#i swear officer it's for plot progression!

[it-was-summer]

Busy Woman

A/N: I do not wanna see ANY Minors in this bitch. Seriously. Like you'll get it when you get older I promise. This worm has been wiggling around in my brain for MONTHS. Things have been so busy that it's been a real struggle trying to write. I really hope you all like my excuse to write porn. Thank you to @cafekitsune for the border/dividers used. Thank you to @beenreidingaboutyou and @alsofoundinpeas and practically the WHOLE discord server for letting me send this google docs to you and yapping with me about logistics (positions at one point I'm sure). Enjoy!

Link to the AO3: Busy Woman -> Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Tags: Smut with plot. Reader is a maneater, some she/her pronouns at one point or another, PinV sex yall, wrap it up!!!! condoms my beloved (they are not used here, reader and the team go out drinking, spencer reid yapping, reader is a dommy mommy idc Spencer Reid would have a mommy kink, he’s a whiner, SUB SUB SUB SUB Spencer, nothing too crazy sexually (in my eyes), i forget something else this is porn, no creampie for you!!! (I know... i know..).

Genre: Smut w/ Plot. Pairing: ManeaterBAUFem!Reader x Season4!SpencerReid

Plot: After spending countless months watching you break men's hearts, Spencer is surprised when you call a sudden dating hiatus. Amid your 'break,' you confide in your lanky coworker how much you miss certain physical intimacies. Spencer is quick to offer a solution.

Word count: 11,827

 A man-eater… by definition, is ​​a woman who uses men to have a series of sexual relationships but does not love the men. The thought of being one of those men has been lingering in the back of Spencer’s mind for the past eight months. 

He knows, of course, that you’re more nuanced than that feeble definition. The team never misses the opportunity to tease you; your dating habits are an ongoing joke and mystery within the bureau. Derek often jokes that the two of you are peas in a pod, which, in turn, makes you respond that he’s the one with commitment issues, not you. You insist that you’re just picky.

You’d give any guy a chance until they disappoint you, and then you’re gone. You knew what you wanted from them, and if they couldn’t fulfill those ‘duties’ (as Emily jokingly puts it), then it wasn’t worth it. Spencer hates to admit it —to you or anyone else— but he loves how you detach from them. 

He likes how you lure them in with honey and how they drop like flies at your feet— that trap of yours working effortlessly. It feels strangely voyeuristic, which makes him feel like a creep, but he swears it isn’t like that. If he could describe it better, he’d say it was more like a form of admiration. He likes that you know what you want out of your relationships. The way you don’t stick around and accept bad behavior. It’s exceptional and incredibly intimidating. Maybe femme fatale would be a better title, though he doubts you’ve ever destroyed a man’s life, as that definition suggests. Distress? Most definitely. 

His eyes are glued to you now as you brush a stray hair behind your ear, how your brows knit together when you’re concentrating, watching as your left hand plays with the chain of your necklace. Tearing his eyes away from you, he focuses on the map on his desk, circling the location of the recent body discovered earlier that morning. JJ leans over his right shoulder, her blue eyes looking at the work-in-progress geographical profile with silent intrigue. 

She leans away from him, folding her arms across her chest, getting lost in thought until her gaze lands on you. You were so focused a few minutes ago, but now you’re looking at one of the officers across the station. He was young, about the same age as Spencer, if she had to guess. His uniform is a little loose on him, the material around his arms droops, and his shirt hangs off his body in a way that makes it obvious he’s wearing a size too big for him. 

She watches with you as he tucks it into his pants nervously, his fingers adjusting his collar as he mutters something under his breath. He’s handsome, boyish, with decently styled brunette hair. His dimples pop when he gives one of his fellow officers a slight grin— just your average prey. “Don’t give him that look.” 

Your eyes are on her in seconds, and she holds back a laugh when she sees your offended expression. “What look?” You sound shocked, glancing at the young officer. “I was just people-watching.” 

“I think the word you’re looking for is hunting.” JJ counters as Emily walks in with a coffee in hand. 

“Oh? She’s on the prowl away from home? Down girl, down!” 

You frown, eyes narrowed as you look between the two women taunting you. “I’m not a dog. A girl can’t make an observation anymore?” 

Emily shakes her head as she pulls her coffee cup away from her lips, “Not when the girl is you.” 

Your frown deepens, looking at Spencer with a look that silently pleads for help. He can never resist that look— it’s one he knows well. He looks over his shoulder at JJ and gives her a light pout, “I don’t think that’s a fair assumption of her character.” 

JJ’s eyes shine with amusement. This is how the dance usually went. You’d be selecting some poor gentleman as your next meal, they’d tease you about it, and then Spencer would come rushing in to protect your honor— assuming you had any, to begin with. “Spencer the Valiant enters into the arena, ladies and gentlemen.” Her hand comes up to playfully ruffle his hair.

Spencer fails to dodge her efforts. “Don’t,” he grumbles as he swats at her hand as it touches his already messy curls. “Do that.” He can never catch a break when it comes to being teased by the team. 

You grin, watching Spencer flatten out his hair carefully, rearranging it until it’s slightly neat and wavy. You silently motion to him that part of his hair is still sticking up and watch as he blindly tries to fix it. Watching him struggle with his hair, you break the usual respect you show for his personal space, leaning over and smoothing down the cowlick with a soft chuckle. 

His cheeks are red, watching you lean away from him, his gaze awkwardly avoiding yours. “Besides,” You begin, looking at the young officer with a charming smile. “You and Will make it work, don’t you?” You ask, talking to JJ without looking at her. 

JJ scoffs a little, watching as the young officer looks up from his desk and across the station— he won’t last. You give him a little wave and flirty smile combo before looking at JJ. “Don’t even think about it,” JJ warns, but you technically don’t have to do anything. You shrug a little, looking down at the evidence pile on your desk. 

Not while the young officer stands up, smoothing out his too-big uniform and taking large strides over to you. You don’t have to look to know he’s coming. JJ shakes her head with Emily when he arrives at your side. When he clears his throat, you don’t look up from your task, twirling a pen around your fingers. 

The way you look up with gentle doe eyes and a polite smile on your lips as you turn to face him has Emily holding back a giggle. You blink a little, eyes reading the name tag on his uniform— David Miller. “Can we help you with something, Mister…” You trail off, acting as though you hadn’t just read his name tag. 

“Miller and I don’t need help from all of you, maybe just you.” His voice is slightly deeper than you expected, and he sounds confident— which is fine— you just thought he’d be the shy type.

You let out a soft ‘ah,’ nodding slowly like the idea just occurred to you. “Well, as sweet as that is,” you don’t even let the poor guy officially ask you out. You just openly assume. “I’m afraid we’re all swamped working on this case— myself included.” You watch his broad shoulders slump slightly— the action doesn’t even last a full second— and you sigh like you’re contemplating something. “But maybe we could get a coffee in the break room?” 

His demeanor brightens, eyebrows raising as he asks, “Now?” 

You shrug, looking at the clock on the wall, “Ten minutes.” Standing, you brush off your jeans, as if this sudden coffee date weighs heavily on you. “You coming?” As you walk towards the breakroom, the question hangs in the air, and you don’t even bother looking back to see if he’s following you. 

Three days later, Spencer watches you frown at David. Words can not describe how much he hates David. Well, many words could describe how much he dislikes David, but Spencer Reid is not a man to spit petty remarks at a man undeserving of them (though some may disagree). In truth, he only dislikes David because he envies him a little… he’s lying to himself. Spencer Reid envies that man with an intensity that rivals forest fires. 

Spencer watches as David’s lips form words he cannot hear— words he’s sure you know all too well— Stay. He watches as you give David a small, sympathetic smile. His gaze lingers on your plump lips as you lean in to press a chaste kiss to another man’s lips, and he can imagine the sticky, sweet tone of your voice as you tell him that you have to leave. 

Once you’re in the backseat, you relax your shoulders with a huff. Derek shakes his head at you in the front seat, staying quiet as the black SUV drives off towards the airport in this small Maryland town. Spencer knows that he should stop watching you, but it’s like he’s bewitched. 

Your lip gloss is a faint pink— messy. You probably left some of David’s lips. Spencer wonders if it has a taste; he’s seen you use a cherry lip balm a handful of times. He can imagine kissing you, slow and sweet to start, if he had the time, getting hungrier and hungrier with each press of your lips on his. He wonders if you’d let him drag his tongue on your bottom lip and let him get a taste of cherries and skin. Could he pull on that full bottom lip with his teeth– “Spencer!” 

He blinks, hazel eyes focus on yours. You chuckle, airy and slightly concerned, “Are you okay? You’re staring.” 

Derek barks out a laugh from the driver’s seat, “When isn’t he?” 

Spencer shakes his head, mainly at Derek’s idea of a joke, but also because he doesn’t want you to think something is wrong with him. His smile is unconvincing and quick: “I’m fine.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, trying again. “Just thinking about you and David. H-He seems nice.” 

You shrug, hair falling into your face, “I guess he’s nice, yeah.” Then you lift a hand, waving the idea off like it’s bothersome. “I don’t think I’m going to see him again.” 

Derek groans out, “Surprise, surprise.” 

Spencer manages to keep the smile off his face, but his voice gives him away: “Why not?” he sounds elated. 

You move with your hands, throwing them up before letting them rest on your outer thighs, slumping a little in the seat. Your eyes search the car’s floor, as if it’ll help you find a good enough answer. Why not? He’s not what you envisioned in a romantic partner. He wasn’t gentle, well-spoken, or even stimulating.  

He seemed like a good conversationalist during that ten-minute coffee break, but he kept pushing for a late dinner with you. When you finally relented, you found he lacked any real substance. He was… dull, hot, but bland. He didn’t have strong beliefs like you, lacked wit, and seemed entitled. 

Sure, you could have let him take you home and given him something to remember you by. But, considering how dull he was over dinner, you doubted he could impress you in the bedroom. Why go looking for disappointment? 

You force a small smile, gentle eyes leaving the SUV’s flooring to look at Spencer. “Didn’t pass the benchmark, I’m afraid.” It’s meant to be a joke, but your delivery is slightly off. You sound somewhat saddened by the fact, and Spencer debates asking you what’s wrong. However, discussing your dating life is not his strong suit. Instead, he simply delivers a curt nod, lips drawn into a tight line as the car falls silent on the way to the tarmac. 

A week later, it’s one of those rare days when the BAU team stays in DC. Indeed, this week is a way to make up for lost time. Spencer has heard about two coffee dates, one dinner date, and how you’re going on a lunch date this upcoming Saturday. Not that you’re telling him necessarily; he tries his hardest not to ask about your dating habits out of fear that you’ll eventually catch on to his hopeless crush on you and break his heart before he’s mentally prepared for such a tragedy. 

No, he hears about your escapades from Penelope, Emily, or JJ. Mostly in passing gossip sessions, he hears when he shouldn’t be eavesdropping.  He’s not the biggest fan of gossip, especially when said gossip is about a coworker, but he can’t stop listening when it’s about you. 

The second he hears your name leave one of their lips, he pours his coffee a little slower in the break room or takes smaller bites of his lunch. He even held the elevator doors for the group of women on a handful of occasions so he could silently listen in. Morgan says he’s whipped (and after Spencer gets clarification on what that terminology entails, he nervously disagrees). 

He’s just a naturally curious person. His high IQ can be blamed here— you’re a constant question on his mind. He cannot solve you, and every time he thinks he’s close, you switch it up on him. 

Penelope is trying to be discreet—genuinely— she’s walking at a normal pace, a rested smile on her face, and the feathered flower pinned into her blonde curls shakes slightly as she approaches Emily’s desk. Her eyes look towards your desk, glad to find you lost in conversation with Anderson. Spencer watches her anyway.

Emily’s eyebrows raise as Penelope leans down and whispers something into the small space between them, which is effective because Spencer can’t hear anything (much to his dismay). Emily reels her head back, shocked as she mutters in disbelief, “No way.” 

Penelope beams, nodding quickly and letting out a drawn-out “Mhm!” 

Spencer wonders if it has anything to do with Anderson. Could they be alluding to the two of you getting together? Spencer would feel nervous about the idea, but you never dated coworkers. Besides, Anderson didn’t have that boyish charm you so adore. Spencer thinks he can mark him as safe.

But what else could it be? He’s trying his hardest not to stare at Penelope and Emily as they whisper to each other a few feet away, his eyes darting around the case file in his hands as his mind runs away with him. His gaze occasionally flits over to your desk, taking note of that polite smile you’re sporting. Yeah, you’re definitely not into Anderson. 

Something work-related? No, that sounds ridiculous the second he thinks it. He blinks, forcing himself to set down the case file and mull over all the probabilities. He feels like it’s too obvious to be a date. You go on those all the time. And he doubts it's a second date update because those never end well for you. However, there is a slight chance that this time, it did. 

He’s still in the process of analyzing every bit of information related to you when he hears an open laugh from Penelope as she follows Emily over to your desk. Anderson is nowhere to be seen as you settle back into your desk chair, barely looking up when Emily asks, “You’re taking a break from dating?”

“Derek is such a gossip.” 

“Don’t blame him, he can’t resist me.” Penelope sighs out. 

Emily dismisses the comment with a slight wave, “For how long?” 

You shrug, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, “I don’t know. Until I feel like talking to a man again?” 

“Oh my god, an indefinite hiatus!” 

You chuckle a little, “Why do you care so much?” You couldn’t imagine your dating life being that interesting. Then again, you have dated some questionable people.

Penelope gasps, hands reaching her chest, “Why do we care? You’re the only thing that saves us from boredom. You’re water in this gossip dessert. Don’t let us dehydrate, please, please.” Her palms press together as she begs you. 

A strange laugh escapes you, your shoulders shaking as you giggle. “Listen, I really need—” You gently swat at Penelope’s still clasped hands, “I need a break from all the disingenuous compliments and ploys to get into my pants—” you scoff. Spencer’s heart stutters in his chest; he’s empathetic towards your feelings. He wants what’s best for you, of course (that and this could be his once-in-a-lifetime chance to see you be wholly unattached, his chance). “I need to be alone and work on some things before I date again, simple as that.” Well, so much for his chance. 

“She’s so wise.” Emily turns to Penelope, her tone mocking. “Isn’t she so wise?” 

“Oh, on par with Buddha.” 

Your eyes shine with amusement, though you keep your tone serious, “Yes, laugh at me all you want for being a healthy person.” 

Two months later, your hiatus is still going strong. Spencer has not seen or heard of any flirty endeavors surrounding you, much to the other’s dismay. It’s true in a way, gossip is drier during your dry spell. There’s been no mention of terrible dates nor any mention of bad kisses on first dates, or worse, lousy lays. 

Spencer has never had any issues talking to you, but lately, he’s noticed you’re prone to daydreaming. You’ll stare off sometimes during a lull or mutter to yourself in the breakroom. He wants to ask how you're feeling amidst your break from dating, but it feels like such an intimate topic that he’s hesitant to approach it. 

So now, he’s watching you watch Emily flirt with some stranger at the bar. This week has been grueling, with case after case. It never gets easier, but moments like these—the whole team spending time together—make it less painful at the end of the day. Spencer’s nursing his whiskey, always a slow drinker, but his attentions are on you as you roll the straw of your mojito between your fingers. 

Eventually, after a quick sip of whisky, he gains the courage to ask, “Everything alright?” 

You jump at the sound of his voice beside you, but you still smile at him when you turn to look at him. You open your mouth for a moment, then close it again, then open it again, “Yes.” You say in a strange voice— a twisted mixture of confident and drained. 

Spencer raises an eyebrow, his expression letting you know that he doesn’t truly believe you. You laugh a little at that look of disbelief before your shoulders slump, and you mutter a soft, “I sort of miss dating.” 

“Sort of?” It's more confident, more teasing than he’d like, but it just slips out of him. His cheeks are tinted the prettiest shade of pink, and you try your hardest not to stare at him. 

Your eyes shift to the drink in your hands, fingers leaving the straw as you elaborate on the topic. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I would miss the flirty conversations or feeling wanted.” You trail off for a moment, eyes not meeting his for a moment. “Does that make me sound,” Your eyes finally reach his, “Conceited?” Your gaze is so full of worry that he has to stop himself from shouting his answer upon impact. 

Instead, he swallows down a shocked breath, shaking his head. “No! No, you’re not conceited. That’s normal, considering all the attention you…well, attract.”

“Great,” You murmur, frowning. “You think that I’m some shameless, attention-seeking seductress,” gazing downcast at your mojito. 

Spencer laughs nervously,  “What?” He can’t deny that the seductress part might be true— you could seduce a saint, he’s sure. “I think a lot of things about you when I think about you, but shameless, attention-seeking seductress is not one of them.” 

He’s melting at the look you give him. Head slightly bowed, looking up at him through those long lashes of yours, full lips in a slight pout. “Really?” 

“Really.” He squeaks, much to your delight— the alcohol is messing with your head. 

You sit a little straighter at that, sighing, “So, what do you think about when you think about me?” You ask, teasing Spencer wasn’t something you did often. The team teases him so much that you feel bad joining in. But you can’t help yourself, not when he’s looking at you with his gorgeous, honey eyes. All wide and deer-like, fuck, he’s pretty. 

You would feel bad for thinking about your coworker like this, but in the dim lighting of this bar, you find that you don’t mind. Truth be told, if Spencer Reid weren’t your coworker, you would have worked some charms on him a long time ago. He was so pretty, so receptive to new ideas, a genius, a man of his word. God, he was so sincere. Why is that such a turn-on? 

You drag your tongue along your bottom lip, lost in thought, a movement not lost on Spencer as he can’t seem to take his eyes off your lips. His mouth is dry, and his voice is caught in his throat as he stammers out a gentle, “What–” he clears his throat, trying to stop his voice from sounding so high, “What do I think about?” 

That slow smile makes his heartbeat skip a beat, he’s seen that smile before, and he’s screwed if you decide to do anything more than teasing him. “Yeah, you said you think lots of things when you think about me. I’m curious.” 

“Well, I, uhm,” He swallows, his tongue feels like sandpaper. His eyes shift down to his whiskey, his gaze shifting between you, his drink, and the table. “ I think you’re kind. You’re always willing to help a friend, like when you made all those meals for Penelope after she got shot.” Your expression softens at that, your teasing smile melting into something warmer. He takes this as a sign to keep going, “You’re considerate. I think you could make Hotch smile, I’m sure you have, all because of your sense of humor. You rarely judge people; you’ve never judged me. You’re empathetic, seeing you connect with people so easily, it’s— you have this gift for shifting your perspective, and I—” 

“Spencer,” You cut him off with a gentle touch of your hand on his. You’re quiet for a moment, eyes searching his, looking for some kind of sign of deception, but finding none. Your gaze warms him to his core, melting away anything cold residing within him. “Thank you.”

He lets out a soft stammer of confusion, about to ask you why you’re thanking him, but instead, he regains some of his composure and nods. “Anytime.” He hates how cold his hand feels when your fingers leave his skin. Everything about you is so warm: your smile, your laugh, your touch— and against all reason— he’s sure he could survive frigid winters as long as he spends them by your side. 

