#because it seems to me they wanted someone who not only looked the part and could act well | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

covenofagatha · 2 days ago

Text

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 3)

A new murder with a different M.O. has you feeling confused

Word count: 4100

Warnings: fingering, murder

It takes you all of five minutes to leave the motel room after you dig more clothes out of your suitcase.

You looked everywhere for the clothes you were wearing before your nap, but they’re nowhere to be found.

It would be incredibly bad if you had stripped down and then left the room to put them somewhere else.

But you don’t have time to dwell on that right now.

You go fifteen over the speed limit to get to the location Agatha had texted over after she hung up the phone.

To the location of another murder.

You had foolishly hoped that maybe The Witch and Lady Death would slow down once you had gotten to town, maybe out of fear of being caught.

Clearly you had done little to deter them.

It’s only ten minutes away from your motel, near a creek on the edge of town.

Police cars are already parked there, yellow caution tape closing off the perimeter. You slam the door shut to your sedan and hurry over to Agatha. It’s late in the afternoon, but the sun is already setting, making the colors of everything look muted.

“Was it them?” You ask, a little breathless. Agatha glances up and down and looks like she wants to comment on your outfit change, but doesn’t.

“Come see and tell us what you think,” she says ominously and you follow her into the trees. “Good doctor’s appointment?”

You stop walking, forcing her to pause too. “You’re married to Dr. Vidal?”

She chuckles. “She told you that, didn’t she?”

“Did you know that’s who I was going to see earlier?” You ask, not sure why it matters.

“I had my suspicions,” is all Agatha chooses to say. She’s taking you further into the woods along the side of the creek and it’s getting colder, but the air starts to feel…alive, almost.

Like it’s crackling with something. You somehow know you’re getting closer to the body.

Are you imagining it, or can Agatha feel it, too?

And then she stops so quickly you almost bump into her and she points up ahead.

In the middle of thin, small trees is a big willow tree. It’s a beautiful sight, if you’re being honest.

You’re transfixed by the icicles gleaming from the barren branches and it takes you a bit to notice the pool of red snow by the roots.

You stumble forward to get a better look in the last rays of daylight, eyes traveling up the tree trunk and you gasp.

A man is tied to it, his pants cut open halfway down his thigh and there's a deep gash through both of his femoral arteries. Most likely the cause of death. The only reason you know what color his pants were supposed to be is because the part near his hips is unstained.

But that’s not all.

His flannel shirt has been ripped as well, revealing his bare chest, where a heart has been drawn with a knife. It’s a shallow cut, not too much blood, but it’s clear this was meant to be a message, rather than fatal. His eyes are gray and lifeless.

“I don’t understand, this isn’t their M.O. at all,” you say, the snow behind you crunching as Agatha walks to stand next to you.

You can feel her eyes on you, regarding you carefully. “So what do you think?”

You think that you’ve never felt this way before. Something is happening to your body, a heat is spreading through it, and it’s like there’s electricity under your skin. Your scar tingles, but doesn’t hurt.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” you say in frustration. “Maybe they’re switching it up, it’s like they’re taunting me! It doesn’t make any sense to change tactics now, though. All the other bodies were found in homes and now this one is tied to a tree in the middle of nowhere? Doesn’t seem to be poisoned and they didn’t carve out his heart. I don’t – I don’t know.”

You’re so suddenly aware of the hot blood pumping through your veins and you want something. You can’t put a name to it yet, though.

“Do you think it could have been someone else?” She asks and you shake your head immediately.

“No, this was them. I know it, I can feel it.” There’s a thrumming in your head now, behind your eyes and you just want to get rid of it.

Agatha’s lips stretch into a slow smile and you can see the darkness in her eyes. “What else do you feel?”

The question makes you freeze. Maybe you’re not going crazy. “Can you feel it, too?” You whisper; you’re afraid to say it too loudly, like it’ll break the spell.

She slowly walks around and advances on you and you walk backwards until you hit a tree. Your heart races and you can feel it everywhere, like your entire body is beating in time with it.

“You feel the adrenaline, don’t you? Being this close to death, yet you feel more alive than ever?” She asks, and you choke out an affirmation. “It’s addicting, isn’t it? Tell me how it makes you feel.”

Agatha leans down again, just how she did in the evidence locker, but this time, she drags her teeth up your neck and nips. The pounding in your head gets worse. “It feels…powerful,” you admit, both to her and yourself, maybe for the first time.

“There’s an ache inside you, right?” She asks, now sucking bites into your neck and your stance widens just the slightest.

Hearing her put a name to it makes it ever so clear to you now. “Yes,” you gasp, molten heat growing between your legs. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for, but Agatha does.

Lips still on your skin, her hands fumble with the waistband of your new pants, trying to unbutton and unzip. She’s finally able to slip her fingers in and when she moves your underwear to the side and cups your pussy, you hiss at the coldness.

“Fuck,” you swear as she starts to swipe at your clit. You’re so sensitive already, and if you weren’t so needy, you’d take a good, long look at yourself to figure out why you’re so turned on right now.

“Why don’t you think it was them?” She asks, pushing a finger inside you and your head falls back against the tree. She doesn’t move it, waiting for an answer first.

The ringing in your head comes back with a vengeance. “They’re messing with me,” you stutter. “They want me to be thrown off their game.” She starts moving, slowly thrusting and curling, and you gasp. The mix of pleasure and pain is a combination you never thought would be a good one.

“You think they’re doing this just for you?” She muses, shoving another finger inside you and twisting lazily and it pulls a groan out of you.

“The murders were all the same until I showed up,” you whimper. It feels like your body is about to burst. “Agatha.”

Her thumb finds your clit again and rubs it. “Shh,” she soothes. “I know, superstar. I’ll give you what you need.” She mouths at your neck, lips traveling upward until she reaches your chin, and then her face pulls away from yours.

“Please,” you beg again.

“What if it wasn’t them?” She asks in a low voice, fingers stilling in you. You whine and frantically buck your hips to get some stimulation. You just need more.

You can’t even think straight. “It had to be them. Who else could it have been?”

There’s just enough sunlight to see the wicked smirk on her face. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

And then her lips are on yours and she’s ferociously kissing you like she’s trying to devour you, and the pain in your head completely stops.

She sets a bruising pace inside you and you’re panting into her open mouth while her tongue thrashes against yours. Your teeth clash and it’s messy and hot and everything that you need, and her fingers are hitting exactly where you need. Your hands are rough as they scramble for purchase around her shoulders, desperate to keep her exactly where she is. You dig your nails into her and she moans against you, and you’re so close.

Your orgasm is building, only this time, it’s heightened and feels way more intense than any you’ve ever had before. You’re throbbing around Agatha’s fingers, clenching and trying to draw her in even more, and she fits a third one into you. It makes you keen and you babble nonsensically about how you’re going to cum.

“Cum for me, pet,” she orders and you sink your teeth hard into her lower lip as you do. It’s like a dam breaks all over your body, tension and pleasure exploding through every crack and crevice and it’s easily the best orgasm you’ve ever had.

It takes a minute for you to recover and when you’re able to think clearly again after Agatha takes her fingers out of you, you notice that her lip is bleeding.

“Fuck, did I do that?” You ask and she chuckles, tongue darting out to lick it up. You follow the movements and feel the heat inside you coming back.

She holds the fingers that were inside of you up to your mouth and you suck on them without hesitation. “Don’t worry about it. Not the first time it’s happened,” she teases with a wink and your stomach sinks. Your head moves back so her fingers slip out of you.

“Oh my god, you’re married,” you say and Agatha raises an eyebrow as if to say obviously. “And we’re at a crime scene, what did we just do? There’s a dead body right over there.”

Agatha raises up her hands to disarm the situation. “Hey, don’t think too hard about it. You have a very stressful job, sometimes you just need to blow off some steam.”

“How are you so calm? You just cheated on your wife!” You snap, quickly zipping and buttoning your pants. The electricity in the air is now gone, completely replaced by cold and fear. You have to get out of here. The Witch and Lady Death are two steps ahead of you and you need to stop them. This was them, and you know it.

You don’t even wait for Agatha to respond, you pick a direction and start walking. She calls your name a few times before you whirl around, tears in your eyes. “Rio and I…have an arrangement of sorts. Trust me, she is completely okay with this.”

Her words do little to calm you down, but you’re getting closer to the detectives and officers and the coroner’s car has pulled up. “It doesn’t matter. This can’t happen again,” you say sternly.

“Whatever you want, superstar,” she says and it almost makes you furious. It feels like she’s teasing you, for being with the FBI. Almost as bad as the guys around the station calling you Miami.

But you don’t argue, you don’t speak at all, you just stand there, a bone-chilling emptiness inside you as you watch the body get wheeled out from the woods after about twenty minutes. Detectives keep searching the surrounding area for any clues, but they find nothing.

Which doesn’t surprise you at all. Lady Death and The Witch are clever. It just means you have to work harder to catch them.

“Alright, we got everything here. Forensics is going to do some tests on the blood, see if maybe we can get a DNA match for the killer. Photos of the scene will be printed and ready for us tomorrow,” Agatha says gruffly, walking over to you, the picture of professionalism after being three fingers deep in you not forty-five minutes ago. “You should get home, get some rest.”

You shake your head and clutch your jacket tighter around you. “I’ve been sleeping for the past few hours. I’m not tired. I can head into the station, if you want. Get a head start on work for tomorrow.”

Something flickers in Agatha’s eyes, something you don’t quite recognize. “No, that’s okay. Go back to your motel. Even if you don’t sleep, you should still try and relax. Take a warm bath or something. That always helps me clear my head.”

You frown, but before you can ask what she thinks you need to clear your head from, she pats you on the shoulder and walks to her car. The scene quickly clears out, but there’s something still nagging at you in the back of your mind.

You can’t leave just yet.

Grabbing a flashlight from your bag in your car, you wander back through the woods, desperate to find something the officers missed.

The night passes while you tear up every single rock and leaf and clump of snow on the ground near where the man was murdered. And then you expand the search, walking along the creek edge, flashlight sweeping right and left. Your hands are bright red from the stinging frost, having taken off your gloves ages ago to better dig around, and you’ve lost feeling in your face. Tears are permanently frozen in your eyes it seems, and as the sun starts to break through the darkness, you defeatedly drop to the ground on the bed of the creek.

You don’t know what you were expecting to find, it was a stupid idea. You’re just about to call it a day and trek back to your car to go into the station, when you see a log just a few yards away.

Brows crinkling, you wince when you stand up, your joints aching from the cold, and stumble over to it. You shine your flashlight into the opening of the hole and you gasp.

The light reflects off something shiny.

This time, you’re smart about it. You put your gloves back on, flashing between your teeth, and you carefully reach inside and brush away the moss to grab onto it and pull it out.

It’s a knife.

The discovery makes your heart leap. You found something! This could be your first real break in the case, one step closer to bringing the pair of serial killers down.

You turn the blade over in your hands to inspect every part of it. Strange, you think. It seems almost like a kitchen knife. The serrated edge isn’t as sharp as it should be if it were meant to be a murder weapon. But when you hold it closer to your face, you can make out specks of blood on it.

And then there’s something else, an emblem of sorts on the bottom of the blue handle. It says WM with a circle around the letters.

The first thing you think of is Wanda Maximoff and terror spikes through you. Has she gotten out of jail and come to find you?

But you are absolutely certain that Tony would’ve called you immediately, so that helps calm you down. Still, you suddenly don’t feel safe in the woods, almost like you’re being watched, so you pocket the knife before sprinting back to your car.

You slam and lock the doors immediately and you turn the heat all the way up to coax life back into your frozen body. It’s still early, barely even six-thirty am, so you decide to go back to your motel room and shower before you head into the station.

Your stomach rumbles and you can’t remember the last time you ate. You just pulled an all-nighter (although, you could argue that because you took a nap for about five hours yesterday, that counts as sleep) and you haven’t showered since you’ve been here.

Tony would kill you.

Once you get back to your room, you turn on the bath, still feeling the chill deep in your bones. You carefully take the knife out of your coat pocket with a paper towel and lay it on the counter so you can remember to bring it in so Forensics can test it.

You strip off your sopping wet clothes and get into the bath, moaning out loud at how good the warm water on your tired and shaking body feels.

Sinking into the tub so every part of you except for your face is submerged, you lean down to turn off the faucet and settle back down. You don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing you know, you jolt awake and splash about a gallon of water over the edge.

“Fuck,” you cough, trying to get out of the tub, but your entire body is sore and your head feels awful.

Apparently there’s consequences for spending over eight hours out in the snow with no gloves and then falling asleep in a bath with water that’s now lukewarm.

You manage to maneuver yourself out and you quickly grab the robe that was hanging on the bathroom door to wrap around your shivering body. Your phone is on the sink counter and it starts buzzing. It’s Agatha.

A hand grips the vanity to stable yourself before picking it up. “Hello?” You rasp, grimacing at the effort it takes to speak.

“Yikes, you sound awful,” she says, teasing tone in her voice. “You okay, superstar? Get a little too much rest last night?”

“I think I’m a little sick,” you admit. You’re usually able to tough it out, but you feel like you died and barely came back to life. “Is it okay if I–”

“Yes, stay there,” she orders and you almost collapse with relief.

But then you remember the knife. If you don’t go in, that means it’s another day that The Witch and Lady Death remain free. “I found something last night, in the woods,” you say. “I really need to bring it in.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait. You just need to take some medicine and get some rest. Do you have anything you can take?”

You search through the items in your toiletry bag. “I have some Advil.” You pop two in your mouth and swallow it with water from the sink.

“I’ll text Rio and ask if she can bring over some medicine and maybe some food, too. Go to sleep. I’ll check in with you tomorrow,” she says, and before you can insist that Rio does not come here, she hangs up.

Groaning, you find that you don’t have it in you to be petulant, so you make your way into bed and you fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow.

Snow.

It’s just started falling, there’s barely an inch on the ground.

The branches reach for you as you walk through them, trying to grab on and not let you go. The thicket is getting denser and darker, but there’s something calling out to you, so you keep walking.

There’s a melodic hum, and it lulls you into feeling safe. Is it real? Is it in your head?

Is there a difference?

You can barely see three inches in front of you and everything is going black and you can feel wounds being torn into your face and you should really turn back now –

– you break into a clearing.

Only this time, there’s a willow tree in the middle. You can hear something, it sounds like two women laughing.

Are they laughing at you?

It must be the killers, they must be taunting you, rubbing it in how you can’t catch them.

More people are going to die, and their blood is on your hands.

The cackling gets louder and louder and then it’s all you can hear and you clamp your hands over your ears begging for it to stop, please, god, let it stop –

– there’s a hand on your shoulder and everything is silent.

You turn around slowly. Is it them?

Instead, it’s a man with his eyes closed. He looks vaguely familiar, where have you seen him?

He opens his eyes and they’re gray and it hits you.

It’s the dead man.

He grabs you by the shoulders and his jaw drops to scream, but no sound comes out. And then his hands grab your throat and he starts to squeeze.

The knocking on the door to your room wakes you up and you fly out of bed, gasping for breath, still feeling the pressure around your throat. It takes a moment to collect your bearings before you realize that you’re safe and the man is dead.

Still a little shaky, you walk to the door and unlatch it to find Dr. Vidal standing there.

“Oh, hi,” you greet, stepping to the side so she can come in. It’s hard to meet her eyes after being fucked by her wife the day before. She holds up a container of chicken noodle soup in one hand and a box of cold medicine and a plastic grocery bag in the other.

“Agatha said you were feeling a little under the weather,” she says, plopping the stuff down on the counter and thankfully avoiding the mounds of photos and case evidence you have right next to it. Including the knife from the woods. “Did I wake you up?”

You rub your face and feel the pillow indentions in your cheek. “Um, yeah, I was having a bad dream though, so I don’t mind,” you joke and motion for her to take a seat.

“I would heat up the soup first before eating,” she suggests and you pour it into a bowl and put it in the microwave. “Bad dream? Do you want to talk about it?

“Would it count as a session?”

Dr. Vidal waves her hand. “Not at all. Consider it free advice. So, what happened?”

The microwave beeps and you open it, the soup steaming. You set it down to cool off a little. “It kind of lines up with those images I had with you and another dream I had yesterday, I think. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I think they’re memories of something? I just don’t remember it. But then there’s some things that change, like today, there was this new dead man. That was recent, so maybe they’re not memories? Maybe I’m just losing my mind.”

“You’re not losing your mind,” she chuckles. “Dreams and memories, the real and not real, it’s easy to blur the lines. Maybe your unconscious is trying to tell you something, maybe trying to remind you of something that happened to you.”

That makes you think for a moment. You can see the woods, the snow, whatever you keep seeing, but it’s more of just flashes in time, rather than the whole thing. You can’t see what happens before, or after. “I guess I’ll just have to see if more pieces start coming together,” you say.

She sighs. “I know it can be confusing and probably really frustrating, but I’ll help you get to the bottom of this. I have some techniques we can try during your session in a few days. I’ll help you claw your way out of whatever this is.”

“Thank you,” you say gratefully. “What’s in the bag?” You point to the grocery bag and she nods to give you permission. You open it and with a gasp, you find your clothes from yesterday in it, all neatly folded. “How…what…you…” There’s no words.

“Don’t worry, it’s our little secret,” she says with a wink.

You have to grab onto the edge of the counter so you don’t pass out. “Wait, did we…”

“Have sex?” She asks bluntly and you’re too afraid to move. “No, we didn’t. If we did, you would remember it.”

The thrumming starts to come back behind your eyes, despite the blush at her flirtatious words. “So, how do you have my clothes?”

“You better eat your soup before it gets cold,” Dr. Vidal sidesteps the question and it’s clear that you’re not getting an answer.

You slide open the drawer next to the fridge and pull out a spoon from the silverware caddy. A sharp pain sears through your head and your heart starts to race.

The spoon has the same blue handle and emblem as the knife does. WM. Westview Motel. The spoon clatters to the ground and you begin furiously counting. Six forks. Six spoons.

Five knives.

When they were in your room your first night in Westview, they must’ve taken it from here.

They’re trying to frame you.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha x rio #agathario x reader #agathario #rio vidal x agatha harkness #rio vidal x reader #rio x reader

232 notes · View notes

lowkeyerror · 2 days ago

Text

Help With The Curriculum Pt 4

Agatha x Rio x Reader

Word count: 4.2k

Notes: Smut, choking, fingering, cunnulingus, daddy!kink, mommy!kink, dacryphilia, dirty talk, edging, mentions of overstimulation, begging degradation, praise

Summary: Rio gets herself a chance with you and Agatha. The only caveat is that she has to follow instructions and even then, she might not get a reward.

An: The Ao3 curse hit me, but part 4 (potentially last part) is here, hope you like it.

Previous Part | Masterlist | Series Masterlist

“Y/n, wake up.”

You groan, snuggling further into Agatha’s warmth. She chuckles a bit, scratching the top of your head.

“Baby, you have to let me get up. I have to go home.”

That only causes you to hold her tighter, “No.”

She sighs, “I have class later, I have to go home to change.”

“Wear mine,” you mumble against her collarbone.

“You’d love seeing me in your clothes, wouldn’t you?”

You pull away from her and wipe your eyes, “What time is it?”

“6 am.”

You shake your head, “We’re college professors, 6am is high school teacher hours Agatha.”

“Well, I need time to go home and get ready. Someone didn’t want to let me go last night,” she gets up, causing you to sit up right in your bed.

