#AO3 works tagged 'How to Get Away with Murder'

[ohproserpine]

i. deer dolly

part i | part ii | more | ao3 tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, human! possibly ooc! alastor so he's a bit more "tame" here, allusions to murder and such, unsettling & obsessive behavior, written before episode 7; may become inaccurate, gorey-ish descriptions of love

"So what?" Angel Dust hummed, drumming his nails on the counter. "You and Alastor are like... friends?"

"Oh, well, that ain't the word I would’ve used, but it's something like that!" Mimzy chirped, reaching for her drink and downing it in one go. "He used to frequent the club I had! In fact, that’s where he met his wife—"

“Wife?!” Angel Dust cut her off, jaw dropping. “Freaky face is married?”

“Oh yeah,” Mimzy hummed, waving her hand around. “Under all that murder and cannibalism, he’s a total sap! Can't blame him, I mean—his wife is a doll! Me an' her used to perform together!”

"An’ how come I never heard of this? People ain't told me shit!" Angel Dust grumbled, turning to Husk behind the counter. "You knew 'bout this, whiskers?"

"Yeah. They were together back in the living. But don't even think of bringing it up in front of Alastor. He gets all heated," Husk grumbled, grabbing a towel to wipe down Mimzy’s now-empty glass. The cat then turned to grab another bottle off the shelf, a grimace on his lips. "I would know."

Angel Dust leaned forward, resting his face on his folded hands. "Well, ain't that something. Never knew he even had one of those."

Mimzy cackled, her voice a raspy melody that echoed through the smoky air of the bar as she snatched the bottle of liquor away from Husk’s paws. "Oh, honey, you wouldn’t even know how deep it goes. They go way back."

"Spill," Angel Dust grinned, curiosity getting the better of him. 

Mimzy leaned in, looking both ways to make sure Alastor or his shadows weren't around before lowering her voice. "It was back in the day, at my joint. Alastor dropped by for the bootlegs, you know? But then he caught sight of her. She was singin’ and dancin’ on stage, a real heartbreaker. He couldn't resist the charm, and boom, he was struck on! Ever since then, he came around as frequently as he could. Made me so much money~" 

Angel Dust raised an eyebrow, his long lashes fluttering as he squished his cheek against his palm, a coy smirk playing on his lips. "And you were part of this love saga?"

Mimzy shook her head, a wicked glint dancing in her eyes before she lifted the bottle to her lips and downed its contents in one swift motion, her throat working as she swallowed. "Oh, sugar, just a witness to the drama. Those two lovebirds had their own dance going on. I just spiced things up."

Angel Dust chuckled, shaking his head. "Never thought smiles had it in him."

"Again. He likes to keep his shit private. So, don't go running your mouth unless you wanna be on the receiving end of one of his… episodes," Husk interrupted, his gruff voice breaking through the conversation as he leaned over the counter and reclaimed the bottle from Mimzy with a low growl.

Angel hummed dismissively, his golden tooth catching the glimmer of the bar lights as he spoke. “Anyone could've guessed that. Where is she, anyways? I haven't seen or heard of her since day one."

"Busy," Mimzy snorted, her finger lazily tracing the rim of her glass. She leaned back in her seat, the dim glow of the bar lights casting shadows across her features. "That's where."

“Really?" Angel's brow lifted in skepticism, his boot lightly kicking against the base of Mimzy's chair. "Busy? That’s it?”

Mimzy shrugged, her lips curling into a sly smile. "Can't tell ya much. Y'know Alastor doesn't like sharin'. Secrets and shadows, that's his game."

“Aww c'mon, tits,” Angel grinned, his golden tooth glinting beneath the bar lights with each word. “You gotta know more than you let on. It'll be our secret.”

"Well," Mimzy drawled, savoring the suspense as she tapped a gloved finger against her cheek. "I guess I can tell you a lil’ something about how they met…”

.

Alastor found himself standing in the heart of a secluded corner of town. 

A desolate, dimly lit street stretched out before him, raindrops rhythmically tapping on the worn concrete beneath his feet.

It was something he had never imagined—searching for a speakeasy in this far-off locale. Rarely did he have time for himself. Most of his days were dedicated to caring for his mother, his job as a radio host, and any free time he had was reserved for his… hobbies. But he supposed a change of scenery wouldn't hurt.

Adjusting his glasses, he gazed up at the timeworn, ragged sign of a barbershop that read, "Chum’s Clippers." 

Charming. 

With a roll of his eyes, the radio host stepped into the worn-down establishment, visibly grimacing at the shop's decrepit condition. His eyes surveyed the room, settling on a young blonde woman. 

Perched on the edge of the registrar counter, a cigar dangled between her cherry-red lips, the tendrils of smoke curling upwards in lazy spirals. Her legs crossed provocatively, causing the fabric of her dress to ride up her thighs, revealing more skin than what civil society would allow. 

As soon as she caught sight of Alastor's silhouette, a spark of excitement lit up her features, and she greeted him with an animated wave.

"Hey there, mistah! Names Mimzy!" she chirped with a friendly lilt. Her crimson-painted nails plucked the cigarette from her lips, trailing a wisp of smoke as she gestured toward Alastor. "Whatcha here for?"

"Pleasure to meet you," Alastor smiled back and stepped closer, offering her a bow of his head, “Quite a pleasure. You see, I was just strolling through these darling streets, and wouldn't you know it? The whispers in the wind pointed me straight to you, the gal in the know when it comes to bootlegs. Care to confirm?"

‘A potential client?" Mimzy thought, her smirk hidden behind her hand as she took one last puff, the cherry of her cigar glowing brightly before she flicked it into an ashtray. 'Straight to the point.'

"Well, well, mistah," she drawled with a playful twirl of her finger through her blonde curls. "You've got a nose for sniffin' out the good stuff, huh? Well, we might have a few things tucked away for the right kind of folk. But, sugar, we don't just give 'em to anyone.”

Alastor's smile widened as he smoothly fished out his wallet, giving it a theatrical wave. "I do have a penchant for fine libations, my dear. And I assure you, I'm just looking for a little taste of the local flavor, nothing more."

Mimzy's eyes sparkled with mischief as she perked up, eagerly hopping off the counter. The click of her heels echoed against the worn floor as she approached the tall man.

"You're in luck, then! Follow me, and we'll talk business in the back," she said, gesturing toward a concealed door at the back of the barbershop.

Alastor followed her through a narrow passage, which unveiled another door leading to the very speakeasy he’d heard talk of. The atmosphere changed instantly, lively jazz music filled the air, and the dimly lit space was alive with laughter and clinking glasses.

Mimzy guided Alastor to a private booth tucked away in a corner, where a polished bottle of bootleg whiskey awaited their arrival.

"Here's to unexpected encounters, mistah," she beamed, the words dripping with charm as she poured a generous measure into his glass. Alastor raised his glass in acknowledgment, his eyes glinting with amusement.

"To unexpected encounters," he echoed before taking a deep sip.

The whiskey was bitter and strong, yet there was a subtle sweetness that danced on his tongue, leaving behind a tantalizing warmth. It had been increasingly difficult to find such fine brews ever since the prohibition hit, making each sip all the more precious.

Seating himself comfortably, Alastor swirled the glass in his hand, mesmerized by the way the golden liquid caught the flickering candlelight. Beside him, Mimzy continued her lively chatter, her words accompanied by the persistent clinking of ice in their glasses as she refilled his drink, hoping to stack his bill higher with each pour.

As the room hummed with the soft, easy notes of a piano and the clinking of glasses, a sudden hush fell over the crowd as an announcer's voice sliced through the air.

"Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the enchanting Dolly!"

Mimzy's excitement bubbled up even more, and she leaned in toward Alastor. "That's my sister! Well— not by blood, but you know, me and her are real, real close. One of my best performers here at the bar!"

"Is that so?" Alastor hummed, his eyes now alight with curiosity as he shifted his focus toward the stage.

In that moment, you stepped onto the platform, grabbing a hold of the standing microphone. With a subtle flick of your wrist, you directed attention to the dark-haired pianist, his fingers poised above the keys. A nod from you and the jazz ensemble sprung to life, setting the stage for your performance. As the spotlight enveloped you in a warm glow, a hushed silence fell over the speakeasy.

Folks, here's a story 'bout Minnie the Moocher She was a red hot hoochie-coocher She was the roughest, toughest frail But Minnie had a heart as big as a whale

The lyrics flowed easily through Alastor's mind, carried by the smooth, buttery tones of your voice that filled the air. The radio host found himself utterly hypnotized, his gaze never tearing from your form.

He could stare for hours, unabashed by any sense of shame—though, truth be told, he didn't possess much of that quality to begin with.

She messed around with a bloke named Smokey She loved him though he was kokey He took her down to Chinatown And he showed her how to kick the gong around

As Mimzy began clapping excitedly and waving her arms to beckon you over, Alastor's attention shifted. The final notes of the song echoed in the room, snapping him back to reality. In the haze of your performance, he hadn't even realized that the song had come to an end.

“What a gal!” Mimzy cackled, joyously wrapping her arms around you as you approached.

Alastor took a moment to study you with keen interest.

The dim lighting of the speakeasy lent a soft, ethereal glow to your figure as you moved, casting long shadows across the floor. A slender dress, shimmering with golden sequins, hugged your figure, shimmers and glitters catching the light. The dress boasted a daring low neckline, while its swaying boxed skirt gracefully fell just above your knees, accentuating your every movement. Complementing the ensemble were black kitten heels, their clicks and clacks adding a subtle rhythm to every step you took. Your hair, styled into a sleek bob, framed your demure features perfectly. Adorning your head was a headpiece adorned with golden yellow feathers and dark lace.

"Dollface, I want ya to meet Alastor!" Mimzy exclaimed, pulling you along and positioning you in front of him. “He’s new!”

With a wave of your hands and a warm smile, you tilted your head up to meet Alastor's gaze. The man standing before you was tall and slim, boasting broad shoulders. His white button-up clung perfectly to his frame, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing toned forearms adorned with scars, cuts, and prominent veins.

‘Must be a hunter or a butcher,’ you noted heatedly.

Short, side-swept brunette hair framed his face, adding a touch of rugged charm to his appearance, while rectangular glasses perched on the bridge of his nose lent him an air of intelligence. As he smiled, a chill crept down your spine, and an odd sinking sensation settled in your stomach.

There was an unsettling nature to him, a subtle aura that left you uncertain of whether your reaction stemmed from the eerie quality of his smile or if it was simply a flustered response to his strikingly handsome features. 

“Pleasure to meet you, cher,” Alastor purred, turning on the charm. He delicately took your hand, pressing a kiss against your knuckles. In a subtle move, the radio host let his fingers linger over your skin, subtly checking for any sign of a ring. Noticing the absence, he filed the information away with a sly smile. 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, sir,” you smiled, tucking your face behind your hand. Alastor observed with delight as a subtle blush painted your cheeks, a tacit acknowledgment that his presence had left an impression.

"Al here knows his way around a glass of whiskey like nobody else in these parts! Ain't that right, Al?" Mimzy chattered, her voice bubbling with familiarity as if she had known him for years and hadn't just met him one song and ten drinks ago.

Alastor chuckled, a low, melodic sound that sent your stomach doing flips. "

"Well, I do have a certain fondness for…" The radio host paused, his sharp, gaze raking up and down your form, his words trailing off. "…finer things in life."

A silence lingered in the air, and Mimzy, always attuned to the mood of a room, shot a knowing look between the two of you.

"Well, don't cha?" Mimzy exclaimed, her hands clapping with excitement. "If that's the case, then I'm sure Dolly would love to show you around here!"

"Is that so?" Alastor, maintaining that devilish smile, turned his attention back to you. "Well, what do you say, cher?" he questioned.

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, you met his gaze with a coy smile. "I'd be delighted to show you around. There's a lot more to this place than meets the eye."

Mimzy clapped her hands together. "Perfect! Now, why don't you two enjoy the rest of the night? I'll be right here waiting."

“Shall we?” Alastor offered his hand, gesturing to the dance floor.

With a small nod, you graciously accepted Alastor's outstretched hand, leading the way to the lively dance floor where the band played an upbeat tune. Around you, couples twirled in a dizzying dance, with heels tapping, shoes stomping, and skirts gracefully gliding and twirling. Alastor wasted no time, pulling you in and molding your form against his.

Looks were indeed deceiving, as despite his lean appearance, Alastor had no issue effortlessly tossing and spinning you round and round, lifting you as if you were as weightless as a feather. Each spin and dip was executed with skill, his footwork was a blur and soon enough, you found yourself willingly surrendering to the rhythm of his lead. 

This man could fucking dance.

As the music gradually slowed, Alastor guided you to the side, providing a moment to catch your breath after the energetic routine.

"Thank you for the dance, cher! You are quite quick on your feet," Alastor chuckled, his voice low, blending with the fading echoes of the music.

"You're not too bad yourself," you managed between breaths, a raspy laugh escaping your lips. "Nobody's ever been able to keep up with me," you continued, running a hand through your tousled hair and adjusting your dress. "I think I was the one who had to keep up with you."

After ensuring you were presentable, you lifted a hand to fix Alastor's slightly damp locks, adjusting his glasses and tie. Alastor froze, a foreign sensation enveloping him. Despite his typical aversion to physical contact, there was an absence of the usual recoil in disdain this time.

"Looks like we're both a bit of a mess, aren't we?" you chuckled, a wry smile playing on your lips as you gracefully brushed away a speck of dust from his shirt.

Alastor blinked and eventually relaxed, allowing you to proceed without any resistance. "Quite."

While you continued to fix him up, Alastor couldn't help but feel a sense of bewilderment. He felt as though coils had entwined themselves around his heart. Slowly constricting, they didn't just tighten but twisted, sharp edges digging into muscle, squeezing his emotions into a thick syrup that spilled beyond the confines of his ribs, seeping out in a haunting shade of crimson through the cracks in his chest.

As the seconds passed, he paid no mind to your touch, shifting his focus to instead dissect you with his eyes. He scrutinized the subtle reactions playing across your face—the delicate twitches of your brows, the soft pout of your blood-red lips, and the scrunches of your nose. 

What were you doing to him?

"There you go!" you announced, a note of satisfaction in your voice as you finished your task, your hand coming to rest briefly on his chest before retreating. "Ready to head back?"

Snapping out of his obsessive trance, Alastor emitted a soft hum, offering his arm to you. You gracefully accepted, intertwining your arm with his. The energetic atmosphere from the dance gradually subsided as you and Alastor made your way back to the private booth. Mimzy's mischievous grin awaited you as she rejoined your company.

"Looks like you two had quite the time!" she exclaimed, a twinkle in her eye.

Alastor quickly composed himself, nodding with a grin. "Indeed! It was quite a delightful dance."

Just as Alastor turned toward you, the insistent dings of a nearby clock echoed through the room. His expression shifted, a fleeting shadow of disappointment and ire crossing his face. The hours had danced away quicker than he had anticipated.

Undoubtedly, the night was still young for you, given that speakeasies often extended their festivities until the early hours of the morning.

However, as much as Alastor would adore the idea of continuing to enjoy your company, the weight of responsibilities at home tugged at him. He had his elderly mother waiting, relying on his care for her well-being, as well as an upcoming morning shift at the radio station.

"It's later than I realized, my dear," he admitted, his voice carrying a touch of regret. "I'm afraid I can't stay any longer. Duty calls, and the dawn awaits for my return."

Something twisted and snapped in Alastor's gut as he observed the unmistakable disappointment etched across your features, evident in the downturn of your blood-red lips. His fingers itched with an impulse to claw your mouth back into a smile, to dig his nails into your skin and carve your lips into a grotesque display of happiness, all in a desperate attempt to restore the radiance of your joy.

Meanwhile, Mimzy sighed in disappointment, yet Alastor discerned that beneath the theatrics, she was indifferent to it all, evident in her thinly veiled disinterest.

"Aww… That's too bad, sugar! The night's just gettin' started!" Mimzy exclaimed, shaking her head with a pout. 

"But I get it! Some folks got places to be," Mimzy waved it off. There was a sudden twinkle in her eye as she pulled out a tab from her dress pocket. "Anyways, 'bout those drinks you had, they weren't exactly on the house, sooo..."

Alastor chuckled and pulled out his wallet. "Of course, my dear! I apologize, it must not have crossed my mind!"

He settled the bill and threw in a generous tip, for both you and Mimzy. His job as a radio host was quite the money-spinner, affording him the pleasure of treating others to the finer things in life. Mimzy practically glowed with satisfaction, her blue eyes sparkling as she snatched the tab. Swift and efficient, she flipped through the bills, before pocketing the money.

"Thank you, love!" Mimzy chirped, already moving away from the table as she waved him off. "You're welcome anytime!"

“I’m sure I am,” Alastor responded flatly, almost mockingly, with a roll of his eyes, pulling a laugh from you. As Mimzy made her way off backstage, both you and Alastor were left alone.

“It's a shame you have to leave so soon. I've got more songs up my sleeve for later. I would have loved for you to stay and catch the performance,” you sighed, turning back to him.

Alastor's eyes sparkled with genuine interest. "Songs, you say? Well, cher, that does sound like a delightful experience. Perhaps I can catch your next show some other time."

You smiled, appreciating his enthusiasm. "I'd love that. I perform here regularly, and your company would be more than welcome anytime."

Alastor's gaze intensified, fixing onto you with a magnetic pull that seemed to draw you closer despite yourself. His eyes, pools of darkness, held an unexplainable intensity. As his lips curled up into a grin, there was a hint of something more primal than human lurking behind his charming facade. A shiver traced its way down your spine, leaving behind a lingering sensation that unsettled you to your core.

"I'll definitely make it a point to come by," he finally said. 

Scrambling for a response, the only sound that reached your ears was the rhythmic thud of your own heartbeat as your blood rushed through your veins.

"Y-You too! Don't let the night slip away too quickly," you stammered.

With a nod, Alastor bid you a final farewell, weaving through the dimly lit space towards the exit. 

Yes, he shall see you very soon.

Cher - Louisiana Creole term meaning "darling," "sweetie" or "honey."

[spencerreidenjoyer]

we've already done it in my head | spencer reid x reader

You have fantasies about Spencer, and you feel bad about it when you have to see him at work. Thing is, he has fantasies about you too.

wc: 4.8k, rating: explicit

tags/warnings: professor!spencer, post prison!spencer, bau!reader, fem!reader, sexual fantasies, masturbation, daddy kink, getting together, hookups, friends with benefits (?), mentions of public sex/exhibitionism (they don't actually do it), fucking with feelings but neither of them really realise it yet lol...

a/n: i am insane and that's all i'll say about this fic. jk i started this at the top of the month and i'm glad i've finally finished it. this was such a crazy one to work on, aside from being swamped with school work. thank you to my lovely friend from twitter vic who kept encouraging me to work on this hehe. inspired heavily by taylor swift's guilty as sin? (obviously) and chappell roan's picture you just for those horny yearning vibes yknow? please enjoy this insanity!!! (crossposted to ao3)

Spencer rushes in from the university when Emily calls. It’s a serious case, one that Emily decides Spencer needs to be pulled away from his teaching for. She doesn’t feel good doing it – the whole team knows how important teaching is to Spencer, but he understands all the same when he comes into the round table room. Spencer sits down at the last empty seat next to you, his hair a mess as he sets down his things and flips open the case file. He turns to smile at you, before Penelope starts the case brief.

It’s a long, tiring day of work after landing in California, the BAU having been called in to investigate the murders of young moms in the area, and you need a glass of wine and a nice hot bath to even fathom everything you’ve seen today.

You should just turn in for the night, the Bureau being particularly kind with their budget as you all get individual rooms. Your drowsiness should put you fast to sleep, but your mind is racing with thoughts of Spencer.

Spencer’s been in his nice suit all day, filling out his shirt nicely. You’ve noticed his stubble growing in, and his hair is messy and gorgeous. You can’t help yourself for feeling this way, as guilty as you feel about it. You’ve been harbouring your crush on Spencer for way too long, in the couple of years since you joined the BAU. Spencer is a sight for sore eyes for sure, but his kind gentleness despite the horrors of what you all do for work is a welcome reprieve. 

While his sweet nature was what had you falling for him in the first place, Spencer could be extremely sexy, even if he didn’t know it. 

Today was especially tough for you. You and Spencer were sent in to interrogate a particularly uncooperative suspect, playing into the good cop-bad cop dynamic. Your coaxing wasn’t doing anything, and Spencer had ended up raising his voice in an attempt to intimidate them. He’d slammed his hand on the table, a loud clang against the metal, and his large figure only served to crowd the suspect in to scare them further.

You only got to know Spencer after the mess that was him getting wrongly sent to prison, but Spencer supposedly wasn’t like this before prison. Still, you found Spencer’s quiet intimidation incredibly attractive, and you had to keep your composure in the interrogation room earlier.

And your mind drifts to Spencer from earlier, his rough callousness with the suspect, his glare wild and intimidatingly sexy, you end up thinking about him.

About Spencer, who is so kind and sweet with you and the rest of the team, seeming like he couldn’t hurt a fly. 

About Spencer who could also be domineering and intimidating. He seems like he’d only pull it out if you asked, but the duality has you hot under the collar. 

Your eyes slip shut, mind swirling with thoughts of Spencer, about having him all to yourself, about him wanting you. 

About his large hands on you, making you feel so small under his firm grasp. 

About him pinning you down on the hard, cool metal of the table in the interrogation room. 

About him caging you in with his arms, the look in his eyes almost crazed and full of lust for you. 

“Spencer,” you gasp, before Spencer kisses you fervently. His stubble is rough against your skin, but you don’t care. Spencer kisses you like he’s a starved man and you’re his next meal, with such desperation that you feel weak in the knees.

“You’re gorgeous,” Spencer says. He kisses your jaw, down your neck, and his large hands are all over your body. You feel so secure in his grasp, he feels you up and drinks his fill of you. He gropes your tits, your thighs, your ass, manhandling you into spreading your legs, so he can press the hardness of his cock to your cunt. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper, fully indulging in this wet dream as you slide a hand into your underwear. “Spencer,” you gasp.

“You’re so hot, you make me feel crazy,” Spencer hums, rolling his hips against you. You’re separated between layers of fabric, but Spencer humping you like this turns you on to no end. 

You rub at your clit in tight little circles, your wetness aiding the slide as you get yourself off to the thought of Spencer.

“Spence,” you moan, frustrated. While Spencer’s hardness grinding against you is literally a dream, you want to imagine his cock buried inside of you. You’re perfectly capable of moving this along, so you do. 

Magically, Spencer’s clothes are off and so are yours, the perks of a fantasy being that you don’t have to awkwardly stumble through taking your clothes off. You have a hazy picture of what he’d look like naked in front of you. You imagine toned muscle, a slight pudge to his tummy from his time in prison, his pecs filled out nicely. You imagine his cock would be pretty, as pretty as he is, veiny and thick and all sorts of perfect. 

“You’re too fucking good to me, baby,” Spencer groans, the blunt head of his cock pressed up against you now. He rubs off against you, sliding over your clit, your folds, over the wetness leaking from your whole. “Gonna fuck you so good, just like you deserve.”

Without hesitation, Spencer’s cock slips into you, the perfect thickness to make you feel full as he slides in inch by inch. 

You slip your fingers into yourself, aided by how impossibly wet you are just at the thought of Spencer, and your groan weakly. Two fingers aren’t enough, not when you bet Spencer could fill you up, like he’d split you in half on his cock. 

He pushes into you until he’s pressed flush against you, buried inside of you to the hilt. He starts to pound into you, like he’s uncaring of what you need, but the way he treats you turns you on impossibly.

Your fingers aren’t enough to satiate you, but you thrust them in and out of you in an effort to mimic how Spencer fucking you might feel. You moan, a little louder than you’d like.

“Spence–” you gasp, in your fantasy. It should be scandalous, Spencer taking you over the table in the interrogation room. You don’t know if the thought of people being behind the one-way mirror turns you on or not – being watched, letting Spencer take you in front of everybody. You like the thought of Spencer being so obsessed with you, so desperate, needing to fuck you right where you work.

The metal table is cool and harsh against your hips, but you don’t care if it hurts as Spencer fucks you relentlessly, quickly taking on a brutal pace. It’s exactly what you need, what you want Spencer to do with you, being rough and frantic enough to make you scream his name.

You whimper his name under your breath, bashful even while in your fantasy. 

Spencer has you pinned down, but it’s not like you intend to get away. You want to savour this even if it’s only in your mind, shameful as you’re getting off to the thought of your coworker. You just need this out of your system, need Spencer out of your system, and then tomorrow you can face him like a normal, well-adjusted person. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, palm grinding against your clit, fingers pressed inside of yourself. You’re shaking, with the thought of Spencer fucking you until you can’t take it anymore, the ideal of him in your mind too perfect, until you’re moaning into your hand as you orgasm. You sob, clenching tight around your fingers, feeling your slick gush out as you ride your high.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but after both a long day and a crazy good orgasm, you end up passing out with a tissue clenched in your hand, with your panties and sleep shorts kicked off to the foot of the bed.

---

Spencer can’t stop thinking about you.

He shouldn’t, not when you’re his coworker and also one of the people he’s friendliest with in the unit. 

Spencer would say he couldn’t bring himself to trust many, especially after coming out of prison, but you were the one he warmed up to the easiest. A new face in the BAU wasn’t uncommon, but Spencer had found himself drawn to you. You were kind and warm to him fresh out of prison, your tenderness a welcome reprieve as he’d gotten accustomed to being back at the BAU. With your intellect and quick wit, matched with your beauty, Spencer could not help but be attracted to you – but that’s besides the point. 

Spencer knows how much your friendship with him means to you, and he’s certain that that’s all you see him as: a friend. 

Yet, he can’t stop himself from thinking about you in those pants. Those pants that hug your curves just right. Those pants that make your ass look great – not that he was looking – especially when you’re leaning over an interrogation table, trying to play the good cop with the suspect from earlier.

Spencer had hung back, trying to get a read on the suspect while you spoke to him. Him getting to ogle your figure and stare at how good you looked in those pants was unintentional, but he definitely wasn’t complaining. 

Spencer only felt a bit bad wrapping his hand around himself in the shower, mind flooded with thoughts of you. Water, almost scorching, running down his body, his hand moves fast and reckless, exhaling harshly as he gets himself off. 

He can’t get you out of his mind, your gorgeous figure, your pretty face, your wide eyes and thick thighs and soft lips – he shouldn’t be thinking of you like this. You were a coworker, a friend, for God’s sake, and yet he can’t stop imagining you under him. 

He can’t stop imagining pressing you against the table in the interrogation room – your lithe frame underneath him, making you look so small, making him feel so big. 

He presses his growing problem to your perfect ass, watching you writhe underneath him. You keep looking back up at him, with your wide, wet eyes and your flushed cheeks, looking like you need him to give you exactly what you need.

“Please, daddy,” you whine, and Spencer is groaning and undoing his belt before your pants get pushed down too. Stroking his cock quickly, Spencer easily finds his way to your entrance, wet and dripping with your slick. He pushes into you, pressing kisses to your neck as you groan with the intrusion. 

“Daddy,” you whimper, “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Spencer coos at you. Spencer feels you press yourself back up against him, pushing his cock deeper, and he loses all sense of control as he starts to fuck you hard. He feels like a madman, unable to hold himself back as he takes and takes and takes, fucking into your tight wetness, his head spinning with how good you feel around him. 

You’re whining and moaning under him, your noises music to Spencer’s ears as they echo off the walls. Your cunt is wet and sloppy as Spencer fucks you, wanting to give you everything you need and more.

“Fuck, baby,” Spencer groans, his hand tightly fisted around his cock. The way the tip of his cock leaks is easing the slide, as he pictures in crystal-clear detail how your cunt would draw him in, slick and messy be fucks into your perfect, tight cunt. “You’re too good to me.”

“Daddy,” you sob, your hands clawing down Spencer’s back. Spencer gropes you greedily through your clothes, grabs your tits and feels his fill of your waist, your perfect ass, your thighs as he rocks himself back and forth between them. 

“Gonna cum inside of you, love,” Spencer grunts, his pace unrelenting. His hands are on your thighs, gripping you tight, both fucking into you and dragging you onto his cock over and over. “You’re gorgeous. Gonna make a mess of you.”

You’re whining underneath him, making him feel too good, as you clench around him tight and moan even louder. Spencer can’t help himself, thrusting into you hard and fast and eager until he’s cumming.

He spills into his hand, the thick white ropes of his cum washed down the drain with the spray of the shower from above him. Visions of you flash through his mind, your gorgeous frame, your pretty face, your mouth on his. 

He’s barely towelled off before he’s knocked out in his bed, too tired to even process feeling guilty about jerking off to you. 

---

Sure, perhaps it’s childish to try and avoid Spencer all day, especially when you have an active case all of you need to be working on. You must be a fool to think that getting yourself off to Spencer would help, because all you can think about is your fantasies of him last night, how you imagined him bending you over and taking you– Not helping, you remind yourself.

Emily must secretly be on your side or be able to read your mind or something, because Spencer is relegated to work on geographic profiles and speed-read through case files back at the police precinct, while you get sent out onto the field to chase down your killer. 

But you can’t avoid Spencer forever, and you aren’t any good at it either. You feel like Spencer’s eyes are on you the whole day when you and him are in the same room, but you never look up at him to find out. While you could chalk up your nerves to a serial killer still being out on the streets, you don’t have any more excuses at the end of the day when you’ve finally caught him, and the team decides to get dinner to celebrate.

You purposely wedge yourself between JJ and Emily when you sit down at the table, trying to avoid Spencer, and you think you’re successful with getting away with seeming a little out-of-it when you end up slipping away early, claiming you had a rough sleep last night.

You’ve barely settled down in your hotel room for the night, finally feeling like you can relax, when there’s a knock at your door. You have no clue who it could be, but you open the door, and–

There Spencer is. 

“Hi,” you say curtly, feeling embarrassment wash over you all of a sudden, because all you can think about is getting off to the thought of him last night. You feel your cheeks warm, but you hope it’s not obvious that you’re blushing. Then, in an attempt to seem somewhat normal and well-adjusted, you add, “What’s up?”

“I should be asking you that,” Spencer says, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. “What’s up with you today?”

You press your lips together in a thin line before you say, “Nothing’s up. I’m fine.”

“Come on,” Spencer prods, his head cocking to the side as he deadpans. “You know I can read you like an open book. Something’s up.”

You frown, Spencer stoking the flames of brattiness in you. “Yeah? Tell me what’s the matter, if you can read me so well.”

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“I- I thought we said no inter-group profiling,” Spencer says, his voice a little weak, and for the first time, you see Spencer look a little helpless. It’s kind of hot. 

Do you make him… nervous?

“Yeah, but if you insist on thinking something’s up with me…” You shrug, smiling. Spencer just blinks at you.

No. You couldn’t possibly entertain the thought. 

Spencer clears his throat. You watch him fidget with his hands just slightly, before he puts them by his sides to seem confident. “Well, you’ve been avoiding me, on purpose or not – both attest to your desire to avoid me somewhat. You could barely look me in the eye all day, which means you might be embarrassed or guilty of something, likely having to do with me.” Spencer says, his voice even, but he isn’t looking at you. 

You raise your eyebrows. His explanation is both specific and vague, and you feel slightly called out and safe from his scrutiny at the same time. But, you can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something more to Spencer’s words, the way he’s looking at you like he hopes you can’t pick his brain apart. 

So, you turn it back onto him, “Then, what do you think is the problem? You aren’t looking at me either, and you were fidgeting with your hands. Is something up with you, then? It almost sounds like you’re projecting, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer freezes, like he’s a deer caught in headlights. You can practically see his brain running a mile a minute, overthinking every possible outcome, overly self-aware of himself, his actions, his thoughts.

You try to stop yourself from smiling, because Spencer is kind of cute like this. “You wanna tell me what it is then, Reid?” 

“When did this become about me?” Spencer squeaks, his usually cool facade quickly disappearing. There’s a look in Spencer’s eyes, as he nervously looks you up and down, and oh– “I just– Well, I– You–”

“I’m thinking we might be on the same page, here,” you say, smirking. “Wanna tell me what it is?”

Spencer furrows his brows, his mouth agape as he looks up at you, but you’re putting your hand on his chest and trailing it down slowly. “Oh–”

“Tell me, Dr. Reid,” you cock your head, eyeing him up and down lazily. When you look at Spencer’s face, he’s shocked, enamoured and turned-on all in one. 

“You’re… attracted to me,” Spencer says, somewhat uncertain. “The same way I’m attracted to you.”

“And what makes you say that?” You hum. 

“I thought I heard you last night. Through the walls,” He says timidly, nothing you’ve seen from him before. “Thought I should’ve gone over to help, but I realised you were, um– You were pleasuring yourself. To- To me.”

“The walls are thin, huh?” You laugh, a little sheepish, but you note how Spencer’s becoming shy at the thought. “Did you…?”

His eyes grow wide. “Did I do what?”

You smirk. “That tells me everything I need to know, Reid,” you say, laughing.

“Well, you shouldn’t presume–”

“Shut up and kiss me, Reid,” you huff. You pull Spencer closer to you by his tie and you press your lips to his. 

It’s too perfect, when Spencer’s mouth is finally on yours. His hands cupping your face, Spencer kisses you hard and eager, like he can’t believe that he finally gets to have you. He kisses you like he’s starving, desperate for you as his next meal. You moan as his hands reach for your hips, pulling you in closer to him, greedy as he feels you up.

“Did you fantasise about this too? About me, like this?”

“This is better than I could’ve ever imagined,” Spencer says breathily. “You… You’re so attractive.”

“Could say the same about you,” you laugh, reaching to unbutton his shirt. His tie is already loose, hanging around his neck, but you want to see more. You undo the top few buttons, revealing more of his chest. You trail your finger over the exposed skin, letting your nail graze it slightly. You hear Spencer inhale sharply, and grin to yourself, proud of the effect you have on him. “So, do you want to just stand around and talk, or do you want to fuck me?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, and you chuckle. As if he hadn’t expected this was how it was going to go. Spencer purses his lips. “I mean, absolutely. I want to fuck you. But, um– We should definitely talk about this though.”

“Later,” you say, waving him off, before you lean in to kiss him again. Spencer grabs your waist again, like he needs to have you close. He lifts you slightly, making you squeak, but the both of you stumble over to the bed, unable to keep your hands off of each other, unable to keep your mouths off each other. You sit down on the bed, Spencer crowding you in with one of his knees on the mattress.

You loosen his tie and take it off, while Spencer moves to unbutton your shirt. HIs hands move deftly, eager to undress you, and he pulls away to marvel at the curve of your breasts in your bra when he pushes the satin shirt off of you. “Wow.”

“Wow yourself,” you say. You appreciate the view: a dishevelled, eager Spencer Reid in your bed, his hands all over you, his shirt half-undone, revealing tanned skin and a gorgeous body. “Need you to fuck me right now.”

Spencer laughs, perhaps a little incredulously, and he instead moves to take his shirt off instead. “I’ll- I’ll do that.”

“Good,” you say, distracted as you admire Spencer’s frame, the lines of his body, the softness of his stomach. He’s so hot you might die. “Very good.”

“I’m glad you like the view,” Spencer says, a little timid, like he’s shy to show off in front of you. He meets your gaze when you look up at him, caught in the middle of ogling him with no shame. 

You smile up at him sheepishly. “Please fuck me, Spencer.”

“Okay,” Spencer smiles, warm and gentle. He helps you slide your pants and underwear off your legs before you spread them. Spencer’s jaw drops, his eyes focused on the slick mess of your cunt. “Oh, my God.”

“Yeah?” you laugh, thoroughly amused with his reaction. “Show me how much you want me, too.”

Spencer’s hands are quick to push down his bottoms, dress slacks and boxer-briefs on your floor in an instant, wrapping a fist around himself as he works himself up for you. You can’t tear your eyes off of him – “Spencer, you’re… big.”

“Am I?” Spencer asks, and you’d lose your mind if you weren’t expecting Spencer to fuck your brains out. 

“You are,” you say calmly, because if you let yourself sound any more excited he might think you were insane. “But I can take you.”

Spencer grins. “Good.”

His fingers press against your cunt after you tell him to do so. His slender digits pick up all the slick that’s leaking from your hole, spreading it around messily as he toys with your clit. You shudder with the sensation, throwing your head back against the pillows. Then, one of his fingers slips into you, and he coaxes you open with a care you haven’t felt from most partners before. “How’s that?”

“So nice,” you groan, getting used to the feeling. He fucks you on his fingers, slow and careful, intent on stretching you out until you’re comfortable. You whimper and whine, feeling embarrassed at how vocal you’re being, but Spencer is kissing your breasts without a care in the world, and then you’re thinking about letting him know that you do feel good. Your next gasp is less ashamed, as Spencer coaxes a second finger in.

You’re panting as Spencer fucks you on his fingers, the repeated motion only working you up even more. The squelch from his fingers fucking you is obscene, and his eyes are wide as he looks at you. “You’re perfect,” he whispers. 