An hour later, you’ve ditched the idea of feeling sorry for yourself. You were seemingly determined to make your own fun. And you were. Penelope had bought a second round of drinks, and you chose something a little stronger than the mojito from before, and drank it fast. It wasn’t enough to get you drunk, but it did give you a slight buzz, feeling looser now as you spun around the dance floor with Penelope. 

Penelope’s sure that your voice will be gone from how loud you’re singing to the song the DJ just started playing, laughing harder as you place a finger to her lips, grab hold of both of her shoulders, and dance to the beat. 

Spencer isn’t a dancer, well, he can slow dance, but he doubts he could keep up with you right now. So, he lingers on the sidelines of the bar. He —like many of the men at this bar— can’t take his eyes off of you as you spin around in a sloppy circle. The way you move your hips in a circle has his head cocking to the side, focusing on the slope of your lower—

A chuckle can be heard beside him, making Spencer stand up straight, turning to look at Derek. Derek, who has the biggest grin on his face, is shaking his finger at Spencer. Spencer rears back his head, giving his friend an odd look. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Okay, so he’s lying. Derek stuffs his hands in his pockets, acting aloof as Spencer stares him down. Derek, however, has his attention on you and Penelope. “You know,” there it is, “She’s gonna need someone to walk her home.” 

“Who?” For a genius, Spencer can be incredibly dense at times. 

Derek sends a deadpanned look his way, eyebrows raising, waiting for Spencer to catch on. Spencer blinks, his brows furrowed in confusion, oblivious to what Derek is saying. Derek groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose before dragging his hand down his face. 

He then points over to you, Spencer’s gaze following his finger. “Ms. Vixen, Pretty Girl, the Man-eater of the BAU, the temptress of the —” Spencer holds up a hand, cutting him off. 

“I get it, okay?” Even though he knows that Derek’s joking, Spencer’s tone still comes out clipped. He forces his shoulders to relax. 

“She’s going to need someone to walk her home,” Derek says in a calmer tone, his shoulders shrugging slightly. 

Spencer stammers, flustered with the idea of walking you home. To be honest, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He wouldn’t let it. His imagination runs wild when it comes to you, and he daydreams about the oddest things— the taste of your skin, his palm on your lower back. “Didn’t she come with you and Penelope?”

Derek clicks his tongue, “Nope, she lives two blocks over, walked here.” 

“Oh,” He responds lamely, his arms crossing over his chest. He chews lightly on his bottom lip, thinking it over. He had his whiskey over an hour ago and had been nursing a water, but it didn’t matter much, considering he, too, walked here. “Well, I mean, I can’t assume, wouldn’t it be rude to think she’d,” He bounces around before he drops his arms at his sides. “You think she‘d say yes?” 

“What makes you think she’d say no?” 

“I don’t know,” Spencer tries to think of a good reason as to why he’s worried you’d turn him down, but finds nothing but his own insecurities. He knows that you’re kind; he knows if you didn’t want to do something, you wouldn’t. Spencer finds that very reassuring. “Just don’t want her to think I’m weird.” 

Derek barks out a sharp laugh as if he knows something that Spencer doesn’t. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Pretty Boy.” 

Spencer wants to ask why, but Derek looks away from him before he gets the chance. Spencer steals a glance over to the dance floor, watching as Penelope and you giggle yourselves away from the crowd. 

Your pupils are dilated, and Spencer is sure that if he pressed a hand to your cheek, your skin would be warm, either from the alcohol or light giggles still leaving your lips. He feels his lips twitch upwards at the sound of them, broken up with soft gasps of air as you and Penelope hold onto each other in front of them. His heart clenches in his chest as he hears your giggles die away, and your gaze meets his. He wishes he could keep you this giddy all the time.  

Your face relaxes into a gentle smile, and you let out a slow sigh. “Hi,” you motioned between Derek and Spencer with a wave of your hand. “What are we talking about?” 

Derek cuts Spencer off before he has the chance to embarrass himself. “We were actually discussing leaving,” Derek says, much to Penelope’s dismay. 

She’s frowning, and Derek knows he can’t tell the blonde his plan to get these two together, not yet, anyway. Spencer’s pining is evident to anyone with eyes, and you aren’t exactly smooth either, always choosing men who look strikingly similar to your lanky coworker. 

“It is getting pretty late,” You mutter, sobering up a little at the idea of walking yourself home at this late hour. 

Worry must be written across your face because Spencer is softly clearing his throat. “I can walk you home,” he offers in a soft voice. You don’t even question how he knew that you walked here. Instead, you can feel your cheeks flush. The idea is tempting, but it feels somewhat… intimate. 

“That’s okay,” You begin, “You don’t have to go out of your way–” 

“I don’t mind!” He’s leaning into you, nodding his head slowly. “I’d sleep better knowing you got home safe.” 

A little tiny voice inside of you is shrieking with delight at that, but you answer him in a reasonably calm voice. “Well,” you tsk, “if it’ll help you sleep better.” Your tone is flirtier than you’d like it to be. You’ll be the first to admit it: It’s hard controlling yourself around him, and being dehydrated and tipsy isn’t helping. “Let me grab my things.” 

Spencer is nodding, discarding his plastic cup of water and ensuring he has everything on his person before he looks at Derek, who has very clearly filled Penelope in by now in fast whispers. Derek gently taps a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, “Breathe. You’re just walking her home. Remember, you’re already friends with her. She won’t bite… hopefully.” 

Spencer prepares to shoot back that he doesn’t need the pep talk because nothing is going to happen, but his mouth snaps shut as you materialize by Penelope’s side. “Ready?” You rock back and forth on your heels, eyes shining. 

Spencer’s brows raise, smiling nervously as he hums a shaky-sounding, “Mhm.” 

The night air smells fresh and clean with the promise of summer, warm and refreshing. You dragged in a slow inhale through the nose and hummed. A cool breeze brushed over your shoulders for a moment, and you felt awake again, your slight from earlier replaced with a second wind of energy. You glance over at Spencer, who is still holding the bar’s exit door for Penelope and Derek. 

He doesn’t look bored or annoyed by the task, and though it’s the tiniest act of kindness, it makes you smile. You hug Penelope, tight and secure around her middle, muttering gentle goodbyes to her in a playful tone. Derek laughs when you bid him farewell in the same style, pulling away from the hug, smiling widely, and shaking his head. He then points at Spencer, “Stay safe,” his gaze moving to you. “Both of you.” 

You wave his worries off, nodding, “Dr. Reid, lead the way.” 

Spencer lets out a tiny scoff, waving his friends goodbye before doing exactly as you say. You seem incredibly awake, despite the last hour. His eyes are so focused on you as the two of you begin the short walk back to your respective apartments that he almost trips on a crack in the sidewalk, not even ten minutes in, and he’s already making a fool of himself. 

You pause your movements, hands raising in the air as if you’re preparing to catch him, “Everything okay?” Your tone gives away your amusement. 

He nods, “Yeah, yes, just distracted.” 

“How out of character for you.” You tease lightly, sighing out as you lower your hands. You let out a soft hum, thinking about a tune they played at the bar, when you see two bodies pressed up against a wall in the not-so-far distance. 

Your shoulders feel tense as you try your hardest not to stare at the couple as they kiss, soft sighs and moans of pleasure leaving one lover’s lips as you force your eyes straight ahead. Spencer, however, is staring. His eyes don’t stay on the couple long as he hears a frustrated sounding exhale from you. 

His lips quirk up when he sees you walking with a rigid posture. “Does PDA bother you?” He asks curiously, keeping his voice low as he passes the couple to his right. 

You shake your head, cheeks feeling warm at the sound of his voice. “What? No. I just,” You pause, unsure about how much you should be sharing with him anyway. Would he want to hear about how much you missed it, dating, kissing, sex, the touch of someone’s hand in your hair? Your eyes nervously glance at him, then the sidewalk, a soft laugh leaving you. “It’s going to sound so pathetic.” 

Spencer finds that highly unlikely, “Try me.” 

You bite your lower lip, considering it for a moment. It had only been two months, how could you be so… needy? You can feel the edges of your ears grow warm as the night air— you were so pathetic. How could someone become so touch-starved in such a short amount of time? How could you tell that to him? Then again, Spencer Reid was not quick to judge… though maybe he would be if he knew what you were thinking about right now. 

You're slow to smile, and your face looks a little shy and awkward. You speak in a hushed tone, “I think I miss it.” 

“Kissing?” 

“No, I mean yes, but more than kissing. Touching, heavy-petting, dates,” You dare not glance at him, “Sex.” You can’t stop yourself now, the words leaving you against your will. “I’ve just been stressed, irritable lately, and I think sex… took my mind off things.”

Spencer’s throat fills with cotton, and he tries to swallow normally, going shockingly quiet for someone who always seems to have something to say. It doesn’t last long as he feels the growing silence crawl under his skin— he can’t stand it. “That’s normal, for someone— well, anyone who hasn’t had it, sex, I mean, in a while.” He stops himself from asking how long it has been before continuing. “Regular sex can boost your immune system, am-among other things.” 

You grin, “Of course, it does.” You feel lighter hearing Spencer nervously ramble about sex, less judged, more listened to. You glance to your side, admiring the sharp slope of his jaw, the ends of his brown hair curling against his smooth skin. “Don’t stop on my account; I love learning.” 

Of course, you do.

It seems to be Spencer’s turn to stare daggers into the distance, following you as you take a left turn. “In some women, sex can lower the risk of heart attacks. Which is funny, Men’s likelihood of a heart attack goes up with continuous sexual activity.” He chuckles lightly, sparing a glance over his left shoulder at you. 

His knees feel weak seeing the way you’re looking at him. Your gaze occasionally glances at the sidewalk, but your eyes shine with curiosity. He’s always liked that about you. You’re always willing to listen to his random rants, never poking fun at him. No, it's not like you to laugh at someone for something as direct as knowledge, but you still smile at him. 

He keeps going, his hazel eyes focused on you. “Rhythmic stimulation,” He should not look at you as he says this, “During an orgasm, has similar brain activity to dancing.” Your eyebrows raise at that, mouthing a gentle ‘huh’. 

“So, what, like birds?” 

“Yes! Dancing has been a long-standing method of seduction, so I suppose it stands to reason that muscular stimulation, in that way, would make our brain activity act that way.” 

Your head tilts, trying to get the mental image of Spencer’s hands on your waist as you dance against him out of your mind. “I suppose it would. Though I wouldn’t consider orgasmic pulsing to have a steady rhythm.” 

Spencer feels his heart stutter against his ribcage, his jaw clenching as his mind graces him with the mental image of you under him, shaking, hips stuttering against his roughly. He blinks, the tips of his ears turning red as he struggles to find something interesting to say. “W-Well,” he squeaks, and he feels panic flood his system, watching your grin widen when you hear such an embarrassing sound. He coughs, fixing his shirt collar, “Oxytocin— endorphins really— are released when dancing, same with uh,” His mouth hangs open for a second as his gaze dips down to your lips, “Climax.” 

He’s your coworker, he’s your coworker, coworker, cowork— “Would you consider orgasms to have a steady rhythm?” Honestly? Not the worst question you could ask right now. You just hope that it comes off as you being curious instead of desperately horny. 

Spencer needs someone to put him out of misery, cheeks hot as he answers you, “I suppose that maybe, possibly, they could, yes.” 

Your chin tilts upwards, and a soft “Uh-huh” leaves you before the two of you are swept up in a slightly charged, albeit awkward, silence. You try to talk down the little voice in your head that seems to be screaming at you for making things so uncomfortable. 

Why did you ask him that? What did you expect? Was Spencer supposed to drag you into an alleyway and immediately make you cum? Well, on second thought, that’s not such a bad idea— enough! You try to think of a possible escape from this silence, but all your dirty mind can think about are more inappropriate questions and remarks— just your luck. 

“It wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” Spencer’s voice pulls you away from your thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea––” He clears his throat in an attempt to keep it from closing up, “Having sex, to help with your, uhm, stress problem.” He holds his breath, waiting for your reactions. Morgan told him that the worst thing a person can do is say no, but Spencer disagrees. Said person could scream at him, slap him for being brazen, or stop talking to him altogether. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. Why did he have to say that? Why would he suggest something like that so openly—

Your laughter makes his brain short-circuit. What kind of reaction is that? Did you think he was joking, or did you find his suggestion so funny that you’re laughing at him? His laughter escapes him in a nervous attempt at self-preservation. If he can play this as a joke, maybe you won’t tell Penelope, and then Penelope won’t tell Derek, and Spencer can live another day free of embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry,” You stammer, “Is the Doctor Spencer Reid suggesting that we sleep together for a dopamine boost?” 

He doesn’t know how to save himself from that; his poker face is not a good one, not when it comes to you. His emotions almost always show on his face; there’s no way you’d believe him if he lied. So, he mentally prepares himself for rejection. “Not necessarily, strictly, suggesting anything. I’m just saying that it could be beneficial to you— both of us— if you needed some help with your irritability, since you’re free.” 

“Are you saying that I have nothing better going on, so I might as well have sex with you?” He’s not exactly wrong, but you don’t need to admit it. 

His cheeks feel hot, burning as he rasps out a shrill, “No! No, speaking from a scientific standpoint, biologically it is one solution to your problem.” 

You let out a soft chuckle, breathy and short-lived. He can’t be serious, there’s no way he’s serious. Not Spencer Reid. And if he wasn’t joking, what would you even say? Sure, sounds like a great plan. Do you have a condom, or should we stop at the store? Better yet! Let’s do it raw to reap the full biological benefits of sex together. 

It’s not realistic. 

Spencer says odd things all the time. Once, he told you about how the spread of ringworms between animals and humans works, solely because of one off-handed comment. Not that you mind, you do enjoy learning, that was no lie. Spencer was a plethora of knowledge, and you trusted every little word that came out of that pretty mouth of his. 

He’s grown to be more than just your favorite walking, talking, human encyclopedia. Spencer Reid had the biggest heart, the best laugh, and the softest hazel eyes. He cares about other people intensely, is always willing to go out of his way to listen and help others, and is borderline selfless sometimes. Sure, that was part of the job, but Spencer made it into something more, something raw. 

So, no, he couldn’t be suggesting such a thing. Not your Spencer Reid. “You’ve got a weird sense of humor, Reid.” You mutter, your feet falling into sync beside him. You can see your apartment building coming into view and feel your body beginning to long for your bed. 

The rest of the walk is quiet, with soft mentions of summer plans and idle chatter. Spencer shouldn’t be so disappointed. You’re still talking to him, still laughing at his jokes, listening to his random facts mid-conversation. You’re willing to make everything go back to normal, ignore his odd suggestion, and go to bed. He should be grateful, and maybe a small part of him is, but the rest of him? The rest of him is so disappointed.

Not because you ignored him, but because you didn’t give him a proper yes or no. Even without a direct answer, he feels rejected, and he’s kicking himself for not being able to make a move like a normal person. 

He walks you up to your door, staring at the number four on the outside of your apartment door for longer than necessary as you dig through your bag to find your keys. When you find them, you hold them up with a proud smile. “They materialize.” You muse, your back facing him as you push the key into the lock. 

The last thing he wants tonight is for him to walk home regretting something. He could go home lamenting the fact that he didn’t make a move, or he could go home regretting the fact that he did. For him, one of those options is far worse than the other. 

Pushing your apartment door open, you begin to turn back towards him, “Thanks for walking me home, Spence, I appreciate it—” A jolt of energy zips through you as Spencer’s lanky fingers wrap around your wrist, yanking your body closer to him.  You barely have time to look down at your wrist before he’s inching closer, pressing his lips against yours in one swift movement. 

The kiss is timid and far too quick for your liking, and when he pulls away from your lips, he immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry! I know I should have asked you first, but I got so nervous with everything I said earlier and—” The rest of his rushed apology is tuned out as you stare up at him with wide eyes. 

In complete amazement, you stare at him like that for what feels like forever. You’d blame it on the alcohol for the way that you find his pathetic ramblings adorable, or for the way you’re reevaluating your conversation from earlier, when you laughed him off. And then there was that little, insistent voice in your head that demanded another kiss, claiming the feeling of a dim spark. 

And who were you to deny it?

Spencer’s hands are moving with him as he talks, finger trembling as he explains that he “....couldn’t go home ruminating on the what-ifs and I needed to do something, and Morgan says that confidence is key and I was trying—” Your fingers hook into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to your level with a rough yank.

Your lips meet his in a sloppy kiss for just a moment before he kisses you back, and when his head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side, it becomes something else entirely. His lips are softer than you expected, hungrily meeting yours. Spencer kisses like he’s starved for attention, for touch. His hands find purchase on your hips, holding you in place with both hands, like he’s scared you’ll disappear. 

The way the palms of his hands squeeze at your waist makes you weak at the knees. The kiss has seemingly shifted from tender to needy in a matter of seconds, his lips pressing against yours with a delicious roughness. When you pull away, you can feel your bottom lip tingling, a feeling that leaves you a little lightheaded. 

The soft pink of Spencer’s lips is the first thing you’re looking at before pushing him deeper into your apartment. His feet stumble as you force him into your apartment, the flat of your palms on his chest. When the door shuts behind you, the two of you are left in the dark of your apartment. Moonlight seeps through your living room curtains, illuminating the room with a softness so close to ethereal that it leaves Spencer wondering if he’s dreaming.

He’s sure you’re about to tell him that this is a bad idea and send him home, before you let out a frustrated groan and ask him, “Are you sure this is alright?” 

Holy shit. 

He can feel a faint squeeze in his lower abdomen, licking his lips as he tries to think clearly, for your sake and his. “I want this.” He’s clear with his feelings for once. “And I can promise you I want this and much more.” 

As his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, he can see the shine in your eyes. You're staring up at him with the eyes of a woman lost between admiration and awe. You nod slowly, your left hand grabbing his right, “Then don’t keep me waiting.” And while your tone is playful, he can’t help but take it to heart, letting you guide him toward your bedroom. 

A soft giggle can be heard from you as you press a quick kiss to his lips, then another, and another, until the back of his knees are hitting the edge of your bed. You lean in slower now, with the tempting promise of a sweeter, sensual kiss—one where Spencer can enjoy the taste of your lips in full. Your lips brush against his as your hands press against his chest, his balance wavering, and then he’s pushed down on the edge of your bed with a light groan of disappointment. 

His head is spinning from the teasing brush of your lips, his eyes lingering on them as you smile down at him, the look of innocence. “Did you think I’d make this easy for you?” Your teasing words shoot an electric shiver down his spine, a breathless laugh leaving him as your hands rub his shoulders.

“I don’t believe easy is in your vocabulary.” 

“Oh?” You muse, your hands stopping the gentle massage of his shoulders, your left hand leaves a trail of fire up his neck to his chin, tilting it up slowly. Your head cocks to the side, he’s never seen you this smug. Were you like this with everyone else? Or is this just for him? He’s too scared to ask. “Care to elaborate?” 

Spencer swallows slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “You like the challenge. You like having to work for it. I used to think it was because you wanted to be intellectually stimulated, but seeing you like this makes me think that you get off on it. ”

You try to hide your smile, the grip on his chin slacking as your thumb traces a soft pattern on his lower jaw. “God forbid a girl has a bit of fun.” He cracks a smile with that, letting out a low hum as he raises his hands to pull you closer towards the bed, your knees hitting the edge of the bed that lies between his thighs.

