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dakusan · 7 days ago

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How The y Court You (Vampire Seduction 101)

Vampire!SKZ OT8 x Reader | eight vampires. eight courtships. and every quiet, calculated way they make being chosen feel like fate.

🌹synopsis: Welcome to Vampire Seduction 101. This isn’t a love story. It’s a field guide for how they choose you, study you, orchestrate you. Not all vampires hunt with fangs. Some use flowers. Letters. Custom playlists. Some knock. Others already have your keys. Every profile begins with a courtship style. They don’t fall in love. They fall into you. And build the cage from inside your chest. You call it seduction. They call it already done.

💌a/n: okay. LISTEN. first of all—i’m sorry for the first version. i don’t know what spell i was under. i thought i was writing vampire seduction and somehow ended up with ✨vampires but make it porn✨. it didn’t fit. it didn’t breathe right. this version? better. because vampire courtship actually is not sex. not chaos. it is ritual. precision. obsession dressed in quiet affection. i wanted to make it NSFW originally but that’s not what this is. i really hope this version is much better and you enjoy it more. thank you for being patient. i hope it lives in your chest cavity the way it’s living in mine 💋🦇. p.s. if this one hit different—slower, sharper, deeper—reblog it. let me know the ritual worked. p.p.s. tell me your favorite vampire. i’m collecting data. for science. or stalking.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Paradise — EXO « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

🩸 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍 // Abnormal | The Leader

Composed. Relentless. Devotion built like a fortress around you.

Courtship Style: Chan doesn’t flirt. He fortifies. He doesn’t chase. He chooses. And once you’re chosen—everything changes.

You don’t notice it at first. The second cup of coffee on your desk. The way your groceries never seem to run out. The warm hoodie folded on your couch that you swear you didn’t leave there.

You start dreaming of him before you ever see him. And when you do? It’s in passing. At night. Always near a streetlamp. Always watching.

He never says too much. Never touches. But his voice? Low. Measured. Gentle like a lullaby made of steel.

“Let me walk you home.” “You shouldn’t be out this late.” “I noticed your lights were off for three days. Were you sick?”

He calls it concern. You call it comfort. But it’s ownership, waiting to bloom. Chan learns you like a blueprint. He catalogues your sighs, notes your routines, tailors his presence to your loneliness. And when he finally touches you—just a brush of knuckles, a hand at your back—you lean in like you’ve been waiting your whole life.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t remember when it started. Maybe it was the day someone left orchids on your doorstep—your favourite, though you’d never told a soul. Maybe it was the night a man’s silhouette walked you home from the shadows—always just far enough to not be real.

Or maybe it was now. Now, when he stands in front of you, dressed in charcoal wool and midnight silence, placing a velvet box in your palm like it weighs less than his restraint.

“It reminded me of you,” he says.

Inside is a necklace—simple, but devastating. A dark garnet set in a delicate rose gold setting, the stone carved with your initials.

You’ve known him for three months now. Or rather, he’s let you know him. Bit by bit. Hour by hour. He speaks slowly. Moves gently. But you’ve never doubted the force beneath it. When he takes you out, it’s always somewhere quiet. expensive. safe. Private rooftops. After-hours galleries. Candlelit corners of museums you didn’t know opened at night.

“I booked the entire floor,” he said once, when you gaped at the empty hall of mirrored sculptures. “I wanted it to be just us.”

It should be too much. Too fast. Too intense. But he never touches you without asking. Never pushes. Never forces. Still, every time you wake up, there’s something new: — your favourite pastry waiting at your desk — your name whispered in a stranger’s dream — a tailored coat in your size, already broken in with your scent

You never see him do these things. But you know it’s him. Always him.

There’s something devastating about how deliberately he loves. He never hides that he wants you. He just refuses to take without invitation. He never kisses you first. But he watches your mouth like it’s a sacrament he’s not yet holy enough to touch.

He sends letters, sometimes—written in ink so rich you’re sure it was pressed from crushed roses and wine. Folded into parchment that smells faintly of smoke and sandalwood. Each one signed with his name.

On one of your dates, he brings you to a vineyard. Not a restaurant—the entire vineyard. It’s winter now, barren and beautiful, trellises skeletal under silver clouds.

He lights a fire. Pours wine he says is older than most empires. Then he tells you something no one else has.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” he says, voice low, eyes locked to yours. “Not your blood. Not your time. Not even a kiss.”

“Then why all this?” you ask.

He smiles. “Because if I’m to be damned by desire, I want it to be desire I earned.”

The silence between you shifts. Thicker now. Softer. You look at him. Really look. The broad shoulders draped in black wool. The hand curled around his glass—barely suppressing the tremble when your knee brushes his under the table.

He’s not pretending to be calm. He’s just choosing to be.

You realize, suddenly— He’s not waiting for you to fall in love. He’s waiting for you to realize he already has.

And when you kiss him that night—finally, breathlessly, fingers in his curls—he sighs like a man who’s been underwater for centuries, and just now remembered how to breathe.

Because Bang Chan courts like a vow. And you? You’re already his holy thing.

🩸 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 // Abnormal | The Prince of Teeth

Elegant. Ritualistic. Lethal devotion wrapped in silence.

Courtship Style: Minho doesn’t fall often. But when he does—he falls decidedly. No games. No glamours. No guessing. He won’t flood you with gifts or whisper pretty nothings just to hear himself speak. He won’t show up where you are by chance—he’ll ask to see you. And if you say yes, he shows up on time, dressed well, and holds the door open like he was born to. He doesn’t love loudly, but he loves deliberately. He watches what matters to you—and shows you that he saw. You like cats? He donates to a local shelter in your name. You’re learning to cook? He handwrites his family’s jjigae recipe and includes a box of the exact spices he uses. You wore a necklace once and never again? He asks why—and listens to the answer. He doesn’t flirt with words. He flirts with consistency.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t expect flowers from Lee Minho. But he brings them anyway. Not roses. Never anything cliché. Today it’s blue thistles and white tulips—sharp and quiet and unexpectedly lovely.

“They reminded me of you,” he says, handing them over with a half-shrug, like it’s no big deal. Like your heart didn’t just knock against your ribs.

Your second date is simple. Thoughtful.

A tucked-away gallery filled with black-and-white photographs. He barely speaks—just watches you wander, nodding occasionally when your eyes light up.

“You like architecture,” he says after. “You kept staring at the lines.”

You blink. “You were watching me?”

“Of course I was,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How else would I know what to give you next time?”

Your third date? A quiet, high-windowed café. A sketchpad set on your seat. You didn’t tell him you draw.

“I saw the graphite on your fingers,” he explains. “I figured you ran out of pages.”

Minho’s romance isn’t chaotic or grandiose. It’s intentional. He doesn’t drown you in affection. He builds a place for it. One you can trust. One you can return to. Again and again and again.

He never makes promises. He makes patterns.

Wakes you up with a morning message—dry, short, often sarcastic. But always sent at the same time. Asks how your day went every evening. Remembers the answer. Brings you lunch when you forget to eat. Doesn’t scold. Just puts it in front of you and says, “Try the soup.”

Minho is steady like a tide. Silent when you need it. Fiercely present when you don’t know you do. Not a whirlwind. Not a fantasy. He’s the man who waits outside your building with a paper umbrella when it rains and says, “Took the long way. Needed the walk.”

Your fourth date? He teaches you how to make dumplings.

The kitchen smells like sesame and steam. Your hands are messy with flour, your braid keeps slipping loose. He rolls his sleeves up, doesn’t complain once when you ruin his shirt with soy sauce.

You ask him why he’s doing all this.

His gaze is unreadable for a second. Then he says: “Because I like you. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”

“So this is… what? Wooing?”

“If that’s what it takes.” He leans against the counter, eyes sweeping your face. “I don’t want almost. I want you. Properly.”

No one’s ever said that to you so plainly before. No hunger hiding behind it. No game. Just truth, dressed in clean hands and sharp cheekbones.

That night, he walks you home without touching you once. Doesn’t kiss you at the door. Just looks at you for a long moment—like he’s memorizing the way the light hits your face.

“Tell me when,” he says.

You nod.

And the next morning, there’s a single white tulip waiting on your windowsill.

Because Lee Minho courts you like he means it. And when he loves, he does so with silence, surety, and the kind of care that turns staying into a sacred act.

🩸 𝐒𝐄𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐍 // Normal | The Enforcer

Fiercely Devoted. Tenderly Observant. Worships the ground you walk on.

Courtship Style: Changbin doesn’t flirt to impress you. He adores you from day one—and you know it. He’s the type to fumble his words when you smile too hard, then spend all night writing a letter that says what he really meant. He respects space like it’s sacred, but still makes sure you feel chosen. Every second. Every step. You mention you’re cold once? He shows up the next day with a custom hoodie embroidered with your initials. You say you’ve never been to a concert? He books VIP tickets. And gets a seat that faces the stage and lets you lean on his shoulder. He doesn’t overstep. He doesn’t assume. But he makes it clear—he wants you. Not for a night. Not for a thrill. For always. He listens better than anyone you’ve ever met. Recites your favourite quotes back to you when you forget how to believe in yourself. Cooks for you when you’re too tired. Asks permission before touching you, even just to brush your hair behind your ear.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t notice it at first. The extra protein bar in your locker. The umbrella left leaning by your door on a rainy night. The playlist you found on your phone one morning—filled with songs you’d mentioned once, offhand, at dinner.

But then there’s him. Seo Changbin. Big smile. Bigger heart. Eyes that track you like you’re gravity.

“You okay?” he asks, every time you look the tiniest bit off. “Need anything? Water? Snack? A nap and a forehead kiss?”

You laugh the first time. He doesn’t.

“I’m serious.”

He takes you to the gym on your second date—not for a workout, but because he wants to see what makes you strong. Between sets, he grins every time you beat your personal best. Offers his water bottle like it’s sacred. Wipes a bead of sweat from your temple with a reverent thumb.

“You’re amazing,” he says, voice low and proud. “Do you know that?”

Your third date is homemade bibimbap at his place, candles flickering, your favourite show queued up. He wears an apron. It says “Simpire Chef” in stitched red thread.

You ask if it’s a joke.

“Nope,” he says. “It’s a lifestyle.”

The fourth date is a quiet walk through a night market—he buys you a moonstone ring from a stall you barely glanced at. Later, when you ask how he knew your size, he only winks.

“I have good instincts. And maybe I borrowed one of your rings when you weren’t looking.”

You roll your eyes. But your chest is glowing.

It’s never about the money. It’s about how much he notices.

He remembers your deadlines. Sends silly voice notes when you’re stressed. Brings your favourite fruit to your apartment with your name carved into the peel like it’s a ritual.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he says once, when you pause before reaching for his hand. “You don’t have to rush anything. Just let me stay close.”

And you do.

Because Changbin courts like a man who believes love is a promise. Not a prize. Not a performance. Just a steady hand held out, palm up. Waiting. And when you take it—finally, fully—he laces your fingers together, brings them to his lips, and whispers against your knuckles: “I’d wait another lifetime just to do this right.”

🩸 𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 // Abnormal | The Siren

Romantic. Expressive. Devoted like a disciple.

Courtship Style: Hyunjin doesn’t date you. He paints you into his world. Everything becomes about you—from the brushstrokes on his canvas to the songs he hums when he thinks no one’s listening. He doesn’t just fall. He descends, feather by feather, like an angel surrendering to gravity. He brings you flowers, yes. But they’re always arranged by meaning. White gardenias for secret admiration; Purple hyacinths for deep sorrow you never told him about; A single red camellia when he’s ready to say “I love you” without speaking. He writes you letters. Not just love letters—devotional scrolls. He doodles your initials in the margins, signs them with wax seals, and never asks if you’ve read them. He leaves them tucked in books, under your pillow, slipped inside your coat pocket. His love doesn’t demand. It offers. He’ll take you to art museums and stand behind you, barely touching, whispering how the light catches on your hair. He’ll draw your silhouette a hundred times before ever daring to kiss you. Hyunjin courts you like you’re a divine secret.

Mini Ficlet:

You find the sketchbook before you find the courage to ask.

It’s filled with you—your eyes in the morning light, your smile caught mid-laugh, your hand reaching for something just out of frame. Each page is dated. Some are smudged. Some soaked at the corners, as if he wept while drawing you.

You’re not even dating.

Not yet.

Hyunjin walks you home every time you stay out too late. Buys your favorite pastries without asking. Sends you poems at 3AM with a “This reminded me of you. I hope you’re dreaming something soft.”

Once, you told him you liked the stars.

So he brought you to a hill just outside the city, wrapped you in blankets, and traced constellations onto your palm with his finger.

“This one,” he said, guiding your wrist, “I’ll name after your laugh.”

Another time, you cried in front of him—something small. Stupid, you said.

He didn’t speak. Just knelt in front of you, pressed his forehead to your knee like a knight surrendering, and whispered: “Nothing that hurts you is stupid.”

“I look awful,” you mumbled.

Hyunjin tilted his head, resting his cheek on your knee now, grinning up at you with that infuriating, heart-melting sparkle.

“You look real. I like real,” he said. “Also, your nose gets pink when you cry. Very cute. I might draw that next.”

You shoved his shoulder, half-laughing through your tears. “You’re a menace.”

“Your menace,” he said immediately—then paused. “I mean. Hopefully. Someday. Pending approval. From HR. Which is... you.”

You broke into full laughter then, the kind that shook your shoulders and made your ribs ache. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin looked at you like he’d just witnessed a miracle. Like you’d cracked open a world he’d been painting blind, and now there was colour.

He never rushes you. Never asks for more than you’re ready to give. But he offers—daily, hourly, like a love letter folded into time.

On your birthday, he brings you a cake he baked himself. It's lopsided. Icing smudged. He’s got flour on his cheek and a candle stuck in crooked.

“Is this edible?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“No promises,” he grins. “But it’s made with love. And too much cinnamon. And possibly one egg too many. You like protein, right?”

You eat the whole thing. Together. Off paper plates, sitting on the floor, laughing so hard you forget what loneliness tastes like.

And when he kisses you again—weeks later, on a rainy morning under a café awning, fingers laced tight in yours—he does it laughing. Giddy. Like a boy who just found out magic is real and has your name.

“I loved you before I met you,” he murmurs after, pressing his forehead to yours. “But this? You choosing me back? This is my favorite version of fate.”

Because Hyunjin doesn’t just romance you. He reveres you. He cherishes you. He makes you feel like being loved by him is both sacred and silly—a sacred thing with jelly on its chin and glitter in its pockets.

🩸 𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐉𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆 // Normal | The Shadow Walker

Clingy. Chaotic. Loves you louder than anyone ever has.

Courtship Style: Jisung doesn’t court you in the traditional sense. He adopts you like a stray thought he can’t put down. One day you’re acquaintances, the next he’s texting you twenty memes a day and showing up with bubble tea “just in case you were sad or bored or hungry or slightly thirsty or missed me a little.” He doesn’t confess. He accumulates. Your Spotify wrapped suddenly has his favourite songs; Your fridge always has his weird snack combos; Your phone background mysteriously changes to a photo of you two (he swears it “just glitched”). He’s the loudest thing in your life—and the softest, too.

Mini Ficlet:

One day, Han Jisung was your loud, chaotic friend who kept showing up with a second sandwich. Now? He's asleep on your couch in a hoodie that smells like you, mumbling your name into a pillow like it's a prayer wrapped in drool.

You don't even fucking remember when you agreed to go on a date with him. But, here you are, him always in your space, on your couch napping and drooling.

“Did we… start dating?” you ask one day, halfway through a Netflix binge, your head on his shoulder.

He pauses. Blinks at you. “We’re not??”

You laugh. He doesn’t.

“No seriously, babe. I’ve been in a committed relationship with you for, like, seven months. I made you a playlist called ‘She Could Punch Me and I’d Say Thank You.’ That’s not something I do for friends.”

You do start dating officially after that. Or maybe you just start acknowledging it. Either way, nothing changes—and everything does. He still texts you in all caps. Still fake-cries if you don’t answer in five minutes. But now? He kisses your cheek when he drops off food. Holds your hand when you walk. Shouts “THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND” any time you do literally anything, including sneeze.

You tell him he’s embarrassing. He tells you you’re hot when you’re annoyed. You throw a pillow at him. He pretends to die.

But beneath all that chaos is something startlingly serious. Like when you’re stressed and he reads to you until you fall asleep. Or when he shows up at your workplace during a late shift, holding your favourite drink, eyes all soft and worried.

“I just wanted to see your face,” he says, quieter than usual. “It makes the noise in mine stop.”

And when he finally tells you he loves you, it’s not loud. Not a joke. Just whispered against your neck after a long day, arms around you like armor.

“I know I’m a lot,” he murmurs. “But I’ll love you right. Every version of you. Loud or quiet. Messy or magic. Just let me stay, okay?”

Because Han Jisung courts with friendship, laughter, and loyalty. You don’t fall in love with him. You trip—face first—and he’s already there at the bottom, holding out a juice box and saying: “Took you long enough, baby.”

🩸 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗 // Abnormal | The Dreamer

Gentle voice. Corrupt touch. Dangerous devotion.

Courtship Style: Felix doesn’t ask for your attention. He radiates until you can’t help but turn toward him. He’s warmth incarnate—smiling like a sunrise, touching your arm just a second too long, laughing like the two of you already share a secret. He burns easy, but never recklessly. His affection is loud, his intentions louder, and his desire? Always hiding behind a wink. Or a lip bite. Or a murmured: “Tell me to stop flirting and I will. You won’t, though… will you?” Felix courts like he’s falling and loving it. He brings you coffee with your name written in hearts. He sends voice notes just to say he missed your voice. He insists on “sun days”—your private tradition of skipping responsibilities just to stay in bed with the curtains open.

Mini Ficlet:

You swear you’re not imagining it. The way his gaze lingers. The way he always finds you, no matter where you are. The way his hand always settles just above your knee under the table, like a promise he’s not quite ready to cash in.

He brings you sunflowers one day. Not roses. Not peonies. Sunflowers—loud, bright, unapologetic. Like him.

“They reminded me of your laugh,” he says, grinning as he sets the bouquet in your arms. “All sunshine and kind of… illegal. In a good way.”

Your cheeks burn.

“I should arrest you,” you mutter.

“Oh please do,” he purrs. “But be gentle. I bruise easy.”

You shove him. He laughs. But then—he looks at you. All warmth gone. What’s left is molten.

“I’m serious, you know,” he says softly. “About you.”

Later, he takes you on a date that isn’t a date (Except it is. He’s just waiting for you to call it that). Rooftop blanket. Takeout. Shared earbuds. His pinky hooked around yours like a pinky promise. The stars are out. So is the moon. So is his heart, apparently.

He leans in and murmurs, “Y’know… if you ever wanted to, we could just stay like this forever.”

You laugh. “What, on a roof?”

“No,” he says, smile curling. “On you.”

You roll your eyes. He doesn’t mind. You always roll them—and you always blush after.

He starts showing up more. With snacks. With games. With that stupid grin. You say you’re not in the mood to hang. He offers to just sit beside you, “for atmosphere.” Then somehow you’re tangled on the couch, your head on his chest while he scrolls for a movie you’ve already seen.

He insists you bake something together one night.

“I’m not a baker,” you warn.

“I am,” he says. “You just stand there and look cute.”

You throw flour at him. He retaliates with sugar. It escalates fast. You’re breathless, covered in powdered sweetness, half-laughing, half-melting when he pins you to the counter with dough-covered hands.

“You’ve got something on your face,” he whispers.

“You do too.”

He kisses you anyway.

You burn the cookies. He calls them love-blasted shortbread disasters. Eats six.

He writes notes. Sticky ones. Slips them into your jacket, your bag, your favourite book. One night, you find him humming in your kitchen—wearing your apron. Cooking something elaborate. With candles already lit.

You blink. “Did you break in?”

“I used the key you pretended not to give me.”

“…That’s not how pretending works.”

He grins. “Neither is love, apparently.”

He doesn’t ask to stay over. He just does. He doesn’t ask to hold you closer. He just fits. Like the spaces between your fingers were always waiting for his rings. Like your nights were always meant to end with him whispering: “You know I’m falling, right? Faster than I should. Not that I’m gonna stop.”

And maybe it’s the way he never lets you doubt it. Not in the way he kisses your temple after you’ve fallen asleep. Not in the way he carries you to bed when you refuse to move. Not in the way he holds your face like you’re the sun—and he’s the vampire stupid enough to burn for you (not that he'd burn, given he's an Abnormal, but go with it). Because Felix courts with warmth, with chaos, with craving— but above all, with clarity.

🩸 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 // Normal | The Beloved

Dry wit. Reluctant softness. Secretly yours before you even know it.

Courtship Style: Seungmin doesn’t court like a romantic. He courts like a realist who accidentally fell too hard and refuses to admit it. He won’t say he likes you. He’ll just roast your taste in music. Then send you a playlist. Labeled: “Fix your standards. Start here.” He won’t compliment your outfit. He’ll say, “You wore that? On purpose?” Then immediately take a photo when you’re not looking and make it his phone lockscreen. His flirting is all sharp edges and sidelong glances. If he calls you annoying, you’re already halfway to being his. And still—beneath the banter, Seungmin shows up. Remembers how you take your coffee. Waits until you’re home safe. Asks how your day was and actually listens. Buys your favourite gum. Takes you on dates disguised as “hangouts” and grumbles when you call it cute.

Mini Ficlet:

You’re fighting again.

Over something stupid. Probably the last donut or your tragic Spotify history. He’s smirking. You’re pouting. The usual.

“I honestly don’t know how someone with your taste functions in public,” Seungmin says, shaking his head like a disappointed tutor.

“Keep talking,” you shoot back, “and I’ll block you on everything.”

He blinks. Then grins. “Cute. Like you could go five hours without texting me.”

You go quiet.

Because, well. You can’t.

Later that night, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find—

A box of your favourite snacks. A hoodie you thought you lost. A note.

“Thought you’d be dramatic and sad. I’m not doing this because I care. I just don’t want you crying on my hoodie.”

You roll your eyes. Smile anyway.

He’s not big on grand gestures. But he shows up when it counts. You mention your favourite childhood show once? The next week, he has the full DVD set in his bag. “Stumbled across it. Don’t flatter yourself.” You say you’re too tired to go out? He drags you to the convenience store. Buys two drinks. Tosses a jacket over your shoulders without looking at you. “I needed air. You just happened to exist nearby.”

One day, you fall asleep on his couch. You wake up warm. Covered. Music low. The lights dimmed. He’s in the kitchen, quietly washing mugs.

You say nothing. Neither does he. But when he turns to glance at you—his eyes soften like he’s watching a sunrise he doesn’t want to end.

You catch him smiling. He scowls instantly. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m soft.”

You laugh. “You are soft.”

He groans. “Ugh. I knew I should’ve let you freeze.”

You start noticing it everywhere. The way he always buys an extra snack, then pretends he “accidentally” got two. The way he adjusts his walking pace so your steps line up. The way his sarcasm slows down when you’re quiet—like he knows when to tease, and when to just… be there.

One night, he calls you without a reason.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You didn’t send me a meme today. Thought maybe you died.”

You snort. “Would you miss me?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’d just have to find someone else with horrible taste in music. Tragic.”

But the next day, your favourite drink shows up at your door. No note this time. Just a sticky tab on the bottle that says:

You better not be sad again. I’m busy this weekend and can’t deal with your feelings until Monday.

And then:

...Unless it’s serious. In which case, tell me now so I can cancel.

That’s how he does it. Quiet commitment. Unspoken loyalty. Sarcastic devotion. You’re not dating. Not officially. But you’ve already become a habit to him. You realize it the day he gets genuinely mad—not fake-annoyed, not teasing. Someone hurt your feelings. And when you tell him, he goes silent. Dead quiet. Then he asks, low and sharp: “What’s their name?”

You blink. “Why?”

“Just curious. No reason. Definitely not going to curse them.”

“…You’re not serious.”

He tilts his head. “You think I wouldn’t? For you?”

You freeze.

Because his voice doesn’t sound sarcastic anymore. It sounds deadly. And suddenly, it’s so clear: He’s been choosing you. Every day. In every way. Not with grand declarations. But in the spaces between arguments. In the silences after laughter. In the way he always remembers where you left your phone, what song calms you down, and when to stop joking—just to wrap you in the quietest kind of love.

So you lean against his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. But he lets you stay there. All night. And when you wake up? There’s a note stuck to your forehead.

I like you. Don’t make it weird.

🩸 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍 // Normal (Evolving Abnormal) | The Smile with Fangs

Soft charm. Hidden heat. A smile that sneaks under your skin.

Courtship Style: Jeongin courts like he’s been planning it forever—but wants you to think it’s spontaneous. A mix of Chan’s old-school romance and Felix’s sunshine flirtation, he leaves you laughing and breathless in the same moment. He’ll bring you flowers “because they looked lonely without you,” but hide a note inside that reads like a love letter. He buys matching rings, shrugs when you notice, then blushes when you wear yours. He’s all easy banter and eye contact that lasts a second too long. He doesn’t just listen—he memorizes. The way you sip your drink. The songs you hum. The one day you said you hated rain—and how he always shows up with an umbrella. With Jeongin, the courting is gentle until it isn’t. Until the teasing falls away and he’s looking at you like he already belongs to you. And he does.

Mini Ficlet:

It starts with a dare.

“I bet you won’t show up to our next hangout in something that isn’t tragic,” he says, eyeing your hoodie with mock disdain.

So you show up in a dress. And he chokes on his drink.

“You look—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “That’s… illegal.”

You raise a brow. “So I won?”

“No,” he grins, cheeks pink. “I did.”

Later, he tugs you by the wrist into a photo booth, insists on five different poses, and refuses to give you the strip. “Evidence of your crimes. It’s safer with me.”

You roll your eyes. But when you get home, the photos are in your bag. You have no idea when he managed to do that so quick, but he did.

He doesn’t mention it the next day. Just sends a text.

jeongin 🦊: u look better in those pics than me. rude.

you: you insisted on five poses.

jeongin 🦊: exactly. more chances to suffer.

You laugh. But your fingers linger on the photo strip anyway. Especially on the third one—where you're both laughing so hard his eyes are almost closed, and your head’s tilted toward his like it belongs there.

From then on, the courting becomes a quiet game. He sends you videos of cute animals with captions like “you when I look at you”. He wears that one cologne you complimented—then pretends not to notice when you lean in a little closer. He starts showing up to your classes, "coincidentally" holding your favourite drink. Leaves your favourite snack in your bag with a sticky note: “bribery. stay cute.” He draws hearts on the fogged-up café window and denies it. Blames the barista.

He randomly brings you keychains from vending machines. Ones that make no sense—tiny frogs, a plastic spoon, a lopsided heart. “This one’s you.” he says, handing you the spoon. You start collecting them on your bag.

He buys a small sketchbook and fills it with dumb little doodles: you as a cat. You as a villain. You as the reason he’s broke because “someone eats too many croissants.”

He doesn’t say I like you. But he wears the bracelet you made him from string and beads. Keeps the wrapper from the gum you shared in his wallet. Asks your friends what kind of earrings you’ve been looking at lately, then acts surprised when he “randomly found” them on sale.

One evening, he takes you to a rooftop arcade. You win every game—barely—and he pretends to be devastated.

“You’re cheating,” he accuses.

“Am not.”

“Then marry me,” he blurts.

You freeze. So does he.

“…That was a joke,” he says immediately.

It wasn’t.

The next week, he gives you a hoodie. Custom-made. Embroidered over the heart: fox boy’s favourite.

Jeongin’s courtship isn’t loud. It’s a slow-burn playlist. A silent “text me when you get home.” A bag of snacks he swears he didn’t buy for you—but somehow match your exact cravings. It’s teasing that feels like touch. Laughter that feels like safety. Looks that linger too long.

He courts you like a secret he doesn’t want to keep anymore.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy

#stray kids #skz #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han x reader #felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #vampire!skz series #wreck me wednesday #skz fluff

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holybibly · 11 months ago

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My sweet bunnies, I am here to spoil you.

Unholy thoughts of the day: A feline pride of 5 luxurious predators is moving into the house next door, and perhaps a little sugary lamb is just what they crave for dinner.

You were never afraid of feline hybrids, despite their aggressive and overbearing behaviour. Or so you thought. When a pride moved into the house next door as a good neighbour, you decided to welcome them as warmly as you can. You even baked a cherry cake for their dinner, but who knew they'd want to eat a different kind of "cherry." And that's how your innocent, sweet "welcome" turns into a predatory hunt, where you are the prey and they are the hunters. And when they catch you, you will be their dessert.

You shouldn't be afraid of them, you proud little lamb; you're not afraid of anything, but the way they circle around you, towering over you and looking at you as if they'd never seen anything more delicious, fills you with pure terror.

"I-I think I should go... I just wanted to say hello." You bleat softly as a beautiful red-haired cat leans in so close you can feel his hot, wet breath on your neck.

"You look delicious." His tongue flicks out just long enough to lick your skin, and you squeal, stepping back and bumping into another guy—way above the one who just licked you.

"But we haven't met yet, have we? It's not polite to leave so soon after we've opened our doors to you, little lamb." The tall cat purrs softly and squeezes your shoulders with his big hands. His deep, husky voice sends a noticeable chill through your skin.

"Now, now, be gentle, Mingi; the baby is obviously used to being treated like a princess, am I right? Look at that beautiful long hair; I just want to run my fingers through it and squeeze it in my fist." Another guy leaned in until his handsome face was level with yours. "You have a beautiful mouth too; has anyone told you that, Princess?" He ran his thumb over your lower lip, purring sweetly as he felt it tremble.

"I... I was never told that..." You barely whispered.

"What a shame, but we'll fix that. I'm Wooyoung, by the way." But before you can answer, two other guys push him away and appear in your field of vision.

"Don't be afraid, honey, we won't bite." The taller one, with luxurious sensual lips, whispers softly. "You'll like it with us."

"Oh, we'll take good care of you, darling. How did you know we like cherry?" The blonde says, his eyes sliding down your body.

"I didn't; it's... it's my favourite flavour." You stutter as you feel Mingi press his hips against your ass, his hands sliding down your shoulders until they find their place just below your breasts. His touch is hot and possessive, as if you already belong to him.

You gasp loudly as you feel a thick, soft tail wrap around your thigh as you look from one boy to the other. Your eyes widening in fear as you see the predatory grin on the red-haired boy's face. He silently repeats "delicious," lewdly running his tongue over his lips, leaving them wet and shiny.

You almost want to beg them to let you go when the blonde in front of you catches your attention.

"How fortunate that it's our favourite too. Welcome home, dear. I'm Hongjoong, and this is my pride: Mingi, San, Wooyoung, and Seonghwa, and we are so happy to meet you."

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corellianhounds · 5 months ago

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An alternate universe where the Mandalorian never turns the child over to the Client.

Pilot episode begins as normal with the Mandalorian retrieving a bounty and heading back to Nevarro. This Mandalorian moves a little more stiffly, handles the bounty a little more harshly, as if he’s had an even harder life than the one we the audience have come to know. His armor is a different patchwork assembly of materials and trophy pieces scavenged from his successful hunts, in addition to a beskar helmet and one vambrace with what one might assume is red paint. It’s hard to tell.

The Mandalorian is even more on guard once inside the Stormtrooper safehouse, obviously uncomfortable, and his gaze never wavers as he listens to the Client while he makes the offer. His hand is never far from his holster.

When he accepts the job and goes back to the covert, down payment of beskar in tow, everything proceeds as normal, save for the conversation with the Armorer as she prepares the forge for the casting process. His voice is almost unrecognizable, hoarse from disuse, a gruffness that’s more pronounced and world-weary than we’ve come to know in canon, further evidence of an even harder life.

“This is extremely generous,” the Armorer says, looking over the ingot. “The excess will sponsor many foundlings.”

“That’s good,” the Mandalorian says. “… How are they faring?”

“They are doing very well,” the Armorer replies. “They will be happy to see you.”

The Armorer prepares the forge to make the pauldron for the Mandalorian, and as the music ramps up we see the same flashbacks as before, the stamp of the forge and flickering lights harkening back to that day on Aq Vetina so many years ago. The Mandalorian remains rigidly in place, unflinching as the Armorer works, his mind’s eye filled with images of a terrified family racing through the streets as their friends and neighbors are shot and killed in the midst of an assault on their city. The flames of the forge settle once more and we barely get the glimpse of a brown-eyed child in red robes being rushed to the safety of an underground shelter before we cut back to the expressionless mask of the Mandalorian. The Mandalorian leader bestows his armament, placing the pauldron on his shoulder herself, and we cut to the Razor Crest’s descent on Arvala-7.

Events proceed as normal all the way up through the assault on the Nikto bandits’ encampment. Though the Mandalorian’s disdain for droids is clear, he and IG-11 still blow a hole in the hideout and follow the tracking beacon to the metal pod half-hidden beneath netting and supplies. When it opens to reveal a small green creature with large, dark eyes, the Mandalorian stills in his tracks.

He never asks IG-11 for clarification regarding the target’s age. He never asks IG-11 anything because the second the pod opened the Mandalorian realized what the occupant was and had already made a decision.

A shot rings out. The assassin-turned-bounty-droid falls to the floor inert, and the Mandalorian cautiously reaches out his finger to the child, seeing him reach back.

The Mandalorian leaves for his ship that night, pushing through the injuries sustained in the firefight with the Niktos. His dogged trek back to the Crest puts his arrival right at the beginning of the Jawas’ scrap haul, and he readily dispatches them with the rifle before assessing the damage to his rig. The Ugnaught helps him here too, piecing the ship back together and fortifying it for flight off-world. The Mandalorian thanks him, and the discussion turns back to the bounty before the Mandalorian is set to depart, asking for assistance with one other project.

