#Advanced Landing Ground

[twilightichor]

𝐂𝐋𝐗𝐕𝐈. This is a topic I've been wanting to address ever since I finished the Chenyu Vale questline, but never knew what to make of it due to the fact that it was novel... in a way. Before diving in, I want to preface that this will be surrounding the premise: What does pure blood Khaenri'ahn special? So if you see me digressing until I reach to that point, do bear with me. I will.

Something that caught my attention first is the few nods we get throughout the questline as we advance that there were other creatures there before gods came to Liyue, creatures grander or less grander that would be called Adepti which, in essence, is just a title and not something that one is born as. This isn't anything groundbreaking as it is obvious that dragons and their brethren existed before Phanes' arrival to Teyvat, but it was a curious indicator to me nonetheless that other kinds of creatures existed alongside them, pure elemental beings that have other shapes that aren't limited to dragons (Nahida's second quest comes in handy here, a reminder that the form a being takes doesn't matter, what does matter is their essence, their spirit). But to this there is an additional layer when Fujin argues that humans, creatures artificially created by Phanes to dwell Teyvat, have an innocence not so dissimilar from that which these creatures that existed before have.

To put a small parenthesis before continuing, I want to point out that Lingyuan mentions four reasons that the actions of any living creature follow: natural principles, logic, emotions or anyone's orders. And so she poses a question to the traveler and the traveler asks another question in a one for one deal: Those that come from nature will, for some reason, go against nature— against the laws nature originally followed. Will humans also go against humanity, against the principles they initially followed, for certain reasons?

If human activities are part of the laws of nature... How would you [Lingyuan] view humanity?

The answer she provides to this question is precisely what I want to bring to attention: Humans were part of nature in the distant past, but they aren't any longer. This whole questline explained more in depth about the Archon War, about the times that used to be like back then down to the human behavior and coexistence with nature and its creatures. We know at this point that the Archon War took place after the Apocalypse and that it became a turning point in several aspects hard to miss at a worldly level.

As another parenthesis, we know of the existence of the primordial sea from which all life came in a natural manner, that used to be on the surface before the world was altered (possibly when Phanes and the four shining shades won the war against the dragon sovereigns for the first time, as a result of the Apocalypse or both) and that the energy it contains isn't just hydro (raw or broken down to make it simpler, as it was stated in the event that took place in Enkanomiya that elements exist in simpler and more complex forms), but (an)other kind of energy(ies). Neuvillette, as a dragon sovereign and a creature that resides in the realm of light has an affinity for light, but it is interesting to think that upon reclaiming his authority, both pneuma and ousia coexist within him without posing any danger to his health even if there have been various instances in which these elements were described as independent elements but mutually virulent if they interact. Which begs the question: Could it be that within the primordial sea there is ousia energy too? Even better yet: is it possible that there was a time when what we know as the Abyss wasn't toxic to anything of Teyvat, but eventually something turned it so?

On the topic of humans specifically, it was Phanes who created them, but we also know because of Neuvillette that, unless what he did is limited to Oceanids, it is also possible to alter their inner constitution significantly as they live without going through the process of birth and have the resulting humans with the change that was done, following the same principle Phanes did to create humans. To go back to Lingyuan's words that humans used to be part of nature but they aren't anymore, what makes me wonder is if during or after the Apocalypse humans in general underwent a significant change in their constitution that those who later on would come to be pure blood Khaenri'ahns didn't. As for what this change could be, I think it might be related to the elemental energy.

Because we learn from Dottore's study documents of the Eleazar (highly likely tied with abyssal energy) that humans possess elemental levels of energy innately. And he also discovered that the higher these levels are, the more dangerous and aggressive the effects of Eleazar are on said individuals. This could be a result of the abyssal energy consuming elemental energy, and how dangerous it can be of pure elemental energies even from the light realm as vishaps and dragons are. The reason why I think this could be a plausible reason to determine the purity of a Khaenri'ahns blood or lack of thereof is that in the beginning, perhaps these humans were created in a way that they have at least a higher tolerance to the abyssal energy which, as I mentioned earlier, could've been an actual part of Teyvat before and as we currently know it is star-devouring. While I have no doubt that human life was possible in Khaenri'ah due to the studies they must've made of the abyss alongside medicine, fauna and flora there was incompatible with life— so there is a possibility that humans struggled with sicknesses akin to Eleazar unless there is a tolerance that either reduces this vulnerability or erases it completely.

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

Tintin Tarot, part 2 - the Fool's Journey Continues. Part 1 can be found here! Me and @josephscoat came up with a list of Tintin characters assigned to the major arcana cards in a tarot deck after she realised how well Tintin mapped onto the Fool.

The Hanged Man - Sacrifice, martydom and hesitation. Frank Wolff's death in Explorers on the Moon really stuck with me. I watched the 90s cartoon adaptation of it with a friend recently and even though I knew what was going to happen, it still hit very hard. I replaced the living tree, which represents the potential for growth and knowledge on the original card, with the planet Earth.

Death - New beginnings, metamorphosis, fear of change and decay. Even just for the imagery I had to use Rascar Capac. His use in the narrative seems to demonstrate a fear of the unknown. As the Hierophant and the child from the Sun card appear on the original Death card, I opted to use Rascar Capac as he's in the same story as the Prince of the Sun and Zorrino, who we assigned to the Hierophant and the Sun respectively! Professor Tarragon replaces the dying person on the ground in the original card, and Inti the Incan sun god watches over the scene.

Temperance - Middle path, patience, finding meaning, but also could mean excess and a lack of balance when reversed. Haddock is famous for his tendency to fly off the handle at a moment's notice. But Haddock also has endless patience for Tintin's bullshit. His character arc is one of finding meaning in his life after hitting rock bottom. He is pouring bottles of Loch Lomond, as seen in the Magician card.

The Devil - Addiction, lust, materialism, playfulness. Who else is more devillish than Tintin's arch nemesis, Rastapopoulos? His schemes grow wilder and larger as he pursues wealth and revenge. While sexuality is famously absent from the Tintin series, Rastapopoulos and his associates certainly lust over money and control. Tom and Allan are held in chains, though they are clearly removeable. The choice is theirs if they wish to walk away.

The Tower - Sudden upheaval, disaster, but also an avoidance of disaster in reverse. Calculus' reusable nuclear powered moon rocket was literally ahead of its time, representing a huge shake up in technological advancement in the Tintin universe. However, the moon mission attracted a lot of sabotage and disaster which was narrowly avoided. While the characters had to rely on the rocket for safety, it's not necessarily predictable.

The Star - Hope and rejuvenation, but also discouragement and insecurity in reverse. The phostile meteorite ushered a global wave of panic and speculation initially, but once it landed it became a beacon for competing factions to get to in time. It has a property that allows living things to grow quickly and abnormally large, representing the abundance the Star card is supposed to signal. The Star is supposed to follow the trauma of the Tower. Picking the rocket and meteorite felt thematically appropriate as both have associations with space, a relatively new frontier.

The Moon - Illusions, intuition, fear, confusion, misinterpretation. Professor Phostle jumps to conclusions and makes wild predictions from shaky calculations. He's also conveniently moon shaped.

The Sun - Inner child, joy, truth and liberation from struggle, or sadness and self doubt in reverse. Zorrino escapes the torment and bullying in his village and joins the Inca. Haddock and Tintin are immediately protective over him, with Zorrino being a little younger than Tintin.

Judgement - Releasing baggage, call to action, renewal, moving forward. Ramo Nash breaks free from Rastapopoulos' grasp and saves Tintin's life. I decided to depict the final confrontation scene from Alph Art where he pushes Rastapopoulos off a cliff, to his end.

The World - Culmination, success, completion, but stagnation in reverse. The Fool has seemingly completed his journey - Tintin has it all, a successful fulfilling career, friends who care about him and a manion to live in. But he is, by design, stagnant. Forever a cherub faced boy, stuck in an episodic serial by nature, Hergé wanted to kill him off by sealing him inside a resin statue, freezing him in place for eternity. He will forever be the Boy Reporter.

I dressed him as a Morris dancer because I thought it would be funny

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi! I would love an imagine for the boys that includes the reader getting held captive and they rescue her, maybe a little Angst to Fluff?

Love your work btw ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Only a little angst? Friend, I may have gone and made this more angsty with just a sprinkle of fluff. I can't help myself sometimes. So, fair warning to y'all, that it is angst-ridden with a bit of fluff at the end of each. Sorry?

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): angst, canon-typical violence, swearing, reunions, light fluff

Word Count: 1.7k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John’s heart is thunderous, beating so loudly it’s like a bass drum in his ears.

To be successful, to execute this rescue with precision, he needs to remain calm, to be the leader he knows he is. It’s not a lack of confidence, but a growing dread that he might be too late. There is no room to show fear—to let everyone in on how important this is.

Because it is important.

You are important.

Not just to the team but to him. Maybe the team knows. Laswell likely does, but the boys might not. Sure, they have suspicions, but you and John have always been discreet, have always tried to keep the relationship between the two of you private.

Now, with the mission ahead, all those secrets and subversion might overflow. Become known to everyone.

John breathes in through his nostrils, and exhales through his mouth. Box breathing. It’s helping. But only a little.

“We’re ready, Captain,” says Gaz, crouching beside him, gaze scanning the land before them.

There’s open ground and then a building. Someone stands guard near the door, head on a swivel. Soap silently appears next to Kyle, taking a knee. Simon is somewhere in the dark, ready to snipe every enemy in sight before they enter the building.

Price nods, and then speaks into the walkie. “You’re clear, Ghost.”

“Copy.”

Seconds later, the man guarding the door jerks like he’s been electrified before crumpling silently to the ground. A few more moments and a body plummets from the top of the building, landing with a sickening crunch.

“No signs of life,” comes Simon’s voice over the comms.

Soap snorts. “Cheeky bastard.”

John wants to join in, but you’re consuming his every thought. It’s only been twenty-four hours since you were taken, yet it feels like an eternity.

“Let’s move,” murmurs John.

They advance in unison with Simon emerging from the dark to bring up the rear. Entering the building is easy, but they’ll have to go slowly and silently inside. Up close and personal is the way to go in a place like this. One wrong move might spook the rest.

Kyle and Soap take the front, breaking necks and slicing throats. It’s clean. Efficient.

John signals with his hand and everyone shifts down a different hall, heading toward the internal bunker. That is where they’re holding you, along with other hostages.

A few more quick deaths and then John is kicking in the door.

There are screams. Shouts. Rapid gunfire.

John is already searching, seeking your face.

“Targets are down, sir,” shouts Soap.

There are cages. Rows of them. He searches each one, looking at every face.

“Contact base and tell them we need civilian pickup,” says John.

“On it,” answers Kyle, already leaning his head to the side to speak into his radio.

John searches. And searches.

“John.” Your voice cracks but it’s soothing. Soft.

He murmurs your name, going down on one knee, reaching through the bars to grasp your hand.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

“I knew you’d come,” you reply, smiling. “I knew.”

With his back turned to the rest of his team, John silently mouths three little words. “I love you.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is on the mission, but he isn’t. Not really.

He’s watching it all on monitors at a safe distance. Others are taking the lead. Others are executing the mission. And Johnny must step aside because while he is physically capable, he’s too emotionally invested.

Too explosive. Too irate. Too volatile.

But this is about you. Of course he’s going to be angry.

Yet here he is pacing, gaze glued on the screens, listening to the chatter. Every muscle is primed for movement, ready for action, but Johnny cannot expel the energy. It’s building—shifting into anxiety.

“What’s taking so bloody long?” he growls.

Laswell glances over her shoulder at him. Though she appears calm, Johnny notices a small flicker of sympathy.

“They’re returning,” she replies. “Waiting on e-t-a.”

Johnny’s pacing worsens.

“You’re going to wear a path in the concrete,” says Laswell.

Johnny opens his mouth to reply, but the sound of helicopter blades reaches his ears. It’s not loud, just a hint of sound, but as it increases, his heartrate spikes.

Laswell doesn’t have to say anything. Johnny is already moving, rushing out to the landing pad, watching as the helicopter approaches and descends. The seconds pass in small eternities. Nikolai is in the pilot’s seat, and it is Captain Price who opens the sliding door just as the helicopter lands. Johnny is rushing forward, almost throwing himself inside in his search for you.

“Johnny.” It’s Simon, his large hand coming down on Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny wants to tell him to move, to get the hell out of his way, but it is your voice that Johnny hears. As the helicopter blades slow, the air calms, and it is easier to understand—to recognize your familiar tone that Johnny has missed for all these days.

There’s a blanket around your shoulders and a sunken quality to your features that speaks to malnutrition. Other than that, you appear fine. Unharmed.

Johnny, no longer impeded by Simon’s hand, moves toward you, coming down on one knee. You immediately reach for him, and Johnny takes your hand. You’re cold, and it pains him. Placing both of your hands between his, he brings them to his lips, brushing kisses along the knuckles, attempting to warm them with his own heat.

You bend forward, and as Johnny glances up, you rest your forehead against his.

The fight is over. You’re here.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

There is a hunger in Simon.

Like the snake, he will consume his prey headfirst.

It is eerie how calm he is—how focused. A mission is a mission is a mission—until it isn’t. Until there is no target, no capture or kill, no sense of duty. This is all primal rage boiled down into a thick, viscus consistency. It is invisible, smeared over Simon’s eyes, drenches the world around him into a grey haze.

Simon could be the rapid dog let loose from a broken chain. Poisoned saliva. Bared teeth. Prone to biting.

The knife in his hand is bright and hot and burning. It itches for blood, for Simon to take these fuckers down a peg. He has it in him, but all Simon needs from his superior officer is the affirmative. And then, like the ghost he is, they won’t ever see him coming.

Come on, Price. Call it.

A part of him is missing—shredded. He did his best to protect you, to keep you secret from the world. Cruelty and deception move quickly though, and now your life is in danger.

Give the fucking word.

“Path is clear,” comes Captain Price’s voice over the radio.

It’s all the affirmation Simon needs. He is up and moving in seconds, a wraith in the dark, a silent shadow out for blood. His blade is his guide, sheering and cutting, leaving a trail of bodies behind him. There are no shouts, no cries of pain. Simon is clean, brutal, efficient.

But there is only one thing—one person on his mind. And that’s you.

A set of stairs. A hall. Rooms. More stairs.

Ascending. Ascending. Ascending.

The rest of the team isn’t far behind, but they stay back and leave Simon to it. They know this mission is for him. That he’s not only doing it for you but for himself.

It’s a wonder his knife doesn’t grow dull. It cuts true. Cuts clean. And it isn’t until the last enemy has fallen that some of the tension in Simon’s muscles melts away. He has consumed his prey, and there is only a singular door left to open.

There is the moment before he opens it, a space of breath that feels like eternity packed into single moment. The hinges creak, revealing a tiny room no larger than a walk-in closet. And there you are, on your side, ankle chained to the wall.

“Simon?”

You sound so broken. So…hollow.

As he sinks down onto one knee beside you, the unsteady confusion on your face gives way to hope. Simon’s arms reach out instinctively, wanting nothing more than to be around you. You throw yourself into him, and there is nothing sweeter in this moment.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here.”

Your sobs of joy nearly break him, nearly fracture Simon into pieces. But the fact that you’re alive, that you appear unharmed—at least physically—is more than he expected.

“I’m here,” he repeats, even as your tears stain his balaclava. “I’m here.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It is impossible to measure the love you have for someone until they’re taken from you.

Kyle thought he understood. Yet for these last few weeks, he’s been a fractured creature. A small illusion. A flicker of a man.

But you’re not gone, just far away. Alive, he hopes.

Alive, is what he repeats. A mantra in his head. If he says it enough, it will be true.

Price, Soap, and Ghost are in front of him, moving like shadows through the building while Kyle brings up the rear. With them beside him, there is calmness in the chaos, a softening to his chaotic emotions. They are his support, the ground that he can stand on.

Price motions, and then Ghost kicks in a door.

There are shouts first. Then gunfire. Then silence.

Each of them enters, walking amongst the corpses.

Price digs around in the pockets of one of the men, and then tosses a set of keys over to Ghost. Kyle is already following, moving into position as Ghost unlocks a nearby door. He points the firing end of his gun inside, and then steps back.

He glances at Kyle, and nods.

Lowering his weapon, Kyle pushes the door wide, the light bleeding into the dark, revealing a shape he knows well.

Kyle’s surroundings melt away, leaving only you. He cradles your cheeks, thumbs rubbing away the dirt and blood and tears. You’re smiling, but there is red there, too.

“I knew you’d come for me.”

“Always,” he whispers, voice cracking in pain.

Captain Price appears at his shoulder, glancing down at the two of you on the floor, face grim. He speaks into his radio. “I need a med evac now.”

“You’re going to live,” reassures Kyle. “I promise.”

“Please don’t leave,” you murmur, fresh tears pooling in your eyes.

Kyle shakes his head. “Never. I’ll never leave again.”

[jiyascepter]

Caught You | 18+ Only

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Loki x F!reader

Words: 4012

Warnings/Content: SMUT; Avenger! Loki & Avenger! Y/n, Themes of dub-con, dark-ish Loki??, dom!Loki, pervy!Loki, possessive, jealous loki, use of loki's magic (in a lot of sexual stuff), restraints, bondage, biting, licking, aggressive, pissed loki, praise, slight degradation, there's a tattoo on y/n's thigh (for the plot!), other mcu characters also make an appearance, clit licking, fingering, overstimulation, p in v.

Please lmk if I missed anything! Loki is a bit of red-flaggy in this one, please keep in mind this is only a fanfiction.

Summary: When you make fun of Loki's magic, he "demonstrates" how his magic can be useful. In many, ehm..ways. What did you expect?

A/n: i moved the title in the corner so that i can keep seeing tommys's sexy face in the middle 😮‍💨 im trying to make my fics dirtier but it's not quite coming down in my works, like it's in my mind but it's not easy to express??? im trying & hopefully it'll come soon

The cavernous, dimly-lit warehouse echoed with the sounds of clashing metal and grunts of exertion. The Avengers were locked in combat with a band of mercenaries armed with advanced weaponry.

Tony was in the air, repulsor beams lighting up the darkness, while Natasha and Clint worked in tandem, their movements precise and deadly. Thor’s hammer, Mjölnir, was a blur as it struck down the enemies with thunderous force.

In the midst of the chaos, Loki stood with an air of detached amusement, casting spells with flicks of his wrists. His magic sent mercenaries flying, created illusions to confuse their ranks, and conjured barriers to protect the teammates. But Loki's magic, powerful and unpredictable, was also a bit reckless tonight.

Maybe it was the leather suit you were wearing today.

"Loki, for the love of—watch where you're aiming!" You shouted as you narrowly avoided being hit by a stray spell meant for an enemy.

Your eyes flashed with annoyance as you shot him a glare. "Are you trying to get us all killed?"

Loki smirked, eyeing you up, not taking you seriously. "Perhaps if you were more attentive, you wouldn't find yourself in such precarious positions, darling."

You scowled and ducked under a swipe from a mercenary, retaliating with a swift punch that sent your opponent sprawling.

Ugh, you hated how he always carried that stupid smirk.

"Maybe if your magic was actually useful, we wouldn't be in precarious positions to begin with!"

Loki's eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of irritation flashing through his otherwise calm demeanor. "Is that so? I seem to recall saving you from a similar predicament just last week."

"By causing it in the first place!" You shot back, dodging another mercenary's attack and taking him down with a well-placed kick. 

Loki rolls his eyes and runs in the other direction. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured an illusion, making a group of mercenaries see each other as Avengers.

Confused, they turned on one another, giving the team a moment of respite. But the spell was too potent, and soon the illusion spread, affecting even the teammates. 

Chaos erupted as friends and foes became indistinguishable. 

"What the—" Tony exclaimed while flying over the scene. 

"Damn it, Loki!" You screamed, ducking, as Natasha took a swing at you, mistaking you for an enemy.

"Enough!" Thor bellowed, his hammer smashing into the ground to create a shockwave that knocked everyone off their feet and dispelled the illusion.

The mercenaries, now disoriented, were quickly subdued.

The flight back home was quiet. Everyone was either tired, tending to their wounds, or just rethinking what happened back there. 

Once you landed, the rest of the Avengers stepped down the Quinjet and walked into the building to their rooms. 

"Loki, wait." Steve calls out and walks towards Loki in the lobby.

“About today—”

“Nobody died, Rogers.” Loki replies. 

"That is not an achievement," You murmur to yourself loudly on purpose for him to hear while taking a sip from your favourite grey-coloured sipper. 

Loki and Steve both glanced at you, with Steve carrying a hint of a smile on his face while Loki scowled and turned back to Steve.

You could tell he was not impressed. 

A win for you.

Steve clears his throat, turning serious once more. "Look, what happened today was not good. We cannot work as a team if we don't know half of your tricks."

Loki grins. "Well, that's the fun, isn't it? A surprise for everyone.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. "But it isn’t helping, Lo-"

"Helping? His magic is useless half the time."

Loki shoots an eye at you when you say that, and you could tell the God wasn't pleased.

"He's showing off in front of everyone, like the arrogant ass he is." You go on, while Loki watches you with his grave, sharp eyes.

Why wasn't he replying with his usual snarky comments today? 

Steve gives a light chuckle and pats Loki's shoulder as if feeling sorry for him, "Be careful next time, that's all I ask," and walks away through the corridor, leaving you and Loki to yourselves.

