#IT WAS TARGETED. IT WAS FORCED UPON HIM AGAINST HIS WILL. NOT TO MENTION HE ALSO WENT RED

[galaxygermdraws]

Absolutely. Obsessed with whatever episode 7 was. Who let Skizz and Tango do that. Who let them parallel Last Life like that. Also Gem being terrifying is so good I'm quite obsessed with her this series.

And uh. Tiny little doodle of the best base in the series. I'm not crying what r u talking about.

(reblogs with tags/comments appreciated. Thankyu)

[chuluoyi]

✎ all of me

- gojo satoru x reader

you understand that some things in marriage just needs compromise. and he soon understands too, when you're at your most vulnerable and he fails to be by your side when you need him the most

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship (you're married & have a son!) argument, feral gojo, mentions of injury & blood, fluff

note: if it isn't obvious by now i'm in the mood of angst-hurt/comfort this week HEHE :)) this is longer than the usual love entry, so i hope you'll enjoy it!

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Bantering with your husband is not uncommon―in fact, it happens on daily basis.

"Satoru― I'm talking to you!"

But having serious arguments with him is another matter entirely.

Your fists tightening at your sides, facing his unamused expression. How insufferable is he? You told him that everyday, but right now, he's truly surpassed previous levels of infuriating behavior.

"And I can hear you, sweetheart," he retorted, casting a glance your way. The term of endearment he used for you sounding almost like a sneer to your ears and you felt offended.

"I don't think you're taking this seriously," you griped, trying to calm your emotions, still balling your hands. "Someone is following our son on his way back from school―how can you be this... flippant?!"

Numerous photograph of your son exiting the school building from different angles had arrived in your mailbox, and if it wasn't a creepy warning from those who placed a target on his back, then you didn't know what it was.

Satoru let out an exasperated grunt. "I'm telling you, I'll pick him up for the rest of the week. No one will lay a hand on him."

You gritted your teeth. "And I'm telling you, they're trying to make you do just that. Even morons know not to mess with you― they're leaving hints, and you're taking the bait!"

Contrary to what you believed, Satoru felt just as worried as you upon knowing that someone might have marked his precious son, who was now six years old and had recently started attending preschool.

But this is where your approaches differ. You are always the cautious one, overanalyzing each detail, while he leans towards being impulsive, often resorting to brute force.

"Who do you think can stand a chance against me?" Satoru challenged with a real sneer this time. "Remember my words, wife, no one is going to hurt me, you or our baby. I'll end them where they stand."

"That's not the point!" you threw your hands in the air, irate. "Satoru, they're going to take advantage of―"

"Look, I don't want to argue with you." Satoru's gaze was hard on you, his tone clipped, and it made you stiffen. "His safety comes first— and you, of all people, should know I'd never let anything happen to him. You need to quit nitpicking and have a little faith in me."

"I know you are more than capable, but you are not―!"

And then he said it, and his words piercing through you like a knife―

"Don't compare me to you," your husband remarked a little too coldly. "I can do things you can't. Just rest your pretty head, I'll take care of the rest."

Nevermind that he blatantly dismissed your skills as a jujutsu sorcerer, nevermind that he totally didn't listen to you at all―he just went and made himself look like some sort unparalleled god, forgetting how much his hubris could actually take him.

And all these thoughts only made you angrier.

"So be it then." You tried desperately to hold yourself from shaking because you'd be damned if you showed it to him. "A word of advice, Satoru: beware of your arrogance."

With those words, you spun around, marching off toward your son's room, because no way in hell was you going to sleep with that obnoxious prick tonight.

But when you caught the sight of your baby scuttling away from the gap in the door, a fragment of your heart crumbled. Oh. He has seen it all.

In Gojo Satoru's mind, he is made of two things: a powerful jujutsu sorcerer and a family man.

With his immense strength, comes a certain responsibility. And with that responsibility, certain habits have formed. If you just took a few seconds to breathe and looked back throughout the past decade he'd spent with you, you'd know that in fact―

It was also his way to shield you. Satoru stands by the principle that you and his little boy must be protected at all cost, and he most certainly would pull all stops to do just that.

But frankly, he couldn't deny that he felt insulted by how defiant you were. Did you really think he would let anyone ever touch your―his―son? He wouldn't, they'd meet his wrath first and you should've known that.

Still, something akin to guilt nudged at his conscience as he lay alone in your shared bed that night. It felt strange not having you cuddling him. He felt empty.

. . .

None of your shampoo-scented pillow, none of your nightdresses, all of it replaced by a single photo hanging in the wall and the urn of ashes—

Abruptly, he jerked his eyes open, shaken from the most dreadful nightmare he had experienced—

Of you no longer by his side.

“Mama.” Your little boy looked up to you with his doe-blue eyes in the next day, his hand gripping yours. “I’ll be fine.”

You were accompanying him to the preschool. While Satoru had requested Ichiji to drive him, you insisted on tagging along to keep a watchful eye as well. You'd leave your husband to pick him up later just as he wanted.

“Huh?” you turned to him, tilting your head.

“I'll stick by Uncle Ichiji's side the entire time,” he replied in a murmur. “And papa will be picking me up too later. If there are bad guys, they'll get him first.”

You bit your lip, feeling a wave of guilt wash over you. Your boy witnessed your outburst last night and hadn't inquired about it until now, and even then, he was trying to reassure you.

“So… don’t fight.” His round, cerulean eyes then darted towards you, blinking hesitantly, causing you to catch your breath.

He looks so much like Satoru. At six years old, he was the spitting image of him, except his personality—he took after you in that area. It was as if your son was a softer, more innocent version of him. And your heart twisted, remembering your argument last night.

Don't compare me to you.

With a sigh, you bent down to be eye-level with him and managed a smile, holding both of his little hands. “I’m sorry… it was just misunderstanding last night, okay? Don’t worry.”

“…really?”

“Really. Mama and papa were just tired,” you tried to reason, a thin smile on your face. "It's going to be okay, just like you said, yeah? Papa will beat the bad guys out there."

“Will he pull through...? If they bring a knife, and he's just there laughing, they can cut him.”

A giggle escaped your lips at your baby's innocent wonderings, easing the ache in your heart as you recalled how Satoru humored him in so many ways.

You gently poked your son in the cheek. "Nah, do you remember what he always goes on about?"

He puffed up his cheeks in response, his expression turning sour as if combing through memories of hundreds of shenanigans Satoru had instigated to recall his words. You let out a hearty chuckle, finding him so adorable.

"He's strong, he's going to win. He always does."

"Oh. Mmm." Your son scrunched up his nose cutely, before looking away and squeezing your hand. A sincerer smile bloomed in your lips, heart melting at the sight of your growing munchkin.

You will protect him. And maybe you could patch things up with Satoru later that night. Maybe yesterday you were just too paranoid.

That was the plan... at least until your son suddenly screamed—someone wrenching him from your grasp. Without a second thought, you reacted, flipping the attacker away from you and him.

. . . and that was the beginning of how everything started to unravel so terribly that day.

"Gojo-san...! There's been an incident!"

He got that call right after he finished some things with Yaga. Satoru teleported to the preschool right away, only to be greeted by a scene of utter chaos.

Several teachers stood outside the building, and police officers were present at the scene. It was all a blur of cursed energy until his eyes caught sight of—

His little boy, red-faced and obviously in fear, was clinging to Ichiji, who was frantically making calls. Some teachers gathered around him were seemingly trying to coax him to speak.

He didn't waste a second to dash towards him, tearing through the crowd.

"Are you okay? Hey, buddy, what happened?" Satoru pulled him away from Ichiji and turned him over, crouching to his level to check for any signs of injury or harm.

And upon seeing him actually here, his son's eyes immediately welled up with tears, and Satoru felt a chill run through his veins as he broke into sobs, which quickly turned into heart-wrenching wails.

"Mama—! F-find mama—!" the little boy choked out through his tears, clutching onto his shirt tightly and crumbling in his embrace, thoroughly inconsolable.

Satoru's sharp gaze quickly swept over the scene, seeking any clues, while he tightened his hold over him. It was then he noticed traces of your cursed energy mingled with blood.

They hurt you.

"Hey, kiddo—listen to me, it's going to be alright, yeah?" Satoru said, gently pulling away to wipe away his tears, holding the boy's face tenderly in his hands. "Go with Ichiji for now, okay? I'm going to bring mama back, I promise."

He didn't need to be told twice. Your son is always obedient when it matters the most. He gave him a small nod, still shaking with tears.

"Don't worry," he flashed a reassuring smile and ruffled his hair. "I'm the strongest, remember? I'll get her back," he vowed once again. "She'll be fine. Wait for me until then, yeah?"

Ichiji was ready to leave as he had called for those in headquarters as backup in case anything were to happen again. Trusting him to keep his son safe, Satoru took off as soon as he could no longer see the sight of his son's tear-streaked face trying to watch him as the car pulled away.

"I won't repeat myself— where is my wife?"

Satoru wasn't playing this time. He skipped past taunts and just plain threats. These little fries, he thought.

The man he held by the throat was in a lot of distress. "Hyaaa! It's him! Please, please, let me go! I'm acting under orders!"

He then flung him across the wall— might have added more cursed energy than necessary.

At the moment, his entire focus was on trying to locate you. He couldn't let his mind wander to anything else; in fact, he didn't permit himself to.

It didn't take him long to piece together the general location of where you were through the residual of your cursed energy. They stationed several hooligans in this abandoned warehouse to stall him, but he got rid of them quickly and he could sense that you were close by.

"It's Gojo Satoru!"

"Run! Ruuuun!"

What a pain. They picked the wrong person to mess with, and Satoru's lips curled into a manic grin as he opened his palm, pulling them in—

"Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue."

Chaos erupted as the building collapsed around him. He hoped you would realize he was here and manage to avoid getting caught in the wreckage. He was sure you'd know though.

And true to his thoughts, soon he found you— blasting your attacker away with a powerful kick.

Satoru thought that you were a sight to behold, really. And he was about to call out to you when he felt it.

It happened almost in an instant. The way his heart dropped to his stomach, and how his body reacted, barely whispering the incantation for Red as he shot it at something lurking behind you—

At that moment, the only thing you were aware of was the foul stench of a curse. Time seemed to stop before the overwhelming force of Red expelled it away from you.

But before then, you experienced a searing, white-hot pain that scorched through your flesh and pierced your abdomen—

"Y/N―fuck―!" The voice that came from Satoru's throat was raw and laden with panic.

He pulled you against him protectively as you collapsed, blinded by pain. He immediately felt warmth spreading across his lower body—your blood was rapidly drenching his shirt, and he felt a shiver down his spine.

You held onto him tightly while suppressing your scream, feeling every bit of your strength drain away along with the dark crimson blood that poured out of you.

"―toru―" you managed to croak amidst the scalding pain, curling and whimpering in his hold.

"Hey― sweetheart, please―" his voice rang in your ears, as he pressed down on your wound. His hands were shaking, and you clawed at him and groaned in agony. "I-I'm taking you back now��� You're going to be alright, yeah?"

The wound was beyond anything you had experienced before, causing you to cry out and gasp for air. It was almost as if something fried your insides. It was hard to stay conscious.

"I've got you now. You're going to be okay." His voice was coarse, as he hurriedly carried you out. And he tried not to let the full-blown panic take over him when your body went limp in his arms, your breaths slowing, head lolling in his chest.

"You're going to be alright! You hear me, sweetheart? You're going to make it. Our baby― he's waiting for you. I promise you, you're going to be fine―"

Perhaps he was trying to tell that to himself, because despite the excruciating pain, a wave of reassurance washed over you.

You were in the arms of the strongest sorcerer alive, what more could you possibly afraid of?

A special grade curse. They had actually unleashed a potent curse and likely aimed at him as their final card—until it veered off course and struck you, leaving a searing gash across your abdomen.

Satoru felt numb as he sat in the waiting room in his bloodied uniform. You got hurt so terribly right in front of his eyes, and all he could feel was this profound void that seemed to bore through him and pierced his soul.

He was supposed to protect you. He said it to your face that nothing and no one would touch your son, and it was in his wedding vows that he'd protect you with his life too.

And yet what happened?

If only he was faster. If only he was able to pull you to him and protect you with his infinity—none of this shit would have happened.

Seeing your face twisted in agony and smeared with blood made him feel sick to his stomach. Inside that OR, you hovered on the brink of life and death, and he was here, unable to do anything.

Satoru rested his head against the wall, feeling a sharp pain surge through his chest. He remembered waking up to your face every morning, the way your touches felt, and how you had brightened his world for the past decade. If he lost you now... he wouldn't survive it. He would wreck anything, everything—

"Papa!" and came his voice of reason. Satoru immediately discarded his bloodstained jacket by instinct, throwing it away before his boy could see it, with Ichiji and Megumi closely trailing behind.

His son crashed himself into him and threw his little arms around his torso, crying—and in that very second, the thump of his heart sounded louder in his ears. Somehow it felt like a knife that twisted his insides.

"Hey, kiddo." Satoru repositioned him so that he would sit on his lap and hugged him, patting him in the back. "There, there... it's alright, yeah? Mama is inside, she'll get better soon."

Your little boy pulled away and wiped his eyes, and Satoru chuckled as he helped him blow his nose. His child was incredibly adorable, and his actions mirrored yours to such an extent that it made Satoru's heart soften.

"Mama g-got hurt trying to... tell me to g-go..." the boy suddenly said amidst his quieter sniffles. "And... she s-said... papa— i-is strong and g-going to win..."

You believe in him. Ignoring the ache in his chest, only able to reply him with a "Yeah..."

Not long after, Shoko emerged from the operating room and informed him that the surgery had been successful, though you would likely need to have a one-week stay in the hospital for observation. He intended to move you to the VIP suite and stay the night there, but then he remembered his son, who was holding his hand.

Satoru crouched down and patted him in the head, fixing him a smile. "See? Mama is okay, but she needs to sleep here to get even better. Now you go home first with big brother Megumi, yeah?"

Your son adored Megumi and often begged you to let him stay over at his place, but this time he looked hesitant, fiddling with his little fingers. "Really? Mama will be home... soon?"

"Mm-hmm, the more she sleeps here, the faster she'll go back home, alright?"

And with that, his baby nodded and Satoru turned to Megumi with a nod. "Thank you for this, Megumi."

The boy whose life he had once saved on some sort of a whim, now grown up and shared the same concern he had for you, Fushiguro Megumi had never before witnessed his benefactor expressing such sincere gratitude for anything before.

When you came to, your body felt as heavy as lead.

The discomfort in your abdomen made you flinch, and you almost let out a groan until you turned to your side and saw him.

Satoru was asleep while sitting in the sofa next to your bed, dark circles evident under his eyes. It might have been your imagination, but his cheeks appeared to be slightly red too.

You tried to recall what had happened to you when it came back—you urging your son to run away as you let yourself being taken away, almost escaping from that warehouse, the flash of excruciating pain, and Satoru's stricken voice.

So he must've been here since last night. Any remnants of your disagreement seemed to have vanished, seeing him there with you, barely covering himself with the blanket, with a frown still marking his forehead even in his sleep.

You wanted to reach out to him until the movement sent a sharp jab to your stomach and you cried out a bit.

In that split second, Satoru's eyes jerked open, and realizing you were awake, his gaze locked onto yours. "Y/N—" But your strained whimper and expression told him everything. "Does it hurt? I-I'll get Shoko, wait—"

And then he hit the call button. Throughout it all, he kept a firm grip on your hand for reassurance. A few minutes later, Shoko arrived and examined your wound, subsequently administering painkillers to alleviate your discomfort.

"It's going to leave a scar," she explained grimly, showing the mangled skin where the curse had made its mark on you, and seeing that, Satoru clenched his fists.

Shoko sighed, empathizing with her friend's frustration. "It's going to fade with time, don't worry. You did well, Gojo. You brought her here quickly. Had you been even slightly later, there could have been an irreversible damage to her organs."

But your husband remained quiet, unable to bring himself to look at you. And after she left, you tried to finally voice your question to him.

"O-our—"

"He's fine," Satoru immediately answered, squeezing your hand. "Our boy is fine. I'll tell Megumi to visit later—he's with him."

A sigh of relief came out of you. "Thank... goodness."

But his expression seemed to fall even further after hearing your response. Satoru settled himself on the seat next to you and lowered the rail on your bed, allowing you to be even closer to each other.

"Do you not feel any pain anymore?" he asked then, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. He looked so sad, a stark contrast of how he usually was, and it bugged you.

"No... I feel fine now."

"Then, can I hug you?"

Of course you nodded without a second thought, and carefully, he wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you close and resting his face on the crook of your neck.

You knew what it was. Satoru was still visibly shaken by what had happened to you, and he wasn't great at expressing himself, so he tried to find consolation through this physical closeness instead.

"I'm okay..." you patted his back, trying to convince him. "I'm alright now, yeah?" But to your surprise, suddenly his whole body started to shake. "Satoru...?"

“…’m sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he nuzzled you. “I shouldn't... have let you get this hurt...”

It always amazes you how Satoru always gets this distressed whenever you sustain any injury. You had seen him cry precisely two times now—once after you gave birth to your son and experienced severe bleeding, and now.

"It's not your fault..." you whispered in response. "You... have protected me well."

He held you tighter, his tone faltering. "I didn't."

"You have..." you stroked his hair, trying to convince him. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Hearing you say that made Satoru's chest ache. The thought of something like this happening to you was unimaginable, and now that it had, he couldn't come to terms with seeing you hurt right in front of him.

"Don't—" he choked on his voice, his breath trembled against your neck. "Don't ever put yourself in danger again. If something happened to you, I wouldn't be able to live with myself..."

You couldn't make that promise. Despite the pleading in his voice, you knew deep down that your son's life—and his—meant more, and given the chance, you would obviously save theirs for yours.

“Satoru... I love you, you know that, right?”

So you simply embraced him close, hoping that in this life, you would live long enough that he would never have to see you like this again.

Epilogue

"Papa, how do I become stronger?"

Satoru blinked when his son asked him that so innocently and curiously, taken aback as he led him to your private room later that afternoon. "Oh? What brought this on?"

His first and only son, a perfect miniature of himself, pursed his lips. "I don't want Mama to get hurt again..."

Satoru's heart warmed at his baby’s sincere words, and despite himself, he chuckled.

"What's funny?" his son leveled a glare at him. "I'm being serious."

"Well, aren't you such a good boy? Don't worry, kiddo, I'll teach you my ways~"

"What ways?"

"Well, no need to rush, pumpkin. First of all, you will have to harness your skills and then you have to be more like me—"

"Do I have to be like you…? Is there no other way?"

"—? What's wrong with being more like me?"

"Everything...?"

[whisperedmeg]

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he’s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[superhoeva]

aaaaaand I want Rick Grimes to bend me over a tree stump and fuck me after he survives a fight, with who idk, but all that adrenaline would make him feral and I want to be on the receiving end of it. 👏👏👏

tw(s): smut (+18), p in v sex, rough sex, irritated!big dick!rick, f!reader, blood (mentioned), fighting (mentioned), bodily fluids (mentioned); set sometime during the s5!alexandria period (where rick is lowkey outta his mind and more often than not covered in blood lol) ⋆·˚ ༘ * word count: 0.8k

Rick looks straight out of a nightmare–face caked in blood that isn't his, shoulders tight, and rutting his dick into you with barely contained growls of self-indulgence.

You don’t know who he had fought or why, yet the adrenaline is still wafting from him at an incredible speed. It surges throughout his entire self, pulsing with a heated vengeance as he snaps his hips against you, hand keeping you pressed into the half-broken stump of a tree the two of you had stumbled upon.

Target practice was all he’d grumbled to Deanna when she’d asked what business he had outside the wall, not bothering with explaining himself any further before calling for you to join though a simple With me.

‘Target practice.’ It’d make you laugh if the tip of Rick’s cock wasn’t ramming itself into your innermost terrains. Splitting you open so deeply that he has to cup a hand around your mouth to muffle the groans that punch out of your chest.

He’s pissed, you can tell. Not at you particularly, and, in fact, you’re the only thing that’s keeping the bubbling anger at the bottom of his stomach just that–still there but simmerming low enough to keep his head more often than not. These people, with their dinner parties and their haircuts and their leaving the tower empty, should be lucky you’re here. Glad that Rick has the opportunity to channel his dissatisfaction into this eye-rolling, ferocious stroke. Reserved only for you and the way your ass looks when it smacks back into him.

“They got not fuckin’ idea what they’re doin’ here, do they?” Rick growls the question quietly, not bothering to listen for an answer. He gets like this when he fucks you sometimes… growly and babbling with no filter, under a pussy induced trance. (His pussy Rick had declared one day.) “Deceivin’ themselves into thinkin’ they’re safe when they can’t even man their walls. But not you, though–nah, you get it. You get me, you help me… keep me sane ‘n warm. Make sure the group feels loved and secure, keepin’ us together. Keepin’ me together…”

Rick is panting, and you’re weeping out noises into his hand now; at his words and the slick gathering along his girth. Moving his other hand from your back, Rick wraps his arm around your front and forces you upwards. Groaning at the new angle, he quickens his pace with an exactness that weakens your knees. Desperate huffs of air peppering out of him, the man fucks you with a fervor that forewarns you to how close he’s getting. How badly he needs you to cream your mess while he’s stuffed inside you like this.

God, he’s huge. Rubbing against your walls with veins that track his entire length. Thick head stretching and punching you a total of four more times before he has to cover your mouth again, vacuuming your wails into his rough palm. He has to bite his tongue a few seconds after, the squeezing and gushing of your hole enough to milk out the thick, filling ropes of his cum. Rick grunts his way through it, cock pulsing hard enough to force his mouth open with unsteady groans. He gives you one last solid thrust before letting himself stay tucked inside your drooling heat.

“God,” Rick breathes, bending to bury his face inside your neck. He’ll explain the blood that rubs off onto your skin to whoever questions it with ease. Walkers. She handled it, though. Just like always. Shaking his head, he laughs a little. A bit calmer now that he’s fucked out his indignations. You’ve eased his troubles, just by being you. “Pussy like this doesn’t make much sense, darlin’.”

You let the quiet stand as your answer, Rick patting your side tenderly before easing out his softening cock.

Neither of you say very much as you regain your breaths. Rick pulls up your panties and cargos. You button and zip his jeans, the man barely letting you finish the action before reaching to cup your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks and he stares at you hard. Not blinking and watching you scan the mess of his face.

“Better?” You finally question, soft and already-knowing. Rick puffs a laugh, lips quirking with a half-smile. Sniffing, he nods… and then nods again because he’s completely certain of his answer.

“Mm-hmm… always am with you,” he eases out. “Didn’t rock ya too hard, did I?”

“Might need to hold your arm for the walk back,” you tease, pulling a wide grin from Rick. “But I think I’ll live.”

“Yeeeah, you better,” he drawls, moving to peck your lips. When you dodge the kiss, Rick pouts into a fake frown. “What, you don’t like me, now?”

A chuckle shakes his chest when you shove him away with a drunk grin. “You’re filthy.”

“You never cared ‘bout that before.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, turning and starting a half-hidden limp in the direction of the commune. “Changed my mind. Don’t like you.”

Rick takes two quick strides to meet your pitiful pace, swatting his hand right onto your ass, and smirking at the squeal you let out. You're nudged into his side, arm automatically looping with his as you keep walking. Keeping you close. Tight.

“Hm. Pussy says otherwise, sugar...”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[muletia]

✧˖° 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍

[tfp] synth-en!obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader 18+ content/valveplug

cw: possessiveness, jealousy, top!optimus (he can top you once. as a treat <3), subish!optimus (kinda...), reader matches his freak, explicit valveplug, rough sex, overstimulation, breast play, no aftercare?, mention of ratchet's human partner (which is actually different reader lmao)

word count: 5100

sorry it took me so long to write this bitch; i had to rewrite everything three times before I was satisfied. also, don't expect an overly toxic optimus. i decided to stick as close to canon as possible while giving him just a pinch of freakiness, horniness and aggression

Optimus's servo smeared with energon shoots forward, locking around the helm of the nearest Vehicon. Behind him, Bumblebee and Bulkhead fire at the enemies guarding the energon cubes deeper within the cave, forcing the Decepticon soldiers to focus on them rather than on the exposed Optimus, whose servo grips the helm in a death embrace. Prime presses the enemy further against the cold, unyielding wall, just as unrelenting, securing against any escape before tightening his digits. They tremble for a moment, battling against metal, but it does not remain defiant for long. It yields to his strength, bends, gives way, until at last, completely crumples beneath his bare servo, spraying energon straight onto Optimus’s masked faceplate.

Violence is an inescapable shackle of war. Unyielding and inevitable. Optimus loathed violence, despised it, resisted using it, forcing himself only in the rarest of circumstances.

But there was not a trace of reluctance in the way he killed the Vehicon. This was not a wartime obligation or a fight for survival — it was murder. A deliberate act, cold and devoid of sympathy for mere cannon fodder, judging by how nonchalantly Optimus shakes the still-warm energon off his servo, all the while scanning for his next target.

“Bossbot?” Bulkhead asks, but the concern in his voice does not reach Optimus’s audials.

The Autobot leader’s entire focus is on the three remaining Vehicons, bravely defending two carts loaded with energon. On future victims, sacks to unload his uncharacteristic aggression upon. He wants to feel metal yielding beneath his servo again. To plunge his arm into a chassis and tear out a still-beating spark; to experience warm energon coating his entire frame. To break his own moral backbone, free himself, to finally taste victory in an era of failures.

He wants to live, to be free, rid himself of the restrictions he imposed upon himself eons ago. Optimus wants to kill Megatron and bring you his helm impaled upon his blade, for he is finally ready for absolute victory. But he also wants you. To devour, drown in, possess. Now, while the energon on his frame is still warm, while he can allow himself to indulge, while he feels like a god.

The fact that he cannot have you only stokes the unrestrained aggression further.

A storm of emotions swirls within him, spinning through his processor, through spark, and behind the interface panel, tormenting the spike swollen with thoughts of you, until Optimus finally lets rage and hatred win. Allows them to consume him completely and take control over every fiber of his being, including the most hidden, most private parts.

“Cover me!” he throws out a scrap of rationality before charging forward with a speed unsettlingly unnatural for a being of such immense power and height.

With only a few strides, he closes the distance between himself and the promise of liberation, dodging blaster shots raining down from ahead and behind, until he reaches the soldiers still fighting valiantly. He grabs the nearest one in his servo while seamlessly switching the other one to the blade, effortlessly slicing through the helm of a second Vehicon. Digits clench, repeating the sensation of his strength from before, still relishing in the pleasure of breaking free from the chains of nobility. More hot energon splatters onto his tainted frame.

The last surviving Vehicon fights bravely to the bitter end, trying to aim his blaster straight at Optimus’s exposed helm, but he is not granted the chance to strike. Prime releases the headless body of the other soldier and immediately turns his attention to him, predator locking onto his next prey. Before the shot can fire, his blade plunges directly into the Vehicon’s spark, snuffing out his meager, meaningless existence.

Optimus watches the body slide off his energon-coated blade and crumple onto the ground. Only then does it cease to interest him, to hold any value.

Yet, he does not feel satisfied. He still has the strength to fight, craves more enemies to extinguish. He is ready to face Unicron himself, the synthetic energon coursing through his lines whispering that he would win such a battle. He would triumph over anyone. Unstoppable. A god.

“Is that all of them?” he asks, a flicker of hope for more lingering in his voice. He needs to release this energy, to focus his pulsing, muddled processor on something simple. Something that will grant him relief from his hunger, no matter its origin.