“What do you suppose it is?” Kuiil asks. “I worked in the gene fields for years and I’ve never seen its like.”

“A child,” the Mandalorian says. “That’s all that matters.” He’s stooped next to the boy, keeping him steady with a gentle hand as Kuiil fastens a small bracer around his forearm. When it clicks into place it lights up, and Kuiil carefully presses a sequence into it before it emits a high-pitched whine that makes the boy shake his head, tugging at the Ugnaught’s grasp.

Kuiil gently pats his head with his other hand. “The noise will go away after a minute.” Then to Mando: “Do you have the code you wish to input?”

Mando nods and the Ugnaught watches as Mando presses another sequence along the bracer before locking it in place. The Mandalorian grunts, satisfied, shifting the boy’s sleeve back down around the bracer once all of the lights are blue. The tracking fob on the Mandalorian’s belt goes dark and silent. He picks the boy up and settles him against his hip as the boy wriggles his arm free, looking down at his sleeve.

Mando addresses Kuiil again. “I can’t thank you enough for your help. Please allow me to pay you for the trouble.”

The Ugnaught shakes his head, turning to walk away. “There will be no peace until the old ways of the Empire are gone forever. I’m happy to help.“

The Ugnaught stands at his homestead and watches as the Razor Crest swiftly lifts off red clay soil, turning its nose skyward and ascending to break the atmosphere. It does not return to Nevarro.

What follows is a season different from canon, one where the Mandalorian takes different contract jobs where he can but steers clear of official Guild business. The child is always by his side, and though we can’t see Mando’s face we see how he cares for the little boy, providing for and protecting him at every turn. The dichotomy of the Mandalorian’s character is seen in how quickly he falls into the parental role versus how he treats those he deems a threat, readily removing both pauldron and breastplate to let a baby sleep against his shoulder while in the same day snapping a man’s wrist for laying hands on the cradle. He removes his gloves and allows the child to play with his hands as he sits on the floor across from him, provides him with improvised toys, and he even seems to hum as he walks the length of the ship and back with the boy in his arms, bedtime accompanied by a gravelly voice finding use again in soothing a restless child. When the child absently gnaws on his calloused knuckle the Mandalorian lets him, gently stroking the boy’s cheek with his thumb as he pilots one-handed. It’s as though he’d always been meant for this role, slotting seamlessly into place.

The Mandalorian’s vicious protective streak reaches new heights too. Instead of what we’re used to seeing in Din offering everybody at least one chance, this Mandalorian only offers it half the time and even then seems reluctant to do so. He can’t take as many chances— The patchwork armor of trophy pieces and improvised protective gear isn’t as resilient as Mandalorian iron; there’s no full beskar cuirass or whistling birds since he never returned to Nevarro to collect payment from the Client. During all of their travels he fends off thugs, mercenaries, and hired guns of every kind, showing no mercy to those who threaten or try to use the kid as leverage against him, demanding what beskar he does have. Shoot first, ask questions later.

Interestingly enough, however, none of his adversaries are other Guild hunters. Anyone he runs across are people trying to prove something by gunning for a fight (something he’s used to, having been a Mandalorian for almost thirty years now), or trying to scavenge the beskar, or they’re enemies from his past with scores to settle.

The job he takes with the crew at the chop shop has a very different feeling to it. For one, it isn’t Ranzar Malk running the garage but his brother Tyko. Mayfeld is still the same as he is in canon, and though Burg is similar to what we know, he’s not sizing up the Mandalorian like before, and the Devaronian is missing most of one horn. He lingers in the back, his arms crossed as Zero joins them, Xi’an not far behind.

There’s no catty Harley Quinn-esque taunting and flirting with Mando this time around. When Xi'an joins the group she’s collected and silent, watching Mando from the corner of her eye as Tyko briefs the lot of them on the mission and plans out their route to and through the prison ship. Mayfeld, the only one not familiar with Malk’s crew from before, tries for a couple of jabs but none of them really land because nobody else joins in, and we can see him slowly start to feel the creeping unease the Mandalorian gives the others from his presence in their midst. On the Crest the Devaronian and Twi’lek give him a wide berth, keeping to the other side of the hold, and when Mayfeld’s the one to prompt a scuffle, reaching for the Mandalorian’s helmet, Mando reacts swiftly and fends him off. The door to the bunk still opens, revealing the kid, but before Mayfeld can close the gap to pick him up, Mando lands his last blow with a vibroblade straight through the edge of Mayfeld’s shoulder padding, just to the left of his bicep, pinning him to the wall.

Mayfeld’s doing his best not to show his panic, and though the others approached when the fight started they’ve still stopped several feet away, this time telling Mayfeld to back down. That Mando’s still needed for the mission.

Mando lingers with his hand on the hilt of the blade, his thumb hovering over the safety that would switch the vibroblade on and easily slice right into the meat of Mayfeld’s arm. He stays there long enough to make his point clear before jerking it out and letting Mayfeld stumble away, Mayfeld swearing as he does. Zero latches onto the prison ship and they drop down below as planned.

Everything in The Prisoner still goes as it does in canon (though with the characters changed just a little to the left in their regard of Mando), and when Ranzar Malk is revealed to be the prisoner they’re extracting, Mando’s caught in the middle of the ambush from the others, putting up more of a fight when he realizes the betrayal. The sequence that follows is harder hitting and bloodier than we see in canon: Burg eventually gets his hands around the Mandalorian’s upper arms, holding him in place for Ran to get a couple shots in.

“That’s for Alzoc III,” Ran snarls, ramming a fist in Mando’s gut and spitting on the face of the helmet.

The Devaronian lets go of one of the Mandalorian’s arms as he’s doubled over, putting both hands onto one shoulder and wrenching his arm out of socket. The Mandalorian lets out a strangled yell. “That’s for double-crossing us,” Burg growls.

The Mandalorian gasps, barely standing as Burg holds him by the arm. Xi’an ends with stabbing him between the ribs, up close and personal as she digs the knife in to the hilt just to the side of his armor. “And that’s for my brother.”

They shove him into the prison cell, harsh laughter echoing down the halls as they make their escape.

The Mandalorian looks down for the count. We watch as he drags himself, bleeding, upwards against the cell wall, assessing the droids outside in passing. He pants unevenly, gingerly assesses the stab wound with a shaking hand and grunts again in pain. With a steadying breath he steels himself and rolls his dislocated shoulder back into socket, yelling again. One injury fixed, he peers out of the jail cell again with his hand on his side, waiting for the most opportune moment to strike.

When Mando breaks free the hunt that follows is severely personal and merciless. Blood drips down his side and leaves a trail through white corridors. How he separates the criminals is similar to before, getting each of them pinned before ending with his stand-off with Malk. Ran makes the same bargaining negotiation as Qin does in canon and Mando still shoots Zero in the cargo hold before returning to the Roost with Ran in tow.

Tyko pays out the money to the Mandalorian, as promised, though it’s clear the brothers aren’t happy with how things shook out with the rest of the crew. Mando departs, they get ready to fire on his ship, the New Republic X-wings show up as before, having followed the tracking beacon Mando took from the prison ship and planted on Ran, and the chop shop is destroyed just as Mando planned.

The Mandalorian is uncharacteristically stiff in the cockpit, his movements jerky and labored. The kid coos, trying to get his attention, but as soon as the navicomp charts their course and they jump to hyperspace, the Mandalorian exhales raggedly, adrenaline finally running its course as he slumps over in his seat.

The child can sense something is wrong and wriggles out of his own seat, padding over to the Mandalorian. He shakes the man’s leg, worried when he doesn’t respond, and we see his gaze track to where the Mandalorian is still bleeding from Xi’an’s stab wound, his flightsuit darkening by the second.

The child’s eyes widen in alarm and he clambers up over his guardian’s boot, climbing his pant leg and over his lap until he can reach the Mandalorian’s side, blood pooling where his breastplate doesn’t cover. The child strains to reach the injury while keeping his balance, closing his eyes and holding out his hand, and very slowly we watch as the flow of blood beneath the suit stops and the wound knits back together as if it were never there.

There’s a long moment still before the Mandalorian takes a shuddering breath, jolting upright and nearly dislodging the child before catching him on reflex as the boy’s eyes slip close and he slumps against Mando’s chest. The Mandalorian looks around, feels at his side, and— in frustration at not being able to see with the angle he’s looking— takes his helmet off just above the view of the camera. He pulls his glove off with his teeth and he goes to feel his side again, his hand only bloody on its retreat from skimming his clothes. The knife wound from the Twi’lek is healed entirely, the muscle smooth and the skin unmarred. He gasps again, disbelieving, before he realizes the child is unconscious in the crook of his opposite arm. We see over the Mandalorian’s shoulder, just past brown hair going silver at the temples as he worriedly checks for the child’s pulse and breath. The tense moment holds, silence in the flickering light of hyperspace, before we can see the Mandalorian relax with a shudder, reassured that the boy is still alive. He gently tries to wake him, slipping his thumb into the boy’s hand, but the child doesn’t move.

Mando brings the child up against his chest, squeezing him gently in an all-encompassing hug before tucking him under his chin and standing from the pilot’s chair, the audience still never seeing his face. He turns back towards the ladder behind him while the camera lingers on the dash and the helmet smeared with blood, his retreating reflection warped in the visor.

Though we leave the found family on a good note, the next episode begins back on Nevarro with the Mandalorian covert that still remains below ground, having never had to expose themselves because Mando never returned with and subsequently stole the child back in the first place. Above, the marketplace is a buzz of gossip: rumors travel fast in a town like theirs and it becomes apparent to the audience that both the Guild hunters and Imperials from the safehouse are angry about the biggest target that sector had seen in a century suddenly dropping off the grid. Karga, a veteran Guild broker and diplomatic businessman, has his hands full mediating between short tempers left and right. Regular citizens are wary of leaving their homes and Karga sees hunters harassing others in town as competition for work stokes tempers even higher. The Client is furious, his stony expression betraying nothing but the tone of his voice making it quite clear what he thinks of Karga’s “most valuable partner.”

The Mandalorians of the covert discuss their options, knowing that if any of them are seen aboveground now of all times, they’d immediately be considered a target by association and hauled in for questioning, if not killed on the spot. The foundlings are packing bags, tools and supplies and blankets and toys hastily assembled or forced to be left behind. They don’t know what happened to the bounty hunter but it’s clear Nevarro is no longer safe for them to remain there.

Night’s beginning to fall as a rumble of thunder shakes the earth. The Client and Dr. Pershing’s furtive argument is cut short as they glance in the direction of the noise. Civilians halt in the streets, searching the sky for approaching ships. Hunters straighten in the cantina and go to the windows, looking out as others in alcoves outside begin to emerge, on guard. Mandalorians in the tunnels freeze for only a moment before mobilization efforts pick up double time at the Armorer’s orders, all of them knowing trouble when they hear it.

Three ships kick up dust and gravel as they land on the port city of Nevarro, two carrying troupes of sleek, efficient gunmen that pour out into the town square as an Outland TIE fighter descends behind them.

The next episode picks up with the Mandalorian muttering to himself as he unfastens hidden compartments in his ship, obviously in search of something. His visor occasionally darts to the cradle where the child sleeps cocooned in a muted red blanket. Frustrated by whatever it is he can’t find, the Mandalorian sighs and answers an incoming holo from another employer about a job.

When he arrives at his destination he places one ungloved hand on the child’s chest, needing the reassurance that he’s still breathing and just asleep, before he leaves and locks the ship behind him. The hunt follows the Mandalorian like normal— a local fetch and ferry to get enough credits for food and fuel— but it’s clear he’s impatient to return. How the camera moves as he wraps up the job and cuffs the target gives the audience the distinct impression that he’s being followed.

The Mandalorian has to intimidate the commissioner into paying out the full price promised for the job and he leaves silently once the man forks over the credits. He slips between people in the crowded marketplace, and as he rounds a corner the camera follows him, only to reveal an empty alleyway.

Greef Karga scans the alley, confused, and behind him in the blurry background we see a figure silently lower from the scaffolding and drop to the ground, grabbing Karga’s shoulder and whirling him around to slam his back against the wall.

The Mandalorian remains still as Karga yelps, clasping his wrist and breathing a sigh of relief at realizing who it is.

“What are you doing here,” the Mandalorian demands, his voice low and dangerous.

“Easy Mando, it’s just me, I’m sorry—”

“What are you doing here, Karga? Start talking.”

Karga shoves him off, irritable but evidently unafraid of the Mandalorian with a blaster still aimed at his chest. He looks around, lowering his voice too. “There’s a problem. We need to talk.”

“You followed me for two hours to talk with a gun in your hand?” Mando says flatly.

Karga scowls, holstering his pistol. “This is the Ring of Kafrene, you think I’m stupid enough to let my guard down here? Listen, I had to find you— Something’s happened on Nevarro.”

With the finale nearing, it turns out Karga himself was the only one capable of tracking down the Mandalorian, familiar with his old haunts and sources. None of the other Guild members or informants had seen hide or hair of either the Mandalorian or the target— It appeared the kid was listed on multiple registers and posting boards by a number of different entities and clients gunning for him. The Imperial warlord on Nevarro just happened to have the largest reward. When the child’s bio-signature disappeared and all tracking fobs were rendered useless, thanks to the bracer Kuiil was able to configure for the kid to scramble his chain-code, it caused a number of issues between the Guild, the still-operating ISB (through which the Bounty Hunters Guild operates), and posting agencies across the galaxy.

There in the hold of the Crest Karga says he’s there to warn Mando: a few days before this, an Imperial Moff arrived on Nevarro, establishing a despotic hold on the town and holding it hostage until the Mandalorian that disappeared from Arvala-7 returned to his base of operations with the target in tow. Karga managed to persuade the Moff into giving him time, saying he could find the Razor Crest but had to do it alone, and that he could convince Djarin to return.

Until then Mando had stubbornly refused to budge an inch, but when Karga says his family name— one very few are privy to— he jerks in surprised anger and stalks forward and demands to know how Karga got that information.

“The Moff,” Karga says, backing up, hands raised. “He says he has your family as ransom for the kid, that you would know what that meant.”

“My family is dead,” Mando states flatly.

“He had one of them,” Karga says, confused. “Another Mandalorian? A woman?”

At that, Mando freezes. “… Another Mandalorian.”

“Yes!”

“What did she look like?”

“I don’t know, you all wear the masks, she wasn’t—”

Mando grabbed Karga’s collar and shoved him against the bulkhead. “What did she look like?!”

“A gold helmet!” Karga says, floundering. “Red armor, I don’t know, a— a fur mantle! She was still alive when I left!”

Mando dropped his broker back to his feet, stumbling back in astonishment. “They have her?!”

“Yes! I didn’t know who she was, I’ve been hailing the Crest for weeks since you went dark but you didn’t answer, never got the holos, I didn’t have any other comm—”

Mando whirls on his feet and stalks towards the ladder, Karga forced to catch up. “Who is she, Mando? What’s going on?”

Karga followed him to the cockpit where the child lay curled up on one of the seats, still asleep. Mando scooped him up onto his lap and hurriedly flicked through his pre-flight checks, manually priming the Crest for takeoff. “He found the covert.”

Karga pitched to the side as the ship rumbled to life. Mando hardly spared enough time to make sure they were clear of their surroundings, hydraulics groaning under the strain of a cold liftoff. “The- the other Mandalorians on Nevarro, the tribe hidden beneath the city— Karga, there are children down there—”

Karga stumbled again, barely grabbing the other seat behind him; he hauled himself into it and strapped in. The Crest took off at a juddering pace, Mando pushing it to the limits to break atmo and set his course.

“Tell me everything,” the Mandalorian demanded once in hyperspace, turning back to Karga. The child made a soft sound in the crook of his arm, still asleep. “We’re going to get backup, and then we’re going to take back our city.”

—

Whatever allies Mando has made along the way are swiftly recruited to his and Karga’s cause. Kuiil and the reconfigured assassin droid join their ranks (the latter at the Mandalorian’s obvious loathing), one or two others from the season in tow. Either the Moff wiped out the covert, or had the rest of them under armed guard to ensure they didn’t interfere in an attempt to free the Armorer, or she gave herself up as a hostage in order to distract the Moff and let everyone else get out of harm’s way until the Mandalorians could make a coordinated attack against the remnant Imperials. If it’s the latter (and he prays that it is), Mando knows without a doubt who will be leading the charge and says they’ll need to find him first.

If it’s either of the former scenarios, then… Their prospects are much more grim. He says to plan for that, saying it’s possible the rest of the covert may already be dead or well on their way to it.

The child wakes up sometime during the flight and recruitment phase, and the Mandalorian is relieved to see he, at least, is doing better. He’s not exactly sure how the kid did what he did the night of the prison break gone awry, but he can see why the Client and the Moff may be eager to get their hands on him. During the retrieval of their allies we see Mando poring through what appear to be old codices and scrolls of some forgotten religion, finally found in the hidden recesses of his ship. The leather binding is cracked and the pages are yellowing with age, but it’s clear in how reverently he handles them that they mean a great deal to him.

There’s a quiet moment where we see the rest of the crew asleep in the hold while Mando sits up in the cockpit. He allows the child to crawl into his lap, turning the pages to bookmarked passages with drawings so the child can see. The child makes no sign that he recognizes anything Mando points out to him, murmuring the names of things, until he curiously lands on the page with an iridescent drawing of a cluster of crystals. The child perks up, leaning forward to tap the page, looking between the Mandalorian’s visor and the book expectantly. The Mandalorian re-reads the passage to himself before asking the boy:

“You know what this is?”

The boy tilts his head.

“Kyber crystals? You recognize them?”

The boy coos, his ears alert. He taps the page again.

Mando flips through the adjacent topics on either side of the page containing information on the crystals. “Ilum? Christophsis?”

The child doesn’t respond, instead trying to turn back to the page containing the crystal drawings. Mando flipped forward some more.

“The Whills? Jedha?” No response. “The Final Protector? Does any of this ring a bell?”

Still the child showed no interest. No other drawings or names elicited the same response.

Mando sighed. He wasn’t even sure the boy understood Basic, let alone human speech at all. He’d never spoken.

Still, the passage on the crystals themselves gave the Mandalorian an inkling as to why the boy might have latched onto them, and if his hunch was right, there was only one explanation for why the Mandalorian hadn’t bled out in the cockpit after he left the chop shop.

The thought was concerning.

The rallied forces aboard the Razor Crest descend far out from the outskirts of Nevarro’s port city. Not wanting to alert the Imperials should they be listening over the covert’s comm channels or their own, they maintain radio silence and depart on foot across the flats. They access the old pyroduct exit on the flats and Mando leads them down to the lava flow under the city.

Before they make it very far down the tunnels, though, he’s grabbed by hands reaching from the dark and shoving him up against the igneous wall.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your skin around here,” Paz Vizsla growls. Mando’s crew snaps to attention, blasters raising as two other Mandalorians materialize from the shadows, their own guns brought to bear. Mando scrabbles at the infantryman’s wrist as Paz tightens his grip around his throat. His feet dangle above the ground. “I ought to kill you myself.”

IG-11 raises his blaster and immediately fires a shot that ricochets off of Vizsla’s helmet— The action spurs a flurry of activity as other Mandalorians appear, bringing their guns up in a line of defense the same time Mando’s group does. The cacophony of threats only dies down as Kuiil raises his voice above theirs, stepping between both groups and mediating until both sides calm down. IG-11 lowers his blaster, following Kuiil’s command.

Mando brings his vambrace down hard on Vizsla’s gauntlet, forcing Paz to drop him. He’s pretty sure Paz let him go just to see him fall, but he doesn’t care.

“Where are the foundlings?” Mando asks hoarsely, rubbing his throat.

Paz scoffs. “If you cared, you wouldn’t have done whatever blasted fool thing you did to bring the Empire down on our heads. Where have you been? What did you do?”

“I’ll explain when I can,” Mando says. He gestures to the crew behind him. “I brought backup. Are the foundlings safe? How many people do we have left?”

“You’re not calling the shots here,” Vizsla snarls. “The Armorer’s being held until you turn yourself over to the Moff, and if I have to drag you up there tonight myself—”

“There’s a kid,” Mando interjects. “The Moff is after a child.”

Paz glances to his right where Mando’s allies stand, unsure as they look between themselves.

“Start making sense.”

Mando turns to his group, gesturing for Kuiil to come forward with the boy’s pod. The cradle opens to reveal the small green boy with pointed ears, staring curiously up at those around him with big brown eyes before Mando continues. “I didn’t know the target was a kid when I was hired to find him. He’s barely old enough to walk. The client that commissioned me promised a camtono of beskar for him but I would never have been able to make that exchange. I couldn't turn him over.”

Vizsla’s hackles seem to lower at the sight of the boy and Mando’s explanation, the fire in his tirade dying down. “Why would he want a kid? Is it his?”

“I doubt it. I’ve never seen this species before, I can’t find anything about him anywhere. He’s… different.”

“Different how?”

“He’s Force-sensitive.”

“A Jedi?!” Paz asks, incredulous. The Mandalorians’ grips on their blasters tighten again and Mando’s friends shift uneasily. “The Jedi were wiped out, they’ve been gone for decades, how did you—”

“I don’t know, I’ve only heard of them in folklore, but he can do things I’ve never seen before, I didn’t think—”

“You weren’t thinking at all. You picked up an enemy’s child and you kept it.” Paz shook his head in disbelief. “Of course you would, of course you’d grab something that would bring the Empire to our door—”

“They would have killed him,” Mando snaps. Paz turns away and stalks down the tunnel to where a small cache of guns is propped next to some meager supplies. “The Empire destroys anything that doesn’t fit their mold and takes every good thing the rest of us has for themselves. Beskar or the Force or our land, it doesn’t matter, they wipe us out and scavenge the pieces—”

“Us,” Paz emphasizes, straightening up. He jabs an accusatory finger against Mando’s breastplate. “You had other options. The elders only took you in because you wouldn’t let them go without you. You were old enough, you could’ve gone back to the rubble they picked you out of and stayed there and we would have been fine without you and we wouldn’t be here right now and the Armorer—”

It was Mando’s turn to shove Vizsla against the wall, whipping a vibroblade up to hum beneath the lip of his helmet. Paz went still.

“Don’t speak to me of Aq Vetina,” the Mandalorian says viciously, the antechamber deathly quiet. “I lost everything, Vizsla. And I earned my place here. You’re no better than me because you were born into it.”

The cavern is silent for a long moment as they eye each other.

“If you’re one of us,” Vizsla says slowly, “Then what’s your plan to get everybody out?”

—

Vizsla’s and Mando’s groups come to an uneasy alliance, working together to plan an ambush on the Imperial forces. As Vizsla tells them how part of the covert managed to escape when the Imps started flooding the tunnels, his narration provides the voiceover for the scenes as they happened in the days prior, several warriors taking the foundlings out of one of the hidden exits to escape while the rest of them remained behind to fight and stall for time. The Imperials managed to get the Armorer separated from the group, those who took her no mere Stormtroopers but slick, black armor-encased Deathtroopers. She killed six alone before they stunned her, hauling her back towards the entrance they’d blown in the tunnels as the rest of the Mandalorians fought. Though they’d surged after her they were beaten back by a barrage of cannon fire, an E-WEB stationed up on the street that would have annihilated them had the tunnel not collapsed and blocked them in first. Vizsla’s tone is grim as he details the loss of another four Mandalorians who had gone above together in an attempt to retrieve their leader. Vizsla pulled the rest back to regroup and strategize farther outside of town, should the Imperials come back down to finish the job.

After spending the entire night strategizing it comes down to this: Kuiil and IG-11 would leave to take the boy back to the ship for safekeeping while Mando’s group used the tunnels to get up to the cantina on the other end of the main drag with the kid’s floating cradle as bait, and then they’d proceed to negotiate an exchange with the Moff for the Armorer while the Mandalorians placed detonators around the central bazaar. While Karga stalled for time with the Moff, backed by Vizsla, Mando, and Mando’s allies, the rest of the Mandalorians would move into position for an ambush and strike from above, using the Phoenixes to mount an aerial assault. Vizsla would destroy or commandeer the E-WEB to take out the Imps while Mando retrieved the Armorer. With luck, there’d still be enough Mandalorians with jetpacks able to grab each of them on the ground and fly out of range, finishing off the Imperials with the detonation from above.

The rescue party begins to bed down for the night, only a few hours between them and sunup. Paz can be seen looking over at the child’s cradle as Mando rolls out his bedroll. He looks back at Mando.

“How do you know the kid’s really Jedi?” he asks. “What did he do?”

Mando glances at Paz, getting settled. His hand rests on his ribs as he lies on his back.

“He saved me.”

The scene cuts to Dr. Pershing and the Client, frustratedly discussing something between themselves in the lab of the Stormtrooper safehouse. A comlink on the table behind them lights up and crackles to life, a familiar voice saying, “Come in, Doctor. It’s me.”

The two quickly come to the table, the Client picking up the comlink. “Yes? I presume you have answers?”

“Yes,” the voice says. “I can tell you where the child is.”

The next day brought with it a sense of unease. Everything was contingent on their bluff holding up long enough to keep the Moff’s attention while the Mandalorians snuck into the city from the outside, remaining undetected. Mando comm’d Kuiil to have him on standby once he reached the ship, ready to fly the Crest out to them on their escape.

Mando, Karga, Paz Vizsla, and the rest of Mando’s few recruits split off and made for the surface. They cut an exit from the maintenance access grate in the common house, quietly slipping out and barricading themselves behind upturned tables for safe measure. Karga makes his announcement and gives their terms to the Moff from the cantina.

The Moff seems entirely disinterested in what Karga has to say, however, unresponsive and unperturbed. Mando can see his focus turn almost to face him, as though he can somehow see through the architecture blocking him from view. The man in black outside projects his voice to be heard through the latticed window.

“A chain-code is a curious thing,” the Imperial says. “Individualized for each citizen, archived upon their demise, and until recently thought to be irreplicable. Falsified perhaps, but never revived.”

Mando goes very still. Karga and Paz looked between each other. “What’s he talking about, Mando? Who is this guy?”

The Moff continued. “When I saw this one crop up for the first time in almost thirty years, I thought our intelligence had found a glitch in the system, or perhaps someone was able to slip by unnoticed for decades before making some crucial error in revealing themselves.”

The familiar flashback of a mother and father racing through city streets begins to flicker in and out as the camera focuses on the Mandalorian, explosions and laser fire raining down around them as the man carries his young son in his arms. Neighbors, disciples, friends… Bodies fall as ships fly overhead and battle droids stalk the streets of Aq Vetina.

The Mandalorian strides for the door, halted in his tracks by the crew grabbing his shoulders, standing between him and the exit. “Mando,” one of them hisses, “Mando, what are you doing?”

The music builds, and though we can’t hear it we see the woman scream as another explosion rocks the ground beside them, a nearby wall crumbling and collapsing. The boy’s father course-corrects and races down a different street, his eyes darting between the chaos for somewhere to protect his family. The boy clings to his neck and squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his father’s coarse beard against his cheek as strong arms tremble around him. Plasma and smoke fills the air.

“It’s Moff Gideon,” the Mandalorian snarls. “He was an ISB officer during the Purge. He knew my name— He knew how to draw us out—”

The man stumbles to a knee but the boy’s mother helps him up, dragging him away from the wreckage of yet another building. Their hearts thud wildly in their chests as they race for the cellar beyond the pavilion, adrenaline fueling their feet and clearing their heads of all other thoughts but to run, and survive.

“Gideon gave the order for the Night of a Thousand Tears,” Mando said venomously, jerking in their grip. “He ordered the attack on my home.”

The scene in the ravaged cantina melts away, and Aq Vetina takes center stage.

—

The reinforced cellar doors come into view. The man skids to a halt, looking around them as his wife takes the boy from his arms so he can open the doors. He turns his son to look at him, cradling his round face in his hands as he does.

“Look at me,” he says as steadily as he can manage. “I will come back for you. It’s going to be okay.”

The boy nods, wide brown eyes mirroring his father’s. His father kisses his brow and his mother helps lower him below ground. There isn’t time for him to tell his wife goodbye as he helps her clamber down to meet their son, and as he takes one last look at the faces of his family he tries to smile in reassurance, praying they don’t see his tears as he closes the doors, sunlight dissipating to darkness around them.

The man turns to run, to lead their attackers away from the shelter. Four battle droids march down the streets. He waves to draw their fire, dodges another volley of shots and darts away from the cellar—

But the man in red only makes it twenty feet before a deafening clap of thunder knocks him back, the blast from the battle droid’s missile sending a concussive ripple through his body.

There’s a long, deafening silence accompanied only by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The man tries to move, rolls over, thinking No, no, please… Please, not them… and his head falls at a painful angle to see the cellar doors beyond him, caved in and hanging from the hinges in a smoldering black crater.

His heart seizes. He chokes, the painful realization of what he’s just lost washing over him. An agonizing cry of fury, despair, and heartbroken anguish tears from his chest as he screams.

The man shoves off the ground in a rage-induced burst of defiance, grabbing a broken spade and wielding it like a quarterstaff as a battle droid comes into view. He darts beneath its uplifted arm as turmoil rages on, uncaring and unseeing beyond the singular purpose of dismantling the creature piece by piece by any means necessary. He jabs the broken-off metal tip into the droid’s unarmored shoulder joint high above him and shoves it up into the carapace, sparks flying. He pulls back and strikes again as the droid twists to grab him. Unfeeling metal locks around his upper arm and yanks him into the air, his feet kicking above the ground. The uncaring optical sensors turn his way as the arm locks in another shot.

He doesn’t care. He’s already died once that day.

But before he can pass into the next life with a mouth full of blood and a demand for answers, a different shot rings out, hitting the battle droid in the opposite shoulder. The man blinks, and the droid pivots, only to be shot in rapid fire succession by blaster-fire of a different kind, collapsing it to the earth and releasing the man as it does.

Several long seconds pass and the man tries to gather his strength. He turns over and looks up to see the visor of a warrior clad in armor, more like them descending upon the city and swiftly taking out every battle droid in the streets, shielding survivors with their own armored bodies, deflecting blaster-fire, pushing the advancing assailants back.

When the warrior extends their hand to him, the man takes it without hesitation and stands to his feet.

“The Imperial Security Bureau has records dating back decades.” Gideon looked to the common house from the side. “It’s curious to see a child’s chain-code come back from the dead.”

Mando’s allies struggle to hold him back, the whole group straining and clamoring for him to wait, to stick to the plan. Outside, more soldiers file in behind the Deathtroopers.

“Tell me, Tomás Djarin, for how long did you think you could use your son’s code as a cover for this substitute?”

A growl rips from Mando’s throat and he breaks free, lunging for the exit and slamming against the door, narrowly seized only by Karga and Vizsla hauling him back by the shoulders. Mando seethes, straining against their hold, his boots losing traction and sliding over gravel as he fights.

“What do you propose?” Karga barked to the Moff outside, gritting his teeth in the struggle.

Gideon smiled.

“Reasonable negotiation. I have in my possession an E-WEB cannon, with which I know many of your Mandalorian’s brethren are already intimately familiar. Come outside, lay down your arms, and we’ll consider sparing the city.”

Thick tension bore down around them in the silence. Mando sagged defeatedly, the reminder of the city held hostage shuttering his ire. It was time.

“Kuiil,” he murmurs into his comm. “Kuiil if you can hear me, take the kid and get out of here.”

He keeps his hand on the cradle as they leave the common house.

Moff Gideon towers above them, encased in black, his face inscrutable. The Client stands off to the side, seeing them march out in front of the squadrons of Deathtroopers and Stormtroopers alike, five against fifty. Gideon regards them almost with disinterest, and Mando seethes beneath the mask.

Karga acts as spokesman, but Mando is barely listening, his hatred of the Moff boiling under the surface until Gideon gestures for his troopers to bring out the Armorer. As Deathtroopers exit one of the crumbling buildings to their right, Mando's blood runs cold.

The covert leader is bound by the wrists, bloodied and devoid of all armor save for her helmet. The once-gleaming brass is clouded with ash and blood, smeared to a dull finish, and she’s hiding a limp as she walks. The Deathtroopers on either side of her hold onto her upper arms, escorting her to the center as Moff Gideon comes to stand directly behind her, his blaster drawn.

“The child,” Gideon says coolly, nodding to the cradle. “As soon as you hand him to me alive, your leader and the city are yours.”

The scene cuts to Kuiil and the assassin droid approaching the Crest on foot, still a good way’s away. The child sleeps against Kuiil’s shoulder. A high-pitched whine fills the air, quiet before steadily increasing in volume, and as Kuiil and IG-11 register the noise they turn, only for a bolt of red blasterfire to hit Kuiil in the shoulder. Kuiil falls to the ground, the child tumbling from his grip. Another laserbolt hits IG-11 at the same time, ricocheting off his head plate and sending him down. Four speederbikes begin to converge on the trio, the child sitting up from his blanket on unsteady feet. The Scout troopers split to flank the group, slowing to a stop. One hops off and goes to retrieve the child, who looks between the four of them, his ears turning down in fear. The Ugnaught’s body doesn’t move, but strangely enough the droid’s does; his servos spin as his motor functions return to life, the reinforced head plate Kuiil installed with care successfully protecting IG from the same fate that had befallen him on Arvala-7.

