#stack x male reader

[blank-slate-jay]

Just for You

Elias 'Stack' Moore x Male!Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Request: "I would like to see something soft and fluffy for stack maybe male reader and his first I love you or smth like that? KEEP UP THE GREAT WORK POOKIE!!"

Tags: Black!Reader, Fluff, Flirting, Confession

A/N: Thanks for the request. This one's short and sweet! I really had fun with this one, lots of bickering between you two. I've been timing my fics on Sunday, unintentionally, but this week going into the next, is gonna be a wave of Male!Reader fics for Sinners so there's that! Anyways, hope you like this!

“I don’ know what your up too, but I ain’ approve of it if it’s anything bad.”

He sucks his teeth, fixing his posture in the driver seat, “You know I wouldn’ put you in danger.”

"Ok, so then where we going, huh?", you nudge his arm.

"You'll see."

You jokingly sigh, leaning back into the seat, the air cooler than usual. Stack drove the two of you past a familiar town, heading further south. You raise an eyebrow, glancing back momentarily. Suspicion started to set in, only made worse by Stack trying to conceal his smirk.

You stare at him, long enough to where he finally looks back at you. “Somethin’ is up,” you point.

He grabs your hand before it could fall to your lap, pulling it into his instead.

“Nothin’ is up, baby. You just need somethin’ new. Somethin’ that’ll make you shine even more.”

Your brows rose even more, finally getting somewhere, although still vague. But you decide not to press, wanting him to savor whatever scheme was up his sleeve. You almost rest deeper into the seat, but Stack pulls you closer til your knees touch.

He leans his head toward you, eyes still on the road, knowing you well. Promptly his cheek receives a kiss. Another follows as he wanted extra.

“One more.”

With one long kiss on the cheek, you let yourself relax against his shoulder as the ride continues.

The foliage opens up, and just up ahead was a town you were familiar with from the occasional times you came this far out. Wasn’t anything fancy or excessive necessarily. It was somewhat nicer from your local town in Clarkstown though.

Stack drove through casually while you pick up any bad-apples or suspicious folk among the road and street; a bad habit really. Stack turns into an open spot, just between two trucks, putting his vehicle to rest. He lets out a sigh, jumping out, fixing his coat, “Aight.”

“You sure nobody here’s gonna steal your shit?”

He shakes, “Nobody done nothin’ to my shit yet, cause they know who I am. They know my car.”

You nod, “Just give me the call if someone needs shooting. I got your back.”

“Tough guy.,” he states, leading the way. “Don’ worry yourself, they know what’s to come if they fuck with my shit”.

“If you say so.”

Stack leads you past a few places, from plant shops to general stores, until suddenly turning toward one painted in black. He holds the door open, a small bell ringing. “Noah.”

Clothes were everywhere, hanging and most folded along multiple shelves stretching across the room. A man, dawning in white and black, pops out from under the counter. He coughs, “Stack…”

Stack grips his coat’s collar, “You have some time? My…fine companion here is looking to buy something new.”

"Ah! Give me a moment, I'll be with y'all."

You glance at Stack, confused but also a bit surprised. “Clothes...?"

He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper, "Trust me, you need it." He pats your chest, walking around as you curiously look yourself over. Your clothes weren't…bad, rather it was standard you’d say. Your attire wasn’t making it into any magazine in the delta. As for needing new clothes, you weren’t gonna say no to that.

--

With the right measurements, you were offered a selection of tailor clothing to try on. The first two weren't half-bad, they were a little too formal for your liking, but Stack insists you get at least something that screams wealth.

You didn't like any, until you button up your third coat, adding the top hat that matches perfectly. Observing yourself in the mirror, you wouldn't lie if it didn't make you feel like you shine, as Stack put it. It was perfectly in the middle of not too casual but not too fancy.

Stepping out, Stack was awaiting you. He pipes up upon seeing you step out, your hands fixing up your dented sleeve.

"Here we go", Stack compliments. You do a slow twirl around, dropping your hat as any gentleman would.

You had yourself a small applause from Stack. "What do you think?"

"What do you think?", he repeats back.

"It works. Would like a different color for the coat though."

"Noah-"

The store owner fetches you up the coat of your choice, and soon the streets of town would bear witness to your new attire. You were helpless to Stack hyping you up for the next hour or so in town, the two of you both spending time roaming around buying additional needs. The small smirk on your face never left, it was difficult to wipe off; how could you when he is building your ego. After a quick street performance, you return to his vehicle, feeling beat from the sun.

“I’ll drive,” you comment, putting your wrapped items in the back seat. 

You drive off, past town, heading back south. Steering out of town was a relief, less people as well as quieter rural roads were calming. 

Stack remains quiet, aside from you humming and him tapping on beat with the door.

“You ain’ hot?”

His head shook, “Ya get use to it.”

“Don’ know how you do it, Stack.”

He chuckles, biting at his finger. "Wear it often, sweat won' kill ya."

"It's the extra layers is all," you comment while playing with your collar. "Won' be bad indoors at least." He agrees, resuming his casual rhythmic taps. Though the heat was a complaint, you couldn't be more grateful for the gift. You never asked for it, nor was it a necessity, but it was certainly enlightening he gave something such as what you wore consideration.

You glance at him for a moment, "Thank you, by the way, seriously."

Stack was flattered, you could tell. "Of course, just don' cause a crash is all."

You maliciously step on the brakes for a split-second, gasping. Stack grips his hat tightly, for a split second seeing worry crossover his face was amusing. You laugh out loud, at him looking at you like you're crazy. "Sorry." You didn't mean it fully, your grin still remaining.

"Scared the lights outta me".

"Ya heard what I said?"

"Yeah! What you want me to say it formally, you're welcome?"

"No runnin', I'm tryin' be serious. I owe you."

He huffs, "Stop with that."

You laughter settles down, "No think about it, the shack, money, this", you motion to your clothes.

"Look, I love ya, you don't gotta do nothin' you aren' already doin' to make me any happier."

Your eyes left the road, observing him. It could be inferred you were questioning his words, if he was actually being serious.

Stack picks up on this, nodding, “Yeah, yeah see I'm being serious now too"

You focus back on the road, feeling your cheeks slightly becoming flushed. You huff, biting your tongue, at a loss for words. 

“I ain’ lyin’, you know.”

You nearly stumble over your words, but you find your footing, "When two people care…love each other, they usually give back to one another. So, I think it's fair that I give something to you." Stack doesn't say anything, perhaps he was coming up with another refute, or reading between the lines; so you clear it up. "And yes, I love ya too."

Uncontrollably your gaze darts to his for a second, seeing him nod repeatedly. The two of you go quiet for a moment, with Stack silently commenting how hot it was, ironically so. He offers up his hand for you, which you happily take up, a warm fuzzy sensation riddling your stomach.

“I’d happily take whatever you want for me,” he mentions.

You give a silent hum, with vague ideas springing. Those could wait, for now, you let the feeling silk in. Learning two things, Stack loved you and he doesn't like to be scared; both were duly noted.

[ko-kimchi]

Why are all the sinners fanfics about the one white guy in the movie…we have a full black main cast and yet yall only wanna write about remmick…mhm 🤥

I’m tryna read some black love stories 🌞

[innorality]

But what about sub!smoke (and a littttle sub!stack)? Annie had that man pinned up and melting. And the spit scene with Stack was cute but it was really when ol’ girl pulled his head back and *melts*

oh you already KNOWWWW

cw // SPIT PLAY, hair pulling, cowgirl, jerking smoke off, gun play

an // stack + spitplay is my fav trope. ever.

smoke will never admit he's a sub. never in a million years. but the way his eyes roll back and his words melt into eachother when you jerk him off while he's pressed up against the wall? unmistakable.

don't get me wrong, he can and will dom, but when you reduce him into the puddle of pleasure that he currently is? he'll wrap his arms around your head tight and sob into the crook of your neck, hips twitching as he begs for you to slow down—for mercy.

"s-shit—darlin', you're goin' ham on m-me..." he'd stutter in a low voice, desperately gripping reality, but it swiftly slips out of his grasp when you roll your palm against his tip and giggle in his ear.

"you wanna cum for me, pretty boy?" and he nods, desperately sweating against you. his moans get louder and louder, shameless whines clouding your eardrums which only fuel your arousal.

"c'mon, sweets. know you can beg prettier than that." your voice, smooth as silk, making his knees buckle and her whimpers before obliging, finding difficulty in spreading his lips. "p-please–fuck... please let me cum... w'nna cum so fuckin'–shit—so fuckin' bad..." his eyebrows are knitted together in focus as he tries his very best to not cum right as you chuckle in his ear.

as for stack, he's way less shameful than his brother. he's always up for a good time, no matter who's on top.

did I mention you've got a gun pointed at his head?

unloaded, of course, but still enough to give him the thrill of danger and fuck, you're hot.

"fffuhh—baby–please, faster, c'mon–I'm begging-" words spill out of his mouth endlessly as you press the gun harder into his temple. "y-you talk too– fuckin'– much." you emphasized each word with a smash of your hips against his, making him jolt as his eyes roll back into his skull.

he drools, his mouth hanging open as endless whimpers jump out of between his lips at your every movement. you notice and bend your back to reach his level. "you're g'nna need that– back- baby.." and with that, you licked a stripe up the droplet of saliva he let out, which earned you a long, rich moan from his very core.

springing back up, your hand reached his cheek and you tapped on it twice, immediately pulling a reflex out of him as his jaw flexed and opened his mouth wider. you gathered all the spit you could inside your mouth and pressed your lips together, letting the long stream of saliva drip down onto his tongue.

his hips twitched at the feeling of your warm drool inside his mouth, and he immediately swallowed it all.

it's only when you grabbed onto his hair tugged it, inspected his mouth and uttered the words "such a good fuckin' boy..." that he unexpectedly finished inside you, strings of white, hot seed coating your walls.

