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georgiapeach30513 · 2 days ago

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With Your Touch, Part 8

Summary: There's some things that need to be discussed

Pairings: Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, D/s dynamics, teasing, fingering, degradation, praise kink, humiliation kink, toy play, slight voyeurism, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of cum play, bit of breeding kink, mentions of spanking, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 6.1K

Series Masterlist

Lloyd leans into Lyla’s bedroom, smiling at you unable to leave her. You don’t say anything, or even move, you just stare at the precious Lyla Bee. A soft smile turns your mouth up. So often you show your love for her. It isn’t something you have to do, it’s something you choose to do daily. It’s the sexiest thing you can do. You love an extension to him.

He’d have to make it official. Eventually give Lyla a sibling. He’s enjoying playing with your body, but he seriously can’t wait to see you swollen with him. To see you around your father and he understands the love that the two of you have. And he knows what a good girl that you are.

Lloyd fully intends on exploring your sweet obedient ways. He wants to push you to your limits, with your complete consent as well. “She’s so beautiful,” you coo down at your daughter. You don’t want anything in this world to ever harm her. If you could keep her this little you would. Freeze time so everything stays this sweet always.

It’s an odd thing to accept that she wants you to be her mom, but also Lloyd. There’s no way that you could love her any more than you do, even if you birthed her. You could spend hours just looking at her. Watching how her lips pucker up, and she even makes smacking noises with her mouth when she’s extra tired. She learns something new everyday, and you don’t want to miss a second of her life.

Lloyd walks up behind you, wrapping both arms around your front. He settles his chin on your shoulder to stare at this beautiful angel with you. “She really is. She’s spectacular.”

“I don’t think her wants her daddy to go back to work,” Lloyd knows exactly what you’re trying to pull. You’ve been laying it on thick all week about his returning to work.

“I think her mama is trying to guilt trip her daddy into not leaving.”

“But it’ll be lonely out here,” he doesn’t have to look at you to know that you're pouting. He doesn’t want to ignore your fears, but also doesn’t want to let you know that this is fully working on him. He’d almost choose to never go back. But you need boundaries. And he has no problem giving them to you, and also enforcing them.

He inhales swiftly, turning his head to kiss on your neck, “I’m going to make it a point to come home every night. Sometimes maybe every other night,” you groan, pushing your ass into his back, and your eyes go wide. His soft kiss turns to a nibble on your neck as he walks you out of her bedroom.

“Why are you hard?”

Groaning, he cups your covered mound, and you whimper. His hands are so large. You’ve had them in you. You still haven’t gotten used to that. Lloyd Hansen has been inside of you. Swimming inside of you. “Lloyd?” You whimper, and he drops his arms from around you, sitting on the couch with a plop, and you see his tightened jeans. “Lloyd!”

“Oh, shut up,” it’s playful, he grins at you. He rubs his hand over his bulge, smiling, “You know, when she goes to sleep, it’s time for mama and daddy to have fun,” the sinful bastard, “But first, we need to establish some boundaries.”

Your brow raises, while you look at him inquisitively, “Dolly, it’s just to make sure that I never take advantage of your trust. You have no idea the ways I want to play and use your body, but you have to give me permission.”

“You have it,” you earnestly answer. Your feet swish back and forth, eyes going glassy as you stare at him. Naturally going into a submissive state, Lloyd has a deep urge to destroy you like this. Just so he can lift you back up. He can’t take advantage of something your body naturally craves.

“You truly don’t understand. Sit,” listening immediately, Lloyd grins, “Good girl. You listen well,” you preen, leaning towards him. “You do well with praise. Noted,” he hums, staring over your body a moment. You’re so reactive to him. Sitting up straighter, and shoulders shimmying. That slight smile tickling the edges of your plump mouth.

“I have very distinct — needs,” that didn’t sound bad. “I haven’t done relationships, and I fear that I could be too much,” that could be putting it lightly. He’s extremely needy, and is prone to stress. He needs you to unwind.

“Why’s that?”

“There’s this bit of a humiliation mixed in with degradation that I enjoy,” inhaling sharply, you find yourself staring at the fabric of the couch. You didn’t know how to press him for more information. “Do you want to be my slut?” You tremble, but nod your head. “Why?”

“I’m just yours?”

“Just mine.”

“That’s why,” Lloyd smirks, “If I asked you to stop, would you?” He makes a weird noise with his mouth, looking up at you, “What does that mean?”

“Sometimes in intense sessions, you say stop because you feel it’s what you should say, but you desperately don’t want me to stop. Hence, the need for a safe word, and the need for me to read your body language. Safe word?”

You think long and hard. You know it needs to be something you wouldn’t normally say out loud. Something easy to remember, easy to say, easy for him to understand even if you whisper it. “Nightingale,” Lloyds eyes blink rapidly, and you’re afraid you said something wrong.

“It’s beautiful,” the smile that lights up your face has him feeling all fuzzy in his stomach. The way your body reacts to him is too addictive. You’re more dangerous than he ever thought about being, “The nightingale is often associated with Venus. I think that’s perfect for you.”

“What do you mean by humiliation?”

Lloyd hisses between his teeth. His hands drag up his thighs, that one is a bit more complicated, “When my fingers are buried so deep into your cunt, do you want me to tell you that you’re taking my fingers like my sloppy little slut?” You look just like a puppy. Nodding your head, and scooting closer to Lloyd. “Do you want me to make you clean up your mess with your tongue for my own enjoyment before I let you fuck yourself with my cock?”

Gulping you nod, “Yes.”

“What about what I mentioned last night? Put the toy version of my cock inside of you, pulling your panties up, and asking you to pour me some bourbon. Maybe ask you to get on your knees to wipe something out of the floor, and I can stare at that toy puckering out your lingerie while you crawl around?”

“My god, yes,” you’re such a slut. Maybe it’s a slut for him. Possibly a slut for the praise, but regardless, a slut. “Yes. I want to play with the little Lloyd toys.”

He chuckles. Reaching over to a drawer, and retrieves out the little toy. He’s bright pink. “Ooh! I want to call him LJ,” it didn’t take a genius to know why you wanted to call the toy that. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to behave, and listen. Stop pouting,” his voice is still soft, but the command is obvious. “I want you free use,” you furrow your brows, staring into his eyes. “Anytime I want you, I can use you. With discretion of course. I will never fully share you. I will never let another man look upon your body if you don’t want it. I-I,” he stutters, “I want you to explore your sexuality. If you want someone to join us, I would consider it, but everything is with your say so.”

“Wait another man in the bed with us?” he watches your face intently. Making note of how you’re not disgusted, you’re curious.

“Or woman,” you scrunch your nose up, shaking your head no, “It’s not that bad.”

“I just don’t want to share you.”

“I know you don’t, sweetheart. But sometimes we just have to get it in when we can, and if you’re dripping with my seed, you’ll just have to suck it up, even if people are around,” you are a peculiar and funny little thing. Trying to work out different scenarios. “Let’s say that there is a visitor here, and we’re in the middle of something. We finish up as much as we can. But maybe I can’t fully clean you up. I get off on knowing that you're soaked in my cum, while we have company.”

“Yes,” one simple word is all that he needs to hear. You are truly a slut for him. For wearing him. He reaches over towards you, tugging at the hem of your shirt, and you pull it off with so much enthusiasm. Lloyd leans over just a bit for an open mouth kiss on each nipple. Kissing and sucking on the tender flesh until they’re peaked and pebbled up.

“Take off your bottoms,” you listen. “Such an obedient little one. Now, turn around. I want you laying back on my thigh,” this time you don’t move as quickly. Stubbing up and pouting at him. Refusing to listen to his command, and he slaps at the side of your rear. “Behave, and do as I said, so I can play with you and LJ.”

You may huff, but you listen. Laying back on him, and he taps on your thighs to spread your legs wide open. “What other colors of the little Lloyds are there?”

He leans over your body, gazing intently at your split before he barely flicks your sensitive pearl, “One is blue, and the other is purple,” he is too enthralled in your clit, and you’re becoming too aroused to pay attention. “What are their names?”

“Umm…”

Waiting too long, he squeezes your bundle of nerves between his thumb and forefinger, causing you to arch your back in surprise, “What are their names?”

“L-L-Leonard,” that isn’t what he was expecting. “The blue one, he’s Leonard. The purple is — he’s,” you look down your body, watching as Lloyd plays with you. Comparing the thickness of his fingers to your body. But it’s not overtly sexual. He’s having fun exploring your folds. “His name is — Lennon.”

All L names. You would do that. “You do realize I could have you airtight without me ever being inside of you? I could have LJ in your tight little pussy, Leonard in your ass, and Lennon in your mouth. Watching you go dumb on three cocks that might be shaped like me, but they’re not. And then if you get extra desperate, I could push myself in your cunt. Right beside LJ. Do you think you can handle four of my cocks?”

“No,” he plunges a finger into your warmth, and you try To capture his eyes. He didn’t look disappointed, but he does seem less animated. You don’t like seeing him like that. You want him to look proud, “But I would try.”

“Such an eager little whore. That’s why I like you, you know. You would do anything to please me, wouldn’t you?” Breathlessly you answer him. Nodding your head as he dips another finger into your body. Having you spread out, naked, and vulnerable is his favorite. He’s fully clothed, but he gets to look at the work of art that is you.

Venturing deeper into your cunt, he watches your face with every small movement he makes. Learning what makes you tick, and what you enjoy. Listening to the change of your breathing, and the slight differences in your sounds. And then pulls out of you too soon. He caresses your lips with his fingers, making the pillows look glossy with your essence. And then his meaty fingers go into his mouth where he sucks off the rest of your honey, “Hmm, you taste so sweet.”

He licks his lips, reaching over to grab LJ, and brings it to your mouth, and you suck on him enthusiastically. Trying to show him how much of the toy you can take, but he pulls it out of your mouth, and lowers it to your entrance. Lloyd teases the toy around your hole, and without commandment, you spread out further. Angling your body for easier entrance. He slowly breeches through your walls.

His mouth falls open right along with yours as he studies your body opening up, and accommodating him, LJ. The sounds that your body makes is a symphony, ringing in your home. He becomes obsessed with you. Pushing and pulling out the hot pink toy. Your slick coats the fake version of him. Each push into you, he goes deeper.

Deeper.

Deeper still.

Until he can push it in balls deep, and he holds it there. You took every inch. Every thick veiny inch of the fake him. His free hand cups your breast, and he pinches on your swollen nipple. Perfect. You take him so well. While you may have your toys, he has you as his toy. The things he could do to you. It’s not even innately about sex with you as much as giving you pleasure. He finds pleasure in that.

You’re so reactionary to being filled with him that it nearly makes him weak thinking about you waddling around the house with this stupid dick inside of you. Have you get on all fours while you simulate backing up on him. God, your body is immaculate.

“Lloyd,” you pant out, looking between him, and the immobile toy. You need something else, and he’s not giving it to you. It’s both frustrating, and hot as fuck, and it confuses your brain, “Lloyd? Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“I want to come.”

“You’re such a sweet girl. Can I just play with you?” Your body needs some release. It needs anything besides this torturous nothingness. “Why don’t you play with your clit, and let me just watch you get yourself off.”

His eyes look over to the clock, and he smiles. Still holding that stupid toy fully in you. The depth of it gives your belly a funny feeling. An ache you can’t explain. It doesn’t hurt, it’s not fully uncomfortable, but it is different. “Use both hands. Spread those lips far apart, and let me see that cute little swollen clit of yours.”

You follow his instructions. Letting him see the button before creating tight circles on your body. Your hips start to buck up as you imitate sex. Rocking on the couch just to make your tits bounce. Putting on a show for him so he will want to fuck you. Will want to at least let you come.

Your body climbs with pleasure, and you close your eyes. Envisioning that he is hovering over you. Pushing his length as deep as he can, and a lewd moan escapes your puckered lips. He feels so good deep in your body. He feels good with his weight over you. Filling you up with every inch of him, and with his load right in your belly. “Daddy, I’m so close.”

“There you go, princess. You’re right there aren’t you?” Giving him a head nod, he takes his hand off the toy. Bringing both of them to your tits, and he tweaks, and pinches them. Watching as your swaying body creates the friction with the toy you needed. Sucking the hot pink rod into your body, and lifting up so it pulls out. Little desperate slut, “Such a needy little slut. You’re taking every inch of that pretty little cock. But…”

Lloyd doesn’t get to finish his sentence. His fingers let go of your tits, and he pulls your hands off your body. Keeping them spread so you can’t touch yourself, but your body still searches for movement. “Shh,” he says, but you’re too busy trying to jump over the edge of euphoria. “Dolly, don’t you hear the doorbell ringing?”

“What?” You halt. Listening with haggard breaths, and the doorbell rings again. “Lloyd, no!”

“Don’t pout. Just get dressed. Leave the dick inside of you,” you gawk at him. “I said what I said, Dolly. Dressed, with the dick still inside your body. “It’s just Ari. He arrives almost directly on the dot when I ask him.”

You sit up, starting to pull the wretched pink toy out of your body, and Lloyd tsks you. “I don’t want this in me when Ari is here.”

“Do you remember what we said just moments before?”

“Yeah, but you tricked me. You knew he was coming tonight.”

He actually rolls his eyes at you before grabbing your chin, “What’s your safe word?” You shake your head no, “Either say it, or put your fucking clothes on,” you stare at him a moment, unmoving. “Each second I count is how many spankings you’re getting. One,” you don’t dare move. You can be just as stubborn as him. “Two. Three. Four. Five.”

You cross your arms over your chest. Trying to ignore him. “Six. Seven.”

“Fine!” Your voice is a bit raised as you reach for your shorts. Leaving the panties in the floor, and hope they embarrass him. And you grab your shirt. Asshole. He sits there with his legs crossed looking awfully proud of himself. “Aren’t you going to open the door?” You ask him. He got too comfortable, and now you’re dressed, and still aching to find some release that is just right out of your grasp.

“Nope. You are,” your mouth falls open. “Go on, princess. Let daddy’s friend in. He’s been waiting on you to act like the good girl I know you are,” fucking tease. Standing up. You wince. Not in pain but because the movement sends an odd sense of pleasure through your body. “Ari’s waiting. Go on, waddle for me, baby.”

You aren’t going to waddle. You won’t give him the satisfaction. You’re going to walk very oddly, sure. But you hold your chin up high. Refusing to let him know you see his cocky little smile as you make your way to the front door. Smiling up at Ari as you open the door.

His eyes drift down your front with a smirk before he walks past you and into the living room. And you stand at the front door, trying to regulate your breathing. You aren’t going to let him see you struggle. “Sweetheart, Ari and I would like something to drink.”

The fucking asshole. This is so wrong, and still there’s that part of you that enjoys it way too much. A sexual secret that you and Lloyd share, while you have company. Knowing that Lloyd knows what is inside of you. Wonder how he’d feel if Ari knew. If Ari saw. You get the most devilish grin on your face. You didn’t care if people knew that Lloyd could destroy you with his dick. And Ari is bound to know all the sick twisted ways Lloyd gets off.

“Did you mean for her to answer the door with her nipples hard as a rock?” Ari motions his head toward the discarded panties on the floor. Lloyd would get you all worked up right before Ari came here. Edging is his favorite hobby.

“You should see my dick,” Ari rolls his eyes as he settles back into the couch, and then he makes a face of disgust before moving to the chair. “Why did you do that?”

“You’re on a couch with a hard on. Your girlfriend is walking around in short shorts, bra less, and nipples protruding. And that spot was warm,” chuckling, Lloyd pops his fingers into his mouth, moaning, “You’re truly sick. You know that?”

“Have you seen her?”

“I think you’ve seen enough of her,” Lloyd scoffs. His crystal eyes roam down the hall, trying to listen to hear what you’re doing. He hopes you’re fucking yourself. Knowing how frustrated you are, he hopes you’re doing something to get yourself off. He’ll watch the footage when Ari leaves.

“Lloyd, everyone is getting restless. You either need to take an extended break, and let me resume power, or come back. But the mercenaries need to know what’s going on. You can’t hole up here with your slut forever.”

“You’re not saying that in a derogatory way are you?” Ari shakes his head no. “I mean, she is my slut. She’s my girlfriend, Lyla’s mom, my future baby mama, future wife,” Ari clears his throat, “What?”

“That’s another thing. Someone got wind of Candy sniffing around. Me thinks she knows how much you’re worth, and either she’ll hold Lyla over yours and her head, or you’ll have to pay her off.”

“Write her a check,” Lloyd grunts suddenly. The idea of that woman coming and taking Lyla from you is sick. She didn’t even give her daughter a name!

“See the problem with women like her, she’ll always come back for more. You need it legally settled that you and Dolly are her parents. The lawyers are drawing up a petition for adoption. You know, it’ll need to be legal. She will come back.”

“Then I’ll put a bullet through her head,” he’s so annoying and ridiculous that Ari can’t even comprehend his little tyraid. “She won’t have our daughter. Lyla doesn’t even know her. Do you know who puts her to bed every night? Who bathes her every day? Pushes her in that stupid expensive pram? Goes to mommy and me classes for singing and yoga? Who is teaching her to walk? And who has been planning a first birthday party for her? Not some fucking whore who wasn’t worth the money I paid, and who poked fucking holes in the goddamn condoms.”

You flinch walking back into the living room. Getting an apology from both men. You take a deep breath, handing Ari’s bourbon on the rocks to him, and definitely not waddling to Lloyd to give him his. He pulls you nearly into his lap. Leaning you so far onto him, your ass is pointing towards Ari, and you playfully look towards him. He sees it. See the outline of Lloyd’s little dick inside of you.

His lips curve up into a devilish smile, and he raises his brows. Holding his cup up as if to cheers you, and you wiggle your as a bit. Smiling right back before Lloyd smacks over the protruding toy, and you lift up, moaning so loud that Ari chokes on his bourbon. Your face heats up with the most delightful embarrassment and you hide it in Lloyd’s chest.

“Stop looking,” he warns Ari, who still refuses to look away.

