. Barnes,” you said, setting everything down. “You look like death.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” you snapped, and for the first time in months, your voice had bite. “You’re burning up. Go. Bed. Now.”

He blinked. “You’re not my—”

“I said bed, Barnes. Don’t make me speak again.”

That shut him up.

You guided him to the bedroom with surprising gentleness, adjusted the blankets, took his temperature without flinching.

Muttered something about idiots and stubborn men as you set a glass of water on the nightstand. Then you left the door half open and walked straight into his living room like it was your war zone.

And then?

You took over.

Bucky stirred to the sound of your voice. It was steady. Calm. Businesslike. Something about the infrastructure bill and a scheduling conflict.

He blinked at the ceiling, groggy but conscious enough to realize the headache had dulled. The water glass on his nightstand was full again. The thermometer was gone. So were most of the folders.

But your voice remained.

“…no, we’re not pushing it another week. The Congressman already reviewed the amended language,” you said, sharp but not yet rude.

Bucky turned toward the open bedroom door. He could just barely see the edge of you standing in the living room, phone to your ear, one hand on your hip.

A pause.

And then—

“Okay, you know what? You don’t gotta raise your voice at me, sweetheart. That ain’t how this works.”

His eyebrows rose. That tone? That wasn’t the voice he’d grown used to over the last month.

Your next sentence came faster. Smoother. The vowels shortened. The sugar gone.

“You show up late, you miss deadlines, and now you got the audacity to talk down to me? Mm-mm. Uh-uh. Try again.”

The silence on the other end must’ve been long, because your voice dropped lower, firmer.

“You’re an extremely odd individual, and I do not wanna speak to you anymore. So here’s what you’re gonna do: fix your mistake, resubmit the form correctly, and stop wastin’ my damn time.”

There was a beat. Then you scoffed, low and dry. “Don’t get slick with me. I’m bein’ very polite right now.”

Another pause.

Then a final, clipped, “Goodbye.”

Click.

You exhaled hard. There was a rustle of papers. A muttered “weirdo” under your breath. And then the soft tap, tap, tap of you moving to the laptop again, your tone immediately shifting back into something more composed as you started your next call.

Bucky lay there, fully awake now, eyebrows furrowed.

That… wasn’t the version of you he knew.

And yet, it wasn’t jarring. It was seamless. Natural. Like your sweetness wasn’t a mask, but a choice—one you could take off the second someone disrespected you.

And he’d never heard anything so impressive in his life.

You’d gone from high-level strategy to full-on verbal takedown in under five seconds and didn’t even flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften it.

Bucky stared at the ceiling, half in awe, half in… something else he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe fever wasn’t the only reason his chest felt tight.

────────────────────────

By the time the sun had dipped low and the apartment took on that soft, golden hue, the chaos of the day had fully subsided.

You were back to yourself—at least, the version Bucky knew. Sweet. Bubbly. Moving around his apartment like it wasn’t the least bit strange that you’d just taken over a congressman’s workload in a knit cardigan and a cloud-patterned scrunchie.

He stood in the doorway now, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a reluctant ghost, watching you tidy up the living room while humming under your breath.

You turned before he could say anything, your face lighting up like it always did when you saw him—even now, even after the day you’d had.

“Hey, sunshine,” you said softly, like he was the one who needed reassuring. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, throat still raw.

You gave him a look that was very not convinced but didn’t press it. Instead, you stepped forward with a little tablet and a closed folder in hand.

“I wrapped everything up,” you said, tone gentle, like you didn’t want to overwhelm him. “Sorted the subcommittee notes, handled the calls, pushed your morning meetings. Everything’s in here, just in case.”

You held it out to him with both hands, like it was fragile.

“It should all run smooth when you’re back in the office,” you added. “No big hassle, I promise.”

He took it slowly, fingers brushing yours.

Then your eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “Oh! And I made soup.”

Bucky blinked. “Soup?”

You nodded, looking proud. “Chicken. With orzo. Little bit of lemon. It’s an old recipe from my ma. Helps with stomach stuff, and it’s good for fevers.”

You paused, like maybe you were worried you’d overstepped. Your hands twitched slightly in front of you.

“I mean—you don’t have to eat it now,” you said quickly, “but I left it in the fridge. Labeled it with a little sticky so you know which one it is. Not that there’s a lot of stuff in your fridge, I just… y’know. Thought it might help.”

Your voice trailed off, but your smile stayed.

Soft. Open. So completely you.

And all Bucky could do was stand there, wrapped in his stupid blanket, and wonder how the hell you’d spent the whole day being terrifyingly competent, and still ended it with soup and a nervous little glance like you weren’t sure if he’d like it.

You hesitated at the edge of the living room, hands fidgeting with something behind your back.

Bucky noticed the shift immediately.

The glow you’d carried all day—while juggling Congress from his couch and checking his temperature without breaking stride—had dimmed. Not gone. Just… pulled inward, like you were trying to protect something small and fragile inside yourself.

You stepped forward, arms unfolding to reveal a neatly sealed envelope.

Your smile this time was softer. Smaller. Like a flickering candle. “Before I forget,” you said lightly, “I meant to give this to you earlier.”

You held it out.

He didn’t take it at first. Just stared. “What is it?”

Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head slightly, voice still calm—almost apologetic. “It’s just my formal letter of resignation. Two weeks’ notice.”

The room went still.

Like even the hum of his ancient fridge paused to register the words.

Bucky took the envelope slowly, like it might explode in his hands. His stomach dropped, even lower than it had that morning when he first woke up sweating through his sheets.

“You’re leaving,” he said, flatly, like maybe saying it again would change the shape of it in the air. “Why?”

You hesitated, and for a second, he thought you weren’t going to say anything at all.

But then your gaze lifted—slow, reluctant—and something behind your eyes dimmed. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just a sadness so quiet it made his chest ache.

“I heard you,” you said, voice small but even. “That day on the phone. When you were talking to Sam.”

The words sank into him with slow, merciless weight.

Shit.

He opened his mouth, panic rising. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know,” you cut in gently, holding up a hand. “It’s alright.”

That made it worse.

You smiled, the kind of smile that tried so hard to be kind it hurt to look at. “It’s okay,” you repeated. “I get that a lot, honestly. People sayin' I’m too soft. Too nice. Too… whatever.”

He shook his head. “That’s not—”

“I know you didn’t mean it to be cruel.” Your voice was airy, almost thoughtful. “It didn’t even sound mean. You were just being honest. And you’re right, in a way. I am sweet. I care a lot. I get excited over little things. I bring baked goods to meetings and I probably hug too much and I call people sweetheart even when they’re mean to me.”

Bucky’s throat was dry. “I didn’t—”

“But I’m not naïve,” you said, and this time there was steel under the softness. Not sharp—but unbending. “I’m not stupid. I know how this world works. I just… don’t want to become like it.”

Your eyes met his fully then, warm and steady. “I like who I am. I don’t want to lose that just to survive a place that tells me kindness is a weakness.”

He opened his mouth again—anything, something—but you beat him to it, words tumbling now with gentle finality.

“I’m a big-hearted person, Mr. Barnes. I love hard. I care hard. I will go to war for the people I believe in, and I’ll still make them soup afterward. That’s who I am.”

You gave a small shrug, and your smile this time was a little sad, a little tired. “But I know not everyone wants that. Not everyone likes their coffee sweet.”

He looked at you, mouth parted, heart twisting tighter with every breath.

You tilted your head, a soft laugh escaping. “And that’s okay. Really. I don’t need everyone to like me. I just want to work somewhere I don’t feel like I have to apologize for existing.”

Bucky tried—he really tried—to find the words to take it back. To undo it. But they stuck in his throat like gravel.

All he managed was a strangled, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

You nodded gently, like you already knew that.

But the hurt was still there, just under the surface, quietly humming like a bruise.

────────────────────────

It’d been three days since you handed him that letter.

Three days since you smiled with that soft resignation and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind bowl of soup and a hollow ache in his chest.

And now you were in the office—laughing.

Bucky watched you through the slats of his office shutters like a goddamn surveillance drone. Brenda was telling some story that clearly wasn’t funny, but you were laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week. Head tilted back, hand on her shoulder, the kind of laugh that made the people around you lean in like flowers toward sunlight.

He hated how familiar that laugh felt now.

And how far away it sounded.

You’d gone back to being sweet, professional, helpful. You hadn’t missed a single beat in your work. But with him, you were still distant. Polite. You hadn’t brought him coffee. Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t touched his arm in passing the way you used to.

He was losing you.

And the worst part? It wasn’t dramatic. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry.

You were just… quietly leaving.

So now he sat at his desk, glaring at his screen, not reading a damn word. His mind was a storm of useless questions and even more useless ideas.

Could he offer a raise? A promotion? Make the job more creative? Incentivize something?

He rubbed his hand down his face. No, that sounded like bribery.

Maybe he could ask her to stay just until the end of the quarter. Emphasize her value. Play the logistics angle. Remind her how much smoother things have been with her here.

He leaned back in his chair. That sounded desperate.

What if—

‘Jesus,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t about keeping her.’

A beat.

Then he corrected himself instantly. ‘Keeping her as an assistant. I mean. Not— Not like—’

He groaned, scrubbing at his eyes like he could rub the feelings away.

She was just efficient. That’s all. Stable. Predictable in a way he relied on. She was good at her job and the office ran smoother with her in it and that’s why this mattered.

Not because she smelled like lemons and comfort. Not because she looked at everyone like they were worth loving. Not because he’d started measuring his mornings by whether she smiled at him.

No. No, no, no. Just work.

Strictly professional.

He glanced back out through the blinds.

You were organizing a folder stack with the intern, gently fixing the label tabs, still smiling.

Still leaving.

And Bucky felt like the office was already colder without you—even though you hadn’t gone yet.

────────────────────────

Bucky liked to think he was a decent boss.

Not fun, sure. Not particularly approachable. Maybe a little gruff. And socially awkward, definitely. But fair. Honest. He let people take their lunch breaks. He remembered birthdays when he could. He even once approved an impromptu office donut day.

So it surprised him—no, perturbed him—when he found out about your going away party… from Brenda.

Brenda, who was sixty-eight and had once said she considered EDM “an acronym for something immoral.” Brenda, who referred to clubbing as “light alcoholism with extra steps.” Brenda, who had received an invitation.

He had not.

He found out over coffee. His coffee. The one he’d fetched himself because you no longer brought it to him.

Brenda had mentioned it casually, in that unassuming way older women do when they know they’re about to light a match and walk away from a very dry haystack.

“They’re doing a little sendoff for her Friday night. At that club downtown—the neon one with the ridiculous name. Something with vowels missing.”

He’d blinked. “What sendoff?”

“The one for your assistant, dear.” Sip. “The one who’s leaving.”

The words sank in slowly. Your assistant. Leaving. Right. That was happening. Somehow he kept forgetting it was real. Or maybe refusing to process it.

Then came the kicker: “Jimmy’s organizing the whole thing. Should be fun.”

Bucky had stared. “Jimmy?”

Brenda nodded, as if it were perfectly normal that the chillest, most easygoing staffer in his entire office had turned into a party planner on your behalf. “He booked a VIP booth. Very thoughtful.”

VIP booth? Bucky didn’t even know Jimmy knew how to book things. The guy wore mismatched socks and said “vibe check” unironically.

“So… they didn’t think to tell me?”

Brenda hesitated, just for a second, which was all the answer Bucky needed.

Later, he cornered Jimmy in the hallway, trying to sound casual and not like a man deeply offended by club logistics.

Jimmy had shrugged, wide-eyed and harmless. “We just figured it wasn’t really your scene, you know?”

Bucky blinked. “It’s not Brenda’s scene either.”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, Brenda knows the DJ.”

Of course she did.

Bucky didn’t say anything else. Just walked back to his office, each step echoing a little louder in his chest than it should have.

They didn’t think he’d want to come. Or maybe they didn’t think he deserved to.

And maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy you threw parties for. Maybe people just did their jobs around him and left. No post-its. No coffee. No soup.

But still… the fact that you were going to be out on a dance floor, surrounded by people who adored you, celebrating your last day—without him—hit harder than it should’ve.

Because he’d hurt you. He knew that now. And they all knew it too.

And no one invited him to say goodbye.

────────────────────────

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He told himself that, at least, on the way over. This wasn’t some grand gesture. He wasn’t planning a speech, wasn’t going to make a scene. He’d accepted it—you were leaving. And maybe he didn’t deserve a chance to change that.

So he’d come to do the one thing he could do.

Say goodbye.

He clutched the small, carefully wrapped box in his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the corners. It wasn’t much. But it was personal. Thoughtful. Something that reminded him of you—sweet, strange, specific.

But he remembered.

The music hit him first. The bass vibrating through the walls as soon as he stepped into the club. It was too loud, too crowded, too young. Neon lights pulsed off the walls, everything warm and blurred. He stood near the entrance, eyes scanning—feeling wildly out of place in his plain clothes and clenched jaw—until he saw you.

And then his lungs just… stopped working.

There you were.

It took one second. One.

You were standing near the booth, laughing—God, always laughing—wearing a pale blue outfit that looked like moonlight wrapped in fabric. Halter top hugging your curves, skirt tied at your hip, legs long and bare under the shifting lights. Gold hoops in your ears, bangles on your wrist, that familiar dreamy look in your eyes as you leaned into Jimmy mid-laugh.

Bucky’s feet stopped moving.

You were stunning. Effortlessly so. But it wasn’t just that. It was the freedom—the way you stood like nothing in the world could touch you here. Like you weren’t his assistant or part of a machine or tethered to other people’s expectations. You were you—unfiltered, unbothered, alive.

And he’d never seen you like this before.

Not in your pastels and blazers. Not behind your desk with your clipboard and schedule.

This version of you—this—was what he was losing.

He swallowed hard.

She’s just your assistant, he told himself. Or had been. That’s all this was. You were good at your job. That’s all.

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

You were mid-sip of your drink when you caught sight of him, standing near the edge of the club like he was trying to melt into the wall.

Your breath caught.

And then your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside you.

“Oh my gosh, you came!”

You pushed past two people without thinking, grinning, already reaching for his arm like you couldn’t help yourself. Your bangles clinked as you tugged him gently into the glow of the booth’s lights.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” you laughed, almost breathless. “You hate places like this.”

Bucky looked at you—really looked at you—and it took him a second too long to answer.

Your eyes were sparkling, cheeks flushed, hair tousled and falling perfectly over one shoulder. You looked like the kind of girl who had the whole room on a string and didn’t even realize she was holding it.

He murmured under his breath, just low enough that it got swallowed by the music, “Maybe ‘cause I wasn’t invited.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking it off with a stiff half-shrug. “Just thought I’d… say goodbye.”

Your expression softened. Just a bit.

“Oh,” you said, the word light and airy, but touched with something else. “That’s sweet.”

Bucky nodded once. Awkward. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

He should’ve left it at that.

But instead, he held out the little box he’d been carrying all night—plain black wrapping, a thin ribbon tied unevenly, like he’d done it with too much concentration and not enough skill.

You blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Just a gift,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

You took it carefully, reverently, like it might break in your hands. “Oh, you shouldn't have…”

“It’s not a bribe,” he added quickly, before you could say anything more. “I know you’re leaving. I just… thought you should have something.”

You didn’t wait.

Right there in the middle of the club, music thumping, lights flashing, you carefully tugged the ribbon free and opened the box with that bright, childlike excitement you always had when someone gave you something—even if it was small. Even if it wasn’t wrapped perfectly.

And when you saw what was inside, your breath hitched.

A delicate gold necklace. Thin, simple chain. At the center, your birthstone—tiny, gleaming, perfectly cut. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just right.

You stared down at it, brows pulling together, mouth parting slightly.

And then, to Bucky’s horror, your eyes started to well.

“Wait… this is my—this is my birthstone,” you said softly, voice already wobbling. “How did you even know?”

You looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, and Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“I—I never told you my birthday.”

He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remembered. You mentioned it once. In passing.”

That did it.

You blinked quickly, but the tears came anyway, slipping free with no real warning. “Oh God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth, eyes going glassy. “That’s actually… really sweet. Why would you…?”

Your voice cracked. Right in the middle of a sentence. Just folded in on itself.

And Bucky panicked.

“Hey—” he murmured, stepping closer, voice low and careful, like you were a fragile object he might accidentally break with the wrong tone. “Hey, don’t cry. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, brushing at your cheeks. “Sorry, I just—this is so thoughtful. And you remembered. And now I’m crying in a club like a weirdo—”

“You’re not a weirdo,” he said quickly, awkwardly, like he was saying it on instinct and didn’t even believe he was qualified to offer emotional reassurance.

Still, he reached out—tentatively—and touched your elbow. Just barely. Like he was scared of overstepping.

You were sniffling now, trying to dab at your eyes with the corner of a cocktail napkin that immediately disintegrated. “I’m just—God, I’m such a mess—”

“You’re not,” he muttered, more firmly this time. “It’s just… a lot. I get it.”

You nodded, wiping at your nose with the back of your hand in a way that made his heart twist in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he added, a little helplessly. “I was just… trying to say goodbye.”

That last word came out rougher than he meant it to.

Bucky didn’t know what to do with the way your face crumpled again.

The tears came back—hot and fast—and though you were trying to smile through it, you clearly weren’t managing. You swiped at your cheeks with both hands now, uselessly, still holding the jewelry box in one.

He hesitated. Then stepped in a little closer, hand hovering awkwardly near your back.

“Hey,” he said gently, “come on. Let’s get some air.”

You nodded, a hiccuped little sound catching in your throat, and let him guide you with a light touch on your back. You were too busy trying not to sniff too loudly, muttering something about God, I probably look insane right now, as he led you carefully past the crowd and toward the door.

The outside air hit cool and sharp. The street was quiet in comparison—just the low hum of traffic and the faint pulse of music through the walls behind you.

You sniffled again, eyes still glassy as you blinked up at him, half apologetic. “Ugh, my makeup is definitely ruined,” you mumbled. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this mascara. But it was waterproof! It was supposed to be—why do they even say that if it’s a lie?”

Bucky gave a short breath—almost a laugh, almost not. He looked at you, really looked.

Your cheeks were a little streaked, sure. Lip gloss a bit smudged. But your eyes were shining. And that necklace—the one he’d spent way too long choosing—sat against your skin like it had always belonged there.

“You look fine,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You look like… you.”

You smiled weakly. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No. That good.”

You looked down at your heels, a soft little laugh escaping from behind your hand.

Then, a little quieter: “You really didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I wanted to.”

You sniffled once more and tilted your head back, resting it gently against the brick wall behind you. The chill of it made your skin rise in little goosebumps, but you didn’t mind. It helped ground you.

Bucky stood a step in front of you, hands in his pockets, close but not quite touching. He looked like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in this light—the heated cheeks, the still-damp lashes, the faint shimmer of highlighter on your collarbone.

You smiled at him, a little shy now, still damp-eyed but back to your usual, airy self. The kind of smile that could make someone forget everything they were angry about.

“You’re gonna miss me, huh?”

You meant it like a joke. Playful. Light.

But he didn’t laugh.

He looked at you like the weight of that sentence had knocked the wind out of him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I am.”

That stopped you. Just for a second. Like you hadn’t expected honesty from him—not that much, not here.

The smile on your lips faltered.

He stepped a little closer. Just a half-step. Just enough to feel his presence around you. He wasn’t touching you, but he didn’t need to. You could feel it anyway. Could feel him—his stillness, his warmth, his quiet restraint.

And then he said it.

“Are you sure,” he asked, voice barely audible, “there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The question hung in the air between you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there.

You looked up at him, blinking too fast again. “Bucky…”

But you didn’t finish the sentence.

Because it was already happening again—your eyes glassing over, that familiar sting building behind your nose.

You sucked in a shaky breath, the cool air burning your lungs. You looked away from him, blinking rapidly, willing the tears not to spill—but it was already too late. Again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “God, I’m sorry, I don't wanna cry again—this is so embarrassing.”

Bucky said nothing.

Just stood there in front of you, still as stone. But his eyes… they were softer than you’d ever seen them. And it hurt.

“I would stay,” you choked, voice trembling with the weight of the truth you’d kept tucked away for weeks. “I want to stay. Of course I want to stay.”

You were crying now, tears falling hot down your cheeks as your chest tightened. “But it wouldn’t work. It can’t. It’s unethical now. It’s inappropriate. Because I—”

Your throat clenched, but you pushed through.

“—because I have this stupid crush on you, okay?”

You didn’t dare look at him.

“I have this dumb, awful, unprofessional, completely humiliating crush on my boss. I think about you way too much, and it makes it hard to do my job. I bring you coffee I know you like and highlight your notes so you won’t panic during speeches and I try to make you smile because when you do it’s like—it’s like the world gets quiet for a second.”

Your hands fluttered uselessly as you spoke, as if your body could catch your words and stuff them back in your mouth.

“And I know it’s one-sided, okay? I’m not stupid. I know you don’t feel that way, but I—”

He kissed you.

Just like that. No warning.

A sudden, quiet press of lips that silenced your breath, your words, your panic.

His hands didn’t even touch you. Not yet. He just leaned in and kissed you—firm, sure, warm—like it was the only way he knew to make it all stop.

You froze, heart crashing into your ribs, eyes wide for just a moment.

And then you melted.

Mouth softening into his, breath catching in your throat. Tears still clinging to your lashes, your hand clutching the front of his jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

He pulled back slowly—barely an inch—his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s not one-sided.”

Your lips parted to speak—to say something, anything, maybe to ask if this was real—but you didn’t get the chance.

Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper, firmer, more certain. His hand found the side of your jaw, fingers brushing just behind your ear, grounding you in the moment like he couldn’t stand to be any farther away. Your back pressed gently against the wall behind you, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

It wasn’t careful now.

It was warm and urgent and real, and it made your head spin, your knees wobble. You let out a tiny noise against his mouth, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket again, clinging like you couldn’t bear to stop.

When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—his breath mingled with yours, foreheads still close.

“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he spoke.

Your heart stuttered. Your brain, still floating somewhere behind your eyes, couldn’t string thoughts together fast enough.

You blinked up at him, eyes hazy, lips still parted. Then, barely above a whisper, you murmured against his mouth,

“I think it’s ‘cause of my strawberry daiquiri.”

That made him smile.

Small, crooked, and stupidly tender.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you smiled too—real and a little dazed, like you couldn’t believe this was happening.

Bucky looked like he was about to say something else.

His mouth opened, barely.

And you didn’t let him.

You moved fast—tipping forward and throwing your arms around his neck before he could even breathe, your body colliding into his with enough force to make him stumble half a step back. His hands shot out instinctively, catching you by the waist, holding you steady.

Then you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Messier. Mouth opening against his, tongue slipping past his lips like it had been building in you for months.

He grunted softly into the kiss, grip tightening at your sides like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening—but wasn’t about to let go, either.

You pressed into him, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him closer like it wasn’t close enough. His hand slid up your spine, the other anchoring at your hip, both of you half-pinned against the brick wall and completely lost in the feel of each other.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was heat and tension and all the things you’d both been swallowing back for too long.

Your mouth moved against his like you’d been waiting for this exact angle, this exact pressure. He kissed you back with equal weight, tongue meeting yours, breath shallow, one of his hands fisting lightly in the fabric at your lower back like he needed something to hold onto.

You pulled back for half a second—just enough to breathe—then dragged him right back in, catching his lower lip between yours before deepening it again, another sweep of your tongue making him tighten his hold on you.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads were still touching, your fingers still curled at the nape of his neck. His hands were warm against your waist, thumbs absently brushing your sides like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Your lips hovered against his—still wet, swollen, parted.

“My heart is going tachycardic right now,” you mumbled, voice breathy and half-delirious.

Bucky blinked, a slow exhale brushing over your cheek as he gave a short, low laugh. It was half a huff, half a genuine what are you even saying, but there was nothing mocking in it.

He had no idea what that meant. Not really.

But still, without missing a beat, he murmured against your lips, “Yeah. Me too.”

Then he kissed you again.

Soft this time. Lingering. Then again, just below your mouth. And again, near the corner. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to taste more.

Your breath hitched, arms tightening briefly around his neck as his mouth found yours again—more lazy now, indulgent, like you had all the time in the world to learn each other one kiss at a time.

You smiled into it. Couldn’t help it.

And he didn’t stop kissing you.

Didn’t want to.

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

The Watchtower.

New York.

Leader—unofficially—of the most emotionally unstable group of enhanced individuals the government could dig up. He didn’t want the job. Didn’t ask for it. But somehow, it was always his name they called when something needed handling.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes heavy from a sleepless night. Not that anyone here noticed. Ava phased through walls at 3 a.m., Walker trained like rage was cardio, and Yelena had made it her personal mission to ignore authority unless she gave it to herself.

He sighed, long and low, ready to go back to pretending he didn’t exist.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out instinctively, screen lighting up.

Finally—cleared my schedule. I’m coming to New York this weekend. Hope you’re ready for excessive cuddling and making out and me refusing to let go of you for like 48 hours. ❤️

Bucky’s lips pulled into the faintest smile as he read your text, thumb tapping the screen just once in response.

Can’t wait.

And of course, that’s when Yelena walked in.

She stopped mid-stride, immediately squinting at him like she’d spotted a security breach.

“What the hell is that?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What?”

“That thing on your face.” She tilted her head, arms crossed. “Are you… smiling?”

He pocketed the phone quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“No, no, no.” She was already circling him like a predator. “You look—God, what’s the word—pleasant. That’s not your baseline.”

He sighed, already regretting not hiding in the gym.

“Who texted you?”

“None of your business,” he muttered.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to buy it. She crossed her arms, watching him like he was a broken vending machine she intended to fix with violence.

“You smiled. I’ve never seen you smile. Not like that. It was very suspicious.”

Bucky took a slow sip of coffee. “Wasn’t smiling.”

“Your face moved, Bucky,” she said flatly. “It was unsettling.”

He turned away, walked over to the fridge like it held answers.

Yelena followed.

“Was it a dog video?” she asked. “No. You’re not soft enough for dogs. A meme? A mission update with someone dying? No—wait. It was a person. You smiled like someone flirted with you.”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it serious? Is it secret? Is it dangerous?“ Yelena asked, suddenly in front of him, leaning slightly into his space, “I will find out. I am very good at finding things. And people.”

Bucky just sighed, long and tired, and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

Yelena stared after him for half a beat before turning sharply and locking eyes on the next available target.

Walker.

He’d just wandered in, hoodie half-zipped, chewing on a protein bar like he hadn’t had a thought in days.

“You,” Yelena said, pointing at him. “You’ve known him longest. Does Bucky have a girlfriend?”

Walker blinked. “What?”

“A girlfriend,” she repeated, slower. “A woman. He dates her. Romantic?”

He squinted slightly. “Bucky? Uh… I mean… I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I mean, maybe? He’s quiet. One time he left early and said he had ‘plans.’ That could mean anything though. Like… groceries. Or laundry.”

Yelena stared at him, unblinking. “You are completely useless.”

Walker nodded, still chewing. “That’s fair.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had just settled onto the couch, bowl of something vaguely edible in hand, eyes on the muted television where an old war documentary flickered across the screen. It wasn’t exactly entertainment—it was just quiet.

He barely got through three bites before he felt it.

The shift in the air.

Then the voices.

Yelena entered first, of course—arms crossed, wearing the face of someone who’d appointed herself lead investigator in a murder case that didn’t exist.

She was followed by Bob, Alexei, Ava, and Walker, who trailed in like a herd of very uncoordinated cats.

Bucky didn’t even look at them. “No.”

“We haven’t said anything yet,” Bob offered, smiling too nicely.

“Still no.”

Yelena dropped onto the armrest beside him, eyes sharp. “We’ve been talking.”

Bucky stared straight ahead. “Tragic.”

“And we’ve decided,” she continued, ignoring him completely, “that we don’t know anything about your personal life.”

“That’s because it’s personal,” he said dryly.

Alexei huffed, already pacing. “This is concerning. You are team leader. We need to know if you are emotionally stable.”

“I’m not. None of us are.”

Walker plopped into a chair. “He did smile the other day. That was weird.”

“That’s what started all this,” Yelena snapped. “He smiled. At a text. And now he won’t tell us who sent it.”

Bucky turned up the volume on the TV. Barely.

Ava appeared on the other side of the couch, silent as usual, but she arched a brow that said she was equally invested.

Bob, cheerful as ever, leaned forward with a grin. “We���re just saying… if there’s a special someone, you can tell us. We’re fun. We’re emotionally safe.”

“You’re emotionally nosy,” Bucky muttered.

“We are team,” Alexei boomed. “And you—our glorious yet emotionally constipated leader—should share with group!”

Yelena leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes. “Is it serious? Like, does she know you have zero social skills? Does she like that? Is she in therapy?”

Walker nodded. “Is she hot?”

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” he said. “It’s a valid question.”

Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check it right away—not with five pairs of eyes watching him like he was the last episode of a series they weren’t supposed to binge but did anyway.

But then he did glance. Just one look at the screen.

And something shifted in his posture. Barely.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite—but something loosened in his shoulders. He stood up, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said simply.

“Go where?” Yelena asked instantly, sliding off the couch and following with military-grade suspicion. “Where is Winter Soldier going all dressed up in… black?”

“I’m always dressed in black.“

But it didn’t matter.

They were already following him.

Bob was at his side with his usual skip in his step, Walker tagging along behind like a golden retriever who wasn’t sure what game they were playing. Alexei caught up quickly, talking to himself about trust and emotional openness. Ava materialized near the elevator, silent but present. And Yelena, of course, was right on Bucky’s heels.

“You’re deflecting,” she said as the elevator doors closed around them. “I can smell secrets. And this smells like a woman.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Not a word.

Just faced the elevator door, arms folded, jaw tight, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.

“Where exactly are you going?” she pressed, arms crossed. “Is she here? Is she real?”

“You’ll see,” Bucky said flatly, not bothering to face them.

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they all spilled into the main lobby of the Watchtower, a wide, sleek expanse of glass and metal and polished silence.

Then a sound cut through the air like a missile.

A high, joyful squeal.

“Bucky baby!”

Everything stopped.

The team froze.

Yelena’s face scrunched in real time. “Bucky baby?”

Before anyone could process that phrase, there was movement.

A blur of color streaked across the marble lobby. Heels clicking, earrings swinging, hair bouncing—you, in full tilt.