“It was late, and besides your legs could’ve given out on the way over,” you tease her.

Agatha rolls her eyes, “Funny, I’ll see you on campus.”

“Wait,” you get out of bed clumsily, she laughs at your movements. “Let me walk you out.”

“Adorable.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you lead her to your front door.

“I have a gap around 2, if you want to do lunch?” She suggests and you nod.

“I’d like that,” you smile at her.

“Text me your order, I’ll pick it up,” she says and for a moment it feels like you’re both prolonging the goodbye.

You kiss her sweetly, not really wanting to stop, “You need to go before I take you back to my bedroom.”

You push her lightly out of the door. She starts walking to her car, but she turns back half way just to blow you a kiss. A small chuckle escapes you before you shoo her away with one last movement of your hand. You wait for her to drive off before going back inside your home.

Since you were awake so early you decided to make breakfast and get ready for work. By the time you were dressed and finished eating it was time for you to go.

Today was the day of the exam, so it was going to be relatively easy for you. You arrive to your classroom a bit early to make sure everything is set for the exam.

“Exam days always seem to drag on forever,” you lift your head at the sound of her voice.

“Professor Vidal, what do you want?” Your voice is dry when you speak to her.

“Think I made that quite obvious yesterday,” she stalks her way over to your desk.

“And why would I reward such a brat?”

She puts her hands behind her back and tilts her head. Her eyes get big and glossy, “But I’m a good girl.”

You could see why Agatha would easily cave in to the woman. She is hot; her body is damn near perfect and her beauty is undeniable.

“No you aren't, because here you are begging me like a needy slut. When we both know you should be talking to Agatha, instead,” you give her a pointed look.

“She doesn't want me anymore,” you hear a vulnerability that you aren't sure she meant to convey.

“Who said that?”

Rio frowns, “She did, literally yesterday. She told me to move on.”

You sigh taking a bit of pity on the woman, “Listen Rio, your problem is that you push too far. Agatha can't handle you being a brat all of the time. I don't think she wanted to end things with you, but if you're never going to listen to her, what's the point?”

“And you listen to her?”

You nod, “Of course, I listen to her, she listens to me.”

Rio focuses on the ground, “She listens to you. She never let me- I wanted to be in control sometimes.”

You cross your arms leaning back against the chair, “Sounds like a reward. I wonder if you could earn it, somehow?”

It's Rio’s turn to sigh, “I need to talk to her, don't I?”

You nod, “I think it’d benefit you.”

She groans, but make her way towards the exit, “You know, I'm not all bad Professor L/n.”

“I know, but you have some lessons to learn. Hopefully rewards to gain, Professor Vidal.”

When she leaves your eyes linger where she stood. It felt like she was the embodiment of temptation. You could imagine what she looked like bare, her look playful, and eager. You’re sure that her neediness clouded any sense of obedience in her body.

When the class piled in you gave them the exam instructions. While they were testing, you let your mind wander to what you could do with Rio. How you could help Agatha tame her.

You were thinking about it until it was time for lunch. Agatha said she would meet you in your classroom.

“What did you say to her?”

Agatha sits the food on your desk.

You shrug, “I told her she needed to talk to you, why?”

Agatha begins to take out the food, “She apologized for being such a brat all the time, said that what we had was important to her, and that she didn’t want to lose it.”

“And what did you say?”

Agatha sighs, “I told her that I wanted to believe her.”

“But…”

“But she would have to prove that she could be good.”

You take a sip of your drink, “And how should she do that?”

Agatha’s eyes met yours, “I was hoping you had some ideas.”

You smirk, “I’ve been brain storming since she left my classroom. I was thinking, maybe we could put on a little show for her, but the rules prohibit her from touching. If she lasts, she can have a reward, but if she can’t… we can give her a very memorable punishment. Thinking either edging or overstimulation. Depends on her attitude.”

Agatha levels with you, “I doubt she can hold out. I mean I doubt that I could if I was watching us fuck.”

You lean back in your chair, “This test isn't about her obedience, it’s about her willpower. I want to see how quickly she cracks, if she’s remorseful, or if she’s going to be disrespectful. If she meant what she said to you, she will try her hardest. Tell her to meet us Saturday at your place. I assume she knows where you live.”

Agatha snickers, “Why do I hear some jealousy in that last part?”

“I told you, I’m not fond of sharing. Don’t worry though, I plan to work through that when Rio’s watching me make you all desperate. I know what she wants from you Aggie, and I’m going to show her how much you love when I give it to you,” your jaw twitches slightly.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she begins to eat her food.

The days seem to pass slowly as anticipation builds inside of you. You’re excited but you don’t necessarily know if that’s appropriate. In truth you wouldn’t describe yourself as a naturally dominant person but something about being with Agatha and something about the thought of being with Rio really made you want to take control.

With Agatha there was much more of a give and take nature to your encounters. Sometimes you would be in control and sometimes you’d crumble under her gaze. However, with Rio’s needy eyes on you, you didn't know if it would be appropriate to crumble.

This time would be somewhat of an example for any times that would occur in the future. It was like you were setting a precedent for how things would unfold and whatever kind of relationship you decided to pursue. There was a lot of confliction inside of you the moment he saw her you did want to put her in her place. You were serious when you said you weren’t sharing but now you didn't know if that was true.

Was it really sharing if you had decided you wanted both?

“I can feel you thinking from here,” Agatha’s hand cups your face.

You’re both in her bedroom waiting for Rio to arrive. You let out a relaxed sigh as her thumb starts to caress your face.

“It feels silly, but I think I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before. I know I was talking a big game, and that was real. I want this, I just don't want to fuck this up,” you admit.

“You’re adorable,” she says.

You whine, “Agatha.”

“Baby it’s not just you in here, I'm here too. I doubt you’ll struggle to preform because you haven't before this. In the case that you do, I’ll be here to get us back on track. Trust me?”

You nod and lean in to peck her lips, “I trust you.”

The doorbell rings breaking the endearing moment. You want to rush to the door but a gentle tug from Agatha has you walking at a slower pace.

“Compose yourself,” she whispers to you before opening the door.

Rio stands on Agatha’s porch in a short sundress. The nerves on her face are present, but she tampers them with a smile.

“Looks a little different than last time I was here,” Rio says peering into the house.

“You know I get bored with décor quickly,” Agatha says stepping aside to let her in.

“And how different is the bedroom?” Rio says slyly.

You speak up, “You should see for yourself.”

Rio hums at your words, making her way towards the bedroom. Agatha and yourself follow her side by side. When you’re all in the room, you’re the one to close the door.

There’s a tension in the air, anticipation of what will happen.

“So…”

“Sit in that chair,” you command Rio, before she can further speak.

She complies, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room. You keep your eyes on her, “Good listening, today we’re going to see how long you can keep it up for. You’re going to sit here and watch while Agatha and I fuck. You aren't going to touch yourself at any point.”

Rio’s eyes darken, “And what do I get for sitting here?”

You tilt your head to the side, “Why would you get anything? This isn’t a reward, this is your case to Agatha that you can be a good girl, and follow simple instructions without being a brat.”

“I can be good.”

You grip her chin so she looks into your eyes, “I hope so because I think it would be fun to play with you.”

You kiss her cheek before turning your back to her and heading towards Agatha. You stand in front of her, eyes locked on each other. Your hands find the bottom of her shirt. You raise it slowly giving her a chance to stop you.

She doesn’t, when her shirts off your hands trail up her soft skin. You let out a shaky breath, trying to control your impulses. Your head dips down so that your tongue could swirl around one of her nipples. The other nipple was occupied in between your fingers.

Periodically you look up to take in the details of Agatha’s face. The light moans and delicate tensions on her face are not enough for you. You want more, you start to use your teeth and soon her breathy moans become more fleshed out.

Agatha couldn’t take any more of the teasing, she pulls your face up so that your lips meet. It’s hungry, and you swear her lips get softer every time you kiss them. You moan as she sucks on your bottom lip.

You hear a whimper in the corner of the room and you break from the kiss. Rio looks like she has a sweat building up on her forehead. You pull your shirt from over your head and see her eyes widen as she takes in your body.

You don’t miss the way her hands grip the chair. Agatha hugs you from behind, her hand traveling down your body with no hesitation in sight. You moan, keeping eye contact with Rio as Agatha’s hand disappears into your pants.

“You’re so wet for me baby,” she trails kisses up your neck.

“I need you,” you say bucking into her hand.

She guides you so that your back hits the wall. In a swift movement your pants are down and Agatha is on her knees. She spreads your legs and your breathing speeds up a bit.

You grab a handful of her hair and laugh lightly, “Isn’t this familiar?”

She chuckles the same, “Not until you start moaning professor.”

Her hands rest on your thigh as her tongue swipes through your folds. Your grip on her hair tightens, as her pace increases. She hums in satisfaction, not caring about how far her face is buried into your cunt.

“How you doing over there Vidal?” You manage to glance at her and she looks in utter discomfort. She doesn’t answer, “I asked you something.”

“S-soaked,” she grits out.

“Fuck, Aggie were you starving or something?” You feel your legs begin to shake a little from the intensity of her movements.

She pulls away, “You just taste so good.”

“Should we give her something?” You nod your head towards Rio.

Agatha nods, “Whatever your thinking, I’m in.”

Rio sighs believing that the challenge is over and that she’s won a reward. You smile sweetly at her, “Strip.”

Her clothes are gone in under a minute and she stands eagerly.

“Ok sit back down, you were a little uncomfortable in the clothes,” you speak dismissively before returning your attention to Agatha.

“You want to taste yourself?”

You nod, “And I need those fingers inside of me professor.”

“Suck,” Agatha pushes two fingers into your mouth.

You obey her and as soon as her fingers leave your mouth her lips are on yours again. As your kiss echoes in the room, she slides fingers into you.

You gasp in pleasures as she quickly begins to pump in and out of you. Her thumb finds your clit and you can barely keep up with the kiss. Your head falls onto her shoulder.

“You like when I burry my fingers in you, baby? The way my thumb presses down on your clit? Fuck, I can feel you clenching against me. You going to cum on my fingers that fast? God you’re needy today, or is it cause Rio’s watching? You want her to see how I make you cum.”

You lift your head from her shoulder just enough to look at Rio, “I want her t-to see what she can’t have.”

With her now naked you can see every little twitch her body makes. The look of anger on her face only makes you cum harder. Agatha fucks you through it, and as soon as she pulls her fingers out of you, you’re guiding her towards the bed.

You sit with your back against the headboard and Agatha sits in between your legs.

“Open for me baby,” she follows your instructions opening her legs.

One of your arms secure around her waist while the other rubs small circles around her clit. You give Rio a perfect view of Agatha’s dripping cunt.

“You ever have her like this Rio?”

Your fingers glide through Agatha’s folds in a teasing manner.

Rio shook her head, “N-no.”

You chuckle deeply as you plunge two fingers into her, “Oh Aggie, that's so mean of you. Never opened up for your little plaything?”

“Never earned it,” Agatha says breathlessly.

You can see Rio fix her mouth to say something, but she holds back.

“Speak up bunny, I want to know what's on your mind. You think you deserved something like this?”

Your fingers work faster, intoxicated by the sounds of Agatha’s hungry wet hole.

Rio begins to shake in her spot, “I wanted it so bad.”

“Wanted what?”

Her head drops, “To fuck Agatha. To have her whimpering because of me, to give her so much pleasure that she'd be drunk on it. Maybe, maybe I didn't earn it. Hell, I doubt that I deserved it, but I wanted it. She deserved to be worshiped and I thought that would've been enough.”

You can feel Agatha’s breathing quicken at the words, “If you can't handle instructions, you couldn't handle fucking me.”

Your thumb presses against her clit and she throws her head back. You begin sucking harshly on her neck as it becomes more accessible.

You lick a long stripe along her neck sparing a glance at Rio, “Beg for it Rio.”

She’s quick to fall to her knees unceremoniously. Her legs are shaking and you can see her arousal glistening down them. Her eyes are large and filled with tears.

Her voice is hoarse with need as she speaks, “Please, please. I-I can’t watch anymore, I need to- please. Tell me to do something, I’ll do it. I-I can be good. I can listen. I’ll do anything.”

You can feel Agatha clenching around your fingers as she watches Rio beg.

“More,” Agatha growls at Rio.

“Mommy please, I’m sorry. I should’ve listened. I shouldn’t have been so bratty. I was bad, but not anymore. Please, touch me. Let me touch you. Anything, please,” Rio cries fully now.

Agatha begins to rock her hips against your fingers, “Ask Y/n.”

“Daddy please, I’m sorry for being such a slut in your classroom. I need you, I’ll do better, I’ll be better. You don’t have to share, you can own me. Please, please, please.”

Agatha’s body jerks forward as she cums. Your arm around her waist is the only thing keeping her grounded. You slow your fingers, waiting for her to ride out her orgasm before removing them from her cunt. They find their way into her mouth and she sucks them delicately.

“Come here,” you murmur to Rio.

She stands, quickly walking over to you. You unhook your arm from around Agatha, using that hand to lightly grip Rio’s jaw. She nearly flinches in anticipation from your grasp.

You swipe at her tears with your thumb. Slowly you pull her face towards you while craning your neck up to her. You kiss her and it’s a fragile thing. You can feel her holding back. Trying to restrain herself, from taking more than you’re willing to give.

She whimpers into your mouth and her legs begin trembling even more than before. Your eyes widen and you break the kiss.

“Did you just cum?”

Rio’s face tints red with embarrassment, “I-I-"

Agatha intervenes lifting Rio before tossing her gently on the bed, “God, you’re so beautifully pathetic when you listen.”

“I want to taste her, she wants to taste you. I think we can all be winners here,” you look at the tanned woman in a predatory manner.

“Can you handle it baby? You couldn’t even manage a simple kiss, without making a mess of yourself,” Agatha questions her.

“Please, sit on my face mommy,” she pants out.

You decide to give Rio some relief, “Don’t hold back, but I’m telling you right now, I’m not stopping until Agatha cums again. So if you cum before her, we’re going to keep going, understand?”

She nods the best she can, “I understand.”

Agatha grabs Rio’s wrists, holding them above her. The older woman straddles Rio’s head, not loosening her tight hold on the submissive’s wrists.

“You know the signal if it’s too much,” Agatha speaks tenderly.

Again Rio nods the best she can.

That’s the only sign Agatha needs before fully sitting on the woman’s face.

Rio’s legs open for you with the sound of her sticky cunt echoing in your mind. She is absolutely drenched, you can see her clit twitching in anticipation. You can tell she’s sensitive, but you can’t help yourself.

Without hesitation you got straight to sucking her clit. Her back arches off of the bed, and you have to hold her legs in place. You can hear the low groan she let slip into Agatha, causing the other woman to grind down on Rio’s face.

Every calculated thought or worry that you previously had leaves your head as her taste seeps into your brain. All you want to do is make her cum. You eat her sloppily, not holding anything back. You can feel your jaw growing tired from how obsessively you’re eating her out.

You assume she’s doing the same to Agatha as the woman with the unoccupied mouth has not stopped making sounds since Rio’s face has been in her pussy.

When you finally detach your mouth from the woman, you stay close to her cunt. Letting your breath fan over her as you try to form any type of coherent thought.

“I understand why Agatha let you be a brat for so long. Your taste is so intoxicating baby, I just want to drown in it,” you say as you slide your middle finger into her.

You feel her cum instantly at the sensation and it makes your eyes roll back.

“You close professor?” You ask Agatha who only answers by nodding vigorously. “You’re going to give me one more then Rio.”

Feeling your own orgasm build, you began to feel needier. You want to feel Rio against you. So you change your position so that your cunt is aligned with hers. You hold one of her legs up and begin to grind against her.

The feeling of her hot sticky cunt rubbing against yours is bliss. You could feel her hips bucking into yours and it made you smile sadistically.

“Feels so good when you fuck yourself against me like that baby. Make us cum, like you begged for. Show us how desperate you are. Suck her clit, swirl your tongue around it, graze it with your teeth. Make her cum in your mouth, like the good girl you are. Don’t stop meeting my hips either, want you to show me you can multitask.”

Your words send Rio into a frenzy. She begins to speed up her movements, even though her body is fatigued. She works hard to send you both over the edge and she does.

Agatha cums first her hands abandoning Rio’s wrists to grab a fistful of her hair instead. She removes herself from atop of Rio only to meet the woman in a sloppy kiss. Rio doesn’t stop grinding against you even when fresh tears prick her eyes.

“Make daddy cum, baby,” Agatha kisses the top of Rio’s forehead moving stray hairs off of her face.

You fall apart at the same time Rio does, nearly collapsing against her. Agatha’s arms hold you up so you don’t flatten the woman beneath you. You can feel her squirt dripping down your abdomen, which sends a strong aftershock down your entire body.

“Fuck,” you say rubbing your hand against the mess she made on you.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, exhaustion hitting her like a truck.

You shake your head, “You’re perfect.”

Rio blushes and then cover her face with her hands.

Agatha laughs softly at her behavior, “Underneath all that bratty attitude, is one of the softest girls in the world.”

“You’re just a sweetheart trying uphold some bad boy image aren’t you,” you run your hand through Rio’s hair.

She leans into your touch, “I’m a badass.”

You indulge her for a moment, “For sure. I know plenty of badasses who beg mommy and daddy to fuck them.”

She shoots back at you, “Whatever you say miss ‘I don’t share’.”

Agatha intervenes, “As much as this bickering turns me on. I’d say it’s time to clean up, because I’m going to have to wash these sheets before sleeping tonight.”

“So now what?” You prompt.

“Aggie?” Rio’s voice holds a vulnerability to it, “Can I stay?”

Agatha looks at you, a small uncertainty passes through her.

“Let her stay, the brat is growing on me,” you say, smiling down at Rio.

“She tends to have that effect on people,” Agatha also gives her a small smile.

“We usually just eat and watch tv after the mind blowing sex, so don’t expect too much excitement Vidal,” you say, getting out of the bed.

Agatha follows suit and Rio just sits up.

“I’d offer to cook, but I don’t think I can stand right now,” she laughs.

“Do not worry professor, we’ll help get you all cleaned up,” you send her a cheeky wink, before scooping her up in your arms.

She yelps in surprise, but wraps her arms around your neck so she doesn’t fall.

“Well aren’t you charming?”

You smile, “So I’ve been told.”

True to your words, the three of you clean up. It’s a group effort as you shower, Rio seriously having trouble standing up right. Agatha lends you both some comfy clothes to lounge in and you find yourselves on her couch eating takeout and watching Glee (your request).

“So she sent that girl to a crack house?” Agatha questions.

“It’s inactive,” you and Rio say at the same time.

“You two might just be too similar,” Agatha chuckles.

You and Rio share a look.

“Good taste,” you say at the same time.

Agatha rolls her eyes, “A few hours together and she’s already corrupting you, Y/n.”

“I actually think you might be the biggest brat here Agatha. Lying about needing help with the curriculum just so I’d fuck you silly… pretty brat like behavior,” you retort.

Now it’s Agatha that is blushing and Rio who is cackling.

You smile innocently, taking in the moment. Though it’s unconventional, this is something that you hoped you wouldn’t lose. Moments like these that transcended the bedroom always put it into perspective for you. You wanted to build something with these women. Unbeknownst to you they both wanted that very same thing.