While waiting for the elevator, you silently stand in front of the doors, waiting for it to arrive.

Until you feel a hard pressure against your back.

The sensation is unmistakable—a solid, unyielding presence, warm and firm. Loki's chest. His closeness sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath and subtle heat radiating through his clothes.

You stiffen, unsure whether to move away or stay still, the elevator's arrival feeling like an eternity away.

You decide to say something to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Ego broken, Loki~?" You say his name in a sing-song voice.

"Do you enjoy testing my patience, mortal?" he says, leaning down to your ear.

"Someone has to keep you in check," you reply, your voice steady despite the proximity.

The elevator reaches your floor, and with a little chime, its doors open. You proceed to take a step forward to enter the elevator when his hand grabs hold of the back side of your neck and pulls you back to him.

"Careful," he almost whispers, his breath ghosting over your skin, "your tongue is going to get you in trouble one day."

You pause for a moment, feeling the tension thicken in the air, before you turn your head out of his hands to look at him. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I hurt the big bad trickster's feelings?" You taunt, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Maybe if your magic wasn't so unreliable, we wouldn't be in these messes. Or do you need Daddy Odin to give you some pointers on how to actually be useful?"

Loki's eyes flare with fury, and in no time he grabs your neck once again and strides into the elevator, pinning your head to the panels. His body pressed against yours with a force that left little room for doubt about his intensity.

His frame, tall and lean yet undeniably strong, exerting a commanding presence as he pins you against the cool metal of the elevator wall. You can feel the heat emanating from his body, a stark contrast to the chill of the metal against your cheek. 

He was so close to you, you could smell his sultry, intoxicating smell on him.

"You think my magic is useless, don’t you..." He whispers, his breath ghosting on your skin. "I’ll make sure you regret saying that."

"I don't "think", it's a fact." You try to push him back with your elbow. “Let me go, Loki.” You say it firmly. 

"Not yet, vixen." He says so, and the elevator doors shut by themselves. And with one flick of his fingers, the front chain of your tight leather suit yanked open down to the end of your belly.

Did he just–

"I’ll make sure to demonstrate how useful my magic can be." He says and looks down to notice you were not even wearing a bra underneath.

He grins at the sight, licking his lower lip. "Naughty girl." He coos in your ear while his fingers work their way to your belly. 

His fingers, though possessing a hint of coldness at first, quickly warmed against your skin as they made contact with your belly. Each touch sent a jolt of electricity through you, igniting a fire that danced just beneath the surface. 

"Let. Me. Go." You say, trying to stand your ground, but your attempts are futile. 

"Told you no, darling." He says while his fingers trailed up to your nipples, sending a shiver down your spine as goosebumps rose in their wake.

It was a sensation that left you feeling exposed and vulnerable, yet strangely exhilarated by the raw intensity of his touch. 

He slides down your suit from your shoulders, proceeding with a graze of his tongue on your skin. 

"Mmm…sweet," he murmurs, sucking on your shoulder, "unlike those words you use."

"FUCK. YOU." You reply with a gruff.

Loki chuckles darkly against your skin, his breath hot and tantalizing. "Oh, darling, you will," he murmurs, his voice dripping with seductive menace. "But not before I teach you to respect a God."

He pulls down your suit lower, his lips kissing the back of your neck, followed by melty little kisses down your bareback. Despite your discontent, you couldn’t help but feel turned on by him.

As Loki pushes down your suit to your thighs, his eyes catch sight of a small tattoo etched on the inside of your thigh. The ink reads the name of your ex-boyfriend. Loki's eyes darken with a mix of curiosity and possessiveness. 

He paused, his brows furrowing as he read the name inked there. "Well, well, well," he murmured, his voice a mix of curiosity and disdain. "So that’s what your little skirt was hinting at the meeting a few days ago..."

He traced the tattoo lightly with his finger, sending a shiver through your body.

So this bastard was always watching you?

You grit your teeth, anger and embarrassment flushing through you. "It’s none of your business, Loki."

He tightens his grip on your neck slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to assert his dominance. "I know."

"But this mark... it irks me. An insignificant mortal claiming a part of you." He pinches your thigh, and you try to jerk away your leg but cannot. 

You squirmed against his grip, but he held you firmly, his eyes dark and intense as they bore into yours. "Let it go, Loki," you demanded, trying to maintain your composure.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the tattoo. "Why should I?" he whispered, his voice a dangerous purr. "Why should I let some forgotten lover's mark go unchallenged?"

He gives you a rather harsh bite on your shoulder, trailing his lips to kiss your neck, which makes you whimper, which makes him grin.

He pulls away a bit, and with the flick of his wrists, an invisible force pins your arms above your head, securing you in place against the elevator wall. You struggle briefly, but the bonds hold firm. Loki steps back, his eyes raking over your exposed form with a predatory gaze.

Before you could retort, he bent down, turning his body against the elevator and facing you from below. He kissed the tattoo with deliberate slowness, his lips soft and maddeningly sensual.

The act was both possessive and teasing, with his tongue swirling repeatedly on the same spot that was making you crazy. You gasped, the sensation overwhelming, and a part of you hated how your body responded to his touch. 

"Shh, people can still hear us, darling. Even if they cannot enter." He says placing pecks up and down your thigh, evaporating your steady facade away.

"Now, let's see what other secrets you're hiding," he murmurs, his hands sliding down to your hips. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down and exposing you completely.

You saw his eyes almost sparkle at the sight, placing a kiss on your mound, making you flinch against the metal. Where and when did your suit disappear? You didn’t know.

He leans close and starts exploring your already wet clit with his tongue. Holding your waist in his hands, he kept stealing glances up at your aroused form, watching your expressions while you gasped every time his warm tongue darted on your needy pussy.

The god had a talent for his tongue. The silver tongue. 

"Are you still with him?" He murmured, pulling away his face from your pussy, making you let out a complaining whine.

He holds up his two fingers to caress your folds. "Answer."

"N-no…" You answer, your voice quivering in pleasure.

"Then why isn’t it off?" He says this, glancing at your tattoo.

"I never…Loki-"

He pushes two fingers in. "You never what?"

You shudder as Loki's fingers push inside you, his question hanging in the air, demanding an answer. Your mind races, caught between the intense pleasure and the need to explain yourself.

"I never... had the chance," you manage to gasp, your voice barely steady. "It didn't mean anything anymore. I just...fuck-forgot about it."

Loki's eyes narrow slightly as he studies your face, his fingers moving slowly inside you, curling and stroking in a way that makes coherent thoughts nearly impossible. He doesn't seem entirely convinced.

"Forgot about it?" he repeats, his voice low and dangerous. "Or perhaps you wanted a reminder of something you couldn't let go?" 

"No…" You moan, writhing against the panel with your hands above your head, your fingers aching to dive into his hair. 

He starts to pump his fingers in and out of you with a deliberate rhythm, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. You squirm, your faint moans echoing the elevator.

"Good," he murmurs, his voice a seductive purr. "Because I don't share, darling. And I don't like to be reminded of what once was."

You moan, your body arching against his touch. His words send a thrill through you, and the possessiveness in his tone both intimidating and exhilarating.

"You know I can just turn you into a pretty mannequin for me so I can do whatever I want with you���but I want to feel you squirm... to mewl... like a little prey." He says watching your face while feeling your pussy start to clench around his fingers.

"Now, let's make sure you never forget who you belong to, hm?" Loki whispers, his lips brushing against your thigh as he speaks. His mouth returns to your clit, his tongue flicking and sucking with a relentless intensity that drives you wild. 

"Yeah, that’s right, just keep on making those little sounds for me." He says it with a satisfied smile curling on his lips, and he resumes his ministrations with renewed fervor. 

The combination of his fingers inside you and his mouth on your clit sends you spiralling into a mind-shattering orgasm, your body convulsing with pleasure as you cry out his name.

As the waves of ecstasy subside, Loki slowly withdraws his fingers. He stands, his eyes locking onto yours. He releases your binds away and turns you to him, and his thumb caresses your lower lip as if studying it for a second before he holds you against the wall, cupping your cheek, and kisses you almost fiercely. 

And gosh, you needed that. You needed that and more.

"Y/n, is that you?"

Both of you freeze to your seats when you hear Thor’s voice outside the elevator. 

Loki's eyes narrow in annoyance, and he quickly glances towards the elevator doors. "Shh," he murmurs against your lips, his voice barely a whisper. "We wouldn't want to get caught now, would we?"

He continues exploring your mouth, and the kisses start spreading to your neck, tongue, and teeth, making their wild appearances every once in a while. 

Until you couldn’t help it and let out a moan.

"This door is not openi- Y/n??" Thor repeats again. "Wait, let me call Stark.-" 

Your heart races when Thor calls out again because of your moan. Loki’s eyes narrow, and he pulls away. "Are you doing this on purpose? Just another one of your games so we can get caught and you can have your fun?"

He gives your pussy a little slap, and you whine a no. 

In a swift motion, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you tightly against him. You barely have time to register the shift before the air around you shimmers and the familiar confines of the elevator vanish, replaced by the opulent and dimly lit interior of a room unknown to you.

The room is a stark contrast to the sterile metal of the elevator. Rich tapestries line the walls, and candles flicker, casting a warm, golden glow. A large, ornate bed dominates the space, its dark, luxurious linens inviting in a way that makes your heart race. 

Loki wastes no time. He sweeps you off your feet, carrying you to the bed with an urgency that sends a thrill through you. He lays you down gently, his gaze intense as he takes in your still-naked form. His hands trace over your skin, as if committing every inch to memory. 

The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and something uniquely Loki—intoxicating and alluring. "Now, where were we?" He purrs, his fingers tracing a delicate line down your spine, sending shivers through your body.

You can barely catch your breath; the intensity of the moment overwhelming. "Loki, what if Thor—"

"Thor won't find us," Loki interrupts, his voice a low growl. "This is my domain. No one enters without my permission."

"Now," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear, "let us continue our little magic demonstration." 

The silken sheets cool against your heated skin, and with Loki's hands everywhere—caressing, teasing, exploring every inch of your body—his touch both gentle and demanding, leaving you breathless and craving more. 

"So beautiful," his voice dripping with seductive menace as he conjures a binding spell that secures your wrists to the bedposts. 

You gasp, your body arching against the restraints, as Loki's mouth finds your breasts, his tongue swirling around your nipples with maddening precision. The sensations are overwhelming, and your mind is lost in a haze of pleasure and need. 

Loki's mouth moves with deliberate precision, his tongue tracing intricate patterns over your breasts. Each flick of his tongue sends jolts of pleasure through your body, making you arch and writhe against the silken sheets. The restraints on your wrists keep you firmly in place.

"Loki…"

"Mhm," he hums, enjoying your squirms. But he wanted more.

He uses his powers to amplify his touch, making your nerve endings sing with heightened sensitivity. You gasp and moan, the intensity of his magic overwhelming your senses.

You can feel the magic pulsating through you, heightening your awareness of every touch and every kiss. His lips move from your breasts to the sensitive skin just below, his tongue flicking out to taste you. The combination of his mouth and his magic almost too much to bear.

His free hand trails down your body, leaving a path of fire in its wake. As his fingers reach your inner thighs, you feel a new surge of his magic, more potent and concentrated. It wraps around your thighs, making your muscles quiver with anticipation.

Loki conjures small, delicate tendrils of magic that wrap around your nipples, gently tugging and twisting. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt before—a perfect blend of pleasure and pain that leaves you gasping for breath. 

He moves lower, his mouth leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your belly. The tendrils of magic follow his path, amplifying every sensation, making you feel as if your skin is on fire. You can barely think or breathe; your mind consumed by the overwhelming pleasure.

As he reaches your hips, his fingers part your folds, and you feel a rush of cool air against your wetness. His mouth hovers just above your clit, his breath hot and tantalizing. 

"Tell me, darling," Loki whispers, his lips brushing against your most sensitive spot, "how does it feel to be at the mercy of a god?"

Before you can answer, his tongue flicks out, teasing your clit with delicate, precise strokes. His magic enhances every touch, making you moan and writhe against the restraints. You can feel your orgasm building, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. 

"Loki I-" He sees your upcoming orgasm and pulls away quickly, enjoying your needy, complaining moan for him.

"Not so easy, darling."

And with another display of his magic, he completely gets rid of his clothes, his disrobed body turning you on even more, the heat of need between your legs almost unbearable.

He brings his already-hard cock near your lips. "Kiss it." and you do, the light hum of satisfaction he makes making you want to absolutely suck him out rather than just a little kiss.

"My filthy little vixen," he says, eyes blazing with hunger as he positions himself between your legs. His grip tightens on your hips, holding you in place as he teases your entrance with the tip of his cock, the sensation sending shivers of anticipation through you, "get ready for your god."

He lets out a low growl, a dark and seductive sound, before slowly pushing into you, his length stretching and filling you completely. The feeling is exquisite, with every inch of him sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

"You feel so perfect," Loki murmurs, his voice husky with desire. "Every part of you was made just for me."

He begins to move, slow and deliberate, his thrusts deep and controlled. Each motion designed to draw out the maximum pleasure to make you feel every inch of him. The binding spell keeps your wrists secured to the bedposts, preventing you from reaching out to touch him, to claw at his back as the pleasure intensifies.

Loki's eyes never leave yours, the connection between you palpable and electric. He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with the same intensity as his thrusts. You respond eagerly, your moans muffled against his lips, your body arching to meet his. 

His magic continues to amplify every sensation, making your skin hypersensitive, every touch sends sparks of pleasure through you. The tendrils of magic around your nipples tighten and twist, adding to the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body.

"Loki," you gasp, barely able to form coherent words. "I can't... it's too much..."

He smirks, his eyes dark with lust. "You can take it, darling. You will take it. You will take everything I give you."

His pace quickens, and his thrusts become more urgent and more demanding. The bed creaks beneath you, the sound mingling with your moans and the wet, slick sounds of your bodies moving together. The pleasure builds rapidly, creating a coiling heat in your belly that threatens to consume you entirely.

Loki's hand moves between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight, precise circles. The additional stimulation pushes you closer to the edge, your body trembling with the effort to hold back your impending orgasm.

"Come for me, darling," Loki commands, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Come for your god."

His words are your undoing. With a cry, you shatter, the orgasm ripping through you with an intensity that leaves you breathless and shaking. The pleasure is overwhelming, your vision going white as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.

Loki continues to thrust through your orgasm, prolonging your pleasure, his own release imminent. His movements become erratic, his grip on your hips tightening as he chases his own climax.

You can feel him throbbing inside you, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he finally lets go, his own orgasm ripping through him.

With a final, powerful thrust, he spills into you, his groan of pleasure vibrating through your body. He collapses on top of you, his weight comforting and grounding as you both catch your breath, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through you.

For a moment, there's only the sound of your ragged breathing, the scent of sex and sweat heavy in the air. Loki's hand comes up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear of overwhelming pleasure. 

"Fuck, you drive me wild." He murmurs breathlessly. 

"Did you like that, darling?" Loki murmurs against your skin, his voice a seductive purr. "My magic can do so much more." 

You breathlessly chuckle while he traces patterns on your skin. His fingers caress down to your thigh, where he glances at your tattoo.

"We can’t have that." He says in a low voice and grazes his hand over your skin, and the tattoo vanishes.  Loki’s touch lingers on your thigh where the tattoo once was, his magic leaving your skin smooth and unmarked.

"And now you’re mine."

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[mariasont]

PRIORITIES & PRETTY THINGS - A.H

your beauty routine is sacred, but so is aaron's favorite way to decompress. looks like tonight you'll have to manage both

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, smutty smut, kinda free use policy, hotch using u for stress relief, p in v, twinkie (boycotting the name creampie), alexa play CPR by cupcake, AFAB, fem!reader, praise, dirty talk, aftercare, maybe a little breeding kink? talk about kids for like a singular line at the end, also mention of their first kiss which can be read here but not necessary to understand wc: 2.9k

Your love affair with beauty did not have the glamorous, instantaneous sparkle like most people choose to assume. In truth, it began behind a bedroom door barricaded tight against preteen anxieties, something that was constructed by braces flashing in garish shades of bubblegum pink and galaxy purple and bangs unevenly chopped by an overly eager parent.

Yet, somehow, fumbling with frosty blue eyeshadow and watermelon-scented gloss taught you self-expression, how to build confidence from the ground up.

Puberty decided to throw you a bone eventually (thank god), but by then makeup had embedded itself as more than something done for vanity. You would consider it a soul-mate level connection nurtured through midnight eyeliner tutorials, endless afternoons reading magazine spreads, and racking up Sephora points that probably rivaled some small countries economies.

Aaron loves giving you endless grief about your overflowing vanity drawers. Overflowing being his word choice, by the way, not yours. He loves grumbling about the avalanche of cosmetic boxes spilling from your shared closet, loves sighing (dramatically) each time another package lands on your doorstep.

Your face looks perfect without this, he insists regularly, always cupping your cheeks so you’re forced to meet those sincere eyes of his. 

But he overplays his hand — all gooey-soft affection pulsing through his pupils, twitch tugging his mouth upward.

He would never actually begrudge something that makes you so shamelessly happy, even if your spending habits are probably sending him toward an emotional breakdown. Therapy’s overdue anyway, in your opinion.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, brings out Aaron’s inner drama king quite like watching you spend approximately a million years applying the very products he loves to call a sparkly money pit.

You’re wrist-deep in said sparkly money pit when Aaron materializes behind you. Not that it fazes you. Your boyfriend-detecting instincts are now advanced to border on psychic talent (and way hotter than being able to predict lottery numbers).

“Hi, handsome,” you greet, flicking your eyes up briefly to gift him your best flirty, mirror-reflected smile. 

You hope he’s sufficiently distracted by your lips to overlook the fact that you’re still nowhere near ready. And true to form, Aaron’s eyes drop obediently.

His fixation on your mouth is practically Pavlovian by now, something you first discovered when he walked headlong into a door frame mid-argument simply because you had pulled your lower lip through your teeth to avoid saying something that might’ve gotten you bent over his knee.

Needless to say, the fight was quickly forgotten, replaced by a much more enjoyable, hands-on type of interaction.

“Honey.”

You recognize that tone instantly, hearing it countless times before. It’s his signature prelude, a gentle warning shot before he points out the obvious — that Spencer and his girlfriend are undoubtedly sitting at your reserved table right now, politely studying menus, patiently pretending to understand your stylish definition of on time.

And then, right on cue, will come the entirely fair (but completely predictable) mention of your solemn promise to be ready to go the nanosecond his work call ended.

“Nearly ready, cross my heart. Just two more seconds. Okay, maybe three. But four tops. Five, like, absolutely worst-case scenario.”

Aaron’s fingertips skate possessively along your waist, slipping beneath your robe to reclaim their preferred real estate.

“I’m not particularly worried about being on time right now,” he murmurs into the shallow dip at your neck, nose nudging the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your mascara wand skips slightly, completely giving you away. Not that Aaron’s much better at hiding it, his poker face vanishes at moments like this, evident both in the rigid slope of his shoulders and (oh, hello there!) in the very prominent, enthusiastic proof making itself known against your ass.

“Yeah,” you giggle, bumping your hips back against him for emphasis. “I can feel how not worried you are.”

You struggle to fathom how he managed stress before you. Occasionally, you entertain yourself by picturing it — Aaron Hotchner being told to inhale deeply through a mindfulness app? Or earnestly attempting downward dog stretches in your living room? (You’d pay good money to see that.) Or perhaps he’d stress bake, an apron hugging his waist, forehead creased in the cutest serious-face as he glares suspiciously at measuring cups.

Each scenario gets progressively more funny and less believable.

Once, in those deceptively ‘innocent’ days before your relationship became official, you suggested Aaron adopt a new workout regime to help loosen that chronic, tightly wound demeanor of his. Admittedly, you were implying something a lot less treadmill-focused and considerably more… horizontal.

He diplomatically chose to ignore your entirely transparent proposition. Outwardly, anyway. 

What neither of you anticipated, however, was just how accurate your advice would prove. Because nothing drains Aaron’s tension faster than having you trapped beneath him, diligently working out every ounce of strain against your eagerly receptive body.

Which is precisely why, employing your best bedroom voice, you once generously offered Aaron permanent, round-the-clock access to you anytime the mood might arise. No rules, no red tape. Just full, unrestricted access to you.

In hindsight, you should have anticipated the lengthy, serious discussion that ensued after.

Your easy-going, no rules proposition quickly evolved into an impressively comprehensive negotiation, complete with detailed guidelines and exhaustive clarifications.

His eyebrows had knitted together with that intensity of his, repeatedly insisting that you were always in complete control, and then thoroughly checking — then double-checking, then triple-checking — that your consent was crystal clear, until your cheeks burned hot from the combination of embarrassment and sheer excitement. 

Emphasis on excitement.

Knowing him though, you weren’t necessarily too hopeful that he would actually take you up on your offer.

But when he did, it happened so fast, your brain hardly registered the transition from scrubbing dishes to being perched on the countertop, skirt punches around your waist and legs spread.

He’d walked in fresh from a meeting with Strauss, appearing completely unruffled except for the thunderclouds brewing darkly behind his eyes.

Without even a hint of warning, he had hoisted you up onto the island, plunging into you with such sudden decisiveness that all you managed was a surprised little squeak, fingers digging into his shoulders as he split you open in demanding strokes.

Afterward, he casually tucked himself away, tidying his clothes as if straightening his tie after an entirely routine briefing.

