#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. 

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things : chapter eleven

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. CONSULT AO3 FOR FULL TAGGED CONTENT WARNINGS

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Your mom used to tell you that love was a choice that she made every day. She woke up and chose to love your father, chose to put in the effort that a relationship needed, chose to stay by his side through the good and the bad. It was a point of pride to endure at all, a smile slapped on her face. She told you that until he left one night, bags in hand and another woman’s name on his lips. 

After that, love was no longer a choice. It was nights of tears and screaming matches, begging and pleading, obligatory phone calls and visitations out of state. Love was no longer a choice, but a shackle, something that you say at the end of a conversation because you must. Love is a pain you bear because you are human, and someone must hold these feelings you have.

Your mother still wants your father to call her. 

You wait for Touya to come home.

It haunts you all morning, as you twiddle away time before the convention floor opens again. You end up calling your boss with an update, only to chat with him over coffee. His niece is over again - she screams hi into the receiver- and his sister says hello as well. You try to end the call there, but he stays on, asking questions about who you’ve seen and how they've been. The conversation drags, but neither of you seem to mind.

“You aren’t watching Shouta.” It’s an observation, posed as a question. He’s speaking better today- you aren’t sure why. Death ebbs and flows.

“He asked me not to.” The truth feels right at this moment. It doesn’t betray anything changing between you two; Toshinori is probably aware of the tense air between you too. Now, it’s just tense in a different way, a way that makes your toes curl to think about.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says, “Shouta is a very private man.”

More so than you know, Yagi, you think. Aizawa is very different behind closed doors, behind that wall he’s so carefully crafted. You fear you’ve only cracked one layer of him only to uncover a different veneer.

At the end of the call with Toshinori, you let slip a little “Love you.” and he laughs, surprisingly boisterous for his frail lungs. 

“I didn’t mean it,” you try to say.

“It’s okay,” he says once he catches his breath. “I understand.”

 You don’t.

The rest of the morning is spent in your room, pouring over your emails. Technically, the company is on crunch time; your newer model hits the market within two months and panic has set across the office. Everything is ready, technically, but also nothing is; every day is a new little fire, begging to be put out. Being away on a friday was actually a gift, you realize now that you’re scrolling through what you’ve missed. Your inbox is filled with random issues and scheduled meetings for the upcoming weeks. Your DMs are alight with notifications too-- these, less urgent. 

Izuku Midoriya -> are you alive? or did Mr. Aizawa murder you?

Oh, if only he knew how quickly things change.

we're both alive and well somehow <-

Another message comes through, this one in a different tab.

Hizashi Yamada -> I see you online!

Trying to sneak some work in before I get out of bed. <-

Hizashi Yamada -> Send me your room number.

He arrives in less than five minutes. As usual, Hizashi is put together in a respectfully ostentatious way. His all black outfit might be velvet because of how it eats the light, equally matte and shiny all at once. It’s the type of clothing you wish you could pull off-- or afford --but he wears it so easily, with a confidence you could never have. No, you could never so gracefully enter a room and throw off a jacket like some supermodel.

“How was the presentation?” he asks as he flops into bed beside you. It's a different feeling than being next to Aizawa; he’s perched like a girl gossiping during a slumber party, hair tosselled on your silk pillow. You close your laptop and carefully place it aside. There’s no way you’ll be working with Hizashi around.  That was probably his plan all along.

“I didn’t go-- you didn’t go either?” You playfully shove him.  “You're a bad friend!”

“I woke up late.” He shrugs, feigning sympathy with a content smirk. “And had other things to do this morning, if you catch my drift.”

He throws in an unnecessary wink. Your cringe is a reflex- you don’t really mind hearing about Hizashi’s conquests, but it does make you think about last night again. All you did was kiss, but your skin prickles as if you did more, as if you want more. 

And maybe you do. You’ve been tossing the idea around all morning, trying to figure out exactly what you want, not only from the man, but from yourself, but every time you think about it too hard, the image of Touya flashes in your mind, and your thoughts are tumbling once again.

You think of your mother. It used to be your worst fear to become her, but each day that passes, you see more of her in your eyes, in the thinness in  your skin.

“You okay, babygirl?”

He points directly at the space between your eyes, where you’ll one day have the same worried creases your mother has.. “You’ve got a face on your face.”

You try to wipe away whatever he’s seeing, but it clearly doesn’t work. Hizashi looks at you harder, expression especially soft. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m just-” you shrug. Is there a word for what you're feeling? Ennui? Horror? Somewhere in between? “Shaking off a weird feeling.”

“Weird feeling-” Hizashi throws you a wink. “I think we call it a hangover.”

“I’m not hungover--”

Before you can protest, your friend gasps, so violently that you nearly jump out of your skin. He backs up, hand over his heart and jaw dropped to the floor. “Oh my god. Oh my goooooooodddd.”

“What? What? Am I dying?”

“Your neck!” Now he points to you with a fully straight arm, like he’s accusing you of being a witch. You slap a hand over the spot instinctively. “Hello, that’s a hickey!”

Oh. Oh no. You had been too distracted this morning to notice, but apparently Aizawa’s lips have left a mark on you. Heat flushes across your face; a hickey? Who do you think you are? Kaminari? You’ve had a secret for less than 24 hours and it’s already threatening to come out.

“You got laid last night? With who? Where? When? Tell me everything!” Hizashi pushes down in the mattress to bounce himself, jimmying you up and down in the process.

“Well, uh--” You can’t even begin to make something up. The irrational fears start to take over- what if he figures out exactly who’s mouth left that mark? Hizashi’s a whore-- he might know some sort of mouth forensics or something! Or, you don’t know, maybe you still smell like Aizawa, even 

“You dirty dog, is that why you didn’t see Aizawa’s thing?” Your stomach somehow sinks lower. “Because you and Tensei fucked?”

Tensei?

“Tensei?”

“Oh my god, you totally did. You’re all flustered!”

You had completely forgotten the man even existed. Beautiful Tensei Iida, the ‘sexy’ doctor Hizashi wanted you to have… it’s funny how things never work out the way you think they will.

“It wasn’t Tensei!” You scooch away. “And it’s not a hickey!” 

Hizashi sees through that lie. He crawls on his hands and knees after you. “You gotta tell me, please-”

Crap. He’s not going to let this go. Sex and all that comes with it is Hizashi’s catnip; once he’s gotten a taste of it, he’s deranged. 

Telling the truth certainly isn’t an option. You and Aizawa? The absolute nuclear fallout that would hit the office if that came out would be catastrophic. Hizashi can’t keep his mouth shut, so even hinting at what happened last night could be the end of whatever weird thing you and Shouta have, killing it before you can even name what it is. 

And being so close to launch? It could potentially hinder Aizawa’s image--

And your and Touya’s relationship.

“It was someone I met at the restaurant after you left-” Not completely a lie. “We just-- kissed, I guess. I didn’t want to, you know, do more.”

Hizashi kicks his feet in excitement. His shoes are on your bed- gross.

“Good for you, setting boundaries!” he says. “That’s growth!”

He goofs around for just a moment longer before settling.

“Why do you look so sad about it?” He’s quick to say.  “Did they do something?”

“No! No, it was nice, but-” you start. The truth feels heavy, yet silly at the same time. You know the reaction you’re about it get, and yet you say it anyway-  “I don't know, I started to think about Touya this morning and-”

Hizashi’s face falls so hard that you swear you can hear it. His hatred of Touya has never been a secret, but before Touya made his disappearing act, he at least kept his comments to a minimum. With no Touya, there’s no limit to Hizashi’s public loathing.

“I love you. So much.” He takes your hand in his. He’s still on his knees, hunched over you awkwardly, those damn shoes still on the bed. “But thought you were over this shitbag.”

You want to protest. He’s not a shitbag, he’s just having a hard time. He’s not a bad guy, the drugs just make him that way. He’s a good boy underneath all of the troubles, you know it’s true.

But you’ve run out of excuses years ago. All you can say is the truth: “I think I still love him.” 

Compassion contorts your friend’s face. “Oh, girl. Girl. You don’t.”

“Hizashi-” You try to slide away, but he doesn’t let you. 

“He treated you like garbage for years. Years!” The blonde squeezes your hand. “And he wasn’t loyal, he wasn’t safe, he wasn’t kind or sober or-” 

“It's not like he abused me or something.” You say it so quickly that it feels tinny on your lips. Both of you go quiet for a second and Hizashi throws his hands up in surrender. He ducks his head low, not in defeat, but in a humble act, like a dog that’s pushed it’s boundaries a bit too far.  With a sigh, he sits back on his knees, allowing there to be space between you.

“I didn't say that,” he says carefully.  “It doesn't have to be abuse, that doesn't mean it's healthy.”  

There’s a hesitation, then he reaches out his hand again. You don’t take it, but he keeps it there, in the air, waiting for you.

“I just care about you. I know ‘muri and I get a bit too pushy and wild sometimes, but it’s because we want you to have fun for once. We-- we want you to be with someone that makes you feel good-- who thinks you’re the best thing in the world,” Hizashi says. “We want you to get what you deserve and Touya isn’t that.”

A different type of warm runs over you- a watery one, one that stings at your eyes. You aren’t sure where the well of emotion has come from, but it’s there, bubbling just under the surface. You try to sniffle without giving yourself away. 

“Would it be so bad to let yourself move on and try something new?” Hizashi smiles.  “Let yourself have a little fun for once?”

Reluctantly, you take his hand. He squeezes and coos, pulling your hand into an awkward faux-hug, right about his heart.

 “Let yourself have fun, let yourself live.”

“I’m gonna try to try.”

--

The convention itself goes smoothly. More people ask about Yagi, but the word seems to be spreading: he’s not here. He’ll never be here. The air is bittersweet, but Hizashi always recovers it for you. He keeps the conversation flowing back to work and the bed, with much more ease than you’ll ever have.

The only time you see Aizawa  is when he’s in your periphery. He’s in the corner, caught in some conversation with people whose names you’ve already forgotten. Tensei’s by his side, basking in the probable praise, while Aizawa just nods along. The presentation must have gone well, you gather from the attention they’re both getting. That’s both good and bad; the work deserves credit, but Aizawa…

What a heavy secret to carry. What a prominent shame. He didn’t want you to see, but he was okay with all of these strangers ogling him like a science experiment. 

Does that make you more important than those strangers? Or less?

You try to look for an opening to leave, but one never seems to come.

Only once do you catch him staring back at you, his expression too far away to be read. The thump of your heart steps out of rhythm for a moment before you get yourself together.

“I see you eyeing up Tensei,” Hizashi teases. “Are you sure he isn’t your mystery man?”

You deny it, but Hizashi is unconvinced.

----

The three of you finally reunite over dinner. This time, Hizashi swears he will stay the whole time.

This time, you don’t want him to.

You’ve settled into a different booth than you were in last night. Again, the chip basket is empty before Aizawa can arrive. He’s always running late for these things, either through lack of effort or lack or lack of time management. If he didn’t have a presentation tomorrow, you’d be annoyed, but you decide to give the man a break.

Though, you do wonder if you’ll be allowed to see this one. You’ll have to go, right? It’s about your company.

“I still can’t believe you managed to pick up Tensei with Aizawa right there.”  Hizashi leans back into the booth.

“It wasn’t Tensei,” you insist. “And he was distracted.”

“By what?”

You aren’t a quick liar. 

“Some girl.” Or a good one. “They went off together.”

You know you’ve fucked up by the look on Hizashi’s face. He sits up, staring at you from over his glasses with a slack jawed amazement.

“You're lying.” He sits up even more. “You're lying straight to my face right now.”

Fear thrums you so hard that your stomach almost revolts on impact. 

“I’ve never seen Shouta pick up a stranger, ever.” Hizashi throws his hands up in the air for effect. “Never, ever. Not even in college! ”

Looking back, you should have said he was struck by lightning. That would have been more believable. From what you remember, Aizawa doesn’t date very often - or at all. You can’t remember if he’s ever brought someone to a work event or even mentioned a partner.  (Which makes you feel equally bad and… special. Are you an exception to his rule? Are you different? 

…Or, more likely, he’s just a private guy. But you can pretend.)

“Well, uh, I dunno what to say.” You still haven’t come up with a better lie. “Ask him yourself.”

“I will!”

Good. That gives you time to text Shouta and warn him about that shit storm he’s about to enter. The two of you can come up with a lie that makes sense and won’t send Hizashi screaming. Suddenly, you’re grateful that Aizawa can’t show up on time for-

“Again with the chips?”

Fuck!!

As if summoned, Aizawa is behind you, shrugging off his jacket. He’s in the same suit as he was earlier, but a lot more disheveled after making it through the day. The social interaction really took it out of him; no wonder he’s so quiet at the office. You pat the seat next to you and he practically slumps into it.

“Please tell me you aren’t escaping again tonight,” he says to Hizashi.

“Oh, no, I’m not going anywhere, trust me.” That smile sets the whole table on guard. “I have too many questions.”

“If you had questions, you should have shown up to the talk,” Aizawa says. “Which went well, by the way. Thank you for asking.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to ask, asshole.”

“Should have been the first words out of your mouth.”

“Well, sorry, Mr. Sensitive. I didn’t think I needed to stroke your ego today! Should I start singing your praises now, or after we verbally jack you off for a bit?”

“We are in public, Mic, stop talking about jacking off.”

“How was your presentation, oh smart one?”

“It was--”  Aizawa stops himself mid sentence, brow furrowed as he turns directly towards you. “You’re being quiet.”

“Me?” you point to yourself as if you don’t know the answer. The accusation makes your heart race- or maybe it’s those sharp eyes, boring down into you. 

“Why are you being quiet?” he says with an accusatory glare. “What did you do?”

Hizashi erupts into a giggle and the attention is finally turned away from you. 

“I heard that you went home with someone-”

Aizawa’s gaze snaps to you.  It takes effort to press your lips down and keep a neutral expression; anxiety is trilling inside you, high and frail and wild, like a little flute in a marching band finale. The man tilts his head just a bit, eyes sharp and questioning, clearly trying to interrogate you while completely silent.

“Where did you hear that, Yamada?” Aizawa’s tone isn’t flat now. No, it’s pressed, stressed; he thinks you’ve told him everything. You try to gesture with just your eyes -- three normal blinks and wide eyes, like a makeshift morse code. This obviously fails.

“Little miss girl here-” Hizashi waggles his eyebrows and Aizawa’s pupils dilate with fear-  “told you you went home with a stranger from the restaurant.” 

Realization hits Aizawa’s expression, then, relaxation. His whole body turns to you with a belabored sigh. “You little snitch.”  

The smile you’ve been trying to fight erupts across your face.  You burst into a nervous giggle, one that you have to silence with your own hand. This is a dangerous line you’re walking; Hizashi isn’t a stupid guy- he’s going to figure out something’s wrong if either of you slip up.

“It’s true?” Hizashi gasps. “What? You? You?”

“Is it really so weird that I had sex with someone?” Aizawa says.  “You do it all the time.”

“You aren’t a hook up guy!” Hizashi peers from over his glasses.  “You’re a ‘third date and a bottle of wine’ guy!”

“When have I ever had a bottle of wine?”

“Okay, ‘third date and an air of desperation.’ How's that?”

Aizawa  wrinkles his nose and bares his teeth, barking out a canned laugh. “Ha. Ha. Ha. Fuck off.” 

The shorter man sits back in his seat and uses his drink to gesture to you. “Why don’t you harass Miss Hickey over there instead?”

The attention shifts to you for only a moment before Hizashi waves you away with the back of his hand. He shifts forward on to his elbows, directly towards his friend..“She just made out with a guy, I don’t care about that-”

“-Hey!” you object. As if Aizawa isn’t the reason you’re bruised in the first place! The dark haired man is purposefully looking down his nose at you, expression taut. 

“Sorry, but I need every nitty gritty detail of Shouta’s night ASAP. “ Hizashi grinds you back on track.

The two of them have been friends since college, you remember. You’d never really been able to see the connection before; they’re both so different that they almost seem like they’d never mesh, but today they are huddled together like boys, mirroring each other’s movements. You wonder if there were lots of nights like these, gossiping over girls and wild nights.

Did Hizashi know him before the car accident?

“I’ll tell you later, Mic,” Aizawa says.  “After she’s gone.”

It’d be best to stay quiet, but you can’t bring yourself to be purposefully excluded.

“You don’t want to get dirty in front of me, huh?” you tease. Besides, you’d like to see what he comes up with. “I can handle it.”

He doesn’t take the bait. “I’m not a sharer.”

You turn away with a little shrug. “Hm.”

Aizawa almost doesn’t respond. The gears turn behind his eyes, slowly grinding away at his patience until he grits out a little: “What?” 

His knee bumps into yours under the table. It’s fleeting, but there. 

“I was just thinking-” you start. “Maybe you’re a bit of a coward.”

“Coward?” he replies.

“Afraid to gossip-” 

It’s Aizawa’s turn to huff. “Gentlemen don’t gossip.”

“Since when are you a gentleman?” Hizashi barks out a laugh.

With another exhale, Aizawa closes his eyes. A moment, then another passes, before he opens them again, one brow raised. It’s the same expression a teacher would give to the class after too much clownery. No wonder the interns are terrified of the man, you’d be scared too if you weren’t so excited to see where this is going. 

“You really want me to tell you what I did last night?” He’s deadpan. “Really?”

Both of you nod. 

“Fine.” He throws his hands up in defeat.  “I met this woman at the bar. Bought her a cocktail-”

“What kind of cocktail?” you interject.

“What?” Aizawa stares at you, lip curled in frustration. You’re making lying harder and you know that, but excitement is driving you forward. The risk doesn’t outweigh the reward quite yet. “I don’t know- something sweet.”

“Hm.”

“Margarita. The spicy kind. She tasted like it all night.”

Aizawa is alarmingly good at lying. He does it with a straight face, minus the telltale curl of his lip, but Hizashi doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy sitting on the edge of his seat. You’re still trying to reconcile all of the versions of him inside your head: the work version, the ‘lover’ you met, and this lackadaisical liar. 

“Keep going.” Hizashi urges.

“Then we went back to her room. Didn’t even make it to the bed.”

The way he lays down each word is slow, meticulous, purposeful; the narrative he builds is crafted especially for you, but you aren’t quite sure of his goal. 

“ Is that enough detail?”

“Boo-” Hizashi’s fanning the flame now too. “Not the fade to black storytelling!”

Aizawa ducks in close, resting on his forearms as he talks. His gaze flicks between you and Hizashi, but lingers much longer on you, flickering down to your lips every now and again. His timbre drops lower, gritty, rolling as he whispers. 

“We went back to her room-”

You’re watching his mouth a bit too intensely. 

“- I got on my hands and knees-”

He enunciates it slowly, so neither of you miss a moment. A shiver goes up your spine. There’s a weight to his breath, a genuine enjoyment. Would he get on his knees for you?

“And I  begged to eat her out.” 

He’s proud of it. Oh, he would get down for you. He’d plead for the privilege. His leg brushes against yours again, this time with pressure and purpose, and your skin crawls with excitement. It’s just a story. You know it’s not true. 

But the glint in his eye says that he wishes it wasn’t.

“And?” your voice shakes a bit. That’s his goal, isn’t it? To get you riled up? To make you regret forcing him into this situation?

Aizawa rubs the spot where his jaw connects with a slow, purposeful circle, like he’s trying to rub out a kinked muscle. It’s borderline boastful. “And that’s how I spent the night.”

Hizashi tips his head back and laughs so loudly that the table next to you stares. “Good for you!”

“Good for her,” Aizawa replies.

Hizashi rolls his eyes. “I almost forgot you’re a munch. It’s been so long since you’ve gotten any, so-”

“Watch it, Hizashi.”

You regret the question before you ask it. “Uh, what’s a munch?”

Both of them look at you.

“Well, it’s clearly not Touya,” Hizashi mumbles, and you shoot him a glare. 

“It’s a slang term for someone who really enjoys…” Aizawa trails off, cocking his head expectantly. 

“Eating pussy,” Hizashi finishes for him. 

Another thrill of excitement goes up your spine. Enjoys it? Is that even possible? The idea has you woozy. 

“Yeah, that’s totally not Touya,” you manage to say.

Hizashi makes another comment, but you can’t force yourself to focus on that. No, not when your heart is beating like this. It’s just words, a fake story, but there’s a silent promise to it as well. You wonder what would have happened last night if you said yes. Would he have spent the night between your legs, eating simply for your pleasure?

Want trembles in your hands as you pretend to check your phone. Is it pathetic? To be worked up over a silly little story, made up to cover your tracks? The waiter comes, you all order. Aizawa’s knee pumps against yours- once accidentally, once on purpose. You hope he doesn’t notice how you’re squirming in your seat, trying to ignore the way your body is craving pressure and attention. You think, maybe, if you move right, you could get the seam of your pants to hit just right-

What are you doing? This is pathetic. 

“I’m going to go to the bathroom.” You don’t wait for a response. Pushing up from the table, you turn down the back of the restaurant. The signs lead you into a little back hallway, tucked by the kitchen, where the lighting is respectfully dim. You have to wait a moment because the door is locked, but you don’t mind. It gives you time to mull over everything.

Maybe Hizashi is right; maybe it’s okay to try something new. It’s been years since you’ve felt this alive with someone, this excited to get something more. With Touya, sex became more of an obligation. Maybe it could be different with someone else. Maybe it could be something fun, something-

A hand catches you by the back of your shirt, not hard enough to yank you backwards, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.  A gasp squeaks out of you as you stagger back into the chest of the man behind you. You crank around to see- only to relax when you realize it’s just Aizawa.

“You scared me,” you mumble out a lament. 

“You little sneak.” With a thumb, he tilts your chin up, so far that you’re looking back at him. His other fingers press ever so nicely into the length of your neck, drawing you back into his chest. There’s nothing constricting your breath, but suddenly your lungs are empty, breathless, and your parted lips pull nothing in. Aizawa’s dark eyes are narrowed, boring straight down into yours.

Oh, he’s pissed. 

And, for the first time, that excites you.

“You like making me sweat, don’t you?” His free hand is looped around your waist, holding you much tighter than the other. “Almost getting us caught-- You make me so mad sometimes.” 

The kitchen is full of mumbled orders and the clang of dishware. It echoes through the dark hall you’ve trapped yourselves in, you aren’t alone, no matter how badly you wish it to be true.  

“Thought you liked me,” you whisper.

You swear there’s a subtle dilation to his eyes, involuntary. Real. “I do.”

He leans over and dots a simple kiss on to your forehead, right where your hair meets skin. It’s simple, soft, but, god, it sets everything inside you into this wet, wobbly, needy heat, something soft and harsh all at once.

“Even when you piss me off.” The hand around your neck twitches playfully, with no real constriction. 

It’s cliche, you think, how you just sort of watch each other, breathless, patient. Neither of you tries to make a move, locked together. He smells good. Not like anything you can name, just… good.  It’s the same good you feel in your chest and an equal good to how your hands feel when you reach backwards and grab his hips. 

“I’m starting to think you like making me mad.”

“Shouta-” you say his name because he likes it, because it makes him lean in closer to you-

The bathroom door flies open and you both pull away like you’ve touched a hot stove. The woman who exists definitely knows something’s up; she rolls her eyes and sends a text on her phone as she passes. The two of you share a look; you, relieved, Aizawa amused. It’s as if you're sixteen again, with this fluttering feeling in your stomach you can’t quite swallow down. It’s too bright to be anxiety.

Aizawa steps back a bit with a nod. Oh, right, the bathroom. You don’t actually have to go, but it would be silly to not go in now. Maybe you can just try to go-

You look back at your Aizawa.

Or maybe.

Or maybe you can have some fun.

With uncharacteristic confidence, you hook a finger under a button of his shirt and tug. Aizawa’s face goes bright with realization. He falls into following as you guide him forward into the bathroom, step by awkward step, backwards until the door opens against your weight. Aizawa glances around before the door closes after him, making sure to remain unspotted, then turns to you with a wicked, narrowed, glowering look. 

The bathroom is simple, but nice. The lighting is sharp and bright, the floor is white and clean. A decorative table is wedged into the corner, topped with extra towels and real flowers in water. Your brain can’t process more than that- not with a dark haired man wrapped around your finger. He has the forethought to lock the door behind him.

“What are you doing-?” he grumbles wickedly, ducking down to catch you in a kiss, but you don’t let him make contact. You dip away, drawing him further and further in, until you’re backed against the little decorative table. With his weight, he shifts you back until your ass is seated properly on that wiggly table, one hand back to brace yourself. Finally, he traps you, stubble rough against your cheek, lips soft against yours.

“I thought we were going slow,” he says into your lips. You don’t respond-- you can’t. Your breath is stolen from your lungs, the need to breathe replaced with the need for him, the need for touch-

You hook a leg over his waist and his hand flies to it, folding it higher, pulling it tighter. 

“Oh, you can’t help it, can you?” he mumbles. “One little story about eating pussy has you desperate for it, huh?”

“Y-you-” You hate that you can’t dirty talk smoothly like he can.

“Yeah?” He’s almost condescending. “Yeah? What does my girl want?”

Embarrassment floods your cheeks with heat. Aizawa waits for it, hovering above you. Oh, he won’t give it to you until you really ask, will he? You have to physically brace yourself to say it.

“Will you kiss it?” you ask, much meeker than intended. 

“Kiss ‘it’?” You expect him to keep picking at you, but instead his hands are busy unbuttoning your pants, guiding them down. “Do you mean-”

His lips find your hickey and the spot aches under the connection. “Here?”

Creeping lower, he hunches over your chest. This time, he pecks at the hem of your shirt. “Here?”

Down he goes, on to his knees. This kiss lands in your stomach, right where the tightness of want sits-

“Here?”

“Shouta-” You’re mad and annoyed and you’d frankly settle for him kissing you anywhere at this point-

Hands slip your pants down past your knees. When the air hits your skin, you suddenly realize just how wet you are, how it’s bled through your panties and smeared across your thigh. Before you can process anything, his mouth is over your clothed cunt, wide mouthed and kissing. The drag of his tongue is a lot, even though the fabric; the contact has your spine flexing all on its own.

“Here?”

“There, there,” You’re clinging on to handfuls of his hair already. “Right there.”

But Aizawa doesn’t kiss you again. 

“In a public bathroom?” He’s watching you from the floor. Your leg is looped over his back. He’s surprisingly wide and thick under you; your legs have to spread so far to fit him. God, your body is plaint enough that it just gives to his pushing hands and demands.

 “You like it nasty.”

You can’t bring yourself to respond. Your brain is fried with a deadly combination of horny and embarrassed. Is this really what you want? 

“No, you don’t like it dirty, do you?” It feels like he’s reading your mind, hands kneading your thighs with a growing hunger. He plants a kiss where your legs meets your underwear and your cunt pulses in response. “My girl just needs it so bad, doesn’t she?”

Teeth sink into your inner thigh and you kick in response: another fucking hickey. The thing that got you into this mess-

“That’s right, my girl.” He’s talking to himself now, mumbling just under his breath. A finger loops under your panties, the same way your finger looped under his button, and there’s no time to feel shame before he exposes your pussy.  “You went home with me.” 

You expect him to go straight for your clit, to devour you with the fucking need that’s been building between you all goddamn night-

But, instead, he touches his lips to the crest of your mons and breathes. It’s hot, molten, pours down you like molten lava. It’s the faintest, tickling touch, but it’s enough, it’s more than enough. A moan rips out of you, so unexpected that you jump at your own voice. 

Usually, when you have sex, you’re worried about the small things. Whether or not you’ve shaved, whether you look thin enough or pretty enough, but now, the only thing you can think about is being touched, needing touch, desiring touch.

And the time.

“We-” He hasn’t even started and you’re quivering for it. “We gotta hurry before Mic-”

“I promised you-” Aizawa says, firmly. “That we’d go slow.”

Finally, gloriously, you feel the hot press of his tongue, dragging up through your excitement. Every inch he takes is painstakingly slow until he hits the nub of your clit. That contact is fast, fleeting, but it still sends you keening and gasping. Every important muscle inside you is bunched and coiled, filled with enough potential energy to set the whole fucking restaurant on fire. You’re going to cum. You’re going to cum from practically nothing.

The vase of flowers on the table is overturned. You don’t even remember knocking it over. Water pools under your ass and everything is wet, from you, to the mess, to his drool across your inner thigh. His mouth closed over you the same way someone would eat a peach, sucking with this absurdly lewd sound as if he’s afraid to let any of your excitement escape. His jaw moves slow - just like he fucking promised- and doesn’t miss an inch of skin as he closes his mouth, lips coming closed around your clit. The pressure feels heavenly against the already puffy parts of your pussy and your hands clasp his dark locks tighter. You aren’t sure if you’re trying to pull him away or pull him closer; your body is just reacting, like neurons are firing all on their own.

Fingers clamp around your thighs. Aizawa is groaning, voice so low it vibrates against you, as if he’s the one receiving it, not you. Enjoys eating pussy… the memory rings through your skull. Fuck, what an understatement; he eats pussy like he needs it to live. His eyes are lidded heavy with pleasure. Every lick and suck and touch along the tapestry of your cunt is wet and wild, but aggravatingly skilled. The heat of his mouth against your clit - firm, but not hard- is enough to steal your breath away.

Then, he pulls away, and your pleasure begins to unravel-- unfairly fast. You hadn’t realized how close to the precipice you had been until you started falling away. The feeling is disastrous. 