#lowkeyerror #agatha x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x rio vidal x reader #rio vidal x reader

150 notes · View notes

croissantsandblackcoffee · 11 hours ago

Text

luigi mangione ⊹ rumination

— he was literally glowing !!!!!! i’m so happy for him. also, i hope they dress him up in winter clothing more often. every single pic of him before he got caught is wearing sleeveless shirts, shorts and flip flops, and the occasional suit. link to the masterlist ;)

riker’s island. thursday, 5:00 PM

you’re feeling really nervous as you walk through the security checks, heading inside the facility to wait. you’ve tried your best to hide the symptoms, but you’ve been feeling a bit of nausea off and on, as well as a bit bloated. nothing too noticeable as of yet.

you take a seat at one of the empty seats, waiting for the guards to bring luigi out. your fingers play with the cord of the telephone, a habit out of nervousness.

as you sit there, waiting, you can’t help but get lost in your thoughts. all sorts of possible conversation starters are going through your head, but none of them seem good enough. how do you even tell someone you’re carrying their child?

eventually, you’re broken out of your thoughts by footsteps, and you look up to see luigi. he seems happy to see you right now, his gaze sweeping over you in that usual fashion he does; a mixture of curiosity and… something else.

“hey, sweetheart,“ he starts as he takes a seat opposite you, putting the phone to his ear. he doesn’t seem to notice the way you’re fidgeting in your seat, or the way you seem a bit more stressed than usual. “how’ve you been?”

“i’ve been alright,” you say, nodding. you try to control your expression, but you’re sure some of your stress is showing. despite everything though, seeing luigi again feels… nice. “how about you?”

he lets out a huff, and he sounds a little annoyed as he speaks.

“bored out of my mind. i mean, seriously — how do these guys expect people to stay sane when there’s nothing to do all day? it’s torture. i swear the only thing keeping me going is these visits with you.”

“oh, yeah?” you raise an eyebrow at that, managing to break past your worries for a moment and feel a bit smug. “so you look forward to my visits? that much?”

“what? of course i do,” he answers immediately, sounding a little incredulous that you’d even ask that. “i mean, sure, the guards are rude and the food sucks, but i… i look forward to seeing you, sweetheart. you’re the best part of my day.”

a small part of you wants to feel smug about it — that luigi finds so much enjoyment from seeing you, that it’s the highlight of his day. but the rest of you just feels guilty. because right now, you know there’s something you need to confess to him. but how the hell do you even bring it up?

eventually, after a small moment of silence, you take a deep breath and decide to hell with subtlety. this is luigi. he’s a mature adult who can handle tough conversations.

“luigi, i… i need to tell you something.”

he notices the change in your tone right away, hearing the more serious edge to your voice. a line appears in his brow, but it’s not a scowl. he looks more confused than anything.

“alright… what is it?” he tilts his head slightly. “you can tell me whatever’s on your mind, baby, you know that.”

“yeah, i know,” you nod, letting out a small sigh and shaking your head. “i just… it’s…”

you stop, taking another deep breath and preparing yourself for what you’re about to say. how the hell do you even bring this conversation up?

“just… don’t interrupt, okay? just let me talk for a minute.”

he looks more confused now, an eyebrow raised in curiosity, but he nods.

“alright,” he says. “i’m listening. go ahead.”

it takes a few more moments before you finally gather up the nerve to start talking. you take a deep breath, trying to arrange your thoughts properly.

“okay,” you begin, looking at him. “do you… do you remember that last time we were together? the conjugal visit a few weeks ago?”

he nods, his eyebrows pulled together. he seems to have an idea of where this conversation is going.

“of course i do. what about it?”

“right. right.” you nod, running a hand through your hair nervously. “well… i… i think something might have… happened, during that time. something that i only discovered a few days ago. and it’s kinda…”

you trail off, taking another deep breath. God, how the hell do you say this?

“it’s kinda what, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, his gaze fixed on you. he looks a little bit worried now, sensing that this is something big.

“well…” you struggle for another few moments, your hand basically gripping the telephone cord. you take another deep breath, steeling yourself as best as you can. “i… i think I’m pregnant.”

there. you said it.

there’s a few seconds of silence between the two of you, and it’s so thick you swear it could be cut with a knife. luigi has just been dropped a massive bomb, and he’s taking a few moments to process it.

right now, you can’t even tell what he’s thinking. his face is completely impossible to read.

eventually, he sighs.

“christ…” he mutters under his breath, before looking back up at you. there’s a mix of emotions in his expression — disbelief, shock, more disbelief, etc. “are… are you sure?” he asks. “like, 100% certain?”

“i’m sure. i took two tests, and both of them came up positive. and i’ve… i’ve had some other symptoms as well. so… yeah. i’m positive. i’m pregnant, luigi.”

his eyes are fixated on you, his mind racing as he processes this big ball of information that’s just been thrown at him. he looks a little less shocked, and now he seems to be moving towards acceptance.

“jesus… well, shit,” he mutters under his breath. he runs a hand over his face, thinking. “and, uh… it’s… it’s definitely mine, right? no doubts about that?”

you nod, your fingers still fiddling with the cord as you speak.

“yeah. yeah, it’s yours. i’ve had no one else but you, luigi. and we didn’t exactly consider using any protection during our visit, so…”

he lets out a huff at that, shaking his head. he doesn’t seem mad, just… worried.

“yeah, i suppose we didn’t… damn.” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “so… what are you gonna do? about the pregnancy, i mean.”

you shrug, chewing on your lip a bit. you’re not completely certain yourself, right now.

“i… i don’t know yet,” you admit. “i mean, it all just happened pretty damn recently, so i haven’t had time to really think about it yet. but… I guess i just wanted to know… what you thought about it. it is your kid too, after all.”

he nods, biting his own lip as his gaze drifts down to the tabletop.

“right… i mean, of course it has something to do with me as well… right, so…” he sighs, and glances back up at you. “are you sure you want to keep the baby, sweetheart? i mean, a baby is a pretty huge deal. it changes a lot of things.”

he pauses before continuing, “listen, it’s a big deal. and it’s gonna affect you way more than it’ll affect me. i mean, i’m the one who was able to just walk away after our little… visit. you’re the one who’s been left with the after-effects. i just… i just don’t want you to feel like you have to keep the kid just because it’s mine. it’s your body at the end of the day, so if you don’t want to carry, then you don’t have to.”

you bite your lip, knowing that that probably the reasonable conclusion to come to. but honestly, you don’t have the first clue what you actually want to do right now. this whole situation has got your head all over the place, and you’re not entirely sure how you feel about it.

“i don’t know, luigi, i…” you pause, taking a deep breath. “i don’t know if i want to keep it or not. i have no idea what i want to do right now. i just… i don’t know.”

luigi watches you, and his expression visibly softens as his shoulders relax a bit. he can tell that you’re overwhelmed, and honestly, he doesn’t entirely blame you for being so.

“hey," he starts, his voice quiet. "it’s alright, sweetheart, it’s alright. you don’t have to decide anything right now, alright? just… just take some time, think it over. no rush.”

he pressed his hand against the glass, as if taking your hand in his and squeezing it reassuringly. if only he would able to do so.

“i just want you to know that… whatever you end up choosing to do, i’m gonna support it. whether you want to keep or not, i’m gonna be there for you. you’re not by yourself in this. i’m not gonna let you deal with this all on your own, you hear me?”

it’s a comforting thought, knowing that luigi is going to support you no matter your decision. you’ve worried that perhaps he’d feel upset that this has happened, or that he’d somehow blame you for this happening. but no, he seems focused on making sure you’re supported through this.

you let out a breath, and nod, managing a weak smile. you press your own hand against the glass, wishing that you could feel his touch on your skin.

he mirrors you with a weak smile of his own. he watches the hand that’s pressed against the glass, as if imagining that he’s holding your own. despite the thick glass and the guards, luigi wishes that he could just take your face in his hands, and press a soft kiss to your forehead.

instead, he just has to settle for watching you.

you feel almost lonely just sitting there. it’s such a simple thing, but seeing luigi sitting on the other side of that thick glass, not even able to hold your hand, it makes your heart ache a little bit.

you’re not usually needy, you don’t usually desperately crave another person’s touch like this, but right now, you wish more than anything that you could just be in luigi’s arms.

he wishes more than anything in the world that he’d be able to just have you in his lap right now, to hold you close and have his arms wrapped securely around you.

he doesn’t even want anything more from you. no, right now his mind isn’t focused on anything sexual. he just wants to comfort you, hold you, and reassure you.

he wants to show you how much he cares about you. he wants to be able to hold you in his lap, and bury his face against your hair while he whispers soothing words into your ear. he wants to be able to run his fingers through your hair, and press kisses to your lips until that worried expression is gone.

right now, he wants to be able to be your comfort, the way that you’ve been his.

unfortunately, the glass that separates you prevents him from doing any of that. but he can’t not do something. no, he can’t just sit by, and simply watch you.

despite not being able to hold you in his lap, he does the next best thing, and starts talking with a soothing voice.

“hey,” he says quietly, his voice low. “it’s okay, sweetheart. everything’s gonna be alright, you hear me?”

his tone is gentle, and soft. the complete opposite to how he sounds when he’s teasing you. no, his teasing voice is cocky and smug.

this voice is just soothing, a quiet whisper that’s designed to comfort you.

“i mean it, alright? you’re not alone in this. i’m not leave just abandon you, or something. if you keep it, i’ll be there. if you don’t, i’ll still be there. i’m gonna be right by your side. you got it?”

he watches you, his eyes flickering over your face as he waits for your reaction to his words. he’s hoping that what he has said will have some sort of soothing effect on you, that at the very least it’ll help a little bit.

“i’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he says again, his voice still quiet. “you’re stuck with me. no matter what you choose.”

in spite of the difficult situation, a warm feeling starts to spread inside you. luigi’s soothing words are working — they’re helping to comfort you. the fact that he remains so unwaveringly supportive, and has even promised to be there for you, regardless of what choice you make, has a calming effect on you. not a massive effect, but enough to take some of the stress away.

luigi can tell that it’s working. it’s subtle, but in the slight change of your face, your body language, he can see the effect that his soothing words are having.

he can see that you’re a little bit more relaxed than you were at the beginning of the conversation — and that makes him slightly more relaxed.

“you know,” he starts gently, “you’re surprisingly calm for someone who just told their boyfriend that they’re pregnant.”

he says it jokingly, his tone still just as soft and gentle. however now there’s a slight hint of amusement in his expression. the fact that you’re relatively calm about the whole situation is a bit surprising to him.

the words have an effect though, as you give a small shrug, and let out a soft snort.

“do you want me to start panicking or something?” you ask, one eyebrow raised.

luigi lets out a huff, shaking his head.

“well, no, of course not. it’s just that, well… i mean, not that i think it’s bad, but i expected you to be at least a bit more stressed than you are right now.”

he tilts his head slightly, a hint of curiosity in his expression.

“i don’t know, sweetheart, you’re handling this surprisingly well.”

you shrug again, not really having an answer for that. honestly, you can’t even really explain it yourself.

“i mean, it’s not like panicking is going to help anything,” you say, letting out a soft huff. “and like i said, i’m not exactly sure what i even want to do yet, so why freak out over nothing?”

he stares at you for a moment, a slight smile on his face as he takes in your words. he’s actually a little bit impressed with your calmness right now. despite not having any idea what you actually want to do, you’re not losing your head completely.

there’s a hint of appreciation in his expression.

“you’re amazing, you know that?”

he says it more to himself than to you, shaking his head slightly and running a hand through his hair.

“i mean, seriously, you tell me that you’re pregnant, and what do you do? you stay perfectly calm and level-headed. and, i mean, it’s not like i was expecting you to freak out or anything, but i have a feeling that most women would not be as composed as you are right now.”

you give a small huff at that, a light smile appearing on your face. despite everything, that praise from him makes you feel a bit warm inside.

“i don’t know about ‘amazing’,” you say quietly, fiddling with the phone cord. “more like ‘not completely insane’.”

“hey, it’s amazing to me.”

he leans forward slightly, his expression softening. he watches you fiddle with the cord of the phone, wishing more than anything that he could be there with you right now.

“trust me, sweetheart, right now i think you’re amazing. the way you’re taking all this so calmly? it’s pretty damn impressive, if you ask me.”

you give a small scoff, rolling your eyes a bit, but you can feel a hint of colour rising to your cheeks. despite your best efforts, his compliments get you flustered.

“alright, stop it… you’re gonna make me embarrass myself,” you mutter, shifting a bit in your seat.

that subtle hint of colour in your cheeks isn’t subtle to him. luigi notices it immediately, and a smug grin appears on his face. you always get so adorably flustered when he compliments you.

“oh, is that so?” he murmurs, enjoying the way you’ve shifted awkwardly in your seat. he can see how flustered you’ve become just by a couple of innocent compliments.

seeing you like this, blushing and shy, makes him want to just take your face in his hands and kiss you senseless.

however, of course, that’s not possible at the moment. because there is a thick sheet of glass in the way, and he’s a threat to the public, apparently. it’s frustrating as hell, to be so close to you, and yet still be unable to actually reach you. unable to grab you, hold you, touch you.

instead, he simply lets out a huff, and continues to watch the way you look. he can see how your hands are fiddling with the phone cord, how your cheeks are flushed a little bit. how you’re shifting a bit in your seat, as if uncomfortable by how flustered he’s making you.

“would it be… selfish for me to keep it?” you ask, almost out the blue.

you asked the question to the air, seemingly more to yourself than anything. but luigi responds anyway.

“no. definitely not selfish.”

he shakes his head, his expression firm. he doesn’t want you to have any doubts, not even for a second.

“what makes you think it would be selfish?”

you give a soft exhale. luigi’s reassurance helps, a little bit at least. however, the fact that your mind immediately went from ‘should i keep it?’ to ‘is it selfish to keep it?’ is a worrying sign.

“i mean, what if they never let out you? i’d want to have something of yours, as weird as that sounds.”

you pause, biting your lip.

“but then i’d make you feel obligated to be a dad.”

it takes a moment for the full weight of your words to settle in, and when they do, luigi visibly stiffens in his seat.

that thought hadn’t occurred to him at all. but you’re right, it is definitely something that needs to be taken into consideration.

the possibility of him being released, and getting out, is next to none. and he might never get to be a dad, not properly anyway. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

but he swallows it nonetheless, his shoulders tensing slightly. he knows that you’re just saying that you want something of his; but the idea that you might keep the baby just for that reason alone hurts.

he can’t give you a proper life. he can’t give you the family that you deserve. he can’t give you or the child that you might possibly have the life that you want. even if he was released someday, he’d be labeled as a threat, and it would always hang over his head.

he swallows again, watching you through the glass. he can see the way your eyes won’t quite meet his, the way that your fingers are still fiddling with the phone cord. You look almost embarrassed, in the way that your cheeks are slightly flushed.

“sweetheart,” he starts quietly, his voice low. “please look at me. can you give me that much, at least?”

you hesitate for a brief second, before meeting his gaze through the glass. it’s surprisingly intimidating, having him looking at you like that. the expression in his eyes is a mixture of softness and firmness — and you’re suddenly reminded just how intense his gaze can be, when it’s focused on you.

although it isn’t at all intentional, there’s a hint of authority in it. a reminder of the fact that he is dominant; and right now, he wants to talk with you, and he’s not about to let you shy away from him.

you feel your face getting a little bit hotter when you finally return his gaze, and you can feel your heart rate picking up just a little bit. there’s something about the way that luigi is looking at you that’s almost a little bit intimidating.

the softness in his gaze, paired with the firmness. the slight command to it, as if telling you to look at him. it makes you feel almost a little bit flustered, a shiver running down your spine.

for some reason, you feel like he’s dominating you right now, even from behind the glass.

“don’t keep it just for that reason.”

he practically demands it. he can see that you’re getting flustered just by him looking at you like this, but he doesn’t care.

the thought of you having the baby for that reason alone makes his heart hurt. it’s a reminder that there’s a very decent possibility that he’ll never get to be an actual father. he’ll never get to hold his child in his arms, take his child to school, watch as they grow and go through life.

it sucks. knowing that if you keep the baby, you’ll probably be a single mother.

luigi knows that he’ll never get to see his child. he can barely even see you — and chances are high that any visits you’d make to him while you’re pregnant would stop as soon as the baby is born.

he won’t ever get to see them growing up, get to watch their milestones — their first steps, their first words, their first day of school. he won’t be there for any of it.

“please.”

he repeats himself, the firmness in his gaze hardening just a little. he needs you to understand.

“don’t keep it just for that reason, okay?”

the thought has lodged itself in his mind now, and there’s almost a pleading tone in his voice. he’s practically begging you not to make your decision just to have something of his.

to have something of his. he knows that you didn’t mean it badly, that the intention behind the words wasn’t negative. but the words still hurt.

like a knife, going straight into his heart. the thought that you might keep the baby just to have part of him — not because you want to have a baby, that you want to be a mother.

the fact that you’re willing to make that sacrifice for him, makes him feel both touched and sick at the same time.

he hates it. he hates that the thought even crossed your mind. that you would possibly keep it just to have a part of him.

it’s touching that you care enough that you would do that, but it’s also not the reason why a child should be born. if you were to keep it, he wants it to be for the same reason anyone else has children.

because you want to be a mother. not because you feel like you need to for him.

he takes a breath, his hands clenching his thighs slightly under the table. the thought that keeps spinning and spinning around his head is that he won’t be able to be there.

he won’t be able to hold your hand while you give birth. he won’t be able to be there for any check-ups. he won’t be able to see you with a baby bump, your body changing to accommodate the child growing inside you.

he won’t get to hold you when the pregnancy gets uncomfortable, won’t be there to rub your swollen feet. he won’t get to feel the baby kicking in your belly and the joy of that first movement.

he won’t get to be there for any of it. no doctor’s appointments, no late nights, no first words, no first steps.

he hates it. he hates it so much.

he won’t get to experience any of the good aspects of parenthood. he won’t get to hold you when you’re stressed, won’t get to rub your back when you feel sick. he won’t get to take care of you during your pregnancy, comfort you when you’re in pain.

his arms won’t be the ones that you curl against when you’re feeling exhausted, when the pregnancy becomes exhausting.

he won’t get to walk with you through the store, picking out cute little clothes or toys for the baby. he won’t be the one to buy the first cute little onesie, the one to assemble the cot, or the changing table. he won’t be able to help you buy all the necessary baby supplies, won’t be there to shop for a stroller or a baby carrier.

he won’t pick out your hospital bag and fill it with all the necessary items when the time comes close. he won’t get to hold your hand as the labour pains start to hit, won’t get to comfort you when the pain gets too intense.

he won’t get to watch you as you bring a tiny, screaming, beautiful little human being into the world.

if you choose to keep it — and he hopes that you’ll make that decision because you want to, not because it would give you a tiny piece of him — he won’t be the one to cut the cord.

he won’t be the first one to hold the baby after the nurses weigh it and clean it up. he won’t even be allowed near the baby, because he’s a prisoner.

it’s the worst of both worlds. being a father and not being able to be a father at the same time. being a parent, but with none of the joy. none of the happy moments, none of the milestones. he’d be a father on paper only, but in reality it would all mean nothing.

no memories, no moments, no happiness. just emptiness on his side, and the exhaustion and stress on yours.

the worst part of it all is that he can’t even be mad. if you say yes, if you choose to keep it, how the hell would he be able to be mad at that? how could he be angry at you when you’re willing to give up so much just to have a part of him?

his mind keeps going back to the first thing you said, when the conversation started.