He leaned back against the countertop — yes, the one that had been slicked with both your juices — and resumed your unfinished dishes, nonchalantly asking, “Did you do anything interesting today?” like nothing had happened.

Your cheeks run hot at the memory.

“You do realize Spencer will totally freak if we’re late, right?”

“Then you’d better keep working on that makeup,” he murmurs, sliding his hands lower, “and I’ll handle my own priorities.”

Aaron never bothers fully stripping down when taking advantage of this arrangement. And you know that some part of you should be frustrated at that. It should promote at least some token complaint about fairness or reciprocity or whatever.

But instead, the sight of him, belt hitting to floor with a decisive thunk, pants unfastened just enough to take what he wants, well, it melts any kind of objection from your head, leaving only knees feeling more akin to jelly.

You barely suppress a shuddering breath as his cock springs free, hot and demanding against your thigh, marking your skin with a tacky trail of precum.

You attempt to steady your hand, refocusing on your left eye, guiding the wand in patient strokes from base to tip, each swipe sculpting them into perfectly fanned-out strands.

Aaron, however, is far less concerned with patience or perfection. His fingers hook into your robe, tugging it upward to reveal your hips and ass in one movement.

Goosebumps burst along your freshly moisturized skin at the exposure, and even so, you swear the air feels about ten degrees warmer. His right palm flattens between your shoulder blades, tipping you forward, presenting your body like an inviting dessert for ravenous eyes.

He positions himself between your folds, the thick tip of his cock flirting at your entrance before gliding over your puffy clit in sluggish, repeated motions. Your lips fall open on a soft, breathy gasp, eyes blinking dazedly around the blackened spoolie.

A very distant (and honestly not very reliable) part of your brain registers mild surprise at how soaked you’ve gotten. Which is stupid because you should really should expect it by now.

Being with Aaron has transformed you into a creature constantly on the edge, trembling in anticipation, your senses warped in a constant, intoxicating fog of lust.

Living together had only exacerbated that lust a thousandfold. You were constantly surrounded by his addictive pheromones, wrapped nightly in sheets saturated with his heat, body trained to climb him on any remotely available surface — the couch, the corner of his desk, the shower, the bed (obviously), and even once, tipsily, sprawled across the living room floor after a bottle of wine dissolved all remaining inhibitions.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Aaron whispers, dragging his head at your now sopping opening. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your pretty face before dinner.”

“Awh, baby, you know I look even better when I’m —” The retort snaps into a choked-off whine as he pushes into your cunt with one fluid thrust. 

Your wrist spasms without permission, sending the mascara wand skidding haphazardly across your eyelid and streaking your cheek in sloppy black lines. Your pelvis crashes clumsily into the countertop’s hard edge, a sharp little reminder that maybe multitasking is apparently not your strong suit.

Aaron’s fingers card through your hair, sweeping it aside to bare your neck and shoulders. His other hand slowly peels your robe downward, exposing inch after inch of bare skin to his warm mouth.

Tender kisses rain softly down your spine as he draws his hips back, leaving you momentarily empty, only to surge forward again, ripping a sweetly startled whimper from your lips. 

The spoolie clatters into the sink, splattering the porcelain in the process.

“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t mind explaining to Spencer exactly why we’re late.”

He wouldn’t dare, of course he wouldn’t, but your body still preens at the implication, cunt tightening greedily around him as though daring him to prove you wrong.

Because, lately, Aaron has grown noticeably more brazen, perhaps due to the ease and intimacy building in your relationship, or maybe he’s finally giving into your bad (amazing, really) influence.

You’ve noticed it in tiny habits, like when he purposely rolls his sleeves up, putting those mouthwatering forearms on display after overhearing you confess just how much they distract you. Or how he picks ties that perfectly match his suits in ways you’ve gushed about, enjoying the obvious ways your eyes get stuck lingering in team meetings.

He’s even developed a charming habit of pointedly mentioning how wonderfully rested he feels each morning, making clear eye contact when Rossi wonders aloud why he looks so content.

He drives into you again, deeper, sending your nails clawing over the marble, arching yourself forward chasing every ounce of friction you can get.

But Aaron’s hand snakes around your waist, palm splayed across your stomach, guiding you upright until you’re pressed flush against him, the new angle forcing pleasure to surge hot and fast through every nerve ending.

His voice rumbles in your ear, “Keep working on your makeup, sweetheart. Or I’ll have to stop, and neither of us wants that.”

“Aaron,” you whine, drawing out his name in the most petulant, bratty tone you can muster, “I can’t.”

Instantly, he stills, cock fully seated inside you. You try to buck backward, trying to force your hips back against him, but his fingers clamp down around your waist, gripping with the kind of force that leaves marks you’ll admire later (like really cute, private trophies).

His free hand slips lower, fingertips pinching your clit.

You cry out, writhing against him. “Okay, okay, I’ll behave, just, please.”

Your hand fumbles along the vanity, nails knocking loudly into bottles and compacts until, finally, you find your lipliner. 

Aaron rewards your compliance by ramming back into you, obliterating any remaining hand-eye coordination. Your fingers wobble uncontrollably, resulting in an uneven, messy trail of color from your cupid’s bow to who-knows-where.

“That’s more like it. Look at you,” Aaron taunts, “Mouth open, looking so damn pretty.” His thumb lethargically grazes your overly-sensitive nub, causing your lips to part further, deepening your pout. He chuckles softly, clearly amused and more than a little cocky as he studies your reflection, eyes darkening. “Yeah, exactly like that, sweet girl.”

Aaron accelerates his motions, hips snapping roughly, hard enough to send you bouncing onto your tiptoes. Honestly, if his dick was any bigger, you’d need heels just to reach the floor.

Your robe begins to fall away from your shoulder, silky fabric separating to expose the swell of your breast, instantly capturing Aaron’s full gaze, pupils blown wide.

His hand deserts your waist, reaching up to cup your tit, thumb rolling over your nip, coaxing it into a tight little peak. You moan helplessly, eyes mascara-blurred as you attempt to keep your lip color within the lines of increasingly messy lips.

“Having trouble concentrating?” Aaron asks mildly, sounding completely unaffected for someone who’s currently buried eight inches deep inside you.

“I’m — I’m trying.”

He responds by squeezing your nipple a little harder. “So I noticed.”

You squirm wildly beneath him, his chest pressed down against your back, each thrust hitting a spot that makes your brain fizz into pink bubbles. 

Your thoughts spin in a dizzy disaster — Oh my god, Aaron, I can’t, wait, no, I definitely can, please keep going, love you, love you, love you, until half-formed thoughts turn into breathless declarations from your lips about how perfect he is, how you’d marry him tomorrow (white dress, cake and vows) if he’d just keep doing exactly this.

His control frays simultaneously, composed grunts fading into needy, unfiltered whispers against your flushed skin.

His words tumble out just as desperate as your own ramblings — how beautiful you are, how he’d buy you anything, give you anything — a ring, maybe even a baby, anything that would bind you to him forever.

The words send you careening into ecstasy, orgasm igniting within you in bright, syrupy bursts more saccharin than you thought possible. Those perfect promises twist around your core like velvet ropes, pulling tighter with every dreamy picture they paint (domestic bliss, pretty nurseries, endless forevers) until you’re seeing stars and giggling between gasping moans.

Your spine bows as you pulse around him, waves of pleasure radiating outward, turning you both into a trembling mess of sweaty, feverish harmony. 

You feel Aaron spill inside you, and for one fleeting, impulsive second, you catch yourself wishing your birth control would magically fail, just this once.

He slowly eases out of you, legs immediately trembling in complaint, his cum trickling down your inner thighs. You slump against the counter, breath uneven, as Aaron grabs a washcloth to dampen it.

The mirror does not go easy on you. Mascara in streaks across your eyelids and cheeks, lipstick color smeared, well, everywhere. You shoot him a half-hearted glare. He has the audacity to return a proud smirk.

“What?” he shrugs, biting back a laugh. “I think it’s a good look on you.”

You wiggle impatiently, trying to escape Aaron’s hold, your overstimulated body shivering and twitching at every careful wipe of the cloth. 

You glance at the clock. “Spencer is so going to hate us forever.”

 “The reservations got pushed back.” He tightens his grip, one strong arm cinching around your waist. “Spencer texted, they’re running late, something about forgetting stuff at home.”

You spin quickly in his arms. “That is literally the first thing you should’ve told me!”

“And miss watching you get flustered? Not a chance.”

You stick your tongue out defiantly, because that’s obviously the mature, adult way to handle your boyfriend teasing you.

The reward, though, is immediate — a soft, genuine laugh bubbles from Aaron, warming every little corner of your heart and fluttering down to your toes. 

He reaches past you, plucking a packet of makeup wipes from the counter, and his touch, as he gently presses it to your cheekbone, is stupidly gentle, dabbing at your face in a lazy, affectionate path.

You melt right into his palm, almost feline in your contentment, purring with how sweet it feels to be touched like this.

“You know what I’m thinking about?” Peering up at him through your lashes, you flash a smile, “Our first kiss.”

“Funny, so was I.” Aaron’s whole face shifts, eyes crinkling at the corners, the tenderest smile spreading openly across his mouth. “You know, after you fell asleep that night, I sat awake for way too long, worrying you might wake up in the morning regretting it,” he admits softly. “I had a whole speech planned, this overly formal, completely unnecessary lecture about workplace ethics and chain of command. You would’ve rolled your eyes so hard.”

You giggle, sliding your arms snugly around his middle, tipping your head back to look up at him.

“You and your speeches,” you tease. “Lucky for you, I was already planning how to seduce you the second I woke up.”

His mouth finds the corner of yours.

“Well, you’ve always had much better instincts than me.”

You tap his chest lightly. “So, um, did you happen to mention something about giving me a baby earlier or was that just my post-orgasmic delirium talking?”

Aaron laughs. “I might have gotten carried away.”

“No baby, then? Just empty promises?”

“Who said anything about empty?” He smirks, fingertips dancing along your spine. “I just thought it’d be polite to give you my last name before we start creating miniature versions of ourselves.”

“Careful, talk like that will earn you all kinds of privileges.” You reach up, pinching his cheek.

“Good.” He grabs your wrist, kissing the inside of it. “And just so we’re clear, I plan to extensively take advantage for the next, oh, forty or fifty years.”

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[justanotherbirdbrain-blog]

Geology of Natural Disasters and How to write them into your fictional universe.

So, you want to write about a natural disaster to advance your plot and torture your players/characters even more? Let me tell you how, accurately.

I feel like unless it is a volcano, natural disasters are a pretty slept on plot drivers, and some of them are really cool and unique! Today, I will talk to you about land slides, earthquakes (And earthquake related disasters), and volcanoes.

Landslides: Probably one I see the least in stories, but one that would be incredibly interesting to write into a plot where they believe in curses. Landslides can happen along ocean bluffs, slightly hilly areas, and highly mountainous areas, this means it is something that can happen in most landscapes. But what can trigger a landslide? Mostly all you need to trigger a landslide could be just abnormally large amounts of rain, excessive deforestation (with a little bit of rain), or an earthquake. If you don't want to use deforestation or an earthquake as a catalyst, a really cool indicator that the land is slipping and may be prone to a collapse is J hooked trees.

This indicates that there is soil creeping slowly over time, and it may lead to a major landslide.

2. Earthquakes: Probably one of the easiest things to write, earthquakes can happen anywhere, but they are most common in places that are tectonically active areas. There are about three types of environments you can expect earthquakes to be common. The first is just rugged mountains, if your landscape looks like this, you should write in earthquakes. Associated hazards could be landslides, avalanches, and large falling rocks.

The next landscape could be a thin mountain range, next to the ocean, very scenic, but very dangerous. Essentially, I am describing a subduction zone environment.

Earthquakes in these areas could equal a couple different associated disasters. Scenario one: A very large earthquake happens, and the ocean begins to recede. This is a tsunami, enough said. If you are writing a tsunami though, please, please, do not write it as a large wave, thank you. Also, a common way people are hurt by tsunami's are from them going into the ocean because they don't understand a tsunami is going to happen.

Scenario two: A large earthquake happens, your characters are in a valley and suddenly the ground begins to liquify as the ground shakes, once the shaking stops, the ground becomes solid like nothing ever happened, except everything has suddenly sunk into the now hard ground. This is called liquefaction and it typically happens in areas that have loose dirt or lots of saturated soil.

Scenario three: There are a lot of small earthquakes, they do not cause a lot of damage, but you begin to notice that one of the isolated mountains has a plume rising. Earthquakes can indicate lava moving underground and the filling of magma chambers.

The next environment that can host lots of earthquakes would be regions that have a lot of really deep valleys and small mountain ranges (not cone volcanoes), but overall seems pretty flat.

This indicates a transform fault like the San Andreas. If you want to hint at there being earthquakes in the area, you can show fence posts that are suddenly several feet out of line at a dilapidated farm or something similar.

(These earthquakes are different because they are cased from sideways movement, not an up-and-down movement this hint can only be used for this environment). Volcanoes would not be found here, but liquefaction and landslides could still occur here.

4. Volcanoes: If you thought earthquakes had a lot of information, volcanoes do too. First you have to ask yourself, what kind of volcano you want to have, what kind of eruption style? So lets break down the kind of eruptions you can have and what their landscapes look like. Hawaiian Shield volcano: This will produce a smooth fast lava, the landscape typically is pretty flat, but there will be small cones and the rocks can have a ropey or jagged texture and the rocks will be almost exclusively black to dark red.

Stratovolcanoes: These will be solitary mountains, typically, that look like perfect cones (Picture shown in earthquake section). These will have large ash cloud eruptions and pyroclastic flows, they may have some lava, but typically most damage is done from the pyroclastic flows (think Pompeii). Some hints of these, other than describing the cone features (which can be hidden by other mountains), would be to talk about petrified wood! Trees can get fossilized in the ash and I imagine it would be very strange to find this rock that clearly looks to be a piece of wood, but its a rock. Subcategory- Calderas: Used to be a large stratovolcano, but they erupt so explosively that the entire cone collapses and creates a basin.

There are a lot of kinds of volcanoes out there, so forgive me for just putting an infographic and then talking to you about these really rare types of eruptions that I feel like people should know about.

Okay lets talk about blue lava (kind of) and black lava

You will notice the lava is still red in the middle of this image, during the day these would look like a normal eruption, but at night the burning sulfur would make it appear blue. Some cool features other than this, would be that any water in the area would become very acidic and burn the skin due to sulfuric acid. This would again be really cool if you are trying to describe a 'cursed' land.

Black lava: This happens only in the east African rift I believe, but it is a carbonatite lava, but if you are writing in a rift valley (where the continent is tearing apart to form a new ocean) this might be a cool feature. The lava will cool white and will quickly erode, it makes for a very alien landscape!

Anyway as always, this is supposed to be an introductive guide for the basics of writing geology to create cool landscapes/features into dnd or fictional universes, if you are a geologist please understand my oversimplification of tectonics, I didn't want people to run away.

[fawnindawn]

chance with you.

[jason todd x reader]

summary: an unlucky night turns into something unexpected, something sacred shared with the stranger who saved you and offered to walk you home and fix your door at midnight.

warnings/content: drunk cat-calling, protective jason, awkward-ish jason, physical touch, reassurance, playful banter, slowburn, treating of wounds, vulnerability, fluff, jason is a horrible liar: i should not be getting close to her, this is a horrible idea- her door is absolute shit, i need to fix that.

Your night truly couldn't have gotten worse than this. You knew opting for the late night bus was a mistake. It never arrived on time, and now, you're rushing into some random grocery store because some drunkard decided to catcall on you while you were at the bus stop, and got pissed when you didn't respond to his advances.

You're too busy looking behind you to see if the creep would really follow you into a public space when you bump into a solid chest. Unintentionally, you gripped onto the stranger's shirt, the impact combined with your anxiety making you unintentionally hold onto anything that was sturdy. You look up in a panic and a cold, annoyed expression meets yours. He's giant, you note, and you wonder how many more intimidating men will be added to your streak today.

"Hey, lady- groping others isn't how you greet someone."

His voice, gruff and deep, snapping you out of your daze. You shake your head, trying to find the words to explain yourself but his expression grows frustrated as he goes to remove your hands. Panicking, you unintentionally tighten your grip, whispering in a hurry. "Someone's following me."

The switch is immediate, his frown deepening, but his gaze softens from apprehensive to protective. His acknowledgment is followed by a nod, gaze scouting behind you. "What do they look like?"

You're about to respond when you hear that obnoxious drunkard's voice, calling out to you.

"Hey, I wasn't done talking to you, bitch." He snarls.

You hear his footsteps coming closer and you're tempted to just bolt when your stranger shifts you quickly behind him. His shoulder blocks your gaze, his hand outstretched to hold your waist, keeping you shielded from the drunkard's view.

"That's no way to talk to a lady." Whatever annoyance he held earlier because of your collision, it was nothing compared to the venom in his voice now. The room's temperature feels like it's dropped several degrees with the command in his tone.

"Mind your own business." The drunkard hisses, and you hear his footsteps etch closer and you grip your stranger's jacket tighter.

"Back off." You hear a clatter, and a loud 'thump' as items from the shelves clatter onto the ground at the impact. One tomato can lands near your feet, bumping into your shoe. You lean slightly to the side, peeking to see what happened, and you spot the drunkard keeling on the floor, groaning as he tries to get back up.

"If you ever come near her again, I'll make sure you'll regret it. For as long as I can." Your stranger's threat is immediate, combined with his easy show of strength, even you feel intimidated by this man's presence. Once the drunkard managed to scramble up on his two feet, he scurries like a slippery rat, tripping over fallen cans as he runs off.

Your stranger watches, body tense as he makes sure the drunkard was truly gone before eventually turning back to you.

"You alright?" He asks, hands going up to your shoulders, rubbing up and down in a soothing motion.

You nod your head, still in a daze, not over the adrenaline high as you keep glancing back behind his shoulder to see if the drunkard will come back. His shoulder blocks your gaze again, his body shifting so he's your main focus.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure he won't look your way ever again." He reassures you.

You want to ask how he can guarantee that, but something about his firm grip, his steady voice- tells you that he can. Now that he's all up in your face and your mind isn't in complete survival mode, you can get a closer look at him. He's got recent bruises on his jaw, bandages around his knuckles and a crooked nose from a fight gone wrong. You also note the most beautiful green eyes you've ever seen.

He's a fighter, it's confirmed within one glance. Yet, you find yourself not wanting him to let go, your mind convinced he can protect you in your anxious state.

"You trust me?" He asks.

It's a silly question. Nobody should be trusted right now, your mind chastises. You don't even know him. Yet, looking into his concerned gaze, you can't help but answer with a yes.

"Good." He affirms, relaxing more now that he's sure you're not going to bolt. "I'm going to get you home, it's not safe for you to walk alone right now." It's not a suggestion, he's your chaperone for the night whether you like it or not.

He grabs hold of your hand, leading you out of the store. "What's the direction?"

"4th Avenue." You answer, but you're quick to ask your own question. "What's your name?"

You can't keep calling him 'stranger' in your head when he just helped you deescalate such a dangerous situation. If this was the last time you'll ever see him, you hoped to at least have the memory of his name.

He looks back at you, thinking. Eventually, he gives it to you. "Jason."

It suits him, as you eye his broad back facing you when he turns and pulls you along with a soft grasp to let you know you could break free whenever you wanted to. His walk is brisk, as if he has somewhere he's supposed to get to but you're a detour. Right, he looked like he was in a rush earlier when you first bumped into him.

"You can just drop me off at the subway." You tried to offer, suddenly feeling guilty. "I'll be fine after when there's people on-"

"No." He rejects outright. "Don't place your trust in Gotham's citizens. If something were to happen to you on the train, no one's coming to save you. They'll just pretend to save their own asses."

You can't deny his harsh words, growing quiet again. You both cross streets, and he swiftly shifts you to the right of the sidewalk, away from the road. His voice eventually cuts through the awkwardness. "What's yours?"

Yours? He's asking for your name? You answer, and he hums in response, repeating your name in a mutter. You can't stop the way your heart picks up at the sound of your name in his voice, soft and considering, completely unlike how he was earlier in the store when he had confronted the drunkard.

You think it's just the saviour admiration you've heard about from those silly videos about hot firemen, but you can't stop staring at him like he's a figment of your imagination conjured to protect you. It certainly doesn't help that he's exactly your type.

"You live alone?" He asks.

"Yeah, but it's usually fine down my neighbourhood. Nothing much happens."

"Nothing yet." He pushes back. He's off muttering to himself again before he looks at you. "What's the security measures at your place?"

"My lock?" You know it sounds horrible, but you've just recently gotten this place and the upfront deposit has taken out more from your bank than you can chew. You doubt you could even install a grill for the door right now considering your wallet.

He stares at you to cement the fact that he did not find your words funny. For some reason, his expression makes you giggle.

When he reaches your apartment, his expression grows more pained at your miserable small lock, as if it offends him that your words weren't really a joke. "Alright." He huffs. "This won't do."

"Yeah, my bank account disagrees." You rebutt.

"Your bank account won't have anything to do with this." He mutters, analysing your door with a disapproving look. "I'll come back tomorrow with a better.. everything."

Your brow furrows as you try to understand his words before realisation dawns you. "You're not going to buy me a new lock, or door! You've already helped me tonight, I can't possibly accept-"

"Good thing I'm not asking." He says with a smirk. You get the feeling he's not used to taking no for an answer.