“Yes,” Bumblebee replies. Despite his unease over their leader’s state, he adds, “All the energon is ours.”

“Bossbot,” Bulkhead tries again, “are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Exquisite, Bulkhead,” Prime responds, his tone bored, completely uninterested in continuing the conversation.

His thoughts have already shifted to someone else. Someone softer, sweeter.

His spike throbs irritatingly, demanding attention it will have to wait a little longer for.

Optimus presses his digits to his audials, unbothered by the energon staining them, and adds, “I am sending coordinates for the ground bridge. Be quick.”

He retracts his battle mask and turns toward his teammates.

“Gather as much energon as you can carry,” he instructs them, but the words are not truly for them. He is absent, lost in unreachable contemplation.

His optics, now a furious green, stare ahead, fixed on the point where the ground bridge will appear, each nanoklik of delay eroding his fragile patience. He clenches his servos into fists, trying to focus on that sensation, to concentrate on anything that will quell the irritation of waiting. Waiting until he can return to you and see you again.

Yet, he would not refuse one more Decepticon. The energon on his frame is beginning to cool, becoming nothing more than an echo of the euphoria of unchained rage. He had felt its effects for too short a time. Was not granted the full release of all the filth accumulated over eons of functioning on traditional, insufficient energon — and he wants more. Needs more. Wants to hear the clang of metal against metal again, to see the sparks and feel them ignite another fight; to witness how easily his enemies break beneath his might.

He tilts his helm slightly toward Bulkhead. A strong soldier — he would surely pose a challenge. Perhaps he could toy with him for a moment before hurling him across the cave with a single strike, indulging in his restless need to move, to act.

Their gazes meet for a brief moment, and Optimus sees hesitation in Bulkhead’s step. Uncertainty. A shadow of fear that reassures him of his own invincibility. He smirks triumphantly, even though their battle was only a fantasy.

But it could be real. Would you be proud of him if he took Bulkhead down with one hand? Finally proved his strength, impressed you with his power? He imagines you praising him. A simple “my good mech” rings loud in his processor, but its electrifying effect quickly travels downward, teasing his spike, reminding him just how much he needs you. How desperately he wants to be with you.

His pedes shift impatiently.

He prays to Primus that you are in the base right now. He does not trust himself at this moment to believe he could endure even a few more kliks apart without killing someone with his bare servos.

At last, the darkness of the cave is swept away by the flash of the Ground Bridge. Without waiting for the others, Optimus strides through first, each impatient step bringing him closer to you — until he is met with the familiar sight of the silo. And in the middle of it, standing on a lower platform, is you, seemingly engaged in a pleasant conversation with Arcee, judging by your warm smile.

You say something to the femme, a few words before your attention shifts to him, and you freeze upon seeing the energon staining his frame. As if you were afraid of him, though it is not your shock that truly irks him.

No, it is the fact that you were talking to Arcee, smiling at her, giving her attention that she does not deserve. Because it is he who is your partner, your lover, your soulmate, your future conjunx, and it is he who deserves your affection. He should be the only bot in your life, and this determination, this jealousy pricking at his spark, leads him straight to you, ignoring Arcee’s greeting and attempt to ask a question.

With measured gentleness, a fleeting echo of his former self, he scoops you into his servo and lifts you to his faceplate.

“Optimus, wait!” you plead, but your words do not reach him.

He presses you against the warm, energon-free metal along his intake, securing your back with two digits to prevent any attempts at escape. Like a cat seeking affection, he nuzzles against you a few times, rubbing your entire body and ruining your clothes and hair in the process.

The softness that envelops him soothes his jealousy. Not completely, for he would prefer a far less innocent form of touch, eagerly anticipating that moment, but it is enough to satiate, if only slightly, his hunger for you.

But only for a moment, because he quickly grows bored of simple cuddling. With his thumb, he tugs your shirt upward, revealing a stretch of beautiful, velvet skin, immediately pressesing his intake against it, leaving small but eager kisses.

“Optimus! Optimus, wait!” Your sweet voice quells the hatred and fury within him, but it awakens a different craving, one that has nothing to do with ripping Decepticons apart with his bare servos.

The way you call his name is beautiful. Desperate. But in the mania of his desire, he cannot tell whether it is pleasure or fear that laces your voice. What he does know, is that he needs to hear it again, but in a more private setting. In the seclusion of your quarters within the base, where the only interactions you would be allowed to have would be with him. Where only he would be granted the privilege of experiencing your melodious voice, your laughter, and your pleasure.

With his goal clearly defined, his pedes carry him towards your quarters of their own accord. He forgets about the energon still splattered across his frame — the deadly harvest of synthetic energon — and about his teammates, who continue to watch him in silent horror. His world narrows to you, to the sound of your voice still calling his name, to your occasional laughter whenever his intake tickles a particularly sensitive spot on your stomach. That is all that matters to him in this moment. That is the only thing of importance.

The only problem he is willing to concern himself with right now is the spike pressing painfully against the walls of its cage.

"Optimus!" You try once more. More forcefully, with enough anger and accusation to tear him from his trance of desire. His optics break away from your stomach, and he looks at you with a distant gaze. Yet he has no intention of stopping the way he’s caressing your body. Primus, he wants to devour you so badly. "Can you finally stop?!"

He obeys your demand, watching with invisible amusement as you sigh in relief. His intake remains on you, lips brushing against skin with feathery delicacy, dangerously close to your crotch. He knows he's overstepping, going too far, but he can't pull himself away from you, lost in visions of the future, in mass displacement, in the full-fledged idea of drowning in you.

His glossa, as if it had a mind of its own, slips out from his intake. The tip of his Cybertronian tongue grazes your navel, timidly trailing downward—but before Optimus makes a mistake he will regret for the rest of his life, he feels a kick against his cheek.

Your kick.

Weak, faint, one easily mistaken for an angry kiss, but firm enough to make him retract his glossa. And most importantly, it finally gives you a chance to say something longer than just sweetly crying out his name.

"Christ, why are you so pent-up today?"

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle. I withered with longing, waiting until I could finally hold you in my servo." He opens up to you, finally gathering the strength and courage to do so. Even if his boldness is artificial.

"I'm glad to hear that, but you've gotten a bit ahead of yourself, my love."

Love. His optics widen slightly, as if that pet name were entirely new to him. And in a way, it was. Because its use reignites the urge to rush to your cozy four walls and beg you to feed him "dearest," "beloved," and "sweetspark" until he goes mad.

"Optimus." A foreign voice pierces through the veil of sweetness, pulling him away from you. Something he cannot accept. His faceplate, unusually expressive today, freezes with irritation because he does not want to be Optimus for anyone but you right now.

Debates ignoring the bitter call, returning his thoughts and attention to you, but a quick assessment of your irritated and rather dissatisfied expression convinces him that, this time, he should at least pretend to care about his teammates. He sincerely hopes you will reward him later for the magnanimity he is about to show them.

Still holding you close to his faceplate but covering more of you with digits to shield his treasure from prying optics, Optimus turns to Arcee, the one who had called him earlier.

"What matter requires my immediate attention, Arcee?" he asks in a sharp tone, so unlike the familiar and beloved gentle giant that it chills your blood.

Arcee must have felt something similar, as she narrows her eyes warily but does not yield under the pressure of her leader's anger.

"Ratchet left the hangar a few Earth hours ago. I can’t locate him, he’s not appearing on the radar or responding to comms."

"So he's with his partner," Optimus replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, clearly bored with the conversation.

"What makes you so sure? He mentioned going after Megatron himself. He could just as easily be dead or held prisoner on Megatron’s ship!"

"Arcee is right," you interject. "This isn't something to dismiss so easily."

Optimus sighs, exasperated. This is not how he envisioned spending his time with you. Did not expect to find so many obstacles standing between him and the sweet reward for reclaiming the mine.

"Check his human’s home first," Prime insists. "If he isn’t there, which is as close to impossible as can be, only then do you contact me. Is that clear?"

Arcee studies Optimus with a watchful gaze for a moment but, finding only cold, impenetrable stone, gives up on further argument. For a brief second, her optics shift to you in gratitude for speaking up for her, something that Optimus does not entirely approve of. He shields you further with his servo, a possessive movement, blocking you from any foreign gazes or interaction. At the same time, he straightens his back to appear even larger than he already is.

Today, you belong only to him.

"Fine," Arcee hisses. "Who should I take on recon?"

"Anyone," Optimus says. He ends the conversation by turning on his heel and continuing down the corridor.

His intake returns to nipping at your stomach, but this time, he does so more aggressively. Faster, as if trying to rid himself of the frustration gnawing at him while ensuring that all of your attention remains solely on him. The tip of his thumb starts to toy with the waistband of your pants, attempting to make up for the seconds lost discussing his best friend. In response, you deliver another kick to him.

This time, he finds it utterly adorable.

"Do you really not care what’s happening with Ratchet? You know, your best friend?"

"I feel no need to concern myself with Ratchet’s condition when he himself informed me of his whereabouts."

"What makes you so sure he got held up there?"

"Because I now understand how he felt, rushing home to his beloved when they accidentally called him. Because I feel exactly the same way at this very moment."

His keen optics do not miss the faint blush that blooms across your cheeks.

Primus. Grant him the strength not to devour you right here and now.

"Wait." You speak. You breathe a sigh of relief when he obeys your command, stopping right in front of the newly installed Cybertronian showers. He lifts an optical ridge, prompting you to continue.

"Could you at least wash the energon off yourself?"

"I am heading to the washracks," he states calmly. "I assume you wish to join me."

You nearly choke on your own saliva.

"Later. I have a feeling I’ll need them more later," you reply, and Optimus has to resist the sudden urge to abandon the washracks entirely and rip your clothes to shreds right here and now.

Divine intervention (your words) is the only thing preventing him from completely destroying both his and your reputation.

One last time before your brief separation, he presses a kiss to your stomach.

"I assure you, I will not take long. Wait for me in your quarters."

"As you wish, Opti."

Primus once again tested his self-control.

You shut the door and immediately press your back against it, needing even a second of respite from everything that just happened.

"I have dreamed of you for an entire solar cycle…"

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

Overwhelmed by his unusual assertiveness, you cover your burning cheeks with your hands. But you don’t stay in that position for long, realizing that your blush is nearly as hot as his intake, his glossa. You can still feel the remnants of his kisses on your stomach and the desperation he poured into them. The hot breath that, over and over again, enveloped your bare skin.

You can’t escape from those thoughts, drifting on the edge of madness, wondering what happened to your dignity that his hunger made you feel like a lovestruck teenager.

Who swapped your Optimus for this pent-up, horny beast?

And most importantly, why didn't you mind at all?

In an attempt to regain control over your body and thoughts that were drifting into the near future, you decide to occupy yourself with something. Anything, as long as it is quick and allows you to gather yourself while you wait for his return.

Once again, your mind returns to the searing heat of the glossa working on your stomach. Taking a deep, reassuring breath, you head towards the cabinet and pull out a glass.

Yes, water will do you good, cooling the fire and restoring clarity to your thoughts. Especially since it is only now that you realize the dryness in your throat. Then, you will unpack your clothes from the suitcase. Mhm, that’s a good plan, you think, taking a sip of water. You will certainly have enough time to change out of your old hoodie and sweatpants into something more befitting of Optimus Prime — even if the concept of fashion was still an enigma to him, not entirely comprehensible.

Reaching for the bottle again, planning to pour yourself another drink, you freeze with the glass at your lips as the door suddenly swings open. And through it steps none other than a mass-displaced Optimus Prime, leaving you dumbfounded.

"It hasn't even been five minutes!"

Now free of energon but still dripping water in a few places, he closes the door behind him. "Forgive me, my dearest, but I was compelled to hasten my return," he says.

You finish your water and place the glass at the far end of the counter, cursing internally that your plan has just crumbled due to his untamed excitement. "It’s fine. But seriously, you could’ve at least given me two more minu…tes."

The words die in your throat as you feel hundreds of kilograms of living metal pressing against your rear, pinning you to the kitchen counter. Apparently uncertain of the effectiveness of his trap, Optimus places a servo on the cold marble as well, blocking your escape from the side.

Not that you were planning to escape, really.

"I could not wait any longer for us to be alone," he whispers directly into your ear, warm breath subtly stirring your hair. "I need you, sweetspark."

The unfamiliar passion in his deep, thick voice plays with your skin, sending a wave of goosebumps down your spine.

You should feel alarmed — you know this well. Instinct urges you to try and flee, to break free from the predator, but you cannot. Because the truth is, you do not want to move. You want to take advantage of this small shift in your dynamic. To channel his fervor toward your own needs, burning, pulsing, demanding his spike.

"I need you too," you say, adopting a low, raspy tone that does not contrast with your quickened breath. You turn to face him, only to be immediately consumed by the green glow of his optics, which seem to burn even brighter than usual. Optimus presses his hips against you more firmly, and even through the layer of sweatpants, you can feel that he is on fire.

He leans over you, a servo curling around the back of your head, and finally, he devours you, his heated intake sealing over your lips. He kisses you ravenously, greedily, as if he had been starving for centuries, setting a pace you struggle to keep up with. You try, chasing after his intake as it leaves kisses on your lips over and over again, but it proves futile when Optimus decides to trace a path downward. He attacks the corner of your mouth, your chin, and the edge of your jaw before moving to your neck, leaving several quick kisses before pausing for a moment.

"I can endure no longer," he whispers, and to confirm his words, he gently bites the skin on the side of your neck, only to immediately soothe the mark with the tip of his glossa. "[Name], I beg you, if I do not ram my spike into you this instant, I am convinced I will explode," he confesses.

With processor turned to mush and need surging through his circuits, Optimus opens his interface panel. His engorged spike, already dripping pink transfluid from its tip, presses against your stomach, rubbing against the fabric and leaving, thankfully washable, rosy streaks. You cannot tear your gaze away from this pathetically shameless display, basking in the heat of his desire.

"Are you particularly attached to your current coverings?" he asks, snapping you out of your trance.

"No, um, not really. Why?"

"I am pleased to hear that," he replies.

He grips the loose fabric of your sweatpants and, with a single motion, tears them in half, leaving you clad only in your ruined, slick underwear. But not for long. Your panties meet the same fate as your sweatpants, joining the shredded fabric on the floor beneath your feet.

The sight of your heat shatters the deadly seriousness of his faceplate as Optimus smiles, satisfied. At last, he has reached the climax of his journey, having pushed through the jungle of team complications and the forced visit to the washracks. But for a sight as breathtaking as this, for the intoxicating scent of your desire seeping into his intake and clouding his processor, and, above all, for you, it had all been worth it.

"Exquisite," he murmurs, unable to tear his optics away from your valve, even as you struggle to remove your hoodie and bra. "I am the most fortunate mech in the history of Cybertron."

Without warning, he grips your thighs and lifts you into the air, ignoring your startled yelp, which quickly transforms into a delighted giggle. And Primus, if that was not the most beautiful sound in the universe… Optimus would have crushed every Decepticon into dust if it meant you enjoyed this mere glimpse of his strength.

He aligns the tip of his spike with your burning entrance, teasing your wet lips with a single subtle touch that nearly drives him to overload. But he wants to last. He must, though he knows his stamina will not grant him mercy tonight.

"Optimus," you try, "maybe we could move to the bed, huh?"

"Forgive my impatience, my dearest," he responds, "but I fear I can endure no longer."

"Mhm, alrighhh… ah!"

With a fluid motion, he slides his thick spike into you, fitting two puzzle pieces into perfect unity.

"Primus, [Name]!" he gasps.

His sharpened senses push him down the path of madness.

Your walls tighten around his spike, welcoming your lover with affectionate reverence, and Optimus is overtaken by a profound sense of belonging and rightness, as if, after a long day’s work, he has finally come home. Buried deep within you, lost in the nearly claustrophobic sensation of your tight heat enveloping his spike, he dares to believe that this place is more comforting than Cybertron itself. And if this were to be your daily reality, he would have no objections to remaining on Earth for eternity.

"Opti, ah, fuck…" you try, slightly dazed by the sheer enormity of him stretching you out. Secured by the servos gripping your thighs, you allow yourself to wrap your arms around his neck, bringing yourself closer to the ocean of green. Being this near, you have the impression that the alien color of his optics is about to swallow you whole. Which is not far from the truth when Optimus begins kissing your collarbones, lightly nipping at your skin, trying not to lose his mind while waiting for your magic words.

"You can move, sweetheart."

The roar of his engine makes it clear — he is beyond delighted to hear that.

"As you wish," he growls against your skin.

The liberation he feels at finally being able to pump his spike into your heat is exquisite, yet treacherous, for Optimus cannot restrain himself from setting a fast pace. His hips ram into yours over and over, savoring the sight of the slight bulge moving across your stomach and the wet sounds of transfluid mixing with your juices — the most intimate union of two species. He is burning up, overheating, but even that pales in comparison to the molten lava that sears him inside your valve. If he cared enough, he might worry that you would melt him, truly fusing you both into one.

"Holy Primus," he pants, digging his digits deeper into the flesh of your rear. In response to the slight sting, you tighten your arms around his neck. "I am not pulling out of you tonight. Not even for a single nanoklik."

"Hah, w-what the hell did that synthetic energon…" you start, but a single powerful thrust momentarily robs you of speech. Seeking balance and clarity, you press your forehead against the cool glass of his chassis, but the tremors Optimus sends through your entire body do not allow you to stay there for long. "…do to you? Where did my mech, the one who begged for the strap, disappear to?"

"He is… s-still here," he assures you, purring with delight as he feels your slick, gummy walls clench around his spike, practically milking him with every drag. With such encouragement from your body, he cannot afford to slow down, determined to grant you a climax that will make you see stars. Or rather, one of your first orgasms. "If you so desire, hrrn, you may see him later."

"I don't think I'll, fuck, have the strength for anything later," you reply, words constantly broken by moans or gasps for breath.

"A-a pity, hah! I had hoped that you, too, might manage to wear me out."

You feel the shape of a smirk against the skin of your neck, where his faceplate is currently nestled. Bastard — you think, but cannot stay angry at him for long when every thrust sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body. From the crown of your head to your curled-up toes. Optimus is lucky that his spike is so impossibly large. Otherwise, he would be treading on very thin ice tonight — something he proves moments later that he is more than willing to risk.

"My dearest," he murmurs into your neck. The involuntary clench of the softest valve he has ever known in his long life tells him that you enjoy his possessiveness. And what kind of servant would he be if he did not fulfill his master's every desire? "My most beloved. Mine to converse with, mine to kiss. Mine to interface with. Mine. Mine."

His greedy litany is abruptly cut short when your valve clamps down tightly around his spike.

"Ah, Opti!" you cry out. "I'm about to—"

"I as well, ah, I…"

He buries his spike deep inside you, pressing his hips against yours and pulling you even closer. Sticky transfluid spurts from his spike, and you reward him with your own release, now fully sealing your union. And though Optimus fills you perfectly, a few stray drops of your mingled love manage to escape your stretched cunt, soiling the insides of your thighs.

Chasing the divine bliss of overload, Optimus does not grant you much time to rest. He starts moving his hips once more, pushing his transfluid deeper into your body in preparation for a refill.

And at that exact moment, amidst the wet, filthy sounds of his spike plunging into your valve, a faint knocking echoes through the room. Barely audible to you over your own panting, moans, and his loudly revving engines, but Optimus has no trouble detecting the intruder. Their presence disrupts his complete surrender to pleasure, irritating him, bursting the fragile illusion that the world ends with you.

"Frag off," he growls loudly, never ceasing to frag your heat.

Your gazes meet for a brief moment, but Optimus does not hold eye contact for long, too agitated to acknowledge your questioning expression. Instead, he directs his intake toward your chest, stuffing your soft flesh into his mouth. His glossa immediately gets to work, gliding over your swollen nipple, licking and sucking to suppress the stream of curses and sins threatening to spill forth. To ensure you do not collapse backward, one arm wraps around your back, delighting in the discovery that he can afford to gather your other breast into his servo as well. Which he does, kneading the soft flesh like a stress ball.

"My dearest," he repeats his mantra between the worship of your nipple and breast. "My [Name]."

"My Opti," you return the sentiment, stroking the back of his helm. "My good mech."

An involuntary honk of his horn and an exceptionally deep thrust convince you that you have chosen your words well. Even at the cost of losing the ability to walk tomorrow.

[redcali]

PAIRINGS: Fem!Reader x Xavier

SUMMARY: You and Xavier are fighting a wanderer when it unexpectedly unleashes an aphrodisiac, causing Xavier to turn feral ✶⋆.˚

WARNING/TAGS: MDNI 18+, use of sex pollen/ aphrodisiacs, mentions of rough p in v sex, multiple orgasms and overstim, grinding/ dry humping, slight dubcon, clit stimulation. Xavier's eyes glow when the aphrodisiac's in control. 1.2K words

A/N: My version of the popular use of aphrodisiacs trope ♡

You enter the forest clearing with a frown.

“Where is the wanderer? Tara said that it would be here somewhere…”

Xavier trails behind you, his brow furrowed as he glances around the open stretch of grass and the dense ring of trees looming in the distance.

“Do you see something moving amongst the trees?”

“Wh—?!” Your sentence abruptly gets cut off when something huge and heavy pounces upon you. You let out a shriek as you're met face-to-face with the creature, a monstrosity of jagged teeth, forked slimy tongues and glowing amber eyes. It aggressively swings its tail at you, long, black-leathered and barbed with jagged spikes—

And then there’s a burst of bright light. The wanderer is thrown back into the air as Xavier advances towards it cautiously, his sword drawn and poised ready to attack. The wanderer hisses, pawing angrily against the ground, its eyes swivelling between you both. It seems to make up its mind, knowing that you’re the easier target, it attacks you once more. Its tail comes down hard on you, and you stand there petrified, knowing that there isn’t enough time to dodge anyway –

With a groan, Xavier grabs you by the shoulders and pushes you out of harm’s way as the barbed end sinks into his own shoulder. You grab your gun and fire, and the bullet lands snugly right into the wanderer's heart. It growls as it collapses, taking its last few breaths of air.

“Xavier!” You rush to your partner’s side as panic seizes you. He’s on the ground, his eyebrows pinched in pain as you roll him over to inspect the damage. There are a few grazes that cut into his uniform and skin, and he clutches his shoulder, panting lightly as he looks up at you with a strange expression.

“Thank god, the cut isn’t too deep – why did you try to save me, you idiot –” You gently push him down onto the grassy floor as you straddle him, fumbling around in your bag for your first aid kit. What you don’t notice, however, is the strange dark fluid from the wanderer’s tail soaking into his wound and the way Xavier is panting almost too hard and his oddly laboured breaths as he looks up at you.

“Pl…please get off of me…” Xavier says, sounding forced, and his azure blue eyes begging.

“What? I’m trying to heal you.” You look down at him, confused.

Xavier’s eyes are dilating and contracting rapidly. His hands are balled up into fists as he desperately forces them to stay glued at his side. He grinds his rock-hard boner against your clothed cunt; it is taking all his willpower to not buck up into you and give in into his urges.

Realisation washes over you.

“The wanderer … its poison contain some sort of aphrodisiac, don’t they? What sort of monster has Tara set us up to?”

“I don’t … I don’t know … “ Xavier says weakly, closing his eyes. “But if you don’t –”

His eyes fly open, and they glow a hue of blue as he is suddenly shoving you down onto the ground with newfound strength. He growls as he wraps his hands around your clothed tits and squeezes hard, eliciting moans from you, your back instinctively arching into his demanding touch. He slides a hand over your stomach and down to your pants, and with an aggressive tug it is pulled down to your ankles, your bare cunt exposed to him.

“Stay right there.” Xavier snarls, as he pushes his boner up against your cunt. His voice is deeper, meaner, as he slides off his own pants and rubs his dick against your soaking pussy, catching up against your clit and sending waves of pleasure though your body.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you practically see stars when Xavier finally pushes his leaking cock into your tight wet heat with a hiss. He sets a brutal pace, fucking into you like some feral animal, and all you can do is lie there and take his cock.

Xavier leans down, licking a stripe up to your neck as he continues to thrust relentlessly into you. When you moan out loud, he attaches his lips onto that spot on your neck, seemingly satisfied with finding your sensitive spot as he nibbles and sucks.

“Xavier”, you whimper. “ S’ going to leave a mark…”

At the sound of his name on your tongue, the glow in Xavier’s eyes seem to dim a little . His head jerks up, and his expression twists into shock as he realizes what he’s done.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “I’m– I’m so sorry –”

For a moment, he almost seems back to normal. But then the blue glow flares brighter in his eyes, and his pace quickens. A sneer curls across his lips.

“Miss the old me?” he demands, as his hips snap into you with a particularly hard thrust. “Shame. He can’t save you now.”

His nimble, sleek fingers find your clit and they circle around it, as he continues to pound you. “I’ve only just gotten started with you.”

You whimper pathetically at this, and Xavier’s pupils dilate even further.

“You like it when I’m like this, don’t you?” His lips are on the shell of your ear, his breath hot. “Look at the way your tight little pussy is holding onto my cock.” His voice is mocking, as he rolls your clit in between his finger, giving it a suddenly pinch.

Your orgasm seizes your body as you come around his big hard cock, crying his name and trembling from the force of it. Xavier fucks you through it, and true to his words, he doesn’t stop his brutal pace.

✶⋆.˚

You must have came in ten different positions before the aphrodisiac finally manages to work its way out of Xavier’s system. When he finally returns back to his usual self, for good this time, worry instantly fills his eyes as he apologises to you over and over again.

You let out a weak groan as you collapse to the ground. Xavier manages to catch you in time, pulling you close to his warm body and wrapping his strong arms around you.

“I … I didn’t know the wanderer would do that.” You quip. You’re pumped full of Xavier’s seed, and it’s obscene how it leaks out of your cunt. Xavier’s face instantly turns pink as his eyes fall onto your pussy. As his fingers reach out to swipe away the cum, they accidentally catch onto your sensitive clit, and you cry out loud from the overstimulation.

“I-I didn’t mean to –” Xavier stammers, his face turning an even darker shade of pink. “Please, let me clean you up and cook you dinner at my place. It’s the least I can do.”

The least he can do is to not cook you dinner, you think, but you don’t say that out loud. Instead, you hug him back.

“Don’t feel bad about what just happened, okay? It wasn’t your fault. Plus … I liked it.” Your face now matches the same shade of red as Xavier’s.

Xavier’s eyes are wide. He opens his mouth wordlessly, then closes it again. Finally, he says, shyly, “If that’s the case… Maybe tonight, you can come over for something a little more exciting than dinner.”

Your jaw drops. With such a sweet, innocent face, who’d expect he’d say such suggestive things?

❀❁✿

[starshipsofstarlord]

lap girl (8) | daryl dixon

summary. daryl is frustrated, forced to rest in his and y/n’s tent on the greene farm after not finding sophia and andrea shooting him. his partner is also feeling his frustrations, and so they relieve them together (2.4k)

warnings. smut 18+ mdni, protected sex, fingering, teasing, swearing, mention of having children and pregnancy (they don’t though, and is no pregnancy), mentions of death, petnames, established relationship, angst and fluff, 3rd person

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

Y/N was obscenely furious, she could easily beat the living shit out of Andrea for her impulsive need to prove herself and kill walkers. For a shot had broke through the air, scathing the side of her target’s head, and rather than a single undead, her aim had been poised upon Daryl. Albeit he had been covered in blood and dirt, and anyone would have been fooled into thinking he was one of the undead from afar, but if she had just left well enough alone as she had been advised to, he never would have endured an injury.

