#that boy fucks men. it’s canon in everything but words

[wibble-wobbegong]

question for people who think eddie was maybe queer: do you think they were just fucking around when they drew on dustin’s bubble shirt as a further prediction of S5 events, added mike’s triangle pocket that consistently points to will, max’s clothes shifting from blue to green after reconnecting with lucas, and el slowly shedding blue and turning to white for funsies? they knew what they were doing when they put that black bandana in his pocket please be fr

[sundrop-writes]

Meddle About

Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader

‘Cause it's not just a figure of speech - you got me down on my knees.

It's gettin' harder to b r e a t h e .

Summary:

You hate it when Morgan teases Reid. So when Morgan says that you are Reid's 'Mommy' - you verbally fire back without even thinking about it.

Reid vastly overthinks it.

So much so that he ends up calling you Mommy by mistake. And you definitely don't hate the sound of that word coming off his lips.

Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader. Co-Workers to Lovers. Smut. Set during Season One.

Word Count: 6,300

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: general smut fic - porn with some plot; dom/sub dynamics (but this isn't a pre-discussed dom/sub relationship, the characters just fall into these roles naturally), Spencer is submissive and the reader is dominant; the main theme is Mommy kink - Spencer discovers that he has a Mommy kink after a joke that Morgan makes, referring to the reader character as Spencer's Mommy; Spencer calls the reader 'Mommy' and the reader also refers to herself with that title; the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina (and breasts); it could be interpreted that the reader has larger breasts/is plus sized (but I think anyone of any size could enjoy this fic); the reader is part of the BAU; this is meant to take place during season one (baby Spence my beloved) but there are no other major canon events mentioned and the case being discussed is one that I have made up; some very background typical elements of Criminal Minds - murder, killing, systemic vicimization of women/violence from men towards women (passing mention of bodies being consumed by wild animals); the reader and Spencer fuck while on a case (but they aren't endangering anyone's lives from lack of their attention, so it's fine); mentions of potential injuries from a car accident (theoretical - doesn't actually happen during the fic); very slight threads of Morgan x Reader (mentions of Morgan being attracted to the reader - it could be one-sided); very passing mention of Reid having breeding kink (doesn't take place during the fic, just one of his thoughts); for the actual smut section: this could be interpreted as virgin!Spencer but that's not explicitly stated here (at most, this is just inexperienced!Spencer) (the reader is definitely way more sexually experienced than him); praise kink (we all known Spencer is so eager to be praised); mentions of breastfeeding - Morgan makes a joke about the reader breastfeeding Reid, which later turns into faux breastfeeding kink (the reader doesn't actually lactate, but she lets Spencer suck on her tits and calls it breastfeeding); the reader calls Spencer: 'baby', 'good boy',; descriptions of subspace - but it's not specifically called 'subspace' in the text; thigh humping - Spencer humps the reader's thigh; cumming in pants (Spencer); multiple orgasms/overstimulation (Spencer receiving); handjob - the reader jacks Spencer off while he is sensitive after his first orgasm; using lube as cum; dumbification kink - the reader calls Spencer 'dumb baby' and generally enjoys seeing his intellect drop the more turned on he becomes (Spencer also likes being called this); technically the reader doesn't get to cum, but she gets turned on from treating Spencer like the good boy that he is (and this is more about him). I think that's everything.

A/N: This was directly inspired by the scene from Reid's birthday party, where Morgan says 'Mommy to the rescue!' (talking about JJ) and then Spencer says '...Mommy?' and it seems like he is discovering his Mommy kink in real time. Especially because he is then trapped between Elle and JJ and he makes direct eye contact with their boobs, and he just has such a look of scared kink realization in his eyes. I considered copying that moment exactly and just replacing JJ with the reader character, but this seemed like more fun lmao. I had so much fun writing this and I think this is one of my best fics in a while. I hope you guys enjoy it!!

...

Generally, you hated being stuck with grunt work. 

You knew that it was all part of the job - an important part of it. Paperwork, side interviews, background checks. Sifting through someone’s apartment looking for aspects of what kind of person they were based on their everyday life. 

But you thrived more on being right in the middle of things. You preferred interacting with suspects, chasing people down, harsh confrontation. 

Gideon said that you were overly controlling, impatient, brutally honest - that you had an ‘abrasive personality’ that put most men off. But that was why he often brought you into interrogations with male suspects. Many of the people you caught - men with superiority complexes who targeted the weak to make themselves feel powerful - they hated that you weren’t intimidated by them. That aspect of abrasion between you and the suspects often brought out a lot of information - things they spewed out trying to intimidate you. 

But you weren’t needed on that front today. 

No - instead, you were doing grunt work. The kind of work that made you impatient and generally aggravated. 

The only upside was that you got to do it with Spencer. 

He was one of the only men that voluntarily worked so closely with you so often, because he wasn’t intimidated by you. He took orders from you very well and naturally fell under your authority, bringing a natural chemistry to your partnership when you worked with him. Plus - his seemingly endless stream of ‘fun facts’ was like listening to the radio, which did help to soothe your boredom during these kinds of mindless tasks. 

You were on a case in Texas. Five women raped and tortured before having their bodies hung from a tree and consumed by cotoyes that the UnSub knew lived in the area. Since police had closed in on him, he had gone on the run. He had killed three more women since fleeing, while leaving no clues as to what his ultimate endgame would be or where he would be going next. 

Hotch sent you and Reid to find that out while the rest of the team worked victimology and profiled the scenes of the most recent murders, following the trail he was leaving. 

After spending hours sifting through the suspect’s house, looking for any small clue about where he might be going - you came up empty. When you touched base with Hotch, he told you that you and Reid would be going to visit the suspect’s ex-wife - who lived four hours away. You needed to interview her to see if she could give you any further insight to the man, and perhaps - beat him to the house if she was the ultimate target. 

(A lot of the victims looked like her, and it couldn’t really be a coincidence.) 

You knew that lives were at risk, and it was juvenile of you, but all you heard was: long, boring drive. Boring day. You hoped that Reid would be good company through it. 

Now, you were waiting outside of the police station in the bureau-issued SUV, waiting for Morgan to come and give you the file with the ex-wife’s address and contact information. 

“Did you know that over forty-six percent of Texans own a gun? Texas is second only to Montana in registered gun ownership, where over sixty-six percent of citizens proudly tote their right to bear arms.” Reid told you, continuing to look over the case files that were sitting in his lap. 

When you looked over toward him to reply to this odd factoid, your mind got caught up on something else. 

“Reid, come on, take your feet off the dashboard!” You told him, reaching over to gently smack his knee, trying to encourage his legs down from the awkward position. 

It bothered you for several reasons - the idea that he would leave shoe prints on the dashboard, which was minor and cosmetic, but still annoying. And the fact that if the car did happen to get hit head-on, the air-bag would explode out and push his knees into his chest, causing his shattered leg bones to pierce his organs and possibly kill him. (At the very least, he would never walk again.) 

Speaking of which: 

“And put your seatbelt on!” You barked, now noticing that he wasn’t wearing it past all of the files he had piled into his lap. “You of all people should know how many deaths are caused by not wearing a seatbelt.” 

Spencer opened his mouth to spout out this exact statistic, but before he could get the words out, another voice entered the conversation. 

“Aw, Reid, listen to your Mommy.” 

You were almost startled by Morgan’s voice coming from the open driver’s side window so suddenly. His appearance there as if out of nowhere was so jarring that you couldn’t get caught up on the way he had called you Reid’s Mommy. Your head whipped toward Morgan so quickly that you didn’t notice the flash across Spencer’s features - worry, dawning. You didn’t take note of the way he rushed to comply with putting on his seatbelt. As if he was rushing to please you, even unconsciously. 

“I bet if you’re a good boy, she might even breastfeed you when you get there.” 

Morgan then pursed his lips and made loudly suckling noises, clearly imitating breastfeeding in what he thought was a comedic way. 

Again - glaring at the muscled man through the open window, you didn’t see Spencer’s reaction. You didn’t see the way his large, glassy eyes flickered to your breasts (only emphasized by your own seatbelt crossed over the center of your chest) before he forced himself to focus on the files in front of him so that he wouldn’t feel so caught.

“Shut up.” You told Morgan, your voice so commanding and firm that his simple order was enough to get him to stop his antics. 

“And give me the address already.” You held out your hand expectantly, and Morgan handed you the file, which you placed onto the center console. 

Then, you turned back to him for one last point, determined to have the final word in the conversation. 

“Besides, we both know that you’re the one who’s got an obsession with my breasts, anyway. Just because you stare while wearing sunglasses, doesn’t mean I don’t notice. My eyes are up here, pal.” You told him sharply. 

He let out a scoff at this, and rolled his eyes behind his dark frames - but he made no clever comeback. 

You had successfully bested him. And with that knowledge, you rolled up the window and left him standing dumbly in the parking lot as you sped off. 

… 

You pulled over later to put the address into the GPS system, and you let out a long-winded groan when you found that it was more than four hours away. Four hours and twenty five minutes. 

So you pulled over again to get gas and stocked up on snacks, and you were surprised that Reid wasn’t giving you some lesson about the colloquial use of ‘soda’ and ‘pop’ (thinking that you hadn’t listened the other ten times when he had gone on the same rambling point about linguistics and how language evolves). 

He was being far too quiet for your liking. 

But he was keeping his eyes glued to the files, and you guessed that he was churning over something in that big brain of his, like he usually was. 

You were entirely surprised when the next time he spoke - it wasn’t about the case at all. 

“How - how do you know that Morgan likes your breasts?” He asked, his voice low and mousy, looking straight ahead as he fidgeted with his hands in his lap. 

“What?” You gaped, the word flying out of your mouth as your brain was utterly slow to process what he had just said. 

Hearing Spencer use the word ‘breasts’ was jarring, but somehow utterly adorable. You found it stirring a slight heat within you. Especially because he was still so shy. The whole thing made you want to pin him down and force the shyness out of him. 

Spencer felt the need to further explain himself. 

“When - when you were talking to him, you said: ‘we both know that you’re the one who’s got an obsession with my breasts.’” He said, repeating back what you had said, word for word, using that perfect memory of his. 

You wondered if that’s what he had been doing, sitting there in his seat so silently for the past hour of the car ride - going over the conversation again and again in his head, trying to make sense of it. And because he couldn’t make any sense of it by himself, now he was consulting you. 

Again, you found it so utterly adorable. 

“Morgan didn’t deny it. So - was it a hypothesis based on something, or did you just call him out hoping that you weren’t wrong?” Reid continued, sparing only a singular glance in your direction, a look that you caught out of the corner of your eye with your gaze still mostly focused ahead on the road. 

You found it intensely cute that he was using the word ‘hypothesis’ in this situation. You wondered if he ever turned it off - the textbook big words and the intellect that he always carried himself with. You wondered if you could make him turn it off. You wondered if there was any situation where Spencer Reid could be as stupid as any other man - chasing a bone, desperate to get his nut off. 

For the first time ever - you imagined Spencer Reid underneath you, blabbering nonsense, begging for release with your hand around his cock as you pumped him, red and aching, so slick in your palm. Desperate, empty-headed, beautifully stupid. 

(See, this was what happened when you were forced to do grunt work. You got bored. And when you got bored - you had to entertain yourself somehow.) 

“It was a pretty well-informed hypothesis.” You replied. Now that Spencer had brought the topic up, you certainly weren’t going to shy away from the discussion. “Morgan often brings up my sex life, and wants to engage in detailed discussions about my sexual encounters with me. So I assume that he spends a fair amount of time thinking about me in a sexual way.” 

Reid let out a choked-off noise at this. 

You continued. 

“Plus, he’s always staring down my top. He’s not exactly subtle.” 

“You - you actually notice that kind of thing?” He chirped, his voice becoming a few octaves higher as worry flooded him. 

You bit your lip, suppressing a grin. 

Of course, you had noticed the times that Spencer stared at your breasts as well. He was even less subtle about it than Morgan was. You didn’t mind it when he did it, because you knew that Spencer wasn’t exactly casanova. He didn’t have a different girl every other week like Morgan did, so taking a glance down your shirt when he passed you a morning coffee was probably about as much action as he got. 

Secretly, letting him get away with it was your gift to him. 

“Don’t worry about it, baby.” You told him, the pet name slipping out mindlessly as you reached over and gently patted his knee as a form of reassurance. 

This movement unintentionally drew his eyes toward your chest, especially in his desperation to look anywhere but your face, not wanting to make eye contact with you. But he found his eyes glued to the swell of your breasts once again - hating how perfect they looked, even through the simple cotton shirt and plain bra that you wore. 

“Sorry, Mommy.” The word slipped out before he could even consciously process it. “Sorry!” 

Spencer raised a hand to smack his own face at lightning speed, and slumped down into his seat in embarrassment. 

You bit your lip to suppress a grin. It stirred a filthy heat in your belly. But you knew that Spencer likely needed a while to sit with this and wouldn’t want to talk about it - not yet. So you reached over and turned on the radio, letting the music fill the space so that the silence wasn’t so awkward and gutting. 

…

Spencer didn’t talk for the entirety of the rest of the car ride, which didn’t surprise you. 

When you finally arrived at the ex-wife’s house, his hands were shaking with nerves as he tried to unlatch his seatbelt. You probably should have just left him alone to struggle, but an evil spark, likely fueled by the boredom of the day, flared up inside of you. You couldn’t resist the urge to lean over the console, very purposefully showing off your breasts as you gently pushed his hands away and undid the belt for him. 

“Here, let Mommy get that for you.” You said, distinct teasing on your breath as you mumbled the words into his ear. 

Spencer huffed out a deep sigh and collapsed back into his seat, and pushed his hair out of his face in frustration. But he didn’t say anything more as you gathered the files in preparation for the interview. 

He only spoke when you moved to get out of the car. 

“Look, I-” He began a half assed explanation, and you easily cut him off. 

“You let Morgan get in your head too much.” You told him with a chuckle, opening your door and getting out. 

But as he forced himself to follow you with numb limbs - he knew that this definitely wasn’t all Morgan’s fault. 

… 

The ex-wife didn’t know much. 

She described the marriage as hell - the suspect exhibited all the typical behaviors as a husband that they would have expected. He hated women, and he wanted full control over his wife at the time, which eventually led down the path of divorce. They had to sell the house they had bought together, but neither of them had moved out of Texas since. But he hadn’t contacted her in years. 

She had two young kids from a new relationship, and when the woman stepped out to take a call, you picked one of them up to soothe his cries, hushing him gently while you rubbed his back. 

Because of this, Spencer found himself even more dizzy and confused. 

He knew that it was Frueadian - some deep, misguided part of his psychology - something broken and missing inside of him because of his own fractured childhood. 

But seeing you being so sweet with a kid, especially after the day he’d had - he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be your baby, or if he wanted to shoot his cum so deep inside you that it would ensure he could give you one. 

(Ultimately, he knew that it was likely both - and that didn’t answer any questions for him. It just gave him far more questions.) 

… 

Even though the ex-wife couldn’t give you guys much more than you already knew, Hotch wanted you and Spencer to stay close by in case the suspect decided to make his ex-wife the end game. The two of you would be able to make it to her first if she called for help. 

So you and Spencer had dinner at a random local barbeque place off the highway and Spencer still didn’t talk much through it, other than posing some theories about the case. Even though he was a bit more talkative, he still refused to look at you - he stared down at his plate the whole time. Though whenever he did look up, you noticed that his eyes lingered on your chest - and he still wouldn’t look you in the eye. 

By the time the bill came around and the two of you were ready to leave, you knew exactly what you had to do. 

… 

Spencer waited by the car with his bag while you checked in and got a motel room (needing to stay in town, you got a room for the night). When you came back, you handed him the room key and then moved to get your bag out of the car. 

“Do… you already have yours?” He asked quietly. 

“Hmm?” You hummed in reply, slinging the strap of your go-bag over your shoulder before you closed the back door and used the remote to lock up the car. 

“Your room key?” 

You suppressed another grin. 

“I only got one room.” You told him. “You don’t mind sharing with me, right?” 

You gave him a purposeful look - looked at him through your lashes, bit your lip slightly, and subtly squeezed your breasts together with your upper arms, emphasizing them. You knew exactly what you were doing to him, but hopefully it seemed subtle. 

“I - uh - no.” Spencer stuttered. “It’s fine. We can share.” He gave a grin, not wanting to appear upset, even though his entire body was racked with nerves. 

Spencer followed you to the room and he fumbled with the key with shaking hands for a moment before he sighed and then handed it to you. 

His insides quaked when he saw that there was only one bed. 

He wasn’t sure if he should say anything about it. The two of you had slept in the same room before, but you had never shared a bed before. Sure, you had slept near each other before. He had accidentally fallen asleep on your shoulder on the plane or vice versa. But you had never crawled into bed together with the intention of sleeping together. 

And yes, just the entendre behind it made Reid’s head spin. 

He had a heavy knot in his gut, and hatefully - a distinct stirring in his crotch. He could only imagine how embarrassing it would be for you to wake up and see him compromised in some way. Or god forbid, if you caught him moaning in his sleep because of unconscious dreams that he couldn’t stop - for you to think that he was some kind of dirty sex pervert because of it. 

He felt an overwhelming need to clear the air overtake him. He had no clue how to broach the subject, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to spend the night like this. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with this anxiety hanging over his head. 

He studied you carefully as you sat down on the edge of the bed, ditching your bag off to the side and heaving out a tired sigh as you began taking off your shoes. 

Spencer put down his own bag and then stood there, fidgeting nervously as he searched for words. 

“I - uh - I am sorry about earlier.” He mumbled out the beginnings of an apology. “What Morgan said was stupid, and I-” 

“I don’t think it was stupid.” 

You let out a chuckle, and reached up the back of your shirt. Spencer found himself frozen, his eyes tracing your every moment as you unhooked your bra underneath your shirt and then moved to maneuver the straps out from your short sleeves while you kept talking. 

“I think he had a point.” You added on. “Good boys should get a reward. And I think you were fairly good today. You didn’t eat all your veggies at dinner, but you kept your feet off the dashboard and you were quiet during the car ride. You definitely get points for being patient during such a long trip, baby.” 

Your voice smoothed into a soothing tone, that word - baby - melting like butter over your tongue in a way that made Spencer’s knees wobble. He hadn’t known it until right now, but you calling him a ‘good boy’ and listing off such mundane things he had done that made him worthy of a reward fired off sparks inside of his brain. 

A breath choked off inside of his throat as you stood up off the bed and peeled your bra completely out from under your shirt. Somehow it was one of the sexiest things he had ever seen, revealing the hard peaks of your nipples and the beautiful natural teardrop shape of your breasts to him through the cotton fabric. 

Spencer wanted to speak, but his tongue felt so heavy and dry inside of his mouth. He knew that he was staring at your chest so blatantly now, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away. He couldn’t even feel ashamed anymore. 

That dull tingle in his crotch had turned into a full on stinging interest, and he unconsciously pulled at the fabric of his pants, trying to loosen some of the tension that was growing, not even considering how it might look to you - him dumbly reaching for his crotch to make it look looser when his hardening bulge was becoming more obvious by the second. 

It was one of the most ‘caveman’ things he had ever done in front of you - standing there with his mouth hanging slightly agape, pulling at his crotch without caring how it looked. You definitely wanted more, wanted to see how dumb he could get. How far you could make him devolve. 

“So what do you say, baby boy?” You hummed, stepping close into his personal space now, causing him to get a whiff of your perfume - something that was only a dull trace after such a long day, but still smelled so good. “Do you want Mommy to breastfeed you? Do you wanna suck on my tits as your reward?” 

You gently ran a thumb across his cheek, and paired with the words, Spencer’s brain short-circuited. 

He knew realistically that you weren’t actually offering to breastfeed him. There was no evidence in your life to say that your body could actually support the production of milk currently - but you were offering to let him play pretend. To suck on your tits with a very sexual air, to call you Mommy without the teasing humiliation behind it that Morgan had hinted at (or maybe Spencer liked that humiliation, he wasn’t even sure). (He hadn’t even known before this morning that he liked the idea of calling you Mommy, but here he was). 

All he could conjure in response was the dumbest, non-human sound. 

“Nngh.” 

It was a grunt from the back of his throat - too much blood swelling to his cock all at once and too much direct attention from you making him dizzy. 

You giggled quietly. 

“Come on, baby. Just say the word. And Mommy will give you everything you need.” 

Spencer inhaled sharply. At this point, he was desperate to get some oxygen to his brain. 

His mind was racing, chanting out: 

‘Yes! God, yes! I want it so badly, Mommy! I want anything you’ll give me. I need you. I need you so badly.’ 

But all his lips could form in the wake of such dizzying lust was: 

“Please.” 

“Good boy.” You sighed. 

You used a hand on his chin to tilt his face up to meet yours, and you consumed him in a kiss - he was hungry and eager to meet your touch, moaning loudly into your mouth, his hands racing to touch you now, rushing up to grip on your hips in the most utterly needy way. He balled the fabric of your shirt in his fists, like he couldn’t get enough of you - like he was afraid you would dissolve away if he let go of you for even a second. 

It was cute, to say the least. 

You only let the kiss last for a moment, though. You pulled away to a disappointed whine from Spencer, which you quietly hushed. 

“Hey, it’s okay baby.” You soothed him. “Come here. Mommy’s gonna take good care of you.” 

You lead him toward the bed, getting rid of his tie in the process, and Spencer stepped out of his shoes along the way. You slid onto the bed and laid up on the pillows on your back, Spencer clumsily following you, crawling on all fours. The two of you had barely started, but he was full-on panting now, racing to catch his breath while his blood hammered through his veins. 

He watched on with eager curiosity while you got comfortable, fluffing the pillow under your head before you then reached down and pulled up your shirt. You pulled the fabric to sit up under your chin, finally revealing your gorgeous breasts to him. 

If he was lost for words before, then he had receded back to a total neanderthal now. 

His mouth fell open and his salivary glands started working overtime as his eyes raked hungrily over your chest - enjoying the pure beauty of the fatty mounds, striped with zig-zagging stretch marks and completed by your hard peaked nipples. 

“Here, come on, baby.” 

You had to remind Spencer what the goal was, guiding him into place with a hand on the back of his head. You helped ease his body to lay on top of yours as he relaxed into you - and his mouth finally found its rightful place on your breast. He became greedy, suctioning hard on your nipple as though he might actually get something out of it. 

Truthfully, he did get something out of this. 

It definitely wasn’t any form of nutrition, but it was something that drove him lustfully insane and made his head fuzzy and warm in the best way. This was the only time in his entire life that he didn’t have ten thousand thoughts running through his mind like the news blasting on television in the background. This was the only time since his first conscious memory that he had actually known his mind to be quiet. 

He felt intensely thankful for it. Intensely thankful toward you for giving him this feeling. 

In that moment, without all the noise, all he knew was the comforting feeling of your fat tit under his mouth, the heat of your body under his own as you cradled him. The soothing firmness of your hands through his hair and down his back - and the distant, sweet purring of your voice in his ears. 

“Good boy.” You hummed, loving the feeling of him moaning around your nipple - so constant and so greedy now that you were sure he didn’t even know that he was doing it. “Such a good boy for me. Such a good boy for Mommy.” 

Your cunt was humming between your thighs, aching so hard at seeing Spencer like this. The usually composed, intelligent, practically robotic Doctor Reid reduced down to a blubbering, moaning, needy mess just because he wanted to suck on your tits. 

Just because you had called yourself Mommy a few times in his presence. 

It was so utterly beautiful, and you wanted more. 

(You didn’t think that you could ever let him go after this. You probably wouldn’t be able to stand the idea of another woman touching him after this. But you would have to think on that more later.) 

You noticed Spencer canting his hips, unconsciously seeking friction against his hard cock while he continued to suck on your breast. With his eyes closed blissfully, drool gathering around his lips where they met your skin in the most utterly adorable way. You couldn’t help yourself - you scooted your knee between his thighs. You then used a hand to help his hips into place, adjusting him so that he was getting good friction against your denim-clad thigh. 

“There you go. There you go, sweet boy.” You hummed, feeling another jolt through your body when he let out a sharper moan against your tit, and began humping your leg in earnest. 

You were quick to encourage him, putting both hands on his hips and helping him along while he greedily hung onto you. He had on your hip, the other hand slipping up to cup fingers around the bottom of your breast, making sure you didn’t escape him while he moved his body against you so frantically. 

“That’s just what you needed, isn’t it, baby?” You moaned out, your voice wavering slightly as the pleasure of it all thrummed through you. “Just a dumb little baby who needed Mommy’s tit.” 

The term ‘dumb little baby’ came flying out of your mouth before you could stop it. Though you knew exactly why it happened. Seeing such a brilliant genius reduced down to this truly did something to your ego. And apparently hearing those words from you did something to him, too. 

He whined sharply against your skin and his hips stuttered abruptly. You knew it wouldn’t be long before he came in his pants, his cock throbbing against the friction of your thigh. And this thought alone caused your mouth to run off without restraint. 

“Such a needy little thing.” You sighed. “You love being Mommy’s dumb baby, don’t you? Not a single fucking thought between your ears, just sucking on Mommy’s tit without a care in the world.” 

Spencer moaned and it sent another jolt through your body - another harsh pang through your cunt. You loved how much he needed you. You loved how much he was clearly eating this up. 

You didn’t even care if you got to cum tonight; you just wanted to exhaust him for all he was worth. Because he was so fucking pretty like this. 