"You're stubborn." You're trying hard not to smile as you say it, but your teasing tilt in your voice doesn't really carry any bite.

"Heard that one before." He scoffs. "Just to prove my case." He bends down near eye level with your lock, and takes out a pin. He sticks the pin in, twists it around with a focused expression. After a few clicks, your door pops open.

You can't hide the shock in your eyes. You knew that lockpicking existed, but seeing it with your own eyes, on your own door? It dawns on you how easy it is for you to get robbed.

He's waiting for you to say something, a satisfied smirk on his face to have been proven right. He looks like such a jerk in this light, but you can't deny it's ridiculously hot how his smirk slants to the side.

You roll your eyes. "Alright, fine. It's your loss."

He stands on his feet, and you're struck by his height. He leans on the doorframe, looking down at you with a serious expression. "Not a loss for me."

You can't help but feel hot under his eyes, and you avert from his intense gaze. "What time are you coming tomorrow?"

"Is it alright if I come earlier in the morning? Around 5?" He asks. "I have a... night shift."

You nodded in understanding, before your eyes widened. "Wait, isn't it like midnight now? Are you late for your shift?"

He chuckles at your words. "Don't worry about it. Why don't you head on in? I just wanna make sure you're safe first before I head off."

You don't know what's overcome you. The fact that you really made it home safe thanks to him, that he's willing to help fix your door, or the pure exhaustion that's now settling in. You wrap your arms around him for a moment, giving him a squeeze. Really, your arms can barely fit around him, but you're just so thankful.

"Thank you." You murmur, voice cracking with emotion. "You've no idea how much you've saved me tonight. Thank you."

He's silent, but then, you feel warm arms hug you back, patting you in a soothing manner.

"You don't have to thank me for saving you." He responds. "I would've done it no matter what."

When you part, there's no awkwardness in the air, only a soft knowing that you'll always be grateful to your stranger.

"Goodnight, Jason." You whisper, looking up at him with a smile.

He smiles back, and true to his word, he waits till you close the door. Only when you locked it with the soft 'click', do you hear his footsteps fade away.

It's five in the morning like he said, when you hear your doorbell. With a groan, you push yourself up from your bed with a slight confusion to who it could possibly be at this hour. It didn't take long for last night's memories to hit you and you forced yourself to the front door. Opening it, you don't know what you expected but being greeted with a boxes in your face wasn't one of them.

"Huh?" You muttered aloud, shifting your head to the left, and spotting Jason being the boxes.

"You mind?" He asks, and you realise you're blocking the way. You quickly step aside and he moves in, putting the boxes on the floor. You register a new lock, new bolt, new chain, new security camera..

"Are you building me a new door or something?" You joke.

He looks at you with a grimace, and only then do you notice how exhausted he looks. There's a new bruise at the side of his cheek too.

"Oh my god. Are you alright?" You ask, assessing his face before looking him up and down. Is that blood on his pants?

"Peachy." He grumbles. "I'll just get this fixed up for you before I leave, alright?"

"No way." You object. "Get your ass to the couch. I'm getting a first-aid kit."

Before he can argue, you've already moved to the kitchen, looking through your cabinets before finding the case. You hear a sigh audible enough from the distance and when you turn around, he's slumped on the couch, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling and leg placed on the coffee table to reduce the pulling of his wound.

You sat beside him, opening the first-aid kit on your lap. "So what type of night shift do you work to cause this? And you should've gone to the hospital."

For some reason, he laughs at your suggestion. "Haven't gone to the hospital since I was 15." There's some dark tone in his words, an inside joke you don't get. You shrug it off.

"Okay, I get that Gotham's hospital bills are insane, but so is thinking you can walk off a bleeding leg." You huff, assessing his wound to see how to clean it. "And you haven't answered my question on your work."

He thinks a little, before answering. "I'm a chef." Even he doesn't sound so sure about that.

You raise a brow. "A chef?"

"Yeah." He huffs, seemingly amused. "I don't look the cooking type?"

"No, I can get the rebellious chef image." You play along with it, even if you don't fully believe his words. "You seem like the type to yell in the kitchen for an order gone wrong."

"Yeah, some junior was completely off with his aim." He mutters dryly. "Knife went for my thigh instead of the meat on the counter."

"Must have been a shock." You murmur. "This is going to hurt a little."

You press the cloth dapped in alcohol to his wound, and he hisses. Maybe it's to distract him from the sting, but he continues to talk. "You'll find that in my line of work, injuries are pretty common."

"Yeah, that bruise on your cheek common too?" You pointed out.

He shakes his head, smiling again, his chest breathing easier once you took the cloth away. "Nah, that's just some asshole who thought he was better than me. Proved him wrong."

"Remind me not to be a chef." You mused, taking a look at his wound now that the blood isn't blocking your sight. "Well, you'll live to see another day. It's not the worst I've seen, only needs to be bandaged."

"You see wounds often?" He asks.

"My mother was a nurse." You answered with a soft smile. "She thought her children needed to have some survival skills in a city like this."

"Yeah, but apparently, she didn't teach you about home security." He laments.

You can't help but laugh as your hands wrapped the bandage around his thigh. "You're never letting that one go, are you?"

"Never." He says, and it feels like some forbidden promise. Like this will be a running inside joke years from now, when you're not even sure if you'll see him tomorrow.

The thought dampens the moment for you, and you realise you shouldn't get attached. Done with wrapping the bandage, you take the blood-stained cloth and first-aid kit into your hands. You want to move them to the sink, but something keeps you planted to your spot beside him. "You don't have to fix the door today, you must be exhausted."

In a way, you wonder if it's selfish for you to want him to come back. When he's already done so much for you, coming to you when he's injured? You shouldn't keep demanding his time. By the looks of him, it seems to be something he doesn't like to waste.

"No, I'll get it all installed in an hour." He promises, and your heart deflates. You shouldn't feel disappointed, not when it was expected. You barely knew him, and so far, you've been causing him more trouble than you're worth.

"Yeah." You answer weakly. "Sure."

You move to get up from the couch to bring the items in your hand to the sink, but he beats you to it with his hand coming to grip your wrist. You stared at the contact, of his large hand completely wrapped around your wrist before looking at him. He seems to be thinking of something to say, the same way you're trying to avoid asking him to stay. "I may-" He struggles with his words for a moment. "-have some additional stuff to bring back another time."

Your heart skips a beat at his words. Was he.. making an excuse to come back?

"Your windows." He gestures awkwardly. "Worse than your doors, really."

You stare at him, and a small laugh breaks out into a bigger one. You try to control your happiness, seeing his sheepish expression. "You going to revamp my entire apartment, Jason?"

He smiles at that. "Maybe? Do you want me to?"

You don't have to think twice about that. "Yes. I'd like you to."

"It's settled then." He murmurs, his fingers letting go of your wrist to hold your fingers like a loosened way of a handshake. "Nice to meet you officially. I'm Jason. Guess you're going to have to deal with me for awhile, miss."

Your grin is bright as you return the gesture, welcoming the warmth of his hand. "Nice to meet you, Jason."

[crazeno]

HI i come baring an au i’ve been stupid ab and lowkey forgot i had tumblr and can share it here

A very basic summary so sorry for the plot holes and shitty wrriting

> CRYOGENIC AU

> Thousands upon thousands of years into the cybertronian war, Decepticon Mad Scientist, Shockwave, revealed his new experiment to dictator, Megatron, in hopes it would wipe out the Autobot faction for good. An infectious Bio-weapon dubbed the “Hate Plague” was unleashed onto the unknowing war soldiers.

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> A violent virus spread through a prolonged touch, of which the infected would succumb to severe amounts of agitation, a loss of control and morality, as well as exhibiting violent behaviours towards any other life forms.

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> Quickly they exhibited aggression towards each other, hoping the Autobots would tear their own faction apart. However the plague backfired, quickly advancing through cybertronian kind, both factions finding themselves trapped.

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> Autobot inventor, Wheeljack, quickly explained the situation to the autobot commanders, having found a momentary solution to the virus during recent encounters, Cold Temperatures, a drop in the atmospheres temperature would halt the spread of the plague on an individual, but would not reverse the effects. Information that could be crucial in reversing the outbreak. But a task as such would be almost impossible with the large spread around the planet.

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> The Decepticon faction had been completely overrun in attempt to fight back against the virus. Megatron reluctantly fleeing from the war grounds to save his own life, finding the remaining alive Autobots with their base in a secure lockdown.

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> In a last ditch effort and attempt to prevent further bloodshed amidst the pandemic, Optimus Prime and Megatron formed an uneasy alliance, the raging war between the two factions had been shattered.

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> Inventor Wheeljack believed he would be able to overcome the virus with a cure, but the current outbreak conditions on cybertron would make time and work near impossible.

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> Optimus prime reluctantly left Cybertron, taking a handful of remaining autobot survivors, Megatron and what early stage infected bots they could safely secure with them, locked away in a frozen stasis.

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> The first movements were rather slow, with little time to prepare their travel, energon and resources started to dwindle to dangerous levels, the crew travelling through the vast space for a safe place to land, until eventually crash landing on a near deserted frozen planet, Earth (1 million BCE), where they would be able to safely study and work towards curing the plague, as well as keep their energon stocked and collect resources to fix their ship and hopefully restore their dying planet.

With blood and rage of crimson red ripped from a corpse so freshly dead.

[trampleddoves]

interrogations on uneven footing

Spencer Reid needs information on a confidential case. He is not above using unconventional methods to get you to spill.

Series masterlist

Pairing: unsub!Spencer x afab!BAU!reader Content warnings: Smut, 1.7k words, DDDNE! Noncon, bondage, sensory deprivation (complete darkness), nipple play, fingering, edging, overstimulation. Mentions of a made-up case, post prison unsub Spencer. Note: MDNI. This is not for everyone, simply scroll past it if it’s not to your liking. I cannot stress this enough. Heed the content warnings. Proceed with caution.

Multiple zip ties bind you to a wooden chair, an entire row on each arm like some twisted version of the bracelets that normally adorn your person. Ensuring you can’t move, can’t get out. It’s something straight out of a movie, your solitary figure alone in a dark room. You would have laughed if it weren’t for the distracting fact that it’s real, and happening to you right now. 

Smooth plastic digs into your skin if you struggle against them, but ultimately these zip ties will leave no marks. Unlike rope. Unlike handcuffs. They will not slacken even if you sweat through them, unlike duct tape. 

Spencer Reid is nothing if not thorough.

You’ve lost count of how long he’s kept you here. A slight burning in the space between your thighs is a flagrant reminder of his previous attentions. Legs and ankles still parted in the same way he left them, held and bound by the same zip ties that keep your arms and wrists in place. Panties stretched obscenely around your knees from where Spencer tugged them down, just enough to get a glimpse of your pussy. An odious mixture of sweat and your drying arousal keeps your inner thighs slick. 

He hasn’t hurt you. He hasn’t even penetrated you, only parted your folds and coaxed your core to weeping with rough, expert fingertips, while he asked you for details on Gregory Hall. 

Your body is weak, but your mind is sharp. While your pussy clenched and fluttered for more, you’d been able to deny him the details that you’d promised to keep confidential. Emily Prentiss is counting on you to build this profile independently; there’s a lack of certainty with this case. Whether or not Gregory Hall is behind those murders remains a mystery, but your unit chief had entrusted you to keep tabs on him on the side. A job outside the normal bounds of being a profiler, but naive pride had kept you from declining. 

Eager to please. To prove yourself. Icarus flying too close to the sun. You had accepted shady messages from unknown informants, arranged meetings with risky people in order to advance. 

Icarus flying right into Spencer Reid’s trap.

No one knew what happened to him. It’s a boogeyman’s tale in the Bureau, the type that has people ducking their heads and resorting to hushed whispers. Spencer Reid, prodigy, genius, dedicated profiler—in prison for murder. After several butchered attempts to prove his innocence, the genius was subjected to twenty five years in prison, with a chance for parole sometime down the line. He had escaped six months later.

You had never met him in person, not until tonight. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. The door creaks open, but no light comes through. You incline your head to the right, where his footfalls make dull taps against concrete ground.

“Ready to talk now, sweetheart?” his voice remains low, deceptively soothing. You flinch as his hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing tight. The weight seems to press you deeper into the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“I told you—”

“We both know you’re lying,” he’s bent over your back, tendrils of his hair brushing over your cheek, “You have more information on Gregory Hall than anyone else.”

His free hand crawls up your side, fingers finding the buttons on your blouse. Even in the inky darkness, his movements are deft, undoing buttons with ease. You grow stiffer by the second, shaking your head.

“What is it that keeps you from telling me, hm?” you feel his nose tracing a line down your neck, before landing at the sensitive patch where it meets your shoulder. He takes a shuddering inhale, before touching his lips to the spot, murmuring in smooth, velvet tones, “Are you afraid you’ll get in trouble with Emily? I’d be the last person to talk to her, trust me.”

Trust. What a silly word, considering the circumstances. You almost want to spit at him, at his trust.

“What do you even want with it?” you reply instead, shuddering as both arms wrap around you, meeting at your chest to work on unbuttoning your shirt. Your skin grows slick with sweat, broken apart by goosebumps from every brush of his fingers. He’s been so gentle.

You both know he could hurt you, if he wishes to. The restraint he’s exhibiting is simply another layer of depravity, another way to toy with your mind, a looming reminder that this could be worse. 

That’s the problem. Hating him, hating your predicament, hating this twisted interrogation, would infinitely be easier if he were manhandling you. Causing wicked purple and blue blossoms over your skin like a perverse garden. Pulling your hair back so tightly they rip from your scalp.

You never thought you’d ever wish for violence, yet part of your yearns for it at this moment. It’s easier to reconcile violence with the violation you’re currently experiencing. Because that’s what this is. Violation. Assault. Spencer Reid exerting his will over you because he can. Because he wants something only you have access to.

“I simply need to know if my theory is correct, doll.” he coos, finally easing your blouse off your shoulders. Just enough so he could tug your bra down your chest, straps slipping down your shoulders. 

You whimper into the silence of the room, partially thankful for the lack of light. At least he can’t see you. At least you’ve been given the dignity to keep your face hidden. 

However, it poses another problem. One you had been grappling with all night. This impenetrable darkness goes both ways, blinds both of you. And without your sense of sight, everything else is heightened. 

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, the taste of blood floods your mouth. Your teeth had broken through the skin of your lower lip. Another flick, and then both thumbs begin to circle your nipples, and you shudder as they harden into stiff peaks. Another round of interrogation. He’s slowly wearing you down, you realize, literally stripping off your clothing, and in turn, adding more stimulation. 

Earlier, he had just been playing with your clit, attempting to wheedle out the information from you until your labia grew puffy from overstimulation. At your staunch refusal, he had left.

And now he’s back, pinching and tugging your nipples as you cling to your stubborn, one minded goal to keep the information to yourself.

“I would assume we have the same goal, anyway,” he murmurs, humming as he presses his large palms to your breasts, squishing them, your nipples hard and poking into his palms, “Prove he’s guilty.”

“How did you even know I was on the case?” you whimper, squirming as you feel your traitorous body reacting. The familiar warmth coiling at your lower belly. 

“You weren’t difficult to track, even I could find traces of your dealings and I have an aversion to technology. Tell me what you know, doll.” he replies, one hand leaving your chest and traveling down. You dread what’s about to come, dread the inescapable fact that he’ll cup your sex and find you drenched again.

When his hand meets your exposed pussy, he hums, a self satisfied sound that mocks you to your very being. 

“So fucking wet for me.” he hisses, licking a stripe up your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to do much but squirm uselessly on the chair. “You know, I’m beginning to think you want to be kept here.”

“No.” the word is sharp and clear, to your relief.

“Really? Yet you refuse to tell me what you know,” his index finger finds your entrance, circling it while the heel of his palm pressed on your clit, “You know the information will get you out of this.”

“I wouldn’t know that,” you hiss through gritted teeth, nails digging into your palms as he strokes up and down your slick folds, teasingly. Soon, your nails will break the skin there too, and you’ll be left with bloodied lips and hands, all from your own doing. How ironic, “For all I know, you’d kill me the moment you get what you want from me.”

“I’ve been a man of my word so far, haven’t I? I told you I won’t hurt you.” A finger breaches your entrance, sinking knuckle deep. True to his word, no pain is felt. Only the relief of the stretch, the fullness your disloyal body has been craving. “Besides, doll, you’re of more use to me alive.” Another finger. Your pussy clenches around them greedily.

“I - no.” It’s weaker now, breathless.

He laughs. He’s gone through this song and dance earlier, but now his fingers inside you are reinforced by his other hand palming your chest. “So you do like this. You just keep saying no to giving me information, doll, it seems you want to stay here and let meplay with your pretty pussy, hm?” his fingers begin a slow pace, thrusting in and out of your wet channel. Every time he buries them inside, they crook just so, hitting that perfect spot that has you straining against your bounds. This time, it isn’t out of a desire to get out. This time, it’s out of overwhelming pleasure.

“S-stop.”

“Stop?  I can feel you clenching.” he drags his fingers out slowly, and indeed, your pussy clenches around the digits like you never want them to leave. Spencer laughs, biting your earlobe as he transfers his ministrations to your clit. Quick, steady circles that have your thighs quivering.

“Reid, stop,” your plea is weak, pitiful.

“Tell me what you know.”

“No.”

He removes his hands. You choke back a sob, feeling your hair sticking to your forehead as you struggle to regain your senses. His next words are spoken from afar, and you realize he’s leaving again. “I’ll keep you here for days, if I have to, doll.” a threat. A promise.

Spencer Reid is a man of his word. As the door shuts, you realize you’ve condemned yourself to this fate.

[lazy-ahh]

ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (space outlaw) male reader

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you crash-landed on earth in what could be called a blaze of glory—if "glory" meant a flaming heap of scrap metal, stolen engine parts, and the distinct smell of burning circuits. your ship, the star-jumper (a name you gave it after drunkenly winning it in a bet), was now little more than a smoking carcass, its hull groaning as it settled into the crater it had just carved into the ground. you coughed, waving away the thick plumes of smoke, and grinned.

home.

or at least, what was supposed to be home.

you’d been lost for so long, your earliest memories were just fragments—scavenging for food in the wreckage of your family’s ship, their remains staining the walls in hues you didn’t want to remember. the rogue aliens who’d boarded hadn’t killed you—no, that would’ve been too easy. instead, they’d dragged you off, sold you like cargo to some backwater planet where the air was poison and the only thing thicker than the smog was the cruelty. you’d spent years in a rusted helmet just to breathe, doing grunt work for slavers who’d branded you like livestock. the scar on the back of your neck still burned sometimes, a phantom reminder of the iron searing into your skin.

but you’d escaped. stolen a ship. learned how to fight, how to lie, how to survive. you became a legend in the galaxy—the ghost of the outer rim, they called you. a thief with a heart? maybe. but only when it suited you. you helped where you could, but the second things got dicey? poof. gone. survival was the only rule that mattered. you gotta put yourself first, you know? self-love is important!

then, one night in some grimy spaceport bar, a drunk alien had sneered at you, called you a "disgusting human" like it was an insult.

human.

suddenly, everything made sense. the fragments of songs in your head, the faded memories of blue skies, the way your body craved sunlight like it was starving for it. earth. you had a home.

you’d spent months charting a course, dodging bounty hunters, and patching up the star-jumper just enough to make the trip. chicago—your home—wasn’t some distant planet. it was right here.

as you breached earth’s atmosphere, your heart pounded. you’d imagined skyscrapers kissing the clouds, neon lights, advanced technology, maybe even a welcoming committee. but instead—

"…am i in the right place?" you muttered, squinting at the distinct lack of floating cities.

eh, whatever. you hit the gas.

the landing was… rough. but the second you stumbled out of the wreckage, coughing up what was definitely not earth-friendly space dust, you were met with the barrel of a gun. then another. then—oh, fantastic—a whole squad of pissed-off, high-tech soldiers, their weapons humming with energy you really didn’t want to test.

your hands shot up in surrender. "hey, hey—easy! i come in peace and all that jazz—"

then, a new group arrived.

your eyes skimmed over them—some guy with a ridiculous beard, some guy that can actually pull off that mustache, a green woman, another woman with a... a uhhh hammer? a huge fish, some guy covered in all red, a guy you really want to steal from cause what was that flying vehicle he just came from, and- is that a martian???—before locking onto him.

tall. broad-shouldered. dark hair swept back like some kind of regal space prince, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. his eyes—soft brown, but sharp, calculating—scanned you with an intensity that made your throat dry. his lips were a sinful shade of pink, pressed into a firm line, and his body—god, the way that white suit clung to him should’ve been illegal. the fabric stretched over his chest, his arms thick with muscle but still lean, built for speed and power. a familiar insignia gleamed on his shoulders, marking him as something dangerous.

something beautiful.

your brain short-circuited.

"who the hell are you?" beard-guy snapped.

you blinked, then flashed your most charming grin, brushing soot off your jacket like you hadn't just been mentally undressing mr. tall-dark-and-pretty in front of an entire militia and superhero squad. "name's (y/n). professional space outlaw, part-time legend. also, uh... human? apparently?" you gestured to yourself with a little flourish. "surprise?"

the air hung heavy with disbelief. the red-suited woman (you'd later learn was war woman) tightened her grip on her mace. darkwing's cape billowed dramatically even though there wasn't any wind—showoff.

then that voice—deep, smooth, and dripping with enough arrogance to power a small planet—cut through the tension like one of mark's punches through concrete.