“would it be… selfish for me to keep it?”

and he’d been willing to say yes, because it was what you wanted. because this was about you, not him.

if you want to keep it, he isn’t going to stop you. but please, please, please don’t keep it just to have a part of him.

he can’t handle that. he won’t handle that.

as he watches you through the glass, his expression is carefully stoic and neutral. he’s trying to stay controlled, trying not to let the emotions show through on his face. he’s trying to keep his tone steady as he speaks.

“please, sweetheart,” he starts again, his tone a little bit more quiet. “please, don’t use that as an excuse to keep it. don’t make your choice based on that thought.”

he holds your gaze intently, silently begging you to understand.

it’s obvious that you’re struggling to stay emotionally composed, and it’s hard for him to watch. the way that your fingers are fiddling with the phone cord, the way that you’re shifting awkwardly in your seat. it’s all evidence that you’re having a hard time handling this.

he’d give anything to be able to hold you, comfort you. but the damn glass is in the way.

he wonders, idly, if you’ve been holding it together just fine in the past few days. If you’ve been strong and brave, putting on a facade of composure.

or if, when you were alone. when there was nobody around. when you were behind an closed door.

if you’ve collapsed to the floor. if you’ve cried into your hands, let out all the stress and confusion and anxiety.

he wonders if you’ve slept at all, at night. if you’ve been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, overthinking every possible scenario until you’re exhausted. if you’ve tossed and turned, unable to turn your brain off.

wondering. questioning. overthinking. freaking out and stressing and worrying.

he wonders if you’ve even been eating properly. if you’re taking proper care of yourself.

he wonders how much the whole thing has been stressing you out, if the uncertainty is taking a toll on your mental health.

the look in your eyes now tells him that you’ve definitely been holding it together. but he doubts it’s been easy.

he knows that you’ve been going back and forth with your thoughts, second guessing yourself constantly. overthinking everything, every possible scenario. trying to figure stuff out, trying to process everything.

it’s clear to him just how much of toll this is taking on you, even if you’ve been struggling to keep it under control so far. even if you’ve been putting on a strong and mature front in front of him.

he can see the stress in your eyes now, just how much the whole situation is messing with your head.

the way that you’re sitting now. the phone cord in between your fingers, fidgeting nervously with it. the way that you’re shifting your weight from side to side, your feet tapping anxiously against the floor. the subtle nervous expression on your face, how your cheeks are flushed a little bit. your slightly heavier breathing.

it’s all proof that you’re struggling to keep it together. struggling to keep yourself composed.

he feels a wave of helplessness rush over him, as he’s forced to sit there, separated by the glass from you. he wants to comfort you so desperately. hold you in his arms, rub your back, kiss your forehead.

but he can’t. he can only sit there, watching, as you struggle to keep your composure.

are we keeping it or what? 👀

— TAG LIST —

@ga33y3 @icedchailattebabyy @betty-boop-lips-05 @harrysbestiee @badaspice @tsukishimawhore

#luigi mangione #luigi mangione x reader

139 notes · View notes

bokutosbabe · 2 days ago

Note

Hi! Here for the More than a married couple (but not lovers) event. That's such a GREAT IDEA!! So sweet😭💖

The character I chose is Michael 🍓🍦

Also kudos to you for starting another event even though you're still writing asks! you're really spoiling us💕

i really enjoyed doing the last event, tysm!!

A Michael Kaiser Strawberry Sundae...

જ⁀♡⊹｡° every version of yourself

♡ a/n — for my more than a married couple event :)

♡ content — michael kaiser x gn! reader, gn! reader, set in a high school so no funny buisness, supposed to be kinda unrequited love?, kaiser's own insecurities, takes you through the length of the simulation, kaiser still plays soccer, kaiser in HS if he wasn't traumatized :))), still cocky though, an little flirty, nickname like 'spouse' used, popular! kaiser, quiet! shy! reader

♡ synopsis — being paired with michael kaiser may be the worst thing to ever happen to you...or so you think

The classroom buzzed with anticipation as the names were called out. Each pair announced felt like a small shockwave in the room, but the real chaos came when your name was read.

“And finally... Michael Kaiser and Y/N.”

The gasps, whispers, and sharp glares that followed made you shrink in your seat. Everyone’s eyes darted between you and the blonde at the back of the room, who leaned lazily against his chair, unfazed.

Kaiser didn’t even look your way. Typical. Why would he? Michael Kaiser wasn’t just a soccer prodigy; he was the center of attention everywhere he went. The school’s golden boy. The one every girl wanted to be paired with. And somehow... you, the average nobody, ended up in the simulation with him.

“Well,” Kaiser said finally, standing and giving a theatrical stretch. He smirked as if this was all a game, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over the room like he’d already won something. “Guess I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”

Your cheeks burned as laughter rippled through the room. His tone was light, teasing, but it only made the pit in your stomach grow. How were you supposed to survive an entire month living with Michael Kaiser?

The simulation began with a flurry of paperwork and rules. You were handed a key to a mock apartment and a thick packet outlining tasks you’d need to complete as a "couple" to pass. Cooking meals together, managing a budget, planning dates—it all felt bizarre. But the strangest part? Being tied to Michael Kaiser for every waking moment.

The apartment itself was small but cozy. Two bedrooms flanked a shared living space, and the kitchenette barely fit two people at a time. You stood awkwardly by the door as Kaiser strolled in like he owned the place. He dropped his duffel bag on the couch and turned to you with that signature smirk.

“Well, spouse, welcome home,” he drawled, tossing his duffel onto the larger bedroom’s bed without hesitation. “Don’t worry, I won’t invade your room. You’ll have all the space you need to miss me.”

Your brow furrowed. “Pretty confident about claiming the bigger room.”

He shrugged with a grin. “Call it a perk of being me.”

Typical Kaiser. You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it further. How were you supposed to survive an entire month living with someone so… larger than life?

The first week was… manageable, mostly because Kaiser didn’t seem to take the simulation seriously. He’d breeze through tasks with minimal effort, brushing off your attempts at cooperation.

“Budgeting? Just write whatever, I don’t care,” he’d said with a shrug one afternoon.

“Kaiser, we lose points if we don’t do it properly,” you insisted, tapping the form with your pen.

He rolled his eyes but leaned over anyway, closer than necessary, close enough to where his musky cologne made it hard to think. He hummed as he glanced at the page. “Fine. Put down ‘caviar’ and ‘gold-encrusted steak.’ That’ll impress the evaluators.”

You glared at him, but he just laughed. It was infuriating, how easy everything seemed to him.

Still, there were glimpses of something more.

Like the time you cooked dinner together. It was one of the mandatory tasks, and Kaiser insisted on doing as little as possible—until you nearly sliced your hand while chopping vegetables.

“Careful!” He grabbed your wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle. For a moment, his usual bravado disappeared, replaced by something softer.

You were shocked, but not by his sudden loudness or his worry. No, you were shocked by watching the point value on your living room wall go up.

Oh so being a decent person and taking care of someone got you points? How silly...kind of.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, pulling away.

“Yeah, well, try not to bleed all over the food. I’m not eating anything with extra seasoning,” he teased, smirking as he handed you a safer task.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

By the second week, you started to notice cracks in his perfect façade.

It happened late one night when you couldn’t sleep. You wandered into the living room to grab some water, only to find Kaiser sitting by the window, staring out at the city lights. His usual confident posture was gone, replaced by something almost… scared, like a child that's been missing their mother just a little too long.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you asked hesitantly.

What were you doing? Yes, this project required interacting with each other, but you could have ignored him.

What was it about Michael Kaiser that made you act so...unlike yourself?

He didn’t answer right away, his profile illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlamps. Finally, he spoke. “Do you ever feel like people only see what they want to see?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He glanced at you then, his blue eyes unreadable. “Forget it. Go back to bed.”

But you couldn’t forget it. The question lingered, and for the first time, you wondered if Michael Kaiser—the golden boy everyone adored—might be lonelier than he let on.

Things began to shift in the third week.

It was subtle at first. The way Kaiser’s teasing softened, the way he started helping more with the tasks instead of leaving everything to you. He even started calling you by your name instead of “spouse” or other mocking nicknames.

And then there were the moments where he’d look at you—not with the cocky smirk he wore like armor, but with something quieter, almost vulnerable.

You didn’t know what to make of it. You’d spent so long nursing your one-sided crush, convinced he’d never see you the way you saw him. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe you were imagining things.

But then came the final task: planning a “date night.”

You went all out, wanting to ace the simulation. You planned a picnic under the stars, complete with fairy lights and a playlist of soft, dreamy songs. Kaiser didn’t seem particularly invested at first, but when he saw the setup, his eyes lit up with genuine surprise.

“You did all this?” he asked, looking almost impressed.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, but probably just looking like a dork who took this a little too seriously, “It’s for the grade.”

“Right,” he said, though his tone was softer than usual. And for a moment, Michael Kaiser looked truly upset by what you said...but why?

The night was quiet and peaceful, the two of you sitting side by side on the blanket. For once, Kaiser wasn’t filling the silence with jokes or teasing remarks. Instead, he turned to you, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I thought this whole thing would be a waste of time,” he admitted. “But… you’re different. You’re real.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Michael…”

He smirked then, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll give me the wrong idea.”

But maybe, just maybe, the idea wasn’t so wrong after all.

The final week of the simulation was a blur of evaluations and last-minute tasks, but something had shifted irrevocably between you and Kaiser. He wasn’t just the golden boy anymore. He was Michael—arrogant, infuriating, but also thoughtful and surprisingly kind in his own way.

On the last night in the apartment, you found yourself standing in the kitchen, packing up your things. Kaiser leaned against the counter, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“So, this is it, huh?” he said, his voice unusually quiet as he stared into the almost empty cabinet, only filled with the stupid matching couples cups he got after an argument that lost you two points in the first week.

“Yeah,” you said, not trusting yourself to say more. What else could you say? 'Oh Michael, I love you and expect you to marry me!'

You'd rather die than be shot down like that.

He hesitated, then reached out to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You know,” he said softly, “you’re kind of impossible to forget.”

Your breath hitched. “Michael—”

“Don’t,” he said, his smirk returning, though his eyes betrayed something deeper. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving those stupid cups behind.

Graduation loomed over you like a terrifying monster. It'd been a week since you'd spoken to Kaiser, both of you being too absorbed in your own lives. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been left unsaid. Until one day, days later, you found a note slipped into your locker. It was short, written in Kaiser’s unmistakable scrawl:

"I wasn’t joking when I said you were impossible to forget. Let me prove it. Dinner?"

Your heart raced as you read the words. Maybe, just maybe, the idea wasn’t so wrong after all.

this was the first one i wrote for this event so i hope this layout is okay!

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #bllk #blue lock #airy answers asks :)#michael kaiser #kaiser #kaiser x reader #bllk x reader #bllk kaiser #bllk michael kaiser #blue lock x reader #blue lock kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #airys events

140 notes · View notes

julymusings · 2 days ago

Note

I just can't get the idea of soulmate!jason where you share scars out of my head. Jason is a canvas of scars. We all find them beautiful and wouldn't judge him even if we were held at gun point.

But imagine you were getting those scars at the same time he was... it would be hard. Of course you are worried about your soulmate, but when you wake up with a permanent, very purposeful J branded onto your face, can you really tell me you wouldn't be embarrassed to go outside? Afraid of meeting your soulmate who seems to be either a criminal or in a very dangerous victim situation? Would you not be even a little angry that now your face is ruined?

(I know there is makeup, but we are ignoring that for a second)

Yes, you share these scars with your soulmate and somewhere along the line you'd find peace with them. But in the moment when you look in the mirror and find an autopsy scar... I can only imagine what you would feel.

Oh, and poor Jason. He would never be able to forgive himself. He probably wouldn't even realize he has a soulmate because if you get a scar he wouldn't notice it beside all of his.

This isn't a request. I just wanted to share my thoughts and hear yours.

Oh absolutely. I’m wondering exactly how far the scarring would go— would you have burns from the explosion? Do you wake up covered in bruises from the crowbar? A bump on the bridge between your eyes from a broken nose?

I imagine you’d be pretty resentful toward the universe if you woke up with a J branded on your face and marks from injuries that aren’t yours all over your body. And finding the autopsy scar?? Grieving someone you don’t even know? How would you recover from that? Especially so young; Jason died at 15, so you’d probably be around the same age. Imagine going into school like that. Teenagers are awful. They take one look at you and assume you’re bad news, because why else would you look so roughed up? Stay away from people like that, their parents whisper through side-eyed fear. Whoever your soulmate is, you hate them at least a little bit.

And if you follow the storyline where the pit heals all of Jason’s scars from joker and before, imagine waking up one day, almost two years later, and everything’s just gone. Would it be relieving or terrifying? But then you start to get some more, different from the old ones but it’s still as if they never left. Callouses on the pads of your fingers from squeezing a phantom trigger. Slices on the tip of your ear (Jason narrowly dodged three daggers launched by a furious Damian after he accidentally stepped on Titus’ tail). Is this some kind of joke? Is your soulmate pool confined to a singular street gang that gets into the same fights every night? (Luckily open wounds are few and far between now. Maybe it’s professional fighter who finally invested in some body armor, your friend jokes.) At least there’s no branding this time. I guess whoever they are, they’re better protecting their face this time around. Either way, it doesn’t matter. You’re not sure you want anything to do with them anymore. Who’s to say someone hurt this bad is capable of not hurting you?

But he is, he’s so capable and deserving. It breaks your heart to learn the origins of those marks you stared at in the mirror, judging and hating. If you thought having those scars was hard on you, he must have felt it tenfold. You try to act like it never bothered you, but you both know it did. The look on Jason’s face when you absentmindedly mentioned you never really made friends until college because everyone saw you as unapproachable in high school— it took a full week of loving reassurances on your part and therapy sessions on his to get back to your normal.

But sharing his scars helps, even if just a little, in understanding every part of him. You understand his loneliness and fear because you felt it too. Some nights you swear you can feel the trace of a burning knife down the front of your torso, or bits of glass piercing your palms, so you know. You know that ice packs help with the ache, that aloe vera gel soothes the itching irritation from tiny cuts, and regular Hatha Yoga provides just the right stretch to loosen aching joints. He gives you a funny look when you gift him an aloe Vera plant for his windowsill, but says nothing, agreeing to take care of it when you ask him to keep it alive. One night you notice him repeatedly rubbing his red, burning palms down the front of his jeans and lead him to sit down before taking a clean knife and slicing off one of the stems, cutting it open to spread across his cuts. That silent statement of understanding, of seeing him in a way no one else does, has him welling with tears.

So, sure, having to grow up with only signs of him, not knowing who he was aside from anonymous messages on your skin was pretty difficult. But now when you trace across the bridge of his nose over the line of jagged skin, he can do it right back to you, and both of you can’t help but feel a little grateful.

I think I went a little off topic idk man I was just saying stuff but I love the idea of soulmate!jason where you get each other’s scars and that results in you feeling the same/similar but lesser symptoms of them and therefore knowing how to deal with them for him without him having to tell you🤭if someone wants to write a fic like this I will gladly read it

#can you tell from all my writings that i’m a jason nose bridge scar fanatic idk i just think it’s hot #jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood x reader #batboys #asks #robin #batman #JT🫶

109 notes · View notes

fairyysoup · 2 days ago

Text

sever the blight

(steve's version) (repost)

pairing(s): werewolf!steve harrington x fem!aristocrat!reader

summary: Steve is your bodyguard. You are engaged to another man. It all seems very cut and dry until a fatal accident traps you alone with him on a full moon.

word count: 11.2k

cw: explicit, smut, monsterfucking!!!, loss of virginity, graphic depictions of violence, blood, gore, minor character death, animal death, horror elements, dark themes, historical au, fairy tale au, some sort of historical fantasy period, idk which one you tell me, forbidden romance, mutual pining, possessive behavior, misogynistic views on sex and marriage, animalistic behavior, marking, scenting, knotting, breeding kink, werewolf transformation, werewolf bites, again steve is a werewolf the reader is fucking a werewolf and all that entails, dead dove: do not eat

a/n: hiiiii this was originally posted in two separate parts, but as it was actually meant to be a one-shot when I started writing it, i've reposted it as one here. I'm sorry lol

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

"Fear and flee the wolf; for, worst of all, the wolf may be more than he seems." -Angela Carter, The Company of Wolves

“Please, don’t do this.”

The hum of crickets at twilight surrounds you as you step out of the inn, into warm summer air. The soft muslin of your underskirts turn heavy with the humidity, as you watch your governess, Miss Fontaine, charge ahead toward the carriage. Already prepared for your departure, the driver twitches his thumbs in anticipation.

You watch her turn to face the only other member of your traveling party with a perturbed sigh. “And lose more time? If we ride through the night we can make Kensworth by morning.”

You feel a heat on the back of your neck before you turn to see him emerge from the shadows, the deep green of his coat highlighting the little bit of jade in his hazel eyes. Steven. Steve. The huntsman. Your guard. You don’t know much about him, aside from that he’s from this region. He’d made his living as a huntsman before your father, favoring Steve for his discretion and propriety, hired him as a personal bodyguard. Your very own knight in shining armor, if you wanted to be romantic about it.

He’s the only man you’ve ever met who manages to make you nervous while simultaneously making you feel invariably safe. Like, as long as he’s around, you know that nothing will dare to hurt you. And nothing will make your heart race beneath your bodice quite the same as he does.

Still, months of his protection haven’t taught you anything about who he is, and it seems like he wants it that way. You know only the things that you’ve picked up by being around him- he prefers ale over wine, fiddles with his hair when he’s nervous, and he enjoys doing people favors. He has a goofy sense of humor. He’s kind, and gentle when he speaks.

Unless he’s arguing with your domineering governess. Like now, for instance.

“You don’t know these woods like I do,” he insists, his voice unnaturally low, nearly a growl as he looms over you on the doorstep of the inn. He stands too close to you, his eyes burning fire as he peers at Miss Fontaine, and then down at you, making your hands shake behind your skirts. His tone softens, “My lady, listen to me and wait for the night. Let the moon wane before we leave.”

You open and close your mouth, looking from Steve to Miss Fontaine. To his obvious annoyance, your governess is already shaking her head at you before he finishes talking. God, you wish you knew what to say to assuage them both. But, ultimately, the choice isn’t up to you. It never is.

“I can’t spare the time. The Duke will already be upset that I’m arriving late to my own wedding.” The words feel flat in your mouth, like a script written by someone else. Truly, you’re running late as it is, days late, all because an avalanche laid waste to the only route out of town, keeping you at your latest stop and delaying your journey beyond repair.

“Your fiancé won’t be happy to know you’re putting yourself at risk to make up for lost time.” Steve spits the word fiancé like a curse, like he’d rather not acknowledge the man’s existence at all. You let it slide; after all, you’re not particularly taken with the idea, either.

You haven’t met him- your fiancé. You know him even less than you know your faithful bodyguard. You only know his face from a painting you were gifted, and his name- not from any sort of correspondence, mind you, but because the betrothal is a big deal, considering he’s a duke. And that would make you, of a sort, a future duchess. Or so Miss Fontaine keeps reminding you.

She raises one petulant eyebrow, now, at your protector. “You’d have us force the Duke to wait at the altar?”

Steve’s eyes darken. “If he cares for the lady at all, he’ll be relieved to know that you did the pragmatic thing and waited to travel-”

“Don’t lecture me about pragmatism-”

“I’m trying to protect her!”