“Stop putting it out on a platter for me to stare at,” Lloyd is too fast. Reaching into your shorts, he tugs out the toy, and drops it onto the coffee table. Leaving Ari to stare at something besides yourself. Now it’s a hot pink replica of Lloyd’s cock, shining in the light, and soaked with your honey, and…

“I knew it,” he whispers more to you, even if Ari hears it. “Now that everyone can get their mind out of the fucking gutter. Dolly, Ari tells me we may have some issues with Lyla Bee’s birth mother. It seems she is pushing for leverage, and she’s using our daughter.”

You sit up immediately. Going into mama bear protective mode, despite the soaked dildo on the table. “She won’t take my daughter.”

“Ari doesn’t seem to think paying her off is enough.”

“It won’t be,” Ari raises his cup towards you. “No, it won’t. Women like her know that you would pay anything to keep our daughter with us. She’ll know your weak spot, our weak spot.”

“So she needs a bullet in her head,” that isn’t at all what you meant.

“No!” Ari bursts out laughing, but you’re serious. “I know what you do. But maybe — I think we need, I mean if you’re okay with it, but maybe we should do something legal. I mean what if I adopted her. If she’s legally mine there’s nothing that woman can do, right?”

“Thank you!” Ari raises his hands up, and looks at Lloyd, “She gets it. So, I’ll talk to the lawyers and get the ball rolling. We’ll tell them the address of Dolly and Lyla are to be held off as long as possible. You know you’ll have to go through a background check, and,” he grimaces, looking at the stupid forgotten toy again, “It’ll probably be easier if you’re married.”

“Oh,” you answer in surprise, looking up at Lloyd who remains emotionless. his control on his emotions can be frustrating, “That will be something we’ll have to discuss. But — whatever it takes. I need my daughter,” it’s amazing how quickly you accepted her as yours. With as much time as you spent with her, it just made sense. And now you also get to share her dad. “Is that why you came by?”

“Yeah. And Lloyd promised me a show of you fucking yourself with the dildo,” you’re stunned. Unable to look at either one of them, and Lloyd is no help. He’s completely frozen in place.

“Maybe next time.”

“I was only kidding. I know he has a weird little obsession with his dick, and his toys,” the toys of his dick, or you as the toy? You aren’t sure how Ari means, or if he means both. Doesn’t matter. “I’m sure I’m going to leave, and he will make you perform for him though, and I suppose he’ll want to look and see how wide your cunt is spread,” Lloyd clears his throat.

“Have the two of you watched a girl do that together?” Ari answers yes quickly, while Lloyd groans. “Oh. So you’re really close?” The two seem close. Possibly more than colleagues because who watches a girl masturbate with their best friend with them?

“We didn’t have sex with her at the same time. It was more or less entertainment, and you’re not a paid for show. Anyways,” leaning forward, he places the cup on the table before lifting himself up. “You two have fun with that conversation,” and he leaves.

You swallow deeply, keeping your eyes on LJ. Contemplating how you want to start this conversation. “Do you want to share me?”

“I want you to be happy, and I’ll do whatever experiences you want to keep you that way. If you don’t want Ari to see you riding the toy, or just playing with yourself, you don’t have to. It is not a requirement, and I’m perfectly satisfied with that. Your pleasure is my pleasure. I do enjoy watching you pleasure yourself. I enjoy staving off my own arousal to watch you get off. I like that desperate feeling when I finally sink into you.”

Inhaling deeply, you take off your shirt, and step out of your shorts. Grabbing up the dildo of Lloyd, you suction it to the floor, and stand over it. Keeping your eyes on Lloyd, and he scoots the table to the side, and leans back on the couch. Your knees slowly bend as you sink to the floor. You’re not performing. You’re just watching him. Seeing what it is he truly likes.

Getting to your knees, you hover over the nine inches that make up Lloyd before sinking over him. He stares so hard at the toy splitting you open. He doesn’t even touch himself. He just watches as you slowly bounce over it. “Would you want Ari to see me like this?”

“Would you want him to?” He answers a question with a question, so you pinch your nipples. Trying to make him squirm, but it does nothing.

“Possibly.”

“Then maybe,” infuriating. He can’t even fully answer.

“Would you would want Ari to fuck me?” Straight forward is the best way.

Lloyd sucks in a beat of air, “I’d prefer he didn’t.”

“Would you want Ari to watch you fuck me?”

“I wouldn’t mind it, but only if you wanted it, and were comfortable,” at least he’s being honest. Lloyd’s kink isn’t about sharing you. It’s about showing off what he has.

“Would you let Ari touch me, while you’re fucking me?”

“You know Ari is a bit of a cuck, right?” Your brow raises as you look at him. “Ari enjoys watching people have sex. He enjoys fingering a woman when she’s filled with cum so he can make a mess of her used hole. He enjoys writing on her body how much of a slut she is before he watches a man fucks a load into her. Or him. He doesn’t care who is getting fucked. He likes watching. He enjoys cleaning cum out of her pussy. He enjoys fucking women, and men fucking him. Ari enjoys the art of voyeurism that turns into participation. He enjoys the art and beauty of sex and pleasure. It’s not about love as much as it is about enjoyment. So tell me Dolly, do you want Ari to finger you while eating my cum out of your swollen pussy?”

You don’t know how to answer that. It’s so much information all at once. It’s raw and vulgar. It’s hot as fuck. But to have someone do that to you, you just don’t even know. It’s too much happening at once. Way too much. “You don’t have to answer now. But now that you understand Ari’s odd little choices in sex…”

“Have you ever fucked Ari?”

There’s a bit of a hesitation before Lloyd shakes his head, “No. It’s not like that. He participates, yes. But…”

“Your love has remained platonic?”

“I think you think he’s a third. Ari has no problems finding partners. But he enjoys the ways that I can degrade, humiliate, and praise a sub all at once. You couldn’t handle him,” you didn’t know what that meant, and you no longer have a desire to discuss Ari. You want Lloyd inside of you immediately.

“Fuck me,” he cocks up an eyebrow, smiling. “Fuck me like you love me,” he stands. Removing his shirt, and pulling down his pants and underwear at the same time. The pretty cock springs free as he walks out of his pants and towards you, and lifts you right off the toy, and onto his own cock. Wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you into the bedroom.

He crawls the two of you onto the mattress, and lays you down gently. His body weight lowering on top of yours. Lloyd uses his nose to pet around your face. Smoothing his skin across the perimeter of your jaw, inhaling your scent as he lifts your arms above your head. Weaving his fingers in yours before he rolls himself in and out of you.

A steady rhythm of thrusting. He’s so soft and deliberate with his movements. Continuing to trace your face with his nose. Whispering your name, “I love you. We don’t have to invite anybody into our sex life. You’re more than enough. And I need you to understand that. If you don’t want Ari to ever see you in the position he did tonight, I need you to vocalize that, okay?”

“Okay,” you pant out. Arching your back to take more of him. You want him all over you.

“You can take all the time in the world to decide that. You can change your mind at any time,” the idea of Ari is exciting to him, but not necessary. Especially if it meant losing you. That is what mattered; you and Lyla. Not some kinky sex and cum play.

“I know,” he knows this is the worst time to try and get you to comprehend what could be a difficult sex life. But he isn’t lying. It isn’t a performance. You’re his obsession. Just you. You are more than enough for him. “What did you know earlier?” your chest heaves as you try and get the question out. “When you took LJ out of me.”

“You left your cream on the toy,” he laughs up against your neck. His mouth and hips are both a work of art, and the most sinful parts of him. “You got yourself off before you came back into the living room didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” he bites your neck, starting to suck on the skin hard. “You’re going to leave a mark!”

“Tell the truth,” he demands before sucking even harder. Sending every synapse in your brain into overdrive.

“Yes! Yes, I was leaning over the counter, and — and I was — I was — Lloyd!” He stops his movements, and you squeal. “Stop!”

“Then answer me.”

He starts a steady pace again, and then pounds into you so hard you see stars. His pace changes to slow, but rough jabbing movements, “I was just playing with my clit, and — and humping air. I was pretending it was you. Daddy!”

You’re wrecked. His movements are so slow, but they hit every right spot. Maybe it’s the blinding stabs into you that has every muscle in your body tightening up. He fucks into you so hard that the hairs on your body stands up, your toes curl, and your fingernails dig into his hands. You wish you could touch some other part of his body. You’re a goner.

Each thrust becomes harder. Deeper. Just. Right. There.

In. The. Perfect. Spot.

“Daddy!” Everything blurs. Lines disappear, and your body is numb with pleasure. Breathing so erratically as stars light up your vision. “Daddy!”

Jolting your body up the bed higher. Until your hands hit the head board, and he drops them. Slamming his hands above you, and he rockets himself into you. Pounding you so hard that your body lurches higher on the bed. Your head starts to knock against the padded board, and you start speaking in tongue to the heavens above as pleasure so deep in your body locks your bones into place.

Lloyd grunts, gritting his teeth as he remains pistoning into your clenching cunt. Your body is locked down, and this high lasts so long that you forget how to breathe. How to even be a human. Bright light floods into your mind, and then a loud, “Fuuuck,” before warmth spews inside of you, and your walls pulse around his cock. Milking him dry.

“My god, if you want me to marry you, I’d do it tomorrow,” you hum as he settles over you. He kisses around your neck. Using his fingers to trace the delicate lines on your neck and collarbone. Something is missing, and now he knows, “We’re going to have to fix this before I go back to work,” he still has to deal with The Verb, and your disgusting father. But he’s going to make sure everyone knows that you belong to someone. Even if you didn’t understand the significance, others would. He’s sure the neighbor down the street that stared at you when you dropped the keys to your car too long would understand exactly what it meant.

He had to make it be known that you were claimed, and unavailable. In every way possible. “Yeah, you’ve got a nasty little hickey on your neck.”

“What?” Your hand feels around your neck where he bit you. Thinking you could see with your eyes before you roll over on top of him. He sighs when he feels himself drip out of you. He doesn’t even care that you’re giving your own mark on him because you’re also grinding your greedy little twat on his stomach. You’re just as insatiable as him.

You nip on his creamy skin. Sucking and kissing over him. You want this ugly thing to last. Moving lower to give him another hickey. And another. If he’s going to leave you, you’re going to make sure everyone knows that he comes home to you. Home to fuck you. And home to his family.

You sit up on him, smiling at your handy work. “There. Now you can go back to work, and show everyone how you have a slut living with you.”

“Yeah yeah. Just keep grinding, and get yourself off on my stomach. I’ll walk around with this stupid thing if that makes you feel better. And I’ll worry about those seven spankings another day,” you forgot about that threat. But he didn’t.

In some weird way, you like knowing that he’ll walk around with red bruises all over his neck. Not that you didn’t trust him. It’s just fun to think that everyone knows he’s getting laid on a regular basis. That he can come home to his Dolly. Home to you. Home to your daughter. And his family.

And you have every intention of letting him use you.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @theinheriteddutchess @rainydayandmondays @buckybarnesisdaddy @patzammit

@xoxo-ls @rebeccapineapple @slutforchrisjamalevans @marvel-wifey-86 @jesevans

@ughdontbeboring @infantasywonderland @vampy-doll @i-like-to-read-13 @missacidburn928

@charmed-asylum @superflannel @hisredheadedgoddess28 @lostinspace33 @abbyyourlocalmilf

@saranghae012 @rogersbarber @tas-renee @kmm-fluv

#with your touch #lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x fem!reader #lloyd hansen x female reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen fic #lloyd hansen fics #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen fanfic #lloyd hansen fanfics #lloyd hansen smut #chris evans #chris evans character #the gray man #d/s dynamic

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submattenthusiast · 2 days ago

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anniversary - matt sturniolo

you smiled to yourself as you picked out the special two piece set for you and matt's anniversary today. the lacy bra with small bows on the straps and in the center where your cleavage meets and the tiny thong with a small bow on the front and medium sized bow on the back. the numerous pretty colors made the decision difficult. your top two options being the baby blue and white.

settling on the baby blue, you paid and skipped happily out of victoria's secret. you were so excited to surprise matt, knowing he loved the shade of blue you chose and lingerie on you. not to mention the mind blowing sex that may or may not happen once he lays eyes on you. thank god he had an errand to run today or else the surprise would be ruined.

you checked his location while stepping in the house, praying he was still at least a few minutes away. you sighed in relief as the circle showed him thirty minutes out. you slipped your phone in your pocket as you jogged towards your room. plastic bag smacking against you with swiftness.

having showered and everything before leaving the house all you had left to do was get into the set. you stripped out of the clothes you threw on when leaving the house, throwing them in the clothes hamper in the corner as they were removed. now fully nude, you reached into the pink striped bag for the bra first, then the teeny tiny thong.

the bow on the front became a fidget toy as you played with it while you waited for the man of the hour to arrive. the soft hum of the music in the background distracted you a little. thirty minutes never felt so slow — ever. the sounds of matt's loud timbs hitting the floor, brought a smile to your lips. you positioned your body as sexily? as possible as you heard the doorknob rattle.

"baby i'm home-" matt called as he opened the door. his drastic pause made your nervousness disappear. the flowers and chocolates in his hand almost slipped from his grip as he saw you. he gazed at you in awe as he came fully into the room. not even bothering to take any outside clothes off matt kneeled in front of you. completely disregarding your gifts.

you switched from laying on your side to sitting on the edge of the bed that matt was on his knees at. your legs swung open as you watched his wandering eyes. the blue on the thong matched the blue of his eyes, purposely. "fuck baby" matt whispered, shock still consuming him. his calloused hands ran over your thighs as he rested between them. "you like?"

"i love it, blue s' pretty" he mumbled. matt laid his head against your thigh. still maintaining contact with your barely covered pussy. "this new?" he questioned. looking down you responded simply "just got it today". tilting his head to the side for better access, matt kissed up on your thigh. his soft lips tickled the skin with each touch. you cursed at yourself for picking such a light color. the once light blue turned dark, a patch of wetness appearing as he kissed closer to your pussy.

pausing his array of kisses, matt was reminded of his gift to you. "the flowers and stuff is for you, if you want them now". you looked over at the forgotten bouquet and box, smiling at the thoughtfulness from him. "they're beautiful but i want something else right now". you winked as you played with the thin straps of the thong.

#🧸ྀི jules inbox #jules writes 📓 !!#sorry if you don't like the color i chose

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weaselandfriends · 24 hours ago

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The Making Of: When I Win the World Ends

(For my previous Making Of post, see The Making Of: Cleveland Quixotic.)

I. 1999

It was the year of the cubicle movie. It was the year of Fight Club, of Office Space, of Being John Malkovich, of Three Kings, of The Matrix, and of American Beauty. It was the year of suburban malaise, of eternal sunshine, of ceaseless normality. A year of United States hegemony; a year whose chief terror was that THIS WAS IT.

Before the millennium turned and the towers fell, there was an initial challenge to this order, a completely inconsequential one made consequential by a newly minted 24/7 news media machine running out of noise to fill dead air now that people were sick to bursting of the Clinton impeachment. This challenge came not through war, revolution, or violence, but through entertainment. Children's entertainment.

And I was a child. Unaware of any cultural context, I knew only one thing: I loved Pokémon. I really, really loved Pokémon.

I owned Red Version, Blue Version, Yellow Version, Pokémon Pinball, Pokémon Stadium, Pokémon Snap, Hey You Pikachu, a Pokémon Tetris sort of puzzle game, even the Pokémon TCG game for Gameboy. I had ten to fifteen strategy guides for the games, an encyclopedia of the 151 Pokémon, a choose your own adventure book, an I Spy-style book. I had Pokémon figurines, Pokémon plushies, toy Poké Balls, toy Pokédexes. I had Pokémon stamps and Pokémon stickers and a deck of Pokémon cards. Not trading cards, just a standard 52-card deck with Pokémon pictures on it. Of course I also had the trading cards. A complete set of the first three runs, plus a special Mew card you could get from I dunno Toys R Us or something as part of some promotion. I had a guide for the card game that explained which cards were good or bad even though I didn't even play the card game. I had a Pokémon Tamagotchi and Pokémon pencils and Pokémon erasers and Ash Ketchum's hat and I dressed up as Ash Ketchum for Halloween. Of course I watched every episode of the anime, and in notebooks I drew doodles of existing Pokémon and came up with names for new Pokémon. My father had died that year.

My father was a sports fanatic. Traditional sports. He, too, collected. Sports memorabilia, baseball cards, figures of famous stars. When I was an infant, he drove me on a cross country road trip to Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin, where I became a part owner of the Green Bay Packers. He had always wanted me to grow up and pursue professional sports. When I was born, the doctor apparently said to start looking for football colleges, a quote he saved in a scrapbook of baby photos. He had played sports himself, in college; he was a baseball catcher, until a hitter accidentally struck him in the head with a full force swing.

Almost everything I personally remember about him involves him dying. He was sick for a long time, and I remember hospitals and hospital beds and strange smells and gauze. And then one day my mother told me he died.

He was a charismatic man, very social and very popular. He had many friends and a lot of family, all of whom had constantly been around our house. Once he was gone, they stopped coming around. Then it was just me and my mother, who was not a fanatic for anything, except maybe her job as an elementary school teacher, which consumed her time as she assiduously prepared lesson plans and graded tests until late at night. When my father died, she got into some argument with his side of the family, the details of which I still don't fully understand, and afterward they no longer spoke. Her own family lived far away, out-of-state, seen only at Christmas. The house became quiet.

And I… played… Pokémon.

II. The Electric Tale of Pikachu

Toshihiro Ono was a mangaka primarily known for shotacon and futanari hentai. His credits such as Innyou Megami and Anal Justice made him a no-brainer pick for the officially licensed Pokémon manga, Electric Tale of Pikachu, as it too would feature a 10-year-old boy as the protagonist.

This manga would be the foundation for my conception of what Pokémon was, narratively. Though I also had the Pokémon Adventures manga that ran concurrently and which has by now long outlasted it, Electric Tale left a significantly deeper imprint on my memory.

In summary, Electric Tale is a retelling of the first two seasons of the anime. Ash Ketchum is the main character, he's accompanied by Misty and later Brock, his rival is Gary, and Team Rocket harangues him.