"you expect us to believe that?"

you turned slowly, and there he was. mark grayson. all six-plus feet of sculpted perfection, standing like the universe personally appointed him judge, jury, and executioner. his white suit clung to him in ways that should be studied by scientists, a familiar insignia gleaming on his shoulders like a warning label. his eyes—god, those eyes—dark and intense, locked onto you with the focus of a predator who just found his new favorite plaything.

the older guy in red and white (nolan, you also later found out) gave mark a look that could melt steel. mark barely glanced at him before returning that burning gaze to you, chin tilted up in challenge.

"believe what you want, pretty boy," you shot back, flipping your quad-blaster in a showy arc before smoothly holstering it with a satisfying click. "but i've been jumping from one star system to another since i was knee-high to a xenomorph, and i just pulled off the greatest homecoming this side of the milky way. so, y'know." you spread your arms wide. "applause would be nice. also, is this how earth greets all its returning space orphans? because ouch."

a new voice—robotic, skeptical—piped up from the group. "alright, let me ask you this: what master do you serve?"

you blinked. then burst out laughing. "what master do i serve?" you repeated, wiping an imaginary tear. "what am i supposed to say, jesus?" you gestured to your battered clothes and the still-smoking wreck behind you. "i serve me, pal. and occasionally the nearest bar when i'm thirsty."

"bar? you don't look any older than 17."

"what...? is there like, an age restriction to drinking here on earth? oh, what the fuck..."

mark's lip did that thing again—the almost-smile that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite disgust either. dangerous. exciting.

"cute," he said, taking a step forward that somehow felt like a threat and a promise all at once. "but if you're lying, i'll throw you back into orbit myself."

"that's enough, mark." nolan's voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. mark didn't back down, but he did pause, his eyes never leaving yours.

you couldn't help but grin wider. oh yeah. this was definitely gonna be fun.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the rivalry was instant. electric. the kind of tension that made your teeth ache and your pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way mark's stupidly perfect face twisted into a scowl every time you opened your mouth.

at first glance, you'd thought he was just another pretty-boy hero with a god complex—until you saw the way he moved. like gravity was a suggestion. like violence was his first language. and that symbol on his shoulders... something about it made the hair on your neck stand up. it was familiar in a way you couldn't place, like a half-remembered nightmare, sending little jolts of adrenaline through you every time it caught your eye. you'd seen it somewhere in your years drifting through the cosmos, you were sure of it. but for the life of you, you couldn't remember where.

"so what's your deal, superboy?" you'd asked during your first "team bonding" exercise (which was really just cecil's way of seeing if you'd try to steal anything, to see whether you were a threat or just a nuisance. a useful nuisance). "you part of some space cult with the fancy shoulder decals? or just really into symmetrical fashion?"

mark had looked at you like you'd just pissed in his cereal. "it's none of your concern."

"ohhh, mysterious," you'd crooned, leaning into his space just to watch his nostrils flare. "i like it."

that was the moment you decided you were going to make it your life's mission to get under his skin.

you, the cocky space rogue who could quote every line from the blurry vhs tapes of your childhood (even if the memories of your parents' laughter were fading like dying stars). him, the ruthless warrior who moved like he owned the air he breathed and had the ego to match.

training sessions turned into competitions. missions turned into showdowns. every time you pulled off some insane stunt with your jet boots—maybe flipping backwards over a charging villain while blasting your guns like some 80s action hero—mark would "accidentally" punch through the building behind you, sending debris raining down on your head.

"wow," you'd deadpan, shaking concrete dust from your hair, "so impressive. did you practice that in the mirror? or are you just naturally this extra?"

his only response would be that infuriating smirk before he'd zip off to wreck something else.

the first time you stole his kill was an accident. the second time? absolutely on purpose.

"hey grayson!" you called out as you sailed past him on your jet boots, quad blasters already charging. "catch!"

the alien invader exploded mid-air just as mark was winding up for his punch. you took a dramatic bow in midair, blowing imaginary smoke from your guns. "you're welcome."

"you're insufferable," mark growled, floating closer with that murderous glint in his eyes.

"and you're jealous," you sing-songed, hovering just out of reach and sticking out your tongue for good measure. you loved being the only person who can get under his skin, being the only person who can get a reaction from someone who's normally stern and stoic and always in control.

he lunged. you dodged. it became your favorite game.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the obsession started.

not that you were complaining—hell, you lived for this kind of attention. but at first, you didn’t even realize what it was. you just thought mark was being his usual, overbearing, infuriating self—until the patterns became impossible to ignore.

it was the little things at first:

the way his eyes never left you during briefings, even when cecil was talking. like you were the only one in the room worth looking at.

how he’d suddenly materialize on your solo missions, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face like he’d won some game you didn’t even know you were playing. "need backup?" he’d ask, voice dripping with fake innocence, while you groaned and muttered, "i was fine, grayson."

the way he’d linger after training sessions, wiping sweat off his brow (ugh, showoff) while subtly blocking the exit so you’d have to squeeze past him.

but the real kicker? the way his entire body went rigid whenever you so much as glanced at someone else.

"oh my god," you whispered to yourself one day, hiding a grin behind your hand as you watched mark obliterate the stupid little stress ball you’d stolen from a space mall and gifted him as a joke. his fingers flexed, the poor thing reduced to rubber dust, all because you’d winked at rex splode while the two of you were debriefing with cecil.

"he’s jealous," you realized, giddy.

…or, well. maybe.

you shook your head, laughing at yourself. yeah, right. like mark grayson—mr. tall-dark-and-stoic, the guy who probably bench-pressed asteroids for fun—would ever be jealous over you. you were, after all, quote on quote a lesser being compared to him. and why would he want someone who wasn't an equal or close to an equal?

"years of zero human interaction really fried my brain, huh," you muttered, rubbing your temples. you were just being delusional, spinning little fantasies to make life more interesting, to cope. that’s what happened when you spent most of your life alone in space, right? you started seeing things that weren’t there.

…except.

except.

the way mark’s gaze burned into you whenever you laughed too loud with someone else. the way his voice got dangerously calm when another hero flirted with you. the way he’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist, his half-lidded yet stern gaze lingering on you as he waited for you to say something sarcastic.

maybe you weren’t imagining it.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"you're staring again," you teased one lazy afternoon, slumped against the guardians' hq wall like you owned the place. your arms were tucked behind your head, showing off just enough of your torso to be annoyingly casual—and just enough to watch mark's eyes flicker down for half a second before snapping back up.

you hadn't scraped together enough credits to buy your own place yet (superhero salaries were shit), but honestly? crashing at hq wasn't so bad. free food. cool tech. and, most importantly, front-row seats to the slow, delicious unraveling of mark grayson's infamous self-control.

his gaze was heavy today—dark, intense, hungry in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

"you're imagining things," he muttered, but his eyes didn't waver. not even a little.

"uh-huh. sure." you smirked, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat—just to see if he'd bite. "you like me, grayson."

it was supposed to be a joke. your tone was light, playful, the same way you'd tease rex, robot, or atom eve. but the second the words left your mouth, something in mark's expression shifted. his jaw clenched. his pupils dilated. his shoulders tensed like a predator about to pounce.

something dangerous. something possessive.

your breath hitched.

oh.

oh shit.

before you could react—before you could even breathe—his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was just shy of bruising. his skin was warm, calloused from countless battles, compared to yours which still had their softness since you wore gloves most of the time, but still calloused all the same. the contrast and similarity sent a jolt of heat straight to your gut.

"maybe," he said, voice so low it vibrated through you, "i just like putting you in your place."

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. your pulse was racing, and you knew he could feel it when his thumb brushed over the frantic flutter beneath your skin.

"oh?" you managed, raising an eyebrow like your heart wasn't trying to climb out of your chest. "and where's my place, exactly?"

his grip tightened. his other hand came up, fingers skimming the side of your neck—right over your pulse point, like he knew exactly how much he affected you. his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, while his middle and ring fingers ghosted over the brand on the back of your neck—the one you never let anyone touch.

you flinched.

mark noticed.

his touch gentled—just for a second—before his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his breath.

"wherever i want you."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the warmth came later. slow, like a star forming in the void—quiet, inevitable, burning.

it started with late-night talks on the hq roof, your legs dangling over the edge while mark hovered just beside you (because of course he wouldn’t sit like a normal person). you’d ramble about the constellations you’d charted, the supernovas you’d raced, the black holes you’d barely escaped. and mark—mark, who acted like listening to anyone else was beneath him—would actually listen. his eyes would stay fixed on your face, his brow slightly furrowed, like you were the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"and then boom—whole damn asteroid belt turned to dust," you finished, waving your hands dramatically. "wish you could’ve seen it."

"i could have," he said, nose scrunched in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to sound impressed. "if i’d been there."

you snorted. "oh, please. you’d have punched one rock and called it a day."

he huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he’d ever admit to—and nudged your shoulder with his knee. "i wouldn’t have needed a stolen ship to escape."

"wow. rude." you clutched your chest. "and after i shared my trauma with you."

his lips twitched. "some of us don’t need to compensate with stories."

"ohhh, big words from the guy who literally calls himself invincible—"

"it’s accurate—"

"it’s embarrassing—"

he flicked your forehead. you punched his shin.

neither of you moved away.

the touches came next.

small, at first. a hand on your back after a fight, lingering just a second too long. a shoulder pressed to yours in the elevator, like he needed the contact. once, after a particularly brutal mission, he’d even carried you back to hq—not because you couldn’t walk (you could, thank you very much), but because he’d taken one look at your limp and decided for you.

"put me down, you overgrown—"

"shut up," he’d grumbled, arms tightening around you. "you shouldn’t be walking on that leg."

"it’s fine—"

"it’s bleeding."

"oh, so now you care about blood?"

he’d glared, but his grip had been careful.

then came the almost-confessions.

"you’re such an idiot," mark grumbled one night, pressing a gauze to the cut on your lip after you’d somehow managed to piss off an entire alien mob (in your defense, they’d started it).

"your idiot," you corrected, grinning through the sting.

his fingers stilled. his eyes—dark, intense, burning—locked onto yours.

for a heartbeat, you thought he’d argue.

then his thumb brushed your cheekbone, gentle, and he muttered, "obviously."

and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

mark grayson, with all his viltrumite pride, his superiority, his unshakable belief that he was better than everyone else…

…never treated you like you were beneath him.

if anything, he looked at you like you were his—his equal, his partner, his. like he’d already decided you’d rule the planet at his side.

(and the scariest part?

you were starting to like the idea.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the angst.

because this was mark. not just mark grayson—not just the arrogant, infuriating, beautiful boy who’d somehow carved a place for himself in your chest—but mark grayson, son of omni-man, a warrior to the viltrum empire.

and you knew.

you knew from the moment it all clicked—from the moment you finally remembered why that insignia on his shoulders made your stomach churn. you’d seen it before, burned into the hulls of warships that had glassed entire civilizations. you’d run from it as a child, though you hadn’t known why at the time.

when you’d confronted him, your voice barely steady, mark hadn’t lied. hadn’t hesitated and treated you like you were his equal. he’d looked you in the eyes, his fingers gentle around your wrist, and told you everything. about viltrum. about conquest. about your planet being next.

and like an idiot, like someone who’d forgotten their own damn rules, you’d accepted him.

"you ever think about just… leaving all this?" you asked one night, your voice too quiet in the space between you. the city sprawled beneath the hq roof, lights flickering like dying stars.

mark didn’t answer right away. his jaw worked, his fingers flexing against the ledge where he sat. you could see the war in his eyes—the viltrumite wrestling with something he’d never been taught to name. it's funny, you started thinking about him as a viltrumite more than as a human with superpowers now.

finally, softly: "no."

you laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping your throat raw. "yeah. didn’t think so."

his hand found yours—squeezed, just once, just enough to make your breath catch. his palm was warm, his grip firm, like he was trying to anchor you. like he knew you’d spent your whole life running and was terrified you’d finally learned how.

(and maybe you should have. maybe the old you—the one who put safety first, who always had an exit strategy—would’ve already been halfway across the galaxy by now.)

but your fingers twined with his instead, holding on like you could somehow change the inevitable. that maybe, just maybe... he'd choose you—

mark exhaled, rough, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "stay," he murmured, the word more plea than order.

you closed your eyes.

(you always put yourself first.)

(so why did his empire feel like your undoing?)

3.4k words woohoo!! viltrum mark is lowkey up there in my favourites... like... there's no way i wouldn't have not written a one-shot for him. i'm just surprised he wasn't the first variant i wrote for. could have definitely done more for this one-shot and definitely could have done it better (i had a vision, but unfortunately i don't think i did it justice). will definitely write more for viltrum mark in the future heheh

[skitzrep]

i should be doing homework right now but instead i'm thinking about dante

Here's an extension of half-angel x dante: enzo hires them for a job (warning: aura farming)

"So what's the job again?" you ask, glancing at the back of Dante's head. He always walked ahead on a job.

"Enzo said there's a demon here. A few lucky lives got away to spread the news." He didn't look back, sending alarms off in your head.

"Why are you acting weird? You've been quiet since we left the apartment." You step forward to match his step,

"I don't know what you mean." Dante smirks, nudging you off balance with his hip, causing you to stumble out of pace.

You scoff because of course he wouldn't admit he's worried again. It's your first job since he refused to let you join after the incident. He was ready to leave you behind again, but you were practically on his heels as he was leaving.

You unlatch the whip from your hip and lob it around Dante's waist, using your superhuman strength against his, to pull him to a stop.

"Oh~ Lovely," Dante murmurs smugly, allowing you to drag him closer before leaning down to give you a kiss. You welcome his lips and loving caresses before cutting it short. "What?" Dante groans, bending down for more.

"There'll be more later," you promise. So stop worrying. "We should split up to get this over with."

"Huh? Not one of your better ideas." Dante frowns. "It's safer if we stay together."

"We've split up before," you remind him, pushing against his chest. "Let's just get this over with so we can get home faster."

Dante's teeth gleam as his grin widens, pulling you against him again. "I like the sound of that-"

"Perfect," you say with a disarming smile, pinching his side to make him jump off of you. "I'll take the west side, you'll take the east. Give me the signal if you find it before me."

Dante watches you with a gloomy expression as you send him a wave before turning around the corner.

The west side of the building was quiet. Usually, you can feel a demon's sinister energy—a shiver running down the back of your neck—but so far, nothing.

And then—

It was behind you, peaking around the corner and looking at you. You stop walking and hone in on its location, sensing it's about to attack.

"Well, come on then," you call out, turning on your heel and cracking your whip. "I need you to send my man a signal."

A bird-like monster crept into view, screeching dreadfully and flexing it's claws and wings.

The demon roared at you as you flicked your whip, striking it in the face. As it was disoriented, you wrap the whip around the monster's leg.

Yanking on your leather, the demon flies foward, over your shoulder, and into the opposite wall of the hall. The building shivered from the commotion.

And there's the signal. As the demon picked itself up against the wall, you sent a barrage of strikes against its torso and limbs, keeping it discombobulated until Dante arrives.

The demon's wing folded in front of your attacks, shielding it's body. Gritting your teeth, you aim for it's open areas, but it advances with it's wing protecting it.

"Shit," you curse, leaping out of the way before it could barrel through you. Your ankle is suddenly grabbed and you're swinging in the opposite direction, bracing for the impact against the ground. You release a guttural laugh before the demon throws you up again.

Wrapping your whip around the demon's beak, you pull yourself in and land your foot into it's skull. Falling on it's shoulders, you move your weapon around it's neck and squeeze with one hand. Your other hand grabs the demon's face.

"Die, asshole!" Your hand on it's face glowed bright as the demon screamed under you. In the next second, it withered away to ash.

You were left kneeling in the ash pile, holding your side and catching your breath. Maybe Dante was right and you should have stayed together for the first job back. You were a little out of practice.

A disruptive crash rang out somewhere in the building, close to your location considering how violently the floor shook beneath her feet.

The wall down the corridor caved in, revealing Dante riding another demon through the construct.

"Hey sweetheart, look what I found on my way to you." His smile is wide until he recognizes the state you're in. "You doing alright?"

"I'm fine," you assure him, holding your hand up. "Waiting on you, slow-poke."

"I guess it's time to stop messing around," Dante tells the demon, drawing his broad sword. "My lady's waiting for me." It screams at him, but it's soon permanently silenced.

"You think there are more of them?" You ask, staggering to your feet as Dante paces over to you.

"Nah," Dante says aloof, scooping you into his arms before you could even stand straight. "They've been taken care of."

"When did you-"

"I know how to keep a fight tidy and quiet," he tells you, knocking his forehead against yours, giving you a cheeky wink. He kept you in his arms as he walked you both out of the building. "Wasn't expecting the patrol though. Your signal caught me off-guard."

With your arms wrapped around Dante's neck, you drop your head against his shoulder. "Yeah, maybe you were right."

"Me? About what?"

"We should've stayed together." You ignore how Dante tries to look down at you, but your head is too close to his neck. His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer to his body.

"We'll stick together on jobs from here on out, alright?" Dante says it with no room for discussion, not that you would argue against it. "It's a lot more fun when I can keep my eye on you anyways."

"I was going to say the same thing."

note: i have so much more tropes for this man but the half-angel sweetheart that indulges in Dante's wild/aura-farming side is so cute to me

[ssour-apathyy]

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ fangs and forgiveness

vampire!vi x vampire!caitlyn x vampire hunter! reader, detailed descriptions of violence, blood, fighting, death (not reader or caitvi), use of y/n, reader is referred to as daughter

word count; 3,949

summary; as a vampire hunter hot on the trail of your latest catch, you meet two "monsters" who change your world view forever

a/n; i think that i mayhaps got a little carried away with this one LMAO. thank you to the anon who made this request, i had a lot of fun writing this one. sorry if the ending feels a little rushed, i had no idea how to put it WITHOUT turning it into an even longer mess

The ground was cold and damp against your skin. The harsh asphalt rubbing through your aged jeans where you sat, stoking the makeshift fire in front of you.

In the distance, you could see the small hamlet that you had been sent to investigate. A quaint, isolated place with a population of less than 100, dwindling as of late. People were disappearing, only to turn up again a few days later in some back alley as nothing but skin wrapped around bones, without a drop of blood in their bodies.

A vampire, naturally.

It was nothing new to you, having been in the game for years. Your father and his father, and so-on and so-forth, had all been vampire hunters. It was a tradition supposed to be carried on by the men in your bloodline, but you had so graciously thrown a spanner into the works when your mother had given birth to a girl.

You had a chip on your shoulder and something to prove. So, if nothing more than to spite the man who said you couldn't, you became the most decorated hunter in your family's history. A shelf within your home lined with large glass jars, each filled to the neck with fangs. One fang from every vampire you cleansed from the earth, as physical evidence of your successes.

Even then, it wasn't good enough. You were acutely aware that nothing you did would be good enough for him, for the simple fact that it wasn't a son. But still, you persisted, because you refused to give him the satisfaction of actually ruining the tradition.

So here you sat, on the ground that had recently been rained on, in the damp dark of the night air, waiting. The routine was always the same. Never, ever, enter the settlement at night. Wait, and watch. And once the vampire makes its move, as will you.

── ⟢

It will never cease to surprise you how loud a human can actually scream. The second that the shrill sound echoes over the surrounding land, you're up and moving.

You close your eyes, take a breath, and let your ears guide you. Accustomed to the tell-tell sounds; the snap of bones, the tear of skin and the suckling of the blood leaving their body, it's no time at all before you find yourself peering around the corner of a house to gaze upon the monster you're hunting.

With another steadying breath, you reach inside of your coat to grip the wooden stake tightly, slowly advancing towards the creature. It stills, waiting for a moment before detaching its mouth from the victim and unceremoniously dropping them to the floor with a squelch. It slowly turns its head, snarling at you over its shoulder.

In a blink and you'll miss it moment, it lunges. You drop to the floor and roll to the side, avoiding the vampire with expertise as you spring back up, fingers tightening around the stake as you drive it forward towards the creature's chest.

Too slow.

Clawed fingers seize your wrist and twist hard, causing white hot pain to flare up your arm as the stake clatters to the ground. Before you can think, it slams you into the wall of the house, the bricks crumbling as the impact steals the breath from your lungs. Its claws move to grasp your jaw, pressing you further into the building with a snarl— flashing its fangs as it leans in, rancid breath hot against your face.

Your free hand slips a smaller stake from your sleeve, and you drive the tip into the chest cavity. It stumbles backwards, releasing its hold on you as you drop to the floor with a sharp gasp. It looks down at the small stick poking out of its body, and grasps onto it with both hands, slowly removing the wood.

It's a small distraction, but it's enough for you to unbutton the sheath on your thigh and grasp your machete, the silver blade glinting in the moonlight. As the wood clatters to the ground and the creature looks up at you, you swing.

The sound of your sharp, shallow pants is all that fills your ears as you watch the headless creature slump over in front of you. You take the moment to compose yourself before you wipe the blade clean on your leg, slipping it back into it's sheath.

The head had landed by a nearby shrub, and you collect it by holding onto one of the pointy ears, carrying it back over to the body. Propping it up against your thigh and holding it in place with your hand, you retrieve the pliers that you keep in a small pouch on your belt. Lifting the upper lip reveals the monster's most prized asset, and the jagged grips of the tool slots over the fang perfectly. With a grunt, you twist and pull, freeing it with a pop.

"Oof, that's gotta hurt."