“You gonna cum for me, baby boy? You gonna cum for Mommy? Come on, baby. Cum for me.” 

These words were what ultimately sent him over the edge. Well that along with your strong hands on his hips, encouraging him along while he was mindless and busy mouthing on your breast.

His jaw dropped open, finally loosening that desperate suction on your now slightly sore nipple as he began to pant frantically over your now spit-soaked skin. He moaned hotly while he humped you in an entirely adorable, almost distraught manner - absolutely desperate to have the most friction on his cock while his orgasm overtook him. 

You could feel his needy cock throbbing against you, trapped inside of his pants, shooting off hot ropes of cum that quickly soaked into his underwear and even then, seeped into the fabric of his slacks. You grinned and bit your lip as you felt that wetness even beginning to soak into your jeans, knowing he must have set off quite a big load. 

Spencer soon collapsed on top of you, gulping in air as he tried to catch his breath. 

Any normal person would have taken pity on him (seeing as he was clearly nervous and inexperienced) and wound things down to end the night here. Anyone else would have likely let him rest. 

But again, you felt devilish temptation overtake you. (It was a feeling that seemed to be much more ripe around Spencer Reid.) 

You just felt thankful that your temptation and inclination toward chaos came in the form of lust, rather than something more violent, like the people you studied every single day. Everyone around you should be thankful for that. 

You used your leverage (and the fact that you weren’t nearly as exhausted from the experience) to flip him over onto his back. He let out a surprised sound as his back made contact with the mattress - blinking up at you with shocked, glassy eyes as you moved down his body slightly. 

“Wha-?” He mumbled out the question, only getting out part of the word before you reached for the zipper on the front of his now wet pants. 

“Hey, shh, baby. I just wanna see you.” You told him quietly, causing him to stare down the length of his own body at your hands as you worked. 

You got the button and zipper undone quickly and you let out a quiet ‘fuck’ as you peeled back the wet fabric of his grey slacks to reveal the sight of his simplistic (very Reid) white cotton underwear slightly transparent and stuck tight to his cock, coated in wet, sticky cum. 

“So pretty baby.” 

He only whined in response. 

You couldn’t help yourself - you reached up and pulled down the waistband of his underwear, feeling more lust pricking through you as he was truly revealed to your eyes. He was perfect. Glossy and wet with his own release, his cock pinky red from the exertion and friction, still half hard. You pulled the clothes down over his hips and he lifted his body to help you, clearly glad to be rid of the mess, and the second you untangled the fabric from his ankles and ditched everything aside, you were back on him. 

You skimmed the tips of your fingers oh-so-lightly up his shaft where it was sprawled across his pelvis, and his hips jolted. He let out a bitter gasp - as though cold water had been splashed across him. 

“You said-” He choked on the words as you ran your thumb right underneath the crown, gently pressing into the head, causing him to choke on a moan while his knees quaked. 

You sat on his knees to keep him still and his head became so fuzzy once again. 

‘You said that you only wanted to look.’ 

The sentence died off in his lungs somewhere, and truthfully - he didn’t want to protest. He didn’t want you to stop. 

“Sens-sensitive.” He whined. “Too much.” 

“But you’re so pretty, baby.” You replied, your voice turning smooth and warm like butter again, melting over his whole body, causing all of his muscles to go soft and pliant for you. “Your cock is so pretty. I need to touch you.” 

He let out another strangled noise when you cupped your hand and took him fully in your grip this time, giving one good tug across his cock from root to tip. When you did this again, faster this time, his lungs seized inside his chest - trying to take in oxygen so quickly, as though he were drowning on dry land. 

“You gonna be good for me, baby?” 

“Yes.” He gargled back in response. “Yes, Mommy.” 

He was already so wet from cumming in his pants, and he let out a pathetic dribble of precum as you continued to move your hand - so it was an easy, slick slide. One that sent harsh shockwaves through him from overstimulation. Against his own will, he soon ballooned back to full hardness - becoming painfully swollen in your hand while you sped up your touch and closed your fist tighter around him. It caused the most wonderful hurt between his legs, and made a downright filthy wet sound as you pumped your grip faster along his needy cock. 

Spencer heard wailing and felt the soreness against his throat before he realized that he was the one making those desperate sounds. He distantly wondered what it might sound like to someone else, if the rooms on either side were occupied, if the motel would receive a noise complaint about some frail woman getting fucked to death by her husband next door - because that’s what he sounded like in his own ears. 

But any of those half-thoughts were chased out of his brain the second you flicked your thumb up over the head of his cock and your dirty mouth filled his ears once again. 

“Gonna milk this pretty cock, baby.” You told him, your voice firm. “You gonna show Mommy how much you can cum for me? Gonna show me what a good boy you are?” 

Spencer let out another pathetic sound, his body singing with pleasure at his pure need to prove to you that - yes, he was a good boy. 

He felt tears wet on the side of his face before he realized that he was crying, but it was all too good to ask you to stop. 

You used your other hand to cradle his balls and you swooped down to capture his gasping mouth in another kiss (a very messy, open mouthed kiss that Spencer could barely pay attention to). Spencer screamed into your mouth while he painted his stomach with cum once again.

You only stopped jerking his cock once you had truly milked every last drop from him, his hips seizing up off the bed and your hand almost slipping off him completely from how sloppily wet it was with more of his cum added to the mix. 

He was purely exhausted then. His eyes blinked heavily, struggling to stay open. He vaguely remembered you cleaning him off and tucking him into bed - but he definitely enjoyed falling asleep curled up next to your warmth. 

…

The next morning, Spencer felt hungover. 

He wondered if that’s what good sex always felt like - the combination of endorphins rushing through your body and physical exertion tackling you over. His legs were sore, as though he had run several miles. (Which wasn’t even something he could make a bold comparison to anyway, because he didn’t exercise nearly as much as he should for someone with this job). He woke up starving, grateful when you drove to a diner down the road after checking out of the motel and planted him in one of the booths before going outside to call Hotch in order to touch base with the rest of the team. 

You came back with a small grin on your face. 

“Turns out that tip the ex-wife gave us about their first house in Arlington was pretty solid.” You told Reid. “They caught the guy on his way there. He had another girl in the trunk. They got her back mostly unarmed, and took him into custody.” 

Spencer nodded. “That’s good.” 

When he moved to grab another sugar packet out of the caddy on the side of the table, three of them already open and empty beside his cup of coffee, you grabbed him by the wrist. 

“That’s enough, baby.” You told him. 

His stomach curled, that distinct feeling running through him again. And against his will, that word slipped out - again. 

“Yes, Mommy.”

...

A/N: This is a standalone oneshot. There won't be a sequel or a continuation, so please do not ask for one. If you liked the fic, please comment about the body of work that has been written, or consider reblogging to show your appreciation. If you want to see more Spencer Reid fics that I have written, you can check out my Criminal Minds Masterlist, or you can check out my Masterlists for other fandoms to see if anything catches your eye. Thank you for reading!

[bimb0fy]

— 03; i watched you change

pairings; luke castellan x hephaestus!reader

warnings; kissing, angst at the end, dark!luke, choking, mentions of swords, swearing, violent tendencies.

summary; luke castellan was always a saint, it was a wonder how he would date a hephaestus girl over the dozens of aphrodite girls wrapped around his finger, he saw you, and he loved you for it. you'd be an idiot if you said you didn't love him to, but something was going on, he was. changing.

word count; 2.07k words.

a/n; a part is kinda inspired by that one scene of nate jacobs and maddie perez, yes the one where he choked her, also I am on my last stray since I finished, then tumble deleted the whole thing which I loved, alsooo uh sorry for the late upload i had so many exams :((.

masterlist!! | navigation!!

i. I love everything you do, when you call me fucking dumb for the stupid shit I do.

— high-school sweethearts, melanie martinez.

You smiled as you sat down at the breakfast table, your hair in a bun and your were still in your pj's. It was your day off so you decided to take breakfast, then snuggle up to your new boyfriend's, Luke, cabin.

"Hey mender." Luke said as he sat down beside you, kissing your cheek as you smiled, you took a bite of your mac and cheese, Luke's hand wrapped around you.

"So, tell me, how's the best swordsman at camp huh?" You joked as he smiled. You both took your scraps, placing it into the fire before walking off back to the hermes cabin.

Even though most of the Campers lived in the hermes cabin, it somehow was always empty during the morning, most people going back during either lunch or at the end of the day.

So here you were, on the bed with Luke's mouth latched onto your neck.

Ever since that night, Luke was addicted to you, the way you tasted, the sweet noises that erupted your mouth whenever he touched that one spot on your skin.

"Luke. You'll make marks!" You giggled as he laughed, slowly raises his head to look at you.

"Too late baby." He winked before rasing your shirt, pressing soft kisses to your stomach as you laughed. You playfully shoved him as he smiled, looking up and laying down beside you, moving his hand so you'd lay on his chest. "Fine. You win mender."

"No way, I beat the Luke Castellan?" You teased as he rolled his eyes, placing a soft kiss to your forhead before taking out a scrap book you had made and a Polaroid.

"Cmon let's get your first win into our amazing book of memories." He snaped a picture as you giggled, he smiled at the picture as he glued it on.

Her first win!!

Luke castellan gets beat up by a woman half his size. NOT CLICKBATE. CANON EVENT!!

Baby wtf.

Luke closes the book, taking the pen and placing it on top of the book as he turned back to face you. He watched as you traced soft patterns onto his hand. "I love everything you do. You're mine, and I love that."

He pushed your hair to the side to see your giggling face. You couldn't help but smile, kissing his lips. "I'm all yours."

He grabbed your waist, pushing you down onto the mattress as you groaned. "Luke-. I have to go to work."

"And suddenly my names work." He jokes as he hugged your waist, placing soft kisses onto your neck. You giggled before wrapping your arms around the boy. "You mean the world to me. You know that right?"

"I know luke. I know." You whispered as you played with his hair. You sat in silence, playing with his hair as he closed his eyes, falling asleep on your chest. "Ten minutes."

Luke smiled at your words as he hugged you tighter. "Thirty and you got yourself a deal."

ii. just trust me, you'll be fine.

— end of beginning, djo

Chris smiled as he passed by you. It was weird being the center of attention now, everyone needed to figure out the hot gossip about Luke Castellan's new girlfriend, and to their shock, she wasn't an aphrodite girl.

Everyone knew that Hephaestus' daughters were rather, boyish, only because there were very little, being surrounded by men in a job that most people would assume a man to do was well, difficult.

Luke saw you. He saw who you were. Not what your sibling saw, not what camp saw. He saw what he wanted to see, and that was all of you.

You sat down by the docks, the same docks of that night. You two would always meet up there to catch up and spend time together, but here you were, an hour later still sitting alone on the dock.

You started to give up, standing up to walk away but you heard Luke's faint calls. You turned around to find a man you almost didn't recognise.

The once shining Luke had eyebags under his eyes that were bigger than yours. He was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, yet you could see tracs of sweat around it. He wasn't out of breath so he hadn't ran, maybe he did, what was going on?

"Luke? Heavens have you been sleeping?" You asked him as he held your hands away from his face. He gave he a small smile.

"I'm fine." He rasped. You shook your head, holding onto his cheek as you looked at him. "Don't."

"Luke." you scoffed as he shoved your arms off of him. You had a pained expression on your face, hugging yourself with your jacket as you looked at him. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before walking towards you, placing his hands onto your shoulders.

"I'm sorry I'm just, really tired." Luke muttered before hugging you. "And I'm sorry I was late, I uh, took a nap after training and lost track of time I suppose."

You hugged back, he quickly carried you which caused you to squeal as he set you down onto the dock. He smiled as he sat down in front of you, the picnic basket empty as he chuckled. "Someone was hungry."

"And someone was late." You giggled as he dramatically rolled his eyes, he smiled before taking your hand in his, looking out to the lake, clearly thinking about something. "Are you okay Luke?"

You waited for a response but he just stared out. You were starting to get worried, what the hell was going on? "Luke?"

"hm?" He said as he turned back to you. You could feel his arms tense around you, his breath hitched as you said his name. You needed to know what was going on.

"You know you can talk to me. Right baby?" You asked the boy who kissed your cheek before turning to the soft waves.

You didn't understand why he was keeping secrets from you, were you that bad? Were you not as supporting as you thought you were?

"I know mender. I know." He whispered in your ear as you melted into his grasp. A smile on your face.

He's fine, he says he's fine so he has to be. Right?

iii. Was it my August? Shit, I don't remember

— Gone gone/thank you, Tyler the creator.

"Where is he?" You asked Chris as he sat quietly, playing with his food. You glared at him, leaning onto the table as you glared at him, your eyes glowing orange, fire swimming in them.

Luke had been ignoring you for two weeks now, you had no clue if it was because you did something wrong, and if you did, you wanted to solve it.

That was until Max, your brother, had told you that he was giving Stacy Evans, aphrodite's prettiest daughter, extra sword fighting lessons.

"Hermes cabin bathroom." Chris muttered as you hummed in approval, walking off to find Luke.

Ever since your last interaction on the beach, you haven't seen him. Some would say you were worried, and if the right person asked, you were worried.

Little did you know, that Luke wasn't running from you. He was protecting you. From himself.

He did know how, how the he'll could everything about you agitate him. He hated it, he hated how every time he heard your name, he wanted to punch someone.

He hated how whenever he saw you laughing with your brothers, he wanted to smash your head against the wall, he wanted to hurt you.

He didn't know why. Why you out of everyone. You were a Saint, you were perfect to him, perfect for him. Suddenly, without warning now he's ignoring you.

You loved Luke, and Luke loved you, but now. Even at the mention of you, he wanted to stab you with his sword and watch you bleed.

You knocked on the door, hearing shuffling as you waited for him. Your eyes widened as you heard muttering coming from the other end of the door.

You barged in, finding Luke huddled up over the sink, clearly irritated by you. You glanced at the sword on the bathroom counter.

"What the fuck is wrong with you mender! You can't just barge into the men's bathroom." He spat out as you scoffed, you locked the door, walking towards him.

"What the fuck is wrong with me? What's wrong with you?!" You spat out as he let out an agitated sigh, clutching the sinks frame as his eye twitched. You shoved him to look at you, his breathe staggering as he stared at you.

"You know you're a real shit boyfriend you know! Missing out breakfast because im there, wow I mean. Master of communi-fucking-cation right!" You laughed as you watched his reaction. His eye twitched more, his mouth agap as he panted, he was controlling himself. He was on his last straw.

He wasn't even listening to what you were saying now. He was just trying to keep his thoughts at bay, he couldn't hurt you. If je hurts you, it was over.

"You really are your father's son huh?!" You spat out, that was all it took for him to lose his sense of control. He grabbed you by the throat, shoving you into the wall as he smashed your head against the wall, before wrapping his hand around your neck again.

He lifted you up, you kicked your feet as you tried to pry him off, stopping as he shoves you against the wall again, clearly agitated by the fact that you tried to pry him off.

"What the fuck is wrong with you. Don't you ever say that again you little bitch." He Luke spat. An evil laugh escaped his lips as he leaned in to face you. "You really are a pathetic whore huh. No wonder your mom left you."

Soft cries left your lips as he tightened his grip around your throat. You started to feel nauseous as you found it harder to breathe. Clawing at his hands.

"L...Luke..." You struggled under him, even though he was two times your size, even though you had no chance against him. You watched as the darkness in his eyes was replaced by realisation.

He let go, allowing you to fall on your knees as you sobbed and panted. The air suddenly returning to your lungs. Luke hovered over you, panting as he realised who was on her knees before him.

"Y/n." He breathed out, you shook your head at the mention of your name. He sighed grabbing a rag and before wetting it and holding it out for you.

You took it, holding it against the bruises that already formed.

He did it, he hurt you and he wanted to kill himself right at that moment.

"Mender. I... I." He didn't know what to say. You kept your gaze onto the floor as you cried. Unsure of what to do, what to say, as you rubbed the bruises. "Listen, I know you want to run of to Chiron and-."

"I won't. Don't worry." Your voice cracked as you looked up at him, standing up and walking to the door. But Luke's voice stopped you.

"Why?" Luke asked you as you shrugged. You hovered over the doorknob, sighing as you opened the door, leaving Luke alone in the bathroom.

He glanced at his hands, sobbing as he fell to his knees, he hurt you. He hurt you. He did the one thing he was afraid to do. The voices in his head won, he had lost you, the only thing that mattered to him.

He was weak, he allowed him to hurt you, he allowed this to happen. You were the best thing to ever happen to him, and somehow he messed it up.

You were special, not like the aphrodite girls who only cared about looks and who hooked up with who, most people saw him as Luke Castellan, most popular guy at camp.

In your eyes, he was Luke Castellan, another mediocre privileged guy, but he was yours, and you loved him for the good and bad in him.

Don't cry my child, it'll be over soon.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Route 666 | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, j e a l o u s y, d e n i a l

Word Count: 4325

Series Rewrite Masterlist

After your conversation with Dean about why you couldn’t lose him, a nagging want was tugging on your heart. 

Dean explained to you that the father of an “old friend” of his was killed last night. Your stomach dropped; knowing exactly what “old friend” meant. 

Sam did, too. “By old friend you mean...?”

“A friend that's not new,” came Dean’s gruff response. His eyes never left the road.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” Sam deadpanned. “So her name's Cassie, huh? You never mentioned her.”

“Didn't I? Yeah, we went out.”

You felt like you could throw up.

“You mean you dated somebody? For more than one night?” Sam commented.

“Am I speaking a language you're not getting here? Dad and I were working a job in Ohio, she was finishing up college. We went out for a coupla weeks,” Dean explained.

Sam pressed further, but you silently begged him to stop. You hoped his mind powers would kick in long enough to read the way your heart was begging for mercy in the backseat. “And...?” 

Dean shrugged. 

“Look, it's terrible about her dad, but it kinda sounds like a standard car accident. I'm not seeing how it fits with what we do. Which by the way, how does she know what we do?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably.

‘He told her.’ You were definitely going to throw up now.

“You told her. You told her the secret! Our big family rule number one. We do what we do and we shut up about it. For a year and a half I do nothing but lie to Jessica, and you go out with this chick in Ohio a couple of times and you tell her everything? Dean!” Sam was getting angrier by the second.

“Yeah, looks like,” Dean grumbled. 

This job would undoubtedly be an incredibly painful one.

***

You saw a beautiful dark-skinned girl arguing with two older men in the newspaper office you and the boys had arrived at. You silently pleaded for it not to be Cassie. She was stunning; nothing but long legs and slender curves. Her dark hair curled tightly, framing her face beautifully. The girl sighed and turned around as the two men walked away from her. She seemed taken aback. “Dean.”

You recognized the fondness in her eyes; it was the same fondness you were beginning to look at Dean with. 

‘Of course, she’s fucking gorgeous. Wouldn’t expect anything else from Dean,’ you thought.

“Hey, Cassie,” Dean grinned. The two stared at each other for a moment before he cleared his throat. “This is my brother, Sam, and this is my friend, (Y/N).”

You tried your best to smile at her; the girl had done nothing wrong. It was Dean you were beginning to get upset with.

“Sorry ‘bout your dad,” Dean said.

“Yeah. Me too,” Cassie muttered.

The two kept staring at each other. 

You cleared your throat awkwardly, and Cassie seemed to snap out of it. “Sorry,” she laughed. “Let’s take this somewhere a bit more… private.”

***

Cassie took you back to her home and brought you a tray of tea and cups. “My mother’s in pretty bad shape. I've been staying with her. I wish she wouldn't go off by herself. She's been so nervous and frightened. She was worried about dad.”

“Why?” Dean asked.

She gracefully poured some tea into a cup. “He was scared. He was seeing things.”

“Like what?”

“He swore he saw an awful-looking black truck following him,” the young woman explained.

“A truck. Who was the driver?” Sam questioned.

Cassie handed cups of tea to each of you. You took one, thanking her as you did so. “He didn't talk about a driver,” she continued. “Just the truck. He said it would appear and disappear. And, in the accident, Dad's car was dented, like it had been slammed into by something big.”

“Now you're sure this dent wasn't there before?”

“He sold cars. Always drove a new one. There wasn't a scratch on that thing. It had rained hard that night. There was mud everywhere. There was a distinct set of muddy tracks leading from dad's car… leading right to the edge, where he went over.” The girl took a second to get her emotions back under control. “One set of tracks. His.”

“The first was a friend of your fathers?” Dean had discarded his cup on a side table. The sight almost made you smile; you knew tea was a bit too fancy for him. 

“Best friend. Clayton Soames. They owned the car dealership together. Same thing. Dent. No Tracks. And the cops said exactly what they said about dad. He 'lost control of his car.' “

“Can you think of any reason why your father and his partner might be targets?”

Cassie shook her head.

“And you think this vanishing truck ran them off the road?” Sam furrowed his eyebrows.

“When you say it aloud like that…” Cassie breathed deeply. “Listen, I'm a little skeptical about this… ghost stuff… or whatever it is you guys are into.”

Dean huffed. “Skeptical. If I remember, I think you said I was nuts.”

‘Uh, oh,’ you thought, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“That was then.” Cassie and Dean stared at each other again. “I just know that I can't explain what happened up there. So I called you.”

A middle-aged woman entered the room. Cassie rushed to her. “Mom. Where have you been I was so…”

Cassie’s mom forced a smile. “I had no idea you’d invited friends over.”

“Mom, this is Dean, a… friend of mine from.... college. And his brother Sam and friend, (Y/N).”

“Well, I won't interrupt you.” Cassie’s mom went to leave the room.

“Mrs Robinson. We're sorry for your loss. We'd like to talk to you for a minute if you don't mind?” Dean stopped her.

The woman seemed slightly affronted. “I'm really not up for that right now.” She left the room, and Dean and Cassie continued to stare at each other.

***

The next day, Dean informed you of another killing that happened in a field beside the main road. Another one of Cassie’s father’s friends had been murdered. You met the beautiful woman who was bravely berating the mayor for not closing the main road; heavily suggesting there was a racist undertone behind the mayor’s motives. You admired the woman’s bravery, and wished you had those kinds of balls in certain situations. Had the circumstances been different, you probably would have been good friends with her.

You and the boys learned from a friend of the deceased that the town once was home to a family with an incredibly racist history. In fact, the big black truck the victims had described seeing was one that many black men disappeared in back in the 1960s. You and the boys walked away from the men you learned this information from and returned to the Impala.

“Truck,” Dean noted.

“Keeps coming up doesn't it?” Sam added.

“Yeah, kinda like the flying dutchman,” you continued.

“Yeah, that ghost ship, infused with the Captain's evil spirit. It was basically part of him,” the younger Winchester finished.

Dean nodded. “So what if we're dealing with the same thing? You know, a phantom truck, an extension of some bastard's ghost, re-enacting past crimes.”

“The victims have all been black men,” noted Sam.

“I think it's more than that. They all seem connected to Cassie and her family,” Dean suggested.

“Alright, well, you work that angle, go talk to her,” Sam said.

“Yeah, I will.”

Sam stopped his brother before he could get down into the car. “Oh, and you might also wanna mention that other thing.”

‘Stop talking, Sam,’ you mentally pleaded.

“What other thing?” Dean asked.

“The serious, unfinished business?”

The older brother remained silent, and for that, you were thankful.

“Dean, what is going on between you two?” Sam huffed out a laugh.

Dean seemed uncomfortable, as were you. “Alright, so maybe we were a little bit more involved than I said.”

“Really?” you said, unable to help yourself.

“Okay, a lot more. Maybe. And I told her our secret, about what we do. And I shouldn't have.”

“Ah, look man, everybody's gotta open up to someone sometime,” Sam shrugged.

“Yeah, I don't. It was stupid to get that close. I mean, look how it ended.”

The younger brother smiled. 

“Would you stop!”

Sam just kept staring and smiling.

“Blink or something!”

The brunet simply said, “You loved her.”

You nearly choked on your own spit as Dean grumbled and turned to the Impala.

“You were in love with her, but you dumped her.” Sam paused a moment before realizing, “Oh, wow. She dumped you.”

“Get in the car. Get in the car!” Dean ordered you and Sam.

You refused to continue to let Dean have that effect on you. There was no room for feelings in this profession, and you would not let them get in the way of your friendship with Dean or Sam. The former dropped you and his brother off at the motel before speeding away to Cassie’s house. You and Sam decided to get takeout and have a carpet picnic in the brothers’ motel room.

You chowed down on fried rice while Sam eyed you curiously. “What?” you asked through a mouthful of rice.

“Nothing. You just seem off,” he replied.

“I don’t know, honestly. After… everything that’s happened, I—” you couldn’t finish your sentence. “Nevermind. What’s your thoughts on this case?”

He gave you a bitchface at your change in the subject, but went along with it nonetheless. “I think our theory about the flying dutchman’s right. I’m just waiting for Dean to fill in the missing pieces.” He paused before continuing. “Speaking of which, I don’t think he’ll be back for the night? You wanna crash here?”

You smiled. “Sure. Wanna get some cheap tequila and ride the bus?” 

“You’re on,” he grinned back.

The two of you played with your deck of cards for a bit, joking and laughing about previous hunts and memories from Sam’s school days. After getting thoroughly hammered from your card game, you just talked for hours.

“My parents weren’t always… crazy supportive of me,” you explained. “I get your whole thing with college, though.” 

