#so that he wakes up feeling inadequate

[lostinthewoods-kristoff]

the spy who loved me 2: electric boogaloo || mistoff || valentines au

In Kristoff and Mitte get sent on another mission which, after Mitte becomes jealous of Kristoff being used as a honeypot to get more intel on their mark, quickly becomes more about their relationship than the mission...

Notes: first of all this is NSFW so read at ur own discretion. second of all i know valentines was 3 months ago but i don't want to hear it. third of all this is a sequel to an old valentine's au which i now dont know if we ever posted bc i cant find it but the tldr is that childhood besties and super spy duo kristoff and mitte got sent on a mission, tensions were high, things got steamy... and they never spoke of it again. and that's waht you missed on glee!

@mighty-mitte

KRISTOFF

It had been a little while since he and Mitte had last worked together – not too long, not long enough for him to have forgotten the… events of that last mission, but long enough for things to feel disjointed. Like they were out of sync. It was a strange feeling. The two of them had never been out of sync before, things had never been strange between them. Kristoff kept wondering if maybe they should talk; maybe they should have a conversation about what happened. But he sat through the briefing, silent. And he sat in the car on the way to the hotel, silent. Only now that he was standing in front of the mirror, debating whether he should undo another button at the top of his shirt or not, that he was considering saying something.

Because presumably when you’d accomplished a mission and then slept with your partner/childhood friend it was normal to discuss things? Even if it was just a line or two, something about seeing where things go or letting things drop or…. Anything. Kristoff would take literally anything if it would help him figure out how he was supposed to act around Mitte. For the most part he was just trying to keep his mind off of memories of a similar hotel room with a similar non-descript bed and a similar Mitte, with her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and–

Kristoff shook his head at himself, skin flushing pale pink. He had to get himself under control. Maybe talking about things would help. At this point, it couldn’t make them any worse.

He turned, looking at Mitte. “Feels kind of dumb that I’m the one that has to flirt, right? Kind of more your forte. I don’t even think I know how.”

Hm. That wasn’t what he meant to say at all.

But it was a genuine concern. Their mark for this evening, or his mark, anyways, was Eliza Goodfellow, the wife of an up-and-coming businessman who was quickly making a name for himself and definitely bringing weapons and stolen goods into the country and risking national security. Kristoff’s job, as given to him by his handler, was to try and charm Mrs. Goodfellow (who was apparently known for not being exactly faithful, which Kristoff thought made sense, ‘cause her husband didn’t seem like a nice guy at all) into giving them information on her husband’s whereabouts. By charming, they meant flirting, and Kristoff wasn’t good at flirting.

“I might scare her off,” He commented, head tilting as he considered the button situation again. He didn’t want to come on too strong. “Any tips?”

MITTE

Mitte could not believe they were here again. Arms dealer, hotel- a nicer one this time at least- and one goddamn bed. At least there was a refreshing twist; Kristoff all dressed up, ready to flirt for the information they needed. It was actually kind of nice to not be the honey pot for once. 

She was bugging Eliza's hotel room whilst Kristoff got the update on her husband, so Mitte got to wear jeans and think about security, instead of worrying about whether her dress was the right length, or if her hair was falling right. Almost every other guy they put her with suggested dangling her like pretty bait before they bothered to come up with anything smart. That was why she preferred being partnered with Kristoff, who didn’t look at her through the lens of how best he could use her, but how best he could work with her. Because they were friends. Best friends. Who had seen eachother naked. And hardly talked since. Well, hardly talked for how much usually talked, and frankly Mitte was surprised Kristoff's head hadn't exploded with the need to discuss their little tryst. Perhaps she should've taken mercy on him and brought it up, but she didn't want to upset the balance of their friendship any further, and she knew if the organization heard about what had happened they'd never work together again. 

But Mitte wasn't thinking about that right now, because the mission was what mattered, and Kristoff was nervous about his part. "If we had any indication she played for the right team, I'm sure I'd be the one getting all dolled up." She offered Kristoff a sympathetic smile over the top of the magazine she was pretending to read and let her eyes wander his appearance, assessing as much as appreciating. 

"You won't scare her off." She told him, stern but warm as she slipped off the bed to walk over and adjust his shirt collar, close enough to realize he'd put on cologne. He smelled good. "Tips… Tips…" Mitte cleared her throat and paid attention to his hair a moment, tussling it a bit with her fingers. "Don't let your words run away from you. Don't gesture too crazily, but don't stay too still. Smile. Hold eye contact." Which she had not done since she walked over here. Honestly she was tempted to ask if he'd rather a demonstration than an explanation, but that probably wouldn't end well. 

Finally, she looked up at Kristoff as she took a step back, considering that shirt button he'd been toying with. She thought he'd look better with it undone, but he wasn't trying to seduce her. Sadly. "You're better at this kind of thing when you don't think too much. Just let her do most of the talking while you try to steer the conversation. Keep your voice soft so she has to lean in, and a hand on her arm will work wonders." Mitte said, turning to rifle through their briefcase for earpieces. "if it sounds like you're really floundering I should be able to talk you through it, but I think you'll be fine.”

KRISTOFF

It wasn’t often that he was the one tasked with being the honeypot. To be honest he wasn’t sure he had ever been given that job before, not in all of his time as an agent– it was always Mitte. She was the one who went out there and batted her eyelashes and bit her lip and got all of the intel they needed, whilst Kristoff bugged hotel rooms and hacked into computers or tailed a mark. And it was no surprise as to why; Mitte was gorgeous. It was all too easy for an unsuspecting man to fall under her spell. Kristoff, on the other hand…

He swallowed thickly as Mitte’s hands reached for his collar, the brush of her knuckles against his neck enough to make him look up, focus on the sconce on the wall as he ran through the information he’d been given. Infiltration was nothing; he had done that before. Pretending to be a new hire at the office, or an international billionaire looking to do business, whatever it was, he had done it. He knew that you had to go in with as full a picture as you could, and then give absolutely nothing away. He was just worried, that was all. What if he slipped up? Screwed the whole thing over entirely?

He took a deep breath, looking down at her. Her eyes didn’t meet his, and he thought he was glad of it. He wasn’t really sure what he would do if they met. When she stepped away, heading for the case, he dropped his gaze to the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, and then glanced hastily in the mirror. He had made it look a little more tousled than he meant to, but never mind. Maybe that was a good thing?

“Well, I’m glad someone’s confident,” He said, taking the earpiece when it was offered to him. It was small, high tech; he slipped it into place with practiced ease, and checked once again in the mirror. It was invisible, unless you were really looking for it; no one but himself would know. “If anything happens, though, if you need any help… I mean, I’m sure you won’t, but.” He paused, blinking at her for a moment. “Just in case. I’ve got your back.”

MITTE 

She still knew all his twitches and tells so well, even with the distance that had stretched out between them. Kristoff wasn't the guy who reached out first to shake your hand, or bumped his knee against yours under the table. Being touched always surprised him, even when it was Mitte, who was probably more consistently hands on with him than most people.

(Once, way more hands on. Hands all over; pulling his hair, digging nails into his shoulders, running down the muscles of his chest. Christ, it had felt so good to see him lost to her touch like that. Even better to lose herself in his.) 

"You're always nervous right about now." Mitte pointed out to him, still going through the case for the bugs she would need and hoping her face hadn't turned beet red. If her voice came out a little strangled at least she could chalk that much up to her own nerves. God, what was wrong with her? It was just sex. They'd both had plenty of it. Hell, Mitte was more than familiar with the fine art of hooking up with a friend. 

Kristoff was more than that though. He was her partner, the guy in the chair watching the room and keeping her safe while she flirted for information, the only person she had a codeword with incase one of them was compromised, the only person who knew where to find her if everyone else thought she'd vanished. Kristoff was the one guy she’d always trusted, and it was an immense relief their slip up didn’t seem to have stopped them working together well, at least, but she could feel the tension of words unsaid. The question was whether it’d be better to air things out or lock the door tight on it all and hope for the best. “...And I know. I’ve got your back, too.” 

It was a friendship she couldn't afford to fuck up, which meant despite how good the sex had been, she was just going to have to stop thinking about it. Mitte leaned across enough to catch her face in the mirror and put the earpiece in, then turned properly to face Kristoff again. "They could've partnered me with someone else." She reminded him, "the chief knows you can handle this, Kristoff. You've got more game than you think." Mitte patted his arm and then moved past him to find her shoes, "worked on me, didn't it?" She cackled, even though the quip drove a bus right through her intention to not think about that night. Oh yeah, it worked alright. Thought if she remembered correctly- and how could she not, with how often it had played over in her head- she’d kissed him first. To be fair, she’d always been the first one to take the leap when they were involved in anything risky. 

Once Mitte had her trainers on and a backpack full of bugs slung over her shoulder she felt a lot more ready, bouncing on the balls of her feet and giving Kristoff’s seduction suit one last lookover. Honestly? She liked him a hell of a lot more in his post workout look, with his sweat making his already tight t-shirt cling to his abs while he poured half his water bottle over his head to cool off, but this was a nice look too. “Ready to turn on the charm?”

KRISTOFF

Kristoff almost choked on nothing at the comment, thrown out there like they had been regularly joking about the ending of their last mission since it had happened rather than furtively avoiding any mention of it at all. Once again he blushed, the link spreading right up to his ears this time and Kristoff loosened that button he’d been debating on, if only so he didn’t feel so claustrophobic. 

It was a good thing, right? That she was joking about it? That was what he and mitte did, they joked about things — they were friends. Best friends. Being with Mitte, whether it was hanging out or working or whatever, had always been as easy as breathing. And knowing Kristoff, knowing his track record, he was gonna ruin that eventually. He was very good at putting his foot in his mouth.

He knew he couldn’t go downstairs looking all flustered so he took a deep breath, ran a hand nervously through his hair which thankfully made it look kind of tousled and teased rather than messy, and gave Mitte a crooked half-smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

He headed for the door, sparing her one last glance before he was gone, heading to the elevators and then down to the ground floor, and into the bar.

The hotel was fancy, the type of place an arms dealer’s cheating wife would be spending the night. There was the low hum of chatter, tables of women in dresses more expensive than the suite they were staying in, men in suits so starched it looked like they could barely move. It was sort of depressing, honestly, but not the first glitzy affair he and Mitte had attended in the line of duty. He spotted their target across the room, sitting at the bar— he hadn’t expected her there, but he supposed it was a good spot to meet someone, if you were looking to.

“I’ve got eyes on Eliza,” he said in a low voice, enough for Mitte to hear in her earpiece, but no one else. “Heading over there now. Wish me luck.”

And with that he headed across the floor to the bar.

MITTE

On a scale of devious to diabolical, where would Mitte fall if she was to just… Skip talking about it, and start joking about it? Kristoff would play along. He’d splutter and he’d huff and then one day he’d crack a joke of his own and it’d become another chapter in the book of shit that happens when you’ve had the same best friend since you were ten and had done so much together now it was hard to tell exactly where the boundary was. Sometimes they made out when they got drunk, sometimes they stole food off each others’ plates, they spent Christmas together, they lived and breathed a job that required nothing less than absolute trust. 

So yeah, the boundary was… Well, flexible. They weren’t even drunk that night, but Kristoff had done a much better job of taking the edge off than whatever cheap little bottles of booze that minibar would’ve stocked. Thankgod there was an actual bar at this place. Still, sweeping what had happened under the rug felt a bit selfish, and Mitte was trying to be better about that, so she should at least ask if Kristoff wanted to discuss it. After the mission, obviously. Neither of them needed that kind of distraction right now. Once the Goodfellow’s were handled, there would be time.

They went their separate ways, and Mitte’s first objective was to find a maids cart, and a master key. This much at least was incredibly routine, even for her, and she could pick the lock of a utility closet in her sleep. “Go get ‘em tiger.” She said softly to Kristoff, glancing both ways down the corridor before slipping back out with the necessary key card and heading towards Eliza’s room.

The work she had to do was quiet, quick, and didn’t require more than one person. Still, she missed Kristoff’s presence, the way they’d silently orbited around each other, him effortlessly reaching for all the high up places she found it tricky to get to while she worked on the more fiddly hiding spots. As it was, this time around there was a lot of dragging the desk chair around the room and climbing on things that shouldn’t be climbed on. At least the furnishings were more structurally sound than the last hotel. (They’d have to go at it really hard to cause any damage here. Which they weren’t going to do. At all.)

“I’ll say this, these guys really know how to secure a clock to the wall.” Mitte huffed, mostly to fill the lonely quiet, “how’s things your end- is she swooning yet?” 

KRISTOFF

He did his best not to laugh. He had been there, done that. Trying to slip bugs inside of lampshades and into the soles of high heels and behind mirrors fixed to the wall. He knew it was, at the best of times, a ball ache. But he thought he would maybe rather be up there doing that than down here launching into… whatever this was.

This being walking up to the bar, striding across the room with as much nonchalance and casual grace that Kristoff could muster, which was a surprising amount. He didn’t seem like the type of person who could be graceful, but spy academy beat any clumsiness right out of you. He approached the bar, only one seat left — conveniently, right next to his mark.

“This seat taken?” He asked, drawing her attention from the drink in her hand.

Without any shame at all she looked him up, down, and over once more, and then smiled coyly. “What would you do if I said yes?”

He took a deep breath, looking up at the ornately painted ceiling for a moment. It was the type of thing Mitte would say; if it were Mitte he’d already have some kind of comeback. “Leave, I suppose,” he said after a moment. Eliza looked back at him, gaze curious, assessing. “Very disappointed.”

She smiled, a small, tucked-away sort of smile. Coy, honestly vaguely threatening. “Good thing it isn’t, then.” She nodded for him to sit; Kristoff took his cue. When the barman came over he ordered a martini, slipping the cash out of the inner pocket over his jacket over the bar. Eliza followed the movement of his hand with her eyes, and Kristoff pretended not to notice, mostly because he had no idea what to do about it just yet.

“And what brings a good looking guy on his own to this kind of bar on a Friday night?” She asked, leaning her head on her hand, elbow propped on the bar.

“Business,” Kristoff replied, smiling simply, hoping he looked as earnest as he could be. Not exactly a lie. He just couldn’t tell her what business.

She hummed, eyebrows arching. “So not pleasure, then?”

He really had not expected things to go this way this fast. He felt like he fumbled, reaching for his drink when the bartender slid the glass towards him. “Well, I…” 

MITTE

It was quite nice to feel like a real spy instead of a pretty doll put on display to distract the bad guy, honestly. Not that it felt that way every time, but the circuits her mind had to run to make sure she was sitting up straight and smiling and pushing her tits up just enough, and the way those guys could leer– god, the things they could say that she just had to giggle at, the way their fingers could dig in when they grabbed at her– well, she was always grateful for whatever quips Kristoff could make down the line to help stop her snapping them like a twig.

Thinking about all that did get her blood going enough that Mitte was finally able to wrench the clock free of its setting to slip a bug in the back before replacing it, and she snickered quietly at Eliza’s forward approach. It did sound like the way Mitte might challenge a man, though coming from Miss Goodfellow it just sounded like a woman not interested in wasting her time. That worked in their favor in the long run; she knew what she wanted and she’d answer slightly strange questions without too much forethought to get it. Kristoff was probably going to need some help, though. Upfront women tended to intimidate him- she would know.

Mitte resisted the urge to rib him about the drink choice- she could call him James Bond later, when he could afford to be distracted- and just listened, whistling through her teeth at Eliza’s continued no nonsense approach. “Stay cool, Casanova.” She hummed, “...Smile at her like you smile at me when you’ve caught me in a stupid lie, and tell her you’re a busy guy and pleasure wasn’t part of the plan, but since you’ve found her you might just have to make time for it.” At least, that was what Mitte would like to hear, that she was worth ruining plans for, so Eliza would probably be all over an ego boost like that.

She wasn’t going to think about whether or not it was a bad idea to imply to Kristoff that she thought the smug little smirk he sometimes threw her way when he won was sexy as all hell. It would be fine, he wasn’t the type to use his powers for evil. (He didn’t even know he had powers. Maybe after Eliza he’d realize.) “Tilt your head a bit… Check her out. And then ask her why she’s all alone, too. But pitch your voice kinda low, like when you’re doing your quiet and angry cop routine.” Secretly, she called it the Sexy and Pissed off cop routine, but absolutely no need to tell him that.

Hey Mitte, what’d you do with your Friday night? Ah, I talked my best friend through seducing an arms dealer's wife. God, she loved her job. She slipped a bug into the tissue box in the bathroom, “I shouldn’t be much longer.” 

KRISTOFF

There was no outward sign of him listening to Mitte’s chatter in his ear, he was too well trained for that, but he took in everything she said without questioning it for a second. Mitte wouldn’t get him into trouble, nor would she jeopardise the mission, and honestly? She was way better at this than he was, so if she had advice, he was going to take it. It was just a case of assembling all the information he’d been given and using it correctly, and he was good at that.

Quiet and angry cop routine– he was good at that, too. Or at least, it had never failed him yet. It also had never been used for seduction before but hey, there was a first time for everything. He gave a soft laugh, like it was amusing, just how forward she was, and directed that smile at his drink. The dumb part was, he played different characters all the time. Quiet angry cop, new guy who just started at the firm, bartender with a shoulder to cry on; being a spy was also a part-time acting job, and he had never worried about it before now. It was just like those other jobs – he just had to keep telling himself that. 

He looked up at Eliza, glad to find her still looking at him, waiting for an answer. That smile was still in place, a little crooked, amused, almost disbelieving, but hopefully charming. “I’m a very busy guy,” He said, parroting Mitte’s words back at Eliza. “Pleasure wasn’t exactly the plan, but..” He pursed his lips and tilted his head, just as directed. He thought he should maybe feel embarrassed, having Mitte in his ear, no doubt making fun of him up there whilst she bugged the room, but honestly? It was good to know he had back up. He made a deliberate show of looking her over, which served not only to make her smile, small and pleased with herself, but to give him more information, too. If she did a runner, he had a pretty good description of her. “I might just have to make time for it.”

He turned to his drink again – for the record, he hated martinis, but he was hoping the vodka might make him feel a little less self conscious. “But what about you?” He asked, looking back up at her again, turning a little to show she had his full attention. “What’s a woman like you doing here all alone?”

“A woman like me?” She asked, one eyebrow arching. Not offended, no – fishing for something, Kristoff assumed.

“C’mon,” He said, earning another smile from her, like they were old friends, having a laugh. “You don’t need me to tell you what you are.”

“It would still be nice to hear it,” She countered, sipping from the glass in her hand. 

“Alright,” He acquiesced, “What brings a good looking woman like you on her own to this kind of bar on a Friday night?”

She laughed, amused, so he did as well. She turned a little towards him in her seat, her own head tilting as she looked at him. She sighed deeply, dramatically, and said, “Looking for company, I suppose. A knight in shining armour, maybe.”

MITTE Quite suddenly, while listening to her sweet talk and imagining her batting her lashes at Kristoff, Mitte decided she hated Eliza Goodfellow. They dealt with a lot of terrible people every day, real nasty criminals who had done unimaginable shit– but Eliza Goodfellow was just a woman who didn’t care how her husband made his money as long as he had a lot of it, and didn’t care where he went as long as it gave her time to flirt with hot strangers at bars!

She shouldn’t be here, flirting with Kristoff. If she just wasn’t here, then it could be– well… It wouldn’t be anyone. If Eliza wasn’t here, then they wouldn’t be here either. Beyond that, getting too emotional over a target was a terrible idea, even if that emotion was hatred, so Mitte had to swallow it all down, but she could not suppress her displeased huff in response to Eliza’s fawning. She was about as subtle as a brick. “Tell her…” Actually, this wasn’t fun at all. But it was her job, so she could do it. “Tell her you don’t own a sword but you do know how to ride a horse.” Mitte frowned, listening to the two of them carry on whilst she did one final sweep of the room to make sure she hadn’t missed any good hiding spots. “And ask why her husband hasn’t swept her up to ride off with her into the sunset, if you think working him into the conversation so early would be okay.” Kristoff seemed to find his groove, which was good for the mission and Mitte refused to think about it beyond that, ignoring her own grimace as she passed the wardrobe mirror on her way back out.

Initially, she’d planned on just heading straight down to the bar to drag Kristoff out of whatever mess his flirting got him into, but something drove her back to their hotel room- two beds this time, because Mitte had personally promised violence if they pulled the same shit again- to dig through her suitcase, and pull out a nicer top. The one with the ditzy kind of floral print she liked, and a sweetheart neckline that always made Kristoff’s eyes drop for just a second. It was a nice bar, so looking like she’d thrown on whatever old thing was going to draw attention that she didn’t want to have. She was just trying to blend in a bit. “I’m on my way down.” Mitte told Kristoff as she stepped into the lift, “you get what we need yet?” 

KRISTOFF

“Well, I don’t have a sword, but I do know how to ride a horse. That good enough?”

It earned a laugh from Eliza, all breathy and coy and maybe she was acting, too. Or maybe she wasn’t — maybe Mitte’s advice was just that good. He couldn’t be sure, but he tried not to act surprised when Eliza leaned a little bit closer, reaching again for her drink. “Close enough.”

He chuckled, shuffling just a little closer himself, almost imperceptibly, but enough for the conversation to feel a little more intimate. Hopefully, anyways. He kept his voice low and soft, hoping he wasn’t about to ruin the entire thing when he said, “So, what? There’s no dashing husband coming to sweep you off your feet and carry you into the sunset?”

“Who said anything about a husband?” Eliza asked, her voice low and sultry, a small smirk on her lips.

Kristoff nodded to the hand she was leaning her head on. “Your ring.”

“Ah,” Eliza murmured. She shifted to set her hand on the bar, looking at the ring. It was a pretty sizeable rock — the guy was definitely rich. “Well, my husband would rather do business deals in Shanghai than take a vacation with his wife.” She tapped her fingers against the bar, looking at the ring for a long moment. Kristoff waited, not wanting to spook her. When she looked up again, she asked, “Does it bother you?”

He hoped Mitte was taking notes. Shanghai— they could look into his dealings, see who he’d done business with there, who might be looking to collaborate. They could be on a flight in a matter of hours. 

Eliza was still waiting for an answer. “No,” Kristoff said, shaking his head. 

Eliza smiled, her other hand shifting, settling on his thigh. “Good.” 

MITTE 

She wondered if Kristoff hated it too, hearing her flirt and giggle with targets. Maybe it was just that, no one really liked hearing lies. Yeah. But seriously, she knew it was useful for their mission and all, but was a stupid rich husband who hardly bothered you not enough? Call Mitte crazy, but it sounded like a decent set up, what did she have to go crawling all over guys like Kristoff for? 

And Mitte meant crawling in the most literal sense, when she walked into the bar and saw them sitting so close together, her hand on his thigh like they'd been flirting all night and not for five minutes. Still, they got Shanghai out of her, and that meant Eliza Goodfellow had fulfilled her purpose. 

She swiped a half finished cosmopolitan- shame she didn't have the patience to order her own and enjoy a few sips- and flagged down a passing waitress, who already had a few half empty glasses on her tray. Mitte pulled a couple of fifties from her purse- would she ever be so used to having money she stopped spending it stupidly?- and set one of them down on the tray, along with the glass. "See that blonde guy over there?" She asked quietly, head tipping towards Kristoff and the vile woman still leaning closer. (He wouldn't know how to stop her, how to end their interaction without a fuss. She had to do it.) "That's my boyfriend. If you happen to trip on your way past and spill these over the woman trying to sit in his lap, I'll give you the other fifty on my way out." 

Now see, Mitte knew hospitality staff. Even in a place like this they didn't make enough for how mad the job drove them. She'd happily pay £100 quid to watch Eliza suffer, and the waitress only had to make a simple mistake. 

So Mitte sat back to watch the scene play out, Eliza and Kristoff so close to each other, and then; Eliza rearing back in horror, screeching like a banshee about whatever stupid designer made her stupid dress. She sidled over, surreptitiously slipping the waitress that second fifty, and grabbing Kristoff's hand to pull him away before he could start fussing over her with napkins. Miss Goodfellow, so consumed with misplaced rage, barely noticed him leaving.

Mitte didn't speak until they were in the elevator again, alone, her tone the epitome of innocence. "I think that went well. Shame about Eliza's dress." 

KRISTOFF

Oh yeah, he had no idea how to extricate himself out of this one. He could do the classic, excuse himself and climb through the air vent in the bathroom, or maybe say he had to take a call and pull the fire alarm on his way out. He had options, he just had very little time to think about them, because Eliza’s hand was at his knee and then his thigh and inching ever higher—

And then it was gone, and he was leaning back, Eliza screaming about useless staff and dry cleaning bills. Kristoff looked down and realised he had faired a bit better, but not by much. His shirt was wet, sticking to his abdomen as Mitte grabbed his hand.

At first Kristoff looked up, wondering if he’d been made — but then he saw Mitte, or rather the back of her head as she made a beeline for the elevator — and felt an overwhelming wave of relief. He was fine and she was fine and they had their intel, and they were going. No shots fired, no covers blown.

He leaned back when the elevator door closed, back to the wall. “Never mind, I guess. Not like she can’t afford another one.” He paused, looking at Mitte for a moment. “You couldn’t think of another way to get me out of there?”

MITTE

She had not thought about Kristoff being in the splash zone. Now, Mitte had seen him in just about every state of undress, distress, and duress a person could be in, so this should not be a problem. And it wasn’t. Except she kept sneaking glances at his abs, and remembering how the muscles had twitched under her hands. Mitte swallowed thickly and turned to look in the mirror instead, fussing with her hair for no reason apart from needing something else to focus on. 

The truth was, yeah, there were plenty of ways to get Kristoff out of the bar, most of them cleaner and cheaper, things they’d done dozens of times before when she’d played the honeypot part. She shrugged, feigning indifference. “It was the first idea that came to me.” At least, she wasn’t lying, but Mitte knew that wasn’t really why she’d gone that route. Subtlety had never really been her style, anyway, so as far as she was concerned this was all very typical behavior, regardless of motive.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and Mitte made for their room without waiting or looking back. “So, Shanghai.” She said once they were back in their own space, flopping down onto one of the beds and staring at the ceiling. “Makes sense. A little predictable, but that works for us, I guess, means we stand a chance of finding…” 

Mitte made the mistake of glancing over at Kristoff, who had shucked the suit jacket and was unbuttoning the wet shirt, her sentence trailing off. “Um-” She blinked, and quickly wrenched her gaze back to the ceiling, clearing her throat. “Well, we stand a chance of him working with one of our old informants, right? Not super likely, but I could send out a few messages, see if anyone is down to talk to us.”

KRISTOFF

She was lying, he knew it. Her nonchalance was too forced, not quite right, and it caused a small crease to form between his brows as he frowned. They had much more efficient, much quieter ways of getting each other out of tricky spots like that. They were trained to do it — extraction and destruction were key parts of spy training. Getting yourself out of a situation with as minimal fuss as possible was just what they did, and yet Mitte had chosen to bribe a waitress. Presumably, anyways. Kristoff couldn’t see any waitress working in a place as fancy as that just tripping over nothing.

The doors opened and he stepped out after her, still frowning softly as he watched her walk back to the room. He looked both ways before he slipped inside, making sure no one was watching, and he locked the door once he was in.

He flung his jacket on the bed, untucking his shirt and working on the buttons. He’d have to get changed if they were going to get on a flight. Couldn’t go to the airport looking like he’d spent all of last night and today in a bar (and smelling like it, too). 

He let his shirt flop on a heap on the floor and reached for his duffel, looking for something to wear. “Why’d you do it?” He asked, ignoring her completely. He looked up at her, pausing his search for a clean shirt. “You don’t do the first thing that comes to you — you want to, but you’re trained better.” He knew her, too well. Mitte was impulsive but not dumb. “So why the tray of champagne?”

MITTE 

Yeah, alright. Kristoff's insight shouldn't have surprised her. The fact that he hadn't cottoned on to her reasoning was likely because he couldn't see his nose for his face. The day Kristoff Bjorgman realized he was as hot as he was smart would be a dangerous day for women everywhere. 

Even now he somehow managed to be oblivious, shirtless and huffing at her like he wasn't insanely distracting. It wasn't like she had any right to feel this way. Kristoff was just doing his job, and even if he hadn't been he was allowed to flirt with whoever he wanted. 

Just… Not while Mitte was listening. "Jeez, Kristoff. Allow a lady to have a little fun." She stood back up to get out her laptop, to see about starting to put out feelers in Shanghai, and to have something to hide her face behind. "We both know it would've taken you forever to get yourself out of there, and it's not like she didn't deserve a little karma." 

KRISTOFF

He snagged a t-shirt, plain black and nondescript, a spy’s best friend; they were going to need to blend in. He paused with it in his hand, watching as she went to the laptop. Evasive. And like he said, he knew Mitte to be impulsive, but he didn’t know her to be sloppy. And maybe she was right, it would have taken a while for him to get himself out of there, but he could’ve done it. Or Mitte could’ve done it, just in a subtler way. He frowned softly, wishing she would just talk to him, and then remembering that talking about important things wasn’t really something they did nowadays. If they talked about whatever this was then they might have to talk about their last mission and Kristoff didn’t even know where to begin with that–

He pulled the shirt over his head, crouching down again to begin shoving things into his duffel. Might as well get ready to leave – they would be gone sooner rather than later. He paused, looking up at Mitte, still focused on her laptop. It wasn’t– the two things couldn’t be related. Could they? If Mitte was hiding something then that was strange, but it wasn’t strange if she was hiding something because it was something they weren’t talking about…

Kristoff, having confused himself, shook his head. “I guess.” He said eventually, watching Mitte for a moment. “Though, y’know, I don’t appreciate you doubting my skills. I was starting to get the hang of it.” 

He was only joking – he was waiting for her to look up, grinning just a little.

MITTE 

To say her face felt hot wouldn't be accurate, rather, there was some fiery thing pulsing behind her eyes that she didn't really understand. Mitte liked being friends with Kristoff. It was easy, it almost always had been, so whatever silly ideas her brain was conjuring up now it could just bloody well stop. The last thing they needed was complications. 

Things were fine. Nothing needed to change, she just had to get a grip. (But things were already changing, weren't they? If she noticed him tugging on a t-shirt out of the corner of her eye and wanted to tell him to take it off again.) It wasn't like it mattered that she was feeling so nuts anyway, maybe Kristoff could fool the rest of the world but he couldn't fool her, and if he's ever felt this way watching her flirt with targets she would know about it. 

So, he dropped it, but then he picked up something just as bad. Mitte huffed, still hiding behind her screen. Work. She was meant to be working. Shanghai contacts. "...You did great, Kristoff." She told him, honest, if a touch bitter about admitting it. "Pat yourself on the back. Top notch flirting, she was eating out of your hand." Mitte reached for her hoodie and zipped it all the way up, feeling stupid she'd even bothered to change her top. What did she want from Kristoff, anyway? "Well we got her room bugged, so if he moves on from Shanghai we'll probably hear about it. It'll probably take our contacts a while to get back to us. We should just pack up and get going." 