[pyraomen]

freaknik!stack x male reader coming soon …

[mirapril]

Y’all. Give me the sinners requests. Don’t be shy 🤨

[gatorbites-imagines]

Elias “Stack” Moore nsfw alphabet. 

this is me replying to a request that asked for both Stack and Smoke, but i wanted to post them seperately, so here yall go.

you can find the Smoke alphabet here

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) 

Depends a lot on who you are and what your guy's relationship is, and where you guys are like physically. If you two are somewhere safe, and you mean something to him, then I get the feeling that Stack can be quite affectionate and sweet when it comes to aftercare. I do see him struggling to get aftercare in return though, cuz he isnt used to being vulnerable. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) 

On himself, I think it would be his arms and torso, maybe his teeth and smile, cuz he knows its a moneymaker. On his partner, its their eyes, neck, shoulders and thighs. (kinda foreshadowing, ya know?) 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) 

Isn't the type to find it gross or anything, so if you want too, you can get it all over him. Will snowball you though, so be prepared for that.  

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) 

Has a bit of a blood kink, but he thinks it's a result of all the messed-up shit he's seen and done in his life, that it's kinda messed with his head a little too much in some areas. During this period, having attraction to men would most likely also be a real dirty secret, so theres that. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) 

Very experienced, with women at least. With men, you might be one of his first, if not the first that he actually acknowledges as something intimate. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) 

Like to ride, or be ridden. When hes feeling extra affectionate he does missionary. He groans about not being flexible enough, but you throwing his legs over your shoulders gets him going too. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) 

Hes the goofier of the twins, so you can expect some jokes to be cracked. Hes made too many cowboy jokes to count, especially if you are one, or at least wear a hat like one. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) 

I don't think most guys are as well groomed during that period as now, but I could imagine Stack still keeping himself neater than most. He won't use hours on it or anything, but he likes being presentable at least. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) 

Again, depends on your guy's relationship. I can see it getting really emotional and intimate if you are both guys though, since it has to be kept a secret unless you guys wanna get killed. The kinda guy to kiss you like he wants to be one with you, like he can express it all through his lips instead of words. (I can imagine Remmick using this to manipulate him as well) 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) 

Does it a healthy amount, not too much and not too little. Doesnt see it as taboo or anything, and has probably used it as stress relief multiple times. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) 

Blood kink 

Knife kink 

Likes it when it hurts a little, so he's also the type not to prep himself fully 

Spit and drool, spit in his mouth please 

Bondage 

Risky locations, the danger of it gets his rocks off so fast 

Major praise kink, but wont admit it 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) 

He could do it anywhere, but his favorite is just somewhere where you guys can be alone and intimate. That, and has probably done it once or twice in the back of the car, when you guys can get away with it. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) 

Hes pretty easy to get going, but that also comes from you guys having to deny yourselves so much, so you probably aren't much better. After some time, you guys are able to communicate through your eyes, since you can't really touch on each other and all that. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) 

Share, unless it's like, with Smoke I think. You would be the only one receiving though, and he gets jealous quickly. He acts all sweet and charming, but you know how possessive he can get. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) 

Has a bit of a gag reflex, but it's not so bad that he can't deepthroat you every now and then. He starts coughing and tearing up though. Prefers giving, and will also eat out the back if you allow it. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) 

Most of the time you guys have a very fast pace, rutting in some dark room or hidden area as you clamp a hand over his mouth. But when the chance presents itself, you guys will take your time and truly feel one another. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) 

Its most of what you guys do, since its really all you can get. But you and Stack like “going for rides” and doing stuff that “isn't anyone's business” to spend time together. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) 

A risk taker, sometimes too much of a risk taker with where you guys do it and how loud he lets himself be. Can also get pretty risky with that knife of his, especially when he wants you to use it on him. Theres been a time or two where Smoke thought someone attacked Stack because there was a cut on his neck, never too deep, but enough to be noticeable. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) 

Has pretty great stamina when you guys get the chance to actually use it. All your quickies has made both of you kind of quick shots though. Doesn't mean you guys can't draw it out though, it just doesn't happen a lot. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) 

I don't think he owns any toys of any kind, and neither do you. Closest you guys get to that has to be some ropes or a tie or two. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) 

A real tease when he can get away with it. I imagine he used the full party at the juke joint you get to touch you when nobody would notice in the huge crowd. Would say the raunchiest stuff too. Will whisper in your ear, to everyone else it just looks like he's sharing something personal, maybe business, but it's him saying how bad he needs you. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) 

Could get really loud if you let him, but he rarely gets the chance. Has a hard time controlling his volume when it gets really good, so you always end up having to cover his mouth, which just drives him even more wild. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) 

I like to think he wears a ring you gave him before he left. He will claim it's just one he picked up that he likes, even if it's pretty ugly, or low quality compared to all the other high-quality stuff he gets over the years. Won't wear it on his ring finger, but its either on his pinkie or middle finger, cuz that's all he can give you. 

Smoke knows what is going on between you two, but assuming you've known them for a long time, then hes known for just as long. It would be why he's so intense when there are signs of your relationship though, cuz he wants to keep Stack safe. He won't stop you guys though. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) 

Above average in length, but just average in thickness. Cut, cuz I read somewhere that he might have been, so. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) 

Pretty damn high, but he's just a yearner in general. You guys not getting to kiss on each other and be together whenever you want only adds to this. Gets so bad that Stack will keep a handkerchief or something similar with your cologne on so he can smell it when he's alone.  

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) 

Neither of you guys get to sleep much after your time together, cuz it has to be quick and quiet. But when you guys are able, Stack will lay awake for as long as possible so you guys can just hold each other and talk.  

[baruque-yo]

PEGA A VISÃO!

Um hot de Pecadores no mesmo cenário do filme, com as seguintes mudanças: no clube, ao invés da Mary ser a primeira transformada, é o Fuligem, e ao voltar, ele leva o leitor pro armazém (não sei q canto era aquele) e eles transam ali, com o leitor sendo transformado no final (leitor passivo pls). Basicamente uma releitura da cena do filme

Só tava com a mente na putaria, mas enquanto digitava fui percebendo q é algo bem trágico? Aí já não é comigo, fica pra vc solucionar kkkk

Ê boy, que idéia deliciosa cara, espero que goste desse capítulo meia boca, bem meia boca mesmo, e mandem mais ideias porque a mãe aqui tá sem idéia, e pode ser de qualquer coisa, é só ver minha masterlist e mandar de acordo com o fandom e gênero que você gosta. E eu não quero pegar prompt, pq a maioria é muito genérico (eu sendo uma pessoa genérica). Ah, Fuligem endiabrado na imagem pq foi a única que achei daorinha dele sendo vampiro, e eu também escrevi algo meio Dark no meio de tudo porque querendo ou não, é...mas também não é o Fuligem. Afinal ele tá sendo controlado pelo Remmick e blá blá blá. (Desculpa pelos erros 💔 prometo revisar depois)

O Toque Se Torna Fome

Avisos: Leitor Submisso (Emocional e Fisicamente), Submissão emocional crescente, Perda de identidade (Por parte do Fuligem), Horror simbólico e sensorial (Não tem susto, mas sim desconforto emocional), Clima crescente de paranóia e desconfiança, Non-Con (Não consentido, mas não é em questão sexual e sim da transformação), Manipulação afetiva, Angústia, Obscenidade +18, Vulnerabilidade Emocional, Sangue, Gore (Meio descritivo).

Personagem: Elias "Fuligem" Moore.

Leitor Masculino!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Sinopse:

Fuligem sumiu no meio da festa e voltou estranho, você não sabe o que aconteceu lá fora, só sabe que ele te quer por perto, e você aceita, mesmo quando começa a ter medo, mesmo quando percebe que tem algo errado demais com ele, e com você também.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

O som era alto, dava para ouvir do lado de fora do lugar, mas era uma parte deserta e rural, para não incomodar moradores locais e nem atrair a atenção da Klan.

A batida era alta, pulsando dentro da sua garganta, do seu peito e entre as tuas pernas.

A luz vermelha e a fumaça se espalham pelo teto industrial como uma névoa. Há uma sensação de abafamento, de calor, de vida, de corpos dançando, de línguas se enrolando e de mãos deslizando como serpentes.

Você está ali, no meio disso tudo, jogando com alguns amigos e esperando por ele.

Fuligem, ou melhor, Elias.

O nome queima atrás da sua nuca desde que ele sumiu na noite com aquelas três pessoas esquisitas.

Desde que ele te olhou e disse “me espera aqui”.

Com aquela voz rouca que você nunca sabia se era de cigarro ou de luxúria.

Mas você esperou.

Horas? Minutos? O tempo já tinha se dissolvido no álcool barato e no batidão sujo que fazia o chão vibrar.

Seu olhar subia para a parte entreaberta da sala vendo as pessoas da festa, você não sabia se era emoção da sua parte, mas você não conseguia evitar ficar preocupado com o sumiço do homem.

Ele estava armado, era alto, forte e tudo mais, só que mesmo assim você ainda achava perigoso.

“Qual é, cara? Vai jogar ou não?” Um dos homens mais velhos perguntou, fazendo você sair do transe e jogar outra carta na mesa.

Aqueles três apareceram inesperadamente, você nem mesmo tinha ideia de como eles chegaram ao local, afinal, os convidados foram chamados pessoalmente, sem pedidos espalhados para evitar chamar a atenção indesejada.

E então um som de assobio se faz no local, e ao erguer o olhar das suas cartas, você vê Elias.

Ele passou pela porta e falou com algumas pessoas. Os olhos dele pararam em você, fazendo sua garganta fechar. Você não sabia por que estava tão nervoso assim.

O homem o chama com a cabeça para sair dali e você se levanta, deixando as cartas e o seguindo para fora da sala.

“Ei, então, o que houve?” Você perguntou baixinho e ele ergueu sua mão e colocou algo nela, revelando algumas moedas de ouro “Nossa! Como?”

Ele apenas fez um som de concordância que veio do fundo da garganta.

“O quê? Eles querem alguma bebida com isso aqui ou algo do tipo?”

Ele apenas concordou novamente.

“Tem certeza? Bom uh, vá lá fora e fale para eles fazerem algo, porque…” sua voz foi silenciada pelo homem que colocou a mão na sua nuca, uma sensação morna, você não sabia se era a mão dele ou seu próprio corpo.

Ele te puxa pelo colarinho, você atravessa a multidão com ele, a música vira ruído de fundo, as pessoas nem notam ou talvez notem e gostem do que veem.

Porque você parece um cordeiro indo com um lobo, mas sorrindo, querendo.

Você percorre o corpo dele com seus olhos, a camisa dele estava manchada, meio aberta, olhos mais escuros, mais fundos.

Mais…mortos?

