#but perhaps the author can't use words again...

[gloomy-ghosty]

Im gonna need more info on those Kristin fics STAT

mwahahah alright.. you asked for it

theyre both part of my rpverse with a friend, of which I've talked about before. in fact i think ive shown you at least one of these before.

SO!! backstory. XD is the god of life, Kristin comes from a long line of gods of death. the gods dont die necessarily, they just decide they're tired of it and pass it on eventually, leaving the mortal plane and going off yknow. XD hatessss the whole family because theyre his rivals. And also Kristin took his angel [Drista] away when she got heavily injured and prayed for it. Who knew an angel of life could die. ANYWAY this left XD without a head servant, basically. So he created a new one- Phil! XD sends Phil down to get back at the family, but mostly Kristin. But he doesn't specify how.. So the guy he sent with Phil– Technoblade I– decides that they'll just like. Break into the castle and break some crap. They get caught [obviously] and thrown in the dungeon. This is where the first one comes in.

   Phil was resting when he heard it. Footsteps. Different ones. He sat up from where he was leaned against the hard obsidian walls of his cell. He needed to listen.

   The regular ones he heard came first, their light clicking against the floor familiar to his feathered ears. The warden. Then came heavier ones. They were graceful, but the person who was walking was obviously taller than the warden.

   His interest was piqued. Would there be a new prisoner? A visitor? Or perhaps the executioner, coming for any one of their heads? He hadn't been expecting to die today, but then again, he hadn't expected the guards to break his wing either.

   Then the voices came. The footsteps stopped and the voices started. The warden spoke first.

   "Now, My Lady, I present to you, the dungeons. I haven't a clue why you would want to come down here," The warden said. My Lady? This person must be powerful or something.

   Phil hadn't been moving, but if he had been, he would've stopped the moment he heard the second voice.

   "I've heard rumors that you aren't just keeping wayward Ender here, but a human and a piglin as well." The voice was calming and beautiful, yet sorrowful, like a mourning dove twittering in the branches of a decaying tree.

   "Yes. We've recently captured a winged human and his piglin brute wandering around the castle. We suspect they had broken it with the intent to steal from or harm the royal family."

   That was not the intention of their break-in, though Phil couldn't will himself to object. He likely wouldn't have been heard, and it was not worth it. He had learned what happened when you spoke out of turn here.

   "Well, humans can't pose too terrible a threat. Why, they're just so small and cute... There's no way they'd be able to hurt any of us."

   Ah, so she was royal after all. Phil shouldn't be too surprised. He moved in his cell, ignoring how painfully his wing dragged behind him on the floor. From where he could see, there were shadows cast on the wall at the far end of the dungeon. One of the shadow of the warden, tall and prideful. Then there was one that was even taller, with sharp horns and dragon-like features. She seemed beautiful, from what he could see from the shadow.

   "My Lady, I can already tell when you want. I cannot permit you to see it."

   "Why not? I'm of higher authority than you. I should be able to visit whichever prisoner I choose, and I want to see the human."

   The warden was silent for a few moments.

   "Later, my highness. It is supper, the inmates must eat."

   So Phil watched as the shadows moved away, not being able to make out the words any longer. He had hoped she might've been able to come back and saved him, help fix his wing, let him finally free. But he had hoped wrong. At least he'd be getting some food today.

this one was written quickly a year or so ago to show my friend one of the ideas i had, along with some accompanying backstory of which i summarized above. something that i didnt say that i do wanna share because its cool to me; Phil is an angel, obviously. Since he was XD's, he had light yellow, almost white, feathers. However, as he stays in the mortal plane, his wings slowly shift color until he and Kristin get married, in which they're completely black. He has fallen for the enemy, become the Angel of Death. fallen angel in XD's eyes, new creation in Kristin's. anyway.

the second one is much shorter, not having been finished. Basically takes place in the future when they're married and have kids. Btw. Technoblade isnt their biological child. Technoblade I and his wife. Tragically passed away during a siege in the Nether, and since Phil was his best friend, he got his son, who was unnamed because you have to earn your name in Piglin culture. so he just named him Technoblade II. Wilbur and him are called twins because they were born on the same day, just a year apart. They consider themselves twins. so basically, in the rp, Kristin gets stuck in the Ende Realm for several years and then finally comes back eventually. so i wanted to write how that happened. never finished it, but the main idea was that Kristin moved to the Overworld with Phil and lived there with their children. They go back and visit often, staying for a few weeks in the Ende and then coming home. XD is ticked that Kristin first stole his sister/assistant, and now stole his angel!? So. He plants an uprising, sprung by having sent people to pick off small villages around the borders of the kingdom, which Kristin did nothing about since she wasn't there. It was the other rulers jobs. But the people got angry and tried to overthrow them. And so they had to rush back for the safety of the children. Phil, Tommy, and Wilbur got separated and made it through the portal. Techno and Kristin went together, but the portal started breaking. Kristin got Techno through and then. She didn't make it out. Cut off from all contact. Very sad, I know. But she makes it back!! Eventually. Uh. 19 years later. this is actually also part of Ranboo's backstory but that's not what we're on about. Hint hint they were the child of two important women in one of the villages that got attacked. This one is not CLOSE to finished and i think I want to write even what i have, but you'll see i put a note in the wip of a line i wanted to include but didn't get the chance to. its not my favorite, pretty sure its ooc even for the rp version of these characters, but yknow.

   Phil had just finished setting up the portal to the Ende Realm when Kristin was ready to go. She had dressed up fancy, and put her crown and veil on for today. There would be no revivals, at least while she had her veil down and intact. Her sons had been cleaned up and were dressed as princes from centuries ago, though it wasn't necessary. Phil kept insisting the two dressed that way for the visit. Even Tommy, the baby, had been wrapped in fancy swaddling clothes overtop his usual onesie. The baby was excused from dressing up. 

   The twins had been dressed in white medieval blouses and khaki shorts, and Techno had put on his red regal cloak. Wilbur refused to wear his own. Phil had tried to make him wear if, offering candy and a new toy, but he wouldn't budge. Kristin thought that was a bit strange, but she wouldn't force him to wear it. Not like it mattered much anyways, the land was quite lax with how young royalties dressed.

LINE TO INCLUDE: "But a goddess never truly dies, especially if she governs death."

that one is shorter than i recall!! but. Yeah. Not a favorite, can see why I ditched it. ill rewrite it and actually finish it one of these days though mwahah.

[stromuprisahat]

Six of Crows- Chapter 34 (Leigh Bardugo)

... a young boy... because he's an easier target?

How would he get far enough from safety of Little Palace for drüskelle to take and drag all the way to Fjerda? No seasoned leader would let inexperienced soldiers anywhere near the most dangerous areas, so how did a YOUNG RAVKAN Grisha get in Fjerdan hands?

Simple- there are almost no adult Grisha left to kidnap from Ravka, and current leadership has no qualms to appoint unqualified inexperienced child soldiers whenever they need some fresh meat.

Remember how enraged Nikolai was, when Vasily wanted to draft 15 y/o otkazat'sya?

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 1: Blind Date

series masterlist next chapter

Summary: You work as a housekeeper in a rich family's mansion and often have to deal with their spoiled daughter. One day, she asks you to pretend to be her on a blind date with a guy her dad picked out for her. Your mission is to make him not like you so he won't want to marry her. But here's the twist: will Harry end up hating you, or could he actually fall for you? That's the real question. Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Word Count: 4.8k for now, There will be a part two if you guys like it, but I'm not sure about the rest. Sorry for the poor writing; that was quick. authors note: I am not sure about his name. If there's any update, I will edit. English is not my native, so please be nice; this is my third fanfiction. Thank you for the reblogs, comments, and likes. Love you all!

"Ugh, this dress is so last season! Are you serious? Everything here is out of style—get rid of them! Call Elliot and have them send me another dress, or I'm going to be really pissed!"

As if tossed at you like a used handkerchief, another dress worth thousands of dollars—perhaps only worn once—landed in your hands. You sighed as you looked at the elegant dress you were now holding, the Gucci label glinting under the light.

"Story of my life," you mumbled.

Working as a housekeeper in a millionaire's house was hard enough, but dealing with his spoiled and ill-tempered daughter was exhausting. Yet you were determined that it would soon be over. You could no longer endure this physical and psychological torture. With the money you had saved, you planned to open your own restaurant—fulfilling your dream. You just needed to save a little more and hang in there a bit longer.

Your boss was a decent, kind man, but his daughter was so unbearable that every housekeeper assigned left the next day.

How do you even tolerate her? 

Because you didn’t have the luxury of quitting and waiting for a new job. You were still young and trying to establish yourself in the business. The extra pay you received was simply to endure her antics. Your kind millionaire boss had even promised you all the support you needed, suggesting you could quit your day job and focus solely on managing his daughter’s affairs. But how could you have known it would be so challenging? Still, you managed to get through each day and believed you could endure this for just a little while longer. After all, you had survived three challenging years already, right?

The mansion was enormous, and everything inside was meticulously organized. Everyone—housekeepers, gardeners, cooks, and even the owners—followed a disciplined daily routine. 

Except for the young lady of the house.

You never knew when she would wake up or come downstairs to join her family at the dinner table. She was stubborn, mean, and unpredictable, and you had to manage her behavior just as you managed her dresses, her dates, and her friends. Because you were responsible for her, there were times when you wished you could handle all the housework yourself and let someone else take care of her demands. Despite being just an ordinary housekeeper, your name was the one that echoed the most throughout this vast mansion.

Why? 

Because the young lady constantly called on you to fulfill her never-ending requests. And it was one of those moments again. Since it was evening, you guessed she was probably getting ready for a night out at the club, and you felt a surge of annoyance as you rushed to her room.

"I can't believe I was a size 8 before starting this job; now I'm down to a size 6," you mumbled to yourself, quickly making your way up the stairs.

One of the cleaners dusting the vases in the hallway shot you a wink and let out a sigh. Man, you’d do just about anything to be in her shoes, just taking care of that vase!

As soon as you knocked on the door, the young lady Melanie opened it, pulled you inside by the arm, and slammed the door shut behind you. You were taken aback—had you made a mistake? It had only been two hours since you last saw her; you had picked up her clothes off the floor and taken them to the laundry room. She had seemed content, busy texting on her phone. What could have possibly happened in such a short time?

“Is something wrong?” you asked, your eyes wide. For some reason, she looked super tense and nervous.  

“You’ve gotta help me,” she said almost desperately, which caught you off guard; it was pretty rare for her to ask for help like this, very rare.  

“Of course, if I know what’s going on…” 

“Remember that thing we did with the senator's son? I need you to do something like that again.”

You froze for a moment. She was referring to something you had helped her with before—something you weren't very proud of.

“Oh, but—” you frowned. “You said I’d never have to do anything like that again.”

Years ago, you had done your best to disguise yourself as Melanie to turn off the senator's son and prevent him from marrying her. It had worked, but lying to someone was a real headache. Thankfully, Melanie's father hadn’t suspected a thing, but the thought of risking it again felt scarier than anything else.

“I know, I know, but I’m in a tough spot. My dad has been speaking with a matchmaker again to arrange a match for me. After the scandal at the club last time, he's determined to marry me off for sure. Please, I need your help.”

How could she still act so childish in her late twenties? As she looked at you with those pleading eyes, memories of all the times she’d yelled at you and scolded you flashed in your mind. It was fine when you were more like her special assistant instead of just a housekeeper, but now it feels like you’re just a toy to her. When she wants to have fun, she plays with you—almost like you’re her little slave or something.

“I’m not here for that,” you said firmly. “That is not my job.” Your patience was running thin, and this was just too much.  

“But you’re supposed to help me,” she shot back, stubborn as ever. “And it’ll be easier this time, I promise.” 

You narrowed your eyes and said, “We got caught last time when the guy found out and cursed both of us. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? And if your father discovers what we’re up to this time…”

She replied with a grin, “We won’t get caught this time because I already sent them your photo instead of mine. Besides, you know how my father is strict about always having my picture removed from newspapers and magazines.”

“You did what?” you wailed.

“Chill, it’s all figured out. I’ve been working on this since last week. You’ll have dinner with the guy, pretend to be me, scare him off, and boom! He won’t want to hear my name again. Easy peasy!”  

You rolled your eyes. “But he’s surely seen your photo somewhere; he can’t be that clueless.”  

“No, he’s a very busy businessman. He has lived abroad for years and has just returned from France. He’s looking to set up his business here in New York,” she said as she opened her laptop and pulled up a webpage with information about the man. “It seems he’s also looking for a suitable match,” she continued, glancing at his photo and pursing her lips.

You froze when you looked at the photo; he wasn’t at all what you expected. He appeared to be a mature, charismatic, and intelligent man. But how could you sit opposite this man and pretend to be someone else? The thought made you shudder, raising the tiny hairs on the back of your neck.  

“As you can see, he’s much older than me. I don’t think he’ll tolerate disrespect. If you’re disrespectful to him, he might get annoyed and just leave the table,” she said with a chuckle.

You laughed too, but for a different reason. You were sure that if she went to the meeting herself, he would get up and leave when he saw her personality.  

“I think you should go; maybe he won’t like you,” you suggested.  

She narrowed her eyes at you like she'd just caught you saying something crazy. “He won’t like me? Seriously?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder with a cocky grin. “Anyway, I can’t risk it. I don’t want to marry him or anyone else, and I definitely don’t want to be stuck in the same room with that old man.” 

As if I want it so much, you thought.  

“Come on, please do this for me! I promise I’ll be good; I won’t make you work too hard. I’ll ask Dad to give you a nice raise,” she said, clasping her hands together and trying to look cute.  

Well, good raise would mean you could quit your job and bail out of here earlier, right? You crossed your arms and glanced back at the laptop screen, staring at the photo of that guy—Harry Castillo. You made a decision that you had no idea would change everything in both his life and yours.

“Fine. When’s dinner?” you said, feeling a bit anxious.  

“Oh, you’re the best! I knew you couldn’t say no!” she said excitedly. “This Saturday.”  

“But that’s only two days away,” you pointed out, feeling even more nervous.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you all set. Just make sure you displease him,” she grinned.  

You sighed deeply, already sure you’d regret this choice.

“Don’t you think this dress is a bit… exaggerated?” you muttered, looking at yourself in the mirror.  

It was an elegant burgundy dress—strappy, satin, and adorned with pearl details—the kind of designer item you could never afford, even if you worked your entire life.  

“Am I trying to make him hate me or make him fall for me?” you asked, frowning.  

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry; he’ll never fall in love with you,” she said arrogantly. This was typical behavior for her, so you chose to ignore it. “As much as you want to annoy him, remember that you represent me. I don’t want anyone gossiping that Melanie Johanson is wearing a lame dress,” she continued while picking out a matching purse.  

“But everyone knows I’m not you, except that poor guy.”  

“I don’t suppose you were planning to wear one of your own skimpy outfits,” she remarked. “Do you want our game to be exposed?”  

That was too much—being scolded and being forced to do something so ridiculous for this spoiled girl.  

“Fine, go to that dinner yourself then,” you said, slipping off your heels.  

She grabbed your arms. “No, no, no, please. Okay, I’m sorry I was rude. But I need you; no one else would do something like this for me.”  

“It’s good that you realize that,” you muttered.  

“Here, take this; it’s time,” she said, giving you a smile.  

Honestly, putting up with Melanie’s constant demands, cleaning up after her, and covering for her felt like child’s play compared to what you were facing tonight. 

A nice raise, you keep telling yourself trying to soothe yourself. I’m doing this for my restaurant; I’ll get it started someday.

The restaurant was one of the most famous, expensive, and luxurious places in New York—somewhere you would never normally set foot in. But tonight, thanks to Melanie’s name, you could easily get in. You were overwhelmed by the incredibly polite behavior of the restaurant staff.  

Melanie may have been extravagant and reckless, but she had thought of almost everything for tonight—from the driver who brought you here to the all restaurant staff. 

All this effort was for one purpose: to rid herself of the matchmaker’s match.  

When they took your fur coat at the entrance and told you that Mr. Castillo was waiting for you, you took a deep breath. After one step inside, when you saw him, you nearly backed away. Harry was busy on his phone, scribbling notes in his small notebook. He looked really sharp and stylish—way more handsome and appealing than in the photo.

Damn.  

You wanted to escape; you wished to put an end to this nonsense before it even began. Without realizing it, your feet started to move backward. Just then, you turned around and accidentally bumped into the waiter behind you, causing him to drop the champagne glasses he was carrying on his tray. The glasses shattered, and champagne spilled all over his outfit. You cursed yourself for the mishap.

Before you could even respond, the waiter apologized. “No, it was my fault; I’m sorry,” you said nervously, trying to wipe off the champagne from his clothes.

The other waiter and the staff stared at you in shock. 

Yes, you were a wealthy lady now, but what harm was there in being polite?

"No, ma'am, I should have been more careful," he said before turning and walking away.

"Miss Johnson?" said a soft, deep voice. 

You turned around to meet him and felt almost breathless. There he was, few inches taller than you, with broad shoulders, curly hair, deep-set brown eyes, a sharp nose, and an attractive appearance. 

"Melanie, right?" 

"Y-yes," you stammered, batting your eyelashes. 

And that smile! For a moment, the world seemed to stop; all the sounds in the restaurant faded, and you almost forgot why you were there. 

"I'm Harry," he said, holding out his hand. It took you so long to look at his face that you nearly forgot to acknowledge his hand. He laughed again, that wonderful smile lighting up his face. "My hand has been waiting for a while," he said teasingly. 

You felt your cheeks flush as you realized what he meant. "I'm sorry," you replied, quickly reaching out to shake his waiting hand. His hand was big and warm. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," you mumbled, feeling embarrassed. You knew you needed to work up the courage. 

“Not really,” he said with a grin. “Shall we head to our table? Or do you want to stay here all night?” 

“S-sure,” you said sheepishly. 

Well, there wasn't much you could do about it. This wasn't just about him being wealthy or handsome. Even if it was a fake date, it had been years since you'd been on a date, and you didn’t know many men in your life. 

Dinner was harder than you expected. Even though you and Melanie had practiced what you should and shouldn't say, your fears came to light. Harry seemed kind and understanding, and it was difficult to lie to him, which made you hate every minute of it. It got worse when he started grilling you with questions, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up with this silly game.

When you excused yourself to go to the restroom, you called Melanie. 

"What do you mean he hasn't left the restaurant yet?" 

"I don't know; the conversation got a little long, and he kept asking questions about me, I mean you." 

"Do something to make him hate you already!" 

“But how? Throw wine at him? This is all ridiculous. I think we should just tell the truth.”

"Don't you dare!" she barked.

Her voice was so loud that you had to smile apologetically when the other women in the ladies room looked at you strangely, hearing your end of the conversation. 

"What am I supposed to do? Our plan isn't working." 

“What's up with this guy? He should’ve bailed by now.” Melanie grunted.

“He seems nice—I doubt he’d be rude like that.” 

“Rude! That’s the ticket; just be rude enough that he can’t stand it.” 

“What? Seriously?” 

“Yep, you heard me. Just be as rude as you can.” 

You let out a sigh, really wishing you could just bang your head against the wall right now.

“I said do it, or you'll ruin everything. Call me when you’re done.” 

“But what am I gonna— Hello? Darn it!” 

Beep… Beep… Beep… 

She hung up. 

You’ll have to be rude, how wonderful! But she was right; you needed to get rid of this man for the night to end and for you to return to your normal life. Why did he have to be so nice and kind? If he could ever act like a jerk, you would have done it by now, but he was just too sweet. As you looked in the mirror, you thought of all the rude things a lady wouldn’t normally do. Ah, that sounds familiar; it reminds you of Melanie herself. The very thought of her actions made you smile nervously. You took a deep breath and left the restroom.

Encouraging yourself, you gazed at Harry's handsome face from afar.

You can do it, you can do it...

Your first move: act indifferent.

You changed your facial expression as you approached the table and deliberately looked away from his face. He was smiling warmly at you. No, you couldn't look at him; it would only complicate everything. You were about to apologize for being late, but no, you can’t. Instead, you pulled your chair noisily on purpose, scraping its legs on the floor to create an annoying sound. You sat down and crossed your legs, positioning your body so it wasn't fully facing him. Harry seemed surprised by this sudden shift in your mood, but he didn’t comment.

A little later, as your desserts were served, he looked at you, “I like chocolate cake too, especially with pistachio sauce. We have similar tastes,” grinning at you.

You looked at him and then at the waiter. “I don’t want this,” you said angrily.

“But ma'am, you ordered it,” the poor man replied sheepishly.

“I’ve changed my mind,” you said. “I’ll go with the tiramisu,” you added after a quick look at the menu, making sure to glance away casually.

“Sure, I’ll change it right away,” he said, taking your plate and walking back.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“I’m great,” you lied, forcing a fake grin.

He didn’t ask any further questions, but he seemed to suspect something had changed. When the waiter brought your dessert, you decided to eat it rudely. You were sure Harry would be disgusted as you devoured your dessert quickly and rather rudely as if you were starving. You didn’t look at him again until you finished your plate. When you finally glanced up, your stomach feeling a bit nauseous, the look on his face was not what you had expected. He was smiling at you admiringly.

What the hell was that? 

Shouldn’t he have shown disgust or displeasure, just like the people at the next table who were staring at you with disdain?

But not Harry, not him. Why, God, why? 

As if teasing you, he laughed and reached for a napkin on the table, wiping the remnants of dessert from the corner of your lips. “You’ve got quite the sweet tooth, don’t you, sweet girl?”

How could he be so nice, even after everything? 

“Want to eat mine too?” he joked again. Clearly, you were amusing him instead of grossing him out. Ugh, just what you needed. Why was this so hard? 

“It’s the cream in it,” you said, a bit defensive. If you were going to get into a battle of words, you might as well dive in. 

When he looked at you, confused, you thought you saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe you could annoy him with your gourmet knowledge. 

“The Marsala wine is in the cream; it’s a secret recipe,” you said, trying to sound smart. 

Harry paused eating his dessert, rested his elbow on the table, and gave you an admiring look. “Interesting. I didn’t know you were into cooking. That wasn’t in the info.” That familiar warm smile was back.

Crap. Another mess-up. 

“I get it—you’re keeping it under wraps from your dad. I want you to feel comfortable talking about your hobbies when you’re with me.” 

When you’re with him? Damn, that was supposed to be the first and last time you saw him. You started playing with your fingers in your hair out of nervousness. 

Think, think, think. All you had left was to use the only card you had.

“Look, Harry, I’ll be frank. I don’t plan to see you again.”

Suddenly, he stopped. “Didn’t you like me?” he asked softly.

Was it possible not to like this man? But damn it, you had to lie. You looked away; it was hard to read his expression.

“You’ve probably heard about me from the tabloids. I’m not the type of woman to get attached to just one man. My father put me up to this matchmaker thing; I didn’t intend to.” You admitted this indirectly. He deserved a little honesty, didn’t he? “I’ve had and will have many men in my life. I don’t plan to get married. I mean, you’re not special. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” 

When you looked at his face timidly, you realized you got the reaction you had been waiting for since the beginning of the night. His smile vanished; his expression hardened, and the color of his eyes darkened. 

But why did your heart squeeze when you should have felt relieved?

When they brought your coat, you thanked them and turned to Harry for the last time. You would probably never see him again. You felt fortunate to have had the chance to meet and get to know this man, even briefly. He would probably forget you anyway; why would he remember you? 

“Can I give you a ride home so we can end things on a good note?” he asked, sounding a bit unsure.

You definitely didn’t see that coming. You paused, trying to figure out what to say. It would’ve been easier to just say no, but his eyes were so mesmerizing that if he’d asked you to spill all your secrets right then, you might have done it without even thinking.

“Sure,” you replied, feeling shy.

When the valet brought Harry's car around, your jaw dropped. This black, late-model Mercedes Benz S was probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Your interest in cars stemmed from your childhood; your mother always complained that you didn't like dresses and jewelry like other girls—rather, you liked cars. It was clear you were different, and you had always been that way.

Just like the situation you found yourself in now. Maybe there was something wrong with you.

The two of you were silent the entire ride. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his gaze on you out of the corner of your eye. However, you were more captivated by the interior of the car. When would you ever get to ride in such a luxury vehicle again? It wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look. As you glanced towards his side to check out the control panel and see how much horsepower the car had, he caught your eye, causing you to quickly turn your head away. You had to suppress your curiosity.

"We’ll turn right here," you said as you approached the junction. Down the street, the giant mansion loomed, so close to your destination. You stole a quick glance at him, realizing this might be the only time you would see this man in person. You wanted to remember his handsome face. 

Suddenly, Harry slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt. Your eyes widened in surprise as you looked at him, startled that he had stopped so abruptly near the mansion. What had caused him to suddenly halt? He didn’t say a word, just stared at you, and his eyes seemed to communicate something intense. Was he angry and no longer wanting your company? 

You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door handle, only to find it locked.

“Stay still,” he said as he unlocked the car doors. 

What was he implying? He walked around the front of the car, reached your side, and opened your door. 

Was this chivalry? If so, why did he stay away from the mansion?

“Aren’t you getting out?” His voice was kinda cold.

You didn’t know how to respond. You stepped out of the car without saying a word.

“Thanks for the ride—” 

Suddenly, he grabbed your arm—not roughly, but with a firm, questioning grip. His gaze was intense, but why did he look that way? Had he figured it all out? Maybe he was about to confront you for making a fool of yourself. After all, you had been willing to be open, and now you felt you deserved it. But you didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes, so you lowered your head. 

“You were lying, weren’t you?”

Shit. 

You swallowed hard; this was the moment you had dreaded.

“I-I…”

What were you going to say? How would you even say it?

You were fucked.

Suddenly, Harry pinched your chin with one hand, forcing you to look at him while his other hand rested on your waist. He tilted his head toward you, his hot breath brushing against your face, making your heart race. His lips were dangerously close to yours, and you could feel your throat going dry. What the hell was he going to do? Kissing you or scolding you? After what felt like an eternity, he pulled you closer by the arm around your waist and kissed you.

It had been a long time since you kissed someone, so you were almost shocked by his sudden kiss. No matter how hard you tried to stop yourself, you finally closed your eyes and surrendered to him completely. Your surrendering gave him courage and he deepened the kiss, his hot tongue licking your lips and forcing them apart. While his expert hand lingered on the swell of your breasts teasingly, you moaned and opened your mouth for him and when his tongue touched yours, you could still taste the chocolate from the dessert he had just eaten. 

But suddenly, Harry pulled his head back, breaking the kiss and all contact. Instinctively mesmerized, you leaned forward, eyes closed and mouth agape. When you finally opened your eyes, you caught him snickering, and as the embarrassment of the situation hit you, you wished you could disappear. You instinctively pressed your hand to your burning lips and pressed hem together. Harry licked his lips and grinned. "Just as I predicted. You lied to me. There's no way another man has touched you recently."

For a second, your mind went blank, and you just stared at him, blinking in confusion. What the heck did he mean by that? "Y-you... w-what..." Great, now you couldn't even put together a simple sentence.

What next?

Just then, your phone started ringing. When you opened your purse to get it, Harry reached for it before you could. Fortunately, you had saved Melanie in your phone under a special nickname, not her real name. Harry laughed, raising his eyebrows in surprise and amusement. "Trouble?"

Yes, you had saved her as trouble.

"Can you hand my phone back, please?" you said, holding out your hands, but he caught them with one hand and gently pushed them away. 

“Your trouble can wait,” he said, rejecting Melanie’s call. He dialed a number on your phone, but realized what he was doing when his own phone started ringing.

“There, now you have my number,” he said, handing your phone back to you.

You frowned and grabbed your phone angrily, "What makes you think I’d actually call you?" 

Harry shrugged, pursing his lips. “Shouldn't I call you before I come to pick you up for our next date? I guess I could just come by your house and honk the horn instead.” 

“What?” you exclaimed.

He grinned.

You took a deep breath to release some of your tension. “Harry, why are you doing this? There won’t be a next date; I told you that.”

“One chance,” he said firmly.

“A chance of what?” 

"I want you to give me a chance. A real date. If, at the end of the night, you still feel the same way, I promise you’ll never see me again."

You shook your head. "But why? You’re a man who can have any woman you want. You’re rich, handsome, and kind—why waste your time on someone who doesn’t want you?"

You saw something in his brown eyes, something you couldn’t quite identify, but it was intense. “Because you're different from others,” he said sharply. “True, women are not unattainable for me; they are always around. But what I want is someone special, and I feel that you are the one. There’s something about you that has ignited something in me I haven't felt in a long time. I must admit, I'm surprised; I never thought I’d be attracted to you after reading the news about you, but it seems I was wrong. Can you give me a chance? Please?”

Oh, Harry, there’s so much you don’t know, you thought. Your heart was fluttering at the thought of saying yes, but how could you? How dare you? You weren’t Melanie, the daughter of a wealthy businessman; you were just an ordinary girl.

“You know I won’t leave without hearing your answer, right?” He grunted.

Just then, you heard a car approaching, and you freaked out. That was Melanie’s dad’s car. Your heart nearly stopped.

“You have to go, like, now!” you yelled in a panic.

“First, say yes,” he replied, frowning.

"Si, yes, okay, alright! But please, go now!" you urged, pushing him toward the back of his car. He chuckled in response.

You crouched down to hide your face as the other car drove toward the mansion and pulled him down with you.

“I want you to know I’ve never done anything like this in my life,” he admitted, snickering.

“Is that so funny?” you snapped.

"Okay, I get that you don’t want your dad to see us like this, and I’m curious why, but since you said yes, I’ll be a good guy and leave."

“Yes you do that,” you said with a sigh.

Harry took his phone out of his pocket and waved it before getting into his car. “You’d better answer it when I call,” he said, getting inside. He winked at your puzzled expression and started the engine. His car quickly disappeared from sight along the road. You turned toward the mansion, exhaled deeply, and murmured to yourself.

“I'm so fucked.”

thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #16 死

† shooting range and dinner †

"When his insomnia slips out, you decide being a useful fuck buddy is part of the arrengement. Even if sleeping is not exactly what you want to do tonight."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 9,3k.

content: jeon taking a nap in j-hope’s office and hobi having none of it, verbal fights between friends, bestie plans being cancelled, shooting range practices that feel like lame excuses to touch, insomnia confessions, sleeping arrangements where both of them fail to simply sleep.

☠ author's note ☠

Y'ALL I'M SCREAMING. Look at my boy Jeon being all emotionally constipated and sleepless and GRUMPY! I cannot with him sometimes (⁠╯⁠°⁠□⁠°⁠)⁠╯⁠︵⁠ ⁠┻⁠━⁠┻

So I'm really exposing my kinks here, but the whole "let's sleep together but actually sleep" trope is just *chef's kiss* perfect. Insomnia-ridden boy who can only sleep well with you nearby? GIVE IT TO ME INTRAVENOUSLY, THANK YOU.

And J-Hope being all "I'm your friend whether you like it or not, you stubborn asshole" is everything I needed today. Their friendship is so beautifully dysfunctional I want to frame it and hang it on my wall.

Meanwhile, you guys in the comments are like "show us Jeon's POV!" and I'm over here like "fine, take his whole entire trauma-riddled brain, are you happy now?!" The answer is yes, you're all trauma vultures just like me. No shame in our game.

I had so much fun writing the shooting range scene though! That whole "let me adjust your stance" trope where they're basically just looking for an excuse to touch you? ICONIC. I will never get tired of it. Sue me.

And don't even get me started on that dinner scene. Jeon actually eating with another human being and not hating it? CHARACTER GROWTH, PEOPLE!

Sorry for leaving you hanging with the spicy bits but... actually no, I'm not sorry at all. The slow boil to explosion is the best part and I'm savoring every moment of your collective suffering (◕‿◕✿)

See you next chapter, you magnificent disaster enablers!

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

"Again, Jeon?"

J-Hope's voice hits him as soon as he walks in, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. His body feels heavy, mind foggy with exhaustion.

The medical ward has become too familiar lately—the sharp smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of medical equipment, the way the afternoon light filters through the blinds.

He grunts in response, already making his way to his usual spot. The stretcher's not comfortable, not really, but it's better than lying awake in his own bed.

"You can't come here every afternoon, you know. I have shit to do and your snoring is not precisely helpful."

Jungkook almost rolls his eyes. He doesn't snore—never has—but arguing takes energy he doesn't have.

"Then put some background music."

"You—"

He doesn't wait for J-Hope to finish, just rolls onto the stretcher, facing the wall. The vinyl covering is cool against his arm, and somehow it's grounding... perhaps in a way he doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Are you for real right now? This is the third day in a row you're taking a nap in my office."

"You said yourself I should nap from time to time." His voice comes out muffled, face half-pressed into the thin pillow.

"Yes, but not in my goddamn office!"

The silence that follows is heavy.

He can picture J-Hope without looking—probably pinching the bridge of his nose, that look of exasperated concern he gets whenever Jeon's being particularly difficult. He hears the medic's chair creak as he leans back.

"Look, Jungkook." The use of his real name makes something in his chest tighten. J-Hope only uses it when he's about to say something Jungkook won't like. "I don't wanna be the one saying this to you, but you need to get your shit together."

"Well I am trying to fall asleep right now." The deflection is weak and they both know it.

"That is not what I mean you dimwit." There's that familiar mix of frustration and worry in J-Hope's voice. "Believe me, I'm glad you're finally trying to get some proper rest. But this—in my office? Just why."

Jungkook quiet, hoping J-Hope will drop it. He doesn't want to think about why he keeps coming here, why his own room feels too empty, too quiet. Why he can't sleep unless he can hear someone else breathing nearby.

(He definitely doesn't want to think about how he slept better in that tent, with y—)

"Jungkook."

Not his real name again.

Something in him snaps.