KRISTOFF

She was teasing him, which was a good sign, but she wasn’t looking at him, which made him frown again. He hated feeling like things were off, like there was something standing in the middle of them. He hated to think that he had ruined his and Mitte’s friendship, that he continued to ruin it by not being able to talk about it, and risked ruining it further by keep thinking about it. It being the urge to kiss her, to throw that laptop out the window and ask if she remembered what they did last time they were in a hotel room together—

He pursed his lips, nodded. Right. They had a job to do. He had a job to do, he was a professional. He took a breath and then cast his gaze around the room, reaching for the last few bits and pieces that he needed. He swapped his dress shoes out for his boots and grabbed his jacket, ready to go. He didn’t exactly want to — he wanted to know why Mitte was so sullen. Was she regretting this? Working with him again? If she was, he wished she’d just tell him. If she left after this and never spoke to him again… he didn’t know what he’d do.

“I’ll call us a cab,” he said, lingering by the door. “You can check us out — I’ll meet you outside.”

MITTE 

What would he say? If Mitte came out with the ugly truth of it, her unreasonable possessiveness, would Kristoff even believe her? Would he care? Would he think she was being ridiculous? Just another of Mitte’s silly mood swings, another this is how it is and you just have to go with it. Kristoff had taken a lot of her absurdities in stride over the course of their friendship, every stupid whim and bit of self sabotage. Something would have to break the damn eventually, and Mitte would hate for it to be something she couldn’t even pin down a reasonable explanation for. 

So she kept her mouth shut, packed up her stuff, and checked them out of the hotel. 

They’d been on countless plane journeys, and depending on their individual moods their interactions ranged from driving each other up the wall, keeping each other entertained, and companionable silence. This… Was none of that. This was stony and awkward and Mitte nearly jumped out of her damn skin every time their elbows brushed on the shared armrest. 

She called their boss when they landed to get hotel details and give him a rundown of their plan, chattering away as Kristoff navigated the streets- still so busy, even at this time of night- to get them safely to where they were staying. Even annoyed at her as he must be- and she could practically feel it radiating off him- he directed her without comment, making sure she didn’t run into anyone or turn down the wrong street.

Being the booming center of business it was, their room here was even more upscale than the last place, all sleek and shiny, and Mitte wondered how many of the little liquor bottles she could snatch from the fridge before Kristoff said anything. “Okay… It’s pretty late, so, boss said we can just hole up in our room tonight doing research and hit the ground running with our search properly tomorrow.” 

KRISTOFF

Kristoff wasn’t quiet because he was annoyed or mad or anything like that — Kristoff was quiet because he was thinking. 

Alright so maybe he was overthinking, or maybe he was reading too hard between the lines but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Mitte was hiding something from him. And they never hid anything from each other, at least not until all this. Besides, he didn’t feel like he was really hiding anything. The way he had to look away sometimes when she was all dressed up ready for the mission, the way he had blushed when her hand had brushed his neck. He was a spy, he was good with secrets, but not when it came to Mitte.

She had seemed… normal, before they’d gone their separate ways. They’d had the same kind of banter they always did and then out of nowhere she was sullen and closed off and Kristoff didn’t know what had happened. Something, he supposed, between Mitte going to bug the room and coming down to join him in the bar. He could’ve gotten more intel probably, if he’d been left to it for a minute longer. Shanghai was a big place, maybe he could’ve narrowed it down, or gotten an idea of where he might be headed to next, but Mitte had swooped in pretty quickly and had shut everything down before—

Oh.

The lightbulb flicked on above Kristoff’s head somewhere over Russia. He glanced at Mitte out of the corner of his eye and said nothing, staring resolutely at the airplane seat in front of himself.

He was being stupid. He’d added two and two and gotten five. There was no way that Mitte— that she— he couldn’t even really articulate it. He pushed it to one side; he got them to their hotel and checked them into their room and was so decided that he wasn’t going to say anything at all until he was stood there, watching Mitte eye the mini bar.

He wanted to say okay, sounds good, but instead he said, “Were you— were you mad at her? Eliza?”

MITTE

She hated this. She was a talker! Especially to Kristoff, who she’d seen curled into himself in a corner in highschool and decided, yeah, I can probably fuck with that guy. Then he looked up, and he smiled at her, and for whatever reason Mitte decided to just… Talk to him. And he listened, and then suddenly they were friends. 

Before now she’d always known what to say to him. But now there was a stupid little voice in Mitte’s head, telling her to ruin some lady’s dress just because she put her hand on his leg, or to run her hand over his abs, or kiss him just to wipe the frown off his face. God, this was why friends didn’t sleep together, it didn’t just blur the line, it put all sorts of experiences in your head that you shouldn’t have. How was she supposed to be indifferent to someone else leaning in to kiss Kristoff, when she knew how good kissing him felt? 

Mad. Mitte sat with the word for a moment, eyes narrowed a bit at Kristoff, thinking. Was she mad? No, no, mad wasn’t the right word. Eliza was just doing what she probably did every night, cheating on her husband. Mitte didn’t care about any of those other guys. It bothered her because Kristoff was part of the equation.

…Ah. Oh god. Jealous? No. Maybe. That was ridiculous, she had no right. Kristoff was just doing his job. This worked. This was good, they worked better together than with other partners.  "No." Mitte said after a few beats of quiet, going about getting her laptop and shoving her bag under one of the beds, "no, I wasn't mad at her. You wanna listen to her room recording a while and see if she's said anything useful? I'll see if anyone got back in touch with us about her husband."

KRISTOFF

No, he didn’t want to listen to the room recording. He doubted Eliza was going to say anything too useful except for a lot of swearing and angry ranting about useless waitstaff, so he figured it could wait. They had time, and besides, it wasn’t like he’d be able to focus. Mitte wasn’t mad, fine. Which meant that there was really only one other thing it could be, as far fetched and ludicrous as the idea was.

“You were jealous of her.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that he almost startled himself. Listen, he could only work with the intel he had, and what he had was Mitte instructing him on how to flirt and then coming downstairs and seeing her good advice out to work and sending a waitress to ruin the mark’s dress. She wasn’t mad, and Kristoff honestly thought he might be kind of upset if she really doubted his ability to get himself out of a tricky situation that much—

“Right?” He asked, immediately doubting himself. But then, no— he couldn’t leave any room for doubt, or Mitte wouldn’t admit to anything. Stronger, he said, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

MITTE

Unfortunately, for as hapless as he could come across, Kristoff was really the brains behind the partnership. Mitte wasn't surprised when he figured it out so fast, and she tried not to react, but she could feel her face heating up. 

She couldn't say nothing. That was as good as admitting it anyway, and Kristoff sounded too adamant to be distracted. Mitte closed her eyes for a moment and heaved a soft sigh before looking at him over the top of the laptop, "...You don't have to tell me I'm being ridiculous. I already know." She glanced again at the minibar, and wondered what he was thinking. 

Alright, so the reason they'd never talked about what happened at the last hotel was because Mitte had never brought it up, and she knew that, but Kristoff… He'd never shown that kind of interest in her. Before or since. And even if he had, they both knew what a terrible idea it was. Messy and dangerous and easy to take advantage of. "You were doing your job. I just… didn't like hearing it. Or seeing it. I should've gotten you out of there quieter, I wasn't thinking. It won't happen again." It was stupid and dangerous and he'd have every right to decide to work with someone who wasn't going to cause that kind of fuss. Still, selfishly, Mitte wished he wouldn't. 

KRISTOFF

He looked at her for a long moment, watching Mitte as she looked everywhere but him. His gaze didn’t shift, and though he was listening to her it took him a second to actually register what it was she was saying. She hadn’t come out and said yes, but she wasn’t saying no — Mitte was stubborn enough that Kristoff knew she would never come out and say it outright so this was probably as good as it was going to get.

It won’t happen again. Why did she think he would be upset about it? She had to know how he felt about her. It wasn’t like he could hide it, though he tried his best to. His opinion most of the time was that Mitte was the smarter of the two of them but right now? 

He should just nod and say okay and let it go. They had a mission to complete, intel to gather. They knew their mark was in Shanghai but Shanghai was a big place, and they needed to try and narrow that down. 

He didn’t do that, though. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and took Mitte’s face in his hands, kissing her like it might be the last chance he got. More like making up for lost time, he supposed. How much could they have been doing this since the last mission they’d gone on?

He pulled away after a moment, one hand falling to her waist. He didn’t go too far, keeping her close as he looked down at her. “You’re an idiot.”

MITTE

She wanted to kick herself. Or jump out the window. Or run across the room and put her hand over Kristoff’s mouth before he could say anything that made this worse, tell him to just forget she’d even talked. How long would they be able to keep it up this time? If Mitte shut this down before it started and they returned to their own homes and their own lives with her uncertainty creating a rift all over again, would they find their way back to each-other a second time? The truth was, Mitte was pretty uninterested in life without Kristoff, and she’d take whatever he wanted to offer her. It might not be easy, but she’d be able to keep the jealousy under wraps, even if the feeling of it had settled in her gut like a lead weight.. She’d do practically anything to keep him. 

But then he was grabbing her and kissing her and kissing him back was easy. Like breathing. Mitte made a small noise of surprise, and all the tension she’d been carrying since before they even left for Shanghai melted off her shoulders. Her hands crept up Kristoff’s abs until her palms could settle on his chest, and she resisted the urge to twist the material of his shirt in her fists until it could be ripped off. 

For a moment after he pulled away, Mitte stared up at him with no clue what they were supposed to do next. They’d crossed this line before and they knew how it ended. But then her brain caught up to what he’d said, and she huffed. “I’m the idiot? Tch, it took you all the way to Shanghai to figure out what the issue was!” Nevermind that it had taken her just as long to name it. “And, may I point out, a smart man wouldn’t have called me an idiot right after kissing me, if he was hoping he’d get to do it again.” Though, she barely made a move to get out of Kristoff’s grip, only gently pushing her hands against his chest. 

KRISTOFF

“It was a calculated risk,” he argued with a grin, leaning down to kiss her again, a little softer this time but just as heated, the same desperation behind it. He knew she would let him— because she had been jealous. Because she didn’t want anyone else flirting with him, because she wanted him. The thought alone was enough to make him giddy. “You’re the idiot because I’ve liked you since— I don’t even know since when. And I suck at hiding it.” 

He did. He was obvious, at least he thought he was. Blushing when she touched him and finding excuses to be with her and a million other little things that gave away just how obsessed with her he was. He dropped his other hand to her waist, both hands sliding round to the small of her back so he could pull her closer again, even with her hands on his chest, pushing back a little. “We could listen to the room recording,” he said, looking down at her. “Or we could make up for lost time?”

MITTE

He kissed her again and Mitte didn’t move or protest, all but melting against him. She’d never had a lot of friends. Mitte’s temperament wasn’t exactly easy to handle, and she was picky to boot. Kristoff was the only person in her life who she had let stick around for so long. So when Kristoff said they were best friends, well, she took that and ran with it. She didn’t care if other people said they were too close, or they did things best friends didn’t do- Kristoff was the one she trusted, and he’d never kicked up a fuss that they were doing this or that wrong. But apparently he’d liked her for who knew how long, so of course he wouldn’t have an issue with that stuff! Stuff Mitte had never had an issue with either, admittedly. All the touching and the secrets between just them and how boring it was to do anything at all if they weren’t doing it together. 

Her blood hummed with satisfaction at having him so close, and really, her possessiveness wasn’t new. Whenever Kristoff worked well with another agent she managed to find at least some small and silly thing wrong with them, so that she could point it out to him, and maybe he wouldn’t work with them again. This of course was all under the guise of looking out for him, but maybe… Yeah, it was possible she’d been jealous this whole time. 

“Okay.” Mitte said softly, conceding to perhaps the only person she was happy to lose an argument against, her arms sliding further and up around his shoulders, bringing him closer. “Your poker face is better than you think. But…I’m the idiot.” And then they were kissing again, Mitte popping up on her tiptoes to be closer, to press their bodies together better, as her hands carded through Kristoff’s hair. 

KRISTOFF

He didn’t think it was just her, for the record. He was pretty stupid too. It had taken him a very long flight to figure out what was going on and even then he hadn’t been too sure of himself. But he was too busy kissing her to really think about telling her that — in fact, as her fingers ran through his hair he stopped thinking about anything, everything falling away except for Mitte’s hands and the heat of her body, pressing up against his own.

He reached down, hands slipping over the swell of her ass to grip the backs of her thighs, pulling her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. He thought that was going to be easier than trying to stumble backwards towards the bed. He twisted, stepped towards it until he could lay her down onto it, kissing over her jaw and her neck as he shifted to hover over her. 

“Is this okay?” He asked, pausing once again to look at her. Wanting to be sure, before they took things too far, and did something else they couldn’t talk about in the morning.

MITTE

He liked her. He liked her, and he was kissing her, and Mitte’s head was spinning with ‘what if this’ ‘what if that’ scenarios. Things she didn’t want to think about right now– things that could wait. The present felt far more urgent than any of that, especially as Kristoff was scooping her up, and she was so familiar with the calluses of his palms she could practically feel them through her jeans. 

The pent up frustration that had driven their last encounter- at least, it had driven Mitte and she’d thought they were on the same page at the time, but now she was curious to know from Kristoff’s perspective- was missing, replaced with a desperation that felt more real. She’d barely registered they were going anywhere until the plush mattress was against her back, all her limbs tangled around Kristoff’s body, head tipping to the side to offer him more of her neck.

Is this okay. Mitte turned her head back to look at him, already a bit out of breath. She could say no. It would be a lie, but she could say it and Kristoff would stop and they could get back to work and this might never happen again. Maybe that was what should’ve happened last time. Once was an accident. Twice was a decision. “Actually, no.” Mitte’s brows furrowed, but the rest of her face couldn’t stay so composed, a smile already stealing her mouth as she gripped at the material of his shirt where it bunched a little around his shoulders, “this thing is really throwing me off. It’s gotta go.” 

KRISTOFF

For a second his brow creased, a small frown appearing. Of course if she meant it, if she didn’t want to do this that was fine, he would understand. They had to work together, and if this was going to complicate things, or it was going to ruin their friendship… he didn't want to make things difficult. Even though it felt easy — as easy as breathing, with Mitte.

But then she was tugging at his shirt and Kristoff rolled his eyes, breaking into a grin. He leaned down to press another kiss to her lips, feeling already like he’d gone too long without it before he sat back until he was kneeling, pulling his shirt up and over his head and away to one side. “This better?” He asked, eyebrows arched. He didn’t move back to lean over her, looking down at her instead, committing the sight of her beneath him to memory just in case.

MITTE

She was cackling at Kristoff’s response until he silenced her with his mouth, and her hands came up to cup his face for just a brief moment- a thankyou, for his sweetness, or for taking her seriously- before he was pulling away to take off the t-shirt. God, the things she’d thought about doing to those abs. Seriously, how did she miss it? How many people get distracted fantasising about their best friends’ abs? “Much better.” Mitte’s smile was satisfied as she reached out, though her arms weren’t quite long enough to touch him where he’d settled, so she surged up to kiss him again, her hands skating down his chest and over his abs. 

“I didn’t tell the waitress to spill the drinks on you, too.” She thought Kristoff might like her candidness, so she made the confession between little kisses peppered along his jaw, her arms circling his waist to map the muscles of his back. “I only told her to get Eliza. I think you looked better when the suit was wet, though.” Maybe that was just Mitte; she liked her men a bit dishevelled. 

KRISTOFF

He was glad when she rose up to meet him, kissing her hard enough to take his breath away when she pulled back. His stomach twitched under her touch, muscles tensing for a second before he relaxed, pushing her hair over her shoulder. 

“Yeah, I figured,” he murmured, bringing her close for another kiss, one hand on her neck, the other at the hem of her shirt, fiddling with the fabric between his fingers. He had figured both that she hadn’t meant for it to happen and that she had preferred it — she hadn’t been able to look at him, after all. He kissed her again, slipping his hand fully under her shirt, skirting over the soft skin of her stomach to the small of her back.

MITTE 

Kristoff was so reactive. It was unsurprising, because he always was, and yeah, she'd missed it. How? She spotted liars for a living! 

It was at this point Mitte remembered the bra she was wearing. Nothing wrong with it, yknow, definitely clean. But she'd been in work mode, so it was also definitely function over style, plain white, boring. Obviously the same had been true last time, and Kristoff would not care less. Still, it was a shame she wasn't wearing something sexier. Maybe next time. 

(Next time?) 

Mitte nipped at his bottom lip, "got me all figured out now, huh?" She hummed against Kristoff’s mouth, pushing gently on his shoulders so she could shift to straddle his lap. She leaned back enough to tug off her top and toss it away, then pressed into him again to kiss down his neck. 

KRISTOFF

He wished that was the truth. Mitte was the type that seemed all mysterious and aloof but she wasn’t, not really, not in the way everyone assumed she was. No, Mitte was a mystery in other ways. The intricacies of her heart were still something Kristoff couldn’t quite figure out, only chipping away at the first little bit of them today, and he’d needed a long haul flight and a taxi ride through Shanghai to get there. He didn’t have Mitte figured out at all.

“Trying to,” He replied, muffled against the newly exposed skin of her collarbone. He sucked a mark into the skin there, not one that would last for too long, fading by morning, probably, but long enough for him to feel proud of his work. He pressed a kiss over it, tilting his head up to catch her lips again, hands skirting over her ribs to grip onto her hips.

MITTE 

A soft moan escaped when he sucked at her skin, and for a moment Mitte thought of their training together, the smug look that would flash across Kristoff's face whenever he managed to leave a mark. She muffled a small laugh in his neck, then he was kissing her again and it stopped being funny, her hips rocking into his as he grabbed her. 

"I gave you the clues already.." Mitte reminded him, her fingers trailing lightly down his stomach  they hit the waistband of his jeans, "or did you think I'd somehow done research into how she liked to be flirted with?" 

KRISTOFF

Okay, Kristoff hadn’t actually thought of it that way.

At the time he was just working under the assumption that Mitte was being a good friend, and giving him the tools he needed to get the job done. Plus, he’d been so nervous he wouldn’t have even realised if she’d spelled it out for him. He wished he could say it was because he was focused on the job, but… no. Definitely nerves.

Now he tried to think about what she’d told him, and he tilted his head, eyes roaming over her slowly. When he spoke he did his best not to sound too strangled (difficult, with her hand in the waistband of his jeans), keeping his voice low and firm, that Sexy Pissed Off Cop voice — and yeah, he knew she called it that. Angela in Tech had told him once. “And here I thought you were just helping out a friend.”

MITTE

This wasn’t like last time. For Mitte, at least, it had been like scratching an itch. A way to deal with all her energy while they were stuck in that hotel room. What had it been for Kristoff? Had he been into her already back then, or did it start that night? She supposed it didn’t really matter, since they seemed to be on the same wavelength now. 

A little thrill chased down her spine when Kristoff dropped his voice, and Mitte found herself sitting up a bit straighter. Nothing called her to attention faster than that tone. Obviously most of the time when he used it there was an interrogation or the like going on, but now it was directed at her… Well, hopefully Kristoff would only use the power for good. “I was helping.” she promised, her face projecting a picture of perfect innocence, like she wasn’t toying with the button of his jeans. 

“I didn’t realise I’d hate hearing it until you’d already started flirting.” Mitte pouted and shook her head, “I don’t know how you do it, listen to me sweet talk targets all the time. You’ve never bribed a waitress to spill drinks on me.” 

KRISTOFF

Yeah alright so he couldn’t keep it up for long, the way she sat to attention making him smile against her skin, nose skimming her collarbone as his head dipped lower, kisses pressed over the curve of her breast. He huffed softly, trying to look as unamused as he could when he was met with her best innocent act, though that didn’t last long either. Couldn’t, not with her hands skirting around the waistband of his jeans.

He didn’t really know what to say to that, though. He would be a liar if he said it didn’t affect him. The slight pang of jealousy that he had for so long mistook for protectiveness, curdling in his stomach whilst some creep ran a hand over Mitte’s thigh or leaned in a little too close. He shifted to run his hands over her hips, dipping his head again. “You get used to it.” He said finally, his right hand lingering at her waist whilst the left ran up the length of her body, fingers skirting up and over her ribs to cup her breast, thumb rubbing over her nipple through the thin fabric. “Probably ruined that now, though. Maybe next time I’ll bribe the maitre d’ to pull the fire alarm.”

MITTE 

She was quite quickly becoming frustrated with how many clothes they both had on. Maybe it was her fault– she was always the leader when they did something reckless, Kristoff was probably letting her set the pace. Especially in this arena where he’d been waiting, she didn’t know how long, for her feelings to catch up with his. Had their feelings caught up? Mitte- she hadn’t really had time to think about hers too much, except to realise that they existed. Though he’d probably been denying them as much as he could, Kristoff must have a better idea of just how deep his feelings ran. All Mitte could say for sure right now was that she wanted more.

As much as she loathed the idea of getting used to seeing him in these situations- and she did very much, giving a displeased huff as he voiced it-  she knew Kristoff was right. They were going to have to get used to a lot. Seeing him get hurt– god, it had always been awful, but now? Mitte didn’t even want to think about it, actually, certainly not right now. Her body arched into the touch of his hand, head falling back as she hummed in pleasure. “Fuck, I’d like to see that.” She said, her voice a breathless laugh, picturing Kristoff all wound up over someone putting their hands on her. Mitte slid her hands up into his hair and got real close, until their mouths were almost touching, a coy smirk on her lips. “I bet it would be hot.” And then she kissed him, leaning back and pulling Kristoff with her until she’d collapsed back against the mattress, him hovering over her, so she could finally get at the zipper of his jeans properly and start pushing them down. “Off.” She demanded against his mouth when she’d moved them as far as she could reach, taking her hands off Kristoff long enough to start removing her own jeans. 

KRISTOFF

He went easily, more than happy to situate himself over her, too busy kissing her to even notice the change in position at first. He wasn’t going to argue — he shifted only so that he could get his jeans off and throw them blindly onto the floor, crumpled in a heap somewhere, probably. He wasn’t really thinking about that either, too focused on getting back to Mitte so he could help to wrangle her jeans down her legs, tossing them to one side as well once they were out the way. 

He settled again between her thighs, running his hands over the soft skin of them, up and over until he came to a stop at her hips, thumbs rubbing over the fabric of her panties. “It would be stupid,” he informed her in the same low voice, leaning down to kiss her again, slow and deep. He pulled back, kissing across her jaw, down her neck, a trail of kisses and gentle nips until his lips met the same material that his thumbs were still toying with. “We’d get in trouble.” He added, speaking the words into her skin.

MITTE 

They were going to have to play catch up in the morning, and Mitte didn’t care one bit. She hoped none of her contacts got back to her and Mr Goodfellow was the most impossible to find man in the world, so they had plenty of excuses to stay cooped up in a hotel in Shanghai, far away from their boss and their real lives. The two things that would put the biggest strain on this. Whatever this was. But of course, they were too good at their jobs, and they’d probably find the bloke by tomorrow afternoon. 

So, Mitte was just going to have to soak all this in right now, and it was easy to focus up, especially when Kristoff dropped his voice again. A shiver ran through her whole body when he spoke and Mitte opened her mouth, intent on saying something cheeky, but he stole her mouth first and her want to antagonise him crumbled under the intensity of their kiss. 

As he made his way down her body the only sounds Mitte managed to make were those of pleasure, soft little moans and catches of breath. Eventually though, her voice did come back. “Are you trying to discourage me?” She asked, voice a touch strangled, as one of her hands found its way into Kristoff’s hair again, "you know how I feel about trouble…"  Her hips shifted of their own accord, impatient for whatever he had in mind to do next, “wouldn’t you like to see me punished?” Mitte pushed up onto her elbows to look down at him, one brow arched. 

KRISTOFF

Yeah, he had expected exactly that reaction from her. He hid a smile in the skin of her stomach, looking up at her when she sat up a little. He could go for the innocent act, he supposed — he was good at playing dumb, usually because he was, in fact, pretty dumb — but it was so much more fun to see the way she reacted to that voice. It was meant to be gruff, intimidating. It was gruff and intimidating. She just liked that, he supposed.

“Sure,” he answered, shifting up a little so that he wasn’t resting on his elbows, hooking his fingers under the fabric of her panties so he could begin to tug them down her legs and out the way. “If I can do the punishing.”

Now that might have been his best performance yet— he didn’t even know where it had come from. Mildly embarrassed, mostly rolling with it, he kept his eyes down, hands running over the inside of her thighs until he could run his thumb along her slit, just brushing over her clit. “And anyways, I’d get in trouble too.” 

Mitte 

Yeah, Mitte did like gruff and intimidating. Kinda funny that she had ended up as one of the good guys, honestly. It was Kristoff that made all the difference. One of the only constants in her life, and one of the good guys through and through. Mitte’s moral compass had a polarity problem, Kristoff was the magnet that brought her back to true north every time she strayed. 

Hey, she didn’t need real bad guys if he could put on the voice and make her feel like she was melting into a puddle on their hotel bed. Mitte lifted her hips a little to help him with her underwear, her eyes going wide at what he said. Oh, yes please. She stared down at him, all hunger and anticipation, but her head lolled back when he finally touched her, pleasure shooting up her spine. 

"If this is how you punish me I'm gonna do something bad every day." Mitte moaned, one of her hands already twisted in the sheets. "Fine." Though she would have enjoyed him being jealous enough to cause a scene, she never liked getting Kristoff in trouble. "No more bribing waitstaff." She sighed, trying to wriggle closer to his teasing hands. 

KRISTOFF

This was so different to last time. Last time had been a flurry of clothes flying off, hands and mouths everywhere, no time for talking cause they were far too preoccupied— this was different. More intimate somehow, and Kristoff wanted to draw it out. He wanted to take his time. The way she moaned, her white knuckle grip on the sheets. He wanted to drink all of it in and commit it to memory, just in case.

He stifled a laugh against the inside of her thigh, the pad of his thumb rubbing slow, teasing circles over her clit, wanting to take his time but desperate to hear her make those sounds again. “I don’t think you mean that.” He said, if only because he knew her — Mitte had a habit of getting herself into trouble.

Deciding he had no more argument to make, he shifted, bringing his mouth down to replace his thumb, humming softly at the taste of her.

MITTE

He was so pretty. Mitte was staring down at Kristoff between her legs, his mouth pressed into her thigh, his blond hair falling into his eyes… And thought he was so pretty. She'd noticed before, obviously, but in this context it made something in the pit of her stomach feel funny. When had this happened? When had how she cared about him become this, and with such ease she hadn't even realised?

She was going to protest- to be surely or seductive, something about being a good girl, that might have tripped him up, but as she was watching him Kristoff dipped his head and the only noise Mitte managed to make was a strangled gasp.

"Kristoff." She moaned, needy and soft as she fell back into the mattress fully again, writhing and rocking her hips up into the pleasure of his mouth. One of Mitte’s hands slid down her body to tangle in his hair and she pulled gently, gauging how he'd like the encouragement.

KRISTOFF

The way she said his name was one thing, the kind of her voice making heat pool in his stomach, but he groaned as her hand slipped into his hair. The grip on her hips tightened just a little, not wanting to hold on too hard but wanting her to know that yeah, she could do more of that. Maybe things were a little less slapdash than they had been last time but that didn’t mean they had to be gentle, either. Not as far as he was concerned, anyways.

He lapped at her clit, tongue stroking small circles around it before he shifted a little, dipping his tongue inside of her just enough to properly taste her, humming low in his throat when he did. He didn’t linger, though, moving his mouth back to her clit so he could slip a finger inside of her instead, looking up so he could watch her as he did his best to make her moan like that again.

MITTE

Oh yeah, Kristoff liked that. Good to know that it hadn’t been an anomaly that first time. (Something that crossed her mind far more often than it should: the way he’d scooped Mitte up and slammed her back against the wall, like he just couldn’t contain himself.) Mitte’s fingers slid against his scalp and she pulled more firmly at his hair. 

Her toes curled as Kristoff pushed a finger inside her, and Mitte tried to be conscious of keeping her noise to a reasonable level, but they’d just have to hope that a classy joint like this had decent soundproofing. “More more more.” She asked- pleaded, maybe, perhaps whined- her hips grinding into his hand and mouth. 

While he teased, Mitte reached around her back with her free hand to unclasp her bra finally, letting go of Kristoff’s hair only long enough to pull the straps off both arms and toss it to the side. 

KRISTOFF

As nice as it was to hear her asking for it, he wasn’t going to make her beg. He slid a second finger inside of her alongside the first, crooking them just a little so he could find the spot that would make her forget all about how well soundproofed the room may or may not be. He couldn’t have cared less, really — if anything, it was good for their cover story.

He looked up again when her hand slid from his hair, already missing the feeling of her nails scratching across his scalp. He was easily distracted, though, his gaze following her bra as it was tossed across the room. Somehow, in his haste to get to where he was now, he had forgotten all about it. Stupid of him, really. Next time (because there would be a next time, there had to be, he was sure of it), he wouldn’t be so careless.

Especially not now, knowing what he had been missing. The urge to shift, to kiss his way back up her body until he could run his tongue over her breasts, take the sensitive flesh of her nipple into his mouth and roll his tongue over it just to see her reaction was kind of overwhelming. He did pull back just a little, though, when he saw the light glinting off the jewellery there. “Are those—“ he was a little breathless, and just a little bit at a loss for words, hair falling into his eyes. The rhythm of his fingers slowed but didn’t stop, pressing into her almost leisurely. “Yknow those piercings have gotta be a safety hazard.”

MITTE

She didn’t have the focus needed to stop the sharp, open mouthed cry of pleasure that Kristoff teased out of her so easily with his fingers, her hips bucking up into the sensation, chasing the feeling that was starting to make the muscles of her thighs shake. God, if he kept this up she’d be a boneless mess before they even fucked. 

Since getting them, she had experienced a range of reactions to the nipple piercings. Kristoff, out to break the mould as always, was the first person to call them a safety hazard.

Mitte managed to gather enough of her wits to huff, hauling herself back up onto her elbows. “If you can’t find something better to do with your mouth than talk about my tits being a safety hazard, I’m putting my clothes back on.” Mitte warned, though the threat was lacking any bite, breathless and wanton as she still was, her hips still rocking into Kristoff’s fingers, all the more maddening for the pace he had slowed to. She cocks a brow at him, a challenge. “Be normal, and tell me they’re sexy, or shut up.” It’s a facade which lasts all of a few seconds before the push of his hand has her head rolling back again. 

KRISTOFF

He knew that was an empty threat; there was no way she was putting her clothes back on, and no way he would let her do it anyhow. Alright, so he hasn’t really meant for that to be his only comment — but excuse him for having his brain short circuit when he learned about the piercings. Had she always had those? Surely not, cause he would’ve noticed, so when—?