She sat in the tent she shared with Daryl that they had upholstered on the Greene’s farmland, her eyes scanning her partner with worry. Hershel said he was going to be okay, which was an immediate relief, but Y/N could not help but be berated by a wave of rage, though she kept quiet about it, choosing instead to sit on Daryl’s lap as he lay resting. He was awake, blue eyes barely open as the sunlight cast shadows from outside on the inner walls of the tent.

His side was staked with an ache from where his own arrow had inserted itself into his flesh, but he had demanded that his girl take a seat atop of him. The bowman played with the belt loops of her jeans as he gazed mindlessly up at her, she was careful not to move, knowing just an inch in the wrong direction could provoke his injury to feel even worse. Daryl was patched up, and he was supposed to be resting, but he appeared restless despite his hooded lids.

He gnawed at his own bottom lip, a crease formed between his brows which Y/N was tentative to notice. She brushed her gentle fingertips against it, understanding the frustration that her man felt. Daryl had went out to search for Sophia, Carol’s daughter, and whilst he had not returned empty handed and had found her doll that had been lost from her grasp, the young girl was still missing.

It rattled him, that none of the others had even wanted to seek the whereabouts of the child, considering anything could happen to her out there. Y/N had tried to follow him, wanting to mount the horse and try to help locate the lost girl, however he had refused, wishing for his lover to remain safe, and his turbulent tumble and scrap with walkers had only made him glad he had not allowed her to come with him. The others all judged him, but it didn’t matter, he had been the only one of them with moral enough to act on his concerns.

A part of him was relieved that he and Y/N had never had children of their own prior to the outbreak, for the same thing could have happened but instead to their offspring. The bowman tried his damn best to protect his partner, although she was able to take care of herself in most situations, knowing that they would have had to tread lighter and more carefully throughout the world to secure the survival and future of their son or daughter.

Sophia could be dead out there, and the more time in being unable to find her, the chances of her being deceased increased. “Stop overthinking honey.” Y/N knew that it wasn’t something that Daryl could control, his mind was wrapped up in doing the right thing under the circumstances that had been dealt. But voicing against the internal feud that made his brain loud would help, it always had. It drew him back to reality, forcing him to slink away from his solitary thought, as though she was trying to exorcise them from haunting him. It was all easier said than done, and they both knew it.

“Jus’ can’t help i’ sunshine. Need somethin’ ta distract me.” Distract him from the pain that throbbed along his temple. Distract him from whatever the hell had happened to his brother. Distract him from the overpowering discrimination that some of their group judged him for. He had not lived in the same way most of them had, he and his girl had scraped by to afford to pay their rent, even helping Merle out with his ‘business’ to be able to do so.

It had never been the perfect lifestyle, but they had each other and that was what had gotten them through it. And it would be the same situation amidst this futile outbreak that was certainly not ending any time soon, or ever. “Yeah?” A smirk quirked at the corner of Y/N’s mouth as her eyes locked onto the way Daryl frustratedly chewed his lip. “What kind of distraction?”

“Ya could always jus’ sit on mah face.” He was drawing her attention away from her prowess that thrived to punish Andrea for her idiocy; it wasn’t that she didn’t like the woman, but the blond did not respect her, so she did not return such fervour. Y/N quirked her brow, cocking her head at her partner, before she leant down, brushing her lips against Daryl’s own, toying with his present lust that was throbbing past his skull like that darn bullet had, her lap pressing harsher against his own, drawing a groan out from the injured man.

“Not with that head injury.” Another groan, this time one of disappointment, but Y/N wasn’t stupid, Daryl needed to heal, and having her thighs wrapped around the sides of his head would not aid in such a predicament he had literally been shot into. “Sorry honey, not gonna hurt you anymore than you already are.” Her hands brushed along the expanse of his flannel covered chest, her eyes drifting to the exposed muscles of his arms. They glistened with a slight sheen of sweat from the heat of being confined within the tent, the sun boiling the material from the outside and cooking their bodies in the mild summer temperature.

“Ya gonna do anythin’ woman?” Daryl scoffed, drained from the pain that throbbed in his left temple, and just as irritated by the untouched throbbing of his cock that rested in his pants. He was wound up from being stuck in the tent, he resented remaining still, especially since Sophia still continued to be lost. With each passing day, hope for finding her dwindled, and Daryl felt responsible that he had failed to uncover her whereabouts. His pupils caressed Y/N’s form, tracing the features of her face and that damned smirk that made his brain dwell profoundly on what her lips could do, until they reached the swell of her chest.

Y/N noticed where his eye-line had drifted to, her cocky smirk only widening upon his gaze, feeling as though she was successful to cease the running of his mind. “Dunno.” Y/N drawled out, amused by the frustration that swindled normally calm demeanour with her. She couldn’t blame him, he had been practically through hell and back, and he was unable to proceed with normal habits of his, such as hunting and keeping a watchful eye out for walkers. “Don’ know if you deserve it…” Daryl’s eyes held a loving spite in them as he bit back, attempting to prompt her into doing something.

If he was forced to remain in the damning tent, then he wanted something out of it, preferably a seance of gratification, though of course he wouldn’t force her, even if it seemed as though she too was walking on the edge of arousal. “I jus’ took a bullet an’ an arrow woman, pretty fuckin’ sure I do.” Daryl retorted, causing a breathy laugh to flail from his lover who thrived off of his desperation to fuck her. “The least ya can do is jus’ slip it in.” This made Y/N laugh harder, and as Daryl had always known, he would never get tired of that sound.

“Wellll…” Y/N speculated the possibility, reaching into the pocket of her pants to pull out a packet that she had stolen from Glenn’s own personal stash, “ya won’t have to pull out this time.” The condom, although Daryl preferred feeling all of her, being inside her with no barrier between, brought him a comfort. There’d be a lesser threat of knocking her up, and they would not be under the same circumstance that had newly revealed itself to Lori. Daryl prized it from her hands, not letting go as he pulled her hand to him, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

Others would never speculate the often brooding archer as a romantic, and whilst he wasn’t in the common sense, he did love his girl and had his own way of showing it. Merle had often laughed at how easily his brother would become putty in Y/N’s hands, “pussy whipped’ as he would often referred to him as, but Daryl knew that was not the only reason why he was so contorted into adoration for the woman atop of him. She was a strong character, she never took any shit from anyone including him, and that was exactly what he needed. “Tha’s good.” Daryl murmured, knowing that he would feel immense guilt if he made her vulnerably carry another life in the way the world was now.

Y/N hummed in agreement, leaning down to kiss his lips, there was a hunger within the contact though it was not rushed, it was slow, as though they were feeding from each other’s souls. His free hand that did not hold the condom reached down to caress her ass through the denim, squeezing her flesh to cause her to breathe out a gasp into him, and he swallowed it down as if he were dying of thirst. “You feelin’ well enough to do this?” Her eyes drifted to the bandage over his wound, concerned that it would dissolve the little inkling of energy that he had slowly rebuilt.

“Course I am.” Daryl instantly answered, needing to do something other than just lay down, and that just so happened to be doing his girl. “Ya wanna take these off?” His fingertips traced around the seem of her trousers, and he groaned as she moved herself from atop of him, swiftly discarding both the layers that concealed her legs and flesh, leaving her bottom half bare. Y/N climbed back atop of him, running her hands down his throat until they rested on his chest over his heart, and Daryl smiled up at her, as though she was a goddess blessed upon him. “Tha’s your, ya know tha’ right?” He said in referral to his heart as it beat under her palm.

“I’ve known it for a long time honey.” Y/N gasped as his fingers traced her slit, feeling the rough pads of his them move through the arousal that had already accumulated on her sex. He watched her with dreary eyes, smitten above all else, still shocked that he was a lucky enough man to be with such a beautiful person. As he touched her, her body leant backwards from where she was seated on him, and she looked visceral, like a damned angel within the world of chaos. “Daryl.” She sharply moaned his name as he slid a digit within her, filling her knuckle deep.

He thrusted his finger nice and slow until he let another join it, his thumb reaching up to roll circles around her clit. “Fuuuck.” He loved it when she cursed, whenever she opened her mouth it was so contradictory to her beauty, though he always fell for her words as though they were a spell. Daryl kept moving his fingers until he was sure she was wet enough to take his length, and as he retracted them, he placed them in his own mouth, tasting them. “Really?” She giggled out as she undid his jeans and released his cock from its confining chamber of material.

“Wha’? Ya wouldn’t sit on ma face, it’s the next best thing.” Daryl allowed her to take the condom from him, ripping open the packet as she rolled it down on his flesh. He was hard and sensitive to her touch, and all of his pain and strife was forgotten as she sank down on him, taking him to the hilt. There was no medicine better than her touch, and whilst it was newly recognised, he was lulled into comfort from feeling her tight walls snuggly wrapped around him. “Shit.” A puff of air left his mouth as his hands wandered around her frame, his dwelling frustration dwindling in the simple act.

Y/N’s hand rested atop of his heart again, feeling it thump in a familiar beat, as she lifted herself, only to grind herself down on him, only to repeat her actions. Daryl moaned, sometimes her name, sometimes swears; they brought each other such pleasure that nothing or nobody else could compete with. It was as though they were soulmates, and whilst neither of them believed in that kind of thing, they felt the connection like a red string that entangled their fates. It was never just sex, even when they had to quickly bring each other to a release, there was always love between them.

“Y/N.” He said her name, as he felt his body rush with swindles of sparks - he was getting close, and so Y/N moved faster, chasing not only her own orgasm but his as well. They plummeted in a river of ecstasy together, Daryl filling up the condom with his liquid bliss. Y/N lifted herself a couple more times until she stayed still, riding them through their highs, Daryl’s hands gravitating to her thighs as he drew small circles upon her flesh with his fingers. “Ya okay sunshine?” She’d moulded him into a soft version of his person, and there was no greater comfort than that.

“Always am when I’m with you.” She pulled his cock out from her, discarding the condom in a corner as he tiresomely tucked his cock back into jeans, dressing her lower half in just her panties before she came to rest upon him, careful of his injured side. He closed his eyes, feeling not only well rested but spoilt with the love that his girl had for him. Y/N never made him feel like a failure even if sometimes he considered himself such, she always brightened his peripheral, even in these dark times that shrouded them with the consistent requirement of having to survive.

[dragonridersandhighlords]

Hey gurllll....can I request a fic of Aaric x reader where his father finds out their relationship and tries to kill the reader (the ending is upto you though)

Heyyyyyy! Thank you for requesting! I really hope you don't hate this because I TOTALLY went off the rails a little but it took a mind of its own🤣😅

⚠️ONYX STORM SPOILERS AHEAD⚠️

It All Ends Now | Aaric Graycastle

Summary: When you entered the Rider’s Quadrant, you didn’t think you’d see Aaric again. Then he got placed in your Squad and you were overjoyed and angry at the same time. Ever since Conscription Day, you’re had a weekly aassanation attempt thanks to the King who was convinced you kidnapped his son. When Halden shows up as Basgiath and the attacks increase, Halden even putting his friends in danger, Aaric is slowly losing all composure.

Pairing: Aaric Graycastle x f!reader

Warnings: Major Onyx Storm spoilers, fluffy angst?, mentions of blood and assasination attempts, reader is protective of Aaric, Aaric is protective of reader, Halden Tauri is his own warning lol

Word Count: 3.9k

Masterlist | FW Masterlist

"Again?!" Aaric’s voice cut through the tense silence of the dimly lit room, echoing his frustration. His green eyes, usually so warm when looking at me, now blazed with a frantic intensity.

"Aaric, I'm fine," you insist, though the tremor in your voice betrays your bravado.

"You're literally bleeding, y/n," he shot back, his concern etched into every line on his face. You could see the pulse of fear thrumming beneath his skin, a reminder that we were constantly teetering on the edge of chaos.

“Bleeding. Not bleeding out,” You replied, forcing a lightness into your tone even as you winced while adjusting the makeshift bandage wrapped around your arm. The crimson splotch seeping through the fabric was a stark reminder of the last assassination attempt that could have been so much worse.

“I should just go home. That will put an end to all of this,” Aaric muttered, burying his face in his hands, the weight of his despair palpable in the air between the two of you. 

"Your father will forever blame me for your disappearance,” You countered softly, moving closer to him, your heart aching as you stood beside where he sat on the desk. “Going home will just hurt you more than anything.”

His shoulders sagged, and a heavy sigh escaped his lips. “They target you when you’re alone.” His voice cracked, revealing the rawness of his emotions. “I can’t protect you here, but I can at home.”

"Aaric, I hate to break it to you, but Camlaen Tauri is dead. Aaric Graycastle though?” You smiled gently, your fingers lifting his chin with a tenderness that countered the turmoil you faced. “You are alive. Bonded to the coolest dragon and so much happier than you ever were in that castle. Plus, I’m here. Do you really want to go back to a life without me?"

He shook his head. Leaning forward, he rested his head against your stomach, a fragile moment of vulnerability where the world outside faded into insignificance. “I love you, y/n. I just don’t want you to get killed because of me.”

“If I die because of an assassination attempt, at least we’ll know I fought till the end,” You whispered, running your fingers through his tousled hair, the strands soft and warm beneath your touch. “And I love you too. Now let��s go to class, okay?”

You felt the gentle rise and fall of his breath against me. He finally nodded, a small, reluctant smile breaking through the storm cloud that had settled over you. 

Ever since Violet got a hold of her father's journal, a relic infused with memories and secrets, thanks to Dain sneaking into his father's quarters, everyone has been working tirelessly to decipher the cryptic riddle keeping it locked. 

First loves are irreplaceable.

Ridoc, perched between you and Violet on the first row of seats, had taken it upon himself to pry into Violet's family history and their love lives.

"Who's Mira's first love?" Ridoc questioned. 

Violet's fingers fidgeted with her conduit band, her brows knitting together in thought as she replied, "I’m not sure she’s ever really been in love. Or if she has, she’s never said anything to me about it.” 

"You hadn’t even seen Xaden when your dad met Malek—” Ridoc trailed off, his tone shifting from interrogative to contemplative, and then he snapped up like he had the best idea. “Hello, who is your first love?” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Violet freeze, her demeanor shifting as if she had been struck by an unseen force. "My father couldn’t stand the first guy I really dated and never knew about the second.” Her voice was steady, but the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes betrayed a deeper complexity.

Aaric and you exchanged glances, both of you understanding exactly who she was alluding to. The past lingered between you like an uninvited guest. "How many letters?" Aaric ventured, his voice barely above a whisper, yet imbued with a knowing urgency.

"Six," she shot back, her glare directed at you with a fierceness that threatened us if we spoke his name.

"It fits." You shrugged. "It could very well be—"

"Absolutely not," Violet interrupted with an indignant shake of her head, her resolve firm as she attempted to close the door on that chapter.

“Hold on.” Ridoc’s expression morphed into a blend of confusion and intrigue, his eyes darting between the three of you as if you were all harboring a secret beyond comprehension. “Are the first-years entitled to information we don’t have—” 

"Good afternoon," Xaden—Professor Riorson— greets as he enters the Infantry amphitheater with Garrick.

"Ooh, Imogen is going to love having class today— Ow!" Ridoc's playful remark was abruptly cut short as he rubbed the back of his head.

“Riders, if you’ll take your positions as you did last class. Hopefully no one gets performance anxiety, because as you can see, we have a full house today.” Xaden’s voice rang out, steady and authoritative, and we all turned to behold the sea of Infantry blue uniforms that filled the amphitheater.

"Lieutenant Tavis here is an incredible Wind Wielder and has agreed to let you try your best to bring him--" Xaden's voice faltered slightly, a sudden cough catching him off guard. You exchanged a knowing glance with Violet, her smirk hinting at her mental mischief in her and Xaden's mental bond.

Bonded dragons, you thought with an eye roll, a mixture of admiration and annoyance coursing through you. 

“--down. Lieutenant Tavis will be your sparring dummy.” His declaration hung in the air, a mixture of excitement and anxiety washing over the group as they prepared to face the imposing figure.

As each cadet stepped into the circle, the atmosphere thickened with anticipation. Ridoc’s voice broke through the tension, “That’s... unnerving,” he muttered, his eyes wide as he witnessed a fire wielder struggle against her own flames, thrown back towards her thanks to Garrick's signet. The thought of standing in her place sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"We go as a team," Rhiannon whispered, her voice a soothing balm against the nerves. 

"Good idea," Violet nodded, her eyes glinting with determination.

"You ready to join in, Second Squad?" Garrick's voice cut through the air, taunting yet encouraging. Together, you, Violet, Rhiannon, Cat, Quinn, and Ridoc stepped into the circle. 

"How exactly is this fair?" Garrick questions, getting into position.

"We're never alone on a battlefield, are we?" Violet points out, her smile never faltering.

"Fair point." Xaden agrees before instructing the challenge to begin.

With a shared nod, Quinn, Cat, and you sprang into action, causing a distraction while Ridoc built an ice wall. Meanwhile, Violet and Rhiannon worked together for the final take down, their movements synchronized. You focused on dodging your flames that were inevitably thrown back at you. You ducked and rolled, narrowly escaping as the flames washed over you like a wave of blistering heat.

Then, a lightning bolt crackled through the air, splitting the sky and illuminating the ring in a blinding flash. The world seemed to hold its breath, the chaos momentarily stilled, and you felt time stretch as everyone froze, eyes wide with disbelief. 

“You really did it,” Garrick’s voice broke through the silence, awe etched across his features as gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience.

“I did,” Violet replied, her voice steady, but it was the unwavering gaze that accompanied her words that sent chills down your spine.

"Hate to tell you, Sorrengail," Garrick smirked, "but not only did you leave yourself exposed, you also missed."

"Did I?" Violet’s finger pointed defiantly at the smoking dagger embedded in the ground just behind Garrick. The collective gaze shifted, fixating on the destruction she had wrought. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. And if I'm exposed, fine. The rest of my squad is alive."

Garrick’s shock mirrored your own, eyes wide, as you caught a glimpse of the fiery determination sparking within Violet. Just then, a slow clap resonated from the back of the arena, a mocking rhythm that drew attention and stole the moment's tension.

Your heart sank, dread coiling in your stomach as you turned to see who was at the center of this unwelcome applause. Your eyes searched for Aaric, but he was nowhere in sight. Thank Amari, you thought, relief mingling with unease.

“His Royal Highness, Prince Halden,” the herald proclaimed, his voice booming through the amphitheater, pulling every head to turn in reverence. The crowd rose as one, a sea of blue and black uniforms standing in respect. 

"Sit," Halden commanded, feigning annoyance at the fanfare, yet the smirk on his lips told a different story—he was reveling in it. "Impressive," he said, stepping into the fray, his gaze holding Violet's before sweeping to meet yours.

As he made eye contact with you, a chill raced down your spine. You felt the weight of his gaze, sharp and knowing, and instinctively, both you and Violet surged forward, a whirlwind of determination now aimed at the infantry-clad prince.

“What are you doing here?” Violet’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, her sharp gaze locking onto the prince, a storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.

“Learning, of course, like everyone else in this arena.” Halden’s tone dripped with sarcasm as he scanned Violet from head to toe, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Never figured you for rider black, but power looks good on you.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, as if he were inspecting a rare piece of art, yet his gaze held a hint of condescension.

"Don't." Violet's voice hardened, her back now turned as she returned her focus to the match unfolding before them. "I don't mean in the Arena. What are you doing at Basgiath? It's not exactly Alumni Weekend." 

“Straight to business? You aren't even going to ask how I've been? My brother is missing, you know.” Halden’s demeanor shifted, the joviality fading as he turned his attention toward you. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” His fingers reached toward your chin, an attempt at intimacy, but you swiftly snatched his wrist, halting him mid-motion.

“Despite what your father seems to think with his assassination attempts, I don’t know where Cam is.” The firmness in your voice echoed your determination. You dropped his hand, letting it fall back to his side like a discarded weapon. “And don’t touch me if you want to keep your hand.”

“Is he really missing?” Violet interjected, her brow furrowed. “Or did Cam just need some space from your ego?” 

Garrick began to instruct on your groups strategies, but your focus remained fixed on Halden, the air thickening with tension as he scoffed, turning back to Violet. “Seriously, though. No hello? Not even a compliment on the tailoring of my uniform? Or my fresh haircut? I’m heartbroken, Vi.”

“You’d have to own a heart to break it.” Violet’s retort was swift, and a laugh bubbled up from within you, drawing a sharp glare from Halden. “And the only hair I remember is your professor’s covering your face when I walked in on her riding you. It was auburn, right?” 

“That's what happened?” You whispered, caught off guard by the unexpected revelation, your curiosity piqued as neither you nor Aaric knew the full story.

“Ouch. You wound me. Yes, I cheated, but you have to remember, I was still suffering from the loss of my twin. I was...”

“A dick?” You quipped, as Violet continued to unleash a few far kinder insults.

“Grief doesn’t excuse any of that. Never did,” Violet added, her expression fierce.

“And here I thought you’d thank me for offering to step in and agree with you regarding your upcoming mission, including my brother’s kidnapper as you continuously request.” Halden sighed, his tone shifting back to a businesslike demeanor.

“I’m gonna say it again, Halden. I. Don’t. Know. Where. Cam. Is.” Your voice was strained, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

Halden then pulled a missive with a broken wax seal from Viscount Tecarus, handing it to Violet. “Here. Grady is taking too long and has yet to present a clear path that satisfies my father. I like this option.”

Violet leaned closer, pulling you aside, whispering urgently, “Go check on him. I have Halden.”

“Are you sure?” You asked, concern etching your features as she nodded resolutely. You walked over to where your bag rested, Xaden not far from the seats.

“He's around the back, should be headed back to the Quadrant, but you know how protective he is.” Xaden’s words were a lifeline, and you quietly thanked him before sprinting off to find Aaric, the pulse of uncertainty quickening in your chest.

Halden, in fact, did not get you on the squad for Violet's mission. Instead, his presence had escalated the tension in Basgiath, bringing with it an increased wave of assassination attempts that had plagued you for the past month. Then when Violet finally relayed the news of Halden's actions in Deverelli, you could see the fury ignite within Aaric.

"I have to do something," Aaric declared, his voice resolute, yet tinged with desperation. He had been pacing the length of your room for hours. 

"What can you do, Aaric? She needs a royal representative to appease the island royals," you countered. You watched as realization dawned in his eyes, a flicker of hope amidst the chaos. But as soon as it sparked, you immediately fought it. "No. Nope. Not an option."

“It could work,” he argued, his voice lifting with a brightness that illuminated the gloom of the past month. For a moment, he wore a smile that felt like sunshine breaking through heavy clouds. “It would get Halden away from Violet, and I could put you on the squad like you should’ve been. No one can try to kill you then.”

"What if they drag you back? What then?" The thought unsettled you, a dark cloud overshadowing the bright idea he presented.

"I'll negotiate like the prince I am." His tone was playful, but the determination in his eyes gave it weight. There was something inherently charming about his confidence, an unwavering belief that made your heart race. “Your safety comes first, and once I finish my three years, I’ll return to Calldyr without complaint.” You opened your mouth to argue, but he silenced you with a look. “I’d burn the entire continent to keep you safe. Let me do this one thing.” 

With a heavy heart, you nodded, a mixture of fear and trust coursing through you as you moved toward the flight field, each step echoing the weight of the choices ahead.

Dain had found you both in the dimly lit hall. He walked beside you, each step resonating with unspoken understanding as you both turned your gaze toward the sky watching Molvic and Neim land beside the squad. The fog was thick and wrapped around you and your dragons, shielding you from the prying eyes. 

“No!” Violet's voice sliced through the quiet morning, sharp and urgent, as she sprinted toward you, her features contorted with concern. “Don't do this!” 

Aaric's brows furrowed, his expression resolute as he adjusted the collar of his flight jacket, the leather creaking softly against the mounting pressure. “I’m not going to sit aside and watch while Halden gets you all killed,” he defended, his tone laced with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. 

“This isn't what you want,” Violet pressed, her desperation palpable. She pivoted, gesturing toward Dain. “Don’t let your brother's actions force your hand—and don’t let him do it!”

Dain threw his hands up in exasperation, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. “How in all that is holy am I to blame for this?” 

“He’s a first-year, and you are the Wingleader!” Violet shot back, her frustration simmering just below the surface.

“Vi, Aaric outranks Dain right now,” you interjected, your voice steady as you jumped to Dain’s defense.

“And you!” Violet retorted, pointing an accusatory finger at you now. “You know how much he needed his freedom from them. Everyone will know if he does this.”

“It’s his choice, Violet. I’m not a royal. I can't stop him even if I wanted to.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Xaden's voice floated in from behind Violet, a calm counterpoint to the tempest of emotions swirling around you.

“Want? No,” Aaric sighed deeply, the weight of his resolve heavy in the air. “But I need to. And as much as I don’t mind Halden making your life fucking miserable, I do mind him condemning the Continent to death by dark wielder because he can’t take a deep breath and count to three when he gets mad. Plus, I'm mostly negotiating for y/n's safety. She doesn't deserve to be targeted for my choices.” 

With a reluctant nod, Violet turned, leading you both back toward the rest of the group, the gravity of your decisions looming over you like a storm on the horizon.

“Looks like you won't be needing that basket after all.” Xaden smirks, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes as he takes in the scene. “We found another prince.” 

Halden’s jaw drops as he locks eyes with his little brother, clad in a black flight uniform.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Aaric rolls his eyes.

“Don’t look…” Halden shakes his head slowly, frustration pouring from him like an overfilled cup. “You’ve let us run all over this kingdom searching brothels and gaming houses for you, and all the while, you’ve been here?” The accusation hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of betrayal.

“The fact that you went searching your favorite haunts for me is just the start of where you went wrong,” Aaric replies, his annoyance lingering off his words. 

“You’re a Rider?” Halden’s incredulous shout pierces the air.

“As the dragon would imply.” Ridoc gestures toward Molvic, his massive form looming like a sentinel, wings folded against the morning mist.

“He could have let you think he was dead,” Mira mutters from her spot next to Teine.

“He’s going to be when our father hears—” Halden begins but you interject.

"Then go fucking tell him.” Your voice cuts through the escalating chaos, firm and unyielding. 

“While you're at it, tell him to cut it out with the assassination attempts. I made my choice, so leave her out of it!" Aaric, defends but Halden maintains his focus on you.

"You said you didn't know where Cam was! You lied to a royal!" Halden practically screeches, the indignation echoing off the mountains.

"I didn't lie." You shrug, a smirk playing on your lips as you gesture toward Aaric. "You asked where Cam was. I don't; I know where Aaric is."

Aaric’s presence radiates strength, and as he steps forward, you can’t help but feel pride swell within you. “I crossed the parapet because I was sick of sitting by knowing you and Dad weren’t going to do shit about the dark wielders, and I’m not going to sit by now and watch you run our only hope into the ground. I’ll be going as the royal representative.” His voice is steady, firm and you’ve never looked at him with a brighter face. 

Halden stiffens, disbelief etched in his features. “Absolutely not, Cam.”

"It's Aaric." You step closer, standing toe to toe with the older prince, the determination in your stance unwavering. “And frankly, he’s more adept to be the representative than you. Not only have I watched him grow as a leader, even as a first-year, but he doesn’t have the emotional range of a two-year-old. He keeps his head on during stressful and important situations. Can you say the same?”

“It was you who breached the total vault.” Halden's glare shifts from you to Aaric, who meets it without flinching, a fierce light in his eyes. “Father blamed me.” He attempts to step toward his brother, but you quickly position yourself between them, unwilling to let him near Aaric. “Did you stay in Basgiath? Or fly with the rebels?”

