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dakusan · 17 days ago

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S h u t U p a n d S i t S t i l l

Tattoo Artist!Kim Seungmin x Reader | He tattoos like a surgeon and fucks like a sadist. You showed up for ink. He gave you obsession.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. you walked into NO SAINT INK for a rib tattoo—left with trembling thighs, his hoodie around your neck, and a cock you can't stop dreaming about. Seungmin is quiet, sharp-tongued, and mean in the best ways: he bends you over the bench, fucks you until you cry, then wipes you down and feeds you strawberries like you're his favourite masterpiece. It starts with your seventh tattoo. Ends with you moaning his name every night, in his bed, in his hoodie, with his fingers under your panties. This isn’t just art. It’s obsession. And now he’s your boyfriend too—lucky you.

💌a/n: i literally don’t remember who requested tattoo artist seungmin first. either way. you got it. the man who fucks you stupid then wipes you down like he’s cleaning his favourite mug. HE’S HERE. AND HE’S IN LOVE (but would rather die than admit it out loud) 🫶🍓🖤. also? 🔔 THE MINI SERIES ORDER HAS BEEN DECREED 🔔 next up: JEONGIN. after that: ⟡ MINHO ⟡ CHANGBIN ⟡ FELIX and then finally—drumroll, throat clear, studio lights flickering— BANG CHRISTOPHER FUCKING CHAN. the cherry on top. the tattoo daddy. the final boss of soft filth and filthy softness. pray for me. p.s. if you liked it, if you screamed, if your thighs clenched even ONCE—REBLOG IT. LIKE?? yes. COMMENT?? also yes. p.p.s. if i catch you in the notes saying “need him biblically,” “he wiped me down like a canvas,” or “not the strawberries 😭”—just know i love you. violently 💋 p.p.s. see u next Tethered Tuesday with Jeonginnie~

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. You are the CEO of your own coochie.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Charmer — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:09 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 3:12 PM.

You push the door open with your hip, bells jingling overhead as warm incense curls toward the ceiling — sandalwood, patchouli, something citrusy beneath it all. It’s always like this at NO SAINT INK. Chill beats humming low, Felix probably somewhere in the back rearranging his piercing tools like he’s Marie Kondo with a needle fetish, and—

“Fuck,” a voice mutters from behind a half-drawn curtain. You grin. Found him.

Kim Seungmin.

The reason you have six tattoos—and the reason you keep coming back for more.

You strut past the front desk like you own the place, setting down your tray of iced americanos and pastries with the confidence of someone deeply annoying. Your seventh session. Four healed pieces, one still peeling, and the newest one inked just last month. And of all the artists here, you keep picking the same one. On purpose.

Seungmin doesn’t look up at first. He’s sketching something at his desk—lined in ruler-straight precision, every pen stroke exact, no wasted ink. Hair slightly tousled. Sleeves rolled. Black gloves already on like he’s been prepping to ruin someone’s day.

He finally lifts his eyes—and groans.

“Why are you here again?”

“Hi to you too, sunshine,” you chirp, sipping your iced coffee with maximum slurp.

“I told Felix to screen your bookings.”

“I bribed him with matcha cake. Also, he says hi.” You swing the drink tray toward him with flair. “Got you your usual. Thought you could use the energy. You looked a little pale last time.”

He stares. “You’re lucky I don’t stab clients.”

“You already do,” you smile sweetly, plopping into the client chair. “It’s called tattooing.”

You met him through Felix, of course—NO SAINT INK’s glittery menace and certified piercing god. You came in on a whim two years ago for a constellation of helix piercings and left with a phone background of Felix’s stupid peace sign and a mouth full of swear words after he showed you Seungmin’s tattoo portfolio. Clean lines. Razor-sharp contrast. Occasional anatomical sketches paired with poetry in tiny, deliberate script.

When you told Felix you wanted something specific for your first tattoo—a geometric wolf across your ribcage—he nodded once and said, “Seungmin’s your guy.”

You’ve hated him ever since.

He’s impossible. Quiet, dry, sarcastic in a way that feels like a dare. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t smile. He just tattoos like he’s building something permanent—measured, focused, untouchable. But when you’re the one under his needle? His fingers linger a little too long on your waist. His voice drops when he tells you to hold still. And you—being the insufferable brat you are—live to poke at the ice until it cracks.

Which is why you’re here today. For tattoo number seven.

From him. Again.

“Let me guess,” he says, sipping the coffee despite himself. “Some half-baked Pinterest inspo you expect me to redesign overnight?”

“I’m hurt,” you pout dramatically. “I actually brought a reference this time. Plus, I figured you missed me.”

“I miss peace and quiet.”

“Then why’d you pick a career where girls beg to get pinned under you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just says, “Get on the table before I change my mind.”

You smirk. There it is. That little twitch in his jaw. That flick of his tongue against the inside of his cheek when you say something just annoying enough to rattle the cage.

You pull out your sketch. “I want it here,” you say, lifting your shirt to gesture just below your sternum, to the space between your breasts and your ribs. “Delicate linework. Abstract. Your specialty.”

Seungmin stares. Then sighs. “You do realize I’ll have to touch you for placement.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, faux-innocent. “That would be terrible.”

He drops the clipboard with a snap.

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Seungmin mutters something under his breath—probably a curse, probably in two languages—as he snatches your sketch and jerks his head toward the back hallway.

You follow with a smug little skip in your step.

The private rooms at NO SAINT INK are all artist-personalized. Seungmin's? It’s all dark wood, clean steel, framed minimalist pieces, and surgical-grade tidiness.

Cedar diffuses from a sleek black humidifier in the corner. The light is warm-toned and angled perfectly. His iPad sits on a tidy desk, stylus already beside it like it was placed there with a ruler. And on the windowsill—three succulents. Perfectly spaced. You teased him about it once and he deadpan replied, “One for every time you’ve wasted my time.”

He drops your paper sketch on his desk and sits, spinning the iPad toward him with a sigh. “You’ve got five minutes to explain what the hell this is.”

You plop down in the rolling stool beside him, leaning your chin on your hand. “It’s art. Use your imagination.”

He gives you a long, deeply unimpressed look.

“Fine,” you huff. “It’s… inspired by sacred geometry. Like a mandala, but cracked open. Fragmented. I want it to feel like breaking and healing at the same time. Like symmetry trying to reassemble itself.”

Seungmin blinks. Then blinks again.

“…You pulled that out of your ass just now.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Seungmin.”

He groans and starts sketching.

You watch, quiet now—because this is the part you actually love. The way his fingers move when he draws. Controlled, calculated. Not robotic. Not sterile. There’s warmth there, if you know where to look. And you do.

He sips the coffee you brought like it’s medicine. Then grabs a croissant and bites it with grim resolve, like chewing it too quickly might register as gratitude.

“I still think you bribed Felix with blackmail.”

“He was emotionally weak. I seized the moment.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re drawing me the prettiest trauma-symbol I’ve ever seen, so who really wins here?”

He doesn’t answer. But his pen slows. His strokes get sharper. He’s in his element now. You recognize the shift—the way he leans in closer to the iPad, slightly squints, drags his stylus with deliberate precision.

The design blooms under his hand: a fractured mandala, circular symmetry interrupted by jagged arcs and broken segments. Clean dotwork in the center, a few splashes of abstract floral curls breaking out near the bottom edge. Like order blooming from chaos. Like something whole again.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, stunned. “That’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“Arrogant.”

“You begged me for it.”

“I said please once and you moaned like I kicked your dog.”

He flicks his eyes to you, slow. “Say please again.”

You blink.

Then smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

But he’s already reaching for the print button.

“Let’s stencil this,” he says coolly, rising from his chair and heading towards the printer to print the design out. “I’d like to be rid of you before sundown.”

“Careful,” you say, trailing him out of the room. “One day you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Promise?”

“Never.”

While he is busy with the printer, you kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed like it’s yours.

Technically, it’s a client bench. Adjustable, padded, wrapped in fresh black vinyl. But in your mind? It’s a throne. A stage. A perfect little altar for the games you play with Kim Seungmin.

You wiggle into place, tugging your top over your head in one smooth motion. You’re down to your bralette now—delicate black lace with scalloped trim, something clearly chosen on purpose. Not slutty. Not overt. But just enough to see Seungmin’s jaw tighten when he walks back in.

He’s still fiddling with the stencil printer—cutting the sheet, prepping it with solution. Focused. Professional. Cold, as ever.

You lounge, arms folded behind your head, watching him from the bed like you’re sunbathing and he’s just lucky to be in your light.

“You gonna stare the whole time?” he murmurs without looking up.

“Am I bothering you?”

“Always.”

You grin.

Just then—click—the door swings open, and Felix’s voice rings through the room.

“Hey, demon duo—just letting you know I’m locking up soon. Jisung dipped early, and Chan-hyung’s out all day, so it’s just you two in the studio for the rest of the afternoon.” He wiggles his brows. “Try not to kill each other. Or fuck. Or both.”

Seungmin doesn’t look up. “Go away, Felix.”

“Don’t be rude. I brought you into this world.”

“I was here first.”

“Emotionally? Never.” Felix flicks his brows toward you. “Good luck, baby girl. If he’s mean, just call me and I’ll stab his tires.”

You salute him. “Noted. Drive safe.”

With a wink, Felix is gone. The click of the studio door locking behind him feels final. Loud.

Seungmin exhales slowly. Then turns.

You’re still lying there on the bed, head propped, shirt discarded, body sprawled like a damn invitation.

His gaze flickers once. Down. Then away. Then back again, like it physically pains him to give you that much attention.

He lifts the stencil paper, holds it up to the light. “You know this placement is gonna be tricky.”

“Delicate linework on soft skin,” you echo sweetly. “Your specialty.”

He levels you with a look. Flat. Dangerous. Amused.

“…You’re going to be impossible today.”

“I’m always impossible.”

“No,” he says, slipping on gloves with a soft snap, “today it’s worse. Today you want something.”

You blink, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Me? Never.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, stencil sheet in one hand, alcohol wipe in the other.

“Sit up,” he says, voice low. Commanding. “And lift your arms. I need a clean canvas.”

You obey—grinning like a menace—arms up, ribs exposed, breath catching slightly as the cold wipe grazes under the swell of your breast. He’s careful. Professional. Completely murderous about it.

The tension is a wire, pulled tight between you.

He smooths the stencil paper across your skin, presses down, then peels it back slowly, eyes trained on the imprint left behind.

It’s beautiful.

Nestled between your ribs, spanning just above your solar plexus: the fractured mandala blooms in fine linework, cracked yet radiant. His style. His hand. His art.

And now—it’s on you.

Seungmin looks at it for a beat too long.

Then: “Lie back.”

You do.

He adjusts the overhead lamp. Tilts your chin slightly. Brushes a single finger along your sternum, just below the stencil line.

You shiver.

He smirks.

“Try not to squirm this time,” he says. “You’ll fuck up the symmetry.”

Finally, Seungmin moves again. Gloves snap into place—tight, black latex stretched over knuckles and the fine lines of his fingers. You watch him through lowered lashes as he pours ink into the caps—his shade of black. You’ve learned that by now. Not too warm. Not too blue. Just sharp enough to slice through skin and stay.

The hum of the machine starts soft. Like a warning. Like a purr with teeth.

He looks at you once.

Just once.

And you know he’s not going to go easy.

“You good?” he asks, voice flat.

You nod, smug. “You always ask like you care.”

“I do care,” he mutters, tilting your chin again with a gloved hand. “Would be a shame if my art got fucked up because someone couldn’t keep still.”

Your eyes narrow. “Someone?”

He dips the needle, tests the line on a pad, and leans forward—right into your space. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“You.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly, arms up, chest rising.

“God, you’re such a dick.”

His smirk could slice bone.

“And you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

You go to reply—but the first sting of the needle hits, and the breath punches from your lungs.

“F-fuck—!”

“Oh?” Seungmin says innocently, hand steady as he traces the mandala’s outer ring. “Is it too much already?”

You grit your teeth, exhale through your nose.

“No. Just... colder than I remembered.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows what you’re really reacting to.

The first lines burn clean and sharp—stretching out beneath your skin, each pass as exact as a scalpel. Seungmin works in slow, confident strokes, one hand guiding your body where he needs it.

His fingers splay across your ribcage for tension. Firm. Possessive. Cruel.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just tattoos. Focused. Controlled.

But then—

“You know,” he murmurs, “most people don’t come back after their first rib piece.”

You hiss, fingers curling into the vinyl under you. “Most people don’t have your charming personality to keep them coming.”

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Which should be illegal.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he says.

The needle lifts for a second. He wipes gently with a cloth—soft at first, then firm, dragging over raw skin like he’s making a point.

You arch just slightly into his touch.

“I’m getting off on annoying you,” you counter, breath shaky.

His next line is faster. Harsher. He presses your side firmly, keeping you in place.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, low against your neck. “Then try really hard not to flinch right here.”

You flinch.

He clicks his tongue. “You’re so fucking bad at taking orders.”

“And you’re so—”

The machine stops.

He raises a brow. Wipes again. Slow this time.

“I’m so what?”

You glance down. Past his gloved hand on your ribs. Past the half-finished mandala. Past the slight smear of ink on your sternum.

You swallow.

“…focused.”

He smirks. Dangerous. “Damn right.”

And then he leans in—his next line beginning right where your breath catches worst. Right under your breast. Right on the spot where your heartbeat flutters like it’s begging him to notice.

You think he does.

Because his voice dips—deeper, smugger.

“Still think I missed you?”

You bite your lip.

Lying here. Under his hands. Wrapped in tension and black ink and the sharp, brutal pressure of a boy who tattoos like he’s angry at your skin for hiding itself from him—

You can’t lie.

Not to Seungmin.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up when you say it.

Yeah.

One syllable, quiet as breath, but loaded—the way confession always is. He doesn’t reply, not out loud. But the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smirk. Something more dangerous. Something knowing.

He tilts your body slightly to one side, guiding you into the perfect angle, and you let him. Of course you let him.

“Still breathing okay?” he murmurs, even though he knows damn well what your breathing sounds like right now—shallow, choked, tight.

“Mhm,” you manage.

He presses back down with the needle. His strokes are smoother now, filling in the fractured petals of the mandala. He works just beneath the undercurve of your breast, just along the swell of sensitive skin—close enough to tease, close enough to make you ache.

You twitch. Barely. But enough.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t have to.

Because when he lifts the needle to switch angles, he uses his other hand to press firmly along your waist, holding you in place. His fingers curl just slightly into your side. Possessive. Grounding. A little cruel.

You shudder.

“Still can’t take orders,” he mutters.

You glare. “Still a fucking sadist.”

He hums. “Takes one to keep coming back.”

That earns him a punch to the shoulder—gentle, a flick of your knuckles—but he’s already grinning as he dips the needle again.

Your skin burns.

And still—still—you want him closer.

The ink trails down now, toward the bottom of the design. He’s practically tattooing over your stomach, your diaphragm pulsing with every breath. He’s leaning in lower too—head bent, nose just inches from your sternum. If he angled left, he’d be mouth-to-skin. If you arched just slightly, you’d be brushing right into him.

The tension hums in the air—hot, oppressive, close.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low again. This time it’s not mocking. It’s… loaded.

You nod once. “Are you?”

He glances up.

“Been better,” he mutters. Then, deliberate: “You squirm too much.”

You lift your eyes to his—taunting, daring. “You tattoo too slow.”

That gets you a sharp tap against your side.

“Careful.”

“Make me.”

The machine goes quiet.

You blink.

Seungmin sits back, gaze steady. Gloved fingers still resting against your stomach.

“You always this mouthy when someone’s on top of you?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Your heart stutters.

You open your mouth—then close it.

He watches you for a second longer—until you shift just slightly under his stare. And only then does he lean back in, restart the machine, and murmur:

“Thought so.”

The final line burns sweeter than the rest.

Your breath hitches again—not from the pain, not really. You’ve gotten used to the sting. You chase it now. Crave it. Especially when it’s from him.

Seungmin finishes with a few last passes, the machine humming low and steady, until finally—he stops.

The silence after feels too quiet.

You blink up at the ceiling. It’s over. And suddenly your whole body is aware of how tense it’s been—your spine bowed slightly, your legs tight, your hands fisted in the sheets beneath you like you’ve been trying not to moan the whole time.

(You kind of have.)

He switches the machine off. The room exhales.

You stay lying down for a beat too long.

Then you hear the snap of his gloves being pulled off. The rustle of the rolling stool as he pushes back. The low clink of metal—his tools being set aside, wiped, lined up again with military precision. He always cleans up like he’s scrubbing evidence.

You sit up slowly, your ribs feel warm, raw—but not in a bad way.

He’s already tossed the gloves into the bin and is reaching for the mirror. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, biting your lip as you peek down.

The mandala gleams—inky black and flawless, nestled beneath the swell of your breasts like it belongs there.

Your breath catches.

“…fuck,” you whisper.

Seungmin glances over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

You shoot him a look. “Cocky much?”

He shrugs, reaching for his disinfectant spray like it’s nothing. “Not my fault I’m better than everyone else.”

You laugh—quiet, low, still slightly winded. “I should stop feeding your ego.”

“You should stop showing up half-naked and asking me to touch you for two hours.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even blink.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed now, ribcage still bare. And he’s standing barely a foot away, still wiping his tools, still calm—but his jaw is tight again. His fingers grip the disinfectant bottle like he’s trying to decide whether to clean your table or ruin your day.

The air shifts.

Slowly, you stand—stepping forward. His eyes flick downward. Just once. Then he meets your gaze.

“…Seungmin.”

He raises a brow.

You step closer. Bold. A little breathless. “You never said thank you.”

He tilts his head. “For what?”

“The coffee. The pastries. My continued emotional support and aesthetic contribution to your client portfolio.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. How could I forget.”

“You could show some gratitude,” you say, smile growing. “Like, I dunno…”

A beat.

You lean in.

“…a kiss, maybe?”

He stares at you—flat, unreadable.

Then, finally, finally—his hands stop moving. The rag drops from his fingers. His jaw twitches once.

And he says, voice low: “Lay back down first.”

Your breath stops. “W-What—”

“For the aftercare,” he says—completely serious. But his eyes are glinting, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners. “Unless you want it to get infected.”

You huff, but you obey—because of course you do.

You lie back down, ribs lifting with every inhale, the crisp air of the studio brushing across your skin. Seungmin moves slowly—methodical, precise. He reaches for the healing balm and the bandage roll with the same focus he uses when prepping a tattoo needle.

And then—

Then he steps into your space again.

You feel his gaze before his hands. That lingering look, dragging from the ink across your sternum to the fine lace of your bra. To the soft dip between your breasts. You’re not stupid—you know how you look. You know how he’s looking.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just kneels beside you on the tattoo bed, bracing one arm by your head, and starts applying the balm.

It’s… soft. Softer than it should be.

His gloved fingers glide gently across your skin, cool gel easing the sting of the fresh lines, but what you feel isn’t clinical. It’s heat. A low, blooming throb of something far more dangerous. Especially when his thumb grazes the edge of your bra. Not on purpose, not exactly—but he doesn’t move it away either.

You exhale. Carefully. Slowly.

His voice comes quieter this time, rough around the edges.

“You really wore this just to fuck with me, didn’t you?”

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“This,” he murmurs, brushing the bandage wrapper open, eyes never leaving yours. “The lace. The black. The fact that it’s barely covering anything while I have to touch you like a fucking monk.”

You smirk. “What, don’t like being teased?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not teasing.”

“No?”

