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ON AN AUGUST night in 2003, a young woman who went by the name Paulina sank into the sofa of her modest, rented apartment, opened up her laptop, and began talking about sex with a man she’d recently met in a Yahoo chat group. His name was Stephen Bolen. His first communications had been terse, but he soon warmed to Paulina. It didn’t take long for both of them to begin to open up.

Paulina had told Bolen she lived in the Atlanta area, that she had a three-year-old daughter, that her daughter’s father was no longer in the picture. Soon, she was sharing more intimate details: what it was like growing up a skinny white girl in a rough neighborhood outside of D.C.; how her dad, a Marine, had died by suicide two weeks before she was born; how her mom had been emotionally and physically abusive, and had never really shown her love. How she’d had a sexual relationship with her stepfather.

Paulina would put her daughter to bed and then she and Bolen would chat throughout the night, over Yahoo and sometimes on the phone. The back-and-forth could feel like dating, but with an added element of danger and risk: Both Paulina and Bolen knew they were tiptoeing up to a line to see if they trusted each other enough to cross it. It could take a while to figure that out.

Eventually, Bolen asked Paulina to send pictures of her daughter, and she agreed to do so, though the ones she’d shared were chaste — the little girl clothed and her face turned away from the camera or obscured behind an untamable halo of blond curls. After seeing the pictures, Bolen asked to meet. While a lot of the men Paulina had encountered in chatrooms like “Sex With Younger” just wanted to trade images and videos of children, to expand their illicit collections, Bolen was a “traveler,” someone looking to act upon his obsessions.

On Sept. 17, just as they’d arranged, Paulina sat on a bench outside Perimeter Mall with a stroller parked in front of her, scanning the parking lot nervously. Part of her hoped Bolen wouldn’t show. When he did, she could see he was handsome, a preppy guy in a pink polo shirt and khakis. “Paulina?” he asked eagerly. She nodded. As he smiled and pulled back the blanket draped across the stroller, he found himself surrounded, handcuffs slipped around his wrists.

“Paulina” watched his face fall, his confusion giving way to distress as FBI agents took him into custody. It was her first undercover arrest. It would be the first of many.

[long read]

IF ONE WANTED to hide in plain sight, one could do no better than the tidy, suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of St. Louis, where FBI Special Agent Nikki Badolato now resides. The well-tended, two-story homes are so pleasantly indistinct that I could hardly tell you what hers looks like, even if it were safe for me to do so, which it is not. Suffice to say that Midwestern comfort and conformity unspool around every gently winding curve. Here Badolato has raised her two children, a daughter who is now in college and a son who is a junior at a local high school. When planning a neighborhood scavenger hunt or tending the community garden, Badolato does not often mention her many years as head of the Child Exploitation Task Force, a joint effort between the feds and local law enforcement that targets some of the country’s most heinous crimes. Open a cabinet in her kitchen, however, and a government-issued Glock 42 can be found stowed away between the vitamins and mixing bowls.

On a sunny morning this past October, Badolato sat at her dining room table, scrapbooks and albums spread out before her on the dark wood. There was the acceptance letter she’d received from the bureau the spring of her senior year of high school, after a representative had shown up to administer a test in the typewriting room. “I chose to wear a red dress and red heels,” she says of her first day as an FBI mail clerk, two weeks after her 18th birthday. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I guess maybe I was trying to go in bold?” She pauses at a picture of herself on the gun range at Quantico almost 10 years later, her shoulders squared and her caramel hair pulled back into a ponytail as she fires off rounds. By then, she’d married a man she met just after high school, had a little girl, completed college at night, and been accepted into agent training in the heady days after 9/11. She’d seen her first dead body only a few weeks into the job, after the pursuit of a bank robber ended with a shootout in a Walmart. When Badolato got to the scene, the body was still warm, and the perp’s head was resting on a bag of cookies. “It was surreal,” she says. “How many times have you been in a Walmart and walked down Aisle 4, not really expecting there to be a dead person with his head lying on a bag of Chips Ahoy?”

Badolato wasn’t deterred. She felt like the bureau saved her, plucked her out of a shitty home life, and gave her prospects and purpose. As a new agent, she was intent on proving herself worthy. “My training agent told me, ‘You know, Nikki, it’s a marathon, not a sprint,’ ” she says. “I was like, ‘That’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.’ ” She turned a few pages to show a picture of the 391 kilos of cocaine and 140 pounds of meth she’d recovered on a single raid during a stint with a cartel squad, then pointed out another in which she poses with a five-year-old child she’d rescued, the little girl’s hair cut short because the kidnapper had wanted her to look like a boy. But the keepsake she really wants to find is the card that Bolen’s wife had pressed into her hand at his sentencing, the one with the picture of their children — a blond girl of about three years and a tiny baby — and the words “These are the faces of the children you protect each day.” Bolen’s wife had been the only one she’d ever encountered who had lobbied for her husband to receive the maximum sentence. Some wives accused the FBI of planting evidence inside computers. Most seemed intent on clinging to their delusions. (Attempts to reach Bolen for comment were unsuccessful.)

“Right now some little girl is being dropped off in the parking lot of a motel. There are four girls holed up in a hotel next to a McDonald’s. It is happening all the time.”

Which, Badolato has come to understand, is the way it goes with child trafficking and sexual abuse. She had invited me into her home — had agreed to speak on the record about her decades-long career working undercover — because when it comes to the crimes she’s spent her career fighting, she has had enough of the delusions people are under. She’s had enough of the way movies like Sound of Freedom both glamorize and trivialize the work she and her colleagues do, enough of the idea that swashbuckling white men burst through doors and rescue trafficked children with a Bible in one hand and a firearm in the other, enough of conspiracy theories about Hollywood and Washington that detract from the real root causes of why children are trafficked and abused. “Human trafficking is not the movie Pretty Woman — the girl doesn’t get the guy — and it’s not the movie Taken, where people are kidnapped in a foreign country and sold on the black market, or shipped in a container across the world,” one of the detectives who worked on Badolato’s task force tells me. “I’m not saying that doesn’t ever happen, but it’s not what we’re seeing.”

What they are seeing is a lot more insidious and a lot more homegrown. A report released in 2018 by the State Department ranked the U.S. as one of the worst countries in the world for human trafficking. While the Department of Justice has estimated that between 14,500 and 17,500 foreign nationals are trafficked into this country every year, this number pales in comparison to the number of American minors who are trafficked within it: A 2009 Department of Health and Human Services review of human trafficking into and within the United States found that roughly 199,000 American minors are sexually exploited each year, and that between 244,000 and 325,000 American youths are considered to be at risk of being trafficked specifically in the sex industry. Heartbreakingly, many of these children are victimized not by strangers who’ve abducted them from mall parking lots but rather by people they know and trust: Studies have found that as much as 44 percent of victims are trafficked by family members, most often parents (and not infrequently parents who were trafficked themselves). Between 2011 and 2020, there was an 84 percent increase in the number of people prosecuted for a federal human-trafficking offense. Of the defendants charged in 2020, 92 percent were male, 63 percent were white, 66 percent had no prior convictions, and 95 percent were U.S. citizens.

Badolato started her career as an FBI agent in some of the earliest days that children could be bought, sold, and traded online. As the internet-porn industry mushroomed, its most lucrative branch turned out to be that of child sexual-abuse materials (the term “child pornography” is no longer used by those in the field, as it implies consent). And as demand for these images increased, so did the abuse that led to their creation.

In 2003, just a few months after Badolato graduated from Quantico, a Crimes Against Children squad was formed in the Atlanta office where she’d been stationed. By then, the FBI was starting to get a handle on the extent of the problem — if not exactly what to do about it. At a weeklong training in Baltimore, Badolato was given a tour of the darkest underbelly of fetish chat groups and then instructed to figure out how to infiltrate. “Everyone was a little nervous,” she explains of the directive. “It was a process, a direction that was new.” Agents were told that they would need to come up with a “persona” and a “story,” and that they would likely have to provide images of children to “prove” they had a minor on offer. They were also told that they could use images of their own children, if they were comfortable doing so (the FBI no longer endorses this policy).

Badolato’s unit with a kidnapping victim after her recovery in 2011. A Health and Human Services review found that roughly 199,000 American minors are sexually exploited each year, and that as many as 325,000 American youths are considered to be at risk of being trafficked in the sex industry.

Badolato developed “Paulina” based on her understanding that any persona would need to share most of her own backstory and traits. “That’s the only way you can really do undercover work,” Badolato says. “People can tell the sincerity in what you’re saying, so there has to be a level of genuineness, but then you just add this criminal element to it.” Most of the things Badolato had told Bolen were true: where she was from, her family background, the monstrousness of her mother, a woman who she says would pass out cigarettes and beers to Badolato’s 13-year-old friends in a state of manic permissiveness one minute and fly into a violent rage about a piece of lint on the floor the next. (Badolato’s mother declined to comment for this article, but a childhood friend corroborated Badolato’s account.) It was true that growing up in an unstable home with a string of stepdads, she had never really felt loved, true that she had divorced her first husband, true that she was raising their three-year-old daughter on her own. The only thing that wasn’t true was her tale of being molested, her initiation into the “lifestyle” — to use the chatroom parlance — that Paulina said she now wanted for her daughter. As Badolato had familiarized herself with the language and behaviors of the chatrooms, she’d honed that added criminal element, imagining what psychological conditions might believably lead a parent to traffic their own child and how those conditions could be grafted onto her real life story. She already had a history of abuse; it was not hard to extrapolate to a fictional stepfather who had seemed to provide a gentle counterpoint, showing her love and making her feel special when no one else had, even if others couldn’t understand. From there, it was easy to convince the chatroom participants that she shared their belief — or justification — that most people had it all wrong and that “child love” was natural, and could even be beneficial for the child.

Badolato estimates that she has arrested more than a thousand people; not one of those arrests has failed to end in a conviction. She didn’t know until she was in the thick of it that most agents refuse this sort of work, that most can’t even pretend to forge a relationship with someone looking to victimize a child. But she could. “Paulina,” she points out, is not a name she chose at random; it’s similar to her own mother’s name. Badolato says she had grown up learning to compartmentalize for the sake of her own emotional survival. She’d perfected the art of engaging with someone whose actions she couldn’t stand. Doing this work had felt like a way of taking her trauma and putting it to good use, of leveraging her past as a safeguard against her daughter’s and other children’s futures.

Of course there were moments that were hard to take — when suspects mentioned which brands of lubrication were best or whether or not a parent might hold a child down. There were times when she knew that even talking about these things was a turn-on for these men, times when the conversations made her nauseous, times when she’d lie awake all night or play back a recording and think, “Holy shit, I listened to this? I said these words?” But she kept faith in the mission. She reminded herself that the pictures she sent of her daughter — the beautiful, little girl sleeping in the next room — did not represent a real child on offer. “I was thinking, ‘If I send this obscure picture of my daughter and he acts on it, then he’s never going to harm my daughter or anybody else’s,’ ” Badolato says now. “I was presenting a fake girl to save a real one.”

KYLE PARKS SEEMED to think he could get away with anything. He seemed to think, for instance, that he could get away with running a brothel, a 1-900 sex line, and a housecleaning company out of the same Columbus, Ohio, office park and under the same oxy-moronic name, XXXREC and Hygiene Services. He seemed to think he could invite one young woman and five teenagers (four of whom he had only just met) on a road trip to Florida, but instead deposit them in two rooms of a Red Roof Inn in St. Charles, Missouri. When they piled out of the minivan — high on the drugs he’d given them — saw snow falling and asked to be taken home, he thought he could make a little money off them first. All it took was a few ads in Backpage — the Craigslist of sex advertisements — and men began showing up.

Even after things started going south for him, Parks couldn’t fathom that he wouldn’t prevail. When someone alerted law enforcement as to what was going on, Parks (who, according to legal documents, had been out getting food when the police showed up) burst into the precinct the next morning looking to bail his “friend” out. When questioned about the 88 condoms found in the back of his van, he said they had been prescribed to him by a doctor. After being taken into custody, he protested that he was being set up. Most people would have cut their losses and pleaded guilty, but not Parks. He thought he could take his case to court and win.

And it wasn’t impossible to imagine that he might. Badolato knew that even the tightest cases could go sideways when put before 12 people who would inevitably enter the courtroom with a cinematic sense of what sex trafficking was supposed to be. In fact, it wasn’t just the jury that Badolato knew she would need to convince; it was also often the victims themselves, young people who had internalized the exact same misconceptions about trafficking that the jury had — along with any number of other judgments society had thrown their way — and who were loath to submit themselves to a courtroom full of more judgment.

Of all of Parks’ underage victims, the hardest to pin down had been a 17-year-old we’ll call Sierra. Once she returned to Columbus, Sierra seemed to basically disappear. Calls to her mother’s number went unanswered. When one of the other victims managed to track her down in December 2016, a month before the case was to go to trial, Sierra agreed to meet Badolato on a blighted Columbus block with a string of dilapidated homes, climbing into the bureau’s Chevy Malibu with matted hair, dirty clothes, and a wary expression.

By this time, Badolato had remarried, had a second child, relocated to St. Louis, and taken over as head of the Child Exploitation Joint Task Force, which had become one of the most productive FBI teams in the country in terms of arrests and convictions. Meanwhile, as the internet streamlined the process of buying or selling any good or service, trafficking had become one of the fastest-growing criminal enterprises, estimated by the Department of Homeland Security to bring in $150 billion globally and considered by many criminals to be a superior business model: If caught, the sentences were often lighter than those for peddling drugs; and unlike crack or heroin, the same product could be “used” again and again and again.

Badolato taught her team of 20 how to do the online undercover work she’d trailblazed in Atlanta, tracking the movements of child-abuse material through the online underworld and then prosecuting those who distributed and produced it. Her new squad also initiated her in the type of undercover work it had been doing before her arrival: covert sting operations in which a detective would pose as a john, set up a “date,” and then meet said date in a hotel room fitted out with hidden recording devices while, in the next room over, a taskforce team listened in, waiting for the code word that would let them know that enough evidence had been gathered for them to swoop in and shut the op down. This had proved a very effective technique for getting convictions, but Badolato’s arrival coincided with both a growing sentiment that consensual sex work had been over-criminalized and an increasing awareness that what looked like consensual sex work might actually be trafficking, no matter what the “date” professed in that hotel room.

Badolato has a tendency to say aloud the things she notices — about you, about others, about situations — observations that are not at all unkind but are perceptive enough that most people would keep them to themselves. She points out when someone deflects, and she has a sharp eye for defense mechanisms. She once casually mentions my tendency to mirror other people’s vocal and speech patterns. She is not shy about bringing up the emotional and physical abuse she says she experienced as a child, and she is quick to comment when someone is making excuses for someone else’s behavior. It was soon clear to her colleagues that Badolato brought a trauma-informed mentality to the work, a tendency to look beyond what someone was doing and instead try to parse why they were doing it. And she was relentless: While some squads did one or two trafficking sting ops a year, her team was doing four or five a month. In addition to the hotel rooms reserved for the john and the team, they would have a social worker set up in a third room, ready to offer services to the victims. They would have lookouts stationed to see who might be dropping the date off. If that date was found to be underage, the case was automatically classified as trafficking. But even if they weren’t, Badolato’s team was primed to get to the bottom of what was going on, to figure out whether they were being manipulated or coerced, and by whom.

“If I could put my hands on a pimp, that’s what I wanted,” says Jeff Roediger, a St. Louis county detective who was the “john” for many of Badolato’s sting ops and who makes clear that the team was not interested in policing voluntary sex work. “When I had those types of cases, and I knew they were being sincere with me, I wouldn’t book them,” he says. “It was all about talking to the girls. It’s not like in the movies where they come running to you. You know, ‘Thanks, you rescued me!’ It’s not like that. A lot of them try to bullshit you at first — ‘That’s my boyfriend, blah blah blah’— but once I talked to them for a while, they would become more forthcoming.”

Badolato’s unit was one of the first in the country to take on this “progressive and proactive” approach, as she puts it. Soon, St. Louis looked like a sex-trafficking capital — not because it was actually trafficking more victims than other cities but because the task force was so aggressively pursuing those cases, and classifying them as what they were. “I mean, I was working in vice for years,” says Roediger. “Back in the day, it was always ‘prostitution,’ ‘prostitution,’ ‘prostitution’ — until we started to figure it out a little bit, until we started digging a little deeper.”

Once they did, the task force found that roughly a third of the sex-trafficking victims they recovered were under the age of 17 — and they began to see the reach of the problem. Kids were being trafficked out of every hotel in the area, from the seediest roach motel to the fanciest Ritz-Carlton. They were being trafficked every time of day and by every socioeconomic group (“Before you go do brain surgery, you got to bust a nut real quick,” one underage victim told Badolato of her high-end clientele). Some of the victims were girls. Some were boys. Some were LGBTQ kids who’d been kicked out of their homes. Some were straight cis kids from the suburbs. “I tell people that I could probably name two or three [kids] in the school district they live in that have been trafficked,” Roediger says. “And they just can’t comprehend it.”

“If I can be perfectly honest, I truly don’t believe that the FBI realizes what they put their agents through doing that kind of work.”

There were kids who were about to age out of foster care (a particularly at-risk group, according to those who work in the field), kids who’d run away, kids who were being sold to pay their family’s rent, or to buy their family member’s drugs. There were kids who’d sit in the hotel room, backpack at their feet, dutifully working on their math homework while agents and social workers tried to figure out what to do with them. Was their home life safe enough that they could be returned to it? Would a residential program take them? Of all the imperfect options, which would make them least likely to be trafficked again?

The one common denominator was this: They all had a vulnerability that could be preyed upon. They all lacked a safety net — societal, familial, emotional, or some combination thereof — that might have broken their fall. Mostly, their stories weren’t dramatic; they were typical American tales of neglect, of abuse doled out casually, of a steady stream of letdowns by people and institutions who should have propped them up. Badolato found that she had a knack for getting them to talk about this, for getting them to open up to her. She didn’t look like an FBI agent — at least not what they’d imagined. She spoke softly, but with authority and a slight vocal fry. And she thinks that, at some level, they could probably sense that she’d once been a vulnerable kid too, that with only a few slightly different twists of fate, she could have become a trafficking victim herself — and that she knew it. “My trauma looks different than theirs, but it’s trauma nonetheless,” she says.

“And I think victims can feel that.”

AS THE TASK force learned more about the psychology of victims, they also learned more about the ways in which their vulnerability was being manipulated, and how those ways were evolving. It was known in law-enforcement circles that once a skilled trafficker set his or her sights on a vulnerable young person, they could be groomed in a matter of days: one day for an introduction, a day or two to make the victim feel special and cared for, and then the day when a “friend” comes over and he needs to be “cared for” as well. Sometimes violence was involved at that point; sometimes drug use was involved throughout. But emotional manipulation was the key element, which is why it was so easy for grooming to move online, for groomers to take advantage of the false senses of connection fostered on social media.

Of the victims who are not being trafficked by family members, the majority are being groomed in this way. “I would say that probably 75 percent of the initial grooming is happening online now,” says Cindy Malott, the director of U.S. Safe Programs at Crisis Aid International. “Recruiters used to have to work really, really hard to get access to kids, but now they’re practically sitting in a child’s bedroom. And kids put everything out there — what’s going on in their life, who they’re angry about, parents are going through a divorce, their insecurities about their body, about themselves, what they do, how they spend their time — so it’s like a gift to these predators.”

The ways to manipulate are legion: Get a kid to send a compromising photo, and she’ll do almost anything to keep you from sending it out to all her Facebook friends; find out a gay kid is still closeted, and the threat of outing him gives you incredible power. And predators aren’t just on Instagram and Snapchat; they lurk in the chat functions of Roblox, Minecraft, Grand Theft Auto. “They’re everywhere,” says Malott. “People think, ‘Oh, I just got to keep my kids away from those porn sites, those horrible places.’ Well, no, predators are gonna go where the kids are.” And once there, they’re going to zero in on the kids who are most vulnerable.

That’s what got to Badolato. In her online undercover work, she’d plumbed the psychology of pedophiles, but now she wasn’t just dealing with suspects; she was spending time with victims and seeing the same vulnerabilities in them that the traffickers had seen: the instability or poverty, the addiction or mental health issues or abuse that had been normalized in their lives long before the traffickers entered them. Sometimes Badolato couldn’t help but feel that all the conspiracies and misconceptions weren’t just a distraction from the truth of trafficking but rather some sick attempt to let society off the hook for trying to solve the much more intractable problems at trafficking’s root.

“People would rather stick their head in the sand than address the real problem, because then you have to face and talk about the societal issues,” she says. “With a movie like Sound of Freedom, it’s like, ‘Oh, this is in a jungle in South America. This isn’t actually in [my neighborhood].’ You know? It’s easier for people to ignore the problem than deal with the issues on a societal level.”

BY THE TIME Badolato was sitting in that Chevy with Sierra, on that blighted Ohio block, she knew that the rate of revictimization for children who are trafficked was as high as 95 percent, according to FBI reports. She knew that 90 percent of sex-trafficking victims have a history of child sexual abuse, that more than 75 percent had lived in foster or adoptive care. She knew that she could arrest one perpetrator, and another would pop up in his place, that she could send one pimp to prison and the same victims would show up to stings some short time later, run by a different crew. She knew that testifying was a way for Sierra to psychologically push back against what had happened to her, and she was right: After the young woman took the stand on Jan. 10, 2017, Parks was found guilty and sentenced to 25 years; while testifying, Sierra had seemed to transform, to channel and embody a sort of empowerment. But Badolato also knew that once her testimony was over, Sierra would go back to that blighted block. She wondered how long that empowerment would last.

She also wondered about her own trajectory, her own ability to continue doing this work. The youngest trafficking victim she’d ever recovered from a sting op — an 11-year-old who’d been recruited through Facebook — had been returned to her family in a house that had no heat (Badolato had used an FBI slush fund to get it turned back on). One did not become immune to the human misery of such things. They compounded, became harder and harder to compartmentalize. “It’s just a combination of all of those years — and it’s all awful,” she says. “But there are particular moments that, for one reason or another, you can’t get out of your head. I just don’t think it’s in human nature to be exposed to that for so long and it not start changing who you are.”

One night, at a restaurant near where Badolato lives, I ask her whether she thinks children are being sex-trafficked right then, in that very moment, in just the mile or two radius around us. She’s quiet for a long time, her gaze fixed downward at her glass of wine. By the time she looks up, her whole body is trembling. “It’s happening right now,” she says quietly. “Right now some little girl is being dropped off in the parking lot of a motel. There are three or four girls holed up in a hotel next to a McDonald’s. It’s not only when we think about it. It is happening all the time. And if I’m just sitting here, present, having dinner, not thinking about it, that means I’m ignoring a problem that I know is real.” Tears stream down her face.

