#I was thinking of doing a piece for all the routes

[marksbear2]

Stalker Mark Hoffman x Ex male reader

I just rewatched a few Saw movies and it kinda just hit me abt like why this is my fav franchise in the first place.

Warnings ⚠️: Possessiveness, obsession, mild stalking, dark psychological themes, emotional manipulation, references to past trauma, tension, angst.⚠️

“Every Piece of You”

The city never slept, but you tried to. In your one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor, behind locked doors and drawn blinds, you told yourself it was over. The late-night knocks, the subtle notes tucked under your door, the uncanny feeling of being watched—it had been a few weeks since the last sign.

You almost believed he’d moved on.

Almost.

Mark Hoffman wasn’t someone you could easily forget. When you first met him, he was magnetic—sharp eyes, slow smile, and a presence that filled any room. A hero on paper, a detective, a man who said all the right things but always carried something darker under his skin.

You never expected the weight of his love to crush you.

You left him. Not cleanly, not easily, but you left. Packed a bag when he was gone on a case, changed your number, got transferred to a different precinct. You didn’t leave a note—just silence. You figured that was the only thing he might understand.

But Mark always finds things he wants. And he never, ever lets go.

⸻

It started again with the coffee mug.

You walked into your kitchen at 7 a.m., sleep still clinging to your limbs, and there it was. Sitting on the counter. Black ceramic. “#1 Detective” in red lettering—the mug he always used at your place. The one you threw out after the breakup.

Your hands trembled when you touched it. Warm. Someone had used it that morning.

You searched the apartment top to bottom. Nothing. No signs of forced entry. No notes.

You called the landlord. He said no one had been in. You told yourself maybe you forgot it, maybe you imagined throwing it out.

But deep down, you knew better.

⸻

Three nights later, you came home and the apartment smelled like his cologne. Faint. Faint enough to make you question reality. But you froze in the doorway, bags still in hand, because your bedroom door was open.

You never left it open.

And on the bed, folded neatly, was your old hoodie. The one Mark used to steal and wear around your apartment, acting like it was his. He’d been in your space again. Unseen, unheard—but there.

A note this time, slipped under the pillow:

“You left too fast. Forgot who you belong to.”

You burned it. You didn’t call the cops.

You knew what Mark was capable of. And worse, you knew no one would believe you. Not against him.

⸻

A week passed.

You started checking behind your shower curtain every night, locking the window twice, triple-checking the door. You took different routes home. You left your lights on. But you still woke up in the middle of the night, feeling his breath on your skin, hearing his voice in your dreams.

It wasn’t until you found him in your apartment—actually there, sitting on the couch like he owned the place—that you realized how far he was willing to go.

“Hey,” he said like nothing had happened. “Did you miss me?”

You stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys fell from your hand.

He didn’t move, just watched you with that unreadable calm he always wore. But his eyes—those were full of hunger. Not lust. Need.

“Mark,” you finally breathed. “Get out.”

“Why would I do that?” He leaned back, spreading his arms across the back of the couch. “You didn’t really want me gone. You were scared. That’s okay. I forgive you.”

You stepped backward, hand reaching for your phone.

“Don’t,” he warned. His voice dropped, sharp and cold.

And you stopped.

Because you remembered the last time you saw that look in his eyes. It was when he came home from a case, blood on his hands, rage humming under his skin. He never raised a hand to you—but you knew what he was capable of.

“I gave you space,” he said, standing now. Slow steps toward you. “I let you run. I let you think you could leave me.”

You backed into the wall. “We’re over, Mark. You don’t get to—”

“We are never over,” he snapped, and the mask slipped. His calm shattered into obsession, raw and wild. “You are mine. I know every scar on your body. Every little sound you make when you sleep. Every weakness. You think you can just erase me?”

He was inches away now. You didn’t dare move.

“I’ve watched you,” he whispered. “For months. You look so lonely. So tired. You don’t eat right. You don’t sleep. You need someone to take care of you.”

You turned your head, refusing to meet his eyes.

He cupped your jaw, gentle now. Too gentle. Like you were glass, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “I just want you to remember what we had. What we still have.”

You finally looked at him—and you saw it. The madness. But beneath it, you saw grief. Longing. He’d turned his love into a cage, but somewhere inside him, he still thought this was what love was supposed to be.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t fight. You just said, “You need help.”

And that, somehow, seemed to crack something in him.

His face twisted—rage, pain, fear. “I need you. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

He pulled you into a crushing hug, burying his face in your shoulder. You didn’t hug him back. But you didn’t move.

You didn’t know what else to do.

⸻

He didn’t leave that night.

He made dinner. Talked to you like it was normal. Slept in your bed, arms wrapped around you like chains. Whispered promises in the dark.

“I’ll never let anyone take you from me.”

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

“You’re safe with me.”

You didn’t sleep.

⸻

You don’t know what the future holds now. Whether you’ll find a way out. Whether you even want to anymore.

Because part of you still remembers the man he used to be. The way he kissed you in the rain. The way he protected you. The way he made you feel seen.

But that man is gone.

And in his place stands someone who will burn the world to keep you close.

Because Mark Hoffman doesn’t love.

He claims.

The end

[returnofeternity]

Imagine meeting Sister Barnes when she's out on her rounds and falling for her so hard. You keep running into her "accidentally" - there's a bench on one of her routes that you go sit on when you know she'll be passing by, just to get a chance to talk to her or even just see her for a second - even going so far as to go to her church; she sees you sitting on a pew in the back row and has to fight her blush so hard when you smile and send a little wave her way.

It takes her weeks to figure out she's fallen for you too. Maybe Sister Paxton says something that makes her realise it but it sends her reeling. Because she can't stop thinking about you, and she looks for you every where when she's out and about, and she keeps picturing you in ways that leave her all hot and bothered.

It gets so bad that she ends up on your doorstep in the middle of the night while it chucks it down with rain practically begging for you.

seeing her and sister paxton for the first time across the street with their bikes. you're waiting at your bus stop, thinking about how that dark-haired girl is the most gorgeous girl you've seen. you and barnes make eye contact (or at least you think you did..) before the bus drives up. you think about her on the bus, looking at them walk away outside the bus window, and sighing because you think you'll never see her again.

but you do!

you see her again at that same bus stop a few days later. she's alone this time, still with her bike, but she stops to sit on a bench and pulls out her book to read. you feel like a creep for staring at her, even more so when she looks up and catches you staring, but you save yourself by awkwardly waving and smiling. at least you hope you did. she seemed to like it, she smiled back and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear before going back to annotating her book.

you go back the next day and sit on the bench that she was at yesterday, hoping she'll show up. like clockwork, she does. she's with sister paxton again, and this time, she actually talks to you. sister paxton is the one who speaks to you first, energetically asking if she could borrow a minute of your time. you nod, looking at sister barnes, which you know is her name now because of the badge on her shirt. you're not at all interested in hearing about their savior jesus christ, nor do you want to be converted, but if sister barnes is in it, it sounds appealing. you pay extra attention when sister barnes speaks up, telling you that if you're really interested in converting, their church is always accepting new visitors and that you should come tomorrow morning at 8:30am.

you ask if she'll be there.

she blushes, but nods, and blushes even more when you accept.

maybe you missed your alarm, or maybe you never set it, but you never end up going. you feel bad, grateful for the extra sleep you got, but you wish you could've seen barnes. you find yourself going to the bench, just waiting, as you scroll through your phone. you're too engrossed in your game to even hear the familiar sound of a bike until you hear:

"you didn't come."

and you look up to see sister barnes, looking as beautiful as ever.

"i-yeah, sorry." you mumble, shoving your phone in your pocket and scooting up on the bench as she sits down next to you. you've never been this close to her, and her perfume is making you nauseous. "my alarm...stupid thing, it never works."

"maybe you should get a new one." she smiles at you, an unfamiliar feeling growing in her chest as you make eye contact with her and nod awkwardly.

it's a whole lot of awkward silence for a bit until she speaks up, telling you that you're always welcome there and you can come any time. she ends up giving you the church's business card, which you thought was her number at first, and leaves for her mission.

whole lotta me yapping too so, blah blah blah, you end up striking up a sort of friendship with her, always talking at The Bench and accidentally running into her at coffee shops and whatnot. you've fallen so hard, you can't stop thinking about her. she's on your mind 24/7. always thinking of kissing her while trying to sleep, mind slipping to her on bus rides and thinking about riding your bike with her. other times, it's thoughts that make you feel guilty for even thinking of. thoughts like kissing her pale neck and hearing her whine for you. thoughts like seeing whats underneath that turtleneck of hers. thoughts of being between her thighs.

you end up going to her church sometimes, just waiting in the back row pew to get a glimpse of her. you smile like a fool and wave to her when you see her, and there's a glimmer of hope that she likes you back when you notice how she always seems to blush when you're around. you always end up talking to her after church, asking what she's doing tomorrow, and always being disappointed when she tells you that she's busy with her missions. but she tries to make time for you! you always meet her at that bench and talk for a bit before she goes off, or you chat for a bit on the phone before she leaves you on read cuz she's busy w a mission.

jokingly telling her that she should show up at your house and try to convert your family just so she can come inside, and you actually end up giving her your address.

sister barnes who, the more she realizes she's actually fallen, like sister paxton said, can't help herself from thinking of you in unholy ways. sister barnes who imagines your dopey smile that you always give her, but you smiling like that underneath her. sister barnes who thinks about how loud or quiet you'd be in the bedroom. sister barnes who thinks about your lips on her body.

sister barnes who gets so hot and bothered thinking about you one night, that she just needs to do something about it. it's nearly 1am, but she's getting dressed and biking to your house, letting out occasional groans every time she pedals faster because the friction is making her feel good. you're lucky that you were just walking past the front door when you heard the sounds of a bike falling to the floor and what seemed like someone panting. you look out the peephole to see sister barnes soaking wet and fixing her hair, and when you open it, there's this look on her face that sends shivers up your spine.

sister barnes who just pants out, "take me to your room," and that's it.

leading her to your bedroom, not even caring about how wet the carpet's gonna get. but you do ask if she's okay when you open the door and tug her inside, because she did just bike through heavy rain, and she's shivering, but it's not because she's cold, it's because she's so desperate for you. and she responds to your question by shrugging off her coat and kissing you, both of you stumbling toward the bed as she pushes you back. it's all messy and sloppy, and there's a little tongue involved, and she keeps mumbling "please" into your lips as she tries to tear off her shirt but it's clinging to her wet body :(

thinking of undressing her and asking her what she wants, telling her to lead you because you'll do anything for her. finally getting to be in between her thighs, and sister barnes finally to feel your lips on her body!!!