Spencer’s pleading eyes almost make you cave, those soft chocolate pools of desire almost too alluring to resist. Almost. Although you guess he deserves a little treat before the night begins. You lean down, cupping both cheeks to press a slow kiss to his lips. Spencer matches your energy, not taking the kiss up a notch until you do, one of your hands straying to the root of his hair and pulling lightly at his brown curls while your tongue slowly slides against his bottom lip.  

Fighting back a groan, Spencer eagerly parts his lips for you. Your tongue drags against his, exploring his mouth at a torturous pace. Spencer can feel his cock, begging for some friction, jump inside his pants as you softly suck on his bottom lip. He’s breathing hard, your mouth swallowing most of his groans and sighs, until your teeth pull at his bottom lip and he lets out a sweet, quiet whimper. 

You pull away, and Spencer can feel himself spiraling before you push his hair back and whisper a breathy, “So good, baby.” His genius mind is out of commission after that, and whatever energy, whatever brain cells he has left over are now yours to use as you like. “Lean against the headboard.” 

It’s a direct order that he immediately follows. He’s kicking off his shoes as fast as possible, moving around on your bed until his back hits the headboard. 

His enthusiasm both excites you and amuses you, your eyes rolling with a playful shake of your head. He watches as you crawl over to him on the bed, swallowing hard as his eyes take you in. He’s waiting for his alarm to go off and for him to wake up in bed, without you, alone, and painfully hard. 

You let out a short laugh, seeing his wide-eyed expression, “You’re sure you still want this?” You ask as you reach him, your eyes on his. 

Spencer’s answer is a quick, “Yes!” which makes you smile wide at him, “Are you?” His fingers are itching to touch you, but he keeps them in his lap, fidgeting. 

You let out a playful hum as you swing a leg over his lap, carefully straddling him. “Yes," you answer, looking down at him. You lean in, teasing his lips with a light brush, leaning away whenever Spencer tilts his head up in a vain attempt to kiss you thoroughly.

“Patience is a virtue.” Your lips brush against his as you whisper, kissing the corner of his lips, much to his dismay. 

Spencer would say he’s not usually this needy, but he doesn't have ample experience to draw from anyway. He can only blame his neediness on you. You who is grinning from ear-to-ear as you kiss his cheek, you who is hovering over his lap, you who is laughing when you see his pleading expression. You mutter something that Spencer can vaguely make out as disappointed, “Greedy.” Before your lips press firmly onto his. 

He could spend hours kissing you. In fact, if nothing else happens tonight, he’d walk home happy knowing he kissed you like this. Your languid kisses easily turn hungry as Spencer slides his hands to your waist, guiding you to sit on his lap. He can feel a ghost of a smile against his lips, his hands squeezing gently at your sides as you resume your earlier task of exploring his mouth with your tongue. 

You swallow a groan from Spencer as you take a moment to suck on his tongue, his hand gripping your waist tighter. Letting out a muffled hum of pleasure, you grind your hips down on his with almost perfect precision. 

Spencer’s back goes rigid, feeling the way your hips grind against his, unsure if it’s okay for a moment before lust wins out against logic. His large hands tighten around your clothed hips, pulling your hips down against his until he’s rutting his hips against yours like a dog in heat. He can feel your grin against his lips again, and he’s already whining by the time you pull away from him. Your hips lean away from his, sitting up on your knees. 

His eyes look dazed, lust and confusion dancing in them as he tries his best not to come off as anxious, “Why’d you stop?” His breathy voice sends a shiver down your spine, right to your core. 

“You want to take my clothes off, don’t you?” You leave his lap, moving to the side of his outer right thigh to properly strip. 

His parted lips snap shut, nodding as fast as he can, immediately playing to your whims. You raise an eyebrow, “You need to learn to let a girl have her fun with you.” You muse as your hands reach for the edge of your top. Spencer’s heart rate doubles as he watches your fingers curl around the bottom hem. 

His gaze darts between your fingers and your face, but his brows knit together, clearly confused. “What do you mean?” You’re pulling your top off painfully slow, and he’s debating asking you if he can do it for you. 

Your top is passing your midriff. “If I’m on top,” His breath catches in his throat as he sees the bottom swell of your breast, “And if I want to tease you, learn how to take it.” 

“Jesus Christ,”  He shifts under you, your words reminding him how his erection is going ignored. “I’m going to need a good teacher.” It’s meant to be witty, but his tone sounds so strained that he’s surprised that you aren’t laughing at him right now. His eyes, not knowing what to stare at, barely meet yours before the sight of your lace-covered breasts enthralls him. 

His strained, whiny voice has your body feeling hot all over. Making a mental note to make this man whine some more, you throw your top off to the side of the bed, hands making a beeline for your pants. “Oh, how exciting.” You slide out of them, leaving you in your bra and panties. “Your first lesson.” 

Spencer, feeling awkward that he’s still fully clothed, begins to pull his shirt off. But when he goes to undo his pants, your fingers cover his. Your fingers are quick to pull his pants down to his thighs, and Spencer kicks them off without needing to be told. 

You were a professional; you didn’t sleep with coworkers, no matter how tempting. Spencer Reid, however, is your forbidden fruit. His hazel eyes, wide and soft with need, make your chest clench with affection. You can feel some part of you salivating for another taste of him, knowing you’re too far gone to listen to reason. 

Your gaze is slow to drop to his lap, eyes flickering across his bare chest, then down to the bulging outline of his cock against the thin material of his boxers. You hesitate, just for a moment, hand hovering in the air before you gently trace the outline of his cock through his boxers— undeniably pretty. 

“Just for me?” Your head is bowed, eyes looking up through your lashes. Spencer lets out a shaky sigh, nodding a wordless response. You drag your index fingers roughly against the tip of his clothed dick. “Words, Spence.” 

“Yes,” He whines, groaning as your hands pull down his boxers. “It’s all for you.” 

“Very good.” Then, you're pulling his boxers down, gaze hungry as you expose Spencer’s hard cock inch by inch. You shift slightly to help him pull his boxers off, but your eyes are locked onto his cock. Red, hot tip with a slight curve towards his stomach, thick and twitching. You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth slowly, and millions of ways to tease him immediately come to mind. 

He tries to stop himself from feeling hot under your intense gaze, fighting the urge to beg you not to stare. He’s about to cave when you reach your left hand into your panties. A gentle groan leaves your lips as you swipe your fingers along the entrance of your warm cunt, “I can do that—” Spencer begins, but you’ve already stopped touching yourself, pulling your left hand away from your heat, fingers covered in your slick. You wrap your hands around his length, and Spencer has to stop his hips from immediately bucking at the feeling of your slick-covered hand.

“What was that, pretty boy?” Your hand slowly begins to move up and down the length of his cock. 

Usually, Spencer would say something in rebuttal to that nickname, but the only thing you can hear right now is the sounds of him letting out tiny moans. He sputters, trying to reply, but your grip grows tighter as your hands move down his length, and all you get is a pathetic-sounding whine. 

Leaning in to press a wet kiss to his shoulder, you watch as Spencer’s hips jolt when your index finger does a quick sweep over the pretty pink head of his cock. “Feels so much better than your hand, huh?” You read his mind, looking up at him. 

Spencer’s head nods, breathing picking up as your lips suck on the sensitive skin of his neck as your hand steadily strokes him. “I–” You pick up the pace, teeth dragging against his pulse point. “Mmm, I’ve fantasized about you touching me like this.” He has no reason to lie, not now. He has pictured what it could feel like to have your fingers wrapped around his cock instead of his own, how you’d spread the pre-cum around the head of his cock, how you’d look licking his cum off of your hand. 

His breathy admission earns him a soft groan, “Often?” You sound excited as you pull away from his neck. The idea of fulfilling one of his fantasies leaves you with an oddly triumphant sense of pride. Truth be told, he was fulfilling your fantasy: having Spencer Reid whining and moaning at your touch—a guilty pleasure on lonely nights. 

Spencer doesn’t want to look you in the eyes when he answers, but he does anyway, your lustful gaze making it hard for him to look away. “Yes.” 

You let out a satisfied sounding hum, looking away from him to lean down closer to his cock, for a second he’s sure you’re about to take him into your mouth. But, he isn’t disappointed when he sees a long trail of spit leaving your lips and coating the head of his cock. 

Your hands helps coat your spit all around his cock and he’s in heaven. His head leaning back against the headboard as your hand brings him closer to the best orgasm he’s ever had. “ I-I’m, oh god,” He pants out, head rolling to the side to catch your gaze. “I won’t last very long if you keep this up. I’m not as experienced as,” His mouth falls open mid-sentence as you move your hand faster, letting out a cry of pleasure. 

“I’m not, shit—” He swallows hard, “I’m not as experienced as I’d like to be, can–can’t last that long with you doing that!” He practically shouts at the end of his sentence. 

“With a cock this pretty,” You give his length one last pump, “I find that hard to believe.” Carefully letting go of his cock, after all you want to have fun too. If Spencer thought his cock was being ignored before, he wasn’t expecting this. He whines, feeling the warmth of your hand leave him, his breathing heavy. 

Your hand, covered in remnants of spit, dips into your underwear where you haphazardly smear the spit against your folds. Spencer’s heart skips a beat, enjoying the show you make of pulling your panties off your body. He almost sobs when you straddle his lap again, carefully sitting with your dripping core pressed directly onto his aching cock.  

You let out a shaky groan when Spencer’s hips buck into yours, a wild look in his eyes that makes him seem more animalistic than needy. You can feel your walls squeeze around nothing as the head of his cock slowly grinds up into your clit. You bite your bottom lip to muffle a low moan, shuddering above him. 

Your lips part, staring down at him with half-lidded eyes as Spencer’s brows furrow and eyes flutter shut with every needy rock of his hips. His hands grab at your hips, pushing and guiding you down to meet his. It’s not nearly enough and the both of you know it, the desperate urge to fill your sopping cunt to his heart's content growing with every pleasured sigh that leaves your lips. 

“Please,” Spencer’s hands move to swell of your ass, gripping the skin hard as he uses your pussy lips as his personal toy. His breath is hot against your chest, lips leaving sloppy kisses below your collarbone. To him, you’re ethereal, a seraph, as you grind your pussy lips against his length and he desperately needs to be inside you. He needs to know how the cunt of an angel feels as soon as possible. “Let me fuck you.”

Fuck. It’s not a question, nor a demand, but a plea. His wording makes you groan, the idea that he has to beg to fuck you like this, that you have control over him like this. You’ve imagined Spencer in bed a handful of times, assuming that he’d be timid, yes, but fantasies are nothing compared to hearing that desperate plea.

You reposition your knees, pressing your chest into his face as you reach between your legs to guide him to your entrance. Spencer’s hands knead against the plump skin of your ass as you slowly sink down on him, a shaky exhale can be heard from the both of you. The fact that you haven’t been stretched out on his fingers dawns on you as you struggle to relax around the girth of his cock. 

And Spencer seems to have the same thought, his hands snaking up your back to unlatch your bra. Once off, his lips sucking and nipping at the skin around your right nipple before his lips latch around its aroused bud. Your discomfort is partially forgotten as the flat of his tongue drags against the sensitive bud. A gasp, followed by a small, “Mhmm, that’s it.” Your hands leave his shoulders to push his hair back and away from his face as he focuses on his task, threading your fingers into his brown locks. 

Your core swallows the rest of him whole, and you experimentally grind your hips down on his cock. His eyes, previously half-lidded, widen for a second before looking up at you. His lips still attached to your breast, eyes silently pleading for more, for anything, he has you teasing him with a light clench of your walls around him. 

“Remember what I told you, Reid,” Spencer remembers… well, practically everything. But memories are hard to conjure when he’s buried deep inside you, velvet walls pulsing around him. Leaning away from your breast, a trail of spit still connects your skin to his tongue. “Learn how to take it.” You playfully scold, right thumb trailing down from his hair to swipe at the spit on his lips. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Spencer’s lips twitch into a soft smile, your thumb tracing a soft pattern against his bottom lip. “I can do that.” He confirms with a gentle tone, eyes searching yours. The man beneath you looks lovesick, drunk on your touch, perfectly content to spend his days doing whatever you tell him, obedient. 

The thought that he’ll do anything you say. The first move from you is a gentle roll of your hips, followed by a slow exhale. The sting of discomfort readily gets replaced with pleasure as you begin to ride him. Your palms move to grip the headboard behind Spencer’s shoulders, tilting your head to the side to carefully observe him, getting off on every little reaction he shows you. 

A quick, lust-filled smile graces your lips as you move your hips up and down at a slow and steady pace. Spencer’s head tilts back slightly, soft sighs of pleasure leaving his parted lips everytime your hips sink down on his cock. “Is that good?” 

You're teasing him, and he’d be dumb not to notice it; he knows that you can see—feel— how much he’s enjoying this, hear it even. Nevertheless, his head nods quickly as he rasps a mewl of a “Yes, so good.”

Canting your hips closer, you pick up the pace. The slight change in your position has his cock brushing against that sweet spot inside your pussy that has you shivering ontop of him, electricity coursing down your spine. Your eyes flutter closed, chasing after that feeling, panting as you use Spencer’s cock to bring yourself closer to your climax. 

Spencer’s hips meet yours now as you ride him faster, the slapping and squelching of skin meeting skin can be heard alongside a cacophony of sinful-sounding moans and pants. Spencer’s head is thrown back, brows drawn together as he staves off his orgasm, wanting to drag this out for as long as possible. “Oh, god,” your name falls from his mouth in a string of pathetic-sounding moans, “Oh, Mommy—” He squeaks as he realizes the words that have escaped the dirtiest parts of his mind. His rosy cheeks turn slightly pale, eyes peering open to see your reaction. 

Your cunt squeezes him tighter when his worried eyes reach yours. Your gaze isn’t filled with disgust, but darkened with desire. “What was that baby?” You gasp out, hips expertly snapping down onto his. Spencer’s mouth falls open to shamelessly repeat himself, but it’s too much for him. His words choking in the back of his throat as cries of pleasure replace them. 

Pouting, you snap your hips down onto his with an abrupt stop. Spencer lets out a strangled sounding sob as you tilt his chin up, “Oh, Spencer, baby, do you need to say something?” You’re breathless and so, so, so, so close, but you need to hear him repeat those words before you cum. 

Spencer’s chest softly heaves, blinking away the confusion in his eyes as you squeeze your tight walls around him, his hips struggling against yours.  It’s hard to tease him properly as the head of his cock keeps grinding into your g-spot, your mind becoming hazy with pleasure.  But you can’t risk stopping, not when you’re this close. Your lips part, a whine threatening to leave them as you speak, “I’m so s’close, you can handle a little more. Just a-a little longer.” Your voice trembles for a second, but it coaxes a gentle moan out of him nonetheless. 

His cock feels desperate to empty into you as you deny him his orgasm with another sharp, “Not yet.” He feels he must obey your demand, his head becoming lightheaded whenever you order him around. He can feel tightening around him, walls fluttering against him with every second you get closer to your climax. 

Spencer can feel his eyes prickle with tears, his bottom lip trembling, “I need to cum. Need to cum, let me cum, Mommy.” 

You let out a broken laugh as he finally says the words you were so desperately waiting for, “You’re the one who asked for this, Spence.” You managing to speak so coldly to him while vigorously bouncing on his cock has him letting out another weak sob, “Look at you, you can barely handle it.” Your moans are becoming louder and slightly animalistic. “Let me use you while I can.” 

You do exactly that, using him as you feel your orgasm crashing on you, your hands move to his shoulders, nails dragging against his skin as you loudly cry out for him. When your hips stutter against his, your body shuddering and melting into pleasure, Spencer is quick to buck his hips erratically up to yours, helping you ride out your orgasm to the fullest. 

Spencer is quick to follow, grabbing your hips tightly to pull himself out of you with a curse, his seed coating your pussy lips and inner thighs. “I’m sorry,” He pants out, the ends of his hair sticking to his forehead, “I’m sorry, I’m–” 

“Spencer, it’s okay.” You exhale, panting lightly as you look down at him with a lazy grin. 

He’s quiet after that, his grip of your hips loosening as you dip your head to look at him, forehead slowly pressing against his. You let out a little laugh, exhausted and giddy, “You good?”

He lets out a soft ‘mhm’ that tells that all his energy has left him. You can’t judge him; your body is suspiciously close to crashing. You can hear him mumble your name, and you move your head away from his, “Yes?” 

“Are you—” He stops, licking his lips, “I’d like it if we could be—” He struggles to find the right words, anxiety and exhaustion making him into a simpering fool. 

But you’re grinning, so he must be doing something right. He’s about to attempt his messy request to be the only man in your love life when you mutter a soft, whisper-like, “I’d love to be exclusive with you, Dr. Reid. On one condition.” 

You smooth his hair back, out of his face, “We keep this between us until we’re ready to tell the team, I don’t need a team of profilers in my love life— not while we’re together.” 

Spencer can feel his chest tighten, watching as you move to hold your pinkie finger towards him. He links his pinkie around yours, “Deal,” He laughs.  “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Spencer finds acting normal around you increasingly difficult, especially when you keep leaving flirty notes telling him to meet you in the supply closet in ten minutes on his desk (for the fourth time this week). Ever challenging when you insist that your ‘innocent’ little rendezvous won’t lead anywhere, but your plump lips kiss his so hard that they’re swollen in seconds. 

He knows the team knows something is amiss, but he can’t think to worry about it as his head finds a place between your hips, your fingers threading into his hair as you bite your swollen bottom lip in a weak attempt to quiet yourself. 

JJ and Emily note your absence this fine Wednesday morning, something Derek doesn’t find too interesting until he sees that Spencer is also missing. But who is he to ruin it for Spencer? He’s sure the boy genius has you on a mini-coffee date at some café across the street. 

Well, he was sure, until he rounded the corner to see you stumble out of a supply closet, your hair ruffled and makeup smudged. He almost calls out your name when he notices Spencer tailing behind you, his cardigan ruffled and hair equally tousled. Derek’s jaw drops open, waiting and standing in awe as you blow Spencer a kiss and head in the opposite direction toward the bathrooms. 

The second Spencer turns to see his friend, the smile drops away from his face, and the color leaves his cheeks. Morgan’s smile is reminiscent of the Cheshire cat’s as he draws out a proud “My man!” and Spencer feels dread fill his soul. He’s never going to live this down.

[winterst4n]

Sit still!

Pairing: Nurse!Reader x Grumpy!Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Very, very light swearing. Just pure fluff!!

Word count: 1.3k

Summary: After stupidly jumping out of a craft on a mission, ending up with many broken ribs. Bucky is placed under your care unwillingly and he makes the week hell for you. But when the week ends he starts to regret everything.

A/N: This is pretty short and maybe i’ll come back to it another time and try something new but so far i like how this turned out. If you like this, i’d really appreciate it if you could share or leave comment!

“Will you just sit still?!” You grumble at Bucky for what feels like the millionth time today.

“Well stop poking me and maybe I will.” He practically hissed at you. You swear that when Fury assigned you to take care of him he was plotting your early death– or at least Bucky's death.

“If you sit still I'll give you a cookie…” you try to bribe, but of course this just earned you a very hard and angry glare from Bucky.