“Fuck me, Spence,” you say. 

Spencer bites his lip as he sits up and settles between your legs. He’s tugging at his cock as he lines himself up with your entrance. He slides his length along your folds, wet with your slick, and you groan at the friction. You grunt, wanting more, “Come on, Spence.” 

His hand on your leg, Spencer leans forward so he can press into you, and Spencer is practically folding you in half so he can fuck you. You moan at his thickness deep inside of you, filling you up, and the stretch is so undeniably amazing. Spencer’s length drags against your walls, such a delicious sensation deep in your bones, and you sob a little.

“Does that feel good?” Spencer asks softly, his voice tender. 

“So good, Spence,” you gasp. Spencer kisses your cheek, down your neck, and waits patiently for you to give him the go-ahead.

You feel his cock twitching inside of your heat, both your fantasies unable to live up to the real thing. Confident, cocky Spencer in your dreams is just that – a dream. The Spencer right in front of you is perfect, more perfect than what you’ve dreamed: shy but so attentive and sweet. He takes such good care of you. It makes you lose your mind a little bit.

“Fuck me,” you insist, and Spencer puts his hands on your hips as he starts to move. He fucks you deep, just the way you need him, and you cry out as he digs into your soft flesh, holding you tight so he can fuck you hard. The way Spencer pounds into you has your whole body trembling, pleasure coursing through you like electricity, till your mouth has fallen open and your toes are curling. 

“You’re so much better than I imagined,” Spencer groans, eyes squeezed shut as he puts all his energy into railing you. “Can’t believe this is real.”

You clench around him just to hear him moan, and you’re proud of yourself when his hips stutter and a groan rips through his throat in his pleasure. He glares at you. You grin, as Spencer keeps fucking you.

“What- Oh, fuck– What did you imagine? With me?” You gasp, as Spencer rolls his hips in a particularly deep thrust.

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut, before looking down at you, like he’s really contemplating if he should say this. “I– I pictured bending you over the interrogation table. Fucking you, making you scream my name, taking you right there, I–”

You moan as Spencer hits that perfect spot inside of you, your legs trembling as you gasp, “I– Why did we have the same fucking fantasy? Fuck–”

“What? You thought of me that way too?” Spencer sounds incredulous, like he can’t imagine you thinking of him that way– As if he isn’t drilling you into the hotel bed right now.

“Fuck, Spencer– Oh, my God– Yeah, I– You had me pinned down on the table, and you were fucking me in the interrogation room, in front of all of them–”

“God, you’re perfect,” Spencer grunts, burying his head in your shoulder as he uses the leverage to fuck you deeper, harder, faster. You can’t stop moaning Spencer’s name, simply too overwhelmed with the pleasure he’s giving you, the way he’s fucking you into the mattress. This is all you’ve ever wanted. Spencer fucking you like a madman, giving you all the pleasure you need but still being greedy enough to take and take and take. 

“Please! Spencer, you– I’m gonna cum, I can’t–” You cry, sobs wracking their way from your throat, so loud but you can’t be bothered to keep yourself quiet. Spencer groans your name, a sweet, sultry sound, and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. 

“Cum for me,” Spencer hums. “You’re so perfect, and you’re laid out like this all for me. You’re so fucking hot. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You’re sobbing as your orgasm hits you, overwhelmed by Spencer’s filthy words and his filthier actions, so intense as he fucks you into next week. It’s too good, and you lose yourself much sooner than you expect. Your pussy clenches tight around Spencer with your orgasm, sending him over the edge as he fills you up, cock twitching as he cums inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, his weight comfortable as you both catch your breath. Your mouth feels dry, but you don’t care when Spencer is leaning over to kiss you again. It feels so right, this wild feeling you only thought existed in your dreams.

The next morning when the team is gathered in the hotel lobby to head to the hangar to fly back to Quantico, Emily gives you a pointed look, and Rossi is clapping Spencer on the back with a knowing grin. You apologise sheepishly, while Spencer grows red, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the team. He only meets your eyes, and the two of you share a smile. You can tell neither of you want this to end here. Maybe you’ll talk about it when you get back home. 

[venomvalley]

POISON AND PANACEA

pitfighter!vi x fem!reader | 5.3k words

SUMMARY: After ten years without a word, Vi comes back into your life like a whirlwind—sudden and destructive. What follows is a series of one-night stands that you both swear mean absolutely nothing. (Yeah, right.)

TAGS: 18+ only! switch!vi, childhood friends to fwb to ???, mental health issues, mentions of alcohol, blood and injury, sex as a coping mechanism, pining, angst, ambiguous ending.

NOTES: vi drives me absolutely insane idk what else to say. hopefully this is good and somewhat in-character cause im very nervous about that.

-> READ ON AO3 | ARCANE MASTERLIST

Through the whispers of nosy neighbors and bar gossip, your past comes back to haunt you. It takes the form of a woman fighting her way through champions in the Pit, some no-name hothead who reminds you of the angry little girl you befriended a long, long time ago.

Things were simple back then, but never easy; better times when you weren’t responsible for putting food on the table, and you never understood why your mom stressed the importance of staying close to home. Now, you work a job at a local consignment shop and pay your skeevy landlord way too much for such a shit apartment.

You knew her before she shortened her name to Vi, and before you could comprehend the idea of a crush. Violet was your first crush—you liked the way she stood up for you against the neighborhood bullies, always so brave and nice and cool with her pink hair—and you haven't seen her in over ten years. Last you heard, she was thrown in Stillwater for murder, and Powder fucked off to Janna-knows-where in the aftermath.

So you don’t expect a pounding on your front door in the middle of the night, and you really don’t expect the older version of your childhood friend to greet you. For a long moment, you consider the possibility that this is all just a vivid, lucid dream ripped straight from some dusty folder in your memory bank.

And then she speaks, shuffling on her feet in a strange, vertigo-esque dance. “I thought I’d find you here.”

The messy slur to her words gives her away. Drunk. Given the distance of your apartment to the nearest bar, you wonder how in the hell she even made it this far. What brought her here in the first place.

“Vi?”

Her but not. Choppy black hair, a blue-bruised undereye, taller than you remember. A nose ring that gives an edge to the soft features of her face now filled out with age. Tattooed on the cheek and neck and the bare skin of her forearms that you only notice when she steadies herself with a hand against the door frame.

“In the flesh.” She stretches out her arms and dips into a bow, almost plowing face-first into the floor. A good thing, then, that you saw it coming and use your own body to fight the gravity weighing her down.

Janna's tits, she's heavy. Skin woven over sinew, thick around the biceps that you grab to steady her. “Okay, uh. How about I get you some water?”

You open the door and wait patiently as she shuffles inside your apartment, before shutting it with a click then a metallic thump of the lock. When you turn around, she's sprawled out on the couch, a drawn-out, muffled groan reaching your ears.

This is fucking weird. After so many years, for her to show up at your door unannounced— rumors of her imprisonment notwithstanding—throws you off kilter. Really, you never thought you'd see her again. The flash of pink hair in a crowd at most, not… not this: her sucking the air from your living room, drooling a puddle into the fabric beneath her head, already snoring a symphony.

With a huff of breath, you leave to fetch a blanket from your closet, and come back to untie her scuffed-up boots before tucking her in for the night. You put her shoes next to the door, fill up a glass of water, and settle in for a sleep curled up on the floor in the living room. It’s instinct at this point. Staying close to listen for her cries, or the sound of her gagging, or her nightmare-catalyzed fussing.

(After her parents died, she suffered from horrible dreams. You stopped sleeping in her bed for a while during sleepovers, after one too many times of jolting awake to the sensation of bruising pain. A fist to your back, a kick to your knee, as if she was fighting something you couldn't comprehend.)

Throughout the night, she mumbles in her sleep. Wakes long enough to adjust her blanket then roll over, again and again. Until—

“You awake?”

Her voice filters through the static of the ether, and your eyes blink open to the blurry sight of the water-stained ceiling, a blue cast to the room from your moon-filtered window.

“You sober?”

“Unfortunately,” she grumbles, voice dragged through sharded glass. “Sorry about… everything.”

The couch creaks beneath her shifting weight as she turns to look at you, eyes unbearably blue even through the darkness. So pretty.

“How are you?” A pressing question you've been itching to know, alongside the curious what the hell happened? and a less polite why are you here?

“What do you think?”

“I haven't seen you in ten years. How the hell would I know?”

You can feel the snark coming, an electric sizzle to the air, and the bickering reminds you of old times with such bittersweet nostalgia that each pump of your heart physically aches. Deep down, shoved in some cobwebbed corner of grey-matter denial, you missed this. Missed Vi in all her stubborn, impulsive, heart-on-sleeve glory.

“I don't even know who I am anymore,” she says, voice a secretive mutter, resigned and exhausted. So many confessions woven into eight simple words.

You sit up from the floor, back cracking in protest, and plop down beside the couch. Face-to-face with Vi, her features slowly sharpening into view. She looks away, showcasing the slope of her profile—the dark smudge of her lashes, the small bump on her nose, the pout of her lower lip. There's a bruise taking shape just beneath her jawline, a mottled purple-black that you trace with your eyes.

“Where'd you get these bruises from?” you ask, thumb a perfect fit inside its irregular edges.

She jolts at the contact, but doesn't pull away. Says, “The Pit.”

All the air rushes from your lungs in a single, drawn-out breath. You can't believe it, even though you should. She gravitates toward violence, a penchant that began after the death of her parents. Street fights are one thing, but The Pit? That's…

“Janna's tits, Violet. You got a death wish?”

“I guess you could call it that.” Her shadowed form shrugs. “Doesn't matter anyway. I need the money, and fighting is the only thing I'm good for.”

You click your tongue, offended on her behalf. “Says who?”

“Me.”

Your heart sinks. Is that really how she sees herself? Good for nothing but violence?

“Vi—”

“Can I borrow your shower before I leave?”

The sharp shift in topic sends you reeling, and you barely manage to scoot away from the couch before she throws her legs over the side, feet planted right where you just sat.

“Uh, yeah. I should have some clothes that fit you, if you need.”

“That would be great, actually.”

You fail to mention, for reasons unbeknownst to you, that the clothes you hand her a few minutes later belonged to an ex-girlfriend from a year or two back. Drawing a similar conclusion takes no effort, though, and Vi inspects the underwear with a puppydog tilt to her head.

“Girlfriend?”

“Ex.“

She scoffs, balling the clothes up beneath her arm. “Been there, done that.”

Then she stands there for a long few moments, gaze glued to the sheets of your bed, lips twisted into a sour frown. And then, as if nothing happened, she blinks out of her trance, head snapping toward you.

“Come with me,” she says, nodding to the open bathroom door and the orange glow spilling from within.

“What, like… shower with you?”

Another shrug. “I could use the company.”

Following her into the bathroom is easy. Easier than it should be, given the long passage of time, but you're no stranger to one-night stands. Picking a pretty woman up from a bar, bringing her home, cooking breakfast the next morning to cancel out the hangover before never seeing her again.

This is different, though. Special. An opportunity that you should really take a second to mull over, but you're already watching her undress with the door closed, and the sight of her naked back smashes your self-control to bits. Intricate lines of dark ink paint her skin shoulder-to-shoulder, trailing down the back of each arm, following the soft curves of her muscles. Beautiful work—whether because of the canvas or in spite of it, you aren't sure.

“I like your tattoos,” you say, embarrassingly breathless.

She spins around fast as a whip, barely giving you time to register the glint of metal peeking from either side of her nipples before you're gawking at the huge shoe-sized bruise curling over her ribs.

“You can't shower with your clothes on,” she says, a playful quirk to her lips that sends you into action.

She's given you tunnel vision in the worst way. At the sight of the barbell pierced through each nipple, and the stretchmarks that fan over her hips and thighs, and the sinew of her biceps, you forget to bitch at her about the physical shape she's in. Injuries that don't seem to slow her down at all.

You've never stripped so fast in your life, trapped beneath her low-lidded gaze. To be fair, it's been a while. You entered a dry spell after your most recent breakup and never really recovered, and now there's a beautiful woman standing in front of you. Naked. Staring at you like she wants to eats you up then lick her fingers clean.

“Nice.”

You can’t help but laugh at her reaction, suppressing the urge to hide yourself. You feel flayed open, desperate, hot beneath the skin. No better time to step around her and turn the shower on.

As you wait for the water to heat up, a spare toothbrush set aside for her to use, the air in the room sizzles with electricity. Tension. You can't take your eyes off each other in the mirror, even as you spit toothpaste in the sink. When you crawled into bed last night, you never could have imagined that this is where you’d end up, but you aren’t about to complain. She's beautiful, and she actually wants you. What more do you need?

When Vi steps beneath the shower spray, grey-dyed droplets sluice down her face and back to pool an opaque puddle at her feet. She sweeps strings of wet hair off her forehead, lashes brushing against her cheeks. Her closed eyes give you the opportunity to openly stare, stomach taut with lines of muscle, a nest of dark pink fur at the apex of her thighs. Tattoos, heavy tits, thick, toned legs.

Janna's mercy, what a woman.

Once she's scrubbed herself down and washed half the dye from her hair (while you freeze to death in the corner), it doesn't take long for her to step into your space, hands both calloused and warm curling around your waist. You audibly swallow, trapped in the sea of her eyes and the cute freckles peppered across her nose and cheeks. Your gaze drifts down to her lips, entranced by the scar that bisects pink flesh.

With a shuddering sigh, you whisper, “I missed you.”

And then she kisses you, hands moving to cup your face as you press against the steadfast line of her body. This isn't about love, or intimacy, or anything other than brain-stem urges—and from the way she kisses you, all rough and wanting, she's needed this for a while, too.

Her teeth sink into the pulse of your neck, breath a wet heat over your chest that strikes a shiver up your spine. “I didn't want to leave you.”

“I know.”

“It wasn't by choice.”

“It's okay. You're here now.”

She pulls away from your neck with an audible pop, nodding her head, eyes glittering like the out-of-reach stars. A contradiction of hope and melancholy written in the wrinkle of her brow.

“I need this.”

With a tender smile, you smooth the hair away from her face. “You have me, Skipper.”

Vi groans, nose scrunching (a lot cuter than it has any right to be). “Way to ruin the moment.”

You had no choice, really. Things were getting a bit too intimate for comfort, given the fact that she already planned on leaving. No sense in digging up old feelings that you'd have to bury again a few hours from now.

“What? It's a cute nickname.”

“No, it's embarrassing.” Still, she latches onto you, even as she physically recoils from discomfort. Runs her thumbs over the soft skin of your waist, over and over and over again.

“I can make it up to you,” you purr, fingertips trailing down the soft grooves of her stomach, toward the fluff of pink hair on her mound.

Her eyes widen a fraction, crystalline in their make-up—the kind of blue you've only seen in your dreams. Gone is the playful tenderness of moments previous, nothing left but a raging fire of heat. Desperation.

She kisses you hard on the mouth, forces you back against the cold shower wall with a muted thump. Your lips part on a groan, and her tongue slips between your teeth. She tastes like the mint of toothpaste and the bitter afterglow of alcohol, chest a purring vibration against your own.

You tilt your head back with a gasp, far enough away to speak.

“I have—” canine teeth sharp against the pulse of your neck, “a bed—” a thick arm curling around your back, “that we can use.”

“Not a fan of shower sex?” she asks, mouthing over the curve of your shoulder.

“Shit, who is?”

Her breath fans hot over your skin as she laughs. “Good point.”

You're a flurried tangle of limbs from the shower to the next-room mattress. The bedroom is small, barely wide enough to fit a dresser and a twin-sized bed and a desk. The rent in this part of the Undercity remains dirt cheap, but you sacrifice certain luxuries as a result.

At least you have a headboard. The very same that knocks against the wall when you shove her back onto the bed, springs creaking in protest. You stand between her spread thighs, hypnotized by the splay of her wet hair (and the black dye seeping into your sheets), her body painting the perfect, Vi-sized outline from the water neither of you bothered to dry off.

“I had the fattest crush on you when we were kids.”

You aren't sure why you say it. Too consumed by the dark freckle beside her belly button to filter your thoughts, but that one in particular? A fantastic way to ruin the mood. The era of your friendship might constitute the worst years of her life.

She exhales a laugh. “I liked you, too,” said all quiet and tender, and you lock your knees to keep from pouncing on her.

No, you have to take this slow, to savor everything that comes next.

You lower to your knees, the floor rock-solid and freezing, and scoot into her space when she spreads her legs for you, your fingers splayed over her thighs.

“You don't have to…” her sentence trails off, palm calloused and warm over your knuckles.

“I want to, though.” Tufts of coarse pink hair frame the puffy flesh of her clit, swollen and blush-red. As beautiful as the rest of her. Your mouth waters at the thought of her taste. “As long as you want me to.”

“Fuck, I—” her head collapses back against the bed, hips tilting up toward your face, “please.”

How could you ever say no to that?

You start by ghosting wet kisses over the sensitive skin inside her knee, soft pecks that trail up to the crook between thigh and pelvis, the downy hairs on her leg tickling your nose. So warm and soft against your mouth, muscles tightening in anticipation.

Just when she reaches for you with a trembling sigh, you switch to the other side, lips twitching into a smile at her frustrated groan. Can't spend too long away from her pretty cunt, though. You spread her puffy labia to find her already wet, clenching and empty.

“So pretty,” you coo, thumb circling over her hole, mouth puckering around her clit in a tender kiss.

Her thighs close on either side of your head, effectively muffling your hearing. She says something that you can’t make out, and you suckle on that little bundle of nerves until she’s grinding into your face, hard enough to bloody your nose. But it excites you—the enthusiasm in her reaction, the salt-musk taste of her cunt, the slick that smears over your cheeks and chin. A hand finds the back of your head, the other curling over your fingers that squeeze the fat of her thigh.

You slide two free fingers into her, groaning at the tight, wet heat—a burning sun—that engulfs them. Soft as silk, perfect juxtaposition to the wiry hairs that tickle your knuckles. Every part of her is perfect. Breathtaking in that rare, once-in-a-lifetime way.

She spreads her legs, feet flat on the bed, and arches up into your mouth. A shudder flows through her like spitting water, muscles tensing beneath your hand each time your fingers bottom out, noisy and slick. You're in ecstasy, floating somewhere thoughtless and warm and wonderful. The needy pulse between your legs means little when you have her taste on your tongue and her cunt milking your fingers.

She comes with a broken gasp, back arching off the bed, pretty tits bouncing as she paws at your hand and head, grip so tight you fear her breaking a bone. For a moment, you struggle to breathe, nose buried in the curls on her mound, lips suckling quick and rhythmic on her clit.

Fuck, you like being used for her pleasure.

When the afterglow fades, neither of you talk about what just happened. You fetch a wet washcloth to wipe her up then clean your hands and face in the bathroom sink. Nothing needs to be said when you both got what you wanted. Satiation blankets the room in a dense fog of fatigue, and you curl into each other beneath the sheets, naked bodies pressed together. She's warm, and soft, and smells like you.

(Distantly, like an itch at the back your brain, you think you could get used to this.)

The next morning, you wake to a cold, empty apartment. You go back to bed.

You're used to being alone.

—

A week later, the budding loneliness leads you to a nearby club. Your neighborhood likens to a ghost town of shadowed streets and poverty. Apartment buildings stalwart despite the foundational rot, landlords that deal in theft, broken windows on first floors—the stink of melancholy permeates this place.

Apex Eleven burns bright with life, with sex and shimmer and the sweat of drunken bodies. In a nearby corner, a woman stands bent over, hands pressed to the wall, a man rutting against her. Shameless beneath the neon lights. The sight does nothing for you, and you quickly search for something else to occupy your curiosity. You press into the crowd, through a fog of smoke and grinding couples, the floor beneath your shoes sticky from spilled alcohol. Your destination is the bar, and beyond that, the bed of a pretty woman. Anything to wash the taste of Vi from your mouth.

But Janna's grace is a fickle thing, and the sight of Vi sat at the bar leaves you begging for mercy. While you had a great time, and, sure, your stomach flips at the sight of her again, the problem with her presence lies in your own tangle of hang-ups—one such issue being insecurity. Better to leave your relationships as one-night stands and acquaintances than to cope with the inevitable. At an early age, you learned that losing people hurts. The Undercity only nurtured that pain over the years, proved to you that attachments just aren’t worth it.

She's talking with a pretty woman stood to her right, elbow balanced atop the table, head cradled in her hand. A pile of glasses surround her, stacked haphazardly in groups of twos and threes. It shouldn’t matter. You had your night, and you’ve gone your separate ways. What she does or who she talks to is none of your business, loaded-gun history or otherwise.

So you choose a spot a few chairs down from her left, shielded by two rowdy men seated between you. All you need is a drink or five, the kind that burns something awful on the way down. Maybe a pretty girl to dance with, if you're really lucky.

To that wish, Janna laughs in your face. She whisks Vi over with an invisible tug to her shirt and deposits the woman of your long-held fantasies right beside you.

“Need a drink?” Vi asks, waving the bartender over with a suspiciously sober call of his name.

With all the empty glasses that surrounded her, there’s no conceivable way she could even form words, let alone stroll over to your seat as if she’s conquered the world. Maybe she has. This is Vi, after all.

“What's the occasion?”

She rests her forearms on the bar, raising two fingers at the bartender. “Beat the champion tonight. I thought I should celebrate.”

“By buying drinks for pretty girls?”

A tired shrug. “That's the idea.”

Her head swivels to face you before her eyes do, and during that split-second blip of time, woven in the subtle knot of her brow, you see it. Pain. Regret, maybe. You're unsure of the source, but it cloaks her like a second skin.

The man slides two drinks across the counter with a nod of his head, and before you can thank him, Vi gulps down the liquid inside her glass. Sucks a breath through grit teeth and shakes the shock from her brain.

Once again, you witness the slip of her bravado. All bite; canine teeth and bruised knuckles. A dog attacking out of fear.

But why?

“Dance with me.” Her clammy hand wraps around your fingers, tugging you toward the packed crowd on the dance floor.

She glances back at you with a teasing grin, beautiful beneath the neon lights as bass-filled music thrums and vibrates your ribs. You find a good spot nearby, but the dancers surrounding you push your bodies together. Chest-to-chest, she leans forward, hands steady on your waist.

“You look nice,” she says, lips pressed to your ear.

Already, a hunger gnaws deep in the pit of your belly. Despite the heat, her leather jacket remains cool beneath your fingers as you tug her closer. Then you kiss her. Bottom lip split at the center, vodka and metal on your tongue, and you collapse against her. Weak, eager, running on impulse.

You never get the chance to actually dance. What starts out as kissing eventually escalates to her groping your ass right there on the floor, which escalates to you tugging her toward the bathroom with its dingy lighting and graffiti-covered walls. She chooses a stall furthest away from the door and shoves you back against the flimsy wall. The lock clicks with a solid thud. She drops to her knees.

“I never got to pay you back for last week,” she says, yanking your pants then underwear down.

You step out of one leg, then hook your knee over her shoulder.

Vi makes you stupid. You know this, you understand this, and yet you're weak to fight her gravitational pull. Really, you don’t even want to. You can’t even blame your impulsivity on the alcohol. Barely have a buzz.

All the second-guessing fizzles out as soon as her lips meet your cunt. She eats you out like it's all she's been thinking about. Messy and reverent. Loud with her muffled moans, gaze low-lidded and cloudy each time she pulls back to look at you all spread out for her.

It's the hottest thing you've ever seen, and despite her sloppy technique, you can't bring yourself to care when she looks up at you with crystalline eyes. Your fingers comb through her hair, the strands soft, hairline slick with sweat.

She circles your clit with her tongue and the leg holding you upright almost collapses. The back of your head smacks against the wall as the muscles of your abdomen clench. Her hands rise to cup your tits through your shirt, lips wrapping around your swollen clit. When she starts to hum, the vibration settles deep in your bones and turns your insides to putty.

You come with a bitten-off groan, breath catching in your throat, chest curling toward the top of her head. If not for her steadfast grip around your waist, your ass would hit the floor from how hard and fast the pleasure slams into you. For a long few moments, you're swept away, floating somewhere thoughtless and euphoric.

When you come back to your body, she kisses you. Soft and lazy. Tender. Splays her hands over your back and holds you like you're something precious. Like you're worthy enough to keep. Her tongue sweeps slow over your own and your arms curl around her neck, trapping her in place.

You’ve never been kissed like this, held like this before. Sharing intimacy likens to scratching an instinctual itch. You fuck for pleasure, you kiss for pleasure, you cuddle to burn the chill from your skin.

But this? This means something. The closest thing to love you'll most likely ever get. Might as well savor it while you can.

You bring her back to your apartment. Follow the same routine as last time (though a lot easier without her drunken stumbling): sharing a shower, eating her out, cleaning the both of you up afterward. You fetch a snack from the kitchen to share in bed, and your concern for her well-being only grows when she inhales her portion. Like she hasn't eaten in days.

“You can stay here whenever you want, ya know.” Said after another snack, both of you tucked in beneath the sheets.

Her fingers stop their back-and-forth stroking of your arm. “Yeah. I know.”

“It's just me here, so…”

“I appreciate it, but I'm okay.”

You try to brush off the declined invitation, but it stings regardless. An emotion that pings around inside your ribs, that you swallow down with a smile.

“Okay.”

—

There's blood on your bathroom floor and an injured Vi curled up naked in the tub. A bar fight, she said when she showed up at your door, teeth chattering from leftover adrenaline.

You don't get it. What she keeps fighting against. Why the blood doesn't matter to her.

The pool of water in the sink turned red a while ago as her clothes sit in some homemade mixture taught by your mom to help remove stains. You pick glass out of her scalp with a pair of shitty tweezers that don't even close all the way, cooped up in the pathetically small bathroom by a spread of every first-aid item found inside the apartment.

She makes you angry, makes you wanna cry sometimes when you think too hard about her pain.

“Why'd you do it?” you ask, voice whispered and wavering.

She hasn't looked at you since you opened the front door.

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does to me.”

She offers up one of her signature shrugs in explanation, and you want to scream. “It's funny. The whole time, I thought I was doing what's right, and it still cost me everything.”

You don't understand what she means, but you don't think she's in the mood for explanations. So you dab the blood from her hair and listen.

“At least I have you, right?”

Your heart tenders like a fresh bruise at the rasp in her voice and the empty look in her eyes. You want to pull her to your chest and say tell me all your troubles so I can help carry them.

You're in too deep. She gazes at you like you’re the only person left in the world, and you’re in too deep. Her blood is on your hands, beneath your fingernails, staining your floor. You'll never wash her out of this place.

“Always, Skipper.”

You're fucked. You're fucked.

“I can't protect you. Can't protect anybody anymore.”

“That's not your job. Besides, I have a gun for a reason.” You pause, washcloth pressed to where the blood still seeps. “Don't tell anybody I said that.”

Her first laugh of the night exhales soft out of her mouth. A lovely sound given her current condition. You could listen to it every day for the rest of your life.

“Do you think I could stay here a few days? At least until I heal up a bit.”

“Stay as long as you need, Vi. To be honest, I’d appreciate the company.”

“My company, or—”

“Specifically yours.”

She remains quiet for a moment, lips twitching at the corners, before she mutters, “Huh. Good to know.”

After you patch her up then help her to bed, she passes out. Stretched across the mattress, halfway under the sheets, drooling a wet spot in the pillow. You decide to leave her be and resign yourself to a night on the couch.

The rest of the week is eventless. You both talk a lot, mostly about your shared childhood and what happened in the years you were separated. Having someone to warm your bed, to fill the empty space of your lonely apartment is… nice. Once again, you find yourself slipping into the unnatural realm of domestication. The routine of waking up next to her, then fixing breakfast, then going to work, then coming home to her sprawled out on the couch.

Toward the end of the week, she finally tells you about her ex. The betrayal, losing Powder (Jinx), losing everything she had left in one fell swoop. You get it now—the drinking, the violence, the Pit, all her pain. Would no doubt do the same if you experienced even half the suffering she's been through.

The conversation happens when your dreams start bleeding through to your consciousness, in that odd state of pseudo-sleep brought on by exhaustion. A good time to bear her heart, when her words filter through the cotton of your ears. Still, you catch all of them.

When you wake the next morning to find all proof of her gone from your apartment, you aren't even surprised. She isn't ready to face the things chasing her, and you can't fix this on your own (no matter how badly you wish you could).

But you can go to the club and find solace in a pretty woman's bed.

—

You don't see her again until the battle against Noxus. Stood beside the infamous Commander Kiramman, speaking in intimate whispers, familiar in a way that settles betrayal in the pit of your stomach—maybe a bit more jealousy than you'd like to admit.

All the breath drains from your lungs when the woman circles a hand around her arm and the realization hits you. She's the ex Vi talked about, and despite the very important details Vi chose to leave out, there’s no mistaking blue eyes and deep blue hair and tall and thin and pretty.

(You were doomed from the fucking start. How could you ever compete with a piltie? One of the richest, most influential of them all?)

Vi gazes out at the crowd with thick arms crossed over her chest, and you hope she skips over your unremarkable form in a sea of unremarkable people. The time you spent together meant nothing—less than nothing. It's your own fault for betraying all you learned over the years. The only person you can blame is yourself.

Her gaze meets yours, and your heart skitters to a stop. Those pretty eyes widen. Time stills. Anger burns a hole through your chest. You shake your head at her when she takes a step forward, and spin on your heel to flee into the crowd.

Until you hear the familiar call of your name.

[lightseoul]

CHAPTER 9 | ALL OUT OF LUCK

w.c. 7.4k (hoo boy. i did say i would end this with a bang. i wrote and edited this in two days.)

tags. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (26), lots of cussing, mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions of food, mentions of physical & mental health issues, explicit...themes. y'all see for yourselves what those are

a/n. and here we are. a little over two months since i posted the masterlist in the hopes that it would motivate me to see this series through, and i actually did it!!! i poured my heart and soul into this chapter, specifically, so i hope you enjoy it and find it a great way to wrap up the story. see the end for a message <3

links. masterlist, ao3

You shoot up at the sound of a honk—a blaring sound that you think can only be from one of those humongous passenger buses that circle the city.

Except they never really pass by your neighborhood—your apartment being located in the outer peripheries of Musutafu.

So why, all of a sudden, are you hearing these noises?

Wasn’t it just recently that you shot up awake like this?

Clenching your eyes back closed, you shake your head vigorously. The dull thumping that stretches from your parietal straight to your frontal lobe is unmistakable, such is the dryness of your throat. You look to your left, letting out a sigh of relief when you see a glass of water on the nightstand. You quickly grab it and take a sip, finally eyeing your surroundings as you do so.

The room is dim—the city lights emanating through the window the only source of illumination within the four walls, enough to cast a faint glow on what you’re now sure is Bakugou’s bedroom. You’ve only been here one night, but the plush mattress beneath you feels familiar, and you’re a hundred percent sure that’s your suitcase in the corner right next to his wardrobe. The wardrobe where he retrieved the futon…last night?

You shift to be on all fours, wincing to a halt when your back screams in protest at the motion. You try to rotate your neck next, grateful when all you feel is a slight strain and a sting—like you’ve got some bruising at the front. The rest of your body seems to be working alright—fatigued, yes, but not enough to cause you a new wave of pain with every maneuver.

And so with that thought, you slowly crawl toward the foot of the bed, right until you catch a glimpse of the said futon. It’s somewhat undone—arranged exactly how you think Bakugou left it the morning of the mission. Well, how you two left it. You remember accidentally stepping on it once or twice while trying not to invade Bakugou’s personal space as you simultaneously got ready, making a mental note to fix it before you left.

You guess you never got to. Apparently, neither did Bakugou.

Which only means one thing.

It’s still D-Day.

Only then do the events from earlier today come flooding at you, and you find yourself stumbling out the door, barefoot and maybe still a little too out of it to be rushing like this.

Regardless, you burst out of the room—fully expecting the twins to be there—although you’re not hit with a sobering visual confirmation, nor are you hit with a menacing glare followed by a ripping out of your tracker, which you note has already disappeared from its spot in the middle of your chest.

Instead, what hits you is the heady yet comforting smell of ramen broth.

You glance in the direction of the kitchen, and sure enough, Bakugou’s standing there—decked out in lounge clothes under an apron with a ladle in one hand—staring at you, surprised.

“Hey,” he finally gets out after a beat of immobility, before facing back toward the stove and turning down the heat. “You’re awake.”

You nod, although he doesn’t see it with his back turned against you. You pad toward the kitchen as quietly as you can, stopping a few feet away from him where he looks so normal, like he didn’t just wrestle a murderer a couple of hours ago.

What the hell is going on?

Bakugou glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question—and it just dawns on you that you said that last bit out loud—before spinning to fully face you again.

“You had an anxiety attack,” he says as a matter of factly, and you feel yourself flame. “They told me to take you home after they did first aid on the both of us.”

So, he got hurt, too.

You tamp down the shame from your breakdown and note the bandage on his cheek, right where his scar is.

Still, it’s not exactly the two of you who you’re most concerned about right now…

You gulp, willing yourself to hold Bakugou’s gaze. “What about Masaki?” you ask. “D-did he—make it?”

At that, Bakugou sighs, and it’s enough for you to know the answer. Despite yourself, you feel a surge of guilt wash over your body.

“He was rushed to the hospital,” the pro-hero explains, solemn, “But he didn’t make it.”

And when you don’t say anything: “It’s not your fault, Y/N. You didn’t kill him,” he huffs, “I did.”

You shake your head decisively, before tossing him a stern look. “You did what you had to do.”

Bakugou stares at you for a second, an inexplicable expression on his face, although you don’t get to study it further because you look away first. “Did you know he was a consul?” you inquire, suddenly feeling the obligation to change the topic.

Bakugou turns, once again busying himself with the stove. “I heard.”

You pull a stool from underneath the kitchen island and hoist yourself up into it. “Explains why he was never around in the headquarters.”

“Explains why he was never home, either,” he piles on.

You feel your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently, he just went through a divorce and lost custody of his daughters to his ex-wife, who that guy Hiroto described to have a pretty weak quirk. Said the man always had supremacist views, but changed for the worst when the woman filed a case against him.”

Huh.

“Speaking of quirks,” Bakugou continues, stirring the broth, “I’m sure you figured it out, but his was called retaliate. He could absorb attacks, especially explosions, and redirect them with—”

“Double the power, yeah,” you finish for him.

“Quadruple if he’s feeling confident—an ironic clause for a relatively meek guy like him,” Bakugou remarks. “Explains why he still took you with him despite suspecting we were doing something behind his back. He needed your luck and was planning to blackmail you into boosting him.”

That makes you frown. “But they didn’t figure out it was actually manipulation, did they? He mentioned luck to me, too. In the car, before we went into the building.”

“No, they didn’t,” comes Bakugou’s cool response. “Masaki and the rest still thought it was luck, just that you may have been using it beyond their instruction. Plus, at that point, they already had my bombs, so they could easily dispose of me and use my life as leverage to get you to do what they said.”

Bakugou reaches for one of the condiments in the rack, lightly shaking the contents out of the container and into the soup. “Explains why they told me last night to follow suit and get dressed in normal clothes. Didn’t matter that I’d be easily identified in them—I was never gonna get to the Prime Minister’s Office anyway.”

That fucking reminds you. “Where did that bastard even take you?”

At that, Bakugou stiffens. “An industrial-grade refrigerator,” he mutters.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he spews, perhaps a bit miffed. You can tell he’s not enjoying talking about this. “I was bolted in, and Kouki disappeared before I could wrangle him into letting me out.”

You can only gawk at him as he drawls on. “Took me a while to gather enough sweat for one massive blow to break the lock.”

“H-how?” you manage to croak out.

“Push-ups,” he answers curtly, still stirring. “I lost count at around 300.”

He takes your stupefied silence as a sign to continue.

“After that, I figured the old geezer couldn’t have gotten me too far—otherwise, he would’ve depleted his capacity to conduct mass teleportation if things went south for them. I boosted myself up to get an aerial view and find a landmark, and got going when I did.”

“Were you still wearing your tracker?” you can’t help but probe.

“I had to,” Bakugou responds, “If I wanted him to come to me. When he found out I was on the move, he teleported to where I was—probably to teleport me to my death, leverage be damned—but I was faster, and he couldn’t catch up.”

“I blasted him unconscious before he could retreat and bring everyone else with him,” Bakugou says as he takes what looks to be a lid and puts it over the pot, leaving a small gap for the steam to come out. “He’s in custody now. Shitty hair’s talking to him as we speak.”

At the mention of the redhead’s nickname, you straighten up. “How is he? And Sero?” you say so quickly you almost stumble over your words, “Are they okay?”

“Yeah,” comes his prompt retort, and you find your shoulders sagging in relief. “The twins put up a fight, but they eventually had them wrapped in Sero’s tape and chased you to the elevator. But then somebody pulled the fire alarm and they got stuck.”

“It was Masaki,” you swiftly supply. “He did it just as he hauled me out of the elevator.”

Again, you watch as Bakugou visibly tenses, but he doesn’t say anything. At least, for a moment, before he sighs.

