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valeriefauxnom · 1 year ago

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Scaling Removed Scenes

So, even if I use most the content I type, or am at very least able to repurpose scene ideas, sometimes things just don't quite make it into the cut. It might be for characterization, the tone a section had that is now at contrast with the rest of the chapter (as me, who tends to write random interesting bits of several upcoming chapters in the future and then strings things together, cannot exactly foresee where the plot is), or just because a better idea popped up. (Yes, you are also reading this right in that I am a 'pantser' flying by the seat of my pants with ideas vaguely glued together as I stitch things together! ...I'm not good at outlines.)

The point remains: this is things that aren't Scaling 'canon' or congruent. And despite it all, some of these are snippets or, rarely, basically fully polished segments that no longer fit. So instead of letting them rot forever in my drafted works, I figured I'd at least try and put some of them somewhere as maybe a fun little thing for anyone interested to see What Could Have Been.

Here's one, which with the latest chapter is out of the running. My first draft and ideas for this section involved the Trio of Eldest Siblings being the ones to face an even angrier Mids, and it would have been much earlier in the chapter. As things developed, it was ultimately thrown out for quite a few reasons. For one, Euden Tower Defense and resulting drama had not yet entered my mind. It also felt like a bit too...productive for a single section, in that Mids is giving incredibly huge pieces to the puzzle all in once, even if he might be a bit looser with info when mad. Combined with other things, it was eventually 'repurposed' into Leo's encounter(s) with Midgardsormr. You'll see shades of elements here and there!

That being said, I'm not exactly sure what to do with these little bits and pieces. This is probably the biggest piece I can think of that is truly out of the realm of possibility now. I'm not sure whether to just post 'em on Tumblr for easy finding so they don't get lost in my own drafts or posting them to a new single work on AO3 or something, with chapters dividing the different failed sections. What might work best/be preferred for any readers here, for convenience or something?

Without any ado, though, now that that's out of the way, here's the section in question, a full 2.7k that had developed wings but nevertheless failed to fly enough to make the Cut!

“And then, before I could explain his behavior to Father as nothing more than dismay that Father was hewing closer to the core of the matter, Father dismissed me as if I were naught more than a schoolboy throwing a temper tantrum! Infuriating. We just might have had some answers by now, but Father’s saccharine tendencies nipped it in the bud and allowed Euden to escape yet again from answering any uncomfortable topic.” Leonidas said as he relayed his experience with Father and Euden last night, only pausing to angrily sip his tea.

“One question: were you acting as a ‘schoolboy throwing a temper tantrum’, o wizened, most temperate elder brother, or at least resembling one enough that Father strayed closer to caution than boldness in assuming Euden’s intentions? You do have a certain…vigor in you that can oft make it appear you are feeling more intensely about a matter than you actually are.” Phares said, jovial to Leonidas’ annoyance.

Chelle hummed in agreement. “With the fire in his mere recounting of last night’s events, I too would struggle to blame Father for erring on the side of caution when interpreting your interpretations.”

“Perhaps I ought to head posthaste to Valkaheim, if that is how I am appreciated here, and leave you to figure out the truth all alone. First you disregard me and my orders, only to deride me as if I were a petulant, emotional child.” Leonidas huffed at their light teasing as the trio of eldest siblings gathered once again to consult with each other over tea.

“Winter is not due for how many months, and yet brother dearest is already wishing to abandon us to frigid winter to enjoy the warmth of Valkaheim? How cruel and cold, much as my elder brother’s heart, it seems!” Chelle exclaimed with faux hurt. They all knew Leonidas was merely expressing exasperation at not getting his way yet again, instead an actual threat to return to his city as he did for all winters. It wasn't as if Chelle would be here for winter either, more than happy to return to Chanzelia to escape the freeze as well.

“Oh yes, how very devastating, his willingness to leave his infirm, sickly brother to the capital, trusting that he won’t even be able to hold a coup in the meantime…” Phares joined right in the teasing with a hand clutching his chest and blatantly lying. While far from the raw physical strength Leonidas or Valyx could muster, he wasn’t exactly infirm now, either, and a master of all forms of the lance aside.

“As if you wish the throne, anyways… We’d have an easier time convincing you to remain in a library for a year than maintain the throne for half that.” Well, that too, as Leonidas pointed out. Phares was more than content to stay holed up in his study or wandering the world in search of truth and science, making his words mere bluster. The one singular time Leonidas and Father had both been struck ill by an illness for a few days enough to demand a regent, Phares made his displeasure acting as such clear enough by his sulking.

“Hm, that actually might be a pleasant reprieve from-”

They were interrupted when a sudden strong breeze sent wind whipping across the courtyard. Chelle had to rapidly snatch her fan off the table before it could be carried away. Looking to the sky, baffled by the sudden change in wind, they soon had an answer.

Midgardsormr had returned to the castle, and he was evidently interested in coming to land in their courtyard.

They watched in silence as the dragon slammed onto the ground much louder than necessary, each formulating their own idea about the situation.

“Heiritors of dragonblood, what have you done to Euden?! Answer me or your lives might be considered forfeit!” The dragon all but roared, staring them down with all the fury of a powerful Greatwyrm.

Leonidas stood up. The rest of them followed, but Leonidas held out an arm in a signal to stay behind him. “Explain what you mean, wyrm. We’ve done nothing. Whatever you mean, it was not our act.”

His words sounded cold as ever, but the remaining siblings could tell he was preparing himself for a fight. Even the causal omission of ‘Great’ in front of ‘wyrm’ would be considered severely disrespectful. To do so in front of an angry dragon was tantamount to begging for a fight.

“Then you mean to claim you have nothing to do with his current status? He had fled. Escaped as planned from you, and so I departed to track him down and rejoin him. Only after some time searching did I feel his mana again echoing back to this very castle and just outside, this time ever-so-much-weaker. It is clear you, as the connecting factor, did something drastic to incapacitate him!” With every huff, verdant tendrils of wind mana cascaded out his mouth and nostrils, a passive reminder of the power dragons commanded by virtue of their creation.

“The only thing our family has done of late, Greatwyrm, was save him from being preyed upon by fiends and dying from shapeshifting rebound. He’s currently being treated to the best of our capacity and with all kindness possible.” Phares said in a more placating tone than Leo’s harsher rejection.

“Clearly a lie. It was you who first imprisoned him into this castle, and halted him from shapeshifting! Evidently, now that he reclaimed his ability, you must resort to other methods now that the accursed collar is nullified from his efforts. Exactly what I would have come to expect from such conniving siblings who seemed to seek nothing less than his complete annihilation at times!” Though the Greatwyrm appeared calmer by actually being willing to hear them out, he was still obviously angry, judging by the way his tail thrashed about and knocked over things at random.

Despite the more pressing concern trying to calm down a Greatwyrm from attempting murder (and one that would likely succeed against at least one of them), Midgardsormr’s words sent their heads spinning as they processed.

First, the dragon had implied that Euden had shared with him that they were siblings before he saw fit to reveal the same to Father, as well as plotting escape with him. Second, Midgardsormr seemed to believe they sought Euden’s ‘annihilation’ and spoke as if he had a history with them longer than a month or two. Whatever could that mean or have originated from? Had Euden and him truly been speaking so dramatically of affairs here? It hadn’t seemed like it, the one time they partially overheard a discussion of theirs… Though they admittedly were speaking secretively in their utilization of Draconic, a nearly dead language that even dragons seldom used for anything beyond ancient literature and magic study.

“Greatwyrm, if you are truly so unable to take our words for what they are, I implore you, by all means, visit your pactbound yourself to see with your own eyes that he is not being mistreated. We know not what you are referring to, but it is not our wish to see relations soured between the Kingdom and the Greatwyrms.” Chelle offered, testing the waters by calling Midgardsormr and Euden ‘pactbound’ to gauge his reaction.

The dragon fell silent then, failing to provide a reaction as he maintained his stare as if he were weighing their souls. “...I will hold you to your offer, dragonblood.” He held his snout up high in the air for a minute, before he abruptly took to the air again.

“...He looks like he’s going to our bedrooms,” Phares said as he observed the dragon’s flight, “They must be pacted after all or otherwise engaged in some sort of bond. Tracking down the mana of a shapeshift is one thing, but to be able to pinpoint his location like this suggests a deeper connection. Even Uranus wouldn’t be able to pin my exact location, and we’re essentially in lockstep.”

“Phooey. My hair is all messed up now.” Chelle said instead as she tried to school it into a neater semblance of its former glory.

Leonidas’ hair was similarly messed up, though he did not seem to care aside from moving it away from his eyes. “Pick up your slackened jaws and lances, guards. The threat is not gone. Sister, Brother, you may wish to go inside. If the beast is to attack, let him claw through the walls to do so, preferably when you are armed.”

Midgardsormr’s strong wind and strong…verbiage had made some of the guards drop their weaponry in shock.

“And let you engage in diplomacy, when you’re already mentally strategizing how to fight a Greatwyrm? Perish the thought. If we run, he could just as easily take that as confirmation we feared his wrath when he discovered something.” Chelle dismissed, taking her seat again as if a dragon did not just threaten that he might take their lives.

Phares hummed in agreement. “Besides, we did just invite him inside. There would be a fair probability his hypothetical rampage would commence there. We simply must pray we’ve given no accidental cause for Midgardsormr to interpret as neglectful.”

They then sat in mostly silence despite the gravity of the situation, their previous discussion tabled. The only marker of some time passing was the increasing presence of guards entering the courtyard, no doubt responding to frantic calls to arms regarding a hostile dragon in the place only to find it empty.

But finally, Midgardsormr could be seen in the skies once more, landing again, this time with a more reasonable slam. He graciously chose to ignore the few guards that nervously pointed their spears in his general direction to focus upon them again.

“I will acknowledge that your current story appears to be veracity, kin of dragonblood. Euden is yet asleep, but all that I could gather from others suggested your words to be true. For once.” The bluster in the wind and his mood seemed to die down.

They could only be pleased the dragon was of the sort able to calm himself when proven wrong, though he was not pleased about it. Many dragons, much as humans, struggled to accept any notion of faultiness and many a cautionary story ended with a dragon going on a rampage only to find out their driving reason was incorrect.

“Our thanks for listening to us, Honorable Greatywrm. Please, if there is aught more you might like to hear to clarify the situation since your departure, do ask.” Chelle said in her smooth tone that served to soothe ruffled feathers (or scales) and cravats alike, eager to further iron out any misunderstandings and perhaps win back some goodwill.

The dragon looked more contemplative at that. “...How did you find out that he was your kin? The environs were richly decorated and well-guarded in such a way that suggests you live near his new quarters, no? What caused his change of scenery from being secreted away above the castle as little more than a prisoner?”

“He revealed it to our father, though not particularly freely. It was a miracle we’ve gotten that much out of him despite that being the most logical conclusion since the first day he stepped inside the castle, and even that reportedly set him crying and pulling out his own feather. Utterly ridiculous.” Leonidas responded, shaking his head with distaste.

The dragon sighed. “...Feather? Whatever is going on with you?” He muttered, lost in thought, “...All I know of Euden would not correlate to most behavior you and your servants consistently described. Still, know that I will not break the bonds of trust placed upon me and thus will not speak of his secrets.” Sage as reputed, Midgardsormr had already deduced the likely request that he share information with them if he were truly so concerned and preemptively responded.

“Then,” Phares swallowed, buying time to think of a way to phrase his inquiry, “...If you cannot, is someone else who might? We’re increasingly at our wits’ end trying to find out anything that might help him. As soon as things look to be improving, something backslides him three steps before seemingly without rhyme or reason as he refuses to explain.”

“...There exists none who could share his life story, anymore. They are gone. The sole keepers are him and myself, and even I know not all.”

They paused at that plain confirmation that they had no hope of finding any record or person that knew of Euden aside from those presently within the confines of their current location. However many were that could have before, they were likely dead if that was how Midgardsormr addressed them.

“Ah. I see…”

“All fine and well, but do you seriously intend us to twiddle our thumbs and gently try to prod him into revealing another scrap of info, only then to have to wait another month before any notable progress can be made again and trust he doesn’t find a way to die or maim himself accidentally in the meantime? That is the pattern of late, and one that cannot be allowed to continue. If you profess care enough to open yourself up to attack from the entire kingdom, I would remind you of the consequences of silence.” Leonidas said, not falling into Phares’ melancholic mood so easily.

“Dearest brothers, this was supposed to be an opportunity to answer questions of the dragon, not ask them, regardless of your points.” Chelle reminded.

“I intend to honor the trust placed in me, little ember, especially as I am the only one whom he can rely upon now,” the Windwyrm dismissed, flicking his tail in displeasure, “Control your fire before it sparks the wrong blaze. Regardless, there is little I wish to ask that I could receive an adequate response for. I will permit you to continue your inquiries as I see fit.”

The diminutive appellation of Leonidas as a ‘little ember’ had him cross his arms in distaste, -also probably from the reminder he had no true control whether the dragon stayed to listen at all.

“Then, Windwyrm, if you will not enlighten the darkness, advice on how to illuminate it ourselves would be helpful. We’ve any number of scattered facts, but connecting them into a singular narrative is proving most difficult.”

“...I will speak with him as soon as he has awoken before I do anything more. But I will leave you with two pieces of advice: Euden, as most every living creature, is more helpful when met with kindness than not.”

“Windwyrm: we’ve tried making most every concession allowed either for his health or per our lord Father’s orders. We would struggle to think of aught other kindness one could provide. He asks for near nothing, and so nothing we provide.” Chelle protested, incensed at the implication they were meeting him with unkindness.

It was uncanny, how so many dragons could hold so still for so long. Had they not known, one could have taken Midgardsormr as a very fancy, exorbitantly expensive sculpture. “...And have you considered your mere presence is its own form of torment to him? Therein lies my second piece of advice: regardless of how illogical it may be, the least likely answer is more often the closer one to your answers.”

“Illogical in what-”

Before Phares could finish, Midgardsormr took off yet again abruptly as he first came, deciding the conversation was over.

“...Well, that was certainly interesting. A pity he grew tired of questioning so quickly. I had many things I might like to ask about.” Phares blinked, interrupted in the middle of his question and left watching the dragon go.

“Nothing like a touch of mortal peril to enliven one’s afternoon, hm? Though, Leo-Leo, I must say, how dashing to come to your siblings’ aid! I’d almost begun to believe you were devolving into a crude brute with no sense of chivalry!”

“How is it that you can turn to jape so quickly in the wake of what just transpired? Do you fools even realize the precariousness of that situation? Regardless, I simply did not wish you to be in my way if the dragon were inclined to attack. That is all.”

“Mm-hm…” Two skeptical voices sounded, sharing a knowing look. Oh yes, that likely was part of the reason, but they both knew it was not the entirety.

Phares took a sip of tea, as if they were not in potentially mortal peril not five minutes ago. “In any case, permit me to share my own curious findings I’ve been meaning to before I announce the same to our sibling in question, obtained thanks to the Lightwyrm and Nedrick…”

---

#scaling the walls of a mystery #my writing #Lost Scales #ha. I'm keeping that one if I post any others.#In any case I hope someone might enjoy seeing the 'what ifs' of Scaling!#The story has shifted trajectory from this but elements do remain that have not quite emerged. Make of that what you will!#Even if the section isn't 'canon' some of the headcanon still is.#Like in this case Leo's and Chelle's flight to their cities for winter is my explanation of how they split their time/duties #(It's my way of stealthily patching the incongruity with the mention that Leo and Chelle aren't normally around in the epilogue!)

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spurbleu · 5 months ago

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neighbor!simon x reader. longer read. follow up.

your neighbor is a homebody. sort of.

he’s either never home or always home. you aren’t sure what he does, but whatever it is leaves his flat vacant for months at a time, not so much as a mouse breath breaching the thin popcorn walls that separate your rooms.

and when he is in the complex, you’d never know it. a shut in, the only give away is the muffled news channel that burrows through your moldings, or smithed footfall at ungodly hours.

the first time you caught him moving in while off to work. big bloke- and when you waved to him he stared, before lumbering into his complex. given, he was holding a large cardboard box, so you weren’t expecting him to return the greeting. but a hello would’ve been nice.

it was 4 months until you got a good look at him.

you were awake at a time you shouldn’t have been for a reason you had long forgotten. you do remember thinking you might as well do your laundry.

when you went down to the mat, there he was.

tracker fed shoulders taking up half the space, and on an inhale they took two thirds. clothes looked as though they had been dyed in pen ink and left to dry in hail. mud boots, thick legs, and the silhouette of a cauliflower ear against the fabric of his balaclava.

he glared at you like you weren’t supposed to be there. an anomaly, disturbed his routine. steel face, stone eyes, swear you’d seen the same look in your history books on the shields of greek soldiers.

it all scared you shitless, so you turned on your heel and didn’t go back until the morning. you make it a point to hustle past his door after that.

but you tend to take more than you can handle. swaddling your groceries as you wobble up the stairs, just barely there before your foot catches on the last step. produce among some of the other fragile items scattered across the tiles, and you curse under your breath.

you wouldn’t characterize yourself as a klutz, but it scrambling to collect your groceries feet from your door isn’t helping your case. the paper bags struggle against your grip, and it feels like you’re just biding your time until they all rip apart.

“you need help.”

its said more like an observation than it is a question. you turn slowly, and a goliath stands 6 feet and something over you. he sports a medical mask and a ballcap, which reveals new features- sun bleached skin that peels from the bridge of his nose to between his brows, which are thick and blonde. the left is cut in half by scar tissue and spite. if you squint you see freckles.

the night he scared you, you remembered his eyes as pitch. crow feather. under your bed.

you now see they’re the deepest shade of brown.

“i- no its fine i..” your arms do a dance with the bags, trying to keep them steady.

he grabs them both from you, and suddenly they still. its like handing squealing pigs to a farmer. built for holding them. it makes you feel weird that you like it.

“unlock the door.”

you do as you’re told and find your keys in your back pocket. fumble at the lock before opening the door and standing to the side to let him in. he nods.

sets your groceries down before gently tipping the brim of his cap. he doesn’t say anything before leaving.

and this started the strangest routine.

every week you’d get groceries, he’d be there.

the first time he was on the second flight of stairs. when you questioned how he knew you’d been shopping, he rolled his shoulders and scoffed.

“your huffin n puffin gave you away.”

he was there for four more trips. each time, you had gotten more words out of him. found out he had the driest sense of humor and a plethora of knock-knock jokes that you painfully laughed at.

he even kept up with the occasional flirt.

“yknow, you could start charging for your manual labor.”

“you rich?” he returned.

you laughed. “far from it. but this is a service, and you haven’t started making demands so…”

he stopped and stared at your back before you turned around. “so what?”

“i have to assume you just like me.”

he rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his cheek twitched under his eyes. although it was hidden by the mask, you had made him smile.