“Many images have never left my mind,” she says. “It’s really hard to have worked your entire life in law enforcement with a lot of child crime victims and be at the end of your career looking at the situation where you realize you can only do so much to make a difference.” Badolato wipes back the tears with the palm of her hand and shudders her head, as if she can shake the thoughts away. “Damn,” she says. “Fuck. I shouldn’t be the one crying. I’m not the victim of this.” The veteran agent steels herself and repeats, “I am not the victim.”

THE HOUSE WHERE Korina Ellison says she was first sex-trafficked no longer exists. It once stood on an unassuming lot in a residential suburb of Portland, Oregon, that stumbles down to the banks of the Willamette River. Now, Ellison can’t quite bring the house’s features to mind. She was so young back then, maybe four or five. There is so much she’s repressed, or only pieced together after the fact. As a child, she wouldn’t have known what she now believes to be true: that her grandmother scored her drugs by offering up her youngest daughter, Ellison’s mom. Or that, once her mom was hooked on the meth cooked by the man who’d lived in that house, she’d known just what to do to get more. But Ellison does remember being inside the house, unclothed. She does remember how the man would touch her.

Her life unspooled from there. Her father died of a heroin overdose when she was six. Her mom lost custody for good. She bounced around foster care, then various residential institutions, then whatever shelter she could find. In the story she tells of how she was sex-trafficked again in her teenage years, there’s no moment of drama, no kidnapping, no clear coercion. There was just a random, rainy afternoon when she had no place to go and was alone in the street and a car pulled up. The man inside took her home with him, fed her, introduced her to his girlfriend. They took her shopping. They let her stay. When men showed up at the home to have sex with the woman, Ellison was invited to watch, but she wasn’t expected to participate — not at first, anyway. According to a statement Ellison later made to law enforcement, she just “realized that people aren’t going to take care of [me] for free.” Soon, the woman was posting Ellison’s services on Backpage — $150 for half an hour, $200 for a full one — and the trio were traveling the Midwest. For a long time, it didn’t even occur to Ellison, then 16, to leave. “Where would I have gone?” she asks. “I’d been missing for over a year. Nobody was looking for me.” When the man told her to call him “Daddy,” she complied.

That was more than a decade ago, near the beginning of Badolato’s tenure as head of the Child Exploitation Task Force. But by 2021, leaving it had seemed a necessary form of self-preservation. One of her last cases had gone well legally: The perp, a retired police officer from California who had produced child sex-abuse materials of three sisters in Manila, had pleaded guilty to such charges when he learned that Badolato had brought the girls to the states to testify against him. But the experience had been emotionally devastating for Badolato, who had wanted the sisters, then 16, 13, and 11, to have memories of the U.S that consisted of more than reliving their trauma in a courtroom. She took them shopping and to the zoo, invited them to her home to have dinner with her own family, saw them slowly start to open up and laugh and behave like the children they were. Then she’d had to put them on a flight back to Manila, back to the aunt who had allowed the man to abuse them and who Badolato had been unable to extradite. Fortunately, she says, their estranged father ended up intervening and taking custody of the girls, but that feeling of futility in the fight lingered.

“I stayed for a little bit longer after that trial, but it really was when I should have been able to look myself in the mirror and say, ‘Nikki, you’re done,’ ” Badolato had told me in St. Louis. “It became clear that I had been doing it too long.” She’d spend the last couple of years working national security, a position without the immediacy of child-exploitation work, but also without the heartache. “If I can be perfectly honest, I truly don’t believe that the FBI realizes what they put their agents through doing that kind of work. I just don’t,” she says.

And yet, here Badolato was in Portland, leading Ellison, now 30, up to her hotel room, telling her about all the announcements she’d heard in the Atlanta airport instructing travelers to be on the lookout for sex trafficking. “It’s like white noise in the background,” she says as Ellison settles into the sofa. “It’s a false sense of doing something to help.”

“Here’s the thing: Nobody knows what to look for,” Ellison agrees.

“And what about the victims who are in that airport, who are walking around and listening?” Badolato asks.

“I wouldn’t have even heard that announcement,” Ellison replies. “Because I didn’t feel like a victim. It goes a lot, lot, lot deeper than anybody realizes.”

That’s what she and Badolato both understand. That’s why they started talking eight months ago. Of all the teenage victims Badolato’s task force recovered, Ellison is one of the few who she knows has permanently extricated herself from being prostituted, though it took years for her to get to that point, years for her to see that what happened to her was not her fault but rather a fault in the system, a fault in many systems over the course of generations. Neither she nor Badolato can fix that.

Yet they can’t help feeling like there’s something they can fix — or at least try to. Under the umbrella of an organization she’s founded called Innocent Warriors, Badolato created a program for schools, instructing educators on the signs that might indicate a student is being trafficked and teaching kids how to avoid getting groomed online, which, she believes, is not about stranger danger but rather an awareness of subtle manipulation. Ellison has been working with trafficked youth through nonprofits like Children of the Night, the residential program where Badolato’s team sent her when she was 17. Together, they’ve been talking about having Ellison help train undercovers who are learning to do trafficking sting ops. They’ve also discussed starting a mentorship program in which children who are still being sex-trafficked are paired with young adults like Ellison who once were, providing a way for victims to begin to envision a different future for themselves and a path toward it even while being prostituted. Such a program may be retroactive rather than proactive, but it would capitalize on Badolato’s and Ellison’s experience and expertise — and it could help in the healing of mentors and mentees alike.

Badolato had traveled to Portland for the two to talk face-to-face about how the program might work. “You have to understand how they’ve been traumatized because sometimes, to a child, relating doesn’t sound like you’re relating. It sounds like you’re pointing out all the bad things in them,” says Ellison from the driver’s seat of her Nissan Pathfinder as she drives Badolato around to show her certain landmarks of her past after she’d left Children of the Night: the bridge she’d slept under for over a year after a boyfriend had gotten her hooked on heroin, the blocks downtown where she’d bounced between a children’s shelter and the needle exchange. It had taken a prison sentence for her to finally break her addiction and commit to a different kind of life, though that evolution had had less to do with not having access to drugs than with seeing her own mother cycle in and out of the same facility — like looking into her own future and witnessing how bleak it would be. Maybe, she thought, she could provide the inverse of that for kids in Innocent Warriors. Maybe she could reverse engineer her own escape.

“I just want to make it very clear that if you were a victim, you are a victim, and just to not have any shame in that,” she tells Badolato as they drive through Portland’s misty streets.

“What I anticipate and hope is that then we get survivors that are like, ‘They get it,’ ” Badolato replies. “And that it opens up doors to help, for people to recognize that there are people who get what’s really going on.”

“It took a really long time for me,” Ellison says of coming to terms with her own victimhood.

“It’s like reworking your thought process about some of those things,” Badolato agrees. “And that’s hard, and it happens slowly over time, and it looks different for everybody.”

Ellison grips the wheel tightly. “The truth does matter. It does. The truth is the fucking truth. And it’s been empowering to be able to talk about it because that’s another way that I’ve realized, like, ‘Man, I was a victim,’ is re-going over all of this. Because when it happens so many times, you do blame yourself. It’s a lot easier to just continue to live in a lie than believe that you were lied to.”

Still, Ellison and Badolato agree that the impressionability that makes children vulnerable is also what makes them open to guidance and mentorship if a relationship of trust can be established. “What do you think a parent does? They groom you. I’d been waiting to be guided and groomed,” Ellison says.

It’s been instructive to see that potential from another perspective, as a mother doing the guiding. As the afternoon wears on, Ellison stops to pick up her then-15-month-old son, who was being watched by a social-worker friend. She buckles the little boy into his car seat, ruffles his hair, and passes him a bottle. He grins widely and begins removing his shoes and socks, throwing them gleefully onto the floor of the car and then kicking his tiny feet in time with the music as Ellison glances back at him and smiles. “Kids are so perfect,” she says.

The last stop of the day is the large plot of land where the drug dealer’s house once stood. Now, it’s been turned into a playground, with brightly-colored jungle gyms, a covered picnic area, and a large lawn, where a couple leisurely walks their dog. Ellison and Badolato climb down from the car and stand at the park’s edge, as Ellison’s son toddles around the grass, oblivious to what had transpired in that very spot. There is some form of poetic justice in the land being earmarked for children’s enjoyment, but neither woman voices it. Mostly, they’re quiet. Night is falling, the air growing cooler, and the gray sky fading into dusk.

“You would never think a park could hide what it used to be,” Ellison says at last. And yet it did. Driving off with Badolato at her side and her son babbling happily in the back seat, Ellison glances in the rear-view mirror, but only for a moment. Badolato keeps her eyes fixed only on the road ahead.

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llamagoddessofficial · 4 months

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In today's age of magic, shapeshifting has never been easier or more frequent. Have you started to notice your partner has some strange quirks? Does your husband, wife, spouse or significant other demonstrate some odd behaviours that you've only started to take real notice of after significant time together? Accidentally getting into a relationship with a nonhuman is more common than you might think. Here's a handy guide on some entities your partner might be, in case you feel you need to approach that topic.

1 - Fae Fae are a very diverse race, ranging wildly in appearance and power, and disguising themselves as humans is an everyday occurrence. You most likely grew up on stories about not giving your name to strangers, in case they are Fae - unknowingly marrying a Fae is shockingly common, the Bureau of Nonhuman Entities (BoNE) estimates that anywhere between 0.5 to 2% of human marriages actually include one or more Fae in disguise. Here are the signs your partner may be Fae.

A 'green thumb', very knowledgeable about highly local plants and fungi

Strong aptitude for poetry and instruments, a very beautiful singing voice. They highly enjoy writing songs for you, composing poems about you, and singing together.

Enjoys singing you to sleep.

Wild animals are completely unafraid of them, and often approach both of you

Loves gold jewellery, but abjectly refuses to wear anything silver.

Sees suspiciously well in the dark

Cannot get drunk - Fae are often immune to human poisons

Acquaintances of yours describe your partner as 'ethereal', 'enchanting', or 'hypnotising'. You may hear comments that your partner seems out of your league.

They place a very heavy emphasis on manners and politeness, and can quickly grow upset when social rules are not followed.

When frustrated, they use swear words you've never heard before

Fae are frequently attracted to neurodivergent humans. If you're neurodivergent the likelihood is even higher.

2 - Deity Again, more common than you might think. Deities both minor and major often find themselves attracted to humans, and stories of these romances are baked into our histories. Your spouse may be the God of anything from a very specific kind of flower, to a certain weather pattern, to (rarely) something very big like knowledge or the ocean itself. They're harder to spot than Fae, often indistinguishable from a normal human thanks to their many years observing people.

The biggest clue is that they don't notice pain, and never seem to get hurt. They'll have invulnerability or high resistance to things such as burning, freezing, drowning, cutting, and blunt force trauma. They might not notice they've put their hand on a hot burner, for example.

Speaks in strangely archaic language, often misunderstanding modern trends and linguistics. Oddly knowledgeable around ancient subjects.

They may randomly smell like blood and/or smoke. This is often a sign they've just received an offering, and the intensity of the smell is stronger with more powerful deities.

They can immediately tell when someone is lying, usually without giving a cause for the knowledge.

The two of you share pet names of a celestial nature, such as "star", "nova", "sun", "moon", "comet".

When upset, they have a highly commanding voice that can shake glass or cause bizarre events to happen (ie; mist indoors, words on a page scrambling, lights changing colour).

Heightened interest in the topic of immortality - particularly your views on it. Frequently asking you 'how you would feel' if you would live forever.

3 - Dragon A very rare (but not impossible) phenomena, most people have no idea that dragons are intelligent and emotionally complex beings that can very convincingly disguise themselves. Living in caves isn't for everyone and loneliness is not just a human feeling.

Very wealthy, but with no clear sign of where the wealth originates from. They may say their money comes from a 'long-term investment'.

Highly passionate lover. Deeply devoted and affectionate, sometimes to the point of it being inappropriate in public. Enjoys big displays of affection and physical intimacy. May need to be told to slow down.

Abandonment issues. This often stems from the highly violent childhood many dragons experience, and the frequent loss of loved ones to dragonslayers. They might be reluctant to be separated too long.

Has a particular item they enjoy hoarding. This could be clothes, trinkets, plushies, shoes, anything at all. You may find that they're very easygoing about you touching their collection, maybe they even actively make you part of the hoard. They may dress you in collected clothes, sort their collected plushies around your bed, or ask you to wear jewellery they've found. But they'll become extremely agitated and aggressive if anyone other than you tries to interact with 'their things'.

Prone to anger, quick-tempered.

Frequently concerned about your health, seems to perceive you as delicate and easily injured.

Please remember that if your partner IS nonhuman, they almost certainly didn't intentionally lie. Human relationships will seem very fast to other entities. Many transform into humans for a fun year out, find themselves head over heels in love, and then can't figure out the right time to tell their human lover the truth. Try not to hold it against them, everyone has their quirks!

#llama writes #idk i just felt like playing around shfjsd

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slutforalastor · 2 months

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"Ah, he's got this problem." Your friend Mimzy waved her hand. "You know how animal demons get. I'd take care of him myself but I wouldn't want to spoil our working relationship. We go way back, you know."

Slowly, you nodded. "You'd consider it a personal favour?" That was how things worked in Hell. A consideration for a consideration. And dealing with the Radio Demon in rut was hardly a small favour, even if it did play well to your preferences.

"To me, yeah." Mimzy smiled broadly. "Just take him to a private room in the back and see that he's calmed down before it's time for the show. If he's cranky he's gonna start eating people, ugh." She fluttered her hand again. "Don't worry, though, he's an absolute sweetheart."

Seeing the Radio Demon turn sideways to get through the door, eyes glowing red and his huge rack of antlers festooned with cables, you were starting to doubt Mimzy's definition of sweetheart.

THIS POST CONTAINS MATERIAL NOT SUITABLE FOR MINORS. 18+

Content: Rutting, antlerplay, role reversal, give and take, banter, mutual masturbation, light femdom, biting, marking, a lot of flowery language for smut

You'd heard the stories and rumors, saw the occasional report on VNN, but you'd yet to encounter the Radio Demon for yourself. Even pushed to the edge where something resembling humanity plunges into dark depths of depravity, he's maintaining a grip on decorum, his wavering smile barely forming the syllables when he introduces himself as Alastor, his voice impossibly mimicking the sound of a mono recording from a bygone time. Mimzy is going to owe you big-time.

"I'm doing well, sir. I have to say, you look like you've had an awful day."

"It is... most inconvenient," he stammers, shaking his head like a beached animal trying to throw off water. Just as Mimzy had requested, you'd waited for him in the private room, and you're still laying in the bed, your body draped across the two rows of firm pillows, down to your lingerie for his ease. With wobbling steps, he begins to close the distance, loosening his bowtie.

"I really must insist that this matter... stay between us." The restraint he's displaying seems as though it's taking every bit of faculties he can spare; his breathing, his sight, his ability to stand, all seem to be sustained with the minimum amount of effort possible. Even glazed in electric red, you can tell his eyes are focused intently on you.

"Who would believe me, anyhow?"

"... Too true, no one would dream of calling me a liar," he agrees, pulling his waistcoat off and leaving it in a heap on the bureau. His undershirt is the same deep red, intersecting black stripes making a cross across the center of his chest. He rolls his sleeves up, then sets his cane on top of his waistcoat. "Any... sensitivities I should know about?"

"I like being kissed on the neck," you venture, playing it safe for opening bids.

He laughs wickedly, the glow casting light further than it could reach before, his antlers growing another section in size, branching out that much closer to the ceiling. "Oh, Mimzy didn't tell me you'd be so pure. Surely you have something more entertaining than that?"

"You think I do this sort of thing often enough to have an itemized list?"

He tuts at your attempt at banter, removing his shoes and leaving them in the gap under the bed. "I don't have time for experimentation, my dear. I'm asking if you think you can handle what I have to give."

"I've handled everything so far," you smirk.

"Let's see how you handle the best, then," he mutters. With a wave of his hand, a black tentacle rises to wrap around your midsection, pinning you in place. He's climbing onto the bed, teeth bared like an animal seconds from pouncing. There's hunger in his eyes, desperation in his motion, a frantic bent to the way he's starting to falter, his kayfabe crumbling with every push of his knees. He's got your legs open, mounting you, and you can feel something alive and thrashing, barely contained by the slacks tenting away from his midsection. His eyes are narrowed in ravenous anticipation, his hips pressing him into you, etching his longing lengthwise against the fabric of your underwear. You feel your upper teeth against your lip, knowing that despite all your talk, you can't hide how appreciative you are of his straightforward approach.

With a hoarse exhale, he fumbles with his belt, the restraining tentacle slipping southward to yank your panties down. Your eyes catch a glimpse of how prepared you are for what's coming next, the evidence staining a dark spot in the light fabric. The Radio Demon hikes his slacks down to the midsection of his thighs, the tip of his firmness kissing against your entrance, his erratic movements keeping him from slipping in. You take it in your hands, which makes him rear up in ecstasy, a hissing growl punctuating the reaction, and align it directly where it needs to go. With a thrust motivated by nothing more than primal need, he forces himself deep into you, grunting in satisfaction at your breathy gasps when it settles into your apex. He gives you little time to adjust, burying himself into you with harsh, crushing strokes, the red in his eyes leaving a tracer every time you shut your eyes against the force of it. His hands are against your forearms, pinning the both of them on either side, and when your head goes back, he finds the crook of your neck with his teeth, his tongue, his lips, seasoning you with scratches, leaving welts from kisses and bites. They sting like fire, they excite like aphrodisiac.

"Is that what you mean, my dear? Is that what you're looking for?"

You whimper something that sounds close enough to assent for him to grow bolder, making a map of your body, marking a trail, carving canyons, raising landmarks that stand red and pulsing against the canvas of your skin. All this in the throes of his rutting deep into you. It drives you mad, your legs wrapping around his waist, bidding him to see just how much of his mind he can lose.

"God, your fucking taste. It'd be such a shame to just devour you, though. So many uses for the whole." Or maybe you're using the homophone of that word to make him seem kinder.

A flailing hand finds your throat, freeing your arms by necessity. You catch onto the rack of black antlers nearly driving themselves into the headboard, using them for leverage to arch your back. You can't tell if you've irritated or excited him with your little move, but the result is the same; he's pressing you with enough force that you can feel the force of it in your midsection. You're seeing red, the sound of him making a mess of you ringing in your ears, two organs vying for sensations yet to be experienced, every other part of you a mere pretense, a chorus playing ensemble to the true performance. And he's reaching the climax of it, his bucking hips shaking your entire frame. You can feel every shift of his disposition in the bone of his antlers, and you hold on for dear life as his urge rushes into your lower half, filling you with thick heat. You're moaning unconsciously, letting him keep you impaled for as long as it pulses with diminishing vigor, feeling every twitch in his shaft as it empties itself. Finally spent, he releases you, the tentacle unwinding from around your waist. Your fingers, knuckles sore from strain, release his antlers, and you extricate yourselves from one another. You can feel his seed weep from between your legs, your breathing rapid, your skin slick with sweat. He collapses onto his back, his legs still entangled with yours, the fabric of his slacks a strange texture on your drenched skin. Straining, you lift your head up, seeing that despite his exhaustion, his cock hasn't calmed one bit.

"Still... not satisfied?"

"This damnable rut..."

You pull yourself up, your lower half numb and leaving a trail of translucence as you crawl to the space between his legs. You wrap a hand around him, and he breathes a hissing inhale that tapers into a low, long groan.

"I didn't ask you..."

"You look like you're in misery, you really don't want the help?"

"I am in no position to keep going..."

"So let me handle it."

You can see the conflict playing out in his expression, but his hips gently bucking against your hand tell a different tale. "Not a soul can know about this."

You nod your assent, giving the part that needs it more of your attention. It's as lively as when he was frotting it against you, throbbing with want, coated with spend. It makes a marvelous lubricant, the wet sound of skin against slick skin nearly obscuring his quiet moans.

"I couldn't help but notice that you have sensitivities of your own, sir."

"Surely you can't mean..."

Your free hand dances like a bird across the branches in his horns, his vocalizations and submissive thrusts suggesting that you have stricken quite the nerve. He's already oozing pre into your palm, a searching hand walking a blind path between your legs, caressing you in kind. You've got a wild idea, just crazy enough to sound worth doing. There's a real chance you'll never cross each other's path again, might as well indulge. You spot a path that ends in a blunt point in his rack, and take it into your mouth, flitting your tongue against the rough material, firm and tasteless, but eliciting such a response from him that you'd not dare release it. His fingers are stroking you with all the effort they can muster, his thrusts weak but sincere.

"Cannot believe... you're getting away with this," he whines, his voice so submissive compared to the one you first heard that it threatens to send you over the edge. Why not press your luck? You straddle his waist, inching him into you margin by maddening margin. He's got no more clever quips for you, his curled claws clutching fistfuls of ruined bedsheets. The view from on high is a pleasant one. A few more motions, and you feel that sensation alighting in him once again; you're ready to join him. His whimpers go up an octave, the crackling filter in his voice thickening, distorting. For the second time, he climaxes inside of you, your own orgasm arriving in tandem. The both of you cry out, his subdued and sweet, yours unrestrained and carnal. You fold into him, his initial reaction wanting to pull away, but he grants you this favor, letting you find the crook in his neck in parallel. He speaks unfiltered, more as Alastor than as the Radio Demon.

"You know, it can be so hard to find willing assistants for these difficult times. Perhaps I could call on you again, my dear."

Maybe it should be you that owes Mimzy.

#alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #alastor x you #radio demon x reader #the radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel

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after-witch · 8 months

Text

Horrorfest: It Knows Not How it Sounds [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Title: It Knows Not How it Sounds [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: He's going to kill you--and this is how you react? Curious, curious, curious.

For Horrorfest request:

Vampire! Chrollo could be interesting? He fits the image of a vampire well, with his inclusion of religious imagery, goth aesthetic and his personal search for his self (his “soul“). Perhaps he becomes interested in one of his would-be meals, being attracted to their humanity and their perspective on his vampirism (maybe them seeing it as a curse, not a boon)

Word count: 1565

notes: yandere, vampire, some descriptions of blood, mild wounds, dying; Chrollo is a pretentious asshole even as a vampire

Humans are so very interesting. And so very predictable.

Chrollo Lucilfer knew the first truth at an early age. He has learned the second truth over the years, the decades, and then the centuries.

For instance, humans always seek comfort. That is certain, whether they are rich or poor, old or young, beautiful or ugly. They want to be held and warm and fed; they want someone to comfort them when they cry; they want to be told that, in the end, things will be alright.

This is true even for the humans that he kills, for so often in their last moments, they cling to him, desperate, wanting him to be their savior even as he is the one draining their blood.

Therefore, it does not surprise him too terribly when your shaking arm reaches up for his face; when your increasingly exhausted expression takes in the sight of him, eyes wide, looking for kinship or absolution or someone to tell you it will be just fine.