“You already know the answer.” Aaric replies, his gaze locked on Halden, a silent challenge lingering in the air.

“Go back to the quadrant. I’ll be the only royal—”

“Good luck getting another gryphon to carry your basket.” Aaric laughs under his breath, the sound unexpectedly light, a brief respite from the tension, before he strides toward Molvic.

Halden's gaze, a mixture of sorrow and resignation, shifts back to you. “Y/n,” he begins, his voice surprisingly gentle, a tone you've never heard from him. 

You can see it in his eyes—the sadness welling deep. The weight of expectations hangs heavy on his shoulders, and you wonder if, just for a heartbeat, he wishes to escape the royal constraints, just as Aaric had done. 

“If you can promise that we’ll both be safe from your father’s assassins and carry on with our lives,” you say, your voice unwavering, each word solidifying your resolve like steel forging in fire, “I can promise you I won’t let anything happen to him.” Your heart races, fueled by a mixture of fear and fierce protectiveness, as you draw in a breath, the words spilling out with conviction. “But I don’t need your promises to know that I’d die for him.”

At those words, a flicker of surprise dances across Halden's features, his brow furrowing as if he’s grappling with the gravity of your devotion. “I’ll speak with my father,” he finally replies, his voice tinged with reluctant acceptance. “You’re good for him, you know.” The unexpected kindness leaves you momentarily stunned, the shadows of the past lifting slightly as you shake your head at the improbability of it all. “Thank you for looking out for him.” 

“It all ends now, Halden,” you assert, the weight of your words resonating with the clarity of truth. “You’d never get him back if your father succeeds in killing me.” The finality in your tone is unmistakable, like the tolling of a bell, marking a line drawn in the sand. With a nod, Halden retreats from the flight field, his figure gradually swallowed by the mist that clings to the ground, leaving you standing amidst the chaos, a pulse of determination coursing through your veins.

Turning back, you move toward Neim, heart racing as you prepared to climb. Glancing behind you, Aaric stands beside Molvic following your every move. “You okay?” you call out to him, your concern weaving through the air.

“Never better,” he replies, a smile breaking through the tension, illuminating his features as he climbs onto Molvic. You climb onto Neim, whose scales shimmer like emeralds in the rising sunlight.

As you settle in, your heart swells with a fierce pride for the man beside you. Aaric is not just a prince; he is a beacon of hope in these dark times. The wind picks up, swirling around you, as if echoing the tempest of emotions within. He meets your gaze, and in that moment, you can see it—the unspoken connection that binds you. 

Aaric’s own thoughts bubble to the surface, a whirlwind of determination intertwined with a flicker of admiration as he quietly said, “She’d make a great queen.”

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[imliterallyf7ckin9crazy]

꧁⋆°𝓢𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓭 𝓖𝓪𝓶𝓮 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓒𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼°⋆꧂

Squid game Season 2 men saving you when you almost die in the game

Characters: player 001, 230, 124

Warnings: canon violence, near death experience, toxic relationships, drug use, mention of suicide, romantic tension, f! Reader

A/N: this is no diss to anyone bc I respect the grind, I truly do, but everything I see of squid game is nsfw. I have to HUNT for sfw shit. I just gave up and just read everything anyways. So I’m trying to balance the scales a bit for rn. Again no diss bc yall nsfw writers COOK.

________

ᏢᏝᎯᎽᎬᏒ 001

(Weird ppl attacking you in game)

- ok so for this one I’ll say that you are just a average player in the games he happened upon. You two met because you were on the ‘X’ team, and more specifically in gi- Huns group.

- he normally is pretty resistant to the ‘worthless sob stories of the poor’ as he puts it. But for some odd reason, yours got to him

- thrown out of home, forced to survive and fend for yourself out in the streets, hopping from job to job because you can’t pay rent on time 8/10 and you get evicted. Pulling loan after loan to keep yourself afloat, and even that is starting to fail you. You are at the very end of the road and if you can’t manage to leave here without some money you are 100% fucked. You genuinely think the only way out of the hole you’ve dug is either a miracle in here or checking out of life manually.

- in-ho LOVES sad wet cat type people, he can’t help it. And even though he’s heard basically the same stories from hundreds of people yet somehow you stuck with him

- life was unfair to you, you were cast out. If that didn’t happen, you wouldn’t have to be living “like garbage”. Almost everyone else put themselves in their financial hole, you started in one. Not fair, see? He’s doing so much mental gymnastics and logistical jumping to validate himself. You’re different, you don’t count.

- you really weren’t a extremely strong individual , you didn’t draw attention to yourself like many of the others, you didn’t argue much or ask many questions. You came with a goal. And he respected that.

- after game two though, the marathon, you and many others decided it was time to call it quits. So you voted ‘X’ with gi-hun and everyone else. And surprisingly in-ho, or young-il as he named himself, also picked ‘X’

- you both didn’t really talk much besides maybe a few sentences to each other about how your group was meant to survive. But after the second vote, having a X on your shirt also meant having a target on your back. And being the “minding my own business” type it doubled that factor.

- a group of three people, two guys and one girl approached you. Sorrounding you and pestering you on your vote. It turned to raised voices and getting in your face, to shoving from all three people as you just stood there and took it, unwilling to change votes. Though you might not fight like some others that doesn’t mean you aren’t brave.

- though as soon as young-il (for simplicity) saw those men put hands on you he was already trudging his way cross room, leaving gi-hun mid conversation to aid you.

- you were backed against the bed frame of the stacked sleeping quarters, these three lunatics yelling and shoving you, telling you that you have to vote ‘O’ “or else”. You assumed it implied you leaving this place in a box.

- that’s when young-il made it to you. “That’s quite enough” he says, eyes cold as ice and facial expression locked in stone. His posture was straight and his head was held high. Very intimidating, it’s almost like he had a military commander type vide (hahaha- odd right??)

- the girl was quick to scamper off, giving you a glare as she informs the boys she’ll be waiting by their group. The men however puff their chests out and square up a bit, and you get second hand embarrassment because young-il doesn’t even flinch or break the deadly eye contact. “Are you sure.” Is all he said. It didn’t sound like an actual question, more of a “are you sure you wanna get your ass beat in front of all these people” threat.

- they got the memo from his venomous words and slowly creeped off back to wherever they came from, looking like puppies with their tails tucked as they walked away.

- “thank you so much” you say, bowing slightly in gratitude for his kindness. He gives you a nice chuckle before lifting your shoulders back up.

- “oh no no, it’s nothing. Those boys should know better, I bet their mothers would chew their ears off if they saw their lack of manners” he jokes, earning a giggle from you.

- it makes him feel kinda fuzzy, but he compartmentalizes that feeling for when he’s alone and can process it. In the mean time he just places his hand on your lower back, guiding you back to the group where you will be safe (and in arms reach)

- this just opened a Pandora’s box of possessiveness and lies, and he doesn’t even know how it will end

ᏢᏝᎯᎽᎬᏒ 230

(Mingle)

- for this let’s just say that you met up with thanos for the second game, the marathon one, and yall clicked a bit, leading him to tell you that “you should stay with me and my crew, for safety”

- and so you do. What could be the harm? He’s clearly deranged and a loose cannon, wouldn’t it be better to just go along before he kills you?

- is what you originally thought. Turns out after that conversation and you joined, he really isn’t that bad to be around. When he’s high he always makes you laugh, constantly cracking jokes and making fun of people at their expense to make you smack his shoulder a bit, saying “be nice!”

- you noticed he thrives on attention, and you give it to him freely. It’s hard not to when he’s got bright purple hair, hand tattoos WITH rainbow painted nails, and he’s rapping and dancing like he was in the comfort of his own home. Plus nam gyu, the guy who lowkey bullied the shit out of you the first few days was now told to “chill out man”

- now, you were all standing on a spinning circular floor, a cute little cheery jingle being played from over the speakers. Thanos and nam gyu danced together to the music, high in ways you didn’t even know you could get. It was pretty silly though, acting like kids.

- then the music dropped, and a number was said. You had to run with that number of people into a room to live. Those left behind will die

- the first few rounds were easy, the numbers were quite high and you held onto thanos’ jacket to stay with the group. The sounds of people begging to be let in followed by being punctured with bullets rang in your mind and the number for people in groups got lower and lower, until the number was two.

- you, thanos, nam gyu and min-su all stared at each other for a moment, frozen on who to pick before thanos started throwing his head from side to side before turning and gripping your arm and nam gyus, running full speed and pulling you along, forcing you to leave min-su. Though you felt horrible once you saw his shocked little face, you just kept going. Choosing to save your life instead of feeling bad and dying there.

- thanos shoved nam gyu towards the door next to the one you were about to be tossed in, luckily he saw someone was waiting by themselves in the room, so he was safe with two. Nam gyu gave him a small nod to let him know he was safe and set to survive.

- thanos rushed you in, slamming the door behind him and peering out. This was the last round, you made it. The door beeped behind you and locked, ensuring your victory of the game.

- adrenaline was still pumping through your veins as you gazed up at him from your spot cowering against the wall as gun shots rang. You didn’t even hear the people screaming or the poor souls who were locked from the room right behind you and thanos, damming you to hell for getting to the room first as they die. “Holy shit” you say as you look at him as he smiled back. “We did it.”

- “yup” he says confidently “now let’s see how much money we earned” thanos says as he pulled open the door for the final time. Before he can step out you grab his sleeve “hey- uh thank you” you mumbled

- he could have just left you like min-su and went with nam gyu, but he chose to save you.

- “what? Nah it’s nothing. Don’t worry” he says, patting you on the head and steering you out of the room

ᏢᏝᎯᎽᎬᏒ 124

(Lights out fight)

- there was a obvious tension in the air, one that nearly suffocated you as you sat with nam gyu on a bed… thanos’ bed.

- the vote ended in a tie, meaning the vote was to be redone the following day. After that was announced, your friends thanos and nam gyu went to the bathroom to ‘help even out the votes’. Specifically to talk to that poor min-su they’ve been harassing non stop. Only just nam gyu came back out. Eyes blown wide and covered head to toe in thick splashes of blood. Your heart nearly died when you saw him stumbling dazed out of the bathroom. You knew SOMETHING had happened when no thanos returned safely to you.

- after that, he tried convincing you they didn’t start the fight, which you saw right through. Eventually he dropped that act and told you straight up what went down. How your friend was murdered. Nam gyu tried covering his pain up by insulting thanos and taking two of his pills from the cross he stole from him. Calling him an asshole and an idiot. Again, you saw right through.

- you brought your hand up to his face to wife some blood off with your sleeve. And he leaned right into it, sighing very very deeply as he crushed the drugs between his teeth. He held your hand to his face, which you thought was just him being cute until he started talking about how there needed to be a total blood bath that night. To ensure team ‘O’ wins and you both could keep going. You tried to pull away but his grip kept you like in your spot next to him.

- “no nam gyu, we can’t just kill these people. They are just like us they just need money-“

- “yes! That’s the fucking point. We need that danm money, can’t you see? We won’t fucking win with all those stupid fucking cockroaches leeching our money” he hisses, harsh words contrasting with his hands tracing patterns gently on yours. “We won’t win this vote with them alive, we won’t get more money with them all alive. This is the only way”

- he just kept going and going until you agreed, saying you’d at least let him go out and kill and you’d be his little look out. Only nothing can go smoothly for anyone ever here.

- while there’s lights flashing and people screaming, blood and gore being sprayed from the alive and leaking from the dead, you are trying to make out what is going on around you. You can (faintly) see nam gyu out in the room, grabbing people and ripping them to shreds with his fork, the very fork that killed thanos to be exact.

- while you were looking around for nam gyu, someone had come up behind you, grabbing you by the neck and trying to choke you out. You screamed out nam gyus name as loud as you could as the attackers grip tightened and tightened to the point where you thought your neck was bound to snap. Your vision going out slowly as all you can recognize becomes the sound of the chaos. Until suddenly you were freed, and your assaulter was ripped off you and pinned to the ground by nam gyu.

- he started repeatingly stabbing the person, blood flying onto you and him as he slit the person open. When he stopped you basically flung yourself at him, crying “thank you! Thank you!”. He just saved your life, though You could barely recognize him, he was lost completely in drug fueled blood lust and rage.

- maybe not completely you figured, as he rushed to you and scooped you up. He returned you to a bunk, telling you to hide there and wait for him. Promising you he’ll come back, that he will keep you safe. And he did, as the lights came on and the gun shots rung out, he was alive and on his way back to you

______

Bet yall can’t guess who my favorite is >:3

[memory-of-idle-musings]

⋆.˚┆Injured s/o reactions .

╰─..★.──────★.

﹒✶ | Summary:

How the three first class SOLDIER's react to their beloved s/o getting injured and how they take care of them afterward.

﹒✶ | Characters:

Sephiroth, Angeal Hewley, Genesis Rhapsodos

﹒✶ | Tags:

Angst, hurt/comfort, slight fluff, romance, gn!reader, pre-established romantic relationships, bulleted headcanons

﹒✶ | Trigger warnings:

Mentions and graphic descriptions of physical injuries, blood, combat, physical violence, heavy angst, traffic accident, mentions of death, permanent scarring, gendered terms "god/goddess" used, but gender neutral otherwise!

﹒✶ | Author's note:

I had so much fun with these they ended up being way longer than they should have been. 😅 Hope you enjoy!

↪ ❥ Sephiroth:

〈 Pre-Nibelheim, crisis core timeline 〉

You are on your way home, passing through the quiet, unusually empty streets of a local small town. Like watercolors in motion, the dusk sky begins to shift from the fiery red hues of the sunset to the cool calm of impending stars.

The fridge in your home was all empty after you forgot to go grocery shopping earlier this week, and you found yourself with a grumbling stomach this afternoon. Which is what warranted this rather unusual, late shopping trip of yours. 

You are well aware of how dangerous it is to be walking home this late all on your own. You do wish you had someone to escort you. Alas, with your beloved, Sephiroth, currently away on a long, daunting mission assigned to him by Shinra, you will have to manage alone.

Still, unless you wanted to be left starving tonight, you had no option but to go. Luckily for you, the nearest grocery store just happens to be rather close to your place, and with how empty it usually chances to be at this time of the day too, you find yourself back on the way home in no time.

It's unfortunate that your luck runs out merely a few steps away from your home, when you abruptly notice a group of rather intimidating-looking thugs step out of the shadows from behind a nearby wall. 

You immediately stop dead in your tracks the moment you spot them, your senses are on high alert. You do not know who these men are, nor what they want. Whether they are a random group of thugs that just so happened to notice you out here all on your own, or they were already purposefully targeting you beforehand. They utter no words, and their garments give away no information about their identities. 

But with the way they all begin to encircle and slowly move toward you, you know very well that they mean trouble...

You try to back out, to speak out against them, to turn away and run with the wind as far as your feet can carry you... But the thugs give you no chance to do anything before unsheathing their blades and rushing in right at you.

The men surround you, one of them grabbing you from behind and holding you in place, covering your mouth with his hand, and you can feel the dry taste of his leather gloves in your mouth as you thrash against him, trying to free yourself of his hold on you.

"Now now, there's no need to be so defiant. If you can just cooperate-" His words are cut short by a loud scream that escapes his throat as you bite his hand with all the force you can muster, allowing yourself an opportunity to wriggle free and run.

And you do, you break away from him and run, despite another one of the men who stand straight right in your direction. Seeing you run, with his sword in his hand, he brings it down upon you.

His blade slashes across your chest, a calculated cut, enough to wound you quite severely, but still not enough to kill you. Not that it occurs to you at that time, when you feel the force of the impact push you back and hit the ground before you can even register your injury.

But when you find yourself lying on the ground, surrounded, your body in pain from the fall, you begin to notice the sharp, stinging sensation, intensifying itself across the upper half of your body. Followed by the pool of blood spreading around you...

You don't know what happens next, you don't know how many seconds or minutes pass with you lying helplessly on the ground, firmly clutching your chest with your hands and knees.

But you do recognize the long wave of hair of silver, appearing in front of you in less than the blink of an eye, and you do see him cut down the men who attacked you in an even lesser time than that.

You see him bury Masamune into the chest of the last man standing, watching as the life in his eyes wanes—and when the man responsible for the carnage turns to face you, kneeling down beside your bleeding body, you see the face of a man who thought he may have just lost everything, already mad with grief.

Sephiroth wastes no time, picking you up in his arms and cradling you close to his chest as if he was holding the most precious thing in the world. You are only barely managing to hold on to your consciousness, but you can feel him running at the speed of lightning, even though you do not know where.

As he keeps on running, his eyes wander down to scan your injuries, but they dare not move to your face. He begins to whisper words of comfort to you in-between sharp breaths, and you notice just how truly terrified he looks, in a way you have never seen him look before.

"Please, just hold on, just be okay-"

Sephiroth was always so very protective of you, to a degree which even you thought to be too extreme at times. But he could never help himself, he knew how dark, wicked and brutal the world truly was—and he knew it was even more dark, wicked and brutal to anything that ever mattered to him.

The thought of you, hurt and terrified, all on your own would often haunt his nightmares, far more often than he would like to admit. And it's because of that reason, that he always double-checked his surroundings with you in the area, why he always wanted to be aware of where you were, should you ever need to go somewhere on your own, and why he always stayed just a little too close by your side when anyone dared to even approach you. 

He thought that, should the day ever come that you were in peril, he would be there to protect you—to keep you safe and tell you that he will never allow anything or anyone to hurt you. That even though the world is cruel, his unparalleled strength, that caused so much destruction by Shinra's will, could for once be used to protect something he held dear. 

Was he not dispatched from his missions and able to return home earlier, then you would already be-

Yet now, here he was, rushing through the door of Shinra's emergency department with your now unconscious, bleeding form in his arms. All because he wasn't there to protect you—and he doesn't know how exactly he can ever forgive himself for that.

He stands by your side even as the medics tend to you, checking your injuries, stopping the bleeding and sewing the deep slash spread all throughout your chest. If one of them even suggests that he should not interrupt, he will glare at them with the fury of a thousand demons.

Does Hojo happen to be in the vicinity at the time as well? Oh boy, you bet he will burn down all of Shinra before he ever allows him anywhere near you. Seriously, while he may still have some trust left in his scientific knowledge, he wouldn't trust him with you in his care for even the briefest of seconds.

When your state is finally stabilized and the medics tell him that you will indeed be okay, just left with a rather large, badly-looking scar, he feels the weight of the world fall right off of his chest.

You being alive does nothing to lessen his guilt over what happened—which, by now, is beginning to hit him with full strength—but that does not matter, he will deal with that on his own. Your well-being is far more important to him.

He sits by your bedside without leaving for a moment until you awaken, no matter if it takes days, weeks or even months. And the moment that you do is the moment that he begins to shower you with all the apologies he could think of. His voice nearly breaks as he strains to hold back the tears trying to escape his eyes while seeing you in this feeble condition. 

He promises you that he will never allow this to happen to you ever again, that from now on, he will protect you no matter what it takes. The sincerity of his vow was only intensified by the emotion in his eyes.

Once you are released, he takes you back to your shared home himself. Upon your return, you find that the place has changed quite a bit in your absence. You notice a new medical cabinet full of supplies in your bedroom, bandages and any other necessities sitting on its top. There are new books stationed where there weren't any before, a large, steaming pot of hot stew sitting atop the stove, and a bouquet of flowers with your favorite chocolate awaiting you on your shared bed.

You're not quite sure how he managed to accomplish all of this all the while constantly sitting at your bedside in the hospital. But you have a feeling he may have commissioned the help of two very specific friends. 

As for the men who attacked you? The disgusting animals may be dead now, but says nothing of their motives and who they were. It doesn't matter if they were just some random thugs trying out their luck on you, or if this was a more plotted, intricate scheme, meant to challenge and hurt him directly. He will track down anyone related to them, anyone related to what happened, and he will make them pay.

Once you are back home and now fully in his care, he has already decided that he is not going to disappoint you again. Sephiroth will be very, very diligent in taking care of you while you recover.

You will be forced gently persuaded into eating at least 3 whole meals a day, your wound will be cleaned and bandages changed very regularly. If you are given any meds to take, you will take them at the pin-point exact time that you are supposed to every single day; no butts.

He will also be in charge of your personal hygiene, showering and bathing you with the upmost care and reverence. No matter what, you wont persuade him to allow you to overexert yourself.

Hell, he will even brush your teeth for you if he really needs to.

I like to think that, in order to be Sephiroth's partner in the first place, you both must have a genuinely deep connection. Which is something that would be impossible without also having deep understanding and empathy for one another.

As such, he is very deeply attuned to your emotions. He can sense every single change in your demeanor, every shift in your expression or switch in your tone the moment it happens.

So, whenever he can sense that you are in any way troubled—doesn't matter whether it's about you being bedridden and unable to do anything that you want in your current state, or feeling insecure about the large scar spanning across your whole chest—he will know.

Usually, he will not pressure you to tell him, allowing you the time and space until you feel comfortable enough to come to him on your own instead. However, right now, he might fuss over you quite a bit more than usual, and he will try to gently coerce you into opening up about it sooner. 

With that being said, if you ever feel that he is becoming too much, too overbearing with his worries, tell him. He might not be able to push his worries aside completely while you are still not healed and the guilt of the incident eats away at his subconscious, but he will try. 

While you are recovering, he will take fewer missions and assignments from Shinra than he usually would to be with you. Being a person of his high position and being Shinra's personal favorite pet SOLDIER, he has the advantage of being able to decline more missions than most others would. He may not be able to dodge all of them, but I can assure you that he will try.

While having some free time, or, perhaps in moments where you are asleep, he will make the effort to research any medical knowledge about your injury. Drowning his sorrows and regrets in research on how to better take care of you; how to better tend to your wound, any additional minerals and vitamins that could help you recover, any methods that might help ease your pain—be they of folk, or more industrial, medical knowledge. 

And anything that could help keep the trauma of what happened at bay.

Sometimes at night, he might have nightmares about what happened, or of something even worse happening to you. His guilt manifests itself in many ways. However, this is the major one among them.

When such nights come, comfort him. He truly feels guilty, and that what happened to you was his fault and his fault alone. He will feel incompetent, due to him being unable to protect you. He might still have been able to save you on that faithful day, but he doesn't want to rely on such luck again the next time around. 

Once you finally begin to make your recovery, and the red, rough mark on your chest begins to solidify into soft tissue, Sephiroth will be very wary of how you react to this new addition to your appearance. The scar does not bother him in the slightest, but he is afraid that it might start bothering you.

And if it does, he will absolutely not hesitate to shower you with praise and compliments on your beauty. He reassures you that despite the nasty scar, your beauty shines just as brightly as it did the first day he saw you. And that, personally, it does not matter to him at all. 

He might even like it in a way, as it reminds him of so many of his own scars...

But if it truly does bother you too much, he will go out of his way to find any possibilities on how to make it less apparent and visible for you. 

Sephiroth loves you, he loves you to death. If he had to burn down the world for you and cover himself in it's ashes to keep you safe, he would. So do the same for him, please.

↪ ❥ Angeal Hewley:

Angeal was just getting done with a rigorous training session with some of the 2nd class SOLDIER's.

The trainees were close to wrapping up the session, in the process of overcoming the final challenge in the virtual reality system. They took longer than they initially should have, but Angeal didn't want to interrupt them when they were so close to successfully defeating the enemy.

You, however, know nothing about this. As you pass through the headquarters of Shinra, looking for your beloved Angeal at the same time as you have been nearly every day ever since you two began your relationship together.

You enter the VR training room as you usually would, only to find the surrounding SOLDIER's still wearing their goggles, with the simulation still active as well.

Angeal takes quick notice of you, but before he ever has the chance to pull out his phone and quickly abort the mission, one of the SOLDIER's—currently engaged in combat within the simulation—swords comes swinging down right at you.

It only takes the briefest of seconds for the sharp blade to bury itself into your shoulder, the force of it powerful enough to nearly sever your whole arm right off.

You let out a blood-curdling scream, falling down on the floor as you clutch the deep, open wound on your shoulder with your hand. The searing pain spreads itself from your arm to the entirety of your body. 

A look of utter horror immediately flashes across Angeal's features as he dashes towards you in a single heartbeat.

He shouts your name as he kneels down beside you, his gaze shifting between the bleeding wound on your shoulder and your face while panicking internally.

Honestly? While still not quite on Sephiroth's level, Angeal might just almost be the most protective one out of the three men. Protecting his beloved and keeping them safe from harm is something he considers to be a part of his idea of honor. 

So seeing you, the love of his life, seriously hurt and bleeding on the floor sends him into a state of panic and rage that is rather very unusual for the man.

The said rage is something mostly directed toward himself. He loves you, and cannot bear to see you hurting. How could he have allowed this to happen to you? He was supposed to protect you...

Momentarily, Angeal turns his head to the SOLDIER whose blade ended up slashing your shoulder. His gaze is piercing sharp, and his face contorted in an expression of pure anger, as he shouts at them, asking what the fuck did they just do?!

He was so close to losing control of himself and beating them into a bloody pulp. But still, he knew better and, right now, you were his priority. He will deal with giving out any punishments and lectures later.

He lifted you up into his arms, one wrapped around your shoulders, applying pressure to the open cut with his hand while the other supported your weight.

He rushed out of the VR training room, carrying you bridal style while he whispered words of comfort to you as he silently prayed that you would be alright.

Your arm was going to be okay, you had nearly lost it, but the doctors and medics managed to save it. Although your recovery will be long, and there may be some permanent nerve damage, along with a huge scar left.

Once it becomes certain that you and your arm are going to be okay, the fear and anger Angeal felt initially begins to turn into a chaotic, conflicting mixture of various emotions. 

He feels very angry, both at the trainee who caused your injury, but more so at himself. He should have been able to prevent it, damn it! He should have been faster, more vigilant, more thoughtful. But he will be very careful not to accidentally take his anger out on you. 

Chances are he might forbid you from seeking him out during training again, or wandering Shinra's halls, even.

Sorrow, why do as lovely of a person as you have to endure such pain? He feels for you, very deeply, for all of your fears and hurt. Not to mention the terrifying, soul-wrenching realization that this could have ended much more tragically. You are his dream, he could never bear to lose you...

But most of all, guilt and regret. Again, Angeal puts a huge emphasis on up-keeping his honor and ideals, protecting his s/o and keeping them safe from harm is a big part of that. Something every man and SOLDIER should always strive to do.

It would be an understatement to say that he feels devastated, as if he somehow failed you and all that he stood for, even though things were out of his control and could have turned out much worse. He takes this as a stain upon his honor and pride. You will definitely need to give him some time to come to terms with it.

Unless you comfort him about it, reassuring him that none of this was his fault and that it was an accident he most likely would never be able to prevent, he will definitely feel like he has to atone for this mistake one way or another, struggling to forgive himself.

But either way, he will make a promise—a silent vow, both to himself, and to you—to always be there for you from now on, to care for you, to keep you safe, no matter what.

As for the SOLDIER who accidentally ended up causing your injury? With a bit of time and space, he realizes that they could not have prevented the accident, that it ultimately wasn't their fault.

Still, fear not, Angeal will give them the lecture of their lifetime. They will also have to go through quite the ordeal of begging him not to get them kicked out of SOLDIER. And if they somehow manage to convince him, they will still be punished accordingly. 

Regardless, once you begin to recover, Angeal will want to be with you every step of the way without question. He will spend all his free time by your side. Not only because he still feels at least a little guilty about what happened, but also because he is just genuinely worried about you and your well-being. 