He speaks with a heady exhale, warm and not nearly enough. “You taste-”

“Shut up,” Now you’re definitely pulling his face back towards you this time. “Shut up, shut up, shut up-”

He silences himself with your cunt. 

This time, there’s no savoring. His lips and tongue are on your clit, sucking in mouthfuls of your folds, bouncing against the involuntary roll of your hips. Everything inside you is hot and sticky, thick like honey. You’re saying something, maybe, but it’s all high pitched and garbled. The rub from Aizawa's stubble sends a chill up your spine and the hot and cold inside you melts into something smooth-

You can feel your orgasm coming long before it hits, everything inside you pulling high and tight, like the ocean rolling before a wave. The crest hasn't hit, but it's going to come, you're going to cum-

And then you look down, and Aizawa's staring back at you, with those dark, hooded eyes, and you unravel. It’s not my other orgasms you've had: a full body feeling, like the flush to warmth you get when alcohol hits your stomach. It rolls, through you, away from you, against you- in every fucking direction until every ounce of tension is smoothed from your muscles. Boneless had always sounded silly, but now you understand exactly what it means; you slump back and try to catch your breath.

Aizawa’s movements slow, but never stop. He runs the flat face of his tongue against you until you gather the energy you shove him back. For a split second, a string of your cum ties between you and his mouth.

“Shit,” you breathe. Your surroundings feel more tangible suddenly. The sink drips, the walls echo the restaurant’s soft muzak, Aizawa’s cheeks glimmer with your wetness: it’s all suddenly real.

“I cannot believe-” He wipes his face on his sleeve.

“Shit,” you repeat. That was insane. You were insane! Your friend is waiting at the table, probably wondering what happened to you two-

“-that you let me do that. You came so--”

“Shit.” This is exactly what you needed. “I’ve never-”

Aizawa sits back on his knees with a stiff grunt. “Don’t tell me you’ve never orgasmed before.”

“No! I’ve totally-” You awkwardly shimmy up your pants and instantly regret it. It’s wet. It’s cold. “No one’s ever gone down on me before.”

Aizawa gives you the slowest, longest blink you’ve ever seen. Then, he shakes his head and stands up, brushing his pants off. You debate asking if his leg hurts, but decide against it. “How do you continuously say things that make me want to go insane?” 

He huffs about it, but you’re starting to unravel the strings of affection he weaves into his sentences. You shrug, biting back your smile.

“I’m just special, I guess.”

Eyes closed, he gives you a nod, tempering himself.

“Go back to the table before we’re caught.”

Fuck-- that’s right. You two have been gone for long enough that it's starting to get suspicious. Besides, there’s going to be a line outside the door if you don’t get moving soon- if there isn’t a line already. You quickly check your outfit and adjust your hair in the mirror; your skin looks brighter than usual. The power of an orgasm, you guess.

“Don’t  you want me to…?” You give a little jerk off motion and Aizawa rolls his eyes at the behavior-- as if he didn’t just eat your pussy in a fucking bathroom.

“I don’t want you to do anything to me,” he insists. He helps you off of the table with a hand, then ushers you towards the locked door. “I want to lay you down and eat you out until your brain factory resets like a cheap Macbook.”

He’s already done that, but okay, you could be down for more-

“But we are in a bathroom.” He gestures around him.  “In a restaurant.”

You add: “With Hizashi waiting.”

“With Mic waiting. He’s smart- he’ll figure us out if we aren’t careful,” he agrees. “Now, get out there and cover me.”

Suddenly, Aizawa leans over and kisses you. It’s not deep, but you can taste your musk on his lips and that makes your spine thrill with excitement.  It’s illicit in a way that makes you feel young and happy and, and, and-

And all those weird, indescribable highs you get when your brain is drowned in dopamine and oxytocin. For a fleeting moment, you reach out and grab his hands, holding on for only a squeeze.

“Your room tonight?” you ask when he pulls away. Your head is still racing, head still swimming-

He grimaces. “Yours has better pillows.”

“I brought them from home.” He was in your bed last night, in your pussy moments ago, but the fact he knows your pillow feels so strangely intimate. “I like silk pillowcases.”

The expression in his face softens, just at the crowed corner of his eyes. “Of course you do.” He jerks his chin towards the door.  “Get going.”

“Sho-”

“Get.”

And you walk out with wobbly knees.

[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

[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.

[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

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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.

[sniigura-archive]

Softness within.

Adam x fem!reader

Part 1

CW/TW/Tags: Porn, Car sex, Semi Public, P in V, TW: Adam, COLLEGE AU!!!!, oral fem receiving, tell me if I missed smth, I wrote this at 2 am help me, breeding kink, pregnancy mention

Summary: Adam is either very charismatic or you don’t have a spine.

Adam ended up driving you home, after you punched in your address in his navigation system it didn’t take long for you to pass out. Shaking you awake, you scrambled out of Adam’s car, but sadly you weren’t fast enough since you still had to listen to Adam rant to you about the shit hole of a neighbourhood you live in.

He didn’t drive off till you safely entered your building.

Once you got home you didn’t even have the energy to get undressed, you barley took off your shoes and you were already in your bed. Pros of having a one bedroom apartment: the way to the bed is very short.

When you woke up everything felt like a fever dream. It felt so unreal, you were sure it was a weird sex dream coming up because of your repressed consciousness or whatever. You quickly threw away this theory, once you got into the shower. Ew. Having cold cum run down your thighs was not it.

Right so that happened. For real. Totally couldn’t potentially ruin your social life. That’s cool.

Checking your phone, you found texts messages from your friends. Since you all share locations they were happy to see you home after disappearing. Some kidnap jokes were made. You didn’t bother responding.

And just like that your life continued and you tried not to think of Adam anymore. Since you aren’t in the same friend group, don’t study the same subjects, and you’re just a master of avoiding awkward situations you didn’t see him the past 2 weeks. During these 2 weeks Adam found your insta, snapchat AND your phone number. In that order. At this point you wouldn’t be surprised if he found your secret AO3 account or something and started to spam you full with comments.

Him actually actively looking for you made you feel some type of way….and once those thoughts reached you, you basically slapped yourself. You have always sucked at responding to messages, your friends just call you when they need you. You didn’t even properly read Adam’s messages, leaving him on delivered. These messages caused you so much anxiety, that you immediately swiped them away in your notifications field when you saw them pop up.

Another thing you were worried about was that your period was 2 days late, which isn’t a lot considering you took Plan B and it messes with your hormones but it still had you on edge so bad. You ended up buying a pregnancy test, which you didn’t end up needing. Thank god.

The last weekend party you skipped. Sitting at home and catching up with work was how you spend your weekend. And once you saw everyone post the party on their stories and the messages in your group chats, your FOMO kicked in so hard that you had to attend the next one. So, here you were leaning against a wall with some cheap soda in your hand, because you don’t drink since you’re boring. And like always when you’re at a party, you realised you didn’t actually miss out on much.

If you could, you would scroll away at your phone. What’s stopping you? Easy:

Adam starring at you from across the room. Tots not uncomfortable. Starring at your phone now would be like throwing a rock at an sleeping ice bear. Since you basically ignored him for 2 weeks straight. You really know how stand in your own way. Some part of your brain told you not to provoke him too much.

Ok you were just going to run away this is ridiculous. Taking a good look around on how you could escape (your friends were going to murder you for disappearing AGAIN) you jumped nearly 10 feet into the air when you felt big hands on your hips and a body pressed against your back. The only logical reaction to this was to step on the guys foot and throw your drink at his face.

“Ow! What the fuck, you crazy bitch?” Adam yelled.

How the fuck was he able to get to you that fast? Without you noticing?? He’s so big what??

“Jesus, dude! You can’t sneak up on a girl like that!” You yelled back.

Thankfully not many eyes were on you guys, and the music was loud so people yelling to communicate wasn’t unusual.

Adam whipped the soda of his face, looking pissed. Thankfully there wasn’t much left in your cup anyways, the top part of his band shirt was only slightly soaked. Act cool, act casual. Crossing your arms over your chest you looked at him expectantly.

Even though he looked mad a second ago, taking in the sight of you seemed to cheer him right back up. Maybe it’s because of your short skirt.

He leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Wanna get out off here?” Shit. Goosebumps from excitement crawled all over your skin. He smelled like the sweet soda, but also like deep cologne. Ah, you’re so so weak.

“Always.” The words left your lips before you could truly think about it.

Adam smirked down at you, placing a hand at the small of your back he started to lead you out of the house party.

That’s how you ended up in Adam’s car, while he zipped around town, trying to find a secluded place, his hand was up your skirt massaging messy circles into your clothed pussy. You on the other hand were spreading your legs further apart, trying and failing to muffle your moans. Even though it was at most 2 minutes, it felt like it took Adam hours to park the car. You clawed at his wrist, trying to get more stimulation out of him.

He reached a hand under his seat, sliding it back from the wheel as far as possible, while also reclining the back of the seat.

“Holy shit, babe.” Adam mumbled out, he reached across to grasp your ass with both his hands hoisting you up and successfully into his lap. Once you sat down on his lap you could feel his bulge right under your pussy. You gave it an experimental roll of your hips. Adam bit his lower lip, his hand flew to your hips, helping you grind down on him.

Grasping at his shoulders, you smashed your own lips into his, trying to steal his breath. Fucking hell, you don’t think you have ever carnally desired anyone as much as him. Adam was still grinding your cunt unto his dick by your hips while he explored your mouth with his tongue freely.

Once the kiss stopped so you could breathe, Adam took the opportunity to rip your tights apart, to have better access towards your private parts.

“Man! Why did you do that? You better buy me new ones, asshole.” You told him frustrated.

“Chillax, baby, I will buy you even better ones if it means you let me hit.” Fucker.

Adam pushed your wet panties to the side, gently easing in a finger, “So tell me. Who else did you fuck after me?” His words were anything but gentle.

“Shit..No one. I..I swear, Adam.” You spoke through gasps. His thumb started to stroke your clit.

With his other hand Adam roughly grasped your jaw into his hand, starring into you with his golden eyes. They reminded you of that of a hawk. He didn’t look too convinced.

“Please, Adam, only you can make me cum.” You whimpered out.

Adam grinned at you at your words, “Ain’t that the truth. You better start answering your fucking messages then, slut.” Another finger was entered into your hole, he curled them upwards, hitting sensitive spots which made you moan shamelessly.

“Bad…at replying.” You mumbled out.

Adam rolled his eyes at you, “Yeah, right, give me a better excuse and I might let you cum.”

It’s not a bad excuse, it’s your reality. Even though your screentime was embarrassingly high, messages were your personal final boss. Using both your hands to run them down the sides of your thighs, your right hand met the pocket garter you wear when you’re wearing a skirt, or dress. Pulling out your phone with one brain cell intact is one thing, but unlocking it is a whole other. Pulling up the messages app, shoved the device into his face. He can read. You think. You hope.

Once he stopped grasping at your jaw so roughly, you massaged the tense muscles. Adam scrolled through your chats, he looked very interested. You caught the glimpse of a chat from last year. Yikes.

Laying your head against his shoulder, you started kissing at his neck. You still had fucking hickeys and bite marks from him! Asshole. Adam left your messages app and was investigating your social media now. He looked through your phone like a man on a mission. If you had at least half your mind you would have already stopped him. But the happier he was at your innocence the more intensely he did rub circles into your clit, turning you to mush.

Throwing your phone on the passenger seat- if it bounces off and breaks or gets lost you were going to kill him- Adam placed a hand at the back of your head, starting another forceful kiss. While your tongues were busy, Adam eased the third finger into you. He pumped them in and out of you, testing the resistance. Taking him unprepared would be a really stupid idea.

With a well placed tug of your hair, Adam pulled you slightly away from him, “It’s fucking hot babe, how you ignore other people. Really. But shit, I need you to answer my fucking messages. I’m not like those other fucking clowns you keep around. Got it?” You quickly nodded your head at him, whatever gets him inside of you.

Slowly pulling out his fingers out of you, one by one, he licked a strip up his fingers while looking into your eyes. He pulled down his jeans zippers, pulling out his leaking dick. He gave himself a few good pumps with his soiled hand. Is he not wearing any underwear?? Yikes.

“Now, sit down on my fucking dick.” Adam smirked at you.

A moment of clarity hit you when you remembered the unused pregnancy test you have hidden away.

“Wait! Do you have a condom?” You looked hopefully at Adam.

He looked at you like you just ruined Christmas, easter and his birthday all at once, “What the fuck do we need that for?”

“I’m not interested in pregnancy. Today is not safe.” You told him, you tried to sound stern.

“You would look hot as fuck though, with swollen tits and a swollen stomach. You sure you don’t want me to cream you while you’re ovulating? Besides, it went well last time, didn’t it?” He raised an eyebrow at you. The gold piercing was reflecting the light of the street lamp outside.

His hand were rubbing at your hips, wandering further up till he helped you take off your sweater. You didn’t bother wearing anything under it because bras suck. He smiled at the sight of your bare chest as if he just won the lottery. He really was moody.

“I’m serious! I bought a fucking pregnancy test, I was so stressed last time.” Adam didn’t even bother looking into your eyes again, his huge hand pulling and rubbing at your nipples and chest. You had to bit your lip to keep from moaning. You had to be strong, at least once. You also really needed to finish this degree without getting pregnant.

“See babe? That’s what you need my number for. So you can fucking tell me that shit.” Adam made brief eye contact with you, before he leaned forward and started sucking at your nipple. His teeth carefully bit down. Your hands tangled themselves up in Adam’s hair. Because Adam pulled you forward for easier reach, your pussy ended up rubbing across Adam’s length. The groan which left his lips made your tit vibrate deliciously.

He really knows how to play you. With his hands he grasped your ass, massaging it before he dragged you across his dick. Your clit caught at his dick piercing, causing you to call out for Adam.

And if you had half a mind, you would simply open up the car door and climb out, to really make your point clear. And Adam would drag you back in, while complaining and get a condom somewhere (hopefully). But the risk of him actually letting you leave was not something you wanted. You just really needed to have him fill you up.

Tugging at his hair, he removed his mouth from your boob. He smiled at you, “Finally ready to get dicked down, baby?” Adam asked you in that arrogant tone of his.

Your own hands wandered across Adam’s chest, till you finally tugged at the bottom of his shirt, trying to take it off. Adam slightly sat up, removing his shirt and throwing it on the passenger seat. Fully taking in his tan olive skin, you realised just how hot he truly is. There was a scar across his right ribcage, his nipple piercing just made him 100 times more attractive, his ample stomach made you want to straight up cannibalise him while his happy trail made your mouth water. What a man.

Grasping his cheeks into your hands, you tilted his head up so he could properly look at you. Your thumb grazed over his lips, “Adam, sweetie..” You cooed down at him. You felt his dick twitch under you, “Don’t you want me to ride you till you’re sucked dry? I can only do that if you get a condom. C’mon…” His eyes were starring into your own.

Adam grasped your wrists into his hand, removing your hands from his cheeks. His face didn’t show any ounce of emotion. Ah, maybe that was the wrong move. Before regret could fully set in, Adam started swearing under his breath. He leaned forward suddenly, a surprised gasp leaving your mouth, while he rummaged through the glove department. Successfully he pulled out a condom, while probably also cursing you.

He leaned his back properly against the seat, ripping open the condom package with his teeth. Adam then glided the condom on his dick, after you scooted back to give him some space. Once he made sure everything was secured, you leaned forward to kiss him again. His hands were grasping your hips, his fingers digging into the plushy flesh.

Once the kiss stopped, you grasped Adam’s dick, lining it up with your pussy.

During your two week Adam break, you really told yourself that that would be a one time thing. That next time you would say no to him. That you don’t really need him or his attention and touch and whatever else he can give you. Well, you’re also a big fat liar so there is that.

Placing your own hand on Adam’s hand, you tugged it off to intervene your finger. Biting down at your lip you slowly glided down on Adam’s dick. Your other hand was placed on his shoulder, nails digged into this skin.

Slowly sliding down on him, your mouth fell open at the stretch. Adams eyes were focused on your pussy swallowing him whole, “You take me so well.” He groaned out.

Once you were fully sat down on Adam’s cock, you panted in the stuffy air. Taking a glance to your right, you saw the windows were all fogged up. At least you have the illusion of privacy.

Adam’s hand moved from your hip to your ass, grabbing at the fat and massaging it. He slowly rocked your hips back and forth with that movement. His other hand squeezed your intervened fingers, he then pulled your hand towards his mouth. Kissing your finger tips while looking into your eyes.

Ah. Why does everything he do make your head spin? Did he do fucking witchcraft or something on you??

Grasping with your hands both his shoulders, you started rocking your hips back and forth. First at an slow and careful speed, but then you started going faster. Till you started going properly up and down on him. Adam’s hand went to your tit, fondling and pinching, while his other hand moved from the back of your neck towards the top of your head. You stopped questioning Adam’s behaviour a while ago.

“If I knew you looked so hot on top, I would have let you ride me immediately last time.” Adam told you, his eyes were jumping all across your body, it seemed like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to look, “But damn, babe, we really need to get you on birth control.”

“S’expensive.” You mumbled out.

Your forehead meet his neck. Maybe you should exercise more, the burn in your thighs was getting intense.

“..You getting tired there, baby?” A breathy chuckle left his lips.

Adam forced your movements to stop, to sit down properly with his hand moving to your hip. He smirked at you, probably knowing he was going to give you another unforgettable experience. Why couldn’t he have been average in everything he does? Noooo, he had to blow your mind away. Damn him and his solid experience.

Adam started thrusting up into you. First at a slow and deep pace. getting you used to the sensation, then he went faster and faster. His piercing scrapped against a sensitive spot in you.

“Right there!” You gasped into his neck, you then started to kiss and suck at his skin. Leaving your own mark. His one hand was still on top of your head, massaging your scalp and playing with your hair.

Thankfully Adam is decent at following orders, he kept up his pace, hitting the spot over and over. You could feel an orgasm approaching. You were probably straight up moaning against Adam’s ear, but he doesn’t seem to complain.

“I can promise you, baby, ‘m gonna get you whatever you want as long as ya going to be my lovely cum dump.” He mumbled out.

Woah orgasms and meaningless consumption??? Your two favourite things!

All you could muster was a whine. Because that was a big commitment. Maybe you’re going to ghost him again. An extra rough thrust made you see stars, and the ghosting idea left your mind and maybe you should marry him and be a housewife and give him as many children as he wants.

You threw your head back at the feeling of overwhelming pleasure and- ah, that’s why he had his hand on top of your head, when you slightly crashed your head into the car roof. It was more shock than anything else, but it still scared the orgasm out of you. Damn it.

Adam stopped his movement’s, his brows were furrowed at your scrunched up face. His hand rubbed at your head in concern, “You good?”

You nodded your head at him, looking into his eyes with your own teary ones, “..I lost my orgasm.” You mumbled out in the most pathetic voice imaginable. To your own defence, it is the worst thing to happen to you today.

Adam looked at you with a blank look for a split second, before laughing at you. You hid your own face behind your hands, embarrassment cursed through your veins. You’re stupid. Why did you say that?

With the way Adam was laughing at you, you felt his dick jump inside of you, which in turn made you clench around him. Adam grasped your wrists into his hand, yanking them down and he smiled at you like a wolf.

“Well..Who am I to say no to my favourite slut? You want to cum? I’m going to make you cum.”

Why is he so hot!!!! You were going to smash your head again into the car roof.

You already thought his pace before was intense. Now? It was brutal. The scraping of his piercing, his hands on your hips and ass, his dick stretching you apart, his stubble rubbing against your soft skin. His constant fucking talking.

“Ugh, babe, you got such a tight cunt. Squeezing me. And you say you don’t want me to cum inside? Ha. Yeah, right.” Adam started rocking your hips back and forth, your clit was rubbing against his jeans.

“‘M more surprised you haven’t got anyone pregnant with that raging breeding kink of yours.” You whimpered into his ear, then you bit into his ear lobe. That was more to be annoying than sexy, but with the way he groaned and his dick twitched inside of you it seemed like it had the opposite effect.

You really would have missed his words, if you weren’t paying attention enough,

“You the only one I wanna get pregnant. Those other whores don’t deserve to have my cum.”

Why do you feel flattered….Something is really, deeply off about you. You need to up your medication.

It felt like hot flames were pooling in your lower stomach, you felt intense, near painful tingles on your clit and thanks to Adam’s constant rhythm of your clit rubbing against the rough fabric of his jeans it wasn’t a surprise that an orgasm washed over you. Your nails dug into Adam’s biceps while you squeezed around his cock.

“Fucking hell, you wanna milk me dry, huh?” Adam groaned, and with a few hip thrust of his own he came. You kinda missed the feeling of his hot cum shooting into you, but you would take that knowledge to your grave.

You rested your face into the crook of Adam’s neck, trying to regulate your breathing. Your legs felt like jelly. Adam was also breathing heavily, his hands rubbed up and down on your back. He stayed inside of you.

Realistically you knew that he had to pull out, to keep the contraceptive working but on the other hand..You just wanted to stay like that. Having Adam not talk for once was a relaxing change. And having his big warm hands on your back, which was starting to cool down, was just pure bliss.

“..You know, we could always do the pull out method.” He mured into your ear, trying to sound seductive.

You couldn’t help but snort at his words, “Yeah, sure, look me in the eyes and tell me you could pull out of this.” You lifted up your one knee, your skirt was lifted up by it and it gave Adam a clear view of your filled up pussy.

Adam couldn’t even look you in the eyes too mesmerised apparently by the sight, it was emphasised by Adam’s dick coming back to life again, twiching and growing inside of you.

“..Shit, you’re right.” Adam grasped your waist and lifted you off off him. He removed the condom, tied it up and threw it somewhere carelessly on the backseat floor. Yikes again.

He rubbed at his chin, probably thinking of what to do next with you. With a hot flash across your body you remembered his promise from last time. Thinking of it, you could fit on the floor in between his legs. Maybe. It would be uncomfortable but you also seemingly have no self respect so what does that matter?

“Get in the back seat.” Adam told you, you nodded at his words. Ok. You can crawl over there. Adam gave a light slap to your ass and chuckled at your surprised gasp. Successfully making it back there, you made sure not to step on the discarded condom. Why is he like that?

Adam grabbed another condom, since he was too big for anything really, he couldn’t crawl back there like you. Instead, he used the doors, like a normal person. Couldn’t be you.

Your head was against the window, and when Adam opened the door car door and crawled onto the seat and flashed that smirk of his you knew you were a goner. Out of seemingly instinct your legs slightly opened. Adam closed the door behind him- yay to the illusion of privacy!- and then he grabbed your ankle and tugged your roughly towards him.

A surprised gasp left your lips, you were laid down now, with Adam towering over you. He once again secured the condom, then he bent down to kiss you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, keeping he secured against you. His left arm was supporting his weight against the seat, caging you in, while the other hand was sensually moving from your stomach towards your pussy. He drew patterns into your pubes which made you squirm uncomfortably. Maybe you should start shaving. He then rubbed his thick fingers across your slit, probably checking if you were still wet enough for him. He grazed your clit and it made your whole body jolt.

“Every time a girl shaves her pussy an angel dies. I swear on it.” Adam mumbled out. If those words were meant for only him or if he noticed you being uncomfortable, you didn’t known. But it made you feel somewhat more comfortable.

Adam lined up his super duper magic dick against your entrance and slowly pushed it in. You wrapped your one leg around him, since the other was squished between his body and the seats.

With slow and deep thrusts Adam rocked against you, now you realised how much the car must have moved. The pleasure was building slowly but surely. Adam was quite for once. Pussy so good it shut Adam up?? You’re sure you can put that on your resume.

You wrapped your hand around Adam’s bicep, to steady yourself. You squeezed the soft flesh, looking mesmerised at his big arms. He smiled down at you and flexed his muscles, making them rock hard. You squeezed again and swore under your breath. At this display you remembered actual strong men, and how fat is needed for muscles to be functional and you remembered seeing Adam carrying 2 heavy ass amplifiers on his shoulders as if that was nothing and oh. You need him. Badly. Thankfully you have him.

Using your one hand which was at the back of his neck, you pulled him down to you. Teeth clashing and tongues dancing and spit getting everywhere. It was all consuming and still not enough.

Once the kiss ended, Adam rested his own forehead against yours. You worried for his neck and the constant way he has to twist and bend it to reach you. You gazed into each others eyes, mouths panting into each other and the street light from outside let warm light flow in. It felt like you couldn’t avoid Adam, he was wrapped over you, completely covering you from every angle and he was inside of you, throbbing and twitching. You were breathing in the same air. And you didn’t want him to leave, if you could you would capture this moment and stay here forever.

Why does this feel romantic?

It seemed like you weren’t the only one who thought that, since Adam straighten his back suddenly, as if he forgot what you are to him.

When you looked up into his endless eyes, he was slightly frowning, but that expression changed as soon as it came. Maybe you imagined it.

He grabbed your face roughly and forced your mouth to open wide for him. You let your tongue roll, and rubbed his thumb against it. Hot. He removed his tongue only to spit into your mouth. That’s also hot??

You closed your mouth to swallow his spit.

He seemed rather satisfied with that. He sped up the pace, skin slapping against skin and your moans and gasp and his grunts and string of loosely connected words which you weren’t paying attention to left his mouth. His smug face kind of pissed you off, so you reached out and twisted his pierced nipple.

Adam stifled his own moan by biting down on his lip. But the pleasure he felt from that, he couldn’t hide from you.

And once Adam came, he bit down on your neck. Great! More marks you will have to hide. Ughhh.

The way Adam immediately slowly pulled out of you surprised you. He seemed to enjoy staying in as long as possible. Your brain was a bit to slow to catch up with Adam’s movement. His face disappeared between your thighs, under your skirt and ah-

“Wait. You don’t have to…” Your sentence was interrupted by your own moan.

Adam’s lips latched around your clit and he sucked. Hard.

Overstimulation immediately cursed through your veins, your fingers found themselves at home in Adam’s hair and you tugged. Nails massaging Adam’s scalp, this is probably what heaven felt like.

His tongue traced idle patterns into your clit. Probably spelling his own name again…Asshole. But since you were already close when Adam was fucking into you romantic missionary style, you came with a sob and your body curled into itself. You tugged Adam away from your overstimulated hole. The fact that you were clenching around nothing made you a bit sad.

“If I ever say no to fucking you, honey pot, I need you to take me out the back and shoot me in the head.” Adam told you matter of fact.

You dumbly nodded at his words. Whatever he wants he can get. Genuinely.

“How are you so good at everything?” Your already barley existent filter was gone now in a post orgasmic haze.

Adam laughed at you, “What can I say, I’m a real pussy pleaser.” He sat properly up in the seat, tugging everything away properly. He must have thrown the condom away when your brain was still mush. Reaching over he grasped your arm and dragged you into his lap.

Once you rested your face against your shoulder, bare skin against bare skin and the heat radiating from his body you felt sleep over come you. Adam grasped your shoulders and shook you awake. Literally. You thought you were going to fall on the nasty floor where your guys used condoms laid around. At least the only condoms there were yours?

“You fallin' asleep on me again, baby?”

“Yes. So. Silence, m’tired.” You barley mumbled out. Throwing your head into Adam’s neck again.

“Get back to the passenger seat, slut. I’m driving you home.”

Groaning as if Adam just killed you, you crawled to the front again. There you also put your sweater back on and pocketed your phone. Your keys were also safe with you. That’s good, you love not being locked out. You adjusted your panties while you were at it.

Resting your head against the window, you closed your eyes again while Adam got back into the drivers seat. Turning on the engine, he started driving towards your home.

Since you were half asleep, it felt like it took a second for Adam to arrive in front of your apartment complex. You mumbled out a tired ‘Thanks for the ride.’ and climbed out of the seat.

“You know usu-“

You slammed the door shut before Adam could finish that sentence. The plan was to act like you didn’t hear him. Simply walking towards the entrance, you opened the door and opened it fully by pressing your side against it. You couldn’t care less about the usual. The less you knew of other girls the happier you are.

You looked back at the car, to at least wave Adam bye or something, but when you saw him slam his head against the wheel you stopped in your tracks. You watched the display of his frustration for a few seconds, he then raised his head, probably to check if you got in safely. He froze in horror when he realised you saw that.

Truth be told, you didn’t think Adam was capable of embarrassment. But here he was.

Holding eye contact for a painful second, you simply shook your head and quickly got inside. Walking up the stairs towards your apartment, you unlocked the door, threw off your shoes and collapsed into your bed.

———————————-

Since you usually keep your word, you started texting Adam back whenever you could. At least that seemed to make him happy. You think. It’s hard to tell over text. You also made an appointment with your obgyn, or as Adam called it your ‘Pussy doctor’. You’re close to blocking him.

On Monday, you walked with your friend towards her car in the uni parking lot. You were going to meet up with your other friends for lunch.

Of course Adam was also there, his car parked right across your friend. Gahh. His band members were with him, he just unlocked the car when everyone tumbled in. You could hear your ex call out, “Dude, what the fuck?! Are those used condoms!?”

You were going to kill Adam and then yourself. WAS HE WINKING AT YOU?? He’s dead. Thankfully no one noticed.

Your friend made a face at that info being yelled out across the parking lot, she unlocked her own car and got in. You didn’t hear more from the exchange, but from the way Adam looked happy you knew he was taunting your ex.