“Protect her, then!” Short of stamping your foot, there’s nothing you can do but stand by as they argue back and forth. “That is your job. Not presuming to call orders. You are a guard, not an advisor.”

Steve glowers at her, his big eyes glinting dangerously in the lamplight from the carriage. “You don’t know-”

“But you do, correct?” You stare up at Steve with wide eyes, while he cocks his head, looking at Miss Fontaine as if trying to find the best and fastest way to get rid of her. She snaps, “I’d expect a huntsman to know a thing or two about traveling in the woods at night.”

She doesn’t wait for his reply. She lifts her skirts and steps into the carriage without waiting for the driver��s hand, all but slamming the door behind her. That’s the end of that.

You move to follow her, but a hand brushes your own, behind your back. You nearly jump out of your own skin at the touch- your blood boils, and your stays grow heavy on your chest as your breath quickens. You rapidly turn to face him, before Miss Fontaine can look out the carriage window.

“Steven-”

“Miss, please, just listen to me.”

You’re struck by how soft Steve’s voice is when directed at you, compared to his snarling at Miss Fontaine. His hazel eyes are enough to make you melt, searching your face for understanding.

“The things that happen in these woods, on a full moon, it’s-” he drops his gaze to your clasped hands, and for a moment, you think he’s going to reach out and grab them. But he simply takes a deep breath, the red flush on his cheeks brightening as he looks back up to your face. His voice drops in register, so that only you can hear him say, “Please, honey, I’m begging- talk some sense to your governess. Going out there tonight, when the moon is full… it’s too dangerous. Believe me. Trust me.”

You take the opportunity to gaze up at him openly, like you’ve wanted to for all the months you’ve known him, but never got the chance to. It occurs to you to correct him on his impropriety, and to remind him that you’re betrothed. To a duke that you don’t want to marry.

You don’t correct him. Instead, you whisper, “I trust you, honey.” And when he blinks, his lashes kissing his cheeks like you so desperately want to, you add, “But you and I both know that if anyone actually listened to me, we wouldn’t be traveling at all. I’m sorry, Mr. Harrington. My hands are tied.”

Steve swallows, and you swear he looks like he’s going to cry, or do something desperate like drag you back inside with him. But he just nods, and when you turn to climb into the carriage, he nearly pushes the driver aside to offer you his hand, instead.

Your mind lingers on the touch of his hand even after you’ve settled into your seat, your fingers smoothing over your tingling palm distractedly. You watch through the window as Steve’s trousers tighten across his thighs when he mounts his horse. He gives the driver a furious look as the carriage kicks off.

And Miss Fontaine glares at you when you pretend you weren’t staring at the young huntsman.

“The Duke will be pleased to know that you’re doing everything you can to reach the destination promptly.”

You sigh, your elbow resting heavily against the windowsill of the carriage. The Duke, the Duke. Your future husband already has his clutches wrapped around you, squeezing until you can feel your ribs cracking and blood spilling from your mouth. Miss Fontaine seems to have no qualms about singing his praises for the entire duration of your midnight commute, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. You’ve never been able to sleep while traveling, the rocking of the carriage jostling you awake no matter how hard you try.

Your eyes fix outside, on the white mare keeping stride with the carriage. Steve’s face is partially lamplit from the lanterns beside the driver’s seat, a deep furrow to his brow as he stares off into the dark. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, lost in thought.

You’d kill to know what’s going on inside his head. There have been times when you’ve thought of asking him what he thinks about this marriage- it’s entirely out of his place to voice his opinion, of course, but nights spent with him standing guard outside your bedchamber have made you curious. What he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, when your future is being decided for you. When you’re helpless to stop any of it, and the only thing he’s able to do is throw himself in front of any physical danger coming your way.

Your curiosity doesn’t form in a void, you know. You aren’t completely blind to his affections. Steve is protective of you to the point of possessiveness, always hovering close, intimidating anyone who so much as looks your way. Would-be suitors were chased off by your guard’s heavy, unblinking stare before the Duke wrote to your parents and asked for your hand. You think the only reason this marriage is happening at all is because your fiancé never had to be subject to Steve’s frightening scrutiny.

You don’t miss the way Steve brightens whenever you’re around, either. The way he smiles and indulges your conversation whenever he’s afforded it, going out of his way to make you laugh. Presenting you with bouquets of your favorite flowers, just because he saw them in the garden and knew you’d love them. He’s so sweet to you, and to no one else. At least, not in the same way. Not in a way that makes you doubt his affection for you, however subtle.

You wonder if he doubts your affection for him. You wonder if he can see it as easily as he can see a fawn meandering through the trees, in the path of one of his arrows. You’ve thought about it so often that it’s kept you up at night, when there’s no distraction that comes to make the thoughts of him disappear. When all you have are your own hands, and the knowledge of his presence just on the other side of your chamber door. If he listens very closely, Steve may be able to hear the wetness of your fingers as they slide between your legs, while you pretend that they’re his.

You wonder if he has heard it; there have been a few times when you weren’t certain, when he wouldn’t meet your eye in the morning after a particularly strong orgasm made you whimper a little too loudly. Maybe he knows, and he’s just more proper than you have the decency to be anymore.

But Steve couldn’t know about your dreams, when you’ve shut your eyes and fallen asleep - ones where your unconscious mind doesn’t fail to give you the closeness you crave from him. Ones where his forehead rests against yours lovingly, his breath ghosting across your lips as he rocks the bed with his thrusts. You aren’t making much noise in these dreams, but why would you, when the noises that he’s making are more beautiful than any you could come out with?

And what a pretty thing you are, whimpering Steve’s name as your hand scratches along the mattress to keep you anchored, the fingers of your other hand threaded in his hair, relief flooding your soul at being able to feel it in your grasp. You shiver, either from the intimacy of it or from the caresses of his tongue against your pulse, but it doesn’t make an ounce of a difference when you come apart on his cock, your head tilted back and exposing the column of your throat for his mouth as you thrash against him.

When his hips stutter, when he pulls you against his chest as the heat of his release blooms deep in your core, it’s with a groan of your true name onto your own tongue, to make sure you know how he’s made himself in the bed of your body. “You are mine now. My lady, not his. Never his.”

Waking from those dreams, after a while, hurts more than the idea of having them in the first place. Because you step out of your bedchamber to find Steve standing guard, smiling at you politely, properly, as the arbitrary rules that keep you apart dictate he should, and the cycle starts anew.

“Are you even listening?”

Your attention snaps back to Miss Fontaine, and her pinched, stony face. You were not, your mind tending to wander to him at the worst times. “I’m sorry?”

Miss Fontaine tsks, and you already know what’s coming. You take a deep breath in. “How do you expect to please a husband when you can’t even listen to me for more than a minute? Stop slouching, child.”

You straighten your spine even as you seethe. You’re a lady when it suits them to burden you with responsibility, and then you’re a child to be ordered around when you don’t please them. “I’m not a child.”

“Quite right, and you’re nearly too old to be a debutante. You’re well on your way to becoming a spinster if you don’t behave. Lord knows the Duke has his work cut out for him.”

It takes all your strength not to roll your eyes. Of course, you should be thankful that you’re being sold off like cattle to the highest bidder. No, the only bidder. It just so happens that he’s a higher ranking aristocrat than you. And, as Miss Fontaine loves to remind you, you should count yourself lucky that anyone showed interest in you at all.

Never mind that you could never have the one that matters most to you. He has to stand by and watch it happen.

Poor, stupid thing. You always want what you can’t have, don’t you?

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by the carriage lurching to a stop, the calls of ‘whoa!’ from the driver reaching you through the carved wood of the cabin. Miss Fontaine sighs and moves to open the window latch before Steve’s hand slams down abruptly on the glass.

“Stay,” he snarls at her, his eyes seeming to glow from the inside with a reflective green. Your breath stutters in your chest when he looks at you. The reflective pale green of a nocturnal creature seems to encompass his pupils for just a moment. “Don’t leave the carriage.”

You watch him dismount his horse. You’re craning your neck to try to keep your eye on him out the window, when Miss Fontaine grumbles, “That boy needs to learn some manner-”

You gasp loudly when something lurches the carriage sideways. You grab onto the edge of the seat as it lurches again, keeping your balance as the carriage threatens to topple. Miss Fontaine shrieks, thrown sideways towards the door.

You hear the cries of the driver, just past the wooden walls of the cabin, and you don’t have to have much imagination to conclude what’s happening to him. Your heart plummets, immediately thinking of Steve, out there doing who knows what, with whatever it is that’s making the noise.

“What on earth-” Miss Fontaine grabs onto the door handle as soon as you hear an infernal growling coming from outside.

“Don’t leave the carriage!” You yell, just as she throws open the door to do exactly that.

With one final jolt, the carriage flips.

Breathe in. Breathe out. When you open your eyes, you don’t know how much time has passed, if any at all. You think you may have fainted in the commotion- your head doesn’t feel hurt, but your hip has been bruised. It smarts as you try to push yourself up, where your legs are crushed up against the wall of the carriage. Groggily, you turn your head, and scream.

Miss Fontaine’s unblinking, glassy eyes stare lifelessly back at you. Half of her body has been crushed beneath the toppled carriage, having fallen as she tried to leave the carriage. Blood oozes slowly from her hairline, down across her cooling forehead.

Heaving unmeasured breaths, you raise your hand and push her face away from you. Her head bobs limply to the other side. You don’t want her staring at you still, in death, with that judgemental sneer etched on her face.

With a sob stuck in your throat, you turn your head and stare up at the window above you in the capsized carriage. You manage to sit up and unlatch the door above you, throwing it open like a trap door. Heaving yourself up through the opening is another challenge- even though your summer dress is comparatively light, pulling your skirts upwards and over the edge is difficult, and you end up barrel-rolling out of the opening more than anything.

You come crashing down on the opposite side of the carriage wall, the wheels bracketing you where you sit. The lanterns on the driver’s end have broken, oil pooling and creating a fire that’s rapidly growing the longer it sits. Beside you, Miss Fontaine’s legs stick out comically from beneath the structure like a pair of sticks. You reach over and throw her skirts back over them. For propriety, of course.

You hear rustling off to your left. Scrambling along the ground, dirt and pebbles press into your palms and scrape your knees. You peek around the carriage wheel to see what the cause of the commotion is.

In a ditch beside the road, Steve is wrestling with a… well. In the darkness it’s hard to make it out, but it’s some sort of wild cat. A cougar or a mountain lion, by the looks of it, and monstrously huge. No wonder why the carriage toppled; it has your guard pinned, dwarfing him and trying hard to bite at his throat.

You go to scream to draw the cat’s attention away from Steve, but before you can, Steve already has the cat by the jaws. His two big hands wrap around the wild cat’s upper and lower teeth, prying them open before they can bite down.

And he keeps prying, until the damned thing’s head rips apart in his hands.

You shriek. You can’t wrap your head around all the blood, pouring across his chest and face. Two pieces of a fleshy, gorey skull drop from his hands as he pushes himself up and flings the dead creature off of him. It flops limply to the ground, a pool of blood spilling from the torn remains of its head.

Steve stands tall, hulking and godly against the backdrop of night, and in the flickering light of the growing fire from the carriage, the blood on his mouth and chest glints wet and dark against his tan skin. You don’t know what happened to his riding coat- his white blouse is pasted to his skin, torn in places and gaping at the collar.

You remain, frozen in place, half-cowering behind the overturned carriage. The fire creeps ever closer to you, but you can’t find it in you to move.

You’re glad that he’s okay. At least, you think he is. He’s moving quickly and doesn’t seem to be injured, just… mad. His teeth look a lot sharper than they were before when he bares them. Your heart thuds in your chest, your hands clutching desperately at the corner of the carriage, and the most off-putting part of it all is that you’re not sure that it’s because you’re scared.

He could never scare you. Not your Steve.

“Steven?” Your voice sounds too small, high and girlish in your throat when you want to pretend that you’re being brave. That you’re unaffected by any of this. That you’re not… relieved that Miss Fontaine is unable to voice her disdain of everything you do, and of him.

The guilt you feel at that revelation is outweighed by the instant comfort of Steve’s eyes on you.

He lumbers toward you, eerily quiet and agile for how big he looks, how much of a beating he’d obviously taken. Dripping with blood that isn’t his, flesh from the creature he’d torn apart with his bare hands still clinging to his forearms and clothes.

“My lady, are you hurt?” He crouches before you with his palms upturned, allowing you to keep the carriage between you, as if you’re a prey animal capable of being frightened off.

“No.” Your battered hip throbs like it knows your lie and plans to expose it. “The driver-?”

“His wounds were too deep,” Steve says apprehensively, as if he’s worried he’ll scare you now. “Your governess?”

“Dead.” The word slams out of your throat and falls hard into the air between you. Steve’s brow furrows in a reluctant show of grief. Perhaps you should feel aggrieved as well, but as you search yourself for a show of tears, nothing comes. You don’t know why- perhaps from the shock of it. You weren’t particularly fond of your governess, but you never thought she’d die beside you. “The carriage… she didn’t listen to you.”

He couldn’t stop the scoff falling from his mouth if he tried. “Of course not.”

In the aftermath, everything is too quiet. There are no crickets chirping, no huffs of horses waiting to get on with the journey. The oil fire crackles dangerously behind you, but you’re too busy staring at him to care.

Your Steve. Your bodyguard, your huntsman, who can rip a wild animal in half with his bare hands. The light of the fire flickers in his eyes, a hint of that reflective green still glowing behind his pupils. You open your mouth to ask him about it, but before you can, he shuts his eyes and winces.

“I should go,” he grits out through clenched teeth, shaking his head roughly as if trying to rid himself of his thoughts- whatever they may be. “I should- I should go get help-”

“Are you- have you been hurt?”

“No- I-” he pauses distractedly, looking down at his hands. He clenches them quickly into fists, swallowing against a dry throat as he gets impossibly more agitated. “Not hurt, exactly… I shouldn’t- I need to go-”

“Steve,” you implore, and he whips his head up to give you a startled look when you lay your hand on his shoulder. You don’t know if it’s because of your touch, or if it’s because you didn’t call him Steven, as you usually have under the watchful eye of others. His skin burns feverishly through the thin linen of his blouse. “My god, you’re burning up-”

He flinches away like he’s frightened of your hand on him. “I’m not, I’m fine-”

“You are not fine-”

“You can’t come with me,” Steve snarls, his bloody hands wrapping around your wrists in a vise-like grip. You gasp when you feel his sharp nails dig into your skin, and he instantly softens- both his grip, and his expression. His beautiful eyes bore into yours with a new kind of urgency. “You need to stay here, with the carriage. And I- I’ll find someone-”

“You really think that’s wise?” you ask, staring levelly at him while he blinks dazedly down at your hands. His own completely encircle your wrists, his fingernails far longer and sharper than they ought to be.

You suck in a sharp breath when you see them, but you pull your eyes back to his face and ask him, “Do you really want to leave me alone here? After everything that’s happened?”

Steve’s chest puffs up with the ragged breath he takes, and his hands tighten possessively around your wrists. “No.”

“Right,” you say gently, twisting your wrists so that he loosens his hold. Your hands slip down into his, sticky blood transferring onto your skin all the way. You hardly feel it, with how badly his hands burn to the touch. “We stay together, now. Who knows how many more wildcats there might be?”

“I don’t think it’s them you need to worry about. I’m…” Steve trails off, staring into your eyes. Underneath the rage and the frustration he obviously has, he looks scared.

“You’re what, Steve?” You tilt your head, probably looking much coyer than you feel, with your heart beating loud in your chest. You try your best to be soothing, to be gentle with him even though you’ve seen how strong and violent he’s capable of being- you feel it drying on your own hands.

“I’m going to protect you. I would sooner kill anything that comes near you than see you harmed.” Steve clenches his jaw, his face contorting into a grimace. “My lady.”

“I know you will, honey.” Your thumb traces a little circle around the sharp tip of one of his pointed claws, glinting dangerously in the moonlight. Even if you can’t quite explain how, you know what they imply about your huntsman.

And yet, you like everything about them.

In the darkness, wild things stir. Every crackle of the leaves, every snap of a twig beyond the trees makes you jump. Your eyes search in the dark for the cause, and see nothing.

“What’s that?” you whisper, a frantic edge to your voice.

The forest quiets around you, until all you can hear is Steve’s breath against your ear.

“You have nothing to fear, my lady. Nothing in these woods will harm you while I’m here.” Still, your bodyguard’s hand on your waist tightens, pulling you further against the impossibly warm body beside you. The boldness of his touch makes you shiver.

You want to tell yourself that that’s true, but the longer you walk, the more it becomes clear that Steve is not doing well. The arm that isn’t wrapped around you clutches protectively across his middle, as though he’s trying to apply pressure to some unseen wound. Every so often, he hisses and doubles over in pain- and when you dig your heels into the ground and say, “Steven, you need to rest,” he snaps back, “No, I do not.”

You bicker like an old married couple until you inevitably throw your hands up in defeat. He’s not going to stop trailing through the woods, and you can’t stop him, nor will you turn back and leave him. You trust that he knows where he’s going, because he’s intimately familiar with this forest.

In spite of your frustration with him, you still cling to him, and he still holds you close. His body heat still burns you to your core. There’s a gaping hole within you that he needs to fill, if only he’d allow himself.

If your fiancé has coiled around you to squeeze your life from you, you think that Steve has managed to burrow deep into your chest, to keep you alive and warm. You’d like it if he stays there forever- even if he eats your heart in the process.

In the corner of your eye, you see Steve’s head tilt up, surveying the moon peeking out from behind the clouds. “We have two hours to get back to Havensfield.”

“What happens in two hours?”

Steve’s eyes flicker upwards again. Piercing green reflecting the light, shining like two iridescent jewels. You wonder if that’s why they’re hazel during the daylight. “The moon peaks in the sky.”

Your hand tightens where it rests on his waist, and you swear he gasps. “And then?”

Steve is quiet. His breathing is hard and labored as he stares directly forward. His skin shines with perspiration and blood from the creature that he killed in self defense. Though he’d wiped it from his face, it’s still fresh on his collar and chest, saturating his ripped blouse. You haven’t shown any disgust over it, merely acceptance, with your small hand curled around his damp sleeve. Your fingertips dig into his forearm and make him wince, considering how his mind is honing in on every small touch of your body to his.

You’re a lot easier to read than you think you are. Steve knows that you can tell what he is- to some extent, at least. You know that there’s some sort of transformation taking place, but you don’t seem to understand the real gravity of it. You don't seem scared about it.

That’s what worries Steve the most. You should be scared of him. You shouldn’t be holding onto him like you are, knowing what the raging animal writhing just below his skin wants to do to you. He wants to tell you to run; but then you won’t know where to go, and every beast loves a chase. It’s only a matter of time before his human faculties give out and his primal urges take over.

Sometimes Steve can manage to give into it, when he isn’t stressed. When there’s no real fear, aside from needing to be away from people for a few hours. Usually, by this time, he is alone in the trees, able to tear his clothes off and let his beast control him for however long it takes before the moon hits its peak. And then…

“How much do you know about lycanthropes?”

Steve sounds a lot calmer than he is. There’s a surging in his head, a mad rush to just let go. Stop fighting it. It’ll only be more painful if you do.