Provavelmente era só paranóia sua, você ficou tão nervoso quando ele saiu sozinho para conversar com aquelas pessoas que até mesmo sua bebida que você terminava em segundos, havia esquentado.

Mas agora ele estava aqui, na sua frente, e bem como nunca.

“Só fica calmo tá? Percebi que você tá nervoso, Fumaça não está aqui e nem viu a gente” O homem falou como se fosse óbvio.

“Ah? Não, não é por causa dele”

“Qualquer coisa que seja” Ele sussurrou “Fique calmo”

“Tá bem, eu só…fiquei nervoso ao ver você indo sozinho com aqueles três” Sua voz saiu quase em um murmuro, ele novamente segurou sua nuca e te puxou rudemente para um beijo.

Os lábios do homem pareciam te devorar inteiro, ele beijava seu pescoço e chupava o local com força, provavelmente iria ficar marcas, mas nada que você não pudesse cobrir com a gola da roupa depois.

As mãos dele foram rápidas para desafivelar seu cinto, você soltou um gemido envergonhado, arrancando um rosnado baixo do homem.

“Elias, você….rosnou?” Sua voz saiu ofegante, ele não deixava aberturas para perguntas ou ao menos olhar para ele.

Mas então o olhar dele encontrou o seu.

“Rosnar? Tem certeza que não está muito bêbado, querido?” Ele perguntou baixinho e deu um selinho nos seus lábios.

Querido?

Elias encosta a testa na sua, você sente o cheiro dele, doce, quente, algo errado, algo novo, algo que te faz querer cair de joelhos.

E sem dar tempo para uma resposta, ele segurou seus ombros e te empurrou para baixo levemente, te fazendo ajoelhar na frente dele, do mesmo jeito que você imaginou, era como se ele tivesse lido seus pensamentos.

Elias era tão bonito, seus olhos e rosto transbordavam desejo e outra coisa que você não sabia explicar o que era, mas você se sentia bem, porque ele estava direcionando tudo aquilo para você, todo o desejo no olhar e nas expressões faciais, todos os toques desesperados.

Era tudo direcionado a você.

Com a respiração presa na garganta, você viu Elias lamber os lábios, abrindo o cinto e o zíper.

O tempo pareceu passar mais devagar enquanto Elias gradualmente abaixava a calça e a boxer, revelando seu pau grosso.

Olhando para ele, Elias deu um sorriso travesso enquanto segurava firmemente seu membro ereto com a mão livre, acariciando-o deliberadamente à sua frente.

"Vamos amor, não posso esperar a noite toda" Elias murmurou para você, com o tom transbordando de expectativa.

Não querendo dificultar ainda mais, você se inclinou para mais perto, apoiando as mãos nas coxas dele enquanto começava a lhe dar leves lambidas na cabeça avermelhada do pau do homem.

Satisfeito com sua obediência, Elias acariciou seus cabelos com a mão livre, apreciando a sensação enquanto observava cada movimento seu.

Conforme o tempo passava, sua exploração se expandia, cobrindo o eixo dele com sua saliva e gradualmente o levando para dentro da sua boca, usando a língua para acariciar e provocar a cabeça sensível.

“Desse jeito..." Elias gemeu de prazer, cativado pelo movimento da sua boca.

Impacientemente, o homem te puxou mais para dentro, deslizando todo o seu comprimento em sua boca quente, empurrando suavemente os quadris.

Conforme ele empurrava mais fundo, seu nariz roçava nos pelos pubianos dele, e ele empurrou o pau para o fundo da sua garganta.

“Porra, eu tenho tanta sorte de ter você” elogiou Elias, enquanto aumentava a intensidade das estocadas, fazendo você engasgar levemente ao se afastar.

No entanto, a resistência se mostrou inútil enquanto ele te segurava firmemente, lágrimas brotando em seus olhos enquanto você tentava controlar seu reflexo.

Controlando sua cabeça sem esforço, ele agarrou seu cabelo, usando para guiar seus movimentos em seu pau como se você fosse um brinquedo.

Olhando para você, Elias gemeu de prazer enquanto se inclinava sobre sua cabeça, usando sua força para mantê-lo firme no lugar enquanto fodia sua garganta.

Os sons de suas chupadas e engasgos ficaram mais altos, levando o homem a querer gozar mais rápido.

"Vou gozar nessa sua garganta" Elias rosnou enquanto tentava se enfiar mais fundo, fazendo você apertar os olhos, fechando eles com força.

Ele estava sendo muito rude, muito rápido, mas algo que você não podia negar era que você estava amando cada segundo.

Agarrando-se às calças dele em busca de apoio, você se preparou ao sentir o pau dele se contrair.

"Não deixe cair uma gota sequer" Elias exige, enfiando mais algumas vezes em sua garganta antes que seu pau se rompa, sua cabeça jogada para trás de prazer, enquanto ele finalmente goza, enchendo sua boca, fazendo você engolir cada gota habilmente.

"Porra, você é tão bom..." O homem te elogiou mais uma vez, retirando o pau ainda duro e puxando seus cabelos delicadamente para avaliar sua concordância.

Com lágrimas escorrendo pelas suas bochechas, você olhou nos olhos dele, finalmente engolindo o resto de seu esperma antes de tossir e recuperar o fôlego.

Enxugando suas lágrimas, Elias acaricia suas bochechas, o polegar traçando o contorno do seu lábio, com uma força sutil, ele guia o polegar entre seus lábios, apoiando no centro da sua língua.

Enquanto segura seu queixo, Elias olha em seus olhos.

"Ainda não terminei com você..." Ele afirma, com um sorriso ameaçador crescendo em seu rosto.

“Por que você está sorrindo assim?” Você perguntou e o sorriso dele ficou mais doce.

“Eu amo você”

“O que?” Seus olhos se arregalaram incrédulos, ama? Ele te ama? “Como assim? Você nunca disse…”

“Eu sei, mas vamos ser honestos agora sim? É a nossa chance de falar o que temos guardado há tempos, você…não quer?” A voz dele saiu meio magoada, fazendo você se sentir péssimo.

“Não! Não, me desculpa, eu quero ser honesto” Você concordou rapidamente “É que veio do nada, então achei estranho mas…eu amo você também” Você falou olhando para o chão.

Fazendo o sorriso sinistro de Elias passar totalmente despercebido.

O homem então segurou seu braço e te levantou em um solavanco, encostando você em uma mesinha que tinha alí, ele então abaixou sua calça com cueca e tudo empurrando sua costas para você ficar empinado para ele.

A mão dele agarrou seu pau que já estava duro e necessitado há um tempo, um gemido rouco saiu de sua boca, fazendo você baixar a cabeça envergonhado.

“Shh, amor, não quero que eles venham aqui e estraguem a nossa diversão..." ele riu baixinho, você sabia que a música alta estava abafando tudo, mas mesmo assim a fala dele fez você fechar a boca.

E fechando os olhos, você tentou abafar os gemidos, mas ele não permitiu, ele estava brincando com você, queria que você não chamasse atenção…mas estava fazendo de tudo para que mais sons saíssem de sua boca.

Elias colocou a mão na sua garganta, apertando suavemente.

"Mantenha esses olhos abertos, querido, olhos em mim..." Elias exigiu, usando o polegar para estimular a cabeça necessitada de seu pau, continuando a te masturbar vigorosamente.

Por que ele está dificultando tanto? Ele queria que vocês fossem pegos?

Mordendo o lábio, você se esforçou ao máximo para abafar os gemidos enquanto Elias alimentava seu corpo com prazer em grandes ondas.

Conforme a tensão aumentava dentro de você, você começava a mexer as pernas e a enrolar os dedos dos pés.

Elias percebeu e começou a te masturbar com força, sabendo que você estava prestes a gozar.

Você estava tão perto do êxtase quando ele parou abruptamente, tirando a mão da sua ereção.

"Ainda não!" Disse ele, apertando um pouco sua garganta antes de soltar, fazendo você olhar para trás.

Então, ele começou a se despir lentamente, revelando seu corpo musculoso, jogando o terno e o paletó no chão, você finalmente pôde ver seu corpo, Elias era bem definido.

Você não conseguia deixar de se sentir frustrado por um homem como ele ter sido abençoado com um corpo assim, era tão injusto o quão gostoso ele era.

Você ficou lá, observando atentamente enquanto Elias desabotoava descia mais sua calça empurrando-a impacientemente para baixo junto com sua cueca para deixar seu pau mais livre para movimento.

O homem cuspiu nos próprios dedos, provocando sua entrada antes de enfiar lentamente até o fim quase atingindo sua próstata, não era a primeira vez que vocês transavam, mas você ainda não estava acostumado, os dedos dele já te satisfaziam muito e te preenchiam totalmente.

Então imagine o que o pau dele podia fazer, seu quadris se moveram e você tentou se ajustar mas, você foi rapidamente dominado por Elias, que envolveu a mão em volta de sua garganta, forçando-o de volta para a mesa, enquanto sua outra mão trabalhava te masturbando com força, o homem dedilhava seu buraco com precisão.

Mais e mais gemidos saiam de sua boca, você não conseguia ficar quieto, mas ele também não estava ajudando em nada.

"Fique parado, amor" ele apertou sua garganta firmemente como um aviso.

Os dedos que estavam te masturbando foram retirados lentamente de dentro de você te fazendo soltar um suspiro com o vazio que ele deixou.

Elias apertou sua cintura e se posicionou, ao sentir o calor de sua cabeça, você sabia que não estava totalmente preparado.

O homem observou atentamente enquanto ele lentamente inseriu a ponta, colocando a mão em sua bunda, ele empurrou para frente abruptamente, seu pau te preenchendo completamente e te fazendo ofegar.

"Porra, querido" Ele disse enquanto empurrava lentamente, observando-se desaparecer dentro de você.

“Elias…é demais” você gemeu, ainda não acostumado com o tamanho dele.

Mas Elias não se importou nem um pouco enquanto começava um ritmo brutal de estocadas profundas.

Fechando os olhos com força, foi estranho tê-lo dentro de você com tanta rapidez, mas logo seus movimentos trouxeram prazer quando ele atingiu seu ponto G e beijou sua próstata a cada estocada.

Você odiava que ele pudesse lhe trazer prazer assim, sendo tão rude, e incapaz de se conter por mais tempo, você começou a gemer, e Elias respondeu silenciando você, cobrindo sua boca e nariz com a mão e intensificando seu ritmo brutal em seu buraco apertado.