What sets Electric Tale apart is its tone, which is far more adult than Adventures and the anime. Obviously, part of this comes from the author's primary area of expertise being hentai. Even in the censored English version, there is a sense of sexual playfulness in how every single female character is an older woman who likes to tease Ash about his romantic interests.

But there are other elements that creep in unrelated to sex, due to the perspective of someone only used to speaking to adults who suddenly has to speak to children. Ono doesn't really get the childish fantasy of leaving at 10 being normal in society, so he introduces an element where Ash can only get a one year deferment from school and will have to return unless he hits it big. Team Rocket are former competitive hopefuls who flamed out and then, with no education or work experience to speak of, had no choice but to turn to crime. The Pokémon are depicted more realistically, often eschewing the toyetic mascot elements of their designs.

And the landscapes are often wistful, even apocalyptic in their presentation:

This more sedate, mature, realistic depiction of Pokémon became what I wanted Pokémon to be, what I projected onto an original Red and Blue version that left everything open to interpretation, and what would increasingly frustrate me with the series as it deviated more toward bombastic villain groups with goofy destroy-the-world plots. (Which was what put me off Pokémon Adventures.)

Amid all this, one panel stuck with me in particular. One panel I would think about ever since I first saw it as a child, that would turn around in my head and keep coming back. That panel would eventually—over two decades later—become the basis for When I Win the World Ends, the seed from which an entire story grew:

III. The Unkillable Demon King

But in the interim, the seed remained dormant. 1999 fell away. I grew up. I played later Pokémon games and increasingly lost interest by around Gen 4 and 5. Then I went to college.

That's when I started playing League of Legends.

I was something of a psychopath in college. I operated on a strict schedule and did not deviate. Wake up, read 50 pages of classic literature, write 2,000 words, go to classes, study, and then by about four in the afternoon all my obligations were done and it was League of Legends until midnight.

I wasn't actually interested in the League of Legends esports scene in its infancy. In 2012, I was actually invited to attend its World Championship in Los Angeles and refused. (When I received this invitation, I had just finished reading Homestuck for the first time, and was caught in a month-long haze in which I could do little but bask within what I considered the greatest artistic achievement I'd seen in my life. It was this month that inspired Modern Cannibals.) I only liked playing the game and watching Dunkey videos.

It wasn't until the next year, when a girl I was interested in recommended I watch, that I tuned in to my first professional League of Legends game, at the 2013 World Championship. It was there that I got to watch this new, hyped, upcoming Korean player who had apparently taken the pro scene by storm that season. That player was Faker.

It has seemingly become essential to the narrative of any sport that there is "the man who always wins." American football has Tom Brady, and the moment Brady retired, he was replaced by Patrick Mahomes. Basketball has LeBron James, picking up the mantle from Michael Jordan. It's as if someone being "the best" validates the skill-based promise of the sport, the fundamental top-down fairness of its premise, the idea that the person who wins is the best and deserved it. Faker would become the backbone of League of Legends esports and his ascendance correlated to that of the sport itself, from its humble roots at small-scale tournaments in places like Jönköping, Sweden, to max capacity arenas in the biggest cities in the world.

It's surprising, though, how the legend of Faker had already begun even before he won his first World Championship. League of Legends was designed as a clone of Defense of the Ancients (DotA), a popular mod for Warcraft III that emphasized competitive play. In its infancy, the competitive scene was mostly dominated by players who had migrated from DotA to League. They were older, winning thanks to a fundamental conceptual understanding of the game that was superior to everyone else, and frankly not very good in the aggregate. As League of Legends esports exploded in popularity from 2013 to 2015, these old pros would get filtered out swiftly, with even the biggest and most popular names retiring after only a couple of years in the scene.

Even once the new generation of League-grown talent ascended, though, careers were nasty, brutish, and short. The best players only remained on top for a season, as game patches dramatically changed viable strategies. Internationally the sport was dominated by Koreans, with the Korean regional league sometimes being seen as more difficult to win than the World Championship, where Koreans often breezed through uncompetitive Chinese, European, and North American squads.

This possibly affected the demographics of the professional scene. South Korea has mandatory military service, and leaving the pro scene to join the military was basically the end of a Korean player's career. This meant that it was rare to see a Korean player older than 25. Retiring in your early 20s was and remains common. Korean organizations, which had an infrastructural leg up on other regions due to the popularity of StarCraft 2 esports in the country, became adept at scouting promising players at 15 or 16, building them into top level competitive pros, wringing them dry for a few seasons with brutal training regimens, and spitting them out.

Faker was the exception. Though he had been discovered young by SK Telecom, a major Korean telecommunications company that did esports on the side, and gone through the training regimen, he refused to be spit out. He simply didn't stop. He won in 2013, then with a completely new four-man squad around him won again in 2015 and 2016 before narrowly losing the 2017 finals in a nail biter. Given League of Legends esports had only existed since 2011, he basically accounted for half of the championships up until that point. Nobody else, except for his teammates, had won more than once. And it was like it was known he would be this juggernaut the instant he manifested ex nihilo. Like it was known, even in 2013, that he would always win.

Then, Faker stopped winning.

By 2017, League of Legends esports was a titan. Venture capital firms, seeing the millions of eyeballs, thought that this was the next NBA in its infancy, and decided to get in on the ground floor. Multiple millions of dollars were pumped into the scene as even mediocre players in weak regions like North America pulled seven-digit salaries. In China, where League of Legends had become the national pastime, the nation's richest oligarchs ran teams for fun and vanity, outbidding Korean organizations for top Korean players in pursuit of a trophy that had gone to Korea every year since 2013. Riot, the studio developing the game, pumped tons of money into creating a professional sports product, with skilled announcers, dedicated arenas for regional leagues, live performances by musicians like Imagine Dragons and Lil Nas X, and all the other bells and whistles one might expect from a program watched on ESPN.

In this milieu, it seemed like Faker had finally reached his limit. He was still good, but not the best. Even as an individual, while everyone still considered him the "greatest of all time," he was considered outmatched by newer pros like Chovy and ShowMaker. 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2021 passed with no championships. In 2022, on a team of mostly rookies, he reached the world finals, but was ultimately beaten. Korea's stranglehold over the sport had been shaken by China, which had finally strung together some championships. People wondered if Faker would retire, although he had managed to avoid mandatory military service by representing Korea in the Olympics-esque Asian Games. He'd dealt with wrist injuries and his level of play dropped year over year. He just didn't seem to be that good anymore, potentially holding back his team of talented young players rather than leading them to victory.

Then, in 2023—

youtube

And in 2024—

youtube

In the end, never count out Touchdown Tom. 11 years of professional play, 5 world championships.

From this longwinded explanation, you might have realized that after watching that game in 2013, I became a League of Legends esports fanatic, fulfilling the prophecy set before me by my father though perhaps in not the way he would have expected.

And the things I become a fanatic about, I want to write a story about.

IV. Modern Cannibals

There's a deleted scene in Modern Cannibals, as Maximillion is driving Z. and her friends through the Utah desert. He starts to talk about Pokémon.

"I bring it up because my university thesis was about Pokemon in particular how Pokemon has basically trained an entire generation of children to think in a completely different way than preceding generations my generation for instance our fad was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles now I don't know how much you know about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles but from an educational standpoint we're talking absolute bankrupt complete and utter goose egg but Pokemon now Pokemon you see it's more like there's some substance to it you know that refrain Gotta Catch Em All right?" "..." "Well to most parents it looks like a marketing gimmick you make one hundred fifty-one characters and structure a game around collecting them the merchandising potential is astronomical kids buy one hundred fifty-one trading cards stickers coloring books figurines uh collectable lunchable toys I'm sure you've got some yourself."

He continues:

"But really you look at the game itself before the big toy explosion the game itself the focus is placed less on the collection and more on the catalogue you're given a blank encyclopedia to fill and you fill it by capturing one hundred fifty-one Pokemon but the goal is to create a complete database of each and every one and this is what I argue is the educational core of the Pokemon series." His hands left the wheel to conceive of his idea in the cool air of the car, which remained steady on its ever-forward path. "Our modern era is no longer one of singular isolated knowledge it is one of the catalogue the database which is most clearly personified in the advent of the internet because now all knowledge can be at the fingertips of any one human being all that is needed is someone to go and put the catalogue together and presto whiz bang it's there think about it Z. when you catch a bunch of Pokemon where do you store them?" Z. didn't need to think long to remember the game's mechanics. "In the PC." "Exactly now isn't that odd consider it in real life terms you have real life creatures made assumedly of flesh and bone and yet you store them in a computer how does that make sense you'd expect a farm or a holding pen but no it's the computer and that too prepares the budding portion of the millennial generation to become cognizant of the linkage between the computer the encyclopedia and the database structure of knowledge in a new era." "So," said Z. "So you're saying Pokemon taught kids how to think in the digital age?"

There's also a deleted character in Modern Cannibals. Well, mostly deleted—he still shows up, unnamed, in a couple of pages. He is Cole Coulter, Z.'s older brother, a popular League of Legends streamer. Before I deleted him, his role was to accompany Mrs. Roddlevan and Frederick in an attempt to bring Z. back home. He had POV scenes that gave insight into the weirdness of his cotravelers, but ultimately, I decided he didn't add anything to the story and removed him almost entirely.

Even then, though, I was already considering the future of Cole Coulter as the protagonist of a story about League of Legends esports. Playing under the ID MadKing, he would be a North American professional top laner, once known for his aggressive duelist style but recently forced into playing boring tanks as the esports metagame became more sophisticated and tactics-based.

The story would be simple, something I envisioned as a "sports story" only about esports instead of regular sports. It would start with Cole's team being relegated from the league, only for Cole to get a last chance signing to a new team with two promising Korean imports. One import, the mid laner, would be a charismatic and eccentric player in the mold of Doinb/Ganked By Mom/Huhi, while the other, an AD carry, would be introverted and pissy and elitist, in the mold of Piglet. The team would initially struggle, cultures would clash, then a mid-season replacement to sign a psychopathic Tyler1/Tarzaned style streamer as jungler would revitalize the team, put them on a major run, and get them to the World Championship. Though they would eventually fall after a miracle run, Cole would get a moment to truly shine on the biggest stage when he won a pivotal game by aggressive split pushing rather than tank play.

Thematically, the story would be about two things. First, a counterpoint to the idea of American exceptionalism, featuring a league where Americans are particularly bad compared to Korean or Chinese players. Second, an exploration of what it means to be exceptional at all. Cole would be an all-around mediocre person. Middling at school, at (real) sports, at the various popularity contests of being a teenager. League of Legends, this niche sub-sport, is the one thing he truly excelled at, the one place where he was good, better than 99.9 percent of all players, and yet even within that statistical greatness he wound up, ultimately, in a professional scene where he was once again mediocre, relegated to "tank duty," to facilitating other players to carry.

What does it mean to be the best? How can someone be so, so good, only to reach a level where they were still nothing special? Is there any way to win if you're not "the man who always wins"?

I remembered that panel from Electric Tale of Pikachu. The last people filtered before the final champion. It's certainly no walk in the zoo!

This idea was pretty detailed for a story I never wound up writing, something I mostly blame on the years 2018 and 2019, when a lot of bad things happened to me and in retrospect I consider it a minor miracle I managed to finish Chicago at all. As a human being, I would be decimated for the next three years, and so a lot of stories I might have written in that time never came to fruition.

Meanwhile, League of Legends esports reached a peak, then the venture capital bubble burst as investors realized there was no monetization scheme in place for any interested party except Riot Games. Money hemorrhaged out, Riot shifted resources to Valorant, and a sport that had been overinflated based on projected exponential growth in perpetuity fell back down to earth.

Also, Players came out.

Players was a 2022 mockumentary about a fictional League of Legends team competing in the North American league. Conceptually, it was doing a lot of what I had planned for my story: following a single team on a rags-to-riches run, focusing on the interpersonal drama of the team members, asking questions about greatness and its pursuit. It's a pretty good show if you're familiar with League of Legends esports at all, with a lot of on-the-ground fidelity that gives it an authentic feel, which is exactly what I had been hoping to use my esports fanaticism to accomplish. It completely took the wind out of my sails; it was like my idea had already been done.

So by 2022, the idea of a League of Legends esports story was dead. But there was still a drive to create something with that spirit, that would delve into those themes.

What remained after all these years of sifting the sieve, letting sand slip through, was that one panel from the manga. The number of people pursuing greatness slowly filtering until only one remained. And if I wasn't going to pursue that idea through League of Legends, maybe I could pursue it through another vehicle. Maybe the vehicle through which the idea had originally been exposed to me. Pokémon. It all came back to Pokémon.

V. Everything Evolving Into Crabs

I knew immediately that if I were to write a Pokémon fic, it would be a tournament arc. This was the natural evolution of my esports story idea. Also, if I were to write Pokémon, I wanted it to be a story about utopia, immersed within Pokémon's near-future ideal world, where everything is clean and healthy, where society is neat and ordered.

This idea caused me to remember the novel Eyeless in Gaza by Aldous Huxley, which I had read a few years back. A mostly autobiographical bildungsroman written on the precipice of World War II, the novel ends with the young protagonist on a journey to Central America, where he meets an idealistic doctor who believes sport to be a proper substitution for war. He tells the story of two tribes locked in internecine conflict through generations, able to replace that violence with soccer matches.

And wasn't that what the world of Pokémon was, a utopia revolving around neutralizing weapons of war by using them for competitive sport?

This tournament, I envisioned, would not simply be about deciding who was best, but an ideological battle for the future of the Pokémon world. To that end, I imagined a war between an entrenched trainer class, who competed as philosopher-warriors, intense individuals with deep connections to their Pokémon, and an upstart commercialization that sought to replace the ideological underpinnings that made their society so safe and prosperous with economic accumulation. It was from this kernel that the character who would become Aracely Sosa arose: charismatic, appealing, human-empathic, and propped up by a support staff who did all the hard work of teambuilding for her.

I imagined the story having an ensemble cast, focusing on nearly every competitor equally, with the Aracely character not having any especial focus until her improbable rise to the top. I imagined a final round where she faced off against "the man who always wins," and though she would lose to him, she would seem to have won the ideological battle, altering the course of society as major corporations scrambled to employ her formula for success at a much grander scale. The story would end with this realization of the earth-shattering importance behind her run, only for Aracely to sink in disappointment. Because in the end, all she really wanted was to win.

The more I thought about it, though, the less I liked the idea of an ensemble cast. The ensemble cast element of Chicago hadn't gone over very well (though I like it), and I figured it would wind up inflating the length of the story considerably. I was coming to the end of Cleveland Quixotic, after all, and once more wanted to write something smaller, tighter, and denser.

So I oriented my thinking to instead have the story revolve around Aracely and one major rival, to give an interpersonal mirror to the ideological war being waged. Thus, Toril came about as an antithesis to everything I had imagined Aracely to be: gruff, antisocial, independent. Their rivalry would culminate in a semifinals battle, before Aracely went on to fight "the man who always wins" in the finals.

I forget exactly when the gender theme came into the equation, but it evolved as an outgrowth of (once again) my competitive League of Legends expertise, where women are essentially nonexistent despite there seemingly being no biological blocks against them. This dovetailed nicely with Pokémon, a world where women seemingly could be powerful competitors, but where—in the anime at least—none ever are. For instance, look at this chart of every major tournament in the anime:

Every known winner is male. Every known finalist and semifinalist is male. Only a handful of female characters have reached the quarterfinals. What possible in-universe justification could there be for that?

This question was actually far more prominent in early planning and drafting than it wound up being in the final work. Initially, I had Aracely's personal motivation revolve around a drive to be the first female trainer to win; this would increase the ideological conflict between her and Toril, who attempted to ignore that she was female altogether. Over time, this theme would see diminished importance in face of the last piece of the thematic puzzle: cults.

It came from reading Underground by Haruki Murakami, a nonfiction journalistic account of the 1995 Tokyo sarin gas attacks carried out by the cult Aum Shinrikyo under the direction of its leader Shoko Asahara. Japan in the 90s was experiencing its own End of History, one taken literally by those disaffected with modern society's grand narrative. The prophecies of Nostradamus became fashionable among the young, who believed that 1999 would be the final year before the world was destroyed. Murakami interviewed both survivors of the gas attack and members of Aum Shinrikyo, collecting worldviews of people who simply thought they were "different" and who were willing to give everything in their lives to the one place that seemed to accept that difference.

The 1995 attacks were a watershed moment in Japanese culture. In their wake would come pivotal works of Japanese pop media, like the titan of otaku culture, Neon Genesis Evangelion:

(What's scary about Nostradamus' prophecy is that it might not come true. A year whose chief terror was that THIS WAS IT.)

Pokémon, whose first games released in Japan in 1996, also emerged within this post-Aum world where fixation on the minutiae of pop media was becoming a primary pillar of meaning for the youth, and it's hard not to see echoes of cultism in the evil teams that dot the series' landscape. Even Team Rocket, originally more modeled on organized crime than occultism, veers that direction in Gold and Silver, and afterward the organizations and their world-ending plots become increasingly absurd, to the point where it starts to become unclear why anyone would ever follow, say, Lysandre.

As I mentioned earlier, my personal interest in Pokémon was at odds with these clownish, Saturday morning cartoon villain organizations, but Murakami's account of the Aum attacks recontextualized them for me, made them make sense even within the framework of a "realistic" utopian world. The last elements snapped into place, and I knew my main character would be the member of one of these cults. A cult dedicated to, what else? Evolution. A core element of the Pokémon series, a perfect metaphor for the frustrating lack of movement of the End of History 90s. I imagined a cult leader as a surrogate mother figure for Aracely, who would have a strained relationship with both of her own parents, and deciding on that, the idea of making Pokémon's canon evil mother Lusamine the villain was a no-brainer. I imagined a post-SuMo Lusamine, unable to move on from her experience merged with Nihilego, languishing in Kanto after being sent there to consult with Bill, who had his own experience being merged with a Pokémon... It didn't take long to figure out how all these pieces connected.

The full form of the story had taken shape.