And without hesitation, you launched yourself straight at him.

Bucky barely had time to catch you, but he did—one arm wrapping around your waist, the other under your thighs as you jumped up and clung to him like gravity didn’t apply.

And then, right there in front of everyone, your lips were on his.

Not shy. Not sweet.

Mouth open, tongue in, both hands in his hair as you kissed him like you’d been holding your breath for hours and he was the only oxygen you wanted. You tilted his head, deepened it, bit his bottom lip and everything. It was messy and loud and had absolutely zero awareness of space or audience.

Bucky just held you there—like he’d been waiting for this all day. One hand squeezing your hip, the other steady under your thigh, mouth moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough.

Silence behind you.

Long.

Awkward.

Unblinking.

Walker looked physically stunned, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t figure out what dimension he’d fallen into.

Bob had both hands over his eyes. “I feel like I’m watching something x-rated.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear. “Ah, love! Powerful! Raw! Very virile. I respect it.“

Ava stood slightly to the side, arms crossed, expression twisted into something between a wince and a grimace. “This is disgusting.”

Yelena just raised one eyebrow. “What the fuck?”

The kiss finally slowed—just a little. You pulled back to catch your breath, your forehead pressing against Bucky’s as you grinned, lips swollen, eyes dancing.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He huffed out a breath, still catching up. “Hi.”

Then, finally, he turned—still holding you, still slightly dazed—and glanced over at the very silent, very stunned lineup of teammates.

No one said anything.

You blinked, just now noticing the five-person audience.

“Oh,” you said cheerfully, breath still short. “Hi.”

Silence.

The kind that settles like static. Thick, charged, slightly horrified.

The team’s eyes slowly, almost comically, shifted from you to Bucky.

All at once.

Yelena stepped forward half a pace, pointing without subtlety. “This is your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

You were still curled in his arms like you lived there, bright smile lighting up your entire face, makeup slightly smudged from the kissing, lipstick faded along Bucky’s mouth.

You held up your left hand like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Diamond. Simple, perfect, unmistakable.

“Fiancée, actually.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @ozwriterchick @espressopatronum454 @slutforsr @c-grace56 @Tafuller @mencantaleer @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @snake-in-a-flower-crown @honeyhera29 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover @ogoc-19 @person-005 @beemovie123

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[tbaluver]

WEARING HIS CLOTHES- The Love And DeepSpace Men

featuring ( in order ): xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb genre: suggestive ( some cw/tags will be below characters ) a/n: hihi lovelies! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ sorry if theres any mistakes all my beta readers are asleep...·°՞(っ-ᯅ-ς)՞°·. i kinda rushed writing this so i might rewrite this again or post a prt 2! anyways i hope you enjoy reading! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

cw/tags: mentioning of kneading breasts

He stirs awake, nose scrunching slightly as he was awakened by..his own smell? Brow furrowed, he shifts beside you, relieved to find you nestled against him, his arm still loosely wrapped around your waist. You’re propped up on one elbow, casually scrolling through your phone, when you notice he stirs beside you.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” you murmur, glancing down as your fingers gently comb through his messy hair. He shakes his head, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“My shirt..” he mumbles, still half-asleep.

You glance down at the oversized shirt that practically swallowed your entire frame. “Yeah, my clothes are in the wash so I- Xavier!”

You squeak as he suddenly lifts the hem of his shirt and disappears underneath it, sliding his entire head inside. He rests his cheek against your chest with a satisfied sigh. 

Your cheeks grow warm as his hair brushes softly against your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You can feel his hand slide up into your shirt, cupping your breast before his thumb swipes over your soft nipple.

He’s more peaceful like this. To be in one of his favorite spots with no obstruction of extra clothes so he can bury himself further in your scent and warmth.

Zayne:

You stood in front of the mirror, quietly taking in your reflection. Zayne’s white button up shirt hung off your frame. The shoulders of the shirt drooped on you from how much broader he was. The hem nearly reached the top of your thighs and the sleeves slipped past your hands.

“What are you doing?”

A voice behind you breaks your thoughts. You turn your head slightly, catching a glimpse of Zayne approaching in the mirror. Faint scratch marks trail down his arms and bite marks scatter across his chest that carry the traces from last night. The sight made your cheeks heat. He stops just behind you, meeting your gaze in the mirror, eyes tracing the way his shirt clung loosely to your body.

“Why are you wearing my shirt?” he asked quietly. “Surely they’re not this comfortable?”

You glance up at him, but before you can answer, he closes the small gap between you both, just enough to feel the heat of his skin through the fabric. His finger brushes over the buttons of his shirt, slowly and deliberately undoing one button, then the next, and another until the fabric reveals just enough to show the marks he left.

“You know I don’t like you wearing my clothes,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. A shiver ran down your spine as his hand settled at your waist, gently guiding you back to bed. His shirt hung open now while his hands explored and traced the marks he pathed last night.

“Should we pick up where we left off?”

Rafayel:

You can hear a dramatic gasp across your shared bedroom and you already know who it is without even looking.

You’re lying comfortably on the bed, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans. It hangs loosely off your frame, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, making the fishie’s brain short circuit. He didn’t think it was possible for you to be any cuter, any more beautiful, but somehow you keep proving him wrong every single day.

“Cutieeee, stay right there!” he says, scrambling to grab his sketchbook and a pencil.

“Hm?” you hum in response, not fully catching what he said and shifting slightly in place.

“Wait no don’t move! Actually..wait, that’s even better..”

His eyes scan the position you were in, how the cardigan swallows your entire frame. His eyes trail even lower, catching a glimpse of how the cardigan has lowered enough to reveal the swell of your breasts. He swallows hard, pathetically hard.

“Cutie..” he mumbles, “You’re a tease..”

He closes the sketchbook without drawing a single line, completely forgetting whatever he had planned. All he knows right now is that his cardigan would look so much better off of you.

Sylus:

cw/tags: mentioning of kneading breasts and small mentioning of clit play

The first time you wore his clothes, it was an amusing and ridiculously adorable sight to see. His shirt hung off you like a dress, and the shoulders slipped far past where they should, so that the sleeves hid your hands. It started off with him laying out clothes for you to take to, having full freedom in taking whatever you wanted from his closet.

With the height difference, most of his shirts fall to the middle of your thighs, which makes it all too easy for you to ditch pants and underwear whenever you’re lounging in his clothes. And that was his favorite.

He likes how easy it was to slip his hands underneath the shirt you were wearing to cup your breasts, his large hands kneading them while his thumb softly circles your nipple. Or how you sit on his lap and how his hands slide up and up your thigh to feel you practically dripping down your thighs. 

And when you lean back against his chest and a breathless gasp escapes your lips when his digits play with your clit, is his cue to press soft, tender kisses along your neck. As long as you let him, he finds himself doing this often. 

“oh, is my kitten eager again?”

Caleb:

The cold, empty space beside him stirs him awake. He reaches for his phone to find you, but his eyes land on your reflection in the mirror.

You’re standing there, wrapped in nothing but his oversized colonel’s uniform shirt and the matching hat, which sits too low over your eyes. The sleeves dangle well past your hands and most of the buttons are undone, revealing your skin and the marks he left behind last night.

Without hesitation, he draws you in, and before you know it, you’re gently pulled across the bedroom, landing softly in his lap.

“What do you think you’re doing pipsqueak? he asks, lifting a brow. A lazy grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. His fingers trace the edges of the shirt, brushing your side where the fabric hangs loose on your smaller frame. He pauses when he notices the frown on your lips and crosses your arms.

“Is that how you speak to a colonel, solider?”

He laughs as his hat tilts awkwardly on your head. “Sorry, Colonel.” Still smiling, he raises both hands as if he was surrendering but gives you a salute to give into your little roleplay.

“Not good enough,” you huff, puffing out your chest. “I want a hundred pushups and fluffy pancakes! That’s an order soldier.”

His grin widens as his hands slide lower down your body. You open your mouth to reply but gasp when he shifts you up further in his lap to feel his achingly growing bulge in his sweats.

“Well colonel, how about a quick test flight?"

ʚɞ cr. for the divider @/ cafekitsune

ʚɞ 𝘕𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯:

ʚɞ my other works if you want to check it out! The Love And DeepSpace Masterlist, Pg. 2

ʚɞ Others places you can find me:

Wattpad

Twitter ( but idk how to use it or interact with people )

[minicronch]

lets go on walkies with mama

BEHOLD! the beasts

[orderforbrian]

inspekta broke ass boyfriend posing (theyre at canes)

[sixeyesonathiel]

bad ideas in bikini – itinerary

pairing — tech bro satoru x fem reader

synopsis : gojo satoru was supposed to be taking a break—doctor’s orders if the doctor was his best friend threatening to physically chain him to the cruise ship. he had no plans to meet anyone, no interest in vacation flings, and definitely no time to entertain the woman across the hall who looked at him like he was the personification of a migraine. but then you slammed your door in his face, and for reasons he’s still trying to untangle, he’s been thinking about that glare ever since.

he’s not the type to fall easy—he’s too smart for that. a date-to-marry kind of guy, a serial monogamist in theory, if not in practice. but you? you’re not interested in dating, not interested in him, and somehow that makes everything worse. or better. depends on the hour. because every time he tries to mind his business, there you are—in a bikini that rewires his brain, in an argument that turns into flirting, in his head long after you’ve left.

he keeps telling himself it’s nothing serious, that it’s just sunstroke or poor judgment, that you’re just a summer situation he’ll laugh about later. except every time you leave, it feels less like a fling and more like he’s one wrong decision away from wanting everything.

status : ongoing (3/15 chapters, 13.4k wordcount) ✦ tags -> cruise ship au, summer situationship, romantic comedy, fluff, humor, eventual smut, porn with plot, sexual tension, banter, reader is emotionally unavailable, satoru is a workaholic, bad decisions in luxury settings, more tags to be added, majestic art by @/dmsco1803 on x

gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

vacation timeline

day 01 , day 02 , day 03 , day 04 , day 05 , day 06 , day 07 , day 08 , day 09 , day 10 , day 11 , day 12 , day 13 , day 14 , after the waves.

passenger list : @miffyliebe @heh123321 @jijijihanji @chuiisi @etsuniiru @hails-trom @ravenbc @yukiyaaaa @juststrawbs @strawberrychita @endedlove @arabellasolstice @starlight5cat @fisusaurus @ayumilk @sofi4dsam @vynn30 @kkataleena @anthastudios @satorusprites @camy-yh @woosaniesworld @raendarkfaerie @onixsky @k0z3me @pomegranatepip @satotorulove @ffaeriee @ieathairs @jihyosdrider @satoruxsc @j311yb34nz @candyluvsboba @ethereal-moonlit @1r2u3b4y5 @surgikull @tofumiao @deffenferofjustice @thenonweeknd @fluerful @kamuihz

passenger list is still open, comment if you want to be added!

[maladaptive-daydreamer-23]

🛩️ Mile High Club🛩️

Mal’s Notes: This… Is… Porn. That’s all… Nearly 60 pages of pure filth, and very little plot… In fact, what plot? I regret nothing.

Love,

Mal🩶

Acknowledgments: @cringeiknow and @theghostofcosmichorrorpast I could not have done this without either of you! I love you both to pieces! You're the best friends and Beta readers a girl could ask for!

Pairings: Hotch x reader, Emily x reader, Spencer x reader

Warnings and tags: DDDNE, 18+ MDNI, you’re responsible for your own media consumption but for the love of god MDNI, Buckle up Folks this list is a doozy, Explicit Sexual Content Past This Point, Discussions Pertaining to reader’s sexuality while reader is not present, reader is female, reader is bisexual, reader has sex with both men and a woman in this fic, if that’s not your thing you should probably move along, mentions of wet dreams, praise kink, implied female masturbation, massage that leads to sex, bisexual Emily Prentiss, Bisexual Aaron Hotchner, Bisexual Spencer Reid, Canon Characters Do Not Engage In Sexual Activity With Each Other, They Do All Engage In Sexual Activities With Reader (at the same time (no d/p I wasn’t feeling that brave)), voyeurism, exhibitionism, Dom/sub and Switch Dynamics, dirty everything, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, EVERYBODY GETS SOME HEAD, Almost everybody gives some head, bodily fluids, ingesting bodily fluids (just cum, male and female, nobody panic), PinV sex, sex on a plane, rough sex, rough oral, biting, bite marks, bruises, post sex bruises, hair pulling, hickies, nipple play, pet names, finger sucking, very slight (microscopic) breath play, begging, reader begging, hand job, Hotch spanks reader twice but it’s minor, unprotected sex WRAP IT UP PEOPLE, deep throating, Aftercare, teasing, subspace, plot what plot, reader tells Hotch to Fuck her like he owns her.

Word Count: 17.8k

Back to Mal’s Masterlist

AO3

The case had been a rough one; with JJ stuck back at home having had her new baby, Rossi away on a book tour, and Derek out on an injured knee from a renovation incident. JJ’s liaison duties had fallen to you, to your silent horror.

It wasn’t that you were bad at public speaking or presenting. It’s just, your palms got all sticky with sweat, your legs shook, and there was a tightness in your chest that you knew was going to stick around for hours.

Which was not exactly ideal when trying to impress your hot boss.

So you stuffed your anxiety down and did what needed to be done. Because even false confidence had to become actual confidence at some point, right?

As of that moment though, you wouldn’t dare let Hotch know you felt out of your depth. Not while you had something to prove, and especially not when any amount of his attention gave you butterflies in your stomach.

With you on PR duty, the stress that Emily and Spencer were under had doubled.

And with Rossi gone, Hotch had no one to split the administrative duties with.

Which left you all so busy that you had barely seen much of Spencer and Emily. While you and Hotch had been alone together at the station the entire time, with little more than orders and questions conveyed back and forth between the two of you.

Until Hotch had gathered you all into a conference room together to go over the evidence and write up the profile—press releases and administrative bullshit be damned.

Which left you reeling, because the three of them were just as stressed as—if not more so than—you, and when they got stressed...

They tended to get undressed.

Not completely—obviously—just a suit jacket here, a few popped buttons there, maybe some rolled up sleeves and messy hair.

But a girl could dream.

And God, did you dream vividly.

Nothing about Hotch escaped your notice. The width of his shoulders and chest made you itch to splay your hands over them. His thick hair would look so tempting between your thighs. You wondered if he would like the way you’d tug on it as he devoured you. Even the way the man dressed drove you crazy. His suits must have been tailored, because they fit far too well for your sanity. His silk ties looked soft and pullable. Your fingers itched to give them a good tug, preferably while guiding him to your lips.

Your attraction to Spencer was different from how you lusted after Hotch.

Spencer had an innocence and pureness about him that was impossible not to adore… An innocence you fantasized about corrupting. You often watched Spencer read, a habit you couldn’t break. It was so hard to look away, however, when he drug his fingers down the page, gentle and reverent. You wondered how that would feel against your ribs. Or lower. His sweet smiles often tempted you to tease him mercilessly. The way his amber eyes lit up when he rambled on made your stomach fill with butterflies. His soft voice always left your heart pounding and your pussy throbbing. Not that he knew that—thank God—though even if he did, it would just embarrass him.

Emily was, well… Emily.

Confident, strong, sassy and could break you in half, something you definitely wished she would do. Her dark hair and porcelain skin were a thing of beauty. The way she held herself with such surety was enthralling. Her clever and bold personality was absolutely deadly, both to unsubs and your libido. You often wondered how it would feel to earn her attention. She had a ‘take charge’ attitude in the field that you were almost sure would extend to the bedroom as well. You found yourself daydreaming about her scarlet lips giving commands of the erotic variety, smiling, and calling you a good girl… Among other things you imagined they would be very good at.

In layman's terms you were metaphorically fucked.

If only you could get physically fucked… specifically, by one of them.

Alas, it’s against regulations to fuck your co-workers. So your imagination, that new vibrator, and—if you were lucky—a wet dream or two would just have to do.

Being alone with one of them was truly a battle between your common sense and your carnal imagination.

However, being in a room with all of them… that was enough to put you in a mental crisis of truly epic proportions.

Just to make everything astronomically worse, you were pretty sure they had started to notice.

They had all started to notice.

You had been so relieved to wrap up the case and finally head home. Until you realized that heading home meant being on that cramped jet for several hours with just the three of them.

Hotch, who was sitting across from you, had immediately noticed that something was off with your demeanor. You were usually so exuberant, talkative and flirtatious in a way that rivaled even Penelope.

Now your eyes darted around the cabin, never lingering longer than a second on anything—especially a person. Your cheeks were flushed, like you were a little overheated or had spent just a little too long in the sun.

His biggest clue, however, was the way your chest expanded in small rapid breaths. He was growing concerned and was about to ask if you were alright.

Before he could, you offered a quick excuse to Emily—who had been chatting animatedly to you—and headed toward the restroom.

“Okay, has anyone else noticed that she’s been acting strangely all day?” Spencer asked the other two, once the bathroom door latched behind you.

Hotch nodded his head, agreeing with Spencer’s assessment of your odd behavior.

“I agree, she’s not been quite herself this week.” Hotch murmured, raising his brows and shaking his head. “She definitely hasn’t been nearly as flirtatious as she normally is.” The usual crease in his brow returned to its proper place. “She didn’t say anything remotely off-color in front of me at all this week, now that I think about it.”

Your quiet, nervous state was so unlike you—not that he had watched you enough to know.

Usually, you would crack a poorly timed joke or two, earning a disciplinary glare, and he would have to bite back a grin all the way through it.

There were no jokes today, no flirting, just intense focus. Your eyes locked on the evidence board. Never straying for a second, not even when he made an attempt to draw your attention. You only responded when asked a direct question and only made eye contact when absolutely necessary.

He had easily noticed your skittish state. How you seemed to duck out of a room as soon as he entered, or disappear for a while and come back laser focused on anything that wasn’t him.

You were usually quite confident. Or at least did a very effective job at hiding it when you weren’t.

“No kidding.” Emily snorted in halfhearted amusement. “I’ve been trying to snap her out of it the entire flight, and apparently, my flirting only made it worse.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like girls, Em.” Spencer joked with a smug grin.

“She definitely does…” Emily countered, giving Spencer a healthy dose of side-eye and a knowing smirk. “She flirts with me all the time, and Penelope told me that she has an ex-girlfriend. If anything she doesn’t swing your way.”

In Emily’s humble—expert—opinion, you practically had a flashing neon sign above your head that said: GAY!

Hotch chuckled and shook his head, smiling faintly, “I think you’re both wrong.” He refereed. “She’s bisexual, at the least.”

He glanced up from his case file, his brows raised and a smug smirk on his face.

“She very well could be.” Spencer admitted, his face stuck in that expression that said he was overanalyzing every detail about you that could ever apply to this situation. “We could test that hypothesis…”

His eyes were sparkling with a curiosity that was definitely scientific.

“It’s not a bad idea…” Emily mused. “It could be fun… and we do have five uninterrupted hours of airtime left…”

“Ground rules would be necessary,” Hotch added, murmuring almost as if to himself. Pretending to be lost in the case file again. His eyes traced boredly over the lines of text on the page, “and clear consent, from everyone.”

“Now we’re talking.” Emily smirked, sitting up a little straighter. She had been waiting for a chance to take her harmless flirting into a more serious pursuit. “I'm surprised though, you’re seriously gonna let us do this Hotch?”

“I can’t say I’m not curious to see where it goes…” He admitted, smirking a bit. However, his eyes barely lifted from the page, seemingly disinterested.

He was, in fact, very interested.

He saw the way you looked at him—and the other two—on a regular basis. He knew you were attracted to them.

What he didn’t know—with certainty anyway—was how you would react to an advance by all three of them at once. He was certain, however, that you were in for the surprise of your life—and a very good time—if you let it get that far.

“It’s settled then.” Reid smiled in self satisfaction. “When she comes back out we’ll conduct a little… experiment.”

Then the three of them produced a hurried plan.

When you exited the restroom a few minutes later you were no better—if not worse—off than you had been before. Trying to get yourself off had not only failed, it had also made the problem almost painful. However, staying in the restroom any longer would not only be embarrassing, but suspicious as well.

You tried not to look at Emily when you sat back down, looking anywhere else would be safer. So you shifted, only to catch Spencer’s eye, who was studying you with a strange expression.

The last time you felt so scrutinized, you had been defending your thesis to earn your Master’s.

You decided it was probably safest to stare at your lap instead, fiddling with the hem of your pencil skirt. Anxiously rubbing circles in the cotton fabric between your fingers in an effort to soothe… something. Hoping, praying, that none of them knew it had been hiked around your waist only moments before… with your hand tucked between your thighs.

“Hey, are you alright?” Emily asked softly.

You could feel all three sets of eyes burning into you, you didn’t dare look up. The racing of your pulse was only getting faster.

“Mm hmm.” You nodded, continuing to play with the seam of your skirt and then trying to smooth a run in the delicate black nylon of your stocking. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Your voice was a little higher than normal, and you knew they hadn’t missed it.

“Hmm, I don’t know…” Emily responded, you could hear slight teasing in her voice. “You haven’t been acting fine. In fact, you seem a little stressed,” You could practically feel the grin on her face as she turned, “Hotch, doesn’t she seem stressed?”

“Incredibly stressed.” He agreed, and if you’re not mistaken, that was amusement in his tone.

You flush even brighter.

“You should relax a little.” He suggested in that stupidly hot low timbre of his. He didn’t even have the decency to toss you a glance. You often wondered if anything could tear the man away from his file. God, maybe one of these days you’d strip down and stand in front of him butt-ass naked, just to see if that would do it.

You couldn’t help the little snort of indignant laughter that escaped you, because Hotch’s tone was practically sinful—proving that, yeah, you could get wetter than you already were—and the fact that Hotch, of all people, told you to relax.

“You’re one to talk.” You retorted before you could think better of it. A slight feeling of panic washed over you at your brashness and you risked a glance up at him, his expression was frustratingly neutral.

His eyes, however, held a peculiar spark. A spark that still somehow gave you nothing.

Emily scooted a tad closer to you, turning her body to face yours and pulling her knees up under her on the bench seat.

“Turn around.” She commanded, twirling her finger around in a circle. You raised a brow at her questioningly, unsure of what she was about to do. She rolled her eyes. “Just trust me.”

You sighed—long sufferingly—and did as she asked, turning to face the other end of the jet. Your back now facing the others. You had little indication of what Emily intended to do with your back facing her, but you didn’t have the energy, or the nerve, to argue with her. The only hope in your mind was that she didn’t touch you and send you spiraling down another unfortunate slip-n-slide of arousal.

Then you felt the french pin slide out of your hair, which promptly unfurled and cascaded down your back. The pressure lifted off your scalp, leaving behind a dull ache.

Why had you twisted it so tight that morning?

Oh, that's right.

So you could at least appear put together when you’d realized that it would only be the four of you on the jet home, with no case briefings to distract you.

You could only dream of where you wanted this to go.

Hot mouths, desperate grabs, pleasured moans… snap out of it before you let one slip, holy shit.

You stiffened, very aware that this was a bad idea and tried to pull away.

“Relax…” She cooed, alarmingly close to your ear. You bristled a little further. “I only want to help…”

Her hands slid into your hair then, nails raking over your scalp gently before her fingertips began firmly massaging your temples. Your eyes closed involuntarily and most of the tension fled your body without warning. A little sigh escaped your lips and you felt your cheeks start to burn as you sunk into her hands.

“There, isn’t that better?” She murmured softly, a lilt to her voice you couldn’t quite place yet.

“It does feel nice…” You admitted nervously.

Her fingers trailed down from your temples to the back of your neck. Working into the muscles, tight with the start of a tension headache.

“I bet it does, your knots have knots.” She hummed sympathetically, if not a little disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t let it get this bad. It’s not healthy and it feels painful.”

“It’s been a long week…” You responded a little defensively. “I don’t think I can handle many more cases without JJ and Rossi around.”

The words are almost strangled, her hands on your neck both a blessing and a curse. Then they slide down to your shoulders. Kneading and digging into your traps in an earnest attempt to banish the tension there.

“Why is that?” She asked curiously, but there was something more… sensuous, about the way she said it. It sent a small shiver down your spine that, luckily, was easy enough to conceal. But you still wondered if she felt it.

You tensed up slightly again.

“Because, I am not a trained press liaison. JJ does a much better job, and we’re all better off with more of us in the field. You guys almost ran yourselves ragged trying to get everything done, and Hotch didn’t have Rossi to delegate administrative tasks to. Not to mention the locals were being a pain in the ass the whole time. It honestly felt like a bit of a clusterfuck.” You confessed, though that was only half the truth.

“You did a wonderful job with the press, JJ even texted me to tell me she was proud of you.” Hotch murmured from across the aisle, giving you a rare compliment. You glanced over at him in surprise, you hadn’t known JJ had sung your praises to Hotch as well. “But she told you that herself earlier. So why are you really so anxious?”

“It was just a lot for the four of us to take on, that’s all.” You insisted, but Emily’s hands started to work their way down your spine. She found a particularly sore spot and dug her thumb into it mercilessly, forcing a moan to escape your lips without permission.

“Sorry.” You murmured in absolute mortification.

“Don’t apologize.” Emily hushes you, a sly knowing smile on her face. “I like it when you're vocal.”

That startled you so thoroughly that you actually jumped a little. Any other day and it wouldn’t have phased you at all. That type of flirting was normal from Emily, she liked to make you blush. Tonight, however, you were woefully underprepared for her raunchiness. You laughed nervously, knowing that she would expect you to laugh on a normal day.

“Mmmm, I’m with Hotch.” Spencer hummed, finally entering the conversation. “I think something else has you all worked up. You’re missing Morgan, JJ, and Rossi because they’re a good buffer.”

You almost choked on air, he couldn’t possibly have worked that out so easily.

“I don’t know what you mean.” You lied.

He didn’t respond, and instead shared a glance with the others behind your back. Hotch gave a subtle nod to Emily, and she smiled in pure glee, before pulling your hair to one side and tracing her nose down the side of your neck. Her breath caused goosebumps to rise on your skin.

“You don’t? Are you sure?” She murmured, voice taking on a blatantly seductive tone.

You shot a worried glance in Hotch’s direction, only to find his eyes glazed over. Something heated hiding just beneath the surface.

“I- I’m sure.” You stuttered, every bit of that false confidence you’d been building ripped away in an instant. Leaving you a mess, you squeezed your thighs together once more trying to silence the throbbing ache between them, and his eyes flicked down to track the movement.

“You can’t lie to us. We’ve all been paying attention, sweetheart, and we see everything.” Hotch murmured, his voice thick and husky. “You know better.”

Sweetheart? Oh god. What on earth was happening?

You looked away from him quickly, hoping the truth wasn’t on blatant display in your eyes.

He chuckled softly.

Emily’s hand cupped your chin gently as she turned your head to face her, to face all of them.

“Emily?” You murmured in apprehension. She started to lean in closer to you, much closer. Too close for you to keep your wits about you. “What are you doing?”

She was searching your eyes intently for any hint of discomfort or fear.

She found none.

“This.” She whispered and then her lips met yours.

It was a gentle, seeking kiss. Her lips sure and firm against your own. You couldn’t help but lose yourself in it for a moment. The world narrowed down to her.

Her soft lips against yours. The way her mouth moved, seeking more from you. Her hand skimmed up your jaw from your chin and tangled in your hair as she deepened the kiss, pulling a soft whimper from your throat.

A whimper that was echoed by Spencer, just a few feet away.

His soft needy whine pulled you back down to earth, or rather, inside the jet. Where it suddenly dawned on you that Emily was shoving her tongue down your throat, in front of the team. In front of the team and your boss, who was-unfortunately–a stickler for rules.

Jerking away from Emily, you looked over at Hotch.

“Emily!” You gasped quietly, scrambling backward away from her on the seat. Despite your very, very willing participation. She followed you slowly. “What has gotten into you!?”

You were panting, your breaths shaky, your hands even shakier.

She smiled at you softly and threw a glance back over her shoulder at the others. Her gaze seemed to project, I told you so, as she crawled a little closer to you. You looked around at them then—panicked and breathless—the throbbing between your legs not at all helping you to make sense of the situation.

You focused on Hotch. Your eyes searched his frantically, knowing a reprimand would be swiftly coming your way. Or the inevitable glare of disappointment. Or worse, suspension.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor when he smirked at you instead.

“Don’t stop on my account.” He murmured, his voice thick and low, a slight rasp starting to come through. “It was just starting to get interesting.”

What. The. Fuck.

“W-w-what?” You stuttered, unsure if you had maybe misheard him, or imagined the whole fucking thing.

“You heard what I said.” He shrugged at you. “Don’t stop.”

Your mouth opened and closed, trying to form words when you were pretty sure your brain was on a hiatus.

“But-” You started to argue and he furrowed his brows at you.

This absolutely could not be happening. It was impossible. Any second now you were going to wake up and employ that new toy you had ordered specifically to deal with this issue.

“Are you saying you don’t like it when Prentiss kisses you?” He asked, his expression making it clear that he already knew the answer was no. You searched his eyes intently, looking for any sign that this would end poorly for you. What you saw instead was pure, unadulterated lust. The deep hazel of his eyes was almost consumed by his pupils and dark with hunger. He wanted you, he wanted to watch you make out with Emily, wanted to hear your moans and it was driving him crazy. So you shook your head no. Because you definitely did like the way Emily had kissed you and you wanted more. “Then close your mouth before I use it, and let Emily make you feel better.”

“Okay.” You murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

That was all Emily needed to hear.

Her mouth crashed into yours again and she pressed you back against the seat, slowly laying you down. Her body hovered over yours, the sweet scent of her perfume curling around you and numbing your senses. A moan ripped its way out of your mouth and she devoured it whole as her hand rested softly on your leg, just below the knee length hem of your skirt, and began to push it slowly up your thigh. The coolness of the air on your newly exposed skin made you shiver, a small shuddery breath accompanying it.

Emily grinned against your lips.

“Garters, huh? Can’t wait to see if they match your panties.” She murmured, Hotch and Spencer both groaned.

The idea of the two of them watching the two of you and enjoying it… was enough to make you squirm, the throbbing between your legs became agonizing again. Your thighs were rubbing together seeking any amount of friction…

Until Emily forced her knee between your legs, forcing them apart and not allowing the friction you so desperately needed. Her fingers still slowly dragged your skirt up the expanse of your thigh until she had it hiked up around your waist again.