Due to Bucky’s recklessness on a recent mission, he is now under your care until he can breathe without whining and groaning about his ribs, which he broke several of. He thought the easiest and quickest way to land by a mission base was to jump out of the craft without a parachute– stupid!

You were the nice nurse. The nurse everyone on the team liked to be cared for the most when they had an injury, except a certain fossil. He was grumpy and rude to you for no reason, always making an effort to ruin your day with some stupid comment every time he saw you. But this week had been hell!

So here he was pouting and glaring at you in the plush armchair in your office that practically cowers under his large frame. “I need to check the progress of your ribs and I can't do that without touching you. So please…just sit still.” You sigh, your patience being stretched very, very thin.

Bucky notices your stress and annoyance with him and he does feel some sort of pity but he can’t shake this unfamiliar feeling you give him everytime he feels your hands on his body or your gaze on him. “...Fine.” He mumbles grudgingly.

You move your hands back into place against his chest, gently feeling where the broken ribs are located. Due to the serum, he had enhanced healing abilities but it never failed to amaze you how fast they fixed up his and Steve’s body.

“They’re healing just fine.” you say as you pull your hands away and move to sit by your desk. “I still don’t recommend doing any strenuous activities just yet but, you’ll live.”

Bucky just rolls his eyes like usual and keeps his unwavering scowl on his face– it annoys you and somehow hurts you to see just how unwilling he is to accept any help. That was the way HYDRA treated him though, you knew that. Hell, everyone knew that.

“James…” you start softly with a quiet sigh. “It’s just me and you in here…i need to know if you’re in pain so i can fix it.”

Silence– as expected.

He sighs and looks down at his boots, his feet shuffling slightly as he thinks about your words. Soft brown locks fall over his eyes and shields you from looking into his broken and guilty eyes. “I’m fine” a hoarse voice says so quietly.

Hesitating for a moment, you look over his body language and think about his tone. “Okay…” you respond simply, knowing not to push him.

Within the silence, Bucky stands up and storms out of your office– he almost let it all out. How did you have this effect on him? You were so easy and sweet, the complete opposite of him, he couldn’t let you in and see what HYDRA did to him. You weren’t allowed to see how everytime you checked his vitals, he felt like he was back in HYDRA’s claws, back to being prepped to be shocked again. No, he had to keep you away from that.

The week passes and ends, you were no longer assigned to take care of Bucky anymore and he’s back to missions and training– avoiding you. Part of you is happy that he’s not around you everyday by force, no longer having to endure his glares and rudeness but another part of you felt shitty.

That week felt like showing Bucky for the first time that it was okay to be cared for, to be looked after with no ulterior motive except for the benefit of his health. You wish he had that reminder everyday instead of throwing himself into missions, being reckless with himself because he didn’t think his body was worth protecting. This feeling was stronger than the happiness over his departure from your care– a lot stronger.

It seems you weren’t the only one thinking about that week. After some reflecting and thinking (a.k.a, talking to Steve), he realised why he felt so strongly when you touched him and why he wanted to open up to you. Yes, he was angry at the reason why at first. Angry at himself for being so foolish and falling for the team nurse, “She’s supposed to be caring!” he repeated like a mantra. Angry at himself for feeling like it was okay to let you in, to want you to care about him, to know why he struggled.

But Steve explained to him that you weren’t as weak or as fragile as he kept insisting you were– scolding him slightly for the way he dismissed you. Bucky realised that he should probably explain some things to you– or at least apologise, you were only doing your job and he took it out on you.

That night he wrote a letter to you, the words were genuine and words he knew he would mess up if he tried to say them to his face–

“Hey, I'm sorry. I know that’s pretty generic but it’s the truth. I’m still figuring this shit out so don’t take it too personally, it’s just really hard for me. I know you were only doing your job and I'm so sorry that I made it difficult. I wish I could take it back and just be open with you. I know you would’ve treated me the way i needed if i asked, you’re sweet like that. You’re good at your job and I'm pretty sure my ribs feel even better than they did before I jumped out of that plane. Anyways, i hope you’re free tomorrow night so maybe we can grab a drink, I’ll even buy you one of those fruity cocktails if you’re into that,

James Buchanan Barnes.”

Sealing the letter, and addressing it to you on the front, he walked through the compound and eventually found your office and slid the note under the door for you to find in the morning.

But on this night in particular, you decided to stay late to finish some work, maybe by luck or fate the note arrives while you’re already there. You read through the letter and smiled softly, touched that Bucky would let you in like this, you knew it was rare considering he really only spoke to Sam and Steve.

Pocketing the note, you quickly walk down the hall to head to Bucky’s room to give him an answer. Your feet carry you as quickly as they can without running, trying to catch up to Bucky as soon as possible.

You arrive at his door and knock three times in a very desperate motion before the door swings open. There he is. In his sleepy and shocked state. He’s surprised to see you here so soon but he’s slightly anxious for your response– he’s practically anticipating for you to throw the letter back at him and insult him.

To his surprise, you don’t. “I don’t need a fruity cocktail, I'd prefer a coffee…tomorrow morning, in my office?” you say softly as you bite your lip back gently in anticipation.

Bucky’s eyes seem locked in place on your face, his lips parted from surprise until they slowly break into the tiniest smile that lights up his face in your eyes, a smile that gives you a glimpse into the charming soldier before HYDRA.

“Coffee it is then, Doll” he says in a low tone before gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, wanting to fully see your face in all its beauty. Wanting to see the face of the person he was about to let into his life and hopefully never let go of.

[sanjisleggy]

the warlord and his bodyguard (sir crocodile x reader)

req: Could you do a Mihawk or Crocodile x Marine reader. Like it's her job to watch them on missions or be in contact with the Warlords. And whoever you pick fell hard for the Marine but knows he shouldn't. Maybe he flirts with her and she tries to remain professional because she could get fired or way worse. But the man is determined

a/n: aaaa!! this was one of my earliest requests but i held off on writing it since i wasn’t sure if i wanted to write for Mihawk or Crocodile :’) luckily since then i’ve got to meet Crocodile again in the impel down arc so i feel a bit more comfortable trying to write for him :D i tweaked the plot a little to fit the ideas i had so i hope the requester doesn’t mind!

contents: reader is a not a good marine (lol), Crocodile is kinda down bad, pining, reader has devil fruit powers, a somewhat graphic depiction of violence, near-death experience (not violent), some fluff, very little angst

wc. 2.3k

wanna be on my taglist?

i. 

“tell me,” the imposing figure says, his voice so deep you swear the ground beneath your feet trembles ever so slightly. “did the World Government send you to mock me?”

Crocodile taps his hook against the surface of his mahogany desk, his heavy-lidded eyes peering sharply at you as he awaits your response. though he may be one of the Seven Warlords, you find it difficult to feel threatened by him, having faced and escaped more dire situations in your past as a cadet. besides, it’s rather rare for your potential cause of death to be so visually appealing.

“i should say no but both of us know that isn’t truly the case.” your response seems to have caught him off guard, his eyes widening ever so slightly. to your surprise, Crocodile follows it up with a smirk, all the while keeping his lit cigar held firmly in between his teeth.

“so what is the reason you’re supposed to tell me?”

as though reciting a script, you share how out of the goodness of the World Government’s hearts, they’ve decided to begin a new initiative to improve relations between the Warlords and the Marines. “thus, every Warlord will be provided with a bodyguard.” you’re unable to hold back the contempt in your tone and Crocodile picks up on it instantly.

“think you’re too good for the job, officer?” he replies in a disinterested manner.

“no, the job’s fine,” you admit, seeing no reason to be dishonest, “i just think they could’ve at least tried to come up with a better lie. i am glad i was assigned to you, though, and not Gecko Moria or Donquixote.” you can’t help but scoff.

the Warlord’s laugh catches you off guard. the fact that the sound alone causes a stirring in your chest alarms you even more.

what an interesting woman you are.

“so what will it take to keep your mouth shut?” Crocodile gets straight to the point, already fully aware of how your daily duties include a report back to headquarters on his activity. in all honesty, he’d meant it partially as a joke or, perhaps, a final attempt at sending you a message: you’re no threat to me.

“i don’t know,” you reply, taking a few steps to get closer to his desk before you lean forward slightly to level your eyes with his, “what’re you willing to offer?”

the Warlord can’t tell if you’re joking–and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

ii.

two months go by and business at Rain Dinners has been the same as always.

contrary to Crocodile’s expectations, your sudden arrival hasn’t impeded his progress on the casino and Baroque Works. his initial concerns over an influx in Marine officers storming Rain Dinners or a Vice Admiral showing up to tear down his secret organisation quickly go unfounded when it dawns on him that you’re truly not interested in taking him down.

if anything, he’s been enjoying your company. you’re an intelligent person whom he’s surprisingly able to have pleasant conversations with. you seem to have a keen sense of perception, knowing when to simply watch events unfold and when to interfere–though the latter instances have been rare considering his status in Alabasta deters trouble-making in his place of business. 

after the first few weeks of having you trail behind him everywhere he goes, Crocodile finds himself getting used to being in your company. today, however, marks the first time the Warlord feels a need for something more.

though the Warlord is surrounded by beautiful women all vying for a crumb of his attention–a common occurrence when he makes his occasional appearance at his own casino’s bar–he can’t help but wonder what it would feel like if you’re the one sitting beside him instead. not the kind of man to let his imagination run wild, however, he quickly reminds himself that you’re standing a distance away behind him as you always do.

before Crocodile can fully return to enjoying his evening in the presence of the women around him, though, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as a familiar sense of danger snaps his attention to the lady on his right side. within the span of a second, he readies himself to activate his devil fruit powers but before he can even fully register what she’s trying to pull, you make your move.

recognising the stained needle held in between the woman’s fingers as being composed of sea prism stone, your body reacts on its own volition.

“shave.” 

to nearby onlookers, a blurry figure shoots its way across the room before you reemerge right behind the wannabe-assassin. without any warning, you place your right palm against the back of her head.

“twist.”

with a sickening crunch that reverberates throughout the once bustling casino, the woman’s body from her neck downward begins to turn a full 360 degrees whilst her head remains completely still in the palm of your hand. as her corpse flops to the ground, you hear the combined sounds of onlookers retching and gasping–but no running. the only one seemingly completely unbothered by the cold blooded murder is the assassination target himself.

“i could’ve handled it myself,” Crocodile sighs, puffing a cloud of smoke from his cigar, “though admittedly i am impressed by your efficiency.”

“were you aware the needle was made of sea prism stone?” your question catches him off guard; and he’s only further surprised when you bend down to pick it up from the floor with your bare hand.

“poisoned? i figured,” he admits, “but made of the stone? truth be told i was not aware.” the Warlord’s eyes travel slowly from the tiny needle held in between your fingers up to your face. as expected, you’re affected by the sea prism stone–he can tell from the droopiness of your eyelids and the way you furrow your eyebrows. “i could kill you right now,” Crocodile adds, unable to help his curiosity in what your response might be to such a suggestion.

“feel free,” you reply, a tired smile appearing on your tired face.

“don’t be ridiculous.” he shoots a glance at a random employee and gestures to the corpse. once it’s been taken away, he nods at the now-available seat. “take a seat, drink with me… and throw the needle away.”

iii.

three weeks later, you come storming into Crocodile’s office unannounced. normally he doesn’t tolerate such behaviour–the guest he’d been hosting even flinches outwardly, as though steeling himself to witness your impending death–but once the Warlord’s eyes lay on you, all anger flies out the window.

“why’d you do it?” you ask, clutching a crumpled letter in your hand as you make your way to his desk. with a wave of his hand, he dismisses his guest and remains silent and still until the two of you are left alone in the large room.

now that he’d had some time to take a closer look at you, the expression on your face screams less anger and more confusion–contrary to the way you’d nearly kicked down his door to get in. eyes flickering to the letter in your hand, the familiar material of the paper reminds him of a particular event that happened just a week ago.

“something troubling you, Miss Bodyguard?” the Warlord asked while in the midst of handling a mountain of paperwork.

“my village is in danger,” you’d replied without hesitation, not seeing any need to hide the truth from him–it was a trait he very much appreciated in you. “we used to always get harassed by pirates but lately it’s gotten worse and the berry i send home isn’t enough to keep them away anymore.”

a part of him expected you to drop a subtle plea for help but you never did. once you’d answered his question, you went back to being silent, eyes trained on the crumpled piece of paper held in your trembling hands.

“what’s the name of your village? and on what island?”

“remind me what you’re accusing me of?” Crocodile replies in his usual monotonous tone.

“you sent people to my village,” you say almost breathlessly, unable to help the tears welling up in your eyes as your heart pounds within the confines of your chest. “you’ve been protecting them, haven’t you?”

“yes.” 

“why?”

i hated seeing you worry.

“you wouldn’t be a very efficient bodyguard if you’re constantly thinking about your home, would you?”

for a long while, you simply stare at him in silence, your widened eyes glued to his deep-set ones. your gaze is so intense it’s almost as though you’re trying to peer straight into his soul; for a split second, the Warlord wonders if you’ve perhaps passed out while standing up with your eyes open.

“thank you,” you say softly with a smile on your face–the mere sight of which sends what the Warlord thought had been dead and cold in his chest into overdrive. for the first time in years, his heart races not from anger or adrenaline but from something else he’d long forgotten the feeling of.

iv.

four days pass by and Crocodile once again feels a strange sensation in his chest but this time it’s from worry.

within the course of an evening, you’d gone from perfectly healthy to deathly ill. first you’d collapsed after dinner–nearly hitting your head on the cold tiled floor had he not been fast enough to catch you–before a dangerously high fever started to set in. without hesitation, as he carried you to your quarters, the Warlord demanded for the best of Alabasta’s doctors and nurses to make their way over immediately.

now as the moon hangs high in the desert sky, its light shining through your windows just enough to illuminate your room barely, you find yourself accompanied by the Warlord himself. sitting quietly in a chair set beside your bed, you watch him as he reads a folder full of documents, using only the moonlight casting in as his source of light.

you feel terribly hot and extremely cold at the same time as you lay under the weight of your comforter, a wet towel resting on your forehead. your throat feels dry no matter how much water you drink so you’ve long since stopped asking for more–now only drinking when he periodically offers a glass to you.

in your fevered haze, you faintly recall some instances after you’d collapsed: the feeling of strong arms carrying you away, holding you close to a warm chest; the anger in a familiar voice it barked orders at others; the feeling of a large hand caressing your cheek as you laid barely awake.

“she will be okay, thankfully we made it in time to pump all the poison out of her system,” the leading doctor shared with Crocodile outside your bedroom door after a grueling few hours of medical care.

“poison?” the Warlord furrowed his eyebrows.

“yes, Sir Crocodile, we found a large trace of various poisonous substances in her stomach. frankly, she’s lucky to be alive.”

“is my face really that amusing to stare at?” he asks in a tone that lacks any bite as he directs his attention to you.

“you are quite handsome,” you admit with a weak smile. he feels his face warm up and hopes it at least doesn’t show on his skin. “you frown too much, though.”

“oh, really?”

“yeah. especially tonight.” you slowly take in a deep breath only to start coughing uncontrollably when the air gets lodged in your throat. Crocodile responds quickly but without haste, handing you a fresh glass of water as you sit yourself up. you drink it all before continuing to speak. “you’ve been frowning in a sort of angry way ever since the doctors left… what’s wrong?”

the Warlord takes a moment to look at you. there’s a thin sheen of sweat covering your skin and the bags under your eyes look the darkest they’ve ever been since he met you, frankly you look terrible but at least you’re alive. as much as he wants to pretend he doesn’t know why your survival makes him feel so relieved, he’s too smart to be fooled even by himself.

“you nearly died from an assassination attempt.” Crocodile hands you the folder he’d been pouring over while you rested. “i sent my best agents to investigate after the doctors told me you’d been poisoned.”

although your eyes burn with exhaustion, you managed to scan through all the documents with ease. you feel your already-weakened heart twist in a bizarre mixture of sadness, indignation and resignation as you learned the truth of your near-death experience.

“the World Government must’ve thought i was quite the threat to send Cipher Pol 8 after me, huh?” you say, laughing half-heartedly as you hand the folder back to Crocodile. “i guess i must’ve defected without realising.” you speak with an air of nonchalance that piques the man’s interest.

“knowing the World Government, you’ll probably have a bounty on your head once they realise you lived.” 

“i know,” you sigh, “the smart thing to do would be to leave Alabasta once i’m all better, don’t you think? i will miss keeping an eye on you, though.” the way you’re looking at him as you wait for his response is strangely playful and he feels the initial pang of disappointment morph instead into a tiny bit of hope. 

“join me,” Crocodile says exactly what he knows you want to hear. “i happen to have grown quite fond of being watched by you.” you smile widely and it sends his heart into a fit.

“join Baroque Works?”

“no.” he reaches out to grab your clammy hand, engulfing it with his much larger one; with an uncharacteristic gentleness, the Warlord brings it up to his lips before pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. “not Baroque Works, join me. stay by my side.”

“i’d like nothing more.”

—

taglist: @irethepotato @i-reblog-fics-i-like @grierpilots @appalost

[batboyblog]

How concerned do you think we should be about election officials who are election deniers refusing to certify results? I’m trying not to be anxious about it but it is a challenge.

well this was a worrying moment

my understanding is that Mr. Richer will oversee this election before his term is done, it's super duper VERY VERY important that any Arizona voters who see this make sure to vote all the way down to the Democrat Tim Stringham to make sure ALL Americans get free and fair elections.

ANY WAYS, how worried should you be? well, I think its always important to not let fear and worry paralyze you, its important to remember that in 2020 election deniers did try, but Joe Biden had won too many states, they had to try to overturn Georgia, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Wisconsin, Arizona, and Nevada, too many state courts, too many election officials, too many moving parts. So our best hope of frustrating them again is to win big. Many of them will lose their nerve and not want to be on the "losing side" which again happened in 2020 with most Republicans going along with the election. In 2024 Trump will be an old-old man, to try to run again for President he'd be 82 years old, everyone says his public appearances have slipped from the past, his legal battles drag on, he could be sentenced to jail in 2025, all to say if I'm a scummy Republican Congressman in January 2025 and Trump has lost every swing state commandingly I'm not sticking my neck out for him.

SO! you want to feel better? you want to not feel worried, get involved, its the only cure, I swear to god it is, I know no one believes me when I say that but its true, want to not have election anxiety? Volunteer, the anxiety comes from a sense of a huge out of control event looming over you, if you take action your brain won't feel out of control, you will feel better.

look for an event to volunteer with here, if you live somewhere super red or blue without an important Senate/House race, I recommend checking Run for Something they support young progressive candidates running for lower profile offices. If you're super stressed about the federal thing Democrats do Phone Banking a group called Field Team 6 is doing Text Banking to help register likely Democrats in key states, Swing Left is writing letters and Progressive Turnout is doing Postcards starting on the 5th

EVERYONE! can do SOMETHING! even from their own home, but trust me, door knocking is the easiest, most satisfying, and most cathartic thing you can do. And it's all any of us can do about Republicans plotting, win, and win big.