We see a split-screen HUD from IG’s point of view as his optical sensors spin to assess each target in millisecond timing. The scout trooper that had dismounted his bike stumbles back as the assassin droid comes to life, lifting off of the black earth. The troopers collectively fire at the droid, who in turn takes Kuiil’s blaster from the ground as he stands and returns fire, effortlessly spinning, evading, or deflecting the troopers’ bolts as he advances towards the child, firing at each of the troopers in turn. One of the speederbikes explodes, taking its trooper out with it. IG scoops up the child, spinning his torso to shield the boy as two more troopers are shot and fall, one after the other; none of them stood a chance against the cold and calculating processor of an assassin droid with both his manufactured skillset and a reprogrammed duty to protect, and as IG turns, the last trooper standing stumbles back in terror, firing wide as he falls onto his back. IG-11’s long strides close the distance between them and he kneels down to grab the man’s neck and slam his head back into the ground.

IG stands, spinning his torso back to the front. The child is unharmed, his ears perking up as he surveys their surroundings.

“It seems our position was compromised,” IG says mechanically, holding the boy out to peer down at him. “I surmise by the attack on our party that the Mandalorian’s plans have gone awry and that our allies are in need of assistance.”

There’s a groan somewhere off to the right, and IG turns with the boy to see Kuiil struggling to roll over, grunting in pain. The droid goes to the Ugnaught and kneels, assessing him with a clinician’s eye.

“You have been badly injured,” IG says as Kuiil sits up, extending his arm as a nozzle flips to take the place of his pincers. It sprays a mist into the opening where the laserfire burned through Kuiil’s coat, and Kuiil sighs in some relief. “But it appears our adversary’s shot missed anything vital. The bacta spray will heal you within a matter of hours.”

“IG,” Kuiil grunts, gingerly getting to his feet. “Mando is going to need your help.” He gathers his few belongings as the droid follows, the Razor Crest visible in the distance. “Take one of the bikes and get to town as quickly as possible. I will take the child with me. Do what you can to protect the others.”

“Affirmative.” IG hands off the boy to Kuiil and rests a hand on his creator’s good shoulder. “I hope to see you again soon.”

The Ugnaught nodded and the two turned and parted ways. The child watched as the bounty droid picked up two rifles and mounted a speederbike, kicking dust up behind him as he sped away.

Back in the city the negotiating party faces the Imperials. Moff Gideon’s serene expression reveals nothing.

Mando hears Vizsla yell from his position on the other side of the street, jerking his head to the Armorer. “How do we know she isn’t a decoy?” His voice is unsteady. At this distance Mando can hear her breathing raggedly through the helmet’s modulator. They needed more time.

Gideon almost smiles, then digs his free hand under the edge of her helmet. The Mandalorians jolt on reflex, but stop as the Moff holds her in place in front of himself.

“Would you like a guarantee?” he asks. “Or would you even know, regardless?”

“Do not give him the child,” the Armorer grits out, and they freeze at the confirmation. She stands as straight as she can, her voice hoarse but unmistakable. The Moff remains impassive.

“What assurance do you give that you’ll leave these people in peace?” Mando says, gesturing to the town. His joints have locked up. He’s barely breathing.

“Only this,” Gideon says plainly, and then he gestures to the side with his blaster. “Give me the child, or I promise to return to you tenfold what you had planned for us.”

At that, Deathtroopers from the shadows of the surrounding streets march out with the rest of the Mandalorians at gunpoint in front of them. Mando’s shock turns to outrage and despair as he sees each of the ambushing party lined up around the bazaar, and it’s then that Karga smoothly steps past Mando, pulling Mando’s blaster from his holster in one move and crossing the line of troopers, a grim look on his face when he turns back.

“I’m sorry Mando,” Karga says, and he almost looks as though he means it. “I have people to take care of too.”

The broker steps beyond the ranks of troopers, receiving a nod from Gideon before passing the Client. The Client slips something into Karga’s hand and Karga tucks it into his breast pocket, the two of them retreating from view as Mando trembles with helpless rage. The Deathtrooper at the E-WEB primes it to charge. Moff Gideon steps forward with the Armorer still directly in front of him. “The child, Djarin,” he says. “My generosity and patience have run their course.”

Mando hesitates as he steps forward, his hand still on the cradle, desperately trying to think of anything that might give them a chance to escape. A shadow passes over Gideon’s face, and he brings his pistol up under the Armorer’s jaw. Every Mandalorian jerks against their captors and Gideon digs the muzzle of his gun against the Armorer’s neck, a sliver of skin now visible above her collar. They go still. Mando’s fist clenches so tight he can feel his bones shift.

“Now.”

Defeated and without recourse, Mando presses the button on the cradle to open the shield, revealing the empty space within.

This time Moff Gideon does smile.

“It appears only one of us is a man of his word.”

And then Moff Gideon rips the Armorer’s helmet off her head.

Absolute, unfettered rage bursts from every Mandalorian in a vitriolic war cry as all hell breaks loose in an instant, every Mandalorian rearing back against their captors with unparalleled ferocity, breaking free and firing at the Imperials without mercy. Mando tears the Armorer away from Gideon and unleashes the full power of his flamethrower in Gideon’s and the Deathtroopers’ faces, hauling her back from the blaze as both sides fire shot-for-shot at one another.

The Mandalorian closest to Mando dives forward to grab the Deathtrooper’s rifle and cover their retreat. Vizsla shoots a white-hot spray of molten plasma from his gauntlet across the four troopers that had restrained him, their screams following them to the ground as their armor melts and they convulse. The firefight descends into chaos, Mando’s allies working together to cover one another and retrieve arms and munitions all across the square, ducking for cover behind the debris. The Imperials are caught off guard, having thought disarming them would be enough to keep them from retaliating, but they quickly find that even an unarmed Mandalorian is a weapon.

Mando shields the Armorer as they run, feeling blaster fire streak across his bicep, glance off the beskar pauldron and helmet, sear his vision white. The Armorer stumbles, trying to keep up but buckling under the weight of exhaustion and her injuries. He pulls her behind a large chunk of a fallen archway, breaking the binders holding her wrists together and looking wildly around for somewhere to get her to safety. He sees a clear path from their position back to the common house and the two of them begin to run.

A grenade lands in their path and Mando has seconds to react. He tackles the Armorer to the side, shielding her as best he can as the explosion blows them a dozen feet away, their ears ringing. Mando felt the lance of shrapnel embed itself in his leg, and his head slams against a piece of the barricade, stopping his trajectory and sending him to the ground. As he tries to make sense of which way is up he can see the Armorer struggling to pull herself up next to him, pulling a scavenged rifle from the wreckage of the street. He can’t breathe, and as his vision swims he catches sight of the covert’s leader, resilient even now, forcing her hands to cooperate as she fires back at their assailants from behind a broken wall. Her face is streaked with blood and dirt and the tracks of tears streaming down through both. Her helmet lay distantly in the dirt in the middle of the street surrounded by rubble and the bodies of dead Imperials.

Of everybody there, she was the most justified in leaving him for dead, and still she fought.

The Imperials start to gain ground as Mandalorians are killed or incapacitated. Their forces start to bottleneck, forced backward in the onslaught, but just as the Imperials start to catch them on the backfoot a high-pitched whine fills the air. Seconds later a speederbike slides into the fray, an assassin droid leaping off and firing with deadly accuracy against the troopers. A rallying cry goes up from Mando’s allies, even Vizsla crowing in triumph as IG advances, his body twisting and limbs spinning to fire in every direction.

“Paz!” Mando yells, struggling upright. “Cover her!”

The heavy infantryman picks up one Deathtrooper and slams him bodily into another, toppling both. He dashes over to their place amongst the craters and plants himself in front of the Armorer; she grabs hold of his shoulder for support, firing around him and shouting orders as they clear a path to the E-WEB. Mando drags himself to his feet and ends up back-to-back with IG-11, feeling an odd sense of gratitude towards the droid he’d left for dead all those weeks ago. The two of them twist and turn around each other, IG deflecting shots as readily as he fires.

“IG unit! Where’s the kid?!”

“The child is safe aboard the Razor Crest,” IG says, taking out three more troopers. Vizsla takes hold of the cannon and rattles the Imperial forces, decimating a fresh wave of Stormtroopers. “Kuiil is en route to our location.”

“No! Tell him to take the child and get out of here!”

“There is no time,” IG says. “My duty is to nurse and protect: you and our allies are in need of protection.”

Mando growls at the droid’s obstinate refusal to listen. He’s about to drag one of the Mandalorians with a jetpack closer and order them to fly out to Kuiil, but then he sees an arc of flickering white through the smoke of battle.

Time almost seems to slow. A swipe of black void edged in white light cuts through the haze beyond Vizsla and the Armorer. They haven’t seen him yet, but the figure in black carrying the blade materializes through the smoke, and in the breadth of a second, Moff Gideon raises his arms and brings an otherworldly saber clean down through the barrel of the E-WEB. Paz jerks back from the recoil of the cannon falling apart in a series of smaller, sizzling explosions, and as his attention turns to the Moff he blocks the still-vulnerable Armorer, shoving her back. Gideon brings the phantasmal sword up again and carves a downward slash at the infantryman— Paz blocks it with his vambrace in a skitter of sparks.

Mando moves without realizing it. He darts through the tumult of battle, honing in on the angry, half-burned face of Moff Gideon, not knowing if or for how long Paz’s armor can withstand the heat of the spectral blade. Laserfire streaks around him, each of their allies and adversaries fighting for their lives.

Gideon cuts through the chain gun’s connecting line, rendering Vizsla’s heavy repeating rifle useless. The next slash is caught by his other vambrace, Gideon pressing the sword in long enough Paz’s gauntlet starts to blaze orange, melting the circuits of his plasma thrower and leaving hot beskar intact to burn through his armor cladding. Though he easily towers above the Moff he’s forced to fight defensively as Gideon darts and weaves, aiming for the Armorer behind him, throwing off his blocks and parries. Vizsla’s vision burns with hatred as he sees this aruteii— this outsider— wielding what he knows is his ancestor’s sword against them. Imperials advance from the side, forcing the Armorer to shoot them and protect Vizsla, leaving him to fight Gideon. It’s only when they’re backed into the fallen debris of the city that the saber’s trajectory is halted mid-swing.

Mando stands resolute between his enemy and his tribesmen, the beskar tines of his pulse rifle catching the sword in the air. Gideon’s shock morphs to immediate outrage and he rips the saber back, twirling his wrist to cut upward, blocked again by Mando’s gun. The Mandalorian advances, using his rifle like a spear in a flurry of movement, energy crackling off the blade’s contact with every strike. Vizsla and the Armorer work together against the Imperials, and Mando advances on the Moff.

Back against the Imperials, the Armorer sees an opening, the door of a building near the Imperials’ base of operations buckled inward. She turns back to see the Moff fighting the bounty hunter forty feet away. They’re too close together to get a clear shot and smoke continues to billow from the explosions surrounding them. If the Moff finds an opening she knows the bounty hunter’s armor won’t hold against the Darksaber.

And then she looks down to the opposite end of the decimated street, seeing a distinct silhouette over the horizon growing closer every second.

The Armorer breaks the latch on the door with the butt of her rifle. “Get everybody towards the dockyards,” she orders Paz over the din of battle.

“What are you doing?!” Paz barks over his shoulder. He fires again, killing two more soldiers.

The Armorer kicks the door in, determination written across her face. “Reclaiming what I can.”

—

Moff Gideon spits insults between his strikes, and Mando fights just as viciously in return. Thrust, block, parry, jab— Every close-quarters maneuver is accompanied by the unsettling hum of a blade dipped in the void of space, light bending and refracting around its edge. Gideon swings at his head and when he ducks, the sword carves through a support column, bringing part of the decimated building down with it. Mando rolls to the side, hearing the hum of the blade miss him by inches.

Mando swings the rifle upward again, aiming it at the Moff. Gideon deflects the bolt of energy, his face twisted in a snarl. The Amban rifle crackles with electricity, but as Mando jabs the end of it towards the Moff, the barrel and its current are redirected by Gideon into one of his own troopers. Before Mando can twist free and put enough space between them to fire, Moff Gideon pulls back and twirls the blade directly up towards the Mandalorian’s chest.

There’s a gnarled crackle of energy as the saber cleaves the pulse rifle in two at the wooden stock, a piece of the gun in each of the Mandalorian’s hands. That split second shock is enough of an opening for Moff Gideon to thrust again, stabbing through the Mandalorian’s lower breastplate.

Mando feels the searing edge of white-hot fire dig into his body; he cries out in agony, doubled over at the shock. Time slows yet again, and all he can see is the helpless face of the boy he saved in his mind’s eye, knowing that if he cannot defeat the Moff, it won’t matter if his allies escape with the child. Gideon will keep sending hunters after the boy until he’s killed everybody standing between him and his prize.

With the greatest effort he’s ever exerted in his life, Tomás Djarin brings the barrel of his rifle up and jabs it against the hilt of Gideon’s blade once more, trapping it between the tines. Moff Gideon’s eyes widen, and the Mandalorian shoves him off with an agonized yell.

There’s no time to recover— Mando messily blocks the black blade with the barrel of the gun. He stumbles, shoves himself up and forces himself to fight through his injuries, but it’s clear he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

He’s bent at the waist and clutching his midsection, leaning against a stone column. He manages to duck and the move forces Gideon’s blade to become lodged into the stone, and Mando stumbles around the column, ducking when he hears the telltale hum behind him. Another spray of stone flies over his head— He twists, evades a second thrust from the sword, and punches Moff Gideon in the face.

Gideon howls in infuriated pain, messily swinging the sword as the Mandalorian parries it with what remains of the rifle. Hit after hit strikes stone until another slash glances off Mando’s beskar pauldron, singeing his flak vest. This time when he stumbles Moff Gideon brings his foot up and kicks him square in the chest, sending him sprawling a dozen feet down through the rubble. Mando yells in agony, the rifle skittering from reach. The Moff stands triumphant beneath the crumbling building, breathing hard, the saber in hand. Mando drags himself to one knee, refusing to die without standing up.

“You and your kind should have been eradicated long ago,” Gideon snarls. “The Empire will not make the same mistake twice.”

Before Gideon can advance, however, the Mandalorian aims his gauntlet and fires.

Gideon easily evades what he assumed to be a projectile, the Mandalorian firing wide. It isn’t until he sees Mando wrap both hands around the whipcord and pull it taut that Gideon’s glare hardens in confusion, and as he looks behind him there’s a grating, crumbling sound of stone on stone, the whipcord wrapped around what remained of the support column.

With wild eyes, Moff Gideon looks up as the structure groans, and with one final heave Mando wrenches the cable through the broken, weakened support, and the overarching section of the building finally gives way.

A tremendous rumbling crash brings the building down in a massive cloud of dust, shaking the ground. Mando runs as well as he can to a barricade, barely evading several large pieces of rock cascading behind him. When Mando looks back, Moff Gideon is gone. All that remains is the towering pile of rubble, carved out of the connecting buildings in the bazaar.

He wishes he felt relief. All he feels is pain.

A sudden ripple of force shudders through the square and extinguishes several flames, and all eyes turn to see a heavy artillery gunship descending to hover at the other end of the street near the dockyards. There’s a whoop of defiant hope from Mando’s friends and allies and they start trying to make their way down the long market street.

His head pounds. His leg is shredded. Exhaustion hangs on his limbs and his abdomen burns where the blade seared through his flesh, every movement sending lancing pain radiating through his torso. He looks beyond to the tumult of battle and surveys the scene.

Kuill has the ramp of the Razor Crest lowered, hovering in place for everyone to get onboard while there’s still time. More and more Imperials start to march on the bazaar. Mando can barely hold his head up to see Kuiil frantically gesturing from the cockpit, and with great effort he stumbles further to the second concentric barricade while his allies fight their way down the street. Very few covert members remain, and the battered few have to dodge through enemy fire between the razed buildings, trying to get out of range as Mando’s friends fight with them, shoulder to shoulder. Two of the remaining Mandalorians with jetpacks help draw the fire of the Imperials, but even they are forced to the ground, too much laser fire flying from too many directions. IG-11 sees the Mandalorian struggling to even stand as he holds one hand to his middle before he finally falls to his knees.

—

The Armorer twists, shattering another Deathtrooper’s chest-plate, caving their chest in. Two Stormtroopers emerge from an alley, targeting the droid and the hunter, and she brings the hammer up in a strike beneath one’s jaw before bringing it down on the helmet of the trooper behind him. She doesn’t wait to see them fall as she jerks her attention back to Mando.

Soldiers quickly file indoors and shoot outward from broken windows into the street now, the bazaar becoming a shooting gallery on both sides. The droid is far more accurate than any of them could hope to be, but even he can’t move without a barrage of laser fire forcing him down.

The bounty hunter is blocked from the assault by the debris shielding him and the assassin droid. She’d seen the Imperial stab him in the chest and knows he can hardly move. She doesn’t know how he even got to his feet.

The Mandalorian is dying, and his only chance of survival is extraction.

She quickly assesses their surroundings, but the moment she goes to step out of the mouth of the alley and slink down behind the lower-level stonework, a heavy hand clamps down on her shoulder, jerking her back.

“Don’t,” Vizsla says grimly. “We can’t save him. We have to go.”

“Let go,” the Armorer warns him, rolling her shoulder in an attempt to dislodge him. “If we don’t try, his death is guaranteed.”

“Alor,” Vizsla says, the pain in his voice evident. He nods to the shots raining down into the street from above, troopers filing onto the roofs of several buildings now. “Please. I cannot block them all.”

The Armorer shakes, wavering for the first time since she was unhelmed, but her eyes are filled with fire and flint as she twists out of the infantryman’s grip. “He wouldn’t leave us,” she says. “He’s the reason we’ve made it this far.”

“He knew what the cost of saving you could be,” Vizsla grits out, pulling her again. “And it would be a waste of his sacrifice to die now.”

A shot sails past them, missing them by inches as another strafing run of fire jutters against the earth. Vizsla wraps an arm around her from behind and pulls her forcibly back. The ship beyond falters in stasis, shots from larger artillery scorching off the hull.

“We need to go,” Vizsla says, dragging her with him despite her shouts of protest. “We can still save the others.”

With a heavy heart the Armorer is hauled away from enemy fire, praying the droid can find a way to secure their freedom. He’s the only hope the Mandalorian has.

Kuiil can’t fire from the angle he’s at and is busy trying to maintain a steady position for the survivors who climb onboard, who in turn are all so busy helping one another and crowding into the hold none of them see the small child in their midst, his stature and familiarity with the gunship allowing him to slip between them unnoticed the same way he avoided Zero weeks before.

Stormtroopers fire from rooftops down at the escaping heroes below. Mando and IG-11 are pinned down, unable to fight their way out as they cover the rest of the escaping party. A streak of silver catches the light and Mando realizes the Armorer is there, hammer and calipers in hand as she dispatches Deathtroopers with vicious precision and ferocity, vengeance exacted against those who held her captive. Vizsla follows behind her and the remaining covert, dodging through the wreckage as he covers their backs. He makes it to the Armorer’s helmet lying in the street, picking it up as they move. Mando can feel the adrenaline bleeding from his body, the stab wound beneath his breastplate buckling him with every step.

Of all the ways the Mandalorian expected to die, fighting side-by-side with a droid was never one of them. IG-11 was a crack shot, but there were simply too many Stormtroopers coveyed behind buildings for them to advance without being shot in the back. Mando’s gut throbs and black spots swim in front of his vision. He knew he was dying.

“You are in need of medical assistance,” IG says, peering at the Mandalorian between the laserfire. He shoots another Stormtrooper, and two more take their place.

“It’s too late for me,” the Mandalorian says miserably. Strength seeps from his body as the blackness presses in around his eyes. He can taste blood on his tongue. “Go. Get to the Crest. Tell the rest of them I’m— I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant for th-them to be hurt.”

Another explosion goes off nearby, closer than the ones before it. Mando leans his head back against the stony debris.

“I am programmed to protect you,” IG-11 says.

“There’s no way out,” Mando replies, coughing wetly. “Please, just— Keep the rest of them safe. Tell the kid I’m sorry. For everything.”

Mando had always known it would only be a matter of time before his sins caught up with him. You didn’t get to where he was in life without making mistakes, but now as he thought of the little boy in the floating cradle, he couldn’t help but wish he’d had the chance to tell him goodbye.

Another ripple sweeps through the street, shuddering the architecture, and in an instant the laser-fire sounds far away and muffled. Mando tries to turn his head to the side, and what he sees perplexes him.

The Crest was a blur behind the near transparent, blue-green bubble that had formed in a hemispherical dome over Mando and IG, the blaster-fire outside being repelled by whatever invisible force sustained it.

“What- What is that?” he chokes out.

“Ah,” says IG-11, sitting up from behind the rubble. “It appears the child is no longer safe aboard the Razor Crest.”

Paz heard the sound of the battle change first. He looks around them, then hangs out of the docking ramp to see the boy a dozen meters away with his back to them, one hand raised as he summons a force field around himself, the last Mandalorian, and the droid. Paz hollers for the others’ attention, but as soon as he tries to step off the ramp the boy’s other hand comes up, throwing him backwards and rocking the ship with a violent shake.

In the cockpit Kuiil tries to pull up on the yoke, seeing Imperial ships on the distant horizon, but the Crest remains seized in stasis. “What’s going on down there?!” he barks over his shoulder.

Vizsla rams the invisible barrier covering the open doorway with his shoulder again, all of those in the hold trying to break through. “The foundling’s blocking us in!”

Mando sees the boy concentrating fifty feet away, retaining some invisible hold on the ship and on his position next to IG-11. His allies yell somewhere distantly behind the child, and Mando realizes he’s buying them time.

“Go,” IG-11 says. “The child needs you. I can protect you until you both get to the ship.”

“Come with us,” Mando says, half using the droid for support, half pulling him along.

The droid gently pulls his arm away. A barrage of lasers and small explosions continue to hit the outside of the bubble. He hoists his gun up.

“If you assure me the child will be safe, I can revert to my original function. You must go.”

“But you’ll die,” Mando protests.

A larger explosion hits the outside of the bubble and it wavers, the child’s brow digging deeper over eyes closed in concentration. The repurposed assassin droid pushes Mando towards the boy.

“And you and the child will live, and I will have fulfilled my purpose.”

“Please,” the Mandalorian pleads. “We need you.”

“The child needs you.” The droid gently pulls his arm away, and Mando doesn’t have the energy to reach for it as the droid steps back, turning to walk in the opposite direction of the ship.

“Goodbye, Mandalorian,” IG said. “Tell Kuiil I give him my thanks.”

Another explosion hits the force field and it dissipates in shimmering ripples of blue and green. Mando’s heart rate spikes as he sees the child stumble, exhausted and exposed, and with one last burst of energy he dives through the smoke, scooping the boy up into his arms and running for the ship. Behind him the assassin droid’s voice can be heard from down the street.

“Manufacturer’s protocol dictates that I cannot be captured…”

—

A Mandalorian races with a pounding heart to his ship, leaping towards the ramp with a child curled protectively against his chest. He grabs the brace and lurches to the side as the pilot pulls up, and allies old and new reach with arms outstretched to pull them to safety inside the cargo hold.

The explosion on the streets of Nevarro sends a concussive blast rippling up through the surrounding buildings as the Razor Crest pulls away. The pitch and roll of the ship forces the survivors to brace themselves; Kuiil pulls up, firing with deadly accuracy against the Imperial ships bearing down on them. Several successive shots blast the ships apart and with a burst of acceleration Kuiil flies through the wreckage and smoke and soars skyward, leaving the destruction behind them.

Mando hears his friends cheer. Laughter and relief suffuse the hold with a warmth he hasn’t felt in years. His tribesmen and his newfound friends look over each other’s injuries, helping each other stand. The ache of his own injuries throbs with his slowing pulse, and he finally exhales a grateful sigh of relief.

The child squirms under his arm, and as Mando sits back against the bulkhead, the darkness pressing around his vision overtakes him and everything begins to fade. The last thing he feels is a small, three-fingered hand reaching up to him, slipping beneath the chin of his helmet.

Dim light filters through the helmet and someone shakes his shoulder. He couldn’t have been out long and as his blurry vision clears he can see the distressed face of the Armorer through his visor in front of him. He thinks she’s saying his name, but it still takes several long seconds for him to register her voice. The fire in his abdomen is unlike anything he’s ever felt. He’s barely clinging to life.

“Can you hear me?”

He tries for a nod, but even that sends pain through his neck and shoulders. His visor tilts down to see the child, large eyes watery and full of fear, his distressed coos tugging at the Mandalorian’s heart.

“He- He shouldn’t-t be here,” Mando croaks.

The kid crawls over his leg to perch next to his midsection. Mando’s arm feels leaden, too heavy to raise, and as he tries to sit up again he bites off a choked out yell of pain, the Armorer pushing him flat as she works to rid him of his belt and bandolier. Sweat pours from his brow and chills course through his body.

The child climbs up onto him. Mando watches as the boy moves, frantically gesturing for the Armorer to remove the fabric staunching the flow of blood beneath Mando’s breastplate. She does, swiftly following it with both breastplate and plackart to reveal the extent of the damage caused by the saber. Mando chokes in pain despite her care, his leg kicking out weakly on reflex as he writhes, vulnerability clawing at every nerve.

And then, for some unknown reason, a sense of gentle assurance washes over him like a tide. He gasps, relaxing immediately as tension releases from his chest; lost and confused, helpless to stop what comes next, he looks down at the boy.

Awake this time, Mando watches the child close his eyes in concentration; he hovers his hand over the charred, bloody wound with blackened skin lining the edges and depth of the laceration.

And over a long, tense moment we see the vicious injury begin to close up before their eyes.

Mando’s eyes prick with tears, seeing the depth of care on the child’s face. For so long he had worked to keep the boy safe, fighting off any and every assailant that dared try to take the child from him or put the boy in danger. He’d held him as he slept, picked him up when he stumbled, kept him close and loved him the only way he knew how, and now he watched as the child selflessly returned that care a hundred times over. No matter what he did in this life, Tomás knew he’d never truly be able to repay the boy for what he did.

Mando heaves a sigh of relief, the strain of survival being lifted in an instant. The boy turns, carefully coming up to his shoulders and tapping his small hand against the metal of the helmet. Before he can register what’s happening, the Armorer has joined him and has carefully cradled the sides of his helmet in her hands.

Alarm cuts through his senses and he immediately clasps her wrist, shaking his head and looking around wildly. “No- I shouldn’t- I’m fine—”

“You are in the captain’s berth,” she says, her face calm. “The child and I are the only ones here. Let us help.”

He’s shaking his head, trying to sit up, pull away, dislodge her hands without tipping the boy over, but he’s still so weak he can’t muster the strength. “I can’t— I’m not s-supposed—”

“Tomás,” the Armorer said, catching his protesting hands, and the sound of her weary voice makes him stop fighting. “I was the one who bestowed your armor. Of all the people on this vessel, I am the one best suited to help. Be still.”

The injustice of her own oath being broken by Moff Gideon weighs on his conscience to an unbearable degree. Though she remains stoic and reserved, the lines on her face are shadowed and deep, and there are still streaks of blood and tears on her skin. He can only imagine the toll it’s taken on her.

“Alor,” the Mandalorian said roughly, tears filling his own voice. “I— I’m so sorry. Please— Please forgive me.”

The Armorer sighs, her jaw working to maintain her composure, but she remains where she is with her hands on either side of his face. “You are not the cause of my pain,” she said. “Cuyir su. Be still.”

Somewhere beside him he heard a plaintive sound, accompanied by a tug on his cowl. The boy appeared in his periphery, his little face filled with concern.

Slowly, the Mandalorian lets go, and the Armorer lifts his helmet free.

The man we see is a sight older than Din Djarin, deep set wrinkles lining his face and silver hair prominent at his temples. He has the features of the father in the flashbacks, and though his brown eyes are the same, they are much more tired, and much more sad.

He starts to choke up as he looks at the Armorer. The child moves and places his small hand on the Mandalorian’s face. The Armorer watches intently, and suddenly the pain at his temple and the base of his skull abates, the wounds he’s sustained closing up.

The child sits back, exhausted, and immediately curls up to the side of the Mandalorian’s chest beneath his arm, falling asleep. Tomás looks at him in awe, gently stroking the boy’s hand with his thumb.

“So this is the one whose safety deemed such destruction,” the Armorer murmured. “I see why you thought it judicious not to return.”

Tomás cleared his throat, sitting up and cradling the child gently. “If I’d known what would happen, I- I never would have put the tribe at risk.”

“We knew what could happen if we were discovered,” she said. She stowed medical supplies in a footlocker, and Mando could see that his leg was bandaged as well, a metal washbasin with bloodied shrapnel also set to the side. “Moff Gideon is the only one to blame for all that happened on Nevarro, the danger he posed to the child included.”

There’s a beat of silence as he looks at his leader, her at the child.

“What will you do?” he asks.

She knows what he means. “I will return to Mandalore in search of the Living Waters,” she says, taking a seat nearby. “There I will seek out redemption.”

“… The Empire turned the planet to glass,” he says thickly. “How do you know they still exist?”

“I don’t,” she says simply. Her expression never changes. “But I have faith. This is the Way.”

For the first time under her leadership, he doesn’t feel like he’s permitted to echo their mantra. He still feels responsible for the desecration she experienced at the hands of the Moff, and the injustice only compounds his anger now.

“Let me help,” he says. “Let me come with you.”

“No,” she replied, taking his helmet in hand and beginning to clean it. “You have a charge to care for, and a new mission.”

“Mission?”

“Yes.” The Armorer nodded to the boy. “You must know that this is a Jedi child, yes?”

“Yes…?”

“Then you know that he must be reunited with his own kind.”

Mando’s jaw works as his eyes fill with tears once more, and he clutches the child closer to himself on reflex. He knows she sees it, but he can do nothing to curb the impulse to hold him tighter.

“… You wish for me to search the galaxy for some long-forgotten enemies— people we have never met, who may not exist— and relinquish him to them?” he asks carefully. “Enemies of the Mandalorians?”

The Armorer smiles sadly, resting a hand on his pauldron. “The child of our enemies found safety in you.”

Tomás has to look away from her as his emotions war on his face, his breathing stilted and harsh as he tries to keep them under control.

“Their kind were enemies at one time,” she says. “But the both of us have a common enemy in the Empire. The truth of the matter is that the boy is capable of more than either of us understand, and there are those who would stop at nothing to use him for what he can do. He needs training we cannot provide. Without it, he will not survive.”

The Mandalorian sagged, hearing her say what he knew out loud. He looked at the little boy in his arms, still stroking his fingers with his thumb as the boy slept.

“He may already have a family, Tomás,” she says gently. “It would be an injustice to keep him from them, should they be looking.”

“And if he doesn’t?” he demands. He’s trying to temper his reflexive impulse to protest but the weight and warmth of the child in his arms is making it difficult not to object.

The Armorer watches him silently, though not unkindly. He can’t muster the will to face her.

“… This child is a foundling,” she says with finality, standing. She sets his helmet beside him and goes to the door. “Until it is of age or is reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.”

Mando jerks his head back to her, watching her with a look of confusion and, perhaps, hope.

“We will be landing soon,” she says. “Where you go after this will be up to you.”

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kiame-sama · 6 months ago

Text

Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 23

(Jade and Floyd are bioluminescent in darkness, so their scales often glitter and draw in too curious fish. Floyd is an extremely skilled hunter and often uses his Leiomano to fight with larger predators in close combat because he enjoys the thrill of the hunt. Jade usually lets his bioluminescence or his brother bring in the food and is less willing to fight a predator one on one even with his Harpoon. When fighting together, Jade and Floyd are both very skilled at playing off of one another and can easily overwhelm a larger predator.)