“So pretty…” Hotch murmured, his voice thick and rough.

You turned your head to look at him, not at all phasing Emily who began kissing your neck instead, and found him sitting with his legs spread. His pants were undone and his long thick member was firmly gripped in his palm. If you weren’t so occupied with the fact Emily had found a spot on your neck that made your entire body tingle, your eyes might’ve bugged out of your head.

Emily’s lips managed to coax another soft moan from you and your attention was temporarily diverted. Your head rolled back a little to give her space to work, which made her chuckle. A sound that you were sure was pure sin.

You heard another sound, a soft moan from across the aisle, and you realized that Hotch…

Wasn’t the only one.

Spencer had taken his out as well, watching you intently while stroking himself slowly. A loud and surprising moan erupted from your lips, pulling soft groans from the three of them in response.

You didn’t know what you wanted more.

Emily’s mouth… or either of the cocks now standing at attention in front of you.

However, the decision would not be left up to you.

Emily’s hand was now popping open the buttons of your blouse one by one. Working her way down your stomach, her mouth following her hands slowly. She was taking her sweet time, kissing, sucking and biting gently. Sucking your skin into her mouth and rolling it softly between her teeth, probably leaving some little red marks. Her head dipping lower and lower toward the apex of your thighs.

More little moans escaped through your heavy, panting breaths.

Her mouth finally hovered over the place you wanted it most. Emily’s breath was hot as she slowly closed her lips around your clit over your black lacy panties. A strangled cry breaking free as you threw your head back, your mouth wide and your eyes closing tightly.

Hotch knelt down behind you, pushing his shoulder under your head, forcing you to look down at Emily between your legs. His hand brushed your hair out of your face gently.

“Do you like having Emily’s mouth between your legs, sweetheart?” He hummed against your temple, placing a tender kiss there.

You opened your mouth to answer, but Emily had other plans, sucking harder on your clit that she had been previously, while flicking at it with her tongue. Your panties weren’t even off yet and she had you nearly in tears from the pleasure.

A strangled, half moan, half gasp left your mouth in the place of words.

Hotch chuckled softly and his breath moved your hair, tickling your forehead.

“Where did that clever mouth go? It was working so well earlier.” His fingers curled around your open blouse, and he gently pulled it off your shoulders. He guided you back onto his shoulder again as he placed kisses to the side of your neck, and then tossed the shirt to Spencer, who brought it to his nose and took a deep breath of your perfume.

“She smells so good…” Spencer mumbled softly, still palming his own erection and watching Emily's head move between your legs.

“You have no idea how good she smells.” Emily groaned, biting the inside of your thigh hard enough to sting and then started to suck a hickey over the indentations her teeth had made.

“Why don’t you take her panties off and tell us how she tastes.” Hotch suggested with a smirk, you groaned softly in agreement. Your hips bucked slightly and that knot in your core squeezed tight.

“You like that idea, huh?” He teased gently, you could feel his grin against your temple. Then he threaded his hand through your hair and pulled your head back to mouth hot kisses down the line of your throat.

“I definitely do.” Emily smirked, then hooked her thumbs into the waist of your panties and slowly began to drag them down your hips. Her fingers deftly unclipping your garters from your stockings, then continuing to drag your panties down your legs until she had freed them completely and tossed them to the floor. Her warm breath fanned out across your skin and yours hitched at the sensation. Much to Emily’s delight, goosebumps pebbled your thighs and she ran her fingertips over them slowly. Which only made them worse.

“It’s not braille.” You hissed at her impatiently. “It’s not going to magically spell anything out.”

“That fucking mouth…” She mumbled as she finally closed the distance between her mouth and your pussy. Your hips bucked at the heat of her tongue as she licked a path from your entrance to your clit.

A strangled cry flew from your lips. Emily’s laugh puffed against you, and the only thing keeping you aware of anything at all was the combination of Spencer and Hotch’s laughs filling the space as well.

“Not such a smartass with a tongue on your pussy are you?” Hotch’s gravelly voice reverberated in your ear before he took your ear lobe in his mouth and bit it gently. “Be good for us and we’ll see just how many times we can make you come.”

You only had the mental capacity to nod… because Emily had just sucked your clit into her mouth and was rolling her tongue over it. That—combined with the gentle suction she so mindfully applied—meant whimpering, nodding, and squirming was all you could manage to do.

The warmth of her mouth was obscene, the slick firmness of her tongue enough to make you see stars. She gave a particularly rough pull of suction against your clit and you couldn’t contain yourself.

“Fuck!” You gasped, throwing your head back and closing your eyes.

Hotch wasn’t having that though.

Especially since Spencer was barely containing his own whimpers and moans from the chair across the aisle, where he was watching the entire scene with rapt attention, soaking in every detail. Hotch took your chin in his hand and forced you to look at Spencer.

“Look at him.” He commanded, growling in your ear. “Look at what you’re doing to him, Sweetheart, and you haven’t even touched him.”

You made eye contact with Spencer then, his eyes full of longing, sweat glistening on his brow and his hand struggling to maintain a steady rhythm on his cock. His chest was heaving from the effort it was taking him to remain in control, you could clearly hear his ragged breaths from your place across the cabin. His cheeks were flushed–a ruddy pink–and his hair was disheveled from his fingers, which he kept dragging through it.

“Spence…” You murmured softly, for no other reason than you felt the need to say his name. To acknowledge him and make sure he knew you saw him. To be certain he knew that you appreciated what you saw.

His cock was so hard it was closer to pink than his natural skin tone and you were anxious to do something about it. It looked almost painful.

You felt like you could hear everything he was thinking as he broke eye contact to study the length of your body, then brought his gorgeous amber doe eyes back yours.

“Tell her how beautiful she looks Reid, talk to her, she loves it when you ramble.” Hotch urged him gently. “Don’t you, pretty girl?”

You really did and the pleading look in your eyes was all he needed to see to know that was true.

“You should see yourself right now, Angel…” Spencer murmured softly, hesitantly at first but the heat in your eyes as you gazed back at him was undeniable, and the boost in confidence he needed. “You’re stunning, absolutely ethereal, bewitching even. From the luster of your hair to the delicate curves of your legs, you look like a dream. Your perfect breasts look so firm and smooth, I want to cup my hands around them just to see how it would feel.”

You moaned softly at that and Hotch hummed his agreement and approval of Spencer’s pretty words. He had to admit he was impressed, Reid seemed to have a way of waxing poetic. He watched with glee as your body reacted, both to Emily’s ministrations and Spencer’s words as he continued to speak. “Darling you are divine, the very smell of your perfume is intoxicating. Your lips are tantalizing and I can only imagine the feel of them on mine would be soft as silk.”

You hung on every word, his voice mesmerizing you as he spoke. You had no idea that Spencer had such a way with words. His poetic phrasing had your heart racing and your stomach fluttering.

Emily’s warm tongue slowly drifted away from your clit, trailing down your pussy to the wetness of your entrance… and she began to leisurely fuck you with it. You moaned so loudly it startled you and bit your bottom lip to stifle the noise.

“They can’t hear you in the cockpit, Angel. The door is too thick and the engines are too loud. Not to mention, they’re wearing headsets to communicate with air traffic control.” Spencer explained quietly.

Hotch’s hands started to travel down your body. One slipping into the black see-through mesh and lace of your bra, the other sliding slowly down your stomach and finding your—recently abandoned—clit. He circled it with his fingertips gently. His other hand firmly massaging your breast and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You heard him, Sweetheart. No one can hear you but the three of us, and like Emily said: we like it when you’re vocal.”

You let out a soft whimper and he hummed in approval.

Emily drew most of your attention back to herself as she replaced her tongue with two fingers, stretching you wider and filling you more satisfyingly than before. She stayed between your legs though, sucking and biting at your thighs as she made her fingers match the pace of Spencer’s hand.

You knew that’s what she was doing because you were still watching him from the corner of your eye, and for every downward stroke of his hand, she thrust her fingers inside you at the same moment. Hotch caught on to what she was doing, and he also began to match that rhythm and pace, kissing and nipping at the column of your throat as he played with your clit and nipples.

“Let go babe, we’ve got you. I can feel how close you are, you’ve got my fingers in a vise.” Emily murmured against the skin of your thigh, pressing a kiss to the place she had just bitten. Hotch hummed against your neck.

“Are you gonna come on Emily’s fingers, Sweetheart?” He murmured, before biting your exposed throat gently and laving at it with his tongue.

All you could do was moan in response.

Emily’s mouth found its way back to your clit, nipping Hotch’s finger playfully to make him move it. He looked down at her with a smirk and flicked her forehead teasingly before bringing his hand up to your other breast.

She rolled her eyes at him and flattened her tongue against your clit, then circled it and finally began sucking on it again as she continued to fuck you with her fingers. Hotch was rolling both your nipples between his fingers and returned his mouth to your throat, you were almost certain he was leaving marks there.

He was and it was completely intentional, it was the weekend, and he intended to give you all two extra days off at the start of next week. They would fade.

Emily was getting worked up herself and the sound of your little pants and moans were driving her to distraction. When you let out a particularly loud whimper, she hummed in satisfaction and the vibration made you throw your head back farther and moan so lewdly that Hotch picked his head up to look at your face.

Your eyes were squeezed shut, your supple lips were shaped in a wide ‘O’ and he couldn’t help himself anymore, your mouth was just begging to be filled.

You were vaguely aware that he had lifted your head off his shoulder and moved to stand, but you were too focused on Emily—and her mouth— to wonder why.

Then something warm bumped your chin.

You opened your eyes and found Hotch standing in front of you, his cock bouncing just out of reach of your mouth. You looked up and met his eyes, questioningly.

He smirked down at you, reaching out and cupping your jaw in his hand. His calloused thumb rubbed a small circle on the smooth skin of your cheek.

“I told you to close your mouth or I’d use it.” He murmured, voice low and rough. His thumb stretched to pull your lip down just a little and let it snap back into place, then brushed the corner of your mouth softly.

You didn’t respond, you just opened your mouth a little wider and offered it to him.

“Fuck.” He murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

Em chuckled quietly and the vibrations ran straight up your spine then down your legs, making your toes curl. You threaded your hands through Emily’s hair, needing something, anything, to hold on to.

“A little wider sweetheart.” Hotch prompted you.

You obeyed immediately, opening your mouth as wide as you could and maintaining eye contact with him. You knew he would like the attention and he did, rewarding you with his thick cock as he slid it slowly into the warmth of your mouth.

He tasted clean, but salty, and the precum that was already leaking from him was sweet as well with a slightly bitter—but delicious—aftertaste. You groaned as you closed your lips around him.

“How does her mouth feel?” Spencer’s voice was strained, he still hadn’t moved to touch you, content to observe.

To learn.

“She’s perfect.” Hotch groaned, his hand buried in your hair fisting it firmly but not roughly. He began to use it to pull you slowly up and down the length of his cock. “Fuck sweetheart, you feel amazing.” He murmured looking down at you affectionately, “You’re so warm, and you’re being so pliant for me.”

You kept eye contact with him, trying to focus on him… While also being on the verge of coming from Emily’s tongue on your clit, her finger pumping in and out of your pussy. All three of them were still matching pace with each other, and it was intoxicating. In and out and in and out, all at the same time.

Realizing how close you were, just needing a little push to fall over the edge, Emily reached up and started rolling your nipple beneath the lace of your bra. Then she slightly changed the angle of her fingers, curling them slightly to brush against your g-spot with every thrust.

You uttered a very strangled cry, the sound muffled around Hotch’s thickness. “Whatever you just did, she liked it. Didn’t you, pretty girl?”

You moaned in response and his hand tightened in your hair, a low hiss sliding through his clenched teeth.

Emily chuckled and kept her pace steady, but the vibration of her laughter around your clit as she sucked on it was all it took to send you spiraling into blissful oblivion.

Your body felt fuzzy and warm and your pussy was pulsing uncontrollably around Emily’s fingers. Your legs were shaking and you finally broke eye contact with Hotch as you scrunched your face up in pleasure. Eyes closed tightly as she fucked you through it, then licked your pussy from bottom to top as though savoring the taste of your orgasm.

Your body slowly relaxed again and when Emily pressed one more kiss to your clit then stood from the couch, you opened your eyes again to look up at her. Panting heavily as you realized now, that Hotch had pulled out of your mouth so that you could breathe through your orgasm.

Emily smirked down at you and then held her two glistening fingers up to the light for Hotch to inspect. He looked at them with a feral sort of hunger in his eyes.

“Do you want to taste her?” Emily asked him, a sly grin on her face as she offered her middle finger up to him. “She’s delicious…” She purred, and Hotch glanced down at you, recovering from your orgasm with a look of pure adoration for Emily in your eyes.

Then he turned his head toward her and grabbed her wrist with his free hand, before drawing her finger into his mouth… and sucking it clean.

You groaned and let your head rest against his hand that was still tangled in your hair.

“Fuck, she tastes like heaven. Reid, you wanna taste?” Hotch asked the younger man, then turned his attention back to you, tugging lightly on your hair. “Get down on your knees for me, Sweetheart.” He coaxed gently.

You obeyed him, getting down on your knees in front of him, but watched Reid and Prentiss as you did it. She was offering her ring finger to him and he was licking it clean and groaning, as he stroked himself a little harder.

Spencer… Spencer who didn’t shake hands because of germs… was licking Emily’s finger, just so he could taste you.

Fuck…

You whimpered softly and Hotch chuckled quietly, using your hair to tilt your face up to look at him .

“You can have him as soon as I’m done with your pretty little mouth.” He murmured teasingly. “Open up sweetheart.” You let your mouth fall open in what you hoped was a sexy expression. “So pretty…” He whispered for the second time that night as he slid his cock back into your mouth.

He used your hair—again, to your delight—to guide your mouth up and down his considerable length. He was taking it slow, going easy on you… you didn’t like that, not one bit. So you surged forward on his cock, taking as much of him as you could without gagging and he let out a sharp, gasping, string of barely intelligible obscenities.

You tried to pull back a bit to do it again… but he held you firmly in place.

“You want me to fuck your mouth, pretty girl? Blink once for no, twice for yes.” You moaned, looking up at him from under your lashes and pleading with your eyes, you blinked twice.

That is exactly what you wanted.

He chuckled quietly and then gave you a soft look.

“Have you ever had your mouth fucked before? Once for no, twice for yes.” You blinked once—you hadn’t and you were nervous because with his cock so deep in your throat you couldn’t breathe, you were also struggling not to gag—but you wanted him to do it so badly in that moment.

“Then listen closely, so I don’t hurt you.” He warned you, then caressed your neck tenderly. “Relax your throat, soften the back of your mouth.” He instructed gently. “Go ahead, I’ll tell you when you’ve done it right.” You tried to do as he asked, relaxing all the muscles in your throat and opening the back of your mouth. “Good girl, that’s perfect.”

Your head was starting to feel fuzzy from lack of oxygen, but you knew he wouldn’t hurt you so you didn’t panic.

“Keep your jaw loose and let me move you, don’t fight against me or try to help. It’ll make you sore if you do. You can’t breathe right now can you?” He asked, seemingly knowing the answer was no, but you blinked once anyway. “You are going to have to focus on your breathing. Time it so that you take a full inhale through your nose as I’m pulling out.”

He pulled you back off his cock just enough so that your airway was clear, you immediately sucked in a full breath and your head cleared.

“Good girl…” He soothed, stroking your cheek with the back of his finger. “When you take a breath, hold it. Then release it when I pull out the next time. Do you understand?”

You blinked twice.

“Perfect.”

He started so slowly—barely moving at all—letting you get the hang of how to breathe and how to keep everything loose and relaxed.

“That’s perfect, sweetheart, just like that.” He praised you after a minute, and then he slowly increased his pace, going a little deeper as well.

“Look how well she takes it…” Emily purred, kneeling down next to you and brushing a stray hair from your face. “Such a good girl…” She cooed, running her hand down your bare back.

Her words only served to fuel your ego and you preened under her praise.

“She’s a natural…” Hotch agreed and brought his free hand up to your cheek. “Think you can take it a little faster, pretty girl?” He asked, stroking your skin with his thumb.

You blinked twice.

“Good girl, remember to breathe in on every other one.” He both praised and reminded you softly as he picked up the pace. His cock was touching the back of your throat now with every inward thrust. His hand in your hair supported your head and held you completely still. You were like putty in his hands, and Hotch was reveling in it. He loved the way you completely surrendered and trusted him with something you’d never experienced before. “Fuck, Sweetheart… you’re taking me so well. I’m so proud of you.”

The tone of voice he was using—low and rough—was making your pussy throb all over again.

You moaned and he lost a little bit of his restraint, fucking into your mouth a little harder than he had been before, but not hard enough to hurt you. It was making your eyes water, however, and you had tears running down your cheeks. Hotch was enthralled by them, by the mascara tracks they were leaving and the way they changed the shade of your eyes slightly. “Such a good fucking girl, letting me fuck your mouth like this… you’re perfection, sweetheart.”

“Look at what you’re doing to him…” Emily whispered softly in your ear. “He’s barely holding on, you’re driving him crazy with those pouty, fuckable lips and pleading puppy dog eyes… you should see yourself the way he’s seeing you right now… you’re fucking beautiful baby.”

You moaned and it would’ve been loud and obscene if not for the cock in your mouth.

Hotch’s hips stuttered and he cursed, you knew that meant he was close.

“I’m about to come, pretty girl…” He gritted out, his hand in your hair tightening. “Can you take it?”

You moaned and blinked twice at him, then held eye contact. You didn’t know how you knew that would send him over the edge, you just did.

Then he was spilling himself down your throat, and you swallowed every fucking drop, then sucked him clean. He pulled his cock from your mouth and tucked it back into his briefs, then squatted down in front of you. The thumb of his free hand wiped a drop of liquid off your chin and he brought it to your lips, the look in his eyes almost challenging.

You licked his thumb from base to tip, then closed your lips around it and lightly sucked on it. He smiled at you then, pulling his thumb from your mouth and sliding that hand back to join his other in your hair. Hotch pulled you toward him gently as he started to lean in and murmured, “Such a good girl…”

The kiss he gave you was hot, sloppy and branding. He could taste himself in your mouth as his tongue invaded it and he was obsessed with the mingling of his flavor and yours. You moaned into his mouth and tried to deepen the kiss again, but he heard Spencer’s ragged breathing behind him and pulled back.

“You wanna ride Reid’s cock, Sweetheart?” He murmured loudly enough that Spencer also heard him and you both whimpered pathetically at the suggestion.

Hotch and Emily both chuckled, and then Hotch put his hands on your waist to help you stand and guided you over to the chair Spencer was in. Your legs were shaking and you were as clumsy as a baby giraffe stumbling over to him.

Spencer was looking up at you with those big amber puppy dog eyes and you felt even weaker in the knees, luckily you didn’t have to stand for much longer. Hotch steadied you on your wobbly legs until you climbed up onto Spencer’s lap, straddling him.

He was hesitant to touch you, his observation had started this whole thing and when he had suggested an experiment… he hadn’t expected it to end in sex…especially not group sex. When Hotch and Emily had started talking about consent and ground rules—lines that couldn’t be crossed— he had been sent reeling.

When he had asked if they’d noticed you acting strangely it had been out of concern for your wellbeing. When he had suggested they test the hypothesis he had merely meant to prove whether you were into men, women, or both.

He had wanted a scientific experiment, not sexual experimentation.

Not that he was complaining…

He, Emily, and Hotch were all three bisexual. Hotch didn’t really broadcast that fact, especially not in front of the others. Even though Spencer was pretty sure the only two on the team who weren’t queer were Rossi and Derek, and he wasn’t even sure about Rossi sometimes. So it wasn’t a big deal if you were or were not bisexual. He had only been curious.

Curiosity killed the cat or something like that… yet this time he had ended up with your bare pussy hovering over his cock, and he was not at all upset with this outcome. Just incredibly shocked. You were so beautiful, looking down at him with your tear stained cheeks and swollen lips. He still hesitated, however, because he wasn’t sure whether or not you really wanted him, or if he was being included simply because he was here.

You could see that hesitation, that self doubt in his eyes… you hated it.

So you leaned in and kissed him. It was a sweet kiss at first… reassuring and gentle. You were giving him plenty of time to work his nerve up. When he didn’t pull away—and even started to reciprocate—you deepened the kiss and teased at his lips with your tongue.

Requesting entry.

He parted his lips for you immediately, you smiled against him before you let your tongue caress his sinfully. His body was no longer rigid, but he was still tense. You moved to kissing his neck and nipping at his skin.

“Relax Spence…” You murmured sensually, running your hands through his hair and brushing it back from his forehead. “Let me lead, I’ll take care of you.” Pulling back and checking in to make sure, before you went too far, you looked him in the eyes, searching them intently. “Is this okay with you, Handsome?”

He nodded, biting his bottom lip in a way that made you want to bite it too.

“Yes.” He murmured, still hesitating… then whispered, “I just– I’ve only done this twice… I don’t know what to do in this position…”

Oh…

“That’s okay, I didn’t know what to do a minute ago and Hotch talked me right through it… We can do that for you, if you want?” You offered him gently. Your eyes were soft and kind, but let him see just how badly you wanted him. “Besides… I’ll enjoy being able to teach you something for once.”

He laughed softly, and some of the tension melted away from him.

“Okay.” He agreed. “Tell me what to do.”

Then in a burst of confidence, he reached up and tucked your hair behind your ear.

You hummed in approval.

“Touching me would be a great start.” You teased gently, not at all trying to bruise his ego.

“That’s true…” He joked quietly and his hands settled on your waist, then started to slowly trail up your sides. Lightly dancing over your ribs. “What if… I did this as well?”

And then his hands were reaching around to the clasp of your bra and deftly unhooking it. Which shocked you given his inexperience… you’d bet anything that he’d practiced somehow so he wouldn’t fumble when it mattered.

You reached down between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him. He sucked in a sharp gasp, jumping at the contact and your soft chuckle was echoed by two more behind you.

“Then I would do this and tell you that you have great instincts if you’ll just listen to them.” You started to slowly pump your hand up and down his length and he groaned. It was an almost tortured sound, as though you were both killing him and pleasuring him at the same time.

He slid the straps of your bra down your arms and you briefly let go of him to toss it to the floor. You sat up a little straighter as he took in the sight of you, sitting astride him in nothing but a garter belt and thigh-high stockings.

“You’re so beautiful, Angel…” he murmured, then leaned forward and pressed kisses to your breasts.

You lost patience then.

“Are you ready?” You asked him as you lined him up with your entrance, barely putting the tip in.

Your hands were trembling and your breathing was rapid and shaky.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one who asks you that?” He responded, but his voice cracked and you knew he was putting on bravado. He was every bit as desperate as you, his breaths ragged and harsh.

“Spence…” You whimpered, needing his permission to sink down on it. “Please.”

He didn’t respond, instead he gripped your hips firmly and tugged you down onto his cock until you were fully seated on it. You swore you could feel every ridge, every vein, and every little twitch it made.

“Fuck!” You moaned, loudly, earning snickers and snorts from the two voyeurs sitting on the couch behind you.

“Shit, sorry! Did I hurt you?” He panicked.

“That was definitely not a sound of pain, Reid.” Hotch murmured.

Spencer looked at you closely anyway, unsure if you were alright.

“You told me to follow my instincts so I–”

You kissed him, to shut him up and stop his doubts from running away with his head. Then you started to ride him slowly. He groaned against your lips and you smiled. The feel of him—filling you up—was exquisite.

“Your instincts are perfect Spencer…” You praised him, letting your hands drift back into his hair. “That was hot.”

His beautiful eyes gazing up at you as you rode him made you feel a little dizzy, he was so fucking pretty. He was gripping your hips tightly and every time you brought them back down he whimpered. The sounds he was making were driving you insane.

“Tilt your hips forward a bit more, sweetheart.” Hotch instructed you, his voice low and raspy. “It’ll help you take him deeper, and feel twice as good for him.”

He was right, and you did know that already, but it was so fucking sexy when he started giving orders.

“And for her.” Prentiss added, you could hear the salacious smile in her tone.

“Like this?” You asked in a faux bashful tone, as if you didn’t know how to do it. Then you did it perfectly, so that you and Reid both groaned, and your ass popped back enticingly for Hotch and Emily.

They both groaned softly and you smiled, winking at Spencer. Letting him in on your antics. He smiled back at you, as amused as he could be—given the circumstances.

“What about this? Do you think this would make him feel good?” You asked, rolling and circling your hips seductively as you rode him.

Spencer hissed out a breath, his eyes rolling back briefly.

“I can confirm that it does in fact feel amazing.” He groaned, you giggled and threw a flirty glance back over your shoulder at the others. Then leaned forward and sucked Spencer’s bottom lip into your mouth, biting it. He slid his hands down to your thighs squeezing tightly, then over your thighs where he looped his fingers into your stockings and peeled them down your legs, tossing them to the floor. Then traced his fingers back up your calves and thighs, back to your hips and you noticed he was avoiding your ass… So did Prentiss.

You felt the heat of her body behind you before you heard her voice, and pulled back to look up at her.

“Don’t be shy Reid…” She purred, her hands landing on his, dragging them back till they rested fully on your ass. “Get a good handful… or two.” She made him squeeze you firmly. You moaned and Emily chuckled. “See… She loves that, don’t you babe?”

“Yes!” You moaned wantonly, and caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye. Hotch had moved closer and was perched on the edge of the table next to the seat you and Spencer were in. He was watching with a ravenous hunger in his eyes.

“Put her nipple in your mouth, Reid.” He said after a moment. “Suck on it while circling your tongue around it.”

Emily hummed her approval, they were giving Spencer a veritable textbook for How To Make You Come 101. Spencer listened, of course. He’d just watched Hotch and Emily tag team you into an orgasm, their words were as good as gold.

When his lips closed around your nipple you hissed and whimpered a little, picking up your pace as you bounced up and down on his cock. Hotch chuckled in lust filled amusement, reaching over and stroking your ribs with the back of his hand.

“She makes such beautiful little sounds.” He mused to Emily, who nodded and then grabbed a handful of your hair.

She used it to tip your head back then kissed you thoroughly, her tongue caressing yours and you could still taste your pussy on her lips. You moaned and ground yourself down against Spencer, his cock reaching all the way to your cervix, you felt as though you could feel him in your stomach.

Hotch’s fingers were tracing your ribs, or maybe that was Spencer? No, his hands were still on your ass so it had to be Hotch or Emily. Someone was trailing a hand down your stomach to where your body joined with Spencer’s, this hand was larger and callused while the other was soft and smaller. So Emily was tracing your ribs, while Hotch…

Hotch was on a collision course with your clit. You knew when he made impact, you’d see stars.

Spencer switched nipples, still kneading your ass with firmness and your muscles were starting to ache from pulling yourself up and down his cock at this pace. Emily was still lighting you up with her kiss, her fingers traveling down the line of your rib to the breast that Reid had started with. Hotch’s fingers were getting closer and closer, but they were moving so slowly you knew he was trying to drive you wild with anticipation.

It was working.

Your chest was heaving, you were trembling and your legs were aching deliciously from exertion. Spencer’s cock was hitting you perfectly every time you sank down on it. All the sensations combined were almost too much for your sanity. You were so close, again.

“Look at you, falling apart at the seams… you’re so close aren’t you sweetheart?” Hotch murmured, his voice a lot closer than it had last been. What was he, a mind reader? His nose skimmed your neck up to your ear, which he then bit gently. You moaned into Emily’s mouth, a pitiful little whimper, and you felt her smile softly against your lips. “Does Reid’s cock feel so good? Filling you up like that. Stretching you out. I wonder, can you still taste yourself on Emily’s lips? Do you know how good you taste, pretty girl?”

Fuck, was he trying to kill you?

It was like his voice had gained a solid form and had wrapped itself around your throat, cutting off your oxygen and leaving you completely breathless. Your senses were overwhelmed, in a state of near euphoria, and you knew that once Hotch’s fingers reached their destination—and they would in the next three seconds—that the barest graze of them was going to make you explode.

He stopped just short of his target. You whined against Emily’s lips and he laughed at you softly.

“I think she ought to earn this one… What do you think, Prentiss? Should we make her beg?” Hotch asked the other woman, he didn’t ask Reid because the poor man was barely holding it together and all of his focus was split between the nipple he was currently stimulating and not coming inside you without consent.

Emily—reluctantly—pulled her tongue out of your mouth and smirked down at you.

“Hmm, she was being a little bit of a tease a minute ago wasn’t she?” She made a show of looking very contemplative, all the while she continued toying with your other nipple. “Reid?”

She brought Spencer into the conversation—or she tried to.

“Busy.” He murmured against the skin of your breast as he continued his work there, he would not be distracted. You glanced down and saw that he had started marking your skin with hickeys.

You moaned at the sight and let your head fall back.

“You want me to beg, and I’ll beg. Just please don’t make him stop.” Your voice was heavy, rough and breathless. You were so incredibly close, your body was starting to shake, and you knew you’d come, whether they kept touching you or not.

They knew it too, but they also knew they could make it so much stronger… if you were good for them.

“It feels so good, huh, sweetheart?” Hotch asked, his tone slightly condescending. “If you ask nicely, we’ll give you what you need…”

His hand was still stalled on your lower abdomen less than an inch away from your clit. Emily was just barely teasing your nipple and while it seemed like Spencer was ignoring them, you knew he was giving you just enough to keep you on the edge. Sneaky.

However, you expected no less from him. He was a fast and visual learner, he had been watching closely when Hotch and Emily had been playing you like a fiddle. He could have had you screaming all on his own if he’d wanted to—you had no doubt about that— he’d just needed the confidence to get started.

Hotch and Emily had helped with that.

“I’ll be such a good girl if you let me come, Hotch, please…” You gave him the sexiest pout you could muster. His eyes seemed to darken—his hazel irises almost completely drowned out by his pupils—as they zoned in on your lips. “I’ll mind my manners and be so polite, I promise. Pretty please, make me come.”

Hotch was listening, and he had intended to make you beg more than this, but your lipstick smudged lips were just so alluring that he couldn’t focus on anything else at that moment. Remembering what they’d looked like wrapped around his cock several minutes earlier, he found his will rapidly dissolving, and all he really wanted was to watch the way those lips formed a perfect O when you came.