As expected, his SOLDIER duties would often get in the way of that. Be prepared for him to leave for missions often, sometimes even for long periods of time. He doesn't want to, really, he'd much rather be with you, especially right now while you are in such a vulnerable state. But duty calls and he will answer. 

However, if you are okay with it, he will try and find someone to stay and watch over you while he is gone. It could be anyone; a family member, a trusted friend, his or yours - so long as you feel comfortable and Angeal trusts them. He will make the effort to call and text you regularly while he's away either way, but he will be all the happier knowing you have someone near you at all times. 

During your recovery—especially the earlier days of it—he will turn into a bit of a worry wart, actually. Like an overbearing mama, he will want to take care of you in every way possible, constantly fanning over you as he fusses about making sure you remain as comfortable and as safe as possible.

Affectionate, especially while you are injured. The often times stoic and serious man might not look the part, but he holds all the love in the world in his heart, and he is not greedy with it - not when it comes to you.

Be prepared to be smothered with affection and warmth only few are capable of. Anything from tender touches, to encouraging words and attentive care is served on a silver platter for you to eat from and indulge in. 

If you enjoy physical affection, you will definitely not feel lacking. Angeal loves nothing more than to hold you in his arms, gently squeezing you as he whispers words of love and comfort in your ear. He promises to never leave you, to always protect you and keep you safe.

He relishes every hug, every kiss, every soft brush of his hand against yours and will use them to comfort you quite often.

Random touches of reassurance are a given as well. You might just be going on about your day when you suddenly feel a large, rough hand gently press itself against the small of your back.

Or, you might be waking in the morning, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, stretching out your legs as you feel two large, muscular arms wrap themselves around your waist as he leans closer to you, asking you if you're okay.

When it comes to tending to you and your injured arm, Angeal is your man! He will make sure to help you clean your wound, change the bandages and keep an eye on any developments in its recovery - be they positive or negative. He will also be very strict about attending any checks and doctor visits you might have coming your way.

Say goodbye to any chores and household work for the coming months, or at least until your arm is close to recovering. Angeal would totally insist on sweeping the floors, dusting the furniture, washing all the dishes, doing the laundry, grocery shopping, keeping everything tidy and taking out the garbage for you.

Also, cooking! Cooking is something that he always considered to be a small hobby of his, even on his own. But doing it with you is something much more special, and he will secretly enjoy getting to cook for you more than he does for himself, or anyone else, for that matter.

If you are able to, Angeal will make sure to regularly take you out on long, slow and romantic walks in nature. ​He thinks the fresh air will be good for you, as well as keep you less bored overall. He really enjoys taking said walks with you through the nearest woods and botanical gardens he can find. However, he will definitely make sure that they are safe first before taking you there. 

And during your casual little strolls, he would point out any flowers and other flora he has read about or seen somewhere else before. If you are willing, he even will gladly take a stop to admire the plant which has caught his or your attention and tell you anything he knows or remembers about it!

There is a possibility he might attempt to turn your house/apartment into a small indoor garden of his own if you don't stop him in time.

Even after you heal, Angeal will continue to feel a pang of guilt every time he notices the not-so pleasant-looking scar left on your shoulder after what happened to you. There is not much you can do about this, he will always feel at least a little disappointed with himself for allowing this to happen to you. But he promises to do better next time.

Angeal is THE husband material. He is a kind, loving and caring man who will be utterly dedicated to making your recovery as smooth and swift as possible. Always available at your every beck and call whenever he has the time and space to do so, all the while gently teasing you for being so dependent on him.

↪ ❥ Genesis Rhapsodos:

The sun was just beginning to set when Genesis took you out on a dinner date to a fancy restaurant.

Buying you expensive gifts and lavish food with exquisitely aged wine was one of his favorite ways to show affection to you, his God/dess.

You have just finished eating, leaving the restaurant while Genesis stayed behind momentarily, paying for all the food.

You stepped outside with a slight spring in your step and a smile on your face, stopping in your tracks next to the road to wait for your beloved to join you.

It took only a moment of distraction for a nearby truck—its driver speeding down the road recklessly—to hit you at nearly full speed, sending you flying forward.

You weren't even aware of what was happening when your body hit the hard, stone ground, the impact making you lose consciousness instantly.

The restaurant door opened, with Genesis stepping outside. His eyes widened in fear and terror, his jaw dropping as he saw your limp body, lying on the ground from across the road.

He did not spare a moment rushing toward your unconscious form, quickly kneeling beside you, picking you up into his arms with a slight tremble in his hands.

Genesis was a proud, arrogant man. He always tried to reach for what was not meant for him to have, often times hiding his true thoughts and inner feelings behind the mask of dramatic theatrics and cryptic passages.

But he could not even attempt to hide the horror that spread across his features as he looked down at your unmoving body, his eyes scanning for the severity of your injuries.

His mind was a chaotic storm of thoughts, of panic, terror and confusion. What happened? Who did this? It does not matter, they will pay regardless. For now, he had to make sure you were okay.

He stood upwards as the blood from your wounds trickled down his hands, soaking into his clothes. Rushing to get you the help you needed.

The fear that burned inside his chest while the medics tended to your wounds and injuries was excruciating. You would not leave him, you would not dare to leave him... Or would you?

The expression on his face was one of a gut-wrenching worry, its features so still it appeared as if it was made of stone. He paced up and down the waiting room, biting the nails on his fingers.

At the same time, he was overcome with overwhelming guilt. He was supposed to be your hero. How could he fail to save you so?

When your injuries have been taken care of and your state is stabilized, a stone heavy, unlike any other, fell off Genesis's chest.

Thank the Goddess, you weren't off as badly as he initially thought you would be. Mostly just a few broken and fractured bones. But nothing to take lightly either. 

As for your recovery, Genesis made sure to be around during it as much and as often as possible. Juggling between you and his responsibilities as a SOLDIER.

...Who are we kidding? This man would never put Shinra above his darling s/o. Especially while they are in a vulnerable state. He would do his duty, but only while trying to wriggle out of it as much as possible.

He'd spare absolutely no effort in trying to help you heal, always making sure you're comfortable, all the while pampering and smothering you with affection. 

As he usually would, he will bring you small gifts and trinkets in an attempt to cheer you up. Anything you like, he will make it yours.

Absolute drama queen; anytime he sees you flinch, stiffen or whine because of the pain, you will be subjected to the most theatrical display of fear and tragedy ever. He will also exaggerate the severity of your injuries quite often.

Anytime your wounds need cleaning, or you need to change your bandages, he will dash right next to you, telling you to lay back down and relax as he takes care of you. 

But you have to forgive him for teasing you about it sometimes. Like after he changes your bandages, asking whether his services have at last earned him the favor of the God/dess (you).

Need help with regaining the strength in your broken legs once they are close to healing? Genesis has you covered! He would pick you up, arm wrapped tightly around your waist, keeping you steady as he would help you walk, slowly, step by step. 

If you ever end up being bored while trapped in your bed during the recovery, Genesis will gladly read or recite LOVELESS to you (he will do that anyway, even if you don't want him to).

He will also write his very own poems for you, both with you at his side and while he is away on a mission. If he had just a sliver of time, you would wake up to a handwritten letter from him, followed by a touching poem.

He would also gladly write them together with you, if that's something you'd like; and if it is, sometimes, when he comes back home to you from a mission, you and Genesis will trade said poems.

His heart melted at the loving and affectionate words you so often used to describe him. He would attempt to hide the faint flush of red on his cheeks with a quiet chuckle, teasing you for being so overly romantic while being guilty of the very same crime he accuses you of doing himself. 

He is a sleek bastard and will absolutely use every single opportunity and excuse he can to just... Touch you.

Still having to use crutches and need to go to the bathroom? No need to worry sweetheart! He will sweep in and carry you over there bridal style.

Are your legs and body feeling sore? Poor, sweet love... Genesis will prepare you a romantic, hot bath and will insist on helping you wash yourself.

In a similar fashion to Angeal, your injuries are a huge blow to his pride and ego. Genesis holds himself to a high standard and while he does not tend to put a lot of emphasis on what others think of him, he does care more than the rest. This is especially true when it comes to his fans. He fears he may appear as weak in their eyes due to allowing this to happen to his s/o.

As such, every time he returns from a mission and sees that some of the damage that has been done to you has barely improved since the last time he's seen you, he will be equally worried and disappointed. 

He does not want to see you, his divine God/dess in such a state, a reminder of his failures. But more than anything, he is just worried about you.

On another note, he also came to find just a tiny bit of guilty pleasure in the bedridden stage of your recovery. He gets to keep you all to himself without you or him being bothered by anyone... And he loves that.

You might also notice him taking on a slightly more serious, less flamboyant attitude and approach. And while his regular affectionate and somewhat cheesy demeanor does not take a step back, there is a worry in his face when he looks at you that simply wasn't there before.

He may not always show it outwardly, but what happened to you has affected him deeply. He blames himself for not saving you, for not being there when the accident happened, for not swooping you into his arms and rescuing you out of harms way like the hero that he always wanted to be.

Genesis has also grown a lot more protective of you since the accident, even after you have already recovered from your injuries. Being so close to losing you made him realize how easily you could disappear, how thin the thread that held on to the light that was your life truly was. He would not allow any more danger anywhere near you again, he would always be there to keep you safe.

He would not tell you, but the driver of the truck that ended up nearly killing you would end up disappearing a few days later, never to be seen again. And if you somehow find out? He would simply smile, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

Overall, Genesis would make sure to be there for you while you recover from your injuries and that you are never exposed to such danger ever again—not if he can help it. 

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

MOST WANTED (Toji x Self-Insert!Reader 18+ One Shot) [COMMISSION FILL]

"I’m gonna make sure you remember tonight and what happens when you fuck with a guy like me."

***IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: THIS WORK CONTAINS R*PE & NONCON SEXUAL ACTS. PLEASE READ THE TAGS.***

READ PART II HERE!

READ PART III HERE!

***********

Pairing: Mafia Boss!Toji x Spy!Self-Insert!Reader (Enemies to Lovers)

Synopsis: You’re a highly skilled hitwoman. You’ve been doing this for years–getting paid to take hits on the wealthy and corrupt at your agency’s order. You figure taking a hit on the renowned Tokyo mafia boss Toji Fushigiro won’t be any different. However, things take a terrifying turn for you, and your skills are put to the test when you go undercover as a dancer at his favorite club and give him a private dance. But instead of killing you, Toji takes it upon himself to punish you and show you what happens when you fuck with him.

Warnings: Smutty Smut, 18+; Porn with Plot; Physical Fighting; Gun Play; Knife Play; Noncon/R*pe; Forced Deepthroat; Mutual Oral; Forced Orgasm; Lap Dancing/Pole Dancing; Doggystyle; Spit Play; Degradation + Praise; Rough Sex; Choking; Hair Pulling; Unprotected PIV Sex; Creampie; Some Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Here you go lovely!! @curiouscutie143 I hope you & everyone other toji lovers enjoy this. I had so much fun writing this & I tried to make it as nasty as I could lol. I may write another mafia!toji thing in the future just cuz this shit was soooo fun. Enjoy! -Jazz

*************

“Peaches, you’re needed in the backrooms.” 

You resist the urge to smile as you turn around from your seat at the bar, sipping on some water after your dance and sweet-talking a middle-aged bank broker into his pockets. It’s important to keep up the facade.

“Comin’,” you tell your coworker and turn to the broker who looks ready to dive into your cleavage. 

“Sorry, but I’ve gotta run,” you sigh, acting apologetic. He frowns at you, making the wrinkles and lines in his face more evident. “But this shouldn’t take too long. Find me afterward?”

The broker puts his hand on yours, accidentally using the hand his gold marriage band sits on. “You’ve got it, baby,” he purrs. “I’ve got some dollars just waitin’ on ya.” 

He gives you a wink before polishing off his whiskey and walking away from the bar, leaving you to breathe and collect your thoughts. You turn to the bottle girl, waving her down. “One shot of Patron, please!” you yell above the music blaring from the overhead speakers. She nods, scurrying to fetch you a much-needed shot. It will be the first alcoholic drink you’ve had since your shift started. 

You suddenly hear a buzz from your right ear and instantly put your hand up against it under your hair. “V,” a gruff voice says into your earpiece. “Come in, V. It’s been 20 minutes since we last talked. Did you get him yet?” 

You scan the upscale strip club pulsing with purple and red strobe lights and booming with activity: businessmen and regular-degular customers tossing money at the dancers on stage who spin around poles and do splits in their thongs and heels.

“Target was sighted five minutes earlier, sir,” you whisper into the earpiece given to you by your agency. “He is currently in the backrooms waiting for me. He came alone. He made eye contact with me ten minutes ago, so he may be asking for me.” 

More like you made eye contact with him and had been since he walked in. He is impossible to miss with how tall and buff he is. His black V-neck tee stuck to his pectorals and abs while his jeans hung low on his hips.

You had expected he’d be flashier with his wealth by wearing obvious designer clothing, but you figured that he had to keep a low profile as well. Beneath the V-neck that hung from his neck, you could see the tattoos that roped over his chest just like his arms. The healed scar at the corner of his smirk as his green eyes scanned the place over told you that this was, indeed, your target. 

He stood between two bodyguards in suits half his size, giving off an intimidating aura, especially with the guns at their hips. But you’d expect nothing less from Toji Fushigiro, Tokyo’s most notorious mafia boss. 

He is powerful. He is wealthy. He is known throughout Tokyo and Japan for being the head of Tokyo’s infamous mafia gang, the spot being passed down by his father. He is also a criminal. White-collar crime, organized crime, drug trafficking––you name it, Toji does it. 

He is also known for his scare tactics on those who owe him a debt. He’s held man over bridges, threatening to drop them in the murky waters below. He’s pistol-whipped. He’s choked. He’s stomped. He’s jumped guys in alleyways and left them for dead. He is a man of his word. If he tells you he’ll fuck you up if you don’t give him his money in a certain amount of time, he’ll do it. 

He is the number one man current on your hitlist…and your agency’s. They knew it was a good idea to employ you, their top hitwoman, to Toji’s favorite club to take him out for good. Though he didn’t show up when you started at the club a couple of weeks ago, you knew it was only a matter of time until he showed up. 

And now, he is. As soon as he was in the club, everyone’s eyes were on him. Dancers scurried to the pole and backstage to change into their best outfits to milk him out of his pockets. Bartenders and bottle girls quickly wiped down counters and took care of customers as quickly as possible so they could tend to him. Your manager barreled toward him with complimentary champagne and a spot in the VIP section. 

As Toji walked with your manager, your eyes met across the room. They met again while he sat in the VIP section when he should’ve been watching a dancer twirl around the pole in front of him. Both times were fleeting, but they affected you completely. His green eyes, like mirrors to a forest, sent chills down your spine and made your stomach flip. His gaze was intense. Intimate. His eyes made it hard to relax or act like a normal dancer working her shift at the club. 

He seemed to know what he was doing to you or he was sizing you up because he would simply smirk and sip on his whiskey on the rocks and puff on his cigar, his soft lips forming Os and blowing the smoke into the strobe-lit air. You can understand why so many women fell for him, but you aren’t one of them. The tiny gun strapped to your hip proves it. 

Your real boss sighs in relief. “Excellent work,” he praises. “Unfortunately, we can’t see what you’re doing from over at headquarters and we’re still working on connecting the audio to hear what’s happening around you, so just fill us in on what you do next until then. All you have to do now is walk back there and complete the mission as we discussed.” 

You toss an arm over the bar, stretching your coffin-shaped nails along the polished bar. “Of course,” you reply with a smirk. “Don’t I always?”

The bartender returns with your shot and you down it at once, relishing the burn and the way it loosened you right up. “I’ll keep you informed,” you say. “Just stay near the phone.” 

“Be careful,” your boss says before the line cuts. You check your makeup in the bar before you get up from the bar and strut over to your beautiful, blonde coworker in her red lingerie and heels. “Hey, Yuki,” you greet her. 

She smiles at you and guides you to the backrooms where the wealthier customers usually take the girls to get a dance…or something more. Sexual exchanges aren’t allowed, but the manager never complains if they bring in more money. You and Yuki peer down the hallway to the double doors of a private room where Toji’s bodyguards stand. 

“Why the guards?” you ask, pretending to be confused. “Is the President here or somethin’?” Yuki turns you to face her, her eyes wide. “Even bigger,” she replies. “He’s the hot guy with the scar who comes in here often. He’s a mafia boss, apparently. Super hot, but very powerful. The bossman gave him his pick of any girl he wanted and he picked you.” 

You do your best to hide your smirk. You knew you had him. “Me?” you ask breathlessly. “Why me?” Yuki shrugs, just as clueless. “Don’t know, but I was sent out to fetch you. He’s willin’ to pay double the amount of a regular lapdance, but he didn’t say if he wanted it topless, naked or not.” She gives you a worried look, furrowing her blonde brows. “You sure you up for it, hon?” she asks. “I know you’ve taken high rollers before, but he ain’t even a high roller! He’s beyond that!” 

To sell it even more, you bite your lip, acting nervous but intrigued. “I can do it,” you reply. “Just hold my hand when you walk me in there.” Yuki obliges and squeezes your hand as you begin to walk toward the guards, heels clicking across the floor. 

“Target is in sight,” you whisper into your earpiece, turning away from Yuki and putting your mouth in your arm to muffle your voice. “I’m walkin’ to the backrooms now where he’s located.” 

“Excellent, V!” your boss says. “Just do it as we discussed. Don’t falter, don’t yield, and don’t lose focus.” The three rules of being a spy. You never forgot them. Finally, you come to the guards and Yuki smiles up at them. “I’m here with Peaches,” Yuki announces. “The girl Mr. Fushigiro asked for.” 

You plaster a bright, charming smile on your face. It must work because the guards budge and step out of the way for you. One of them opens the door for you and Yuki, holding it. “Step in,” he orders. You thank him and scurry inside the dimly lit room with an included mini-bar, a single stripper pole, and leather lounging couches. Toji currently sits in one of them, legs spread and eyes hooded as he puffs on a blunt and sips on his drink. 

His green eyes pierce into your very soul when he eyes you in the doorway. “Here she is, sir,” Yuki says. “Just as you requested. And she’s just as pretty as I told you she is.” She moves your hair out of your face, exposing your pretty false flashes, Fenty Beauty gloss, and accentuated features to the boss. 

Toji hums, liking what he sees. “Yes, she is,” he agrees. “Tell your boss thanks. He can expect some good business out of me once the night is through.” Yuki nods and gives your arm a squeeze. “Good luck,” she whispers before heading off. The doors close and you are left alone with your hit. 

Neither one of you moves toward the other, staying posted to your spots. Toji takes a puff on his blunt and lights taps it above the ashtray next to him. “Y’know, you’re mighty pretty up close,” he purrs. “I’ve been wonderin’ what you’d look like up close instead of across the room.” 

You finally look at him, noticing how big he is even sitting down. “So you’ve been watchin’ me tonight?” you ask. He nods, his eyes trailing down your form. “I knew I hadn’t seen ya before,” he continues. “I come here often and I would’ve remembered seein’ a face and a rack like that.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Charmer, aren’t you?” you sarcastically question. 

He smirks at your wittiness. He likes that bite in a woman. “When I wanna be, but you’ll have to forgive me; the liquor makes me bolder than I already am.” His tongue jets out to lick his lips. “But you’ve gotta give a guy credit for bein’ honest and that lil’ outfit don’t leave much to the imagination.” 

You go to wrap your arms around yourself but then stop. You need to sell this and if you’re forced to stand here in a mini dress that barely covers your ass or titties with heels that could crush a bitch in front of your hit who also happens with me enticingly sexy, then so be it. Toji’s gaze softens somewhat, noticing your discomfort. “You are very beautiful, Peaches,” he genuinely says. “Is it okay if I use your name?” 

“Thank you, Mr. Fushigiro,” you softly reply. “And no, it’s fine. It’s what I’m known as around here anyway. I started here five weeks ago.” He nods, sipping on his whiskey. “Call me Toji.” 

“Toji,” you parrot, slowly striding towards the pole in the middle of the room, an overhead speaker playing soft R&B overhead. “You’re quite the man. The entire club seems to be in a frenzy over you.” 

His smirk widens, proud and cocky. “They always are,” he chuckles. “Don’t know why. This place gets plenty of people bigger than me all the time, especially international celebs. I heard Drake was here not too long ago.” You give a dry “mm-hmm” as you grasp the pole. Toji takes that answer another way. “What, you don’t like Drake?” he snorts. 

“He’s okay,” you reply, short and impatient. “So what are you here for? To talk or to watch me dance?” You wrap a hand around the pole and pop your hip out, waiting for him to give you an order. 

“Depends.” He sits up, leaning forward to get a better look at you. “What are you willin’ to do tonight for me? ‘Cause we can just sit here and talk. I wouldn’t mind hearin’ that pretty voice all night.” His green eyes gleam with mirth and a small hint of lust.

“Definitely a charmer,” you chuckle. “That’s fine if you’re willin’ to pay, though we don’t have a rate for conversation.” 

He laughs at this, the sound deep and raspy yet pleasant to the ear. He takes another puff on his blunt before he lowers it down onto the ashtray. “Then let’s cut to the chase,” he sniggers. “It’s $500 for a 10-minute dance, right? I want 20 minutes, so that would make…”

He begins to count on his fingers but then stops. “A lot,” he chuckles. “I’ll probably ask for you to strip though. Are you okay with that, Peaches?” 

You feel something flip inside of you at the mention of all of that money and how passive he is about it. Any girl working here would do whatever he wanted for 20 minutes! “I’m a stripper,” you reply passively. “What else am I gonna do?” 

Toji tsks, grimacing at you. “Damn, what kinda attitude is that?” he laughs. “A beauty like you should be more adamant about showin’ off her body. Can I offer you a drink to get you in the mood?” He nods at the mini bar overflowing with bottles of tequila, vodka, and liquor.

“I don’t drink on the job,” you reply. “Music helps.” You suddenly hear a buzz in your ear and then your boss’ gruff voice: “Give me the rundown, V,” he demands. 

You want another drink?” you ask. You nod at Toji’s empty glass and he agrees, so you walk over to the bar. To him, you’re seemingly looking for a bottle of whiskey, bent down to look through the racks. “With the target now,” you whisper. “Just waiting for the right time to attack. Give me a second.” 

Once the line goes dead, you walk back over to Toji and pour him a bottle. As you bend down, you give him an ample view of your titties much to his enjoyment. As you do, you slip the gun out of your dress and place it under the couch where only you can find it. Once done, you leave the bottle with him, and step back, hands on your hips. He sits back against the couch, preparing for the show. “Whenever you’re ready, darlin’,” he purrs, his eyes filled with obvious lust and attraction. 

With a slow song playing above and the lights dipping into an almost ominous red shade, you begin to move to the beat. You roll your hips, swaying them side to side and front to back, almost as if you’re grinding on Toji despite him being several feet away from you. You let the music take control of you as you grasp the pole and begin to grind against it, dipping low to wind your ass in his face. 

You do a few tricks on the pole for him–jumping and spinning around it, your thighs wrapped tight around the metal pole; squatting and lifting up your dress to bounce your ass, etc.–before you turn to look at him over your shoulder, flipping your hair. Toji’s eyes are hooded and lustful, all from the weed, the whiskey, and the effect you’re having on him. Despite the situation, it feels good to have an attractive man ogle at your plump frame. 

“Take off the dress,” he demands, a slight growl in his voice. You don’t turn to face him, instead still facing the wall as you carefully unzip the back of your dress. The thin piece of clothing falls off of your body, revealing all of your rolls, curves, and the matching glittery bra and thong set. 

“Shit!” Toji hisses, ogling at your asscheeks in your glittery thong. “Your back don’t hurt carryin’ that around?” 

You finally turn around and find him leaning forward, his hands clenching his thighs. “You don’t look like you’re ready,” you giggle, winding your hips and toying with your titties in their cups. “Did you talk too much big game, Toji?”

The boss looks like he can’t even speak, his scarred lips parted as he stares you down. “Goddamn,” he hisses. “How some horny fuck didn’t propose to you and steal you out of here yet is beyond me.” 

You give a light, tittering laugh, smiling down at him. “Well, if someone did that, I wouldn’t be here with you.” He looks happy with that response. You then twist around and bend over for him, giving him a full view of your full, round, perfect ass. “Can you handle it, baby?” you purr. “Can you handle me?” 

You quickly pop up and turn around, finding him shifting in his seat and gritting his jaw. “I should be askin’ you that,” he growls. “Come the fuck here.” Deciding not to tease him any longer, you strut over to him, feeling sexy and irresistible. It’s strange that the same man you were sent to kill is doing this to you. 

His eyes have grown several shades darker, reminding you of the deepest, darkest parts of a jungle. “Dance for me,” he demands. “Not on the pole; on me.” He opens his legs wider for you and pats his lap, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Though clients often get handsy when dancers give them lapdances here, you decide that it’s best to do as he says. 

Plus, you’d be lying if you said that you aren’t curious to feel him for yourself. So you place your hands on his thick, muscular highs and begin to roll your body before squatting down, popping up between his legs. You reach up to drag your palms and long nails down his chest, feeling up his abs and toned stomach. He allows it, staring down at you with a look that would make a nun blush. 

You then stand up between his legs before turning around and lowering yourself down into his lap. “Shit,” he whispers, watching the way you work your ass along his lap and the jean-clad bulge that has begun to make an appearance. You twerk and bounce on top of him before he takes a drag of his blunt, blowing the air away from you. “You ever shotgun before?” he asks, his lips close to your ear now. 

Your body grows hot from him being so close, the attraction ironically magnetic. Slowly, you shake your head and Toji chuckles, adoring your mix of cute and sexy. “C’mere.” You lean back and tilt your head up while he takes another puff of his blunt. He holds the marijuana smoke before puckering his lips up and leaning down as if to kiss you. Slowly, the smoke travels from his lips to yours in an indirect kiss that leaves you breathless and your head dizzy. 

You can’t deny it: you’re wet. Your pussy has never been this wet for any man before…and he’s the enemy! Toji seems to feel it too judging by the hard-on you can feel pressing into your thigh. You shift onto his knee and begin grinding your ass back, doing your best to not grind your pussy against his thigh. 

“So you got a name other than that stripper shit?” he randomly asks you. You are immediately taken out of your lustful haze, remembering why you’re here. “I don’t remember us talkin’ about personal shit,” you dryly reply. “I don’t give my real name out to men I don’t know.” 

Then, for the first time tonight, Toji touches you. His big hand lowers onto your thigh and squeezes. You don’t try to move it but you are alarmed. “Oh, but you do know me, darlin’,” he replies, digging his fingers into your flesh. “And I know you, V.” 

At the mention of your real name, you freeze. The world freezes with you, everything seeming to cease their existence including the music that continues to play overhead. But you don’t hear it. All you can hear is your own blood pumping loudly in your eardrums. Toji releases you and you quickly jump off of him, turning toward him. 

He just sits there staring at you, a humorous smirk playing on his lips. The smile is no longer attractive to you anymore. Suddenly, you feel disoriented. You feel like you may vomit or drop to the floor in your heels. Your earpiece buzzes to life again in your ear. “V!” your boss calls. “We just got the audio working again. What’s happening?” He sounds panicked, just as much as you are. 

Toji bares his pearly whites at you as he calmly reaches for his whiskey. “Ah, now them wheels are turnin’ in that pretty little head,” he chuckles. “You know, you dance almost as good as you lie. I can see why you were put here to go undercover.” He takes a sip and licks the remnants away from his top lip, still staring you down. 