Warnings; RSA boys vs NRC boys, photoshoot, trying to rizz the Human ending poorly, Grim is a little shit to almost everyone except for his Hooman, mention of ill-tempered dragon, intentional sabotage of rizz, yanderes vs yanderes, Design Team and Guard Team alliance against Newcomers Team, protective behavior, sweet behavior, angry birds, Harpies, Merman, Drider, Hellcat, Water Nymph, Tree Nymph, Gnoll, Werewolf, Bakeneko, Nemean Lion, Shinigami,

~~~~~~~~

"So, why do we have to go to Pomefiore for this?"

"Because, mon Trickster, it has been storming since your departure to Savanaclaw. The grounds are too wet and muddy to take photos."

You frowned, looking out at the storm that was raging as Rook walked up to the Pomefiore mirror. Some of the storm was likely Malleus' doing, but there was no way he had kept the storm going for this long, right? That would take an unnatural amount of strength and energy to keep a storm going for days on end.

"Is it just rainy weather or is there something else happening?"

"Well," Vil cut in, flanking Rook and ensuring to keep the RSA students at an arm's length, "the storm started right after you joined Leona in Savanaclaw and hasn't stopped since then. Odds are a certain Dragon is throwing a fit."

The second after Vil's words, a large bolt of lightning struck the spires of the school nearby, making even Vil ruffle his feathers up. The lightning seemed to be throwing off all the students that passed by your group, and you stared out once more. You couldn't help but notice that the lightning has a bright green tint to it.

"Will we be able to do the Spelldrive Tournament if it keeps raining?"

"I assume that Crow will make Malleus calm down or you have to spend the night prior to the Spelldrive with Diasomnia to calm him down enough so the field is dry. I don't relish playing in the mud or getting soaked to the bone in this weather."

Rook entered the mirror with you, the others following suit and it was clear the RSA students were a bit thrown off by the mirror and the lovely sunny weather awaiting them in the Pomefiore dorm. You had only been to Pomefiore a few times when you were being fitted for clothes so it was nice to be at the dorm for a different reason. The many apple trees seemed to stretch out around the large iron gates of the dorm as they slowly swung open to allow your group entry.

Any students nearby were quick to bow their heads to Vil and back away, not wanting to earn the Harpy's ire when he had been in a mildly decent mood despite his pouting earlier in the week. It was clear the lush gardens of the dorm were awaiting your group as several students milled about with copious amounts of photography equipment. From different scale cameras to various sized lenses, even to large flash bulbs for lighting, it seemed a much more involved process than you had anticipated.

Leona caught on quickly to the less than excited way you stared at the many cameras and huffed lightly. He seemed amused by your lack of enthusiasm with the pending events.

"You know, Mousey, you don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"Yes, Leona, I do have to. The best way to combat the one negative photo would be a lot of positive photos instead. So I do have to do this. For me, for Cater, and so I can stay here at Night Raven."

The Lion hummed and frowned at the many students who had begun to race around, trying to get everything in place. You were a bit lost as to the finer details of the photoshoot but figured Vil knew what he was doing. It was then the almost sweet voice of the Harpy Neige spoke up cooing gently as his feathers fluffed.

"Wow, Vil! This is amazing. I always knew you were a high-tier Magicam model, but it is so cool to see the things you have at your disposal for it. Usually Hop or Grum take photos for my magicam. I've only seen commercials and movies with this much production."

"I wouldn't expect anything more from you. Luckily for us, I do know the best cameras for our little photoshoot. Now, hush, the professionals are working."

Ruggie was the one to help you off of the Drider's back, Grim actually jumping to his arms to avoid the many cameras now pointed in your direction. Vil frowned somewhat at the preference the Hellcat showed to the Lion's dormmates before he gently grabbed your arm, pulling you to what seemed to be the center of the setup. With a clap of his hands, several Pomefiore students began to crowd you as they tried to fix up your hair and add makeup they felt would match you best. Vil was spearheading the efforts, using his own magic to change your outfit to that of a comfortable sun dress that reminded you somewhat of the Pomefiore uniform.

"Sorry, could ya- ah, I mean, could you look up for me?"

The student standing in front of you was the same plant-looking effeminate one that had shown up with Vil and Rook at the beginning of the week. He seemed more uncomfortable than the others despite matching the general theme and vibe of the dorm better than the others. You smiled and did as asked, taking interest in the lovely plant man.

"You don't have to talk all fancy around me. I won't get mad at you for it."

"I wish but- ahem- however, Housewarden Vil said it is a rule to talk like this "

"I don't like that rule."

"Honestly? Ah don't like it much either, makes no sense ta-"

Vil sharply cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes at you and the plant man in warning. The plant man sighed and almost seemed to try and straighten up despite how uncomfortable it made him seem.

"Epel, I know you would not be callous enough to revert to your 'charming' accent when I have specifically instructed everyone to be on their best behavior and mind their manners."

"Of course not, Housewarden Vil, I was just..."

Before the plant-man- Epel, according to Vil- could continue his sentence, another voice cut in. You weren't as familiar with the voice but recognized the almost too kind tone of Erikír, the Merman prince.

"Careful, plant Nymph, no need to be rude or so dreadfully 'country' in front of fairer company."

You frowned at this, glancing at the grinning Merman who seemed to have no issue judging Epel right off the bat. Something about his tone made it seem like he intended it to be light-hearted and playful, but you couldn't help but take it as rude. Sure, Vil similarly griped at Epel, but it was Vil's duty as Housewarden to scold him. It was not Erikír's duty to do the same.

"Mind yourself, Prince Erikír, I asked him to speak in a comfortable way around me. Do not presume to scold a student not your own for a request I made."

Erikír seemed surprised by your tone and how clipped it had become before he bowed his head, conceding to your wishes. He almost seemed to have a slight grimace but his expression quickly smoothed back into a pleasant smile. That small lapse in behavior had you wondering about Erikír and if he had ulterior motives behind volunteering to guard you. It made you wonder about all of the RSA students.

"My apologies, fair (Y/n). I did not intend to offend."

"It is Vil's place and duty to keep his dormmates in line with the rules of their dorm. It is not your place nor your duty to do the same."

Erikír somewhat winced at your reprimand but Vil was absolutely beaming in pride. He had a clear smirk curling the corners of his lips as he sneered at the visiting student with his crest fully raised. You had half a mind to scold Vil as well, but figured you got your point across as Epel very carefully applied eye-liner to your lower lid. If anything, Epel actually seemed amused with your quick snap at Erikír and seemed much more relaxed around you now.

"There. I'd say it looks darn good- urk-! I mean- you- it looks nice on you. I mean- you always look nice-!"

You chuckled and caught Epel's hand as he stumbled over his words, holding the rough bark-covered limb in your own. The flowers that adorned the leaves making up his hair seemed to all bloom the moment you held his hand and smiled at him. It was clear Epel couldn't find the words to say what he wanted and was rendered almost mute by your friendly behavior towards him.

"Thank you, Epel, you've done a wonderful job."

"Aw, shucks, it ain't all that big a deal... I mean-!"

"I know. I think you should let your accent shine, it is very endearing."

"Sure..."

You could have sworn the Nymph would be blushing if he didn't have bark for skin and sap for blood. Vil was quick to sweep you away from the other Pomefiore students and towards the cameras, where he gave you a thrilled smile and spun you once to get a good look at you. He seemed pleased with what he saw as he nodded to the students behind the cameras.

"Alright, don't worry too much about posing at first, this is a 'casual' and 'natural' photoshoot, so just do what feels natural to you. Feel free to pull any of us into the photos if you wish, I will do my best to compose the photos and may ask for certain poses later as we continue the shoot."

"So I can make you pose for photos too?"

"Of course. I would certainly value any prints we get of the two of us together, but you may wish to pull Rook and even Leona in for a few pictures."

You nodded at this, letting Vil move you around and somewhat pose with you for the first few photos. He genuinely seemed happy to help you into typical model poses, a look of amusement and affection for your attempts to pose with him. How he valued those little moments guiding you as you trusted him to lead you through the casual steps he had long perfected.

All too soon it was over and Vil felt a kind of burning jealousy in his throat as you turned to the others who had mostly agreed to join this little event. Vil pulled away first to allow you to move on despite how he wanted to linger. You were keen to see how the softer Harpy would handle being in the photos with you.

You didn't notice the way Vil bristled and let out a low hissing sound as you gently pulled the smaller Harpy towards you. Neige was much more relaxed with the attention than you expected as he happily posed with you and smiled to the cameras that had yet to stop clicking and flashing. He even managed to get a chuckle from you as he cooed softly and seemed to cuddle up against you.

Like Vil, he led you through the different poses easily and made you feel comfortable around him. It was when he began a small somewhat dance of poses with you that Vil almost screamed in anger, clearly upset at the idea of anyone dancing with you, let alone this feathered rat-with-wings Dove. How dare he try to do something so inherently linked with Harpies? Even if they were just poses and not technically an actual dance, it made no difference to Vil.

Thankfully, Rook managed to keep Vil from leaping at the smaller Harpy. The Drider saw how you smiled and enjoyed the little dance with the ever lovely Dove Harpy he adored, knowing Neige intended it as a friendly interaction and not the beginning of intimacy as Vil perceived it to be. What did raise Rook's suspicion was how Erikír refused to take his eyes off of you even once, his blue orbs following you closely with every move you made.

"Vil, how about you join Neige and I for these next few photos?"

"If I may," Erikír interjected, stepping forward with a hand to his heart as he smiled warmly at you, "may I cut in for a little bit? Surely the presence of several species would lend credence to these photos?"

"Alright, that makes sense."

Erikír was quick to take his place by your side, almost brushing past Neige who happily stepped aside to let the merman approach instead. The Merman gently held your hands and spun you around in his hold, letting your back press against his chest as he moved in a slow progression of poses. Most of the poses he chose involved holding you in some way or having a hand resting on your soft figure as he seemed to almost enjoy the poses a bit too much.

As he moved you to a different pose, you noticed the way he was almost insistent about placing his hands on your stomach, his entire chest pressed against your back as he held you from behind. You were becoming a bit uncomfortable and it must have showed in your expression as Leona suddenly cut in, easily shoving the prince back and away from you as the Lion mimicked the same pose from earlier, only his hands remained on your hips and not your stomach. A soft growl escaped his lips as he glared at the prince who frowned angrily in response.

"Keep your hands in respectable places, little Prince."

The word Prince was spat out and almost hissed as if in mocking to the Merman who had been somewhat monopolizing the pictures in front of the cameras. Leona's words confused you though, and you glanced back at him curiously.

"Respectable places?"

"Don't worry about it, Mousey. I know Humans considered touching stomachs to be a provocative act. I won't let this rude little fish make you uncomfortable."

"... What? You guys do know I don't consider my stomach an erogenous zone... Right?"

It was Leona's turn to be surprised as he raised a brow at you, his scar pulling taut on his skin. He seemed confused as did the others and you sighed, realizing they must have made assumptions again about Humans as a whole.

"Sure, not every Human is okay with their stomachs being touched, and some- especially pregnant women- hate when someone touches their stomach uninvited. But that is an issue with consent, not overtly considered to be sexual behavior because it is their stomach."

Still, if all of them assumed stomachs were an overly sexualized location on Humans, then that meant Erikír was trying to sexualize you. If not sexualize you, then he was attempting to be overly sexual with you. That simply would not stand, even for poses.

"That, however, does not mean it is okay for anyone to touch me without permission. Ever."

"My apologies, I didn't intend-"

"Oh? You didn't intend? If everyone of you assumes my stomach is sexual in nature, then why the hell did you feel alright touching me there?"

"I- I just-"

"You 'just' what? Thought it was okay to cross any boundary you thought existed because you felt like it?"

"No! Not at all! Please, believe me, I was not trying to make you uncomfortable or do anything inappropriate."

"I don't think you need to be in any further pictures, Erikír."

"But I-! Very well. I apologize again for any discomfort I have caused you. I merely intended to befriend you."

"Well, you aren't doing a very good job at that."

You saw the Merman visibly jolt as if he had been struck by your words. A kind of look glinted in his eyes as he seemed to anger for a moment before suddenly calming himself down. He withdrew somewhat from the others and you gave one final glare before continuing to pose with Leona now, who kept his eyes glued to the offending Merman with clear distrust.

Erikír was fuming on the inside, glaring hatefully at the Lion that had outed his more than friendly behavior towards you. If the Lion had not said a word about it, you would have clearly been unaware of the implications of the Merman. He was trying so hard to charm and woo you, yet you came to the defense of the villains every time instead of seeing him as the hero he was supposed to be.

A poisonous feeling of resentment towards the villainous students boiled in the pit of his stomach. You had allowed Neige of all students to dance with you, why was Erikír the one being shunned? He was top of his class and was clearly a physically capable mate, so why choose that obnoxiously kind Harpy and nosey Lion over him?

He would just have to try harder to prove himself a worthy mate by any means necessary.

"Hey!"

A loud and familiar childish voice cut in to the photos you were taking with Leona, glancing over to see Ortho and Idia walking up to the group. Ortho was bouncing excitedly and held out the mechanical skull you recognized as the one Kalim had affected with his magic. It seemed Idia had managed to ensure it wouldn't explode and now sought to return the Skull to you.

"Nee-san! Idi-nii and I checked over and double checked to make sure it was safe!"

The little Shinigami was quick to bolt to your side and the ever nervous Idia followed suit at a much more timid pace than the younger. Idia was visibly distressed by the new faces and seemed to shrink in on himself as Ortho happily handed over the Skull. Though it had appeared inert in his hands, it sparked to life when you touched it and a soothing melody hummed out.

The return of familiar music was incredibly soothing to you and you smiled, humming along with the music as you gently ruffled the flame-hair of the littler Shinigami. Ortho was thrilled at the gentle touch and pressed his head into your hand, his blue flames feeling like gently warmed hair beneath your fingers instead of burning you. It was an unusual feeling, but one you appreciated regardless and it told you about the general nature of Idia and Ortho's hair.

"Thank you, Ortho, Idia. I appreciate the two of you quite a bit."

Idia smiled at this, his cheeks flaming a gentle blue as his hair began to take a somewhat magenta hue. He swayed back and forth as he bit his sleeve and looked away bashfully, clearly soaking up the praise you gave him.

"You don't have to be so sweet about it. It wasn't even that big a deal or that much work. I built them myself, so of course I could tell if anything was out of place. But if you want, you could thank me by gaming with Ortho and I a bit."

"Or," you playfully interjected, "you two can join me for some pictures for my new Magicam account."

Idia visibly balked at the idea and seemed to search for an immediate escape, unable to feel as Ortho grabbed his arm.

"Of course we'll take pictures with you, Nee-san! Papa Hades is gonna love them!"

"No! Wait, wait, wait! You can't spring a raid on me like this, Ortho! I didn't even get a ready check-!"

"Let's go!"

You laughed at the brotherly behavior of the two Shinigami, continuing to hum with the music as it felt like you had been given a great gift. Perhaps you could even get Vil interested in a few of the songs you loved so much. Even Grim seemed to be enjoying the little photoshoot as he leaped out of Ruggie's arms and into your own, posing excitedly with Ortho.

Even among the renewed mirth and pulling several of the other monsters into the pictures with you, a certain darkness seemed to hover over one of the students. This monster had lived his entire life hoping he could come across some lonely and adoring Human that he could wed and keep as his own. He was not going to let these villains get in between him and his dream, even if he needed to make one of the others the monster in order to do that.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #humans are extinct twst au

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hannibals-favourite-meal · 8 months ago

Text

.⋆｡Of The Wilds｡⋆.

Robb Stark x plus size reader

Robb forgets his roots, his wife guides him back

Warnings: Robb lives au, fluff, smut but not greatly described, mention of war and arranged marriage, public sex WC: 1.3k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

The change in the air was thick, like a blanket of fog settling over Winterfell. And with it came the responsibility of winter. Robb had seen his father bear this burden and now it was his to carry. Stoke up the stores of dried meats from the autumn hunts, ensure the battlements were armed, the townsfolk had adequate wood for their hearths, and make sure that what remained of his family would be warm and fed for what he was expecting to be the longest winter the North had experienced since his forefathers. At least he would not have to journey to what remained of the wall.

He constantly questioned if he was doing things correctly, if he was doing enough. The cold nipped at his soul, a warning of what was to come and what would happen if he failed. Jon and Sana offered their help but Robb refused. He wanted them to recover and enjoy the last freedom they would get until the snows slowed and the sun returned.

“You’re going to work yourself to death before winter is really here.”

“I will rest when everything is done.” He replied, earning him an indigent huff.

“You are being stubborn, my king.” His quill stopped. He could almost feel your smirk.

“I am doing my duty, there’s a difference.” The smell of lavender invaded his senses as you curled yourself around his shoulders, as did the hint of wine upon your breath. Your soft hands delved into the cut of his shirt, seeking out the warmth of his body so shamelessly it made a longing begin to stir in his gut.

Your lips fit perfectly into the crook of his neck, kissing softly at the small scar right by his pulse. “What about your duty as a husband?” He suppressed a shiver when your touch travelled lower.

“I would say that I fulfilled that this morning.” Your nails dug into his stomach and Robb couldn’t help but release a groan. You smiled against his skin, pressing your soft body as close as you could to your husband’s back.

“That was yesterday my love, dawn will break soon. You need to get out of this room, for my sake at least.” You pulled back, keeping contact with his skin until the tips of your fingers rested at the nape of his neck. Suddenly, the chill of the room seemed much colder. Robb finally turned to face you.

The horizon was lined with a pale pink, illuminating your figure just so that he could see the outline of your curves through your night dress. Your eyes were bleary with exhaustion but your smile was just as bright as it had ever been. Just as it had been on your wedding day; in the mud of a field in the South, right before his army stormed King’s Landing. Something throbbed in his chest.

“Come.” You ordered, holding out a hand for him to take. He slipped from his seat and the warmth returned to his bones. The halls of Winterfell were still sleeping as you led him down past the tapestries and stones. Robb knew he should turn you down, that he still had so much left to do but the feeling of your hand in his, the way that you moved, all he wanted to do was drag you into bed and make due on his promises.

Robb’s brows pulled together as you guided him towards the narrow staircase he knew led outside. “And where are you taking me, wife?” You just looked back at him and smiled.

It was colder at the bottom of the stairs, little flakes of snow drifted in from where the heavy wooden door had been propped open by a familiar paw. Robb could’ve scoffed as you pulled the door open the rest of the way, revealing the light grey fur of what was supposed to be his loyal companion.

“I thought I had ordered that he was to remain in the kennels at night.” Greywind’s tail thumped against the snow as you stroked the top of his great head, almost looking sheepish.

“You said that yes but you seem to forget that I am queen, and more importantly, he is a very good boy.” The direwolf stood and walked off into the snow, glancing back at you a couple times as he followed the path to the Godswood. Robb looked at you just in time to see you pull two fur cloaks from behind a wood pile.

“How long have you been planning this?” He asked, taking the offered cloak from your hand with a playful scowl.

The fur wrapped around your shoulders, concealing your body from Robb’s hungry gaze. He shook off the snowflakes from his curls and followed suit. “How do you think I got everyone to leave you alone today?”

“Sansa.” He answered, now acutely aware of how his little sister had been steadily stealing some of his duties for the past week. Your fingers tangled with his once more.

The dark silhouettes of the trees called to him, a wolf’s howl that he was compelled to return. And though the sky was growing lighter, there was no colour that accompanied the sun, leaving the King and Queen of the North wandering the still landscape as if in a dream. Greywind vanished between the branches and trunks, his footsteps creating a trail for them to follow.

Robb was grateful that his wife remained silent as you walked, as much as he loved you and worshipped you, you were a symptom of what rested upon his shoulders. Your marriage, while now carved from love, was originally from duty— your father had an army and you had support. Your children would be princes and princesses, the legacy of your house would be carved into stone rather than paper.

Your touch kept him grounded, your voice the sound of reason, your smile the guiding light through the storm of politics and war. He let you pull him through the woods until the familiar sight of the Godswood revealed itself to you.

You came to a stop at the base of the great tree, where Greywind was already waiting for you both, his blue eyes observing you with a human understanding. The snow shifted as you turned to Robb. “What are we doing here so early in the morn?”

“You’ve forgotten yourself, Robb Stark. You have conquered Westeros, paved the path for a new, fair dynasty. You’ve defeated the strongest and most well-armed army that has ever existed using only your wits and your charm.” Your grip on his hand tightened and you stepped closer. Your breath fogged up between you. “You became Warden of the North, then King. You helped the right woman regain her throne while giving freedom to your people.”

Your cold hand cupped his jaw, stroking the stubble that he let grow far longer than he should’ve. “But above all of that; you are a Stark. A wolf, a man who upholds his vows. You were forged from the winter and ice yet you blaze like dragon fire for those you love and I find myself so lucky that I get to be one of those rare few. So, we are here to remind you of just who you are.”

The kiss began slowly, your lips brushing against his but when Robb grabbed your wide hip with a crushing grip heat exploded within you. His tongue licked at your bottom lip as you both sank to your knees. You planted a hand upon his shoulder, encouraging him to lay back but Robb refused to budge, instead he gently laid you down, the fur keeping the snow from freezing your body.

Your legs parted, letting your husband nestle his hips against yours. You undid the ties of his trousers with an adeptness that betrayed your desperation. “So needy my love? One might think you enjoy being taken in the snow like an animal.”

“Like a wolf.” You moaned back, letting out a gasp as he breached you. Pleasure shot up his spine.

Robb rut into you like a dog, desperate, wild, right. It felt so raw but he couldn’t stop, he wouldn’t, because you were right. This was who he is. You pulled him closer, your lips fitting to his ear.

“My wolf.” Your cries vanished into the dawn.

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moonselune · 9 months ago

Note

How about the girlies with a druid tav who acts like the animal they often shift to like a cat just finding random places to laze around or sleep yk 'if it fits I sits'. Birb collecting shiny things, dog tilting their head and being easily distracted. Tav in human form acting like a cat is just giving the best vibes. Tav seeing a random open box and just sitting in it then dozing off has me rolling haha

omg i literally love this so much !!

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

The sun was high in the sky, casting warm light over the rolling fields where you and Karlach had been spending the afternoon training. It was supposed to be a routine day—tracking drills, sparring, a bit of scouting. But as a druid, your way of training often involved shifting into different animals to make the most of your natural abilities. Today, you had taken on the form of a bloodhound, your favorite for hunting down tracks and practicing your scenting skills.

Karlach, as usual, had been more than eager to spar and train alongside you. Her energy was contagious, her fiery spirit burning bright even during something as mundane as drills. But you had noticed something about Karlach—something playful in the way she interacted with you when you were in your animal form. Especially when you shifted back to your human shape.

You had just finished running down the scent of some game you’d picked up in the forest, nose to the ground, tail wagging. The moment you caught the trail, you raced ahead, your paws thudding against the dirt, and found the spot where the animal had passed. Karlach whistled, grinning from ear to ear as you skidded to a halt.

"That's my girl! Good job!" she called, her voice full of praise. "Come back here."

You shifted back to your human form, still breathless from the sprint, your chest heaving as you wiped the dirt from your hands. But as you approached Karlach, you felt that familiar tug of something instinctual still lingering in you. Your ears twitched, even though they were no longer dog ears, and you couldn’t shake the desire to return to her with your find, as if you were still that bloodhound.

Karlach noticed, of course. She always did.

"That was pretty good!" she said, tossing a ball she’d pulled from her pack up in the air, catching it effortlessly. “But I think you need a little more speed. Let’s do a quick sprint drill.”

You eyed the ball warily, the scent of leather filling your nostrils. The sight of it made your heart race in a way that had little to do with training and more to do with the part of your mind that was still stuck in that canine mindset. Karlach had this knowing smile on her lips, but you didn’t quite catch on at first.

She wound up her arm and launched the ball into the distance. Instinct took over. Without thinking, you bolted after it, your legs moving in a blur as you sprinted across the field. The wind rushed through your hair, and for a split second, you felt completely free. You skidded to a stop as you snatched the ball up, holding it proudly before sprinting back to Karlach.

“Nice job!” Karlach beamed at you, her voice full of laughter. “You’re getting faster.”

You handed her the ball, not quite realizing yet what she was doing. Her hand brushed yours as she took it, and for a moment, you caught the warmth in her eyes, the playful spark. She tossed the ball into the air again, casually, as if thinking out loud.

"How about we try that again? Just one more for good measure."

Without hesitation, she threw it again, and again, you were off. Your mind was half-aware now, starting to piece together what was happening. But the thrill of the chase, the simple joy of it, was intoxicating. You snatched up the ball and raced back, your chest burning but your heart still pounding with excitement.

By the third time, you caught the ball and paused, panting heavily, staring at it in your hands. Slowly, you looked back at Karlach, who was standing there, arms crossed, grinning wide as if she had just won a secret game. The realization hit you all at once.

This wasn’t a "training drill." This was fetch.

You blinked, incredulous, before narrowing your eyes at Karlach, who had the audacity to chuckle when she saw the look on your face.

“Oh,” you muttered, still catching your breath. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Karlach held up her hands, mock-innocent. "What? I’m just making sure you’re quick on your feet!"

You could see through her little ruse now. All the signs were there—the way she had been egging you on, the suspiciously casual way she had pulled out the ball, the grin she wore every time you returned to her.

With a low growl, you dropped the ball and launched yourself at her, tackling her to the ground. Karlach let out a playful yelp, laughing as she hit the grass beneath you. Her arms came up to wrap around you as you pinned her, your weight pressing her into the earth.

“Oh, I messed up, didn’t I?” she laughed, eyes twinkling with mischief as she grinned up at you.

“Training drills, huh?” you huffed, still out of breath, but unable to hold back your smile. “You were playing fetch with me.”

Karlach grinned even wider, not even trying to deny it now.

“Well, you’re such a good girl! How could I resist?” She winked at you, clearly delighted with her antics and you shoved down the emotions that bubbled up inside you when she called you a good girl.

You shook your head, feeling the laughter rise up despite yourself. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Karlach’s hands slid up to your sides, her touch warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. “Impossible, maybe. But you love me for it, don’t you?”

You couldn’t argue with that. Despite the teasing, despite her antics, there was something about Karlach that always made you feel more alive, more yourself—whether you were in human form or as a bloodhound.

Leaning down, you pressed your forehead to hers, your breath mingling with hers as you smiled softly.

“Maybe I do,” you murmured. “But don’t think you’re getting away with this again.”

Karlach let out a laugh, her arms tightening around you. “We’ll see about that. But admit it—you had fun.”

You couldn’t deny that either. The joy of the chase, the thrill of the sprint—it was fun. But what made it better was Karlach. Always Karlach. With a playful growl, you kissed her, capturing her laughter in your lips as you held her close.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

The night was calm, the crackle of the campfire filling the stillness with a warm, steady rhythm. Minthara sat by the fire, her eyes focused intently on the battle plans laid out before her. The parchment was covered in precise markings and strategies, illuminated by the flickering flames. She was in her element—methodical, calculating, and completely engrossed in her work.

You, however, were feeling something entirely different.

After a long day of scouting and sneaking around in your feline form, you had shifted back to your usual self, but not without retaining some of those lingering feline tendencies. It happened sometimes. The fluidity of movement, the heightened senses, and, occasionally, the overwhelming desire for comfort in the least convenient of places.

Minthara looked quite comfortable where she sat, perched on a smooth boulder with her legs crossed, completely absorbed in her work. The fire roaring in front of her. There wasn’t much room in her lap, not really—but it was a lap, and the cat in you wanted nothing more than to curl up in it.

You moved closer, silently at first, hoping to sneak in without interrupting her. The firelight cast soft shadows across your face as you neared her, and for a brief moment, Minthara didn’t seem to notice your approach. But, of course, she did. Her sharp instincts wouldn’t allow anything less.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught your movement and immediately frowned. “

No,” she said firmly, her eyes narrowing. “There’s no room.”

You didn’t stop.

Minthara’s frown deepened as she returned her gaze to the battle plans, clearly trying to refocus. “I said no.”

But you ignored her again, your instincts driving you to keep moving closer. You could fit. You would fit.

She looked up once more, this time with more insistence. “I am not some cushion for you to lounge upon. This is important.”

But her words fell on deaf ears as you finally reached her, carefully navigating your way into her lap, despite the lack of space. It was a bit of a squeeze, admittedly, but you were determined. You wriggled and shifted, moving from side to side, adjusting until you could curl up just right.

Minthara let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You are utterly insufferable.”

You simply gave her a satisfied hum in response, continuing to squirm until you found the perfect position. Once you were nestled comfortably, you settled against her, your head resting on her chest, your body snug against her armor. There. Perfect.

Minthara, despite her earlier protests, didn’t push you away. Her free hand, the one not holding the battle plans, instinctively moved to your hair, her fingers sliding through it gently, as though she had resigned herself to this fate.

“I don’t know why I tolerate this,” she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with begrudging affection.

You practically purred in response, a soft sound of contentment escaping your lips as you closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of her body against yours. Minthara’s fingers continued to comb through your hair, slow and deliberate, almost absentminded as she shifted her attention back to her plans.

Despite her stern exterior, you knew there was a tenderness in her that she seldom showed to anyone. A softness that only you seemed to coax out of her, even in moments like this, when she was focused on her duties.

As the fire crackled in front of you both and the night settled in, you felt yourself drifting in and out of a peaceful haze. You could hear Minthara muttering to herself occasionally as she examined her plans, her fingers still tangled in your hair. It was a quiet, intimate moment, one where her sharpness met your playfulness and somehow balanced into something that felt just right.

“Next time,” Minthara said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, “there will be no sitting in my lap when I am working.”

You smiled lazily, your eyes half-closed.

“Of course,” you murmured, though both of you knew that the next time would be no different.

Minthara shook her head, but there was a ghost of a smile on her lips as she continued her work, her hand never leaving your hair.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

You shifted back into your human form, the familiar sensation of bones and feathers returning to skin and flesh. The transformation left you momentarily dizzy, but you quickly regained your balance, shaking off the brief disorientation. Being a bird for hours, scouting the surrounding area, had become second nature to you, and with that form came certain habits you hadn’t entirely shaken off.

Your eyes immediately darted down to your hand, a grin forming as you revealed your latest prize—a small, glinting object that had caught your eye during your flight. It was a silver buckle, not entirely dissimilar to the dozens of other trinkets you had already found, but its smooth surface and the way the light reflected off it made it irresistible. Without a second thought, you strode towards Lae'zel, who was sharpening her sword by the fire, her usual sharp gaze focused on her weapon.

"Look what I found!" you said, holding the shiny buckle out towards her with an eager smile.

Lae’zel barely looked up at first, her frown deepening as if she already knew what was coming. She glanced at the buckle, her amber eyes narrowing slightly.

"And what use is that?" she asked, her voice carrying the usual bite of impatience.

You shrugged playfully, still holding the trinket towards her. "It’s shiny."

Lae'zel huffed, setting her sword down and turning her full attention to you. She snatched the buckle from your hand, inspecting it briefly before tossing it aside into one of her pouches—likely the one she had reserved for your growing collection of 'useless junk.'

"You bring me these worthless baubles as if I have any need for them," she grumbled, though her tone was softer than usual. "If you cannot bring me something useful, I will throw it all away. Understand?"

You nodded, though you both knew that wasn't entirely true. Lae'zel had been saying that for weeks now, but each time, she would tuck the shiny objects away, muttering about how she would discard them later. Yet, every time you checked, the pouches were still full, brimming with an odd assortment of things—coins, polished stones, broken arrowheads, bits of metal.

You didn’t need her to admit it, but there was something almost endearing about her reluctance to actually throw them away.

"Well, sometimes I bring useful things," you teased, reaching into your bag and pulling out a dagger you had found during one of your scouting trips. "See? This one is sharp."

Lae'zel raised an eyebrow, clearly more impressed by the weapon. She examined it closely, turning the blade over in her hand before giving a small, approving nod.

"This," she said, "is acceptable. You should bring more things like this."

You smirked, enjoying her small display of approval. "I can't help it," you said, settling down beside her. "The shiny things just call to me."

"Like a bird," she muttered, not unkindly, her eyes flicking back to you with a look of mild exasperation. "You shift into a bird for hours, and then you return with nonsense. It is as if you have forgotten what it means to be grounded."

You chuckled, leaning your head against her shoulder. "Maybe I have. But I like bringing you things, even if you say they’re nonsense."

Lae'zel didn't respond right away. Instead, she resumed sharpening her sword, though her movements were slower, more deliberate. You could feel the warmth of her beside you, the steadiness of her presence calming the lingering excitement from your flight.

After a long moment, she sighed. "Next time, bring something I can use in battle. Not… a bottle cap."

"I’ll try," you promised, though you knew full well you’d likely still come back with another useless trinket alongside the weapons or arrows. Lae'zel paused, glancing at you again, her gaze softer this time.

"I do not understand your fascination with these things," she admitted quietly, "but you are… persistent. And though I do not need them, I will… keep them, for now."

A smile tugged at your lips, and you nudged her playfully. "You like them."

Lae'zel scoffed, but there was no real venom behind it. "Do not test me, druid. I tolerate this foolishness for now."

You chuckled, knowing full well she wouldn’t actually throw them away. The pouches full of shiny objects—your small, odd gifts—were still there, and deep down, you suspected that despite her words, she found some strange comfort in them. They were part of you, and for all her talk of battle and strength, Lae’zel had a softer side, one that you had slowly but surely started to uncover.

As she resumed sharpening her sword, you leaned back against her, your fingers grazing the edge of the pouch where your collection of trinkets now rested. For a moment, the two of you sat there in silence, the crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of Lae'zel's movements the only sounds in the camp.

"I'll bring you something even shinier next time," you whispered mischievously.

Lae'zel just sighed, shaking her head, though you could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Whatever, love."

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart sat by the campfire, meticulously polishing her armor after a long day of travel and battle. Her face, illuminated by the flickering flames, was calm but focused, eyes narrowed in concentration as she worked. The quiet hum of the evening surrounded her, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant chirping of crickets.

You, on the other hand, were still feeling the residual energy from your last shift. In the heat of battle, you had taken the form of a serpent, slithering through the chaos with lethal precision. The thrill of it still hummed in your veins, and even though you had shifted back into your human form, the snake-like tendencies lingered—just as they always did.

As you approached Shadowheart, her back turned to you, you couldn’t help the sly smile that crept across your face. There was something about the way she sat there, so focused, so collected, that made you want to unravel her composure, even if just a little.

Without a word, you came up behind her and slowly, deliberately, wrapped your arms around her shoulders, your body pressing close to hers. Shadowheart’s hands froze for a moment, her grip tightening on the armor she was polishing.