"Fine. I don't fucking know, okay?" The words come out sharp, defensive. He glares at the wall like it's personally offended him. "I just seem to sleep better in company."

"In company?" He can hear J-Hope's brain working, trying to piece together this new information. "Okay, what—? Elaborate right now."

"No."

The word is final, heavy with all the things he refuses to say.

Like the nightmares that wake him up gasping. Or how silence fucking makes his skin crawl. Or how being alone with his thoughts is becoming unbearable.

About how he hasn't had a decent night's sleep since—

"Whose company, Jungkook? This isn't about little bed-hopping habits, is it?"

It's offensive, the question, really.

But all he does is stare at the wall, trying to ignore how his mind immediately conjures up images of you. Of how he actually slept through the night in that tent.

No nightmares, no cold sweats. Just... sleep.

Four fucking years of insomnia, and the solution was this s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ simple?

"No, it's not." His fingers curl into a fist against the stretcher, leather creaking under fingers—and the sound grates on his nerves, already frayed from lack of sleep. "I ain't talking about it. Drop it, Hoseok."

Using J-Hope's real name now is a low blow, but Jungkook is too tired to care. He just wants to test his theory—see if sleeping near someone, anyone, will keep the nightmares at bay. He doesn't need J-Hope playing therapist, doesn't need him picking apart why this might be working.

Because that would mean thinking about you, about that night, about how for the first time in years he actually felt—

No.

"I'm your friend, Jungkook. And as a member of the Council of Nine, I have to know if anything... or anyone is becoming a weakness."

Jeon almost laughs.

A weakness? No. This isn't about feelings. This is about finally getting some fucking sleep without having to relive—

He cuts that thought off too. Focuses on the antiseptic smell of the medical ward, the equipment, anything but the memories threatening to surface.

J-Hope's concern is misplaced. This isn't about compromising the gang or breaking rules. It's about finding a solution to a problem that's been haunting him for four years.

So if sleeping near someone help? Fucking fine. He'll take what he can get.

Even if it pisses him off that it took this long to figure it out.

"There is no fucking weakness, you got that?" His eyes feel like lead weights in his skull. "I just need some goddamn sleep. I've gotta be sharp for the mission. That's all you need to know."

He can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, searching for cracks where light would shine through.

There's none.

It's been a long time since there's none.

But the medic knows too much, has seen too much. Was there that night when everything went to shit, when V—

"And after the mission? What then? You keep coming back here for your afternoon siestas or are you gonna be sleeping with that company?"

The implication slices through without sugarcoating. There's another word hovering in the air between them, pressing down on the air like a goddamn vacuum.

Traitor.

It sits there like poison, like the taste of copper in his mouth from that night.

Jeon pushes himself up, muscles tense, anger corroding his veins. His head is pounding from lack of sleep, making everything sharper, harder to control.

"I'll deal with it when it comes. Besides, who the fuck will notice? You gonna bitch about it to the rest of the crew?"

"Watch it, Kook." The use of his nickname is a warning, one that would mean more if he wasn't so fucking tired. "I'm trying to help you, not rat you out. But if you become a liability..."

"I ain't no fucking liability."

He's on his feet now, wrath burning through the exhaustion. His fists clench until he can feel his nails biting into his palms.

The suggestion that he'd risk the gang again, that he'd let himself be compromised like that... He does not appreciate it.

It makes something dark and ugly twist in his chest.

"You think I don't know the stakes? You think I'd let myself become another Sylvia episode?"

"Surely you're more intelligent than that."

The words hit exactly where J-Hope means them to. Because yeah, everyone thought he was intelligent back then too. Look how that turned out.

Jungkook holds J-Hope's gaze, something ugly settling in his chest.

For a moment, he considers telling him about you, about this arrangement that's purely physical—no strings, no complications, just a solution to his sleepless nights.

But the words catch in his throat. Because J-Hope isn't just asking for himself, is he? He's asking for AD too. AD, who still carries Sylvia's ghost like an open wound, who took her death even harder than he did.

Who trusted her, protected her, only to watch her choose Jungkook—and then watch her die for that choice.

The guilt sits like lead in his stomach. He can't do that to AD again. Can't make him watch from the sidelines as another woman gets tangled up with Jungkook, always wondering if history's about to repeat itself.

The weight of Sylvia's death is still a chain around his neck, dragging him down every time he closes his eyes.

So he swallows the truth, lets it burn on its way down. This thing with you—he'll handle it himself. Keep it contained. Control it before it becomes something he can't take back.

His face settles into careful blankness as he meets J-Hope's searching look.

"I fucking am. I don't need your nagging."

It's not even a lie. This isn't like Sylvia. He won't let it be. You're different—safer. You know exactly what this is.

"You sure you don't?" J-Hope's voice rises. "Because from what I recall, you've been a messy piece of shit ever since she's gone."

Something dark and ugly coils in Jeon's chest. "Watch how you sling that shit at me, J-Hope."

"Keeping an eye on it, always. Seems we all gotta tiptoe with our words 'round you, huh? Drop one mention of her, and you're all about throwing punches, no thoughts, just rage. Done you a lick of good, has it?"

"Shut your mouth!"

The words rip out of him before he can stop them, raw and ragged.

Because J-Hope's right, and that's what makes it hurt so much.

Four years, and he still can't hear her name without feeling like he's drowning in it all over again.

"Pull yourself together, Jeon!" J-Hope's voice cracks with frustration. "You've been haunted by those fucking nightmares since she died, and now what? Using someone else's body to quiet them down? Jumping from one disaster straight into another and expecting me to just watch?"

Jungkook's eyes feel like they're burning. "No one's asking for your fucking two cents. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

He wants J-Hope to hit him, to hate him, to stop looking at him with that mix of concern and disappointment.

So his next words are not something he's proud of. But something he feels he needs to do.

"Why don't you go find a bottle to crawl into?"

It's a low blow, and he knows it. Watches J-Hope's hand shake, sees the muscle jump in his jaw.

"Don't you fucking go there, Jeon." The warning in his voice is clear. "I see what you're doing—spiraling because you're losing control. But I'm not playing that game. I'm not V."

"Right, you're not." Jeon's laugh is hollow, bitter. "At least that bastard's honest about not giving a fuck about anyone but himself."

"Jesus fuck, Jeon. You're not the only one carrying shit, you know that?" J-Hope's laugh is all broken glass. "Is that what you want? Me to knock your teeth in? You think that'll fix whatever's going on in that fucked-up head of yours?"

"Whatever. I don't give a shit."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you'll actually believe it. Pushing everyone away—that's about the only thing you're good at anymore."

"Don't need anyone. Do just fine on my own."

"Really?" J-Hope's voice is sarcasm. "That why you're trying to sleep in my fucking office?"

"Fucking hell, man. Just drop it and let me rest. I'm not digging into your shit, am I? Let me handle mine." His voice comes out raw, desperate, and he hates it.

"You might not see it, but some of us actually give a shit about you, you stubborn asshole." J-Hope's voice softens, and that's worse somehow. "I might share that council seat with you, but I'm also your friend—whether you like it or not. I'm worried, okay? This isn't how you deal with your demons."

Jeon closes his eyes, exhaustion settling into his bones. "Maybe it's exactly how I deal with them."

Maybe he deserves them.

He doesn't say that.

"It's a shit way of dealing with anything, Jungkook." The softness bleeds out of J-Hope's voice, and something in Jeon's chest loosens.

Anger he can handle.

Concern?

That's harder to dodge.

"Fuck, I'm not watching you spiral down that rabbit hole again. You can hate me all you want, but I won't stand here and watch you self-destruct. Not a second time."

"I get it. Like I said—not your cross to bear."

Jungkook can feel J-Hope's eyes on him, cutting through his bullshit like always.

"Fine, Kook. Hoard your secrets. But the moment it fucks with the mission, you're answering to me—and the Council."

Jeon knows that tone. It's not just a threat—it's a lifeline J-Hope's throwing him, begging him to get his shit together before everything falls apart.

The anger sits like acid in his chest, but he swallows it down.

This isn't about him and J-Hope anymore. This is about the mission. About the gang. About not letting his f̶e̶e̶l̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ weakness compromise everything like last time.

"Got it," he mutters, dropping back onto the stretcher and turning to face the wall. The stone is cold against his face, grounding in its indifference.

Behind him, J-Hope's chair scrapes against the floor as he turns back to his work. The sound is harsh, angry.

But it's okay if he's angry. Better that than worried. Better that than watching Jeon like he's a bomb about to go off.

"Fucking Sylvia," J-Hope mutters.

Then, silence drops.

For all his crankiness, J-Hope won't kick him out. Can't, maybe, because under all that anger is the same guy who dragged Jeon's drunk ass home after Sylvia, who patched him up when he picked fights he knew he'd lose.

J-Hope's right to be worried—secrets in Kkangpae have a way of turning lethal. One wrong move, one slip, and everything goes up in flames.

Again.

(But this thing with you isn't like Sylvia. It isn't. He just needs to figure out how to sleep through the night without—)

Jeon closes his eyes, lets the antiseptic smell of the medical ward fill his lungs.

Maybe if he lies here long enough, sleep will finally come.

Maybe this time, he won't dream.

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝟻. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛.

The message glares at you from your phone screen, all business and no explanation. Typical Jeon.

𝙹𝚎𝚘𝚗?

．．．

𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘯

Great. He's seen it and can't be bothered to reply. Fantastic.

You stare at your phone, trying to will a response into existence. Nothing. Just that stupid "seen" mocking you. It's like talking to a brick wall, except the wall probably has better communication skills.

Jeon and his one-word texts. The man's got a gift for saying absolutely nothing while still managing to ruin your plans. You had a whole evening of doing absolutely nothing planned, and now? Now you're apparently going to the shooting range. Yay!

You toss your phone onto the bed; angry, petty. It bounces once, screen still lit up with Jeon's oh-so-eloquent message. His profile pic is just a blank space. Of course it is. God forbid he show an actual human emotion. Or, you know, a face.

With a sigh that could probably be heard three floors down, you drag yourself to the bathroom. For once, it's empty. Small mercies, right?

You tie your hair back into a ponytail, all business. Can't have stray hairs getting in the way when you're handling firearms. That's a safety hazard or whatever. Plus, you know Jeon would probably lecture you about it.

Mr. Safety-First-Unless-It's-About-Emotions.

The mirror shows you a face that's equal parts annoyed and resigned.

This is your life now—dropping everything because Jeon decided to grace you with a whole six words. Six! He's feeling chatty today.

You stare at your reflection, wondering for the millionth time how you ended up here. Not just in a gang, but at Jeon's beck and call. The man's like a black hole—impossible to ignore, drawing you in whether you like it or not.

(You like it. You hate that you like it.)

Time to go play with guns, apparently. Because nothing says "fun night out" like potential bullet wounds and Jeon's silent judgment.

This better be good, you think. But with Jeon? It's always a toss-up between mind-blowing and mind-numbing.

Guess you'll find out which one it is tonight.

You finish tying your hair back and grab your phone, typing out a quick message to Yunjin. Your fingers hover over the keys for a second because ugh. You were actually looking forward to dinner with her.

𝙲𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚁𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔?

The card reader beeps when you swipe your ID, sound echoing through the empty hallway like some ominous warning bell.

The elevator ride feels like you're being delivered to your doom, each floor passing with total indifference to your impending crisis.

Ding.

Third floor. You step out into a corridor that feels way too quiet. Your sneakers barely make any noise against the floor, which just makes your heartbeat sound louder in your ears.

You reach the shooting range and—because you're not a complete idiot—you don't just barge in. Instead, you peek through the reinforced glass window like some s̶t̶a̶l̶k̶e̶r̶ cautious person.

And fuck.

There he is, in his own little world of violence.

He's wearing his usual dark t-shirt, fabric's stretched across his shoulders in a way that's honestly unfair for every other man. His combat pants are doing that thing where they show off every muscle without being obvious about it, and his boots are planted like he owns the ground he's standing on.

He hasn't spotted you yet. He's too focused on the gun in his hands, handling it with the kind of familiarity that reminds you he does this for a living. The protective gear—ear muffs and glasses—should make him look dorky, but nope. In your brain that simply catalogs as hot.

Each shot he fires is like... well, it's like watching someone who knows what they're doing. Which, you suppose, makes sense.

The recoil doesn't even phase him—his body just absorbs it like it's nothing. Spent casings hit the floor with little metallic pings, and you find yourself weirdly fascinated by the way his fingers adjust on the grip between shots.

(You're definitely not thinking about what else those fingers can do. Absolutely not. That would be unprofessional.)

You watch him reload—movements quick and methodical—like he could do this in his sleep. Probably has, honestly. This is Jeon's comfort zone, after all.

You step inside, and it hits you again how different the air feels in here. Smelling like gunpowder and that underlying tension that always shows up when you're around him.

Jeon doesn't turn around, too focused on whatever target he's destroying. You can't help the little smirk that tugs at your lips because finally—a chance to catch Mr. Perfect off guard. He's so zeroed in on his shooting that he might actually not notice you for once.

(You should know better by now, but hope springs eternal or whatever.)

Your sneakers don't make a sound on the rubber floor as you creep closer. You're already planning it—maybe a sudden clap, or yelling his name. Something to make him jump, even just a little. The thought sends this weird thrill through you, like you're about to get away with something.

You take a deep breath, ready to execute your master plan, when—

"Don't even think about it."

Motherfucker.

He doesn't even turn around. Doesn't move a muscle. Just keeps standing there like some statue of Perfect Shooting Form, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

It's not fair how he does that—makes you feel like you're being predictable without even looking at you.

"You got radar in your head, or what?" you ask, trying to play it off like you weren't just caught being an absolute child.

Your voice comes out light, playful, which feels kind of wrong in a room designed for practicing how to kill people efficiently. But that's kind of your whole thing with Jeon, isn't it? Finding these little moments of tomfoolery in between all the violence and duty.

Sometimes you wonder if he lets you get away with it because he needs those moments too.

Jeon turns around, and as usual, there's this look in his eyes. Could be the fluorescent lights, could be him being a smug bastard.

He sets down his gun with this final-sounding click that somehow makes the room feel too quiet.

"Let's just say I've got a good sense of when someone's lurking in my blind spot."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and you're starting to think he practices that almost-smirk in the mirror.

You watch as he moves to the gun rack, all fluid movements. He picks out this pristine semi-automatic that gleams under the shitty range lights like it's showing off.

"Come on." His voice drops the playful edge. "If we're going to have your back in the field, you need to be able to hold your own. No hesitation this time."

This time.

The words bring back memories of your first shooting lesson with him—how your hands shook, how the gun felt too heavy with the weight of what it could do. You weren't ready then.

But now, with this mission hanging over your heads like a guillotine, you don't have the luxury of not being ready.

You step forward, closing the gap between you. When he hands you the gun, his fingers brush against yours, and even that tiny contact sends electricity up your arm. The metal's cold against your palm, but you grip it like you mean it. Like you're not thinking about how those same hands felt on your skin just days ago.

"Good." He nods, and something warm unfurls in your chest at his approval. "First, your stance—it's all about balance. Feet shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly ahead of the other."

You follow his instructions, hyper-aware of his eyes on you. It feels like being under a microscope, but like, a really hot microscope that you maybe want to kiss again.

You plant your feet, trying to look like you know what you're doing.

"Now, grip. Not too tight—imagine holding someone's hand. Firm, but you're not trying to crush it."

He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels thicker. His comparison makes your brain short-circuit because now all you can think about is holding hands, which leads to thinking about holding other things, which—yeah, nope.

Can't think about that. Not while you're holding a deadly weapon.

His hands come up to adjust your grip, and it should be clinical. Professional.

But there's this undercurrent of something between you, like static electricity looking for a place to ground itself. Like every little touch is loaded with meaning.

You find your rhythm with the breathing, in and out, as Jeon steps back to give you space. He's watching you with that unreadable expression of his, but his eyes are intense, like he's trying to will you into not fucking this up.

"Align the sights." His voice drops low, and fuck, it shouldn't affect you when he's teaching you how to shoot people. "Focus on the front sight—everything else is just background noise. Breathe in, breathe out, and on the exhale—that's when you squeeze the trigger."

You narrow your eyes, zeroing in on the target downrange.

It's not just a paper outline anymore—it's a test.

Another thing you need to prove you can handle in this life you've chosen.

You let out a slow breath, and with it goes some of that nervous energy that's been making your hands shake.

Right now it's just you, the gun, and this need to show Jeon—and yourself—that you're not out of your depth here. That you belong in this world of his, even if it's just at the edges.

The shot cracks through the air like a whip, and the recoil hits your palms. It's jarring but real, solid proof that you're actually doing this. That you're becoming whatever it is you need to be to survive in Kkangpae.

Jeon gives you this little nod, like yeah, okay, maybe you're not completely hopeless. But then—oh. Then his mouth does this thing, curling up at the corners into what might be the most dangerous smile you've ever seen.

"Good job."

Two. Words.

Just two fucking words, but the way he says them—all low and pleased—makes heat pool in your stomach.

It's not fair how he can do that, turn a simple phrase into something that feels like innuendo, voice wrapping around you like smoke, seeping into places it has no business being.

You're starting to think weapons training with Jeon might be hazardous to your mental health. And not for the obvious reasons.

Because the fucker is not just hot—though fuck, he absolutely is—he's something else entirely.

The way he handles a weapon, the easy confidence, how he makes everything look so effortless? It's doing things to you. Things that have nothing to do with training and everything to do with how his hands looked wrapped around that gun.

"Let's try again. This time, focus on consistency. You want to be able to replicate that shot every time."

He moves behind you, and suddenly breathing becomes severely underrated.

You try to focus on the target, but your brain's too busy cataloging every tiny detail—how his breath stirs the baby hairs at your nape, the way his chest is just shy of brushing against your back.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, but that's a mistake because now all you can smell is him.

Pine and wood and leather.

Jeon.

The gun feels heavy in your hands as you line up another shot, and your attention is split between the target downrange and the way Jeon's presence seems to fill up all the space around you.

The shot immediately cracks through the air, perfect center mass.

You should feel proud—and you do—but mostly you're trying not to think about how close he is, how easy it would be to lean back just a little...

Because you know he's all business, laser-focused on getting you ready for the mission. Completely professional. But there are these tiny tells—the way his fingers linger when he adjusts your stance, how his eyes sometimes drift from the target to your face, staying just a second too long.

It's driving you insane.

Like there's this invisible line neither of you is willing to cross first, even though you both know exactly where this tension is heading.

You've been there before, after all. That night in his tent wasn't that long ago.

You lower the gun, trying to ignore how your hands are shaking—partly from adrenaline, mostly from something else.

The way Jeon's looking at you right now.

"Just like that. Keep it up."

You manage a nod because words? Not happening. Your throat's too dry, and honestly, you're afraid of what might come out if you open your mouth.

Another shot rings out, and you can't help wondering if Jeon feels it too. This crackling tension that makes your skin feel too tight. Or maybe you're just losing it, getting all hot and bothered over a man who's literally just teaching you how to shoot people.

"Reload. Keep your focus sharp."

He hands you a fresh magazine, and your fingers brush against his again—and honestly?

This isn't fair.

You're supposed to be learning important gang shit here, not mentally cataloging how good his hands feel.

Your brain keeps replaying every tiny touch, every moment his body was pressed against yours while "correcting your stance."

Which, by the way? Totally unnecessary.

You're pretty sure proper shooting form doesn't require his chest being that close to your back.

Focus, you tell yourself. You're here to learn how to handle a weapon, not daydream about handling... other things.

You need to prove you belong here, that you're more than just another recruit who can't keep it in their pants around the hot Chief.

(Even if said Chief is making it really hard to think straight right now.)

You grip the gun tighter, channeling all that frustrated energy into your next shot. The bang echoes through the range, and you pretend it drowns out the voice in your head that keeps suggesting alternative uses for this private training session.

The magazine clicks into place with maybe more force than necessary, but whatever. You're determined to get through this without embarrassing yourself. More shots follow, each one a desperate attempt to focus on anything except how good Jeon looks when he's in instructor mode.

(It's not working, but at least you're hitting the target.)

You're about to take another shot when something catches your eye.

Jeon looks... off.

There are shadows under his eyes that makeup can't hide, and his movements are slower than usual.

Most people wouldn't notice, but you've been trained to spot weaknesses.

"You look like shit."

The words slip out before your brain can filter them. Because you're such a professional, apparently. But now that you've started digging this hole, might as well keep going.

"When's the last time you actually slept?"

Dark eyes snap to yours, and you swear something raw flutters behind his eyelashes. Doesn't last long-as never anything really does with him. The walls come slamming back up.

"I'm fine."

His tone screams drop it; the voice in your head screams 'don't.'

Good thing you've always been good at hearing yourself first.

Besides, this isn't exclusively about him anymore.

You set the gun down, turning to face him fully. "Look, I get it—we all have our shit. But if you're walking around half-dead, that's not just your problem. That's how people end up getting killed."

He gives you a death stare, and you're pretty sure he's about to pull rank and shut this conversation down. But then he exhales, and something in his posture just... gives.

"Insomnia's an old friend." An admission that comes out rough, like he had to force the words past his defenses. "Been dealing with it for years. It doesn't affect my work."

"Bullshit." You shouldn't push, but your mouth's apparently on autopilot today. "You slept fine in the tent—"

His eyes narrow, and okay, maybe that was too far. But you're not wrong. You remember how peaceful he looked that morning, no trace of the tension that's radiating off him now.

"That was different."

His voice drops low, warning you away from this topic.

But there's something else there too—like maybe he's trying to convince himself more than you.

He doesn't deny it though.

So you nod, letting the subject drop. But you tuck that little piece of information away like a secret—Jeon sleeps better when he's not alone. When he's with you, specifically. You're not sure what to do with that knowledge yet, but it feels important somehow.

Silence falls. You turn back to the range because it's easier than trying to decode whatever's happening here.

The gun in your hands is simple, straightforward. Point, shoot, repeat. No complicated feelings or midnight revelations to deal with.

You cycle through the weapons Jeon's laid out, each one different but serving the same purpose. Pistols feel natural now, like they belong in your grip. Shotguns still kick like a mule, but you're getting better at handling them. Each shot echoes through the room, filling the space where words should be.

It becomes almost meditative after a while. Load, aim, breathe, squeeze. The routine helps quiet your mind, pushes away thoughts of Jeon and sleep and whatever's going on in that cold brain of his.

You're here to learn how to stay alive, not psychoanalyze your Chief's sleeping habits.

When you switch to the rifle, you can't help sneaking a look at him. He's lurking in the shadows like some kind of sexy gargoyle, watching your every move. Even exhausted, he's still intimidating as hell.

But there's something different about him now—like seeing him tired makes him more... real. Less Chief of Tactical Assassinations, more just Jeon.

The rifle's recoil brings you back to reality. You line up another shot, remembering everything he's taught you.

Breathe in, hold, squeeze, exhale. The bullets hit close together, forming a tight group that would definitely ruin someone's day. Jeon gives you this tiny nod that shouldn't make your stomach flip, but it does anyway.

The sun's starting to set, painting the room in long shadows. Empty casings litter the floor around your feet like tiny brass confessions. Neither of you has said much, but somehow it's not uncomfortable.

You've learned two things today: how to shoot better, and that Jeon trusts you enough to show you some of his cracks, even if he doesn't mean to.

You're not sure which lesson is more dangerous.

(Probably the second one.)

You start packing up, going through the familiar motions of cleaning and storing the weapons.

"It's getting late," you say, mostly to break the silence.

When you turn around, Jeon's standing there with his arms crossed, staring at nothing. Or maybe at something only he can see. He doesn't react to your voice, like he's been aware of every move you've made since you started cleaning up.

The lighting in here is shit, but it's not bad enough to hide how exhausted he looks. The shadows under his eyes are getting deeper, more obvious. You think about what J-Hope would say if he saw Jeon like this—probably something cranky and concerned wrapped in medical jargon.

"If it helps," you start carefully, like you're approaching a wild animal, "we can sleep together again. No bullshit—just sleep. Seems like you could use it."

For a second, his face goes completely blank. It's that perfect mask he wears when he's processing something he doesn't want to deal with.

Then—there.

His shoulders drop just a fraction, like someone's loosened a wire.

"I don't need charity."

The words come out defensive, but they're missing that sharp edge he usually uses to keep people at a distance. You recognize deflection when you hear it—you work in the Seduction Division, after all.

"It's not charity." You click the last weapon case shut, buying time to choose your next words carefully. "Consider it... part of our arrangement. We're no good to each other tense or half-awake."

The silence stretches out so long you start to wonder if you've fucked up. Maybe you pushed too far, got too personal. But then he nods, just barely, like he's trying to convince himself he's not giving in to anything.

"I'll think about it."

His voice is gruff, but there's something else there—a hint of relief, maybe. Like you've given him permission to want something he thinks he shouldn't. You pretend not to notice how his eyes linger on you as you finish packing up, like he's already made up his mind but isn't ready to admit it yet.

You glance at the clock, and shit—it's really fucking late. The castle gets quiet around this time, most people already finished with dinner or working night shifts.

Speaking of dinner... you were supposed to meet Yunjin, but someone had to drag you to impromptu target practice.

A thought hits you, and you can't help the little smile that tugs at your lips. It's probably stupid, definitely pushing your luck, but...

"By the way," you say, closing the weapons case with a satisfying click. "Since it's already so late... How about grabbing some dinner together at the cafeteria?"

Jeon looks at you like you've just suggested robbing a bank in your underwear.

There's this tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes that would be funny if it wasn't kind of sad. Like the concept of eating with someone is completely foreign to him.

"Dinner? I eat alone."

His voice is flat, but it's as though he's actually considering it, even if he'd rather die than admit it.

"I know, but it's late." You shrug, going for casual even though your heart's doing this weird skippy thing. "Few people will be there, and I had plans that got... rearranged."

You give him a pointed look because hey, this is technically his fault.

"Don't feel like eating by myself."

He stares at you for what feels like forever, face doing that blank thing he does when he's processing something unexpected. Then his mouth quirks up at the corner.

"I don't usually do dinner dates."

You actually laugh at that. "You wish.Think of it as a tactical debriefing over food. Can't strategize on an empty stomach, can we?"

His smirk gets a fraction wider—the Jeon equivalent of a full grin. It's rare to see him look actually amused, and something warm unfurls in your chest at being the cause.

"Tactical debriefing, huh? That's a new one."

"Come on, Jeon. It's just dinner." You try to sound nonchalant, like you're not weirdly invested in his answer. "Besides, you're probably starving after all that shooting."

He does that thing where he goes all still, like he's running risk assessments in his head.

Finally, he nods. "Alright, but this isn't a habit we're starting."

"Of course not, you have a reputation to maintain, thundercloud."

You can't help the smirk as you head for the door. The nickname slips out before you can catch it, but whatever. You're already in deep.

"Not like anybody would believe you anyway, sunshine." He rolls his eyes, but follows you out.

The way he says sunshine—like it's both an insult and something else—makes your stomach do a little flip. But you're not going to think about that.

This is just dinner. Just two gang members having a totally normal, professional meal together.

The walk to the cafeteria is weirdly peaceful.

Neither of you says anything, but it's not that awkward silence that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

It's just... quiet. Your brain's still processing everything—the training, the arrangement, the fact that you're actually going to dinner with Jeon of all people.

The cafeteria's practically empty when you walk in. Just a few night owls scattered around, most of them looking like they're running on coffee and spite.

It's nice, though. No curious eyes, no whispers. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant clink of dishes.

The buffet spread looks like heaven. Your stomach reminds you that you haven't eaten since lunch, growling at the sight of steaming bulgogi and kimchi jjigae. The castle chefs don't mess around—everything looks magazine-worthy, even at this hour.

You load up your tray like you're preparing for hibernation: bulgogi because duh, japchae because the noodles here are actually insane, kimchi fried rice because comfort food is a thing, and those spicy braised potatoes that make your mouth water just looking at them.

Jeon, for his part, goes straight for the protein—galbi ribs, bibimbap loaded with meat, and bossam like he's got something to prove.

You're about to head for a table when you catch him adding even more bulgogi to his already meat-heavy tray.

"Got enough protein there?" You can't help the teasing tone. "Or are you planning to feed a small army?"

Jeon's mouth does that thing where he's trying not to smile but failing.

"I need to keep up my strength." His eyes flick to yours, dark. "Never know when I might need to pin a smartass against a wall."

The laugh that escapes you is only partly nervous. You lead the way to a corner table, far from the few other diners. It feels weirdly intimate, having dinner with someone who usually eats alone.

The food works its magic. You feel the day's tension melting away with each bite, and even Jeon looks more relaxed. That permanent frown he carries around is smoothing out as he tackles his galbi like it's his division's target.

"Holy shit, this is good," you mumble around a mouthful of noodles.

The chefs here could probably work in any five-star restaurant, but instead they're cooking for a bunch of criminals. Life's weird like that.

Jeon makes this little grunt of agreement, cheeks full like a hamster's. He swallows before speaking because apparently assassins have table manners.

"Only decent perk of this place."

You fall into comfortable silence after that, both focused on demolishing your food.

It's strange how normal this feels—just two people sharing dinner, like you don't kill people for a living, like you haven't had your hands all over each other hours ago.

"That rifle technique you used today was solid. Got good instincts."

Coming from Jeon, that's practically a love letter. You hide your smile behind another bite of food, but can't resist poking the bear.

"Well, I have a good teacher. Even if his people skills need work."

He snorts, stabbing another piece of meat with maybe more force than necessary.

"I don't coddle. You get better by doing, not talking."

"True, but positive reinforcement helps too." You gesture with your chopsticks. "I'm only human, thundercloud."

The look he gives you could melt steel. One eyebrow goes up, and there's something dangerous playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Hmmm. Almost sounds like you want to be coddled, sunshine."

The way he says it makes heat pool in your stomach. Because that wasn't about teaching at all, was it?

You laugh to cover the way your breath catches. "In your dreams, Jeon."

You ball up your napkin and throw it at him, which he catches without even looking because of coursehe does.

Show-off.

"Still," he says, ruining the moment like he's allergic to peace, "your reaction time needs work."

"I'll keep practicing." You shrug, aiming for casual. "Can't have you worrying about me in the field."

"Who said anything about worrying?" But his eyes give him away—that split-second flicker before his face goes blank again.

"Oh please." You wave your chopsticks at him. "You were watching me like a hawk in there. Probably counting my breaths or something equally anal-retentive."

He just shakes his head, suddenly very interested in his food. But you're on a roll now, feeling brave or stupid or both.

"Admit it, you care about my progress." You lean forward, grinning. "It's almost sweet."

Jeon looks up then, and oh. His gaze is intense.

"I care about not getting shot because you can't handle your weapon, sunshine."

You can't help yourself. Really, you can't. "Mhm? Thought I was getting better at handling weapons, thundercloud."

His lips twitch, just barely, but you catch it. It's fascinating, really, how you've somehow stumbled into this easy back-and-forth with him. How beneath all his sharp edges and your sass, there's this... thing.

This rhythm that shouldn't work but does.

Dinner's winding down, and you notice something different about Jeon. The tension he usually carries—the one that makes him look like he's ready to snap someone's neck at any moment—has eased up. Even his face looks softer, less murder-y than usual.

"This was... not terrible," he says, like admitting it physically pains him. His eyes meet yours across the table. "The food, the company... both exceeded my low expectations."

"Oh my god." You press a hand to your chest, going for maximum drama. "Was that a compliment? Should I call J-Hope? Are you feeling okay?"

He snorts, and there's this little uptick at the corner of his mouth that you're starting to recognize as his version of a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."

"Too late." You stand up, gathering your plates. "I expect this level of praise at every meal now. Maybe we can work up to actual sentences by next week."

"Don't push your luck, sunshine." But he's still got that almost-smile as he gets up too.

"I mean, you already admitted you don't hate my company. That's practically a love confession by your standards."

Jeon shakes his head, but there's something soft in his eyes.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

You drop off your dishes, and both head for the elevator, falling into comfortable silence.

You reach for the elevator buttons, aiming for the fourth floor where your room is. But Jeon's arm suddenly appears in your peripheral vision, his chest almost brushing your back as he leans forward. There's this tiny pause—blink and you'd miss it—before he hits the button for the fifth floor instead.

You turn your head just enough to catch his eye, raising an eyebrow. No words needed.

You both know what this is: him taking you up on that offer to help him sleep. Simple as that. Like picking up takeout or scheduling target practice.

The elevator starts moving, and holy shit why is it so slow? The silence should be awkward, but it's not.

Maybe because you both know exactly what this is. No bullshit, no complications. Just sleep. Like you said in the training room—you're no good to each other half-dead from exhaustion.

It's probably stupid, spending the night with your Chief. But you've already crossed that line in his tent, and honestly? If sleeping next to you helps with his insomnia, then whatever.

You're already fuck buddies—might as well be helpful ones.

The doors finally open to the fifth floor, and Jeon steps back. He's giving you space, making it clear this is your call. Which is... weirdly considerate, actually. You step out because why not? This isn't some dramatic decision. It's practical. Logical, even.

The walk to his room feels longer than it should. Your feet are dragging because yeah, you're fucking tired. Today's been a whole thing—training, dinner, and now this weird arrangement that somehow makes perfect sense.

Jeon stops at his door, giving you one last look. Checking if you're sure, probably. You nod because duh. This isn't complicated. You're both adults who sometimes fuck and apparently now sometimes sleep (just sleep) together.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you get your first look at Jeon's private space.

So this is where the Chief of Tactical Assassinations sleeps. You can't help but snoop—it's basically in your job description as a member of Seduction Division.

The room is... exactly what you'd expect from Jeon, honestly. It's like someone took his personality and turned it into interior design.