“You’re begging.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans down slightly. Applies the bandage. His fingers skim the top edge of your sternum, then press lightly under your breast to make it stick. You jolt a little—not enough to be a flinch, but just enough for him to notice.

His lips twitch. “Thought so.”

You swallow.

“You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I did,” he says. “When I told you to stop showing up half-naked and flirty like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“And yet—” you gesture around, breathless, “—you haven’t.”

He finishes pressing the bandage into place. Carefully. Slowly. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly.

And then he leans in. Close. Close enough that his breath grazes your cheek, close enough that the heat of his body curls over yours like smoke.

“I’m just not done punishing you yet.”

You barely have time to gasp.

Because his hands are suddenly on your waist, fingers splayed wide, warm. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice like smoke curling from a lit match.

“You really think I’d let you keep pushing me forever?” he murmurs, his tone dark velvet, laced with something wicked. “Waltzing in here every time with that mouth—wearing shit like this—knowing damn well I’d eventually snap.”

You can’t speak.

Not with the way his hand is sliding up—up—fingertips skating the edge of your ribcage, the outline of your bra, the warm silk of your skin. Every inch he touches makes your back arch, breath stutter, pulse thunder.

“I—I didn’t—” you start.

“You did.” He cuts you off with a growl of a whisper, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And you knew exactly who you were doing it to.”

His hand finds the clasp of your bra—flicks it once, expertly. Loose. Deliberate.

Lace falls.

You whimper.

He exhales sharply through his nose—his palm sliding up to cup you fully, thumb brushing across a nipple already sensitive from all that adrenaline and ink and restraint. The tension coils tighter—like it’s been waiting weeks to snap.

“You’ve been needing this,” he mutters against your skin. “Coming in again and again—acting like a brat. Begging for attention. Flashing me those looks like I wouldn’t fuck you into the goddamn wall the second I got the chance.”

A pause.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, mouthing down your throat, sucking once—hard. “You wanna be my canvas off-hours too?”

You nod. Frantic. Breathless. Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt, tugging, anchoring, pleading.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” you pant. “I want you. I’ve always—fuck—Seungmin—”

He snarls.

And that’s it.

His mouth finds your breast with zero pretense, tongue hot and teeth grazing—biting, not cruel, but enough to leave a mark. His other hand slides down, past your waistband, finding the thin lace of your underwear—

Already soaked.

You feel him smirk against your skin.

“Such a fucking mess,” he growls. “You come from the needle or from me?”

You writhe.

“Seungmin—”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath the lace. “Lie to me again. See what happens.”

And then—

Then he presses in. Two fingers, all at once, knowing exactly where and how to touch you. Because he’s studied you. Memorized you. Sketched you in his mind over six tattoos and hours of tension, and now he finally gets to wreck you.

His fingers curl.

You break.

Your head falls back. Your thighs tremble. He’s still got one arm braced next to your head, and the other is fucking you open while his mouth maps every inch of your chest like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters into your skin. “You wanted this? You earned this. So take it.”

You moan—high, wrecked, nearly slurred. His fingers don’t relent. Curling deep. Unforgiving. He’s fucking you with them like he’s trying to carve his name inside you, and maybe he is.

But just when it starts to crest—when you feel it, the rush, the crash, the electric burn starting in your spine—

He stops.

You jolt. “No—!”

He pulls out slow. Cruel. Slick fingers dragging free. You clench around nothing, hips chasing him, tears prickling your lashes.

He tsks.

“Thought you were smarter than that.”

You blink, dazed. “Wh-What—?”

“You think you get to cum already?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear again. “After walking in here like that? After tormenting me for months?”

His hand finds your throat—light pressure, just enough to pin you back against the vinyl bed. Your mouth falls open. Instinct.

“I spent hours sketching that design,” he whispers. “Tattooed it on your fucking ribs. You came in here dripping and smug and bratty. And you think you get to finish first?”

You whimper.

He lets go.

“Get on your knees.”

You blink. “W-What?”

“You heard me.”

He stands, undoing his belt in one smooth motion—his eyes never leaving yours. You follow his gaze down, down, as he pushes his jeans low and his boxers lower, cock flushed and leaking and so fucking hard.

You drop to your knees, onto the soft rug in his private studio, beneath the overhead lamp and the echo of the bed creaking behind you.

“Open,” he says tapping the tip of his cock against your pretty lips.

You blink up at him, lips parted, brain still catching up to the command. Seungmin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t repeat himself—he just stares down, eyes half-lidded, cock heavy in his hand, tapping the head once more—twice—against your bottom lip like a test.

You obey.

Mouth open. Knees aching. Head swimming.

"Good," he murmurs, voice like low thunder.

One hand tangles in your hair—possessive—guiding, not forcing. His hips roll forward, slow and controlled, and the first brush of him on your tongue makes you whimper. Your thighs press together instinctively.

Because he tastes like every fantasy you’ve denied yourself. And he’s watching you the whole time—jaw tight, chest rising, his gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he's trying to brand the moment into memory.

“You always run your mouth,” he mutters, stroking your cheek with his thumb as you take him deeper, “but you’re so fucking quiet now, huh?”

You hum around him, tongue flattening, jaw straining, eyes locked on his like it’s the only anchor you have. He groans—quiet, raw, like it slips out before he can stop it.

Your hands steady on his thighs, you suck deeper. Hollow your cheeks. Let him feel everything.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You really—shit—you’re good at this, huh?”

You moan, just to be a brat. The vibration makes him jerk.

His fingers twitch in your hair. The other hand finds the back of your neck, thumb pressed right where your pulse jumps.

“Greedy,” he mutters, breath stuttering as you pull back slow—spit-slick, lips flushed—then take his cock again, deeper this time, choking a little and loving it. “You want all of it, don’t you?”

You blink up at him, teary-eyed and burning, and nod.

And that’s all it takes.

His grip tightens. His hips roll. Controlled at first, almost gentle—but the moment you relax your throat and let him in further, something cracks.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next thrust punches straight down your throat.

You choke—once, loud and messy—but you don’t pull away.

You don’t dare.

Not when Seungmin’s hand tightens in your hair like a leash. Not when his cock sinks deep, hot and throbbing and slick with your spit. Not when his groan scrapes straight from his chest, raw and filthy, as he watches your throat swallow around him.

“Fuck—” he snarls, voice strained. “You were made for this. Look at you.”

You try—your eyes flicking up through the blur of tears, spit dripping from your lips, mascara smudged beneath your lashes. You can barely see, but you feel everything—his fingers curled at the base of your skull, his cock throbbing on your tongue, the harsh stretch of your jaw.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he pants. “Spit everywhere—shit—drooling on me.”

You are—slick and soaked, saliva trailing from the corners of your mouth to your chin, coating his cock in glistening sheen. You gag again when he presses deeper, but he doesn’t let up.

“Take it,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Take it. You fucking wanted this.”

He rolls his hips again—harder this time. Meaner. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you sob around it, spit bubbling at the seams.

Seungmin hisses. “Yeah. That’s it.”

His hand tilts your head—just slightly—enough for him to watch you from above. “Look at you. Fucking crying for it.”

You blink up, lashes clumped and wet, mouth stretched open and obscene.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Wanna see you ruined.”

He fucks into your mouth like it’s a punishment. Like every gag, every wet choke is a penance you owe for teasing him for months. For bratty texts. For lace bralettes and stolen glances. For every look that said take me without saying a word.

Your throat tightens—and he moans.

“God—your throat—shit, I can feel it. Fucking clenching like your pussy would.”

You twitch.

He laughs—low and cruel. “What, you liked that? Want me to fuck both ends until you can’t walk or talk?”

You whimper around him. Loud.

Precum spills onto your tongue—hot and bitter—and he curses. Your hands claw at his hips, digging for purchase as he starts to lose it—thrusts jerking harder, messier. Your throat is raw, face soaked, and still—still—you stay open for him.

His voice shatters through your haze, ragged and mean.

“You look fucking perfect like this. Broken. Beautiful. Mine.”

One more thrust. Deep. Sharp.

You gag—again. Loud.

And Seungmin snaps. He jerks back suddenly—his cock pulling free with a slick pop, strings of spit connecting you still. You gasp—cough—spit dripping from your tongue.

“Open wider,” Seungmin rasps.

You do. Tongue out. Strings of drool glistening in the studio light. He grabs his cock—slick, flushed, twitching—and strokes once, twice—then spits. Right into your mouth. Then again. Then again.

You moan. Loud. Shameless.

“Filthy little thing,” he pants. “Look at you. Covered in spit and tears and fucking loving it.”

You nod. Once. Hard.

He leans down, cupping your jaw—thumb swiping through the mess on your chin, dragging it across your lips like warpaint. Seungmin's eyes watch you for a beat longer until he finally helps you up onto your feet.

You gasp, legs wobbling, mouth still slick and open as he turns you around and places a hand between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down on the bench.

“Hands flat,” he orders.

You obey.

He kicks your legs apart with his knee—rough. You gasp. Then moan, throat raw and spit-slick, head swimming from the sudden repositioning. His hands working quick, pulling down your pants and panties in one go. Seungmin hums in satisfaction at the sight of your wet cunt dripping. Fucking dripping.

“Better,” he mutters. “Stay like that.”

You squirm—but not far. Not really. Just enough to test him.

He growls.

And then—CRACK.

His hand lands sharp across your ass, a loud sting that echoes through the studio like an accusation.

You cry out.

“Still a brat,” he mutters. “Still fucking pushing me.”

His hands drag down—gripping your hips, pulling your ass back against him like he’s lining up a weapon.

“You think I won’t fuck you right here? Bent over the same bench I tattooed you on?” he says low, cruel. “You think I won’t use you just like this—all messy, full of spit, dripping down your thighs like a fucking reward?”

You whimper. “Then do it.”

A beat.

And then—he does.

He thrusts in all at once—deep, unforgiving, stretching you full in a single brutal push that knocks the air clean from your lungs. The bench creaks. Your nails scrape against the vinyl. You’re already soaked, still fluttering from his fingers.

Now you’re split open around him.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “Tight little thing—gripping me like you were made for this.”

You were. You want to scream it. But all that comes out is a cracked moan, spine arching as he pulls back—

Then slams in again.

Hard.

Rhythmic.

Cruel.

The bench jerks with every thrust. His hips slap into your ass, cock punching deep and devastating with every motion. The angle hits something brutal—low, mean, a spot that makes your vision spark.

“Louder,” he growls. “Wanna hear you.”

You whine—broken, gasping, drooling against the bench.

He leans over you now—chest to your back, breath in your ear, one hand fisted in your hair while the other snakes under your stomach to lift your hips just right.

His cock drags so deep, your thighs shake from the pressure, and the stretch is perfect—like he’s carving himself into you on purpose.

“This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he mutters, voice guttural. “So fucking wet—so ready to be used.”

You cry out as he pounds harder—faster—gripping your hips with both hands now, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal snap of his waist.

“You hear that?” he pants.

Slap slap slap. Wet. Filthy. Perfect.

“That’s you,” he growls. “Fucking dripping down my cock—making a mess all over my bench like a desperate little toy.”

You moan—loud. The vinyl squeaks beneath you. Your toes curl, your back arches—and you know it’s close. That heat low in your stomach coiling tight.

“Wanna cum?” he grunts, snapping his hips even harder. “Gonna let me make you cum on my cock this time?”

You nod frantically. “Please—please, Seungmin—”

“Beg properly.”

“I need it—I need you—I’m gonna—fuck—please—!”

He slams in one final time—

And you break.

You cum hard—clenching around him, gasping his name like a prayer, back bowed and thighs trembling, your body nothing but nerve endings and his. It hits like lightning—violent, hot, devastating.

Seungmin moans through his teeth.

“God—fuck—you feel so good when you cum—” he grits, voice cracking with restraint. “So tight, so—shit—don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me like that—”

He doesn’t slow. Not even a little. Seungmin just keeps going—thrusts deeper, harder, dragging your spent cunt right through the sensitivity like he wants to fuck you into a second orgasm.

You whine. Loud. High-pitched. Borderline sobbing.

“Too much—” you gasp, but your body says otherwise—clenching, fluttering, soaking him.

He groans, hips snapping into you again.

“I know,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I know it’s too much—but you’re taking it anyway, aren’t you?”

You nod. Shaking. Barely holding yourself upright over the bench as his cock slams into your soaked pussy again, again, again.

“You look so fucking wrecked,” he snarls. “Bent over this bench, fucked-out and dripping—mine.”

“Yours,” you echo—half-breath, half-moan. “Yours, Seungmin, fuck—!”

And that—

That does it.

He growls, deep in his chest, and thrusts one final time, burying himself to the fucking hilt—and you feel it.

His cock jerks once. Twice. Then—heat. Hot, thick, flooding you.

Seungmin’s cum spills inside you in brutal waves, pulse after pulse, spilling past your already-fucked entrance, dripping down your thighs with every twitch of his hips.

He groans—loud, broken—grinding in deeper as his release coats your insides.

You both stay like that for a beat.

Panting. Shaking. Silent except for the slow drip of your combined mess hitting the studio floor. His hands are still on your hips, fingers bruising, cock still buried deep inside you like he can’t bear to pull out just yet.

Finally—

“…fuck,” he mutters. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper. “You started it.”

He smirks. Breathless. Still inside you.

“You came first,” he says, voice hoarse. “That makes it your fault.”

You roll your eyes. Weakly. Legs trembling.

But when he finally pulls out—slow, careful—you both groan at the mess. His cum leaks from you instantly, hot and obscene, slicking down your thighs in thick globs.

Seungmin watches. Just watches. Then hums.

“Pretty,” he says quietly. “All ruined. Just like I wanted.”

You’re bent over the ink bench, gasping. Barely conscious of your own limbs. There’s cum dripping down your thighs, breath fogging the vinyl, your body throbbing in time with your pulse.

And behind you—

Seungmin exhales. Low. Spent. Quiet.

Then: zip.

The sound of his jeans being pulled back up, the belt loosely fastened with one hand as the other brushes through his hair. You hear it—the shift. The snap back to reality. To composure. To Seungmin-afterglow, where all that bite turns to balm.

You expect him to vanish, to go grab wipes or complain about the mess—

Instead, you feel his hands. Gentle. Soft on your waist. Carefully guiding.

He straightens you. Not rough. Not impatient. Just… careful. Like you’re something fragile now.

You blink as he eases you to sit on the edge of the bench again, his hands steady on your hips until your legs stop shaking.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod. Slowly. “Barely.”

He huffs a breath of a laugh—tired, wrecked, softer than before.

Then he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your forehead and mutters, “Good girl.”

You melt. Right there. Ruined part two.

He disappears for a moment—only to return with a full box of wipes, a towel, and a silver water bottle you know is his personal one.

“Open,” he says gently, uncapping it and holding it to your lips.

You sip.

He waits. Watches to make sure you don’t choke. Then: another sip. A wipe to your neck. Another for your thighs.

He doesn’t comment on the mess—doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just… cleans you.

Tender. Focused. A little too quiet.

He wipes the insides of your thighs slowly, scooping up the slick and cum and sweat and ink-tainted heat with barely-there touches. When you flinch, he pauses. When you shiver, he murmurs something under his breath you don’t quite catch—but you feel it. Like a balm.

“You’re doing fine,” he says eventually. “I’m almost done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shuts you up.

Once he’s cleaned every inch of you he marked, he helps dress you up again, pants and panties up but then he grabs his spare hoodie—crumpled on the back of his chair—and slips it over your head with no warning.

It’s oversized. Smells like cedar and ink and him.

He tugs the hood over your messy hair, then pauses to kiss the top of your head.

And that’s what finally ruins you.

Your eyes sting. But you blink fast. No way you’re crying in this hoodie.

“…Seungmin?”

He hums.

“You okay?”

His gaze lifts to yours. Tired. Sweet. Still a little dazed. Another soft hum in response. And then he's back in motion. Efficient again. Packing up the mess, tossing used wipes, wiping down the vinyl. He moves like he needs something to do with his hands or he’ll grab you again.

Once the bench is clean, he turns to you—really turns.

And in a voice way too soft for someone who just fucked the breath out of you against workplace furniture: “Wanna come back to mine?”

You laugh—hoarse, soft, still ruined. “Like this?”

He smirks. “I have more hoodies.”

You blink up at him.

“…And strawberries?”

He smiles.

"And strawberries."

You end up at his place that night. Still wearing his hoodie. Still barely walking.

He gives you a fresh towel and the softest pair of sweatpants he owns, sets you in the bathtub like you’re made of porcelain, and kneels beside it the whole time—washing your hair with slow fingers and kissing your shoulder between rinses.

You eat strawberries straight from the bowl while wrapped in his towel. He lets you finish the last bite before tugging you onto his lap and kissing you breathless all over again.

No sex that night. Not because he doesn’t want to—But because he already has you.

And maybe, he just wants to hold what he’s wrecked.

He lets you fall asleep on his chest. Hoodie, thigh over his lap, lips parted against his collarbone. He doesn’t sleep. Just watches. Fingers curled around your wrist like a habit he never wants to break.

And the next morning? He wakes you up with coffee. And a second round (Messier than before.).

And ever since that day? You just… kept coming back. Not for tattoos, though that’s still a bonus. No—now you show up for him. Your boyfriend. Your soft-spoken menace. Your chaos control. Your personal ink-stained sadist.

You still strut into NO SAINT INK like you own it—drink tray in hand, smug little smirk on your face, eyes locked on the back room like a predator in love.

You still flirt just to watch him clench his jaw. Still wear lace under oversized hoodies and whisper “miss me?” every time you lean against his worktable.

He still rolls his eyes and mutters “unbearable” without looking up.

But when the clock hits closing time?

And everyone is gone. The lights dim. The blinds are drawn. The door locks with a click.

Seungmin doesn’t pretend.

He pulls you into the back with one hand around your neck and the other already working at your zipper. He lays you across the vinyl like it’s a fucking altar. And he fucks you like he’s trying to tattoo his name inside your soul.

You moan like you were made for it.

And when it’s over—when you’re sore and sticky and boneless all over again—

He picks you up. Wipes you down. And kisses your forehead like you hung the moon. A ritual really. Because from annoying menace client, you are now his favourite annoying menace girlfriend.

Who still pisses him off about random designs and bullies him into doing them. And he still ends up doing them for you, except they are ten times better and equipped with all the loving bullying just for you.

Just for his favourite menace girlfriend.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #kim seungmin #seungmin x reader #seungmin smut #승민

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ambrosiagourmet · 1 year ago

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This episode of the anime made me realize something about Namari and her relationship with Tansu and his party. Before now I haven't been able to quite pin down how and why they start treating her more like family and less like a disposable bodyguard. But the anime conveys the shift so well!!

So, at the start of the episode, Tansu pulls Namari in the way of the undine's attack to protect himself. He's perfectly happy to let her die to save himself.

Kiki and Kaka both shout for him, but no one expresses a lot of care for what happens to Namari. This isn't remarkable to any of them. They do bring her back to the camp, of course, and Tansu resurrects her... at which point she starts yelling at him about how this is, in fact, a common thing.

Throughout the rest of the episode, there is a clear contrast in how the Tansu family all treats each other versus how they treat Namari. Tansu or Kiki being in danger is concerning. Namari getting hurt or killed is just part of the job. She is a meat shield, a tool they paid for and are using as part of this expedition. They take care of her, but they care about each other.

And though it's not exactly explicitly stated, Chilchuck's speech about reputation makes it clear why - they probably assume, because of her reputation, that this is how Namari views things, too.

From their perspective, Namari signed up to die a lot and get paid a lot. She is only there for the money, but acts upset when they don't treat her as a proper member of the party (and family). From their perspective, flawed as it is, she is asking for more respect than she will return.