VI. Showdown

I knew immediately I would be following Showdown rules for the battles. No alternative even crossed my mind. I had dabbled in Showdown a few times over the years, first in Gen 3 OUs, then later in Gen 7 OUs, and I knew from experience that Pokémon is a monumentally more interesting competitive game when operating at a high level compared to either its depiction in the anime (shounen logic, mid-fight evolutions) or the general playing experience (spam your best move on your overleveled starter). I knew I would use competitive rulesets before I even considered the thematic or worldbuilding aspect I would eventually take in the story itself (i.e., that the specific rulesets prevent battles from becoming bloodsport and enforce order on the world). I simply thought doing battles this way would be far more entertaining.

To prepare, I started playing Gen 9 OUs under the guidance of a few friends who were into the competitive scene. I grinded the ladder for months, eventually getting a good enough grasp on the metagame to reach 1500 Elo on the Showdown ladder, which is not very good but generally higher than someone can reach with dumb luck.

Crafting the tournament format and rulesets used in the story wasn't difficult. I modeled the tournament format on the League of Legends World Championship, with region-based seeds (having been selected due to performance in regional tournaments) competing in four groups before the highest performers advanced to a single elimination bracket. Initially, I envisioned a 32-competitor bracket instead of the 16-competitor bracket that would appear in the final draft, but otherwise the format came quickly and easily.

In terms of the rulesets and available Pokémon, my considerations were made primarily in terms of what would be most entertaining to read. I decided to include Mega Evolutions and not include Z Moves, Dynamax, or Terastallization, because Mega Evolutions are cool and those other gimmicks are not. The bring-9-pick-6 format, while unusual in Showdown rulesets, is similar to the rules in Pokémon Stadium and VGC tournaments, and also adds a level of intrigue to which Pokémon each competitor uses. (It also enabled Red's Zapdos at the climax of the story, which was something I knew I would bring out from very early on.)

With the help of one of my friends who knew competitive Pokémon, I scripted out each battle assiduously before I wrote them. Every battle was tested using Showdown itself, with only a few turns mocked up to account for luck. For instance, in Aracely versus Jinjiao, Slowking is meant to stay asleep for three turns. Rather than rely on luck to ensure Slowking actually slept that long during the test, I could give Slowking a useless move and have him use that instead to simulate being asleep.

The only thing that couldn't be tested in Showdown was the 7 PP Kingambit trick Red uses at the end of the story, because it's impossible to set a Pokémon to have fewer than max PP in Showdown. This led to one of the bigger mistakes of the story, as it turns out that Encore would simply wear off if Kingambit ran out of PP, rather than forcing him to use Struggle like I assumed. Luckily, even if this were the case, it wouldn't change the outcome of the battle, so it's not an error I lose too much sleep over.

Character teams were chosen to thread the needle between a few considerations. The team needed to be competitively viable, reflect the character's personality in some way, and be distinct from other teams for the sake of variety. (Variety is somewhat unrealistic in real top-level competitive Pokémon, where you'll often see many almost identical teams in the top ranks. But that would be boring.) Some lack of optimization was allowed under the conceit that actually training these Pokémon to peak form would take a lot of time in the real world, compared to Showdown were optimization can be determined quickly due to the ability to immediately adjust stats and builds.

I also tried to give some preference for Pokémon that would be more familiar to layman fans, though this was difficult because Gen 8 and 9 have outrageous power creep and many popular early generation Pokémon have been completely phased out. (Using Megas helped with this issue.) It was this consideration that led to Azumarill being Aracely's ace. There was also an innate challenge to imagining what the competitive scene would look like without legendary Pokémon. Zapdos and Landorus-Therian have been inexorable staples of the competitive scene for generations. What happens in a world where they aren't used at all?

In the original 32-person bracket, I imagined Aracely competing against Jinjiao in the first round, then minor characters Adrian da Cunha and Jacq Ray Johnson in the next two rounds, before facing Toril in semifinals. I imagined Adrian da Cunha as a "hometown hero" whose team wasn't great but he was plucky with a lot of grit, and Jacq Ray Johnson as a self-aware heel who liked to use cheesy strategies and gimmicky Pokémon like Smeargle and Ditto. Condensing from 32 to 16 occurred around the same time I had settled on Lusamine as my villain/cult leader, which led to replacing those two with Gladion. I developed full brackets for both the 32-man and 16-man iterations, with character names and regions, just in case I ever needed to mention them.

All that was left to do was write the story.

VII. Unbroken Line of History

I began writing in September 2023 under the tentative title Unbroken Line of History, which I would later change to simply Lines. In the original drafts, I opened the story with a modified version of the panel from Electric Tale of Pikachu detailing how people are filtered over time in their pursuit of being the best, this time starting with all 8 billion people in the world until only one remains. The story then cut to Aracely's perspective in the restroom as she mentally prepared for her final group stage match.

At this point I was more set on Aracely being the clear protagonist of the story, so she had a few facets of her personality designed around that. First, as I mentioned before, there was a feminist angle where she was motivated specifically to be the first female trainer to win the championship. Secondly, I threw in some more generic nervousness/fear of failure. The other major difference is that I did not lead with the cult prophecy of the world ending. I originally envisioned the cult reveal to be a mid-story twist, and only obliquely hinted at it.

The scene still played out with Toril appearing and the two getting off to a bad start. Then, Cely's father tried to talk strategy with her while she ignored him, before the battle transpired in much the same form as it does in the final draft.

I showed this early draft to my friends and most disliked it. My girlfriend at the time told me Cely sounded like an edgy 13-year-old boy, while my neuroscientist friend whose aspirational idol is Bondrewd from Made in Abyss wanted to know more about the oblique hints of a cult, finding everything else boring. Another friend said it was stupid that there were 30 seconds between turns during the battle and that the Pokémon should just go at each other; nobody would actually want to watch a battle that was paced so slowly. (I vehemently disagreed with that take. Basically every popular sport balances between slow-paced moments of strategy and fast-paced moments of action and execution.) Some people I showed it to did enjoy it, though. Gazemaize, the author of Chili and the Chocolate Factory, was especially enamored by the Brittany/Gardevoir reveal and the Bud Light Analyst Desk, and implored me to keep both of those elements at all costs. 7th, one of my friends who helped me with the Showdown stuff, was so into it she drew fan art of all the characters (which I've posted before) and also wrote eight pornographic short stories about them.

I rewrote the same opening scene several times across October and November, though these were minor iterations without significant adjustments. Frustrated with the lack of progress, I decided to take a break from writing to simply think about the story for a few months.

During this time, to fix Aracely's edgy 13-year-old voice, I decided to lean into her being from Pokémon Los Angeles (with her native region, Visia, being a play on "visual" as a reference to Hollywood) and gave her a Valley Girl accent. To prepare for this, I listened to hours and hours of ASMR videos of people speaking like Valley Girls and took notes on their inflection and syntax. It was here where I decided on Aracely's underlining quirk, as a way of capturing the unique style of emphasis Valley Girls used.

This also made me realize I needed to adjust Aracely's personality. Despite the tone of her voice, she was still acting antisocially. She didn't want to talk to her father, she didn't want to talk to Lachlan Nguyen, she didn't even really want to talk to Toril. Toril herself was a lump of coal. My own misanthropy kept leaking into the characters, even when I conceptually didn't want them to have it. I thought back to Cleveland Quixotic, and how what made the Jay and Viviendre romance work was that they actually both liked each other, and figured—even though I didn't have explicitly romantic plans for Aracely and Toril—that I needed to do something similar to make their rivalry truly pop. Rather than avoid people, Aracely would lean into talking to them, even if they were annoying. Although Toril remained frigid, there would be a part of her yearning for emotional contact, a way to coax her out of her shell.

I also thought deeply about the structure of my stories in general, and my inability to come up with good hooks. It was around this time that someone I knew was reading Chicago. They pointed out that the plot of Chicago doesn't really start until Chapter 26; that I was "burying the lede." I considered this. My logic, when writing Chicago, was that the Empire moving to take over Washington would be a twist, something that would shock and excite people and change their perception of the entire story.

But did that make sense, when really the story was "about" that twist? Didn't that just make everything before the twist harder to get into for a reader? Chicago might look radically different if I revealed the Empire's goals immediately, but it would also probably be a more immediately engaging work. I'm a big fan of delayed gratification in storytelling, but had I taken it too far?

This was a major revelation for me, and immediately I understood what I needed to do for my Pokémon story: move up the cult plotline. Place it front and center. Name the whole story after it even. I decided on framing the opening scene from Toril's perspective, depicting Aracely initially more as an alien other, emphasizing the fact that she was in a cult rather than hide it behind foreshadowing. This could also lead to Aracely and Toril having more of a dual protagonist setup, which would make my planned two-half finale (one half where Aracely battled "the man who always wins," one half where Toril got involved in stopping the cult's doomsday plot) work even better.

Confidence resurged. At the end of January 2024, my girlfriend of seven years and I broke up. A few days later, I started writing the sixth—and ultimately final—draft of When I Win the World Ends.

VIII. When I Win the World Ends

Now it's the part of the Making Of where I actually make the thing I'm supposed to be making, but there's a lot less to say about it. Once I have a plan, the actual writing of the story is the easy part, and most of what I wrote—with a few exceptions—looks similar to the story as it exists now.

There were some oddities. I wrote the first seven chapters (everything up to the end of the Jinjiao battle) and then had to take a two week break to write a short piece for a writing contest I had entered in December as part of an effort to stop overthinking WIW. After this interruption, I returned to WIW writing perhaps a bit more perfunctorily than I usually would, leading to an original version of Chapter 8 (the chapter where MOTHER makes her first real appearance) that was short and abbreviated. Later, in editing, I would rewrite most of this chapter.

A few ideas emerged while writing, like the motif of serendipity/Logos, which I felt tied nicely to the ideas of evolution and history. It was also in this draft that I introduced Cely's friends Haydn and Charlie, as a nod to an earlier work of mine also featuring a fashion-obsessed girl from Los Angeles. (Speaking of nods to earlier works, in the original 32-man bracket, Cole Coulter featured as one of the competitors, but he didn't make the 16-man cut.)

The process went smoothly. I finished the draft at the end of May, a little under four months after I started it. I had envisioned the full story as being about 70,000 words, but the draft ended up closer to 115,000. Underestimating story length is just an essential element of the trade, though.

A few days after finishing the draft I went on a four-day Oklahoma Darkness Retreat where I had access to zero electronics. The goal was to think about my story deeply and how it could be improved in the editing process.

In this time chamber, where I did nothing except complete crossword puzzles and read The Recognitions by William Gaddis, I came to a realization. There was one element the story needed that wasn't already there.

That element was Sabrina. In the original draft, Sabrina was not present during the scene where Aracely meets the Old Man. She was mentioned obliquely a couple of times in conjunction with Aracely's "psychic powers," but it never really built to anything. There was still a scene where Aracely was interrogated due to her relationship with MOTHER, but only by nameless goons, and the scene lacked tension as it was clear Aracely could talk circles around them.

When I returned from Oklahoma, I prepared for my conception of Sabrina as a character by writing an 8,000 word short story from her perspective, which hashed out an entire backstory for her. Then, I started editing the draft.

For me, a lot of editing is just polish. Usually, cutting out needless sentences and fixing clunky ones, as well as emphasizing a few of the more understated themes and motifs. For instance, during editing, I made slight additions to emphasize the thematic connection between Aracely's suicide attempt and the global war that almost destroyed the world, as well as the connection between the moon and cyclical insanity (lunacy, etymologically, being related to the moon). I made the Old Man more of a Walt Disney-esque figure (from my notes: "a dying Disney"), rewriting much of his dialogue to either be direct quotes or to evoke his ideals. I also expanded on several of the scenes where Toril and Aracely interact to make their relationship more complex and nuanced. I gave MOTHER some new dialogue, including her speech in Chapter 18 about loving a child for the potential it promises, while also paradoxically wanting it to remain a child forever.

The largest changes were in the three chapters I almost fully rewrote. The first was Chapter 8, which as I mentioned earlier was overly terse. In the original draft, it depicted MOTHER as more pathetic, more dependent on Aracely. I decided to make her a more threatening figure, and incorporated a few references to the Moloch sacrifice scene from Valle Verde to make her seem more like a false idol. Similarly, I rewrote Chapter 12, which was originally a very short chapter that focused solely on a conversation between MOTHER and Nilufer that ended with the order to kidnap Aracely. In rewriting the chapter to include Fiorella, I gave myself more opportunity to flesh out the respective philosophies of her and MOTHER (including some of the story's most salient discussions about why cults exist), as well as give more of an insight into the inner workings of RISE as an organization. And lastly, I fully rewrote Chapter 19 to include Sabrina.

The last changes I made in editing were to the final chapter. When I finished the final draft of the story, I sent it to several readers, many of whom had looked at the original drafts of the first chapter, as well as julirites, the author of a Fargo fan fiction called London. There was an immediate and minor backlash to the final chapter, which was originally much more pessimistic, from most people who read it. In the original version, Aracely and Toril were not still in communication. (Fiorella was also dying of cancer instead of jockeying to replace the Old Man.) The finale had a much more somber, sedate, tragic note. Juli and 7th disliked this sad ending, while Gazemaize wanted me to cut the final chapter altogether. I felt confident that the final chapter was necessary, though, and revised it to its current version, which was much better liked.

And then... the story was finished, near the end of July. I crunched the numbers and realized that if I posted two chapters to start and then did a twice-weekly posting schedule, I could end the story serendipitously on October 12. So I did.

IX. Names and Special Thanks

In my Making Of post for Cleveland Quixotic, I had a fairly extensive list of where I got all the character and place names from. The list is a lot less extensive here; most names I constructed for the purpose of sounding evocative, rather than taking them from someplace specific. For instance, I chose the name Aracely Sosa because it sounds like whistling with its repeated S sounds, compared to Toril Lund which is a lot harsher with its consonants. You can see a similar rationale behind names like Fiorella Fiorina, Yui Matsui, and even some of the background characters, like Jacq Ray Johnson, Jr., where there is a lot of emphasis on alliteration and rhyme.

There are a couple of exceptions. Jinjiao is the in-game ID of a longtime Chinese League of Legends pro of middling notability. He picked the name (which means "Golden Horn") as a reference to the Golden Horned King, a villain from Journey to the West.

Lutz, Fiorella's cameraman, was named after an extremely minor character from Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance, who is not playable and only appears in a singular cutscene before being killed. They are so irrelevant that despite naming a character after them, I actually forgot their name, which is Lotz, not Lutz.

Haydn is named after the famous classical composer.

Special thanks to 7th and Elick320 for helping me with the teams and battles. Thanks to Gazemaize and julirites, among others unnamed, for reading and providing feedback. And thank you all for enjoying the story.

#when i win the world ends #wiw #bavitz #the making of #writing #pokemon #fanfic #fan fiction #league of legends #faker #the electric tale of pikachu #Youtube

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lucyblue101 · 1 day ago

Text

You leave me no choice 😤

Satoru x reader

Clingy satoru and pure fluff

You were just trying to read when Satoru flopped dramatically across your lap, letting out a loud sigh that practically echoed through the room. You glanced down at him, raising an eyebrow at the sight of him sprawled out like a theatrical prince, his tousled white hair falling over his eyes, the blindfold still covering them. He pouted out his lower lip as he tried to make his best sad face.

“What’s with all the theatrics?” you asked, trying to hide your amusement.

He pouted, facing up at you with those annoyingly irresistible puppy eyes you could tell even through the blindfold. “I’ve been completely neglected all day,” he declared, as if he hadn’t been hovering around you nonstop. “You haven’t even looked at me in like, an hour!”

You smirked, running your fingers through his soft white hair as he shifted to drape himself fully across you, limbs sprawled everywhere. “Really? An hour? Wow, such suffering,” you teased, enjoying the way his expression morphed into pure indignation.

“Fine,” he muttered, his pout deepening as he turned his head away from you, the dramatic flair spilling over into full petulance. “I see how it is. Guess I’ll just be miserable over here, unloved and uncared for…” He let out a heavy, exaggerated sigh, his head flopping back against you as if he’d exhausted himself. “You leave me no choice but to suffer in silence.”

You snickered, pretending to ignore him, which only made him squirm even more. He shifted again, getting as cozy as possible, resting his chin on your shoulder and loudly breathing in your ear.

“Satoru,” you said, trying not to laugh, “you’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, am I?!” He sniffed dramatically, louder than ever, and you could almost feel the smirk he was trying to hide as he leaned in, his voice a low, fake whisper. “You leave me no choice…” In one swift motion, he took off his blindfold, fixing you with a look that was so pathetically pitiful it was almost comical. But then, to your surprise, he actually scrunched his face up—and the next second, tears were glistening in his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, trying not to cave as he sniffled, giving you the saddest, most wide-eyed look you’d ever seen. “Satoru, stop it! You’re not even sad.”

“I am!” he protested, his voice thick with fake emotion as he blinked up at you, his long white lashes framing those striking blue eyes, now shimmering with dramatic tears. “You’ve broken my heart…”

You rolled your eyes but could feel your resolve cracking. He was being absolutely absurd, but you couldn’t deny that the sight of him pouting with that heartbreakingly sweet expression was too hard to resist.

“Alright, alright, fine,” you sighed, pulling him in close. “You win, crybaby.”

“Thank you,” he sniffed, immediately perking up and burying his face into your neck with a pleased hum. He nuzzled deeper, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him, that mix of mischief and sweetness as he wrapped his arms around you snugly. “I was beginning to think you’d never give in.”

You stroked his back, feeling him melt into your embrace, his soft hair tickling your skin as he shifted comfortably. “Happy now?” you teased, lightly scratching his scalp.

“Not quite,” he mumbled, his voice already sounding sleepy as he tilted his head back, revealing the graceful curve of his neck and the playful glint in his eyes. “Now that I’ve finally got your attention… here are my demands.”

“Oh, you’re demanding things now, huh, brat?” you asked, fighting back a smile as you shifted to get more comfortable with him on your lap.