[just-animaxiz]

Today marks the anniversary for "Escape From Scrap City!"

And I'll tell you why this episode means so much to me:

Summary: During an airship fight, Ninja and McFist accidentally crash-landed in Scrap City, a junkyard created by McFist to store his old robots after they failed destroying the Ninja.

I'll focus on the "A" Plot of this episode more, because it has so much underlying tones and implications.

It is shown in this video that Scrap City is created by McFist to "Protect Norrisville" when he is the one who created them (Viceroy created them but you know McFist.) He trapped them inside a circular wall that is made to be indestructible, and no one will be able to get in or out.

It is noted that all of the robots in Scrap City are ALIVE and CONSCIOUS, but they have nothing but rust and broken pieces. They're not DEAD, but living to SUFFER.

After McFist and the Ninja crash-landed, they go their separate ways to find an escape route. Ninja tried to ask the Nomicon for help, but he didn't find anything useful other than an lesson.

When Randy woke up, he meets a robot titled "Q.T Bot" (Idk what Q.T. actually means other than Randy thinks it means "Cutie"). The bot used their bit eyes and "beep boop" noises to lower the Ninja's walls, which easily works.

Then the robot leads Randy to a place where he thought would be the way out, but then it is revealed to be an arena.

He saw McFist in a throne, who claimed that "Spiky" (The Red Punk Bot Which I dubbed him Spike) picked him up and told McFist the robots are still loyal to him.

It is also revealed Dale's a prick betrayer.

However, just as McFist mocks Ninja for his idiocy, falling for a trap -

- Spike revealed McFist fell for it too and threw him down with the Ninja.

Spike revealed that McFist and Ninja are guilty for the crimes of Robo-manity, leading to them to fight each other after they tried to blame the other for the cause.

The robots cheered, hooted, and roared as the two fight, and when Ninja takes the upper hand, Spike said this:

"That's right - FINISH HIM!"

At this part, I learned more of Scrap City's characterization: They're not only going after McFist and the Ninja, but they wanted to KILL McFist.

We never see McFist's side, but knowing what he said about Spike and the betrayal, it shows how deeply hated he is to the Robots.

For the Ninja, it's easy. Use the robot with the bit cute eyes to do the work.

For McFist - He's tricked by ego. Spike and the Robots made SURE McFist is seen as superior, vowing submission to him and letting him take the throne -

- WHICH ACTUALLY TURNS OUT TO BE SPIKE'S.

Spike's the one who found McFist and gave his throne as a lure to pull McFist in.

He WANTED McFist to feel the last piece of glory before he threw him out.

It shows his cunning, observant and manipulative side. How much he WANTS Mcfist DEAD by pretending to be on HIS side before tossing him down. How that quote holds so much weight because he is so EXCITED to see the Hero destroying the one thing that created them and left them to ROT.

Back to the story.

The Ninja realized this wouldn't help their situation and recalled his lesson, saying he's not killing McFist and teamed up with him.

Spike didn't like that so he has another robot to do the job.

A Destruco Bot made SPECIFICALLY in Scrap City.

SUMMONED by Spike HIMSELF.

And the robot doesn't look like it's made with new materials. Look at its teeth, the design, the colors -

It's made out of the robots themselves.

It shows another implication of Scrap City, that they're not in a place of repairs. All of their junk are limited and no one's coming to repair them from damage. Not even McFist or Viceroy.

Because they left them in Scrap City.

It is also evident when the Destruco-Bot ONLY goes after McFist, aiming to kill him.

It didn't care or see the Ninja. It just goes after McFist.

After the Ninja destroyed the bot and opened an escape, Spike ordered all bots to chase after the two.

See this image?

Spike takes the lead, but he's faster than the others. Even when the Ninja blocked their path, the Punk Bot leader still keep on going.

Suddenly, Mort and Howard came to rescue them on a Pterodactyl-Van ride. McFist and the Ninja entered, but when they're about to fly away, Spike jumped onto the door.

"You're not living Scrap City THAT EASY!"

Spike didn't want them to leave alive, but it has more to it.

He didn't want them to leave easy.

That place is the only area where no one is able to go in or out, but imagine the people who made you suffer escaping the place with an easy route.

Doesn't it make you mad?

The bots in Scrap City are villains of the story, but they're tragic beings made to ROT everyday and never leave. While the people who made them and destroyed them to suffer are able to get out scot-free.

That's why the episode holds so much for me, having so much potential in it. Scrap City is more than a place of broken robots, but robots who didn't have anything. Their freedom is limited, purpose vanished, and lives walking in loneliness and anguish.

And the MOMENT they see the two reasons that got them into the place there - They had enough.

They wanted revenge.

They wanted to avenge Robo-manity.

They wanted the pain to stop.

[pumpumpuli]

Spooki girls! OR The Wraith and the princesses that lead to her.

[sysig]

You’re looking a bit different than usual! (Patreon)

[killjoy-prince]

A kiss from Death

[xanams]

Someone being extremely annoying in the replies of my flowey and clover gif and I'm running out of patience 😭

[keeps-ache]

i finally have to block a fandom tag bfhsv 💥

[percyouinhell]

Barbie, James and Reese taking pictures in the park~!

James and Reese from @lacunafiction

[hinadori-chan]

low key wanna like

set up a queue for posts i like that don’t circulate anymore so that way the recirculate but also i don’t spam but like

i don’t think i’ve ever used a queue before tbh lol

[itsclydebitches]

Something I don't think we talk enough about in discussions surrounding AI is the loss of perseverance.

I have a friend who works in education and he told me about how he was working with a small group of HS students to develop a new school sports chant. This was a very daunting task for the group, in large part because many had learning disabilities related to reading and writing, so coming up with a catchy, hard-hitting, probably rhyming, poetry-esque piece of collaborative writing felt like something outside of their skill range. But it wasn't! I knew that, he knew that, and he worked damn hard to convince the kids of that too. Even if the end result was terrible (by someone else's standards), we knew they had it in them to complete the piece and feel super proud of their creation.

Fast-forward a few days and he reports back that yes they have a chant now... but it's 99% AI. It was made by Chat-GPT. Once the kids realized they could just ask the bot to do the hard thing for them - and do it "better" than they (supposedly) ever could - that's the only route they were willing to take. It was either use Chat-GPT or don't do it at all. And I was just so devastated to hear this because Jesus Christ, struggling is important. Of course most 14-18 year olds aren't going to see the merit of that, let alone understand why that process (attempting something new and challenging) is more valuable than the end result (a "good" chant), but as adults we all have a responsibility to coach them through that messy process. Except that's become damn near impossible with an Instantly Do The Thing app in everyone's pocket. Yes, AI is fucking awful because of plagiarism and misinformation and the environmental impact, but it's also keeping people - particularly young people - from developing perseverance. It's not just important that you learn to write your own stuff because of intellectual agency, but because writing is hard and it's crucial that you learn how to persevere through doing hard things.

Write a shitty poem. Write an essay where half the textual 'evidence' doesn't track. Write an awkward as fuck email with an equally embarrassing typo. Every time you do you're not just developing that particular skill, you're also learning that you did something badly and the world didn't end. You can get through things! You can get through challenging things! Not everything in life has to be perfect but you know what? You'll only improve at the challenging stuff if you do a whole lot of it badly first. The ability to say, "I didn't think I could do that but I did it anyway. It's not great, but I did it," is SO IMPORTANT for developing confidence across the board, not just in these specific tasks.

Idk I'm just really worried about kids having to grow up in a world where (for a variety of reasons beyond just AI) they're not given the chance to struggle through new and challenging things like we used to.

[pencil-n-pen]

I’M STILL TRYING EVERYTHING

⋆° 𐙚 ₊🧦☕🧸₊°⋆ ೀ₊°⋆

previous | kofi | masterlist

post prison!spencer reid x fem!reader

₊ ⊹

I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me.

-mirrorball, taylor swift

₊ ⊹

summary: you’ve never had a date or a relationship that either didn’t work out or end in disaster. now that you have spencer, you’re determined not to let it happen again

cw: referenced bad past relationships, very very vaguely referenced past domestic abuse that honestly could be taken a different way, referenced child abuse (readers parents are STILL not it) again this is a criminal minds fic so references to graphic violence

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort (do i even need to say this? you all know who i am) insecurity, like one line of misogyny and it’s in the past and not brought up again, spencer being soft n worried, HEALTHY COMMUNICATION, spencer is just as gone for reader as she is for him honestly he's just a sap

a/n: back by popular demand !! seriously guys, you have no idea how much the support and comments and reblogs and asks means to me 🥹 the overwhelming amount of love for the first fic made me so happy when people started asking about a sequel i knew i had to !!

read the crossword on the collage for a surprise :)

this one goes out to all my girlies who’ve ever felt like they needed to be less in order to get a boyfriend or keep one. we’ll have our soft love just the way it was meant to be

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Spencer is a really good boyfriend.

Like… a really good boyfriend. You’re not sure if this is how having a real boyfriend is or if Spencer is just like this.

He’s so good to you. He’s just so- so him. You can’t explain it. Can’t put it into words.

He’s very patient with you. You’ve never explicitly stated it, but he’s picked up on your previous relationship experience- or more accurately, your lack thereof. The morning after you’d gone home with him, night consisting of nothing but easy sleep and warmth, he’d asked you out for real. Asked you if you’d go on a date with him, and you’d agreed, a giddy smile fixed firmly on your face.

But you still worry.

All it takes it one conversation with your parents to push things over the edge.

“Yes, dad. He’s very good to me.”