Everything's black, white, or gray, like he's allergic to color. It matches his whole aesthetic—the guy who sees the world in shades of gray, making calls about who lives and who dies. Maybe the monochrome thing is some kind of metaphor. Or maybe he just really likes black.

There's this massive king-sized bed against one wall, all black sheets and dark gray duvet. The bed's made diligently, but you can see the slight wrinkles that mean he's actually slept in it. Unlike some people who just have fancy beds for show.

Next to it is this super minimal nightstand with just a lamp and—oh. An ashtray. Right. His stress-smoking habit.

The furniture could be from one of those fancy minimalist catalogs. Everything's black wood, clean lines, no fuss. There's a dresser that probably holds his endless supply of black t-shirts, a desk that looks barely used, and a chair that seems more decorative than functional.

What really gets you is how empty it is. No photos, no personal stuff, nothing that says "someone actually lives here."

It's like a really expensive prison cell or one of those model rooms in furniture stores.

You spot a door that has to lead to a private bathroom, and fuck, that's not fair. You're sharing a bathroom with like five other girls while Mr. Chief here gets his own shower? The perks of rank, you guess.

The floor's spotless—like, you could probably eat off it. Not a speck of dust anywhere. The whole place is as buttoned-up as Jeon himself, like maybe if he keeps everything perfectly ordered, the rest of his life will fall into line too.

"Well, it's very... you," you say, because what else can you say about a room that looks like it was decorated by a very organized ghost?

"I don't need anything else." He shrugs.

You hover by the bathroom door, suddenly feeling weirdly out of place. Being in Jeon's private space is... different. Not bad different, just different. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store, except your teacher is a hot assassin you occasionally fuck.

"Hey," you start, trying to sound casual, "mind if I grab a quick shower first? I always wash up before bed, especially after training." You scrunch your nose. "Pretty sure I don't smell like a spring meadow right now."

Jeon's eyebrow does that thing—that infuriating arch that makes you want to either kiss him or kick him.

"What, you saying I stink, sunshine?"

"We both worked up a sweat today, cloud." You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile. "No judgment, just stating facts."

He jerks his head toward the bathroom door. "Go ahead. Towels and shit are in there."

You can't help yourself—really, you can't. As you pass him, you throw out: "Maybe take a page from my book and grab one yourself after. You know, freshen up a bit."

The snort he lets out is almost a laugh. "Watch yourself. I don't take orders in my own quarters."

But his eyes are doing that thing where they get all dark and playful, and you know that look.

Intimately.

"Just a suggestion between... friends."

You draw out the last word, letting it hang there like bait. Because that's what you are now, right? Friends who sometimes sleep together. And sometimes fuck. But tonight's just for sleeping.

(Sure it is.)

"So pushy." His smirk should be illegal. "What, you wanna shower together now? Could've just asked, sunshine."

You roll your eyes because it's easier than admitting how tempting that sounds. "You wish, thundercloud. I can handle washing myself just fine."

You head for the bathroom, but pause at the door because apparently, you hate yourself.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you add: "But you know... my back is kind of hard to reach..."

"Nice try." His voice has dropped lower, rougher. "But we said only sleeping tonight. Go get cleaned up. I'll be here when you're done."

The way he says it—like a promise and a threat wrapped in one—makes you seriously reconsider this whole "just sleeping" thing.

The bathroom is exactly what you expected—black and white everything, minimalist as fuck. It's like the room outside but with more tiles and chrome.

You turn the shower on hot enough to steam up the mirrors and step under the spray, letting it pound against your shoulders.

The water pressure is amazing. Of course it is—Chief privileges and all that. Your shared bathroom on the fourth floor can barely manage a decent drizzle, but this? This is heaven.

You take your sweet time, enjoying the luxury of a private shower where no one's going to bang on the door telling you to hurry up.

When you finally emerge, wrapped in one of Jeon's obscenely fluffy black towels (seriously, where does he get these?), steam billows out behind you like you're making some dramatic entrance. Your hair's twisted up in another towel, water still dripping down your neck.

You feel Jeon's eyes on you before you see him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle.

His face is doing that careful blank thing, but his eyes? They're giving him away.

"Shower's free," you say, aiming for casual even though the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. "You know, if you want it."

He just makes this low humming sound that absolutely does not make heat pool in your stomach.

Instead of moving, he just... looks at you.

His eyes track down your body, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch.

Like he's thinking about what's under that towel.

You refuse to squirm under his gaze. Two can play this game.

"Like what you see?" You cock an eyebrow, channeling your inner seductress (which is technically your job, so).

His mouth curves into that dangerous almost-smirk. "Maybe I'm just waiting to see if you'll drop that towel."

"You wish."

You turn your back on him (which is definitely not just an excuse to give him a better view) and head for his dresser.

The drawers are organized because of course they are. You find his t-shirts, all neatly folded like some department store display.

"I'm borrowing this," you announce, grabbing a shirt that looks big enough to work as a dress. You glance over your shoulder, catching his eyes again. "Unless you'd prefer me naked?"

His smirk grows, and fuck, that should be illegal.

"Be my guest."

The invitation in his voice makes your skin feel too tight, but you're not giving in that easy. This is a game of chicken now, and you're not about to lose.

Even if losing sounds really, really tempting right now.

You unwind the towel from your hair and toss it at Jeon, aiming for his face but hitting his chest instead.

"Just sleeping, remember? Go shower."

The towel slides down his front, and you catch this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he wants to smile but his reputation won't let him.

He stands up in that way he does, all fluid grace and barely contained power. Without a word, he heads for the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and soon you hear water running.

You grab his brush (because of course he has one, Mr. Perfect Hair) and start working through your damp hair.

It's weirdly domestic, sitting here in Jeon's room, wearing his shirt, using his stuff. The brush is probably expensive—it glides through your hair like it's made of silk or something.

Speaking of his shirt... You pull it on, and fuck. It smells like him—pine, wood, and smoke.

The fabric drowns you, hanging off one shoulder, falling to mid-thigh. There's something stupidly thrilling about wearing his clothes, like you're getting away with something.

Once your hair's somewhat tamed, you twist it up into a bun. The mirror catches your eye—one of those full-length ones that probably cost more than your monthly salary. You can't help checking yourself out, tugging the shirt down a bit because apparently, you still have modesty or whatever.

That's when you see him in the reflection.

Oh.

Jeon's fresh out of the shower, water still beading on his chest, towel riding low on his hips like it's trying to start something. He's got another towel in his hands, drying his hair as he sits on the bed, but his eyes?

His eyes are locked on your ass like it's his favorite meal.

The mirror gives you a perfect view of his face, and holy shit. The way he's looking at you—it's not subtle. At all. His gaze is heavy, hungry, like he's thinking about all the ways this "just sleeping" arrangement could go very, very wrong.

(Or very, very right, depending on your perspective.)

The temperature in the room spikes, and it's definitely not from the shower steam. You can practically feel the heat of his stare through the mirror.

So much for keeping things platonic tonight. A smirk tugs at your lips as an idea forms. Because if Jeon wants to play this game?

Well, two can definitely play.

You reach up to your bun, pretending to mess with the hair tie.

Oops—it "accidentally" slips through your fingers, falling to the floor with a silent grace that would make your Seduction Division trainers proud.

"Oh no," you say, channeling your best innocent voice. The one that fools absolutely no one but works anyway. "How clumsy of me."

You turn your back to Jeon, and fuck, you can practically feel his eyes burning into you.

Bending down—slowly, because you're nothing if not thorough—you give him a view that you know from experience he can't resist. The borrowed shirt rides up just enough to be interesting.

You take your sweet time "looking" for the hair tie, even though you can see it right there. Your fingers trail across the floor like you're putting on a show, which... yeah, you absolutely are.

When you finally grab it, you throw a look over your shoulder.

Jackpot.

Dark, obscure eyes pin you in place. Absolutely hungry. You'd bet good money that towel isn't hiding much anymore.

"See something you like?" Your voice comes out honey-sweet, but there's nothing innocent about the way you're looking at him.

Before he can compose himself enough to answer, you straighten up and sashay over to the bed. The sway in your hips isn't natural, but who cares about natural when it makes Jeon's breath catch like that?

You slip under the sheets, turning away from him because you're evil like that. The mattress dips as he lies down next to you, and you have to bite back a smile.

"We should get some rest." You keep your voice light, casual, like dismissing every inch of space between you. "Long day tomorrow."

He makes this grunt that could mean anything, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the sound of him wrestling with his self-control.

You can picture his face—brow furrowed, jaw clenched, probably glaring at the ceiling like he wants to shadowbox with it.

You wait, barely breathing.

Maybe you read this wrong.

Maybe he's actually planning to be good tonight.

Maybe he really does just want to sleep.

That's fine. Totally fine. This was his idea anyway, right? Just sleeping.

You're about to give up, admit defeat, when the mattress shifts.

Jeon rolls toward you, and suddenly his chest is pressed against your back, all heat and hard muscle. You fight back a shiver as his hand finds your hip, his thumb drawing lazy circles that make your skin buzz. His breath fans hot against your neck, and fuck, this is so much better than sleeping.

"I need to ease some tension, sunshine."

His voice is pure sin, rough and low right by your ear.

Heat pools in your stomach as you roll onto your back, meeting his gaze. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel how much he wants this.

"Oh?" You hold his stare, watching his control slip. "I thought you'd never ask."

You're definitely not getting much sleep tonight.

But hey, that was kind of the point, wasn't it?

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[entitled-fangirl]

Sparring.

Jasper Hale x vampire!reader

Summary: As Jasper teaches how to fight the newborns, the reader and Bella talk about her past.

Words: 1,551

Warning: vampire stuff, talk of death, cursing

Author's note: I can't tell if I love it or hate it but here you go anyway!

Masterlist <3

............................................................................

The famous silver jeep of the Cullen’s pulled up as she watched Emmett be thrown into the dirt. 

The entire family turned as Edward and Bella stepped out of the car.

As they walk to the family, so do the wolves. 

Each vampire held to their mate as they watched said wolves come out from the tree line. Soft growls came from their snouts from the obvious smell of vampires.

Jasper held on to her as they did so, his arms around her waist, his chest providing support against her back. 

Edward stepped to Carlisle, “They don’t trust us enough to be in their human forms.”

Carlisle nodded, “At least they came. That’s enough. Will you translate?”

Carlisle stepped towards the wolves, thanking them for coming before explaining that Jasper would be the teacher in this scenario.

Jasper’s loving mate smiled. She loved sparring as a family.

…

Some time passes and the girl now sits on the hood of the jeep next to Bella. She leans over, “I’ve always found this entertaining. Watching them,  I mean…”

Bella smiled as Emmett flew threw the air once again. “I did have a question, if you don’t mind me asking…?”

The girl nods, anticipating what the human could possibly think of to ask.

“Jasper knows a lot about this kind of thing… I mean… Why is that exactly..?”

His mate shifts slightly, not expecting that question. “Well, Bella. I don’t feel that I’m the one that should tell you. Perhaps you should ask him. It’s… a horrid story, honestly. I’m not sure he’d want it out there, you know?”

Bella nods, “yeah, right. I get it… sorry.”

The girl’s head perks up at the sound of her name being called by Carlisle. “Oh, shit. My turn to go. Watch me, Bells?”

Bella grins, “Of course.”

…

Jasper stood confidently on the dirt ground, his eyes trained on the person in front of him.

His pretty mate. 

She held the same look in her eyes. 

They had sparred many times before. And they were both quite good. He taught her practically everything he knows. 

The entire family gathered around to see how it would play out. Would they go easy on each other? Who would win?

It seemed the two held that look in their eyes as well as they tried to scope the other one’s thoughts.

Then he rushed her. 

They were both incredible to watch as if they were dancing. Their bodies seemed to always know what the other would do, even when changing their fighting style. It seemed the two lovers truly knew each other in and out. 

Eventually she slipped, and Jasper seized his opportunity, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to him. 

Pulled against his body, her face was mere inches from him. The tension between the two rose as his gaze fell to her lips. God, he couldn’t resist her even when he was pretending to be her enemy.

And she was no better.

She focused on the feeling of his strong grip, his sturdy fingers wrapped around her seemingly delicate wrist. 

If they were alone, this sparring match would have escalated, like it usually does when they are so. But today, they simply stared at each other. Those who didn’t know them would assume they were calculating what the other might do next, but no. This family knew them quite well. And thank god no one else had Jasper’s gift, or the tension would bring a blush to their cheeks.

She gently leaned forward, their lips brushing. Jasper tilted his head down to receive her soft lips. But they never came.

She swept his leg out from under him, pinning him to the ground as she placed a knee on his chest. 

She leaned down to his face, whispering softly in his ear, “What was that you said? Don’t get distracted?”

He smiled, letting his head fall back against the dirt. 

She would be the death of him. 

And he would love it.

…

The sparring continued the next day as she found herself sitting next to Bella on the hood of the car again.

She watched Jasper as he sparred with an admiring look in her eye. She loved the Major with all her heart. 

Or, what was left of it anyway.

If it still pumped blood, she would be able to feel it beat for him.

“Do you mind if I ask you another question? A different one, this time?”

The girl nods, “Yeah, don’t see why not.” 

Bella looks down at the dirt. “Can I ask what happened to you? How you… how you got here?”

She felt a breath come out of her unused lungs, “Oh. Yeah. ‘Course. It’s… not a pleasant story but any means… are you sure?”

The human nods, “Please. I’m trying to understand you guys better.”

The girl leans back slightly, regaining her bearings. “Alright. Well… I was born in 1941. I uh, grew up in the 50s. Not the best timing, obviously. Do you know much about the ’50’s, Bella?”

The human’s head tilts back and forth in thought, “A little. Civil rights and stuff..?”

“Yeah. Well, the Korean War was in the 50’s. There was this military guy that fell in love with me. And I to him. But… we, uh… how do I say this? He was… we were…?”

Bella leans forward, “…what? Just say it.”

“Well, we were different skin tones. And.. well, I don’t need to say much more. Anyway, there was this other man that decided he liked me. He was pigheaded and awful. I hated him. He tormented me everyday. I finally told him about the man that-“

“-what was his name?”

The girl’s head perked up, “Whose?”

Bella met her eyes, “…the one you loved.”

A deep sigh left the vampire’s lips, “…Johnathan.”

Bella nodded, leaning back again to let the girl continue her story.

“I told the man about… Johnathan and… the man began to tell everyone in town. It became the only thing anyone talked about until eventually…. Eventually...,” the girl’s voice faded out in thought. “…I’m sorry. I haven’t told this story in so long…”

“It’s alright. Take your time.”

“Thank you… uh… the man formed a mob and approached us in the park one day. Johnathan tried to protect me. And he did. Until they… killed him…” the girl stared at the ground, a somber look in her eyes. “…and the man ended up being a vampire… he changed me and… well… yeah.”

Bella nodded, “How did you find Carlisle?”

“Oh. Right. Uh, I was on the run… after I changed. I actually ran into him. Well, he ran into me. He…. He stood to where I would crash into him, so he could talk to me. He knew everything. He took me in. And I met Jasper…”

Her eyes wandered back to Jasper. His sleeves were pulled up, exposing the skin of his forearms, and the scars that resided there. He was so strong. So perfect. Her knight in shining armor. 

Bella noticed the girl’s longing gaze and smiled to herself. “…how did you know he was the one?”

The girl turned back to Bella, “Oh. You just know, Bella. It’s… ugh, it’s this feeling you get in your heart. Like you’ve finally taken a breath after being underwater for years. Like your souls have intertwined and have become one. It’s… strange to put into words…”

Bella nods, “It sounds wonderful.”

She nods too, “Oh, it is. Edward feels that way about you.”

Bella looks up in surprise, “Really?”

She smiles, “Yeah. He told me that the day he met you. Like he couldn’t think around you. You… occupy all of his thoughts. You fascinate him.”

The human grins, “And that’s how Jasper feels?”

“-How I feel about what?”

Jasper had walked up to the two, a grin on his face. He leaned against the car on his side, his arm resting over his girl’s leg. 

His mate smiled, “Perhaps it’s none of your business… girl things…”

Jasper scoffed, “Sure, darlin’. Anything you say.”

Her hand reached up to run it through his hair. 

The three sat in silence for a while before the girl broke it. “I need to go back to the house. Help me down, Jas?”

He stood, reaching his arms out, gripping her waist to help her down. She was vampire. She didn’t need help. And they both knew that. 

Bella scooted forward, “Wait, before you go…?”

The girl turned around in Jasper’s arms. “…Yeah?”

“What happened to him? …To the guy that…”

The girl’s lips pulled up into a smirk. Her head turned slightly to look at Jasper’s face that held the same knowing smirk of his own. “Well, Bella. He… got what he deserved…” 

And with that, she walked away. 

Bella gawked slightly, now focusing on Jasper, hoping he could illuminate on the situation. 

But he continued to grin, watching his girl walk away. 

Eventually, Jasper felt Bella’s confused emotion and turned to her. “I made a vow not to kill after I met her…”

Bella’s eyebrows knitted together, and Jasper’s smirk grew into a grin. 

“…But I fucking killed him.”

And with that, silence overtook the forest as he continued to watch his girl walk away.

.............................................................................

[1800-fight-me]

Devout Worshiper

Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader

Rating: E (EXPLICIT - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT)

Warnings: Explicit sex! This is literally pure smut.

Word count: About 3.3k

Synopsis: The Prince Regent expresses his carnal desire and devotion to you atop the Iron Throne.

Author’s note: We were robbed! I can't believe they never showed us Aemond sitting on the Iron Throne or wearing a crown! So anyway I tried to fix it with this fic- please accept my humble offering.

I do not have a taglist! Instead if you would like to be notified when I post new fics follow my side blog @jo-writes-fanfic and turn your post notifications on! Here's the link to my Aemond Masterlist if you want to check out my other stories! Also my requests are open, please send me some more!!

It was long after the moon rose and the knocking on your chamber door was loud and insistent. It made you nervous, and as you opened the door your confusion only grew. 

A kingsguard stood in your doorway. 

“My lady, the Prince Regent requests your presence in the throne room.” He said sternly, making it clear it was more of a demand than a request. 

Prince Regent? 

Trepidation filled you, but you only nodded demurely and followed his lead. 

You flinched as thunder cracked loud enough to hurt your ears. Flashes of lightning lit your way through the halls of the Red Keep as rain poured. 

The kingsguard opened the door to the throne room and gestured for you to enter. He did not follow you, only closed the door behind you, sealing you in. 

Lightning flashed again and you saw the Prince Regent where he lounged on the iron throne. His long silver hair practically shimmered in the low light, his legs were spread, and his gaze was heart stoppingly intimidating. 

Your heart skipped a beat, but for a completely different reason. 

“Aemond,” you breathed out, walking forward again so eagerly you nearly tripped over your own feet. 

You heard that he and Vhagar had returned to King’s Landing after the battle, but hadn't seen him yet. He looked good, completely himself, not a scratch on him and not a hair out of place. You were so relieved. 

He murmured your name too, strong unidentified 

emotion behind the syllables. 

As you beheld your childhood best friend, he looked the same, but something about him was completely changed. Perhaps it had something to do with the conqueror’s crown that rested upon his brow. 

You stopped walking as you reached the bottom of the stairs of the throne. 

“What-“

”Aegon was grievously harmed in the battle, I have been named Prince Regent while he heals,” he explained. 

You nodded, you had heard the King was hurt. 

“And you, are you alright?” 

He smiled crookedly and nodded. 

You stared up at him, for the first time in your life uncertain about what to say to your childhood companion. The circumstances of this conversation were far different than any other time you spoke to him. 

He beckoned you forward, and feeling jittery you 

tentatively made your way up the steps of the iron throne. 

As you reached him, relief overcame you and you laid your hand on his cheek. 

“I’m so glad you’ve returned unharmed. I was so worried for you. I don’t know what I would do if-“ 

He shushed you gently as he placed a large hand on your waist and pulled you closer to him, leading you to stand between his spread legs. 

You knew that none of this was proper. 

“I am here,” he murmured and nuzzled his face into your hand. 

Your heart thumped harder as you tried to pull your hand away, but he intertwined his fingers with yours and prevented you, instead running his nose gently across your skin, invoking goosebumps. 

He took a deep breath as his nose reached your wrist and let out a soft groan. 

Your knees threatened to buckle. 

You should pull away. Walk away. This was wrong, wrong, wrong. You were betrothed to another man. He was betrothed to a woman who was not you. 

“I thought of nothing but your scent throughout the battle, of returning home to you and smelling you once more,” he said, his voice low and deep, before he pressed his lips to your wrist. 

“Aemond,” you protested weakly. 

“Claiming you as mine,” he continued, trailing his lips further up your arm, pushing away the fabric in search of your skin. 

“It is a sin,” you protested. 

About a year ago Queen Alicent caught you and Aemond in a passionate kiss, it was not the first kiss between the two of you, and reprimanded you both sharply. Reminded you both that your maidenhood must remain intact and that developing feelings for one another was folly as it was highly likely you would both be betrothed to others. 

Her words were sharp and you took them to heart. You did your best to squash your feelings for Aemond and treat him only as a friend. 

But feelings that strong don’t merely disappear… and it seemed Aemond’s desire for you remained as fiery as ever. 

“Nothing between you and I could ever be a sin. We were made for each other,” he said urgently, his lips now reaching the skin revealed by your collar as he pulled you even closer. 

Your breath hitched in your throat. 

“We are betrothed to marry others,” you said even as you whined at the feel of his lips against your throat. 

“Fuck that,” he said as he bit down on the most sensitive part of your neck. 

Your grip on his shoulder tightened even as you plunged your other hand in his hair at the back of his head and held him closer, tighter, never wanting to be apart from him again. 

He chuckled darkly and licked up your throat to your jaw. 

“Aemond,” you panted and he pulled back enough to look you in the eye, one hand slipping to caress the side of your face. 

“You are mine,” he growled. 

You whimpered. 

“Say it,” he ordered. 

“I’m yours,” you breathed out. 

You stared into his violet gaze, overwhelmed by the emotion you beheld. 

“And I am yours,” he said. 

“And you are mine,” you repeated. 

You weren’t sure who moved first, but his lips crashed into yours, and it was like coming up for air. You couldn’t breathe without him, hadn’t been able to breathe properly in a year, and now in his arms with his lips covering yours, your breaths came properly.

He pulled back all too soon, and said, “We will say our vows again on the morrow in the sept. I am Prince Regent now, I sit upon the Iron Throne, no one can deny us. You will be mine for the rest of our lives.” 

The crack in your heart that has festered over the last year healed over instantly and you scrambled upon his lap as you kissed him once more. 

As your tongue tangled with his and you both gripped one another tighter, as he held you closer than you’d ever been held. 

‘Finally, finally, finally’ your heart and soul sang. He let out a cocky chuckle and you realized you’d said the words out loud. 

He pulled your legs apart, spreading them as you settled more comfortably on his lap, your dress no longer a barrier between the two of you as his tongue flicked against yours. 

Heat ran up your spine as the taste of him filled your mouth, as your blood pounded through your veins, as he somehow managed to pull you even closer- practically crushing you against him. 

His hand ran up from your waist, his palm enveloping and gently squeezing your breast, and an erotic moan escaped from your lips, spilling into his mouth. 

He pulled your mouth closer, tangling his tongue with yours as he moaned back. His fingers began to tug at the laces of your bodice, and you pulled back with a small gasp. 

“Aemond,” you whispered in concern, looking back to make sure you were well and truly alone. 

“I ordered them to leave us be and guard the doors. No one will interrupt us,” he reassured as he tugged again at the tie covering your heaving bosom. 

Your breasts spilled from your dress as you stared into his eye. You reached around his head and unbuckled the eyepatch, letting it fall to the side, rendering him bare too as the sapphire eye glittered- a reflection of the flashing lightning. 

His gaze dropped to your chest, and with hands on your waist he led you to move your hips, grinding down on his hardened length.  

Your whimper turned into a gasp as his lips left hot opened mouthed kisses that trailed from the hollow of your throat to your breasts. 

As his mouth enveloped your nipple, his tongue swirled on the sensitive bud and you let out a breathy, “Oh!”. You continued to grind down on him, your breaths quickening as heat filled your core. 

His thumb flicked your other nipple as he suckled and moaned. The crown on his head slid down on his forehead for the third time, getting in his way and irritating him. He yanked it off his brow and placed it on your head before returning his attention to your breasts. 

Your head fell back and you moaned wantonly at the eroticism of the action. His hands yanked at your skirts, rucking them up enough that his long warm fingers met the sensitive skin of your upper thighs. 

You shivered at his touch even as a bead of sweat dripped down your spine in the cold throne room. 

Never, you’d never been touched in such a way, never been worshiped in such a way, never had the love of your life fully expressed his devotion to you. And when his fingers slipped into your slick and lust swollen cunt, you knew you’d be his until the day you died.

Those fingers teased and rubbed, finding their way to the pinpoint of your pleasure and you gasped so loud it echoed throughout the room. 

He hummed in approval, his lips quirking into a smirk as he looked up at you and you yanked on his hair pulling him into another heated kiss. 

His finger, that damned finger, swirled around your clit and you bit his lip. 

He hissed your name and sunk a finger inside your desperate cunt. This, this was heaven. Fuck the gods and religion, you were his and he was yours and nothing else mattered. 

He slipped another finger inside you, pumping them in and out gently and you moaned as you clenched around those perfect fingers. 

“You’re perfect like this,” he groaned and you whined once more at the praise and with the flick of his thumb against your clit you gasped his name. 

His breaths came heavier as he watched you near your peak, the pupil in his eye lust blown, and the type of adoration in his gaze you’d always yearned for from him. 

Heat coiled in your core, your heartbeat pounded throughout your whole body, and with a moan of his name you came harder than your own fingers had ever brought you. 

His lips were on yours, consuming and devouring you hungrily, swallowing the sounds of pleasure from your lips that only he could elicit. 

Your desire for him did not diminish, no you needed him somehow even more now. You wiggled your hand between the two of you and ran your hand across his hardened cock. 

He moaned into your mouth, and feeling emboldened, you began to attempt to free it from his tight pants. He chuckled, placed a kiss on your jaw and took mercy on you, and assisted you. 

You wrapped your hand around his hardened length, trepidation filling you at the size of him, and you looked back up at his face with a shaky breath, suddenly feeling bashful at your lack of experience.  

Doubt flickered in your mind, what if you couldn’t please him? What if- 

His lips were on yours once again, he kissed you with a steadfastness that reminded you that this was in no way meaningless, this was Aemond - your best friend- expressing his love for you. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmured in your ear as he trailed his lips across your throat. His large hand wrapped around your much smaller one and guided you to wrap your hand around his cock. 

You whimpered in desire as he continued to guide you to stroke his throbbing length. He led you to twist your wrist, showed you where to grip tighter, guided you to pump his cock up and down until he was groaning. 

He let go of your hand, and you continued to pleasure him, feeling more powerful than ever before as you held the cock of the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, as he again dipped his head and encapsulated your nipple in his warm wet mouth. 

You both whimpered in pleasure, and as you ran your other hand through his silver tresses, pulling his head closer into your chest, you felt that there was nothing better in this life than this. 

Until he lifted his head once more, his eye wide and filled with love, and you crushed your lips into his. 

His hand met yours once more, brushing yours away, and he guided his cock to the entrance of your sopping cunt as you settled your hips over his once more. 

Your breaths came heavier as he said, “You are mine.” 

“I’m yours,” you responded, nodding and following his guidance as you began to sink your hips down on his throbbing cock. 

You winced slightly at the stretch, but he ran a hand up and down your back, pulled you closer to him- your chest crushing against his, and dripped honeyed reassurances in your ear.

”You can fit me, my love. You were made for me,” he said. 

Your heart burned for him, and with his grip on your hip you managed to take him completely inside your soaked cunt.  

The frantic feeling in both of you eased as you sat on his lap, stuffed full of him, and felt complete in a way you never had before. 

Your hands ran across his chest, up his shoulders and down to his biceps, gripping the corded muscle you found everywhere. In tandem, he ran his hands up and down your curves, gripping the flesh he found, until his hands enveloped your ass. 

He gripped your ass and led you to shift your hips, grinding down on him in a circular motion. You let out a breathy, “oh!” The feel of him inside of you as you shifted, moving in an erotic way you’d never moved before, threatened to overcome you. 

“You are perfect,” he reassured and you clenched down on him, causing you both to moan. 

When you were ready, he then guided you to lift your hips up until his cock was almost completely out of your cunt, then you sunk back all the way down, sucking him inside your desperate hole, becoming his in a way that was irreversible. 

“Aemond,” you gasped as you repeated the action, continuing to let him guide you. You finally learned how good it felt to be full, to be so full of him you realized how empty and aching for him you’d felt for years. 

His grip tight on you, stuffed full of his cock, as his teeth bit down on your neck, you’d never felt so alive- so free. 

And so you found a rhythm, bounding up and down on his cock, bringing you both pleasure unlike any other. 

With his hands on your hips, your pace quickened, and one of your hands slipped from his shoulder, looking for more leverage and you cut yourself on a blade of the throne. 

You yanked your hand back with a gasp, ceasing your motions atop him, and he looked at you wide eyed. 

“What is it?” He asked and you placed your hand in his. He surveyed the small cut on your finger, you both realized it was small, barely more than a papercut really, you were lucky, and then he brought your hand to his lips. 

You blinked in surprise as he enveloped your finger in his mouth, lips parting and tongue licking the blood off it. 

You stared at him in shock for one moment, two, then three…. long enough that his expression became bashful, before you crushed your lips into his, pillaging his mouth with your tongue, desperate to taste yourself inside his mouth. 

He moaned as his hand on the back of your neck pulled you closer, and then you were both moving again. 

You felt blissful, stretched out in such a wonderful way, and desperate for anything he threw at you. 

“Made for me,” he breathed out once again against your lips. 

“You’re mine,” you replied as you ground down on him. 

He huffed out something between a chuckle and a moan, and with a tight grip of your hips, he said, “I am yours until the day I die.” 

He punctuated every word with a sharp thrust inside you, and with that he took control from you. You gave it to him gladly, and held onto his shoulders, tangled your fingers in his hair as he thrust up inside you at a pace that kept you from breathing properly. 

There was a spot inside you, that you’d explored before with your fingers, but never once had you felt like this as his cock hit that spot repeatedly. Your toes curled and you whined his name in a high pitched voice you didn’t even recognize as your own. 

“For so long I dreamed of what noises I could pull from your lips. Mmmm… the real thing is so much better than anything I could have imagined,” he purred in your ear. 

Your only possible response was a gasp and clenching on his thick length as your mind had separated from your body, there was only him and the pleasure his body provided yours. 

His muttered words in high valyrian, sweet promises of devotion as he continued to fill you. He filled your body, your heart, your soul, and the only expression of devotion you could return was to come on his cock. 

With a moan and a squelch you gushed around him and he gasped, holding you tighter, somehow increasing his pace- the intensity of his thrusts as he followed you over the edge. 

With one final push inside your cunt, he climaxed inside you, filling you with his come, and it was all you could do to kiss him, sloppily and desperate, as he marked you as his. 

You rested your head in his shoulder, breathing him in as you both came down and attempted to slow your heart rates. 

He tattooed his name against your being as he pressed his lips to any bare skin he could reach. 

“I love you,” you whispered, completely baring yourself to him, feeling more vulnerable than ever before, despite your state of undress, despite the fact that he was still inside you. 

“I have loved you for as long as I have known what love is, and I will continue to do so until I am ashes in the wind,” he swore, pulling back to meet your gaze. 

You could only wrap your arms tighter around him and hold him. 

Eventually, he disentangled the two of you, but swatted your hands away as you attempted to retie your bodice. 

“I never said I was done with you,” he growled. 

A shiver ran down your sweat slicked spine. 

You merely let him lead you to stand, watched as he tucked himself back into his pants, then he led you to sit on the iron throne. 

“Aemond,” you protested, but he merely shook his head at you, took a step back, and stared at you. 

There was desire, possessiveness, and feral satisfaction in his eye as he looked you up and down in your disheveled state that he caused. 

You could only imagine how you looked, sprawled on a throne you had no right to sit on, your breasts spilling from your dress, your hair disheveled, and a Targaryen crown crooked utop your head. 

But the Prince Regent only kneeled before you. 

Any doubts of his allegiance, any doubts in him flew away like feathers in the wind as Aemond Targaryen knelt before you, bowed his silver head, then lifted your skirts and spread your legs. 

His groan was drowned out by your loud gasp as he began to feast on you. 

Aemond ruined you and made you anew in the throne room that night, and at dawn the next morning he brought you to the sept and made good on his promise to marry you. 

Damn the consequences and opinions of others, before all the gods Aemond Targaryen declared his devotion to you above all. 

[dark-konohagakure2]

just aizen and baby trapping... can you see the vision... just him being a yan and breeding his squad member bc she keeps going agasint his word, aizen doesnt want her to ingure herself, after all aizen needs her for his plan..

tw: noncon, breeding, baby trapping, manipulation, power imbalance, abuse, size difference, humiliation, forced orgasm, sensory manipulation

All characters depicted are 18+

Aizen is a very calm man, frighteningly so, it would take the most dire of dire circumstances for him to so much as break a sweat, let alone lose his cold composure. Very few things irritate him, although insubordination is one thing he can't stand for, especially if it's continuously being done by the same person over and over again.

Normally Aizen would murder or mentally break anyone who'd dare to defy him, but he can't do that in this special case, this minion of his is required for his grand plan, and losing her would be a minor setback, a slight annoyance even. She's a tiny piece in his vast puzzle, but even the absence of the smallest of pieces will make the picture look incomplete. So instead of murdering or imprisoning her, Aizen has a different way to force her to remain by his side.