He nodded, completely unashamed. “Yup. First, I want you to rub my back,” he said, nestling his head against your shoulder, an utterly spoiled look on his face, “and my shoulders… and my stomach. Then, I want you to rub my scalp, just like that, but softer. Andddd…” He flashed you a playful, innocent smile, “I want you to feed me chocolate.”

You stared at him, trying to keep a straight face. “Feed you chocolate? You mean… get you some chocolate?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head with a mischievous grin that was entirely too charming. “I want you to feed it to me. Like, hand to mouth. I want to feel pampered, okay?”

You rolled your eyes but could feel a laugh bubbling up. “Satoru, you’re a grown man.”

“Do I have to make myself cry again?” he threatened, batting his lashes at you, his bottom lip jutting out in that signature pout that was impossible to resist.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed, laughter escaping you despite your best efforts. “You really are the most spoiled person I know, you know that?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, letting out a satisfied sigh as he settled against you, one hand reaching up to grasp your wrist, anchoring you closer. “But it’s your fault. You just can’t help pampering me.”

With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you pulled him a little closer, one hand sliding up to rub slow, gentle circles over his shoulders. He let out a contented sigh, immediately relaxing under your touch, his head lolling back with a blissful expression, those bright blue eyes fluttering closed.

“That’s good,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you missed a spot.”

You laughed softly and moved your hand down to his back, pressing into the muscles there as you rubbed soothingly, feeling the tension melt away under your touch. He practically purred in response, shifting to get more comfortable, his head now resting in your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair.

“And now…” he mumbled, his voice laced with sleepiness. “Chocolate. I require chocolate.”

You rolled your eyes but reached for the little box of chocolates nearby, unwrapping one and holding it out to him. He parted his lips expectantly, waiting for you to place it in his mouth, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how childishly delighted he looked when you finally gave it to him.

“Better?” you asked as he chewed, looking thoroughly pleased, the corners of his mouth quirking into a satisfied smile.

“Much better,” he said with a grin, opening his mouth for another one. “I could get used to this.”

You fed him another piece, and he sighed happily, nuzzling further into your lap, his hand finding yours and giving it a light squeeze. “You know,” he murmured, sounding content as he closed his eyes, “I’m very lucky to have someone who spoils me like this.”

You chuckled, brushing your thumb across his cheek, feeling the warmth radiating from him. “You mean someone who puts up with you.”

“Same thing,” he said, eyes twinkling as he looked up at you, his smile playful and bright. “But… you’re the best. And if you keep doing exactly this… I just might forgive you for ignoring me earlier.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes but leaning down to kiss him softly, feeling that familiar rush of affection for the brat that had somehow managed to worm his way into your heart. “Deal, crybaby,” you murmured, a fond smile on your lips.

Satisfied, he wrapped his arms around you with a contented hum, letting himself be completely pampered as you massaged his shoulders and rubbed his scalp, feeding him chocolate until he finally drifted off, a blissful smile on his face, the playful brat transformed into a peaceful angel in your lap.

You couldn’t help but shake your head at the contrast—one moment, he was an impossible brat demanding your attention, and the next, he was a sleepy, vulnerable Satoru, the mischievous spark still faintly present in his expression even as he succumbed to slumber. You smiled to yourself, knowing that no matter how bratty he got, you’d always be there to indulge him.

Tag list (let me know if you want to go on it 🥹)

@canigotosleep--plz

@haruhatake

@hargun-s

@itsafairytalekay

@moonchhu

@mistymuii

Let me know what everyone thinks :) I really appreciate it :)

#satoru gojo #gojo fluff #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #jjk fluff #gojo headcanons #jujitsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru headcanons #gojo satoru fluff #satoru fluff #satoru x y/n #satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #gojoxreader #jujutsu kaisen gojo

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sweeterlovers · 6 hours ago

Text

LITERAL SCREAM / LANCE STROLL

lance stroll x gf!reader / SMAU + WRITTEN

FACE CLAIM / none!

WARNINGS / none!

yourusername has posted on their stories

[ caption: waiting for lance to land 🙃🙃 ]

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lance_stroll just landed! about to get into my uber!

yourusername took you long enough 😞😞

INSTAGRAM

liked by lance_stroll, chloestroll, and 76,612 others

yourusername guess who finally arrived! time to have a horror movie marathon 🍿 ❤️

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user3 cute!

user67 the beanie 🥹🥹

user0 he looks so comfy and cozy 🤏🤏

lance_stroll 🎥🍿👻🎃

yourusername I AM SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!

user678 the doggie 🐶

user086 cuties!!!

chloestroll since when does lance do horror movies…?

yourusername since i forced him 😁😁

chloestroll be prepared for the screams 😂😅

lance_stroll hey! i matured over the years

chloestroll sure you did….

lance_stroll posted on their stories!

[ she’s picking out the movie…. should i be scared? ]

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yourusername depends… how scared do you get?

lance_stroll oh god……

WRITTEN

as you pick out the horror movie for you and lance to watch lance is looking over your shoulder nervously snacking on the popcorn, “you seem nervous” you tease, “m’not! just curious…” lance replies,

“ok i think we should start with either a classic like scream, halloween, or maybe the purge! or we can go a different route of something more psychological?” you ask, lance wonders… “well which is the least scary?” lance asks. you laugh a little and choose to watch the first scream movie.

as you settle onto the couch cuddling next to lance as you drape a blanket over your legs, “are you ready?” you ask while smirking, lance nods nervously.

you start the movie as your watching the movie intently, your almost completely focused on the movie until you feel lance jump slightly and the popcorn spills on the floor and on the couch, as your dog nibbles on it.

the of two continue the movie while lance jumps slightly at the jump scares during the movie. you don’t say anything until lance fully screams and jumps off the couch spilling the popcorn completely! “lance! are you ok?” you laugh slightly, he looks over to you with a traumatized look on his face, “do i look okay!?” he yelps! you look back to him with a laughable expression on your face “no you don’t… you could’ve told me you get scared easily, we could’ve watched something else”

he sighs and pauses the movie and turns towards you, “well i know you like horror movies and i wanted to watch with you..” he says with a light blush on his face, “lance! your too cute! your my little scaredy cat” you tease as you climb on his lap and snuggle while watching gilmore girls.

SWEETERLOVERS - first written post! hopefully it doesn’t suck!! 😬😬

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kiame-sama · 2 days ago

Note

i had a question about hybrid babies

do they come out looking like the human at all? if so how much (like human traits, or simply the coloration, or just the aura/addictiveness)?

or do they come out looking like the monster parent's mini-me?

The monster genes are stronger, so the hybrid will look mostly like their parent except in the rare case they are more human looking. Hybrids tend to have larger eyes that are more endearing and human-like, their fur/feathers/hair is usually closer in appearance to their Human parent than their monster parent, and hybrids tend to be either much smaller or larger than normal for their species, but it also depends on the monster type of the infant.

Harpy hybrids tend to carry more of their Harpy parent's colors than the Humans, but still have large eyes and a few less feathers around their face and body. Centaur/cervitaur/drider types tend to have hair/fur/mane colors closer to their Human parent, but eye colors closer to their monster parent (excepting Kelpies who always have white body fur outside of water and yellow/green/blue colored body fur in water). Naga hybrids tend to have similar scale and hair color to their monster parents, but skin color and eye color closer to their Human parent. Nemean Lions have never had Human hybrid young, so jury is still out on how they would look as hybrids. Dragon hybrids look near identical to their monster parent, but their ears are just a little bit more rounded and their eyes just a touch larger than full dragons (they still have full draconic forms and humanoid forms despite being hybrids).

Elementals and Nymph Hybrids are near miniature copies of their Elemental/Nymph parents minus the more flesh-like texture of their skin as opposed to the way it would be on a full Elemental/Nymph. The skin is usually how you can tell they are a Hybrid paired with that near irresistible charm that they inherited from their Human parents.

As far as the addictive quality of all Humans and Hybrids, a direct 1/2 & 1/2 hybrid's addictiveness is half that of their Human parents. The further away from Human the hybrid descendants are, the less addictive they are to other monsters. Key examples being Neige and Vil. Vil is 1/12th human and is still put on a pedestal and has several addictive qualities, though nowhere near as intense as a full or half human. Neige is 1/10th Human and for that fact alone is more addictive than Vil, meaning no matter how beautiful or strong Vil is, Neige will still be put in a rung higher than Vil. The only way Vil could be put above Neige in popularity and beauty is if Vil had the Human as his mate.

Now, there are hybrids who came out mostly Human minus a few monster traits. The most famous example being the Little Mermaid Princess' daughter- Melody- who looked almost completely Human minus her salmon-pink merfolk tail in water. Out of water she looked fully human (other than her webbed toes). Little Princess Melody was considered the most beautiful merfolk to exist because of this mostly Human appearance. Most merfolk think Humans are the peak of beauty and try to look like Humans themselves.

#kiame-sama #humans are extinct twst au #HAE AU worldbuilding #HAE worldbuilding

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iichfilwypj · 1 day ago

Text

she's the one | percy jackson

ღ percy jackson x daughter of hypnos! reader ღ warnings: panic attack! i wanted this to be different but i got one while writing it, so so sorry! i will post the others ideas i had though. ღ wc: 608 pt 1 - pt 2 - pt 3

“Can we please go inside? I’m starting to feel like part of the door.” Percy murmured, leaning against the doorframe of his house. His friend paced anxiously around the empty hallway and he couldn't help but let out a heavy sigh, feeling a mix of concern and impatience for her. “We’ve been out here for ten minutes. The sooner we go inside, the sooner you’ll stop feeling-”

“'I'm dying, please” she exclaimed, a note of panic creeping into her voice. Percy watched her friend come to a sudden stop, clutching her chest tightly like she wanted to stop her heart from racing. “Please, I just need a second-”

“Dreamy?” his voice was almost a whisper. Thinking about her having a panic attack overwhelmed him. No, he couldn’t let her go through that. He found himself looking at her a bit longer than usual –easy work– to make sure he was wrong.

“I just… need a second,” she repeated, her breath faster than usual. Percy could feel the tension in the air.

He stepped closer and took her wrists tightly, trying to get her to stop pressing her chest so hard. “Stop doing that, we don't want a broken rib. Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise you”

“I don’t know why I’m so worried,” luckily, her breathing slowed down under his touch and she let out a frustrated laugh “she must be just like you.”

It was evident that sleep was taking over her, no matter how much she tried to fight it –after all, it wouldn’t make a good impression on Sally to find her son’s friend asleep at her door.

It was so hard not to, though. Percy radiated a warmth that melted her defenses. The urge to sleep hit her hard whenever she was near him. And she felt so bad about it; what kind of person was always tired around their friend? Beth's words echoed in her ears, loud and clear: ‘The more comfortable we feel with someone, the sleepier we get.’ She hadn't understood it the first time. Nor had she really tried to.

But right there, everything clicked into place. She felt secure. She felt at peace. She felt safe. With her head resting on Percy’s chest and his hands holding her, she felt at home.

He hugged her properly, and she didn’t have the strength to return the embrace; but a soft smile spread across her face as she nestled against his jacket. She let herself be vulnerable, surrendering to the solace he offered.

“Should I take that as a compliment or not? I‘m kinda worried here.” maybe it was a bit selfish, but he couldn't help it; he needed to know what she truly thought of him. The girl’s body felt heavier in his arms, and he was almost fully supporting her full weight.

A bad thing? she thought, how could that be a bad thing? In a world fulled with chaos, he was her safe haven, the one who brought her calm.

"I wish everyone would be like you." she murmured, and with those words, she fell into a deep sleep, her body relaxing completely against him. Percy was left speechless holding her tightly, not able to process what had just happened.

The front door finally opened, revealing Sally with Estelle asleep in her arms. Her face lit up at the sight in front of her. When her eyes met his son’s, he showed no signs of embarrassment at being caught in such a position. Instead, he grinned widely, mouthing a silent ‘It's her,’ in her direction. ‘She's the one’.

well hello! as i said, this didn't go as planned BUT i think we can see more of her feelings now! we're getting closer to something! let me know if you like it!!!!!!!!! also i PROMISE i will try not to make her so anxious next time, it's just that i have anxiety and i can't help but wirite from my perspective; but i will work on that!

#percy jackson #percy jackson x reader #pjo x reader #percy jackson x you #fanfic #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson x y/n #my writing

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redvexillum · 2 days ago

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I READ THE SUMMARY THEN THE PROMPT AND NO LIE - DIS WAZ MAH FACE 😱!

Okay, first of all—Alastor in his full-on monster form is giving me full-on hyperactive giddiness! That transformation from the charismatic, dapper radio demon to this otherworldly nightmare version of himself is just tasty as hell. The way you describe his growing size, those radio dials for eyes, the bloodied grin—it’s got this deliciously creepy, intoxicating allure that draws you right in, like you can’t look away!

And the power dynamic here?! OH. MY. GOD. 👏 You captured the absolute dominating presence of Alastor so perfectly. The way he effortlessly shreds your clothes and leaves you completely exposed in front of the whole of Pentagram City, like some twisted, public display—it’s raw, it’s vulnerable, it’s SCANDALOUS. The on-air sign lit up in the background just adds a whole new layer of thrill and forbidden excitement. Like, who else is listening? Who’s tuning in to every single whimper and gasp? IM DYING.

AND THAT BUILD-UP TO THE ACTUAL MONSTROUS COCK!!!!!! PENIS! DICK! PEE-PEE! DING-DONG! RAISE YOUR DONGERSSSSS SPECIFICALLY DEER DADDY DEMONNNNNN!!!! AHHHHHHH!!! The size, the almost insurmountable challenge of taking him in his full monstrous form, the way he’s fully unrelenting—OMG, it’s just A LOT in the best way possible. It’s brutal and overwhelming but, like, intoxicatingly so. Alastor doesn’t even soften up for a moment; he just keeps pushing, keeps whispering those dark promises, like he’s going to consume you whole if you don’t surrender. That mix of pain and pleasure is written so well it feels tangible, almost like you’re right there with the reader, teetering between terror and exhilaration.

AND THAT CLIMAX SCENE?? OH MY GOD. It’s not just any release—it’s a shattering, life-altering collapse, an absolute implosion that leaves you wrecked in the most deliciously twisted way possible. The way he keeps going, filling you to the brim, and then painting you with his release…THE. INTENSITY. You somehow made every moment of that crescendo feel both violent and euphoric, with Alastor literally claiming you on a whole new level!

And then, just when you think it’s over, you realize the whole of Hell heard it. Alastor’s little “broadcast special”? OH MY GOD, it’s perfection. The fact that he took his pleasure in such a public way, turning this into a sick, twisted performance—leaving you bruised, broken, and gloriously wrecked for all to witness. It's like he’s showing off his possession of you, marking you as his masterpiece, and all of Hell was there to appreciate it.

Girl, I am OBSESSED with this writing! This is dark, intense, and somehow still so, so satisfying. I WOULD EAT YOUR WRITING IF I COULD.

A Monstrous Broadcast (Monster!Alastor x Reader)

CW: Post Stayed Gone Monster Al, Size kink go brr, Blood, DubCon, belly bulge, broadcasting sex, cream pies, cum painting... Rating: Adult Summary: You were sent to Alastor's Broadcasting tower to tell him something just in time to catch the tail end of Stayed Gone. Alastor is in a rather unique mood and in terrifying form as he decides the best way to work his excess energy off is with you.

You were not sure how you got here. Charlie had sent you up to Alastor’s tower to tell him something. What it was, you couldn’t remember.

Fear raced through your veins as you watched Alastor grow as he stood from his chair. Raw power crackled through his radio tower. He had set aside the microphone tipped cane he so often carried, freeing his hands as he stood. The sound of his voice carried, wrapping around you and drawing you closer and closer.

Joints loudly cracked and popped as the monster that had once been the handsome, charming Alastor turned to look at you. Bright red radio dials looked at you, the points on the knobs ticking around and around with his heartbeat. Or was it yours?

Black sclera surrounded the dials, so dark you thought it could swallow the universe. The stitching on his clothes stood out, bright red lit up and glowing with his lower. The usually small antlers on his head were far from that now. They extended, wide and heavy, tines scratching against the walls as he reached out to you.

Everything about him was so much more massive. His smile stretched wide, bright red blood seeping from his lips and running down his chin. It dripped to the floor, splatters that went ignored.

You trembled in his hand as he looked down at you. He had an imposing stature as a standard, towering over you, but now he was at least double the size. Wide eyes roamed over his shoulders, now so much broader than they had been. Everything was too wide or too long, his head hanging off a bent neck that shouldn’t have been able to support it.

“Alastor?” You watched with wide eyes as he looked down at you, head crooked with an unnatural crack that reverberated around the room.

“Just who I wanted to see,” Alastor said, voice more static than you had ever heard it before.

You and Alastor were not a couple, but you also were not not a couple. There had been countless nights you passed, tucked into his side, listening to the static weave in and out of his voice. In public, you were nothing more to him than a friend at best. Over his shoulder, nearly blocked from view, was the lit up, glaring ‘on air’ sign.

“What are you doing?” The question was hardly more than a hissed whisper as a large clawed finger hooked into your pants.

Alastor only laughed as he pulled, the fabric biting into your lower back before the stitching gave way, ripping. Your eyes roamed over the terrifying man in front of you. It would be a lie to say you didn’t find the power, chokingly thick in the air, attractive. It was so easy to forget just how powerful your lover was.

There was no denying it now. This was the demon who took lives as a hobby in his life. This was the man who cut down overlords that had ruled for decades as if they were nothing when he landed. This was the man that commanded respect and fear.

Alastor’s clawed finger cut through your shirt, easily snagging and shredding your bra in the process. You were left naked, standing in front of the bank of windows that looked out over the dark Pentagram City. The only buildings lit up from inside was the hotel.

Anyone looking in would be able to see you.

That sent excitement through your core. Alastor’s cock strained against his pants, the terrifying size only adding more excitement. With one hand wrapped around your waist, he lifted you easily off your feet. His other hand made quick work of his belt, freeing his cock.

“Alastor,” you said, this time more urgently, as he parted your legs.