It takes his victims some time to really comprehend what is happening, after all.

It is usually at this point that (if they haven’t already--not everyone is so slow on the uptake) they realize what he is--vampire--and he goes back to lapping at his victim’s blood, enjoying the way their muddled dying thoughts are spiked with a renewed bright acidic terror.

The taste is not his only reward. There is the entertainment, as well. The thoughts of the dying.

The thoughts come to him like moving pictures, flashes; not only visuals but sometimes words. Monster. Him, covered in blood. I don’t want to die. Lovers, children, things left unsaid. Mother. This word, so common, most often paired with the foggy memory of a chubby hand held in a larger one.

Your eyes widen after a moment and ah, there it is. Like a clock. “Vampire,” you mouth, lips that were perhaps once rose-red now growing paler, the more he blood he takes from you.

“Yes,” he breathes, and you make the softest of sounds when he nudges your head back with his hands, giving him access to the open, bruised weeping puncture wounds he’d created earlier. Your blood still flows freely enough, and he laps at the edges before he begins to suck from the wounds.

He wonders how he must look from your eyes, though he may see it soon enough. His pale skin and dark hair. The fangs jutting from his mouth. The blood on his lips. Even his clothing, silken black with delicate lace. A storybook vampire, he supposes; all that’s missing is the smell of dirt and decay, though that is perhaps a stench better left to his more unhinged colleagues than his own delicate scent of roses and musk; purloined perfume bottles were easy to come by when you could simply kill the ones who set them on varnished bureaus.

But what pulses through his mind is not pure abject horror at the sight of him or fleeting, terrified thoughts of a life that will be incomplete.

Instead, it’s something that startles him so fiercely that he yanks himself away from your neck:

Pity.

Pity, pity, pity. For him--for him!

A warm almost sour sensation lingers behind on his teeth, and he licks it away. He has never, in his centuries of killing, been… pitied.

Your head rolls a little to the side, eyelids drooping, but you gain enough awareness to realize that he’s no longer feeding on you. Your voice is a soft croak when you do speak, words spoken as if you don’t understand why you’re even permitted to say them at all. You should, after all, be dead.

“Why did you stop?”

He considers you for a moment. He keeps a grip on your shoulders--you might just fall, if he lets go--and makes you face him. Finally, he mirrors your question. But only to satisfy his curiosity, or so he tells himself.

“Why do you pity me?”

Your eyes widen again, but this time not in the realization of the monster before you. You likely don’t know how he felt your pity. He doesn’t care to explain it to you, either, and after a few moments you furrow your eyebrows.

If he weren’t feeding on you, it might be a cute expression. Perhaps it still is; even lambs to the slaughter can have their charms.

“You’re…” You swallow. “You’re a vampire,” you say. But that usual horror is replaced with something else, something Chrollo wants to stick his finger into and pull out so he can see it more fully. Pity, yes yes, but something more. What is it? And why do you feel it so strongly that he couldn’t stand the shock of it?

When he doesn’t respond, you continue.

“You have to kill people to survive.”

He snorts.

“That’s never given me pause before.”

And oh, the way you look at him is absolutely beautiful. Your eyes glisten with tears--not from the pain, surely, but for him?--and your lips, nearly colorless though they are, curl into a pretty pout.

“But it should, and I’m so sorry it doesn’t.”

You wince, the shock perhaps ebbing away, letting you feel the pain of your ripped flesh more fully than most of his victims have time to do. But you don’t even press your hands to the wound, and he likes you better for it.

But still. You pity him because he’s a killer? What a waste of the emotion.

“I have lived for centuries,” he tells you, speaking as if to a child, learning lessons at a father’s knee. “I have seen things your mortal mind could not comprehend. I have seen kingdoms rise and fall, seen civilizations turn to dust.”

He can practically see the cogs in the clock of your mind turning. Perhaps you will be one of those who foolishly asks him for the gift. He has rarely given it, and he wouldn’t give it to you; but he wouldn’t tear you apart for the audacity as he has some others. Your death would be merciful, calm--you’ve earned that.

But when you speak again, you don’t ask him to make you into a vampire.

“But you must be so lonely.” Your words are sudden, fast. Perhaps you don’t realize you’ve said them until it’s too late to wonder if you’re being too presumptuous, because you stumble over your next words. Or perhaps you’re just that emotional over the thought of him, and wouldn’t that be a delightful novelty?

“Everyone around you dies… your-your family. Friends.” You shake your head, blinking as a few tears finally do drop from your eyes. “You can’t live a normal life… you can’t go out in the sun.” You look up, as if you’re imagining the warm feel of it on your skin.

It’s a sensation he has long since forgotten, but to you it must be as normal as breathing. “I-I can’t imagine how sad that must be. To never be truly warm. To not see the flowers reaching up to the sky or see the grass in the morning, all green and dewy.”

Your arms, no longer trembling, wrap around your chest.

“I just…” You don’t look at him when you say these last words, but you don’t really need to, do you? Not with the way your voice is choked with emotion, the way tears fall so prettily from your eyes. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you.”

You are a wonder, truly. Bleeding from the neck, no doubt light headed from blood loss, in the face of a nocturnal creature who moments ago was draining the life from your body… and you apologize to him?

When you live for centuries, you often lose the ability to be surprised. But here is that sensation, now queer, once again. And all because you happened to take an unfortunate shortcut through the park on this night, making yourself easy prey for him to pull into a darkened alley and feast.

Now, though, he finds his hunger satiated. Or at least satiated until he finds another victim. Someone less worthy to stay alive than yourself, of course.

After some consideration, he leans backward, and releases his grip on you. His hands ache for the warmth of your skin underneath him, and not for the usual voracious reasons.

Yet another curiosity to add to his growing list.

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”

Perhaps, if he weren’t who he was, he might feel it too--this feeling of pity. Because you have no idea what he intends to do, and what it will mean for him to keep you alive now.

You have no sense of the impulsive need that has rooted itself in his brain, a need he hasn’t felt since he was a young fledgling of a vampire. He wants to know you; know what you think and why you think it.

What life has created you so earnestly that you can feel genuine sympathy for a creature like him? Have you known hardship, and it was an impulse to sympathize? Or has your life been so unmarred by difficulty that the pty came easily to you, pure, sweet thing?

The most important question of all, he thinks, as he pulls you closer to him and shushes the soft sounds you make--

Will you continue to pity him once he has taken you for his own?

#yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere vampire #yandere #afterwitch writes #aw horrrorfest

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writingjourney · 3 months

Text

Of Lemon Tarts and Tiny White Rabbits

Secondo, Earl of Griftwood, cannot believe his eyes when a tiny white rabbit scampers into his study. He is stunned even more when he meets the lovely owner of the pet – and promptly falls in love.

pairing: secondo x female!reader // regency AU

content: 4.6k words, regency AU (not 100% historically accurate but I tried), pov third person, forbidden romance, age gap, first kisses, social hierarchies, mildly suggestive at times, soft!secondo, pining and yearning etc., wingman terzo

This is a birthday present for the lovely @tasty-ribz , also special thanks to @angellayercake for encouraging me to bring Snowbell into this story ✨🐰

Masterlist – Ao3 link

The curtains sway gently in the soft breeze that carries a fragrant spring air into his study. Secondo lifts his gaze to take in the lovely view through the open double doors which lead to a balcony and the well-kept gardens of Emeritus Manor. Lush rose bushes climb up the stone walls and wrap around the railings, dark green speckled with the pink of countless flowers. Somewhere in the trees the birds break out in song, their melodic chirping a pleasant background noise that accompanies him as he maintains his correspondence.

After this short reprieve for his eyes, he dips the quill back into the black pot of ink on his bureau. A few more letters and he can settle outside in the shade for his afternoon tea, perhaps even indulge and allow himself a lemon tart to go with it. He can’t remember hiring a new cook and yet he swears the smell of freshly baked pastries has filled the halls of the estate more frequently as of late, their taste tempting even him who is usually not one for desserts.

A movement in his peripheral vision distracts him momentarily but when he looks up there is nothing unusual to be seen. Secondo watches the curtains, assuring himself that it must have been the wind playing tricks on him. With a frown on his face, he focuses back on his letters. After a moment, however, he glances back up, suddenly sensing a presence in the room. When he still cannot detect anything out of the ordinary, he assumes that it must have been a ghost wandering the old halls of the manor – it would not be the first time.

Over the scratching sounds of his quill he almost misses the tiny squeak that passes his ears only a moment later. A mouse? No ghosts that haunt him after all. He lets his eyes roam the walls that are lined with bookshelves, trying to spot any scurrying movements on the elaborately patterned rug that muffles the sound. At last, he glances down to his feet and surprise takes over his stern features.

A white baby rabbit sits next to his shoe, its tiny pink nostrils moving rapidly as it sniffs the leather with utmost interest. The creature cannot be bigger than his palm. Where could it possibly come from? As far as he is aware, they do not keep any rabbits, let alone breed them.

“Snowbell?” The voice that suddenly sounds from the balcony is soft and melodic, a young woman he cannot quite place. “Snowbell, where did you go?”

Her figure appears in the frame a mere moment later and she flinches back when she spots Secondo at his desk through the open doors. She immediately averts her eyes, her hair falling into her face and covering her features.

“Please, forgive me for the disturbance, my lord.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he replies. “I understand you are looking for this little troublemaker here?”

Secondo leans down to pick up the rabbit. Indeed it fits neatly into his gloved palm and he regrets that he cannot feel the soft fur against his fingers. The bunny breathes rapidly, its small body excited or scared, he cannot quite tell.

“Oh, you found her! Thank the lord, I thought she was lost forever.”

“Will you relieve me of her, then? She seems quite restless.”

The young woman who he cannot remember seeing before cautiously enters and with a lowered gaze approaches his desk. Secondo admires her for a moment, her striking complexion and the mesmerising way with which hair shimmers in the golden sunlight. Young and innocent, the daughter of a servant perhaps if the state of her dress is any indication. Yet it does not diminish her beauty nor her youthful radiance; he can tell that she is perhaps five-and-twenty.

She reaches for the bunny and he hands it over the desk, feeling her fingers brushing against his. Again he regrets the barrier between his skin and the world around him but even so he can tell that the heat has risen to her cheeks. She does not seem to be used to the presence of her superiors. He’s well aware of his reputation as a rather reserved and intimidating employer.

“I am not certain that I know your name,” he says before she can scurry off, skittish like the tiny animal that appears a little taller now in her smaller hands.

She replies with her name and a curtsy, not quite lady-like in practice but Secondo can tell that she must have enjoyed a good upbringing. Perhaps she has experience working for nobility.

“Where do you belong to, my girl?”

“I am François’s daughter, my lord.”

“Ah, sì, the new gardener?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He nods, watching her pet the rabbit with her slender fingers as if to calm herself. “And how do you like it here?”

“It is extraordinarily beautiful, my lord. The estate is magnificent and I quite enjoy the work in the kitchens.”

“The kitchens? So it is you who prepares these scrumptious lemon tarts?”

She nods, smiling a bit shyly. “It is a French recipe, my lord. My mother taught me how to make it when I was a wee girl and she worked for the Earl of Carlisle.”

“Are there any lemon tarts today, per chance?”

“I made a fresh batch just this morning, my lord.”

“Wonderful. Now, bring your Snowbell to safety before she scuttles away again.”

“Thank you most kindly, my lord. I promise to be more careful when I take her outside.”

He watches the young woman’s retreating form, reminding himself not to covet what he should not have. It is quite hard at the sight of such a sublime creature, though he rarely allows himself to indulge in thoughts of his carnal desires. The way she takes care of the animal tells him that she has a kind soul and how he could he ever taint it with his rotten hands?

Secondo stands to take his afternoon tea, looking forward to a generous serving of the fresh lemon tarts. He closes the balcony doors before he departs, his correspondence quite forgotten.

✦ ✧ ✦

He is too absorbed in his brother’s letter to notice the music at first.

When he finally does Secondo stops in the middle of the hallway. Rarely does he hear such sweet sounds these days, busy with politics and finances as he is. Ever since inheriting his father’s title as the Earl of Griftwood he is subjected to ball music, loud opera pieces and the talentless daughters of the other lords of the ton.

This subdued private concert is much more to his liking.

He folds the letter and pockets it before investigating the source of the music. Primo has written to him from Italy where his clerical duties keep him occupied. Secondo is relieved to learn that his brother is in good health and filling his new role as the leader of their secret church for which he has forsaken his role as the head of their family. A title that has now fallen to Secondo.

Following the trail of the music carries him further down the hall until he stops in front of a double door that stands slightly ajar. The sitting room beyond is abandoned safe for the person who has taken up residence behind the pianoforte and is now delighting the house with their pleasant tunes. Secondo is not one to swoon but when he discovers the gardener’s daughter, watching as her fingers glide over the keys in an elegant dance, he is quite taken with the sight of her.

It is only after quite some time that he spots the rabbit in her lap.

The piece ends all too soon but Secondo cannot bring himself to reveal his position. He watches on as she lifts Snowbell and places her tiny paws on the keys, playing an easy melody as she giggles and compliments her pet’s musical talent. He thinks that the snow white rabbit is an emblem of her most becoming properties – her soft and lovely presence, her gentle disposition and ethereal beauty. Two creatures that heaven must have forged together. Not for a moment does he think he could ever be worthy of her, no matter if his nobility raises him above her in this strict society. She transcends the rules of birthright and social rank, rules that he has always rejected, if not openly. Perhaps this is why he feels so drawn to her – she represents all that he has ever longed for, all that they strive to achieve with their church of Lucifer.

“I did not know we had a musician in the house,” he finally comments. “Or need I say two musicians?”

She jumps, again, startled by his domineering presence that takes over the room the moment he steps inside. After a few deep breaths she recovers and offers a polite greeting. Snowbell sits in her hand now, no bigger than a baby chick and just as restless. Her head rises as if to greet him as well, tiny button eyes shimmering not without mischief.

“Your brother told me it was alright for me to practice in here and that it is his instrument–”

“I am sorry, my dove, I did not mean to accuse you of anything untoward. Of course you may practice your music in here. We have been deprived of such beautiful sounds for way too long with no ladies in the house.”

Her shoulders sink in relief, the tension finally leaving her. “I hear that his lordship is quite a gifted musician himself. As are his brothers.”

“Ah, sì, sì, if only there was more time for it. I find that without pleasant company I cannot persuade myself to dedicate the time.” He steps further inside the room and takes a seat on one of the velvet settees, moderately close to where she’s now lowering herself back on her stool. His black breeches strain over his thighs and he adjusts his emerald green waistcoat that has ridden up, rights the knot in his cravat. “You play well, piccina. How did you come to master the pianoforte?”

“I may not be of noble upbringing, my lord, but my parents used all their means to ensure that I was educated, perhaps more than befits my station.” Her voice is sharp, not unfriendly but defensive nonetheless. “A person’s rank in society does not determine their talent for musical play.”

“I apologise if I offended your sensibilities, my dove. I did not mean to imply that your origin should have anything to do with your capability of learning an instrument.”

“No apologies are needed, my lord. It is true that such opportunities are not provided to many of my status. I cherish my privileges every day.”

Her eloquence and quick wit impress him, the dignified countenance with which she holds herself even in the face of an older man much above her in station. It would be easy to think that she is a noble lady, if it weren’t for her lack of fine clothing and jewellery. He fights off the urge to accoutre her, to dress her in the finest garments he can find in all of London and Paris or Rome. How lovely she would look with her hair done up, her slender neck exposed for his eyes alone.

And not just for his eyes.

Before he can inquire any further, Snowbell suddenly leaps from her lap. The rabbit lands on the soft carpet and scampers over towards the settee on her tiny legs.

“Oh, not again Snowbell,” the girl laments, but then she notices the rabbit’s direction and smiles softly. “I suppose she has taken a liking to you, my lord.”

“I hope she is not the only one,” he counters, allowing himself this moment of reverie.

Flustered, she averts her gaze, reacting in much the same way that he hoped she would. “Who could not be taken with him when his lordship is so very generous and kind of heart?”

Secondo smiles to himself as he leans down to pick up the cheeky rabbit, removing one of his dark leather gloves to finally feel the softness of her fur. “How did you come in possession of such an animal?” he finds himself asking. “She is quite unusual, no?”

“Oh, my father was engaged to work for another noble house in the city just before we came here and he found a nest in their garden. Snowbell was the only white rabbit of the litter. While the children of the house were allowed to keep the other rabbits they thought her cursed and wanted to kill her. I begged him to let me save her and bring her here.”

How charitable, he thinks, saving those who are unwanted, those who are abandoned by God, not differentiating between human or beast. How perfectly she would fit into his family whose ideals and values would have them shunned from society if they lived them openly. Perhaps it was not God who sent her but Lucifer himself. For him to love, to cherish, to worship.

He is aware that he is getting ahead of himself.

Snowbell allows him to pet her but he eventually stands to place the rabbit back in her saviour’s hands. This time, her fingers brush against the bare skin of his palm. A shiver runs through him, tingling down his spine before settling warmly in his lower belly.

Her heated cheeks are evidence that she feels the same way.

“Do you enjoy reading, my girl?” he asks, only now noticing the book she must have placed on the instrument. A romance novel, he notes, not without a hint of disappointment. He could not be any more different from the heroes of such tales if he tried.

“I do, my lord.” She cradles Snowbell gently against her bosom, almost protectively, and he has to tear is his eyes away from the soft skin there. “I am an avid reader when I do find the time.”

“Please, feel free to use my personal library at your convenience. I am sure that you are in want of new reading material. This book appears to be… well-loved.”

“Are you quite certain, my lord? I would not want to impose–”

“Oh, nonsense. Many of the books have been collecting dust for way too long.”

Perhaps this suggestion stems from him wanting her to frequent his spaces and not those of his brother, if only to raise his chances of running into her. If Terzo offered her his instrument then he is sure that his eyes are not the only ones that she has caught. Secondo shares many a thing with his brother, but he will not share her.

“Thank you, my lord,” she says. “I am not sure what I have done to deserve your generosity but I shall cherish it forever.”

“Hm, your services are well-appreciated, my dove. I merely wish to make your life here a little more pleasant.”

She giggles. “His lordship must really like the lemon tarts.”

Her laughter shakes him to his very core. He is tempted to smile, or to tell her that it is not the tarts that have captivated him, but all this foolish impulse does is distort his stern features into a grimace. Before her eyes can linger on him, he departs with quick steps and a racing heart, making sure to leave the door open.

A few moments later the soft tunes of her music accompany him back to his study.

✦ ✧ ✦

The rustling of the page is a steady noise in the background as he works away at the desk he strategically positioned in his library. The expense reports of the estate are all in order and yet he goes over them once more – if only to stretch out the time in her presence.

He looks up to find Snowbell happily munching on a carrot in her little crate on the floor. His true heart’s desire, however, is reading a romance novel that he so graciously stocked the library with. Not that anyone will ever see a report of this particular expense.

“Are the new books to your liking, my dove?” he finds himself asking.

“They are quite enjoyable, my lord.” She looks up, marking her page before she closes the book. “And yet… I find that I do not want a love like these books promise. It sounds rather boring to me.”

“How so?”

“The true appeal of a person lies in his or her imperfections, my lord. Not even the finest, most handsome young man could tempt me when there is no flaw in his character that captures my interest. If I should ever fall in love it should be with a man much older who has been shaped by the hardships of life, with rough edges but a core that still carries a soft heart that he only shows to those he holds dear. I should like to uncover this heart and have it beat only for me.”

Secondo pauses for a moment. Could it be true? Could a beautiful young woman like her truly fall for an old man such as himself? Accept that their love would be flawed and rejected by society and love him all the more for it? If it is true what she implies then does he dare hope–

“You are quite different from what I expected, my lord,” she says before his thoughts can carry him away. “I have heard many things that I now know to be untrue.”

“And how so?”

“Everyone told me that you were quiet and rather cold, polite but not in the habit of keeping anyone’s company and while generous with your staff they said it is rare to see you outside of your study. And yet… I have only ever sensed your warmth, your generosity, and while you are a private man I feel as though I got to know you merely by being in the same room and striking up idle conversation. You have requested my presence almost daily as of late and I must admit that I find great comfort in spending my time with you, so much so that I feel sad when a day goes by and I cannot see you.”

Secondo stands abruptly, overwhelmed by the sudden sparks of emotion that ignite the fire in a heart he has long since thought to be withered. His long legs carry him to where she is sitting on a plush settee, the golden sun from the window illuminating her like an angel incarnate. She is a dream he finds himself caught in, and not of his own volition.

“My dove,” he says as he kneels down in front of her, grasping her hand tightly in his. “Your companionship is the greatest gift that I have ever received.”

He presses a fervent kiss to her knuckles, quite overcome with his desires. How he longs to pull her into his embrace, to kiss her plump cheeks and soft lips, to keep her trapped against his chest and stroke her hair for hours.

When he meets her eyes, she seems surprised by his sudden outburst, but not at all repelled like he had feared. “My dear lord, how I wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

Secondo releases a shuddering breath and buries his face in her lap. When she begins to caress his head, running her soft fingers along the sharp lines of his cheekbones, he feels like he wants to weep.

✦ ✧ ✦

The delivery goes smoothly – until his brother appears in the doorway.

“A new instrument?” Terzo asks. “Whatever for? You could have asked to use mine, fratello.”

Secondo grumbles in reply, wishing his brother would finally leave. He is dressed smartly – a dark purple brocade waistcoat with a matching tailcoat, black breeches, a white cravat, high leather boots and a brand new top hat – ready to leave for a picnic or whatever social event he is planning to attend in pursuit of his latest sweetheart. He has always mirrored Secondo’s expensive taste in clothing but decided that his colour was purple instead of green. If it weren’t for Secondo’s lack of hair and Terzo’s thick black locks their brotherly relation would be uncanny, if not a little ridiculous.

“Do you not have to make an appearance somewhere else?” Secondo asks when his brother lingers while they set up the pianoforte under his watchful eyes.

“Oh, I still have enough time to observe my brother’s folly. Tell me, did she bewitch you so that you are wasting the family’s funds now? How exactly do you plan on introducing the gardener’s daughter to polite society, fratello?”

A deep breath. Secondo cannot strangulate him in front of the suppliers. “I do not know what you are talking about. I merely wish to possess an instrument of my own.”

“Mhm and the ornate rabbits carved into the wood? Are those to your taste as well?”

“I am very fond of animals. I quite enjoy the design, do you not find it endearing?”

Terzo merely chuckles in reply, the words altogether unfamiliar from his bother’s tongue, and pats his shoulder with a heavy hand. “I will make sure that the pamphlets are filled with someone else’s transgressions, should you decide that a diversion of the ton’s attention is needed in light of your imminent marriage to a commoner.”

Secondo refuses to argue with him, Terzo is too smart for that. Instead he waits until they are alone again and his brother further inspects the pianoforte. The tunes he lures from the keys are splendid, much richer in sound than any he has heard before. A good investment, Secondo decides.