“don’t get your hopes up.”

all of it was enough for you to get comfortable. and then he wasn’t there.

the absence was strange enough to make your pace stutter when you reached the second floor, but you recovered and trekked to your room.

not without glancing at his door, though.

he must be back at work. surely he isn’t…well. he couldn’t have moved out without telling you. you aren’t close but maybe you are?

you thought so hard about it for so long that you placed your ear to the wall separating your flats.

after a few moments, you heard nothing. not even a mouse breath.

you felt foolish for being so relieved. and you kept feeling foolish for hoping he’d be there with every errand, and disappointed when he wasn’t.

it was 4 more groceries trips before you saw him again.

waiting at the entrance of the complex, crossed arms and black attire stood out like a sore thumb in the winter blight that bit at your nose with snow and temperatures below freezing. you picked up the pace.

when you got to the cement steps, you sorely regretted your decision to jog. not because it winded you, or it amplified the struggle you had with your bags, but because of the smug smile you could see crinkling the bastards cheeks under his mask.

“you missed me.”

you handed him a bag. “i missed your arms. carry that.”

you could hear the grin from behind you.

“whatever you say, sweet’eart.”

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon x reader #simon x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #cod #ghost call of duty #call of duty

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the-shedevil-writes · 9 days ago

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Polaroids (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better. WORD COUNT: 2.3k WARNINGS: Bob gets angry in this one, folks. Cussing. Fighting. Hangman's an asshole- sorry. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

Bob didn’t like talking about his relationship. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of her, or that he felt ashamed. But in fact, the opposite. He’d seen these animals, he’d call co-workers, and how they’d treat girls. Granted, the squadron he was with now wasn’t so bad. Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy were hard flirts, but they had basic decency. He never felt embarrassed by their behavior when they went out to the bars, and they’d try and pick up a girl. If they were successful, they celebrated. If they weren’t, they’d walk away and move on.

But it was his past experiences with other pilots. Locker room talk always rubbed him the wrong way. He did his best not to judge these guys. He had those thoughts, too, but he had heard too many dehumanizing things said about women he knew and didn’t. So he preferred to keep his gorgeous girlfriend, Y/n, under wraps, even if he did trust his current friends.

They preferred to keep their lives separate anyway. With Bob having his work and friend group, and Y/n having hers. It kept their conversations interesting, as they had their own lives to discuss, not just their shared one.

The Dagger Squad, of course, would try and pry any information out of him. All they knew was that he had a girlfriend. Half the time, they’d forget what her name was because they had never met her, and Bob preferred not to talk about her, for fear they’d ask to see her.

He was surprised they didn’t notice the Polaroids. Taking pictures of his girl was his favorite thing to do besides flying. He wasn’t exactly a photographer. But he made good use out of the instant Polaroid camera she got him for Christmas. It was so much better than taking pictures on his phone because he could hold the memory in his hand. The light and the moment were captured and printed instantly just for him.

They were stuck everywhere. Photos over the years were plastered all over the inside of his locker. In his phone case was a picture of her wearing his glasses. And in the fold-out mirror of his truck was a photo of her taken off guard in the kitchen that she hated, but he loved. The one of her kissing his cheek was usually tucked in the front pocket of his flight suit. They all served as reminders of what he had waiting for him once his shift was over. His best friend and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life.

His favorite was the photo he taped to his control panel every day. It was a little beat up, naturally, but he made sure to keep that one in the best condition it could be. It was his good luck charm- the first Polaroid he had ever taken of her. It was Christmas morning, and she sat next to the lit tree, in his old Lemoore High School shirt that she had stolen for herself. She hugged the frankly huge teddy bear that he had gotten her. While the lights on the tree sparkled in the photo and cast a golden glow on her smiling face. For some reason, when he had it, the missions went better. The days went by more easily when he got to see his girl’s face after a stressful hiccup in flight.

It had been a long and grueling day flying under the sweltering sun. They had been training for a strike mission, and the dogfighting exercises had left him drenched in sweat, and owing Maverick 200 push-ups. Thanks, Payback, for the BRILLIANT idea. And thanks, Hangman, for doing what he did best- leaving him in the dust and pushing his buttons.

After an almost embarrassing amount of time, he walked back to the locker room with biceps so sore they screamed. He unzipped his flight suit and took his glasses off, using the white shirt underneath to clean the fog and sweat off them. He couldn’t wait to go home and find his girlfriend in her study, working. And he especially couldn’t wait to bug and distract her from all of it.

That’s when the sense of dread hit him, and he realized. He quickly checked all his pockets. Yes, the one of her kissing his cheek was there. But his lucky charm wasn’t in any of the other pockets. He rushed to climb out of his flight suit and scrambled to throw on a random shirt and shorts from his duffel. He couldn’t leave it in the jet. Who knew what maintenance would do if they found it? They’d probably just throw it away.

Throwing on his backpack, he sprinted back down to the hangar. He didn’t even notice the whole squadron standing around talking. He didn’t care. All he wanted was his favorite picture and for this horrible day to be over with.

The sunset shone on his forehead, exacerbating the glistening stress sweat. He quickly climbed the ladder onto the Super Hornet and looked inside the backseat interior. The only place it could be. And when he looked at the spot between the radar and the comms control, he put his face in his hands. It wasn’t there. The memory of the Christmas lights and the bear was missing.

“Fuck.” He said to himself. It was hard to get Bob to curse, but this felt like an appropriate occasion.

Then Hangman’s voice rang out behind him.

“Hey Baby on Board! You sure this isn’t a picture you found on Google?”

Bob’s head whipped back to find Jake Seresin holding the photo. On one hand, he was just grateful that someone had found it. On the other hand, out of all the pilots, he wished so deeply that it wasn’t Hangman.

He quickly climbed down the ladder. “Give me it back, please.” He said exasperated, and walked towards him.

Jake held the photo up so that Bob couldn’t get it. Neither of them was short, but Hangman was just slightly taller.

“I’m not kidding.” He said, trying his best to keep his cool. It took a lot to make Bob angry. He was typically level-headed and able to logically think things through. That’s why he was a WSO Top Gun Graduate, and not necessarily a pilot. But right then, his whole day had been building up inside him, and this was the one thing he didn’t mess around with.

“I just can’t believe that a babe like this is with a guy like you. Really, you should let me call her up.” He said teasingly with a smile. After leaving Bob and Phoenix stranded, AND doing this, Bob was at the end of his rope.

“Hangman, just give him back the photo,” Phoenix voiced with her arms crossed. She and Rooster watched the whole interaction, which just made him feel worse. This was humiliating. It was like they were boys in a school yard- which Bob would say was an apt description of most of the people he had worked with in the past.

He reached up for the photo and finally got a grip on it, but Hangman didn’t let go.

“I just think it’s funny! I wanna look at it. I think there’s more in his locker, too.”

“Just let go, Hangman.” His voice was less whiny and more serious now.

“No!” He grinned.

The two tussled and grabbed at the photo. It felt like a moment that was way too long. Until eventually they each pulled in a different direction, twisting it. It completely bent. Thankfully, it couldn’t rip because of the type of film, but the photo itself was fairly distorted. Bob’s heart beat out of his chest, and it was like his stomach twisted the same way the photo did.

He suddenly let go of the photo and pushed Hangman so hard he stumbled back, surprised. The photo slapped onto the pavement.

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE,” Bob said, following after him, ready to beat the shit out of him. Even though at first glance, most people would believe that Hangman would win in a fight between the two. It didn’t quite look it at the moment with the anger in Bob’s eyes and his arms pumped from the earlier push-ups.

Rooster quickly ran over and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. “HEY HEY HEY!”

Phoenix ran over and did the opposite, pushing her hand against Hangman’s chest, though he didn’t try to move forward. He knew he was in the wrong here, and it was clear by his guilty expression.

“Bob, man, calm down,” Rooster said. They all looked at him, surprised. Timid, awkward Bob was… kinda scary when he was pissed off. His glasses slightly crooked and red in the face. Maybe it was just strange to see him so out of control.

He slowly pushed Rooster off of him and walked over, grabbing the crumpled photo on the ground. After a failed attempt at straightening it out, he put it in his pocket and walked off, steaming.

That night, when he got home, he slammed the door. He was never the type to do that, but he felt so defeated. His duffel bag dropped to the floor uncaringly.

“Bob? Is that you?” Y/n called out from the study.

He sighed, a little relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” He said, his voice almost completely flat. That wasn’t normal. He’d usually meet her in the study, but at the sounds of distress, she quickly came out.

She walked out to find him hanging up his sweatshirt with a depressed look on his face. His usual smile was replaced by a small, tense frown, and his shoulders were high and stiff. Something was very wrong.

“Oh, baby.” She said, walking over, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was so gentle.

He sighed and quickly wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I need to shower,” He said, not having gotten the chance to on base. But he still squeezed her, needing the support dearly.

She shook her head against his chest. “What happened?” She knew he was trying to avoid it.

He stepped back and pulled the bent photo out of his pocket. “Hangman happened.”

She gasped at the sight of it in his hand. “Oh no… Is this a man or a dog we’re talking about here?” She asked confused, and that made him laugh a little. He was already so grateful to be home.

“Man. Though he definitely acts like a dog.” He groaned.

She gently took the photo from his hands. “I can try and fix it. Straighten it out. There might be a crease still in it, though.” She tried her best to flatten it out like he did, but to no avail.

He shook his head. “You can try, but I doubt it’ll be okay.”

That answer was so depressing, she looked up and tilted her head. “Hey, we’ll get it back to normal. I’ll look it up. How about you go shower and eat? I made pasta cause I was too lazy to be a real chef tonight.” She tried to lighten the air. “Then you can tell me all about your day.”

He sighed in relief. “You’re too good to me.” He said softly, pulling her in for a much-needed kiss.

And that’s exactly how they ended up sprawled on the couch, each with bowls of penne and vodka sauce. On the coffee table, the photo lay on a piece of wax paper and was buried under some thick fighter jet manuals Bob had.

“It was just like the whole day had been building up in me. Payback’s bet. Hangman leaving me and Phoenix dead in the water. The two hundred push-ups. And the photo going missing in the first place drove me crazy. So when he bent it, I just… exploded a little.” He admitted, almost ashamed to have lost control.

She sighed. “That’s okay. It was natural after all of that.” She reassured gently, reaching for his calf and squeezing it. “This Hangman guy sounds like a real douche.”

“Understatement.” He said, but he was feeling better talking through it all with her. “I just hope that the photo is okay. You know it’s my good luck charm, and if it’s not flat, it won’t stick to my console very well.”

A small smile appeared on her face. “It’s under some of the thickest books I’ve ever seen. If it’s not flattened, then that’s just defying gravity.” She said.

He exhaled again, relaxing, and it was like the tension in him completely dissipated. “You’re right.” He said gently.

“Hey, maybe after today he’ll leave you alone.” She suggested.

He scoffed, “Hangman? I give him less than a week before he starts using you against me.”

She chuckled and set her bowl down so she could lie down against him. “Hmmmm, gotta get you enrolled in anger management classes then.” She teased.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re funny.” He said sarcastically.

The next morning, he woke up at the crack of dawn per usual. He slowly slipped out of his girlfriend’s grasp, and she whined, half asleep. Their typical routine. He gently leaned down, ran his hand over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He whispered, and she subconsciously did so.

He got ready in his khaki uniform and walked out to the living room. On the table were the stacks of manuals. He very carefully took them off one by one and set them on the couch to soften the noise. Checking on the Polaroid, he sighed in relief as it was flat again. A small crease was across the middle, but at the very least, it was flat. He turned it around and saw something new. On the plain white back of the photo was a lipstick kiss mark over the folded line. In the tiniest pen was ‘A kiss to make it better’.

And the biggest smile grew on his face. This was better than he could’ve asked for.

Now he didn’t just have a good luck charm, but also a kiss to remember her by.

#bob floyd #lewis pullman #lewis pullman fic #robert floyd #robert floyd fic #top gun #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fic #bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd fic #robert bob floyd #bob floyd fanfiction

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dead-flight · 1 month ago

Text

neighbour!simon x reader

⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist -> REQUESTS OPEN!

cw: simon riley x reader, smut, sir? kink?, mild overstim?, size difference, creampie + multiple orgamsmsmsmsm (r)

simon was not the type to enjoy moving about. in fact, simon hated it. hated how moving required picking up what life he'd established, even if it were small. he didn't understand how people could pack their lives up and ship across the country just like that.

'til he did. wasn't really a must, but he wanted to downsize. needed something a little smaller than what he had. it's not like he spent all his time there anyways--he was usually on base, and taking care of a bigger apartment was asking too much.

so he packed up, moved a few blocks away, holed up in a little apartment building. the day he moved in, carrying just a few boxes (he didn't have much to begin with), he couldn't help but notice the person right beside his door.

cute. you were wide-eyed and cute. stared at him across the hallway before sheepishly asking him if he minded moving out of your way so you could get to your apartment. lo and behold, you opened the door beside his and slipped in.

simon didn't give it much thought, to be honest. didn't really care how cute you were. he wasn't the type to want anyone, let alone a little girl. he doubted you could defend yourself if you joined a fistfight with a gun.

but you thought differently. walked past his apartment extra times a day, hoping you'd catch him on the way out so you could get a better look at his biceps, or the scar on his cheek, dragging down to his lip.

you lengthened your grocery lists, made sure the bags were a tiny bit too heavy, just in case you might see him in the parking lot and ask him for help.

you knocked on his door in the afternoon, shyly looking up at him with those big doe eyes, biting your lip and asking him, "um, sir, do you mind helping? my sink is leaking... and i just don't want to... bother anyone else."

simon was pissed, the first time he had met you. he always heard some kind of excited prattling from through the thin walls, as you excitedly rambled to a friend. you just talked, and talked, and talked--simon's head was going to fall off.

so maybe, if it shut you up, he'd entertain your silly little requests.

when you asked him how to fix your sink, so cutely, how could he say no?

so here he was, under your sink, on his back, his shirt under his head as he'd taken it off. (maybe you'd increased the AC in your room, hoping he'd take his shirt off. sneaky little thing.)

you sat on the counter, uncaring about what he was saying about your sink, hooked on the slight rasp of his voice and the way his abs flexed as he tightened your pipes.

then simon was done, and you grabbed his arm as he sat up, picking up his shirt. "sir? can i pay you? um... don't have much money on me to give you, but i could give you something else."

and fuck him, you were so needy. felt your hand on his arm tighten every time he moved as if to leave. simon knew he was falling straight into a trap, and if he was being honest, he's not sure he minded. he sighs, the crease between his brows deepening. "'yer alright, luv. ain't gonna ask y'for anythin'."

you pouted. like a sad, kicked pup. pouted at him. "please? stay a bit, let me... um. i can make you something to eat. cookies? i make really good cookies."

simon was really good at dodging negotiation tactics. really good at surviving the harshest forms of torture. but he hadn't been trained to dodge the torture suddenly straining in his pants as he took you in, pretty pink frills on your skirt, your thighs which dissapeared under the fabric. so he stayed, sat there whilst you busied about the kitchen, whipping together some cookies.

when they were done, you presented them to him, real giddy, jumping on your heels. "here, try one."

before he could reach for one, you sat yourself in his lap, right on top of him, offering the cookie to his lips. simon grunts, his hand instinctively moving to grip your hip. "watch y'rself, luv. don' wanna start somethin' you ain't gonna finish."

shame, that you were so confident, really. maybe then you wouldn't have ended up grinding on his lap like a bitch in heat. maybe then he wouldn't have bent you right over the counter, pushing your pretty skirt up to leer at the sopping wet patch of underwear over your cunt. "mh, she's real pretty, eh, luv?"

you were so confident up until you came on his fingers. simon didn't even give you a second to think, his fingers pressing deeper, squishing against your gummy walls. "c'mere, darlin', jus' wanna have some more."

and in one smooth stroke of his cock, after a second orgasm, the rest of your confidence dissapeared. the stretch burned, like he was splitting you in half, god, he was too fucking big. "s-sir, sir, it's too big..."

"hush, take it," he grunts, practically folding you over, his hips forcing against yours, his hand on your jaw. his thumb rubs over the corner of your mouth, swiping up the drool that slips from your mouth.

poor thing. you shouldn't have poked the bear, but you just couldn't help it, could you? craved the way his cock filled you up so good. he was going to ruin you for everyone else.

"you... you on the pill, darling?" he grunts out into your ear, heavy breaths puffing against your skin.

"ah, fffuck... yes, please. please, sir, want you..." you're cut off by a desperate moan as he thrusts into you heavily, his bodyweight pressing against you. the chain around his neck, dog tags, press into the skin on your back, branding against your skin, leaving a little red mark, pressing his name into you.

when he comes inside you, he huffs, rubbing your clit gently as he pulls out, softening cock resting against your thigh. "good fuckin' girl."

safe to say, you may just have to poke the bear a little bit more.

written by dead-flight. do not copy, translate, or give to ai.

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aureatelys · 1 month ago

Text

not the desperate type

pairing: aaron hotchner/neighbor!reader genre: smut!! w.c. 5.7k a/n: ty to @minswriting for not only enabling me, but also being so supportive, ily <3

summary: The apartment across from Hotch's has been empty for as long as he can remember. And then you move in, and you always seem to forget to close your blinds.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, perv!hotch so kinda creepy, voyeurism/exhibitionism, m & f masturbation, sex toys, hotch pov, jack mention

read below or on ao3 here <3

It was a warm spring day when Hotch glanced out his bedroom window and spotted you in the apartment across from his.

You’ve clearly just moved in, as you were struggling with a large cardboard box in your arms and had sweat dripping down the side of your face that he could see even from here.

He didn’t pay you any mind, instead just closing the blinds so he could catch up on some well-deserved sleep after a week-long case.

The next day, when he comes home close to midnight and Jack was already asleep, he had forgotten about you completely. When he closed his bedroom door to get ready for bed and noticed your light was on from the window, he felt a ripple of surprise.

The apartment across from his has been empty for as long as he’s lived there, which was why he always left the blinds partially open because he knew there was a slim chance of someone peering in. He’s gotten used to opening his bedroom window and seeing nothing but the brick wall of the neighboring apartment complex and plastic shutters.

He makes a mental note to make sure he shuts his blinds before he leaves for work every day, and when he approaches his window to do just that, he frowns.

You have your bedroom strangely laid out, which Hotch only notices because your bed was placed right in the middle of the room facing the window, thus in his direct eyeline. He wonders why you chose to do that and how impractical it was, but then he notices you.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the blue screen illuminating your features. You’re pretty, at least 20 years younger than him, and you’re wearing pajama shorts that were riding up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs from where Hotch was standing, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses because he could clearly see your nipples poking through the fabric, pebbling from your air-conditioned room.

Something unfamiliar stirs in the pit of Hotch’s stomach, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth into nothing at the fierce intensity of it. His gaze doesn’t stray from your figure, memorizing the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a delicate touch and the way your smile transforms your face into something softer, more innocent.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he hears a ding from his phone, most likely Garcia miserably informing him of a new case via text laden with colorful emojis and frowny faces. When he reaches over to pick up his suit jacket that he had just tossed haphazardly onto a dresser, he ignores the uncomfortable tightening of his slacks, his half-hard dick pressing against the zipper.