“So wet for me,” static threatened to eat his words.

Red radio dials looked at your glistening folds, betraying how attractive you found his show of dominance and power. A black tongue ran out from between needle sharp yellow teeth, running over his lips before slithering back inside the cavern of his mouth. The stitches at the sides of his smile strained, keeping his smile firmly in place while he spread your knees wider, pushing your legs up and out.

“The show is far from over, folks,” Alastor said.

“It’s not going to fit,” you whined as the massive head of his cock, more the size of a fist, ran between your folds, probing at your unprepped entrance.

“Don’t worry,” Alastor said, cheery as the sound of excited cheering burst through the static, “We’e already dead.”

“What does that mean?” you whimpered as his hand stroked the length of him. His shaft was as thick as your forearm.

“It means,” Alastor’s cock pressed into your weeping opening, bulling the muscle to widen. “That I will make you take my cock, even if I have to break you.”

Burning pressure spread from your core as he forced you wider and wider. Pain and pleasure danced as he slowly sank deeper, not even an inch deeper. You could feel his cock pressing against bone as he spread your opening as wide as it felt like your pelvis could accommodate.

He thrust ever so slightly as the head of his massive cock pushed deeper and deeper, each withdraw spreading your slick over him. You panted and groaned, body trembling as he slowly forced you to take him deeper and deeper.

Burning pain had your back arching, breasts displayed to him. Wetness seeped out of you, running down the swell of your as. Alastor’s smile and the pain told it you was blood.

You screamed as the head of his cock popped past your opening your, hole snapping tightly down around his shaft. Pleas of mercy dropped from your lips as you begged him to shrink down, to return to the lover you knew so well.

Alastor did not relent. Instead, as he pushed deeper and deeper, each slight withdraw followed by a push deeper and deeper. It felt like he was everywhere inside you as he filled you.

A new pain came to life as his head nudged against your cervix. Tears ran down your eyes as he pulled back, only half his length fitting into you. Static covered praises fell from his bloody grin as you bounced with the force of every thrust.

The on air sign still was lit behind Alastor. Each of your whimpers, each begging plea, was being broadcast across the city and perhaps further. You didn’t know how wide Alastor’s reach actually was.

It felt like he was ripping you in two, reach measured thrust of his massive cock splitting you apart. It hurt, but fuck, it felt good. Pain and pleasure mixed as Alastor’s monstrous form hovered above you. Black blood dripped onto the broadcast desk, soaking between buttons and dials. It splattered onto your side, cooling as he worked in and out of you.

Around the city and beyond, perhaps all throughout hell, the sound of your gasping breaths and whimpered pleas, the sound of Alastor’s snarls through the static shifted, tone changing as different effects and overlays were applied, shifting and changing.

“To big,” you cried as he pressed into you, thrusting his cock into your cervix, pushing you higher up the panel as your body refused to yeld more space to his cock. You were already straining and failing to accommodate his size. Blood trickled down from your core, lubricating his cock more and more while your body painted his desk with it.

A clawed hand grabbed your shoulder while he looked down at you with small red glowing dials. His face was nothing more than sharp. The teeth, the eyes, the smile- it was all sharp and dangerous, just like the pain that racked through you as his fingers gripped your shoulders. Claw tipped fingers bit into your shoulder as his smile cut somehow wider.

“I can’t,” you whimpered. Your legs fell open wider as you tried anything to make more room for him. The blunt head of his cock pressed into your cervix more and more. “Please, Alastor, I can’t.”

“You’re so wet for me, Cher.” Alastor’s static voice growled out, smile not moving as his voice seemed to come from all around her. “You can take it.”

“I can’t,” tears ran down your face as he pulled back, cock slipping as he backed out of your opening inch by inch. The shaft his cock drug against your sensitive clit, folds spread and stretched to the point of ripping. “Fuck, Alastor. Please, I just- it’s too much, too much.”

“You can,” Alastor promised, abdomen tensing as blood dripped from his chin onto your abdomen, “And you will.”

The dark promise was the only warning you had. His body flexed, curling in on you as he thrust forward. His shaft ran over your clit, a blinding pleasure even as it felt like he had ripped your insides apart, forcing them to accommodate him. The scream that ripped from your throat echoed through all of hell.

Your claws, nothing near as impressive as Alastor’s, dug into his arms as you clung to him. Tremors ran through your body, a convulsion of muscle triggered by pain and adrenaline. Pleasure tainted it all as his cock slid over the bundle of nerves, teasing her clit.

Wide pain-filled eyes looked up at the black void of Alastors. Your lover had always been gentle with you, until now, even at his most demanding. His hips rutted against you, grinding the fur at the base of his cock against your clit, sparking more pleasure through the pain.

“Look at you,” Alastor’s voice came from all around as he enjoyed the view. “Look how your stretches.”

His hand caressed down your naked chest, claws scratching over the pebbled buds of your nipples as he made his way down, palm pushing against the swell of the head of his cock, straining out against your insides.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, running your hand down after his, feeling him from the outside of you. “Alastor,”

“That’s right, cher,” Alastor groaned, “That’s me, so deep inside you.”

Each twitch of his cock lodged deep inside you stirred your guts. He ground his hips against your clit, sparking a pleasure that seemed only to be amplified by the pain racking through your body.

“Tell me it doesn’t feel good,” Alastor growled out, pulling back a few inches only to thrust into you again, clint dragging against his cock, forcing your back to arch. Your breath gasped, pleasure winning out over pain as you ran your hands up his arms in a pathetic attempt to hold the monster that your lover had become.

“Please,” tears ran down your eyes as your legs relaxed, seeking more of the poisoned pleasure his thrusts gave you, “Fuck, please, Alastor. More. Move. Fuck, do something.”

The whole of hell heard the moment you had given up, surrendering to the Radio Demon. Gasping moans of pain morphed into that of pleasure as he thrust his cock in and out of you. Each shallow stroke became deeper and deeper. Blood smeared under you, a testament to the ruined state of your insides as he fucked you with full, deep strokes.

Tears ran down your face, soaking into your hair as each long thrust of his cock hit harshly, bodies slapping together. Your breasts bounced, nipples dancing in front of his glowing face as he drove you closer and closer to the edge.

“Going to cum?” he asked, laughing at the way your stomach distended with every thrust.

“Fuck, yes.” You whined as his cock brushed your clit again and again, pace quick and never letting up on the stimulation.

He swelled inside you, somehow able to push your organs aside to make room for his size. Each twitch of his cock felt violent and yet you thrived on it, basking in the poisoned pleasure.

The coil inside you did not snap, nor did you step over the edge. It wasn’t a soft push. He didn’t even throw you over. No, when you came, it was something unlike anything you had ever experienced before.

Your world shattered. The coil was little more than shards of shrapnel, adding to the mix of pain and pleasure. The edge seemed to disintegrate under your feet, becoming no more. Muscle ripped with the force of the convulsions that ran through your body.

His name was a shriek, blowing out speakers throughout hell as your body clamped down on his cock. The thrusts into you were brutal now, stinging pain blooming from where his hips slammed into wet skin.

Alastor’s static rose, becoming a feeling in the air and less a sound as he held you steady, chasing his own release. Your fingers dug into his coat, trying so hard to ground yourself as you struggled to pull breath after breath into your lungs.

He came with explosive force, wedging himself deeper and deeper into your opening as he pumped violent spurts of his seed into you. You could feel it as he painted your guts white and then he kept going, thrusting into you as more and more waves of seed was deposited into you.

He came still, even as he pulled out, fist wrapping around his twitching cock. Long, hot ropes of cum spurted from him as he thrust into his working first, shooting out onto you. As his seed gushed from your twitching hole, a mix of white stained with ribbons of red, he painted your stomach.

Ropes decorated your breasts, coating your nipple. He moaned, shoving seed back into you with claw tipped fingers as he fucked his hand. Ropes landed on your neck as you gasped, only to have hot cum land on your face.

The salty taste of him invaded your mouth as his fingers finally left you. Seed soaked into your hair as you lay, twitching, bleeding, leaking and gasping for breath.

Only once his cock stopped shooting hot ropes onto your spent body did Alastor’s form recede, changing from the monster that had taken you with such violence to the man you had known. All the while, you lay soaked from the inside out in his seed.

Alastor stood, looking down at the result of his work. Jagged breaths racked through your body as you struggled to focus your eyes on him. You had sounded good, broadcast throughout hell. A truly lovely encore to his performance with that TV dimwit.

Better yet, you looked more beautiful to him now, body spent, broken and wrecked, leaking blood and his seed onto the broadcasting equipment that was his pride.

Oh yes, you looked good like this indeed. He would have to repeat this broadcast, perhaps make it a reoccurring special. Not too often, though. Even with your demonic abilities, you would need time to heal all the tissues he had torn.

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

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hoe4hotchner · 2 days ago

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Chapter 7 - Breaking point

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 10.2k

Warnings: Blood, murder, ice pick stabbing, grief, trauma, and vulnerability. Disturbing imagery? (to some maybe), intense emotions, reader has feelings of guilt and fear. Heavy themes. Reader experiences shock and a sense of personal violation, I murder a minor in the ladder half of the chapter (maybe this is the last murder in the fic…. I don't know yet)……. Also maybeeeee there's an almost kiss 😈.

A/N: This took me way too long to edit…… like 4 days. And the only reason is that I'm a dumbass who constantly kept backtracking and adding more things and new scenes to the chapter….. I literally added 2.5k more words to this than it started out with.

Also I've had a busy week so that's that ;)

Masterlist

The sharp screech of tires behind you brought you back from the depths of your shock, but even as the sound echoed through the street, your mind struggled to process what lay in front of you fully. The grotesque sight of Branson’s lifeless body slumped against your front door, the dark pool of blood seeping from his chest, the ice pick still lodged in his heart — it all felt like a sick and twisted dream, something too horrific to be real — too close to home, literally.

The words smeared across your door, “You’re next,” burned into your mind, each letter etched in blood, like a threat — no, it was a threat, a threat you were far too stunned to recognize.

You felt frozen in place, paralyzed by the disbelief of the situation as well as the terror swirling around in your chest. You were unable to tear your gaze from the gruesome sight. Your breath came in shallow gasps — small clouds of condensation forming in the air — the reality of what you saw was slow to sink in. The wind whipped around you, carrying the soft rustling of leaves in the trees, but even that felt distant like it couldn’t quite reach your ears through the numbness creeping through your body.

The slam of the car door echoed sharply — the sound was violent compared to the gentle rustles of the night — a sound that should’ve jolted you, but you barely registered it. He moved with a quick, determined stride, his dark coat billowing slightly in the air as he cut across the street and through the shadows to reach you.

And then, through the thickening fog of your fear, he appeared in front of you. Solid, familiar — the cologne, you recognized it — He was undeniably real, not just something you'd imagined.

Hotch

His face, usually composed, now portrayed subtle cracks of concern as his gaze swept over the scene. Swiftly he swept it over Branson’s lifeless body, taking in the blood and the message scrawled on your door — it was not the first time he had seen a message like that, but the difference was that last time he knew that she could defend herself if necessary. You, not so much.

But then his eyes found you — you were still frozen in shock — they softened as he took in the state you were in, a mix of worry and concern spreading as he took you in. Without a word, he closed the distance between you — his presence felt grounding in the chaos — and pulled you into a firm, shielding embrace. He didn't know what had come over him — He rarely got this close with victims, no matter what they went through. But you were different.

His arms encircled you completely, holding you tightly, as though his strength alone could shield you from the horror just feet away. Although your eyes were blank — staring into the void — your arms instinctively wrapped around his back as you turned your head to let your cheek rest on his chest.

The warmth of his chest against yours, the steady rise and fall of his breathing — it all anchored you, pulling you from the haze that had swallowed your mind. For a brief moment, everything else faded: the blood, the message, the body against your door. All that existed was the safety of his hold, the quiet assurance of his touch. Him.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, his voice rumbled in his chest making it slightly vibrate against your cheek. Hotch kept murmuring reassuring words to you, trying to reach through the panic that gripped you down to your core. But your breath was still shallow, your words tangled in the back of your throat. Your wide, glazed eyes couldn’t stop flicking back to the scene, the blood still fresh, the ice pick still gleaming in the faint light of the moon. Hotch’s arms tightened just a little as he quietly turned both your bodies around, making sure he was the one to face Branson's body, not you.

"I'm sorry... I—" you stammered, finally managing to speak, your voice broke under the weight of everything, everything you couldn't figure out how to express. The words felt hollow, lost in the moment once they'd been spoken. As the world spun around you, your knees threatened to give way, the ground beneath you felt unstable — yet the concrete was newly paid, leaving little room for uneven terrain. But before you could crumble, Hotch hooked one of his hands around your underarm and tightened his grip around you before pulling you closer, his presence was the only thing keeping you upright in that moment.

As he felt your breaths slowly getting calmer, he moved his other hand gently to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with a softness that contrasted the harsh reality.

"Don’t apologize," he whispered, his voice was filled with reassurance. His breath ghosted over your temple as he spoke. "Just focus on me. I’m here."

Hotch managed to fish his phone from his coat pocket with the freest of his hands, keeping his arm wrapped securely around you to the best of his ability as he quickly dialed for backup. Even in this moment, his movements were fluid and purposeful, a testament to his training as an agent as well as his instincts as a human. As he spoke, his voice shifted back to its authoritative tone, the one you had heard several times before — sharp, commanding, and laced with urgency as he barked orders into the phone. "I need units at (Y/N)'s address immediately — I don't care, send them all — We've got a homicide, and she’s been threatened. Secure the perimeter, and get forensics down here. Now!"

His eyes were laser-focused, darting back and forth as he processed the situation, and tried to profile the crime scene to the best of his abilities, while still needing to make sure you were okay. The tension in his jaw was evident as he took in the horrific scene, the pieces of the puzzle finally snapping together. His gaze locked onto the message scrawled on your door, the horror of it deepening his frown. He had been too late the last time, but now was his chance to redeem his past actions. "And make it fast. No delays," he added, his voice brokering no argument.

You stood there, pressed against him as your body trembled uncontrollably. The raw reality of what had unfolded settled in your stomach like a heavy, sinking weight. Branson’s lifeless body — each horrifying detail — flashed over and over in your mind, etched too deeply to ignore. The nausea that had been simmering suddenly surged, more forceful than before, and for a moment, you thought you could hold it back. But the bile rose too fast, too fierce.

With a shaky gasp, you pulled away from Hotch as quickly as you could, stumbling a few steps toward the nearest bush. Your body betrayed you as you bent forward, retching, the nausea spilling out in waves. Your fingers dug into the rough bark of the tree beside you, gripping it as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. The sound of your own ragged breaths filled your ears, and all you could feel was the sickening churn in your gut.

Hotch was by your side in an instant, one hand resting gently on your back, while the other gently moved your hair back and into a makeshift ponytail as you emptied what little remained in your stomach. He didn’t say anything, just stayed close, offering silent comfort. When you finally straightened, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you looked pale, beads of sweat evident on your forehead.

"Come on," Hotch said gently, grabbing your hand as he once again wrapped his other arm around your shoulder. His voice was soft but steady. "Let’s get you somewhere safe." His hand remained firm around yours, guiding you with careful, deliberate, and slow steps toward his car. You could feel his thumb brushing gentle circles over your knuckles, each touch grounding you in a way words couldn't. It was like he knew that the smallest connection was just enough to stop you from collapsing completely.

When you reached the car, he opened the passenger door with ease, then gently helped you inside. You barely registered the seat beneath you, still numb from the shock of it all, but his hand lingered on your shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. It wasn’t just a gesture of comfort — it was something far deeper, a reminder that he wasn’t just some big-shot FBI unit chief tonight. He was someone who genuinely cared.

You leaned back against the seat, feeling the exhaustion hit you all at once, closing your eyes in an attempt to block everything out.

The distant wail of sirens cut through the night, growing louder with each passing second until it was no longer just a sound but a piercing force that seemed to disturb the air around you. In an instant, the street outside was flooded with a sea of flashing red and blue lights, illuminating the darkened neighborhood. Officers descended onto the scene with purpose, their movements quick and coordinated — they knew just what to do. Forensics teams began to set up their equipment, yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze as it was stretched across the area by an officer, and the soft murmur of voices carried through the night. The once-quiet street had transformed into a chaotic hive of activity, the lights casting a surreal, almost otherworldly glow over everything.

Outside the car, the commotion grew as K9 units arrived on the scene, their dogs weaving through the taped-off perimeter. Their barks echoed in the night. The low hum of radios crackled to life as handlers gave commands, and the dogs sniffed along the ground, searching for any trace of the unsub’s path. Their noses skimmed over the blood-streaked pavement and dewy grass, while officers kept a close watch, ensuring nothing was overlooked.

Yet, inside Hotch’s car, the world felt muted — detached from the frenetic scene outside. The flashing lights, the movement of officers, the blaring sirens, the barking dogs — it was all muffled as if a thick layer of glass separated you from the outside world. The bubble of silence around you was eerie, you hated it, but couldn't shake muffled sounds that hit your ears. You sat there, still, eyes locked on the windshield, staring straight ahead but not really seeing anything. The night outside bled into a blur, the colors and shapes swirling together making the world around you distorted.

Your mind, however, was still anchored to a singular image — the last, awful sight of Branson. That scene played on a loop behind your eyes, each detail etched into your memory. Especially the ice pick — it swirled in your thoughts, refusing to let go, trapping you in a state of disbelief. It didn’t feel real. It couldn't be real.

Hotch crouched down in front of you, his tall frame folding with an effortless grace, bringing him just below your level in a way that felt intimate. He didn’t say anything — there were no words that could possibly ease the weight of what you’d witnessed — but his presence was enough. His hand found yours — it was warm compared to your icy one — fingers threading together as though silently promising you weren’t facing this alone.

His thumb traced soft, rhythmic circles over your skin, a small yet deeply intimate gesture, one he likely didn’t even realize he was doing. It was instinct. The weight of his gaze, soft yet concerned, held you, too. It was like he was trying to tell you, without saying a thing, that he was here, that he would shoulder the weight of this even if you couldn’t.