A laugh crackles over the line. “I tell you, your mother and I never thought we’d see the day.”

The words twinge uncomfortably in your chest. “Hey, I’m not that bad. I’ve just been focused.”

“More like uptight.”

“Dad—“

“You know, you still haven’t come out to visit your poor old parents since getting this so-called cushy job. And now you’ve got this boyfriend. You’re too young to settle down. Don’t you think we should meet him?”

Sometimes conversations turn so quickly they leave you stranded— scrambling to pick up pieces of what you thought was going to happen and piece them together to make something new. Something for the new route the conversation has taken.

You couldn’t hold back your sigh if you tried. “We haven’t been dating for that long dad, I don’t want to spring this on him—“

“Sweetie, if we don’t meet him now, why might never meet him. Who knows how long he’s gonna stick around?”

(Sometimes, in moments like these, for just a split second, you wonder how a father could say something like that, to his daughter. You wonder why, wonder what you did wrong. And then, you imagine Hotch saying those same things, and you can’t, and it almost makes you feel a little better.)

Your blood runs cold. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Well, you know how things have ended in the past. I’m just saying I’d like to meet him before he’s gone."

You don't dignify his words with a response.

"Come on, honey. I'm just joking with you."

"It's not funny."

"Don't be like that--"

"Goodbye."

You hang up, snapping the phone shut with a sigh.

The older you've gotten, the more conversations with your parents end up like this. You suppose it's the way you 'wasted your potential' or 'never made something of yourself.' They've always held resentment ever since you decided to become an agent. So you know not to take what they say to heart, because their words only come from a place of disappointment and displeasure. It's not a reflection of who you really are or what you've really accomplished.

Or at least, that's what Hotch told you when he'd overheard one of your phone calls. It meant more than you'd let on.

But your Dad's words linger in your head. They're irritating and sharp where they claw around in your head because they're true.

You can count on one hand the amount of romantic endeavors you've had. And from those, they all ended horribly. Your parents lost sympathy towards the end of your attempts, muttered words of needing to try harder to keep them, that you should be satisfied that somebody wanted you at all, that you should try to be less... you.

Try to be less... you, dear. The books and the facts- nobody wants those. Put some more effort into your appearance. Otherwise you'll end up all alone.

You'd tried to take their advice, of course. But the relationships that were fathered your parents direction were not loving. There was nothing soft or gentle or warm about them. You'd never felt more unlovable.

So when the incident with the shooter happened and you were lying on the lecture hall floor, blood coloring the carpet deep scarlet, you'd vowed to never let it happen again. That you were going to use your intellect and wit and passion for what you wanted to do- you'd promised yourself that if you survived, you would try to make your life your own, one step at a time.

This, of course, is easier said than done.

It's easy enough to refuse to let yourself get involved with men who are clearly only interested in your for your badge or your body --though the latter happens so rarely you really don't have to worry about it-- because you don't care about them. They're blips on your radar.

But Spencer? Sweet, sweet Spencer who makes you hot-cocoa and binge watches Doctor Who with you, even the later seasons, which you know he doesn't like as much but you love. Spencer who always has a grounding touch to offer, or a quiet command when you need him. Spencer who puts you first.

But there's a limit to these things, right? As far as you've seen, romantic relationship's are transactional, or conditional. Sometimes both. He can't just... keep doing this forever. It's too kind. Too sweet. It'll come to an end soon. Like, like the honeymoon era in early relationships. That's all it is. Plus, he's older than you, and you have no illusions about your unavoidable impulsiveness and naivety.

You've been told that your standards are too high before. "Struck by the hopeless romantic's arrow," your brother had said once, back when you were still in school, crying over a boy who'd told you that he didn't want to date you because you were too smart for a girl.

"That's not being hopeless romantic. There's no such thing as being too smart for a girl."

"There isn't," He'd amended, "But you're not going to have an easy time finding a guy. You of all people can't really afford to be picky."

He'd been right, in the end. So you're just... having a hard time figuring out how genuine Spencer's actions are. Guy's don't really act all romantic in the context of you. You've been told your whole life to be happy with what you get, and what you've had in the past is decidedly not lining up with how Spencer treats you.

It's a nasty little thing in your ear. Is it real? Does it matter as much to him?

When is it all going to end?

--

Rossi make's an offhand comment during a mission that you talk a lot when you're excited about the subject at hand.

JJ agrees. "It's a little unnerving when the subject is the bruising patterns of strangulation."

That little voice comes back.

Too much too much too much too much too much--

"It's useful," You protest, mouth dry.

JJ snorts, "I'm not sure about that. We need to know that the victim was strangled, not what happens to the body during blunt-force asphyxiation."

You'd grown quiet then, let the chatter and musings of the rest of the team wash over you.

Is that something Spencer finds annoying? You have always found things other's view morbid and disturbing fascinating. But JJ is right. No one wants to hear about that.

You brush the comment off, square your shoulders, get back on with the case.

Be better. Try harder.

You don't seen the furrow of Spencer's brows from where he's been watching you, or the quick look he shares with Hotch.

--

You'd never really thought about how clingy you can be before Emily makes an offhand comment about it while the two of you wait in line at a coffee shop. There's a couple in front of you, the girl all over her partner, kissing and giggling and hugging them close.

"Ugh," Emily groans once the two get their coffee and move on. "I could never understand the appeal of all that. I mean doesn't it feel stifling?"

A little stab of ice in your stomach.

"I don't know. I think it's nice."

"No, thank you. If I were her partner, I'd feel smothered."

You think about that conversation every time you take Spencer's hand or lean into his simple touches. They're invasive little things, the thoughts. It's not hard to pull back on all the touching. You never really ask for them in the first place- always too nervous to come off clingy. But you suppose just taking, taking, taking is just the same.

A quick shake of your head, not leaning in, a quiet "I'm fine." and that little nagging fear of smothering begins to quiet. It doesn't leave, but it does get quieter. For a little while, at least.

--

The hard part is trying to be less without noticeably being less. Spencer's smart- and he's a profiler. If you pull back too much too quickly, he'll notice, and you don't want to talk about this yet. You just need to make sure he'll stay. That things won't—

That you won't find out too late that you don't mean as much to him as he does to you.

That's the kind of thing that can't happen again. But ascertaining his true feelings and desires is difficult, because this is all kind's of new territory for you. You want to believe it's real. You really, really want to believe it's real.

But it's never been real before, so why would it be real now?

--

You've asked around (subtly and carefully, of course) about the type of girl Spencer's dated or drifted towards in the past. You know he said he wanted something soft and sweet, but you can't help but think that you're not really either, nor are you in line with his type. All things considered, you're a mess. Something tired-eyed and hollow is how you feel most days. Some sort of creature perhaps? You're honestly not sure what you are. You've spent your entire life being singled out or otherwise othered- always too smart or too different or too weird or too much or too loud or too quiet or too shy or too, too, too. Always too something. You have never been called soft or sweet. In a demeaning way, sure, but never with the quiet reverence that Spencer said it with that night.

It feels like a balancing act, a bit. Holding all those too much parts so close to your chest with one hand and shoving the ones you think Spencer wants with the other hand.

You could probably drop the one hand. The one holding the bad parts. But you're just not convinced he'll stay. You're not sure that he won't look at them with some form of disgust or pity or something else terrible.

You know the balancing act isn't sustainable— you'll fall eventually, and everything will come crashing down, but until then, you just keep trying. Trying to see if he'll stay, trying to see what to do if he won't. How to ensure he will, if that's something that's possible.

--

The act does not hold up for as long as you hoped it would. It comes crashing down with a glass. Literally.

You and Spencer are in the kitchen on a rare weekend off, cooking and drinking wine and swaying to some little old love song.

It should be perfect, except you're worrying that you look ugly while you're dancing, and you're probably singing off-key, and he maybe wants you to shut up so he can hear the song or dance in peace.

He reaches towards you and you just— your brain shrieks for a moment, all senses going into overdrive and you jerk backward, and your elbow knocks into your wine glass, and it falls, shattering behind you with a deafening crash.

Your entire body tenses, waiting for yelling or sighing or something, because you broke the glass, there's crystalline shards everywhere, the wine red and it looks like blood, maybe it is, maybe you're bleeding because the glass was really close to your foot when it fell but you're not sure because you can't really feel your feet or your fingers or—

"Don't move," Spencer says, voice serious, and tears well in your eyes, because this is when it all ends isn't it? "I don't want you to— honey?"

"Yes?" You croak.

His eyes are swimming with concern as he takes in your hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and scared expression.

Understanding flickers in his features, and you resist the urge to hold your breath.

"Nothing is going to happen to you because of the glass, okay? Everything is fine. We're fine. I'm not mad. See? I'm not mad. I just don't want you to cut your feet on the glass. I'm going to clean this up and get your slippers, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe, voice hoarse. You wring your hands nervously as he leaves to retrieve the necessary supplies to clean the mess, heart beating so fast and so hard you're shocked you can't see it through your shirt.

He's not mad. He's not mad. You're not in trouble. Your parents aren't here. You're not grounded. You're not in trouble. He's not mad.

You're silent while he cleans, focused on getting your breathing under control while he babbles quietly about the history of glass making and the significance of types of wine glasses. The facts and history wash over you in steady waves, easing the tension in your shoulders bit by bit.

"I didn't think you were going to hit me, Spencer."

He continues cleaning. "It's okay if you did. I would never blame you for that."

"But I don't," You say, suddenly desperate, "I know you wouldn't, I've never been hit, not like that."

He's quiet for a few minutes. "Does this have something to do with how you've been acting recently?"

You freeze. "What do you mean?"

He looks up, leaning back on his knees. Making himself smaller, you realize. He's trying not to scare you again.

"You're dating a profiler. Also, I speak fluent you, and you've been chewing all your hangnails again. You only do that when you're stressed and pretending like you're not."

Your finger's twitch at your sides.

His hands come up slowly, and he rubs the length of your waist and hips. "We don't have to talk about it right now, but I think we should soon. I don't want you hurting all by yourself. You've had enough of that. That's what I'm here for."