Your friend fastened her seatbelt, “I don’t get how anyone can fuck Adam. Like, he’s so disgusting, disrespectful, misogynistic..”

Biting at your lip, you already knew your friends would be mad at you if they found out about you and Adam from someone else besides you. Looking around the car, to make sure the windows were really closed, you took a deep breath.

Adam was in his own car, signalling to her that she has the right of way. She made a quick thank-you-wave and was about to back out of the parking space.

“I did.”

She slammed into the breaks, causing you to be catapulted forwards. The way she starred at you without saying anything, made you uncomfortable. She was speed running all the stages of grief, you could clearly see that. She sighed heavily, like the whole world was resting on her shoulders with your confession.

“……..Is he really that big?”

[prettyboykatsuki]

HOW TO BE A DOG. | S. GOJO

⊹ general tags ; fem + afab!reader, reader presents femininely and has some specific character traits (i.e. personality traits, nothing physical), reader is shorter / smaller than gojo but nothing specified, reader is a teacher, gojo carries reader at some point (but he is canonly able to do very insane things physically so)

⊹ content warnings ; dead dove. do not eat, yandere gojo satoru, manipulation, stalking, obsessive behavior, delusional behavior, workplace harassment (not from gojo), victim blaming, canon typical violence, graphic depictions of murder, minor character death, excessive religious imagery, coercion, gaslighting, abuse of power, something akin to stockholm syndrome, graphic depiction of noncon / sexual content, forced intimacy, fingering, hickies / bruises, begging, edging, loss of virginity, size kink, 18+.

all sexual content present in part two.

⊹ wc ; 17.3k / 36.1k

link to extended authors note | ao3 | how to be a dog, by andrew kane.

LINK TO PART TWO

⊹ a/n ; well. its here. i wont ramble too much but i hope you enjoy and if you dont...well don't tell me. thank you to ame for your endless patience. likes and reblogs mean the world. the title is inspired by the poem linked.

⊹ synopsis ; with six eyes to see it becomes clear, you are being watched.

“Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love.” - andrew kane, how to be a dog.

⊹ PART ONE : A CHILD BORN IN WINTER MUST NOT LONG FOR SPRING.

There’s a dog living outside of Gojo’s apartment. It’s a collarless, lonely thing. Clever, too. 

Though, Gojo doesn’t know much about its life before it started hanging around the area, he gets glances on occasion. It’s not emaciated and it doesn’t look hungry, but it’s roughened up with matted fur and a healed tear in one ear. 

More importantly, it doesn’t bother anybody in the neighborhood. Despite its outward appearance and hostility when approached, its aggression won’t go farther than a warning bark or growl. Most of the adults living in the building know better than to try, but some of the kids living upstairs desperately attempt to befriend it. Of course they fail, and Gojo thinks that that poor thing is growing apathetic to the touches of sticky hands. 

The whole building is pretty fond of it, surprisingly. Gojo lives in a upend complex in a metropolitan part of Tokyo and the people here can be snobbish. So it comes as a shock that this dog wasn’t shooed away months ago. 

Everyones sort of agreed to take care of it. There’s a food and water bowl outside of the security office - and just last week a sign was implemented of Do’s and Don’ts for what food scraps can be left. There’s a donation box to get some proper shots and paperwork - since it looks like the building's doorman has agreed to take it in if everyone chips in for the expenses.

(Gojo suspects this has something to do with those very kids, devastated by the thought of it being gone.)

Warm welcomes from the residents aside, Gojo hasn’t seen it act friendly before. He wonders about that.  It seems hesitant to trust anyone and he’s sure there's a good reason. It’s just that it's clever. To be a stray in this area of Tokyo and be so calm is an impressive feat, so he thinks it probably has some grasp of his own situation. If it acted cuter, it could get a warm house and family too. Though the whole aloof and distant thing does the job just fine, Gojo can’t help but wonder what such a clever creature is doing, turning away from living lavishly. 

Much like everyone else, Gojo’s contributions have come in the form of food scraps and some donation money to work towards the 5,000 yen goal. On the occasion their paths cross, Gojo sits near it. Sometimes, they share a moment of silence and Gojo talks just to see if it’ll ignore him. It seems like it’s listening. It always makes a grunt of dismissal when Gojo turns to leave and he’s started to count that as a little victory. 

Gojo isn’t intrigued by anything as much as that dog. At least not lately. It’s damn near impossible to seriously pique his interest and yet that clever fellow is one of the few things he stops to ponder at. 

Today, Gojo is intrigued by the dog that lives on the street of his apartment and the strange woman who’s petting it like some sort of domesticated baby.

He’s very, very intrigued by that. 

The rain comes down in heavy sheets. It’s a Wednesday, and he has no classes to teach so he’s home and preparing to run errands. He’s going about his day as usual, basically. When Gojo isn’t swamped with a mission or the reformation of Jujutsu Society - he likes to play the part of the average man. 

The plan for today was to take his unused car out of the lot so he could get some dry-cleaning done, go buy a new pair of sunglasses because his old ones are scratched, and go do some shopping. He needs to buy groceries again ( an uncommon occurrence) so that one's on the list too. 

He’s dressed down. A black windbreaker is hanging over his shoulders, tight gray shirt and some comfortable jeans. He’s got on his errand shoes, a nice pair of sneakers and his keys are hanging from a loop in his belt. His hair is styled down and he’s got on his glasses instead of his typical mask.

He has a gameplan, a fully fleshed out expectation of how today will go, and it’s derailed by a woman he’s never seen before. He’s drawn to you so naturally it’s baffling. 

You’re crouched just in front of the security office. Dressed in a loose skirt and long sleeves, looking down by the local neighborhood stray. For the first few seconds, he just lingers on in utter awe. You’re carrying a comically cute umbrella, clear with flowers and a pink edge. He kind of thinks you look like a peony. 

He approaches slowly, quietly. 

When he finally gets close enough to really see, he can hardly believe his eyes. That old, menacing mutt is happily getting his chin scratched by you. 

“Oh, uhm. Hello?” 

The sound of your voice startles him out of his trance. Snapping back to reality, he glances down to where you are and realizes he’s towering over you. In an effort to be polite, he steps back and gives you his most disarming smile. 

“Hi. Sorry for the intrusion, I was just,” He glances at the dog who almost looks offended at the interruption “I noticed you were… petting this dog. Guess I was a little surprised.” 

“Surprised?” 

And your surprise surprises him even more. He blinks slowly. 

“Yeah. He’s not aggressive or anything but uh,” Gojo chuckles, concluding you must be a little new “Well, he’s not exactly friendly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone succeed in well…petting him.” 

You’re taken aback by this information. Yeah, definitely new. 

“Really?” You glance at Gojo before looking back down at it “I just gave him some treats and waited a bit. He’s such a sweetie. Sure you mean this dog?” 

Gojo gets a good laugh out of that. Partially at your cluelessness and partially at your disbelief. He nods, smiling a little. 

“I’m very sure, actually. He must really like you,” He says, hands in his pockets. He bends down to join you, but he’s still a little bigger than you at that height “I guess I can see why. You’re pretty friendly.” 

You peek over at him. You seem a little shy at the compliment. Gojo feels his interest pique a second time today alone. New record. 

“Oh, uh. Thank you. I teach kindergarteners so I sort of have to be.” 

He hums. Reaching his hand towards the dog, who sniffs and cuddles his palm (something it’s never done before) in order to win your favor more. It really is a clever little thing, just like he’d always suspected.

“I’m a teacher too. A highschool teacher, though. No need for me to be friendly, I guess.” 

You laugh at his joke, smile reaching your eyes as you hug your knees to look at him.

“You seem plenty friendly to me.” 

He pretends to think about it. 

“Maybe you have a gift for making people come out of their shell,” He says with sincerity, relishing in the fact he’s finally getting to pet the dog in any capacity “I think this little guy could probably attest to that.”

“And you have a knack for flattery.” You quip. 

The natural chemistry is noticeable enough for it to catch Gojo off-guard. He grins. 

“Hey. I’m not all bad. And what's flattery if I’m being honest right?” 

“Sounds like something a flirt would say,” You tease, airy. He laughs a little. 

“You seem like you’re having fun giving me a hard-time.” He pouts. You giggle. 

“A little,” 

“Jeez. How rude of you…” He waits, prompting your name. You smile. 

You give him your name. You say it soft and easy. He makes sure to return to the favor. 

“And yours?” 

“Gojo Satoru.” 

__

You live up to your first impression in the time that Gojo gets to know you as his neighbor. 

Friendly. The word he’s looking for is friendly. 

There’s other words though. Sometimes meek, typically cheery, oftentimes quiet. You’re quite unassuming, and possibly too gentle when compared to everyone else in the general area. You fit in fine, no worries there. And Gojo knows that for certain because he can’t stop himself from watching over you like a hawk. 

He doesn’t really understand it himself. Gojo gets along with everyone. He’s always been a people person who likes to talk and likes to get to know strangers. There’s nothing that special about your connection in that way. You live next to him, directly across the hall.  You often knock on his door to give him something that you’ve made too much of or ask to borrow some sugar 

And it’s not done with any romantic intent. Gojo is good at reading people. He’s never seen someone so blatantly  romantically uninterested in him. You’re not even conscious of him as a man, cemented to him  by the one time you came to the door dressed in paper-thin PJ’s. He hasn’t recovered from the shock. One of the many times in his life where he was grateful no one could see where he was looking. 

He’s had a few months since your first meeting to get an idea of your personality and what things about you he should keep in mind. You noticed that he’s often not in his house, so you’re relatively aware of your surroundings. You’re often up late because your lights are always on well into the evening. 

(He finds out later you’re usually making lesson plans or little gift bags or planning birthdays. You really love your job, something he can commend while simultaneously  feeling quite jealous about.) 

You favor the lovely spring colors like pink and purple because you have so much of it always on you. You dress brightly in general. And you smile, often, and stumble over yourself trying to be nice to the other tenants. The kids in the building adore you. The sheer amount of propositions you’ve received to be someone's full-time nanny could probably keep you employed for another two decades. 

And you always put your best into everything, no matter what. 

This is probably the aspect Gojo is most fascinated by. It’s not exactly a novel trait. He’s encountered something like it before. One of his most prized students is Maki Zenin. Her whole thing is kicking ass through sheer spite. 

But unlike his students or anyone else he knows - you don’t seem to be motivated by spite or anger or frustration. Even when you are angry or upset - you always force yourself into being more understanding. Into being nice, kind, and still giving it your best if you’ve been shorted somehow. He’s tempted to call you a try-hard. It draws on the line of people pleasing sometimes but it doesn’t matter either way. This is a quality in you Gojo likes all the same. 

He's always been drawn to people who are earnest. His company favors such things. He cherishes Yuuji for such a reason, and can say something similar for Nanami. It’s a refreshing perspective. He’s not a bitter person, but he’s not an earnest one either. So Gojo likes that you’re so properly, gently sincere. 

For the last few months he’s made a real effort to talk to you. So he’s not just the guy next door, but at least an acquaintance and at best a distant friend. On the mornings you both have classes to teach, he walks you to your car and if he wakes up before you - he’ll bring you a cup of coffee or a pastry he knows you enjoy.  

You’ll often do Gojo little favors and he’ll return them - joking to each other about being a good neighbor. An inside joke with each other that Gojo is growing increasingly fond of, all together with leftover cups of coffee and glances that linger too long. Some mornings, he takes out your trash when you’re feeling too tired and you’ll do him the favor of getting the stuff out of his clothes that he doesn’t want to dry-clean. 

It’s these little exchanges that make up the bulk of your interactions. 

He’s even been to your apartment (another reason he’s sure you’re not attracted to him). He went last week to help you cut out little autumn leaves to put on your classroom walls, and you rewarded him with some lemonade. 

He’s still thinking about it days later, how you sit on your legs and the way your cardigan hangs off your shoulder. When you’re focused, you leave your mouth open a bit and poke your tongue through your lips. He’s endeared by it. 

 By you in general.

It’s all boring and mundane, but that’s what makes it. It’s a luxury he rarely affords. Craves, really, which is why he’s starting to go straight home more often than not.

It’s nice that you’re always there. That you’re usually home and when you’re not - Gojo doesn’t have to guess too hard about where you are. It’s so constant. He basks in the feeling of constancy like an expensive silk. 

It’s little luxuries like that, he thinks, that make you so special to Gojo without much effort on your behalf. Being up at the top means he is always fascinated by the place closest to the ground. 

What’s heaven to a man born there?

__ 

In your fourth official month of residence, the neighborhood dog finally gets adopted. 

He’s not there for the big reveal. He hears it from you while he’s on a mission, through a text message and a photo. He acquired your number early on, but you’ve only started doing these text exchanges recently. Reason being Gojo’s had an unusual amount of cases that need his attention and you’ve been very aware of his absence.  

(The first time you texted Gojo after 3 days on the other side of the country, he was scarily happy. After all, most times when he leaves - people are expecting his return.  There’s an assurance that he will return alive, that he has to. It’s not often people worry.

It was another thing he learns about himself through you. Being fussed about is refreshing.) 

Currently, he’s all the way down in Nagasaki. He’s been investigating what the local government has described as an “infestation in the water,” leading to poison and all sorts of hallucination. It’s been causing all of the local hospitals to fill up and the news is advising people to distill their water if possible when at home. Make sure to buy bottled, and double check on your children. 

In other words, there’s an unidentified curse wreaking havoc in small towns and rural areas at an unusually fast rate and Gojo has been sent to figure out its origin. What’s really weird is the location. He’s in Nagasaki prefecture, specifically in Hasami - a town in the Higashisonogo district. He really didn’t have much time to do research on the area, save for a few quick google searches and probing questions to his student, the well traveled Yuta Okkutsu who is a hair more familiar with the region than he is. 

But there wasn’t much for him to find. Hasami is known for the porcelain it produces. The population is a little under 15,000 and the weather is nicer in spring than it is in summer where it gets too humid. It’s considered a small town, though that number is relative in consideration, and currently the local officials are sending off reports about the water supply. 

Even when doing deep research using official means, there was nothing that unusual about the place. No major criminal incidents or occult presence or some other thing that would make this occur naturally. Gojo is no stranger to small town violence or bullying and they can often produce the most volatile curses.

But he’s currently on his 3rd day here, where he’s taken up talking with the locals and he can’t find any specific attitude that would foster a special grade. 

It had led him to a conclusion,  but one he was deliberately avoiding. That someone planted the curse here in Nagasaki, or maybe somewhere else. Which really complicates the whole affair, because then this is an investigation and not just a situation of fate. It also means that this curse was likely harvested somewhere and that Gojo can’t be sure it’ll be easy to get rid of. 

Most importantly, all that fanfare means he’ll be home late. 

Given how much he’s longing to see you, it’s the thing he’s been dreading most. 

It’s weird. He’s never dying to see anyone, with the exception of an old friend long gone. But Gojo has been desperate to see you for the few weeks he’s been away from home. 

(He can’t tell if it’s normal to long this much for a person he truthfully doesn’t know that well.) 

But, while he’s away from home, the thoughts of you play on loop in his head. Like white noise, static yet constant -  there, all the same.  As he walks the rainy streets of Hasami, hands in his pockets - he can’t help but wonder when the next time he gets to see you will be

It’s like some sort of miracle (aren’t you always one?) when Gojo hears his phone ring, buzzing against his abdomen. 

He’s drawn back into reality when he feels it. In front of a store that sells handmade plates and glasses, he lets it go for a while. Feels it buzz against his pocket while he settles his thoughts. He examines his surroundings,  notices the cars, and the mother with her daughter across the street and the gray sky - all before he picks it up. Your name flashes him on screen, and something itches deep in his chest.

The clouds open up. And it’s still raining, but there’s a ray of sunlight cutting through them. For a minute Gojo feels worldly, grinning with damp skin before he slides his thumb across the phone. 

You’ve never called him before. 

“Hello?” He greets, wondering if it was an accident. Then you come through the other side of the line.

“Hi ~,” You say, clearly doing something in the midst of talking “How’ve you been?” 

“I’ve been alright. Very shocked you called me, yanno?”

You laugh quietly. 

“Sorry about that. I just wanted to check in. And I wanted to say thank you.” 

“I mean… I’ll accept but I feel like I should know what for.” He jokes. Your tone goes sincere, marshmallow soft and twice as sweet. 

“You paid the rest of the fees for the dog out of pocket, didn’t you?” 

He smiles to himself.

“Ah. Busted. That was supposed to be a secret between me and Mr. Security-Man,” 

“He didn’t tell me. I just…guessed. Seems like something you’d do.” 

His first instinct is to disagree.

“It’s not like I did it out of the goodness of my heart, okay? It was looking a little sad sleeping during the cold seasons. It was very pitiful. So bad, so sad.” 

“Why’d you do it?” You ask, probing but not too deeply “Like… really. It was really nice of you, but it was a couple thousand and that can’t be cheap.”

He relents, head leaning back on the wall behind him. 

“The kids, remember?” He murmurs, eyes staring up at the gray clouds “You said they’d be sad if the dog didn’t get adopted soon.” 

“The way you’re talking about it makes it seem like you’re doing this for me.” 

“And if I was? Would that bother you, hm?” 

You wait a minute, hesitating with your words. 

“Well…no. I guess not, I just—thank you. I guess I’m just a little… embarrassed about it or whatever.” 

“Shy, huh? Cute.”

“Jeez,” You huff. Gojo can practically hear your grinning from the other side; it makes his heart flutter. He wants to go home, to wherever you are “And you always say you’re no flirt.” 

“I’m not a flirt. I’m just telling it how it is.” 

“Yeah? Well, thanks anyway then. It made them really happy. You should’ve been there to see it. Maybe you can tell them when you get back?” 

“Don’t wanna.” He states outright. 

“You didn’t even think about it!” You exclaim.

“Mm, because I don’t have to. I definitely don’t want them to know.” 

“Why not, though? You’d be their hero, y’know? 

Maybe it’s something in the air. The damp weather out closer to the ocean, or the distance between you. There’s a tiny echo in your words, mechanical through the speakers. The word hero leaves a melancholy in his mouth, floating in the back of his throat like liquor refusing to go down. He chuckles. 

“Ooo, are you into that kinda thing? Like, super charming knights in shining armor? Or superheroes, maybe?” 

You giggle on the other side of the line. If you notice him avoiding answering you, you have the courtesy not to say anything.

“Isn’t everyone? I don’t know. I think if a really good-looking guy saved my life, it’d probably make my heart race a little, yeah. I’d catch feelings over that for sure.” 

He takes a deep breath. Everything smells like rain. 

“Is that so?” He says, chest blooming with warmth “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

__

Gojo returns from his mission empty-handed. 

He was out there for a long time, at least longer than usual when he’s traveling for a mission. He’s not used to hitting so many dead ends. The problem kept growing, but every trail he’d uncovered went cold in about a day. Just before he gave up hope, he was called in by Yagi. Since the issue has spread into other parts of the city, it’s no longer his solo jurisdiction. 

More hands on meant more time for Gojo to be teaching. It also meant that he would finally see you after so long. You waited for him outside the day he returned to Tokyo - wearing a cream colored sweater and the prettiest smile Gojo had ever laid eyes on. 

Gojo returns from his mission empty-handed but it’s not entirely pointless. Upon returning - he had a somewhat shallow epiphany about the way you make him feel. About the way he’s affected by you, which is arguably more valuable than some lead.

Being away from you for so long is something that makes him so irritable. He’s had some time between then and now to come into terms with it. 

Falling back into his routine, it was obvious. Suddenly there was a gap he’d never noticed before that blew wide enough for him to fall through. He actively avoids not seeing you if he can, and ever since your permissive conversation a few weeks ago - it’s harder to notice the way his desires fester. 

There’s not much he wants out of his life. So when anything noteworthy pops up, Gojo is always eager to get a hold of it before it’s too late. 

He usually soothes that by reminding himself of your position as a civilian, a kindergarten teacher at that. The responsible thing to do is make sure you’re safe. To play the hero from the sidelines and ensure you don’t encounter anything from his line of work. That’s his whole life's work. To create a life like that, and it helps to stay on that path when he believes you’re sheltered from that reality. 

That’s why, when you tell Gojo you can see curses, he feels the entire floor collapse from underneath his feet. 

He receives such devastating news over a cup of coffee at that.

It’s closing in to Fall slowly and Gojo has decided to take you out to eat as an apology for his disappearance. He intended to give you another half-truth about his job so you wouldn’t lose any sleep over him. 

When it happens, it’s less that you tell him, and more that you keep glancing. Just over his shoulder, with this terrified expression that Gojo couldn’t not notice, even if he tried. 

You’ve got your hands around a warm drink, in a white, ceramic mug but your gaze keeps diverting to the place behind him. When he looks over to that same place, a curse is there. Small. More insignificant than a bug, but there. 

It’s risky to mention it. Because if Gojo is wrong, it’s not something he can brush off. He’d have to come up with something to excuse himself, and he isn’t sure how to lie out of that (even with his natural disposition of being a trickster.) But when you keep looking, his instinct kicks in. There’s no way you aren’t seeing it. 

He doesn’t ask you directly. That’d be too incriminating, so he lowers his tone. Watches you briefly as you tremble in fear. 

(A small, small  part of him is only asking because he doesn’t like how distracted you are from him. Killing the curse seems like it’d relieve that annoyance too.)

“Can you see it…?” 

The question makes you jump out of your skin. You reel back, eyes widened before the realization really sets in. 

“....It?” 

Gojo looks around the cafe for a minute, to make sure no one is listening before he turns around and points to the cursed spirit behind him. 

“It,” He says, thumb pointed at the deformed curse moaning in one of the booths. 

When it dawns on you that Gojo sees what you see, you cup a hand over your mouth in shock. He can’t describe the way getting that confirmation feels. It raises so many questions about who you are. More than he had before, at least. 

No longer are you the innocent, clueless civilian and that changes every interaction he’s had with you since the start. Though it’s not uncommon for people who can see curses to fall through the cracks, he can feel his own curiosity dig into his skin like seeds taking root. He doesn’t think he should be excited, but he is. 

He’s excited watching your fearful tremble. He’s never seen you like that.

“Yes,” You say, voice a little shaky this time “I can see… it.” 

He takes the spoon out of his latte and cleans it with his mouth. Studying your expression momentarily, he takes a deep breath before standing to his feet. The terror is so subtle, the kind he can only catch because he’s so familiar.. He knows those emotions better than he knows most. 

Curses aren’t phobias. Not illusions or ghosts, but tangible madness. Impactful to those who can see it, but nothing to those who can’t. Fear like that, which can’t be shared with anyone, has a specific look when it shows up in someone. Gojo hasn’t felt that fear since he was very, very little. He watches curses with the same bland expression he might watch a horror movie, but he can understand your reaction at least.  He knows it like the back of his hand. All the people he’s saved, who could see them too, always wore the same one. 

Still, he’s caught off guard. He feels bad that you’re scared. But the proximity between you and him which was once oceans wide has decreased significantly in no time at all. That feels good. Even better than he would’ve imagined. 

“Are you scared?” He questions intently, maintaining a sense of neutrality.

You swallow a lump in your throat, eyes glued to the table in front of you.

“Yes,” 

Your voice is a hoarse whisper. The corners of his lips twitch upward. 

When he’s sure no one is looking, he stands up and walks over to the table behind him. Pretending to look for something so he doesn’t look out of place. It doesn’t take more than a second to destroy it. It’s tiny, something he’d never think of fighting since it’s so harmless. The curse equivalent to a fly. 

He gives it a violent death and sees you look on with horror in your expression. He finds himself pleased with that, wiping his hands on his pants before returning. Maybe you recognize his strength when he sits back down. Still, instead of pulling away again, you fold your hands in your lap. 

“T-Thank you,”

He grins at you. 

“Of course,” He says  “Can I ask you something?” 

You nod your head and sip your tea. 

“Do you know who I am?” 

You look confused.

“...Are you a celebrity?” 

He laughs hard at that. Hearing that makes him not want to tell you. 

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” He reintroduces. You nod slowly “I’m a sorcerer.” 

Another lie of omission. The strongest, he should say. He takes a sip of his latte, frowning at the bitterness. Through his mask, he watches as you fiddle with your hands. He stacks the empty creamer cups together before opening two more sugar packets and stirring them. 

“A sorcerer…” You look perplexed. Confusion settles into the lines of your face. Sheltered, Gojo concludes. Only parents, who shelter you wouldn’t tell you what a sorcerer was despite your ability to see them “What does that… mean exactly?” 

“It means I kill curses for a living” He replies simply. 

“I thought you were a high school teacher.” 

He smiles. 

“Smart cookie. I am, but the school I teach at specializes in cursed technique and sorcery.”

“Oh.” 

You look befuddled. 

Gojo thinks he might be an opportunist. 

“Do you really not know anything about them? It’s rare for people to be able to see them and not know anything about them.”

You shake your head, eyes peering into your drink. He watches how the image reflects in your eyes.

“Uhm. Not really. My parents told me to do my best to stay away from it. We lived in the countryside but I had to move out into the city for work so I kept… running into them. I can’t like… kill them. And I don't always see them.” 

“You can’t use cursed techniques?” 

“I guess that’s what that is. I don’t think I can, no.” 

Vulnerable. 

“Hmm. What circumstances,” He says, purposeful in weaving concern in his words. 

“Is it that bad…?” 

Not really. His job and the job of his peers is to make sure civilians make as little contact with curses as possible. There are more people like you, and because curses feed off of negative emotions - many dangers can be shafted by just not reacting. Even so, it’s customary for people to have some semblance of protection. A weapon if nothing else, for anyone who can see them.

“Do you carry anything with you?” 

“Like a weapon? I have mace for when I take the train late at night.” 

“Not that kind of weapon,” He says gracefully. He can tell you’re out of your element, and some small and twisted part of him would like to keep you in the fateful dark.

“What other kind would there be?” 

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” He half answers. Your frown deepens. He puts his palm over the top of his coffee cup but doesn’t feel any warmth “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m just teasing. You’re always so calm and collected, I was surprised to see how scared you got, you know?” 

“Everybody gets scared sometimes.” 

“Mm,”

His non-committal response leaves you nervous again. Fidgeting with the edge of your cup or the loose threads in the sleeves of your clothes. What a bundle of nerves you are. Gojo puts all the comfort he can in his voice, dredging up some sense of sincerity.

“Well, since it scares you and I’m such a nice guy, I’ll protect you if you get into any trouble.” He says, snapping his fingers and pointing at you.

That makes you relax. Makes your shoulders droop, a smile gracing your pretty face. Gojo can feel the floor underneath him sinking as you tease him. His eyes trace the curve of your neck. He’s glad you can’t see him or where they look. 

“Oh, what? Are you gonna come running every time I need help?” 

He smiles. 

“I’ll be your personal Superman.” He promises, making a silly expression trying to make you laugh. It feels good when he succeeds, the weight of his words softened by it. If you feel how heavy the comment is, it doesn’t show up on your face. 

You snort, taking a sip of your drink and there’s something so kind in your expression that Gojo aches over. 

“That right?” You hum, smiling over the edge of your ceramic mug “You’re my hero.”

__ 

Since then, Gojo’s kept quite busy.

The last time he saw you at all was at the diner a few weeks prior and little has been different since then. You send more nervous messages than before, but aside from that things are the same.

He’s done a good job, he thinks. Partly of ensuring you, partly of instilling healthy fear. Your eyes always widen like you’re caught off guard by his comments - sometimes washed away with a laugh but other times genuine. Gojo likes to keep you on your toes. A  bit of harmless fun and endlessly amusing. 

Gojo would be there to protect you just like he promised before, so even scaring you isn’t something he thinks of as bad. It’s not untrue that you should be a little more vigilant, but just telling you to do so is no easy feat. 

He would like to be spending time with you today just the same as he has before, but he’s home alone instead. There’s been a brief reprieve between cases so he’s on his own to unwind. There’s nothing he wants to do, so he decides on a movie. 

Gojo is the only one of his friends who still has cable TV. According to Shoko it’s a luxury purchase but for him it’s one less choice he has to make when coming home to relax.

It’s an American film on now, some psycho-killer classic that he’s already seen a handful of times with Japanese subtitles. 

None of the lights are turned on, so the TV illuminates the room in flashes of color. He grabs a soda from his steel-gray fridge and cracks it open, listening to the soft fizz that comes to a slow halt. Pulling it to his mouth, he travels slowly back to his couch. The leather squeaks under the weight of his body. The weight of his back creates a divet that he can be comfortable in. He rests his head, glancing back again at the screen. 

A scream rips through the house, agitating his every nerve. He picks up his remote and turns it down just a tad before watching the movie with a sort of disinterest. Horror movies aren’t his favorite, admittedly. He pretends he scares easily, but the opposite is true. Gojo has seen too much for it to be entertaining, no less scary. 

He likes movies based on their creative merit. He’ll watch one on its creative merit. 

But to be scared? For frights? Not really. Very little gets his heart pumping hard like that. Sometimes the storytelling is good. Other times there’s something cathartic about the formulaic death. The final girl, the call from inside the house. The dependable and clean ending of tropes. Even if it’s messy or sinister, it’s fantastical. Fictitious and detached. 

Gojo enjoys that. For anyone else, it’s probably a twisted way to think about it but to Gojo it only feels natural. He doesn’t examine that detachment very deeply. He’s just aware of it, lingering in the back of his head. 