His brain was still sparking out trying to comprehend it all so in the finish he gave up, focusing instead on the way her hips rolled into his hand, movements synchronising. 

“They’re sexy,” he informed her, because it was true, they were sexy, enough to hold his attention completely for a few seconds longer before his mouth found its way between her legs again.

MITTE

Now, she was rarely happy to admit defeat, but in this one instance, Mitte gladly conceded to Kristoff. His mouth, his hands, the way he gave her what she wanted. He could win every day of the week if this was her consolation prize. She gave up on the idea of coherent sentences, the warmth that had started to stir in her gut way back when Kristoff had kissed her bubbling all the way up until it was boiling, making her whole body arch and twist in whatever direction brought the most pleasure. Mitte’s hand reached down into his hair again, pulling and desperate as sensations built, her moans reaching a crescendo as she came undone, going very still for just a moment before collapsing back into the mattress, all but boneless and satisfied and panting.

Well, satisfied? Maybe not the right word. Sated temporarily, perhaps. Certainly not finished. The rush of adrenaline made her hands a little shaky, but Mitte pulled at Kristoff’s hair again with what strength she could gather, trying to drag him back up. “C’mere.” She said softly, a bit dazed and blinking up at the ceiling. “Kiss me.” 

KRISTOFF

The hand in his hair and the feeling of her clenching around him, coming undone around his fingers and under his tongue was almost too much. Another thing to try and commit to memory, though; he watched her as she fell apart and then waited for to come back again, pressing soft kisses to the inside of her thighs until he felt the tug on his hair.

He didn’t need to be told twice — he shifted up onto his knees so that he could hover over her, shelter her in with one hand by her head and the other skirting over the soft skin of her ribs. He was already hard and aching with wanting her but when he kissed her it was slow, deep, deliberately taking his time.

MITTE

She had a renewed appreciation for Kristoff’s ability to follow orders so well. Sometimes it was kind of a buzzkill, but she might never complain about it again after tonight. (Or if she did, he’d have to remind her how much she really liked it.) 

Mitte’s hands splayed out on his chest as they kissed, then slid around to his back, where her nails scratched lightly up and down. She hummed her pleasure against his mouth as the kiss slowed for both of them to take a breath, and smiled up at Kristoff, something soft and dreamy that became far cheekier as she spoke. “Can you guess what I want you to do to me next?” She asked, trying to pull him down more firmly on top of her while her hips arched up to grind against his, the hard length of him such a tease against her oversensitive skin that it made Mitte whimper. Her hands roamed down to his boxers, to start pushing them down.

KRISTOFF

The scratch of her nails over his skin made him shiver, the muscles of his back twitching, shifting under his skin. It was enough for him to catch his breath every now and again, pulling away for just a second before he would find himself being pulled back in again, drawn towards her, her lips. He kissed her slowly, almost lazily, as if they had all the time in the world.

They didn’t, of course, but the mission was the last thing on his mind right now. He gave a soft, strangled sounding moan when she rolled her hips up against his, letting her pull him close, firmer as he hovered over her. He knew exactly what she was wanting, and though he didn’t bat her hands away from the waistband of his boxers he didn’t help her either, nipping at her jawline instead. “I’ve got an idea,” he admitted, “but I’d still like it if you told me.”

MITTE

He kissed her and he kissed her and he kissed her and Mitte felt almost dizzy off of it. What would happen in the morning? She didn’t think she’d want to slip quietly out of bed to get dressed and start on their day’s work like last time. She didn’t think Kristoff would let her, either. Not after what had been admitted tonight. Her jealousy, his long held fondness. At least, he’d admitted it, and Mitte had danced around her own emotions as close to the words as she’d been able to get.

Kristoff’s desire to draw things out clearly extended beyond his kisses. Mitte made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, already so thoroughly wound up and writhing. Maybe she had drawn things out long enough, herself. “I was jealous of her.” She said, all of it coming out in one rush of breath, one hand sliding all the way up to Kristoff’s chin to angle his face up to look at her, the smile she wore expectant, “and I want you to fuck me.” 

KRISTOFF

He liked the little frustrated sound that she made, grinning against her skin as he found a new spot to sink his teeth into. He knew he wouldn’t let it, he wouldn’t let this be the last time this happened, not after he had admitted to Mitte how he felt about it, but just in case it was the last time, he wanted to hear her say it. Another thing to commit to memory, just to be on the safe side. 

He went easily when she tilted his chin, his eyes finding that gentle smile and softening. He looked at her for a moment, just a few seconds though it felt like longer, before he leaned down to kiss her again, deep and slow. “Okay,” Was all he said, because it was all he could really manage, shifting backwards until he could pull his boxers off and throw them to one side, taking his hard cock in hand with a low hum.

MITTE

He was her person. That was what came to mind as Kristoff looked up at her. If that was selfish or possessive or over dramatic Mitte didn’t really care, because it was the truth, and they both spent so much of their time dealing in lies. No room for those here, with Kristoff finally shedding the last layer between them.

Mitte stared across at him, her gaze hungry. “Okay?” She repeated, shaking her head as she hauled herself up to reach for him, her arms winding around his neck, “if I didn’t have hard proof I’d be starting to think you weren’t too enthusiastic about the idea.” Mitte was smiling all coy as she shifted back onto the mattress, pulling Kristoff down with her again. It was a good thing she didn’t really want him to be good with other women.  

She kissed him, and in the brief gaps where their mouths parted, “actually- wait.” Mitte put her hands on his chest to push gently, rolling them over ‘till Kristoff’s back hit the mattress softly and she could straddle him. “Perfect.” That was a nice view, for sure, Kristoff with his pretty blonde hair framing his face so nicely, his whole focus on her. She sat up after trailing a few more kisses down his neck, her hands bracing on his chest so she could sink down slowly onto his cock, her head rolling back as she did. When their hips were flush again Mitte was still for a moment before starting to move, nails digging into his skin.

KRISTOFF

He wanted to say something funny about actions and how they speak larger than words, or maybe something about reading between the lines or maybe just anything at all that would make it seem like he wasn’t totally at a loss for words. The truth of it was, though, that Mitte was looking at him with those big, soft eyes, and for a second the desperate ache in his groin was secondary to the ache in his chest, his ribs feeling too tight against the beating of his heart.

He didn’t say anything in the end, only rolled his eyes and smiled like he couldn’t believe her bullshit and then, when she pulled him closer, he buried his face in the crook of her neck. His lips found the pulse point there, thrumming over his tongue, about to suck another mark into her pale skin when she pushed back.

Kristoff frowned, momentarily confused at why she was pushing back and not pulling closer but he went anyways, letting her manoeuvre them. As soon as he was on his back his hands found her waist, one reaching up higher, taking her breast in his hand and squeezing momentarily before he gave a soft, strangled sound. The feeling of her, warm, tight, and wet around him was enough for him to see stars for a moment. “Fuck, Mitte—“ he groaned, breath catching as she rolled her hips.

MITTE

It seemed impossible that she would have forgotten how good he felt, considering how often it had crossed her mind since the first time this happened, but memory really didn’t have the same impact. If Mitte ever really believed that just knowing what this felt like would be enough, being so desperate for him all over again- maybe moreso, even if it wasn’t quite as frantic- sure killed that delusion. She wanted to do this over and over until she knew every contented sound, every muscle twitch, everything about Kristoff in these moments, as well as she knew him in every other. 

“That’s more like it.” She panted when he spoke up again, every breath cut through with soft little whimpers. Mitte moved slowly at first to enjoy the sight of him underneath her, and study the ways pleasure washed over his  features when she tipped her hips just so at a certain angle, let her nails bite into his skin a little harder, trailed her hands up and down her own body. After a while she shifted to lean more of her weight against her hands, palms flat against Kristoff’s chest again, so she could move faster. “Tell me-” Mitte said soft and breathless, leaning down enough to kiss him, interrupting herself because he looked too damn good, “tell me you get jealous. Tell me what you want.”

(Her, obviously, and if he was too pleasure drunk to say anything else it would do, but she wanted to hear whatever would tumble out of his mouth when he wasn’t thinking.) 

KRISTOFF

For a second he didn’t say anything, caught off guard by the change of pace so much that it was all he could do to tip his head back against the cushions beneath him and groan, jaw slack. His hands gripped her hips, her sides, keeping her close to him as he kissed her back clumsily.

“Of course I— I’m always jealous.” He managed to get out, his voice sounding harsh and rasping even to his own ears. He couldn’t quite catch his breath, not with her nails digging into the skin of his chest and her walls clenching down around him as she ground her hips down against his. He wasn’t much of a talker, not really, but Mitte had a way of drawing it out of him.

“Want you,” he managed, reaching up so he could kiss her again, catching her mouth with his own. “Always you.”

MITTE 

Whatever problems came of this, it was worth it. The sight of Kristoff underneath her right now, the feeling of his fingers digging into her hips and his cock throbbing inside her, god, she’d betray everyone and everything she knew for this. Well. Not for the sex alone. But for him, yes. Which was exactly why romances between spies were very much discouraged, but Mitte had never been a stickler for the rules, official or unspoken.

Always he said, and for once she wasn’t terrified of that, of the unending expanse of always laid out ahead of them. “You’ve got me.” Mitte promised against his mouth, breathless as she trailed more kisses down Kristoff’s neck to leave a mark of her own against his collarbone. 

“Oh fuck, Kristoff, I’m…” Words were quickly abandoned as the steady rhythm of her hips started to stutter, and Mitte could do nothing but moan, her face buried in the crook of his neck as she came apart with a shudder. Her motions slowed while she caught her breath but she didn’t stop, pushing gently on Kristoff’s shoulders ‘till he was flat against the mattress again. She let her body melt into his and then she kissed him softly, hips still rocking as her hands slid into his hair. 

KRISTOFF

He looked up at her, his gaze a little hazy, to be honest. Still, he saw the look on her face, the expression she wore. Mitte was an incredibly good liar — they had to be, both of them, in their profession — but he could see through it. He had always seen her for who she really was, and right now she was genuine. She meant it; he had her. She was his. A moan escaped him when he felt her lips against his collarbone, knowing somewhere in the bad of his mind that she’d left a mark there, that he was hers just as much as she was his.

He held her tightly as she tipped over the edge again, coming with a shudder, tightening around his cock in a way that had him seeing stars for a moment. He was so close, about to tell her so but she had come back to him, catching his lips in a kiss so that all he could do was let out a strangle groan. He pulled back just a little way, not far at all, really, feeling her breath against his cheek as he panted into her jaw. His hands found her hips, fingers pressing tight into her skin as he held her close to him. The scratch of her fingernails against her scalp, the incessant rhythm of her hips— he came with her name on his lips, panted into her skin, the feel of her around him, on top of him, the scent of her, the only things he was aware of.

His hands slipped from her hips as he came back to himself, sliding up her sides, over her arms, her neck, to cradle her face. He kissed her again, slowly, tenderly, and pulled back to look at her. “You mean that.” It wasn’t a question. Just a statement; letting her know that he knew she meant it. “I’ve got you.”

MITTE She was boneless and breathless and warm, one forearm pressed heavily into the mattress by Kristoff’s head, doing just enough to hold her up so she could look down at him, all of her muscles burning and her head spinning. It was akin to the feeling after a good sparring match. Only if it had been with Kristoff, of course. No one else had ever matched her quite so well. 

It had been true for a long time, one of those things Mitte couldn’t dispute but had refused to acknowledge. He had her. She had said it without pausing to think, yes, but Mitte didn’t feel any less certain as the two of them finally stilled, sated. Kristoff had always been the one to inspire her most honest reactions, the waitress debacle was proof enough of that. The only concerns she had were centred around the agency, and what the reaction would be when this got out. Because it would, even if the two of them did everything in their power to keep a lid on it, and then what? Would they be split up? They did their best work together, neither of them would’ve even taken the job in the first place without the other. 

Kristoff was kissing her again, and Mitte decided it wasn’t worth worrying about. “Who else could ever?” She pointed out softly, relieved her face would already be too beet red for any blush to show through. That too, was true, though it did make the enormity of this whole thing harder to ignore. There was nobody else. “I suppose I don’t have to ask what you intend to do with me.” Her mouth tipped up in one corner in a lazy smirk, and she dipped her head to press a kiss at the base of Kristoff’s throat, settling with her head against his chest.

KRISTOFF

He ran his fingertips over her side as she looked down at him, feeling the racing over her heart as his hand brushed over her ribs. He smiled softly, maybe just a little bit smug. Who else could ever, she said, and maybe he had known it all along but it really was nice to hear her say it out loud.

When she settled against him he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her just a little bit closer. He kissed the top of her head, settling back so that his gaze was tipped up at the ceiling. It would be complicated. The agency would throw a fit, probably. They’d have to fight to go on missions together. But they could make it work; he was sure of that, at least.

“I have a few ideas,” he admitted, smiling to himself, since she couldn’t see it. “We should probably stop the bad guy first, though. Then at least we can say we’re still capable of doing our jobs.” 

MITTE

Bad guy. Right. They had a bad guy to catch, so they were gonna have to do that before they could do this again. Ugh. “Work sucks.” Mitte mumbled into his chest. Were they crazy for doing this? Were they crazy for not doing it sooner? Sometimes, these things really did have to hit you like a grand piano falling out of the sky in a cartoon. A glimpse of how she would feel if he chose someone else. 

“But you’re right.” She sighed, “that’s the first line in the book they’ll throw at us, so if we can handle this quickly it’ll be harder to stop us.” She frowned against Kristoff’s skin, her hands curling a bit tighter around him. “Not that they won’t keep trying.” Mitte wondered what the play was here, if they should out themselves immediately upon return or try to keep things under wraps until it inevitably spilled out. The latter afforded them the chance to sneak around which was fun, but the likelihood of a punishment- and not the sexy kind Kristoff had already claimed an interest in- was high. 

Mitte just… Didn’t want the outside world muscling in on whatever this was before they’d even had a chance to settle into it. But she supposed that was the sensible way to go about things, the proper way. Everyone would figure them out no matter what they did of course, and then it would begin, the comments and questions and bothersome nudges that Mitte truly hated. “...What are we gonna do?” She asked softly, not sure he’d have an answer but searching for something anyway, about more than the next couple of days.

KRISTOFF

Kristoff took a deep breath, casting his gaze to the ceiling for a moment as he thought, his thumb brushing backwards and forwards over Mitte’s skin gently. Of course the agency would hate it – they would never let the two of them work together again. There weren’t very many couples at the agency, mostly because it was a stupid, terrible idea. And Kristoff knew that it was; getting involved with your partner was the best way to make sure that you would eventually slip up, get emotional, give the enemy some leverage over you. And yet, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

“We review the audio you got from Goodfellow’s room,” He said, knowing it wasn’t what she meant. Still, in terms of next steps, that was what they had to do. “Figure out where exactly he is – he must have some kind of meeting set up out here. We intercept, we take him in. And we keep this,” He looked down at her, kissing the top of her head again. “To ourselves. Just for now. Everyone thinks we act like an old married couple anyways,” He added, smiling ruefully. “They probably won’t know anything’s different. We’ll tell them eventually, just… on our terms.”

MITTE

It was strange, how not strange this was. Even last time, when the frenzy had ended and the two of them had stayed tangled together, and Kristoff had been overthinking it so hard that Mitte had practically seen the steam coming out of his ears, she had not for a moment felt uncomfortable in his arms. Every soft brush of his hand now just helped work out the lingering tension in her muscles, and she could feel her eyelids starting to droop. 

“They’re going to have a field day when we eventually tell them…” Mitte sighed, leaning up enough to kiss him again, because there probably wouldn’t be a lot of time to do so tomorrow. Her thumb brushed gently across Kristoff’s cheek as she looked down at him, trying not to picture the teasing. It only meant she’d suffer twice, and she knew he’d be right by her side when it did all eventually have to come out. For Kristoff, she’d endure it. Hopefully without killing anyone. “We should get some sleep.” She said, pouting and surly, shifting some of her weight off Kristoff to snuggle into his side. “Promise I’ll still be in bed when you wake up this time.” Mitte pulled the duvet up around them, and gave him another last kiss, and then another for good measure. “Goodnight.” She murmured against his skin, tucking in real close before closing her eyes and finally letting sleep take her.

KRISTOFF

Yeah, they would have a field day, and it wasn’t just teasing and jokes that he was worried about. Kristoff and Mitte always worked together, and they were some of the best. If anyone could begin to doubt them they were going to do it, try to throw a spanner in the works to get the two of them stuck in an office or chasing petting criminals rather than taking the big jobs. The two of them had worked too hard to get to where they were for that to happen, which was part of the reason why Kristoff wanted to wait. So that they could make sure this was done on their own terms, to prove that it wasn’t going to change anything. They were a team, same as they always had been, just… even more so, now.

He smiled softly at the promise she gave him. He didn’t doubt her, either. He held her close, listening to her breathing go slow and even before he let sleep pull him under as well – they were going to need an early start in the morning.

[grimmthorne]

genuinely hate my brain like it's not even funny anymore. I hate it. every day feels like a losing battle against it and it's only a matter of time before I just start giving in and become so much fuckign worse. fuck, maybe that'll get my mom to listen to me when I say i need help. tw for the tags ig

[koolades-world]

Exclusive Mc Privileges

Lucifer

Getting to wear his big coats and gloves when you’re cold or whenever you feel like it

Interrupting him working with no consequences no matter how silly the reason

Waking him up first thing in the morning like a kid on Christmas

Telling him how attractive he is when he’s mad

Helping him grooms his wings

Taking as many silly pictures together as they want as long as they don’t share them with anyone

Borrowing his pens

Helping yourself to his record collection

Staying out late

Comforting him in the middle of the night when he wakes up with a nightmare

Mammon

Being his passenger princess

Treating him like a princess whenever he feels inadequate

Borrowing his sunglasses at any time

Keeping him company when Lucifer hangs him upside down

Taking the blame for anything bad you did even if it means losing money

Driving his car

Using his money

Calling him you first and cutest demon

Dressing in matching outfits even if they are bright pink

Levi

Joining him to any and all conventions

Making cosplays with him

Borrowing anything from his manga collection

Touching or seeing his tail in a domestic setting since he’s insecure about

Polishing his scales for him before parties!

Feeding him while he’s gaming

Letting you play any game you want on game nights together

Doing his makeup whenever you feel like it

Caring for Henry

Satan

Organizing his books

Sharing his tea collection with him

Baking cookies together from his favorite book series

Going to exclusive events as his partner

Using his influence to get you whatever you want

Spending late night reading time with him

Going on morning walks with him

Scrubbing his hair in the shower <3

Borrowing his notes from class if you were sick or just forgot to take some that day

Asmo

Sharing his morning routine with him since he wants you to look fabulous too

Getting lots of gifts from him since everything he sees reminds him of you

Borrowing anything you want in his closet

Using his Devilgram

Matching jewelry!

Making jewelry together to have it matching which is better than buying it

Attending meet and greet events with him as moral and emotional support

Him cooking cute recipes he found online for you

Being his personal model for new looks

Beel

Cooking for and with him

Stopping him from eating the ingredients while cooking

Picking out his change of clothes after the gym

Going on dates to new restaurants

Stealing his shirts to fashion into outfits or lounging around in

Piggy back rides!

Flexing his arms for you so you can touch them

Admiring his wings

Teaching you everything he knows about various Devildom dishes

Belphie

Sleepy kisses :)

Hiding in the attic to get away for a while and nap

Pillow shopping together

Going camping in the middle of nowhere to admire the stars and each others company

Sneaking off together at parties

Karaoke together since he knows how much you love his voice

Attempting to wake each other up but falling back asleep together each time

Surprising you at RAD with random gifts of flowers

Making cupcakes together and ending in a flour war

[dogbites-puppylove]

Devil Sins

The Batfam and the deadly sin that colors their life, and the virtue of their darling

TW:  Yandere behavior (obsession, possessive behavior and unhealthy ideations), mention of suicide ideation and s/h as well as gore

Tags: Yandere! Batfam x reader

Bruce Wayne: Pride    

Within Gotham, it's common knowledge that when crimes wretched hands come down to slit your neck you do not clasp your hands and pray to God, no - you whisper your tears into a puddle of blood and give your reverence to hold out for Batman. It is under no exaggeration that divinity in the cursed city leaves justice to crumbled bones and puddles of teeth and tongue, and its cruel master in the form of a man with no face. It's fitting, for a city of corruption and bile. Gotham’s god is its dark knight with steel for bones and scripture of flesh, man made Godhood with flawed creation in its wake. But man has never been meant to hold godhood, the pathway of immortals too cruel and demanding, even with those who have wielded its deadly blade of eons it rips into them. Tearing at seams and breaking into them until their pieces can be glorified in the stained windows of churches.     

Batman is divinity within mortal confines. There have been prayers and hymns in his name, retribution in his name and the painful dependency of creator and creation waged on him. Batman is an entity that is nothing but iron and brimstone, unbending and unfeeling, but Bruce Wayne, the man who created this creature whose only split from being a monster is a bloodied and beaten code, is painfully human. He feels each failure weigh on him, aging him past his own casket and decaying him even as he still breathes, it cradles his head during the night and whispers the screams of those he has watched fall.

Every time Batman stands tall, Bruce can feel something small and young turn decrepit and vile in his stomach until it erupts from him like bile from the back of his throat. He thinks it must be the humanity of a son who in truth, died with his parents in that alley. It slices his open, cutting his flesh to ribbons, and gorges itself on his organs only to fill him up with something inhuman. It's with bated breath with lungs that have been clouded with smog, that he waits for Batman to finally rule Bruce Wayne unfit and strangle him entirely.   

Darling: Humility

The Darling acts as the humility to his pride, dragging him to his knees so archaically Batman shrivels in your presence. You are his humanity given form, the antithesis to his claim of being the perfect hero. You lead him by the nose, walking him on a leash so flawlessly he thinks you might have been born just to keep him grounded. Every scrape or bruise seems to repel the mission Batman strives for and replaces it with nothing, but a man stricken that he hadn’t done better. Each burn or scrape, even a paper cut drives guilt into him and brings a physical ache to his body like you had beaten him with a bat. Each mark burns the shame of a failed hero and leaves only the pathetic begs and whines of a man that can only be human. 

If he could, he would spend his days by your side, affected by the intrinsic need to provide for you, leaving you physically and mentally unable and robbed of the ability to want. It's a desire that burns molten in his chest and drips down his limbs, it burns and aches at him as if trying to rip out of his chest and lick at your hand like a depraved dog. He would do anything for you, would render the world silent, bring you a heart on a platter, violate himself so terribly he could not know anything but his adoration of your presence and yet it still feels inadequate. A simple compliment from you leaves him bereft of ambition and scorn, leaving him on his hands clasped in prayer. 

Batman may have been his creation, but Bruce Wayne is your own tool, use him to get what you want, change him for your own needs just keep him at hand. He'll be loyally and wholly (obsessively and blindly, almost rabid) yours. God bends to nobody's will, but Bruce Wayne knows down to the electrons snapping in his synapse that his place in this world is by your side, whether you point, whenever you deem fit. You’re his god, and himself nothing but a faithful follower. 

Richard Grayson: Lust

Perhaps born from watching his parents, who should have been a constant, die in front of him a painful death filled with tourists' eyes and misplaced faith, right outside of his fingers grasps Dick has an inherent need to feel. For him, want runs in his skin like a conscious, whispering what he craves, giving voice to a voracity so impossible that it turns physical. He has known denial from the start, whether it be the blood of the man who stole his parents, a want that made his tongue ache and crawled at his ribs until his bones crackled, or the sweeter craving of a relationship, something that watered at his mouth. Want is something that has haunted him, growing obsessively until it reached lust.

Though sexual desire, of course, is something that is often attributed to it, it's not the only way lust presents itself. For Dick, it appears when he closes enough to reach out and feel flesh on his own, something tangible and it shocks him like a bad dog until he reaches out to soothe his skin. It appears in the dead of night when he can feel no other warmth than his blankets, even as he arches out and reaches pathetically into the air. It is a call of pathetic loneliness, so strong that when his younger brothers are cuddled drowning within him it is to try and get rid of the sudden echo, to try and merge them into one, until he is no longer Dick Grayson, and somehow a part of them. Somewhere in between the heat of a lover and the loyalty of a son, he realizes that being a part of a couple isn’t enough.

He wants like a man starved, all instinct and need, like a child who has been ripped out of his mother’s grasp before she has fed him fully, there is always something he’s not quite satisfied with. What he truly craves is a constant, a union, melting himself, and another so they can be poured into the same mold and make something new, indistinguishable from the other. And despite the carnal behavior of his want, he knows how to get it. He smiles full of charisma, grins with the sun and serenades with the moon to get his fixes, but each one leaves him starved, stricken for more. Like a bad addiction.

Darling: Chastity    

The darling brings a chastity in his life, though not to say he wants less, but in the way a husband will fully devote himself to their wife. It’s the deceptive nature of a couple announcing a pregnancy and accidentally alluding to nights spent in bed. The darling hits a spot for him that leaves him mind numbingly euphoric, like a high that is reached after weeks and weeks of suspension. Every kiss has him feral, no better than an animal and chasing after you, every negligence has him whining by your feet, clinging to you. He grows incredibly dependent on your presence, on your touch and everything beneath. 

With you his sharp mind bleeds into instinct, and the charisma he wields to pry himself into others good graces is left uselessly at the door. It’s a delusional dreamy trance, every hug sends him tumbling down further and further until his panting against your neck and thinking of nothing but you, you, you. He can feel himself slipping into your existence, swearing he can taste the coffee you drank in the morning, and can feel every cut or bruise you get without him present. His want for you is wet, sticky and binding, threatening to pull you over until you lose your mind along with him. 

It’s almost laughable how pliant he is with you, a touch to his arm can have him following you over a cliff, a peck to the cheek and suddenly his on your lap whining for more. For all he is hard and angry, full of vigilante fights and bruised skin you wouldn’t even have to hurt him to kill him. With you, he can indulge himself fully, so much so that he wants no other. In fact any other touch leaves him lacking, so utterly entranced by you that he can no longer feel another’s skin unless it’s yours.  To him, his darling and himself cannot be separated, they won’t go down in history but their names, but by the title for lovers. Nothing to define themselves but their own love. 

Jason Todd: Wrath

Anger, to Jason, is an old friend that lives in his bones and whispers in his ears with every movement. He has used it well his entire life, a melting anger of forged iron against his father to keep him defiant, a indigent anger filled with a son's tears for his mother, the roar of inequality and social class that steals from the batmobile and the blinding and rash rush that leaves him as robin. It’s at first a soft motivation that keeps him alive, any good street rat knows, or any street rat still breathing that to stop means you’re as good as dead. He covets his rage, it's youthful and idealistic and keeps his heart beating.

Of course, after the pit (after being beaten to death in a warehouse of gasoline and gunpowder, watching his own blood relax as he’s robbed of his own, coming back ripping from his own skin and drowned in green only to find out his father-father-had left him unavenged. Left him replaced and gone) his anger has grown into something primordial. Too old to be Jason’s but so familiar he leans into it. It grows from his bones like ivy and twigs, poking out against his flesh and sewing itself under his skin so that the slightest breach sends it out to take root.  Jason’s wrath is something that threatens to leave him choking blood, and yet it keeps him alive with the threat of keeping him running forever. It is the anger of a child on the poster who has never been found, and their stomach full of worms that burrows into his own. The tears of a case under the corrupt policeman’s file, and the ghosts scream in a house empty of their future. It’s all those who have ever been a statistic (as he has been) boiling over under his skin. Because Jason knows the wrath of the dead and unavenged intimately, it burns his memories in green and leaves his chest heaving with permanent mourning of mothers whose children were robbed and never found. It threatens to scratch away from the inside of his ribs until its nails finally rip him open in a mocking autopsy and wail into Gotham’s plugged ears.

Jason's violence, his actions and words, the bullets in his guns and glare under the hood are all reactions to this. As long as the world spins, as long as humans turn a blind eye to victims, and allow the injustice of the world to mold them, he will move. All his actions are an answer, a bullet through a man's cranium, the vengeance of a young girl with a ripped dress, a severed head, the relief of a child who watches their family bleed out for powdered death. Each and every shout of Red Hood, every puddle of blood he coats the ground on proof that he is still moving. Because Jason’s wrath is old and an answer, to the boy in the warehouse, to the boy in the ground and mounted not as a son but a soldier. It’s a solution to the fear that manipulates his chest that should he stop moving he’d be buried again. 

Darling: Patience

Jason is a man of action and violence, fear turned into anger because above all he is a man cursed with empathy. With his darling the fear that curdles his insides soothes, like a mother rubbing her child’s stomach and singing a special song to keep the pain away. The world will keep moving regardless of him taking a break, and he has the blinding panic of staying in time, and yet his darling is a perfect encapsulation of time. Something preserved beautifully, a painting stuck in motion, the words on his books that are remembered through words and tongue. The tint of red becomes a pastel pink, and suddenly he’s so, so weak.

With his darling he closes his eyes without fear of waking up decaying. A sweep of your hand against his cheek will pull a sigh of pleasure from his throat suddenly free of phlegm and blood, even a harsh hit will feel divine. His darling functions as a sort of “moment” , something trapped in time and solely for Jason. Much like opening a book, the story is forever clashing but the words stay all the same, waiting for the reader. It’s with you the anger that has kept him moving for so long, washed away, like the dirt clinging to his skin under water. It's freeing and leaves him shakily bare, with you he weeps, with you he grows and stays forever yours. You are life itself, something ancient and timeless at the same time. The nostalgia of losing a tooth and excitement of a birthday party wrapped into tender song and softer skin.  

It’s a common sight to see him cry when with you, prayer in the form of tears that are just for you. He spends his days in a lovestruck haze, almost as if he’s been drugged. For Jason there is no constant, no surety but you. He would do anything to keep you perfect, safe and just as you always are. He'll care for you much like a beloved heirloom, of course he loves you with a severance that would scare most, but you are something he seeks to preserve. Nothing can hurt you, will hurt you, you’ll remain untouched until you reach out yourself. Your presence alone is enough for him to intoxicate himself with, bask in forever. But should you give I’m a sliver of your attention, allow him to enter your perfect little world? He’ll be lost forever.

Tim Drake: Gluttony

The most intimate feeling Tim knows is hunger, perhaps not for food but for anything and everything else. Obsession is his most familiar form of companionship, stuffing picture after picture of his object of affection until he can drown in them. In his house of echoing walls and emptiness he comes to emulate it. He feels hollowness in his soul, some nights he wonders if he took a knife to his own side what he would find. Would it be organs? Perhaps a heart? Or would it be the void that has eaten all that made him and left him with a constant hunger to fill himself with? For a time, he manages to satiate himself with Batman and Robin, stalking and drinking them in over and over until one day it's stolen and left him with nausea so terrible. (And Tim still remembers the rawness of his skin as he is thrashing in his room, his throat bleeding from his wails of a boy he never met)

The more he gets the more he hungers, it’s something horrific and apathetic that leads him to chasing after his own fill. Case after case solved, fact after fact filtered and sorted through, Tim is insatiable. Like a well oiled machine, the fuel that keeps him going only works to find more fuel, it's a never-ending cycle of something that can no longer be deemed as human. Half of this can be attributed to the fact that it’s all the same to him, an angelic charity to a garish murder eh takes them and feasts on them all the sometime efficiency is more of a hook then anything, pulling others in so he can feast on them, devouring their mannerisms and habits, licking up and chewing on their thoughts until there nothing left of them. 