He finishes cleaning up the glass, and finishes cooking dinner- he'd assured you he'd turned off all burners when the glass hit the floor, so nothing's burnt.

Once you've both eaten, he steers you towards the couch and wordlessly puts on Doctor Who.

The Pandorica is just about to open when you finally decide that if you don't start talking, you never will.

"My parents think you're going to leave me."

Spencer makes a wounded noise in his throat. "Why do they think that?"

"Because it's happened before. I'm, um. I'm not very good at getting into relationships. Or keeping them."

"But that's not your fault."

You sniff hard, rubbing your face with your sleeve. "It is though, isn't it? At least a little. I know I can be a lot. I know I'm not easy to—"

You cut yourself off, but the words hang in the air anyway; unsaid.

I'm not easy to love.

"Anyway," You say, pushing through the lump in your throat. "I just thought. I don't know. I was worried that you'd get fed up with me."

"No," He whispers, voice raw and full of something a lot heavier than fond. "No, no baby. I like that you're clingy and you ramble when you get excited, because it means that we get to talk about something together."

He shifts on the couch, sitting criss-crossed, ducking his head down to catch your gaze. "You know what else I like?"

You scoot over, mirroring his position. "What?"

"I like that you always know when I need you. Even when I don't think I do, you're there. Because I do need you. This isn't a one-way street."

His words hit you straight in your chest. "Oh."

He smiles, brows a little scrunched, brown eyes a deep pool of fondness and a splash of concern. "Yeah. And I'm thinking you need me a little more than you want to let on."

The seam of your pajama pants suddenly becomes the most interesting thing in the world. Amazing, the wonders of a sewing machine.

"Maybe."

"Mmm," He hums, "So if I need you, don't you think that you're allowed to need me?"

Your fingers pick and twirl a loose thread around. "...Yes?"

A large, firm hand covers your thigh, giving it a quick squeeze. "Yes. Not only are you allowed to need me, I want you to need me. Cause you know how you're always worried about being the best girlfriend? Well, I'm always worried about being the best boyfriend."

That makes you look up. "Really?"

He chuckles again, a little puff of air fanning your face. "Yes, really. I assure you, contrary to your past experiences, this is one of those bare minimum things in a relationship."

"That does not," He continues, immediately catching the brief flicker of doubt and shame on your face, "Mean that it is your fault at all for how you were treated in the past. You wouldn't expect me to suddenly become an expert in veterinary medicine just because I've been to the vet's office a few times, right?"

"When did you go to the vet's—"

"Shh, I'm being a good boyfriend," He holds up a hand, lips quirking up when you can't suppress a tiny giggle, "But seriously. You had no frame of reference, right? And you were being told it was your fault. But it wasn't. You didn't deserve that."

He lets his words hang in the air for a little while and allows you time to process this new information.

"What do I do now?"

"Well," He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, curls tickling your forehead, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here. Just three things. You have to keep letting me need you, let yourself need me, and one last little thing."

"What?"

You're so close your breaths are mingling.

"Let me show you what this is supposed to look like. How a man is supposed to treat a pretty girl. His pretty girl."

"Oh, well," Heat rushes to your cheeks, your stomach doing flip-flops, "That sounds pretty hard. I don't know how I'll hold up."

His hand comes up to hold the side of your face, his thumb sweeping strokes under your eye.

"You say that now, but I know what happens to you when I get romantic. You swoon."

You laugh. "I do not swoon."

"You will."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It isn't a kiss-kiss. He's kissing you just to kiss you; just to let you know that he's here, that you have him.

It's sweet and perfect and exactly what you need.

--

Letting yourself need Spencer is marginally easier now that you know he needs you. Now that you know you're not going all in for someone who isn't.

He also starts needing you a bit... louder.

It's late evening, and most people have gone home except you and a couple other members of the team, all still working on paperwork.

Except Spencer, who's decided to drape himself over your shoulders like a cat, his chin resting on your head.

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Either finished it or it can be done later."

You shift your shoulders, smiling at how his grumbles vibrate against your back.

He moves his head, pressing his cheek to your head instead of his chin, heaving a deep sigh.

"Your hair smells good."

"Like what?"

"You're shampoo. Yours always smell better than mine."

You continue to work through your paperwork, Spencer a continuous and solid weight against your back.

"Is this even comfortable for your back at all?"

"Doesn't matter. Need girlfriend time."

He can't see it, but you're sure he knows how hard you blush.

--

Spencer's cooking the two of you a late breakfast in the kitchen of his apartment, hair still all mussed from sleep. He's quite the sight. You can't stop staring.

You're sitting on the counter, still dressed in your pajamas, legs swinging.

"You wanna know something cool?"

"You know it,"

"Butterflies and moths can drink blood and tears. There's nutrients in them. Purple Emperor butterflies are especially known for this. It's called mud-puddling."

"So you're telling me I should make sure I bandage any open wounds before I go to a butterfly house?"

"I guess. I can't imagine they'd be able to drink enough blood to actually cause any damage."

"Maybe we'll have to go to a butterfly house. For research."

"Should we get dinner afterwards?"

"We'll deserve it, you know, for all the hard research we'll have done."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose so."

--

Spencer's bed is infinitely more comfortable than your bed. You're pretty sure it's a combination of the fact that it's the only thing in the entire world that smells so much like him and the fact that he spent part of his large FBI paycheck on a fancy mattress. Back support is very important to him.

You're doing a little reading before bed, shamelessly sprawled all over him while he does his own reading. You've got a leg hooked over his hips, the other tangled with his legs, and your arms and head pillowed on his chest. You move a little every time he takes a breath, and more than once you've paused in your reading, mesmerized by the feeling.

He shifts under you, setting his book down on his night stand and making himself more comfortable.

"Should I move?"

"No," he says, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush to him, face pressed to the crook of your neck. He breathes deep, scruffy stubble scratching against your skin. "Like you close. Good for sleep."

Even with the lamp on, and your book in your hand, you fall asleep soon after him.

--

It's an ordinary evening for the two of you. Discarded dishes sit on the coffee table in front of the t.v, neither of you paying them any attention, wrapped up in each other and eyes glued to the screen.

You look up at Spencer who's watching Doctor Who with the focus of a man who's never seen it, even though you know for a fact he's seen it before, several times in fact.

"I want to know the things you like," He'd said simply, the one time you'd asked why he takes your nightly Doctor Who watching so seriously.

And tonight's no different. Tonight, he looks... well, he looks like Spencer. His face illuminated by the TV screen, his hair all mussed from you running your hands through it earlier.

And it just kind of all hits you at once. You know.

"I love you."

He looks down at you, his expression soft and surprised. When your words register, his expression is so sickeningly fond and happy you can't help but lean in, burying your face in his chest. He rubs your back consolingly, then presses a little kiss to the crown of your head.

"I love you too."

⋆⭒˚.⋆

taglist: @topsecret101 @slowdownpal @leeknowpegger @sunbl3achedfly @hiireadstuff @paige0103 @private190104 @beautyb1ade @coraline-jones353 @pleasenter-sandman @sttvrdustt @gluchie @thomasintheshadows @dessamira1001 @bbleeeeh @hufflely-puffly @bippityboppityboob1tch @buggys-space @redxfangirl @liauchiha147 @dreaming-potato @meandyoulollz @jobrosimp

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 342

Adjective: Nostalgic

Noun: Face

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Nostalgic: characterized by or exhibiting feelings of nostalgia (a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations; something done or presented in order to evoke feelings of nostalgia)

Face: the front part of a person's head from the forehead to the chin, or the corresponding part in an animal; the face as expressing emotion, or an expression shown on the face; a manifestation of outward aspect of something; a person of a particular type; the surface of a thing, especially one that is presented to the view or has a particular function; (geometry) each of the surfaces of a solid; a vertical or sloping side of a mountain or cliff; the side of a planet or moon facing the observer; the front of a building; the plate of a clock or watch bearing the digits or hands; the distinctive side of a playing card; short for typeface; the side of a coin showing the head or principal design

[moonstruckme]

Who's That Girl

summary: after Peter moves out due to unspecified reasons suddenly, the marauders have a room to fill. Luckily, you've just arrived in the UK and are happy to sign the lease

cw: modern au, reader has a mother/maternal figure

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Okay, mom.” You rub your eyes, arm still sore from lugging your suitcase around half of London. “No, I really don’t think so. It’d be a pretty elaborate scheme just to kill me. Our names are all together on the lease, there’d be a paper trail.” 

There’s a quiet snicker from the doorway. You look over to find James, one of your new roommates, standing in the threshold of your room. You grimace, miming waving your mother’s concerns away. 

“Seriously, you don’t have to worry, I—fine, here. Listen.” You put your hand over the speaker. “I’m so sorry about this,” you tell James. “Can you tell her you’re not going to murder me, please?” 

“Why would we murder you?” he asks in an easy, jovial voice. It’s the sort of voice moms love, which is perfect for what you need right now. “We need you alive to pay rent, and anyway we’ve nowhere to hide a body. They started being rather vigilant about the Thames some time ago.” 

“He’s joking,” you say quickly into the phone. “Yeah, I’m sure. They do that here, too. Now will you please go to sleep? I’m good, I promise. Okay, call you later. Love you.” 

You click the button to hang up with a sigh, dropping back onto your mattress. 

“Your mum?” James asks sympathetically. 

You hum. “Yeah, sorry. It’s four in the morning for her right now, and she’s all wound up. I appreciate the help.” 

Despite your best efforts, you can’t seem to convince your body it’s not four in the morning for you right now. You thought taking the red eye to London would help you adjust quickly to the time change, but a sleepless flight has only made you weary and disoriented. You screwed up the route from the airport to your new flat, realizing only around Richmond that you’d gone the complete wrong direction on the wrong tube line. It took you a solid hour longer to get to your flat than you planned. When you saw Sirius, who’d posted the flat in an online roommates group, waiting on the other side of the door you nearly collapsed into his arms in teary gratitude. 

With the haze of fatigue still clouding your thinking, it takes you a few moments to wonder why James has come to stand in your room. 

“Did you need something?” 