That's not how Namari actually feels, though, and at the episode she tells Tansu as much:

And this is what changes things between them! Tansu finally sees her as more than a tool. For the first time, the party bonds with Namari as a person.

It's very fitting that this comes right after Namari realizes the value of Senshi's pot, too.

Just like the adamantine shield can be used for more than just fighting, Namari is more than just a tool and shield herself.

So they all share a meal, and things are different between them now. Tansu and his family will go on to treat Namari with more respect in the future, and they will begin to forge actual bonds. As complex as the layers of distrust, reputation, depersonalization and assumption are... In many ways it's as simple as that. How very like Dungeon Meshi. I'm so glad the anime made this finally click for me.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #namari #dunmeshi analysis

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literaryvein-reblogs · 1 year ago

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commonly confused words

accept: to receive except: with the exclusion of

advice: recommendation (noun) advise: to recommend (verb)

adverse: unfavorable averse: opposed to

affect: to influence (verb); emotional response (noun) effect: result (noun); to cause (verb)

aisle: space between rows isle: island

allude: to make indirect reference to elude: to avoid

allusion: indirect reference illusion: false idea, misleading appearance

already: by this time all ready: fully prepared

altar: sacred platform or place alter: to change

altogether: thoroughly all together: everyone/everything in one place

a lot: a quantity; many of something allot: to divide or portion out

angel: supernatural being, good person angle: shape made by joining two straight lines

are: plural form of "to be" our: plural form of "my"

accent: pronunciation common to a region ascent: the act of rising or climbing assent: consent, agreement

assistance: help assistants: helpers

bare: nude, unadorned bear: to carry; an animal

beside: close to; next to besides: except for; in addition

boar: a wild male pig bore: to drill a hole through

board: piece of wood bored: uninterested

born: brought into life borne: past participle of "to bear" (carry)

breath: air taken in (noun) breathe: to take in air (verb)

brake: device for stopping break: destroy; make into pieces

buy: to purchase by: next to; through the agency of

canvas: heavy cloth canvass: to take a survey; a survey

capital: major city capitol: government building

choose: to pick chose: past tense of "to choose"

clothes: garments close: to shut; near cloths: pieces of fabric

coarse: rough course: path; series of lectures

complement: something that completes compliment: praise, flattery

conscience: sense of morality conscious: awake, aware

corps: regulated group corpse: dead body

council: governing body counsel: advice; to give advice

dairy: place where milk products are processed diary: personal journal

descent: downward movement dissent: disagreement

dessert: final, sweet course in a meal desert: to abandon; dry, sandy area

device: a plan; a tool or utensil devise: to create

discreet: modest, prudent behavior discrete: a separate thing, distinct

do: a verb indicating performance or execution of a task dew: water droplets condensed from air due: as a result of

dominant: commanding, controlling dominate: to control

die: to lose life; one of a pair of dice dye: to change or add color

dyeing: changing or adding color dying: losing life

elicit: to draw out illicit: illegal, forbidden

eminent: prominent imminent: about to happen

envelop: to surround (verb) envelope: container for a letter (noun)

everyday: routine, commonplace, ordinary (adj.) every day: each day, succession (adj. + noun)

fair: just, honest; a carnival; light skinned fare: money for transportation; food

farther: at a greater (measurable) distance further: in greater (non-measurable) depth

formally: conventionally, with ceremony formerly: previously

forth: forward fourth: number four in a list

gorilla: animal in ape family guerrilla: soldier specializing in surprise attacks

hear: to sense sound by ear here: in this place

heard: past tense of "to hear" herd: group of animals

hoard: a hidden fund or supply, a cache horde: a large group or crowd, swarm

hole: opening whole: complete; an entire thing

human: relating to the species homo sapiens humane: compassionate

its: possessive form of "it" it's: contraction for "it is"

knew: past tense of "know" new: fresh, not yet old

know: to comprehend no: negative

later: after a time latter: second one of two things

lead: heavy metal substance; to guide led: past tense of "to lead"

lessen: to decrease lesson: something learned and/or taught

lightning: storm-related electricity lightening: making lighter

loose: unbound, not tightly fastened lose: to misplace

maybe: perhaps (adv.) may be: might be (verb)

meat: animal flesh meet: to encounter mete: to measure; to distribute

medal: a flat disk stamped with a design meddle: to interfere, intrude metal: a hard organic substance mettle: courage, spirit, energy

miner: a worker in a mine minor: underage person (noun); less important (adj.)

moral: distinguishing right from wrong; lesson of a fable or story morale: attitude or outlook usually of a group

passed: past tense of "to pass" past: at a previous time

patience: putting up with annoyances patients: people under medical care

peace: absence of war piece: part of a whole; musical arrangement

peak: point, pinnacle, maximum peek: to peer through or look furtively pique: fit of resentment, feeling of wounded vanity

pedal: the foot lever of a bicycle or car petal: a flower segment peddle: to sell

personal: intimate; owned by a person personnel: employees

plain: simple, unadorned plane: to shave wood; aircraft (noun)

precede: to come before proceed: to continue

presence: attendance; being at hand presents: gifts

principal: foremost (adj.); administrator of a school (noun) principle: moral conviction, basic truth

quiet: silent, calm quite: very

rain: water drops falling; to fall like rain reign: to rule rein: strap to control an animal (noun); to guide or control (verb)

raise: to lift up raze: to tear down

rational: having reason or understanding rationale: principles of opinion, beliefs

respectfully: with respect respectively: in that order

reverend: title given to clergy; deserving respect reverent: worshipful

right: correct; opposite of left rite: ritual or ceremony write: to put words on paper

road: path rode: past tense of "to ride"

scene: place of an action; segment of a play seen: viewed; past participle of "to see"

sense: perception, understanding since: measurement of past time; because

sight: scene, view, picture site: place, location cite: to document or quote (verb)

stationary: standing still stationery: writing paper

straight: unbending strait: narrow or confining; a waterway

taught: past tense of "to teach" taut: tight

than: used to introduce second element; compared to then: at that time; next

their: possessive form of "they" there: in that place they’re: contraction for "they are"

through: finished; into and out of threw: past tense of "to throw" thorough: complete

to: toward too: also; very (used to show emphasis) two: number following one

track: course, road tract: pamphlet; plot of ground

waist: midsection of the body waste: discarded material; to squander

waive: forgo, renounce wave: flutter, move back and forth

weak: not strong week: seven days

weather: climatic condition whether: if wether: a neutered male sheep

where: in which place were: past tense of "to be"

which: one of a group witch: female sorcerer

whose: possessive for "of who" who’s: contraction for "who is"

your: possessive for "of you" you’re: contraction for "you are" yore: time long past

commonly confused words part 2 ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#writing #writing reference #words #writeblr #literature #poetry #poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #creative writing #writing tips #lit #langblr #studyblr #dark academia #vocabulary

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samah-2 · 1 month ago

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Over 300 martyrs in just two days.

Due to the brutal and barbaric Israeli bombardment, Gaza is once again being burned under fire. Do you realize what's happening now is exactly what happened in 1948? History is repeating itself — literally. The same plan, the same goal, just different tools and methods. And just like back then, no one is standing with us. The world is watching, outraged, sharing images and videos, issuing statements of condemnation — but offering no real help, no real action to stop this nightmare. We are being erased, and the world is letting it happen

you may wake up one day and find out "There is no Gaza anymore"

If you don't want that happen, If you care about us, If you think we have the right to live not die, donate for us , share every single word about us. But not just sharing _of course sharing is helping _ But we are in need for your donations

Donate here

7# Verified By @bilal-sala7✅

#free gaza #free palestine #gaza #gaza genocide #gaza strip #help gaza #gofundme #gazaunderattack #gaza gfm #news on gaza

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bowtiepasta · 2 months ago

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you’re eating watermelon slices off of shoyo’s kitchen counter in his hoodie while he fixes a broken fan. it’s the middle of summer, and you can’t stop ogling him.

his hair’s grown, messy from humidity. a little darker too, with sun bleached tips soaked up on all the courts he’s played on. there’s a sliver of gauze still taped over his left pinky from yesterday’s serve-receive drills, and the hoodie hanging from your frame smells like that eucalyptus soap he found in a corner store and got obsessed with. says it soothes his sunburns.

speaking of, your eyes trail his shoulders — all freckled and golden from training in the heat, to the lines of his neck, where sweat gathers in hollow places and dips under his collar. he’s got his tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth while he concentrates, hands quick but gentle, almost like he’s afraid of hurting the fan more than it already is.

“you’re gonna fry,” you say, voice dry from the fruit, “if you keep sitting that close to the window.”

“can’t hear you. think the heat melted my ears.”

you toss a rind at him.

he dodges it easily and grins, wide and sleepy eyed. there’s a tan line on the back of his neck in the exact shape of the necklace he wears to practice. you only know because you helped him peel it off last night when he came home sore and stupid.

you take another bite. the watermelon’s from a street vendor down the block who sells it in hacked-up wedges, ice cold from a blue cooler. you’d walked back barefoot, because your sandals snapped and sho offered to carry them, but ended up forgetting them halfway through a story about some new blocking form he’s trying. the apology came in sugary form.

he grunts when the screw won’t budge, that tendon running down the side of his throat pulling taut. the new mole you didn’t notice until two nights ago, when he’d passed out on your chest after a beach run and a long shower, dances around on his chin.

“fan’s a lost cause,” he mutters, pulling the tool from between his teeth. “might throw it off the balcony.”

“you won’t,” you pop a seedless piece of watermelon into your mouth. “you love that stupid fan.”

“‘s not stupid,” he pouts, “it’s from kageyama.”

you blink. of course it is. a gift from his old partner, lugged across an ocean because it reminded them of a joke only the four of you would still remember.

(them including tsukishima kei, another old teammate, who somehow got dragged into both the trip to brazil, and the mess, completely against his will.)

you swallow your laughter, nudging a sweaty curl off his forehead with your pinky. “you know we’re gonna die in this kitchen, right?”

the cracked plastic base even has a sharpie doodle on it: a lopsided smiley and a thumbs up drawn onto the compartment you open to replace the batteries.

“ever the romantic,” he deadpans, but he leans into your touch anyway, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “at least you’ll be wearing my clothes.”

you grin. “buried in them, actually. put it in my will.”

he snorts, tossing the screwdriver onto the counter beside you and stretching out his arms. big baby. “maybe we should go swimming.”

“after you fix the fan.”

“fan’s dead too, baby.”

you suck the juice off your thumb and look at him, really look at him, bare feet blackened a little at the soles from the tile, right hand smudged with grease from the inside of the motor. there’s a healing blister on his palm. a faint shadow under his eye from waking up too early for runs on the beach.

you lean forward and kiss the corner of his jaw, slow and quiet. “then let’s go die in the ocean instead.”

he smiles like it’s the best idea you’ve ever had.

#romy is 5km away and lonely :(#haikyuu #hq #haikyuu x reader #hinata x reader #shoyo x reader #brazil hinata #hinata shouyou #hinata shoyo x reader #hq x reader #hinata fluff #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagine #hq hinata #hq shoyo #hinata shaped

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miedei · 4 months ago

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so many hills to die on

a case has you re-evaluating your tenuous relationship with spencer, coming to a head when the unsub triggers a confrontation.

cw: fem!reader, soulmate!au, angst/fluff, lighttt miscommunication trope, canon level violence and gore, descriptions of being bound and kidnapped, descriptions of stalking behaviour

a/n: this is probably my most ambitious fic ever, has been in my drafts for sooo long but I rallied and wrote it finally! merged these two requests about a soulmate au from this prompt list, and I definitely went overboard with the concept. title is from $20 by boygenius (lol), unsub name and picture of spencer from loml @siriuslylantsov

prompt: b...ody art (doodles that a person draws on themselves appear on their soulmate’s skin).

wc: 11.3k (holy shit)

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

Spencer Reid could say a lot about the phenomenon of transcorpal connections. The incidence of a level of mental connection between two individuals that manifests itself in the melanocytes in a person’s epidermal layer to reflect the markings that another person has exacted upon themselves.

Or, if Prentiss forced him to speak ‘like you’re a human 27-year-old, please’, it was the instance of two supposed ‘soulmates’ where drawings or tattoos on one person’s skin are reflected on the others.

Soulmates weren’t something Spencer took much stock in, to be honest.

A fated partner that some amorphous being has assigned him is not something he really believes in, not just as Dr. Reid, man of science, but also as Spencer, the guy who’s had to watch every loving relationship he’d ever seen end.

He’d seen his parents fall out of love, the little messages his father would write for his mother always there, until one day he’d seen his father write a to-do list on his forearm, the words never arising on his mother’s skin. He’d had whatever that was with Ethan, where he’d desperately hoped that his incoherent scribbles would eventually pop up on his friend-not-boyfriend’s arm, but never did. He’d seen Hotch, the last ‘Jack misses you’ message that Haley had written him still on his upper arm, no matter how long it had been.

The connections between people’s skin wasn’t anything he aspired to, not anymore. He could rattle off facts and musings about the instances of ‘soulmate connections’ in history for hours, but it held no more significance for him than it did as a profiling tool.

Hence, Spencer never really held out for anything to show up on his skin, not until it did.

You had spent years with your body, the parts of it you saw on the daily, and the parts you preferred to avoid in the mirror. The expanses of skin, littered with marks and scars from years of living, are familiar to you. Too familiar.

You’d spent years watching your friends, acquaintances, and even strangers' skin change. Like the first time, in secondary school, whenever you saw lines begin to form on a friend's hand, it always filled you with a strange sense of melancholy.

Of course, people lived whole, fulfilling lives without ever having a soulmate connection, and you’re sure your life wouldn’t be any different, but there was always that little thought in the back of your mind, every sighting of a couple on the street adding feathers to its wings.

What if. What if all that skin finally changes? What if you’ll finally experience the life-shattering love that soulmates are supposed to be?

You had always been holding out for something to show up on your skin, but it wasn’t until you’d least expected it.

Being the newest profiler in the famed BAU was more than daunting. It was terrifying, like hyper-aware-of-every-bone-in-your-body terrifying. Your transfer from Domestic Trafficking had been a long time coming, your experience in psychology and previous work under David Rossi making you the ideal candidate for the spot. You knew all of that, but somehow it didn’t dampen the nerves that coursed through your body every time you walked into the bullpen.

It’s your third case as an official agent on the team, and your fear of messing up the biggest leap in your career hasn’t waned. In a lull in the briefing that Hotch gives on the jet, you refer to the case file, questioning the tiny Garcia shown on the screen set on the surface in front of you.

“And this witness who wasn’t present? What’s that about?” You point to a name noted on the case file, which has very little information listed next to it.

“Yes, my love, that is a little strange.” Garcia’s slightly tinny voice floats through the interior of the cabin.

“She is a Mrs Amaya Walker, not technically a witness, seeing as, you know, she lives and works two hours away from the crimes, but there is a pickle.” As she speaks, Spencer slides into the seat across from you, and you flash him a quick smile as he slides a mug of coffee over the table to you.

“Our lovely Mrs Walker here saw a list pop up on her forearm, right when the last murder happened. Initially she didn’t think it was anything, but later she saw the press conference that the local P.D. did after the second murder-”

“Against my advice, by the way!” JJ pipes up from her spot on the sofa.

“Yes, against JJ’s advice, but once she saw it, she thought her little list might come as useful to the investigation.” Your tablets chime, a picture of a forearm you assume belongs to Amaya Walker popping up on the screen. The fax machine set up under the table whirs, and you pull out the printed version and pass it wordlessly to Spencer. The brown skin of her forearm is marred by scratchy handwriting, a list of household points of interest:

“Bedframe

Edge of coffee table

Light fixture

Oven door

Nightlight

Garage door

Silver spoon”

Your eyes widen, picking up your case file to compare.

“These are all…”

“Where the unsub left smears of the victim’s blood.” Spencer finishes your sentence, his eyes meeting yours with lines of confusion between them. The seemingly random smears of blood had been a point of confusion for you all when you did the initial walkthrough of the two murders back at the office. Each very far from the site of the murder, the team had concluded it had to be part of the unsub’s signature, although they were different for each murder.

This was part of why JJ didn’t want it released to the public, on the off chance that the publicity causes the unsub to escalate or double down.

“Yes, wonderful profilers, you’re correct. The list correlates with all the different spills of blood and…” Garcia shudders, “gore left at every crime scene. Her husband has refused to speak to the police, and she insists he has nothing to do with it, but the police are working on a warrant, they should be getting them both to the station tomorrow.”

“Yes, that is strange. Reid, L/N, you two go to the ME’s office, figure out if there’s anything we can get out of the method of killing. Dave, you go with Morgan and JJ to the most recent crime scene. Maybe we can get something more out of it. Prentiss, you and I will head to the first crime scene, see what we can see. Hopefully we can correlate that with whatever we get from Walker tomorrow.” Hotch’s stern, no-nonsense voice cuts through the confusion, and you all straighten up, ready to get to work.

The medical examiner’s office is chilly, and you regret forgoing a blazer as you step into the bright building from the warm evening air. Spencer laughs softly next to you, and he nudges your shoulder.

“Cold?”

“No.”

You speak resolutely, but the sparkle in his eye indicates he knows your lie. Grabbing the distinctive purple scarf from around his neck, he wraps it around yours, smiling when he meets your eye. The moment is only broken by the clip-clop of shoes coming down the hallway, and you both turn away hastily.

The ME walks up to you, his voice clipped and curt.

“You’re from the FBI? Come with me, please.”

You follow him into a room that smells overwhelmingly of formaldehyde. Two examining tables stand in the middle of the room, white sheets covering the bodies.

“The methods of killing were very different for each case, so much so that we didn’t put together that they were related until the police did.”

Spencer nods from beside you, accepting a clipboard from the doctor. Not bothering to read it, when he can do it in a fraction of the time, you converse with the doctor.

“Yes, we saw that one of the victims was stabbed, and the other strangled? That doesn’t track with any evolution we’ve seen before. Stabbing’s generally much easier than strangling, we usually see them go the other way around.”

He nods, pulling back the sheet on the second victim. You can see mottled bruises around his neck.

“Yes, the most recent victim, John Coulhain, was strangled. By the angle of the bruising, it’s clear he was attacked from behind, and by something that has both leather and metal in it. You see here, there’s a larger imprint from the metal segment.”

Spencer raises his head.

“It says here that he had just gotten out of the shower after work?”

“That’s right. He was found in only a towel. His clothes weren’t found.”

You frown, turning to Spencer.

“Leather and metal… that sounds like a belt to me. Coulhain was a lawyer. He wore suits to work.”

He picks up on your train of thought, continuing where you leave off.

“His clothes weren’t found. The unsub might have used his belt as a murder weapon, so he took the rest too.”

You turn to the medical examiner

“The first victim, Cohen Gibson, what sort of knife do you believe was used?”

He walks you over to the second table, drawing back the sheet so you can see the seemingly random pattern of wounds.

“They’re varying degrees of shallowness, but the shape of the wounds makes me think it was something medium-sized, probably stainless steel.”

Spencer leans forward, inspecting the wounds closely as he muses.

“Stainless steel isn’t the sort of knife you buy with the intention of violence. 54% of stainless steel knives are purchased for everyday purposes, like cooking.”

The ME walks you through the rest of the details of the murders, but the randomness of the methods of killing and the missing clothing stick with you.

An hour later, when you and Spencer walk out of the building into the dusk, it’s still on your mind.

“Reid, why would an unsub use a perfectly good knife for his first murder, but forgo bringing it to the next scene, and use his victim’s belt instead? That reads like a devolution, and this guy is still ramping up.”