"Hah, aposto que seu ex-namoradinho nunca se compararia a mim" ele provocou, dando-lhe uma estocada forte a cada palavra.

Pensamentos sobre John invadiram sua cabeça, e você se perguntou por que ele estava mencionando ele do nada? E com raiva de si mesmo pelo fato de Elias estar certo, ele nunca foi capaz de agradá-lo, não assim.

O homem rosnou baixinho, inclinando-se ainda mais para perto de você, ele colocou a mão sob a parte de trás de seu joelho, empurrando para cima da mesa, abrindo mais você e iniciando uma série de estocadas brutais.

Este homem ia te matar com o pau dele.

Elias se chocava contra sua próstata a cada estocada, se deleitando com os gemidos que saíam de sua boca e os ruídos vindos do seu buraco guloso.

Seus olhos começaram a revirar devido à falta de ar e ao prazer intenso, a sensação dentro de você se intensificou, uma mistura de prazer e dor, céu e inferno, incapaz de emitir um som, mas sentindo tudo.

"Isso mesmo amor, goze em todo o meu pau, e depois disso….iremos ficar juntos, a gente vai ficar junto, vai ser melhor pra você" ele rosnou de uma maneira mais animalesca te fazendo franzir as sobrancelhas e fechar os olhos fortemente.

Você sentia algo quente escorrer dos seus ombros e descer pelas suas costas, ele pressionava o nariz contra seu pescoço, respirando pesadamente e inalando seu cheiro com força.

E como se fosse uma deixa, seu pau se rompeu, o orgasmo te invadindo enquanto você tentava exalar um gemido, deus olhos reviraram para trás enquanto sua entrada o apertava com força, sem nunca querer que ele fosse embora.

Elias lambeu os lábios, apreciando o aperto delicioso que seu buraco lhe dava, porém, ele estava longe de terminar.

Ele saiu do seu corpo exausto e descobriu sua boca, fazendo você ofegar como um peixe fora d'água.

Sem lhe dar muito tempo para se recuperar, Elias te puxou e te deitou em um monte de panos que tinha alí, te fazendo ficar de frente para ele.

Ele tirou sua calça totalmente e jogou para o lado, abrindo suas pernas, e agarrou um punhado do seu cabelo e puxou para trás.

Com a outra mão, ele levantou seus quadris e abriu ligeiramente suas coxas, criando um arco profundo em suas costas.

"Assim mesmo" elogiou Elias, apertando a gordura da sua bunda.

Sem hesitar, ele rapidamente se realinhou e entrou em seu buraco dolorido mais uma vez.

Você estava cansado demais para se mexer, enquanto Elias manobrava um dos seus antebraços e o acima da sua cabeça.

Você se sentiu um idiota por achar que ele tinha terminado com você antes, ele nunca se conformava com uma rodada só.

O pau dele encontrou todos os pontos certos dentro de você mais uma vez, estabelecendo um ritmo implacável.

Com o rosto molhado de lágrimas de prazer, seus gemidos safados abafados, Elias riu baixinho.

"Sabe amor, você é incrível, e é meu….só meu" Ele rosnou, enfatizando cada palavra com uma estocada ainda mais forte.

Tudo o que você conseguia fazer era gemer como um animal no cio, sua bunda emitindo ruídos obscenos, com o tempo, os grunhidos de Elias se aprofundaram, seu foco se intensificou.

Inclinando-se um pouco mais fundo, ele se abaixou, estimulando seu pau que estava vazando pré-gozo, algo que você nem havia percebido até ele tocar, te excitando ainda mais.

"Eu sei que você pode gozar mais” Ele sussurrou no seu ouvido, suas mãos se soltaram do aperto dele e abraçaram suas Costas fortes, arranhando com força descontando todo o prazer que ele estava lhe proporcionando.

“Não consigo" Você gemeu de frustração, lutando para falar, suas palavras abafadas pela sua respiração ofegante e pelo ritmo das estocadas dele.

Infelizmente, Elias estava certo, seu corpo não te ouvia mais, sucumbindo ao prazer, um orgasmo alucinante tomou conta de você, seu buraco se apertou avidamente em volta do pau do homem, puxando ele para mais perto de seu próprio orgasmo.

Sentindo o aperto que você tinha em seu pau, Elias se enrolou com força, empurrando desleixadamente enquanto se concentrava em seu orgasmo.

“Você consegue, querido" ele rosnou, seu pau agora se contraindo dentro de você, em uma estocada final, Elias empurrou contra sua próstata, um rosnado baixo escapou dele quando ele finalmente gozou dentro de sua entrada.

Você sentia sua bunda arder, mas não por causa da penetração e sim pelo fato de que Elias estava segurando com força.

Muita força.

Você sentia as unhas dele arranharem e praticamente rasgarem sua carne levemente, te fazendo gemer de dor.

“Elias! Ei….isso dói” Você gemeu tentando empurrar ele, suas pernas se fecharam quando ele se retirou de dentro de você.

Você segurou o rosto dele e ele te encarou, um brilho sinistro em azul se formava em suas íris.

Seus olhos se arregalaram e você rapidamente lembrou das histórias que Annie te contava.

Não.

Não.

Não podia ser, ele não.

“Elias!” Você empurrou ele com força o fazendo tombar um pouco para o lado, mas ele rapidamente se recuperou e foi para cima de você.

Você tentou se virar para levantar mas ele ficou por cima de você, o peito dele pressionando contra suas costas enquanto você estava preso de bruços, entre ele e o chão daquele lugar.

O pânico tomou conta do seu ser, você tentou se mexer mas parecia que tinha uma parede pesada em cima de você, seus solavancos não causavam nada nele.

O homem rosnava e você conseguia ver a saliva dele caindo ao lado do seu rosto, fazendo seu rosto se contorcer em nojo e desespero.

“Eu tentei….eu tentei me controlar, mas você não ajudou” Ele falou de forma incoerente, rosnando e babando ainda mais “Mas isso não importa agora, nós vamos ficar juntos de qualquer maneira, eu, você, Remmick e os outros.”

Remmick?

Quem era Remmick?

Aquele esquisito que estava lá fora?

“Elias, porra, me solte!” Sua voz saiu em um desespero anormal, lágrimas finas brotando no canto de seus olhos, você não podia se dar ao gosto de chorar agora, não nessa situação.

Um forte cheiro metálico, misturado com suor, invadiu seu nariz.

Os olhos dele brilharam em azul de novo, que penetravam o fundo de sua alma, ele então abaixou a cabeça.

Preso no chão, você sentiu um rasgo na altura do seu pescoço, depois uma enxurrada úmida escorreu pelo seu pescoço e ombro, sujando o chão.

Você se debatia, se contorcia, tentava empurrar o corpo de Elias que te prendia no chão.

Você estava com a visão turva e quando mais você se mexia, mais a dor aumentava, você tentava não prestar atenção no som de algo sendo mastigado, se não você iria surtar de vez.

Mas você tinha certeza que aquilo que estava sendo mastigado era seu pescoço.

Porra.

Você ia morrer.

“Elias…me solta” sua voz saiu em um sussurro que adentrava os ouvidos surdos.

O homem rosnava como um animal, e você simplesmente desistiu.

Ficando quieto.

Deixando ele se deliciar com sua carne e seu sangue.

Sua mão fraca se ergueu e segurou a cabeça do homem, que te abraçou com mais força enquanto fincava os dentes ainda mais fundo, se é que isso era possível.

Você tossiu, e tossiu, vendo sangue sair de sua boca, e você sentia o lado da sua garganta estar praticamente aberto.

Lágrimas escaparam de seus olhos e os mesmos se fecharam lentamente, você não queria, mas sentia a escuridão te invadindo.

“Você está a salvo agora…eu salvei você…e irei salvar todos os outros” A voz de Fuligem saía ofegante, como se estivesse fora de si.

Essas foram as últimas coisas que você ouviu do homem, antes de sucumbir em um vazio profundo, se deixando levar pelo cansaço e pela fraqueza.

@baruque-yo

[yourmommmmma12244]

Mpreg sinners headcanons

Smoke-

He’s carrying him and Annie’s baby duh 😒.

SFW ALPHABET HEADCANONS PREGNANT COUPLE EDITION (By Donnydamakkk)

A = ANXIETY “What makes them most anxious about becoming parents?”

Smoke was scared of becoming like his father. He really wants to break that abusive father generational trauma. While Annie was really happy to become a mom.

B = BIRTH “Do they have a birthing plan? What is it?”

All Elijah wants is Annie in the room. No one else just her. Probably not even the Mid-wife either at this point.

C = CONCEPTION “How was the baby conceieved? Was it hard? Was it expected? Had they been trying?”

It was planned but not this early on. It was supposed to be like later in life but things happen.

D = DADDY BLUES “Does the non birthing parents have any feelings that they haven't shared with the carrying parent?“

Annie wishes smoke would go to a professional back massager instead of asking her 24/7 to rub his aching back.

E = EXPECTED DELIVERY DATE “When is the baby carrying parent projected to give birth?”

Since he found out like January 31st so he thinks around October 31st the baby should be born.

F = FAMILY “How did the family react to the pregnancy?“

Stack Laughed in Smoke’s face thinking he was joking. When he realized he wasn’t he started cheering because he wasn’t the first to get pregnant.

G = GODPARENTS “Who do they select to be their baby's godparents?“

Bo and Grace because who wouldn’t want Bo and Grace as Godparents.

H = HEALTH “Is the carrying parent's health affected by the pregnancy?”

He has a bit of a weaker immune system than he’s used to but he’ll be fine. He also had to take those nicotine gums to stop smoking while pregnant.

I = INSECURE “Does the carrying parent carry any insecurities, relating to this pregnancy”

Back to the being like his dad thing. It’s been an insecure for a while and Annie recommended him to start writing stuff in a journal. (It worked)

J = JUNK FOOD “What are the carrying parent's pregnancy cravings?”

- Pickles

- Mango water ice (But only mango)

- Cheese pizza

- Cheese burgers

- Cheesesteak

- Cheesecake

- Anything with cheese in it

K = KIDS “Have they discussed whether or not they want more children?”

Smoke did before getting pregnant but during pregnancy he can’t stand the thought of doing it again.

L = LABOR “Did the delivery of the baby go smoothly?”