“You do?”

“Yeah,” you responded. “I wanted to go to school as a teenager, actually. Was dead set on it.”

He grinned. “Really?”

“Yeah, but after my parents passed, I decided I’m better at hunting,” you replied, flopping back on the ground. “You’re hella argumentative. You’d be an exceptional lawyer.”

He chuckled at you, slurring his words together. “You really think so?”

“Yeah! Duh!”

“You’re not ever this giddy, (Y/N), how much did we drink?”

The two of you looked over at the mostly empty bottle of tequila before exploding into a fit of giggles. 

“I don’t think I’ve been this drunk ever,” you slurred.

“Yeah, ne meither,” Sam said simply.

You burst out laughing again. “Ne meither?!”

“Oops,” he giggled boyishly.

“Wait, wait, wait. I have a question. You went to school with a full ride, right? How’d you get a full ride and hunt at the same time? That’s fucking crazy.”

He nodded. “Yeah. My dad took me on hunts every once in a while between AP Bio tests.”

“Holy shit, you’re smart.”

He sighed. “Not as smart as you’d think.”

“Cut the humble crap, you’re crazy smart,” you replied, turning to him. “You give me a run for my money sometimes. Trust me, that’s rare.”

He shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”

“Seriously, dude. You gotta be crazy gifted. You’re a great hunter and really smart. That’s a wild combination.”

“Yeah, well, so are you,” Sam replied. 

You grinned, barely holding your eyes open. “Thanks.” You paused a moment. “You ever smoked weed?”

He snorted. “Of course.”

You mock-gasped. “Sammy, never thought you were the type!”

“Pfft, I’m not a total prude, (Y/N).”

“Well, forgive me, you don’t exactly scream ‘I chase my tequila with mary jane,’ “ you jested.

“College, man. Whole new world.”

“What was it like?” you asked.

“Meh,” he squeaked, voice breaking drunkenly. “Lots of studying. Jess was the one who got me into partying a little.”

“Yeahhh, Jess!” you cheered. “She sounds cool as fuck.”

“She was.” He suddenly got sad and sniffed a little.

You crawled over to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring bad shit up for you.”

He sniffed again and shrugged. “‘S okay, I jus’ miss her.”

“I know.” You laid your head on his shoulder and let him cry as the two of you sat next to each other in silence.

***

The next morning and thoroughly hungover, you and Sam headed to yet another field; where this time, the mayor’s car had been found. And it was in a different location than the main road. Dean met you a short time later once you’d finished talking to a cop on the scene. 

“Where were you last night? You didn't make it back to the hotel,” Sam questioned, although the subtle smirk on his face told you he already knew the answer.

“Well…”

Sam grinned smugly. “I'm guessing you guys worked things out?”

“We'll be working things out when we're ninety. So what happened?”

“We got really drunk,” you muttered.

“What?” Dean looked down at you. 

Sam shook his head. “Every bone crushed. Internal organ's turned to pudding. The cops are all stumped, it's like something ran him over.”

“Something like a truck?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded and explained there had been no tracks. He went on to say that the mayor had bought the property he was murdered on a few weeks ago; which was odd given he was white and found off the main road.

Cassie and Dean were considerably more chummy after their eventful evening, and it made your stomach turn a little. He insisted on being dropped off at the newspaper office Cassie worked at while you and Sam did research on the property the mayor had purchased at the library.

You discovered the mayor’s land was where the Dorian family had lived for over one hundred years. Apparently, their incredibly racist and firebrand son had disappeared just after the string of murders back in the 1960s. Cassie explained how the Dorians owned pretty much everything in the town before Cyrus, their son, disappeared. Weeks after the mayor bought the property, he knocked the house down. The very next day, the first killing started.

***

Amidst your throbbing headache and the research you'd done, you parted ways with the brothers to rest in your motel room. You settled on reorganizing your duffel bag to keep your mind occupied, but it still wandered to Dean and Cassie. You knew you'd been cold to Dean all day, and you just hoped he was too preoccupied with his fling to even notice.

Of course, that was simply wishful thinking. A knock on the door broke you out of your thoughts.

Dean opened the door a moment later and stepped into your room wordlessly. He began to pace a little.

"Are... you okay—?" you started to ask, but he cut you off.

"What's your deal?"

"What?" you pretended to be dumbfounded.

"I caught what you said about getting drunk with Sam last night. Did you... fuck my brother?" he asked, voice teetering on rageful.

"God, no, Winchester," you scoffed. "Not everyone's intentions are sexual 24/7. We literally just played a drinking game and talked."

"Then, what's with your fucking attitude? You've been a bitch to me all day," he replied, shoulders tense.

"Have not, first of all," you began. "Trust me, if I was upset with you, you'd know about it."

"What, then? Is this about Cassie?" he questioned pointedly, staring you down.

"Dean, has it occured to you that not everything has to do with you?" you spat, becoming incredibly defensive. "I'm pissy because I'm hungover. And right now, you are making my headache a thousand times worse."

"Sorry that I was concerned about you, then," he responded flippantly.

"You weren't concerned," you laughed coldly. "You came here looking for a fight. Well, now you've got one. I like Cassie a lot, actually. Different circumstances, we'd be good friends. What I don't like is how unprofessionally you're acting."

"We fucking hunt monsters for a living, (Y/N)," Dean argued. "There's not exactly a code of ethics."

"Well, you should have some desire to conduct yourself in a professional manner. Because your main motivation on every fucking hunt doesn't seem to be hunting, it seems to be getting your dick wet," you berated, even though you knew your words were not reflective of your true thoughts of him.

"Sorry that I'm not a stuck-up bitch like you are," Dean scoffed. "You are completely miserable to be around. You always have something to be angry about. Don't you ever get tired of sucking the life outta everyone?"

You cut your eyes at him harshly, rage boiling under your skin. "Get the fuck out of my room, Winchester," you said evenly.

When he didn't move, it just added to your anger.

"I said get the fuck out!"

***

You and the Winchesters were called to Cassie’s house later that evening when she’d called Dean in a panic about the truck appearing outside of her home. You hated the way Dean sat with his arm protectively around Cassie, especially after your incredibly awkward car ride to her house where he couldn't seem to bare looking at you. He acted like you weren't in the backseat at all.

You handed Cassie a cup of tea, which she took with shaky hands. “Maybe you could throw a couple of shots in that.”

You snorted. “You didn’t see who was driving the truck?”

“It seemed to be no one. Everything was moving so fast. And then it was just gone. Why didn't it kill us?” Cassie questioned.

“Whoever was controlling the truck wants you afraid first,” Dean grumbled. 

Sam turned to Cassie’s mother. “Mrs Robinson, Cassie said that your husband saw the truck before he died.”

The older woman was shaking, pulled away from reality into her own thoughts. When her daughter’s voice brought her back to earth, Mrs. Robinson began to explain. “Oh. Martin was under a lot of stress. You can't be sure about what he was seeing.”

“Well, after tonight I think we can be reasonably sure he was seeing a truck. What happened tonight, you and Cassie are marked. Okay? Your daughter could die.” You knew Dean cared about her, and selfishly, you wanted him to be that worried about you; not her. “So if you know something, now would be a really good time to tell us about it.”

Cassie went to silence Dean, but Mrs. Robinson took in a shaky breath. “Yes. Yes, he said he saw a truck.”

“Did he know who it belonged to?” you asked her.

“He thought he did,” she nodded. She began to get upset. “Cyrus. A man named Cyrus.”

“Cyrus Dorian?” you questioned.

“Cyrus Dorian died more than 40 years ago.”

Now, you had her. “The paper said he went missing, Mrs. Robinson. How do you know he died?”

She refused to answer.

“Mrs. Robinson, please,” you urged.

She began to talk again, getting visibly more upset. “We were all very young. I dated Cyrus a while; I was also seeing Martin. In secret of course. Interracial couples didn't go over too well back then. When I broke it off with Cyrus, and when he found out about Martin, I don't know, he… changed. His hatred. His hatred was frightening.”

“The murders,” Sam noted.

You saw tears forming at the edges of the woman’s eyes. “There were rumors. People of color disappearing into some kind of a truck. Nothing was ever done. Martin and a... Martin and I, we were gonna be, uh, married in that little church near here, but last minute we decided to elope as we didn't want the attention.”

“And Cyrus?” Dean prompted.

“The day we set for the wedding, was the day someone set fire to the church. There was a children's choir practicing in there. They all died.” Mrs. Robinson clapped a hand over her mouth and shut her eyes.

“Did the attacks stop after that?” Sam asked softly.

She shook her head as she continued to sob. “No! There was one more. One night, that truck came for Martin. Cyrus beat him something terrible. But Martin, you see, Martin got loose. And he started hitting Cyrus and he just kept hitting him and hitting him.”

“Why didn't you call the cops?” Dean questioned.

Mrs. Robinson looked at Dean like he was crazy. “This was forty years ago. He called on his friends, Clayton Soames and Jimmy Anderson, and they put Cyrus' body into the truck, and they rolled it into the swamp at the end of his land, and all three of them kept that secret all of these years.”

“And now all three are gone,” Sam said.

“And so is Mayor Todd. Now, he said that you of all people would know he is not a racist. Why would he say that?” Dean asked.

“He was a good man. He was a young deputy back then investigating Cyrus' disappearance. Once he figured out what Martin and the others had done he— he did nothing, because he also knew what Cyrus had done.”

Cassie spoke up for the first time in a while. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I thought I was protecting them. And now there's no one left to protect.” She put her head down in her hands.

“Yes, there is,” Dean said, looking down at Cassie. Mrs. Robinson looked at her daughter as well before breaking down crying once more.

You and Sam left the home shortly after to get to work on finding the truck and disposing of it. Dean paced in front of you, waiting for Cassie to come bid you goodbye. You leaned against the Impala, picking at imaginary dirt under your nails. You just needed something to focus on that wasn’t Dean and your jealousy.

“Ah, my life was so simple. Just school, exams, papers on polycentric cultural norms,” Sam spoke up next to you.

“So I guess we saved you from a boring existence,” Dean smirked.

“Yeah, occasionally I miss boring,” he grinned down at you.

“So, this killer truck—” Dean began before getting cut off by his brother.

“I miss conversations that didn't start with 'this killer truck'.”

Dean laughed a little. “Well, this Cyrus guy. Evil on a level that infected even his truck. When he died, the swamp became his tomb, and his spirit was dormant for forty years.”

“So what woke it up?” Sam questioned.

“The construction on his house,” you shrugged. “Or, rather, destruction.”

“Right. Demolition or remodeling can awaken spirits, make them restless.”

Dean hummed. “And the guy that tore down the family homestead, Harold Todd, is the same guy that kept Cyrus' murder quiet and unsolved.”

“So now his spirit is awakened and out for blood,” Sam nodded.

“Yeah, I guess. Who knows what ghosts are thinking anyway.”

“You know we're going to have to dredge that body up from the swamp, right?"

Dean grinned, and you smirked despite the swirling emotions inside you. You hated how easily those green eyes and freckles could make any negative feelings you had dissipate.

“Man,” Sam groaned.

“You said it,” Dean continued to grin. 

Cassie approached your group from her house, and Dean turned to face her.

“Hey. She's asleep. Now what?” she asked Dean.

“Well, you should stay put and look after her, and we'll be back. Don't leave the house.” Dean held up a finger at her, standing way too close to her for your liking.

“Don't go getting all authoritative on me. I hate it,” she said seductively.

Dean glanced behind himself to you and Sam. You both averted your eyes while you held back the bile rising in your throat.

“Don't leave the house, please?” Dean mumbled. Suddenly, the two were kissing. You looked up at them and leaned over to Sam.

“It’s like watching a car crash,” you whispered. “With, like, kids burning in the backseat.”

Sam laughed at you and cleared his throat. Dean simply held up a finger back to you, urging you to “wait a minute.”

“You comin' or what?” Dean awkwardly rubbed his neck after he pulled away from Cassie, and you envied her ability to make Dean blush the way she had.

The drive to the Dorian property largely consisted of Sam teasing Dean about Cassie while you said nothing. Dean used a tractor that was on the property from the construction to pull the submerged truck out of the water.

Sam continued to tease Dean about how he was definitely still in love with Cassie while you continued to focus on your work. You doused the corpse in Cyrus’s truck once you’d gotten it on the ground with kerosene and watched as it burned.

“All business tonight, huh, (Y/N)?” Dean taunted, still clearly upset with you.

“You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not particularly interested in who or what you choose to put your dick in,” you responded coldly.

“Hey!—” 

You turned to him, eyes hard. “Seriously. Let’s focus, please.”

Sam eyed you curiously while you continued to watch the corpse burn. Suddenly, the truck appeared behind you and the brothers, revving its engine.

“So burning the body had no effect on that thing?” Sam questioned, panicked.

“I guess not,” you shrugged.

“Sure it did. Now it's really pissed,” Dean snarked.

“Great! He’s fused with the fucking truck,” you huffed. “Where are you going?” Dean was retreating to his car.

“Goin' for a little ride,” he responded.

“What?!”

“Gonna lead that thing away. That busted piece of crap: you gotta burn it.”

“How the fuck are we supposed to burn a truck, Dean?” you argued.

“I don't know. Figure something out.” He threw the duffel bag in the trunk at you before getting in and taking off.

“What the f—” you watched his retreating form.

“You sure you’re okay, (Y/N/N)?” Sam asked you. “You seem pretty on edge.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, dude, let’s focus.” You thought for a moment before getting an idea. 

“Hey, you gotta give me a minute,” Sam said to his brother who had called him. “Let me get back to you.” He hung up.

You turned to Sam. “The church where Cyrus butchered those kids.”

He grinned. “Hallowed ground. That should work!” He called Cassie and had her tell him where the church had once stood.

Sam then called his panicking brother back and instructed him on exactly how far to drive to hopefully demolish the ghost. “Dean. You still there? Dean?”

He breathed a sigh of relief when his brother spoke to him again. “Dean, you're where the church was. The place Cyrus burned down. Murdered all those kids. Church ground is hallowed ground; whether the church is still there or not. Evil spirits cross over hallowed ground, sometimes they're destroyed, so we figured, maybe that would get rid of it.”

Even though he wasn’t on speaker, you could hear Dean’s panic. “Maybe? Maybe! What if you were wrong?”

Sam smirked. “Huh. Honestly that thought hadn't occurred to me.”

***

You didn't make it back to the motel until almost two in the morning. Dean was still completely ignoring your existence, and he was beginning to follow Sam into their room. You stopped him just before he could.

"Dean, wait," you called out after him, resolve breaking.

"What," he almost growled, turning back to you.

"Can we talk?" you asked, eyes pleading.

Dean didn't say anything in response for a moment, and you held your breath while you waited for him to talk. Finally, he nodded slightly.

"I'm sorry," you said earnestly. "For everything that I said earlier."

He nodded. "I am, too. You're not completely misreable to be around. Only sometimes when you get bitchy." You could see the slight smirk on his face illuminated by the moonlight.

You rolled your eyes with a small smile. "You can never take anhthing seriously, huh?"

"Hey, this is a chick-flick-moment-free zone."

"Seriously," you laughed, "I didn't mean what I said at all. You're... actually amazing. As a hunter, I mean," you quickly corrected yourself. "I know your first priority on hunts isn't sex."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Eh, you weren't one-hundred-percent wrong. Sorry about that."

You shrugged. "Makes no difference to me. Who or what you choose to fornicate with is your business. Even if it is the Magic Fingers machines at those nasty ass motels." A smile tugged on your lips.

He chuckled. "Well, anyway... goodnight, sweetheart." Dean turned on his heel and walked away from you, leaving you in the parking lot with a pounding heart and butterfly-filled stomach.

***

The next day, you and the brothers were leaving town. You and Sam waited in the car while Dean stood talking to Cassie. You, once again, couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horror show in front of you. He kissed her deeply before climbing down into the car. You had never been so thankful to leave a town in your rearview mirror.

The car had been mostly silent for the last thirty minutes before Sam broke it. “I like her.”

Dean grumbled, “Yeah,” in response.

“You meet someone like her, doesn't it makes you wonder if it's worth it? Putting everything else on hold, doing what we do?”

You watched Dean with bated breath, waiting anxiously for his answer. Instead of replying, he just took out his sunglasses and smiled. “Why don't you wake me up when it's my turn to drive?” He slouched against the window and sighed.

You shook your head and looked back out of your window, mulling over everything you’d felt during your time in Columbus. You knew feelings were not allowed in your line of work; certainly not relationships. You refused to let them interfere with your job any longer, and convinced yourself you would be perfectly content with Dean just being your friend.

After all, you'd already made it incredibly apparent that he was too much of a playboy for you. You would never be able to stomach a relationship with him because of how jealous of a person you were. And so, you decided that as long as you were with the boys, you would never, ever date Dean Winchester.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @davina-clairee @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @stephshaww @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @here-for-the-extravaganza @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @rei0812 @isla-finke-blog

quite a few tags are broken :( sorry lovebugs!!

[callsign-rogueone]

that time of the month

fourth wing boys (Aaric, Brennan, Bodhi, Dain, Garrick, Liam, Ridoc, Sawyer, Xaden) x reader

how our favorite boys would take care of you when you’re on your period [request]

words: 588

🏷: no book spoilers. gender neutral, no pronouns used. mentions of periods, cramps,, etc. soft and fluffy. these are kinda short bc it was hard to not make them repetitive — I think they all give excellent care + cuddles 🥰

Aaric is a quiet support kind of guy to me. he’ll be by your side, but not overbearing or too touchy. really good at playing with your hair and massaging the back of your neck if you get migraines (like I do) he also sleeps flat on his back and perfectly still like a total weirdo, so he’s great to use as a body pillow.

Brennan is the number one man for the job, and I’m not just saying this because he’s my favorite. he’s a mender, so he can literally stop your pain, and he can get stains out of clothes super easily. also just a very nurturing and gentle person, takes excellent care of you all week.

Bodhi is going to use this as an excuse to cuddle you and take naps all week (I love how the Bodhi girls have collectively decided that he’s just a lil cuddlebug 🥺). expect lots of murmured words of affirmation about how strong you are and how much he loves you.

Dain, the overgrown boyscout he is (I say this affectionately) is prepared. he knows when that time is coming up, and he is properly equipped to take care of you. has everything you need in both his room and yours. also gives a 10/10 back massage (canon, actually.)

Garrick insists that you spend the week in his room, because his bed is more comfortable (it honestly is) and that way he can take care of you. he’s very nice to cuddle up with. lets you sleep in his clothes, too, for maximum comfort. has a secret stash of all your favorite snacks, too — he’s been getting them from the fliers. don’t tell Xaden. (Xaden totally knows, and is also getting snacks from them.)

Liam makes sure you’re eating even if you have no appetite, and that you’re staying hydrated, etc. you might grumble about it, but absolutely nobody can say no to that face. he knows not to take it personally if you get mad at him, because you’re hormonal + in pain. gives fabulous cuddles, too, and lots of sweet words.

Ridoc knows not to make any jokes at your expense or fuck with you when you’re feeling fragile, instead showering you with cheesy verbal affection to get the grumpiness out of your system and get you feeling a little better — as much as you can, when you feel like your insides are being ripped out. uses his hands like ice packs for you, holding them on any place that’s particularly achy.

Sawyer was a little awkward about it at first, but now he’s a seasoned boyfriend who knows what you need and does it without you needing to ask; snacks, cuddles, back rubs, so on and so forth. helps you with whatever’s particularly difficult this week. ties your shoes for you so you don’t have to bend down and strain your back, etc.

Xaden can sense that you’re in pain, and the minute he’s able to, he’s scooping you up and whisking you away to rest in his arms. abuses his wingleader privledges a little bit, letting you have the worst day(s) off. don’t bother trying to lie to him and say that you’re fine — he knows you aren’t. don’t question the sudden change in his normal tough-guy persona either; just enjoy it.

++ none of these men are at all scared or grossed out by a little blood. they’re men, not boys, and they’re used to it anyway, going to this deathtrap of a school.

[reds-writings]

if only tonight we could sleep?

the dora lange case had come to a close...but was it really ever over?

(pairing: rust cohle x fem!reader)

a/n: inspired by getting lost in the sound of the cure's kiss me, kiss me, kiss me album. this is set somewhere in the same world of jealousy, jealousy!. your feedback, as always, is greatly treasured!

word count: around 2.6k

warnings: angst, canon-typical death (mentions of what happens at the Ledoux shootout), nudity (showering together!), cursing, dread, etc (minors go away)

The Dora Lange case had finally been closed once and for all. All the bullshit and danger that had accumulated over all these weeks could finally cease to continue. You’re sure that even within the next twenty something odd years or so when all of this would be well blown over and buried you would never be able to truly process the fucked up-ness of it all. 

Your mind was thoroughly numb and all of your limbs ached to no end. You could feel everything you’d endured catching up to you as your body finally allowed itself to let go. Adrenaline and sheer will had been what kept you from fully crumbling during the case’s most crucial and final moments. The shit Rust and Marty decided to pull with that druggie Ginger had already left you worse for wear. Discovering Ledoux and the horrors that were transpiring in that shithole was something you couldn’t let yourself dwell on for too long lest you wanted to find yourself having a complete mental breakdown. Bodies and skulls being blown to bits right in front of you. The sight of rich blood and scattered brain matter sprayed to stain onto your boots. Finding those kids like that…you’d never get over it. One was sentenced to a life of trauma that left her catatonic and the other one deceased. You’d had the naive thought more than once telling you if only we'd all been a bit quicker…

But there was no point in dwelling on all the ifs and maybes. That was a guaranteed one-way ticket to self-induced insanity. 

You should feel relief that this is over. The weight of one of the many atrocities committed in the world removed from your down-trodden shoulders. Solved. A monster taken down and put into the earth where he couldn’t return to cause more strife. Why couldn't it feel over? Where was the relief?

You didn’t know much of what Rust and Marty felt on the matter, too busy dealing with keeping your stories straight on just how you all had come across Ledoux’s hideout instead of finding the time to have a heart-to-heart on how much this might’ve permanently screwed with your heads for ages to come. You knew well enough that ending the case like this wasn’t easy for either of them given their respective standpoints when it came to kids. Marty discovered those children and both men had carried them back. Rust had shouldered the burden of carrying that poor boy. A small choice of action that had your heart twisting even more painfully than you thought it already had during it all. The Texan could go on and on about the world being shit and there being no control over the horrors one would be put through trying to live life but you found that it was he who tried the hardest to shield others from said pain and horror whether he was aware of it or not. He cared a lot more about the human race than he let on but it would be more than ineffectual trying to convince him of that particular truth. 

Things with Rust had been all over the place since the fiasco of a night you had after the bar as well as any event that followed afterwards: surprise, surprise. The time you’d initially aimed for to really sit down and decipher where it was exactly you saw the two of you headed had found itself slipping away at every possible chance. Neither of you was to necessarily blame, as the nature of your work was in constant demand of your full attention, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

You guys weren’t even truly anything yet and it was already this arduous. What kind of shelf-life did a pairing such as this really have down the line? It was more than likely that acting on any idea of pursuing Rust romantically was destined to never end in your favor. He was your coworker for Christ’s sake. Yes, there was no one else who could probably understand what it is you go through like each other but it was harder to separate other crueler aspects of your lives as well. Everything would get in the way of professionalism. It already had when it came to the showdown with Ginger. 

Trying not to let your thoughts go down the usual Rust rabbit hole it found itself in you decided that you’d take the longest and hottest shower you hadn’t had the luxury of taking in weeks. Any extra time you had lately was reserved for quick and cold rinses to keep yourself up and at 'em’. Relaxation in any sense of the word was hard to adjust to after long stretches of work such as these. It was like your body had forgotten how to just be. Nothing was chasing you and there was no clock ticking over your shoulder to mock you that time to get shit done was running out. The empty quiet that followed would never not be unnerving to you. You had nowhere to be and nothing to do. 

Where was the fucking relief? 

With a huff, you set aside the jack and coke you’d been cradling out on your front porch in the dwindling evening light. The air was more balmy than the stifling hot you’d experienced day in and day out though your skin still held that essence of a humid dew that kept your hair and clothes sticking to you like a second skin. Dusting off your pants you made way to get on up from your depressing reverie only to find the outline of a familiarly limber figure at the end of your driveway. How the hell hadn’t you heard him pull up?

“Are you gonna stand there like a regular ol’ weirdo or get up here?” You feigned nonchalance at his sudden presence but your heart told another story with the quickening pace it decided to adopt. 

Wordlessly, Rust ventured his way up the pathway and onto your shabby porch. He eyed the abandoned drink you had by your side so you offered it up to him. He loosened the tie around his neck and undid the first two buttons of his dress shirt before accepting the silent offering. It took two long gulps before the glass was drained.

There was a heavy silence for longer than what was comfortable. Where could you even start? You didn’t want to catch yourself in an awkward fumble trying to gauge what it was he exactly needed from you as it was clear there was a purpose in him showing up without a warning. The set of his posture made it seem like he was curling in on himself more and more by the minute. He couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye, fearful that it would be his complete undoing. This visible deflation in action made you feel panicked for not knowing what assistance you could offer without having him pull away.

“...D’ya wanna talk about it?”

Rust shook his head softly as if in a daze. His eyes growing glassy and increasingly distant while he stared at your porch’s floorboards. 