He spares another glance out his window and through yours and is rattled with disappointment when your blinds are closed, only allowing shreds of your golden bedroom lamp to cut through the darkness of the alley.

Hotch frowns, frustration curling up his spine, before he reaches over to finally close his own blinds and head back to the office.

He can’t stop thinking about the peak of your cleavage he caught or the huff of a laugh he could almost imagine the entire flight to Kansas.

The first time he actually meets you, face to face, was less than a five-minute interaction.

Not only was it pouring rain, thus increasing his commute time to the office by at least 20 minutes, but his coffee machine broke on him this morning, dying with a pathetic spluttering noise. He wasn’t going to have time to stop somewhere so he’s going to have to put up with the shitty office coffee and he ran out of clean socks because he hadn’t had the chance to do laundry yet.

So, he’s annoyed—frustration blooming hot in his chest and causing him to grind his molars, a horrible habit he’s been trying to quit.

When he steps out of his apartment complex to head around the building to the garage, he sees you.

You’re standing under the awning in front of your building. You’re dressed professionally in a pencil skirt and a white blouse, hair and makeup impeccably done. You’re chewing on your lip, glancing up at the street and down at your phone intermittently. He assumes you’re about to head out to your job or, most likely, a job interview since you’ve just only moved here, and you’re waiting for your ride.

His legs move of his own accord, drawn in by the soft drape of your hair across your shoulder and ignoring the nagging text from Rossi, until he’s standing a respectable 3 feet away from you.

“Do you need a ride?”

You jump, startled, and when you meet his gaze, Hotch can detect the faint swirl of recognition.

From this distance, he can smell the light and sweet notes of your perfume. He can see the swell of your breasts under your blouse, even a peak of a modest nude bra that has him clenching his fist around his umbrella. The pencil skirt clings to you, showcasing your curves and the long line of your legs. There’s a stay droplet of rain on your collarbone that you haven’t noticed yet and Hotch quickly tucks away the urge to swipe it away for you.

“Oh,” you blink at him, eyes wide. “No thank you, I’m just waiting for my Lyft.”

Hotch nods, about to turn away with the memory of that water droplet traveling between the valley of your breasts, when you surprise him.

“You live in the other building, right? Window facing mine with a cute little boy with blonde hair?”

The mention of Jack should raise alarms for him, yet instead, he’s only a little curious, mostly just pleased that he’s able to continue talking to you and learn more about you. Who cares if he was a little late?

“Yes, that’s my son, Jack. You can’t hear him yelling all the way from your apartment, can you?”

You laugh, a light tinkling noise, and it does nothing to quell the sudden burst of affection and want in Hotch’s chest. Your eyes crinkle, one of your hands lifting to cover your mouth, and he resists the urge to frown at not being able to see the full radiant display of your smile. “No, no, I’ve just seen him running around during the day when your blinds are open.”

A subtle thrill runs up Hotch’s spine at that, realizing that you’ve been able to peer into his room and into his home the same way that he has been doing to you. He wonders whether you’ve been checking out your window throughout the day, hoping to get a glimpse of him like he does before he leaves for the day or comes back home.

He gets a better chance at seeing you once he gets home, the earlier the better. Half of the time, your blinds are closed, and Hotch has to go to bed with disappointment sunken deep into his bones.

Hotch huffs a laugh, secretly glad that he hasn’t been caught yet. “I’m sorry if he’s distracting. I should probably close the blinds before I leave anyway.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind.” You smile, soft and warm and definitely not something Hotch necessarily believes he deserves. All the stress and hurriedness from this morning melts away, leaving him with a distinctive feeling of possessiveness in his chest.

Before Hotch can even formulate a response, one that did not expose the way his thoughts fixate on you nearly every waking second, a car pulls up to the curb.

You give him another smile, smaller and nearly regretful, but he doesn’t miss the slow onceover you give him or the spark of intrigue in your gaze. “That’s my ride. See you around.”

Heat runs through Hotch’s body at that, something wild clawing its way up his throat that he had been trying to suppress for years. He clenches his fist where he’s still holding his umbrella over himself, as if foolishly hopeful that you were going to take him up on his offer to drive you to wherever you needed to go, maybe even taking the long way since you were likely new to the city just so your perfume could take it’s time to seep into the upholstery.

He hasn’t been with another woman in months, but he likes to think he knows when another woman was flirting with him, even someone as young and ambitious as you.

He watches the way your skirt rides up your thigh when you climb into the car, the polite smile you give to the driver, and the little wave you give Hotch before you shut the door.

There was something fascinating about you, piquing his interest in a way that had him itching for the day to be over, just so he could get a glimpse of you through his window before bed.

The next few weeks pass slowly. At least, when it comes to you.

There had been back-to-back cases, all local and blending together where Hotch wasn’t even sure when he had slept. It had felt like he was coming home to his bed, closing his eyes for three seconds, and then back on his feet and back at the office. He had to deal with the local cops being horribly ignorant, the unsub being frustratingly smarter than expected, and the precinct coffee being decidedly lukewarm.

The only reprieve he had was coming home late, exhaustion grinding down on his bones, and catching you across the way through his window.

Sometimes your blinds would already be drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and raw disappointment would make him frown and keep him from falling asleep right away. He’d wonder if you were getting ready for bed or if you had fallen asleep with the TV on, hair splayed out on your pillow and the strap of your tank top slipping down your shoulders.

Most of the time, when he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he had saw you. Laptop placed in your lap or off to the side, you’d be fiddling on your phone and not paying attention to whatever was on the screen. Sometimes, you’d be sitting at your desk, placed by your bed, so Hotch was able to see the way you swung your legs from your pink desk chair and the furrow in your brow as you chewed on a pencil while pouring over a notebook. Maybe you were in school? Or this was something related to your job, or even something you did for fun?

Hotch thinks he would be able to watch you all day and not get bored; drinking in the way you’d pick at your nails and the methodical way you applied your chapstick nearly every hour. You liked to wear baggy clothes in the comfort of your apartment, several sizes too large and muted in color. You liked to have a cup of tea before bed and you always left the mug until the morning, too comfortable to get out of bed.

Tonight, however, you were decidedly not home.

Hotch furrows his brow, checking his watch again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It was late, past midnight, and you still weren’t home yet.

He tries not to let it bother him—you were a grown woman with a career and it was a Friday night. Maybe you were still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

Maybe you were out on a date.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and molten jealousy flaring in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows it’s unreasonable, because he barely knows you. He’s lived across from you for several months now and you’ve only exchanged a handful of words.

He somehow has been able to run into you at least twice a week while he’s heading out in the morning. You’re always standing out in front of your building, waiting for your ride, and the way your smile lights up your face whenever you catch him out the door has Hotch nearly begging for you to let him drive you to work every time.

He never had the chance to talk to you besides a quick “Good morning,” to which you always cheerily responded with “Hope you have a good day!” and a little wave.

He barely knows you, but the possibility that you were on a date with someone else was almost unbearable.

Your date wouldn’t know that you liked to fold yourself up in your desk chair to get comfortable, or that you always made sure to pat what looked like a childhood stuffed bear on your nightstand before turning off your lamp, or even that you liked to lay in bed for 15 minutes after getting home from work to do nothing besides stare at the ceiling.

Hotch attempts to continue his nightly routine, hoping the annoying weight of his jealousy would eventually dissipate before he went to bed.

He’s debating staying up a bit later to catch up on some paperwork, the adrenaline and the coffee he had earlier this evening still thrumming through his veins, when your bedroom light comes on.

Eyes immediately drawn through his blinds and into the familiar gold light of your bedroom, that jealousy flares hot again when he notices you kicking off your heels, wearing a short dress that seemed to hug every soft curve of your body.

So you were on a date.

Not a very good date, Hotch assumes, by the way you toss your heels aside a little harder than necessary or the way your bare shoulders are tense, barely relaxing as you heave out a sigh that he can almost hear from here.

Hotch pauses from where he was about to grab his stack of files he threw on his bed, frozen on the spot as he watches you mutter to yourself. You’re rolling your eyes, throwing your hands up and shaking your head, starting to take out your earrings.

Your hair is carefully done and makeup absolutely pristine, visible even from Hotch’s place at his window. Hotch can tell you’re annoyed that it’s all gone to waste as you pull your hair up, fidgeting in your tight dress.

And then you’re shimmying out of it, exposing a delicate lavender bra and matching panties. They’re lacey, hugging your hips and the slopes of your breasts, nearly sheer and at risk of exposing the peak of your nipples. The sudden exposure of your thighs and your stomach has Hotch reeling, breath hitching and reaching out to grasp at the edge of the windowsill as he’s hit with an onslaught of all-consuming desire while all the blood in his head travels south.

You bend over to pick your dress up from the floor and throw it in the overflowing hamper in the corner of the room. His gaze is immediately drawn to your ass, suddenly imagining having you bent over while he grabs at your hips to pull you on and off his cock, and his slacks tighten impossibly more.

Hotch, realizing that he may be staring for too long and too obviously, tears his gaze away from your window to fixate on the pile of papers on his bed. The sound of blood rushing through his ears is deafening as he tries to count backwards from 100 or imagine the details of the crime scene from the other day—anything in an effort to drive away the image of your tits spilling out of your bra that’s somehow already been seared into his brain.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut to ignore the alluring glow of your light spilling into his bedroom, pinching at the bridge of his nose, before his breathing has steadied, his pants significantly more comfortable than before.

He swallows, throat dry, and hopes that working through his case notes for the next two hours and examining crime scene photos will bury the sinful thoughts he has of you.

When he peeks out of the corner of his eye out his window before stepping out of his bedroom, he notices your blinds have been drawn and the light was off. Hotch ignores the flare of exhilaration at not getting caught once again.

There’s no harm in looking, right?

The next time he catches you, he’s not so lucky.

Another draining case and another night of Hotch coming home late into the evening, it was too late to pick Jack up from Jessica’s house.

There was a pounding headache digging behind his eyes, causing him to clench his jaw harder with each step he took as he unlocks his front door. His stomach growled, mouth feeling spectacularly dry, and Hotch wants nothing more than to crawl into bed with his clothes still on, if it meant that he could get two more minutes of sleep.

The visceral image of you in that matching lingerie set that you so cleverly hid underneath your dress and the soft expanse of your thighs has been imprinted behind his eyelids for weeks. The swell of your tits encased in your lacey bra and the curve of your throat just begging to be marked had been haunting him nearly every second.

He had tried so hard to resist when his thoughts wandered to you while he showered or before falling asleep, cock swelling just at the thought of you peering up at him from his bed.

It only took one day for him to give in—wrapping a reluctant hand around his throbbing cock and fucking into his fist until he came embarrassingly fast with a choked groan, watching the way his come swirled down the drain while something akin to shame snaked its way into his brain.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

He hadn’t had the chance to see you since then, not even outside the front of your building in the mornings. Hotch tried not to let it affect his day, his routine that he didn’t even realize he had been thrown off, but he found himself imagining your soft smile and sweet perfume to tide him over until he came home.

He’s sliding off his suit jacket to throw over his dresser and glances out his window, now as much of an instinct as breathing.

He heaves a sigh of relief, the stress headache prodding into his temple gradually simmering away, when he notices you already tucked into bed, book in hand. The golden glow from your lamp illuminates your features and Hotch is able to discern the sleepy droop of your eyes and the stifled yawn from this distance.

He doesn’t recognize the cover and can’t read the title despite it being blazed in bold letters; however, he assumes that it wasn’t very riveting based on the way you’ve been stuck on the same page for the past two minutes. Hotch could tell that you were about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, and the possibility of seeing you asleep, unguarded so he could watch you without risk of being caught, has something warm settling in his chest.

He briefly turns away to lock his gun and badge in the closet safe, and when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air rushing out of his lungs in an instant.

You’ve tossed your novel aside, placed haphazardly on your nightstand, and you’ve thrown the covers back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, having had forgone shorts this late into the night.

From where Hotch was standing, he had a clear view of the way your blush pink panties melded to your pussy, a wet spot already forming in the center. Your head was thrown back, lips parted as you let out a noise, and Hotch swears he could almost hear the breathy moan you make if he strains his ears hard enough.

He should look away—he needs to look away. You don’t know he’s watching you pinch your nipple, letting it harden through the fabric underneath your fumbling fingers, while his slacks grow inexplicably tighter and his breath stutters.

But you’re just so pretty—eyelashes fluttering as you move to your other breast to continue the same motions, brows furrowed as you try to chase that pleasure undoubtedly thrumming up your spine.

Hotch lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides in an effort to keep himself from giving in and wrapping a hand around himself, despite the fact that watching you touch yourself was a wet dream come true.

Were you reading a dirty novel and got too worked up? Or were you watching something on your phone earlier and needed some overdue relief?

He watches your chest dip and rise, breath growing heavier, as both of your hands trace light patterns down your sides before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing them randomly on the floor.

He suddenly imagines what he would do to you if he was there—leaving marks on your neck until you were whimpering or laving and playing with your nipples until you begged him for more. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket while at the office and still detecting your slick on the fabric, and having to bite his bottom lip in the bathroom stall as he brought himself off with your panties wrapped around his aching cock.

You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead sliding the straps off your shoulders and tugging them down until your breasts were freed, fabric pooling around your abdomen.

And now you’re completely bare for Hotch to see—nipples tugged into stiff peaks, stomach tensing underneath your hand as you trail down to squeeze at the flesh of your thigh, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening cunt.

“Fuck…” he mutters, heaving a frustrated sigh as he reluctantly palms his erection through his slacks. He groans at the instant relief, hoping that it would tide him over until later tonight, when you’re done touching yourself so he can take care of himself in the shower.

The front of his slacks is already damp, precum leaking from his head and seeping through the fabric, and the rough glide against the tip of his cock has his chest feeling hollowed out as he imagines your hand. You’d be on your knees, peering up at him underneath those long eyelashes, mouth parted and begging to taste him.

Hotch watches intently as your fingers leave the apex of your thighs where you were raking your nails down your skin to finally your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your own slick around, making sure to avoid your puffy clit.

He licks his lips, mouth suddenly watering, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and worshipped the way it deserves.

He could give you that—sucking on your clit and tonguing at your entrance until your fingers card through his hair to tug him closer, grinding against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and come over and over with a strangled cry. He thinks he could be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever you wanted.

He knows you’d taste delicious, heavenly, just by admiring the shine of your fingers as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Your hips cant up then, no doubt sensitive from your brief teasing, while your free hand comes up to squeeze your breast.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, focusing on the familiar ecstasy that only your own fingers could elicit, and Hotch feels a little less guilty when he hesitantly undoes his belt and unbuttons his slacks to slide a warm hand to wrap around his aching cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He lets out a throaty groan, heart racing, as he starts up a lazy rhythm up and down his cock, the leaking head continuing to rub against the damp fabric of his boxers.

He has to squeeze the base, arousal thrumming hot and rampant at the base of his spine, when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit and you writhe against your sheets. He suddenly feels as if he’s there in the room with you—able to discern the light sheen of sweat that’s started to form over your supple skin and the continuous slick leaking out of your entrance.

When you trail your fingers down to gather your wetness and push a finger inside, Hotch swears he can almost hear your sudden gasp, as if surprised. He leans his forehead against the wall, the coolness doing nothing to subdue the fire burning underneath his skin, the heat of his heavy cock in his own hand.

It would be nearly impossible, unbearable, to stop watching you now as you pump your index finger in and out of your pussy. Hotch makes a strangled noise as he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his slacks, letting the fabric hang crudely around his waist, as the cool air provides a miniscule amount of relief to the head of his cock. He starts a steady pace now, no longer restrained due to his pants, jerking his cock as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers.

He can almost feel the softness of your skin as he would grasp your hip as you attempt to thrust down to meet his fingers, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes as you begged for his fat cock.

I have to make sure you’re ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?

Suddenly, you’re pulling your finger out, and Hotch nearly comes from the sight of the pearly white trail of your slick still connected to your folds. He’s tightening his grip around the base of his cock, toes nearly curling into the carpet, as he watches with bated breath as you sit up slightly to twist your body to reach for something in the drawer of your nightstand.

He drinks in the curve of your ass, the dip of your spine, and grunts when he notices the pool of your own arousal having had dripped down onto your bedsheets.

When you’ve resituated yourself on your back, Hotch nearly passes out at the sight of a bright purple dildo— slender, easily 8 inches, and curved inwards with a separate add-on to press against your clit.

A rabbit toy, Hotch faintly discerns, nearly dizzy at the fact that he’s lucky and pathetic enough to watch you get yourself off with it.

He’s fallen off the deep end, completely consumed by you, he realizes, as he watches you drag the head of the dildo between the seam of your pussy, spreading your slick around and onto the silicone. You must be impatient, needy, because you then notch the head against your weeping entrance and begin to press the dildo in.

Your hips still, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch, but you throw your head back so beautifully, mouth falling open on a broken moan. Hotch’s heated gaze fixates between your thighs, where he can see the way your pussy opens up for the toy, can almost feel the way your walls would flutter around his own aching cock.

You push the toy all the way in and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your mouth forming a stuttered curse while your free hand slides up to grab at your breast, running your fingers along your pebbled nipple.

You pause for a moment, chest rising and falling as the toy bottoms out in you, the clit stimulator flush against you, and Hotch wonders if this is how you would act if he was fucking your tight cunt instead. Would you squirm just as much as you are now, hips fidgeting from how restless and needy you were? Or would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, making you lay there and take it?

When you start moving the toy out of you to push it back in, finally fucking yourself with it, Hotch finds his own hand has moved of their own accord, starting a pace similar to yours.

Precum leaks steadily over his cock and Hotch uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide of his hand smoother and filling him with the desire to close his eyes and savor it.

But he can’t—not when you were laying in your messy bed, the glow of your lamp softening your features in a heady haze.

His gaze follows the movement of the toy as your thrusts increase in speed, making sure you were fucking yourself all the way to the hilt before out again. Your slick was spread all over the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, and Hotch licks his lips as he imagines the lewd squelching sounds of his cock fucking his hand filling his ears was your pussy instead.

You’d be so fucking wet for him as he splits you open, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. He can almost imagine the breathy whines and the strangled groans you’d be making, your nails raking down his biceps as he held you down by your hips or pressed your knees into your chest.

And then your grip on the toy wavers as your fingers fumble around the handle before finding and pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back, spine nearly arching up as you increase the intensity with every click.

He watches your mouth open and close, possibly shouting out expletives, as you push the toy deeper so the vibration of the toy hits your clit dead on.

His hand is a blur on his shaft, squeezing at the head, breath coming out in stutters. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, and its a near Herculean effort to slow himself down and not come at the thought of how tightly your pussy would squeeze around him from the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.

Hotch curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your mouth falling open on a ragged moan, brows furrowing. He can tell you were close—thighs shaking, your hips switching between canting up to meet the faltering rhythm of the toy’s thrusts and stilling so it presses against your clit.

He starts up his own relentless pace, stroking his hard cock and squeezing on the upstroke at the same time you grinded the toy into yourself, desperately imagining how you’d soak him until you were dripping all over his thighs and onto the sheets.