One could blame this on the fact that the identity of “Tim Drake'' has never really been sought out, so there’s no substance to him. Something useless will obviously stay shiny, clean and unused, it's logical in all the ways it makes Tim want to throw a tantrum. It drives his mouth to salivate until he’s drooling over another function he can consume, another person he can mirror, another morsel to disappear within himself. And yet with each new meal he can only feel the void echo back louder, as if he had never eaten at all. Like a fire consuming too much wood that it withers out in anger, as if the trees that had been cut never existed in the first place. It threatens to force Tim to disappear forever.

Darling: Temperance

The temperance his darling offers is in the form of a craving rather than actual fulfillment. After just his first taste of you, Tim has been enraptured for you, nothing comes close to your unique temperament, your reactions, everything that makes you, you. You leave his mouth watering for more, nothing else can settle against his tongue the way you can, nothing can mimic the way you fill his head with static and leave him filled to the brim. He takes whatever kindness you give him and uses it as an invitation to learn more about you, an invitation to bear himself fully. Any preference you have, a favorite color or show, even general food preference will settle into Tim as if it had been his all along. Where he used to drink black coffee, has grown a taste for your favorite creamer, your playlist will be playing in the back of his head as he switches through W.E. work, it’s all you, you, you. Like a puzzle finally coming together,

Tim’s brain finally quiets down and is forced to digest. Any sort of attention you give him is a five course meal, any scorn is just as quickly devoured. You don’t quite stop the habit of obsession, but you give it direction. Tim has never known such direct want until you, a den he has no plans to stop his indulgent habits. He is ravenous for anything you toss to him, your voice, a text, an opinion, even just a little note, whatever you do stays, It’s a blessing and a curse. Because while the hunger pangs back in your presence, now nothing else can even come close to keeping him occupied.

He’ll obsess over you, crafting himself to be your perfect companion just so he can stay by your side and continue feeding. Everything in your life has a shade of him, your job, your house, your hobbies, even your electronics, each one a special situation he created to have you just a bit closer. Nothing else can come close to you, he’ll make sure you're well taken care of, all he asks in return is you.

Damian Wayne: Envy

Damian’s life is a unique contradiction. He was born the sole inheritor of a Thorne he is meant to fight for, something only he can own and yet is so unworthy he is kept from it. It forces him into a sense of jealousy, inadequacy and egregious entitlement. He could have anything he needs, but only as long as he earns it, it gives him a longing sense of feeling everything is out of his reach. That even should he hold the sword in his hands it cannot be called his. Not in the way a dog can call its food their own, and not in the way a writer can crow over their own creation. It leaves him painfully envious of others, of their right to their own possession, it leaves him vicious and poisonous. Part of the reason he squirrels away animals with so much intent, is because they’d be “His.” He’s their sole owner, and as beings with a conscience they can prove their loyalty. 

His envy leaves him with harsh words and even deadlier scars, it forces him into a fine weapon and while it’s an ideal state for an heir it’s a broken state for a child. It leaves the boy wanting, fearful and anxious. His envy is young and childish, something not allowed, and it’s something weaponized. It’s part of the reason he defends the title of robin so freckly, not only because he believes himself right, but because it’s his in way the throne cannot be. Because it’s not a legacy he’s supposed to take, it's one he steals from himself. It’s his, in a way nothing has been since he first cried from the pit.

But even then, the title of partner that so many others have worn, cannot soothe the constant ire, the lashing out that comes with fear of being replaceable, of being nothing but a role, comes with. Because Damian has been born as his mother’s son, as his father's legacy, but not as his own person. It makes Damian feel unfit, unusable in the way he has seen his mother discard students who cannot kill. It burns him, kills him and with time he thinks he might just be a husk. Damian is nothing but competency and a perfect successor, a successor will never be their own.

Darling: Kindness

Ironically the kindness that tempers his own envy is not his own but instead, actions of his own darlings. He fully gives himself to you, gives you his very purpose to do what you want with. Should you order him to kill, order him to die, or to live he would do it without complaint. Tell him you want his heart and he will pry himself open and hand it over with a smile, tell him you want his laugh, and he will laugh himself manic until you tire of it. He is a fine blade, a weapon that has seen battle far too much already, and it’s your own kindness that stops it from going to battle. In essence Damian has made himself a role right by you, but has given up his autonomy of your manipulation. You’ve become his master, his owner and his loyal weapon.

Every action is your doing, every remark is for your benefit, and by giving himself to you, he can have you in a way nobody else can claim. Every smile, every hug, every word that you speak to him is something unique from a dynamic he has hand crafted, and therefore uniquely his own. He will store you away from others, wary of letting them stain you, and even more wary of letting them steal you. You’re his, his love, his heart, his blood, his purpose on this earth, and he cannot let another’s touch deter you from this. His darling is a salve to his aches, a bandage that wraps tight enough to manage to hold him together, and his actions are that with the purpose of binding you to him. Your purpose will be each other.

Author's Note: Another reupload! Previously known as lovesick-laboratories.

[samuelsdean]

New Favorite Banter

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: you should've felt satiated. last night’s affair should’ve been enough for you. after all, for the first time, spencer finally let his inhibitions go and railed you six ways to sunday. it should have been enough if only you weren’t greedy. well, you never prided yourself on being selfless. (part 2 to new favorite game, but it can also be read as a standalone.)

genre: smut (minors dni!)

warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), dom!spencer, mean!spencer, rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, riding, name-calling (calling you a slut), degradation, slight dumbification, choking, spanking, masturbation (f) & spencer being a cutie after

word count: 2.4k

author's notes: hello! i'm back with another smut and a much filthier one at that compared to the first one. this is a part 2 to my other fic, new favorite game, but it can also be read as a standalone. i wrote this after someone requested for a part 2 to nfg & for me to write a longer smut fic. i hope you'll love this! also posted on ao3 (spencereids).

PART ONE

YOU SHOULD’VE FELT SATIATED. Last night’s affair should’ve been enough for you. After all, for the first time, Spencer finally let his inhibitions go and railed you six ways to Sunday. It should have been enough if only you weren’t greedy.

Well, you never prided yourself on being selfless.

And now, here you are, lying awake in the middle of the night, a few hours just after being in the throes of passion with Spencer, unimaginably horny. But Spencer was asleep and as much you want him to shove his cock so far up in your walls, you know sleep is a luxury in your field of work as FBI agents.

So, you suck it up and decide it’s time you use your fingers. It’s not like you haven’t tried that before. Looking to your left, it is unmistakable Spencer is in a deep sleep, breaths coming out softly with his mouth slightly open. He looked so peaceful. A part of you feels guilty for thinking raunchy thoughts about him.

You crossed your legs to apply enough pressure. It felt so good but so, inadequate. You needed more, but you couldn’t risk waking Spencer up. You already feel guilty as it is. How much more if you woke him up from his restful sleep all because you were horny? But, you needed more, something to touch you right and fill you up. You check on Spencer again to see if he is still asleep, afraid the quiet rustling from crossing your thighs together to relieve your neediness awakened him. To your dumb luck, despite being a light sleeper, Spencer was still fast asleep.

Gently, you slowly slid your fingers into your sleep shorts, carefully sliding your panties to the side. You are drenched. Your wetness seeps through the thin cotton of your underwear and slowly slides down your knuckles. Spencer would’ve made fun of you if he was awake right now. Are you really that desperate? Three rounds from last night weren’t enough for you. You had to go again and touch yourself. You could imagine Spencer saying those exact lines to you as you started mimicking the movements he’d dole out. Caressing your nub, you started making figure eights on your folds, carefully doing it as quietly as possible to avoid waking the man sleeping beside you.

However, it was as if fate was playing tricks on you because for some reason, rubbing your clit tonight wasn’t enough for your needy cunt. It was as if the past few hours didn’t happen. You were feeling very deprived of the feeling of fullness. Stopping to take a breath and decide whether you should continue, you checked on Spencer again. He was now lying on his stomach, hair splayed out over his face, one arm slung over the pillow as he was facing you now. Fate was playing with you right now. Out of all the possible positions your boyfriend could’ve moved into, it had to be the one where he could wake up and see what you were up to immediately.

But you were horny and desperate to get off.

Forgoing all the possible consequences of touching yourself beside your fast-asleep boyfriend, you continued your ministrations. You started slowly easing two of your digits inside your warm walls, setting a slow yet sweet pace. You wanted more. No, you needed more. Biting your lip, you start curling your digits and plunge them back and forth. In and out. Faster. Harder. 

You’re getting there. Just a few more pumps and it’ll all be good. You just needed to stimulate your clit as well. You spit on your free hand, slowly trailing it toward your needy nub. You were about to reach your climax when you heard it loud and clear.

“God,” Spencer muttered in disbelief. You could almost hear the sleep slowly waning off of his voice. “Are you that much of a slut?”

You froze one hand mid-air and the other deep inside your walls. This was embarrassing as hell. You were like a little kid caught red-handed trying to steal from the cookie jar way beyond your sweet treat hours—like a teenager caught sneaking off in the middle of the night. Not to mention, you feel guilty as well for disrupting your partner’s sleep. You knew proper sleep was hard to come by—for both of you—and you just had to ruin it all because you were horny. Blushing red like wildfire, you cautiously removed the hand buried inside you.

“Fucking hell, Spence,” You tried acting nonchalantly like being caught touching yourself was something that happened a lot between the two of you. “You scared me. Go back to sleep, Spence. I can handle this myself. I know you were having a good sale—“

As soon as the indication of the word sleep was out of your mouth, Spencer was quick to mount you, gripping both of your arms over your head with one hand. You gasped in shock, almost frightened by how quickly your boyfriend moved. Your fight skills almost kicking into high gear—you had to remind yourself this was Spencer. Your Spencer, not some random guy nor an unsub tackling you. 

“Take deep breaths, baby,” Spencer murmurs as he nuzzles the side of your face—pecking the sides of your face, your jaw. “It’s just me. Nothing to be scared about.”

Really? You thought.

Spencer was never the dominant type in bed and last night was the first time he tried exerting control over you. But it seemed like after knowing what it was like to be in control, Spencer had acquired a taste for it.

“W-what are you doing, Spence?” You ask, chastising yourself for sounding like a deer in the headlights. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

“Sleep?” Spencer scoffs as he ascended a bit to look you in the eye. “How am I supposed to go back to sleep knowing you were fucking yourself beside me when I’m right here?”

You moaned at his vulgar words. He was never one for being blatantly erotic, always coming off shy and a little bit inexperienced. But this wasn’t the case right now. This isn’t the usual Spencer you were used to. Something snapped in him last night and you know it. You just wish you knew how to handle him.

“I can’t sleep knowing your fingers are inside your pretty little cunt,” He continues as he still rendered you speechless. “When it should have been mine. Don’t you want that, Y/N?”

“Y-yes,” You croaked.

“Yes what, baby?” 

“Yes, I want your fingers, Spencer,” You panted. “Please. I want it.”

Spencer chuckles at your admission—begging—satisfied that you wanted it as bad as he does. The erection poking your inner thigh was a telltale sign of that. He languidly slid his free hand in between the both of you, his palm cupping your warm, soaked cunt. 

“Shit,” You swear, wanting more than just what Spencer is giving you. Your hips roll as you try to grind against his palm to relieve the pressure. “P-please, baby. I need more. M-more.” 

“God, you’re filthy,” Spencer groans while he stops your grinding by pinching your clit, making you yelp. “Fucking you dumb earlier wasn’t enough, you had to go and disrupt my sleep. Do you know what kind of girls do that?” He asks you as he swipes his thumb across your clit making you pant some more.

You were too lost in the pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head, panting like a dog in heat. You never wanted anyone the way you wanted Spencer. You’ve never acted this way with anyone. It was as if he unfastened something in you the moment you got together. Too lost in the pleasure, you forget to answer Spencer’s question—annoying him as he pinched your clit once again.

“Answer me!” He snarls. “Answer me, or I’m going to fuck my hand while I tie you up and let you watch me.”

You sobbed and nodded. “Y-yes.”

“Then, tell me, sweet girl,” Spencer coaxed you as you felt your slick drip down his fingers and your inner thighs. “What kind of girls do that?”

“Sluts,” You mumbled, embarrassed as you see Spencer smirking in triumph. “I’m a slut.”

“Good girl,” Spencer murmured, removing his palm from between your legs. You squirmed in protest, to which he simply tightened the hand holding your arms and tutted. “Stop that, or you’re not getting anything from me.”

You merely whimpered and stopped moving. You almost cried when you felt Spencer moving off of you when you noticed he was moving lower. Oh. His face is now inches away from where you need him the most. You swear you could hear your heartbeat with the way you were excited about where this was going. You gasp when you feel Spencer press a kiss to your swollen clit. The touch almost made you pass out as you writhe, trying to force Spencer into doing more. But despite his lean form, Spencer was a lot stronger than you. His hold was iron-clad as he keeps you from squirming too much. 

And as much as Spencer was stronger than you, you were selfish and desperate to cum.

“M-more. Please,” You beg, your cheeks heating up in embarrassment at how deprived you sounded. But it was true. You wanted more. You needed more. “I need your tongue, baby. Please.”

You could feel Spencer smirk as he obeys. He grants you the tip of his tongue as it plunges inside of you, tasting you. You whimpered as you scramble to clench your bedsheet. Spencer continued dipping his tongue inside you as his nose nudged your clit. You’re sure you’re about to lose your mind with how good he’s making you feel. You were so close to your climax, hoping Spencer doesn’t let up. Worried that he might stop, you clutched his hair as you tried burying his face into the apex of your thigh when you felt Spencer stop. He removes his tongue from inside you, licking a stripe up to your clit, and kneels. 

You’re going to cry.

“W-what?” You blubber. You could see Spencer trying to hold off a grin like something funny just happened. “Why’d you stop, Spence? I-I was so close. You’re being so mean.” You sob as he finally couldn’t fight off the laugh bubbling under the surface. 

“Oh, baby,” Spencer chuckles, lying down on his side of the bed. “You’re hopeless. My poor baby just wants to cum. Too bad, you don’t deserve it. You have to work for it, Y/N.”

He pats his thigh, beckoning you to sit on his lap. You do so as you hiccup, to which he simply laughs. “Poor baby. Do you want to cum?” You nodded at his question.

“Then. ride me like you mean it.” 

You clamber to sit on his hard cock as you pushed him back to the bed. Spencer complies, enjoying the show—the desperation—you were putting on for him. You sink to his dick in one slick motion causing the both of you to moan out loud.

“You’re so tight,” Spencer groans as you started moving in circles. You couldn’t take it any longer. You need to cum. “Fuck! That’s it, baby. K-keep going. Good girl.”

Your head spins at the praise as you clamp your walls around him as he pulls out drenched in your slick and sinks back in.

“S-shit,” You whimper. “Fuck! Oh my—G-god!”

Your eyes roll back when you finally feel Spencer take over—he’s probably had enough of your pace which only seems to satisfy you, and not him. Holding your waist tightly, Spencer thrusts into you roughly as he tries to capture your right nipple. You manage a moan, or something similar, you think. Your desperation slowly fogs up your brain while Spencer fucks up into you. He merely hisses when he feels you clenching like crazy, prolonging the stretch his big cock gives you every time he enters.

“How are you so wet?” Spencer hisses. “Shit!”

One of Spencer’s hands slides down to your ass and smacks it once causing you to yelp in pain—pleasure.

“God, you get off on this, don’t you?” Spencer growls as he gets a good grip on your reddened ass cheek. “You’re such a slut. Do you enjoy hearing how tight and wet you get? F-fuck!”

With Spencer’s taut hold on you, the thrusts seem to be sharper, more precise as you bounce up and down his cock, and you scream. You try biting Spencer’s shoulder but before your teeth could sink into his muscle, he manages to pinch your clit causing you to wail. 

“P-please,” You beg, for what? For him to make you cum or for him to stop, you don’t know exactly. “S-Spence.”

“Shit,” Spencer mumbles, thrusting up into you as he drags you down to meet his hips. “I know, baby. I know.”

Clutching his hair, you forced him to look at you as you smashed your lips against his. The kiss is needy and fiery and you could briefly taste yourself when Spencer’s tongue finally slipped into your spit-slicked lips. Moaning and panting, you could taste each other’s breaths and feel each other’s thundering heartbeats.

You are so close and you know Spencer is too.

You guided Spencer’s hand towards your neck and gently squeezed as you looked into his eyes to tell him this is what you want.

“Are you sure?” Spencer asks, never failing to ensure your safety even during your intimate moments. You simply nodded, to which he groaned quietly. “Fuck!”

Bouncing a lot faster now, Spencer slipped his other hand as he stroked your clit. Your mind blanks and you’re vaguely aware of Spencer coaxing you to come with him, the gentle hum of the air conditioning unit, and the sounds of your skin slapping.

And you shatter.

When you finally come to your senses, you feel Spencer gently cleaning you up with a rag. You whimper in sensitivity when you feel him clean the apex of your thighs. He gently presses kisses on your inner thighs and you smile.

“Before I forget,” Spencer breaks the silence. “You have to pee before going back to sleep. There’s no specific time frame for you to pee but you must pee at least thirty minutes after having sex as it flushes bacteria that could cause a urinary tract infection away from your urethra.”

You roll over and groaned to your pillow to tease your boyfriend. “Not now, Spence. You just rearranged my guts! Give me a minute.”

“F-fine!” Spencer sputters out. You’re certain he was blushing. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you complain of a UTI!”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me, baby.” You say seductively. “Banter with me some more and maybe I might just come again.”

Spencer merely sighs.

[thehistoriccemetery]

Companions reacting to Tav sleeping completely naked!!!! Please

BG3 Companions Find Out Tav Sleeps Naked (18+)

I really thought I was just gonna start writing this one real quick (I had an idea for Karlach) and three hours later here I am.

This asker was literally the only one to request this one so this is largely self-indulgent, as I do and always have slept naked, even in this -4 degree weather.

Also I’m really trying to incorporate the drow language into Minthara’s portion, but I’m like 70% sure I failed and it just sounds mildly cringy and incredibly ill-informed.

Anyway this is all our favorite ladies (Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Karlach, Minthara, and Jaheira) finding out Tav sleeps naked.

(18+ for possible sexual themes)

Shadowheart

One morning, when she’s feeling particularly mischievous, Shadowheart decides she’s going to drop by your room and wake you up herself.

You’re certainly not the last one up, but Shadowheart, Jaheira, and Minthara have all been up making breakfast for a little while now, and she’s finding their company a little stale.

She sneaks over to your bed, grabbing the blankets and pulling them off of you in one swift move.

She’s typically a lot nicer and gentler when she wakes you up, but her aforementioned mischievousness has her feeling a little playful this morning.

“What the hell?” You groan grumpily, “put it back on I’m cold.”

She stares at you aghast. She was not expecting you to be completely naked, splayed out face down on the mattress.

“Fine, but I’m coming with it,” she says. She wraps the blanket around her shoulders and crawls on top of you.

“Much better,” you smirk, joyed to have such delightful company so early in the morning.

She kisses your bare shoulder. “I suppose I should apologize, I hadn’t expected you to be… unadorned.”

You chuckle. “You gotta problem with me sleeping in the nude?”

“Not a one,” she corrects. “I actually find it oddly… charming, I think. Plus then I can do this.”

She starts to trail slow kisses down your spine. You smirk, trying to turn around and face her, but she pins your wrists down, keeping you splayed out on the mattress.

“Be still for a moment, love,” she kisses the middle of your back before sitting up, astride your hips. “I feel like I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“My back?” You question. She’s certainly seen your bare back before. But she really seems to be enamored with it now. It was nothing special, you thought. Aside from a couple scars, it was just… a back.

She dragged her nails gently up your back. “I like the view. I’d like to see you like this more often.” She bends over until her chest is flush against you and whispers softly in your ear. “Perhaps tonight?”

You feel a rush of heat between your legs, closing your eyes and audibly exhaling.

Before you can even fully enjoy the sensation, she’s off of you, standing next to the bed with her hand out. “Come on, the others will be waiting.”

You take her hand and pull yourself out of bed. She certainly was feeling some type of playful this morning.

Lae’zel

“Hmm. This choice of sleepwear feels… inadequate,” Lae’zel spits.

You nearly jump out of bed with the scare she gives you. You were sleeping and not expecting such abrupt company.

With a simple fire spell, you light the candle on your bedside and point it towards the Githyanki.

“Lae’zel?” You ask, very confused. “What are you doing in here? What time is it? It can’t be morning already.”

You sigh. You were still so tired, you really hoped she was not here to wake you up for the day.

“No,” she growled. “The animal has been scratching at your door. It seems he has tired of Karlach’s snoring and would like to stay in here instead.”

With that, Scratch jumps onto your bed and curls up at your feet. The animals usually slept in Karlach’s room.

“But, back to your choice of sleepwear,” she says. “It seems ill-advised to be covered by do little in your most vulnerable state.”

You cock your head. You had never seen sleeping naked as a safety hazard. “Lae’zel, you’re not sleeping in your armor… are you?”

“Chk, no,” she says, gesturing to her own sleep outfit.

“What more protection does that give you than this?” You gesture at her body and then your own.

“It’s sleek, form fitting, ergonomic, and, most importantly, it covers my most intimate areas.”

You stifle a laugh. The comment sounded ridiculous to you but you would accept her clothes as superior if it meant she’d let you go back to sleep.

“Okay, Lae’zel. Goodnight.” You blow out the candle and close your eyes.

Moments later you feel Lae’zel carefully crawl into bed on top of your blankets.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“If you insist on sleeping in such a state, I must sleep here too. To ensure your safety.”

Karlach

Lets be honest: Karlach is at most sleeping in her underwear most nights.

But she puts on some trousers at least to pad over to your room and ask for a cuddle.

You wake up in your typical sleeping position: on your stomach with your hair flying all over the place.

You swipe the hair from your eyes to see a sweet little (7ft tall) tiefling holding her teddy bear and anxiously smiling.

“Hey love,” you say, groggy but still soft and sweet. “What can I do for ya?”

“I was just wondering if I could… um… maybe have a cuddle?” She requests, anxiously shifting her weight around.

You giggle, using your arm to lift up on side of the blanket. “Of course, darling. Please it is freezing in here.”

Her eyes go wide as you expose your full chest in lifting the blanket, then she smiles and crawls under.

As she makes contact with your skin, it’s immediately apparent that you truly are wearing nothing.

“Oh so you sleep naked. Like naked naked,” she remarks.

“As the day I was born,” you quip. “Any objections?”

She giggles and twists excitedly. “None at all my darling. In fact, I think I might like to join you.”

“Get those trousers out of here!” You joke. “No trousers allowed in the bed!”She removes what’s left of her clothes and settles into bed.

Karlach sleeps on her back, leaving you sort of half stacked on top of her with her arm swung lazily around your back. Your legs are semi-intertwined, alternating between yours and hers.

You prop your chin up against her chest to look her in the eyes. “I guess it’s kinda inconvenient that neither of us sleep on our side, huh? We’re just kinda stacked chest to chest.”

“I suppose I can be on top and we can try to go back to back,” she teases. “But I’d probably suffocate you, face down into the mattress.”

You laugh at the thought and teasingly mess up her hair. “You’re hilarious. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, darling,” she says, craning up to kiss your forehead.

For as awkward and sloppy as it looks, you both actually find the position quite comfortable.

Naturally, you wake up with your ass fully on display from where you both kicked off the blankets in the middle of the night.

Minthara

Minthara is awake, as usual, when you step into her room. Her red eyes almost glow in the pitch black.

“Can I help you?” She asks passively.

“Can I sleep in here? My room is frigid,” you ask from the doorway, clearly shaking under a blanket.

She sighs, but motions for you to come join her on the bed. “As you wish, ssin.”

Minthara had attempted to teach you a small bit of her language. The words came off unfamiliar and hissy on your tongue. From what you knew, the term she occasionally used for you, “ssin”, wasn’t an actual word. You assumed it was used as a pet name derived from the drow words “ssinssrigg” (passion, lust, greed, love) and “alurissin” (a deep loving connection.)

You close the door softly and crawl into her bed. You get on at the bottom and squirm your way up until your head pokes out the blankets.

She looks at you, both amused and appalled by your abnormal behavior. She supposed that was one way to “crawl” into bed. If you were taking the phrase literally.

“You are terribly odd sometimes, my dear,” she said laying her hand on your back, surprised to find no fabric under the blanket.

“Are you not wearing any clothes?” She asks. This wasn’t the first time the two of you had shared a bed, but the previous times you had fallen asleep naked after sex. She hadn’t thought you did that every night.

You shook your head against her chest.

“Straj, in that case I think I discovered the source of your temperature issue.” She rubbed her forehead, reminding herself of all the reasons she actually valued you at all.

Gods how did the sleeping races ever survive the nights? Did everyone sleep like this or was this just a you thing? She didn’t think she’d be surprised either way.

She opened her mouth to ask more questions, but you were already comfortably asleep against her chest.

She sighed and gently stroked your bare back in defeat. How in the hells had she fallen so hard for this adorable little fool.

Jaheira

After a particularly long day, you decide to skip all the extra steps of running your own bath and decide to just bathe in Jaheira’s room.

Her tub was already full, fresh with herbs and such from her own bath.

You rinse off quickly, eager to crawl into bed. “Can I just stay in here tonight?” You ask politely from the tub.

“That is fine. But don’t get disappointed if I fall asleep immediately,” Jaheira explains. “I’m no, spring chicken, as they say.”

You get out of the tub and dry yourself off. “Oh trust me, after today I could fall asleep on one of those god awful bedrolls again.”

She laughs. “Well then it sounds like we’re on the same page, yes?”

She gets in bed, careful to leave one side fully open to you. You step towards the bed, and lift the blanket to get in.

“Put on your sleeping clothes, it is too cold.” She commands.

You look around. You don’t have any sleeping clothes. You always sleep like this.

As you explain this to her she clicks her tongue. She gets out of bed and starts rooting through her wardrobe.

“This was Khalid’s. It will swallow you up, but it will keep you warm.”

You take the heavy fur robe into your hands. You didn’t know how to feel about being offered her late husband’s clothes.

She could see the weariness on your face and soothed you with a gentle hand on the cheek.

“He would be happy I have you, you know?” She says with a somber chuckle. “I think the two of you would’ve gotten on all too well.”

You rubbed your hand against the soft fur. I was jet black, like a panther. It reminded you of Jaheira. You softly thank her before putting on the robe. It was, indeed, very warm and way too big.

Jaheira made her way back to bed, and you followed shortly thereafter. She wrapped her arms around you, pressing her chest against the warm fur.

You have never felt so safe as you did in that moment: swaddled in a massive robe, wrapped in the arms of your lover.

She kisses the back of your head. “Goodnight, my cub.”

[corazondebeskar-reads]

the art of breaking (dark!joel miller x f!reader; dead dove do not eat)

the art of breaking part one | part two

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Your meeting is happenstance, but everything that follows? Well, that’s all Joel. He just knows you’re going to be his perfect little toy. He just has to show you how.

written for the #deaddovedecember2023 event hosted by @romana-after-dark | also on ao3 | dedicating this to @kewwrites, who is a master and icon of unsettling-but-still-romantic dark fic & whose incredible vibes made me feel brave enough to write this. love you ty 🖤

dividers by @saradika-graphics

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

Seriously, I am saying this as clearly as I can: read the warnings carefully. If anything listed is something you don’t want to read, don’t. The working title for this was “the darkest joel” for a reason (and I actually tamed it down/cut out some of the intense scenes). It’s modern-day/no outbreak, but Joel still lost Sarah and went off the deep end. He was probably a good dom at some point, but now he’s just fucked up.

If you're worried it'll be too dark, it probably will be.

Warnings under the cut:

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, semi-permanent damage (a bone is broken, I’m not fucking around), whipping, spanking, face slapping, tit slapping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, anal, vaginal, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, edging, denial, dacryphilia, bastinado (mentioned), restraints, very brief knifeplay, tiny drop of blood play, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare 

Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it. 

Please read responsibly. 

I. in media res

     -the fracture

There’s one comfort Joel almost never denies you.

Well, never denies himself.

Unless you’ve been real bad, you always take your place in bed with him at the end of the day. You think it’s so he has easy access to you if he wakes up horny, but honestly, that happens a lot less than expected. He works hard all day; he needs his sleep.

No, he likes the comfort of your warm body next to his. The way you curl up and press kisses to him, no matter how bad he hurt you during the day. His sweet little pet, desperate for every bit of his affection you can earn. He’s always gentle with you here.

It’s part of what makes The Pit so effective.

It fucks with your brain on so many levels, exposes you to so many fears, and then you have to reconcile that you were bad enough for Joel to deny himself the comfort of you in his arms at night. That you’re so undeserving of his love.

Of all of the ways he punishes you, this will be the worst. You can take the humiliation, the pain—not easily, but you can, and there’s usually immediate care after.

But a night in The Pit will tear you down completely.

You hadn’t known what to expect when he said you’d have to spend the night alone, but it wasn’t this.

“No, please,” you scream, stumbling to keep up as Joel pulls you by your hair.

“Shut up,” he snarls.

The soil is loose, clinging to your sweat as you try to right yourself. It’s a futile effort. When you reach The Pit, he holds you down with his boot on your chest while he unlocks and opens the bars.

“Get in,” he says.

You’re sobbing and shaking, skin already gone cold. Somehow, you manage to obey.

The Pit is exactly what it sounds like. It has an open wooden frame with mesh on the side walls to keep the dirt in place. The bottom is bare soil. Mounted to the top of the beams is a grate of bars that sit flush with the ground.

It’s big enough for you to curl up at the bottom—which is what you do now.

“I’m sorry,” you cry.

He shuts and locks the gate.

II. from the start

     -intact

It was kismet, really, that he was there that night. He didn’t usually go out for drinks with the guys, not wanting to be the boss who was always cramping their style. But Tommy had dragged him out tonight, and so he was witness (with the rest of the pub) to your relationship falling apart.

And okay, maybe he went outside for a smoke after you moved the fight to the alley so he could eavesdrop. But it wasn’t his fault. How could he not?

You had said, “Maybe you’re just not man enough for me,” to the brawny but pathetic prick across from you in the booth. “Wanting you to be rough doesn’t make me a freak.”