At a loss, you cleared your throat shakily, “Well I was just about to hop in the shower. You can come inside…hang around if you want. We don’t have to talk or nothin’...o-or we can if that’s what you wanna end up doin’ after havin’ some quiet.”

No reply.

“Well, there’s beers and whatnot in the fridge if you choose. Don’t be shy to helpin’ yourself.” You got up and squeezed his hand gently, warm and calloused like you’d been dreaming about since they held you. That already felt like ages ago. He still made no move.

“I’m here.” Was all you could say and with that, you loosened your grip and headed on inside then upstairs to your bathroom. After setting out some comfy clothes and shedding out of the day’s stiff attire for all the press work that entailed you waited for the shower to reach its desired heat. The person looking back at you in your steadily fogging mirror was almost unrecognizable. Bruises from recent incidents had barely begun to make their way towards the fading process. Skin so sullen and hair even duller. When had you started to look so tired? This beaten down? You felt sorry for anyone who had the displeasure of viewing your walking corpse as of late. 

The spray of the showerhead above you was nothing short of heavenly. Any pain and misery melted away to be forever cast down into the depths of the tub’s drain. Your bones felt like lead as you let yourself stand there, waiting to gain the sense of motivation to start washing yourself clean. It could’ve been ten minutes or even ten hours before the sound of the bathroom door clicking ajar had you opening your eyes. The silhouette of the cause of your heart’s aching and beating stood beyond the fogged glass as if at a loss of what to make himself do next. You said nothing, not wanting him to feel as if he was unwanted or on the other hand forced to join you. To expose himself beyond what a casual act of nudity could display already. 

It was another elongated moment before you heard the clink of a belt and the rustle of clothes being discarded. You were so far gone that it hadn’t occurred to you he was about to see you at your most vulnerable. He’d witnessed you at some of your lowest, shittiest points but this was crossing into an entirely new territory. 

And yet you didn’t feel as scared as you thought you would. You didn’t find Rust to be as judgemental about the physical as he was about the metaphysical. 

The shower’s sliding door worked its way open and you didn’t turn around until a few moments after it had closed. The look on his face was similar to the one you’d been subjected to all those weeks ago after the bar. One of true fear. Fear of being seen at his very core. Open and raw. Fear that you’d take this all in and decide to turn him away in disgust or disinterest. Rust’s eyes didn’t wander down any further than your face. He wasn’t here out of primal desire. He needed something…someone…you to help him hold himself together for just this moment. Any and all strength he usually had keeping him upright had escaped him after the weight of everything finally penetrated his psyche. 

You found your hand making its way up to his face, tracing dampening tendrils out of his line of sight before cupping his jaw. That empty blue fluttered closed, giving himself a moment or two before completely relinquishing himself to your gentle touch. Your other hand met the other side of his face before you leaned forward to touch your forehead to his. The downfall of water in the small cubicle drowned out any other possible thoughts or worries that could’ve been had in the current moment. There was nothing and no one else that mattered. 

One kiss to his nose, then his chin, and finally his trembling lips had large palms come up to rest on the supple flesh of your hips, steadily gripping you as if you’d float away from him. You separated for a moment as his hands traveled up to clutch at your back. Before he could bring you closer you kissed him gently once more before succumbing to his grasp. Settling with leaving barely-there imprints of your mouth on the expansive skin of his chest and neck, your own hands brought themselves up to return his embrace. You felt the soft press of a peck linger on the side of your head as his grip grew a bit tighter. Seconds passed until the subtle shaking of broad shoulders had you clinging to him impossibly tighter. His sobs were not all that audible but the shuddering breaths he’d take in every now and then were more than enough to clue you in on just how much he was hurting. Tears began to burn behind your own eyes as your pain melded with his. 

Here you were, just two broken people who gave up all notions of stoicism to completely and utterly crumble in front of each other. Fully at each other’s undeniable mercy. 

- - - -

You didn’t know how much more time had passed after holding each other but as the water began to grow more frigid you made haste to help each other wash up. You both stepped out so you could wrap yourself in your own towel before making your way to your linen closet to fetch him one as well as to not have him left wet and cold for too long. With your mind a bit clearer from the emotional release experienced, you finally came to realize the presence of the exceptionally athletic physique in front of you. He seemed to be in the same state of appreciation towards you and you caught yourself feeling hot in the face as you clumsily thrust a towel in his direction. 

“You don’t have to be shy in front of me.” His voice sounded raw from lack of use. The first words he’d uttered since he’d come here.

You tucked a wet piece of hair behind your ear, trying to casually meet his stare, “I know. Just didn’t expect us to end up here when you showed up is all. It’s just catchin’ up to me…” The pinch of your chin between long fingers drew you to kiss him again. 

“You’re everythin'...and then some.” 

You fought a self-deprecating scoff but he said it as if it were the most simplest fact in the world. You had no choice but to believe him.

“Let’s just find you some clothes. I am in dire need of one looong hibernation after everythin’. You too, mister.” You flicked his chest then slinked out of the bathroom. You finished any of the necessary preparations for bed by the time he had wandered into your room. The window you cracked open let in a gentle breeze while the warm glow of the few candles that had been lit danced in the haven you created. Whether you wanted a form of light for the sake of your own comfort or it being done out of some subconsciously innate need to keep Rust out of the dark for the night, you didn’t care to unpack. 

Climbing into bed once and for all, you lay facing each other. Letting peace and stillness settle in. 

“We did it y’know…it’s over. We can be okay.” You couldn’t help but say. Feeling the need to find something to reaffirm the so-called fact that should’ve been comforting at the end of all this. Anything to soothe underlying anxiety as the heavy shadow of the unknown and incomplete loomed over you. It should’ve been over but Ledoux was but a small piece to a hugely fragmented puzzle. Both of you knew it deep down but hadn’t the strength to confirm it out loud. Afraid to shatter this sense of temporary false security.

This was far from being done and dealt with. From being fully uncovered.  

Rust didn’t say anything else as he pulled you into the warmth of his chest. Caging you in with no choice but to surrender to the silent feeling of safety he was trying to provide you. You could only pray that the two of you could make it through anything as you both found yourselves victims to the passing of time and any other trials it had ready for you.

Especially with whatever was waiting for you on the other side of Carcosa.  

----

a/n: ahhhh! hurt/comfort is always a guilty pleasure. sorry for the immense dread at the end. i'm thinking of cooking up another fic that draws back to what exactly went down with our trio and ginger if that's something of interest to you all! thanks for reading!

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin - chapter four

of rage and ruin series

chapter four

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 2.9k

summary: You get a better idea of Joel's life here, and your purpose is made explicitly clear.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), depiction of injury, body horror, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, viewer discretion is advised, menstruation and oral, slow burn, whipping, explicit abuse by captors

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

“You, girl,” Jim snaps. “Heel.”

Your head whips to the door, fear forgotten long enough to stare incredulously. But the look falls off your face quickly at the rage on his. Out of the corner of your eye, Joel shakes his head minutely, jerking it just enough toward Jim that you get the picture. 

You’d bristle about it later, but the cold rushes back through your veins as Jim’s ruddy face grows darker. 

“Now, bitch.” 

Despite being fully human, a growl rumbles from your cellmate. The shadows do nothing to soften his sharpness, but Jim just waggles the remote to the shock collar in his hand.

“You got somethin’ to say, boy?” he says. 

Joel’s lip twitches, but he falls silent. 

You get to your feet, making your way to the door on shaky legs with your head down. 

He hates it. Hates how you shrink yourself down, how your smell stings his nostrils. 

But he’ll hate what happens next more.

Jim shuts the bars behind you, but not the door. He pushes you roughly up against them, wasting no time binding your hands. With a hand on the back of your neck, he smiles.

Unlike Cheryl’s preternatural ability to be put together in the post-apocalyptical wasteland, Jim wears the end of the world. His hand is rough and wrinkled against your skin, and the terrible grin he puts on when he leans close to your ear is missing more than a few teeth. 

“I told you,” he says, low and slithering, his hot breath gusting in your ear and making you shudder. “You only get her when you behave.”

Joel tears his gaze away from the place you’d vacated, and his whole body jerks like he's about to get up. Everything goes tense, the muscle in his neck taut and twitchy, and the room darkening with the furrow of his brow. “Don’t.”

“Too late for that,” Jim says, huffing a breathy laugh. “You still haven’t learned. I don’t think you’re going to. But she might.”

“Don’t,” Joel warns again.

But it's empty, and both men know it. 

You aren’t sure what's happening, but the overwhelming dread is seeping through your haze of ignorance. Jim yanks you away from the bars just as Joel jumps to his feet to reach it. You're shoved against the door to your room, just far enough to keep Joel’s less-than-human arm from swiping through, claws popping out as he changes. 

For the first time you've seen, though, he doesn’t go all the way. He's still undeniably human, though pushing into something unsettling. An unspeakable oddity, his face just warped enough to be wrong. 

Jim pushes your head against the door. “Don’t fuckin’ move,” he spits

“Leave her the fuck alone,” Joel says. His voice slurred a little with too-long teeth straining his jaw. 

The first hit shocks your system. It doesn’t register right away. The crack rings in your ear, and your vision goes a little fuzzy for a moment before the pain seeps below your skin. 

By then, he’s hit you again. You jerk away, ducking to avoid the range of the belt, but it doesn’t save you. It just means the leather catches you on the thigh, and you nearly topple over. 

Jim catches you by the ear and yanks you back in place. “I said don’t fucking move.” 

This time, when he strikes you, you cry out. You can’t help it; you try to move away again, and finally, he kicks you to the ground. You turn your face in time to avoid breaking your nose, but it hurts like hell. His boot grinds into your back, and he brings the belt down over and over while you writhe and cry. 

When he lets up, you don’t move. With your hands tied, it’s not like you could have gotten up on your own anyway, but you don’t try to roll over or curl up. You just cower, body shaking, blood dripping from a few of the stripes on your back. 

You don’t need to look to know he’s gone full wolf now; the cacophony of rage tells you everything you need to know. You don’t need to look to know when Jim hits the button on the shock collar and takes him to the floor. 

Jim hefts you up by your bound arms and shoves you into your prison, away from his room.

Away from Joel. 

One sunny September morning—because, of course, it was September, life always ends in Septembers—Tommy Miller arrived at his brother’s cabin ahead of the full moon. He had a case of shitty beer in dusty bottles and was looking forward to the venison jerky Joel’d been smoking.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the door. The cabin was empty—not in of itself a warning sign—but it was immediately clear that Joel wasn’t just out on a hunt or bathing in the creek.

His boots and coat were gone. So was the shotgun. But the quilt on the sofa was musty and the distinct smell of rotting food permeated the cabin.

Tommy’s stomach plummeted and he broke out in a sweat, not bothering to take his boots off as he crept through the tiny home, praying he didn’t find his brother.

The prayers were answered. 

He spent two nights there, knowing it was fruitless, but combing the perimeter for signs anyway. On the third day, he found one.

Maybe it was someone else’s tan cotton duck Carhartt. Someone who happened to be Joel’s size and smelled like the hand-rolled cigarettes and bootleg whiskey Tommy brought from the QZ. 

Maybe.

But he wasn’t a fool, and no matter how many maybes he tried on, they never fit. Neither did the jacket, not really, but that didn’t stop him from pulling it on.

The coat, now a deeper, splotchy brown with tattered gashes, had belonged to his brother.

He took the jacket back to the cabin and took himself back home to Tess for the last time.

They stayed in touch—him delivering to her outside the zone and her traipsing out to the woods—but Tommy Miller would never step a foot back in Boston.

The days after you took Joel’s punishment were hell. There was no way around it. In addition to the whipping, you went without food or fresh water for another day. With no deliveries, you were left in total isolation.

Your only company was the plaintive whining of your neighbor. Anything louder was immediately silenced by the unmistakable buzz of the shock collar and his sharp yelps. 

On the second day, Cheryl pays you a visit. Her arrival is heralded by nasty growling, and she’s scolding him like a naughty puppy when she opens your door.

“Now aren’t you pathetic?” she coos at your limp body before closing herself in amidst a renewed cacophony. 

You don’t answer. You’ve sprawled yourself out down the length of a bench, uneven boards digging into your stomach just to keep the pressure and dirt away from the welts. 

“Up,” she snaps her fingers. “Wash day. Can’t let you get an infection and die after all we’ve invested in you.”

The steel door to Joel’s cell is closed when she drags you out, but he can clearly smell the fresh blood from jostling your wounds because he starts growling again.

“Stop,” you whisper, barely audible, and he falls silent.

“What was that?” Cheryl asks, but you don’t acknowledge her and let out a slow breath when she brushes it off.

Wash day is always terrible, save one part: the sun. It’s the only time you get to be outdoors, the only chance you have to feel sunlight on your skin. Today is particularly nice, the warmth immediately embracing you.

Cheryl doesn’t usually do the honors herself, but the others seem to be absent. At least, that’s what you think.

She clips your cuffs to the hook dangling from an old, rusted basketball hoop and grabs the hose, unleashing the frigid spray on you without warning.

It always hurts, but your sore and wounded body suffers more today. Blood drips down the back of your thighs, and you bite your tongue against the wretched sting. She doesn’t scrub you which is a blessing and a curse. No rough sponge on your wounds, but no soap, either.

She leaves you there for a minute, nozzle still dripping lazily as it dangles from her hand.

“Why hasn’t he claimed you yet?” She asks after you’ve begun to shiver despite the weather.

“What?” 

“He didn’t fuck you. He shouldn’t have been able to help himself. What’s wrong with you?”

You’re baffled, but overcome by the sudden sense of fear. She thinks he’s rejecting you, and it’s clear now that by not raping you, he’s endangered you still. 

You can feel your life expectancy dwindling under her scrutiny.

“I-I don’t know,” you say uselessly.

“Hmm,” is all she says, drumming her nails against her folded arms. 

“Um. You keep taking me away,” you try quickly. “He probably just thinks you’ll do it again.”

She scoffs. “Sweetie, his last omega didn’t make it ten minutes before he lost control.”

When she brings you back in, there’s not a peep from the wolf. She shuts you back in your shitty locker room, water still dripping from your hair. Your bra and panties are drenched.

But you’re used to it. 

It’s not long after she leaves that he whines again.

“Shut up,” you hiss. “Just shut up. ” The anger blindsides you both. You want to be mad. You want to reach down somewhere deep in your chest and unearth the bloody lump of indignant rage.

“I know you can hear me, so just listen. I’m stuck here because of you. I’m injured because of you. And now she’s threatening to let me die because of you. So just fucking be quiet and leave me alone for once.”

It’s like a slap in the face. No, it’s worse. It’s true, and he knows it. Your words, your undeniable words, tear into him and hurt the wolf so badly that he turns back into the man.

That’s a first.

Now he knows the line. Being rejected so thoroughly by his mate is more than the beast can bear.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, and it’s the last you hear from him for two weeks.

By the time you’re back in his room, you’ve come to regret your cold words. You know he didn’t ask for any of this; didn’t ask to be held captive; didn’t ask for them to take you.

But you can’t unsay it, and you can’t bring yourself to admit it out loud.

You’re loose again, the cage seemingly a thing of the past, when he returns. The Wolf stalks in and almost ignores you. Almost.

But he can’t, not when you smell like blood. 

You look rough. He doesn’t like it. It stands his fur on edge, bristling at the way you wince when the cramps roll through, how you can’t settle in a way that soothes your aching hip. The way you can’t eat your stew when they bring it alongside his heaping tray of meat, wrinkling your nose at the smell. 

It takes him mere minutes to gobble it up, but the hunger lingers. Tomorrow’s the full moon, and he’ll be released to feast, but the insatiability gnaws at him until then. And it’s so hard to resist you.

Your musk may be undercut with battery acid but the coppery tang on the air has him salivating. Literally slobbering.

And that primal burning inside him knows just how to sate his hunger and the frankly distressing need to soothe his omega. 

His. The thought sends him rumbling, startling you with the deep, entrancing sound. You meet his eyes, and when he sees them shine with unshed tears, all resolve dies.

Omega, hurt. 

Help.

Taste.

He stalks over, lumbering on all fours, warped spine arched as he gives into the slinking, slow approach of the predator he truly is.

You still flinch back when he nears, and he has had enough. Don’t you realize? If he wanted to hurt you, if he was capable of it, he could have. Would have.

His hot breath floods across your knees, the only warning before he nestles his snout between them and shoves.

You recoil against the wall. 

He whines, nudging you again, urging you to open up for him, to expose the sweet flow that is so uniquely you and just for him. All for him. His.

“Stop,” you whisper.

He nudges you again.

“Knock it off. I told you, it’s just my cycle.”

He makes sure you’re looking before he rolls his eyes. 

Your jaw drops. “Seriously?”

He huffs. Why won’t you just cooperate? Why do you always have to be so goddamn stubborn?

He nudges your hand and waits until you look at it. He licks your wrist with a long, wet stripe of saliva left behind and then looks down at where your thighs are resolutely closed.

“Ew,” you say instead of obeying.

He tries again and watches it click as you cringe back.

“I don’t care if it’ll take away the pain,” you scold. “Absolutely not. You cannot be serious.”

He growls at your protests, bumping you again.

“That’s gross. Seriously, Joel.” But your resolve is not strong. You acutely remember how nice it felt when he healed your rope burn and how gently his tongue had lapped at the raw flesh. And you’re on your second day, the migraine fading but the sore ache making itself known as you hold your body tense through the pain. 

He nudges you again.

“It’s… wrong,” you try weakly. And you think you should feel that way, but deep down, you just don’t. There was a reason you read Twilight when you were too old for that kind of horny pre-teen nonsense. There was a reason your bookshelves had been full of Anne Rice and Charlaine Harris. 

There was a reason you watched The Creature From the Black Lagoon and American Werewolf in London and all those classic monster movies over and over and over.

The tension in your thighs eases, and when his cold nose shoves between them again, your knees part easily.

He rumbles his approval, knocking your legs apart as he lowers his great, hulking self to the ground, where your blood is slowly pooling.

Two enormous, furry hands grip your legs, careful not to prick you with the long claws. The muscles of his arms ripple, and you feel your breath hitch, growing shallow.

You jolt at the first brush of his long, rough tongue. You had expected him to start slow, tentative. To see if he could tolerate it.

But he has you spread firmly, all but forcing his tongue into your aching cunt and lapping greedily at his spoils.

The flow is quickly becoming diluted by your arousal, which only serves to spur him on.

You make the mistake of looking, stomach swooping as you take in the nightmarish beast, whose eyes are flooded with ichor as he slurps greedily from you.

It wasn’t even necessarily erotic. He wasn’t attempting to coax an orgasm from you, not enticing you with soft flicks to your clit or any real stimulation. He was simply feasting . 

That doesn’t stop you, though. It’s an electric feeling, his wide tongue filling you, emptying you, purging you of your pain with each swipe against your walls, and it brings you abruptly over the edge of your pleasure.

You come back to your senses gasping, a hand fisted in his fur. You loosen your grip but don’t let go as you come down from the feeling.

The noise doesn’t register at first, but it’s not long before the echo of the slick slapping where he’s fisting his cock surrounds you. He’s still between your legs, his snout pushed up against your cunt with fervor as he tugs roughly at the thick, uncut length.

It’s a beast all on its own, and you shiver at the thought of him splitting you open with it, of watching the angry red tip emerge and disappear inside you.

You think he’s going to be embarrassed, but he can’t find the feeling within him. His hot cum splatters on the ground, splashing against your toes, and instead of slinking over to his waiting bed, he curls his entire body around you like a can cozy.

You can’t complain. His tongue had eased your aches, leaving you drowsy and tingling, almost drugged. His fur is rough and yet somehow silky, and he’s broad enough to envelop you entirely in warmth. 

The Wolf may have no qualms, but the Man, as you come to find out, is another story.

[reduxulousoctopus]

X-Men '97, Post-Episode 7, ~2500 words Morpherine established relationship, missing scene (unless the show actually does explore what happened during that fight, in which case boy is there egg on my face).

I follow established show canon by referring to Morph as he/him in diegetic works (fanfic and fan art) and they/them in non-diegetic works (my episode analyses and reblogs), because that's the stupidest option and, like Morph, I am also an enby with a terrible sense of humor.

Now come watch me struggle to write two whole lines of dialogue for one of my favorite characters in the series, Beast, because Me Too Stupid to Write Smart Talk Good.

--

“You wanna explain what the hell happened back there?”

Although he considers pretending he didn’t hear the question, Morph reluctantly glances across the center aisle of the Blackbird to see Logan glaring back at him with an expression as hard as the adamantium underneath it. Although it’s a look he’s seen plenty of times before as an innocent bystander, Morph has only been the target of that glare on a handful of occasions. Usually when he’s severely fucked something up. Or when Logan is completely out-of-his-mind, cuckoo-bananas worried about him.

Morph suspects that this time, it’s a little Column A, a little Column B.

A wiser person might realize they were in a hole and stop digging; Morph smirks and asks, “What, the Summers Family Reunion? Well, you see, when a man and the clone of his wife love each other very much…” Morph chuckles. “By the way, this might be a bit creepy to say as one of his honorary uncles, but Baby Nathan grew up to be a serious hottie—emphasis on serious.”

No laugh. Okay, maybe that wasn’t his best material, but not even a lip twitch? Logan must be pissed.

Morph sighs and slouches in his seat. God, he doesn’t want to talk about this right now. Or maybe ever. He can feel his throat literally closing up to stop the words from coming out.

When enough time has passed that what little patience Logan had left in the tap completely runs dry, he goes right for the jugular: “I thought you were dead. Again.”

Morph winces.

“I saw that… ‘Trask Sentinel’ blow your goddamn head off. Then, next thing I know, you’re up and walkin’ around like nothing happened.”

“Not that you’re complaining, right?” Morph asks with a weak attempt at a laugh. “You know what they say about gift horses. Although, you’d think the lesson from the Trojan War would be that you should look gift horses in the mouth.”

From the seat behind him, Morph hears: “Although it’s a common misconception, that phrase actually has nothing to do with the Trojan Horse. The proverbial ‘gift horse’ is a literal, living horse, and to look it in the mouth—”

“With all those books you read,” Logan grumbles, “I thought at least one of them would've taught you it's rude to eavesdrop.”

“It would be difficult not to overhear, given the two of you are speaking quite loudly in a confined space while surrounded by people,” Beast points out. “Have you considered that this perhaps isn’t the best venue for a private conversation?”

“He is a super-genius. We’d better listen to him,” Morph tells Logan. “We’ll talk later, okay big guy?”

The stubborn set of that heavy jaw says Logan knows damn well ‘later’ means ‘never,’ and he isn’t gonna let Morph weasel out of this that easy. “If you ever want me to let you off this plane, you’ll talk now.”

“Let me?” Morph scoffs. He transforms into Quicksilver, puts on his best smug speedster grin, and says, “Just try and stop me, slowpoke.”

To his shock, Logan actually flinches. It’s a subtle thing, Morph might not have even noticed if he didn’t know Logan so well. The cause eludes him, however—until Morph remembers that he looked like Maximoff when the Thrask Sentinel… when everything went dark and quiet for a few seconds.

Funny. There was a time when Morph, blinded by youthful naivety and hero-worship, would have insisted Wolverine wasn’t afraid of anything.

Returning to his default form, Morph mutters out an apology. He tries to imagine what it would be like to see Logan die, only for him to get up a few seconds later and act like nothing happened. With that healing factor of his, they’ve gotten damned close to that exact scenario more than a few times.

How much worse would it feel, if Logan had kept his quick-healing abilities secret and Morph had to find out the hard way?

Morph takes a breath, looks out the window at the black clouds rushing by, and starts from the beginning.

“You know how most of us don’t know we’re mutants until we hit puberty, and our powers manifest? Well… I didn’t have to wait that long. Problem is, since I was just a baby, I had no idea how to control my powers—no more than a normal baby is born knowing how to walk or talk.

He holds out his hands with his palms cupped together to form a shallow, makeshift bowl.

“When I was born, I looked like a wriggling lump of white clay, about yay-big. No arms or legs, no face, no ears, no eyes. Just a mouth that would appear somewhere on my body whenever I was hungry or wanted to cry.”

Whatever Logan was expecting to hear, from the look on his face, it clearly wasn’t that.

“But even at that tender age, someone clearly recognized my star potential. I was only two days old when I made my media debut: Severely Deformed MUTANT Born In Pittsburgh Hospital.” Morph shrugs. “Not the most positive review, I’ll admit, but you know what they say: all publicity is good publicity. After all, that’s how the professor found me.”

Logan’s frown returns, more confused than angry. “You told me you didn’t meet Xavier until you were thirteen—after your mom passed.”

“That’s when I moved to the Institute. Turns out we actually met quite a lot earlier than I remembered, which is pretty embarrassing. Ideally, you don’t want to meet your future high school principal, college instructor, mentor, and world famous civil rights leader while wearing a diaper. Even worse, I was wearing a diaper, too—and I told him, mister, one of us is going to have to go home and change his outfit and it sure isn’t going to be me.”

That gets him a smile and a huff of a laugh, which would be an encouraging sign if he didn’t know how the story ends.

“So Xavier talked to my parents, explained the whole ‘mutant thing.’ Dad wasn’t happy. Then again, I’m not sure he ever was. He would have been disappointed to have a girl—a sentient lump of polymorphic biomass was right out. Thankfully, Xavier was able to use his telepathy to coach me through my very first transformation. He showed me how to turn into a normal baby boy, who would eventually grow up to look like this.”