“I knew you’d sound so sweet begging…” He murmured, and his hand started to move again “Let us hear you, pretty girl. Loud and clear.”

“Yes sir.” You murmured confidently.

Emily chuckled and started sucking on your neck, you moaned… Then Hotch’s fingers—finally—found your clit.

You screamed.

Your vision went fuzzy and then white. Your head was buzzing and your body was nearly numb. You went limp and Spencer took over, fucking you through your orgasm, prolonging it. Emily’s hand had begun rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Good girl…” She cooed. “You look so pretty when you come.”

“Yes she does.” Hotch murmured, reaching over to where your head was resting on Spencer’s shoulder and brushing your hair away from your face. “So fucking pretty.”

You whimpered softly at the touch and he smiled tenderly at you. Your chest was heaving with hard-fought, ragged breaths. You were shaking, but your vision was slowly returning to normal.

“Are you alright?” Spencer whispered gently in your ear. His hands on your waist now, thumbs rubbing circles on your hips. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fucking fantastic, Spence…” You murmured in return, shifting your weight slightly to sit up and kiss him. He squeezed your hips tightly.

“Please don’t move.” He hissed, pleadingly. “I can’t… I’m gonna… If you don’t get off it, I’m going to come inside you. I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

You froze, your lips just a centimeter from his.

“It’s okay… Don’t panic… They make pills for that, and I intend to take one anyway… I’m a little stuck at the moment though, my knees are too weak to get up.” You met his eyes, the panic in them was astounding. “Hotch, could you–”

The man's arms were already coming around your waist and he lifted you off of Spencer effortlessly, as the younger man bit his lip and hissed as if pained. Setting you on your feet softly, Hotch held you to his chest to keep you from falling to the floor.

“Didn’t you say you’d mind your manners and be polite if we let you come?” He asked, a hint of mischief in his voice.

You looked up at him, searching his eyes for a hint, a clue, anything to tell you what he was up to.

“Mm hmm…” You hummed in response, nodding at him.

“You made a mess Sweetheart…” He told you quietly, then took your chin in his hand and turned your face down to look at Spencer… Who was, in fact, a whimpering mess. “Clean it up.”

You licked your lips and smiled salaciously.

“Yes sir.” You murmured softly and got down on your knees at Spencer’s feet.

Reaching out and taking Spencer’s cock in your hand, you gave him a firm stroke. He moaned and his head fell back against the seat. So he didn’t see you coming when you lowered your head and took him in your mouth, all the way to the base.

“Oh fuck!” He yelped, you hummed in approval at his reaction, then you pulled back so that a manageable length was in your mouth. You put one hand on his thigh to brace yourself and create a little leverage, the other you wrapped around the rest of him. Slowly, you started to bob up and down, moving your hand in time with your head. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Spencer’s hands gripping the arms of the chair, his knuckles were white. That only spurred you on.

The taste of yourself on his cock was tantalizing, the tang of you mingling with the musk of him was something you never thought you would experience. This whole situation was something you never thought you’d experience. You’d considered it of course—more times than you could count— but it was only a fantasy, a daydream. Never had you once thought it might actually happen.

“She’s doing so well… don’t you think Hotch?” Emily’s voice purred on your right.

“Hmmm, I don’t know… she’s capable of more…” He hummed in response from the left, and a hand—that based on the size could only be his—palmed the curve of your ass. He gave it a squeeze and a playful smack and you moaned around Spence's cock. Spencer twitched in response.

“You think she can take more?” Emily asked him, her tone was nothing short of sinful and it made you shiver. Hotch’s following chuckle, however, went straight to your pussy, making you squeeze your thighs together. Suddenly, you were completely desperate again..

“I know she can.” He answered, with a confidence that made your toes curl. His voice tended to do that to you, but when he put that cocky, self assured, arrogant rasp behind it… Goddamn. It was the voice he used when he knew he had the upper hand, when he had an unsub completely caught up in a lie, a trap of their own making. The voice that made your knees weak and your thighs tighten. It went straight to your pussy every time, making it clench around nothing. “Why don’t you help her along?”

“I’d love to.” She purred.

Then Emily’s hand was in your hair, resting firmly on the back of your head.

“You heard him, Gorgeous…” she lilted provocatively as her hand grew heavier on your head, slowly pushing you down the lengthy expanse of Spencer’s cock, until your nose was touching the neat patch of hair at his base.

“Fuck, Angel…” Spencer groaned, his voice husky and strained. “I’m so close…”

You gave him a muffled little hum of approval and that was all he needed to fall over the edge. Spilling down your throat as he moaned loudly, his hands joined Emily’s in your hair and he held you there firmly until he was finished.

You swallowed as much as you could and then—when they released your head—you sucked and licked him clean.

“Thank you, Angel. That was… incredible.” Spencer murmured, reaching up to stroke your cheek tenderly with the back of his forefinger. You leaned into the touch and then gave him a sensuous smile as you climbed back up into his lap. You brought your lips to his before he could say another word and kissed him deeply, letting him taste the mixture of all the flavors that had accumulated on your tongue. It was by far the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted. He moaned into your mouth and you pulled back to smile at him.

“You are very. Very. Welcome.” You purred, punctuating each very with a gentle kiss and biting his bottom lip after welcome. “It was my pleasure…”

Hotch and Emily chuckled softly at your antics and you noticed that Em sounded a bit shaky. Then you realized she was the only one who hadn’t come at least once… you’d have to remedy that.

Hotch—astute as ever—immediately noticed when your eyes locked onto Emily’s form. He chuckled again, looking between you and her, then stood and helped her to her feet as well, guiding her to the space between you and the couch you both had started this whole thing on.

“You want Prentiss again, sweetheart?” He asked, his smirk letting you know he knew exactly what was on your mind. You simply nodded your head, never taking your eyes off her. “Hmm… What do you think, Emily? Has she earned the right to touch you yet?”

She smirked down at you, trying to maintain her slightly condescending attitude… but you could read her like a book, and she was so turned on she was struggling to breathe regularly. You smirked back at her and she raised a brow at you.

“I don’t know, she seems a little too cocky about it to me.” She answered him, only prolonging her own discomfort.

“Am I?” You murmured, giving her a teasing smile. “Take it from the boys, Em. I could rock your world…”

She laughed softly.

“I bet you could, but I wanna hear you beg for it…” She purred, grinning at you. “Tell me how much you want it.”

You started to get up and reach for her, to show her how much you wanted her… but she stepped back, bumping into Hotch’s chest. He steadied her without hesitation, his hands stayed planted firmly on her hips and to your surprise, Spencer gripped your own hips. Tugging you back down into his lap so that you now faced the others, he held you in place.

“She said tell her, Angel…” Spencer murmured, his breath tickling your ear. You were shocked at his sudden burst of dominance. Your eyes widened slightly and your lips parted in surprise.

Hotch chuckled and you studied the three of them carefully… they were all smiling at you, their eyes holding the same teasing light. It was as though they were waiting for you to notice something. You just didn’t know what.

“You don’t get to touch her yet, sweetheart… not until she gives you permission.” Hotch murmured teasingly. “You can look though…”

Then his hands slid around her waist to the front of her pants, and he began to unbuckle her belt.

“Oh fuck…” you whispered on a breathy sigh. This would be the death of you, you were sure. Your head tipped back as you looked to the ceiling, as though praying for patience or guidance—or perhaps salvation because you felt certifiably damned—but Spencer had other ideas.

“Don’t look away.” He instructed you, his voice low and commanding as he gripped your chin and made you look back at them. You’d never heard him speak with so much authority, and yet somehow it was still so soft that it was barely audible. “They’re doing this for you…”

Hotch continued his mission to rid Emily of her slacks by unbuttoning and then unzipping them. Then he slipped them down her legs and held her hand to steady her as she stepped out of them. She kept her heels on, now standing before you in just her button down blouse and undershirt.

Your brain was short circuiting.

“Please, Em… I need to touch you.” You murmured softly and she smirked at you, scarlet lips tipping up to one side.

“Not yet…” She taunted.

Hotch reached around her again and started to unbutton her blouse, his pace was agonizing. You noticed that he was careful not to touch her body at all, now that she was only half clothed, and his eyes were locked on you… not her.

They really were doing this just for you.

How they knew you’d find it hot to watch him undress her, you didn’t know, but it was working. They didn’t seem uncomfortable, no… they were enjoying themselves as they teased you mercilessly.

When he slid the blouse down her shoulders and it fell to the floor, you felt as though you couldn’t breathe. She was wearing that one red tank top that always made you drool.

“Emily…” you nearly whimpered. “Please…”

She looked smug as she shook her head, reveling in the shakiness of your voice. She knew what that tank top did to you…

“Do you want to see him take it off me?” She asked, sweet as sugar… in a saccharine kind of way.

“I’d rather do it myself…” you implored, giving her a pouty look.

Her breath hitched and you knew… you were going to win this one.

“But if I’m being totally honest… I have this… fantasy… of you, in this exact outfit. I want you just like this, you’ve always looked so sexy in red, Em.” You purred, and you can tell you’ve surprised her for once. She was speechless for a moment and Hotch smirked at you, his eyes showing his amusement at this little standoff between you and Emily. “You know you want me Emily… just give in.”

You licked your bottom lip subtly, then bit it, trying to tempt her by looking up at her as innocent as a lamb. She had spotted your ploy a mile away, seen it coming from the moment you said she looked sexy in red.

It still worked.

“I will.” She drawled sensually, her eyes tracing your body. “If you get on your hands and knees and crawl to me.”

She stepped away from Hotch and sat on the couch with her legs spread wide, revealing red lace panties that matched her red tank top.

“Fuck…” you breathed. “You win… you win Em… just… God, let me touch you… please.” You pleaded. “I fucking need you.”

“Crawl to me, Gorgeous.” She finally conceded, smiling at you triumphantly.

And you let her think she had the upper hand, as you slipped out of Spencer’s lap and to the floor, but you knew once you got your hands on her—your mouth on her—she’d be putty in them.

Hotch moved to Spencer’s side and leaned against the wall—to watch the show of course—and nodded at you encouragingly.

You took your time, crawling seductively across the cabin to her, using every inch of the space to taunt her. She devoured you with her eyes and when you got to her feet, picked her right one up and propped it on your shoulder. You planted soft kisses on the inside of her ankle, never breaking eye contact.

“I have dreams that start out just like this…” you murmured to her.

“So do I.” She admitted, her voice breathless and shaky.

“Mmm…” you hummed softly, then purred, “Then what happens?”

She laughed softly, trying to seem unaffected again, but it was much too late for that. You knew exactly what you were doing to her.

“What’s the matter, Em?” You teased, beginning to kiss your way up the inside of her leg. “Cat got your tongue?” She seemed to lose all semblance of composure and you giggled softly against her soft skin. “Don’t worry… I can figure it out. I’m very creative.”

The roles had been reversed, and you’d never felt more in control than in that moment, kneeling between her legs. You slid your hands up her thighs and around her hips, gripping her ass firmly and then pulled her to the edge of the couch in one smooth motion.

For better access of course.

She yelped in surprise and you chuckled against her skin, never checking up as you continued kissing your way up her leg. You’d made it to her inner thigh and she was trembling. You looked up at her from under your lashes and smirked.

“I like it when you’re vocal.” You teased her, repeating her words back to her and earning a soft laugh from Hotch in return.

Emily started to say something but you flatten your tongue against her pussy—through her panties—and she moaned instead.

You hummed at the sound, reveling in it and lapped at her clit enthusiastically. Not bothering to tease her at all, just diving right in—to shut her up and wipe the smug smile off her gorgeous lips—and showing her exactly how creative you could be with your tongue.

But that didn’t satisfy your hunger for her at all, no… you needed to taste her, without the lace that was currently barring you from doing it.

You gently moved her panties to the side and took in the sight of her, bare and wet—absolutely soaked—all for you.

“Oh Emily…” You purred. “You’re dripping for me… and such a pretty pussy too. I wonder if it tastes as delicious as it looks?”

You were dying for her to regain a little sentience.

Docile, desperately horny Em was cute… but you wanted her sassy, confident self to come back out to play. You puffed a hot, teasing breath over the supple skin of her pussy and slowly, so slowly, licked her from her slit all the way to her clit. You stopped just short of it though, teasing her entrance with your tongue instead.

“Stop teasing me before I change my mind.” She growled impatiently, her hand tangling in your hair and tipping your head back to make eye contact.

You smirked up at her, a bit defiantly, and said softly, “Ask me nicely…”

Her eyes narrowed slightly and her head tilted to the side just a fraction as she stared you down, she seemed to be contemplating her options here. She could either let you get away with that and actually say please, or she could do whatever just crossed her mind and made those beautiful onyx eyes flicker with heat.

“Please, stop teasing me.” She murmured softly, leaning down so that her lips brushed your cheek as she moved to whisper in your ear. “Or I will take care of this pretty pussy all by myself, and make you watch from Spencer’s lap.”

You chuckled, biting your bottom lip as you turned your head to look at her.

“Mmm, I love it when you’re bossy.” You murmured, your nose less than an inch from hers now.

“Do you?” She purred, leaning closer so her lips are hovering just over yours, sharing your every breath. You nodded, yes, and she grinned salaciously at you, moving closer so she could bite your bottom lip herself. “Then stop talking, and do something useful with that silver tongue instead.”

You felt your cheeks heat, whether it was embarrassment or arousal—or a mix of both—you weren’t certain. But you loved the way it felt.

“Yes ma’am.” You purred, your voice dripping with pure seduction.

You felt her hand vacate your hair and didn’t waste time. Leaning forward, you licked her cunt from bottom to top in one smooth motion. Your tongue—finally—delving in to taste her, before you buried yourself between her thighs and ate her pussy like you were starving. She was delectable. Her arousal like honey on your tongue, and she just kept getting wetter.

The more you explored and experimented with her, the more you learned.

For instance, if you suctioned your lips tightly around her clit and rolled your tongue in circles around it, she couldn’t help but squirm as she let out soft little moans. If you added two fingers, curling just slightly upwards, and used them to massage that spot—just past the ridge of her pubic bone—she bucked against you wildly. So you gripped her by her thighs and hoisted them up onto your shoulders, forcing her to lean back on the couch and spread herself wider for you. The new angle gave you more leverage with your fingers and allowed you to apply firmer pressure with your tongue.

She was putty in your hands, just as you knew she would be. Her ragged breaths and quiet whimpers were growing more and more desperate, her hands grappling for purchase on any part of you she could reach. You were unsurprised when they found your hair, threading into it and taking two fistfuls that had your scalp stinging delightfully. You moaned against her and then felt her walls start to flutter around your fingers.

“Don’t stop, don’t change anything, I’m so close!” She panted, her voice raw with desire.

You suppressed the urge to grin, needing to maintain the seal of your lips around her clit, the pressure of your tongue… but you couldn’t help feeling a little smug. Especially as she clamped down hard on your fingers, her thighs quivering and trying to close around your head. Her entire body went taunt, her back arching and her head falling back against the couch as she cried out, “Oh God!”

Only when her body fully relaxed and her grip loosened in your hair, did you allow yourself to smirk against her pussy and look up at her from under your lashes. She didn’t notice—too busy recovering from the mind blowing head you’d just given her—Hotch, however, did.

“Look at you, being all smug.” His voice ran up your spine like molten lava. You didn’t dare peek over at him, choosing instead to pepper Emily’s fevered skin with soft, barely there kisses. First over her inner thighs, then her lower stomach where her tank had ridden up nearly to her breasts. “Are you proud of yourself, Pretty Girl?”

Hotch’s hand perched softly at the nape of your neck, he squeezed gently but firmly. His hand slid down your back slowly, his finger slipping into your garter belt—the only item of clothing left on you—and snapping the elastic against your spine. You moaned softly at the sting and he chuckled softly. He began to guide the belt down your hips, over your ass and thighs, to your knees. Tapping each in silent command. You complied, lifting them one at a time so he could—finally—strip you completely bare. “Such a good girl…”

His murmured praise had you aching again as you continued your worshipful path of kisses up the plain of Emily’s belly. Not stopping when you reached her tank, instead starting to lift it over her head with her willing assistance. You tossed it to the floor and pushed her gently to her back, so that she was lying along the length of the couch. Climbing to settle between her legs again, you began to kiss her chest. Propping yourself up with one hand, you used the other to free her breasts from the cups of her bra, which—conveniently— clipped in the front. She moaned softly as your lips closed around one nipple and your free hand toyed with the other.

Warm breath on your pussy made it clench around nothing. Which made you keenly aware of the fact that you’d left your ass high in the air—and completely exposed. Strong hands gripped it firmly and tilted it up even further, positioning you exactly how their owner desired. “Stay just like this Sweetheart. I want to taste you while you take care of Emily.”

You moaned wantonly at Hotch’s order, spreading your legs a bit more for him. He smacked your ass, just hard enough to make a point. “I said stay still.”

“Yes sir.” You murmured seductively around Emily’s breast and he soothed the sting with a gentle kiss to the spot, just before he buried his face in your pussy. Groaning as he tasted you first hand, he gripped your ass with bruising strength and made you whine. “Fuck…”

He chuckled quietly to himself, his hand traveling down your ass and in between your legs. It wasted no time in finding its target. Your clit. He circled it so lightly, as though he thought it was delicate enough that any firmer touch would damage it.

The effect was maddening.

Emily’s hands found your breasts, toying with your nipples and bringing your attention partially back to her. You trailed your free hand down her stomach, finding her clit again with ease and began to move your finger over it ever so lightly. She whined quietly, and pressed up into your hand with her hips in a wordless request for more pressure.

“You need more, Em?” You asked softly, teasingly, as you kissed your way across her chest, up her neck, nipping her ear and finally hovered over her lips. “Hmm? Do you wanna taste yourself on my lips?”

“Shut up and kiss me.” She demanded, her hand wrapping around the back of your neck and tangling into your hair as she tugged you down to her lips.

The kiss was rough, frantic and heated. Emily was still grinding up into your hand—desperate for friction—so you had mercy and increased the pressure and speed of your hand.

Hotch’s tongue was still leisurely fucking into your pussy as his finger work your clit with precision. He kept making these self satisfied little groans in the back of his throat that were driving you crazy.

And then two more hands were touching you… Hotch’s hands were still on your ass and clit, Emily’s in your hair and toying with your breast…

But Spencer…

He’d been content to watch for a few minutes, but he couldn’t help himself any longer, he had to touch you.

He was tracing the lines of your ribs with one hand and your spine with the other, his touch light and inquisitive. You’d fantasized about him doing exactly this and you’d been right, it felt amazing. His hands on your skin anywhere would have been heavenly, but the way he was following each rib intentionally—reverently—reminded you of the way he traced each line when he was reading a book, the way his fingers skimmed over each vertebrae was making your back arch.

You pulled away from Emily to look up at him.

There was such adoration in his eyes as he studied the expanse of your skin. The hand at your ribs, going up to your shoulder blades and your collar bones. The one at your spine trailing down to the curve of your hip, over the rise of your ass and down the back of your thigh.

“Focus on Emily, Angel…” He murmured softly. “I just wanna touch you.”

You would do anything to have him keep touching you like that, so you redoubled your efforts on Emily. Sliding your fingers down from her clit to her cunt and slipping the middle two inside of her.

She moaned and you silenced it with a kiss, parting her lips with your tongue.

You rubbed her clit with your thumb while you worked her g-spot with the pads of your fingers and she started to squirm. She tried to close her legs but your knees were in the way and her thighs started to tremble.

“Give it to me, Emily…” You coaxed into her mouth, then bit her lip gently. “Let me have it, you can do it… come for me one more time…”

Her head fell back against the couch, so you dipped yours down and drew her nipple into your mouth, rolling it with your tongue. It was just enough to send her spiraling for the second time. A breathy cry falling from her lips as her pussy spasmed around your fingers.

All the stimulation—Hotch’s tongue and fingers, Emily’s cunt clenching around your fingers and her hands pulling your hair and squeezing your breast, and Spencer’s exploration of everywhere else—was nearly too much.

And then Hotch slipped two fingers inside of you… much thicker than Emily’s slender ones, and when he added a third… It was thicker that Spencer’s cock had been. Not as long, but with what he was doing… length didn’t matter.

You came hard. Your pussy clamping down on Hotch’s fingers so tightly you thought you could feel each knuckle and every callus. Your brain went completely offline and your thighs shook violently as your release ran down them.

Your knees gave out, and you collapsed against Emily with a moan. Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes. You laid there unable to move for several moments. Emily wasn’t moving either–except for her chest, which was heaving as she panted for air—so you were in no hurry to go anywhere. You gently slipped your fingers out of her and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.

“Holy–” She gasped.

“--fuck!” You finished for her on a hard fought breath.

Spencer snickered softly as he stepped back to observe the mess of limbs the two of you were tangled up in.

Hotch chose that moment to pull his fingers out of you—making you flinch and whine—and then he moved to lean against the table adjacent to the couch to watch you and Emily untangle yourselves.

“You good, gorgeous?” Emily murmured after a moment, her hand running through your hair affectionately.

You nuzzled into her neck, nipping at her throat playfully.

“I’m great, Em.” You purred, twirling her hair around your finger and then giggled, “Why? You wanna go again?”

“Do you?” Hotch’s voice pulled your attention from the way the overhead light caught in Emily’s hair.

You looked up at him, and found him staring down at you with heated eyes…

And a bulge in his pants.

You swallowed thickly, the amount of times you’d thought about fucking Aaron Hotchner…

Your mouth was suddenly dry and your tongue felt heavy and you didn’t think you’d be able to say anything if you tried.

So you nodded your head, yes.

“Come here.” He murmured, his voice low and rough.

You gently untangled yourself from Emily—dropping one more kiss to her lips as you went—and she propped herself up on her elbows to watch you go.

The three steps it took for you to reach him were the longest three steps of your life. When you came to stop in front of him he wasted no time.

He held the back of your neck and drew you in, gently but firmly, then kissed you.

You could feel the tension in the plain of his chest, the barely restrained strength of his grip, and the quiet urgency with which he kissed your lips.

He was desperate… but he didn’t want to be rough with you…

Which would have been sweet…

If that wasn’t exactly what you wanted.

You bit his lip, tugging it between your teeth and then licking into his mouth like you needed to taste him as much as you needed oxygen. Then you slipped your hand down and gave his cock a firm squeeze through his slacks.

He groaned and pulled you back to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“Fuck me, like you own me.” You murmured, with much more confidence than you felt.

You saw in his eyes the exact moment his restraint snapped. It was like his whole demeanor did an about face.

The soft spoken, gentle—though slightly condescending and bossy—man that had been treating you with such tenderness and care…

He was gone.

You barely registered the movement, one moment you were standing up, asking him to fuck you…

And the next…

You were bent over the table he’d just been leaning on.

The sound of his zipper coming down made you clench around emptiness and then his hand was firmly planted in the center of your back. Holding you down on the table with an easy strength.

You felt the hard warmth of his cock at your entrance as he lined himself up, but he paused.

“You asked me to fuck you like I own you… are you sure you want that?” He asked again for consent. “I won’t be gentle.”

“I don’t want you to be gentle.” You said clearly, with a surety in your tone that he could not mistake for anything but affirmation. “I just want you to fuck me.”

He didn’t answer you verbally.

Just slid his cock inside you, all the way to the base.

You cried out—hands clutching the edges of the table—-at the shock of it. You’d thought—surely—after coming three times, that you would be good and ready for him.

But he was… thick.

You couldn’t breathe, your lungs had ceased to function the moment he slid home.

Thicker than Spencer had been by a bit—though not as long—and you’d known that since you’d had both of them in your mouth. The way he was stretching you out though, it burned, it was a good burn… but you needed a moment to adjust.

He seemed to know that instinctually, and while he said he wouldn’t be gentle, he wasn’t going to hurt you purposefully either.

So as he bottomed out inside you he gave you a moment to sit with it.

“Breathe.” His voice was commanding, but strained.

You took a deep breath and he felt his hand on your back rise as your chest filled with air.

The burning eased, and you relaxed against the table.

“Good girl…” He murmured and then he started to move.

The stretch was amazing, the way he filled you up had your back arching and your hands white knuckling the table. Then he started to pick up the pace, his thrusts long and deep. Pulling almost completely out of you and then going so deep you saw spots.

You pushed back into him, trying to take him deeper—if that was even possible—urging him to go faster, harder. You wanted to feel him in your diaphragm—you knew that wasn’t possible, but you didn’t particularly care—wanted him slamming into you. Over and over and over…

He grabbed your wrists, pulling them behind your back and holding them in one hand while the other went back to your waist, with a bruising grip. Taking away every bit of leverage you had and giving himself total control of your body.

Then he pounded into you, hard and fast until your hips were bashing up against the table.

You didn’t even notice, because his cock was hitting you so perfectly with every sharp thrust.

“Hotch!” You keened his name, the loudest sound you’d made all night.

“Mmm keep talking to me, pretty girl, I love the way your voice sounds screaming my name.” His own voice sounded different from anything you’d ever heard from him. It was carnal and lust filled, and it had you clenching around him. “Fuck, if you keep squeezing me like that this isn’t gonna last very long, sweetheart.”

You could only moan in response.

There were hands in your hair, gathering it out of your face.

You hadn’t realized you’d closed your eyes, but when you opened them, Emily and Spencer were sitting side by side at the table you were bent over.

“She’s too quiet…” Emily purred, a truly wicked gleam in her eyes. “I don’t think you’re fucking her hard enough.”

Hotch chuckled, the sound ran up your spine and down your limbs until your whole body tingled.

“You think she can take it?” He asked her in return.

But it was Spencer who leaned down, his lips skimming your cheek as he murmured, “You can take it, can’t you Angel?”

“God yes!” You panted, trying to look back at Hotch, though it was nearly impossible to move at all with the way he was pinning you to the table. “I can take it!”

He pushed you back down flat on the table.

“You want it harder, Pretty Girl?” He asked and there was something in his tone… something lethal.

“Yes! Please!” You sobbed.

“Tell me how bad you want it, make it pretty for me sweetheart… I wanna hear you beg.” His grip on your waist got impossibly tighter.

“I don’t want it, I need it! It feels so good, Hotch, please! I’ll be so good! I’ll lie here and take it like a good girl! Just fuck me harder, please!” You pleaded, your voice cracking as he continued to fuck into you. “I need to feel you deeper!”

He groaned, letting go of your arms and taking ahold of your hair instead.

“God, I love to hear you beg…” He growled, pulling your head back so he could lean forward and whisper in your ear. “Hold on to the table, pretty girl. You’re gonna need it.”

You gripped the sides of the table as hard as you could, bracing yourself against it.

He railed into you so hard you couldn’t remember your own name, your hips slamming into the table. His balls were slapping your clit loud enough to be heard over the sound of your cries, which were spilling from your lips with every thrust.

They were unintelligible.

Not even you knew what you were saying, but it was clear what you meant.

Don’t. Fucking. Stop.

“Fuck, she looks so beautiful like this…” Emily groaned to Spencer. “Look at her.”

“I see her… she’s fucking perfect.” Spencer replied. “Watch, she’s getting close… she makes that face every time, right before she comes.”

You were, you were so wrapped up in the moment you hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you until he brought it to your attention.

“I can feel her pussy fluttering… fuck, she’s getting tighter.” Hotch sounded nearly pained. “Come on, sweetheart, let me have it. I wanna feel you come on my cock.”

Emily reached under the table and pressed on your clit.

Your vision went white, a dull roar—like the ocean—filled your ears, your knees buckled and only the table and Hotch’s grip kept you from hitting the floor.

Your throat burned, and you knew you must’ve screamed, but you couldn’t hear a thing.

Both his hands were on your hips now, squeezing like his life depended on, anchoring you firmly to himself.

And it was a good thing too, because you thought that otherwise you might’ve floated away.

Your body was numb, gravity meant nothing to you, neither did time, or space.

Just his hands on your hips and his cock still slamming into your pussy as he fucked you through it.

Your hearing was the first sense to return to you, and you thanked the universe and every deity you knew of—just to cover all your bases—that it did.

Because the sound of Aaron Hotchner coming was something you wanted branded into your memory.

“Fuck! Such a good girl, just like that baby!” He moaned, “You feel like heaven pretty girl! I’m- God- I’m about to come—“

He pulled out of you so abruptly that you whined at the loss.

But then there were warm, wet ropes landing on your back.

You moaned, you wished you could see it, though feeling it was something you’d never forget.

“Fuck.” Hotch panted, then patted your ass gently. “You did so good for me sweetheart. That was…”

You couldn’t seem to speak yet, and your vision was still fuzzy. Your limbs weren’t yet back under your control either. So you just laid there, panting.

“Angel, are you okay?” You heard Spencer’s sweet voice murmur, you could feel his lips near your ear.

And Emily’s hand in your hair, nails brushing against your scalp soothingly.

Hotch was stroking your thigh tenderly.

Then the strangest thing happened… you started to giggle… you couldn’t help it… nothing was funny.

You were just… happy?

Overwhelmed?

Incandescent?

“Is she laughing?” Hotch asked, confusion evident in his tone.

“It would seem so…” Spencer murmured. “I think—you might have broken her.”

“No…” Emily murmured, stroking your cheek, wiping away an errant tear. “She just needs a minute, she’s euphoric.”

There! That was the word you’d been looking for! Thank you Emily, you beautiful, sexy, sapphic goddess!

“I’m gonna get something to clean her up,” you heard Hotch murmur, “I’ll be right back.”

His footsteps retreated toward the bathroom.

You felt so heavy…

You just wanted to close your eyes and go to sleep.

A warm cloth touched your back, stroking up and down, cleaning up after Hotch’s release.

Voices were murmuring quietly around you, and then you felt someone—probably Hotch—lift you from the table.

You barely got your eyes open, just enough to look around.

Spencer was gathering all your clothes, you were resting on Hotch’s lap, Emily was digging in your go-bag—she pulled from it a pair of sweats and a t-shirt—then she brought them over and started dressing you.

You didn’t know at what point she had put her clothes back on… just that she was dressed.

Spencer put your discarded clothes into your go-bag and then he came back over to sit next to Hotch on the couch. He helped Emily get your arms—which were too heavy to move still—into the sleeves of your shirt.

When they had finished dressing you, Emily sat on Hotch’s other side. He gently lowered your head to her lap, and Spencer pulled your legs up into his.