“That’s not rough; that’s fuckin’ abuse. You’re sick,” your boyfriend had practically shouted.

The discussion evolved into a screaming match in the alley, where Joel had been pleased to be right. It was about more than just a little rough sex or spanking.

At the end of it, your boyfriend stormed off, and you went back in the pub. Joel found you at the bar, throwing back another shot and wiping your tears away.

“You did good back there,” he says.

You startle and look at the stranger. The very handsome stranger. Rugged, with a salt and pepper beard and a scar across his nose.

“What do you mean?”

“Standin’ up for yourself. Not a lot of people woulda been confident enough. ‘Specially not a girl lookin’ for that.”

You glare at the bar counter. “M’not a weirdo.”

“Nah, you’re not. Shit like that is perfectly normal. He’s just pathetic.”

You look back up at him, and he sticks one hand in his pocket, trying to adjust himself discreetly. The tear streaks on your cheeks are getting to him.

“I don’t know. He’s probably right. It’s not your garden variety shit,” you say. The tequila and his gentle eyes have loosened your tongue.

“I doubt that. Try me,” he says.

“What?”

“Try me. Tell me what he freaked out over, and I’ll tell ya if it’s weird. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”

You hesitate, but he looks genuine and kind. “I asked him to hit me. Like, in the face. And to, y’know, pin me down and—” you trail off.

“And make ya take it?” he guesses.

You nod. “He thought I like, I dunno, actually wanted to be raped,” you whisper the last word, eyes darting to the people around you.

Joel laughs. “Honey, that’s so normal, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve helped ladies out with that little roleplay more times than I can count. If that’s your deepest, darkest fantasy, and he couldn’t take it, then you’re better off without him.”

“It’s not,” you mumble.

“Speak up, honey.”

“It’s not my deepest, darkest fantasy. It’s probably one of the least of them.”

He grins. “Then you’re definitely better off. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ things on the darker side, sweetheart.”

You’re feeling hot all over and are about to ask him more when your phone rings. It’s your idiot boyfriend, who’s realized you have the car keys.

“I better go. Thank you,” you say, standing and offering him your hand.

He gives it a firm shake, tipping his head. “I’m Joel. And if you’re ever so inclined, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

You laugh. “Let me break up with my boyfriend first, Joel.” But you dig a pen out of your purse and write your number on one of the tiny bar napkins.

Your first date was so normal. You’re not sure what you expected. To jump right to hardcore sex?

But no, he turns up at your door in a neatly pressed green button-up, black slacks, and an ostentatious belt buckle. He greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a bouquet of wildflowers, lavender stalks nestled between pink honeysuckle and red salvia. Not a traditional arrangement, but it reminds you of a summer sunset.

“From my garden,” he says a little sheepishly, but you like them a lot better than some generic store display. You tell him as much and his cheeks flush a little.

You return the kiss and pop the flowers in a vase of water before he sweeps you off in his pickup. You aren’t surprised, really, but it’s more charming than some of the other men and their gaudy trucks.

Joel’s is older but well-kept, with minimal rusting around the wheel wells. The bed is open, and you can see streaks of grease and paint spills. A silver tool chest is mounted against the back of the cab. Everything inside and out has a light coating of sawdust.

He isn’t some insecure man with a truck big enough to make up for what isn’t in his britches, that’s for certain. You’d hazard a guess that the corded muscle of his forearms and the breadth of his shoulders are well-earned.

He holds the door open for you, which you tease him for as you slide onto the truck’s bench seat.

“Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause you’re incapable,” he drawls. “Or because you’re a lady,” he adds when he sees the glint in your eye.

“Oh yeah, cowboy?”

His grin is lopsided, a little dark. “Nah. I just think you deserve to be taken care of, s’all.”

You flush, the back of your neck burning, but you don’t fight the smile that threatens to break out. “Thank you, Joel.”

He shakes his head. He’s pretty sure, now, that if he plays his cards right, he’s found somethin’ special.

He waits three whole dates to take you to bed, and even then, it doesn’t start dirty.

“Let me get to know your body first, baby,” he urges when you ask him to fuck you rough. Instead, he takes you apart piece by piece. First with his tongue, and then his fingers. He brings you to the edge over and over, but never lets you fall.

After a while, you’re a broken record, pleas and sobs spilling from you.

“That’s music to my ears, darlin’,” he says, pulling his fingers out abruptly to see how your cunt throbs for him. He spits on your clit and watches it drip down to join the mess between your thighs.

“Please, please, Joel,” you beg.

“Please who now?”

“Please, sir,” you try, and are rewarded with his sharp grin. But not with an orgasm.

He slaps your cunt. “That’s more like it, baby. You remember who you’re talkin’ to, alright?”

You nod. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

He shakes his head, sucking on your clit for a moment before pulling back to get a good look at you. “You do like a little pain, huh?”

“Would like more,” you say.

“Oh yeah? What would you let me do to you?”

“Anything, please, sir.”

He clicks his tongue at you. “Don’t go sayin’ that to someone you barely know. It’s okay to mean it when you trust somebody, but you’re gonna end up in more trouble than you bargain for if you pass that out like candy.”

“I do mean it.”

“Yeah? You’ll let me do this?” His open palm smacks across your face, leaving a sting tingling on your cheek and a lightness to your brain.

Tears spring to your eyes, but you nod frantically.

“What about this?” he grabs a nipple in his calloused fingers and yanks, twisting.

You yelp, but it trails off to a moan, and you nod.

“Goddamn, baby. S’good. But what about this?” He flicks open the switchblade he keeps in his pocket.

You jerk and whine, eyes wide and wet as he brings it to your breast. Your breathing falls shallow as you try to hold still, the point scraping the delicate skin as he circles it. But the look you’re giving him almost has him cumming in his pants like he were twenty years younger.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding. I mean, you’ve gotta have limits; everyone does. But you just want me to hurt you, huh?” He digs the tip of the blade in a little on the side of your breast, cock throbbing as you gasp, and you both watch a tiny drop of blood bead and trickle down the blade.

He puts it away. “No,” he says when you whimper. “Not today. I ain’t prepared for all that.”

Joel doesn’t like to break his toys. Not permanently. Just enough that he can put them back together how he likes and then do it all over again.

“Don’t need to be prepared; just do it,” you whine.

He slaps you again and wrenches your head up with a hand in your hair. “First of all, I fuckin’ told you no. Second, I know you want to be a stupid little cunt for me, but I’m not about to cut you open without any goddamn first aid shit.”

He leans back and smacks the breast he had cut. He hits you over and over, alternating sides, until your chest burns, and you’re sobbing.

He looks you over briefly and then shoves his hand between your thighs. “You’re wetter than a slip ‘n slide, baby.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, and wipes the tears from your cheek with his thumb. He feels your cunt twitch when he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean.

It’s the last straw for him. He’s not opened you enough, but he has a feeling you’ll like it better this way anyway.

You cry out, back arching when he shoves into you. He meant to go slow, he really did, if only to drag out the anticipation. But you’re so warm. So wet. So he just stuffs himself inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe you love the pain; it’s just that he can’t resist feeling the evidence for himself. He slaps you across the face while you’re still processing his cock, and the resulting clench and jerk of your body drag a moan from him.

He holds back, regulates his urge to pull each whimper and scream from you, but it’s still so fucking good. It’s been a long time since he’s doled out real cruelty to a slut like you who loves to suffer.

When he finally lets you cum, it’s when he’s about to. He pulls out and spanks your cunt, granting his permission. As your pussy flutters desperately around nothing, he cums on it, watching the way it gets prettier as he paints it.

You black out for a minute. When you come to, he’s wiping you down gently with a warm washcloth, wicking the sweat off your face and chest before cleaning his cum from your curls. You whimper, and he grins, leaning over to steal a kiss.

Even after that first night, he goes slow. He can’t scare ya, not while you still have someplace to run. Plus, it’s so much easier if he starts planting the seeds for your training now.

He knows you’ll beg for it, anyway. He’s been getting the nastiest text messages from you. Part of it is the dopamine; he’s not stupid. But part of you really wants this shit. And the rest? Well. You’ll get there.

It’s the little things. He orders you a black decaf at the drive-thru when you ask for a latte. You start to correct him, like you think he’s made a mistake, but he gives you a look, and you shut your mouth immediately.

When he pulls away from the speaker, you look over at him again. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry…?”

You squirm a little, heart pounding, unsure if he’s really doing this at the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Sorry, sir.”

He smiles and rubs his hand on your thigh where it peeks out from your skirt. “Thanks, baby.”

And that’s all it takes. You take the cup when he hands it to you and you’re quick to say, “Thank you, sir,” even though the kid at the window is still passing things through to Joel and can clearly hear you.

     -fissured

It goes on like that for a couple of months, but it doesn’t all go so smoothly. One night, he picks you up from work and takes you to a restaurant, saying he wants to treat you. Halfway through the meal, he asks for your panties.

“What?” you say, shocked at his vulgar language in the dining room.

“Take ‘em off and hand ‘em to me.”

You go to stand, probably thinking you can go to the bathroom to obey.

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Right here, right now, baby.”

“Joel,” you hiss, sitting back down, “I can’t do that.”

He fixes you with a calm smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, raising one finger in the air. “I’ll give ya three choices. The first one, the one I’m going to advise you pick, is that you do it right now, and I’ll only punish ya for talkin’ back.”

“The second one,” he holds up another finger for emphasis, “is you can go to the bathroom to take ‘em off, but you’re gonna pay for it when we get home. The third one is where you don’t listen, we leave right now, and you learn to fuckin’ regret it.”

Your breathing is shallow, and your pretty eyes are shining. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now.

“I-I can’t,” you whimper. “Please, sir.”

“You got about thirty seconds to make up your mind.” The softness is gone—from his voice, from his face, from the set of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and you stand up. You’re only in the bathroom for a minute, and when you sit back down, you try to hand them to him under the table.

“Nah, that was only a choice if you were good,” he says, smirking and laying his expectant hand on the white linens.

Mortified, you ball them up tight in your fist and press them into his hand. He slides them into his pants pocket.

He doesn’t say anything else about it for the rest of dinner, asking instead about your projects at work and your visit with your parents over the holidays. You feel sick, barely eating a thing, and biting your lip to stave off the tears.

As soon as you’re in the truck, you start to cry. “I’m sorry, I was just scared and—”

“Shut up. You made your choice. You’re not sorry. You’re just afraid of the consequences.”

“N-no, I am sorry, I mean it.”

“You’re gonna have to prove it.” He doesn’t look at you on the drive home, doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t even turn the radio on; just listens to you sniffle.

When he parks, he sets his hand on your thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I know you can be my good girl. All you gotta do is take your punishment and learn from it, okay?”

You sniffle again and nod, blinking through tear-laden lashes at him.

“So pretty when you cry for me,” he murmurs. He gets out and comes around to open your door, offering a hand to help you step down from the tall truck. You take it, and he holds on, leading you inside his house.

He sits sprawled on the couch, thighs parted wide to make room and waits until you’re comfortably kneeling between his legs. You’re sat in silence, head bowed, arms folded behind your back.

“Tell me what you did wrong today.”

This is a first, but not a last. Even on days when nothing egregious has happened, you will follow this ritual. He’ll ask for your sins, and you’ll confess. There will always be something you’ll owe him for.

“I argued when you gave me orders. I was disobedient.”

“Anything else I need to know about, baby?”

“No, sir.”

“Why’d you argue?”

“I was afraid. I’m sorry.”

“Save your grovelin’ for after, baby. Why were you afraid?”

“I didn’t want people to see. I didn’t want to get kicked out or arrested.”

“You think I’d let anything happen to you? You think I would have given you an order that put either of us at any kinda risk?”

Your face burns. “I—”

“I thought you trusted me.” He sounds hurt, and you’re a little nauseous when you look up to see his eyes wide and sad, lips turned into a wounded scowl.

Your shoulders slump. “I didn’t think. I panicked.”

“Hmm. Okay, I can work with that.”

You look up at him, brow scrunched and lips pouting as you try to parse his words.

He smiles. It’s cold, and his eyes are steel.

You swallow hard, and his grin widens, quirking into a smirk.

“Alright, baby. I got just the thing.”

He leads you into the ensuite. You kneel on the little rug by the tub while he fills it. You’re too afraid to ask what’s happening, so you just sit quietly. He leaves the room and doesn’t come back until the tub is nearly full, and you’re starting to worry that you were supposed to be monitoring it.

He comes back in, and once it’s nearing the lip of the tub, he turns off the faucet. He has you kneel on the top of the three steps leading up to the edge. It’s the most luxurious thing in this house, and you suspect he installed it custom so he could soak his aching muscles.

He bends you over the edge so you’re leaning close to the water and crouches down behind you. It’s a pleasant surprise when he spreads you wide and licks from your clit to your asshole.

He stays there for a few minutes, indulging in your wet cunt and the cries it draws from your lips. After he’s had his fill, he stands up and lubes up his cock before pushing his way into your ass. He’s generous with the lube but rarely preps you, since you both like it better when it hurts.

You’re writhing a little beneath him, wriggling your hips to try to ease the passage. Once he’s fully seated inside you, he grabs the back of your head and shoves it under the water before fucking hard into you.

You thrash, displacing water from the tub, until he yanks you back up.

You gasp for air and scrabble to get a grip on the wet tile, but he pushes you back down and groans at how tight you get while you’re struggling.

He pulls you roughly back up. “Gonna keep going until you stop makin’ a fuss.”

You go to protest, to panic, and he pushes you back down.

The next time he pulls you out, he spanks you until your skin is burning. “Fuckin’ trust me. You think I’m gonna let you drown?”

“No, sir,” you cry, but it’s garbled as he pushes you back down. You’re still fighting him each time.

He pulls you back out and repeats the beating. “Relax, or we’re gonna be here all night.”

He continues the process a few more times and then gives you a reprieve, letting go of your hair so you can rest your cheek against the cold edge of the tub while he pounds into you. He reaches and rubs featherlight circles around your clit until you’re softly moaning.

“You gonna trust me?”

“I’m trying, my body panics,” you pant.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya. You hear me? You know you’re panicking, so focus on me instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

It shouldn’t make sense, but you think he’s long warped your brain anyway. The next time he pushes you underwater, you clench your fists tight and focus on what oxygen you do have, even if he knocks a little out with each thrust.

His hand in your hair is your anchor and buoy. You tense when you feel your body start to jerk, trying so hard to control it.

He pulls you up. “Just like that, baby. Again.”

It gets just a little easier each time. He leaves you under longer, until your lungs are burning, and you’re on the edge of gasping in water, but he pulls you out in time.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well.” He’s a little fascinated. He hadn’t really been sure it could be done or if your survival instincts would go into a frenzy. But here you are, letting him almost fucking drown you.

Not that he would.

Despite being balls deep in your tight little asshole, he isn’t trying to reach his orgasm. Not yet, staving off his pleasure so he can keep a clear head.

He keeps it up just a little longer. You’re getting tired and tolerating less and less time underwater. The last time he pulls you up, he pinches your clit and tells you to cum while he fills you.

He dunks you again while you cum, and you clamp down on him tighter than you have before, convulsing on his cock. When he pulls you back up, you’re gasping and sobbing. He pulls out and wraps you in a towel, easing you to the wet floor while he cleans up.

When he comes back to you, he helps you stand and dry off, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“So?”

Your brow furrows. It’s not what he usually asks after a punishment, but you think you know what he means. “I’m sorry. I trust you, I promise.”

“I know. M’so proud of you for taking that. You’re turning out so nicely, sweet thing.”

In the morning, you’re almost late to work after sucking him off when you should have been getting dressed. He’s about to walk out the door to head to the site when he hears your frustrated voice from the bedroom.

“Joel, where are my underwear? I need to fuckin’ leave.”

“I told you, baby. There was a price to pay when you picked the bathroom. Y’ain’t wearing ‘em anymore.”

“What?”

He doesn’t need to see you to smirk at the shocked expression he knows is on your face. “We’ll talk about it more tonight; I gotta run.”

     -avulsed

“Y’know, baby,” Joel says, leaning forward to rub your shoulder. “They just don’t fuckin’ appreciate you.”

You’re bent over, elbows on your knees, crying with your face buried in your hands. You sit up and sniffle, wiping the tears. “It’s fine; it’s not like I need to be coddled at work.”

All the stress of the PR world is getting to you, and you hate it, you fucking hate it, but you dropped 50k on a degree, so now you’re stuck.

“But they make you work all this overtime, cut your team in half, and then berate you when you can’t meet the client’s deadline? You do not deserve that, baby.”

You let him coax you into his lap, facing him so you can bury your face in his soft, worn tee. He rubs your back and holds your head to his chest.

“You’re too good to me,” you mumble.

“Nah, darlin’, I’ve told ya a thousand times. You deserve to be taken care of.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I, well. I was thinkin’...”

You wait, but when he doesn’t pick back up, you sit up and look at him.

“I dunno. It’s nothin’,” he says.

“Please tell me?”

“Alright, fine. Now, I don’t want ya to feel any pressure. It’s just a thought. But maybe you should just quit and stay with me a while, ‘till you can find something better?”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. He must see something on your face, because he tips your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I know it’s sudden, but I mean it. Let me take care of ya while you figure shit out. We don’t gotta treat it like living together if y’ain’t ready. But I’d be open to that conversation, too.”

It doesn’t take much more than that. The first couple weeks, he lets you give it a try—searching for new degree programs, applying for jobs you know you’re overqualified for just to try something different.

After nothing pans out, he suggests you both take a week off. Him from work and you from the burden of trying to escape unemployment. Just relax, like a little staycation.

It’s bliss. You go on dates, eat pizza and marathon the “Jurassic Park” movies, and fuck like crazy.

On the third night, he sits you down. On his cock, of course. While you’re bouncing and brainless, he cups your cheek. “Baby, you’ve been too damn stressed still. What if we… well, what if we tried out a day or two like we’ve been talking about?”

Sometimes, you whisper to him in the darkness, usually while he’s balls deep, how you wish you could be his all the time. His good girl. His pet. And he whispers back, lures you right in with promises of taking care of everything, of you not having a worry or care in the world. Just him.

Now, he fondles your tits while he murmurs to you. “We can just wake up together, and I can take care of ya. Everything you need, baby. All you’d have to do is be good for me, yeah?”

You moan and grind down harder on his cock. “Please, sir. I want it more than anything. Just to be yours.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Joel had no patience for brats, so he usually broke his toys in sooner into the training process. He liked ‘em nice and obedient—scared, if that’s what it took, but devoted. But you had been from the start—you wanted to be good in all the ways you could never seem to be to other people. Your family, your job, the world seemed to just demand more and more.

Joel was the first person to make you feel like you had actually, really, truly pleased him. There wasn’t a higher mark you should have made. There wasn’t any expectation for you to give more and more.

His orders were complete, always. You learned that very quickly. Attempts to go above and beyond were rebuked.

“If I wanted that, I woulda said so,” he told you. And like everything else, you committed his words to memory.

It helped that he gave praise freely. You didn’t have to wonder if he was satisfied, if you should have licked him differently, if you should have made prettier faces while you came. He reassured you until you believed him, and then kept going anyway.

It made it easier for him to slowly peel you away from the ungrateful world.

“You don’t have to take that,” he’d say after watching your face fall further and further while on the phone with your mom. “Family ain’t supposed to make you feel like shit.”

They made it too easy, really, and your relationship with them would have likely just fizzled out. But in the end, he had to step in and snap it off.

You asked him to come with you to dinner at their house. He was hesitant. He wasn’t really the boyfriend type. He wasn’t really even your boyfriend. That was too weird a word for either of you, not when he owned you.

But he knows you didn’t want to go alone, and he has a feeling he’ll be cleaning up the mess anyway.

You want to give them a chance. Things have been so tense, and they said they missed you. But they didn’t even make it through the entrée without ridiculing you.

When your father asks how work is going, you quietly confess to quitting, hastily reassuring them that you are looking for a new position. Though, and you keep this part to yourself, you maybe haven’t been trying that hard.

“What do you mean you quit? How are you paying your bills? You better not have come here to ask for money,” your father says, setting down his fork to glare at you.

“Well, I’ve been living with Joel,” you mumble to the tablecloth.

“I didn’t raise you to be a gold digger,” your mother chides.

Joel tries to bite his tongue and let them dig their own graves. But your father calls you a “fucking whore,” and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the way you’re cowering in your chair, fighting back tears.

“You watch your mouth,” Joel snaps at your father.

You look up, mouth agape, eyes darting from Joel to your parents.

“Mind your business,” your dad tells him.

Joel stands up and throws his napkin on the table. “She is my fuckin’ business. I wouldn’t stand by and let anyone talk to her like that. You’re not an exception just because you managed to get it up long enough to cum in your wife.”

“Joel,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve. You’re burning, melting on the spot, from the vulgar way he’s talking to them. For him, someone who’s always strict about manners and proper hospitality, to talk back like this? God, you think, he must really love you.

He puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds firmly as you lean into it. He rounds back on your parents. “You treat her like fuckin’ dirt beneath your feet, and I’m tired of it. You don’t deserve the fuckin’ dirt beneath her feet.”

He shoves his chair back and grabs your hand. “C’mon, baby; we’re leaving.”

You take it and stand up, letting him pull you along. Your father follows you into the foyer, and you try not to look at him while you shove your shoes on.

Joel holds your coat out while you slip into it, and you tune out whatever your dad is yelling now. You don’t want to hear it; you know it’s nasty, and your whole world has narrowed to Joel anyway.

He holds out the key. “Go wait in the truck, baby.”

And you do.

He comes out about five minutes later, red-faced and huffing with fury. He doesn’t say a word when he gets in; just throws the truck into reverse and pulls away. You both ignore the blood on his knuckles.

Once you’re on the road, he looks over at you and sighs. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You unbuckle and slide over to the middle seat, tucking your hand between his warm body to curl around his arm. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Whaddya sorry for? None of that was your fault.” He kisses the top of your head and cups your cheek at the stoplight. “It was gonna happen eventually, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of the ride home is silent while you breathe in his comforting musk and try to relax. But the tension is unrelenting, the horrible rotting feeling eating away at your spine.

He knows. Knows what you need, knows what he can do to seal this moment forever. He waits until he’s unzipping the pretty little cocktail dress you’d stressed over.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, breaking away from where he was sucking his claim down your neck to swap out your delicate necklace with his collar.

He unhooks the bra and kisses the marks he left behind with the cane, your penance for being allowed to wear it. It leaves you bare to him, and his hands turn greedy. He presses biting kisses against your lips while digging fingers into your bruises, swallowing your whimpers.

He grabs you by the neck and squeezes the sides of your throat, holding you to him while your vision blurs. When he lets go, you stumble, but his arm around your back holds you upright. He slaps your face with quick, sharp blows in rapid succession to keep you unsteady.

“Knees, hands behind your head,” he says, and lets go.

You fall but are quick to right yourself and take the position. He wastes no time, giving you another harsh smack before grabbing your hair and shoving his cock into your throat.

You choke and gag but keep your hands in place even as your head spins. You feel limp and grateful that he doesn’t seem to require any effort from you as he uses you without mercy.

“Look at you. You’ve got my whole cock down your throat. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your eyes are already glazed over, and you moan your appreciation around him.

He pulls out and hauls you to your feet. “I know what you need, sweetheart. Get your ass downstairs.”

He fucks you, beats you, uses you wherever he wants. But the basement is where he keeps the heavy equipment and where you know you’re about to have your mind and body pushed to the absolute limit.

You’re ready, he thinks, when he gets down and finds you waiting perfectly in place for him, eyes wide like he’s descended from on high. He jerks a thumb to the wooden post, and you meet him there.

“Forget about what they want you to be,” he murmurs as he closes the steel cuffs around your ankles. “You know what you want, baby. Right?”

“Mhm,” you nod, already slipping away into that safe place only Joel can get you to.

“What do you want to be?” he asks, binding your arms up over your head to the eye bolt at the top of the post.

“Yours.” It’s half-whisper, half-whine.

“Yeah? You just wanna be mine? You don’t want to get a new job?”

“No,” you finally confess. “But—”

“But what, baby? If you say somethin’ about money or bills, I’m gonna be mighty unhappy.”

You bite your lip. “I’m scared one day, you’ll wake up and not want me anymore.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, sweetheart. You think I put all this work into helpin’ you, into teaching you how to be mine, just to toss ya out? You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.

He slides a silicone cock into the bracket lined right up with your mouth. It’s a fairly standard size, since he knows you’re going to thrash around and doesn’t want you gagging too much and throwing up.

Your torso gets tied to the post by your tits, the wood nestled between them and rope woven around. Securing you there forces your head onto the toy, but he doesn’t make you take it all the way. You keep your mouth open and don’t move closer or further, waiting for his command.

“Suck on it whenever you’d like. You’re going to need it.”

Your eyes roll back a little at his promise. If he thinks you’re going to need something in your mouth to self-soothe, you’re in for an absolutely amazing time.

“Focus on me. That’s all you’ll need to do from now on, baby. No more worries in that pretty little head, okay?”

The first strike is a warm-up. When you feel the lash of his favorite whip lick your ass, you moan. It’s a moderately short signal whip that he wields like a fucking pro. His warmups are quick but thorough, and you’re squirming when he moves on to your thighs and shoulders.

“Already?” he says, laughing when you whine around the silicone cock.

You’re absentmindedly sucking on it when he starts a harsher assault. A particularly sharp strike stings at the valley where your ass meets your thighs, and you yelp, jerking a little and gagging yourself on the dildo.

His smirk burns into your back as the cry melts into a moan, and you writhe a little, trying to get friction where you need it most. What you get, though, is the tip of the whip against your cunt.

By the time he moves around to your tits, they’re covered in spit, heaving with the effort of holding back your orgasm. He comes up to you first, and pinches at your nipples.

“Aw, does my dumb little cunt want to cum?” He croons, tugging and twisting until you moan. He laughs when all you can get out is a muffled “mhm.”

“Tell ya what. You can cum all you want while I hurt you tonight, okay?”

He punctuates it with a particularly cruel pinch, and that, combined with his permission, is all you need to let the pleasure shudder through you.

“Yeah? You gonna get off to being my little toy? Gonna let me do whatever I want?”

You moan around the fake cock, easing it further into your throat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He doesn’t give a warm-up on your tits, figuring you’re already so far gone it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.

He’s right. The first lash is harsh, a welt blooming across the top of your breast in its wake, but you groan, trying to press your cunt up against the post for any relief.

You don’t need it, though. He brings you to your peak again with the skilled flick of his wrist, landing blows across the fat of your breasts. He waits until you’re mid-orgasm to bring the whip hard across your nipples.

The resulting wail almost makes him cum in his pants. He does it only twice more, relishing in your agony, but restraining himself from just letting loose. Not with the whip, as much as he’d like to. Maybe later with a flogger.

Once he’s taken it as far as he’s willing to risk, he moves back around to give the rest of you the same treatment. The hardest hits push you over the edge, and by the time his arm is getting tired, you’re sobbing and writhing in your restraints, overstimulated in every way.

He unlatches your ankles first, helping you find steady footing before untying your wrists and torso. You drop to your knees and open your mouth, throat aching for his cock after the tease of the toy.

He doesn’t have the willpower to torment you by denying it tonight. Instead, he nearly pops the button off his jeans in his urgency to pull his cock out and shove it as far down your throat as he can.

Your arms find their place behind your back, and you just take it. He fucks into you without restraint. It’s filthy, from the mess you’re making to the wet choking sounds he pushes out of you with each thrust.

You’re shaking, and he pulls out abruptly.

“I said while I’m hurting you. You don’t get to just cum from getting facefucked.”

“Then hurt me, please,” you sob. It’s right there; you’re so close.

He slaps you across the face and laughs as you cum, shoving back into your throat while you’re still riding out the aftershocks.

He pulls back out, and you whine until he yanks you up by the bicep and pushes you over to the padded bench, bending you over it and shoving into your sopping cunt.

“Still disappointed?” he teases.

“N-no,” you pant. “Please hurt me.”

“Beg me properly, greedy little cunt.”

You clench around him just at the words, but obey. “Please, sir, please hurt me so I can cum. Please.”

“I’ve been hurtin’ you all night, baby,” he says, voice thick with false pity. “Don’t you want me to be gentle with you now?” He can feel how hard you’re trying not to cum as he mocks you.

“No,” you sob. “No, love me, hurt me, please.”

It’s got an edge of desperation and heartbreak to it that he just loves.

He smacks your already bruising ass until you sob harder, shaking uncontrollably as you cum. He wraps his hands around your throat and fucks you through it until he cums, hips stuttering, and filling your cunt with his spend.

He lets himself collapse a little on top of you, pinning you with his weight against the bench with his softening cock still buried in you. “Feel loved now?”

You’re still crying, and when he folds his arms around your chest, elbows resting on the table, you cling to him. “Love you,” you murmur over and over, pressing kisses up and down his forearms.

He nuzzles his face into your neck, kissing and sucking at you. “I know, baby. You know I love ya.” He’s half-hard—not something that happens a lot anymore at his age, so he’s not gonna waste it. He pulls out just to manhandle you up onto the bench on your back, climbing up between your legs and shoving back in.

It’s a little sloppy until he’s fully hard again; your combined cream making things a little too slippery. Once he’s erect, though, he sets a punishing pace, folding you in half with your legs up by your ears. He works your clit with his hand, relishing in the way you’re fucking exhausted and overstimulated, but your poor clit’s been neglected. It means he can twist and pull on it, tugging until you give him more and more, until you’re sobbing for mercy that you know you’ll never get.

He doesn’t ease up until he pulls out to cum over your tits and face.

“Mine,” he snarls, shoving his fingers into your swollen cunt and feeding you what’s left of his first orgasm and your… well, he’s not really sure how many. A fuckin’ lot. “You’re all mine. Little fuckin’ toy to do whatever I want, right?”

You’re still gasping for breath, having been half-suffocated in that position, but when you look at him, it’s like he’s a fucking god. “Yes, sir.”

     -broken

The day had started out fine.

He’d laid out a dress for you to wear. Sometimes, he made you go around bare for a while, just to fuck with your head a little, but he prefers to unwrap you like a present.

Plus, the sight of you crawling around in nothing but a slutty, barely-there dress is picture-fuckin’-perfect. He’d know; he’s got a bunch of ‘em on his phone.

And crawl, you do. You haven’t been allowed to walk further than a couple of feet in a long time. There’s penance to be paid if you can’t avoid it.

Joel collects your penance whenever possible, gathering what’s owed for your sins and dealing out forgiveness when it's settled. It’s how he shows his love.

And he does love you. How could he not? Such a perfect little toy. He’s spent so much time training you right to be his prized possession.

He knew it’d happen eventually, so when you commit one of the worst offenses, he has to make it count. You were testing your limits, of course; he had expected it. He had expected it months ago. It was worse now, after you’d been so good and earned so much trust. But now that you’d been nothing but his for two months, you had finally fucked up.