“What a splendid instrument,” his brother says. “I shall hope that your little rabbit plays it for you on many an occasion.”

“I plan to have her play it for me every day for as long as I live.”

Terzo raises a brow. “So you do intend to propose? My, my! I did not expect you to ever let go of your determination to stay alone for the rest of your days. What has changed?”

“I met the loveliest creature to walk this earthly plane, fratello, I have been touched by her angelic hands and saw the true meaning of paradise. I do not care much what polite society has to say about our union. I am quite ready to be selfish after I sacrificed my freedom for this family.”

“And politics, your favourite subject?”

“I do not plan to advertise this marriage, fratello. I shall be ready to face all the consequences, for her love will carry me through the worst of it.”

“Oh, how you have changed!” Terzo snickers but not unkindly. “I am very happy for you, brother mine. She will make a lovely wife for an old grump such as yourself.”

“You are just as old,” Secondo says dismissively. “And yet you act like a bachelor in the prime of his youth.”

“And I shall continue to do so for as long as I can. If you will excuse me now, I have a rendezvous to attend and I am already late.”

The moment Terzo departs, Secondo allows his own hands to explore the pianoforte. He is quite out of practice but the finely tuned instruments sounds wonderful even under his stiff fingers. An old song finds its way into his head and he allows his memory to do the rest of the work.

When he finally finishes, he is pulled from his trance by the loveliest of voices.

“My lord, you asked for me,” she says timidly as she approaches him. “I do not wish to interrupt when you play such lovely songs.”

“You are not interrupting, my dove. Please, come here, sit down in my stead. This is yours now.”

“Oh, but my lord–” She trails off, her pupils widening at the sight of the brand new instrument.

He is not certain what he did to upset her. “If you would rather play a harp or a lyre–”

“No, no, that is not what I mean, my lord. I just… I am not worthy of such an expensive gift.”

“Oh, but my dove, you are more than worthy. And it is not entirely selfless. I hope I will be hearing your sweet music more often while I am working in here.”

She smiles affectionately. “I shall play for his lordship whenever he wishes. I shall… I shall play until my fingers hurt!”

“I would never allow for this to happen,” he decides, reaching for her hands and massaging them gently in his. “No pain may befall my dearest for as long as I am here to prevent it.”

She holds his gaze, hope shimmering in her irises. “I shall play with caution then, I would not want my lord to be in distress on my behalf. Would you hold Snowbell for me, please?”

Before she sits, she pulls the rabbit from the pocket of her dress where the she must have napped for she perks up sleepily when she is set down in his broad hands. Secondo does not make a move to stand.

“My lord–”

He uses his free hand to pull her into his lap and she gasps before her fingers find the keys. He can feel her shivering against his chest, her breathing as rapid as his heartbeat.

“I am not sure that I can play under his lordship’s scrutiny,” she whispers.

“I am quite certain that you can.”

With another shaky breath she begins to play. Heavenly tunes fill the room, her hands working their magic on the keys of the fine instrument. It is a song he has not heard before, slow and rather quiet but all the more powerful on his emotions. Her confidence soon returns and she plays in the same carefree way that he has grown to enjoy, only this time she is in his space, where she belongs. She is in his arms, breathes the very same air that flows through his lungs, and he can sense that he made the right choice.

The moment her hands come to a stop, he places Snowbell back in her palms and turns her sideways over his lap. Flustered by the proximity she glances down to her hands, only to notice that the rabbit has a white ribbon loosely tied around her body.

“I will ask your father for your hand,” Secondo says bluntly and her eyes widen.

“My lord, that is… it is impossible.”

“It will be possible, if it is your wish as well.”

“But, I am just–”

He stops her, taking her chin between his fingers to force her eyes to meet his. “My dove, I need a clear answer.”

“Yes.”

Overcome with relief he closes the distance and devours her lips in a passionate kiss. She presses against him with the same fervour, though careful not to squash the rabbit in her hand. Her body feels heated underneath the thin fabric of her cheap dress and he vows to have the modiste come the very next day to take her measurements. His hands roam her curves without shame now while he ravishes her, kissing her with a passion that threatens to make his heart burst, unused as it is to such feral emotion. She tugs at his cravat then, and he relents, allowing them both to break away for air.

Her forehead falls against his, their noses brushing as their heavy breaths mingle in the space in between. Suddenly Snowbell squeals in her palm and when they both look down the rabbit leaps from her hand onto the keyboard. As the off-key notes penetrate the room, they both smile. Perhaps they have to hire a different musician for the wedding after all.

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

#secondo x reader #papa emeritus ii x reader #secondo fanfiction #papa emeritus ii fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #regency au #female reader #reader insert

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johnwickb1tsch · 5 months

Text

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 3 all chapters

-You try to make a peace offering with Mr. Wick, bringing him the local paper that someone left behind. You’ve noticed that sometimes he likes to read it. You don’t plan to bother him, just slip it on his table as you pass to make your rounds of the dining room.

“Brian must be gone for the day,” he deadpans to your turned back. His mood is telling just in the utter neutrality of his tone.

“Sorry?”

“You never talk to me anymore, when he’s around.”

It’s ridiculous, how this sullen comment twists like a knife in your gut.

“I thought I was bothering you,” you admit.

“You're never a bother,” he assures you quietly, and you watch him soften a little, in spite of himself. As though he’s embarrassed, he averts his eyes back down to his book. “Half the town comes in this place just to see you, you know.”

You’re not sure that’s exactly true. You do your best to be cheerful, and render good service, but you’re pretty sure coffee and pastries are the reason people come to Clear Forks Coffee Co.

You decide he’s given you permission to linger a little, and you feel that old familiar flame rekindle in your heart, that inexplicable yet aching fondness for this man. You never kicked the habit, you just covered it up with a thin veneer of brittle plaster.

“So…how’s Dog?”

“Good. He looks for you at that park bench every time we go for a walk now.”

This warms your heart, and you smile.

Your next question is a little bolder.

“And how…is Vicky?”

He meets your eyes then, and you cannot look away from the pull of his dark gaze.

“Haven’t seen her for weeks,” he admits. “Must be hunting season somewhere else.” The last he delivers with the slightest quirk of his mouth, and you press your lips to suppress a grin.

It works for about three seconds.

“I almost warned you…”

He snorts. “That would have been nice.”

“Well…you survived your encounter with the Clear Forks Cougar. You’re practically a local now.”

His smile widens at that, and you feel as though you have received a generous reward.

You probably need your head checked.

The eye contact between you is a heady thing. It’s like he’s hypnotized you; you can’t look away. But the spell is broken when someone new comes through the door, the happy little bell jingling, and you man your station behind the counter.

-Sometimes you feel like the things in your shoebox of an apartment are just slightly out of place. A pen is not quite where you left it, or a fashion magazine is open to a different page, or your mug is clean on the counter when you’re sure you left it in the sink. One day, you notice your nicest pair of panties goes missing. The black silk ones, with the lace details and the little bow in front. You can’t find them in the laundry, or under your bureau, and you can’t fathom where they would have gotten off to…

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves #yandere john wick #yandere john wick x you #bittersweet john wick imagine #john wick fic

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sinsmockingbird · 4 months

Text

Had this thought come to me so I thought I'd share it with you all. I might end up making more of these little thirst in the future, if I do feel free to send asks on who you'd like to see.

CW: Smut under the cut!

Imagine getting a text from Rahu randomly one day, and when you open it you find a video. When you begin watching it the quality is poor and it's pretty shaky, as well as dark. You can hear her small whimpers and whines, mumbling your name, and in the darkness you can tell her other hand is moving.

It doesn't take you long to realize Rahu just sent a video of her masturbating to you. It's something you never expected her to do, and honestly you didn't think she knew that she could do that.

Now your engrossed in the video, the angle poor and the video shaky, the only thing you can see is the movement of her arm. You can also hear her pretty moans and whines, begging for you in the darkness of her cell while she touches herself. You can feel yourself getting aroused, and as you move through the Bureau towards her cell, you watching the rest intently.

When Rahu gets close to cumming, it's unsatisfying for her and just leaves her more pent up. But when she reaches it the phone falls from her hands and off the bed, leaving the video dark as you only hear her broken cry of her name as she cums.

Then after a few moments she's cursing under her breath, grabbing the phone from the floor and abruptly ending the video. But it's okay, because your right by her cell now, pocketing your phone and barging in, intent on relieving your pent up puppy. While also getting back at her for sending you that video.

#*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟsins thirsts #path to nowhere #path to nowhere smut #rahu #ptn!rahu #rahu x reader #rahu x you

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theresattrpgforthat · 5 months

Note

Games with an atypical division of Player/GM responsibilities? For example, in Fellowship, the players have final say in lore/world building questions, not the GM. (Not counting GMless games, which have atypical GM duties by default)

Alternatively, if that's too niche: any games explicitly designed for rotating GMs and/or 'West Marches' style campaigns.

THEME: Unique Player Responsibilities / Rotating GMs

Hello there! I hope to do your ask justice, although I feel more at home talking about the first half of your question than the second. I’ll ask my followers to supply some more suggestions in the tags/reblogs, and throw at you what I have!

Fae’s Anatomy, by Hebanon Games.

Fae’s Anatomy is a comedic storytelling RPG wrapped around a challenging logic puzzle, recreating the high-stakes melodrama of medical procedurals like Grey’s Anatomy, House, and General Hospital.

Anybody can be an expert in Fae’s Anatomy. The game is set in a world where all forms of magic, spirituality, and mysticism are science. Science? Just another form of wizardry. Quackary, superstition, and pseudo-science work, but so does chemotherapy, antibiotics, and sound medicine.

In many ways, I’d say Fae’s Anatomy feels like a typical ttrpg: you have one person giving hints and clues to the rest of the players, who will use certain skills and abilities to solve a problem. But the closest role to the GM role - the Patient - is simply different from the doctors in what limits them. The Patient is suffering from some kind of mysterious illness, and while they have a little bit of information available to their general illness, the app presented to them to help them run through the diagnosis keeps the solution obscured enough to keep them on their toes. The Patient also has to role-play their symptoms well enough to help point the doctors in the right direction. In some ways, it feels like Fae’s Anatomy is an elegant form of charades - and if you want to hear how this game plays, you can check out the special episodes that Lawful Great Adventures recorded using this game!

Apocalypse Keys, by Rae Nedjadi @temporalhiccup

The Doomsday Clock is ticking down and emotions run high as you and your team of DIVISION agents struggle to find the Keys before the villainous Harbingers unlock the Doors of Power and bring about the apocalypse.

As an Omen class monster, you are the only thing capable of holding back the apocalypse. Combat occult threats and investigate supernatural phenomena alongside your team of supernatural agents working for the shadowy DIVISION. But in a world that shuns monsters like you, only your deepest, most heartfelt bonds can grant you the power to stop those who seek to unlock Doom’s Door.

There are two ways in which Apocalypse Keys uniquely empowers the players in ways I consider slightly unorthodox. Firstly, there’s the fact that the lore of DIVISION, the shadowy government agency that holds your monsters leash, isn’t fully fleshed out at the beginning of play. It’s slowly uncovered with each mission and playbook advancement, with the players being presented with questions and workshopping the answers together.

Second is the mystery mechanic, which was popularized by Brindlewood Bay and The Between, and also made its way into games such as External Containment Bureau and Bump in the Dark. While the GM designs clues and thinks about what kinds of Harbingers might be responsible for this specific apocalypse, it’s up to the players to decide what the answer to the mystery actually is - and it’s the player’s roll that determines how accurate they are.

Brinkwood, Blood of Tyrants, by Far Horizons Co-Op.

Mask up. Spill blood. Drink the Rich.

The world is not as it should be. The rich feed, literally, upon the poor, as blood-sucking vampires who barely bother to conceal their horrific, parasitic nature. The downtrodden peoples of the world struggle under the burdens of rent, payable through the sweat of their labor or the blood of their veins. Evil has triumphed. Many have given in to despair. But all is not lost.

In Brinkwood, you take on the role of renegades, thieves, and rebels struggling for freedom and liberation in a castylpunk world controlled by vampires. Radicalized by tragedy, you have taken up arms and fled into the forests, where you were taken in by unlikely allies - the fae, forgotten creatures of myth - who offered a different path and the means to fight back against your oppressors. Masks, forged of old wood and older magic, are the final tool left to fight a war long ago lost. If you wear them, they will take their price, etching themselves upon your very soul. But they will also let you spill the blood of the rich and powerful vampires that now rule the land, and from that blood strengthen yourself and your movement.

There’s a lot of things about Brinkwood that I absolutely love, from the way the mask playbooks are meant to be swapped among the characters/players with every mission, to the slow but steady revolution that you build by fostering connections with various factions in the Bloody Isles. But for the purpose of this request, we need to talk about Your Exquisite Fae.

Your Exquisite Fae is the process by which the group collaboratively creates a faerie patron, otherworldly and uniquely powerful. It’s inspired by the game Exquisite Corpse, which has each player draw a piece of a drawing without knowing what the others have already created. In Your Exquisite Fae, the players receive answers to prompts written by other players but aren’t given hints as to what the context was - and then they elaborate on what those answers mean. For example, one player might state that the Fae has eyes that reflect the night sky, gleaming like a thousand distant starts. The second player might decide that those eyes see the deepest fears of the enemy, giving the group an advantage at finding weaknesses and secrets when spying on vampires.

Ars Magica, by Atlas Games.

Ars Magica is the award-winning roleplaying game by Jonathan Tweet and Mark Rein•Hagen about wizards and their allies in Mythic Europe. This flexible, deeply built world can support games that are historically accurate or fantasy-based, epic or small scale, political or personal.

Players work together to tell the story of their covenant — all of the magi, their companions, and grogs. This history can span decades. It might be heroic, tragic, or both in turn. The covenant could influence the entirety of Mythic Europe or the fates of a small corner of the world.

Spells will be cast. Duels won and lost. Houses may rise and fall. But magic is forever.

The last time I talked about this game, one of my followers pointed out that this was an incredibly complex game that was designed to accommodate rotating GMs. The game styles itself as a troupe-style game, which means you’re not just responsible for your mages, but also your companions and servants. If you want a game with complex relationships and big-picture conflicts, this might be the game for you.

Slugblaster, by Mikey Hamm.

In the small town of Hillview, teenage hoverboarders sneak into other dimensions to explore, film tricks, go viral, and get away from the problems at home. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. It’s got parent groups in a panic. And it’s the coolest thing ever.

This is Slugblaster. A table-top rpg about teenagehood, giant bugs, circuit-bent rayguns, and trying to be cool.

It may look like a small thing, but during crew creation, each character playbook has specific roles in determining the crew’s resources and relationships. The Grit picks a faction that trusts the crew. The Guts chooses a faction that the crew has somehow annoyed. Each player draws a portal between the known multiverses, but the Smarts draws two. The Chill has final say over where you hang out when you’re not Slugblasting, and The Heart has final say over your crew name.

I’ve drawn direct inspiration from this setup in my own game that I’m playtesting, by giving each playbook final say over some element in the world, and I think it really boosts player agency and gives them control over the kind of story the group wants to tell.

Planedawn Orphans, by Sharkbomb Studios.

Planedawn Orphans is a campaign kit that helps you prepare a campaign for the fantasy role-playing game of your choice. It provides a flexible and versatile framework to start a campaign. The campaign kit will help you get started and provide structure and support, but some assembly is required.

Set in the Planar City, a strange melting pot that connects the vast diversity of the multiverse. You all play Planar Orphans stranded in this city, your original home worlds destroyed, corrupted or lost. A mysterious Patron has brought you together, provided you with a base of operations and tasked you to complete a Planar Key. This key will let you create a new plane for you and your fellow refugees. Your quest will bring you to exotic places filled with strange creatures and bizarre phenomena.

This isn’t a standalone rpg, but rather a campaign kit for whatever system you like - or even multiple systems! I’m recommending this toolkit because I’m actually planning to use it to run a series of rotating-gm games later this year, with a friend of mine. You’re building your own custom dimension by jumping into a series of vastly different worlds, and your home base is built collectively. There’s a lot of player agency and GM agency here, as players have plenty of control over their home dimensions (since they can’t ever go back) and the GMs can take turns designing custom worlds for the party to jump into. I definitely recommend checking it out.

Also Check Out

Asymmetrical Games Rec Post

#rotating gms #unique player responsibilities #tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #dnd #game recommendations #asks #indie ttrpg

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ghoularaki · 4 months

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baby's breath | 2

↠ summary: Merely by coincidence, Erwin, your father's former friend had crossed paths with you again after nearly a decade. He offered solace once finding out you were struggling with not just school, but your home life as well. His home he shared with another one of your father's friends, Levi, became a sanctuary. Though, the more you came over for study sessions, the more they wiggled themselves into your private life. And like baby's breath, they weeded themselves in so deep you couldn't uproot them.

↠ word count: 4,395

↠ pairing: levi ackerman x reader x erwin smith

↠ genre/warnings: angst, smut, modern au, DARK CONTENT, yandere, noncon/dubcon, daddy kink, forced infantilism, pet play, age gap, death threats, human trafficking, bdsm

An overwhelming urge to vomit awoke you. Pain shot from behind your eyes and encompassed your head. Pressure built up like someone was crushing your skull between their palms. Clenching your eyes, you attempted to blink the hurt away. Light streamed in from the blinds, tinted pink from the curtains.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to whisk away the blurriness clouding your vision. As the kaleidoscope room morphed into one, you were more perplexed. You were placed on the floor that was a soft carpet under your fingers. The appendages went to dig your nails into the wool only to be met with resistance.

You couldn’t move.

Not even an inch. You were completely paralyzed besides your eyes. Tears clouded your vision more as panic built up in your chest. With every bit of will power, you forced your mouth open to scream, but a mere squeak came out. Breathing heavily, your eyes bounced around what you could. The more your brain cleared, the more you realized, you had no clue where you were.

The room was that of a little girl’s. Wallpaper decorated with butterflies ranging the rainbow with a light pink background spanned the whole room. There was a bureau—a light colored wood—with trinkets of fairies and bunnies on top of it. You gained a little more mobility in your neck to turn deeper in the room to see a crate built for a great dane with a bed inside along with a multitude of stuffed animals. A blushing canopy hung over the crate along with twinkling fairy lights.

Peering upwards, you see an open closet filled with frilly clothes of whites, pinks, purples and baby blues. The most jarring part was the leashes and collars lining the inside of the door. As you gained a little more mobility and feeling, you realized you weren’t in the same clothes as before. Down to the underwear and lack of a bra. A sob broke out from your chest.

Attempting to still your breathing, you shakingly inhale and exhale to gain some clarity. Closing your eyes, you focused on your whole body. Envisioning your own nervous system, you willed at least your fingers to move. Nostrils flared, you were able to get your toes to wiggle with great concentration. The headache was worsening.

A door creaking open pulled you away from your stupor. Instinctively, you turned your head towards the door to see the very door Erwin kept you from. Within the frame stood Levi. From your place on the ground, the man towered over you, peering down at you from his nose.

Fear clutched and squeezed your esophagus as you attempted to wiggle away. You barely moved a centimeter as Levi gracefully walked to you. Unable to look away, you kept eye contact as he crouched down, hovering over you. A whimper crept up your throat.

He tilted his head at your pathetic form, drinking it up. Levi brought a hand to your face to clutch your cheeks, squishing them in between his calloused finger pads. He turned your face left to right, inspecting it.

“The toxin should wear off in a couple hours.”

You could only whine in response, not able to move your jaw up and down just yet. The way he was clutching your mandible was no help either.

Delirious and terrified, what happened before you passed out came rushing back tenfold. Your eyes scanned the room again for a hint of where your old clothes were in hopes to find your phone. As if reading your mind, Levi drops your face to reach into his back pocket. You flinch considering last time he reached behind him, he jabbed you in the neck with a syringe.

In his hand was your phone. Your fingers twitched, begging to snatch it from his grip. He dangled it in front of your face, taunting you. “Looking for this?”

You softly nod your head, eyebrows pinched. His hands grip both ends and snap it in half like flimsy wood. The audible crack haunted your ears. Tiny glass shards crumbled into the carpet while Levi dropped the broken phone. Your chances of escaping were depleting rapidly.

He goes to stroke your hair as you sobbed, scared of what was going to happen to you. Were they going to kill you?

“Don’t worry your daddy will be home soon.”

The words offered no solace and only confused you more. You prayed he didn’t mean Erwin. Your chest heaved more as you grew more hysterical. This can’t be happening. You wanted to go home.

“Hey brat, you need to calm down,” His words were cold and apathetic.

You only cried more as your fingers dug into the rug and your feet barely kicked. You needed to get up. You had to run, escape, scream, do something. If you didn’t, they were going to kill you and no one would find your body. No one would care anyway. You would be just another missing person case filed away in a cold, metal cabinet serving as your casket.

At this point, you were hyperventilating. Your body had gone into full blown panic mode and even Levi lightly slapping your face did little to pull you out. You didn’t want to die. There was so much more you wanted to do in life.

You choked on your own tears as warm liquid spilled from your crotch and pooled around your bum. How pathetic were you to piss yourself out of fear? Your body begged to curl into the fetal position and wallow in self pity, but whatever Levi injected you with wouldn’t leave for a while.

“What is going on?” A new voice sliced through your cries.

Erwin stepped into the room along with Levi. The short man’s knees cracked as he nimbly stood back at his full height. Both men swallowed you whole as you laid in your own filth.

“She started to lose her shit.”

He nodded and his blue eyes spied the darkened spot on your skirt and on the carpet. “This is the exact reason I said to lay down the puppy pads,” Erwin scolded Levi.

Puppy pads?

“I didn’t know she was going to piss herself like a shitty toddler.”

Levi really did know how to rub salt further into the wound. You were embarrassed enough as is, his degrading words offered no solace. The smell of ammonia permeated in the air.

“I will take her to get cleaned up, I can tell you’re already itching to bleach the carpet.”

Levi clicked his tongue at that, but didn’t refute his command. As Levi walked out the room to get his supplies, Erwin crouched down beside you. Gently, he tucked one arm under your back and the other under your knees. He pulled your weight up with ease.

With you cradled close to his chest, he walked out the door and down a familiar hallway. You attempted to struggle, but he squeezed you tighter. Your breath got caught in your throat from his rope-like arms. The drugs were heavy in your system so all you could really do was lightly kick your feet. Even that had you out of breath. At the far end, on the right, Erwin nudged the door with his toe and went through to the bathroom. He set you down on the counter.

The lights above you hissed and hummed while they stung your eyes. In the other room, it was illuminated by a soft, orangey glow while the ones in the bathroom were a harsh almost blue tinge. From the hallway, the smell of bleach wafting in made your nose crinkle. Levi wasted no time.