“Again?” she sighed, her tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Can’t you ever just approach like a normal person?”

But even as she spoke, there was no resistance in her posture. She knew what was coming.

You smirked, leaning in to press your cheek against hers. “Where’s the fun in that?”

With slow, fluid movements, you let your arms snake around her, mimicking the way your serpent form would coil around its prey. You squeezed her lightly, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that she felt the pressure, locking her against you. It was an old habit now—this need to wrap yourself around her, to feel her close, like you did in your more serpentine moments.

Shadowheart let out a small, breathy laugh, her head tilting slightly as she glanced at you out of the corner of her eye.

“You know, I have things to do,” she said, though there was no real edge to her words.

You gave a mock pout, squeezing her a little tighter, your arms locking her in place. “Do you have to? I think you’re perfectly fine right here.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t try to pull away. “I can’t very well get anything done when you do this,” she pointed out, her voice light but teasing. “And you’re forgetting something important.”

“Oh?” you asked, shifting slightly so that your arms tightened around her waist. “What might that be?”

Her hand came up to rest over yours, giving a gentle tug as she turned her head to look at you more fully.

“That I need to breathe,” she said, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. You blinked, pretending to act surprised.

“Breathing is important, I suppose,” you said, though you didn’t loosen your grip right away. Instead, you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against her neck as you spoke in a low, teasing tone. “But you do look quite lovely all tangled up like this.”

Shadowheart sighed, her tone feigning annoyance but laced with affection. “You’re impossible.”

She shifted beneath your grip, trying to regain some semblance of mobility, but you held her fast, your arms curling around her even tighter. You loved the feel of her warmth beneath your touch, the way she would sigh and lean into you even as she protested. It was a need, a craving to feel her close, to wrap yourself around her like the serpent you so often became, your body and mind still echoing the instincts of your wild shape.

But Shadowheart, as always, was sharp. She gave your hand another squeeze, this time more pointed.

“Come on,” she whispered, her voice dropping lower as she leaned her head back slightly against your shoulder. “I really do have work to finish.”

You groaned playfully, loosening your grip just a little but still keeping her close. “Can’t it wait? Just for a little while?”

Her smile softened at that, and she turned her head so that her lips brushed against your cheek, a brief but tender gesture. “Only if you promise not to squeeze me so tight next time. I like having my ribs intact.”

You chuckled, finally loosening your hold enough for her to breathe more easily. “Fine. But only because you asked nicely.”

Shadowheart stood, brushing off her armor and shaking her head in mock frustration. She gathered her things, though you noticed she still lingered near you, her gaze flickering to you every so often as if she, too, was reluctant to fully pull away.

As she started to move back to her tasks, she paused, looking at you over her shoulder. “You’ll stay out of trouble while I finish up, won’t you?”

You grinned, leaning back against the tree and stretching your arms behind your head. “No promises.”

She gave you a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling with a mix of affection and amusement.

“Just try not to coil around me again while I’m working,” she said with a wink. “I’d like to get through one night without being squeezed to death.”

You laughed, watching her walk away before calling out, “We’ll see about that.”

You knew you’d coil yourself around her again before the night was over. But for now, you let her have her moment of peace—because no matter how much you wanted to keep her close, you knew that, with Shadowheart, there was always a perfect balance between the wild and the calm.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheria:

Jaheira had grown used to your peculiar habits, though that didn't mean they never surprised her. As a druid, shifting into various animal forms was second nature to you, and you often took on the traits of whatever creature you had most recently embodied. Jaheira had seen it all—your quick reflexes, your uncanny ability to sneak around like a shadow, and most curiously, your newfound obsession with small, confined spaces.

The first time she found you curled up inside a box at camp, she hadn’t known whether to be amused or exasperated. The box in question had once held supplies, and you had somehow managed to squeeze yourself into it, sound asleep. Your knees were tucked to your chest, and your arms wrapped around your legs, looking exactly like a cat napping in the most inconvenient place. Jaheira had stood there for a long moment, arms crossed, staring down at you with raised eyebrows.

“Out of all the places to sleep,” she muttered to herself. “A box?”

Of course, being the practical woman she was, Jaheira didn’t disturb you. Instead, she quietly found a blanket and draped it over your curled-up form, shaking her head with a mixture of fondness and bemusement before leaving you to your nap.

But that wasn’t the last time she’d catch you doing something like that.

One morning, just as dawn began to break over the horizon, Jaheira woke to find herself alone in bed—at least, at first glance. She reached out instinctively, expecting to find you beside her, but her hand landed on the cool, empty sheets instead. A frown tugged at her lips, her mind still hazy with sleep. She shifted slightly, about to sit up when something stopped her—a soft, warm pressure against her pillow.

Turning her head slowly, Jaheira blinked in surprise.

There you were, sprawled across your pillow, your head resting precariously close to hers, face just inches away. You weren’t lying normally like any rational person might; no, you had positioned yourself on top of your pillow, your limbs draped lazily over her side of the bed. Your face was nestled right next to her pillow, and your breathing was soft and rhythmic, your body completely relaxed in the strange position you'd chosen.

Jaheira sighed, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she watched you. It was as though you had forgotten, once again, that you were no longer in the form of a cat. The way you stretched yourself out so carelessly, how you claimed the bed without a second thought, reminded her of how cats could make themselves comfortable anywhere, no matter how strange or inconvenient the location.

She couldn't help but chuckle quietly to herself. The sight of you like this—peaceful, unguarded—warmed her heart. Jaheira, for all her gruffness and practical nature, had always had a soft spot for the more unusual aspects of your personality. Even when you frustrated her with your odd tendencies, there was something endearing about the way you embraced them so fully.

Careful not to disturb you, Jaheira shifted onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow as she studied your sleeping face. Your hair was a little mussed, and your lips parted ever so slightly as you slept. She had to admit, there was something calming about seeing you so at ease, even if your choice of sleeping position left much to be desired.

Jaheira reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek. The warmth of your skin beneath her touch made her smile again. She thought about waking you—after all, it wasn’t exactly comfortable for her with you sprawled out this way—but as she watched you, she found she didn’t have the heart to disturb your slumber.

Instead, she leaned in slightly, her lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, fleeting kiss.

"You strange, strange creature," she whispered affectionately, her voice low and amused.

As if sensing her presence, you stirred slightly, your brow furrowing in your sleep. You let out a soft, barely audible sound—a sleepy sigh—before nuzzling your face deeper into the pillow, your body shifting closer to hers. Jaheira chuckled again, shaking her head at your feline-like persistence.

She adjusted herself slightly, carefully shifting her pillow so there was a bit more room for her. Then, with a quiet sigh, she settled back down, allowing herself to drift closer to you. As inconvenient as your habits could be, Jaheira had grown to love these moments of closeness—the quiet intimacy that came from simply being near you, even when you were completely unaware.

The warmth of your body, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you slept, brought her a sense of comfort she hadn’t known she needed. And though she would never admit it, she liked these moments more than she let on.

"Sleep well, kitten," she murmured with a smirk, before letting sleep take her once more.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Guys even as I wrote this my cat was trying to sit on my laptop, if you ever see a typo or spelling mistake, know that it was my cat having her input. Hope you guys enjoyed this !! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

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draculasfavoritewife · 6 months ago

Text

Wild Honey

Summary: Gale is one stubborn son of a bitch, but if anyone could get him to open up, it's always been you.

Pairing: Gale Hawthorne x fem!District 12!Reader

Warnings: ANGST. Idiots miscommunicating and falling out. Heavy tension, sensuality, and implied smut at the end. Also by far the most sexually charged eating scene I have ever yet written, SO sorry everyone, that really deserves its own separate disclaimer lmao. Ye have been warned.

I would like to preface this by saying I know Gale stans sometimes receive hate, and while I do not condone his more problematic actions, I do deeply understand why he is the way he is -- most of my favorite characters in any franchise have done morally challenging things, but I will always fall in love with a survivor, and most times in dystopian fiction survival is messy and comes at the cost of someone else's. It is also worth mentioning that I was watching Hunger Games during one of the most difficult periods of my life a year ago, when a loved one's life was hanging in the balance and Gale became the comfort character I turned to in order to cope. He will always hold a particularly fond place in my heart 🖤

tl;dr -- If you don't like Gale Hawthorne, feel free to not read. No reason to be mean to anyone :)

*Takes place during Catching Fire

He hasn’t been the same since she came back.

That much is clear to anyone two degrees north of blindness. But it could be anything, really. His work in the mines is draining on both body and soul, the added responsibility of being the Everdeen family’s sole provider as well as his own would exhaust anyone.

Yet Gale Hawthorne is probably the only one who could still be standing tall at this point, his proud stride never faltering, shoulders broad enough to hold up all of Panem if he had to.

The man’s just tired, people say.

Tired and angry at the world, let him be.

What else is new?

Gale has been wearier than a young man should be and angrier than most could know for as long as you’ve been part of his life.

It’s not that.

No, it’s the sadness darkening his gray-blue eyes and the new tightness in his full lips that you see setting in whenever he looks at her. Whenever her eyes dart away to seek out Peeta’s instead, or stare straight through him at the phantoms of horrors he would never quite understand. You see him reaching out more often, trying anything and everything to bridge the yawning rift that has opened up between him and Katniss ever since her return, and see how with each misplaced gesture, every time he tries to be soft, another piece of him turns to stone inside.

And it breaks you, to watch and know you can do absolutely nothing about it.

You’re surprised to find him hunting alone the next time you go out beyond the fence; you would have assumed she was with him as she usually is. You’ve known Gale at least as long as she has, but perhaps the fact that you don’t rely on him for sustenance has made the two of you less likely to travel together.

And besides, whatever complicated relationship the two of them had, you had never wanted to insert yourself into that mess.

But for whatever reason, today he is alone, anger and something deeper sharply visible in the movements of his nimble fingers as they field-dress a wild turkey on the floor of the small clearing you’ve emerged into, his brow furrowed and mouth harsh.

You say nothing for several minutes as you pull your bow and quiver from their stash, testing the pull of the string, fiddling with a crooked fletching on one of your arrows. Your relationship has always been different from what he has with Katniss — you would be lying if you said you weren’t sometimes jealous of how much time she gets him to herself, but you also doubt that he talks to her the way he does to you.

There are pros and cons to not needing him in the same ways.

“What?” he snaps when you’ve stood there too long; he knows you’re too efficient to need that much time to prepare your gear.

You shoulder your bow, staring down at those heavy eyebrows, long ebony lashes, and the rainy-sky eyes that are still stubbornly avoiding yours.

“I don’t know, Gale. You tell me.”

He sighs, long and annoyed. “You’re gonna stand there all day if I don’t, aren’t you.”

You give a noncommittal noise and make a show of leaning against a tree to keep watch for Peacekeepers while he finishes his work.

The thanks you get for that is little more than a grunt. “Well don’t get comfortable, I’m almost done. And keep up — I still need more than this or we’ll have a lean few days.”

“When have I ever not kept up with you, Hawthorne?” You raise your eyebrows at him, playfully miffed.

There it is, the cocky smirk that pulls one corner of his pretty mouth slightly higher than the other. “That a challenge, Spark?”

You roll your eyes in mock disdain of the nickname he’s used forever (“because you’re small, but I know you’ve got a blaze in there somewhere” he’d half-teased). “Why, are you gonna try and run away from me?”

It’s his turn to shrug. “How badly do you want to talk, I guess?” He’s loading the bird’s carcass into his satchel, wiping off his hunting knife and preparing to head out.

A quick grab and you’ve shouldered the bag instead, ensuring he can’t abandon you now without also abandoning his prize. “Pretty damn badly, I guess.”

Gale huffs a breath out through his nose. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“Look who’s talking.” You brush past him, aiming for a deer trail that takes you through some hidden haunts that usually yield rabbits and even some bigger game on occasion. “Now come on, spill. You’ve been acting more pissed than usual, and that’s saying something.”

“Hm. Very funny.” He easily lifts his own hunting gear once more and falls into step behind you. “Hunt first. Talk later. I’ll be even more pissed if we scare off our dinner.”

You turn and give him a brisk nod, grinning to yourself when you face forward again.

It may not sound like much, but that was practically a promise that he will talk to you eventually.

And you’re nothing if not patient enough to outlast him.

The times the two of you have hunted together, your ambition and his tenacity tend to be a deadly combination, and as luck would have it, a rare buck deer had crossed your path today, resulting in an even more substantial promise of survival than the turkey. As the two of you worked quickly to prepare the carcass for packing it out, you could feel the tension ebbing away between you, could tell by the way Gale’s strong shoulders relaxed and his jaw unclenched that the immediate worry of ensuring his mother and younger siblings had enough to eat this week had faded.

He would never say as much out loud, but you know it keeps him up at night when they do go hungry, can imagine how he must pace the floors of his house at night, cursing himself for falling short of the herculean standards that the loss of his father set upon him.

He should be able to sleep somewhat peacefully tonight, knowing they will survive another day thanks to him.

“That was a good shot,” he says after a while of working in silence, and there’s a deep-running warmth threaded through his tone. “You really slowed him down.”

You shove his shoulder, making him laugh and then scold you for jostling him with a knife in his hands. “Not so shabby on that killing shot yourself, Hawk-eyes. You’ll have food for awhile.”

“You’re not getting away without some of it,” he insists. “It’s as much yours as mine.”

And because you know refusing Gale an act of service is a surefire way to start an argument and guarantee his sullen silence again, you agree that you’ll take a sizable portion back to your family when the two of you head back. Placated for the time being, he finally lets his tongue run — about how he’s managing in the mines, what his siblings have been up to, how even in the midst of his exhaustion, he still lives for the end of the work week when he can escape to the forest again. There are new themes of thought that surface and submerge like fish between his words, murmurs of rebellion, thoughts of standing up to the Capitol at last, but they are hushed and quickly moved on from.

No matter how much you might support him, he doesn’t want to worry you too much yet.

“What about you and Katniss?” you finally prod, trying to ignore the familiar jolt of envy that tastes so sour on your tongue whenever you say their names together in the same breath.

He stills; when his eyes flicker up to yours again they’re guarded and cold. “What about me and Katniss?”

“Well, she’s conspicuously not here with you.” You flick flyaway hairs away from your face in irritation, the damp air making them cling to your skin. “Don’t be like that, Gale. I’ve been your friend long enough to not deserve your cagey act anymore. Let me in. Please.”

He stares up at you for so long from his position kneeling on the forest floor, you standing over him, pleading him with your eyes to let someone else shoulder part of the heavy load he carries for once. And you’re struck by those traitorous thoughts again in the silvery silence — how unreasonably lovely he is, with that sharply angled jawline, and those softly curving lips, that thick dark hair you’ve always secretly wanted to tangle your fingers in as he leans down, your name on his tongue and a teasing glint in his melancholy eyes —

“I think I made a mistake,” he finally mutters. “I know I can’t understand fully what she’s seen or who she is now, but is it completely wrong of me to just wish things didn’t have to change?”

The man who means more to you than anything has never looked more lost and uncertain than in this moment of admission, and you sink to your knees in front of him, suddenly overtaken by a wave of softness that takes a second to fully process. “I’m sorry, Gale, I am. We all change, and I know how it feels to wonder if someone still cares or not.” You shake away your own uncertainties you’ve been having ever since she came back and he’s been chasing her attentions around.

“It’s only natural to want to pick up right where you left off, I get it.”

His gaze sharpens, though the rest of his face remains calculated and unreadable. “Have I been ignoring you lately, Spark?”

It seems like a genuine question, as if running back through the last few months in his mind he now acutely senses your absence from them.

You reach out, trailing the tips of your fingers ever so lightly down his cheek. The gesture isn’t novel, you’ve used it to comfort him before, especially when you aren’t sure how much physical contact he wants on a given day, but something feels different about it today, some electric shiver passing between you that makes his mouth twitch and causes you to pull your hand away as if shocked.

“I need you too, Hawk-eyes,” you murmur, almost under your breath. “I need you.”

To your dismay, the intimate moment abruptly ends; he tears away from the echo of your touch and is on his feet again in an instant, eyes now pale and hard as ice as he smolders down at your upturned face.

Reeling with confusion and hurt, you try to understand what just happened. “Gale, wait! What did I —?”

“It’s that damn word,” he half-snarls, but you hear the raw pain bubbling beneath his attempt at anger. “Need. My family needs me, the District needs me, Katniss needs me to be there when she can’t find what she needs from anyone else. Everyone needs me, Spark.”

You stare wordlessly into his face, silently begging him to help you understand. His eyelashes glimmer with droplets from the mist and maybe something else, the anger draining away as quickly as it had appeared.

“I would just like to be here because I’m wanted for once.”

He’s gone in only a handful of long strides, the undergrowth rattling in his wake.

And you’re left alone in a space all at once too cold and quiet, wondering what the hell it will finally take to make it through those impenetrable walls and at last touch his solitary wounded heart.

The sun has sunk lower in the sky by the time you find the fallen tree beside the stream and discover its unexpected bounty. You’re not too far from where you left the deer, knowing neither you nor Gale can pack it out by yourself, but far enough away to give him space if he goes back there first.

He and his prickly attitude leave your thoughts momentarily, however, when you see the bees returning to the gutted form of the dead tree. Where there are bees there might be honey, and your mouth waters at the distant memory of that sweet, energy-filled delicacy. You swiftly fall to the work of building a small, smoky fire and holding the billowing branches underneath their main entrance, waiting for the buzzing to slow and finally fade out before carefully peeling away some of the cracked wood and extracting your prize, leaving a piece behind of course for the hardworking insects to enjoy themselves.

Wrapping the majority of the honeycomb in leaves that you know are safe to be in contact with food, you settle at last in a spot looking over the water, ready to enjoy a taste of your labors.

Closing your eyes, you let the first drop of sun-warmed sweetness land on your tongue, and the sound of appreciation that escapes your throat is shamelessly suggestive of something else.

So you freeze for a second in horror when Gale’s familiar voice rumbles through your senses.

“So is this your little secret, or were you planning to share with me?”

You compose your thudding heart and suddenly hot face, glancing up at where he now towers over you, arms crossed over his broad chest and a wicked smirk on his handsome face. By the high-tilted eyebrow that asks a sensitive question without really asking, he definitely heard you, and he wants you to know that.

So you hold eye contact with him, even as the thick honey continues to drip down, painting your tongue in cloudy golden shades of wildflower sugar.

And to your gratification, you don’t think you imagine the way his eyes dart away ever so briefly, or how his own tongue runs across his lower lip.

“I was gonna share,” you finally say, your own voice coming out slow and sticky after swallowing. “But I didn’t know where you’d run off to.”

“Hm. I’m not convinced.”

He lowers his tall body to the ground beside you, reaching for your piece of honeycomb, and because he seems to have let go of his earlier flash of annoyance, you let him take it, gaze now glued to the entrancing picture of him as he opens his own mouth and lets the sweet amber substance drizzle between his parted lips, tongue lifting to capture any stray drops that threaten to escape.

“Don’t be selfish,” you tease, but it comes out strangely heavy, and something kindles deep in your chest as his eyes slide sideways to pin themselves to yours.

It’s an oddly incriminating image almost, though you couldn’t name why, to see him stare you down like that with fresh honey glistening on his lips and fingers; he, however, doesn’t seem to feel any such sense of indignity.

Without a word, he holds the waxy section out once more, his free hand coming up to your face so that his thumb gently coaxes your lips apart again.

“You want more?” he asks, a silky hum.

You have no idea if he’s even talking about the honey anymore, but you nod anyway, too breathless at how close he is, how much bigger he is than you.

So he complies, trickles the comb’s gleaming goodness into your mouth with an intense focus that you can hear in the roughness of his hot breath as it washes across your skin. His chest is inches away from yours, one of his muscular thighs resting between your legs. You’re aware that your own breathing is turning shaky, and you gasp softly when a splash of honey rolls from the corner of your mouth and starts running down your face.

Gale is quick, but not quick enough, and though his other hand catches some of the rogue rivulet, he can only watch as the rest rolls to your chest, landing on the stretch of exposed skin right at the tops of your breasts, a single drop of gold hovering just above the scooping neckline of your black shirt, daring him to take some sort of action to solve the predicament he has caused.

His eyes move up from the now very rapid rise and fall of your chest to your widened, startled gaze.

You look like a wild animal he’s surprised on the hunt, and he now finds that he fiercely hopes whatever comes next doesn’t spook you away.

“Can I?” he whispers, honeycomb now forgotten and set aside.

You nod your assent, keeping your focus fixed on his face.

A hand approaches your body with all of the steady patience you’ve seen him exercise when stalking his prey, and the touch of two fingers to the delicate skin below your collarbone is warm and gentle. His hands are beautiful too, broad and long-fingered, the veins that hint at his great strength clearly delineated in the low-slanting sunlight.

You watch like a fascinated outside observer as those work-roughened fingers swipe the honey away, a shiver fluttering across your flesh as you feel the way he smoothly follows the swells of your bust and the dip between.

He catches the tremor he caused and pulls away, looking back up at your face even as he licks the honey from his fingertips, and you wonder what’s running through his mind, and if it’s nearly as incendiary as what that simple action sends through yours.

“Alright?”

It’s a one-word question that leaves his mouth as something like a purr, though you sense the true concern behind it.

He worries he’s gone too far, and he’d never forgive himself if he pushed you into anything you didn’t want, no matter how small.

He cares about you too much for that.

“Yes.” You blink and gather your scattered thoughts. “Better than alright. Gale…?”

He leans even closer, bringing your faces only a mere breath apart.

The blue-gray eyes have gone as feathery soft as mist in the early morning, and the sight makes your chest ache with something you cannot quite name.

“You didn’t get all of it. I’m still sticky.”

Gale searches your expression for confirmation, wary of his next move. “You know what you’re asking?”

Your hands are on his chest now, and you can feel that despite his much more outwardly collected demeanor, his heart is beating just as hard as yours.

“I want your help,” you tell him firmly, and you feel the way that simple word, want, finally pierces his armor, makes him twitch like the bite of a gnat.

So he bends down, and the moment his mouth connects with your chest, time stops.

It’s a lightning strike, crackling through your entire body.

His lips are cool, chilled by the evening air, and they’re every bit as perfect as you’ve always imagined. You could stay there forever in the mesmerizing trap of his kiss, but the addition of his sultry tongue, sweeping a slow track along the path his fingers had gone only a few minutes before, is what fully unravels you, sending his name from your own mouth in a whine and prompting one of your hands to slide up his neck and into his hair — and it, too, is everything you’ve dreamed of, dense and wild and begging to be tamed by your grasping desperation. He growls in surprise at the unexpected sensation of your fingernails, but you feel rather than hear it, the vibrations of his voice thrumming deep inside your body.

You know the entire exchange must only take a few minutes, but it seems like an eternity that he’s there, sucking the honey trail from your skin, his still-sticky fingers leaving behind more prints that he also endeavors to remove. You pull his body closer to yours, until it seems you breathe one breath, share one heartbeat as he rocks you back and forth with the barely restrained desire to push you over until he can cover you completely.

But it can be deadly to lose concentration in the woods, especially so close to nightfall, and regretfully the pair of you pull away in unspoken agreement, staring at each other and trying to understand fully what just happened.

“We should get a move on,” Gale finally huffs. “That deer won’t carry itself.”

Temperamental, taciturn Gale.

Always concerned with the practical side of things.

No more words are exchanged between the two of you as you pack up the day’s yield and slip back into the somewhat relative safety of the Seam. The meat is stored away at Gale’s house (he knows you’ll come back for your share, or else he’ll find you and force you to take it) and at last there is really nothing more left to do, so you step out the door and into the lengthening shadows.

When you look back, however, he’s still standing there in the doorframe, and there’s a tentative curiosity written across his face, a reluctance to have this be goodnight and goodbye until his next free day.

And you could lie and say you don’t feel the same way, but you and Gale have never lied to each other.

“What?” you tease, echoing his demand of much earlier.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again and shrugs helplessly. “I…I don’t know, Spark. Where do you want…this…to go?”

You ponder that, taking in the familiar sight of him with warm fondness. He looks tired, shoulders slouched and face smudged with gray dust from the mines, but there’s something different there tonight, a fragile hope behind his resting sullen expression, some aura about him that pleads with you not to leave him alone tonight.

Even a man as strong as Gale Hawthorne has his limits.

So you give in to temptation.

“The washtub at my house is bigger, you know. And we both could use a hand cleaning up.”

He steps down from the threshold to follow you back to your home.

You know what you’re really offering to him.

And so does he.

When you wake with first light, he’s already long gone. Only the dip in the other side of your worn mattress remains to suggest another body was actually there.

You’re not surprised, and not really hurt. He has his job to get back to, after all, a family to feed and a whole village to look after. But you wonder briefly, after having watched him fall asleep with his arms wrapped around you and his face hidden in your chest, long eyelashes leaving butterfly kisses against your flesh, what it would be like to watch him wake up, too.

You imagine his eyes are even prettier then, hazy with sleep and not yet hardened to withstand the day’s toils ahead.

Last night feels like a strange dream of lukewarm water and skin on skin, sporadically interspersed with starkly clear images of his well-muscled form and those clever hands traveling across the width and breadth of yours. When you close your eyes you can still feel his heavy weight on top of you, pressing you deeper into the mattress, and you feel oddly empty and untethered now in its absence.

Only the dark blossoms his mouth left behind on your body and a selection of new — but not unpleasant — aches tells you that what you shared was in fact as real as this morning.

What it means going forward, you don’t know.

But you don’t regret a single moment of it.

As you dress and prepare to head out for the day, your mother’s voice calls you into the main room. “One of the younger Hawthorne children brought you something — said it’s from your friend.”

You see it there on the table, a folded scrap of rough paper and a single daisy, still fresh enough to mean he probably cut it on his way back to his house.

A small smile creeps across your lips as you unfold the note.

Spark —

I don’t want this to be just a one-time thing. At least, not if you feel that way too.

Sorry I had to go. I wish I could have stayed.

You may not need me to survive, but you made me realize something.

I need you.

— Gale

Hastily re-folding the paper, you tuck it away into your shirt pocket, close to your heart.

Stubborn Gale Hawthorne.

He’d never been much of a talker, so you know just how much those simple three words at the end of his message really mean.

For the man who needs no one to admit he can’t go on without you?

He might as well rival the old poets in their epic declarations of love.

Gale is much like the wild honey that started all of this, you realize, as you snatch a piece of the comb on your way out into the harsh world beyond. Once you manage to get past his defensive sting, there are so many intoxicating flavors to taste within.

And whatever he still needs to work out with Katniss….

He doesn’t want this to be a one-time thing.

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flippinpancakes64 · 1 year ago

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How the Cullens would react to you being a newborn

*Note* This is my first ever post please be nice :(

Edward:

Super supportive

Is so so patient

Will teach you everything he knows about self control and how to best curb your hunger

Will go hunting with you every day if that's what you want

He doesn't care if you're dangerous he wants a hug so he's getting a hug

Protective x100

If Jasper still has trouble trusting you after you've mostly gotten yourself under control he will be right there telling him to back off

10/10 would let him turn me into a newborn

Alice:

Again, supportive x100

She deals with Jasper on the daily, she knows how to help with cravings and sporadic behavior

Can easily stop you from things you shouldn't do because she can see them in the future

Would go hunting with you

Would lose her patience after a while if you keep tearing the clothes she buys you tho

(Not actually she'd just be a little frustrated :) )

Would also come to your defense if Jasper or anyone else doubts that you have yourself under control

"I can literally see the future it's fine-"

Jasper:

The worst of them all probably-

He's very tough to get to in the first place

He has a dark past, most of his trauma is from Newborns

He doesn't trust you for a really long time

Super skeptical, will follow your every move ready to hold you down

He's just trying to protect his family tho

You're gonna have to be on your best behavior if you ever want him to trust you again

He'll come around eventually though with the help of his family to show him that you're adjusting well

After he's certain you're no longer a threat he will feel so bad

Cuddles x100

He's just a big softie who loves his family behind those scary eyes

Rosalie:

Ok I lied she might be the worst actually-

If you did this to yourself or had another one of the Cullens turn you chances are she's never gonna talk to you again (sorry)

I mean we all know that she hated Bella's guts until she got pregnant with Renesmee

But if you got turned by accident or by a rogue vampire attack?

Supportive x200

Mama Bear mode activated fr

She remembers what it was like all too well

The pain, the confusion, the anger, the hatred

You couldn't do a single thing wrong in her eyes

You accidentally attacked a hiker? It happens to the best of us

You broke one of the super expensive cars by closing the door too hard? It's ok Carlisle can buy a new one

Can and will defend you if anyone says you're not ready yet

Emmett:

Kinda chill tbh

Obviously since he's the strongest he's with you most of the time to hold you back if need-be

But he's more interested in making bets against anyone who will bet with him

"I smell an elk up ahead, I bet I'll get to it before they can"

"I bet I'll win in an arm wrestling contest"

"I bet they'll scream at Edward for playing that piano too loud"

Mostly is just a good supporter

He's really observant though and is a good judge on if you're ready to be alone yet or not

Esme:

Supportive x100

She hates seeing anyone in pain and you are no exception

Will give you all the tips and tricks she can think of

How to control your cravings, the best animals to hunt, the best places to go to just scream and let it all out

She's got you covered

Wouldn't be that strong of an advocate towards you being ready tho-

She acknowledges that she is not very well versed in this field and will accept Carlisle's or Jasper's judgements very seriously

She will do her best to help you though

Carlisle:

The man for the job fr

He has raised four different newborns that he created mostly all by himself

He knows exactly what to do

How to best help you, how to make sure you feel the least pain possible, how to speed up your process

Literally anything

He's very open to answer any questions you have

If you were dying and he did this to save you he'd be perfectly okay with you wanting nothing to do with him

He understands

It will take a while to fully convince him that you are in control of your urges, but one he's convinced he is on your side 100%

Vampire! Bella:

Definitely the most sympathetic

She was the most recent change, she remembers it the most

Even though she did have her self-control on her side, she still remembers how difficult it was

Will stand by your side no matter what

She's not scared of you or what you could do

To her you're still you

Will do her best to help you with anything you need

Does her best to help give you distractions if there are people nearby

Once she believes you're ready, she will not take no for an answer

She's stubborn

Very good support tho 10/10

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soulrox · 7 months ago

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DPxDC # -19 Worldbuilding

This is a cumulation of a few prior post ideas and new ones altogether. I'm truly building how Amity Park could be affected by ghosts.

Lady Amy is the city spirit of Amity Park. She had started to come into being during the witch-hunting era of Amity. But until the portal was opened she was an invisible observer of her citizens, unable to truly interact. Lady Amy quickly gained more presence thanks to the constant supply of clean concentrated Ecto coming from the portal.

Daniel Fenton a child who lived and died, but still lives, a half-life, is the one she cares for the most. A child so young is heavily burdened thanks to his own parents' actions/inactions. She helps Danny by making sure his parents and the G.I.W. are unable to hit him. Nudges the shots just slightly so they miss. Helps guide him to safe areas away from people when he's overwhelmed. Danny would be the first person she would speak to.

Years down the line after the G.I.W. has been taken down, Lady Amy really comes out to play. (Good fention parent reaction? or run outta town?) The citizens of Amity Park have learned the truth about ghosts and the Infinity Realms thanks to Danny being crowned king. Lady Amy would tailor her city to suit the needs of her liminal citizens. Ghosts from the Realms would be welcome to live in Amity Park as long as they followed the rules.

The coliseum (#14) is the best enrichment for her citizens. They truly love being able to let loose and fight each other. The ghosts from the Realms also love being able to fight. Several ghosts would jump at the chance to teach others how to fight, shoot, and defend themselves. Pandora would teach a class once in a while.

Animal races would also occur in the Coliseum. Otherworld animals that are the earth's equivalent of horses.

All the schools in Amity would have way more classes thanks to the Ghosts. There would definitely be thousands of teachers in the Realms and giving them the option to teach again to those who would actually like to learn, would be so exciting. Different cultures, races, species, languages and they wouldn't all be even from Earth. (#18) The Infinity Realms are infinite after all. People of Amity would have such a diverse amount of knowledge.

The skateparks would include low-gravity sections to better help people practice new tricks without worry.

The library would be overhauled thanks to Ghost Writer. There would also be added events and programs curated by ghosts. Little old ladies from all walks of life living or not creating knitting groups or otherworld equivalents.

The hospital is taken over by Frostbite and those from the Far Frozen. Only the best practices and medical procedures occur. Getting hurt is harder for liminals but the coliseum gives them the most patients. Veterinarian clients are also overhauled by ghosts.

Lady Amy would create huge treehouses spanning several trees. Making its own little city in the trees. Undergrowth when he took over for a bit had the unintentional side effect of having several citizens connect to the green. And being liminal they would connect really well with the green. They would love the treehouse-style living.

Different sections of the city are dedicated to other styles of living. Like the treehouse area, there are Kryptonian-style buildings, Martian-like areas, a huge lake, and many others. The lake houses many aquatic living and non-living species that would have their own underwater village. The schools would host field trips to each area to show in person the different types of architecture and cultures.

The cuisine available would triple. Lady Amy would do her best to grow all the needed fruits and vegetables for the otherworld cuisine. If she is unable to acquire the seeds herself she would ask Danny. Danny would travel to the other planets (yay space travel) or time travel to obtain it. Animals would also be obtained and looked after by the correct ghosts corresponding to that species of animal. Living people would be taught to care for the otherworld animals too. Lunchlady would be so excited to learn about other healthy foods.

The local channels would host a variety of shows. Ghosts reenact their lives, plays from other worlds, and songs from around the universe. Documentaries on anything and everything. True crime shows that even reveal who the killer is because the victim told them. A talk show that always has a new ghost guest. Skulker would have his own hunting show. Ember hosts MTV-style shows. Youngblood has a dedicated kids' show. A talk show dedicated to past heroes.

The radio would be filled with other world music. Jamming out to a song in an alien language while driving to work. (Find a job out of Amity Park, listening to alien music, coworkers what language is that? Martian.)(Mambo Number 5 in an alien language)

The technology would be literally out of this world. Technus would be in his own personal heaven. (Visiting another city - Holding the latest phone from Wayne Tech, this is ancient) Tucker and Techus would create a dedicated Amity Park internet. Podcasts, videos, and video games made by ghosts. Zone (Twitter) where people share whatever.