When you finally come, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful. He stares as if in a trance, as your face scrunches up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening on a silent scream as your entire body stills besides the desperate stuttered rolls of your hips against the toy, the clitoral stimulator pressed so hard against you he wonders if it hurts.

When you come down from your orgasm, still panting into the air, something unfamiliar curls in Hotch’s chest, nestling itself in with the heat of his arousal, when you weakly smile to yourself. Your eyes are still shut, as if relishing in the syrupy weakness of your bones, and you giggle breathlessly.

Hotch lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins tugging at his rock-hard cock frantically, the nearly continuous stream of precum aiding him. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his loud breathing fills the room, the pressure in his stomach threatening to snap. He lets his eyes drift close, now content knowing he wasn’t going to miss another second of your show.

He imagines staring down at you while your pussy swallowed his cock, the way your tits would bounce with each deep thrust, the way your eyes would be glossed over, so fucked out from his fat cock that you’d be whining unabashedly. He imagines you begging for him to come inside of you with that sweet, honeyed voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy cunt.

The pressure finally fractures and he’s coming with a deep groan, thighs tensing, while hot spurts of his release coat his hand as he slows down his fist. He doesn’t stop, not when this was possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had, and the full-body twitch when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has his knees weak.

He tries to catch his breath, his pulse gradually slowing in his ears. Exhilaration and guilt swirls together at the pit of his stomach, quickly replacing the heated arousal that’s made a near permanent residence. He was content watching you every once in a while, able to brush it off as being a curious neighbor, but now he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to meet your gaze again without remembering the way your hips stuttered as you came.

It was a one time thing. He won’t ever watch you like that again.

When he finally opens his eyes, back aching from how long he’s been standing by the window and his hand sticky with his release, he instinctually glances out the window.

You’re not on your bed, most likely having gone to your bathroom to clean up and leaving behind a stain on your bedsheets. What catches his eye is the scrap of notebook paper taped onto the window, words written large enough for him to read, as well as the unmistakable ten digits of your phone number.

If you want to join me next time ;)

taglist <3 @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna @ssa-writerminds

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x reader smut #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner fic #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch hotchner #mine

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smileysuh · 4 months ago

Text

hotel california

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “Time is a funny thing in this place. I know it’s been days, weeks, years even- that I’ve been here, but I don’t know for how long. I eat, I sleep, I drink- I repeat. I don’t grow old, I don’t get sick. I just am. It’s fucking boring if I’m behind honest with you, or at least it was. It’s been a while since we had someone new show up at the hotel, and even longer since that someone was as gorgeous as you.”

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, fingering, pussy eating, blow job, roughhousing, dirty talk, praise, finger sucking, multiple sex positions, spanking, mentions of pain kink, mentions of masturbation, breast worship, watching yourself in the mirror while you fuck, etc… I pet names: (hers) gorgeous.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 9.9k

🍭 aus. Non idol au, strangers to lovers, song as inspo, etc..

☀️ mlist + an. I’ve wanted to tackle ‘The Hotel California’ song by Eagles for ages, and after months of thinking about how to do it best, I think I finally did it justice. I wanted to also draw some inspiration from the tv show ‘The White Lotus,’ with the first season (and the first season’s Hotel Manager) being particularly interesting to me. I’m really excited about this fic, and I hope you guys enjoy it!

One:

Driving across the Californian desert after a twelve-hour shoot had not been your plan, but being double booked by your agent had left you with little choice in the matter. You’re still a blooming model, and you can’t yet afford the luxury of easy flights- no, you have to do it yourself, and it’s determination that’s driving you as you speed down the highway with the sun beginning to set.

You’re exhausted, and you can feel your body beginning to tire from your long hours, but you push on. In an effort to keep yourself awake, you put on some music, doing your best to focus on the long winding roads as you take the liminal path between one civilization to the other.

It’s a pretty drive if nothing else, at least as the sun sets, but once the purple and pink sky has faded to black, the whole thing feels monotonous.

You yawn loudly, pushing harder on your gas pedal. There are no cops out here this deep in the desert, and if it saves you even ten minutes to speed, it will be well worth it.

It’s hard to concentrate, and you can feel yourself getting drowsier and drowsier, your eyelids getting heavier with each passing breath, but you’re in too deep to pull off on the side of the road.

Your body is relaxing, succumbing to the exhaustion. Your eyes begin to close- and just as you’re on the precipice of falling asleep at the wheel, your car makes a rough sound.

Body lurching with anxiety, your heart thumps wildly in your chest, and once again, your car makes a noise it shouldn’t be making.

With a loud groan, you slowly pull off to the side of the road, and that’s when the engine begins to billow smoke out from under your hood.

You reach for your phone, only to find it’s dead, and with a loud, “Fuck!” you get out of your car.

It takes you a second to remember how to pop the hood, after all, you’re a model, not a mechanic. As the hood lifts, a gust of hot smokey steam flairs up at you, and without your phone to use as a light, you can only rely on the rays of the moon to guide you as you fiddle with your car on the side of the road in the middle of the desert.

After five minutes of panic, you decide to give up. As you look around, you realize there’s a light in the distance. It’s a faint light, but a light nonetheless.

You return to your car, sitting there for a while as you decide what to do.

Leaving your vehicle on the side of the road isn’t exactly the best-case scenario, but neither is staying with it overnight- you’ve heard that the desert can get cold when the sun goes down, and you’re already feeling chilly.

You weigh your options. After a while, you collect your things from the trunk and begin to make the trek down the long desert road toward the lights that symbolize civilization of some sort.

Two:

“Welcome to The Hotel California,” a peppy man smiles when you approach the front desk.

It turns out the lights you’d seen from your car had belonged to a cute one-story terracotta hotel. You didn’t realize there were hotels along this stretch of road, but relief floods through you as you approach the man whose badge says ‘Jeonghan. hotel manager.’

“Hello,” you smile, releasing a sigh. “My car broke down a little ways up the road.”

“Well that’s not very good,” he frowns, empathizing with you.

“I need a room for the night, and I’d appreciate it if I could use a phone to call for someone to come and look at my car in the morning,” you explain.

“I can get that settled for you,” he assures you, writing something down in the notebook in front of him. “A room for one?”

“Yes, it’s just me,” you confirm.

“Name?”

You give him your information, reaching into your bag for your credit card.

“We won’t need any form of payment until check out,” Jeonghan assures you. “Anything you eat or drink or do will be added to your tab, and you can deal with it another time.”

“Thank God, you have no idea how exhausted I am.”

“I’ll have our bellhop escort you to your room and help with your bags,” the hotel manager smiles. He waves over a man, whose nametag reads ‘Seungkwan,’ and with another nod and a grin to you, the manager watches you walk off.

You take a moment to look around. While the exterior of the hotel had been very rustic, the interior is Art Deco. There are many mirrors, and the lobby has a few red velvet couches strewn about. It’s actually kind of cute for a hotel in the middle of nowhere, and you’re thankful you’d come across it.

If your car had broken down even five minutes before, you doubt you would have seen the lights of The Hotel California, and then where would you be?

Three:

You wake as light peaks through the blinds of your room. With a yawn, you sit up in bed, immediately reaching for your phone on the bedside table.

Although you’d plugged it in to charge the night before, the screen is still dead.

Your heart sinks in your chest, and with a groan of exasperation, you stand up.

After putting on clothes and making yourself feel presentable, you head out in search of the lobby, where you find Jeonghan behind the front desk as he had been last night.

“Hi,” you greet him. “I was wondering if you have any news about my car?”

“We called a towing company, they had to come out from the nearest town. No word yet on what’s wrong with your car or how long it will take to fix.”

It’s hard to hide your disappointment as you release a deep breath. “So… I’m stuck here.”

“It would appear that way,” Jeonghan smiles politely.

As you’re about to leave, you remember the other point of contention on your mind, and you turn to look at the hotel manager again. “I tried to charge my phone last night, and I’m not sure if it’s a problem with my charger or your outlet, but it didn’t charge.”

“I can take your phone for you for now, and I’ll see if one of the chargers or outlets we have here will work,” he suggests.

You stare at him. The idea of giving up your phone doesn’t sit right with you, but at this point, you’re too tired to care. Although you’d gotten sleep, your body still feels exhausted- how many hours had you even gotten in bed?

“What time is it?” you ask.

“I think it’s time for you to get a watch,” the hotel manager teases.

“Right…” you trail off, pulling your phone out of your pocket to hand to him. “Please get this back to me once it’s charged, I’ve gotta call my agent and maybe rearrange a mode of transportation or something.”

“Go relax and I’ll deal with all of this,” Jeonghan assures you. “We’ve got a morning buffet in the dining room just down the hall, I suggest you go and get your strength up.”

“Thank you.”

You follow his direction down a few corridors to a dining room. It’s a lovely space, with one line of glass walls that look out at the desert. The style choice is as art deco as the lobby, and while you’d found it charming at first, you’re already getting sick of the mirrors everywhere.

A large table lines the far wall, and there are many silver trays with food on them. Heading over there, you find a plate and begin to choose what you want to eat.

As you make a dish for yourself, you look around, noting that there aren’t very many guests in the hotel. You suppose that it’s a very odd location for a hotel, and its remote nature is probably the reason you only see a handful of people around.

Once your plate is full, you approach one of the many empty tables, taking a seat and looking around once more.

There are two men dressed in suits, and you immediately assume they’re in business of some sort. You wonder what they’re doing here of all places, but you don’t dwell on it for long, not when you notice that their table is covered with plates.

They’re both rather lean men, so you wonder how they plan to eat all the food in front of them, but you decide not to be a person who pries. After all, you’re only going to be here a short time, you don’t have to care about what others are doing around you.

Your gaze shifts to a man seated near the windows. His hair is dark and curly, and he has a pair of glasses on. His gaze is focused on a book in his hands, and you notice the only thing on his table is a lemon water.

For some reason, he gives you monk vibes, and you wonder how a man so young and attractive can be so peaceful in his way of living.

The hair on the back of your neck prickles, and you realize someone is watching you. There’s a man in the corner of the room, and on second glance, you realize he’s next to a record player. He stares at you for a few seconds, then lifts an entire bottle of whiskey to his lips.

He makes you uncomfortable, and after that, you just focus on your own plate, repeating to yourself that this will all be over soon.

Four:

After breakfast, you head back to your room, and when you get there, you’re surprised to find both your laptop and all your charging cords are missing.

You scramble through your bags, hoping you just misplaced them- but no, your electronics are gone, and it makes your heart race with anxiety.

You all but run back to the lobby, but when you arrive, Jeonghan is not there.

Looking around, you realize there’s a bar set up in the corner, and you quickly make your way over, stopping in front of the bartender. “Hi, I checked in last night, my car was having issues, and then so was my phone- I gave my phone to your hotel manager to charge, and when I got back up to my room my laptop and charging cords were gone-”

He stares at you blankly, and you read the name on his shirt.

“Look, Joshua, I just need help. I need something. I have to call my agent, I have to do something-”

“Have a drink,” he suggests, lifting a bottle of tequila from behind the bar.

“I don’t need a drink,” you groan. “I need my phone, I need my laptop, I need my car- I need you to help me sort this out!”

“Calm down, gorgeous, Joshua just works here, you’re not going to get a lot of help out of him unless you want a mean cocktail.” A deep voice makes you turn, and you find yourself staring at the man who you’d seen by the record player at the buffet earlier.

He’s still carrying his bottle of whiskey, but it’s only about half full now.

“He works here, so he should know what to do or who to call-”

“Like I said, the most you’re going to get out of him is a wine and steak pairing recommendation,” the man in front of you laughs. “I’m Seungcheol, by the way.”

You tell him your name with a sigh, and you don’t miss the way his gaze rakes up and down your body.

“So what’s your story?” he asks.

“My car broke down, I walked here, my phone is dead, my laptop is stolen, I’m having a really shit day.”

“Sounds like it.” He brings the bottle of whiskey to his lips, taking a large gulp. “Maybe you should take Joshie’s advice and have a drink.”

“What I need is a nap,” you state. “I’m going back to my fucking room, to have a fucking siesta, and when I’m done, that fucking hotel manager better have my phone charged and my car fixed.”

Five:

You have no clue what time it is when you wake up from your nap, all you know is the sun is beginning to set and your whole body hurts. You groan to even sit up, and you realize you feel as exhausted as you had this morning before your nap.

Are you getting sick?

Deciding you don’t have time to dwell on the state of your body, you head to the lobby, where once again, Jeonghan is nowhere to be seen. So instead, you head to the bar, where the ‘Seungcheol’ man is sitting and chatting with Joshua.

You take the seat next to him and he turns to look at you with a grin.

“Hi, gorgeous, how was your nap?”

“Uneventful,” you state. “Look, I need a ride to town.”

“Which town?”

“Any town, I don’t care, I just need to get out of here.”

“Well, I don’t have a car.”

“You don’t have a car?” you stare at him in shock.

“Nope, just a motorcycle, and I doubt all your shit would fit on it.”

“I will literally leave ‘my shit’ here and come back for it once my car is fixed.”

“Well…” Seungcheol taps his fingers on the bottle of whiskey in his hand. “My motorcycle broke down on the way here.”

You blink as you look at this man. He’s stunning, with a strong jaw, broad shoulders, curly hair- but fuck, he’s a bit dense. “Well?” you ask. “Was it towed? How long have you been waiting for it to get fixed?”

Seungcheol only grins, taking a sip of his whiskey. “A while.”

For some reason, the way he says it is ominous. You don’t know if he’s playing with you, or what- but you’re done with all of this bullshit.

“I’m going to bed again,” you announce.

“Didn’t you just wake up?”

“I am going to bed!”

Six:

When you wake up the next morning, the first thing you do is go to the lobby. You can’t help the relief that floods through you when you see Jeonghan standing behind the front desk.

“Thank God,” you almost laugh with triumph. “Do you have news about my car? Or my phone? Also, someone stole my laptop yesterday!”

“Unfortunately I have no news about your car, and it seems none of the chargers are working with your phone,” Jeonghan frowns.

It feels like the breath has been knocked from your lungs. “What?”

“Also, I don’t know anything about your laptop, but I’ll look into it.”

You’re tired of this hotel manager taking charge- tired of being at this Art Deco hotel in the middle of butt fuck nowhere.

“You know what, I’d like to check out,” you tell him. “I’d like to grab my things, call a taxi, and just go to the next town and wait for my car to be fixed.”

“I’d love to help you with that,” Jeonghan says, “but unfortunately there are no available cars to take you to the next town.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, no taxis come out this far, you couldn’t bribe them with a hundred bucks to come grab you.” Jeonghan laughs as if what he’s just said is a joke. “And unfortunately all the actual cars on the property belong to people who work at the hotel, all of whom are on shift and can’t drive you.”

“Can’t I wait till someone’s off shift?”

“Everyone on shift lives here in the staff quarters and I can assure you that no one wants to drive to the next town, which is over two hours away, after a twelve-hour shift.”

“So…” Your heart is racing. “What are my options?”

“Well, you can check out if you’d like,” Jeonghan says, “but unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll be able to actually leave the premises unless you walk, which would be very dangerous.”

“Fuck. Give me my phone back.”

You watch Jeonghan reach down and pull your cell out of a drawer, and then you snatch it from his hands.

“Have a lovely evening!” he calls as you turn and storm to the bar.

“What was that about?” Seungcheol asks as you come to stand next to him, releasing a breath of exasperation as you set your hands on the bar top.

“Joshua, give me a bottle of something.”

“What do you like to drink?” the bartender asks.

“Anything.”

“Looks like you’ve changed your tune, gorgeous,” Seungcheol grins next to you.

“I’m going to get drunk, and then I’m going to walk back to civilization if it’s the last thing I do.”

You note the way Seungcheol’s expression falters. “For real?”

“Yes, for real.”

Joshua places a bottle of tequila on the bar and you snatch it up, flicking off the lid and taking a large chug.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Seungcheol muses. “He doesn’t either, do you, Joshie?”

“I just work here,” Joshua shrugs.

“Unless one of you wants to drive me back to town, I’m walking!”

You can feel Seungcheol studying you, and then he sighs. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“I never asked you to come.”

“But I’m coming anyways, it wouldn’t be responsible to let a cute girl like you go out into the desert alone. There are aliens and shit.”

“Sure there are,” you roll your eyes.

You have a few more sips of your drink, getting yourself jazzed up for this- and then, you turn to look at the door that leads out of The Hotel California. “Okay, let’s get out of this fucking hellhole.”

Seungcheol releases a chuckle, shaking his head, and then he stands, following you out into the desert beyond.

The first half hour or so is you walking with determination, but as time ticks on, you begin to falter.

“Finally ready to turn back?” Seungcheol asks.

“Why did you even come with me?” you snap.

“I told you, it wouldn’t be safe to send you out here alone.”

“Because men who ride motorcycles really care about safety,” you roll your eyes.

Seungcheol only laughs, and he says nothing else, allowing a silent trek for another hour or so.

Is it an hour? Fuck, you can’t really tell. There are no clocks, no phones to check the time- you have no clue how long you’ve been out here, and anxiety is beginning to bubble up in the pit of your stomach.

Then- just as you’re feeling close to your breaking point, you see lights in the distance.

“Oh my God! We made it!” you practically scream, turning to look at Seungcheol, who doesn’t seem nearly as excited as he should be.

Your pace picks up, in fact, you begin to run toward the light, toward salvation-

You’re out of breath, your muscles screaming at you, but you push on… and that’s when you realize, these lights are familiar.

The excitement begins to die down, and when you’re close enough to see the source of the lights with clarity, you sink to the ground next to the highway in shock.

Gravel and sand crunches as Seungcheol comes to join you, standing a foot away.

“But- that’s- that’s the hotel!” you say.

“It is.”

“But- we went straight! We followed the highway! How are we back here again?”

You’ve never felt defeat like this, and you’ve been rejected by modeling agencies a number of times in your career. This is something different, it’s not just a momentary lapse- this feels more permanent, it feels more otherworldly, and you can’t wrap your head around any of it.

“I think…” Seungcheol releases a sigh. “I think it’s time I told you a few things.”

Seven:

Seungcheol had insisted on going back to the bar to get a bottle of whiskey before divulging into a conversation with you. As you’d entered the lobby, Jeonghan had called out a bright ‘welcome back!’ and you were too defeated to acknowledge him.

You feel like a shell of a person as you lead Seungcheol back to your room, collapsing on your bed. “What the fuck is going on?” you ask.

“This is all going to sound a bit weird,” he admits.

“Weirder than us walking in a straight line for two hours only to find ourselves right back where we started? I doubt it.”

Seungcheol smiles, shaking his head a little as if this whole situation is somehow humorous.

“I think… everyone is stuck here.”

“Stuck here?” you question.

“You and I, we have similar stories. I remember driving my motorcycle, something happened, I pulled over, and then I saw this place,” Seungcheol explains. “I’ve talked to a few people who live here, and they all have the same story.”

“I don’t understand- Seungcheol,” you swallow thickly, “how long have you been here?”