“Wolf-men?” There’s a smirk on your lips that makes the human part of him want to kiss the living daylights out of you. “Only what they tell you as a child. They look like men, but they’re not. Their life span is seven years, and if you burn their clothes it makes them stay a wolf forever. They can only be killed with silver. Once they get a taste for flesh, they eat nothing else.”

“Old wives’ tales,” he grunts. Mostly. “The clothes don’t make a difference. And we live just as long as any normal person.”

You blink at him. “We?”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs as another wave of pain slices through his gut, making him stagger. He loses his grip on you, collapsing clumsily to his knees as he rasps, “You’re smarter than that.”

“Steve!” Your hands wrap around his biceps as he gasps, and there’s a battle raging within him- to fling you away or to tackle you to the ground. He finds a midway point between the two where he pushes himself backwards to cling to the trunk of a tree.

“You need to get to town.” He doesn’t wait for you to object. He points a shaking hand in the direction of town. The sight of his own clawed finger aloft in the air makes him flush in embarrassment. You shouldn’t have to see him like this. “If you keep going straight through the trees you’ll reach Havensfield within the hour.”

“I’m not going,” you argue. He heaves a sigh through his nose, and you actually do stomp your foot this time. “Damn it, Steve, I’m not leaving you here!”

“You have to!” He shouts, pushing himself up to stand against the tree as he does. He looks defeated, agonized as he gazes at you pleadingly. “If you stay, you have no idea what I’ll do to you.”

“Will you kill me?”

“No.” He says it so quickly, he doesn’t even have to think about it. Because, you realize, he already has.

“Then I’m staying,” you tell him firmly. Steve opens his mouth to argue with you, and you shake your head at him. “That’s it, Steve. I’m staying here, and I’m not going.”

His voice cracks as he says, “I can’t fight it, honey.”

“Is that why it’s hurting you?” You ask him as it occurs to you. “Because you’re… you’re fighting it?”

Steve trembles when you touch him, a gentle hand on his arm that sends shivers up his spine. He nods. “It’s easier when I don’t.”

“Then don’t.”

He swallows loudly. “It’s- you don’t know what you’re asking-”

“Explain it to me,” you tell him quietly, as soothingly as you can. “Will it- is it not you? Is it something else that takes over? Is it going to harm you-”

“No,” Steve shakes his head vehemently, blinking fast. He’s sorting through his thoughts, finding it harder to cling to anything other than base desire the longer this goes on. “It’s… it’s me. I’m always here, always present. But the part of me that acts on morality is gone. There are no morals. I just act on impulse, for a while. And then… I transform. Physically.”

You nod slowly. “And that’s what happens at midnight.”

“That’s what happens,” he says, and cringes in pain. “Now you see why I didn’t want- why you should have stayed through the night. I would have- I’d be alone. I’d be back by morning. I always am.”

Your heart feels heavy with how much it aches for him. You recall the months that Steve has been employed by your father, and how he had conveniently been absent the night of the full moon. And you had never noticed, never made any sort of connection. There had never been anything to make you suspicious.

But after every night he was gone, he was always there in the morning. Punctual as anything, you could set a clock by him. You could open the door, and where once was a lady’s maid sitting outside your bedchamber, there would be Steve, holding a bouquet of flowers for you with an apologetic smile. You couldn’t place what the apology was for until now.

“Does my father know?”

“Only that I needed the night,” Steve says, panting. “Nothing more.”

“Did Miss Fontaine know?”

He laughs, and it sounds feeble in his chest. “You think she would have let me near you if she did?”

Your lips quirk up at the edges. “You’ve been keeping your tracks covered, Mr. Harrington.”

“Just trying to be careful.” Steve chuckles, sounding strained as his nails dig into the bark of the tree he clings to. “Always have to be careful with you, you have no idea…”

“And you’re afraid,” you inquire, “that if you act on your impulses, you’ll… hurt me?”

“Hurt you?” he echoes. The mere notion of it wounds him- he’s sure he looks offended when he faces you. “No, I’d sooner die. Harm you, yes. Defile you, absolutely. You’d be a wreck when I'm finished with you.”

Your face burns as you watch him double over again, clutching onto the tree like it’s his lifeline, and the sight of him in so much pain hurts you more than anything. More than the loss of your governess, and more than the invisible hold your fiancé has on you. “Stop fighting it.”

“I won’t- my lady, if I don’t try to fight it, I’ll-” Steve squeezes his eyes shut, resting his forehead against the trunk of the tree with a pathetic whimper. He murmurs weakly, “I can’t sacrifice your virtue for my own comfort.”

“My virtue?” You tilt your head with a teasing smile. “I’m not nearly as virtuous as I seem.”

“Yes, you love to test my will.” Steve’s dark eyes lock on yours as he turns his head. There’s a flash of warning in them. “It must be one of your favorite hobbies. My hearing is much better than you think.”

You stare at each other heavily. Shallow breaths get stuck in your throat, now that he’s confirmed what you expected all along. He heard you all those times, standing guard on the other side of the door as you lay alone in your room and touched yourself to the thought of him. The knowledge sets a blaze alight within you.

He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

So, you’re at an impasse. He won’t set aside his chivalry. You won’t leave him here alone. All that’s left is to push and pull at each other until one of you gives, and you’ll be damned if it’s going to be you.

Steven: your huntsman, your bodyguard, your… lover. All these can be true if you just let it be.

You have nowhere left to go. No one else you want to turn to. If you make it to the town you’ll simply be foisted off to your fiancé, or returned to your parents, who will then turn around and give you over to the Duke. All roads lead to him, an inescapable fate that you’d been wishing for a chance to get away from.

So, you make a snap decision without considering the consequences- but really, what’s there to consider? This is the death of your previous life, one way or another.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, even though he knows the answer, as he watches you begin to remove the pins that hold the bodice of your dress shut.

“I’m testing your will,” you tell him flatly.

“You can’t, you’re- you’re engaged.”

“You expect me to believe you really care about that?” Your linen bodice slides off of your shoulders to the ground, revealing your stays and the sleeves of your chemise. “Or am I so undesirable that you can’t bear the thought of seeing me naked?”

As you begin untying your skirts, Steve growls, “Stop it.”

“Or what?” Your overskirt falls to the ground, your petticoat standing out stark white against the backdrop of the forest. “It’s not like there’s anyone here to make me. Except for you.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for-”

“Oh, but I do.” You grin at him as your soft muslin petticoat flutters to the ground, and you stand before him in nothing but your undergarments. Stocking-clad legs disappear beneath your linen chemise, your stays pushing your breasts up and over your neckline with each passing breath. You watch Steve’s eyes predictably fall to them, wide with hunger. “Tick tock, Mr. Harrington. We have two hours, and I can’t undo these stays by mysel- OOMF-”

The wind knocks out of your lungs as you fall back onto the damp earth, pinned beneath an enormous body and held tight by sharp claws. You instinctively wriggle beneath him, but Steve’s large hands hold yours fast against the ground over your head.

A whimper leaves your throat, echoing the ones he’d been hearing all along from just beyond your door. You stare up into his eyes and they’re dark, no longer glowing but eclipsed by black pupils that seem to grow bigger as he watches you squirm beneath him. His face is so close, his breath tickles your skin, and you try to hold still even though every muscle in your body is screaming at you to roll your hips up into his.

“You are such. A fucking. Brat. You- you don’t know how much I have to hold myself back with you. If I don’t, I’ll destroy you. Do you understand?” His voice is at such a low register that it practically rumbles from his chest directly into yours, vibrating in your ribs. Your heart pounds, your thighs clamping down tight on either side of his hips because you don’t want him to move away. “I’m sworn to protect you. I’m trying to do the right thing.”

Between your legs, your muscles tense and release like they’re searching for something to grip onto. “So protect me,” you whisper. “Do us both a favor. Don’t let me go to him. Make me yours.”

He shakes his head, and his nose bumps against yours. “That wouldn’t be protecting you. They’d kill us.”

“Not if we’re already dead. They’ll never find us, they’ll think we died in the crash, or- or…” Frustrated, your hips squirm up against his, and he hisses when you brush the tent in his trousers. “Be selfish for once. Do what you will to me, Steve. Damn it, I want you to…”

You trail off, because Steve is already dipping his head to breathe in your scent, just along your pulse point. A gasp hitches in your throat as he moves downward, his lips dragging gently over the soft skin. The vibration of your moan rumbles against his mouth.

“This… this is a bad idea,” he mumbles, but his mind is already going fuzzy, reason becoming harder to grasp while instinct and desire takes over. He can feel himself drooling onto your skin. Your heaving chest becomes wet with his saliva the longer he lingers over it, mesmerized by the feel of your warmth on his lips.

“Do it. Take me, Steve,” you whine, lifting your leg until the linen of your chemise falls back to reveal soft skin, your inner thigh brushing his hip. “I want you. Please. Please, please.”

The scent of your arousal fills the air, earthy and sweet, and Steve’s will flounders and dissipates. There’s nothing that can stop him now. He’s done for. He sinks his claws into the quilting and linen at your chest, and he rips through your stays without warning.

A rush of breath fills your lungs at the sudden jolt of your stays snapping apart, and turns into a weak noise the moment his wet mouth closes over your exposed nipple. The warm summer night air hangs humid around you, making your skin stickier, sweatier. Steve inhales the natural perfume of your body, more powerful of an aphrodisiac than he’s ever experienced.

“You’re so soft,” Steve croons when you mewl at the scratch of his pointed canines. “My sweet girl, never had anyone kiss you like this, have you?”

“N-no, Steve.” You choke on your breath, your eyes rolling back in your skull as his large hand cups your breast and his claws prick at your skin. The pain and pleasure combine into an entirely new, indescribable feeling that swells beneath your ribs. “Only you.”

His tongue drags over your chest, tasting, savoring the exposed flesh that no one else has dared to touch. The feeling is warm and sweet, melted gold that drips through your skin down to the bone. “Is this what you wanted?”

“I- yes.” You give a muffled mewl in return when he sinks his teeth in, leaving an indent over your heart in the shape of his mouth. “God- you have such sharp teeth.”

“All the better to eat you with,” Steve rasps in reply, his breath fanning over your damp skin and making you struggle against his hold. He releases your wrists, claws digging into the earth instead as he moves down your body. “Always make such pretty sounds f’me- you don’t have to hide them now, you know. I want to hear them. Wanna hear what I do to you.”

Your hands lift to sink into his hair. Feather-soft locks spill over your knuckles, and it’s so tempting to just grab them and pull when he bites again, like he might try to leave a permanent mark there on your ribs for you to come back to later. You don’t think you’d mind it if he did. A possessive part of you wants him to leave his mark on you, so that no one else can doubt who you belong to.

Your hips lurch up to collide with his stomach. There’s nothing there to give you the friction you want, just a solid, hot body that in itself is an entirely new and erotic experience for you. If he notices how flustered it makes you, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps mouthing over your skin, your ribs and your stomach tenderized with love bites that ache the longer he lingers on them.

“I wanted this, too,” Steve says now, while his hands drift over the plane of your stomach and grab the tattered scraps of your clothes to rip them further. A perfect line splits down the weave of the fabric until you’re laid entirely bare before him. “You’ve no idea- whenever I hear you, whenever you taunt me. Want to tear you apart.”

His nose dips over your navel, down to the matted curls that he’s dreamed of, shrouding your sex and wet with your arousal. He breathes in deep. His mind is unable to sort through the waves of desire spinning through it, washing over him in burning rivulets that coalesce deep in his core.

Spit dribbles from his parted lips down to the folds of your pussy, making you flinch as the hot liquid drips across your sensitive flesh. Your hips buck, your cunt pulsing hotly in earnest for him to touch you, but he won’t. Or, he hasn’t. He’s lingering there with his nose pressed to your pubic bone, breathing in long, deep gulps of air that rattle in his throat. Pheromones and sex filling his lungs, clouding his mind.

“What’re you- oh.” Your lashes flutter as he nuzzles his head against your stomach, and slowly drags his cheek over your pelvis, your hip, your thigh. He nudges the top of your stockings with his nose, pulling the fabric back to reach more of your skin. You don’t even think he’s paying attention to the effect that it has on you. He’s somewhere else, lost in his own world as he marks you with his scent. Your cheeks burn at the thought.

“You’re mine now. Mine,” Steve states roughly, nipping at your inner thigh with his teeth as he echoes your dreams of him- the ones you’re sure he couldn’t know, unless being a lycanthrope also constitutes being a psychic. It makes you shudder. “You belong to me, yeah? It’s just you and me from now on. You and me.”

“Yours, Steve,” you repeat, and it makes your head spin. Your fingers sift through his hair, your bloodstained hands mirroring his own against your thighs in the dark. “I’ve always been yours.”

The warm brush of his tongue between your legs is enough to make you jump. Your moan sounds too loud, even to your own ears- so many nights you spent quietly whimpering into your own palm, and now you can’t be bothered to quiet the howl that breaks out of your throat. He takes to your cunt with long, wide strokes that practically burn with their heat.

“Oh- oh, Stevie, I-” you gasp when he growls against you, the vibration shocking you like lightning. “That’s so good.”

Some things you simply can’t replicate with your fingers, and the feeling of Steve’s mouth on you is one of them. He’s messy, drenching you in his saliva, and he’s wild, his tongue broad enough to somehow reach every bit of you.

You open your eyes long enough to glimpse his, and they’re black as the night around you, seeming to get darker the further he indulges his impulses. He squints, as though he’s teasing you, daring you to do something to make him stop.

“Don’t stop,” you whimper softly, letting your head fall back onto the damp earth.

It’s sinful, this feeling of flesh on flesh that should never rightfully meet. Everything is swollen and wet, relaxed and yet drawn so tight you could snap apart. Steve’s enormous hands grip into the fat at the top of your thighs, holding you apart no matter how much your legs try to close around his head. The wool of your stockings scrape blindly along his back when your feet kick and squirm, your calves thrown over his broad shoulders.

His tongue touches your clit, and you jolt. He hadn’t really been focusing on it, more interested in getting as much of your taste in his mouth as possible. But now he zeroes in on it, his tongue going hard and then soft, lapping over it in a soft back-and-forth. You chase him with your hips, riding his tongue and adding an extra layer of pleasure to what’s overloading your mind.

And there’s nothing in his head but primal lust, and the strength to take what he pleases. He wants everything that you can give. But Steve knows, back in the recesses of his mind where his morality has retreated to, that he’s still holding himself back. That he’s madly in love with you, so even the most animalistic part of him wants to taste every part of you, stake a claim to you, even if it means he has to take his time.

So, he licks long and slow through your folds, and you keen up towards the stars because nothing in this world feels quite like it. And it’s the most wretched and awful thing, the pride that swells in his chest when you cum, with your back arched and loud cries falling from your lips. Cries of Steve’s name.

You taste like heaven. He’d stay between your legs for eternity just to have you on his tongue. He comes up panting, mumbling praises that can hardly be made out over the purring in his throat.

“God, you’re lovely,” he says, climbing up your body and marking it with his dripping mouth. Steve aches for you- it’s not enough, not even close to what he wants to do to you. “So agreeable for me. Sweet little lamb. I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

A feeble whimper catches in your throat while your nails scratch at the fabric against his shoulders. Here you lay, completely naked for him, and he hasn’t even removed the tattered remains of his blouse. You don’t have it in you to ask him to, you just tear at the thin linen like it’ll magically disappear on its own.

He dips his head and lets you grip it in your fists, pulling the torn garment off so you can throw it as far away as you can. Steve’s skin burns to the touch, his freckled shoulders searing your fingers when you grab for him. The pelt of hair on his chest tickles your stomach, and you instinctively press further into him, wrapping your arms around his torso when his mouth reaches your throat.

You cling to him, shaking like a leaf. He warms you better than any fire could, laying his weight upon you. Your hands creep lower, stroking down the length of his spine to feel him shudder, his teeth grazing your pulse. He groans when your fingers dance across his lower back and beneath the waist of his trousers.

“Ohhhh god, I wanna do everything with you. Please.” You plant kisses along the side of his face, “God, I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you, Steve, I-”

Steve turns his head and catches your lips with his, his tongue dipping into your mouth to taste you there, too. It’s a slow kiss, sensual, tender rather than fiery and rabid. You chase him when he pulls back to say, “I’m in love with you too, sweet girl. I’ll give you what you want.”

“I’m tired of waiting, Stevie,” you urge him gently, coaxing his trousers down over the curve of his ass. He snarls when you squeeze at the exposed flesh, his hips snapping forward to ram blindly into yours, his teeth nipping at your jaw. You’re becoming accustomed to the feeling of them on your skin. It delights you. “Let me have you or let me die, but do it now.”

Steve rears back, his bright white grin flashing in the moonlight. He stares you down with big eyes, glowing like cinders while he undresses himself indelicately- he tears through the buttons at his waist, rather than taking the time to undo them properly. Your eyes trace the stripe of hair running down the middle of his stomach, widening into the unruly patch that surrounds his cock.

A moment’s hesitation strikes into your limbs; you don’t see how it could possibly fit inside you. Steve is big all over, and you don’t know if it’s just a trick of the magic on this night or if he’s always like this, a permanent reflection of the beast within him. But his cock curves up toward his navel, thicker at the base than anywhere else, glistening velvety flesh appearing incredibly massive in the dark and blue moonglow. In spite of everything, your cunt pulses. Your body knows better than you, now.

You widen your legs for him.

You satisfy yourself that your work is done, it’ll take no more well-placed temptation and pleading to get him to use you how he wants- how you both want. Maybe in the morning he’ll regret it, when he has the mind to be a gentleman again, but you know with a thrill in the pit of your stomach that you won’t.

Steve’s clawed hands dig selfishly into your thighs, the points of them breaking the skin, and you yelp as he yanks you into his lap. Bent backwards over the thick, hairy expanses of his own thighs, your shoulders crush dead leaves on the ground.

“Feel that, sweet thing?” He asks, his voice resonating deep in his chest as the length of his cock drags heavily through your folds, the same path that his tongue had taken. You feel your pussy lips part around him. His cock gathers up the slickness of your arousal, his swollen head catching on your clit as he does. The lewd, sticky noise of it has your blood rushing hot beneath your skin. Your cunt pulses in warning, like you might cum just from this.

He hums deep within his chest. “Such a good girl, so wet for me. So desperate for my cock.”

The stretch sears when he enters you. You thrash in his hold, your hands clawing at the damp soil beneath you, but all you do is push him further in. Beyond the fullness, the pulsating ache and the pain of the intrusion, he hits something deep within you that makes you cry out, your muscles locking down tight around him.

“There you go, that’s it,” Steve coos, but there’s nothing gentle in his voice. He doesn’t know how to be sweet anymore. He rocks back and then pulls you down against his hips again, making you repeat that same feral cry. “Now you know how it feels to have a monster inside you.”

You don’t know how many minutes he spends there, just taking in your warmth and your wetness, tighter than sin as he rolls his hips. The sting soon fades into an aching pleasure that has you relishing the slow drag of his cock as it slides out of you and back in. It meets its end with the flush press of his hip bones to yours.

There’s a deep roiling in your gut that makes you keen loudly into the night, the sounds coming from your mouth entirely less than human. You find yourself meeting his thrusts with a desperate rock of your own hips, chasing that stirring within you.

“S-stevie-” you whine, your muddy hand reaching forward and clamping around his hairy forearm as he rolls his cock into you with a wild growl. You don’t really know what you were about to say- all rational thought escapes you when he picks up speed.