While the city is supposed to be XXXX big according to surveys it is of course way bigger when you are in the city limits. The city while not meaning to is slightly disconnected from the rest of the world. They are self-sustaining thanks to the hard work of Lady Amy.

To people of a certain level of Ecto-contamination or Ecto-touched, they feel a pull to somewhere. It's subconscious to them but the pull feels like home, a warm hug, a mug of hot cocoa, unconditional love. The ones who go to explore the pull would be flabbergasted at this city, they've never heard of, but it is the home to seemingly everyone and everything. Superman and Martian Manhunter would lose their minds at all the ghosts of Kryptonians and Martians just chilling.

When the citizens travel, outsiders' perspectives of them would be insane. Amity Parkers would be branded as cryptids.

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #Amity Park #I have a lot of thoughts to how this city could be like #I'll probably come back to this #Amity Park the safe haven for all #give this city the ability to grow and change #worldbuilding #my writing

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eldritch-spouse · 1 year ago

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Sometimes greedy gambits do work out.

Your typical greedy fiend may wax about their insatiable desire for the material, how satisfaction is the death of their nature and never shall they cease stretching their fingers towards the next shining trophy-

But they know limits.

They have that little bit of normalcy that tells them when it's time to drop something, even if it leaves a taste like curdled milk in their mouths.

Not Xiko.

Xiko grabbed onto something and he did not let go.

Not even when death came knocking at his door.

This celebrity of the Greed Ring was known for being the biggest, most successful human/monster trafficker of Hell itself. Xiko, a mere mid-ranker, yet clever and crafty enough to dethrone nearly everyone in his field of vile work.

Wanted humans and monsters worth owning? In mint condition? With some really rare traits? Leave it to him and his boys, you won't be disappointed.

With great skill and talent comes great danger, but Xiko didn't cower when he started to gain many an enemy, when he could no longer count them, when he spent most of his time hunting them down rather than hunting the poor souls he's supposed to sell. With each visit, he'd return home with a few trophies to remember his victory.

Things were going well.

His empire of fifth kept growing, enough so that it garnered the attention of the very Lord Rinx, a client Xiko both reveres and dreads, due to his extravagant tastes. Why, he ever earned himself a juicy deal with this strange, extremely popular establishment on the surface that constantly bulk-orders humans. The Clergy's Eye or something of the sort, he knows the Icons had been there before.

How impressive is that? Enough for prideful folk to eye him wantonly.

Xiko had the opportunity to grow in rank, to sit at Rinx's table and negotiate starting a little jewelry store in the heart of Greed to keep up appearances and branch out. What luxuries.

Unfortunately, all highs lead to lows.

His health starts deteriorating inexplicably. Xiko begins being unable to move properly without chronic bursts of pain debilitating him from doing much of anything other than lie and wait for the wave of torment to pass. He has no idea where it's coming from. The pain is so great he gets blinded and passes out in some episodes.

The best doctors he can find tell Xiko he developed something terminal. Not quite a cancer, similar, something only demonoids can exhibit.

But what did the name of it matter? His own monumental riches wouldn't save him from certain doom.

One might think Xiko would do some soul searching with the time he had left, as laughable as that sounds for a being as rotten as him.

Not even close.

You don't get this far without being stubborn.

Things can't end as they are. Xiko can't die, he has so much to do and so much to oversee, it's simply not an option. He can't.

In the midst of despair and hopeless solution-seeking, Xiko finds a possible answer to his impossible conundrum inscripted in his most favored trophy, a timeless chalice.

Between its jewels and lovely finishes, the instructions for a ritual sat written in one of the oldest tongues in Hell. Having a historian for a friend sure comes in handy, doesn't it?

Said acquaintance is there to witness it when Xiko grows mad enough to try it, at the hands of demons who perpetuate these ancient practices.

A mummification-like ritual.

Except, to avoid death, Xiko must remove the two organs which the soul is most connected to, the brain and heart.

He knew what he was getting into when he laid on that altar.

He knew that he would suffer physical trauma beyond anything he could ever have experienced in life. He knew he would come out of it looking like a completely different being. That he would no longer be a demon.

And he was ready.

He was ready when they started chanting.

He was ready when his jaw was stretched to absurd proportions.

He was ready when his chest was torn open.

When he danced in that barrier between life and death, looking down at himself while his figure withered and contorted.

Those memories are... Scratchy, to say the least.

Xiko recalls screaming at the top of his exposed lungs and feeling his skin rip from several sides all at once, as if rejecting him. He remembers when his skull was crushed and how he could hear it for a moment. He knows he twisted and shriveled like a bug on that marble.

And that he woke up.

Wrapped like a present.

Dead yet amongst the living.

To continue his work. To remain forever at the top.

So what if he was emaciated now? If he'd never get rid of the massive scar where his figure was torn open, if his eyes now reside inside his bizarre gaping maw and his arms are elongated? Xiko had made it.

And while death was unavoidable, it was not the end.

In fact, it was the beginning of something a lot more amusing for Xiko.

He found his new appearance frightened his competition. Rumors of him being an undead diety spread. No longer featuring a core name or even something as simple as a sigil, Xiko was freed of even more weaknesses.

He made no effort to hide what he had become the next time he was present at Greed's Conqueror's Spoils festival. His mangled, infernal undead form on the spotlight.

Some of them were smart enough to understand what he had turned into, knew to stop pursuing him. For when you take something from a mummy, it cannot rest until it retrieves its possession.

Others came to find that out eventually.

Perhaps the person Xiko feels most sorry for is, not one of his enemies, but you.

You poor thing, still trying to escape him, still trying to lockpick your cages and manipulate his men, trying to make it out at all costs.

You never think twice when you set foot outside his territory.

Unaware that he'll always instinctively know where to find his "stolen" possession.

#Xiko oc #demon oc #monster oc #yandere monster #yandere teratophilia #monster x reader #yandere demon #monster boyfriend #monsterfucker #minors dni #pinnie's art

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persevereforahappyending · 1 year ago

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A Beacon in the Dark |2|

Pairing: Joey x Reader

Summary: Joey likes helping people, it's what she's best at. Hunting down the monsters of myth and legend might be the best way to save people.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3.7k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Ana made Caleb breakfast as usual, she helped him make sure all his stuff was in his backpack like usual, and she walked him to school like usual. She tried to keep everything as normal as possible, when she got back home the other night her note was still on the counter and Caleb hadn’t mentioned anything yet, so she assumed he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night. The only thing Ana did differently was she couldn’t help her eyes darting around constantly, looking for you or any more surprises, she also had her gun tucked in her pants, covered up by her shirt. She was supposed to be done with the type of life they would involve her carrying around a gun, especially when she was with her son, she couldn’t believe she was considering your job offer.

Ana couldn’t deny that she was curious. She was struggling to find a job, ideally, she wanted something in the medical field she knew that wasn’t going to happen though. The only way she’d be able to continue helping people that way would be to keep being an underground doctor, but that very thing was what led her to getting captured and almost killed by a vampire. She wouldn’t be able to continue to make enough to live off of if she only helped specific people or didn’t do big injuries where she could potentially kill the patient. She was clean and she had no intention of slipping, but she didn’t want to give herself the opportunity to fuck things up again.

“I have a job interview today,” Ana said as the school got within eyesight.

“Cool,” Caleb mumbled.

“I’m not sure how long it’ll take but I should be done in time to get you from school.”

Caleb just nodded. Ana held in a sigh; she didn’t need Caleb to be excited for her, but he was acting like he didn’t expect much from it. She couldn’t really blame him; he’d seen her spend every day applying and getting rejected by jobs. When Ana did get an interview, she always came home already knowing she wouldn’t be called back.

“See you later,” he mumbled before running off and catching up with his friends.

Ana opened her mouth ‘I love you’ on the tip of her tongue but she didn’t bother finishing this time, she knew Caleb wouldn’t hear it anyway. She stood at the entrance until the bell rang, signaling all the kids that it was time to get to class. She waited there until all the students had filed inside and she finally lost sight of the top of Caleb’s head. Just as she turned around to walk away you pulled up in a Jeep.

Ana rolled her eyes, when you said you’d pick her up after she dropped her son off, she didn’t realize how literal you meant it. You had clearly been watching her, you knew where her son went to school and what time it started, your timing for pulling up was perfect, too perfect. She glared at you when you rolled down the window, smirking at her, your eyes were once again hidden behind sunglasses, but she knew your eyes were on her.

Ana flung open the door and jumped in the passenger seat. “If you try anything, or if this is a trick in anyway,” Ana turned in her seat, glaring into your eyes despite the sunglasses. “I will shoot you.”

“And a good morning to you,” you said, not losing your smirk as you turned to face the road again. You checked your mirrors before pulling out and began driving to wherever you were taking Ana.

“I’m serious,” Ana continued to glare at the side of your head.

“I brought you a coffee,” you looked down at the coffee in the cup holder. “I got it black; you didn’t seem like the type to want a bunch of sugar and crap in it.”

“Do you think I’m joking?”

You let out a small chuckle, but quickly covered it by turning it into a smile. Ana wasn’t sure if you were just that arrogant or what, she was tempted to shoot you just to prove to you she would. “I assure you; I am well aware you’re not joking.”

“So, do you just have a death wish then?”

You let out a humorless chuckle. Ana made a note of that, she had been joking, half joking, but it almost seemed like you did have a death wish. “You’re not going to kill me,” you said confidently. “You’re incredibly capable of that.” Ana raised an eyebrow. “But you won’t kill me, not if you don’t actually have too.”

“Where are we going?” Ana asked, rolling her eyes.

“Out of the city,” you said simply. Ana’s eyes widened; she told Caleb she would be back in time to pick him up. “Don’t worry, you’ll be back before your kid gets out of school.”

Ana snapped her gaze to you, narrowing her eyes. “How’d you know I was worried about that?” There was something about you, something Ana couldn’t quite pin, she knew you weren’t a vampire, there was nothing to indicate you were something more than human, but Ana had a feeling. You knew so much about her, what happened during her last job, about vampires, about her son, and just now, you knew what she was worried about. It wouldn’t be a completely crazy leap to think you could read minds.

“I’m not a mind reader.” That certainly did nothing to disprove Ana’s theory. “You love your son,” you shrugged. “It’s clear you’re trying to makeup to him, you don’t want to let him down.”

Ana continued to stare at you, you nailed it, she didn’t like it when others could read her just as well as she could read them. You continued on driving though, never once glancing at her. She wondered what made you tick, if you were always this calm or if it was only for her. You read her so well the night before, despite having a gun pointed at you, you knew she wouldn’t shoot you. It was the same as today, you knew Ana had a gun on her, you had to have, yet you were relaxed and driving as if the two of you were on a road trip out of the city.

The trip continued until the two of you were well out of the city, driving down a two-lane road lined with trees on both sides. It was a gorgeous drive; however, it was also out in the middle of nowhere. Ana didn’t know who you were, where you were taking her, or who you were taking her to, the only thing she knew was that you wanted her for a job, but even with that you had been vague on. The woods were thick enough that if you took Ana out there, she could be lost forever, no one would know what happened to her.

You turned on your blinker, turning down another paved road. Ana furrowed her brow until, finally, you passed a mansion, it had a long driveway, completely fenced in, and the large house sat all the way back, well away from the road. After a few more minutes, you passed by another mansion, with a similar layout. The mansions in the middle of nowhere reminded Ana of the one Abigail lived in, the place her last job took place, where everything happened, but these mansions didn’t look run down and abandoned.

You kept driving down the road, passing mansion after mansion on each side every few minutes. Ana couldn’t imagine living in a place like this, giant houses, with who knew how many rooms, several minutes apart from the next house. There was complete and total privacy, one could hardly consider them as neighbors with how far apart they were.

You finally turned down the driveway of one of the mansions. After slowly coming to a stop in front of the large metal gate, the gate was all stone and metal, the tips of the fence pointed so that if anyone were to climb it, they’d most definitely injure themselves. You rolled down your window, staring at the little box without saying a word. A second later there was a loud grinding sound and the gate slowly slid open. You rolled your widow back up and continued driving forward, the gate closing almost instantly after you crossed the threshold.

Ana shoved her hands in her pocket, fiddling around with the candy she had shoved in there. She debated for half a second before grabbing a piece of candy, quickly unwrapping it, and shoved it in her mouth. She caught you glancing at her out of the side of your eye, but you didn’t say anything. Ana straightened her back and continued to stare out the windshield as you continued to drive up the long driveway. Her mouth fell open, nearly losing her candy in the process, as the mansion fully came into view. The house was newer than the one Abigail had, but much bigger. Ana couldn’t imagine living in a house so big, she could imagine having to decorate that many rooms.

You pulled the car around, coming to a gentle stop right in front of the front steps. Ana glanced at her watch; it had taken nearly an hour to get wherever you had taken her. “We’re here,” you said, smiling at Ana before jumping out of the car.

You ran around the car, pulling the door open the rest of the way after Ana opened it. You held out your hand to help her out. She rolled her eyes, stepping out of the car and walking right past your outstretched hand. Ana ignored the small sigh you let out, choosing to continue walking up the steps and waiting for you at the front door. You quickly closed the car door and ran after her, smiling at her as you stood in front of her again. She raised an unamused eyebrow at you.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re just delightful when being interviewed?” you asked, smirking.

“I’m here for your boss,” Ana said, giving you a tight-lipped smile. “I don’t have to be anything to you.”

You let out a small hum and then put your hand on the door handle, giving Ana a mischievous smile before allowing the door to swing open. You made a dramatic gesture with your arm, allowing Ana to enter first. Ana walked through the door, turning in a circle as she took in the high ceilings and the various art and weapons hanging on the walls. Ana jumped, whipping around when she heard the large wood door slam shut. She eyed you as you walked away from the door, she hadn’t forgotten that the last time she was in a mansion, she got locked in and nearly died.

“This way,” you said, nodding your head for Ana to follow.

Ana followed you through a room, then down a long hallway. The mansion was massive, it had items in every room and on every wall, it almost didn’t look lived in though. Everything was clean and perfect but as they passed a sitting room Ana couldn’t imagine someone had ever sat on the couch or any of the chairs in the room, though there were shelves lined with old books, their spines worn from age or years of being read.

You came to a stop outside another rather large wood door. You gave a small knock, but you didn’t wait for whoever was on the other side to acknowledge it before opening the door. You held the door open, allowing Ana to step in first once again. Her eyes widened as she took in the room, unlike the rest of the house, at least from what she had seen, this room had a blonde woman sitting at a desk with five computer monitors in front of her, the wall behind her was plastered with various images, sketches, and newspaper clippings of monsters or reports of strange happenings, from all over the world. Off to the right was a peg board on wheels, with the same thing, news paper clippings, online articles and social medias posts printed out and pegged on, though unlike the wall, the board seemed to be all about the same event, in the same place.

The blonde woman stood up, stepping out from around the desk. Ana looked her up and down, she was wearing some jeans and a simple jacket. If Ana had seen the woman walking down the street, she would never have imagined she lived in a mansion and had the type of money she must have.

“Ana Lucia Cruz,” the woman said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she held out her hand. “My name is Grace.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ana said, giving Ana’s hand a shake. So far, she liked Grace better than you, so she was considering the meeting a success for the moment. “And I would prefer Joey, if you don’t mind.” Grace tilted her head at the request. “For privacy reasons.”

“Of course, Joey,” Grace nodded, giving her a kind smile. “Please, join me,” she gestured to the other side of the room, leading Joey to a set of chairs next to a small table.

“Thank you,” Joey took one of the seats while Grace took the other. You moved to stand behind Grace on her left, as if you were her own person bodyguard. “I have to say,” Joey said, shaking her head as Grace offered her a cup of tea. “You have much better manners than your,” she flicked her gaze up at you, “associate.” Your only response was a smirk.

“What did you do?” Grace turned to you, exasperated.

Joey silently chuckled at the way your face fell. “You asked me to recruit her,” you said, pointing at Joey as you tried to defend yourself.

“Outside my son’s school,” Joey added. “Right after I dropped him off.”

Grace shook her head in disappointment. “How else was I supposed to do it!” you gestured widely with your hands. “This is the first person I’ve ever tried to bring in.”

“No, one else does this?” Joey asked. She figured there weren’t many people in this line of work, but she didn’t expect you and your boss to be the only ones. “Well, don’t I feel special,” she mumbled.

“You are special,” Grace said, leaning forward. “You survived something horrific, something unnatural.” Joey looked up, meeting Grace’s eyes, she saw determination, but she also saw compassion staring back at her. “Not many have the capabilities to survive something like that, it takes a particular kind of person to see a darkness like that and not runaway.” Grace leaned back in her chair. “That’s exactly the kind of person we’re looking for to join our cause.”

“Your cause?” Joey raised an eyebrow. “Y/N told me you experienced something similar to me.”

Grace tensed up, glancing at you out of the side of her eye, making you cast your eyes down to the floor like a scolded child. “I have, it’s why I do what I do. I don’t want anyone to suffer what I-what we have.”

“And you, what, just have so much money you don’t know what to do with,” Joey shrugged. “So, you might as well pay people to go fight the supernatural?”

“I mean it is the one thing that Le Domas fortune is good for,” you mumbled.

Joey’s eyes snapped to you the same time as Grace’s but for vastly different reasons. Your eyes widened as if you just realized you said that out loud. “Le Domas?” Joey whispered. “I recognize that name.” She rifled through her memory; she didn’t know the Le Domas family, but she knew she had heard of them. Her eyes widened when she realized why.

Joey shot out of her seat so fast, reaching behind her to grab the gun in her pants as soon as she was on her feet. “Don’t,” you said. Joey froze, slowly lifting her eyes to see you standing in front of Grace, in the line of fire.

Joey slowly took her hand off her gun and raised it, showing you her hands were empty. Joey wasn’t one to scare easily but the way your voice changed, the look in your eyes, Joey had missed judged you. You had been friendly with every interaction, to the point it was irritating. However, seeing you stand in front of her now, she saw it, the look in your eye, you would not hesitate to kill her if it meant protecting Grace.

“Guess you really are her guard dog,” Joey mumbled. She didn’t take her eyes off of you, she noticed the way yours darkened at her comment.

“It’s okay,” Grace said. She stood up, resting a hand on your shoulder to ease you back. It took a second, but you slowly relaxed and moved to stand behind Grace again.

“Whatever you think you know,” Grace said softly. “I promise you, it’s not even close to the truth.”

“Everyone knows the story of the Le Domas family,” Joey said, trying to relax again. She didn’t want you to see how on edge she was. She thought her guard was up before getting in the car with you, that was nowhere near to how on alert she was now. “A very rich, very prominent family, all dead, their bodies in pieces, and it all happened on their youngest son’s wedding night. They couldn’t prove she had done it, though everyone suspected, considering she came from nothing, and they were rich beyond imagination.”

Grace rested her chin on her hand as she nodded at Joey’s words. “They made a deal with a demon,” Grace finally whispered. “I thought I was marrying the love of my life and getting the family I always dreamed of,” she gave a sad smile, letting out a humorless chuckle. “Then they tried to kill me.” She looked back up at Joey again.

Joey slowly sat back down; she saw you take a step back, looking back down at the floor again. “It was a thing of theirs,” Grace continued. “If you married into the family you had to play a game, if you picked Hide and Seek then you hid, while they hunted you down,” she was staring off into the distance, seeming to be talking to herself more than anything. “If they didn’t kill you before sunrise then the whole family was going to die, that was the deal they made with Mr. Le Bail, he was the reason they had their fortune to begin with and in returned he required a sacrifice.”

“And you were…” Joey started but she wasn’t sure how to finish her sentence.

Grace nodded. “I married Alex, then that night he and his entire family tried to kill me,” she gave Joey a sad smile again. “Clearly, I survived,” she looked down at herself. “Mr. Le Bail allowed me to live and though their investigation was thorough, there was no evidence I had killed the entire family, so, since I was technically the last living relative after my marriage, I got everything,” she shrugged.

Joey nodded; she thought her night trying to survive a ballerina vampire had been bad. She couldn’t imagine thinking you were marrying the love of your life only for him to try sacrificing you to a demon his family made a deal with. “And now you use their fortune to help others.”

Grace nodded. “I try, figured the money should go to doing some good.” She cleared her throat, blinking away the tears that had seemed to begun to fill her eyes. “I also use it for payment, it’s how I pay Y/N for jobs, it’s how I could pay you. I assure you, the job may be dangerous, it may be shady at times, but the money is legit.”

Joey nodded, taking all the information in. That was one of the things she was worried about. It didn’t matter how much she could be making from a job, she still had to go through a process to make sure it wasn’t traceable and that it looked legit. Grace’s money was legit, she could pay Joey no problem and Joey could just have it go into the bank, no questions asked.

“And what about you?” Joey asked, looking at you. “What’s your story?” she tilted her head, waiting to see what kind of answer you gave this time.

Even from a distance Joey could see the way your body tensed up at her question, but you looked up, meeting her gaze. “Werewolves,” you said simply.

That piqued Joey’s interest, but it was clear you weren’t going to elaborate anymore. “Look,” she sighed, slumping back in her chair. “I admire what you want to do but I-”

“One job,” Grace said, leaning forward in her own chair. “We can call it a trial run,” she smiled. “On both sides, we can see how you do, and you can see exactly what we do, you can see if this,” she gestured around the room. “Is something you want to be a part of.”

Joey opened her mouth ready to reject the offer, even though she was tempted. “You’ll still get paid of course,” Grace said quickly. “Just one job, just see what we’re all about.”

Joey stared at Grace for a second, she could see the woman hardened by the trauma she experienced but she also saw compassion, someone who wanted to help others despite everything she had been through. Joey flicked her gaze to you, she didn’t know how you came to be with Grace but your loyalty to your boss was clear, she also saw underneath all the jokes and banter was someone incredibly guarded and trying to atone for something in their past, though Joey couldn’t image what for.

“Okay,” Joey said, looking back at Grace. “One job.” Grace smiled at that, which Joey couldn’t help but return. Joey had been curious ever since you approached her, she wasn’t sure she fully knew what she was getting into just yet though.

Taglist: @thinking1bee

#joey (abigail)#joey abigail #ana lucia cruz #ana lucia cruz abigail #joey (abigail) x reader #ana lucia cruz x reader #abigail 2024 #abigail movie #abigail #ana lucia cruz (joey)#melissa barrera #a beacon in the dark

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badathumanemotions · 10 months ago

Text

Heat of the Moment

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI Category: Smut CW: A/B/O, Delta Spencer, Omega Reader, Masturbation, Wet Dream, Heat, Rut, Breeding, Knotting, Oral Sex, Somnophilia, Going Into Heat While On A Case, Scenting, Biting, Marathon Sex, Fingering. WC: 18,486 Y/N, an omega, goes into heat while on a case. Spencer does his best to try to control himself. (Not Proof Read) Master List This was supposed to be a quick smut piece but as you can see it kind of got away from me.

The soft click of the door closing echoed through the quiet hotel corridor as Y/N L/N, the youngest member of the BAU team, let out a sigh of relief. She had spent the entire day poring over case files, her mind racing with the grim details of the unsolved murders in rural Wisconsin. Her eyes were heavy with fatigue, and the faint scent of antiseptic lingered on her clothes from the morgue. As she approached her room, the weight of the day's events grew heavier, the anticipation of a hot shower and a good night's sleep almost palpable.

Once inside, she kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed, her thoughts immediately drifting to the Unsub they were hunting. He was clever, leaving behind clues that seemed to taunt them with every step they took. The latest victim had been found in a field of tall, golden grasses, her lifeless body a stark contrast against the vibrant backdrop. The way he had displayed her, so open and vulnerable, sent a shiver down Y/N's spine. Her mind reeled with the possible motives behind his gruesome rituals.

Y/N rubbed her temples, trying to make sense of the chaos. Why unmated females? What was his endgame? The questions swirled like a tornado in her mind, refusing to be pinned down. She pulled out her notebook, flipping through the pages of neatly scribbled notes and theories. Each one looked less convincing than the last, and she felt the pressure of the case closing in on her like a vice. The urge to solve this was more than just professional; it was personal. As an omega, she knew the fear that these women must have felt, the vulnerability of being hunted by someone who saw them as nothing more than a prize to be claimed.

With a frustrated groan, she tossed the notebook aside and peeled off her clothes. The fabric clung to her sticky skin, and she felt a little warm, a hint of irritation building in her chest. Her headache grew, the pounding in her temples becoming more insistent. She decided to take a quick shower to wash away the grime of the day, hoping the cool water would bring some relief. The spray washed over her, and she leaned into it, letting it soothe her tense muscles. The water trickled down her body, and she noticed that her skin was more sensitive than usual, her senses heightened. She dismissed it as stress from the case, not realizing that her body was already preparing for the inevitable.

After drying off, she slipped into a soft, oversized t-shirt and shorts, her usual sleepwear for comfort. She crawled into bed, the sheets cool against her overheated skin. As she lay there, her thoughts strayed from the case to her team, particularly Spencer Reid. He had been acting differently around her lately, more protective and attentive.

Her heart skipped a beat as she recalled the way his eyes had lingered on her earlier in the day, the heat in his gaze unmistakable. But she had been too focused on the case to give it much thought. Now, as she lay in the dark, the memory of his touch sent a warm shiver through her. They had always had a special bond, one that went beyond friendship or colleagues. But she had never allowed herself to explore the possibility of anything more. She had always been too scared to risk their friendship, to admit that she wanted him to claim her, to be the one to fill the void that only a mate could.

Her eyelids grew heavy, and soon she drifted into a deep sleep, her dreams filled with the warm embrace of the man she had secretly longed for. Spencer's gentle whispers and tender touches filled her mind, his scent wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. In the haze of her dreams, she felt his body pressed against hers, the softness of his lips brushing against her neck, sending waves of pleasure through her.

The dream grew more intense, and she could feel his teeth graze her skin, the pressure building until she gasped with desire. His strong arms held her close, and she melted into his touch, arching her back to give him better access to the sensitive spots that craved his attention. His scent was intoxicating, a heady mix of masculine musk and the sweet promise of home. Her body responded instinctively, heat pooling between her thighs, begging for his touch.

In her dream, Spencer's voice was soothing, whispering sweet nothings in her ear as he trailed kisses down her neck. His hands roamed over her curves, exploring every inch of her body with a gentle possessiveness that made her toes curl. She reached up, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The feel of his skin against hers was electric, and she could almost taste the desperation in the air.

The intensity grew, and her body responded, betraying her with a need that was impossible to ignore. Her core ached for his touch, for the pressure of his knot that would fill her completely. She whimpered, her legs parting instinctively, inviting him in. He groaned, the sound vibrating through her chest, and she felt his hardness against her thigh.

In her mind, Spencer hovered over her, his eyes blazing with a desire that mirrored her own. His long fingers traced the line of her collarbone, sending sparks of pleasure through her body. He claimed her mouth with a fierce kiss, his tongue delving deep, tasting her sweetness. His scent grew stronger, overwhelming her, and she could feel the warmth of his arousal, his need for her pounding in time with her own heartbeat.

Her dream-self arched into him, the ache in her core becoming unbearable. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and moved his attention to her neck, kissing and nipping the sensitive skin. She could feel his teeth graze her, and she moaned, begging for the bite that would claim her as his own.

With a growl, Spencer pushed the fabric of her shirt aside, revealing her full, round breasts. He took one in his hand, his thumb flicking over the taut nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core. His mouth followed the path his hand had made, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before taking it into his mouth. She gasped, her back bowing off the bed, her nails digging into the mattress. The feeling was exquisite, and she wanted more.

He kissed his way down her stomach, pausing to kiss her navel before continuing his descent. His breath was hot against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring with need. She could feel his tongue against her folds, teasing and licking, tasting her sweetness. Her body responded eagerly, her hips rising to meet his mouth.

Spencer's tongue was a masterful tool, exploring and caressing every part of her with a gentle insistence that made her whimper. He lapped at her clit, the sensitive bud swollen with desire, and she felt the first tremors of an impending climax. He was relentless, his strokes growing more intense, each touch sending her closer to the edge. The room spun around her, the walls closing in as the pleasure built within her, a crescendo that threatened to shatter her into a million pieces.

But the moment never came. Instead, she was jolted awake by the harsh beeping of her alarm, the cold reality of the hotel room replacing the warm embrace of her dream. Y/N's breathing was ragged, her body flushed and slick with arousal. She reached down, her hand finding her clit, still throbbing with the echoes of Spencer's phantom touch. Her cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. It was just a dream, she reminded herself, but the need remained, a dull ache that seemed to pulse in time with her racing heart.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she sat up, her body protesting the sudden movement. The room was bathed in the soft glow of early dawn, the curtains not quite thick enough to keep out the light.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering remnants of her dream. She quickly dressed in her usual work attire, a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt, and headed down to the lobby to meet the others. The team was already there, gathered around a large table with a spread of coffee and pastries. Aaron Hotchner looked up as she approached, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in her flushed cheeks.

Hotch could smell the subtle change in Y/N's scent, the sweet aroma of an omega in the early stages of heat. He cleared his throat and announced, "Alright, everyone. We're heading to the police station to review the latest evidence and coordinate with local law enforcement." His voice was firm, his gaze flicking briefly to the young omega before returning to the rest of the team.

The day passed in a blur of interviews and crime scenes, Y/N's scent growing stronger with each passing hour. It was a silent, unspoken tension that hung in the air, the other male agents giving her a wider berth than usual. Spencer couldn't focus, his mind racing with images of her writhing in ecstasy beneath him. He found himself glancing at her frequently, his eyes drawn to the way her shirt clung to her breasts, the way her cheeks flushed with the slightest exertion. The urge to claim her was like a beast clawing at the inside of his chest, demanding to be released.

While walking over to the coffee pot, a leering smile spread across one of the uniformed officers' faces as he watched Y/N's hips sway. He leaned in close, his voice a lecherous whisper. "Looks like someone's ready to be mounted," he said, his eyes raking over her body. The other officers snickered, the sound grating on Spencer's nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

Hotch's head snapped up at the crude remark, his alpha instincts flaring. The room went silent as he stalked over to the group, his eyes burning with fury. He stepped in front of the offending officer, his shoulders squared and his expression hard. "That's enough," he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down the man's spine. "You will address Agent L/N with the respect she deserves, or you can take your comments and your sorry excuse for an attitude elsewhere."

The officer's smile faded, his face paling as he took a step back. "S-sorry, Agent Hotchner," he stuttered, visibly intimidated by the alpha's dominance. The tension in the room dissipated slightly, but the protective vibe from the team remained palpable.

Y/N's cheeks burned as she walked back to her seat, trying to ignore the stares of the other officers. She took a sip of her coffee, the bitter taste doing little to soothe the unease in her stomach. As the day dragged on, she grew increasingly uncomfortable, her skin feeling too tight and her senses heightened. The smell of coffee grew too strong, the fabric of her clothes irritating her sensitive skin. Her stomach cramped, and she felt a sudden need to be away from the male presence in the room.

It was only when JJ pulled her aside, her eyes filled with concern, that the pieces finally clicked into place. "Are you okay?" JJ whispered, her voice low and soothing. "You're flushed, and you've been looking a little…uncomfortable."

Y/N's hand flew to her stomach, her eyes wide with realization. "Oh no," she murmured, the truth dawning on her. "I think I'm going into heat."

JJ's eyes widened in understanding, her grip on Y/N's arm tightening. "You need to tell Hotch," she said urgently. "We can't have unmated males around you in this state."

Nodding, Y/N took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. She didn't want to be a liability on the case, but she couldn't ignore the primal pull of her body. She nodded, and JJ slipped away, leaving her in the women's room.

The walls felt like they were closing in, the room suddenly too warm. Her stomach churned, and she felt a bead of sweat trickle down her spine. Y/N leaned against the cool porcelain of the sink, trying to get a grip on herself. The realization that she was going into heat hit her like a ton of bricks. Hotch was an alpha; he would have picked up on her scent immediately. The thought of his reaction made her stomach drop.

Her eyes searched the mirror, looking for any signs of the change that was happening to her. Her pupils had dilated slightly, and her cheeks were flushed. She could feel the pheromones radiating from her, calling out to any unmated within range. Panic set in, and she knew she had to tell him, had to get out of there before she became a distraction. Before any of the unmated in the precinct tried to claim her.

Y/N's heart hammered in her chest as she tried to compose herself. She couldn't let them see her like this, not when they were so close to catching the Unsub. She took a deep breath, willing the scent of her impending heat to recede. It was a fool's errand; she knew that once an omega's heat started, there was no hiding it.

As she stepped out of the bathroom, she could feel the weight of every male gaze in the precinct on her. It was like a tangible force, pushing her to submit, to let one of them claim her. Her legs felt wobbly, and she clutched her stomach, willing the pain to subside. The air was thick with the scent of testosterone and desire, making it hard to breathe.

The case they were working on was a stark reminder that, no matter how much the world moved forward, some dark corners remained stubbornly entrenched in the past. The idea of an unmated omega was still a taboo subject, one that brought out the basest instincts in the men around here.

Y/N's steps grew heavier as she made her way back to the team, the whispers of the male officers like a toxic fog that clung to her. She could see the way they watched her, the hunger in their eyes. Here, in this small town, the old ways died hard. The stench of misogyny and discrimination was a palpable presence that made her skin crawl.

Spencer's protective instincts kicked in. He could feel the tension in the air, the way it thickened with the scent of unbridled lust. His eyes scanned the room, his grip on his notepad tightening. He knew Y/N was in trouble, knew that he had to get her out of there before things got out of hand. He caught Emily's eye and jerked his head towards the door. "Get the keys and start the car" he murmured tersely.

Emily's confusion was evident, but she didn't question him. She knew Spencer well enough to trust his gut, especially when it came to Y/N. She nodded and slipped out of the room, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor. Spencer turned to Y/N, his voice low and urgent. "We need to go." He took her by the elbow, guiding her gently but firmly towards the exit.

Her eyes searched his, questions swirling in the depths of her gaze. "What's happening?" she asked, her voice a whisper. Spencer didn't answer, his focus solely on navigating the gauntlet of male officers that seemed to have grown denser in the short time they had been apart. His hand on her arm was a silent reassurance, a promise that he would keep her safe.

The cool night air hit her like a slap in the face as they stepped outside. The crispness of it helped to clear her head, the scent of her heat less overpowering. Spencer led her to the car, his eyes never leaving her as he opened the door and helped her inside. Emily was already behind the wheel, the engine running, the headlights casting a pool of light on the deserted street.