“Maybe he’s relishing the deaths? Strangling takes longer, so maybe he realised that stabbing wasn’t going to give him the time with the body that he wanted.” He offers, but you can tell he’s not convinced.

“The scenes don’t show any sign of him lingering. And even if that’s the case, why not bring your own strangling equipment? A belt doesn’t give him the precision he needs in order to control the rate of death, especially one he just snatched off the floor.”

Spencer nods slowly as you approach the car.

“He doesn’t hesitate at all in killing them, but he doesn’t come prepared. It’s like he’s obscenely confident in himself, and doesn't think he needs to plan in order to pull it off.”

You slide into the car as your phone begins to buzz in your pocket. Fishing it out, you pick up the call.

“Hey Emily, you’re on speaker.”

She speaks immediately, forgoing any greeting.

“The first victim, Cohen Gibson. Was the weapon a stainless steel knife?”

You exchange a look with Spencer, replying quickly.

“Yeah, it was. Why do you ask?”

“Gibson’s wife just confirmed that their knife block is gone, along with six stainless steel knives.”

Spencer leans forward to speak into your phone.

“That makes sense. We think the unsub is showing up with no preparation because he believes he doesn’t need it. He’s a narcissist.”

She makes a distracted sound of affirmation.

“That sounds right. Okay, Hotch wants you to meet us at the hotel, we’re going to compare notes there.”

You go to hang up, before she speaks once more.

“Oh, one more thing, the local police department got the warrant to bring in Amaya Walker for an interview tomorrow. You guys should do that, she’ll be more relaxed with younger people there. If her husband has something to do with it, you have to get it out of her.”

Stepping out of the SUV the next morning, you and Spencer walk through the sliding doors of the Decorah P.D.'s office, greeted by the captain of the precinct.

“Hi, I’m SSA L/N, this is Doctor Reid.” You shake his hand, chuckling under your breath as you watch Spencer awkwardly avoid doing the same.

Once you’ve set up your things in the conference room they’ve allocated to you, Spencer turns to Captain Peretti.

“So, is Mrs Walker here? We’d like to ask her a few questions.”

Spencer is sitting in the chair across from Mrs Walker in the interrogation room, while you are leaned against the desk next to him.

“We really appreciate you coming in like this, I understand that this is a stressful time for you. Mrs Walker, what can you tell us about your husband’s whereabouts when the list showed up on your skin?” She’s being cagey, not answering your questions and clamming up whenever you mention her husband.

“Eric had nothing to do with it. I’m telling you, it was a mistake for me to come in, I’m sure it’s unrelated.”

She motions to the words on her arm, and you sigh. It looks like straight questioning isn’t going to get you anywhere. Spencer leans his elbows on the desk, looking at Mrs Walker, his brown eyes seeming larger in the dim light. His shirt sleeves ride up his arm a little, and a flash of dark lines shows before it’s covered again.

“Let me ask you this, have messages like this come up on your skin before? Whether they’re lists or not, have you ever seen anything show up on your left forearm?” She shakes her head mutely, eyes trained on the steel surface in front of her. You sigh, motioning discreetly at Spencer, and you both rise, walking out to the viewing area where Hotch and Emily are standing.

“She won’t say anything?”

“Only that her husband has nothing to do with it. But…” Spencer trails off, and you take the opportunity to finish his thought.

“But, she clearly has some hangup about the messages. When Spencer asked whether they’d showed up before, she said no, but it’s clear there’s more there.” Hotch nods thoughtfully. Lost in thought, you spin a pen in your hand, tapping the uncovered tip against the inside of your wrist, accustomed to the ink blotches that appear on the skin there.

Your eyes wander aimlessly as you do so, and land on Spencer, who is scratching at his forearm. It causes his shirt sleeve to ride up a little again. That’s when you see it.

Small marks are on his skin, more muted than you usually see them, but you’d recognise them anywhere. Your eyes widen, looking down at your own wrist. A constellation of ink dots and lines are scattered across the delicate skin, identical to the ones on Spencer’s wrist.

Is this really happening? Reid? Of course, you’d never been able to convince yourself you weren’t attracted to him, but he’s your coworker. He’s a large part of why you’re so nervous at the BAU. He’s not your soulmate… is he?

Hotch’s unflapped voice breaks through your racing thoughts. “Okay. Head back in, press about their relationship, not the list. Let’s see if we can find a weak spot.”

Well. Looks like you’ll have to contain this revelation until you’re done for the day. Your head reels with the discovery, but you have to put it aside in favour of the case.

Your mind made up, you snatch the pen off the table before following Spencer back into the interrogation room, steeling yourself with a deep breath.

“We’d like to get to know you a little more, Mrs Walker, if that’s alright with you. How long have you been married?”

She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, but answers readily. “Fifteen years. And no, there’s never been any red flags that make me think he would ever be capable of something like this.”

From his spot next to you, Spencer nods once.

“Okay, we understand. In your relationship, do you guys have any rituals to do with your connection? Like writing to each other throughout the day, or a code system or something with your skin?”

Her cheeks flush, eyes trained on her lap. You press further.

“What is it Mrs Walker? Whatever it is, we really need you to tell us.” No answer. Spencer leans forward.

“Mrs Walker, two men are dead. We’re doing our best to find whoever did it, but we need all the information you can give us in order to do that. You can help us prevent any more deaths.” She wraps her arms around her middle, but still doesn’t say a word. Following his lead, you slam a hand down on the metal table.

“Mrs Walker! I understand that, whatever this is, it’s personal, but this is not the time to be hiding information from us. Men are dead, and it's starting to look like the perpetrator had some connection to you. The local police have a warrant for your husband’s arrest. I want to help you get your family out of this mess, but you need to tell us everything you can. Now.” Her shoulders slump, and finally, you feel like she’s telling you the truth.

“I… I started getting the messages in September. They’re not- not from Eric.” A wordless conversation passes between you and Spencer. That was 4 months before the first murder. You turn back to her, nodding encouragingly as the words seem to spill past her parted lips.

“I never expected to have a soulmate. Or at least… to be able to speak with them. My husband and I, we’re happy! I didn’t care that we weren’t soulmates until…”

Spencer prompts her, leaning forward. “Until?”

“Until the first drawing showed up. It was just a doodle of something, I barely remember now, but we started writing to each other. In places that no one would see, the underside of my arm, or my ribcage. I didn’t- I never did anything! I love my husband, I do, and I would never-” She cuts herself off, holding up a hand to ask for a little time. A few minutes later, she pipes up again.

“I don’t know his name or anything. We talked about surface level stuff, you know? Favourite books, shows, things like that. I was never going to do anything about it, so I didn’t tell anyone.” You can’t help but raise your head, flashing a look at the one-way mirror, hoping Hotch will read the urgency on your face.

“This is good, Mrs Walker. Thank you for telling us. It’s going to take us some time to deduce whether this is related to the murders or not, but I hope you won’t object to helping us further.” Wordlessly, Spencer slides your notepad and pen over to her.

“I’m going to need you to write down everything you can remember from your messages. If there are any still on you, I really need you to write them down as clearly as you can. In a few minutes, one of our teammates will be in, and they’ll walk you through a cognitive interview, try and see how much we can recover.” The two of you rise, nodding to the officer stationed inside the door, but you pause when she calls out to you.

“Do you- do you think that it’s wrong of me? To stay in this relationship, when I know there’s a soulmate out there for me?” You go to speak, but Spencer beats you to it.

“Mrs Walker, the phenomenon of connections like these doesn’t necessarily mean that the relationship would be perfect. You love your husband, and you have loved him for years. A ‘soulmate connection’ doesn’t mean you should even be in a relationship. Many people don’t even believe it has anything to do with compatibility, those relationships are just as flawed as any other. Honestly, I sometimes think the expectations could hinder a relationship.”

It startles you a little, the emotion behind Spencer’s eyes when he speaks. Does he really not believe that a connection means anything? Your eyes can’t help but flick down to the faint marks on your wrist.

By the time you look up, Spencer is already in the doorway, looking back at you with concern in his eyes.

“You okay?” His voice is hushed, intimate, but it’s all you can do to brush it off. Walking back into the conference room, the team is already hard at work.

Spencer’s confused. Something clearly rattled you in the interrogation room, but despite his attempts to meet your eyes, it’s like you’re purposely avoiding his gaze.

He hasn’t taken the time to think about it, but whether that’s because he’s busy or because he’s worried, who knows?

What he does know is that you have quickly become one of his favourite people to work with. Hours spent hunching over maps together, inspecting crime scenes and interviewing witnesses have endeared you to him faster than he thought was possible. It’s this unexplainable fondness that leaves him reeling when the comforting smiles and shared looks are lost all of a sudden.

He attempts to push it to the back of his mind as the team runs through the case once more, Garcia’s tinny voice streaming through the room. However, he’s not fully in it, and the team notices. By the time they’ve concluded that a reinspection of the crime scenes and interviewing Eric Walker was necessary, Emily is eyeing him weirdly, and Morgan all but frog-marches him out to the precinct’s kitchenette.

“Kid. What’s going on?” The elder man braces his hands on Spencer’s shoulders, eyes blazing into his.

“You’ve been acting weird ever since the second interview with Amaya Walker, and so has L/N.” A sense of relief floods through Spencer, and he speaks earnestly.

“I don’t know! We interviewed Mrs Walker again, and it was all fine, but the moment we left the room it’s like she can’t look at me anymore. It’s making me feel all awkward.”

Morgan sighs, his fingers unintentionally digging into Spencer’s shirt.

“What did you say when you left?” Spencer bristles a little at the implied accusation, but can’t help but run through the last few parts of the interview.

“It was all normal, but then she- Mrs Walker, asked if she was wrong to stay in her relationship when she has a ‘soulmate’ out there.” He nods, prompting Spencer to continue.

“I told her what I think she’d agree with, that I don’t know if a connection would make a relationship stronger. I thought that was right, it felt like it soothed the witness.” A troubled look passes over Spencer’s face. He’s always struggled with social cues, but he thought he’d improved. Mrs Walker looked much calmer after he said that to her, and that was protocol.

Calm the witness, make sure they think you are in their corner. Gideon’s voice rings through his head.

“And that was it! We left the room, and then she started acting all…”

Morgan’s features are unreadable, but his hands relax on Spencer’s shoulders.

“Sounds like you need to figure out why she’s bothered. But, kid… Don’t let this affect the case.”

With that, he pats Spencer’s shoulder and walks off, leaving him pondering his words. Figure it out.

Spencer Reid is good at figuring things out. Maybe he can’t tackle this like Spencer, your bumbling coworker, but as Spencer, the profiler.

You’ve been at the first crime scene for only a few minutes, but the awkwardness is thick in the air between you.

Spencer has that infuriating look on his face, all furrowed brows and piercing gazes and so attractive it makes you want to pull your hair out. It’s making it so hard to try and detach yourself from him.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you sidle over to the evidence markers that tag the blood smears in this crime scene.

“So we’ve got… A side table in the master bedroom, a heart pillow that was in the living room and an elephant painting on the wall in the landing. All far away from the site of the murder in the kitchen.”

Spencer steps up next to you, still gazing at you unreadably, but opens his mouth to follow your train of thought.

“The blood spatters indicate that the attack began in the hallway, and the final blows in the kitchen. No blood anywhere else, nowhere near the smears.”

You nod, trying to run through the details of the case in your mind.

“The attack is rushed, hasty. All the stab wounds indicate a blitz attack and a lot of overkill, but the smears are calculated.”

He smiles, and it’s all you can to not turn and reflect that back to him.

“Right, no blood dripping anywhere outside of the murder, not even when he takes some to the different areas of the house to smear. The murder itself is charged with anger, but this is something more. It’s deliberate, it’s…”

You meet his eyes, finally, and voice what you know you’ve both concluded.

“It’s a message. But to whom?”

He holds your gaze, going to reply to you, but is cut off by the shrill sound of his phone ringing. With a sigh, he fishes it out of his breastpocket, holding the brick-like device to his ear.

Whatever he hears has him tensing, and you feel like a coiled spring, bracing yourself for whatever grim news is awaiting you.

“Okay Hotch, we’re leaving now, get Garcia to send all the photos to us.” He sets down the phone, looking at you.

“There’s been another murder.”

You stand at the clear whiteboard, surveying the images tacked on to it. The blood smears of the newest crime scene are pinned up next to those of the two previous ones, and it’s driving the two of you crazy trying to decipher what the patterns are. Spencer fiddles with his fingers, the marks on his wrist flashing as his sleeve shifts, sending your mind spiralling every time you notice them.

“A painting of a tree, and an orange. Let me ask you this, do you think the things themselves are significant or the locations of them?”

You shake your head slowly, trying to clear the fog from your mind. The both of you are silent, standing in front of the board with puzzled looks, when Morgan bursts in, waving around some papers.

“Got the pictures of Mrs Walker’s newest message.” He grabs a magnet and pins a picture of Mrs Walker’s calf to the centre of the board, two things listed there.

“Tree painting

Orange”

“Ok kids, we really need you to work your magic this time,” Morgan taps your shoulder.

“The cooling down period has gotten shorter and shorter. We can’t expect to get to tomorrow evening without another murder.”

You sigh, rubbing your wrist absentmindedly. The marks and your newfound realisation about Spencer haven’t left your mind, but have been pushed to the background for the time being. However, the frustration brings it back up. The connection. Does it mean nothing to him? Does he not think that it would do something for a relationship? You’ve always thought it would indicate that you belong together, wouldn’t you…

Your body moves without your go-ahead.

Eyes widen.

Shoulders tense.

Your arms reach forward, haphazardly grabbing and moving the lists until three pictures sit side-by-side on the board in front of you.

One is printed, a crude attempt by the CSU team to catalogue the items marred by blood. Two are images, words on skin. Words, the first letters of which spell out…

You grip Spencer’s arm, pointing at the first image of Amaya Walker’s skin, the second murder.

“Belongs. Spencer, the second crime scene.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge your use of his first name, leaning forward like you are. He zeroes in on the newest image.

“To. The third one. It’s an acrostic. The first letter of each item spell out his message.”

You move forward, writing the words ‘__ BELONGS TO’ on the board. You are feeding off of each other, thinking aloud in a way that has Morgan sighing to himself.

“She didn’t get a list for the first one.”

Spencer nods. “She didn’t notice. He had to show her.”

You grab the printed list of the items smeared in the first crime scene. “Side table, pillow, painting”

He leans over your shoulder. “He’s more specific than the crime scene techs were. Heart pillow, elephant painting.”

You turn to him, stomach dropping. “She. She belongs to…”

He writes in ‘SHE’ next to the two other words. “He’s possessive, something happened to make him think he doesn’t have her.”

“Narcissistic. Driven by ownership.”

“Eric Walker was here when the third murder happened. Who else would want to lay claim to her?”

You straighten up, meeting Spencer’s eyes, not looking away even as you address Morgan.

“Derek, where’s Eric Walker?”

“They released him from questioning an hour ago, he went home.”

You and Spencer spring into action, scooping up your abandoned holsters.

“We need to get to the Walkers’ house, now. Our unsub is taking out what he sees as competition, and Mr Walker’s all he needs to get rid of.”

In the SUV, you are jittery. Morgan sits in the driver’s seat next to you, and Spencer in the back. As you fiddle with your vest straps, you can’t help but think of Mrs Walker, the woman who never wanted a soulmate. And now her soulmate is trying to kill the love of her life.

Maybe Spencer was right?

Hotch is barking orders at the gathered agents when you step out of the vehicle. Nodding along, you fall to the back of the group, your designated role until you’re called to enter the house.

Your vest is uncomfortable. The straps are always too long or too short, and you have to get it right before you storm the house, but your thoughts are so loud, and Rossi on the phone with the unsub is so piercing, and it feels like you will never get comfortable.

Finally, you feel like giving up, until warm hands find purchase on your shoulders. Looking up, you see Spencer, standing before you with a slight, nervous smile. His hands gently move yours away from the straps, and he looks at you questioningly.

“Can I?” You nod dumbly, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

The touch is soft, tentative. He pulls at the straps dangling over your shoulders firmly, tightening the vest until it sits snugly over your chest. As if acting on instinct, he slips a finger under the kevlar, brushing the thin fabric of your shirt over your collarbone delicately. It makes you shiver.

“Is that good? Too tight?” His eyes are devastatingly soft, head tilted down to face you fully.

“No, it’s good. Thanks, Reid.” You have to get yourself away from the magnetic pull of him, stepping back and letting out a sigh of relief.

You walk away, heading Emily’s way, completely missing the look of confusion he aims at you as you brush past him.

Joining the circle of agents and officers, you tune into Morgan’s run down of the plan.

“Hotch and JJ will take 5 officers and break down the front door. Now, we know there are two other doors that the unsub will probably make a break for once we enter. Prentiss and I will be at the northfacing one, Reid and Rossi at the westfacing one. L/N, you and Captain Peretti should be stationed in the land behind the house, secure the outbuildings before the unsub can think to rush to them and destroy evidence.”

You nod, exchanging a glance with the police captain.

“Remember, this unsub is severely narcissistic and delusional. He won’t stop at anything to get what he wants, including opening fire on us. Do not engage him in a confrontation. Challenging his goals and views will push him further, and we don’t want any more casualties at the hands of this man.”

With a decisive nod, Morgan breaks away from the group, the people beginning to station themselves at their posts. With the captain at your side, you walk around the house to the field behind it, directing officers to each of the small barns and outhouses dotting the land.

With the captain, you stand ready at the large wooden door of what you think is a stable, when the crackling of your earpiece alerts you to JJ’s voice.

“We’re heading in on 5, 4…” You can hear a crash and a shout, and JJ’s voice turns hurried. “We head in now!”

A few minutes have you tapping your index against the side of your firearm, worried.

“He’s not here. We have Mr Walker here, multiple stab wounds but a relatively steady pulse. House is clear.”

Emily starts speaking. “He hasn’t gone through our door. Rossi?”

Rossi crackles out a negative response. Bringing your wrist to your mouth, you speak into the mic embedded there.

“If Walker’s still bleeding out, the unsub has to have just been there. Are there any other possible exit points?”

There’s silence for a second until Reid’s voice comes over the comms, frantic.

“There’s a northwest facing window that’s unlocked! Footsteps leading away from it, into the field.”

Immediately you spring into action, autopilot taking over as you direct multiple officers to search the surrounding woods, and the rest to clear out the outbuildings.

Counting down, the police captain kicks in the stable door, and you flick on your flashlight, advancing.

The large room is drafty, the old wood planks creaking with every gust of wind. At first glance, the dark room seems quiet and empty, and each movement of your flashlight seems to confirm this.

The only thing of note you see is the row of stalls along the left wall, the angle of the opening making sure that you can’t see into all of them.

Silently, you begin to walk towards them, signalling for the captain to follow. Despite the first few being completely empty save for some hay, a chill runs down your spine, bracing yourself for a confrontation that hasn’t happened.

As you begin to inch your way to the second-to-last stall, you hear a shout from outside the building.

“There’s someone in the woods!”

One of the officers rushes past the open door to the stable, and the captain raises her head immediately, dropping her defensive stance.

“That must be him. Let’s go!” Without waiting for a response, she turns, running out of the stable, as if she can’t hear your hushed whispers.

“Captain! This building hasn’t been cleared—” She’s gone. You can hear the rush of officers running past the building, towards the wooded area to the back of the property. Despite the high probability of the unsub being the person spotted there, you know you can’t leave this building without clearing it.