Steve chuckles above you, his dark eyes raptly watching your face as you lose more of your composure. He watches your jaw go slack, your brows tilted up in quiet desperation. Even if you can’t articulate it, he knows. “Feeling good, sweetheart?”

Your body feels like it’s on fire and he’s no better, scorching you from the inside out. Each push of his cock hits sharp heaven inside you, something you didn’t even know was possible and yet you craved it all the same.

“Mmm- I know you do,” he purrs, far too soft and quiet for the way that he’s fucking you, hard and fast, jolting you across the ground. He runs his nails slowly across your sensitive skin, letting your nipples catch on them with just enough pressure to make you squeal.

You gasp when he snatches you by the waist and yanks you up into his lap in one easy move. A loud moan punches from your lungs when he sits you fully down onto his cock. You take all of it at once, every last pulsating inch, while his mouth hovers a hair’s breadth away from yours.

Steve groans when he kisses you, soft lips to offset his sharp teeth, his strong arms pulling you against his body. The hair on his chest scrapes against your sensitive nipples, making you whimper into his mouth.

Your hands settle onto his shoulders, squeezing the hard muscle when you instinctively rock your hips against his. On shaky legs, you pick yourself up and roll your hips back down, delighting in the deep growl that comes from his chest.

“There you go- such a good fucking girl, ridin’ me like that.” A wide grin splits his handsome face as he guides you against him, his hands draped over your ass to drag you closer. “Just can’t help yourself, can you? Just wanna be full of me, is that it?”

Beyond able to answer him properly, you just nod. Your cunt throbs, tightening around him as you try to draw back- he groans so pretty, you slam yourself down onto him in desperation.

“FUCK!” He snarls rabidly, gripping you by the back of the neck. Steve gives in, jerking his hips to fuck up into you as hard as he can. Your head drops back, cradled by the curve of his forefinger and thumb as you cry out into the trees. His mouth finds your throat, bitten raw but still so pristine- more than the beast in him likes it to be.

He sucks hard on your pulse point, and you clamp down around his cock even harder. There’s a resounding wet noise kicking up from where you meet, loud and slick as it echoes between your sweaty bodies. With a broken noise in your throat, your weak hands squeeze at his shoulders for something to stabilize yourself with.

“Baby,” he warns, “you’re gonna make me cum if you keep-”

“I want it.” You don’t even let him finish his sentence, you’re so worked up. Your hips keep moving, desperately chasing your release even when his hands are tightening on you so hard they make you whine. “Give it to me, Stevie, please.”

You two create a vicious cycle- the harder you bring yourself down on him, the harder and faster he fucks up into you in retaliation. Your orgasm is so close that you can practically taste it. You don’t know which one of you is going to break first, but you know it’ll be devastating.

“M’gonna give it to you- shit- gonna fill this pretty pussy, you’ll be dripping my cum for days.” He curses furiously, a loud moan cutting from his lungs. His hair hangs over his eyes as he stares up into your face. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Gonna fuck you so full of my kids, you’ll be so round- gonna give you my babies-”

You sob his name, drowning between the legs as your pussy clenches down around him. God, you don’t want it to end, but you can already feel it rearing up within you. You have to bite your lip against that simmering, violent ecstasy that’s welling up deep inside of you. His forehead drops to your shoulder.

“Fffffuck- M’gonna make you mine,” he pants into your skin again, his tongue laving across your pulse. This time, there’s an added weight to his words. “Want that, hm? Wanna be with me forever? Just like me?”

“Yes, Steve,” you cry, clinging onto him as you grind down on his cock, searing pleasure kicking up inside you at the thought. Your pussy pulses, and you give him a garbled noise of warning.

He nuzzles your jaw, and kisses you so sweetly beneath your ear that you think you imagine it. “It’ll hurt. Just for a minute. And then we can be together…”

Then, two things happen at once. Steve’s teeth sink into your shoulder hard, harder than he has yet. And that mounting ecstasy unleashes all its fury within you.

You cum screaming, from the pleasure tearing through you, and the pain only seeming to build into it- wild, animalistic sounds coming from your own throat. Your blood is in Steve’s mouth, your flesh torn against his teeth. He’s released something into your body that writhes and squirms, just below the surface. Just like what lives in him.

You claw at his back- your nails aren’t nearly as sharp as his, but you still manage to raise welts as your spasming cunt drenches his cock. It burns you alive. It eats away at you until there’s nothing left of you or your soul- just the feeble part of your brain that loves and feels him.

There’s a swelling deep within you, an anguished cry against your torn skin that you hardly register as his before you feel him cum, his cock pulsing hard within you. Steve presses up into you, slow and easy, holding you there against his hips with all the strength in his adrenaline pumped body.

Your head is spinning. You feel dizzy, and even then you can tell when you’re stuffed to the brim, the swelling becoming an overwhelming stretch again. You whimper into his neck, hoping that the inquisitive noise will convey your question, because you don’t trust yourself to be able to come up with the words to articulate it.

“Fuck- this is going to take a minute-” he groans when you squirm, his hands trying to hold you still. “It’s- it’s meant to keep you there- keep my cum in you.”

You harumph against his skin, your eyes rolling back into your head. You’re still twitching, still pulsing from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Even though the swelling of the knot at the base of his cock is bordering on overstimulating, you relish the closeness that it forces you to have with him now. That he has to stay here, inside you. That he has to hold you for a while, as his body readjusts to normalcy.

As you accept that there’s no going back now.

“I want to say that I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs, his voice rough and gravelly, still fussing over the bite on your shoulder. He runs his tongue over it- not necessarily trying to be erotic, but you think anything he does to your body comes off that way now. “But I wouldn’t mean it if I did.”

You hiss a little as the wound stings. “I’m not sorry.”

“You can’t get married to the Duke now, you know.” Steve pauses. “And, I suppose you can’t go back to your family either, so… I think it’s time you meet mine. Now that we’re mated.”

That makes you smile, a half-giggle falling from your lips. That’s probably as close to a proposal of marriage as you could hope for, right now. Your eyes fall shut, the slow stroking of his tongue over your wound and the strong heat of his body lulling you. “Am I gonna turn tonight?”

“No.” He shakes his head, nuzzling his nose against your neck. “Next month. It has to take, first. Get into your veins, make you suffer. Just the good stuff.”

“But you…”

“I’ve got an hour,” he says, and you feel him tilt his head up toward the sky.

You hum sleepily, letting yourself relax in his arms. They’re covered in more hair than they had been before- pretty much all of him is. Wherever it grows, it’s getting thicker and denser the closer it gets to midnight. “Stay with me.”

“I’ll be here,” Steve assures you, soothing your skin with kisses. “I’ll always be here. Forever.”

Things lose their clarity, your surroundings slowly slip away with your consciousness. You fall asleep against him, soothed by his warmth and the pace of his breath on your neck.

At some point, well after midnight, you rouse sleepily to find yourself curled up on a heap of torn clothes, between the paws of an enormous, brown-haired wolf.

You wake in the morning at the impact of a pile of cloth hitting you squarely in the chest.

You startle, coming up with a screech. Steve’s arm is around you- strong, muscular, and a lot less covered in hair than it had been the last time you’d seen it. He makes an inquisitive noise and sits up, naked as the day he was born, with leaves sticking out of his hair. He resembles Shakespeare’s Puck- streaked with dirt and grime, a bit of blood still matted in his chest hair, but the morning sun creates a golden halo around his head.

“Morning, lovebirds.”

You don’t know what comes over you at the sound of the strange man’s voice, but you scramble so quickly that you practically barrel roll over Steve’s body. He grunts and moves to grab you, but you’re already plopping down on the other side of him and using his body as a shield.

Steve blinks hard against the white light of morning, and squints at the strange man who had thrown a stack of folded clothes at you. “Eddie?”

“In the flesh.” The man stands proudly, clad in a mishmash of old and new, very new, clothes. His dark hair hangs loose and unkempt around his face, which smiles prettily at Steve with a pair of enormous, pointed canines.

“What’re you doing here?”

Eddie snorts. “Did you somehow forget that we turn in these woods, too?” He shakes his head, tutting condescendingly. “Stevie boy, you’ve been away from home for too long.”

“No, I-” Steve stops. “Where’s Robin?”

“Still getting dressed. Which you should do, too. Glad I’m the one who found you, there’s some kind of uproar about the Duke of Hargrove’s lady-love going missing, and- oh. Wait.” Eddie crouches, his eyes peering over Steve’s shoulder at you. He grins in a way that tells you he already knows the answer when he asks, “That couldn’t have been you, could it?”

“Eddie, watch it,” Steve growls territorially, throwing his hand backwards as if to shield you further from him.

The man- Eddie- chuckles, and stands. “Well, I figured you’d want to introduce us. Seeing as how that pretty mark on her shoulder tells me she’s, ah…” he twirls his finger, clad in a large, silver ring in the air, “a part of the pack, now.”

Steve huffs a sigh, and lifts his hand. “My lady, allow me to introduce you to Edward Munson.” Eddie bows dramatically, smirking at you as Steve says, “He’s a member of my family.”

“The best member.”

“Debatable.”

“Wait-” you start, sitting up further, your gaze still trained on Eddie’s hand, and the ring he wears. “Is that… Miss Fontaine’s ring?”

Eddie pauses. “Oh, was that your carriage back there?”

Steve snarls, moving to jump up. You yank him back into place to shield your naked body as he growls, “Eddie I’m going to fucking kill you-”

You’re not that far ahead yet. “Does that mean the thing about silver killing us is an old wive’s tale, too?”

Eddie and Steve both pause, and look at you blankly. Then, Eddie laughs- a bone-deep, guttural laugh that sounds like a wolf’s howl.

“Better watch out, Harrington, she’s way quicker on the uptake than you were,” he chuckles. “She’s gonna fit right in.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #werewolf!steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #roses*

131 notes · View notes

corseque · 1 day ago

Note

Hi! I've been following you for ages for your great Solas takes and immaculate taste in sad men. I've been thinking about this because I have a Dragon Age Inquisitor who is an abomination, what do you think Solas would think about abominations/do you recall him ever talking about them? Both Anders/Justice and the more demonic unwilling variety.

Personally I would assume he'd be initially horrified because that might seem like a violation of consent for both parties, but after learning more about them he might grow more curious/respect actual unions a mage might have as an abomination. I am basically just workshopping an OC and hitting a wall and you're the local Solas sage, so... XO

Oh, that's so nice..

Solas is more chill with willing abominations than you might think. And he seems to know all about it already. In Jaws of Hakkon, in the quest called “In Exile” you meet a young mage named Sigrid Gulsdotten who had been willingly possessed by a friendly spirit in order to teach her magic. Which is what the Avvar do culturally to make mages safer.

Sigrid was getting old enough that it was time for her and the spirit to part ways, but she didn’t want to give it up because she didn’t want to lose the spirit as a friend/confidant. Solas has a surprising amount to say in Jaws of Hakkon in general about how the Avvar interact with and relate to spirits, and he talks a lot in this quest too. He is very gentle with her. Let me look up exactly what he says. When you find clues about the mage's failed ritual to part with her spirit, Solas says (a mage in your party always speaks here):

"Residual magic. Someone was casting a spell, and was interrupted. Or stopped."

"If a mage was performing a ritual to part with a spirit, she may have needed to replenish her strength."

Then later, when you talk to her, the conversation goes like this:

Sigrid: "I could not do it! I have no close companions in the hold! No kin! I cannot lose my only friend!"

Inquisitor: "You're friends with this… spirit?"

Sigrid: "It has taught me with patience and kindness since I was a child, frightened of the fire I could suddenly call down."

Solas: "A great comfort. But you are no longer a child."

Sigrid: "Some mages need the help of a god all their lives."

Solas: "Very well. Perhaps, however, ask yourself if it is help you need, or companionship."

Sigrid: "I do not wish to lose the one who loves me."

Here is a playthrough that has this dialogue:

youtube

At the end of the quest, if you recruit Sigrid for the Inquisition, Varric, Sera, Vivienne, Iron Bull and Cassandra have strong negative feelings about it, while Cole approves. Solas doesn't seem to approve or disapprove, as far as I can tell. He doesn't say anything, at least. When talking to the Shaman about this Avvar practice, you get this conversation:

Inquisitor: "You let spirits possess your mages on purpose?"

Shaman: "What better teacher than one woven from magic? The spirits in the hold have helped us in this way for hundreds of years. Once a mage masters their powers, their teacher departs, duty ended. Unless the mage is weak."

Inquisitor: "What happens to these "weak" mages?"

Shaman: "Their teachers stay with them and the other gods watch them both, so neither soul turns sick. If one does sicken, or the mage stands in risk of harming the hold… One day, they do not wake in their bed. It is very sad. It is what must be done."

Solas: "It is kinder than what happens in many mage Circles."

So Solas seems to understand the reality that abominations become corrupted more easily, and that it's probably best for abominations to separate willingly.

Solas offers to separate Lucanis and Spite, and says their forceful combination was "a crime against [them] both" so I can only assume that it's the willingness factor that he gets upset by, along with him always being upset at the thought of spirits becoming corrupted.

#Dragon Age #Solas #DA4 spoilers #kind of

79 notes · View notes

mggslover · 10 hours ago

Text

How the Unsub Stole Christmas ❆

A Holiday to Remember: part 2

In which the BAU's holiday getaway takes a dark turn when a family is found murdered on Christmas, forcing the team to investigate while reader struggles with painful memories of her past and her growing, unspoken feelings for Spencer Reid.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!bau!reader Genre: crime, angst, smut (18+), fluff, found family Content warnings: graphic cm case descriptions!!, mentions of shitty childhood, reader getting in some unsub trouble, oral (f receiving), p in v sex. Word count: 9k 🫣 i swear it reads really fast A/n: read part 1 first! writing this story genuinely brought me so much joy, and i hope you will experience the same while reading this. this will be my last fic for the year 2024, so thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the support, i can't wait to see what the new year will bring for this blog. don't forget to interact with this post if you've enjoyed! 🎄🤍 dividers by @issysh3ll

It shouldn’t have surprised you that you’d be called out for another case. Still, the disappointment lingered thick in the air.

“It was fun while it lasted,” Garcia murmured softly, her tone sad. JJ wrapped an arm around her, bringing her in for a side hug. “Don’t worry,” she reassured gently. “The trip isn’t over yet.”

Penelope seemed satisfied enough with that answer, but then spoke up again. “I don’t want to stay here on my own. It’s spooky knowing someone got murdered just miles away.”

“You can come with us to the station. Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss and Y/L/N, you’ll head to the crime scene. A deputy will be waiting for you there.” Hotch instructed.

You exhaled softly and gave a brief nod. Spencer glanced over at you, his eyes filled with that quiet empathy you’d come to recognize over the years.

“Good luck,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

“Thanks,” you replied, your words equally soft. “You too.”

Half an hour later, you arrived at the crime scene. The neighborhood was so small it hardly felt like one—just a handful of houses scattered across large, snow-dusted plots of land. It looked peaceful, almost idyllic, as if nothing could ever disturb the calm. The street was adorned with Christmas lights and festive decorations. The only thing slightly out of place was a crack in the bench beside one of the houses. Otherwise, the neighborhood looked like it had stepped right out of a holiday card.

As you stepped out of the car, you noticed the few neighbors who hadn’t yet been driven inside by the cold. They stood in clusters in front of their homes, bundled up in scarves and coats, watching the scene unfold with cautious curiosity.

You looked over at Prentiss. “We should start doing some interviews—maybe send a few of them over to the station.”

She nodded, her expression focused. “Got it.” Without another word, she made her way toward them.

You followed Rossi and Derek toward the red wooden house, where the Deputy awaited by the front door. He looked young—probably around your age.

Rossi introduced you to Deputy Wilson. Wilson gave a sheepish smile, “Sorry it’s just me. Almost the whole department is unavailable because of the holidays.”

“Convenient timing for a murder,” you mused.

“The scene’s been left as it was when we found it,” Wilson continued. “The back door’s been forced open, and you can see boot prints in the snow leading to the backyard.”

Morgan immediately stepped forward. “I’ll get a shot of those prints for Garcia,” he said, already heading toward the backyard.

Wilson looked at you and Rossi. “You want to take a look inside?”

You paused before heading in, shaking the snow from your boots and making sure not to use the doormat—the one engraved with the names of the family members. It felt wrong, almost disrespectful, to dirty the only thing that might be left of them.

You took in a sharp breath as you entered the house. Your gaze was first taken by the large Christmas tree standing in the corner of the living room, decorated in red and gold. But then you noticed the bloody mess underneath it. Four bodies—two adults and two children—lay scattered on the floor, broken Christmas ornaments surrounding them, as though the killer had dropped them carelessly after his violent act. The mother and father were draped over each other, their throats slit cleanly. The teenage daughter, too, had her throat cut, but her body was twisted in a way that didn’t seem accidental. The small boy—no older than ten—was slumped between them, his face frozen in an expression of terror, a look that would haunt you for days.

The scene before you was a sickening parody of a perfect Christmas. But the most disturbing part wasn’t the carnage—it was their faces. Each of them wore a grotesque, unnerving smile, painted onto their lips in blood. It was a mockery of joy, an image of happiness forced onto the dead.

You felt a wave of nausea rise in your throat and turned away, needing a moment to breathe. It was then that you noticed the walls, once filled with smiling family photos were now smeared with blood. Shattered frames lay scattered on the floor, as if the killer had intentionally destroyed the family’s history, piece by piece.

Rossi spoke first. “The unsub who stole Christmas,” he mused, his tone almost playful despite the grim reality.

You gave a sharp exhale, a brief scoff escaping your lips. “Yeah, you could say that.”

You put on your gloves and picked up a shattered picture frame from the floor. You handed it to Rossi without a word. He took it, studying it for a moment before speaking again. “One thing’s for sure—this wasn’t just a murder. This is deeply personal.”

You nodded, scanning the room. The starkness of the crime scene was still sinking in, but your mind was already running through the facts. “The execution was meticulous,” you murmured, your gaze flickering over the room, “but the aftermath... messy. The unsub rushed out of here—didn’t even bother closing the back door behind him, and those footprints? Almost like he didn’t care at all about leaving evidence. We might even get lucky and find DNA on the bodies.”

Rossi considered it. “It could be that he was in a hurry. In a small neighborhood like this, people will notice anything out of the ordinary. He probably knew he had to move fast.”

You hummed in return. “It still doesn’t add up. You can’t plan a murder with this much detail and then completely overlook how to cover your tracks afterward.”

You took another slow turn around the room, examining the details. Every piece seemed to add to the strange puzzle, but none of it fit together. As you passed the fireplace, something caught your eye: a piece of paper tucked into one of the stockings. You reached for it carefully, your fingers brushing the corner stained with blood.

You unfolded it with precision, revealing the scrawled words in black ink. The sentence was short and written in Latin, a language you hadn’t encountered in years. You stared at it, furrowing your brow as you tried to make sense of it.

“You wouldn’t happen to know Latin, would you?” You asked Rossi, half-joking, though the seriousness in your voice remained.

Rossi looked up, his expression a mix of confusion and dry humor. “Does it look like I know Latin?”

You smiled, already pulling your phone out of your pocket and speed dialing Spencer. As the phone rang, you turned your attention back to the paper, the blood spatter still making your stomach turn.

“Hey,” you breathed out as he picked up the phone after the second ring.

“Hey,” Spencer replied. “Are you okay?” His voice was soft with concern, your single syllable being enough for him to decipher how you feel.