“I was just wondering if you might like breakfast,” he says. His big frame fills the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the frame like it’s a familiar stance. 

You try to hide your wariness, your mind filling with images of black pudding and beans smeared on toast. “What are you having?” 

“Omelets.” 

“Yes, please.” You hop out of bed. It’s less bouncy than lurching, but you’re trying to affect vivacity in the hopes you eventually start to feel it. 

James leads you towards the kitchen. Your room, you discovered when you arrived, is even duller than the pictures online. The previous tenant either hadn’t decorated at all or had moved out in a hurry, leaving only a bed and some trash on the floor. The room is small, with peeling white paint and a tiny window situated oddly in the corner, the scraggly tree outside eclipsing half of the view. 

The rest of the flat is a different thing entirely. The common spaces are mostly open; you can see the kitchen from the living room, with everything lit by two large windows looking out onto the street. There’s a funny mishmash of decorations, some pieces hinting at unity and others not so the way it all comes together seems almost like a happy accident. A nice, plush couch sits next to a chair that looks like it was dragged in off the street; there are books stacked against walls and album covers being used for coasters; a collection of vinyl records sits on the mantle next to a bluetooth speaker and above stockings seemingly left out since Christmas. It’s definitely a space decorated by boys, but you like it. It feels homey. 

“My mum would be in a right state if I up and moved continents,” says James, walking into the kitchen. He takes up position behind the stove, next to where Remus is making tea. “Is it the city she’s worried about?” 

“It’s everything,” you admit, lingering awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen. You don’t want to be in the way. “It’s the city, it’s the male roommates, it’s the Facebook post she saw about muggings…” 

“Flatmates,” Sirius corrects you from the kitchen table. “We’re not roommates, we don’t share a room. Maybe you ought to clarify that, might calm her down a bit.” 

“Flatmates,” you amend. “She does not like that I have guy flatmates. Can I help?” 

“Don’t,” says Sirius. “Remus is a control freak in the kitchen. Real finicky.” 

“I’m not finicky.” Somehow, you can tell Remus is rolling his eyes even without him turning it around. 

“You nearly took my head off over the way I cook chicken last week.” 

“The way you cook chicken nearly burned down the flat.” 

“Y/n,” Sirius says, seriously, “do as I do.” He pats the seat next to him at the table. 

You glance at James hesitantly, but he waves you off. When you join Sirius in sitting down, you forget to suppress the sigh that collapses out of you. 

Sirius tuts. “Jet lagged?” 

Lag feels too kind a word for what your body is doing to you. “Yeah. Think I’m gonna take a nap after this.” 

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says. “I’ve done the whole international travel thing—” 

“You’ve been to France,” says Remus drolly. “The time difference is an hour.” 

“—and it really is best to just push through,” Sirius finishes as though the interruption went unheard. “You’ll only make matters worse for yourself if you sleep now and then can’t tonight.” 

You hate how sound his logic seems. The idea of waiting at least ten hours to put your head to a pillow makes you want to cry. 

“So,” James says brightly, “what doesn’t your mum like about you having guys for flatmates?” 

Perhaps it can be chalked up to exhaustion that you have so little control over the expression that crosses your face. Luckily, James is too concentrated on his omelet to see it, but Remus isn’t; he grins at you. 

“She doesn’t really love the idea of me having roommates at all. Flatmates,” you correct yourself when Sirius gives you a look. “I think because you’re guys, she just sees it as even less safe. Don’t take it personally. Oh, thank you.” 

You accept the mug of tea Remus sets in front of you. Sirius has one already half drunk in front of him, and Remus sits down with his own, taking a long sip like it’s the most relished part of his morning. You look into the brown, half-opaque liquid skeptically. 

“Has she been this upset since you decided to live with us?” Remus asks. 

“Oh, um.” You bob your teabag aimlessly, twisting the string around your finger. “I…sort of assumed she would be. That’s why I didn’t tell her until now.” 

You don’t have to take your attention off your tea to feel the stares of all three boys snap to you. 

“You didn’t tell her?” James asks, incredulous. 

“I didn’t want to give her the chance to argue with me about it.” 

“Asking for forgiveness instead of permission.” Sirius nods approvingly, picking up his mug for a sip. “Knew I liked you.” 

James appears in distress. “Your mum’s gonna hate us!” 

“Don’t mind him,” says Remus. “He’s used to all mothers fawning over him.” 

“Not mine,” Sirius objects happily. 

“She’s across the ocean, if that helps,” you tell James. 

“I can feel her hatred crossing borders,” he says, expression growing increasingly fretful. 

“Well, all you have to do is not murder me,” you offer, “and she’ll see that she’s wrong.” 

Sirius gives an insouciant shrug. “Pay your rent on time, and we ought to be fine there. No promises, of course.”

[inseobts]

Tell Me No Lies

law x fem!reader

you’re a psychologist who can spot any lie and that makes law keep his distance, afraid you’ll see how he truly feels. but when a mission forces you to pose as his lover, the lines between act and reality blur fast.

a/n: this was a request but since it's really long I summarized it

words count: 3.9k

tags: slow burn, mutual pining, undercover couple, spicy but not smut, fluff, tension, crewmates being chaotic

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“You want me to do what?”

Your voice slices through the meeting room of the Polar Tang like a dagger, sharp, pointed, and just a little amused.

Penguin holds up his hands, grinning like he’s already imagined you and Law making out in a booth “Not my idea! Bepo came up with it.”

Bepo, ever innocent, blinks “It’s logical. Varrick lies constantly. You can tell when people lie. Captain’s the one meeting him. It’s simple.”

You stare “You want us to act like a couple.”

“Just for the night!” Shachi chimes in from where he’s stuffing chips in his mouth “The place is a casino-slash-brothel. No one goes in there looking like a business partner. You show up all cold and stiff, he’ll know something’s up.”

Law hasn’t said a word.

He sits at the head of the table, arms folded, expression blank. But you know that face. He’s thinking. Calculating. Fighting something.

Then, flatly “Fine.”

You blink “Fine?”

“You’ll have to stay close,” Law adds, eyes flicking to yours “I can’t talk in code around Varrick, and I doubt we’ll get a second chance if he feels like we’re onto him.”

“So, what, I sit on your lap and play with your hair while you ask about Navy routes?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Penguin snorts soda through his nose.

Law doesn’t miss a beat “If it gets us the truth.”

You swallow hard. Because that should not have sounded that smooth.

Later, in your room, you stand in front of the mirror, pulling on the final piece of your dress, a deep red number that hugs your waist and legs and dips dangerously low down your back. You smooth it down, checking the slit up your thigh, the way the silk shimmers under the ship lights.

“You don’t have to look like a goddess,” you mutter to your reflection “You just need to catch a liar.”

But damn it, the dress works. And the second you step into the hallway, you hear Shachi’s voice echo from down the corridor “Caaaptaaaain!”

You freeze.

“Don’t be mad when she looks hotter than you, bro!” Penguin adds, loud enough that it bounces off the steel walls.

“Stop yelling” Law says from somewhere out of sight. His voice is tense.

You round the corner and stop dead.

Oh no.

Law... Law is in a black suit, crisp and clean, no tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair’s slicked back just enough to make your throat go dry. Tattoos peek out at the edge of his collar. He’s leaning against the wall, looking at his den-den mushi, but when he looks up and sees you his fingers still. His eyes trail down, slow. Too slow.

You hear Shachi whisper “damn” under his breath and fist bump Penguin like they just won a bet.

Law clears his throat “You’re… ready.”

You tilt your head, smirking “You look nice too. Didn’t know you owned a suit.”

“It was a gift” he mutters.

You take a step forward “From who? Someone who wanted to see you flustered?”

His jaw ticks “I’m not flustered.”

You do notice the slight red creeping up the back of his neck. Just a little. Enough.

Before either of you can pretend to be normal, the rest of the crew crowds the hallway behind you.

Bepo holds up a little camera “Say cheese.”

“We’re not taking pictures” Law snaps.

“Oh come on,” Penguin grins “Look at you two!”

“You’re never letting this go, are you?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

“Nope.”

Shachi elbows Bepo “Ten bucks says they come back married.”

Bepo nods solemnly “I’ll take that bet.”

Law groans and starts walking past them, ignoring the chaos.

You trail after him, heels clicking on the metal. As you pass the guys, you whisper, “Try not to blow our cover.”

Penguin winks “Go get that intel... and maybe some action.”

You don’t answer but your cheeks are hotter than they should be.

And the second Law opens the hatch to the upper deck, the cold sea air hits you and so does the reality of the night ahead.

The casino is loud. Velvet-lined walls drown out the outside world, while gold lights glint off dice and crystal glasses. Somewhere near the back, a piano plays slow jazz. It’s all soft temptation and sharpened edges.

You walk in beside Law, his arm around your waist. His fingers rest against the small of your back like they belong there, not too tight, not too loose. Just… there.

You can feel the heat of his palm through the silk of your dress. You can feel everything.

Stay focused.

Varrick is waiting in a private corner booth, exactly where intel said he’d be. He’s slouched in the plush seat like he owns the place, surrounded by too many drinks and not enough class. Rings clink against his glass as he lifts it.

“Trafalgar Law!” he says, standing with a grin too wide to be real “Wasn’t expecting you to bring arm candy.”

Law’s arm tightens around you. Not protectively. Possessively.

“She’s more than that,” he says, calm as ever “But she doesn’t like to talk much.”

You smile politely at Varrick, then glance at Law from the corner of your eye.

Smart. That gives you the freedom to observe.

You slide into the booth beside Law, close, but with just enough space between you to keep your focus.

Varrick leans forward “So, you wanted info on that Navy ship?”

Law nods “I heard it was seen heading east out of Ivona Port last week.”

Varrick shrugs, swirling his drink lazily “Could be. Could be west. Hard to say.”

You place your hand lightly on Law’s thigh. Barely a touch. Just enough.

Lie.

Law’s eyes don’t move. His posture doesn’t change. But his fingers tap against the glass in front of him once, acknowledging you.

Varrick chuckles “You know, these Navy guys come and go. They don’t tell me everything.”