"Take her back to the hotel," Spencer instructed Emily, his voice tight with urgency. "Keep her safe."

Emily nodded, her gaze flicking to Y/N's flushed face before she shifted the car into drive. The engine roared to life, and the tires squealed as they peeled out of the precinct's parking lot. Y/N leaned back in the seat, her eyes closed, trying to ignore the way her body was betraying her. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, the scent of her arousal growing stronger by the second.

Spencer watched the car pull away, his mind racing. He had to tell Hotch, had to make sure she was protected. He took a deep breath and headed back into the precinct, his steps quick and purposeful. The eyes of the male officers followed him, their gazes lingering on his retreating back.

Spencer could hear the murmur of his and JJ's voices. He paused, his hand hovering over the slight ajar door. "We can't risk it," Hotch was saying, his voice tight with concern. "We need to get her somewhere safe, away from here."

JJ's voice was just as urgent. "But the case, we can't just leave it—"

Spencer pushed the door all the way open, interrupting them mid-sentence. His eyes were wild, a mix of fear and determination etched into his features. "I had Emily take her back to the hotel," he announced, his voice strained. "But we can't just leave it at that. We need to make sure she's safe, that no one tries to claim her."

Hotch nodded gravely, his expression tightening. "You're right," he said, his gaze flicking to the door that Y/N had just left through. "We need to be more vigilant than ever. Her heat is going to make her a target for any unmated male in the area."

JJ nodded in agreement. "But we can't let it affect the case. We have to catch this unsub before he strikes again."

Hotch's jaw clenched. "We'll split up the workload," he decided. "JJ, you and Prentiss stay with Y/N. The rest of us will keep working the case from here."

Spencer's chest tightened with a possessive instinct that he had never felt before. The thought of anyone else being with Y/N while she was in heat was unbearable. He needed to be the one to comfort her, to keep her safe from the predators that would be drawn to her scent. His eyes met Hotch's, and he could see the alpha's understanding in the depths of his gaze.

Hotch took a step closer, his voice a low rumble that only Spencer could hear. "You know I can't have you around her like this," he said, his expression a mix of sympathy and resolve. "It's too risky."

Spencer's eyes flashed with frustration, but he knew Hotch was right. The alpha's protective instincts were as much a part of him as Spencer's own need to claim her. "I know," he forced out, his voice tight.

Hotch clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "We'll keep her safe," he promised. "But we also need you to stay focused on the case. We can't let this distract us from catching the Unsub."

Spencer nodded, swallowing hard. "I know," he murmured. "But what if—"

Hotch's hand on his shoulder was firm, cutting him off. "You're the best we've got, Reid," he said, his voice firm. "Your mind is crucial to cracking this case. We need you here."

Spencer took a deep breath, trying to push down the primal need that was threatening to overwhelm him. He knew Hotch was right; Y/N was in good hands with Emily and JJ. But the thought of her in heat, vulnerable and alone, was almost too much to bear. "Understood," he said, his voice strained.

As he sat down at the table, the scent of her still lingered in the air, a sweet, musky aroma that seemed to have seeped into every corner of the room. It was like a siren's call, taunting him with what he couldn't have. He closed his eyes, willing the images away. Her naked body, writhing with need, begging for his touch.

The case notes in front of him blurred, and he found himself tracing the same line over and over again with his finger. His mind was a maelstrom of thoughts, torn between the hunt for the Unsub and the overwhelming desire to claim Y/N.

With a growl of frustration, Spencer shoved his chair back and began to pace the room. He needed to focus, to find a pattern, a clue that would lead them to the killer. The scent of Y/N's heat was a constant distraction, a siren's song that played on repeat in his head. But he couldn't let it derail him. Not now, not when they were so close.

He picked up a file, his eyes scanning the pages with a fervor that was almost desperate. His mind raced, trying to connect the dots. The Unsub was clever, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs that led them in circles. But Spencer knew he had to be in here somewhere, hiding in plain sight. He couldn't let his personal feelings get in the way of saving lives.

He could feel the eyes of the other agents on him, the weight of their expectations. They needed him to be the genius he was known to be, not the lovesick fool his mind was trying to turn him into. Spencer took a deep breath, centering himself. He had to find a way to block out the scent of Y/N's heat, to focus solely on the case.

The clock on the wall ticked away the hours, the seconds feeling like an eternity. The rest of the team worked tirelessly around him, each one driven by the urgency of the case. Files were spread out across the table, coffee cups grew cold, and the room grew stale with the scent of their determination. Yet, Spencer's mind kept wandering, his thoughts slipping back to Y/N and the desperate need to claim her.

Midnight approached, and the team's energy began to wane. The room grew quieter, the murmurs of conversation dying down as the weight of their failure to catch the Unsub grew heavier. One by one, they called it a night, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and frustration. Spencer knew he should be just as tired, but the ache in his body was keeping him wired, his mind racing with thoughts of Y/N.

With a final sigh, he stood, his legs protesting after hours of inactivity. He couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to be with her, needed to protect her from the dangers that lurked in the shadows of this small town. The scent of her heat had been a constant distraction all evening, a siren's call that grew stronger with each passing moment.

He headed back to the hotel, his mind racing with the urgency of his need. The elevator ride up seemed to take forever. When the doors finally opened onto his floor, the air was thick with her pheromones, a sweet, potent scent that made his blood boil. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the beast that stirred within him. He had to be in control, had to keep his head.

But the moment he stepped into the hallway, the scent grew stronger, and his resolve began to crumble. His heart raced, his cock hardening in his pants. His body was screaming at him to claim her, to make her his, to fill her with his seed and keep her safe. It was a primal urge that was almost too much to resist.

With each step closer to her door, Spencer's control slipped further away. His breaths grew shallower, his eyes locked onto the wood that separated them. His hand hovered over the handle, his knuckles white with the effort of not giving in. The need to be inside her, to feel her warmth and hear her cries of pleasure, was an ache that was becoming unbearable.

He paused, his mind a battleground between his rational self and the primal instincts that ruled during a rut. The smell of her heat was like a drug, clouding his judgment and driving him to the brink of madness. He knew it was wrong, that he could lose everything by acting on these urges, but the beast inside of him didn't care about consequences.

The sound of a door opening down the hall jolted him back to reality, and Spencer realized the risk he was taking. He had to get away from her before he lost control. With a herculean effort, he turned on his heel and raced to his room.

Once inside, he slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the silent hotel corridor. His hand trembled as he reached for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head. The fabric clung to his damp skin, the scent of Y/N's heat clinging to him like a second skin. He stumbled to the shower, cranking the cold water to the max. The icy spray hit him like a slap, but it did little to ease the fever in his blood.

Spencer leaned against the tiles, his head dropping back as the water pummeled his face. He closed his eyes and took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to drown out the images that plagued him. The scent of her arousal had him wired, his body begging for release. With a growl of frustration, he reached for the soap, his hand shaking as he lathered it over his chest. His eyes drifted down to the evidence of his desire, thick and heavy between his legs.

He knew he needed to relieve the tension, to purge the images from his mind before he did something stupid. His hand wrapped around his cock, stroking firmly as he pictured Y/N's face, her eyes filled with need. The water sluiced over his skin, mixing with the scent of the soap and the heady scent of his own arousal. His mind was a maelstrom of desire, each touch sending shockwaves through his body.

In his imagination, she was sprawled out on the bed, her legs spread wide, begging for him to fill her. Her voice was a siren's call, her sweet scent of heat driving him wild. "Please, Spencer," she moaned, her voice a breathless whisper. "Knot me, breed me. Make me yours."

The thought was almost too much to handle, and Spencer's hand moved faster, his strokes growing more urgent. He could feel the pressure building, his balls tightening with the need to release. In his mind's eye, he saw her, writhing beneath him, her body begging for his dominance. "Take me," she whimpered, her eyes glazed with lust. "Make me scream your name."

The scent of her heat filled his nose, a sweet, musky aroma that made his mouth water. He could almost taste the slick leaking from her swollen sex, the sweetness of her arousal coating his tongue. His teeth clenched as he fought to keep from groaning out loud, his mind racing with the thought of her tight, wet warmth around his cock.

Spencer's hand tightened around his shaft, stroking faster as he imagined pushing into her, feeling her stretch to accommodate him. His body was taut with tension, his muscles coiled and ready to spring. The water cascaded down his body, mixing with the precum that leaked from the tip of his cock. He could feel the knot at the base of his shaft beginning to swell, the tightness spreading through him like a warm embrace.

The pressure grew unbearable, his hips bucking involuntarily as he chased the elusive release. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering in his chest like a drum. He couldn't control his hips as he began fucking his fist, the rhythm frantic and desperate. The cold water did nothing to cool the heat that raged through him, the need to claim Y/N consuming every thought.

Suddenly, it was as if a dam had broken. Spencer let out a roar of a moan as he came, his knot popping through his tightened grip. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, a white-hot wave that crashed over him, leaving him trembling and gasping for air. He leaned against the wall of the shower, his knees threatening to give out as the climax ripped through his body.

His cock continued to pulse, shooting ropes of cum that mingled with the water as it swirled down the drain. Each spurt brought a shiver of pleasure-pain, his body wrung out by the intensity of his release. The cold water had turned lukewarm, but it still felt like ice against his feverish skin. He gulped down lungfuls of air, trying to regain control of his racing heart. With his hand still wrapped around his sensitive length his body felt both relieved and utterly drained.

Finally, the last tremor passed, and Spencer stepped out of the shower, his legs wobbly. He grabbed a towel, the rough fabric scraping against his over-sensitized skin. He dried himself off enough to climb into bed, his body begging for rest. He collapsed onto the mattress, the coldness of the sheets a welcome contrast to his overheated body.

As he lay there, the images from his fantasy played on a loop in his mind, taunting him with what he couldn't have. The scent of his release hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint remnants of Y/N's heat that had somehow followed him into his room. He buried his face in the pillow, willing sleep to claim him, to dull the ache in his chest.

But the bed felt cold, empty without her. He tossed and turned, his body craving the warmth of her touch. His mind raced with the memories of their unspoken moments, the glances that spoke volumes, the gentle brushes of skin that had always seemed so innocent before. Now, they were a torment, a reminder of what could never be.

Finally, exhaustion claimed him, and he slipped into a dreamless sleep. It was a brief reprieve from the tumultuous emotions that raged within him, a quiet sanctuary where he could just be. But even in his unconsciousness, the scent of her heat lingered, teasing him, whispering sweet nothings that his subconscious yearned to believe.

The next morning, Spencer woke with a start, the weight of his need for Y/N still pressing down on him like a heavy blanket. He took a deep breath, trying to push the images from his mind, but it was no use. He knew he had to end this case, not just for the sake of the victims, but for her.

With renewed determination, he dressed quickly and headed to the lobby. The scent of her heat was faint but still present, a constant reminder of the urgency of the situation. At the station, he bypassed the greetings and jostling of his colleagues, his eyes locked on the mountain of case files waiting for him.

Spencer's mind raced as he sifted through the evidence, his thoughts a whirlwind of patterns and motives. Every piece of the puzzle was a step closer to ending this nightmare, to being able to be there for Y/N without the shadow of the Unsub looming over them. His mind was a sharp blade slicing through the chaos, looking for the one thread that would unravel the entire case. The desire to claim her, to keep her safe and warm in his arms, fueled his every move.

Back at the hotel, Y/N's heat was steadily ramping up. She was still in the uncomfortable and flushed phase, her body sending out signals that she was ripe and ready to be claimed. The air in her room was thick with the sweet musk of her arousal, a scent that seemed to cling to every surface. She couldn't help but feel exposed, vulnerable, as the need grew stronger with each passing moment. Her thoughts strayed to Spencer, the way his eyes had darkened with hunger when he'd looked at her earlier, and she couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same primal pull that she did.

JJ, bless her, was blissfully oblivious to the internal battle raging within Y/N. They pored over the case files together, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. Y/N tried to focus on the words in front of her, but her mind kept drifting back to the dream she'd had the night before. The way Spencer had claimed her, marked her as his own, was a tantalizing fantasy that played on repeat in her mind's eye. She shifted in her seat, trying to ignore the insistent throb between her legs, the low-level buzz of need that grew stronger with every passing hour.

The hotel room felt stifling, the air charged with the scent of her heat. She knew it was only a matter of time before it became impossible to ignore, before her body demanded she seek out the strongest, most dominant to claim her. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the scent grew stronger, her arousal a call that no one could ignore.

Y/N looked up at JJ, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I know this isn't easy for you to see."

JJ's gaze was filled with understanding. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she assured her, her tone gentle. "It's just biology. But we need to make sure you're safe. Spencer would have my head if anything happened to you."

Y/N nodded, her cheeks flaming even hotter at the mention of Spencer. She had no doubt that he was feeling the same pull she was, but she didn't know if he felt the same way she did. The fear of rejection was a knot in her stomach, twisting tighter the more she thought about it.

They had to catch the Unsub before her heat grew too intense to ignore. The thought of going through this in front of the team was mortifying, but the fear of what could happen if they didn't catch the killer was far worse. Y/N knew her time was limited, and she hoped they could crack the case in the next 12 hours before her heat was in full swing making flying home no longer an option.

The walls of the hotel room felt like they were closing in on her, the air thick with the scent of her heat. She knew it was only a matter of time before every male in the vicinity would be drawn to her like moths to a flame. The thought of being claimed by a stranger, of being used and discarded, was a nightmare she couldn't shake.

Three hours had passed, and Y/N felt her concentration waning. The words on the case files swam before her eyes. A sudden ringtone pierced the silence, and JJ's phone lit up on the table.

Morgan's name flashed on the screen, and Y/N's heart leaped in her chest. "It's Derek," JJ said, her voice tight with anticipation as she answered the call.

"We've got him," Morgan's deep voice boomed through the speaker, the excitement palpable even over the phone line. "It's a local car mechanic, a guy named Charles Kessler. We're heading to his house now."

Y/N's heart raced. This could be it, the break they needed. JJ's eyes met hers, and she could see the same hope reflected in their depths. "Good work, Derek," JJ said, her voice tight. "We'll wait for your update."

As soon as she hung up, she turned to Y/N, her expression serious. "We need to get you home," she said, her voice low. "I'm calling for the jet to be on standby." Y/N nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Spencer, feeling the pressure of the clock ticking down, had thrown himself into the case with a ferocity that surprised even him. He'd been able to narrow down their suspect list, giving Garcia a manageable list of people to do a deep dive into. His mind was a whirlwind of data and instinct, each piece of information a thread in the tapestry of the killer's twisted mind.

"Got him," Garcia exclaimed over the phone. "It's Charles Kessler. He's got a history of assaults on omegas and his alibis for the murders are shaky at best."

With a flick of her wrist, Garcia sent the home and work addresses to the team's phones. The room was a flurry of movement as the agents grabbed their gear, adrenaline pumping through their veins. Hotch's voice was a low growl as he gave the order to split into two groups.

The first car, with Hotch at the wheel and Morgan riding shotgun, peeled out of the hotel parking lot, tires squealing as they headed for Kessler's workplace. Spencer, Rossi, and Prentiss piled into the second car, their eyes locked on the GPS as they navigated the quiet streets toward his house. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the scent of anticipation and fear.

They arrived at a small, nondescript house with a neatly trimmed lawn and a sad-looking fence. The curtains were drawn, giving no clue to what lay within. Spencer took a deep breath, trying to clear his head of the cacophony of his thoughts.

Rossi took point, his hand on his gun, eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of life. Prentiss was right behind him, her expression a mask of determination, ready to face whatever horrors awaited them inside. Spencer brought up the rear, his mind racing with the details of the case, trying to anticipate the Unsub's next move.

They approached the house with caution, each step echoing in the stillness of the night. The door was unlocked, swinging open with a low creak that seemed to shatter the silence. The house was eerily quiet, the only sound their hushed breaths and the rustle of their clothing.

The trio split up, moving through the rooms with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Spencer's instincts screamed at him that Kessler wasn't here, but they had to be thorough. The emptiness of the house was almost a taunt, a silent challenge to their skills. Each room they cleared was a step closer to the inevitable disappointment that he wasn't here.

They found no signs of struggle, no evidence of a hasty retreat, just an eerie stillness that seemed to mock their urgency. The house was disorganized but not dirty, a testament to a life lived by a single man who clearly had issues with neatness.

Suddenly, Spencer's phone buzzed, interrupting the tense silence. It was Hotch's name on the screen, and he snatched it up, his heart racing. "We've got him," Hotch's voice was gruff. "We're bringing Kessler in now."

The relief was palpable, the air in the room seemed to change. Spencer's chest loosened, the tension draining from his muscles.

"We're on our way back," he said into the phone, his eyes scanning the room for any clue they might have missed.

As he ended the call, Emily's voice cut through the quiet. "Guys, come here," she called from the bathroom, her tone urgent.

Spencer and Rossi rushed in to find her standing by the sink. She pointed to the small, crimson smear that had dried around the drain. "It's blood," she murmured, her eyes wide with fear.

They couldn't believe their luck. A blatant clue, a smear of evidence that seemed almost too convenient. But in their line of work, they knew better than to question such fortune. They had seen cases unravel with less.

With haste, they called in the local forensics team to process the scene. He knew that the discovery of blood could be a pivotal moment, a chink in Kessler's armor that could be exploited to get a confession.

The three of them exchanged grim nods before retreating to the car, leaving the house to the white-suited technicians who would meticulously comb through every inch. The drive back to the station was tense, each lost in their own thoughts about what they had found. Spencer's mind was racing, trying to piece together the puzzle that was Charles Kessler.

Once back at the precinct, they found Hotch and Morgan waiting, the latter looking slightly disheveled but otherwise unharmed. The Unsub had been caught trying to flee his workplace, the same desperation that had led him to leave behind the incriminating evidence at his home.

Emily quickly filled Hotch in on their discovery, her voice low and urgent. Hotch's eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he listened to her report. He knew the significance of that crimson smear, the potential it held for their case.

"Good work," he said, his voice tight. "I'll handle this. You three get the case files together and make sure everything's ready for the flight back. We need to tie this up as quickly as possible."

Emily nodded, her expression a mix of relief and concern. "Understood, Hotch." She turned to Spencer and Rossi, her eyes flicking to the door. "Let's move."

Hotch strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he made his way to the Chief's office. The urgency of the situation was not lost on him. They had a job to do, and they were leaving a member of their pack vulnerable. But the case was almost closed, and the Unsub was in custody. It was time to bring Y/N home.

He stepped into the Chief's office, the scent of stale coffee and paperwork hanging heavy in the air. The Chief looked up from his desk, his expression a mix of surprise and wariness at the sight of Hotchner's tense posture. "What's the status?" he barked, his eyes sharp.

Hotch took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. "We've got him," he said, the words feeling both like a victory and a weight lifted. "Charles Kessler. We found blood at his place, and the local team is processing it now. I trust your officers can take it from here."

The Chief looked up, his eyes assessing Hotch's expression. "Your team is leaving?"

"Yes," Hotch confirmed, his jaw tight. "We have… a situation that requires our immediate attention back in Quantico."

The Chief leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharp. "Is everything alright?"

Hotch nodded curtly. "We've made significant progress on the case, but we have a… personal situation back home that requires our attention." He couldn't bring himself to say more, not wanting to reveal the intimate details of his team's dynamics. The Chief studied him for a moment, then nodded understandingly.

"Very well, Agent Hotchner. I'll make sure everything is handled accordingly," he said, his tone softer than before. "Our team will take over the interrogation and processing of Mr. Kessler. You've provided excellent leads; I'm confident we'll get a confession and make sure he's behind bars for good."

Hotch nodded, his eyes never leaving the Chief's. "Thank you," he said, the weight of his words heavy with unspoken relief. He turned on his heel and strode out of the office, his team waiting for him outside.

The drive to the hotel was a blur, the tension in the car thick enough to slice through with a knife. Spencer's hand kept clenching and unclenching, his mind racing with thoughts of Y/N. He hadn't seen her since he had Emily drive her back to the hotel, and the need to be near her was almost overwhelming.

As they pulled into the hotel's lot, Spencer's eyes darted to the lobby, searching for any sign of her. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her walking out of the elevator, her figure outlined by the soft glow of the hotel lights.

Y/N looked up as the car approached, her eyes locking onto Spencer's. The air was thick with the scent of her heat, and he could see the exhaustion etched into her delicate features. She was a vision of vulnerability, and his protective instincts roared to life.

He barely waited for the car to come to a complete stop before jumping out and rushing to her side. "You okay?" he asked, his voice gruff with concern.

Y/N nodded, her eyes filled with a mix of relief and pain. "We need to go," she murmured, her voice low and thready.

The team didn't need to be told twice. They split off to their individual rooms, each one moving with the speed of a seasoned pro. The hallway was a blur of motion, doors opening and closing in rapid succession as they gathered their belongings.

The jet was waiting for them on the tarmac, its engines humming with the promise of escape from the hellish week they had endured. Before he could board, Hotch pulled Spencer aside, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. "Spencer," he began, his voice low and gruff. "Are you sure you're okay flying with her like this?"

Spencer knew what he meant, the question hanging heavily in the air between them. The scent of Y/N's heat was a siren's call, a constant reminder of the primal urges that threatened to consume him. He took a deep breath, trying to push the images of her wet and needy out of his mind. "I'll manage," he replied, his voice tight with the effort of control.

Hotch's eyes searched his, looking for any sign of weakness or doubt. Spencer's jaw clenched as he nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I've got it under control," he said firmly, his voice carrying the conviction of a man who had faced his inner demons and was determined not to let them win.

"Good," Hotch said, clapping a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "Because I trust you, Reid. You know what's at stake here, and I know you'll do right by her." With that, he turned and headed towards the jet, leaving Spencer to his thoughts.

Spencer watched him go, feeling the weight of his words like a stone in his stomach. He knew what was expected of him, knew the lines he couldn't cross. But as he climbed the stairs to the jet, the scent of Y/N's heat grew stronger, and he felt maybe, just maybe, he was in over his head.

Y/N was laid out on the couch, her head in Emily's lap, her skin so heated and flushed she could feel it burning even through the fabric of her clothes. The air in the jet's cabom was stifling, thick with the scent of her heat, and she couldn't help but wish she could rip off every stitch and let the cool breeze from the air conditioner caress her overheated skin. Her eyes were closed, but the images from her dream played out behind her lids, a tantalizing dance of passion and submission that made her pulse race.

Emily's hand was a gentle, soothing presence on her forehead, stroking through her hair as she whispered reassurances. "You're okay," she murmured, her voice a soft lullaby in the otherwise silent cabin. "We're almost home."

Y/N's breaths were coming in short, shallow pants as she straddled Emily's lap. The pressure of the beta's body against her own was a comfort, a grounding force amidst the chaos of her raging hormones. Her nose was buried in Emily's neck, inhaling the comforting scent that the older woman was giving off.

Emily's hand stilled on her forehead, her eyes flicking to Spencer, who was sitting a few seats away. His knuckles were white as he gripped the armrests, his eyes locked on the floor. The tension in his body was almost tangible, the effort to maintain control evident in every line of his form.

The scent of Y/N's heat grew stronger with each passing minute, and Spencer felt his own body responding, a spontaneous rut approaching like a storm on the horizon. He knew the moment it hit, there would be no going back, no way to hide the raw, primal need that would consume him.

Ten minutes to Quantico. He could hold out, he had to. Spencer's eyes flicked to his watch, the seconds ticking away with cruel precision. The jet's cabin was a prison of his own making, the walls closing in around him. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and his eyes never leaving the floor.

But then he heard it, the soft whimper that seemed to pierce the silence like a bullet. Y/N's scent was a siren's call, and he couldn't ignore it anymore. His eyes snapped up, and his gaze locked onto the sight of her in Emily's lap. Her eyes were closed, her breaths coming in short, erratic gasps, and his heart clenched in his chest. He knew she was in pain, that her heat was reaching its peak, and the need to claim her, to be the one to ease her suffering, was a beast inside of him that was begging to be unleashed.

Suddenly, the plane jolted, and the sound of the engines changed pitch. He felt the bump of the jet landing back down on earth, the vibrations traveling through his body and up to his very core. The moment the plane stopped moving, Spencer was out the door, gulping down greedy breaths of fresh air. He could feel his mind beginning to clear, the fog lifting slightly as the scent of Y/N's heat grew cleared his system.

The team gathered their bags and disembarked, the tension in the air thick and palpable. Spencer's eyes remained glued to Y/N, his protective instincts on high alert. Walking towards the car, he couldn't help but notice the way she leaned into Emily, seeking comfort and relief from the unrelenting heat.

But Y/N had had enough. As the others pulled away in their cars, she stopped Emily, her voice firm. "I need to talk to Spencer," she said, her eyes pleading. Emily looked at her for a long moment, understanding dawning in her eyes. She nodded, giving Spencer a look that conveyed both her concern and her trust in him.

Y/N took a deep breath, her eyes searching Spencer's face. "Spencer," she began, her voice shaking. "I… I need to tell you something before…" she trailed off, her cheeks flushing a darker shade of red.

Spencer's eyes widened, his heart racing. He knew what was coming, the words she had been holding back for days now. "What is it?" he asked, his voice gruff with tension.

"I… I've been feeling this way for a while," Y/N began, her voice trembling. "And I don't want you to think it's just because of this heat." She took a deep, shaky breath, her eyes searching his for any sign of understanding.

Spencer's eyes searched hers, the intensity of his gaze almost too much to bear. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, his voice low and gruff.

"Spencer, I…" she took a deep breath, her chest heaving with the effort. "I've liked you for a long time. And I need you to know it's not just the heat."

Spencer's heart skipped a beat. He had hoped, dreamed even, that she felt the same, but hearing it out loud was like a punch to the gut. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped her lashes. "Y/N," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I know it's not just the heat. I've felt this way about you too, for so long."

Her eyes searched his, hope and fear mingling in their depths. "You have?" she whispered, her voice a soft caress against his skin.

Spencer nodded, his thumb still brushing away the tears that glistened on her cheeks. "More than you know," he murmured, his voice husky with desire. The words felt like a weight lifted from his chest, the truth of his feelings finally spoken aloud.

Y/N's eyes searched his, her breathing growing ragged. "Take me home," she begged, her voice a whisper. "Please, Spencer."

Spencer's hand tightened on her cheek, his eyes blazing with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice thick with the same need that was consuming her.

Y/N nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "More than anything," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Spencer took a step back, his hand falling away from her face. The distance was agonizing, but he knew they needed to talk, to understand each other's feelings and boundaries before giving in to the overwhelming pull of their biology. "Okay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N looked at Emily, her eyes wide with hope and fear. The beta met her gaze, her expression unreadable. But the moment she nodded, something in Y/N's chest unlocked. She turned back to Spencer, her breath hitching in her throat. "Emily knows," she admitted, her voice shaking. "I told her before we got on the jet."

Emily's eyes searched hers, a question in her gaze. "Is this what you really want?" she asked, her voice gentle but firm.

Y/N nodded, her eyes never leaving Spencer's. "More than anything," she whispered.

The tension between them was palpable as they walked to Spencer's car. His hand hovered near hers, but he didn't dare touch her, not yet. The drive back to her apartment was silent, filled only with the sound of their ragged breaths and the hum of the engine. Spencer's mind raced, trying to organize his thoughts, his body screaming at him to claim her, to make her his.

When they finally arrived, Spencer stepped out of the car, his eyes never leaving hers. He opened the door for her, his hand brushing against her arm as he helped her out. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through him. He took a deep breath, trying to keep the beast at bay.

The moment they walked through the door of her apartment, the dam broke. Y/N launched herself at him, her mouth crashing against his in a kiss that was desperate and needy. Spencer groaned, his arms wrapping around her automatically, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss. His control slipped, the scent of her heat like a drug, making his body pulse with need.

He reluctantly pulled away, his chest heaving with the effort. "We need to get you taken care of first," he murmured, his voice hoarse with desire. He didn't trust himself to be near her without claiming her, without giving in to the urges that were consuming him.

Spencer turned away from her, walking through the apartment with purpose. Each step was a battle against the primal instinct to push her down and take her right there, but he knew that wasn't what she needed. Not yet. He checked each window, his eyes scanning the darkness outside, ensuring no unmated alphas could sense her scent. The need to protect her was stronger than his own need to claim her, and he wasn't going to let anyone else touch her, not now, not ever.

The doors were next, each lock clicking into place with a satisfying finality. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly with every barrier he put between her and the outside world. The apartment was small, but it was hers, and he would make it their fortress tonight.

In the kitchen, Spencer's eyes scanned the fridge and cabinets with a critical eye. He knew the depths of an omega's hunger during heat, and he wasn't taking any chances. He grabbed a notepad and scribbled a list of essentials: protein, carbs, water, and some of the sweet treats he knew she liked. They had to have enough to last them through the next couple of days, just in case.

As he turned to leave the kitchen, he found Y/N standing in the doorway, her eyes on him with a mix of longing and apprehension. The sight of her, her hair a wild mess around her flushed face, her clothes sticking to her body from the heat of her need, made his control waver. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.

"Here," he said, his voice gruff as he handed her a bottle of water. "You need to stay hydrated."

Y/N took the bottle, her hands trembling as she twisted the cap. She took a tentative sip, the cool liquid sliding down her throat like a balm. She watched as Spencer walked over to the thermostat, his eyes never leaving hers as he cranked the AC up to the maximum setting.

The cold air began to blow, feeling like heaven on her flushed skin. Goosebumps erupted along her arms and neck, but she didn't care. It was the first time in hours that she felt anything other than the suffocating heat of her own body. She closed her eyes, savouring the relief, her breaths coming out in shaky sighs.

When she opened them again, she found Spencer watching her, his eyes dark and hungry. The sight of him sent a fresh wave of heat through her, and she knew she couldn't bear the touch of her clothes anymore. Her fingers began to fumble with the buttons of her shirt, desperate to feel the coolness of the air on her bare skin.

"Let me," Spencer murmured, his voice thick with need. He stepped closer, his hands brushing hers aside as he carefully unbuttoned her shirt. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, the cool air washing over her skin like a balm.

Y/N's eyes remained locked on his as he unzipped her pants, his knuckles brushing against her feverish skin. Each touch was a spark, igniting the fire of desire that was already raging inside her. She stepped out of the puddle of fabric, her body trembling with anticipation.

Her clothes lay scattered around them, a testament to the urgency of the moment. Spencer's eyes raked over her, drinking in the sight of her nakedness. Her breasts were heavy with need, the peaks tight and sensitive, and she knew he could see the evidence of her arousal, the slickness that coated her thighs.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Y/N reached out and took Spencer's hand. He was a vision of restrained power, his own desire clear in the tension of his body. She tugged gently, and he followed her without hesitation, allowing her to lead him to the bedroom.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Y/N's hunger took over. With a snarl of need, she yanked at Spencer's shirt, the fabric giving way under her frenzied touch. Buttons popped and flew in every direction, leaving a trail in their wake. Y/N's eyes raked over him, her hunger growing with every inch of skin revealed.

Spencer's eyes widened at the ferocity of her desire, his own need spiraling out of control. He reached for her, his hands trembling as he helped her rid him of his clothes. Her nails scraped against his chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake, and he couldn't help the groan that tore from his throat.

Once they were both naked, the air in the room seemed to crackle with electricity. Spencer's eyes were drawn to the heat between her thighs, the slickness that gleamed in the soft light. He knew he had to be gentle, that she was in pain, but the need to claim her was a beast that was quickly taking over.

With a growl that was half desperation and half hunger, he dropped to his knees before her. His hands trembled as he spread her legs, the sight of her wet and swollen folds making his mouth water. Y/N's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat as she watched him, her body taut with anticipation.

Spencer's tongue darted out, tasting the sweetness of her arousal, and she moaned, the sound echoing through the room. He lapped at her, slow and gentle, his tongue tracing the delicate line of her slit. The taste of her was intoxicating, a potent cocktail of need and desire that went straight to his head. He could feel the spontaneous rut he almost fell into come back in full force.

Her hips rocked against his mouth, urging him to go deeper, to claim her completely. He obeyed, sliding two fingers inside her tight, wet heat, curling them just so to hit that sweet spot that had her crying out his name. Spencer's eyes never left her as he worked her over, his mouth worshiping her, his teeth grazing her clit just enough to make her squirm.

And then she whispered it, the word that set his soul on fire. "Mate," she whimpered, her voice thick with need. The word sent a bolt of pure, animalistic lust through him, and he knew he could hold out no longer. He had to claim her, to make her his in every way possible.

With a growl that was more animal than human, Spencer stood, his cock thick and heavy with need. He could feel the rut fully taking over, the need to knot and breed her driving him to the brink of madness. Y/N's eyes were glazed with heat, her pupils blown wide as she watched him, her chest heaving with each ragged breath.

Spencer's hand was at the back of her neck before he could think, his thumb pressing into the sensitive spot that sent a shiver down her spine. "Say it again," he demanded, his voice thick with need.

Y/N's eyes snapped to his, the reality of what she had just said crashing over her. But the need was too great, the heat too intense. "Mate," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Spencer's eyes darkened, the word echoing in his mind like a siren's call. He knew what it meant, what it signified. The bond between a mated pair was sacred, unbreakable. And here she was, offering it to him, begging for it. He didn't dare hope, didn't dare believe she truly knew what she was saying.

But the scent of her, the desperate need in her voice, it was all too real. He could feel the rut taking over, his body demanding he claim her, make her his in every way. He took a step closer, his cock pressing against her thigh, the heat of her skin almost unbearable. "Y/N," he whispered, his voice a hoarse growl. "Do you know what you're asking for?"

Her eyes searched his, and she nodded, the desperation in them unmistakable. "I need you," she whimpered, her voice breaking on the words. "Please, Spencer."

Spencer felt something primal stir within him, something that had been lying dormant for so long. He had always known he was a delta, a protector, a nurturer, but hearing her beg for him like this, it brought out an alpha energy he never knew he had. He wanted to claim her, to make her his in every way possible.

With a gentle but firm grip, Spencer guided Y/N to the bed, her legs wobbly with need. He watched as she lay back, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. She looked just like the woman in his dreams, the one he had fantasized about countless times, her body begging for his touch, for his claim.