“Ain’t that right?” he asks and it feels like a snake has just silvered up your back and sunk its teeth in you, paralyzing you. 

“Y/N, he knows!” your boss hisses. “Stand down! Don’t do anything stupid!” He continues to yell and scream at you about aborting the mission and telling you that someone will be there soon, but you can’t quite hear him. It’s like you’re underwater and he’s standing above ground, his voice muffled and murky. 

For a few seconds that seem like a lifetime, you and Toji stare each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move. Your body kicks into fight or flight, the freeze stage having already been awakened. Inisctively, you shift into fight mode. Quickly, you take the bottle of whiskey and bring it down towards Toji’s head, but he catches your wrist like it’s nothing. 

You grunt, wincing at the pain of his grip. “Oh, you wanna play, huh?” he cackles. “Goin’ against your boss’ little rules just to take me out? How cute.”

With a wail of effort, you swing your other hand at his head but he catches that too. Counting on this, you bring your leg up and kick him hard in the groin. He immediately releases you and lurches forward, holding his junk, giving you a chance to grab your gun from under the couch.

“Don’t move,” you growl, cocking the gun at him. “You move and I’ll shoot.” 

Toji, red in the face and panting, glares up at you. “Please,” he scoffs. “You act like you’re the first bitch that’s put a gun to my head.” Before you can blink, he is swinging the bottle at you. You duck which is a mistake because Toji uses that opening to tackle you to the ground. You struggle and growl, turning into an animal as he wrestles with you for your gun. 

He ends up winning, flipping you over and pinning you down to the floor with his body. “Get off!” you scream, still wriggling around. “Get off me!” Click. The barrel of your gun presses to your temple. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll make you regret it,” he growls. 

His fingers move your hair back away from your ear and pry the earpiece out of your ear. He snarls at it as if it’s nothing but a bug. “God, they made these things so much smaller now.” He stands up, keeping the gun on you, and stomps on the earpiece, breaking it. “Whoops!” he mockingly says. “They should still be able to find ya though. I don’t plan on movin’ ya to another location…if you don’t piss me off.” 

The gun clicks again. “Turn around slowly,” he demands. Despite your reluctance to do so, you slowly turn around and face him, lying on your back with your own shit pointed at you as Toji stands above you. “How did you know?” you whisper. 

He smirks, appearing like the Devil in your eyes. “It wasn’t hard, darlin’,” he chuckles. “Dancers don’t eye me up the way you were. You looked like you were out for blood, not dollars. Not to mention the gun I saw at your hip.” You flush, cursing yourself. You should’ve been smarter. Of course, he would know. He spends his days having people hunt him down. 

His smirk fades, his expression darkening. “Who sent you?” he demands. “And don’t lie. You don’t wanna know what I do with liars.” The gun cocks, his finger trained on the trigger. You glare at him, hating his guts even more than you had before you met him. So you weakly confess. He guffaws, shaking his head in disbelief. “Damn, those guys? They’ve been after me for years!” 

“You’re a criminal,” you hiss despite the gun in your face. “You only got this far because of you dippin’ your hands in crime and gettin’ blood on your fists. I’m here to stop you.”

Toji’s brows raise in shock though he’s intrigued by your stubbornness. He squats down in front of you, still pointing the gun at your head. “And how are you gonna do that, huh, little girl?” he asks. 

Not even thinking, you hollow your lips and wallop a glob of spit in Toji’s handsome face before quickly turning over and scrambling to the door. However, Toji is just as fast and has his big, tatted arms wrapped around you, squeezing you tight. You can’t elbow him anywhere because your arms are stuck in his, leaving you to kick and wriggle.

“Oooh, I love a feisty bitch,” he chuckles. “Makes it a lot more fun to break ‘em.” 

He begins to walk with you over to a nearby wall and slams you against it, knocking the air out of your lungs. You find yourself pressed against the wall and him who is equally as hard and unmoving as the solid wall against your front.

He shoves the side of your face into the wall while he pins your arms behind your back, causing your muscles to explode with pain at being stretched back too far. “Get off!” you cry. “O-Ow, that hurts!” 

Toji tugs on your arms again, emitting a weak whine of pain from you. “That’s what you get for fuckin’ with me,” he growls. “Now what should I do with you? Kill you? Leave your agency to find you here?” The gun once again presses against your temple, cold and unrelenting. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears pushing back the ducks. You can’t beat this. You can’t fight this. “Do it,” you sob. “Just do it!” You go limp against him, waiting to feel that bullet penetrating your skull and for the void to come to collect you…but instead, Toji takes the gun away from you, leaving an indent on your temple. “No,” he says. “I’ve got a better idea.” 

You open your eyes, confused but also scared. What else is he planning to do with you? Before you can answer, you hear the undeniable sounds of his zipper coming down and the clinking of his metal belt buckle. Your body instant seizes, fear flooding your insides.

“I’m gonna make sure you remember tonight and what happens when you fuck with a guy like me. Tonight, babydoll, you’re mine. You don’t have a choice. You’re mine and I’m gonna show you what that means.” 

With his belt finally in his hands, he trains the gun on you. “Put your hands against the wall and stick that ass out,” he demands, his voice void of all emotion. “Do it now.” Outnumbered and out of tricks, you do as he says, trembling as you do so. 

“Bad girls like you need to be punished,” he says before the belt comes down hard onto your right asscheek. WHACK! The sharp sound of the leather hitting the soft, jiggly flesh of your ass penetrates the air. It feels like fire has licked your skin and your knees buckle at the pain. “Ow!” you cry out. 

Toji cackles at your agony, finding enjoyment and cuteness in it. “What, that hurt?” he laughs. “You don’t like the pain? I’m sure a girl like you has taken plenty of worse things before.” He raises his arm and whips the same cheek twice.

WHACK! WHACK! You flinch at each sharp hit, each one becoming more painful than the last. “Hurts, don’t it?” he snickers. “Don’t you regret pullin’ that shit with me now, babydoll, hm?” 

He then proceeds to whip your left cheek, not allowing you any time to recover or breathe. 

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! You bite your lip so hard that you nearly draw blood, the burning of your backside too much to bear. “S-Stop!” you whine. “Please stop!” 

Toji’s big hands wrap around your mouth, covering it. “Don’t speak,” he whispers into your ear, his breath the scent of whiskey and mint. “You don’t get to speak. Just take it.” You have no choice but to do so as he wails on your ass again and again, the leather cracking like fire against your jiggly ass. “God, that recoil,” he groans. “I’m gonna enjoy my time with you, baby doll.” 

You don’t answer, too busy holding back tears that have begun to push at your eye sockets. Toji finally stops and tosses his head back to laugh. “Are you cryin’?” he laughs in disbelief. “Damn, and all from some spankings? And here I thought you were this tough bitch.” 

You burn with resentment and humiliation, but all of that is pushed aside when he forces you to stand up straight and tugs your arms behind your back. You begin to panic but don’t say anything as he tightens his belt around your wrists and locks the belt buckle around them. “Turn around,” he finally says. 

Despite your tiny sobs, you do so and face him. His eyes are hooded and dark with obvious lust for you. He uses one big hand to force you onto your knees, right in front of his open fly and hard cock that you can see pressing against his designer briefs. “I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about,” he growls. He points the gun at your face, specifically at your lips. “Open your mouth and suck on it.” 

His expression, dark and chilling you to the bone, makes you feel as if you don’t have a choice..and not the loaded gun pressing to your lips. Swallowing hard, you shakily open your mouth and he slides the pistol in. The metal feels cold and hard in your mouth, making you cringe. “That’s it,” Toji chuckles. “Take that shit, baby. C’mon, don’t you wanna please me?” 

Slowly, you begin to suck, hollowing your lips out against the gun. Though you tremble and shake, you squeeze your eyes shut and try to imagine the gun as a hard, warm, throbbing cock instead. Toji moans as if you’re sucking on him, watching your tongue swirl along the barrel and your head bob. 

“Fuck, baby doll,” he groans. “You’ve got such a mouth on ya.” He slides it in further, the metal scraping against your teeth, until he reaches your throat. You gag and try to pull away, but Toji grips the back of your head.

“Uh-uh, mama,” he snickers. “You don’t get to get outta this. C’mon, just open your throat and breathe through your nose. You can do it.” He continues to push and pull, the gun sliding in and out of your mouth, while you struggle to breathe. You can feel sweat pool under your pits and between your cleavage all from your fear. Toji’s finger isn’t on the trigger anymore, but it doesn’t matter. He could change that in a second. 

So you suck and you slurp and you bob your head up and down like a good little slut, staring him into his eyes while spit drips from your lips. Finally satisfied, Toji pulls the gun out of your lips now coated in your saliva. “You fuckin’ slut,” he pants. “Now I need to try ya out for myself.” 

He pockets the gun and, with one hand, pulls down his briefs. His big, long, throbbing, veiny, perfect-looking dick springs to life. It damn near hits you in the face, making you gasp. “Sorry, mama,” he chuckles. “He just likes you.”

He wraps a hand around his 12-inch dick, pumping it lewdly in your face. “So you finna stare at it or suck it?” he deadpans, but he doesn’t wait for you to answer or recover. 

“W-Wait,” you stammer.

That’s all you get to say before his cock is pushing between your lips and into your mouth. He releases a moan when he first slides into your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of your wet mouth, soft lips, and tongue wrapping around him. Meanwhile, you’re struggling to take him. His girthy dick stretches out your jaw and your throat as he pushes himself in deep. 

“C’mon, babydoll,” he chuckles. “That can’t be all you can take of me.” He continues to push, filling your tongue and nostrils with the scent and taste of him. The walls of your throat have no choice but to accommodate his size though it burns and you gag as he begins to slowly yet roughly thrust into your mouth. “Maybe this will help ya out,” he says. Suddenly, he retrieves a pocket knife from his pocket and flicks it open. 

Fear flares into your stomach, making you want to jump away, but his large hand keeps you locked down on his cock. He presses the knife to your throat, chuckling as he does. “Careful now,” he warns. “You lean too close and that pretty neck might get sliced. I just wanna encourage you to do a good job.” He grips your hair and wrenches it up to look at him. “And you will do a good job for me, won’t you?” he asks. 

His tone makes it so you can’t refuse, so you say yes and allow him to force your head back down onto his cock before pulling it back. He does that for a while––pushing and pulling your head down onto his dick like you’re his toy while he uses your sloppy, wet mouth like it’s a fleshlight. “Fuck!” he shouts to the ceiling. “This fuckin’ mouth is heaven, baby. I hope your pussy is just as tight as your tight ass throat.” 

You gargle and mumble on his cock, causing pleasurable vibrations to travel throughout his body and his heavy balls that drip with your saliva. He continues to fuck your face and ruin your makeup, marveling at how beautiful you look choking on his cock. “Look at you, you little slut,” he dreamily sighs. “Makeup all fucked up. Hair ruined. You’re just a little mess for me, aren’t ya?” 

He slides his cock out of your throat and you take a grateful gulp of air, strands of your hair stuck to your wet lips and chin. He takes the knife and slides it along your chin, smirking down at you. “Now it’s my turn to taste you,” he murmurs. Before you can protest, he is picking you up, tossing you over his shoulder, and placing you on your stomach with your arms still tied behind you. 

“Please!” you sob, beginning to cry again. Toji straddles your ass, one hand massaging the globes of fat in your thong while the other holds his knife. “Please what, baby?” he mockingly coos. “I ain’t even touch you yet.” You then feel the cool metal of the knife dragging up your spine, sending shivers down your spine. “Time to get your sexy ass out of these fuckin’ clothes,” he growls. 

You flinch when you feel the knife drag up to your left shoulder where it cuts the bra strap. He does the same to your left one before positioning you onto your knees with your wrists slung over the couch arm. Your tits are now exposed, hanging like ripe, juicy fruit beneath you. Then off comes your thong with two swipes of the knife cutting through the thin straps. You sob helplessly as the cool air touches your sodden, wet pussy. 

“Damn, baby!” Toji cackles. “Are you wet from all this? You naughty little girl.” His middle and forefingers gently probe your entrance and slide up and down your slit, dragging unwanted moans out of you. “I’m gonna have some fun with you,” he chuckles. “Make sure you never forget about me.” 

He then bends you over the couch and proceeds to put his hot, wet, experienced mouth on your pussy while the knife stays pressed against your thigh. You whine at the feeling of his soft lips and tongue swirling along your clit and every sensitive part of you, opening your pussy up to more of him. He drowns in your pussy, pushing his face into it as far as he can and letting his tongue do all of the talking. 

You can’t stop the moans and gasps that escape you. The pleasure is just too much and too good! What a shame that a man who is so good at eating kitty is the same man you were sent here to kill. “Toji,” you moan, using his name for the first time ever. “Please…please!” 

Toji’s one hand massages and smacks your ass, becoming aoslutely obessed with it. “What do you need, babydoll?” he coos against your clit. “You need somethin’?” You nod helplessly though you have no clue what you need at this point. “Tell me you’re mine then,” he growls. “Say it and fuckin’ mean it. Say you’re my good little slut.” 

You keep your lips clamped tight, not wanting to swallow your pride or give up that tiny part of you that hates him still. SPANK! Your ass stings from his assault on your ass, his hand no doubt leaving a handprint. “Say it!” he bellows. 

At the blinding pain, pleasure, and delirium, you break. “I’m yours!” you sob. “I’m your good girl! Your good little slut! I’m everything you want me to be!”

Toji, pleased, presses soothing kisses to your burning asscheek. “Good girl,” he praises. “See how easy that was? Now you get your reward.” Suddenly, you feel his thick cock smack against your pussy once, twice, three times and then he is sliding home inside of you. 

Your mouth goes slack and your eyes grow wide as he begins to rocks his hips into, allowing you to get used to him. He is big. You can feel him stretching out every part of your cunt as he sinks deeper into your velvety, wet walls. “Fuck,” he sighs, one hand clutching your hip. “Not bad, babydoll. Your pussy is definitely the best one I’ve fucked…so far.” 

He begins to fuck you harder, faster, railing you as if this will be his last time doing so. Your moans and huffs of breath become louder and more intense the harder and deeper his cock plunges inside of you. “W-Wait!” you gasp. “Slow down! I can’t…can’t!”

Toji chuckles, watching your ass bounce against his pelvis as he fucks you. “Sorry, honey,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I couldn’t help it. You just sound so cute.” 

Your thighs clench and your body writhes as he rails you, unable to take this deep dicking into the couch. You try to move away but the knife suddenly sliding against your throat stops you. “Uh-uh, babydoll,” he growls. “Don’t run from me. I wouldn’t try it if I were you.” He then pops his knee up, his foot up on the couch, and reaches a part inside of you that makes you feel unimaginable pleasure. 

“Just take me like a good girl, okay?” he whispers. “You can do that for me if you wanna live.” You don’t have a choice in the matter, mostly because of the hold he has on your arms, pulling you back as drives himself forward again and again. The sound of your moans, his grunts, and the lewd plap, plap, plap as his balls swing against your overly-sensitive clit and his hips slam into your ass fill the air, drowned out by the music playing outside. 

“Who would’ve thought,” Toji pants into your ear. “C.O.D.E.’s good little spy gettin’ her brains fucked out on a mission, huh? I bet they’d love to see this.” His free hand releases your arms and yanks on a handful of your hair. “I bet they’d love to see you full of me,” he growls. “Full of this dick and my cum.”

He presses the knife deeper into your throat, just enough for you to feel the sharp, jagged edge of the blade. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks. “You gonna be a good slut and take all my cum too?” 

“Please!” you whimper, losing your mind and all of your pride. “Please just make me cum! I’ll do whatever you want, Toji!” He takes the knife from your throat and replaces it with his hand, choking you as he fucks you stupid. “Then do it,” he demands. “Fuckin’ cum on this cock while I fill you up. Cum with me now!” 

“Ah, ah, fuck, I-I’m gonna cum!” you deliriously sob as he continues to pound into you. “I’m gonna…gonna–!”

You don’t get a chance to finish because your pussy has finally reached its limit and explodes all over him, your walls squeezing around him and your clit shuddering. You reaching your peak triggers Toji and he grips your throat and ass as he comes to a still, his entire body tensing. “Fuck!” he bellows, cumming deep, deep, deep inside of you. 

You gasp as you feel a rush of warm liquid flood into your pussy while you gush all over his cock, dripping down his balls. He fills you to the brim, giving you so much that it has no choice but to trickle down your thighs. He doesn’t immediately pull out though––he continues to fuck you, albeit slowly and sloppily, before giving your tit one feeble squeeze and finally pulling out of you. 

You weakly moan at the feeling of being empty yet used, your pussy twitching and aching. “Mmm, now look at that,” he sighs dreamily, staring at your cum-soaked cunt. “Now that’s a properly fucked pussy if I do say so myself.” He takes a handful of your chin, squeezing your cheeks together, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Not bad, babydoll.” 

You don’t respond, too weak and too tired to do so. You’re too tired to even feel any amount of disgust for him and shame in yourself for failing the mission and enjoying the sex. “Let’s get this off of you,” Toji says, his hands unbuckling the belt from your wrists. “I’m gon’ need it for myself, anyway.” He releases your wrists and lets you lay on the couch, panting and coated in sweat. 

Your makeup and hair are ruined. Your underwear is in tatters. You feel used and fucked-out. You can only stare at Toji as he quickly gets dressed and straightens out his clothes, his cock still covered in you. “I’m sorry, baby, but I’ve gotta go before your people get here.” He gives you an apologetic smile. “But gimme a call since I’m sure you can find that out. Maybe we can do this again.” 

He then moves to the extra bathroom behind the couch and retrieves a robe which he covers you with. “See?” he chuckles. “I ain’t that big of an asshole.” He presses a kiss to your lips before bending down to pick up your thong. “Thanks for this,” he says, dangling it in front of you. “And the dance. I’ll cherish both forever.” 

You don’t say anything, even as you watch him leave, taking your thong and your dignity with you.

Then you are alone. At some point, you find the strength to stand up and wobble to the bathroom where you take a hot shower, washing the scent of sex and cum off of you. When you return, dressed in your robe, the door busts in, and your boss and fellow spies enter the room, guns drawn and masks on their faces. 

“V!” your boss shouts, instantly dropping his weapon and running to you. His eyes widen at your state, looking for any bruises or scars. There are none…that are physical, anyway. “V, what happened?” he asks. 

And as the events of tonight come flooding back to you at full speed, you muster up the most believable lie you can, clutching your robe closed: 

“He overpowered me.” 

[m4iya]

⋆⑅˚₊ Order up! - Banana cupcakes with cookie dough and chocolate chips to eat in for @moochiwoochi

A friend of a friend ft. Kozume Kenma (fluff, crack)

w.c 1.5k

“Here, I’ll carry that for you!” A voice perks up behind you, and soon after, a small weight is lifted right off your shoulder.

“You didn’t need to do that, Hinata. It’s a light bag.” He shook his head in dismissal.

Before becoming the current manager in training, a classmate of yours noticed that you’d always leave school immediately after class, never heading to any sort of after school club. Approaching you on one of those days, he suggested that you join the volleyball club as their new manager. You felt like he had locked in on you as a target, because once he made the connection that you were essentially free, it was like he became hardwired to pester you about it every single day.

So you could say it was more like he forced you to join, telling sob stories about how lost the team would be once they’re left without a manager, saying that someone has to keep the troublemakers in line. You wondered if he considered himself part of that bunch.

On todays agenda – or rather, this week’s agenda, was a training camp organised to bring a few teams together for practice matches. The boys piled onto the bus, leaving space at the front for you and the other manager to sit. Hinata usually talked your ear off about volleyball in general, but he’d always specifically mention ‘Nekoma’ and ‘his friends from Tokyo’. You opted not to admit it, knowing that he wouldn’t shut up, but it left you wondering who these mysterious ‘City boys’ – as Tanaka calls them – really were.

After a drive filled with petty arguments (Hinata and Kageyama as per usual), the bus reached the inn where you’d all be staying for the rest of the camp. You were informed that the practice matches would commence tomorrow, and so you set your things down and went to sleep.

With the morning sun peeking through the curtains, you awoke. Tidying your clothes, you headed out to the cafeteria where your peers were having breakfast.

“Hey!” Hinata waves to you from a seat, and you walk towards him, setting your plate down on the table.

He started rambling about how excited he was to play, talking with a mouth full of food

“Finish your food first!” You scolded him, elbowing his arm. 

Once everyone had finished eating and preparing themselves, you all headed down to the gymnasium where they would be playing their games today. Stepping inside, there were multiple other teams who you’d never seen before, matched up and playing against each other. Though there was a single team that was standing off to the side, waiting.

Suddenly, you felt a tug on your arm as you were pulled towards them by an overly gleeful Hinata.

“Kenma! Hey!” He called out to a blonde haired boy who looked as though he’d rather be somewhere else. Though, upon hearing his name, he turned towards Hinata with a smile.

“There you are. You guys got here yesterday, right?” You wondered if this soft spoken boy was one of the aforementioned Tokyo students.

“Huh? How did you know we were here?”

“Oh, just from the..” He paused for a second, pulling out his phone. “...10 – or so – messages you sent since yesterday.”

“Let’s not sweat the details!” He chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Anyways, I wanted to introduce you to our manager!” Hinata ushered towards you.

“Hello.” He turned to you with a faint smile. You nodded in return, smiling back.

Before you could continue, a whistle sounded, calling the boys to group up. Sitting near the coach, you took notes as you watched the game play out.

During the break, the boys grouped up once more, all talking about various things. Handing out water bottles, you overheard Hinata’s loud voice in conversation with Kenma as they sat on the steps near the gym doors. Walking over to the two of them, you handed Hinata his bottle, and he took a big gulp before continuing.

“Hey Kenma, our manager plays games too!” He quipped. You crouched down near the two of them.  

Kenma’s head whipped towards you. “What kind..?” His gaze was kind of.. scrutinizing?

You figured it was nothing. “I play RPGs and shooter games. Sometimes I’ll play other stuff though.”

“What about that driving one with the turtles and bananas?” Hinata chirped with his arms in front of him, twisting them left and right.

“Mario Kart?” Kenma replied with a scowl.

“Yeah!”

“Oh, I’m not very good at that one.” You chuckled. “I always end up in last place.”

“Probably better than Shoyo.” Kenma muttered. “He can’t even hold the controller properly.”

You laughed as Hinata tried his hardest to defend himself, giving up eventually. Leaving the two of them, you went to collect the bottles and refill them for later. As you were walking back to the exit, you noticed that Hinata was no longer there.

“Where’d he go?” You asked Kenma.

“Kageyama challenged him to a race or something” He shrugged. “They have so much energy..” He sighed before looking up at you.

“I’m just going to wash and fill these up.” You said, looking down at the bottles you were carrying.

“Wait a sec, I’ll come.” He offered as he left to retrieve his own team’s bottles, leaving you to wonder where their manager was.

Once he returned, the two of you headed outside towards the outdoor sink. You looked over at him; “Does your team have a manager?” You asked.

“Nope.” He sighed. “We don’t really need one. The manager work is usually split up between us all. So since you were filling your team’s bottles, I figured I’d do the same.”

You nodded in agreement, setting the bottles down near the sink.

“Do you find it hard? Being the manager.” He asked, unscrewing the caps off the bottles.

“Not really.” You answered. “It’s a little outside of what I’m used to, but I get to meet so many people, and I always have something to do, so I guess not.” Turning the tap, you shudder at the recollection of a few unsavoury memories.

“Though, sometimes I have to deal with a bunch of fights. I usually break up Hinata and Kageyama’s squabbles when the captain isn’t around.”

“Kind of like a referee.” He jokes. “Maybe you should start carrying a whistle..”

“Right? I’ll end up losing my voice at this rate.” You rinsed the caps, and began filling the bottles one by one.

“They’re still at it..” He points out. The two of them have been racing up and down the hill for who knows how long at this point, yelling at each other as they do so.

“Whatever.. Maybe one of them will trip and roll down the hill..” You mutter, defeated and exhausted. “How about you? Anything difficult with your team?”

“Well.. Theres this new guy who keeps insisting that he’s our ace.” He spoke with a small frown. “He’s sort of okay.. but he’s lacking in all the fundamentals.”

“And I’m guessing you’re who’s been asked to help him?” You chuckled as Kenma grimaced, screwing the cap of the last bottle. “Yeah..” He began to help you with yours as the two of you continued your conversation, chatting about various subjects including the games the two of you were into, how you came to join and whatnot. He wasn’t surprised to hear how Hinata practically guilt tripped you into joining. Though, the two of you agreed that there was just something that made him hard to ignore.

Kenma also told you about how the two of them first met and how Hinata had been lost at the time, which was very characteristic of him. You made a comment that despite his loud demeanour, he always seemed to befriend much quieter people.

Though it was your first time at a training camp like this, you found yourself letting loose pretty easily. Having so much in common with Kenma really smoothed out your conversations. The two of you landed back onto the topic of games as you headed back inside the gym to set the bottles down.

“Really? You have that game?” You gushed. “It was always out of stock wherever I checked!”

“Yeah, I waited in line before the store opened.. First and probably last time I’d do that.”

“I couldn’t even find it on second hand sites..” You complained. There were usually so many resellers, so where did they all disappear to at the time?

“I can lend it to you if you want” He offered. “I brought it with me. Finished it on the train.”

“Seriously? You’d let me play it?”

“Only if you don’t mess up my save files.” He joked.

Before you knew it, the coaches called the boys back to practice. You had kind of been coaxed into joining this club at some point, but it wasn’t something you’d say anymore. After all, you’ve been able to meet so many people. You looked over at the team, watching Hinata as he flailed around in an attempt to escape Kageyama, who seemed to have made a rare miss with his toss. You couldn’t help but laugh.

Mya's Bakery Event 𝜗𝜚 other works

[royalsweetteaa]

Never too much, never too little

Pairing: Winter soldier/Bucky Barnes x reader

WARNING - The following fic contains: Angst/Fluff, winter soldier!Bucky, memory loss, kissing, caressing, comfort, mentioned past abuse & violence, mentions of past SA towards Bucky, trauma healing, reader refers to Bucky as ‘Winter’.

Summary: You take responsibility in taking care of the winter soldier after being the first to snap him out of HYDRAs control.

You had woken up in the middle of the early morning as you felt a tall, lurking presence in your room.

It wasn’t the first time he had done this since the day you helped him snap out of his winter soldier self.

That day, he was on the mission of capturing you, the one who the whistleblower within HYDRA had reached out to, warning about the winter soldier and the super soldier program in Syberia. You were a journalist, and the person who had reached out was someone you were familiar with.

Although you wouldn’t call them a friend, especially after the danger they would put you through as your identity got leaked.

You were expecting him to come after you sooner or later. And he did.

As the Winter Soldier had broken into your room and was about to take you, you thought of what you had read upon from the Whistleblower’s documents, and you got his attention when you said you knew all about what they had done to him. He stood there, trying to stay resistant and cold as you told him you knew he didn’t want to do this. That you knew he was forced to, and that he didn’t have to keep up with it anymore as you would help him.

Still, he stuck to orders as he turned angry and frustrated, and he gripped your arm as he told you ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about’.

Although, it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself that you didn’t.

As he held your arm tightly and was about to pull you out to his vehicle, you wrapped both of your arms and hugged him. He was shocked to say the least, not sure what to do. He pushed you off harshly as he threatened to kill you if you didn’t comply to him, but you went right back and wrapped your arms around him as you kept talking and pleading.