“Are you sure she’s alright?” Spencer asked quietly.

“Mm hmm…” Emily hummed, stroking your hair tenderly. “She’s just exhausted… four times… is a lot.”

Hotch took your hand in his and kissed the back of it.

That was the last thing you felt before you fell asleep.

*Four Days Later*

You’d thought that it would be awkward…

Coming back to work after fucking three of your coworkers—one of whom is your boss—at the same time.

But it wasn’t.

It was exciting.

The four of you were all smiles when you looked at each other, secret smiles that no one else was aware of, and knowing glances had been passed back and forth all morning.

Hotch had accidentally brushed across your hips with the back of his hand when he’d passed you in the bullpen.

There was a bruise there from the table where he’d fucked you, and he knew it. He was reminding you on purpose.

Spencer had been glancing at your lips all morning, a soft pink flush coloring his cheeks each time. Likely remember how he’d come down your throat.

Now, at the round table, Emily squeezed your thigh once under the table. There was a bite mark there that hadn’t yet faded. One that she’d given you.

All their attention was making you feel a bit overheated, so you pulled your French pin from the pocket of your slacks and pinned your hair into a twist.

You noticed, after you’d done so, that Hotch was giving you a very smug look. You felt like there was something else behind it, other than the obvious, but you couldn’t figure out what.

Everyone was distracted, just waiting on the last of the team—Derek and Garcia—to straggle into the room. They’d made it to the door, but Derek was on crutches so they were taking their time and everyone was fine with that.

But then Derek stopped—right behind you—and laughed.

“You uh— you got a little somethin’ somethin’ on the back of your neck, there Lil’ Mama…” He teased.

You reached up to touch your neck, confused, you looked up at him.

“What?” You asked.

“Looks like somebody had a little fun this weekend.” He joked. “That’s a pretty interesting place for a hickey…”

You paled, then blushed, immediately pulling the pin out of your hair and letting it fall down your back to cover the mark.

“Morgan.” Hotch said quietly—to hide the amusement in his tone—his eyes flicking to you briefly over the top of the file he’d been pretending to read. “Leave her alone.”

Derek threw his hands up in surrender and kept making his way to his seat.

One half of the room moved on, assuming that Hotch had just scolded Morgan out of a need for professionalism, and was choosing to cut you some slack over a mark you clearly hadn’t known existed.

But the other half knew better.

Rossi—who had returned from his book tour just the night before—stood to pull out Derek’s chair for him and took one elbow, while Penelope took the other.

While they helped him get settled, you threw Hotch a scathing look.

Because the only one who had left marks on your neck, had been him.

He was already smirking back at you, smug as shit.

Emily and Spencer were biting their lips to keep from laughing and they didn’t dare make eye contact with each other, or they were going to lose it.

You just stared a hole through the smirking Unit Chief, silently berating him for leaving a mark where you couldn’t see it.

And the bastard winked at you.

Then he cleared his throat and you let your expression go blank as the others all came to attention.

“Let’s get started.”

[ysvanielle]

"WATCH OUT !!"

synposis: after sae saw someone flirting with f!reader, he loses focus in the game.

cw: nosebleed , mentions of sexual interactions , just possesive and jealous sae ♡ !

—ᓚᘏᗢ order request #11 by ⛸️ anon !!

you decided to stop faking sick which you did to avoid watching itoshi sae's football matches. you were scared that one day you would get caught lying ! so, you thought it would be a good idea to surprise him by showing up at sae's match, after a long, long time.

you didn't think much about your outfit. a white bodysuit underneath sae's jersey which was infact, oversized for you. you just brought your purse, with your phone, sunglasses in it, andddd, a banner which you made for him.

the banner screamed 'y/n'. strawberry kisses all over it, your vanilla perfume sprayed on the banner, 'I LOVE YOU !!'s and 'GO SAE BAE !!' written on it. you wete very excited to wave and cheer for him with it in the bleachers.

after you had arrived, you took a seat in the front row. you did not get to sit in the V.I.P section (even after the entire world knew you were sae's girlfriend) because, you coming to his match was entirely a secret and a surprise.

first few minutes in the match, and sae had already scored a goal! you jumped up, squealed and screamed his name, waving the banner up. since you were loud, sae's wide eyes met your glintful ones.

he gave you a small, genuine smile which showed he was happy to see you here.

but.. what he was not happy to see was a guy who was sitting right beside you, smirking and watching your ass jiggle up and down. sae did not pay much attention to it, ignoring that creep for now.

as you sat down, the guy shifted his gaze and made a move. "hey.. cheering for ReAI hmm?" he chuckled.

"oh, yes! haha.. yes, i am. i see you are on the same team too!" you tried to be friendly, oblivious to the guy's intentions.

you both talked for a bit, but, then.. the conversation started to become a bit uncomfortable for you, and you lost interest in the conversation.

"c'mon.. just one night.. i'll even let you suck my cock.." he spoke, nudging your shoulder.

you kept your eyes on the field, watching the intense moment, of sae dribbling the ball against all the players of the other team, as he slightly kept on losing focus.

"i said no, mister.. i am not interested.." you murmured loudly enough for the guy beside you to hear.

oh, he went to far, he grabbed you by the wrist and didn't let go, trying to coax you to spend the night with him.

just then, the crowd started shouting in panic, looking in your direction, "WATCH OUT!!!!", and.. a ball went flying on very high speed and hit the creep in his nose. he started bleeding.

"f-fuck-!!", you blurted out as you quickly stood up and your eyes flew to your boyfriend, itoshi sae, who got a red card, for hitting the creep.

later on, while you were sat in sae's car, you spoke, quietly.. "b-back then.. you really.. did not have to hit that guy.."

sae raised an eyebrow at your nervousness, giving you a quick long glance, scoffing, "tch, he was trying to hit on at what's mine. he should have had some sense in him." he shrugged as if that is the most normal thing in the entire world.

tags: @renar1

written by - @ysvanielle (me) | please do not copy, steal, modify, repost or translate my content onto any other platforms or tumblr. reblogs, likes and follows are appreciated !

[orderforbrian]

hate this thing. rhe crapochin. (these are supposed to be him when he's late 20's/early 30's)

[ailesswhumptober]

Prompts for AI-less Whumptober 2025

It was tough to pick from all you guys' amazing suggestions, but we managed to end up with a lovely list of prompts to work with, AND not a single repeat prompt from last year which we found quite important. Additional info + plain text versions of the prompts can be found under the cut.

FAQ and Rules

What sort of content can I create for this event?

You can create whatever you want (fic, art, edits, etc). Any fandom is allowed, as well as OC stuff. NSFW is allowed, but please tag your content accordingly! The only thing not allowed is AI-generated content.

Do I need to make 31 things to participate?

Oh heavens no! You can make as much or as little content as you like, skip days when desired, or combine prompts (so for example, write something that covers a prompt from day 1, 2, AND 3). You don't have to do the days in order either, go wild! To be considered a 'completionist', you only have to make sure that at the end of the month, you've covered 31 prompts from 31 different days, but whether you do that in 31 works or just 1 is up to you. Your works can be separate onshots or one continuous fic.

How do I interpret these prompts?

Creativity is the name of the game here! If you don't understand a prompt, feel free to send us an ask about it. However, the important thing is you're free to interpret the prompts however you want. For example, 'heat' could be literal (fever, heatstroke, burn wounds) or figurative (somebody getting heat for something). The dialogue prompts are allowed to be slightly rewritten to fit better for the character whose mouth it's coming out of. As long as you're having fun!

What are these alts about?

If none of the three prompts of a particular day are your cup of tea, you can swap them out for an alt prompt of your choice. This will count as having covered that day for completionists.

How do I tag and is there an AO3 collection?

It suffices to tag your work with #ailesswhumptober for us to see and reblog it! Please also tag nsfw, since we'll be using that tag too. Tagging the day is optional but does help the mods along.

There is an AO3 collection to add your fics to. It will be revealed and linked here closer to the start of the event.

That should be all. If you have any additional questions, check our pinned or hit us up in the ask box. Or join our discord maybe, whumping can be a great group activity!

---

Plain text versions of the prompts:

October 1

Collapsed lung, Contusion, "Well, that shouldn't have happened."

October 2 

Amputation, Gunshot, "It's not worth your life!"

October 3 

Secondary drowning, Compartment syndrome, "Please don't leave me!”

October 4

Frostbite, Heat, "I can make it all better."

October 5

Torture, Withholding aid, "How do you want me to punish you?"

October 6 

Self-inflicted injury, Rocky recovery, "If I tell you what they made me do, you won't be able to look at me the same."

October 7

Starvation, Foodborne illness, "They put something in my system, I can't think straight."

October 8

Hit and run, Adrenaline, “I can’t stop!”

October 9

Emotional manipulation,  Cassandra truth, “You asked for this.”

October 10 

Blood poisoning, Hypoxia, "What were you thinking?"

October 11

Sleep deprivation, Whiplash, “Be careful, they’re watching us.”

October 12

Dislocation, Dizziness, “Don’t pass out on me.”

October 13 

Ransom, Tranquilizer, "I trusted you!"

October 14 

Self-surgery, Unconsciousness, "Look who's awake."

October 15

Came back wrong, Cannibalism, "You weren't supposed to die first."

October 16

Leashed, Painful shapeshifting, "Hold them down."

October 17

Drug side effects, Desperation, "It's fine, I can walk it off."

October 18

Captivity, Loss of powers, "Do you even know how to use that?"

October 19

Broken bone, blood loss, "When I finish patching you up I swear to god I'm gonna kick your ass for making me worry about you."

October 20

Irredeemable, Before it starts/After it's over, "I didn't react the way I should have, I'm sorry."

October 21

Stranded, Search and rescue, "You really think they're gonna look for you?"

October 22

Estranged, Changed dynamic, “Who did this to you?!”

October 23

Restraints, Obsession, “Aren’t you feisty?”

October 24

Denial, Working through the pain, “What have you done to yourself?”

October 25

Magical bind, Pinned down, "And what do we have here?"

October 26

Defanging/Declawing, pulled feathers, “This should teach you to behave next time.”

October 27

Sensory overload, Catatonic, "Don't pretend to understand."

October 28

Hospital/Doctor’s visit, Medical power of attorney, "Why can't I remember?"

October 29

Childhood trauma, Guilt, "I didn't mean to."

October 30

Cleaning injuries, Labored breathing, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

October 31

Body horror, Enucleation, "I am the monster you made me!"

Alt prompts:

1) Mutation

2) Knife/Gun to the throat

3) Nonhuman pet whumpee

4) Chronic condition

5) No-win scenario

6) Blinded

7) Memory trigger

8) Mercy

9) "This isn't how I wanted you to find out."

10) “Get yourself out of here! I’ll be fine.”

[neptuneraj]

the siren's song - manon bannerman

a cruise trip with your friends doesn't go the way you expected.

pairing: siren!manon x fem!reader

cw/tags: nsfw, drowning, deep water, fear, hurt, mentions of drinking, kissing, making out, suggestive content

today was a great day. you could say it was perfect. it was the first day of a cruise trip with your friends, lara, yoonchae and sophia. the ship was huge, with leisure areas, like a big swimming pool and even an open bar, where you and your friends are now, with these two girls named daniela and megan — you guys met them a couple hours ago, but they’re so sweet and funny, so you guys invited them to spend the other days of the trip with the group, and they thought it would be so nice.

you chose not to drink much, accompanying yoonchae — she’s underage, so she wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol anyway, so she was just eating the snacks that the other girls ordered.

“guys, i love y’all so fucking much.” megan suddenly declares her feelings with a voice full of emotion, visibly drunk. drawing loud laughs from everyone at the table, especially you and yoonchae. they were the kind of people who, when they drink, become even funnier than they already are. “we love you too” lara answers and they hug each other.

you and yoonchae didn't want to interrupt their moment of fun, but they were too drunk.

“hey! let’s go to our room. we can talk there.” you get up even with the protests of the girls, but you and yoonchae were insistent.

after a long time of talking, you guys finally arrived in the room. you pull the younger girl closer to you as you whisper in her ear, “can you handle the girls alone? i’d like to go out alone for a little while.”

yoonchae looks around.

everyone was lying on the bed, lara and megan were already sleeping, cuddling each other like it wasn’t the first time they ever met. sophia and daniela were talking and laughing, and doesn’t seem to have any interest in going out again. 

“yeah, i think so.” she laughs at the sight of the girls. “but please don’t take too long, i’m gonna be worried with you.”

“i’m gonna be fine.” you give her a comfort smile as you walk out of the room. 

you choose not to be so far away from the other girls, just enough for you to enjoy your moment alone  — which was not too hard, because most of the people were on the bar or just sleeping.

now, you’re in the lowest part of the ship, resting your hands on the handrail, just watching the view of the beautiful ocean  — the waves shaken, the cold air hitting your face, and the night sky full of stars, shining above your head.

you didn’t have much time alone today, and wanted to enjoy it.

a few moments have passed, and you see something strange in the middle of the ocean, a ripple and bubbles forming into the water — then a long white tail moves to the surface and splashes the water. it was bright and shiny. so beautiful it was mesmerizing. something you’ve never seen before.

it could be a fish, right?

no. it was too big to be just a fish tail.

it could just be another sea animal just swimming… right? you try your best to convince yourself  — but it doesn't work. you don’t know any sea animal that had a shiny white tail like that, and almost the same size as a person.

you feel scared, and turn around to go back to your friends, then a sound comes from the ocean. it was a soft sound. first you thought it could be someone in the ship, maybe they decided to turn on the volume of the music that was playing at the bar early — but it was coming from there, in the middle of the ocean.

for a moment you just froze there, you don’t know why, but it was arousing your curiosity. almost like it was attracting you. you turn around betraying your feets, that has the urge to go away. then you face the sea again, getting closer to the edge of the ship.

the sound gets louder this time, and you realize it was actually a song.

a beautiful female voice singing.

you couldn’t describe what she was singing, it was a completely unknown language  — echoing in your ears and infiltrating every part of your body.

you climb up to the railing, you don’t know why, but you need to go to the water  — to see her. the cold air hits you harder now, and the waves seem rougher than before.

the voice stops, and you are startled to realize how close to the sea you are.

a movement in the water catches your attention again, at the same spot that you saw the tail. then, a female head comes out from under the water. your heart skips a beat, the urge to scream and run away invades your whole body  — it was a siren.

the woman in the sea looks at you with a mischievous smile on her face. you get scared, the sudden appearance makes you lose balance and fall into the water, leaving a scream.

your body collides with the freezing sea water, your skin burns as you despair, returning to the surface trying to catch your breath. you look at the ship and around.

the woman is no longer there.

you look at the water and there’s her tail again, now closer to you. she pulls you by your soaked shirt underneath the water again, almost ripping the tissue with the amount of strength she has. you shook your arm and legs, she was swimming very fast. then, you get rid of the piece of cloth she was holding so you could move away from her touch. she lets go of you and you go back to the surface.

you were breathless, spitting out water that you swallowed.

now the ship was far away.

you try to swim again, your legs beating up against the water so hard that your shoes come out, there’s no way you could reach that ship.

you were there in the middle of the ocean  — like a prey being hunted.

the water moves beneath you and the woman pulls you underwater again. her nails dig into your ankle and you writhe in pain. you feel dizzy, the salt water invades your mouth, your body is tired from swimming as your muscles ache with the effort of trying to get away from her.

she takes advantage of your tiredness and swims quickly. you don't know how much time passed since you're getting dragged by the woman, until she pulls you out of the water and places you on top of some rocks. the waves were crashing hard, you don’t see the ship anymore. nothing. just you and her.

the woman was on top of you now, her two hands were resting on either side of your head, and you could feel her heavy tail moving up and down above you, it was rough  — like a fish skin. to your surprise, she was incredibly beautiful.

her chest and waist are covered in pearls, forming a long string. the ears are sharp, with scales as the same color of her tail. her nails are pretty long and sharp — which explains why your ankles hurt. her hair is braided in brown color, it is long and curved, swinging in the strong wind. everything about the woman was beautiful. seductive.

she smiles with your gaze, you're already under her spell. “like what you see, huh?”

a pretty and smooth voice comes out of her mouth. you couldn’t say anything  — your whole body shivers with cold and fear.

“so cute the way you tried to get away from me. as well, my name is manon.” a proud look appears on her face. one of her hands got up as the other supported her  — the sharp finger nails trails a patch across your whole stomach, gently scratching the area. you were totally exposed. vulnerable. “you know... when i saw you there all alone, i couldn’t help myself.”

you feel her weight become less heavy on your body, and then you realize that her large tail has turned into a human legs — you assume that’s because she’s no longer in water. she looks like a human now, except for her predator gaze towards you. she adjusts her position, and gets on her knees.

“p-p-please…” you cried out. “let me go.”

she laughs as tilts her head to the side, admiring every inch of you. “no, why would i do that? you’re the prettiest one i’ve ever seen.”

a surprised face comes up to you because of her response, and you start to feel embarrassed. her gaze was intimidating. everything in her is… attractive.

a smirk appears on her lips and her hands now make a way up. one beside you head again, supporting her own weight, and the other grabs your chin, making you look at her eyes. the same color as the night sky. 

you just tremble under her gaze and try to push her shoulders with all the strength you had left to get the woman away from you, but she was much stronger. she doesn’t even move an inch.

manon laughs at the way you thought you could get away from her. so adorable. 

before you could try to fight her again, her mouth opens and she sings. the same song you heard earlier at the ship — but this time, you feel relaxed.

she gets closer to you, face to face. her warm breath now hits all of your skin. she presses her lips into your cheek and starts to go down, distributing kisses into your neck and collarbone. you squirm when you feel her tongue touch your neck and her teeth biting your sensitive skin. one of her knees makes a way between your legs, pressing the area with no shame, and you groan in response — a smile appears on her face.

manon walks away from your neck and look at you again — her stare is full of hunger and desire.

she leans towards you and passes her lips against yours gently. you don’t reject it. instead, you reciprocate.

you’re under her will now.

she widens her mouth as her warm tongue slowly invades your mouth, exploring every inch of you. her touch is addictive, you melt in the softness of her lips.

when manon breaks the kiss, she sees your face looking desperate for her touch, craving her. with a malicious smile, she hums, “you’re mine now.”

[lalaurelia]

as i came to tumblr from sites where tags served a search function, i implemented the same principles to the tags i used for my blog - in order to be able to find reblogged stuff when i might need it.

reading others' tags is fun but i also feel a little, i don't know. alienated? for not doing the same. but then again i love conversations, and these things seem to serve polar purposes, with tags not being primarily interactable, while comments and additions are.

something something the variety of human experiences and needs and how finding the places/people that click with you is a rare luck

i love ppl who talk in the tags bc it satisfies my deep desire to know ppl’s opinions on everything without needing to have a conversation with them and ask. even better when it’s a side tangent that barely has anything to do with the post, or a personal anecdote, or a joke. tag talker mutuals you’re my favorite. tag talkers rise up

[kissandtellus]

Bark Like You Want It : ZaynexReaderxHybrid!Caleb

Synopsis: You adopted a stray Hybrid off the streets, much to your Fiancé Zayne’s dismay. Not only does he have to handle drool, he has to deal with his hormones too?

Warnings: SnowApple (sort of), threesome, knotting, dub-con, Hybrid!Caleb, oral (f!receiving), Lixli.

Tag List: @tremendoustragedybard, @katiiee80, @ohshitcindylou, @justannie18

Zayne always thought of himself as a cat person. Just a small, sassy little thing that could take care of itself. But when his fiancé comes from a Wanderer Battle with a big, overgrown human Mutt in tow. He only has one word.

No.

That no, never came to life.

You’re in your cozy home, sprawled on the couch with a massive, scruffy canine hybrid taking up 90% of the space. His tail thumps against the cushions as he grins at you, tongue lolling out.

“You’re not actually gonna make me sleep outside again, right? C’monnnn." He rolls onto his back dramatically, hands in the air.

Meanwhile, Zayne stands rigidly by the kitchen island, gripping his coffee like it's keeping him sane. His eye twitches.

“I cannot believe we are co-parenting a dog." He glares at Caleb. “A stray who eats my socks. And my patient files."

“Correction—former stray! And I only ate one sock because it smelled like YOU. Hmph." He flops his head onto your lap with zero remorse. “Besides…Y/n loves me more~ Right?" Big puppy eyes activate—he knows what he's doing.

Zayne exhales sharply through his nose and mutters something about "betrayal by fiancé.”

Clearly, you've become the bridge between these two very different creatures.

Who would've thought? You've gone from just living your life to being the mediator in the great domestic dispute: Dog vs. Fiancé.

While Caleb's puppy eyes can work on anyone, especially you, it's quite clear a real heart-to-heart discussion with a side of compromise is in order. Otherwise, your apartment might become a battlefield for dog and man to duel it out in a match of wills.

And that's a show you did not buy tickets for.

Everything is fairly calm in the Li household.

You go off on Hunter missions to destroy Wanderers and Zayne is, of course busy with his Cardiac Surgeries. But over the next few days, Caleb’s behavior becomes erratic, more primal.

Caleb's sudden behavior change is like watching a well-trained dog regress into a wild wolf—and not the cool “Game of Thrones” kind. His usually vibrant purple eyes shift into a feral yellow. He’s twitchy, agitated, growling at shadows. His usually playful nips become something more aggressive, more…animalistic.

It’s alarming, to say the least.

Zayne's concern is evident as he takes notes on the canine’s new demeanor, his professional demeanor slipping every now and then.

He’s pissed on nearly every inch of Zayne’s once pristine home.

Zayne stands frozen in the doorway of their shared bedroom, his usually composed expression cracking as he takes in the sight—yet another rug marked. His jaw clenches so tight you fear a molar might shatter. The air is thick with the scent of ammonia and quiet rage.

“This." He gestures stiffly at the latest offense, voice eerily calm. “Is an act of war."

Caleb, meanwhile, sits proudly beside his masterpiece—tail thumping once. His eyes gleam with something between defiance and... amusement? You swear there’s a smugness to his panting grin.

Then Zayne turns to you slowly. “We're getting him fixed. Today."

At the veterinarian’s office, Caleb’s mood swings are all over the place. One moment, he’s wagging his tail, charming the vet tech with doggy smiles; the next, he’s growling at the receptionist’s poor attempt to pet him.

Zayne stands off to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, clearly unamused. His eyes track Caleb, studying his every move with the focus of a predator stalking his prey.

If looks could neuter-

Inside the examination room, the atmosphere is tense. Zayne is all business as he answers the vet’s questions, his hand firmly holding Caleb’s head still.

Meanwhile, our furry protagonist seems to have made a new personal record for “Most Pathetic Whines per Minute.”

“You are going to be fine.” Zayne’s voice has a comforting reassurance that’s so at odds with his tight grip on Caleb’s muzzle. “No more surprise puddles, no more dominance displays. It’s for the best.”

The vet nods in agreement, trying to look confident despite the occasional growl from our beloved canine. “So… who’s gonna tell him that?” You glance helplessly from Zayne to the vet, then to the whining, wriggling Caleb.

Yeah. This isn’t going to be easy.

But when the Vet returns, all lab coat and chuckles, Zayne’s heart drops. “Well, I don’t believe there will be any neutering today. Your boy here is in Pre-Rut.”

Zayne’s grip on Caleb’s collar slackens in shock. His normally composed expression cracks—lips slightly parted, eyes wide.

“…Excuse me?" His voice is dangerously quiet. A storm brewing beneath icy calm.

The vet, oblivious to the impending disaster, pats Caleb’s head like he just announced good news.

“Yep! All that erratic behavior? Classic pre-rut symptoms in hybrids—territorial marking, heightened aggression... and well," he gestures vaguely, “-other urges. Normally we'd suppress it with medication but..." He glances at Caleb's now very smug grin. "...Given his size and lineage? I don't recommend fighting nature on this one."

A beat of silence. Then—

“So you're telling me... my house is now a crime scene because this mutt is horny."

Zayne tries to take a deep breath and push up his glasses. “He’s been territorial over my fiancé. Can’t we give him a pill and a toy and let him ride it out?”

The vet chuckles again, clearly unaware of the depth of Zayne’s mounting frustration.

“Sure, you could. But just like with humans, hormonal suppression pills can have side effects—weight gain, potential long-term health risks, not to mention… well, a rather moody hybrid to deal with."

Caleb leans his weight against you, giving Zayne a look that’s a cross between an apologetic whine and a smug "Told ya so."

“If he's marking his territory around Miss Y/n here. I recommend finding a suitable mate. Someone familiar, someone he already sees as part of his pack..." The vet looks between you and Zayne pointedly. The implication is clear: he’s suggesting Caleb mate with you, his already established ‘matriarch’.

Zayne’s face goes from white to red in record time.

Zayne banishes Caleb to the Garage, only having contact when feeding or taking the mutt out for a walk.

But Caleb’s smug attitude turns into complete desperation within 2 days.

Zayne just came in with his food when Caleb attaches himself to his leg, hips gyrating as he grinds against the Doctor’s black slacks.

The moment the garage door shuts behind them, Caleb, no longer smug, no longer playful, presses Zayne back against the wall with alarming desperation. His pupils are blown wide, his breath ragged and hot against Zayne’s throat as he growls out.

“I can smell her on you… every time. Every goddamn time.” His hips roll in slow, deliberate circles against Zayne’s thigh—a mimicry of something far more primal. “You don’t get it... I can’t—” A broken whine escapes him as his claws dig into Zayne's shoulders. “This is torture!”

Zayne freezes for a split second before his own instincts kick in, his hands clamp around Caleb’s wrists like steel bands. He doesn't flinch at the hybrid's snarl or the press of fangs near his jugulars

“No," he says coldly. “You forget this is my home."

He shoves Caleb off him and pushes him back against the wall with a firm hand on his chest. His voice is still quiet, dangerously so. There's a flicker of something dark in his gaze.

“You have two choices: You control yourself-“ His other hand comes up to grasp Caleb’s chin firmly, nails digging in just enough to leave crescent marks. “Or you're out that door before the sun goes down. Your choice."

A beat passes. The air feels like it's charged with electricity, and neither man backs down or looks away.

Zayne's grip is unyielding, his gaze locked with Caleb's until those gold-flecked eyes finally waver. Caleb swallows hard, a faint whine escaping him before he finally drops his gaze in submission.

“Good boy." Zayne releases his jaw, letting his head drop.

Zayne takes a sharp inhale. “Can’t believe I have to do this….” He unceremoniously shoves his hand down Caleb’s baggy shorts and grasps his cement hard cock.

The Vet recommended ‘manual’ release and there was no way he was going to have Y/n take on this duty.

Caleb’s whole body jolts at the sudden touch—his breath stuttering out in a broken gasp, hips bucking instinctively into Zayne’s grip. His claws scrape against the garage wall behind him, struggling between resisting and giving in entirely.

“F-fuck—! You—!” His voice is raw, strained between anger and unbearable need. His forehead drops against Zayne's shoulder with a muffled growl as he mutters. “H-hate you... s-so much...”

Zayne doesn't react beyond tightening his fingers slightly, his movements methodical and unrelenting. His expression remains coldly detached—but there's a flicker of something almost... victorious in his eyes as Caleb shudders under his touch.

“Good." He says flatly. “Hate me all you want. Just don't make this harder than it has to be."

There's something almost clinical about the way Zayne handles him, a surgeon handling an instrument and it's driving Caleb insane.

Every stroke drags a new noise from the hybrid, desperate, needy, and utterly at odds with his usual bravado.

“Zayne..." he manages to rasp out, and the name almost feels like a plea.

Zayne leans in, his lips a whisper against Caleb's ear. His breath is warm, steady—a stark contrast to Caleb's ragged panting.

“Shut. Up."

Caleb leans his head onto Zayne’s shoulder. He can smell the faint expensive cologne and sterile odor of the hospital still on his clothing.

Caleb barely has time to register the command before Zayne twists his wrist just so—and suddenly Caleb is arching into him with a strangled cry, fingers digging into Zayne’s shirt hard enough to tear the fabric. His whole body locks up, shuddering violently as he spills over Zayne’s hand.

Zayne watches him through hooded eyes—expression unreadable as he slowly withdraws his hand once Caleb slumps bonelessly against the wall. He wipes his palm clean on a discarded rag he uses to shine his car with an air of finality before straightening his rumpled sleeves.

“Consider that your one and only freebie." His tone leaves no room for negotiation as he turns towards the door. “Next time you get this desperate? Figure it out yourself.”

Caleb is slumped against the wall, chest heaving, golden eyes still blown wide with residual pleasure, but his expression twists into betrayal as Zayne turns away. His voice is rough, dripping with venom when he finally speaks.

“You act like this fixes anything." He pushes off the wall with a snarl. “It won’t stop. Not until I have her. And you can't keep us apart forever."

Zayne pauses at the door, shoulders stiffening for just a second before he exhales sharply, he's already exhausted by this entire conversation.

“Then I guess we'll find out just how long you can last without privileges," he says coolly before shutting the garage door behind him with a final click of the lock.

But Caleb only grows more desperate. He howls all day and night, humping every inch of the garage and cries out for you.

Zayne sits at the kitchen table, sipping coffee like a man trying to ignore an air raid siren going off in his own home. The distant sounds of Caleb’s tortured howls rattle the walls—along with the occasional THUD of a body slamming against something in frustration.

“Y/n.” He finally sets his mug down with deliberate calm. “I am this close to sedating him myself." His fingers pinch together for emphasis before dragging down his face in exasperation. "...And possibly moving out."

A loud whine and nails taking down the door cut Zayne off.

“Y/N—PLEASE! I CAN SMELL YOU OUT THERE! JUST—FIVE MINUTES-“ A crash. A whimper. More desperate humping noises against what sounds like… Zayne’s vintage motorcycle?

You meet Zayne’s dead-eyed stare as he silently reaches for the veterinary sedation pamphlets on the counter.

You cover his hand quickly with a sharp inhale, your breakfast forgotten. “What if…what if we help him? Just once?”

Zayne seems to wrestle with your request, jaw tight and looking like he's in actual physical pain even considering it. But eventually he sighs a ragged, resigned sound.

“Once.” He holds up a single finger for emphasis. “And I mean it. We are not making this a habit. This is a one-time… biological necessity. Nothing more.”