He hovered over her, his eyes drinking in every inch of her. The scent of her heat was intoxicating, calling out to his soul. His cock was rock-hard, the tip slick with pre-cum as it grazed her slit.

"Need… your knot, Delta," she gasped, the words coming out in choppy breaths. "Please… fill me."

The primal plea was all Spencer needed to hear. With a roar that was half-relief and half-desire, he thrust into her, filling her to the brink. Y/N's legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, her nails digging into his back as she begged for more.

He held her down, his hips moving in a relentless rhythm that had her crying out in ecstasy. The feel of her tight around him was unlike anything he had ever experienced, the warmth of her body enveloping him, the slickness of her arousal making every stroke pure bliss.

Y/N's nails raked down Spencer's back, leaving a trail of red in their wake. She wanted to scream out in relief at finally being filled, finally feeling the full force of his desire for her. Her legs tightened around his waist, her heels digging into his ass as she urged him deeper, harder.

Spencer groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head at the feeling of her pussy gripping him so tightly. He had never felt anything so good, so right in his entire life. And then she started nipping at his throat, her teeth grazing his skin. The sensation sent shockwaves of pleasure through him, making his cock pulse inside her.

"Spencer," she moaned, her voice thick with need. "Make me yours."

Spencer's eyes snapped to hers, the gravity of her words sinking in. He knew what she was asking, the full implication of it. To claim an omega during heat was to form a bond that was unbreakable, a promise of forever. He felt his heart swell with love and possessiveness at the thought.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice barely audible. "I need to hear you say it."

Her eyes searched his, the depth of her need reflected in their dark pools. "What?" she breathed, her voice trembling with anticipation.

"I need you to say it," Spencer murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. "I need to know you truly want this, that you want me to claim you as my mate."

Her eyes searched his, the depth of her need unmistakable. "I do," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I want you to bite me, Spencer. I want you to claim me."

The words were like a catalyst, igniting the beast within him. With a snarl of pure need, Spencer leaned down and claimed her mouth in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. His teeth grazed her lower lip, and she shivered, her hips arching up to meet his. He could feel the moment she was ready, her body begging for the bite that would seal their bond.

With one hand braced against the headboard, Spencer's other hand slid down to her neck, his thumb tracing the pulse point that hammered against her skin. He watched as she closed her eyes, her body going taut with anticipation. His mouth hovered over her neck, his breath hot against her skin.

He felt her body tighten around him as he bit down, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her neck. She cried out, her nails digging into his back as the sensation of his claim shot through her. The pain was immediate, but it quickly gave way to a pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable.

Her orgasm exploded through her, a supernova of sensation that left her seeing stars. Her pussy clamped down on his cock, her muscles spasming around his cock as she rode the wave of ecstasy. The bond flared to life between them, a golden thread that connected their hearts, their souls, forever intertwined.

Spencer's hips stuttered as he felt the bite of her orgasm, her tight pussy milking his cock for all it was worth. He knew he was close, so close to filling her with his knot, to claiming her completely. With a snarl, he grabbed her thighs, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he lifted her legs. He folded her in half, the head of his cock teasing her swollen entrance as he looked down at her.

"Knot me," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. "Please, Spencer."

Her words were like a command, and Spencer couldn't hold back any longer. He thrust into her with everything he had, his cock swelling with the promise of his knot. Y/N's eyes went wide as she felt the pressure build, the anticipation making her pant with need.

He reached up, his hand cupping the back of her head as he brought her face to his neck. His pulse thrummed beneath her lips, a silent invitation. She didn't hesitate, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh, marking him as hers just as he had marked her.

The sensation was exquisite, a mix of pain and pleasure that sent him over the edge. Spencer felt his knot swell, the pressure building until it was all he could focus on. He slammed into her, his body moving on instinct alone.

And then it was there, the sweet, tight heat of her pussy clamping down around his knot, the feeling of her body accepting him completely. He groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head as he rut into her, the friction of her walls around him sending him spiraling into the most intense orgasm he had ever experienced.

Y/N's eyes widened as she felt spurt after spurt of his cum fill her up, the heat of it branding her from the inside out. It was a feeling unlike anything she had ever known, a fullness that was both overwhelming and incredibly satisfying. She moaned, her hips moving in time with his, her body eager to take every drop he had to give.

Their movements slowed, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. Spencer's knot was still lodged deep inside her, his cock pulsing with the aftershocks of his release. Y/N could feel the warmth of his seed filling her, the feeling of completeness washing over her in waves. The intense need that had consumed her only moments ago had subsided, leaving in its wake a deep, sated contentment.

With a gentle sigh, Spencer manoeuvred them onto their side, his knot still buried within her, unwilling to let go just yet. He stroked her cheek softly, his thumb brushing away the tears that had fallen unnoticed during their passionate union. His eyes searched hers, filled with a tenderness that took her breath away.

"Are you okay?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/N nodded, her eyes still locked on his, the reality of what had just happened sinking in. "More than okay," she whispered, her voice hoarse from her screams of pleasure. "I've never felt like this before."

Spencer's hand tightened around her, his heart racing from the intensity of their bonding. "Me neither," he admitted, his voice just as rough. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his love for her shining in his eyes. "You're mine now, Y/N. I'll always protect you, always be here for you."

The words sent a warmth through her that had nothing to do with her heat. She leaned into him, her arms wrapping around his neck. "And you're mine," she murmured, her voice filled with the same fierce possessiveness.

Spencer chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. He kissed her softly, savouring the feel of her lips against his. "Always," he promised, his eyes never leaving hers.

As the minutes ticked by, Spencer felt the pressure of his knot begin to recede. The bond between them was still new, the connection still pulsing with energy. He could feel her body relaxing around him, the tightness of her heat giving way to a gentle, pulsing ache that reminded him of the bond they had just formed.

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, her gaze meeting his. The need in her eyes was unmistakable, and Spencer felt his own body respond in kind. Her heat was just beginning, and she was ready to go again. He couldn't believe it, but his cock was already thickening again, eager to be inside her once more.

With a gentle smile, Spencer kissed her softly, his thumb stroking the claim mark on her neck. "Shh," he murmured, his voice soothing. "Let me love you properly this time."

He pulled away slowly, his knot slipping out of her with a wet pop that made them both gasp. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of her, sprawled out on the bed, her body flushed and sweaty, her eyes glazed with passion. He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it. She was beautiful, and she was his.

Their bodies were still connected by the invisible thread of their bond, the warmth of it pulsing between them like a living thing. Spencer felt his rut begin to ebb, the primal need to claim her giving way to a more gentle, loving desire. He knew he could go again, and he knew she needed it. But this time, he was going to take his time.

He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was sweet and tender. His hands roamed her body, exploring every curve and hollow with reverence. He could feel her responding to his touch, her body arching into him, begging for more.

Spencer's lips trailed down her neck, his teeth nipping at the claim mark he had left earlier. Y/N's eyes fluttered closed, a soft moan escaping her lips. His mouth moved lower, kissing and licking her collarbone, his tongue tracing the line of her sternum.

Her breaths grew shallower as he approached her breasts, the anticipation of his touch making her nipples harden. Spencer took his time, savouring the taste of her skin, the scent of their mating still lingering in the air. When he finally reached her breasts, he took one in his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak.

Y/N's back arched off the bed, her hands tangling in his hair as she held him closer. He took his time, switching between each breast, his teeth grazing her tender flesh before his mouth closed around the other nipple. She gasped, her body trembling with the sensation.

His hand slid down her body, his fingers finding her clit, stroking it in a slow, torturous rhythm that had her panting and writhing beneath him. Y/N could feel the pleasure building, a crescendo that threatened to consume her. It was different this time, more intense, more intimate.

Spencer watched her face, his eyes dark with desire as he played her body like an instrument. His fingers slipped lower, coating themselves in her slickness. He teased her, his digit hovering just outside, the anticipation driving her wild.

Y/N's eyes fluttered closed, her body tensing as Spencer's fingers slid through her plump folds before sinking a single finger into her. The sensation was exquisite, sending a shiver down her spine. He watched her face intently, the pleasure etched across her features like a map to paradise. Her breath hitched as he touched her, his eyes never leaving her.

He marveled at the way her body responded to him, her walls clenching around his digit as if trying to pull him deeper. Spencer's own breath grew ragged as he slid in and out of her, watching the way her slickness coated his hand. The sight was mesmerizing, a testament to the depth of her need, her desire for him.

With a gentle push, he added another finger, stretching her slowly. Her grip on his hair tightened, her hips bucking up to meet his hand. He felt her muscles contract around him, her body begging for more. He could feel her building to another peak, her breaths coming faster and faster.

Spencer's mouth returned to her breasts, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh as he suckled. Y/N's body responded with a jolt of pleasure, her hips rolling against his hand. He could feel her getting closer, her walls fluttering around his fingers.

He swirled his tongue around her nipple, the taste of her skin making him growl with desire. Her nails dug into his back, urging him on as he switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention. Spencer knew she was close, the tension in her body almost tangible. He felt his own need rising again, his cock hardening with each whimper she made.

But he needed more. He needed to taste her slick, to devour the essence of her desire. He kissed his way down her body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake. The scent of her arousal was making his mouth water and his cock ache with need.

When his tongue finally reached her folds, she gasped, her hips jolting upward. He took his time, savouring the sweet flavour of her heat. Spencer lapped at her clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, teasing it with gentle strokes. Her legs quivered, her body begging for more.

Her thighs tightened around his head, trapping him in a prison of pure ecstasy. He didn't mind, though; he was exactly where he wanted to be. His nose buried in her scen. He could feel her getting closer, her body tightening around his digits. Spencer's tongue danced around her clit, the musky sweetness of her arousal coating his taste buds. He groaned, his own cock jerking with need.

Her hips began to rock against his face, her breaths coming in ragged pants. Spencer swiped his tongue through her folds, collecting her slick on his taste buds. The taste was exquisite, a flavor that was uniquely hers, and it had him craving more.

As Y/N's climax built, her body tightened around his fingers, her muscles clenching and releasing in a symphony of need. Spencer felt the first tremor of her orgasm, the way her walls fluttered around his digits. The sound she made was one of pure bliss, a keening cry that sent a bolt of desire straight to his cock.

When she finally came, it was like watching a star explode. Her body arched off the bed, her back bowing as she screamed his name. The feeling of her pussy clamping down on his fingers was almost too much, the pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Her walls contracted around him, squeezing him in a rhythmic pulse. Y/N felt her pleasure wash over her in waves, her release a warm, wet embrace that seemed to resonate through every fibre of her being.

Spencer watched her come undone, his eyes dark with desire. He didn't stop, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to keep her pleasure at its peak. Y/N's body was a symphony of sensation, and he was her maestro.

When her climax finally subsided, she collapsed back onto the bed, her chest heaving. Spencer pulled away, a smug smile playing on his lips as he watched the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through her. Her legs fell open, giving him a perfect view of her glistening pussy, and he couldn't help but admire his handiwork.

He kissed his way back up her body, feeling the heat of her skin against his lips. When he reached her neck, he kissed the claim mark tenderly before pulling back to look into her eyes. "Ready for more?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with need.

Y/N nodded, her eyes glazed with desire. "Yes, mate," she breathed, her voice a desperate whine. "Please, need you to fill me with your cum."

Spencer's cock swelled with need at her words, the base of his shaft already beginning to thicken. He kissed her deeply, their tongues dancing together as he positioned himself at her entrance. He could feel her heat, her pussy begging for him, the slickness of her arousal coating his cock as he pushed inside her.

Being back in her felt like heaven. The warm, tight embrace of her body was like coming home after a long, hard day. The way she took him in, her walls clenching around him as if she never wanted to let go, was a feeling he could never get enough of.

Spencer took a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. His rut was still strong, but he knew he had to be gentle. He had already taken her hard once, and she needed to be cherished now. His hips rolled slowly, pushing into her with a deliberate rhythm that had her crying out for more.

He watched her face as he moved, the way her eyes rolled back in her head, the way her lips parted in a silent moan. It was intoxicating, knowing he could reduce her to this state of pure, unbridled passion. He felt the base of his shaft swell again, the need to knot her rising once more. But he held back, his thrusts measured and deep.

Y/N's nails scraped down his back, her legs wrapping around his waist, urging him to go faster. Spencer growled, the sound rumbling through his chest as he fought the urge to give in to his instincts. He knew he had to be careful with her, to not overwhelm her with his own needs. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs tracing the sensitive skin as he pushed into her with every ounce of control he had left.

He watched himself disappear into her pussy, the sight of his cock disappearing into her tight, wet heat making his knees tremble. It was like watching a painting come to life, every stroke a masterpiece of passion and need. The way she took him, her body moulding around him like a glove.

Spencer felt his knot swell, the beginnings of it teasing her hole as he pushed in deeper. He could see the anticipation in her eyes, the way she bit her bottom lip as she waited for the knot to catch.

Her walls quivered around him, and he knew she was close again. He leaned down, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, his breath hot against her neck. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice low and needy. "Mine to love, mine to protect, mine to breed."

The words sent a fresh wave of arousal through her, and she clamped down on his cock, her pussy spasming around his length. Spencer couldn't hold back anymore. With a roar, he slammed into her, his knot swelling to fill her completely.

Y/N felt the heady fullness as he locked them together, her body trembling with the intensity of it all. His seed flooded her, hot and thick, filling her up until she thought she might burst. It was a feeling like no other, a claim so primal and complete that it left her feeling utterly and completely owned.

Her pussy clenched around his knot, trying to pull him deeper, to keep him with her forever. Spencer groaned, his own orgasm tearing through him like a hurricane. He could feel her muscles working him, her body begging for his seed, for the life they could create together.

Y/N's legs tightened around his waist, her ankles locking together as she held him close. Her walls fluttered around his cock, milking him with a fierce need that mirrored his own.

As the storm of passion abated, they lay there, intimately locked together, panting heavily. Spencer's knot was still embedded deep within her, the warmth of his cum filling her up, the aftershocks of their shared climax pulsing through them both.

Exhaustion began to seep into Spencer's limbs, his muscles feeling like overstretched elastic. His eyes closed, and his breathing grew deeper, the scent of their mating still heavy in the air. Y/N's body felt boneless, her strength drained from the intensity of their union. Her eyes remained closed, savouring the feeling of his weight pressing her into the mattress.

Sleep claimed them, a gentle reprieve from the whirlwind of emotions, sensations, and hormones that had consumed them. Their bodies remained intertwined, Spencer's knot still swollen within her, a physical reminder of the bond they had formed. The quiet hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the room, a comforting white noise that soothed their overstimulated bodies.

Y/N awoke later in the night, her body still thrumming with the aftermath of their intense mating. Despite the hours that had passed, the heat of her need hadn't waned. Her hand slid down to Spencer's side, feeling the warmth of his skin and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Her fingers found their way to his cock, already half-hard with the promise of what was to come. She smirked, feeling a sense of power in knowing she could stir him from sleep with just a touch. Carefully, she slid her body down the bed, her mouth watering at the thought of his taste.

Y/N wrapped her hand around the base of his shaft, feeling the warm velvet of his skin against her palm. She leaned in, her breath hot against his cock as she took the tip into her mouth. Spencer stirred but didn't wake, a low groan escaping his lips as he felt the wet heat of her mouth envelop him.

Her tongue swirled around the head, tasting the remnants of their love making still lingering there. She took him deeper, her throat tightening around his length, her eyes watering slightly from the effort. Spencer's breathing grew more erratic, his body moving slightly with each stroke of her mouth.

She bobbed her head, taking him in as far as she could, her cheeks hollowing with each suck. The taste of him was intoxicating, a mix of salt and musk that had her craving more. Her other hand stroked his thigh, feeling the tension coil tighter and tighter with each pass.

Spencer's hips began to move, his body responding to the pleasure she was giving him without fully waking. Y/N took it as a sign to continue, her hand working in tandem with her mouth. She could feel his knot swelling, a gentle reminder of the way he claimed her. The thought made her core ache, her heat flaring up once more.

With a final suck, she pulled away, her eyes meeting his. He was awake now, his gaze dark with desire. "I need you," she whispered, her voice hoarse from her earlier screams.

Spencer's eyes flashed with understanding, his hand reaching for her. "You have me," he murmured, pulling her closer. He kissed her deeply, their tongues dancing together in a silent conversation of love and need.

With a gentle push, he had her on all fours, her ass in the air, her pussy glistening with her slick. The sight of her like this, so vulnerable and open to him, sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through him. He felt his cock swell, the urge to claim her again almost overwhelming.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. He traced her spine with his fingertips, watching as goosebumps pebbled her skin. Spencer took a moment to appreciate the sight of her, his cock bobbing with need as he lined himself up with her entrance.

With a gentle push, he slid into her, the slickness of her pussy making it easy. Y/N gasped, her body stretching to accommodate him once more. The feeling of fullness was addictive, a warm embrace that had her hips rocking back to meet him. Spencer's eyes rolled back in his head, his blood pulsing with the need to claim her again.

He wrapped his hand around her hip, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he began to move. His hips met hers in a steady rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Y/N's moans grew louder, her voice a symphony of pleasure that had Spencer's cock swelling even more.

He didn't hold back this time, letting his instincts take over as he claimed her in the most primal way possible. Each thrust was a declaration of ownership, his cock pounding into her with a ferocity that had her panting and begging for more. Her ass jiggled with each impact, the sensation of his knot teasing her with every retreat and plunge.

Spencer's grip on her flesh was tight, his fingers digging into her soft curves as he pulled her back into each stroke. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room, a symphony of passion that seemed to resonate through the walls.

He felt the slickness of her pussy coating his cock as he drove into her, her moans music to his ears. Spencer's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more primal and needy than the last. He adjusted his angle slightly, and the world around them shattered.

Y/N's scream was a guttural sound of pure ecstasy as he hit her G-spot with a precision that made her toes curl. Her walls clamped down around him, the sensation so intense she thought she might pass out. The pleasure was like nothing she had ever felt before, a supernova that consumed her from the inside out.

Her pussy clenched around Spencer's cock, the muscles contracting in a vice-like grip. He felt her orgasm building, the way her body was responding to his touch. It was like watching a time-lapse of a flower blooming, beautiful and mesmerizing.

With a sudden jolt, Y/N's pussy spasmed, and she squirted, the warm, wetness of her release coating his cock. Spencer's eyes went wide with shock and pleasure, the sensation unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was like a dam had burst, her arousal spraying onto him in a testament to the intensity of her climax.

He didn't stop, his hips moving faster, his cock swelling even more as he felt the beginnings of his knot. The pressure was intense, almost painful, but the thought of being trapped inside her, of filling her with his seed, had him panting with need.

Spencer slammed into her, his knot finally locking into place with a satisfying pop. Y/N screamed, her body jolting as she felt the fullness. Her pussy spasmed around him, her walls clenching in an attempt to hold him in place.

They remained like that for a moment, both lost in the intensity of their union. Then, with a gentle tug, Spencer laid her down on her side, his cock still buried deep within her. He reached out with one hand, his thumb finding her clit, and began to tease the sensitive bud in a slow, steady rhythm.

Y/N's body arched, the feeling of his knot deep inside her combined with the pressure on her clit was almost too much. She could feel the beginnings of another orgasm building, a storm brewing on the horizon of pleasure. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her mouth open in a silent scream as he worked her body like a finely tuned instrument.

With his free hand, Spencer reached up to tease and pinch her nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. The sensation shot straight to her core, her pussy clenching around his cock in response. He watched her reaction with a dark smile as he continued to manipulate her sensitive peak.

Her breaths grew shallower, her hips moving restlessly against his knot. "Again," she begged, her voice a desperate whine. Spencer was more than happy to oblige, his thumb flicking over her clit faster, the pad of his thumb pressing down just enough to drive her wild.

Her hand reached up to cover her mouth, muffling the sounds of her pleasure. Y/N's eyes met his, a silent plea for more, for the release that was just out of reach. Spencer leaned in, his teeth grazing her earlobe as he whispered, "You're going to cum for me, aren't you?"

He knew he was playing with fire, but the thrill of watching her lose control was too great to resist. He pinched her nipple slightly harder, feeling the peak tighten under his touch. Her response was immediate, her pussy clamping down around his knot in a delicious rhythm that had his balls drawing up tight.

"Please," she gasped, her eyes squeezed shut, "please, Spencer."

Her pleas only served to spur him on. He knew exactly what she needed, what she craved. He pinched her nipple a little harder, watching as her back arched and her hips bucked into his. The sensation of her silky heat gripping his knot was driving him wild, he needed to feel her come apart around him once more.

His thumb continued to work her clit, the pressure increasing with each pass. Y/N could feel the tension coiling in her belly, the tightness in her chest that signaled her impending release. Her hand fell away from her mouth, her cries of pleasure echoing through the room.

Spencer watched her face contort with ecstasy. He knew she was close, could feel it in the way her pussy was pulsing around his knot. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "Come for me, my love."

Her eyes snapped open, meeting his, and he knew she was there. With one last pinch to her nipple and a hard flick of his thumb against her clit, she shattered. Y/N's body convulsed in his arms, her pussy clamping down so hard on his cock that he had to bite back a shout of his own. Her orgasm washed over them both, a tsunami of pleasure that left them both gasping for air.

They lay there for a few moments, panting and sweaty, basking in the afterglow of their shared climax. Y/N's eyes remained closed, a soft smile playing on her lips as she felt the last tremors of pleasure fade. Spencer's hand stroked her hair, his thumb tracing gentle patterns on her forehead as he watched her relax.

Spencer's knot grew smaller, slipping out of her with a wet pop. He felt the loss of her warmth acutely, but he knew she needed a moment to recover. Carefully, he pulled out of her, his cock still half-hard and glistening with their combined juices.

Y/N's body felt sore but satiated, her limbs like jelly. She could feel the stickiness between her legs, the evidence of their passion. She looked up at Spencer, her eyes filled with love and contentment. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice still thick with arousal. "For being here with me."

Spencer's smile grew, his eyes soft with affection. "Always," he assured her, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through her entire being. He pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

Y/N pressed her nose into his neck, inhaling deeply. Spencer's scent was intoxicating, a mix of sweat and musk that made her hips rock back and forth, searching for friction against his thigh. His arms tightened around her, his own arousal evident as his cock began to harden once more.

"Again?" he asked, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine.

Y/N nodded, her eyes never leaving his, her need as potent as the scent of her heat that still lingered in the air. Spencer's cock was already beginning to swell again, the thought of being claimed once more making her body ache.

He rolled her onto her back, his body covering hers as he kissed her deeply. His hands roamed over her body, relearning every curve and dip, his fingers tracing the lines of her hips before moving to cup her breasts. He felt the weight of them in his palms, the softness of her skin. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and she gasped into his mouth, her body arching towards him.

The digital clock on the bedside table read 3:14 AM, the red numbers glowing against the darkness of the room. The only other light was the soft glow of the moon filtering through the crack in the curtains, casting shadows across the bed. But they were not thinking of the time. Right now, all that mattered was the primal connection that had been forged between them.

Spencer's kiss grew more urgent, his hands moving to her thighs, pushing them apart as he settled himself between them. He could feel the warmth of her heat, the slickness of her desire. His cock, still sensitive from their previous mating, the tip brushing against her folds.

Y/N's legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. The pressure was almost unbearable, the need to have him inside her once more was overwhelming. Spencer groaned, his teeth scraping against her bottom lip before he broke the kiss. He took a moment to look down at her, his eyes dark with lust.

Her heat was still riding her hard, the pheromones in the air thick and potent. The scent of their mating lingered on their skin, a heady aroma that only served to fuel the fire between them. Y/N reached down, her hand guiding his cock to her entrance. The anticipation was a sweet torture, her body quivering with need.

With a low groan, Spencer pushed into her, his cock sliding through her slick folds with ease. She was so wet for him, so welcoming, her pussy clenching around him as he filled her up.

Y/N thrust her hips up desperately, the need to feel his knot inside her overwhelming. She needed to be claimed again, to be flooded with his seed, to have him mark her as his own. The intensity of her desire was like a living creature, clawing at her from the inside out, demanding to be sated.

With surprising strength fueled by her heat, she flipped their positions, straddling Spencer's hips. Her hands gripped his shoulders as she lined herself up with his cock, his eyes widening in shock and arousal. The head of his cock nudged at her entrance, and she took a deep breath before sliding down onto him, her pussy stretching around his thickness.

Her hips began to move, bouncing on his cock as fast as her thighs allowed. Each downward motion sent a jolt of pleasure through her body, the friction against her swollen clit making her eyes roll back in her head. Spencer's hands found her breasts, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh as he watched her ride him.

The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, a symphony of passion that seemed to echo through every corner of the hotel suite. Spencer's hips jumped up to meet hers, his eyes never leaving the mesmerizing sight of her pussy swallowing his cock. The tightness, the wetness, the way she took him so eagerly.

Y/N's breath was coming in harsh pants, her chest heaving with each thrust. She could feel her orgasm building once more, the pressure growing with each passing second. Spencer's eyes were glued to her, his own arousal clear in his gaze. He watched her with a mix of amazement and need.

"Spencer," she moaned, her voice a desperate whine. "I need your knot. I want to carry your child." The words seemed to hang in the air, a declaration of her deepest desires. She knew it was risky, that they weren't ready for a child, but the heat had taken control of her body, her mind.

Spencer's eyes snapped to hers, his pupils dilating with the realization of what she was asking. The words hung in the air, a declaration of the deepest kind of bonding. Despite the urgency of her heat, the implications of her words hit him like a sledgehammer. He knew the risks, the responsibility that came with it, but the raw, primal need to claim her, to fill her with his seed, was stronger than his reservations.

For a moment, he hesitated, his mind racing. Y/N was on birth control shots, a fact he had overheard in one of her casual conversations with JJ, Emily, and Garcia. But the thought of her round with his pup, their child growing inside her, was too tempting to resist. The idea of her carrying his offspring, of them starting a family, was more than he could ever have hoped for.

With a snarl of need, Spencer gave into the fantasy, his hips bucking up to meet hers The idea of her carrying his pup was too tempting to ignore. He could almost feel the warmth of a new life growing inside her, the bond that would tie them together forever.

"Spencer," Y/N begged, her walls tightening around him. "Knot me, please."

Spencer knew that he couldn't actually get her pregnant at this moment, but the desperation in her voice, the way she pleaded for him, it was too much to resist. He leaned back, allowing her to take control of their rhythm, her hips moving with an animalistic grace that had him growling. The beginnings of his knot was just visible, and she slammed down onto him, her body hungry for the fullness it promised.

He watched as the base of his cock began to swell, the tip of his knot just breaching her entrance. Y/N's eyes went wide, and she threw her head back. The sensation was addicting, the feeling of being filled so completely.

Spencer's knot grew thicker, stretching her to the limits of her ability. She could feel her pussy clench around it, trying to draw him deeper. Her slick was leaking onto his pelvis, the silky feeling of it helping his cock glide in and out of her with ease. Her movements grew erratic, her hips moving with a wild abandon that had them both moaning.

"Fuck me, Spencer," she panted, her eyes glazed over with need. "Breed me, fill me with your cum. I want to feel you knot me, I want to carry your pup." Spencer's eyes widened, his breath hitching at the graphic words spilling from her lips.

The thought of her tight pussy taking his knot was driving him wild. He could feel the swell of his cock, the beginnings of his own orgasm building. "You want to be bred, don't you?" He watched her nod, her eyes never leaving his. "You want me to fill you up, to claim you as mine?"

Y/N nodded, unable to form coherent words as she felt the pressure of his knot against her pussy. "Yes," she moaned, her voice breathless. "I want it, Spencer. I need it."

Spencer's eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a feral smile. "You're going to take all of me," he growled, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Every inch, until you're screaming for more."

Y/N's eyes locked onto his, her pupils blown wide with desire. She reached down, her fingers slipping through her slick folds to find her clit. The first touch sent a shockwave through her body, and she gasped, her hips jolting. Spencer watched with rapt attention as she began to rub herself in time with her movements, her fingers circling the sensitive bud with increasing speed.

Her walls began to pulse around his cock, the tightness growing with each pass of her fingers. She was close, so close, and Spencer could feel it. The sight of her touching herself, her need for release, was almost more than he could handle.

With a snarl, Spencer's hips shot up, slamming her down onto his cock, forcing his knot into her tight pussy. Y/N's eyes went wide with pleasure, her mouth forming a silent 'O' of surprise. The pressure was intense, but she didn't fight it. Instead, she leaned into it, her body begging for more.

Her orgasm hit her like a freight train, the sensation of his knot filling her pushing her over the edge. Her pussy clenched around him, the muscles tightening in a vice-like grip that had him groaning. Spencer could feel her walls fluttering around his cock, her juices spilling out around his knot as she came.

Y/N's nails dug into his shoulders, her body arching as she rode out the waves of pleasure. Spencer's cock throbbed with each spurt of cum. He could feel the heat of it, the pressure in his balls as they tightened and drew up.

"Oh, Spencer," she moaned, her voice a sultry whisper. "I feel so full." Her pussy pulsed around his knot, her walls clenching as she continued to milk him for every drop of cum. Spencer's eyes rolled back in his head, his hips jerking involuntarily as he emptied himself into her.

Y/N's hands moved to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she rode out the aftershocks of her orgasm. "Your knot," she murmured, her voice filled with awe. "It's so big, so perfect." Her hips rocked against him, her body desperate for more friction, more pleasure.

Spencer watched her with a fierce possessiveness, his hand moving to rest on her flat stomach. "Imagine it," he said, his voice low and thick with desire. "Imagine me filling you with my pup." The thought was overwhelming, the idea of her carrying his child, a part of him inside her forever.

Y/N's breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of his hand on her skin. She could almost feel the phantom warmth of a growing pup, a symbol of their bond, their love. "I want that, Delta," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I want to carry your pup."

Spencer's gaze grew soft, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "And I want that too," he murmured, his thumb brushing against her stomach in a tender caress. The thought of her carrying his child was so potent, so powerful, that it made his chest ache.

Y/N leaned down, her breasts pressing into his chest as she kissed him softly. Her breath was hot and sweet against his skin, and he could feel the tremors of her aftershocks running through her body. The scent of their mating was thick in the air, a heady aroma that seemed to cocoon them in their own private world.

With a contented sigh, she lowered herself onto him, her body slick with sweat and desire. Spencer's cock remained buried deep within her, his knot still swollen. The pressure was delicious, a constant reminder of their union. She nuzzled into his neck, her purrs of pleasure vibrating against his skin.

His arms wrapped around her, holding her tight as he stroked her back. His fingertips traced patterns across her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Y/N's eyes closed, her body going limp with satisfaction. She could feel the warmth of his body seeping into her, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.

Her mind was a haze of contentment, the fiery passion of her heat leaving her feeling like she was floating on a cloud. She was fully claimed by Spencer, his knot still nestled inside her, a constant reminder of their mating. The sensation was oddly comforting, a bond that went deeper than any words could ever express.

Y/N's body was boneless, her muscles relaxed to the point of near paralysis. Each breath she took was filled with Spencer's scent, his warmth enveloping her like a cozy blanket on a cold winter's night. Her mind was a haze of contentment, the intensity of her heat mellowing into a gentle buzz of satisfaction. The world around her was a soft, fuzzy blur, the only sharpness coming from the occasional twinge of pleasure as his knot shifted within her.

The stroking of Spencer's hand on her back grew slower, the gentle circles lulling her closer and closer to the edge of sleep. Her eyes grew heavy, her eyelids fluttering shut as she gave in to the comfort he offered. The feeling of his seed filling her was strange and exhilarating.

Her breathing grew even, matching the rhythm of his hand, as she drifted off into a doze. Y/N felt a warmth spread through her, not just from the aftermath of their mating, but from the love she felt for Spencer. It was a feeling she hadn't known existed before this moment, but now it seemed to envelop her entirely.

Spencer's mind, however, remained active. As she fell asleep in his arms, he found his thoughts wandering to the practicalities of the morning. He knew that her heat would last for a few more days, and he had to ensure she was comfortable and safe. The urge to keep her close was strong, but he had to balance that with his responsibilities.

With a sigh, he realized that he would have to call Hotch in the morning. He knew the conversation wouldn't be easy, but as he looked down at Y/N, he found that he wasn't worried. The bond between them was strong, a truth that transcended the constraints of their professional lives.

Spencer felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. He knew that he had made the right choice in claiming her, regardless of the potential repercussions. The connection they shared was more than just physical; it was a meeting of minds and hearts that had been building up since the first day.

He looked down at her peaceful face, the soft glow of the moonlight highlighting her features. Her long eyelashes fanned out on her cheeks, her breathing even and content. Spencer knew that what they had just shared was more than just the animalistic mating driven by her heat cycle. It was a declaration of something deeper, something that had been simmering between them for a long time.

Whatever the future held, Spencer was certain that they would face it together. The thought brought a warmth to his chest that was more potent than the post-orgasmic bliss. He knew that their bond was unbreakable, forged in the heat of passion and sealed with the promise of a future filled with love and a family of their own.

With that thought giving him comfort, he allowed himself to drift off to sleep. His hand remained on her back, his fingers idly tracing patterns that she would never feel in her sleep. Yet, it was a silent promise that he was there, that he would always be there for her.

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