“You see,” Seungchol chuckles, but there’s a sad note to it, “Time is a funny thing in this place. I know it’s been days, weeks, years even- that I’ve been here, but I don’t know for how long. I eat, I sleep, I drink- I repeat. I don’t grow old, I don’t get sick. I just am. It’s fucking boring if I’m behind honest with you, or at least it was. It’s been a while since we had someone new show up at the hotel, and even longer since that someone was as gorgeous as you.”

You can’t believe he’s taking this opportunity to flirt with you, so you pull yourself back on track. “Someone has to know how long we’ve been here,” you insist.

“No one I’ve talked to knows.”

“Well,” you take a breath. “I want to talk to those two men, the ones in suits who are in the buffet.”

“Why?”

“They strike me as the kind of men who would know things,” you tell him. “I can feel it.”

Eight:

You find the two men where they always are in the buffet. Tonight, they’re playing chess, using up a large table so the space not covered with the game board can be full of food and drinks. You still wonder at their glutenous ways, but that’s not why you’re here right now.

“Hi,” you say, trying to be friendly despite the day you’re having.

The two men look up at you, then at their chessboard.

“I’m Y/N, and this is Seungcheol,” you introduce yourself only to be met with silence. “What are your names?”

“Jun. That’s Minghao,” one of the men says dismissively.

“Do you guys happen to have the time?” you ask next.

They’re both quiet, and it’s making you angrier by the second, but you force yourself to keep your cool.

“Would you guys be able to tell me how long you’ve been here?

Still silence.

You look around for that man you’d seen, the one with glasses and a lemon water, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Look,” you kneel down so you’re about level with the seated men, lowering your voice. “I just got here, something weird is going on, and I need answers.”

The two men exchange a glance, and it’s Jun who finally turns to you. “We won’t discuss this in the open.”

“Come to our room,” Minghao sighs. “But don’t make it obvious you’re following us.”

You wonder why the theatrics are necessary, but with a nod, you and Seungcheol move away. You take a seat at a table across the space, and after a few minutes where the two men converse in whispers, both stand up.

You wait for them to leave, and after a few seconds, you and Seungcheol slowly follow.

Jeonghan watches you cross the space, and that’s when you realize why these men are being so weird. This hotel manager has an odd hold on everyone in this place.

When you make it to Jun and Minghao’s room, they open the door for you, saying nothing. As you enter the space, you’re ready to bombard them with questions, but when Jun moves to the coat closet, pushing fabrics aside, all your words die in your throat.

The entire wall, which had just been hidden, is covered in small tally marks.

“We were keeping a tab with a pen and paper, but the cleaner kept taking it away,” Jun explains. “I don’t think they want us to keep track of time.”

“And these tallies-” you begin.

“They mark the days the two of you have been here,” Seungcheol finishes.

“But,” you swallow thickly, “that’s thousands of days- that’s years!”

“Over sixty years,” Minghao says quietly.

“How can this be real?!” you ask. “You both don’t look a day over thirty.”

“When we’d arrived here, we weren’t,” Jun says sadly, “but that was in 1963.”

“Nobody grows old here,” Minghao tells you, “because we’re in Hell.”

“So you both think that pansy hotel manager is the Devil?” Seungcheol scoffs.

You can see Minghao’s eyes immediately narrow in annoyance. “We just mind our own business, and we suggest you do the same.”

“Have you ever confronted Jeonghan?” you ask.

“Nobody confronts him,” Jun says sheepishly. “I guess, even though we’re all in Hell, lots of us are… scared of the consequences.”

“Well, he already took away my phone and my laptop,” you sigh, “I guess I have to be the man in the room and go deal with this.”

Nine:

After spending the night thinking about it, you decide as the sun comes up that you’re going to rip the bandaid off.

Everyone in this fucking hotel is so evasive, but you’ll take this head-on. You’re a twenty-first-century woman, and you’ll be damned if some hotel manager ruins your entire life.

There’s a power in the way you walk as you head straight for the front desk, and you try to look intimidating despite your rapidly beating heart.

“Good morning,” Jeonghan greets you with a smile.

“What’s the deal?” you ask.

“Hmm?”

“The deal with this place, what’s going on?”

He flashes you a knowing smile, and the words that come out of his mouth next are an obvious load of shit: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You size him up, and you realize that, at this precise moment, you’re not going to get any information out of this man, so you decide to switch to plan two.

Turning on your heel, you head deeper into the hotel, and in the back of the dining room, you see Seungkwan slipping into a corridor.

Catching him is easy since he’s not exactly running from you, and the man stops to politely nod at you. “Good morning.”

“What’s going on with this place?” you ask.

“Excuse me?”

“This stupid hotel, what’s the deal? All my electronics are missing, there are no clocks, and I left yesterday, I left! I walked down the highway for two hours only to end up right back where I started!” You can’t help the way your voice is rising in annoyance, and you partly hope that you can actually successfully intimidate this man-

As you look at him, you realize intimidation is off the table, because he releases a laugh.

“Look at you, little miss demanding.”

“Please,” you sigh, your heart practically wilting in your chest. “I just need to know.”

“Talk to the hotel manager, he can answer all your questions.”

“Except he can’t, or maybe the word is won’t-” You struggle for a moment. “Look, don’t you want to gossip with me?”

You can all but see his ears perk up at the word gossip.

“You’re a bellhop, you like secrets, right? You enjoy tea?”

His eyes narrow at you. “I’m more of a coffee drinker.”

“Tea, as in gossip, gossip is tea-” God, you wonder how many of these people are from the last century and have no idea what you mean when you use current lingo.

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll tell you some tea,” you insist. “Gossip for gossip, deal?”

“I want something else,” Seungkwan tells you, and that’s when you notice his eyes lingering on your throat, your necklace. “I want that.”

You sigh, reaching behind yourself to unclasp the silver chain. “Take it and tell me what’s going on in this stupid hotel.”

As soon as the jewelry is in the bellhop’s hand, his entire demeanor changes. It’s as if he’s gone from a young man, and turned into an old woman telling you about her neighbors and how she snoops at her window to collect information all day. There’s an air to his essence that tells you you’re about to find out exactly what’s happening in this so-called ‘Hotel California.’

“What have you heard so far?” he asks. “What do you think this place is?”

“I don’t know? Someone said it might be Hell, but I doubt Hell is an Art Deco and terracotta hotel in the middle of the desert.”

Seungkwan’s expression shifts with an all-knowing sort of twist of his lips. “This isn’t Hell. It’s purgatory.”

“What?” You feel your breath leave your lungs in shock.

“And Jeonghan, well, he’s not a hotel manager, he’s a grim reaper. His domain is this desert, and every guest at this hotel, they died in his desert, so their souls were his to pass judgment on.”

“Wait a minute, what do you mean we all died here?”

“Keep up!” Seungkwan snaps. “This is purgatory! Of course you’re dead!”

Your entire body deflates now. “But… how?”

“Fell asleep at the wheel, didn’t you, little miss model? Seungcheol’s motorcycle hit a pothole. Minghao and Jun were high on coke and drove off a cliff by the ravine not far from here, thinking they were invincible. Every guest has a similar story, it’s a dangerous stretch of road after all.”

“So… who are you? And how do you know all the people I’ve talked to since I got here?”

“I’m a nobody, a highwayman. But trust me when I tell you, the staff here keep tabs on everyone.”

“Are all the staff... Highwaymen?” you ask.

“In one sense or another.”

“And… and Jeonghan chose to put us in purgatory?” you question. “Why didn’t he take us to a final place?”

“Because your unfinished sins were too great to gain you entry above, but not dark enough to gain you entry below.” Seungkwan pauses for a moment. “It’s best if you try to overcome your original sins, you might just make it out of here.”

“Overcome my sins?” you repeat, on the verge of laughing in an odd sort of complete hopeless hysteria that you’ve never felt before. “Has anyone ever made it out of here?!”

“One man,” Seungkwan says thoughtfully. “In fact, you saw him. The man in glasses, Jeon Wonwoo. He was a powerful man back when he was alive, lustful and glutenous. But in his time here, he’s overcome, and you were his final test.”

Anger bubbles inside of you. “I was a final test? You mean I was brought here to test some horny guy!?”

“Not many women die on this stretch of highway, not many who are so grey and muted as yourself. Jeonghan found you to be particularly… puzzling.”

“Puzzling?” you scoff.

“You’re a model,” Seungkwan shrugs. “Lust, envy, pride, greed- you belong here like everyone else. Those businessmen, overwhelmed by pride, greed, envy, gluttony, sloth, and even wrath. They’ve only conquered lust in their eternity here, but that was to be expected with no women to enchant them. They treasure their own company now, far more than they’d ever treasure yours.”

“And Seungcheol?” you ask.

“Seungcheol?” Seungkwan actually laughs. “A rockstar from the seventies? Lust, pride, greed, wrath- in his day he had an enjoyment of starting mosh pits at his own concerts, of fighting people, of drinking and sleeping with many, many women. No, Jeonghan chooses the right people. You’re all here, and you’ll likely all stay here.”

Ten:

You’re sitting with Seungcheol in a secluded part of the buffet room, and you’ve just given him a rundown on all things Seungkwan. For a moment, he just sits there, and then, his brows furrow. “That little fuck says I’m here because I used to start moshpits at my own shows?”

“And sleeping with lots of women I’d assume.”

“I’m gonna beat that fucking bellhop’s ass-”

“This is what he’s talking about!” you insist. “Wrath!”

Seungcheol steadies himself, and then he sighs. “Who would have thought the seven deadly sins were a real fucking thing.”

“People who believe in the bible and stuff?”

Seungcheol shoots you an unamused expression and you have to stop yourself from smiling.

You look down at your hands, fiddling with your fingers. “So… are we going to try to overcome our sins or whatever?”

The man next to you exhales deeply. “I’ve been here a long time,” he admits. “I don’t think I’m going to magically change because some bellhop said I’m a horny fuck with anger issues.”

“True.”

“Besides, Jeonghan brought you here to test the whole lust thing, and I think we both know I’m failing in that one.”

Your skin tingles. Is this seventies rockstar admitting he’s into you?

I mean… you’d suspected as much, but to hear it confirmed like this…

Do you want to be good? Do you want to work on yourself?

Or do you want to give in to these lusty feelings? Do you want to go wild and make the most of this place since you’re probably going to be here forever?

You feel completely torn, and you clear your throat. “I think… I think I need to go clear my head.”

Eleven:

You find your way to the pool after some deep soul-searching. You’re in need of somewhat of a cleanse, and you think water could be a good way to do that.

It’s the evening, but the air is quite warm as you make your way through the open spaces of the hotel. The sky is dark above you, but stars twinkle, as does the moon. It’s oddly peaceful, if you forget the fact that you’re in some fucked of purgatory liminal space.

When you get to the pool area, you realize there’s a man you’ve never seen before, and he’s sitting by the hot tub. His feet are submerged in the bubbling water, and his head is tipped back, eyes closed. There’s a bong next to his right hand, and you can smell weed.

You stand and watch him for a moment, then decide to approach.

“Hello?” you say, drawing his attention. “Are you new here?”

“No, but you are,” the man muses.

“I am… but I’ve never seen you before.”

“You wouldn’t, I’m nocturnal. Might as well be, since there’s nowhere to go but here.”

Obviously this man has his own opinions of The Hotel California, and you take a seat next to him, crossing your legs. “What do you think of this place?”

“It’s whatever.”

You risk another look at him, and you realize he’s closed his eyes again, looking as relaxed as ever. That’s when you realize this man’s main sin is glaringly obvious; he’s sloth.

“How did you find weed here?” you ask.

“Brought some when I arrived, started growing it when I realized I wouldn’t be leaving.”

So… this man is growing weed, sleeping all day, and smoking all night in purgatory. Sounds about right.

“Do you want to leave?” you question.

“It’s whatever.”

“Some man named Wonwoo left,” you point out. “Seems like there’s a possibility.”

The man laughs. “That fucking monk finally got out? He’s been trying to be a good boy for years.”

You swallow thickly at the reminder that even if you try to be good, you’re doomed to be here for years. It’s not an ‘okay I’ve been good for a day, let me out now’ sort of situation. The whole thing leaves a bad taste in your mouth, and you clear your throat.

“I’m y/n by the way.”

“Vernon.” There’s a stagnant pause, and then he stretches. “You know, it’s nice here. You don’t have to cook or clean. There are no responsibilities. You just get to relax.”

“Kind of like an indefinite vacation.”

“Exactly.”

He seems nice enough, and if it wasn’t clear he was such a sloth with a thing for marijuana, you might expect him to be next on the list of viable options for getting out of this place.

“Just, enjoy yourself,” Vernon sighs. “You might as well.”

Twelve:

After a night of thinking, you’ve finally made your decision on what to do in this God-forsaken hotel, and you head down to the lobby. One look at Jeonghan makes you rethink asking him for information, but you spot Seungkwan heading toward the buffet, and you quickly follow him out of sight from the manager.

“Hey,” you greet the bellhop, “have you seen Seungcheol today?”

“I believe he runs at this time,” Seungkwan explains. There’s a small rocky hillside out behind the pool, Seungcheol made a trail there for exercise, but between us, sometimes I think he’s hoping to get bit by a rattlesnake and die for a second time.”

From the small chuckle that leaves his lips, you can tell he’s trying to joke around, but you’re just not at the stage in your acceptance of this place to find dead jokes comedic.

“Thank you,” you nod, heading off in the direction he’s pointed you in.

The trailhead behind the pool isn’t very difficult to find, and you start up the path.

You have no clue what time it is, but you know it’s early morning. It’s just starting to get warm, but despite this, you have a fire inside of you driving to find the seventies rockstar.

This urge - call it lust maybe - it drives you forward, and finally, you find the man you’re looking for.

He’s in running shorts, and he’s shirtless. A sheen of sweat covers his muscular form, and God, he’s never looked this beautiful. His hair is curled from precipitation, and he’s panting, his hands on his hips as he stands at the top of the small hilly cliff that looks down at The Hotel California.

“Seungcheol!” you call, drawing his attention immediately.

“y/n?”

You can tell he’s confused to see you here, and his brows furrow. Walking closer, you take a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking,” you tell him.

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking… if we’re going to be here forever, we might as well make it fun.”

Your words hang in the air, and on this tiny hill, you accept your fate. You accept that you’re dead, that you’re in some odd form of purgatory. And you accept the fact that you’ve found a partner to share this whole delusion with, for better, or for worse.

“So you’re saying…” Seungcheol swallows thickly, stepping closer to you.

“Just kiss me,” you laugh, shaking your head at him.

A massive smile appears on his face, and then he’s grabbing your hips and tugging you tight to his chest. His lips are on yours a moment later, and while you’d expected him to be an eager, lust-fueled maniac, he’s oddly slow with how he approaches this first interaction.

However, the kiss deepens when you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, your tongue swiping his bottom lip desperately.

Seungchoel lets out a deep groan, matching your rising energy with an enthusiasm of his own.

It feels so good to be doing this with him, and for the first real-time since you got to the hotel, you feel your anxiety slipping away. Your entire body is focused on this man, and this man alone- and then his hand slips down to your ass, grabbing it roughly.

“Hey,” you laugh, pulling away from the kiss. “We’re not fucking out here on some rock.”

“We’re not?” Seungcheol chuckles.

“Not in a million years, which it sort of sounds like we have.”

“Back to the hotel then,” Seungcheol tells you, and just like that, the two of you head back down the trail to the hotel.

It seems there are different routes to take, and you find yourself in the lobby as opposed to the pool, which is where Jeonghan stops you with a wave. “y/n,” he calls. “I’d like a word.”

Seungcheol groans, and you release a sigh, turning to look at him. “I’ll meet you later?” you suggest.”

“I’ll go shower, find my room after, I’m in number seventeen,” Seungcheol nods.

You watch him disappear, taking a moment to appreciate the muscles of his broad shoulders as he walks away, and then, you turn to face the hotel manager.

“Looks like you’ve made a decision,” Jeonghan muses.

You wonder what exactly he’s talking about. Is it a decision to pursue Cheol? To sin?

You’re not quite sure, but at this point, you don’t care.

“I’ve made my choice,” you tell him, trying to sound confident about it.

“So you’ve chosen to be a part of The Hotel California.”

“I don’t think you left me with much choice,” you point out.

A large smile appears on Jeonghan’s face. “I guess I have to agree with you there,” he admits. “Go. Enjoy Seungcheol. You might be able to help with his… less desirable traits if not his sexual habits.”

So everything here really is a set of scales. Cheques and balances. A lesser evil of cleansing Seungcheol of minor sins while fanning the fire of his lust. You suppose you can’t win them all.

Thirteen:

You wander the hotel until you find room seventeen, and when you get there, you don’t even bother to knock. You simply push the door open, entering the space.

Seungcheol’s hotel room is different from your own. It’s significantly larger, with a den and a door that you assume leads to the bedroom. You make your way through the space, looking in at where he sleeps, which is where you find the man himself standing.

He has a towel wrapped around his hips, his hair is damp and curly, and God, he looks even sexier than he had on the hill. He’s so well muscled- part of you wants to lick his entire body and moan while you do.

Seungcheol turns to look at you, and when he smiles, you swear your knees feel weak.

“What did dickhead want?” he asks.

“Jeonghan?” Your mind goes blank. “He uh, I guess he wanted to see if I’m set on staying here or not.”

“And?”

“Well, we’re about to sin, aren’t we? So… guess I’m a permanent resident now.”

Seungcheol laughs. “Who wants to go to heaven if you can’t fuck there?”

“A lot of people I think,” you giggle.

“Well, not us.” He steps towards you, hands settling on your hips. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to show up.”

His words are nice, but you have some doubts lingering inside of you. “Would you fuck any girl who came here though?” you question. “Or am I special?”

“You’re special,” Seungcheol confirms. “You’ve got fire in you, I could tell from the moment we met.”

“Some people have called me a bitch before.”

“Well they can go fuck themselves,” he retorts quickly.

You laugh, looking around. “This is a nice room.”

“It wasn’t my original room, but once I realized I was staying here, I scouted out all the empty places to find my favourite.”

Your gaze shift up, and you notice that the ceiling is covered in mirrors. “I can’t escape these fucking mirrors.”

“These ones are fun though,” Seungcheol insists.

“Yeah? How’s that?” You wrap your arms around the back of Seungcheol’s neck, pulling him closer with a grin.

“Because… I can watch you when you’re riding me. You can see my sexy back when I’m fucking you. It’s just a good set up.”

“And I guess you haven’t really had a chance to test it out before,” you muse.

“Not with another person.”

It takes you a second to realize what he’s saying, and then you laugh. “Cheol, are you telling me you watch yourself jack off with these mirrors?”

“It’s not like I have access to porno mags or anything!” he defends himself.

God, he’s from the seventies- did they even have easily accessible porn then?

You push the thought out of your brain as you move closer to him, until your lips are just milimeters apart. “Now you have me.”

“I do, don’t I,” he grins, tightening his grip on your hips.