Your punishments were never painful. Okay, they weren’t pain-focused. Sometimes, he had to put you over his knee to let his frustration out before he could give you a proper punishment. But the pain wasn’t the point—you both liked it too damn much. No matter how much farther he took it than a regular session, and no matter how sick you were with guilt, you were always a soaking wet mess after a beating.

This time would have to be different, though.

It was time to finally break you.

He knew as soon as he got home. Not the particulars, but that you’d made a huge mistake.

On the surface, nothing was amiss. You were knelt by the door in your pretty little dress, a short number in navy blue. You had your head down and arms folded behind your back in perfect posture.

But something was off. It didn’t feel like you were happy he was home. And he was pretty sure there would only be one reason for that.

He hung up his keys but didn’t bother to take off his shoes, coming to stand in front of you. “What’d you do?”

You flinch and have to re-tense to hold the position as a sob escapes you. Your hands are balled into fists to fight the urge to cover your face. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked what you did.”

If it were still the early days, when this shit usually happened, he might have been just a little softer. At least until he coaxed the confession from you, anyway. But you were in too deep, now, too entangled in this life that he had little patience for your reticence.

“I—”

“I recommend you spit it out. You’ll tell me in the end, anyway.”

You start to cry. “I can’t say it.”

“You better figure it out pretty fuckin’ fast, little girl.”

“I had an orgasm,” you blurt, whimpers escalating to sobs.

He pauses. It’s worse than he thought. The rush of disappointment and anger sends his heart racing, and his fingers flex in longing for a cane.

“Did you enjoy it?” he says.

It catches you off guard. “No, I promise.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cause it’s the last one you’re gonna have for a while.”

You aren’t surprised; you’re actually relieved. Of course, of course he’ll fix you.

He finally takes his shoes off and sets his phone on the counter, beckoning you to follow him to the living room. Taking his seat on the couch, he waits until you’re settled at his feet.

“Why’d you do that, baby?”

“I-I didn’t mean to. I was edging for the last time today, and I don’t know what happened. It was just there, and I knew it, I knew it was coming, and I—” You choke on the guilt, the grief.

“You what?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t convince myself to stop. I kept thinking ‘no, you stupid cunt,’ but I couldn’t pull my hand away.”

He regards you for a moment. He’s burning inside, but trying to calculate the most effective approach.

“Thank you for telling me right away,” he says, but even though he means it, the words are cold and clipped. “Which hand?”

You look at him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What?”

“Which hand did you use? Give it to me.”

You lift up your right hand, and he cradles it in his.

“Listen close.” He waits until he’s sure you’re focused on him, on his words.

This is where things have fallen apart in the past. No amount of training and manipulation can get someone across this hurdle; they have to mean it. The last thing he wants is someone running to the police because they don’t fucking understand how serious he is.

“This is going to be your last chance to back out. I will stop right now and let you pack your shit and leave. But if you stay, you’re agreeing to anything I do to you past this point.”

You bite your lip, stomach churning. “You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

“Good. You should be scared. What you’ve done is one of the worst things you could have. That’s got some serious consequences, baby.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I gotta hurt you. Bad. Y’ain’t going to like this; I can promise you that. I can’t punish your cunt because you’re such a stupid pain slut; anything short of permanent damage is gonna make you wet. And I’m not lookin’ to do permanent damage.”

Your lip trembles, heart pounding. You’ve never been so afraid, but you’re also enthralled. Lured in by the timbre of his voice and the salvation it’s promising.

He squeezes your hand where he’s still holding onto you. “I’m going to break one of your fingers.”

Your heart falters, blood rushing. “Oh god,” you whisper, shaking your head. Instinctively, you tug back on your hand, but he grasps it tight, tight enough that you feel the bones grind under his large fingers.

“It’s up to you. That’s half the price for forgiveness. The rest is gonna be spending the night alone.”

Somehow, that sounds worse. You can’t breathe.

“Gotta choose, baby. You wanna go? I’ll pay for a cab. You can walk away, but you can’t ever come back.”

You think you might be drowning. Leave? How could you leave? There’s no debate in your head; you have nothing without Joel. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. And the idea of losing him feels catastrophic.

You’re crying again, and you’re vaguely aware of his soothing voice trying to coach you through breathing. When you focus on him, just like he’s taught you, you start to calm down.

It’s Joel, you think. He’ll take care of you. And he said he didn’t want permanent damage. You just have to suffer for your betrayal and he’ll forgive you.

“I think I might throw up,” you warn him.

He sighs, the fear of losing you flooding away, taking some of his anger with it. “We’ll do it in the bathroom.”

He stands up, and you follow, albeit slowly, as the wave of nausea rises. You do throw up as soon as you get in the bathroom, thankfully making it to the toilet. He holds your hair and rubs his hand across your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, baby, get it out of your system. You’re being so brave for me,” he croons. He helps you up to sit on the edge of the tub and gets you a little cup of mouthwash.

“I’ll help you brush your teeth after,” he promises. “I’d do it now, but, well. You’re probably going to puke again.”

When you’re done swishing the mouthwash, when it’s all turned to foam and you’ve spit it back in the cup, he swaps you for water. You rinse and spit that, too.

He’s laid a few things out on the counter. You feel dizzy all over again. Something tells you the comfort you feel is wrong, but he’s prepared an ice pack and medical tape, and has four little ibuprofen out next to another cup of water.

The other, louder part of you is whispering, see? He’ll take care of you. The act of wondering what’s wrong with you feels like a farce. You’re thinking it because you think you should, just going through the motions.

He takes off his belt and brings it to your mouth. You clench it between your teeth, letting a shaky breath through. His hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the warmth.

“I knew you were somethin’ special,” he whispers. You’re not sure he meant to.

Your whole body is shaking uncontrollably. He watches you for a moment, worried you’re going to faint, and then sits on the floor with his back against the tub, pulling you into his lap. He lays you back against his chest, caging you in with his arms and thighs. The ice pack sits to his right, already popped and frozen. Waiting.

Gently, he lifts your hand and brings it in front of your chest, taking it in his left. It’s a macabre mockery, the way he cradles it in his palm, fingers wrapped around the sides. In his right hand, he notches his thumb on the knuckle of your middle finger, bringing the other fingers in below it.

He doesn’t drag it out, doesn’t take pleasure in your terror. When he moves, it’s faster than a gunshot. Your scream is raw, breaking free from the spaces between your teeth and the belt. The taste of leather will remind you of this moment for the rest of your life.

He has the ice pack on it before you mentally register that it’s over. You’re sobbing. Horribly, he’s right, and you are sick again. He holds your hair in one fist, holding the ice pack to your mangled hand in the other.

When you’re done, he pulls you back against him, wrapping his limbs around you in a perverse embrace as you shake harder. With his free hand, he brings a damp, cool cloth to your face, cleaning you of the viscera of your sickness.

He’s shushing you, head bent close to your ear. “It’s alright, baby, it’s over. You did so good. I’m so proud. I love you so much.”

It’s good that he doesn’t expect an answer because he doesn’t get one. You’re too lost in the pain and shock.

When it’s time to take a break from the ice, he grabs the medical tape and wraps it around your index and middle fingers. You cry out again as he jostles the break. Once he’s splinted it, he lowers your hand gently to your lap so he can grab the medicine.

“I can’t; I’ll throw up again,” you say, voice cracking.

“Don’t have a choice, baby. Gotta keep the swelling down.”

He feeds you each pill, one by one, chasing them with sips of water.

You look so sad and precious that he almost feels bad. Unfortunately, he’s also rock fucking hard, so he shifts you a little to pull his dick out.

You don’t say anything when he lifts you to lower you on it. He’s careful, trying not to shake you around too much. He was right; you didn’t enjoy this pain. You’ve never been this dry for him before, and you whimper pathetically at the pinch and sting of his girth.

You may be worn out and in agony, but your cunt doesn’t get the message. He grins when he feels you getting wet and clenching around him. He doesn’t push it though, doesn’t torment you, just fucks up into you gently until he fills you.

You’re limp against him now, and he presses a kiss into your hair. “You may have to walk for a bit,” he muses. “But I’ll cap your penance at ten.”

You wince. Ten strokes with the cane on the soles of your feet every day until your finger heals? You usually only owe enough for two or three. It is a mercy, though, so you nod and thank him.

Joel can hardly contain the way his chest is flooding with warmth. You’re so close; he can feel it. So close to being completely his to put together just the way he likes.

He can’t wait to take you to The Pit.

     -kintsugi

You’re cold. So cold. You’re curled in on yourself, tucked into a corner in the hopes that you’d be able to keep warmer. Your whole right hand throbs.

Moonlight only cuts across the corner, but it’s a comfort still. The soil is loose and you keep shuddering, feeling the tickle of a dozen phantom insects.

Worst of all, your chest aches, like he may as well have hewn you open. Dry sobs work their way free every now and then, leaving your mouth tacky and your throat full of cotton.

The only rest you get is when you blessedly pass out. Every time you close your eyes voluntarily, you see the heartbroken look on his face when you begged him not to leave you there.

“I wish I didn’t have to. I wish you hadn’t broken my trust and I could keep you close, baby. But you’re never going to learn how to be good if I don’t show ya.”

Bad, I’m bad, he doesn’t want me anymore, you think to no end.

When the sun starts to rise, you’re limp, still in your corner. You barely turn your head when a shadow falls over The Pit, but your heart starts to pound when the lock clicks, and Joel raises the gate.

“Oh, baby,” he says, soft and sorrowful. “C’mere.” He reaches out a hand, and you scramble to him, letting him take your left arm in his grasp and pull you out. You move immediately to your knees, body bent forward as your knotted muscles protest. He scoots his boot out of the danger zone near your broken finger.

You keep whispering, a broken record of “Sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”

He picks you up and holds you to his chest, shushing until you fall quiet. It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds as your brain desperately clings to any scrap, any way you can be good for him.

He brushes the loose dirt from you before going inside and upstairs to the ensuite. He sets you on the little rug next to the full garden tub, and he tests the water with his fingers before peeling his clothes off.

You flex your left hand, balling it in and out of a fist. You’ve never been particularly ambidextrous and wonder how you’re going to wash him without falling in or hurting your hand.

Before he gets in, he feeds you four more little red pills. Once he’s settled, he reaches out and guides you carefully by the waist, pulling you into his lap in the warm water.

That’s all it takes for you to start crying again. He doesn’t try to quiet you; just holds you there against his chest and lets you sob.

By the time you’ve calmed, the water has cooled, but instead of getting out, he just drains a little and runs more hot water.

Joel tips your chin up gently with the knuckle of his index finger. “You ready to be my good girl again?”

You nod, lip trembling.

Joel does nothing you hadn’t asked for. The trouble for you was that you asked for too much. Gave him too much. And it was far too late to get any of it back.

He gave what he could, though. Couldn’t replace what he’d taken, so he pours himself in the cracks, puts you back together with a firm hand and loving care. Sure, his love doesn’t look like what you’re used to, but he knows you see it for what it is.

“I know, baby. You took that all so well. Don’t worry,” he pauses to kiss you, “I forgive you. My perfect little toy.”

pls be nice, I'm so nervous about this.

[yawarakaizai]

Yan!dazai mindbreaking angel!reader ooo

ⵌ WATCH HER BREAK JUST LIKE A DOLL

SENDER Angel!Reader (Fem) RECIPITENT Yandere!Dazai (BSD) CONTENTS NSFW DARK CONTENT 16+ , obsession/possession, drugging, mind-breaking, reader is a hostage?, unhealthy relationship, dubcon/nc??, abuse (physical implied + mental), slight somnophilia, lowkey angsty, dazai is an asshole!, smut part isn't really detailed (WARNING; This relationship is unhealthy and should not be used as an example. Reader here does not hold Dazai accountable. If you are in an abusive relationship, please seek help from someone you trust or a professional! This fanfic does not idolise nor condone abuse within relationships) NOTE All these years of feeling inadequate and dumb. You were proud to have grown accustomed to Dazai's routine, even if he had promised you months ago he had changed. COMPANY Dolly

A/N combined 2 asks I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ASK BUT IT WAS A YANDERE DAZAI NSFW IDEA im so sorryy ... also any other yan dazai req ! !! srry for the long wait ;; !! reader is an angel !! she was kind of created ,,? kinda like sigma !! the og req had an idea abt aphrodisiacs but ... not sure if i want to write about them just yet :( so sorry!!

Dutiful and pristine, you were a model wife.

Delicate and gorgeous. Just how he liked you to be.

You were brought her to serve as his prize. His reward for years of watching you from afar, stalking you like a lions meal. And you, pure and kind-hearted, not once ever suspected a thing.

Dazai was your co-worker after all. A smart, handsome man with a positive future.

Back before this all, you were nothing but a mere fascination to not only him, but your peers as well. You were never offended or hesitant to answer questions others would have about you. How you came to be, whether you remember anything, and if those feathers of yours regrow.

You coped with everything by dissociating as much as possible. If you could believe hard enough - Dazai was still the Dazai you knew before. The man next to you who'd pout when ordered to finish his report, the one who would turn to you and try to flirt or make you giggle, knowing Kunikida would never dare give out to you.

How could anyone, after all? You only manifested a few years ago. What was it, eleven, or twelve. You can't remember. There was little you remember anyway.

The first few months with Dazai were a blur. You'd have blacked out for the majority of the day until he'd wake you up and force you to eat. If you'd refuse, he'd starve you until you'd beg.

You had tried to protest by going days without food or water but he always got his way in the end. You had to give in at some point.

The biggest obstacle was finding the guts to hate Dazai.

You were afraid to hate him. You were afraid to hate.

He'd treat you so gently and with love. Funnily enough, you blamed yourself for it all. You didn't know why or how, but you felt like if you had done things different, none of this would have happened.

Osamu was sweet. He always did what was right. You respected Kunikida and Fukuzawa immensely. If they trust Dazai, then so did you.

If you knew that you were a lamb handed to a wolf, maybe you would have ran much earlier.

Dazai did not show himself upfront. No. First, it was the mind games. The ghastly figures that would appear outside of your window in the form of blackened shadows, doors you remember closing being wide open when you return home, bangs and creaks around your home when you lived alone, your items disappearing from their usual spot, laundry vanishing completely, and countless mysterious messages from anonymous.

Second, it was you asking for help. You turned to who you admired best. The Armed Detective Agency. Ranpo scanned your phone. He read each message out loud before looking at you, then back down at your screen. He slid it back towards you. " There's nothing suspicious. It's just a prank. "

You felt relief. Ranpo had his ability, after all. The ability to figure out any mystery. He could not be wrong.

How dumb of you to think Ranpo would not be the first person Dazai would go to for his sick joke.

Third was the fever. It hit you like a brick. It was the first time you had been infected with a human illness. Dazai kindly offered to tend to you in his free-time, as everyone else was too busy. You were grateful that Dazai, an important member of the ADA, was sacrificing his time in helping you. He'd stop by almost every day and night to feed you and make sure you're alright. The more you drank that chalky water he'd give you daily before bed, the more you lost your ability to walk.

Fourth, was the inevitable. You waking up in a bed that was harder than yours. Upon observing around you, you realised you weren't in your house. And you don't recall ever sleeping next to Dazai. Naturally, you were afraid. You were in hysterics while he tried to calm you down, telling you stories on how it's safer for you to be here, and that you were an ungrateful bitch for not being grateful enough to him.

You didn't want to hear any of it. So? You were kept in his lovely basement.

There, you were badly treated. Sleeping on cold concrete and eating what scraps he'd leave on the floor for you like some animal - any form of resistance was met with harsh punishment.

You lacked survival instincts. You not once ever felt the need to. Working in the ADA, you were nothing but an accountant. You'd hear about the missions they'd go on, but to you it all seemed like the things you'd see in action films.

But this was real. The way your heart pounded in your ears every time you'd hear steps coming down and the way he'd tug your hair 'till your scalp would burn is something that the actors would never be able to portray properly.

It took you a while to realise you weren't going to make any progress by doing the opposite of what he wanted.

Though, you were admittedly conflicted.

You provided Dazai something interesting. If you let him use you, to spare yourself of his harsh punishments, would he get bored of you? Would he rid of you completely? Would he treat you more terribly to purposely make you act out just so he'd have a reason to strike you?

These were questions that would keep you up.

You couldn't be strong-willed for long. Hope that Kunikida or anyone else would come looking for you dwindled as the days went by and none would come but Dazai.

At some point, you had lost your voice for a while. In that period, Dazai took complete advantage of the fact. When you could do nothing but thrash and cry until you submit underneath him.

He'd pull out, collapse next to you and hold you close to his bandaged chest and apologise until he fell asleep with your hot breath against his skin.

Dazai had been your first time. He took an angel's virginity. You were frozen for the rest of the night. You were almost neutral to what had happened. You even wiped his tears away with your thumb. He apologised. He must surely be remorseful. He promised he wouldn't do it again.

You lost your halo that day.

'' Fetch me some water, I'm thirsty. "

His hand came off your head where it had been caressing.

You looked up at him through long lashes, slowly nodding your head and raising to unstable feet.

Ever since you were allowed to stay out of the basement, he's been helping you regain your ability to walk after the drugs had left your knees shaky.

Your movement was slow but gradual, at least.

If you wished to remain with Dazai, you'd have to obey him. And obey you did.

You fetched him his requested glass of water albeit spilling a tad bit on your way back, you presented him with it.

He peered in, then slouched back into the couch, gaze returning to the television screen. " I said orange juice. "

You were sure he said water.

" But you said water. " Your voice was meek compared to his.

" Are you saying I am lying? "

That shut you up.

You apologised, and travelled back to the kitchen to throw away the water and replace it with orange juice.

You'd bring it back, and he'd look at you with disappointment. " Why are you bringing me orange juice when I asked for apple juice? "

He sounded so convincing that you thought maybe you were mishearing. You held the orange juice in your hand tightly, apologised, and left to get the apple juice.

By the time you returned, you were shaking. The apple juice was dripping from the overfilled glass and onto the floor. You were trembling. " It's- It's apple juice. Because y-ou said.. "

Your gaze was so distant. You were so far away. You were no longer on this Earth. Dazai had to keep you grounded.

" You must be taking me for a fucking idiot. "

He slapped the glass right from your hand, your whole body jolted in shock when the glass shattered against the floor.

You two had just been cuddling on the couch, watching a noir movie like a happy couple would.

Dazai had to keep you grounded. He had to keep you on a leash lest you wander.

" Get over here. " He sighed out after a long pause. Instinctively, you answered, " No. "

It's been so long since you were punished. You didn't want to go back to them.

" I didn't do anything wrong ", your voice croaked out to reason. You should have figured at some point Dazai would get bored of a normal life style.

" I said get over here, Y/N, my patience is already running low. I'm not going to hit you. "

And no matter what you've been through, you'd wake up praying Dazai was kinder. He had overheard your nightly prayers one day and in an act of irony or sympathy - hung a cross over your bed.

You fiddled with the hem of your skirt before waddling to between his spread thighs. Hand reaching for your hip and guiding you down to sit on his lap, you avoided eye contact.

You were clearly afraid of being punished for something that was not your fault. You couldn't tell Dazai it wasn't your fault. That would be calling Dazai a liar. And that would get you hit. Good wives don't get hit.

True to his word, he did not raise his hand to you at all.

Once he opened his mouth to speak, you attentively turned to him. His training worked wonders on you. He made himself your God in a matter of months. You no longer worried your pretty little head on whether Kunikida would save you. All you had to do was clean around the house and prepare Dazai's meal - living to serve your husband.

" You've been such a good girl, don't ruin it with this, 'kay? " He didn't sound mad anymore, but you could still pick up on the fact he was not exactly happy with you either.

" Yes, 'samu. " You nod, toying with your fingers nervously.

" You're such a sweet wife. So dumb. So cute. Love seeing you panic. "

You bit your bottom lip at that, chewing on skin.

'' D'ya think It's about time we started our own family? "

You thought at first you didn't hear him properly. You knew you were trying to convince yourself so.

" Ahah.. " You were hesitant. He picked up on it. His dark brown eyes felt like lasers. " I don't think I can. I'd love to, 'samu, but I can't. "

He let go of his soft grasp on your hip to allow you to stand up.

It was 9pm. You should head to bed.

His silence and poker face felt foreboding.

" Goodnight, love. " You tried to remain cheerful.

You went to bed earlier than Dazai. You climbed into your shared bed after having taken your nightly medication.

You fluffed out your wings - once white, now grey - then tossed and turned until you slept.

" Hah.. hah.. "

The burning heat is what hit you first.

Confusion was second.

" Wakin' up, pretty baby? "

Your mouth opened by itself before your eyes did, and when you tried to speak, to ask what is going on, you let out a soft moan.

You feel something sink in deeper in your pussy, the wooden bed frame hitting against a wall. Oh.

" 'Samu! " Your eyes shot open upon realising what was happening. Dazai had not done this for a while. The room was dark. Judging by how dry your mouth was, you had been fast asleep for a while.

Dazai was propped on his knees between your thighs, naked from what you could make out.

You looked further down to realise that he had shoved his dick in you while you were asleep. Your nightgown was pulled up over your stomach and his hands were holding on loosely to your hips.

Your hand reached out to grip onto his wrist, your legs unable to close. " No, you said you were gonna be better, you said no more of this. " Oh, you sweet poor child.

" It's alright. " He responded casually, pulling out just to slam back in. Although your vision was limited, you could feel his piercing stare studying your contorting features. " Just this once, yeah? "

You remembered your conversation with Dazai earlier. The sudden question about having a child.

When you tightened around the base of his shaft, he knew what you were thinking.

" Don't get all scared, baby. You'd make an amazing mom. " He would bend down, his mouth next to your ear as he'd begin thrusting.

You lay unresponsive and silent, staring at the ceiling - your only solace.

His huffs, groans and sighs muffle themselves on your pillow, your body would temporarily jolt in spasms with each orgasm.

Dazai continued for hours.

At some point, your hands were tangled in messy brown hair, your mouth hung and your voice would plead for 'more', 'there', 'deeper'.

Your sweet husband never pulled you back when you drifted off to space with your longing gaze.

He barely even met you in the eye.

Dazai finished his rounds before you noticed. It was a period of him not touching you that made you turn your head sideways to meet him laying next to you, his chest still raising and falling as he'd regain his breath.

You hadn't moved your body.

Adjusted to the dark, you couldn't help but stare at the pitiful man who spoke nothing to you.

An emptiness weighed your heart down and the liquid love he had planted in you seeped - unwelcomed.

You still felt bad for him. Surely, definitely, this was not his fault.

" I'd like a girl. "

Your lips trembled, you smiled to hide it.

" Two.. daughters. "

The corners of your lips quivered with your fake expression. He could see your eyes gloss and your shivering body, blinking rapidly until your tears slid down.

You never did want children. Not with Dazai, at least. Not for another few years. Not here, not now, not with him. Not this Dazai.

He left you waiting for a while, until he rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling that enamoured you with amazement when he had made love to you.

" Yeah. "

He sounded uncertain, before continuing his response. You had expected it. All these years of feeling inadequate and dumb. You were proud to have grown accustomed to Dazai's routine, even if he had promised you months ago he had changed.

" 'm sorry. "

" I know. "

©yawarakaizai 2023 ﹒﹒ reblogs appreciated! requests open :3

[lcvemiyuki]

"nostalgia and night patrols" | daichi, hq

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓊝 ࿐𓂃𓂃𓂃

content: after years apart, a chance encounter with your childhood crush, daichi, leads to a night that opens up a box of unspoken feelings for you; welcome home, y/n.

warnings: fluff, high school classmates to ??, timeskip!daichi, f!reader, y/n is clingy+touchy while drunk, drinking, light cursing

character(s): daichi

word count: 2878

a/n: rewrote this 3-4 times...but timeskip!daichi mmmmm. (not proofread!)

art cred: @/W4W7o (on twt)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

the moon gleams down onto miyagi as you and your friends celebrate your success in opening up your own business. it was only a matter of time before you built something from the ground up, fulfilling a promise you made to yourself to visit your hometown once your shop opened. its been five years since you’ve last been home. you were determined to come back and make your friends and family proud.

keep pushing forward, even when it gets tough.

it pulls at your heartstrings every time; what was he up to these days?

𓇢𓆸 later that night

the bell chimes once more as customers pour into the chaotic restaurant; dishes piling up on each table as work ends for every adult.

“i think that's enough for tonight, y/n!” your friend exclaims in concern while rubbing circles on your back.

what started with light drinking and bubbly laughter ends with your face down on the cold, metal table. your friends worryingly nudge you, fearing the last round might make you hurl.

your raven-haired friend nervously laughs, and you only make groaning noises as a sign of life. “okay! are you ready to take this lightweight home?” she claps her hands together, directing the conversation to the girl with curls framing her face, whose eyebrows furrow in worry for you.

the three of you soon exit the busy restaurant, and you wave your hand in the air, hoping your words reach the owner. “thank you for your service!” your friends stifle a chuckle as they cage you in and hold you up.

“i hope she wakes up and gives us a hundred bucks each for this tomorrow,” the raven-haired girl jokes as she struggles to hold up her end. a sigh heaves on the other side as the curly-haired girl tries to blow her curls out of her face.

as you stumble down the quiet, moonlit street, your intoxicated state makes you a challenging companion. you occasionally mumble incoherent words, your legs wobbling and causing your friends to adjust their grip frequently. you are a comical sight, half-laughing, half-struggling, as you make your way through the sleepy town.

“maybe we should have just gotten a cab,” the curly-haired friend mutters, her breath visible in the chilly night air.

“no way, we’re almost there,” the raven-haired girl replies, though the strain in her voice suggests otherwise.

just as you turn the corner, you almost bump into a tall figure. the streetlight illuminates his familiar features—daichi sawamura. his eyes widen in surprise, then soften in recognition.

“daichi!” the curly-haired friend exclaims, relief washing over her. “perfect timing. can you help us get y/n home? she’s, well, had a bit too much.”

“oh yeah, suprise! y/n’s home.” the other one chimed in, her free hand doing jazz hands.

at the sound of the oh-so-familiar name, you lift your head just enough to peek through your eyelashes.

he looks so grown up now. the light blue uniform clings to his form, the short sleeves seemingly inadequate for the freezing night. yet, he stands unbothered by the cold, a picture of unwavering composure. his broad shoulders fill out the fabric with ease, and the muscles of his arms bulge slightly, pressing against the tight sleeves. in the dim light, his presence is commanding, a blend of strength and tranquility, as if the cold air dares not touch him.

you audibly gasp, a hiccup or two crawling out of your throat.

“desk-mate!” you slur, your words slightly muddled as you throw yourself at him, intoxication evident in the lack of coordination in your movements.

daichi's muscles tense momentarily at the unexpected weight crashing into him, but he quickly steadies himself. his fingerless, black-gloved hand finding its place on your head with a gentle pat. an awkward laugh bubbles from his lips as he glances at your amused friends, one of whom is already lifting her phone to capture the hilarious scene, while the other attempts to push the phone back down.

“hey, easy there,” he chuckles softly. his tone, slightly raspy and warm, makes you straighten up slightly as he tries to guide you to compose balance.

“it’s nice to see you too, y/n,” he adds with a warm smile, his hand continuing to smooth your hair out in a playful yet reassuring manner. his gaze flickered briefly to your friends who are now fully engaged in their mock make-out session; hands crossed and on their backs rubbing all over the place as if it were someone else's.

you don’t say a word as if you could even make out any of the conversation—your heart drumming is to blame.

despite his attempts to help you stand up straight, you droop your head back down. your giggles mixing with the chilly night air as you lean heavily against him.

with practiced ease, daichi catches your stumbling frame once more, positioning himself for you to climb onto his back.

“all right, y/n, can you hop on? i can hold your heels if you want,” he offers gently, mindful not to speak too loudly given your state.

you respond with a playful salute, your movements exaggeratedly dramatic. “aye aye, captain!” you chirp, swiftly kicking off your black wedges before wrapping your arms snugly around his neck.

as daichi hoists the giggling, slightly wobbly you onto his back, he gestures for your two friends to walk in front of him, ensuring they remain within his line of sight. you four navigate through the dimly lit streets.

a few minutes into your impromptu piggyback ride, you, in a moment of drunken clarity, peek over daichi's shoulder and lazily poke his cheek.

“are you the real daichi? like, really?” your words slur slightly, carrying a curious lilt. “i thought i was hallucinating when i first saw you, mr. officer,” you ramble on, your train of thought not allowing daichi a chance to reassure you.

“oh my god, did i just randomly hug you? what if you aren't the real daichi?” your expression shifts to one of concern, teetering on the edge of tears. “it’s okay, you can arrest me, mr. officer. i've been inappropriate with law enforcement,” you add with a serious expression, offering your wrists for imaginary cuffs in shame.

this has daichi turning his head in the opposite direction to stop the laughter bubbling up his throat; a small grin curls upward. you squint at him a bit harder to see and can’t find the answer as to why it’s so funny.

your curious mind once again spoke out loud, “huh? what's so funny, mister? does this mean i’m not going to the slammer?” you reach out, placing your hand over the officer's heart, and sigh in relief as if it were your own.

his footsteps falter for a moment as he clears his throat, “y/n, you don’t have to worry. it’s me, daichi,” finally finding an opening to reassure you.

a few deafening seconds pass by as the cogs in your brain turn. “…oh,” a few more seconds pass, “oh! daichi!” your palm departs from his chest, and snakes upward to squish his cheeks.

the touch of your cold hands once again startles the officer, but they soon warm with the use of body heat.

you ramble on, your palms gently turning his head to face yours. “well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?! ah, it feels good to know i won’t get arrested after all.”

his smile widens, amusement dancing in his eyes. "you know i wouldn't arrest you, even if you tried to talk me into it." he replies, his voice teasing.

he had always been the sensible one in the class, the steady presence that balanced your more pessimistic tendencies. despite your different aspirations—his to excel in nationals and yours to make something of your own—you both found a middle ground through your shared ambition. you admired his dedication and often found yourself inspired by his drive, feelings that blossomed into a secret crush. even though your paths diverged, you continued to support him quietly. however, emails changed and no phone numbers were exchanged making it inevitable to lose touch; yet, the memory of him remained, a constant whisper in the back of your mind.

𓇢𓆸 five years ago

it was a sunny spring day, and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom; their petals gracefully drifting past the glass-paned windows.

our last day together.

you wanted to say it, to let those three words spill out and maybe change everything—but something inside you held your tongue. perhaps, it was the fear of being rejected.

‘you’re leaving for tokyo after graduation. why confess now? and have him wait for you for who knows how long? what if he doesn’t even like you back?’

the more you thought about all the possibilities, the more you convinced yourself against it.

a calloused hand rested on your shoulder, snapping you out of your thoughts. “y/n,” he said, drawing your attention to his familiar short, coal-black hair. “are you worried about something?”

his eyes innocently searched yours.

‘about you, actually.’