Morph transforms into his old default, the one he still uses whenever he wants to pass: pale (although not that pale) skin, brown eyes, brown hair, hooked nose, pointed chin, gaunt cheeks, arched brows. Not exactly Fabio, but it’s the face Logan used to know him by—the face he sometimes worries Logan might secretly still prefer.

“Then he put some psychic blocks in place to limit my powers to something a bit more… manageable. Don’t give me that look. It sounds shady, but the professor messing with my head was the only reason I got to have a normal, happy childhood with my parents. God only knows what would have happened otherwise—if I’d even be alive now.”

The worry and suspicion that appeared on Logan’s face at the mention of psychic tampering grudgingly fade away. “When did you find out?” he asks instead.

“A couple months after the professor… y’know,” Morph sighs. “I hacked his personal files. Since he wouldn’t be around anymore to help you recover your memories, I hoped that maybe I could find something small he overlooked, some clue that might give us an idea where to look next.”

Logan’s eyes widen and his mouth goes slightly slack. “Morph…”

“I didn’t find anything, before you get excited. Not about you, anyway. Sure found out a lot about myself, though—a lot more than I was bargaining for.”

“That’s when your default form changed,” Logan realizes.

“Yeah. It was kind of hard to think of this,” Morph replies, gesturing at the face of his human-passing form, “as my ‘real’ face after that. Not that my new look is any more real, of course.”

“Who else knows?”

“Other than our friends listening to this conversation right now?” Morph asks pointedly, causing an entire plane full of X-Men to each make their best attempt at looking busy. Nightcrawler’s method of peering thoughtfully at the radio controls with one hand on his chin is particularly masterful—Logan mentioned he used to perform in a circus, so it’s no wonder he’s got such a good instinct for stage-business. “I told Hank and Moira not long after I found out. Seemed like a bad idea to keep that information from my doctors. Especially when one of them is also my therapist.”

At receiving a glare from Logan, Beast develops a sudden and convenient fascination with the view through the Blackbird’s window.

“But you didn’t want anyone else to know.” Logan could accept that, even if he doesn’t like it. Nothing personal. A man’s business is man's business, after all—even for a not-quite-man like Morph.

Too bad it wouldn’t be the truth; no more ‘real’ than any face that Morph wears.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

Morph can handle Logan’s anger, no problem. That’s almost charming, after all these years. But it’s the flicker of hurt, just like that little flinch earlier, that really cuts him to the quick.

“Not because I don’t trust you, or want to keep things from you or anything, it’s just… I didn’t—I couldn’t—”

He sighs and looks away again. He transforms back into his new default: smooth white skin, mask-like face. Obviously inhuman.

Still a lot more human than he looked when he was born, though.

“So, yeah. That’s why I’ve apparently gained the ability to survive having my head blown off. It sure would have been handy to know that my organs were optional the last time a Sentinel put me down. Now, instead of being out of commission for two years I’ll never get back, I can just squish myself back together and keep on keepin’ on.”

Logan doesn’t respond, and slowly, the mutter of other conversations step in to fill the void. Morph stares at nothing, sick with nerves. It’s deeply unfair that he can still feel nauseous even though he doesn’t have a stomach anymore.

He would say it’s all in his head, but if he can survive without one, maybe he doesn’t have a brain, either.

Badum-tch.

Good line. Hopefully he’ll remember it after the existential horror wears off, in the brief window when things will be funny again before the heartbreak sinks in.

Because there’s dropping a bombshell on a relationship—then there’s dropping a fucking nuke.

Oh God. There isn’t going to be a window, is there?

“Morph. Look at me.”

Although he considers pretending he didn’t hear the command, Morph reluctantly glances across the center aisle of the Blackbird to see Logan looking back at him with an expression as soft as the heart he usually tries to hide.

“No matter what you look like, there’s one thing you’ve never been able to change,” Logan tells him. “That’s real enough for me.”

A wiser person might realize they were in a hole and stop digging; Morph can’t stop himself from opening his big stupid mouth. No wonder that was the one feature even Baby Morph knew to give himself. “There are more blocks Xavier left behind that I haven’t pushed through, yet. Maybe I’ll even figure out how to change my scent, someday.”

From the look on his face, Logan clearly hadn’t considered that possibility. Morph immediately wishes he could take it back, feeling like he’s just tarnished something sacred.

It’s always been strangely intimate, the way Logan can recognize him by scent alone. Even from the beginning, when Morph decided to pull a prank on the grumpy new recruit, only for Wolverine to sniff him out mere seconds into his planned routine—it was as if, like the Emperor’s New Clothes, he suddenly realized he had been naked the entire time.

Another, smarter shapeshifter might have avoided Logan after that; Morph couldn’t get enough.

One-sided pestering turned into an unlikely friendship, turned into friends-with-benefits, turned into… whatever they have now. That which dares not speak its name.

The thought of losing that connection, the idea that someday he may be able to change himself so thoroughly that even Logan won’t be able to recognize him anymore… It’s too awful. Cursed knowledge. Like learning about the solar cycle when he was a kid, and suddenly having the horrible realization: if even the sun is going to die someday, what makes him so sure Mom will get better?

Out of the corner of his eye, Morph sees Logan’s hand start to move, stop, then start again, reaching across the aisle towards him. For a insane, terrifying moment, he thinks Logan’s about to hold his hand, outing them in front of God, the other X-Men, and everybody—but of course, that enormous, rough mitt lands on his shoulder instead. Perfectly platonic, approved for all audiences by S&P.

Though they’re shooting through the air at supersonic speed, under the heavy weight of that hand, Morph feels rooted to stable ground. He closes his eyes and takes a few slow breaths he doesn’t actually need, with lungs he only has when he remembers to make himself some.

If there are any people left when the sun finally burns out in a few billion years, they’ll still be telling each other jokes as they go into that endless good night. Just think of the money we’ll save on sunscreen. Maybe, but you know the light-bulb companies are gonna take us to the cleaners. Ha ha, freeze frame, theme song, end credits.

Even as her body slowly wasted away under the combined onslaught of cancer and chemo, Mom always laughed at his jokes, no matter how many times she heard the one about the chicken who crossed the road. His most appreciative audience, to the very last curtain call.

The world is pretty fucking scary right now, and only getting scarier. Sinister. Genosha. Losing Gambit. Sentinels again, in all new and even more monstrous forms. Even worse: total war between humans and mutants looming over the horizon, shaking the ground with each step, getting closer and more inevitable every time someone mentions it, like a demon whose power grows every time you says its name.

But just because things are scary doesn’t mean the world's turning into a horror movie, and just because things are sad doesn’t make it a tragedy. Everyone gets to choose the genre of their life story—and Morph will always pick comedy.

He gives the hand on his shoulder a friendly pat, and uses the motion to disguise a slightly more-than-friendly squeeze. “I’m alright, just a little airsick. I think it’s making me maudlin.”

As he pulls his hand back, Logan frowns a little in confusion—he knows Morph is experienced enough in the air that he shouldn’t be getting nauseous over what are, for the Blackbird, barely above pleasure-cruise speeds.

“How unfair is that, by the way?” Morph asks. “I don’t even have a stomach right now.”

Logan chuckles. Nah, baby, don’t give it up for me that easy, Morph thinks, fighting a grin. You gotta make me work for it a little…

He needn’t have worried, though. When he does make it to the punchline, Logan laughs so hard that he snorts, the laugh-lines Morph has personally carved into that seemingly indestructible face creasing and growing deeper still. And as their friends who Definitely Weren’t Eavesdropping join in—even Rogue, so teary and congested that her laughs would sound like sobs if she wasn’t smiling—Morph knows all their attempts to hide their relationship have been for nothing, because there’s no way that all the love he feels for Logan in that moment isn’t writ large all over whichever face he's wearing right now.

That’s real enough for him.

[pluckyredhead]

Can you please say more about the Lanterns' politics?

I am so glad you asked me about this because I've been thinking about it since I reblogged that post but also I'm definitely about to get yelled at lol. ANYWAY THIS IS GOING TO BE LONG.

Tl;dr: John is the only one with a coherent political position or an up-to-date voter registration.

Hal:

So something interesting about Hal is that his stories are often very political but his character is not. With one extremely obvious exception, he rarely talks about politics; rather, he serves as a means through which to tell political stories, usually unintentionally.

What do I mean by that? Well, for example, in the Silver Age, his love interest would occasionally be possessed by a misandrist space jewel that would force her to attack him, but always lose because women are inherently inferior to men and prefer to be subjugated by them anyway. That's the original Star Sapphire concept. It's wildly misogynistic, but it doesn't mean Hal the character is misogynistic. But it's also a very political story, even if I don't think the writer was deliberately trying to make a point so much as...being an average, thoughtlessly sexist guy living in the 60s. (Carol continues to be the subject of mindbogglingly sexist writing and art well into the 2000s. Fucking comics.)

And so you have Hal Jordan, whose love life was ruined by his girlfriend getting promoted above him and who called his best friend by a racist nickname for decades; Hal Jordan, poster boy for chest-thumping post-9/11 kneejerk patriotism; Hal Jordan, lightning rod for a certain kind of regressive bigoted fanboyism. Choosing Hal as the Lantern for a particular story over John or Kyle has come to signify something very specific, but none of that is necessarily reflective of what Hal himself believes.

So what about Hal himself? Well, when we first meet him, he's the epitome of privilege: a white, straight, cis, Christian (I know he's canonically half-Jewish now but that's only as of the past decade or so), ablebodied, upper middle class (Geoff Johns retconned him to have a working class background, but in the Silver Age, he had one uncle who was a millionaire, another who was a judge, and a successful politician brother) man with a flashy job. Privilege tends to lean Republican; even if he is from California, I suspect Hal voted for Eisenhower in 1956.

In GL/GA, the word "Republican" isn't used to my recollection, but Hal is definitely presented as...I'm going to say conservative by I mean lower-case C. He doesn't have deeply held political beliefs, but he's traditional. He doesn't question the system, because he's never had to. He resists things that challenge the way he's always understood the world works, and that's very relatable - most people do! And he will absolutely argue with Ollie, who certainly isn't always right about everything. But he's also willing to listen, and have his mind changed, and certainly reachable via appeals to compassion and fairness.

Once the "relevance" trend of the late 60s-early 70s was over, Hal's stories default back to ostensibly politically neutral, although obviously nothing is actually politically neutral. In the late 80s and early 90s he's the most unpleasant version of himself, and that has political manifestations, like when he allows John to be imprisoned in apartheid South Africa for a ridiculous and unnecessary crime Hal himself committed. It's extremely fucked up, but again, it's less because of Hal's actual opinions and more because Christopher Priest wanted to write about apartheid, even if it does make Hal look incredibly, horrifically racist.

Then jump to the mid-2000s and Green Lantern: Rebirth, and you might imagine that losing his hometown, getting possessed by a giant space bug, becoming a supervillain, dying, and becoming the embodiment of God's vengeance might have some effect on Hal's politics, but that is not what Geoff Johns is here to write. Johns is writing a Hal who teleported in from, like, 1967 - no nuance allowed. He's a summer blockbuster that walks like a man. He's a Baja Blast. He's never had a coherent political thought in his life. In his defense, he has had more and goofier concussions than any superhero I can think of and his brain is smooth like an egg. Still.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I think Hal tends to default to center right positions but can be easily coaxed over to center left. That said, he has never not once in his life had his shit together enough to vote in a single election, not even for his own brother.

Guy:

So Guy's deal is a little bit complicated because his most vocally political era was also in part due to severe and personality-altering brain damage.

When Guy was originally introduced in the 1960s, he had the pleasantly bland personality of all superheroes. Many years later, he suffered a series of major injuries, torture, and a lengthy coma, and he emerged from the coma in 1985 with the aggressive, abrasive personality he's best known for today. Justice League International took that even further, using him to parody the jingoistic, red-blooded American action hero of the 80s.

This version of Guy is a vocal fan of Ronald Reagan and despises the USSR. He's pro-war, proudly xenophobic, and treats women badly enough that it crosses the line into repeated sexual harassment, both physical and verbal. (To be fair...ish, this last also applies to Wally West and arguably a number of other men, and was always played for laughs. It was gross all around.)

Again, this is partially a manifestation of his brain damage. There's also a running gag in JLI where if he gets hit on the head, his personality changes to this cloying, timid, gentle one, sort of halfway between a child and a flamboyant gay stereotype. Hit him again and he goes back to Asshole Guy. I'm not going to pretend I don't find some of the gags funny, but it's obviously all highly problematic, and not just from a medical standpoint.

That said, I don't think we can dismiss Guy's politics or his usual personality as simply a manifestation of brain damage. We see in later flashbacks that he developed the abrasiveness as a defense mechanism from growing up in an abusive home, and as he matures through the 90s, he doesn't actually become a significantly different person, even after his Vuldarian healing factor kicks in and heals his brain. (It's a thing.) I think it's more accurate to say that the brain damage probably affected his impulse control, his filter, and arguably even his paranoia levels.

All of which is to say that as much as I would love to go "Guy's better now, so he's not a Republican!"...that dog won't hunt. I think a really good canon writer could make the case that Guy is pro-union-style working class and also a former teacher so he's at least center left, but as of now canon evidence is pretty firmly on the red side. It doesn't help that the GLC has been written as fetishistically pro-cop and pro-military since Johns got his grubby hands all over it. I will happily ignore the New 52 retcon that Guy was a cop, and you could even try to argue that he dislikes cops because his brother was a corrupt cop who became a supervillain, but I think it's much more likely that he identifies with cops as a Corps member. Although I don't think he would have any patience for killer cops. ("You were afraid for your life even though you were the only one with a weapon? Then fucking quit, coward.")

All of that said, I think Guy is similar to Hal: defaults to center right, can be talked into center left on certain issues but he's more stubborn about it. (They would also both be enraged by Jan 6 and disgusted by the current Republican party - I can't quite argue that Guy Gardner is a Democrat but Green Lanterns don't have any patience for traitors or cowards.) It's also kind of a moot point because he never knows what is happening on Earth and hasn't voted since his pre-coma days.

John:

Oh John Stewart, thank god for you.

John was introduced as an explicitly political character in an explicitly political story. The first time we see him, he's stepping in to defend Black men from a white cop, citing his own knowledge of the law to do so. He shows a much more perceptive and informed perspective on the issue's main plot (a racist senator running for president) than Hal does. Even in the little moment above, we see that he's sensitive to exactly what it means for him, a Black man, to be taking on this role.

None of this is a surprise, since we'll later learn that John's parents were civil rights activists. Not only would he not have had the privilege Hal and Guy did to assume his existence was politically neutral, he was explicitly educated about political realities and progressive advocacy from childhood. He's well-informed, he's passionate, and he's going to tell you when you are being fucking stupid.

John isn't immune from the GL cop/military...thing, although I can't blame Johns for that - it was the cartoon that made him a Marine, and the comics followed suit. But that's never outweighed his origin or his upbringing. Like, he's friends with the DCU's fictional version of Nelson Mandela.

This one is straightforward: John is a staunch progressive. He is, however, in outer space 90% of the time, so he's always at least a little bit out of date. I imagine every time he comes back to Earth he spends the first 24 hours watching the news in abject horror.

Kyle:

Kyle doesn't talk about politics a lot, but when he does, he lands pretty much where you'd expect a young California-born artist living in New York City to land: to the left. My read on Kyle is that he hasn't really thought any of his politics through, which makes sense - he's a character who is led by emotion over reason every time. He doesn't have John's carefully thought-through arguments or knowledge of the law behind him. I feel like when something political upsets him, he's more likely to splutter angrily than make a coherent argument (which: same). When he's given the time to think things through and speak from the heart, though, he can be very eloquent, like in his speech to Terry after Terry accidentally comes out to him.

It's also worth pointing out that his solo appearances were mostly in the 90s, which were prone to avoiding politics or only addressing them in a halfhearted both sides-y way like the story above.

That said, I don't think he ever actually does anything about his political opinions. He never votes in midterm or primary elections, and probably only voted in a presidential one because Alex dragged him along one time. I feel like Donna tried to do the same when they were dating and that was when Kyle realized he'd forgotten to change his voter registration from California to New York. Jennie wasn't responsible enough to Mom him into doing his civic duty, and he's been in space pretty much nonstop ever since, so...

Simon:

In that other post, I said Simon's experiences should have radicalized him, but instead he was created by Geoff Johns. Simon is a Muslim, Lebanese-American man who came of age in the post-9/11 era, and was wrongfully convicted of terrorism and waterboarded at Guantanamo Bay. His reaction to this was...to put on a ski mask and wave a gun around. Like, it's been a while since I've read these issues, but aside from the "ripped from the headlines!!!" of it all, I feel like Simon's experiences largely don't inform his actions or perspective except that he's super angry (fair enough).

The thing about Simon (and Jessica) is that he hasn't been around very long, and most comics don't have characters directly expressing political opinions. It's not a coincidence that these characters are in chronological order and each write-up is shorter than the last. I can think of about three times where Kyle has ever said anything I can interpret as political, and he's been around for 30 years. Simon only has a third of that history. So while one could certainly extrapolate what Simon's opinions are likely to be, I can't think of any canon where he actually says them.

Jessica:

Jessica has even less to go on in terms of explicitly political comics. You'd think she wouldn't like guns because of what happened to her friends, but she has one of her own and doesn't seem bothered by Simon's. I'd imagine she has opinions on immigration as someone whose family is from Mexico and Honduras, but it never comes up. If I were writing for DC, I'd make both Simon and Jess leftists, but as for actual canon proof? I got nothing.

I will say that she probably avoids political discussions because anxiety, and I bet she got really good at voting by mail during her years not leaving the house. She probably votes by mail from space. Maybe John's not the only one with an up-to-date voter registration.

Kilowog:

[queenxxxsupreme]

Rare Encounters (Jaskier x f!witcher!reader)

A/N: hi guys…. I finished Fallout the tv show and it gave me that urge to write that I haven’t had in a while. Now fingers crossed that it works for the long run. Once I can get a good feel for the Fallout universe, my ass will 100% be writing fallout fics 😂

Warnings: nothing outside of canon

Summary: Jaskier meets his first female witcher.

“I swear, you all live like fucking pigs.” You grumbled as you picked up the empty tankards and bowls.

“Oh, just relax, Y/N.” Lambert spoke from across the room. He sat at a table with most of the other wolves as they told stories and carried on. “No one cares what this place looks like.”

“I do, as should you.” You placed the dirty dishes on to the end of one of the empty tables. “Who is going to be doing dishes tonight?”

All of the wolves diverted their eyes away from you.

“Oh come on, boys. It’s just dishes. You’ve done worse, I’m sure of it.”

“I’d rather gut an ekimorra than do house chores.” Coen shook his head.

“Alright. Well then, I’ll just choose for myself who will be the lucky one.”

“When are ya goin’ to get eaten by a cockatrice or something, Y/N?” The redhead wolf teased. “All this nagging you do is–,”

With a flick of your wrist and a sign of aard, Lambert was sent backwards off of the bench. You grinned just a little.

“You fucking–,” He signed aard back at you the second he was on his feet, but you were quick to sign quen, blocking his attack.

“Don’t start that this early in the winter, Lambert.” Vesemir scolded him as he moved to sit next to Coen.

“Me?” Lambert raised his brows. “She’s the one who started it!”

The doors to the keep opened, bringing in a rush of cold wind. You looked up to see Geralt, a man, and a girl walking in.

The wolves fell silent as Geralt pushed the hood off of his head. A fond smile came to his lips.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Lambert stood to his feet and took a few steps towards his brother. Coen followed.

“We thought you were dead, or lost.”

“Not yet.” Geralt embraced Coen first and then Lambert.

All the other wolves soon took their turn greeting their fellow witcher.

“Y/N.” He said your name fondly. “Glad to see you didn’t let Lambert get you killed on the path.”

“I about killed her myself a couple times.” Lambert glared at you. “She’s like having a second Vesemir around, except some how she’s worse!”

You gave him a shove away from you, rolling your eyes.

“That’s the last time I spend time with you on the path.” Your words were directed to Lambert while you gave Geralt a hug. “Now I have to spend the entire winter in this gods damned keep with him too.”

“Have you seen Eskel, Geralt?” Lambert returned to his seat.

“He’s not here?” Geralt furrowed his brow.

“Haven’t seen any sign of him.” Coen shook his head. “Usually he’s one of the first one’s here, but hasn’t made it this year.”

“Hmm.”

“Wolf. You’re home.” Vesemir was the last to greet the White Wolf.

“I had to make a few stops.” Geralt looked back to the girl and the man to his left.

Your eyes fell on her. Your medallion had trembled when she first entered the room and even now, you could still feel the chaos radiating off of her. She seemed curious, bright eyes taking in every witcher around her. Then she looked at you. You held her gaze, lifting your chin just a little in acknowledgement.

You turned to continue cleaning up the mess the wolves left behind as introductions were made between Geralt’s guests and the wolves.

“And who might she be?” Jaskier asked Geralt as you picked up an empty pitcher from the table the wolves sat at.

“Y/N here is the maid of the keep.” Lambert answered for you. His eyes followed you as you moved around the table, a little grin playing on his lips. “Helps keep everything all nice and clean for us men.”

You launched the pitcher at his head. He dodged to the side, nearly pushing Coen off of the bench in the process.

“You’re going to get yourself into trouble this winter, Lambert.” Vesemir warned him.

“This is Y/N.” Geralt introduced you properly. He and his guests took a seat at the table with the rest of the wolves. “She’s our sister.”

“Sister?” Ciri repeated, furrowing her brows. “As in a witcher?”

“It would seem that way.” You confirmed with a slight nod and a sigh.

“That’s absolutely amazing!” Jaskier exclaimed. “A lady witcher.”

“I think calling her a lady may be overselling it.” Coen snickered.

“Yeah, she ain’t no lady.” Lambert added.

You moved to lean in between him and Coen, reaching for an empty plate. As you were turning away from the table, you made sure to purposefully smack both of the wolves in the head with the plate.

“Fuck!”

“Why don’t you boys make yourselves useful and go do these dishes before they get out of hand?” You placed the bin of dirty dishes down in front of Coen.

They grumbled but decided not to fight it. If they did dishes now, they wouldn’t have to do them later. Or so they thought.

“You’ve never mentioned that you had a sister, Geralt.”

The White Wolf grumbled in his chest as he looked at his bard. It was a warning. He knew very well how Jaskier was with the opposite sex.

“Geralt doesn’t like to do such a thing.” You settled with sitting at the end of a bench at one of the tables. “I would take away all the spotlight from the grand White Wolf. If word got out about a lady witcher, why, the White Wolf wouldn’t be so exciting, now would he?”

Geralt rolled his eyes at you as he moved to the table that had a jug of ale and mugs. He poured himself a mug and then returned to sit across from you.

“If it wouldn’t be too much, I would absolutely love to hear more about you.” Jaskier sat down just beside Geralt. He leaned against the table with both hands and his voice oozed with excitement. “You see, I am a bard by trade. Perhaps you’ve heard some of my work.”

You gazed into his blue eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of your scarred lips.

“You’re a brave soul, bard.”

He smiled a bit bashfully, cheeks flushing light pink.

“Why, thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.” Geralt told him. His words made Jaskier’s smile drop.

“What? Of-Of course it was!”

“It was more of an observation, bard.” You said. “Not many could come to a witcher’s keep and ask a witcher to share her war stories just moments after meeting her.”

“Jaskier has no fear.” Geralt sighed.

“Well, I-I wouldn’t say that. I have plenty of fear.”

You smiled a little at the bard.

“How was the Path this year?” Geralt changed the subject. “I can’t imagine spending the whole year with Lambert was pleasant.”

“Oh, it was anything but pleasant.” You let out a small breath, scratching your fingertips over a groove in the wooden tabletop. “I’d rather have my eyes gouged out with spoons than spend that much time with him.”

Geralt chuckled a little.

“Y/N!” You heard Coen shout your name from the kitchen. You turned your head to the side, listening closely to what was going on.

Geralt furrowed his brows a little and tilted his head. He could also hear the roughhousing going on in the kitchen.

“Ah, fuck.” You grunted, pushing yourself to your feet.

“Is something wrong?” Jaskier asked you.

“My brothers are fools. Excuse me, bard. Princess.”

Jaskier watched as you crossed the room and disappeared behind a heavy wooden door. He didn’t realize he had been staring for too long until the White Wolf grumbled.

The bard turned his head to his traveling companion, brows falling and lips pressing together in a line as he found the witcher glaring at him.

“What?”

“Don’t think about it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You get that same look in your eye when we go to banquets. That same look has gotten you nearly killed for bedding the wrong woman.”

“Geralt! Have a little faith in me! That is your sister for crying out loud! I-I would— I would never—,”

“Unfortunately, I know you too well, Jaskier.”

Jaskier found himself looking back to the door you had disappeared through. A sheepish smile crossed his lips.

“She is rather stunning, isn’t she?”

“Jaskier.”

“It’s a compliment!”

Geralt shook his head.

“She will rip you to pieces.”

“Isn’t that the hope?” Jaskier grinned.

“Gross.” Ciri scrunched her nose up. She had been so quiet that Jaskier almost forgot that they were in the company of the young girl.

“Sorry, Ciri.”