He looks like he just ate a lemon as he pushes his chair back. “We do this under my supervision.“

That night, you both clear your schedule to focus on Caleb. Zayne drags the Hybrid up the stairs and into the bedroom where he nearly snaps his collar and chokes himself when he sees you perched on the bed.

The moment Caleb’s eyes land on you, his entire body goes rigid, muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. His breath comes in ragged, uneven bursts as he strains against Zayne’s grip on his collar, practically vibrating with need.

“Y/n please—” His voice cracks on the word, rough and desperate. His pupils are blown wide, gold swallowed by black as he fights the urge to lunge forward.

Zayne shoves him down onto the bed with a firm hand between his shoulder blades before Caleb can do something stupid like tackle you, his other hand still gripping that collar tight. He levels Caleb with a warning glare.

“You move without permission,” he says lowly. “-and this ends immediately." His gaze flicks up to meet yours for confirmation before releasing just enough slack in the leash for Caleb to turn his head and look at you properly... but not much else.

You watch as Zayne leans over the bed, one knee planted firmly on the mattress to keep Caleb pinned while he leans in to kiss you, an unexpectedly tender moment in the midst of this wild frenzy.

But then, with no warning, Zayne's other hand slides between your legs, and he's nipping at your lower lip with a smirk.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as his fingers tease you open, slow and deliberate. “You just relax… let me take care of him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

Caleb whines at the sight, his entire body trembling beneath Zayne's hold. His hands fist the sheets as he watches with a mixture of desperation and awe.

“Z-Zayne-please—” He chokes out again.

The doctor merely hums in response before guiding Caleb's head down to where his fingers are still working you open, effectively cutting off any further begging with action instead of words.

Caleb is a beast. His tongue is so large and messy you gasp out and cling to Zayne’s corded forearm like a lifeline. “C-Caleb!”

Zayne watches Caleb’s wild enthusiasm with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement, his forearm flexing under your desperate grip as the hybrid laps at you like a starved man. His lips quirk into an almost smug smirk when he hears you cry out, satisfied by the way he's orchestrating this chaotic scene.

“Eager, isn't he?" Zayne muses dryly before suddenly yanking Caleb back by the collar, just enough to force eye contact between them. “Slow down. She's not a damn chew toy."

Caleb pants heavily but nods—still trembling with restraint—before diving back in with slightly more finesse this time. His tongue drags slow and hot over your sensitive flesh now, making sure every flick is precise... even if his tail is thumping against the bed hard enough to shake it.

And Zayne? Well... let’s just say there’s something undeniably satisfying about watching him play puppeteer while still keeping that composed doctor façade intact, even as Caleb threatens to unravel it all beneath him.

Caleb’s face is smeared with your juices. His hips rut uselessly against the edge of the bed. Your eyes are in the back of your skull, thin baby blue night gown pushed up over your belly. You open your eyes when you feel Zayne nuzzle your cheek, his hand soothing back your hair.

“How’re you feeling Snowflake?”

You open your mouth to answer but Caleb’s sharp canines grind down against your throbbing clit and you openly sob.

Caleb’s whines grow more pitiful. He pulls back for air and rests his cheek against your inner thigh. “It fuckin’ hurts. Please-please just the tip! I’ll be so good!”

Zayne exhales through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he's physically restraining himself from strangling Caleb right then and there.

“You are literally incapable of 'just the tip.'" His voice drips with exasperation, but when he glances down at you, seeing how flushed and breathless you are beneath them both—something in his expression softens. Just slightly.

He sighs before gripping Caleb’s leash again, forcing the hybrid to meet his gaze as he leans down close enough that their noses nearly brush.

“Listen carefully," he growls lowly, “-because I'm only saying this once. You move too fast, you hurt her even a little... I will take you to the Vet and leave you there for the rest of your Rut. Do you understand?”

Caleb swallows hard but nods frantically whining again when Zayne finally releases him with one last warning tug on the leash before sitting back to watch like a particularly strict supervisor.

Zayne tugs down Caleb’s shorts, his angry, nearly purple mushroom tip bobs against your thigh and even Zayne has to admit how painful his cock looks.

Especially the knot at the base swelling uselessly.

Zayne fishes the toy he bought begrudgingly online from the bedside drawer.

He looks at Caleb and knows he’s about to start a fight. The silicone toy wraps around a Hybrid’s knot so they are incapable of properly knotting.

Caleb’s growl is instantaneous—a deep, guttural sound of pure outrage as soon as he sees the toy in Zayne’s hand. His ears flatten against his skull, tail bristling like a bottlebrush.

“The fuck is THAT?” He snarls, trying to lunge forward but still held firmly by Zayne's grip on his leash. “I don’t NEED that! I need her—Y-n!” His voice cracks into a desperate whine halfway through, hips jerking uselessly against the air like he can already feel the cruel denial coming.

Zayne ignores him entirely and instead focuses on you, holding up the toy for inspection with an expression that says ‘this was not my idea but here we are.’

“Supposedly it...” He clears his throat slightly before continuing dryly “…simulates knotting without actual penetration. “For safety.” The way he says 'safety' implies heavy sarcasm toward whoever invented this thing.

Meanwhile Caleb has started thrashing like a wild animal caught in a trap, spitting curses between ragged breaths while trying to buck out of Zayne’s line of fire.

You cup Caleb’s face in your hands, thumb brushing away his tears. “It’ll be okay Puppy. Don’t pay attention to him, pay attention to me. That’s it….” You shoot a look to Zayne that says ‘do it now, while he’s distracted’

Caleb’s breath hitches at the feeling of your touch, his thrashing slowing into more of a restless twitching as he tries to focus on you—trying not to whimper again when you call him ‘Puppy.’ He meets your gaze with wide, pleading eyes, the pupils blown dark.

Zayne seizes the opportunity while you’ve got Caleb distracted. With a determined set to his jaw, he starts to work the toy down over the hybrid’s swollen knot, his movements slow and careful. He can’t help but wince slightly as he feels the intense throbbing heat beneath his fingers.

Caleb tenses instantly the second the cold silicone touches him, his breath stuttering out in a broken gasp. He instinctively tries to jerk away, but Zayne’s grip is ironclad.

“N-no—fuck!” His head drops forward against your shoulder with a shuddering groan as the toy finally clicks into place over his knot, trapping it in an unrelenting pressure that’s both agony and relief. His claws dig into the sheets beneath him, muscles trembling from restraint... but he doesn’t fight anymore. Just pants raggedly against your skin.

Zayne takes a deep breath, looking like he just survived defusing a bomb, before sitting back on his heels with grim satisfaction. “There. Now we don't have to worry about any... accidents."

Caleb lets out a wounded noise at that, pressing closer to you like you're his only lifeline left in this cruel world of ‘no fun allowed’.

But when you part your thighs and pat your inner thigh, Caleb feels like he died and went to heaven. “U-up boy. Mount.”

Caleb doesn’t need to be told twice, his entire body surges forward with a desperate, guttural noise. The moment he presses against you, the toy between his thighs does its job, simulating the pressure and friction of a real knot without fully locking him in. His hips jerk erratically at first before settling into a frantic rhythm, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as he pants harshly against your skin.

“F-fuck—fuck!” He chokes out between thrusts, tail lashing wildly behind him like he’s trying to balance himself mid-storm. “S-so good—Y/n!”

Zayne chuckles under his breath as he watches Caleb pathetically rut against your inner thigh as his drooling head misses its mark again and again. Caleb whines and growls in frustration, even when you try to calm him and tell him it’s okay to try again.

“Hold on." Zayne moves closer, his hands grasping Caleb's shoulders to steady him, ignoring the hybrid's ragged protest and the growl that rumbles deep in his chest.

When Zayne’s long, steady fingers from years of medical training wraps around his cock, Caleb nearly shoots his load again.

“Easy... you're a good boy, right?" He grips Caleb's chin, forcing those wild eyes to meet his own. “Be good and I'll help you. Sound fair?"

It's not really a question.

Caleb stills instantly, frozen in Zayne's grip like he's afraid of what might happen nextx his breath a ragged whisper against your skin.

“P-please... just... I-I'll be good... I'll be good..."

Zayne leans in close enough that his breath tickles your ear, voice a soft purr.

“Do you hear that, sweetheart?" Zayne moves his fingers down over Caleb’s taunt and heated scrotum to cup his balls. The Hybrid gasps and squirms like his skin is on fire.

“Begging. He's already begging for it."

Zayne tightens his grip slightly, making sure Caleb feels every deliberate press of fingers against him as he aligns their bodies just right. The hybrid’s entire frame trembles with restraint, every muscle coiled tight like he’s one wrong move away from snapping completely.

“Good boy.” Zayne murmurs before finally—finally—letting him sink into you properly, inch by torturously slow inch. Caleb’s choked cry is immediate, broken and raw as his forehead drops to your shoulder again.

“Y/n… fuck…” His voice cracks on the words, hips stuttering like he can barely control himself even now that he’s gotten what he wanted so desperately.

Your walls welcome him eagerly, but the Hybrid is just so damn big. Your hips arch, fingers scrambling to Zayne’s arm and Caleb’s shoulder as the Pup rolls his hips eagerly.

When Caleb starts to sloppily drive home into you, you barely are able to think. He’s turned your brain to mush and Zayne cups your jaw, watching closely for any sign of pain or your body going into shock.

The wet noises fill the bedroom. Caleb is murmuring praises about how good you feel around his cock. “Feel s’good, needed you so bad. Smell so good-“

Caleb’s thrusts are erratic, desperate, his rhythm messy and unpracticed as he struggles to hold back the primal urge to just take. But despite the frenzy in his movements, there’s something worshipping in the way he keeps nuzzling against your throat between gasps.

“Easy.” Zayne murmurs, one hand still cupping your jaw while the other grips Caleb’s leash like a lifeline. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone soothingly before glancing down between you both with sharp focus.

“Slower.” He tugs on Caleb's leash for emphasis when the hybrid starts getting too rough again—.

But Caleb is too lost in his instincts. He’s pleading with the doctor as his hips snap into your sopping hole, the silicone around his base, straining and nearly turning to mush from his desperate thrusts.

Zayne can’t deny how tight the fabric around his cock gets. Watching you praise the Hybrid and those pathetic whines of Caleb has him twitching in his slacks.

Zayne’s patience finally snaps, his grip on the leash tightening like a vice as he yanks Caleb back hard enough to choke off his air for a second. The hybrid wheezes, hips stuttering to an abrupt stop as he claws at the collar in protest.

“I said," Zayne growls right into Caleb's ear, voice dripping with warning. “-slower."

Caleb whimpers but nods frantically. chest heaving as he forces himself into something resembling control. His next thrust is deliberate, almost hesitant... but the moment you arch under him with a quiet moan? All bets are off again.

Zayne exhales sharply through his nose before adjusting his grip, this time wrapping an arm around Caleb’s waist from behind to physically guide his movements into something more manageable “Like this. Or do I need to hold your hand through every little thing?"

Caleb is panting between you both, his body caught somewhere between the primal urge to take what he wants, and the need to hear Zayne’s approval for every little thing. With every new touch, he glances up like he's checking in: "Am I good? Am I doing this right?”

Zayne, for his part, watches you with a laser-sharp focus, his free hand tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs encouragement, voice rough with want.

Caleb whines and presses back against Zayne too, drool dripping from his mouth. “M’ I a good boy Doc? I’m doin’ good?”

Zayne’s mouth twitches into a faint smile before he murmurs soft words of praise into the hybrid’s ear, whispered between slow, deliberate kisses along Caleb’s neck. His fingers brush against the collar like a reminder.

“You’re doing so well, Caleb. Just focus on her.” He glances at you and his gaze warms, something vulnerable flashing in those eyes for just a moment. “You’re going to take care of her. Make her feel good. Can you manage that?”

Caleb turns into a whining and whimpering mess. He leans over your breast, lapping feverishly at the mounds of flesh. “Yeah-Yeah gonna make her feel so fuckin’ good!”

Zayne shifts, his grip on the leash loosening as he moves around behind the hybrid. But his movements are purposeful, every touch, every word carefully controlled; a master with his pet. His voice is steady when he speaks again, calm, authoritative.

“Show me then." His fingers curl into Caleb's hair, tugging his mouth away from your breast with a sharp pull. “Make her cry."

Caleb’s whine of protest is cut off with a muffled yelp when Zayne yanks sharply on his hair again.

“Is that any way to say ‘thank you’?" He's clearly enjoying the power dynamic here, his tone still even, his grip unyielding.

“Try again." It's not a suggestion, but an order.

Caleb’s breath shudders out, his whole frame shuddering with need... before finally giving in.

“Tha-thank you, Sir..."

You feel his cock throb inside of you and your moan of need breaks the males from their fight for dominance. “M-move, please let him move…”

Your gummy walls are frantically trying to pull Caleb back in again, wanting his cock to split you apart to put you back together again.

Zayne exhales sharply through his nose, clearly debating, but one more pleading look from you is all it takes. His grip loosens slightly on Caleb’s hair, giving just enough slack for the hybrid to surge forward again.

“Go.” He mutters gruffly. “But not too fast.”His hand slides down to grip Caleb’s hip instead, guiding the rhythm with firm pressure whenever the hybrid threatens to lose control again.

Caleb practically sobs in relief at being allowed to move, his thrusts still messy but deeper now. More intentional. Every snap of his hips drags a broken moan from your lips that makes his ears twitch wildly in response. “Y/n… feels so good…”

Caleb feels his knot swell under the silicone and his whines turn to growls, he reaches down to the nearly disintegrated toy. “Take this fuckin’ thing off. I need-I need to knot! I’ll be so good, be so good to her-give her pups-please!”

Zayne’s jaw clenches at the word.

Pups.

His grip tightening on Caleb’s hip like a warning, but then you whimper beneath them both, arching into the hybrid’s touch in a way that makes Zayne hesitate. His gaze flicks between your face and Caleb’s swollen knot that catches on the toy straining to break in pieces.

“God….” He finally growls through gritted teeth before reaching down to wrench the ruined toy off with one sharp tug, ignoring Caleb's gasp of relief. “Just Once. And if I think for a second you're hurting her—"

Caleb doesn't let him finish, surging forward with a snarl as his knot locks inside you at last. The force of it punches a moan from your lips that has Zayne rolling his eyes, digging his fingers deep enough to bruise as he mutters.

“Disgusting mutt..."

The knot causes Caleb’s eyes to blow wide. He’s immobile inside of your gushing walls. He panics, heels digging into the sheets as he frantically tries to still thrust, to fill your womb with his seed.

Zayne’s jaw clenches at the sight, those hazel eyes dark with envy, but his voice is steady when he speaks again.

“Easy. Just relax…”

His hand slides up to grip Caleb’s shoulder, fingers digging in slightly to ground him. His tone is firm but somewhat gentler now.

“You’re safe. She’s safe. Everyone’s safe… Just breathe.” His other hand settles on Caleb’s back, tracing slow circles over sweaty skin.

Caleb shudders, the tight, wet heat around his knot making his openly sob into your shoulder. “Mm’ sorry, mm sorry it felt so good. I’ve been bad, forgive me. M’ sorry…”

You eyes finally find the right spot in your skull and you reach out to stroke between Caleb’s ear, looking at Zayne over the Hybrids shoulder. “You did so well. felt so good…are you feeling better Pup?”

Caleb practically melts under your touch, his entire body going slack against you with a shuddering exhale, still locked in place by his knot but no longer trembling with frantic energy. His ears twitch weakly at the pet name, nuzzling into your palm like he’s starved for affection.

“Mmf... s'good..." He mumbles drowsily, tail giving a half-hearted thump against the bed before stilling again. His breathing is slowing now, deep and even as he clings to you like a lifeline.

Zayne watches the two of you with an unreadable expression for a long moment before finally releasing Caleb's shoulder with a quiet sigh. He leans down to press an unexpected kiss to the hybrid's sweat-damp temple, brief and almost chaste, before murmuring.

“Rest." It's not just permission; it's an order. “You've earned it."

Caleb's breath hitches at the rare tenderness from Zayne, his fingers clutching the sheets as he tries (and fails) to stifle a quiet, contented whine. His tail gives one last feeble wag before he finally goes completely boneless against you, his knot still securely locked inside.

Zayne sighs but doesn't push him away again just shifts slightly to pull the blankets up over all three of you with surprising care.

“Don't get used to this," he mutters gruffly but there's no real heat behind it now. Just exhaustion and something close to affection.

[beabatoru]

one thing you loved about yuji was the multiple beauty marks he had all around his body.

you first noticed them when you went out to the movie theatres because human earthworm 4 just came out and no one wanted to tag along but you. you just joined jujutsu tech and you wanted to make a good impression on everyone, including the boy you crushed on the second you were introduced to each other by gojo.

when you both joked about a corny part of the movie, you saw the mole right under his eye and then you noticed the one on his right cheek. then one on his lip and ever since then you’ve made it your goal to try and find each one.

you invited him over one day to the pool on a hot summer day and your breath hitched when he took off his shirt to jump in, splashing water all over you.

“asshole!” you called out as you wiped your face with you hands. he chuckled, pearly whites shining underneath the sun. there were more moles on his chest, and when he turned around, his back was practically littered with them.

as you both leaned on the side of the pool, you hesitantly reached out to touch each one on his arm. he was confused when he saw you become touchy.

“what’s this hm?”

“i like your moles..” you mumbled, smiling softly up at him.

“yeah? i’ve got some on my ass too.”

you slapped his arm away, scooting a bit further from him. “im kidding.” he chuckled. “mostly.”

his hand tugged down his shorts just a bit to reveal a mole on his lower waist. you finger brushed against it making his breath hitch. “what do you mean mostly?”

“i mean they’re not on my ass.. but yknow.”

oh you knew.

that’s why you were inside now in the living room, deep throating your best friend after he just showed you the small spot on his tip. “oh yeah just like that darling!” his body was arching the more you bobbed your head up and down.

“keep going fuck..”

your toes were curled in order to prevent yourself from gagging at his length because he was big! some moans left your lips too. the vibrations traveled throughout the pink haired boys body that kept him whimpering. “gonna cum..” he warned but your eyes were fixated on all the pretty moles on his body. he was like the sky decorated in stars and you were just a stargazer. his stargazer.

“been wanting ya for months.. think i haven’t seen ya staring at me like im a piece of meat? huh?” he slapped your cheek playfully. “got a mole kink or something sweet girl?” you nodded like an obedient puppy. “mmm yeah take my cum baby.”

once he shot his load into your mouth, he pulled himself out gasping for air.

“i’ve got some on my balls as well.”

[tearsof-scarlet]

Tactical Restraint

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x afab!reader Synopsis: After surviving the horrors of Raccoon City, Leon S. Kennedy is recruited by the U.S. government to begin training as a special agent. The program is brutal, relentless, built to break even the toughest. You're one of the elite agents assigned to oversee his development. He reports to you, follows your orders but he can’t seem to stop his interest towards you. Words: 15.6k yikes 

Tags: SMUT! Enemies to Lovers (*), Post-RE2/RE4 Leon Kennedy, Flirty Banter, Mutual Pining Power Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Leon is cocky, Boss/Rookie

TW: MDNI! // Smut //Violence // PTSD // Explicit Language // Mention of Past Sexual Harassment // Power Imbalance

A/N: Leon my shayla!!  *I don’t know if this is enemies to lovers as I don’t think its long enough to be considered enemies to lovers. 

Your alarm screamed through the silence of your dorm room. Same sound. Same time. Three years running. You groaned into your pillow, not out of exhaustion, but out of habit. Discipline was second nature now, groaning was a luxury you allowed yourself for three seconds every morning. No more.

You slammed the snooze button, sat up, and swung your legs over the edge of the bed. The cold floor bit at your feet, grounding you instantly. You stood and moved through your routine like clockwork: a cold shower, a strong coffee, a perfectly ironed uniform buttoned up to regulation.

As you adjusted your collar in the mirror, your mind was already sprinting through the day’s agenda: training schedules, equipment checks, psychological evaluations, field simulations. Another day sharpening steel into something sharper.

After the Raccoon City incident, nothing was the same. Not for the world and definitely not for you.

The memory of that day burned clear: the president himself showing up at your old apartment, flanked by security and gravity. You'd been a sharp FBI agent then, too sharp for your own good, some had said. Your performance record was flawless, your instincts lethal, your conscience still intact.

You remembered your hands shaking slightly as he spoke. He called it an honour. Called you necessary. You didn’t say yes for the honour. You said yes because you knew what it meant if you didn’t. That was nearly three years ago but feels like thirty. The person in the mirror now barely resembled the one who’d answered the door that day. That woman was curious, eager. You were measured. Hardened. Purpose-built.

You didn’t smile anymore unless the outcome required it. You followed the manual like it was scripture. Emotions were distractions. Attachments were liabilities. You didn’t have time for either.

You’d been entrusted with leading the training and development of America’s elite special agents, people chosen to face horrors most couldn’t imagine. Your directives were simple: create agents who wouldn’t crack under pressure. Who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Who wouldn’t fail.

You had made a promise, to the president, to the country, and to yourself. You would do everything in your power to end the virus. No matter the cost.

You let out a quiet sigh, taking a final look at your reflection in the mirror before stepping out of your private dorm. Life at the training facility never allowed for a true switch-off. The constant hum of responsibility, the weight of every task, was always with you.

As you entered the offices of the department heads, you greeted each one with the same polite words, each delivered with a calm professionalism that had become second nature. There was no room for a smile; your face remained neutral, but your tone never wavered in its sincerity. You couldn’t help but remember your first day in these offices—how every pair of eyes, all male, had turned to scrutinize your every move. Their stares had dissected you, sizing up your appearance, your every step, questioning your place among them. It had been intimidating, to say the least. But you didn’t let it break you. You used their sexist remarks, their condescending looks, as fuel to push yourself even further. Every glance, every whisper, only served to sharpen your resolve.

Finally, you made your way to your office, flicking on the computer and preparing to dive into the mountain of administrative work that awaited you. As soon as you settled into your chair, your administrative assistant walked in, a stack of folders in one hand, a steaming cup of coffee in the other.

“Morning, Agent,” he greeted as he placed the stack of paperwork down carefully, ensuring it didn’t topple over. You raised an eyebrow, casting a glance from the papers to him, your gaze silently asking the question.

“New recruits,” he answered with a small shrug.

You nodded, murmuring a quiet thanks as he left. You’d expected them, recruits arriving in droves after the chaos of Raccoon City. The demand for new agents had surged dramatically, and it was your responsibility to assess each one, to determine where they stood in their training. The urgency of the situation left no room for selectivity. The FBI needed bodies, and they needed them fast. Now that the recruits had arrived, it was just a matter of calling their commanders to bring them in.

With a quiet resolve, you cracked open the first folder.

Three hours slipped by in a blur. Your hand ached from the constant writing, each recruit's profile filling with your meticulous notes. Your jacket was long gone, the top button of your shirt undone as the fatigue of the day slowly began to take its toll. Yet, your movements remained as precise as ever, your face impassive, no hint of the exhaustion you felt inside. There was no room for weakness. You pressed on, repeating the mantra in your mind: your duty was to create agents who would protect this country. You couldn’t afford to falter.

After sending the latest recruit on their way, you stamped their folder, marking the interview complete. The stack of folders was finally beginning to dwindle, and you were almost at the end. Reaching for the next one, you immediately noticed the difference, it felt heavier than the others. A sense of curiosity stirred as you opened it to reveal the recruit's file, complete with a photograph. Your stomach tightened as the name registered: Leon S. Kennedy. The same name that had appeared in the Raccoon City report.

Without hesitation, you picked up the office telephone, dialling the number for the recruit’s sergeant.

“Hello, Sergeant,” you said, your voice cool and controlled. “Please send Leon Kennedy to me.”

As you typed an email on your computer, the sound of two knocks at your door broke your concentration. You quickly snapped your eyes away from the screen, closed your tab, and straightened in your chair.

“Come in,” you called, raising your voice slightly so the person on the other side could hear.

The door creaked open, and there he was. You couldn’t help but feel a momentary surprise at his appearance. Leon Kennedy stood taller than you’d anticipated. His face, youthful yet marked by a certain weight, held a boyish charm, and curiosity gleamed in his blue eyes. But there was something different about them in person. A cloudiness, a heaviness you hadn’t seen in his file photo. You could tell he’d seen things, things that had left their mark on him during the nightmare that was Raccoon City.

You didn’t rise from your chair as he entered.

“Special Agent _____?” His voice was calm, yet there was an edge to it, like he was sizing you up.

“Yes,” you confirmed, meeting his gaze. “Mr. Kennedy.”

“Just call me Leon,” he replied with a smile that barely reached his eyes.

“Please, have a seat, Mr. Kennedy,” you said, your voice firm and unwavering.

He sat across from you, now at eye level, glancing down at his file on your desk. You instinctively closed it. You hadn’t done that with the other recruits, but something about his presence made you want to keep a layer of distance.

You spoke with precision. “I called you in today to discuss your experience with special forces and training.”

Just as you were about to continue, Leon interrupted. “Yeah, the guys in my dorm... they said you were pretty scary.” He added the last part with a casual smile, as if it were no big deal. His comment threw you off balance for a split second.

“Is that an insult, Mr. Kennedy?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, your voice suddenly sharper than before.

Leon realized his mistake and immediately scrambled to recover. He waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, not at all. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You studied him, still taken aback. No other recruit had dared speak so casually with you. His words hung in the air, and you found yourself fighting the odd feeling creeping up your chest.

“You don’t seem scary at all,” he said matter-of-factly. His eyes flickered across your face taking in your appearance.

The simple remark stirred something inside you. An unexpected pang. You mentally willed your heart to quiet down. That wasn’t a reaction you could afford. You straightened in your chair, forcing your voice to take on a more serious tone.

“Mr. Kennedy,” you began, your words deliberate, “you should know by now that you were recruited because of your extraordinary actions during Raccoon City. But you’ll soon find out, I run a very tight ship here. I do not make exceptions for those with more experience. You’re here to protect your fellow citizens, and that’s your primary duty.”

Leon’s expression shifted, the playful smirk fading as he became more serious. He nodded at your words, acknowledging the weight of what you said.

“I understand, Agent ____,” he replied, his tone now more respectful, more focused.

“The training will not be easy,” you continued, leaning forward slightly. “The hours will be long, and the expectations relentless. It will push you further than you’ve ever been pushed before.”

Leon leaned back in his chair, that cocky grin of his making an appearance once more, but there was something behind it, something deeper, a hint of vulnerability he was trying hard to cover up. His eyes, still slightly clouded, met yours with a sharpness.

“So, tight ship, huh?” he said with a half-smirk. “Guess I better start brushing up on my manners, then.”

You didn’t return the smile. “This isn’t a game, Kennedy,” you said, your voice cold, steady. “The lives of your team, your country, depend on your ability to be sharp and disciplined. Any distractions, and you’ll be out before you even have a chance to blink.”

Leon’s smirk faltered for just a moment, but it came back quickly, as if he was trying to push his emotions down with humour. “Guess I’ll have to leave the charm at the door, then,” he said, leaning forward slightly as if trying to gauge your reaction. “But, I’ll admit, you do have a strong presence, Agent. Must be tough running the show around here.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed into a thin line as you locked your gaze with his. You weren’t about to let him throw you off balance.

“Focus on the training, Mr. Kennedy. If you think the work here is hard, just wait until the field operations. You won’t be able to joke your way out of those.”

He chuckled, the sound a little hollow. “Yeah, I’ve been through worse than I can joke about,” he replied, his expression softening just a fraction. “You ever been in a city overrun by zombies? Or maybe watched everything you thought you knew fall apart in front of you?”

The words hung in the air, his usual lightness now replaced with something raw. You could see the shadow of Raccoon City in his eyes, the trauma of that place that he tried so hard to hide behind his confident, almost flirtatious demeanour.

You shifted slightly in your seat, an almost imperceptible shift, as the reality of his words hit you. For a moment, the harshness of the walls you had built cracked open, and you felt the sharp pang of shared experience. It wasn’t the same, but you knew exactly what it felt like to lose control, to watch everything you worked for slip through your fingers.

“I’ve been through my share of hell,” you said, your voice quieter now. “But this isn’t about sharing war stories. This is about making sure you’re ready for the next battle.”

Leon’s gaze softened, and for just a second, he wasn’t the cocky agent standing in front of you. Instead, he looked like a man who had been through something that had scarred him more deeply than any of the physical wounds he might have gotten along the way. His voice was softer now, a little more serious.

“Don’t we all carry scars, Agent?” he said, the words carrying an unspoken weight between you. “Some of us just hide ‘em better than others.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you focused on steadying your breathing, refusing to let his words get to you. 

“Well, you’d better make sure your scars don’t get in the way of your training,” you finally said, your tone slipping back into its usual firmness. “I’m not here to coddle you. If anything, this training will break you down and build you back up into someone who can take a bullet, both literally and figuratively.”

Leon sat back in his chair again, that familiar grin creeping back to his lips, though it was less confident now, more resigned, like he didn’t know what to do with the sudden shift in energy between you.

“Break me down, huh?” he said with a half laugh. “Guess I’ll just have to trust you to fix me then.”

You didn’t smile. But your eyes lingered on him a little longer than usual. His words, the layers of defense he was trying to put up, the cocky mask he wore to hide the bruises of Raccoon City - it all felt so familiar.

You’d been where he was, once. A fresh recruit, a little too eager, a little too scared to let anyone in. Maybe, you saw something in him that reminded you of yourself. The drive. The pain. The desire to be more than the trauma that had shaped you.

“Trust is earned, Kennedy,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “And you’ll have to work harder than you think to prove you’re ready for this.”

Leon met your gaze, the smile he wore now a little more genuine, but still carrying that playful edge. “Oh, I’m ready,” he said, his cocky charm making a full return. “But I don’t exactly take orders without asking a few questions.”

You leaned forward, your expression hardening as you matched his gaze. “Keep questioning everything, and you’ll find yourself out of your depth, Kennedy. You don’t get to pick and choose when you follow orders, especially if you want to stay alive.”

He didn’t back down, though. His eyes were locked on you, an almost defiant glint in them. “Survival’s my specialty.”

For a moment, you both just sat there, the air between you thick with tension. Tension that wasn’t just about training, but something else. Something unspoken, yet undeniable. 

You cleared your throat, standing up abruptly. As you did, you moved towards the door, holding it open for him with a firm, purposeful gesture. “We’ll see how well you handle your first field simulation. Report here tomorrow at 0600. We’ll start putting that specialty to the test.”