“Uh huh,” you nod. “And I haven’t been properly fucked in a while.”

“I bet I have you beat on that one.”

“Better make up for your lost time, big guy.”

“Better make this sin worth it,” he counters, and with that, he presses his lips to your own.

You smirk into the kiss, pressing your chest against his own as you wrap your arms around the back of his neck. It’s a mad flurry of tongue and teeth, no being cautious as he had been on the hill earlier.

No, this time, you know exactly what you want from each other, and there’s a freeing feeling in that.

He’s quick to guide you toward the bed, and when he gets you there, he pushes you down onto it. His hands quickly tear at your shirt and you raise your arms to allow him to easily take it off of your body.

Seungcheol sinks to his knees on the ground, his lips attacking your throat and descending down to your breasts. Two large hands grab at your tits, massaging them through your bra. He’s practically motorboating his face against you now, groaning into your cleavage.

“Take off my bra,” you tell him. “Suck on my tits.”

Seungcheol chuckles, but one swipe of his hand behind your back has your bra coming undone, and you realize that despite his forced celibacy, he hasn’t lost his touch.

Your bra slips off, and Seungcheol immediately picks up where he left off, but this time, he has access to your bare skin,

He grabs your breasts, pulling one nipple into his mouth while you throw your head back and moan.

It takes you a second, but you have the idea to open your eyes, and when you do, the mirrored ceiling gives you the perfect view of this man kneeling on the ground and sucking your breasts.

There’s something sexy about the view, and when you thread your fingers through his curls, it makes things even hotter.

Seungcheol groans, roughly tugging your nipple between his teeth and making you cry out.

“Shorts next,” he instructs, pulling away so you can both work on getting you fully naked for him.

It’s a little shocking how fast this is all going, but you don’t mind. Lust is fueling every cell of your body, and before you know it, Seungcheol is pushing you so you’re flat on your back. He places your thighs on his shoulders, and then he dives into your core with his mouth.

You whimper at the sensation of him sucking on your clit lewdly, and again, when you look up, you can see the view.

Fuck, with him now bending half over the bed like this, you can see his shoulders even better.

He’s so broad and strong and sexy, and it makes your core pulse with pleasure as he eats you out like he’s been starved for fifty years, which he has.

“Just like that,” you tell him, bringing your hands up to play with your nipples, loving the view of it all.

Seungcheol shifts, and then you feel a finger push into your entrance. He doesn’t go slow with it, he immediately starts pumping, fucking you while he licks and sucks on your clit roughly.

There’s no tact in his motions, no precision, he’s a wild man, and you suppose that fits his rockstar soul.

There’s something so sexy about this animalistic way he’s treating you, and when he groans against your clit, your entire body lights up with pleasure.

He has you closer to the edge than you’d ever imagined possible in such a short time, but you wonder if perhaps your body has been in need of some stress relief like this after such a crazy few days.

Another finger slips inside of you and you moan, reaching one hand to tangle in his hair again.

As much as you want to close your eyes and enjoy this, you can’t bear to look away from the view.

God, it’s absolutely glorious.

This gorgeous, beefy man, is practically ravaging you on a bed with silk sheets, worshipping your pussy with his tongue and fingers while you watch, enthralled with it all.

You can hear your core getting wetter, and with each thrust of his fingers you can feel your juices. His tongue circles your clit in the perfect way and your stomach muscles begin to clench, signaling your impending high.

“I’m gonna cum,” you tell him, swallowing thickly even as you pinch your own nipple, writhing against the bed.

Seungcheol only growls in response, and the sound turns you on even more.

Within a few seconds, you’re coming undone, releasing a cry of pleasure as your body is flooded with euphoria.

Your hips push up against Seungcheol’s face, but his free hand pins you down, his tongue unrelenting on your clit.

Now, you have to force your eyes shut. It’s all you can do to contain the ecstasy he’s providing you, an electric feeling that’s surging through your entire body unlike anything else.

“Fuck, fuck- Cheol!” you gasp, wriggling in his grasp.

He pulls off your clit with a pop, and you can feel him looking up at you as he removes his fingers.

Then he stands, and you open your eyes to look at him.

“Here,” Seungcheol leans over you, and then he pushes his fingers into your mouth, “want you to taste yourself.”

All you can do is stare up at him in shock, lust overtaking you as you suck his digits off diligently. You even grab his hand to steady him, not wanting him to pull away until you’ve licked him clean.

“That’s a good girl,” Seungcheol groans.

When you’re done with him, you release his hand, and Seungcheol pulls away with a deep breath.

“Can you suck cock like that?” he asks, undoing his towel so it can fall to the floor.

His hard length immediately slaps up against his abdomen, and you can see beads of precum dripping down his shaft. God, he’s super turned on, and your pussy pulses at the mere sight of him.

“Gonna give you the best head you’ve had in fifty years,” you promise.

“Ha ha,” Seungcheol says, but there’s little humour in it.

You sit up, and then, you stand. He gives you a confused look, but when you push him down onto the bed, things seem to click for him.

You take your spot on your knees, where he’d just been, and this time, it’s your turn to push his legs slightly open, giving yourself space as you grab the base of his cock.

“Don’t cum in my mouth,” you warn.

“No?”

“Want you to cum inside me, don’t wanna waste a drop.”

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans as you put your mouth onto his tip, sucking and licking with all the enthusiasm he’d just given you.

His hands immediately grab at you, pushing your hair out of your face. He holds you gently as you sink more and more of him into your mouth, swirling your tongue to tease every inch of skin that you can.

“Shit, feels good,” he tells you, collecting your hair into a ponytail to make things easier.

You hum against him and his hips twitch at the stimulus.

“Fuck-” he says again, and you’d bet your life - or maybe your afterlife - that he’ll be swearing a lot.

He’s a man who hasn’t felt the touch of a woman in fifty years, you would blame him if he’s quick to bust?

“Keep going, fuck,” Seungcheol groans, applying some pressure to your head.

You don’t mind that he’s beginning to get rough with you, and you diligently sink further onto his cock, taking him all the way to the back of your throat. You gag a little around him, and Seungcheol releases his loudest moan yet, tightening his grip in your hair.

“Keep doing that, fuck, keep doing that!” he encourages you.

You do your best to relax your throat, wanting to please him, to give him the best blowjob he’s ever had. You have always found satisfaction when pleasing others, call it a trauma thing or whatever you want to call it, but his pleasure is your pleasure, and you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second as you listen to his moans.

“Shit, I’m close,” Seungcheol tells you.

With those words, you immediately pull off of him, and he looks down at you in shock.

“You’re not cumming in my mouth, remember?”

“Please?”

“No.”

You stand up, staring down at this man, who suddenly looks very needy. Then, you push at his chest, prompting him to lay flat against the bed while his knees are still bent, feet on the ground.

One of your own knees makes contact with the bed, and then the other, so you’re straddling him now.

“You said you wanted to watch me ride you,” you remind him. “So watch me ride.”

You grab the base of his cock, lining it up with your core, then you sink down onto him fully.

He’s big, and you feel the stretch, but you’re so wet from this that your lubrication makes the actual taking of his cock much easier than you’d imagined. God, when you pause for a moment, fully seated on him, you both groan from the pleasure… then you begin to bounce.

“Jesus Christ,” Seungcheol whispers, one hand grabbing your hip while the other latches onto your breast. He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whimper, throwing your head back.

You look up at the ceiling, watching yourself ride this beautiful man.

The view makes your core throb, and you can feel your pussy clamping down around him, which earns another groan from the man you’re riding.

“You look so fucking good like this,” Seungcheol tells you, sitting up and using his hand as a brace against the bed so he can wrap his mouth around your nipple.

You grab him, threading your fingers through his hair and using him as an anchor as you move on his cock, bouncing to the best of your ability even in this position.

Again, you find yourself looking at the view, and you realize maybe this is a completely new kink of yours that you’d never discovered before.

“Okay, okay,” Seungcheol grabs your hips, making you stop. “My turn now.”

“Your turn?” you scoff.

“My turn,” he confirms.

Then, he’s standing up, and taking you with him. His hands grab your ass, keeping you pinned to his body while you squeal with delight, latching onto his shoulders.

“Wanna fuck you doggy first,” he tells you.

“So original,” you roll your eyes.

“Gonna make you regret that, gorgeous,” Seungcheol laughs.

“Then do it.”

With a shake of his head, he throws you onto the mattress, and with one quick manhandle, he has you on your knees with your ass in the air.

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, and he grabs your hips with one hand, his cock with the other. His tip finds your entrance, and with one rough thrust, he’s buried inside of you again.

“Fuck!” you whimper, arching your back and bracing your cheek against the sheets.

“Feels good, huh?” he asks, immediately picking up a pace that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“Fuck, so good!” you moan, loving how deep he’s hitting, how rough he’s being.

A harsh smack erupts through the room, and you realize as the pain blooms like heat along your skin that he’s just spanked you.

“Did you like that?” he asks.

“Maybe?” You’re not sure how you feel about the sensation, but when a second smack comes, you jolt, your pussy clamping tight around Seungcheol’s cock.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” he teases.

“No!” you insist, but you can’t help the fact that you had enjoyed it, and you can tell from the gush of wetness you feel in your core that it will be clear to Seungcheol that you liked it as well.

“Keep lying to yourself,” he laughs, his hand returning to your hip so he can fuck you even harder.

You enjoy the feeling of this for a while, but soon, you’re practically itching for another hit of pain.

“Spank me again,” you tell him.

“Hmm? Didn’t quite hear you.”

“Spank me!” you say, louder this time. “Please!”

Another chuckle escapes the smug bastard behind you. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

One more spank becomes three, and you’re a whimpering mess at the end of it, clawing at the blankets like a whore.

“Guess we’re going to have to explore this pain kink of yours,” Seungcheol teases. “But first, I think I’m gonna cum in this perfect pussy and mark it as mine.”

You’re so overwhelmed by how good this has felt that you can’t even find the words to respond, but you don’t have to.

Seungcheol pulls out of your pussy, and then he adjusts you on the bed, pushing you closer to the pillows so when he joins between your legs, he has space to plank over you in missionary.

His cock enters you, his lips finding your throat, and as you stroke his powerful shoulders, you find yourself blinking up at your reflection.

You’re watching yourself sin, but you’re entirely okay with it.

You’re listening to him pant in your ear as he gets closer and closer to the edge, but you kind of love it.

This hotel might be a place to overcome sins, but you’re not sure how anything this perfect - this natural - could ever be considered wrong.

“I’m close,” Seungcheol whispers, sucking on your earlobe.

“Then cum inside of me, give me all of it,” you tell him, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans, pressing his lips to your own. He kisses you desperately as his hips falter, his pace becoming erratic.

You can feel the moment he explodes, can feel his cock throbbing hard as he shoots his cum deep inside of you. He fills you up with warmth, and it feels like completion as he groans, half collapsing on top of you from the effort.

The kiss breaks, and you stroke his hair as he pants against your throat. Your eyes never leave your own in your reflection of the mirror over the bed.

Jeonghan might have put you in this place, but you’re the master of your own fate, and this is the direction you’ve chosen.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I'm going to miss this au.

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🔮 preview. When Seungcheol thrusts, it pushes you onto Mingyu, and when he pulls back, he pulls you with him, effectively controlling the pace of absolutely everything. Seungcheol might be working on his envy streak, but he’s as controlling as ever… although, you kind of love that about him. Sure, he’s a flawed man, but he’s your flawed man, and as he begins to fuck you rougher and harder, you know that you’d never give this up, not even for Heaven itself.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, threesome, pussy eating, blow job, fingering, multiple reader orgasms, use of mirrors, masturbation, controling/dom Seungcheol, dirty talk, praise, slight degradation, spanking, deep throating, eiffle tower/spit roasting, etc… I petnames. (hers) gorgeous.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 3.1k I teaser wc. 150

🌙 starring. Seungcheol & Mingyu x afab!Reader

bonus

You’re sitting at The Hotel California bar with Seungcheol. The two of you enjoy having a few drinks before a night of raunchy sexual escapades, and at first, this is a night like any other… until, you hear a new voice and turn to see a stranger talking to Jeonghan by the front desk.

You can’t help the look you immediately exchange with Seungcheol.

The two of you have spent months- years even, enjoying each other, and one thing you’ve always discussed bringing into the bedroom to spice it up, is another person. However, no one currently at the hotel has ever caught your eye, so you’d agreed that if anyone new showed up… you two might give them a try.

Now, with a tall, dark and handsome stranger standing just meters away, you think you may have found your new third, and excitement bubbles up inside of you.

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cosmosluckycharms · 4 months ago

Text

Bug Like Angel

Girl, so confusing

They watched as you walked out the door.

It was like they all were frozen in time.

They didn't think you'd actually walk out the door like nothing.

They tried to tell themselves you'd be back in 2 hours, that you'll be back in time when their patrol ended.

..But just in case, they'll go look around them to see if you're all right.

Fuck.

You weren't anywhere.

They looked everywhere and they couldn't find you.

They looked harder.

They tried thinking of places where to find you, but they didn't know.

They didn't know you.

And they were worried.

Worried that you were hurt.

Worried that they'd never get to know you.

As they went to look again, they thought about how they treated you.

The way Bruce would feel ashamed of how people he knew told him you and he looked alike, how they'd say you have the same hair.

He wasn't ashamed, not anymore at least.

He doesn't think he was ashamed of you, he was ashamed of how he couldn't raise you.

He was ashamed of how he raised others who weren't you.

He was ashamed of how awkward he was around you.

He was ashamed of how he didn't even know your mother until the DNA test.

He was ashamed of how similar you looked to your mother.

He was ashamed of how he just left your mother after their one-night stand like it was nothing.

He was ashamed of how your mother left a note along with you back when you were left at the manor pleading Bruce not to let you become a robin and put you into trouble.

He isn't even sure how she found out about their identities.

He won't be ashamed of you, not anymore at least.

Dick remembers how many times you had begged him to go out to hang out together, just for him to promise and either not follow through, or just cancel last minute.

He remembers how you kept asking him to train you to be Robin. You wanted to be like them. You wanted to see what it felt like to run around fighting bad people like they did.

You wanted to help others like they did.

You wanted to be with them.

He regrets that back when he was Robin he kept being mean to you. He regrets how many of your toys he broke and never apologized for back when you were younger.

He regrets not taking you into the manor with open arms like he did with the others.

He regrets how many times he brushed you off to be with the others.

He regrets not going to your events.

He regrets forgetting to reply to you when you needed it the most.

Most of all he regrets not being there for you back when Jason died. Sure, he was grieving, but you were too.

He checked his phone to try and text you.

He saw he had so many messages dating back years ago that he hadn't replied to, the newest one being from around a year ago.

He started spam-texting you, hopefully you wouldn't be too mad at him.

He put his phone in his pocket for around 30 seconds.

...Only to take it back out immediately.

He went to text you again and saw his messages couldn't reach you.

He was blocked.

Jason misses you.

He misses how you would run up to him and talk to him.

He misses reading your books and playing with you.

He misses writing poems and reading them to you.

He misses you making him silly little crafts and talking about your favorite shows and music.

He misses how you would follow him around the manor like a duckling.

He misses how you would talk to him about the things on your bucket list.

He wishes he never got distant.

He wishes he didn't push you away.

He wishes you would try again.

He hates how you had no one to be with you when he died.

He hates how now he barely sees you around the manor, and when he does you're either on the phone with your friends or getting food and bringing it up to your room.

He hates how much you flinch when you're around him. He accidentally hit you in the face once because he had come back from a mission and was still in fight-or-flight mode.

He hates how he can't forgive himself for that.

He hates how lately when you needed to ask him questions or talk to him you kept quiet, made it quick, and kept your head down.

Nothing like how you talked to him years ago.

You used to be louder, you used to look up at him and wouldn't mind asking dumb questions.It's like you were scared of him.

He hated that.

When he first came to the manor, Tim didn't like you.

He assumed you were living like a princess, rich and pampered and full of love.

He assumed that you had everyone in the manor's attention. Maybe he wanted to be you.

He was trapped in his hatred, and your life seemed so awesome.

So he hated you.He hated how you would check up on him and the others.

He hated how you would have a lot of friends.

He hated how you had friends that would check up on you.

He hated how cheery you were.

He hated how you were always available.

He hated the way you spoke like you didn't have a care in the world.

He hated how despite noticing everything, he pretended he never noticed you.

He pretended he never noticed how heartbroken you looked when you would talk for a while until you noticed no one listened.

He pretended he never noticed how on family game nights you would stand in a corner by yourself trying not to cry.

He pretended he never noticed how your presence died out slowly.

He pretended he never noticed how you stopped leaving your little treats around the house.

He pretended he never noticed how you started looking happier when you weren't around them.

He pretended he never noticed how you started to leave the manor early and come back late.

To him, your life was perfect.

To him, you were coming home late from being with friends.

To him, you had the perfect friends and family.

He didn't understand why you had begged a robin once, your life was perfect.

To him, you were living like a princess.

He didn't understand, and now he wanted to.

Damian and you were opposites.

He was raised in pain, always training with a tight schedule. Always doing something.

You were the opposite.

You were raised in comfort, you went on with your days with no schedule. Sure, you were constantly busy with your activities and friends, but it was nothing compared to what Damian and the others had to do.So when he met you, he didn't think you were worthy.

He thought you were weak, just someone freeloading off his father's money.

He saw how others treated you and followed suit.

He saw how Bruce only interacted with you when you needed money, so he assumed you only wanted him for his money.

He saw how you would ask Dick to hang out only for him to never follow through, so he assumed you were just bored and he was your last option.

He saw the way Jason would avoid you and get mad at you over the slightest things and assumed you did something wrong in the past to get him mad.

He saw the way Tim would put in his earbuds as soon as you started to walk up to him, so he assumed you were annoying everyone and didn't care.

He always assumed.

He noticed how you and he were totally different, you wouldn't last a day in a life of his.

He noticed how you were somehow always coming home with bruises and slight injuries but never paid any mind to it.

You guys were completely different.You were gentle.

You were nice.

You weren't afraid to ask for help.

You didn't mind having a spotlight on you.

You were patient.

You were welcoming.

Sure, you guys were totally different, but opposites do attract. Maybe you're so meant to be, just you and him.

Alfred was confusing to you.

Sure, he took care of you, but you could tell it was more out of pity than anything.

He would never defend you or tell the others to just look at you, for once!

He would always defend your family when you complained about them, even though you had complete reasons to ignore them!

You learned to stop telling Alfred about your day.

You learned that even though he would show up to your events sometimes, you knew it was more out of obligation than anything.

oof this was bad

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inkdrinkerworld · 1 year ago

Text

Falling asleep on Spencer’s shoulder on the jet, snoring lightly as you finally get some sleep.

Spencer’s been waiting all case for you to sleep properly, but no amount of tea at night and magnesium rich foods helped. The only thing that did it was you wrapping the case up and going home.

Now, he can’t move his shoulder for the next three hours of the flight and finds he doesn’t mind.

Spencer spends time just watching you, taking in the way your chest moves up and down and how your cheek smushed up against his shoulder makes you look delicate and soft.