Aizen could easily just use his ability to instil feelings of adoration into her, but that would be too easy, not very fun for him. While usually a very serious man, Aizen does desire some recreation from time to time, and he isn't fully immune to desiring pleasures of the flesh, and if he can use those pleasures to ensure his plan stays on track, then Aizen will gladly indulge himself on her.

Aizen doesn't need to worry about getting her alone, he knows Las Noches inside and out, so if he needs to find her, he'll do so very quickly, whether she's preoccupied or not. Aizen's expression is unreadable, he's smiling like usual, but it doesn't reach his eyes, it never does reach those cold, calculating eyes of his. His touch is deceptively gentle yet firm as he holds her in place, his words as vague as usual.

"Why are you so insistent on defying me, hmm? Are you perhaps upset about not having enough responsibilities in my ranks? Well don't worry, I'll give you the most important responsibility of them all..."

His vagueness doesn't last very long when his intentions become very clear, as he pulls down her underwear, keeping her in place with his superior strength and size. Aizen is only doing this to remind her of his authority and to give her his 'responsibilities', but that doesn't mean he can't have a bit of fun with it, cruelly mocking her for being such a silly girl in thinking she can defy him without consequence, his mockery of her not stopping when when he's balls deep in her.

He isn't gentle, but he isn't rutting into her like an untamed beast in heat, he's not a simpleton who thinks with the head between his legs, instead he'll move at a pace that's somehow both too slow and too fast at the same time, the tip of his long cock brutally poking against her cervix with each thrust as he prepares to bestow her with his progeny.

Somebody walking in on them is a very real possibility, in fact she won't even know if someone is able to see them or is watching them, because Aizen will manipulate her perception to make it impossible for her to see anybody but him, so she has no clue if they're alone or surrounded by spectators. He's feeling especially cruel, so Aizen will tell her how good a show she's putting on for his Espada, even if they're completely alone.

There is one word that can be used to perfectly encapsulate Aizen's entire being: manipulation. Aizen can manipulate people with both his words and his Kyoka Suigetsu. In this case, Aizen will use his Kanzen Saimin to control not her mind, but her bodies reactions. He won't tell her that he's controlling her body of course, letting her believe that she's cumming uncontrollably on his cock all on her own.

"My my, cumming again are we? Your mouth might lie, but your body certainly doesn't... This is precisely why you're more suited for breeding than fighting."

Aizen will walk away from this lovely little encounter feeling very accomplished. Not only did he put a wayward puzzle piece back into it's proper place, but he ensured that it stays there permanenty. He doesn't really care about having a child, children aren't very interesting for him to interact with, but she certainly needs a baby in her fertile little womb, it'll do wonders to keep her compliant.

[lyrefromthesea]

Kinktober - Dry Humping with Rengoku

author's note: I felt the urge to participate in this year's kinktober, but I can't find the energy to write a story for each day. I will just throw in pieces of fiction when I feel like it.

pairing: Kyojuro Rengoku x reader

warnings: nsfw, dry humping, cumming, Rengoku being inexperienced

You couldn't complain about your boyfriend, he made you happy in every way possible. Cooking, playing, talking - it was easy to find a dynamic with him.

Was there anything your boyfriend wasn't good in? After months of your relationship, you seriously began to doubt it. Yes, he had a habit of talking loudly, but that wasn't a grand flaw. Besides, you did find it endearing.

Nevertheless, you promised to help him should a situation arise where he needed it. It's just that you were more than surprised when he told you about his virginity one day.

Of course you weren't judging him for not having slept with another person, but the confidence he displayed had simply made this scenario unimaginable for you. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I am not, I have been waiting for the right person. I am glad we found each other!" He answered, his optimism made you smile. Yet questions still bubbled up in you, he had been way too flustered when he told you.

"Then why were you so shy about it?" You asked, holding his hands to comfort the man. The mild blush that had tinted his cheeks darkened in hue, revealing that something was up before he even got the chance to admit it himself.

"I was hoping.. you would help me.." he started, swallowing down the shyness trying to hold him back. He met your gaze, fierce determination setting in.

"Should the day arise when we decide to do.. when you're ready to fully indulge in our relationship! I'm not sure how to start, I want you to guide us - me - through this."

His words made your own cheeks heat up in embarrassment. You probably knew more about this than him, he was right, but were you able to take charge for the sake of your relationship?

"Of course." Your answer came before you could comprehend your decision, yet you didn't pull back. The way he encouragingly squeezed your hand told you everything would work out in the end.

That conversation had been a few months ago. Three or four? You weren't sure. You were too focused on Rengoku, whose legs you were straddling with your own right now.

The tie in his hair had come lose from all your kissing, eventually sliding down and letting his hair fall freely. It was a welcome change, allowing you to tug on his locks whenever your kisses became more heated.

"Kyo.." you muttered against his lips, watching his eyes lazily open. He had been much too focused on the sensation of your tongue pressing and swirling against his own. He answered with a small hum, meeting your gaze.

"Are you sure about this..?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. perhaps the question had been needless. His uniform was unbuttoned and slipped down his arms, the fabric pooling by his elbows. You weren't any better, only wearing a yukata and undergarments.

He didn't answer, chasing your lips instead. You understood him, even without words, diving into your shared kiss again. It wasn't hard to feel the bulge in his pants, telling of how desperately he wanted this too.

In a moment of need, you began rocking your hips against him, making his body tense in surprise. He broke the kiss once more, a quiet grunt leaving his parted lips.

"Little flame.. g- gods.." his hips involuntary pressed up, trying to gain more of the sweet friction you were blessing him with. he swore he could feel himself against your most sensitive parts, just like you could feel yourself grinding against the imprint of his cock.

you momentarily forget the needy kisses you have been sharing, instead working yourself into the perfect position to enjoy this moment. his hands tightened around your waist, unsure of why you lightly twisted your hips occasionally, but certainly welcoming the sparks of pleasure it shot through his body.

"T- this.. this feels good.." you finally moaned, trying to copy the movement you have made beforehand, more moans escaping your lips when you successfully found the right rhythm.

"I'm glad you enjoy- oh gods- you like this too.." his head dropped backwards, exposed throat giving you a view of his defined neck. his adam's apple bopping.

You leaned forward, not caring about how your yukata nearly slipped off when your chest pressed against his. Your lips found his neck, sucking on the milky skin.

The action clearly took him by surprise, his hips stuttering up. "If you do it like that, I-"

"Oh, f- fuck.." he cursed, the vulgar language making you stop and look at him. he was panting heavily, his groan filling your ears when the combined pleasure took over his mind.

He let his head fall forward again, resting it against your shoulder as he tried coming down from the exceptional feeling.

"I.. I think I just came.." he panted, feeling you slowly come to a stop. your lips were parted, trying to catch your breath.

Truthfully, you had known how this would rile him up, he wasn't used to this after all. However, you didn't expect him to cum so easily, especially not while still wearing his uniform pants.

"Are you tired..? We can stop-" you offered, but we're quickly cut off by his arms fully wrapping around you. He pulled you even closer to himself, his eyes locking onto yours.

"I'm not, I can still- still continue. Show me how I can make you feel good too, please."

You could feel your skin heating up with his words, your heartbeat picking up. How could you say no to such a request?

[januaryembrs]

YOU CAN HEAR IT IN THE SILENCE | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [9]

description: the TWO big steps you take together.

word count: 13.5k

trigger warnings: entire mr scratch episode including drugging and suic!de, gore, violence, blood, mention of Diana's schizophrenia, mention of hotch's upbringing

author's note: lets do this again UGH. also set throughout season 10 so even though it seems like a jump its been a whole year bcus I can't write about every day my babies spend together.

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‘Cause you can hear it in the silence, you can feel it on the way home, you can see it with the lights out,

You’re in love. True love,’

The one where you meet his mom. [you have the parenthood talk]

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, her thumbnail instinctively picking at the side of her forefinger as her eyes trailed over the dress in the mirror. 

It was a little too chesty, were the sleeves too short? Would his mom not like that it was backless? Backless meant suggestive to some people. Would she hate her piercings? She could take out a couple of her earrings just for one day, cover the hole where her nose ring slipped in with foundation easily. 

Smile, she needed to remember to smile, not that god awful resting bitch face that Elizabeth used to say looked like she’d sucked a lemon between her cheeks. Smile. No, not like that, that looks fake and awkward. 

Was her make up too much? She would hate for Spencer’s mom to think she looked like a hooker. A cheap one at that. 

She felt his hands on her shoulders before the throes of her vicious mind could nab her once more, and her eyes trailed behind her in the reflective, if not slightly fingerprinted, mirror. 

“You’re thinking loud,” Spencer said as if it was a fact, though that tended to be the way with him, since he knew damn near everything there was to know. Especially about her. “Why are you so worried, it’s my mom. Besides, what’s not to like about you?” 

She huffed, shaking her head even though she really tried her best to give him a smile, instead turning to look down at her hands with wincing, cynical twinge of her lips. 

“Maybe my tattoos or my make up or my slutty dress or my piercings that make me look like I just raided Penelope’s collection of ‘goth chic jewellery’, her words not mine,” She said pessimistically. She didn’t want to dampen the mood, honestly she was looking forward to the woman who graced the world with Spencer Reid (she wondered if a handshake or a hug would be appropriate, she would ask Spence in the car she decided,) “People don’t tend to see me the way you do, honey, I can be blunt and rude and snappy and cold. And it’s your mom, she’s like the most important person in the world to you.”

“She’s joint first, actually” Spencer corrected, trying to lift her spirits even a little. He knew none of the things she was saying were necessarily true. He suspected that voice that had overcome her was not her own at all, more likely her own mother nagging into to her for years to sit up straighter, smile more, make an effort to network and socialise, or any other piece of shit observation about how she acted for Elizabeth to badger her about. 

But then she smiled at him, her eyebrows drawn together a little like she guessed he was lying or perhaps sugarcoating things. 

“You’re allowed to have her first, you know,” Bugsy reassured him, her eyes melty and soft as she looked at him and he nodded, wrapping his arms around her stomach, almost like he was trying to suck the negativity out of her whole body through diffusion of their skin alone. “She’s your mom,” 

“I know,” Spencer said simply, their eyes never breaking the gaze at one another, and Bugsy felt herself warm inside when she saw just how besotted his forest hues were, “Please stop worrying, she’s going to love you,”

“You can’t know that for sure,” She pushed back, because when had she ever allowed herself to enjoy a good thing when she had it. She knew she was being somewhat of a Negative Nancy, and she didn’t mean to be, truly. But Diana Reid was possibly the most significant person in Spencer’s life, despite what he said. And Bugsy was… Bugsy. All teeth and chaos and bite and vicious tongue when she didn’t mean to be. 

If Diana didn’t like her, she wasn’t quite sure she’d be able to look at Spencer again without blurting out the million ways she’d try to make it up to him.

“Oh, I do know for sure actually,” He said, spinning her around so he could see her first hand, not in a reflection or a mirror image, and she smiled despite herself, pressing into his lean body and taking a big whiff of his freshly washed clothes. It was the same detergent she used, the same one he’d always used, and yet it was so Spencer it made her skin crawl with what she thought felt like warm goosebumps.

“Oh yeah?” He nodded proudly, and she progressed to a grin, her chin leaning against his chest as she spoke, and he stroked her neatly braided hair away from her face to see her better, like he’d won the second he saw her smile properly, “How do you figure that one out, wonder boy?”

“I’ve mentioned you in almost every single letter I’ve written to her for three whole years. When she saw the photo of you I sent her, she asked if I’d cut you out of a vogue magazine,” Spencer said and she burst out laughing. He couldn’t say he blamed his mom, the photo he’d sent had been one of Bugsy’s best, but then he’d be willing to argue all of them were just as newsworthy as the last. And nothing compared to the real thing. “You make me happy, happier than I ever thought I was allowed to be. Believe me, I know she’ll love you, because I love you,” 

Bugsy smushed her face into his sweater to hide her modesty, and she pressed a small, barely there kiss to where her lips met even if he wouldn’t feel it. 

“Does my hair look okay?” She checked again, her voice muffled by his thick knitted clothes, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead, stroking a gentle hand down her spine. 

“You look beautiful,” He said softly, pulling her away from his body and holding onto her right hand, “Give me a spin,”

He lifted her hand above her head, despite the fact she seemed reluctant and embarrassed, “Spence,”

“We’re not leaving until you give me a spin,” He teased, and his smile was infectious as she twirled around beneath his grasp, the long, floral, sundress fanning out around her knees, “And back again!”

“Spencer-” She said with a chuckle, but he seemed to ignore her, or judging by his smile that spread across his whole face he didn’t care.

“Sorry, it’s just the rules,” He said, though she was almost certain there wasn’t ever such a thing as a rulebook on how to make your girlfriend less of a whiny bitch.

He spun her back around, and by the time she whirled around to face him a second him, his arm dropped down to secure around her waist, yanking her towards him to press a scorching hot kiss to her lips. 

She kissed him back, her tongue trailing against his lip and Spencer’s obscenely large hand released her waist, trailing up her sides to cup her cheeks. Spencer kissed her like she was sucking air right out his lungs, like he was receiving life saving medicine, like he was being graced by an angel, a non-believer, a man of science reaching out to the white gates of heaven as if they were about to disappear under his touch. 

They parted with a small smack that reverberated in the bathroom, and Bugsy looked at him as if he’d infected her with a drug, because truthfully that was how his touch, his kiss, made her feel. 

They settled in his car, a few soft and loving affections later, because she really did look beautiful and he could apologise for smudging her lipstick another time, and Spencer it was the first time in a long time that Spencer felt like his future was laid out in front of him. 

–

She fretted some more in the lobby, the woman behind the desk at the sanitarium lighting up at the sight of Spencer walking towards her with a smile. 

“Dr. Reid,” She enthused, noting the woman next to him that squoze a book to her chest tightly like she wasn't sure what her fingers might do if they were let loose, “She’s been so excited to see you, her doctors said she’s responding well to the new medication,” 

“I heard, I’m glad to hear she’s feeling calmer,” He said, his eyes trailing past the brunette who tapped away at her keyboard idly, “Where is she?”

“She’s just in the sunroom. She’s been learning how to crochet, just like you said,” The receptionist smiled kindly at Bugsy, who looked all but terrified, though she hid it well through tight lips. 

Spencer nodded, reaching up to put a hand between Bugsy’s shoulder’s to lead her through the lounge area where a few other residents watched a black and white movie. 

“Are you sure my make up looks okay, my mascara hasn’t ran has it?” She whispered, because a few other people, some even her age, were sitting in comfy armchairs flicking through books. 

Spencer smiled at her, because she was so cute when she was nervous, usually it was the other way around, “You look lovely, you always look lovely,”

“I believe that’s what’s called voter bias, Dr Reid,” She said, because jokes and wit always seemed to release the pressure on her head when she was stressed. 

He chuckled, opening the door to a large room filled on all sides with windows, and the cosy heat hit her in the face, “Not if what I’ve said is a verifiable fact.” 

“Who’s your secondary source, Dr?” She said, because they seemed to fall into a nerdy sort of teasing when they were like this. Facts and figures were predictable, getting your boyfriend’s mother to like you based entirely on your personality was not. 

“My mom,” Spencer said, and her head whipped to his, ready to protest when he led her to the corner of the sunroom, where a woman sat with her ocean blue eyes screwed up in concentration where two blush pink hooks were crossing and bobbing between a cream thread of yarn, “Mom,”

Her eyes flew up from where she sat, immersed in the delicate movements. Spencer had said a few weeks ago her hands were becoming stiff on her new tablets, that the side effects were making her circulation poor and so Bugsy had been out to help him pick up a crochet kit from Walmart the very same day.

“Mom, this is Bugsy,” He said, and it was his turn to be almost shy as he gestured to the young woman. “The girl I was telling you about,”

Diana stopped for a moment, as if assessing the new face, the way her hair fell around her ears, and Bugsy clutched the hardback tighter to her chest, thinking that maybe she should have gone for something a little fancier than the small piece of twin that wrapped around the present. First time meeting his mom and this was the best you could do, really Bugsy? Where’s the flowers or even another ball of yarn to keep her occupied? 

Bugsy swore her breath caught, her brows furrowing together worriedly as she went to hold a shaky hand out to Diana, but then second guessed herself when she wondered if the loathing of spreading germs was shared between Spencer and his mom. She’d forgotten to check when they were in the car- stupid- stupid girl.

“H-hello, Mrs Reid,” She said quietly, shakily, holding out the book to the woman. Diana Reid looked good for her age, considering Spencer had told her on numerous occasions that she struggled to pretty herself up the way she used to before her Schizophrenia had spiralled. But her hair was a warm blonde with only small traces of grey in it, short around her neck likely for practicality, and despite the fact her face seemed somewhat grumpy, though Bugsy would describe her as lost more than anything, she lit up like a damn firework on the fourth of July the second she saw her son. 

“Spencer!” She exclaimed, holding a hand out for her son to take, which he did so without hesitation. Bugsy thought she might be going in for a hug, maybe that she’d missed the hint that Bugsy was trying to greet her, which the young girl didn’t mind one bit. She was well aware she was stepping on their time together, “Help me out of this chair, I left my glasses in my room, I want to see her,” 

Bugsy felt heat rush to her cheeks as Diana all but threw her crochet set to the little table beside what seemed to be a lukewarm mug of coffee, and Spencer helped her out of the recliner, Bugsy holding out another hand in case she needed it. She was tall once she stood to full height, taller than Bugsy would have thought she would be, and hands were on her shoulders the second Diana had released her son. 

“Oh, look at you!” Diana exclaimed, and Bugsy tried not to falter with embarrassment under her words. But his mother’s hands were soft, if not rough on the tips where she had spent her life flicking through pages on pages of literature, “I’ve always told Spence he was a looker but, my god, you’re a catch even for him,” 

“Mom,” He said indignantly, but Bugsy chuckled through flaming cheeks. Diana waved him off in favour of smiling at the girl, and the second she met eyes with the woman who had raised Spencer Reid she saw where he got his good heart from. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Reid,” She stumbled over her words, trying for a second time to give her the book, and Diana looked almost aghast that she had brought her a present, “Spencer said you’d finished all your books they let you keep here so I bought you one of my favourites-”

“How could I resist The Great Gatsby,” Diana said, running a polished thumb over the gold printed writing, a small smile playing at her lips, “I’ve been meaning to brush up on Fitzgerald,”

Spencer smiled at his mother, who seemed more full of life than she had in weeks, before she waved her hand in front of the two of them, and Bugsy wondered if she had done something wrong. 

“And none of this Mrs Reid crap. You're not the IRS, Diana is just fine, honey,” She said, and Bugsy grinned, nodding in agreement with the older woman. “Mom is even better if you’re feeling brave,” 

“O-okay, absolutely,” She said, smiling even wider when Spencer seemed almost aghast his mother was being so brazen. Though he needn’t be so prudent, Bugsy was certain she loved her already. 

“And how is my big strong FBI agent?” Diana turned to her son finally and he shook his head, his eyes full of boyish affection for the women. 

“There’s dozens of words I think would perfectly describe me yet ‘big and strong’ fall nowhere in that category, mom,” He said, smiling widely at his mother who rolled her eyes and nudged him with her shoulder. She seemed more like herself than she had in years, her eyes were clearer, her nerves weren’t shot like usual. She seemed like the mother from his best memories. 

“Alright, how does ‘contumelious’ work out for you?” She cracked back, and he laughed, shaking his head and he caught the pure warm grin radiating from Bugsy’s direction at the two of them. 

And Bugsy saw in the kind, devoted eyes that hid behind Diana’s fluffy white, blonde hair where Spencer got his gentle soul; as if no amount of medication or illness would ever make his mother let up on the tenderness she held for him. She felt it in the air alone, the way they fell into sync only blood could ever achieve, and for a flash of a thought, Bugsy wondered if Spencer would be so doting on their children. 

And for the first time all day she didn’t need to second guess herself. She already knew the answer. 

–

“And this was Spencer in the mathletes,” Bugsy’s hand flew to her mouth to suppress the ‘aww’ threatening to tumble from her lips, because she knew from the way his cheeks had turned a bright rouge that he was embarrassed and she hated to make him feel like she was finding humour in his shame. 

It was easy to see which one was him from the offset. Three college boys who had probably spent the best part of their first years begging sorority girls to fuck them and eating funny brownies stood at the back, atleast in their late teens judging by their late-adolescene acne and braces. Yet there, standing in front of them dressed in a tweed sweater vest and pressed brown trousers as if he was a small grandpa, was a scrawny pole of a boy, peeking out from behind a sweeping fringe in need of a trim and a pair of  bubble-like glasses. 

He was smiling wide, holding some sort of trophy in between his slender, little fingers, and Bugsy could bet her entire savings that he had answered almost all of his team’s questions. 

“Spence,” She murmured, taking the photo gently between her fingertips where she sat in between her partner and his mother at the foot of Diana’s bed, “You were so cute,” 

“You can just say dorky,” He corrected, fighting the urge to cover his cheeks with his hands, because he could feel the way they gave away his self-consciousness. 

But she shook her head, leaning into him with adoring eyes as she stared at the photo, “No, I mean cute. Look at your little hair, you were so tiny- aw!” 

He laughed awkwardly, not missing the way she put a hand on his leg in reassurance, and Diana handed her another photo of a toddler with thick dark hair, those hazel eyes she loved, huge and round on the baby's smiling face. Bugsy melted when she saw the milk teeth gleaming in the midst of his laugh, yet she burst into sheepish giggles when she realised baby Spencer had no clothes on. 

Spencer’s eyes widened when he saw the thing dangling between his legs as the picture captured him crawling towards where Diana had the camera. “Mom!” 

Diana rolled her eyes, producing another one of Spencer watering the flowers with the garden hose, barely one year old in a bucket hat and, yet again, nothing else. “Oh, Spencer, don’t give me that, look how cute those little butt cheeks were,” 

Bugsy slapped a hand over her mouth, her brows pulling together at the endearingly innocent photos, and she met Spencer’s gaze again, the urge to squish his cheeks in between her fingers suddenly itching her hands. Though, judging by the embarrassment in his expression, he wouldn’t like it very much even if she did mean the best of intentions.  

“You were so adorable,” She confessed, looking back down at the two tiny, round butt cheeks that made something well in her chest because it was Spencer, so small and vulnerable and helpless. She turned to Diana, her eyes wide with love, “How did you not want just millions of them?” 

The woman laughed, leaning against Bugsy and palming off another photo, this time of Spencer in swimming trunks at the beach, likely around two or three, a line of white sun cream running down his nose and cheeks as he looked to be grumbling about the sand on his legs. 

“Because I knew none of them could ever be as special as my Spencer, and then that just wouldn’t be fair on them.” She said simply, and Bugsy smiled at the woman, truly smiled, because despite everything her illness set against her, she loved her son more than anything in the world. “You don’t win the lottery and then pawn in your rings for a couple bucks, now do you?” 

Bugsy chuckled, shaking her head. Elizabeth had never been so doting on her. She knew she shouldn’t think about her, shouldn’t compare the two of them because they weren’t similar even in the slightest. Diana was a single mother of a deadbeat husband who left, she battled a disease day in-day out that threatened to eat away at her brain, her memories of her son who thought the world of her, and she was still a better mother than hers had ever been. 

Part of her felt that bitter sting that never really left her since she was thirteen, since she saw the maid at breakfast time more often than she ever saw her mother, the kid that got picked up and dropped off in another country like she was furniture, a barbie doll for her mother to primp and clean and boast about her big brain to her colleagues without ever showing a semblance of affection for the girl reading material eight years above her grade level. 

Diana was living proof that no matter what, it’s not a challenge to love your children the way Elizabeth had always made it out to be, that she was difficult to love even for her own mother. 

Bugsy bit the emotion back, knowing it was just the baby photos ramping up her hormones, and felt herself fall perhaps even more in love with Spencer Reid when she saw the photo of him at Christmas dressed as a Jedi. 

–

She was quiet on the way home, her stomach warm with fondness, her hand warm with his palm as they held hands on top of the gearstick. 

She watched the last of the sun peek through the trees in a cantaloupe orange and candy-floss pink swirl, and she let herself close her eyes under the day’s worth of laughter. 

“What are you thinking about?” Spencer said after a moment, giving her hand a small squeeze when she didn’t answer right away, and he wondered if she may have even fallen asleep, feeling immediately guilty for waking her. 

She looked at him with an uneasy smile on her face, and his brain threw up a million different reasons for it, almost all of them making him worry.

“I know my mom is a lot,” He said, his tone jittery and she started shaking her head immediately, forgetting he couldn’t see where he was looking at the road, “I know she’s-”

“She’s wonderful, Spencer. God, no, it’s not that. I loved her,” Bugsy cut him off, and his shoulder’s immediately sagged in relief. She moved her hand to tuck a single lock of hair behind his ear, and he nudged into her touch on instinct. 

“Then what’s wrong?” He asked, his brows pulled together in worry as they came to a red stop light, and he put the Beetle into neutral. He looked over at her then, and he saw the way the grin had slipped off her face, leaving her with something oddly unreadable, though if he had to put a name to it, he would say doubtful, and she swallowed thickly. 

“Do you ever worry…” She paused herself, because she already could see their picture perfect day spiralling down the drain like yesterday’s woes, “It’s nothing, just forget I said anything,”

“No, tell me,” Spencer insisted, and the road around them seemed to hold its breath waiting for her reply. He’d taken a nice route home, claiming he wanted to skip the eight pm traffic, whatever that was, had cut through one of those neighbourhoods they show on holiday brochures or estate agents' windows. The kind people with kids and volvo’s and yoga mom groups lived in.  

Her eyes snapped out the front window when four young boys zipped past them on their bikes, their knees muddy from where they’d probably spent the day playing soccer, their clothes just as messy and torn, likely waiting to be scolded by their mothers for their recklessness. And pulling up the rear was a kid smaller than the others, jogging after them, wanting to cross the road before the light turned green, his glasses slipping down his nose with every step, and some weird, small part in Bugsy’s gut wanted to throw her arms around him and walk him home to make sure he got there safely. 

Spencer’s hand was on her thigh, pulling her out of her thoughts for a second time, and she blinked a little too harshly, wishing she could just enjoy a lovely day for what it was rather than putting such a downer on things. 

“I haven’t spoken to my mom since Emily’s funeral,” She said, swallowing heavily, and understanding passed over his face then. He knew he would never have with Elizabeth what they had just had with his mother. Even if she retired tomorrow and wasn’t jetting off to another country every week, Elizabeth Prentiss was a cold, shrewd woman who could make someone, mainly her daughters, feel empty just by being in the same room. 

Her damning grey eyes, her tight lips that never smiled, her harsh brow. 

“I don’t think she even kept any of my baby photos, none that don’t have her in them at least,” She confessed, and the lights flashed to amber, then green, and he was forced to let go of her for just a moment as he pulled off again, “I don’t… I don’t think she ever liked me.”

He had no idea what to say that would make it better. Usually he was so good at wriggling her problems out from the core, proving all her worst fears were wrong with simple logic. Yet he was at an end. Because Elizabeth had never shown any sign of loving her daughters, truly loving them beyond trophies. 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” He tried, pulling over to stop at the curb because he hated speaking to her when he was distracted. “Some people just have a funny way of showing these things,” 

But she shook her head, turning her eyes to her lap, “Your mom is… Amazing. And I feel like a total asshole for complaining about mine when yours is sick most of the time. And I know things weren’t great- I mean you were just a kid, you should have never had to look after her, it’s supposed to be the other way around, you know? But you’ll know she’s always loved you, like truly, truly loved you. I mean, you’re her whole world,” She rushed, like the thoughts had been bouncing around her head all day, waiting to burst out at the seams, which they had. 

Spencer took the keys out of the ignition, shuffling in his seat to face her, and he only realised then she was watching where the four boys had taken off down the street on their bikes, the smallest one trailing at the back like a lost puppy. 

“Don’t you ever worry sometimes I’ll be..” She started, and he knew where it was going before she forced herself to finish. Taking her hand in his, weaving his fingers between hers and squeezing them tight. 

“Like your mom?” He said for her because the words were lingering in the air like alphabet soup. She nodded silently, grateful that he always seemed to know how her brain was ticking over. She reminded herself to make it up to him later, “Never,”  

“But-” She started, and he grabbed her chin then, forcing her to look at him. He smiled dopily, because usually it was him who needed to be told how other people felt, and she swore his eyes had never looked so sweet. 

“Never,” He repeated, feeling the smile spreading under his fingertips as it took the second turn for her to hear it, “If anything, I worry more about becoming like my dad,”

Her brows furrowed, and she shook her head again. Sometimes Spencer wondered if she knew she was so expressive. It was one of his favourite parts about her.

“Never,” She echoed back to him, and they shared a sombre smile, squeezing each others hand just that bit tighter, “I tell you what, the second either one of us starts becoming our parents, we have the right to call them a jackass,”

He laughed, nodding his head and leaning over the centre console to press his forehead to hers, “Alright, deal. Although I think I hear Freud rolling in his grave at that statement.” 

She kissed him, hard, because she would never be able to tell him exactly how he made her feel with words alone. Over two hundred thousand words in the English Language, at least five other languages she could speak fluently, and yet not one of them knew how to describe this feeling. Like she had been absorbed so completely, effortlessly, by Spencer Reid. That she was disease ridden, riddled with Reid. 

And the thought made her giggle into the kiss, because she would have to tell him some other time. Her hand ran through his hair, pulling him closer, and his hand skirted down to her waist to tease underneath her shirt. 

They pulled away after a moment, staring with the same dazed look in their eyes. 

“We have three more days in Vegas,” She started, fixing his collar and hair with idle fingers and pressing an absent peck to his lips, “Do you think we could go back one more time? To see your mom? If that’s okay with her, of course,” 

And he smiled widely at her, nodding and pulling her in for another long kiss. They had a dinner reservation in a half hour, but he didn’t mind being five minutes late for once in his life, not if it meant he was with her. 

The one with Scratch. [he buys a ring]

He’d walked past the jewellers three times that week on his way back from the coffee shop. Bugsy had a fair bit of paperwork to catch up on, despite him offering to halve her load with her because Hotch had already warned them once about the complaints he got from the other agents that she was using Reid’s memory as an unfair advantage, although he would argue that her brain was just as capable as his. 

So, he’d been sent on a coffee run alone. He wasn’t complaining, it was just down the road, barely even a five minute walk, and it meant he got to look at the range of neatly cut diamonds in peace.

He wasn’t looking to buy it soon, at least that was what he’d told himself the first time he’d seen the pretty one in the corner. He was just having a browse, perhaps just looking at the watches they had on display and his eye had happened to fall to the women’s section below. The second time he’d stopped for a look, it was just to see if anyone had bought that one he’d seen the first time, and when he realised they hadn’t, his heart gave a somewhat relieved sigh that he decided he would confront later. 

By the third time, the shop keeper stuck his head out the door, making Spencer jump. 

“Either you’re buying or you’re fogging up my window, kid,” The old man’s voice was gruff, but he had kind eyes, that of a romantic, and Spencer supposed you didn’t sell a dozen engagement rings a day and not feel hopeful. 

“J-just looking,” He stammered, taking a step away from the rings and double checking he hadn’t gotten any smudges on the glass, “Not to buy right now, just for future reference,”

“No one comes back that many times for future reference, son,” He said with a chuckle and Spencer hated the part of him that said that he was right, “Why not for right now?”

Spencer huffed quietly, wondering if her coffee would be cold by the time he got back at the rate he was going, “It’s still a little early. I don’t want to freak her out,”

She had been his girlfriend for one year, seven months and two weeks (and four days but who was counting). It had been her thirtieth birthday just a couple months ago, as far as he was concerned Bugsy had never dropped any hints about wanting to marry any time soon like he knew other women did at this time in their life. 

He was happy where they were, in their apartment, in their semi-public relationship, with their boys that were starting to look a little grey and rickety on their paws. Spencer didn’t want anything to ruin that, even if that one ring did seem to call out to him like a siren song. 

The jeweller grinned slyly, like he knew something Spencer didn’t, but he nodded at the kid nevertheless, “Well, that little number in the corner you’ve had your eye on has had two offers already, incase that sways your hand at all,” 

And Spencer felt the jolt of injustice in his head at the idea of someone else taking that ring, one that he couldn’t get out of his head the entire way back to the office, one that only went away when he saw her smiling up at him. 

One that only dissolved when he imagined how she would look wearing it. 

–

“Tell Penelope I said hi,” Director Axelrod murmured, turning on his heel and heading back to his car as Hotch flashed a look down at the paper, the name ‘Peter Lewis’ scribbled out on the line and he passed the paper to Bugsy where she peered around his shoulder. 

“Get this to Garcia, Lewis has his final victim already,” He said and she nodded, the two of them heading back to the car. Bugsy pulled her cell out her pocket, immediately calling their tech whizz where the rest of the team were at the office an hour away. 

“Peter Lewis, born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida. To call him a Math genius would be an understatement,” Garcia reported, her press on nails clicking against the keyboard as she worked in the candlelight since Lewis had hacked into their electric systems. 

“Where was he in the foster system?” Hotch asked, Bugsy holding the phone up over the centre console so they could both speak to their team.

“He was… ugh this WiFi hotspot is the worst,” They waited, Hotch heading for the freeway, “He was not in the foster system. He had two very biological parents and they ran the foster home until it- oh dear,”

“Looks like we found Mr Scratch,” Rossi sighed, and Bugsy’s brows furrowed, waiting for a response. 

“So one of the boys in the house said Peter’s dad would dress up as the devil then the other kids would follow suit, this has to be where all the victims stayed before they were adopted and their names were changed,” JJ chimed in. 

“Did Lewis’s father serve any time?” Bugsy piped up, chewing the inside of her cheek because the whole case had given her the heebie jeebies. Grown ups reporting sights of shadow monsters and waking up with dead loved ones. She thought by now she had heard it all. 