The head drops to the floor with a thud as you whip around to where the voice came from, quickly slipping both the fang and the pliers back into your pouch. As your gaze settles on two women peeking around the wall of another nearby house, you squint.

Even in the dark of the night, you can see the un-natural red hue of their eyes, and your hand settles on the handle of your machete once again.

The shorter one, who likely realises she gave away their position, winces as she sees they've been spotted. The taller of the two steps out from their hiding spot, eyes dragging over you slowly. "You're hurt" she says matter-of-factly as her gaze settles on your arm, the blood dripping from your fingertips steadily.

"Don't think for a second that gives you an advantage" you retort, voice tight. In all honesty, alarm bells are ringing in your head. Your injured arm is too weak to help, you're still winded from the impact against the wall, and there's two of them. You have no chance of getting out of this, but you've been raised better than to back down.

She raised her hands up, palms facing towards you in surrender, as she takes a tiny step forward. "Relax. We don't want to hurt you, right Vi?"

The other one — Vi — slowly steps out from around the corner, mimicking the blue haired girl's body language as she joins her. "Right. We aren't like he was" she states, tilting her head towards the twist of limbs in front of you. "We don't hurt humans."

You scoff, the action causing the lack of air to catch in your throat and send you into a coughing fit. It's shallow and wheezy, and you curse yourself for showing weakness. "Bullshit—" you grit out between clenched teeth, grip tightening on the handle of the blade. "Goes against your nature."

"Maybe—" the taller one starts, voice as calm as a lake. "But something tells me standing here and talking to us, rather than swinging that blade, is against yours."

You don't reply, don't move a muscle as your eyes flit between the two. They don't look like any other vampires you've seen before. Almost too—

Human.

And she did have you there, you must admit. Any other time you would be swinging by now, for better or for worse. But something about them is stopping you.

"You're hurt" she repeats, her voice stressing the point as she takes yet another step towards you. "We can help you, if you'll let us."

Your father's voice is screaming at you from inside your skull.

Swing! Swing, you silly, silly girl! They are not for this earth!

The burning in your arm, and your lungs, and your lower back wins out — however — and you let go of your weapon, shoulders slumping as you release your breath. You take one step towards them before the pain and the blood loss catch up to you, and you crumple to the floor face first.

Vi is by your side in an instant, wrapping strong arms under your own to haul you up to your feet. She adjusts, slinging one arm around your back as she moves your injured one to lay across her own shoulders, encouraging you to lean on her as she takes a step towards the taller girl.

"Wait—" you gasp out, causing her to freeze. With a shaky hand you reach into your pocket, pulling out a small box of matches. You hold one between your teeth momentarily as you close the box and twist it around to the rough side. With one hand you strike the match and flick it onto the corpse beside you, the roaring flames engulfing the body to ensure that there's no coming back for the creature.

── ⟢

They had brought you to a run-down wooden cabin that was on the outskirts of the back side of the hamlet, abandoned. As Vi assisted you to sit down on the beaten-up couch, the taller girl got to work drawing any curtains and blocking all windows to ensure the coming sunlight wouldn't enter the building.

You hissed as Vi placed you down, cradling your injured arm against your chest protectively.

"M'gonna need to take this off you. That okay?" she asked carefully, grasping the edge of your jacket. Her voice was hushed, gentle, as if speaking any louder would cause you more pain.

You squinted up at her, still clinging on to the deep-seated apprehension that was tugging the back of your brain. Even if you were in pain, even if they hadn't hurt you— yet, you were still wary that they were technically your enemy and this whole thing could just be an elaborate game.

Your gaze caught her own, and her wide-eyed and questioning expression made you feel like, even if it's for a fleeting moment, that you were safe here. Begrudgingly, you nodded.

Vi gave you a small smile and an affirmative nod, and carefully moved to help you out of the heavy outerwear. You grunted as you leaned forward, your body stiff and back screaming from the earlier impact, and she was quick to slip the material down your shoulders and remove your good arm from its sleeve. Your injured arm proved a little more difficult, as it was stuck to your exposed flesh. Your eyes bore into the site before flicking up to Vi's, and you knew what she was thinking.

You gave her a nod, took a deep inhale and grit your teeth. "Do it."

If your jaw wasn't aching from the prior fight, it sure as hell was aching from how hard you tensed it now. In one swift movement, Vi tugged the sleeve down your arm and away, small slithers of material popping out of where they had embedded themselves in your arm. You refused to scream, to show that kind of weakness in front of anybody, but a strangled groan still managed to tear its way from your throat.

"Caitlyn!" Vi shouted to the other girl, who was elsewhere in the cabin. "We really need medical stuff here, it's worse than it looked!"

The monster's claws had shredded your forearm, skin torn and ripped like it were paper. If you looked really closely — which you didn't, not wanting to risk your dinner coming back up — you swear that you could see tendons.

"It will buy us some time, but isn't a permanent fix" the taller girl — Caitlyn as you now know — spoke calmly as she entered the room, her blue hair now tied up and out of her face. "This place isn't exactly full to the brim of live saving materials."

Vi steps to the side as Caitlyn takes her place, dropping the items she's holding onto the cushion beside you as she kneels on the floor in front. The red-haired girl moves away and out of your view, your eyes firmly fixed on the scraps of material and bottles that Caitlyn had set down.

You felt lightheaded, the mix of pain and loss of blood sending your brain fuzzy as you watched Caitlyn pick up the larger bottle and a small cloth from the pile. Soft, cold hands cupped the sides of your face and guided you to look away, carefully manoeuvring your head to lean back against the couch. As your vision moved up, Vi was stood behind you, looking down at you oh so softly. She moved one hand to brush your hair away from your sweaty forehead, a sad smile on her lips.

"This is gonna hurt" was all she said quietly, before a white hot burning pain engulfed your forearm causing you to strain against her with a scream. Her touch was still soft, but firm enough to keep you in place, as you almost immediately passed out.

When you came-to, you were lying down on the couch now, and a small fire was burning away in the cabin's cobbled fireplace. You groggily raised your head, lifting your arm up into your line of sight to take a look at it. It was tightly wrapped with the scraps you had seen earlier, the surrounding skin looking a lot cleaner than it did before. You made a move to sit up, groaning in pain before a hand stopped you.

"Easy, easy." Caitlyn's voice came from above you, her hand against your shoulder softly guiding you back down. "You need to rest, your body's been through a lot."

She moved to perch herself on the edge of the couch, facing you. Her eyes were soft, a tiny hint of a smile gracing her lips. She was nothing like you'd come to know from vampires — neither of them were —and the way that they'd been looking at you made your stomach flip.

"Your wound is clean, and the cloth will act as a temporary bandage, but you will need stitches. Soon." she murmured, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the material of your shirt. You took the moment to study her face, every contour and curve, the way her lips curled as she spoke. As much as you hated to admit, she was truly beautiful.

"Why are you helping me?" you rasp out before you can think about the question. "i've killed so many of your kind. Why not leave me to bleed out, or — I dunno — kill me yourselves?"

"Because that's not who we are" she answered immediately, her voice firm as her eyes locked on your own. "Vi wasn't lying, we don't hurt humans."

You paused for a moment, mind whirling. "Then how-"

"Animals, mostly" Vi chimes in as she enters the room, effortlessly sliding a chair up alongside the couch so she can sit with you, giving both of you a brief smile. "Livestock, when we can get our hands on it. Sometimes, depending on where we are an' how desperate the situation is, we'll hit up a blood bank and sneak a few bags. But never a live person."

It was quiet for a moment, the sound of the wood crackling as it burned filling the room.

"There are more of us, you know." Caitlyn adds. "Those who don't want to hurt you. It's unfortunate that the violent ones are the loudest."

You didn't know what to say. This was so alien to you, so abnormal, that you were struggling to wrap your head around it. There was no way they were telling the truth, right? You had never met a vampire that hadn't wanted to kill you. Although you had never really given them much of a chance, you supposed.

"We'll take you to our commune" Caitlyn said firmly, causing Vi to snap her head towards her.

"Woah, okay, hold on. She's still a hunter, Cait-"

"And she's injured" the taller girl retorted, turning to face her partner with a stern expression. "Even if she did want to wipe us out, which I don't believe she does, you expect her to do so in this state?"

Vi thought for a moment, her expression firm before she sighed, shaking her head. Caitlyn turned back to you, her face softening once again. "We have resources to help you heal. Properly. If you'll let us, that is."

Your throat felt tight, but you swallowed around it. "My name is Y/N, by the way" you murmur. An olive branch.

The two share a look, and then smile softly at you. Branch taken.

── ⟢

The commune was, admittedly, quite breathtaking. Various different buildings, of different sizes and materials, scattered around the land between two large hills. There were trees all around which, combined with the natural landscape, worked well to shelter the sanctuary.

It had been a few days since you had arrived, barely having seen how things operated as Caitlyn had firmly insisted that you rest once your arm was properly seen to. It was currently bandaged and in a sling against your chest, to make sure that you were allowing it to heal. They had given you an extra set of clothes, just a simple pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, whilst somebody worked on getting your ruined ones somewhat presentable again.

Caitlyn was showing you around, showing you the ropes of the small settlement. "Most of the people here were turned against their will" she explained, her voice filled with melancholy. "All of us agreed on one thing though, that we shouldn't have to lose our humanity. Shouldn't have to become monsters." She paused her steps and turned to you, one hand resting on your shoulder.

"I know it might be hard for you to believe, but that's not what we are. The majority of us are just victims of bad circumstances, who are scared and confused and don't know how to control it. That's what this place is for, to offer them a different path."

As you mull over Caitlyn's words, you glance over at Vi in the distance. She's knelt down in the grass, surrounded by 3 or 4 kids, teaching them how to properly drink from some rabbits. You had never seen vampire children before, and the picture following from Caitlyn's prior words made your gut twist.

Not allowing yourself to sit with the thought for too long, you couldn't help but settle your gaze on the short haired girl. The softness of the interaction and the way that she was so gentle with them, paired with the way that the moonlight was painting her in an almost ethereal light, caused your heart to stutter in your chest. Not that you could have noticed but from beside you, Caitlyn was looking at you the same way.

She showed you around some more, taking you to the small paddock that the settlement had, explaining how they were breeding their own livestock so that they didn't have to take so much from the humans. The more you saw, the more your feelings shifted. The more you started to believe that maybe, just maybe, they were right. That being a monster is not their nature, but something that they choose to be, willingly or not.

You stay a few more days, helping out with things where you can before either Cait or Vi catch you and guide you back to rest. When your arm is finally healed enough that you wouldn't need to be supervised, you were handed back your clothes.

You stood in front of the two girls inside their home, the fabrics bundled in your arms. "It... it doesn't feel right—" you mumble, shaking your head a little. "putting these back on. Going back to... that."

It wasn't a lie. Nothing about hunting vampires felt anywhere near acceptible after the time that you've spent in the sanctuary, after you've seen them as a mirror reflection of humanity. But that wasn't the main reason for your apprehension.

Truth be told, you had grown fond of the pair. The way they had helped you, had looked after you so gently. The way they were when helping those in need, providing assistance wherever necessary. All of it had you feeling things you'd never felt before, let alone for two people at once.

You were falling in love with them, and there was no way that you could deny it to yourself.

"Then don't." Vi spoke, voice firm enough to cause you to raise your head. There was a small, fleeting look of worry in her eyes, like you would slip away at any moment. "Don't go. Stay."

She took a tentative step forward, her eyes roaming over your face to gauge your expression as she did. Your eyes flicked up to Caitlyn, who gave you a smile and a nod, coming to stand just behind Vi. The shorter girl reached up to cup your jaw, her thumb softly grazing over your cheek bone.

The sound of the clothes you were holding hitting the floor with a soft thud was barely registered before you surged up, wrapping your arms around her neck and pressing your lips to hers. Vi took a small step back but didn't falter, kissing you back firmly as her free hand slid to your back so she could press you impossibly closer.

It was as if time had slowed to a stop, and you swear that Vi was kissing you for hours. Your breath was coming out in short pants as she reluctantly pulled away, giving a soft chuckle as you tried to chase her lips. You hadn't even managed to open your eyes as Caitlyn stepped forward, lifting your chin with her pointer finger before capturing your bottom lip between her own.

Kissing both of them was very different. Vi was impatient and greedy, kissing you like there were minutes left to live and she was adamant to die with your tongue against hers. Caitlyn was more refined, slower and more controlled. Both of them made your head spin deliciously.

You slowly blinked your eyes open as Cait pulled away, looking at the pair in front of you with a dazed expression that slowly morphed into a shit eating grin. Caitlyn giggled at that, and Vi let out a soft laugh too, and before long the three of you were stood together chuckling amongst yourselves.

The two vampires each took one of your hands in their own, interlocking your fingers as they shared a look, making sure they were on the same page. They intertwined their free hands together, the three of you molding to one another so perfectly, like a puzzle that was finally complete.

── ⟢

The three of you stood out in the street, looking down at the pile in front of you. Your hunter's clothes and gear, all the little pouches and gadgets and importantly, your machete, laying out on the hard ground. You took a step forward, twirling the match box in your hands as you took a moment to reflect.

Your father would be so disappointed.

With that thought, you took a match and struck it, wasting no time in throwing it onto the pile and watching the flames engulf your possessions.

The two vampires took a step forward, each wrapping an arm around your waist and cuddling into you, both pressing a kiss to your temples. You leaned into their touch, closing your eyes for a moment to bask in the glow of not only the fire but also their affection.

You stood there and watched as the flames consumed everything you had thought you'd known. The fire burned bright, the light from the flames dancing across your faces, painting the three of you in a new light.

[cookiiefreak]

Hmmm this is dough again - You trapped in close quarters with PV as his most loyal knight as you are protecting him from an assassination attempt from mysterious hooded figures.

Dragging him out of the Vanilla Kingdom as fast as you can and getting very far into the shrubbery and trees until you both fall into a hole in the ground. Landing right on top of him. You both seem to be safe for the time being as the footsteps faded a few minutes ago. You warn him to stay quiet and vigilant and you'll find a way out of this as your limbs are tangled together, right into his sensitive ear.

He, is blushing and stuttering from the proximity. But you are unaware of this and claustrophobic, jostling around trying to climb out, hitting some spots of his that made him need to cover his mouth, mortified.

DO WITH THIS WHAT YOU WILL POOKIE

DOUGH AAAAAAAAAAA

I am so feral over this you have no idea, I feel like a dog that was just given its favorite chew toy <3

sorry in advance if this isn’t that good, this took me all day (i haven’t written anything since 2020-2021)

Additional tags: assassination attempt (not detailed), king/knight dynamic, pv has naughty thoughts, pv loves them possessive, knight!reader is a tad oblivious to pv’s feelings/their own sex appeal, might be a little ooc (sorry)

Ship: Pure Vanilla x Knight!Reader

⚠️ MINORS DO NOT READ ⚠️

I imagine that he has been pining for a while, his mind drifting to you and your loyal, endearing mannerisms as his hands reach to pathetically grope and tease himself when he can’t seem to find sleep late at night. It’s appalling to him! How could he possibly imagine you, his most virtuous and faithful knight, in ways that are so explicit he can’t even bear to utter a word of it to anyone? Not even to his closest friends? He’s absolutely ashamed, vowing to never allow himself to take advantage of you like that in any lifetime.

It doesn’t help his situation when he’s suddenly attacked by a group of cloaked assassins, blades sharpened and ready to take down the monarch of the Vanilla Kingdom. But there you are, ever his knight in shining Vanillian armor, longsword in hand as you start defending your king like it’s your life’s greatest purpose.

Your king.

Pure Vanilla shudders at the thought of you claiming him as your own, the vision of your enchanting eyes peering down at him as your lithe fingers circle his soul-jam before trailing further down his trembling body…

Get ahold of yourself, Pure Vanilla!

It reaches a point in battle where too many of the enemies seem to be regaining their strength at concerning speeds, forcing you to take hold of his hand and rush through the streets of the Vanilla Kingdom. Some other knights, that had jumped into action earlier to help you, continue fighting them off to prevent them from chasing after the two of you, but it seems like a few had managed to break free and rush after you.

Heading into the forest in the hopes of losing them, you dodge and weave through the plentiful trees and shrubs until your escape comes to an end. A trap hole that had been disguised by a thick, leafy cover was the unfortunate barrier as Pure Vanilla slips in and tumbles down; bringing you with. One of your arms shoot down and wrap around his waist as the other reaches for the wall in an attempt to dig your fingers into the dirt and slow your fall, which works to a certain degree as you two land a bit softer than he had imagined.

He manages to let out a groan before your hand quickly covers his mouth, effectively silencing any more noises of pain. His eyes widen as he watches you lean your head down, feeling your breath gently brush against his cheek.

“Silence, m’lord. Wait for them to leave,” your whisper caresses his ear and sends a shockwave down his back. He nods obediently and the two of you wait patiently, hearing footsteps close to your area but never coming near the hidden hole. A few minutes pass before you hear the assassins’ footsteps again, this time retreating further into the woods in an attempt to find their target.

You’re in the clear. You let out a sigh of relief, glad to have lost the bastards while Pure Vanilla is preoccupied with the startling realization of the position you have landed in.

“They’re gone, thank the witches.�� You glance down at the king with a grimace, “My apologies. This is such a tight space, I shall try to figure a way out of here soon, m’lord.”

“I-It’s alright, you’re not hurt, are you?” His throat feels horribly dry as he struggles to look you in the eyes, all of his nighttime thoughts coming in to burrow further in his mind. You have one leg over his hip while the other rests slightly under his thigh with your crotches grazing each other, though he’s not sure if you don’t care or if you don’t notice because you seem unbothered by your position.

“I should be asking you that, my liege. It is unfortunate that you ended up falling first,” you shift your hips a bit and a zing of pleasure has him digging his nails into the dirt beneath him.

“Hmm? Why’s that?” Your eyebrows seem to furrow at his words while Pure Vanilla’s vision swims, it takes a good portion of his willpower to not buck up against your pleasant heat.

“I am a bit armored, sir. The landing would’ve been far less painful for me than it was for you,” a look of concern crosses your features. “Did you hit your head? You look quite dazed, m’lord.”

“I-I’m fine, just a little frazzled from all that transpired.” He feels guilty for being a tad bit untruthful, a nagging sensation gripping his brain and soul jam, but there is no way he could tell you just how badly he wanted to tear you apart right now. How he wanted to feel your thighs tighten around the sides of his head as you ride his face, your juices messily smeared down his chin and cheeks. Or, witches forbid, how he needed to feel you cream around his cock as you whine out your devotion to him.

“I’ll have the palace doctors check on you once we get back just to be sure, you’re looking flushed. Intensely so,” you take your glove off and press the back of your hand against the side of his face before recoiling in shock. “You’re scorching! I’ll have to be quick, just sit tight, your highness.”

He nods his head as he watches you pull your glove back on before getting to work trying to untangle your limbs, your hips moving occasionally as you test which position would free you both. This feels like a test of sanity to him, every movement has you practically grinding yourself against him and he swears you are doing it on purpose. Yet the focused expression on your face says otherwise, your intentions are purely to try and crawl out of this witch forsaken hole.

One particular shift of your leg has him biting his tongue HARD in order to shut down the whimper that begs to be let loose, his brain screaming that he needs to be out of this dirt coffin already or else he’s going to cum in his pants.

“I know this can’t be too comfortable, my liege.” You give him an empathetic smile, “If any of my movements are causing you harm please let me know.” Fuck, why do you have to speak to him in such a tender tone? He flashes you a smile of his own, though at this moment he feels like a monster baring its teeth at innocent prey.

“I am just grateful I had you with me. Your skills have aided me more times than I can count,” he can’t help but notice the way you seem to beam proudly at his statement.

“Of course! Because my oath I took those years ago will always remain true: I will fight until my dying breath to keep my king safe!”

Oh fuck.

[callmebyyourcallsign]

Touch and Go

Pairing: Lt. Robert “Bob” Floyd x Pilot!Reader

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, emotional repression, soft yearning

Setting: Post–Top Gun: Maverick, new elite flight program

Summary: You're a rising star pilot hand-picked for an advanced tactical training assignment. Bob Floyd, calm, brilliant, and frustratingly unreadable, is your WSO. You trust him in the air more than anyone. On the ground, though, your hands brush a little too often. Your silences last a little too long. And Bob? He's already gone, in the quiet, devastating way he always does. Love is mutual, but unspoken. After all, you’re both professionals… right?

Word Count: 4,983

Bob Floyd has always been good at silence.

Not the awkward kind, he hates that, actually, but the kind that sits warm in your chest, wraps around your ribs like a seatbelt. The kind that lives in cockpits and libraries and back porches after midnight. The kind that feels like knowing.

That’s the kind you bring with you.

You talk a lot less than people expect from a pilot with your record. But when you do, it’s always something that sticks. A sharp little joke. A perfectly timed one-liner. Sometimes, if he's lucky, one of those honey-dripping nicknames you toss at him when the others aren't around. Flyboy, mostly. Soft and smug, like you know exactly what it does to him.

Bob pretends he doesn’t.

He's good at that too.

The first time you flew together, you turned around in your seat, grinned through your visor, and said,

“Don’t let me crash and die, Floyd.”
He’d blinked, heart skipping a full beat.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Now it’s been months.

You know the rhythms of each other’s breath in-flight. You finish his checklists before he finishes speaking. You know when he tenses by the way his boot shifts under the floor panel, and he knows when you're fighting Gs by the subtle dip in your voice, still strong, still cocky, but just soft enough to make his heart ache.