He takes a long sip of his drink. The sickly sweet taste slowly coats his mouth. Fizzy and smooth, it goes down easily. He sits up in his seat, making himself comfortable as he tries to pay attention to the movie. The main girl is hiding in the bathroom, and the killers' steps are echoing through the house. The broken, somber string instruments in the background, fill the white noise with apprehension and terror. 

Gojo doesn’t feel a chill down his spine. His eyes are still fixed on the screen though, with slight anticipation of what's next even though he already knows. It’s nearing the end and he’s seen this movie before. She’s not going to make it, and Gojo knows that. 

He watches intently in spite of that. The door bursts open and there’s a knife in her chest - and screams. It’s horrific and ugly, blood-spattered and graphic. 

He doesn’t flinch until the whole way through.

It’s brief, but the thought passes his mind. Lately, the only thing that Gojo seems to react to is you.

But he doesn’t think about it too deeply. There’s no need to. 

The TV goes to commercial and Gojo realizes he’s finished his soda. He stands back up, onto his feet to toss the can and grab another. This time, he grabs some snacks too. Piles them onto a plate, dried meats, and something mildly sweet for after before he returns to his living room. Sitting back down on his couch, he scrolls through his phone for anything interesting but comes up short of any results. 

He sits up a little straighter as the next movie plays. 

__

Spending time around curses is a necessary part of the learning experience.

Things you can’t learn in all the lessons and tutoring in the entire world. Even though Jujutsu Tech exists, and even given Gojo’s lineage - when he started working officially, he didn’t know everything. You can’t. No matter to what extent you study, there’s some things that you can only gauge through experience. Going through something over and over, like muscle memory.

Gojo spent a lot of his life wanting it to make sense. Wanting curses and the way they showed up to make sense. This is a lesson in truth, divine truth you can only take up in experience. Curses are human emotions, which means that they are finicky and everywhere. And the dangers of them will always look like the aftermath of destruction. 

Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do to prepare for why things happen. It’s why Gojo is always grasping for light where he can find it. 

Gojo Satoru stands in an empty parking lot all the way in Osaka. He examines the sight in front of him and can’t find anything he’s learned to prepare for what's next. 

Fog has rolled in thick clouds over every inch, limiting his vision. The air tastes of smoke, and the earth underneath him is damp. The wet concrete squeaks under the weight of his shoes as he takes in the surroundings. The parking lot of an animal hospital, in particular - where all the staff were reported to have fallen unconscious. After being rolled out by the proper authorities and after all the animals were moved into a different location - Gojo was left to examine the remnants of the incident. 

The reports are similar all across the country. Not the location. but the symptoms. People falling sick and ill. The initial reports of a water-borne illness didn’t progress far past the first city. It’s evolved since then. People get sick, pass out and hallucinate and animals lose all control. 

The aftermath isn’t very messy so luckily it doesn’t attract too much attention. There’s no bodies, or blood - nothing  heinous thereafter. The effects appear later in the people affected, taken over by an unnamed madness that appears to turn their internal experience to ruins. Gojo would’ve preferred the first situation. Violence like that becomes easy to digest with enough exposure. 

These kinds of symptoms are always hard to stomach. Civilians get answers that placate them. The truth is that there's something bigger out there at play and they were just so unlucky to bear witness to the terror. With altered memories and the badge of trauma, what they don’t know can’t hurt them. 

Gojo knows though, and sometimes he envies their ignorance.

He makes his way into the building. A set of glass doors greets him when he turns the sidewalk, with a blinking sign. Osaka Animal Hospital is written at the top in neon, accompanied by the words 24hr service. Gojo only glances at it briefly before sighing, hands on the bar to push himself through the heavy glass doors. He has to lean some of his weight to get through, and there’s just another set beyond those where he has to do the same. 

Then, he’s inside. 

The presence of the curse and of cursed energy ignites familiar caution within him. It’s here, in some capacity - or it was recently. The perpetrator is here too. Why that is, Gojo can’t quite understand. It seems a little backwards to linger here after everyones been evacuated and there’s no doubt someone would come to investigate. 

All Gojo can think is that maybe they weren’t expecting him. But by now, they must know he’s there too. Gojo’s presence is intentionally oppressive - by nature it must be. Now it’s a waiting game, a quiet one at that. 

Hospitals are always echoey and this one is no different. The squeak of his boots bounces off the walls as he takes steps towards the receptionist desk just to see if he’ll find anything. 

He leans over it, to stare at the left over records - untouched by the authorities. Everything looks like it was left in a hurry. Strew pens and a corded phone just barely back in place - with computers on a blue idle screen. All the daily documents are still out sitting on the desk with no organization to indicate they’ve been filtered through. No paper clips or post-its telling the next person working about what to do. 

Instead of walking behind the counter, he climbs over it with relative ease. Once he’s behind it, he takes better note of his surroundings. He doesn’t find anything completely relevant. There’s painting of animals, and some certifications for bills of health as well - but nothing that warrants his attention. He redirects through the papers in front of him, coming across a stack unexamined. Those answer sheets they give you to fill out so they can assess the situation before meeting you. 

They’re split into two piles it looks like, though that could just be some coincidence. Still, he flips through them. Directing his attention to the little comment box with the prompt what are you being seen for? 

It’s nothing serious. Normal things an animal owner would be upset or worried about like bowel movements and eating something that shouldn’t have been consumed. A minor injury or a worrisome behavior - but nothing that sticks out. For pages and pages, Gojo flips through the little packets trying to find anything. 

It’s not what he sees, but what he doesn’t. A blank packet of papers, with no name for the owner or the pet. Only a description in the prompt box, neat handwriting in a single line. 

“Showing signs of anxiety.” 

Gojo smiles to himself. Interesting. 

He jumps back over onto the other side once he’s seen it. It’s strange. Why would they go to the lengths of premeditating it like that? Whether it’s the curse itself or some third party, it’s an unreasonable thing to do. 

“Not like people like this are usually reasonable, but,” 

He saves the rest of the thought, sighing. The room has two hallways to go down. Both directions have some lingering cursed energy,  but the hallway leading to the overnight area is much stronger. It’s separated by a big metal door, so Gojo braces himself to go through it.

He walks towards it slowly and through the doors even slower. It’s a long, empty hall. The ceilings are low, white fluorescent lights over his head like a falsified halo. They flicker on and off, with the ones at the very end of the hall having fizzled out completely. Gojo can hear, feel, and see everything. He can hear his own breathing and the artificial crackling  of electricity. Feel the lingering presence of sickness, the sediments of a curse preparing itself to emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. 

He peeks into the different rooms of the hallway. One half of the hall is kennels, once again empty and left in the same messy state as the front desk. The other half of the rooms look like surgery rooms, with a storage closet tucked into one corner. The hall comes to an abrupt stop at the end, a painted gray wall with nothing to offer at the end.

But when Gojo is half-way through, he hears it. A heart-beat. A human one, slow and steady like it’s not worried at all. Not moving or running, just there. Thump, thump, thump. 

Gojo perks his head up as he walks, leaning over to get a look at every room. Empty, empty, empty. 

Then, in the very last one is a shadowy figure. The sound of the heartbeat is louder and the feeling of cursed energy is so strong it’s nauseating. Gojo pauses when he peers in, waits for there to be any response to his presence. There’s no way whoevers lurking doesn’t know he’s there, but there’s nothing that makes him react. He frowns. 

His hand reaches for the handle of the door with a sigh, the mechanism inside clicking to let Gojo know it’s open. He takes a deep breath before opening it, stepping inside and shutting it behind him. 

Even with the room as dark as it, the person inside is clear to his vision. A young girl. Probably no older than 17 with… 

He furrows his brow. With a dog, from what it looks like. No ordinary dog, obviously. A curse in the form of a dog, with teeth too sharp for its mouth and fur that looks like a smear of charcoal and nothing like hair at all. It’s on a long leash, the chain wrapped around the young woman's palms. 

The dog seems to tense up at the sight of Gojo. The eyes are empty and white - almost transparent. It’s a snarling thing, muzzle over the mouth and clearly on edge. Gojo looks at its owner, the perpetrator in this instance. Who looks calm, black mask tucked over face and long dark hair with bangs cut sharp.

Gojo doesn’t know what to say here. He wasn’t expecting to make contact this easily with a curse and its master. It’s been months now, the authorities chasing after this special grade from city to city. She’s obviously strong, and so is that curse that’s strained against its collar like it’s ready to rip him in half if he moves. Not stronger than him, because no such thing ever happens - but strong enough for him to be cautious. 

He doesn’t step forward. He stops by the door and tilts his head. He’s sure she can’t see his eyes, but they make eye contact all the same. None of it makes any sense, but making sense of it isn’t Gojo’s job. 

Instead of introducing himself, he opens the conversation with a question. 

“Why’re you still here?” 

“I knew I was going to get caught soon.” 

An answer he couldn’t predict even if he tried. Gojo huffs. 

“There was some time between the authorities coming and this investigation. You could have left before then, no?” 

“Doesn’t matter. Something would’ve stopped me.” 

“What a weird kid. What led you to that?” 

There’s a minute where the dog (?) starts barking,  but the noise is nothing like a bark. It’s cosmic and strained, and sounds more like a distorted radio than an animal noise. It’s in the shape of an animal but it isn’t one, like it couldn’t complete itself to be one. Gojo winces at the sound, intensified in the closed walls of the room. It’s piercing, and a little annoying. 

When she soothes it, it calms down quickly. It’s obedient. 

“Uh. A vision. Closer to a premonition. Fate.”

“Fate said you were going to get caught today. Right.” 

“Aren’t you a shaman? Shouldn’t be that hard to believe.” 

“Point taken. How did you know I was a shaman and not some murderer?” 

She gives Gojo a pointed look. 

“Look at you. Plus, I can feel that you’re a shaman.” 

“Another premonition?” He asks, this time sincerely. She shakes her head. 

“No. Your aura.” 

Gojo stares ahead. 

“...Right, yeah. It doesn’t look like you’re planning on attacking me.” 

“I don’t think I’d win. I’ve never met anyone stronger than me.” 

“I’m the strongest there is, so I guess not. How did you wanna go about this, then? Famous last words?” 

“You go first. I’d rather talk to you than the other officials.” 

“Hm. Don’t know if I have any questions, kiddo. My job is catching you, not interrogation. I guess I am a little interested in why.” 

This makes her deflate a little. It’s hardly noticeable, but Gojo sees it anyway. The dog seems to react, snarling at her discomfort. He’s starting to understand the connection between them.

She thinks for a minute longer before sighing. 

“Well. I guess I should start about why, right? It’s an old story. I came from a small village. I used to walk miles to school everyday and I’d get bullied a lot since my granny was a shaman. It was just us growing up. A nice old house with not a lot of modern anything,”

Gojo crosses his arms, leaning back on the wall and nodding his head. He figures she’ll tell him top to bottom, so he doesn’t give any input. 

“My granny died a few years ago. I didn’t have any family so I moved on my own. Even back then, the only other thing I cared about were animals. I started working at a shelter and then I met Senbei.” 

The more she talks, the worse he feels. Gojo already knows how this story will end, but he doesn’t interrupt her as she pauses between her sentences. Being 17 and bearing the burdens of loss is something he regards as a nightmare. 

“Senbei was my best friend. Most loyal dog ever. And you know, I started my job with high hopes and kept him by my side. I wasn’t always angry. Working in that shelter and watching animals come in trembling every time I fed ‘em made me angry. How cruel and sick people could be.” 

Her explanations are jumbled and clumsy. She sounds angry but it’s not that simple, curling in on herself the more she talks. Noticeably, she doesn’t try to justify it. She says it easily, with acceptance that it happened.  He thinks that acceptance is harder to bear than delusion. Gojo can’t help but commend her silently. 

“I’m sorry you went through that.”  Gojo replies. 

He’s being sincere. 

“Should you be sympathizing with me?” 

“Doesn’t matter. I just do.”

Her expression softens. She looks sad, and it’s not like Gojo doesn’t understand.  She keeps going though, hands shaking in her lap. Gojo thinks she might’ve been waiting to tell someone. 

“I don’t know when I stopped seeing the good in people….I always thought about—about my granny and how no one—no one came to see her. She was always taking care of everyone and no-one—“

“I know, kid,” Gojo says with a sigh “I get it.” 

“Then you know,” She pauses, taking a deep breath. There’s frustrated tears pouring down her cheek this time. What a strange, sad thing she is:  “That you can’t go back. Even if you forget. It just—it changes you.” 

Yeah. Gojo knows something about that, too. 

“I was already pretty desperate when Senbei was alive. Just trying to hold on. When he was killed, I lost it. I just fucking— I lost it. I’m sure you understand. You get it right?”

Gojo looks at her confused. She shakes her head, looking down in her lap at the curse in her hands.

“I can tell you're like me.  That's why your aura is so tainted and… fucked up and  malicious. It should be crystalline blue kinda like spring water—but it’s muddy. Rigid.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“The fact you’re hanging on by a thread. You can feel it too, right?“ 

Gojo remains quiet at her observation. He doesn’t know how to react. 

“When you want something so bad, it just— does something to you. Either because it won’t happen or because it needs to take your life to exist. Happened to granny, to me. It’ll happen to you, too.”

“I doubt that,” Gojo says, your face flashing in his mind. He shakes his thoughts away. 

“You’re thinking about it too literally. You want something, so you chase it and lose yourself in the process. You’re dead. No longer you, all tangled and in ruins. It’s not too late, but if you keep going—that thread is gonna snap.” 

“A premonition?” He says, partially sarcastic. She shakes her head. 

“No, a prediction. You don’t have to consider it if you don’t want to. I just thought I’d tell you since you gave me some last minutes with this Senbei.” 

Gojo shakes his head. 

“I don’t have any reason to be forceful if you comply. Take your time. I don’t have anything better to do.” 

Gojo glances at her as she pets it, having resigned herself to silently gazing upon it. He can’t stop himself from thinking about everything she’s said, so he averts his gaze to the ceiling and pretends otherwise.

The silent stretches, a pregnant pause before she speaks one more time. She has a look on her face Gojo can’t read.

“You know, it’s funny. Everyone thinks dogs are loyal to their masters, but that’s because we made them that way. We can’t stand being alone or unloved so we made something that can do both without ever seeing any less of us.” 

“You’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”  Gojo says, unsure of how to reply. She isn’t expecting anything, but remaining silent fills him with a sense of dread. 

“Guess so. You should take some time to think about it too,”

She says to him, petting the curse that whines like it’s been hit in her small hands. Gojo takes a deep breath. 

“…Yeah. I’ll do that.” 

__

The case ends anti-climatically. 

Gojo finds it funny. The officials came and the young girl was promptly arrested. He never even got a chance to ask her name. He learned through some probing that she only made two asks before being taken. 

The first, to keep her curse dog with her, and to send her thanks to the sorcerer who had apprehended her in the first place.

On the news, much later in the week - a news report surfaces. “Danger in the Deep,” giving reasonable and logical explanations for the events that occurred in cities across Japan not even a few weeks ago. New studies show, experts say, here’s a word from your local—a barrage of fancy language to pad the publishing, add depth and realism. The public is none the wiser. 

Gojo has to admire the commitment to keeping the peace. The case ends, and the girl gets arrested and put on trial. He doesn’t know if he’ll be seeing her again any time soon, though he’s sure he has the power to intervene. 

He’s hesitating to do so. Why stick his neck out for her in a situation like this one? Over other situations, more dire ones at that. She’d make a good ally.

Their last conversation hasn’t left the back of Gojo’s mind. He’s conscious of it, albeit it hasn’t slowed him down. He’s not looking for another assessment of who or what ghosts are haunting him. He’d prefer to put it all behind him now

So life, in some capacity, has returned to its baseline. It’s normal. He has cases but they don’t take him more than three days. He’s able to do his usual chores without anything impeding them. He’s been teaching, no longer forced to make his students fend for themselves. 

He’s been seeing you again regularly, too. 

He’s getting ready now to do just that. Scheduled to get another coffee together (something of a tradition now) and pick up some conversations. You’ve been busy, though Gojo doesn’t know the details of what.

He wants to know. He’s even tried asking but as soon as he gets close to the subject, you slink into yourself like you’re trying to disappear. Besides, he doesn’t want to intimidate you into telling him. 

(Though, it would be so easy to do. You’ve got a record for being a scaredy cat, and as much as it endears him - he is entirely too hung up on the potential for exploitation to admire it kindly. It’d be easy to turn the notches up, pressure you. With how easy going you are, you’d let him do it. Gojo bets you’d cave. He thinks the face you’d make would be entertaining too. 

Above all, the offer is tempting.) 

In spite of your refusal to discuss the specifics, Gojo does want to cheer you up in whatever capacity he can. So, he’s taking you out for a while and hoping a comfortable environment and the presence of other people will soothe your nerves a little. 

He’s getting dressed for it now, rifling through his closet for decent casual attire. 

He’s got his hair styled down, a pair of new sunglasses on the table and his clothes folded on his bed before he tries them on. Most of his closet is uniforms, plain black and boring. For now, he’s settled on a black crew neck and blue jeans - ripped at the knees. 

He looks over his appearance in the mirror, posing in it. Arms flexed and stretched over his head before putting them out in front of his body. 

He takes his time to take part in the ritual. He slips his boxers up over his legs, waist band tight around his torso and clinging to the curves of his thighs. He pulls his jeans up, low at his hips with a belt buckled through the front. Then comes his sweater over his abdomen. 

He wants to look nice. Though, he could be deluding himself - lately you seem a little more aware of his appearance. It makes him happy that his good looks haven’t failed him in the instance they matter most. 

As he puts on his accessories (in this case a watch and a ring) his phone buzzes atop his dresser. He stops to pick it up, a message from you on the screen. He peers over so his face can be read, then smiles. 

(sent 11:15am) Ready ~ 

He laughs to himself. 

(sent 11:16am) Almost ready. Need to look my best for such a tremendous occasion. 

(sent 11:16am) For coffee? 

(sent 11;17) For coffee with my favorite kindergarten teacher ofc ♡

You send back a simple reply telling him to hurry and come out. Gojo chooses to interpret your embarrassment as a sign. It puts some pep in his step, and he hurries to finish dressing up. 

He steps out of his house, locking his door from the outside before shuffling down a single flight of stairs and out into the front entrance of his complex. He notices you waiting at the front gate from where he’s standing. 

The neighborhood dog (officially named Pokupan) is asleep by the security office. You’re the same as always. Today's outfit is a dress with long sleeves and colored tights. It suits you. A splash of warmth in an otherwise dreary world, Gojo stands in place as he watches you for an unidentified amount of time. Minutes feel like seconds as you pace back and forth. Your phone must be in your purse because he can’t find it anywhere on you. 

He’s delighted when you finally turn your head to look at him. You cup your hand and give him a kind wave which he laughs at and returns enthusiastically. His stride is long, walking towards the gate. 

You have to tilt your neck up to look at him (making his chest squeeze unhelpfully) but you smile when you do so. 

“Hey,” 

“Hello there Miss. Waiting for a special someone?” He jokes. You flush. 

“They’re an important friend,” 

He tries not to let his smile falter. Friend. 

“Then, is it a bother if I ask to take you out?” 

This time you falter. Gojo notices it out of the corner of his eye, the briefest brush of nerves that makes it seem like you’re warming up to him after all. It’s gone as quickly as it came but it’s there and Gojo etches it into the back of his eyelids for memory. He smiles at you as you look away, flush

“Not at all,” 

He grins, again, even brighter. Then he sticks his arm out for you to loop in. You hesitate again. This time Gojo can’t be sure why.

“I’m just being a gentleman, you know?” He pouts. His frown takes effect as you loop your arms together. He keeps it friendly. Too much pushing and you’ll skitter away right before his eyes. Still, even this much progress feels good. It feels whole and light and good. 

It’s a pleasant sort of day. 

Not that it’s warm, or even sunny. It’s cold, on the edge of Autumn that dances into Winter. Freezing but bright out, the kind of sky where everything is clear. During the day the sky has no clouds and no stars when it comes to night time. 

Nonetheless it’s nice. The cold is the kind that makes you want to cozy into someone for warmth, so Gojo doesn’t mind walking in. The walk itself isn’t very long either. The cafe is near your complex, just about 15 minutes worth of walking. There’s no snow or ice to trip on, and because it’s freezing - you shiver every time you stray too far from the heat of his body so the walking is done exceptionally close together

There are kids and parents walking together on the street alongside you, dogs and their owners, street vendors with hot tea. It’s that kind of day where the cold doesn’t keep anyone indoors, in fact everyone seems to relish in the fact they can run and run and run without overheating. It feels like everything is in sync with each other, comfortable and harmonious in spite of everything else.

After 15 minutes, you’ve arrived at the store front. Not long enough for Gojo, but that’s okay. There’s next time he has to look forward too. 

(He tells himself this every time. It’s never enough for him. He can never get enough of listening to you talk. He could probably mimic your cadence without having to try. It’s a sound he doesn’t get sick of―a miracle, another one, because Gojo hates so many sounds―yet there’s one he always looks out for. 

There has to be a next time. If he forgets to tell himself as much, he gets so restless he can hardly stand.

The cafe is nice. It’s one of those places that you see on Instagram often with plenty of sweets for Gojo’s taste and plenty of fancy teas for yours. The outside has beige-colored brick and a brown sign decorated with cutesy drawings. You spend a good amount of time crouched beside it, taking a picture or two to later post on your story. 

“You have to tag me, okay? It’s your payment for wasting our precious time together,” He jokes. 

You stand to your feet and brush off your pants, the material of your coat rustling as you do. 

“Yes, yes ― I promise. I’ll have to ask who drew them when we get in there.” 

Gojo smiles at your enthusiasm before opening the door for you.  Another one of those glass ones with a logo printed on the top half and the metal tinted brown. A little bell chimes above your head as you head in first, and Gojo heads in after you. He has to duck not to his his head on the top of it.

It’s not too crowded at this hour. A handful of people sit among the many tables and booths. Your head is turned to the menu and Gojo trails behind you like a shadow. One to compliment all your light. 

It smells delightful inside. Like warm cookies and vanilla and tea. Gojo feels his sweet tooth kick in the minute you two stand in line. The barista is a doe-eyed blonde college student. There’s another employee with long dark hair and thin, narrow eyes. It reminds Gojo a lot of that girl he met a few weeks ago but he tries to put that thought out of his mind.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and eyes the menu. The special item is a yuzu cream cake, the picture of it hanging on the wall like employee of the month. There’s a glass display of all the other items and the menu matches the rest of the decor.

“This was a good choice,” Gojo says, entranced by all the desserts around him. You laugh, turning your head slightly to look at him. 

“Are you complimenting yourself right now?” 

“Am I wrong?” 

“Your sweet tooth is so bad,” You say through giggles “Your poor dentist,” 

He gasps in offense.

“I will have you know I keep my pearly whites pristine. Not a single cavity for the record.” He says back, placing emphasis on the last words. You snort a laugh. 

“I’ve never had one either,” You repeat back, perhaps mindlessly before saying “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other yet.” 

Yet. Yet. Gojo’s subconscious will hold onto that word for too long. It makes his heart beat too loud. He’s relieved that you’re nothing like him. If you were in this very moment, you would hear the thunder raging inside of his ribs. 

Instead of saying anything, he scoffs playfully. 

“I bet you were such a goody two-shoes that you never ate sweets before bed-time.” 

Your eyes widen in surprise followed by embarrassment, where you tuck your chin into your sweater. 

“Ugh,” You say, so weakly Gojo can’t stop himself from laughing “What’s wrong with being a goody two shoes, huh?” 

Gojo feels almost feline in his self-satistication. “I didn’t say anything was wrong with it, just that you were one.” 

Your frown deepens. 

“I don’t care for your tone, mister.” 

“Are you gonna scold me like one of your students?” 

“If it gets you to be nice,” You say firmly, in that Teacher voice that Gojo has caught glimpses of over the last few months. He does a fake salute. 

“Yes, ma’am!,” He proclaims,  soft enough so only you hear it. You break out into another set of his giggles, melting his cold heart. It’s not the smile so much as it is yours.  The line moves up just a little bit. Gojo steps in front of you before you have a chance, his figure shadowing you. 

“What do you want?” 

“I think I’m gonna get one of those fruit teas and some cake.” You say absentmindedly. He smiles at you playfully. 

“Heard,” 

Gojo turns to order for you both, laughing through your obvious protests about his paying for you. He’s able to block you from getting in the way as the cashier looks on the both of you bemusedly. When the order is placed, Gojo taps his phone against the reader before moving aside where you stomp your feet and follow him. 

“I told you I would get it this time,” You whine. He hums. 

“Mm, there’s always next time?” 

“You say that every time!” 

“So you never know? Maybe it’s next time for sure.” 

You seem to realize that this is a fruitless conversation and that he’s not going to relent. With a flush on your face, you cross your arms and pout. 

“I’ll get you back one of these times, I swear….Anyway, thank you.” You add the last part quietly. He hums. 

“It’s only fair, you know. After all, who else would come here to eat sweets with me?” 

You look taken aback but Gojo doesn’t retract his statement. He’s sure there’s someone he could ask. But there’s no one who would agree to it as easily as you have. The environment wouldn’t be so welcoming, either. Someone who would do something like this with Gojo is long lost. It almost feels foreign to him now. 

In order to ease the tension, you look up at him warmly. 

“Then, I’m glad you asked me.” 

There it is again. That warm, sort of fluttery feeling he gets in his chest being around you. He wonders if he’s allowed to be so happy. 

The food arrives at the counter, the young woman calling out for Gojo. You and Gojo split the task of carrying the plates, picking a nice booth in the corner with the top covered, You slide in across from him, situating your bag. 

You and Gojo go back and forth, setting up everything so it looks nice under the lights. Gojo takes on taking the photos this time, clicking from a few different angles and stopping to show you after each photo. 

“I’ll send you the picture later, okay?” 

“Don’t forget.” 

“I won’t, I won’t. Let’s eat, okay?” 

You nod enthusiastically.

__ 

You and Gojo eat and chat comfortably for a while. 

He’s not sure how much time passes. He wasn’t checking because why would he? He’d like to be with you a bit longer, so he refrains from thinking about it and hopes you do the same. Just a bit more, he tells himself. Until you really, really have to go. 

There’s nothing major to catch up on. You tell Gojo about your job, mostly and how you saw some friends from out of town the week before. Winter is coming and you want to do something nice for the holidays. You’re getting along well with your fellow teachers which is good. He was worried about that, but he can’t keep eyes on you at school. 

(Not for not having tried. He’s thought about it, but his presence would be too noticeable and he doesn’t trust anyone else to the task) 

So it’s relieving. Your only complaint has been that some of the students have the sort of parents you can’t handle. Pushy and involved in a way you can’t ignore but can’t tolerate either. Gojo jokes to take care of them, gesturing to his arm like he’s ready to knock someone's lights out. 

That makes you laugh, and following it you have this melancholy look that sends alarms blaring in Gojo’s head. You don’t broach the subject at all afterwards. You talk about everything else you can. The sale on radishes at the market, thinking about getting a car just to have it, maybe visiting your parents sometime soon. 

Gojo listens. He doesn’t have much to add. His work is strictly classified to people who aren’t in the field and it’s nothing fun to begin with. He does tell you what he can - usually about some antics his students have gotten into during training. He can at least talk about that. 

He tells you about the movies he’s watched, how he went drinking with his co-workers last week, and how he thinks Pokupan is starting to act friendlier to him. 

It’s fun because it’s you. Gojo likes feeling like he’s involved with you intimately. He likes hearing you talk. The sound of your voice is such a pleasant contrast to his own. You talk with a kind of joy Gojo could never hope to carry, all gestures and smiles and interjections - trying to make sure your point comes across. How you don’t think the kid sitting in the front is a bad kid, just needs guidance. How the material of your sweater isn’t really cashmere but more of a blend. 

Time passes  comfortably that way. The drinks and food have been reduced to crumbs and cold drops of tea, glasses emptied and phones abandoned. 

But neither of you have made any move to leave, and Gojo is still listening to you talk with a pleased smile on his face. It was a pleasant sort of day, remember? 

“So it was fine in the end, but the classroom was such a mess seriously―” 

So, it throws Gojo off when you stop speaking so abruptly. How easily the atmosphere melts, and what an unpleasant film it leaves behind. 

It feels like an axe hammering on a stop, a sharp and near violent thud that cuts off the end of your sentence. The air becomes tense in the blink of an eye. Gojo can feel it, the sensation of cursed energy. It’s stagnated, little like pebbles at the bottom of a creek. But it’s there, and Gojo can feel it creep over your shoulders like a sixth sense. Like someone skipped a stone over that same water. He senses it in the air like dust in the light.

He sits up straight, focusing his attention on you. 

“Hey,” He calls out, softening his voice as much as he can. Trying hard to identify what's wrong exactly “You okay?” 

Your hands shake as you lay them flat on the table. You’re almost completely spaced out by now. It all happens in the blink of an eye. 

Gojo stares at you, calling to you a second time. 

“Hey. Hey, look at me?” 

When you finally hear him, you jump in your skin. Your shoulders relax when you realize it’s only Gojo. Normally that would make him happy, but not like this. Your hands are shaking. A nervous fidget in all of your movements that he’s never seen before, like you’ve been shocked with electric wire. He hates it. The taste of your fear (this fear) is different and unfamiliar. 