He went into Labor a day early but since it was kinda late into the day he delivered the baby on October 31st.

M = MARRIAGE “Are they married? Is it on the table?”

They got married when smoke was a month pregnant because why not.

N = NAMES “Have they chosen a baby name?“

Eliani. It’s kinda like a fem name version of Elijah.

O = ORPHANHOOD “Was adoption discussed?”

Yes. To be honest the option is still on the table.

P = PREPAREDNESS “How ready are they for the baby?“

Smoke was prepared. He started buying baby clothes before knowing the baby’s gender and started baby proofing the house.

Q = QUALITY TIME “What do they do to preserve and nuture their romantic relationship, in spite of being pregnancy?”

Pregnancy doesn’t mean shit to them. Smoke still insists that he can still do things while pregnant while Annie keeps telling him to be careful. (Because why are you trying to Rob people 6 Months pregnant.)

R = RAISING “How do they plan on raising their child?“

They want their kid to express themselves in good and healthy ways. They both are against putting hands on their child as punishment.

S = SEX “What do they think the sex of the baby will be?“

Smoke is 100% sure they’re having a girl and you can’t change his mind about it.

T = TERMINATION “Was abortion discussed?“

Yes. If it was a danger to Smoke’s health or if it was an abusive situation. But since it wasn’t they didn’t feel a need to.

U = UPBRINGING “How do their upbringings affect their feelings about becoming parents?”

Smoke being abusive is a bit fear of his. He got therapy and of course he’s fears didn’t go away but it’s manageable now.

V = VOLUNTEER “How willing is the non carrying parent to help out?“

Annie is everything to smoke. Wife, Best friend, Uber driver, Personal chief, Google, Doctor, Therapist, Back massager, Everything.

W = WORK “How does pregnancy affect their work lives?”

Apparently it dosent affect Smoke at all because he can pull a trigger while pregnant but can’t smoke or drink.

X = XCITEMENT “How do they celebrate the upcoming baby?”

Retail therapy.

Y = YOUTH “Do they have experience taking care of babies and children?“

Smoke used to watch Sammie from time to time and he and Annie both watched Lisa when she was younger.

Z = Zzz “How does pregnancy affect their sleep schedules?”

Smoke takes up most of the bed now and also kicks in he’s sleep. In the later stages of pregnancy he was woken up multiple times because of the baby kicking.

In short Smoke would be the type to be one and done pregnant. He hates the question “Are you gonna have more kids?” Because the answer would be No (unless adopted).

[sinandguilt]

update — ☦︎︎

hey everyone, so fics will be running a little slower. i've been working on the agnostic!reader fic, pet!remmick, and now the upcoming mortician!reader fic. just letting you know what to expect. also including snippets of each fic (tags are subject to be added to or changed since i'm adding them as i go along):

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓. (remmick x agnostic!reader) will be a lengthy oneshot, which is why it's taking me so long. this is also more than just agnostic!reader— it also features falseprophet!remmick.

𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊, 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐋𝐅𝐔𝐑. will be the name for the kept!remmick fic. this fic will be multi-chaptered and intended to be updated consistently (fingers crossed).

𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇. (subject to change) will be the current name for the mortician!reader fic. this fic will come last, as it has not been worked on yet.

[TBD.]

not to mention i offered to help out some mutuals with requests so i will be busy, so please be patient with me. i am working hard on all of these fics to make sure they leave nothing to be desired— plus their banners which take me a long time to complete. i will update you all whenever i can. thank you.

[blank-slate-jay]

Be My Guest

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Male!Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Summary: The opening of the Junk Joint a week prior, while being the talk of the town, has you invested in finally attending. The big question was where Stack wanted to take the night with you as a guest.

Tags: Black!Reader, SMUT (18+), Oral (reader receiving) Riding (reader receiving), Kissing, Praising, Teasing, Drinking/Alcohol, Established Relationship(s), Subtle Flirting, Hints at Interalized Homophobia, reader is 20+, n word used

A/N: Was not expecting the other one to well, thank you’ll for the support. Here’s another one that’s a bit more lengthy and has smut, with a narrative. This was supposed to be short, but hey, here’s a long one for ya’ll. Can be read as a follow-up to my last fic or as one shot! Enjoy!

Dusk falls, and the sun had nearly dipped below the horizon moments before your arrival. 

A group of co-workers, a few acquaintances, were generous enough to provide a ride, perhaps equally as interested to see the whole Juke Joint excitement was all about. You knew where you were, you’d be holding out hope you’d get an opportunity to visit after work. However, you were either exhausted or had other important matters relating to family or future plans. 

You felt awful not being there, especially since the twins paid your boss a visit a week back, talking about renovations. The twins directly informed you that you were more than welcome to come; moreso insisting. Smoke had come by to grab additional materials two days prior; you of course aiding him in filling up his vehicle. He didn’t say it then, or even hint at it, but you felt his questions regarding your absence during opening night were more than likely on Stack’s accord over himself. 

It wasn’t that you and Stack were on bad terms, but your relationship was definitely up in the air. You felt that they believed you were mad at them, Stack specifically. If Smoke was asking, then you wondered how much intel the older twin had in your relationship. It’d be impossible to decipher but you gave him the same answer, ‘I’ll be there, when I’m free.’ 

Well, better late than ever.

Upon arrival, you fix up your shirt as you exit the ford, tucking them into your jeans neatly. The perimeter was littered with parked vehicles, more than you were expecting at the hour. 

An acquaintance of yours patted your back, making his way to the entrance much like your whole crew of co-workers. You follow after a moment to ponder the exterior; a warehouse. It was quite a building to host a special place, but you weren’t complaining. Upon the doorframe, you greet a tall man who happily welcomed you joyfully. 

Entering, the music from outside became clear, the bright lights from red to yellow, and the number of guests caught you quite off guard. You might’ve even considered yourself in awe by how thoughtfully well put together everything was, even with so many people dancing and maneuvering about along the walls, in rooms, some thought was put into the layout. 

Your critical brain stirs coming to a halt when you notice a second to late the tap on your shoulder; Sammie. 

“You made it,”

“Sam”, you embrace him in a quick hug. “Damn I was not expecting ya here. Over church?”

He huffs, “Yeah, not supposed to but…the people here love me. So..” 

You hum, looking to his guitar’s headstock by his shoulder, comfortably strapped to his back, “Is it because you play now?”. He nods with a sheepish grin. “Look at ya! I’m tellin’ ya that talent will take you places.” 

“Tryin’, you know.” 

You nod, eyes drawn to the crowd. It was quite busy, overwhelmingly so, which you should’ve expected by the cars, very capable of carrying more than two people. “I'm gonna grab a drink, eh, where’s the…?”

“Counter’s this way, come” he informs you, leading the way. 

You follow him, subconsciously looking out for a red hat, “You know where the twins are?”

“No, but Smoke’s usually up there,” he points up, and your eyes trace to the short upper floor above. “As for Stack, I ain’ sure. Saw them both earlier.” 

You follow, still looking out for either one of them as you scoot by an occupied poker room, and dining space. Sammie leads you to a fairly large counter, he places down two dimes, “Mrs. Chow, one please for my hard-working brother.”

She nods, getting to work on her mixing. You scuff, sliding into a stool, watching her effortlessly prepare your drink in under ten seconds. “Thank you.” You take a sip, muffling to yourself. “You want a drink?”

“No. Gotta keep myself sober.”

“Ah, don’ wanna lose that spark, I get you” you tease, taking a long sip. “I’ll be sure to owe you, Sam. Keep me to it.” 

He shook his head, snickering, “Just don’t get fried, could get you thrown out.” 

You nod, partially taking in his consideration. He brings up, how he’s been thinking about traveling, which piques your interest. The conversation was quite engaging, Sam’s passion clearly yearning to break from the constraints of his father’s church. Soon you both were interrupted, an arm slinging over your shoulder; similarly for Sammie. 

The man, Slack, leans in between the two of you, “How are we doing today? Sam?” 

“Well enough,” the boy replied. Stack tilts to you, “And you?”

“Doin’ much better.”

“Stack, them boys back there are causing trouble earlier”, Mrs.Chow points across the open hall.

“Don’t you worry Mrs. Chow,” Stack whistles toward his brother, where you finally see Smoke just across the room, “We’ll keep the peace, no ruckus goes unheard.” He circles you, leaning against the counter and inquiring for a drink of his own. Stack states your last name, “So decided to show up, no excuse this time?”

“Yeah. I actually have time.”

“So you ain’ got other plans?”

“Nope. Not today, Stack.”

The twin takes a quick spit, looking at Sammie who was glancing between the two of you as if he’s intruding. Sammie stands, “Remember”, he reinforces to you, heading off elsewhere. Right, don't get too drunk. If you’d take that to heart, it’d be a smart move to follow Sammie; far away from Stack. You couldn’t, Stack was staring at you, expecting something more than a short response.

“You know, Stack, if I'd make you feel better, I plan to stay as long as I’m allowed.” Slack nods, “Or until one of my co-workers is ready to leave, they drop me here.”

“Nah, I got you on that,” your eyebrows raise by a slim, “Of course if you’re stayin’, I could drive you back. Free of charge.”

Your lips parted, “Free, I’m honored.”

“So what’ll be? Three hours and I’ll take you back.”

Oh boy, here comes the talking business. It always slithers its way into conversations, somehow. That fact that he was using it against you of all people was comical, you play along. “Two hours and thirty minutes”

“Two hours and fifty.”

“Drop it to forty.”

Stack bites his lip, “Two hours and forty five. Strike a deal now you get yourself a free drink.”

You take a last sip of your drink, looking about momentarily, shaking your head. He’s good at that.

His smirk grew, “Deal?”

You stare into his eyes, seeing if he’d give you some leeway. Who were you kidding, you were playing within his ballpark, his speciality; there was no winning or upholding Sammie’s remark. You turn, placing the glass down, “Deal.”

Stack queues Mrs.Chow for your second glass. You take it with exaggerated eagerness. He sips his glass as you do, sealing your agreement. Staring back at him you wonder how on earth someone like himself could even manage to retain the glint in his eyes after spending time in the army. He was likely good at hiding it under his formal attire and talkative persona. You couldn’t believe he of all people would have you in a fix. 