And still. Neither of you has said it.

Neither of you has said anything.

This morning, on the tarmac, the sky’s the color of the Pacific, soft gray-blue, streaked with sunlight, like someone dragged their fingers through it. You walk toward the jet with your helmet under your arm and a lazy kind of swagger that drives him insane.

Bob is already waiting, running preflight. He hears your steps before he sees you.

“Morning, Flyboy.”

He turns, and God help him, you’re smiling. Not a big one, not like the ones you throw Rooster when you’re teasing, or the bright ones Phoenix gets when she’s kicking Hangman’s ass in a sim. No, this one’s just for him. Subtle. Real.

His hands pause on the panel.

“You’re late.”

You raise a brow. “You’re early.”

He shrugs, looks back down at the jet like it matters. “Wanted to make sure everything was perfect.”

Your voice dips, warm like whiskey. “You calling me high-maintenance, Floyd?”

He flushes. Stutters. “No—no, I—”

You laugh, soft and surprised, like you didn’t expect to get that out of him so easily. “Relax. I like it when you're nervous.”

He says nothing.

What could he say?

I think about you every night before I sleep? I replay every flight, every brush of your hand, like it’s scripture? I’ve been in love with you since day three?

So instead, he climbs into the jet and double-checks your oxygen levels.

In the air, you’re like poetry.

You take corners like you’re dancing. Pull into dives with the kind of grace he’s only ever seen in nature, like birds or storms or the ocean at dawn. Bob watches you from behind, one gloved hand hovering by the throttle, the other pressing the radio.

“Looking good, Spook,” he murmurs.

You smile without turning. “Aww, Flyboy. That almost sounded like flirting.”

He swears he hears Hangman laugh over the channel.

Bob clears his throat and looks back at his screen. His heart is loud in his helmet.

After landing, when the others are walking ahead to the locker rooms, you fall into step beside him.

It’s quiet again. But that kind of quiet Bob loves.

“You did good today,” you say after a minute.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”
You bump your shoulder lightly into his. His stomach flips. He wonders if you can feel the way he leans into it just a little too long.
“You still nervous around me, Floyd?”

His voice is soft. “Always.”

You don’t respond, but your hand swings close to his, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

That night, Bob sits in his bunk with a journal he never shows anyone.

He writes down flight stats. Maneuvers. Fuel data. And then, in smaller handwriting, like he’s afraid the ink will betray him

She looked back at me before takeoff.
I think she always does.
I wish she’d stay.

Across the base, you lie still in the dark, listening to the faint hum of the A/C and the buzz of the vending machine down the hall.

Sleep doesn’t come easy tonight.

Not with the shape of his voice still tucked behind your ear, and the way he always leaves a little extra space on the ladder, like he’s waiting for you to catch up.

You close your eyes and see his hands. Careful, steady. Always holding something invisible.

You wonder what it would feel like if it were you.

-

The storm rolls in out of nowhere.

That coastal kind of wild, thick sky, wind like a punch, lightning cracking in silhouette. Half the squadron’s grounded before they even make it off the tarmac. And your jet’s tucked away in the hangar, warm and dry, but completely useless.

Bob pulls his helmet off with both hands, curls of damp blond hair sticking to his forehead.

“We’re not getting out of here for a while.”

You sigh, pulling off your gloves with your teeth. “Damn. And I was looking forward to fighting for my life at 30,000 feet.”

There’s a beat. Rain slams into the hangar roof like it’s got something to prove.

Outside, someone’s truck backfires. Probably Rooster’s. Hangman’s already making jokes. Phoenix is haggling over vending machine snacks.

You sit on a crate, tugging your flight suit down to your waist, tank top sticking to your skin.

Bob looks like he’s trying very hard not to look at you.

“You cold?” you ask, half-sincere, half-testing.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m good.”

You smile, barely. "You always say that."

There’s only one truck back to base tonight. Everyone else finds a ride, Hangman with Coyote, Phoenix and Rooster squished into Payback’s ridiculous little Subaru.

You and Bob?

You get stuck behind.

It’s quiet now.

Stormy dusk bleeding into navy blue, rain still hammering the roof in a steady rhythm. Bob’s sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, flipping through the manual like he doesn’t have it memorized. You’re pacing. Slowly. Like something inside you’s moving too fast.

“You hungry?” he asks, not looking up.

You pause. “Not really.”

“Me neither.”
He hesitates. “But I brought one of those granola bars you like.”

You blink. “The cherry almond kind?”

He nods without meeting your eyes. Holds it out like an offering.

You take it.

You sit beside him, knees not quite touching.

Twenty minutes pass like a sigh.

Bob reads. You pick at the wrapper. He clears his throat.

“You ever think about what it’d be like... to not do this?”

You glance over. “Fly?”

“Yeah. The Navy. The pressure. All of it.”

You tilt your head back against the crate behind you. “Sometimes. Usually when we’re pulling 7 Gs and I think I’m gonna puke.”

He huffs a laugh. “Same.”
Then, quieter: “But then I think about days like today.”

You turn to look at him. “Rainy and grounded?”

“No.”
He finally meets your eyes. “Flying with you.”

Your chest goes still. Like the storm stopped inside you, just for a second.

You want to say something, anything, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

So you offer the granola bar back to him instead.

He breaks off a piece. Your fingers brush. He flinches, like the contact startled him.

You pretend you didn’t notice. Even though it’s all you can notice.

Later, the lights flicker.

You both look up.

“Power must’ve gone out,” you say, unnecessarily.

Bob nods. “Shouldn’t be long.”

You shift closer to him instinctively. Just a little. Just enough to count.

It’s quiet. Not tense, just full.

Full of things you haven’t said. Of all the times his hand hovered near your back when you climbed the ladder. All the glances across the ready room. All the almosts.

He speaks first.

“You ever think maybe—”
He cuts off. “Never mind.”

You nudge him with your knee. “Maybe what?”

Bob shakes his head. “It’s dumb.”

“Bob.”

He closes the manual. Sets it aside like it’s too heavy now.

“Maybe it’s not just flying I don’t want to lose.”

You look at him.

Really look.

The hangar light flickers again. Thunder cracks like a warning.

You say, so quietly it barely counts:

“Me too.”

And that’s it. No kiss. No confession. Just two people sitting on a hangar floor, sharing a granola bar, rain tapping the roof like Morse code.

But it feels like something.

It feels like a shift.

A holding pattern, sure, but maybe next time, you’ll land.

-

You wake up stiff, aching, and warm.

Bob’s jacket is around your shoulders, too big, sleeves bunched up to your wrists, the collar soft with wear. It smells like jet fuel and cedar soap and the weird, sweet nothingness that is him.

At some point last night, you must’ve drifted off on the hangar floor. He did too, slouched against the wall, one leg stretched long, the other bent, chin tucked to his chest.

The storm is gone.

The world is pale and quiet in the way it only gets just before sunrise. The kind of light that makes everything look like it’s waiting for something.

You don’t move.

You just sit there, wrapped in Bob’s hoodie, listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant squawk of gulls outside.

Eventually, Bob stirs. His eyes blink open, slow and owlish. He stretches, winces, notices you watching him.

“Morning,” he says, voice low and gravel-soft.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

He looks down at the jacket around your shoulders, then back up, slightly pink.

“Sorry. You were shivering.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s… Thanks.”

There’s a pause.

And then you say, gently:

“You always take care of me.”

Bob’s mouth opens like he’s going to deflect, say something dumb or self-deprecating, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just nods.

“You take care of me too.”

It’s quiet after that.

The kind of quiet that says everything’s shifted, but no one wants to startle it.

The truck finally arrives mid-morning. Phoenix hops out of the passenger seat and gives you a look like you good? You give her a look like later. Bob loads the gear like it’s muscle memory, avoiding your gaze but staying close.

When he helps you into the truck bed, his hand lingers at your back.

You think about that all the way back to base.

You don’t see him the rest of the day.

You both get assigned separate pre-flights, different trainers. You wonder if he’s avoiding you or just busy. You wonder why that stings.

Later, you find his jacket still folded on your bunk. He must’ve dropped it off during your briefing.

On top of it, a granola bar. Cherry almond.

Folded underneath, a note. Scrawled in Bob’s neat, awkward handwriting.

Thought you might be cold again.

I’ll be in the sim room tonight. Just in case.

You read it three times.

You don’t go.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because your heart is thudding too loud in your chest and you’re afraid if you see him, really see him, you’ll say something stupid.

Like don’t leave again.
Like stay the night.
Like I think I want you to kiss me.

Instead, you write back.

See you tomorrow.
Save me a seat.

You leave it tucked inside the pocket of his flight suit.

Bob finds it the next morning, just before warm-up.

He reads it, folds it up, presses it into the inside cover of his journal.

Then he smiles, just a little. Just enough to count.

-

The sim room smells like coffee and jet oil and a hint of someone’s off-brand cologne. You’re early. So is Bob.

He’s standing at the control panel, fiddling with his headset, glasses pushed up into his curls. The simulator’s screens are still dark. Outside, the sky’s starting to smudge purple.

“Hey,” he says when he hears you.

“Hey,” you say, voice lighter than you feel.

You take the copilot’s seat beside him. Close, like always. Closer, maybe.

Bob’s legs are longer than yours. One of them brushes yours under the desk. Neither of you moves.

The sim loads.

You start the mission. Standard approach, familiar territory. You and Bob in sync, calling coordinates, updating status, ticking boxes. It’s smooth. Too smooth.

And then, turbulence.

Not real, but simulated. Unexpected.

Your console flickers. You lurch slightly forward.

“Whoa—”

His hand flies out and catches you.

Fingers splay over your ribcage.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

You freeze.

Bob does too.

His hand stays there, warm through your flight suit, palm over your side like a tether. You turn your head. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, breath caught.

“Sorry,” he says, barely a whisper.

You shake your head, equally quiet. “It’s okay.”

But he doesn’t let go. Not yet.

There’s something unsaid sitting heavy in the space between your mouths. Not even a breath away.

And then.

“Pilot One, altitude dropping—”

The console voice crackles, breaking the spell.

Bob pulls back like he’s been burned. His hand drops to his lap. He stares forward, ears red, jaw clenched.

“You good?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Fine,” he mutters.

But he’s not. You can see it. Feel it.

Neither are you.

You finish the sim. Land the jet clean. Call the end of the exercise with the same forced calm you use when your hands won’t stop shaking.

He logs the results. You shut down the system. Neither of you speak.

You walk out together, side by side, the hallway lit with that same bluish hum. When you reach the locker room doors, you hesitate.

“Bob,” you say.

He stops.

Turns.

Eyes soft. Scared. Hopeful. Tired.

You don’t say what you want to.

You don’t say you can touch me again.
You don’t say I wanted you to keep holding on.
You don’t say I think about you all the time.

You just say

“Thanks. For catching me.”

He nods, slow.

“Anytime.”

You part ways. Locker rooms. Showers. Briefings. Dinner.

But when you’re lying in your bunk later that night, wrapped up in the same silence you’ve carried all day, you touch your side where he held you.

Like maybe the shape of his hand is still there.

Like maybe it always has been.

-

It’s weird, not flying with Bob.

Not wrong, exactly. You’re a professional. He’s still on base, still training, still just a few hangars away. But it feels like the air shifts without him in the backseat, like the jet flies fine but not quite right. Like muscle memory tripping over a heartbeat.

The switch wasn’t personal. Scheduling conflict, maybe. A re-routed assignment. You didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. All you know is when you checked the flight log that morning, someone else’s name was listed as your WSO.

And his name was missing.

Your new WSO is capable. Sharp. Quick on comms. He does everything right.

But he doesn’t know how you like your patterns called out. Doesn’t echo your thoughts mid-maneuver like Bob does. Doesn’t glance up at you through the canopy after a perfect landing like he’s proud of you in secret.

You miss that.

You miss him.

Bob’s been quieter, too. Around the locker room. The mess. Even in briefings. He’s not avoiding you, exactly, but he’s not seeking you out either. The silence between you has stretched, uncertain and loaded. Like you’re both waiting for the other to say something first.

And neither of you does.

You catch a glimpse of him two days later on the tarmac, post-run. He’s halfway through a bottle of water, sleeves rolled up, curls damp with sweat. There’s a red mark on his jaw, helmet, maybe, and his eyes are on the horizon like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You open your mouth.

You almost call out.

But then your new WSO claps you on the back, says something loud and dumb, and Bob flinches like the sound hit a bruise. He walks away before you can stop him.

That night, you find yourself in the hangar.

It’s mostly empty, just a few shadows and the hum of after-hours maintenance. One of the jets, the one you flew today, is parked under a dim light.

You rest your hand on its nose cone and stare at the stars through the open bay.

“Miss me already?” a voice says behind you.

Your heart lurches.

You turn.

Bob’s standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable.

You try to joke. “You wish.”

He half-smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

That quiet hits you hard.

You swallow. “Why’d they pull you from the rotation?”

He shrugs. “Said they needed me to run backup sims. Training the newer guys.”

You nod. “Makes sense.”

Neither of you says what you’re thinking.

Makes sense. But it sucked.
Makes sense. But I wanted to look over my shoulder and see you.
Makes sense. But nothing else felt right.

You sit on the edge of the wing. He stands next to you.

The hangar is all hush and echoes.

Then he says it, softly

“I don’t like not flying with you.”

It’s not dramatic. Not even particularly romantic. But it hits you harder than anything has in days.

You nod, slowly.

“Me neither.”

There’s a long pause. Then

“I’m sorry,” Bob says.

You look up. “For what?”

“For leaving you in the air without me.”

Something cracks open in your chest.

“I don’t feel steady without you,” you whisper.

His breath catches.

Then, gently, he leans his arm against yours. Barely a touch. But it’s enough.

“I’ll be back in your backseat soon,” he says, voice low and certain.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in days, you feel your heart start to level out again.

-

The base wakes before dawn, but you’re already tangled in thought, and maybe a little frustration.

Bob didn’t show up to breakfast.

No text, no word. Just silence that hums louder than the engines on the flight line.

You sip cold coffee, eyes on the muted chatter of the mess hall, but all you can hear is the thrum of your own heartbeat, tight, impatient, restless.

He’s been distant since the hangar night, like there’s a wall he’s building brick by brick, and every time you try to reach him, the mortar’s fresh and unyielding.

Later, you’re suiting up for another sim run. Your new WSO is ready, calm, competent , but he isn’t Bob.

You glance over at the empty seat beside you, where the cockpit light never flickers without him.

You fight down the ache curling in your chest, because this mission is important. Because professionalism means showing up even when your heart is jamming on stall warning.

You taxi down the runway, engines roaring to life, but it’s the silence in your headset that’s deafening.

Mid-flight, something goes wrong in the sim, a sudden mechanical failure on the enemy’s side. Your fingers tighten on the stick, muscles tense, and instinct takes over.

“Bandit at your six!” you bark into the comm.

“Copy that,” comes a voice you don’t recognize. It lacks the familiar edge you crave.

You’re scrambling, trying to shake the imaginary tail, but inside you’re scrambling for Bob, his voice, his steady calm, his fierce presence.

A bead of sweat runs down your temple. You miss him.

Hours later, back on the ground, you find him in the briefing room, eyes dark and jaw tight.

He’s barely spoken all day, swallowed behind a mask of professionalism.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say softly. “We need to talk.”

He looks up, startled, like you broke some unspoken truce.

“What about?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “This… us. The distance. The silence.”

Bob’s gaze flickers, like a storm barely contained.

“It’s not that simple,” he mutters.

You cross the room and stand in front of him, heart on your sleeve, voice shaking but determined.

“It is that simple. We don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

He looks at you, eyes searching, and for the first time in days, you see the truth shining beneath the surface:

He wants this too. But fear is tying his hands.

The air between you thickens, heavy with everything unsaid.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against his.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he sighs, low and rough.

“Why is it so damn hard?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

You smile, bittersweet.

“Because it’s worth it.”

And just like that, the dogfight shifts from the skies to your hearts, a battle for courage, for honesty, for the quiet, messy beauty of letting someone in.

-

The squadron’s quiet buzz hums through the ready room, but all you feel is the weight of the moment pressing against your ribs.

Bob sits beside you, closer than before, but the space between you still tastes like a question unanswered.

You both know that whatever was there last night, no, whatever’s been there for months is waiting to be named. Waiting to take shape beyond stolen glances and tentative touches.

You glance at him. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the briefing screen, but you see it, the hesitation. The part of him that’s still afraid to cross the line.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say softly, voice barely above the hum of the room.

He turns, eyes meeting yours, surprised but steady.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say. “The almost, the maybe, the silence.”

Bob exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for too long.

“I know,” he admits. “But it’s not easy.”

You nod, heart pounding.

“Nothing worth it ever is.”

The briefing ends, and you walk side by side to the hangar, the sun filtering through the windows casting long shadows that seem to reach for you both.

Your fingers brush, light, accidental, but this time neither pulls away.

“Why did you stop coming around?” you ask quietly.

Bob’s eyes flicker, vulnerability softening his usual edge.

“I was scared,” he confesses. “Scared of what this could mean. Scared of what I might lose.”

You stop walking, turning to face him fully.

“You won’t lose me.”

His gaze drops to your hands entwined, then back to your face.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says. “Not with you.”

You smile, something gentle and fierce blooming in your chest.

“Then let’s stop pretending. Let’s take the risk.”

That night, the base hums a quieter tune.

You find yourselves on the roof, under a sky strewn with stars, vast and endless, like the possibility before you.

Bob reaches for your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and you squeeze back, steady and sure.

You don’t need words.

The silence between you says everything

This is the beginning.

You lean in slowly, breath mingling, hearts racing, and for the first time, the line you’ve both been afraid to cross becomes the bridge you’re ready to walk.

-

The morning light seeps softly through the blinds, painting the room in muted gold. You wake before Bob, your fingers still laced with his, the warmth lingering like a secret promise.

His breathing is slow, steady, a rhythm that somehow feels like home.

You watch his face, the way his brow smooths, how his lashes flutter, delicate and vulnerable. It’s a side of him few get to see, and it makes your heart swell with something deeper than you expected.

When Bob stirs, his eyes open to meet yours, wide and raw and honest.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice husky with sleep and something more.

“Morning,” you reply, voice barely a whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile bubble you both inhabit.

There’s a long pause, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full of everything you don’t say yet.

Bob’s hand tightens around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles like a question.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits, eyes searching yours for forgiveness or understanding.

“You don’t have to be,” you say. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He smiles then, slow and shy, like he’s afraid to believe it’s real. And maybe it isn’t perfect, maybe it’s messy and uncertain, but it’s yours.

Later, the base feels different.

Every glance between you carries a new weight, every touch lingers longer.

You walk down the hallways with a secret shared just between the two of you, like you’re part of something no one else understands.

During briefings, you catch Bob’s eye and see the spark that’s always been there, only now, it’s not just longing; it’s something steadier, more fierce.

After drills, when the adrenaline fades and the world quiets, you find your way to each other again.

One afternoon, you’re sitting on the wing of the jet, the sky a brilliant blue canvas.

Bob sits beside you, helmet set aside, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Ever wonder what it’d be like,” he says softly, “if we didn’t have to keep it all so guarded?”

You turn to him, heart quickening.

“I do,” you confess. “More than anything.”

He laughs quietly, a sound full of warmth and relief.

“Me too.”

For a moment, the world shrinks down to just the two of you, breath mingling, laughter light and free.

And then, almost without thinking, Bob’s hand finds yours again, fingers weaving together like they belong.

That night, in the quiet dark of the bunk, you lie awake, the afterglow of the day wrapping around you.

It’s not fireworks or grand declarations, just a steady, simmering warmth, the kind that roots deep and promises more.

You don’t need to say the words aloud.

You already know.

-

The day starts normal, but the air feels heavier, thick with the kind of silence that’s waiting to snap.

You and Bob are prepping for a joint training mission, the kind that demands every ounce of trust and synchronicity you’ve been building. But underneath the routine checklists and briefings, something feels off.

Maybe it’s the way Bob’s eyes flicker away when you glance at him. Or how his jaw tightens just a little too much when the instructor calls out formations.

You want to reach for him, steady him like he’s steadying you. But there’s that wall again, the one you thought you’d chipped away with every quiet moment.

The mission begins with familiar drills, engines roaring to life, the world narrowing to speed and precision.

You’re locked in your cockpit, the steady hum of the jet syncing with the pounding in your chest.

Bob’s voice comes through the comms, clear, but clipped.

“Ready when you are.”

You respond, heart thudding.

The sky blurs around you, adrenaline sharp and bright. You move together, two halves of the same pulse, perfect in motion.

But when you land, the air is still thick with unspoken words.

Later, in the dim glow of the briefing room, you catch Bob alone, staring at a map like it holds the answers.

“I messed up,” he says without looking up.

You step closer. “What happened?”

He swallows, voice tight. “I lost focus during the run. Missed a call. Could’ve put us both at risk.”

You shake your head. “We all mess up.”

“But this—this felt different,” he admits. “Like I’m carrying more than just the mission.”

Your heart clenches. “Bob…”

He finally looks at you, eyes raw and vulnerable. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of what this means—us.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek.

“You’re enough,” you whisper. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline.

That night, the tension hasn’t lifted, but something’s shifted.

You find yourselves sitting side by side, neither speaking, just sharing space.

Bob’s hand finds yours again, tentative but desperate.