Your fingers slide up, brushing over the inside of Law’s wrist as you reach for your own drink.

Another lie.

Law hums “Then tell me what you do know.”

“I know they’re not looking for pirates right now,” Varrick says “Some big job further north. Something to do with weapons.”

Your nails gently press into the back of Law’s hand, slow and deliberate.

Lie.

You feel him tense slightly. Like he’s thinking.

“Do you want something in return for this info?” Law asks coolly.

Varrick grins “Only a little favor later. Nothing serious.”

Even now he's lying.

This time you run your fingers slowly down Law’s forearm, letting your touch linger like a lover’s caress. But it’s all code. All signal.

Law shifts beside you. To anyone watching, it just looks like he’s turning toward you, lips brushing close to your ear.

“You’re sure?” he murmurs.

You nod “Three lies so far.”

“Mm.”

Varrick raises a brow “You two are cute, y’know that? Real cozy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re actually into each other.”

Law leans in, his lips grazing the edge of your cheek as he speaks “We are.”

Your heart skips.

You almost miss the way Varrick’s mouth twitches at that. A little wrinkle in the corner of his eyes. Something flickers. Jealousy?

“Lucky guy then...” Varrick mutters.

Law’s arm moves from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer. Not fake this time. Not calculated. His hand is warm, firm, fingers curling possessively.

You’re practically in his lap now.

You keep your eyes on Varrick “So what’s the Navy doing near Blue Rock Island?”

He flinches.

Small. Quick. But you see it.

You drag your hand up Law’s chest like you’re playing with his shirt but your fingers dig in slightly at his collarbone.

That’s the truth. That’s the target.

Law tilts his head slightly, voice low and smooth “Blue Rock, huh?”

Varrick blinks, caught off guard.

You glance at Law just for a second and see it.

His eyes are calm. But his pulse at his neck is faster now. You shouldn’t be this close. He shouldn’t be looking at you like that. You’re supposed to be watching the informant, but now you’re catching the way Law’s lips part ever so slightly when you shift in his lap. The way his breath hitches.

He’s too good at hiding. You never have a baseline for him and suddenly, you realize you do now. You’ve been close enough tonight to read him. Feel him.

So when his ears turn red the moment Varrick leaves the table you finally know what his tell is.

“You’re enjoying this” Law mutters as Varrick disappears into the crowd.

You swirl the last sip of wine in your glass “Enjoying not getting stabbed in a double-cross? Sure.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You turn your head slowly toward him, lashes low, a smirk threatening at the corner of your mouth “No? Then clarify, Captain.”

His jaw clenches.

You lean in “Or are you upset I figured out your tell?”

Silence.

Got him.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you. Just sips from his glass like he’s trying not to set it down too hard. You watch his throat bob, slow and tight. He’s flustered. Controlled but clearly struggling to keep that control.

Which is dangerous and tempting.

You reach out, brush something “imaginary” from his collar, letting your fingers drag across the base of his throat. He stiffens just slightly, and you swear under that cool expression, his eyes darken.

“I’m not ready to leave” you say casually, turning away to scan the floor “We did the job. Got the truth. Maybe we deserve a little fun.”

Law doesn’t argue. That alone is suspicious.

So you both stay. You drink. You people-watch. You flirt, just enough to be part of the act. And he plays along, letting his hand rest low on your back, murmuring sarcastic commentary about the drunk nobles and sleazy gamblers, voice low and rough in your ear.

But then Varrick returns.

You’re seated now in a more open lounge, a couch near the roulette tables. Varrick walks up with a drink and a too-easy smile.

“Forgot one little detail,” he says, tone casual “Seems like the Navy isn’t after pirates right now because they’re meeting with one. Some kind of alliance. Dunno who.”

Lie.

You shift against Law and drag your fingers along his inner thigh, too slow to be innocent.

Varrick talks more, and you let your hands wander. One arm over Law’s shoulder, the other toying with the fabric of his jacket. A fingertip gliding along the inked edge of his collarbone. Every time Varrick lies, you punish Law with a new touch.

You want to see how much he can take.

When you trail your hand up to the side of his neck and run your thumb along his jaw, you feel it. That little twitch. A shiver. His hand slides up your waist and grips tight, like a warning.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear.

“He’s lying again.”

Your voice is barely above a breath.

“And you’re pushing it” Law growls, so low only you can hear.

But you just smile and press a kiss to his cheek, slow and lingering “Don’t lose your composure, Captain. Someone might think you’re affected.”

Varrick finally gets bored and excuses himself, clearly thinking he’s dropped enough bait.

The second he’s out of sight, Law stands.

“You come with me. Now.”

You blink “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just starts walking toward the upstairs hall of the casino. Like he already knows you’ll follow.

Which… you do.

Up the stairs, past the velvet curtain, through the dim corridor lined with private doors. He finds an empty suite with a key card left in the slot—probably reserved for VIPs or those with a winning streak.

He opens it.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

And then he pins you to the wall. Hands at your side, like blocking you. Eyes burning.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, voice rough “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

You pretend to think “Touching my captain in public? Flirting with a man who’s obviously holding back? Yeah. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

His gaze flickers from your lips to your eyes and back again. His breath is hot against your face.

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

You grab his lapel and pull him down.

“I’ll tell you if you lie.”

For a few long seconds, Law doesn’t move.

His fingers flex on your hips, like he’s debating whether to pull you in or push you away. His eyes are on yours, unreadable to anyone else but you can see it now. The cracks in that cold, calculated shell. The tension. The restraint.

You’ve spent months trying to get a baseline on him. To decode his behavior. Now? You are the baseline.

And he’s struggling.

“I should let you go” he mutters, voice low, more to himself than to you.

“But you won’t” you whisper back.

His eyes drop to your lips “No.”

He steps closer. Your back is fully against the wall now, your breath tangled with his. You tilt your chin up, almost daring him.

“What’s holding you back?” you ask.

His mouth twitches “You.”

A beat.

Then “You’re too good at reading people.”

You grin “So are you.”

His hand slips to the back of your thigh, just under the slit of your dress. Not high, but enough to make your pulse skip “You’ve been testing me all night.”

“Guilty.”

“You think it’s funny watching me lose control?”

“I think it’s hot.”

That does it.

He lets out a quiet, sharp breath, like he’s just given up fighting gravity, and leans in until your foreheads are pressed together. His hand stays on your thigh. His other lands on the wall beside your head.

You whisper, “You’re not usually like this.”

“No,” he says “You bring it out.”

You stay like that for a moment, so close, heat radiating between you, neither of you quite touching where it counts. The tension is unbearable in the best way. It’s not just attraction. It’s months of silence, near-misses, unsaid things finally rising to the surface.

Law is still Law, he's collected and composed, but now you know what it costs him. You feel the restraint humming under his skin like electricity.

You reach up and slide your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He shivers.

“Stay” he says. It’s not a command. It’s almost… a request.

You nod, slow “I’m not going anywhere.”

He finally steps back, not far, just enough to breathe, and moves to the bed. Sits on the edge, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to reset.

You take the moment to look around. The room is warm-toned, elegant. One massive bed in the center. Silk sheets. Balcony window cracked open to let in the sound of crashing waves and soft jazz from below.

You sit beside him, gently bumping his shoulder “So. What now?”

Law doesn’t look at you “Now, we sleep.”

You raise an eyebrow “You’re going to act like none of that happened?”

“I didn’t say that” he replies, voice quiet.

He leans back, hands braced behind him, eyes finally meeting yours “I’m saying we don’t have to rush it.”

Your heart stutters.

He adds, almost awkwardly, “This isn’t just the mission. Not for me.”

You don’t tease him this time. Instead, you smile, warm and soft.

“Not for me either.”

He pulls off his jacket, tosses it over the chair. Starts unbuttoning his cuffs. You stand and go to the bathroom to remove your heels and freshen up, giving him space, and maybe yourself a moment to breathe.

When you come back, Law’s already under the covers, shirt slightly open, tattooed chest half-visible in the low light. He’s facing the wall.

But when you slip in beside him, he immediately turns over and pulls you in, an arm draped over your waist, forehead pressing into your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The room is quiet now.

The casino noise is a distant hum through the balcony window, soft music, muffled laughter, the whirl of spinning wheels and shuffled cards. But inside, it’s just the sound of two hearts beating faster than they should.

You’re lying on your side, Law behind you, one arm slung around your waist like it belongs there. His hand rests just beneath your ribs, warm and heavy. Not demanding. Just… steady.

The silence stretches. Not awkward, but charged. Comfortable, yet not quite safe.

Your voice cuts through it, soft and curious.

“If we’re just gonna sleep… then why here? Why not go back to the ship?”

You feel him pause behind you. Not tense but thoughtful.

He exhales through his nose “Because.”

“Because?”

His voice drops, rough like he hasn’t decided if he wants to answer honestly “Because if I took you back to the ship, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

He shifts slowly and pulls you in tighter, chest pressed to your back now. His nose brushes your neck, and his breath sends a shiver down your spine.

You barely manage a whisper “This?”

He hums “Stay close. Let myself… feel something.”

You blink. That wasn’t what you expected.

He continues, quietly “On the ship, I’m your captain. In control. Always thinking. Always five steps ahead.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching the faintest edge of vulnerability in his eyes.

“And here?” you ask.

“Here,” he says, “I get to be a man lying next to someone who makes him forget all of that.”

You don’t answer for a moment.

Then, deliberately, you reach back and trail your fingers down his forearm, slow and gentle.

“Good,” you whisper “Because I like this version of you.”

You feel his smile against your skin.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just tucks his face into your neck like he’s finally allowing himself to breathe.

You shift slightly.

Not much. Just enough to test the space between you.

He doesn’t stop you.

So you turn.

You roll slowly to face him, your knees brushing his under the covers, your chest barely touching his. The low golden light from the hallway filters in through the crack under the door, just enough to catch the edge of his face, his jaw, his eyes, that small crease between his brows.

He’s watching you. Carefully. Quietly.

You speak, low and honest “You’re not the only one who forgets how to breathe around the other.”

His expression flickers. Just a second. But enough for you to see hope, doubt, desire. Then gone again.