You really should wait for someone to do this with you. Never enter a potential crime scene without backup. Rossi’s voice rings in your ears.

But there’s only two stalls left. The rest of your team are still securing the house and the victim. The officers are gone.

You can clear two stalls on your own. They’re probably empty anyway.

Having made up your mind, you straighten up, tightening your grip on your gun and flashlight, and advance.

Slowly walking to the first stall, you turn the corner, quickly flashing your light in the small space. Empty.

One more.

The floorboards bend slightly as you walk across them. The wind rushing past the walls ruffles your hair. The metal of your gun is warm under your palm.

The wall of the final stall comes closer, closer, until you’re stood behind it. One step forward and a turn to the left, and you’ll be at the doorway.

It’ll be empty. They’ve all been empty.

You take the step, right foot planting in front of you, and turn on the balls of your feet, flashlight and gun extended in front of your chest.

“Hello, agent.”

Not empty.

The house is finally cleared, and Mr Walker loaded into an ambulance. As he watches the vehicle retreat down the road, Spencer hears the chatter over the comms.

“Is it him?”

“The woods are thick, how did he get here without us seeing—”

“—in pursuit of the person we saw—”

“He’s a white man, late 60s—”

“It’s not him! You hear me, officer? That’s not him, do not arrest that man!” Morgan’s voice cuts through the jabbering, voice stern.

They haven’t gotten the unsub? Spencer turns on his heels, striding back into the house, where Hotch, JJ and Rossi stand around the blood spatter on the floor.

“Spence. Doesn’t look like the unsub could’ve gotten to the woods in time, not before we were stationed in the field he’d have to cut through anyway.” JJ stands with her hands on her hips, irritation clear on her face.

“The other buildings on the property?” He comes to stand next to Hotch.

“I saw Captain Peretti. She said they were all cleared. CSU’s sending more units to secure all of them, but we’re not considering any of them crime scenes as she says it’s clear he hasn’t been in them. It’ll take a while for them to get here and secure them all.” Hotch replies, brows furrowed.

The door opens, and Morgan and Prentiss walk in.

“Everything okay?”

Emily huffs. “The locals almost arrested the elderly neighbour, but other than that, the woods are seemingly clear.”

Morgan adds, “There’s some trampled plants in the cornfield to the west of the property, so we’ve got officers searching that now, but that field backs up onto a major road. If he made it through that, he could be anywhere by now.”

Rossi sighs, shoulders slumping.

“I’m getting sick of this son of a bitch slipping out of our hands.”

“I agree. Rossi, go with Prentiss and Morgan to the road by the cornfield. Canvass anyone you find, ask neighbouring homes if they saw anyone emerge from the crops onto the road or lone cars idling. If he took that way out, he'd have had a car waiting for him there.” They nod, shuffling out.

JJ pipes up, her brow furrowed in thought.

“The smears were on a milk carton in the fridge and an envelope. Me. His message is finished, isn’t it? ‘She belongs to me’. What’s he going to do now?”

Spencer’s not sure. Hotch shakes his head exasperatedly.

“JJ, let’s go find Captain Peretti. We’ll head back to the PD and see what we can make with the old clues now that we think he had an intricate exit plan. Reid, stay here, get updating the geographical profile with the information from this crime scene. We’ll send L/N here to work on it with you.”

Spencer nods, heading to the SUV to grab his map, and settling at the Walkers’ dining table to get working.

It’s hot, sweltering. A throbbing pain thuds in your skull, the feeling of dry hay against your face making your cheek itch. Instinctively, you attempt to bring your hand up to brush it away. It won't move.

You jerk your wrists, but find them bound, and a dull pain pangs in your thigh. It’s clear you’ve been out for a little while, your eyes feeling crusted shut.

With a little effort, you prise your eyes open, feeling your pupils adjust to the darkness of the room. You’re still in the final stall, sprawled against the far wall. Another experimental tug on your wrist and you realise that they’re bound together, the coarse rope wound around your right thigh, forcing you to stay hunched over.

It all comes rushing back. Losing the unsub. Peretti leaving. The empty- no, not empty stall. The raspy voice that met your ears before the resounding blow to your head.

Twisting your hands awkwardly, you begin to pick at the rough rope, trying to map out the knot that keeps you in your uncomfortable position. Sweat drips in rivulets down the back of your neck as you crane your neck.

Your position ensures that you can’t survey the entire stall, but he’s got to be close. The property’s crawling with officers.

“I’m still here, sweetheart.”

The voice rings out from somewhere behind you, dark and smug. Your hand automatically makes for your holster, but the rope digs into your skin, leaving you unable to reach it.

“Don’t bother. You think I’d let you keep your gun?”

You can hear the bastard smirk, anger and fear running hot through your veins. Your gun is your lifeline in situations like this, as not only a means of attack, but a grounding feeling. Without it you feel unmoored.

The only thing you have in your arsenal is your knowledge of the case. Of him.

“Why don’t you come stand here? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of showing me your face.” Your voice is low, cracking with dryness.

Prodding him just enough should… there it is. You hear his footsteps, walking past your bent head until you can see his feet and legs, standing in front of you.

“That enough for you? You can see me now?” He crouches, squatting by your calves to show you his face.

He’s surprisingly handsome, flushed from the heat, dark eyes boring into yours. Dressed in a suit that’s slightly too large for him, he looks out of place in the grimy stable. He’s playing the role of a businessman, save for the gun dangling from his left hand, and the telltale bulge of another— yours— in his pants pocket.

This unsub is severely narcissistic and delusional. Morgan’s words come back to you now.

“You- you outsmarted us all. We were sure we’d catch you.”

A smile spreads over his face, his ego clearly swelling. You can see his shoulders relax slightly.

“You thought so, huh? I guess even the FBI has hubris.” His lips form the word hubris with some effort, pronouncing it as huh-brus. It’s clear he’s putting on airs.

You need to get the others here. You could wait it out, until the crime scene techs eventually make their way to this building towards the back of the Walkers’ land.

But he has two guns, and he wants Amaya Walker, not you. Who knows how long he’ll be content to lord over you, until he inevitably gets tired of playing with you. He has two guns.

How do you get a message to them? There’s no way he’ll let you have your phone, and this guy has no reason to contact anyone but Mrs Walker. He doesn’t need a phone for that, just a pen, probably in his jacket.

A pen. Spencer. That’s it.

“So, you and Mrs— um, Amaya. Are you guys going to meet in person soon?”

That does the trick. His eyes glaze over with an expression that would look love-drunk, if you didn’t know about the blood on his hands.

“Soon. There’s nothing keeping us apart now. I’ll go to see her as soon as I’m done here.”

“That’s why you’re dressed up? I think she’ll like that suit.”

His voice is deceptively soft, almost tricking you into forgetting how dangerous he is.

“I think so too. I borrowed it from a friend, John. She’ll like it.”

John Coulhain. The second murder victim, the lawyer. You resist the urge to gag.

“Yeah. It’s- it’s hot in here, isn’t it? Maybe you should take off the jacket and save it for when you see her. You don’t want to sweat through it.”

His metaphorical hackles raise, and you can tell he’s getting ready to stand and walk away from you.

“No, I don’t mean it in an insulting way, not at all. It’s just really- really warm in here. I’m sweating. Maybe Amaya would like to hug you when you meet her. She won’t want sweat on her.”

Your voice is wavering, eyes unable to move from the gun still in front of you.

It takes a long minute before he speaks again.

“Maybe I should take off the jacket. Just for a little.” He’s clearly loathed to admit his perceived fault, muttering to himself rather than speaking to you. Straightening up, you hear rustling above you, until the jacket falls in a heap in front of your bound wrists, part of the fabric falling on the tips of your fingers. You grasp it in your hand, wincing as the rope rubs the sensitive skin on your wrists raw.

As smoothly as possible, you hunch over further, settling in the foetal position, pulling the jacket to cover your hands a little more.

Seemingly not noticing your movement, you see his legs walk out of your eyesight, padding around you until he comes to a stop somewhere behind your body.

“Now, we’re going to wait here until your police friends are all done at the house. Then I’m going to take you with me, and we’ll go see Amaya. You’re going to be our witness, and then I’ll get rid of you, got it?”

His voice is unnervingly slow and deliberate, as if he’s fully convinced this plan will work. You wish you had that same conviction, but you’re sure you know how this is going to end. The stress of hiding out will surely break him, sending him into a spiral where he will either kill you and then himself, or kill you and let the police kill him.

You have to get them here before that happens. Heart pounding, you slowly inch the jacket closer to you, until your hands are fully buried in the folds of fabric. Feeling around blindly, you trace the inner lining of the expensive fabric until you feel a lip of material. The inner pocket is welcoming to your aching fingers, and you sigh, nearly delirious with relief when your index brushes against a pen. You were right.

Thanking whatever deity there is, you grip the pen, shoving it between your bound wrists, out of sight.

Tugging once more, you’re resigned to the fact that you don’t have the range of motion to write legibly on your forearm, hands laying uselessly against your clothed thighs. The nearest exposed skin is on your ankle, and you have no hope of contorting to reach that without him noticing.

Chancing a look behind you, you can see him hunched over his knees, muttering to himself. You don’t have much time left.

Deciding to make a rash decision, you grip the pen once more. Shifting so your left leg is hiked up, your wrists shoved between your legs, you take the pen, jabbing harshly at the fabric of your pants. Without being able to see, your aim is sloppy, but after a few minutes of brute force, you’ve ripped a jagged hole in your pants, near where your left calf meets your knee.

Tension runs through your body, shifting the pen in your hand so that you can write.

‘Spencer’

Spencer is stumped. Standing over the large map spread over the dining table, he can’t think of a reason why the unsub would ever leave the scene. This was his endgame, his final target until he could have Amaya Walker to himself. Why would a narcissistic sociopath flee after that?

Garcia’s voice comes crackling over the comms.

“My good doctor, it’s a little ridiculous that I had to use the PD’s satellite phone to get in touch with you. Do any of you pick up the phone anymore?”

He huffs out a laugh.

“We’re in the middle of farm country, Garcia. None of us have signal. Have you got anything?”

“You know I do. I took a look-see into Mr Walker’s history to see if he’d been stalked, and in multiple stretches of CCTV footage he’s being tailed by a white SUV. Including two hours ago, when he was on his way home. The car followed him on the main road, and pulled into their private road after Walker.”

“The car probably belongs to our unsub then. Do you have a name?”

“Do you even need to ask? Name’s Randall Slater, seems to tick most of the boxes of the profile. I’ll call back when I have more, Garcia out!”

Spencer slumps back in his chair. Sure, they have a name, but until he gets anything else from Garcia, it does nothing to help him with the geographical profile.

Wracking his brain for any possible lead, he doesn’t hear Hotch and JJ walk back in, not until they stand at the table with him, the police captain in tow.

“Reid. Where’s L/N?” Hotch speaks in a low and measured tone, but Spencer can tell that he’s worried.

“She’s not here yet. I thought you guys were going to send her here?” He raises his head, meeting JJ’s concerned eyes.

“She wasn’t with Captain Peretti.”

“When we were pursuing the neighbour in the woods, I lost her. I figured she’d come back to find you guys.” Peretti’s voice is tight with worry, and a tinge of something else that Spencer doesn’t have the time to decipher right now.

“Morgan and the rest haven’t heard from her?”

Hotch shakes his head no.

“Her comms have gone silent.” JJ brings a hand up to rub her temples.

“Captain, inform your officers that we are looking for Agent L/N as well. Hopefully there’s nothing wrong, but we can’t rule out the possibility that the unsub found a way to get close.”

Peretti nods stiffly, striding out of the room hurriedly.

He can barely wrap his head around it. You’re not checking in? If there was a word stronger than worried, he’d find it, but his brain seems to be wading through sludge at the moment. He hadn’t realised how untethered he feels when you’re not there, until now, where it feels like the only thing he can think of.

He can’t just sit around. Spencer straightens up, snatching his FBI windbreaker off of a chair and beginning to put it on.

“Okay, I’ll head out into the crop fields. If he took her as he fled, there’s got to be evidence of it.”

He’s already halfway across the room when Hotch calls out after him.

“Reid, no. You need to stay here. Work on the geoprofile.”

Spencer can feel the irritation bubbling up inside him, his voice straining with the effort of not yelling.

“Hotch, I’m not going to sit around here and do nothing when the unsub could have Y/N with him. If I can find—” Hotch cuts him off.

“We. Reid, I know you’re emotional, we all are, but you cannot forget that this is a team. We’re all prioritising this. You know that you are best used here. If the unsub took her, we need to locate that secondary location immediately, that’s what you need to be doing.”

Incensed, Spencer can’t help but raise his voice.

“Do we even know that he left? We profiled him to be a delusional narcissist, why would he ever leave? Hotch, I’m telling you, something is wrong here!”

Hotch’s eyes flash with emotion, and he opens his mouth, presumably explaining why Spencer shouldn’t leave. It’s all a moot point, however, because in that moment, he feels a burning on his left calf.

The one-sided conversation goes over his head as Spencer can’t help but tug up his pant leg, itching at his skin as he runs through possibilities in his head. The unsub could’ve done what they’d now theorised, taken you and dragged you through the cornfield, into a car that was waiting by the main road. But why?

He huffs, sitting down in a dining chair as he continues scratching at his leg. Hotch falls silent, but he doesn’t notice, lost in his thoughts.

“Spencer. Spence!”

JJ’s voice snaps him out of his haze.

“What, JJ?” He snaps, irked that he’s been pulled out of his thoughts.

“Spencer, your leg.” He follows her pointed finger to the exposed skin of his calf, red from his scratching. It looks normal, smattering of hair covering the dark moles and lines covering his skin.

Wait. Lines?

He shifts, hooking his ankle over his right knee so he can see his calf more clearly. Shaky lines are forming on the skin in jerky motions, spelling out words in a familiar script.

‘Spencer

unsub in stable

west edge

2 guns

wants amaya’

The handwriting is slanted, letters running into each other and words misspelled. And he knows it’s yours.

“Y/N. It’s her handwriting. She’s writing to me.”

He feels like he’s in an out-of-body experience. He can hear JJ’s gasp, but it feels as though it’s coming from miles away. Hotch is saying something, but the words don’t register as anything more than misshapen sounds.

Graphology is one of Spencer’s specialties, but now he wishes he’d never learned about it. He wishes he didn’t know that the harsh angles of your writing indicate that you have adrenaline pumping through your veins. He wishes he didn’t see the way your letters jumble together, a physical manifestation of your fear.

He slowly comes back to his body, finally understanding what Hotch is saying into his comm.

“—a stable on the west edge of the property. We need the three of you back immediately, JJ, Reid and I will coordinate with the locals to have the building surrounded. Reid, can you hear me? Reid!”

Spencer nods, looking up at Hotch.

“We need to know what’s happening in there. Is she hurt? Can she overpower him?”

He agrees, snatching up a pen and wracking his brain on what to write.

‘Are you hurt?

Are you armed?

Can you talk him down?’

He writes carefully, focusing on the drag of the ballpoint pen on his skin rather than the pure fear riddling his body. Once finished, he doesn’t set down the pen, fiddling with it in an attempt to stop himself from running to the building immediately.

JJ sets a hand on his shoulder, and although he’s grateful for her support, he can’t bring himself to look at her. He can’t look away from his leg. He has a soulmate.

You’re laying at an awkward angle, neck craned and back hunched over so that you can read what Spencer’s written.

Are you hurt? Your head hurts like hell, and the rope has irritated your skin to no end, but nothing that impairs you. You write a shaky ‘N’ next to the question.

Are you armed? You chance another look behind you, looking longingly at your gun in his pocket. Another ‘N’.

Can you talk him down? Can you? You remember the many times Rossi tutored you on interacting with narcissistic unsubs. Learn what they want, promise they will have it, and don’t challenge them. What does he want?

You decide you can, writing a small ‘Y’. Next to that, you scrawl hurriedly, hearing him shift around.

‘bring amaya’

With that, you stuff the pen in your sock, relaxing your body and hoping you don’t look like you’ve been up to something.

The unsub is unsettled, and you can hear him oscillate between standing and sitting repeatedly.

If you want to take control of the situation, you need to act quickly. He’s losing patience with you and the officers outside. If you wait too long, he’ll snap, and then you’re done for.

A final peek at your calf finds the words ‘5 minutes’ etched there.

Five minutes to talk him down. You can do it for five minutes.

You croak out lowly, vocal chords rasping against each other.

“I— I spoke to Amaya. When we were investigating. She told me about you. About the two of you.”

You can hear him stop moving abruptly, and then the patter of his feet as he walks quickly to you. He comes to a stop right in front of your face, your eyeline taken up by his feet and ankles. He speaks in a hushed tone, as if tasting the words carefully before speaking.

“She did? What did she tell you?”

“She said you’d been talking for a while. That it started when you drew a flower on your upper arm? She drew it for us.”

His voice has regained some of its smugness as he replies. His feet are tapping softly, as if he has all the time in the world.

“Of course she did. She loves me.”

You nod jerkily, continuing with your waffle.

“It's clear she does. I'm— in the FBI, I'm a profiler. I'm an expert on human behaviour, and I could see it, despite…”

You trail off, hopeful that he'll take the bait. He does, voice gaining a dangerous edge.

“Despite? Don't let me stop you from speaking your mind, agent.”

“Well, she was scared when we spoke. You know, suddenly there were all these dead bodies that were linked to her. She was pretty shaken.”

His tapping stills.

“Because of the bodies? I did that for her. For us!”

“Yes, I know. It's romantic, really. But, it scared Amaya a bit. It's all so sudden, you see. She was a little freaked out, especially because you hadn't told her about it.”

He's silent for nearly a minute, breathing heavily.

“She's angry about what I did for her?”

“No, not angry. I know she'll understand. You did it for her, she'll love it. She just… wanted to know from you, instead of the police.”

There. You've set your trap, and hopefully he'll fall right in it. Rossi's good-natured lectures play out in your head.

Never challenge a narcissist directly. Make them worried, but never tell them outright that the object of their desire isn't going to be theirs.

He feigns nonchalance, but you can hear in his voice that his narcissistic possessiveness is warring with the uncertainty you've introduced.

“Your friends had better be leaving. I've got to get Amaya, and if that takes too long, it's on you.”

You fall silent, hearing him mutter to himself as he begins to pace. If you push further you might be toeing the line too far.

The five minutes are almost up, you've got to believe that you've done enough to help them talk him down.

As if on cue, you hear the familiar crackle of a megaphone. Rossi's voice, albeit muffled, comes booming towards you, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Randall, we have the building surrounded! Let the agent go and we can end this peacefully!”

The unsub, Randall, you suppose, straightens up, and you see him walk cautiously away from you. He walks to the far wall of the wooded building, and you catch a glimpse of him peering through the wood planks. He swears, shoves his gun into his waistband and paces hurriedly back to you.

“You bitch. Did you tell them? Huh? Did you?” He grabs a hold of the rope binding your wrists to your thigh, tugging you up to face him. The rope cuts harshly into your skin, forcing your right leg up at an unnatural angle to follow your wrists.

“I didn’t! I didn’t tell them, I don’t have my phone!”

Wrong thing to say. His eyes darken, and you see his hand twitch toward his gun.

You’re so close, you just need to show him what he’s here for. You hope Spencer got Amaya here.

“I can get you to Amaya! I swear it, if you let me talk to them, I can get them to give you Amaya.”

It works. He doesn’t let you go, and you whimper at the feeling of the rope cutting you, but he pauses, and you can see him thinking it over in his head. It takes one long minute, but he seems to make up his mind.

“No funny business. I’m going to be right there, so don’t even try sending them any messages, got it?”