***

You carried a mug in one hand as you left the kitchen. It had been a few hours since Geralt and his guests had arrived. By now, night had fallen on Kaer Morhen. Lambert was preparing a late dinner for everyone. Coen and Vesemir were fixing a fallen shelf in the library. Ciri was in the library reading through a few books to pass time.

Geralt and Jaskier were just getting back in from checking on the horses.

“So I see you changed your mind about your Child Surprise.” You spoke. Your voice reverberated off of the walls.

“Didn’t have much of a choice. Cintra was overtaken by Nilfgard. She has no one.”

“Well, now she has us.” You took a seat on a bench but kept your back to the table. Geralt and Jaskier sat the same way, with their backs to the table just across from you.

A door across the room creaked as it was opened. Being that the door was behind you, you had to turn your head and your upper half to be able to see Vesemir.

“Where’s Ciri?” Geralt asked him.

“Left her in the library. She seemed rather interested in an old beastiary.” Vesemir poured himself a mug of ale.

“To think we have a princess here in the walls of Kaer Morhen.” You shook your head, finishing off the last bit of your drink. “This winter is going to be an interesting one.”

“She isn’t the first princess here.” Geralt said. Your eyes met his briefly before you looked away.

“What does that mean?” Jaskier looked to Geralt for an explanation.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Vesemir took a seat next to you. “All that matters is we don’t try to kill each other this winter.”

“Lambert is at the very top of my list.” You told him. “The first chance I get, I’m going to suffocate him in his sleep.”

“Y/N.” Vesemir scolded.

“Where do you hail from, Y/N?” Jaskier asked you.

“Ard Carraigh, though that was more than a lifetime ago.” You looked down at your empty tankard.

The sound of the horses out in the stables made you turn your head towards the door. You furrowed your brows, unsure of what had them stirring.

“Something’s bothering the horses.” Geralt grunted.

“I will go see to it.” Vesemir sighed as he stood to his feet.

“Do you want one of us to come with you?” You asked him.

“No need. I don’t think it’s that much of a concern.”

You watched the old witcher leave through the heavy front door.

“I should go check on Ciri.” Geralt thought out loud.

“There can’t be too much she’d get into trouble with.” You said. “Nothing up there other than rats the size of a foal.”

“You’d be surprised with Ciri. She can find trouble out of thin air.” He stood up. “Don’t stir up any trouble while I’m gone, Jaskier.”

“You have too little faith in me, Geralt!”

The White Wolf rolled his eyes but said nothing as he walked away. Your eyes followed him until he disappeared through a door that led to the rest of the keep.

“How long have you….” Jaskier trailed off, unsure of the right words to use. “Have you been a witcher long?”

“Are you asking my age, bard?”

“No, no! I’d never ask a lady such a thing.” He chuckled nervously. “I assume that if you have been a witcher for very long, I would have known about you. Or heard about you at some point in time.”

You stood up and moved seats, choosing instead to sit beside the bard. He shifted in his seat, clearly nervous by your sudden close presence.

“It’s been decades since I came here to Kaer Morhen.” You looked upwards to the high ceilings. “Before the sacking.”

”What was it like? Before the- Before the sacking?” Jaskier turned his head to you. He admired your side profile, blue eyes mapping out your facial features. The curve of your nose down to the shape of your lips.

Your attention was shifted to him. It was then that you noticed he was practically staring at your lips. You smiled a little, causing him to look up at your eyes. His cheeks turned pink and he chuckled nervously.

”My-My apologizes.”

”It was nothing grand.” You answered his question as you rose to your feet. “I need more drink. Would you like to come with me?”

”Yes.” Jaskier answered a little too quickly.

He followed behind you like a puppy. You looked over your shoulder to him, the twinkle in your eyes making his heart race. Gods, you were a beauty.

You pushed the door to the kitchen open but before Jaskier could follow you inside, Lambert and Coen were coming out.

“What are you doing, barker?” Coen asked.

“Just— I was just—,”

”Leave him alone, Coen.” You called from just inside the kitchen. Jaskier couldn’t see you because of the wall the two large witchers were forming, blocking you from him.

The boys laughed, their boisterous voices echoing throughout the room. Lambert clapped his hand down on Jaskier’s shoulder as they passed him. Jaskier was just a little confused.

”They are, uh, quite the pair, aren’t they?”

”A pair of jackasses is what they are.” You shook your head.

“Big brothers are like that. I have four.”

”Sounds horrendous.” You poured a second mug of ale and passed it to the bard. “Do you have any other siblings?”

”An older sister and a younger sister.”

”Seven children?” You raised your brows as you leaned against the wooden counter. “Yikes.”

”Yeah.” He chuckled lightly. He leaned against the counter beside you. “Always had a big family.”

”I was one of the last witchers to ever be made, so I suppose I’ve only ever had older brothers.” You took a sip of the ale. ”Couldn’t imagine it any other way. They irritate the piss out of me, but they’re my brothers.”

”They are good men.” Jaskier nodded. “Albeit, annoying. But good men.”

You found yourself gaze at the barker. He was stunning. Warm skin, dark curly hair, even darker eyelashes, and bright icy blue eyes that contrasted his features so nicely. He was a pleasure to gaze at.

The door to the kitchen opened and there stood Geralt.

Jaskier hurried to move, taking a step to the side to put space between himself and you.

“Ah, Geralt!”

The White Wolf offered a low grumble before he looked to you.

”Eskel is home. He doesn’t look good.”

“Is he okay?” You furrowed your eyebrows together. Your drink as discarded on the counter as you hurried to leave the kitchen.

”Vesemir has him in the infirmary.”

You slipped past the witcher and hurried away.

Geralt waited until your footsteps had disappeared down the staircase. Then he turned his attention to Jaskier. He crossed his arms over his chest, appearing even more intimidating than usual.

“Oh, come on, Geralt! Don’t look at me like that!”

”Y/N is—,”

”She is your sister! And you, you are my closest friend!” Jaskier moved to stand in front of Geralt. He placed his hands on Geralt’s biceps and attempted to shake the man but Geralt didn’t budge. “I wouldn’t dream of ever crossing you like that—,”

”Jaskier.” Geralt almost rolled his eyes. ”Get your hands off of me.”

”She is rather friendly though.” Jaskier clasped his hands behind his back as he slipped around the stocky witcher to leave the kitchen. “Very chatty too. Unlike you, you cranky old man.”

Geralt turned around to watch his friend as he started to walk away.

“Jaskier.”

”Yes, Geralt?” Jaskier turned on his toes to face him.

”Just be careful.”

The bard didn’t know what to expect, but that wasn’t it. He furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the side just a bit.

“Uh, o-okay, Geralt.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

hi girlie. thoughts on spencer’s bisexuality? specially post-prison spence. would he be more willing to experiment or just keep being the same guy who doesn’t care at all? just thinking. plus thoughts on austin? we didn’t got to see much about it. honestly i think both of them would have gone harder than with maeve, to be honest. i did not got much of the vibe from maeve and spencer and it felt like quiet new and weird coming from him? we’ve seen him interacting more before with these super confident girls like lila and cat. to me, it looks like these are more his type, pretty odd for a introvert guy like him.

babe thoughts on spencers bisexuality are all i have

but i also have thoughts on all his girlfriends actually

spoilers for maeve, cat, trigger warning season 14 episode 15 “truth or dare” mentioned😓😓 that fuck ass episode

i think post prison spencer is too traumatized and too exhausted to be thinking about romance or sex for a good long while. if he was already in a committed relationship before he went in, i think he’d stay because he’s incredibly devoted and i feel like he tends to latch on to one individual as his person and then never let them go, but if he wasn’t, i don’t think he’d be pursuing anyone, period, boys girls anyone in between or outside, i think bro is just TIRED lmfao

but specifically speaking about his relationship w his own bisexuality, i think if it wasn’t something he was super comfortable with before prison it sure as hell won’t be something he decides to confront after prison. i think he would just ignore it and continue on with life in his own little world ignoring other human beings. i think if he was chill with his sexuality before he went to prison that wouldn’t change afterward other than the fact that he’d probably find himself less attracted to men because they scare him a lot more now. i don’t think he would suddenly start having a ton of internalized homophobia (although he has so much self loathing it could definitely present that way) but again i don’t think he would be interested in seeking out new romantic or sexual partners for a while regardless of gender

and i liked austin a lot!!! potentially controversial opinion but i did NOT like maeve for him. she was clearly designed to be spencer but a girl so we would be like omggg she’s so perfect for him and then we would be extra sad when she died but imo their relationship fell flat, lacked passion or believability, and simply wasn’t interesting to me. the way he spoke about her reminded me of the way a 13 year old speaks about his girlfriend after a month of dating when he thinks they’re going to get married.

i have always FIRMLY believed that he had more chemistry with almost ANY of his love interests, even austin and the einstein chick who were around for ONE EPISODE EACH than he did with maeve. spencer seemed more interested and challenged by literally every single one of them. and i think he needs someone who challenges him. like spencer understands everything, give him someone who he can’t figure out and who drives him insane and is endlessly compelling and confusing elle greenaway!! we saw the way he wanted to genuinely consume lilah and cat. both more interesting than maeve. maeve was giving like… older sister almost?? like that woman had a FIANCÉ and according to canon she was his first “girlfriend” (strong word for what she was… those bitches were e-dating at best) it was just bizarre in the same way it was bizarre for a woman who had been married for ten years with two children to declare her love for him. i genuinely can see him with an older woman elle greenaway but the dynamic was just off with jj and maeve.

so that’s my rant on them. i could go on forever

[sundrop-writes]

The Perfect Brat

Dom!Elle Greenaway x Dom!Fem!Reader x Sub!Spencer Reid

Summary:

Spencer acts up. You and Elle put him in his place. It’s an unconventional relationship, but it works so well.

Dom!Elle Greenaway x Dom!Fem!Reader x Sub!Spencer Reid. Co-Workers with Benefits. Smut/PWP. 

Word Count: 2,900

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

THIS IS A RE-POST. This is a fic from my old blog (a blog that was shadowbanned, forcing me to move). This fic is not stolen, it is completely mine, and I am just re-posting it to help people find my new blog, and to make my masterlist complete when I post new fics for this fandom.

Detailed warnings and author’s notes below the cut.

Warnings: this is primarily a smut fic; reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; this could be read with or without considering the major canon events; dom/sub dynamics - Dom!Elle, Dom!Reader, Sub!Spencer (he is definitely more of a brat in this and I had so much fun writing it); implications of an ongoing poly relationship between the three of them; punishment and reward (Spencer is punished for being mouthy/talking back); size difference kink/reverse size kink (the reader loves how skinny and easy to toss around Spencer is); Spencer is spanked, Spencer is gagged with his own tie (the tie is also used like a leash on him); general rough play; Spencer calls the reader ‘Miss’; undertones of humiliation kink, mentions of subspace, mentions of pain kink, Spencer is called a whore, a slut a stupid brat;degradation kink (towards Spencer); mentions of paddling; mentions of jealousy; bondage - Spencer has his hands tied behind his back; Spencer wears a cockring; orgasm restriction (toward Spencer); Spencer is forced to watch while Elle fucks the reader with a strap-on (the reader is a bottom between Elle and the reader, but she still is 100% a dom in this); as mentioned - strap-on sex (Elle fucks the reader with a strap-on); crying kink (Spencer is pretty when he cries); mentions of pegging (from Elle toward Spencer); hair pulling (reader receiving); Elle is called 'Mistress’; the reader and Elle could both be considered mean in this. I hope that’s everything and I haven’t missed anything important.

A/N: the inspiration behind this is actually so funny. I was working on the second part of Lessons For A Genius and I literally thought to myself 'Spencer is too nice in this. he’s too well behaved’ - and then I started thinking about a fic where Spencer is a bratty sub and gets punished, and then in that scenario, Elle suddenly appeared in my head (I guess because Elle has such dom energy and she’s always bossing Spencer around in the show, this is just too real, they have so much chemistry) - and next thing I know I was opening another tab to write this because I couldn’t help myself. So I hope you guys enjoy it!! I would love to write more fics where Spencer is a bratty sub in the future. I just love writing sub!Spencer in general. (some people have asked me to write dom!Spencer and I am warming up to it very, very slowly.) anyway, please enjoy!

...

You were in the room for less than thirty seconds when Spencer’s pants were down. 

Usually, something like this occurred out of pure lust or need. Spencer was a very needy boy. It was rare that you felt this much annoyance building up inside of you. It was rare that you tore off his clothes out of anger. 

But he had mouthed off to you in front of the local cops, whining that you ‘weren’t his mother’ when you asked him how many cups of coffee he’d had that day and advised him to drink some water. It had been a sassy comeback that had several of the men in the room laughing, and at the time, Spencer had been grinning into that ill-advised seventh cup of coffee, thinking that you couldn’t see him. 

It was something that got a warm rage simmering inside of you. 

Generally, he had been the biggest kind of brat all day. He had been mouthing off, even going so far as to talk back to Hotch when given orders. And you weren’t taking too kindly to it. 

He had to know who was in charge. He had to know that you wouldn’t stand for him being a mouthy brat. 

The door to the hotel room had barely closed behind you before you had his belt undone, the heft of the leather causing the fabric of his slacks to drop to his ankles. This left him entirely exposed from the waist down, feeling a rush of vulnerability, knowing he was in trouble. His stomach clenched in anticipation. You weren’t entirely surprised to find that he wasn’t wearing underwear. He had been acting out all day because he was feeling needy, apparently. 

Before he could speak, only uttering out a few half hearted protests, you shoved him hard. He was so skinny, so easy to push around, it was almost laughable. You pushed him until you had him exactly where you wanted him - bent over the dresser in the middle of the room. It was a chest of drawers with an attached vanity mirror, forcing him to bend over it and brace his hands on the surface so he could look at himself in the mirror. 

So he could stare himself down and face all of his beautiful shame as you tore him apart. 

“Look, Miss, please-” He stuttered out. 

Clearly he was still trying to come back from this, still trying to grovel, trying to apologize. 

But it was too late for that. You had decided that during the car ride back. 

“Shut up.” You told him gruffly. 

You reached around his body to his front and grabbed his tie, slipping it slightly loose before you brought it partway up his head. He was confused by this, until you slipped the loop into his mouth, effectively gagging him. You then spun it so the length of the tie was at the back of his head. You tightened it harshly then, causing him to moan as the fabric scuffed sorely against the sides of his mouth. 

But that wasn’t all. 

You yanked back on the length of the tie as though it were a leash, pulling his tall body into a tense arch, forcing him to be exactly where you wanted him to be. He moaned deeply as a wave of pleasurable pain shot through his body, his back cracking slightly as you forced him into such an uncomfortable position. Your other hand was on his lower back, keeping his hips pinned against the edge of the dresser as you forced his neck back as far as it would go. 

His muscles quivered and tears easily came to his eyes. His cock throbbed harshly with all of it. He always needed to be put in his place. He needed his head to be emptied as the control was taken away from him - as he was owned wholly, his body and mind no longer his own. 

When you were sure that he would stay like this, the subspace setting in and making him slightly more compliant, you moved the hand on his lower back. This forced him to hold the position on his own, his legs becoming shaky - but he didn’t move to make himself more comfortable, which did cause you to grin. 

Then, you hauled your hand back, delivering a harsh spank across his bare ass cheek. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You bit out harshly. “I know I did not train you to be such a fucking brat.” 

You delivered another spank, his soft skin already turning red from your hits. Your palm was stinging slightly, but you didn’t care. It gave you a certain thrill, and it was worth teaching him a lesson if his ass was sore tomorrow and he remembered this. Usually not being able to sit right did help him remember to behave. 

All Spencer could do was moan in response, being very effectively gagged by his own tie. His cock was angry and hard, trapped between his pelvis and the edge of the dresser as you punished him. 

“You’re just a needy little whore, aren’t you?” 

You barked, pulling his neck back even harder. This caused him to whine out in pain, such a beautiful sound that had you dizzy with pleasure as your ego swelled. You pulled him closer to you and placed your lips close to his ear, hissing the next words near his cheek with malice. 

“What’s wrong? The needy slut doesn’t get enough attention?” 

“Come on, Y/N, take it easy on him,” Elle chuckled from the corner, taking a sip of her drink. 

She had ridden with Morgan, so she had made it to the room an easy five minutes before you and Reid had. And thus far, she had been heavily enjoying the show that the two of you were putting on. But she did think you were being a bit too rough considering that Reid was a bit lippy on a good day. 

“Oh, I need to take it easy?” You chuckled sarcastically, looking over your shoulder at her. 

You tossed your hold on the tie, letting Spencer’s body relax forward slightly while you assessed Elle. He let out a whimper of relief, but didn’t make any further noise to draw attention to himself - not wanting the two of you to gang up on him and make his punishment even worse. (The two of you were devious minds, and when you worked together, it was a beautiful kind of destruction.) 

Sitting there, Elle was smug as ever, staring you and Spencer down with a clear heat in her eyes. 

“Last time you paddled him, he couldn’t walk for a week.” You added on, bringing up the memory to try and prove your point. 

“He was flirting with that waitress, he deserved it.” Elle said, speaking as though it was the obvious thing in the world. 

Generally speaking, you weren’t even sure if Spencer knew how to flirt. You thought that for the most part he just didn’t know when other people were flirting with him and didn’t know when to deflect it to stop it from pissing you and Elle off. But you had enjoyed it too much to argue with Elle about it - his bright red ass and awkward gait for the week following that paddling had just been too good. 

You used the tie-leash and a tight hold on one of his hips to spin Spencer around, tossing him onto one of the double beds in the room. He landed roughly on his stomach with a light bounce. He let out a jagged moan as his exposed cock scraped against the cheap hotel bedspread. But - true to form, trying to prove that he was a good boy, he did nothing more than lay there, staying perfectly still where you had put him. 

Elle grinned at him before she looked back to you. 

“So, what do you think we should do with him?” You asked, putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder to flip him over onto his back, presenting him to her like a filthy prize. 

Spencer whimpered quietly and blinked up at you and Elle with big, wet eyes, clearly thinking that the puppy dog look could get him some sympathy. But there was no chance of mercy. He had already made his bed, and he was going to get fucked in it.

“I have a few ideas.” Elle chuckled. 

… 

That was how Spencer ended up in his current position. 

He was sitting in the chair that Elle had previously been sitting in, stripped completely naked. A light sheen of sweat had formed over his skin, causing his hair to stick to his forehead in that beautifully desperate way. His hands were tied behind his back with his own belt, and a cockring was secured around the base of his needy, throbbing cock. 

There was no possible way for him to get relief. Even if he became so desperate as to hump the furniture, all that he would get was a fruitless, horrible dry orgasm. The cockring so tight around him definitely assured that. And with his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t take it off. Especially not with the way the two of you were keeping a watchful eye on him. 

You and Elle certainly weren’t going to let him get away with anything. 

He certainly wasn’t going to get out of your line of sight. That was the whole point. 

The bulk of his punishment was to watch. 

To watch you and Elle and not be allowed to touch his needy, throbbing cock. To have a feast of sights before him, but be stuck, not allowed to cum. Not even allowed to feel the slightest bit of relief against his pathetic dick until you or Elle decided that he’d had enough. 

“Please.” Spencer begged hopelessly. 

His hips arched up into the air slightly, humping into nothing, fruitlessly seeking contact. His cock dribbled out precum, almost as if the pretty pink cockhead was weeping out in protest, trying to show his deep, unsatisfied need. 

“Please!” He bawled. “I’ll be a good boy! I promise!” 

His voice was so beautifully wrecked. It sent a wave of pleasurable tingles right through you. 

“Did you hear that?” Elle chuckled behind you. “He promises.” She cooed these words mockingly. 

Both of you knew that it wasn’t a promise he could keep for too long. 

Elle huffed out a devilish laugh as she raked the sharpness of her nails across your back. She sounded just as amused as you were watching Spencer’s pathetic attempts to get back on both your good sides. 

“I fucking doubt it.” You grunted back breathlessly. 

“If he wasn’t so pathetic, I might take pity on him.” Elle said, her voice taking on that mean edge that she knew Spencer loved. 

He moaned at the words, his hips flexing up once again. Unlike when he played poker, during sex, he always gave away all his cards, always showed what pleased him most and what his weakest spots were. It was one of the reasons you loved taking him apart so much. One of the reasons you loved owning him. 

“If you were a ‘good boy’, you’d shut up and watch me fuck your precious Miss without complaining,” Elle said, continuing to mock him, fucking her hips harder into you to drive home her point. 

She had you in the middle of the bed, perfectly on display for Spencer - on your hands and knees, completely stripped naked. The two of you were a perfect visual tease for him - with Elle in her bright red lacy bra, a commanding presence behind you with her thick seven inch strap-on buried in your wet, wanting pussy. You were absolutely enjoying yourself as she fucked in and out of you with an intense roughness. 

Most of the time, the two of you teamed up as a wicked force against Spencer - and combined, you were a deadly sinful team. But when the two of you took the time to enjoy pleasuring each other, it was a rough, chaotic slice of heaven. Like lighting clashing against itself in the best way. 

When you did let her fuck you, you weren’t whiny or submissive to her wills. You took it well, never begged for it. And she understood you and what you needed - the feeling of a thick cock splitting you open, that rough touch that Spencer never gave you because he was so subservient to your will. You loved the fact that she didn’t treat you like a glass doll. 

“Please!” Spencer tried again, going directly against Elle’s order to sit there and shut up. 

You weren’t sure if it was him playing up again or if he actually thought he could talk his way out of this somehow. 

“Please, let me touch you! Let me help you cum! Let me service you, Miss! I’ll be so good!” Spencer begged, his words dissolving into sobs as the desperation heightening within him. 

“What? You think you’re allowed to touch this pussy? You think you should be allowed?” Elle growled, fucking into you so hard that it caused a wet smacking to resonate through the room - something that made Spencer want you even more. 

You laughed in response to Spencer’s whiny antics, and the incredible fake cock plunging into you from behind - a sound that dissolved into a loud moan when Elle reached around and rubbed your clit, clearly wanting even more from you. 

Elle hammered her hips against you like she hated you, fucked into your pussy with a brutal passion. She was partially trying to show Spencer what he was missing out on, a deadly ache growing in his gut when he thought about the emptiness he felt without her perfect fake cock. Because he did spend a fair amount of time fucked out and drooling on her strap when she wanted to fuck him with it - from either end. 

And she was partially trying to get you to be messier, wetter, louder, putting on more of a show for him. The more beautiful and pornographic you were, the more effective his punishment was (not that it was hard for you to become a walking sex dream, as gorgeous as you naturally were). 

Elle loved to fuck you like this - she loved having your tight pussy hugging the silicone of her cock. You were a challenge. You didn’t simply beg for her cock, your body didn’t just mold and bend to her wills because she touched you with strong hands. You always fucked your hips back into her twice as hard, and you laughed and snarled back if she called you a dirty bitch. 

It was part of the reason that the two of you so perfectly destroyed someone as needy and submissive as Spencer. Spencer, the type of person who got whiny and started acting up if he didn’t get enough attention from either of you in the run of a day. 

“I’ll be good!” Spencer whined. “Please! Please, just touch me! I promise I won’t do it again!” 

His eyes had become as wet as his cock, the tip glistening with precum as tears dripped from the corners of his eyes, his entire being reeking of desperation and uncontained lust. 

“Do you even know what you did this time, you stupid brat?” Elle prodded, her voice dark and lacking any sweetness as she spat the words across the room at him. 

Spencer let out a wounded sound that was barely recognizable - perhaps he was trying to compose himself to speak, perhaps he was truly clueless. 

He could be so mouthy sometimes, but most of the time, he didn’t even recognize his sass as a problem. 

“What makes you think you’re worthy to touch her? What makes you think that you get to touch her after being such a dumb brat all day?” Elle teased him. 

She emphasized her words by yanking back on your hair, delivering a pleasurable amount of pain that made you moan out as she continued to harshly thrust her hips into your wet cunt. 

“What makes you think that a brat like you gets to touch these perfect tits?” Elle mocked him, leaning over you to grope roughly at your swaying breasts. Of course, just to show him what he couldn’t have and heavily enjoying your body in the process. 

You chuckled at this, enjoying the way Spencer’s features twisted up in displeasure. Clearly he was whiny, wanting so badly to touch you - but he hadn’t earned it. Not tonight. 

He let out a few more tears before he spoke again. 

“I’m sorry.” He sniffled quietly. “I’m a bad boy. I’ve been bad.” 

“Why?” You heaved out, breathless from Elle’s efforts. “Why are you bad?” 

“Good boys don’t talk back.” Spencer finally admitted, his voice weak with defeat. 

“Look, the genius finally figured it out.” Elle commented, beautiful condescension dripping through her voice. 

“Good!” You huffed, fucking your hips harshly back into Elle’s cock while you locked eyes with Spencer’s wet, glassy ones. “Now keep your whiny fuckin’ mouth shut while Mistress fucks me, and maybe - fuck - and maybe I won’t keep that cockring on you all day tomorrow.” 

Spencer whined harshly at this, but didn’t protest. Elle grinned, planting a kiss on the back of your neck before she dug her nails into your hips and fucked you faster.

...

A/N: This is a standalone oneshot, and there will not be a sequel or a continuation of it. If you enjoyed this, please comment about the body of work that has been written. If you want to see more Spencer fics that I have written, definitely check out my Criminal Minds Masterlist, or check out my other Masterlists to see if anything catches your eye.