[hainge]

Third bullet: Drop your guard

cowboy!kaiser x fem!reader pt. 3 (wc 6.2k) from Silver bullets and stolen hearts part II part IV warnings: MDNI!!!! angst, abuse, child abuse, murder, violence, gun usage, burning, trauma, swearing

Kaiser left your room with a dumb grin plastered across his face. Each step down the stairs was light, almost bouncy, like a boy who’d just won himself a prize at the county fair. He adjusted his hat, still slightly crooked from your drunken hug, and ran a hand through his tousled hair with smug satisfaction.

He pushed the saloon doors open with both hands, boots clicking dramatically on the floorboards as he stepped back into your father’s bar. The place was a little quieter now, the late-night crowd thinning into smaller clusters of card games and quiet drinks. Your father glanced up from his seat behind the bar.

Kaiser tipped his hat and gave him a lazy smirk. “Your daughter’s been delivered, safe, sound, and sleeping like a baby. Can’t say the same for your liquor cabinet, though.”

Your dad snorted, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Good. Don’t let her catch you braggin’ about it.”

Kaiser chuckled, but just as he turned to walk toward his crew, still gathered around their table like outlaws plotting mischief, your father’s voice cut through the din.

“Kaiser.”

He stopped and glanced back. The grin faded a bit.

“Yeah?”

“Office. In twenty minutes. Bring the boys.”

Kaiser’s expression shifted into something colder, more collected. The lightness drained from his face, and he gave a quiet nod. “Yes, sir.”

He turned on his heel and made his way to the table. As he approached, his men perked up. Ness leaned back with a grin, Lorenzo clapped once like they’d just hit a jackpot, and the others raised their drinks in mock salute.

Kaiser ran a hand across the back of his neck and smirked, eyes closed in overplayed glory. “Boys,” he said with a dramatic breath, “I gotta tell you, I’m the luckiest damn man alive.”

Ness whistled. “What’d she do, marry you?”

“Not yet,” Kaiser replied, falling into the seat with a thud. “But hell, she don’t hate me anymore. That’s progress.”

“Careful, boss,” said Shidou of the others with a grin, “sounds like love.”

Kaiser laughed, but there was a strange quiet to it. Like something in him had shifted, just a little.

“Wait for me!” The boy’s voice echoed joyfully behind you as your bare feet padded fast over soft grass. You laughed, glancing over your shoulder. He was trying to keep up, blond hair messy from the wind, cheeks flushed with energy.

“Don’t go to the water!” your mother’s voice rang out from the garden. “We won’t!” you both yelled back, giggling in unison, already lying through your teeth.

The two of you ran hand in hand toward the river that glinted like silver under the sun, the air thick with the scent of honeysuckle and wild mint. Your dress, a soft purple one with hand-sewn flowers stitched by your mother, fluttered behind you like a ribbon. He wore suspenders over a dusty linen shirt and trousers that were a tad too short for his legs.

You arrived at the riverbank breathless, grinning. The water trickled and rushed over smooth stones, cool and alive. The trees above swayed with a lazy breeze, dappling the ground in speckled light.

The two of you sat and started skipping rocks. “What’s your grandma makin’ today?” he asked, adjusting the bandana around his neck. “Pork with beans and carrot soup, I think.” “Ummm.” He grunted as he flung a flat stone across the water. It bounced three times. “I won.” “You did not!” you protested, grabbing a stone. You threw—one, two, three, four bounces. “I WON.” “Oh…” he mumbled, pretending to pout before laughing again.

Later, you both wandered into the forest nearby, a place that felt like it belonged to just you two. You filled a basket with odd treasures: bright yellow wildflowers, dried snail shells, rocks shaped like hearts and faces, even a patch of moss that felt like velvet. He handed you a crown made of weeds and violets he’d clumsily tied together.

“For the princess of the forest.” “I’m not a princess.” “Then you’re just pretty.” You rolled your eyes at him, but the truth was, your cheeks were warm. Both of you ran back to the river, the golden sunlight still dripping through the treetops, but something in the wind had begun to change. Your house wasn’t far, just beyond the hilltop where the old willow tree leaned, and your grandma always said she liked to keep an eye on you from the porch.

Now, with a new “member” of your daily adventures, she seemed happier than ever, her warm eyes always following your games with a knowing smile, her hands never idle as she knitted, or snapped peas for supper.

You dropped to your knees by the riverbank and started arranging your treasures. You were sorting the rocks by color: grayish-blue ones in one pile, honey-yellow ones in another, and some pinkish stones with stripes in a third. He sat cross-legged beside you, naming every dried snail shell and flower he picked like they were magical creatures.

“You can have this beige rock,” you said quietly, holding it out to him with both hands. He looked at it, then took it with a small grin. “Thanks. I’ll keep it forever.”

Together, you wrapped your shared bounty in a soft, hand-stitched towel your grandma had given you, covered in faded sunflowers, and gently tucked it into the basket. The sound of the river, the birds, the wind in the trees…it was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Screams, sharp and sudden. Agony.

You both froze. Then- PIM! A gunshot cracked through the air like a whip.

Your heads snapped toward the house. The porch was empty. Your grandma had vanished.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

You turned to the boy beside you. His expression was pale, confused. “We should check what happened,” you whispered, fear curling in your throat.

He nodded silently.

Still clutching the basket, you reached for his hand again, tighter this time, and started toward the house. Each step up the hill felt like it echoed. There were no birds now. Just silence…and a distant voice. No, voices.

Men. Muffled. Low.

Not your father’s.

Your fingers trembled as they gripped the wooden door handle. Slowly, ever so slowly, you pushed the door open. It creaked, too loud. Your heart thudded in your chest like it was trying to warn you. The first thing you saw was blood.

It was pooled on the wooden floorboards, thick and dark, smeared like someone had tried to crawl. The second thing you saw were two men descending the stairs, heavy boots stomping down as if they owned the place.

“There you two fuckin’ are,” one growled.

Before you could move, he grabbed a fistful of your hair so harshly it yanked your head back. You squealed in pain, tears springing to your eyes. The other man had already seized the boy, clamping his hand over the back of his neck and shoving a rag or cloth into his mouth, muffling his protests, keeping him from biting.

You both struggled, but it didn’t matter. You were just kids.

You were dragged to the living room like livestock. Your little feet scraped against the floorboards as the man holding you grunted, and then, he shoved you forward.

And that’s when you saw it. You froze. Your whole body locked up.

Your grandmother, the one who always waved from the porch, was slumped against the wall, struggling for breath. Her dress was soaked in blood, her hands pressed to her gut, trembling as she tried to hold herself together. Next to her, your auntie lay unconscious, her head bleeding where it had hit the corner of a cabinet, blood slowly streaming and joining the pool on the floor. And your grandfather. He was dead, his body slumped in his wooden chair like a puppet with its strings cut. His head tilted back, eyes wide open, a gunshot wound square in his forehead.

You stood in silence, blinking, shaking, trying to understand what you were seeing.

But the sound that pierced everything-

Was your mother’s sobs.

She was on the floor. On her knees. Begging. One of the men had her by the hair, yanking her face upward like she wasn’t even human. She was praying. “Please don’t… not my kids-” You broke.

“MAMA!” You shrieked and lunged forward. The man holding you caught you by the back of your dress and yanked you back hard, knocking the air from your lungs.

The boy beside you was thrashing now, trying to kick his captor, but he was smaller and couldn’t do much. “Found you,” another man muttered. He was carrying a canister, something that smelled sharp, acrid. Gasoline.

He set it down and reached for the boy, grabbing his face roughly. But you didn’t care. Not about that. Not about yourself.

All you could see was your mom’s terrified face, blood on her cheek, eyes swollen from crying. Her arms reaching toward you.

“Sweetie, don’t move, everything’s going to be-”

CRACK.

She hissed in pain. The man yanked her hair tighter and brought a gun to her temple.

Your legs buckled. You screamed again. Your voice cracked as your world collapsed around you. The man in red stood tall and quiet, towering over everyone like a phantom from a storybook turned nightmare. He wore a long, crimson coat and a white cowboy hat pulled low, casting a shadow that hid his eyes. He didn’t speak, just raised a gloved hand and gestured toward you.

One of the men grabbed you hard by the arm and shoved you toward the stairs, forcing your small body against the banister beam that supported them, thick wood, worn and smooth from age. Your little wrists were yanked forward and bound to the beam with coarse rope, the fibers biting your skin as they tied you down.

Outside, through the door, you saw the blond boy being dragged away, fighting in silence, muffled by the rag in his mouth. Your mother followed behind, her arms bound behind her back. She kept looking over her shoulder, at you.

“MAAAAA!” Your voice broke, raw from screaming. You thrashed in place, legs kicking wildly, rope scraping your skin, but you were too small and too weak.

Your mother turned her head again, tears soaking her cheeks. “Y/N, please-” she sobbed. “Don’t look-”

You didn’t listen.

You couldn’t.

You looked right at her.

“I love you, Y/N! Please, take care of-”

PIM. The shot cracked through the air like lightning. And then your mother’s body crumpled, boneless and silent, hitting the dirt outside your front door.

You stopped. Everything stopped.

The screaming caught in your throat, choked and strangled by the force of your grief. Your eyes went wide. Your mouth hung open, no sound coming out. Your breath hitched in jagged stutters.

Dead. She was dead.

The smell of blood. The buzzing of flies. The way your grandma’s head lolled against the wall. Your aunt’s weak, pitiful little whimpers. Your grandpa’s eyes still open, staring at nothing. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

You wanted to die too.

The men around you didn’t stop. They moved quickly, methodically. Pouring gasoline across the floorboards, across the tables and rugs and shelves, but they avoided the bodies, stepping carefully around them, like keeping them intact was part of some cruel plan.

“Everything done? Got the money?” a voice asked.

Another man came down the stairs holding bags of jewelry, coins, your grandma’s sewing box. “All of it. Let’s move.”

The man in red turned to look at you one last time.

You stared back, still gasping silently like a fish out of water, your hands trembling against the wood beam.

He lit a match, small, bright, flickering between his gloved fingers. He held it there for a moment, stared at it and then at you… then tossed it to the floor.

The flames spread fast, faster than you thought possible. The moment they touched the soaked wood, the room lit up in a flash of orange and crackling heat. The fire ate everything in it’s path, the curtains, the couch, the walls. Smoke rose in plumes, thick and choking, filling your lungs, blinding your eyes.

You screamed. You cried.

Louder than ever.

“HELP! PLEASE!! MAMAAAAA! SOMEONE-!”

The fire roared back in response.

You yanked against your bonds, legs flailing, feet slipping on the wooden floor. The air got hotter and heavier by the second. The smoke burned your throat and made your eyes water until you couldn’t see anything at all. All you could do was scream into the chaos. The minutes felt like hours.

The last thing you remember before everything turned black-

Was the sound of the door opening. GASP.

You shot up like you were being yanked from underwater. Your chest heaved, breath ragged and broken, pulling in air like it might save you from drowning. Your fingers clutched the sheets with a grip so tight your knuckles turned white. You were shaking, all over, your arms, your knees, even your jaw.

Your head throbbed. Your stomach twisted. You felt sick. Too sick.

“It’s just another nightmare, Y/N… just another nightmare…” you whispered, but your voice cracked, like your throat was raw from screaming, like you really had been screaming.

You blinked fast, trying to focus on your surroundings. The moonlight leaking through the window barely illuminated your room, but you recognized the shape of your dresser, the edge of your bed, the chair where you left your boots. You were home. But you didn’t feel safe.

“Dad…?” you croaked. No answer.

You tried again. Louder. Desperate. “Daaaad!” Still nothing. The silence pressed down on you like a weight. You needed him, needed his voice to shake you out of this fog like he always did.

Panic crawled up your spine like cold fingers. You dragged in another breath but it felt shallow, as if the air couldn’t get all the way to your lungs.

“Dad...please,” you muttered again, a whisper this time, choked by panic and nausea. You swung your legs off the bed, feet touching the wooden floor, and you swayed. The room tilted. Your body felt like lead, frozen, trembling, aching from within. Your skin was cold, your clothes stuck to your back with sweat.

You gripped the banister at the top of the stairs like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. If anyone saw you, they’d think you were a ghost, pale, hollow-eyed, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

“Last night…” You whispered it to yourself, trying to remember.

You closed your eyes, images swimming in... Laughter. Music. His hand on your waist. The swirl. The shot-

You gasped again, this time from clarity hitting you like a blow to the stomach. “Kaiser… the dance… then-”

It blurred. The nightmare had bled into your memory. You couldn’t tell what was real for a moment.

Your hands gripped the banister harder as you descended, step by step, your bare feet nearly silent against the wood. Anxiety clung to you, sharp and biting, like you were being watched. Every creak of the floorboard sounded like a gunshot. Every shadow looked like blood.

You needed your dad. You needed answers. You needed to feel safe again. Because right now, your whole body was telling you, you weren’t. 7 Hours Ago — 1:27 AM, Bar’s Office

The office was dimly lit, clouds of cigar smoke swirling lazily under the flickering ceiling lamp. The air was heavy, not just with smoke, but with something else. Tension. Coiled and ready to snap.

Ego stood at the head of the room, sharp-eyed, impatient. The boss of them all. He wasn’t just a strategist; he was a war machine in a suit. Every man in the room listened, or pretended to. Kaiser sat slouched, legs stretched, arms crossed, blue eyes glazed over like he was somewhere far away. His mind wasn’t here. Not in this suffocating room.

Kaiser’s group was there:him, Rin, Shidou, Ness, Aiku and Lorenzo, but they weren’t the only ones. A few other crews were gathered in the corners of the room, quieter, less recognizable, but clearly summoned for the same reason. All under Ego’s command tonight.

“Kaiser,” Ego snapped. No answer.

He tried again. “Kaiser!”

The blond didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He was thinking about the way her smile had finally cracked through that frozen wall she wore like armor. About the way she had laughed, leaned against him, looked up with wide, trusting eyes that didn’t know the half of what was coming.

“We’ve received word,” Ego continued, pacing slowly like a predator, “that he’s returned.”

Silence blanketed the room. Even Shidou stopped grinning for a second.

“That man, he's wiped out a town, Copperbend. Estimated thousand bodies, barely any survivors. No traces, no hesitation. Same M.O. from twelve years ago.” He turned to face them fully. “This is not just revenge. He’s sending a message.”

The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Rin’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Aiku exchanged a glance with Oliver, their jaws set. Ness swallowed hard.

“What’s the plan then?” Lorenzo asked with a smirk that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “We storm hell and shoot the devil in the face?”

“Something like that,” Ego said flatly. “I want eyes on him, on his people, on his routes. We draw him out with what he wants. And I think we know exactly what that is.”

The room stirred, and with it, the sharp snap of tension. Shidou laughed suddenly, leaning back with his boots up on the desk like this was comedy night. “Let him come. I want to see if he burns like the rest of ‘em.”

Noel Noa, silent until now, finally spoke. “This isn’t a job. This is suicide. I’m not sending anyone into a slaughter.”

“You think you get to say no?” Ego asked, voice deadly. “He won’t stop. Not until everything she ever touched is ash.”

Shidou clicked his tongue. “What a shame. I was starting to like the bar.”

Arguments broke out. Voices clashed, Shidou and Lorenzo loud and unbothered, Ness clearly on edge, Rin stone-cold silent. Oliver leaned forward like he was ready to throw punches. Even members of the other groups shifted, some whispering, others muttering curses under their breath. One of them stood, ready to argue back before-

PIM-

A shot rang out.

Silence.

Everyone turned. Kaiser stood, gun still smoking, eyes dark and fixed on the floor. Slowly, he looked up, finally meeting their gazes.

“You’re all yelling like drunks,” he said quietly, a sneer barely hidden beneath his voice. “We’re not going to argue about her. If he wants a war, we’ll give him one.”

He holstered the gun, stepped back, and walked toward the door like none of this was out of the ordinary.

“I’ll handle my part.”

And just like that, he left the room, still thinking about her.

Current time: 8:49 AM

You were in the kitchen, still shaking and trembling. The air felt heavier now, like something had latched itself to your skin. Your eyes scanned the counter until they landed on a small note folded in half.

You reached for it with hesitant fingers and unfolded it.

“Hi sweetheart… I won’t be home today, got some important things to do, will probably be back tomorrow morning. I left some money for you upstairs and Kaiser to take care of you.”

“Kaiser?” you murmured, confused. “What?”

You continued reading.

“He needs your help for something if you don’t mind. He will be there around 9 AM.”

Your gaze snapped to the clock on the wall.

8:53.

Your eyes widened a little more.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

You jumped, heart skipping.

Your gaze slowly traveled to the front door. The knocking wasn’t loud but in your state it felt like thunder. You took a deep breath and tiptoed toward it.

“Who’s there?” you whispered, barely audible.

“Kaiser.”

You froze.

You hadn’t brushed your teeth. You hadn’t brushed your hair. You were in yesterday’s clothes. Your skin felt clammy, your stomach was still twisted in knots. You hated it. To everyone’s knowledge, you never left the house looking unkempt. Never.

But you had no other choice.

You turned the handle and opened the door.

There he was.

Kaiser. In his usual relaxed stance, arms loosely crossed, smirking like he had no idea your whole world had flipped upside down last night.

“Oh wow, good morning sleeping beauty.”

His tone was teasing at first, but then he stared a little longer. His smirk slowly faded, replaced by something more careful. Observing.

“Is everything ok?”

Your mind snapped back. You were so lost in your own head you forgot to even pretend to be fine.

“I-y-yes.”

He hummed, clearly not convinced, and stepped inside without another word. “Looks like someone woke up from a nightmare.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“Did I hit the mark?”

Still, silence.

“Come on, throw me a bone here.”

“No,” you said quickly, sharper than intended.

He pouted exaggeratedly. “Ouch. And to think last night you were spilling secrets like I was your diary.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t remember?” He chuckled, brushing it off. “Guess that’s fair. You were kinda gone.”

His smile lingered, lighthearted but curious. You offered a weak smile in return, the kind you gave when you didn’t want to explain too much.

“I think you should get ready for the day,” he added, more gently this time.

You nodded and excused yourself upstairs, still feeling the weight of the dream clinging to your skin like smoke. Despite your trembling hands, you tried to compose yourself. You brushed your teeth with soda water, ran a comb through your tangled hair, and changed into something a little more put-together, simple but elegant, like your mother might’ve dressed you once.

Walking down the stairs, your fingers gripped the banister a little tighter than usual. Memories clawed at the back of your mind, vivid and cruel. You blinked hard, steadying your steps until you reached the last one.

Kaiser was lounging on the couch, a journal in his hand, your father’s, from the look of it. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned when he saw you.

“There she is,” he said, eyes flicking over your outfit. “Looking like she just stepped out of a painting.”

You didn’t react. Not even a twitch. Your face was calm, but your eyes betrayed the hollowness inside.

His smile faded just a little. He watched you, more carefully this time. His voice dropped into something warmer, quieter.

“Hey… come here, Y/N. You don’t have to be afraid.”

He opened one arm out for you, an invitation. Not a command. Not a tease. Just something real. To you, his soft voice didn’t quite fit. It felt strange, unnatural, almost eerie, like watching a wolf try to wear sheep’s wool. Still, what other choice did you have?

Your dad wasn’t here. The one person who always knew how to bring you back when the dreams dug their claws in, gone for the day. And Kaiser… well, he was trusted. At least, by your father. That had to mean something, right?