“You don’t have to suffer anymore or take abuse. What you have done this far isn’t your fault. I know what they did to you. Just let me help you. I can get you out of this, I promise. Let’s get out of this together. Please!”

It seemed like he had really tried to resist as he kept his hand on his gun, but his arm was trembling. As you saw that, you gained the tiniest bit of hope that you weren’t going to die today.

Miraculously it worked. The Winter soldier was brought down on his knees, his body becoming heavy as he slouched against you, allowing himself to let you embrace him. You didn’t stop as you kept whispering reassurances that you would help him be free from them. Free from whatever control they had in him, both physically and mentally.

And that is how you found yourselves in a cabin you had inherited, far within the woods of the mountains. Weeks had gone by as you had kept to yourselves far away from society. HYDRA was as much after you as their lost super soldier, and therefore you depended on bringing in supplies from the forest. It proved to be easy with an assassin who knew to hit his targets efficiently, regardless if it was a person or animal.

While you were working on figuring out how you could spread the classified information without compromise, you tended to the former winter soldier.

You didn’t know his name, and neither did he as he suffered memory loss from the countless wiping HYDRA performed on him. Therefore, you settled on a nickname for now: ‘Winter.’

Out of all their troubles, the early mornings turned out to be the hardest things to deal with. Because as the former winter soldier would stay alone in his room all night, trying to sleep through his terrible nightmares, his habits from HYDRAs brainwashing would return mildly.

That was why as you had woken up feeling that same lingering presence, you were not surprised to see the man standing there, staring at you as if he was on guard.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

His eyes narrow slightly as he considers your question. He shrugs as he replies, “Waiting for you to wake up,” as his voice remained emotionless.

That would be one of the first signs.

“Alright….how did you sleep?” You ask him as you remain calm.

He tilts his head slightly, analyzing your question. “As well as can be expected.” His tone remains flat, unrevealing anything about his thoughts or feelings. “You?” he asks, his gaze fixed on some distant point behind you.

You nod slightly as you answer, “I slept just fine.” You chew the inside of your cheek as you decide to test him, now unsure where his state of mind was. “want to come closer for a second?”

His eyes narrow even more. “Why?” his voice is now cold and unyielding, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

So it was as you thought … no different than some of the previous mornings.

“Because I want to give you a morning hug.” I decide to pull a welcoming smile at him as I pat the empty spot beside me on the bed. “Remember when I told you yesterday that it could be a good exercise to keep some consistency in your memory?”

He hesitates for a moment before slowly walking over to you. When he's close enough, he stops and looks at you warily. “A hug.” He says, as if it’s an unfamiliar concept to him.

You frown as you realize you’re loosing him again. “I gave you one yesterday, didn’t I? You said it felt nice.”

His expression remains unchanged as he stares at you. It looks like he’s not sure how to react, or even if he should. “I don't recall.”

You take a deep breath as you realize you need to take it from beginning. “Winter…do you remember why you’re here?”

He tilts his head slightly, the movement almost robotic. “I am here to carry out orders. To serve those who control me.” His gaze remains focused on you, but there's no sign of recognition or comprehension in his eyes.

You refrain from exhaling out of frustration as you don’t want to come off as someone who lacks patience. Especially when he’s like this. “no, that’s not it…Winter, listen to me.” You stand up and approach him carefully as you caress his face with sorrow in your eyes. “You don’t have to take orders from anyone anymore. Don’t let them control you. You’re here, with me. You’re safe,…just…please…” you plead with your voice, hoping he will snap out of it again soon enough.

His cold gaze softens slightly as he looks at you, seeming to process your words. For a moment, a flicker of emotion surfaces within his eyes before quickly disappearing. “I will not disobey.” He replies sternly as he moves his gaze to the side.

You don’t give up that easily as you caress his face tenderly. “look at me..what is my name?”

He hesitates for a moment, his mind struggling to recall that information. “I...I don't remember.”

“Yes you do, Winter…go on, say it. I know you can.” You don’t stop caressing his cheek as it seems to soothe his glare, turning into a look of vulnerability.

His face twitches just then, a sign of internal conflict as he struggles to obey his programming. After a few seconds, he finally speaks, “Your name is... Y/N.”

You smile gleefully as he finally recalls, “that’s right…you’re with me, in this cabin…where we are safe. you don’t have to follow orders anymore…you’re okay…” you hold around him tightly as you keep whispering reassurances.

The super soldier’s muscles tense under your touch, but he doesn't resist. “Y/N... It feels strange not following orders.” His voice is barely above a whisper, revealing just how unfamiliar this feeling of freedom is for him.

“I know…” you murmur with understanding, “I know it’s hard for you to fight it but we will keep working on it, alright?” I pull away to look at him as I ask, “you remember now how you got here, right?”

He nods slowly, still unsure of himself. “Yes…”

“how did we meet?” You ask him to test his memory once again.

He frowns slightly, trying to recall the details of their encounter. “We met during my mission... I was sent to capture you, but something happened. I couldn't bring myself to do it.”

You nod encouragingly “that’s right…that’s exactly how it went…” you then proceed to rub his back soothingly as you continue, “and do you recall me giving you a hug yesterday?”

He nods slowly, his expression still unsure. “Yes... you hugged me. It felt strange.”

You nod once again, “that’s okay…I know it’s not something you’re used to…” you hold his metal hand gently.

His eyes widen in surprise as you touch him, though he doesn't pull away from you. "Do...do not..." He says softly, trying to find the right words to express what he truly feels. It’s as if the winter soldier in him is trying to protest with a last effort, but luckily it doesn’t win this time. Instead, he closes his eyes tightly and leans into your embrace instead.

You smile fondly as you pull him into your embrace, “do you remember what I used a wet cloth for yesterday?”

His eyes almost snaps open as he recalls the memory. It’s as if the last puzzle of memory is finally placed inside his head. “You used a wet cloth to clean up my face. Because I got dirty while hunting.” He answers quietly, still leaning against you.

You nod once again proudly, “that’s right… see, you’re recalling everything so quickly now…” you stroke his shoulder gently as you allow him to keep leaning on you. “Do you want to stay like this for a while?”

He sighs and nods slowly, feeling more comfortable now that he has been allowed to remember things like this without fear of punishment or retaliation. "Yes." He replies quietly.

You lay down on the bed as you hold out your arms to welcome him into your embrace. He lays down beside you, wrapping his metal arm around you and resting his head on your chest. "Thank you..." he whispers, as he finally feels some peace in his mind. You whisper in return a sweet ‘you’re welcome’ before you continue taking a nap together.

That very same day, hours after that incident had occurred, you found yourself sitting in the living room, reading one of the many old books that had been stored untouched on the book shelf of the cabin.

The super soldier hadn’t stopped looking at you from the other couch as you tried to read in peace, until you finally broke the silence to ask, “Is something on your mind?”

He sits up and turns towards you as he asks, “Do you think we could... try something different?”

You look up from your book and ask softly, “try something different?”

He stands and turns towards you, his eyes burning with a fire that you've never seen before. “We could... have sex.” His voice is cold, devoid of any emotion other than the barest hint of curiosity.

Your eyes widen with surprise, unsure if you heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“I said we could have sex.” He repeats himself with the same uncaring tone.

You stare at him with only one word to ask, “why?”

He shrugs and looks down, finally seeming like he’s carrying some shame for even asking. “I just…I’m in a lot of pain right now…and sex is the only thing that’s eased it in the past. It has made me forget.”

“Why would you think that it could ease pain?” You ask, not understanding how he has had experience to make that conclusion while being the winter soldier.

His eyes closed tight just then as he thinks back to what you could only imagine being horrific memories. “I know because…they used me...for their own pleasure…”

Your lips part in shock as you can’t help but ask, “who?”

“The men…who kept me in order.” He swallows as he speaks, “When I wasn’t out on missions, they would…do that…as one of many tactics to keep me submissive to them…”

You lean in to hug him without further explanation, still processing this new piece of information. You knew they had been cruel to him, but you didn’t think they went beyond mental and physical torture. “Winter…I’m so sorry you were violated that way…but having sex with me won’t do any good…you need to heal in other ways…you can’t use trauma to heal trauma.”

“I know, but it's all I have. I’m sorry,” He sighs heavily as he buries his face in your shoulder. "It's just hard...to feel anything else."

“it’s not…” you assure him. “can’t you feel the affection I’m giving you right now?”

He hesitates for a moment before pulling back slightly to look at you. “I...I can feel it,” he admits softly, his expression still uncertain. “But it's not enough. The pain is too loud…”

You hold his face in my hands as I murmur, “what if I kiss you? Do you think that would give you any relief?”

You knew it was probably inappropriate to suggest it, given you two had only known each other a few weeks, but it was out of innocent intent that you suggested it. To see if it could bring any positive emotion to the winter soldier.

He stares at you for a moment, before he finally nods. "Alright," he says softly, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Are you sure? Do you truly consent to that?” You ask, needing further affirmation.

He nods less hesitantly now, “yes, I’m sure…”

You lean in, your lips finally meeting his. His lips are soft against yours as he tentatively returns your kiss. For a moment, there's a spark of something familiar—a flash of emotion that he can't quite place.

The kiss remains simple, yet soft and sweet before you pull back and search his eyes, “How was that, Winter?”

He blushes lightly, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he had just shared an intimate moment with you. “..It was nice,” he replies quietly. “very nice...” he adds.

You smile warmly at his reply as you can tell he seems much more relaxed. “Do you want another one?”

“Another one sounds...nice,” he says softly, his voice trembling slightly now.

You frown a little at that, not wanting to push him. “Are you sure? because one can be more than enough too…”

“No, it's alright,” he murmurs, his heart racing in his chest. “Another one would be...nice.”

You lean in again at his positive reply. The kiss deepens slightly, and he feels a shiver run down his spine. He's not sure what it is about this moment that feels so different from all the others—the ones where he was just being used for someone’s release.

You pull away and ask once again, “how was that?”

He takes a deep breath, looking at you shyly. “It was...good,” he answers quietly, his cheeks still red from embarrassment. “...Can we have more?”

You nod, a feeling of fondness overwhelm you as you continue sharing gentle and innocent kisses with the former winter soldier.

His gaze remains locked on yours as his lips move against yours, savoring every second of it. After a few moments, he finally breaks off the kiss and stares at you with wide-eyed wonder. “…More?”

You giggle softly as you nod and lean in to kiss him again. It remains pure and affectionate, the way it should be for now.

He takes another deep breath, trying to calm himself down. The warmth of your lips against his feels almost too much, but he doesn't want it to stop. “.... more.”

You pull away once again after a few kisses, looking deeply into his eyes as you make sure he’s alright. And boy does he seem to be doing just fine.

“More...” he whispers, a tremor in his voice betraying his eagerness. He reaches up to caress your cheek, fingers trembling as they graze over your skin. “Please...”

It was as if you had opened a new gate for him that day. A gate where he became aware of pure affection being the most healing thing to his soul after witnessing and going through hell.

He already knew he could never get enough of it from you, no matter how your relationship would move forward.

“How do you feel now, Winter?”

“… I feel alive.”

N/A: I wrote this in the middle of the night because I felt very inspired to. 😅 it’s been like months since I’ve posted any fics, so I know it’s out of nowhere but I hope you enjoyed reading it anyways.

[cupidkenji]

ghost in the machine

Pairing: Unsub!Spencer Reid x Agent!Fem!reader CW: Fluff, longing, mild angst, one paragraph with heavy implications of sex, cursing, mentions of reader being in a car accident, mentions of suicide and death, suggestive Ig? idk Spencer kind of taunts reader, if I miss anything please tell me! Summary: An unsub targeting local political powers starts calling you. With virtually no memories of your life before 15, you're tasked with finding out why his voice feels like home. Disclaimer: Reader is chubby. She's not physically described in this but reader is literally always a bigger person. Anyone can read but I wanna clarify <3 WC: 7.8k I lokey feel like I fumbled this one but this idea has been in my head since I saw a post about it like last month so i'm sorry in advance if it sucks 💀 I'm not saying looping ghost in the machine by SZA while reading this will elevate the experience but just know it's strongly advised and im even giving you a link to the song for easy access.

The fourth case this month. This was the fourth battered politician you’d forced into handcuffs while ducking away from the recoil of blood spewing from his mouth. The men you’d arrested had all protested strongly - and wetly - while being walked to the back of your cruiser, demanding to know why you were arresting them even though they were the victims. They were always the victims. They’d been burgled and beaten - yes- oftentimes you were restraining them while they sat in bathrobes or pajama pants, but this unsub always jumped the gun. Somehow they managed all this damage while simultaneously kicking the dirt that had been sedentary for years out from under the rug. The men would call the police themselves -  I’ve been robbed, I’ve been beaten - always astounded when you’d taken their statement then turned them around and recited their Miranda rights. This unsub was meticulous, planned down to the second. Somehow, the media always broke the story hours after the arrest with full fledged details on the crime - ones the BAU didn’t even have yet. 

The first time this happened, you’d questioned every media worker from Quantico to DC. His target zone never seemed to reach beyond that, giving you an offender right in your backyard. Those were always the hardest to stomach.  Journalists, Newscasters, even cameramen had been turned inside out as the team scoured for any connection. He was just too good. 

“How can it be just one man?” Derek spoke first, but that was the question all of you were about to ask. 

“Wife and kids were outta town. It was a sleeping 50 year old man against the element of surprise.” Prentiss was right, it wasn’t a difficult job when viewed like that. “Description is consistent with all the victims. All black attire, mask over the face.” She flopped the folder down in front of her for emphasis. 

“Either he has another guy or he’s incredibly tech savvy. Some of this information was encrypted, it would take weeks to compile all of this. If he’s hitting a new vic every week that’s not nearly enough planning time for something this orchestrated.” Hotch checked the time on his watch. “We’re not finding him tonight. The local PD are investigating. We don’t have clearance until tomorrow. Everybody go home and get some rest, we need to crack down on this.” 

As much as you loved your job, the departure was a welcome relief. The day had drained you, you had to basically drag yourself back to the BAU for the regroup after the case. It was routine, and incredibly necessary as this unsub continued his streak, but your brain was mush, and you didn’t know if you were capable of any breakthroughs in your current state. You were grateful, currently, that at least you weren’t dealing with a serial killer. He had an agenda, that much was obvious, but chasing a serial killer for a month bred a different kind of stress than chasing an anarchist. 

The AC blast that hit you upon entering your home seemed to steal the tension from your shoulders. It was summer, so on top of hunting an unsub who was essentially a ghost, you were also bearing through the violently humid nights. You locked the door, pulling up your sleeves as you walked deeper into your house. The lights were on, you never left them off for long, and your eyes locked on the pile of notes sitting on your counter. Three small papers, torn at every edge, were draped over each other. Evidence, you thought. You’d kept them for evidence. Once you told the team the unsub had been reaching out, you would show them the notes. It was that simple, you were planning to tell them. You didn’t know why the information hadn’t entered their radar yet. This unsub was clearly infatuated. You could be a valuable part of solving this case, the notes could be the reason you solved it at all. Those were words straight from the source, they would tell you more about the unsub than any crime scene analysis would. Something about them just stilled your tongue, though. You never particularly liked the feds, the cops, the higher ups. You became one of them begrudgingly, you’d been good at reading people your whole life. You wanted to solve things, see justice. It was never primarily about helping people for you, and you feared the reputational repercussions if your team members ever found out about that. You weren't ignorant, you had morals. You simply lacked the place of purity they came from, the virtue your team members carried was one you were void of. Half of the time you walked away from a case, you disagreed with the verdict, and you were ashamed.

You had only realized you zoned out when the phone rang, effectively breaking your gaze away from the notes and onto the ‘Unknown caller’ screen glaring at you from your cell. Morgan just got a new phone, you remembered. He’s probably checking in. You picked it up, stating just your last name in greeting as a reflex from almost exclusively talking to other agents. 

It was quiet for a moment, reaching the period of time where your stomach knotted up and almost forced you off the phone. “Hey, Y/n.” The voice was a new one, it pulled at certain strings within you. You knew him, but you didn’t recognize him. 

“Who’s this?” The spark of familiarity filled you with guilt. A car accident when you were 15 had stolen most of the memories from your childhood and left a bountiful amount of scars in their place. You barely remembered your own parents, if this man was an old relative, you definitely didn’t know who he was. As much as your family tried to be empathetic, you could tell it hurt them when you were none the wiser.

“God, it’s good to hear your voice.” The man was smiling as he spoke, you could hear it in his tone. “Your number was shockingly hard to find. Feds really don’t mess around, huh?” Your shoulders tensed, you looked around. Blinds were closed, your house was the same as when you left it. You're sure it wouldn’t be hard to find your address if he’d found your number. “I’ve been trying, believe me. I left those notes while I was looking, although it’s really not the same, is it? Phones are so revolutionary, I mean writing you a letter is one thing but it’s so underwhelming in comparison. A piece of paper doesn’t let me listen to you, doesn’t let me hear those little breaths you take when you get scared.” You didn’t even realize your breathing had changed until he called you out. 

“Do I scare you?” He sounded so domestic, the contrast between the genuinity laced in his words and the actual words themselves just about knocked you over. “I hope I don’t. I’m not trying to.”

“What are you trying to do?” Your mouth felt sealed shut, just barely managing to grate out the words.

“If you’re asking about my agenda, I’m afraid that’s a private affair for now.” He was so casual about this, sarcastically sucking air in through his teeth like he was telling you he couldn’t meet for coffee next week.

“What do you need with me, then? You don’t want to share and you aren’t calling to gloat. What’s the point?” 

You heard him click his tongue at the question. “Everything is so technical with you agents.” You could basically sense his lips quirk up, gaining some type of sick intuition for the man’s tendencies. “Maybe I just wanted a word with the pretty detective working my case.” 

Your knees were trembling, your grip getting looser on the phone as you struggled to keep your hold through the tremors of your hands. You had to focus, you could take advantage of this. “Why politicians? What happened to you?”

“Personal grudge.”

“How do you get their data so fast?”

“I know a guy” He knew a guy?

“So you have a partner?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s no one of importance.” Sibling, maybe?

“It’s important to me.”

He chuckled at that. You needed to hang up.

“Y/n-” Could he sense your fucking muscles tensing? “Don’t tell your friends.” He could hear your heartbeat from where he was, you were sure of it. 

“Why?” You were instantaneous, barely letting him finish before responding. “You gonna hurt me?”

“No.” He scoffed. “If you tell them, I’ll have to stop reaching out.” You swore you could feel the weight of his eyes on you. “Is that really something you want?” Cold sweat pierced through the skin on the back of your neck. You yanked the phone down from your ear and hung up. 

No, it wasn’t. 

–

You dreadfully greeted the sun as it peeked through the slits of your blinds. You’d slept maybe a half hour in total last night, sleeping in five minute increments while bearing through a paranoid haze only comparable to the first time you’d smoked weed. The world felt unreachable. You could see it like a screen but your true consciousness sat captive in his hands. He’d known you. That was the fact stuck in your throat, that’s why you couldn’t sleep. Does that mean you knew him?

“Jesus.” If you had to guess, the sight of your sunken eyes and hunched shoulders was the trigger for Morgan’s reaction to the sight of you. Walking into work wasn’t going to be fun, you knew that, but you hadn’t expected such an immediate acknowledgement. “Someone have a rough night?”

You wished you could banter with him. Morgan always made working here feel lighter, he was fun to be around, but you were guilty. If you were tired from a one-night, insomnia, even if you were drunk and puking your guts up all night, you would have joked back with him. Now, you had to force yourself to make eye contact. A childish part of your brain was scared he'd smell it on you. At this point, you were fraternizing with the enemy, and it’s repercussions were draped over you like a curtain. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Clearly.” He handed you a mug of coffee. “Is it the case? If it’s bugging you that much, one of us can stay with you for a couple nights. It’s no trouble.”

“No, Morgan, that’s not necessary.” He was so kind it was nearly suffocating. If someone stayed, he either wouldn’t call or you’d have to decline it. Both of those options making an uncomfortable amount of unease stir inside you. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.” 

“Just tell me if you need anything.” He nodded at you, you nodded back, then you both headed into the conference room. 

“Any leads?” You walked to your seat as you asked, unsure what you were hoping to receive as an answer.

“None.” Everyone else was gathered around the table, Hotch scanning through the file as he replied to you.

“We’ve pretty much ruled out the media workers.” Prentiss spoke up. “This guy’s most likely an anarchist. His previous victims haven’t belonged to a consistent party so he’s not lashing out at the opposing side.” She thought for a moment. “What path leads somebody to anarchy?”

“Maybe he’s been kept out of office.” Morgan started speculating, just trying to sweep together something they could pin to him. “If he’s been running long enough, maybe he gets angry, changes course. He could be jealous of his targets.” 

Your brain was half focused on the case, half focused on him. Two sides of you were fighting, one instilling a sort of protectiveness over him, one howling at you to do your fucking job. 

“I don’t think he’s an anarchist.” You leaned forward in your chair, revving up to present your theory. “He’s been described in the same outfit for every victim. Long Sleeve, cargo pants, gloves and a ski mask - all black. That’s as minimal as it gets. Some pretty low income areas are well within his safe zone.” You paused, looking around to see if they were understanding what you were getting at.

“He’s poor.” Hotch had a glint in his eyes. Almost. 

“So - what?” Morgan prompted. “He’s doing this for money? This is way too elaborate for somebody needing cash.” He shook his head as he spoke. “Hotch, there was evidence of Scopolamine injections. A man who either knows how to make the chemical or already has enough money to buy it wouldn’t be in a position that warrants this. Plus, the kind of tech it would take to get the information he steals? Way more than your typical Best Buy - this is Garcia level stuff. He injects them and probably forces them to help with the robbing, he beats them senseless - he’s getting some kind of kick out of this.”

“He’s not poor” You concluded. “But I’m pretty sure he used to be.” You sat up straighter to elaborate. “A lot of times, kids who grow up homeless or with no money feel wronged by politicians. Here they are going to school hungry while the mayor rolls in cash and lets them bear the consequences of a put-off promise to help the community.”

Prentiss sat back in her chair as she considered your words. “To build this type of anger, though? This is a vendetta.” She glanced down at the crime scene photos as a reminder. 

“Exactly. Anger is expected in normal cases. Something extreme clearly had to happen to explain this type of outburst.” Personal grudge, you remembered him saying. You felt like you were airing out his secrets as you spoke. A weak sense of betrayal tugged at your guts. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, going over what type of event could cause something like this and I think I have an idea.” You pulled out your phone while talking to call Garcia, the woman answering immediately.

“Garcia, can you look up children in the Quantico to DC area who died from complications with chronic illness? Probably late 90’s to early 2000’s, I don’t think our guy is old enough to have been running for office.” 

“That’s gonna be a large list. Any more parameters you can give me?”

“Look for families making less than 20,000 a year.” 

“Got it. There were three families making under 20,000 that reported losing a child of illness. One was of stage 4 cancer with no plausible recovery and the other two said they couldn’t afford the medication needed for treatment. I just sent them over.”

“You’re the best.” 

“Don’t I know it.” You hung up the phone, pulling up the files she found.

“What exactly are we looking for here?” Morgan looked to you.

“We can rule out the first family. Dying of cancer wouldn’t create the effect needed for our unsub.” He looked like he was about to reiterate his question. “What we’re looking for is a sibling. If your family is struggling, you already have the seed of anger that this guy has. I think a family member dying from the lack of money might just give him the motive he needs.”

“That’s good thinking, he could be avenging someone.” Praise from Hotch always felt better than others. “The Bryson family was just the mother and the daughter who died. She worked in janitorial for the local middle school.”

“Doesn’t exactly fit the profile.” Morgan was right, all the testimonies had described a man. Plus the assumption of decent financial prosperity didn’t fit someone still working at a middle school.

“Who does that leave?” You were searching for the answer to your question, but Prentiss was quicker.

“Diana Reid and her two sons. Henry had type 1, seems like they could afford the insulin for a little while but something must have happened. He went into DKA and died a week later.”

Two sons. “What about his brother?”

“Uhhhh-” She scrolled down on her tablet. “That would be one Spencer Reid who…” She scrolled just a little bit further to find the whereabouts of the man, the hope in her eyes snuffing out with the information she read. “is dead. Says he committed suicide a couple years after his brother died.” The whole table deflated a bit as she said that.

“It was a good idea.” Hotch, despite being a monotone man, usually tried to keep things optimistic. “We’ll continue pursuing that angle. Morgan and Prentiss, I want you to go back to the first crime scene. I’ll call Dave and we’ll head to the latest.” The mentioned agents nodded their heads and started making their way out the door. 

Your eyebrows furrowed at your lack of instruction. “And me, sir?”

“Go home.” He looked you over for a moment. “You look like hell.” Then he was gone, calling Rossi on his way out. How mortifying.

– 

It had been three days since Hotch’s dismissal of you. You managed to get some sleep, convincing your co-workers of normalcy when you went back into the office the next day. In truth, you were anything but. You had been noticeably distracted but the others chose not to mention it until it hindered your performance, which it had yet to do. You were on a timer, counting down the seconds until your next call with him. You seemed to be endlessly tugged back and forth between excitement and pure dread. Everytime you got home, you took a moment to stare at your phone, almost like you could will him to call if you glared at it long enough. The day was just shy of a week since his last attack, and you were nervous as hell. Your phone buzzed once, then it buzzed again. He was calling. 

“You’re early.” You didn’t find it fitting to greet him. You knew who it was, why be friendly? “Is there another one?”

“Relax, honey.” His voice lit a fire in you. Jesus. “I didn’t know I was only permitted one call a week.”

“What are you playing at?” You tried to sound sturdy, but your voice hit your ears with more desperation than you’d ever expressed. 

“I could ask you the same.” You could hear the tilt in his words, he was so sure of what he was doing. “You didn’t tell them about us.”

“How would you know?”

“I’m not in cuffs, am I?”

“You think we’d catch you if I told them?” Was it your fault he was still free?

“No.”

“Maybe they’re listening.”

“Maybe.” He was so unbothered by the notion. You were never a good bluffer.

“It wouldn’t bother you?” You narrowed your eyes at nothing, staring at your wall as you tried to read him through the phone.

“You could bring in the whole nation, Y/n.” You listened more intently than you ever had. “It wouldn’t keep me from you.” You felt like you were choking on your own heart, feeling it beat at the confines of your throat. Jesus Christ.

“Do you know where I live?” Your lips were too weak to hold back the question. It’d been the only thing on your mind since the first note had been left on your car.

“Why?” His smile bled into his words. “Are you inviting me over?”

“Answer the question.”

“Why don’t you answer a question of mine?” He was so intentional, his MO proudly showing in the way he spoke to you. “Haywood or Clancy?”

“Are those your actual choices?” You tried to analyze him, justifying your actions with the ruse of investigation. He’d tell you more if he wasn’t monitored. “Or are you trying to throw me off your trail?” It was certainly plausible. Get you running after two men not of interest, leaving his real victim neglected by your team. 

He laughed, breathy and soft. “I don’t know.” You could almost picture him tilting his head, faceless and so enticing in your imagination. “Pick one for me. Maybe I’ll do him next in your honor.” 

“What do you know about honor?”

“Everything I do is about honor.” What did that mean?

“The only thing that would honor me is you turning yourself in.”

“What do you know about honor, agent?” His voice was taunting, you heard his body shift. “What do you think that team of yours would think about us, hm? Those are their words, not yours. You’re the one who’s waiting on calls from the enemy.” Shock paralyzed your tongue. You felt your head pulse with the blood rushing to your ears. “You don’t have to be guilty about wanting it, honey. You don’t fit with them.” 