You lift your hand to his cheek, gentle.

Then he kisses you.

Hard.

There’s nothing hesitant in it. No more caution, no more reading cues, no more pretend. Just heat, and months of tension finally snapping. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in deeper.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in.

Your hands move instinctively, one gripping his shirt, the other slipping around his waist. He shifts, pressing you into the mattress, his knee between yours, his breath shaky against your lips.

When he finally pulls back, just an inch, his forehead rests against yours. Both of you breathing like you’ve just surfaced from underwater.

You whisper, “That didn’t feel like something we’ll forget in the morning.”

Law shakes his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“It’s not.”

Another beat.

Then you add, teasing, “So much for just sleeping.”

His mouth curves into a tired smile, eyes half-lidded “You started it.”

You laugh soft and warm and tangled in sheets and tension.

And when he pulls you close again, one hand splayed across your lower back, your smile fades into something quieter. Something real.

Because this time, neither of you is pretending.

The next morning, the sun isn’t even fully up when you and Law leave the casino.

No one says anything at first. You walk side by side, close enough that your arms keep brushing, but not close enough to make it obvious.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But the second the Polar Tang comes into view, the nerves hit you like a cannonball.

You’re holding your heels in one hand, the other arm looped awkwardly around your waist to keep Law’s massive coat closed over your dress. Your own shoes were giving you blisters, so somewhere between the casino lobby and the harbor, Law, annoyed and muttering, slipped out of his and made you wear them.

Now here you are, flopping around the deck in his too-big shoes while he walks beside you in his socks, lipstick faintly smudged across the corner of his jaw.

You don’t look at each other. You cannot look at each other.

And then just as your foot slips slightly in one of his clunky boots “Well, well, well… Look who finally decided to come back.”

Shachi.

Leaning on the railing with a bowl of cereal and way too much smugness for six in the morning.

You freeze.

Penguin appears from the stairwell, blinking at you both. His gaze travels from your tousled hair to your crooked dress zipper, to Law’s missing shoes, to your very obvious lipstick on his jaw.

He lets out a slow, exaggerated whistle.

“That,” he says, pointing his spoon between the two of you, “was not part of the mission.”

Law doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps walking, face unreadable except for the ears burning red.

You try to look casual. Like you didn’t just sneak off a casino floor at sunrise “We, uh... we stayed for surveillance reasons.”

Penguin snorts “Yeah, I bet you were surveilling something.”

You shoot him a glare, still wearing Law’s boots “My heel broke.”

“Sure it did. And your lipstick broke too? All over the captain’s face?”

You reach up automatically to touch your lips, and groan when you realize he’s right.

Law growls under his breath “Enough.”

But Shachi’s having too much fun “Man, I thought you’d at least try to sneak back on like it didn’t happen. This is so much better.”

“Do you want to swim today, Shachi?” Law deadpans.

Bepo pops his head out of the hallway “Did you two share a bed? Was it part of the act or did something actually happen? Because you both look like—”

“Bepo.” Law cuts him off like a gunshot.

You turn to face Law, trying so hard not to laugh because the man looks like he wants to teleport to another planet. His hair’s still a little messy. His collar’s open. And he’s got the exact same expression he had when you kissed him: that barely-holding-it-together calm that only you can see cracking.

You mutter under your breath, “We should’ve never come back.”

Law nods “Agreed.”

Then, just when you’re about to make a break for your quarters, Law stops and turns.

He grabs your hand.

The crew goes dead silent.

He lifts your fingers to his lips in one smooth motion. Kisses them.

Soft. Deliberate.

Then walks off with all the calm dignity of a man in socks who’s still the most dangerous person in the room.

Your brain short-circuits. The crew loses their minds.

Penguin lets out a strangled “WHAT—”

Shachi screams “HE’S IN LOVE!!!”

And you’re just standing there, one hand in the air, heart about to burst out of your chest.

You finally bolt down the hallway toward your room, calling back “I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS!!”

Bepo shouts after you, “CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR EMOTIONAL MATURITY!”

You slam your door shut, cheeks on fire, heart racing, and a stupid smile you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.

[daemonbrain]

Part 1

3.5k, cw: ghosts a pervert and stalker, readers husband is a piece of work, brief mentions of sex, explicit, not proofread

Simon Riley wasn’t one for the romantics, he was a simple man. Wake up early in the morning just as he would on base, complete his training regimen, take a quick shower, and rot away in his one bedroom one bathroom apartment until he's recalled for a mission. A mundane life for the soldier who dealt with life-or-death circumstances just as many times as he’s brewed himself a cup of tea.

But even Simon had things to look forward to. After enduring the monotonous routine of his week he’d practically sprint to the butcher's shop, not for love of the finer cuts of meat one could find, but to see his bird. 

Still the fittest thing he had ever seen, your relationship evolved from standing with your back turned to his debauched stares to you actually saying hello to him. Slowly hello turned to little conversations. By conversations, it mainly consisted of you prattling on about one thing or another while Simon grunted out a short “yeah?” or “hm.” Sometimes he felt bad that his pretty little thing who always had endless things to say spoke to him, someone who was pretty much a brick wall in conversation.

But, ah well. He couldn’t think of you banging on the headboard while he fucked you and fully pay attention to what was said in his defense.

At times he didn’t know whether to scold or praise your ability to dole out kindness to even a cold bastard like him. A stranger was what he was, and you still managed to speak to him as if he were any other man you’d meet on the street.

He didn’t deserve it, he knew that. Not with the things he has done to others. Things that would send your pretty little head toppling off your shoulders if you knew. Not with the way he prowled behind as you shakily made your way up the slippery sidewalk, plastic bag with groceries in hand.

He didn’t deserve it, but he was sure as hell certain your fuckwit of a husband definitely didn’t deserve it. That prick left you walking alone and cold the whole way home, letting you know minutes before he was supposed to pick you up from the butcher’s shop. 

That pathetic guy didn’t want to take care of his wife? Didn’t want to pay attention to his girl? Well fine, he didn’t need to. Simon would. 

As if it physically pained him to watch you have to lift a finger, he sped up his pace and loudly cleared his throat from behind.

Whirling around in fright, your tensed shoulder immediately relax upon meeting Simon’s eyes. Your body shivered from the winds, yet you beamed at him with the warmth of the fuckin’ sun. 

“Simon! What are you doing here?” You chirped out in greeting, clasping your hands together as the bag dangled from your fingers. You waited for him to stalk up to you, broody as ever. 

His pretty little songbird, who tweets out her hellos even when the frigid weather demands a more mellow tone.

In his usual unsettling manner, he stops right in front of you. “I live up this way.” He lied. 

“Really?! I’ve never seen you coming up this way.” He was so close. He had to crane his neck downwards to look at your face, cheeks and nose probably frozen from the biting wind. Your brows furrowed in what he assumed to be suspicion, and he truly wondered for the first time if you actually had a semblance of survival instinct after all.

Raising a brow, he points to a random building in the distance. He picked something far enough away from your own home to quell any unease.You lived in that reddish-brown building about two blocks away. Though you’ve never told him that.

“Just righ’ up there. Usually don’t go this way, but the other route is closed off.”

Your furrowed brows quickly correct themselves at his words and you assume your resting expression, one much softer. “Well… we might as well head up together then!” You laughed in joy and Simon felt his cock twitch for similar reasons. It seems the concept of “stranger danger” wasn’t drilled into your head hard enough during your formative years. 

He’d never dream of doing something to hurt your cheery demeanor, but he couldn’t say the same for others. People can be nasty and, if you survived this long without that bubble being burst, he’d be more than happy to tear apart the prick who’d try. Pricks like your husband.

Wasn’t it a soldier's duty to protect the peace? Something like that anyways. 

He noticed the way your poor fingers stiffly held on to the bag, the weight harder to carry because of the chill in the air. His hands itched to help.

You quirked your head to the side due to his lack of anything to say and Simon merely jutted his head towards what you carried, “Give it ‘ere.” Your mouth opens to protest, but Simon doesn’t give you the opportunity as he easily plucks the bag from your hands. “Come on,” He began to walk again while ignoring his bird’s shrill whistles of objection to his help “You’ll catch a cold out ‘ere if we don get’cha inside soon.”

Catching up to his long strides, you approach from the right and sigh. You’re inclined to tell him it’s really not necessary, but the heat that bloomed in your chest as a result of his breathy chuckle interrupted you.

You didn’t even need to ask him to help... he just did. 

You couldn’t help the way your eyes wondered about his large frame, and he was huge. You had to admit the first time you had spoken to Simon you were a bit rattled when you stuck your hand out to shake his. It was maddening the way he never made a sound, the way his steps quietly padded along the floor when he went up to the counter at the butcher’s shop to pay. 

Occasionally you felt your skin prickle everytime he stood behind you. Whenever you gathered the courage to take a peek you would be met with the sight of him tapping away at his phone without a care, hood of his jacket concealing most of his face. 

Though you could’ve sworn his phone was upside down once?

Cars whizzed past and you shook away those thoughts. Simon happens to be a quiet type, nothing to judge him for. 

“... Thank you. You know, you’re a real nice guy.” Shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket, Simon slows his steps just enough to move behind you. “Simon?” You turn your head side-to-side in confusion as he nudges his way to your other side.

“Wha’?” He huffed while putting himself between you and the road. 

Odd.

The two of you got closer to the building and in a practiced stop you both pause at the entrance. About to speak again, you’re cut off by the loud ring of your phone. Looking down you see your husband's photo pop up on the screen. With a sigh, you hold up a finger to your companion and answer.

“Hey hun, is something wrong? You said you had a meeting?” You could hear the exhale of annoyance which escaped him before he responded.

“I’m working late tonight. I can’t make it for dinner. Make sure to leave me a plate before you go to bed though.” Of course. He was always late nowadays. One project or another he would say before rolling to face away when you asked him about his day before bed. 

You were his wife! You’d make time for him no matter what, and normally you wouldn’t want to be a bother, but the way tears threatened to bead your waterline in frustration caused your voice to harden a fraction.