He doesn’t like it. 

You turn your head to look at him then avert your eyes again. He can’t follow your gaze as it shifts. It’s too erratic.

“No, uhm. It’s just, uhm.” 

“Woah! Hey, Miss. I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” 

Everything feels like it slows down as Gojo watches your eyes snap up. Your expression drops again, even lower, and if he listens close enough he can hear the sound of your heart. Your discomfort is tangible. It leaves a metallic taste in Gojo’s mouth as you suddenly curl in yourself, shoulders hunched and peeling skin off your nails. 

You don’t even look to Gojo for help. Instead, your words go soft.  You become helpless in front of his eyes. 

“Oh. Yes, hello.” You bow your head trying to say as little as possible. Gojo stares as you shake like a leaf in the wind. Something ugly curls up inside of him, a knife twisting in his chest. 

“Aw, c’mon? What’s with the unfriendly act? Is it ‘cause you’re here with your boyfriend?”

You look up at him panicked. Not because of the comment, but because of his tone. Gojo hears it too. How sinister it is. Like he’s blaming you for it somehow, like you’ve wronged him. The feeling inside of him is so ugly, it’s so wretched. His knuckles turn nearly white from how hard he’s closing his fist. You put your hands up and go to explain yourself anxiously. 

It makes Gojo sick. He smiles, turning his head just a little so he can see. He opens his eyes and stares, focusing his vision on remembering every detail of the bastard's face.

“I’m not her boyfriend. We’re neighbors,” He explains, tone as cold as ice but smiling. 

Gojo puts pressure in the atmosphere. His natural and suffocating aura returns to him easily. He smiles and remains unnervingly still, waits in quiet for the man to respond. He scratches the back of his head, still indignant. 

“Uh. Okay. I guess that’s good. Wouldn’t be appropriate for a teacher to be out on a date like this huh?” 

Again. This guy, whoever he is, turns his head like he’s trying to talk down to you. Diverts his perversion and sadism towards you that leaves Gojo wondering what his head would look like against concrete. A bitter, heinous feeling waits inside of him, nesting into his ribs as the sound of every voice in the room comes to be muffled. All Gojo can hear is his heart. How long it's been since he’s heard it. 

It’s loud. A cacophony, or a hymn. Divine rage in the sound of his soul leaves has him unsure of how to proceed. 

Gojo glances at you. Your eyes are rounded, full of desperation. Pleading. 

Gojo hates whoever this is. Gojo wants to save you. He thinks you deserve to be saved. 

He stands up. He has enough height on the guy to be intimidating, the guy just barely coming up to his shoulder. Gojo stares down wildly, pulling his glasses to the bridge of his nose to peek briefly over the edge. The bastard stops talking immediately, words coming to a stutter, It’s satisfying. 

“Who are you?” He asks. 

“Wh-why is that any of your concern? Can’t you see I’m talking to―” 

“I didn’t ask about who you were talking to. I asked who you were,” 

He hears you from behind him “He’s a parent from my school,”

“Ah, okay. Interesting. Since you’re a parent, we wouldn’t want to make this a confrontation right?” Gojo says, bemused “It’d be a real issue for everyone if it turned out that way,” 

Gojo puts a hand on his shoulder, tightening his grip hard enough to hear him gasp. He’s weak, but that’s to be expected.

“So, I suggest you turn around and head home, hm? Since we wouldn’t want it to be a big fuss.” 

Gojo can see it now. With a little pressure, he could turn the blade of his shoulder in sawdust and watch him fall to his knees. He’d let out a cry, a sharp pathetic wail like a hit dog. Gojo would make him say sorry to you before he lets up his hand from his skin. He’d do it infront of everyone in the store so they could hold a little fear in their hearts. 

He won’t do it. Just for now. If it complicates your work then you wouldn’t be able to support yourself. What would he do if you ended up somewhere far away? Out of his sight, something like this could happen again and Gojo wouldn’t be able to take care of you. 

So he doesn’t crush it. He pushes his palms into his shoulder blades and whispers quietly, just so the two of them hear. He pulls away and watches as his face goes pale, a simple stutter leaving his lips. Something about how he’ll see you later and that somethings come up before he turns around and leaves.

Gojo watches as he does. The door chimes again, and the man disappears. The patrons who might’ve glanced turn away again like it was just a simple altercation, which is good. Then finally, Gojo looks at you where you are. Your hands are trembling so hard, a shake of relief in your shoulders as you cover your face. You look like you’re getting ready to cry, so Gojo takes it into his own hands. He cleans up all the food, wipes the table, and even grabs your jacket and bag as you take a minute to collect yourself. 

He taps your shoulder lightly afterwards, waiting for you to look up. Once you do he smiles, reaches a hand out to you so you don’t have to think twice. 

“About time to get out of here, huh?” 

You nod, so slowly. You look so relieved, even as you sniffle. Your hand is so small compared to his. He squeezes it protectively as you slide it into his own, and helps you walk out of the store together. 

The air is cold, the same as before, the temperature having warmed just a bit. The bell above the door rings as the two of you finally leave, standing in the street. Unlike before though, there’s something bitter in the air. The sun has hidden itself completely in the clouds and the streets feel emptier, lifeless. 

Gojo turns to you with a somber expression, trying to smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Do you want to go somewhere to talk about it, maybe?” 

You chew your lower lip then sigh “...Yeah. Probably should, huh?” 

You and Gojo decide on a place not too far from where you are. It’s a small park, a good place to end off an otherwise good day. 

You have to take the bus to get there, but there’s not many people. Gojo eventually gives you back your things, lets you slide your jacket on and fix your face - but ultimately takes your hand and holds it on the ride there. He brings it to his lap and you don’t pull away even though you seem to fidget the whole time. 

The bus finally stops in front of the park. It takes hardly any time, but Gojo finds he’s unable to let go of your hand so he doesn’t. Instead, he holds tight and lets you trail behind. You let him lead you quietly out back in the street. You give your thanks to the driver as the doors close. 

He can’t let go of your hand, though he knows now would’ve been a good time to do it. His grip only grows tighter. 

“Let's go find somewhere to sit,” He offers. You squeeze his hand this time and don’t look away. 

“Okay,” 

He tries to keep pace with you this time, instead of walking ahead. Your strides are shorter than his so he’s careful that you don’t fall behind. Your eyes still have that watery look to them but you’re no longer trembling from fear. Just the cold, if anything. 

And your heartbeat no longer sounds so hazardous. Gojo is still restless, still fidgety. His thumb is rubbing circles into your skin but it’s not really for you. 

You find a bench, eventually - in the middle of the long walk-way just a distance away from a playground. Gojo juts his chin out towards it, before turning over to look at you.

“Let’s go sit,” 

You nod as you walk together towards it. You sit first, and Gojo finally lets go of you. He sits besides you. There’s a minute where the whole world is deathly quiet. There should be something calm about it, but it isn’t. You’re no longer terrified, and a distance away. There’s no danger lurking in the dark and there’s no cars passing or children crying. 

Everything is calm and silent, but Gojo couldn’t feel more unease if he tried. He thinks he hides it well. But there’s that itch again, in a place behind his ribs he can’t reach into and he finds it hard to breathe. 

“So,” He starts, breaking the tension “I’m guessing it’s not a friend,” 

The stupid joke makes a smile appear on your lips. It’s small, but Gojo takes some comfort in it anyway. You wipe away your lower lash gently, a wet laugh leaving your mouth. 

“No, not a friend. He’s uhm… a parent from my school.” 

“The one who’s been bothering you for all these weeks?” Gojo supplies. You turn your head, eyes widened in surprise. Gojo lets out a breathy laugh. 

“You….knew?” 

“Not about him specifically, but I could tell something was bothering you,” He admits, and then adds “I always pay attention to my favorite person, you know?” 

The addition has you looking away, but Gojo doesn’t mind. You sigh, rubbing your face with your palms before leaning back against the bench with your head hanging off the edge. 

“He’s the parent of one of my students. Akio, he’s a good kid. A really well-behaved one but… too well-behaved. Never raises his hand, never complains or says he won’t do something.” 

“I’m guessing that sent off an alarm bell, huh?” 

You nod softly. 

“Yeah. I figure it was something at home, but I’d met his mom prior and she was a real angel. Then, his dad came to visit. The man we met at the store, and I knew right away.” 

Gojo feels his jaw clench listening to you talk. 

“But still, you know, my job as a teacher is to be as respectful as I can. I always politely declined him when he would make comments and remained professional. Eventually, his mom stopped coming altogether and—I tried, I really—but he…” You trail off, a lump in your throat. He watches as tears form in your eyes, his anger getting more and more tangible. He tries not to express it, putting a hand on your knee “He just… kept pushing. A-and once, he looked like he was gonna get violent. I made a report, you know, to the school. But you know how they are,” 

“They never even bothered investigating huh,” Gojo sneers. You laugh a tired sort of laugh. 

“Of course not. After that, I just tried to endure it. And I know he hasn’t done anything technically, but it doesn’t really feel like a matter of if but when,” You explain haphazardly.  Gojo squeezes where his hand rests. 

“I believe you. It’s okay,” He says as soothingly as he possibly can “It’s okay. I’m here,” 

There’s a sense of relief that washes over your whole body and before he knows it, you’re breaking down. He feels a lot of emotions all at the same time, watching your little frame as you lose it so easily in front of him. A part of him is so furious he wants to make it everyone's problem. Another part of him is so deeply sad knowing you’ve suffered all on your own. 

And the most notable part of him is the sense of protectiveness, burrowing inside of him. A sense of possession. It sinks into him like teeth, seeps into his blood like the venom of an animal so that he bleeds and breathes it. Gojo can’t shake that deep sense of urgency, a nameless and faceless desire that consumes him. He shudders.. He holds it in, all of it. Cups his hands so desperately so that it doesn’t spill over and touch you, the ink of ruining the soft white of your clothes. 

In a world that you have made beautiful, desire is ugly. Hideous and infectious, it tears Gojo limb from limb. It makes Gojo feel on edge. Gojo should not desire for any more than what he was. People always die when he does. 

But maybe they don’t have to. Maybe, he can protect you. He can keep you safe. He wants to keep you safe. He wants to keep you all to himself.

It’s in an effort to soothe those feelings that his arms find themselves around your form. It’s the first time you’ve hugged in such an intimate way. Where expects you to turn away - you don’t. 

Instead you cling, your arms around his jacket and your face in his chest. You cry and weep and sob and you look so small like that. You look like you’ll collapse and Gojo holds you. Says it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay as you let it all out. It must feel good to finally let it all out, after everything and he doesn’t intend to stop you. 

“I promise I’ll always protect you from now on,” And he says it, and means it. If you feel the weight of his statement, you don’t let it show “It’s okay. You can cry if you need too,” 

You cry and cry and cry. 

And Gojo thinks the call of heaven is nothing in comparison to the sound. 

__

In the end, Gojo can’t forgive him. 

It’s not without effort. He tries to do it at your request, because after all the tears he wants to help. He says he can maybe pull some strings. But that gentle heart you have declines. You don’t want it to become a big deal. You feel a little better knowing he knows. In the end, you don’t want it to affect that brats reputation. 

“You know how kids can be,” You say, voice full of concern for everyone but yourself “I don’t want to make school life anymore difficult than his life at home must be,” 

So, Gojo tries to listen to you. But days pass, and days turn into weeks. In the end, a month goes by and Gojo is full of terrible and divine anger. 

In the end, Gojo won’t forgive him. Gojo can’t let it go. He feels so righteous in it, he starts avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. There’s something inside of them he has no desire to look at. Eyes that tell all, Gojo turns away from their gaze. Gojo is angry for you, and it’s not in his character to do nothing about it. 

He decides on less of a whim that it looks. He wonders about alternatives, if there’s anything that can stop this feeling from imploding inside of him but nothing comes.

When he decides that nothing can be done, Gojo goes out of his way to start watching him. 

Like any mission, he needs enough background information to map out a plan.  He wants to make sure that it has virtually no pushback for you. There’s always a possibility you’ll get caught in the crossfire and that’d be the worst possible outcome. Gojo can protect you from a lot of things, but he’s not as confident about the law. 

(Not that he can’t. Just not in the good, right way he’s sure you want him to protect you in. Gojo’s love is divine, not right. There’s nothing in this world Gojo can’t shield you from, because he’s the strongest.)

 He also can’t make anything obvious or leave any room for interpretation. If there’s anything that feels off when the reports go live - you’ll stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. He thinks in the instance you find out (about all of it, the premeditation  especially) you’d probably tuck your tail and run. 

(Gojo would find you. But the chase means there’s some time you’re apart. The thought is almost nauseating.) 

He likes that you’re curious about everything. In most instances anyways. But he thinks it’s better to leave you in the dark sometimes. Having you worry about it would ruin the point of this. And sometimes, it’s better not knowing every detail. Honeytraps are more ethical than nets. 

He’s doing it for you in the end, like he does most things. And the kid will benefit, maybe even get some sympathy from his classmates for a while about the tragedy that befell his father. Gojo thinks it’s a good plan because no one loses.  It’s a lot like killing a curse. 

It only takes two weeks to learn virtually everything there is to know. A guy like that doesn’t have much he can hide. 

The name of his target, he learns, is Nobu Watanabe. Father to Akio Watanbe and ex-husband to Akiko Watanbe. He’s a recently released felon (let off on good behavior) with a battery and assault with a deadly weapon charge. He’s a college drop-out, and has been working a lot of odd-jobs since he was 16.

His personality is bad, worse is his drinking and smoking habits. He’s often found drunk in the street, and has a track record for single nights spent in a cell. His ex-wife is usually the one bailing him out. Gojo can’t help but feel sorry for her. Somehow, he doubts that he’s good to her. He’s a deadbeat father through and through. He only offers to pick up his kid to harass you. At least from what he can tell. 

He isn’t as awful to his kid as everyone else. Gojo doubts that was always the case. Akio isn’t a bad kid, but it’s hard not to notice the way the light in his eyes disappears when his father comes around to pick him up. A head always looking towards the floor, hands tucked in his pockets. 

It’s difficult for Gojo to feel any guilt about what he’s doing. After everything, he can’t find it in himself to feel any regret. 

His target is currently working at a dock, not too far from the city. He seems to work there most days, working at a bar on the weekends. It’s a big company that handles foreign goods that he does physical labor for. Lifting and moving boxings, checking inventory - it’s not a complicated affair. 

If there’s not a major shipment, he still seems to clock in so he’s definitely paid some kind of hourly wage. He smokes often on the job, but works diligently when there is something to do. An easy but physical job, he’s strong. Gojo can understand what intimidates you about him. 

Gojo, though, isn’t intimidated by him at all. 

He waits a week before he takes action. To shake off anyone or anything that might be trailing him, and to make sure that everything is the same as he observed. That his schedule wasn’t going to change. A week passes, and when Gojo has confirmation - he decides to do what he does best. 

Gojo Satoru decides to play God on a Sunday.

Sunday is a day shipments come in and a day he often works alone. The pay is better on Sunday and Nobu is the only one on his shift who takes it. He’s not expected to finish the strenuous work because he’s alone for such a long stretch of time - just to make a dent in it. The people at the next shift are the ones who finish the job. 

He starts his day as early as 6am. It’s near winter, so the world is painted in a miraculously melancholy blue. Gojo follows him that morning. He knows the route well enough to trail behind him and not attract any attention. They pass together, turning corners and taking bus rides until Nobu’s finally in at his job. 

There, they part briefly. His target goes into the big white building and he goes on top. Gojo has to teleport to the roof because everything is gated with security cameras covering every inch of the property. Following him puts Gojo at risk. So he waits on top of the building, hands in his pocket and pacing until Nobu comes out the otherside to the docks. His jumpsuit put on haphazardly, only half-pulled up to his waist, with a clipboard and pen as a bunch of boxes waiting for him to check them. 

After Gojo confirms that he’s alone, he lies in wait. He sits and waits - watching as the clouds pass. Watching the open sea, how it remains unchanging no matter what boats pass through to shore. He looks at his phone every now and again to check the time. 

It shouldn’t be too difficult to actually do it. 

You know, if Gojo turns his infinity on, there’s nothing in the world that can touch him. He can touch it, but it can’t touch him. There will always be a barrier between his hands and the world. Between him and the known universe, a bridge that started burning the minute Gojo was born into it. If Gojo turns on his infinity, there’s no way to leave traces of him behind. 

Did you know? If Gojo turns on his infinity, his fingerprints don’t show up. There’s no DNA to find. Not a trace of him in the world that he hasn’t left purposefully. Even if Gojo chokes him with his hands bare hands - he wouldn’t be touching him. But Gojo can feel it. Feel his pulse, feel his breathing come down slowly.

If there’s such a thing as heaven or hell, Gojo wants to ask God about being homicidal. If it was a flaw of human design or their Lord reflected inside of them. 

He lies in wait on top of the roof until 7. 

When 7 hits, the world around him is still so dark. No one kills in broad daylight. The heavens are murky, sky full of black clouds like puffs of smoke. It’s freezing cold, a spine-tingling chill making its way up Gojo’s skin and hardening his hands. . Gojo waits for the doors of the garage to creak open. When the sound echoes into the air, a metal screech in the void, Gojo stands to his feet. 

He jumps to the ground, landing with a dull thud. He comes out unscathed, a cat on his feet. He dusts off the front of his pants. Nobu hasn’t taken notice of him. Gojo takes a look around them. There’s no cameras in the warehouse. Gojo waits alone in the dark. 

Five minutes. It’s five minutes when all of the lights go out. 

“What the fuck?” Nobu mumbles, dropping his clipboard on top of a bunch of boxes, running a hand through his hair. Gojo waits in silence, watches as he turns around. 

When he finally does, he jumps back in shock. Gojo feels a cold chill run through his body. 

“What the fuck? Who the hell are you?” Nobu asks. Gojo grins. 

“Ah, you don’t remember? We met a few weeks ago! We had a nice little exchange and everything.” He says, voice going higher by an octave. The man in front of him stares, off put by Gojos’ presence. He stumbles in his thinking, his body tensing up. 

“Who the…what the fuck is going on?” 

“Hey, don’t be so scared,” Gojo says, then uses his teleport to phase himself closer. Nobu’s eyes widen, shocked. Scared out of his wits, with the story of heartbeat like he’s being hunted. “Tough guy like you has nothing to be scared of, does he?” 

“W-w-what…how did you…” 

Gojo shakes his head. 

“Don’t worry about it, man.” He says, voice calm and smooth and even. He’s surprised by how his emotions feel in his body. Like he’s so angry that he’s not. There’s something inside of him, the white waters that wade, that Gojo can feel. It’s strange “We’ve got about 5 minutes till the lights come back on.” 

For a while, they stand at a draw. No one moves. Not him, or Nobu, or the open oceans. It’s quiet for a dock. Even quieter for a dock in Tokyo, and Gojo’s not even using his abilities. He probably won’t need too, other than infinity - there’s not any good reason for him to exert himself any more than he must. 

Weeks of planning, weeks of watching, weeks of waiting. Nothing feels like it matters at the moment. He wants it to be over soon-ish. 

It’s not that Gojo is particularly sadistic. 

It’s just that, everything feels like it’s teetering over this very moment. He thinks it to himself quietly like someone trying to remember where they last left their keys. 

Briefly, Gojo thinks “I can’t go back,” after this. In the back of his head he just knows.

He envies this aggravating strangers' ignorance, too. 

“What do you want from me?” He says, stuttering - a gasping breath of fear in his lungs that snaps Gojo out of his thoughts. Gojo shrugs. 

“Nothing, really. I’m not short on money, you know? I make a good living,” He says, spouting off about nothing as he closes the gap between them. Stepping closer infinitely until Gojo backs him into the garage, into the tall tower of boxers where there’s no cameras and no witnesses “Hm…is there anything you can do to fix this?” 

No, Gojo answers mostly to himself, But wouldn’t that be nice? 

“P-please, I have—” 

“A son right? And an ex-wife, and a dead mom in Saitama. You didn’t think I came here without doing any research, did you? We’re the same in that way you know, I might be a frivolous - but hell if I’m not diligent,” 

He looks like he’s going to throw up. Gojo remains indifferent. 

“Who are you?” He asks, this time really wondering. With that hoarse voice of curiosity, of defeat.

Gojo hums.

“Good question. Who do you think I am?” Gojo poses and lifts his hands up. He puts them around his neck, pushing hard until his back is against the stack of boxes. It’s dark but Gojo can see everything. He keeps his open, tightening the grip of his hands slowly. 

Nobu tries to spit something out but the words get sputtered, muffled by lack of oxygen. 

“Do you think I’m a devil? An angel? God? I wonder,” Gojo says, staring. With his mask on, but his eyes opened wide. “Guess I’m kind of like a boogeyman,” 

Gojo can feel it. His body underneath his palms, gasping and struggling for air. He can feel his hands try to pry his hands off. He can feel his body slowly start to lose its air, how he deflates like a balloon. Gojo is unmoving, unfazed, unworried. He’s near motionless except the hard grip of his hand on his neck and the pulse that slows gently under his palms. 

It takes 5 minutes, maybe less, with all the strength in both his hands. Gojo isn’t counting. He holds on for maybe 2 minutes after that, just to make sure it’s not a fluke. He waits till the heart stops sounding in his ears and until the body is completely limp except for where Gojo is holding him away. He goes out sad. Useless, even. 

When Gojo stops, Nobu’s body drops to the floor with a dull thud. He stares at it for a while, then sighs. It’d be nice if he could just leave it there, but he does his due diligence. Picks it up from the ground with relative ease, over his shoulders. 

He walks it out towards the dock - the very edge, before tossing it in water and watching it sink. When it disappears from his sight, Gojo is left with his reflection in the deep blue. He meets his eyes for the first time in weeks, and knows he’s seeing exactly what he thought he would. 

His anger has settled, just barely. Just enough to be able to see the change in his own vision. With his Six Eyes, Gojo can see that there’s no turning back.

 With his mask on, he looks at himself, warped in the vision of the sea. The vision of him—crystalline and white and blue—murky and moving. 

Gojo jumps to the roof and turns the light on again. The power comes back. 

A dog barks distantly, over and over and over. Gojo watches the sun rise alone. 

__

The following weeks pass without a hitch. Gojo feels like nothing has changed. 

(But that’s not true. Everything is different. The same but different)

At the two week mark, winter has set in and Gojo is spending time with you in your apartment together. Currently, you’re cooking dinner (after carefully instructing Gojo to stay put in the living room.) Gojo is sitting watching T.V. He’s helping you grade papers at the coffee table, humming to himself. 

It’s about 7 when the news starts to play. A local news channel and a familiar face on the T.V. Gojo is surprised when the breaking news report airs. 

“Two weeks ago, a missing persons report was filed for ex-convict Nobu Watanbe. Sources say he was last seen working at a Dock in Tokyo - which experienced a power outage. It’s reported that Nobu seemed to have gone missing at the time, and hasn’t made contact with anyone since then. Could this be the work of a…” 

The rest of the report  Gojo tunes out. He turns his head slightly to see if you’ve noticed. Your eyes are glued to it., standing and staring silently. You place your spatula on a towel on the counter.

“We got word about a week prior to this,” You say, breaking the silence after some time without Gojo prompting. He looks at you “Akio started coming with his mom again and she gave me the story. It wasn’t unusual for him to up and disappear, but he hadn’t done so since Akio was born,” 

“That so?” Gojo says, nonplussed. You nod. 

“I feel guilty but,” You trail off, rubbing your arm anxiously “I can’t help but be… relieved. Just a little. I don’t want the guy to be dead or anything, but it,” 

Gojo stops you in the middle of your sentence. 

“You don’t have anything you need to feel guilty about,” He corrects, voice stern. You give him a sad look but he remains firm in his stance “He was harassing you for weeks. It’s only natural that you feel relieved, you know?” 

You’re not entirely content with the response, but you seem to know well enough this isn’t something Gojo will compromise on. You sigh, looking down at the floor. 

“Yeah. That’s true I guess, but still. I wonder what happened to him, or if he just decided to run away,” 

Gojo pretends to think about it. 

“Maybe. Otherwise…guess it was God’s divine punishment,” He says, continuing to grade papers. He doesn’t even look up as he says it. You let out a puff of air through your nose in amusement . 

“Yeah,” You say, “Maybe. I should thank him some time,”

Gojo hums.

“I don’t think that’s a bad idea,” 

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Posting schedule: Friday Misdemeanor, and Wednesdays for one the occasional one shot. Tag lists are always open. 

Join us in the VoxTek Discord server for a Vox themed Hazbin place to hang and get teasers for upcoming chapters! 

my AO3 and Kofi

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart 

Cover done by @redvexillum

Human Alastor x married reader Rated Adult for adult themes,triggering content and sexual content. Potentially DD:DNE, mind the warnings Series Trigger Warnings: Adultery, stalking, Sexual assault, Rape, smut, Domestic Violence, Time period accurate views on women and domestic violence and skin color, murder

Summary: Fading away in an abusive marriage, each day passes just the same as the last. Painful monotony eats at you until a pair of warm brown eyes sparks the idea that you could have something more. When a business deal between men sparks a torrid affair, how long can you keep things going before the fire either leaves you a burnt out shell or burns up everything around you?

And what becomes of the radio host who thought he was above the fickle fires of the heart when the match he strikes burns his hand instead? Can he possess what rightfully belongs to another man without leaving everything he has fought for in ashes?

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59. 60

Why Is MisD Reader Coded... white? A supplemental reading explaining the historical context, why the deliberate choice was made to code the Reader as a white woman for the sake of plot points, and why I personally would find it disrespectful to have not done so.

MisD Sidepieces: One shots or fics that take place in a MisD AU or are MisD canon but written by another.

Inappropriate Demeanor by @nyx-umbrakinesis (Canon placement, end of chapter 22) Chapter 2 (canon placement between chapter 24 and 25)

Audio Chapters by Nyx Productions: Chapter 1: part 1 part 2, Chapter 2:  Part 1, part 2, part 3, chapter 3, Part 1, part 2, part 3, Chapter 4: Part 1, Part 2,  Chapter 5: Part 1, Part 2, Chapter 6: Part 1, Part 2

For Eternity (Completed)

Banner by @redvexillum

Alastor x Angel!Wife Oc (Isabel) Rated: Adult Warnings: This fic contains sexual content, explorations of consent within Angel Dust's contract in relation to sex work, Sexual assault, Possessive and obsessive behaviors, Power dynamics, Adam being an ass, kidnapping, Vox is in hell for a reason, Val is in hell for a reason, Vox has a weird thing for Alastor, Angel Dust is sweet as pie, murder, revenge, implied sexual assault and harassment, miscarriage and death.

Summary: Isabel died young, leaving behind her husband to pick up the pieces. Finding herself in Heaven, she waits for her husband to join her. And waits. And waits. Years and decades pass as she faces the realization that Alastor may not be joining her in Heaven, leaving her largely alone in a realm of double standards and fake smiles.

She must decide if she is going to move on from her marriage or do whatever it takes to reunite with her husband. Would he even still want her? Would she survive the dangers to find him? Would the cost be worth what could be gained?

Is Heaven really Heaven if the one you love isn't there with you?

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Another day in Paradise (On hiatus)

Pairing: Eventually Alastor x OFC, later- light Alastor x ofc x Lucifer Rated: Adult for eventual smut Content warnings: It's Hazbin Hotel- this feels redundant. Sex, eventual smut, referenced implied suicide to be discussed in more detail later, drugs, drinking, poor coping, toxic behavior, controlling behavior, cannibalism, idk, it's fucking Hazbin Hotel, if it's worth a content warning it's probably going to come up at some point? Religious trauma. reader has a name/is a oc.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4

A Taste of Sugar

Alastor x reader Rated: Adult for smut TW: blood kink, bondage, reader with trauma from food insecurity Summary: As you work through the trauma of your life and starving to death, you dismantle your stash of snacks for what you hope will be the final time. Snack cakes, cookies and crackers are given to everyone around you, except one resident in the hotel whom you knew wouldn't enjoy or consume the treats. Then, as the flow of treats tricked to a stop, stash dismantled, small brown boxes containing treats began to appear at your door. Simple, delicious and seemingly homemade treats without so much as a note.

He watched and he waited, each week for your offer. Each week, no offer came and again he left his gift at your door. Why would you not think of him? Why would you not see him? What did he have to do for you to consider him?

Chapters: 1,  2 

Wild Flowers (One shot)

Alastor x readerRated: Adult, 18+ Content warnings: Sex pollen trope and related questionable consent due to intoxication, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, knotting, praise, dancing that shouldn't be that sexy, biting, a touch of blood drinking, female masterbation, some possessiveness, Alastor being a bit of an ass

Summary: You had always loved flowers, so when you found a patch of pretty purple wildflowers growing in the small forest behind the hotel, you didn't think twice about picking a small handful to bring back to your room. While they smelled lovely, you were wholly unprepared for the side effects of exposure or the repercussions of offering the terrifyingly handsome Radio Demon a smell on your way to your room.

With your body burning from the inside out with an overwhelming need and a displeased Radio Demon pushing his way into your room, you have no idea what you're in for.

All you wanted was to pick some flowers but you got so much more.

Audio version brought to you by @nyx-umbrakinesis,  Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5, Pt6.

Steamy Situations 18+  (One shot)

Alastor x readerRated: Adults only Warnings: Smut. It's shower smut. Female bodied reader. Careful with your shower sex.