“The case was pending and then he was killed in jail for being a paedophile. Peter’s residency is still listed as Florida,” Garcia said, her mouse whirling around at the speed of light judging by the soft ticks they heard on their end. 

“He broke into FBI files to find someone in witness protection, did any of the kids from the home end up in WITSEC?” Hotch asked, clicking the blinker down to chand lanes and overtake the ford infront of them. 

“That would be… no? No, none of them,” Garcia replied, and the team shared a confused pause. 

“Who the hell is he still hunting?” 

Hotch spoke up, his own mind whirring as to who could possibly be Lewis’ endgame, “Garcia, who ran the investigation in Florida?”

“Hold on, that would be Dr. Susannah Regan, who went into witness protection on a very nice estate in Columbia, Maryland,” Bugsy and Hotch looked at one another, sharing the same thought and the unit chief floored the gas pedal, knowing Regan didn’t have a whole load of time left if Peter had gotten to her already. 

“Send Reid the location, we’re on our way,” Hotch ordered, and Penelope was already ten steps ahead, Rossi and JJ grabbing their vests and heading for the garage. 

Bugsy hung up, checking her gun was still holstered as Hotch launched them the final five minutes to Dr Regan’s home. 

And yet she couldn’t help feel like they were walking into the belly of the beast the victims had been describing. 

–

Garcia hadn’t been kidding when she said it was a nice estate. By the time they’d gotten out the car, the entire street was silent, a quiet only lots of acres and high gates bought you. 

“You stay behind me, we watch each other's six. We get Dr Regan and we get out, are we clear?” Hotch muttered, his eyes darling to the living room window where the curtains had been pulled closed, one single lamp left lit. 

She nodded, the two of them edging towards the door that had already been left open a crack, “Crystal,” 

He took a second to breath, wondering if they should wait for back up, but Savannah didn’t have alot of time, not if the unsub was already inside like he suspected, before he raised his hand up to the knocker and snapped it a couple times, pushing the door open. 

“Dr Regan?” 

“It’s open, come in,” The woman’s voice called, though it sounded too chipper to be authentic, some sort of uncanny valley as if it was an automated response from an answering machine. 

Checking Bugsy was still behind him, he pushed on, his footsteps light and quiet, eyes scanning the large antechamber, the grand piano sat in front of a huge fireplace cold to the touch, the lights all switched off despite the owner being home. 

Maybe Dr Regan was cheaping out on her bills. But Bugsy doubted it. Something in her gut didn’t sit right. 

“Are you alright?” Aaron called, his torso squeezing against his vest as he scanned what he could see from the room, and she held up behind him, flicking a look over her shoulder every once in a while for movement from the other rooms. 

“Agent Hotchner, I got Agent Rossi’s message,” She said, again in that cheery voice, despite her words claiming she understood she was in peril, and the sound of it made Bugsy’s chest seize with suspicion. 

“Doctor, you’re in danger, you need to come with us,” She explained, her eyes squinting to see in the damning lowlight of the home. 

“I understand,” That robot voice spoke, “I’m in the study,” 

They paused for a second, exchanging another look before pressing on because they had no time to lose over silly hesitations. Passing through the entrance into the room lined with bookshelves on bookshelves, expensive tapestry on expensive tapestry, their heads flicked over to a frail older woman that somewhat resembled the woman they’d been sent from Penelope, when she had was freshly turned twenty five with a sparkly new bookdeal under her nose. 

She sighed in gratitude when the entered, and Bugsy held back a moment as Hotch moved in, keeping her finger on the trigger, “I’m so glad you’re here, you need to see this,” Savannah produced a long, glass sharp letter opener that could easily pass for a knife with the eight inch edge of it, “He wants you to see this.”

And with that, without hesitation or caution she jammed the knife through her own windpipe as if puppeteered by a master, and Bugsy leapt forward to try stop the bleeding just as Aaron did. 

Only she never got that far, because no sooner had she stepped forward a hand reached out from the darkness, grabbing her by the scruff of her hair and throwing her to the floor while she had been caught off guard. Pain exploded behind her eyes as her nose met the hardwood floor, and she swore she cracked a tooth or two. Her hand scrambled out for her gun, only to watch a large black boot stomp down on her digits that made her hiss in pain. 

She heard a scuffle up ahead where Peter had managed to grab Hotch equally unaware, and she watched her unit chief tumble to the floor, smacking his head on the table on his way down. 

And it was then that she smelled it. A raw chemically odour that ran up her bloodied nose, went into her mouth when she tried calling out for Hotch, and it made her cough up a thick mucus before it had even slid down her throat. 

She heard shots fired, and it was enough for her to reach out for her own gun again, hoping that Lewis was distracted enough to not pay attention to her, only to realise somewhere in the scuffle he had kicked her weapon across the floor. 

When had he done that? Why hadn’t she seen him? Probably because the pain behind her eyes had damn near wiped her vision into a blur of white. 

It was then the nausea hit her, the vertigo washing over her like she’d stood up too fast, only she wasn’t standing up at all, in fact she was pretty sure she was on her hands and knees trying to crawl towards Hotch. 

Hotch, who lay on the floor with his own eyes rolling like the room was spinning for him too, and she wondered how on earth anyone could have beaten Hotch. He was a rock, immovable, irreplaceable, forever. 

“Hotch-” She garbled out, her voice tragic and weak in a way he’d never heard before. 

And he opened his mouth to speak, only to find his own voice gone when he saw the figure leering over her body, a glint of a knife in his hand, and Aaron wanted to know how he had managed to emerge out of the shadows when he could have sworn Lewis was right next to him. 

The drug, it had to be the drug. God his eyelids were heavy, what had they been in this house for?

But Aaron felt a scream lodge in his mouth, sounding more like a yelp, something that could have been a mix of ‘no’ and raw anger because Peter had brought one of those big black boots behind him and kicked Bugsy so hard in the gut she flew to her side like roadkill, the wind leaving her lungs with a whimper of pain, and her eyes never left Hotch’s gaze as he did so. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m going to need some alone time with Mr Hotchner here,” Lewis said, and before Aaron could plea or beg, he watched the man lean down and drive a swift line across her throat, as if he were simply gutting a pig, and her carotid artery was sliced clean in two, her blood spewing all over Aaron’s shoes, seeping into the floor. 

And Aaron went to scream, felt the tears well in his eyes because he’d failed her, only this time, unlike Hailey, he was forced to watch every second of life trickle from her face as she bled out onto the floor, choking and clawing at the floor for reprieve. 

What would he say to the team, to Spencer? What would he say to Emily?

Aaron let himself sob, shaking his head in denial and squeezing his eyes tightly shut, hoping to god medical would get here soon. It would be too late by then, he already knew it. 

Bugsy was dead. There wasn’t any miracle fix or band aids that were going to fix that. 

And yet in the next moment the sound of her body writhing in desperation against the floor, the sight of which he couldn’t even bring himself to watch, it had gone quiet. 

And Aaron peeled his eyes open, wondering if she had passed, if she was still in pain, if she wanted someone to hold her hand as she went, and he urged his heavy muscles to do something god damnit anything to help her, except his body felt like lead and even opening his eyes was too much for him. 

But there was nothing there. Not the puddle of blood he’d just watched spill over the flooring, not her hand reaching out for him, clawing at her throat for reprieve and certainly not a body of a girl he once loved like a daughter who would stay with him for a lifetime. 

All of it, just… gone. 

“Don’t you worry, Mr Hotchner, I’m saving the girl for later. Can’t have a pretty thing like that go to waste,” Lewis smiled toothily, and Aaron wanted to wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat, wring the life out of him until he was a crumpled mess on the floor, “But for now, it’s you and me, Aaron. And I think you should answer your phone. Your team are on their way for you,”

–

Her scream was piercing, cut through two walls. He could hear it the second they stepped out of the car. He’d all but thrown himself out the vehicle before Anderson had even stopped, probably would have barged right through the front door without even drawing his gun if it hadn’t been for Morgan grabbing him. 

“Reid, Reid, no-” Derek said, even though his voice wavered, his head flicking back at the house, “You can’t just head in there without backup, it could be a trap, man,” 

“She’s in there, can’t you hear her?” Spencer said, his eyes wide with terror as the sound of her screaming kicked up a whole other decibel and Spencer's stomach churned at the thought of what might be the root cause of it, “Please, Morgan, I can’t-” 

He didn’t even realise his eyes had welled up at the sound alone until he couldn’t finish his words, and Derek was staring at him with an equally solemn expression. 

JJ rounded the other SUV, Rossi at her tail, their guns drawn low to their thighs as they gave Derek a nod; ready to enter. 

“Just promise me you’ll keep your head, Reid,” Morgan said with a cautious tone. Realistically, Spencer should have stayed back at the office with Kate. He was too emotionally invested in the case, though no one wanted to be the one to argue that with him, knowing Spencer would only fight back that they would all struggle to keep their cool once they entered the house. 

Because the UnSub had Hotch and Bugsy. He’d taken family. He’d made it personal. 

And then, just as Spencer nodded, unholstering his own gun and making sure his vest was tightened at his waist, perhaps the worst happened. 

A shot fired from inside the house, loud and unmistakable over the deafening cries and Bugsy’s screaming stopped. 

–

Spencer didn’t even remember entering the house, not really, despite his promise to Morgan. He felt like his heart was in his throat, images of Maeve’s brain matter splattered over the warehouse floor flooding his head, because apparently a revolver can cut through two heads at once and still pack a punch.

Spencer was realistic, had sprung into a clinical sort of worry that told him exactly how many times he’d told her he loved her (two thousand, six hundred and seventeen times) and that maybe that wasn’t enough. It told him the amount of kisses they’d shared could have easily been doubled if he dared to steal them more often before bed, if he’d been honest with her years before he had, if he’d just taken five minutes off his showers. 

He had barely survived Maeve dying. If Bugsy was gone… there would be nothing left of him. Nothing important anyway. Just a body, limbs, a heart that would never beat again. He wagered even his blood would stop because the idea of her gone from the world had already made him cold. 

He heard movement in the living room, and judging by the way Derek’s head whipped over to their right, he had too. And before they could raise their guns up to aim, Derek edging forward to kick the door in with pure, simmering rage, a voice sounded out from the other side. 

“In here!”

Hotch. Hotch, who sounded like he was weeping, or at least had a frog in his throat, hummed his words almost. The men drew a breath of relief, Derek reaching forward to open the living room door, his weapon still tight in between his fingers as he pushed. 

“Hotch?” He said, though Spencer’s eyes cast around the room the second he confirmed his unit chief was okay. He had a nasty gash on his head, likely from where he’d fallen, and his pupils were dilated. Drugged. “Hotch, where’s Bugsy?”

“H-he took her-” Aaron slurred, attempting to get to his feet, holding out a hand to the sofa and using the furniture to claw himself up to a stand, “Upstairs I think- I need to get her- Where’s my gun-”

Morgan rushed in to grab Hotch under his arms as Rossi and JJ burst in from the kitchen, Rossi calling out behind them for medical attention. 

“Hotch, you’re not going anywhere, you need to- Reid,” Morgan yelled, but Spencer ignored him. Because he could apologise later. 

Lewis had Bugsy alone, had taken her upstairs, that was what Hotch said. And Spencer couldn’t stand by and wait while they had no idea what was happening to her. He heard JJ’s footsteps pounding behind him, following him up the stairs, and he knew he should be paying more attention for any hint if Lewis was still in the building. But he didn’t. All he could think about was those screams. Raw. Guttural. Like she was being skinned alive. 

His eyes trailed the empty bedrooms, any sign of movement whether it be Lewis or the woman he would trade his own life for in a heart beat if it came down to it. But there was nothing there, not even as JJ swept the other handful of rooms, leaving them with one small storage room at the end of the hallway, and the two of them cast a glance at one another. 

JJ nodded to him, and he reached out a shaky hand, praying on everything in the vast universe he’d spent his entire life learning about that someone heard him begging to keep his Bugsy alive. 

He slid the door open, cocking his gun up to the figure in the corner, his own weapon at his feet as he smiled in a smug manner. 

JJ took stock of their surroundings, waiting for the trap they were walking into to spring, only he held his hands out in surrender. 

Because he had already gotten what he wanted. He had killed Dr Regan, and taken two cops down with him. 

“Where is she?” Spencer spat, handing JJ cuffs as the woman grabbed him harsher than she should do, because the pleased look on his face was infuriating, only made worse by the chuckle that bubbled out of his mouth. 

“She’s in the closet,” He nodded his head to the smallest bedroom, and Spencer’s eyes narrowed, “She sure is a darling, isn’t she? So easy to tame once that smart mouth of hers was gone,” 

Spencer wanted to shoot him between the eyes there and then, put him down like the sick dog he was, but instead he fled after where Lewis had directed him, because he didn’t know if she was injured herself or if it was already too late.

For once in his life, Spencer Reid knew nothing. 

–

And then he saw her. 

She was alive, thank god she was alive, a dent in her nose that suggested he’d thrown her to the ground face first, her knees skinned, her palms scratched. 

But that wasn’t what worried him.

Because no sooner had he opened the door to the closet, reaching forward to yank her hands off her ears, or maybe pull her for a hug, or maybe break down into sobs and tell her how sorry he was he couldn’t have stopped any of it, she’d started screaming again. 

He didn’t think after so many years on the job he’d ever heard something so gut-wrenching. For a moment he thought he might even be sick. Because it was full of pure terror. Not the childish fright you get from a scary movie or a loop de loop on a rollercoaster, but blood curdling fear like he had never heard before. 

It was enough to have Morgan running up the stairs with his gun drawn, only to see Spencer frozen, his hands reaching out to grab her, and it was only then the agent realised Reid was trying to speak to her. 

“Baby, baby it’s okay, it’s me, it’s Spencer, you know me,” He said, his lip quivering, his words warbling with tears, “Please, please come back to me, I don’t know what to do- please just tell me what to do-” 

“Reid, she’s not herself. Hotch said Lewis made him see things, awful things, just like he did with the other victims,” Morgan said, holstering his gun, his own resolve crumbling when he came closer and realised she had her eyes screwed tightly shut, curling herself into a ball in the corner like a kid trying to hide from the boogey-monster.

But Spencer didn’t listen, he couldn’t accept that they had found her alive and still he had been too late, didn’t want to accept that he had her in his grasp and yet she was still living her a personal hell with no end in sight. 

“Please, please, come back to me,” He sniffled, leaning forward onto his knees to try hold her hands in his, maybe get her to hear his voice and wake up from whatever nightmare she was stuck in, “Come on, I got you,”

“No, no, no, you’re not real, you’re not real,” She screeched, shoving his hands off her, and it was then he saw the dribble of tears running off her nose, “You’re not, I won’t kill him, I won’t-”

It was the ravings of a mad woman. But Spencer didn’t doubt for one second that whatever was happening inside that big brain of hers felt entirely real. He heard Morgan draw a sharp breath, turning to face away from the girl and steady himself where his dark eyes lined with woe and salt. 

Spencer hated seeing her cry, hated not knowing how to help her even more, and he didn’t care if she pushed him away even more. He had to hold her, hold her and make her listen, make her understand she was safe because he was there. 

Spencer swore then and there that he wouldn’t let anything touch her ever again as long as he lived. 

It took everything in him to ignore the way her hands scratched at his wrists desperately, and he wondered if in her mind he’d taken the form of some beast ready to swallow her whole. But he was sure he could calm her down with some coaxing, get her to see what was real if he was patient and gentle enough. He scooped an arm under her legs that shook, and it only took him a second to realise he had peed herself in the throes of her nightmare, the sight of it causing another cry to roll from his tongue. He didn’t care about the mess, because his entire focus was on her as her hands thrashed against his chest, trying everything to get him off her, even when his other hand wrapped around the back of her head and pressed her tightly into his shoulder, squeezing her against him in his lap like she was an inconsolable child. 

“Please, please, I can’t, I can’t do it again, I don’t understand,” She wailed, her voiced croaking and pathetic and he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d damaged her vocal chords, “I don’t understand,” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” He cooed softly, pressing his head next to her ear and rocking her slowly, “It’s me, it’s Spencer. I’m real, this is real,”

Her hands stopped their fight against his body, his own grip tight and not showing any signs of letting go any time soon as he waited for her to wear herself out, for her body to lose its adrenaline and slip out of its fight response. She pushed him limply a few more times, with little more than the strength of a toddler, and he knew she was coming back down, at least something close to it. 

“I’m so tired,” Her voice was muddled with tears, slurring and stumbling over each other and it was then that JJ walked in with three paramedics behind her. 

The blonde’s face evened out when she saw the girl was alive, nothing but a few surface wounds, but it was then she saw over Spencer’s shoulder the way her eyes were clenched tightly together, the red marks on Spence’s alabaster skin where she had put up a fight behind cradled in his arms. 

And JJ knew then that something inside Bugsy had changed that day. 

“I know, you were so brave, you were so brave for me,” Spencer nodded, his cheeks flooding as he tried to keep his tone strong, stroking the back of her hair softly, “You did so good, I’m so sorry,” 

“I’m so tired and I don’t understand,” She said, like she was putting sentences together for the first time, and it was like suddenly the fight had been sucked out of her as she slumped against him, not even realising in her haze that she needed to be showered off desperately. 

“I know, honey,” He murmured, sniffling and pressing his face into her neck, “You can sleep now, I got you,”

She hummed like she didn’t quite believe him, like she still thought he was some figment of her imagination, but she hadn’t the strength to fight back, to call his bluff. And so she drifted in and out of sleep, as the paramedics got her on a stretcher, Spencer hovering over her face incase she woke up in a panic again, cracking her eyes open right as they got her on the back of the ambulance and suddenly it wasn’t Spencer’s face she saw flitting in and out of her eyeline, it was Hotch. 

“Hotch-” She tried, her hand swinging out at her side with her attempt of grabbing onto his face because there was a trail of blood down his cheek. Her voice was fried, just like Spencer had suspected, her words sounding as if she had swallowed stones, “Hotch, your head,”

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I should have known he would be there,” Hotch said, as her eyes rolled back, straining desperately to keep herself awake. But she had said it herself. She was just so tired. “I shouldn’t have taken you in there,”

“I don’t think I like dreaming anymore,” She garbled childishly, a small frown on her face, and Hotch bit his lip to hide a whimper, raising a hand to her cheek, and Spencer sat at the foot of the stretcher, his neck and wrists sore where she’d clawed him, but he didn’t care. 

Hotch gave her a long kiss to her forehead, one Spencer pretended not to see for the sake of paperwork, because he knew Hotch needed it, even as she’d been sucked right back into the reverie of sleep, their eyes never left her frail form, not even when the paramedics started hooking things up to her wrists to take her charts. 

Spencer knew then he should have bought that ring. 

–

She’d been staring at the ceiling for about five minutes before he tried to pry an answer out of her. 

He’d tried not to smother her the second she woke up, had seen the hesitation and distrust swirling in her gaze when she saw him there, and he wondered if she thought it was another one of her dreams she had yet to wake up from. But he was real, and he was worried, and he loved her. God, did he love her. Loved her so much he couldn’t stand for one more moment to see her so dissociated from a world where she was his and he was hers and everyone was missing her.  

“What did he make you see?” Spencer tried, his voice as soft as he could try make it without crying, because her gaze remained in her lap, the side effects of the drugs making her a little woozy, “Baby, I can’t help you unless you talk to me, please just, let me help you,” 

Her throat was in agony the second she opened her mouth to speak, ripping with pain when she cleared her throat and in an instant, Spencer’s hand was on her thigh drawing comforting circles with his thumb. 

“Emily was there, she came to- r-rescue me,” She started shakily, her hands trembling beneath the covers and she breathed slowly through her mouth, “S-she wasn’t wearing a vest, and when I asked her she said she’d gotten the first flight out of London to get me; and then… Doyle,”

She swallowed, and he took her hand in his, giving her a reassuring squeeze, and she tried not to let her eyes well up only to find it was already too late. 

“He stabbed her like he did that night, but it was different this time. She was on the floor, trying to get away, begging me to call for help but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything, and I was trying so hard to scream and tell someone, but I couldn’t…” She sniffled, squeezing his hand so tight it hurt, but he didn’t care, “And he wouldn’t stop. He just kept going, over and over again, and I had to watch every second of it knowing it was my fault,” 

The floor was red, a horrible midnight ichor of Emily’s blood seeping from her body, more blood than a person should ever be able to hold. Last time Doyle had killed her, there had been a hairline chance that she would pull through and Emily had beaten all the odds stacked against her. 

But this wasn’t like last time. There was no miracle escape to Europe. Bugsy would be surprised if there was even anything left of her to put in the casket. 

Her eyes were terrified as she watched Doyle drive the knife into Emily’s skin, the scream lodging in her throat for a reason she couldn’t place. She begged herself to do something, say something, tell the man that she would rip him limb from limb if she ever got the feeling back in her legs, wail for help because that was her sister, her big sister, and she’d stopped moving a while ago. 

Stop, stop it, stop it.

But the words wouldn’t come out. She was frozen. Numb. Like someone had unplugged her from the socket, and the only part of her that did work was her eyes, why did it have to be her eyes. 

And the blade was red, so red she thought she’d never see anything else other than red again, as so was the floor, and his arms, and Emily’s clothes. Red. All over. Driving into her stomach with a wet squelch that made Bugsy want to vomit. 

Over and over and over.

She burst out crying then, the first real emotion she’d shown in days, and he was out of his chair in seconds, cradling her to his chest and shuffling to sit next to her on her bed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it wasn’t real, baby,” He soothed, and she shook her head, her tears soaking his shirt through, and all he could do was stroke her hair down and press gentle kisses to her brow, “You were so brave,”

“And his face changed, and he wasn’t Doyle, it was Hotch. And he-he gave me his gun, and said I had to pick between him or you because one of you had to die and-and I wouldn’t do it, I wouldn’t pick-” Her words warbled into his shirt, an amalgamation of sobs and deep breaths in between sentences, but she needed to get it out. It would eat her alive if she didn’t.

“Choose,” It was Hotch’s voice. The same rough edge, same bite he used with the UnSubs they chased, the tone he’d never used on her. 

She shook her head, because the feeling had tingled back up her spine into her neck by now, and with it brought her voice, her sorrow. 

“No, no, Hotch, please don’t make me, I can’t, I won’t-” She sniffled, looking at the thunderous eyes of her unit chief she’d known for years. He didn’t look like himself, like someone was wearing him as a mask, yet she knew it was him by his steady hands that drew his gun from its holster. He had always been sure of himself. 

How had she got here? Had Lewis got to Hotch, brainwashed him into slaughtering and terrorising his own team. Whatever it was, Bugsy knew in her chest that whatever was standing in front of her was not Aaron Hotchner. 

“Me or him,” He said simply, as if it was that easy, as if he wasn’t pressing a gun to Spencer’s head. 

The sob fell from her lips before she could help it, looking to Hotch’s feet where he held the love of her life bound, his eyes rimmed with fear. 

“I can’t, please, I can’t,” She wept, her cheeks soaked, the salt trickling down her neck and into her shirt. Or was it blood. Had she hit her head? Why did her head hurt?

She couldn’t care, couldn’t think of anything other than the fact a monster had taken over the man she thought the world of. She knew if anything happened she would never be able to hold it against him if anything happened, even if it would always be his face in her mind killing Spencer. Because it wasn’t him. It was Lewis. It wasn’t him. 

Hotch’s finger clicked a bullet into the chamber, pointing the gun at Spence’s crown, and she warbled in protest, because her legs were still numb, her body from the waist down useless, but this time she could scream and fight and yell all the ways she begged for this to stop. 

“Hotch, please, please don’t. It’s not real, it’s not real,” She yawped, her chest in agony, her head spinning because she could have sworn Emily was just here, could have sworn she had been coming to save her. Why was Emily here? And she’d usually be embarrassed to admit it at her big age, but she wanted her sister. She wanted her big sister more than anything, “Hotch,” 

But the man who looked and sounded like Aaron Hotchner wasn’t listening. Instead he looked at her with a steely glare, cocking the gun once more between his fingers, “If you’re too much a spoiled little bitch to choose, then I suppose I’ll have to do it for you,”

And with that he pulled the muzzle away from Spencer’s head, and before she could say another word, utter another plea, he angled the weapon under his chin, pointing it straight for his brain, and pulled the trigger. 

She thinks she screamed, though her hearing had gone with a staticky blur, his blood spraying across the wall like something out of a slasher movie. She remembered howling in shock, her face soaked with ichor and salted tears, and she expected Spencer to rush forward, grab her in his arms and cradle her with soft words. 

But he did. Those hazel eyes she would know in every life time stared blankly at her, all trace of terror gone from his gentle face, and in a whirl of movement, he was standing where Hotch had been, his body gone in a wisp of smoke, like he was nothing more than a magician’s magic act, like her chest hadn’t just cleaved in two at the sight of him dying. 

And Spencer took his place, the lips she’d kissed a thousand times pressed into a scowl, the hands she wanted to melt under, to hold her and tell her he was going to fix everything and make it make sense again holding the loaded gun. 

And at his feet, bound by the same rope he had been was JJ. Freightened, beaten. Mother, wife, best friend, sister. JJ.

“Choose,” Spencer said, but it was cold and unfeeling. Nothing like the saccharine tone he used with her, and she felt the pit of pain and suffering and dread that had opened in her stomach grow only deeper, “Me or her,”  

–

She had cried for about two hours after that, and he had held her for all seven thousand, two hundred seconds of it, stroking her hair, reassuring her that Lewis was gone, the drug disposed of, and more importantly, telling her he would never let anything like that happen to her again, over his cold, lifeless body. 

And he meant it. With everything in him, Spencer would never let an UnSub get so close to harming the woman he loved. Not a bruise, or a cut. Not even a scratch. 

And for the three days they’d kept her in for observation she’d slept, and slept some more like she hadn’t known a wink of rest in years. And with it came the nightmares, of all the people she loved splattering their own brains over the walls, Chose, chose, me or them?

But by the fourth day she was allowed more than one visitor in her room, the spot that had solely been filled by Spencer, who would take to his grave that he’d gone home and washed their clothes of the mess she’d made when she wasn’t herself. 

And on that fourth day, the team had arrived with love by the bucket load, because Bugsy was family, and family never let each other suffer alone.

“Oh, look at you!” It was Penelope first, ofcourse it was Penelope first, “Spencer, where’s that cardigan I told you to bring her, she could get cold, and that purple is so her colour- oh what am I saying, come here!” 

Penelope bounded over to her bedside, not completely blind to the way Spencer tensed up as she threw her arms around the girl, fighting his urge to chide Garcia into being more gentle because he knew he’d been hogging time with her while the others had been forced to wait. 

“Pen,” Bugsy said, breathing out and hugging the woman back as hard as she could, “Why do you smell like lavender?” 

Garcia released her clutches (reluctantly) and produced a big tote bag of trinkets, one of which Bugsy suspected was a candle. 

“Spencer said they might be keeping you another couple of days and so I brought you some goodies to cheer this place up,” She said with a chirp, reaching in her bag for two stuffed teddies, and Bugsy’s eyes melted when she realised they resembled Niko and Sergio, their colourings not quite identical but the thought had been there, “So you don’t miss your boys too much.”

Bugsy smiled, her chest spreading with warmth “Thankyou so much, Penelope,” 

And Garcia went to respond, her smile wide and relieved, when another voice spoke up behind her, “Quite hogging her, mama, there are people waiting to see the kid,” 

Penelope rolled her eyes which made Bugsy snicker slightly, moving out the way for Derek to lean over her bedside and give her a tight squeeze. 

“You gave us a scare and a half, baby cakes,” He said with a sigh, and she hugged him back the best she could, though his arm muscles were the size of her head. 

“I’m sorry,” She murmured, and he patted her on the back gently, before letting her go for the next person waiting to pounce on her. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t need to be sorry,” JJ shushed, her slender arms all but crushing her into her chest, and she heard the breath of relief from the woman’s throat as she stroked a hand over her spine, “Just get better for us, okay?”

And Bugsy knew she didn’t mean the crack in her nose Peter Lewis had given her when he’d grabbed her by the nape of her neck and slammed her face into the wooden door the second Hotch’s back was turned. She meant the screaming. The nightmares. The chill that ran down her spine even now when she looked at every one of her friends and remembered that night. Picturing their brains on the wall, their blood on her face-

“Henry drew you a picture,” JJ said, pulling away and presenting her with her own gift basket full of homemade goodies and fresh pyjamas because the ones she had from the hospital were starting to itch, “He said you needed magic kisses,” 

Plucking the card from the front of the wrapping, her lips quirked into a smile when she saw two stick figures, a small dot with yellow hair labelled ‘henry’ with an arrow, and a tall woman with a triangle dress and two glittery wings labelled ‘bugy’, and she was almost certain it was because they had played fairies and princes the last time she had gone over. 

She flipped the page, and saw his hand writing scrawled in a green crayon, a few spelling errors here and there where he had tried his best. 

‘to bugy

mommy said you wer hurt at work and needed somethink to make you happy agan.

I gave the card majick kisses before mommy takes it to the hospital to make you better agan. 

also plees coud we play princes again some time soon.

Love Henry’ 

She chuckled, her finger stroking over the letters gently, because she could imagine him at his little blue table writing it out for her, and she handed it off to Spencer to put on her bedside table. 

“Thankyou JJ,” She said earnestly, and the blonde nodded, squeezing her leg under the blanket gently before she moved over for Rossi to shuffle in, ruffling the girl’s hair because he would joke later that his back couldn’t handle all the movement when really he felt like she’d been mauled with enough affection for one day. 

“You okay, kid?” He said, his eyes roving over the bruise on her nose that had bled into her eyes, and she nodded, smiling up at him somewhat convincingly. 

“I’m still kicking aren’t I?” She said, and the older man chuckled, shaking his head, “Can’t get rid of me that easily,”

And it was almost true, the small seed of double planting in her own head because for a second in that house she had thought things were done for her. And Spencer had thought the same, judging by the way he nervously cleared his throat, playing with the collars of his shirt.

But Rossi nodded with her, “You kidding? There’s enough life left in you to resurrect all of my dead end marriages,” The team snickered, Rossi squeezing her arm the way grandads do, “Kate sends her love, she had to take Meg to her dance recital, she said she’s dropping by later with good coffee,” 

Bugsy took a sigh of pleasure, because she would kill for a steaming cup of good coffee, and Rossi smiled at her attitude they’d all missed in the office. 

And then there was Hotch, who looked damn near like a dog with a tail between his legs, sporting his own jagged forehead wound that had been stitched up, his lips pulled into a guilty pout unlike everyone else's grateful beams. 

“Bugsy,” He started mournfully, and he swallowed heavily, “I’m-” 

“Don’t-” She shook her head, looking up at him from where she’d sat up in the bed to accommodate everyone’s hugging, “It wasn’t your fault, so don’t give me that. He caught us both of guard,” 

But he still didn’t look like he quite accepted that answer, settling to reach out and squeeze the hand that was laying across her stomach, his skin warm and rough as he held her like she was cracking glass under his touch. 

She realised she had been wrong that day with Lewis, when she’d been damn near shaking in her spot because of the man who looked so much like Hotch, and she saw the fatal flaw that gave it all away. 

His face was set in a frown more often than not, and it was for that reason a lot of the agents on the other floors lived in fear of SSA Hotchner’s thunderous tone and barking attitude, but Bugsy knew that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Because while he could be cold and domineering and bossy, his eyes told her all she needed to know. 

He was hurt. He was guilty. He was worried. He was mourning. He couldn’t stop seeing Peter Lewis slitting her throat in that flash of a blade. He didn’t want to take his eyes off her incase it was all a dream in itself, that they had never been found, he had never woke up, they had never saved her. 

His eyes were haunted by the past twenty years of his life, perhaps what happened even before then because she wasn’t so stupid to miss how he was more rough on child beaters and abusive fathers than he was their usual UnSubs, how he was so extra gentle with Jack, how he hated raising his voice. And inside the big scary exterior, Bugsy saw a boy who only wanted to save everyone because no one was ever there to save him. 

She squeezed his hand tightly in hers, pulling him towards her and he’d resisted hugging her to start with because he knew the frog would leap into his throat, but he could never deny her. And he didn’t, he simply leaned over, caressed the back of her head over his shoulder with one of his enormous palms and gave her a warm hug no monster or demon or whatever she had seen could ever be capable of. 

And Bugsy felt stupid for ever believing anything she’d seen. 

–

They stayed for another hour or so, Derek running out to grab Bugsy a subway because the food at the hospital hadn’t been the best, and she had devoured the steak and cheese footlong so fast Rossi’s brows had raised into his hairline. Spencer handed her a strawberry flavoured pudding pot, the lid already peeled open for her and a spoon.

And it was then a figure came rushing through the door, so fast they were surprised they hadn’t heard the heels on the linoleum and the whole room stopped for a breath, Bugsy dropped her pudding cup down her shirt, barely even making her first bite count. 

“Why did no one tell me those two were screwing for eight months?” Emily barked, gesturing between the two agents that cuddled up on the hospital bed, and almost as soon as the pure joy to see her older sister had flooded her body, it ebbed again, and Bugsy rolled her eyes.

“Eleven hour flight, Em, and a buttload of head trauma and that’s all you have to say to me?” She snipped, mopping up her pudding with the edge of her finger. 

“I got weekly updates about the consistency of Sergio’s bowel movements but this you missed out?” She threw her hands up, sighing in contempt and almost immediately the girls were bickering like they hadn’t spent a single day apart from one another, but then Spencer supposed that’s what happened when you were blood. 

And part of him wondered just who was going to tell Emily about the proposal, the same small part that had gone and bought the ring just yesterday while she’d been sleeping. 

He supposed he could live with it being his secret for a few weeks longer. 