[tenpintsofsundrop]

The Perfect Brat

Dom!Elle Greenaway x Dom!Fem!Reader x Sub!Spencer Reid (Smut Blurb)

Concept: Spencer acts up. You and Elle put him in his place. It's an unconventional relationship, but it works so well.

Word Count: 2,900

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

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Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: this is primarily a smut fic; she reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; this could be read with or without considering the major canon events; dom/sub dynamics - Dom!Elle, Dom!Reader, Sub!Spencer (he is definitely more of a brat in this and I had so much fun writing it); implications of an ongoing poly relationship between the three of them; punishment and reward (Spencer is punished for being mouthy/talking back); size difference kink/reverse size kink (the reader loves how skinny and easy to toss around Spencer is); Spencer is spanked, Spencer is gagged with his own tie (the tie is also used like a leash on him); general rough play; Spencer calls the reader 'Miss'; undertones of humiliation kink, mentions of subspace, mentions of pain kink, Spencer is called a whore, a slut a stupid brat; degradation kink (towards Spencer); mentions of paddling; mentions of jealousy; bondage - Spencer has his hands tied behind his back; Spencer wears a cockring; orgasm restriction (toward Spencer); Spencer is forced to watch while Elle fucks the reader with a strap-on (the reader is a bottom between Elle and the reader, but she still is 100% a dom in this); as mentioned - strap-on sex (Elle fucks the reader with a strap-on); crying kink (Spencer is pretty when he cries); mentions of pegging (from Elle toward Spencer); hair pulling (reader receiving); Elle is called 'Mistress'; the reader and Elle could both be considered mean in this. I hope that's everything and I haven't missed anything important.

A/N: the inspiration behind this is actually so funny. I was working on the second part of Lessons For A Genius and I literally thought to myself 'Spencer is too nice in this. he's too well behaved' - and then I started thinking about a fic where Spencer is a bratty sub and gets punished, and then in that scenario, Elle suddenly appeared in my head (I guess because Elle has such dom energy and she's always bossing Spencer around in the show, this is just too real, they have so much chemistry) - and next thing I know I was opening another tab to write this because I couldn't help myself. So I hope you guys enjoy it!! I would love to write more fics where Spencer is a bratty sub in the future. I just love writing sub!Spencer in general. (some people have asked me to write dom!Spencer and I am warming up to it very, very slowly.) anyway, please enjoy!

...

You were in the room for less than thirty seconds when Spencer’s pants were down. 

Usually, something like this occurred out of pure lust or need. Spencer was a very needy boy. It was rare that you felt this much annoyance building up inside of you. It was rare that you tore off his clothes out of anger. 

But he had mouthed off to you in front of the local cops, whining that you ‘weren’t his mother’ when you asked him how many cups of coffee he’d had that day and advised him to drink some water. It had been a sassy comeback that had several of the men in the room laughing, and at the time, Spencer had been grinning into that ill-advised seventh cup of coffee, thinking that you couldn’t see him. 

It was something that got a warm rage simmering inside of you. 

Generally, he had been the biggest kind of brat all day. He had been mouthing off, even going so far as to talk back to Hotch when given orders. And you weren’t taking too kindly to it. 

He had to know who was in charge. He had to know that you wouldn’t stand for him being a mouthy brat. 

The door to the hotel room had barely closed behind you before you had his belt undone, the heft of the leather causing the fabric of his slacks to drop to his ankles. This left him entirely exposed from the waist down, feeling a rush of vulnerability, knowing he was in trouble. His stomach clenched in anticipation. You weren’t entirely surprised to find that he wasn’t wearing underwear. He had been acting out all day because he was feeling needy, apparently. 

Before he could speak, only uttering out a few half hearted protests, you shoved him hard. He was so skinny, so easy to push around, it was almost laughable. You pushed him until you had him exactly where you wanted him - bent over the dresser in the middle of the room. It was a chest of drawers with an attached vanity mirror, forcing him to bend over it and brace his hands on the surface so he could look at himself in the mirror. 

So he could stare himself down and face all of his beautiful shame as you tore him apart. 

“Look, Miss, please-” He stuttered out. 

Clearly he was still trying to come back from this, still trying to grovel, trying to apologize. 

But it was too late for that. You had decided that during the car ride back. 

“Shut up.” You told him gruffly. 

You reached around his body to his front and grabbed his tie, slipping it slightly loose before you brought it partway up his head. He was confused by this, until you slipped the loop into his mouth, effectively gagging him. You then spun it so the length of the tie was at the back of his head. You tightened it harshly then, causing him to moan as the fabric scuffed sorely against the sides of his mouth. 

But that wasn’t all. 

You yanked back on the length of the tie as though it were a leash, pulling his tall body into a tense arch, forcing him to be exactly where you wanted him to be. He moaned deeply as a wave of pleasurable pain shot through his body, his back cracking slightly as you forced him into such an uncomfortable position. Your other hand was on his lower back, keeping his hips pinned against the edge of the dresser as you forced his neck back as far as it would go. 

His muscles quivered and tears easily came to his eyes. His cock throbbed harshly with all of it. He always needed to be put in his place. He needed his head to be emptied as the control was taken away from him - as he was owned wholly, his body and mind no longer his own. 

When you were sure that he would stay like this, the subspace setting in and making him slightly more compliant, you moved the hand on his lower back. This forced him to hold the position on his own, his legs becoming shaky - but he didn’t move to make himself more comfortable, which did cause you to grin. 

Then, you hauled your hand back, delivering a harsh spank across his bare ass cheek. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You bit out harshly. “I know I did not train you to be such a fucking brat.” 

You delivered another spank, his soft skin already turning red from your hits. Your palm was stinging slightly, but you didn’t care. It gave you a certain thrill, and it was worth teaching him a lesson if his ass was sore tomorrow and he remembered this. Usually not being able to sit right did help him remember to behave. 

All Spencer could do was moan in response, being very effectively gagged by his own tie. His cock was angry and hard, trapped between his pelvis and the edge of the dresser as you punished him. 

“You’re just a needy little whore, aren’t you?” 

You barked, pulling his neck back even harder. This caused him to whine out in pain, such a beautiful sound that had you dizzy with pleasure as your ego swelled. You pulled him closer to you and placed your lips close to his ear, hissing the next words near his cheek with malice. 

“What’s wrong? The needy slut doesn’t get enough attention?” 

“Come on, Y/N, take it easy on him,” Elle chuckled from the corner, taking a sip of her drink. 

She had ridden with Morgan, so she had made it to the room an easy five minutes before you and Reid had. And thus far, she had been heavily enjoying the show that the two of you were putting on. But she did think you were being a bit too rough considering that Reid was a bit lippy on a good day. 

“Oh, I need to take it easy?” You chuckled sarcastically, looking over your shoulder at her. 

You tossed your hold on the tie, letting Spencer’s body relax forward slightly while you assessed Elle. He let out a whimper of relief, but didn’t make any further noise to draw attention to himself - not wanting the two of you to gang up on him and make his punishment even worse. (The two of you were devious minds, and when you worked together, it was a beautiful kind of destruction.) 

Sitting there, Elle was smug as ever, staring you and Spencer down with a clear heat in her eyes. 

“Last time you paddled him, he couldn’t walk for a week.” You added on, bringing up the memory to try and prove your point. 

“He was flirting with that waitress, he deserved it.” Elle said, speaking as though it was the obvious thing in the world. 

Generally speaking, you weren’t even sure if Spencer knew how to flirt. You thought that for the most part he just didn’t know when other people were flirting with him and didn’t know when to deflect it to stop it from pissing you and Elle off. But you had enjoyed it too much to argue with Elle about it - his bright red ass and awkward gait for the week following that paddling had just been too good. 

You used the tie-leash and a tight hold on one of his hips to spin Spencer around, tossing him onto one of the double beds in the room. He landed roughly on his stomach with a light bounce. He let out a jagged moan as his exposed cock scraped against the cheap hotel bedspread. But - true to form, trying to prove that he was a good boy, he did nothing more than lay there, staying perfectly still where you had put him. 

Elle grinned at him before she looked back to you. 

“So, what do you think we should do with him?” You asked, putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder to flip him over onto his back, presenting him to her like a filthy prize. 

Spencer whimpered quietly and blinked up at you and Elle with big, wet eyes, clearly thinking that the puppy dog look could get him some sympathy. But there was no chance of mercy. He had already made his bed, and he was going to get fucked in it.

“I have a few ideas.” Elle chuckled. 

… 

That was how Spencer ended up in his current position. 

He was sitting in the chair that Elle had previously been sitting in, stripped completely naked. A light sheen of sweat had formed over his skin, causing his hair to stick to his forehead in that beautifully desperate way. His hands were tied behind his back with his own belt, and a cockring was secured around the base of his needy, throbbing cock. 

There was no possible way for him to get relief. Even if he became so desperate as to hump the furniture, all that he would get was a fruitless, horrible dry orgasm. The cockring so tight around him definitely assured that. And with his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t take it off. Especially not with the way the two of you were keeping a watchful eye on him. 

You and Elle certainly weren’t going to let him get away with anything. 

He certainly wasn't going to get out of your line of sight. That was the whole point. 

The bulk of his punishment was to watch. 

To watch you and Elle and not be allowed to touch his needy, throbbing cock. To have a feast of sights before him, but be stuck, not allowed to cum. Not even allowed to feel the slightest bit of relief against his pathetic dick until you or Elle decided that he’d had enough. 

“Please.” Spencer begged hopelessly. 

His hips arched up into the air slightly, humping into nothing, fruitlessly seeking contact. His cock dribbled out precum, almost as if the pretty pink cockhead was weeping out in protest, trying to show his deep, unsatisfied need. 

“Please!” He bawled. “I’ll be a good boy! I promise!” 

His voice was so beautifully wrecked. It sent a wave of pleasurable tingles right through you. 

“Did you hear that?” Elle chuckled behind you. “He promises.” She cooed these words mockingly. 

Both of you knew that it wasn’t a promise he could keep for too long. 

Elle huffed out a devilish laugh as she raked the sharpness of her nails across your back. She sounded just as amused as you were watching Spencer’s pathetic attempts to get back on both your good sides. 

“I fucking doubt it.” You grunted back breathlessly. 

“If he wasn’t so pathetic, I might take pity on him.” Elle said, her voice taking on that mean edge that she knew Spencer loved. 

He moaned at the words, his hips flexing up once again. Unlike when he played poker, during sex, he always gave away all his cards, always showed what pleased him most and what his weakest spots were. It was one of the reasons you loved taking him apart so much. One of the reasons you loved owning him. 

“If you were a ‘good boy’, you’d shut up and watch me fuck your precious Miss without complaining,” Elle said, continuing to mock him, fucking her hips harder into you to drive home her point. 

She had you in the middle of the bed, perfectly on display for Spencer - on your hands and knees, completely stripped naked. The two of you were a perfect visual tease for him - with Elle in her bright red lacy bra, a commanding presence behind you with her thick seven inch strap-on buried in your wet, wanting pussy. You were absolutely enjoying yourself as she fucked in and out of you with an intense roughness. 

Most of the time, the two of you teamed up as a wicked force against Spencer - and combined, you were a deadly sinful team. But when the two of you took the time to enjoy pleasuring each other, it was a rough, chaotic slice of heaven. Like lighting clashing against itself in the best way. 

When you did let her fuck you, you weren't whiny or submissive to her wills. You took it well, never begged for it. And she understood you and what you needed - the feeling of a thick cock splitting you open, that rough touch that Spencer never gave you because he was so subservient to your will. You loved the fact that she didn’t treat you like a glass doll. 

“Please!” Spencer tried again, going directly against Elle’s order to sit there and shut up. 

You weren’t sure if it was him playing up again or if he actually thought he could talk his way out of this somehow. 

“Please, let me touch you! Let me help you cum! Let me service you, Miss! I’ll be so good!” Spencer begged, his words dissolving into sobs as the desperation heightening within him. 

“What? You think you’re allowed to touch this pussy? You think you should be allowed?” Elle growled, fucking into you so hard that it caused a wet smacking to resonate through the room - something that made Spencer want you even more. 

You laughed in response to Spencer’s whiny antics, and the incredible fake cock plunging into you from behind - a sound that dissolved into a loud moan when Elle reached around and rubbed your clit, clearly wanting even more from you. 

Elle hammered her hips against you like she hated you, fucked into your pussy with a brutal passion. She was partially trying to show Spencer what he was missing out on, a deadly ache growing in his gut when he thought about the emptiness he felt without her perfect fake cock. Because he did spend a fair amount of time fucked out and drooling on her strap when she wanted to fuck him with it - from either end. 

And she was partially trying to get you to be messier, wetter, louder, putting on more of a show for him. The more beautiful and pornographic you were, the more effective his punishment was (not that it was hard for you to become a walking sex dream, as gorgeous as you naturally were). 

Elle loved to fuck you like this - she loved having your tight pussy hugging the silicone of her cock. You were a challenge. You didn’t simply beg for her cock, your body didn’t just mold and bend to her wills because she touched you with strong hands. You always fucked your hips back into her twice as hard, and you laughed and snarled back if she called you a dirty bitch. 

It was part of the reason that the two of you so perfectly destroyed someone as needy and submissive as Spencer. Spencer, the type of person who got whiny and started acting up if he didn’t get enough attention from either of you in the run of a day. 

“I’ll be good!” Spencer whined. “Please! Please, just touch me! I promise I won’t do it again!” 

His eyes had become as wet as his cock, the tip glistening with precum as tears dripped from the corners of his eyes, his entire being reeking of desperation and uncontained lust. 

“Do you even know what you did this time, you stupid brat?” Elle prodded, her voice dark and lacking any sweetness as she spat the words across the room at him. 

Spencer let out a wounded sound that was barely recognizable - perhaps he was trying to compose himself to speak, perhaps he was truly clueless. 

He could be so mouthy sometimes, but most of the time, he didn’t even recognize his sass as a problem. 

“What makes you think you’re worthy to touch her? What makes you think that you get to touch her after being such a dumb brat all day?” Elle teased him. 

She emphasized her words by yanking back on your hair, delivering a pleasurable amount of pain that made you moan out as she continued to harshly thrust her hips into your wet cunt. 

“What makes you think that a brat like you gets to touch these perfect tits?” Elle mocked him, leaning over you to grope roughly at your swaying breasts. Of course, just to show him what he couldn’t have and heavily enjoying your body in the process. 

You chuckled at this, enjoying the way Spencer’s features twisted up in displeasure. Clearly he was whiny, wanting so badly to touch you - but he hadn’t earned it. Not tonight. 

He let out a few more tears before he spoke again. 

“I’m sorry.” He sniffled quietly. “I’m a bad boy. I’ve been bad.” 

“Why?” You heaved out, breathless from Elle’s efforts. “Why are you bad?” 

“Good boys don’t talk back.” Spencer finally admitted, his voice weak with defeat. 

“Look, the genius finally figured it out.” Elle commented, beautiful condescension dripping through her voice. 

“Good!” You huffed, fucking your hips harshly back into Elle’s cock while you locked eyes with Spencer’s wet, glassy ones. “Now keep your whiny fuckin’ mouth shut while Mistress fucks me, and maybe - fuck - and maybe I won’t keep that cockring on you all day tomorrow.” 

Spencer whined harshly at this, but didn’t protest. Elle grinned, planting a kiss on the back of your neck before she dug her nails into your hips and fucked you faster.

[bunnliix]

The Invisible Strings that Bind Us - Chapter Two

Chapter Two! We have some good cute fluff because it's gonna start getting angsty after this chapter, so prepare for that. But for now, we have some wholesome interactions between y/n and the boys. For anyone that saw this posted before, no you didn't.

a.k.a., I may have had to make a couple changes to it after it went live that I forgot about haha

Masterlist

word count: 1.8k

warnings: food, canon skz chaos, I think that's it

Y/n woke up slowly, feeling a bit disoriented. She felt whatever was beneath her shifting, before she heard an Aussie accent. 

“Good morning sunshine.” She heard, opening her eyes to see Chan looking down at her.

“Huh? What the fuck? That wasn’t a dream?” She mused out loud, forgetting that she wasn’t thinking about it. She heard laughter coming from across the room, finding Changbin and Han bent over laughing.

“This isn’t a dream, we promise you. Now, do you wanna sit up?” Chan asked her, to which she nodded. With his help, she sat up and moved to sit against the back of the couch. 

“You can stop laughing at me, god dammit. It wasn’t that funny.” She lightly glared at the two men. It really wasn’t that funny, honestly, she was ready to slap them. If only they were in reach of her.

“Guys, chill out, please.” Chan scolds the two members, raising an eyebrow at them. The boys apologized to Y/n, bowing and saying sorry to her. She waved away their apologies, telling them it was fine. She really didn’t mind, but it’s still not fun to get laughed at.

“So, where do we go from here?” Y/n spoke up, wondering what would happen now. It may not have been the ideal soulmate meeting, but obviously fate didn’t care about that. There may not have been a big outward sign that they were, but she had never felt more at ease with anyone else ever. Even prior girlfriends she had, that she almost thought were her soulmates, never made her feel this right as these eight boys were right now.

“Well, seeing as you landed right in our laps, and also Binnie has our initials plus one more set, and once we match yours up with the last initial, I’d say you’re our soulmate. We can figure everything else out from there.” Chan said, taking charge of the situation. 

Y/n told them all her full name, and her initials matched up with the last set on Binnie’s arm. This prompted Felix to come over and hug her, whispering in her ear how much he’s glad to have found their last soulmate. He laid his head on her shoulder, his arms still wrapped around her, not letting go of her now that she’s here.

All of the boys’ phones went off, pushing them to check and see who’s messaging. Hyunjin groaned, “Ugh, we have to head back to dance practice, they’re looking for us.” He told the rest of them. This prompted many complaints and cries, the boys not wanting to leave their newest soulmate yet. 

“How long do you have to practice? I can just stay here, honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. I have my phone and I can entertain myself till you all return.” Y/n said, smiling up at them. She didn’t mind being by herself for a little while, it would give her some time to process everything that’s happened.

“If we’re lucky, an hour? Depends on how much of a hardass Minho-hyung is today.” Hyunjin replied to her, not managing to dodge the slap from the aforementioned person. He rubbed his shoulder, feeling the pain from the hit.

“Yah! I don’t want to be away from our soulmate either, but keep it up like that and I’ll make you practice for hours.” Minho snapped back at Hyunjin, looking annoyed.

“Okay, let’s chill out, okay? No need to get violent.” Chan tried to pacify the situation, and thankfully it worked

The boys begrudgingly packed up, Minho leaning in close to Hyunjin as they left, telling him that he’d make a nice snack after 20 minutes in the airfryer at 180 degrees. Y/n laughed as she watched them leave, before moving to sit against the armrest, getting comfortable. She decided to think about her situation later, and grabbed her phone, opening up tiktok and scrolling the time away.

An hour later…

Y/n hadn’t realized how much time had passed, and when the door to the studio opened, she jumped and threw her phone up into the air, as she panicked. She however, managed to not fall off the couch, but her heart was running a thousand miles a minute as she tried to calm down. She held onto her chest, looking at the door to see the entirety of the group standing in the doorway, a couple of them trying to hold back their laughter, as others looked concerned. 

“Could give a girl a bit of a heads up, yeah?” She said to them, a bit over the panic.

“We didn’t think you’d be that absorbed into whatever you were doing, honestly.” Chan replied to her, moving to grab her phone from where it had been thrown, and bringing it over to her. 

She sat up, letting Chan sit down next to her. “That’s fair. I didn’t realize an hour had passed, to tell you the truth. But that’s because I’m bad at telling how much time has passed.” She explained. She truly had very little concept of time. She could look at the clock and five hours had passed when it only felt like it had maybe been an hour. It was one of her greatest weaknesses.

“Don’t worry, some of them get like that too.” Felix piped up, moving closer and sitting on the arm of the couch. “Chan especially, the man works and zones out while doing so.” He continued.

“Yeah, and the rest of 3racha are the same way.” Hyunjin pointed out, to which Han hit his arm. 

“Yah, we’re not that bad!” He shouted, pouting afterwards. His little quokka cheeks made an appearance as he did that.

“I don’t think I believe that.” Y/n told Han. 

He continued pouting, even his newest soulmate was being so mean. He couldn’t believe it, and there were giggles from his other soulmates, showing that they were on her side, not his.

“Well now that you’re all back, and I assume free from idol duties for a little while, I’d like to talk about where we go from here, now that we’ve confirmed I’m your last soulmate.” Y/n spoke up, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

“Well, I think the first thing to discuss is how prepared you are to be the soulmate of eight other people, who I assume live very far away from where you are from?” Felix asked her.

“Well, considering that I’m from Canada, that’s not horribly far, but still a bit farther than I think is reasonable. So I think I’d be moving here, and not the other way round.” She told them, starting to think about the logistics of moving here.

“Ah, yeah. You’d have to move here, but we can help you with every step you need to take. We wouldn’t leave you to do it all alone.” Chan turned to look at her. “We’d have to move into a bigger place too, unless you’d want your own space?” He continued.

“I wouldn’t mind either option, really.”

“Okay, that’s fine, we can sit down with management and get that figured out. They can also help us look for a place for you as well, just as an option.” Chan said.

Y/n nodded, fine with that. She wasn’t picky, it really wasn’t a big deal to her where she’d be living. She’d just be happy to be near her soulmates, honestly.

Everyone went silent as Y/n’s stomach grumbled, the girl herself curling in on herself to try and hide. 

“And maybe now is a good time for food.” Felix said.

“I’m hungry!” Changbin shouted, making a couple of the boys chuckle.

Chan stood up, holding a hand out to Y/n, who took it as she stood up as well. He pulled her along as they followed the rest of the boys towards the JYPE cafeteria, as it was the easiest place to get actual food. It thankfully wasn’t that packed when they arrived, and the boys quickly picked out their food, while Chan helped her decide on what she wanted. She went for some tteokbokki, and the other boys decided that they didn’t mind sharing bites of what they chose, so that nothing was wasted if she didn’t like it

Y/n tried bites of everyone’s food, and enjoyed most of it, with a couple exceptions. Despite that, everyone enjoyed their lunch, and after everyone finished and cleaned up the table, they all headed back up to their practice room, deciding it was a better place to talk than squeezing into the studio.

“So, obviously we have to tell management about this, and also figure out how long you can stay here before heading back to pack up your stuff.” Minho spoke up, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, and I have to talk to my university and try and get that figured out as well. I’m almost finished with my degree, so I’d like to actually finish it off fully.” Y/n told them.

Wows came from a couple of the younger boys, and Y/n blushed a bit. 

“What do you study?” Seungmin asked her.

“History is my major in university.” She told them, proceeding to tell them some of the subjects she’s studied within history. She talked more about her favorite periods or topics to study, after the boys asked some questions about what in history she enjoyed and why she decided to study it as a degree.

The group continued talking about their own hobbies and other things they’d like to do in life, as Chan moved to check his and the others schedules, as well as notifying management that they needed to have a meeting. He found their schedules to have been cleared for the day, after he got a response from management that they could have the meeting in 30 minutes. 

“Well, good news and maybe good news?” Chan piped up, everyone else going silent, waiting to hear the news. “So, we now have a free schedule for the remainder of the day, but we also have a meeting with management in 30 minutes.” He finished. 

A round of groans commenced at Chan’s announcement, as the boys dreaded the meeting with the managers. Y/n looked around in confusion, wondering why they were reacting this way. 

“What’s so bad about the meeting?” She asked, tilting her head slightly in confusion.

“They’re not fans of the bureaucracy of being an idol, so they dread meetings with our managers and team.” Chan explained, rolling his eyes at the boys’ antics.

“Ohhh.” She understood now, it made sense that the whole bureaucracy of being an idol would be boring. She herself didn’t enjoy those things either, let alone how much of this administrative stuff goes on in the background of idol agencies.

The boys decided to go change into something a little less casual for their meeting, and thankfully, the boys had something that she could fit into. It wasn’t much, but it fit and didn’t look horrible on her, so that was what counted. They just joked around and the boys fought playfully until about five minutes till the meeting, when they all headed up to where the meeting was to take place, where they arrived just in time. Chan did a head count, before he pushed and held the door open for all of us to enter.

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Taglist: @queen-thiccness

[justrainandcoffee]

Against all odds (Alfie Solomons x fem!oc) Part 1.

(Crossover Peaky Blinders - Hunger Games)

Series masterlist - Alfie x Rose masterlist

Summary: Six years ago, Alfie won his games and the ghosts of those years still haunts him. But he has not choice but go to the Capitol, once again, because that's his role as mentor. No one of those kids who went with him to the Capitol survived and probably this year it'll be the same. Fuck the Capitol and its citizens. They're all the same. The thing is... Not all of them are the same.

Series warnings: Mentions of sex (consent and non-con). Murders. Blood. PTSD. Cheating. Prostitution. || This is set in Panem universe. Topics as minors being sexual corrupted are also mentioned because it's CANON.

Words: 3.1k

Six years earlier.

District 8.

Rose woke up sighing. Last week she celebrated her 18th birthday. Already an adult and yet, once last time she had to prepare herself for the reaping day.

The last six years of her life were tortuous. Year after year, praying for a miracle. But for now, God or whoever was up there, listened to her.

Just one more time.

Her brother Samuel was already up when she went to the kitchen. He was 13, almost 14, and that was his second time facing that not so special day.