You nod, and he whips out a pocket knife, using it to slice through the rope. You let out a deep sigh of relief, your right foot meeting the floor so you can finally stand alone. Blood seeps from the cuts on your wrists and thigh.

He grabs you by the throat, pressing himself to your back, and you register the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your side, where your vest doesn’t cover.

As he half marches, half drags you to the large door, he hisses in your ear.

“I don’t want to hear anything other than Amaya, got it? You say anything that doesn’t have to do with getting her here, I shoot you.”

You nod wordlessly, stumbling towards the door. He comes to a stop right behind it, and maneuvers around you to shove it open, thrusting you out into the fading light of the evening.

Blinking rapidly, you slowly focus on the cavalry in front of you. Multiple SUVs are parked at a three meter’s distance from the stable, doors flung side open so the officers and agents can huddle behind them. A few steps away from them stands Rossi, the sight of him sending a rush of comfort through you.

Rossi clutches the megaphone tighter, and you notice he’s speaking to someone by the SUV in front of him— Oh. Spencer is crouched at the car right in front of you, silver revolver glinting in his hand, and his eyes trained on you as he speaks to Rossi.

It feels rather stupid, but you can’t help but note how pretty he looks, hair tousled and jaw clenched.

You’re pulled out of your reverie when Randall jabs you in the side with his gun, making you yelp.

“Now.” He warns. You straighten your neck, making eye contact with Rossi.

“He’s demanding to see—” Another jab. “—to have Amaya Walker. Please bring her out.”

As you speak, you take your right hand, which was dangling at your side, and bring it up to your pants pocket. Making a gesture that resembles a gun, you slip it into your pocket softly. There’s no significant signal that they’ve understood, but you see the skin around Rossi’s eyes pinch, and you hope you’ve gotten the point across.

If they can get him to move just a little, you can retrieve your gun from his pocket and incapacitate him. And the only thing that will get him to move now is Amaya.

Rossi brings the megaphone back up to his mouth.

“We can get her here, but we need a guarantee that you won’t harm this agent. Randall, can you do that? Give us Agent L/N, and we can get you Amaya.”

Incensed, Randall hits your side harder with the barrel of his gun. You see Spencer and Morgan twitch forward slightly.

“No! I want Amaya here, now, and I’m not letting your girl go until I see her!”

Rossi nods quickly, signalling to someone behind him. At that motion, JJ emerges from who-knows-where, Amaya Walker in tow. The older woman is wearing a bulletproof vest, her face ashen at the sight in front of her.

They walk forward until they’re standing by the cars.

At the sight of her, Randall relaxes slightly, but not enough to where you can easily maneuver to your gun. Shaking your head slightly, you see JJ prompt Mrs Walker.

Her voice is shaky and quiet, but you know Randall is hanging on to every word.

“Randall. That’s your name? I’m—” She chokes back a sound. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

Randall makes a pitiful noise from behind you.

“They said you were scared of me.”

JJ prompts her again.

“I- I could never be afraid of you.”

At that, Randall lets his hand fall from your throat, and you move. Whipping around, you shove his gun away, diving into his pocket and retrieving yours. You straighten, pointing your gun at him as steadily as you can, with the wobble in your right leg.

He attempts to run to Amaya, but JJ’s already swept her away.

“Randall, surrender now! You’re surrounded!” Rossi’s voice booms, but it only serves to madden him further.

With a roar of anger he begins to charge to you, and you squeeze, before collapsing. The bullet hits his thigh, the last thing you see before you pass out.

It feels like hours later when you come to, but it's clearly only been a few minutes. You’re sitting on something hard, cold metal, but your back is being supported by something warm.

Only a few beats pass until the sounds come rushing back. You hear the chatter of multiple people around you, but three voices come the clearest. One is deep, interjecting intermittently to the conversation.

The other is calm and melodic, speaking in a steady rhythm that doesn’t falter at all.

The last is hurried, speaking so quickly that it feels as though it all runs into a pleasant hum. They’re clearly asking questions to the second voice, but you can’t fully understand what they’re saying.

You want to know who it is. With an immense amount of effort, you prise your eyes open, blinking blearily at the lights.

“Hey, there she is.” There’s that deep voice. Turning to it, you see a familiar face. Derek smiles at you softly, his hand coming up to rub your shoulder.

“You had us worried there, sunshine.”

Looking around dazedly, you can finally take in your surroundings. You’re sitting in the open doors of an ambulance, the evening having given away to the darkness of night. Headlights from multiple cars light up the area, leaving you spaced out.

There’s a medic standing next to Derek, tending to the cuts on your thigh. Who’s the last voice?

You twist around, much to the chagrin of the medic, but their protests fall away when you see him.

Spencer sits next to you, your back leaning against his side. His eyes are worried, pinched together, but still lovely.

“Hey.”

It’s simple, but the word seems to mean something more, when it’s coming out of his mouth, and when he’s looking at you like that.

You’re frozen, unable to speak. The medic pats your knee, saying that the rest of your patching up should be done at the hospital. Derek walks away after kissing your forehead. You can barely say goodbye to him.

It’s only once you’re relatively alone that Spencer speaks again. You turn to face him, immediately missing the heat of his torso against your back.

“Was… this why you were acting differently?” He raises his leg, pulling up his pant leg to show you the words on his skin.

You nod.

“You said you didn’t think it was real. I didn’t know how to tell you yet, and then— it was the only way to contact you.”

You see his hands raise slightly, but refrain from touching you. You want him to touch you.

“I don’t know if I believe in it. But… Even without it, I wanted this.” His words are achingly sincere, and his hand comes to rest over yours.

“Wanted it since we met.”

Your breath hitches slightly, and you turn your hand to hold his, your wrist with pen marks meeting his.

The words don’t come to your tongue, but you’re sure he knows. He figured it out.

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theincantation-if · 1 month ago

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☽ DEMO (TBA)

Those who never learn history are doomed to repeat it.

There is something wrong with your blood, the others sense it when they look at you. Your parents said it’s what makes you special, beloved. You wish it to be true. You are ten when you notice the change, the thing that courses in your veins, wishing to be released, but you don’t know how.

You are thirteen when it releases itself. Anguish, grief, rage. Power. It destroys everything around you, it strives to kill, and it does. It is that fateful day that lands you here, trapped and caged within the walls of the Gilded Palace. This is the place you believe you will die.

Until you don’t, you’re kept alive. Here, against your will. Trained and yielded to be a tool. In the next ten years of your life, you will become a prized captive under the King’s guard. Wallowing in hate, waiting for your time to come to an end. Then the dragons appear, the royal family is assassinated, a rebellion ensues, and all the problems are pointed towards you.

Can you prove your innocence? Is it even worth it to try?

The Incantation is rated 18+ for violence, death, abuse, explicit language, unhealthy relationships, morally questionable characters, suggestive content, and possibly more triggers pending.

☽ Play as a witch of your own making.

Customize your character.

Build your relationships with those around you.

Learn more about the power that plagues you.

Form yourself into a weapon of your choosing or become the monster they made you out to be.

Save the kingdom or doom it to eternity.

☽ Romance one of four love interests.

Evander Alazar. (he/him)

Evander is the crown prince of Elyssia. Often charming and elusive, Evander hides behind a mask of arrogance and indifference to get through courtly life. Yet, forced into a role he never wanted - Evander must quickly assume the role of monarchy to keep his kingdom safe. Will it be sink or swim for this young prince?

Trope: Forbidden Love. He shouldn't look at you, you are considered an enemy of the kingdom. He should order your death. So why is it, that when you look at him - his heart seems to stop beating?

Theodore/Theodora "Teddy" de Peyster. (he/him) or (she/her)

Teddy is the crown prince's sworn protector. Noble and steadfast, Teddy is everything the kingdom needs to survive. Born to the retired parent's of the King's guard, all Teddy's life has been is violence and warfare. Is it possible for this knight to rise to the challenge or will they fall on their sword?

Trope: Sworn off Love. The knight cannot afford any mistakes, no matter how small. They keep everyone at a distance, relationships lead to a mess and a mess is a big mistake. But when you smile - they feel a crack appear in their armor.

Maeryn Toussaint. (she/her)

Maeryn is a priestess, belonging to the Church of Estrellas. Frequently skittish and consistently pious, Maeryn has never set foot outside of her convent. That was until the rebellion, where her prophetic abilities could help turn the tide. Can she save the kingdom, or doom the world?

Trope: Love at First Sight. She has never had anyone look at her like she wasn't broken. It's gotten to the point where she believes it too. Yet, when your hand touches hers - she has never felt more put together.

Hartford Moss. (cis) or (non-binary)

Hartford is your best friend, or was at least. Long gone is the vibrant curiosity of childhood, the destruction of Hartford's home leaves nothing but grief in their eyes and regret in their heart. Until they see you again. Will you stay together this time or will fate rip you apart?

Trope: Friends to Lovers. No one has ever seen every piece of them and understood them; their soul is bare, yet people look and don't see. However, you have seen them all of them and never looked away - it makes their head spin.

#interactive fiction #if intro #choicescript #if wip #interactive novel #interactive story #choice of games #hosted games #the incantation if #interact-if #cog #cyoa

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dragonsondragons · 1 month ago

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Part 1 - That Look In Your Eye | You Should Probably Leave series

You make big, bad, Jack Abbot nervous in a way he really isn’t used to. He fumbles his first attempt to invite you to the party, so Dr. Ellis gives him a crash course in how to get the girl.

Word Count: 3.9k

Content: yearning!jack, medical social worker!reader, reader is Jack’s work crush, slow burn, Jack on his #healingjourney, awkward abbot, unspecified age gap, named reader because I dont like using y/n (named her Nel, short for Eleanor. And yes Nel will be friends with Mel)

Read the Prologue! / Masterlist / Taglist

Author's Note: Sorry this took me sooo long to get together! I have the next few parts mapped out well and and mostly written tbh but was struggling so hard with how to introduce their interaction and dynamic in this part. Also, I would highly highly recommend reading the prologue before this part. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

In the Pitt, Jack was seen as a very confident man. He knows exactly what he’s capable of and precisely how to execute it most efficiently. It's one thing unshaken in all his years practicing medicine. No matter how low he’s felt– in war zones, in the pitt– he always stays steady under fire. Words and procedures are tools. He uses them to achieve a goal: keep the patient alive. Be calm, cool, concise.

It's something he learned in combat, that medics aren't just healers and fighters. They are a source of confidence for the whole platoon. They set the tone. A force multiplier. He was supposed to keep a level head and know what to do, no hesitating. If he stayed cool everyone else would follow suit.

He had to to seem confident on the outside, but never let himself feel it too much on the inside. If you feel too confident, you start to forget that there is just one critical moment, one mistake, standing between your patient and death.

Jack couldn't help but feel that way now, like he was one mistake from ruining his chances with you. Deep breath. No ones going to die, he repeats in his head. It's one of the constant reminders he’s had to give himself when anxiety spikes. Another deep breath.

He was supposed to be a confident guy. Asking out the girl you liked shouldn’t be so hard.

But there was a disconnect for him, between what was shown to the world– a self assured master of his craft– and what he felt on the inside. Analyzing every little mistake so that he can be better for next time. Never letting himself feel too secure, always striving for better. Battling between his desires and that loud voice inside, telling him to isolate.

Because of that voice his social confidence was a lot more shakey than his work persona. For the most part he can fake it till he makes it or keep enough distance from people that it doesn't matter. But then there was you, slowly drawing him out of his shell. Bit by bit so that he barely saw it coming until it hit him like a truck. He should have seen it a long time ago. But he likes you and there's no denying it now. He's decided he's gonna try and do something about it, and that requires some guts and smooth talking he’s not sure if he's capable of.

He pulls into his parking space in the hospital garage, yearning for you hard. He worked himself up all the way here and now that it's at the forefront of his brain he can’t resist the urge to be near you.

You’ve got the guts, he tells himself, willing it to be true. Just invite her to the party. Just be yourself? Is that who he wanted to show her? This fucked up guy who can barely work up the courage to ask her one simple phrase. There it goes again; his mind working against him.

He walked in through the ambulance bay, backpack slung over one shoulder. Immediately, he saw you. You were sitting at the hub checking the patient census that had just come into your inbox from the day shift and radiating something bright. Maybe it was just him who saw you as the sun.

Now or never. He walked towards the large central desk and slung his backpack under an inner counter. He leaned down on his elbows behind the computer you worked at, thrumming his fingers against the counter top. “Hey, You.”

His familiar greeting made your stomach flip and you couldn't help but smile. It had been a few days since your shifts had aligned. “Good evening, Dr Abbot,” you hum to him, eyes tearing away from your screen to look up into his hazel eyes.

Suddenly his pep talk to himself in the car flew out the window. With you sitting right before him, everything inside his mind was gone. You sure didn't mind gazing into Jack’s eyes, in fact you enjoyed it, but the silence was dragging on so you broke it.

“Missed you at lunch yesterday. I had to eat with Shen and he would not shut up about a big high pressure weather system moving in or something.” There was a pressure system building in Jack's chest. He wanted to respond but was caught up inside his mind. Missed you at lunch, echoed in his mind. She missed me? More pressure flared.

“Everything okay, Jack?” you asked, head tilting as you looked at him so caringly.

“Huh?”

“Seems like you’re somewhere else right now. And that look in your eyes, there’s something you’re not telling me.” She could always read him like a book.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Got a lot on my mind right now.” He was going to continue to deflect, as usual. But she was already onto him. This was his chance. Might as well just come out with it. “Actually I uh was wondering of yo–” Your pager screamed out through the ED and you looked down at it on your waistband. He deflated.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, dayshift always has them on the highest volume.” You read the message coming in and started gathering stuff from the desk around you. “I have to get going to see this patient before discharge. What was it you were wondering though?”

“Uh… I, um. I was just gonna ask if you, um. Brought your lunch today?” Fuck. He lost all his steam when that pager went off.

“You know I always do.” You were standing up from the swivel chair now. “Same time as usual? Just page me if you're not gonna be able to make it?” He gives you one of his awkward thumbs up with both hands and says “See you up there,” as you turn to go see the patient. You smile back over your shoulder at him.

He leaned down and put his head between his hands on the counter top while chastising himself for his failed attempt at asking you out.

He hadn’t registered Dr. Ellis off to the other side of the hub during this whole interaction, having been so focused on whatever it is between him and you that draws him in. A laugh burst out that snapped him out of his pity party. “What the hell was that, Abbot?” said Ellis, thoroughly amused at seeing a guy like Dr. Abbot who is so typically composure and competence fumble. “You can do a REBOA in your sleep but can’t flirt with a woman?”

He lifted his head slightly and glared. “Who said I was flirting?”

“Well, you certainly weren’t successfully flirting. But it would take a fool not to see that you like her.” He laid his head back down and groaned at that. Despite his current embarrassment, Jack liked working with Dr. Ellis more than most other people. He appreciated her no nonsense approach and deft skills. And the fact that she's not afraid of him. She will tell it to him like it is. He knew that interaction was bad, but if Ellis was confirming… then it was really terrible.

“I don't know, I just… panicked.” How can he stay so calm when someone’s bleeding to death but couldn't do this one thing when faced with you.

“Did you bring your lunch?!” she echoed him. “That was really what you came up with? What were you really trying to ask her?” He hesitated. But Ellis seemed to already know so much about this whole situation. Guess he wasn’t as close to the chest with his crush as he thought. Maybe he should let her give him some advice.

“I’m having a party at my place soon, and I was trying to ask her to come,” he admitted.

Ellis raised one eyebrow. “You're having a party?” She never thought she would hear that come out of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, I'm having a party for everyone from work, you’re invited. That's not the point. Point is I had my chance and I chickened out.”

“Yeah, you did. You have absolutely no game, old timer.”

“I have game, just… not in that particular instance. I'm out of practice,” he tries to defend himself.

“Clearly. But I can help you with that.”

“She totally can,” Dr. Santos interjected. Santos had been trying out a rotation on the night shift and had just finished up with a patient in curtain 3 nearby. Always the eavesdropper, she tuned in to the conversation between Abbot and Ellis as she had approached the hub. “Dr. Ellis has got mad game, trust me.” Ellis rolls her eyes at the overzealous intern. “Wait–we’re talking about you getting nervous around Nel right?”

“Wha-No. I don't get nervous around Nel.” Both women scoff at him. Jack’s eyes widen and turns to Ellis for a sidebar. “How do you both know about this? I don't want to make this a thing. If she's not into me I don't want her to be uncomfortable at work.” He can't be careless about this, needs to do it right.

“Abbot, be so serious,” she deadpans. “She’s totally into you.”

“You don't know that,” Jack huffs. How do they know if you're into him? He barely let himself know he was into you until therapy earlier today. Santos and Ellis share a look. Santos butts in again, “Dude, it's so obvious. Her eyes literally twinkle when you're in the same room.”

“Don't dude me right now, Santos,” Jack snaps. Do they? Twinkle for him? He hopes so. But he doesn't want to get his hopes up. God, this whole thing is putting him so on edge.

Ellis sees how uncomfortable Jack’s getting and jumps in. “The grownups are talking here, Dr. Santos. Guy over in North 12 needs his bowel dismipacted, go.” As she reluctantly leaves to go handle the literal shit that's been assigned to her, Ellis tunes back into the conversation with Jack.

“She's right though, it's obvious you're both smitten. You’ve just gotta shoot your shot, man.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself at the thought. “What are you planning to say?”

He hesitates. Drums his thumbs against the counter top again. “How about I'm having a party. You can come, if you want.”

“God, this is why I date women. You're useless.”

“You said you would help!”

“Look–that's way too passive. Sounds like you don't care if she comes or not. Women like when you're sincere and confident. Usually that's your forte, but I guess not when you’re nervous about your crush. Try to tune in to that Abbot, ya know, direct and to the point.”

If I say what I actually mean, Jack thinks, it will be ‘I think you're smart and caring and beautiful, and I like spending time with you at work. And more than anything, I’d like to see you outside of this hell hole…preferably…all the time.’ He’s staring off into the abyss now.

“Oh my god, you're so in your head. Just be normal, be yourself! Say Hey, I'm having a party. I would really like it if you came.”

“Got it, yeah. Be normal.”

She huffs at his nervousness. “If you don't grow a spine and ask her out, I will,” Ellis jests, giving him a little incentive.

“C'mon, give me a chance here.”

“She's hot, kind. Seems like a really great person. So you better snatch her up before someone else does.”

—

It was just before 1am when your stomach started to grumble, queuing you that it was almost your normal “lunch” time. You finished up your case note you were working on, grabbed your food from the breakroom fridge, and headed up to the roof.

Lunch with Jack was always a highlight of your shift. No matter how shitty a patient had treated you or how many problems you had encountered that day, sitting with him for just a few minutes always made it feel like you were free of the hospital. Returning to your shift after those moments with him, the fluorescent lights turned softer and long hospital hallways less suffocating.

It happened by accident really, the two of you becoming lunch buddies. You brought your lunch box up to the roof to get some air while you took a break. He was already up there, leaning up against the railing staring out at the city beyond the hospital. He wasn't expecting a visitor, didn’t encounter many others up there, but suddenly there was you. An angel of the night.

When you pushed open the door of the stairwell to see him staring out at the skyline, you remember thinking that this man looked like a beacon high up above the rest of the city, standing steady and sending out a signal. Looking out over the whole city and asking who’s there? Free in the dark of night to admit that he was seeking connection.

From the very first moment, you read him eerily well. And you approached. Because you were seeking the same thing.