“…yeah. i think i might get homesick, you know?” you played along—it was too late anyway. you didn’t want to ruin this happy moment right now; not when it’s the last day before everyone moves on to the next chapter of their lives.

“keep pushing forward, even when it gets tough.” his eyes were filled with concern.

you knew he wanted to say more, but was cut short by the class photographer passing by, wanting a picture of the two of you.

“daichi! y/n! let me get some pictures!” the enthusiastic classmate aligned the camera with you both as you smiled for the picture—daichi’s arm snaked toward your waist, his touch light and almost hesitant.

“say cheese!” the camera clicked twice with flashing lights.

it was a memory you wanted to hold onto forever, even if your heart ached with the words you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

𓇢𓆸 present day

some things never change.

ten minutes pass as daichi ensures the other two ladies make it back to their house safe and sound. both give him a good luck pat and wiggle eyebrows—he only rolls his eyes in response, a tiny chuckle escaping his lips as he watches them disappear into their house.

turning back to you, he notices your eyes drooping. his black boots clack softly on the cement as he continues the trip. “come on, let’s get you home,” he says softly.

the night is quiet, save for the distant sounds of crickets and the occasional car passing by. daichi can feel your breath against his neck, a steady reminder of your presence.

“daichi, you’ve always been there for me,” you mumble, your words barely audible breaking the silence.

just like in old times; he would always stick up for you and be the voice of reason whenever you got too much in your head.

his eyes flicker to the side to check up on you. “i’ll always be here for you, y/n,” he replies, his voice filled with sincerity.

“officer daichi to the rescue,” you tease, your voice filled with playful cheerfulness.

as you approach your front door, daichi pauses, his brows furrowing with apprehension. before he can speak, the door swings open, revealing your parents standing there, worry etched on their faces.

“oh, thank goodness,” your mother sighs in relief—a hand held to her heart as if she had gotten a big scare, “come in, both of you.”

your father steps aside, allowing daichi to guide you inside. “thank you for bringing her home safely, daichi,” he says, patting him on the shoulder.

inside, the familiar warmth of your home wraps around you. daichi gently guides you through the hallway to your bedroom, his touch steady and reassuring. your parents follow, watching with concern as he helps you sit on the edge of your bed, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a moment longer than necessary.

“thank you, daichi,” you mumble, your words slurred with exhaustion. “once again, saving my ass.”

he smiles, patting your head. “get some rest, y/n.”

as he turns to leave, you reach out, your hand catching him. “daichi, wait…”

he stops, looking back at you, his eyes filled with concern. “what is it?”

“daichi, i...” you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper. the words are on the tip of your tongue, but the exhaustion and alcohol make it hard to form them. “i...”

before you can finish, sleep overtakes you, your head falling back onto the pillow. daichi watches you for a moment, a mix of emotions playing across his face. he carefully tucks you in, making sure you’re comfortable.

your mother steps closer, her voice soft. “she’s lucky to have a friend like you, daichi.”

he nervously scratched the back of his neck, the weight of the moment dawning on him as he realized this was the first time meeting your parents. "of course," he managed, a hint of awkwardness tinging his chuckle as it slipped out.

“ah, i’m going to run to the store mrs. l/n. just to get her some remedies for tomorrow morning.” she simply nods with a heartwarming smile.

𓇢𓆸 the following morning

soft morning sunlight filters through the cream-colored curtain, casting a warm glow in the room.

you groan slightly and squint to see daylight once again. your hand lifts, reaching your forehead to pinch the pounding in your head. blinking slowly, you try to piece together the events of the previous night.

as you push yourself up, a wave of dizziness hits, and you groan again, cursing your choice to drink so much.

your eyes catch sight of a bottle of water and a few painkillers on the bedside table, alongside a neatly folded note. curiosity piqued, you reach for the note, recognizing daichi's familiar handwriting.

good morning, y/n. i hope your hangover isn’t too bad. i left some medicine for you. take it easy and rest up. if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me. - daichi (xxx-xxx-xxxx)

you read the note twice, a mix of gratitude and embarrassment flooding your senses. memories of the previous night begin to surface—your friends struggling to take you home, running into daichi, him carrying you to your bed.

you cringe inwardly, recalling drunken ramblings and how you almost confessed your feelings.

“dear god…” you whisper to yourself, the reality of your behavior sinking in. “what did i do?”

you flop back onto the pillow, groaning loudly.

“why did it have to be daichi? after all these years, and i act like that?” you cover your face with your hands, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise to your cheeks.

images of daichi’s concerned face, his gentle reassurances, and his steady hands guiding you through your house flood your mind. you remember leaning into him, nuzzling his neck, and calling him "officer daichi" with a teasing cheerfulness.

“why did i do that?!” you mutter, your hand repeatedly hitting your pillow as if that could erase the memories.

your heart races as you recall the moment you almost confessed, your drunken state allowing you to voice the feelings you’ve kept buried for so long; thanking the universe sleep had taken over you beforehand.

“what does he think of me now?” you wonder aloud, anxiety creeping in. “i acted like such an idiot.”

you take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts. unscrewing the bottle of water, you down the painkillers, hoping they’ll at least take care of the headache. as you do, you glance at the note again, daichi’s words providing a small comfort.

“always helping everyone still,” you whisper to yourself.

you couldn't help but glance over again at the digits scribbled at the end of the note; your heart fluttered once more like a teenager giggling over a crush.

𓇢𓆸 last night

with the small box of headache medicine in hand, he approached the counter, fumbling for his wallet. as he pulled it out, something fell from one of the inner pockets—a small, slightly worn photo. daichi paused, staring at the picture that had slipped out.

the photo was from high school, a candid shot taken by one of their classmates. in it, you were smiling brightly, your eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine happiness. daichi was right beside you, but his gaze wasn’t on the camera; it was on you. his expression was soft, a quiet admiration in his eyes that he had never voiced out loud.

a soft smile tugged at daichi’s lips as he remembered the moment. he could almost hear the laughter of that day, and feel the warmth of your presence beside him. tucking the photo back into his wallet, he felt a pang of nostalgia mixed with something more—a longing that had never quite gone away.

‘you’re finally home’

a surge of emotion washing over him. it was as if he had been waiting all these years, silently holding onto the hope that one day, you'd return.

the weight of unspoken words and hidden glances pressed heavily on his heart.

he was set on making sure you saw him more than just a lingering memory of the past.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

want more?

⤷ masterlist.

[littlebabyyd0ll]

KINKTOBER DAY FOUR, TRICK OR TREAT

[i changed the plot after naming this fic, so it actually has nothing to do with trick or treating xoxo]

Your daddy takes you to a halloween party!

Daddy!Bucky x Little!Reader

Warnings: DDLG themes, lovesick Bucky, slight mention of troubled pasts.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. Enjoy!

Main Masterlist ! Kinktober 2023

On days like today, you feel like the most spoiled little girl ever. Days where you wake up in fresh sheets and next to the person that loves you the very most in the world. He treats you all day, kisses you awake and gets you dressed. Bucky’s a good man, a great man. Never once has he made you feel guilty or inadequate for all that he does for you, both as a boyfriend and as a caregiver. His heart is as big as the compound that you live in, and he reminds you every day that it is for you and you only. 

Your tortured pasts brought the two of you together, brought out his need to be relied on, to have someone to take care of, and brought out your need to feel tiny and helpless, to have someone to take care of you. 

You beam at him now, and he beams right back down at you. His hands are caressing your arms, slowly pulling down the sleeves of your princess costume into place. It’s pretty and pink, a shade like ballet slippers and decorated in the smallest, most minute of sparkles. He’s dressed you happily for halloween, a dress he picked out himself. Steve’s party was already in full swing, but he couldn’t help taking the extra time to make you look party-ready. 

He’s dressed up too, as a shining knight.

His costume is far more tacky and cheap, but he looks as handsome as ever. You squeal on the inside — you wish that you could convey the way that you feel when you’re in this headspace, when you feel this little. 

“Do you remember our rules, princess?” Your daddy asks, slowly spinning you around to lace up the back of your pretty pink dress. 

“We don’t talk to people we don’t know.” You recite, playing with your fingers slowly and idly. Bucky had spent the time painting them shimmering pink, even stooped your squirming so that they turned out perfectly. “Stay close to daddy the whole time. Ask daddy if I need anything.” 

He’s pleased, you can hear it in his tone. “And? One more, baby.” 

You wrack your brain for a moment, wriggling your toes in your frilly little socks. Then, it hits you like lightning, “oh! Gotta say thank you to Steve for having us.” 

“Good job.” Bucky muses, turning you back to face him. His hands can’t help but reach for your cheeks and squish them together, your puffy lips jutting out. “My best girl, huh? You’re such a good listener, baby, m’so proud of you.” 

You’re practically glowing. “Thank you, Daddy.” 

“You ready, sweet girl? Think you’ll be okay with Daddy and his friends?” 

You nod brightly and raise out a small hand. Your finger protrudes outwards and beacons Bucky’s to meet it. He does, of course, linking your fingers with a great smile. Your hand looks so small compared to his bionic one, and it’s so warm, warmer than you’d think. He’s all human, and all heart. 

He holds your hand as you enter Steve’s home, even keeps them connected when the blonde haired man brings him in for a hug. Your hands do lose their hold on one another when Steve’s arms swallow you whole, and when he holds you tight and lifts you up the ground. Steve’s love for you extends just as much as his love for Bucky — you saved his best friend, made his life all the more better. How could he not love you? 

Steve loves you in any way that you come, and when he sees the way that you grip tightly to your boyfriend and that wide-eyed look you hold, he knows that today is the smallest form of you that comes, and he couldn't be happier. The hug that he gives you is warm and all-encompassing. “My girl!” He sings out with a laugh, swaying you in his burly arms. The raven haired man watches you both with a smile on his face. “How’ve you been, huh? You been good for your daddy?”

“Uh huh!” 

“She’s always good.” Bucky insists as he takes you out of Steve's arms and plants you back onto the floor, where you instantly curl into his side. His warmth is brilliant compared to the late-october air. “My best girl, aren’t you, baby?”

“You want juice, honey, or some pop?” Your attention is stolen by Natasha, who opens her arms for a big hug. You tae her up on the offer, looking up for permission form your daddy to go and see the selection with Nat. Bucky gives you a nod and a kiss on the forehead, watching you go with a familiar look on his face. 

One of the upmost love, and upmost adoration.

The blond haired man watches the ordeal with a smile of his own. He chuckles, shaking his head, “She’s real good for you, man.”

“I know.” Bucky hums, watching you blush as Natasha compliments your princess costume and straightens up your tiara. He can just about make out you complimenting her kitty cat outfit over the music and chatter. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

You don’t manage to thank Steve that night. 

Bucky carries you out of Steve’s home with his arm pushed under your butt and your tired arms loose around his neck. You’d been so good all night, obeyed by all your rules. You had stayed close to Bucky and his friends, answered all questions politely and even played board games with friends of friends. Your soul lights up the room, your giggle infectious and, just the same as every day, Bucky finds himself wondering how on earth he got to be so lucky. He’s lucky as your feet dangle around his hips and your drool dampens his shoulder. The play tiara is now sloped and wonky on your head, close to falling off. You look a bit of a mess, but the prettiest mess he’s ever seen. 

Bucky lifts your sleeping form out of the car with a grunt, and sighs when he gets through the front door. He might regret it in the morning, but he lays you in bed still dressed up in your little costume, but for now, he gets to stare down at you lovingly, in your purest form, and he gets to hear your beating heart. 

And for him, that is more than he could ever ask for.

[ivystoryweaver]

With You part 3

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Summary: Jake Lockley has finally met you. What does he think of you, and will he, or Marc, give you any answers?

Pairings: Marc Spector x reader, Jake Lockley x reader (implied Steven Grant x reader). Gender neutral reader. No use of Y/N. Reader is engaged to Marc and Steven.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings/notables: Angst, comfort, references to drinking and alcoholism but it doesn’t happen here, sex but the language is not explicit and no gender-specific body parts mentioned, nightmare, brief crying, cursing, assumptions, longing, feeling inadequate, Khonshu is mean here yall, somebody hug marc spector. Let me know if I missed a warning. Probably inaccurate DID, based on the show.

Dividers by saradika

PREVIOUSLY, on “With You”...

Jake could live without Marc and Steven knowing about him. He’d lived that way all this time, but you were something else. He hadn’t wanted to meet you like this. He had screwed up, and now you were only worried about Marc. He was worried too, honestly.

Now you would never want to know him.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Jake decided, by which he was effectively deciding to do nothing. He may be able to eliminate the vilest creatures under night’s shadow, but trying to explain to you that he was the reason your fiancé obliterated his sobriety...

Jake didn’t fear anything. In fact, as the streets of London descended from depraved men to monstrous supernatural threats, he relished his role as Khonshu’s vengeful fist. Someone had to do it, and Jake was suited to the task.

A creature of the night, he savored the quiet, cool leather interior of his car as much as the dingy London air whipping through his white cape. And the more challenging his vicious foes, the more Jake reveled in it. He protected people. That was his sole purpose.

Including Marc and Steven.

So the fact that he somehow missed Marc tossing back a bottle of whiskey and upsetting you in the process, well - if he couldn’t protect you and his alters, then he had no reason to exist. 

So, time for bed. He would fade into darkness and you would get back who you really wanted.

Reaching to scoop up each item of clothing he had discarded, with none of this explained aloud to you, he turned to flee.

“Wait,” you pleaded, blocking his pathway out of the bedroom, your hands reaching out to push back gently against the pile in his arms. His gaze fell on yours - open, yet unreadable. Not menacing, but not to be bothered. His eyes didn’t flicker away like Marc’s. He stared you down, waiting.

 “Just wait a second, Jake,” you found yourself whispering, a bit transfixed. “Where do you usually sleep?”

Lips parting in anticipation, your heart did some clichéd somersaulting as he tore his eyes from yours and nodded to your bed.

“You sleep with me?” You clarified, dumbfounded.

Dark eyes flickered momentarily down to your mouth. His tongue swiped over the fullness of his bottom lip before dragging it between his teeth.

“I sleep with you.” 

The rich timbre of his voice electrified you.

“Only so you can wake up with them.”

Air rushed out of you in a mildly dramatic exhale. What was this man doing to you? 

“Please,” you whispered, unsure of what you were even asking him. Mostly, you didn’t want to be without them. You had waited all night, terrified. “Don’t go. I was so worried.”

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Jake nodded once. He knew what you needed, and it wasn’t him.

Ten minutes later, after what was, for you, an unbearable silence, Jake climbed into bed with you. Having washed up and making his well-fitting ensemble disappear somehow (where did he keep his clothes?), he decided on Steven’s soft pajamas. The sleeves sagged adorably, covering his hands, but Jake’s fingers didn’t fidget like his alter’s. 

How many times had he done this? Pretended to be them? And were you okay with it? Was it even really your business? It was his body too. 

The lights remained off from before, allowing you the cover of darkness to ease under the blankets, as if acting in a play. 

If Marc were with you, he would pull your back against his chest, folding you close until either your body relaxed, or until his lips breathed salacious words on your ear while his hand slipped between your legs. Either that, or he would bury his face in your tummy, the way he had done that morning. That, too, often ended up with him between your legs. 

For Steven, it was the crook of your neck, latched on to you like a koala. After years of sleeping poorly, or trying his damndest to stay awake and not “sleepwalk”, nothing soothed him more than your soft skin and reassuring arms. He marvelously discovered that, with you, he had no trouble falling asleep at all. For Steven, the mornings were when he needed you most. The two of you would race to the bathroom, playfully fighting over who would freshen up first before tumbling back into bed, where he would be sure to end up between your legs. 

But here, now, Jake was a statue. 

You were Marc and Steven’s whole world. Jake knew he had fucked up enough for one week. There was no way he was moving one millimeter in this bed. Hopefully, the warm surge in this heart would settle to the soothing sound of your breathing. That was his balm - you were his anchor. After the cracking of bones and the wailing of night’s creatures deafening his ears - the gentle rise and fall of your chest in the night was his lullaby.

But he didn’t dare touch you. You weren’t his. 

Sometimes you attached yourself to him the night, or maybe he only dreamed that you did. He was never him when sleep ended.

Feeling the tension rolling off you, the urge to somehow alleviate your worries taunted him. But he was certain he didn’t even possess the ability to soothe, only to punish.

So he said nothing. He did nothing. He waited for sleep.

“Jake...” As you turned to him, your sweet voice crawled up his neck, intoxicating him utterly. “Would it be okay if I held your hand?”

The memory of your smooth skin was seared into his memory from the featherlight kiss he’d given your knuckles. He didn’t even hesitate to grasp for you in the dark, tangling his fingers with yours.

Pressing your face to the soft fabric covering his shoulder, you, undeniably realistic you, accepted this real moment. You wanted answers. You wanted a lot of things. He gave you his hand. You took what was here, now.

“I’m glad to know you, Jake,” you whispered, your heavy eyes sliding closed, despite everything. Squeezing his fingers, and swiping your thumb softly along his, you added, “I hope you’ll come back to me soon.”

You woke up to a mess of chocolate curls buried in your stomach.

Marc. 

Your sweet, tormented angel. 

There was a slight chance it wasn’t Marc, but the familiar whimpers of a nightmare gave him away even more than tummy cuddles. 

“Shhh,” you soothed, raking your fingernails through his messy waves. “I’ve got you.”

He squeezed you, murmuring, “No,” brokenly before whimpering again. His nightmares weren’t flailing arms and shouts like in films. They were this: soft, pleading mumbles and anguished pleas.

With a sudden change in his breath, he was awake, eyes darting wildly as he climbed his way up your body, hands checking you frantically.

“Right here, baby,” you murmured, eyes soft and full of love. He looked so broken, you wanted to cry, while desire simultaneously ripped up your spine. Whatever this man of yours needed, you were going to give him, likely, to your great pleasure and benefit. Win-win. 

“You’re here,” he repeated, gathering you in his strong arms as the weight of his body crushed you in the most delicious way. “I dreamed you were gone. You left, or...or someone took you away from me.”

“Never,” you uttered with conviction, pressing your lips to the corner of his jaw, opening your mouth to breathe hotly before kissing a trail to his ear. “I’ll never let that happen. I’ll burn down the whole world first.”

A choked sob erupted from his chest as he whispered your name. Fusing his lips with yours, his fingers gripped your jaw desperately as if he feared you would quite literally slip through them.

Responding to the press of his body like a partner in a well-rehearsed dance, your legs fell open, ready to feel the heat of him consuming you. His mouth hadn’t left yours, but his thick fingers dragged (his) t-shirt up your torso and over your head.

Only then, when your lips parted, did his dark, desperate gaze lock onto yours. “Need you,” he groaned, his voice tinged with the slight beg you associated with Steven.

Surging forward, you met his furious kiss with equal hunger, pushing under his soft pajamas, pulling, dragging until your naked limbs were tangled, pressing and pulling in desperate passion. 

“You’re mine,” he growled, deep inside you, claiming you, as if you had any doubt or desire to be apart from him. “He can’t h-have you. I won’t let him.”

You were oddly turned on by the idea that maybe he sounded jealous of Jake, who had merely held your hand in the dark.

He didn’t mean Jake.

In fact, he wasn’t even aware you’d held an audience with his mysterious alter.

No, he meant the twisted, deceitful, formidable Egyptian god of the moon, to whom he remained enslaved. The one who took you away in his dream.

The things Marc was doing to your body - you could barely think straight. Your back arched in pleasure, your fingers clawing at the sculpted muscles of his back, desperate to somehow bring him even closer to you. 

“I’m yours,” you gasped, realizing with the deep moan that followed, that you didn’t really have control over your voice at this point.

“Mine,” he repeated, as you drowned in him, and he in you. 

After a long, hot shower together, filled with salacious kisses and some very naughty handiwork, the two of you finally made it to the kitchen. Just like in bed, you danced around one another with practiced ease, as if perfectly executing the blocking of a play. Your hand reached for the coffee grounds, while he readied the filter. He found the bread while you produced his favorite jam.

Shoulders rubbed and soft smiles were exchanged, eyes longingly dancing, locking and flittering away to the tasks at hand. 

“Thank you,” he finally said, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple, “for this morning.”

You almost teased him for thanking you for what you two did quite regularly in bed, but you knew what he meant. Whatever anchor he’d needed this morning, you were it. 

Still, you were a cheeky one, as Steven frequently reminded you... “I should be thanking you, baby,” you innocently purred. “That thing you did...when you turned me over, holy shit--”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed out, motioning for you to get back to breakfast, as if he would ever actually order you about. “You and your dirty mind, I swear to god.” 

You laughed out delightedly. “That’s rich, Mr. Spector.”

One of his dark eyebrows shot up. “Call me ‘Mr. Spector’ again and I’ll take you right back in there,” he playfully warned. 

Tempting. 

The toast popped up to interrupt the two of you, giving Marc’s thoughts just enough time to drift back to much more serious matters. He wanted to be with you all day today. He knew Steven had class at uni and you had work - he didn’t care. He needed you to know things.

“Hey, um...” he started, before you could make another quip about Mr. Spector or the bedroom, “I...I meant to tell you...” reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he swallowed nervously. “I--there’s another bottle. In the flat.” 

Bracing his hands on the countertop, his head dropped. It was hard to look at you when he thought he might disappoint you. “I wasn’t trying to hide it, I just...that night, I...”

Reaching over, you laid your hand over his, there on the counter’s edge. “Thank you for letting me know. Do you want to tell me where it is?”

His eyes darted over to yours and he swallowed hard. “The low shelf, down by the edge of that old table I haven’t fixed yet.”

Ah yes, the ‘don’t throw it out, I can fix it’ project that was cluttering your living room. Steven collected books; Marc collected abandoned, broken things...

“Hm,” you hummed thoughtfully, “Steven’s reading chair is right there. He’s going to figure this out, you know.”

“I know,” Marc quickly responded. “I think I wanted him to. Or you. I don’t know...” He didn’t wait for any sympathy. There was too much to tell you before he completely train wrecked his entire life.

“Something happened,” he pressed on, determined. Then he told you. Head bowed, hands gripping the counter, he explained.

You remained completely still at first, but you noticed that the more you acted normal, the easier it was for him to talk. So you finished the coffee, slathered the toast with jam, and walked everything to the tiny table at the kitchen’s edge, where the two of you loved to share your favorite meal almost every single day.

He had fronted a few days ago. It was dark, cold. He was outside, in an unlit, ominously quiet alley. He didn’t know where he was. Steven wasn’t there with him. He reached for his phone and shook with horror at the white bandage-looking material wrapped around his hands. Realizing his face was covered with a mask, he started to panic when the fabric quickly receded, leaving him gasping.

His body was covered in Moon Knight’s mummified wrap. 

“No, no, no, no,” he cried, forgetting, for a moment, that he could simply will the suit away, and clawing at the material instead. 

Then he heard it. Him.

“Marc Spector,” the booming voice of Khonshu splintered through his mind, wracking his body with terror. 

“No, NO,” Marc shouted, climbing to his feet and pressing his palms into his forehead. “You’re gone. I don’t belong to you anymore!” 

He ran, clinging to control of the body, determined not to allow Khonshu anywhere near Steven. Or you. 

The old god’s skeletal form appeared on various rooftops, following and taunting Marc, his voice eerie and all consuming, as if the bird were nearly shouting into his ear. 

“Run away if you can. This body doesn’t belong to you,” the voice taunted. 

“Leave me alone!” Marc shouted, but it came out as more of a whimper, like trying to scream for help in a dream. “We had a deal!” He halted, banging his fists against his head as if it would make the ancient being simply evaporate. 

But the spiteful deity scoffed, turning his bony back as if done with the conversation. Turning his menacing beak back toward the puny one in control of his avatar, he replied, “Lockley is mine, and so are you.”

Then he vanished. 

Just the relief of the god disappearing urged Marc’s legs forward, stumbling through angry tears until he reached your home. You were at work. He paced the flat, tugging his hands through his hair, desperate to keep Steven in the dark. 

“It can’t be,” he gasped, over and over again, trying to convince himself. “We’re free. We made a deal. We’re free.” This overwhelm would normally bring Steven to the front, but Marc held on, pacing himself to exhaustion. He was asleep on the couch by the time you came home. 

You woke up to Steven. And while you worked your next shift, he bought the whiskey. 

He waited another day to drink it.

“I thought maybe...I wondered if I had completely lost my mind,” he uttered, finishing his story, now seated at the kitchen table.

Easing off your chair, you knelt in front of your fiancé, setting your palms gently on his thighs.

“Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean really,” he went on, his hands covering your own, grasping at your fingers. “I thought...what if all this time, Khonshu was in my head? Like...part of me.”

“Like another alter?” you questioned, peering up at him.

“Maybe. I started wondering about all of this Moon Knight bullshit--if it even really happened. And, now there’s this Lockley...” Trailing off he sighed, defeated. 

Okay, progress was happening. Might as well get it all out in the open. 

“I met him, you know,” you carefully admitted, smoothing your thumb over his as you waited for his reaction. “Lockley.”

“Shit,” he rasped, gripping your hands desperately. “He was here, with you? What did he say?”

“Not much,” you admitted. “His name is Jake. Jake Lockley. He was here last night.”

“Here in the flat?”

“Yes. Late last night. He came in through the bedroom window like Spider-Man or something. We talked for a minute, he told me his name and then we went to bed. I didn’t really find out that much about him.”

Releasing your fingers, Marc sat up straight in his kitchen chair, his eyes darkening possessively. “He went to bed with you?”

Hm. You could have worded that better. “Marc, I--”

“Did he touch you?” His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck straining as his dark eyes burned turbulently. 

“It wasn’t like that,” you protested, quickly climbing up off the ground to stand in front of him. Caressing his face tenderly, you shook your head. “I wanted to talk to him - to see what the hell is going on. He seemed worried about you drinking.”

“You talked to him about that?” Marc pushed off his chair then, pacing across the kitchen and back. “I haven’t even talked to him yet.” 

Fair enough. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, it just came out,” you confessed, giving him a little space, while pushing down your urge to grab him. “Jake was about to leave, and I wanted some answers. I wanted you all here with me. He came home so late, Marc, and your phone was dead. I was so fucking scared...”

Your breath hitched as tears clouded your eyes. “You’ve been so upset, and the drinking... Steven doesn’t have any idea what’s going on and then this Jake uses the damn window in the middle of the night and I thought he was going to leave, and go back out in the night, with no phone. I wanted you here, Marc, so...so I asked him to stay. I asked him if he knew what was going on, or why you had been drinking--”

“Okay, baby, okay,” he conceded, reaching for your shoulders to bring you close. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

The two of you held one another in the middle of your drafty little kitchen, the shared answers between you only raising more questions. 

“I think you should talk to Steven,” you suggested gently, “if you feel ready.”

Resting his forehead against yours, he rubbed your back soothingly. “Yeah. And maybe...maybe Jake too.”

tags requested @rivalriotrenegade @wordacadabra

[imagine-darksiders]

Hear me out: Samael with a pregnant (from before they met) reader.

- Finding out the object of his obsession affection is pregnant dredges up some long-buried instinct in the demon prince, one that has him plagued by the urge to nestle you away somewhere until well after the baby is born.

- You, however, are decidedly against the idea of Samael squirrelling you off to goodness knows where, so you try to go into hiding.

- He’ll burn the word down to flush you out if you do though.

- When he has you, he’s nerve-wrackingly gentle with you. Uncharacteristically so. You can’t help but feel like you’re waking on eggshells around him, like at any moment, the other shoe is going to drop and he’ll throw you in a cage or tear you apart just for the Hell of it. But that never happens.

- Samael grows agitated because his human is stressed, and that feeds into his primal nature, telling him he’s doing an inadequate job of making you comfortable in the ‘nest’ he’s built you.

- Said nest consists of an insanely large bed with scarlet, satin sheets, the colour of freshly spilled blood. He puts you in his own private chambers, under lock and key and guard, and though he’s often absent to attend to his affairs, he always returns at night to gloat about his latest scheme or the enemy he’s just overthrown, all in a bid to impress you and make you realise he’s a strong, accomplished provider.

- There’s also the matter of the child’s existing father… Samael has several plans in place for the assassination of your old flame, a cold act to be sure but a necessary one that’ll secure himself more firmly in your mind as your sole caretaker.

- He really wishes you’d allow him to help you ease some of the pain in your abdomen that comes in the latter stages of pregnancy, but every time he makes a suggestive comment to see if you’re receptive to his unorthodox yet effective methods of pain relief, you end up curled in the corner furthest from him, a quivering wreck, and not in the way he intended. So he leaves it alone… reluctantly.

- He’s unaccustomed to someone rejecting his advances. You don’t even fall in line due to fear, which you have in spades.

- You won’t let him touch your belly, fiercely protective of the baby growing inside you. And it’s a funny concept to the demon, that you won’t ’let’ him. As if a Prince of Hell could be commanded to do anything… but… for you, he at least keeps up the pretence that he’ll comply. At night however, after you’ve fallen asleep, Samael lays his immense head down right beside you, chuffing warmly through his nostrils as he peels back the covers and rests the very tip of his forefinger on your swollen belly.

- He tells himself he only does it in defiance of your wishes. But in truth, he seeks reassurance that the tiny life inside you is still alive and healthy. Humans are notoriously fragile, their offspring even more so.

- Several times you try to escape, citing that he can’t really expect a baby to grow up in a fortress in Hell. He doesn’t see the problem. It’s perfectly safe here. Certainly safer than being left up on Earth where all manner of things could happen to you without his protection.

- He doesn’t want to have to chain you to a wall to keep you from trying to leave him, but if you keep pushing him, you won’t leave him with much choice. You belong to him, and the child inside you, though not sown by his own seed, is his as well. The sooner you come to terms with that, the happier you’ll be, he’s sure.

- He’s no threat to you or the baby, although you seem to have some preconceived notion that as soon as they’re born, he’ll hold them ransom to control you.

- Admittedly, the idea had occurred to him briefly. But he soon realised he didn’t want that. He didn’t want a mindless thrall who followed every order and complied with his every whim. He’s not her. He’d rather have your cooperation. He’d rather have your true affection, to know for himself that notorious affinity humans have to love. It has eluded him for eternity. He wants that.

[starofthesea7]

Neteyam ~ Dreaming About Me?

You find out that Neteyam doesn’t see you like a little sister.

Use of the “it’s cold so we have to share a bed” trope, and step bro Neteyam. Enjoy! 💋

It was dark, and the snores of your host family were quiet against the cool air. You could just barely make out their shapes around the room: Jake, with Neytiri’s head nestled against his chest. Arms wrapped around eachother for warmth. Kiri, Lo’ak and Tuk were snuggled up in a pile, snoring softly.