“Yeah, well, they couldn’t get out for a while because the system needed manual operation to send the elevator back to ground floor, and nobody was around to do it. They couldn’t smash their way out of there, either. Could’ve caused the entire thing to crash down.”

“Wasn’t there any other hero besides them?”

“No,” Bakugou says almost regrettably as he takes the bowl of uncooked noodles into his hands. “They thought I’d be there just as planned, so they assigned the rest of the pro-heroes involved to the rest of the schools.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “I guess that explains why they went for the twins first instead of Masaki. Maybe they thought you’d be there to handle him?”

“No, they had eyes on you,” he corrects, just as he pours the noodles into the soup. “Shitty hair said they prioritized the two because they seemed stronger than Masaki. His packing that much fucking strength came as a shock to everyone.”

You chuckle dryly. “Even you, right?”

He grunts, unamused. “Even me.”

You let yourself sit in silence as Bakugou continues to tend to what he’s cooking. It goes on like this for a little while, before it hits you belatedly.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” you suddenly ask, “You know, aside from Masaki?”

“None, unless you count property damage,” he quips, and you let out a half-hearted laugh. You can hear him smirking when he adds: “Luckily, Kirishima and the others had enough foresight to evacuate the place entirely.”

“I’m guessing you know how they did it?”

At that, Bakugou nods. “…Although, I can’t say I agree with it.”

You cock your head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“They used government surveillance information to send targeted texts to the potential victims—parents on behalf of the students, staff, employees,” he reveals, voice low. “Something about a suspension that they needed to be quiet about for their safety. Except the guards, who had to be there at the entrance.”

“But—”

“That would’ve meant Masaki and the twins would receive the message, too, I know,” he interjects. “Good thing I managed to put their names on that piece of paper. Otherwise, we would’ve been fucked.”

“No shit,” is the only thing you can mumble, head reeling from the revelation just now.

“…We barely made it, huh?” he rejoins, quiet.

“Yeah…” you reply.

A pause.

Then—

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out of the blue, startling Bakugou. You refuse to meet his gaze, though, even as you continue. “For losing it back there.”

At that, Bakugou whips to look at you, and you have no choice but to look up at him. “Hah?”

“I didn’t think I’d use everything up, and it’s been so long since I last depleted my quirk like that,” is the only thing you can get out.

You let your eyes fall to your enjoined hands in front of you. “I couldn’t control myself. I’m…sorry.”

Another pause.

“Tsk.”

Your eyes widen at the unexpected sound, and despite yourself, you find your line of vision going back to Bakugou, who’s now scowling at you.

“The only thing you should be sorry for is that unnecessary as shit apology,” he spits, before turning back to the stove. “Now, come on. Help me with the plates.”

You do just as Bakugou says and assist him.

You end up situating the placemats and cutlery just as he finished up the dish, serving it not even a few minutes later in a luxurious-looking, suspiciously Todoroki-esque bowl that you’re sure costs more than a well-functioning arm.

You try to ignore it as you navigate yourself in his kitchen, although it eventually becomes apparent that a peculiar kind of tension lingers in the air still, but you figure it’s not entirely unfathomable.

It’s only been a few hours, after all.

You repeat this like an incantation in your head—again and again until it somehow sticks—even as you quietly say your thanks and dig in. Not one word is uttered in between spoonfuls of food, the silence reminiscent of yesterday’s dinner—even though yesterday now feels like a whole month ago.

At least, that’s what you were thinking, until a booming voice erupts throughout the room, entirely juxtaposing the earlier stillness. You startle, then ease up when you realize it’s All Might’s, and that it’s merely a ringtone. Bakugou scrambles to fetch his phone from the island, although whatever urgency he had just now goes out the window when he sees the caller ID.

“It’s Asahi,” he grumbles.

You hurriedly swallow your noodles. “Aren’t you gonna answer that?”

Bakugou glares at his phone for another second before shaking his head and turning it off, walking back toward you.

“Isn’t he gonna get mad?” you ask just as he reseats himself.

“We’ve been on duty for over two weeks,” Bakugou snarls, picking back up his chopsticks. “He can kindly go fuck himself.”

That makes you snort, which earns you a smirk, although his face falls almost immediately after.

You swallow the discomfort that shoots to your throat at the sight of it.

You try not to get caught, but you secretly sneak glances for the rest of the meal, and only by the end of it do you notice that his hair’s gone back to its normal, unruly state—probably due to a shower that he took after you got home.

That, and there’s definitely something weighing him down.

You just don’t know what.

You don’t attempt to comment on it as you help him clean up the plates, or even as you start drying the dishes after he washes them beside you. He doesn’t try to start a conversation, either, focus seemingly trained solely on the task in front of him, although you know better than to believe what your eyes are telling you.

It’s that thought that ultimately emboldens you to speak up a few minutes in.

You clear your throat, eyeing him as subtly as you can. “…Something on your mind?”

To your dismay, he doesn’t answer you, only passing a plate without sparing you a single glance.

Well, then.

Despite yourself, you feel yourself deflate at his snubbing.

You had your doubts about coming forward and asking him, although that’s when the memories of the things you had to go through together came in and you thought he’d trust you enough to share—but you guess you’re getting ahead of yourself, because there’s no way he’d—

“You used your quirk on me, didn’t you?

You freeze, all thoughts wiped out from your brain.

You feel his gaze on the side of your face, but you don’t dare turn to look at him, nor do you open your mouth.

He turns away, nodding. “I knew it.”

Fuck this.

“People don’t normally notice—” you blurt, and he shifts to face you again, “—when I use it on them.”

You scratch at your cheek, feeling weirdly restless. “I think it’s only because you’re perceptive to begin with, and because you know about me and what I can do.”

“Why’d you do it?” is his immediate response, catching you off guard. You splutter, although—to your chagrin—he only raises an eyebrow at you, expression nothing less than expectant.

What the hell are you supposed to say other than the truth, then?

“Fine,” you hiss, pulling your lips into a thin line. “It was because I noticed you were getting frantic.”

At that, Bakugou’s eye twitches. “You calling me sloppy?”

“No!” you exclaim, then backtrack. “I was just—I just did what my instincts told me…”

And really, you did.

That’s all you could’ve done in that situation, for a person with your experience.

And you’re about to expound on that to a skeptical Bakugou when, to your surprise, he nods.

“Good call,” he mutters so silently, but you hear it anyway, and your eyes widen.

You must be gaping at him like he just said you are the greatest person to have ever graced the earth because he immediately looks away, embarrassed, a sudsy bowl still in hand.

“It’s stupid,” he continues, and you barely clock him having resorted to aggressively toeing his house slippers—the pair you bought for him. “I’ve never really lost my cool like that before.”

Now, that you’re not sure of.

Still, you force out a decent reaction.

“R-really?”

You’re instantly granted with a side-eye. “Don’t sound so fucking shocked.”

“It’s not that—” you choke, “It’s just that—”

“I have a short temper, I know. Sue me,” he spews, shutting you up.

“But I never let that get in the way of my work,” Bakugou pushes, suddenly serious. “Never.”

You frown, placing the plate you’ve been holding in the drying rack. “Well, they did fool us by separating us last minute,” you offer just as you look back at him, “I’d be pissed, too, getting betrayed like that.”

Bakugou doesn’t say anything in reply, opting to stare at you—borderline scowling—for what feels like a minute. He eventually sighs, and you find yourself mentally sighing at the break in eye contact as he puts down the dish he was in the middle of washing.

But then he turns to you again, face blank, and says the strangest thing.

“Tell me. Are you playing with my emotions right now?”

“What?” you cry, “No! Why would you even—”

You’re cut off when—without warning—Bakugou coaxes the towel from your hand and takes a step close, invading your space.

“Good,” he rumbles, voice low and gruff as he leans even closer. “Just wanted to make sure.”

That’s all the warning he gives you before he grabs your neck and dives in, pressing his lips firmly against yours. You instantly shut down at the contact, your body going rigid against his just like when he kissed you out of the blue this morning. But unlike earlier today, you don’t relax, and he must’ve sensed it, because he quickly pulls away, the hand that was just on your nape now resting on your shoulder.

“Shit,” Bakugou curses, a mortified look on his face. “I’m sorry, I thought—”

“No!” you interject, “I mean, it’s okay. It’s just…”

“Just what?” he breathes out, releasing you from his hold, and you don’t know if you’ve finally gone crazy, but did he just sound…hopeful?

No, he didn’t.

Which is why you muster up the courage to say the next thing.

“You’re just confused,” you finally get out, looking him straight in the eye.

His reply is instant.

“Believe me, I’m fucking not.”

That makes you frown, because why is he giving you such a hard time? You’re giving him an out, for god’s sake. A wake-up call, if you will.

That none of these is real.

And that he’s confusing make-believe with reality.

These very thoughts must be evident on your face because he studies you closely for a bit, a similar frown etched on his features. He then shakes his head, the same way he does when he’s getting impatient.

“You don’t believe me?” he finally says, and you’re about to say no, you do not, when he suddenly takes a step closer, and you find yourself stumbling back.

“What if,” another step forward for him, another one backward for you, “I tell you that I’ve been wanting to kiss the crap out of you, even when no one’s watching?”

Yet another step, and he finally stops. “Especially when no one’s watching.”

You can’t help it—you sputter, and to that, Bakugou only flashes you a devilish smirk. “Nothing?” he taunts, “You’ve got nothing to say?”

“J-just kiss?”

The second you say it, you know you fucked up.

His crimson eyes widen in surprise. “I mean, I want to fuck you, too, but—”

“No!” you cry, and he shuts up, “I mean, not like that. What I meant was, is this thing you’re feeling purely physical? Not that I think I’m all that—” you quickly disclaim, “—but is there something else, or…?”

At that, the motherfucker chuckles, and you’ve got half a mind to bury yourself in the very ground you’re standing on. But then you remember you’re on the top floor of a high-rise building, so that would only mean—

“I want to date the crap out of you, too, dumbass.”

“…Oh.”

A raised eyebrow. “Just ‘oh’?”

You flush. That was too soon of a reference.

Still, you have to respond.

“Oh, as in, oh, great,” you croak, “Because, believe it or not, I feel the same way.”

You can only watch in delight as Bakugou releases a breath you think he didn’t know he was holding, utter relief written all over his body. There’s no controlling the smile that breaches your mouth at the sight of it, earlier’s dreadful anticipation now morphing into a hoard of rabid butterflies. Bakugou sees the change in your countenance and grins.

“Does this mean I get to kiss you now? And that you won’t just stand there like a fucking corpse?”

That earns him a punch to the arm, which he takes in stride, laughing. “Can’t you just do it without teasing me?” you grumble, “You’re such a dickhead.”

“Got it, princess,” is the last (pestering) thing he says before reaching for your neck again and pulling you toward him, wasting no time in bringing your lips to his.

It doesn’t elude you that you’re still somewhat tense, but you eventually manage to will yourself to ease up just as his other hand shoots up to hold your cheek, tilting it so he can deepen the kiss. You can’t help it—you groan when he does, and he takes that as an opportunity to slowly enter your mouth with his tongue, and you squeak at the intrusion. He only laughs at that, but he doesn’t let up, his tongue seemingly having a mind of its own as it swirls and explores without restraint.

You don’t know how long this goes on—your brain filled with nothing but the sensation of Bakugou’s soft lips against yours—but he eventually pulls away, and you have to stop yourself from ogling at how debauched he looks with just his flushed face and swollen lips. You guess you aren’t any different, because Bakugou’s eyes rove over your face—hungrily—almost as if he’s drinking you in.

“You’re a good kisser,” you offer lamely, desperate for anything to fill the tense air.

At that, he coughs, as if he didn’t expect you to say that of all things. “T-thanks. You, too.”

You flash him a grateful smile, although it’s quick to falter.

A beat.

“So…” you try again, “What now?”

Bakugou looks down at his feet, suddenly shy. “I—uh, meant it, you know.”

You gulp. “Meant what?”

“That I want to fuck you.”

Shit.

“But I understand if you don’t want to, or if that’s moving too fast. It’s only been two weeks and—”

“Correction,” you cut in, “It’s been over two weeks. You said so yourself.”

That makes Bakugou pause, who only looks at you in bewilderment. “What are you trying to—”

“I’m ready,” you declare, voice nothing short of sure. “I want this.”

That seems to set something off in the pro-hero, because his entire demeanor shifts. You don’t get to comment on it before he’s back on you in an instant, encasing your lips in a searing kiss. You stagger back from the sheer force alone, grabbing onto his shirt for purchase as you stumble across the living room, not parting ways for even a second, his mouth hot against yours. He seizes you by the waist just as you almost crash into the wall, expertly maneuvering you through the door and into his bedroom, lips still molded together.

He only pulls away when you reach the foot of his bed, letting go of his grip on you to lift you bridal-style, the brazen display of effortless strength sending a shot of arousal into your veins. You loop your arms around his neck as he climbs over the mattress, inching toward the headboard before gently placing you down into the pillows. You waste no time pulling him back closer to you, initiating the kiss this time, and you think he must like that, judging by the way he groans quietly.

“What,” you mumble against his lips, “You like it when I take charge?”

“Fuck off,” he mumbles back, although he doesn’t break away, only biting your lower lip as if in punishment. You wince, but he’s quick to lave over it with his tongue. “Hurry up and—” a kiss, “—take off—” another kiss, “—mm—your clothes.”

That makes you laugh. Of course, he’d order you to strip after just cussing you out.

You don’t complain, though, lightly shoving him away so you can pull your shirt over your head. You glance at Bakugou when it’s off of you, and sure enough, he’s staring at your chest.

“Aren’t you gonna undress as well?” you ask pointedly, hoping your embarrassment isn’t showing on your face.

“Shit, right,” he blubbers, and you find yourself smiling as he hurries to take off his shirt.

Only that smile doesn’t get to last for too long before it’s instantly replaced with an ‘o’ at the sight of his ridiculously defined abs.

You point to it, honestly perturbed. “How the fuck is that even possible?”

Now that makes him laugh, the motion causing his abdominal muscles to flex and you blanch. “What if I tell you I’ve had them since high school?”

“Liar.”

Bakugou grins. “Had you known, would you have forced me to listen to your confession?”

“That’s it,” you make a move to get out of the bed but he tugs you back, flashing you a boyish smile that you don’t want to admit makes you—kinda—all weak in the knees.

“That was the last one,” he promises, still grinning, “I swear.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why do I feel like you’re lying straight out of your ass.”

“Me?” he asks, feigning innocence as he crawls closer, towering over you again until you’re back to lying on the bed. “Never.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan, looking anywhere but at him or his broad chest. Although, your efforts are all for naught because he lifts one hand and takes your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Can I take off your bra?” he inquires, the earnestness in his tone almost causing you to squirm.

You thankfully don’t—you’ve decided you’ve embarrassed yourself enough for today—and instead, nod. He doesn’t bother to say anything else as he reaches for your back, and you arch—slowly, Masaki did a number on you, after all—just in time so he can feel your clasp. It takes him a second to undo it, and a few more to lift it off of you, but when he does, the first thing he says is—

“Fuck.”

You snort. “I’m guessing that you like them.”

“Obviously, dumbass,” he spits, although it’s more playful than scathing. Then, he’s back to staring, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. “Wow.”

“What, is this the first time you’ve seen boobs?” you joke—because there’s no way a guy like him has never been with a girl, at least physically—although the jesting lilt in your voice immediately dies out when his face falls and he looks away.

Shit.

There’s only one thing for you to do.

Reaching out for his nape, you tug him down until he’s only a few centimeters away, taking his lips into yours before he can protest. To your relief, he melts into your touch, back to eagerly returning the kiss in a matter of seconds. Wanting to make him feel good now more than ever, you let your other hand snake up to his hair, grabbing a fistful before pulling tentatively—as if to test the waters. You don’t end up disappointed—in fact, you’re far from it—when he groans against your mouth, louder than before. Emboldened by his generous reaction, you pull again—harder this time—and it’s your turn to be surprised when his hips buck involuntarily against your own, giving you the slightest bit of friction that’s nowhere near enough.

You rub your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache as discreetly as you can, although this motion doesn’t go unnoticed by Bakugou, who withdraws ever so slightly to study you.

“You okay?”

“Yes—it’s just,” you hesitate, before deciding you owe him the truth. “…I want you.”

Whatever Bakugou expected you to say, it sure wasn’t that—and so candidly, too—because he splutters, face evidently flushing despite the dim lights. “I-I want you, too,” he says honestly, “But I should warn you, I’ve never really done this before.”

“I thought you were gonna say you were massive,” you quip.

“Yeah,” he smirks without missing a beat, and you choke, “That, too.”

You slap his chest, which you instantly regret. “You’re the worst!”

He doesn’t say anything to that, only grinning as he leans in and—to your surprise—latches his lips onto your neck. You barely stop yourself from jolting in pleasure when he finds and nips at your pulse point—no doubt leaving a mark that you’re going to have to color correct tomorrow if you don’t want to get any funny looks. To your chagrin—or delight, you don’t fucking know at this point—Bakugou doesn’t stop his assault on your neck, instead bringing one hand up to graze the skin below your breast.

Suddenly tired of all the teasing, you grab his hand yourself and place it right on your boob, smiling when a curse is immediately muttered against your neck. You don’t let go of your hold, choosing to guide him on how to grope and fondle it instead. Bakugou catches on quickly, and before you know it, he’s already playing with your nipples, twisting and pulling them just the way you like.

“You can use your mouth, too, if you want,” you tell him a few moments later, stifling a moan when he sucks on a spot at the crook of your neck one more time, before nodding and easing down so he can be face to face with your chest.

He doesn’t let you get another word in before he takes a nipple into his mouth, and this time, you can’t stop yourself—you jerk against him—which only pushes it further. He takes the opening and starts sucking, and you’ve got half a mind to push him away. You don’t, though, and you doubt you could’ve anyway, his grip on your waist unrelenting as he switches between breasts, doing all sorts of things with his tongue that have your mind swimming.

“Still think I’m the worst?” he eventually looks up and asks roguishly, lips even more swollen and glistening with saliva.

“Jury’s still out—” you hiss when he pinches a nipple, and you swat him away. “Never mind, you are the worst.”

“Even when I do this?” he drawls, and you’re about to clarify with him what he’s going off about this time, when he unexpectedly slips a finger underneath your panties, and you barely, barely manage to bite back a moan.

“Fuck,” he rasps, “you’re so wet.”

You fight back a shudder even as he traces the outline of your sex, seemingly entranced. “Are you—are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

“What, you saying I’m a liar?” is his snarky retort, although he thankfully doesn’t stop his ministrations. In fact, your question only seems to provoke him, causing him to apply more pressure.

“N-no, it’s just that, fuck—” you huff, “I-I wouldn’t be surprised if you went d-down on me and you’d be good at that, too.”

That makes Bakugou pause, and you almost whine at the loss.

But then he practically rips your underwear out of the way, and you somehow don’t find it in you to care at all. They were granny panties anyway, and you’re too engrossed in how the pro-hero urges you to open your thighs for him, and then prying them open himself when you take too long to do it.

Not to mention the look on his face when he finally sees you.

“Stop staring at me, Bakugou,” you can’t help but grumble.

“Katsuki.”

“What?”

He doesn’t shift to look at you, gaze still focused between your thighs. “Call me Katsuki.”

That’s all the foreboding he offers before he dives in and licks a long strip along your slit, and you almost scream, if not for the hand you slap over your mouth the second that he does. He’s relentless—even as you squirm and tremble underneath him—lapping on your wetness like a man who hasn’t had a drop of water for days. You jolt when he flicks his tongue right at your clit, hands instinctively shooting up to grab at his hair. But then he makes the mistake of pushing the wet muscle into your entrance, and you inadvertently pull—hard—hard enough that it causes him to groan against your core, sending a surge of vibrations straight into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you warble, looking down at Bakugou only to see him peering up at you with half-lidded eyes that’s got you almost moaning again. “Keep on doing that.”

Fortunately, Bakugou doesn’t tease you for sounding pathetic just now, only choosing to do as you say. He resumes, with renewed vigor, paying particular attention to your clit this time. He keeps on licking it, and then sucking, before licking it again, that you almost don’t notice when a finger presses against your hole. But then he’s inching it slowly and you’re suddenly all too aware of the intrusion.

The first thing that registers is that his fingers are definitely bigger than yours.

The second thing is that fuck—did he just insert a second one?

You look down to where he’s stuck to your body, but you can’t see anything beyond his head of ash-blonde hair.

But then he does a scissoring motion inside you just as he suckles at your clit, and that’s all the confirmation you need. You can’t help it—you finally moan—and you barely miss him grinning against your pussy at the sound of it.

“Fucking finally,” he breathes out, lifting his head a bit so he can speak. “I thought you were never gonna moan for me again.”

“Again?” you barely manage to answer, already missing his mouth on you. You may be out of it, but you’re certain you haven’t cracked until just now.

“Already forgot?” he goads, pulling his fingers out of you. “Let me remind you then.”

Before you can get up and coerce him to just shut up and continue what he was doing, he’s back to towering over you, smashing his lips against yours.

And then he does it—the thing he did before. The first day in your shared bedroom. You still don’t know what it is, but he does something with his tongue, or his mouth? His teeth? You don’t fucking know, but it’s coupled with his scalding hold on your body, and despite yourself, you moan.

He promptly pulls away, a proud smirk on his face.

“Now, don’t hold back,” he commands cooly as you gape at him in half offense, half shock. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He then makes quick work of taking off his boxers, and at this point, you can only stare at him as he eases it off.

He wasn’t kidding.

If he’s noticing you practically eye-fucking him, though, he doesn’t comment on it, although the faint tinge of scarlet on his cheeks is undeniable. Instead, he only crawls over you again, right until he’s hovering over your pelvis.

Wait.

“Bakugou—” you start.

“Katsuki,” he corrects petulantly.

“Katsuki,” you force yourself to say, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious, “Let me make you feel good, too.”

“Next time,” he quickly responds, and you feel your heart lurch at the promise of a continuation. “I just need to be inside you, or I’m gonna fucking nut.”

You frown, although his honest admission sends an undeniable thrill down your spine. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he seethes, “Now, come on.”

You don’t waste another second, opening up your legs just enough for Bakugou to position himself between them. He’s got an arm propped at the side of your head to support his weight, while the other reaches down to finally grab his cock. He instantly hisses at the contact, and you don’t have to look to know it’s his pre-cum that’s dribbling down your thighs.

He then mutters a curse to himself, but it’s not exactly laced with lust just as it has been the past how many minutes.

And that’s when it hits you.

The guy is nervous.

You reach up to touch his cheek, his eyes shooting up to meet yours when you do. You offer him a small smile, one that you hope says ‘I’m alright’ and that ‘I want this’. But then you remember this is Bakugou freaking Katsuki, and the last thing he needs is to be placated.

“Relax, Katsuki,” you coo, grinning when he shoots you a glare.

“And you’re gonna have to do that on your own,” you tease, “I’m all out for today.”

That lights a flame under his ass, because the glare just now morphs into a look of determination, and one glimpse of it is enough to tell you you’re fucked.

“Spread your fucking pussy,” he growls, and you immediately do as he says. He’s back to gripping his cock in an instant, giving himself a few pumps before he’s aligning it with your entrance.

And just like that, he pushes in.

You both groan when he does, his massive dick barely breaching your hole, and yet, it already feels like your nerves are on fire. You sneak a peek at the pro-hero, and you’re glad you do, because you’re met with the glorious sight of Bakugou with his eyes clenched close, lips bit in a fierce attempt to stay quiet.

“Tell me when to move,” he rasps out, refusing to open his eyes.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, bringing your arms up to wrap them around his torso. “Look at me.”

“I can’t,” he seethes, just as you feel his cock twitch inside you. “Or else I’m gonna finish.”

Knowing better than to press him, you nod instead, before wiggling your hips slightly. That grants you a curse from him, but before he can cuss you out, you speak up.

“I think I’m ready. You can move no—” you hiss when he pushes without warning, and he freezes.

“Fuck, I’m sorr—”

“Just—slowly, Katsuki. Go on, move.”

He pushes again—slowly, this time—and you can only sit there and take it as he eases in, inch by inch—stopping sometimes when it gets a bit much for you—until he’s finally, fully sheathed in.

“Shit.”

“God.”

“You’re so fucking tight,” Bakugou grits out, head nestled within the crook of your neck. He still refuses to look at you, but apparently, that doesn’t matter as long as you’re being praised, because his comment inadvertently causes you to clamp down on his cock, and his breath hitches.

“Jesus,” he drones, burying himself further into your neck. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to tentatively roll your hips against his instead. He moans in your ear, and this time, you can’t help but whimper.

“Move, Katsuki,” you plead, “I can’t wait anymore.”

That seems to sober him right up, because he grunts in acknowledgement, before slowly lifting himself with his arms. Only then does he opens his eyes, and it takes everything within him not to cum at the sight of you.

He knows better than to fucking give up, though—not when he’s come this far—so with renewed purpose, he starts with small, shallow thrusts that have you mewling at him and him grunting at you, until he gradually builds speed and he’s pulling almost all the way out only to slam back into you again.

He does this again and again—somehow deeper and deeper each time—all the while panting and moaning above you, until he prods at a particular spot that has you jerking violently against him, cursing. “Fuc—”

“Shit,” he freezes, “What—”

“No, no, no, no,” you cry out, clawing at his bare arms, “Don’t stop!”

At your request, Bakugou’s back to pounding into you in an instant, and you barely miss him looking at you with feral eyes before he hits the spot again, and you scream.

“Right—fuck—right there!”

At that, Bakugou rolls his hips once more and hits your G-spot squarely, and you moan.

“Right there?” he breathes out in question, chest puffing in pride as he watches you bob your head desperately, too blissed out to even care what you look like.

But then your walls are clamping down on him again, and Bakugou curses. “I’m not gonna l-last any l-longer,” he manages to get out, choosing to look at anywhere but your face.

“P-play—fuck,” you choke out, “—play with my c-clit.”

And when you don’t immediately feel his finger on your bud: “Hurry.”

That has Bakugou rushing to rub your clit, and you can only beg for more as the overwhelming feeling of his cock inside you mixes with the euphoria brought by his fingers—until you feel the tell-tale signs of your impending orgasm.

“K-Katsuki,” you shudder, “I’m gonna c-cum.”

“I’m g-gonna—” he grunts, eyes clenched closed, “—fuck—I’m gonna cum, t-too.”

“Katsuki,” you call again, and he turns his head to face your direction. “Look at me.”

And when he does—open his eyes—you roll your hips against his as best as you can, and you say it.

“Give it to me, hero.”

And just like that, he cums.

Hard.

And you cum right with him, digging your nails into his biceps as you moan, so loud you wish he’d kiss you to shut you up, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he moans with you—a strangled one that strangely sends a pang of longing straight to your chest, a longing that you can now finally admit is for the very person in your arms, who you so ardently wish would stay there, even if the mission is long over.

You don’t say any of this, though, even as he kisses your forehead before slowly pulling out, or even as he silently pads to the bathroom to get a towel so he can get you cleaned up. You thank him as he does, and watch him as he puts it away and hesitates for a moment—as if the manual he’s read about sex as a high schooler ends at physical aftercare and he’s run out of instructions.

It’s after a few more moments of awkward silence do you finally sit up and move, scooching over to make space beside you. Bakugou’s eyes trail your movement, widening when he realizes just what you’re doing. He’s stiff even as he crawls to the spot next to you, promptly taking the duvet cover that was tossed to the side in the middle of…everything, before laying it on top of your bodies.

“Thanks,” you murmur, not knowing what else to say.

“‘s nothing,” is his reply, voice equally quiet.

Neither of you says anything for a while, even as Bakugou gently tugs your head so you can rest it on his shoulder.

It’s you, though, who breaks the silence.

“You know, had I known things were gonna end this way, I would’ve just slept in the same bed as you.”

“Fucking tell me about it.”

a/n. :') first off, i want to thank you, friend, for taking a chance on this series and reading it up 'til the end. this has been the biggest endeavor i've ventured into as a writer, and it still feels surreal to me that i'm writing this now as i am about to post the last chapter. that being said, the biggest thank you to everyone who's shown love to all out of luck, especially the ones who left even just a single-worded comment. with the series having reached its end, it would mean the world to me if you let me know what you think about it / how it was for you <3 thank you so so much!!!

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, too—i'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!

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Losing Sleep - Ticci Toby x Female reader NSFW

Warnings: Somnophilia (so therefore noncon)

Originally published on AO3, which you can read here if you’d prefer :)

Tags: Stalker! Toby, Obsessive behavior, Extremely dubious consent, fingering, creampie

As I always say with my creepypasta fics: all canon will be flexible to make way for sexy

Hey guys so I’m used to posting on AO3 but I think I’m gonna start cross posting some fics here and doing headcanons and whatnot :3

Toby was obsessed.

Even saying that was just an understatement though. Having slipped into your room as he had many times before in the night, he was able to admire you yet again.

Truthfully, he was lucky you were so oblivious. He wasn’t exactly subtle in his ways of stalking you. You were way too busy, always caught up in your thoughts. Too distracted to ever notice small things shifting in your room. Too scatterbrained to notice pairs of your underwear going missing. Too occupied daydreaming to feel his eyes on you as he followed you home or watched you in your daily life.

However, Toby’s favorite thing about you was how heavy of a sleeper you were. I mean, he could practically get away with murder in here and you’d still be lying there peacefully, blissfully unaware of his presence.

He crouched down by your bed, only a few inches away from your face. His hand gently brushed against your cheek, feeling your soft skin. A rush of sick giddy joy ran through him, and he had to pull away quickly, his neck jerking to the side.

It was always so hard to keep his tics under control when he was around you, maybe it was a sign of how much he loved you. It was moments like this that got him even more frenetic. The thrill of trying to keep himself under control, inevitably making some noise and waiting to see if you would wake up.

You never did, but he imagined what would happen if you were to. The fear in your eyes that would be there initially. The adrenaline that would be running through his and your veins.

But then you’d understand that he only did all of this because he loves you so much. Because he needs you so much.

He knew you’d understand because you were so kind. That time when he first saw you, working at your part time job. You were so bright and bubbly. You met his eyes when you checked him out, making conversation and smiling instead of looking down and staying quiet like other people did.

It was from that day that he dedicated himself to you. One day, you’d be his.

His eyes gazed over your sleeping form. He started thinking about the ways he’d touch you, imagining the sounds you would make. How excited you’d get and how you’d beg him for more.

He could picture your body on top of his, bouncing as best as you can on his cock. He could hear you whimpering and begging him to take over, to fuck you better than you could ever try to fuck yourself on his cock.

He felt his jeans tighten and his cock throb, getting painfully hard at his own fantasies. That was his signal that it was time to grab a pair of your panties and slip out.

He slowly opened your closet, pulling out your hamper to look for a freshly used pair of underwear, until a noise from you caught his attention. Had you woken up? There was no way.

He looked back over at your bed, your body was shifting a bit under the blanket. Another small noise escaped you. It sounded… almost like moan.

It couldn’t be what he thought it was. How did he get this lucky? He slowly crept over to your bed, lightly lifting your blanket off of you.

He was met with many wonderful realizations. The first being, you only slept in your underwear and a loose t-shirt. The second, you slept with a pillow between your legs. The third and best of all, you were rutting your hips against the pillow, another small moan coming from your lips.

For a moment, he just stood and watched you in awe. The tiny movements of your hips, the way your lacy panties clung to them, the sounds you were making, all things that were driving him crazy.

How pitiful.

You were obviously having a nice dream. The way you were lightly rutting your hips, desperate for some friction. The pillow didn’t seem to be giving you what you needed.

It would be cruel, honestly, to just leave you here and not help you out. You were obviously aching to come.

He gently turned you onto your back, pulling the pillow out from between your legs, careful to not wake you up. Even in the lowlight he could see how wet you were, the fabric just between your legs was soaked.

He gently ran his hand along your cheek, drifting down to lightly brush against your neck. Your body shivered and he hoped it wasn’t because his hands were cold, not that he could tell if they were. But the way you moved towards his touch told him it was because your body was responding to him.

He had to calm himself down. Just the thought of truly touching you was already making him go feral and he wasn’t sure he wanted you to wake up. The timing wasn’t right.

He hooked his fingers into your panties, pulling them down your soft legs. He considered putting them in his pocket for later but given the situation he probably wouldn’t need them.

He bit his lip, slipping his hand between your thighs and pushing them apart. Your arousal glistened in the moonlight. His fingers lightly brushed over your clit and another small whine escaped you. It was like you were begging for him.

Once you had given him a little taste, there was no way he could stop himself now. He was already becoming addicted to touching you. He ran his finger up your slit, groaning softly when your wetness collected on his finger.

Another shaky breath escaped him as he pushed a finger into you, slipping in easily without any resistance. You moaned softly again, your hips bucking ever so slightly.

He could barely contain himself, the way you were squeezing around him was almost enough to make him lose control entirely. He lightly gripped your hip, stabilizing you as he slipped a second finger in and gently hooked them forward.

He bit his lip hard, knowing he would have to keep a slow pace to keep you in dreamland. He deluded himself into believing you were dreaming about him, although it was impossible since you probably didn’t even remember him.

Your body was responding to him so well, your little mewls getting louder and louder.

My perfect little slut.

His cock throbbed again, reminding him just how much the thrill of keeping a balance between not waking you up and making you come was turning him on. Your cunt was sucking him in. He could only imagine how good it would feel to fuck you.

He kept lightly rutting his fingers into you, now adding pressure to your clit with his thumb, wanting so desperately to push you over the edge, to feel your cunt convulse around his fingers.

Something closer to a real moan escaped you and then he felt it. Your cunt was squeezing around his fingers in a steady rhythm. He had actually made you come in your sleep.

Toby just couldn’t take it anymore. That was the final thing that made him snap. He needed to be inside you. Now.

It would just be the head. Everything would be fine if it was just the head. Surely you wouldn’t wake up just from that.

He quickly unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants and his boxers down all in one move. He stroked his already hard cock a few times, biting back a groan.

Carefully, he ran the tip of his cock against your dripping cunt. He sucked in breath. “Fuck…”

He slowly pushed himself into you letting out a full groan this time. He looked down at your sleeping face.

How the fuck is she still asleep?

He was almost convinced you were faking it. That you were pretending to be asleep so he would keep going.

Once he had the head inside, his cock was only throbbing harder, screaming at him to push all the way inside. He just couldn’t do it. You felt way too good.

He grabbed your hips harshly, quickly shoving the rest of his cock inside you. Immediately, he started rutting into you at a fast pace.

Instantly, you awoke, disoriented and confused at the man you didn’t recognize pounding your cunt. Were you still dreaming?

One harsh thrust that rammed against your cervix proved to you that it was not, you let out a sharp wince from the pain.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, pushing your shirt up to expose your tits.

You only moaned and whined in response, still utterly dazed and lacking the alertness to fight.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this.” He said, voice shaking from his excitement. “I just needed to have you so badly.”

Your eyes traveled down to where he was still pounding into you relentlessly.

“Oh my god.” You moaned, feeling your stomach start to tighten. Tears began to fill your eyes as you started to realize what was happening.

“Shhh. It’s okay. Just a little longer.” He attempted to soothe you, feeling himself get close to the edge.

You were getting closer too, your cunt already stimulated from the previous orgasm. You couldn’t stop him now, you were too close to coming. It felt too good to stop him.

“God. Fuck…!” He moaned, sliding his arm underneath you to pull your waist closer. “This is your fault you know?”

You couldn’t answer him even if you wanted to, moaning uncontrollably as your orgasm built. Either way, you had no idea what he was talking about.

“If you weren’t so fucking stupid, so fucking perfectly stupid. God…” he was rambling at this point, trying not to come yet so he could prolong the feeling of fucking you. “And if your cunt didn’t feel this fucking good. Fuck…” he sucked in a breath.

“No… fuck…!” You moaned, arching your body into him as your cunt milked his cock, begging for his cum. Coming around his cock felt so good you thought you could actually see stars.

“So good for me. That’s it. Fuck…!” A couple more strokes and he was moaning in your ear as his cum filled your cunt.

Well, the game was over now. He was forced to take you back with him. He had wanted you to come willingly but… that wasn’t really an option now.

His dark eyes met yours, his expression so sinister you felt yourself shrink in his gaze.

“Now I’m gonna need you to be good for me. I don’t wanna have to hurt you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

pls remember to distinguish fiction from reality! These types of behaviors shouldn’t be emulated in real life without extensive conversation beforehand between consenting partners!

Hope you guys enjoyed :3

[venusbyline]

Taste ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 03, oct.

— pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fiancée!reader

— type: smut, Kinktober (Criminal Minds Edition)

— kink: lactation

— summary: Hotch never felt horny seeing a woman breastfeeding. Until he watched his fiancée doing it.