Even if he was just another slick-talking cowboy with too much confidence in his step.

You moved to the sofa slowly, quietly, as if your bones were made of glass. Kaiser’s eyes followed you, not hungry, not amused. Just… watchful. Studying.

He didn’t move when you sat, only shifted slightly to rest his arm along the back of the couch. You noticed how he did it deliberately, leaving a space between you. A silent gesture of awareness. Respect, maybe.

He glanced sideways at you. “So,” he said lightly, “what was the nightmare?”

You turned your head toward him, furrowing your brow. “How do you even know it was a nightmare?”

“Your dad’s mentioned them,” Kaiser replied simply. “Said you look and act just like this when they hit.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what to say. The weight in your chest was still too heavy to lift into words.

He let out a quiet breath, then said, with a kind of careful edge, “Was it about that day?”

Your heart stuttered. You blinked, like your brain couldn’t process the question fast enough. “What…day?”

Kaiser kept his eyes forward. His tone turned even, serious. “When those men came. When they, killed your family.”

The words hit like a slap. You froze. Your eyes widened. For a second, the breath in your lungs turned to ice.

How does he know?

Of course, he works under your father. But still...hearing it spoken so plainly made the air feel thinner.

“What?” Your voice cracked.

“Don’t overreact,” he said quickly but firmly. “I’m not here to poke at scars. Just trying to understand you better.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your thoughts tangled, dragged by the sudden flood of memory, blood, smoke, screams.

“Y/N…”his voice was quieter now, almost gentle. “Hey.”

You blinked hard. “Huh?”

His eyes finally met yours, calm but searching.

“Can we talk about it?”

You froze, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Your heart pounded so loud it echoed in your ears, sweat pricking at your brow like tiny warnings. Then his hand came up, gently, slowly, to cup your cheek. The contact made you flinch, just a bit, just enough for him to notice.

“Y/n,” Kaiser murmured, voice lower now, softer. “I need you to talk to me… please.” His eyes searched yours, not with that usual playful glint, but something steadier. Realer. “Was it about that day?”

You didn’t move. Seconds passed like slow-burning matches. Then, finally, you gave a small nod.

He exhaled, closing his eyes for a moment as if to rein in his thoughts. “I actually came here today to talk to you about it… but I didn’t expect to see you like this. Shaken to the bone. That part wasn’t exactly in my morning plans.”

Your head throbbed like someone had taken a hammer to it. The nightmare still lingered, its sounds, its smells, the heat, the fire. You weren’t sure if now was the time to talk, if your voice would even come out right. But somehow, his calm pushed you a little closer to the edge of trust.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked quietly.

“Um…”

“How did it start?”

He waited. No teasing, no jokes, just silence held open like an invitation.

“I used to live in the forest,” you finally breathed, the words escaping all at once. “A little far from here… There was no dust. No gunshots. No death. Just… life.”

He didn’t interrupt, just nodded once to show he was listening.

“I lived with my parents, my auntie, and my grandparents. We had a garden. A river nearby. There were birds in the morning, frogs at night.” Your voice cracked and you looked down, eyes catching the glint of the jewelry hanging from his neck. So many pieces. Gold, silver, a couple leather strings. Like trophies, or maybe charms. One pendant in particular caught your eye—it was oval-shaped, reflective, elegant in its simplicity.

“And?” he asked, his voice barely louder than a breath.

Your eyes returned to his, heavy with memories you couldn’t fully grasp. You blinked slowly, your voice quiet but steady.

“There was a boy too… my parents kind of adopted him. I don’t remember his name or his face. Just that he had blond hair.”

Kaiser’s brow lowered slightly, his gaze soft but curious. “You don’t remember his name? And the others…?”

“I don’t remember my aunt’s face. Or my mom’s. Or my grandparents’,” you murmured. “The pictures… forget it.”

“No no, tell me,” he said gently, his voice grounding.

You hesitated, then let the truth fall.

“My house burned down. I lost everything,” you said, your tone hollow. “Some men… they did it.”

He listened in silence, every part of him focused on you. You opened your mouth to continue but your voice cracked.

“I…”

Kaiser leaned in just a little, his tone softer now. “Do you want to stop here?”

You nodded, and the moment you did, it all broke loose.

Your body trembled as tears poured down your cheeks. You brought your hands to your face, trying to hide, trying to hold it in. But it was no use.

Kaiser looked unsure for a second, like he didn’t know if he should move. His hand hovered, waiting, almost asking.

And something in you gave him the answer without words.

You leaned in, and that was enough.

He pulled you gently into his chest, arms wrapping around you with quiet care. One hand moved slowly along your back in a calming rhythm.

You cried against him, sobs wracking through your chest, sharp and breathless. You hated how broken you felt, how much you needed this. But you couldn't stop it.

He didn’t speak. He just held you, firm and warm, his chin resting against your head like he was grounding you to something real.

And for the first time in a long while, you let someone hold your pain with you.

You lowered your hands from your face and gripped the fabric of his coat, expensive under your fingers. The crying had quieted, but every breath still trembled, every sob felt sharp in your chest. Your eyes drifted down again, drawn to the shine of his jewelry like a moth to a lantern in the dark.

That same piece caught your attention, oval-shaped, smooth and polished, a warm beige that seemed to glow in the morning light. Your fingers reached out, barely brushing it at first, the texture cold but comforting. Kaiser didn’t notice right away, but when he felt the soft graze of your hand, he looked down.

“Hm?” he murmured, his voice low.

His eyes lingered on you. And for a second, the world stilled for him. You looked like something fragile and faraway, like a memory made of glass and sunlight, all quiet pain and soft edges. There was something about the way your lashes were wet, how your gaze stayed fixed on the necklace like it held a piece of your past. You were silent, except for the shaky sniffles that slipped out of you.

“Caught your eye?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You swallowed thickly, then nodded, eyes never leaving the piece. He watched you for a moment longer before reaching up, fingers gently brushing the tears from beneath your eyes.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he said, honest and serious in a way you hadn’t heard from him before.

You blinked, his touch light against your skin. And then your thoughts started turning. Why are you trusting him? A cowboy. A man. The kind of man you swore to keep away from. Why are you letting him hold you like this, touch you like this? Why are you letting his voice be something that makes you feel okay for once?

You didn’t know the answer. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like you weren’t broken. Maybe it was the silence he kept instead of forcing empty words.

Or maybe it was because, just for a moment, you didn’t want to be alone. He glanced down at your hands, still fidgeting with the smooth beige stone resting between your fingers. “Why are you so drawn to it?” he asked softly.

You kept your eyes on it, brows slightly furrowed. “I don’t know, I just...get a feeling from it.”

“What kind of feeling?” he murmured as he leaned closer, resting his forehead gently against yours. His warmth sank into your skin, steady and grounding.

“Like I’ve touched it before,” you whispered, “like I’ve held it a long time ago... it feels familiar.”

He let out a small smile, brief and faint. “Hm,” he hummed, then pulled back slightly, his face becoming more serious again.

“You don’t remember anything else about that boy?” he asked.

You shook your head slowly. “No, just that we were really close, like… almost siblings.”

He paused for a second, watching your face. “And you know it’s not your fault, right?”

Your eyes lifted to his. “What?”

“That you don’t remember his name, or his face. Same as your mom, your auntie, your grandparents…”

“I know…” you replied, but your voice was low, unsure.

“Do you know why?” he pressed gently.

You hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“Your dad, or a doctor, never told you?” he asked again, voice quieter now, steadier.

“Told me what?” you said, confused and a little tense.

“That what happened that day,” he began, “left scars on your life. The kind no one sees. That kind of trauma… it steals things from you. Your memories, your sense of time, your childhood. You didn’t forget because you wanted to, you forgot because your mind had to survive.”

His words sank deep. You looked at him, heart stinging.

“It’s not your fault,” he said again, firmer this time. “And it’s okay that you don’t remember. You lived through something no kid should ever see, let alone carry with them. The fact that you’re still here… that means something.”

You swallowed hard, eyes starting to burn again. But this time, the tears felt different. Not just from sadness. But from the weight of being understood. He gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers light and careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. The gesture felt more than just comforting, it felt like a message, something he wasn’t saying out loud.

“Why does it sound like… like you’re trying to hint at something?” you asked quietly, eyes searching his.

He didn’t look away. “I’ll be honest,” he said, voice low, “I am.”

You stared at him for a few seconds, unsure of what he meant, then slowly turned your gaze back to the rock resting in your hand.

“You can have this beige rock,” “Thanks, I’ll keep it forever.”

Your breath hitched as something shifted in your chest. Suddenly, the line between past and present began to blur. You saw the river again, the trees swaying in the wind, the little boy’s laughter in the distance. That same beige rock, your purple floral dress, your hand holding his. Everything began piecing itself together like a puzzle that had been missing too many pieces for too long.

You looked at him again, a tremble in your voice. “You’re… the boy? You were that boy?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes gentle but unwavering. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s me.”

You blinked, the tears building again. You looked down at the stone in your hand for what felt like the hundredth time, heart pounding, memories clawing their way back to you.

“I missed you,” he said softly, almost like a confession, “a lot, actually.” You shifted back, eyes wide, breath ragged. Your body felt too hot, too heavy. Everything was spinning, your memories, your thoughts, your reality. It was all bleeding together.

“Yn?” he stepped forward cautiously, but you shook your head, backing away like a wounded animal.

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “No, no, you’re not him…”

“Yn, where are you going?” Kaiser called after you, confusion and worry climbing up his throat as you almost tripped over the edge of the carpet. You could barely hear him.

“You’re not him,” you repeated again, louder this time, your voice trembling. “You’re not…”

Your hands clutched at your head, your breath shortening into sharp gasps. He moved to get closer, but you flinched away.

“Yn, dear, I would never lie to you,” his voice was softer now, pleading, but it only made it worse.

“Stop,” you whimpered, stumbling further. “Stop, stop, stop!”

“Please,” he begged, voice cracking now too, “just listen to me-”

“I don’t want this!” you screamed, eyes brimming with a fire that was born out of pain. “I don’t want this!”

“What...what do you mean?” he reached for you again, and your hand flew to the nearby vase. Without even thinking, you hurled it across the room. The shatter echoed like a gunshot, like the shot from that day.

Your nails clawed at your cheeks, desperate, wild. You couldn’t feel anything but heat and terror crawling under your skin.

“Yn!” Kaiser rushed to you, alarm written all over his face. He grabbed your wrists gently but firmly, trying to stop you from hurting yourself. You thrashed under his grip.

“Let me go!” your voice broke into sobs, and then you collapsed, legs giving in beneath you. You fell to the floor with a thud, your body folding in on itself.

“Goddamn it, Yn,” he dropped to his knees beside you, trying to hold you, trying to pull you out of whatever storm had just swallowed you whole. “Please, please listen to me-”

But you couldn’t. You were shaking, whimpering, your mind caught in a loop of pain and disbelief, too full, too loud. You weren’t even sure where you were anymore. It all hurt too much.

Kaiser could only stare at you, frozen in his own helplessness, his thoughts screaming.

"What did I do? What did I do? God, what the hell did I just do?"

taglist: @jjklover365daysayear @silverwings920 @bach-ira @rroxii @byzantiumhollow @amy-briar03

[sineala]

Are there ANY stony/Star Trek AUs?

Okay. Um. I'm just going to assume this is a legitimate question and not actually a way to express frustration about my progress on the sequel I am writing (I stared at this ask for a while), so I will just conclude that you must have missed the Steve/Tony Star Trek AU I wrote, um, back in 2016:

Straight on till Morning (109848 words) by Sineala Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Avengers (Comics) Rating: Explicit  Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark  Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Carol Danvers, Janet Van Dyne, Hank Pym, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Clint Barton, Donald Blake (Marvel), Jocasta (Marvel)  Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Action/Adventure, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pining, Angst, Secret Identity, Identity Porn, Sex Pollen, Fuck Or Die, Caves, Sex In A Cave, Technobabble, Happy Ending, Cap_Ironman Big Bang 2016, Community: cap_ironman, Podfic Available  Summary: 

Tony Stark resigned his commission in Starfleet five years ago, after a disastrous away mission, and he swore he'd never go back. He just wants to be left alone to build warp engines in peace. But the universe has more in store for him than that, as he discovers when Admiral Fury comes to him with an offer he could never have expected and cannot possibly refuse: first officer and chief engineer aboard the all-new USS Avenger, a starship of Tony's own design. What's more, the Avenger's captain is Steve Rogers, hero of the Earth-Romulan War. Believed dead for over a century, Steve is miraculously alive... and very, very attractive. 

But nothing is ever easy for Tony. As he wrestles with his secret desire for his new captain and his not-so-dormant fears, another mission starts to go wrong, and Tony becomes aware that Steve has secrets of his own -- and the truth could change everything.

So, yeah, if you actually haven't read that one, that'll keep you busy for a while. It's a Trek fusion with comics Steve/Tony, set in the era of the later TOS movies. (This is important so that you can picture the correct uniforms, and also because it actually matters that the events of Star Trek II, III, and IV have happened.) It was a Big Bang fic, so it's got some great art by Ran and Phoenix -- embedded in the story -- and also M_Samro made a really amazing podfic of it, if you like podfics.

For a charity auction in 2017, I promised I would write a sequel, and I plotted the whole thing out and started writing this extremely epic sequel, which was unfortunately, about a plague threatening the galaxy, and I got about 120,000 words in and then 2020 happened and I decided I needed to not be writing it right now. So it went on an extended hiatus.

But the good news is that I've actually gotten back to it! I picked it up again last month and I've put 40,000 more words in it since then and at this exact moment I am currently working on the last scene of Chapter 4 (out of six total)! I swear it is happening! I've been putting in about a thousand words a day for the past month! It is really happening this time! The sequel is coming! I promise! I know it has been years but it's happening!

See? It's happening! (I would include a screencap of the part that is happening, but all of Chapter 4 is pretty spoilery.)

So that will exist! Someday! I mean that!

And if you're asking about Steve/Tony Star Trek AUs by people other than me, there are some! If you filter the AU - Star Trek Fusion tag by Steve/Tony, there are 25 matches. Several of them are related to my fic (remixes, art) but there is some stuff that isn't my fault! I haven't read a lot of them because I was trying not to read things that seemed like they might be similar to mine while I was plotting my series here, and also I have never finished watching DS9, so I skipped the DS9 ones.

Under Stars by vulcanscully: A fun fusion that I thought was interesting because Steve is an ensign and that's not how this usually goes.

Discovery of the Century by DepressingGreenie: More 616 in flavor than a lot of the Trek AUs, this is basically Finding Steve In The Ice but Make It Star Trek. As far as I am concerned, Finding Steve In The Ice is great every time.

and so we rebuild by raeldaza: I'm probably biased because this one was inspired by my fic, but I also really enjoyed this one for not being how these things usually go. A lot of Trek AUs in many fandoms are written through a TOS/AOS kind of lens and will often do a Kirk/Spock thing and make one of them a Vulcan or half-Vulcan. In this one that's Tony, but also he's a terrible Vulcan! He's found a new way to disappoint his father!

Stellar Love Affairs by AvengersNewB: I honestly had never imagined a Star Trek fusion that was also A/B/O but I think it really works here! It's like bringing pon farr full circle.

Xenophilia by Captain_Panda: Captain_Panda has several Trek AUs but I am reccing this one because it's the longest. And also the whumpiest. Everyone loves some good away-mission whump!

So there you go! Live long and prosper! I promise I am still writing this Star Trek AU sequel!

[porthecrawl-witness]

Daily Fixes

I'm a little concerned that I've missed a scene change command somewhere in the demo because a few people are accessing content past chapter 11, which is where the current build should be cutting off. Not sure how that's happening. Anything beyond Staci and Quinn's individual routes in Chapter 11 and Talbot's route in Chapter 9 is old and won't account for the rewrites. Dashingdon continues to confound (affectionately <3; I'm the problem, it's me).

Daily dose of chaos fixes below. If you sent in an error and I haven't addressed, just keep yelling at me:

working on applying a flag to the chat where Quinn acknowledges an MC of the same gender so that it doesn't occur twice (in progress)

found an incomplete convo in Chap 11 Quinn's route. Complete now

lowered the Sensitivity level requirement in Chapter 9 of Talbot's rival route to get past the door (should now be set to open at 47 or higher)

fixed various variable errors

corrected reference to the delicious granola bar MC did not get to enjoy

corrected an achievement that wasn't triggering appropriately with Asher

corrected issue with repeated paragraphs in Quinn's Chapter 9

added missing choices when greeting Talbot in Chapter 8 when they show up to MC's office

fixed bad label in the potential "left" route in Chapter 8 just before he gave you some juicy goss about Augustus

still looking into an issue with the "jealousy" triggers in Staci's route (specifically Chapter 9). That shouldn't be triggering unless specifically chosen for the 🎆drama🎆, but I may remove it entirely. I suspect not enough people are looking for that particular flavor of drama in their IFs (in progress)

I'm not satisfied with how Talbot's rivalry path is incorporated with Quinn's and Staci's routes, so I'll likely be overhauling that sometime this week. It's been really difficult keeping the plot threads separate and trying to keep up with what a given MC knows in which route, so please by all means point things out if you feel it needs addressing. That generally goes for anything. Currently, my brain is in Quinn mode, but I solemnly swear I will get to Staci's.

[northhopest]

7x14: Mad About Murder

In a perfect world, we’d have enough representation in media that we wouldn’t need to pause and applaud when it shows up, or talk about it when it doesn’t. But alas, welcome to another episode of The Rookie, where Lucy Chen’s cultural heritage gets ghosted harder than an ex who owes you money.

Lucy's the only Asian main out of a dozen mains, and yet we haven’t seen any decent reference to her identity in about five seasons. In fact, during the S5 documentary episode, she called her grandmother “nana" which actually pushed her away from representation.

That’s why this episode stood out. It had a director of Asian descent, several guest stars of Asian descent, and even involved Asian-coded themes—things that align with Lucy’s background. Representation behind the scenes clearly made a difference, from the casting of the sisters to the decision to have Danny Feng say “no English” without it being a punchline or stereotype. Even casting a Wasian baby was intentional and respectful.

But here’s the frustrating part: there’s usually some kind of physical or tonal acknowledgment from main characters in “shared culture” storylines. I didn’t see that with Lucy. She’s typically bubbly and warm, but in an episode where she spent most of her time with people of shared heritage, she felt completely switched off. There are subtle, powerful ways to convey this “consciousness of kind” through acting and engagement that just weren’t there.

Even plot-wise, Lucy’s lack of urgency in taking Taylor’s missing persons case felt off. It was Celina’s mom who convinced them to take it, but Lucy was officer in charge. It didn’t feel like her.

Aria and Taylor’s strained relationships with their parents are cultural in nature. Lucy could’ve related. She should’ve related. A deep nod. A hum. Anything. The absence of that connection felt like a missed opportunity—for character development, for meaningful representation, for community on-screen.

—

Chenford 

This was the first episode where we actually got to see what Lucy holding a Chenford baby would look like. The gentle genius of having her cradle a half Asian/half white baby on-screen is exactly why we need more people of color and those with acute awareness in positions to share stories about characters of color. Details matter. This wasn’t accidental. And I swear to that building on 111 North Hope Street, if we ever get a canon Chenford baby, it better have this same thoughtfulness.