—

The two of you spent the night fairly close, as close as what gave no clear hints, dancing fairly close but nothing beyond what close friends would do; some occasional hand grabs came that you wished lasted longer. You just really didn’t want trouble, nor hard stares, just a calm night is all you could ask for. With any commotion, you were sure it would result in Smoke, Stack, or the big guy by the entry chucking them out. But you didn’t want to be the one responsible for stirring up the night. This notion became difficult with every performance, the singers bringing out the energy you needed to last the night.

You and the crowd give a huge ‘whoraw’ as another song comes to a conclusion, raising your third glass head high. By that point, you were through with drinking. With one hand on Stack’s back, you release, whereas his arms over your shoulder stay put. “Phew, I’m done. No more for me. I don’ wanna lose myself.”

Stack chuckles, “Good,” he takes the cup from your hand finishing it for you. “I most certainly don’ want to see you any other way. So many fine folk in here, but you-?”

You felt your cheeks get warm at the implication. You playfully push him off, flattered and a tad bit embarrassed. He follows you where you lean up against a pole, hands in your pockets. “You're talkin' drunk”.

“Now, that very well may be, but I assure you, it ain' a lie”.

"Speak for yourself." you whisper, drawn back to the stage, people cheering as the performance, two ladies, took everyone's attention. You weren't familiar with the song, but the startup had a low rhythm, perfect for dancing in groove with someone.

Watching pairs get together, swarming in front of the stage as the singers began, "Come on folks, get on in, don' be a stinker!" Her long dragged out hum was definitely the beginning to a groovy song that someone who wasn't into dancing could get involved.

Your eyes draw to Stack, who was glancing over at his brother, seemingly urging him and his significant other, who you believed was Annie, to jump in. Smoke almost looked as if he was about to do the same thing, but Annie was already dragging the cigar out his mouth and the two were off to join the main crowd.

Stack and you dancing, in a pair, you were sure that wasn't gonna happen. Noted was his silence as well, both sharing a mutual understanding of your relationship. Even then, he slowly tilts toward you. 

With your lips pursed to the side, you change your attitude, keeping your tone upbeat, "I'mma go wash up." Stack nods, watching you walk off.

You spent a little too much time in the restroom, cleansing your fingers. Some part of you certainly wanted a break from the noise, as well as the unfortunate circumstances.

It wouldn’t be long, five minutes, a guest comes knocking as expected. You dry up and come out rather quickly, to appease him.

Returning to where Stack was stationed, surprisingly he was missing. You look around, shifting through the crowd coming up short. By surprise, a hand, Stack's hand grips your shoulders, leading you forward.

You curse, which gets a snarky laugh out of him. "Tried to scare me?"

His grin grew, pushing you ahead, "Come on, now. Takin’ your sweet time in there, we’re gonna miss it." Miss it? You let him lead you with no further inquiry about the Joint, stopping at a door, he checks to make sure no one's inside before nudging you to step in first. 

You do so, entering the room filled with nothing but a few crates, bags, and cabinets. A click has you turning to face the most devious shit eating grin you've seen out of him before. 

Almost immediately he’s pulling you into him. One hand intertwined with yours, the other slipping behind your pits. Not once did your brows return to level. 

“Stack. What are you doing?” 

He doesn’t reply, he just casually sways in sync with the music, muffled but still very much audible. You huff, his quietness unusual. You sync up with his slow movement, keeping your gaze between his eyes and his shirt’s collar. 

Although he wasn’t speaking, his eyes were doing all the talking. For once, you could say a silent moment with Stack no less, was very much appreciated, just getting to share a moment as one freely in peace. You wish you could’ve gotten more moments like it, but his endeavors in Chicago and you being you, prevented any quality time. 

“You like slow music, or do you like some groove,” he jokes, shaking his hips. 

“Either or. Whichever one gets you doin’ what that old man was doin’.”, you mention. 

Stack brows rose, “You talkin’ bout that old crook? He’s been flauntin’ about like that ever since the Grand Opening.”

You bite your tongue, “He was havin’ fun.”

“You sure he was? Cause I thought a nigga was about to run our joint dry.”

You snort, leaning into him, “He wasn’t that bad.”

“I can assure you. That you haven’ seen the worst of him.”

You peel back, chuckling with him for a moment. Your eyes fell to Stack’s curved lips. Of course, he tries playing you up, voice lowering, “It’s quiet in here”.

You acknowledge that fact, a sign to let yourself lose, pulling him into your lips. You both spent the first couple of kisses, hovering inches from each other's lips, as if some force was stopping you both. It wasn't until Stack pulls you in further and kept the gap between the two of you closed. 

Tingles shoot up your back as you lean back ever so slightly; only giving Stack a chase to keep you from pulling far from him. You didn't think you've kissed anyone is good as Stack, pinpointing how or why seemed fairly intuitive, his more sensual pecks were far beyond any of the other men who were practically trying to ravage your face. With him, it felt he had planned each kiss that was now moving up the side of your face.

Stack weight, had the you backing into a wall. Trapped and pinned, your neediness took over, lips going for his neck. Stack's head shooting back, "God yes," he growls, his fingers slipping in his collar to loosen it. His weight didn't let up, his hands stuck against the wall on either side of you. "Right there," he hums, "Yeah, baby...keep going."

You feel yourself getting flushed, licking the same spot, followed up by groans that made it harder to keep your groin from feeling any less tighter. Your fingers slither down his back, scraping the vest's fabric, pulling his pelvis against yours; getting a groan out of you as well.

Stack’s hips grind, your face buried deep in his neck, his scent palpable; familiar. The distant music, muffled, ends with cheers from beyond the walls, bringing your senses back.

It was a mistake, with Stack tilting your head up, and going right for your throat; your Adam’s apple stinging. A yelp escaped you, too loud for comfort, you grip his wrist tightly, attempting to calm yourself. “Damn…”, Stack’s soft bites were asphyxiating; both in a good and bad way.

The walls were thick, enough, and the music was loud along with the people. But no-one would hear, right?

“What do you want, handsome,” he asked with a low hum that tickles your skin.

“I want…?”, you huff, a stronger bite tainting you. “I want ya to get in me.”

“You clean?” You nod, with a dubious smile, “Attaboy,” his accent ran sharp, “Oh, I knew you had it in you.”

Stack backs up, undoing his red vest, looking over you yet again as you unveil your flannel. Your black tank stayed on, but your jeans and underwear were pushed aside. He loses his tie, his undergarments thrown off, as he sits atop of a sturdy crate.

You were hard, but his was ready for you. He motions for you, and shifts it around. You happily oblige. One knee on the wooden floor, you knelt down enough for you to take in the tip. He seems to like that, how you swirl around his tip. His hand flew to your head, gently pushing it down.

Up and down, rinse and repeat. You bob your head constantly, taking in his shaky breaths as queues to either speed up or slow down. He tasted just so natural.

“More spit baby,” he says stroking your cheek. You apply a good string or two, spreading it from his tip to his balls. You weren’t even going to question if he could fit into you, all that mattered was ensuring it’d be easy. Stack knew what he was doing, allegedly, no, he likely does know. All the sweet talking he does, you were certain he’s fucked around more than enough.

He tilts your head up, wiping up any remnants of saliva from the corner of your lips. His pupils pull you in, more than his strong hands, until you're hovering over his lap; standing with your legs on either side of his thighs.

"'m goin' slow..." you pant.

Stack licks his lips, straightens his shaft, "As slow as you need."

Huffing, you line up on him, and ease your way down, using one hand gripped tight to his shoulder. You curse to yourself for finding it difficult to get past his tip. It wasn't long before you felt more of him go into you, a quick exhale coming through your pursed lips. Shocked, you couldn't help a, "Wow..." leaving your mouth.

Stack was snickering and humming simultaneously, "A little more," he urges, his hands helping your hips settle all the way into his lap.

You let out a heavy breath, eyes closed tightly, feeling all of Stack inside of you was way more overwhelming then you initially thought, definitely not the ecstasy you believed would occur. A very different sensation, no doubt, something you focus on a little too intently. The nibble on your chin has you locking gazes with Stack, his crimson amber was unbelievably something you could stare out for awhile, with his current starry eye expression; you'd like to extend it long term.

To stay put, wasn't optional, you move in an irregular rhythm. You lift yourself up and down, at a rate you'd compare to a slug, but it was comfortable. You weren't sure if you were doing it right, and Slack picks up on this quickly offering comfort by wrapping his arms around you.

"Slow n steady", he repeats mockingly, his hips rocking up.

You shake, "Fuckin' hell." Another thrust up, and you groan. "Shit-!"

A shift of the door came, sadly that didn't stop the moan from slipping through you. Quickly he leans up, keeping your lips locked with his. He didn't let go, his teeth keeping you from escaping. His thrusting didn't let up either. You thought Stack would come to a halt, however he didn't seem to care, his gitty breath told you more than enough.

"Shh. A little louder they might hear us."

"Hope not," you grunt, taking into account the music that you unknowingly filtered out. Taking up the challenge, the silence from the door helps in feeling secure enough to pick up your pace ever so slowly, You bit back the need to howl from your discomfort.

Stack enjoyed the additional pressure by his shaft, his teeth sinking deeper into your bottom lip. "I've been wantin' you like this for a while," he thrust up into you. "You know something about them pants? You look way too fine in those pants," he says gripping your ass.

You go faster.

"Was so close to just-" he smacks you, "But I held back."

“Elias-.” Then, spontaneously, you don't know what hit you. A flash, or surge of sorts causing your legs to give out. The spasm from your knees followed by you finishing all over the both of you, was completely unexpected.

Stack whistles, peeking down at the continuous mess staining his shirt.

“Was not expectin’ that,” you infer.

“No harm done. Now-.”, he continues fucking you, which now more than ever, felt overstimulating, your stomach bubbling with all too many tingles. You honestly questioned whether you were more drunk than you initially thought since, no orgasm has ever been as good as that.

Moreover, Stack’s tip was hitting you just right that the blues outside might have to be the second best thing to exist.

His grunts grew stiff until his voice hitches. He too blew his load, only noticing such when his pace slowed down; completely stopping. Both of you sat silently for a moment, heavy breathes filling the subtle change of the room's tempo. The hum of music was therapeutic, relaxing, just as much as Stack's fingers drawing circles on your back. 

Neither of you said anything for a bit. Simply, you both just enjoy another moment of peace. 