— word count: 2.9k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 3rd day, female!reader, fiance!Hotch, lactation kink, breastfeeding, breast worship, fingering, light overstimulation, mention of Haley's death, Jack has a little sister, canon divergence. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @thatredlipped-classic @magnoliatrees-world @ehedrick012110 @hotchsmutrecs @slutcakes00 @emma-e-a

— crossposting: AO3

Hotch swore to himself that he wouldn't get involved with anyone else after Haley's death. He promised for Jack's sake and his ex-wife's memory, he would try his best to stay away from any woman who could mean more to him than just a few nights of sex or random drinks at a bar. He swore he wouldn't love anyone again, much less allow himself to remarry.

That's until you came into his life.

The damn day he saw you at the hospital after one of his teammates was grazed by a bullet. You were working your shift as a nurse and seemed almost shocked by the number of BAU agents in just one room. But your eyes didn't take long to focus on him. Eye contact only lasted a few seconds until Reid interrupted the magical moment by asking you about the coffee machine not working properly.

Hotch looked straight into your eyes long enough to realize he was fucked up and all his promises were going to go down the drain.

It didn't take long until the simple memory to invade Hotch's mind frequently and he was convinced to find out more about you, profiling you. Prentiss and Reid said he was starting to obsess, JJ thought it was cute, and Garcia and Morgan made fun of him like he was womanizer. Deep down, everyone was also excited but wary by the idea of Hotch being interested in another woman after Haley's murder. This could be good for him and also traumatize him even more.

When Hotch started visiting a pub that you and your co-workers went to often after work, he tried to maintain an indifferent attitude every time he saw you, trying to convince himself that you two would just flirt and maybe fuck. Nothing more than that, something random and insignificant.

However, during a day when he was reflecting on his life, sitting at one of the empty tables and drinking whiskey, Hotch was surprised to see you sit down with him, without even being invited. A sweet smile on your face as you began to strike up a conversation, even though he was clearly perplexed by the fact that you had already noticed his interest in you — no matter how obvious it was to anyone who saw him always watching you.

Two years later, Hotch still had difficulty admitting how much he loved you, feeling like it could be a weakness to him and a danger to Jack, you and his new child. The baby named after the protagonist of The Silence of the Lambs.

"Jack told me that Clarice was crying a lot today..." He said as soon as he came your room after putting Jack to bed, admiring you sitting on the double bed with some pillows behind your back, cradling the little thing in your hands while you breastfed her at the same time.

"Oh, it was just colic." You gave him a soft smile. "But she's better for now. Jack's such a good big brother to Clarice, he helps me a lot to take care of her."

Hotch smiled slightly, knowing how much his oldest son was enjoying having a little sister. Jack was such a sweet boy that sometimes he found himself wondering if he really deserved to be his father.

Jack was an incredible son with an incredible mother. And now Hotch also had an amazing little daughter and an amazing fiancée. With each passing day, insecurities and fears hit his mind hard to the point that he even became lost in thoughts during his own work at the BAU. "What's wrong, Hotch?"

Your question caught him off guard and he clenched his jaw. You could still read him as well as the first time you spoke to him in the pub. "Nothing's wrong."

You rolled your eyes, cradling Clarice a little more slowly now that she seemed to be starting to sleep. "Oh, please. I know you very well at that. It's pretty clear from your frown that you're worried about something." You teased him and it was his turn to roll his eyes. "Just tell me. Keeping everything to yourself will make you explode someday."

Hotch huffed, always hating the idea of opening himself up to anyone, even if you were his fiancée. On the one hand, he wanted to keep you in the dark about the vulnerability he was trying to hide, protecting himself from any judgment or see a look of pity on your face. But on the other hand, he just wanted to not pretend to be strong and invincible for at least a few minutes.

"I'm just thinking about some things, that's all..." He swallowed, the trembling voice exposing him more than his words.

You frowned, caressing Clarice's thinning hair before looking at Hotch. "Well... I'd like you to tell me at least one of them."

Hotch snorted again, but the attempt at indifference failed miserably when he looked at Clarice, still feeding on your breast. "She's looking more like you every day." He smiled, articulating his right index finger so he could caress her chubby cheek with his middle knuckles.

You smiled at Hotch, before raising an eyebrow when you noticed his gaze straying to your breast for a considerably long time. "That's very disrespectful, you know? I can't even breastfeed my own baby without you being a pervert?"

His eyes widened, immediately stopping and looking at you embarrassed to explain, sighing with a little frustration when he noticed that you were just playing with him. "Damn, angel..." He rubbed his face to hide his frightened expression, but also to distract himself from that unusual thoughts. "For a second I thought you were angry."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Why would I be angry seeing my fiance horny?"

Your teasing made his face turn red and his cock started to feel tight in his work pants. "I'm not...I'm not horny. This is ridiculous. You're just breastfeeding."

His effort to look uninterested by the sight made you laugh again, as you looked at him with your eyebrow still raised. After a few seconds, you checked if the baby was already sleeping enough so you could burp her and go put her in the crib. Then you fixed your nursing bra and turned to Hotch with a playful smirk. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

Your words weren't a random joke, much less a common warning. You were flirting with him, teasing him, warning him that the matter wasn't over and you would come back to learn more about that curiosity that was burning his brain. He watched you leave with Clarice in your arms and go to her room.

Hotch sat down on the bed, the tie starting to tighten around his neck just as his cock was already hurting from being trapped in those damn underwear. He untied the bow with a little more agony than usual, taking a deep breath as he threw the fabric anywhere on the floor. He wasn't worried about organization for now, focused on trying to understand why he was suddenly so turned on.

Okay... He had seen your breast, something he clearly loved to admire at any time possible. But he never got horny seeing you breastfeeding his daughter. Just as he never got horny when Haley was breastfeeding Jack too. In truth, Hotch had never thought of breastfeeding as something rousing and erotic to watch.

Until those few minutes before.

"There... She's sleeping like a little angel." Hotch almost jumped at the sound of your sweet voice returning to the room, locking the door behind you.

Hotch cleared his throat, pretending not to know exactly why you locked the door. It was a rule not to lock the door at night for the children's safety in case something horrible happened. You only did this when both of you wanted a moment alone. "Well, it took you less than ten minutes."

You shrugged nonchalantly. "She went back to sleep quickly."

He nodded silently, placing his hand in his own lap so you wouldn't see his boner growing more and more, even though he knew you had already noticed it since you returned to the room.

"Lactation kink is more common than it seems." You said and Hotch almost choked due your blunt way.

"What? Where did you get that from? I don't... I don't have a lactation kink. That doesn't even make sense." He exclaimed, his frowning face turning red for a second time as he tried to press down on his boner to hide yet another twinge he felt.

You held back your chuckle, but not for long. The moment you sat on the bed next to him and watched how the grumpy man was struggling to hide his desire, you let out a brief giggle, but it was enough to hurt his ego. "That's not funny."

Despite everything, you nodded, not wanting to upset him further. The realization that perhaps this was the first time he could be feeling that specific kind of desire hit you hard, and you felt a mixture of pride with yourself, but also a huge excitement that you hadn't felt since the pregnancy.

"I know, baby..." You reassured him, smiling slightly at him now. "But you don't need to hide from me either. We agree not to keep secrets from each other."

Your sentence had more than one meaning and Hotch knew it. He shouldn't lie to you, either about his own fears or about what he was wanting at that moment.

Hotch took a deep breath, deciding to start slowly. "Maybe... Maybe I'm horny."

"Seeing me breastfeeding?" You asked to be sure, but without any hint of judgment.

He nodded, clenching his jaw as he looked away, before holding his breath when he felt your hand caressing his thigh through his dress pants. "Hey... Look at me, Aaron."

Almost a minute passed before he worked up enough courage to look into your eyes. He felt pathetic inside. How could he deal with criminals every day, but not be able to receive a touch on his thigh from you without feeling like a stupid teenage virgin?

"Do you wanna... Taste it?" Your suggestion made his dark eyes widen as if you were saying the most unexpected thing he'd ever heard. "I'm serious, Aaron."

"Taste your milk?" He frowned. However, you knew he wasn't offended, but rather embarrassed with himself for even considering that. Everything was driving him crazy... the memory of you breastfeeding, his vivid imagination, your hand remaining caressing his thigh. Aaron felt like he was going to explode. "Hmm... Maybe."

You smiled when he gave in a little, knowing that his lust was speaking louder than any self-loathing he was feeling. Without waiting for him to think better and maybe change his mind, you adjusted your body on the bed, leaning your back against the headboard, while your legs were stretched out and comfortable. You smirked, pointing to the other pillow, indicating to him to get comfortable too.

Your command made his cock throb. As he obeyed, lying down in place, he felt a sigh of pleasure escape when he realized how much closer your bust was to his face in that position.

"It's a good view..." He muttered, fighting his pride.

You bit your bottom lip. "Oh, really?" You took your hands to your bra, removing it completely and watching Hotch's breathing hitch. "And now?"

"Angel... You're such a tease." He watched your breast for a few minutes, feeling his mouth water with the uncontrollable need to taste you like that. He moved his large hand to one of your mounds, biting his lip as he gently squeezed the soft flesh, barely holding back the groan that escaped by a strangled way when some milk splashed on his shirt "Fuck..."

You couldn't help but whine too. The feeling of his slender fingers groping your breast had been great, but it was the hunger in his eyes when your breast milk splashed out that made you start to feel desperate. "A-Aaron... I want you. I want your mouth."

"Oh, do you want my mouth, angel?" He scoffed, going back to caressing your breast, but now with one hand on each one. "And where do you want my mouth? Here?" Hotch questioned teasingly and leaned in, brushing his lips against the skin of your neck, feeling you shudder when he licked it and grazed his teeth afterwards.

He waited for your answer, but you just shook your head. It was good, of course. However, it was far from what you really wanted.

"Oh, no?" He feigned surprise, looking into your eyes now desperate for more. Hotch then smirked and stood up enough for you to be face to face. He moistened his lips, noticing the way your gaze fell there immediately. "Here, maybe?" Hotch teased, capturing your mouth in a slow but intense kiss. He tasted your lips as if they were heaven, delighting with the pleasure of dipping his tongue into your mouth and feeling your tongue too.

Then you moved your face away, panting for air. "No. More..." You whispered, lips red and swollen from the kiss.

He laughed lightly. "More? You're so greedy, baby..." Hotch scoffed, thinking about stopping the teasing, but an idea popped into his head, lowering his face until he was close to your breasts again. One of his hands kept caressing one of them, his long fingers playing with your nipple wet with milk.

However, his right hand let go of your left breast, making you whimper with confusion. "Why did you stop? You're so fucking... Oh!" You moaned, your eyes widening when his fingers got into your panties. "H-Hotch..."

Your moans made Hotch smirked, as he rubbed your clit slowly, enjoying how wet your pussy already was. "Is this where you want my mouth, baby?" He said, rubbing a little slower to get some verbal reaction from you.

"Not yet... Not yet." You managed to whisper as he slowed down, afraid he would completely stop rubbing your needy bud.

Hotch scoffed. "Wow, my future wife's a spoiled and needy little whore...." He went back to interspersing the movements of the hand that pleasured your pussy with the hand that caressed your heavy breast. "How about here then?" He blew lightly on your left nipple that was without his attention. "What do you think, angel?"

You almost whimpered at that teasing. It was obvious what you wanted and it was obvious Hotch was desperate for it too. Meanwhile, Hotch liked to hear you ask him. Beg him.

"Y-yes, please..." You pouted sadly as he chuckle, finally bringing his mouth, licking the sensitive nipple and making you moan his name, his soft tongue tasting the light drops of milk that flowed through contact. "S-suck... Please, Aaron, I need you to suck my milk."

Hotch lifted his face to look at you, doing as you asked. His mouth closed carefully around your nipple, making a gentle sucking motion, his eyes widening as much as you did when a favorable amount of milk came on his tongue, making him swallow with surprise before keeping sucking.

You felt the movements of his hands faltering, his mind going into a frenzy as he heard you moaning desperately each time he sucked you like a hungry baby. Your entire body had been needy since giving birth, but your breasts... They had become a powerful and fragile little thing at the same time. They were always sensitive due to continuous breastfeeding. Hotch had never given you pleasure there since Clarice was born, too busy taking care of you two and Jack, in addition to always having his mind stuck on work. Besides, neither of you have had much time since then.

However, you knew it wasn't just because your breasts were sensitive or the fact that both of you had been deprived of sex for a while. It was the incredible feeling of having Hotch suckle on your milk, seeing him desperate for every drop.

When he closed his eyes to focus on sucking and enjoy the slightly sweet taste of breast milk even more, you began to tremble your orgasm getting closer. His fingers kept rubbing your clit while the other fingers played with your free nipple, but it was the sight of him with his eyes closed and sucking your milk that made you cum, moaning his name breathlessly and wetting his fingers with your release.

Hotch smirked as he noticed the real reason for your orgasm. He opened his eyes, nibbling on the tip of your breast and stopping fingering you so as not to prolong your overstimulation too much after you whimpered in slight discomfort when it all started to get too much. "That was more amazing than I imagined it would be." He murmured, tongue still busy licking you.

“Too amazing, actually…” You teased, moving his lips away from your nipple. "You better save some drops for Clarice."

He chuckled at your joke, feeling you run your hand over his chin, wiping away the drops of milk that had run down, gently licking your own fingers.

"Thanks for not judging me, angel."

The sweet words made you smile, and you stroked his hair tenderly. "I would never do that." Your gaze dropped to his boner, even bigger than before. "And I'll help you with that if you promise to tell me about what was plaguing your mind earlier."

Hotch rolled his eyes sarcastically, looking at you with a frown and a small smile on his face. "Okay... That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make then. But just this once."

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[physics-of-one-piece]

Merlot & Primroses (Doflamingo x Reader)

Chapter 2

(read on AO3)

Summary: Your husband’s brother finds you. Life with him and his sham of a family is as cold as the snow your husband was found buried in. You're going to wilt slowly living with Doflamingo, you’re sure. No flower can survive in such snow.

Chapter Navigation: 1 , 2 (you're here), 3

Tags: Doflamingo x Reader, Rosinante's Wife!Reader, Civilian!Reader, Female!Reader, Rosinante x Reader (mentioned through flashbacks), Canon-Typical Violence, Attempted Murder, Gun Violence, Threats, Blackmailing, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Attempted Gaslighting, Mentions of Murder, Body Control (Doflamingo's Devil Fruit), Forced Proximity, Mentions of Fratricide, Grief, Angst, Hurt, Post-Minion Island, North Blue Doflamingo, Red Suit Doflamingo, Touch-Starved Doflamingo, Doflamingo is His Own Warning, Protective Donquixote Doflamingo, Donquixote Brothers, Adult Themes, Oda Made Us Cry Over a Ship I Will Attempt To Make Us Cry Over a Couch

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: Y'all were so supportive on Ch1 I was blown away like Doffy after Luffy hit him with Leo Bazooka, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH ❤️❤️🫶🏻🫶🏻😭😭. Thank you all so much for the comments, I'm sorry I was late replying to some, but work and life and all that boring stuff. Thank you for all the reblogs and likes and the tags in your reblogs+comments in your reblogs, I loved them all 🥹💕 There is a dangerous lack of Red Suit Doffy GIFs, and I will single-handedly change that. I absolutely adore every single comment you guys left, thank you all so much for the support. Enjoy Red Suit Doffy kidnapping you 😉❤️ P.S. get your "punch Doflamingo in the dick cus you can reach there" here 🦩🍆💥🤛🏻

Taglist: @fanaticsnail @moonbaby26 @daydreamer-in-training @queenmimi2817 @dummyduck44 @pinejayy @tellynojelly @capycapy-bara @dilf-destroyer-04 @yataidiot @orioncipher @isabeauwolf @r-amenegg @skullfacedlady @wrennyx @yan-love-reader @caldrien @rujellyroll @bonzaibaby @emilyfeetumbrella @ghostiequill @pipsterz @graceland321 @panthorastormheart @thesmolestsage @thesaltycrisp @hurricanebrownie @heroinicyfingers @t-sarah @aganhim @smol-flower-kiddo @vaniiiavengeance @sagyunaro @froggiewrites (I think you might be interested 👉🏻👈🏻🥺) @saracrossing02 (if it's your vibe)

Also... DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED EPISODE 706 OF ONE PIECE. THERE ARE SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 706 IN THIS CHAPTER IE MENTIONS OF HOW ROSINANTE DIED.

Chapter 2

A month after moving into your house in North Blue for Rosinante’s mission, the only thing you two didn’t have was a couch. So, your first outing off the island you moved onto was a trip to Mall Island, an island full of shopping malls. It was only a three hour sail away, and with the marine ship transporting you and Rosinante, you and him found yourselves standing in front of a massive building of the most popular furniture store in North Blue an hour later.

“Rosinante… I don’t think this is the shop for us… are you sure you want to go shopping for our couch here?”

“Of course I do!” Rosinante said. “This is the best furniture shop in North Blue!” 

‘It’s a good thing I pulled out the money from my paycheck slip as Corazón this morning from the bank.’ thought Rosinante. ‘I’d go broke if I shopped here with my paycheck as a commander.’

“This is one of the places where royalty shops, isn’t it?” you asked as the two of you entered the massive building. From inside, it looked like a palace, with marble staircases and pillars on the walkway supporting the other four floors. The people passing through the lobby and walking to the moving staircases were dressed in expensive clothes. Feeling incredibly self-conscious — normal people like you and Rosinante didn’t belong here — you leaned into his leg. You would have dressed into something nicer than a sweater, blouse and trousers, but Rosinante had done the same.

Then again, Rosinante was rather lax about dressing. His formal outfit for formal events was his commander outfit. You were lax about clothing too, most times. This time, though, you certainly felt underdressed.

“Yeah,” said Rosinante cheerily, picking up a guide flier to locate the living room section quicker. He noticed the way you leaned into him; he wrapped his long arm around your waist, his large hand settling on your hip, bringing you a sense of safety and comfort.

“Don’t worry,” He pulled out thick stacks of money he brought in his pockets, smiling at you. “I’ve got extra money if we need it!”

You frowned. It didn’t take a genius to know where he got the money from, from who he got it from, and for what he got it as payment.

“Your pirate older brother’s money,” you said.

You didn’t very much like Rosinante using his paycheck as Corazón for you. You wanted him to keep it for his undercover mission. Doflamingo would get suspicious if Rosinante suddenly asked him for more money and told him he’d spent it fast.

Rosinante started to sweat. “W-We can look at it as his present for our wedding!”

“Rosinante,” you said sternly. “Do you want to have sex on that couch or not? Because the mere thought of our couch being bought by Doflamingo’s blood money makes me as dry as the desert of Alabasta.”

Rosinante flushed red. “We’re in public!”

“At least we’ve got a new safe word,” you said.

“Doffy cannot be our safe word!” cried Rosinante.

“Flamingo, then.” you decided, fighting back from smiling; your husband's gawping, handsome, shocked, blushing face was adorable.

“Y/N!” your husband cried.

You giggled. “Speaking of Alabasta and deserts... Doesn’t Crocodile have this drying power with his Sand-Sand Fruit? Isn’t that a bit... You know... Unfunctional when...”

“He’s a Logia, he can deactivate his powers at will, including his drying power.”

“Devil Fruits are weird...” you mumbled. “Well, if I ever see your brother, I’ll just run.”

Rosinante looked at you with a severe, serious expression. “You can’t.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You can’t run away from Doffy.” said Rosinante; it was his Navy commander tone, no longer relaxed, but calm and steely. “It’s not about speed, or height, or how long your legs are. You can’t run away.”

“The strings can cut flesh, but they can’t reach that far...” you said.

“I thought so, too.” said Rosinante. “Then I saw Doffy decapitate a man fleeing from him because the guy got a lucky cut on my arm. The poor bastard was thirty meters away.”

“But they’re strings!” you argued. “Strings! Strings shouldn’t be that long!”

“The limit of Devil Fruits is your imagination. As long as you imagine it, possibility is, you can do it.” Rosinante frowned. “And Doffy’s got a big, wild, dark imagination.”

“Don’t worry. You two will never meet.” Rosinante gives you a smile; it looks rigid, and forced, uncertain in a way you’ve never seen before. “So don’t worry about it.”

You and Rosinante went to the first floor where the living room section was and headed to the section of four meter couches.

Rosinante fell to his knees when he saw the price of a sectional couch he liked, tested out and loved the feel of; it cost four million berries. His soul appeared to leave his body as he muttered, “F-Four... M-million?”

In the end, the furniture was too luxurious and too tacky for both your tastes. It was comfortable, yes, but it didn’t validate the massive price tag.

You could see Rosinante started thinking the same thing; it was all in his face, growing more sullen and depressed the more you two browsed through the big four meter long L-shaped and sectional couches. You wondered if the furniture reminded him too much of the furniture in Mariejois, or of his home in that island before people burned it down.

You were feeling quite discouraged yourself. You wanted Rosinante to be happy with the couch. After all, he would be the one mostly napping on the couch while you cooked lunch or dinner, and it needed to be of good quality, including the soft cushions for your husband’s bones.

“Maybe we can transport our couch from our apartment in Marineford to here?” you suggested as you two sat in the cafeteria of the marine ship transporting you back to your island.

“No! I want to buy one!” yelled Rosinante fiercely.“You’re going to be spending more time in that house than I will! I want you to be comfortable, and I want you to be happy with how the house looks!”

Your eyes widened, your chest warming up. “Rosi...”

“We’re gonna find the perfect couch for us, no matter what!” yelled Rosinante, clenching his fist in the air determinedly.

“Y-Yeah…” you said, not sure how to react at the surge of inspiration your husband showed over a couch except to stare at him, awed and in disbelief that such a wonderful man was your husband.

Oh. you think, staring at your husband’s older brother. I get it now, Rosi.

I really can’t run away.

Wulf lit his cigarette and took an inhale. He puffed out smoke through his lips. He and Rosinante stared at the white, sectional, four meter long couch in front of the porch wrapped in plastic wrap.

“So, of all people, why call me?” asked Wulf. Rosinante stood beside him, in his Corazón disguise, black coat, make-up, pink shirt and all, smoking alongside him.

“Well,” replied Rosinante, smoke coming from his cigarette, “it was either you, or actually calling my brother and explaining to him why I have a house and a wife and then if he doesn’t try to move in to bother us and cockblock me for the rest of my life and flirt with my wife every second, asking him to lift this with his strings because no way would Doffy bother with carrying furniture, saints forbid he does something as plebeian as that -”

“Okay, I get it!” yelled Wulf. “Your blame card has been successful, heart boy! Just let me finish smoking and then we’ll move it in!”

Rosinante smirked victoriously.

“I can’t believe you listened to my advice and took a white one...” said Wulf.

“Our kitchen’s blue, and right next to the living room, and white goes with blue.” said Rosinante.

“It’s quite a big one,” said Wulf, walking around the couch. “Is it modular?”

“Yeah. The sections can be separated, so it can be two couches. I think I’ll just put the ottoman as a footrest.”

“Make sure to put a blanket over it,” said Wulf. “If you get your muddy boots on it, your wife will kill you.”

Rosinante chuckled.

After they were done smoking, cigarettes discarded on the ashtray on the coffee table on the porch, Rosinante unlocked the doors of the house and he and Wulf decided to lift the left sectional first.

“Where’s the missus?” asked Wulf as he lifted the couch sectional under its base, hoping to seas Rosinante wouldn’t trip over a stair.

“Out in the market buying groceries for lunch,” said Rosinante, lifting the couch at a higher angle to get it up the wooden stairs. “I only came back thirty minutes ago, and the couch was delivered fifteen minutes ago.”

“Talk about nice timing,” said Wulf, chuckling. “It’ll be a nice surprise.”

Rosinante beamed brightly. “Yeah.”

“Where’d you find this one?” Wulf asked.

“In one of the furniture magazines Doffy gave me,” chirped Rosinante. “I went to the island where the store is and tried it out and it was the perfect one.”

“Furniture magazine?” asked Wulf, confused, blinking repeatedly. “Doflamingo gave you a furniture magazine?”

“Ah, um,” said Rosinante, blushing. “I stacked up on them to find the perfect couch, and Doffy caught me reading them. I told him I like reading furniture magazines. He’s started buying loads for me. I’ll have to read furniture magazines until I’m done with this entire undercover now, though...”

Wulf let out a “pf” before he burst out laughing.

Rosinante frowned at him. “It’s not funny, Wulf.”

“Oh, it is!” said Wulf, cackling, his chest shaking with his laughter. “It’s hilarious! Your evil older brother buying you all furniture magazines just so he can get his little brother his most fun stuff to read! Oh saints, I’ll die laughing!”

Rosinante, however, was growing more serious by the second.

“Don’t laugh at him.” said Rosinante, turning serious. “He might be evil, but he’s still my brother. Don’t laugh at him. Not over that. He’s buying the magazines because he thinks I like reading them. He has no reason to buy them. He buys them because he wants to make me happy, in his own way. Don’t laugh at him over that.”

Wulf sighed. “All right. Sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I know,” said Rosinante. They made it into the living room. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Let’s put it here. Three, two, one…”

The two marines put down the sectional. They both let out huffs, and sat down on the sectional, panting for a few moments, catching their breath.

“It really is good… ah, like a cloud…” Wulf smiled happily.

“Told ya,” said Rosinante, smiling happily as well. “It’s so comfy.”

The two marines sighed in bliss.

“Let’s get the other one,” said Wulf.

Rosinante groaned.

“Come on, big guy,” said Wulf, grabbing Rosinante by the arm, pulling him up as Rosinante groaned some more.

Five minutes later, you walked through the fence gate and closed it behind yourself, entering the large front garden, carrying bags of groceries.

When you climbed the porch, you heard Rosinante’s and Wulf’s voices.

“We did it! Screw you, Doflamingo, I’m Rosi’s number one guy to call for moving furniture! High five, Rosi!”

Your heart leapt in joy. Rosinante was back. You fumbled with the keys in your excitement — you had far too many keys on your keychain — and after unlocking the doors, you heard the two marines squawk.

“Shit! Your wife’s back! Act natural!”

“There’s a four meter long, white sectional couch of eight hundred thousand berries in my living room, how am I supposed to act natural?!” asked Rosinante.

“I don’t know, light yourself on fire?” Then, “Not on the couch, Rosi!”

“Saints, she’s gonna kill me.” said Rosinante. “Maybe I shouldn’t have bought this...”

“No, no, she’s gonna love it.” Wulf assured. “All this space for the fun times you two can have. She’ll love it, and so will you. This is the best use of money. For sex.”

“Is that why you said it should be four meters?!” shrieked Rosinante.

“Duh!” said Wulf. “Why do you think you took a white one?!”

“Gah!”

Your heart racing in your breast, you stepped into the living room, and felt your breath hitch.

Rosinante was sitting on the large white couch.

The black feathers of Rosinante’s coat flattered the white couch, like a black-and-white checkerboard. For a moment, you were too mesmerized by Rosinante’s beauty, sitting there on the couch in the setting sunlight casting a heavenly glow on his frame, that you forgot to speak.

Rosinante lit up like the sun the moment he saw you, his brown eyes glowing with joy.

“Heya!” Rosinante says cheerily, showing you a peace sign, giving you his big, goofy grin. “Surprise!”

You dropped the grocery bag and leapt on him, hugging him. Rosinante doesn’t fall, catching you in his arms with ease, slightly shocked and wide-eyed.

You hold him tight, so tight your knuckles turn white, holding onto the black feathers tight, basking in their softness in your hand.

“Welcome home, Rosi.”

Rosinante’s entire body softens. All the makeup he masks himself with melts away, and he puts away the mantle of Corazon within a moment, returning to you in full, all soft and gentle, his strong arms lifting, wrapping around you, and all he is now is your husband.

“I’m home,” he whispers lovingly, smiling into your shoulder. The two of you bask in each other, in your heartbeats, your bodies, your touch, in comfortable, loving silence.

“And with a new couch!” said Wulf, breaking the silence.

“And look!” said Wulf, hopping over the backrest and onto the couch beside Rosinante, grabbing your husband in a headlock.“It can take a full ton!”

Rosinante tapped furiously on Wulf’s forearm for his best friend to release him from the chokehold, which Wulf did.

“What, did you two suddenly go from hundred-ninety kilograms to five hundred kilograms each?” you teased, smiling at them.

The two men gasped.

“(Y/N)-chan, how could you call me — and sweet, sweet Rosi here — fat?”

Rosinante nodded furiously, tears in his soft brown eyes.

“You’re the one who said a ton,” you said, lifting your eyebrows at Wulf.

“It’s a manner of speech from South Blue! Darn!”

You could feel Rosinante’s gaze on you.

“Wulf,” you said, staring at Rosinante; he was staring at you longingly, but was too polite to tell Wulf to leave. “We’ll hold a barbeque tomorrow if you leave in the next ten seconds.”

It didn’t take Wulf a single second to realise the meaning.

“Oh, I’m out the door, Mrs. Donquixote!” sang Wulf cheerily, giving you and Rosinante a wolfish grin, getting up from the couch, heading straight to the doors. “You know me and barbeque and my best friend! Can’t betray either of them!”

Rosinante blushed. “Thanks, Wulf. I’m getting you beer with that barbeque.”

“Don’t mention it, Rosi.” said Wulf. “Bye! Have fun, lovebirds!”

You and Rosinante waved Wulf away. The moment the doors shut, you and Rosinante broke the distance with a desparate, long kiss, your lips meeting. His large hands settled on your back, hugging you tight, and your own arms settled around his neck before burying into his soft, fluffy hair.

When you parted after numerous kisses, needing air, you whispered into his collarbone, “I hate your brother.”

“Why?” asked Rosinante, laughing. You leaned away from his chest, and looked up at him; Rosinante froze. He could see it. He could see how much you missed him, how much you worried for him; it was written all over your face.

“Because he’s keeping you from me,” you whispered, full of ache and longing.

Rosinante went quiet. Carefully, he grabbed your hips and settled you atop of him; it was your turn to gasp, to blush, to clutch him tight.

“I’m right here, mi amor,” he said, deep, warm brown eyes staring into yours. His fingers caressed your cheek, took your hand, brought it to his mouth, and placed a firm kiss on it, leaving a lipstick shape on your knuckle. He looked at you again, offering you a small, soft smile. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m all yours for the next two days.”

You smiled, staring lovingly at him. You ran your fingers gently through his hair.

“Do you... like the couch?” Rosinante asked nervously.

“Yes, Rosinante,” you said softly, smiling at your husband. “I love the couch.”

Gently, Rosinante leaned down and kissed you again, uncaring for his lipstick; you found you rather loved getting lipstick marks from him, and ever since you’d told him such, he wasn’t as hesitant to kiss you with his make-up on.

You pulled your arms tighter around his head, pulling him down, the black feathers of his coat tickling your arms and face. You wanted him closer, until there was no space between you two. Gravity and weight did the rest, and you ended up laying on the softest couch you’d ever laid on. Rosinante fell atop you, bending his legs beside your thighs to support himself well enough to keep his weight from pressing into you, kissing you deeply. You sighed happily into his passionate lips, holding him tight, relieved he was back.

Rosinante’s lipstick tasted of roses.

It’s wrong, you think, staring wide-eyed at a man that doesn’t belong here, that shouldn’t be near you, that isn’t your husband. It’s all wrong.

Doflamingo’s slicked up, spiked up blond hair is the same colour as the bouquet of primroses sitting on his thigh. The blond spikes reminded you of a golden crown worn by a king.

His face was completely different from Rosinante’s; where Rosinante had round cheeks, Doflamingo had lean, sharp ones. Doflamingo also had a more narrow facial structure and chin than Rosinante. Some things were similar, so similar the resemblance deeply unsettled you. They both had the sharp, refined, thin nose, the strong jawline and beautiful lips. Their facial shape was different, giving entirely different impressions. Where Rosinante’s face was angelic and gentle — even boyish from some angles — in shape, fitting the picture of a kind, sweet prince charming, Doflamingo’s face was tough-looking, masculine and extremely aristocratic, painting the picture of a devilishly handsome mob boss or a cruel, cunning, ruthless king. Doflamingo’s forehead was bare, tanned, with furrow lines above his sunglasses.

Doflamingo’s entire appearance looked incredibly threatening and unfriendly. If you met him on the street, you would have kept away from him and shivered after he finally passed because of the air of danger surrounding him.

Draped over his broad shoulders, fluffy and humongous, covered with thousands of flamingo feathers, was his extravagant pink feather coat, spread along the white surface of your husband’s couch. You were used to the black feathers on the whiteness, not pink ones.

The change of colours startled you. Doflamingo was a malignant juxtaposition of colours that didn’t have a place in your home. Red and black instead of blue and white, pink feathers instead of black ones.

Doflamingo spoke.

“Don’t try to run, or call for help.”

Doflamingo’s voice was deep like thunder, commanding like a god’s, unsettling you deep to your core, your limbs freezing up with instinctual, animalistic fear.

Despite it, you bared your teeth at him, full of hatred and anger, because he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be sitting on Rosi’s couch, it was supposed to be Rosi sitting there, not…

Him!

“Otherwise, I’ll turn this entire island bloody.”

You don’t move. You don’t move a single inch, but your lungs lift and fall rapidly in absolute fear as you stare at the tall demon in terror.

Are you breathing?

You don’t know.

You can’t think about breathing, too busy frozen by terror.

“By that look, I suppose you know who I am,” he said conversationally, his dark, deep voice resounding all across the safe haven of your house which Rosinante’s soft laugh used to fill with warmth and comfort.

Doflamingo turned his head fully toward you, flashing you a sharp, malicious smile full of teeth.

You felt cold under the massive, powerful weight of his gaze. And small. So very, incredibly small.

How? How did he find out about you so quickly, how did he find out where you live?

The spy.

The damned spy.

If you ever meet that spy, you’ll strangle them.

Doflamingo was the kind of terrifying that would send you running, but you knew you wouldn’t make it far.

“You’re Donquixote Doflamingo.” you said shakily. Maybe you’re already dead, and this is hell, with your husband’s older brother as your assigned tormentor. “Captain of the Donquixote Pirates.”

“Yes. And you’re Donquixote (Y/N).” He said this with the nastiest, most evil smile, speaking the name Donquixote arrogantly and smugly, like the royal title of godhood he must see it as, and most likely didn’t consider someone like you worthy of. “My dead brother’s wife, and my sister-in-law. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Dead brother’s wife.

The words stung at your heart.

“Yes. Very nice.” you said with an impressive amount of politeness considering how much you loathed him. “I’d like you to leave now.”

Doflamingo burst out laughing; you jumped at the sound. He howled with laughter. He cackled, throwing his head back with a wheeze, bursting out into a full on raucous demonic laughter, loud and uproarious, the sound crescendoing into unnatural territory. The sound of his laugh made the hairs on your nape stand on end; it truly sounded like the laugh of an evil demon from the darkest, deepest pits of hell.

You didn’t know someone’s laughter could freeze you in terror, but here you were, proven wrong. You wished to never hear such a thing again. The sound of Doflamingo’s laughter would haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Mmm…fufufufufu! Fufufufufufufufufu!”

You put down your grocery bag — slowly, because you weren’t a fool. Even if he was holding his stomach and trying to stifle his laughter with his hand over his grinning, stretched out mouth, you knew he was keeping you in his sights.

“You’re hilarious!” he chortled, gasping. “I haven’t… hahahahaha… laughed this hard since… I forgot!”

You stayed silent, waiting for him to be done laughing.

“It breaks my heart, you know.” he said conversationally, moving his tanned, long, large fingers around the air, crooking them like a puppeteer. You froze on instinct, all your limbs going stiff; your body’s misguided attempt not to be caught in the strings that could come out any time, like the concealed claws of a tiger.

You didn’t know where to look; at his face or his hands. Doflamingo was so big that if he weren’t five meters away from you, sitting on your couch, your eyes wouldn’t be able to see all of him within your range of eyesight.

Doflamingo knew you were watching. He used his fingers like a lure he knew people would fall for all too well, and he’d managed to hypnotize you with their movements, too, forcing your attention onto them without you realising.

“I wasn’t invited to the wedding,” he said, smile completely gone, and somehow, his downturned lips were worse.

What?

“He didn’t...” you started.

Speak, dammit.

Unfortunately, it’s hard when your lungs are barely grabbing in enough air. The pressure of his presence suffocated you.

“...want you there.”

Doflamingo’s chuckle is as dark and deep as his voice.

“Fufufu, I bet.” Doflamingo said. “Must’ve been paranoid I’d steal you away. In the end, I found you, anyway.”

He smiled again. It wasn’t a nice smile, nothing like Rosinante’s smile. It was the sort of evil, triumphant smile the devil smiled knowing he’d won.

“What do you want, Doflamingo?” you asked coldly, tone icy and full of restrained anger you fought to bury.

“What do I want?” he asked, and laughed again. He lounged back on the couch, the picture of arrogance. His entire body language told you the truth Rosinante’s been telling you since you met him — his older brother was an arrogant, overconfident asshole who thought he deserved the world because of what he was born as.

“For starters, I’d like you to come live with me,” said Doflamingo.

What?

Nevermind, you thought. He’s actually insane. He’s mentally unstable.

“I refuse,” you said firmly.