Seeing your pinched face, Erwin departed from you and closed the door, locking it as well. Panic built up again. The older man filled up the room, swallowing you whole. There wasn’t much you could do as you had to be leaned up against the wall like a doll. Lifeless and frail. The most strength was in your legs, you could feel how the muscle begged to move.

Like a magnet, his body gravitated towards yours once more. Lacking any politeness, Erwin started immediately stripping you. His fingers hooked around the babydoll dress you were forced into while sleeping. Latched onto the hem he tugged it up until it reached under your armpits.

“S-stop,” You gained your voice. It was meant to be a scream, but what came out was a pathetic whimper.

He ignored you as he gripped your arm to slide it out one sleeve and the same with the other. His hand went to the middle of your shoulder blades to sit you up for a moment to pull the clothing over your head. Neatly he folded the dress back up and set it on the other counter next to the sink. Oh how your arms screamed to hide your exposed breasts.

“Don’t t-touch me,” The command was futile, but you refused to let him think you were going to take this lying down.

The man let out a dismissive hum and moved to the bathtub, twisting the knobs. His hand went under the water to find the perfect temperature. Satisfied, he plugged the drain up. Erwin went into the cabinet parallel to you and grabbed a clear, honey-tinted bottle. It was baby soap. What he grabbed was soap made for infants. Your fists balled up. Despair filled you like how the water morphed into the shape of the tub.

What the fuck is going on?

Squirting some of the liquid soap into the tub, you watched as the bubbles boiled up. A soft, clean scent encompassed the room. The smell filled your head of childhood memories long forgotten of sharing baths with your cousins. If you thought hard enough the smell of washable crayons would soon follow. But you weren’t in the safety of your aunt’s home, you were locked in a house with two men with strange, perplexing intentions.

He put the bottle back and turned to you. Trembling, you knew what was about to happen. Erwin slotted himself between your parted legs. A little more bold, he placed his large palms on your knees. Your thighs quivered as his fingers danced up the skin towards your last bit of protection.

You could do it, Your tendons told you, Don’t let this fucker think you’re weak.

Just as his fingers wrapped around the band of your underwear, you reared your knee back and shot the heel of your foot straight into his nose.

“Fuck!” He grunted as blood poured out.

Some of the red splashed onto your shin and onto the white tiles. Your shoulders bounced as you laughed at his misery. The toxin heavy in your system was making you delirious.

Erwin clutched his nose as he shoved a finger in your face, "We don't do that."

His condescending tone tempted you to kick him again. He muttered under his breath as he went into the cabinet to grab a hand towel to wipe off the blood. Unfortunately, you didn’t break his nose and the blood stopped after the initial blow. Throwing the towel down onto the counter, he tugged your underwear off with fervor. Barely contained aggressiveness caused his forearms to quake.

"You're lucky I don't call Levi in. He won't be as tolerant as me."

He picked you back up and you attempted to wiggle, but the kick had left you limp. Erwin shoved you into the bathtub, the warm water embracing you. Despite the exhaustion gripping your bones, you go to hit him in the face again. More sluggish and Erwin expecting it this time, he gripped your ankle and tugged.

You yelped as your body slid down and collapsed into the bubbly solution. Water squirmed into whatever orifice it could. Choking on the soapy liquid, you panicked as it shot up into your nose and lungs. Your arms were no better than cooked noodles so there was no way to pull yourself back up. You were drowning.

Erwin gripped your upper arm and hauled you out of the water. You sputtered as you came back up. Coughing roughly, you threw back up all the liquid flooding your system. Your eyes stung and were bloodshot. As you hiccuped, you glared up at Erwin from under your furrowed brow.

He clutched your cheeks and leaned himself over the rim, “Don’t make this anymore unpleasant for the both of us.”

Knowing it was a losing battle, you nodded your head. You couldn’t fight anymore, not until the drugs wore off. You had to be smart about this.

Erwin petted your wet hair and maneuvered your body into a more comfortable position. He took a washcloth and dipped into the soapy water and started to clean you. His movements were purely clinical and didn’t linger anywhere unwanted. Your teeth almost cracked from your tensed jaw as he dragged the cloth across your inner thighs and your pussy.

The knob jiggled open. From the doorway, Levi made his way into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. In his hand was a key he shoved deep in his pockets. Your eyes drank up the information, filing it away for later.

Erwin turned to Levi and the shorter man’s permanent scowl deepened. His light feet crossed over to his friend and bent down to examine the darkening bruise on his nose.

“What happened,” It was meant to be a question, but he phrased it like a statement.

Erwin shook him off. Levi was having none of it and gripped his face. His grey eyes pierced into Erwin’s, likened to how a stormy sky meets a calm sea.

“We had an accident. Don’t be too concerned over it.”

Levi sent one last glare at him, nodded his head and extracted himself from the taller man. You drank up the whole interaction, nitpicking their whole relationship and how to abuse it for later. Back to his full height, Levi looked at your limp form. Luckily, besides your collarbones, everything was shielded by the extensive bubbles.

“How is she holding up?”

Erwin’s shoulders tensed a little before relaxing and going back to stroking the cloth over your skin. He was scrubbing the same spot on your thigh over and over again. If he kept going, the skin would be rubbed raw.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

You despised how they talked like you weren’t in the room with them. Erwin gripped your right arm and lifted it out of the water to now clean that area. You shivered as you were exposed more to the cold air.

Levi sighed, agitated. “Well you better because if I do she might just piss herself again.”

“Fuck you,” You seethed.

Erwin shushed you, “The adults are talking.”

“Are you fucking-” Levi stomped over to the rim of the bathtub and shoved his fingers deep into your mouth. You choked on the makeshift gag, your esophagus spasming around the appendages.

“Watch your tone.”

Your feet weakly kicked as you continuously swallowed around his fingers. You were tempted to bite down, but how Levi glared down at you, you kept your teeth to yourself.

“Am I understood?” Whines tickled your throat as you stared up at him with teary eyes. He shoved his fingers deeper. “I said, am I understood?”

You rapidly nodded your head as much as you could and tumbled out, “Yeth, Thevi.”

He ripped his fingers away and rubbed your spit on your face. “Filthy brat.”

“There is no need to be so rough.”

“Apparently I do. Come, you can explain to her over dinner.” And with that, Levi walked out the bathroom, leaving you alone with Erwin once more.

How was it dinner time already? What time is it? How long had you been knocked out for? The questions swirled and swarmed your head.

Heeding Levi’s words, Erwin switched the flip to drain the bath. You watched as the tiny hole swallowed the water along with the bubbles, sucking it up with an audible, clanky slurp. The tall man came back with lilac hued towels splattered with woven butterflies. He helped you up once more and patted you down dry. Next came a pair of pajamas, a silky pink. The panties were a soft cotton with a white bow in the center. It angered you how cute they were. He slid them up and patted your hips when the band rested comfortably.

Efficiently dressed, Erwin picked you up but this time like how you would a child. He rested your weight on his hip and a firm forearm under your bum. His other hand cradled the back of your neck so your head sat on his shoulder. You put no effort into helping him carry you, having your arms hang by your sides.

Erwin carried you out of the bathroom and down the hall until you reached where the living room was. Turning right, he went into the dining room adjacent to the kitchen. You noticed there was a metal plate on the floor that wasn’t there last time. Welded into the sleek steel was a small arch. The plate sat under the kitchen table. A bad, foreboding feeling sat in your stomach.

At the kitchen table were three plates of food, but only two chairs. Levi was already situated at the head of the table, waiting for the both of you. Your laptop also sat on the table. Erwin walked to his chair to the right of Levi with you in tow.

No wonder there was no third chair as Erwin sat you on his lap. He twisted your body so your back leaned against his chest. Oh, how you wanted to struggle, but decided against it as your butt was mere centimeters from his crotch.

You stared at the delicious smelling food in front of you. Was there anything Levi wasn’t good at?

“Eat,” Levi commanded before taking a bite of his own.

“I’m not a dog,” You snided.

“Could have fooled me with all your shitty yapping. Eat.”

You looked down in shame. You had barely gained any mobility in your arms. Sure you could flex your fingers, but you had no idea if you could bring the fork to your mouth.

Sensing your troubled thoughts, Erwin turned you so you sat sideways. He took your fork, dipped into the food and brought it to your lips.

“Open.”

Already learning your lesson from Levi shoving his fingers down your throat, you clamped your mouth shut and glowered at him.

Fatigued from your constant refusal, Erwin raked his fingers through your hair and yanked backwards. Stinging pain coursed through your taunt follicles as he shoved the fork into your mouth. He placed the fork back down and slapped his palm over your mouth. His whole hand encased your lower face. Unable to spit the food out or bite him, you chewed and swallowed.

“Good girl,” He cooed.

You were going to vomit, hopefully on him.

Levi was a spectator to how Erwin repeated the process over and over until you were done with your food. His own plate was left untouched. The tall man took joy in babying you.

Erwin grabbed a napkin and wiped away the nonexistent traces of you eating from your face. He was delicate like he was handling a porcelain doll. The way his eyes never strayed had your back tingle. His stare was almost uncanny. Deep, deep blue threatened to gobble you whole.

“You’re going to drop out,” Levi cut in.

“What? No.”

“I don’t remember asking,” He grabbed the laptop forgotten in the middle of the table. His nimble fingers rubbed against the mousepad. The laptop illuminated his face with a soft white. He clicked a few buttons and then turned it back around to you. Displayed on the screen was the form to dropout.

“People will grow suspicious if I randomly drop out,” You tried to reason.

“We already know you are barely passing all your classes. No one would care or think twice.”

Your eyes caught onto the weather app at the bottom of the screen. The laptop was tracing the location, it must be.

“They will be able to find me.”

“With the laptop? We already have that sorted, don’t get your hopes up.”

A tight ache settled in your chest. You were so confused why they were doing this to you. The life Erwin helped you build back up he was tearing right from under you.

“Why?” You begged.

Erwin shifted you higher on his lap, cradling you as you started to cry again. “Because you can’t take care of yourself.”

“That’s not true.”

“Hush, Daddy will take care of everything.”

Cold washed over you. What did he just say?

“Erwin,” Levi bit, exasperation on his face.

“She was going to figure it out sooner or later.”

Anger started to swell in the air. Panic built further in your ribcage as you were left even more confused. Why did Erwin call himself such a crude name?

“That’s enough for tonight. Finish the form and we can head to bed.”

Levi got up from his seat and walked over to you. This time he was the one to lift you. He showed no signs of struggle as he left Erwin to fill out the paperwork. When he walked back to the bathroom, alarm bells rang in your head. You refused to be put in such a vulnerable position again.

“No.”

“Quiet.”

The door was left open from before and he set you down on the counter. He opened the cabinet mirror and pulled out a new tube of toothpaste. It was strawberry flavored with childish, cartoon berries decorating the aluminum. Plastic clinked against porcelain as he took a pink toothbrush from the stand with two other ones. One was green and the other blue.

Levi squirted the paste onto the bristles and ran it under the water for a couple seconds. He tapped the brush against the sink. His hand tugged your legs apart and made a home between them. Cupping your jaw, he brought the toothbrush up.

“Open.”

A very, very stupid thought crossed your mind. What if you bit him hard enough to draw blood? He would have to visit a doctor if you did otherwise he could get sick from an infection. How would he explain an adult human bite without raising suspicions? He couldn’t.

Open your mouth you did. As he brought the brush to scrub your teeth, you tilted your head and latched onto the meat of his hand. On the side of his hand where his pinky is, you bit down so hard your teeth scraped against bone.

“Shit!” He grunted out.

He was able to rip his hand from your grasp and hit your face so hard you collapsed hard into the sink.

“You fucking bitch,” Levi seethed as he shook out his hand.

You smiled up at him with bloody teeth, “You should get that checked out by a professional. I heard human bites are worse than a dog's if left unchecked."

“You’re fucking done for, Mutt.”

With his uninjured hand he ripped you from the counter and clamped down on the back of your shirt. Your legs still like jelly so you had to half crawl to keep up with his pace. He dragged you back to the bedroom by the collar like a misbehaving puppy.

By now, Erwin had heard the commotion. His heavy steps marched over. Levi threw you into the room you first awoke in. He muttered under his breath as he ripped different restraints from the closet. Blood ran down his forearm and onto the carpet.

“What is going on?” Erwin’s voice thundered.

“Your little princess bit me.”

Erwin turned his attention to you, sat in the middle of the room, red coated your chin and lips. You smiled up at him, too, no remorse in your stance. Your posture screamed you weren’t going to make this easy for them.

Metal clicking together brought your attention to Levi who came over with various black leather restraints. He also had a pink bone gag.

“Hold her mouth open. I don’t want to be bit, again,” Levi scowled.

Erwin walked to stand behind you. His hand cupped your forehead and slammed your skull into his upper thigh. His other hand pinched your cheeks so hard you had to unhinge your jaw. Levi shoved the gag into your mouth and you sputtered at the taste of oddly sweet plastic on your tongue.

The shorter man’s crotch was right in your view as he went around to secure the belt loops. If Erwin wasn’t holding you down, you would have headbutted him. Your jaw creaked at being forced open.

Levi stood back up. Erwin let go of you, but your freedom didn’t last long. A foot shoved your head down until your forehead hit the carpet. You grunted as said foot stood on your temple as you twisted your head to a more comfortable position.

“You don’t get to complain,” Levi was furious.

“Levi, I can handle it from here. You should get that checked out.”

There was a long pause. “Fine, just throw her in the crate. I will deal with her later.”

“I got her handled.”

Levi clicked his tongue and let up on the pressure on your head. You collapsed further into the ground in relief. You listened as his socked feet pattered away until it was just you and Erwin.

Erwin showed no mercy as he gripped you by the hair and forced you up. He tugged you to the crate you saw earlier. Despite the stuffed animals and pink covers, you were left unsettled by the daunting cage. You were tossed in with little care. Luckily you landed on the plushies and not the metal bars. He slammed the door closed and locked it. The same key from earlier was in his fingers. Were there multiple copies?

“I don’t want to be mean, but if you want to act like a dog then you will be treated like one.”

“You are past the point of mean, Erwin,” You glared between the bars. The words were muffled, but he got the point.

The man looked so tired, “Good night, Princess.”

With that he left the room and shut off the lights. What the fuck were you going to do now?

#yandere x reader #yandere levi #yandere levi x reader #yandere erwin #yandere male #yandere aot #levi x reader #erwin x reader #aot smut

122 notes · View notes

cheynovak · 9 days

Text

Something fragile - Part 3

Soldier Boy x F/Reader Y/N

Warnings: 18+, Sex, age difference ( not explicit), daddy issues, family trauma, ...

Side note: English isn’t my first language

Words: 4570

*Does not follow the boys storyline *

(I may have been a little inspired by 🥵*that one scene* 🥵in Devour... IYKYK )

Soldier boy just got out of Russia thanks to the boys. But his journey back to reality has been fucked up. After the explosion he ran to recover his blackout, meeting y/n a young woman on her way home from volunteering at the veteran shelter. Seeing how he looked confused, offering him help.

After helping him by allowing him to stay with her for a while she might get some help from him as well, now her past is trying to fight its way back into her life.

Y/N awoke to the soft light filtering through the curtains of her tiny cabin. As she stretched, she felt the warmth of Ben next to her, his presence a comforting weight against her side. Memories of the night before flooded back, reminding her of the passion they shared in the darkness, afterwards seeking unspoken solace in each other's arms.

Each day seemed to draw them closer, each night they ended up in tangled sheets, even though she had promised herself not to get involved with men anymore since Peter.

Using him purely for physical destress isn't getting involved right? He sure didn't seem to mind.

Y/N had little time to contemplate the depth of their 'relationship'. Today, she had an interview to prepare for. Thanks to her shitty ex boyfriend finding a new job seemed hard.

With a sigh, Y/N reluctantly peeled herself away from Ben's embrace, the chill of the morning air kissing her skin as she slipped out of bed. She moved with practiced grace, the soft sway of her hips accentuated by the tight pencil skirt she had chosen for the occasion. It hugged her curves in all the right places, a silent declaration of confidence and power.

As she gathered her things, Y/N heard Ben stir behind her. Turning to face him, she couldn't help but smile at the sight of him tousled hair and sleepy-eyed, a stark contrast to the rugged charm he exuded even in his most dishevelled state.

"Morning," she greeted, her voice soft yet laced with the subtle undercurrent of desire that always seemed to simmer between them.

"Morning," Ben replied, his gaze trailing over her figure appreciatively. "Where are you off to so early, it’s Thursday, you don’t volunteer today?" Y/N hesitated for a moment, "I have a job interview," she admitted finally, her words tinged with a hint of reluctance.

Ben arched an eyebrow inquisitively. "And what exactly do you do besides volunteering at the help centre?"

Y/N paused, her mind racing as she debated how much to reveal. She had always been guarded when it came to her career, her past experiences leaving her wary of letting anyone too close.

"I'm a lawyer," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ben's eyes widened in surprise, a mixture of admiration and curiosity flickering behind his gaze. "A lawyer, huh?" he mused, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I should've known you had more dark secrets."

Y/N couldn't help but laugh at his teasing tone, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Well, wish me luck.” she said before rushing out the door.

Y/N's heart sank as she trudged down the familiar path towards the help centre, the weight of the failed interview pressing down on her shoulders like a leaden cloak. Another bureau that got a bad review from her former boss. The asshole!

She had been so sure this opportunity was the one, the chance to prove herself. But now, all she felt was the bitter sting of disappointment, the harsh reality of her situation crashing down around her.

Lost in her thoughts, Y/N barely noticed the figure waving frantically from the doorway of the help centre until she was nearly upon it. Squinting against the harsh glare of the midday sun, she recognized the familiar silhouette of her friend Tom, another volunteer at the centre.

"Y/N! Come inside, I need to talk to you!" Tom called out, his voice cutting through the haze of her thoughts like a lifeline. With a weary sigh, Y/N obediently followed Tom into the dimly lit interior, the familiar scent of stale coffee and old books wrapping around her like a comforting embrace.

She sank into a nearby chair, exhaustion seeping into her bones as she let the weight of the day wash over her.

Tom took one look at her and sighed, his normally jovial demeanour replaced by a somber seriousness that sent a shiver down Y/N's spine.

"I'm sorry to lay this on you now, Y/N, but there's something you need to know," Tom began, his voice grave. He showed her the letter that Peter gave that morning. “And I think it’s best you hear it from me.”

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach as she braced herself for whatever news he had to share.

"It's about your father," Tom continued, his gaze unwavering. "He's asking to reduce his sentence and to get out of jail."

Y/N's blood ran cold at the mention of her father, memories of him flooding back with painful clarity. She had thought she had finally escaped his shadow, finally found a semblance of peace in a world that had always been tainted by his presence.

"And Peter..." Tom trailed off, his expression darkening with unspoken anger. Y/N's breath caught in her throat hearing his name. "He's agreed to take on his case," Tom finished, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/N felt like the ground had been ripped out from beneath her, the world spinning wildly as she struggled to make sense of the chaos unfolding around her. “Go home, try to focus on something else. Or you know, you do you. Fight your dad’s release.”

Y/N's hands tightened around the steering wheel as she navigated the familiar twists and turns of the road leading to her cabin. The drive had always been a source of solace for her, a chance to clear her mind and escape the chaos of the world outside.

But today, with the weight of her failed interview and the looming threat of her father's release pressing down on her, even the tranquil beauty of the countryside offered little comfort.

As she pulled into the gravel driveway, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew she couldn't keep running from her problems forever, couldn't keep burying her fears beneath a facade of strength and resilience. But for now, all she craved was a moment of respite, a chance to lose herself in something, anything.

Stepping out of the car, Y/N took a deep breath, the crisp air filling her lungs as she made her way towards the cabin. Y/N's pulse quickened as she stepped into the cozy warmth of her cabin, her eyes immediately drawn to the sight of Ben reclining on the couch.

“What are we eating?” He asked without look up at her. In that moment, her mind went blank, consumed by a tidal wave of raw emotion.

Without a second thought, she crossed the room in quick strides, her heart pounding in her chest as she closed the distance between them. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed her purse aside, the thud of it hitting the floor drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears.

The sound made him look up a second before she took the remote out of his hands. Straddling Ben's hips, Y/N felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, the heat of his body searing against her skin as she hovered above him.

His confusion shown on his face, but it changed quickly into something else, a flicker of anticipation, heat. He liked this rawness of her.

Y/N lifted the hem of her skirt, the fabric sliding up her thighs as she exposed herself to him completely. And then, without a word, she crashed her lips against his, a desperate hunger driving her forward as she kissed him while lowering his sweatpants.

Ben responded eagerly, his hands finding her hips as he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. With a low growl of desire, Ben's hands tightened on Y/N's hips and thighs as he grinds her against him, the friction igniting a firestorm of need between them.

Without hesitation, Y/N lowered herself onto him, their bodies melding together in a primal need. Their movements were urgent, raw, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through their veins. There were no words only the desperate moans filling the air.

The sound of their ragged breaths mingled with the soft creak of the couch, and then, with a final, guttural moan of ecstasy, they tumbled over the edge together.

Ben grinned at her when she climbed off his lap, loving this new Y/N. So needy and hot, he watched Y/N pull down her skirt, his eyes still dark from their quick fuck. "Bad day, huh?" he jokes only to get ignored.

Y/N offered him a small smile in response, her lips trembling with unspoken emotion. She didn't trust herself to speak, the weight of her day pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket. Instead, she simply nodded, silently grateful for the comfort of his presence.

"Got it," Ben yelled while she walked away, his tone warm as he reached for his phone to order pizza. "No cooking tonight."

With a grateful sigh, Y/N disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water echoing softly against the walls as she sought solace in the soothing embrace of a hot shower. As the steam enveloped her, she let herself relax for the first time that day, the tension melting away beneath the gentle caress of the water.

Minutes turned into an hour as she lost herself in the simple pleasure of being alone, the rhythmic thrum of the water a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions.

And when she finally emerged from the bathroom, the steam from her shower dissipating into the air as she took in the sight of Ben hovering near the door, a curious expression on his face.

"I was just about to knock," Ben remarked, a sheepish grin playing at the corners of his lips. "Where's the money for the delivery guy?" Y/N smiled fondly at his eagerness, reaching into her purse to retrieve her wallet.

With a thankful wink, she made her way to the door, pulling it open to reveal the pizza delivery guy waiting patiently on the other side.

"Sorry for the delay," she apologized, her voice warm as she handed him the cash. "Keep the change." The delivery guy grinned in appreciation, nodding his thanks before turning to leave. Y/N closed the door behind him.

The silence between them stretched on as they ate on the couch while watching something on the tv that Ben wanted to see, the only sound in the cabin beside the soft rustle of paper as they reached for another slice of pizza and the occasional flicker of the fire crackling in the fireplace.

Despite the warmth of their surroundings, a palpable tension hung in the air.