After gaining some of your strength, you pull Stack from your neck, his gaze visibly daze-like.

“You alright,” you inquire, as if Stack couldn’t handle you.

He hums in acknowledgement. “You’re good,” he pulls out and the two of you breathe heavily. "Would you look at that?"

You chuckle, "Get dressed, people are gonna get suspicious."

"Suspicious? It'll be just business to them. Remember, you needed a ride is all," he emphasizes.

You mouth, 'god' to yourself, dressing up in a timely manner as did he. Luckily for either of you, all the evidence could be concealed, Stack most notably, but he had his vest to cover the mess you made on his pink shirt.

After he straightens his tie up, you take a sec to ensure your garb wasn't disheveled. Stack was fairly well put back, nothing anyone could infer, no dripping shaft nor the his cum still inside of you. It was no bother. Treading to the door, he stops you from reaching for the handle.

"Hold up-". His closeness has you wondering if he might've wanted seconds already, his softer gaze said otherwise. “You are gonna come around often, yeah?”

You raise an eyebrow, “Yes? Don’t live no further from town.”

He hums, pulling out a toothpick to jam in between his teeth, “I know you're busy, and my brother and I are…gettin’ things settled here again but-,” he pauses shortly. “I do wanna see you, even though you know I ain’ been around. But, I don’ want any of that shit in between us. Not Chicago, not no money-.”

“Stack. It’s fine,” you swallow. “All of whatever you two got into, it’s over I presume? So then let’s just do it right this time," you finish caressing his vest. You snatch his toothpick from his mouth to lighten the mood.

His typical glance resurfaces, and before he could start charming you, you unlock the door  and casually push him out; following suit back out into the party. Whether it was shown or not, your affection for him had remained unshaken that not even 7 years could dampen the two of you.

[monstersholygrail]

Yandere!Work Colleague

Male Yandere x Fem!Reader ||

Your colleague forms a new crush on you once you tell him you like his special coffee and now he won’t stop giving you more. He’ll give you everything

Yandere!Work Colleague tries to act normal but is way too shy to ask out his office crush. He’s seen them around the office, always looking so confident. But he can never get up the nerve to talk to them, ask them out. Even when working on a project with them, the most he’ll say is, “Here’s y-your tea— your coffee, I mean!” And hand it to them before scurrying off. Of course making sure to put his ‘special cream’ into the drink beforehand.

But only now as he heads back to the tray of drinks, his brows furrow, not seeing your drink in the tray. He swore he had just moved it a second ago. His face drops as he realizes there must’ve been a mix-up. He whirls around only to watch in horror as you drink the coffee with his personal ingredient in it.

He swears he’s not breathing as you take a few long gulps. He hopes to every God there is that you won’t notice anything off about it. Sweat dots at his brow as you place the coffee down and lick your lips in a way that curiously has his cock twitching.

“Hmm. This is better than usual, thanks,” you comment, so casually, as if you hadn’t just turned his entire world upside down.

Everything was different now, he saw everything in a new and shiny bright light. And all those lights always came back to you. His whole world now revolving around you. The way you talked to him so effortlessly, smiled at him, acknowledged him. He’d never experienced anything like it before. Not from his old office crush or anyone. You were… special.

Since that day he’s been chasing after you like a dog with a bone. Always offering to carry your stacks of paperwork from meetings to your desk. He makes sure to linger so that everyone in the office will gossip and wonder if you two are together. If he’s asked he’ll say yes, if only to live in the possibility that one day you will be.

He does everything he can for you during group assignments. Getting done work you might’ve not gotten too. You were tired and you needed your sleep. And he just so happened to glance at your computer as you were signing in one day. So signing in himself to get some work done for you was simply just a kind thing to do from one colleague to another. Of course he’d never do it for anyone else besides you. No matter how much his coworkers complained about all he does for you around the office.

Most of all though, he still always makes sure to bring you your morning coffee every day. The way your face lights up at the sight of him with the cup, your smiles and happiness just for him. No one else would dare, they know by now you’re basically his. Besides… no one else can make it like him. You’ve said so yourself.

He makes sure every morning to prepare his special ingredient with extra care. Images of you flashing across his mind as he slowly pumps his cock. Imagining how you’d look all pretty and split open on his length. How you’d call out his name and ask why he didn’t do this sooner. Squeezing his cock and pretending it’s you milking him for all your worth.

When he finally cums straight into your coffee he fantasizes it’s his thick ropes of cum shooting straight into your womb. A low raspy groan rips from his throat, his hips jerking as he just keeps coming to the thought of you. The coffee is nearly overflowing by the time he’s done.

He knows you’ll be grateful for the extra bit of drink, your lips pulled into a bright smile. He wonders how bright it would look wrapped around his length and he shudders as he hands it to you.

If he didn’t have to get to his desk, he’d watch you drink every last drop of it. Relishing in the fact that for now, at least, he’s inside of you in one way. Knowing soon he’ll be inside you in every way humanly possible.

But for now he’s content to simply bring you your coffee every morning and anything else you need handled. He’ll gladly take care of you in any way possible. Someday he’ll take care of you in every way. And nobody will be able to stop him.

[yanderedrabbles]

Private Military Contractor - Yandere Noncon

Yandere Male x Fem Reader Heavily inspired by this incredible fic.

He took you. Plucked you straight off the street on the way back from class. He must have known your routine down to a tee, because he did it all with a casual, brutal efficiency. Parking his rented van on the quietest road on your route, stacking a ladder and some paint cans outside so you'd think he was just a regular workman. The door open and waiting just for you, though you didn't know it yet.

You remember greeting him ‐ a quick good morning to be polite - without stopping or even really looking at him. You walked a little bit past the van without realising he was following you. Oblivious right up until the moment he grabbed you, one paw against your mouth to swallow your scream.

He was quick. So ruthlessly quick. Yanking you inside the van and closing the door before you even fully registered what was happening.

He wants you around for one thing and one thing only. He made that abundantly clear on the first day, when you were scarcely through the front door and he was already tearing off your skirt. He would have fucked you in the van the second he took you if he thought he could get away with it.

He isn't gentle. He bends you over the couch with your wrists held together in the small of your back. If you squirm too much, he twists your arm so hard you scream that he's going to break it.

He fucks you dry. Shoving himself inside of you despite how tight you are, how unready and unwilling. He groans at the first thrust, so obscenely satisfied. Like he's finally tasting a prize long differed.

He doesn't last long during the first round. Spilling himself into you after less than three minutes.

He's big - too fucking big. The cum that drips out of your cunt is tinged pink with blood. If he notices it, he doesn't care. He just stands there for a minute, stroking himself hard again and then it's time for round two. Your tears haven't even had time to dry.

He fucks like a soldier in a foreign war zone. Taking, claiming, stealing. It doesn't matter that you're not his to have; he has his guns and his training and to him that's all the reason he needs.

He fucks like he hasn't had a woman in years. With all the pent up energy of long, lonely nights spent in the ugliest parts of the world. He fucks you like a man who's finally gotten his hands on the fantasy he's nursed through all the worst moments of his life.

He fucks like he's terrified of losing you now that he finally, finally has you.

You can't stand after he's done with you. Your cunt burning so bad you think you're on fire from the inside out. He doesn't care that you hang limp from his grip. He just picks you up and tosses you over one broad shoulder and takes you to his bedroom.

You come out of your shock only when you feel the handcuffs closing around your wrist. He's literally chained you to his bed.

You start screaming again then. Frightened and begging and finally realising that this is really happening. It's not a bad dream or a story on the news, it's actually fucking happening to you.

He ignores you, pulling off his heavy combat boots and locking his pistol in the draw across the room. Maybe he's waiting for you to tire out, for your throat to start hurting and for you to quiet down. You don't.

He sighs like you're nothing more than an inconvenience and then slaps you so hard your ears ring and white dots spark across your vision.

His use of violence is so causal, so easy. It's shock that keeps you quiet more than the pain.

Before evening on the first day, he fucks you four more times. He doesn't listen when you beg him to be gentle, beg him to go slow. He ignores you when you plead with him to fuck your mouth instead, as much as he wants, just so long as he gives your pussy a break.

Men like him exist on the knife edge between life and death. Is it any surprise that it leaves its mark? That he wants to take whatever pleasure he can because god alone knows how much time he has left?

He doesn't kiss you until the very end, when he's deep between your thighs and you've dug your nails so deep into his back that you're going to leave scars. He kisses you when you're too hurt and sore and scared to turn away. He kisses you and it feels like he's finally staking his claim. Like part of him didn't believe you were real until he'd fucked you again and again and there was no one to stop him.

The next morning, he shoves a bitter tasting pill under your tongue and keeps his hand over your mouth until he's sure it's dissolved.

"No kids," he says simply and it makes you want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Yeah, you agree silently, no fucking kids. Especially not if you're the father. Especially not in a world where men like you exist.

He has an appetite that's borderline impossible to satisfy. Once he starts kissing you, he doesn't stop. Teeth nipping at your lips until you give in and even then it's not enough. He wraps one massive hand around your throat and squeezes.

"Kiss me back," he breathes, his lips just an inch from yours.

You kiss him and he takes it like you're everything he's ever dreamed about, the prize he's somehow earned.

After that, he spends a lot more time exploring your body. It's like he needed to get some of that desperation out of his system before he could think straight.

He's less feverish when he touches you, but no less impatient. He pries your thighs apart with one brutal yank and drops his face to your pussy. You try and jerk away from him, try and close your legs despite the massive forearms keeping them spread. You don't want him there. It's too intimate, it's too vulnerable. Hasn't he taken enough?

He licks you like he has no shame. Not even a little shy about having his tongue deep in your cunt. He tries different tricks - slow and sensual, rough, tight little flicks. He doesn't seem to care how you respond to any of it. It's more so an experiment to see which way he enjoys eating you out.

You cum on his tongue, your eyes screwed shut in guilt. You hope he won't notice, hope he'll just get bored and leave you alone.

He growls in a pleased sort of way, looking up at you with his mouth and chin slick. Oh, he definitely noticed.

You can't meet his eyes after that.

He's not a doomsday prepper. Or at least not exactly. But everything he has is off the grid. A house with its own solar panels and borehole, no technology except for his old fashioned satellite phone.

He doesn't talk much. Not even when he's fucking you. You might get the occasional good girl or a snarl for you to take it, take it just like that.