--

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[ordowrites]

when they tell you to "strip"

cw: hints at smut, negotiated power dynamics&kink, slightly under negotiated kink, some D/s dynamics, afab reader, pet names, possessive behaviors and mirror kink (arlecchino), brat taming&spanking (kaeya), praise kink (diluc), consensual non-consent (wanderer). admittedly very self indulgent, possibly OOC

mdni, minors do NOT interact, blank blogs dni.

characters: wanderer, kaeya, diluc, arlecchino

(credit to cafekitsume for the banner)

sorry for bullying you, wanderer

Diluc had spent most of his day trying to find the right time to take on the role you had asked him to - ever so sweetly, with a bat of your eyes as you gestured to some graphic novel from Inazuma you'd been reading. At first, he had been baffled at the idea before slowly warming up to it and maybe even flipping through your various novels for some ideas.

Perhaps the two of you should have discussed what you'd wanted beforehand but you have mentioned that you enjoy the element of surprise. So instead of focusing on the meetings he had to be in, the man had spent the day imagining up various situations where he would come in, command you to do something, and you do it. Different scenarios that had him growing hot under the collar.

See, Diluc never wavers - not often but when it comes to you, he finds himself stuttering like a lovestruck teen and always caught off guard and it's hard not to be. Not when you smile at him, when you talk to him oh so casually. He grows shy around you some days, unsure of what to do when you quip back at him.

So, here he is - drawing in a few breaths as he pushes the door open and finds you in the library of his manor. You're reading a book - again - and he wavers for a moment. There's no way he could boss you around. What if he hurt you? What if you actually hated it and therefore, hate him?

Diluc draws in another breath, doing his best to center himself.

"Strip." He commands, doing his best to hold authority in his voice and you look up at him, your eyes wide. Diluc hopes he did not just completely ruin your guys' marriage.

"What?" You ask, as though you did not just him clearly telling you what to do. Perhaps he did cross a line and he's ready to apologize for saying such a thing though the fact you're putting down your book and reaching for the hem of your shirt indicates otherwise. "Maybe sit down?"

So, of course, Diluc does so - enamored with the way you slowly strip off your clothes. For some reason, he had expected a bit more of a fight from you - more...he supposes, brattiness. But he'll take this, especially when you get on your knees in front of him - how beautiful you look, reaching towards the zipper of his pants. "Good girl." he breathes. And you smile up at him.

"Make me." Are two words you know you'll always regret when Kaeya tells you to do something. Yet, you can't help it every time because you like the look that he gets, baffled, confused, and then that stupid, cocky smirk that forms on his face. He grips at your chin, forcing you to look at him in that blue eye of his, as he tilts his head to the side a bit.

"Could you repeat that for me, princess?" Kaeya asks, voice so calm and so light, as though he were holding a casual conversation about the weather with you and not looking as if he's about to throw you over his knee for your audacity to challenge him. "It's not rhetorical. Repeat what you just told me."

"M-Make me...?" There's less confidence in your voice and he fakes an exasperated sigh. Kaeya's lips brush against yours for a brief moment, teasing but he pulls away, his grip tightens for a moment before he releases you. Oh, maybe he's actually angry at you.

"So, here's what we'll do, princess," Kaeya says as he steps away from you and circles around you. Chills run down your spine, the atmosphere is much colder and you realize he's using his Vision. "You'll strip for me and you'll be good for me for the rest of the evening."

You nod, though it takes you a moment to gather yourself. You pull off your top and your skirt, so you're only in your underwear. Kaeya looks displeased and it's your turn to tilt your head to the side, mimicking him from earlier.

"I stripped," you point out. "You said to strip my clothes, so I did."

Kaeya slips his fingers beneath the collar you're wearing, being careful of pulling you towards him and with him as he sits down in the chair, sprawling you over his lap.

"Darling, you know what I meant." The sharp sting across your buttock has you gasping out in surprise, followed by a few more. A hand moves up to the strap of your bra and he snaps it. "Now, let's try this again. Strip."

You sniffle a bit, pursing your lips. Finally, you unhook your bra and toss it aside, before slipping out of your panties. Kaeya looks at you as if you are made up of marble and blessed by some goddess of beauty. He reaches out, pulling you close to him, pressing some kisses along your belly and peppers downward. It takes a moment but he ducks down between your legs, your hands perching in his hair.

Arlecchino never really has to ask you twice or even tell you to strip because one look, and you're already pulling your clothes off for her but today is a little bit more different. You're in clothes that aren't particularly your style but one she chose for you today. You try to be good for her, though you have your moments that are swiftly and quickly corrected. After all, those that belong to her, learn how to behave quickly without much complaint.

It's hard to not grow shy sometimes with her eyes on you, always watching and taking in your every detail, even has you fumble with the ties on the back of your dress. They're well knotted and you can't get them undone.

You know she did the ties on your dress the way she did on purpose, just so she could watch you struggle. But when she strides over to you, one hand rests on your hip and you watch her through the mirror, face flushing a bit as her fingers begin to deftly undo the knots on the ribbon, before pulling them out, slowly. The top of your dress begins to loosen, giving you better breathing room but as the fabric falls away, her lips press against exposed skin. A hand plays with your breasts as they get revealed to her, and all you can do is watch through the mirror.

The cinch at your waist lessens up and finally, the dress falls away and Arlecchino is pleased. She likes dressing you up, and stripping you down every night - always taking her time with you. Claws drag at your skin and you shiver.

Next comes your bra, easily removed without really any sort of theatrics. And then finally, your panties - those are slowly pulled down. And Arlecchino is pleased when you are fully bare to her - and only her.

Soft lips press along your neck and your shoulders, moving downward every so often. Arlecchino leaves marks in places nobody can see, but serve as a reminder of who you belong to, and no doubt that tonight is going to serve as a reminder for you to watch your tone and how you talk to other people and about yourself. Most wouldn't think it, but she is a jealous woman.

"Watch the mirror." she orders and you can only obey. "I will not have you insult, disparage or otherwise be cruel to what belongs to me. An insult about yourself is an insult to me."

All you can really do is nod in agreement.

Your breath catches in your throat as your thoughts catch up to the words that had come out of the Wanderer's mouth, and you snort.

"Come again, Hat Guy?" He crosses his arms over his chest as he regards you, lips pursed and eyes in a scowl. "You can't just come in here and make demands without saying please." Honestly it's hard to not taunt him when he's in one of his many moods, his reactions are so funny even if you end up not being able to walk very well later. "C'mon, I might consider it if you ask nicely."

A breath, a soft growl that makes your stomach do a flip.

"Strip, please." The Wanderer says, although not quite sounding defeated at your audacity to talk back to him without even an ounce of worry. "Now."

"The now negates the please." You tell him as you close your text book and stand up. "C'mon, don't you have better manners than that?"

The Wanderer rubs his forehead. "Don't be a brat." He tells you, a slight warning in his voice and you grin. You know he's trying to reign in his temper with you, unless he wants to ruin yet another outfit of yours though that's what you want him to do, but you're not going to say that. "Now do as I say or you won't like what I can do."

You yelp when he grabs you by the arm and half tosses you onto the couch, kneeling above you. Your heart pounds in your chest as his hand twists into the top of your shirt. That look on his face makes you feel much warmer than it should.

"You were warned." the Wanderer tells you, simply as he rips your top off with ease. There's a moment where he takes you in, like he's never seen you naked before. Teeth sink into the skin of your collarbone and he shamelessly leaves a mark there, before moving to your neck, making sure to leave purple marks all around just so you can't hide them.

Your skirt is yanked off next without a care from him, followed by your panties.

"Hey, those were expensive-!"

"I don't care." he grumbles into your chest, teeth digging into your skin. "Shut up." Despite his words, you know he'll be buying you a new pair tomorrow - possibly with some extra other things he thinks you need. "Now, be good."

"For right now." You grumble and he makes a noise in the back of his throat, and you meet those violet eyes of his. "I'll be good for now." You both know this is a lie, but you also know that the Wanderer enjoys a challenge. And the way he starts to ignore your words as he works down your body, mixing between worshipful and punishing, bright purple and blue from his teeth flourish on your skin. The Wanderer has always been good with his mouth, making you come over and over again until you're more than just a mess beneath him.

He does take you by surprise when he captures your lips with his - he hardly kisses you outside of a few pecks, but this only serves as a distraction as he pushes your knees to your chest.

"Beg." he commands.

At first, you think of telling him no, but when you're in such a vulnerable position and he's looking at you with a hunger you cannot quite describe, you don't want to keep pushing his buttons.

"Please." You breathe out with a shuddering breath.

"See what happens when you actually obey?"

Only for now, you think as you reach up and push some of his hair out of his face.

[moodymisty]

Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh! I just saw that your requests were back open and I am SO excited.

I humbly request anything involving our favorite Salamander Sa'kan. I've seen no content for him... and that is a travesty. If I didn't have a million other things planned I would write him myself.

Anyway, I'd love something about him actually being able to save a civilian. A pretty young widow, perhaps? And her baby? (For additional heart-warming cuteness... or angst.) You know I'm never opposed to romance/spiciness, but I'll leave that up to you.

Thanks!

Author's note: Since I have so many smut requests including Vulkan ;3 I decided to make this more fluffy. Relationships: Sa'kan/Fem!Reader Warnings: None really other than brief mentions of an orphaned baby

Sa'kan watched as people hovered around you; Dark red eyes flickered between each any every person with inhuman speed. Each one he could see every movement they made, examined for intent.

They were making sure you- as well as the baby in your arms- were in good health, but he had trouble not reacting to your noticeable discomfort of the whole thing.

He notices your grip on the child tighten and wrinkle the blanket when people get too close. You'd said you only found the child days before the Salamanders cleared the area where you were found, and you've already attached to the baby deeply. Blood had no significance to you.

Armor briefly whirs and clicks in his left ear, caused by the other marine standing beside him. Sa'kan's head turns just slightly to look their way inquisitively just as they open their mouth to speak.

"She could stay with the serfs."

Sa'kan shakes his head at the prospect.

"My quarters is large enough for another cot. It inconveniences me little."

The other Salamander grows a bit stiffer and dark eyes look his directly at him now. The hand that had be resting on his hip dropped down to hang limp.

"She should stay with the serfs. They can help her."

Sa'kan doesn't entirely understand why the idea upsets him so. His brother was right; A gaggle of baseline serfs could help you far more than him.

But then he remembers pulling you from rubble. The way you'd thanked him, hovered so close to him you could feel the heat from his armor- Sa'kan could feel it heavy on his heart like a chain.

He could help you just fine enough on his own. You didn't need a dozen strangers pestering you, of male baselines perusing around the new female aboard.

That particularly makes him tense, especially when he watches you scooch ever so slightly away from someone who had gotten too close for comfort.

Ignoring the commands of his battle brother Sa'kan approaches you and gently puts a hand on your shoulders. Fear tenses you up for a moment, but he sees relief cross your face when you look up and see him. The other baselines quickly begin to back off.

"Oh, it's you. I, I should thank you again. I'll never repay my debt to you for saving us."

Sa'kan doesn't respond to it, but he does acknowledge your heartfelt thanks with a small nod.

"Come with me. I will bring you to a place you can rest."

Your heartbeat is higher than it should be, more than likely stress and nerves. Your lack of sleep however doesn't help, and he can see the dullness in your features. The baby in your arms however has gotten no shortage of rest; Sa'kan had only seen the child awake a couple of times. The age he can't hazard a guess, but they seem quite young. He eyes them curiously, but doesn't gain anything of interest from the sleeping child.

After he begins to walk you quickly scurry to follow him, slightly behind in stride but almost shoulder to shoulder. You don't say a word, but quick glances and Sa'kan sees you examining this unknown place with no small amount of nerves. The only souls in these halls are astartes, and suddenly what little familiarity you had was gone again.

Perhaps his battle brother was right. Though it's too late now to go back on it.

As you trail behind him Sa'kan notes just how much smaller you are than him. His armor makes your body seem more meek than it actually is. You have lost strength over time however; The adrenaline is long gone from your body and it tires, you need the rest before you collapse.

His quarters will suffice for that. The serfs quarters will be too loud and filled with people, he thought you might appreciate somewhere more quiet.

When you enter in front of him, you briefly glance around before getting startled by the sound of the door closing behind him. You don't say anything however, watching him walk right by you with wide eyes. Eventually, you take to sitting on the cot when your movement towards it doesn't get reprimanded. Sa'kan uses the opportunity to speak up when you adjust the dirty blanket wrapped around the baby.

Still asleep. How much of it does a young child need? His brow furrows curiously as he stares, only to see you nervously watching him. He wishes you wouldn't be so nervous about him, but it's understandable to him; Unlike many of his cousins. Underneath the endless respect for the Emperor's Angels, is an innately primal fear of a predator who treads the line between humanity and something else.

"What do you need for the child?" You look down and sigh, pursing your lips.

"A lot. The serfs said they would help me scrounge up what I needed. Food, mostly."

Sa'kan contends to rest his eyes and pick the bits of flesh from his chainsword as time passes, only looking back your way once it's acceptably clean and no longer jammed.

"Can they not eat what is fed to the serfs?"

You shake your head and almost laugh, and his confusion grows.

"Oh, goodness no. They're too young for solid food like that."

With a slight exhale, He ever so slightly smiles at you. Your tension has relaxed significantly.

"Ah. Forgive me on my lack of knowledge."

You laugh a bit more as the child wiggles in their sleep, before firmly shoving half of their hand into their mouth.

Sa'kan recoils a tad- not enough for you to notice. What a weird thing.

"I don't imagine these sorts of things are important for the Emperor's angels to know."

He notices the dirt and mud covering the both of you, and vows to remember to see about getting you a place to clean off.

By the Emperor, he cares too much. It comes too easily. Perhaps his brother was right once again. Salamanders have a bad habit of attaching themselves too deeply and too quickly.

You've fallen asleep on his cot, he instantly notices; Body slumped to the side a bit. Despite the noise of the ship you don't do anything more than shift just a tad. Your fingers are locked together to keep the child firmly in your arms.

The sight stirs something odd in him. There's a tenseness in his upper chest he can't explain.

He'll stay here and tend to his weapons some more until he is needed. With you resting, you need someone to keep an eye on you and the child.

He can fulfill that purpose.

[minicookiedemonx]

HEAT OF THE MOMENT

Hi my writer name is mini, I used to write a lot of smut when I was younger but lost interest. But I’m back with a bang! I hope somebody enjoys this. This is my first post to this community and I’ve enjoyed what I’ve read so far! I don’t know how to set mine up too look as cool as everyone else’s :p.

Edit credit @ myself

Summary: Fem reader POV; You cause a scene at a local bar causing Officer Gojo to escort you off the premises. The reader is alluring, seductive and teasing him with lust. Causing Officer Gojo to then lose his composure and disregard protocol.

Warnings; rough, jjksmut ,gojosatorusmut ,NFSW , outdoor sex, authority-kink, creampie, nofluff , gojosmut, gojoxfemreadersmut, hair pulling, fingering, breast sucking.

Word count; 2k

The bar was alive with chaos—laughter, shouting, the clinking of glasses—but none of it compared to the scene you were making at the center of it all. You weren't even sure how it had escalated this far, but the combination of spilled drinks, a bruised ego from the guy you'd argued with, and the bartender's exasperation had turned a fun night out into something more... memorable.

"Miss, you need to calm down," the bartender said, his patience clearly worn thin.

You rolled your eyes, leaning on the counter with a playful smirk. "I'm calm. Maybe you're the one who needs to relax. How about a drink? On the house, perhaps?"

Before the bartender could respond, the door to the bar swung open, and in strode Officer Gojo Satoru. His presence commanded attention instantly—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing an air of authority that clashed with the cocky smirk he wore so effortlessly. His uniform fit him a little too perfectly, and his white hair, pushed back in a carefree style, gleamed under the dim lights. He slid his shades down just enough to scan the room with those piercing blue eyes.

You froze for half a second, watching as he approached with a slow, deliberate stride. The murmurs in the bar quieted as he stopped in front of you, towering over you with an air of unshakable confidence.

"Miss. Y/N," he said, his voice calm but edged with annoyance. "I heard you've been causing some trouble."

You gave him your most innocent smile, tilting your head as you looked up at him. "Trouble? That doesn't sound like me. I'm just having a little fun."

His gaze was unamused, his smirk faint but sharp. "Yeah, well, your 'fun' just earned you a call to the police. So, either you come with me quietly, or we can make this a lot more complicated."

You couldn't resist pushing your luck. "Come on, Officer. You don't really want to arrest me, do you? You've got those gorgeous eyes, that perfect jawline—wouldn't you rather stay here and let me buy you a drink?"

The bartender audibly sighed, but Gojo didn't flinch. He leaned forward just slightly, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, his voice dropping lower. "Flattery doesn't work on me, sweetheart. Try again."

"Oh, but you can't blame a girl for trying," you said, your grin widening as you let your eyes linger on him just a little too long. "What about a smile? Surely I can charm a smile out of you?"

Gojo's lips twitched, but he didn't budge. Instead, he grabbed your wrist gently but firmly, his grip unyielding as he straightened up. "That's enough. Let's go."

Your grin faltered for a moment as he pulled you away from the counter, his calm yet authoritative demeanor leaving no room for argument. Still, you couldn't help yourself. "You really know how to kill the mood, you know that?"

"You'll thank me later," he replied dryly, his voice laced with sarcasm as he led you through the crowd. His hand on your wrist was firm, but not harsh, and you couldn't help but admire the way he handled you with such practiced ease.

As you were escorted out of the bar, you glanced over your shoulder, tossing a playful smile his way. "So, Officer, do you do this for all the pretty girls, or am I just special?"

He rolled his eyes, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're definitely... something."

Once outside, he released your wrist but positioned himself squarely in front of you, his imposing figure blocking your escape. His shades were now perched on top of his head, those sharp blue eyes boring into yours.

"Listen," he said, his tone serious. "I'm going to give you one chance to walk away and go home. No more scenes, no more trouble."

You crossed your arms, tilting your head with a sly smile. "What if I don't want to go home? What if I want to stay out here... with you?"

His jaw tightened, and for the briefest moment, you thought you saw his confidence waver. But then his smirk returned, more smug than before. "Y/N, I've got more patience than most, but you're really pushing it."

You stepped closer, just enough to challenge him. "Or maybe you like being pushed."

His expression hardened, his voice dropping low. "This isn't a game."

"Oh, but it could be," you whispered, your voice dripping with mischief.

"Alright, Y/N," he said, voice low and steady. "Here's the deal. You're going to calm down, and we're going to the station. No more games."

You smirked, leaning your back against the cold brick wall behind you. "Games? I think you're the one making this more serious than it has to be. I was just having fun, Officer."

He stepped closer, his broad shoulders cutting off the light and casting a shadow over you. "Fun? You think dragging me out here in the middle of my shift is fun?"

You tilted your head, your lips curving into a playful grin. "I didn't drag you anywhere. You came all on your own. Besides, maybe you like this more than you're willing to admit."

His blue eyes narrowed behind his shades, which now sat low on his nose. "I told you to stop pushing me."

You shrugged, unbothered. "And I told you I don't think you'll do anything about it."

That was all it took. Before you could blink, Gojo spun you around and grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, pressing his body against your back with enough force to make your heart race but not enough to hurt. You could feel his member betray his non-intrested demeanor by rubbing into your ass. You could feel how deeply excited he was- even if he didn't want to admit it.

"I warned you," he said, his voice dangerously low, his breath hot against your ear. "But you just can't help yourself, can you?"

You met his gaze head-on, unflinching, your smirk still intact. "What can I say? I like seeing you lose control."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it looked like he might snap. But then he pulled back abruptly, releasing your wrists and stepping away as though the mere proximity was too much. He reached into his belt and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

"You're under arrest," he said coldly, his voice hard and professional once more.

Your grin only widened as he spun you around, snapping the cuffs onto your wrists with practiced ease. "Aw, Officer, you didn't have to go to all this trouble just for me."

"Keep talking," he muttered, steering you toward his patrol car as he read you your rights.

He opened the back door and guided you inside, his touch firm but careful. As he climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, you couldn't help but notice the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly.

The drive to the station started in silence, the hum of the engine filling the air. But you couldn't resist.

"So, Officer Gojo," you began, your voice lilting with amusement, "is this how you spend all your nights? Arresting harmless bar patrons and pretending you're not ridiculously attractive?"

"Y/N," he warned, his eyes focused on the road, his voice tight.

"What?" you asked innocently. "I'm just making conversation. It's not my fault you've got this whole 'hot cop' thing going on. You must get this all the time."

He didn't answer, but you caught the way his jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as his grip on the wheel tightened.

You leaned forward as far as the cuffs and seatbelt would allow. "You know, you're kind of cute when you're pretending to be all serious. I wonder what it would take to make you crack."

"Stop," he said through gritted teeth.

"Stop what?" you teased. "I'm just talking. It's not like I'm doing anything wrong. You wouldn't pull over just because I said you had nice eyes, would you?" Gojo ignored you and you sighed with annoyance. You weren't going to give up that easily.

"Honestly the way you pressed me against that wall back there...made me kind of hot. You know...down there?" I spread my legs open slowly, unsure if he could see me do so but regardless they opened wide.

Officer Gojo remained silent, determined to remain calm and collected.

"So hot that when I go home tonight, and I touch myself, I might just think about that to get me off," you paused for a second. "Do you like the thought of that? Me all alone in my bed, circling my clit while moaning your name," you rolled your head back onto the head rest and jokingly moaned his name, "Ohh Officer Gojo,  just saying your name makes me so wet."

That was the last straw. Without warning, Officer Gojo pulled the car to the side of the deserted road, the tires crunching against gravel as he shifted the car into park. He got out and made his way to the back door, opening it furiously, meeting your gaze with extreme frustration in his eyes.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low and rough as he leaned closer towards you through the door. "I've been patient. I've been professional. But you just don't know when to quit, do you?"

You smiled, unbothered by his sudden intensity. "Maybe I just like getting under your skin. Seems like I'm pretty good at it."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before leaning closer, his face inches from yours. "Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're asking for?"

"Trouble?" you echoed, your voice soft and teasing. "Is that what you call this? Because I think you're the one who's in trouble, Officer."

His gaze flickered to your lips for just a moment before he closed his eyes, as if trying to collect himself. But when he opened them again, all the restraint was gone. "You don't know what you're doing to me."

"Then show me," you challenged, leaning forward just enough that your lips nearly brushed his.

Officer Gojo groaned, low and guttural, before finally giving in. His lips crashed against yours with a desperation that sent a jolt of heat through your entire body. The cuffs on your wrists pressed uncomfortably against the seat, but you didn't care. His hands were on you—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, pulling you closer as though he couldn't get enough.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his forehead resting against yours. "You're going to be the death of me, Y/N," he murmured, his voice rough and raw.

You smiled, still breathless. "Well, at least you'll die happy."

His lips collided with yours once again, meshing together with ease, you slipped your tounge in and his eagerly fought yours for dominance. One of his hand slide down from your face and under your shirt, onto your breast, gripping it tightly before pulling back and pinching your nipple.

You moaned into his mouth as he played with your breast, the excitement building inside you began to pool onto your panties. His lips remained locked onto yours as his hand travelled south before hiking up your mini skirt, revealing your black laced thong.

He pulled back to observe you, his face flushed as he panted. "You're going to get me in so much trouble," his fingers slide over your aching core, making sure to stop and focus on your hardened bud with a few quick circles.

You eagerly bucked your hips into his hands, whimpering for more. "Fuck you're so fucking wet," he groaned, using his fingers to push your panties to the side before running his fingers between your slits again as you oozed onto his fingers.

His thumb traced your clit, sending shivers throughout the your whole body as you felt the crisp air meet your wet core. Exposed and open, the only thing you were worried about is how soon you could get Officer Gojo to fuck you.

"You're such a fucking slut," Officer Gojo panted huskily, "willing to give up your pussy just to avoid jail time," he smirked dipping a finger into you, causing a loud gasp to escape your lips. He hummed at the sound, "But if you let me fuck you like the slut you are, it might work out for you." Officer Gojo stated with a smirk, locking eyes with you.

Your head rolled back with ecstasy as you felt his fingers curl in an upward motion behind your cervix. His fingers were so fucking long and they were hitting all the right spots. You were a gasping, moaning mess, you gazed down to Gojo to see his eyes locked onto your pussy.

Watching as his fingers moved in and out of you with an urgency that signaled he was having just as much fun as you were. He looked up at your gaze, locking eyes with you.

His gaze was no longer cold and harsh, but filled with desperation and lust. He added another finger before he starting pumping into your pussy effortlessly. The cuffs were digging into your wrist behind you, it stung but you could care less- it honestly made things hotter.

He observed you as he finger fucked you into oblivion, the way his fingers curled inside you had you craving for more. You wanted him-no needed him inside you. You turned your gaze down to his crotch and saw how tight the fabric around his dick had gotten.

The sight of him made you moan out desperately, "I want you inside me, I need you to fuck me," you said, panting inbetween words. He chuckled at the sounds of your desperation, "and...why should I do that" gojo stated with a low seductive tone, slowing the pace of his fingers.

"Because I'm your dirty little slut," you say with a smirk on your face, locking eyes with him as you pull his fingers out of you and latch your mouth around them, licking them clean.

Officer Gojo groaned at the sight and quickly grabbed you out the backseat and slammed you against the car. He pressed his chest to your back as he pinned your arms on top of your lower back.

His hips bucked into your ass, aggressively grinding his harden cock against your rear end. All this foreplay had riled Officer Gojo up to the point he felt as if his cock would burst from the seams if he didn't relieve himself soon. He kissed your neck as he pulled down your skirt and panties in one swift movement.

You heard his belt unbuckled and Officer Gojo undo his zipper rapidly. You went to turn around and greet his member but he roughly pushed you against the car. "You stay right there and look pretty while I fuck the shit out of you," he sternly stated, you nodded your head like a good girl.

He bent you over before spreading your legs, you felt him line his tip up with your aching core. He slapped it against your harden clit, causing you to hiss with desperation. You were so sensitive down there, however, you couldn't help but crave for more. He teasingly slide it between your slit, back and forth slowly before plunging deep into you.

You didn't get a chance to see his dick before it entered you but by the way it filled you up told you everything you needed to know. Officer Gojo moaned loudly as he entered you, taking his time with the first few strokes. Embracing the feeling of your tight, wet pussy griping all around his cock. It was almost too much for him to handle.

He began pounding into you with no mercy, the sound of skin clapping echoed as it blended with the sounds of the crisp breeze and eerily silence of the night. Officer Gojo was unfolding right in front of you, and you couldn't help but join him- fucking him had me  ecstatic.

"Fuck your pussy is so tight baby," Officer Gojo cooed as he gazed down, watching his dick slide in and out of you. He bit his lip in admiration, " and it looks so fucking good on my dick." He slapped your ass harshly while thrashing into you, you gasped at the sudden movement but quickly became the moaning slut gojo had turned you into.

He took a handful of your hair and pulled you back, finding ways to penetrate you in ways you have never imagined. You could hear Officer Gojo attempting to restrain himself from moaning loudly, whimpers left between his parted lips. The sounds drove you absolutely insane, you didn't take him for a whimper but you were loving every second of it.

"I can't believe you convinced me to do this to you," gojo stated, slowing his flow and pumping at a slow rate. "If you weren't such a desperate, needy fucking slut, I could be home by now." You moaned quite my as he fucked you through his lecture.

"But instead you have me in the middle of nowhere, losing my mind over how fucking good your pussy feels," and just like that gojo went right back to pounding you with no mercy. He needed to feel every inch of you, better yet- he needed to fill every inch of you.

You don't know how but he found a way to fuck you faster, even rougher, at this point no noise could espace your lips as he had fucked you into another dimension and you could barely process how good his dick felt inside you. You felt a familiar knot building in your lower abdomen.

"If you keep fucking me like that, I'm going to cum," you said breathless. A light clicked in Officer Gojo, his cock twitched in response. "Go ahead baby, be a good slut and cum all over my dick as I fill your pussy up," he was also breathless, he voice slightly cracking.

He pounded roughly into you until your pussy grasp and pulsated on his cock, triggering for him to spill every drop of cum inside you. It felt good, it felt amazing cumming on top of him as he filled you up. You were convinved there was no better feeling than fucking officer gojo.

He stepped back and pulled himself out of you, tucking his member back into his underwear and redressing. You turn to look at him, your face covered with red and beads of sweat. A smirk lacing your lips,

"So officer Gojo, are you still going to arrest me?"

-

HOPE YALL ENJOYED! MORE TO COME!

[usahanahaki]

Love me in Ruin

[Trafalgar Law x Reader]

PROMPT: After being lovers, becoming enemies was easier than becoming strangers.

Synopsis: You're held hostage on your ex's ship, and the past you and he both supposedly buried resurfaces along with the feelings you both harbored.

Author's Note: Oh my god, a decade later and I finally got around to writing my first Trafalgar Law oneshot (might become a fic? idk). I've been so down bad for this man since I was in middle school lmao, and I've always wanted to write a lovers to enemies story for him. Please note that I gave the reader the epithet Titania (the first Law fanfic I ever read did this, and I wanted to pay tribute to that). Lastly, this takes place in Wano, so if you aren't that far yet, some things may not make sense. There are some slight? plot spoilers (but nothing major), just characters that may not be familiar if you're not at Wano yet.

Side Note: Wrote this while listening to the following songs on repeat: Disease by Lady Gaga, Crashing by d4vd (with kali Uchis), and TILT by Irene & Seulgi. If you don't mind listening to music while reading, I recommend putting these three on repeat.

Warnings/Content: toxic!exes, mentions of past betrayal, anxiety, co-dependency, spoonfuls of angst, not necessarily a happy ending?I don't actually know what this is; Law and reader are just doing what toxic exes do best: dancing around each other till one folds. Law and Reader match each other's freak. No smut (yet) just kissing and sensual touches. In terms of citrus scale, I think this is lime? Def not lemon lol

Roaming these halls once more, you were reminded of your place. Nothing but cold grey metal pipes, cold chilling vents, and cold grey doors adorned the walls. Letting your fingers trail the metal pipes lining the submarine, memories of the past of when you first boarded the Polar Tang played like a silent film in the confines of your mind. This is my home too, right Law?

God, reminiscing on the past was such a drug. Indulging in the sentiments and feelings left in those memories was so addictive. You're my home Law. It was hard to leave the mind, when rationally, the only happiness and safety you had left remained in the depths of those fleeting moments. I can't live without you Law. Indulgences after all, were meant to provide relief and temporary asylum from past transgressions. But this is reality, not the past. And in this reality, this very moment, survival is the only means of perhaps rediscovering happiness and safety.

But being back aboard the Polar Tang was anything but relieving. No, not like the past. This was not the home you once found safety and comfort in.

These walls, these floors, and halls closing in are enemy territory.

He knew you were here. He knew where you were. It was only a matter of time before the distance that he and you put between yourselves became zero. The rhythmic click of his heels against the metal floors that reverberated throughout the hall was a sound you were all too familiar with. Yet again, reality was not in alignment with expectations. That familiarity was completely null, and in its place, was the sound of your archenemy slowly approaching. 

You knew all too well that Law wasn't one to let his enemies come anywhere near his family, especially not after Corazon. And that principle once used to apply to you too. But this time, you are not a Heart Pirate. You are not family. Like an ancient curse, the words "you are no longer his family" were mentally and erratically repeated over and over. 

Once a confidant and once an equal, all that remained were past titles of what you and he once were. 

His languid movements, yet firm grasp on Kikouku only reaffirmed what you and he both knew. This was not the reunion either of you ever anticipated having. 

Law did not move from his position, and his face remained hidden in the shadows, but you didn't need the light to know the nuances of his expression. Brows furrowed and cold eyes that did not look upon you with the softness and love you once knew. This was the cold, sharp, and calculated demeanor that the seas and its inhabitants knew of the man that donned the title "Surgeon of Death". A terrifying man rumored to carry life and death in his palms like playthings stood before you.

"Lost already? I thought your time with the navy would have fixed your stupidity, Titania". 

You scoffed. "Rest easy, Surgeon. These halls are engraved in my bones." Your hands remained in your pockets, but the chilling numbness that slowly spread wasn't alone. Digging your nails into your palms proved useless in ceasing the tremors. They were muscle memory—reminders of what would inevitably come.

You spoke again, "Congratulations on defeating Doflamingo, Law. Kaido, sends his regards". Law took a step forward into the light. "If you're gonna tell a lie, you should at least try a little harder to sound more believable." "Oh but he does!", you mused, "After all," your eyes wandered back to the walls, before settling back on him, "he personally sent me to greet you. He knows just how much you miss me." 

The pounding of your heart, seemed louder and louder with each beat. Law smirked, "How kind of him." He continued to move towards you, his grip on Kikouku did not waver, and his eyes remained locked onto you. Standing before you, the time you both spent apart was clear. You were not the same person you were two years ago, and he was not the same man that once held your vulnerabilities with care.

The man that stood before you was the same one that ripped your heart out in exchange for becoming a Warlord.

His free hand slowly made its way to your jawline, fingers grazing your cheek before slowly caressing your face. His eyes roamed freely, carefully analyzing the vision before him, "You haven't changed." Your right hand trailed up Kikouku, then moved to envelop his clenched fist lovingly.

"Are you sure Law?", with your left hand, you swiftly pressed your thumb right under his lips and index below the chin, forcing him to look at you directly, "Why don't you take a closer look then." Your steel resolve was not lost on him; he knew what the consequences were when he made his decision to be a Warlord, and he stood by his decision. At least, that's what you told yourself.

What gears were turning in his head? What did he have planned? What was the purpose of you being aboard his sub? Much to your dismay, there were too many unknowns at play for this little game you and he had going on to continue. Right now, you were a hostage on an enemy ship playing hooky with your ex.