Time seemed to stretch, each minute dragging on as though the weight of what had happened too was too much for the clock to bear. Minutes felt like hours as you and Hotch remained there — silently waiting for your mind to catch up.

You could feel the rise and fall of your own breath as you began to regain consciousness, shaky and uneven, while Hotch remained still. You stole a glance at him, the soft glow of the lights catching the flicker of concern in his eyes, and for a moment, it felt like nothing else existed beyond this.

After what felt like an eternity, movement outside the car caught your attention. Through the distorted haze of flashing lights and shadows, you saw Morgan approaching, his stride was purposeful — obviously searching for Hotch — his face was etched with a seriousness that made your stomach tighten. His eyes flickered briefly between you and Hotch as he came to a stop just outside the passenger door.

“Hotch,” he said, trying not to alert you to any of the findings forensics had found.

Hotch hesitated for a moment, his hand tightening around yours before he finally let go. The warmth of his palm slipping from your grasp felt like a sudden, chilling loss, and you fought the instinct to reach out again. He stood, straightening his tall frame as he reluctantly stepped away, he shot you a glance, as if to silently reassure you that he wasn't far, that he’d still be there even from a few paces away.

Your gaze followed him as he joined Morgan a few steps from the car, his back now partially turned to you. Even with the distance between them, you could see the taut line of his shoulders, the way his body remained rigid with tension. The concern that had softened his face when he held you seemed to harden again as he listened to Morgan, his eyes darting back to the crime scene, then flicking briefly toward you, making sure you were still okay.

From where you sat, you couldn’t hear all the words they exchanged, but the tension of their conversation hung in the air, you could sense it even from afar. Hotch’s jaw clenched, his hands fisting at his sides as he absorbed whatever Morgan was telling him, his facade of leadership slipping back into place. But before he fully immersed himself in the chaos outside, he cast one last look over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours for just a second longer than necessary, as if to remind you — I haven’t forgotten about you.

Morgan was already in full investigation mode, his brow deeply furrowed as he stole another glance back at the crime scene, where the forensics team was still methodically combing through every inch of evidence under the harsh glare of floodlights. The flashing red and blue lights cast a glow over the area, their shifting colors reflecting off the glass of the SUV, throwing fleeting shadows across both men’s faces.

"Talk to me," Hotch’s voice was quiet, and controlled, trying to make sure you wouldn't hear any of their conversation. He crossed his arms, posture rigid, every ounce of his attention locked onto Morgan.

Morgan exhaled, his hand scraping over the back of his neck in a gesture that managed to reveal the gravity of the situation to you. "Forensics team’s been working the scene for the last fifteen minutes," he started. "The ice pick — it's clean. No prints, no identifiable traces — no nothing. Whoever did this, they knew what they were doing." He paused. "But Branson didn’t go down without a fight. He's got defensive wounds on his hands, a struggle for sure. This wasn’t quick."

Hotch’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with the implication. "He fought back?" The question hung in the air.

“Yeah,” Morgan nodded. “It just wasn’t enough. By the time anyone got here…” His voice trailed off, his gaze shifting toward the door where Branson’s body had been — now on its way to the morgue. The area was marked off with police tape now. “He was already gone.”

Hotch shifted his weight slightly as he processed the information. “Anything else?” he asked.

Morgan’s eyes darkened further, his voice dropping to a low whisper as he shared the next piece of the puzzle. “There is one more thing. The coroner estimated the time of death based on the blood, the body temperature, and rigor mortis. Hotch…” He paused, taking a breath as if preparing himself for the words about to spill from his mouth. “Branson was alive an hour ago. An hour.”

Hotch'ss gaze flicked to you for a brief second, still sitting in the car. He felt the air grow thick with tension around him. An hour meant that the unsub was still nearby, potentially even watching them right now. He could almost feel the clock ticking, each second dragging as they raced against him.

“An hour,” Hotch repeated, his voice low, barely above a whisper but brimming with restrained anger — mostly anger on the situation that this would put you in.

“Yeah,” Morgan confirmed. “Whoever did this — it wasn’t some random break-in, man. They knew what they were doing. They were fast, precise, and they left that message on the door just for her.”

Hotch inhaled deeply, his mind already racing through potential scenarios and calculating their next steps. The meticulousness of the crime screamed intent, a calculated plan rather than a spur-of-the-moment attack — but he still couldn't shake the feeling that this was supposed to be you, not Branson. The thought sent a chill down his spine. He glanced at you again, sitting in the car with a dazed expression. You had just missed Branson’s killer, and the idea that he might still be nearby sent adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“We need to get her out of here, now,” Hotch said, his voice clipped, each word felt sharp as they rolled off his tongue. He could feel the urgency pulsing through him, a powerful instinct urging him to act before it was too late. “Have the team sweep the area, and I want surveillance from every corner of this block sent to Garcia.” He knew they couldn’t afford to underestimate the killer’s capabilities.

Morgan nodded as he absorbed Hotch’s command. “Already in motion. We’re pulling footage from all nearby cameras.” He turned, his mind already racing through the logistical challenges, mentally preparing for the immediate task of gathering intel.

Hotch’s eyes stayed locked on you, lost in your thoughts, oblivious to the full scope of how close the danger had been — how close it still was. “She’s not safe here,” he murmured, more to himself than to Morgan. “Not until we figure out who’s behind this.”

“I'll take her back to the BAU,” he decided, his voice steadier now. “We can keep her safe there while we investigate. I want someone with her at all times — she deserves protection until we can ensure she’s out of harm’s way — I'll take the first shift.”

Hotch gave a curt nod, his protective instincts in full gear, as his mind shifted back to you and what needed to be done next. You weren't going to like it though, he knew that much.

Hotch slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar contours of the car offering him a semblance of control in a world that had quickly spun wildly out of it. The engine rumbled to life as he turned the key, shattering the silence that had settled around you. As he pulled away from the chaotic scene, the flashing lights of police cruisers faded into the distance behind you, but the weight of everything still pressed heavily on your chest. The bright colors, usually a beacon of help, now felt more like a reminder of the nightmare you had just escaped.

You sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring out at the darkened streets, lost in your thoughts. The night felt surreal.

As the city blurred past, memories of Branson began to flood your mind — his expressions, the way he relentlessly pushed you to your limits, and those moments when his frustration spilled over into harsh words. You could almost hear him now, his voice echoing in your thoughts, the biting criticism ringing in your ears. “You call that a spin? You need to push harder, or you won’t make it to sectionals.” You knew he never meant it like that, only wanting to push you to perfection.

The sting of his words had cut deeper than you realized, a reminder of the high expectations he had set for you and the relentless pursuit of excellence he embodied. But now, in the wake of his tragic end, those very words morphed into haunting echoes of regret. Guilt washed over you like a cold wave, relentless and overwhelming. What had you missed? Were you the cause of this?

You replayed every interaction, every practice session, scrutinizing your memories for clues, for hints that could have warned you of the danger. Each laugh shared, every supportive word felt tainted now. The more you thought about it, the more the guilt clawed at you, a heavy weight settling in your stomach, twisting tighter with every breath.

Had you truly been so absorbed in your own aspirations that you failed to notice that someone had been creeping around in the shadows?

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, blurring your view of the city. You bit your lip, trying to suppress the swell of emotions threatening to break free. Branson deserved better, and you felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility as if you could have somehow altered the course of events if only you had been more aware, more present.

A sharp exhale from Hotch broke through your reverie, drawing you back to the present. “Are you okay?” he asked, glancing at you briefly before refocusing on the road ahead, his grip tightening on the steering wheel slightly.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the word feeling hollow as it left your lips. Even as you spoke, the image of Branson’s lifeless body remained etched in your mind.

“I just... I can’t believe he’s gone,” you murmured, your voice trembling with the rawness of your grief. “I don’t understand how this could happen. What did I miss? Who did this?” You wanted answers, a reason, something that could explain the senseless violence that had ripped your world apart.

Hotch’s brow furrowed with concern as he drove, his focus unwavering. “You couldn’t have known what was coming. This isn’t on you.” His voice was steady, almost like a lifeline amid the turmoil. But the reassurance felt distant as if it were meant for someone else, someone who wasn’t grappling with the painful reality of loss.

You turned your gaze out the window, watching the city lights flicker by. Deep down, you knew Hotch was right; you hadn’t seen the signs, but that didn’t erase the guilt gnawing at your insides.

“What if I could have helped him?” you asked softly, more to yourself than to him. “What if I could have changed something? What if I had been here just a moment earlier?” The ‘what ifs’ were suffocating, spiraling into a vortex of self-blame and sorrow.

Hotch’s hand shifted slightly on the wheel as he considered your words. “You’re not a mind reader,” he replied, his tone was firm but gentle — he was always gentle with you. “You were focused on your training, on your goals. There was no way you could have anticipated this.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “You have to remember that you did everything you could in your capacity. Sometimes, evil acts without warning, and it’s not something you can control — Besides if you'd been here earlier, I'm not sure we would be having this conversation right now.” Hotch hated to speak those words, but he needed you to know that there was nothing you could've done.

The weight of his words sank in, but the guilt still gnawed at you relentlessly. Had you failed him? You still couldn't shake the feeling that you should have done more, seen more.

“Branson’s death is on the person who took his life, not you,” Hotch said, “He was in a dangerous position, and whatever conflict he had, those were between him and whoever hurt him. You didn’t cause this.” Hotch didn't want to admit the real truth behind Branson's death, he couldn't, not when you were this distraught.

You nodded, but inside, the turmoil raged on. “It just feels so unfair,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “He was always so strong. I thought he could handle anything.”

“Right now, you need to focus on staying safe,” Hotch continued, “I'm taking you to the BAU for the night. You need to be out of the public eye until we figure out what’s going on. The last thing we want is for you to be targeted next.”

You felt a swell of gratitude toward Hotch for his unwavering commitment to your safety, but anxiety fluttered in your chest. “What if they find me? What if—”

“They won’t,” Hotch interjected, “I'll make sure of it. The team is already mobilizing to ensure your safety, and we have protocols in place for situations like this.” His confidence provided a flicker of hope.

His protective tone gave you a sense of comfort, but the lingering shadows of doubt remained. How close had you really come to danger? The realization that you had missed the killer — maybe only by mere seconds — sent shivers down your spine.

As Hotch turned down a quiet street, you caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. “Thank you for being here,” you said quietly, the gratitude spilling from your heart. You knew that the gravity of your situation wasn’t lost on him; he understood the stakes far too well.

He nodded, his focus unwavering as he navigated through the darkened roads, the steady rhythm of the engine creating a false sense of normalcy. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he replied, “We’ll figure this out together. One way or the other.” You leaned back in your seat, trying to absorb his words.

Hotch took a sharp corner, the familiar outline of the BAU building looming ahead like a fortress amidst the darkness of the night. A swell of unease twisted in your stomach.

“Hotch, I don’t think I need to go back there,” you protested, your voice wavering slightly, betraying the fear that lingered just beneath the surface. “I can stay at my apartment. I’ll be fine. I promise.” The thought of returning to the very place that had become a backdrop for the whole case sent chills through you, and you desperately clung to the hope of finding safety within your own four walls.

Hotch’s gaze flicked to you as if he had already anticipated your objections. “No, you’re not fine. Not after what happened tonight.” His voice was firm. “I need you to understand this isn’t just about you feeling safe; it’s about your safety. The unsub is targeting people close to you, and we can’t take any chances, not when you've outright been threatened on your own doorstep.”

“But I can handle this! I’m not a child,” you insisted, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. You hated the feeling of being trapped, like a bird caged against its will, desperately flapping its wings to escape. The independence you had always prided yourself on felt stripped away, replaced by a suffocating sense of helplessness.

“Believe me, I know you’re not a child,” Hotch replied, his tone suggested that he understood your frustration but wouldn’t back down. “But the facts are clear. Branson was murdered in your doorway. You need protection until we get a handle on this.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you said, your voice quieter now, revealing the vulnerability you were struggling to hide. “I can’t keep you away from your work.”

“You’re not a burden,” Hotch said. “You’re my priority. We can’t afford to let our guard down, especially when you’re in the crosshairs of someone who’s already proven they can kill — multiple times.”

You glanced out the window, the streetlights flickering slightly. As much as you wanted to argue, deep down, you knew he was right.

“Just for tonight,” you complied, the words tasting bittersweet as they left your lips. “But I don’t want to be locked up like some kind of prisoner.” The image of being confined within four walls, stripped of your freedom, sent a shiver down your spine.

Hotch’s lips twitched into a smile. “I understand,” he replied, his eyes were full of empathy as he looked at you. “This isn’t about taking your freedom away; it’s about ensuring your safety. You’ll have space, and we’ll keep things as normal as possible.” His promise resonated with you, yet the fear of losing control over your life lingered like a ghost in the back of your mind.

As he parked in the parking garage of the BAU, Hotch turned off the engine, and a heavy silence enveloped you both for a moment. He seemed to sense your apprehension, his eyes softening as they met yours again. “Let’s get you inside,” he said gently, reaching over to squeeze your hand in a gesture that was meant to comfort you.

Stepping out of the car, the chill basement wrapped around you. The cold seemed to seep into your bones. Hotch fell into step next to you as you made your way through the concrete confines of the parking garage, the low hum of distant machinery and flickering fluorescent lights overhead punctuating the silence.

When you finally reached his office, Hotch unlocked and opened the door and gestured for you to step inside. The warm light from the lamp in the corner illuminated the space, softening the sharp edges of his furniture and making it feel a little less foreboding. You walked in, your body feeling heavy with exhaustion as if each step required immense effort. Hotch closed the door behind you.

“Are you hungry or thirsty? I can grab you something,” Hotch offered, concern etched on his features, his brow slightly furrowed as he studied you. He didn't know what he was looking for.

You shook your head slowly, fatigue weighing heavily on your eyelids and limbs. “No, I’m okay. Just… tired.” The admission felt like a weight lifted, but it was also a reminder of how drained you truly were from the emotional turmoil of the night.

“Why don’t you lie down on the couch?” he suggested gently, glancing over at his couch. The soft fabric looked inviting you thought. “It’s been a long night.”

As he moved to grab a blanket from the lower drawer of his desk, you nodded, grateful for the opportunity to rest. The idea of sinking into the softness of the couch felt like a small oasis. At least it was better than nothing. You crawled onto the couch, the gentle fabric cradling you as you settled in, letting out a small sigh of relief.

Hotch returned with the blanket. He draped it over you with a care that spoke volumes. “Thank you,” you murmured, feeling the warmth envelop you like a protective cocoon, easing some of the tension that your body still held onto.

He paused for a moment, studying you. You could see the concern carved on his face. “You really should try to get some sleep,” he urged softly, his voice was soothing. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”

As he turned to grab some files from his desk, you felt a sudden rush of vulnerability wash over you. You stopped him, your voice barely above a whisper as you spoke. “You don’t have to go. I don’t mind if you work while I sleep.”

Hotch turned back to face you, a hint of surprise flickering in his eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, and you noticed how the tension in his features began to ease as he processed your request. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’ll be nice to have you here,” you replied, settling deeper into the cushions.

“Okay,” he replied, his smile growing warmer and more genuine. He placed the files back down on his desk, the clatter of paper breaking the silence. Then, he took a seat in his chair, he felt close enough that you could still sense his presence without the pressure of conversation.

“Goodnight, Aaron,” you murmured, the words barely escaping your lips before sleep began to pull you under.

“Goodnight."

As you drifted off, Hotch couldn’t help but steal glances at you. He watched as your eyelids fluttered, surrendering to the exhaustion. Your breathing became slow and steady, and for a moment, you almost seemed peaceful despite everything.

His mind raced with thoughts of Branson, and the danger still lurking in the shadows, yet here, in this moment, all he could see was you. He found himself entranced by the way the blanket hugged your form, how your hair fell over your face in soft strands.

As he tried to focus on the paperwork in front of him, he realized he was completely forgetting the files he had intended to work on. Every time he glanced at you, the contents of the documents seemed to fade into the background. He leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips as he took in the serenity of the scene before him.

Hotch found solace in knowing you were safe, even if just for the night. He would do everything in his power to ensure that it stayed that way.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was how stiff your body felt, your muscles tight from hours spent curled up on the couch. What had started as a comfortable escape from the night’s events had become a reminder of how unforgiving furniture could be as a resting place. You stretched gingerly, feeling the pull of your sore limbs, each movement was stiff. Slowly, you opened your eyes, blinking as the soft, golden light of the rising sun filtered in through the large windows on the opposite end of the room.

The office was quiet. You blinked a few times, the world around you coming into focus. The blanket Hotch had given you was still wrapped snugly around your body, providing some form of comfort, if not against last night's event, then at least against the lingering chill in the air.

As you sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you glanced around the office. It felt strange to be here, so close to home yet so far. And somehow still feeling safe within the four walls of Hotch's office. The lamp on his desk was still on, casting a soft glow around it, and you realized he must have stayed nearby the whole night. The thought brought a small smile to your lips, knowing he hadn’t left you to face the fear alone.

Glancing around, you shifted your legs off the couch and stood, still cocooned in the blanket. The office was cold, making you wonder if they turned the AC off during the night, it made you shiver as you padded toward the door in just your socks, your shoes abandoned somewhere by the couch during the night. The quietness of the office felt almost surreal, especially when you were used to the constant sound of keys being tapped, papers being shuffled and phones being answered. You hesitated for a moment with your hand on the doorknob. Part of you wanted to stay hidden away in the relative safety of Hotch's office, but the pull of needing to know what was happening outside, to know if there was any news about your case pushed you forward.

With a deep breath, you opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The familiar scent of coffee and paper greeted you. The office was mostly still, not a lot of people had shown up for work yet you presumed. As you glanced toward the bridge that overlooked the bullpen, you spotted the lights on in the conference room, telling you the team had presumably already gathered, likely debriefing or strategizing about the night’s events — hopefully.