You shivered from your corner of the room. It was a cool night, which was rare for pandora, and to combat the chill the whole family had fallen asleep around the fire. It was now a pile of glowing red coals, and you were freezing with cold. Your teeth chattered, and you stared into the dying fire, willing it to warm your bones. Your eyes wandered to Neteyam, sleeping peacefully on the opposite side of the room. He was still, snoring softly and his usually hard expression was softened by sleep.

You were frozen, but there was no way you’d go snuggle up to him. Of course, if you did work up the courage to do so, he’d welcome you into his haven, warm you up no questions asked, but your face heated at the thought of feeling him. Being so close. His bare chest flush against your back. He would be able to feel your heart racing, threatening to beat out of your chest.

Another breeze wafted through the room. You decided to join Kiri, Tuk and Lo’ak. You rose, muscles stiff with inadequate sleep, and padded your way across the cold, packed mud floor.

“Kiri.” You shook her shoulder gently. “Kiri, can I sleep with you guys?”

She grimaced in her sleep. “There’s not enough blanket. Just go sleep with Neteyam.”

Your cheeks heated at her words. Of course she hadn’t meant it like that. But nonetheless the sentence got your imagination running wild. You ignored the blush creeping across your face. “Please?”

She shook her head and rolled over.

“Fine.” Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe It would be like exposure therapy, you could finally leave your childish crush on your step brother in the past, move on.

Who were you kidding, it in your blood. You hugged yourself tightly and padded over to him. His expression had changed now, his lips where pursed and he looked focused. Your heart was beating rapidly as you softly called out to him. “Neteyam?” You hated bothering him, you always despised feeling like a nuisance, especially to him. He was always so composed and mature. It intimidated you; it made you feel like too much. To loud, to feisty. “”Teyam?”

He turned his head towards you. “Oh, hey.” His voice was raspy with sleep his lids heavy. He sat up, propped on his elbow, and you fought the urge to glance down at his bare chest.

Your voice was quiet “Sorry for waking you, but I’m freezing over there in my corner, and Kiri said there’s no room with her, so-“ He stretched his arm out and lifted the thin blanket for you in one languid movement. You smiled sheepishly at him. “Thanks.”

You crouched, getting under the blanket, and as soon as your leg grazed his, he breathed out, “You’re freezing. Come here.” You melted at his words. His arm gently wrapped around your waist, fingers leaving a hot, tingling trail behind them, and he drew you into his chest. He was hot and hard, and made no move to remove his hand, draped across your soft waist. Your breath was shallow, as if anything more would make the precious moment dissipate. You laid in silence.

His fingers moved, spreading out across your belly, his hand was huge against you. Your heart raced are you imagined it everywhere. Against your hip, cupping your breasts, in your- His soft voice startled you out of your wild thoughts, “I was dreaming about you.”

“Yeah?” Your eyes widened in the darkness. “What happened?”

He hummed. “Nothing important.” He never was a man of many words.

You turned around to face him, and adjusted your position, head resting on your bent arm. His arm now wrapped around your back. Your faces were close. Your legs tangled. “You can’t just say that and then brush off the question. Dreams are important.”

“You’re right.” His eyes glistened with jest. “Ok, I’ll tell you when you’re older.” He joked. It was something he used to say when you were a child, and he wanted to avoid an interrogation. Your 7 year old self had looked up at him, “Can you teach me how shoot an arrow?” Or “how are babies made?” And that had been his go to line. Now, it was no longer a valid one.

The time has come for him to finally be open, present you with all the answers he’d ever kept from you, yet he’d done the opposite. Bottled them up and thrown them away. “I am older. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

He looked at you intently, an eyebrow quirked. “I see that.”

“Really?” You frowned slightly, “I feel like you treat me exactly the same.”

He cleared his throat, “Well I don’t see you the same, trust me.”

You looked up at him, his lips were slightly parted and his lids were heavy. His eyes searched your face. You felt lightheaded, mouth dry. His eyes darted to your mouth as you licked your lips. Your breasts rose and fell with heavy breaths.

“You still see me like a little sister though…” You pried. You needed this, an answer. Either way, whether it cut your heart out painfully or filled it up to the brim, it was something you needed to know.

He hummed and you felt the vibration. “Tuk’s my little sister, not you.”

You smiled at him, and his eyes glowed with the reflection of the dying embers. His guard was down, you decided to test the waters, your fingers traced up his arm. Goosebumps appeared, to your delight. “So, big bro, you dream about me a lot?”

His eyes widened, ever so slightly before he regained his ever present composure, he joked, “They’re more like nightmares, actually.”

You rolled your eyes at his tease. Your brain searched hastily for a quick jab back, a witty response. “You mean wet dreams.” It tumbled out fortuitously. You hadn’t t meant to say it really. Had you? Your eyes widened and you bit your tongue. You felt your skin prickle with embarrassment, and, something else. Excitement.

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that’s where your mind went? Dirty girl.” It sounded filthy, dirtier than he’d meant it. Now it was his turn to redden. But it was out there now. Both of you continued, cautiously entering a place of no return. You felt on fire. Senses heightened with arousal at the exchange of banter. And his nickname. Oh, his nickname. Dirty girl. You were slick.

“Hey. I just said what we were both thinking.” You tilted your head at him. His breath was hot across your face. A silence fell upon the two of you. His arms held you tight, anchoring you to the ground.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You echoed, thoughtlessly. Nothing but him, occupied your mind.

You traced your finders up his arm, and he flexed slightly beneath your touch. You felt them up. Hands dwarfed by his large arms. You slowed, running your hands up his shoulder and to his neck. You could feel his pulse there, and you continued, finally resting at the nape of his neck. Your blunt nails gently scratching his hot skin. He leaned down. Your pulse was pounding. Limbs tingling with anticipation. His lips brushed your cheek and your felt his hard cheekbones rise with a smile. He breathed in deeply, chest brushing your breasts.

“Y’ smell good.” His voice was soft.

You tingled at his compliment. Again, you blurted out, “I taste good too.” He chuckled gently at your witty invite, and you melted at the raspy sound. He leaned down and his lips brushed yours. He was needy. So were you. His lips moved with yours, soft and warm. They parted and he opened his mouth, inviting your tongue to meet his. It was hot and wet. You pressed your body against his, hips flush. He breathed in sharply as your lower stomach brushed the prominent bulge at his pelvis.

You grinned and pulled away, a thin, lewd string of saliva connecting your mouths, a tangible reminder of what had just occurred. You brushed his hip with teasing fingers and gestured to his hard on with your chin. “Yeah, sure it wasn’t a wet dream.”

He blushed and you softly exclaimed as he pulled your back toward him, fisting your hair. He shook his head and grinned wide, repudiating his next words, “You’re insuffereable.”

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Morning Reverie (S.R.).

Summary: Spencer wakes Reader for a sleepy, early morning tryst. Request: Morning wood Spencer + perhaps something sleepy? Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+)   Content Warning: Hint of somnophilia, established relationship, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, mild D/s themes Word Count: 1.2k

MASTERLIST

Spencer used to hate mornings. The early light, however beautiful, always carried with it an unappealing chill. Most mornings, he would cringe and curse the first hints of sunshine breaching through the blinds.

But things had changed since he met you. The mornings had morphed from monotony to opportunities. Another day, another chance to find new ways to love you.

Spencer used to wake from dreams and reach for the empty space beside him. Now, when he wakes, he finds that you are there, already as close as you could be.

Your back is pressed against his body, and, specifically, his dick is carefully wedged between soft cheeks.

“Fuck,” he whispers, half-hoping you’ll wake.

When you don’t, the more sinister side of him is almost pleased at the opportunity to enjoy a few more seconds of sleepy bliss.

His arm is already draped over your waist, but he flattens his hand against your stomach slowly. He wants to be sure that when you stir, you feel just how close you’ve drifted in an unconscious state.

Once he has you properly in his hold, he presses his hips forward. His body shudders at the friction. He moves again, this time pushing down on your hips and causing your back to arch against him.

You finally begin to wake.

As soon as he hears beautiful, groggy whines, he slips his hand past the waistband of your underwear.

“Good morning,” he whispers in your ear.

It’s your turn to be covered in goosebumps. You gasp when you feel his fingers part slick folds. You’re hardly awake, but his touch is as familiar and comforting as it’s ever been.

“G’morning,” you hum back happily.

Even within his crushing embrace, you manage to reach your legs back to tangle with his. Your heart is racing already, and you wonder how long he must’ve been grinding against your sleeping figure for your body to be so prepared for him already.

His fingers press into you and find no resistance. As they’re enveloped by your waiting heat, Spencer wraps his lips around the sensitive skin over your pulse point.

Immediately, your hand shoots down to push your underwear down. It still isn’t quick enough for you.

Spencer smiles against your neck. He enjoys each whimper you give as you suffer from wanting.

“Someone’s excited,” he slurs between slow kisses.

“Look who’s talking,” you chuckle.

To prove your point more fully, you arch your back further.

Spencer groans as the motion causes you to press harder against him. But that competitive spirit quickly resurfaced and took charge once more. His fingers that are still inside you sink deeper. He forces them down to the knuckle and uses his new grip to tilt your hips impossibly further forward.

“You should be grateful I woke you up so nicely,” he taunts.

Releasing some of the pressure, he sneaks his other hand between your bodies before he issues a warning that sets your body on fire.

“I could’ve been a lot meaner.”

He wraps a hand around his length and guides it to your heat. His fingers are still inside of you, and they suddenly feel woefully inadequate. Your body is already craving the full extent of him. You are squirming once more, trying to move up the bed to free his fingers so he could continue with what he’d originally planned.

Spencer chuckles at your desperation.

You don’t care.

“Please,” you say under your breath, “Please, fuck me.”

He appreciates the begging and gives in to your demands, albeit slower than you would like. As his hands pull away, he makes sure to drag the wetness over your thigh.

It was yet another reminder that, no matter who had started it, you had wanted it just as badly.

“Were you having sweet dreams?” he teases.

You don’t know how to answer. Truthfully, the line between reality and imagination felt blurry at best that morning. Your mind runs wild with fantasies to explore further at a future date.

Spencer accepts your silence as an admission of guilt, regardless of the variety.

“Naughty girl,” he chuckles just as the head of his dick slides between slick folds. Then, with a bittersweet cruelty, he teases, “Maybe I shouldn’t have woken you up.”

With one swift motion, he thrusts into you. You choke on a shameless moan. You don’t even bother to bury your face in the pillow because you want him to hear how good it feels to be filled with him.

Part of him wishes he could be more aloof about his pursuit. It would be so much fun for you to be the only one who is desperate, for your whorish moans to echo in an otherwise silent room. He so desperately wants to prove that you are the one who wants it more.

But that would be a lie. Because it feels like heaven between your thighs. He listens to your voice shift octaves as he reaches new depths inside you, and he likens the sound to how others speak of angels.

He forces himself to slow down. He is reserved in his motions, soft as he takes his time running gentle fingers over your trembling figure.

You can feel the gentle thrumming of his heart from inside of you. He splays a hand over your chest and pulls you back until you can feel it against your back, too.

His hand plays lazily with your breasts before it creeps down until it rests between your legs again. There, it finds the sensitive nub just above where your bodies meet.

“I like it when you’re nice,” you giggle.

“Yeah?” he teases. His fingers slide easily around your clit, just as carefully and practiced as his hips that stayed where they are.

You want to answer, but his ministrations cause your muscles to tense. That action, in turn, makes you even more acutely aware of how deep inside you he really is.

He kisses your jaw as if to prove that he can be nice when he wants to be.

Then, with a smirk, he growls, “You like it when I’m mean, too.”

Without withdrawing, he bucks his hips hard against you. The sensation it causes is nearly blinding, and you are almost dizzy with the pleasure.

His fingers move even faster, his hips continuing to fuck you harder while his other hand holds your shoulder down to keep you where he wants you.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he begs between clenched teeth, “Make me proud.”

The tension throughout your body snaps. You gasp for air as your muscles clamp around him like a vice.

Distantly, you hear him groan with relief. You feel the warmth fill your body that is aching for it; the soft throbbing of spent bodies seeking to come even closer somehow.

His hips still grind against you with staccato thrusts, but his hand rests softly above where your bodies are still joined. You feel all the evidence of your desire pooling at the base of your bodies, and you shudder in response.

Instinctively, Spencer pulls you closer to keep you warm.

Happiness radiates from you both as you smile. The sun creeps over to bathe you both in the light of a new day, and the morning continues like the most beautiful dream.

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Thanks for reading!

[baby-tini]

It's early in the morning but I NEED to talk about waking Mikey up with a blowjob...

It's not fair... it'll never be fair how the God's above chose favorites.. and Manjiro Sano, was definitely a favorite. Judging by how pretty he looked, laying there, asleep, peaceful isn't a word that correlates with the name Manjiro Sano, but that was the only word that could explain how relaxed he was. You knew people would call you crazy, for looking at this feared man who was seen as a God amongst men and calling him sweet... but you couldn't help it.

Not when his lips twitched as you kissed them and certainly not when he had ruined you for others, then took his time to build you back up, for him, always for him. It was only right in your mind to pay him back. You hoped he wouldn't mind, you were just showing your appreciation, after all.

So, twisting in his arms, you got to work with his pants, popping the buttons and sliding your body down further, gliding wet kisses down his adonis belt and sloppily sucking at him through the uneeded cloth of his boxers. Shoving your hand into the buttoned opening of his boxers, you pulled until they popped off. Finally grabbing his cock and popping a wet kiss on the slit as you ran your thumb down the vein on his base, feeling him twitch, you flattened your tounge, licking at the pre that slipped out.

Lightly squeezing the base and jerking upwards, you hear him whine, an uncommon sound from Mikey but welcomed nonetheless. Peppering the underside with kisses and gliding your tounge over his balls. You feel a rough hand grab a fist-full of your hair and pull you back. Wincing at the pain, you reach back to tug at his hand, trying to loosen the pressure on your head.

"You need more, huh? I fucked your throat loose earlier. You need to stop being so greedy, I mean look at you, you're drooling all over me. But then again... this is much better than hearing you run your mouth about stupid shit." His voice is hoarse, deep and tired, he's exhausted from dealing with inadequate lackeys. It's okay though, you can take care of him, he'll let you... even if it means the neglect of everything else.

You'll stay, even when he pushes you back, attempts to drive you away.. you'll push back harder, he's scared, you know that. Connection isn't something he cares to make anymore, but he knows that he needs you. That's why he'll let you yell and criticize him... he knows you care. He'll let you shove him down your throat as much as you need to, only if it means you'll stay.

He can't say he doesn't like it though, he loves you for it. He loves the feeling of your throat spasming around him as you gag, pulling back on him and licking at the loose strings of saliva connecting to his dick. Feeling your smaller hands jerk his cock, sucking the pre off him as you openly welcome the taste of Manjiro Sano into your life.

[shadowdaddies]

With Her Own Wings

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel's mate wishes that she could have wings like his, and goes to dangerous lengths to acquire them.

Based on this ask.💜

A/N: I had TOO much fun with this. One of my favorite fics I’ve written

warnings: kinda spooky, mentions of blood, allusions to sex

Azriel’s fingers laced through yours as the pair of you lazed through the quiet evening streets of Velaris. A sparrow soared across the watercolor horizon like a paintbrush against the canvas sky.

Azriel tracked your gaze, noting how it followed the bird. A small smile graced his lips, hazel eyes twinkling in the setting sun as his wings twitched behind him. 

“I wish you knew what it feels like,” Azriel sighed, his eyes out of focus, as though he were imagining flying high above the city, rather than walking through it with you. It was a conversation you’d had repeatedly, his words echoing through your mind every time he took to the skies - how inadequate you were, bound to the ground. 

Guilt panged your chest as you watched Azriel, his heart racing within his own chest at the mere thought of flying. But he was tied to a wingless mate. You were someone who brought him into your own cage instead of setting him free. 

“You should go,” you nodded towards the warm-hued clouds in the distance. “Enjoy an evening flight. I can walk home,” you forced yourself to say, flashing him a practiced smile.

Azriel’s eyes lit up, wings flaring in reaction before he looked to you. His smile disappeared, wrenching your heart as his expression turned sympathetic. “No, love. I won’t leave you,” he whispered, his disappointment clear. “You could come with me. You know I like to fly with you in my arms as well,” he offered.

The ache in your chest was unbearable at this point. You knew Azriel loved to fly by himself, testing how fast he could soar, flipping and diving through the wind. All the things that made him feel free, at peace. All the things he couldn’t do with you in his arms. 

Knowing that Azriel meant what he said - he wouldn’t leave you - you agreed to let him fly you up to the house. The air was crisp up high, the wind against your cheeks clearing your head of the worries it held. You sighed, sending a childish wish to the Mother that you too could fly, one day.

Azriel arose early the next day, waking you with a kiss goodbye as he set off for a mission. You laid in bed, watching his wings spread wide before jumping from the balcony, your heart straining as you watched your mate diminish into a spot on the horizon.

Thoughts began to spiral, and you kicked off the covers with an irritated huff as you forced yourself from bed, forced yourself from journeying further into your self-loathing. Trudging down the stairs, you turned into the kitchen to find an amused Cassian studying you.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he greeted, raising his cup to you in a mock-toast. Flipping him off, you pulled out a chair at the table, burying your head in your hands, feeling the press of your palms against your closed eyelids.

Cassian softened at your display, setting down his cup as he reached a hand, gently pulling your arm away. “What’s wrong? Tell me how I can help.”

Cassian’s hazel gaze was so genuinely tender, you felt the burden slightly lift as you looked at your friend. A wry chuckle left your lips, and you sighed, leaning back against the chair. “It’s nothing, Cass. Nothing to be done... Unless you know of a good wizard around here.”

His head tilted slightly, brows raised at your strange comment, but Cassian decided not to pry, instead going along with the joke. “Mmm, no wizards I’m afraid. If it’s a potion you’re looking for, maybe try the Weaver’s Cottage. I went in there with Az once now that it’s empty...”

The general’s head turned to see the intrigue on your face, suddenly alight with interest. “No,” he scolded, pointing a finger at you. “I know that look. I’m serious, don’t go there. That place has a darkness that will never go away,” he muttered, a shudder working through him at the recollection.

You rolled your eyes, giving your best effort at nonchalance as you scoffed. “Cass, I wouldn’t dream of it. I just wanted to hear more about what scared the might Lord of Bloodshed. Good to keep in mind,” you teased with a wink. 

That appeared to satisfy Cassian, the male returning the gesture you’d given him earlier. Your friend mussed your hair, muttering about Azriel leaving him alone for training as he left you sitting at the counter, devious ideas eddying in your mind. With a smirk, you hopped up from your chair, headed upstairs to get dressed. 

An hour later, you’d winnowed your way to the forest’s edge, a shallow tree line separating you from the clearing where the Weaver’s Cottage stood. Smoke no longer rose from the chimney and no light shone in the window. The dust and cobwebs weren’t new, but you slipped on your gloves, nose scrunched as you brushed away the silken strands that webbed the front porch steps. 

Looking down, you watched the cobwebs shake from your hand, falling to the dusty deck when the door creaked open. Your breath hitched, eyes widening as you watched the door slowly open for you, a light flickering on across the room.

Swallowing thickly, you crept forward, breaths shallow as you crossed the threshold. Floorboards creaked beneath you, dust flying as a rat scurried across the top of your boots. With a squeal, you jumped back towards the door just to feel it close behind you.

The light on the far side of the room grew brighter, cluttered artifacts coming into view. 

“So skittish for one that hopes to learn to fly,” a silken voice sounded from the dark. As your eyes adjusted to the lack of light, you saw the blurry outline of a female, the edges of her form hazy and semi-translucent. 

Keeping a hand on the dagger sheathed at your thigh, you crossed further into the room, curiosity winning over your better senses at the sight of spell books and herbs lining her table. “Who are you?” you questioned, voice wavering more than you would have liked.

A cackle left her lips, the young woman twirling long black hair through her iridescent fingertips. “There’s that boldness I was expecting. You aught to be more careful dearest, about entering someone’s home uninvited. They say that curiosity killed the cat - imagine what it would do to a little bird like you.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as the realization dawned on you. This witch knew that you were coming, and she had prepared for you. “I didn’t expect anyone to live here. I had been told the home was empty,” you admitted, hoping to quell any offense she might have taken to your invasion.

A scratchy hum sounded from her chest, amusement flickering in green glowing eyes as you shifted on your feet. “It clearly is not empty,” she drawled, moving her hands in a flourish as she gestured to the hoards of both trinkets and treasure that enveloped the space. “I do hope that you don’t rush into all of your decisions the way you rushed in here, dearest, or you may not like what the future holds.”

You opened your mouth to ask her to elaborate when she stood abruptly, gliding across the floor to the table laden with books and herbs, and one singular vial of liquid that she held in her long, nimble fingers. You could see the purple potion through her hand, its contents shimmering in the dim light, drawing you closer. 

“Ah, ah,” she crooned at you, lips spreading into a wide, wicked smile that revealed rotted teeth. Just as your gaze flicked to the bone, it turned to a pearly white, as dazzling and unsettling as the rest of her appearance. “Such a foolish girl. So easily drawn to the potion she seeks. But have you not considered the price to pay?”

Your mouth was watering, vision only able to focus on the vial in her hands. You barely processed her words, eyes still glued to the bottle as you murmured, “a payment? What do you want?”

You didn’t see the sly grin of the witch, a spider who’d caught a fly in her web. “What will I take? I would just like a little lock of your hair. As for what the wings will take, it matters what you are willing to give.”

You didn’t hesitate, dazed as the potion swirled in front of you. Thirsty, you were so thirsty. “I will give whatever it takes to make my mate happy,” you breathed. 

“Very well then,” she snapped, handing you the vial. Her cold arm swept through your skin, sending a chill down your spine as she pulled away. You heard a snip as she cut your hair, and you eagerly uncorked the vial, downing the contents in one go.

The moment you finished drinking, clarity returned to your senses. That was too easy. What could she want from you, truly? You turned to ask, but words couldn’t form in your mouth, vision began to fade as colors grew more vibrant. The witch leaned in, ice-cold hands tucking a parchment into your palm.

“To give you a fighting chance. Go now, pet. You don’t have long,” she whispered, a high-pitched cackle echoing in your mind as you stumbled towards the door. You fell to your knees, crawling on weak limbs towards the entrance. “Oh, little bird. So naive,” she cooed, just as the door burst open.

The light burned your eyes, the outline of an Illyrian standing tall in the doorway the last thing that you saw, cedar the last that you smelled before you awoke again.

Eyes fluttered open to find yourself in your room, Azriel hunched in a chair next to you as he pored over a parchment in his hand. A shadow curled his ear, and hazel eyes flicked to you.

“My head hurts,” you grumbled, hand reaching up to try to stop the pounding against your skull. 

“You are lucky that’s all that hurts,” Azriel said, hurt of his own flashing across his expression.

“You are mad.” You stated. It felt dumb to say, but you couldn’t stop yourself. “You look very handsome, even when you are angry. I love you and I don’t want you to be mad.” The words continued to spew, Azriel’s expression changing from shocked to appraising as you spoke.

He looked down at the parchment. “I guess that is the truth part,” he sighed, running a hand through his onyx waves.

“What truth part? What are you reading? I want to see it. I don’t like when you keep things from me,” you babbled.

Azriel’s nostrils flared, his hands clenching at your words. “You don’t like it when I keep things from you? What the Hel is this?” He thrust the parchment at you, and you read:

The wings that you seek will be yours to keep,

But beware as follows, for nothing comes free:

For one to paint the sky as the winged might fly,

From them new colors will bloom like a light in fog’s gloom.

To truly grow wings, be true to oneself.

Truths may be drawn easily, like books from a shelf.

If one wishes to fly, they shall see from bird’s eye.

But prepare for a scare as you float through the air.

So long as one can endure the challenges that be,

Their wings shall grow freely, they will branch like a tree.

Your cheeks turned red, memories from the cottage flooding back to you. 

“Well, what is it?” Azriel demanded.

You bit your tongue until the metallic taste of blood coated your mouth, but the words forced their way out. “I want wings. Cassian said the Weaver might have something to help and I knew that it was stupid but I went and then this witch gave me a potion to help me grow wings. Please don’t be mad, I can’t bear upsetting you anymore,” you pled, salty tears falling down your cheeks.

Azriel’s featured softened, a scarred hand coming to cup your face as he kissed the tears away. “Hey, my love. It’s alright. I am glad that you are safe. But why would you do this? Why do you want wings?” 

You sniffled, holding his hand against your cheek as you leaned into his comforting warmth. “I see how disappointed you are, that I can’t fly with you. I see how happy you are when you are flying. You always said that you wish I knew what it feels like, and I’m tired, Azriel. Tired of weighing you down. I want to lift you up,” you admitted, the corners of your eyes stinging from crying.

“You do not bring me down. You keep me grounded. And you lift me to new heights - you challenge me in new ways, you bring me more joy than I have ever felt. You are perfect as you are,” Azriel promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You sighed, looking down at the parchment as you noticed your skin begin to change color, turning a ghostly white. “Well, as I am seems to be changing, so I hope you mean that,” you said, holding up your hand to show Azriel as the skin turned as translucent as the witch’s. 

Starting at your fingertips, the skin turned pink, then orange, followed by yellow and purple. It was as though the sky was being painted across your body, your skin turning watercolor shades of sunset. 

You turned to Azriel in horror, only to see him biting back laughter. At his expression, you couldn’t fight the smile that appeared on your lips, and Azriel followed it belly-aching laughter, bent over the bed as he turned red in the face.

“Well, that would be the ‘For one to paint the sky as the winged might fly, from them new colors will bloom like a light in fog’s gloom’ it seems. Very pretty, I must say,” he purred, bringing your purple hand to his lips as he pressed hot kisses to your skin. 

“Oh Cauldron, what else will that witch put me through?” you huffed out loud, collapsing back onto the pillows. Something jabbed your shoulders, and you hissed as you turned to the mattress to find the offender, but nothing was there. 

You took in Azriel’s expression. His jaw hung open, the Illyrian warrior frozen in shock as he stared at you. Finally, he brought a hand to your back, and you gasped at the feeling. He was touching you, but it felt like something attached to your shoulder, sensitive as his fingers traced it before stopping at the fabric of your nightgown.

“Az, is it...?” you couldn’t manage the words. Azriel simply nodded, too stunned to speak. “I guess I’m growing wings,” you said, and you couldn’t stop the excited giggle that escaped you at the proclamation. 

Your mate gave you a soft smile, hazel eyes twinkling in appreciation of your joy. Your stomach rumbled, skin changing back to its normal hue as you swung your legs over the side of the bed.

“Let’s go get you some food,” Azriel murmured, draping an arm around your waist as you ventured down to the kitchen. No sooner had you sat down than Cassian stumbled through the door, gaping at the wings growing on your back. 

“Oh my gods, you did it,” he breathed. His brow furrowed, mouth turned down as he practically ran towards you. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he mumbled into your shoulder. “You are okay, right?” 

You bit your lip, turning to Azriel who was still laughing as he focused his attention on the stove. “It seems as though the worst has pass-“ 

No sooner had the words left your lips than you began to ascend in the air. Like a puppet on a string, you were pulled up by an invisible force as you looked down at Cassian and Azriel from where you were caught against the ceiling.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Cassian murmured, the smirk on his lips disappearing as Azriel smacked the back of his head. You looked down, panicking as you yanked the fabric of your nightgown to cover as much as you were able.

Azriel groaned, removing his shirt as he tossed it up to you, the clothing longer than your dress when you put it on. 

“We forgot about the ‘If one wishes to fly, they shall see from bird’s eye. But prepare for a scare as you float through the air.’” Azriel mumbled, rubbing his temples as he and Cassian looked up at you. 

“How are you going to make that work for dinner and drinks at Rita’s later?” Cassian mused, arching a smug brow at you.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you realized that tonight was family dinner, and you were going to Rita’s to celebrate Mor and Emerie’s anniversary. “It shouldn’t last that long,” Azriel answered resolutely, drawing you from your thoughts.

You nodded down at him in agreement, some relief washing over you as you realized that you still had hours until you needed to leave. 

“Do you think you could help me get down from here?” You asked, groaning as your head thunked against the ceiling for the third time.

“I have an idea,” Cassian muttered, turning on his heel as he went back through the door towards the training ring. He returned moments later, rope in hand, as he tossed an end up to you. “Tie that to your ankle,” he instructed you. You followed his orders, letting out a surprised yelp when he tugged you back down to where you were almost to the ground. 

The general bent down, looping the rope around Azriel’s ankle when Az stopped him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“If I tie your ankles together, then she won’t float away,” Cassian answered, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Azriel sighed, waving his hand resignedly for Cassian to continue.

The half of your body that was tied to Azriel remained grounded, the other half slipping upwards consistently, awkwardly pushing you into your mate’s body. 

“We can make this work for a little while, right?” you looked to Azriel.

A small laugh left him, the shadowsinger shaking his head as he pressed a kiss to yours. “Like I said, I am with you. No matter what color you are, or how much you try to float away.” 

Hours passed, Azriel sitting with his legs crossed awkwardly on top of yours to keep you seated on the couch. Your back itched and ached from the wings that were growing shockingly quickly, the size of an Illyrian child’s at this point. 

Azriel looked pointedly at you, saying the words you knew were coming. “We have to get ready for dinner.”

Half an hour later, you found yourself hobbling down the streets of Velaris, ankle bound to Azriel’s as Cassian snickered at your other side, holding you down. 

“This is humiliating,” you grumbled, your fledgling wings twitching in anger behind you as the Illyrians kept you looped through their arms. 

“I think the punishment fits the crime,” Cassian retorted breezily, wincing as your elbow met his ribs. 

“I didn’t commit any crime,” Azriel muttered, his cheeks turning bright red as you arrived in front of the restaurant. The rest of your family was already seated, their faces in various stages of shock and amusement as they took in the sight before them. 

“What the Hel did you do, girl?” Amren questioned, sipping her wine as she eyed the wings on your back. You told them the embarrassing tale, knowing that you would never live this down, but had already concluded that this was worth it.

Azriel held you tight, his body pressed firmly against yours as you danced at Rita’s. Through the evening, he discovered the preferred way of keeping you grounded was by holding you flush to his chest, which the two of you had fun with when you got home that night.

You woke the next morning with Azriel’s wing draped across you, and you smiled before opening your eyes to see Azriel was asleep on the other side of the bed, his wings draped across himself. You startled, gasping as you sat up in bed, a slight new weight on your back sending you flopping into the mattress.

Azriel mumbled sleepily as he awoke, rubbing his eyes as he turned to you. Your mate choked on his words, eyes bulging as he took in the sight of your wings, larger than his as they spanned the entire length of the bed. 

“Oh, my gods,” he gasped, his hand instinctively reaching out to feel the thin membrane that was now apart of you. 

A small gasp left your lips, followed by a moan at the pleasurable feeling. “Cauldron, I know why you wished I had these now,” you whispered, dizzy from pleasure as you grinned up at Azriel.

He chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. “Good morning. How do some flying lessons sound?”