But he doesn't talk. Doesn't comfort you, doesn't insult you, doesn't even explain himself. (Though you suppose the way he holds you at night - tight, like you're going to be ripped away from him if he doesn't sink his claws in - is explanation enough).

He has money. Blood money you suppose. He doesn't go to work or leave the house much but still manages to buy you all sorts of expensive things. Silk negligees, satin panties, scented candles that melt into body oil. You aren't sure why he bothers. He's usually too impatient to appreciate any of it - most of the panties end up a torn, wet mess by the time he's done with you.

You look through his closet one day. There's a box full of military patches - Blackwater, Raytheon, MPR, a dozen more you don't recognise. And you know for a fact they aren't just some stupid collectibles, aren't there just so he can play out some militaristic power fantasy. He really worked for these companies. The patches feel real - their quality designed for hard weather and harder work. You understand him a little better after seeing them.

You don't know him. Don't recognise him in the slightest. He's a stranger to you - to the point you don't even know his name. At first you assume he took you because you were the only one stupid enough to get caught. But a few days with him and you realise that's not true at all. He knows you.

He feeds you your favourite cereal every morning, even though you can tell by his frown that he doesn't approve of your dietary choices. He has a closet packed full of your clothes. You thought he somehow raided your house but it's all new. He went out and bought exact copies of all your regular outfits, down to the tiny Victoria's Secret thongs that you like.

How? How could he gather so much information about your life while you didn't even realise you were being watched?

He takes you down to his basement one day, when you've been particularly insistent about asking him who he is. There are rows and rows of guns. Semi and fully automatic rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns. Shit you aren't even sure is fully legal.

You aren't sure why he's showing you this. Is he trying to scare you? Is he trying to goad you into escaping just so he'll have an excuse to punish you?

You look into his eyes - monster, monster in the shape of a man - and finally realise what he's trying to say.

No one is coming to save you. No one even knows where you are. But if by some slim chance they try and take you away, they'd better hope to be fucking bulletproof.

You stop asking him about himself after that.

He decides he wants anal one day in the shower. He's pressed up against your back and running his cock up and down between your ass. The tip keeps getting caught on your puckered entrance and maybe that's what puts the idea into his head.

You're too slow to realise what he's planning and he has one thick hand gripping the back of your neck before you can even think of running.

It's slow, painful going. He wants to shove himself in like he always does but the nature of it stops him. The tip is the worst part. You bite your lip so hard you can taste blood, your hands and tits both pressed up against the glass.

He presses his lips against your temple, watching your face screw up as he gets deeper.

"It's okay to cry."

There's a sick pleasure to his voice. He flicks your clit and your entire body clenches around him. He hums at that, amused and pleased.

And the worst part? He somehow makes you come. When he's finally loosened you up enough to start thrusting, he hits something deep inside you. He notices it - he notices everything about you. He laughs a little and slips his fingers into your pussy. That's all it takes to send you crashing over the edge, your whole body pulsing and aching all at once.

"That's what I like about you," he snarks into your ear when he's done, "I can make you come no matter how much you don't want it."

He turns you around and looks down at you. The expression on his face makes you want to vomit. He looks at you with a kind of loving softness. A tenderness that ignores all the awful, awful things he's done to you.

If you didn't realise it already, you knew it for a fact right then and there.

He's never going to let you go.

He takes your chin between his fingers and pulls you onto your tip toes to kiss him.

"Why?" you ask for the millionth time since he took you. And for once, he answers.

"Because I could. Because I can."

[ko-kimchi]

Yeah let’s clock it because people really are pushing this SammiexRemmick thing when it’s not at all even like that. And yeah tbh I’m about to just write the stuff my damn self cause idk who is into Remmick like that but it’s weird…especially because he’s only in the movie for like 30 minutes but yet he has the most works written about him.

If I said yall racist for that would yall start writing fics about the twins and same 🫣

i’m so tired of seeing remmick x reader, remmick x sammie and weird shit in general from this sinners fandom, when smoke and stack are RIGHT THERE. likeee do i have to get in the booth and write the fics my damn self?🫩

[carnalcrows]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

pairing: sukuna ryomen x male reader

synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.

content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.

word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr

People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.

No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.

You said nothing. And they all took it personally.

So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.

He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.

“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”

You didn’t look up.

“What would it take for someone to date you?”

You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”

Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.

You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”

That made you pause. Just a little.

Of course it did.

✧✧✧

Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.

“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”

You stared at him. He winked.

Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.

She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.

“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.

“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.

“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”

You blinked. “...why?”

She stared.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t they believe me?”

Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.

No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.

Flawless system.

“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”

You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”

“Same difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.

She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.

You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”

“On you.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”

You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.

You narrowed your eyes.

That couldn’t be good.

✧✧✧

Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.

Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.

“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”

Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”

Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.

Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”

Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”

That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”

“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”

Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”

“I want to win.”

There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”

Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”

That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.

He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”

Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”

Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.

He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.

“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”

He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.

Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.

✧✧✧

The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.

Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.

You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard” section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.

You glanced up. Froze.

He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.

He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.

So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.

“Pretty sure you already read that one.”

You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.

“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.

Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”

You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”

You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.

Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.

“Not my type,” you said.

He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

And then he turned and walked out.

No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.

✧✧✧

He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.

Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.

The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.

“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.

You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”

He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.

“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”

And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.

You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.

Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.

You were wrong, obviously.

✧✧✧

Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.

Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.

“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”

Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”

Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.

Which she gave him anyway.

Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.

“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”

Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.

“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirked. “Feisty.”

Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”

Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m practising immersion.”

Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”

Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.

“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.

Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”

Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”

And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.

✧✧✧

You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.

So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.

What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.

He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”

You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.

No such luck.

Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”

You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”

He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”

“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”

“Write one for me.”

You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”

“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”

You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.

You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”

Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”

You turned back to your notes. “I did.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.

And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.

But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.

“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.

You crumpled it and threw it away.

Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.

✧✧✧

You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”

“I’m still not sure how you did that.”

“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”

You glared. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”

The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.

And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.

Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.

Another cup. Another burn.

And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”

You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.

You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.

Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.

You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

But you almost did.

Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.

You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.

Sukuna.

His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.

You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”

He followed.

Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

And then your mouth was on his.

It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.

Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.

You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.

When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.

You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.

And you wouldn’t.

Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.

And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.

This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.

✧✧✧

You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.

Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.

You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.

You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.

Sukuna.

Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.

“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.

You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”

He shrugged. “I was here first.”

“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”

You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”

“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”

Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.

“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”

But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.

You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”

That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.

You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.

But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.

Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“But it could’ve.”

You didn’t stop.

But you felt it.

All the way down.

✧✧✧

You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.

It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.

And yet.

The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.

You froze.

“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”

Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.

“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”

You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.

“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”

You were going to kill him.

Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.

“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”

Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.

You stood up.

Walked down the bleachers.

And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.

You didn’t text him.

But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.

A little unsure.

A little real.

Too real.

✧✧✧

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.

“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”

“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”

“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.

You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.

He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.

And then, suddenly—you were here.

It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.

“Is this trespassing?” you asked.

He looked at you. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.

“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.

“What if I win?”

“You won’t.”

You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.

It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.

You froze.

Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.

Neither of you said anything.

Then—just like that—he kissed you.

Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.

You didn’t stop him.

You kissed him back.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.

You swallowed. “I still hate you.”

He grinned. “Sure you do.”

And then he kissed you again.

✧✧✧

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.

You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.

Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.

Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.

The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.

You looked so fucking calm.

So quietly happy.

When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.

“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.

You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”

Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.

And walked out like none of it had meant anything.

Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.

Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.

He didn’t say anything about it then.

But he remembered.

✧✧✧

Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.

And something was definitely going on.

He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.

And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.

He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.

Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could “match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.

Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.

That’s when it hit him.

Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.

And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.

Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.

He had a date to the prom.

But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.

✧✧✧

You didn’t expect him to ask.

You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.

And then Sukuna showed up.

At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.

“You going to prom?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”

You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”

“It’s my version of asking at all.”

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.

So you said yes.

Quietly. Grudgingly.

And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.

The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.

“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re staring,” you replied.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?”

You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.

Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.

Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.

She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.

And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.

Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.

And when things felt this good, something always broke.

✧✧✧

The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.

String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.

You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.

And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.

But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.

“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”

“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.

His grin cracked something in your chest.

You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.

“I don’t do this,” you murmured.

“Dance?”

“Let people in.”

His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”

You didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.

Then Naoya showed up.

Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.

You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.

Naoya didn’t say hello.

Didn’t greet you.

Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:

“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”

The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.

You blinked. “What bet?”

Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”

You looked at Sukuna.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there. Still. Silent.

And that—that—was all it took.

You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.

He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.

Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”

And then behind you: a smack.

Loud. Sharp. Clean.

You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.

Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.

Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.

Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.

You didn’t.

✧✧✧

You stopped answering texts.

Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.

The campus felt smaller after that night.

Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.

Everywhere.

Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.

Sometimes, he tried to talk.

Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”

You didn’t respond.

Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”

You walked away before he finished.

He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Because he meant it.

Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.

But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.

It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.

The worst part was: you missed him.

You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.

But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.

So you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t say anything.

And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.

✧✧✧

Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.

A blank space where laughter used to live.

No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.

It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And he was losing his mind because of it.

He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.

Gone.

He was in the quad when they found him.

Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.

“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.

Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”

“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.

Sukuna stared at the ground.

Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”

“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”

“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”

Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”

That shut him up.

Because it was the truth.

He was. He was in love.

And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.

✧✧✧

The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.

You weren’t going to do it.

But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.

So now you're standing here.

In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.

You clear your throat.

Your hands don’t shake.

But your voice does.

“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”

Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.

“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”

You breathe through your nose.

Don’t look at him.

“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”

The room is quiet now.

No laughter. No shifting chairs.

Just silence.

You swallow.

“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”

Your voice catches.

You let it.

“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”

You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.

And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.

Because if you did?

You might not survive it.

✧✧✧

A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.

You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.

“Hey.”

You turned fast, shoulders tense.

Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.

“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”

You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.

“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

He stepped closer.

“I still want you.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.

It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.

He kissed you back like his life depended on it.

Like he’d been waiting.

When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”

He grinned.

You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.

“Get in, asshole.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t stop smiling.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[whisperedmeg]

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he’s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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[mirapril]

y’all… should i write for sinners? i’m having withdrawals from the absolute lack of fics but i have like no inspiration

if yall wanna read that lmk and send some requests ig 😭