Ben couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, the weight of Y/N's unspoken turmoil casting a shadow over their shared meal. He watched her carefully while she ‘watched’ tv and ate.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Ben cleared his throat, his voice gentle yet firm as he broached the subject that had been weighing on his mind since Y/N's arrival.

"I don't mind you coming home and immediately go for a quick fuck, Y/N," he began, his words measured. "But that isn’t you, what's wrong?"

Y/N's breath caught in her throat at his words, the lump of emotion lodged in her chest threatening to choke her. She had always prided herself on her strength and independence, on her ability to face the world.

With a deep sigh she pushed the slice of pizza on the table. "I didn't get the job," she admitted, the admission hanging heavy in the air between them like a lead weight. “So? You’ll find another one.” he said bluntly.

“That's not all." With a heavy sigh, she continued, the words tumbling from her lips in a rush of desperation and despair. "My father might get out of jail," she confessed, the admission leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. "And it's all because of Peter."

Ben's brows furrowed in confusion, his mind racing to make sense of her words. "Peter? That fucking nutjob ex boyfriend?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Y/N nodded, her gaze dropping to her lap as she struggled to contain the storm of emotions raging within her. "He's agreed to take on my father's case," she explained, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how, I don't know why, but somehow he's managed to convince himself that my father deserves a second chance."

Ben's jaw tightened at the mention of Peter's name, a surge of anger coursing through his veins at the thought of the man who had caused Y/N so much pain and heartache. He knew all too well the depth of their history, the wounds that still lingered beneath the surface despite the passage of time.

"I won't let him hurt you, Y/N," Ben said, his voice firm with determination. “Not Peter, not your father.” She smiled soft, knowing he meant what he said. "I'm here to help you with your demons, Ben. Not the other way around.”

“Yeah, well, I still have a whole list of people I need to get to.” Y/N knew he meant to kill. “What’s adding another head or two.” He winked before biting into his pizza slice and turning back to watch the tv.

She knew he meant it, he would do that for her, and to be honest, she thought about it for a second. Y/N's eyes lingered on Ben's face, taking in the lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way the soft light from the TV danced across his features.

She couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude and longing, her heart swelling with emotions she could barely contain. Ben, sensing her gaze, smirked and glanced over at her. "Stop staring," he teased gently, his voice soft but playful. "Relax."

But instead of relaxing, Y/N felt an urgent need pulse through her veins, a longing for closeness, for reassurance. Without thinking, she scooted closer to him, her body gravitating towards his warmth. She nestled against him, her head resting on his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist.

Ben stiffened slightly at her unexpected affection, not used to seeing her in such a cuddly mood. He looked down at her, a mixture of surprise and curiosity in his eyes.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with vulnerability when she tried to explain herself, with her voice barely above a whisper. "Today was hard, and I... I just... I just need a... hug.” His heart melted at her words, the walls he had built around himself crumbling in the face of her honesty.

Gently, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer and pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "Hm, fine," he murmured grumpy, not wanting to admit he liked the feeling of this.

For a moment, they simply held each other, the quiet hum of the TV the only sound breaking the stillness of the cabin. Ben's hand started to gently stroked her back, the rhythmic motion calming her racing heart.

The following weeks were a whirlwind of preparation for Y/N as she geared up to face her father in court. The news of his court date had hit her hard, but the opportunity to protest his release gave her a sense of purpose and determination she hadn't felt in a long time.

Ben, understanding the gravity of the situation, made it his mission to support her in every way he could. He knew better than to hover, so instead, he found small ways to make her life easier.

He took charge of meals, well, if ordering takeout from her favourite places is taking care of a meal. But he meant well, she stayed nourished without having to worry about cooking.

Every evening, he helped her unwind, providing a 'much-needed physical release' for her stress, something if he is honest about, they both enjoyed. Y/N appreciated Ben's silent support more than words could express.

And more often than not she ended up in a newfound comfort, his arms.

One evening, as she pored over her notes and legal documents, Y/N looked up to see Ben entering the room with a tray of sushi, her favourite. He placed it gently on the table beside her, offering a reassuring smile.

She looked confused, waiting for him to give a sneer on the fuck up raw fish trend, or something, but no he didn't.

"Thought you could use a break, this is what you like, isn't it?" he said softly. She smiled, feeling a rush of gratitude. "You're amazing, you know that?"

He smirked, “Yeah yeah, I know.” he looked at the books she had placed on the table, while he bit in his burger he ordered. "A lot of work?"

Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It's a lot, yeah. But I have to do this. I can't let him walk free."

The night before the court date, Y/N found herself unable to sleep, her mind racing with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. Sensing her restlessness, Ben pulled Y/N close, his arms wrapping around her protectively.

He could feel the tension radiating from her body, the weight of the impending court date pressing down on her. "Try to get some sleep," he murmured, his voice gentle as he brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

"Do you want me there with you tomorrow?" His words surprised her. But Y/N shook her head, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and resolve. "No, Ben. You can't be seen in public. It would complicate things even more."

With a soft hum he agreed and place his head back on his pillow. "I'll be here, waiting for you when you get back.” He murmured half asleep. Y/N leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Thank you, Ben," she whispered, her voice filled with emotion.

They lay together in silence for a while, Ben's hand gently rubbing soothing circles on her back. Gradually, the tension began to ease from Y/N's body, the warmth and safety of Ben's embrace lulling her into a state of calm, her eyes drifting closed as she snuggled closer to him.

The next day

Y/N stood outside the courtroom, her heart pounding with a mix of anger, anxiety, and determination. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the confrontation ahead. The sight of Peter approaching made her blood boil, and she couldn't contain the surge of emotions that erupted within her.

Peter's eyes widened in surprise as he spotted her. "Y/N," he said, clearly taken aback. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Y/N's gaze was cold, her voice sharp. "Of course, I'm here. How could I not be when you're defending my father? The man who..." Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to continue. "The man who murdered my mother."

Peter's expression softened, but his voice remained firm. "Y/N, you need to understand. Your father is a veteran. He served this country and he came back broken. He needed help, guidance. You of all people should know how much he struggled."

"That doesn't excuse what he did," Y/N shot back, her voice rising. "He killed my mother, Peter. He tore our family apart. How can you stand there and defend him? You know how much this would hurt me."

Peter took a step closer, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made Y/N's skin crawl. "You know, Y/N, you hurt me too," he said, his voice low and sharp. "You left me, made look like a fool at our company. Maybe you don’t remember how humiliating that was for me, how everyone saw me as the guy you left behind."

Y/N's eyes widened, a cold shock running through her. The conversation had taken an unexpected and personal turn, and she could feel the bitterness and resentment in Peter's words. "Peter, this isn't about us," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "This is about my father and what he did."

"Oh, it’s very much about us," Peter shot back, his eyes narrowing. "You walked out on me, left me to deal with the fallout. And now here you are, trying to make me out as the bad guy because I’m defending your father? Maybe I just want to see you squirm, see you face the reality of what your life choices have brought you."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, anger and hurt swirling within her. "You think this is some kind of revenge?" she asked, her voice rising with emotion. "You think defending my father will somehow make me change my mind on what happened between us? That’s twisted, Peter."

Peter's expression hardened. "Twisted or not, it’s the truth. I’m tired of being the one who gets hurt while you get to play the victim. Your father deserves a second chance, and maybe, just maybe, you need to see that you’re not always right."

Before she could respond, the courtroom doors opened, signaling the start of the proceedings. Y/N took a deep breath, turning away from Peter. She walked into the courtroom, her mind a tumultuous storm of conflicting emotions. She felt the eyes of the room on her, but she squared her shoulders, determined to face what lay ahead.

As Y/N walked into the courtroom, she felt her heart pound in her chest. She took a deep breath and scanned the room, her eyes finally landing on her father. It was the first time she'd seen him in years.

He looked older, much older than she remembered. His hair was grayer, his face lined with the passage of time and the weight of his experiences. He appeared scrawny, his frame almost frail, a stark contrast to the strong man who had once been.

But what struck her most were his eyes. They were clear, free of the fog of alcohol or anger she had come to associate with him in her memories. Her father's eyes met hers, and she saw a complex mixture of emotions in them.

There was a glimmer of happiness, a fleeting joy at seeing his daughter again after so long. But there was also disappointment, a deep sadness that seemed to echo the pain and regret of the years they had lost. His gaze flickered to Peter and then back to Y/N, realization dawning on him as he understood she was there to oppose his release.

The judge called the court to order, and the proceedings began. Y/N took her place, her heart heavy but her resolve firm. She listened as the charges were read, the gravity of the situation settling over the room like a shroud.

When it was her turn to speak, Y/N stood, her voice steady but filled with emotion. She outlined her reasons for opposing her father's release, her words a testament to the pain and suffering her family had endured. She spoke of her mother, of the life that had been taken too soon, and of the scars that would never fully heal.

Throughout her testimony, her father's gaze never left her. She could see the sorrow in his eyes, the regret that seemed to weigh him down. But she also saw a flicker of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the pain he had caused.

As she finished speaking, Y/N took her seat, her hands trembling slightly. She had done what she came to do, but the outcome was now out of her hands. The judge called a recess, and Y/N stepped outside to catch her breath. The weight of the moment was almost overwhelming, but she knew she had to stay strong.

Outside the courtroom, Peter approached her again. "You did well," he said “You should have stayed at the firm, could have a bright future.” Her eyes still filled with the storm of emotions that raged within her.

Peter lingered for a moment, then turned to re-enter the courtroom. Y/N stood there, taking a deep breath and steeling herself for what was to come.

Y/N sat in the courtroom, heart pounding as the judge announced the decision. Her father would be released next week. The words echoed in her mind, drowning out everything else.

The weight of the decision settled over her like a heavy blanket, suffocating and inescapable. She couldn't process anything beyond that single, devastating fact.

Somehow, she found herself outside the courthouse, the world around her a blur of noise and colour. She didn’t remember driving home or the journey through the familiar streets. All she knew was the numbness that had taken hold, the disbelief and fear that clouded her thoughts.

When she finally reached the cabin, she walked mechanically toward the bedroom, her mind still reeling. Ben, who had been getting ready to face the TNT twins, saw her enter. But seeing the vacant, shell-shocked look in her eyes, he realized this was more important.

"Y/N?" he called softly, watching her as she moved like a ghost through the room.

She didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to hear him. Concern etched deeply on his face, Ben quickly crossed the room to her. He gently took her by the shoulders, searching her eyes for any sign of recognition.

"Y/N, what happened?" he asked, his voice a low. Her eyes slowly focused on him, the reality of his presence breaking through her fog. "He's getting out," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Y/N clung to him, the tears she had been holding back finally spilling over. He held her as she cried, his hands gently stroking her back, his murmured words of comfort a steady presence in her storm of emotions.

They stood like that for what felt like hours, until her sobs subsided and she was left with the dull ache of exhaustion. Ben guided her to the bed, helping her lie down and covering her with the blankets. He sat beside her, his hand never leaving hers, offering silent support.

As her senses slowly started to return to her, she noticed that he was dressed differently, all geared up as if ready to go to battle. “Where are you going?” she asked, her voice shaky and filled with concern. She didn’t want to be alone, not now.

Ben knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. He looked into her eyes, his gaze steady and reassuring. "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere." She searched his face, looking for any sign of deceit, but all she found was genuine care and determination.

"Then why are you dressed like this?" she asked, her voice softening but still tinged with worry. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was ready to deal with some stuff, but that can wait."

Sitting beside her, he held her hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on her skin. The warmth of his touch and the steadiness of his presence began to ease the tension that had been gripping her chest. "Try to get some rest," Ben said softly. "I'll be right here."

Y/N nodded, her eyes feeling heavy. She let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes, the events of the day finally catching up with her. Despite the turmoil in her heart, she felt a sense of peace knowing Ben was by her side.

-- --

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ihavemanyhusbands · 1 year

Text

(NOT A) Crush

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader (fluff)

Hotch does not know how to handle having a crush on you, but he's gotta do something about it.

Requested by my darling @davidwallacesgf <3

WC: 2.0k words

A/N: Autumn you were so right, soooo glad I started with Hotch hehe

Aaron Hotchner was not one for crushes. He had no time or energy for them, really. At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.

Most of his team members already thought he was incapable of romance. Seldom did anyone see him without his cool mask of professional indifference. He took his job seriously, perhaps way too much, but his heart wasn’t made of stone. Not at all.

Not that he would ever admit to it, at least not just to anyone.

You had started working at the Bureau only a couple of months ago, spending your days crammed in that little corner office with Penelope. The two of you were a great match, hard-working but also able to keep things lighthearted. God knows García needed the help, too.

You were all charm, with a contagious laugh and a quick wit, so the team quickly took a liking to you. You were quite the looker too, with bright shining eyes and warm smiles, but that was usually unprofessional to point out.

There was no way Hotch wouldn’t notice you. He treated you the same as the rest, sure, but he had you in his mind often. Your playful nature, your empathy, your kindness. Even on his worst days, you’d been able to get him to smile. You were a breath of fresh air, really.

He never did know what to do when you flirted with him, though. Words would escape him, and there had been times when he became a bit flustered. He hid it well, quickly but politely excusing himself. Internally, he’d smack himself for not being able to keep his cool.

For your part, you didn’t think much of his nonchalance. It was clear he had nothing against you, but you also had not been around for too long. You figured he’d warm up at his own pace, maybe.

You had great admiration for him, and you liked watching him interact with the others. He was a natural protector and leader; A figure of authority that was still approachable. Someone you could trust.

And of course, you had to admit, he was incredibly handsome. You’d be a fool not to see that. He was tall and lean, but not overly muscular, with dark hair and thick eyebrows that almost always seemed to be furrowed. His dark brown eyes could bore holes into you from their intensity – not that you minded.

Hell, you often found yourself wanting to giggle and swoon like a schoolgirl every time you saw him looking sharp in a suit.

“Whew! You could climb that man like a tree,” Penelope once joked, but the statement still held true.

In your most shameful, private moments, you envisioned what it might be like to kiss the golden column of his throat. To get lost in the smell of him and the deep timbre of his voice. It was probably not great to think of your boss that way, but you couldn’t really help it.

He and the team were often away on cases, but they’d all call often. Morgan opted to call Penelope more when in need of assistance, but Hotch seemed more inclined to call you. Of course this made you feel a little smug, but you also had to admit it made butterflies burst in your stomach whenever you saw his name on the caller ID.

“Talk to me Hot-ch stuff,” was the kind of thing you’d sometimes say in greeting. “Ha! Get it? Hot-ch stuff?”

There’d be silence for a moment on the other end, but you could hear the smile in his voice when he’d finally speak up. You’d learned from the best, after all.

“He’s a tough nut to crack, isn’t he?” You asked Penelope one night, the two of you eating chinese take out in her office.

She was the only one who knew of your little crush, but both of you were ignorant of the fact that it was reciprocated.

“Yup,” Penelope agreed, nodding. “But he’s a sweetheart, in his own way. Hasn’t had things easy.”

“Oh?” You leaned forward in curiosity.

“Well, he’s a single dad, divorced not too long ago. Kinda likes to dive into his work and keep busy.”

“Hmm,” you pondered for a moment, already aware of the latter part of this. “Well, I’m great with kids. Do you think that’ll score me some points?”

Penelope laughed, swatting your arm playfully. “It’s possible. Keep aiming high, sister.”

—————-

“Has Hotch seemed distracted to you lately?” Spencer asked Morgan, who immediately raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“Distracted? Not really. It’s more like brooding, and he’s always doing that.”

They were unwinding at a small bar along with JJ, Rossi and Prentiss, trying not to think too hard about work for once. It was hard to detach themselves from a case right after they were done with it, but this last one had been a particularly heavy one.

Spencer looked unsure, narrowing his eyes. “No, I don’t think so… it’s different, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Morgan took a swig of his beer, shrugging.

“Well, whatever it is that’s bothering him, he’s not gonna tell us about it. You know how he is, so don’t get too hung up on it, Reid.”

Prentiss huffed in amusement. “You think it might be a girl?”

JJ rolled her eyes as Morgan chuckled, shaking his head.

“What?” Prentiss continued, “With pretty little things like Y/N running around, you just never know…”

“Oh please,” Rossi intervened. “That man doesn’t have time to be chasing some tail around. And even if he did, that’s his business, isn’t it?”

—————-

Late nights were nothing uncommon at Quantico. You were very much used to them, and really, you kind of enjoyed them. The office was quiet and calm at night, which was a nice reprieve from the hectic day-to-day. It gave you time to gather your thoughts and get lost in a task.

You hummed to yourself as you organized some files, readying them for Monday. You’d ushered Penelope out the door hours ago, insisting that she get some rest. It’d been a long week, and she deserved it. You had all weekend to sleep, so you didn’t mind shouldering the burden this time.

“I see you’re a fellow night owl,” a deep, familiar voice behind you startled you.

You turned to see Hotch in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee. He handed one to you, looking sheepish.

“I wasn’t sure how you took it, so I just left it black,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Why, thank you Hotch,” you said, taking it from him. “Such a sweet gesture, I don’t even think I’d need sugar in this anymore.”

You winked, taking a sip, feeling it warm you up. Hotch looked away, running a hand through the lower half of his face. You swore you could see the slightest blush on his cheeks, but you couldn’t be sure.

“You, uh, almost wrapped up for the night?” He asked, changing the subject.

“Almost. I need another twenty minutes or so, but don’t worry about me, I should be fine.”

You looked back down at the files, and he took the opportunity to look you over. He had seen how selfless you were, how hard working and driven. It made him proud to have someone like you on the team.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he said, surprising you. “Thanks for staying late tonight.”

You glanced over at him, feeling both unsure and hopeful at the same time. “Oh, don’t mention it. It’s all part of the job, right?”

He chuckled a little. “Yeah, I suppose it is. But still, I want you to know I appreciate you.”

There was a certain warmth in his eyes that you hadn’t previously seen directed at you. You smiled, feeling yourself relax and momentarily shedding the teasing, flirtatious persona you always were around everyone.

“Thank you, sir. That means a lot,” you said, voice low and demure.

He could feel his heart begin to thunder in his chest. He’d seen you smiling plenty of times, but not like this. Could it be just for him?

He definitely liked the idea of that, more than he was willing to acknowledge.

“Are you sure you want to wait for me? You really don’t have to…” you continued, fidgeting. “You need the rest more than I do, really.”

He waved your concerns off, but was touched nonetheless. “I’ll let you finish without me distracting you. I’ll be in my office whenever you’re ready to go.”

You nodded in appreciation, feeling a burst of giddiness as he walked away. Your cheeks were ablaze as you set out to wrap everything up as quickly and effectively as you could.

It was hard not to get distracted knowing he was just down the hall, waiting for you. Yes, you! Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined this moment coming. It still felt surreal.

Though perhaps you were reading too much into it, and this was just how he showed appreciation to everyone on the team. Maybe it was just your turn tonight. Still, you’d take what you could get.

Twenty minutes later, you knocked on the door to his office, peeking inside. His features lit up at the sight of you, but while he grinned, he still seemed exhausted. You felt a pang of guilt in your chest.

“All good to go, boss man!” You said cheerfully, reverting back to your usual self to keep things light.

He chuckled, gathering his things as you buttoned up your coat. “Guess giving you caffeine at this time was not the best idea.”

You shrugged, tucking your hair behind your ears. “It’ll fizzle out by the time I get home. I sleep like a log, honestly.”

“Lucky you,” he said, shutting off the lights in his office.

The two of you walked together to the parking lot, and he listened as you filled in the silence. He found he enjoyed listening to you talk, getting really animated when it was about something you enjoyed. He found it cute whenever your words picked up speed in excitement, almost stumbling over each other.

He just hoped you didn’t find him boring, without much to contribute. In reality, you were scared that you were annoying him, so you felt some slight relief at the sight of your car.

“Well, this is me,” You said, gesturing at it. “Again, thank you so very much for everything tonight.”

“Of course,” he nodded with a grin, unlocking his SUV but not turning towards it yet. “Any time.”

“See you on Monday. Try to stay out of trouble and get some rest, okay?” You smiled and waved a little, unlocking your car.

He made no move to leave, instead taking a fortifying breath. Screw it, it was now or never, he figured.

“Wait, Y/N,” Hotch called as you opened the door, stopping you. He stepped closer, nervously fidgeting with the keys in his hand. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“Could I… take you out for coffee sometime?” He asked tentatively. “Don’t get me wrong, the Bureau’s coffee is palatable, but I’m sure there’s better things out there.”

You blinked up at him, momentarily stunned. For the second time that night, you felt like you were in a dream.

“Oh… Oh!” Your eyes widened in realization that this was, in fact, very much real. “Coffee, oh my gosh, yes. Yes! I would love to!”

There you went blabbering on again. You wanted to slap yourself for it, burning with embarrassment. He tried to contain his smile, finding your nervousness adorable… and frankly a little perplexing. You were always so confident, so forward, that he did not expect to have this effect on you. He could definitely get used to this.

“How about Sunday?” He offered, secretly unable to wait past then.

You nodded, to his immense relief. “I look forward to it, sir.”

“Please,” he insisted. “Call me Aaron.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch fluff #thomas gibson #ssa aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #oh the yearning #minors dni

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aperrywilliams · 10 months

Text

More Than You Know (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

(Not my gif. Credit to the creator)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.

Summary: You’re Spencer's best friend. You have gone through many things together, but after Spencer is incarcerated, things turn different for both of you. Not to mention you have been in love with him for a long time too. How much will you endure until you can’t take it anymore?

Word Count: 5.9k

TW: ANGST. Strong language. Mention of abduction, drug use, getting shot, death of relatives and loved ones, jail, pregnancy, unsafe sex, and potential cheating. All the deal!

A/N: Not a happy ending, at least for Spencer and Reader. Do you think they could have a chance in the future? (I wrote it as a one-shot, but it makes me kind of sad). Let me know what you think.

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I don’t have the habit of arriving early at work. I only do it when it is strictly required. I’m not a morning person. I have never been. So you can guess how my mood turns dark when people push me to let go of some minutes of my precious morning sleep, even when Spencer is the one who asks me to.

He called me this morning at 6 am, telling me he needed to talk to me in person. So we agreed to grab a coffee in our usual place before work.

"Thanks for coming," Spencer greets me when I arrive. A harsh expression adorns his features while I sit in the booth before him.

I can’t help the yawn escaping my lips.

“Did I have a choice?” I ask, gesturing to the barista for my regular order.

“I need to talk to you,” he prefaces, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He looks distressed. I narrow my eyes, thinking about what could be causing it.

“Yeah, that’s what you said by phone when you woke me up this morning. Why you didn’t tell me there what’s going on?”

“I couldn't tell you by phone,” he excuses himself as the barista approaches and hands me my coffee. I thank her, returning my gaze to my friend.

My mind starts racing with possibilities, and my heartbeat picks up its rate.