"Hi, Sam."

"Rosie…"

She tried to prevent him from asking for things so he couldn't get any extra tesserae but also, there was a time where she fell ill for almost a month and Samuel was the one who had to ask for medicine. His name was ten times on those damn papers. Rose's name was fifty-five.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"If by okay you mean that there's a chance I can be reaped and then die then, no, I'm not okay. But I'm still alive and these toasts are good, so yes, I'm okay."

"Everything will be fine, Sam."

"Except for one boy and one girl."

Rose nodded, "except for them."

.

The escort who always visited the district during the reaping day was an extravagant man called Alistair Pullman, who had half of his hair blue and half white. Perfectly combed. He also had a ridiculous moustache and talked in a funny way.

"Welcome to The 53th Hunger Games!" Alistair exclaimed. He was wearing a white hat and a brilliant green suit.

The introduction was always the same. Same words, same tone of voice.

"…as always, ladies first."

Her heart was pounding.

Please, help me one more time.

Alistair picked up a paper and opened it "Rose… Gregg."

Gregg. Not Coldwell. Not Coldwell. She couldn't help but cried. The odds were indeed on her favour. After all those years, after all those fucking tesserae, she did it. She was never reaped.

Rose Gregg was a thin ginger girl. She was also crying but for very different reasons. She was probably walking towards her death. Rose Coldwell felt sorry for her.

"And now the gentlemen…"

The boy, luckily, wasn't her brother but a boy called Martin Wallis.

When she had the chance, she ran towards her little brother and hugged him tightly.

It was indeed a good day. At least for the Coldwells.

Far away in district 9 a boy called Alfred had been reaped.

Now.

District 9.

"How old are you?" Alfie asked.

"19."

"You're fucking not. How old are you?"

"16."

"Fuck off. Go home, girl."

"Please, sir! My sister and I, we're hungry! Let me show you! Other men say I'm good… I can be good. Whatever you want, sir."

Alfie went to the kitchen and grabbed some canned food and bread and gave it to her. "I said fuck off."

He growled. Not infrequently women and sometimes men knocked on his door offering sexual services in exchange for food or medicine he now had. Since he won his games six years ago that was a every day routine. And not so infrequently, too, he accepted their offer. It was a good way to stop thinking. As long as the person was adult and never vaginal sex. The last thing that the world needed was more kids. Were his actions questionable? Who the fuck cared? That was Panem not a fucking monastery. You had to survive and every person chose their methods. At least he wasn't a fucking rapist.

Alfie tried not to think about it. It was only once but…

He knocked the rest of the cans out of his table. He was angry.

It was months after his victory. A woman in her 50s paid for a night with him. And he didn't have the option to say no. The lady had a fetish for young teenage boys who were like him. They forced him to take a pill so he could last longer during the sex encounter. Not only the woman was older than his own mother but also was incredibly annoying. He forced himself to close his eyes and just do his job. It was the longest and most unpleasant night of his life.

No one else wanted him. Too rude and not childish enough to them. He already had beard. People of the capitol preferred baby faces. Alfie never shaved again in his life, that kept the rest of the citizens away from him.

And that day was the beginning of a new nightmare. Once again, a new reaping day. Another year where probably he was going to lose another boy and another girl.

He watched the ceremony from the distance. Both girl and boy were 15 years old. The boy named Philip had only one hand.

Alfie knew it from the very beginning, Philip had his days numbered. Later he could study the girl. In the distance he heard the train already waiting for them.

.

The Capitol. Wealthy, big, colourful… full of hypocrisy and heartless bastards. Full of people cheering for the tributes and waiting for them to be slaughtered by other kids. He despised that place. Their escort, Alissa, was speaking but Alfie wasn't paying attention to her.

The training centre was full of people. From servants to guards. Alfie saw how other victors talked to the new tributes, introducing that place. Philip and the girl were at his side in silence listening to Alissa who was too enthusiastic about these new games.

A short woman approached them and greeted Alissa with a big smile and also the kids. She just nodded at him, probably reading his facial expression.

"I'm the new stylist," she introduced herself to him and the rest "I'm Rosebeth. And I'm glad to announce you're going to shine."

.

Another fucking year. Rose watched the different kids being selected on TV. Same old story. Happy and proud faces on those from district 1 and 2, resignation on the rest of them.

That was her first year working as stylist and they assigned district 9 to her. The previous stylist had problems with authorities and he had been incarcerated. Probably killed by now, she didn't know. And Rose learnt that it's better not to ask.

If you wanted an answer all you had to do was wait and listen. Sooner or later, people talked. Especially those wealthy bitches ready to spread gossips.

The train was already there. And Rose prepared herself. Time to be someone new.

When you're part of the Capitol, you had to act like one. You couldn't have a simple and mundane name as Rose. Because of that she merged her both names in one, Rose Elizabeth: Rosebeth. And voilà, she wasn't a simple girl anymore.

Not long time ago she was part of the districts too. She didn't born there. She hated the Capitol, the ideals, the way that those kids were treated. Rose wanted to burn that place from the ground and watch it explode in thousand of pieces. And was already working on it.

But for now she was the stupid, superficial and happy Rosebeth Evert, married to one of the richest men there. And one of the biggest piece of shit, too.

"What happened to André?" the mentor asked. She looked at him and smiled.

"André isn't here anymore. As I said, I'm the new stylist and for the next weeks we're a team. The five of us, isn't that great?"

Alissa clapped happily and Philip smiled. Alfie and the girl remained in silence.

.

While they entered the elevator to go to their floor, Alfie realised he was mad. No, in fact, he was disgusted. At least André was a man who he could talk with. The woman in front of him was nothing but the perfect example of a empty minded person who probably celebrate every death. The next few weeks were going to be a hell. He looked at her and Alissa talk like very good friends but said nothing.

Alfie knew the place but the kids not. The floor that the Capitol gave to district 9 was big, elegantly decorated and with enormous windows facing the city.

Alissa was jumping here and there expressing her gratitude for the food on the table, the soft music on the background and almost everything.

"You're Reah," said Rose looking at the girl. Contrary to Philip, Reah was shy and quiet. Not agressive at all, just timid. The girl girl nodded "I'm already thinking about your dress, Reah. But I need opinions, what do you like about your District? I'm against all traditional, sweetie. André was good, but too classic. Make them talk about you, Reah."

"Reah wants peace. Her life is about to change forever, last thing she needs is to talk about stupid costumes."

Rose looked at the mentor who just talked. She read his files. Alfred Solomons, winner of the 53th Hunger games. An impressive number of seven deaths, one of them by decapitation. Two sickles was all he needed to be a victor. But the grumpy man in front of her had nothing to do with the photo in the files she read.

"Well, Alfred, what about let the girl talk instead of speaking for her? My reputation depends on the parade and I'm not going to ruin it because you're against it."

"It's okay," Reah said shyly. "I'd like to talk about the costume."

Alfie huffed before turning around and go to his bedroom.

The fucking Capitol.

.

But Alfie had nothing to say when he finally saw the costumes. Over the years, he had seen his mentored kids dressed as corn or a wearing weath hats. That night, both Reah and Philip represented Ceres, the roman goddess of grains. Comparing the costumes to distract 1, for example, probably they weren't that extravagant. But if you looked closer you could see the little details like weath ears made of golden threads perfectly sewed to the fabric. Plus longer weath ears made of real gold outstanding over their shoulders and heads.

Alissa was fascinated and told Rose. Alfie remained in silence.

Apparently, people loved them too.

The only thing that Alfie thought was that maybe that could help him to get sponsors for them.

At that hour the building was almost empty except for guards and some night workers. No one asked her what she was doing at those hours. She's carrying a sewing machine in her arms and some clothes on her shoulders.

Rose was trying to ignore her heartbeat. You had to start with something, right?

"To spy my husband," she said to the seller who didn't ask much questions when she bought a microphone.

She gave two fucks her husband. He was probably now celebrating with some other men in a bar thinking about the tributes and who could win.

A guard stopped her when she tried to enter the control centre. She knew that was going to happen. She wore her fakest smile.

"You can't pass, ma'am."

Rose giggled stupidly "oh, I know, love. But Claudius is there and I have a message for him from my cutie husband Lawrie Evert. It's just five seconds."

The guard looked at her and used the communication device on his wrist to speak with other guard inside. After a short exchange of words he let her in.

The message was fake. Probably the man named Claudius will forget that, but it gave her the chance to be inside the most precious room in the whole Capitol. The fucking control centre. No one noticed that she put the tiny mic under the table. Especially because everyone was busy and because the clothes covered her arms. Long life battery. Probably it will last longer than this game edition.

Once she left the room and the hallway. That stupid smile she hated so much disappeared from her face.

"Be careful with her," an old victor warned Alfie once the training began.

Alfie had been watching Philip and he was extremely surprised by his ability to use spears despite having only one hand. It's not like district 9 had a lot of wild animals to hunt. Alfie promised himself to ask the boy about it later.

"With who?"

"Your stylist. Do you know her husband?"

"I don't know a shit about her except that she's annoying and she's laughing like an idiot all the time. Who the fuck is her husband?"

"Lawrence Evert."

Alfie stopped looking at the boy to look at the victor. It was the black woman known as Volcano Girl. Alfie was a little kid by the time she won, probably 4 or 5 years old, he barely remembered those games. But for a few years Aveline Young was quite popular. She was 34 years now, almost two decades passed from the moment she won.

"What?" Alfie asked looking at her.

Lawrence Evert was a bad word. It was an open secret the things he did to some victors. Even Alfie who was one of the youngest and hadn't heard everything, knew about him.

"Just telling you, Alfie. I couldn't trust her if I were you. Who the fuck can marry that bastard?"

His head were full of questions. Not only now he had to protect those kids from other tributes, but in case that any of them could win, he had to ptotect her o him from the husband of a woman who was pretending to be their friend.

.

The hostility towards her the following days only increased. Alissa tried to calm him, talked to him about other things but he didn't cooperate. Every time Alfie found her talking to Reah or Philip alone, he approached them.

Those bastards were everywhere. Every night when Alfie looked through the window and watched the lights he asked himself how many of them corrupted kids. The answer was probably: a lot.

Four nights before the beginning of the 60th Hunger Games, Alfie saw Rose dancing with Philip a tropical song. Both of them were laughing, but he wasn't. Not just he turned the music off, but warned the woman with his finger.

"It's nothing…" Philip tried to say.

"It's fucking a lot. Go to bed, now. You need to rest," the man ordered.

"But Alfie…"

"Go to the fucking bed, Philip!"

The boy nodded and left the dining room, leaving the two adults alone.

"Stay fucking away from them."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Rose frowned "the moment you put a feet here you treated me bad, but these last days were awful… as far as I know I did nothing! So tell me, Alfred, what the fuck is wrong with you!!"

"With me? I came forced here! And I'm doing my job! Part if it is protecting those kids from monsters like you!"

Alissa appeared that moment to tell them that they were yelling at each other. Rose open the balcony door violently. Alfie was behind her.

"What the fuck do you mean by monsters like me. Because I was giving the kid a moment to be a child again? Joking and dancing trying to make him forget about his fate?? I don't understand, so tell me!"

"You know nothing, don't you?" Alfie snorted. "Probably you spend your days thinking what ridiculous shoes to buy, what new fucking bag to wear. Meanwhile in your back your beloved husband is a pe…"

"A what?!"

"Pedophile."

Alfie saw the exactly moment where life escaped from her eyes. She was paralyzed.

"What?"

"You heard me. Why don't you ask victors what do they think about Lawrence Evert?"

"What the fuck are…oh God." Rose felt sick and ended up vomiting in a flowerpot that was there. Alfie didn't move.

It couldn't be. Those years she had heard those rumours and never doubted about it. But that was new information. Disgusting new information. Her marriage it was recent, she accepted because he promised to keep her brothers names out of the bowls and he fulfilled the promises. Now Samuel was safe from it, he was 19, but her little brother Louis was only 14.

"FUCCKKKK!!" she screamed in the wind, crying. She let him fucked her without knowing he touched kids. She felt dirty. It was disgusting. "How many…" she thought. She didn't want to know. When she calmed down, moments later, she faced Alfie who was still there.

"You too?"

"No. Not by him, at least."

"I didn't know. Please, believe me, I didn't know. This kid, Philip, he is barely older than my little brother. I miss him! For me he's nothing but like my brother Louis. I never… never!"

"Yeah. I can see you didn't know. I believe you. But I don't want you near them. I don't trust people like you. Capitol citizens enjoying the killing. You didn't touch them, but I bet my ass you enjoy the games. Born in a fucking golden crib..."

"Don't you dare to talk about me like you know me, Alfred. You know a shit about me! I'm from district 8! I put my fucking name 185 times during my adolescence. I was fucking lucky that I never been reaped. I suffer from the same misery than you or these kids. I was lucky that when I was 19 they accepted me to work here. I'm sorry your lucky was worst than mine. But don't you dare to judge me. You don't know me. You don't."

When she left the balcony, Alfie kicked the wall. Everything was a shit.

Reah and Philip the next days continue training. Alfie prepared them to face the judges. Rose was in her studio finishing the clothes for their interview on live TV. They barely talk to each other during those days. But they didn't yell at each other either.

At night, alone on her bedroom, Rose heard the conversation in the control centre and took notes: Specific words, times, names, codes… She also knew that the arena was a copy of a Grand Canyon. Beautiful but mortal. She couldn't tell Alfie, even if she wanted to. She didn't trust him. He could tell this secret to other victors and it could be the end.

.

Both kids ending their training with 7 points over 12 and the TV presentation was successful even for the shy Reah.

If kids could make it, was another story. That night, the last night, no one said a word but everyone knew that it was going to be the last supper for one of them. In the worst scenario, both of them.

Alfie found himself staring at the woman he knew as Rosebeth. She was quiet and she didn't look at all like the person of the previous days.

Next part

[dilf-din]

Hold Me (Till I’m Clean Again)

A Rebelcaptain fic

WC: 2500

Warnings: whump with a sweet ending, canon typical violence, lots of blood, heavy war themes, these boys are fated as fuck

Author’s Note:

Y’all have this post to blame for this. It’s been consuming me since I saw it. It was fun to explore a moment of weakness for Jyn, I don’t usually let her crack.

READ ON AO3

“Where is she?” Cassian asked no one in particular, his voice stretched thin with desperation.

His eyes were wild with concern as he scanned the hanger. Two cargo ships had just gotten back in from supply runs, and there were dozens more bodies and droids crowded around than usual.

Ti’zo, one of the returning pilots, gestured over her shoulder to the U-wing in the center of the hangar where Draven and some of the other high ranking officers were forming a wall around the crew.

Cassian thanked her with a nod and pushed through the swarm, ducking behind cases of rations and racks of new uniforms. He wove between carts stacked high with wooden crates and droids scanning shipping labels and updating the inventory database instantaneously.

“Mission abandoned. Emergency departure. Critical condition.”

Six words.

The vague transcript they had received from the crew on Coruscant had replayed in Cassian’s head a hundred times over the course of the afternoon while he waited for the confirmation of their return.

They gave no indication as to what went wrong. It was a simple mission. Not even a real mission by definition. Jyn was accompanying Mon as security to an impromptu senate meeting about some stirring dissent in the outer rim. Cassian didn’t even feel the need to go with them, declined the invitation to stay behind and catch up on paperwork. Every time he let his guard down, something like this happened.

His parade of self deprecating thoughts was momentarily paused when he finally reached Draven, placing a hand on his shoulder to alert him of his presence.

If Draven knew or cared that Cassian was there, he gave no indication. His jaw was tight and his arms were crossed over his chest while he listened to a cacophony of people try to recount the afternoon’s proceedings and take vitals of the returning crew.

Mon was perched on a crate getting examined by a medical team, much to her apparent disdain. She begrudgingly allowed the nurse and med droid to scan her, poke her, and prod her while she repeatedly insisted that she was fine.

Her light pink outfit was thoroughly saturated with blood, and Cassian’s stomach turned as he wondered who it belonged to.

In front of her stood a very nervous Bodhi, tripping over his words while he babbled on to Draven.

“Well, see sir, I was, I was on the ship. I didn’t see any of what actually happened,” he stammered, pausing only when he met Cassian’s eyes, and his face was overcome with a deep pleading look.

Cassian’s stomach turned again.

Bodhi reached beyond Draven to pull Cassian through the wall of people and closer to the ship.

“Jyn. She’s. She’s okay. Well, she’s not okay, but,” Bodhi stuttered out just as two more nurses descended the ramp with Jyn in tow.

Her feet dragged and scraped against the pleated metal, and her arms were slumped over the two men’s shoulders.

She was drenched in blood. The soft locks of hair that normally framed her face were plastered to the side of her head. Her once pale white skin now shades of crimson and rust, just two hollowed out emerald eyes staring out.

“She won’t talk,” Bodhi warned, placing a gentle hand on Cassian’s chest before letting him rush to her.

The med team lowered her onto a mechanic’s bench, and Cassian followed close behind but was stopped by an outstretched hand.

“We need to examine her,” the one who seemed to be in charge explained.

Everything in Cassian screamed at their idiocy, and he did his best not to erupt. She didn’t need strange hands on her treating her like just another hour of work to get through. He had seen this same haunted look in her eyes before. He had been the only one to pull her out of it then, and he certainly would be the only one to do it now, after the years they had spent together. No one knew her like he did.

He bit down so hard, he was afraid he would crack a molar.

Jyn was still catatonic, staring off into the middle distance as the men worked diligently to check all the pointless boxes on their holopads. Her body offered no resistance as they bent her limbs every which way, posing her like a shell shocked doll.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, just let him talk to her,” Mon chastised with a stern look on her face, the click of her heels on the tile floor alerting the men to her presence. Her right wrist was in a brace, but she looked otherwise unaffected by the events of the day. Her honey gold hair was still perfectly swept, and the authority with which she carried herself had certainly not been shaken.

“At most, she’s got a few contusions. She’ll come down to the medbay if she really needs anything,” the senator continued, with a look on her face that let them know they were dismissed immediately.

“Yes ma’am,” they both answered with a nod, sweeping their equipment into a bag and retreating across the hangar.

Cassian closed the distance between him and Jyn in an instance, squatting down to try to catch her gaze. He drew her hands into his and gave them a squeeze.

“Jyn?”

Her eyes tracked across the room in search of the body belonging to the voice she called home. It sounded like it was coming through 10 meters of water. Static roared in her ears, she felt completely disconnected from her body, unable to take back control of her limbs.

“Jyn?”

Cassian.

Her neck lulled downwards, and she caught the gaze of his earnest brown eyes. Like a signal fire in the dark, calling her back to shore.

Jyn opened her mouth, but she left her voice in a puddle of blood on Coruscant.

Cassian and Mon were talking, but she couldn’t hear it over the buzzing in her ears.

“She’ll talk about it when she’s ready, just get her cleaned up,” Mon assured, resting a well manicured hand on Cassian’s forearm and giving it a squeeze.

Cassian scooped Jyn up bridal style and carried her off to their quarters. She hung heavy and weightless in his arms at the same time. The stench of death made his eyes water, but he blinked back the tears. Holding her against his heart reminded it to beat again. His whole body began to regulate with the nearness of her.

He whispered soft assurances into her ears, promises to get through this, whatever it was, together.

Jyn couldn’t hear him, but she knew he was there. Her hand tightened around his shirt, bunching it between her fingers, slowly coming back to life.

Cassian fished out his key card with one hand, bouncing his knee up to balance Jyn’s shifting weight while the door slid open. He bumped a light on with his shoulder and carried her to the fresher, starting the water immediately so it could warm up.

When he circled back around to help her undress, Jyn looked at him with pleading eyes, like an animal caught in a trap. His fingers quickly worked at the buttons of her shirt, lamenting that it was ruined and it was one she quite liked.

Cassian noticed the fear on her face, pausing to caress one of her cheeks.

“My love, what have you seen?”

Static.

Help, she mouthed.

Cassian continued the task, but slower this time. Like every movement was a well rehearsed ritual. This wasn’t like the other times they had shed their clothes for each other. This was sacred in a different way.

Her shirt was sticky from blood and sweat as he peeled it away from her shoulders. The white of her skin a welcome hue in the midst of all the red.

“Thank you,” she murmured as he unlaced her boots and gently cupped her calves, removing them one by one. Probably the one item that didn’t get completely soiled, he thought.

Cassian quickly stripped to his briefs and tested the temperature of the water with his hand before pulling Jyn in with him.

As soon as the water hit her shoulders, she drew them up in relief, leaning her head back to get under the stream even more. 

Jyn closed her eyes, and let the water cleanse her of the day. It ran rivers down her face and into her ears until she felt like she was submerged. The feeling of nothingness was a glorious reprieve. She just wanted a little longer before she had to face it all.

Cassian pulled a wide tooth comb off of the counter and began to work it through the bloody mess of her hair. The handle had small, crystalline shards of kyber in it. He had picked it up for her as a life day present a few years ago. With gentle motions, he separated out strands of her hair and brushed it straight beneath the shower stream. He raked water through her hair until the it turned from a deep rust to mostly clear once more.

He then reached for the good shampoo he had also picked up for her, squeezing a generous amount into his palm before working it into a lather, hoping the sharp smell of mint would mask the muck of the day. His fingers dragged against her scalp and down through the ends of her hair. She stood still as a statue, her eyes still closed, and he thought she looked beautiful.

Veins of ivory traced down her cheeks from the hot water, and he decided to clean the rest of her face next. Using a soft rag, he dabbed at her chin and forehead, taking care not to scrub too harshly and irritate her skin. She liked to joke about how he made her soft. Coaxing her into long showers and using soaps that smelled of far off worlds, of a quiet life away from the war.

Each drag of the cloth against her skin, and she became more herself again. The sins of the day ran down the drain to be forgotten and dumped into the sea somewhere.

Cassian was left staring at her soft lips and pinking skin singing a thousand silent hymns of praise that they had both made it through another day. That when this was over, they would crawl into the same bed and hold each other till morning. Till dawn breaks through the darkness, painting the sky bright and beautiful and anew.

When he shut the water off, she opened her eyes, trading a look of battle weariness for that of one ready for sleep. It was still early in the evening, but he would gladly shelve the rest of his responsibilities to lie there with her.

They dried and dressed in silence. Cassian offered her his favorite sleep shirt. It was pilling and fraying on all sides, but unbeatably soft. She took it with a small smile, one that barely upturned the edges of her mouth, and slipped it over her still damp hair.

It wasn’t until they were nestled under the covers with her face firm against his chest that Jyn finally spoke. Like his heartbeat shook loose everything stuck in her head and she could finally hear again. For just a moment, she indulged in only being able to hear the rhythm of his breath and the thump of his heart. She cherished the signs of life they shared. The rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his exposed skin on hers.

With a shaky breath she began, her voice smaller than she meant it to be, “It was bad today, Cass.”

He shifted under her slightly, turning his head to assure her that she had his full attention.

“What was bad?”

Jyn closed her eyes and swallowed. A long moment passed before she spoke again, this time with a steadier voice.

“There were groups of people petitioning to speak with the senate. They traveled for days, some weeks, to be there. Working people from the outer rim. It must’ve cost them a fortune just to get there. They told stories of imperial occupation. Stormtroopers raiding villages, stealing already scarce crops,” it was at this point the venom he knew well had crept back into her voice.

“These people work their whole lives away with nothing to show for it. They just want to provide for their families,” she said bitterly.

Cassian’s thumb rubbed small lines against the point of her elbow while he listened to her.

“There was one boy from Sorgan, and he— well this group of Rodians was getting rowdy when their time came to speak. They started getting violent, and then all of a sudden there were people firing off shots in a civilian area. One of them grabbed the boy and held a dagger to his throat while he made awful, impossible demands for his family. I tried to step in but,” she trailed off.

“They slashed his throat and then started killing each other. One of them held a gun to my temple while I tried to help him as his mother screamed from the sidelines. It was too late. He was already choking. Severed his carotid.”

Cassian listened intently.

“Melshi had to drag me back to the ship. We had to get Mon out of there, but. I should’ve been faster. I, I should’ve,” she stammered.

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” he said with a hint of incredulity.

“He was just a kid. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.”

Cassian thought of himself at fourteen.

“That could’ve been me. That could’ve been any of us. It was a massacre. The empire driving people to madness.”

She closed her eyes once more as a tear slipped out.

“And I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save any of them.”

“It’s not your job to save every person,” he reminded in a whisper.

“He was just a kid, Cassian.”

“And today, it was him or you. I’ll always choose you,” he said finitely.

Jyn frowned. She knew he was lying through his teeth, that he would lay down his life in an instant for someone in need.

But tonight, she would let it lie. She was tired to her very bones. Every thing that made her who she was was depleted. Her body, her heart, her convictions. Some days were easy. Some days she buried it deep, rationalized through the lives lost and the ground the Empire stole from innocent families. Some days she strategized and pulled the trigger without a second thought. But sometimes the loss permeated everything. It seeped under the door like a sinking ship about to capsize from all the unnecessary weight it was taking on.

She thought of coming home to an empty bed, and knew the fear he had carried on his back today.

“Cassian?”

“Yes, love?”

“Don’t let me go alone next time,” her voice wavered. The whole day, she wished he was next to her. She longed for his comforting touch and commanding presence. His safety.

“I promise,” he left a lingering kiss on her temple, squeezing her shoulders closer into his embrace.