Getting back to Onigashima to report back to Kaido was your top priority at the moment. After all, he had ordered Bao Huang to summon you and the other members of the Tobi Roppo for a special announcement. Yet here you were, not in Onigashima, not with the Tobi Roppo, not present for the special announcement, but stuck with your ex on his ship.

Law sighed, before letting go of your face. "You might have changed Titania, but my feelings for you haven't". You scoffed. "You certainly have a funny way of showing it, Surgeon." "Oh? We're back to Surgeon? I liked hearing my name leave your lips," he leaned in close to your ear, "Maybe I should leave you singing my name again, hm?" 

Countless times under the moon’s piercing glow, Law repeatedly had taken all that you had to give and more. What was even left of you for Trafalgar Law to take? A man who hid his immense need for unholy retribution against a foe like Doflamingo from the rest of the world and to an extent, his own crew, was one that needed to be clinically studied. 

And the papers may have concentrated on the Strawhats' conquests in Dressrosa with brief mentions of Law's contributions here and there, but it didn’t take a genius to guess who was the mastermind methodically moving each piece in place for checkmate. 

Eyes remaining glued to his figure, you gently placing your hands flat above his chest, then let them glide down softly as you recommitted his tattoos and anatomy to memory. "Sorry to disappoint", hands stopping near his stomach, you hooked your index finger around the belt loop closest to his zipper, then pulled him in even closer with your eyes glaring back at him, "but my concerts are no longer exclusive to you, Law".

Oh you had his full attention now.

Law was no longer mentally multitasking between his plans and what to do with you. There was nothing left for him to mull over. He had claimed you many times before, and now? Well, the tally was about to increase once more. Hell, who knows maybe he'd take you over and over again until he got his fill. There were many who dared to wonder what the Surgeon of Death looked like beyond his steel exterior, but only you had managed to see the fragility that lay beneath it all. At least, that's what you had hoped.

Hell if you became privy to what the man's intimate life looked like after your once shared one ended. How revolting. The mere thought of another person engaging in the same intimate acts with him that you and he once shared, was enough to push you over the edge. It's fine, you half-heartedly told yourself. You lay your head gently on his chest, pressing your ear to hear his heart beat. He's alive.

You lifted your index finger, and dragged your nail across his bare skin down his chest, and his breath had run ragged, "You want me Law?"

Tilting your head up, you began to press light kisses into the side of his neck and smiled, "Earn me." 

He was in for it now.

[fernpetals]

Boogeyman (Part II)

The second part of THIS drabble.

Masterlist

Yandere John Wick x Reader

Warning: Forced proximity, prolonged captivity, forced feeding, details and mention of stalking, patronizing obsessive and creepy behaviour.

As you are forced to spend your days with your captor, you begin to learn more about him.

I do not own this GIF or any GIFs used in any of my fics. Credit to the owner of this GIF

Unedited piece.

The narrative oscillates between the past and present.

On your first day in your new 'home', as he likes to call this prison, you were shaking and sobbing. You refused to look into his eyes. You could not. But he was patient. You were expecting an outburst–even his fist raining down on you, like in all the crime documentaries you have watched and heard of. But he surprised you with his gentle hold, touching you as if you were made of glass, coaxing you to relax.

Instead of relaxing, of course,  you were on edge. You had no idea what would make him tick. That was until you refused to eat or drink anything. He was patient at first, taking a bite from the food, trying to prove that it was safe to consume. But you felt so sick, you wanted to puke.

But then, he slammed the plate down and before you knew it, you were on his lap. You screamed and tried to scratch, but one stern look had you frozen.

"You either eat, or I will make you, whether you like it or not." You knew right away that you would not like what he would do to make you eat.

So with shaking hands and trembling lips, you emptied the plate.

John is a patient man, you have come to this conclusion in your time spent here, with him. Extremely patient. But the moment he feels that you are neglecting your wellbeing or putting yourself in danger, he is right on his feet, ready to take any action necessary to ensure that you are healthy, safe and not out of his sight.

"It's such a cruel place for a sweet little thing like you. People would tear you apart and lick the remnants."

He told you on your second day when you managed to gather courage and confront him. All you wanted was to go home. You still want to go home—except you can't anymore.

A fire destroyed your apartment and apparently, they found a burnt-down body with your hair sticking out. More or less, you are dead to the world.

You know whose body it was and that even if the authorities suspect something, you are a cold case, at most.

You cried when he made you watch the news, and while he comforted you, every touch, every word prickled. You lost it that morning, screaming at him about how much you hated him, throwing things at him, trying to keep him away.

But John was calm. Almost stoic---like he was expecting the outburst.

But then, you refused to eat again. You were burning with rage and you threw the plate across the room.

You will never repeat it.

You know the consequences now. You do not want to test his patience.

No amount of rage could keep him from overpowering you. You were in tears as soon as the adrenaline left your body with all the screaming and attempts to scratch him, you had even managed to leave a reddened mark on his bearded cheek.

But that was all, your hands were tied to the bedposts before he pinched your nose firmly, compelling you to open your mouth. Wordlessly, he shoved the food into your mouth. No matter how much you gagged or coughed, he did not let a single morsel spill out, keeping his large paw of a hand firmly over your mouth.

You have not refused food or water since that day.

He was perhaps a bit softer after that---you don't know for sure---you were reduced to a sobbing mess. But his gentle touch almost felt tender.

It changed nothing though.

You still hate him. However, with the lack of human interaction, other than John, you have not crossed the line of 'not being able to stand him'.

You try to keep up with the dates—the calendar in the hallway hall, the digital clock in the living room, and Joh's phone—anything to help you tally the days. But being mostly confined to the bedroom with a lock system customised by him makes it a challenge to keep up.

If you are not wrong, it has been a month since he took you. And you have found a lot more than the taste of his anger until now.

Like your clothes hanging in your wardrobe. Most of your closet contains the clothes and shoes you kept in your online cart or wishlist or perhaps fancied in some place months ago. You never used to be stingy with your money but could manage it well. You could because now, you have nothing to manage other than your emotions and overall mental health.

"How long have you been stalking me?" You manage to gather the courage to ask him one morning.

It is one of the rare times he has let you out of the room, bringing you to the dining table for a meal.

"Over a year."

That's that thing about him---it unnerves you how he never even denies what he has done, nor justifies it. John is not delusional. No, he knows exactly what he has done and he knows he is wrong. He simply doesn't seem to care.

He gazes into your eyes, already anticipating another question. Maybe he can read you far better than you can read him. It makes sense, he has been observing you for more than a year, and you have come to know of his existence only a month ago.

Suddenly, it is difficult to gulp down the food. Your hold on the spoon tightens. It bends so easily under pressure, reminding you how he has detailed everything to work in his favour and against yours.

"I know it is scary, and I know it is difficult for you." He speaks up "But you must understand that I will never hurt you. You are safe here, with me. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done that by now."

This is perhaps the most he has spoken in one go. He is a man of few words. The silence, the stealth, it unsettles you, but there is not much you can do about it of course.

"You know it is wrong to keep someone against their will, don't you?"

He holds your gaze for a moment of tense silence before responding.

"I have done far worse."

There, your answer and a warning, wrapped in one response.

As if sensing your rising unease and fear, he adds-

"But you don't need to be scared of me." He sounds oddly sincere. No malice or mirth.

But your lips are already trembling.

"How dare you act like this is acceptable?" You hiss out quietly, it's a struggle to speak through the tense emotions coiling in your throat.

You flinch when his hand touches your face, but it does not keep him from cupping your cheeks and wiping away the tears.

"I know this is hard, but you will see one day. This is where you truly belong to."

That makes you break into sobs once more, and you can do nothing when he collects you in his arms, holding you as if he is not the cause of your misery.

At night, you find yourself awake despite it being way past your 'bedtime' as he has fixed. You think, for once, you have been discreet enough to earn yourself some moment of peace despite his arm coiled around your waist and his warm body pressing against your back.

"Why aren't you asleep yet?" His voice is quiet and gruff, making your heart skip a beat.

Of course, he would know.

He can sense the slightest shift in your breathing pattern. He knows when you are asleep and the moment you are awake. Being forced to share the same bed as him, it has taken you a while to be even able to sleep properly.

But John never misses anything when it comes to you. He makes sure you get at least eight hours of sleep, he makes sure you are eating a balanced meal and he makes sure that you have access to every self-care item you are used to and more. It freaked you out when you first opened the cabinets to find the exact brands you use.

The make-up is a different case though. The shades and the overall type remain more or less unchanged, it is the brands that have made your eyebrows raise. They are sitting untouched. What is the point anyway? You are not leaving this house any time soon. Unless you are successful in escaping.

Not that you haven't tried. You have, and each attempt has ended in an epic failure. Finally, you have lost your privacy during bathing as well. Now, it is only a curtain that stands between you and him. And you feel no less than a camper in the middle of the forest, who has a tent between her and a bear.

But you know that a mere curtain can do nothing to save you the day he decides that he has waited enough. And you do not know how much longer he would wait. You see the way his eyes darken every time you wear the dress he has picked for you. And he chooses your outfit every day. You feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering touch, the way he breathes into your neck like he is seconds away from sinking his teeth into your flesh.

Maybe he gets a sense of claim over you by dressing you up as he pleases. You had opposed it initially, determined to stand your ground even though you cannot deny how flattering each outfit is.

"It's either this, or you wear nothing at all. I wouldn't mind that."

By then, you had understood that he was a man of action indeed, he never said anything he did not mean to. So gulping down your rage along with your dignity, you put on the dress of his choice.

And you have been putting on the dress he chooses for you every day since then.

Over a month of your 'stay', you have come to learn that John is a dangerous man, fully capable of hurting you if he wants to (as if his previous actions weren't obvious enough). You have felt it when he chased you down the the hallway on your first escape attempt. You thought you were fast, but his thundering and swift footsteps were faster than your racing heart. You felt his strength when he wrapped his arm around you firmly while you struggled and screamed. No amount of hitting or scratching could move his hold. You felt the weight of it, you felt that his arms could easily crush you if he wanted to. But when you got to look into his eyes again, they seemed amused.

"Nice try, Darling. But please do not make me chase you again, for your good."

You might have not understood what he meant had you not been pinned underneath him with his hardness pressed against your exposed thighs.

You realised that day that you need to be smarter than that. You can’t outrun him, can’t overpower him. Even the house seems to be in the middle of the woods. As far as your eyes can reach, you can only see the vast stretches of green.

Where are you?

You have no idea. He has been so thorough with everything, that it has begun to gnaw at your mind--like a beast ready to tear its way out out and destroy everything.

For now, you can only force yourself to relax in his unyielding hold and imagine that you are somewhere else, in your lover's embrace. Maybe someday, you can be smarter, you can read him without going mad.

Someday.

You tell yourself as you feel his lips on the back of your neck.

The day better come sooner than he manages to push way past your boundaries like he does so subtly now.

******

Shall I write another part? It gets only darker from here. What do you think?

Addition: I have been reading 'Bittersweet' by the lovely @johnwickb1tsch and now that I re-read this part, I see clear inspirations. I apologise for not noticing it before, it has been more or less a subconscious act. There is so much inspiration from your amazing fic, thank you for that @johnwickb1tsch

And those who have not read Bittersweet yet, what are you even doing? Go read the fic.

[yuechihua]

the boy who chases the wind.

summary: After the taste of bitterness, there will come sweetness. Even after everything his master has lied to him about, Harumasa can't help but cling to those words.

notes: 7k, author's notes, spoilers for Harumasa's backstory, character study, one mention of drinking alcohol, depictions/references of panic attacks, depictions of piercing ears

i.

They abandon him to die, the faculty flooded with red lights and screeching sirens that hurt his ears, stampeding feet and panicked voices.  

Or perhaps they don’t abandon him; they forget him, but forgetting is still just a kinder form of death.

Harumasa should feel something, anything, but the panic around him feels like the distant crash of waves against the ocean shores he’s never seen. It’s there, he knows, but it’s not something that belongs to him. If he’s pulled away by the tides, then he was meant to drown.

He waits, hands folded on his lap in his hospital bed, medical supplies glowing scarlet with each pulse of the alarms. The only thing that he has, the only thing that’s truly his, is a yellow headband that he keeps tucked under his hands.

A boy like him is worth nothing more than the people who use him: this is a truth that has been ingrained in Harumasa’s bones, a lesson that’s been taught to him over and over, from the very beginning.

And he would have been okay with being a tool. As long as he is useful, he is in some capacity loved. 

“If you’ve experienced enough bitterness, then other parts of life can be sweeter.”

Isn’t that what his master taught him? But then, his master is gone. Has been gone for the past few days, and now the facility is in disarray. 

His master, who snuck him books and stuck him with needles that left behind purpling bruises, who taught him archery and injected him with clear fluid, who gave him cake on his birthdays and told him to endure during the worst of his flare-ups.

Perhaps Harumasa hasn’t been as useful as he should have been. Or perhaps, he’s no longer useful at all, and his master has left him for better experiments.

The only thing Harumasa has left is this headband. He could throw it away, but every time the itch to do so tremors through his fingers and he picks up the fabric, he can never bring himself to follow through.

Footsteps echo down his hallway, which sound heavier than the footsteps of the staff he’s come to know, and his door is wrenched open. People in suits and equipment and helmets, people he’s never seen before, stare at him with confusion, and then horror.

“There’s a child in here,” someone murmurs in disbelief. “They’ve been… on children… Those sick–”

A man in front raises his hand, and the murmurs fall silent. He strides to Harumasa, and peers down at him, a strange tenderness in his eyes. 

“You’re safe now, kid,” he rumbles, in a rough, low voice. “We’ve got you.” He reaches out a thick, gloved hand. “Do you want to come with us?”

And what else can he do? Harumasa takes the man’s hand. If he is useful, then he is loved. If he is needed, then he can live. And if he’s worth nothing at all, then he should just let go. But is that really all there is for him?

 “Yes,” he whispers. His throat is dry. He swallows, and speaks again, louder. “Yes.” He grips his master’s headband. Is the sweetness promised to him waiting just past this? “Yes.”

ii.

He pierces his ears in the high school academy dorm bathroom, bloody tissues strewn across the counter, catheter needle sliding into the tender flesh of his ear with a laughable slice of pain. 

Harumasa is alone, as he always is. The years ghost by, barely touching him. He grows older. His scars fade, but never completely. He does well in academics, does well with people. They love him, or they think they love him, the slouchy, easy-going genius. Love letters pile in his lockers. People ask to meet him after class, determination sparking in their eyes.

He always turns them down, as gently as he can. They deserve to give their affection to someone who’s capable of loving them back. 

In the bathroom mirror, his own face stares back at him. His uniform is unbuttoned at the top, his hair messy (in an artful way, he likes to think). Dark circles bruise under his eyes, and his ear is bright red as he pushes the needle through to the very tip, placing the earring at the top of the needle until it pops out from the other side and the earring is left in his lobe.

He pushes the earring back in, and admires his handiwork. 

It should hurt more. But the pain is as easy as it always is when it comes to needles.

Here, then, is a body, his own. Marked by his own hand and not others, for once. Will this make him more real?

Harumasa has always had this nagging knowledge, pooling in the back of his mind, a stagnant puddle. He is no person, no life; only the purest form of hunger, a constant, endless roving desire for survival. He does not know what comes after. There is no after, only a desperate clawing for another day. Isn’t that what a tool is reduced to, after years of rusting?

He will die one day. His fate had already been decided the second the doctor gave him his diagnosis. He was expendable once, and he is expendable now. What does living really mean, when every minute is precious and trickles towards a predetermined ending?

In the mirror, his master’s headband stares back at him. A relic of the past that he hasn’t been able to let go. A reminder of things he can’t forget.

Harumasa picks up another sterilized needle, and slides it into his other earlobe, marked by a small yellow dot. The pain, as it always is, is his oldest, most familiar friend.

iii.

Did he survive just for life to pass like a dream?

He graduates with honors, top of his class, with recommendations from the most difficult to please professors.

“He’s a genius,” people marvel when they see him, and he hides his calloused hands behind his back, adjusts the choker over his scars, and smiles. 

Easygoing, playful, an incorrigible slacker: he’s been careful to craft how other people perceive him, but it’s still easier than expected. No one has ever truly looked at him, or maybe they prefer this palatable version of himself. Easy to love, easy to envy, easy to tolerate.

He’s recruited to Hollow Special Operations. He joins Section One, their sterling recruit. No one complains when he walks in with rumpled uniforms and an unbuttoned shirt. No one complains much of anything, in fact. It’s quiet and dull, the pay is nice, and as long as he produces results, no one says anything about his constant leave requests.

At home, Harumasa sits alone at his table, takeout cartons crowding in front of him, watching whatever cheap movie he’s rented for the week. If he never goes into work again, if he ran away into a Hollow or walked into the sea or his heart simply gave out, how long would it take someone to notice, and then to care? 

Life could pass like this forever, but one day, a transfer request is slipped on his desk, and suddenly, he is no longer Asaba Harumasa, Section One Executive Officer, but a member of Hoshimi Miyabi’s elite squad of Section Six, personally recruited and handpicked.

It’s easy enough to find her, the city’s youngest Void Hunter, heir to a family with a lineage so prestigious it makes his head spin, leaving behind a trail of frost in her wake. People fall silent in front of her, respectful or fearful of a genius, though her status has never done much more than stir his curiosity. 

They’re a little similar, Harumasa likes to think, in some ways.

Miyabi is alone, inspecting her new office, every surface polished and shining to the point it hurts his eyes, the room smelling of something empty and clean. It’s ripe with possibility, of newness, of an unsullied ideal that makes his heart ache.

“Hoshimi Miyabi,” he says, voice filled with a careful laziness. “Or is it Chief now? You’re my boss, right?”

She turns, and even that movement is ridiculously elegant, her steps light and poised, not a single wasted gesture. Even death would be rendered beautiful by her hand. “I’m not officially your chief until tomorrow. The paperwork hasn't finished processing.”

“Right, right, but functionally, you’re my boss, aren’t you? Say, Chief, you wouldn’t mind if I took a few days off after orientation, right?” he says. “Or are you going to expect us to go into dangerous Hollows right away? I don’t know if Section One has told you, but I’m a little fragile. Are you sure you want to trust me?”

She tilts her head, another efficient gesture, and her eyes seem to swallow him whole. It’s a little frightening, how she stares directly at him without any hesitation or fear, like there’s nothing he can truly hide from her.

“I chose you,” she says, “not because of what other people say, but because Section Six needs you, Asaba Harumasa. I trust what I see with my own eyes.”

He knows all about what it means to be needed. But somehow, Miyabi’s expectations don’t feel suffocating. 

“All right,” he says, voice as light as possible. Miyabi’s ear twitches, and he knows she isn’t convinced by his lackadaisical demeanor. But it’s enough that she allows him this pretense. “Then I’ll look forward to working with you, Chief.”

She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t need to. It’s enough that she keeps her cool gaze on him, and Harumasa is seen.

iv.

To Harumsa’s surprise, he’s not the only recruit to Section Six. There’s Tsukishiro Yanagi from the New Eridu Defence Force, and you. It only makes sense that Miyabi would recruit people she could trust, and people with such impressive achievements in their careers, though you stand out as an oddity in that respect.

Your resume is impressive, certainly: top academics, honors, prestigious internships, and glowing recommendation letters from professors who can’t stop raving about your skills. But you have virtually no combat experience on the field, so you’re still a risk, one Miyabi has willingly taken, for whatever reason.

Besides, genius is nothing special to him. You remind him of every bright-eyed recruit at the academy with something to prove, and it’s only a question of how your dreams and ideals will survive when faced with the pressure of the numbing work, the relentless threats, the difficult decisions.

You approach him in the very first week, presumably on Miyabi’s orders, with a mission dossier in your hand.

“We’ll be working together, starting from today,” you tell him. Your uniform is ironed to flat perfection, not a single crease in sight. It’s a far cry from his own rumpled clothing and the jacket tied loosely around his waist, which you scan with a critical eye.

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “What are we working on today, partner?” 

You flick through the sheets of paper. “Meetings, as always. Some reports and a joint training session with Section Four. Oh, and a venture into Hollow Zero for a routine check-up.”

“We have to do all of that? I don’t have the stamina to keep up.”

“Well, it’s what’s expected of us,” you say. “We’d only be assigned so many tasks if they trusted us to handle them well.”

Your posture is stiff, your shoulders tense. You don’t like him, Harumasa realizes, or you don’t think he’s taking this seriously. And maybe he isn’t, but your reaction makes him want to poke at you, just to see how you’ll react. He has a feeling you’d react just like a cat, hiss or scratch him and run away, but, unfortunately for you, he has a fondness for cats.

“In that case, do you think you’d be okay handling it by yourself?” he says, voice as innocent as he can make it. “Since I’m technically your senior, you can think of it as me having high expectations for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tsukishiro is around if you need any help,” he says. “I’d offer, but I’m a little too frail for all of that work, you know? I might have to take a day off tomorrow if I do.”

“I’m not going to push your work off onto someone else, and I’m also not going to do it for you! You’re an Executive Officer!”

“Don’t be so serious. You won’t last long here if you don’t relax a little,” he teases.

You’re silent for a few moments. Has he gone too far? But before Harumasa can say anything, you stride forward until you’re close enough to grab his wrist. Your grasp is tight enough that he can’t slip away, but still gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt. It’s a thoughtful touch.

“I don’t care what excuses you want to make,” you snap, “and you can do whatever you want in your free time, but we are going to fulfill every piece of this agenda together. I’m not letting you go until we do!”

“All right,” he says hastily, because you look like you’re one second away from slapping handcuffs onto him so he can’t escape. “I didn’t take you for someone who cared so much about your job.”

You tilt your head at him. Your hand is as warm as a spring day. “Well, the entire city is counting on us. There are so many people out there who need us to protect them.”

Underneath your cool tone of voice, he can sense it: your genuine desire to be needed. To do something real. That is something, he thinks, he can understand.

“I guess we can’t let down all the good people of New Eridu, partner,” Harumasa says. “I’m all yours, just for today. So, where to?”

v.

The best remedy for work reports, Harumasa finds, is folding them into paper airplanes and sailing across the room, trying to see how many can land in the trash can. As it is, only several have made it in, and the rest have crashed across the office floor at various intervals.

He aims another airplane in a lazy arc and it only makes it halfway through the air before Yanagi strides into the room and plucks it out of the air with expert precision. She unfolds it and shakes her head at him, smoothing it out in her hands before placing it back on his desk. “Asaba, don’t fold your reports into airplanes.”

“I’m finding a good use for them,” he protests.

“They’re already useful as mission reports. I have a few updates for you,” she continues. “I scheduled your doctor’s appointment for next week.”

“Deputy Chief,” he whines, but she ignores him. 

“You get to take a day off work to attend, but it will count towards your monthly leave requests.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t sound so pleased. We have a meeting later today, one which you aren’t allowed to skip. And this is an interpersonal request, but I want you to stop teasing your deskmate so much,” she says. 

“Who on earth are you talking about?” Harumasa says in an oblivious voice.

“You know who I’m talking about. You’re going to drive them half-mad if you keep this up!”

“It’s fun, though.”

“Fun for you, not for them.”

“I think they enjoy it. Do you see how they get all stiff and they wrinkle their nose? They’re like a cat,” he muses. “Maybe they need a mouse toy for their desk.”

“If you do that,” Yanagi says, voice worldworn, “Then I think I’m going to have to clean bits and pieces of you out of the office tomorrow.”

He laughs a little at that, but Yanagi’s expression doesn’t change. Though he’s had brief run-ins with Tsukishiro Yanagi when he was still a part of Section One, this is his first time working with her in such close proximity for an extended period of time. Her accomplishments in the New Eridu Defense Force are startlingly impressive, and, in all honesty, she’s the only reason Section Six runs as well as it does. 

You do your fair share of work, sure, but Miyabi, and Soukaku, Yanagi’s ward who joined a little after everyone else, create their own fair share of trouble. And he does, as well, if he’s honest.

Yanagi is overly serious, and yet, so unwilling to admit to her own achievements. She’s the sort of person who he, contrary to what some may think, admires. She’s the type who thinks of others before herself, and it’s hard to truly dislike her when there’s no genuine malice to her actions. Unlike Miyabi, Yanagi’s type is easy to understand.

But there’s also the risk that Yanagi will eventually burn herself out if she assumes that overwork is the only way she can keep up with everyone else.

Ah, well. That only means he has to pick up more of the slack than he intended for Section Six’s hardworking Deputy Chief.

“Tsukishiro,” Harumasa says instead. “Why’d you have to make my appointment?”

She adjusts her glasses, pushing them further up her face. “If I didn’t, you would have put off making it until the last minute. That’s a bad habit, Asaba. You need to take care of your own health.”

“If you think so, then my next leave request—”

“I will not be accepting it for you,” she says immediately. 

“I thought you cared about my health!”

“I do,” she says. There it is again, the seriousness in her voice that makes it hard to look at her sometimes. “I want all of you to stay healthy. Which is why if you skip your next medical appointment, Asaba, then I’m going to reject all of your leave requests for the month.”

“You’re so unfair, Deputy Chief,” he says, fingering the work report she’s placed on his desk. It’s still creased from where he’s folded it.

“Only when I have to be,” she says. “Now, don’t let me hear you’ve skipped this appointment, or I’ll make more follow-ups for you. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, I do,” he groans.

It’s a strange feeling. None of his coworkers in Section One would have cared for him as much as this. It’s strange, but not bad.

vi.

Harumasa can’t quite put it into words why he can’t leave you alone.

It’s your reaction, sure. You’re serious and straightforward and responsible, and when you snap back at him, it only makes him want to push at your buttons again.

It could also be the novelty of how you never avoid his eyes, and refuse to hide your distaste for his actions, like so many of his coworkers had done in Section One. No one in general talks so openly to him like this, outside of those in Section Six.

“Your weapon makes no sense. You’re going to slice off your fingers pulling your bow one day,” you would tell him. “And I know you’re the one drawing cats on my work reports! Cut it out!”

Or maybe it’s the need in you, the deep, drowning need, familiar to him as if it’s his own. To be loved, or to be needed, or to be useful. If he looks too close, then he’ll sink too far into it, too far into you. 

So as fun as it is to mess with you, Harumasa knows to keep his distance. It’s easier this way, and better for the both of you.

And perhaps everything could have continued like this, a string of warm days and aimless teasing, until a venture into a Hollow with the entire section, one that should not have been different from any other.

There’s a swarm of Ethereals around, more than usual, and it takes all of your respective concentration to cut through their numbers. So perhaps, in the thrum of intense battle, he doesn’t react as quickly as he should before an ink-black monster is on him, roaring, wild strikes aimed at his neck.

Harumasa jerks back, shoots several arrows in rapid succession through its headless core, and then he feels it. A weightlessness around his neck, a strange nakedness.

His choker coils on the floor, a shining black snake.

He tries to suck in a quick breath, but he can’t quite manage it.

His choker. His neck. He can feel the itch of scars, of phantom injections, of the Hollow’s corruption weighing down, and he slaps his hands over his neck, a wild attempt to protect himself.

But there’s no point. Black spots swim in front of his eyes. He’s useless. He needs to move. The sound of metal and corrupted claws are so distant. Is everyone trying to keep them away from him? He has to move. He has to. 

Pick himself. Keep going. It’s what he’s always done, so why can’t he now?

Something warm lands on his head, solid and comforting and real, pressing against the back of his neck. You’re in front of him, white work shirt fluttering as you smooth your jacket down the side of his face. He’s cocooned, and the world shrinks down to just this: you, and him.

“Harumasa, look at me.” A rustle of fabric. Your gloves flutter to the dirt below, stark and black. And then— warm hands. The warmest hands he’s ever felt, cradling his face, bringing his wane face to yours. 

A smear of blood across your cheek. Sweat beading across your forehead. But your eyes are beautiful, steadfast and luminous. Like the moon, lighting his way home.

“You’re okay,” you say, voice so quiet, as if it’s meant for no other ears than his. “You’re okay, I promise.” 

He can’t breathe. He can’t do anything, but stare at you, sweat trickling down his face.

“Look at me. Tell me what you see right now.” 

He swallows, the gesture thick and unnatural. “I see…” 

“Yes?” 

“You.”

“That’s right. And what else?” 

He feels stupid, childish, as his voice comes out in a slow wheeze. “The… sky. The ground.”

“And can you smell anything?”

“Blood. Sweat. Dust.”

You don’t move your hands from his face, and even if you had, he would have chased after your touch without a shred of reticence. But you keep your hands steady, your voice soothing, as you run through questions about what he can sense. He answers you without hesitation, until his breathing steadies and the world is no longer spinning.

You keep your jacket wrapped around him as you bend down and grab his choker, pressing it into his hands.

You must be curious, surely, about his reaction, his sudden uselessness in the Hollow. But you never speak. All you do is take his hand and guide him out somewhere less crowded, less noisy. The others have already moved on, a decision that they seemed to have made with you while he wasn’t focusing.

But your hand is warm. So warm, as warm as it was on the day he first met you. Like this, he would follow you anywhere.

vii.

Harumasa wakes with pain radiating from his chest like a starburst, limbs weak, nausea crowding the back of his throat. Sweat coats his body, a migraine pulverizing his brain into useless mush. 

Harumasa can barely breathe, let alone stand. It’s all he can do to fumble for the pills scattering his nightstand, swallowing them dry out of desperation. It takes the slightest edge off his pain, just enough that he can reach for his phone and construct a blithe message to Yanagi about not coming into work and cashing in one of his sick days, before losing it among his blankets.

He passes the next hour in and out of consciousness, a fitful sleep eluding him before the pain jolts him awake.

In a way, he’s grown used to functioning with a certain amount of pain. His weak lungs, his unstable heart. People can adapt to anything, and even constant pain can become mundane. But other days, his illness flares with an intensity that leaves him immobile.

In moments like this, curled among his blankets, knees pulled up, unable to do more than wait, Harumasa thinks about the life he’s built: the parents who he no longer remembers. The haze of pain of his youth, sterile white hospital walls and perpetual needles. His master, who patted his head gently and then abandoned him. The academy, where he passed aimless days. Graduation, where no one was there to give him flowers. Section One, which was cold as a grave, full of grim orders and blank coworkers. Crowds of pills in his cabinet and on his bedside, several which are for daily use, taken every morning and every night at a consistent time, and the others for managing moments when his pain is unbearable.

But there’s also Section Six, who welcomes him like he’s coming home every time he opens the office doors. The stray cat who hops onto his windowsill everyday, who hisses at him but can be coaxed with bits of canned food to lick at his fingers. You, who has held him with a touch so tender it makes him want to stay by your side forever.

Harumasa is still going to die. He’s long made his peace with this, the knowledge that everything must come to an end. No matter what he does, it only prolongs his inevitable ending. But until then, he is still alive.

It might not have been the best life, or even a very good one, but it’s his, one’s he fought for with every bit of his blood and tears to keep and hold. He’ll survive, swallow every bit of bitterness for even a hint of sweetness in his future.

Every year, the probability of his survival lowers. So every birthday, he thinks, is a miracle. Every moment longer he has is an opportunity he can’t waste.

Like his master’s headband, which he still wears even now. There are things he can’t let go, that he will cling on to no matter what.

This is what living is, a taste so sweet it makes him crave more.

viii.

Moonlight spills into the office by the time Harumasa is ready to go home, several hours past the time he usually clocks out of work. 

He stands, stretches, and does a slow circle around the office. Everyone else has already left, Miyabi and Soukaku dragging Yanagi out before she could pull her third all-nighter at the office. It’s empty—or at least, he thinks it is before he finds you, flung along the couch hiding near the back of the office, head resting on the armrest, cheek pressed into the smooth fabric. 

You must have fallen asleep, and he hadn’t even noticed. It’s funny how that works: he’s perpetually aware of your presence, the most accidental brush of your skin against his making his nerves spark, and at other times, he’s lulled into a gentle peace in your presence, letting his guard dangerously low around you.

He pads over to the office lighting and flips it off, so the room plunges into sudden darkness, lit only by the liquid silver light of the moon puddling on the floor. You must be exhausted, running back and forth all the time, voluntarily working overtime alongside Yanagi.

Dedication to your job, perhaps, a noble profession that serves as a guiding light for the people of New Eridu. Are you aware of the corruption that lurks beneath the surface, the stink of ill intentions? Or is it something that guides you to do better instead?

He drifts back to you, pulled like the tides by the moon. You look peaceful, younger, moonlight softening your face and pooling in the hollow of your throat. If he folds his legs underneath him, there’s enough space on the couch for him to lay his head next to yours, close enough he can see the breath fluttering in your throat, the light exhalation and sign of life.

His hand just barely grazes along your jaw, but he can’t bring himself to touch you, not fully, though he can still feel the heat emanating from your skin. 

It’s obvious what you think of him. He’s irritating, a slacker, someone who only gets in your way–but there’s an edge of fondness in your voice now. The teasing and exaggerated eye rolls has become your new routine. Lately, you’ve started to doodle cats with little pouts on his papers, or bring back an extra cup of bitter black coffee for him when you’re out running errands.

Sometimes, he imagines what it would be like to grow older by your side. He’s always been fascinated by the wrinkles of the elderly, the gray hair, the worn joints, the various markers of a life well-lived and loved.

But he doesn’t have the luxury of aging, and he can’t envy what was never his.

You make him feel afraid of things he’s never been afraid of before. One day, you will only remember him from the yellowing pages of a photo album. He will stay the same forever, in the bloom of youth, while you drift further and further from him. You will always recognize him, but the face he sees now won’t be the one you will always have. You will change, and time will unmoor him from you. 