Doflamingo laughed again, startling you once more.

“That’s not how it works, though.” said Doflamingo through his chuckles, placing a hand on his bared forehead, continuing to giggle; he sounded like he needed to be admitted into a psych ward. His entire body shook with his amusement; his chest, his shoulders, the feathers of his coat swaying. “That’s not how it works at all, Mrs. Donquixote.”

What do you do? He’s not going to kill you? He wants you to come live with him? That sounds worse, so much worse.

Do you run? There’s no way. You can’t run. You’re barely forcing yourself to stand as it is, full of terror from being in Doflamingo’s mere presence, in the same room as him. If you try to run, you won’t get far. He’ll stop you with his strings, or just catch up to you in no time with his long legs that are longer than your entire body. Who knows what he’ll do to you if you try to run.

You still have the revolver in your back pocket. You need to get it. It’s the only chance you have.

You cast your eyes around the room in an attempt to find something to help you. What you noticed on the side table near the seat where Doflamingo sat, however, grabbed all your attention.

An empty plate with only chocolate syrup.

You knew what the plate had held.

Somehow… somehow, that little thing was the last straw. First he kills your husband, then he breaks into your house, and then, like he hadn’t already done enough, eats the pancakes you made like he’s got any right to them.

“Where are my pancakes?” you asked. You hated how weak your voice sounded.

“Ah,” said Doflamingo. “I ate them.”

“You...” Your brain was scrambling to make sense of it. “Ate my pancakes?”

Those pancakes were supposed to be your last meal, and the pink-feathered fucker couldn’t even leave that alone?

Doflamingo shoots you a grin, big and remorseless. “They were delicious.”

For a moment, you were flabbergasted by him. First, he killed your husband, broke into your house, and as a cherry on top, he decided to make himself at home and eat what was supposed to be your last meal. Had he not done enough to you? Did he enjoy twisting the knife? You were already dead inside. Now Doflamingo was just kicking your corpse for fun.

If you didn’t shoot him, you were going to smash his skull in to wipe that big, cocksure smile off his face.

But how... How to draw the gun without Doflamingo stopping you?

“Move his eyes,” said a calm voice, and you froze. It was Rosinante. Rosinante’s voice. You felt gosebumps on your spine; it felt like he was standing right beside you; your eyes filled with tears. “He needs to move his entire head away from you. His entire field of sight needs to be away from you. Distract him with something he wants, something he’ll immediately go to investigate. A sound, an object he’s looking for, a threat.”

Something he wants...

“There’s more in the fridge,” you said calmly, with the resignation of someone who could do nothing to stop someone like Doflamingo from doing whatever he wanted.

You didn’t even offer it. However, it was like how pirates were with treasure. Apparently, Doflamingo considered your pancakes delicious enough to treat them as such — like treasure — because he turned his head completely away from you, over his back, pivoting his body to the left to be able to fully look where the light blue kitchen was.

With immense speed, you pulled out the revolver hidden beneath your shirt, aimed it at him, and pulled down the safety hammer.

The moment the safety lock clicked, Doflamingo turned his head to you.

“Woah, woah!” he called, laughing again. “You’re that angry about the pancakes?”

He’s laughing. You’re aiming a gun at him, and the bastard is laughing. He killed his little brother, his little brother, he killed your husband, and he’s laughing.

He really is insane.

“Rosi was right,” you growled, fury and anger spitting past your lips, a snarl on your lips. “You are crazy.”

“Fufufufu! You’re the one aiming a gun at me, woman!” he said between his bouts of manic laughter.

“You’re the one with a devil fruit that can control and cut people, and the one who killed his brother, pirate.” you hissed.

Doflamingo smiled, sharp and wide, yet despite the smile, you couldn’t tell what was going through his head at all.

What now, Rosi?

“Start stepping back. Get out of there. Keep your pistol pointed at him. Do NOT look away from him.”

You could do none of those things. You knew you should, but you couldn’t. If you did those things, if you ran away, you wouldn’t be able to look at Rosinante in heaven. It felt like it would be the greatest dishonor to him.

“How about you lower the gun?” asked Doflamingo.

The way he said that pissed you off. Like he was talking to a pet that decided to try to bite him when he went to pick it up.

“How about you burn in hell, you piece of shit?” you growled, baring your teeth like a wild, wounded animal at the predator circling you.

You didn’t know how to fight. You didn’t have a Devil Fruit. All you had was this gun in your hands, the grief welling in your eyes, stinging in the shape of tears, and your angrily beating, shattered heart in your chest.

“(Y/N), run! Run, run, run!”

Doflamingo gritted his teeth. “It’s not my fault he’s dead.”

You feel a vein on your forehead snap.

“Huh?” you growled, baring your teeth.

“It’s not my fault he’s dead,” he said firmly, angrily, as though he didn’t do it, as though he didn’t shoot him. As though he was innocent.

“Rosinante died because he was weak.” Doflamingo sneered in disgust. “Because he had that same dumb worldview like our father, believing he was human. He let his stupid emotions and misguided, worthless sense of justice interfere, and betrayed me.”

You saw red. Red like blood stains on clothes, leaking on white snow. Red like flames enveloping a city, eating away at every building and life they touch. Red like the lipstick Rosinante wore.

All the fear vanished from your blood.

“You. You bastard. Shut it.” Your voice was different. Cold. Enraged. Deadly. Full of hatred. Your eyes were full of icy fury, your face cold and expressionless. You were ready to kill him, and you wouldn’t feel a thing when you did. “Don’t talk about my husband.”

“Why are you angry?” asked Doflamingo. “I’m only telling you what happened.”

“You're not,” you said, your heart shaking in your ribcage. “That’s not what happened. You’re badmouthing him. I know what happened.”

“Do you?” he asked, frowning. “My brother betrayed me. He betrayed me. He stabbed me in the back, he nearly destroyed my entire life. What part of that isn’t getting through to your head?”

“Lower that gun,” he ordered, sneering, the command making you momentarily freeze. Your muscles nearly obeyed him before you got a grip on them. “I’ve had enough of my family pointing guns at me.”

Your hackles raised. Doflamingo was not your family.

Doflamingo stared you down with such a cold-hearted, apathetic expression you felt your stomach drop, as though trying to escape from that heartless gaze. You could see yourself in the crimson lenses of his sunglasses.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Doflamingo said, frowning at you, frightening and intimidating all at once; he looked angry with you, offended by the perceived weakness he thought you held, which infuriated you further. “You’re just like your husband.”

Rage brewed inside you. You never knew such a storm was possible for a person to feel. You hated hearing his voice. You hated hearing him badmouth Rosinante.

To you, Rosinante was the very very strongest. To you, Rosinante was the most kindest, bravest, fiercest man in the entire world. Doflamingo didn’t hold a candle to Rosinante.

“He’s baiting you.” Rosinante sounded panicked; he sounded scared. “He wants you inside here. Don’t let him. Get out. Get out and run!”

You put your other trembling hand on the grip of the revolver, glaring at him, your grip steady around the gun, staring at the man who killed your husband.

“Do you want to stake your life on it?” you asked in a deadly calm, cold voice; it didn’t sound like your own. It sounded heartless.

“Before you shoot me…” said Doflamingo slowly. “Do you want to know how he died?”

Your breath hitched.

“Your husband died alone,” said Doflamingo calmly, the red-orange lenses of his sunglasses reflecting you. He was not smiling, his frown deeper and deeper, angrier and angrier. “He died cold and alone, buried in his own blood, lying in the snow.”

Your eyes blurred with tears holding the memories of Rosinante, your lips quivering from the lack of his lips’ warmth on yours, your teeth gritted in a vicious snarl, your knuckles turning white how tightly you clenched the grip of the gun.

Rosinante’s voice came back to you, the last words he said to you, and you remembered all of him, of his smiling face and warm, loving eyes as he said...

“I love you!”

Rosinante couldn’t press the trigger because he loved Doflamingo. In the end, no matter what Doflamingo did, to Rosinante, he was still his older brother.

That’s why Rosinante couldn’t press the trigger.

But you can.

You will.

It frightens you how easily you can pull the trigger with Doflamingo on the other side of the barrel.

You have nothing but pure hatred for Doflamingo. To you, Doflamingo is nothing but your husband’s murderer.

That’s why you didn’t hesitate, didn’t linger, or felt any guilt at all.

You pulled the trigger.

The bang of the gunshot filled your ears, but you didn’t care. You didn’t stop with one press of the trigger, ignoring the whiplash in your arm given by the gunshot. You pressed the trigger five more times, in quick succession, filling the house with five more deafening, explosive bangs rending through the air, aiming the barrel at Rosinante’s older brother.

You hear Doflamingo click his tongue. A glimpse of strings shimmering under the light catch your gaze, a sound of wires, Doflamingo moving his hand —

The bullets, which were the size of a peanut, clattered to the ground together with your gun, both in pieces.

Doflamingo lowered his hand. You had only seen him swing his fingers in a slashing motion, barely able to follow the swift movement of the red sleeve and glove with your eyes, but you were sure he cut the bullets into numerous tiny fragments.

Doflamingo’s cold look never wavered, his face never twitched to show a single sign of panic. There was no hesitation or fear in him before or after cutting the bullets into tiny shreds. He just sat there with his usual calm presence.

“Did Corazón teach you how to shoot?” A dark smile split across his face, more a sneer than a smile. “Too bad it won’t work on me.”

You stared at him, and he stared right back.

“Are you done now?” he asked, rough tone both deceptively curious and mocking in its amusement, the scythe-shaped grin pasted on his strong face.

“What do you want?” you asked through gritted teeth.

“I told you what I want.”

“And I told you,” you hissed, breathing hard. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Are you hiding anything else from me?” Doflamingo asked you.

“I don’t have anything else,” you said, knowing you were lying.

“Is that what we’re going to do?” Doflamingo asked. His tone wasn’t mocking, but sharp and direct, unforgiving in a rough, terrible way, his smile gone, the sight of his frown turning your blood to ice; you feel like you’re going to throw up from fear. “You’re going to lie to me, just like your stupid husband did?”

You opened your mouth to reply, to tell him to go throw himself into the sea…

“Purupurupurupuru.”

You froze, your eyes widening.

Doflamingo’s frown fell into a deeper one. He stared at you in dead, terrible, lethal silence. You never knew someone could look so mad without saying a single word.

Damn it.

“Purupurupuru… purupururupurupuru…”

Damn it!

Wulf must be calling. He must have gotten a ship.

“Unbelievable,” said Doflamingo with a sigh, his merlot suit deflating with his chest, his voice full of disappointment as the snail continued to ring.

“Pull it out, then.” said Doflamingo, sounding resigned in his dissapointment.

You didn’t want to test your luck anymore. You pulled out the snail. Your breath hitched when a string latched onto it and it came flying into the space between Doflamingo’s fingers.

“Look at that,” said Doflamingo, holding the tiny white-blue snail, his tone oozing with patronizing superiority. He spoke to you with such thick condescension, it pissed you off more and more. “A transponder snail. A marine one at that.”

It looked like a chocolate bar between Doflamingo’s long fingers. The transponder snail was still ringing.

Another sound of wires — no, they sounded like the pulled taut strings moving across the surface — and you watched, helpless, wide-eyed, as the snail was cut to pieces.

Doflamingo let it go, discarding its slimy remains on the floor.

A small gasp left your lips, your eyes stinging with tears for the small snail that had done no harm. It was the snail Rosinante had given you before he went on his mission. The snail was a life, a living creature, and Doflamingo killed it. He could have shut it off and put it on the table, but he killed it.

All to teach you some sort of lesson about not lying to him.

You clenched your jaw, glaring at him with hatred which grew more fiercer by the second.

“You want to test me again?” he asked dangerously, his smile gone, veins throbbing on his forehead. “Maybe the next thing I cut to pieces is this house.”

Your heart stopped.

“Me telling you what I came here for, that I’d like you to come live with me...” said Doflamingo, staring at you. “That was me asking. That was me being chivalrous. Showing manners. Showing you respect, which you keep failing to show me.”

“You don’t deserve my respect,” you spat hatefully. “And I don’t want your false chivalry.”

Doflamingo’s brows furrowed.

“Fine,” he huffed. “I won’t ask this time. Do you know how it looks like when I don’t ask, darling?”

His voice was still so terribly condescending, but now it was darker, turning more malicious, more cold.

“Let’s see…” said Doflamingo coldly. “You can come with me quietly, or you can try to fight me.”

Fuck you.

“If you resist… I’ll kill every single person on this island.”

Obey or people will die.

“The choice is yours.”

The choice was not yours. All you could choose was whether he would hurt everyone or not. It was a choice, but it was a shit one, and you knew it.

The smile Doflamingo smiled was dark and giddy, almost delighted by the prospect of you saying no, of you giving him a reason to use his powers. Like he wanted to carnage another island, as casual as going for a walk and buying groceries.

This wasn’t what you signed up for. You signed up for death, not life.

But you couldn’t let people die. You had friends here. There were families here. And what would saying no do? Doflamingo would grab you and take you either way. It would be better to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone.

“I’ll come,” you forced through your trembling voice. “Don’t... Kill anyone.”

If you could protect the island from Doflamingo’s murderous whims and tendencies by obeying and not fighting, you’d do it.

“Fufufu… What a reasonable little sister-in-law I have. Cute, too.”

Your skin crawled uncomfortably.

Doflamingo took the primroses off his lap and offered them to you.

“For you. To cheer you up.”

You didn't want to accept them.

Just do it. Just take them.

You clenched your teeth. You just had to do it. You reached forward and took the bouquet from him.

“Thank you,” you said.

That caught Doflamingo off guard. His frown fell away, his browline and forehead relaxing, his downturned lips parting slightly.

A small smile quirked on Doflamingo’s lips; it unnervingly reminded you of Rosinante's small smiles, the kinds he smiled in secret with you, when you told him something that made him happy, or the first time he’d given you the same flowers and you were overjoyed to get them, as they were your favourite.

How did Doflamingo know these were your favourite? Did he pick them randomly? You didn’t know, and you decided you didn’t want to know.

“Can I bring my —” His deep voice cuts you off, “No.”

“Why?”

“Your clothes aren’t good enough,” Doflamingo said.

You were too tired to try to make sense of that.

“No, that’s... why don’t you kill me?”

“You have nothing to do with the marines, or my brother’s failed mission,” said Doflamingo. “I checked.”

“I work for the Navy,” you said.

Doflamingo waved it off. “Civilian servants work for everyone, that doesn’t make them loyal to the institution they happen to be employed in.”

You frowned.

“Do you want me to kill you?” asked Doflamingo.

“Honestly?” you ask, feeling like there are a thousand worlds of weight on your shoulders, the emptiness in your chest spreading more and more. “Yes.”

The demon in red chuckled. “I see. I’m not going to kill you. And nobody else is, either.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Fufufu... I’m sure, little one.”

Doflamingo stood up from the couch, standing at his full height, and you felt your gut drop.

Doflamingo was huge, standing above three meters of height. You were used to huge men — Rosinante was huge himself after all, and both brothers had the exact same lanky build — but the way Doflamingo held himself upright, with class and confidence, gave him an air of intimidation you never experienced with your husband, whose legs were taller than your entire body. The same went for your brother-in-law; you were quite below his waistline. And he was taller than Rosinante; you noticed it just by looking at him. With Doflamingo, you were left staring eye-to-eye with vivid merlot suit pants, above his knees. As you did with Rosinante when he stood close to you, you tilted your head upward to look at his brother. Fear struck you.

You stepped back from him.

(You never stepped back from Rosinante in all the years you’ve known him.)

Idiot. Don’t step away.

It was too late for that now. The damage was done.

The pink feathers of his coat brushed the couch as he approached you. His face looked heartless and cold, looking down at you with a condescending arrogance, like you were a pebble that got in his way.

“Well? Won’t you greet your brother-in-law properly?”

What?

“Tch,” he said, annoyed. “You’re a translator, but you don’t know the Dressrosan greeting custom?”

“I know the custom,” you said, glaring up at him. The Dressrosan greeting custom for women when greeting men and men greeting women in family interactions were cheek kisses, one on the right cheek and one on the left cheek. “I just don’t want to do it with you.”

Doflamingo chuckled, putting his gloves back on, slipping his fingers into them. “Too bad.”

He bent down to be at your height, and his hand grasped your face. His fingers could easily wrap around your head and crush it; his palm was bigger than your face.

His face got close to yours.

You stopped breathing. You froze. You could see your own face reflected in the sunglasses now. Doflamingo’s face got closer, and you clenched your eyes shut, your entire body tensing up.

Doflamingo kissed your right cheek, then your left cheek; his lips were soft and warm. The smell of his cologne enveloped you; a fresh, clean scent of coconuts and salt.

“Now you,” he said, tapping his right cheek, grinning at you devilishly, the painting of arrogance. “Right here. And then the other one.”

He even turned his head to the side, offering you his right cheek to make it easier for you.

Oh, you never wanted to slap a man as much as you wanted to slap Doflamingo in that moment.

You inhaled, gathering your guts, and kissed him on his right cheek, then on his left. It was neither quick or slow, but the usual tempo of the greeting, the same speed he’d done it with — though his had been slower, most likely to freak you out.

His cheeks were warm, his skin smooth and soft under your lips, and you could feel the way his cheeks stretched with his smile.

You leaned back, fighting back from wiping your lips on your arm.

“Give me a hug.”

What the hell?!

Before you could react in any way, Doflamingo hugged you under the arms, crossed his long arms over each other on your back, his large hands covering half of your upper back, and hugged you tight, cradling you to him until your face was smushed against his red tie. The fabric of his black dress shirt was soft and smooth as your breasts pressed to his broad, strong chest. He settled his head on your left shoulder, and that was that.

It was a nightmare. You were absolutely horrified. You didn’t move; you couldn’t. You were too numbed by shock.

You felt his right pinky finger lift from your back, and before you knew it, your frozen arms started lifting, going under Doflamingo’s arms.

My arms...

No. you thought, realising what was happening. You hadn’t even felt the string, how...

No no no no —

The next instinct that came to you was to break free. You could feel your arms, and you tried to tug them, move them, but it wasn’t working. They were moving on their own. It made no sense. Your brain was telling your arms to move away, you even attempted to jerk the muscles but it was like your bones themselves were under the control of Doflamingo's string.

You couldn’t control your arms. You couldn’t control your arms!

They slid around Doflamingo’s back, gliding across his suit before wrapping completely around him — you could feel how strong he was, could feel the thick muscles on his back — and squeezing him to you. You felt the feathers on the inside of his coat brush against your palm and fingers. Your fingers, which Doflamingo controlled to clench around the fabric of his suit, holding him tight.

Doflamingo hummed; it sounded like the sound a person made when they were having a nice dream.

You were on the verge of a panic attack. He was close, intimately close, far too close, so close you could feel his chest rise and fall as he breathed, so close you felt the thump of his heartbeat against your breast. You were small and tiny against him; he completely enveloped you.

Breathe. Breathe. Calm down. It’ll only get worse if you panic. Breathe. Just breathe.

You tried to move other parts of your body. You blinked, you breathed through your nose, you cast your eyes around the room, you parted and closed your lips. There were no weird thoughts going on in your head, and your heartbeat seemed... as fine as a heartbeat could be when the most dangerous pirate in North Blue was hugging you.

Doflamingo couldn’t control your facial expressions, or anything on your face. He couldn’t control your eyes. He couldn’t control your heart, your mind, or your soul.

All he could control was your body. But that was already terrible enough.

Doflamingo sighed through his nose, the flutter of his breath caressing against your neck, tickling your skin. “See? This is what you do when you see your brother-in-law.”

“A nice -”

This was not nice. It did not feel nice. It felt like a cage more than an embrace. Doflamingo was squeezing you to him like you were his new favourite, human-sized teddy bear.

“— warm —”

This was not warm! You felt cold, like you were surrounded by a thick, impenetrable wall of ice which would make you bleed if you tried to move out of the embrace. You were shaking so much you forgot to breathe.

“— hug.”

Help! you prayed to whatever god existed, begging for salvation, tears stinging at your eyes, your heart thudding fearfully in your chest. All the anger you managed to gather was gone, replaced by the cold, massive sense of fear.

Doflamingo was going to crush your bones, your organs, your muscles. You didn’t think it was possible to squeeze someone to death, but you were starting to believe a man of his size could do it without trouble.

The Demon of North Blue leaned to your ear. His hand slid up your body, cradling the back of your head; your head was like a small ball in his grasp.

“I’m going to pick you up,” his voice was deep and warm against your ear; you fought back from whimpering at the closeness of his mouth to your skin. “And you’re going to be a good little sister-in-law and stay quiet. We’re going to head out, and you won’t squirm. You won’t make a single sound. And if you do that, I won’t touch this house, or this island, or its people.”

“Yes, sir.” you said before you realised what words you were saying, the instinct from work kicking in all because of Doflamingo’s commanding, authoritative tone. The moment you realised what you said, you were horrified. Your face burned with shame.

It wasn’t your fault. Doflamingo’s was the sort of voice and tone people naturally obeyed to.

Doflamingo huffed disapprovingly. “Not ‘sir’. Doffy.”

Your stomach sunk. No. No, you couldn’t call him that. That was how Rosinante called him, because they were brothers. You couldn’t just call him that.

Rosinante had asked you to call him Rosi a month after you started dating.

“It’s how…” Rosinante’s thumb drew more circles on your palm; he was stumbling over his words slightly, a pink blush rising to his cheeks. “The people dear to me call me… so… if you want to… you can call me Rosi.”

At his request, you’d called him Rosi — it sounded so cute to you, and you loved how it felt to say it — and after that, he blushed, fell to the ground, and started rolling on the grass of Marineford Park while giggling and kicking his long feet.

“Aaaa! I can’t! It’s so cute!” he opened his palms, revealing his reddened, smiling face; he was smiling from ear to ear, gazing at you with those big brown eyes of his. “Call me Rosi again, please!”

You giggled. Rosinante was so wonderful; he looked so happy, his smile was so infectious you started smiling too.

“Rosi,” you whispered lovingly.

Rosinante let out a squeaky sound in his throat. He went back to rolling on the ground to try to cool off his heated body.

Then, suddenly, Rosinante stopped moving. When you turned to check on him, he was bleeding out of his nose. A lot. So much it was getting on his collar.

“Help!” you called, and as the park was filled with people who worked in the Navy, medics and marines in civilian clothing came running to help you. “My boyfriend’s gonna die!”

You could move your hands and arms normally again. You didn't even feel the strings let you go.

Dressing like a gentleman does not mean being one. Doflamingo, in no polite terms, manhandled you like a brute. He picked you up by wrapping his immense hand around your wrist, his long fingers completely encircling your arm, the width of his hand so large it covered your forearm. Without giving you a warning, he lifted you off the ground - you yelped when the solid ground vanished beneath your feet.

Doflamingo settled his gloved hand beneath your curled knees, his arm wrapped around your body like a wing, the back of your head resting in the crook of his elbow. You felt like a puppy being carried like this.

Doflamingo exited through the doors, climbed down the staircase of the porch, and then looked up at the sky. Now that he was in the sunlight, his hair really was the exact same colour as the bouquet of yellow primroses you held.

Doflamingo didn’t warn you before he launched into the sky, his left arm firmly keeping you in place beneath his chest.

You let out a shriek as you ascended up into the sky, the ground getting further and further away until it looked like a terrain on a map in books. Your left arm flailed for purchase out of panic, on instinct, grabbing onto the closest support; his red suit jacket.

Before you knew it, before you could process it, you were high up in the sky, the sea passing by in a blue blur beneath you, the wind gathered by Doflamingo’s flying movements pushing into your face and waving your hair around.

Understandably, you screeched again.

Doflamingo laughed.

“You screech like a canary, fufufu!” he said, his chest shaking with his laughter.

Your entire body clenched up and froze, your eyes closing shut. You thought you weren’t afraid of heights. You were definitely afraid of flying, it seemed, because that was height and moving quickly over a large height.

You wondered how quickly the marines would figure out you got kidnapped.

It wasn’t anything new. Pirates always targeted a marine’s family and spouses, especially if they were civilians. A team would be sent out to find you. Unfortunately, you didn’t leave any signs of struggle, but the next rule of action would be to call your personal transponder snail, which you were to keep at your side at all times. The transponder snail Doflamingo sliced into bits. At least that would alert the marines something happened to you.

Wulf would know. Your plan worked. Wulf had free reign to find Law while Doflamingo had wasted his time travelling to get you.

You let out the breath you’d been holding.

The chuckle reached your ears, his chest rumbling with the sound. “Look who’s breathing.”

You flick your eyes open.

“You could’ve… warned me,” you said, wondering whether he heard you over the wind his movements created. Your mouth felt dry.

“Now where would the fun in that be, little canary?” he asked with a sly smile, the wind ruffling at his blond slicked up hair, pushing at the pink feathers of his coat; they looked like the flapping wings of a flamingo.

Something stirs in the void of your chest. It feels like anger. Or something close to it.

“The fun in that would be that I wouldn’t hold my breath for an hour, cuñado.” you say in full Dressrosan.

Doflamingo makes a slight, barely audible sound of surprise. He tilts his chin down at you, surprise on his face as you frown up at him. Then, he grins, and you think you may have made a grave mistake.

“My cute little sister-in-law knows Dressrosan.”

“Translator, remember?” you said.

Doflamingo was too busy grinning down at you like you gifted him the best birthday present he could ask for, offering a simple hum instead. You wondered how his cheeks didn’t ache from smiling so wide.

“Fufufu! Guess we have our secret language, then.” he says, switching effortlessly back to Common, just like you did seconds prior.

Getting kidnapped by a pirate wearing a full formal red suit like a wealthy businessman is one thing. Being carried in the aforementioned pirate’s arm as he flies through the sky over the sea is completely another. That pirate being your brother-in-law who your husband died to protect you and Law from was just the cherry on top.

“While we’re here, I’ll tell you about the family,” said Doflamingo. “You need to know about them.”

Family? What a joke. Doflamingo killed his real family.

“I know you have three top executives, Trebol, Diamante, and Pica. I know you have officers, and I know you have apprentices. There’s the underlings, too, but they’re not part of the family.”

“Corazón’s been running his mouth, huh?” asked Doflamingo. You felt your face grow pale. Doflamingo chuckled. “Well, that’s fine. It’s nice to know he actually talked about me in some way to you.”

“You might know about them, but you don’t know them. You should make your own judgement, not depend on my little brother’s subjective view.”

Doflamingo flashed you another of his wide smiles. You had to admit, with it on, he lost that rough, ruthless look. He looked handsome in a devilish, charming way, like a ruffian.

Instead of the smile soothing you or making you drop your guard, it made you feel deeply uneasy; there was something wrong about his smile. It didn’t feel like a smile. More like an evil grin.

You glared at him. Why on earth would you want to know about criminals who kill people, plunder and destroy cities without any sense of remorse or thought to how many lives they ruin?

“Let’s see,” said Doflamingo thoughtfully. “I’ll start with Lao G. He’s the oldest among us. He likes to make puns with words containing the letter g, and is a martial arts master…”

“Please drop me,” you begged hoarsely.

Doflamingo guffawed, the wind pushing at his blond hair, his raucous laughter carrying across the sky.

“Then there’s Giolla. You’ll love Giolla. Everyone loves Giolla. She loves art, and she’s great at making clothes.”

You braced yourself for a long, tiring flight of Doflamingo talking about his crew.

Rosinante… you thought, fighting not to cry. You didn’t say your brother loves to talk!

***

A/N: Just fyi, Doflamingo was being condescending because man was jealous, seething with jealousy, and you know, bcs he's an asshole and likes to play with his prey. This is the only time he will speak like this to Reader. North Blue Doffy is quite calm in speech but also commanding - you know he means business. It's just how he talks, which makes it harder for anyone to tell how he actually feels which is the fun part about North Blue Doffy. He can look at you like he's bored by you but is actually deep in thought planning your wedding. The moment Reader walked in, Doflamingo's heart skipped a beat. Love at first sight. He is also quite angry with Rosinante for not fucking telling him he has a wife, and not fucking asking him to be his best man - Rosinante might as well have shot him instead, it would have hurt Doflamingo less! In short, this is the only time Doffy will speak THIS patronizingly to Reader. I mean, he'll taunt, he'll act like the "man of the house" but it won't be so rough considering how this first time got. Guy's going through his emotions in his own way. Current emotion - seething with jealousy cus goddamn Corazón is a lucky bastard and how could he leave such a sweet thing like you while also absolutely adoring Reader cus the woman actually took the shot, and not just one but ALL THE SHOTS. That did it for him. Doflamingo adores you now. Good luck.

Some fun Japanese words for my fellow Sub fans:

義兄 (gikei) - brother-in-law (especially older brother of your spouse) -> word Doflamingo uses for himself when referring to himself to Reader, if he says "your brother-in-law" it is "omae no gikei"

otouto no tsuma - "(younger) brother’s wife"

義妹 (gimai) - younger sister-in-law, a more archaic formal word in Japanese, how Doflamingo refers to Reader when talking to her/about her, "my sister-in-law" would be "ore no gimai"

Japanese section, done! 👍🏻

[missaengg]

Hello! I enjoy your fics featuring the LaDs men, especially Rafayel. Would you consider writing another with feral Rafayel? Everything is with the full consent of both parties, Rafayel is just urgently needy and difficult to satisfy. It could be another Ebb and Flow Day, where he desperately wants to feel and taste the MC. No matter your decision, thank you for opening asks and reading this. Please continue to write what you enjoy.

Hi!! Sorry I haven't been able to get back to you more quickly! I've had this idea in the works now and thought this might be a good fit for a feral Rafayel. Hope it satisfies~ If it doesn't, I have a few more fics planned for him 🤭

Missing You Pt. 2: Rafayel Comes Home

Pairing: Rafayel x f!reader Tags: mdni, smut, pwp, creampie, p in v sex, established relationship Word Count: 1783 Read Part One here. Rafayel's been away for three weeks on a tour, and he's finally come home. But he's missed you terribly. ao3 link here.

Your bedroom feels lonely.

Too lonely. 

Especially with Rafayel still gone on his tour. 

You sigh, rubbing lotion on your arms, the last step of your bedtime routine. You eye the dildo molded into the shape of Rafayel’s dick sitting on your nightstand. The one he gifted you almost two weeks ago. You debate whether you want it to lull you to sleep like it did last night, an almost nightly occurrence. You feel your cheeks color because of how dependent you’ve been on Little Rafayel since it arrived, but you miss your boyfriend terribly, and well… having this replica almost makes it feel like he’s with you… almost.

A pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, and you jump, your heart pounding in your chest. It’s late at night, and you’re home alone. A burglar? A murderer? A rapist? Your brain assumes the worst… 

Your Hunter training kicks in, and you sink your elbow into the intruder’s stomach feeling pleased when they groan in pain, but then freeze because you recognize the sound of the intruder’s voice and the scent of their cologne.

His cologne.

“Rafayel?!”

“Geez, now I remember why I made you my bodyguard,” Rafayel wheezes.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in,” you apologize, feeling terrible for how hard you hit him, but… “What were you thinking, sneaking up on me?”

“Hi, cutie,” he mumbles into your hair, simply holding you tighter against him. “Wanted to surprise you.”

You shake your head and sigh. After being apart for almost three weeks, you can’t stay mad at him. You’re just glad he’s returned. “When’d you get back?”

“Just now. Came straight here.”

You melt into his embrace. You’ve missed this so much. His warmth. His hugs. “Welcome back,” you murmur.

Rafayel nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. “God, I missed you.” He breathes you in deeply, almost as if he’s attempting to commit the smell of you to his memory.

He exhales just as deeply as he breathed in, and the long, puff of air hitting your neck tickles, feeling unnaturally hot on your skin. But when Rafayel presses his soft lips in a trail of feather-light kisses down your neck, it burns even hotter in their wake.

“I missed you so… so much,” he hoarsely whispers.

His greedy hands roam your body with a needy urgency, mapping every ridge and crevice. They grab at your clothes, your flesh… your breasts. He kneads them under his palm, squeezing and massaging them together, sultry, breathy moans fluttering from his parted lips.

“Wait, Raf, I want to look at you. I haven’t seen you in three weeks,” you protest, pulling at his arms so you can turn around and face him, but Rafayel locks his arms, pulling you in so tight you’re suffocatingly snug against him. 

“Let me just… just taste you for a bit….” 

The sounds Rafayel’s making are downright erotic. Even without the sensation of his mouth on your neck and his hands on your breasts and your stomach, the noises coming out of his mouth alone are flooding your body with an unbearable, feverish heat.

“I missed your body so much.” Rafayel pants heavily, expelling low, throbbing groans that tingle down your spine into your own throbbing desire. “I missed this. I missed you.”

Your breath hitches when he pinches your nipple and aggressively thrusts his hand between your legs, rubbing his open palm back and forth against your clothed sex. Both his arms are entwined around your chest and between the apex of your legs effectively trapping you against his heaving chest.

“Raf, I missed you too, but–”

He interrupts you by grazing his teeth along the contour of your shoulder. The friction of his hands and his teeth on your body are overwhelming, and you can’t help, but tremble, your knees growing weak from the buzz of electricity coursing through your veins.

He slips the hand that’s been rubbing you under your nightshirt and into the waistband of your underwear, brushing his pointer past your clit and sliding in between your folds. He shivers when they feel how wet you are for him.

“Baby, you’re driving me crazy,” he croaks. “Been dreaming about this for weeks.”

Rafayel grinds the firm erection in his pants against your lower back, placing a sloppy kiss on your neck. He circles his slick finger around your clit, teasing the bundle of nerves in a series of short strokes of varying pressure. Light, firm, long, hard. All while his rock hard length drags up and down the small of your back.

You breathlessly whimper, each stroke of his sinful finger shooting a dazzling spark deep through your center.

“Raf…” you rasp, reeling when a particularly firm pass causes your vision to flash white. 

“Gotta… gotta feel you… gotta…” Rafayel babbles, and it’s obvious how much pain he’s in from the strain in his nonsensical rambling. “Wanna be… inside… be inside… fuck… gotta…”

He lets out an agitated, strangled cry, and before your dazed mind can process what he’s doing, he’s pushed you up against the wall, caging you in, hiking your nightshirt up around your waist, tugging your underwear down mid-thigh, fumbling to pull his own bottoms down with a single hand. Just enough to grant him access.

You brace yourself on the wall with your palms.

Rafayel plunges in, letting out the most delicious guttural groan as he stretches you open with the entirety of his length. 

“Fuck, Raf,” you keen, unable to bite back the throaty moans tumbling from your mouth.

“Still think Little Rafayel is bigger than me?” he snickers.

You feel yourself clench around his shaft stuffing you past the point of being full, and you realize you were wrong. So very wrong. Rafayel didn’t embellish Little Rafayel at all. If anything, Little Rafayel is an underestimation of him.

“I was– was wrong,” you whimper. “You’re so much– so much bigger.”

You can’t see Rafayel’s face, but you just know he’s smirking in an infuriating ‘I-Told-You-So’ manner. “Need to punish you for thinking… thinking so little of me.”

He snaps his hips against you hard, and you cry out as his bulbous head slams into your cervix, pain and pleasure spreading through your flushed, quivering body. You feel Rafayel shudder, and he stumbles a step forward so you’re flush against the wall and he’s flush against you, driving deeper into you.

You arch your back, your head falling back to rest on his shoulder, and Rafayel nestles his cheek in your hair. He moves his hips in shallow undulations, so shallow his tip drags on your cervix with no reprieve. 

“Three weeks,” he husks achingly in your ear. “Three weeks without feeling your sweet, little cunt.” His shaky breaths wisp against your earlobe. “Did your sweet, little cunt miss me?”

Your heart thrums from the longing pulsing in his voice, the same longing you yourself have felt over the agonizing weeks he was gone. “I slept with Little Rafayel every night–” Rafayel makes an adorable, indignant noise, so adorable your heart beats faster and you smile, “–but it’s just not the same. It can’t replace you. It can’t replace falling asleep in your arms.”

“God, I love you,” Rafayel slurs.

Your words must’ve unlocked something primal within him because he rocks his hips, thrusting with passionate need as if he’ll die if he can’t have you right this very second. There’s an agonizing frenzy to his lunging, a frenetic desperation to feel you, taste you, take you.

You push your hips back to meet him, and together, you roll your hips against one another, the yearning you both felt conveyed without words in the way your bodies seek out the other. Just as he desires to have all of you, you desire to have all of him, and your bodies meld together into one.

His ragged gasps feed the delirium swelling in your lower body, ebbing and flowing in waves. Crashing over you. Muddling all your senses. 

“Raf…” you plead.

Rafayel understands what you’re asking immediately, and he drives into you with a new sense of urgency. “Baby, come… come for me,” he croons. “Missed your… your sweet voice… Wantcha to… to sing for me.” 

His voice cracks on the last word he utters, severing the last shred of your composure. A final, roiling wave overtakes you, pulling you under, and you’re tumbling, caught in the throes of its turbulence. Spinning. Drowning. Unable to tell up from down.

You can’t breathe. 