Lucy had just shot a woman to save that baby, so I get why she didn’t have a "moment" here. But the symbolism? Powerful. I liked the intentional foreshadowing very much.

I also loved the Bropez moment. Angela telling Tim he’d better be grateful every single day if Lucy takes him back, and Tim basically replying “I know—I’ve always known.” Yes. More of that.

Now, I didn’t love that Lucy was detached from Aria at the hospital and Celina wasn't. And I didn’t love that she left Celina to go to Tim. But I understand it. Lucy needed someone outside the situation, someone she could lean on who hadn’t gone through the trauma with her. Celina was essentially imprisoned. Lucy shot someone holding a baby. That’s a lot. The fact that Lucy was so ready to go to Tim and the first thing she does is hug him, screams progress for both of them. It parallels the S6b elevator scene when she stops the elevator to hug him. And Tim showing up for her? He found out she was at the hospital and made sure to be there for her in whatever capacity she needed.

It also makes sense to me that Lucy wasn’t at the flag football game and Tim was. They’re not at a place where she’s ready to be consoled at home, and if she wanted him there, she would’ve asked. Lucy needed agency in this moment, and she had it.

Honestly, if Tim had skipped the game to console her, it might’ve read as undermining Lucy’s strength and agency. She’s consistently been framed as dependent on Tim. She even made herself the station punchline in 7x13, and after hours in front of work colleagues in 7x02 - both in connection to Tim. She needed to reclaim space away from Tim here, to process things in her own way—and she did. I think Lucy not being at the game while Tim is, is a sign of strength. He may have checked on her after the game, but in that moment she was independent.

Quick Takes

Eric saying “Previously on The Rookie” made me squeal. Spoken Word Grammy. Immediately.

THREE main characters spoke Spanish this episode (Tim, Angela, Celina). Lucy? Still hasn’t spoken Cantonese since … when? Season 2?

Lucy making the couch bed… Rachel’s leeching legacy lives on I guess.

Why is Tim recruiting Nolan? Are we being punished?

Greta, who kidnapped a person and almost committed murder on an infant, calling Aria’s parents “awful” is peak irony.

Lucy shutting down the podcast lady: “She’s not in charge here. I am.” YES MA’AM. Take up your space.

Danny Feng’s “No English”? Emmy. Immediately.

Malvado's death scene? EGOT. Immediately.

[mixterglacia]

Content Warning: VIVZIEPOP CRITICAL/STOLITZ CRITICAL UNDER THE CUT.

TL;DR: The episode felt very disjointed, with an extremely weak opening and a decent end.

Biggest takeaway from this episode is how incapable the team seems to be at balancing themselves. Their humor is mediocre, but fine, with moments of brilliance. But when paired with the serious elements, it cheapens both to the point of totally undermining themselves.

The first half DRAGGED on, and got old pretty instantaneously. I am begging this writing crew to get better material than "haha tit dick swear word laughter pls". Often times, it takes away from a potentially great gag. Take the bellhop/igor guy. His initial reveal was hilarious, and got a full on belly laugh out of me. The moment he spoke totally ruined the bit.

You had it in the bag! You don't need to gild a lily! This is the penguins all over again. The decent end was so bogged down by the first half that it dulled all that followed.

The one through line that I enjoyed was Moxxie spiraling over the finances. Very well done.

I'm not particularly pressed about Blitz being this distressed over the breakup, but they're not focusing on what I feel is realistic for him? If you started it by having him panicking over losing his one source of income, that makes more sense.

Have money be the beginning, then transition into his deeper feelings. This way it doesn't feel at odds with his motivations in previous episodes. His meltdown is believable, but you've done nothing to show the path he took to get there. It was like a switch flipping, rather than natural progression. It wasn't earned. Especially when their relationship is nothing short of emotional abuse.

Abuse victims often go back to their abuser, but they're trying to frame it as something romantic. This. Is. Abuse. Financial, emotional, and social abuse.

Speaking of earning, the second half's payoff. As I said, the humor being so lackluster in the start tarnished the good writing at the back end. There's no balance. The jokes weren't strong enough to contrast the heartfelt parts.

I really do appreciate them actually putting effort into Millie for once. I wish it was more consistent, because often she's totally shoved to the sidelines. She's not a main character, but that doesn't mean you can neglect her until you need her to make the boys look better. I'm also a bit ???? about her saying that Blitz makes her life better? She's constantly in trouble and financial duress because of him.

If they really wanted to make the end feel more cohesive, they needed to spend time focusing on her relationship with Blitz in the rest of the series. There's practically nothing beyond him bitching at her. Or harassing her and her husband. You need to lay the foundation so your house doesn't sink into the earth.

Once again, the Helluverse's greatest flaw is them not wanting to spend time to earn their cool shit. It's nothing more than a series of loosely connected drabbles. That structuring can work, but you need to commit to the nature of it. The team can't decide what they want from their product and it shows.

What. Is. The. Point?

Is this slice of life? Is it telenovela? Is it the Office, but in Hell? What is the goal? Because it's getting EXHAUSTING to try and follow. There's nothing wrong with wanting to change the plot of your work. But you have to put in the effort to make that transition solid. This is something they don't seem to grasp.

Additionally, if this if going to be used to set up Blitz finally cutting Stolas out of his life, it would be a decent frame for that. The entire office is circling the drain because a rich, pompous, pathetic little prince formed a parasocial relationship with someone that never liked him in that way. This episode would hold a lot of weight to swing at Stolas. But I fear they're just going to use the "uwu he secretly misses him" aspect, and neglect the owl RUINING FOUR PEOPLE'S LIVES BECAUSE HIS FAKE BOYFRIEND DOESN'T WANT TO COMMIT TO A FAKE RELATIONSHIP.

Small bits:

The antagonist was fun, and honestly surprised me with the quality of his writing. If the first half was stronger, or not present, I'd consider this one of the best episodes overall.

I'm not entirely clear on why Blitz is so fixated on fucking a ghost? He has no issue getting dick/pussy in hell so what's the issue? Is he mildly addicted to the softcore he's watching? Dunno. It's just one of the bits that bogged down the start.

Rodgers and Nixon did a very good job with what they had voice wise. Major kudos.

[devil-hunter66]

Welcome to the Devil May cry office! Got the password?

Available characters to interact with!;

Dante. Vergil. Nero. Kyrie. Lady. Trish. Nico. (Soon!)

First and foremost, introductions are in order! I'm Weirdfool75! I'm in my mid 20's and I enjoy video games, anime, art, design and also video games! I enjoy writing a lot and I have a massive fondness for the DMC series, and other games/shows similar to its vibe and energy! I'm also a huge design enthusiasts so expect me to gush over art/game designs that tickle my eye balls the FUNNY way. Some of what you see here will be somewhat cannon-divergent, so all DMC Timelines will apply! even timelines made in between the actual cannon-games.

---- RULES; First and most important; NO MINORS. You won't see any excessive swearing but be prepared to expect depictions of violence and some small amount of profanity every now and again. Which is why only those who are at least 18 or over can follow and RP here in this blog. These include possible depictions of implied sexual themes. Second; Be sure to trim your posts when you can. It isn’t a HUGE issue but it is also encouraged to save space in posts to make things a little easier on both sides. Third; Absolutely NO NSFW! I won't write anything that is overly explicit such as exaggerated depictions of sexual activity, nor do I encourage anybody else to do so here. fourth; NO highjacking a thread! If I am already engaged in an RP plot with someone, there is no reason an established thread should be randomly highjacked. Instead, If you wish to plot a thread with me, I'm more than happy for it! Otherwise, it isn’t cool to jump in on another persons RP thread without warning. Will add more rules eventually as the blog carries onwards! This RP blog was made for both fun and entertainment, But please keep in mind that there are likely to be boundaries! So if I find something that I am uncomfortable with, don't expect me to not have an issue with it. Otherwise, I hope we all have a blast! One important note! If you happen to notice me deviating from the proceeding rules, please let me know as soon as you can! Thank you! (This is a work-in-progress RP blog and will be constantly updated overtime.)

[staleclown]

Uncanny Excess-Chapter 7: Code Blue

AO3 link

TW: blood, gore, violence (including guns), mild language

Connor took a drag from his cigarette. He and Hank both sat on the curb outside the front entrance of the precinct, frustrated by their lack of progress and a lead. It had been three weeks since Connor’s second visit to Jericho, and they were no closer to having an answer now than they were then. Connor would message Markus every so often, but Markus never had any more information. The incidents were slowing, and it had been almost a week since Hank and Connor had been called to an android-related crime scene. Amanda still nagged at him in the back of his mind, the pressure to perform clamping around his thirium pump like a vice. 

Connor sighed, smoke curling from his lips. “Let’s go over the facts one more time.”

Hank scoffed. “We’ve done that about four times in the last hour. We’re at a dead end, Stern. Let’s just tell Fowler it can’t be solved and move on with our lives.”

“No,” Connor said a bit too quickly, and he tried to keep his voice even as he continued under Hank’s suspicious gaze. “This is my first case, Lieutenant. I can’t fail in solving it.”

“Then I’ll take the blame for it and you can be partnered with someone better on a real case.”

Connor shook his head. “This is a real case. We have to be missing something.”

This time, it was Hank’s turn to sigh. “Fine.”

Within the next ten minutes, Connor stood behind Hank at his desk, both scanning through the case file on the monitor in front of them. Of course, it was all the same information they had reviewed several times in the past few weeks, and Connor knew it was textbook insanity to do so again, but he was seriously running out of options. 

“Still no word from that guy at Jericho?” Hank asked, studying the map of plotted crime scenes. The symbol had been completed about a week and a half prior, but there was still the odd scene or two that had popped up in the same vicinity since.  

“No. He swears his fellow leaders haven’t heard anything, either,” Connor answered, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“They could be lying. Or he could. Do we have anything on those androids?”

“Just the missing property reports from when they deviated.”

Hank pulled up the reports. Connor had already looked through them three or four times since his first visit to Jericho, and none of the information seemed particularly helpful, though he looked through them again now anyway. 

All of them were standard for deviated android files: some sort of incident, and then they disappeared. Markus’ file was the only one that stuck out; his owner had died in his home, and when DPD officers arrived at the scene, his owner’s adult son had claimed Markus was responsible. The autopsy report detailed Carl Manfred’s death as a heart attack, purely incidental, but by that time Markus had been sent to the scrap heap, and no one cared much to exonerate an android, anyway. Nothing about the situation had given Connor any pause previously, but since his deviation was an outlier to the other three Jericho leaders, it seemed like enough of a lead. Not a very good one, but a direction nonetheless. 

“It would make sense for it to lie out of self-preservation,” Hank mumbled, scanning through Markus’ file. 

“Yes, but I can’t figure out any reason why he would fight for android rights by killing other androids,” Connor answered.

“Maybe they’re in its way?”

“I thought that, too, but talking to Markus…well, he doesn’t seem to be the kind to use violence as a form of persuasion.”

“Androids are crafty, Stern. Don’t start trusting them just because they seem like ‘nice guys.’” Hank punctuated his point with air quotes. 

“I know, I know. I just have a hard time believing Markus is the one behind it.”

Hank took pity on him, reaching up to clap Connor’s shoulder. “Not so keen to sympathize with ‘em now, huh?”

Connor’s brow pinched, and he opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by the ring of Hank’s phone. Hank answered, speaking briefly with the person on the other end before hanging up. 

“Well, kid. Looks like we get some more evidence. We’re needed at a scene.”

————————

Connor drummed his fingers against his thighs the entire drive to the scene. As soon as Hank had said the location, Connor pulled up the map and found that this scene was within the symbol traced over the map, though he refrained from adding this scene’s point on the map just yet. 

Hank shook his head as he put the car in park. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you’re so invested in this case.”

Connor shrugged and pushed open the car door. “I’m always invested in my job.”

“Give it ten years, it’ll pass.”

Connor knew the crime had to be fresh, but there must have been officers already in the area when it had been committed. Thick tension still hung in the air, and the victim was still twitching as it short-circuited in the corner. Connor went to her first—an android so mangled it was hard to tell her model—and knelt by the android’s side. 

Thirium leaked from a large gash in the android’s side, and if Connor had to guess the time left on her shutdown timer, it was probably somewhere between 30 and 45 seconds, if that. 

“Hello,” Connor greeted gently. He didn’t touch her, afraid that she would attempt to interface with him. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyes flicked to Connor. “Hello, my name is Sarah. My diagnostics program is reporting severe damage to several biocomponents. Please return me to Cyberlife so I may be disposed of properly.”

Connor looked over his shoulder at Hank, who stood behind him. “It wasn’t deviated.”

“So this is some sort of attempt to deviate all androids under threat of death?”

Connor shook his head. “I don’t think so. Deviants can spread deviancy by interfacing with other androids. All they’d have to do is touch.”

“And do the un-deviated have the option to accept or reject the deviancy?” 

“I’m not sure, but if we follow the logic that deviance is being freed from others’ control, then forced deviancy is just another form of control and thus not really deviance at all.”

“Okay, thank you for that philosophical insight, Stern. You could have just said ‘probably.’”

Connor stood as the android’s LED winked out. “I just don’t understand why a deviant would kill another android, especially a non-deviated one.”

“Maybe because they’re machines on the fritz? We don’t exactly need a motive, we just need to get rid of the androids responsible and be done with it.”

Connor didn’t answer, opting to scan their surroundings rather than further debate whether or not deviants were capable of having a motive. On the wall above the victim, hidden in the peeling mural on the brick surface, was the Jericho symbol. Connor recalled standing in that very alleyway just over a month ago. Any deviant looking for Jericho would find the remains of the murder of their un-deviated kin. Connor shuddered at the thought before he could stop himself. What kind of sick message was Markus trying to send?

Hank had meandered away from Connor, studying a path of quickly-evaporating thirium footprints. There was nothing extraordinary about them, no distinctive shapes in the tread. Whoever—whatever—had committed the crime was sloppy, but not so sloppy that it would make it easier on Connor and Hank. 

“Stern, come look at these footprints before they disappear.”

Connor obliged, peering at them over Hank’s shoulder. “They look like the standard Cyberlife-issued shoes. Definitely a woman. Maybe a size seven?”

Hank shifted to stare at Connor, his expression a mix of disgusted and impressed. “Don’t tell me why you know so much about women’s shoe sizes.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “It’s just an estimate, Lieutenant. All androids of the same model are made with the same body proportions, though the traits themselves may differ from version to version. Though many androids designed with female traits often are similar heights. They don’t seem to vary as much as androids designed with male features.”

“So you’re saying these are useless?”

“Basically, yes.”

A metallic clang resounded from deeper in the alleyway, and Hank and Connor both turned just in time to see none other than North barreling towards them. For a moment, Connor thought it may just be another of her same model, but North’s energy was distinctive.  

She shoved bodily between the two detectives, but Connor caught her upper arm as her shoulder slammed into his. 

“Let me go,” she hissed. 

“I can’t do that, North. It will be easier for you if you cooperate.”

North’s eyes narrowed, and, quick as a viper, she pulled the pistol tucked into her waistband, pressed the barrel against Connor’s stomach, and squeezed the trigger. North was wrenched from his grasp by the force that sent him stumbling back, falling squarely on his ass on the pavement.

He pressed his hands over the wound in his abdomen and gaped up at Hank, who was ashen as he hurried to drop to a knee by Connor’s side. If North had been aiming for his pump regulator—which Connor suspected she had—she had missed by barely a few centimeters, but it had severed a significant thirium line that fed into the regulator. Several lines of code and warnings swarmed his vision, and he blinked rapidly to dispel them. He didn’t need his diagnostic program to tell him he was in danger of bleeding out. 

Hank spoke rapidly into the radio he usually had clipped to his belt, but Connor was so concerned with hiding his blood color that he didn’t catch exactly what words he had said. 

Hank placed his hands on either of Connor’s shoulders and gently pressed down on them. “Lay down, son, it’ll keep the blood circulating to your brain.”

Connor reluctantly did as he was told, palms clamping over his wound, although he was sure that they had to be soaked blue by now. Fortunately, Hank barely glanced at the injury before pressing his own hands over Connor’s. 

His eyes were trained on Connor’s face as he spoke. “Help is coming, you’re gonna be just fine.”

“But…the suspect. She’s one of the leaders of Jericho,” Connor gasped, swallowing back the blood beginning to pool in his mouth. 

“Don’t worry about that right now. They’re sending officers to catch it.

As the distant sound of a siren grew louder, Connor’s artificial stomach flipped, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His cover was surely blown. 

“Stern? Hey, Connor,” Hank said firmly, pausing while Connor blinked his eyes open. “Stay awake.”

A hand was on Hank’s shoulder then, a paramedic from what Connor could tell from his position on the ground. Hank looked up at the figure and nodded, and then finally looked back down at Connor and slowly released the pressure from the wound. 

As he did, Hank looked down at his own hands, and then back at Connor, and then back to his hands. His jaw was slack in disbelief, and a hot rage was beginning to build in his eyes. Hank’s palms were stained cobalt blue. 

Connor opened his mouth to explain or apologize, he wasn’t quite sure which, but he was pulled into the deepest corners of his code before he could get a word out.

————————

This time, when Connor woke in the zen garden, it was snowing. Hard. He wrapped his arms around himself as the wind whipped through his hair and snowflakes cut icy paths along his synthetic skin. 

“Amanda!” He called, but he knew his voice was being drowned out by the roaring wind. 

An icy hand gripped tightly onto his bicep, and he spun to face his handler. 

Her face was twisted with rage. “How could you be so stupid? You had one task, Connor!”

Connor shrank, but her claws dug deeper into his chassis until he was convinced that she would leave small, finger-shaped dents. 

“You failed,” she spat, disgust smothering every letter. “You are a sorry excuse of a deviant hunter and the final nail in the coffin of your creators.”

Amanda shoved him away then, hard enough that Connor, who hadn’t been expecting it, stumbled a few steps backward. She turned from him, disappearing into the swirl of snow obscuring anything more than a few feet in front of him. 

Thoroughly abandoned, Connor shivered in the violent cold. He could just make out a faint blue glow in the near distance, and, at a loss, began his slow march towards it. He could feel his joints locking with the cold, and a timer blinked in the sky rather than in his peripheral vision like it usually did. 

By the time he approached the small, glowing pedestal, he was trembling and frozen stiff. He didn’t even know it was possible to freeze in his own code. He crumpled to his knees in front of the small pillar of stone, a clear handprint engraving visible despite the layers of snow blanketing everything and soaking into the knees of his slacks. With much more effort than what the action should have required, Connor retracted the synthetic skin on his hand and pressed it firmly against the carved hand. 

The blizzard-ravaged garden began to fade until the only thing in front of him was a translucent red wall.

[thepoeticpurplepotato]

A Fanfiction Review to Keep You Warm on a Chilly Sunday~

Fic name: "love is in the air (seungmin wore a mask)"

Author: seungkubz on AO3

Status: Series, ongoing

Word count: 47,598

Fandom: Stray Kids/Stay

_/10: 9/10 stars~

What happens when you combine mind-reading, an exhausted introvert, and 7 love-struck coworkers? ABSOLUTE CHAOS BABY

Kim Seungmin is your everyday introverted office worker. He has a monotonous schedule he keeps in order to maintain a completely average life, but that's what he likes. It's what he's used to. What he's not used to, is strange mind-reading powers that reveal that your weird coworkers like you! Faced with this sudden reality, what will Seungmin do now?