“She okay?” Derek asks, seeing Spencer’s attention on you so keenly.

“Huh?” Spencer lifts his head, almost like he’d been in a trance. “Yeah she’s okay, just exhausted.”

His hand cradles your head to his shoulder as they move through a bit of turbulence. Derek smiles, a fierce sort of older brother feeling building in his chest.

“Do you think she’ll kill me if I take a photo?” He asks, Spencer shakes his head.

“Let her sleep, Derek.” He boos but walks back to his seat sipping his coffee.

Spencer stretches for his own coffee, frowning when you stir and grab hold of his shirt. “M’right here,” he murmurs, sitting back and pressing his lips to your temple as you settle.

“Okay loverboy!” Emily coos, Spencer rolling his eyes even as he blushes. “You guys going back together? Having a quiet night in?”

Before Spencer can answer, Hotch is chiming in. “Emily,” it’s a warning but the woman lives for teasing you and Spencer.

“What? I just wanna know if she has secretly pink walls with pretty flowers.”

Spencer scoffs, like he’d ever tell them. “Yeah they’re hot pink with white ones.” His thumb strokes your cheek, brushing up against the crush of your eyelashes every so often.

It takes Emily the rest of the flight to realise Spencer was fucking with her and Spencer is comforted by the fact that you have grey walls with posters of all your favourite shows and a couple pieces of artwork, some of pretty flowers; that none of them have seen.

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reiding-writing · 4 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭.

a case involving female students being murdered in their dormitories brings the team to stanford university. You have more of a connection to it than you originally realise.

s8!cold!reader ❅ 8.4k ❅ series masterlist. ❅ main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, violence against women, detail of murder and injury, abuse of power, student-professor relationships, miscarriage and abortion, character death, manipulation, cynicism

“Three women, all doctorate students of Stanford University, have all been killed inside their dorm rooms in the last two weeks,” There’s a click of a button, and then three images flash up on the screen, headshots of the girls. “All three were found with their stomachs cut open and their reproductive organs removed,”

What a lovely way to start a Monday morning.

“So much for the best University in California,” Morgan nudges your arm with his elbow, and your roll your eyes.

“What was the medical knowledge of the unsub?”

“You tell me,” JJ clicks another button on her remote, and the smiling photos of the victims are replaced with their crime scene photos.

Hands and feet tied to their beds, a large incision at the pelvic bone that had been stretched open to leave the internal organs bare, and the uterus cut out of the body. The surface knowledge was there, but the execution was not. Messy lines and uneven incisions that left the gap left in the victims more blood and tissue than actual hole.

“So we’re not looking for a professional then,” Morgan points out the obvious with a cross of his arms, leaning back in his chair.

“They clearly know something about it though,” Spencer leans forward as Morgan leans back, squinting his eyes like it’s going to make the images clearer. “There’s several different ways to perform a hysterectomy, but for a complete hysterectomy like our unsub is doing, the most common method is to start with an incision just above the pelvic bone,”

We’ll discuss the details of hysterectomies whilst we’re on the plane,” Hotch taps both of his hands on the table as he stands. “Gather your things, wheels up in thirty,”

There’s a chorus of “Yes Sir,”s as you all follow him out of the conference room to return to your respective desks and gather your belongings for the flight, an air of fatigue still surrounding the group even through the graphic imagery you were presented with.

“Going back to your alma mater, how do you feel?” Morgan clasps his right hand into a fist and holds it out to you like an invisible microphone.

You push it away without much thought as you pack your laptop into your bag, rolling your eyes at him for what feels like the tenth time since you’d walked through the door an hour ago. “It’s been almost— no, it has been ten years since I graduated, what’s there to ‘feel’?”

“Okay robot face, damn, no lingering love for the College that gave you your career?” Morgan’s taunt is laced with that familiar air of light-heartedness that’s there to remind you that he really is just poking fun, but you’ve never been very receptive to his humour.

“No.”

He lets out a sharp laugh in a mix of amusement and surprise, opening his mouth to make another comment, but the expression on your face tells him you’re definitely done talking about the topic.

He does have some self restraint.

—

Stepping out of the San Jose International Airport almost felt like going into a time machine, spitting you right back out where you’d left that decade ago just 18 miles from your old campus.

It felt even more surreal actually reaching Stanford’s main site, walking around the place you’d dedicated four years of your life to. Not much had changed since you’d left, not that you really expected it to, but it felt almost foreign to you to walk around the campus as you were now, a properly matured adult compared to the almost naive teenager you started as.

You began where you always did, at the most recent crime scene, a college dorm room on the south-east side of the campus.

It was pretty standard, a bedroom big enough for a double bed and a desk, a built in wardrobe, and a private bathroom; Decorated how you would expect from a girl in her early twenties, covered in memories and interests that gave it a personality outside of the off-white paint on the walls.

Of course, it was mildly ruined by the fact the previously pink bedsheets were stained in a pool of oxidised blood that dripped down onto the rug adorned floor and ledger small spatters on the skirting boards, but what can you really expect when the girl had been cut open whilst she was still alive and most definitely struggling against it.

“There’s no signs of forced entry,” All Morgan could do was shrug as he examined the fire door that acted as the room’s only entrance. “The inside lock was unfastened and there’s no marks indicating it was forced open, or that it even could be without heavy grade tools,”

“So our unsub had his own key then?”

“Or,” Emily’s suggestion was side-stepped by Spencer, “He was let in,”

There’s a small hum from Hotch as he stands beside you, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. “Alright,” He turns his eyes onto you with a small nod, “Take Prentiss to the Mortuary and check the autopsy. Morgan, Reid, get Garcia to find a list of professors the victims shared and go and speak with them, they might’ve noticed a change in the girls’ behaviours before their deaths.”

“Will do,”

“Got it,”

There’s a series of shared nods between you as you spilt up, leaving Hotch, Rossi and JJ at the crime scene in search of any more information they could utilise.

—

Trying to catch a Professor when they’re not busy is harder than most people would think. So hard in fact that Spencer and Morgan had been left with standing inside one of the lecture rooms to endure the last twenty minutes of a forensic psychology lesson so they could get the professor between classes.

“Professor Callahan?”

“For any personal feedback on your essay please send me an email,” The professor doesn’t so much as look up from the papers he collects and organises on his desk, seemingly already in a rush even after barely two minutes of the lecture ending.

Morgan and Spencer share a glance.

“My name’s Dr Spencer Reid, and this is Agent Morgan, we’re from the FBI,”

Callahan looks up this time, rectangle glasses reflecting the two back to each other through the overhead lighting.

“We were hoping we could ask you a few questions, Sir,”

Spencer watches the Professor’s eyebrows knit in confusion before his eyes spark with a hint of realisation, and then understanding.

“Yes, of course,” He nods, collecting the pile of papers in his right arm. “Please, follow me into my office,”

His office is filled with bookshelves stacked with psychology texts and framed accolades lining the walls. Small busts of philosophers in the mpty spaces. His desk is littered with small rememberences of his former students, and lining the opposite wall is another, a small plaque reading Dr. Wittchen at it’s forefront.

“Did you notice any changes in the girls’ behaviour, or anything unusual leading up to their deaths?” Spencer’s question is cautious, if not a little bit emotionally insensitive.

Callahan’s expression shifts to one of concern. “Honestly, I hadn’t noticed anything alarming. They were all such high achievers, incredibly driven. The stress of their programs sometimes affected them, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Spencer nods, then glances toward the accompanying desk. “What about Professor Wittchen? Does he interact with the students much?”

Callahan hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly. “Robert is highly respected, very dedicated to his work. He can be a little tough on their grades, but more often than not he’s sat in here doing one-on-one tutoring in his spare time,”

Spencer hums softly at Callahan’s assessment. “Do you know if he turoed any of the girls? He might have a better insight into any changes in their mannerisms,”

“I’m not sure I’m afraid,” Callahan shakes his head, “I leave him to his teachings most of the ime, but I can let him know you’ve asked,”

As they speak, Morgan’s gaze drifts to a nearby display shelf adorned with photographs of past students on the far wall, each one framed and labeled with a name and a date.

Etched into the wood of the shelf itself an engraving reading, “Shelf of Stars.” stood front and centre, and as Morgan’s eyes wandered the pictures, a certain label caught his attention.

Front and centre, there you sat, “2006 PhD” followed by your name, a picture of you and your Professors in what’s presuambly your first year.

“No way,” Morgan breathes out a laugh. “Reid come look at this,”

“What? What’s wrong?” Spencer and Callahan’s expressions mirror each other as they glance over at Morgan in concern, only for him to quash any need for worry as he holds up the frame in their direction.

“Look how different she looks! What happened, did she get hit by a truck when she turned 20 or what?”

There’s a flicker of recognition in Spencer’s eyes, one that almost turns to fondness as he takes in the bright smile printed behind the glass. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you smile like that since you’ve been with the team.

“You know her?” Callahan raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s on our team,” Morgan nods with a chuckle as he places the picture back where he found it, pulling out his phone to snap a photo, probably to make fun of you later.

“Really?” Professor Callahan looks more than a little surprised at the revelation. “I knew she was destined for great things, but the FBI, wow,” He breathes out a short sigh, nodding. “Robert’ll have a field day when he finds out she chose forensics over clinical,”

Spencer gives what’s almost a laugh, clearing his throat. “Well, Professor, thank you for speaking with us, we’ll contact you if we find any more information,”

“No problem at all, my door is always open,” Callahan follows Spencer and Morgan over to the office door, holding it open for them as they leave.

“Oh, Agents?” He stops them before they get too far. “If you have any time in or after your investigation, ask her to pay us a visit? It’d be nice to catch up,”

“We’ll let her know,”

—

“From what I can tell, the removal of the uterus was done antemortem, and the victims cause of death was the blood loss that resulted from it,” The Coroner lifts the muscle torn by the initial incision to give you and Emily a proper look at the damage.

“The nature of the incisions tells that they were most likely done with proper surgical instruments, a scalpel most likely, but their nature is unpracticed, see here for example,”

She points towards the left side of the victims pelvis, where the muscle had been separated from the uteral lining. “In a professional hysterectomy, this tissue here would also be removed, but in this case it’s been left attached to the surrounding tissues, and the same can be said for the others,”

“So our unsub knows the basics, is that something that would require medical training?” Emily furrows her eyebrows at the sight, and you’re much the same.

The sight is almost enough to make you feel nauseous, but you don’t need sickly thoughts clouding your judgement right now.

“Possibly, although with how the internet is, it’s possible they read an article or watched a documentary on how the procedure is done,” The coroner sways her head side to side, “I’d say that whoever did this has had some training, but not necessarily in the field,”

Emily hums, turning her gaze from the victim towards you. “Medical student maybe?”

You hum absently, eyes trained on the gaping hole left in the girl’s stomach. “Maybe, probably won’t still be a student though,”

It affects you more than it should, you think, a malingering nagging in the back of your head that won’t leave you alone but also won’t tell you why it’s there in the first place.

You sigh, “We should look at biologists too, clinical fields,”

Emily gives you an agreeing nod. “I’ll call Garcia,” She pats your shoulder deftly as she leaves the room.

“Was there anything else strange about the body?” You tear your eyes away from the girl to look up at the coroner, who only gives you a small shake of her head.

“Not that I can see,” Her gaze, though objective, flickers with small amounts of uncertainty. “It’s so upsetting, things like this, what spurs someone to do something so… primally horrific?”

“A rejection probably, a denial of a sexual relationship or children that’s projected onto other women because he can’t get to the person he really wants to hurt,” You shrug out an exhale. “More common than you’d think,”

She frowns. “it’s awful,”

“Yeah,” You purse your lips together. “But it is what it is,”

—

“Did the three girls have any clear connections?”

Garcia taps away on her keyboard, and the jingling of her earrings over the reciever suggests that she’s shaking her head. “Apart from being Stanford students, not really. Julie was doing an MsC in Pediatric Therapy, Ophelia doing an MA in History of Medicine, and Marie doing a PhD in Psychology.” She sighs. “None of them had any classes together, no mutual friends, I don’t even think they knew the others existed,”

“There has to be some overlap,” Morgan groans exasperatedly, glancing over at the mostly bare profile board that him and Spencer were trying to put together. They’d spoken to most of the girls’ professors by now, and apart from offhanded comments about stress and pressure, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

It was frustrating, really frustrating, and for all they knew, the team was on a time limit before another girl suffered the same fate. They needed a break in the case, sooner rather than later.

“What about the students Emily asked you to look into? Spencer bends almost awkardly towards Morgan’s phone, trying to raise his voice into the speaker whilst still writing against the whiteboard.

“Nada, I’m afraid, no one who had connections to all three girls, past or present, I’ve hit a wall,”

“No kidding,” Morgan exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding his phone. “Thanks anyway, sweetness,”

“Of course my love, I’ll hit you back if I find anything, Penny G out,” —

“So we’ve got three dead girls, no connections, and no signature to help us track down this guy, lovely,” Emily sips on her coffee, leaning back into her chair with a sigh.

“Isn’t this like every other case we’ve ever had?” You raise an eyebrow is disinterest, stretching you arms above your head and almost hitting Morgan in the face as he and Spencer reenter the room from their lunch break.

The Psychology department had been kind enough to loan you one of their staff rooms during your investigation, and comments had already been made about Hotch’s demeanour as he walked around you like he was keeping an eye on a group of toddlers.

“There’s something we’re missing here,” Rossi pours over the whiteboard with a disgruntled sigh, his palm dragging down the side of his face. “There’s always something,”

Reid nods, tapping his pen against his notebook as he takes a seat. “Even perfectionists leave traces. It’s just a matter of understanding their logic—how they justify their actions.”

“Change of subject quickly,” Morgan holds up a hand as he walks around the table, his other hand landing on your shoulder. “Talking of leaving traces, who was going to tell us that you actually knew how to smile?”

You shrug his hand off of you with a furrow of your eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m talking little nineteen year old you beaming like you were trying to compete with the sun,” He digs his phone from his pocket, holding the screen out to face the group. “I mean look at this, look at you, its weird,”

You snatch the phone from him as soon as you recognise the picture. “Why do you have that picture?”

“We took a trip to see one of your old Professors,” Morgan wrestles the device back out of your hands before you have a chance to what he assumes will be deleting the evidence of your past sunniness. “He asked to see you at some point by the way, wants to ‘catch up’,”

“Delete that photo, Morgan.” You cross one leg over the other with a huff.

“No way, Ice Queen, I’m gonna make fun of you with this forever,”

“I hate you,”

”I love you too,” He blows an air kiss in your direction.

The shrill ring of the door opening cuts through the room, snapping everyone to attention. A mildly out of breath PD officer leaning against the doorframe.

“There’s been another one,” she says, her voice tight.

The room erupts into motion.

—

When you arrive, the scene is eerily similar to the others. The victim, a young woman in her early twenties, lies in the middle of her dorm room, fully clothed and carefully positioned. Her face is serene, as though she’s simply sleeping. The blood pooling out of her lower abdomen tells you that she’s not.

“Victim’s name is Natalie Yu. Twenty-one, Psychology major. She fits the profile—academic, driven, top of her class.” JJ fills you in easily.

You step closer, your heart sinking as you take in the meticulous staging. The unsub’s reverence for his victims is apparent in every detail. No signs of a struggle. No personal belongings out of place.

Reid crouches near the body, his eyes narrowing. “Same as the others. No physical trauma that would suggest a cause of death other than bloodloss. Removal of reproductive organs.”

Morgan stands by the door, his jaw clenched. “This guy’s escalating. Three murders in three weeks, and now this. He’s not slowing down.”

Something catches Prentiss’s eye. She kneels beside the victim and carefully lifts the edge of her blouse. Tucked neatly into the waistband of her jeans is a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” she murmurs, pulling on gloves before unfolding the note. The room goes still as she reads aloud:

“It was meant to be you.”

You lean over Emily’s shoulder to get a glance at the writing yourself. And then you immediately regret doing so. The handwriting is unmistakable—sharp, angular strokes that you’d recognise anywhere.

But you can’t say that. Not yet.

“‘It was meant to be you’?” Rossi repeats, stepping closer. “What the hell does that mean?”

Reid frowns. “It’s personal. Direct. He’s targeting someone specific now.”

“It could be a taunt,” JJ offers. “A way to throw us off or instill fear in the team.”

Morgan shakes his head, his expression grim. “No. This is different. This isn’t just about control anymore—this is about sending a message,”

“It’s personal,” Reid says again, his gaze sweeping the room. For a brief moment, his eyes land on you, and you feel like he can see right through you.

“Excuse me,” you manage, your voice steady despite the panic clawing at your chest.

You step outside, the crisp air hitting you like a jolt. Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, staring at the screen without really seeing it. The note wasn’t just a taunt—it was a reminder. He knew you were here. He’d known the moment you stepped onto campus.

It was meant to be you.

The words echo in your mind, a sinister promise that leaves no room for doubt.

—

“This is different from the previous victims,” Spencer says, “The note changes everything. If we assume the unsub has been fixated on someone specific all along, the other victims could have been surrogates—stand-ins for the real target.”

Prentiss looks at him sharply. “You think the unsub is escalating because the real target is now within reach?”

He nods. “Exactly. The murders were practice, perfecting the method. But now that the target is accessible, he’s shifting focus.”

“Great,” Morgan mutters. “Wonderful.”

JJ gestures to the note. “We need to figure out who he’s targeting—and fast.”

You stand by the door, your stomach twisting. You can’t let them figure it out, not like this.

“I’ll follow up on the note,” you say, forcing a calm you don’t feel. “Maybe there’s something about the phrasing or handwriting we can use to narrow down suspects.”

Morgan eyes you, his brow furrowed. “You sure you’re good? You’ve been quiet since we got here.”

You nod quickly, brushing off his concern. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go.

—

You barricade yourself in the staff room, spreading out the case files across the table. You stare at the note, the handwriting glaring up at you like a brand.

“It was meant to be you.”

You were just a kid, desperate to prove yourself. He saw that. He used it.

You grip the edge of the table, your knuckles white. You can’t let him win. Not again.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts. It’s Spencer, holding a cup of coffee.

“Thought you could use this,” he says, setting it down in front of you.

“Thank you.” You manage a display of gratitude, but his gaze lingers, sharp and questioning.

“You’ve been off since we got here,” he says softly. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Your heart skips a beat. Reid is too perceptive for his own good, and you know he won’t let this go.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods, stepping back. “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

As he leaves, you let out a shaky breath. The walls are closing in, and you don’t know how much longer you can keep this to yourself. Not if you don’t want anyone else to die because of it.

—

Spencer stands near the board, absentmindedly tapping his pen against his palm. Morgan is leaning against a table, arms crossed, while Prentiss and JJ exchange quiet remarks by the coffee pot. Rossi, as always, is seated with his chair tipped back, his eyes fixed on the board.

But it’s Hotch who breaks the silence. “This unsub’s timeline is escalating, and the note makes it clear they’re getting bolder. If we don’t figure out their connection to Stanford soon, someone else is going to die.”