You can only helplessly call out his name.

Your body reacts beyond your control, and as you pulsate erratically around the entirety of Rafayel’s length, he breaks, spilling into you with uncontrolled ferocity. Painting you with weeks of pent-up frustration. Weeks of being away from you.

Your knees buckle, but Rafayel wraps you into his embrace, saving you from crumpling to the floor.

“Raf, I want to see you,” you whine, and Rafayel chuckles, relaxing his hold just enough for you to turn around.

But before you can even look at him, his lips are claiming yours in a deep, tender kiss threatening to turn your legs into jelly once more, and you’re melting in his arms again, your heart feeling as though it might burst. 

He pulls away, resting his forehead against yours, grazing the tip of your nose with his.

You can finally gaze into his eyes, and you’re blown away by how he just looks at you, his deep violet eyes dark with desire, love, and lust. For you.

 “I’m never leaving you for this long again,” he murmurs. “Almost killed me.”

He kisses you again, tracing your bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, gently prodding at the crevice between your lips begging for entrance. You accede, parting your lips for him to slip in. In one swift movement without breaking the kiss, he picks you up, cradling you against his chest, and the next thing you know, you’re falling on your bed, Rafayel hovering over you.

“Three weeks, baby. Three weeks.” He slides his hand up your leg, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone. “Gotta make up for… three weeks.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, gently scratching the back of his head and running his hair through your fingers. “I’m off tomorrow,” you whisper.

Rafayel utters a heady groan, and he’s sweeping you up in another dizzying kiss stealing your breath away. “Never again…” he says in between kisses. “Too long…”

You wrap your legs around his waist pulling him flush against you.

You know it’s going to be a long night, but you don’t mind. Not even a little. Not at all.

[bookworrm1999]

How Far Away? Part 5

Caleb x Mc

Tags: unplanned pregnancy, presumed death, depression, miscommunication

Summary: Mc and Caleb fight right before he goes on a long mission into space. Caleb ends up MIA while Mc finds out she's pregnant. She struggles to deal with the grief while Caleb is fighting for his life to make it back home to her.

AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Epilogue

Caleb had been at this for over a week now.

He was exhausted, he could feel it down to his bones

His eyes were twitching, his head hurt, his face felt a little numb, his body felt weak.

All he wanted to do was slump to the floor and sleep for a week.

That wasn’t in the cards for him though, he had to get home to you

He couldn’t let his concentration slip too much or all the progress he had made in pulling them away from the black hole behind them, would be all lost

All he could do was take short naps, really only being half asleep.

It left him feeling vulnerable, staying in the this one spot in the command center. Keeping his eyes on one spot in space to concentrate his evol there to create the counter black hole.

He didn’t know if his crew thought that he was doing this all for them or just to save his own hide but they seemed to respect him more

After all, regardless of his reasons, he was saving all of their lives as a side effect.

They brought him a comfy chair from one of the crew members private quarters. One woman from the kitchen brought him easy to eat, protein rich meals.

Caleb had tried to wave it away, saying it should be given to the other crew members.

She had just stared at him stubbornly, an older lady who looked like she was old enough to be his mother.

“Colonel, you are the one working the hardest right now. If you don’t think we can spare a bit of food for you, you are sorely mistaken. Now, forgive me if this sounds like insubordination but young man,”

She shoves the food into his lap

“You need to eat.”

The woman walked away with satisfaction written on her face.

Caleb felt properly chastised now and by someone other than the love of his life.

Well he wasn’t going to complain, food helped him keep his energy up since he couldn’t even sleep much now.

Maybe his crew weren’t so bad after all.

Not that he was going to take it easy on them but he found he didn’t mind that he was also saving their lives too.

His head was pounding now, rubbing his fingers into his temples and massaging his head didn’t do much to aleve him of the feeling

Grabbing the water bottle beside him, he drank his electrolyte water greedily.

Despite them rationing everything as much as they could, their food stores were starting to deplete.

They weren’t meant to idle in this place for this long. The ship was meant to be closer to the exit of the deepspace tunnel at this point of time.

Meeting up with a supply ship was supposed to happen around the time that this whole ordeal had happened.

Caleb supposed that the traitor had already met up with the supply ship, reporting on the rest of the crews and his own demise.

His fingers tightening on the chair’s armrest, his leather gloves creaking under the pressure.

A sly grin coming into bloom on his stormy face.

If that dirty little saboteur had thought that they had gotten away with murder, well they had no idea about the storm coming their way.

Revenge would be sweet indeed.

Caleb really hoped that they hadn’t immediately taken that bastard’s word at face value though.

He knows that the shuttle's logs would’ve shown the recent incident with the wanderer and black hole.

They would surely be sending out a ship to investigate.

If he could just finish pulling them out of the black holes area of influence.

Then they could limp their way slowly back and hopefully meet that investigation ship.

Sighing deeply, he thought of her. His guiding pipsqueak, he wondered if she knew the history behind the term. How a pipsqueak was the guidance system aboard an airplane.

His guiding light.

Caleb hoped that she was doing ok, hopefully word of what had happened hadn’t reached her.

That she didn’t think that he had left her in this world all alone again.

He didn’t want to die but he thought that her dying would be worse.

She was his whole reason for living, the thing that kept him going from the time they were young and stuck in Ever’s lab together.

Thoughts of his time with her, her smile, laugh, their tangling of limbs late into the night. It was what kept him going now.

Caleb was so tired, he had never used his evol at full strength for this long before.

It was a miracle that he hadn’t collapsed already.

He had a feeling that she was the reason for the miracle.

Time passed slowly and agonizingly. Caleb almost seemed to think he was hallucinating at times.

Her laugh echoing through the empty command center, bouncing off of the cold metal.

Space was so lonely.

It was now a week until the ship was supposed to have reached home.

Just a bit more, Caleb told himself. Half delirious, stomach pangs hitting him hard

He hadn’t eaten in two days, the food stores basically gone.

Surviving off of electrolyte water as thankfully the water filtration systems were still operational.

This was by far the worst day. He needed to distract himself somehow. Okay, breathe.

Breathe in

The sound of her squeal when he picked her up by her thighs and threw her on the bed.

Breathe out

The mischievous giggle she makes when she thinks she’s gotten away with something. He’d let her get away with murder.

Breathe in

Her cute pout when he beats her in any video game they play. Until she bursts into laughter from him tickling her to get her attention again.

Breathe out

The sunlight shining in her hair, her content face leaning towards the sun like a sunflower, making him feel like an angel had descended down just for him.

Then he felt it, the release.

The black hole had finally let go of the ship.

He slumped back into the chair, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. Panting as if he had been in a 10k marathon. Which it might as well have been.

His lieutenant came into the room, feel the jerk of the ship.

“Sir? Are we free?”

Right, he still had a job to do. He pulled his hat off his head, brushing his sweaty hair back out of his eyes. Settling his hat back onto his head he started to say

“Yes, let the engine room know that we can start to make our way-“

Caleb stood up out of the chair he had been living in. Too fast.

That’s weird, where was his lieutenant’s face? All he can see is her face. Bright and shining as she laughs.

Oh his face feels blissfully cool, that was nice.

His ears were ringing.

That wasn’t nice.

He could hear loud shouts and someone shaking him. Barely able to make the words out

“Sir! Sir, are you okay?”

He’s fine, he’s on cloud nine. He’s just ready for a nap. Yes a nap, that sounds wonderful. Caleb’s eyes closed, ready to rest for the first time in weeks.

He woke again an indeterminate amount of time later.

Not really wanting to get up yet, he could just barely make some words out.

“Severely dehydrated and malnourished, we need-“

“- drop a saline bag and push a calorie bag of 5000.”

“Get me some propranolol, dose him at 1 mg over three-“

“His heart rate is out of control!”

“Keep pushing propranolol!”

“He’s seizing!”

“Push lorazepam, 2 mg over-!”

That was weird, he felt like he was floating over his body.

People scrambled around him frantically. He can hear a loud beeping noise from one side of the room.

Nurses pushing syringes into an open IV in his left arm.

Caleb closed his eyes again, he hoped he’d see her soon.

“Heart rate dropping, down to 40 beats a minute!”

“Code blue!” was the last thing he heard before drifting off.

Tags: @moonberry69 @supermyeon22 @tinnyrabbit @gavin3469 @marina27826 @crowleysthings @tabi-callico @midiplier

@his-ocean-emissary @rosalyne08 @dummiebunny @tsunamethyst @xaviers-pookie-bear

[hintsofhoney]

Don't Forget It

Paring(s): Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: While working a case with Dean, he gets jealous of the way you interact with a suspect and decides to remind you who you belong to.

Tags: 18+, p in v, unprotected sex (be smart), rough sex, jealous dean, spanking, light dom/sub dynamics, sex in a public place, begging, voyeurism if you squint

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Just another finished work that's been sitting in my drive, collecting dust. Beta'd by my loves @makeadealwithdean and @wayward-dreamer; love you both to the moon and back 🤍 GIF is mine. Enjoy!

You can also read me on Ao3!

DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST |  SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST |  MAIN MASTERLIST

You don’t miss the way Dean’s eyebrow raises when you lift one leg to sit on the man’s desk, twirling your hair and batting your eyelashes as you try to get him to confess. You’re fully aware of the way your pencil skirt is riding up, revealing more skin than you care to show to this douchebag probably-murderer, but it’s clear that he’s way more interested in speaking to you than Dean. If it helps move the case along, you can turn on the charm.

Dean’s watching you from the corner of the room as you flirt with the sleazebag, his jaw clenching as he reminds himself that you’re just doing your job, but it doesn’t make him want to remind you who you belong to any less. Especially when you look like that . Tight skirt, the top three buttons of your blouse undone, and then when you lean over pretending to laugh at something this guy had said, he catches a glimpse of your black lace bra, and he finds himself trying not to think about ripping it off of you. Not that it was working.

“You know, you’re a pretty little thing, Agent,” the man smirks, and then he’s reaching for the exposed part of your thigh and you’re wishing he wouldn’t , and Dean clears his throat so loudly it startles the both of you. You hop off the desk as the suspect turns around to look at him.

“I think we’re done here,” Dean says, walking over to the desk and pulling a fake business card with his real phone number on it out of his inner suit jacket pocket. “If you remember anything, Mr. McAnn, give me a call.” He tosses the card carelessly onto his desk.

Mr. McAnn huffs. “Yeah, alright, Agent.”

You and Dean both know the phone call isn’t coming; you’re going to need to find another way to prove the dickhead sitting in front of you murdered his wife — possessed or not.

“Let’s go, Y/N,” Dean grits out, his eyes not leaving Mr. McAnn’s as he walks to the door. You follow suit, and the anger in your boyfriend’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. Dean’s already ten steps ahead of you by the time you’re fully out of the office.

“Dean!” you call after him, speed-walking to match his brisk pace down whatever corporate building hallway you were in. “Slow down, I’m in heels!” 

You catch up to him and grab his wrist, spinning him around. 

“The hell’s gotten into you?” 

He huffs in disbelief, his hands coming to rest on his hips as he tongues the inside of his cheek, thinking of how to answer that question. 

“You can’t be serious,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your eyebrows, realizing what’s gotten his panties in a twist. “I was trying to get him to confess , Dean.”

“I’m not — I know. Okay? But —” he pauses, beginning to stalk towards you, a hunger in his eyes that tells you exactly where this interaction is heading. You nearly trip over yourself as you walk backwards, a soft gasp leaving your lips when your back hits the wall. “Doesn’t mean I like watching you slutting it up for the asshole.” 

He’s got you fully caged in between his arms now, one hand on either side of your shoulders, his face inches away from yours. 

“You’re mine .”

You roll your eyes. As hot as he is when he’s jealous and possessive, it’s not like he can fuck you in this hallway. Plus, he’s being ridiculous anyway. 

“Your point ?” you prod, probably further than you should. 

“My —” he huffs again, his hands back on his hips, shaking his head before looking around. “Oh, I’ll show you my fucking point, sweetheart.”

He grabs your wrist, ignoring your squeal, and drags you a few feet down the hall, turning into the women’s bathroom and locking the door behind him. His eyes quickly scan underneath the three stalls before he determines the two of you are alone. 

“Dean —”

He cuts off your protest with his hands on your waist, walking you back into the nearby sinks before hoisting you up onto the counter. 

“Dean!” you yelp in surprise. 

He pays it no mind as he reaches for your blouse, tearing it open in one quick motion, plastic buttons clattering to the floor.

“Dean!” you scold, and Jesus, how many times can you say his name in different ways in one minute?

He remains unphased, focused on two things and two things only, both of which he reveals as he pulls down the cups of your bra.

“Christ, Y/N,” he breathes, cupping your breasts in his hands as he stares at them like it’s his first time ever seeing boobs. His thumbs flick over both of your nipples at the same time, and you arch your back as a moan escapes you.

“Mm, fuck.”

He leans in, his breath fanning over your earlobe as he continues tweaking your nipples. “Might as well have shown that dickhead in there these fuckin’ tits, the way your shirt was hanging open. Left really fuckin’ little to the imagination, Y/N,” he whispers, drawing more sounds from your throat. “He was probably sitting there thinking about doing all the things I’m doing to you right now. And I don’t like that. That’s my fuckin’ point.” He pinches one of your nipples, a yelp leaving your lips. “Understand?”

You nod, unable to form words.

“I can’t hear you.” He pinches the other peak and pulls a little. 

“Oh — fuck! Yes, I understand,” you answer. “I’m yours, I’m yours.” 

“And don’t forget it.” 

His lips find your breasts, and soon he’s sucking bruises into your skin and teasing your nipples with his tongue. He’s everywhere at once, everywhere but where you really need him, and you’re not sure how much more of this torture you can take.

“Dean, please,” you gasp, and he lets out an irritated grunt as he pulls his mouth off one of your breasts, seeming annoyed that you had interrupted his fun with your begging. You can’t blame him – he’s a boob guy. Especially if they’re your boobs. 

“I’m not done yet,” he states, before resuming his attack – for lack of a better word – on your breasts.

You groan in protest, the heat between your thighs building, and you spread your legs as far as your skirt will allow. The cool air that hits your core reminds you that you had chosen to forego underwear today, and you reach down to shimmy your skirt up to your hips while Dean’s still focused on your breasts. You’re able to spread your legs a bit further now, and you can’t help but chuckle at the fact that your boyfriend still hasn’t noticed you fully on display. 

He pulls away an inch or so when he hears your giggling. “Somethin’ funny?”

“You really are a boob guy, huh?” You shake your head in disbelief, biting back a smile. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, and you use the opportunity to lean forward, simultaneously pulling him towards you by his shoulders so you can whisper in his ear. “You’ve been so focused on them you haven’t taken the time to look down yet, have you?”

He pulls away, still confused, until his eyes dart down to your core. “Jesus – wait – did you –”

“Was debating between those panties you really like or just foregoing them altogether,” you shrug.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at your dripping core for a few moments before a second wave of feral hunger hits him. “ Fuck .”

Before you can even process his movements, you’re bent over the counter instead of sitting on it, your legs kicked apart with two fingers plunging into your heat. 

“Oh my – Dean !” you squeal at both the abruptness and the roughness of it all.

“Don’t know what you expected, sweetheart, walking around with everything on fuckin’ display.” He crooks his fingers at just the right angle, and you bite back a scream.

“I – fuck – nothing w-was on display – oh God !” 

“Might as well have been. This tight little skirt of yours doesn’t leave much to the imagination, either. And then to find out there’s been nothing underneath it this whole time?”

“Ow!” you exclaim, as a loud smack fills the air, courtesy of Dean’s hand landing on your bare ass. 

“ Louder ,” he growls. “I want the whole fuckin’ building to know they can imagine whatever they want, but I’m the only one who gets to act on it.” He pulls his fingers out of you and spanks you again.

“De – oh, fuck !” you choke out. “Please, Dean.”

“Please what?” he asks nonchalantly, and you can hear his belt buckle clinking behind you.

“Fuck me. Please, I need you to fuck me.”

“ Need me to, huh?” You hear the zipper of his slacks, and you shift your weight in anticipation, your ass squirming. He lands another smack on your left cheek – the hardest one yet.

“DEAN!” you yelp, and you’re certain the entire building heard that one.

“There you go. Now beg that loud and I may just give you what you want,” he chuckles, grabbing a fistful of your hair and bringing your face up from the counter while he runs his cock through your soaked folds. 

“Please!” you groan.

“Mm-mm, not hearin’ you, sweetheart.”

“Deaaaan!” you whine, pushing your hips back, trying to force him inside you. 

“You know what to do, Y/N.” 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath – there’s only so much of this you can take. You focus on his cock teasing your folds for a few moments, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

“Please, Dean! Please, fuck me!”

“That’s better. Louder.”

“Jesus fucking – FUCK ME, NOW!”

You’re rewarded immediately, and he bottoms out inside you with ease. 

“Was that so hard?”

“Fuck me,” you reply through gritted teeth, “or I’m gonna go get Mr. McAnn to do it.”

That is both the very wrong and very right thing to say. 

You yelp as he yanks up harder on your hair, your chest leaving the counter. His hand moves to rest on your neck – not choking you, simply holding you in place – and then he pounds into you harder than he ever has before. 

“You are something else, you know that?” he hisses, his thrusts hard and fast. “I know you were only acting like a slut for Mr. Douchebag back there, but it just comes so – fucking – easy – to you, doesn’t it?” He punctuates his words with more thrusts. “And not wearin’ any underwear – that wasn’t for the act, hm? That was because you were hopin’ to end up like this, yeah?” His hand moves from your throat to grip underneath your jaw when you fail to answer. “ Yeah ?”

“Yeah – oh m-my God – fuck , D-Deaaan.”

He smirks, watching you in the mirror above the counter as you slowly come apart on his cock. “No, you don’t have to act like a slut for me, sweetheart. You just are one, hm?” 

You nod to the best of your ability. 

“Open your eyes, look at yourself,” he orders, his grip on your jaw tightening as his thrusts speed up. You do as you’re told, meeting your reflection in the mirror. You’re not sure if your mascara is smudged because of sweat or tears, your hair looks like a bird has made its home in it, and you can’t remember a time that you’ve looked this fucked out. “See what I mean?” Dean questions. “Sluttiest you’ve ever fuckin’ looked. Not that I’m complaining.” 

You feel the dam inside you about to break, and you let out a whimper in warning. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, almost out of breath, his tone laced with pity. “Are you gonna cum?”

“Mm-hm,” you nod, whimpering again.

“You like being my slut that much, hm?”

“Dean, please,” you beg, squeezing your eyes shut, stalling your release as much as you can. You’re not sure why – it’s not like you have to wait for his permission – but you find yourself wanting it. 

“Christ, Y/N,” he breathes, quickly realizing what you’re asking for. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and you know he’s close too. “Hold it, baby. Can you do that?”

“I don’t –”

“Mmm, I think you can. I’m – fuck – I’m close. Be a good little slut and hold it. Want you – shit – want you to cum with me, sweetheart.”

You find yourself nodding, focusing on Dean’s pants in your ear instead of the precipice of your release, and a few seconds go by before expletives are falling from his lips and you know it’s safe for you to let go.

Your dam breaks. “Oh, God – fuck – Dean!”

“Fuuuuuck,” he moans, filling you up. He lets his forehead fall to your shoulder as he catches his breath, post-orgasmic shivers running through him as you ride out your high, your walls clenching around his cock. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he pants, lifting his head to press a kiss behind your ear. “Such a perfect fuckin’ slut.”

You manage a soft giggle as your body settles. “Only for you, babe.”

He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder as he stares at your reflection in the mirror. 

“And don’t you forget it.”

[pedgito]

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 & 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | Dave York x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | Dave's one last contract to tie up before the holidays proves to be more difficult than he expected.

author's note | my adventures in trying to write pwp have failed me again. i made this gifset and here we are. so you get whatever this crazy is. thank you to my womb sister @chaotic-mystery for beta'ing.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, divorced!dave, suburban murder daddy but make it festive, is this a holiday fic?, uhh..there's some bodily fluid usage in here for purposes, knife kink if ya squint, choking, restraints, blood tw, rough unprotected piv, fingering, oral (m &f receiving), one (1) pussy slap, pain kink off the charts, manipulation is the best form of flattery, omitting some tags for spoilers.

word count — 5.4k

Coffee and a chocolate croissant was not how he started a contract.

It was a strict five-step order. Observe, plan, attack, dispose, collect.

Never more, never less. He got in and dirtied his hands, washed away the evidence, and sent the proof to his employer, an unsteady but well-paying job. He was killing people after all.

High profile clients, exes, criminals, he stopped separating them after a while.

But goddammit, you’d charmed him. 

Bewitched him. Body and soul.

Well, that and you caught him at a bad time.

The original plan was to grab his morning coffee and follow your path to work, find an opportunity and take care of business, leave. However, he’s thrown off when you’re already in line at the shop he picks, one out of the million lining the city streets.

It was you and him, a silent standoff amongst the low jingle of christmas music.

The cheery chorus of the Jingle Bell Rock drowning out his thoughts as he lines up behind you, hearing your coffee and breakfast order before the following words slip out, his ears perking:

“This is for mine—and his,” You nod blindly over your shoulder, “and pocket the rest as a tip.”

It was a fifty, his brow furrowing at the action as he begins to speak but is quickly interrupted by your name being called as your coffee was slid over the counter and you flee toward the cup, leaving he and the cashier in silence, who seemed more than delighted at the idea of extra money for the holidays.

He orders quietly, his voice subdued as he insists on paying for his own food, ignorant to your side gaze as you roll your eyes in annoyance and wait as he approaches with more silence, slipping his coffee into a cardboard sleeve as you grab for plastic silverware. 

“Well, happy holidays to you,” You remark with a snide tone, laced and tied in a bow of kindness, “you’re a sweets guy?” Dave looks down at his croissant then, realizing they had handed him the wrong pastry, cursing under his breath.

He seemed frazzled, disrupted, but was masking it with annoyance and frustration.

“Fifty is a little generous, don’t you think?”

“It was a kind gesture,” You continue, “—Christmas around the corner and all.”

Dave sips gingerly at the coffee to taste, praying that it was the one thing they did get right, staring down at the chocolate croissant with disdain, but hunger on the rise.

He’s expecting you to leave already, having a rough idea of your schedule as you would normally head to work within the next—Dave glances at his watch casually—half hour, but instead, you sit.

Fuck—he casually busies himself as he pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolling mindlessly as the coffee shop fills and empties, eventually admitting something similar to defeat as he heads toward the door.

A man of constant routine and you’ve gone and fucked up his day, sitting casually as you picked at your own pastry, giving him a full once over, head to toe, as he heads toward the door—a suit that told a thousand words, and a man with nowhere to go, watching him carefully in the corner as he flitted through this phone.

Either he was being a creep or he was just shy.

And, for your sake, you hoped it was the latter.

“Sit with me,” You insist, his mouth opening immediately in rejection, but you smile and tilt your head to the side, pushing the opposite seat out with your heeled shoe, “hey—don’t act like you have anywhere to go, I just watched you stare at your phone for fifteen minutes.”

Your eyes land expectantly on the seat as Dave deliberates, eventually relenting as he sits. You were his task for the day, he didn’t have anywhere to go where you weren’t.

He doesn’t like this, he doesn’t like this feeling. 

Things had derailed, but somehow, this seemed like it could help him, in the end.

You start with your name, introducing yourself. He offers the same, just a first name. Not a last. In your mind, you shrug. You could work with a first name.

“Well, Dave—are you going to eat that chocolate croissant?” You ask, watching the untouched pastry sit unwanted on the table, “Because if not, I will gladly—”

He pushes it aside, leaning back in his chair as he looks out the window, watching the troves of people pass on their way to work, kids running alongside their parents as they walk to school—a brief glimpse of what could still be, had Carol not been so greedy in the divorce.

He got the girls on weekends, every other week. It wasn’t ideal, but it was all he had. If he wanted to count, he had five more days until he saw their faces again. Often, it was the only thing holding him together. That, and routine.

Your voice disrupts his thoughts again, his eyes ripping up to your smiling face as you pull at the croissant and take a bite, “Holiday’s are fickle, aren’t they?”

Dave raises his brow in question. The fuck does that mean?

“Fickle—you know—”

“I know what that word means,” Dave interrupts, “What are you trying to say?”

Always on edge, this guy. You laugh softly, rubbing your tongue along your bottom lip.

“Some years it feels festive—like real Christmas, you know?” It was redundant, your finger circling the lid of your cup, “Other times it feels like something most people can’t wait to get it over with—like they’d rather be dead than celebrating.”

“That’s dark,” Dave remarks, “considering you were just attempting to spread some holiday cheer by paying for my breakfast–”

“Which you refused, scrooge,” Your eyebrow cocks in challenge, “Where do you work?”

Invasive? Definitely. But, with the suit—it seemed like a plausible question.

Dave lies through his teeth, despite his freeland work as a contract killer.

His job consisted of a name on a piece of paper and a promised dollar amount in his bank account after—no good or bad, it didn’t matter. 

People were unlucky and unfortunate, he chose not to be.

If he was going to do the killing, he was damn well going to be compensated for it. 

He didn’t know who wanted you dead, or why—but you’re grating, unjarring approachableness was throwing a wrench in his plans. If he wasn’t so careful he’d slide the knife through your throat here at the table, just to end this conversation.

You nod your head at his excuse for work, moving beyond a topic he clearly didn’t want to talk about, “Go on, your turn—or have you already read me like a book?”

Fine, he’ll bite. Though, he already knows what you’re going to say. He returns the question about work, mouthing the response in his head like a speech.

“I’m a librarian, a little further in the city, but I like the coffee here.”

The last part was a lie—you frequented one place nearly every day, why you decided to switch up today was unbeknownst to Dave, hence why he was sitting here engaging in such a grating, unproductive conversation. 

You know you’re keeping him, he does too. 

It slowly turns into a stare down, eating away at the croissant he’d passed over, waiting for him to admit defeat and run off, eventually, he does.

“As riveting as this conversation was,” Dave comments, “I’ve got work—it was nice…talking to you.”

The hesitance makes you smirk, subdued behind another kind smile as he leaves, watching his cautious walk back to his car, only a measured amount of time before he would see you again.

–

It has never taken this long. A week, maybe two. But, even that was pushing it. 

His employer had contacted him twice for updates, more on edge as time passed and he can’t seem to avoid you, even as he tracks you from a distance, unaware of his looming presence, you seem to find him in the unlikeliest of places.

Next, it was a gas station—you don’t approach him there, but you offer that same kind smile.

Then, the grocery store, conversing with him over fruits like he was an old friend and Dave is only unsettled by the conversation after you leave, not realizing how easily you had vexed him until he’s got a handful of fruit in his cart alongside his weekly groceries. 

It happens again. And once more. He liked difficult meals—intricate ingredients that were far beyond your skill level. The conversation was always a careful dance of politeness, but Dave softened with every conversation, as much as he could, at least.

You could spot a jaded man from miles away.

He doesn't understand why he can’t just kill you outright—easily detach from the situation and move on, but there was something to you that he couldn’t put his finger on. It was almost alluring, and it made him wonder. It made him curious.

Dave was never curious—he wasn’t paid to be.

He’s resigned to following through that Friday, though. The weekend before Christmas.

Fortunately, you seem to have the same late night craving for takeout—a quaint Chinese takeout place down the block from your apartment. 

It had to be a coincidence, right? 

“I swear,” You jest through a laugh as you stuff your hands into pockets of your puffer coat, “it feels like you’re stalking me.”

“Could say the same,” Dave retorts, a toothpick tucked between his teeth as he waits for his food.

You both wait quietly, exchanging the occasional glance before the tension snaps, curiosity getting the better of you and your enjoyment of making Dave squirm.

“Do you live far?” A careful, precise question. Dave answers it vaguely.

“A ways,” He says nonchalantly, “why?”

“Are you busy tonight?” Other than his obvious task of ordering dinner that he was undoubtedly going to eat in his car as he staked out your apartment, finding the willpower to finish the job.

“A little,” Always so concise, you roll your eyes lightheartedly.

“Come have dinner at my place,” You tell him, an open-invitation, an opportunity served up perfectly, eyeing the incoming weather outside with a high chance of a white Christmas, “—wait out the storm a bit?”

You weren’t pushing. It only took a little coaxing.

“Come on,” You tease, “are you scared of me?”

It’s a striking dichotomy he thinks, knowing he murders for a living.

There’s a ding at the front register as the owner slides over two bags of food tucked away in plastic and styrofoam, calling out the order numbers simultaneously as you both reach for them.

“I don’t bite,” You shrug, “—not really.” 

You flash a triumphant smile as Dave admits defeat.

–

He said he’d meet you there.

You half-expected him to ditch you, but now he was sitting adjacent to you on the couch, chewing methodically at a piece of broccoli alongside the slow murmur of the television, under your curious gaze.

It’s ridiculous, a job that should have taken him a week—a few days, even—had prolonged itself to a month. The constant and vivid imaginative ways he would kill you plague him even now, wondering if strangling you against the couch would be enough to suffice. 

No, that felt too personal.

He’d come back, he’d wait. He would do it while you were sleeping. Quiet, quick.

You strip off a layer of clothing as the heat from your apartment creeped up your neck, a generous amount of skin on display as you slung your sweater over the back of the couch, breasts pressing together as you place your takeout on the cushion separating you and Dave.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” You ask around a bite, stabbing your fork into your food.

Dave couldn’t make sense of your siren-like qualities, the intensity in your eyes with every glance his way, the ease at which you can seduce him into conversation. You were youthful, full of life, and for once in his career he’s found himself hesitating. Asking questions. 

Why you?

“You ask a lot of questions,” Dave notes, a softer tone to his voice, almost as if he was finally warming up to you. There was a constant air of skepticism around you, rightfully so, but he seems to have let it slip, a misjudgment, “don’t you?”

You giggle softly at your impending question, “Are you a whiskey guy? You seem like a whiskey guy.” You’re off the couch quickly, heading toward your open kitchen to fetch an unopened bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, grabbing two glasses on the way back.

“I’ll be honest,” You start lightly, a melodic tone to your voice as you place the glasses on the table and pour a generous amount into both—normally Dave would excuse the offer, but with the bottle sealed and no reason to think otherwise, he drinks, “you make me nervous.”

Dave offers a quiet chortle of disbelief, your vixen-esque qualities supplying the opposite effect.

“I mean, the coincidence of us meeting at the coffee shop,” You begin, “and, sure, I did think that it was strange how often we’ve run into each other, but it almost feels like—”

“Don’t tell me you believe in fate,” Dave interjects, sipping at the rim of the glass.

“Well, how else do you explain that?” You ask, tucking your feet underneath you as you mirror his actions, food set aside. Dave finds himself watching the way your jeans hug your thighs and sit snug against your curves, following the path up your chest and the low cut top that pressed them together, caught red-handed as his eyes draw to yours.

“Sorry,” He quickly excuses, brow furrowing as he turns away in subtle embarrassment, burying his face into the glass of whiskey, “I’m—fate isn’t real. It’s just a coincidence, probably.”

Probably. Surely.

There’s a soft glint of suspicion in your eye, slowly maneuvering forward as Dave’s fist clenches against his slacks—always in a ridiculous fucking suit that you were now determined to get him out of. You’d kill for it, actually. 

“Are you married?” You ask, resting your hand into your open palm as you prop it against the back of the couch, “That—that seems invasive…you don’t have to answer that. I just, if you are—she won’t be mad that you’re here, will she?”

Dave squints, not realizing he’s down the entire glass of whiskey until his next sip comes up empty. He sets the glass aside and answers truthfully, a breakthrough, you think.

“Divorced.”

“Ah,” You sigh, “such a tragedy.”

He wasn’t willing to dig into the details of his tumultuous relationship, regardless of how long it has been, nor was he oblivious to your actions, the finite movements that have pulled you closer and in turn, has centered his body toward you in a subconscious effort to make room.

He didn't often have female hits, but they weren’t non-existent. Dave was a man of constant self-control and restraint, aware of your growing proximity and the fact that his Smith and Wesson was tucked away carefully in the back of his coat, hidden from plain sight but all it would take is a touch—or the switchblade tucked away in his sock, easily concealable and unsuspecting.

He has two avenues—kill you now, deal with the mess. 

Or, he allows it. 

It—your obvious advancements, the slow but salacious blink of your eyes as his eyes drag toward your lips.

Your fingers wrap around the knot of his tie, pulling it gently, loosening it. His neck stretches to the side as your fingers claw up and around, dipping beyond his shirt collar in silence, despite the intense eye contact you held.

It was almost like you were challenging him. He feels it.

You get bold, rising on your knees as the other hand slips between the fabric of his coat and cream button-up and Dave counteracts the movement with a sudden adjustment, pulling the coat off smoothly and slipping it over the back of the couch as you climb into his lap, an evident smirk on your face as you press your ass against his thighs, your cunt pressed against the seam of his zipper and his cock, feeling the solid press of him there—men were all the same.

Dave’s body betrays him, his head tilting back as your fingers move through his hair and back down his freshly shaven face, pointer finger tracing the curve of his lips, a persistent and hardened expression on his face, void of emotion.

“If I asked you to fuck me, would you?” He feels the tug at his tie, your lips millimeters from his own as you stare down at him, “You like to fuck, don’t you?”

A hard distinction. Screw it, he thinks. Detachment, it was easier that way. 

Dave nods, under your spell and the faint courage of whiskey. 

–

He’s never allowed himself this deep into a job,

Undressing himself over you as you scramble naked onto the bed beneath him, ignoring how this wasn’t just a step, but a leap—a fucking mile over the boundaries he’s set within himself, but then you’re rising to lick up the underside of his cock where it glistened with precum, dripping down the side as it bops against your tongue, his hand wrapping into your hair as a warning. 

Your eyes flutter shot as you nod, under his full control as you allow him to fuck himself into your mouth, his knees buckling as he knelt on the bed. His other hand comes up to curve against your chin, cradling your head as he nudged himself against the back of your throat until you were sputtering, drool leaking from your mouth as he pulled away for a brief moment.

Hesitation, you see it.

“Stay with me,” You plead, the words slurred against the shaft of his cock as you wrap your hand around the rest of him that wouldn’t fit, “don’t—don’t think. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Meaningless, more so than he can even imagine. A means to an end.

You could go about this differently—you didn’t always jump toward sex. 

But, Dave was attractive. Unfairly attractive, strong features that left an impression on you and a flutter between your legs—he was hard to break down, but it wasn’t impossible.

Besides, you were breaking your own rules too. 

And you were sure he'd bruised your throat by now, eyes tearing up as he held you there, nose brushing against his groin as he watched you—a mix of astonishment and resentment, laughing airly as he yanks you away.

“It feels good,” You assure him with a teary-eyed smile, “doesn’t it?”

You kiss along his upper thighs, leaning down to mouth against his balls, rolling the tight skin against your tongue, greedy for more as your fingers claw up his thighs, chest, until they’re wrapping around his broad shoulders and pulling him down and over you, the wide expanse of his palms squeezing at your hips, soft skin melding underneath his fingertips.

He buries his face into your chest, licking at your skin to taste, a mix of salt and sweet and something so intoxicating that he finds himself following through with this.

“Turn around,” He demands, “get on your knees.”

You turn swiftly, his hands following the path of your spine as his hand curls around the back of your skull and presses you firmly into the mattress, twisting his fingers around your bicep and pulling your arms behind your back, crossing, reaching for his discarded tie at his feet.

You panic at the inclination of being immobilized, but his voice is unsettling soothing.

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you,” Dave counters, “practically fucking begged for it.”

He huffs out a noise of displeasement, sliping the fabric around your wrist and tying it in place, hearing you snicker against the fabric as you peer up at him from your side glance.

“You can do better than that–,” You begin, but the tug is rough, gasping as it pulls your arms straight and tight against your back, “that’s—fuck—”

Your panic is quickly soothed by pleasure, his hands gripping your ass as he pushes it up, level with his mouth as he licks between your folds, admiring the slick that drips down the seam of your pussy, rubbing his thumb down to your clit as he circles it teasingly before pressing a finger inside of you, your gasp swallowed up by the sheets. 

“Barely fuckin’ know me and you’re begging for it like that?” Dave teases, “C’mon, sweetheart.”

Pulling his fingers back to admire the creamy white ribbon that connected your body to his, rubbing his slick covered fingers over your pussy once more with a deafening slap.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” Dave informs, “but I’m going to fuck you like you asked, alright?”

He didn’t have to be nice, or considerate, even. 

Besides, that pain swiftly drifted into gratification as he pushes the head of his cock between your folds before he’s pressing inside of you, a growl radiating from his chest as he sets a brutal pace, his thighs slapping against your skin loudly, fingers digging into your ass and destined to leave marks, cries of helpless delectation into your sheets.

And you could feel it, how badly he needed this too.

Eyes drifted close, the rhythmic pump of his hips, despite their intensity, is almost lulling. It never happened this way, a brief moment of disconnection as you allow your body to feel. It was never this good. Half-assed fucks from lackluster men who undoubtedly deserve what was coming for them—and it didn’t always happen like this, often it only took a sip of alcohol or an entrancing look their way, so easily entrapped in your web.