You struck up a conversation with him and offered him half of your sandwich. Kept doing so until he started bringing his own food too, usually whatever had the quickest doordash delivery time. He made you laugh with his dry and dark humor. Shared silence with you when you were both too tired to speak, or listened to you ramble about the book you were reading or some movie you had watched. Sometimes he had questions. ____

“Have you ever heard of the Four Agreements?” he asked one night. You picked through some of the Chinese food he had ordered from the 24 hour place down the street, while he took a bite out of the apple you had packed. You chuckle a little at his question.

“Why are you laughing at me?” he asks.

“Sorry– it's just. As someone who works in a mental health bubble, the Four Agreements is like… the bible of self help. And it's a little cliche.”

“You’re calling Linda cliche?”

“Who’s Linda?"

“My therapist. She recommended it."

“Look at you, doing therapy.”

He gave you a little shrug. “Thanks. So I shouldn’t read it? If it's cliche."

“No, no, It could still be useful. Give it a try.” ____

He also surprised you with these bursts of intense vulnerability, sparsed out between his usually more gruff or sarcastic responses.

Whenever he was about to reveal something to you, you could almost see it coming. He would always position himself next to you, leaning over on the railing and facing out over Pittsburg like he was that first night you found him up here. He wouldn’t look in your eyes like he usually did. Would just stand next to you there and focus on some point, far out on the horizon. He’d be quiet for a while, and you would just wait, just being there with him.

____

“That guy we both saw today, the boarder in North 7?”

“Yeah?” you encouraged him to continue.

“I know him. Well not him, really, but his brother. We served together. He lost his brother the same day I lost my leg.” He pulled up the hem of his scrub pants a bit to reveal a glimpse of his prosthetic.

“Oh…Jack. I’m so sorry. That must bring up a lot of old memories.”

“It was a long time ago. Can’t change it now.” He wants to pull away from the exposure he felt at saying this to you. But you draw out something in him. Sharing with you is easier sometimes, and he doesn't know why. It's because he’s falling in love with you and hasn't let himself admit it yet.

“Doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt.” You’re always trying to encourage him to feel.

“Yeah... still hurts like hell. Hurts more because I hadn’t thought about Eddie in months, maybe years. I forgot about him.”

You turn your head to face him, frowning. He maintains his gaze on some faraway spot. “You can’t blame yourself for that. If you remembered them all every second of every day you would drive yourself crazy.”

He took a shaky breath in and just nodded. That was as much opening up he could take for the moment. “I gotta go back down there, check on the patients,” he says, letting the voice telling him to run win, for now.

You pause for a beat, trying to replicate his own incessant gaze that would always get you break and look up at him. The trick doesn’t work on its own master. He continues to put that distance between you and stares out at the city beyond the roof, then down at his feet.

“Okay. But just be careful with yourself, Jack. And if you ever want to talk more, I’m here.” You jutted your hip out to bump his, trying to coax him out of his unease, show him that it was okay to open up to you. He stood fully up from the railing, giving you a double thumbs up. That was becoming his signature move with you when he didn't quite know what to say. He kept doing it because it always made you smile. ____

Sometimes his appearances on the roof were just as scattered as his ability to show vulnerability. After times where he opened up you might not see him for days. He would go brood and throw himself into the work to get his mind off the memories, or off of you, when the way you were making him feel scared him a little too much. He would chastise himself for letting his feelings slip out like that. Would convince himself that you didn't want to hear anything about it, no matter how supportive and kind you were whenever he did share.

Deep down he longed for connection, even though he actively pushed everyone away.

Once you found him on that roof, finally someone was pushing back. You would come and find him if he didn't show up on the roof, or send him a message as you were heading up, pestering him to come join you if you could.

And the way you responded to him showing how he felt, admitting what ate at him inside, it started to show him that it was okay to reveal himself. It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable, but still he kept coming back to have lunch with you.

Tonight would be just like any of those other nights, he told himself as he hiked up the stairs to the roof entry. Just be normal.

You were already up there waiting for him when he came through the stairwell door. The light midsummer night breeze blew your hair around your face and he sensed something heavy on your mind. Brooding on the roof was usually his forte.

As he approaches you barely register his presence. He places a hand on your shoulder, which makes you jump and turn to him. “You good?” he asks gently.

“Yeah–fine.” You shake your head and give him a little smile but he sees it's not the kind that you usually flash, the kind that's earnest. He doesn’t push.

“Well, if you weren’t good I would offer some crab rangoons as a pick me up.” He lifts his takeout bag up. “But if you’re fine then you don’t need em.”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the bag from him and dig out the rangoons.

“That’s what I thought.” the corner of his mouth twitches into an almost-there smirk.

You two dig into the combo of takeout and packed food spread out before you. All of his nervousness from earlier in the day had dissipated. Up here, in the dark, just the two of you, he was calm. As calm as Jack Abbot could be these days. He lets himself think about being with you like this in the daytime. Somewhere else, like having a picnic in a park where you would admire the spring flowers and he would admire you with the same reverence.

He had to ask his question, because failing would mean missing that chance.

“You’re looking at me like that again.” you said.

“Like what?” he keeps his gaze locked on yours like if he blinked you would disappear.

“I don’t know. I just recognize that look in your eye.” It's the look I get when I admire you, he thinks.

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking if you go first.” You let out a huff of a breath. “Fine. I just… I guess I’m tired– getting really tired of all the roadblocks in my work. People always need more than I’m able to give them. Shelters are always full or the patient doesn’t meet some eligibility requirement and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“You’re doing everything you can with what you have, that’s more than most people. You rock it in there everyday,” Jack responds.

“I know that, in theory. It’s just been harder and harder to believe it lately.”

“Well, I’ll keep reminding you.”

“Okay, your turn.”

He scratched the back of his neck, then forced himself to look at you head on. “Uh, I’m going to have everyone from work over at my place for a barbeque. But I wanted to, uh, make sure that you would be there, with me. And…maybe it will help you decompress from work and everything.” It was as un-awkward as he could possibly make it.

You found his subtle bashfulness cute. It was endearing to bring the steady Jack Abbot to jumbling his words. “I would love to come.” The biggest smile you've ever seen on him spreads across Jack’s face.

“When’s the next Saturday you’re off?” he asks.

“Two weeks from now.”

“Then that's our party then.”

You giggle. “Our party, huh?”

“Well you’re the guest of honor, I decided.”

“Oh, how gracious of you.”

The banter slows, both of you feeling the tension of crossing a new line that you can't go back over. It's quiet for another beat, then Jack speaks again, quietly.

“Ellis is gonna be proud of me for this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“She told me I had no game, earlier at the beginning of shift. I meant to ask you then but got too nervous. So she gave me some pointers.”

That made you blush. You had liked Jack Abbot for a while, but did not want to risk your friendship on making the first move. You didn’t want him to think that your support of him was conditional on him reciprocating feelings. You could see him deeply struggling and cared about him, just wanting to be there for him. So even though you had butterflies tingling in your stomach more and more after each encounter, you tried to keep the relationship as professional as possible. After this– him asking you to come to his party like that, admitting it made him nervous to do so. It finally showed you that you could want more with Jack. That he wanted it too.

It emboldened you, and you reached out to lace your fingers with his. “I like you the way you are Jack. It's okay to be nervous, but please just keep being you.”

He squeezed your hand and nodded his head. “I think I can do that sweetheart.”

#jack abbot fic #jack abbot x reader #jack abott #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #dr abbot fic #dr abbot #doctor abbot #you should probably leave #the pitt #shawn hatosy

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thatrandomblogsays · 2 years ago

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Me: *reading a post that makes the joke “Peeta dropped the baby bomb, Gale drops bombs on babies”* haha good one

Also me: you’re missing the point! You’re missing the point! YOURE MISSING THE POINT! He grew up starving. His best friend almost died of hunger. Most of his people live in poverty. He watched children die in a bloodbath every year for the capital’s entertainment. The girl he loved went into the games. Was tortured by the capitol. His district was bombed out of existence. Nearly everyone he knew was killed. Their only crime was being fed up of being hungry and oppressed and sharing the same district as Katniss. All those innocent people. Murdered. He had to take refuge in a district that was bombed out of existence and forced to live underground. Of course he joined the war effort. Of course he designed unethical bombs and battle tactics. He wanted revenge. He wanted the capitol to have a taste of their own medicine. He wanted the rebellion to succeed. And tell me you could live through what he did, and that no part of you would be screaming for Justice and vengeance. Gale is you. You are Gale. He represents a part of feelings and actions that reside within us, even if you don’t act on it.

“But he killed prim!” Exactly! Gale loved prim. She was a second family to her. He looked after Katniss’ family. He saved them from the district 12 bombings. He loved her. He never would’ve put her in danger. He never would’ve put in order for a bombing if it would kill Prim. But coin would. And did. She took what was meant to be a tool of Gale’s righteous revenge for all the suffering he and his people suffered through, only for someone in power to take it and use it to kill someone he loved.

There’s some many lessons to take. We can’t control the things we create. War spares no one. Even justifiable rage and actions can end up rebounding and hurting those you love instead of your targets.

“He drops bombs on babies” is too simplistic of a takeaway and does a disservice to the story and Gale.

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maliro-t · 6 days ago

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the thing i love about running dnd is that the campaign kinda writes itself sometimes u know. like i go ok i have these threads. and i need to hit these beats. then obviously that means x is true. holy shit x is true!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

prepping for dnd rereading notes from the last time we played to remind myself of stuff that the party didn't get to like damn ok. i really had my shit together when i wrote all this in january

#i have this problem that needs solving. omg it couldn't have been solved any way but y #the little hill i will die on is how rich running published material can be- there are foundations there but they aren't immutable. + they #can instantly become extremely personalized. because they give a framework with gaps on purpose. and extrapolating upon characterization or #course of action or integrating pc backstory into established lore is just so cool and so much fun #and leaves a lot of room to play around in #idk i know that this particular way of filling in gaps is something that comes really naturally to me #while for some people it can feel restrictive #like hey when the party goes off script and you have to improv your way back to what's in the book what then?#it's doable. you can almost always do it. u have the tools!! trust yourself to be able to use them!!#and it feels so cool when you figure out how you can rotate the puzzle pieces to fit with each other in ways that aren't actually written #anywhere in the book #it speaks #placeholder campaign tag

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godmadeaterribleerror · 11 days ago

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Something New

Main Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Soldier Boy/Female Reader, fluff, love confessions, loss of virginity, smut (fingering, oral f!receiving, p in v sex, praise kink, dirty talk)

Summary/Warnings: Request from @elle14-blog1! After Ben finds out that you're a virgin, he has a far better reaction than you expected.

Author's Note: I miss my husband. We're gonna fuck raw. Enjoy!

Word Count: 6.1k

You’re stuck.

There’s this corner, that you’ve backed yourself into. It’s not the worst corner to be in, but it’s a corner all the same. And you can’t seem to find a way out of it, but you’re not sure if you want one. Even as the walls press in, and it becomes painfully clear that there isn’t a way out—you’re either going to die here, or come to life—you’re not really struggling to escape at all.

Because it’s Ben, that’s hovering over you with a smirk and keeping you trapped here.

So you don’t want to go anywhere at all.

Even if this destroys you—it might—you’re going to stay right here pray that when you are ruined, maybe you just won’t be left on the floor.

You don’t think Ben will leave you on the floor. It’ll shatter a critical and delicate part of you, if he does. And you have no real proof that he won’t. Nothing except for his eyes locked onto yours, the way that the heat radiating from his body is making you a little dizzy, and how there’s not a single hateful thing in his voice as he says your name.

There’s never anything hateful when Ben says your name. There’s always something that’s not quite soft, but gentle. No spat words, or harsh tone. Even when you’re fighting about something—he killed a guy again, he’s not supposed to do that, but the asshole had been threatening you so he’s going to claim it’s justified—Ben never says your name the way he says Butcher or Homelander.

It could mean nothing at all.

But in your heart, you’ve twisted it to mean something. Just for yourself. Just to keep the fantasy alive. Feeding the idea that, somehow—in a world full of supes that can match Ben punch for punch—you’re the one he wants.

The soft little human that he always has to jump in front of a bullet for, who puts up with his bullshit because she loves him, and never leaves because he has her on a leash without even knowing it.

He has no way of knowing. You’re a better actor than he is, by a mile. It’s how you got tangled up in the whole Homelander and Vought mess to begin with. A nobody who can be anybody, and doesn’t flinch when there’s a gun aimed right at her skull. Not a hero, but a useful tool.

Butcher says you keep the Gov under control by his balls, as well. You don’t argue—any argument with Butcher is pointless—but you know he’s just being a dick. Any control you have over Ben lives in your head, right next to the dream you have where he kisses you and walks you backwards to a bed or wall, confessing his love.

It’s a dream that’s eerily similar to what’s happening right now.

You’re already pressed to a wall, Ben’s just not kissing you. And he’s not confessing his love, but he is keeping a hand on your chin, keeping your gaze trapped on his. Maybe this is a dream.

You have no idea how to find out.

Or what you’ll do if it isn’t.

“The capecucked pussy is dead.” Ben mutters, and you take a deep breath.

“Um, yeah.” You give him a soft smile. “Good job on that.”

He just grunts, and it’s not like him to not accept a compliment. Last time Hughie told him that he’d taken a good shot, there had been a twenty-minute rant about how of course it was a good shot, he wasn’t some fucking dumbass who’d miss.

Something’s wrong.

“Ben?”

He repeats your name back—his voice is low, and it’s always low, but this feels different—and you take another long breath.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I want to ask you out.”

“Oh.” You blink at him, and then the words sink into your skin. Your heartbeat kicks over a pace, heat rises to maybe every nerve point in your body, and you’re dizzy again. “Oh.”

Ben frowns slightly. “Does that mean yes or no.”

“It- It doesn’t mean anything- I just-“ You try to lean back into the wall, like maybe it will swallow you whole, but there’s nowhere to go. “What?”

“The fuck do you mean what-“

“I- I don’t know what’s happening.” You whisper, and his frown deepens.

“I’m trying to date you. Then marry you, but cumguzzler says we have to date first.”

“Cum-“ You shake your head, and dig your nails into the skin of your arms. There’s a sting. It’s not a dream. “You asked Hughie?”

Ben gives a tight nod, his attention not wavering for a single second. “Answer my damn question, sweetheart.” He pauses, then adds, “Please.”

You’re going insane. Or you’d just died in that last fight, and somehow gotten into heaven. This is real, but it can’t be. You’ve heard more than just rumors about Ben’s sexcapades, and his taste in women, and how he is about relationships overall. And you don’t fit into that. Anywhere. You’re just you. Human. Beautiful, but not desirable. Not to date. Maybe to be touched, but you don’t let anyone touch, because you’re a pathetic romantic that can’t find it in her to be touched and nothing more.

You’ve almost broken that last part for Ben. Several times. When he’d get extra flirty, and you’d know that’s all it was, but if he’d asked you to spread your legs or get on your knees, you’re not sure you would’ve been able to say no.

Maybe that’s all this is. He’s just asking for sex, and you’re going to have to tell him no—you’ll get addicted from one hit, and he’ll realize that, despite your job and outward persona, you’re nothing at all—and it’s going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Do- are you just asking for sex-“

“No.” His brow furrows. “I am going to fuck you, but not now. Unless you beg for it. Can’t tell the most beautiful girl no if she’s damn whining for my cock.”

You’re going to explode. “So you actually- You want to date?”

“That’s what I goddamn said, doll-“

“Why?”

You can’t stop the question from slipping out. But you can’t understand. Ben can be mean, but he wouldn’t be this cruel—not to you, at least—to make this kind of joke. Yet he doesn’t look like it’s a joke at all. He’s glaring at you like the question is insane, and his words are so firm they sound like gospel. Like they’ve been set in stone for a long, long time before you got to read them. Like there’s no possible way they could ever change, even as the stone is eroded by time, and everything else rots away, Ben will still mean every single thing he says.

He always does.

It’s one of the countless reasons you love him.

And one of the reasons he’s going to tear you apart.

“The fuck do you mean why.” His voice is almost a growl, and he’s continuing before you can even think of a proper answer. “I fucking love you. I want to marry you, give you the goddamn world, and live a normal, perfect life with you now that all this fucking Homelander shit is over. But I have to fucking date you first, and I’m not goddamn pussy who’s going to wait for you to ask first, so I’m telling your right fucking now.” He leans down, tipping your head back a little further and burning you alive under his gaze. “You’re my fucking life. I love you. If you don’t love me, still say yes because there’s not a goddamn thing I won’t do for you. But if you have to say no, and I’ll wait my whole fucking life for you to say yes.”

“I-“ Another deep breath. You can’t really hear your own voice, over the sound of your heartbeat. “What if I never say yes?”

He rolls his eyes. “Then I’ll wait until I’m damn dead, didn’t you fucking hear me.”

“I- I did.” You whisper, and this can’t be real.

You’d really like it to be.

“You love me?”

“I’ll fucking die for you. Right now.”

“Oh- Okay.”

Ben pauses. “What does okay mean.”

You give a weak shrug. “Okay. I love you too. I’ll date you.”

“You-“ Something flashes over Ben’s features, and his whole body tenses above you. “You love me.”

You nod, and he lets out a heavy exhale, rubbing his thumb over your chin, brushing your lower lip.

“Good. That’s fucking good. Alright. Let’s watch a movie.”

“Ben, wait-“ You grab his arm before he can move away, and he stills. “Like a date?”

“No. On your couch.” He grabs your hand in his, raising it up to press a kiss to your knuckles. “I’m courting you fucking right. First date will be next week, when I’ve gotten to make a goddamn plan for it. Right now, we’re watching a movie.”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Courting.”

“What-“ “Old man.” You whisper, your smile growing as Ben rolls his eyes, his mouth twitching slightly.

“Alright, spitfire. Come watch the fucking movie.”

It’s easy to just nod and agree, because you feel like you’re still dreaming. But it’s real.

It’s so fucking real, and you don’t understand how, but it doesn’t matter. Ben tugs you to the couch, and the night passes with you half in his lap and his arms around your body—which doesn’t feel that different from when you’d just have your head on his shoulder, as if nothing’s really changed at all—and this is real.

And time passes.

And Ben was fucking serious.

Your first date is to a fancy restaurant. He brings you flowers, kisses your cheek and holds your hand, and you spend the whole night in a daze, a little convinced that this is some sort of Cinderella situation, and the spell is going to be broken the moment he drops you back at your apartment.

But it doesn’t. He doesn’t try to walk you into the bedroom, you don’t have to have the conversation, and Ben leaves you with a kiss on your cheek and nose and everywhere but your mouth—he’s teasing you, the asshole, and you love him but he’s going to get his stupid supe-ass punched—and a promise of a second date, soon.

Soon means the next day. You go to the zoo, because Ben listens more than people give him credit for, and knows you love animals. He buys you a stuffie, and when it starts to rain, he blocks you with his whole massive body, like you’re something so priceless the rain shouldn’t get to even touch you.

You break first.

You kiss him in the car.

You climb onto his lap, grab his face between your hands, and—when his hands tighten on your hips and his gaze becomes hooded and predatory—crash down into him. And this is where you always should have been. Wrapping your arms around Ben’s next and getting lost in the whiskey and smoke taste of him. Moaning when his tongue pushes down your throat, and giggling when you bite his lower lip, and he rolls you over with a groan. Feeling his hands skim up your sides and his boner press on your inner thigh.

You have to break apart there.

Because the doubt is slowly easing from your mind. He wouldn’t buy you a stuffie if he wasn’t serious. He’d even done it without you asking, just grabbing it off the shelf with a scowl and shoving it into your hands, before kissing the top of your head and grumbling that he loves you again.