Leon stood up with a fluid grace, raising past your height as he rose, but instead of moving toward the door, he lingered for a moment, standing just a little too close. His eyes met yours once more, his gaze softening but still carrying that faint, playful smirk. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke, the tension thick in the air.

“You’re not gonna make it easy on me, are you?” he said, his voice lower now, a trace of challenge in his tone.

You didn’t step back, standing your ground. “You’ll find out tomorrow, won’t you?”

He chuckled quietly, his smirk still there, though there was something more contemplative behind it now. He finally turned to leave, but as he passed you, he paused just long enough to stand beside you, towering slightly over you. “See you tomorrow, Agent,” he said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Don’t be too hard on me.”

With that, he exited, the door clicking softly behind him. You exhaled, the air around you finally seeming to loosen as the weight of the encounter hung in the room long after he was gone. You sighed into your chair before grabbing your phone to call the next recruit in. 

A couple of weeks had passed since your first encounter with Leon Kennedy, and in that time, you had been training him and his recruitment group. As expected, Leon was placed into the highest and most intense training unit. You had known that someone with his experience from Raccoon City would need the most advanced level of preparation. What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was how quickly he would excel.

In the field and during drills, he moved with a cool confidence that you couldn’t deny. Time and again, he finished in first place, effortlessly outperforming the others. You would glance down at your clipboard at the end of each session, noting his name at the top of the list once again. It was impressive, there was no denying that. But you never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Every time you raised the bar, every time you added more complications to the training, he sailed through without breaking a sweat.

He never seemed to show stress or falter. While the other recruits grew fatigued and stumbled, Leon maintained an almost unnerving calm. His performance was flawless. It was like he was built for this.

During these sessions, when he finished ahead of the others, you’d often catch him staring at you. You’d be jotting down notes, checking your stopwatch, or watching the recruits carefully when you’d feel the weight of his gaze on you. The others, when they realized you’d caught them staring, would immediately look away, nervous and fidgeting, not meeting your eyes again. But not Leon. No, he just stared back. His intense blue eyes locking onto yours without hesitation, his breath ragged from the exertion.

There was something about the way he looked at you. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of a tough session. It felt deliberate, like he was trying to get under your skin, testing you. You’d hold the gaze for a moment, your heart rate picking up, before you’d break it, pretending to check on the other recruits or jotting something down on your clipboard.

Each time, you’d feel the faintest ripple of something you couldn’t quite place. Leon, of course, would smirk. A quiet laugh often followed, like he had won a small victory. The sound of it was always just enough to send a wave of irritation through you. It was maddening how easy it seemed for him to get a rise out of you without even trying.

It happened more than once that Leon would walk towards you after finishing a drill. You would spot him from the corner of your eye, his movements purposeful. You could feel the pressure building in your chest, your grip on your pen tightening. Every time, you immediately shut him down, avoiding him completely. You’d walk away, your steps deliberate or pretend to be engrossed in something else. Anything to avoid having to engage with him.

Sometimes, before he even reached you, you’d already be walking off, acting busy, and making it clear you had no intention of answering him. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to acknowledge him, it was that you couldn’t afford to. Not with someone like him. Someone who knew exactly what buttons to push to get you to crack.

But Leon didn’t let it go so easily. Each time you’d walk away or pretend not to notice him, he’d step closer, a smirk still playing on his lips. You’d hear his voice just behind you, low and teasing. “You sure you don’t wanna talk? Or are you just too busy pretending I’m not here?” He once said to you. 

Leon, of course, didn’t seem bothered by your resistance. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game more each time, his smirk widening as if he’d already won. The push and pull of it all was starting to get under your skin, and you hated it. 

Today’s drill was something a bit more different. You stood in front of the group of recruits, clipboard in hand, the morning sun cutting through the windows and casting a sharp light over the training room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation, just the way it should be before a tough exercise.

"Listen up," you said, your voice cutting through the low murmurs of the group. "Today’s drill is going to be one of the most critical exercises you'll face. It simulates a real-life scenario: Protect the Client."

You paused, making sure their attention was on you. Every recruit’s gaze was locked on you now, and you could see the curiosity mixed with the faintest hint of unease. Most of them knew you weren’t just a trainer, you had been in the field, had seen the kinds of threats they were training for. You walked down the line of the recruits. 

"I’m going to be your ‘protectee’ today," you continued, your tone steady, not allowing any room for doubt. "Your mission is simple: Keep me safe while hostile elements, those trying to harm or assassinate me, try to breach your perimeter. You’ll have to use the full scope of your training to ensure my safety. Follow the protocols, stay close, and be prepared to make decisions in real-time. If you don’t think quickly, I’ll be in danger, and failure in this scenario means my life. No pressure, right?"

A couple of the recruits exchanged nervous glances, but they held their silence. You could see Leon standing off to the side, his usual cocky demeanour softened, but that didn’t stop his eyes from narrowing with concentration.

"Now," you said, meeting each of their gazes. "Your objective is to protect me at all costs. I’ll be moving through the course, and you’ll need to escort me from point A to point B. Along the way, hostile elements, simulated by your fellow recruits, will attempt to ‘assassinate’ or capture me. You’ll need to stay in close formation with me, ensuring that I’m always under your protection. If any of you let me out of your sight for too long or fail to respond to the threat, it’s game over."

You motioned for the recruits to fall in line as you took your position at the centre of the room. The room was dimly lit, designed to simulate an urban safe house environment. Concrete walls, scattered furniture, and concealed corners created a hostile setting. Tactical drones hovered overhead, simulating gunfire and movement in the shadows, making the air thick with tension. This wasn’t just a training ground, it was meant to feel as real as possible. The recruits were about to face something they’d hopefully never have to in the field.

"You'll each take turns protecting me," you continued, your voice crisp. "I’ll be moving through this environment, and your objective is to keep me alive. You’ll have your weapons and equipment, but remember, this is about ensuring my safety. If you lose sight of me, or fail to keep me out of harm’s way, the mission is a failure. Understand?"

The recruits nodded, eager to show what they were capable of. You glanced at Leon briefly. His usual cocky grin was absent today, replaced by the quiet intensity you had come to expect from him. His eyes flicked between you and the surroundings, already assessing the challenge.

You clicked your stopwatch. "Begin with the first recruit."

The first recruit stepped forward, eager but nervous. He moved too quickly, and within seconds, you found yourself exposed to the simulated threat—a drone shot fired from an unseen corner. The recruit hesitated, then took cover, but his lapse in judgment had already put you at risk.

"Watch your corners!" you called out, a hint of frustration in your tone. "You’re supposed to protect the target, not rush headfirst into danger. Keep me in your line of sight at all times!"

The recruit gave a quick nod, but you could see the sweat already forming on his brow. He tried to adjust, but his movements were erratic. His focus wasn’t on you,he was distracted by the environment around him. A few more simulated shots rang out, and soon enough, the exercise was over for him. He had failed to keep you safe.

“Next,” you said sharply.

By the time it was Leon's turn, most of the recruits had faltered, failing to keep up with the speed and intensity of the exercise. They were too focused on themselves, too distracted by the pressure of the drill. 

Leon, however, was different. He slid his weapons into his belt with casual ease, his gaze flicking to you as he smirked. "You know, if you wanted to get me alone, you could’ve just asked," he said, his voice low and teasing.

You didn’t even spare him a glance. Your gaze remained steady, focused, unshaken.

“You better pass this, Kennedy,” you whispered, your tone sharp, a hint of challenge underneath the words.

Leon chuckled, his smirk widening but not giving in to the playful tension. "I’m not here to disappoint," he replied, adjusting his stance as he scanned the area, ready to move. His eyes lingered on you, but you felt no shift in your own attitude, just a quiet, insistent distance.

He followed closely behind you as you entered the course, the room eerily quiet except for the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of the tactical drones overhead. The first wave of simulated threats began almost immediately, shots rang out, and you instinctively moved forward. But Leon was already there, his hand on your arm, gently but firmly guiding you behind him.

"Get behind me," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "Stay close. I won’t let you out of my sight."

You stepped back, positioning yourself directly behind him. There was something about the way he moved, the fluidity in his motions that set him apart. His movements were sharp, deliberate, but there was also a subtle kind of protection that emanated from him.

As you moved further into the simulation, more shots rang out, and you could feel the air grow thick with tension. The recruits’ mistakes were becoming more apparent—some didn’t check their corners, others faltered, losing focus. You were vulnerable, but Leon kept you shielded.

"Stay low," he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the noise. He adjusted his position, turning slightly to keep you behind him. "We need to move fast, but we can’t rush it. I’ll cover you."

You felt the subtle shift in his demeanour. He wasn’t joking now. He wasn’t the cocky rookie from before. This was Leon; focused, sharp, and completely committed to getting you through this drill unscathed.

The tension in the air was palpable as you continued to move through the course. A simulated sniper shot sounded from above, and without a second thought, Leon dropped to a knee, pulling you into cover with him. He shielded your body with his own, his back pressed against the wall as he checked the surroundings.

"You're fine," he whispered, eyes scanning the area. "I’ve got you."

His proximity, the warmth of his body so close to yours, sent a ripple of something through you, but you focused on the task at hand, ignoring the feelings that stirred just beneath the surface.

You pushed him back slightly, your discomfort palpable, the proximity doing little but adding to your frustration. "I’m fine," you said firmly, pulling away, your gaze hardening.

Leon didn’t push back. Instead, he stayed crouched, his eyes scanning the area, unflustered. "Move when I say," he continued, his hand steadying you as you prepared to go. "You stick close, you hear me? Don’t wander off, not now."

Your body tensed as his words lingered, the subtle shift in his demeanour irritating you more than you cared to admit. The unspoken tension between you both was palpable, his determination clashing with your need for space, your independence.

The course grew increasingly chaotic as you moved deeper into the simulation. The air was thick with tension, every corner hiding a potential threat. The sounds of gunfire and the buzz of tactical drones overhead blurred together in a steady, unnerving hum. 

The recruits faltered, their nerves getting the better of them. Some hesitated, some reacted too slowly. One recruit froze when a simulated gunman appeared from the shadows, giving the enemy an easy shot. Another failed to check a corner properly, nearly walking into an ambush. With every failure, the clock on your safety ticked closer to zero, and your frustration grew.

But Leon? He was different. His movements were fluid, precise, he was a shadow in the chaos. Every time the air cracked with simulated gunfire, Leon was there, his presence a shield. His body seemed to sync with yours as if he’d already anticipated your next move, already planned your escape. His eyes were locked on you, unwavering, every step he took in perfect rhythm with yours.

As you rounded a corner, the sound of a sniper shot echoed from above. It was louder and closer this time.

You didn’t even have time to react before Leon was there. He yanked you into cover behind a stack of concrete blocks, his body pressing against yours in a way that was sharp, deliberate. He didn’t wait for you to protest; he just moved. Shielding you. Protecting you.

The world outside the cover was chaos, but in that moment, Leon was the calm in the storm. His voice was low but unshakeable.

"Stay down, stay quiet," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze for a brief, fleeting second. There was no hint of cockiness in his eyes now, no playful smirk. Just focus, raw and unrelenting. He wasn’t the same Leon who teased you earlier. This was someone entirely different, someone fully committed to seeing you through the end of this drill, no matter the cost.

A new wave of hostile targets appeared in your path, but Leon was already positioning himself between you and the threat, his hands steady as he assessed the situation. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second guess. His movements were calculated, precise, as he took out one simulated threat after another. The way he moved, so effortlessly between gunfire, his body shielding yours with unwavering certainty, it was almost like he knew exactly where each danger would come from before it even appeared.

"Ready?" he whispered.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. His proximity, the way his body seemed to shield you at every turn, it was like you were tethered to him, whether you liked it or not. The frustration was still there, a new rookie pushing your buttons.

With a swift motion, Leon led you forward, pushing through tight spaces, navigating corners that the other recruits had floundered at. He didn’t let you wander; didn’t let you fall behind. Every time you moved, he was right there, a steadying force, guiding you through the maze.

The final stretch of the course was ahead, one last obstacle. A simulated ambush. As you rounded the last corner, a wave of attackers emerged from every angle. The course seemed to explode into chaos, gunfire blaring from all sides. You froze, heart racing as you took in the onslaught.

Without missing a beat, Leon pushed you behind a nearby pillar, his body once again shielding yours. He didn’t even flinch as the simulated bullets whizzed past.

"Now," he said, his voice steady, unwavering, as if he were simply waiting for the right moment. "We push through. Stay behind me, and we’re almost out."

You didn’t argue. You didn’t pull away. You just followed.

Leon moved like lightning. He was a blur of motion, blocking and deflecting attacks as you sprinted through the chaos. Every move was calculated, every shot he fired, every piece of cover he took, it was perfect. He was a machine. And for the first time, you realized just how seamlessly he’d slipped into that role. The protectiveness was there, sure, but so was his skill.

With one final push, Leon led you to the last checkpoint. The exercise ended in a sudden silence, the simulated danger evaporating in an instant. You both stood there for a moment, the tension in the air giving way to a heavy, shared breath.

The stillness in the air hung between you both like a moment of suspended disbelief. The sounds of the simulated danger had faded, replaced by the heavy, labored breaths of both you and Leon. The tension from the exercise still lingered, charging the space around you, but it was different now, more intimate, somehow.

You stood there, eyes locked with his, and for a moment, everything around you seemed to fade away. The adrenaline coursing through your veins began to settle, leaving behind a steady pulse in your chest. You’d made it through the chaos, the danger, and you couldn’t help but notice how seamlessly Leon had led you through it all, how effortlessly he moved, how in tune he seemed with you.

His body, still poised and tense from the drill, slowly relaxed. The rigid focus faded, and the cocky glint returned to his eyes. He didn’t smile at first. No, that came after a beat, a slow, knowing smirk that curved his lips, almost like a reward he’d just granted himself.

And then, just like that, the walls between you two seemed to crack, just a little.

"Well," he drawled, his voice low, smooth, and dripping with that familiar cockiness. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours, holding you captive with a look that was both teasing and triumphant. "I guess you owe me an apology, special agent _____."

You stiffened instinctively, your spine straightening, and the words hit you like a challenge. It was too easy to snap back, to throw the usual retort his way, but something in the way he said it, a playful arrogance, held you back. You almost hated it, but you couldn’t push it away.

You tried your best not to roll your eyes at him, but the instinct was there. Instead, you crossed your arms, your expression hardening in an attempt to hold onto the defiance that you always prided yourself on. "Your performance was acceptable, Mr. Kennedy," you said, your tone icy.

Leon’s lips quirked up into a small laugh, shaking his head slightly as he looked down at the ground, clearly amused by your response.

"Acceptable?" he whispered to himself, chuckling under his breath. The sound was both playful and smug, and you could hear the amusement in his voice.

As you both began removing your protective gear, the atmosphere shifted. The adrenaline from the drill still buzzed in the air, but the quiet between you two felt different now. You were focused on unstrapping your vest, your fingers moving quickly, but your gaze flicked over to Leon without thinking.

As Leon slowly removed his vest, the movement was fluid, effortless. His large arms flexed with each motion, the muscles rippling beneath his skin with a slow power that was impossible to ignore. The sweat that glistened across his skin only made them look even more defined, the gleam of exertion adding a sharp contrast to the sharp lines of his physique.

You could feel your eyes involuntarily drifting toward him. The way his biceps bulged slightly as he unstrapped the vest, the muscles of his forearms flexing with the effort. It wasn’t just the physicality; it was the sheer confidence in his movements, the way his body was so perfectly perfected for this.

For a moment, you couldn’t look away. It wasn’t like you wanted to stare, but your mind couldn’t seem to stop. Your gaze locked onto his arms, the strength, the way his chest rose and fell with his breath as he worked, the flicker of muscle beneath his skin. It was like he was made for moments like this.

And just as you realized what you were doing, the colour flooded your face, and you quickly looked away, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

But of course, he had. Leon always noticed.

He was looking at you now, a small, self-assured smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes were a little more playful than before, something dark behind that victorious look. He caught your gaze for just a moment too long, and you knew exactly what was happening. 

He’d seen you. No. He’d known you were staring at him. His boss. 

His head tilted slightly, a playful glint in his eyes, and the smirk that tugged at his lips said everything. He didn’t need to speak; his look alone told you he knew exactly what you’d been doing.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you fought the instinct to snap back at him. But you couldn’t think of a good response, not without making things worse. You quickly shook your head, trying to shake the moment off, trying to brush it aside like it was nothing.

Without saying another word, you turned on your heel, eager to escape the intensity of the moment, eager to get away from the still-heavy air between you both. The exit was just a few steps away, and you focused on getting there quickly, putting as much distance between you and Leon as you could.

You didn’t notice the way his eyes followed you as you left, didn’t feel the weight of his gaze on your back, the way his smirk grew wider as he watched you walk away.

He’d caught you. And he knew it. And for some reason, that was enough for him to feel like he had just won another round.

The cafeteria buzzed with low chatter, forks scraping metal trays, and the steady hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The scent of overcooked protein and machine coffee lingered in the air. Agents sat in small clusters, fatigued, bruised, laughing too loudly or staring blankly at nothing. The aftermath of another brutal day of training.

You sat alone near the far end of the room, back to the wall, always facing the door. It was habit now. Your tray sat untouched in front of you, half-full with dull, colorless food, forgotten beneath your tablet as your eyes skimmed through performance reports from that afternoon’s drill.

The words blurred slightly, too many variables, too many mistakes, but you kept reading, your thumb tapping rhythmically against the glass screen. The repetition, the structure, the focus, it kept everything else at bay.

Until the air changed.

A chair scraped across the floor near you, slow, deliberate, too loud to be casual. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

“Still hard at work, Agent?” the voice drawled, drenched in performative familiarity. Older. Gravelly. Laced with the smirk he never earned.

You didn’t bother looking up. You knew that voice. He was one of the older agents, smug in his seniority, bitter over the authority you’d earned. He’d hit on you months ago, sloppy, transparent, and you’d shut him down without hesitation. He hadn’t taken it well.

Now, he dropped his tray down across from you with a dramatic thud, the food sloshing over the sides. You didn’t acknowledge him.

“Gotta say,” he drawled, “watching you bark orders during drills? There’s something real entertaining about seeing those fresh-faced recruits falling over themselves just to impress you.”

You kept your eyes on the tablet, jaw clenched.

“But hey,” he continued, leaning in slightly, “maybe if I’d kissed a little more ass during training, I could’ve gotten a spot on your special detail. Then again—” his eyes flicked over you with a slow, greasy drag, “I doubt you’d mind having someone closer. Maybe under you.”

You froze. There it was. Not even veiled.

You inhaled slowly, lifting your chin to meet his smug, sleazy grin, and that was when a shadow fell over the table.

Leon.

He stood behind the man, posture rigid, his shirt still clinging from the earlier drills, veins visible in his forearms as his fists tightened at his sides. The easy charm he usually displayed was gone.

His jaw was tight. Eyes like frostbite.

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice a low, deadly whisper that sliced through the cafeteria noise.

The man glanced lazily over his shoulder. “Easy, Kennedy. Just some light talk. Thought the lady could take a joke.”

Leon’s fists clenched tighter. His knuckles went white.

“She’s not your joke,” he said, voice like gravel under tension. “Say that again. I dare you.”

A flicker of unease passed over the man’s face, but he laughed it off, lifting a hand in mock surrender. “Relax, hero. Didn’t know you were her guard dog now.”

The air shifted, sharp, electric. Something dangerous simmered beneath Leon’s stillness.

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few nearby heads turned, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Eyes drifted toward the growing tension.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your voice snapped through the room like a shot.

“Mr. Kennedy. Follow me. This instant.”

Leon didn’t move at first, his eyes locked on the man across from you like he was deciding whether or not to break protocol. But then your voice hit again, firmer. Sharper. Commanding.

“Now.”

That did it.

He finally stepped back, but not before giving the man one last look, a quiet promise of consequence.

You turned and walked briskly toward the hallway, not looking back. The moment you pushed open the door to the empty corridor just outside the mess hall, you spun on your heel, boots planting hard against the tile.

Leon followed, the door shutting behind him.

You didn’t wait.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, voice low but laced with fury. “You think stepping in helps me?”

Leon’s brows furrowed, confused, still tense. “He said—”

“I heard what he said,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I’ve had men like him crawl around me my entire career. You think you’re the first person who’s ever tried to defend me? You’re not.”

Leon’s fists were still tight, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. “He crossed a line.”

“And I would’ve handled it,” you shot back, stepping closer, eyes locked on his. “But when you jump in like that, in front of everyone, you make it look like I need someone to fight for me. Like I can’t handle a sleazy agent without backup.”

Leon didn’t speak for a second. The tension between you stretched thin, thick with unsaid things, mutual frustration, something just beginning to smoulder.

Then he took a step toward you.

Slow. Measured. Deliberate.

You didn’t move, not out of fear, but principle. You held your ground, spine straight, jaw tight.

He looked down at you, eyes dark and clear, no trace of sarcasm, no cocky smirk to hide behind. Just quiet heat and something heavier underneath.

“I know you can handle yourself,” he said, voice low but firm. “That’s not why I stepped in.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed, waiting.

Leon’s gaze didn’t waver. “But I’ve seen enough men like him to know where that kind of talk leads.”

He paused. Swallowed once. His voice dropped a shade deeper.

“I don’t care if it makes me look reckless, or like I don’t know my place. I’d rather be the guy who gets scolded than the guy who stood there and did nothing.”

You hated how sincere he sounded.

You hated even more that you couldn’t find a response right away.

He stepped back slightly then, just enough to let the pressure ease, but not enough to take away what he’d said.

His eyes still held yours.

“I’m not trying to be your hero,” he said, softer now. “But I’m not gonna be the guy who pretends he didn’t hear it what that piece of shit said.”

The hallway went quiet again, the hum of distant conversation from the mess hall muffled behind the closed door. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly. Somewhere far off, a door slammed. Neither of you moved.

Your pulse thudded in your throat.

And still, Leon waited not for permission. Just for understanding.

Your jaw tightened.

His words hung in the air like smoke, honest, heavy, far too close to something you didn’t want to name. But sincerity didn’t change the reality.

You straightened, spine rigid, eyes cool and unreadable.

“You’re dismissed, Mr. Kennedy.”

Leon didn’t flinch, but something in his expression shifted, a quiet sting behind the eyes. He gave a small, sharp nod.

“Ma’am.”

He turned without another word.

As he passed, his shoulder brushed yours, subtle, firm, not accidental. Not aggressive either. Just enough contact to remind you he’d been there. That he’d stood there.

Then he was gone.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click.

And you were left alone in the silence, the tension still clinging to the walls, pulsing quietly in the space he’d just occupied.

Just four walls, a desk, two chairs, and the low hum of the fluorescent light above. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper, sterile, sharp, and impersonal. The way it was supposed to. You sat behind the desk, back straight, tablet in hand, stylus poised like a weapon. Every movement was precise, professional.

Three-month psychological evaluations. Routine. Every recruit, no exceptions. You’d conducted five already today. Blank stares. Nervous chuckles. A few overshares too personal for a clipboard. Textbook assessments.

This one wasn’t going to be textbook.

It had been a couple of weeks since your last real interaction with Leon Kennedy.

No shouting matches in corridors. No friction during drills. Just a few lingering looks across the training yard and the occasional too-casual comment tossed your way like a lit match, always smirking, always just short of inappropriate.

You’d told yourself that was better. Cleaner. Easier to manage.

Then the door clicked open.

You didn’t look up.

“Agent Kennedy,” you said, voice cool, as though saying his name didn’t pull something taut beneath your skin.

“Agent,” came his reply, smooth, low, and maddeningly unbothered. It was the tone of a man who knew exactly how often you thought about him and wasn’t sorry for it.

He stepped inside with the kind of confidence that wasn’t loud, it coiled. His boots made no more noise than necessary, but every movement was deliberate. He was lean and broad-shouldered in the standard tactical shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms, veins visible beneath tanned skin. His hair was still damp from the shower, falling into his eyes slightly, framing the kind of face that made most people forget what they were doing mid-sentence.

Leon sank into the chair across from you like he owned it, like he was the one running this evaluation and you were just passing through.

You tapped the record button.

“This is the standard three-month psychological assessment. Post-phase one field training,” you recited, voice flat and impersonal. “Answers must be honest and complete. Sit up straight.”

He smiled lazily. “Is that an order, or do you just like bossing me around?”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t look up. Just wrote the timestamp on your tablet.

“Sleep patterns?” you asked, ignoring the way your stylus trembled slightly in your grip.

Leon tilted his head like he was considering whether to answer honestly or to entertain himself.

“Four to six hours,” he said finally. “Broken. Same old dreams. No screaming. Just me, zombies, and the occasional yelling from you.”

You glanced up.

He smiled innocently, eyes gleaming. “Motivational yelling, of course.”

You clicked your stylus with more force than necessary. “Appetite?”

“Healthy,” he said, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, long fingers drumming against the sides. “No weird cravings. Unless you count the one I get every time you look at me like I’m a loaded weapon.”

You paused, stylus mid-air.

He grinned. “Too far?”

You stared at him, expression carefully blank. “Are you going to take this seriously?”

Leon’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you?”

You felt your composure flicker, a flash of heat at your neck you hoped he didn’t notice. You dropped your eyes back to the screen.

“Any emotional instability? Panic attacks? Difficulty with authority?”

His grin widened, slow and deliberate. “Depends. Are we talking about all kinds of authority, or just the ones who make it really hard to follow orders?”

You didn’t flinch. You refused to.

But your cheeks warmed. He noticed.

Of course he did.

His tone softened just slightly, enough to slip under your skin. “You always deflect with silence?”

You looked up, sharper now. “Leon—”

He cut you off, gently, but with intent.

“Why are you nervous?”

“Excuse me?” you said, the words sharp, clipped, a reflex.

Leon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in further, elbows resting casually on his knees, the space between you shrinking by degrees.

“You heard me,” he said, voice lower now, softer around the edges, but no less direct. “Why are you nervous?”

You scoffed, shifting slightly in your chair, pulling your professionalism up like armour.

“I’m not nervous,” you replied, your voice as precise as a scalpel. “I’m doing my job. Something you might want to consider trying sometime.”

Leon didn’t smile.

That threw you more than anything.

He didn’t banter back. Didn’t laugh it off. He just studied you, eyes scanning your face like he was dissecting every micro-expression. Not to win. Not to gloat. But to understand.

“That’s not an answer,” he said after a beat. “That’s deflection.”

You stiffened, stylus tapping once, sharply, against the tablet screen.

“We’re done with that line of questioning,” you said, tone flat. “This is a psychological assessment, not a performance critique.”

Leon’s gaze didn’t waver.

“No. It’s an evaluation,” he said slowly, deliberately. Mental readiness. Emotional regulation. You said it yourself.”

“So, if your hand’s been gripping that pen like a weapon since I walked in, if your voice keeps tightening whenever I joke, if your posture hasn’t shifted in twenty minutes...”

He paused, leaned back slightly, letting the tension almost break. “Tell me, how’s your emotional regulation, Agent?”

Your breath caught in your throat, for half a second. Then you met his eyes dead-on, calm, cold, the way you were trained to be.

“I’m not the one being evaluated.”

Leon’s smile returned but it was faint, thoughtful, something quieter than usual.

“Maybe not officially,” he said. “But you put yourself in this chair, in this role. You think I’m not watching? Every drill. Every decision. Every time you walk past like I don’t exist, but your eyes flick back like they can’t help it.”

Your chest tightened, barely. A muscle in your jaw ticked.

“Enough.”

Leon tilted his head.

“Why does it bother you?” he asked, voice gentler now, lacking any trace of mockery. “That I see it? That I see you?”

You stood abruptly, tablet forgotten on the desk, the sharp screech of your chair legs biting into the silence. “We’re done here, Agent Kennedy. I’m marking you psychologically fit for field continuation.”

He stood too, slower, more composed. But he didn’t head to the door.

Not yet.

The air between you crackled, heavy with tension that wasn’t anger. Not anymore. Something more dangerous.

“You can push everyone else away,” Leon said softly, “but you don’t get to lie to me in the same breath you’re evaluating if I’m stable enough to trust in the field.”

You said nothing. Just stared. Chest rising. Spine straight.

“You’re dismissed,” you said finally, quiet but commanding.

Leon didn’t argue.

But as he passed, his shoulder brushed yours, slow, deliberate. Not the kind of accidental contact you could pretend didn’t happen. It lingered.

Then he stopped.

Right behind you.

You didn’t turn, but you could feel him, the solid weight of his presence, the heat of him just inches away, close enough that your breath hitched before you could stop it.

You stood frozen, heart thudding a little too hard against your ribs.

Leon leaned in, slowly, steadily. Not touching but close enough that you felt his breath skim the side of your neck, warm and intimate as it ghosted over your skin.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, in your space, in your silence, like he was daring you to move first.

Then, his voice, low, steady, close enough to feel.

“I’m not the only one who’s scared of what this is,” he murmured. “You’re just the only one pretending it’s not there.”

Then he was gone.

The door shut with a quiet click.

And you didn’t sit back down for a long time.

You woke in a violent jolt.

Sheets tangled, shirt soaked, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to escape your chest. For a second, you didn’t even know where you were. You could still hear the snarls — feel the blood on your hands, the heat, the wet grind of bone.

But it was just the dark now.

The silence of the dorm.

Your throat was dry, like you’d screamed but never made a sound. You reached for the bottle of water by your bed, hands still trembling. The cold plastic grounded you — barely.

You stared at the ceiling, willing your pulse to settle.

It didn’t.

There’d be no sleep tonight. You knew that rhythm too well.

The corridors were empty at this hour, dimly lit and chilled, the fluorescents above flickering faintly every few seconds. You didn’t bother tying your boots fully. Just enough to keep them on. Your steps echoed in the quiet, clipped and sharp, like your body hadn’t figured out you were no longer in combat.

Your feet took you to the range before you could question the decision.

The moment the door opened, you stopped.

You weren’t alone.

The faint scent of gunpowder hung in the air. One of the farthest lanes was lit, the others dark. A figure stood at the booth, feet braced, arms locked, the sharp report of a shot ringing out just as your eyes adjusted.

The sound didn’t startle you.

The sight did.

Leon.