Your stomach tightened at the thought of joining them — you wanted to know what was going on, yet frightened by the idea that the killings were turning into a sick game on a far larger scale. You lingered for a moment outside of the door, wrapping the blanket tighter around your frame.

But there was a tug in your chest, a need to know. A need to understand what the next steps were. You had been too close to the danger, too close to losing everything, and now the questions that had plagued you all night demanded answers. You took a deep breath and walked toward the conference room.

Your steps were slow and quiet, the soft padding of your socks barely making a sound against the floor. You felt oddly detached from everything around you — groggy, bones achy, and still mentally processing everything.

Through the glass in the door, you caught sight of the team, their expressions grave as they pored over the case files. Papers were scattered in every direction, and from the tense looks on their faces, you could tell they were deep in conversation.

Hotch stood at the head of the table, and though his back was to you, the familiar sight of him, so composed and in control, offered a sense of reassurance. It was strange how someone you didn't really know could be a pillar of strength in a moment when everything around you felt like it was crumbling.

You paused just outside the door, unsure if you should intrude. They were clearly in the middle of something important, and the last thing you wanted was to be a distraction. Exhaustion still clung to you, making your body feel sluggish, your mind slow to fully wake from sleep.

You watched them silently, your mind racing through the events of the previous night. It left a sick feeling in your stomach, and you closed your eyes briefly, trying to shake the images away.

A part of you longed to join them in the room, to step into the conversation and hear for yourself what they’d discovered. But another part of you — the part that was bone-tired and emotionally drained — wanted nothing more than to retreat to Hotch’s office, crawl back onto the couch, and hide away from the word in your blanket.

Taking a deep breath, you glanced back at Hotch. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. You knew he was doing everything in his power to keep you safe. For now, that had to be enough — right?

Despite your hesitation, curiosity gnawed at you. You had to know.

With a deep breath, you gently pushed open the door open, hoping to slip inside unnoticed. The conversation sounded intense as you entered, and you instinctively tried to make yourself as invisible as possible, not wanting to disrupt their work. You hovered by the door, watching as they analyzed the spread of documents, their minds already far ahead, piecing together the puzzle of the case.

"The unsub never cared about Branson. He was always after Y/N," Hotch said, his words cutting through the room like a blade. The certainty in his tone made the atmosphere shift. "She was the target from the beginning."

Your body went stiff, a wave of terror washing over you as the meaning of his words hit you. Every muscle tensed, heart hammering in your chest. Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, the room seemed to close in around you.

"What?!" The word tumbled out of your mouth, laced with panic. It wasn’t just a question — it was a plea for this to somehow be untrue.

The world slowed for a beat, and as your voice echoed through the room, every head turned toward you. The expressions on their faces mirrored your shock and disbelief, but none of them said a word.

Hotch’s voice cut through the room, sharper and more commanding than you'd expected. “What are you doing up?”

“I just... I wanted to see if you’d figured anything out,” you said quietly, your voice sounding smaller than intended.

"Y/N," Hotch began, his tone much gentler now, "the evidence points to the unsub targeting you specifically. Branson’s murder, the message on your door — it was all meant to scare you, to make you vulnerable."

You blinked, trying to process what he was saying, but the words made your legs feel weak. The killer was after you, not Branson. Everything was about you. A chill ran down your spine as you remembered the blood-soaked message on your front door.

"Why?" you managed to choke out.

Hotch took a step toward you. "We’re still working on the motive, but this isn’t random. Whoever this is... they know you."

You felt like the floor had dropped from beneath you. Your mind raced with the implications — who could possibly be after you like this? Why?

Hotch's eyes never left yours as he carefully laid out the pieces of the profile. "At first, we thought Leah was the target," he explained, his words clear yet heavy. "But it became clear that she was never the unsub’s endgame. Leah was used as a pawn — to isolate you, to send a message, and ultimately to draw you in."

You blinked, struggling to absorb the gravity of his words. The cold, clinical breakdown of Leah's murder felt like a punch to the gut. Leah hadn't just been an innocent victim in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had been killed to get to you. The memory of finding her body at the rink flashed through your mind. It had all seemed so random, so senseless back then.

"Leah’s death was staged for you to find," Hotch continued. "The unsub knew it would devastate you, that it would leave you vulnerable. He needed you emotionally off-balance, unsure of who to trust, and it worked."

"Branson was the last obstacle," Hotch said, his brow furrowing as he pieced everything together. "The unsub knew how close you were to him, how much time you spent together at the pavilion. Branson wasn’t just your coach — he was a fixture in your life, a constant presence. The unsub needed to remove him, to sever any connection that could shield you, completely cut off anyone who might stand in the way between him and you."

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. You felt every gaze in the room on you.

"The M.O. has been consistent," Hotch continued, pacing slightly as he spoke. "Each victim, from the very first to Branson, was carefully selected — not randomly, not by coincidence. They were all connected to you. The unsub wasn’t targeting them for who they were, but for what they meant. Branson was just the final step in isolating you."

Your throat tightened, a lump forming as the weight of what he was saying hit you. Every life lost, every crime scene you’d encountered, was part of a sick, calculated plan designed to strip away your safety net. Leah, Branson… they weren’t just victims. They were tools, pieces of a puzzle the unsub had been meticulously constructing around you.

"But why me?" you managed to ask, your voice on the verge of breaking. "Why go through all of this just to get to me?"

Hotch took a deep breath, his expression softening. "We’re still working on the why," he admitted, "but what we do know is that the unsub has a fixation on you. Whether it's personal or something more symbolic, you're the one he want. He's most likely been watching you, planning this for a long time."

Hotch turned back toward the board, the photos of the victims now arranged in a way that made their connection to you painfully obvious. Leah, Branson, and the others — each face staring back at you. "This unsub has one goal — to get to you."

You could feel your legs trembling beneath you. It wasn’t just about being in the wrong place at the wrong time anymore. It had always been about you.

It had always been about you.

When the meeting finally adjourned, you slipped out of the room without a word, unnoticed by the rest of the team. Your feet moved on autopilot, carrying you toward the nearest exit, seeking the open air before you even realized what you were doing. The moment you stepped outside, the cold wind hit you. It cut through the blanket, sending a shiver down your spine, but the chill was a welcome contrast to the suffocating weight pressing on your chest.

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself as if the pressure might hold you together when everything inside felt like it was unraveling. You pressed your back against the nearest wall, seeking support as your legs threatened to give way beneath you.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke through the silence. You opened your eyes to see Hotch stepping toward you. He stopped a few feet away, keeping a respectful distance, his hands buried in his pockets. The quiet between you was heavy, almost tangible as if both of you were waiting for the other to speak first.

“Y/N,” he began softly, his voice cutting through the air. “You’ve been quiet today. I wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay. I know this is a lot to be thrown into, and I can tell that it’s weighing on you.”

“I just…” You hesitated, your voice trembling slightly as you fought to put the emotions into words. Admitting it out loud made it feel more real, and you weren’t sure you were ready to face that. “I can’t help but feel responsible, Hotch. If I had been more aware — if I had paid more attention to what was happening at the rink — maybe I could have prevented something.” Your voice cracked at the end.

“I don’t know how to process this,” you finally admitted, the confession slipping from your lips in a whisper, barely holding back the flood of emotions threatening to spill.

Without hesitation, Hotch stepped closer. “You can’t blame yourself for this, Y/N,” he said. “You had no way of knowing what was happening. Leah and Branson’s deaths aren’t on you.”

Despite Hotch’s reassurances, the guilt still clung to you. "But I trained with her, I was there, and I missed all the signs. If I had just noticed something — anything — I could’ve helped," you murmured. The image of Leah’s face, her laughter, how she would light up once stepping onto the ice. The more you thought about it, the more it felt like you had failed her.

Hotch’s expression didn’t waver, but his voice dropped, taking on a more personal tone. "We all miss things sometimes," he said. "Even when we’re right in the middle of it, even when we're trained to see it. Believe me, I know how hard it is not to carry that burden. But you’re here now, and you're helping us piece this together. That's what matters."

You looked away for a moment, tears stinging at the back of your eyes as you fought to hold them back. His words were kind, but the pain of losing Leah — and the fear of losing more people you cared about—was still raw.

"I just don’t want to let anyone else down," you whispered, your voice so quiet it barely rose above the wind.

You could feel the warmth of his presence beside you. "You won’t," he said softly. "We’re in this together, Y/N. You’re not alone in this fight."

“None of this is your fault,” Hotch continued. “You've done everything you could to help us, and you’re still here — That’s what matters.”

You nodded, your head moving almost on its own, but inside, the doubt still lingered. The truth of Hotch’s words felt distant, buried beneath the crushing weight of your thoughts. “It just feels like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff,” you murmured, trying to paint him the picture you were experiencing. The words spilled out before you could stop them. There was a tremor in your voice, although small it was undeniable. “And I can’t see what’s below. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“I know what it feels like to be on that edge,” he said, the vulnerability in his voice catching you off guard. “To feel like the ground’s going to give way, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. But you’re not standing there alone.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak, but you managed a quiet, “How do you deal with it?”

“You focus on what you can control,” he said finally. “The people you can protect, the steps you can take. And you lean on the people who are there for you.” He paused, his eyes searching yours. “You’re not facing this alone, Y/N. We’re going to stop him. I promise you won’t lose anyone else.”

His words wrapped around you like a safety net. You hadn’t expected his sincerity to reach so deeply, and as it sank in, a strange warmth pulsed through your chest — a stirring that went beyond gratitude. His reassurance should have brought only comfort, but there was something more layered within it, a growing tension between you that you couldn’t ignore, something that had lingered in each shared glance, simmering just below the surface for weeks.

Every word he spoke felt like it drew you in, pulling you into his orbit. It was almost unnerving, the invisible connection weaving between you despite your circumstances. And yet, it also felt steady — something constant amid the whirlwind.

You looked at him, taking in the seriousness in his expression, his posture, the way he seemed so prepared to protect you from anything — and yet also so keenly aware of the risks. The thought made your heart ache.

In this moment, with the two of you standing just inches apart, it felt as though the case had created a connection that you could no longer deny. Every word, every glance between you held a gravity that went beyond the investigation. You saw it in his eyes.

You felt the urge to speak, to break the silence, but the words caught in your throat, held back, like you couldn’t quite articulate what you wanted to say. Instead, you let out a quiet breath, one that seemed to say everything you couldn’t.

Hotch’s hand twitched at his side as if he, too, was grappling with the pull between you, resisting the instinct to reach out. You could feel his restraint, the careful way he held himself, aware that even the smallest movement might tip you both over an invisible line. There was a sense of inevitability, of something that had been building for far too long, yet held back by professionalism.

You watched his breath escape into the cold, hanging between you. For just a heartbeat, his normally guarded expression softened, and in that fleeting vulnerability, you glimpsed something raw, something he’d worked so hard to keep hidden. There was a gentleness beneath the intensity of his gaze, a silent acknowledgment that you weren’t just another civilian to protect, not just a responsibility to bear.

His dark eyes held yours, searching, as though trying to communicate everything that words could never capture. Every second that passed felt like it brought you closer to some uncharted line.

The world beyond the two of you seemed to fade into a blur. It was just the two of you, bound in a space that felt like it could shatter with a breath, yet impossibly strong.

The distance between you shrank, each heartbeat a steady drumbeat against the air. Though the cold nipped at your skin, you could feel the warmth radiating from him, almost magnetic, pulling you closer. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the crispness of the air.

“Hotch…” The word slipped from your lips, softer than you’d intended. His gaze held yours, and in it, you saw everything — the worry, the protectiveness, the tension — everything.

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding, and almost without realizing it, you leaned just a fraction closer. The smallest movement, but it felt monumental. Hotch’s hand brushed the side of your arm, his touch controlled yet hesitant as if testing the waters. The warmth of his fingers against your skin sent a shiver through you.

In that brief, suspended moment, it felt like everything you’d been holding back — every unsaid word, every hidden glance, every moment of shared silence — they aligned.

And then — the sharp, intrusive ring of his phone shattered the quiet, piercing through the stillness like an alarm.

In an instant, the spell broke. The warmth between you dissipated, replaced by a jarring awareness of the space you now stood in — the same world you had briefly left behind. Hotch blinked, and you saw his expression shift, the softness in his eyes vanishing as his features hardened, slipping back into the familiar armor of his professionalism. He released your arm, his fingers trailing away, leaving only the faintest sensation of warmth that seemed to fade too quickly.

With practiced efficiency, he pulled the phone from his pocket, glancing down at the screen as his shoulders straightened and his jaw tightened. The moment — fragile and fleeting — was gone as if it had never been, as if the connection you’d felt just seconds before had been nothing more than a daydream.

You exhaled softly, feeling the chill settle over you once more. The air felt colder now, sharper, biting against your skin. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of the emptiness left behind, as Hotch lifted the phone to his ear, his voice low and commanding as he responded.

"Hotchner," He replied as he answered the phone.

Hotch's expression shifted in an instant. He didn’t need to say a word; the two of you moved in sync, instinctively heading toward his car.

“I’ll drive,” he said, his tone commanding but not unkind.

You hesitated for a split second, catching the hint of concern lingering beneath his steely resolve. “Hotch, you know I would have gone either way, right?”

He gave a slight nod. “I know. Which is exactly why you’re coming with me.” His jaw set as he started the engine, adding in a tone just above a murmur, “It’s safer this way.”

As you neared the rink, the darkness in the sky seemed to darken the closer you got, and Hotch’s hands tightened on the wheel. He cast you a sidelong glance, his eyes steady and serious. “Stay close to me. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

You nodded. “Got it. Right beside you.”

He exhaled, his grip on the wheel loosening just a fraction. “Good.”

As you entered the rink, the scene that unfolded felt like stepping into a nightmare. The quiet space was transformed into a tense, chaotic tableau. Clusters of staff and coaches huddled together, their hushed voices forming a low hum that seemed to vibrate with barely restrained fear.

As you moved further in, weaving through the crowd, you could feel the anxiety that clung to the air. Some of the coaches stood with their arms crossed, brows furrowed, watching the crowd as if bracing for more bad news. Others paced nervously, their gazes darting around as though expecting something — or someone — to appear from the shadows any second now. It was as if the entire crowd had been frozen, caught in a collective breath of dread, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Hotch’s hand found the small of your back. He leaned in, his voice low. “Keep your eyes sharp. People are scared — they might not even realize what they’ve seen.” Hotch remained close by your side.

“What happened?” Hotch’s voice cut through the anxious murmur that blanketed the rink.

A staff member stepped forward, clearly shaken, his face pale and his hands trembling slightly. He swallowed, struggling to find his voice. “It’s… it’s one of the skaters. They found another body in the locker room. It’s bad… really bad.” Each word was heavy, laden with a gravity that turned the air even colder.

Your heart sank, a coil of dread tightening in your stomach as the realization hit — another life taken, another person lost. You turned to Hotch, locking eyes, the horror in his expression mirroring your own.

“Stay behind me,” Hotch instructed. “I don’t want you to see more than you have to.” His protective tone made it clear he understood the weight of what you were about to witness, even if he wished you didn’t have to. But you knew there was no turning back now; you needed to see this through.

The locker room greeted you with an oppressive silence, punctuated only by the faint hum rink cooling system in the back. The sight before you was haunting. There, sprawled on the cold, tiled floor, lay another skater. Recognition hit you instantly as you took in her familiar features. She was young, barely more than a child, perhaps no older than fifteen or sixteen — just a teenager.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the contrast of her bright skating gear against the dark, glistening pool was a sight too tragic to bear. The vivid hues of her outfit, now lay drowned in a sea of red, her innocence stolen. The room felt as if it were spinning. Every instinct screamed for you to look away, to spare yourself the trauma, yet you found yourself rooted to the spot, unable to turn from the horror that lay before you. This wasn’t supposed to happen — you barely even knew this girl — the unsub wasn't supposed to target people you didn't know — or people you knew for the matter.

Hotch’s gaze fell on you, noticing the tremor in your shoulders, the haunted look in your eyes. His concern deepened, and he quickly stepped closer, his hand resting on your arm. “Stay back,” he instructed, his voice firm but soft, gently encouraging you to distance yourself from the scene — he knew you weren't strong enough to continue seeing the horrors for much longer.

But you couldn’t move. It was as though every part of you was chained to the scene before you. You felt a chill creeping over you, a sense that you would never be able to feel safe in the pavilion again.

As the rest of the team arrived, your heart hammered in your chest. Each face that passed, each hurried glance, only served to remind you of the moment, amplifying the dread that had already taken root deep in your bones.

“Get her out of here!” Hotch commanded as the rest of the team entered the locker room, his voice cutting through the noise with an authority that brooked no argument. The tone of his command was a jolt to your system, pulling you back to reality as you struggled to comprehend the situation.

“Come on, honey, let’s go take a breath of air,” Emily’s voice was soft but firm, her hands wrapping around your shoulders as she gently steered you out of the locker room. You leaned into her touch, grateful for the solid, presence amid the storm swirling inside you. Each step she guided you felt like a small reprieve from the nightmare.

Emily gave your shoulders a reassuring squeeze, sensing the weight you carried. “Take your time,” she murmured, her tone was soothing. The ache in your chest pulsed with each heartbeat, and though you felt yourself moving farther from the scene, you knew that the memory of this moment— the sense of loss and helplessness you constantly felt — would stay with you, woven deep into your mind.

Emily led you to the bleachers, where the soft hum of the rink faded into the background. You sank onto a cold metal seat, your mind racing as you grappled with the surreal reality of it all. The icy breath of the arena brought a sharp clarity, but it also deepened the ache in your chest. You had always viewed skating as a sanctuary, a place of beauty and grace, but now it felt tainted, marred by the violence that had infiltrated your world. The camaraderie and support you once cherished seemed distant, replaced by an unsettling feeling of vulnerability.

She guided you to the bleachers. The muted hum of the rink felt like it receded as you sank down onto the cold metal seat — although it still rang in your ears. Emily didn’t speak, just offered a reassuring closeness, as if she understood the depths of your emotions. Deep down, a part of you feared that the pavilion — if not skating all together — wouldn't feel the same ever again.

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