He can’t pull any closer than this. This is the safest distance, this easy fondness, the meaningless flirtations. Never any step closer, into a space where the two of you could be hurt. 

What is it that you want? A love? A family? A dream? He wants you to have it all, to indulge in every desire, every joy. Your life is a miracle, the greatest miracle he knows.

ix.

“Harumasamasa, you’ve gotten a lot of letters and gifts again! Is there any food in them? Is there?” 

Soukaku bounds up to him, all overeager, enthusiastic excitement and expectant eyes. He tosses several packages at her, wrapped in cheerful colors, which she catches with startingly precision. “Just a few chocolates and cookies,” he says. “They’re all yours, Soukaku.”

“Yay!” She tears into them with abandon. It’s a ritual they’ve developed over the months, where, when he’s flooded with sweets from fans he never knows what to do with, Soukaku is the one to sweep them up. It’s better than letting them go to waste.

Harumasa flips through a few letters as she talks, all personalized notes and careful handwriting on cute stationary, declarations of love and admiration and gratitude. Soukaku and you get your fair share of fan mail, though no one can beat Miyabi when it comes to the mountain of love letters on her desk. 

It’s part of the job, the fanservice, but it doesn’t mean it’s one he enjoys. You’re careful with your letters, and he doesn’t know what Miyabi does with hers, but this simply feels like a repeat of school: confessions he can’t accept, that pile up uncomfortably in the corner of his room until he throws them away because there’s nothing else to do with them.

“You don’t look happy, Harumasa,” Soukaku says, her cheeks stuffed with chocolate.

“Hm? Why wouldn’t I be happy? All these people love us so much,” he says. Soukaku is sweet and earnest in a way that makes him cognizant of how he interacts with her; Yanagi has done her best to protect Soukaku, so it wouldn’t be right for him to ruin those efforts. The world can be cruel and kind in equal measure, and she deserves to believe in that kindness before anything else.

“Because you always tell others to do whatever they want with your letters.”

“But I won’t have any room to nap if I let all my letters pile up! Besides, it’s not good for me to accept letters from people whose feelings I can’t cherish properly, right?”

Soukaku tilts her head like a puppy. “Does that mean you would be happy with a letter from them?” She points at your desk, situated right next to his, with its clean surface and neatly stacked files and supplies.

Harumasa hands her another package of chocolate, which Soukaku tears open. Every once in a while, she has a flash of sharp insight that reminds him why Soukaku has been allowed to join Section Six. 

“I don’t think there’s a reason they need to write me a letter,” he says. “We talk every day.”

Soukaku pops several chocolates in her mouth, swallowing it in one giant gulp. “Nagi says sometimes it’s easier to say things over letters, because there are things you can’t say right when you try to say them out loud. So maybe they would be happy if you sent them a letter, too.”

“Do you think we need to talk, Soukaku? Me and them?”

She brings her fingers together, fidgeting with them over and over, eyes shifting away. “You look sad when you’re talking to them and they can’t see, so I thought maybe there’s something you can’t say. And sometimes you look like you’re going to go somewhere far away, and I get scared you’re really going to leave, Harumasamasa. And I really like you, so I don’t want you to leave us. So…! That’s why you should send each other letters!”

His heart aches at her voice, earnest and slightly afraid. Though Yanagi has kept the precise details of her past quiet, he knows enough about what happened to the Onis to guess at what she’s gone through. And she’s young, still so young.

“I’m not going anywhere, Soukaku,” Harumasa begins, placing a hand on her hair and ruffling it. “I promise, okay? I won’t leave you or anyone else behind. So don’t worry.”

She sniffles. “Okay. You’ve promised. So you can’t break it.”

“I won’t break it,” he says. It’s a lie, but what could he say otherwise, when she looks at him with such a hopeful expression? Soukaku’s is one heart he can’t break.

x.

They’re half an hour into the party before Harumasa decides it’s been long enough that Yanagi can’t be mad if he escapes for some air.

The party is some private, stuffy affair with the City’s elite, all elegant crystal and tailored silk and calculated words that make him yawn. He knows what these sorts of people are like, and what they expect, so it makes him laugh under his breath to see them flustered at Soukaku’s cheer, uncaring of their games, and Miyabi’s blunt words, cutting through their pretenses.

You and Yanagi are the ones socializing and trying to keep things professional, but from the tight set of your smile and the way you clutch your wineglass like you’re considering using it like a weapon before you set it down, a break is in order. The person you’re talking to is also leaning far too close, and you keep angling your body away from him, a hint he can’t seem to take.

You look like a dream under the soft, warm lights, in an outfit he knows you agonized for hours before deciding on something tasteful and sleek.

Harumasa materializes right next to your elbow, cat-like grin on his face, hands shoved in his pockets. His tie is slightly askew, his collar popped open, his choker shining. He’s not in the most elegant suit in the room, but it’s his best one.

“I need them for a moment,” he says, smiling. “Pardon us.”

The person you’re talking to blinks. “But–”

“Official HSO business. It’s very urgent. And private,” he emphasizes, hand drifting to settle on your waist, pulling you infinitesimally closer to him.

“It’s true,” you say, jumping on the lifeline he’s offered you. You give a half-apologetic shrug. “I have to go now. The Hollows wait for no one.”

With that, the two of you are gone, striding across the room. He hasn’t lifted his hand from your waist, and you haven’t moved away. Neither of you speak until you’re out in the hall, where a sudden hush descends, lush carpet and imposing artwork muffling the sound of voices and muting the golden light.

“Let’s go there,” you say, pointing to a set of frosted glass doors, draped by lacy curtains.

He obliges, and steps out onto a balcony, a cool breeze sending the curtains swirling behind the two of you. Moonlight gilds everything in silver, and you break from him as you step up to the stone ledge, taking a deep breath. Below, the city lights glow in the distance, spreading out before you like a paradise.

“I needed this,” you say. You rest your elbows on the balcony.

He steps closer to you, until you’re side by side. “I thought so.”

“Thanks.” You smile briefly at him, a look that’s more open and genuine than the one you had given your previous conversational partner. “I know we need to do this for funding and PR, but it gets exhausting.”

“Well,” he says, “You’re part of HSO. People can’t be too mad at you if you take advantage of that. There’s only so much they can say to one of the city’s heroes.”

You laugh. “I know. I’ve seen you do exactly that, you slacker. You’re hardly up to dress code. Did you even iron your suit?”

“I didn’t see the point,” he says.

“I knew it. But like you said, it’s fine. You’re part of HSO. People call you a lazy genius, you know? You have a reputation that precedes you.”

“I didn’t know you talked about me like that to other people.”

You open your mouth as if you’re about to make another joke, before closing it, contemplating him. “No, I’ve just heard what people have said about you. I mean, to be honest, I thought that way at first. But then I noticed you actually work hard. A lot harder than you want other people to notice. Besides, we’re partners. I’ll have your back, and you’ll have mine.”

“You’re unexpectedly open tonight. What was in your drink?” he says. “Isn’t this the part where you tease me or make some jab at my work ethic?”

“I want to be honest with you sometimes,” you declare. “And I’m also a little tipsy. So don’t get too used to any compliments.”

It’s unbearable, sometimes, to see you like this. He wants to hold you like something he cannot have, something he doesn’t deserve.

“If we’re being honest, then I want to show you something,” he says. Harumasa touches your hands, and brings them to his neck, the movement slow and deliberate, until your fingers brush against his choker.

His heart quickens, the familiar bile rising in his throat. You’re close, too close, and he can feel the old wounds flare until his choker, igniting that familiar fear even at your gentle touch. It’s pain and pleasure, mixing together in a way that makes him feel light-headed.

You brush your fingers along the slick material, all the way to the back of his choker, right at the clasp that keeps them together. You hold your fingers there, waiting, staring into his eyes, but he doesn’t look away, and so with a single snap, his choker flutters away. The weight is gone, and his neck is bare.

Harumasa lowers his eyes to the ground, bending his neck like a lamb to slaughter. You brush back the hair on his neck, fingers ghosting along his skin. His breathing is shallow as your fingers explore every tender, sensitive inch of him. 

It’s too much. It’s too much—and then your fingers are gone as you kiss his neck, a ticklish, fluttering feeling that sends his nerves alight with liquid flame. His old scars flare against the brush of your soft lips, wounds aching, ripped open anew.

There’s the faintest edge of teeth as you nip against his skin. He wishes you would sink your teeth in deeper, marking him as yours. You could do anything you wanted to him, anything at all. Your violence would be salvation, your touch a blissful cruelty.

He tries not to make any sound as you place another kiss along his bare, slender neck. It’s too sensitive, and he can feel every inch of your touch. It’s painful, and he wants you to kiss him until he’s numb and afraid and you are all he can remember.

Something familiar clicks around his neck. His choker. The weight of it grounds him, and Harumasa lets out a slow breath. When he looks back up at you, you look uncharacteristically hesitant and nervous.

“Was it too much?” you murmur, fiddling with your fingers.

In response, all he can do is take one of your hands in his own. Hands that have saved him, over and over, in ways he can name and ways he can’t.

You’re quiet as Harumasa brings your fingers to his lips and wets the tip of them with his tongue, gentle as nothing else. He can taste the sweetness of your skin, and feel the slight tremor of your hand. To anyone else, you would be stone, efficient, responsible, impenetrable. 

It’s a beautiful part of you, as every part of you is beautiful. But to Harumasa, who holds any part of yourself that you offer with a greedy intensity, you are love itself, and so he will know you like nothing else.

You let out a little gasp as he laps at your fingers again. He nibbles at your forefinger, a teasing edge of teeth. You’re sweeter than life itself, and he could get drunk off of you, again and again. 

There are things he’s afraid to say, things he can’t give you. He is afraid, always afraid. Afraid of you, afraid of the day this choker will fall from his neck forever and he’ll turn into something you can’t recognize, afraid of the tears he’ll make you shed. 

He has never been someone who could accept love, who could live with an ordinary relationship, with an ordinary happiness. This is as far as he can go, and this is enough for a man who has never had anything before this. To stay by your side, to treasure every moment with you, to be accepted so wholly. 

Life is cruel and life is kind, but this is a life all his own, one he has built and chosen for himself. No matter what happens after, Harumasa will always remember this: the sweetness of this life of his.

[ak319]

Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟕─

Warnings/MDNI: none, jus' slight fluff Syno: Every nod was a step closer to betrayal, the kind that brings justice in cuffs and ruin. ✰ 4.4K +++ Arthur's pic by Innocence from Pin.

★ Prev I concept m.list

Your eyes grazed Dutch's form as he left he camp. Then to his tent. The urge to barge in to just find something, anything. Does he have the deed? Even if he does what's that gonna do for you? Will it?

Sigh.

"Needed another session with him?"

"No. Not his day today."

Your head whipped to the side to see Molly, to give her a quick fake smile.  You were currently sorting the vegetables, standing lazily against the wagon. 

"Why don't you dress nice. I mean, doing all these chores all of a sudden? Being from such a good household doesn't suit you-"

"I don't need someone to tell me what suits me and what does not. And I can wear whatever I want. Don't need to prove something to anyone."

"I just don't understand why you're acting like this when he's the one to blame." She referred to Arthur.

Right. She's still pissed at you for standing up to Dutch?

You let out a sharp breath, your patience hanging by a thread. "Yeah? Well, I blame everyone, and I'll keep doing it. What are you gonna do about it?"

Her gaze hardened as she stepped closer, the air between them charged. "You're blessed than most here, whether you see it or not. At least be a little grateful."

You scoffed, the sheer absurdity of her words making your skin prickle. "Oh, really? Blessed for what exactly?"

Her expression darkened, bitterness creeping into her eyes. "Some of us gave up everything for this life. For the people we love."

Wait… blessed, huh? Now it clicked. You thought, So she, like Mary the worm, probably thinks all this means something romantic. And perhaps wonders why Dutch didn't do the tradition for her. Judging by what Abigail has told you about their relationship, it seems like it....

Sad to be honest.

You both could have escaped together from such men. But seems like she's.....fine with it. Hurts to see it.

How many lives does this man plan to ruin? For what? To feed his ego?

You folded your arms, jaw tight. "I’m going to say this once and once only, so listen carefully. I’m not after Dutch or anyone else here. He's probably even older than my father. You can believe what you want, have as many doubts as you like, because clearly, they can't be removed by me, but I’m done explaining myself. So sit back and relax. Like you do."

"Don't ever talk about my personal affairs as if you know better, you dowdy dame!"

And with that she stomped away leaving you to sigh once again.

"What was that? You okay?"

You nearly jumped as Arthur appeared from behind the wagon, his voice cutting through the tense air.

"Was nothing," you muttered, brushing it off.

He mumbled something under his breath about her before turning his attention back to you, leaning in just enough that his voice was barely above a whisper. "I was thinking... let's go somewhere. Two of us. The weather's nice-"

"Mr. Morgan, just the man I need."

Arthur exhaled sharply, straightening up as the moment slipped away. He turned to face Strauss, who strolled up with his usual air of smug authority.

"Mr. Morgan," Strauss repeated, his tone clipped yet polite. His sharp gaze flickered between you and Arthur before settling on the latter. "I trust I'm not interrupting anything... pressing?"

Arthur scoffed, already irritated. "No..." 

Strauss clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head slightly. "There's a debtor. A rather forgetful one. I need you to pay him a visit, remind him of his outstanding obligations."

Arthur ran a hand over his face. "Yeah? And where is this fella?"

"Not far," Strauss said smoothly, clearly pleased to have roped Arthur into another one of his errands. "Shouldn't be too difficult for a man of your talents."

Arthur sighed, shaking his head before glancing at you. "Figures."

Strauss, already convinced the job was settled, handed him the address and turned away without another word.

Arthur lingered for a moment, looking at you with a mix of frustration and regret. "Well, so much for takin' it easy."

His eyes wandered to your hand once again , his grip was firm but careful as his calloused fingers wrapped around your hand, halting your work. His touch lingered for a beat too long, his thumb grazing your skin as his eyes flickered up to meet yours.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep still as his thumb brushed over your knuckles. "Don't work on anything hard, 'kay?" His voice was softer than usual, almost careful, as if he were afraid you'd slip away if he wasn't gentle.

Then, before you could react, his hand traveled up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The suddenness of it made you flinch, just barely, but he caught it. His jaw tightened for a moment, yet his lips curled into something close to amusement.

"Real pretty...real damn pretty..." he murmured, almost to himself.

The words hung between you, heavy and deliberate. His presence loomed close, a suffocating sort of awareness and fear.

But then, just as quickly as he had pulled you into the nightmarish moment, he cleared his throat and stepped back, tipping his hat with a lopsided smirk.

"Take care, darlin'."

❀˖°

It was hard, still is, to feign acceptance, to cloak yourself in humility while clinging to a fragile thread you dare to call hope, and another, even more elusive, that masquerades as a plan. And circling this uncertainty and hope is a fear that was once foreign to you, a fear that never existed when he was just a friend.

Your unease grows in direct proportion to the risk: the danger that too much humility, too much quiet compliance, will lull everyone into acceptance, especially him. Acceptance of your new role. And once that happens, the next step is inevitable: being taken advantage of. That, above all, is what you dread.

So you balance, precariously, somewhere in between.

The weight of it is relentless, an invisible burden few seem to notice. But you do. You feel it with every breath.

"Here, Abby."

The brunette glanced up, momentarily startled, as if pulled from some quiet reverie.

"Oh, I was just craving some tea and--oh, wow. Are these chocolates? Thank you, (Y/N)!"

"No problem. Thought you would love some. Hey....that's a nice sweater.

"You think? I just hope it fits right." She looked lovingly at the little piece of fabric, playing with it's sleeves already imagining a baby in it.

Your ears perked at the sound of a dull thud from somewhere to your left. A quick glance confirmed it, he was just lifting the axe again.

Please, just keep doing that the whole day and stay out of my radius.

"Have a seat, (Y/N)," she gestured to the grass beside her.

You shook your head. "No... uh, I'm tired of always just sitting, y'know. I'll go...and...look for something to do..."

With a soft, fleeting smile, you walked off, lost in thought.

As you lazily, though inwardly frustrated, began chopping celery, you felt a gaze on you. You ignored it, pretending not to notice. But beneath the surface, there was something else.

A small, quiet sense of accomplishment.

That's right. Notice me adjusting like some pathetic 'wife'. One more dreadful step closer.

You just wished you knew what that Dutch bitch was doing. You have a vague outline, but it isn't enough. If he owns the land, surely he plans to use it in some way. Has he gotten the deed yet? He doesn't necessarily need it to start constructing, but still, has he started anything there? How does he plan to keep this from Arthur? And who else in camp knows he stole it from you?

"I hope you don't poison us all."

Pearson's voice cut through your thoughts, his usual dry humor dragging you back to the present.

"Not a bad idea y'know. I won't mind sprinkling some in if it's available."

"I think you should focus on chopping for now--GEEZ!! That is NOT how you cut a potato!"

The shape of the slices nearly gave him a stroke. "Have you been taught nothing at all?!"

"And you've squashed the life out of the tomatoes instead of dicing them- 'more cursing at your cutting skills, which you couldn't care less about right now '--give it here and learn if you plan to do it at all, missy."

"Actually, I don't."

You mumbled to yourself, stepping back, your eyes taking an annoyed roll, pretending to pay attention as he droned on about technique and precision.

Yeah. Very interesting.

Unbeknownst to you, Arthur stood a few steps away, watching quietly, his canteen paused at his lips. Water dripped down his bare chest as he drank with a thirst that went beyond mere heat or exertion.

He could see why Pearson looked so offended, like you’d just kicked a dog. A low, amused snort escaped him, muffled into his damp shoulder.

At least she’s willing to try, he thought, the unfamiliar warmth blooming in his chest tightening with something almost like hope.

The sight of you, so unexpectedly domestic, caught him off guard. There you were, hands busy with vegetables, brow furrowed in a mix of annoyance and concentration. It was something raw, real.

Arthur’s mind raced with conflicting feelings. He hated the circumstances, the forced marriage, the bitterness between you, but moments like this made it harder to keep that hate alive.

This... this is what I want. Not just the fight, not just the anger. He swallowed hard. I want to see this side of you every day, even if you don’t want me to.

For a fleeting second, he let himself imagine a different life, one where you weren’t bound by chains of duty or resentment, where maybe, just maybe, you could be his in more ways than name alone.

His hand twitched, the urge to reach out, to touch, to claim, burning just beneath the surface, but he pulled it back, biting down on the bitterness and the ache.

Not yet. Not like this.

And damn it, he admitted quietly, there’s no sight sweeter than this.

"By the way, Mr. Pearson, why ain't you married? I think your cooking is not being appreciated by women. You need to work harder."

"Shut it and cut the rest like I taught you to, or go away. Here I am being nice and all cus' of Mr. Morgan and you-"

"God, stop being so emotional." They all have to just bring him in every conversation now huh?

You snatched the knife back, resuming your attempt at cutting properly, all while ignoring his muttered grumbles about having to work with damn jerks.

❀˖°

The evening air hung heavy with the scent of burning wood, the fire crackling lazily as the last remnants of daylight bled into the horizon. Camp had fallen into its usual lull, the occasional murmur drifting through the trees, interrupted only by the distant hoot of an owl.

Arthur dropped onto the log beside you with a thud, far too close for comfort. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. That scent, smoke, leather, and cedar soap, clung to him like a second skin. At least he’d bathed. Unlike most of the camp, he had the decency to show up clean before playing the part of husband.

"Can I have a sip?"

"No."

"Not even one?" he asked, already leaning forward like he might steal it anyway.

You curled your fingers tighter around the tin cup.

"Ain’t this marriage thing supposed to mean sharin’? You keepin’ secrets and tea now?"

You kept your gaze fixed on the fire, refusing to indulge him.

He sighed, long and theatrical. "Lord. I wed a cold-blooded woman."

"Correction. You forced a cold-blooded woman."

Arthur grinned, grinned, as though you’d told a joke. "Semantics."

The flames cracked, casting flickers of gold across his face. His eyes roamed your profile with idle interest, as if deciding whether to prod you further.

You finally glanced his way, just to glare. He smiled wider, tipping his hat back like he owned the whole damn world. Like he owned you.

"Y’know," he drawled, voice dropping as he leaned in just a little, "you’ll warm up to me eventually. All things do, sittin' too close to the fire."

"Don't call me a 'thing'. "

You moved your tea to the other side of your body, away from him.

And yet he didn’t leave.

You didn't even entertain him with a response this time, merely continuing to drink as he leaned in, chuckling softly against your side.

"Arthur?"

Ah. And here comes the bitch. Yes, now the family is complete.

The familiar deep voice made you both glance up. Dutch stepped into the fire's glow, his expression unreadable as he stared down at you.

"Yes, Dutch?"

"I'll be sending Mac and Davey, and occasionally Bill, to work on some farm owned by a jolly fellow. The boys agree, of course. Who doesn't want a stable income? No harm in boys moving their limbs instead of being completely useless, right?."

"Mhm. I can go too if you-"

"Oh no, no, boy." Dutch waved a hand dismissively. "We still got jobs to look after. You're needed here, and you already do more than I can ask for."

He clapped Arthur on the shoulder, his smile sharp. "Anyway, that's that. Thought I'd inform ya."

"Why not send John too?" Arthur suggested.

Dutch turned to him with a raised brow. "Marston?"

"Reckon he could learn a thing or two-"

"I'd be surprised if he even learns to eat properly." Dutch scoffed, shaking his head. 'Farm work demands responsibility, Arthur. You know that, right?'

"And he needs that."

Dutch let out a low sigh. "I can't, no one can, spoon-feed him that. If he wants to be responsible, he needs to act like it."

With a wary glance in your direction, he stalked off back to his tent.

You took another slow sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest as you leaned back slightly. "Is he planning something big or...this is just it?"

Arthur stretched out against the log, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the stiffness from the day's work. His movements were unhurried, easy, too at ease, like he had all the time in the world. "Don't know yet. Big score comin', I guess. He's unpredictable."

"Bank?"

"Could be anything. Bank, trains, a mansion..." He tipped his hat back, dusting it off with a slow, deliberate motion before sparing you a glance. Something was knowing in his eyes. "Someone's interested"

You frowned. "Huh?"

"You plannin' to go with me or somethin', darlin'?"

You scoffed, setting your cup down. "No. Just asking. Is that not allowed too?"

His lips curved slightly, amused. "Calm down, just teasin' you."

He shifted, draping an arm behind your back as he settled into a more comfortable position. His touch was casual, too casual, but there was a weight behind it, a presence you couldn't ignore.

His mind drifted.

What if he really didn't come back one day?

What would happen to you?

Would you even care?

The thought had been lurking in the back of his head for days now, gnawing at him when he least expected it. He should talk to Dutch. Maybe Hosea. Someone.

But for now, he just sat there, arm close but not quite touching, gaze flickering between the fire and you.

Yeah. He should.

❀˖°

One week.

One whole damn week of playing these stupid games, of keeping your head down, of being... mild? You didn't even know what to call whatever the hell this was. Maybe "fitting in" was the word. Maybe "pretending." But it had finally paid off.

Because he finally let something slip.

A train. Belonging to Cornwall.

That name struck a chord, familiar and unpleasant. You'd met the man before, back when you were seventeen, some high-society function your father had dragged you to. Back then, Cornwall was just another businessman trying to carve out his place in the market, still shaking hands and making deals instead of dictating them. Your father had helped him, connected him with contractors, given him a foothold. And now? Now Cornwall was drowning in wealth, far beyond your father's reach.

27th.

Next Saturday.

Shit just got good.

Please just remember me too Mr. Cornwall.

"Hosea?"

"Yes, son?"

Arthur settled onto the crate beside him, the flick of his lighter breaking the quiet as he lit up a smoke. He took a slow drag, exhaling as he stared off into the night. His gaze lingered on the dim glow from your tent, shadows shifting against the canvas.

"I was... thinkin'..."

Hosea closed his book with a soft thud, turning his full attention to him. He didn't miss where Arthur's eyes had been moments before.

"Go on. Everything alright?"

"Yeah... just... y'know, there's this job, and then there's always gonna be another, and another. But what if one day I can't... make it?" Arthur tapped the ash off his cigarette, jaw tensing. "What about-"

"Her?" Hosea finished for him, watching Arthur's shoulders stiffen. "Mhm. I think it'd be best to return her to her family. And first, you need to have some trust in yourself too, Arthur. Don't go borrowin' trouble."

 "But I can't help it. It's true and..."

Arthur let out a slow breath, running a hand over his face. "Her family... they won't take her back. You were there, right? When Dutch took her?"

Hosea sighed but... more so at the fact that he has to now lie to his boy.

 "I was. But, Arthur... a parent can never truly turn their child away when they're in need. I saw it in their eyes that night, love, not hate. They weren't angry. Just... disappointed, that too stemming from....forget it.  Anyhow,  disappointment fades. Time, son. It's all about time."

Arthur's chest rumbled with a quiet hum. His face twisted into something almost boyish, sympathy, doubt, a hint of shame. Hosea had seen that look before, too many times to count.

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, staring at the embers as he exhaled. "If somethin' happens to me... don't let her end up alone."

Hosea's gaze softened, his voice steady. "You have my word."

Arthur didn't answer right away, just flicked his cigarette into the dirt and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. After a long moment, he sighed.

"Thanks, old man."

Hosea patted his shoulder, the weight of understanding between them. "Anytime, son."

❀˖°

The sun cast a warm glow over the camp as everyone busied themselves with their tasks. It was one of those rare, quiet mornings, and Arthur had left just after breakfast, disappearing into the wilderness like he always did.

"Charles! Charles!"

The long-haired man turned, setting down his carving as he took in your heaving breaths. His eyes sharpened with concern as he stood.

"Abby, she's not feeling well. A lot of pain. She needs to be taken to the clinic."

"Um, Hosea-"

"He's not here. And please, we need to take her. Now."

"I can't take you, I mean, Arthur, "

"He won't mind! Just please, let's go!"

You ignored the glances from others, your heart hammering in your chest. No Bill (well, he's passed out drunk), No Hosea. No Dutch even. No one to stop you today. And even your trick worked perfectly. It was like the universe had handed you a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

Everything was falling into place.

Charles hesitated only for a second before nodding. He could see it, the way Abigail clung to you, her body curled up in pain, her grip weak but desperate. That was enough. Without another word, he moved to help.

You patted Abigail's forehead gently, whispering, "It's gonna be alright, okay?"

Your fingers tightened around the satchel at your side, knuckles white with conviction. The words were meant for her, but more than that, they were meant for you.

❀˖°

The door slammed shut behind you, sealing away the murmurs of the waiting room. Once Abigail was settled in the chair, you wasted no time, grabbing Eddie by the arm and pulling her into a corner as the doctor began his examination.

"Thank God you're here today. Now listen, I don't have time to waste. Sedate her, stall her, do anything. Ask the doctor for help if you have to, but I'm running out that window. I have something I need to do."

Eddie's brows furrowed, a million questions flashing across her face, but she didn't argue. With a sharp nod, she turned on her heel and hurried toward the doctor.

For you, this was it. Now or never.

You cast one last glance over your shoulder. Abigail was behind the curtain, out of sight. The door remained firmly shut.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, you sprang forward, slipping through the window in one swift motion.

Then you ran.

The streets blurred as you tore through town, your breath coming fast and shallow. The postal office was just ahead.

The bell chimed as you burst into the post office, chest rising and falling with each breath. The clerk barely had time to look up before you slammed two sealed letters onto the counter.

"These-" You swallowed, composing yourself. "One goes to Leviticus Cornwall. Urgent. The other to the Pinkerton Agency."

The man behind the counter raised a brow, eyeing the crisp envelopes, the wax seals still fresh. "That'll cost you, miss."

You reached behind your neck, fingers fumbling with the clasp of your necklace. The delicate gold chain, one you had worn for years, slipped into your palm. It felt lighter than it should, as if the weight of it had already left you.

"This should cover the cost," you said, placing it down.

The clerk studied it, then nodded, pocketing the jewelry before grabbing the first letter.

But before he could reach for the second, you handed him a bundle of cloth, one with another necklace, the one that you wore at your wedding..

Absolutely priceless. Heavier, encrusted with jewels that caught the dim light. It was worth more than anything you had left. Your hands were adamant on not letting it go.

But you had to.

It's just a necklace (Y/N), a mere material, freedom is the only thing that's priceless.

"This," you murmured, "goes with the letter to the Pinkertons." 

The man didn't ask questions, to your surprise. Perhaps used to people sending leads of goons to the agency?

"Consider it sent."

You exhaled, a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

It was done. Now, you just had to make it back before anyone noticed.

❀˖°

Eddie and you stood solemnly at the side, watching over Abigail. She was still under sedation, her breathing steady, the baby safe. Thank God, nothing serious had happened. The worst had passed.

Meanwhile, Eddie had heard everything.

"You think... it'll work?" she asked quietly.

"It should. Neither of them would pass up the chance to wipe out this... disease of a gang. No one would."

Eddie exhaled sharply. "Still can't believe your fath-"

"Don't say his name right now," you cut in, your tone firm.

She hesitated but pressed on. "Yeah, but where will you go if..."

"I'll go back," you said flatly. "It’s not like they won’t take me in. Things won’t be the same, sure, but I’m not backing down."

You looked her dead in the eye now, voice steel.

"I’ll go and demand what’s mine. That’s my fucking right. And I’d love to see who thinks they can stop me."

You stood straighter, jaw tight.

"I won’t let go of my shares. I won’t let them pretend I never existed. They don’t get to erase me."

Eddie gave you a long look before nodding, wrapping her arm around you. "My doors are open for you, (Y/N). Always."

You barely had time to squeeze her hand in gratitude before Abigail stirred, a faint sound escaping her lips. Without hesitation, you rushed to her side.

"(Y/N)...? What..." Abigail's voice was groggy, her eyelids fluttering as she stirred.

"You're fine," you assured her gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "The baby too. Just a gastric issue, that's all. Nothing serious."

Your smile seemed to comfort her, though the sedation still clouded her mind. She blinked slowly, trying to process your words.

The door creaked open, and Charles stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning both of you. "What happened?"

You explained everything, your voice calm and steady as he listened, nodding along. His tension eased just slightly, though he still looked her over with concern.

Once the doctor handed over the prescribed medicine, the three of you set out, making your way back to camp.

❀˖°

The tent flaps rustled open, and you glanced up from your book as he stepped inside, the weight of the day evident in the way he moved. He began removing his gear, the familiar clink of buckles and leather filling the quiet space.

"Heard you went out today, huh?" His voice was even, but there was an edge to it.

"Oh, yeah. Abigail... she-"

"Yeah, she's the one who told me."

Thank God. At least she listened to you. You had counted on her words carrying more weight than Charles' explanation ever could. A pregnant woman pleading her case? Far more convincing.

Arthur sighed, settling down beside you as he reached out to scratch Suki behind the ears, his rough fingers idly tracing through the cat's fur.

"But that don't mean I liked it," he added, voice lower now, almost grumbling.

Oh no.

But honestly, quite a mild reaction. Just as you had worked for. If you hadn't...well, shit could have been worse so you are content with whatever this is.

"You won't go out with me, but suddenly you're a damn hero when it comes to her-"

"You seriously comparing yourself to her situation? I'm the only one looking after her, Arthur. Yeah, not even Susan cares for her the way she needs. You very well know that."

"But that doesn't mean you get free rein to just leave whenever you feel like it. She could've tolerated some pain until Hosea got back-"

"Are you serious?!"

Arthur clenched his jaw, struggling to put his frustration into words. It wasn't that he didn't trust Charles, but Charles was too damn soft. What if he let you go? What if he dropped you off somewhere and you never came back? The thought burned hotter than he'd admit.

No, he won't. He's loyal, decent.

"Just... forget it. Go bring me the food."

With a huff, you slammed your book shut and threw it onto his lap before storming out.

At least you listened this time. That was something.

Arthur let out a breath, shaking his head as he turned the book over in his hands. His lips twitched into a small, amused smirk. If nothing else, you sure knew how to make an exit.

❀˖°

The next evening arrived, and once again, he was preparing to leave. But tonight wasn’t just any other night, it was a big one.

Stepping out of his tent, Arthur found you leaning against a pole, arms crossed, eyes sharp as you surveyed the camp with that familiar air of quiet judgment.

Without a word, he closed the distance between you, his hand rough as it gripped your wrist, pulling you inside the tent. He didn’t just hold you, he clutched you, as if anchoring you to him, desperate to keep you tethered to this moment, to him.

His embrace was fierce, a silent demand disguised as a hold. His voice dropped low and gravelly, rough breath ghosting against your ear.

"Not gonna wish me anything?"

You almost scoffed, but swallowed it down, the sharpness in your throat too heavy. "Safe travels..."

His hand slid to the back of your neck, thumb trailing slow, deliberate circles over your skin, less reassurance, more claim. His gaze was dark, smoldering with something deeper, something that made your pulse tighten beneath his touch.

"I’ll be back before you even know it, darlin'," he promised, the words thick with meaning.

He moved closer, lips hovering near yours, the tension pulling taut, dangerously close, but then he pulled back, eyes burning with restraint.

Not tonight. Not now. Not when the stakes were so high.

But still, when he finally pulled away, there was something in his eyes, a quiet plea for you to say something. To let him believe you cared, just a little.

You gave him nothing but a slow blink. Curiosity mixed with...defiance. That was enough of a reassurance for him.

"...Yeah," he muttered after a moment, as if answering a question that hadn't been asked. His jaw tightened. "I'll see you later, darlin'. "

And just like that, he was gone.

May they all be gone for good.

─AN: Was it worth the wait? 👀 Interactions and ur thoughts bout the fic are always appreciated and a boost so don't be shy my pooks. To be added or removed from tag list u can always lemme know!

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