Summary: You're hot and bored and your husband is busy working. If only there was a way you could distract him, get some of his attention and cool off. Audio Fic credits: Read by the lovely @nyx-umbrakinesis (Audio fic part 1, part 2)

Read me to sleep? (One shot)

Alastor x readerRating: G Summary: After a long, shitty day out and about you drag yourself home to the hotel to seek shelter and comfort in the one place you knew you could find it.

Home is where the heart is (One shot fluff) 

Vox x Reader Rated: General Warnings: I accidently spilled a little angst on the fluff serving. Sorry?

Summary: You're cooking dinner when your secret boyfriend comes home. Caught up in the moment, confessions are made and hearts are put on the line.

A Bed of Electric FLowers (One Shot)

Header done in part by the wonderful, amazing, fantastical @redvexillum

Vox x ReaderRated: Adult CW: Sex pollen trope, sex toy use, female masterbation, Vox's glowstick dick, way too many tv details, Male receiving oral,

Summary: A unexpected floral arrangement is delivered to your door as you're trying to ignore the lingering absence of your flat faced boyfriend. When Vox returns home and finds you in a compromising position, he's eager to assist even without a clue as to what has you so worked up.

Sister Dearest (One shot)

Requested: Vox x Alastor’s!Sister!Reader rated: Adult

Summary: Sneaking out of the protection of the protection of your brother's district was dangerous. Not only did you risk Alastor's wrath, you risked catching the eye of some unsavory characters. While you could meet many friends upon the streets of the forbidden tech district, you find Vox and his alluring promises of a good time.He knew of your brother and seemed to hold no animosity, surely he was a friend to the Radio Demon, right? Surely you could trust his company, right?Right?

Power (One Shot)

Vox x Reader Rating: Explicit 18+ Warnings: Porn without plot, Power dynamics, Secretary reader, Choking on dick, Office blowjob. 

Summary: Vox is wound tight after his on air showdown with the newly returned Alastor. The show must go on though and you have just what he needs to get into the right headspace to move forward. 

(None, for now)

(None, for now)

[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."

[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

[neysaadept]

Prometheus Chapter 8

Emily Prentiss x Female CIA Reader

Chapter 8 - Excision Part Two (Criminal Minds Case Time)

Tags: Limited use of y/n but established last name. Swearing, mentions of the pandemic and human and sex trafficking. Canon typical violence. Sexual innuendos. Drinking. Smoking. Slow Burn. Murder. Depictions of Flaying. Implied Rape. Mentions of Date Rape Drugs. Strangulation. Restraints. Mental Institutions. PTSD. Childhood trauma. Psychological Trauma. Implied references to child abuse. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 6k

AO3

Chapter 7

You were hanging out in Prentiss' hotel room later in the evening. She was able to reserve three rooms for you all at a hotel in Indio to be close to the unsub’s hunting grounds. You all decided to eat dinner together while processing the information gleaned from the M.E. and Rossi’s interviews, which ended about an hour ago. You all felt you could think clearer here than at the station. Sheriff Grosch was breathing down yours and Prentiss’ necks every step of your investigation since the tox screen came back. It was unbearable. Even you being direct that you needed space to work without constant interruptions that had nothing to do with the case fell on deaf ears. So, the two of you said fuck it and called Rossi to meet you at the hotel. The station knew how to contact you if anything further came up. Local law enforcement had given you everything you needed and were just in the way at this point and explained you would have the profile nailed down soon to announce at the station late tonight.

Garcia had given you a brief update on the ‘Home Team’. JJ, Luke, and Tara almost had the unsubs but were distracted by them hacking into the Bluetooth speakers to lead the BAU away from their exact location in the house. They were able to flee the scene with two more dead guards to process. They worked out the profile and announced it to local PD. They believe they’re local so they’re hoping they can make an arrest soon.

You also feel that the unsub is local based on the geographical profile you worked out that was taped on the mirror over the flatscreen. You had marked up the dumping grounds of both bodies, where they lived, worked, and where they were last spotted. There was far too much overlapping for the unsub not to be familiar with the area. They were staying inside safe hunting grounds.

Dave was able to find out that McGarth was meeting a woman for drinks at the bar. It wasn’t just a wind down and hopefully get laid. The meet up sounded like a date. Unfortunately, his boss and the other members of the firm had no idea who this mystery woman was. Garcia was running through dating apps to see if there was a match with McGarth, but the guy was a player. He had several apps and lots of ladies that he was chatting it up with. That would take time on top of Garcia working with the home team in tracking down the security guard murderers, but she assures you all that she’s got this.

Sulliven’s family and his assistant were not helpful. The timeline indicated that he left work like usual but never made it home. His family thought he was working late at the office, which was not unusual.

You also learned that neither victim was sexual assaulted nor had any trace residue of semen. That was the part that was baffling the three of you – the method didn’t match up with the assault.

Rossi was sitting at the desk, using a fork to eat his orange chicken which made both you and Prentiss poke fun of him since the two of you were using chopsticks.

Prentiss was currently on the bed plucking out a peapod. “So why drug them? I get the sedation but drugging them with no signs of sexual aggression doesn’t add up.”

“The drugs were used on both victims,” says Rossi. “It’s possible that’s what they had access to.”

“But flunitrazepam isn’t sold in the US. Even doctors barely use it in other countries” you add before munching on a steamed shrimp. You had made yourself comfortable on the floor sitting cross legged.  

“But they can?” Rossi leans back thoughtfully. “Not common but possible.”

You shrug. “Not unless you bring a script to your local drug dealer. And by script, I mean cash.”

“With how meticulous our unsub is, I find it hard to believe that they’d visit a drug dealer.” Prentiss shakes her head and motions animatedly with her hands, keeping a firm grip on the veggie between chopsticks. “They like being in control. Everything’s done with precision and going into the wrong part of town meeting a drug dealer gives up a lot of control.”

“A lot of countries have access to it. Australia, Japan, Mexico … quite a few countries in Europe.” You were well aware of this having worked with Interpol investigating a serial rapist in the UK and Ireland. Despite being legal, flunitrazepam was used as a date rape drug in other countries as well. “Can always narrow down our doctor pool with any international travel.”

Garcia’s search brought back over five thousand surgeons in Thermal area. With the flaying technique used, you narrowed it down to plastic surgeons but that only got the suspect pool down to over two thousand. You were in California. There were a shit ton of plastic surgeons.

“And with the bodies being relatively untouched, the unsub is probably female,” says Rossi. “Majority of rape victims are women. Especially with the use of date rape drugs.” He pauses in consideration. “Is it possible that our unsub picked her victims because they’re sexual offenders?”

Prentiss immediately facetimes Garcia on her laptop who immediately appears with a friendly wave. “Hello my fine furry friends. What’s up?”

Emily stabs her chopsticks into the food and sets aside the container. “Cross check police reports on our victims.”

“Anything specific we’re looking … Oh…” Her voice drops solemnly. “Am I looking for something extremely bad like rape charges? Cuz, I’m finding that both of them have that in common. As in they both were charged for the same incident.”

“They were convicted?” you ask in bewilderment since nothing came up on their background checks.

“Uh, no. Both of them had the charges dropped. Oh, get this. Alcohol was involved and it was indeterminate if consent was obtained or not and the poor darlings took some time before they reported the assault. Both men lawyered up really good, which is not surprising for a paralegal and a psychiatrist. One being able to use connections and the other having the money. They just up and ran with the lack of physical evidence even though hair samples on the victims detected our unsubs drug of choice. There was no way to prove these jerk faces did it.”

“Who pressed charges?” Rossi asks.

“Uh, Desiree Villanueva and Lauren Conway. Couple of friends trying to have a nice girls’ night when … ah damn. There was a third man involved. A Robert MacDonald - some banker at Wells Fargo.”

“Lovely. Little rich boys club wanted to play and wouldn’t take no for an answer,” states Rossi with disgust.

“Are either victim on our plastic surgeons list?” Prentiss questions next.

“Nope. Waitress and jeweler.”

“But we’re on to something with the unsub being a woman. How many are those plastic surgeons are female?” you request of Garcia.

“Little over four hundred.”

“Any of them show up on McGarth’s dating apps?”

“Ah … yes! Dr. Sandra Duncan! Has a practice in La Quinta.” Garcia brings up her driver’s and medical license. She had short brown hair with wavy bangs and piercing blue eyes. She was caught in mid-smile.

“That’s in our geo profile,” you confirm.

“Has she been a victim of sexual assault?” presses Emily.

“Unfortunately. She accused a Benjamin Riley of drugging her at a bar called The Treehouse in 2015. They were students together at Standford. Charges were dropped in a similar manner like our victims. After that, she went on to finish medical school, get married to an engineer named Drew Arnold. Oh no…” she whimpers while continuing “… her daughter, Charolette, died of leukemia six months ago. Then her jerk of a husband served divorce papers.”

You, Rossi and Prentiss share a knowing look and immediately leave dinner where it is and grab your coats.

“Two triggers in such a short time is more than enough to make someone lose control,” you state. “The family she had to ground her is gone, so she’s turn vigilante. Helping those women when no one helped her.”

Prentiss nods. “And she’s taking off their faces, their masks as you said, to show them for the rapists they are. She’s angry they got away with it and regressed back to when this happened to her.”

“And being a physician, she has access to drugs like midazolam,” says Rossi as you all walk out of Prentiss’ hotel room, already on the phone with the sheriff station to get the location of Arnold’s personal residence and place of business. “We’ll need a unit on Robert MacDonald, DOB 2/23/97, out of Palm Springs. Our unsub’s going for him next if she doesn’t have him already,” he explains to dispatch.

“Any chance she’s gone abroad?” questions Prentiss as you all head outside to the parking lot where the two SUVs waited. Garcia was now talking over speaker phone.

“Why yes she did. Two months ago, in fact. Visited a cousin in Ipswich, just outside of Brisbane. Happened after the divorce.”

Prentiss stops in front of the vehicles. “Garcia, work with local law enforcement to get us warrants ASAP on Duncan’s home and work. Does she have a business partner?”

“She does not. All solo.”

“Good. We don’t have to wake anyone else and waste more time. Once those warrants are in have SWAT meet us at both locations. Rossi?” Prentiss calls out to get his attention. He places the phone against his chest, giving her his full attention. “You take Duncan’s home. We got the clinic. No moving inside without the warrants unless there’s signs of a victim. Clear?”

“Crystal. I’ve got Grosch on the line who’s grumpy about things moving so fast …”

“Fucker’s always grumpy unless he’s calling the shots or up our asses,” you mutter while leaning against the front of the car.

Rossi chuckles. “Yes, but he’s waking the judge to get everything legal. Units will meet us there and set up a perimeter. They’ve got a squad car heading to MacDonald’s right now.”

Prentiss nods. “Let’s roll.”

“Be safe my loves!” Garcia says and hangs up.

Without warning, Prentiss tosses you the car keys and you deftly catch them in surprise. “You’re letting me drive?”

“Why not?” she says, opening the passenger door. “Or is driving twenty miles too hard for the maniac driver of the CIA?”

You grin ear to ear. “No, Ma’am.”

A Toyota SUV with no headlights on makes its way down the driveway of a multibuilding business center. It slows and makes a right and then swings around to back up into the driveway for deliveries at the one-story single building at the far end of the complex.

The garage opens and the SUV disappears inside. Only until the garage door closed, did the driver side open. Dr. Sandra Arnold was dressed in nice blue jeans, black boots, and an off the shoulder floral blouse. Hair and make-up were pristine, complementing her features for the faux date. She made her way to the patient cart that was already set up with sheets and pushed it over to the side of the trunk. With a quick wave of her foot under the car, the trunk slowly opened revealing an unconscious Robert MacDonald.

She brought the cart around, locked it in place, and then slid Robert onto it by the sheet he was laying over. After a few adjustments of scooting him around, she pulls up the slide rails, hovering over his face with blue eyes filled with malicious intent.

Her black gloved hand gently strokes down a chiseled cheek, then chin, and repeats the gesture back up the other side. Fingers play with brown strands of short hair. She roughly combed her fingers through it and looks at his face objectively, pulling it side to side to finish making the mental notes required to mark her incisions.

She pulls back, nostrils flaring as her eyes closed. Hands ball into shaking fists as she breathes through the rage building inside her, stopping herself from injuring this bastard. She had plans and could not ruin them with a violent outburst. Her heart now races with anticipation knowing that the victims that could not find justice just like her would have the peace they deserved. The peace that was denied them with a broken system easily manipulated by rich men who didn’t want their careers ruined.

Can’t have a career if you’re dead. Can’t hurt another woman if you’re dead, too.

“And how many more women did you rape since then, huh?!” she hisses with clenched teeth as she unlocks the cart and roughly pushes him into the next room.

Captain Robles met you and Prentiss outside La Quinta Cosmetic Surgery with a warrant in hand close to sixty minutes later. In that time, you and Prentiss were vested up as SWAT had set up a perimeter around the stucco and modern style office building. It was closed to 1am and there was little public to redirect since this area was all businesses. The building itself was dark with no vehicles in the parking lot or immediate surroundings. Chances of Arnold and or MacDonald here was slim after the first walk through around the building, but you all had to move fast to be sure.

Chattering over the radio indicated Rossi and Sheriff Grosch were about to enter Arnold’s residence after no response to announcing FBI presence.

Now it was your turn.

Prentiss had already ordered Robles and his officers to set up positions by all exits of the building. You, Prentiss and the SWAT team were going to coordinate entrance on the section chief’s orders. You and Prentiss had your guns at the ready, pointed at the ground, as you flanked the doorway together.

You lock eyes with Prentiss who gives the go ahead and you speak into the radio that Robles provided both of you. “Ready in five … four …”

You go silent as all units would finish the count down and on one, a SWAT officer came swinging in with the two handed breaching tool to place right between the lock and jamb. With two soft slaps that sound like a piston, the door is breached and Prentiss heads in first, shoulder blocking the door fully open.

A cacophony of clears starts echoing in the empty rooms. You call some out yourself as you clear a utility closet and bathroom and work your way with Prentiss and SWAT down the hallway. You all fan out to cover the rest of the rooms. There were two offices and six examination rooms. All empty.

One of the officers comes up to Prentiss, assault rifle securely pointed to the floor. “Building’s secure. No one’s onsite, Ma’am.”

Holstering her Glock, she licks her lips in thought. “Spread out and search for anything connecting Arnold with the victims or where she’s at.”

You already wandered away from her to do just that and landed in the supply room to look around at all the basic medical equipment an office like this would have. All the sterile processing of surgical tools would be done somewhere else. You were about to turn around and leave when something caught your eye. A white strap dangling out of a floor cabinet. You lean forward to open it and feel a rush of memories.

“FUCK YOU!” you screamed, spitting at the male nurse’s aide’s face. Two of them were trying to grab your flailing limbs as you thrashed about on the bed. “I’M NOT GONNA GO!”

“Damn it!” the one orderly huffed, shaking his head along his shoulder to get his eyes clean of saliva.

It gave you the chance to kick him in the stomach when his grip loosened. But with the commotion you were causing, two more men came in to assist and grabbed ahold of you. You were outnumbered as they forced your hands and feet into the padded restraints.

Then there was the hated sharp sting into your thigh of forced medication …

You come out of the memory, not realizing you were already cradling the wrist restraint. With a hard swallow, you now know why those indentations seemed so familiar with the victims. You had them yourself at one point when some asshole tech tightened your restraints too hard. Of course, part of you still wondered if you deserved the rough treatment. That guilt that since you were a bad patient, you deserved the treatment you got. You were always physical and uncooperative with staff, and you didn’t give a shit who you hurt back then …

“Hey, Whitlock?” Prentiss’ voice forces you to look up and you curse the fact that you just know your cheeks are burning. There is no way she didn’t notice it, but she didn’t press. “Got something?” she asks instead.

“Uh, yeah.” You toss the restraint over to Prentiss and she catches it. “Pretty sure this is what Arnold’s using on her vics.”

She turns it over thoughtfully. “And we found midazolam in the med room. Arnold’s home’s empty but Rossi did find untouched ampules of flunitrazepam.”

You free the phone from your belt and call Garcia. “The princess is in another castle. We’re 0 for 2 here.”

Prentiss looks up at you but was unable to catch your gaze. You were focused on the call with Garcia. She did have some reservations with how you reacted to the restraint she was now holding and wondered if it would affect your ability to remain in the field.

“Let’s see what my crystal ball can tells us. Ah! Arnold did set up shop at a different office before the one you’re currently standing in. About eight months ago she moved from there before her whole world unraveled. Former office locale is currently vacant and just like that, you have messages with the address.”

You take a peek at your texts before responding. “Thanks, Garcia. We’ll keep in touch.”

“You better, missy!” You wince, hearing the commanding tone of wholesome concern. “Queen Penelope out.”

You start moving out of the room while pulling up directions to the office. “We’re six minutes away.”

You were focused and the section chief would keep her concern to herself and stay close to you as this unfolds. Prentiss’ voice carries loud and clear throughout the hallway as she leads the way. “Alright everyone, we’re moving out!”

Fully gowned with hair tied back under a blue surgical cap and face covered by a mask, Arnold adjusts her goggles as she leans forward to inspect her work one last time. MacDonald’s face was centered inside the hole of the surgical drape to where the markings were clearly visible. His neck and upper torso were covered as well with wrists and ankles secured to the cart by restraints.

With a practiced hand, she reaches for the instrument tray to pull closer. She slides a finger down the length of the scalpel handle before picking it up. Despite her malevolent intentions, her grip was gentle as she tilted his head to secure him for the first incision.

But she was interrupted by the double doors to the exam room being kicked open. Her eyes widened in terror as officers start shouting orders.

“FBI!!!” Prentiss yells, gun lined up for a shot as two SWAT follow suit to cut off Arnold’s escape routes.

“FREEZE!!!”

“LOWER YOUR WEAPON!!!”

You watch Arnold pull the scalpel closure to MacDonald’s neck, securing his head in a headlock. “Get away! Get the fuck away!!!”

All four of you had a clean shot to take Arnold, but there was a chance she could still do irreparable harm with how close the blade was to MacDonald’s neck.

“Sandra, you need to put the scalpel down,” Prentiss says firmly.

“Like hell I do!” she shouts back. “He fucking deserves this! They all fucking deserve this!”

“It’s bullshit the justice system failed you. Failed Desiree and Lauren. But this won’t take the pain away of what happened to you. To them,” Prentiss implores.

“No … but at least there’s some justice,” she hisses, the blade digging in just enough to draw a bead of blood on his neck.

“But is it really? Justice?” you ask as you lower your gun. Prentiss quickly looks at you and wonders what the hell you’re doing.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she bites back, puffing her chest out arrogantly. “With him gone, that makes three less rapists in the world.”

“Alright. Let me ask it like this.” You hold your hand up as you put your gun away. Arnold remained engaged. “Does it feel like justice to you?”

She blinks her eyes several times and looks around the room, passing over Prentiss and the officers without focus. Your question stumps her. You can see how she is struggling to reconcile what justice means to her. You could even see the face mask crinkling as she was trying to find her words.

You nod with understanding, your eyes betraying the same conflict that Arnold has in trying to reconcile the feelings of violation and anger right now. You fight the shiver that threatens to run down your spine, needing to stand firm as the two of you share the same haunted look that does not go unnoticed by Prentiss.

“It’s doesn’t. It never will, Sandra. Even if you were able to find the one that hurt you, that you do this to him and declare justice in victory, through their death,” you slowly motion with your hand to the guy on the cart, “you’re trying to find peace.” You lick your lips as your throat tightens, regaining the control you need to get through to Sandra. “But there’s no peace.” You shrug tearfully. “It never comes. It never will. You just … have to find a way to live for yourself. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. You just have to find the strength to survive.”

You watch as Sandra’s throat bobs up and down several times as you all wait to see how this will go. Will she surrender or cause someone to pull their trigger and end this stalemate.

But then you hear her sniff as she blinks back tears. “You know.”

A statement that you affirm with a nod. “I do.”

She fights back a sob. “I was really trying to help them …”

Your watery eyes soften as you sadly smile. “I know.”

And it was in that moment that Arnold made her decision to step back, letting the scalpel fall to the floor with a loud clang. SWAT immediately went in to put cuffs on her and read her rights as you vaguely were aware of Prentiss calling in for a medic. Right now you are focused on watching Arnold being escorted away. The two of you kept eye contact, her watching you over her shoulder until more officers came running in to obscure the view.

“Hey…” Prentiss voice was like a loud boom that went off by your ear. The anxiety of forcing yourself to come back from such raw memories heightened everything around you.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” You look passed Prentiss as a group of officers’ start assessing MacDonald.

She places a hand on your shoulder and since you didn’t flinch, she squeezes. “You did good getting her to surrender.”

There was a lot to unpack with what happened here. The enigma that you are just grew with what Prentiss learned tonight. It already started with the faraway look you had holding the restraints back at Arnold’s office. This unsettling revelation amplified so many questions that Prentiss wanted to know about you.

“Thanks,” you say, offering a forced half smile at her. “Better than her getting shot, right?”

She drops her hand and nods. “Yeah. She’ll get the help she needs.”

At that you laugh shakily. “Remains to be seen, but yeah. Hope so.” You felt conflicted about knowing that MacDonald was going to live because you understood where Arnold was coming from. There was a reason you didn’t share with Sandra that you personally rid yourself of your abuser. You would have lost the connection of trust built on shared trauma.

Prentiss watches you shambling off, unsettled with how your eyes had lost its luster. Seeing you sullen and devoid of your usual concealing humor was concerning.

Prentiss catches up with you after giving out last minute directives to secure the area until forensics arrive. Emergency lights flash brightly as officers were carrying out orders. Robles was here delegating tasks to where his people would contain the crime scene in and outside the building. You heard MacDonald moaning as the paramedics guided the gurney passed you to the ambulance. Whatever they had given him started to get the guy into some conscious awareness.

Rossi was waiting outside waiting for the two of you with a satisfied smile. “Sorry I’m late, but clearly you didn’t need me.”

You had stopped off to the side of Prentiss with hands tucked into your vest, your attention on watching Arnold being put into the backseat of a squad car.

“Whitlock talked Arnold down.” Prentiss explains with a small nod your way.

“How ‘bout that.” His smile grows and fights to catch your eyes. He raises a brow in question if he should push things, but Prentiss lightly shakes her head no. Getting the hint, he shifts gears. “Should we pull an all-nighter to tie things up on our end?”

“Might as well. I’d like to get the hell outta here. How about you?” She looks at you still staring off. “Whitlock?”

You didn’t acknowledge her, and Prentiss calls out your first name. That jars your attention as this was the first time you heard her say it. “Yeah?”

Rossi smiles patiently. He knew Whitlock was a seasoned officer but everyone’s first case with the BAU had a track record of rattling an agent. “We’re going to the station to get things squared away so we can hand it off to local PD. Sound good?”

You nod firmly with a tight smile. “Definitely.”

“It’s unfortunate this case’s a bust regarding Sicarius.”

“True. Maybe JJ and the others fared better.” Prentiss nods in agreement as both her and Rossi watch you wander off to the SUV.

“What happened in there that spooked her?” Rossi asks, moving closer to speak with Prentiss.

It didn’t feel right to explain it so candidly what you had gone through. It was best that Rossi read what the official reports said that you and she would write up. Anything more just invites a difficult conversation that she knew you wouldn’t be ready for. There was a burgeoning trust that had sparked between the two of you over drinks and she didn’t want to fuck that up.

“I think she just needs some time.” She watches you climb into the driver’s seat. “Like we all do when shit happens.”

You were sitting alone on one of the four seaters close to the window as the pilot confirmed you were at a safe altitude to move around the cabin. Rossi was passed out on the couch and Prentiss had just gotten up to head to the back of the plane.

You barely noticed, too focused on the music playing in your earbuds as you debated how to answer the text from Brian.

Dad sent 0330: How are things going?

You got that at the station over an hour ago and made a note to answer once the BAU wrapped things up. You were grateful that Prentiss and Rossi took the lead on what was needed to secure the case and that their official reports would be completed midweek. You tried to make mental notes on these protocols but your mind was elsewhere. Once you all signed off on what was required onsite, you drove the team back to the hotel to pack up and then it was off to the airstrip. An officer met you there to take the loaned vehicle.

You barely said a word except what was necessary. You hardly smiled. There were no quips, and you offered non-committal, I’m fines, when the two of them asked how you were. Prentiss was already piecing things further silently and was concerned. There was no way that a crime like this rattled you like Rossi had presumed. She knew you had seen far worse, and she can imagine in great detail what those situations were, having lived through many herself. You just hadn’t anticipated old wounds being ripped open with memories of darker times in your life to surface that made you feel like that lost tween Brian had recruited.

A soft thunk on the table startles you and you see Prentiss taking a seat across from you. There were two tumblers of whiskey before the both of you.

You stop the music with a furrowed brow in silent question. Prentiss explains gently. “Rough day. Thought you could use one.”

“Uh, yeah.” You take the glass to swirl the liquid around. “Though, isn’t it a bit early to drink?”

She shrugs. “Not in our line of work.”

You bring the glass up to your lips with a cleansing breath and figured, why not? You note the smell of whiskey and … “Did you just make me a Jack and Diet Coke?”

Prentiss’ head tilts slightly to the side, pleased you noticed. “I did.”

You raise your glass and give her your first genuine smile since talking Arnold down. “Thanks. Really.”

You both take a well-deserved drink and close your eyes at the warm burn that moves down your throat before radiating towards the rest of your body. You didn’t immediately relax, but the thoughtful gesture helps to provide focus. Enough so you found the strength to really look at Prentiss. You’ve seen enough as her brown eyes narrow in concentration, working on how to broach the unspoken but known.

You quickly lick your lips and set down the glass in a rush. “Don’t.”

Prentiss cautiously questions your reaction. “Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that. With pity.” You curl a hand into a fist to stop it from visibly shaking, but you watch in dismay that Prentiss already spots it.

She remains resolute in maintaining a steady eye contact once she has yours and emits a level of comfort and understanding. “It’s not pity. It’s understanding …”

Your felt your stomach sink, your chest tighten as a breath of surprise escapes without permission. You attempt to recover by clearing your throat and ask with hesitation. “Um. Really?”

That was a such a fucking dumb response to a monumental admission. Prentiss took the need for affirmation in stride. “Really.”

You pinch your brows and swallow hard, your lips trembling ever so slightly. “Well …that really fucking sucks.”

Prentiss chuckles bitterly. “Ain’t that the truth.” She opens a compartment under the table and pulls out a deck of cards. Tapping the case on the table, skilled fingers open the lid to remove the cards and starts shuffling. The methodical way she splits the deck and layers it back together with a rippling noise was comforting to you. “Did you wanna talk about it?”

You shrug still watching slender fingers be in complete control of the cards. “Do you really need to ask?”

“Well, it’s usually polite.” Her face scrunches up coyly.

You half snort and appreciate what she’s attempting to do. You finally look up at her. “What’re we playing?”

“Anything you want. Gin, poker, cribbage…?”

“Well, Rossi’s sleeping.” You sit up just enough to confirm he still was and sit back down. You thoughtfully rub your cheek as Prentiss finishes shuffling. Her compassion had truly touched you and even though your emotions were not fully boxed up as tightly you liked, you decided to say fuck it and have some fun. You waggle your brows, showing Prentiss you were feeling a little better. “There’s always strip poker.”

Prentiss cackles and you shush her, waving your hand to lower her voice. She starts dealing for a five-card draw. “There’s the Whitlock I know.”

You take each card that comes your way to sort them in your hand after rolling your eyes. “Figure you were missing her. I know you just love my antics.”

She wouldn’t admit it just yet, but she was. She fans the cards in her hand and studies them. “Possibly.”

You fall into companionable silence taking turns picking up cards, sipping your drinks, and showing your hands. You play several rounds and the two of you end up being even for wins and losses.

It was your turn to shuffle and you off-handedly ask a question that’s been on your mind. “Did they get the guy that hurt you?”

The two of you gaze intently as she slides her cards over. “Yes.”

You set the deck between you and reach for your glass. “Is he dead?”

The answer is immediate. “Yes.”

You take a healthy swallow as you debate on asking your next question. You slide your tongue along the front and back of your top teeth and find the courage to ask. “Did you kill him?”

She shakes her head no. “Someone else pulled the trigger.”

You lean back, shoulders slumping forward as the small similarities that could exist between two survivors ends. You fiddle with the cards, forcing them to ripple against the table as Prentiss waits you out calmly.

“I pulled the trigger,” you confess quietly. “I didn’t have to do it. But I wanted to. So … I did.”

 With no response from Prentiss, you dare to look up but see no judgement, just an attentive listener that sought whatever you wanted to reveal.

 “It’s partially why I was recruited.” That admission caught both of you by surprise and you try to backpedal. “I … fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.” You roughly sit up and lean over the table to get your cards in order. You’re such a fucking idiot!

“Hey, it’s alright,” she says gently. “I won’t say anything.” She could tell you weren’t convinced by how your eyes darkened with fear. She reaches out to lightly touch your arm and was glad you didn’t pull away. The warmth of her fingers soothed the fast-paced beating of your heart for fucking up again. Though this one was far worse than letting slip up about the AWOL matter. You really should have cut Rebecca off when she mentioned it and not join in the frivolity.