Dave, however, was a different beast entirely. 

His movements stop after a while, face contorted in a mix of staves of desire and curiousness, pinching up at the spot above his nose and between his brows.

“Don’t—don’t stop,” You tell him, subtly adjusting your shoulders against the discomfort, but he doesn’t move, still staring over your shoulder, “Are you fucking d—”

“Beg for it,” He interjects.

You snort out a soft laugh and shake your head, but then he’s swiftly pulling out and wrapping his hand around the knot at your wrist and pulling you upright, leaving you completely in his hold as your back falls against his chest, dangling over the edge of the bed as he stood behind you, his opposite hand wrapping around your throat and pushing up, tilting your head upright to look at him.

You see the brief moment of hesitation in his gaze, thinking he could wrap his hands around your throat and do away with you now, but his lips part and his thumb presses against the side of your jaw, pulling a gasp from your throat, “Beg,” He seethes.

Then the pressure comes, a gentle squeeze that forces air out of your throat, stuttering out a quiet, “P-Pl—please,” His hand shakes against the pressure as your eyes roll back, “fuck—fuck me, please.”

He fists his cock and slides back inside of you with one fluid movement, helpless to his grip as keeps teetering on the edge of consciousness, his breathing increasingly more distressed as his hips begin to stutter in rhythm behind you.

He was getting off on the idea of your life in his hands like this—Dave could do it like this, even you know that. A man who craved power, this was no different.

You moan weakly against the hand on your throat, face contorting in a petulant way that catches his gaze as your eyes peek open, bottom lip quivering as his grip on the tie at your wrist pulls, a spark of pain shooting up your spine.

“H—hurts,” You admit to him, though it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, he seemed to have a soft spot in that deranged brain of his, for you, “s’tight, hurts so bad.”

Dave breathes harshly through his nose, debating, examining the sincerity on your features for a while, eyes fluttering closed as your mouth opens in a faint cry, before he finally relents.

You fall forward at the release, arms stretching over your head as you fall, the ache in your shoulders dissipating at the relief as you roll onto your back, his face slack as he follows your movements, cock sitting proudly against his stomach as you reach for his hand, a delicate pull as he follows your guide, a sated smile on your face.

“Like this,” Your voice is soothing, dragging a hand down his chest until you can wrap your hand around his cock, wordlessly he spreads himself above you as you guide the head of his cock through your arousal before he’s inside of you again, entranced as you examine his features.

He fucks you with the same intensity, but this is more personal. Your hands curl around his where they’re pressed into the mattress, legs interlocked over his hips as you breath into his mouth, exchanging a cacophony of noises and meaningless expletives before he’s pulling out without warning, large palm pressed against your thigh to keep your legs spread as he fists his cock, wrapped tight as he came against you stomach in thick spurts, the warmth pooling against your skin as his lips parted in a newfound relaxation.

You drag your finger through the fluid, swirling it against your fingertip as he watches your movement with careful eyes, pressing your finger against his chest as you dot once, twice, a small arch to create the illusion of a smiling face before you’re crossing through it lazily.

“You forgot about me,” You pout, dragging our finger up to his chin as he tilts it upwards before you’re pinching it between your grip, “what about me?”

He hadn’t, but you weren’t allowing him the leeway to argue.

Dave willingly allows the force of your movements, slowly dragging up his face and into his hair as he buries his mouth against your cunt, his tongue swirling against your clit with a careful precious as he stares you down, countered by your own gaze, propping yourself off the bed on your palm.

He licks into you, tongue dipping inside your stretched hole tasting of something sweet and entirely you, mixed with himself, an intoxicating flavor as his hands wrap around your thighs, nose burying against your sensitive clit as he growls, a reverberation that has you shaking under his grip before he’s tilting his head up to suck at bundle of nerves, nearly arching off the bed at the sensation as your orgasm hits you all at once, rather than a rolling wave.

His gaze doesn’t falter once, even as you fall slack against the bed.

He should do it now—guard down, defenses non-existent, but then you’re pulling him up and against your chest, maneuvering in a delicate dance until he’s cuddling you from behind, without a word of acknowledgment.

Eventually your breathing settles, wordless and calm. And despite the nagging voice in the back of his head, he finds himself succumbing to exhaustion too. 

–

When he wakes, you’re still asleep. 

The sun had set, casting the room in a faded blue, the blanket of snow outside casting a faint glow—he still had time, finish the job while you were sleeping, admit his colossal fuck-up and move on. He moves slowly, careful as he leans off the edge of the bed to grab for his knife buried away in his shoe.

“Where the fuck is it?” He mumbles to himself, nearly scrambling off the bed as he considers going for his gun, but the knife pressed into his throat has him on high alert, turning as the blade slices into his neck—just a knick, but he counters the movement, attempting to pin you underneath him.

“You’re awake,” You announce with a grin, face contorting in frustration until you can fit the knife at his ribs, fighting his grip until he’s settled underneath you, arms pinned under your knees, “so—no contingency plan? That’s a rookie move, even for you.”

“Who gave you my name?” Dave, blunt as always—he cuts right through the bullshit.

You frown slightly, hoping he’d play along for a moment.

“C’mon, Dave,” You jest, his breath catching as you apply pressure to the junction where you held the knife, one sudden movement and it would pierce his lung, “who do you think?”

“Who?” He bites, realizing his helplessness in the situation.

“The same person who gave you mine,” You answer after a long pause, tapping your finger against the center of his chest, “but—listen, I don’t have to kill you. I don’t.”

“That’s not how this works, sweetheart,” Dave informs, not lost on you.

You make a sound of discontent, shrugging your shoulders. 

“I have a proposition for you,” You chirp, “Well—more like an ultimatum. Because, if you don’t agree…I’ll just kill you right now, let you drown in your own blood as your lung collapses.”

Dave scowls, listening to you continue, “Can I trust you if I let you go?”

“No,” Dave answers quickly, whatever spell you’ve cast over him is now broken, the illusion gone, “Just do it, actually.”

It feels like a test—and you would, but you can’t.

He voices the same.

“You need me, don’t you?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

Contingency plans, they were tricky.

“I hoped the sex would be enough to convince you.”

Dave smirks at that, surprisingly. 

“You could have killed me already, but you haven’t,” You remind him, “I gave you plenty of chances and you didn’t—why?”

“The timing wasn’t–”

“You’re lying,” He feels the sting of an open wound as you slice the tip of the knife over his skin like a papercut, “Be honest with me—please?”

There’s an unnatural twitch to your head as it tilts, “Please?”

“I don’t know,” Dave answers with a sigh, “Guess I didn’t see you as much of a threat, that I could take my time.”

You raise your eyebrows as you breathe out a laugh, “I’m going to let you up,” You inform him, but slide the knife to his neck, “—under one condition.”

“I could just—”

“I have your gun,” You admit, “Emptied it—and there’s nothing in this apartment you can harm me with. It’s not even mine. And you can try to take this from me, or even kill me with your bare hands, but I think you’ve gone a little rusty, in my opinion.”

Dave offers a look of confusion.

“I really do admire your work, you know. All of us, in the network. We’ve heard about you—no one..no one knows who you are but, I just…had a feeling. Your work is clean, precise. You’re methodical.”

“And you’re fucking crazy,” He retorts, twisting his wrist in discomfort as you clamber off of him, knife outheld as he rises with you, “this method’ll get you killed, if that’s your style.”

“M’not dead, yet,” You shrug, “Besides, I don’t make a habit of…that.”

The sex, he knows that’s what you mean. He can’t say he does either.

“Somebody wants both of us dead,” You remind him, “doesn’t that concern you?”

You turn the knife in your grip and offer it to him, handle first. 

“You’re a better tracker than me, I need that. And I’m a terrible fucking shot.”

Dave grins slightly at the compliment as he reaches for underwear, feeling unnaturally vulnerable as you stood toe to toe with him, rising up with a newfound curiosity. 

“Open your mouth,” He directs, a glint of intrigue in his eyes, “stick your tongue out.”

Without a thought, you do. He grabs your chin, squeezing your jaw until your lips parted and your tongue slipped out, dragging the blade along the center of your tongue and leaving the thick, crimson liquid to bubble to the surface as he dragged it along the surface. You giggled softly to yourself as you lunge forward, teasing him with a lick that barely graces the surface of his lips.

He grips your neck, squeezing tightly.

“Obedience,” He warns, “If you want me to help you, I need it.”

You relent, swallowing against his grip as you nod.

“Let me hear it,” He grits through his teeth.

“Ye—yes,” You oblige, full-certainty, “Obedience, got it.”

He has a terrible feeling about it, but in an eerily comforting way, he trusted you.

[steveseddie]

‘cause it’s you and me

rating: g | cw: none | wc: 1,9 k | tags: eddie lives, hospitals and injury recovery, steve has a crush, he also knows how to play guitar, fluff

written for @steddielovemonth day one | You and Me by Lifehouse & the quote “every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.”

read on ao3

Steve doesn’t know how much time he’s spent on the chair that is next to Eddie’s hospital bed.

Too long probably, if the recurrent pain on his back means anything. But not even that is enough to prevent Steve from staying glued to that chair, neither are the doctor’s mean looks or Robin’s insistence about him getting proper sleep or meals for that matter. Steve only leaves the chair when he has a shift or when he wants Wayne to have time alone with his nephew or when the nurses wheel Eddie away for surgery or tests or physical therapy. That’s it.

It makes the months that Eddie spends recovering blur together. Sometimes, Steve even forgets what day it is, only managing to keep track of it by the nurse’s schedule or depending on who shows up to visit Eddie. The kids and Wayne and Robin all come on different days, effectively balancing keeping their friend company with their everyday lives.

All of them except Steve.

Ever since Spring Break, it’s been Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Find Eddie. Get Eddie’s heart beating again. Drag Eddie out of the Upside Down. Pray that Eddie makes it out of surgery. Wait for Eddie to wake up. Comfort Eddie when he’s in pain. Take Eddie’s mind off of the murder charges that haven’t been dropped yet or the loss of their trailer or the long hours of physical therapy ahead of him. Listen to Eddie ramble on the days that he feels better about books and music and Dungeons and Dragons. Watch Eddie sleep and only then try to get a little sleep himself.

The last one might sound a little creepy but Steve thinks it’s justified considering he still can’t forget how Eddie looked when they found him– pale, bloody, dead. Watching him sleep, his chest rising and falling slowly but steadily is the only thing that calms Steve enough for him to doze off in that damn uncomfortable chair.

Only at some point it stops being entirely about making sure that Eddie is alive– the staring. Suddenly, Steve can’t keep his eyes off of Eddie at all times.

Steve stares at his face while Eddie reads a book to him out loud and forgets to pay attention to what he’s saying. He stares at Eddie’s hands while he explains something to the kids and completely miss a question from Henderson. He stares at his mouth while Eddie slurps the extra jello cup that Robin sneaked in past the nurses and blush when she catches him and smirks knowingly at him.

It takes Steve some time to figure out why he looks at Eddie so much, obvious as it is, and when he finally does he actually leaves his chair and heads to the bathroom for a proper floor freak out.

He just doesn’t know what to do with these feelings for Eddie or where to go from there so he just– doesn’t do anything.

And things stay the same.

Except for the way Eddie keeps getting better.

The doctors are so optimistic that they announce that Eddie might get to go home soon. They have him doing laps around the hospital and start slowly tapering off his pain meds and encouraging him to pick back up things he used to do like writing and playing guitar to work on his dexterity, they said.

It’s why Eddie starts writing down plans and ideas for future dork campaigns again and why Wayne brings his sweetheart to the hospital.

(Eddie almost cried when he saw it, making grabby hands and hugging it against his chest with a happy sigh.

“I swear you’re happier to see that thing more than you’ve ever been to see me,” Steve muttered through pursed lips.

“Steve, don’t call her a thing! She can hear you!” Eddie protested, appalled. Which wasn’t a no but at least later he tells Steve that there’s enough room in his heart for two sweethearts.)

It’s not like Eddie goes back to being a rock god on the guitar right away and his writing is intelligible more often than not, but none of that stops him. He keeps trying, keeps practicing, and Steve loves him more and more for it.

Yes. Love. The first time the word pops up in Steve’s head it leads to yet another bathroom floor freak out but once he realizes it, he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from blurting it out several times a day.

He’s doing it right now while watching Eddie excitedly write down a D&D character sheet for him with his tongue poking out adorably between his lips, tempting Steve to lean in and kiss them. So when a nurse interrupts them to take Eddie away for some test, he appreciates the short break.

When he’s alone, Steve reaches for the notebook that Eddie left on the bed. It’s off limits for any of the kids, but Eddie has let Steve peek at it before. He doesn’t think he’ll mind.

He reads his character sheet, recognizing some of the nerdy words while others fly completely over his head. Then he leafs lazily through pages of notes and doodles until he pauses at what looks like an unfinished song, fragments of lyrics and melodies written messily over the page.

Steve sends a sidelong glance to Eddie’s guitar where it’s leaning against the wall.

He’s never told anyone but he took some guitar lessons back when he started high school, hoping that playing an instrument would help get him girls. He knows how to read music and can fumble his way through a few simple songs, but he never made it past that. It seemed useless when he already had Nancy, and then when he didn’t have her anymore, he had the kids and the Upside Down and playing guitar didn’t seem like a useful skill to have when fighting monsters.

He chuckles. “Guess I was wrong,” he mutters to himself, thinking about Eddie saving the world with a Metallica song of all things.

Without giving it much thought, Steve stands up and carefully grabs the guitar, bringing it back with him to the chair and resting it on his leg, Eddie’s notebook open on the bed in front of him.

He clumsily places his fingers on the fretboard and tries to play the melody that Eddie wrote down. He messes up a few notes, but for someone who hasn’t touched a guitar in years he thinks he plays it decently enough. Eddie would surely do a better job, but it still doesn’t sound half bad. Maybe he can ask Eddie for help to improve and–

“What are you doing?” Eddie’s voice breaks through the melody. His fingers slip and the guitar makes a loud, screechy sound that makes Steve wince.

He whirls around and finds Eddie staring at him from the door, his face unreadable.

Steve gulps, his cheeks pinking up at being caught. “Playing guitar?”

Eddie’s eyebrows knit together. “Since when do you know how?”

“I– uh, I took lessons years ago but I stopped,” he says, tripping on his words. “I– I found your– your song and I was trying to play it–”

Eddie’s eyes dart to the notebook on the bed. Steve winces again, worrying that Eddie will get mad because he went through his things or because he touched his sweetheart.

“That sounds nothing like what I wrote.”

Or because he butchered his song.

Steve blushes brighter, reaching for the notebook and fumbling to close it. “Sorry, I– it’s been a while and I was never that good to begin with.”

With three long strides –and a lot less limping than a month ago, Steve proudly notices– Eddie reaches his side and snatches the notebook from Steve’s hands.

“Give me that!” He says, flopping down on the bed and flicking furiously through the pages, his face pinched.

“Shit, Eddie, I’m sorry, I– I didn’t think you’d be mad–”

“You bet I’m mad!” Eddie says with a huff, patting the bed sheets, trying to find something.

Steve shrinks down on the chair. “I– I think I’m gonna go–” he says, pushing himself to his feet. Better to leave now before Eddie finds whatever he’s looking for and throws it at his head.

“Aha!” Eddie gasps, holding up his pen. Then he notices Steve standing awkwardly and frowns at him. “Wait, what? No, stay. Play it again.”

Steve blinks down at him. “What?”

“The song!” Eddie urges him but his voice is soft, gentle. “Play it again, Stevie, please.”

Stevie. Please. He’s not mad.

“What?”

Eddie heaves out a sigh, but it comes across as fond. “Dude, I’ve been trying to figure out the right melody for that song for like, half a year!” He says, shaking his notebook aggressively. A few pages fall off, but he pays them no mind. “But I just couldn’t get it fucking right, there was always something missing! And it was whatever you were doing when I walked in!”

“So you’re not mad at me?”

“Not at you, Stevie, no,” Eddie chuckles. “Just mad that it was you who figured it out with your secret magic guitar skills and not me.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and he can’t help but let out a chuckle himself. “So you want me to do it again?”

Eddie nods enthusiastically and that’s enough to make Steve flop back down on the chair, propping the guitar on his legs and doing his best to play the song like he did before.

He must get it right because Eddie lets out an adorable squeal before using his pen to cross out something and write down whatever Steve accidentally came up with.

“Goddamn, sweetheart, I’m gonna have to dedicate this song to you now as a thank you,” Eddie says, grinning so wide at his notebook that it shows off his dimples.

Steve hangs a hand from his neck. It feels hot to the touch, probably from the pet name. “Too bad it’s a love song,” he jokes weakly, even if he wants nothing more than for Eddie’s words to be about him.

Eddie glances up, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. “I know,” he says softly, his eyes flickering nervously over Steve’s face.

Oh. Oh.

Stomach fluttering with butterflies, Steve stands up, grabbing the guitar by its neck to prop it up against the wall.

“Uh, you– are you leaving?” Eddie asks, chewing anxiously on his pen as he watches Steve move around silently. Little does he know that his heart is currently screaming at him to gently tackle Eddie into the bed.

But first–

“Just making sure your guitar is safe before I go over there and kiss you, Eds,” he says, the corners of his mouth ticking up when Eddie squeaks again, his eyes widening.

“Oh, o–okay. That’s smart. Yup,” he stammers out, his voice an octave higher, his cheeks pinking up. “Does that mean you also–”

“Feel that way about you?” Steve asks, sitting on the bed next to Eddie, who nods expectantly. Steve reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Yeah, Eddie, I do.”

When Steve leans in and finally, finally kisses him, Eddie lets his notebook fall to the floor so he can grab Steve’s shoulders. The urgency to write down that perfect melody now replaced by an urgency for Steve.

But it doesn’t matter, Steve thinks that melody is now seared into both of their memories forever, as is their first kiss. The first of many.

[gloomysoup]

thank god for robin buckley

@steddiebingo christmas prompt: cock block

rating: explicit | word count: 2512 | tags: omegaverse, edging, fingering, fluff, platonic stobin | ao3

Steve was going to die. He was absolutely certain of it. He had not gotten laid in weeks, and he was so keyed up. He would even be satisfied with a quick fingering in the bathroom as if they were horny teenagers sneaking around again.

It was nearly impossible for any of that to occur with four small children that rely on them for everything.

Before, they learned how to be quiet. They could get in some quick alone time often enough to keep them both satisfied, most often at night when the pups were tucked into bed. Lately, however, this has not worked.

Let it be said that Steve loves his pups, more than anything in the world. He would never ever trade them for anything. But.

Lucy refuses to sleep in her crib. She absolutely must be attached to someone, usually Steve, in order to sleep. Plus, she's been teething so much that it's been nearly impossible to soothe her. Violet has been going through another sleep regression, which means unfortunately, Addie isn't sleeping either. So far, James is the only one still sleeping through the night, but Steve isn't holding his breath. At this rate, he figures it's only a matter of time before James joins his sisters in not sleeping. During the day, when the older girls are at school, Eddie is working.

Things have not worked out for Steve very well lately.

-

It's the weekend. Eddie is off work, and Steve is determined. He gets James to lay down for a nap, which he may or may not take. Addie and Violet are playing in their room, and Lucy is in her swing in the nursery. Steve knows they don't have much time before Lucy realizes she's alone and starts screaming again. Eddie is in the kitchen, humming to himself as he washes up the lunch dishes.

Steve grabs his hand and tugs him to the bedroom. Eddie watches with an amused smile on his face, willingly at Steve’s mercy. Their kisses get hot and heavy quick, Eddie’s hand already dipping below Steve’s waistband.

And then Violet is screaming bloody murder two rooms away, crying for Eddie like she's dying.

Eddie kisses him quickly, already moving away from Steve. “I'll be right back,” he promises.

Steve groans as Eddie leaves the bed and slips out the door. By the time he comes back from diffusing the situation, caused by a toy, Lucy is crying. The moment is gone. They've lost their chance.

-

All of the pups are finally asleep in their own beds. For the first time in months, Lucy stayed asleep when Steve put her in the crib. They finally get some alone time.

Eddie’s hands are gentle against his skin as they slip under his shirt; their kisses are soft, but filled with intent. They're pressed together until they are nearly one unit. Steve is finally going to get what he needs.

And then some asshole nearby sets off fireworks.

It takes no time for Lucy’s cries to come through the baby monitor, and then their door opens to Addie and Violet asking to sleep with them, tears in their eyes. Steve sighs as he throws the covers back and gets out of bed to get Lucy. He checks on James on his way back, who is still sleeping like a rock. He even has to stop to make sure he's still actually breathing, which he is.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Lucy in his arms, Eddie is already curled up with the girls. He looks at Steve over two heads of curly hair as he climbs back under the covers and gets comfortable. “James?”

Steve huffs a soft laugh. “Sleeping like a rock. I swear, that kid sleeps through anything.”

Eddie smiles and shuffles closer, squishing the girls tightly between them. Addie giggles quietly from where her face is in Eddie’s shirt, wiggling for a moment before getting comfortable and settling again. “I'm sorry we didn't get to finish what we started,” he said softly, eyes still on Steve despite the curls that are practically up his nose from the pup against him. “I know we’ve been trying to get some time to ourselves for a while, and it just doesn't work out.”

Steve sighed, tucking Lucy close to his chest and brushing his hand over the curls on Violet’s head. “It's okay. Our pups need us more.”

“Doesn't mean you can't be upset, baby.”

Steve shook his head quickly. “I'm not upset, though. Frustrated, maybe, but… we're parents.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes our own wants have to take a backseat, and that's okay. I wouldn't trade this life for anything.”

Eddie smiled again, reaching for Steve’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “I promise I'll find a way to make it up to you, though. Eventually.”

Steve smiled back, lacing their fingers together. “I know you will.”

-

The next time they finally get an opportunity to be alone, it's a bright Sunday morning. Lucy was down for her morning nap, and the three older kids are occupied by a movie in the living room. Steve and Eddie knew they had at least half an hour before one of them got bored. They knew it would have to be quick and quiet, which they had basically mastered by the time Violet was six months old. They certainly enjoyed taking their time more, but they didn't get many opportunities once their family really started growing.

The baby monitor was on the dresser, the kids were occupied, the door was locked. Everything was perfect. Eddie’s lips were on Steve’s neck, nipping gently as he breathed in his scent right from the source. They'd spent a good five minutes just making out like they were kids again, which is probably five minutes longer than they should've, but they just couldn't help themselves. Steve’s hair was fanned out on the bedspread, slightly messy from Eddie’s hands raking through it and the occasional tug. Eddie’s lips trailed to his chest, so careful where he knew Steve was most sensitive. His hand slipped under Steve’s shorts, teasing exactly where he knew Steve wanted him. He didn't tease for long, though. He knew they were short on time.

He slowly pressed his finger up inside, swallowing Steve’s shuddering gasp with a sharp kiss. He started slow; they hadn't done anything in a while. He didn't want to hurt him. He was just beginning to press a second finger, so slow and careful with his eyes on Steve for any sign of discomfort.

Then the front door opened.

“Poppy!” all three pups exclaimed from the living room. There was the sound of clambering pups and Wayne’s laughter.

Steve whined, high in his throat, as Eddie removed his hand. Eddie pressed kisses to his neck, mating gland, cheeks, and lips in quick succession.

“‘m sorry, baby,” he whispered with a very apologetic look before standing up and trying to straighten himself out. Steve didn't move for several moments. Not until he heard Wayne asking the pups where they were. Then he sighed, pulled himself from the bed, and tried to look presentable before they slipped down the hallway to the living room.

Wayne was bent down on one knee, James in his arms and Violet clambering up onto his back. The pair stepped into the room, really hoping it didn't look like they had been in the middle of something. They both knew Wayne had seen more than his fair share of the two of them in compromising positions.

When Wayne stood up and saw them, he took in their appearances and merely raised an eyebrow. Yeah… Steve should've seen that coming. Wayne always knows.

“You two busy?” he asked, still giving them head to toe looks.

Eddie cleared his throat and smiled. “Can always make time for you, old man.”

“Mhm.” Wayne gave them a very knowing, slightly judgy look.

“So, what're you doing in town for, Wayne?” Steve asked as nonchalantly as he could manage. “You didn't have to make the drive, y’know.”

Wayne shrugged, adjusting his hold on James. “Had a few vacation days needed usin’ up. Figured I'd come up and see the pups for a bit. I can go back, though. Get outta y'all's hair if ya got plans.”

“‘Course not, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie said. “We’d love to have you. Wouldn't we, sweetheart?”

Steve smiled. “Absolutely. You're always welcome here, Wayne.”

Part of Steve thought that maybe, just maybe, having Wayne over meant he and Eddie could get even a smidgen of alone time. That was not the case, however. Despite Wayne doing what he could to help out with the pups, Violet had been acting particularly clingy lately. She had always been a very clingy baby, always wanting to be with Steve or Eddie, and she did good with the separation stuff for a little while when James was born. It helped that she shared a room with Addie, and that had really been their intention with putting the two girls together anyway.

For some reason, though, it was back like a vengeance. She spent almost every night in their bed. And while Steve would never even dream of giving up this time with his pup while she still offered it, it had made spending any time with Eddie pretty much impossible.

-

Of course, it's Robin that finally comes to his rescue.

She's hanging out while Steve folds laundry on a Saturday morning. Addie and Violet were playing in their room, James was sitting on the living room floor playing with some cars, and Eddie had taken Lucy to the store with him to go grocery shopping. Robin watched with a raised brow as Steve folded clothes in what he thought was a perfectly normal way, but apparently not to Robin.

He huffed a little as he stuck the folded clothes into the basket, organized by room, and Robin pursed her lips.

“What?” Steve asked, voice maybe a little more tense than it needed to be.

“Just wondering what the fuck you're problem is,” Robin responded. “You're real tense, babe.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I wouldn't be so tense if I could actually get laid.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “You haven't gotten laid recently? Well, that explains the attitude. How long has it been?”

Steve huffed. “Like, almost three months, Rob.”

“You're joking.”

“Wish I was.” Steve groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “No matter what I do, it just never happens. And trust me, we've tried. One time, we even got so far as his fingers inside of me, and then Wayne showed up. And of course, it's Wayne, so he immediately knew what was going on. I absolutely could not do anything while he was here, though, because, like, that's basically my dad, and he's put up with enough of our shit. Plus, you know how clingy Violet has been lately. Every single time we think we're finally gonna be able to have sex, something happens and the moment is gone. I am suffering, Robs, and Eddie has been so fucking sweet about it, because he knows I'm- I'm all pent up. He has done everything he can, but it never works out how we want it to.”

Robin shook her head. “Absolutely not. That is not gonna fly.” Robin was standing up and leaving the room before Steve even knew what was happening. “Come on, Jamie, let's go get dressed. Auntie Robin’s got some fun plans today,” he heard her say before moving down the hallway to the bedrooms. He heard James get up to follow her.

God bless Robin Buckley.

By the time Eddie got home, the rest of the pups were dressed and ready to go. Eddie frowned as Lucy was immediately scooped from his arms and taken back outside.

“Hurry up and unload the groceries so I can steal your children,” Robin said as she moved past him.

“What-”

“No questions!”

Eddie shook his head and looked at Steve, who merely smiled and went outside to bring in the groceries. Once everything was inside, and all the pups were safely buckled up into the car, Robin was gone with nothing more than a, “Have fun getting railed!” yelled out the window.

Steve and Eddie were finally alone.

Despite how much he immediately wanted to pounce on Eddie, he knew they had to get the groceries put away first. As they moved around the kitchen, Eddie hummed softly.

“What's Robin’s deal?” he asked just as he was sliding the last box of cereal into the cabinet. “She just up and stole our children.”

“They'll be back later,” Steve said softly, reaching for Eddie’s hand and leading him out of the kitchen. “She just thought we could use some… alone time.”

Eddie smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Alone time, huh?” Steve nodded, dragging Eddie closer and closer to their bedroom. “And what're we gonna do with all this alone time?”

Steve smiled as they crossed the threshold into their bedroom, hand already sliding down to unbutton his own jeans. “I can think of a few things to fill the time.”

Steve and Eddie curled up in their bed, naked and sweaty, but happy. Steve’s head rested on Eddie’s chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall with his breathing. Eddie’s fingers trailed up and down Steve’s back, his nose buried in his hair. They'd have to get up soon to shower and put on some clothes. Their pups would be home soon, and it would be back to business as usual for the Munson household.

But there was still a little bit of time.

“I love you,” Steve whispered, closing his eyes for a moment and letting himself take everything in.

“I love you more,” Eddie replied, just as quiet. “I'm sorry I haven't made more time for you lately.”

Steve shook his head. “It's okay. Our lives are busy. It happens, and it’s not your fault.”

“Still. You deserve better.”

Steve shifted a little in Eddie’s hold, tilting his head so he was buried in Eddie’s neck instead. “I have everything I could ever want and more, thanks to you. We've got four beautiful pups, and our friends, and our life. You work so hard to provide for us, Eddie, so that I can have the absolute privilege of staying home with our babies all day. You didn't have to do all that, but you did. Do I wish I could have sex with my amazing husband more often than we do? Absolutely. But it's not like I'm completely unsatisfied with our life. I love our life, Eddie, even if we do get a little too busy to have time to ourselves sometimes.”

He could feel Eddie’s smile as he kissed his forehead, tightening his arms around him for a moment. “You are truly amazing, my love,” he murmured. “Thank god for Robin Buckley, though.”

Steve chuckled, nuzzling into the side of Eddie’s throat to take in his scent.

“Thank god for Robin Buckley.”

[nightlyrequiem]

Scream

A new serial killer has been terrorizing the streets of Las Almas. You have an... interesting encounter with her one night while working your first shift at the morgue.

New Part Every Thursday

Masterlist AO3

A/N- I wanted to be a medical examiner when I was twelve. That's not something in my future anymore sadly. Also, no matter how often I write smut I feel goofy doing it, but I think this turned out okay.

Tags/Warnings: Slasher Valeria, Violence, Blood, WLW, Dubcon, FINGERING, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content

There's been another murder. A man found in his car with his throat sliced open. You're starting to wonder if Las Almas was the right town to move to. The fall air is only slightly cooler than the summer air but not enough to count. It's mid-October yet you're still wearing shorts and a tank top. You stand among other bystanders as police and coroners investigate the crime scene. The body was moved a while ago. At first everyone had assumed the murders were related to the ever-growing cartel located right in the town but a video on a victim's phone showed a glimpse of a figure in a white mask. Eyes drooping, mouth elongated into a soundless scream, and realised this was something else entirely.

A man in an official looking suit strides up to the crowd standing at the police tape.

"Go home." He says sternly. "This is real life, not one of those little perverse true crime podcasts." He scolds. The group slowly dissipates. Nobody feeling truly guilty for gawking. You reluctantly turn away and leave as well. Not wanting to be the only person still there. You head back home. You should get some rest anyway. You start your first shift at the morgue tonight. 

You groan irritably as your phone alarm blares right beside your ear. Shrill and annoying. You make quick work of turning it off. For a few minutes you lay there on your mattress - you don't have a bedframe yet - and fight back frustration. You can't believe this is what you have to do every day. You're just so tired. You can't fathom having to do this for the next forty-fifty years of your life. Despite the evil voice in your head telling you not to get up, you do. You throw on a simple shirt and pants combo. It doesn't matter because you'll have to suit up anyway. You debate putting on makeup as well but you're so tired and the only people around to see you will be your mentor and a corpse. Those dark circles under your eyes will fit right in.

The drive to the morgue is short. The streets of Las Almas are deserted at night. Dim yellow streetlights adding to the eerie atmosphere. Of course nobody wants to be out at night here. There's an operating cartel and a serial killer on the loose. Your eyes drift to your rear mirror. Just to make sure no ghastly figures are lurking about in your backseat. You park and get out. Grabbing your bag and walking inside. The bright fluorescent lights buzz and threaten to give you a headache and you swallow down the dread at having to spend nine hours here. You didn't take all those medical classes just to give up. Down in the basement your mentor is already suited up. Setting up the tray of tools. He turns and smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. He's an older man. Short and going gray.

"Glad to see you." He greets. "Your scrubs are in that locker over there, get suited up and come join me and I'll go over the basics."

You struggled a bit with putting on the apron and gloves but finally got the hang of it. You walk over to him and do your best to listen as he goes over the tools and their uses. Scalpel, bone saw, enterotome, rib shears. You already know all about them, but it doesn't hurt to get a refresher. It's been a few years since you were in school.

"Okay. Let's go get the body." The man nods. He leads you to the back and you shiver at the drop in temperature. You don't care for it, although you know it's necessary to keep the bodies fresh. The more decayed it is, the harder and more dangerous for you it is to do an autopsy. He shows you how to take the body out from the columbarium and wheels him back to the examining room.

The man's eyes are still open. His lifeless stare creeps you out a bit.

"What do we do first?" Your mentor asks. Staring at you expectantly. You weren't expecting him to ask and you hesitate. Mind blanking.

"Um... we- we drain him." You answer.

"No, we note down any external marks and wounds." He corrects. You mentally facepalm. Of course. That's the obvious answer. You blame it on the dissociative state you're in.

"Right. Sorry." You say.

"It's alright." He says kindly, handing you a notebook and pen.

You walk up to the cadaver and realise just how surreal this is. This man was a person. A son, a child at one point. He had a favourite food, colour. None of that matters anymore.

"I write down his name right?" You ask. Your mentor nods. you shakily scratch down his name. You look him over. There's a scratch on his right wrist. There's a deep, obvious gash along his throat. You inspect the jagged edges of his skin. "... I think this was made with a hunting knife?" You guess. Looking to your mentor. He approaches and inspects him too. Nodding in agreement. 

"Correct, anything else?"

You stare at the cadaver. What else are you supposed to look at? Right, his nails. You lift up his big hands gingerly and check under his nails. No visible evidence of skin or blood. You jot down your findings.

One-inch-long shallow scratch, right wrist. Three-inch-long gash along throat, jagged edges, suggests it was done with hunting knife. No other visible external injuries.

You stare at the body and at your notes. Maybe you should check him once more.

"I need to use the washroom." Your mentor mumbles, degloving. He walks out of the room, leaving you alone in this cold, unfamiliar place with a body. You stand around awkwardly for a few moments, your only company being the dead man. You feel suffocated by the weight of the future. What if you never get the hang of this? What if you can't do it? You take a few seconds to breathe. You got your bachelor's degree. You got hired at the morgue. You remind yourself you felt overwhelmed and scared of driving at first too, and now you can do it just fine. If you can navigate college, you can navigate a corpse.

You check him over one more time to see if you were accurate. As you're setting his hand down you stop and look closer. A very short, fine black thread is caught under his thumbnail. You jot it down and carefully pull it out, holding it up to your face. Up close you see it's not thread but a strand of hair. you set it down on the counter in a tray to be looked at later. You shamble closer and stare at him uncertainly. Do you cut him open now or is there something you're forgetting? You look up. Your mentor still hasn't returned. You'll wait before you do anything. The last thing you want to do is mess up an autopsy.

Twenty minutes later he still hasn't returned. You frown and debate with yourself. He could be unwell, and you'd feel awkward about disturbing him while he's on the toilet, but you need to learn, and you can't proceed without him to guide you. You walk out of the room and down the hall. Doors are closed along the walls. The lights out in those rooms. It's quiet. Where are the bathrooms again? You turn down another hallway. Peering down it. You walk towards an opening. Not the bathrooms. Instead, there are tables lined up with cover sheets. All are barren except for one. If a body isn't being examined, it needs to be put away. You put aside your search for your mentor and begin to wheel the body to the body storage area. Your skin prickles into goosebumps. The body's feet are the only part sticking out from under the blanket. It still has shoes on. You stop. You're pretty sure all cadavers are to be stripped of their clothing once they arrive. You'll do that at the columbarium.

You leave him in there and hurry back to the examining room to retrieve fabric sheers. You gasp as something dark darts across the hall.

"Hello?" You call instinctively, then mentally facepalm. What is wrong with you? It's nothing, you decide. Because you aren't sure what you'd do if it was something. You feel uneasy at the silence and your mentor still being gone but you push those fears aside. Morgues hold dead people, of course you're wary. It's no different to a hospital though, both are medical buildings. One's for the living, the other for the dead.

Back in the storage room you approach the body. You grab ahold of the edge of the sheet and pull it off, freezing in place. Your hands tremble and you drop the black plastic sheet. It flutters to the ground. Dark red blooms through his white scrubs on his chest. A clean wound entering and exiting his body. Your mentor stares at the ceiling unblinkingly. Your brain takes a few seconds to comprehend what you're seeing. Your mentor is dead, and he was murdered. You whip around to face the doorway. The hallway is brightly lit. What's the likelihood of his killer still being in the building? Pretty fucking high. The buzzing of the lights and the otherwise silence feels threatening. You grip the fabric shears tightly. Too afraid to move. You picture the murderer standing just beside the door frame, knife poised, waiting to plunge it into your heart.