And he does. You really believe that he does.

But that’s doing to be a problem. The corner only keeps getting tighter. Ben only keeps getting closer. And you don’t know how to tell him the thing. The embarrassing thing. The thing that might make you lose him, whether or not you keep it down or spit it out.

You’re a virgin.

And you know it shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just a social construct—a misogynistic one—and you’re more than just that.

But it doesn’t feel like just a social construct. It feels like a curse. Ben’s been with so many people he’s lost count. And he says he loves you, and you believe him, but he’s also Ben. Horny and dramatic and sort of godlike, deserving of someone who can keep up with him and not turn sex into a whole thing. But it has to be a thing, with you. Not just the virgin conversation, but all of it. You want it to mean something, which is childish and pathetic—it’s just sex—but it’s what you want. Have wanted.

You’ve always wanted it to mean something. For it to be from love, and not just need.

You’d like it to be with Ben.

But there’s a loud and vicious part of your brain that keeps telling you this is going to be the end of it all. You’ll either tell him, and he’ll decide that’s more trouble than you’re worth—and he’d be right—or you’ll pretend you aren’t and everything will shatter down anyway.

If you just refuse to have sex with him, he’ll give up on you. Get bored of just making out on the couch or in the middle of the street, and move on to someone who can give him what he needs. Or worse, you’ll cave and let him take whatever he wants, but you won’t know how to give anything back, and he’ll leave out of disappointment.

You don’t want him to leave. Ever. His whole get married, grow old together, be loudly and madly in love until we both fucking die plan sounds perfect. It’s just this one, stupid, embarrassing thing that’s going to make it all fall apart.

It doesn’t help that you know he wants it. That he’s been trying to wait—to make it good, romantic fucking sex—but he keeps getting hard all the time, and you keep feeling an ache grow between your legs whenever he so much as whispers your name in your ears.

The kissing doesn’t help.

The kissing is going to kill you.

He’s so fucking good at it. Time has slipped by so easily—you’re on date number ten—and Ben just keeps getting better at kissing you. He seems to have memorized every single way to draw a needy sound from your lips, and he keeps finding new ways to pull you apart with only his arms caging you to his chest and his mouth never wandering below your collarbone.

And his mouth.

His fucking mouth.

It fits so perfectly against yours. He uses his tongue like a weapon to make you light-headed and soft all over, teasing you by tracing your lips and teeth, the licking over every bruise he sucks on your neck. He bites and kisses and marks you until he’s branded on your skin, and you can taste him every single fucking moment.

And you do think about it. All the time. Virgin doesn’t mean prude, and too many nights end with your hand between your legs, trying to pretend that it’s Ben’s. Licking your lips, still swollen from his kisses, and imagining the haunting feeling of Ben’s mouth drifting down to your clit.

It’s barely a crude replica of him even kissing you. It’s all you get.

Usually.

Usually, Ben stops here. When you’re a panting mess that’s tugging at his hair and trying to grab his mouth back to yours, like maybe it could stick there and you’d never have to chase the phantom of him again.

But he’s not stopping right now. His fingers on your waist are dipping under your shirt to brush over skin and play with the waistband of your skirt. He’s angled you so your clothed pussy is rubbing right against his thigh, and his kisses are getting dangerously deeper. His hand tangled in your hair is tipped your head back so he can kiss at your throat, and when you moan his name—earning an approving grunt that goes right to your core—Ben shifts you again.

Right onto his boner, letting your grind against his as his hand wanders up, and brushes on the bottom of your breast.

“Fuck, Ben-“ You gasp, dragging your hands from his hair to plant them on his chest. “Wait.”

He pauses, drawing back with a frown. “You’re not ready.”

It’s not a question. But Ben doesn’t really ask questions. He says that because he knows it’s true, and that rips open your heart a little. He’d been ready. You can feel how ready he is, and you’d like him to show you too, but-

You can’t.

“Sorry,” you mumble, dropping your brow to his shoulder, and he tenses below you.

“Why the fuck are you sorry.”

You shrug, wrapping your legs fully around his waist. His cock is still pressed against you. Wearing a skirt was a horrible idea. “For making you wait, I think.”

Ben grunts your name, tugging on your hair until you lean back and meet his gaze.

“Listen.” He mutters, and you couldn’t ignore him if you tried. Not when he’s look at you like this. Like you’re really all he’s ever needed. “I said I’d fucking wait. I goddamn meant it. I’m not some pussy who’s going to fucking run away just because you’re not putting out.”

“But-“ You swallow, scanning over his features. Impossibly handsome. Somehow yours. “You- Do you not care about sex?”

He snorts. “Of course I fucking care about sex, but I care about you more. I’ve banged a million fucking women, none of them ever made my heart feeling like stupid fucking goo. Only you,” he grabs your face between his hands, like he thinks you’re going to try and run. “Can do that. And it would be real damn nice if you’d tell me how to speed it up, or if you’re just not fucking into that or some shit, but I said I love you. That’s fucking that.”

You nod slowly, trying to choose your words right. Trying to make sure you don’t say something stupid, and fuck this up. “You- you wouldn’t care if I wasn’t into it?”

“That’s what I damn said, doll. I’ve got a hand. And a brain. I can take care of myself, if I have to.” He pauses, his brow drawing together and mouth opening, and you shake your head.

“No. You don’t have to.”

He nods, but now he mostly he looks confused. “Then what’s the fucking problem. I can’t fucking do shit it if you don’t tell me-“

“It’s- I’m not-“ You wish he’d let go of your face. He’s holding you so gently, watching you so carefully and reverently, and you’re going to say it. You don’t want to see his expression shift when you say it.

Ben grunts your name, and it falls out like vomit.

“I’m a virgin.” You squeak, grabbing his hands over your face. He needs to stay there. You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t. “I- I just never got the chance, not with someone I wanted, and it’s stupid but I don’t want- I mean I want you, but- You’re you, Ben, and I don’t- What if I’m not good.”

Ben’s silent. Too silent. Scanning over you slowly with a tight frown, and this is it, he’s going to leave-

“Nobody’s touched you.” He mutters, his voice suddenly a little hoarse. “Ever.”

“Um,” you take a shaking breath. “This one guy in high school fingered me, but-“

“Did you cum.”

You blink at him. “No?”

“Hm.” His hands tighten slightly. “And you want me.”

“Yes, but, I-“ You try to shift to hide from his attention, and then you feel it.

He’s still hard. Really hard. Pressed right against your core and twitching when you squirm.

Oh.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he looks predatory. One of his hands has wandered from your face to your waist. Under your shirt, tracing firm circle on your skin as he holds your gaze.

“You watched porn, sweetheart?”

Jesus Christ. You give him a small nod, and he hums.

“You know what you like?”

“What I-“

“Hard.” His hand slips out from under your shirt, landing a light hit on your ass that makes you squeak and fall fully over his chest. “Or soft.”

You gape up at him—his muscles flexing as he keeps you pinned against him and his pretty eyes hooded and blown out with lust—and you might be drooling. “Both, I think. But- I don’t want it to hurt-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts. “Never going to hurt you, babydoll, just-“ He grabs your chin again, and your mouth falls open. “Don’t ever think you’re not going to be fucking good. You’re a goddamn angel, and- Fuck-“ He groans, dropping his face to kiss over your neck. “I’m going to fucking ruin you. You’re never going to need anyone else, you’re fucking mine, and-“

He cuts himself off with a groan, crashing his lips back into yours, and if you could feel every bit of this, you’d be sure it was a dream. But he groans down your throat and you feel it throb in your core, and when you bite his upper lip and he ruts against you, it sets of million fireworks everywhere in your body.

Ben pulls back with a wild expression, his voice full of strain. As if he’s physically forcing himself not to move.

“Ben-“

“Say yes,” he mutters, squeezing your hips. “I’ll make you feel so fucking good, baby, just gotta damn say it-“

“Yes- Ben-“

The word is barely out of your mouth before he’s standing. And this is it.

You don’t think you’d want it any other way but this. Here. In a shitty apartment with Ben, carrying you to the bed before lowering you down with almost mocking care.

“Need to prep you,” he mutters, shoving your legs apart as he kneels at the edge of the bed. “Fucking- Christ on a cross, doll.” Two broad fingers drag over your underwear, and a high whine leaves your throat. “So fucking wet for me you’re soaking through your panties, huh. Need it that fucking bad.”

“I- I don’t- Ben-“

He leaves a light slap over your underwear, and you fall flat on your back with a moan.

“C’mon, pretty girl, just fucking admit how bad you want my cock-“

“So bad,” you moan, and your reward is quick. There’s a ripping sound as Ben tears away your underwear, and you barely get a second to register the cold air before his fingers are rubbing up and down your slit, leaving teasing presses over your clit.

“Going to slide right in,” he mutters, and you could swear you hear awe in his voice. “Fuck, you’ve just been waiting for me, doll, can’t believe I’m the only motherfucker that’s going to get to feel this pretty pussy squeeze me.”

He shoves a finger into your cunt, pumping slowly, and your back arches off the bed. “Shit- Ben-“

“I know,” he’s teasing you. Leaving soft kisses over your inner thighs that you can’t see, because of the stupid skirt. His voice vibrating against your skin as he gets closer and closer to where you’re aching for him. “You’re going to be a good girl for me, aren’t you. Taking whatever I damn give, letting me show you fucking heaven, letting me fucking wreck you-“

“Yes.” You gasp, fingers curling in the sheets as a second finger joins the first, and one broad, warm hand travels up to palm at your breast. “God, Ben, I- Feels good-“

“Fuck yeah, it does.” His thumb flicks over your clit, and you try to push up on your palms to see him, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

Ben’s lips attach to your clit, right as his fingers crook on a deep, aching and electric spot inside of you, and you fall back down with a gasp.

He’s too good at this. His tongue is flicking at a rapid pace that’s driving your brain into a needy, dazed frenzy of Ben, pinching your nipple and groaning into your pussy and taking you so high you don’t think you’ll ever come back down, all as his fingers only rub and press on that needy spot. His beard scrapes and tickles on your thighs, and his teeth brush over your clit right as he rolls a nipple between his fingers, and your take a shuddering breath, trying to hold yourself together as the heat builds.

“I- Ben-“ You grab blindly with one hand, and manage to get a fistful of his hair. “Shit, I’m gonna- Ben-“

Your voice is a whine, but he’d pulled away. Sat up with a wide smirk, licking his fingers clean as he holds your gaze.

“Taste like heaven,” he drawls your name, running his thumb up your pussy, pausing to dip inside slightly and smirking as you shiver below him. “That’s right, feels good, doesn’t it.”

You nod a little stupidly, trying to spread your legs wider, and Ben’s grin grows.

“Want more?”

“Yes,” you whisper, grinding desperately into the air. “More, that’s- Ben-“

His thumb moves to press on your lower lips. “Taste.”

You open for him without thought, sucking every bit of your own arousal as he watches you, and his grin falls into a darkened, starved expression that goes right into your cunt. You don’t ever want him to stop looking at you like that. And you’re not sure what you’re doing—running your tongue on the pad of his thumb as moaning at the sight of him above you—but he likes it, so you double your efforts. It has the intended effect. He groans and pries his thumb away with a popping sound, before ripping off his own shirt and crashing down into you with a bruising force.

This kiss is going to wreck you all on its own. Deep and starved, all the way into the mattress as his hands wander everywhere, helping you shed clothing like even a thin layer of cloth between you is more than he can bear.

“Want you to cum on my cock, doll,” he grunts, rubbing his hand back over your soaked cunt, and you nod feverishly.

“Oh- Okay- Just-“ You roll your hips against him, scratching at his back as his palm hits your clit. “Need it, Ben, need it now-“

“You really are desperate for it,” he mutters, something like awe creeping into his voice. “Waited too fucking long, didn’t you, baby. Bet you’ve fucked your hand thinking about me-“

“I have,” you whisper, and he groans, planting sloppy kiss down your neck. “Only wanted it to be you, Ben, love you, need you-“

Your words fall into a moan as he gives you another deep kiss, and he speaks against your lips, his thumb on your thumb rubbing shocking soft, small circles.

“I’m clean.” He grunts. “Can’t catch anything. And you’re pure-“

“Don’t say pure, Ben.” You mumble, somehow managing to give him a flat look. “It’s weird- Shit-“

He slaps your pussy again. But it’s with his cock, huge and thick and erect in his hand, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“Keep fucking tell me what to do,” he mutters, staring to rub himself between your pussy lips, and you can only gape at him. “Love how damn bossy you can be, doll, my little fucking spitfire. So smart, such a smart fucking mouth always begging to be stuffed with my cock. Teaching me shit and acting like a pretty fucking angel, when you’ve been thinking about me fucking you stupid. What should I call it,” he lowers his lips to hover over yours, his voice a deep drawl that rolls through your body. “If nobody else has ever touched you but me.”

“Nothing.” Your voice is too soft, but you can’t really think outside of the smell and feel of Ben, everywhere around you. “It- It’s not that big a deal-“

“That why you didn’t tell me?” He counters, brows raised, and you swallow.

“Yes?”

“For such a good actress, doll, you’re a real bad fucking liar.” He presses a mockingly soft kiss to your lips, chuckling when you try to chase him back up and pinning to you to mattress with a light hand on your throat. “You love me, sweet girl.”

Not a question. “Yes. And you love me.”

“More than fucking anything.” He hisses, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. “And you’re not pure. You’re a smart fucking mouth, and a good fucking cockslut for me, aren’t you. Only me.”

You moan, your back arching off the bed, and he squeezes your throat lightly.

“Answer me, baby-“

“Yes.” You gasp out, grinding into him. “Please, Ben, need you so bad-“

He finally kisses you, slow and deep and long, but his dick remains pressed right outside of your entrance.

“Use your words,” he mutters your name, moving his hand to tangle with yours. “Condom, yes or no.”

“No.” You mumble. “I’m on the pill. For hormone regulation. Want you, Ben, now-“

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as he starts to push in, and he’s going so slow. Letting you squeeze his hand with a death grip and studying your face for any sign of distresses, going inch by inch until you’re split open on his cock. You’re so full, and he’s bumping at your cervix and pressing on the wired spot, making your gaze cloud with lust and need as he just sits there. Giving you a chance to adjust, kissing over your neck and grunt every time you squeeze around him.

“Need to you relax, babydoll.” He groans when you flutter again, his hips jerking slightly, and you just blink at him. “So fucking tight, feel like goddamn heaven, but- Christ on a fucking cross-“

He bites at your throat as you try to grind against him, silently begging him for more. You can’t really remember any words that aren’t Ben. You don’t need them, because he rises over you with a glower, brushing hair from your face, and you squeeze around him again. On purpose. He needs to move.

“Fuck- You need to stop that-“

You do it again, and his eyes narrow.

“You want more.”

You nod, grinding down onto his cock, and his eyes flash.

“Can’t fucking talk?” He drawls, grinning down at you. “Can’t beg for me to fuck you good and damn proper? Already that fucking ruined on my dick when I haven’t fucking moved-“

You whine, squeezing again, and he tenses over you.

“Blink twice if you’re ready.” He growls, and you obey. Two slow, firm blinks, your fingers curling on his neck, and he pulls almost fully out.

But he still doesn’t fuck you.

“Say my name,” he grunts, and it’s a good thing that’s the only thing you can remember how to do.

“Ben,” You moan, writhing below him. “Ben, Ben-“

One last, impossibly soft and lazy kiss, sucking on your lower lip with a groan, before tracing kisses over your cheeks right to your ear, his breath ghosting over your skin and sending a shive up your spine.

“Good girl,” he mutters, and slams home.

He’s not being harsh. Not even that rough. It’s not slow, but it’s not bed breaking, and it’s fucking perfect. His cock drags and hits every spot deep inside of you, and he keeps muttering low, taunting praise in your ear that you can’t really hear over the sinful sound of your skin slapping together. You can’t think about anything but the feeling of him inside you, his hand in yours and his mouth finding every inch of skin it can reach. Your eyes are already rolling back in your head as his thumb glides back to your clit and you cling to his back, a cockdrunk, fluttering and moaning mess in Ben’s arms.

“Ben,” you whimper, trying to capture his mouth back onto yours. “Ben-“

“Fucking- Christ and fucking hell, you feel so good,” he ruts deep inside you, and the coil in your gut is building to a snap. “Made to take my cock, be fucked all nice and dumb for me, saying my name-“

You roll your hips to meet his, and he groans. “Ben- I- I’m-“

He leans up, watching you carefully without breaking his pace. “You need more.”

You nod like a bobblehead, somehow dragging the words up from the back of your brain, numb with pleasure. “Need to cum, Ben, please-“

He slams his lips back onto yours, and that’s all you needed to say. Ben’s thumb presses down, his hips shifting slightly to hit just a little deeper, and you almost scream into his mouth. He’s good, so fucking good, his cock is hitting place in you that you didn’t know exist and he’s swallowing your every sound, and his thumb is moving in rapid, harsh circles that drag you right up to the edge as his own pace grows sloppy, and he pinches your clit-

The coil in your but snaps, and pleasure slams into you like a hurricane. Crashing through every single nerve in your body and pulling apart until all you can see it stars behind your eyes and Ben’s handsome, blown out face as he fucks your through your orgasm, kissing you like he wants to drown in your and slamming home with a roar of your name. You can feel him painting your cunt white and hot, and your whole body goes slack as a last, tiny wave of pleasure rushes through your body.

There’s a long moment where you just lie in each other—Ben kissing over your face again and mumbling good girls that make you spasm over his cock again—and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk. When Ben pulls out with a groan, you can feel him dripping down your ass and onto the mattress. You’re sore, and feel a little drunk, and you’re not sure what happens now, but that’s why you have Ben.

He kisses slowly down your body, landing back between your thighs, and presses a small, soft kiss over your clit before dragging his finger through the mess of your releases, and grinning up at you and he tastes it, then smears in on your stomach.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, his smirk growing as a high sound escapes your chest. “Wait here, doll, need clean that pretty fucking pussy.”

You grumble something that’s likely supposed to be can’t go anywhere, asshat, but Ben just laughs, crawling back over your body to grab your chin and give you another deep kiss. You moan into his mouth, able to taste the cum on his lips, and he pulls back with soft grin.

“Fucking love you. Don’t you goddamn move, or I’m tying up.”

You flush, a rush darting up your spine at the thought, and Ben’s grin grow.

“Later, you needy fucking brat. Don’t want to goddamn break you.”

He couldn’t break you. Ever. He’s being so shockingly sweet and gentle, you’re certain everyone would think you were lying if you ever spoke of it.

But you won’t.

Because this part of Ben is only yours.

He cleans you up with a wet, warm cloth, presses another kiss to your inner thigh, and carries you to the couch with a blanket while he changes the shits. Then, before you can try and ask to help, you’re being guided to the bathroom with a grumble about needing to fucking piss every time, after. Then it’s back to bed, with Ben’s body curved around yours, his face pressed to the crook of your neck and his arms wrapped around your stomach.

“You feel better, doll.” Ben says into your ear, and against it’s not a question.

Just the truth. There’s a soft ache between your legs, and you’re going to need to sleep for a thousand years, but it’s done. And Ben stayed.

“Yeah,” you whisper, rolling over in his arms to bury your face in his chest, and smiling when his hand moves to cradle the back of your head. “I love you,” You mumble into his chest, and he grunts, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Love you too.”

He loves you.

And you don’t think he’s ever going to give you a reason to doubt that in his life.

So you’re out of the corner.

And everything is good.

End Note: I think I get possessed when I write Ben. This took me three hours. Psychologists fear me.

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