She takes a chance and squeezes your arm. “Promise. It’s like you keeping the sleepovers in my office a secret.”

Prentiss’ cheeky remark made you smile. Then you chuckle. “Okay, to be fair? You sleeping on your office couch isn’t a national secret.”

“Work with me here, Whitlock.”

“I am!”

You both share a smile and when Prentiss starts to pull away, you place your cards face up so you can cover her hand. She found it impossible to hide the astonishment at your gesture. “Thanks, Emily.”

She pauses for the right words to say, further touched by using her first name. She softly says yours and simply adds. “You’re welcome.” Then brown eyes look to the hand you gave up and tsks at you.

You’re confused. Did you do something wrong? “What?”

“Honey, you gave up a pair of aces.” She gestures to the cards as you both finally untangle your hands.

“Well, fuck me, I did.” You chuckle and pull out your phone after sliding the cards to Prentiss. “Here, get us started. Just gotta check in with Brian.” You point an accusing finger at the section chief. “And you especially can’t tell him anything about this conversation.”

She scrunches her face playfully. “What conversation?”

You grin brightly. “Exactly.” And then finally type up a simple response to Brian.

Whitlock sent 0527: Going very well.

Chapter 9

@unkonw00 @ara-a-bird @rayisaknight @sevyscoven @maybe-a-humanbean

[jeankluv]

Birdie | Satoru Gojo - Chapter 01

Words: 4.8k

Summary: You didn’t like him, at all. But due to your bad luck you would have to be forced to work with him and different circumstances end up leading you to the fact that perhaps the word dislike is not the one you use to describe him.

Note: divider art credit _3aem (twt)

Tags: modern au, college au, fem!reader, academic rivals, he fell first, fluff, old money Gojo Satoru, abusive parents, slight slow burn, Satoru is a softy, secondary couple (Geto Suguru x oc), a bit of angst, no use of y/n, eventual smut, Gojo plays basketball

Slow updates

Materialist | next chapter

Wattpad | ao3

While everyone adored him, you stood apart in your feelings. It wouldn't be accurate to say you hated him, as "hate" carried significant weight; rather, you harbored a profound dislike towards him. The problem was he knew that and his irritating presence seemed to persistently cling to you whenever he crossed your paths.

Now, you found yourself paired with him for your semester project, and the thought made you wish to hurl yourself out of the third-floor window. Three months of working alongside him loomed ahead. Adding to the discomfort, you were currently under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes, each gaze feeling like a murder attempt. It seemed everyone coveted the opportunity to collaborate with Gojo Satoru, except for you.

“We will divide the project in two.” You said looking at the information the teacher gave you. “So we can work on it separately and once we are done we will put it together.” You didn’t like the idea but you disliked even more the idea of spending time outside the class with him.

“That wouldn’t work out, it’s better if we schedule a time to meet and we start working on it.” Gojo talked.

“No.” You said. “I’m way too busy to think about meeting outside of classes.” And it was true, you were working in two different jobs to pay the bills of college and the tiny apartment you were staying on.

“Oh c’mon!” He pouted. “It’s impossible that you are busy every day of the week at every hour.”

“Well I am.” You were starting to get angry, couldn’t he understand you didn’t want to meet with him.

The ring rang and you thanked it, it was time to leave for another class, one you wouldn’t have to see the perfect face of Satoru Gojo.

“Wait! How do we stay in contact?” Gojo spoke when you were about to leave the classroom. You could feel the gaze of a group of girl right on your neck.

“With the email.”

“C’mon.” He said your name. “Give me your number.”

“No and now leave me. I need to get to my class.”

You walked past the group of girls that were chatting obviously about the scene that just happened.

“How can she be so rude with Satoru?”

“Yeah who does she think she is? Does she even know who Satoru is?”

“She is such a loser.”

You couldn't help but roll your eyes. Of course, you were well aware of who he was - everyone knew him. A pampered child from a wealthy family, born into privilege and affluence, often referred to as an “old money baby”. He had everything handed to him on a silver platter - impeccable looks, tall, athletic, and intelligence. For many, he embodied the epitome of perfection. However, for you, he was nothing more than an insufferable jerk whom you couldn't stand.

On the flip side, you were the complete opposite of him. Life hadn't dealt you a fair hand - you struggled to make ends meet. When your mother passed away when you were just six, and your father vanished after hearing news of her pregnancy. Left with no one but your grandmother, you found solace in her loving care. However, as time marched on, you were once again confronted with loneliness when she passed away when you were just 16. With only a meager inheritance from your grandmother and the income from your job at a local store, you barely scraped by until the age of 18. Thankfully, your relentless dedication to your studies paid off when you earned a scholarship to attend the University of Tokyo.

Even though you got into a good college on the degree you wanted, your life in Tokyo hasn’t been quite easy. You were living in a tiny apartment, going to college and working two jobs because it would be impossible to make it to the end of the month with just one job. Luckily, the scholarship covered all my college expenses, but living in Tokyo wasn't exactly easy on the wallet. I found myself navigating life in the bustling city all on my own.

But your aversion towards Gojo Satoru began two years ago, on the first day of college. Rushing late after exhausting yourself at work, you collided with him, causing you to stumble to the ground. Prepared to offer an apology, you were met with his irate ranting, delivered without even a glance in your direction. Had you not been humiliated on the ground, you might have slapped some sense into him right then and there. Why was he so infuriated when he was clearly the one at fault? And the fact that he couldn't even look at you added insult to injury. Frustrated and embarrassed, you left before he could utter another word; you had no desire to hear anything further from him.

The true agony hit when you discovered he would be sharing classes with you. From then on, you made every effort to steer clear of him and his foolishness. However, it seemed everyone in your class, and even in other majors, adored him. The teachers showered him with praise because everything he touched turned to gold. Despite being at the university for two years, you had never managed to outperform his grades, and it infuriated you beyond measure.

For the past two years, you had been lucky enough to avoid partnering with him. However, it appeared that luck had finally abandoned you, and now you were destined to endure his company for the next three months.

You sat on the seat you would normally choose and took out the notebook to take notes of the next class.

“I heard you got assigned with Satoru Gojo in one of your classes.” You heard a voice next to you which made you jump.

“Kyoko… don’t scare me like that.” You cried while putting your hand on your chest trying to calm down. “How did you find out?”

“Well, everyone was talking about how a girl who got paired with the great Satoru Gojo was so rude to him and how she should be more grateful for this glorious opportunity.” You rolled your eyes.

“I might throw myself out of the window…” You leaned your head against the table and closed your eyes. “Three months Kyoko, three months.”

“I know…you know that you can talk to me if he does anything to bother you.”

“Thank you, you’re the best Kyoko.”

She smiled warmly at you, and together you turned your attention to the class. You had met Kyoko on the same day as your initial encounter with Gojo Satoru. Sitting together in one of the classes, an instant connection formed between you two, and from that moment onward, you were inseparable. Kyoko brought a brightness into your life like a ray of sunshine piercing through clouds. On the first Christmas when she discovered you would be spending it alone in your apartment, she whisked you away to her home, where you celebrated with her and her parents. Since then, Kyoko's parents had filled the void of the parents you had dearly missed, and Kyoko herself had become the sister you had always longed for.

The class was over before you knew it. Your hands hurt after taking notes non-stop and your head felt like it was about to explode after barely sleeping last night.

“Do you have time to eat with me? Or you have to go to the grocery store already?” Kyoko stood besides you while walking in the corridor.

“Today I can eat with you. My shift doesn’t start until 3 p.m. so it’s alright.”

Kyoko looked at you with concerned eyes. “Are you sure you are properly resting? You look tired and the grocery store job is okay, but I’m worried about you working on that bar at nights.”

You sighed, she was right the bar was an unpleasant place, most of those who went were men in their 40s or 50s who left their offices and spent the night drinking until they fell at the bar counter, while making obscene comments. But they paid well and the money was something I desperately needed.

You smiled at her. “I will be alright. Don’t worry.”

“You know you can always come to life with me, I know my parents wouldn’t bother taking you in. And if you feel like it would be too much, you could always pay something but then you could quit that crappy job and just work at the grocery store.”

“Kyoko… we already talked about it. I appreciate you and your parents' good heart and intentions but I can handle everything.” She nodded. “And I know I can always count on you.”

“Always.” And she held you from the arm. “Now let’s go and eat something. My treat.” You were about to protest when Kyoko cut you off. “No excuses, you deserve me to invite you especially because my poor best friend is going to have to put up with her least favorite person in the world for three months.”

“Ugh!” You rolled your eyes. “Please don’t remind me of that.”

Both of you laughed and made your way straight to the cafeteria, your stomachs growling with hunger. You had only managed to gulp down a coffee that morning to wake up, and now you were convinced you could devour the entire menu. Taking your usual seats at the table, Kyoko headed to order your food. The cafeteria buzzed with activity, students weaving in and out while conversations filled the air. You glanced at your phone, hoping for some notifications, but all you found were promotional emails from the supermarket.

Kyoko returned with the food, setting it down in front of you, and you delved into a conversation about Kyoko's recent date. It seemed the boy had shown a keen interest in her, but your friend hadn't felt the same way about him. Being the kind-hearted person she was, Kyoko struggled with how to gently let him know she wasn't interested in continuing to see him.

“Oh shit…” Kyoko whispered.

“What?”

“Don’t turn around but I think a certain someone is coming here.” Your eyebrow arched and you clenched your fists.

“Tell me that the certain someone doesn’t have white hair…” Kyoko grimaced and by the time you wanted to say something, the person responsible for your headache at that very moment had sat down next to you.

“Hello ladies!!” He talked with the happiest tone. He called your name but you ignored him, you didn’t want to interact with him, not even a bit. “I don’t think we know each other. I’m Satoru Gojo.” He talked to Kyoko.

“Kyoko. And we actually share a class together.”

“Oh! We do? Sorry I can’t remember it. But it is nice to meet you, Kyoko.”

“Satoru…” Another male voice spoke behind you. Your head was really going to explode.

“Oh Suguru! Come here!” He moved his hand, pointing at the seat next to Kyoko.

“Satoru… why don’t you leave the girls eating alone.” The boy of dark hair looked at his friend and then at both of you. “I'm sorry for bothering you.”

“It’s okay, don't worry.” Kyoko smiled back at him.

“Come on Suguru! Let’s eat with them… I need to spend more time with my classmate, right birdie?” You looked at him.

“Who are you calling birdie?” You were angry, why was he giving you nicknames like you have known each other for years or like you were close.

“Oh so now you pay attention to me…” He smirked and tilted his head as he rested it on his hand and looked at you.

You snorted and pushed the plate away. “Kyoko, I have to go or I'll be late.” You said goodbye to Gojo's friend, who you assumed was called Suguru, and ignored Gojo.

“Take care.” You heard Kyoko. “And sent me a message once you arrived home from the bar!” You gave her a thumbs up and left the cafeteria.

You felt uneasy. What was Gojo Satoru playing at, giving you a nickname? And that look he just gave you—what was that about? You couldn't stand it. Sinking into your seat on the bus, you put on your headphones, seeking a brief respite before reaching your workplace. You were scheduled to work for five hours, followed by a rush to the bar, where you'd likely be working until 2 a.m., if luck was on your side.

As your eyelids grew heavy, you recognized the familiar streets passing by. With just a few stops left until your destination, you stretched out in your seat and rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the fatigue.

You got out of the bus and walked a few steps until you reached the small grocery store where you work. You still had 5 minutes left to work but between changing and preparing everything the time would arrive. You greeted Yu who was behind the counter serving a customer and went to the employee room at the back.

“You are early.” Haibara entered the room.

“I’m 5 minutes earlier… is not THAT early.” You smiled at him.

“You know you can always take the day off and rest. I can cover you if you need it, you look so tired.”

“I’m okay but thank you Haibara.”

“Okay! Then if you are taking my place I will get going. A friend of mine is waiting for me.” You nodded. “Call me if you need anything.”

You waved goodbye to him and observed as he rendezvoused with a tall blonde guy outside the store, someone you vaguely recognized from campus. Throughout the afternoon, several children trickled in to purchase trinkets, occasionally accompanied by adults picking up a few items. The day had been relatively quiet, affording you the opportunity to jot down some notes and review your studies.

As closing time approached, the sliding door chimed open once more, signaling the arrival of another customer. However, you were preoccupied assisting a lady who was meticulously counting the coins needed to pay for her purchase.

“Thank you so much darling.” She said once you were done with her. “Have a nice night.”

“Thanks to you! And please come here again.”

“Hello birdie!” Your mouth opened slightly when you saw who was waiting to be served and the last customer of the day.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” You screamed angrily.

He looked down and moved the bottle he was holding. “Buying something to drink.” He smiled, showing his perfect smile.

“Here?” He nodded. “In this grocery store?” He nodded again. “Of this unknown neighborhood?” He nodded once again. “Gojo…” You touched your head, closing your eyes. “I don’t know what you want or your intentions but don’t you dare bother me anymore.”

“I already told you birdie I’m here, to buy this.” He put the bottle in front of you.

“There you have it. Now, bye.” You turned around and started cleaning some things that were around. It was time to close and you needed to hurry up to got to the bar.

You picked up and changed into the clothes you had come in. For a moment you had to lean against the wall, for an hour or so you had been dizzy and nauseous, but you couldn't allow yourself to be absent. You turned off the lights and closed the grocery store.

“What are you still doing here?” You turned around to look at Gojo who was right in front of the shop.

He walked smiling towards you. “Waiting for you.”

You rolled your eyes, couldn’t he understand you or something. “Well, I don’t want you to be waiting for me. So now… BYE!” And you started moving towards the bar.

“Oh c’mon.” He said your name this time. “Let me accompany you to your house or at least near it. It’s not good for a girl to…”

“Are you a stalker?” Gojo opened his mouth. “And I’m not going home, I need to get to work and because of you I might be late.”

“Work? But you just get out of it.” He walked next to you. “Why would you have two works…”

“Listen Gojo! Not everyone is born on a silver spoon. Some of us have to work our asses out to get the things we want.” You were tired. “You are lucky your parents probably get you everything they want for you but not everyone is that lucky.”

“You’re pale. Are you okay?” You certainly weren’t, but you couldn't afford to be, you had to go to work. “Oh shit! You might have a fever.” His hand was on your forehead, wait when did he get that close?

“Leave me…” Everything was spinning around.

“Hey!” You felt how Gojo held you, preventing you from falling to the ground, and then everything went black.

You weren't certain how long you had been unconscious, but it was certainly for a considerable amount of time. As you blinked your eyes open, you found yourself surrounded by darkness, with only a faint glow of outside light seeping into the room. Despite the dimness, you were able to swiftly recognize your surroundings. You were in Kyoko's room, but how had you ended up there? The last memory you could recall was being with Gojo before blacking out.

“Kyoko?” You whispered. You were confused and still feeling sick.

You saw how a silhouette moved to grab something from the table and then a light from the cell phone illuminated the room.

Kyoko whispered your name. “How are you feeling?”

“Still dizzy…” You touched your head. “How did I get here?”

“Satoru called me.” You looked at her confused, since when she called him Satoru and since when did she have his number. “Don’t look at me like that, when you left I stayed with him and with his friend, Suguru and they are pretty nice guys.” You rolled your eyes. “And his friend is pretty cute.”

“Kyoko…”

“What? It’s true, he was so polite and nice and did you know he studies…”

“Do you like him?”

“I mean… it’s early to say that but I would love to go out with him sometime.” Your friend smiled.

“You remember that there is a guy still waiting for an answer from you right?”

Kyoko pouted. “I know… I will let him know I’m not interested, because it’s true I’m not.”

“Good…”

“But now to what is important.” Oh here it came. “What would you have done if Satoru wasn’t there when you fainted?”

“I… it was just a coincidence. I was totally find this morning.”

Kyoko said your name heavily. “How much have you slept this week? And be honest with me.”

You thought for a moment. “5 hours…”

“That’s not bad, I thought you were going to say something like 2 hours.”

“In the last 3 days…”

Kyoko opened her mouth, letting a gasp out. “Are you insane? You want to die or something?”

“Sorry! But college and the jobs… the jobs, my shift on the bar…”

“Relax. I called them and told them you were sick after Satoru called me.” You breathed in relief. “But don’t try to change the topic. 5 hours in 3 days?! That’s inhuman and you can’t keep going like this.”

“And what do I do Kyoko?” You pulled the sheets up to your face.

“Stay here… we have a spare room, you can stay there.” You growled, Kyoko knew that was too much. Even if you were her best friend, you were still someone from outside the family. “You can pay a minimum if that will make you feel better, but if you stay here you wouldn’t have to pay the rent you are paying right now and you wouldn’t have to work at that shitty bar.”

“I… I will think about it okay…” Kyoko nodded.

“Now go back to sleep.”

“Okay…” You closed your eyes.

“And by the way.” Kyoko spoke again. “Start thinking what you are going to say to Satoru, you throw up on him.”

“I… WHAT?” Your eyes opened like plates.

“Good night~”

“No Kyoko, tell me! What do you mean I threw up on Gojo?” You cried.

“Go to sleep.”

You groaned, feeling utterly mortified at the thought of having thrown up on Gojo. This was beyond embarrassing—how were you supposed to face him and apologize for such a humiliating incident? The desire to vanish into thin air consumed you. Your head spun with the aftermath of the situation, and before you knew it, you had drifted off to sleep.

Upon waking up again, you sensed that several hours had passed; sunlight now flooded through the window, illuminating the room entirely. Kyoko was nowhere to be seen, and you sat up in bed, stretching your stiff body. You felt utterly filthy after experiencing fever and vomiting; a shower was desperately needed.

Searching for your phone to check the time, you discovered several messages awaiting your attention—some from Kyoko and others from an unknown number.

Kyoko ☀️

Rest as much as you want. My mom left you food prepared in the kitchen but you will be alone for most of the day.

You can take my clothes if you want.

And don’t worry about the classes I will take the notes for you.

And by the way, I’m sorry and I love you 😘

Sorry? For what? You tapped on the unknown number and then you understood why she was sorry.

xxxx

Hellooooo birdie !!

Kyoko gave me your number, don’t get angry at her.

I hope you feel better soon

You clenched your fists and sighed, now you would have to endure it because of your cell phone too.

You to Kyoko ☀️

You should be grateful I love you so much and I won’t kill you.

And thanks, I will be taking a shower and do you mind if I take one of your pajamas?

Kyoko ☀️

Everything that’s mine is yours 😘

You rolled your eyes at your friend. And opened once again the chat of Gojo. How should you respond to him? Should you apologize for throwing up at him? Should you just be as cold as always? The guy was messaging you after you fainted and threw up on him, he didn’t deserve to be treated coldly although you wanted to.

You to Pain in the ass

Hi. I’m good

Thanks for yesterday and sorry for what happened…

Also stop calling me birdie, people would think we are close or something

Leaving your phone on the table, you grabbed one of Kyoko's pajamas and made your way to the bathroom. Compared to a few hours ago, you felt significantly better; the fever seemed to have subsided or at least diminished in intensity. After a refreshing shower, you changed into the pajamas and headed to the kitchen.

True to Kyoko's word, her mother had left a plate of food prepared for you. Grateful for the gesture, you sat down to enjoy the meal. Retrieving your phone once more, you noticed two notifications, which came as a surprise—they were not the usual supermarket offers.

Pain in the ass

Don’t worry about it, I’m glad to hear you are okay

*This message was deleted*

What did he send and delete after?

Pain in the ass

Since you are sick we decided to accompany Kyoko for lunch!

And there was a picture of Kyoko with Gojo and two other people, the guy from yesterday, Suguru and another girl you didn’t know about. Kyoko was smiling and doing the peace sign next to Suguru, while Gojo was the one taking the selfie and showing off his perfect teeth.

You to Pain in the ass

You better treat Kyoko right, or you will hear from me once I’m back at class.

It was hard to believe you were talking so casually with him. You shook your head, talking like that on the phone was just a way of being polite with him, nothing else.

Pain in the ass

If that way I get you to talk to me

You stayed looking at the message for a couple of minutes. Something on your stomach was moving. Stupid Satoru Gojo.

You to Pain in the ass

By the way, do I need to pay you something… for you know…

Pain in the ass

For what?

You to Pain in the ass

Don’t make me say it, it’s way too embarrassing.

Pain in the ass

If you don’t tell me what I won’t know 🤷

You to Pain in the ass

Throwing up on you!

Do I need to pay for something? Like dry cleaning or something?

Pain in the ass

Hehe

You wanted to punch him, he obviously knew.

Pain in the ass

Nop, you don’t need to pay anything. Don’t worry 😉

You to Pain in the ass

Okay, now I will leave to sleep

Don’t bother me Gojo!

Pain in the ass

Alright birdie!!

Rest well. I don’t want you throwing up and fainting in the arms of other people

You to Pain in the ass

Say something like that again and I’m blocking you

Pain in the ass

🥺

You rolled your eyes and left the phone once again. He really was a pain in the ass. You went to Kyoko’s room and lay down on her bed, although you were feeling better, you were still feeling tired, so you decided to sleep for a bit more, at least until Kyoko returned home.

You heard a door close and someone walk down the hall in silence. You knew it was Kyoko when she entered the room. She walked up to you and you smiled at her when your eyes met.

“You look better.”

“I feel better.” You say stretching on yourself. “I feel like I have slept everything I haven’t slept in a month.” You looked at Kyoko and she was doing a grimace of disgust. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Have you thought about it? About moving here?”

You did. You thought about it a lot, but you couldn't deny that you were at a point where if you continued at that pace you would end up killing yourself.

“I will.” Kyoko screamed with happiness. “But only if your parents are okay with it.”

“And they are! Don’t worry.” She started clapping and jumped out of bed with happiness. “By the way, I’m surprised you met Satoru yesterday at the grocery store.”

You looked at her strangely. “Didn't you tell her where she worked?” Kyoko shook her head.

And then it hit you, you haven't told Haibara that you would not be going to work today, he would probably be covering for you and you would have to tell him.

“Shit… Where is my phone?” You looked around.

“Who is Pain in the ass?” Kyoko hang you the phone.

“It’s Gojo…” She nodded while you searched for the number of Haibara on your phone. “Haibara!” You said when you heard him picking up. “Yeah it’s me… I’m so sorry, I’m sick and I couldn’t go today… I hope you-” Kyoko looked at you when felt silent. “What do you mean you already knew? Who told you?” Kyoko watched you with interest trying something of what was said on the other end of the phone. “Oh… okay. I will thank him then… Yeah. Bye.” And you throw the phone to the side.

“What’s with that face?”

“Gojo Satoru told my coworker I was sick.”

“That’s pretty considerate.”

“They are friends…”

“Who?”

“My coworker and Gojo, that’s why he appeared there.” You realized. “Probably Haibara told him and he came to bother.”

Kyoko called your name and you looked at her. “I don’t think he went to bother you…”

“Well… but it’s strange he went all the way to that place! Why would he go if it wasn’t to bother me?”

Your best friend sighed and closed her eyes, whispering something you could not hear and then looked back at you. “Thanks he was there. Or who knows what would have happened to you.”

You rolled your eyes. “You are right. And I already thanked him.”

“Oh you did?”

“Don’t act surprised when you were the one that gave him my number.”

She put her hands in the air and smiled. “Sorry. But he was really, REALLY insistent…”

“I can imagine.”

“He sent you a message right? What did he say?”

You took the phone and unlocked it to see the message that Gojo sent you.

Pain in the ass

I'll save you place next to me in class for tomorrow 🙆

What’s up with him?

“Oh…” Kyoko smiled next to you.

“What?”

“Nothing… figure it out yourself baby.” She smiled.

“Kyoko… Kyoko, what did that oh ment, come back here.” You followed her through the corridor while she laughed.

“No.” She continued laughing. “Oh!” She stopped walking and turned to look at you. “I already sent a message to the guy.”

“Finally.”

“Yeah…”

“You? Are you really going to try and go out with Gojo’s friend?”

She shrugged and smiled. The fact that Kyoko started dating Gojo's friend didn't particularly bother you, but it did mean potentially spending even more time with Gojo than you had anticipated. The mere thought made your head ache again. However, before dealing with that, you needed to figure out how to face Satoru Gojo tomorrow. It would mark the first encounter since... that incident.

Note: a comment and a like would be appreciated. Also comment to be tagged in the chapters

Tag list: @crybabytoru, @sanriosatoru, @norvacaine, @sadmonke

[2baabbies]

🖤 Knee Socks (Changbin x Reader) 🖤

Crossposted under 2Babbies on Ao3 <3

(decided to crosspost this today for all the changbin fuckers, I hope you like it 🫶🏻)

Pairings: established frenemies changbin x reader, to lovers

Words: 4100

Summary: Changbin stops by uninvited to pick up the jacket you borrowed from him. You are annoyed that he has interrupted your down time on your day off, but maybe he’ll find a way to make it up to you?

(inspired by the Arctic Monkeys song!!)

Humour + Fluff + Smut

afab + fem!reader

CWs: reader and binnie are mean and they swear at each other but they actually looove each other, playful insults are thrown around, picking on your crush to hide your real feelings??, jokes about murderers/getting murdered, gamer girl!reader, changbin projects on reader based on how she’s dressed (but they’re both down bad so it’s fine)

Smut Tags: taunting/teasing, explicit consent because consent is sexy, big dick changbin, changbin sock fetish, slight dom dynamics but reader and bin are both kind of switches in this one, changbin going down on reader, some edging, vaginal fingering, begging, praise, slight degradation, handjob, mutual/guided masturbation, dirty talk, confessions during sex

!!ATTENTION!!

Reposting this fic to other platforms, including as a translation, is expressly prohibited. Do not copy, alter, or claim this fic as your own. Absolutely no permission is given to anyone to post my works, even with credit, and this fic should only appear on Ao3 or Tumblr under my accounts. Reposting is not only plagiarism, but a direct violation of my wishes as the original writer and owner. Please respect writers and don’t steal!