His shoulders were tense beneath a thin, dark long-sleeve. The fabric clung to his frame, damp with sweat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His stance was tight, not like he was training, but like he was burning it out. Shot after shot, slow and methodical.

You hovered at the doorway, debating whether to leave before he saw you.

He beat you to it.

Without turning his head, he spoke.

“Can’t sleep either?” The words echoed, low and even, sliding into the silence like they belonged there.

You lingered.

Eventually, you stepped in, the door sliding shut behind you. Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

“Didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

Leon finally looked over his shoulder.

His expression wasn’t smug or flirty. Not this time. Just tired. Open. Eyes rimmed faintly in red, jaw shadowed with stubble, mouth set in something close to neutral.

“Same nightmare?” he asked, watching you carefully.

You didn’t answer immediately.

You walked to the booth beside his, set your pistol down on the tray, and began loading a magazine. Each motion was practiced. Muscle memory. Something to do with your hands.

“Different city. Same story,” you said. “Too close. Too many.”

He nodded once, turning back to his target. He didn’t fire again.

“It always gets too close,” he murmured. His voice wasn’t bitter. Just honest.

You raised your weapon and fired three rounds. Each one hit the center mass. Not perfect. But tight. Focused.

You exhaled and lowered the gun.

Leon leaned an elbow on the divider between your booths. You didn’t look at him, but you felt his attention shift.

“You always shoot like that when you’re trying to forget something?”

You glanced sideways, arching a brow.

“What makes you think I’m trying to forget?”

“Because that’s what I do,” he said simply. “And you don’t miss unless you’re thinking too hard.”

That made you pause.

You hadn’t missed.

But he was right, your aim had been just a little tight. Like you were forcing it. Not flowing with it.

You cleared your throat. “You shouldn’t be analysing me. I outrank you, remember?”

Leon gave a faint smirk. “Then don’t act so obvious.”

You turned fully to him then, leaning back against the divider, arms crossing over your chest.

“What about you? What brings you here? Couldn’t sleep either, or just miss the sound of bullets before sunrise?”

He looked at his gun for a moment, then holstered it. Slowly. With intent.

“Sometimes I shoot until it drowns the rest out.” His voice dropped just a little. “The noise helps. Makes it feel like I’m still in control.”

You didn’t speak. Just watched him.

He looked different in the dark. Softer. Quieter. Still cut from steel, but the shine had dulled into something more human.

Leon leaned back against the divider now too, standing beside you — not facing you, but not avoiding you either. Close enough that your arms could brush if you weren’t careful.

“You ever talk about it?” he asked, voice gentler than it had any right to be at this hour.

You scoffed. “You ever shut up about it?”

He smiled faintly. Not smug. Just... warm. A rare flicker.

“Touché.”

Another moment passed. You were both quiet, the kind of quiet that came only when both people had run out of lies to tell themselves.

Then, without looking at you, he said:

“You’ve got that look again.”

You frowned. “What look?”

Leon turned his head. Just slightly.

“Like you’re afraid of something that already happened.”

That one hit harder than you expected.

You stared at the booth wall ahead of you, eyes unfocused.

“Aren’t we all?” you whispered.

Leon didn’t say anything for a long beat.

Then, gently, like he didn’t want to push but couldn’t help it:

“You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

You turned your head. Slowly.

He was already watching you. Not like he was trying to read you, like he already had.

Your throat tightened. Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then finally spoke.

“Neither do you.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Leon shifted, just slightly. Turning toward you. The air between you got heavier, thicker, your bodies close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, even without touching.

He leaned in just a bit, eyes locked on yours.

“Maybe next time,” he said, voice low and sincere, “we stop pretending we don’t see each other.”

You didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

But you didn’t pull away either.

And Leon, he just lingered for one more heartbeat before stepping back. He picked up his pistol again without another word.

You both turned back to the range.

Leon fired again.

The shot hit wide, low and to the left.

You blinked.

The second round followed. Another miss. Not catastrophic, but… not him.

You frowned and tilted your head slightly, watching his stance more carefully now. His feet were steady. Grip was tight. But there was something off, a hesitation, maybe. Tension in the wrong places.

You spoke without thinking.

“You’re pulling.”

Leon lowered the weapon slightly, glancing over at you.

“I’m what?”

“Your trigger pull. You’re jerking it.” You gestured vaguely toward his grip. “And you’re tensing your shoulder before the shot lands. That’s why you’re off-center.”

He raised a brow. “Didn’t realize I was being audited.”

“You’re always being audited.”

Leon smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was a flicker of frustration in his expression, quickly masked, but not before you saw it.

You hesitated for only a breath, then stepped closer.

“Here,” you said. “Let me show you.”

Leon turned slightly, surprised. “You offering shooting lessons now?”

“Only because watching you miss is painful.”

He chuckled, just once, but it sounded almost genuine.

You came up behind him, reaching for his arms without hesitation. Your fingers brushed his forearms first, firm, warm, and taut beneath your touch, then guided his elbows inward just slightly. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. He just let you.

Your body hovered close to his back now, your voice low by his ear.

“Relax your grip. You’re holding like it’s going to jump out of your hands.”

“Maybe I like the way you grab my arms,” he murmured, not quite under his breath.

You ignored it. Barely.

Your hands moved to his, adjusting his fingers on the grip, your chest brushing lightly against his back with the motion. The space between you all but disappeared.

He was warm. Solid. Smelled faintly like steel and soap. Your pulse thudded somewhere inconvenient.

“Focus on your breathing,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice clinical — failing slightly. “In on the raise. Out on the shot.”

He nodded once, eyes fixed on the target now, the tension in his shoulders finally easing under your touch.

You didn’t move away.

You couldn’t.

“Try again,” you said.

He fired.

The bullet struck center mass — clean and sharp.

Leon let out a slow breath, lips twitching slightly. “Must be your coaching.”

You stepped back, just a little. Enough to breathe.

“Or maybe you were just being dramatic so I’d come fix you.”

He looked over his shoulder at you, expression unreadable. “Maybe I needed fixing.”

Leon turned back to the booth, loading another round with ease now. His fingers moved with more control — smoother, more fluid. But he wasn’t paying attention to the target anymore.

He was watching you.

“Still gonna need a few more lessons,” he said, tone lighter, like he was giving you a way out.

You crossed your arms, partly to ground yourself, partly to hide the way your pulse had spiked. The skin along your arms still tingled from how close you’d just been.

“We’ll schedule something,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the bullet-ridden paper downrange. “Preferably not at 3 a.m.”

Leon raised his pistol again and fired without looking — a perfect shot.

“I like this hour,” he said. “It’s quiet. No distractions.”

He looked at you again.

“Except you.”

The words landed softly but stuck hard. You turned slowly to meet his gaze.

For a long, pulsing second, neither of you said anything.

The air between you changed, no longer filled with tension, but potential. Something on the verge of happening. Fragile. Taut.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then, almost at the same time, you both leaned in.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t desperate.

It was quiet. Careful. Like you were both finally acknowledging the gravity of what had been building all this time.

Your faces were inches apart. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up to yours. His breath was warm against your cheek. You felt the shift in his posture, his shoulders finally — finally — relax.

He exhaled, like he hadn’t breathed right in days.

Your lips brushed.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet. Just the promise of one.

And that’s when you pulled back.

Quickly. Cleanly.

You took a step away, jaw tightening.

“Shit.”

Leon blinked, confused — caught mid-movement as if his body hadn’t registered that you’d left the moment.

You straightened, already retreating behind a wall of protocol and duty. Your voice came out tight, too fast, too defensive.

“That— That was completely unprofessional. I’m your superior officer. That can’t happen. That shouldn’t have happened.”

He opened his mouth, eyes narrowing — but you didn’t give him a chance.

“Forget it,” you said, already turning on your heel, boots moving fast against the concrete. “That’s an order.”

And just like that, you were gone.

The doors hissed shut behind you.

Leon stood there in the silence, gun still in hand, heart still racing for a reason that had nothing to do with bullets.

The target downrange blurred in his vision, but he didn’t lift his weapon again.

He just stood there.

Alone.

And this time, it was the quiet that distracted him.

The door slid shut behind you with a muted hiss, sealing the room like a vault.

You stood there for a moment, hand still on the panel, heart thudding too loud in your ears.

You couldn’t breathe.

Not properly. Not evenly.

The air in the dorm was stale, too still, like it hadn’t moved since you left. You felt the walls closing in, the silence pressing against your skin, and suddenly standing still wasn’t an option.

You started pacing.

Back and forth. Six strides one way. Six strides back.

Your boots whispered against the tile. The sound of your own movement was the only thing keeping you tethered.

Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest. Not because you were cold — but because something was trying to crack open inside you.

You could still feel him.

Leon’s body heat. The way his voice dropped when he got close. That half-laugh. That half-sigh. The way he leaned in like you were a secret he was finally ready to admit out loud.

And God — the way you leaned back.

You ran a hand through your hair, dragging your fingers down your face with a frustrated groan.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you muttered aloud to no one.

You weren’t someone who made mistakes like that. Not emotional ones. Not with recruits. And definitely not with him.

But it wasn’t just a mistake, was it?

It was the culmination of weeks of tension. Stares across briefing rooms. Arguments laced with heat. All those unspoken almosts that had been quietly building behind every clipped command and sharp retort.

And then tonight.

Your lips had touched. Not fully. Not even enough to call it a kiss. But it had been enough to feel something. Enough to know you wanted more.

And that terrified you.

Because he wasn’t just a man. He was a subordinate. He was a complication.

He was Leon.

Your pacing slowed, but your thoughts didn’t.

You should file a report. You should debrief yourself. You should find the damn HR manual and read every clause until your brain stopped trying to remember the way he smelled.

But you didn’t.

Because even now even as guilt twisted low in your stomach, you didn’t want to regret it. Not really.

You stopped in front of your bunk, hands braced on the frame like it might anchor you. You stared at the floor for a long time.

And finally, in the silence, a whisper of truth slipped out before you could stop it.

“I wanted to kiss him.”

There it was. No uniform. No badge. No chain of command.

You paced again, tighter now, like a coil wound to breaking.

The thoughts were no longer just thoughts. They were shouts. Echoes crashing against each other.

His voice. His closeness. His scent.

That almost-kiss.

And then it hit you, sharp and undeniable. You wanted him. Not just in passing. Not just in secret.

The realisation crashed through your chest like a breach, like something you’d held back for too long had finally slammed its way to the surface. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t safe.

But it was true.

The moment it bloomed inside you, your body moved before your brain could keep up. You spun, crossing the room in three long strides. Your hand reached for the door panel.

You had to find him. Now.

You wrenched the door open—

—and froze.

Leon was standing there.

Fist half-raised, like he’d just been about to knock. His blue eyes wide for a heartbeat, mirroring the same stunned disbelief on your face.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

You were leaving to find him. He had come to find you.

The moment broke like glass under pressure.

You moved at the same time.

There were no words. No caution. No hesitation.

Just a sudden, desperate lunge, bodies colliding like magnets finally allowed to touch. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers sliding through his hair as you pulled him down into you. His hands were already on your face , one cupping your jaw, the other at the back of your head, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

Your mouths met in a kiss that wasn’t careful or composed.

It was hungry. Messy. Real.

All the heat, all the tension that had been building for weeks, months, came crashing down in a single breathless moment. You could feel him breathing against your skin, his mouth devouring yours like he’d wanted this just as long. Like he’d needed it.

You gasped softly as his lips pressed deeper, more insistent, not rough, but reverent. Like he was trying to memorise the shape of your mouth, the rhythm of your breath, the taste of your surrender.

His hand slid down to your waist, gripping you like he didn’t trust reality. Like if he didn’t anchor you now, you’d both float away.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, breath shallow. His thumb still brushed your cheekbone like you were fragile, even after everything you’d just done.

You swallowed hard.

Your back hit the wall next to the door.

Neither of you noticed. Or rather neither of you cared.

Your hands were tangled in his hair, his mouth fevered against yours, and the space between your bodies no longer existed. You were pressed to him, chest to chest, pulse to pulse, the silence of the hallway shattered by the sound of breathless kissing and the quiet thud of urgency.

Leon groaned softly into your mouth, the kind of sound that curled hot in your spine, and suddenly his hands were on your waist, gripping tight.

With a fluid, almost desperate shift, he turned you both, still kissing, still holding you like you might change your mind if he let go for even a second. One arm around your waist, the other braced behind your neck, he walked you backward into the dorm, step by step, not breaking the kiss once.

You barely registered the room returning around you.

Then, with one solid kick, Leon shoved the door shut with his boot, the heavy sound of it slamming home felt final.

Private.

No going back.

The moment the lock clicked, he pinned you against the back of the door, lips trailing to your jaw, your neck, breath hot and reverent.

“I’ve wanted this,” he murmured between kisses, voice hoarse, as his hand slid up your side beneath your shirt, not rushing, just learning. “I’ve wanted you.”

You exhaled sharply, one hand splayed over his chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath your palm. His skin burned. Everything about him did.

“Leon—”

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, like he wasn’t just trying to make you feel it.

He wanted you to remember it.

Leon’s hands were everywhere, rough yet reverent, as if he couldn’t decide where to touch first, your hips, your waist, the curve of your back. His fingers dug into your skin just enough to leave the ghost of his desperation behind, his breath hot against your neck as he murmured between fevered kisses.

“You have no idea how much I’ve imagined this.”

His voice was rough, strained with need, each word punctuated by the scrape of his teeth against your pulse. You gasped as his hands slid lower, gripping the back of your thighs before he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The strength in his arms was intoxicating, the way he held you like you weighed nothing, like he’d die before letting you go.

“Touching you… kissing you…”

His lips crashed into yours again, hungry and deep, his tongue sweeping against yours in a rhythm that left you dizzy. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose more of your throat to his mouth, while the other gripped your ass, grinding you against the hard ridge of his arousal. The friction drew a whimper from your lips, and he growled in response, nipping at your collarbone.

“When I first saw you—so fucking beautiful.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, his voice dripping with raw desire. His hands were relentless, sliding under your clothes, calloused palms mapping every inch of you as if he was memorising the feel of your skin. The heat between your bodies was unbearable, every shift of his hips stoking the fire lower in your stomach.

You could feel him, all of him, the hard lines of his body pressed against yours, the way his breath hitched when you rolled your hips against his. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your flesh as he carried you toward the nearest surface, his mouth never leaving your skin.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded between kisses, his voice dark and needy. "Tell me you’ve thought about it too."

His words sent a thrill through you, his touch already pushing you toward the edge. And as his lips found yours again, you knew he meant every word.

The moment your back hit the mattress, he pulled away just enough to sit up, his powerful thighs straddling your hips, the heat of him searing even through layers of clothing. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, his muscles taut beneath the fabric of his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the thick cords of his forearms, arms that had carried you without effort, that could pin you down with terrifying ease.

Leon Kennedy wasn’t just looking at you, he was devouring you with his gaze. His face was a masterpiece of hunger, sharp jaw clenched, lips parted, those piercing blue eyes dark with lust as they raked over your body. A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth when he saw the way your breath hitched under his scrutiny.

“Come on, Special Agent,” he murmured, his voice rough, dripping with sinful promise. “Do you want this? Do want me?”

His hand, calloused from years of gripping weapons, of fighting, trailed down your cheek with surprising gentleness, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, pressing just enough to make your mouth fall open. You could feel the roughness of his skin, the faint scar along his knuckle, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly, like he was holding back.

Beneath your shirt, his other hand moved with agonising slowness, his fingertips tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your ribs, stopping just beneath the hem. His fingers danced along the sensitive skin there, teasing, taunting, but never pushing further.

He was going to make you say it.

The distance between you was torture. You could feel the hard press of his arousal against your thigh, the way his body tensed with restraint. His smirk deepened at your hesitation, his eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.

"Use your words, Agent," he commanded, voice low, dangerous.

Your face burned, your pulse hammering as his fingers trailed lower, flicking open the top button of your trousers with infuriating precision. His knuckles grazed your stomach, and you shuddered.

Images flashed in your mind. Leon’s mouth on you, his hands gripping your hips, the way he growled when you rolled against him. The ache between your thighs was unbearable.

“Please, Leon,” you finally gasped, arching into his touch. “I want this. So bad.”

His smirk turned feral.

“Good girl.”

The moment the words left your lips, his mouth crashed back onto yours, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours in a rhythm that left you breathless. His body pressed flush against you, the hard planes of his chest pinning you to the mattress, the heat of him searing through your clothes. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his ribs, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against your lips, like he’d been holding back for far too long.

His hands, rough and sure, made quick work of your trousers, fingers deftly undoing the remaining buttons before sliding them down your legs with a slow, deliberate drag. His lips followed the path his hands had taken, kissing down your calves, the sensitive hollows of your knees, the soft skin of your inner thighs. Each press of his mouth was deliberate, teasing, his breath fanning over your skin in a way that made you shiver.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his fingers tracing the damp fabric of your underwear with agonising lightness. A low, satisfied hum vibrated against your skin as he brushed over your clothed sex, his touch featherlight but maddening.

"Aw, you're so wet for me," he purred, voice thick with dark amusement.

You whimpered, hips lifting instinctively, but he held you down with one broad hand, his grip firm. His gaze flicked up to yours, those blue eyes burning with something predatory, something hungry. The sight of him between your legs, lips parted, pupils blown, his hair slightly mussed from your fingers. It was almost sinful.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down with torturous slowness. The cool air hit your overheated skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his stare as he took you in.

"So pretty," he murmured, voice rough with reverence.

His hands slid back up your thighs, gently urging them apart, spreading you wider for him. The way he looked at you, like he wanted to devour you, sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your stomach.

And then he moved. One hand anchored your hip, the other gripping the inside of your thigh as he leaned in, burying himself between your legs with an open-mouthed kiss to your core.

The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, dragging through your folds with a filthy sound that made your back arch. His groan vibrated against you, the sensation sending sparks up your spine.

"Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined," he growled, his voice wrecked.

He didn’t tease. Not now.

Leon feasted on you like a man starved, tongue lapping at your entrance before circling your clit with firm, relentless strokes. His free hand slid up your stomach, pushing your shirt higher, fingers skimming the underside of your breast before pinching your nipple through the fabric.

You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him closer as his mouth worked you over with sinful precision. Every flick of his tongue, every suck at your sensitive flesh, had your thighs trembling around his head.

"That’s it," he muttered against you, his breath hot. "Let me hear you."

His fingers replaced his mouth for just a second, rubbing slow circles over your clit while he kissed up your stomach, his teeth grazing your hip bone.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough. "Tell me how bad you want it."

You could barely think, barely breathe, but the words tumbled out anyway, desperate, pleading.

"Leon—please—"

His smirk was wicked as he dipped his head back down.

The moment your plea left your lips, he doubled down, his tongue lashing at your clit in fast, ruthless strokes, his fingers spreading you wider, holding you open for him. His other hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh, keeping you pinned beneath his mouth as you writhed.

"Fuck—Leon—!" Your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. The vibration sent a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core, and you whimpered, your hips jerking uncontrollably.

He didn’t let up. If anything, he got meaner, sucking your clit between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue before circling it again, relentless, merciless. His moans spilled freely now, deep and ragged, muffled against your skin as if he couldn’t help himself.

"I know, baby," he growled between strokes, his voice wrecked, dripping with filthy praise. "I know. Let me hear you. Come on, give it to me."

You were so close, every nerve alight, your thighs shaking, your breath coming in sharp, broken gasps. His words, his touch, the way he worshipped you. It was too much.

"I—I’m gonna—!"

"Aw, fuck—you’re so good," he snarled, his fingers tightening on your thigh. "You’re so prefect. Come for me."

And just like that you shattered.

A broken cry tore from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and all-consuming. Leon didn’t slow, didn’t stop, he worked you through it, his tongue coaxing out every last shudder, every aftershock, until you were gasping, oversensitive, your hands weakly pushing at his head.

Only then did he pull back, lips glistening, his chest heaving. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his expression nothing short of ravenous as he licked his lips.

"Fuck," he breathed, voice rough. "You taste even better than I imagined."

And before you could even recover, he was crawling up your body, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his arousal grinding against your still-throbbing core.

The moment his lips crashed back into yours, you tasted yourself on his tongue, sweet, intoxicating, and a shudder ripped through you. His kiss was filthy, desperate, his teeth catching your bottom lip, his groan vibrating against your mouth as you arched beneath him.

When he pulled away, his eyes were ruined. Dark blue, almost black with need, his lashes low, his expression raw and pleading. 

"Can I fuck you?" 

His voice was wrecked, rough with desperation, his hips grinding down against yours in slow, torturous circles. The way he looked at you, like he’d die if you said no, like he was already halfway to losing his mind just from the feel of you, sent another bolt of heat straight to your core.

You swore you almost came again just from the way he begged.

A breathless laugh escaped you, your fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Yes, Mr. Kennedy," you teased, your voice trembling.

His answering smile was devastating. Half smirk, half snarl, before he claimed your mouth again, his tongue sliding against yours in a filthy promise of what was to come.

Then the sound of his belt unbuckling. The metallic clink of it hitting the floor. The rough drag of his zipper.

Your breath hitched as he shoved his trousers down just enough, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against your thigh. The heat of him was almost unbearable, the way his hips jerked forward instinctively, his tip dragging through your slick, making you both groan.

Leon’s hands were everywhere gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts as he positioned himself. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, his entire body trembling with restraint.

"Tell me," he growled, his voice wrecked. "Tell me you’re sure."

You arched up, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I’m sure. Fuck me, Leon."

Leon moaned in relief, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin as he finally sank into you.

It had been so long for both of you that the stretch was almost overwhelming, the heat and pressure of him drawing twin gasps from your lips. He was thick, filling you in the best way, and for a moment, neither of you moved, just breathing, trembling, savouring the sensation of being connected.

"Fuck," Leon hissed under his breath, his forehead dropping to yours, his muscles taut with restraint. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave marks as you adjusted around him. "So fucking tight—Christ—"

You nodded, breathless, and he exhaled sharply before pulling back, just slightly, only to push in again, deeper this time. A broken moan tore from your throat, and Leon echoed it, his voice rough with pleasure.

"You feel so good," he groaned, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts, each one sending sparks of pleasure curling through your veins. His breath was hot against your lips, his body trembling with the effort of keeping his pace controlled. "Fuck—fuck—just like that—"

His hands were everywhere, rough and possessive, yet achingly tender, like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you. They slid up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs, thumbs brushing the soft underside of your breasts in a slow, teasing drag that made your breath hitch. His grip tightened, fingers digging into the curve of your hips as he pulled you harder against him, steadying you as he began to move faster, deeper.

Every thrust was deliberate, punishing in its perfection.

The stretch of him inside you was intoxicating, the way his cock filled you so completely, hitting that sweet, aching spot with every snap of his hips. Your back arched off the bed, a desperate moan tearing from your throat as he angled himself just right, the thick ridge of him dragging against your walls in a way that made your vision blur.

"Fuck—Leon—" you gasped, nails raking down his back, feeling the muscles there flex as he drove into you.

His breath was hot against your neck, ragged and uneven, his lips brushing your skin between muttered curses. "So perfect” he growled, his voice wrecked, strained with the effort of holding back.

His rhythm was relentless, hips moving with a precision that betrayed his training, controlled, calculated, yet utterly feral. The slap of skin against skin, the way his thighs pressed against yours, the way his abs tensed with every thrust, it was too much, and yet you never wanted it to stop.

"Leon—!" you moaned out, nails raking down his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.

He growled in response, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more possessive. "You gonna come for me, Agent?" he whispered against your ear, his voice dark and wrecked. His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine.

You could barely think, barely breathe, just feel, every nerve alight with the pleasure he was giving you. "I'm so close—" you whined, your legs tightening around his waist, urging him deeper.

Leon tutted above you, his smirk audible in his voice. "I know, baby," he murmured, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that had you seeing stars. "I can feel it—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—"

Your fingers dug into his biceps, his muscles flexing under your grip as he fucked you with relentless precision. And then his thumb found your clit, rubbing firm, deliberate circles that sent you hurtling toward the edge.

"That’s it," Leon growled, his voice raw with need. "Come on your rookie’s cock—fuck—let me feel it—"

You shattered with a cry, his name spilling from your lips as pleasure exploded through you, white-hot and all-consuming. Leon swore violently above you, his hips stuttering as your walls clenched around him.

"Fuck—fuck—you feel too good—" he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic before he buried himself deep with a final, shuddering groan, his release spilling into you.

You both collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat.

Leon’s weight pressed you into the mattress, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his climax. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin as he struggled to steady himself. You could feel his heartbeat, wild, pounding, where his chest met yours, the rhythm slowly easing into something deeper, slower.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. The only sounds were the slowing rhythm of your breaths and the occasional whisper of the sheets shifting as your bodies gradually relaxed. Leon’s weight was still draped over you not oppressive, just solid, grounding. His skin was warm and damp, his forehead resting lightly against your shoulder, breath brushing the curve of your neck. You could feel the faint twitch in his muscles as he came down from the high, his body still echoing the aftershocks of what had passed between you.

The room had gone quiet, but it wasn’t the kind of quiet that felt empty. It was full, filled with the unspoken, with the leftover heat of something that had barely cooled, with the awareness of his body next to yours and everything that meant.

You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer answers. Your hand moved absently across Leon’s back, the ridges of muscle beneath his skin familiar now, comforting in a way that unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. You weren’t someone who let your guard down easily. And yet, with him like this, so close, so exposed, you hadn’t built any walls at all.

Eventually, he shifted beside you, rolling onto his side. His breathing had slowed to something even and controlled, his eyes half-lidded but not asleep. You turned your head, studying him in the dim light, the mess of blonde hair sticking to his temple, the faint sheen of sweat along his jaw, the shadowed contours of someone who had spent his life walking through hell and still came out looking like this.

You opened your mouth, unsure of what you were even going to say, then closed it again. What were the right words for this moment? What would you even call it a mistake? A lapse in judgment? Or something else entirely?

But before you could dwell on it further, a yawn cracked through your chest. A wave of exhaustion pulled at your limbs, heavy and sudden, as if your body had only now been granted permission to rest. You sank back into the pillow, letting your muscles go slack beneath the sheets. Whatever this was, whatever came next, it could wait until morning. That was a problem for a more awake, more armoured version of yourself.

Just as your eyes began to drift shut, you felt it. The weight beside you shifted. Not a subtle stretch or a lazy repositioning, but a purposeful movement. The warmth that had been curled along your side began to fade, replaced by cool air and the quiet rustle of Leon moving away.

Your brow furrowed as your mind tried to catch up. You opened your eyes just in time to see him crouching at the foot of the bed, reaching for his shirt and pants that had been discarded in the tangle of your urgency. His back was to you, shoulders drawn tight, the silence around him suddenly brittle.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, the sheet slipping just slightly from your chest, not that he was looking. The air between you felt different now, uncertain.

“Leon?”

He paused. The sound of your voice stopped him mid-motion. His hand lingered on his shirt, but he didn’t straighten up immediately. When he finally looked back at you, his expression was unreadable, not cold or distant, just carefully neutral, like he was bracing for something.

“What are you doing?” you asked softly, still groggy, but your voice had an edge you hadn’t meant to put there.

Leon’s eyes flicked from your face to your bare shoulders, then to the sheet you were holding against your chest. His mouth twitched slightly, almost like he was about to smirk, but didn’t quite make it.

“I was gonna let myself out,” he said, his voice low and casual. He stood slowly, shirt still in his hand. “Didn’t think you’d want me to stick around.”

The words hit harder than you’d expected. Not because he was wrong, but because it sounded like he’d already convinced himself this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Like he thought that’s what you wanted.

You sat up straighter, the tension coiling in your chest now something sharp and uncertain.

“I thought maybe…” you hesitated, then forced yourself to meet his eyes. Your voice came out quieter this time, more hesitant than you liked. “You could stay the night.”

Leon stilled. Completely.

The shift in his posture was subtle, but you saw it, the drop of his shoulders, the way his jaw eased, like he was letting go of a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. His eyes searched your face for a moment, carefully, like he didn’t quite believe you.

“You want me to?” he asked, voice softer now, genuine.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You weren’t sure why it felt so vulnerable to say it, to admit you didn’t want him to leave, but it did. Still, you didn’t take it back.

“Yeah,” you said, quieter still. “I do.”

Leon looked at you for another long beat. And then, slowly, deliberately, he let the shirt slip from his fingers and fall back onto the chair. He crossed the room in a few silent steps, the tension in his body fading with every movement.

He didn’t make a joke. Didn’t flash that cocky smirk or deflect with sarcasm. He just slid into bed beside you, slow and careful, his warmth returning with him as the sheets shifted around your bodies.

You turned into him instinctively, and he welcomed the closeness, his arm curling around your waist. Your head found the space between his shoulder and chest, and you felt his hand, large, warm, steady, rest along the curve of your back.

And in that soft, suspended silence, wrapped in the faint scent of sweat and soap, your heart finally settled. This wasn’t the end. Not even close.

[ikiyou]

This is all the way up there with some creators not wanting people to print and bind their works. Or, hell, not wanting people to do readings of their works.

It's bullshit.

Creators have zero authority when it comes to how fans consume their works, and it is disrespectful for a creator to mandate that fans consume their work only in specific ways. This kind of request completely oversteps proper boundaries. The only thing permitted for a creator to do is to ask that fans do not tag them about fanworks. That's what real authors have to do for legal reasons - they can't be seen to accidentally 'steal' fan ideas. But no creator can dictate what fans can or cannot do in the fandom.

In fact, if any creator does this, it is the responsibility of the fandom, in order to prevent censorship and toxicity, to blatantly ignore the request and to support anyone making any ship.

Creators do not need to interact with a fandom, but creators may not exert any control over a fandom.

Tangentially, fans need to stop asking creators for permission or their blessing to do things. Even creators on Ao3 and tumblr. You wanna write fanfic for someone's story? Do it. Don't even ask. Fanart? Do it. Fan reading? Fucking do it. Stop pretending that you need to be 'polite.' You don't, and that misplaced politeness contributes to a toxic mindset where young fans misperceive that they need some kind of permission to engage in fandom.

You should ask permission before showing a creator your fanwork. But never ever ask permission to make one.

Stop being scared to be in fandom!

If the creator or something explicitly states they don’t want two characters shipped will you respect it?