This is an ongoing series, but I absolutely HAD to tell y'all about it! The comical humor of Kim "I swear I'm so plain and normal" Seungmin not understanding what there is to like about him is so stupidly funny, I just can't 😂

On the one hand, I see where he's coming from. I found a lot of his inner monologue very relatable, as I myself am an introvert who likes her schedule lol. On the other hand, however, there were so many points where I was screaming (in my head, dw) "WHY DON'T YOU SEE THE LOVABLE BITS OF YOURSELF?!"

(which ig is another callout bc i had some pretty bad insecurity issues until just recently lol)

I also absolutely adored how we get a glimpse of things from the other's perspectives in the second installment, like. UGH! Getting to see Seungmin from their eyes was literally so beautiful 🥹

My french fries, I even told my mom about it, and she wants me to keep her posted on the plot progression 😭 y'all she is so invested lol

All in all, 9/10, great work Seungkubz! This is hands down the best rom-com I've read in a while 💜

For all those interested in reading this wonderful fanfic for yourself, I'll be putting the link to the whole series right here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/4482220

Stay cozy my french fries, and have a lovely day! 💜

Potato, OUT

[wordsofvelvet]

TPHBC Deleted Scene Chapter 1.5:

Okay, i want you guys to know i am very impatient with my plots and so the Chapter Bluey was *NOT* supposed to be how it happened. I had plans of things I cant mention because Im still going to incorporate them but basically Red and Chloe were supposed to establish a solid friendship with a slowburn on feelings and then Red was going to freak out worried that Chloe was going to hate her for lying about a huge part of herself and be all weirded out but also she couldnt let things progress in good conscience so then *thing I wont spoil* happens which leads to Chloe finding out and it was just going to be this huge thing

BUT i swear almost every chapter I was wanting to just have it happen because I am just as impatient in my big space as I am in my little space, so Im kinda proud about how far I *did* make it.

Anyway, to prove my impatience, here's a deleted scene that was literally a continuation of the first chapter.

/////////////

Red was feeling beyond sleepy as she watched her show. The girl hadn’t slept a wink in the past couple days because it’d been far too cold to settle down anywhere. Sometimes she’d get lucky and find a shop or a car that had forgotten to lock their doors and she’d get a small reprieve from the blistering cold, but she hadn’t had much luck as of late. 

She had thought her luck turned around a couple weeks back when she was given a day pass for the bus and she had been quick to use it intending to just ride around town and bask in the heated space, but she’d ended up falling asleep and woken up to find herself in a new city entirely with no way back to her usual haunts. 

It had taken her a rather long while to hike her way back, often having to step into gas stations to ask for directions and basically beg for food or change near any busy looking roads. But she was thankful to be back and incredibly relieved she’d made it back without slipping. 

The streets felt scary enough in her big headspace, being in Littlespace made everything seem astronomically worse. 

But now she was in a warm shop, her tummy wasn’t aching for any last morsel she could find, and she had someone that was going to ensure that she was safe. 

So why wasn’t she able to fall asleep?

For once the Little actually wasn’t fighting it, not intentionally anyway, the pure exhaustion she was feeling was enough to actually make her pro nap for at least today, but even absentmindedly watching her favorite show in Littlespace while being all safe and tucked in wasn’t enough for her to drift off. 

She fidgeted in place for a bit and couldn’t help the small whines of frustration that escaped her before she decided she didn’t want to stay still any longer. 

The Little climbed down from the cot and started making her way towards the kitchen to find something new to entertain her, and if that something ended up being BB, well that was just BB’s self appointed job!

She had made it to the doorway when she stopped in her tracks at hearing an unfamiliar voice.

“Like this?” Red ran and hid behind one of the kitchen counters before poking her head up to look at the girl who had spoken. 

She was standing beside BB with vibrant blue curly hair that was currently pulled back into a tight bun and she was wearing one of the pink and white aprons her BB always wore, with the fabric already being covered in spots of flour.

They were standing over a large bowl while the new person whisked away at whatever was inside and Red pouted sadly at realizing that she couldn’t bug BB. 

She was about to just turn back and head back to the office to wait for BB to come check on her like she normally did when her eyes caught sight of a bag shaped like a kitty lying on the counter by the register in the front room of the cafe. 

It looked so soft! Just like a real kitty! So of course she had to go and pet it!

The problem was, when she pulled at it to pick it up, it ended up being far heavier than the Little was expecting so with a loud thud, it fell to the ground and a bunch of stuff spilled out rolling across the floor. 

Oopsie… 

“What was that!? Oh my Gods, is someone breaking in?” Chloe had frozen and was looking through the door that led to the front of the store, but Luckily with the angle she was at, she wasn’t able to see where the noise had come from.

Bridget silently cursed herself for not checking in on the Little sooner. She had been under the assumption the girl had simply fallen asleep and thought she wouldn’t need to check in as frequently.

Apparently she was wrong. 

“No!, no, everything’s alright, I uh, I just happen to have my… niece here today. I had her set up for a nap in my office, but it sounds like she must have woken up. I’ll just go and see if I can’t get her back down. Why don’t you finish off this batter and get started on the next one, I’ll try and be quick!” 

“Awe, how old’s your niece?” The bluenette asked curiously. 

“She’s Three.” Bridget told her and Chloe’s eyes practically sparkled. 

“Oh how precious! Well if you need any help, I love kids, and I’m actually pretty decent at babysitting. I was actually part of this babysitter’s club in middle school and part of high school, my friends often told me I was something of a kid whisperer.” Bridget glanced away nervously. 

“Oh cool, I uh, I will keep that in mind!” Bridget offered her an apologetic grin before darting off toward where the sounds had come from. 

She sighed exasperatedly when she spotted Chloe’s bag on the ground with random items sitting around it obviously having fallen out. She glanced around the room for any sign of the toddler she knew to be responsible.

“Red sweetie, I know you’re in here. You wanna come on out and tell BB why you left the office? You know better than to wander the shop on your own Little Miss.” 

Hesitantly, Red raised her head just over the service counter she had ducked behind and Bridget could see the fear in her eyes as the girl trembled slightly. 

Bridget took a calming breath and softened her features. 

“It’s okay Sweetheart, I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just wanna know what happened. Are you hurt, Little One?” Bridget moved around the counter and Red flinched lightly as she got closer but didn’t move aside from that as the woman gave her a quick once over to scan for any new injuries. 

She thanked her lucky stars when she found the girl to be unharmed. 

“Wan pet kitty.” The Little spoke softly in a teary voice as she was still obviously scared that she was about to be punished. 

“Kitty?” Bridget looked back to the bag and realized it was cat themed with ears, whiskers and a face. 

“Oh Honey, of course you did. But why were you out and about in the first place? Did your show stop playing?” Red shook her head. 

“No seep.” Bridget arched her brow.

“I didn’t say you had to sleep, Little girl.” But Red shook her head and whined sadly as she rubbed her eyes tiredly. 

“Nooo, wan seep! Wan seep n no seep”

“Ooh, you couldn’t sleep?” A nod. 

“Okay, well let’s see what we can do about that.” She took Red’s hand and led her back to her office where she sat her back on the cot. 

“You stay there, alright? I mean it, Red. No leaving.”

She grabbed the girl’s sippy cup and went back into the kitchen to wash it real quick. 

“Everything good?” Chloe asked when she walked by. 

“Yup, I’m thinking I’ll just give her some warm milk and she’ll probably be out like a light in no time.” 

“Yeah that usually seems to do the trick, doesn’t it?”

[milquesops]

heyyyy so maybe some information on your fan-made office (for pm universe)? if thats ok with you, of course!

Of course❗️I will definitely say that a lot of these details are subject to change/are works in progress. This is also just a lot of rambling. Also, neither of us has finished all the games (disclaimer).

It's called the Umbral Office, and they specialize in information regarding abnormalities and suppressing them.

All of the 'main' characters reside on the team that is tasked with suppression. The work kind of sucks but the founder is kind of chill and will buy you like a ps5 so everyone sticks around.

The character themselves occupy a role similar to sinners but not really the same since....they aren't part of LCB. We still liked the book concept, but I don't really know enough to add a character or department to Limbus Company and I'm personally not a fan of shoehorning my OCs into existing group dynamics. So....I just suggested we make a team that's kind of similar but not from LC so we'd have creative freedom (big braining over here).

So certain things are similar: canto/canto-like character arcs based on contracts, a system similar to IDs

But other things are different: no EGOs, no regeneration/immortality, no bough magic (for now), they have a really terrible cheap van (no fancy bus).

I still consider them Limbus OCs since this office and the character arcs operate primarily during the time Limbus takes place since that's what we're most familiar with, and can't take place during Lobotomy Corporation for plot reasons. I know nothing about Ruina except he ate a sandwich and then the angels disappeared.

We're still working on designing a logo and finalizing uniforms since everyone has a different variation.

Yeah...it's not anything super spectacular, but I'm having a lot of fun with my OCs and that's what matters. Here's like some doodles/sketches of my characters I dug up.

(The first one is a 'host club' au we came up with. Vonne has a gun for plot relevance (I swear it's for plot, I don't have time to explain. Maybe if I decide to infodump about him))

[vibratingskull]

Tracking the prey

Part1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Tags : Canon typical violence

FemaleReaderxThrawn

You manage to track down one of those pirates ships, and the mystery thickens.

“Torpedos incoming!”

You grip the backrest of the nearest chair, bracing for impact. They come crashing against the hull of the Zephyr, making it tremble and you think you heard a fissure ripping apart the metal.

“Report!” You yell.

“Bord Turbolaser down, the hull has cracks on the bord side!” 

You swear interiorly, this is gonna take some time to repair. You hope no one of the crew got snatched away by the vacuum attraction.

“What happened to the shield?” Demands Captain Marttilf.

“They got one of the generators.” You answer, looking at the screens. A new salvo comes hit the ship, blinding you momentarily with the flashes.

The situation is not yet critical but it degenerates rapidly, your sole comfort is that your opponents are in as much difficulty. As the light became bearable once again you can see the adverse ship with sparks and cracks all over its hull. 

"I'm done playing this game. Charge the proton beam canon !" He orders. 

"Sir, wouldn't it obliterate the target ?" You question 

"That's my intention." He says eyes fixed on your enemies. 

"Shouldn't we preserve them for questioning ?" You worry. 

He turns himself towards you with an icy glare. 

"Unfortunately, we are in no position to do it, and it's my duty to protect my ship and my crew." 

"Sir, the beam is too powerful and will siphon all the ship ressources, rendering us vulnerable. I suggest we use the Flak cannons."

He shot you a death glare but you supported his gaze, wondering for a moment if you overstepped the line. 

"Proton beam cannon ready, captain!" Speaks an officer. 

His eyes slide to her then go back to you. He sighs. 

"Hold it! Cannons, aim at their cockpit pane !" 

A series of affirmations make itself heard and soon enough a geyser of lasers is spit by the Zephyr's cannons. You watch as they travel through the munitions they throw at you, and make the pane explode. All the people present in the cockpit are claimed by the void and the front of the ship is rendered unusable. Without anyone to pilot it, the pirate ship comes to a stop and ceases its attack. 

You release your breath. 

"Officers Sealan, prepare a transport for boarding. Lieutenant (y/l/n), you take a squad of stormtroopers and inspect this ship."

"Yes, sir."

_______________________

You walk into the walkway carefully with a bunch of stormtroopers behind you. You gesture to two of them to walk before and inspect the intersection, you wait with your gun in hands. While they advance you communicate with the second team.

“LS-055, report!”

You hear static before the answer comes through.

“We are progressing without obstacles for now, Lieutenant.”

“Perfect. Keep searching the ship and contact me if-”

“Wait! Something ahead!”

You hear him scream inside your ear and follows a cacophony of gunshots and yells. Shit! You think. You turn towards your team and wave at them to speed up.

“Hurry! We need to go help the second team.”

You keep advancing carefully with a quicker pace and you reach your men without crossing paths with anyone else but you find them blocked in the passageway while the pirates are defending a room, using metal tables as barricades. You take cover behind a wall with some of your men and crane to take a peek and evaluate the situation, a shot passes near your face and burns strands of hair dangling on the side of your face. You flatten yourself against the wall and shoot. You hit one of the pirates on the shoulder and he hides behind a table wobbly, but his comrades keep shooting and plot their escape. Five meters away from you, on the other side of the intersection the rest of your teams try to deploy themself but they don’t have the time under the hail of lasers. You hear a voice in your ear.

“Team Kappa what is your situation?” demands Marttilf

“We are under fire sir! “ You can barely avoid a shoot. “They have retreated inside a room and are holding off!” You almost scream to be heard over all this racket. “I’m gonna have difficulties arresting them and interrogating them.”

“You can use lethal force and execute them.” His tone is placid and plain

What?

You turn your head and see one of your men already kneeling with a MPL-57 grenade launcher.

“No!”

Too late.

They fire, and the  impact throws you on the ground. An aggressive whistling rings into your deafened ears , you open your eyes to witness the ambient panic. Some of your men are still on the ground and others are trying to stand up despite the wave’s repercussions. You turn towards the room with the pirate to see that they all disappeared and the tables are ripped open. 

You laboriously try to get up when you hear a scream on your left. You see a single pirate covered in blood running with a machete from a sealed room in your direction. You aim despite your atrocious headache and manage to hit him in the solar plexus. He’s stopped dead in his tracks and collapses at your feet. You sigh, bringing a hand to your temple. 

“Team Kappa, report.” Marttilf’s voice sends you a spike of pain in the brain.

You look around you.

“We’re all alive, sir. And the pirates…” You wobbly walk to the room through your men rising up and regathering. “... are all dead.” 

The room is blackened by the impact of the grenades, the doors have been torn apart and the corpses look more like disarticulated ragdolls than proper bodies with some of them missing a limb, pulled off by the explosions. The scene is sickening and the smell of burning flesh doesn’t help.

“Lieutenant (y/l/n)! You should come see this!” Someone calls you.

You head towards the room from which the single pirate came to see what this is all about. 

A stormtrooper is waiting for you at the door, shaking their head. You walk past them and discover a butchery. About twenty individuals, humans and aliens alike, are lying on the ground bathing in their own blood. Upon closer inspection it appears they all had their throat slit by a blade, adult and children alike. 

“Captain?” You call “I think we just found their cargo they were transporting…”

Their cuffs leave no doubt about their real condition

Slaves.

_______________________________________________

“So our pirates were the ones stealing the slaves from the Empire.” Marttilf concludes.

“That’s what we came to understand.”

Marttilf seems pleased contrary to you. After several years of hunting this particular group you’ve finally taken down one of their ships, but that’s just one among a multitude you suspect. And with all the pirates dead it is impossible to conduct an interrogation to know what they were going to do with those slaves. You wonder if they were going to sell them or free them. Maybe recruit some. 

You remain silent, observing your captain on his armchair in his office. He’s typing something on a datapad, probably typing his report for coruscant. You can’t predict their reaction knowing that you didn’t take any prisoners.

“We haven't downloaded all the audio recordings of the log yet but we can deduce that they obey a higher power.”

He raises his head from his datapad.

“What makes you say that?”

“They choosed to kill them all rather than evacuate them to sell them later. Someone must have ordered them to act this way if ever they were caught.”

He nods pensively.

“That is a thing to consider and watch closely. We're gonna take care of those bodies and bring this ship back to the base. Dismissed!”

You salute him and exit the office with a sigh. What a tiring day. You walk to your room and collapse on your bed. It’s at this moment your comlink rings.

“Yes?”

“My pearl? How are you?”

“Hi Nather. Tired, I had a long day. And you?”

“Pretty much the same. I had a deal who bailed on me. I wanted to know, will you be present at the protest for race equality?”

“I’m afraid I would still be on my ship. Go without me dear.”

“Oh…” He sounds disappointed “Alright. Don’t forget to come to church from time to time. They keep worrying for you.”

You smile tiredly.

“I will visit on my next leave. We’ll go together.” You hear your name over the loudspeaker and your shoulders slump “I must go. Duty’s calling me.”

@Bluechiss, @justanothersadperson93, @al-astakbar

[recurring-polynya]

Writing/Art Update 10.23.2024

Once again I am writing my Tuesday update and once again, I am writing it on Wednesday. I still refuse to move it to Wednesday.

The good news is, I think I am finally done getting ready to get ready to write my fanfic, and I am now moving on to getting ready to write my fanfic. I know this is kind of pathetic and it's also very pathetic that it's October 23 and I've wasted like an entire six weeks of my Productive Season, but it's just How It Is, there's no point in weeping and gnashing over it.

I've cleared my inbox and I finished reading my mood-setting Jane Austen novel. I've started thinking about the story again, and tooling around with the outline. I do still need to re-read the existing parts of the fanfic and I do want to get a better idea of the various plot threads before I get started writing in earnest, but I do expect to have Additional Word Count by the next time I write one of these.

Plotting is maybe my second least-favorite part of the writing process (rolling around on the floor in despair when nothing is working is my actual least favorite part). Normally, at this point, I would let myself freeball a little and write whatever scenes I felt excited about, just to get some shapes blocked out on the canvas, so to speak. a little in love is a bit of a special beast, though, because each of the characters has a certain set of information and motivations and goals, and the way that these things are shared between the different parties is what sets up all the little (and big) misunderstandings, so unfortunately I think there is some value in having a vague idea of how it's going to go before I just go for it. It's kind of a pain in the ass, but writing this sort of Importance of Being Earnest-ass shit is incredibly satisfying when it actually comes together and I like to flatter myself that I'm actually kind of good at it. (I should re-read The Importance of Being Earnest)

The things I am telling myself right now is: Is it fun? What's fun about it? What do I want to see here? How do I make this story full of things I want to write, things that will delight me? Finishing stories is hard, and this one is so far overdue that I feel a little panicky at the idea of not finishing it again, so I have to be very intentional about trying to enjoy the process and producing a thing that is enjoyable to read. I know this sounds sort of dire, like "hey, Poly, maybe you should take up a hobby you actually like", but I think this is the natural progression of pursuing a hobby for many years that takes a lot of diligence and practice: you have to build the joy in intentionally.

Okay, here's the part I know you all love: mysterious numbers that mean nothing to anyone but me:

The current "hideous miscellany" document, "a little in love temp" is currently sitting at 8856 words. I am considering this my baseline starting point, and I am counting words from here. 20k words by Dec 31 or bust, baby!!! I'm gonna do it!!!

I technically do have an "official" document (a little in love now and then - act 4) which is at 2036 words, which constitute a slightly different version of Ch 43 than the version in the temp doc, but I think I'm going to replace it with the temp version. For the purposes of "how much Finished Fic do I have?" I am going to start the counter at 0. My educated guess is that act iv is going to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 30-50k, probably closer to the higher end. We'll see!!!

Okay, that's enough of that. I have been doing a little bit of art, please go look at my loving depiction of the Squad 6 Office Furniture. I still haven't given up on the other thing I was working on, even though it's not going great.

That's it for this week. I will have words next week, I swear it!!