And in that quiet grasp, all the fear and hope and longing swirl together.

It’s messy.

It’s real.

It’s yours.

-

The base is quiet in the early hours, a fragile calm that feels almost sacred.

You’re leaning against your jet, the dawn light soft against the glass. Bob slides in beside you, the world outside still waking, but beside him, time slows.

His eyes catch yours, no words needed. The space between you is charged, filled with every unsaid confession and yearning.

“Talk to me,” you finally whisper, voice trembling just a little.

Bob’s gaze drops, then lifts again, steady, sure.

“I’ve been scared,” he admits. “Scared of losing control. Scared of what this means. But mostly... scared of losing you.”

Your heart twists, but you reach for him, fingers threading through his.

“You’re not losing me,” you say softly. “We’re in this together.”

He smiles, small, genuine, and it breaks through every wall he’s built.

The jet rocks gently as he moves closer, breath mingling with yours.

“I want you,” he breathes, voice low and raw. “Not just when the world falls apart, but when it’s quiet. When it’s real.”

You lean in, the distance dissolving, lips brushing in a hesitant, trembling kiss that blooms into something fierce and tender.

In that kiss is everything, the fear, the hope, the long nights and silent battles.

When you finally pull apart, the world feels different.

Brighter.

Clearer.

You rest your forehead against his, breath mingling, heart pounding the same rhythm.

“We don’t have to have it all figured out,” you say.

Bob nods. “No. Just... this.”

Outside, the sky is vast and endless, a promise of more flights, more moments, more love.

And inside this small cockpit, you both know you’ve finally found your safe place.

Ao3

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Ghosted

Male Jock Yandere Ghost x Gender Neutral Nerd Ghost Reader

CW: Reader death, ghosts, spirit world, manipulative yandere, stalking, general yandere behavior, consensual sex

Word Count: 801

(Trying to get back into the habit of writing, this is the result, hope you like it! I consider a demented ghost as still being a monster and therefore still teratophilia.)

You had died in college. One moment, you were being your nerdy self, rummaging through your binder, and the next, you were on the ground. You didn't really remember much, all very fuzzy. Was it a stroke? A brain aneurysm? You had no idea.

Once you were brain dead, though, you stepped from your body and appeared on the ghostly plane. A fog filled realm that somewhat mirrored the world of the living. Though spirits could make alterations, there were spaces untouched by the activities of the still living. 

There were a lot of ghosts. Many of them wandered aimlessly or were stuck in a loop of denial, acting out behaviors as if they were still alive. Others lashed aggressively, unable to regain their grip on their sanity. 

You mostly kept to yourself. Like Jonesy taught you. He was a former jock about your age when he died in the late 80s. He still wore his letterman jacket. You weren't limited to the clothes you died in, but you figured it was a symbol of how he was still attached to his old life.

Jonesy had taught you a lot of things. He had pretty much been your mentor since you had died. He was there waiting when you passed. He said he had sensed someone might die as he was wandering the halls of the college, where he had also died years ago. 

Jonesy said he was stuck in a loop. Being alone had made him lose his mental stability. But when he sensed you were about to die, it snapped him out of it. He said you saved him, so he wanted to get to know you and help you navigate the land of the dead. 

Plus, being together would help prevent the two of you from getting mentally frail. 

It was a bit of a paradox. Jonesy taught you to avoid most spirits, but communication and relationships were essential to staying sane. 

"You just have to know the right types to befriend. Many of the people here have a darkness in them and can drag you down if you're not careful."

He also told you the other secret to remaining stable. 

"You have to keep busy, do stuff. Don't get too bored."

There was a surprising amount you could do as a ghost. You could go to stores and yoink whatever you wanted, eat whatever you wanted, play video games, there was even a ghost version of the internet! 

Getting infinite free popcorn at the movies was your favorite thing. Jonesy always did that lame pretend yawn thing that ended with his arm wrapped around you. It was nice, though. Made you feel safe. You had been touch starved in life.

The transition to him being your boyfriend was so seemless and natural that you barely noticed that it had happened. You had never stopped any of his advances. Cuddling you, holding you, and smooching your cheek.

You didn't even question it when chaste kisses led to him kissing you hungrily before carefully taking off your clothing, like he was removing the wrapping from something delicate. 

Soon you found yourself laying ass up on his bed with him pounding into you, drinking in all your lusty moans and unabashed calling of his name.

He gripped your hips firmly as he came deeply into you; the pleasure made you see stars. His girthy cock stretched you wonderfully. You felt so lucky and special that this jock spirit had taken an interest in you, a lowly nerd.

Jonesy felt lucky too. He hadn't been in a loop. For a year before your death, he had been haunting you, It was difficult to peek into the living world, but once he found you, he was addicted. 

He loved watching you read books, study, and watch anime. He especially loved watching you shower, fervently jerking hinself off as he did so. 

It wasn't enough though. He needed to have you with him! You had been so perfect for him. You were kindred souls in a way. You were always alone and starved for attention. You'd fall for his affections easily, and you wouldn't just crossover beyond the purgatory the two of you were now in, you were too depressed for that.

Influencing people who were still alive was nearly impossible, but decades of being alone had made Jonesy angry and bitter. He used those emotions as fuel and tried many times to trip you down the stairs or get you to stroll into traffic absentmindedly. Finally, the jock was successful in busting something in your head.

At long last, you were with him. As he held you tightly, after making love several more times, he knew he'd be able to keep you there forever and he'd never have to be alone again. 

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Ten: a world inside a world

tw: none

Grand Hollow is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. 

It scars the land. Morphs it into some unrecognizable jungle littered with buildings that tower higher than any church you’ve ever laid eyes on. The ground vanishes underneath stone blocks and wood boards, leaving Jester’s hooves to pop! along the streets as you keep close to your little group of outlaws. 

Many of the stores you pass sport large windows to show off merchandise fancier than any you’ve ever seen, such as watches made of pure silver and hats from freshly trapped varmints. There are young boys standing on street corners shouting about newspapers or other goods, or strange folk in even stranger clothes attempting to sell bottles of what you think you heard them call snake oil. 

You don’t think you could ever make out your daddy’s steeple through this mess. 

The air smells different here. It’s thicker than Penmosa’s atmosphere—darker. Thin columns of black smoke rise high into the air in the distance, reaching far enough to stain Heaven’s basement with coal dust and human filth. There are kinder aromas that attempt to stave off the grime of horses and automation. Strong liquor pours through some saloons and hotels you pass by, and there’s something sickeningly sweet about the tailor's shop on the other side of the street. 

Sweat slicks your palms, bleeding into the leather reigns you grasp. You have never seen so many people in your life—not shoved into the confines of a city like this. Eyes wander, lips curl, mouths greet. Swallowing, you ensure your mother’s necklace is tucked safely inside your blouse. 

“Your eyes look like they’re about to pop out of your skull, Lamb,” Kyle teases. 

Looking to your side, you see him casually leaning back in his saddle as he leads Bear with one hand. His aura is cool—collected. While you’ve been panicking the moment you’ve crossed this new threshold, he’s only seemed to relax. 

“This is all… I don’t even have the word to describe it,” you admit, eyes flickering back to focus on the road before you. 

“Grand?” he chuckles. “It’s not quite as big as London, so it was an easy adjustment for us, but I imagine it might be a bit much for someone like you… no offence.” 

“None taken. You’re right, after all,” you laugh nervously. “Mr. Beckett would always tell me stories about places like this. Things he heard from travelers and such. None of it comes close to experiencing it for yourself.” 

“And there’s plenty to experience here. Shows, parks, libraries.” 

“Libraries?” you repeat. “I didn’t think those were real.” 

Kyle snickers, white teeth flashing between his lips as he shakes his head. “Oh, they’re real alright. If the human brain can cook it up, it’ll exist here in Grand Hollow.” 

Deep in the heart of this jungle, sitting proud on the corner of a large city block, lies The Twin Rose Hotel. Just like every other building in this city, it towers over all of God’s creatures with glistening windows and chestnut bricks. A balcony on the second floor looks down upon the streets with an excellent view of the city park just across the way, and hanging above that on the face of the wall is the building’s name. Squinting, you’re able to make out odd, small glass bulbs that line the lettering. 

Small metal poles dot the sidewalk around the hotel, staining the ground with the protrusion. John hops off his horse and hitches him to it, and everyone else follows to do the same. A pang shoots through your feet as you dismount, not used to the hard surface of the streets. Your thighs feel numb from countless hours of riding, and you do your best to stretch your hips out as you tie Jester to the metal hitching post next to Bear. Just as you knot it, you realize you can make out a small horse symbol etched into the iron. Even though this city seems so advanced, they still hold a place for the antiquated ways of cowboys. 

“Right then,” John speaks up. All ears in the vicinity perk at the clamor of his voice. He stands with his shoulders squaring backwards and his thumbs looped behind his belt buckle. “Mind your manners, boys.” 

Walking into The Twin Rose is even more of a culture shock than the entirety of Grand Hollow has been. Glistening crystal chandeliers hang high above your head, filling what appears to be the cleanest saloon you’ve ever seen with a warm, saffron glow. The floors are made of waxed wood that don’t have so much as a dent on them, and various tables lay around the room in polkadot-like fashion. A crowd of gentlemen sit at a round table, chuckling over full plates and bottles of beer, and a man in a silk top hat plucks away at a standing piano just next to the mouth of a wide staircase. 

Toward the back of the room lies a bar. There are no stools to sit on, but a young woman with thin lips busies herself with cleaning her mixing supplies. Sconces line the walls, leaving nothing unilluminated, yet you can’t keep yourself from squinting at them. 

“How do they keep the oil in all of these?” you whisper. 

Kyle attempts to stifle his chuckle. “They’re lightbulbs, love. They run on electricity.” 

Lightbulbs. You remember hearing about their creation when you were a kid. It was all anyone could talk about when every paper in the country slapped it on the front page. The great Thomas Edison had invented light that could be held in the palm of your hand. Of course, your poor little town of Penmosa never got to see such a feat, stuck with using oil lamps and campfires, you could only ever dream of witnessing such magic. Your father abhors the idea of it. He says it’s unnatural—ungodly and impetuous. 

How could God hate something so beautiful? 

John leads everyone up to the bar, weaving through tables with heavy feet. He crosses his arms and keeps his head low as he kindly greets the barmaid. Grey eyes look him up and down, seemingly unimpressed, before her gaze wanders over everyone else. She doesn’t even look intimidated by Riley’s stature and the bandana that covers his face. Suddenly, you find your pulse rising. The closest thing you’ve had to a proper bath in the last few weeks was that thunderstorm that rolled in before you hit Little Wood—you’re sure you look less than presentable. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, voice dull.

“I need to speak with Laswell,” John says. 

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t seem surprised. “Who’s asking?” 

“John Price.” 

The woman’s head quirks, and you think you might even see a slight smirk on her lips. She places her items down on the bar top before motioning for everyone to follow her. You’re led through a door marked private that brings you to a long hallway with several doors. The barmaid breezes by most of them before coming to a stop at the very end of the hallway. A terrible squeak accompanies the door opening, and through the threshold you’re able to see a large, rectangular table with several chairs to sit in. 

“Take a seat. Laswell will be with you in a minute,” the barmaid instructs. 

You find yourself squeezed between John and Kyle as everyone melts into their seats with a sigh. Red wallpaper adorns every inch of the room in a deep scarlet that soaks up the illumination from the sconces. Beautiful paintings in thick, mahogany frames dot the walls as decor, but the room is too tenebrous for you to fully tell what they are. You can vaguely make out a beautiful Arabian horse in one, and snow capped mountains in another, but your eyes strain too great to peer at them in detail. 

Soap leans so far in his chair that his neck rests on the backboard, and his feet brush against yours, though you don’t say anything about the intrusion. “I hope we’re invited over for dinner.”

“Enjoying Lottie’s cooking and then having a proper bed to sleep in does sound nice,” Kyle hums in agreement. 

“There’s still a lot of work to do, boys,” John reminds them. 

Huffing, Soap straightens himself out in his seat. “Aye, but we’re allowed to have a little fun every now and then, aren’t we?” 

Before anyone can comment further, the door swings open, then quickly clicks shut. A woman with a stern face enters the room, and she is the strangest lady you think you’ve ever seen. Her cream blouse is pressed so that it’s pristine and free of wrinkles, and her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows as if she was caught doing manual labor. Instead of a skirt to accompany it, she dons a pair of black dress pants with matching shoes. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a bun, leaving only her fringe to cover her forehead and the sides of her face. For a long moment, she stands at the head of the table with her hands on her hips where she gets a good look at everyone seated in front of her before humming and taking a seat. 

“Never thought I’d see any of you ever again,” she says bluntly. “Last I knew, John Price and his posse had vanished further West where the land is wild and the laws are rare.” 

“You know we couldn’t stay away forever, Laswell,” John smiles. 

“Yeah, not with all that unfinished business you have in Blackpeak.” The air grows tense. Palpable with hesitation. The oddly dressed woman pauses a moment to let her eyes fall on you, and you find your breath catching in your throat. She scrutinizes you—soaks up every inch of you. She doesn’t look away from you when she continues to speak. “I see you’ve got a new member to this… posse, of yours.” 

John looks at you, eyes cold and face impossible to read. “She’s just cargo.” 

Laswell hums. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

Your mouth grows dryer than any desert Mr. Beckett has ever told you about in all his tall tales. John nods in encouragement, and your answer tumbles off of your tongue like a freshly jellied calf. 

“But we all just call her Lamb,” Soap interjects with a grin. 

“Where are you from, Lamb?” the woman asks. 

“Penmosa.” You answer her question as if you’re unsure—as if you don’t know if you’re right or not. 

“Penmosa?” she repeats. “You’re an awfully long way from home. What brings you out here?” 

Nervosity chews at the flesh of your ankles as your hands fall into your lap, fingers twiddling. Is this the part where you ask for help? Where you bare your father’s sins for some stranger to see—to sully his name? Eyes shifting, you look to John, who casually leans back in his chair as he raps his fingers against the tabletop. 

“Her daddy’s got a bad temper,” he explains simply. 

“Right. Cargo.” Laswell crosses her arms before glancing around the table once more. “You boys are damn near drooling on my table. If you were hungry, you could’ve asked.” 

“Well, we didn’t want to impose,” Kyle explains, though his grin bleeds into his words. 

“You know better than to play coy with me, Garrick,” she teases. Her chair scrapes across the floor as she stands to her feet. The sconce behind her sends a diffused ray of light around her—she looks powerful. Unlike any other woman you’ve ever seen. “I’ll have the kitchen cook us some lunch, then we’ll see about arrangements. Lamb, how does a bath sound?” 

Surprised to hear her address you directly, you nearly jump out of your seat. “A bath? Well… that sounds fine.” 

“Good. We’ll get you fed, then while you’re bathing, the men and I can talk business. Sit tight, I’ll be back.” 

It does not take Laswell long to return with two maids following along behind her in red dresses. They each push a small trolley of sorts, with large plates of food and pitchers of water jittering along the metal cart as they station it alongside the table. You eye platters of rolls, chicken, smoked ham, mashed potatoes, and a large gravy boat. Dainty hands place the delicate dishes on the table buffet style before handing everyone a fresh, rose designed porcelain plate. Then, they vanish behind the door, leaving everyone to their meal. 

Honey glistens off of the ham in an enticing amber color that the boys waste no time diving into, flesh peeling like the tender skin of an orange. Rolls are passed around, as well as the saltiest butter you’ve ever tasted in your life, and you find your stomach growling after the first bite. You try to recall when the last time you had a proper meal was. When you put something other than hardtack and dried meat into your body. 

It was the night you left, you realize. When you promised your father you would find the change that ripped out of your apron. Your throat closes up the moment you recall the way his hand kissed your cheek, and you drown your discomfort away with a sip of water. Algid liquid hits your teeth and makes you grimace—there’s ice in your cup. You don’t think you’ve ever seen such a thing before. 

Conversation comes easy for everyone at the table except for you. John and Laswell murmur to one another in low tones while stabbing the meat from their plates with silver forks. Their eyes shift in unison, both of them on high alert as if anyone at the table might suddenly turn feral and nip at them. Riley and Soap are having some sort of disagreement, and Kyle isn’t helping with how he throws his two cents in so that they only get more riled up with one another. 

So, you’re left to sit. And sit. Silverware scraping against your empty plate, you face the bitter realization that this is the final stop for you. No more trekking through the wilderness with strange men who carry large bounties. No more long nights by a tall fire. You would hate to admit that you had gotten comfortable with them, but they were at least familiar. Now, you’re going to be dumped here. Left to wander in a strange town—a terrifying and intimidating new world—and John Price will be nothing more than a forgotten memory. 

After all, you’re only cargo. 

“Lamb?” 

Head snapping up from the scraps of your meal, you look at Laswell, who’s leaning forward in her chair with her elbows on the table. You realize you can’t quite read her as well as you can most other people. There is no tell in the corner of her lip like there is with Kyle, or a sly illumination in the depths of John’s cyanotic eyes. She simply speaks, and her tone implores you to listen.

“Yes ma’am?” 

“You finished with your food?” she asks. 

You nod, sharp and stiff. “Yes, it was lovely, thank you.” 

Laswell stands from the table, black dress pants riding up on her waist as she does. “Let’s get you in that bath, then.” 

You’re allowed to fetch your carpet bag from Jester before you’re brought up to the second floor. The chatter of well dressed patrons and their drunken games fades to white noise as Laswell leads you down tenebrous hallways marked with swirling vine and rose patterned wallpaper. Everything about this building is rich, from the sienna of the brick it’s built with, to the sconces that hold electricity in the very palm of its hands. 

As you clutch your bag closer to your chest—and all your pitiful belongings with it—you try not to feel like a walking stain in the establishment. 

“I can’t thank you enough for taking me in,” you blurt out suddenly. Unable to hold your tongue still, you swallow down the aftertaste of peppered mash before continuing. “John says you take in—well—troubled girls like me. That you’d give me a job, or at least help me find one.” 

“It’s what we do around here, darling.” Her reply is short and curt, though not impolite. Laswell’s feet stop just in front of a door with a gilded knob and the word bath engraved into rich wood. She quickly gestures to the door before her hands fall back to her sides. “Feel free to use all the amenities. And take your time. It’ll take me a bit to get all the fine details ironed out with John.”

Nodding, you thank her once more before slipping behind the door into what you can only assume is a whole other world. That’s all Grand Hollow seems to be—pockets of universes shoved inside one another. Endless doors stuck in a vast maze waiting for you to open so that they can fill you with veneration. 

There is a single lamp (at least, that’s what you think they are called—that interesting decor that looks like an oil lamp but with a shade and ten times bigger) that sits on a table just by the window, yet it’s more dim compared to the other electric light sources you’ve seen so far. The blinds are drawn, casting the room in darkness, but the shadows morph and dance on the walls as freshly lit candles sit on various surfaces throughout the room. 

The bathtub is larger than any other you’ve seen before. Clawed feet rest on the floor as it holds steaming water, and when you tread close you notice the distinct scent of rose. Upon closer inspection, you notice a few vermillion petals floating on the surface. A smile graces your lips. 

You think you might like it here. 

Before you undress, you seat yourself at the vanity. Its stool is plush, composed of thick velvet that envelopes your rum with comfort infinitely greater than Jester’s saddle ever does. It takes you more time than you’d care to admit to detangle your hair, but you know it’s well overdue for a wash, and life on the road hasn’t been treating any part of your body too well. Stripping yourself of your overdress and chemise, you slowly lower yourself into the tub while trying not to hiss at the near scalding water. 

As you rest with your back propped and limbs limp, everything fades away. The grime that nestles between your toes, the ache and sores between your thighs, the faint scars on your knuckles. Even the bitter memories of your father. It dissolves into the water to swirl around the rose petals that you toy with. Pure silk against your fingertips, you raise one to your nose and sniff. It’s sweeter than molasses—you’ve just eaten lunch and your mouth is already watering. 

A myriad of oils and soaps line the small side table next to you. You take turns picking each of the bars up and wetting them with your hands to feel the suds on your skin. Each one smells divine. Meadow grass in summer, petrichor in spring, Mama’s rolls in autumn—

—there’s a knock. 

For a moment, you almost think it’s her; your mother. She’s playing the knocking game again. Tapping on the wall that leads to your bedroom. Letting you know she’s still alive, that her tuberculosis hasn’t consumed her quite yet. It’s easy to fall into delusion when you’re enveloped by something so warm and so gentle—something that (for once) doesn’t have teeth. 

That thin shred of your imagination vanishes the moment a figure bursts through the door without even bothering to hear your answer. Though you know you should not be surprised to see John Price standing before you, you still are. Door clicking behind him, the gravity of the situation hits you, and you find yourself desperately attempting to save your dignity. Arms crossing over your breasts, thighs pressing together to hide your sex, your eyes widen as you sink further into the water. 

“John!” you shriek. “What are you…” 

Whatever malice laced confusion you harbor dies in your throat the moment you watch as his thick fingers reach up towards his neck. Then, one by one, he begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. Thick swirling hair sprouts between the fabric, and you’re left to gawk at the debauched display that is presenting itself to you. 

Unbothered, John untucks his shirt from his trousers before tossing it onto the floor next to your chemise, leaving him bare chested. If this were any other occasion, you’d be scandalized at such a gesture—his linens mixing with yours—but you find yourself infinitely more concerned with the odd twinkle in his eye. 

“You don’t mind if I join you for a moment, do you, love?”

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