“Something happened to your mom?” I ask cautiously. Spencer shakes his head immediately.

“No. My mom is okay.”

Well, that discards a big issue so that I can breathe a little.

“Nightmares again?”

I can recall how bad nightmares could be for Spencer. Since Hankel and passing by Emily’s dead, Maeve, and then prison, Spencer is a lightning rod for nightmares.

“No. Not in a while.”

Good. Another bad thing out of the list.

“Headaches?”

A big issue that worsened after Doyle stabbed Emily and led Spencer to Maeve.

“No. I’m good with that.”

Okay, I’m running out of options here. Is it the job?

“The bureau wants you to take longer sabbaticals?”

“No! Not that either.”

I give up. I don’t think anything is important enough to make me be here before 7 am.

“Spencer, I’m lost. Just tell me what’s going on,” I urge, running out of patience and dying to know what this is about.

"It's about Alison," he clarifies, and I can’t help but groan.

Seriously? The problem is a girl?

"Alison?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, the girl I'm seeing lately?" He adds to help my recall. I know Alison, but I won't waste a chance to mess with Spencer, especially considering he made me up early for this.

"I'm sorry. I don't remember that one. I lost track after Lonna," I shrug. Spencer rolls his eyes, knowing what I’m doing.

"Not now, (Y/N). This is important,” he scolds.

I look at him incredulously. What could be so important about a girl he's seeing?

"Okay, okay. Don't be so dense. What happens with the gorgeous Alison?" I ask, sipping my coffee.

"She may be pregnant," he suddenly says with a grimace.

"What?!" I squeal, almost choking on the coffee in my mouth. Spencer looks around us to see if someone is listening to our conversation.

"Shush! You wanna me repeat what I just said?" he whisper-shouts.

"Come on, Spencer. You must be kidding me.”

I take a napkin to clean the mess I made with my coffee.

“I’m afraid I’m not.”

“How come you, from all the people, don't know what birth control and condoms are?"

Spencer's cheeks flush. He is embarrassed, but his need to confide in someone is greater.

This is eating him alive.

"May I forget to use one a while ago? I mean, we were in a rush, and-" I cut him off.

"No. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to know the details of your sex life. I'm just concerned about how reckless you have become, honestly.”

The last part isn’t intended to sound that rough. Spencer is a grown man who can do whatever he pleases with his life, but I‘m worried about him. Since prison happened, he has been stumbling and making poor decisions, including fooling around with women.

Spencer's gaze drops to the floor, just like a child being scolded by his parents. I hate to see him like this. I hate to see him hurting and lost. So I recant my grown-up role this time.

"Spencer, look at me." I pause until his eyes meet mine. "I'm sorry if it was harsh; I'm just worried, okay? Now tell me, Alison told you?"

He shakes his head.

"Not directly. But she told me she's been feeling sick, and this morning I - I heard her throwing up. And I am almost sure she didn't have her period last month," Spencer recounts each fact as his breathing picks up.

Great. A panic attack is what I needed now.

"Hey, hey. Just breathe, okay?" I urge, calling his attention. He nods and slowly does what I say.

After a minute, he starts to feel better to speak.

"What should I do?" Spencer groans, with both hands grabbing his head.

In a twisted way, I found the scene comical.

Spencer is asking me what to do. To me.

I mean, what could I even tell him? He's my friend, but this is far ahead of what I could advise someone for.

Let alone someone who I have feelings for.

Yeah. That's the hard truth.

Cliche as it sounds, I have feelings for my best friend. A man who will never reciprocate those feelings. That's how fuck up the situation is.

But after years of keeping that secret, I learned how to mask everything for the sake of our friendship and our jobs.

"For starters, we don't know if she is pregnant. Maybe it is just your paranoia. We must be sure, so you must ask her," I instruct. Spencer looks at me in horror as if I just said he needed to jump from the 20th floor.

"What? No! I can't do that!"

"You can, and you will. You can't keep stressing out about something you don't even know!"

"And what if she is? I should marry her?" My eyes widened at that.

And the people call him a genius.

"Spencer, don't rush to the next town when you haven't stepped in this one first. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You both need to talk and decide if things turn that way, okay?"

He lets out a deep exhale.

"Okay. Okay. You're right."

Even if I want to slap him right now, I know I will never do it. Squeezing his shoulder affectionately, I let out my following words.

"You'll figure it out. Whatever it is, you'll know what to do, and I'll be by your side, okay? You're not alone."

Spencer looks at me with gratitude and a hint of relief. He knows I’m genuine in my statement. He knows I’ll be by his side no matter what.

It always has been that way.

We joined the team almost at the same time. While Jason Gideon recruited Spencer, Aaron Hotchner recruited me. Gideon insisted that Spencer’s brain and knowledge about everything would be an enormous asset to the team. Hotch did the same with me, pointing out how my interpersonal skills and impressive field experience would be valuable to the job. Different reasons, same outcome: being the newest made us closer. And not a long time after, we became best friends.

I was there when Spencer got abducted by Tobias Hankel. I was there when he struggled with his drug addiction. I consoled him when Gideon left and then when he died years later. I cared for him when he got shot in the knee and neck. We cried together when Emily ‘died.’ And after what happened to Maeve, I was there for all steps on the way. The last straw was Mexico and the three months in Millburn. I never missed a visit, and I was by his side when he had to talk to Cat Adams.

And the same way I have been for him, he has been for me. A few months after I joined the team, I got shot in the shoulder, and Spencer helped me a lot. He rode the ambulance with me when I got shot again in the abdomen three years later. He was with me when my dad passed away. Spencer comforted me when one of my long-term boyfriends dumped me. He took a serious role in rooting for me whenever I doubted myself in the job and life.

We know each other like the palm of our hands.

Everybody would have thought our friendship was forged to everlast. And I‘m still adamant about making it that way, even if after a few years of knowing each other, I realized I‘m in love with Spencer. How could I not?

Even at some point, those feelings could have been reciprocal. I noticed things between us changed after Hotch and Morgan left the team.

The stolen glances, the little touches, the overprotectiveness, the subtle flirting. I indulged myself with the idea that it was a natural turn to us be more than friends.

But then Mexico happened.

And things changed for Spencer and me.

The moment we understood what happened and that Spencer would be locked until we could find who did this to him, I didn't rest. I didn't sleep. I barely eat. But I put a brave face on him. I knew he was having the worst time there, so I was who encouraged him every chance I got.

But it didn't matter how hard we tried, how hard I tried. Spencer locked himself and didn't let anyone in. The day he was released, I hugged him first and felt some normalcy. He said how much he missed me, how much he missed us all.

Things went well for a while, but I could tell Spencer wasn't okay. He talked less; he looked distant and disaffected. Sure, Spencer was trying to cope with everything. And as before, I tended my hand to him to hold. And in a way, he took it, but not how it would help him heal.

Our relationship turned instrumental, at least for him.

He started failing in the job, lying to Emily about his whereabouts when he ran late. His mind was distracted more often. If he was reckless at the job before, now it was worse. He snapped more too. And for every time, I was there to cover him up. That's how everyone assumed he was still finding his balance, but I wasn't so sure.

Things worsened when Spencer discovered sex was an excellent way to release frustration. At first, I didn't think it could be a big deal. Getting laid wasn't a big deal. Not ideal for me, but I suppressed my jealousy for his sake. I would choose his well-being ten thousand times before my stupid love for him.

Still, things have not improved. Almost a year after Millburn, Spencer keeps stumbling, getting into trouble, and does not act as he should. I know I have my responsibility quote, but I'm too involved in this cycle to break it.

I want to say at least I have my friend, but that isn’t entirely true. Every time I have needed him in the past year, he hasn't been there. I could tell he hadn’t even noticed I had been losing weight or the doctor’s appointment I had to attend for feeling sick.

I’m alone by myself. It's sad, but I can’t force him. I’m not like that. I would never beg for affection from anyone who doesn’t want to give it, even if I needed it. People would say it is the wrong way, but I cannot be otherwise.

Some days after our coffee shop conversation, Spencer rushes to my desk to tell me the ‘good news.’ False alarm. Alison isn’t pregnant.

Spencer looks relaxed and relieved. Maybe it’s the wake-up call he needs to slow down. My hope is short-lived, though, because while he tells me everything, his phone ding. A smirk appears on his face when he sees the incoming text.

“What is it?” I ask, and Spencer bites his lower lip.

“I have a date,” he answers, typing on his phone.

“With Alison?” I narrow my eyes. He looks at me when he’s done sending the message.

“No! Of course not. I’m not going to make the same mistake again. I told her I needed time to think,” he explains like he’s talking about the weather.

“So you’re going to meet another girl without breaking up with Alison?”

“You can’t break up with someone you’re not officially involved with,” Spencer shrugs.

I want to kill him right now.

“God, Spencer. What are you doing?”

The question is primarily rhetorical, but Spencer answers nonetheless.

“Living, (Y/N). I’m living for the first time in my life.”

Can I argue with that logic? Sure. There is so much I can tell him. But I’m tired. Spencer doesn't see or hear reasons. Not even from me. It seems I have lost the privilege of being listened to by him.

Since that talk, I can’t stop thinking about what I am doing. Am I clasping onto something it doesn't exist anymore?

I don’t know the answer, and I don’t know if I want to get one. I’m just holding until I can’t do it anymore.

And that's how time flies. Things look relatively the same, and I'm just trying to float so I don't drown.

We just ended a gruesome case in Arizona. Our jet landed an hour ago, and everyone is in the mood for a drink. Rossi and Matt are the only ones with excuses to go home early.

Once there, Penelope grabs Luke’s hands and drags him to the dance floor. JJ offers to get us some drinks. Emily volunteers to help her.

Spencer is quiet, looking at me, but I barely notice. My mind is elsewhere.

“Are you okay?” He asks. The question takes me by surprise. In the past weeks, we haven’t talked that much.

“Yeah. Good. The case, you know?”

Spencer nods, but I see the worry lingering.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

I want to say I believe him, but I don’t. It’s been months since I felt that close to him. But even if I don’t believe him, I may voice my concern again.

“I don’t know,” I preface, and Spencer’s attention is full on me. It's weird, to say the least, but I will take the chance. “There is this thing bugging me. About our-” I can’t end my idea before the sound of someone squealing ‘Spencer!’ reach our ears.

The man in question snaps his head up. It's Alison. Before I can say anything, he stands, and after mumbling a ‘sorry,’ he goes to the girl calling his name.

There it goes. Nothing. Again.

I sigh before sipping my drink. What was I hoping, anyway?

JJ and Emily return to our table and ask for Spencer. Not even looking behind, I gesture to my back. They understand.

We set for drinking and complaining about whatever comes to mind. I know they know, but they are respectful enough not to push me.

The night is progressing, and I enroll in conversation with Luke and Penelope when they return from their dancing. After they leave, Emily cracks jokes to make me laugh, and JJ does her best to lose a little.

The sound of glass crushing gets our attention to the bar. There he was. Spencer is between two girls who are arguing about something. I recognize Alison, but not the other one.

“Ups. Someone is in trouble,” Emily mused. JJ shakes her head in a disapproving mood. I see Spencer’s eyes darting between the girls and trying to soothe the argument, failing miserably.

I ponder my options. I can leave him to deal with his mess for once or give him a hand. Emily reads my mind.

“Are you sure?” she asks. I shrug, standing from my spot.

“I wouldn’t like to see him complaining because one of those girls broke a bottle on his head.”

I stroll to where the action is happening, morphing my annoyed look into a confident one.

"Hey baby, I was looking for you!” I chirp, using the most loving voice as my arms wrap around Spencer’s torso.

The girls don’t look happy with my intrusion.

"We were talking with Spencer," Alison says as if I don't know that.

"Yeah, he was about to explain who he’ll choose between us," the other girl adds.

If I could have rolled my eyes, I would do it. Are they that naive? But they have a point: maybe Spencer would do what they want under pressure, even if he doesn't like it. That's why I‘m here. I know him.

"I'm so sorry, girls, but you got it wrong. This man is mine, and believe me when I tell you, you should be walking away right now. You don't want to mess with me, his wife, and the mother of his child waiting for us at home, right baby?" Now I talk to him.

Spencer's mouth goes agape, even more than Alison's and the other girl's.

"Your what?!" Alison yells. Her eyes are a few inches to pop out of their sockets.

"You have a child?!" The other looks as shocked as Alison.

Spencer only stutters incoherent words. They aren’t needed, though. After cursing him and letting out a bunch of expletives, both girls stomp out of the bar.

That’s when I notice I still have my arms around him. I pull away and clear my throat.

"You're welcome," I say before turning into my heels.

Spencer wraps my wrist to stop me. His eyes are curious, examining my features as if reading me. I return an annoyed look.

"What?"

"Why did you do it?" He asks as if he is really intrigued by my actions. It may feel more natural for me than for him.

"To save your ass? Come on, Reid. They would have eaten you alive," I scoff. Spencer chuckles, knowing that it is what could have happened.

"Yeah. But why you saved my ass? You could have feasted with the scandal."

I shrug. For a second, it crossed my mind just to be honest and give him a piece of my mind. But it‘s dangerous territory, so I opt for the safer way.

"That's what the friends are for. Even if you deserve being kicked in your ass sometimes," I try to sound light like it isn’t a big deal.

"Friends, uh?" Spencer points, mulling my words. I don't know why that specific word interests him, but I don’t read into it. "Well, thank you, then."

Now he is grinning as if a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

"You're going home?" I ask, thinking Spencer only wants to disappear from the bar after the recent events. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head like I’m talking nonsense.

"No. Not when I'm free to have a good time, at last."

"What?"

"Do you see those girls over there?" He points with his look to a group of women giggling and drinking on the opposite side of the bar.

My stomach drops to my feet as I look at him in disbelief.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

"To you? I would never. You're my best friend. Thanks again," Spencer says warmly before kissing my cheek and strolling to the group he has spotted.

And here I am, standing in the middle of the bar, with words stuck in my throat and the feeling that the last 10 minutes hadn't even happened. The bartender stares at me with that empathetic look that reflects more pity than anything else. I look back at him and ask for a drink. Since I’m there, I won’t waste the chance of alcohol replacing the burning I already feel in my stomach.

"Don't tell me. You saved his ass just to let him have the chance to screw it up again," Emily summarizes when I return to the table with my drink. Both have seen all the action in the bar that transpired a while ago.

"That's what the friends are for, right?" I mockingly parrot my own words. JJ scoffs.

"I don't doubt your loyalty to Spence. But don't you think it's too much? I mean, you cover him in all your capacities, and he's not taking any responsibility for his actions," she proffers. Emily nods in agreement.

"He has been through a lot. He's lost and needs help," I argue, sipping my vodka.

"We know that. But it's time Spencer takes the reign of his life. Also, it's time you focus on your own," Emily says, pointing her index finger at me.

"What do you mean?" I ask defensively.

And there are again the pity looks.

"We know you have feelings for him. That's more than friendship, we can tell. But it's not going anywhere, and you know it. When was the last time you dated, uh?" JJ questions. Her words stab me right in my chest. I let out a deep sigh.

"Exactly." Emily seconds. "You need to think about what's healthy for you. That doesn't mean you don't care about Spencer, but he must figure it out himself."

As a cue, I turn to look at the bar direction. Spencer wraps his arm around a girl's waist, his lips ghosting her ear, whispering God knows what but making the girl giggle.

JJ and Emily are right. I’m not genuinely helping him. It is just the faint hope that I could make him see me. Really see me.

After another drink with the girls, I decide to go home.

And I decide it is time to let him go.

But honestly speaking, what does that mean? It's not that feelings can disappear overnight. It's not that one day you wake up and say, "That's enough." At the end of the day - feelings aside - Spencer is my friend, and he trusts me even in his darkest moments. But the girls are right when they say friendship goes both ways. It doesn't work if he can't respect my boundaries.

So I went over my limits. What am I willing to tolerate, and what am I not? In the first place, I won’t cover him up in lies in front of the team anymore. If he has to take a scolding from Emily for being irresponsible, so be it. Second, I won’t put up with being the go-to person for any of his mess with women. And finally, I’m not going to justify his behavior to anyone. If anyone has a problem with him, they should tell him directly. I would no longer be an interlocutor between Spencer Reid and the rest of the world.

It didn’t pass long before those limits were tested again.

Some days after what happened at the bar, I arrived at the BAU for a new case. We scheduled the meeting in the conference room at 9:00.

It’s 9:05, and Spencer still has yet to arrive. As expected, everyone is asking me what happened to Reid. I shrug. At the same time, Spencer texts me, saying he is running late and asking me to say he had a problem on the subway. I know it isn’t true, so I pretend I never got the message. That brought him explaining himself to Emily when he arrived all disheveled at 9:30.

Things like that keep happening. Spencer keeps showing up late for work and lies about the reasons. Sometimes he is nowhere to see in the bullpen, only to reappear with his hair untamed and his shirt partially untucked. Those times, opposite to the previous ones, I don’t tell him to fix himself.

Not to mention the number of calls and texts he has sent me in unholy hours to ask me what he should do about his new conquers. Calls and texts I start to ignore. That last behavior is what he resented the most, I could tell.

One morning he shows up at the conference room where I’m checking a stack of files scattered over the table. The rest of the team minding their own business downstairs.

"Are you mad at me?" He bluntly asks. I raise an eyebrow, looking at him from my manila folder.

"No. I'm not,” I reply, unbothered. But if I know Spencer enough, he will not be satisfied with my answer.

"Yes, you are. You have been avoiding me. Last night I called you, and you didn't answer."

He is the one mad at me. Or at least upset. Which one was it? It doesn’t matter; he feels ignored, and he hates it.

"I was sleeping,” I answer with the same flat tone. That spurs more of his anger.

"That's not true. You don't hit the pillow before 1 am!"

Well, Spencer does pay attention, at least for that kind of thing. Months ago, I would have felt flattered. Now? It feels void and just to his service.

"Maybe last night I did."

Spencer scoffs this time.

"I don't think so. I know you (Y/N),” he defies. Maybe he thought I would bite the bullet and apologize for ignoring him.

"Whatever. Why you called me, anyway? Did you want to tell me how your new girl screamed your name in bed?" I deadpan.

Spencer’s eyes widened.

"What?! No! I- I just,” he pauses. “I just wanted to talk to you!"

“Why?” I interject.

I’m so tired of this. I’m tired of the real reasons why Spencer needs me.

His face flushes, thinking of his following words.

“I - uh. We haven’t talked in a long time. Our last movie night was a month ago. And you haven’t called me either. I miss you,” he mumbles.

I huff a laugh. Does he really think I would believe that?

“You see me every day here, Reid,” I say with the same monotonous tone, returning my gaze to the file I’m reading.

Reid. That should have been the sign he searches for, even if his mind isn’t clear enough to put two and two together.

He scoots closer, softly bending down the file in my hands.

“(Y/N), hey. Please, talk to me. Don’t let me in the dark,” he pleads. I turn my gaze away from him. The sadness and the anger boil inside. It’s exhausting.

“I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I want to fix it. Tell me what it is,” Spencer insists, this time with a hand over mine.

I glance at him in silence. Could a look be enough to convey everything stuck in my chest? Years ago, it could have worked with Spencer. The friendship we had back then was stronger enough to make that happen. Just a look, and each one knew what the other was thinking. Now it is just noise that could or not mean something.

How he looks at me now, lost in the signs I‘m giving him and eager for me to say something, tells me what I already know. I wonder if I would let it out this time or bottle it up again.

“I’m just tired, you know?”

My mouth works on its own accord. My brain isn’t able to stop it. Spencer examines my face looking for something to anticipate what could be coming. His clueless is irritating.

“I’m tired of hoping you can realize how badly you hurt yourself—and waiting for you to do something about it,” I blurt, knowing this is not what he wants to hear.

“What do you mean?” He asks, leaning back in a defensive mode.

“You know exactly what I mean. You are failing yourself, Spencer. You still can’t stand your ground. And you keep ignoring it!”

I punctuate my statement by shoving the file over the table. Spencer gets startled by my action.

“If you are talking about what happened the other night in the bar. It doesn't -” He explains, but I cut him off.

“No! It's everything! Can’t you see it? It's the way you lie to your teammates, the way you do your job, like it doesn't matter to you. The way you turn everything into something meaningless. The relationships you have, your job, your friends. Everything!”

Spencer’s face steels. I know he doesn't like being called out. He hates that. But I wouldn’t spare him the trouble this time.

“You are being unfair (Y/N),” he says with gritted teeth, standing to put some distance from me.

“Am I? Oh, no. If something I’m sure of is the unfairness doesn't fall on me.”

I spit back, standing as well to show him I wouldn’t back off. After running his hands through his hair, he turns to me. He has a look of betrayal on him.

Betrayal? The audacity of this man.

"Yes! You are! You, better than anyone, know it hasn't been easy for me! Life - life in Millburn changed me, and it has been so difficult to settle it down. You know that! Those were the worst three months of my life!"

Millburn. It was like a prohibited word for us. He didn't like to say it or hear it from me.

"So that gives you the right to ruin the good things in your life, uh? Because you are a lost soul in this world?” I try to reason, but that only gives me a burlesque laugh from him.

"And what if it were so? It's not like I have much to lose, right?"

And there it is—the broken man. The guy who still believes no one loves him and he doesn't deserve to be loved. All the years of work to put those walls down returned to zero after he got imprisoned.

"Do you really believe that? Do you really believe your self-destructive behavior only affects you? I didn't think you were so selfish, Spencer."

Although I know the answer, I ask nonetheless. And even though I know that selfishness isn’t something Spencer deliberately wants, maybe voicing it could help me to bring him back.

“Selfish? Says the person I trusted with my life, and now it’s throwing everything back to me?”

Or not.

“Stop doing that! Stop assuming everyone is attacking you! If we need to blame someone, of course, we can blame Cat Adams. But now she’s dead, Spencer! And what about you? For God’s sake! You had endured so much in your life, and now you’re going to let that bitch keep destroying you from the grave?”

My voice gets hoarse from the yelling, and for the first time during this conversation, Spencer doesn't spit something back immediately.

The hurt expression on his face morphs into defeat. He doesn't want to fight back. He doesn’t want to get out of the hole.

We keep looking at each other silently, daring the other to say anything.

Spencer tries to mask his glassy eyes, breaking eye contact and looking at the ceiling. And seeing him like this spurs the desire to run and hug him, holding him. But I can’t. I swore not to back down.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). But this is who I am now,” he mumbles after a few minutes.

I exhale sharply. Why is it so difficult for him to understand?

“Keep telling yourself that, but deep down, you know it's not true,” I argue, but with no energy to keep yelling. But it's like fuel to Spencer’s anger.

“Why do you care anyway? Is it because you are my friend?” He mockingly air quotes the word ‘friend.’ “Well, it seems my friendship doesn't satisfy you anymore, does it?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? You are not comfortable with the person I am. You don't want my company anymore. You don’t trust me. It's very clear to me.”