Morgan sighs. “We’ve gone through the victim profiles a dozen times. There’s no overlap other than the school. No shared clubs, professors, dorms, nothing. It’s like this guy’s picking them at random.”

“Not random,” Spencer interjects, his voice sharp. “The victims are stand-ins for someone else. I’m sure of it. The note confirmed it—‘It was meant to be you.’ The unsub isn’t just killing; they’re trying to send a message to someone.”

Rossi tilts his head. “None of them bear any significant physical relation to each other,”

Reid nods. “It doesn’t have to be physical. It’s an ideal, there’s something specific that ties all of the victims together, something linked to whoever the unsub is actually after,”

JJ frowns. “But who is it? If it’s not one of the victims, how do we figure out who the unsub is fixated on?”

You tense in your chair, your hands curling into fists under the table. You can feel their eyes shifting to you, their collective attention like a spotlight burning against your skin.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “You did go here. Maybe there’s something you’d recognise—something we’ve missed.”

You meet their gazes with forced calm, willing your voice to remain steady. “Just because I went to Stanford doesn’t mean this case has anything to do with me.”

Prentiss leans forward slightly, her tone gentle but insistent. “No one’s saying it does, but if there’s even a chance—”

“There’s not.” you cut her off, sharper than you intended. The words hang in the air, and you immediately regret your tone. It doesn’t change anything though. “We’re here because of the victims, not because I graduated from here a decade ago.”

The room falls quiet, and the tension thickens. Hotch watches you carefully, his unreadable gaze a weight you can’t escape.

“I need some air,” you say abruptly, standing before anyone can argue. “I’ll be back in a few.”

You leave the room before anyone can stop you, the sound of your boots echoing down the sterile hall.

—

Stanford’s campus feels both foreign and familiar as you wander its paths. The sprawling quads and ivy-covered buildings haven’t changed much in the years since you left, but the memories they stir feel sharp and raw.

You stop at a bench near the Psychology department, the cool breeze doing little to calm the storm inside you. Your arms wrap around yourself as if trying to hold yourself together.

“You’re not fine.”

The voice startles you, but you don’t turn around. You’d recognise that soft, observant tone anywhere. Spencer.

He sits beside you, leaving a respectful distance between you, his lanky frame folding awkwardly on the bench. “You’ve been different since we got here,” he says after a moment. “Quiet. Hesitant. That’s not like you,”

You don’t respond, staring out at the students passing by, their laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the weight in your chest.

“I know it’s not just the case,” he continues, his voice gentle but unyielding. “There’s something else. Something you’re not telling us.”

Your jaw tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,”

His certainty grates on your already frayed nerves, and you finally turn to him, your eyes flashing. “What are you trying to say, Reid? Spit it out.”

He hesitates, his brow furrowing as he chooses his words carefully. “I think you know who the unsub is. Or at least… you suspect,”

You laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. “That’s a hell of an accusation.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says quickly. “I’m worried about you. You’re not acting like yourself, and the way you reacted to that note…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It was different. You looked like you’d seen a ghost,”

“Maybe I’m just tired,” you snap, the defensive edge in your voice sharper than you intend.

He doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s more than that. I can see it. You’re scared,”

The word hits you like a slap, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. He’s right, of course. You are scared. Terrified, even. But admitting that feels like surrendering, like letting him win.

“Stop it,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Spencer leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies you. “I think I do. I think this unsub has a connection to you. And I think that’s why you’ve been avoiding us—because you don’t want us to figure it out.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, and you glare at him, your composure threatening to crack. “You don’t know what he did to me.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and the moment they do, you see the understanding dawn in his eyes. “Who?” Spencer presses gently. “Who are we talking about?”

Your chest heaves as you fight back the tears threatening to spill. “One of my Professors.”

“Did he…” Spencer hesitates in pressing the subject, a mix of his usual timidness when it comes to you and the fear that he’s broaching on a very concerning topic.

“It was consensual.”

Spencer watches you closely, his eyes searching your face for a sign, some clue, as if trying to understand the puzzle that is your inner workings.

He doesn’t push, but the silence between you both is suffocating. His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks again, but it still cuts through the heavy air between you.

"You were just a kid," Spencer murmurs, his words soft but no less sharp. "He took advantage of you when you were vulnerable, when you were still figuring things out. That’s manipulation."

You flinch at the truth of it, at the way he so easily sees the pieces of your life you've tried so hard to bury. You didn’t want to think about him anymore, didn’t want to remember how he twisted every gesture, every word, until it was all about him, all about what he wanted.

You can still feel the weight of his hands, the way he made you feel like you didn’t have a choice, that this was all part of the price you had to pay to succeed, to be seen as worthy of your place in academia.

Spencer shifts slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “He used his power over you. You were just a kid, and he was a professor. Someone you trusted.” His words are steady, but they cut deep. "You were in a position where you thought you had to do what he wanted. But it wasn’t your fault,”

“It was consensual.” you say again, more firmly this time, though it feels like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than him, the words raw and drenched in a cold calmness you didn’t really feel.

“Was it?” Spencer asks gently, his voice low. “If you were 19 and you thought you had to do it to get ahead, was it really? Was it truly your choice?”

You feel the air leave your lungs, and you want to scream at him, to deny everything, to make him stop asking these questions, because the answers are too painful, too complicated.

But he’s right. You were a child—so young, so desperate to succeed, to make a name for yourself in a field dominated by people like him. You thought you were lucky when he took you under his wing, when he offered you guidance, extra attention, time. But you weren’t.

“I had an abortion,” you finally confess, the words coming out in a broken whisper.

Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he’s silent, processing your admission. His lips part as though he wants to say something, but nothing comes. He doesn’t push, though, just watches you, his expression a mix of sympathy and concern, but there's no judgment in it. Not like you expected.

“In my shitty college dorm room,” Your voice catches, and you blink rapidly, trying to stop the sting in your eyes. “I thought I was dying. The amount of blood—” You let out a shaky breath, your hands trembling in your lap. “I didn't know how to make it stop.Sometimes I wish it didn’t.”

“Don’t say that.”

Spencer leans in a little, his gaze intense, but gentle. “You were just a kid,” he says softly, his words like a balm, soothing yet cutting through the guilt. “He took advantage of you. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve that.”

You want to believe him. You want so badly to hear those words and let them erase the shame that has clung to you for so long. But the voices of doubt are louder in your head. The fear that somehow, deep down, it was your fault. That maybe you could’ve said no, maybe you could’ve gotten away before it went too far.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you say, your voice low, almost ashamed of the vulnerability. “I couldn’t tell my parents or my friends… or anyone. It was like everything I worked for, everything I had, was tied to him. If I said something, everything would’ve been ruined.”

Spencer’s brows furrow, and he lets out a soft exhale. “No one should ever have to carry that weight alone, especially not at your age.” His voice is steady, but there’s something deeply empathetic in his tone. “It’s not a burden you should’ve had to bear by yourself.”

“I lied to him too,” you whisper, the confession hanging heavily in the air. “I told him I miscarried. He was devastated. He wasn’t even angry—just sad. But I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything.”

“You…” Spencer starts, hesitating to make sure he words his response correctly. “Being in a state of shock is normal after a traumatic event,”

You shake your head. “I know what shock feels like. I was just numb. I murdered my own child and I didn’t even feel guilty about it.”

Spencer’s jaw tightens slightly, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes, but it’s not directed at you. It’s directed at him, at the man who should’ve protected you, not preyed on you. His voice is tight, but he keeps it calm.

“You did what you had to do. That’s not your fault.”

“It was alive. Seventeen weeks. I flushed it down the fucking toilet,” You drag your palm down your face, leaning forward until your elbows are resting on your knees.

“I didn’t even want to graduate after that,” you admit, your voice raw. “I couldn’t face him. I just wanted to disappear, but I was not going to put myself through hell without getting something out of it.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, taking in everything you’ve said. His gaze never wavers from yours, like he’s trying to understand every piece of you, trying to reach that place where you’re still hiding, still locked away from the rest of the world.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation for what happened. You did what you needed to survive. And you are surviving. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle over you. The storm inside you hasn’t calmed, but for the first time in a long while, it feels like it’s not threatening to swallow you whole. The walls you’ve built around yourself feel just a little more porous, itching to crumble.

“I’m scared,” you say, the vulnerability you’ve been holding back creeping into your voice. “He’s murdering people because of me.”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He sits up straighter, his expression serious. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll help you, and we’ll make sure that he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“You can’t tell anyone what I just told you.”

He lets out a sigh of your name.

“Promise me, Spencer.”

“Okay,” He nods solemnly. “I promise.”

—

The moment you walk through the doors of the empty lecture hall, you feel it—that same nauseating mix of dread and anticipation curling in your stomach. The air is stale, thick with the weight of memories you spent years trying to forget.

He’s already there, standing at the podium like he belongs there, like nothing has changed. Like he hasn’t left a trail of bodies behind him.

“Ah,” Professor Wittchen exhales as if relieved. “There you are,”

Your fingers twitch at your sides. “I should’ve known you’d pick this place.”

His lips curve into a small smile, a smile that used to make you feel seen. Now, it makes your skin crawl. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? This is where it all began,”

He watches you with the same unwavering gaze he always had, the one that used to make you feel special—chosen. Now, it just feels predatory.

“I missed you,” he says simply, stepping closer.

You don’t move.

“You should’ve visited,” he continues, his voice warm, inviting, like this is a casual conversation and not a confrontation between a killer and his last loose end. “You were my brightest student,”

“I was your victim.” you correct, voice sharp.

His expression doesn’t falter. If anything, he looks pleased. “Victim?” he echoes, like he’s rolling the word around in his mouth, testing its weight. “That’s not how I remember it.”

You swallow hard, jaw clenched. You knew this was how he would react. Knew he would twist things, make them blurry, like he always had.

He tilts his head, studying you. “I heard you became a profiler. That’s impressive. Though I always thought you were more inclined to be a Psychiatrist.”

“You shouldn't be surprised,” you say flatly. “I learned from the best manipulators.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Now, that’s not fair,”

Your nails dig into your palms. “I know it’s you,” you say, cutting through the act. “You murdered four innocent women because you couldn’t move on.”

He exhales, almost disappointed. “That’s not quite right.”

You don’t let him continue. “Why are you doing this? Why now?”

His gaze darkens, and for the first time since you stepped into this room, the warmth fades from his expression. “It’s been ten years since you left me,” he says simply. “You never even had the decency to say goodbye. I tried to find a substitute, but they weren’t like you. No body is. You’re special.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but you force yourself to hold his stare. “I didn’t owe you anything.”

Wittchen exhales through his nose, shaking his head like you’ve disappointed him. “That’s not true. I shaped you. I made you.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “You ruined my life.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, and then—slowly—he steps down from the podium, closing the distance between you. “You don’t believe that.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move.

He stops inches from you, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I see it in your eyes. You still need me.”

You know what he’s doing. You know how his mind works, how he bends reality to his will, how he rewrites history to suit his narrative.

And for the first time, you don’t fall for it.

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper. “You think killing people will make me what? Love you? Miss you?” You shake your head. “You mean nothing to me.”

Something in his expression shifts. It’s subtle, but you catch it. The crack in his mask. The first glimpse of the monster beneath.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

There it is. The control slipping.

Good.

You see the flash of something dark behind his eyes—anger, frustration, maybe even desperation. He knows he’s losing control, and for a man like him, that’s unbearable.

You take a step forward. Not away, but closer.

“I hate you.” you say, your voice sharp, cutting through the heavy silence of the room.

Wittchen’s lips barely twitch, but you see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he thinks you’re still playing a game with him. Like this is another debate, another test of wills.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

He sighs, tilting his head like you’re disappointing him. “I did anything you didn’t ask for,” he says, like it’s a fact. “You wanted me.”

Rage burns through you, hot and all-consuming. “I was nineteen,” you spit. You knew exactly what you were doing. You took advantage of me.”

Wittchen exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that,”

“It was exactly like that,” you snap, stepping closer. “And do you want to know the worst part? I spent years telling myself it wasn’t. That maybe I did love you, that maybe I wanted to be with you. But I didn’t.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t regret leaving you,” you continue, voice trembling with fury. “I don’t regret moving on, or never looking back. But do you know what I do regret?”

He doesn’t answer, just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for the killing blow.

“I regret ever letting you touch me. I regret every second I spent thinking you were something special, that you cared about me. You didn’t. You only cared about what I could give you.”

Something shifts in his expression—subtle, but enough. His fingers twitch again.

You steel yourself and drive the dagger deeper.

“You think I miscarried?” you ask, voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s what I told you, right? That I lost the baby?”

His face remains eerily blank.

“I lied,” you whisper. “I had an abortion.”

His entire body stiffens.

“Because the thought of being tied to you for the rest of my life made me sick. And I would’ve rather died from sepsis than deal with you.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

For a moment, Wittchen doesn’t react. Doesn’t breathe.

Then, without warning, he moves.

His hand goes for his waistband, and in a split second, you see the glint of a gun.

But you’re faster.

Your own weapon is already in your hands before he can fully draw his, aimed directly at his chest.

“Don’t.” you warn, your voice steel.

Wittchen hesitates, his gun halfway raised, his eyes locked onto yours.

For the first time, there’s something close to uncertainty in his expression.

—

The team is listening.

They hear every word.

Spencer’s grip on his gun is tight, knuckles white, jaw clenched so hard it aches. The rest of the team stands tense beside him, ears trained on the conversation happening just beyond the door.

They could go in. They should go in.

But they don’t.

Not yet.

Because this isn’t their battle.

Still, when they hear the shift in the conversation, the moment Wittchen reaches for his gun, every muscle in Spencer’s body tenses, ready to move.

And then—

Silence.

A long, stretching silence.

Then a single gunshot.

—

“You’re lying,” Wittchen snaps, his voice rising as his fingers curl tighter around the revolver’s grip. He pulls back the hammer with a metallic click, the sound loud in the charged silence of the lecture hall.

His arm is steady, the barrel aimed at your chest, but you don't flinch. “You miscarried. You were sick. That’s the truth. I took care of you. I was there when you needed me.”

Your lips curl into a bitter smile.

“The baby was fine,” you say, voice cold and firm. “I just didn’t want it.”

The words hang between you, heavy and raw.

For a split second, something akin to disbelief flickers in his eyes. But he recovers quickly, his jaw tightening as his grip on the gun tightens. The cold, calculating look is back.

The man who used his power over you is right here, still trying to control the situation. But he’s unraveling, and you can see it now—the cracks in his façade.

“You think you can just walk away from all this?” Wittchen growls, his voice a low threat. His eyes dart between you and the gun in your hand, calculating the distance, the time it would take to react.

“You’re going to watch me.” you reply, your voice steady despite the chaos swirling inside you. You take a step forward, gun lowered in favour of a pair of handcuffs.

He lets out a sharp breath, taking a step backwards, his arm still outstretched, but his expression is one of rage and something else—desperation.

“I gave you everything,” Wittchen sneers. “I could’ve given you more. You were a star, you were going places. But you threw it all away.”

“I didn’t throw away anything.” you say, voice sharp, anger curling in your gut. “I made my life what I wanted it to be.”

You take another step toward him. Your hand grips your gun tighter, its cold weight a reminder of how far you’ve come, how much you’ve survived.

“I was a kid,” you say, quieter now, more dangerous. “A kid who wanted to make something of herself. But you? You made sure I’d always be tied to you, that I’d never escape your reach. You took that from me. And now?”

Now, you’re not just angry. Now, you’re done.

“I don’t need you anymore,” you continue, voice quiet but lethal. “And I don’t need to live in fear of you. Not anymore. Just give up.”

Wittchen’s face hardens. His finger moves closer to the trigger, and for a moment, it feels like time stands still. His eyes are cold, calculating—he’s trying to force you to back down, to make you fear him again. But you don’t. Not anymore.

And he knows it.

The silence stretches out, suffocating. And then, without another word, he turns the gun away from you and towards himself.

For a moment, the world is frozen.

The sharp scent of gunpowder lingers in the air.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t move.

Wittchen stares at you, almost smiling.

A slow, dark red stain spreads across his chest. His gun falls from his hand, clattering uselessly to the floor.

Then, his knees buckle.

He collapses.

The impact is dull, almost anticlimactic.

His breath comes in shallow gasps, and for the first time since you walked into this room, he looks small.

Weak.

The man who once held so much power over you is nothing more than a dying, pathetic heap on the floor.

And somehow, there’s no satisfaction in it.

You watch as the light fades from his eyes, as the last breath leaves his lips.

And then—

It’s over.

—

The gunshot sends the team into action.

Spencer is the first through the door, gun raised, eyes scanning the room for threats.

But all he finds is you—standing still, gun loose in one hand, handcuffs in the other, staring blankly ahead.

Wittchen is on the floor, unmoving. Blood pools around him.

For a second, no one speaks.

Then you move.

Without looking at any of them, you turn away from the corpse.

And then, numbly, silently, you walk past them.

You don’t stop when Spencer calls your name.

You don’t stop when JJ reaches for you.

You just keep walking.

Because it’s finally over.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel like a victory at all.

—

The air outside the lecture hall is thick with tension.

Your gun feels heavy in your hands, and at some point, you register someone gently taking it from you. You don’t resist.

The hallways of Stanford feel different now. The ghosts you tried so hard to forget have been exorcised, but their shadows still linger.

You reach the nearest exit and step outside, inhaling sharply as the crisp night air hits you. You brace your hands on your knees, grounding yourself.

Then you hear footsteps behind you.

You know it’s them.

You straighten, forcing yourself to meet their gazes.

Hotch stands with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his presence steady. JJ and Emily exchange a look, worry etched into their features. Rossi, as always, watches with quiet understanding.

Then there’s Morgan.

He looks… shaken.

Guilt lingers in his eyes, and when he steps forward, his voice is lower, softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You blink, caught off guard.

“For what?” Your voice is hoarse, raw.

Morgan exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw with his eyes full of regret. “I didn’t know.”

You swallow hard. You don’t want to talk about it. But there’s something in his voice, in the way his usually confident demeanor falters, that makes you nod stiffly.

“I know.”

It’s the closest thing to forgiveness you can offer right now.

Morgan nods, accepting it.

Spencer is the last to approach.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes, though, say everything.

You hold his gaze for a moment before sighing. “What?”

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits. His voice is careful, but there’s an edge of something else—frustration, sadness, maybe even anger. Not at you. Never at you. But at what happened. At what Wittchen took from you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur.

—

The hum of the jet is steady and low, a constant presence that fills the silence between breaths.

You sit by the window, staring out at the clouds, your reflection barely visible against the dark glass.

You should be exhausted.

You are exhausted.

But sleep won’t come.

Your mind won’t let it.

The seat next to you shifts slightly, and you glance over to see Spencer settling beside you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t ask if you’re okay, because he already knows you’re not.

Doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty reassurances.

He just sits.

And somehow, that’s reassurance enough.

Sleep comes a little easier after that.

#cold!reader ᝰ.ᐟ #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst

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