“As opposed to what? Fitting with you?”

He chuckled. “You’ve thought about it.”

“Nightmares, maybe.” 

“That’s the angle you're going with?” He saw through you. “If you dreamt of me, I doubt they were nightmares.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

“I don’t know where you are.” You didn’t feel relieved. “I have no interest in hurting or robbing you. Why would I want your address?.”

You slipped your hand under your shirt to trace the scar across your chest. Gift from the accident, now a nervous habit of yours. “What do you want?” God, you were a broken record.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Y/n.” You could barely hear him over the thrum of blood in your veins. Your entire body felt tuned into his words. You’d never felt so far away while connected. “Only what I can do.”

“You take everything from them. More than just money. Clearly you lost something.” You were so sick of asking this question but you were getting farther from the answer with every conversation. “Why are you doing this?”

“They made the first move.” Jesus what did they do to this guy? “I’m not the bad guy, honey. I’m just defending my side.” 

“This isn’t a game.”

“It might as well be.” He was quick with his responses. “It’s all the same to men like them.” You stayed quiet for a moment. How did you reply to something like that? “Get some sleep. It’s late.”

“Give me less crime scenes to look at and maybe I’ll sleep more.”

He smiled, you could hear it in his tone. “Every mean has an end, agent.” You held your breath, and as if gaining consciousness, you hung up the phone. You felt the brick of the encounter sit heavy in your stomach. He wasn’t lying. You were guilty, and you wanted it beyond belief. 

–

You’d talked to him four more times over the past two weeks. There’d been two more victims corresponding with those calls, continuing his routine of a new one each week. Your understanding of your feelings had become less hazy as you talked to him more. Your guilt wasn’t from withholding information from your team, it was from the fact you wanted to. It stemmed from your instinctual desire to keep him to yourself. Let him exist differently in your home life than he did in your work life. It was difficult keeping something from profilers. It made you feel worse that they definitely knew something was up, but chose not to push it because they trusted you. Did this truly make you untrustworthy? You were only human. 

You’d spent what was meant to be your day off at the BAU working. When there was a case like this, rest time seemed to take the backseat. You were drained, more emotionally than physically. You were lying to your friends, but truly, you didn’t know how deeply you considered them friends. They were good people, easy to like and easy to work with. You were starting to wonder if that's where it stopped, though. Everything about their company was easy, but it lacked gratification. His company was hard on you, but it was so rewarding, so filled with feeling that you started to wonder what your morals even were. You wouldn’t find them here, you thought. You certainly tried. You stared into the chipped white paint aging poorly on the brick wall of the bar as if the pigment of the words would organize your thoughts better than your malfunctioning mind could. The liquid in your glass was nearing it’s end. The drink had loosened your joints, loosened your mind. You hadn’t come here to get drunk, you were basically still sober, you just needed the warmth of a drink. There was a certain coldness within you, there had been since the accident. You accredit the feeling with driving away any potential love interests of yours. There was always a sense of being stuck, like you were interrupted in the middle of moving on, and never fully got to close the chapter. This wasn’t hard for others to sense. You were as emotionally nonreciprocal and unresponsive as a corpse.

“Mind if I join you?” A man who’d immediately caught your eye upon entrance gestured to the barstool next to you.

You motioned to it. “Please.” A casual invitation. You didn’t know how to talk to random men in bars. You took a good look at him, something subconscious stirring beneath your skin. The minimal buzz of the drink you had making you write it off, preferring the focus of his eyes on yours. 

“What’s your name?” The smoothness of his voice could have rivaled the most expensive whiskey in that place. 

You told him your name. He nodded, murmuring a “pretty” under his breath as he took a sip from his glass. 

“I’m Matthew.” 

“Pretty.” You reiterated, raising your eyebrows slightly as you joked. He chuckled, and you asked if he was new to the area. 

“I’m a local, actually. I grew up here, surprisingly never been to this bar, though.”

“Really? I grew up around here too. This place is old as dust, been here forever.” You looked down, finishing the last of your drink. 

“I know. I’ve wanted to come here for a while because it’s so old.” Something about him was so off putting but so irresistible. You’d never encountered such an uncomfortable concoction. It was intoxicating. “I lost the knack for drinking I had in my teen years. Back then my friends and me would just buy a 12 pack and get drunk in the field on Fromage.” 

You lacked the memories to know if you related to the man, but you weren’t going to delve into why and kill the mood, so you lied. “That field used to scare the shit out of me. Everyone at my school said there were bodies out there.” 

His eyes held a certain glint in them when he looked at you, his lips perked up at the edges slightly, if you hadn’t been a profiler you might have missed it. “Really?” Maybe you imagined it all, that or he caught on to you, the look leaving his eyes after lingering for a moment. The slight promise of something more sinister pulsed throughout them. The hairs on your arm were standing. “Mine said the same thing.” He smiled, looking away, shaking his head fondly as he remembered. “My school was full of dumbasses though so I never really took it seriously.” And you laughed. 

You laughed a lot throughout the time you sat there with him. A few hours, you’d guess. He lowered your guard so easily, walking leisurely through the gates of you. You’d practically rolled out the red carpet for him. You wondered if he could see how easily he got in, how much you welcomed the feel of him in your veins. He didn’t seem to mind if he could. When he’d wanted to take you home, your lips parted, and you said you’d like that. You don’t really remember driving, knowing one of you did, both of you sober by the time you’d left. He’d been so gentle, so all-consuming. He’d run his thumbs along the scars he encountered, punctuating the sensation with his lips following close after. Mumbling praises against your skin and rhetorically asking “does that feel good, honey?” as your legs shook around him. He melted you down to pure liquid gold with just his touch, knowing exactly how to map you out. You’d felt him everywhere, his fingers burning their respective shadows on your skin, seeping slowly into your soul to leave marks there too. He’d felt so safe, the pure want joining the two of you together. A euphoric distraction from all the disaster you’d let befall you. He was gone before you woke up the next morning, but you saw him in your shadow, felt him in the soreness of your legs. He’d been a deviation, something put in your path to confuse you. What a brutal fucking night.

–

The same day, you’d gone to work, gone home, and then ended up back at the BAU an hour later. There had been another victim. Two days early. This was his eighth, and up until now he hadn’t strayed from his weekly pattern. This was a bad sign, if he was ramping up, who knows how many more he wanted to hit. The story had stayed the same, and that night you were arresting another board member, this time for solid ties to human trafficking. He really knew how to pick them. You’d give him that, at least.

The meeting post-arrest basically just shared what you were all thinking. He was ramping up, and you were getting no closer to catching him. Stating the obvious was doing nothing but wasting time. He was good. One of the best you’d ever seen. Nobody really knew what to do at this point. You watched their faces get more and more helpless and you felt bad. Nothing in your calls with the man would have helped you solve this case, you were almost positive. Any aspect that could have helped was one you explored. 

Emily had said the name ‘Spencer Reid’ and the way your stomach lurched made you feel like you had to be onto something. You’d never had such an intense gut feeling about something only for it to be absolutely impossible. You hadn’t told them, but you looked more into him. His death was an easy one to fake. As much as you hated speculating on what could very well have been just a heartbroken boy, you couldn’t deny the theory you were building. His mother had found a suicide note, they hauled a body out of the river a month later and just assigned Spencer’s name to it, marking it down as conclusive. You weren’t convinced.

–

You got home within the hour, locking the door and pulling out your phone. You hadn’t called him before, but it was the same number every time, and you needed to talk. The phone rang so long you were almost sure he wouldn’t pick up. Almost.

“Y/n.” He greeted you. “This is new.” 

“You broke your pattern.” You started with the topic at hand. “Why did you do that?”

You heard a chair squeak slightly as he leaned back. “What can I say? You being so interested gave me some extra motivation.”

“Interested?” What the fuck was he talking about? “This isn’t - I’m not fucking interested in anything. You’re a criminal.” You were slightly out of breath. When you lied to him, no matter how small the lie, air seemed to gain a disinterest in staying within your lungs.

“Mhm.” He was smug. That wasn’t a good sign. “I don’t believe that. You seemed pretty interested last night.” 

He had pulled a lever, and your stomach dropped to your shoes. “That was you?” You sounded as defeated as you felt. Your eyes were watering from the pure shock, feeling the drop of the bomb shake you down to your core. 

“You kept tracing that scar on your chest, you know that?” You hadn’t known that. “Almost like you could feel it.” Feel what? He didn’t elaborate. “You sounded so pretty when I touched it, when I kissed you. Been thinking about it all day.” He was breathy, sounding like he was trying to put himself back in it as he spoke. 

You steadied yourself before you opened your mouth. “You lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you.” He sighed. “You lied to me, though.” You hadn’t imagined it. “That field used to scare you?” He laughed slightly. “You were the one who told me about it. Took me over there once to look at the moon in the back of your dad’s pickup.” 

God, this was frustrating. “Who are you?” The tears were dancing the border of your eyes, begging to run down your cheeks. “I knew you?”

“You know me.” He was so sure of it. “I’m still in there. Everything is.”

You had to ask, at this point you were near certain of it. “Spencer?”

He sighed, relief intertwining with his words. “There she is.” It was such a soft delivery, the moment he took before replying had you wondering if you’d said anything at all.

What kind of situation even was this? “Is this about your brother?”

“You know, when we were younger, my mother knew the mayor. He used to babysit my brother and me when she worked nights.” His tone was humorous, bitter, like he couldn’t believe the stupidity of what he was explaining. “I listened to him promise us he would change the community when he got the time. Get us a house with more than one bedroom, get us into a school system deserving of us. He used to call me a genius.” He scoffed at the thought. “Then my mom couldn’t afford the insulin, and he let my brother die.”

You didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“The payments wouldn’t have even made a dent in his pockets.” You could visualize him, alone in a room somewhere, that familiar crease between his eyebrows as he talked. You were going to be sick, you thought. “One man for every year my brother got to live. Seems only fair.”

“Two more to go, then?” You couldn’t identify a single thought in your head. All of them speeding past you like bullets before you could latch onto one. “Is it helping?”

“Yeah.” He sniffled, quiet and subdued. “It is.”

“I - um” A tear finally fell, breaking the dam. You wiped it away quickly, two more taking it’s place almost immediately “I have to go.”

“Y/n-” but you were gone already. You put your hand over your mouth, laughing into it slightly at the absurdity of your situation and sobbing into a moment later as you took the cold plunge into reality. You texted your parents, knowing they were asleep, asking if you could swing by when they woke up. If anyone would know something, it was them, and you had every intention of shaking them down to find out exactly how you’d known the man. You had to know. You spent the night preparing the questions you’d ask and trying to fall asleep. You were almost paralyzed with the weight of him on you. There was no getting out of it now.

–

The outside of this house always felt alien. You knew you’d grown up here, but it lacked any sense of home. You wondered as you stood out front how much Spencer had to have meant to leave more of a mark than the place you spent your first 18 years in. The sun was nearing it’s peak in the sky, it was almost noon. Your parents had texted back at eight am, worried and eager to know what was wrong, eager to see you. You’d fallen asleep barely an hour before that, waking up at eleven and quickly getting ready after seeing the text. You were scared. These were practically strangers to you, and you were betting an ungodly amount on them. That’s not fair, you thought. But honestly, nothing was fair, and you calmed your guilt with promise of filling the void in your gut. You broke your staring contest with the front door and leaned forward to knock, the thing opening almost immediately. 

“Hey.” You spoke before they did. You found that being the first to talk usually decreased the amount of warmth in their greetings. “It’s good to see you guys. Thank you for having me, I know my texts were sort of alarming. I just needed to talk about something.” You held eye contact to the best of your ability. They brought out a deep feeling of shame, knowing they didn’t blame you for the distance but still being responsible for it nonetheless. 

“Of course.” Your mother talked while your father looked down. “It’s good to see you too. Come in, please.” Your father broke from her side to go sit down, while your mother opened the door to usher you in. You stepped forward, nodding at her in thanks as you passed her, joining your father where he sat.

“Um…” You faced both of them as your mom took the place by his side. How did you even start this? “Well, in a case I’ve been working on, somebody came up.” You couldn’t tell them he was alive. “And he just…seemed familiar, I guess. Did I know a boy named Spencer Reid growing up?” You watched the sparks of recognition ignite in their eyes as you said the name. Your mother’s grew teary, while your father’s seemed to harden. 

“Knew him?” Your mother chuckled at the thought of it being so simple. “You two were more in love than your father and I.” She rolled her eyes as she held your father’s arm, the man laughing lightly at her words.

 “He was the first friend you talked about. I remember picking you up from the first day of kindergarten and listening to you rave about the boy who was ‘smarter than the teacher’.” Her tone got lighter at the end, seemingly trying to imitate the excitement of your adolescent self. “You two were always close, you know?” She seemed to remember him fondly. “When you got older, you would get so defensive if  I asked after him so eventually I stopped. But I knew. I knew you two would end up together from your first playdate.” She was on the verge of tears, giggling at her own words as the stories she told surrounded her, smiling at the past. 

“His family really struggled. Such a sweet kid, him and his brother both. They were over here a lot.” Your father took the role of speaker as your mother’s emotions got the better of her. “We went back and forth for a while after the accident on whether to tell you or not. It just seemed cruel to. He died the night before you got hit, and you were such a wreck we just -” He struggled to find the words. “We considered it a blessing you didn’t remember him.” Your father’s guilt was apparent, twisting his features slowly as he explained their choices. “You were so in love, sweetheart. You didn’t know who he was when you woke up and we figured, you know, what’s the point? When the only thing that could come from it was pain, it just seemed futile.” 

You don’t think you blinked the entire time they were talking to you. You only knew you were crying when your vision went blurry, completely neglecting the beading of tears down your cheeks. You remembered the day your mother was talking about, seeing the children you once were illustrate the world in front of you. You could almost see his face, how it would have looked when he died, how he used to look at you. Like he was staring at the universe’s secrets, easing his hands through the veil to touch them - to touch you. You remember the feeling he gave you, something warm and distinct, reserved for the two of you only. If you could have seen yourself in the moments you shared, you’re sure you would have worn the same look in your eyes. 

You started speaking, but couldn’t manage much. “Yes, yeah, you’re right.” Reassurance usually worked well. “It was a…a good call.” You had trouble with your words, remembering the feelings of him but lacking the visuals. “Do you have any pictures?” Your mother nodded in response, detaching from your dad and going to retrieve something that held the memories you sought. 

“I’m-” Your dad started. “We’re sorry.”

You shook your head. Your parents were the last people who owed an apology. “It’s ok, dad. I’m glad you did it.”

“I could never myself look back at these. Thinking about what happened to them I just…I can never look at them knowing they’re gone.” Your mother re-entered the room holding a camera, dark pink and cheap. “It was meant to document your childhood, but he was around so much, it’s basically just a compilation of you guys.”

You held the thing in your hands. It was everything you wanted to happen but you couldn’t force your fingers to move. Did you even want this? He was alive, sure, but you’re certain the boy next to you in these photos would never see the light of day again. All your birthdays for thirteen years, field trips, science fairs, even just the two of you sitting together reading. It was all here. All consumable. You felt the urge to boil them down and burn your skin with the residue. Anything to keep a semblance of this life with you. You had a right to them, they were yours. Your teeth clenched at the sting of the absence. He had been yours and you couldn’t even remember. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course.” You’re sure the thoughts in your head were obvious to them, spinning like a cyclone in your eyes zoning out on the camera. “I’ve thought about giving it to you for a while now anyway.”

–

They’d made you lunch, then dinner. They told you tales of your past and you let them glance into your present. It was dark by the time you left, setting the goal to talk with them more. You walked to your car, having parked down the street, and tried to shake yourself out of the trance that house put you in. You thought you were seeing things at first, squinting slightly to focus on the chunk of passenger door that was shrouded with out of place darkness. Someone was leaning against your car. You didn’t feel defensive. 

“Spencer?”

“Hey.” He pushed off the door and walked closer to you, facing you on the sidewalk. You could see him now, lit up by a streetlight. He took you in, too. Glancing at your hand and grinning. “I remember that thing.” You had forgotten you were holding the camera until now. 

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I don’t know, honey.” He shrugged, matching your exhaustion at the situation. “I guess I wanted to see how much you remembered.” He looked at you, his eyes just as bright as they’d been a decade ago. “How much I could make you remember.”

You sighed. God, if only it worked that way. “Do you want to-” What the fuck were you thinking? “Do you want to come over?” You’d looked through every picture on that camera. You missed him. You missed him in your space, on your bed, waiting for you at the bus stop. That knot of feeling stuck only wanted to unravel if it were his hands tugging at it. “I can drive us.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprise blending seamlessly with the undiluted hope he carried as a kid. “Ok.” He smiled, just a tiny lift at the corners of his lips. The image of that smile resting on his teenage face struck you so violently you felt it in your bones. You looked at him, starstruck. His presence was a trance of it’s own. 

“Ok.” You repeated him, trying to elongate the moment. You weren’t sure when you’d be ready to look away. He’d have to move first, and he knew it, so he walked to the passenger door. You blinked, grounding yourself, and unlocked the car. 

You were preparing for an awkward car ride, but clearly your subconscious was more than familiar with him, being silent with him came as second nature to you. You took the long way back to your house, trying to enjoy the comfortability as long as you could. He added an elevation to your existence that you hadn’t been aware you were lacking. You pulled into your driveway ten minutes later, parking and turning off the car. 

“Did you really not know where I lived?”

“No.” He was looking out your windshield, taking in the sight of where you felt safest. “I meant what I said. I never needed to. 

You walked into the house first, hearing him shut the door softly behind him. You’d been listening to see how he’d close it, not sure what it would tell you, but deeming it important regardless. He’d been nothing but respectful of your space both times he’d been here. You sat down, nodding your head to the chair near you. 

He let a moment pass, waiting to see if you had something to say. You had too much to say, too much to articulate. “I want you to leave with me.”

“Spencer-”

“Don’t.” His eyes were pleading, glistening with his unique mix of hunger and control. “Don’t write me off, Y/n. Nobody would know. They’re not gonna catch me. You can quit, and we can leave.” You looked away, down towards your hands. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.” It was all you’d been thinking about. Usually in dreams - obviously your mind was more up to date than you were. You were going to do it, you thought. Of course you were. You looked at him and knew you’d go anywhere he asked you to. Still, though, you had a life. One you needed time to wrap up before you could leave it. You were a federal agent, if you went missing, they’d send the entire nation to step on your heels. 

“Can I think about it?

He looked at you, suppressing a smile and tilting his head slightly. “Sure, honey.” He could read you so easily. He’d known he had you from the moment he asked. “I’ve still got two more.” The burning in your stomach wasn’t a resistance to the words. It was an admiration, a feeling you could wallow in. You weren’t an opposing force to him. Had you ever been? Truly?

“What happens if I don’t go?”

His eye contact had a way of transferring, enveloping any part of you it could reach. You were testing him. “Don’t force my hand, Y/n.”

You didn’t plan on finding out what that meant.

[etheries1015]

Did you know that hair-pulling helps blood flow? /idk

Did you know that I’m grinding my thighs for Lilia rough(beeping) us?

Kids stay away from me for at least 5 miles away

Did you know that I really want Lilia to go vampire mode and yank us by our hair while he’s ramming us from behind, our neck exposed from his motion and ~~~ ^0^ (won't detail much since I'm not sure if ur comfortable with Blood)

Lilia X reader - Living out a fantasy

18+ MINORS DNI.

General warnings: Gender neutral reader, hair pulling, biting, rough fucking...I haven't written many "full" smuts so...sorry if its rushed or not particularly good, I'm open to advice and learning new things 💜✨

TW: None? Maybe some mentions of blood tho. Tell me if I missed anything, I'll update this section accordingly.

Lilia yearned for this moment. The moment you fully submitted to him as he had fantasized over and over again, with his filthy thoughts of defiling you flashing in his mind from the very second you placed yourself in his life. From bumping into each other in the halls to seeing you in the cafeteria talking it up with another student, he could feel this burning desire from the deepest parts of him.

Lilia didn't particularly enjoy this part of himself. He felt in a way with his dirty thoughts, he was making you dirty, too. With every moment he zoned out during class to imagine himself taking you against one of the desks, he found himself forcing a smile in front of you and hiding the bulge throbbing in his pants with his coat, almost unable to look you in the eyes. He would later find himself in his bedroom, groaning your name before staring shamelessly down at his hands after his release.

Yet he couldn't help but wonder those times when he spoke to you, was that blush upon your cheeks and glances simply a fragment of his imagination? Perhaps you felt the same, he would notice the way your thighs rubbed together after your eyes locked with his for a certain period. He was either going senile, or you truly had the same viciously naughty thoughts about him.

The Fae soon had his answer.

There you were, his hand full of your hair pushing your head into the pillow as his hips roughly snapped against yours. Slapping filled the air of the room along with your feeble high-pitched cries of pleasure mixed with whines of pain, Lilias hand roughly handling your hair and showing no mercy. The mischievous Fae would often pull out to where only his tip barely remained inside your swollen hole, and In one fast movement, he snapped his hips to meet your ass, which was now bright red and stinging with every new thrust.

"can't," you panted, "can't ..cum anymore...hah.." The sticky residue of cum and sweat pulled apart with every time he would pull back and thrust back inside of you from the previous hour of the sexual act, you felt your body unable to keep yourself up go limp and fall to the mattress while he continued with reckless abandon.

"Not- yet," Lilia groaned, taking the fist full of hair and pulling your head back mercilessly much to your dismay yet also pleasure. You let out a yelp of surprise at the instantaneous action and sharply sucked in air as Lilia removed his hands from your hair in order to forcibly grab you by the hips and lift you back upwards toward his eager body.

"Tsk tsk...you're not done until I say you are, little bat..." The way your hair fell exposed your bare neck, Lilia took the initiative the lean forward taking slower and more impactful thrusts as his tongue outlined his intended target upon your soft and mark-free skin.

"You're doing amazing, precious," He purred into your ear, "You can take more for me, right?" Grinding his hips into yours, Lilia took the slight nod of your head permission to continue. His teeth grazed the crook of your neck, revealing his teeth. Using his sharpened Canines to pierce your skin, you hissed in discomfort, feeling some sort of liquid trickling down your neck before Lilia used his tongue to sensually clean up the blood that drew from the wound he left. The fae pressed a gentle kiss against it, almost as if to apologize. The gesture was left short-lived, Lilia smirking against the skin of your neck, he took another bite before ramming his hips against your own. This time, Lilia grabbed your hands and pulled them back as he abused your tired, sopping-wet hole, groaning as the fae pressed his hips intimately against yours climaxing. Your legs trembled as his cock twitched releasing ropes of creamy white cum inside of you for the nth' time. He pulled out, letting go of your arms and allowing your body to fully succumb to the comfort of the mattress. he watched as his seed trickled out of your puffy hole, a satisfied grin on his lips.

His shit eating grin remained even after you turned to face him with a scowl and eyes of daggers. You were weak, your body covered in bruises and love marks from hours of intimacy, yet it didnt stop you from bonking the top of Lilias head. He only laughed at your feeble attempt to attack him.

"I told you I couldn't cum anymore," you pouted, grabbing a blanket and wrapping your naked body. Lilia hugged you through your new little blanket home, and although you were not looking at him, you could envision the puppy eyes he had.

"But you did so well for me, little bat! Won't you look at me, please?" He pouted, poking at you. You peaked through the blanket with an angry stare, narrowing your eyes at Lilia.

"Are you gonna take care of me now? You made this mess." Lilia smiled brightly at this, excitedly planting a kiss on your now exposed forehead.

"Of course~ I'll go draw you a warm bath and prepare some ointment, do not move a muscle, my dear!" You watched as the fae made his way to the bathroom, hearing running water you smiled to yourself, re playing the events over and over in your head with a light blush and a giddy giggle.

You had to admit, despite the aching of your body and the sticky mess between your legs... You wouldn't mind doing it again, sooner than later.

[devotedfem]

→ Control

Synopsis: Taehyung was from the SWAT team special force, and you were a russian spy holding him hostage to use him as a bait. But... were you really in control? He doesn't think so.

K. Taehyung x f.reader

Genre: detective au | yander-ish.

Tags: militar Taehyung, spy reader, kind of enemies to lovers, strong reader, yander-ish, kidnapping, mention of torture, obsessive Taehyung, hidden identity, spies, cocky Taehyung, sexual tension, blood, violence.

From the series masterlist; The chasing.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Taehyung’s forehead wound was dripping blood to the ground, the sound of it made something inside of you recoil, but you ignored the feeling.

You kidnapped him by orders of your boss. The man in front of you was from the swat team, and you have the task of getting information out of him. If it’s in a nice or violent way was up to him.

You dragged him to a basement with a blow to his head, and now he was unconscious with his head tilted to the side, dripping blood out of his wound.

You were sitting in front of him, realizing he was quite handsome.

After a couple of minutes, he blinked his eyes open. At first, he looked lost and confused, but then his gaze fell upon you, and to your bitter surprise he smirked.

You snorted incredulous, you expected anything but a smirk from him after he literally got a blow to his forehead.

“What the fuck are you smirking at?” Your thick accent made him smirk wider, and you lift a brow feeling rage running your veins. He was not in control here.

“There’s no need to be so riled up, y/n,” he said with a hoarse voice, lifting the corner of his lips with a drop of blood running to his chin.

Your breath hitched but you tried to hide your surprise with an expressionless facade. Your heart was beating fast against your ribcage, he wasn’t supposed to know your real identity, you were a spy for god’s sake. No one in this country knew your real name, so it was very frightening that he just said your name like if it’s nothing.

“Looks like the prey knows my name, so what? We’re not here for a friendly meeting, you’re here to tell me where’s your boss hideout. Just spill everything you know, a long torture session will be exhausting for the both of us.”

You were nonchalant and cold, it wasn’t the first time you torture someone to get information out of them, but it was the first time your target seemed to enjoy being in this position.

It was unnerving to see Taehyung’s grin.

“My, my, are you sure I am the prey here?” he asked lowly, with a dangerous glint in his eyes. The piercing and dark gaze that was fixed on you made you feel intimidated.

And you never, ever, felt intimidated in your life.

“Shut the fuck up Taehyung, or I’ll fucking break your legs, don’t test my patience,” you warned, but your tone tremble just a little, and he noticed.

He pouted, and it was an alarming but endearing sight to witness. You felt confused, as if you were in a stranger territory.

“Well, as you said, let’s finish this quickly. A long session will be exhausting indeed.”

You frowned confused, ready to bark him to shut up or punch him in the face, but nothing of that happened, because the next second Taehyung freed himself from his restrains, and you realized with horror that he was just distracting you all this time. You failed on something so basic as not letting your target to distract you, but that is a hard thing to do when it comes to Taehyung.

He grabbed your jaw forcibly making you whimper with pain, the sound only made him grin wider. The glint of his crazed eyes shining with darkness.

Despite your screams, struggles and threats, he bounded your wrists and ankles, making you kneel in front of him.

He grabbed your chin to make you look up at him, and he looked dangerous like this. With his other hand he cleaned his forehead, and a mischievous smirk was your only warn before he stained your lips with his blood. You freeze, you wanted to gag so bad but you were genuinely afraid of his reaction, so you did nothing but to stare up at him.

“Lick it,” he ordered with a dark voice.

And you did it, licking your lips with your tongue, feeling Taehyung’s heavy gaze on you.

“I changed my mind, I will prolong this torture session,” he said wrapping his hand on your neck, with a mischievous smirk and a darkened gaze pierced on you.

You couldn’t help but shed tears, you were so, so fucked up.

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