The body can lose fourteen percent of its blood without much consequence. Fifteen to thirty percent and you risk passing out - although you know that's much lower for you because you cut open your foot one time and almost passed out after losing maybe five percent at most. Forty percent and you die. It depends where your cut or stabbed too. The body has twenty arteries. Any of those get punctured and you'll be dead within five minutes.

You creep forward. Shears raised in defense. You psyche yourself up to look around the corner. Imagining the tip of a wicked blade sinking into your eye socket. Popping that fragile ball of jelly. You look quickly. Seeing an empty hall on both sides. You need to get back to the examining room to get your phone. Call the police. Barricade yourself in the room until they arrive. Your feet softly hit the clean linoleum floors with every step. You make it to the examining room without issue. You quickly rush to your locker and root through your bag for your phone. a sob wells up in your throat, it's not there. You know for certain you put it there.

People are sometimes able to feel when someone else enters a room before seeing them. A shift in the air, a tingle in the spine. Your feel sick with fear. You don't want to turn around, but you don't want to keep your back to the open door. Slowly you turn. In the doorway stands the murderer. Adequately called Ghostface by the public. They're all dressed up. White mask, black hood and tattered robe and all. You two stare at each other for what feels like forever.

"Forget your phone?" Their voice is muffled and gravely and mocking. Almost electronic sounding, like someone talking through a walkie talkie. You watch in horror as they hold out your phone, dropping it to the ground. They raise one foot and stomp down with their heel, shattering the screen and your hopes of getting out of here. "Aren't you pretty." They walk forward and shut the door. Reaching behind themselves to lock it. Your eyes dart towards the tool table. Distressed to find it cleared. All you have are the fabric shears.

You back up, raising them slightly. A show of aggression. Not a good one, but one nonetheless. The figure tilts their head at you.

"What do you think you'll be able to do with those?"

"... Kill you." You rasp. Ghostface just chuckles. "I haven't seen your face, I won't tell the cops anything, please don't kill me." Your voice breaks at the end. Ghostface observes you silently. Looking like the grim reaper. You watch on in confusion as they raise a gloved hand slowly and grip the edge of their mask. Lifting it to reveal the face beneath. A woman in her thirties. Dark brows and eyes that stare right through you. 

"Now you have." She murmurs. Sounding far less robotic. She pulls the mask back over her face. "But I don't think I want to kill you just yet."

She rushes at you, throwing the table to the side. You scream and raise your hands to protect your face. The woman grabs you by the shoulders and roughly throws you to the floor, winding you. You gasp and try to crawl away, shears clutched uselessly in your hand. She throws herself on top of you. Straddling your lower back and pressing your pelvis into the hard floor uncomfortably. One gloved hand wraps around the front of your throat and pulls your head back, making it harder to breath. Your back and neck arching in the process.

"Poor thing, all alone." Valeria coos. Index finger rubbing your throat mockingly. "These scrubs are so unflattering."

The sound of tearing makes you cringe. "What are you doing?" You ask shakily. She doesn't answer as she cuts away at your scrubs. Pulling the torn fabric to the side. Her fingers trace along your ribs and waist, making you shiver.

"You're so pretty." She mutters to herself. 

She violently tugs down your sweats, exposing your ass to the cool air. Your heart flutters and you flinch. You don't feel as afraid as you should and that alone frightens you. Her palm smooths over your cheeks. Massaging the skin. You breathe heavily, feeling like you're going to pass out. Her hand dips between your cheeks. Prodding along your clothed asshole and cunt. You wore light coloured underwear and know she can see the damp spot beginning to form. Not that it matters, because you can feel the cotton sticking to your wet folds, moulding to their shape. She hums in interest.

"... You're already wet?" She comments. Stroking you gently. "Don't tell me you get off on this." 

Your face warms with embarrassment. "I'm not... It's not... get the hell off of me!" It's not death that arouses you. You aren't into dying, or corpses. You don't know why being pinned to the cold floor by a murderer is making your clit throb.

She doesn't get off of you. Instead, she roughly pushes your head down. Your cheek presses against the ground.

"Shut the fuck up." She demands. Rubbing her hand through your folds, soaking your panties even more. She cuts away at your underwear without a care. The air makes contact with your slick unpleasantly. Chilling your weeping core. A leather clad finger prods at your entrance and to your shame you don't protest. Prioritizing your desire to be filled more than the need to flee and call for help. Her finger slips in. The unfamiliar texture of the leather makes you squirm as your spongy walls pull it deeper. She adds another finger, curling them upwards and hitting that sweet spot inside of you.

You tense and gasp. Jerking upwards at the feeling. She sets a fast pace. Pumping her fingers into you with an intensity. Your pussy practically sings her praises as it squelches. You press your face into the floor to hide your shame. Valeria isn't having any of that. She grabs ahold of your hair and yanks your head back.

"You're enjoying this." She taunts. "Sick little freak."

You clench around her fingers. "No I'm - not." You whimper. She gives you a hard thrust in response, pushing a loud whine from the back of your throat.

"You're dripping all over my hand." Valeria retorts, moving her other hand from the back of your head to the nape of your neck.

As if to punish you for your insolence, she presses down and roughly pumps her fingers into you. Droplets of your slick hitting the floor. You feel like a monster for even slightly enjoying this and you do your best to stave off the impending orgasm quickly approaching. It's one thing to enjoy what's happening - it's another to get off on it. Valeria is relentless. Leaning over you and breathing in your ear. You whine and clench around her fingers. Toes curling in your shoes.

"Fuck." You mutter with defeat. You came on a murderer's fingers.

The woman slowly pulls her fingers out, gathering up your wetness. She holds it out in front of your face and spreads her fingers. Translucent strings connecting them, evidence of your debauchery.

"Open your mouth." She murmurs. "C'mon, sweet thing, open your mouth." She forces her fingers between your lips. The taste of blood, leather, and your own juices hit your tongue. You gag as she shoves them deeper into your mouth. When she finally pulls them away, she gives your cheek a quick tap and stands, leaving you on the floor in a puddle of your own release.

"Are you going to kill me?" You whisper.

"Maybe." She hums. "If you aren't useful." 

Now that the high is wearing off your left with a cavernous pit in your stomach. Your mentor was murdered, and you happily let the killer finger you. "What? How can I be useful?"

She scoffs. "You're a medical examiner are you not?" She replies impatiently, she leans against the counter and lifts her mask again.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a box of cigarettes and lights one.

"You're not supposed to smoke down here." You mutter.

"I don't care." She says, lighting one and putting it to her hips. "You're going to tamper with the bodies, or lie about how they died, or whatever it is you do."

You close your eyes. "That's... that's so unethical, I can't do that."

She grins at you. "Cumming around a murderer's hand - in a morgue no less - is pretty unethical."

She approaches and squats down, grabbing your chin and making you face her.

"If you don't want me to fucking gut you," She murmurs softly. "then you'll do what I say."

You don't want that. You're of the opinion that your insides belong inside of you. "Okay." You say weakly. You don't have much of a choice. 

"Good girl." Valeria hums. she stands and walks towards the doorway, pausing to look at you over her shoulder. "I'll be seeing you again very soon."

[messitydepressity]

tw for suicide / self harm

Hi, I'm very sorry to bother you with this, but I'm im desperate need of fic recs where Ellie deals with suicidal ideation/suicide attempt/self harm, do you maybe have any recs? 😭

Love your fics so much, thanks for all you gift us!

Hi anon! 🖤

Bother me all ya’ like, I LOVE sharing Fics!

And boy oh boy am I about to unload a fuckton of them on you.

Brace yourself, bud.

There’s enough that I am going to break them down into categories; make it a little easier to navigate for your tastes.

Not all of them will have self-harm/suicide ideation, but will have the undertone/vibe (there’s actually not a lot of that for tlou pertaining to Ellie.)

And thanks for loving my Fics, I appreciate it!🖤🖤🖤

‼️TW - MENTIONS OF SUICIDE AND SELF HARM‼️

—

In universe (cannon or cannon-adjacent)

‘The Anotomy of A Broken Girl’ by @paigegonerogue

-Ellie and Joel meet in silver lake, follows the aftermath of David’s assault and details her trauma in a three part series beginning with ‘skin’ (self-harm/hatred, non-con/sexual assault)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54426145

‘Frayed’ by @penandinkprincess

-A ‘what if’ for the firefly hospital, Ellie and Joel stay for their wicked experiments and it drives her to seek out a hurt she can control (self-harm, medical trauma)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45733363

‘Lessons in wayfinding’ by @penandinkprincess

-Ellie becomes convinced the Cordyceps are slowly turning her which leads her to make a plan for her own death to protect her people. (Suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47500969

‘A half step to the left’ by @penandinkprincess (listen, they know how to whump)

-Firefly medical experimentation where every time Ellie’s put under she thinks it’ll be the end of her life but doesn’t tell Joel and Tess. (Not really suicide ideation, but girl accepts that her death must be inevitable)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45438397

—

Chemical burn specific (not as heavy)

‘Half light’ by @midnight-society-tlou

-Ellie burns off her bite in the middle of the night and scares The Shit™️ out of Joel with a side of obvious medical whump. (Self-harm and hurt/comfort)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53208898

‘A small price to pay for forever’ by @boopernatural

-Ellie’s scar is almost spotted, Tommy and Joel help her burn it off (self-harm adjacent)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48030379

‘Subdermal’ by (surprise) @penandinkprincess (I’m so sorry I’ve tagged you in this a billion times)

-Ellie sears off several layers of skin while under Tommy’s watch (def self harm but low on Ellie angst)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46541149

—

Angsty Fics That Vibe

‘Migrating Monarchs’ by ao3 ciaconnaa (I can’t find a tumblr)

- Joel fosters Ellie twenty years after losing Sarah, her last foster placement was David and bb has lots of trauma. (Past self harm & non-con)

No link for this bad boy 😭

‘I may have drew blood (that was true love)’ by @captainredspade

-both Ellie and Joel get angsty in this one, and the imagery is beautiful.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61773802

‘Enough of a dying species’ by @march-flowerr

-I cannot explain the love I have for this angsty, visceral, gorgeous piece. (Spoiler!) Joel almost succumbs to Abby’s attack, and will never be the same (a realistic take on what if he survived)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60164254

‘Alabaster in the evening’ by @boopernatural

-Ellie runs a podcast that solves murders, she figures out Sarah’s killer and nearly gets her ass whacked.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57336517

—

A little off the beaten path of your request, but Fics I’d recommend in general

‘Static’ by @stumbling-away

-Ellie goes on patrol with Tommy and some men get a little handsy (feral Tommy activated.)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62111386

‘Ten mile stilts’ by @march-flowerr

-a blizzard hits Jackson while Joel is sick and Ellie spirals.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61739575

‘Irreplaceable’ by @captainredspade

-Ellie takes a bite for Tommy and sends them all into an angsty little hole.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47229964

‘And I’m tired of taking orders’ by @piqu3d

-FEDRA whips Ellie for trespassing in the mall with Riley, Joel doesn’t take it kindly.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46720096

—

I hope you find something to scratch the itch on this list, and take care yourself out there.

I know life gets shitty, and sometimes reading someone else heal helps.

*if anybody sees this and has recs, feel free to drop them in the comments.

[pileofmush]

you don't know what i deserve .·:*¨ ¨*:·..·:*¨ ¨*:·..·:*¨ ¨*:·.

ft. okkotsu yuuta

it’s 1 a.m. on the fifteenth of February and there’s a corpse on your kitchen floor. still fresh: odorless and warm to the touch. you're on your own—just you and the dead body.

info : ̗̀➛ tags: gn!reader, neighbor au, strangers to lovers, yuuta & reader are a little strange, happy ending // cw: death, light angst, vulgar language, canon-typical violence...but pretty mild imo

thoughts : ̗̀➛ helllooo. back on my bullshit. let's call this a very belated birthday present to my beloved <3 // read this on ao3

wc : ̗̀➛ 5.1k

The human body contains a shit ton of blood. 

Which is not something you think about often, but now you are forced to confront this fact in real-time. People… have a lot of blood.

And it stains. No matter how many times you wash your hands. There are still flakes of blood wedged underneath your fingernails. Part of you thinks it'll never go away.

...And then there's Sailor Moon.

“I am the pretty guardian who fights for love and justice! I am Sailor Moon! And now, in the name of the moon, I’ll punish you!”  

Cue trumpets and flashy poses; the makings of a battle. Your comfort anime blares in the background of a morbid scene, the flickering TV casting a soft glow on a sight that will inevitably haunt your nightmares. 

Because it's 1 a.m. on the fifteenth of February and there’s a corpse on your kitchen floor. Still fresh: odorless and warm to the touch. You pace in your tiny living room, unsure of what to do, of how to proceed. The pretty Sailor Guardians won’t save you now. You’re on your own. Just you and the dead body.

How romantic.

The chill from outside has swept into your apartment thanks to that annoying fucking prick who left your window open. Honestly, people these days have no decency. The least he could’ve done was close your shutters after tumbling through your bedroom window like a deranged acrobat. Now you’re, like, moderately cold. 

“What a fucking mess,” you sigh.

Blood seeps into the earthy Persian rug that you got for half-price at a flea market a few months ago. It’s dark; puddling, like... like a knocked-over glass of chocolate milk, spilled all over the kitchen table. Or, maybe chocolate syrup would be more apt. It doesn’t matter, though. You can always get a new rug. You know, if you make it out of this situation of yours intact and not in a dingy prison cell for homicide.

Hmm. You might be sorta kinda screwed. 

The police, of course, are out of the question. No matter your side of the story, it wouldn’t hold up in trial. No, no, no. A foreigner murdering a Japanese citizen? Even if it was in self-defense, it wouldn’t matter. Forget prison—you’ll probably be hanged.

So, you could run… But you probably wouldn’t get far. Or, you could do what every naive murderer in the movie about karmic retribution does and try your darnedest to get away with it.

“Option two it is!” you quit pacing and announce to the room. Thankfully, the body doesn’t respond.

A weak knock at the door sounds off—a gunshot. Your heart stalls, your head snapping to the entrance of the apartment. Who the hell is at your door? The person at the door knocks a second time, a little bit more insistently, and you start to sweat. “Hello, is everything alright? I—I heard a scream.”

You step up to the peephole and squint. A mild-looking man shuffles his feet outside your door. It’s your next-door neighbor, bathed in the ugly yellow lighting of your apartment complex. He smiles like he knows that you can see him. 

This… isn’t ideal. You could choose to not answer him, but that probably wouldn’t work. What if he called the police? You take a breath. “Everything’s fine,” you call out.

The man’s smile freezes in place, somehow more eerie than a frown; his hands burrow deeper into his pockets. “Oh!” he says. “Are… Are you sure?”

You turn away from the peephole, a little unnerved. “Yeah, why?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but I heard a lot more than a single scream.”

A slow, dreadful feeling starts to seep into your gut. “Pardon?” 

There’s a pause. You swallow.

“These walls are thin.” 

Fuck. He knows. Oh God, he knows. 

No—that’s impossible. You were the only one to scream. Yasuhiro… He didn’t get the chance to. So this is just a concerned neighbor checking in on you. Nothing more, nothing less. You can prove it, prove that you’re okay.

You open the door a smidge so that you can peek through, then step outside and shut the door behind you. Your neighbor, what’s his name again? Okkotsu, right? Okkotsu’s brows lift at the sight of you, then relax. He’s wearing a plain white tee and a pair of grey sweats that should probably be criminal in Japan. His eyes flicker up and down your frame. You suppress a shiver.

“Just a horror movie,” you broach, offering him a polite smile. “I’m an easy fright.”

Okkotsu pulls a hand out of his pocket to awkwardly rub the back of his neck. His gentle smile has dimmed. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he says in an apologetic tone.

You both notice the tremor that runs through your body. Nosy fucking neighbors and their lack of sense when it comes to minding their own business. You stare mulishly at the floor. His shoes are simple. Black; scuffed. His left foot taps once against the floor. Whatever. You don't have to answer to him. Gathering up your resolve, you start to speak. “Listen, Okkotsu-san,” you say but are cut off quickly.

“Is that blood?” 

That makes you freeze, eyes glued to the floor. A cold set of fingers dips under your chin and gently lifts it. Your gaze meets his: two pools of an endless, starless night. It flickers to a spot beside your ear knowingly and you reach for it. 

He’s right. Blood sticks to your fingers, not yet dry. Lurking in the crevice behind your ear. You missed a spot.

“Well spotted.” It’s fruitless to lie now. You know it, he knows it. Now it’s a matter of who’ll crack first. 

“Are you… Are you injured?”

Physically? No. Psychiatrically? Well, you just murdered a man, so.

“I’m unharmed.” 

Okkotsu blinks owlishly. “Is that so?” He murmurs curiously, tilting your head to the side to observe the blood staining your skin. 

You readjust your head and mimic him, blinking slowly. “Okkotsu—”

“Yuuta,” he interrupts. 

You blink again. For such a mild, polite-seeming boy, he really is quite rude. And confusing. And terrifying. And you kinda sort of want him to die. “Okkotsu-san” you repeat. “I think it’s best if you leave.”

Okkotsu Yuuta’s smile returns, and it’s dangerously innocuous. He breathes your name out like a question. Starless eyes wander to your front door, then go back to studying your own. “Can I come inside?” he asks, quietly. 

Everything stills, even your heart. You’re not quite certain you’re alive, when you ask, dubiously, “The apartment?” 

Okkotsu just smiles.

You let Okkotsu come inside.

Which is absolutely fucking insane, but you have a feeling that your neighbor’s worse off than you are, and that’s truly saying something. 

You hear him lock the door behind you before you start. Silently, you lead him past your living room, past Tsukino Usagi flying down the sidewalk on the way to school—the start of another episode, then—past your browning house plant hanging from the ceiling, into your quaint kitchen. 

It’s nothing special. A small green stove with two bunsen burners on top. A sink; limited counter space. A couple of peeling cabinets. Tied in together with a white backsplash, shifting colors with each flicker of the TV. To the side, a small table sits, with two mismatched chairs tucked into it. 

Oh, and there’s the dead body, too. Practically dribbling blood, painting your discounted rug muddy red and the surrounding blue tile purple. 

Okkotsu lets out a soft sigh. “What a mess.”

You consider him from the corner of your eye. “That’s what I said,” you frown.

He shrugs, still looking at poor, dead, Yasuhiro. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” 

Yeaaaah. It’s true.  

A giggle escapes you, the reality of the situation finally hitting you. “Fuck,” you whisper in between the giggles. “I’m fucked.” It’s true. Utterly and thoroughly—no condom used. 

“Not yet,” you barely hear him say over the fracturing of your composure. This is impossible. You killed a man tonight, then showed a stranger the corpse. You’re an idiot. You’re a freak. You can’t hide a dead body. You really might as well bend over and get it over with. Fuck.

Hands gripping your knees, you struggle to catch your breath. When did you lose it? Ah, who cares? Dead. You’re dead. The noose is looped around your hollowed throat, tightening by the second. Perhaps there’ll be two corpses on your kitchen floor by the time the sun is up. Perhaps you should’ve just let him kill—

“Breathe with me,” Okkotsu mutters, right in front of you, long hands gingerly clutching your shoulders. Which is strange. You had no idea he got so close. His thumbs swipe up and down, around and around, and you are flummoxed. But Okkotsu is patient, his chest compressing and expanding with each measured breath, and you are compelled to follow him. Slowly, you come down from your panicked high. You let out a shaky breath, eyes sliding back to the imposing guest in your apartment. The other imposing guest in your apartment.

The body in front of you lays eerily still, impervious to your mini breakdown. It’s not purple, or rotting, or excreting out the last remaining fluids left in its underwhelming husk. It’s just—laying there. Laying, not lying, because it is no longer a breathing thing that rests; now an object to be placed. Dehumanized, in every way. Then again, what is dehumanization if not just another word for murder? What is murder, if not just the taking away of a person’s autonomy? Dead bodies can’t rest. It will never lie again. 

The dead body lays.

And you wonder for how much longer you’ll keep your own autonomy.

When do the dead start to attract flies? Realistically, you know it can range from a day to a few days for a decomposing body to become…obscene, depending on the environmental conditions. It hasn’t even been a few hours. You doubt flies will start buzzing around any time soon. If you move to crouch down and touch it, it’ll probably still be warm.  

The swipe of a thumb over your shoulder brings your awareness back to your neighbor. 

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, wiping the tears that have beaded up in the corners of your eyes. Your breathing is steadier now, but you’re still trembling. That damn window is still open. 

The hands on your shoulders release, and you look up to gauge his thoughts. He’s frowning. His eyes cloud, then sharpen: lightning against a black sky. “You need to get rid of the body, don’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, but you nod anyway. 

“Then we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. I bet we’ll be done before dawn.”

He makes to walk away but you stay rooted to your spot, trying to figure out why this strange, strange neighbor of yours who makes friends with stray cats and tends to the apartment garden is willing to become an accomplice of murder for you. 

“Okkotsu, are… Are you in love with me or something?” 

Your neighbor stops, then snorts, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He turns back to face you. A soft pout lies on his lips as he skillfully evades your question with a request of his own. “Hey, if you’re gonna ask me something like that, why don’t you use my name next time?”  

You don’t ask again.

You have far bigger problems than interrogating Okkotsu Yuuta, so you push it aside and stalk toward the body. Okkotsu joins you, and the two of you peer at the deceased man before you. It’s… Still. The blood has stopped its puddling; a thin line stretches the column of its throat. His throat was slit neatly, gracefully, like an act of love. It wasn’t one, but, maybe you gave Yasuhiro what he wanted, in a terrible, twisted way. How magnanimous of you. 

Yasuhiro wasn’t an attractive man. Limp brown hair framing a slightly uglier-than-average face. At least he had the decency to close his eyes before his last, dying breath. They were blood-shot and wiry, the last time you saw them open. Bouncing haphazardly in its sockets like they couldn’t discern which corner of the room you stood in.  

Okkotsu perks up at the sound of your harrumph. “What?” he questions you, and you slide your eyes over to him. Okkotsu Yuuta is distinctly pale, a trait that you’ve always noticed and have always sort of admired on him. It suits the subdued, yet haunted look he’s got going on. Black lashes feather the whites of his eyes, as well as the endless void of his irises. Yeah, he’s almost doll-like, in that gentle, haunting way of his. 

“You’re creepier than the corpse,” you tell him instead and turn away, just barely hiding your smile. The laugh that rings out from him sounds like nails grating on a chalkboard. 

Just kidding. It actually sounds kind of sweet.

Okkotsu follows you to the bathroom, where you’ve grabbed pretty much all of your cleaning supplies. You stuff them in a bucket and he hauls it out of your arms, the two of you shuffling back to the kitchen. 

“So how should we go about this?” You muse, staring at the body. The movies you’ve seen are the only reference you have for the disposal of dead bodies, but those usually end with the killer getting caught, so you’re not so sure about mimicking their methods. 

“I’m not sure,” Okkotsu says, tilting his head in thought. “Severing his limbs without the proper tools would be difficult. I guess we could carry him and bury him somewhere unassuming—unless you have a car that we could use?” A quick glance at you confirms that you don’t. He rubs his chin, nodding to himself. “Right. A garden cart will do, then. We should check to see if he has any identifiers on him, first, though. Oh, and we can’t forget about the teeth. Do you have any pliers?” He turns to you casually, eyes widening at the sight of your awe. 

Thin black brows furrow in confusion. “What?” He asks.

You blink. “Have you…ever…?” Your voice dies in your throat.

Thankfully, he gets it. “Oh. No! No, I’ve never murdered a person,” he denies, dipping his head and tugging the neckline of his plain white tee. A curious look crosses his face. “But I could,” he tacks on cautiously.

You hug your arms and give a half-assed shrug. You can almost feel the weight of a kitchen knife in your dominant hand; the quick, fluid motion of ending a life. 

“Anyone could,” you acquiesce, dismissing the conversation. Okkotsu hums mournfully in return. 

According to his ID, Yasuhiro Souta is a twenty-seven-year-old male who lives in Chiba. What he was doing tumbling through your window in the middle of the night is anyone’s guess. Well, he did tell you, sort of shakily before he made to lunge at you, that you were supposedly his Valentine for the night. How sweet!

Snip. You met him for the first time a little over two months ago. He dropped his wallet on the train, so you picked it up and handed it to him in a silly attempt to be a decent person. It resulted in the man refusing to let go of your hand for a solid five minutes. Yes, yes, what an adorable meet-cute! Snip. When you managed to pry your clammy hands out of his vice-like grip, it was your stop, and, oh, how fortuitous, it was Yasuhiro’s as well! He followed you off the train into a random coffee shop, and it was only when you got the help of the employees that he backed off, the doorbell chiming as the glass door swung behind his back. Snip.

You thought that was the end of it, and proceeded about your day, running errands for a few hours until you retreated home. It shook you up for a little, yes, but it was nothing too crazy. You doubted you’d ever see him again. 

Snip.

You slice Yasuhiro’s ID with your scissors until it’s a pile of ashes. 

Okkotsu’s on his knees, holding a pair of pliers to the light. Wedged between the metal lies a crooked tooth. He hums to himself, plopping the tooth in a ziplock bag. He wears a pair of green garden gloves he grabbed from his apartment; you’re wearing a matching set. The rubber’s a little too big for you, but you’re making it work.

It's as Okkotsu calmly adjusts the head in his lap, preparing to yank another tooth that you stare at your strange partner, wondering how in the hell you got yourself into this situation. It’s been happening every so often: your acceptance of reality swinging in the opposite direction like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. 

You shouldn’t have killed him.

You don’t care for Yasuhiro Souta’s life. You don’t care for the man who intended to assault you. But there’s not a chance in hell that this won’t get traced back to you. 

You're fucked.

Why did it have to be like this? Why do bad things happen to good people?

That’s the way the cookie crumbles, darling.

And you crumble—crumbled—are crumbling when you turn to your neighbor. “Okkotsu-san,” you say, picking at your dirty nails.

“Yuuta,” the man insists. What a freak. He's a freak, and he's good, and you don't deserve it.

You take a deep breath, mulling over your doomed fate. It doesn’t have to be his, too. “You should get out of here. While you still can.”

There's an awkward pause. The strange man pulls out another tooth and plops it in the baggy. “There,” he says warmly, then draws to his full height. “Do you have a coffee maker?” You ball your fists around the plastic handle in your hands. Calm, calm, stay calm. “Did you hear what I just said?” You ask. 

“Oh, I did,” Okkotsu hums. “I chose to ignore it.”

Your hands begin to shake as you repeat his words. “Ch—Chose to—” 

Okkotsu says your name pityingly. “I thought we already had this conversation," he questions with pinched brows. “Why are we—”

“We?!” You interrupt, incensed. We. It's as if the curtains have been drawn open, allowing the rays of the illuminating, scorching sun to trickle through. It blinds you, and you have the urge to pull your eyes out and shove them down his throat. “You thought we? Who are you? You don’t know a damn thing about me!”

“I think I know a few things about you,” Okkotsu smiles sweetly, gesturing to the dead body in your apartment.

“Do you, now?” You laugh and toss your hands up to the ceiling. “Great! I have an idea!" You glare, the metal edge of your scissors catching the light. "If you know what I’m capable of, then you should get the hell out." 

A pause. You pant, more worked up than have been all night and it's fucking ridiculous and you hate it. You want to choke—you want him to choke. On your blood-soaked fingers, preferably. He'd probably lick them clean. 

Unaware of your depraved thoughts, Okkotsu’s lips pull into a frown. He sighs, running a ghostly hand through his hair.

“I’m not scared of you,” he tells you, quietly.

You hold your breath. “Maybe you should be.”

Your insufferable neighbor takes a step forward, that stupid frown still on his stupid doll face. “What’s your plan?” He prompts. “Do you intend to confess? To go to prison?” You shake your head slowly and he softens. “You don’t deserve that,” he says, like he really means it.

Why did you let this man into your house? Why is he offering you hope? It’s too much. The scissors slide out of all your fingers save for one; your limbs sag with a weariness that’s settled deep in your bones. 

“You don’t know what I deserve.”

Okkotsu stops and considers you. Your chest heaves, your heart pounds, and you want out. You want out, and he can get out, and you don’t know… You don’t know why…

“If you want me to judge you, I won’t,” says Okkotsu. 

You shake your head at his dismissal, your eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t judge you,” he continues, and there goes his cold, calloused hand again, gingerly tilting your chin upwards. The pair of scissors in your clutches drops fruitlessly to the floor. When you look up, there’s something like pleading in his endless, starless eyes. “Trust me,” he begs. 

You shouldn’t. You know it with every fiber of your being that you should not trust Okkotsu Yuuta. The man who blinks like an owl and stares at you like you’re a mouse he can’t wait to swallow whole. Who blushes pink whenever you hold the elevator door for him. Who has cold fingers that cradle you so gingerly—who touches you like he knows you—who doesn’t cringe at the sight of dead bodies but gives a damn about a bit of blood staining the outside of your ear. 

You shouldn’t. Trust him. But you—you feel as if he’s reached inside your chest and plucked out your pulsing, blackened heart. 

“Do you love me?” You ask Okkotsu Yuuta again, heart throbbing in his hand.

His eyes don’t stray from yours. “Ask me again with my name,” he says quietly. 

…You don’t know if you want to. 

Releasing a breath, you push past him, snatch the ziplock bag from the floor, and stride towards the stove. “I’ll make coffee,” you say, already fiddling with the grinder.

Okkotsu lets you depart with a sigh.

“So what do you like to do when you’re not helping random people bury bodies?” You ask Okkotsu a couple of hours later. You stumble over a root in the dark, and Okkotsu’s quick to grab you by the waist and steady you. You continue, a bag full of your keys, water, pepper spray, freshly-bleached gloves, a burner phone that Okkotsu already had, for some reason, and two sets of clean clothes swinging against your back. You fidget with the shovel in your hands mindlessly, trying to get it to spin. A garden cart with a tarp draped over it creaks along the grass floor. The two of you have walked for who knows how long, but, according to him, you’re getting close. 

The man beside you hums, surprisingly chipper for the nefarious activities afoot. “When I’m not busy, I like to garden and crochet. I also like making food for my friends from time to time,” he says in a simple, humble manner. The last part doesn’t surprise you. He’s brought you helpings of food on the most random occasions, showing up at your doorstep with self-proclaimed “leftovers” and shoving full plates into your arms with a velvety smile. That does beg the question, though…

“Have you considered us friends this whole time?” You squint at him in the dark, only the moonlight carving out the contours of his subtle, delicate features. You’re kind of surprised. You two made decent neighbors but only ever talked in short bursts outside your rooms. Your conversations rarely ever broke past polite mumblings about the weather.  

Okkotsu pouts. “You mean, we’re not friends yet?” He asks, before breaking into a twinkling laugh. 

“Shut up,” you bite, but you laugh too, lightly shoving at his arm. Okkotsu, bless him, pretends to stumble. It takes you a moment to suppress the heat burning the tips of your ears, but you do get it under control, eventually. “I meant… Before?”

His expression smoothens out before he gives a soft shake of his head. “No, not quite. But, I wanted us to be."  

It’s quiet for a moment, nothing but the rustling under your feet and the ever-present, cacophonous sounds of nature. You spot a nest of sleeping birds tucked in between the branches of a tree and smile.

“Well,” you try to keep your cool, eyes sweeping over the forest's shadows, “Better late than never.”

It strikes you halfway to the burial grounds that Yasuhiro didn’t bring his phone with him to your apartment in his depraved, intoxicated state. He crawled up a tree, through your cracked-open bedroom window—conveniently avoiding cameras. So, once you’re done with this, you very may well be free.

It’s a terrifying notion, freedom.

“What about you?” Okkotsu asks you, something like ten minutes later. “What do you like to do for fun? Besides watch Sailor Moon, I mean.”

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. “Well,” you wonder aloud. “This is pretty fun, wouldn’t you say?” 

Okkotsu lets out a little breath before he softly admits his agreement. 

It rained earlier today, you forgot. The ground crumbles like clay when you swing the shovel into the ground. You and Okkotsu take turns making a grave, taking water breaks in between. There is hope alive in you, you realize, as the two of you work in tandem.

Yasuhiro Souta is lowered into the ground with all the dignity a dead man could possess. He lays atop a tarp and your old Persian rug. A stream rushes somewhere nearby, bubbling like blood, and you pray that the body will make good fertilizer. When your hand shakes, Yuuta grabs it. 

You bury your clothes on the way back, a mile out. The sun peaks over the horizon.

When you return to your room with Yuuta in tow, your emotions overwhelm you: you are terrified and gleeful and sorry for all you’ve done. 

It is mournfully quiet as you mop the purple tiles blue, bleach burning your nostrils and freshly scrubbed gloves. Yuuta’s left to clean the garden cart in the gardens. He returns shortly, though, offers you a small smile, and helps you scrub every inch of your apartment. 

You scrub, and scrub. 

And scrub.

“You’re beautiful,” Yuuta says to you when you’re in the middle of wiping your brow. You’re sitting cross-legged on your rugless kitchen floor, where a dead body once lay. Sweat clings to your skin in uncomfortable places and you reek of bleach. “Shut the fuck up and scrub, Yuuta,” you command. 

Yuuta’s serene smile is unparalleled to anything you’ve ever seen before.

You could probably fall in love with him, you contemplate as you watch your neighbor make fluffy pancakes in the comforts of his own kitchen. If you haven’t fallen in love with him, already, that is. You doubt you’ll ever have a connection with someone as profound as the bond you share with the soft-spoken man who helped you bury a dead body. 

Love, you marvel, in the span of a few hours.

It’s disquieting. 

After multiple showers, and after Yuuta’s stuffed you with more pancakes than you can chew, the pair of you are lounging on his tatami mat, a much-needed change in scenery. You have like, three hours before you need to go to work, which, Yuuta agrees, is crucial to maintaining a veneer of normalcy. Which means this impromptu nightmare date will have to come to an end—as all good things do.

“I should probably get to bed,” you say after a lull in conversation.

Yuuta nods, reasonably. “That makes sense, yeah.” 

“Got work in the morning and all that,” you continue in a nonchalant tone.

“Make sure your window’s locked.”

Fine. “Walk me out, will you?” You request. Okkotsu Yuuta, ever the gentleman, agrees, even though the front door is only a handful of feet away. He pushes himself off his knees and stands at full height, though his starless eyes are, as always, trained on you. You would probably find Yuuta’s full attention a little unsettling if you had not just slit a man’s throat that night. 

You avoid his gaze all the same—stopping at his doorstep with your hands twisting at your sides. Yuuta stops beside you and waits patiently for you to string your words together. 

You clear your throat. “Hey, um—”

“Hi,” Yuuta interrupts, and you smile, filled with the courage to go on. 

“So, the thing is… Well, I probably wouldn’t have made it anywhere far without you. I acted quite amateur back there, you’d think this was my first dead body I was trying to hide, or something, ha. Um, so yeah, thank you—from the most sincere and vulnerable depths of my heart. I guess I’ll see you around? Okay, bye.”

A hand wraps around your wrist before you can run home with your tail tucked between your legs. Yuuta murmurs your name in a soft, dulcet tone, and you’re not certain you’re prepared to hear whatever he has to say. You turn to face him anyway, because, well, you owe him that much.

“Yes?” 

“Don’t you have something to ask me?” He chides.

The pit in your stomach swoops. “Not that I recall,” you lie with a straight face.

“Try again,” Yuuta smiles sweetly, like a haunted little doll.

“It’s been a long day, you know—” 

“Cold, I’m afraid.”

“My brain isn’t functioning at its peak—” 

“Hmm, getting colder!”

“I don’t think I can.”

A pause. You avert your gaze and allow yourself to get analyzed by Yuuta’s doleful, starless eyes. “Hey,” he calls your name, asks you to look at him. 

You look at him.  

“Good," he hums.

You roll your eyes, loop an arm around his long neck, and drag him to you. 

Okkotsu Yuuta tastes like the earth. From dust to dust, you are at the end and beginning when you capture his lips between yours. He responds quickly, hands digging firmly into your waist as he knocks you into his door frame, and you quickly learn what it means to be savored. You intended the kiss to be a quick, rash, thing, but he slows you down, melds into you languidly like you have all the time in the world. When he sucks on your bottom lip, you both moan, breaking apart for air. Yuuta slips his hands underneath your shirt, and for once, his cold hands burn, lighting the fire for something you’re not certain you’ll be able to finish. 

“Go ahead and ask me already, love,” Yuuta murmurs into your ear. And, well, fuck. You melt. “Yuuta,” you whisper as he nips at your neck. “You love me, yes?” 

At that, he bites down at the hollow of your neck. You gasp, then sigh when he instantly cools the wound with his tongue. “Obviously,” he replies, quite simply, thumb swiping delicately at your stomach. 

“Great,” you gasp, and Yuuta looks at you and beams. 

And, there goes your heart again, pulsing in his cold, calloused hands. Cradle it gently, Yuuta, won’t you?

fin. if u made it this far, ily