“Again? Really? They’re working you a bit hard, don’t you thi-” 

“I have work. I’ll talk to you later.” 

You blink owlishly at Simon who looks back in silence. You hear the beep indicating the call has ended. Slowly, you pull your phone away from your ear both saddened by your husband's cold words but also the humiliation of your new friend witnessing the way you were clearly hung up on by your own spouse.

You wanted to turn heel and retreat into the privacy of your apartment. Cook up a meal which will grow cold on the counter and curl into your bed while incessantly tracking the minutes until you hear the door open.

Simon’s eyes narrowed as if he wanted to burn a hole through your phone, and he waited for you to gather yourself.

“I- um,” letting out an awkward chortle, you scratch the back of your neck. “Looks like I'm alone for dinner tonight.” You managed a disingenuous smile. Simon didn’t seem like the type to be able to pick up on subtle social cues like that, you doubt he’d think anything of your words.

“Well I better get back inside… it's freezing out here. Thanks for your help with my bags I-I just have to get started on cooking right now, so.” You reached for your groceries and saw the strange look in his eyes soften a bit. As you pivot towards the entrance, you hear a gruff call.

“ ‘m pretty hungry righ now.”

…How could you be such an idiot! He carries your bags for you, probably chilled to the point of numbness, and you don’t even invite him in for something to eat. Not even a hot drink. All because of your own selfish discomfort?!

“Oh gosh, that was rude of me. Simon, you wanna come in? I have enough to whip you up a plate if you’d like. A ‘cuppa’ as well. Is that what you say?” You asked.

Simon was a kind man. He was intimidating, but surely it was okay to let him into your personal space. After all, the only person who would object to his presence was currently holed up at his office.

“Brought it up for a reason. That’d be great, love.”

You couldn’t help the way your heart pattered in your rib cage at the endearing pet name. Kind words from a kind man. That’s all. You willed your heart to slow with images of your husband, to whom you had the utmost respect for.

The two of you made your way up to the spacious apartment. You bent over to unlace your shoes and take off your coat. It doesn’t go unnoticed how it took Simon a moment to follow suit. When he stood to his full height, a gentle warmth swelled within you when met with the sight of his broad build in the now seemingly small walls of your home. He looked as though he crowded the room more than any of the furniture.

You felt a bit hazy when you moved to the kitchen. You shouted back to Simon who stood put at the door, “Feel free to make yourself comfortable! Go ahead and sit down anywhere.”

Like a flower, you needed your fix of sunlight. You had lots of windows in your apartment to let the natural light in, a giant one looking into your living room. Simon would see you watching your silly shows, tapping away at your laptop while snuggled under a blanket in this very spot. Soon he’d show you the value of privacy, closing the blinds, locking everything before bed. 

There were shady people in the world. Those who’d feed off of your sweet carelessness like it was the best thing to touch their depraved mouths. That wasn’t fair to his bird. 

“ ‘m gonna go to the loo.” and before you even had the chance to give him directions, you watched the Brit make his way to the restroom unprompted.

It wasn’t fair, but he would make it fair. He would keep those bastards far away from you, guard your blissful paradise. Keep you ignorant.

So what if his methods were unconventional? So what if he’s followed you home dozens of times. It was to keep you safe. So what if he spent any free time he had watching you through the windows from the building across yours. 

Closing the door behind him, his lips quirked up at the sight of your things strewn about. Makeup, hair products, lotions taking up all the space on your side of the sink. In the mirror, his eyes caught on the laundry hamper sat in the corner. He had been here once before.

So what if he has come into your apartment during the late hours just to catch a whiff of your scent. Just to pull the blanket you had knocked off, deep asleep, while on the couch waiting for your prick husband. You needed someone. He could do good by you, or at least try his hardest to.

With practiced ease, he turns to open the hamper. Hands grabbing with the eagerness of unwrapping a present only to be met with a sorry sight.

“For fuck sakes”  He whispered.

You and your cleaning. The damn thing had been emptied out of all things with your lovely fragrance, tossed in the wash. With the quick roll of his eyes, he quietly puts the lid back on to the stupid thing.

He had been much luckier last time. After taking it upon himself to sneak in and close a window you left wide open, he had the urge to explore around. Fast forward to when he arrived at his treasure chest (the laundry basket) he was rewarded for his considerate act. He had nabbed a dirty pair of panties with sheer ecstacy. 

In the natural progression of things, his cock had hardened with urgency. He had stroked himself eagerly to the thought of your soft, snoozing breaths. A bead of pre-cum already poised to roll down his shaft. You drove him mad, only a few walls separating the two of you. He could walk over to you now, shove your legs apart and sink himself into paradise, in pure euphoria. He continued to jerk himself to the edge of his peak. He had taken in the sight of everything from your loofah to your robe to the pink toothbrush unobtrusively in the corner.

A shiver went down his spine as he looked at the very same toothbrush at present. He wondered how many times you had unassumingly used it since that night.

Images of his desperation flooding back, a hint of something akin to guilt. He had squeezed your panties to his face as if he was trying to suffocate himself, impatiently grabbing for anything else that could connect him to you when he felt himself begin to strain under the stimulation. He had grunted when your scent filled his nostrils, unlike how his balls emptied themselves, his release spurting all over your toothbrush.

When he came back to his senses, he had turned the coated thing over and over in his hand. You’d be none the wiser if he just… washed it off, right? No harm in something you wouldn’t know about. He couldn’t bring himself to do more than lightly run it under the tap.

“Simon! Food is ready!” You shouted. Breaking from his stupor, he steps out of the restroom and moves back to the counter overlooking the kitchen. You gave him that sweet grin while setting the food in front of him.

“Looks delicious, love. Thanks.”

You sat on the seat beside him with a plate of your own. You both tensed at the proximity for the same reason. Taking your first few bites, you look at Simon who blissfully closes his eyes and groans with satisfaction.

That warm feeling begins to simmer in your belly wrongfully so. You turn back to chew before breaking the silence. “I’m glad! It’s been a while since i’ve sat down and ate with someone… it’s a lot different to watch someone actually enjoy something you put effort into.” He didn’t miss the wistful expression you wore. He wanted to fix it, he never wanted to see that pretty mouth fighting stay curved upwards.

Whether it be unknowingly or not, you brushed your knee against and for a moment you both paused in that position. The touch was light but it felt as though Simon’s body was overloaded with only you. Your touch, your eyes, your everything.

It took himself a second to recompose himself, but when he realized your body stayed put; his heart just about soared. Taking another forkful of food, he casually glanced at you and nudged his knee unmistakably to yours. The sound of your cutlery clanging onto the plate gives him a degree of satisfaction.

You simply kept looking down to your plate, whatever was in front of you, anything except his intense stare. Simon was a stranger. Simon was unsettling. Simon was in your home. Simon was so strong, so large he could manhandle you in ways your husband could never.

Your husband. Your life partner who you’ve remained loyal to for years. This was so wrong. You should be leaping out of your chair and separating yourself by 3 meters at least in protest.

So how come you allowed his hand to grip your thigh? You frowned, yet surrendered to his fingers which tilted your face towards him. You didn’t know Simon, but you’d be dense to miss the dark glint in his eyes as he takes in your hesitancy.

How the tables have turned. It was always you who initiated interaction with the morose giant, but as he held you firm in his clutches, you could only sit in wait for his next move. 

Testing your reaction, he slowly brought his face closer to yours. Braving his gaze, you could only recognize want. He pressed a gentle kiss to your jaw as you tilted your chin upwards. You weren’t sure whether it was to avoid his lips or grant him better access to your neck.

“No no no come back to me. Come back.” He urged you carding his other hand through your hair, tugging you back. He had to see his bird's face, commit her to memory. Would her expression be like what he imagined? Better?

With a shaky raise of your arm, you caress his face with uncertainty. He needed to fuck you. The most depraved, wicked parts of his mind demanded it. His blood went straight down south at your gentle touch. He needed you to feel him, to feel all of him. 

He would protect you from all the perversions those other tossers had to offer, with only one thing in return. To corrupt you from the inside with his own special brand filth. His fingers tightened ever so slightly in your hair.

“I wanna fuck you,” he leaned closer to your ear and nipped it “and I have a feeling my pretty bird wants the same thing, yeah?”

Simon’s words sent a jolt to your brain to sink further into the daze. Your lips parted and you turned to him with round eyes hiding the temptation swirling behind them. Your eyes wildly roved across his face, searching

He carried your things, he called you pretty, he ate your food, he talked to you, he wanted you, he wanted to fuck you, he wanted you to want to fuck him, you want to fuck him, you want to fuck him, you want to fuck him-

His impatience got the better of him when he pulled you into a frantic kiss. His lips were warm and the feeling of his hands holding you secure and upright only added fuel to the fire. How would they hold you when he took you to your bed? Would he be so kind?

Had Simon known your phone would ring loudly moments before finally getting what he wanted, he would have broken it with his own bare hands.

Your eyes cracked open to only be met with the sight of your husband’s contact photo and all at once your guilt hurtled at you. Sensing you pulling away, Simon couldn’t help but try and keep you to him for even a moment longer. He knew it was over when you pushed at his chest to break the connection.

“I’m- oh my gosh. I… i’m a horrible person! Shit! Shit!” You spiraled as you hurriedly got up from your seat and backed away from Simon as if his touch had burned you.

“Hey, hey it’s okay-” He attempted to console you, but was sharply interrupted with a tone he had yet to hear from you.

“No, no! You need to leave. Get out, please!” You screeched in shame. As Simon once again tried to approach closer to placate you, you only put a hand up with a hard look. “Leave. We shouldn’t have done that, it was a total betrayal of trust!” 

“Okay. Okay. Don’t worry, ‘m gone.” His arms went up in surrender as he mirrored your own backward movements.

Your mind really went blank as you took deep breaths to calm yourself, Simon’s heavy footfalls receding and eventually fading from earshot entirely.

While you focused on calming yourself from your “mistaken” judgement, Simon could only think of one thing. 

If his bird couldn’t be happy because that fuckin’ asshole was still in the picture, he’d have to weed out the problem from the root.

He was a dead man walking.