I need to get out of here before I say something I may regret or Spencer does it burying any chance of us being okay again.

“Where are you going? Doesn’t feel okay hearing the truth, (Y/N)?”

“You are angry, and we can’t keep talking like this,” I mumbled, trying to pass to the exit door.

“Are you chicken out now? That's how you understand loyalty?” Spencer calls me out this time. He’s testing me, and I can’t take it anymore.

“Don’t question my loyalty. If anything, loyalty is what you have been getting from me since always! Don’t you dare to doubt it!”

My voice is going to break at any minute, and I don’t know what to do to push away this suffocating feeling.

”Let me have suspicions about that,” he scoffs, and I want to cry.

How unfair. How painful.

“Oh no, no, no. Not that. You know what? I’m done. Fuck you, Spencer! Fuck you and your fucking cluelessness and self-loathing. I have been by your side in thick and thin. I have given you everything!”

I bet my screaming is being heard throughout the entire floor right now, but I don’t fucking care. I’m not going to stop right now. “God! Even I would have died for you! But you don’t deserve anything of it. You don’t deserve my loyalty and much less my love.”

I notice how Spencer’s eyes widen with my last sentence.

“Your what,” he barely mumbles.

The secret is out. But it's too late. I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath.

“Yes. You heard right. I said, ‘My love.’ Because I fucking love you. I have been in love with you for ages! But I chose our friendship above all, and what I got? A friend who can’t see beyond his shit. Hell, everyone’s right. I deserve better!”

I can’t stop the tears from springing, and I hate myself for not being stronger to endure this.

“(Y/N)… why you didn't tell me?”

He's being cautious and slowly tries to approach, reaching for my hand.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

“(Y/N),” he tries again. “We can talk about this, please.”

I hate this. I don't want his pity. Honestly, I don't want anything at all. I thought saying the truth would help me to lift a weight from my shoulders. Now I just want to run anywhere in the world where nobody knows me. I’m sick, and being by his side, in any capacity, would no do better to me.

“No. We can’t. Too little too late, Spencer. I’m done. I really hope you can find whatever you're looking for. I hope you do. You deserve to be happy. And so do I. Take care, okay? And I’m sorry for lying to you. I told you I’ll always be by your side, but I can’t. Not like this.”

I look at him for the last time, patting his shoulder and giving him a sad smile. He doesn't say anything; he only stands there, following my steps with his gaze until I reach the door and shut it behind me.

——————

Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @tvandfanfic @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @disaster-in-waiting @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr. spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!bau!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #more than you know #aperrywilliams

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teecupangel · 7 months

Note

The whole Desmond/Vega situation with Altair in EoAhas made me think of a time travel au where Altair keeps having romcom meet-cutes with people but literally all of them are Desmond in disguise

So Altair is going from having very few crushes in his lifetime to having multiple at once (unaware that they're all actually the same person) while Desmond is stuck wishing he had a computer to make a spreadsheet about which identity knows what about Altair so he doesn't let something slip that Altair told a different identity or info he got from the animus/bleeds

Oh my god.

This is so cute.

I think Altaïr would know it’s Desmond sooner or later, which would make Desmond’s spreadsheet quite a lost cause at that point but…

If it starts with Altaïr being a child, we can prolong the meet cute situations XD

So, in this one, it starts of with Altaïr as a child getting lost while he was joining his father in some kind of safe mission.

His first love was a child who saw him and helped him get back to the bureau, wearing clothes that were a bit too big for him.

The child’s hand was warm and he would squeeze Altaïr’s hand while he held it whenever he says “It’s going to be alright.”

And Altaïr didn’t understand why but he believed him.

Altaïr’s second love was a girl whose face he didn’t even see. Clad from head to toe in black robes with a niqab covering her face. All he could see was her eyes, clear light brown eyes that seemed to shimmer during the day.

This time, Altaïr wasn’t lost. He had just been taking a walk while waiting for his father to finish his mission. He saw her steal a piece of pomegranate from one of the stalls in the marketplace and tried to catch her.

Instead, he ended up sitting on the edge of one of the buildings as they shared the pomegranate, listening to her talk about how the merchant had been an ass who bullied other poorer merchants.

It was Adha who told him that what he felt wasn’t love but infatuation. Maybe even greed. He fell in love easily for people he will never see again. Altaïr hated her immediately, shouting at his father that he would never marry a girl like her. Adha scoffed and told her own father that she didn’t want to marry a boy who would fall in love so easily. Altaïr stormed off after his father tried to pretend he wasn’t taking Adha’s side. He bumped into him. His third love. Or the next target of his infatuation. No. That was Adha talking, not him.

He was a young boy, wearing a dark brown shemagh that covered half of his face. Altaïr’s eyes were enchanted by his eyes that reminded him of honey. The boy asked him if he was alright and Altaïr didn’t really want to talk about it. So… the boy gave him a piece of bread and told him to cheer up. His eyes wrinkled in a way that let Altaïr know he was smiling behind that shemagh.

And just like that, the boy was gone. Leaving Altaïr with a piece of bread that was still warm to the touch.

His fourth love was a street urchin who looked like a wet rodent. He had been out of Masyaf with the other recruits to observe the older Assassins perform their tasks in a busy city. The Assassin that had been assigned to him was a kind man with an easy smile. Abbas thought he was nice. Malik was as polite as ever.

And Altaïr was bored.

And it was because he wasn’t truly paying attention that he was swept by the crowd before the Assassin or the two other recruits with him could notice.

He was on his way to the bureau when he heard a crash. A child no older than he was had crashed onto a nearby stall that had been selling wine.

He quickly ran and shouted at Altaïr to run as well, just as the guards were catching up to him. Altaïr ran even though he shouldn’t have.

He wasn’t part of whatever was happening.

But his body moved on its own.

Once they were on the other side of the city, the child began to laugh. He didn’t ask why Altaïr agreed to run. He didn’t ask how Altaïr was able to keep up with him as they traversed the city, using their surrounding to gain the upper hand over the large armored men chasing after them.

“Here.” Altaïr caught whatever the child had thrown at him before he even realized what it was, “Take that as my apology for getting you mixed up in all these.”

Altaïr opened his hand.

It was a necklace of some kind with a small yellow gem.

“It matches your eyes.” The child said and Altaïr wished he would take off the fabric around his face so Altaïr could see his face.

Could see his smile.

“Take care on your way back, Altaïr.” The boy waved before he jumped off the window.

And Altaïr tried to remember when he had told him his name.

#so for this one #i was writing altaïr meeting desmond at the age of 6 10 & 14 #adha and altaïr are still friends #they’re just the type of friends that would bully each other #ask and answer #no usual tags because #altdes

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postmodernbeliever · 3 months

Text

Thoroughfare- Fox Mulder x Female Reader

Chapter One: The First Day Curse

table of contents <3

if you’d prefer my ao3 | word count: 3,563

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“You are smart. You are capable. You are in control.”

You repeated the mantra that’s carried you through every life change in the mirror like it was a lifeline; the end-all-be-all prayer that would mend the destructive stress rattling your bones. You’ve never been good at beginnings. The starting, that first day, was always the hardest. Even knowing you’ve survived every first day there has been so far, you still have this irrational fear that this will be the one you do not. High school had four first days that felt insurmountable, and then there was the first day at Columbia, which was life or death by the time you reached your dorm. Then there was your start at the FBI National Academy, which you mistakenly believed would always be the scariest of them all. It seemed there was no escaping new chapters because today, you had to face the music all over again– and the sweat pooling in your palms led you to believe that today was going to be the one that you didn’t make it through.

The details were vague, as is expected for such a ‘big girl’ job, as your father would put it. Your decorated school career secured you a profiling job in a small sector of the Bureau; supposedly a uniquely single position they were desperate to fill. What you knew was that you’d be working on a mountain of unsolved cases called X Files, and were being assigned to a partner by the last name of Mulder, who according to the directors who interviewed you, is in dire need of supervision. At first, you questioned your eligibility for such a position, but it seems every powerful individual at the FBI agreed that you were level-headed enough to keep the agent in check. Professional babysitting is what it sounded like, but you didn’t care. The gig came with a gun and a badge, and all the work you’d put in was leading you down the exact path you’d hoped for… well, maybe not exact, but better than you’d ever hoped to achieve by your age. For an opportunity like this, you would work in the basement if you had to.

Even with all the excitement coursing through you, you were so scared of this day. As a brand-new agent, you had no idea what to expect. You’ve never met this Agent Mulder, you didn’t know your way around the J. Edgar Hoover complex, and you were worried that your fresh-off-the-rack pantsuit made you look too uptight, what with its prim tailoring to the waist and the old-fashioned pinstripe pattern. But you stood before the bathroom mirror, pulling the last set curl from its roller and twisting the dark hair around your fingertip, repeating the mantra– because maybe if you say it enough, you will begin to believe it.

“You are smart. You are capable. You are in control. Don’t fuck this up.”

If you took a second longer, you might never make it out the front door. Swiping your purse and long, brown overcoat, along with the freshly printed badge and government-issued pistol on your lonely kitchen island, you locked the apartment door on the way out.

Today, you become a Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And you have to survive this first day because if you don’t, it will all be for nothing.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“Come in,”

Your shaky hand reached for the doorknob and twisted it carefully. The nameplate on the door read FOX MULDER, whose office stood at the foot of the last staircase in the building. When you thought you’d be willing to work in the basement for this, you didn’t know you’d actually have to.

A man sat inside the room, looking almost as tucked away as his little Shangri-la. Everything in the office was absolutely against some sort of FBI code; there were posters and photos all over, depicting things from dorky to downright creepy, and a million boxes and objects all over the floor making themselves noteworthy trip hazards. The fluorescents had to have flickered five times within the first few seconds of looking inside. It was like a teenager’s room, cluttered with paraphernalia and windowless light. The man in question was hunched over unassumingly, inspecting a newspaper article. As your footsteps absorbed into the carpet, his head rose, and he got a good look at the new wrinkle the bosses were sending down.

“Hi,” you extended your palm for a shake, which the man obliged awkwardly. “I believe I'm your new partner. You were expecting me, right?”

“Yes, in fact, I was. Special Agent Fox Mulder.” The man pushed out of his chair, newspaper clipping in hand, and turned his back to you as he fastened the story to the littered corkboard on the wall behind his desk. Engrossed in the details, Fox continued, “Tiffany, right?”

“Me? Oh, no, my name isn’t Tiffany.”

“No, your watch,” the agent laughed, “it’s Tiffany, isn’t it? Looks vintage, like an heirloom or something. Let me see, maybe… maybe your grandmothers? Looks about that old.”

You flushed with embarrassment. It wasn’t outlandish, per se, but nobody’s ever inquired about your watch before, and they’ve never guessed the person it belonged to first. You cleared your throat and responded, “Yeah, actually. Funny you should say that Agent Mulder, she left it to me a few years ago. She actually worked for the Bureau back in the day.”

“Oh, just Mulder is fine… and I know.”

You watched the man slump back into his desk chair and grin.

“You know?”

“Sure. I read up on you, Agent," Fox raised his eyebrows teasingly. He pushed his glasses up on the aquiline bridge of his nose. “She was an accountant for some of the traveling ambassadors during World War II. But I'm more interested in you, actually- y’know, really impressive career you’ve got. Graduated with honors from Columbia. Double-majored in criminal justice and behavioral neuroscience, through which you had an apprenticeship at an upstate federal prison. I also understand you worked with a profiling unit in New York. You seem like a tough cookie, newbie.”

You didn’t quite know what to say. You peered around the office aimlessly, avoiding looking your new partner in the eye. He stared with a certain intensity, some kind of interest that made your body feel like it might catch fire.

“Well, if I’d known I could access people’s files, I would've read yours, Mulder.”

“Oh, you can’t, really. I just stole yours for a little while.”

“You stole it?”

“Sure I did,” Fox winked, “I had to know what you did to get banished to the dungeon. But as far as I can tell, it’s your very first day, so what are you doing down here? The FBI only had one black sheep before you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fox looked around his office with a look that screamed, Isn’t it obvious? But when he noticed how you stared back innocently, he smiled to himself and kept quiet.

Your eyes fell on the chair stationed across from Fox’s desk, which he gestured to chivalrously. You set your bag down on the seat along with your small box of personal effects- a simple nameplate, your gun and badge, an unopened package of pens, and a photo of you and the family dog back home. Fox peeked at the contents with curious eyes while you shifted uncomfortably in the seat, unsure of what to say.

“Well, as far as I know, I’m here to assist you with your caseload. I understand it involves a lot of unique circumstances.”

Fox chuckled, “Sure, you could say that. Unique, unsolved, unidentifiable.”

“Honestly, they didn’t tell me much about the job. I was working as a behavioral analyst, and I was set for a psychotherapist position at a correctional facility when I got a call with an offer. They told me you needed someone to supervise the work and help reach realistic conclusions.”

“Is that what they said?” Fox squinted.

The agent’s demeanor was more than confusing. He seemed nice enough, but there was an aftertaste to him; like his words soured at the mention of anyone joining him in his department. He sat defensively in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread wide- he felt somehow threatened, like he was the only thing standing between you and what he wanted to protect. It was quite the juxtaposition to his looks. His hair seemed to take kindly to its swooping pattern, boyish and manicured. His skin was fair, and a chocolate beauty mark punctuated his cheek, which you could only assume disappeared into a dimple when he smiled. Even with all the offensive energy he was putting out, there was an implied softness to him. Those stiff arms were not meant to be crossed, but to be held open wide; eyes only so scrutinizing because they’d been deceived so many times before. You truly could’ve picked him apart forever, without him ever saying a word. The man was a marvel.

“Yes, it is. But either way, I’m excited to be here. Despite what you may think of me,” you sighed, “I have a lot to offer, Mulder. I think things could go well if you give me a shot. I’m not here to ruin things, which I know you’re thinking… I’m only here because I want to help. To make something of myself. I’m sure you can understand that.”

The man’s face softened at your words. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I don’t exactly have to read your file to know who you are. You told me the second I opened the door.” You glanced around the office again, this time with a different lens. One much more appreciative. Surrounding you were the dots that your superiors did not connect about the work he does down here, about why this assignment is so out of the ordinary and in need of a second opinion.

“You work alone down here, suffocated by the things you study. You probably find yourself under fire pretty often from your colleagues and superiors because of it, because of what you do. You feel you have something to prove, you want to protect the integrity of that process. And…”

“And what?”

“And you lean into the stereotypes, don’t you? Y’know, calling yourself the ‘black sheep’ and all. You must have a reputation, right? Even if you believe in what it is you stand for down here, you play along with it. It’s easier.” Your eyes lingered on the gripping poster tucked between his corkboard and the wall, admiring the bold, declaratory font, and you tacked on, “You believe in your cause, but you also try to remember your biases. I get the feeling you hold your work very close to you.”

Fox was on the edge of his seat. His new partner who’s only been an agent for a morning- practically fresh off the metaphorical boat- sat in the office no one ever visits, and managed to nail down the version of him most people don’t take enough time to know. Without knowing his nickname, or of his royal screw-ups, you seemed to see what he wished everyone else did. His Oxford education on profiling taught him to seek the worst in people, to understand their flaws, but you didn’t have that same schooling. It’s almost as if you search for the reasons they might be good; adversely, you look for the truth first. A purer truth than he’s accustomed to.

He smiled softly, and asked, “How did you come up with all that?”

You pursed your lips. “Like I said, it’s all around you. The way your office looks, all of these photos of flying saucers and unsolvable cases. The messes that you’re either too busy or too discouraged to clean. The way you talk about yourself. Hell, even how you sit shows me things about you. I can tell you’re skeptical of me working with you, that I’ll damage the way you do things. Which I don’t want to do, by the way. It’s easy to tell when you know how to read people. I guess I don’t have to tell you that, though.”

“Behavioral neuroscience,” Fox clicked his tongue, “You know, you might be a better analyst than me. Guess I should’ve gone to Columbia instead, huh?”

You watched as Fox rose from the chair again, this time to cross the office and walk through to a little room that branched off the side. The lights inside it were a cyber blue, and you could hear computers whirring and the air conditioning vent buzzing loudly. When Fox gestured for you to follow, you leaped to your feet clumsily, almost tripping over the fuzzy carpet catching beneath your boots.

In the offshoot of a room, you found X-ray photographs of different chest cavities. There were jagged shadows spanning the spine and ribcage, forming the outline of a cross.

“What are these from?”

“These are three victims of a recent string of murders out in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. Seems someone got a little bone saw-happy and cut each one open, removing sections of the thoracic curve and ribs. Same bones each time, same type of victims, too. Adolescent girls, dark hair, fair skin, and… uh, let’s go with untainted.”

“Virgin Marys,” you concluded.

“You catch on quick,” Fox winked.

You looked up and found he was quite close– close enough that you could see the rings of gold hidden inside the jewel green of his eyes. He didn’t seem to mind talking so near, which sent a shiver down your spine. Swallowing nothing, you proceeded, “So, what else do you have on the case?”

Fox turned on his heels and walked back through to his desk, leaving you to follow anxiously behind. The agent rifled around the desktop to come up with a folder, which he handed over with what seemed like apprehension. The folder was white with a red outline and centered on the front was the stately label FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION. Just beneath it, on the dotted line, the case number X-60033301. Fox watched you open it unassumingly and flip through the contents. He knew the contents would’ve freaked his fellow agents out far more- the dead bodies beneath crosses, the close-ups of battered ribs, and pretty dead faces. Yet you were unphased. Unsure of how to handle such a calm reaction, the man began to explain it away.

“The same sort of thing happened about thirty-three years back in the same town. Twelve teenage girls were killed, dissected, and left to lie at the foot of a crucifix. Some were inside churches while others were at a cross outside on the lawn. Nobody was ever pinned, but they had a lone suspect, probably dead by now, a man by the name of Joseph-”

“Iscariot,” you interjected, reading the report with wide eyes. In your head, you connected all the pieces instantly- thirty-three years represented the threes of the Holy Trinity, twelve murders for the Disciples. The religious connotations were blatant. You almost commented that the case was child’s play, but you didn’t want to assume. It was an X file for a reason, and you trusted Mulder’s judgment. Instead, you opted for, “Like Judas Iscariot… oh, Lord.”

Fox’s eyes twinkled at your unintentional pun, and there was a little spark of something in his gut that told him he would like to have you as a partner. Maybe it was your blind enthusiasm, or simply the way you quietly asserted yourself, but there was a likeability to you he couldn’t quite define. You were new and clearly smart. Maybe almost as smart as you seemed willing to try.

“I like how you think, newbie. But these new murders, they’re more organized. There seem to be stricter patterns with what the dump site needs to look like and how the girls are attacked. I think someone picked up from where Iscariot left off, and they’re trying to patch up a hack job.”

“Maybe they’re a relative of his. Or a religious fanatic of his work.”

“That’s what I thought, but the Kansas PD are stumped. At least they sound like it over the phone. I think getting out there and seeing the pieces for ourselves would be beneficial. I booked us a flight, if you’re prepared to get a head start on your first case, Agent.”

Your face fell pale, and you asked, “What, right now?”

Fox burst into laughter at your nerves, but it didn’t strike you as rude. In any other situation, it may have, but his laugh was kind, and it felt familiar. You knew it wasn’t mean-spirited. You handed the agent his file and began to chuckle with him, trying to loosen the tension in your shoulders.

“No, not right now,” Fox assured, “Tomorrow morning.”

You huffed and offered a taut smile. Meandering back to the box that sat waiting on the spare chair, you agreed to the trip. “Sure… that sounds good. We shouldn’t wait too long, in case the killer strikes again soon, right?”

In a stroke of generosity, Fox motioned to the cluttered desk space that bridged the gap between his main space and the screening room tucked in the corner. “If you want to set up over there, go ahead. I’ve got some junk on the table, but you can move whatever you like. Make yourself at home.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.”

You took the box and shuffled over to the mess, finding an old, dusty desktop covered in papers, paperclip contraptions, and dried-up sunflower seeds. You made a little face and then hid it, deciding not to think too hard about where all the dirt and debris came from. Approaching the setup with a clean frame of mind, you began to unpack, placing your photo down first on the sole empty strip of surface, just beneath a lamp with a dead bulb.

Fox watched keenly from afar. He thought of himself as a detail-oriented profiler, one who caught the little things over the big ones. His painstaking attention has saved his ass more times than he could count. He noticed the manicured nature of your hair and nails, and how your suit was pressed to starchy perfection for the big first day. He also noticed how your shoes were scuffed on the toes, making what was good leather look worn, even loved. He also noticed they were combat boots, which suggested you either ran out the door that morning without heels, or they had some sentimentality. He wanted to know why those shoes for the first day. Fox even liked the cautious way you moved, like you thought of every outcome before setting down your pack of pens or moving a stack of files he hadn’t looked at in a year. The man could sense your anxiety from a mile away. You were tough, there was no way you weren’t; working in rough environments like prisons and New York stations probably taught you to be cutthroat, but standing in his office now, painstakingly deciding what to do with all of his belongings while finding a place for your own, you were just a trainee. Adorably green. He recognized that just because you’re tough doesn’t mean you can’t also be intimidated. He could only imagine what it must be like to be hired by the FBI and thrown into the basement with the resident freak. While the agent faked reading some other pointless papers, he resolved to do whatever he could to make your first case a good experience; one that you could come away from feeling some kind of accomplishment. It might be hard since his cases rarely close and often make him the laughingstock of the week, but it’s worth a try.

As you rolled a decommissioned desk chair over and sat down to find it was missing a wheel, which forced you into a fitting lopsided-ness, you turned to a grinning Fox Mulder who shrugged with an air of, What can you do?

“You know, Fox is a pretty interesting first name,” You stated, feeling just a bit vengeful over him finding humor in your misstep. “Sounds kind of like an anti-villain. You know, kinda… brooding. Bruce Wayne-ish. Are you anything like that, Mulder?”

Fox’s face flushed, so he turned to his files and quipped, “I guess you’ll find out when we get to Kansas, huh? Maybe I’ll save the city while we’re there.”

You felt your lips curling upwards and tried to stop the muscles, but they persisted. So you smiled at him, hoping it didn’t give the man too much satisfaction. Turning back to your first assignment- figuring out where the hell you would fit a Bureau-issued computer on the desk- you said, “Works for me.”

It wasn’t even noon yet, and normally that would be your marker for determining if a first day was a disaster. But there was a hominess to your new partner’s office, and you felt as though you’d already made a friend. Maybe first days weren’t as bad as you thought– or, maybe this was finally going to be the first good one. As long as you didn’t think about the impending plane ride you had coming, you didn’t feel so worried.

#fox mulder #x files #spooky mulder #the x files #fox mulder x reader #fox mulder x you #x files fanfic #fox mulder x reader fluff #fox mulder fluff #meet cute

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