Likes, reblogs, asks and comments are very welcome and appreciated <3

~~~

The fourth phone call in three minutes prompts some concern, so you forfeit your competitive match to give the caller your full attention.

“What’s wrong?”

“What are you doing?” Changbin responds casually.

“I’m trying to rank. Is something wrong?”

“Rank? Christ, are you playing that stupid game again?”

“Felix is two whole levels above me!”

“… So?”

“Felix isn’t even good, he’s not allowed to be two levels higher than me!”

There is a pause on the other end and you think he may have hung up before he speaks.

“So that’s what you’re doing? Wasting your day away on your computer?”

“Why are you complaining? I went out with you and Chan last night. And I don’t have another day off for two weeks, so I have to grind as much as I can today. And fyi, you’re putting me at a disadvantage. I just left a match to answer your stupid call because I thought you were getting murdered or something. That could’ve been a win.”

“You think I would call you if I was getting murdered?”

“Yeah, I think you would. You know why? Because you’re stupid.”

“Hey hey hey, be nice.”

“What do you want? You’re wasting my precious time.”

“You stole my jacket last night, e-girl, I’m here to get it back.”

“I’m not an e-girl- wait, you’re here? Right now?”

“Wasting away in the lobby. Waiting for someone to come and murder me.”

You stand up from your chair and pad out of your room to your intercom. You hang up your phone and shout into the speaker.

“Quit loitering, shithead!”

“Fuck you!” Changbin shouts back.

You unlock your apartment door then buzz him in.

“Doors are unlocked. Your jacket is on the couch. Get your shit and get out.”

You hear him giggle maniacally as he opens the now unlocked lobby door and roll your eyes before returning to your bedroom. You quickly queue for a new match and put your headphones on. You join in immediately and the sound of Changbin entering your apartment is drowned out by the sounds of the game. You think you hear him say something from the other room but you opt to ignore him to maintain your kill streak. The match ends with a win and Changbin startles you as he speaks up beside you.

“You have an addiction, you know that right?”

You pull your headphones down and glare at him.

“Dude! What are you still doing here?”

“Look at this,” He picks up one of the many empty energy drink cans scattered across your desk, “You’re going to have a goddamn heart attack. I told you to lay off these. And your desk is a mess!”

“Shut up! Why are you in here?”

“You left your door unlocked. Not safe. That’s how murderers get in.”

You groan.

“Stop lecturing me! You were two minutes coming up, at most.”

“Yeah, but what if I wasn’t? And what if there was a murderer who was waiting just outside your door? Did you think of that, Ms. Noise-Cancelling-Headphones?”

“But there wasn’t a murderer! You’re just an idiot!”

You spin your chair towards him, clenching your fists in exasperation. He huffs and crosses his arms, his blue jacket slung over his broad shoulders. Suddenly, his eyes widen and he swallows before looking away.

“What the Hell are you wearing?”

You look down at your attire as you sit cross-legged in your gaming chair. You had expected to spend the whole day inside, so your outfit was not exactly guest appropriate but it suited your personal comfort level just fine. You are wearing a thick oversized sweater that drapes over your lap, no pants, topped off with fluffy socks that cover your legs and end just above your knees. The sweater hangs low, doing little to cover your chest and cleavage, and the socks squeeze the plush insides of your thighs. Normally you would have been more embarrassed dressing this way in front of your friend, but Changbin had not been invited into your room and you were still annoyed at him for taking up your personal time.

“What’s wrong? They’re just my pajamas.”

“You sleep in that? Fuck, you really are an e-girl.”

You roll your eyes.

“It’s comfy. And look, the socks have beans.”

You lift your leg to show the bottom of your foot, where cat paws are printed on the socks. He slaps your leg down firmly.

“Don’t do that.”

“Why? There’s beans!”

“I can see that.”

You notice a dark blush dusting his cheeks as you go to lift your leg again. This time he holds your leg down by your thigh to prevent you from lifting it.

“Would you stop that? Have some modesty will you?”

“Modesty? They’re cat socks.”

“And you’re wearing them like some sort of pervert.”

You curl up in your chair and turn back to your pc.

“Lee Know would appreciate them.”

“Yeah, he probably has a catgirl fetish. He’s your target audience.”

You glare softly at him.

“I’m telling him you said that. And there’s no audience. This is just how I dress when I’m alone.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s not supposed to be weird men in my room!”

He blinks in surprise then gapes, offended, at your words.

“I am not a weird man. Take that back.”

“You just called me a pervert. Because of cat socks.”

“I’m sorry! But don’t flash me!”

“Flash you?”

He points at your lap, and this makes you blush. All you see is the gap of bare flesh not covered by your sweater or your socks. You throw your hands up in defeat as he gestures impatiently, and his attention on your thighs suddenly makes you self-conscious. You slap your hands down to cover them.

“There! Happy?”

“Not that! You were- your legs- just don’t spread your legs open when you’re not wearing any clothes, yeah?”

“These are clothes.”

“You’re not wearing pants, and you might not be wearing underwear either.”

You scoff.

“You think I’m not wearing underwear? Seriously?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“I’m not a freak.”

“Prove it.”

You peer at him.

“That I’m not a freak?”

“That you’re wearing underwear.”

“You’re weird as fuck man.”

You kick your legs up on the desk, knocking a few cans to the floor in the process. Changbin grumbles about your slobbish habits and picks the cans up, then storms out of your room. You wait a moment for him to return and when he does not, curiously get up from your chair to check on him. You spot him in the kitchen from your doorway and pause to watch him. He has his hands braced against the counter and his head lowered as he takes measured breaths. He notices you out of the corner of his eye and looks at you, his jacket is still slung over his shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

Your eyes flit over his arms, flexing as he grips the counter. Then they roam over his black shirt, tightly fitted over his biceps and abs, then down until they land on the unmistakable bulge in his slacks. You look back up to meet his gaze. He looks wrecked, watching you with heavy eyes as his cheeks burn with shame.

You jump as something falls in your room and hits the floor, bringing you both out of the silent trance you had been in for who knows how long.

“What was that?”

You shrug.

“Murderer. Ghost.”

“Ghost?”

“My apartment’s haunted. That’s why I never have anyone over.”

He laughs with a hint of strain.

“You’re funny.”

“Changbin.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll go, just give me a second,” He rasps.

You do not give him a second. You clear your throat and tug your sweater off in one quick swoop. He stares, wide-eyed, as you toss it to the floor and cross your arms. You stare back at him, wearing nothing but a comfy sports bra, your underwear, and your knee socks. The underwear are lame, not even a cute pair. They are the kind with a little satin bow, pink with faded prints of flowers and bunnies, and a small rip in the frilly waistband. There is nothing sexy or enticing about them.

Changbin’s cock strains against the zipper of his pants, no doubt aching to be released. He exhales slowly as his eyes skim over your body. He audibly swallows then looks away.

“What’s wrong? You’re acting like you’ve never seen a naked woman before. You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

He groans and throws his jacket to the floor then begins crossing the room, tearing his shirt off next in the process. You back up into your room, tripping over another discarded can then falling back on your bed. You sit up just as he enters the doorway. Suddenly, he pauses. He grips the top of the doorframe, giving you a clear view of his muscles at work. You nonchalantly check him out as he pants softly. Then, he points at you.

“You’re the devil, you know that right?”

You laugh and roll your eyes.

“I wasn’t trying to seduce you.”

“Are you trying now?”

You gnaw on your lip and eye his crotch again lazily. Then you shrug.

“Not particularly.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Look at how you’re dressed.”

“I didn’t dress to impress anyone today, Binnie. Who would even see it? Look at me, why would I wear ratty underwear and a sweaty sports bra if I was trying to look sexy? I’ve been a good girl, you’ve been the bad boy thinking dirty thoughts.”

You emphasize your statement by propping your legs up and spreading them open. He shivers and takes in the clear view of your scantily clad figure.

“y/n,” He says seriously, “I need to know before we go any further if you want this? I’ll stop the moment you ask, I promise, but I want to know before I do something stupid if you even want to keep this going or if you’re just teasing me. Because I… really want you, and I think I’m gonna lose it if we keep this up for much longer.”

You smile and respond softly.

“I trust you, Binnie. I know you would never hurt me. So whatever you want to do, you can do it to me.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Take your panties off, please.”

You smirk at his hesitant order but obey it. You hook your thumbs into the elastic of your panties and slide them off, taking your time and keeping your legs spread as you complete the process. He watches you greedily, drinking in the sight of you as you pull your bra off next. You discard both garments to the floor carelessly, then dip your thumb in the cuff of your sock and begin pulling it down.

“No. Leave those on.”

You pull your hand away, fluttering your fingers playfully and tilting your head. He finally enters the room, crossing slowly and kicking the can away when he meets it. He stops at the end of the bed. You hold your breath as he stares down at you, and watch as he reaches down to caress your ankle then gently grasps your calf. You let out a shaky breath right before he drags you to the end of the bed by one leg. You gasp as the bottoms of your thighs come flush to his knees.

He meanders fixing your knee socks one at a time. He tugs them up to hug your thighs and runs his thumbs just under the bands to touch the soft skin beneath. You shudder when he looks at you, then grabs your other thigh and squeezes both of them. Your legs quiver as he holds them open and massages underneath your thighs.

“You’ll tell me if you want me to stop, yeah?”

You nod and he shakes his head.

“Say it.”

“I’ll tell you. But I don’t want you to stop. I really don’t want you to stop.”

Changbin falls to the floor on his knees and grips the tops of your socks, he then hikes your legs over his shoulders. You gasp and clench your fingers in the bedsheets when he dives in to lap at your pussy.  You throw your head back and release a pitchy moan as he slowly mouths at you. His fingers curl to stretch the fabric of your socks and your thighs hug his face as he prods you open with his tongue. 

Despite how ruined he looked and how wired he said he felt, he eats you out with an astounding amount of restraint. He rolls his tongue inside between filthy open-mouth kisses, eyes boring into yours as he makes obscenely wet noises. You are not sure if they come from his saliva or your arousal, but it makes your core ache nonetheless. You throw one hand against your forehead and slap the other down on the bed as he continues his tortuous pace.

“Changbin,” You whine, the last part of his name fading off in a squealing moan.

“Mhm,” He peppers a few kisses on the insides of your thighs and nuzzles his cheeks there gently, “What is it, baby?”

“Stop teasing…”

He punctuates his response with a long, deep, kiss right on your clit. You cry out in frustration as he smirks down at you.

“No.”

“Binnie…”

“You teased me, it’s my turn, honey.”

You huff and mewl as he resumes eating you out.

“But I… I didn’t…”

He groans, rumbling your heat as he does so. You buck your hips and moan as he begins picking up the pace, then breaks away. You whimper and glare at him as he licks his lips clean.

“Stop…”

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks breathlessly, “Or do you want me to give in to you?”

“Will you please just fuck me?”

His breath hitches at how soft and desperate your voice sounds. He shakes his head and brings his lips to your heat again.

“Why?” You cry, tears pricking as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release.

“Shhh, patience, baby. Patience.”

You run your fingers through your hair and arch your back as you grind against his face. He finally grants you relief when he props his elbows on the bed, your thighs still straddle his face, and he pushes three of his fingers between your folds. He buries his face in your heat and fingerfucks you, continuing to do so until you climax. You can only make mindless, breathy, sounds as he stimulates you through your high. You grip the bed sheets and squeeze your thighs together on instinct, mind going blank as pleasure pulses endlessly through your core. He holds your thighs open and continues suckling at your clit, watching you fall apart from his tongue. 

Slowly, he stops and lowers you on the bed. He lets your legs fall to his sides and presses chaste kisses over your thighs and abdomen. Your legs twitch and you let out a wrecked moan as your pussy throbs. His hands roam sweetly over your thighs, petting and soothing you to relax.

“There you go. Good girl. Wasn’t that worth waiting for?”

You make a short, annoyed, sound.

“You’re such a fucking tease.”

He chuckles and stands up, unzipping his slacks and pulling them down. You let your head loll to the side as you watch him. His cock pitches a tent in his boxers, standing proudly as he shucks his pants off. He takes his time rolling the band of his boxers over his length, no doubt enjoying your attention. You bite your lip as he strips himself down then kneels beside you on the bed. You run your hand over his thigh and give a teasing squeeze, then look up for his reaction.

“Mhm.”

“Well?” He murmurs.

“You’re big.”

He snorts, his cock stands proud and drips precum as he moves over you.

“Yeah. It’s a pain.”

“Not for me.”

“Oh? You can take a big dick right now?”

He taps his fingers against your pussy and chuckles when you whine and roll away. You glare over your shoulder as he rubs your hip.

“You’re still too sensitive, baby.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He rolls his eyes.

“My fault for giving you an amazing orgasm, I guess.”

“Yeah, how are you going to get your dick wet now? Stupid.”

His cock jumps and he groans softly at your chiding.

“I’m not.”

“You don’t want to fuck me?”

Your tone is more insecure than you wanted it to be, but there is no way to take it back now. Changbin’s eyes soften and he rolls you over to face him. His hand comes to cup your cheek as you avoid looking at him.

“Is that what I said?”

“No.”

“Right. Do you need to hear me say it?”

You nod shyly and he shoots you a soft smirk.

“I want you. I need you. You’re so beautiful.”

You laugh softly.

“Okay-”

“I want to make you feel loved. I want to take care of you.”

“Oh, so now you want to be romantic? What happened to the teasing and manhandling?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Well, that was when I was hungry, baby. I’m not thinking straight until I’ve had my fill.”

He leans down, hovering his lips over yours.

“Are you thinking straight now?” You murmur.

“No. You’re still making me crazy.”

You giggle and brush your nose against his.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“What are you gonna do about it?”

“Kiss you?”

You nod timidly. He chuckles as you both close the space between you and share a slow, sweet kiss. You sigh into his mouth as he pets your cheek with his thumb.

“What about now? What do you want me to do?” He asks.

“Fuck me?” 

“Hah… I don’t think you’re ready for that yet, baby.”

“Pretty big talk for a guy that got hard over socks.”

“Well. They are on you.”

“Shut up.”

You kiss again, a bit more heated. Changbin melts into your arms as you pull him closer and he grinds against the crease of your hip. You giggle as he moans and chases the friction a second time.

“Can’t fit your big dick in my pussy? Just gonna hump me like a dog instead?”

He groans and raises his hips up, his cock still hangs and drags over your abdomen.

“You’re so rude. I’m being so sweet to you.”

“Gonna cry about it?”

“Would that turn you on?”

You shrug and give a teasing grind against his thigh. He curses softly and drops his head.

“Don’t make me beg, I might really cry then,” You laugh and he whimpers, “Please?”

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

You giggle and roll away for a moment to grab lotion from your bedside drawer. When you turn back he shoves his face into the crook of your neck and lets out a shuddery breath onto your chest. You clutch his head close and kiss his forehead as he props his leg over yours. You lube your fingers then slip them between your bodies and around his length. He jerks his hips impatiently as you stroke him slowly.

“y/n…”

“Yes, baby?”

“F-Fuck…”

“You like that?”

“Mh-hm.”

He pants and pulls you closer as you work your hand around him. He curses and throws his head back to gaze up at you. Your touch slows as you watch his lips part in a small whimper.

“Please,” He breathes, “I’m so close.”

“You’ve been such a good boy.”

He nods and cries out in frustration as you slide your hand up his abdomen. You scratch your nails over his chest and gently direct him.

“Wanna come? Go ahead, Binnie. I want to see you touch yourself.”

He makes a choked noise and leans up to brace himself over you.

“That’s not fair,” He takes a shuddery breath, “I helped you.”

“I am helping,” You pout, “What? Are you saying you can’t get off? This isn’t enough for you?”

He looks down as you dip your fingers between your legs and play with your clit. He curses at the soft sounds that escape your lips. He steals another kiss and slowly begins stroking himself over you. You giggle and murmur quiet encouragement against his lips as you lazily pleasure yourself.

“Wanna come, Binnie? Wanna come on my pussy?”

“Y-es…”

He kisses you again, hard, as his movements become faster and uncoordinated. You cup his cheek and allow the fingers between your legs to graze absentmindedly over your sex. He slowly breaks away and gazes into your eyes as he works himself to release. His eyes fall shut and he groans your name.

“Come on, baby. You’re almost there.”

“Fuck,” He gasps.

He jerks himself through his climax, moaning desperately as he spills his cum over you. You watch his expression intently as milky streaks fall over your abdomen and crotch. You glance down and spread the sticky substance between your fingers, then look back at him. He watches you through fluttering lashes and pants into the shared air. Then, he smirks and leans down to share a wet kiss. When you part he kisses your cheek then collapses on top of you, nuzzling your neck.

“I love you.”

You scoff.

“I make you jerk off to me once and that’s all it takes for you to fall in love? You’re pathetic.”

He whines in protest.

“I loved you before that, bitch. And, I’ve jerked off to you many times-”

“Ugh, you freak…” You respond with no animosity.

He laughs breathlessly and heaves a tired sigh. “I mean it. And not just the masturbating part.”

You snort and listen to his labored breath slow then settle into a tranquil rhythm before breaking the silence.

“I know. I love you too. Even if you get turned on by socks.”

Changbin laughs and squishes his face against your cheek. You turn your head and press a loving kiss to the bridge of his nose.

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” You mumble before granting him another kiss.

“Mhm… I will… later.”

You gasp as he goes to pull you closer and gently keep him at an arm’s length.

“Ah, I’m dirty.”

“Yeah, you are.”

You laugh then make a disgusted noise as he pulls your hips together and kisses your neck. You melt into his arms and let him cradle your head to his chest. You sigh and nose sleepily at his shoulder.

“You better clean me up.”

“M’yeah…”

“M’serious…”

“Mh-hm…”

You relax and doze off embracing each other.

You wake again hours later. No light peeks in from the window, the only thing illuminating your room is your desktop screen. The red numbers of the 24-hour clock beside your bed tell you that it is midnight. You fight your way out from where you are tightly tucked into bed. Changbin’s shirt covers your figure as you sit up then slip out of bed. The shirt falls just above the top of your knee socks, leaving a sliver of skin peeking out. You finally notice Changbin, seated in your gaming chair and just wearing your headphones and his boxers, focused on the game playing in front of him. He has cleaned up the desk and his jacket is folded neatly over the back of the chair. You watch in silence then tiptoe over as the match finishes.

“What are you doing?”

He jumps and throws his hand over his chest as he looks at you.

“y/n!”

“Why are you playing my game?”

“... No reason.”

You take the mouse from him before he can queue and open your profile. He smiles sheepishly when you gape at your stats.

“You brought me up five levels?”

“Did I?”

“I didn’t know you could play.”

“What, you really think Felix leveled up all by himself?”

You blink as you process his words then grin and fall into his lap. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss his cheek.

“Thank youuu.”

“Don’t thank me, just get better so you don’t have to play so much.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault! All my teammates suck.”

“Mhm, that’s what they all say.”

You roll your eyes and rest your head on his chest.

“Still, I appreciate it.”

“Do you?”

“Mhm.”

“Wanna show me how much you appreciate it?”

You smirk.

“Yeah. What do you want me to do?”

His thumb glides down your clothed leg then back up again.

“You don’t have to do anything, baby.”

“I don’t?”

“I’ll just let you have this seat and then I’ll take care of the rest.”

You stand and watch him rise then turn to fall to his knees as you fall back in the chair. He smirks and pushes his shirt up out of the way, then draws your legs over his shoulders.

[postmodernbeliever]

not for a second longer - fox mulder x female reader (fluff)

fox is coming home from a case that's got him missing you like crazy, and you're (im)patiently waiting.

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my ao3 | word count: 3,070

content tags: dorks in love, fox mulder misses you, domestic fox mulder, fluff, domestic fluff, worry, romance, waiting, overthinking, fox is an idiot (/pos), reunited and it feels so good, just soft fluff that's all, cross-posted on ao3, mentions of murder/case material but briefly!

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fox felt like if another second passed without hearing your voice, he might go insane, and this was a first- even for a complete lover boy like him. 

the agent has been away on a case for a few days. not much shorter or longer than any other work he’s done, but this time he couldn’t bear being far from home. he’d done everything just as he always does- there were no changes in the routine he’s tailored since he met you. he called every night to let you know he was safe and hear about your day, even if it was late and he woke you up by doing so; he’d remind you to feed his fish, and ask you about that nagging coworker who the two of you nicknamed hannibal because he always brought something creepily edible for lunch (the man ate steak tartare like his life dependent on it, honestly.) and you’d complain, like always, and you’d ask how his case was going, which would lead to him willingly divulging all kinds of classified information just for fun. you’d offer advice if you could. you weren’t as invested in the paranormal as he was, but you’d had your share of spooky stories, so your middle-of-the-road perspective helped at times. the phone call was always the same, but it didn’t matter what you talked about. he just wanted to hear your voice as badly as you did his, and it put you both at ease. so he called. 

like clockwork, fox admired the engraved backside of his watch before he fell asleep every night, where it said don’t keep me waiting. it was an inside joke that sparked when you’d first started dating. fox warned you up and down about how dangerous his job can be, how he’s been injured and in and out of hospitals and how multiple criminals are likely sitting on plans for his murder if they ever break out of incarceration. he prepared to see you get overwhelmed and leave him due to the potential stress; yet when he packed up for his first case, you kissed him softly, no fear to be felt, and told him not to keep you waiting because you couldn’t promise to keep his fishes alive while he was gone. the watch was last christmas’ gift, and he never took it off, especially when he was away. 

fox even kept with his dorky tradition of taking one of the many shirts you’d left at his apartment and sleeping with it under his pillow, where he could hold onto it and feel like he at least had a piece of you while he was alone. when you found out he did such a thing, you teased him brutally, and then you began leaving clothes in every corner of the apartment for him to save. and you left your spare perfume bottle in his bathroom cabinet, so he could concentrate them with you. 

the man took all the cheesiest precautions to make his work out of state bearable until he could solve the damned things and get back home, but even with all of his bases covered, it wasn't enough. something felt different this time. coming back to a motel every night, like he had for his whole career before he met you, was torture. every moment of the case strung him farther out. now, if you’d asked the lovely and level-headed dana scully why fox was so eager to be done with the case, she would’ve given you a plain and simple explanation: the two were investigating a string of seemingly unrelated murders by men unto their girlfriends, but fox had a suspicion that some kind of entity persuaded each man to kill the girl who kept their beds warm. and with every day that they didn’t track the cause down, he felt the pressing weight of your safety and how much he cared for you, and it was making him- as scully would kindly put it, of course- act out extremely irrationally. even you could put two and two together there, but he’d been a bit avoidant over the phone about this one job, so you didn’t know. fox refused to think about you in connection to the work, though, because to allow his brain to cross its signals and imagine you and him as victim and suspect (as a paranoid brain might) would just be stupid. but whether he meant to think of you or not, everything was putting him on edge by association, and he was itching to see you happy and healthy and still his. 

by the time fox deciphered that the newest date-night romantic comedy at the local movie theater was having midnight showings, and the ticket booth operator was a twenty-five year old involuntary celebate who was admitting loving couples into the place and watching them make out right in front of his jealous eyes, the case was a one-and-done. scully didn’t buy that the employee was telekinetically causing the boyfriends to kill, but the kid got shot in a police chase, so fox was left to his conclusions and she to hers. and he couldn’t drag her ass out of town fast enough. fox was two hours early to the airport. he bounced his leg on the entire flight home, and scully barely got a “see you tomorrow” out by the time he hailed a cab and ordered the driver to his address. 

his gut was twisting itself in knots, hoping you’d be home. you practically lived with him by how much time you spent at his apartment; the truth was that he was away so often, and you just couldn’t sleep unless you could curl up in his bed, with his pillows and blankets and wearing his clothes, and let everything that belonged to him comfort you until you got the man back himself. he knew you’d be there- it was nearly one in the morning. but still, after all this time staring at dead girls and thinking about how in love they were with the trusted boys who slit their throats, he just wanted to collect you into his arms and keep you there. 

you were wide awake because you knew he was on his way. you stayed up all night watching all the classic movies he had on tape, glancing at the clock, trying to stop obsessing over the unlikely crash of his plane. you were standing in his little kitchen, watching the tea kettle boil and listening to the fuzzy transatlantic accents yapping a room away, when the front door of the apartment swung open. 

you didn’t even have time to leave the kitchen. fox threw his bags down like a child and scurried to you, engulfing you in his arms; he drew your body snugly into his and buried his face in your shoulder. he was squeezing the air from your lungs, but you didn’t mind. you combed your fingers through his moussed-up hair, breaking up the curated clumps and reminding it of how it naturally fell against his head. he smelled just as he did when he left, like his ralph lauren polo green- minty and smoky, and so much himself. his soft leather jacket hung onto the smell of his taxi, but you ignored the staleness and inhaled the good stuff. 

“i missed you so much,” fox sighed. the man showered you with kisses all over your neck and jaw, traveling up the valleys of your cheeks to make sure he got your eyes and nose and forehead, too. you squirmed playfully and swatted at his hands, but he only smiled and fought you off.

“jeez, it’s like you thought i died or something!” you giggled. 

fox’s eyes flashed with something that looked like momentary worry, and then it was gone- replaced with a warmth you’d missed more than you realized the past few days. his arms were around you again, this time much gentler, and he asked, “you feel safe with me, don’t you?”

“what? fox, why would you even ask that? of course i do,”

“you know i’d never hurt you,”

“baby, you’re the only person in the world i feel safe with.” you promised, petting the back of his head softly, smoothing the hair down his neck. with both hands, you lifted his face from your shoulder and brought his face close, so you could look right into his ruminative eyes. the man smiled as your thumbs caressed the stubble growing in on his cheeks, those rounded teeth poking out beneath his top lip the way you adored. your chest fluttered, and you couldn’t help but return the gesture. 

“are you okay, baby?” you asked, knocking your forehead against his playfully. 

the man dipped his neck low and pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth. somehow it felt more intimate than if he’d truly kissed you; like by being an inch off base, he was saying more than the real thing could. he always did things like that, such small gestures that would go unnoticed if he was any other guy and you were any other girl, but every move fox made was conscious. each one was a choice that meant something. kissing you in such a way wasn’t a mistake, it was purposeful- he was proving his allegiance, ruling your mouth was more sacred and deserved to be earned. he was poetic in that respect, you knew it, and it made every hair on your body stand up. maybe that’s why you shifted your position and locked him in a normal kiss- a forceful one, at that. to remind him that you were nothing sacred, just someone who desperately loved him. 

you’d missed the way his lips molded to yours, the familiar chapped patches that came from his nervous biting, the way his scruff scratched your chin. you even missed the feeling of his breath as it blew out of his nose and across your face, warm and frequent, because he always seemed to breathe faster when you got close, like a teenage boy. you kissed him hard, letting your hands fall down his chest and press against his abdomen, remembering the sculpted curves of his stomach beneath his t-shirt. fox’s lips curled upwards as you touched him, and in those few moments of your neediness, he was sure you meant what you said before- that you truly did feel safe with him. 

when he pulled away, he brought the pad of his thumb to your plump bottom lip, holding you by the chin. “i’ve been going crazy without you, you know.”

“so have-” you began, but were cut off by the sudden screeching of the forgotten kettle behind you. both fox and yourself jumped, and you rushed to twist the knob on the stove, shutting the thing up in frustration. “sorry.”

“it’s okay,” the agent chuckled.

“you want some?” 

“only if you bring it over to the couch for me,” fox said, batting his eyelashes jokingly. 

“what am i, your mother?” you countered.

fox rolled his eyes and pressed another kiss to your lips, rebutting, “no, but you do love me, don’t you?”

“oh, shut up. go unpack.”

you listened to his footsteps as he went to retrieve his bags and haul them to his bedroom. smiling to yourself, you waited to hear him open the door and laugh. every time he came home, you left his bed an unruly mess and accumulated as many water cups on his nightstand as possible, and he had a love-hate relationship with it (mostly love, because he adored the idea of you living in his space.) a full-bodied sound came from the other side of the apartment, a hearty one, and a voice called, “impressive collection you’ve got in here!”

with two steeping cups of oolong you walked slowly back to fox’s living room, where his copy of vertigo had rewinded to the start. you settled into the couch, putting your feet up on the coffee table and watching jimmy stewart dangle from a drainpipe as you awaited your boyfriend’s return. it always took him a little while to unpack because it was more like repacking- he would swap out all his worn clothes with new ones and throw everything in the hamper, and he had to take out all his necessities only to keep them somewhere easy for him to grab come the next time work sends him away. you were used to waiting for him, but how he acted tonight was making you impatient. 

when fox was finally done and changed into a clean shirt and pajama pants, he headed towards the hallway to come and sit with you. but he paused when he came to the corner, making his steps quiet, so he could take a look at you undisturbed. you were slouched on his old, rickety couch, in clothes all belonging to him; a pair of old gray sweatpants that hugged your thighs, given they were a bit bigger than his skinny ones, his old oxford long sleeve that has a hole in the neck, and a frumpy blue grandpa-style cardigan he hasn’t worn in years. your hair was tucked away in an unraveling braid, with little locks fanning like leaves across the apples of your cheeks. your chipped nails cradled the mug in your palms, and the colors from the box television danced in the reflection of your chunky tortoiseshell glasses. he imagined you sitting like this while he was off on a case, at home in his home, watching his movies and wondering about him like he did of you late at night. you were so pretty and so important that he felt the love buzzing in his fingertips and toes.

the man came around the corner and sat down cautiously on the couch so as not to spill your tea. your face softened at his arrival, and you leaned forward to place your cup down and clamber back to him, throwing your arms around his neck. fox hoisted you onto his lap despite your objections, and he hugged you tighter. he just didn’t feel like letting you go tonight, it seemed. 

“did you eat?” you asked, looking down into those puppy eyes that gazed up. 

“a little while ago.”

“how long was a little while ago?”

“...ten o'clock this morning?” fox grinned sheepishly.

“fox! aren’t you starving? let me go heat something up, i got chinese last night-”

“shh, no, not yet,” he grabbed your hips as you tried to get off of him, “don’t go anywhere yet. sit for a minute.”

“but-”

“no buts. just sit with me a little longer and then i promise i’ll eat, okay?”

you sighed, only half-aggravated, and nodded softly. “alright, fine.”

you rested your head in the crook of his neck, your shoulder pressed to his; he twisted you a bit so you had a chance to look at the tv and sit on him at the same time. fox’s fingers traced mindless shapes against the fabric of his sweatpants on your knee, finally at ease. you stole a glance at him from the side and admired the way even his harshest features seemed to curve softly; his square jaw melted into his neck, his aquiline nose a pretty protrusion alongside his lashes that curled wildly. you always thought his face was the most deserving of marble preservation, far more than those ancient guys. 

“you're missing the movie,” he flushed. 

“i already watched it tonight.” 

the man nuzzled your forehead like a puppy, feeling his stomach flip as your palm rested flat against his chest. you snuggled right up to him and let out a heavy breath you didn’t know you were holding. the two of you sat quietly for a while, taking turns watching each other and remembering what it felt like to be close, and you were half-asleep in the comfort of his arms when his stomach growled and woke you up.

“i’m gonna go make you something,” you chuckled.

“awh, come on, you were just about to sleep!” he whined.

“fox, i want you to eat. once you have a little something then i’ll climb right back on you, promise,” you teased, pushing up off the couch.

“whatever,” he groaned, but there was a toothy smile behind the complaint, so you took it well. 

fox watched as you sauntered off to the kitchen, and he called after you, “hey, wait,”

“what?”

the man hopped off the couch and scrambled to the doorway, where you were only feet from the refrigerator. he stooped down and planted a smooch to your forehead, muttering an, “i love you.”

“just can’t leave my side now, hm?” you nudged fox’s nose with your own and gave him a look so fond it nearly melted him into a puddle on the kitchen tile. “i love you more. now beat it, spooky.”

“hey!”

“shush. go sit down and i’ll make it up to you later.”

‘you’re bossy,” fox crossed his arms, leaning against the wood molding and watching you move towards the fridge.

“well, if you’re not gonna leave, then at least get a pan for me to heat this rice up in, would you?” you ordered, shaking the day-old fried rice container in his face.

“anything for you, darling.”

being without each other could feel impossible at times. no matter how he tried, no set routine could recreate the feeling of falling asleep beside you; nor could any amount of his laundry could conjure fox himself to send you off to work with a kiss every morning. his work made it easy to miss him. but moments like this, where he watched you make him a late-night snack that he would share with you, were the moments that made all the waiting worth it. and the moments that will come after, too- the couch that was waiting for you both to come back to, where you’d fall asleep with your face against his neck, and where he’d fall asleep watching you breathe. nobody knew that absence makes the heart grow fonder more intimately than you two did. but even with that in mind, neither of you cared about that right now. 

he was simply thankful to be with you, the one he called home; thankful that he didn’t have to be without you for a second longer, and so were you.