You glanced over your shoulder at the murdered family, swallowing hard before turning away. “I will be,” you responded. Once that fucker is behind bars.

You straightened, pushing the thoughts away, and focused on the task at hand. “I’ve just found a piece of paper at the crime scene. It’s a text written in Latin. I figured it’d be quicker to ask you than wait for Garcia to look it up.”

Spencer hummed in acknowledgment. “Good call. What does it say?”

You glanced at the paper again, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar words. “Nunc sciunt te perfectum non esse.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line before Spencer spoke, his voice calm but precise. “Nunc sciunt te perfectum non esse. ‘Now they know you’re not perfect.’” His perfect Latin pronunciation made you wince at how poorly you’d read it.

“What’s that supposed to mean? A taunt?”

Spencer’s voice was thoughtful. “Sounds like he’s trying to prove something. It’s definitely personal.”

You exchanged a look with Rossi, who was standing nearby, holding the broken picture frame. “Yeah, that’s what we’ve been thinking. Whoever this unsub is, he knows the Reynolds family intimately.”

“Garcia’s already digging into the family’s background,” Spencer replied without missing a beat, already a step ahead.

“Good,” you muttered, relief washing over you for a moment. “How are things going over there?”

“JJ’s been trying to reach family, but they don’t live nearby,” Spencer answered. “A snowstorm hit. I’ve been tracking the meteorological data, and the chances of them making it are close to zero.”

You nodded, a dull ache settling in your chest. “Well, I’m going to keep looking around here. The bodies will be picked up soon to go to the lab, and then I’ll be heading over to the station.”

“Alright,” Spencer replied, his tone warmer now. “I’ll see you there. Be careful.”

“Always am,” you said, offering a small smile even though he couldn’t see it.

The words on the note kept drifting through your mind. Maybe it was the sentiment that came with Christmas—or maybe it was the fact that, up until now, you were having a perfect holiday, something you never thought you’d get to experience—that made the scene remind you of your childhood. How everything looked so joyous from the outside, especially during the holidays. But if you looked closely, you’d see the cracks. The ornaments on the tree, hastily glued together, their edges jagged and uneven. The hole in the wall, cleverly concealed behind your stocking.

You were probably overthinking it. After all, it wasn’t the family that was broken like yours was—it was the unsub who had shattered their picture-perfect life.

Rossi’s voice broke through your thoughts. “You okay, kid?”

You blinked, pulling yourself out of the past and into the present. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.”

You and Rossi walked into the secluded room the Sheriff had arranged for the team, exchanging your findings with Morgan and Prentiss along the way. You’d made a quick stop at a Chinese takeaway to grab food for everyone, knowing the team needed fuel for the long hours ahead.

The rest of the team was already seated around the table, and Reid was in the middle of showing Hotch something on the map of the neighborhood.

“Oh, you guys are the best!” Penelope sighed, her voice full of appreciation as she caught sight of the plastic bags you were carrying.

“We couldn’t leave you to go hungry,” Emily responded with a grin.

You took a seat closest to where Spencer was standing, and he naturally slid into the chair beside you. You reached into the bag and pulled out the only plastic fork, knowing he’d struggle with chopsticks. He flashed you a grateful, closed-lip smile as he took it from you.

Once everyone had filled their plates, the conversation turned back to the case.

“Garcia dug up some useful info,” JJ began. “Stephen Reynolds owned a construction company that’s on the verge of going bankrupt. It’s possible the unsub was an employee who got fired—or was cut loose because the company couldn’t afford him anymore.”

“It seems like the whole family was targeted,” you added, leaning forward. “The note was left in one of the children’s stockings. It doesn’t feel like the murder was just directed at Stephen.”

“That’s why we need to find out more about the Reynolds family outside of their neighborhood,” Hotch said. “The employees at the construction company could have insight. It’s clear the neighbors aren’t going to give us much.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed, a skeptical look on his face. “Did they really not give you anything? The neighbors, I mean.”

Prentiss shook her head. “Nothing useful. They kept insisting that the Reynolds’s were a perfect family. They even seemed offended when I pressed for more.”

“That doesn’t sit right. The note specifically mentioned how the Reynolds’s are not perfect.” Rossi replied.

“I gotta give it to them, though,” Garcia chimed in. “The Reynolds’s are model citizens. The parents were both heavily involved in charity, and the kids have won multiple prizes in spelling bees and other competitions.”

“Has anything bad ever happened in that neighborhood?” Morgan asked, clearly skeptical about the idea of perfection.

Penelope clicked away on her laptop. “Well, there was a fire in one of the houses about ten years ago, because of damaged Christmas lights.” She made a sad face as she continued searching. “Oh, and a cat got stuck in a tree once… didn’t make it.”

“What happened to the family in the house?” Spencer asked.

Penelope’s fingers paused over the keys. “Uh, let me see… The Eriksens died from smoke inhalation. Oh… this is sad. They left a child, Christopher Eriksen. He was put into foster care when he was just eight.”

“Did the Reynolds’s live there when that happened?” JJ asked.

“Yeah, they did. Actually, they organized a fundraiser to build a bench with the parents’ names engraved on it, in their memory.”

You felt your pulse quicken at the mention of the bench. Something about it seemed strangely familiar, but you couldn’t trust your mind right now—not with everything still scattered from the case, and the ghosts of your past tugging at the edges of your thoughts.

You could feel Spencer’s gaze on you, but you decided to ignore it, keeping your focus on Hotch as he spoke up.

“It’s best if we head back to the cabin to rest up,” he said. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and the station’s closing tonight so everyone can spend time with their families.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, the relief of getting some rest evident on their faces. But as the team began gathering their things, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in your chest. You hated the idea of putting the case on hold, even if it was just for the night. The face of that little boy kept haunting your thoughts, his wide eyes silently pleading for answers, for peace. You couldn’t help but feel like you were letting him down.

Spencer’s hand snakes up on your shoulder, his warm hold holding you in place. His lips barely moved as he mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, shaking your head.

The entire car ride had been silent. Spencer’s gaze would occasionally flicker over to you in the backseat, but you kept your eyes fixated on the road, watching the scenery blur past.

The silence stretched on as you said your goodnights to the rest of the team and walked toward your shared room with Spencer. As you both got ready for bed, there was an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Now, lying in the king-sized bed, you both stared up at the ceiling, the quiet stillness between you thick with unspoken words.

“When are we finally going to talk about what’s wrong?” Spencer’s voice broke the silence, careful but insistent.

You stayed quiet for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts. “Nothing’s wrong,” you replied, your words coming out a little too quickly.

“There’s obviously something wrong,” he pressed gently. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“I know,” you answered, your voice softer now, more honest. Usually, Spencer never had to press. There was something about him—something warm and patient—that made it easy to open up, to share your thoughts without fear of judgment. But this time, it felt different. It wasn’t just the case. It felt personal, something you couldn’t fully explain.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” you said, thinking aloud. “It’s just… something’s off. And I don’t know if it’s just me.”

“What do you feel?” His question was quiet, but his concern was clear.

You hesitated. “It sounds stupid,” you muttered, brushing it off.

“Nothing you could say would sound stupid to me.” His words, soft and sincere, made your chest tighten with warmth. You turned your head to look at him, noticing the closeness between you, the way his gaze lingered on you.

“You thought it was stupid that I shower at 115 degrees,” you said with a playful smile.

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, the tension easing just a little. “I don’t think it’s stupid that you like it,” he said, his voice gentle. “I just think it’s stupid that you’d risk hurting yourself over it.”

His eyes warmly looked at you. One hand rested underneath his pillow as he lay on his side. You turned toward him, mirroring his position.

"I’m really struggling with this case," you softly admitted, trying to keep eye contact, though your gaze flickered down, betraying the weight of your words.

“Was it hard seeing the crime scene?”

"Yeah," you choked out, your throat tight. You blinked quickly to try to stop the tears that threatened to spill. “It was... it was horrible.”

His hand reached out to gently rub your bare arm under the blanket. "It’s completely normal to feel affected by what you saw," he began, his voice steady but laced with the kind of empathy that only someone like him could offer. "Witnessing something as violent and horrific as the bodies of two children—it’s traumatic. The brain processes trauma in complex ways, especially when it involves young victims. According to studies in neuropsychology, traumatic experiences, particularly those involving children, can cause the brain to release a surge of stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline. This flood of chemicals can lead to acute emotional responses, such as anxiety and flashbacks.”

“I’ve been experiencing flashbacks,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. You met his gaze, looking for reassurance, and he gave you the space to speak, waiting patiently. “It actually started earlier today, when we arrived at the cabin. I’ve never experienced a Christmas like this, you know, the kind that feels warm and joyful. I- I don’t know if I’m making connections that aren’t there, but the feeling I had in that house was the same feeling I used to get when I was growing up.”

He tilted his head. "What feeling?"

“...Jealousy.”

His eyebrows knitted. “Jealousy?”

You nodded, swallowing hard, gathering your thoughts. “You could feel so much rage in there. Everything that made the home feel homey—that warmth, that love—was completely shattered. The way the unsub positioned the family members under the Christmas tree, the way the note was tucked into the stocking… There’s a reason for it. Christmas represents this idealized view of perfection. I don’t think the message was to prove that the company going bankrupt is some sort of imperfection in the family’s picture-perfect life. No, it feels like the unsub was jealous of their happiness. Of the fact that they had a family who seemed perfect—something he never had. He wanted to destroy it. To ruin their happiness. He could never have it, so he shattered the illusion of perfection entirely.”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, processing your words. “So you think the Reynolds’s were targeted as surrogates?”

“I guess so. But you don’t just stumble across a neighborhood as desolate as theirs.” you responded.

“It could still be one of the employees of the construction company. If Stephen bragged about his perfect family to the wrong person, it could have triggered something.”

You hummed in agreement, but Spencer could see there was more on your mind. He raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

“As I got older, I learned that blaming others wasn’t going to make me feel any better about my situation. It’s like the unsub hasn’t realized that yet. The way he executed this crime—it’s almost like a child throwing a tantrum. He was so meticulous in setting everything up, and then once he got what he wanted, he just… walked away. There was no care for the aftermath, no consideration of what would happen afterward.”

“Do you think the unsub could still be a child?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Your mind clicked, and for the first time, the puzzle pieces seemed to fit together. “How old was the kid when he was put into foster care?" You asked, already knowing the answer.

“Eight. Why?” Spencer's confusion was evident.

“It’s been ten years since that house caught fire. That would make him eighteen now, and—"

Spencer’s eyes widened as realization struck. “And that he just got out of foster care.”

"Exactly," you said, rolling out of bed and storming downstairs.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Spencer called after you, quickly grabbing his cardigan from the chair in the corner of the room before hurrying to catch up.

“Be quiet, I don’t want to wake anyone.” You instructed, feeling Spencer’s presence behind you as you moved toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he hissed in a whisper as you opened Garcia’s laptop on the table. You didn’t respond, your fingers already flying over the keys as you settled into a chair.

Spencer huffed, knowing full well there was no stopping you once your mind was set. He hovered behind you, draping the cardigan over your shoulders. “I’m not covering for you if Garcia finds out,” he warned, glancing over your shoulder at the screen.

“That’s fine. I know exactly what to say to win her over,” you said nonchalantly, clicking away. In your mind, the image of Spencer in the shower was still vivid—a story you could easily use to distract Penelope if it came to that.

You paused, your heart skipping a beat as you found the file. “Here it is,” you muttered, eyes scanning the information on Christopher Eriksen. You clicked to open it fully, Spencer already reading ahead of you.

“They found bruises all over his body when he was put into foster care,” he read aloud, his voice tense as the words sank in.

You leaned forward, your breath catching. “This is it,” you murmured. “His parents— they must’ve bought into that ‘perfect family’ image of the neighborhood, but behind closed doors, they were hiding this. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like for him? Everyone thinking his parents were saints, while they were hurting him? All the while, they’re the ones who get a memorial bench, their lives celebrated while they tortured him.”

“It was on Christmas that he was put into foster care. Now, it’s the first Christmas since he’s been out. It makes sense to go back to the place where it all started,” Spencer concluded.

“I need to go there,” you said urgently, slamming the laptop shut.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Spencer asked, bewildered. He immediately followed you as you rushed to the door, still in your pajamas. “You’re not seriously planning on going out like that?”

“It’s just a quick peek. I need to see if I was right about the bench,” you said, almost to yourself, already focused on the task ahead. You didn’t even glance behind you as you pulled on your shoes and yanked open the front door, wrapping Spencer’s cardigan tighter around yourself to ward off the cold.

In moments like these, Spencer knew exactly who had trained you. You were unmistakably like Gideon—determined, single-minded, and often impulsive once your mind was set. And that, in turn, always left Spencer in a state of mild panic.

“You can’t drive at night,” he said, his voice rising with concern as he followed you into the snow-covered yard. “You have nyctalopia!”

You didn’t stop, your focus unwavering. “You should take night-blindness seriously, it takes forever for your pupils to dilate, and by that time, you’ve already missed the stop sign or, I don’t know, hit a pothole or something. Your contrast sensitivity goes down, so objects blend into the background, and—did I mention the glare from headlights? Because that’s a huge problem, and it makes it worse! You’re already having trouble seeing, and now the glare from every car that passes is just blinding you. It's like trying to navigate in a fog, but it’s just light fog, which—okay, that’s a really bad analogy, but you get the point!”

His words fell into the background as you continued walking, your mind fully occupied with proving your theory. The case had been driving you mad. If you could just confirm that the bench was broken—that Christopher was the one who’d done it in a moment of anger—everything would click. The case would be solved. You’d give the Reynolds family peace. And, selfishly, you’d give yourself peace.

“Please,” Spencer begged, now standing in front of the car door, blocking your path. “If you’re going, at least let me drive.”

His comment made you halt in front of the car. “You hate driving,” you pointed out.

“I’d rather be uncomfortable for a few minutes than risk something happening to you,” he admitted.

You stared at him, feeling a surge of gratitude for how much he cared, how he believed your theory and was willing to go along with you.

You reached out and took his hands. It was a gesture he rarely tolerated from anyone, but you’d learned over the years that Spencer appreciated it when it came from you. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Thanks, Spence,” you said softly, the words simple but your voice full of appreciation.

He swallowed, his eyes softening as he nodded. “We’ll just take a quick look, right?”

“I swear,” you promised, a reassuring smile tugging at your lips. “Just a quick look.”

He sighed, still clearly uneasy but unwilling to argue. You handed him the car keys and moved to the passenger side, sliding into the seat.

—————

Spencer slowed the car as you neared the familiar area, the headlights casting long shadows over the snowy driveway.

"Let’s stop the car here," you suggested. The thought crossed your mind just in time—it would be very inappropriate to drive into a quiet neighborhood with an unknown car at this hour, especially after a murder had taken place.

You and Spencer stepped out of the car, the cold biting at your skin as you walked side by side. You stayed close to him, partly to keep warm, partly to follow his tracks through the snow, the dark pressing in around you. The Christmas lights that had lit up the neighborhood earlier were now off, leaving everything shrouded in an eerie quiet.

You made your way to the bench. Your hand skimmed over the smooth wood, lingering on the top right corner where you felt a distinct break—something sharp and jagged where a piece had clearly been broken off. You exhaled in relief. You were right.

Spencer’s hand shot out to gently grab your wrist, his fingers warm against the cold night air. "Careful," he said, his voice low but insistent. "You don’t want splinters. Stay here, I’ll grab a flashlight from the car."

You nodded, watching as his footsteps faded into the distance, swallowed by the thick darkness around you.

Alone now, you scanned the area. Everything was still and silent, save for the occasional crunch of snow beneath your feet. Your eyes were drawn to a dim light flickering from inside the rebuilt house where the Eriksens used to live, just past the bench. Curiosity nudged you forward, and before you could second-guess yourself, your feet were already moving toward the light.

You crept closer to the window, standing on your toes to peer inside. The house was barely furnished, still very much in the process of being worked on before it could be sold. You pressed your hands against the cold glass, forming makeshift goggles with your fingers, your face just inches away from the window as you tried to get a better look.

A sudden pressure on your stomach snapped you out of your thoughts. Before you could react, an arm tightened around your waist, yanking you away from the glass. For a brief moment you thought Spencer was playing some kind of prank, trying to startle you—but the movement was so fast and forceful, you knew Spencer would never grab you that aggressively.

Your gasp caught in your throat, immediately silenced as a cold, rough hand clamped over your mouth. Panic surged, but your body went stiff when the sharp edge of a knife pressed to your throat. You didn’t need any further confirmation that this was the unsub.

"I don’t know who you are," the voice rasped, low and dangerous, his breath hot and heavy in your ear. "But you shouldn’t have shown up here."

The tension in his voice was unmistakable. You could feel his rage, his plan disrupted by your unexpected presence. Every instinct screamed at you to fight back, but you remained frozen, knowing that one wrong move could end it all.

“I didn’t plan on killing anyone innocent, but you’ve put yourself in this situation,” he spat, his grip tightening on the knife.

In that fleeting moment, you made a decision. Taking a leap of faith, you sank your teeth into the soft flesh of his palm. The sudden bite startled him, and by sheer luck, he loosened his grip on the weapon.

“Christopher!” You shouted, the name ringing out with urgency.

It was enough to catch him off guard. In that instant, you turned, quickly positioning yourself with a better angle. He was taller than you—still, just a boy, consumed by something far beyond his control. His pain was evident, lurking beneath the fury in his eyes. You knew this wasn’t what he wanted.

“Who are you?” His voice was strained, the words gripping with suspicion and confusion.

“I’m here to help you,” you said sincerely, keeping your voice steady.

“No, you’re not,” he denied.

“I swear I am. I know what happened to you. I know what your parents did to you.”

Without warning, he shoved you hard against the house. Your head slammed into the window, a sharp pain exploding in your skull. “You don’t know anything!” he screamed.

“I do, Christopher. I do!” The words came from a place of desperation, your breath ragged. “I understand. I know how much this eats at you, how alone you feel because you’re the only one who knows the truth. But it doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to hurt anyone else. The truth will come out. People will know what your parents did, what really happened here. You’ll get what you want, the world will see that they’re not perfect.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—something soft, vulnerable.

“They all knew what happened!” He said in anger, pointing at the houses surrounding you. “They all knew and no one said anything!” He shook his head, “I’ll never get what I want. It’s too late for that.” he muttered bitterly.

Despite his words, you felt a flicker of hope. He was talking. He was listening. That had to count for something.

“It’s not too late, Christopher,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “I thought the same thing once. But family… family isn’t just the people you’re born to. You can build your own, one that will love you despite everything. I’ve got that family now.”

He swallowed hard, his face momentarily flickering with doubt. “I wish I could believe you,” he said, his voice quiet, tinged with regret.

And then, in a flash, his arm shot out. Instinctively, you braced yourself, squeezing your eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable strike.

As the seconds stretched on, memories—both regrets and cherished moments—flashed before your eyes, a cruel reminder of everything you had to lose.

But then, a loud thud echoed in the night. Christopher crumpled to the ground, his body going limp. You whipped your head up, heart in throat, and saw Spencer standing behind him, the butt of his gun covered in blood, the impact of the blow knocking Christopher out cold.

A shaky breath escaped you, half a sob, half a gasp of relief. You stumbled toward Spencer, your legs nearly giving out as you threw yourself into his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” you cried into his chest, voice cracking. “I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

He shushed you softly, brushing a hand through your hair as he held you close. “It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice soft and soothing. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Twenty minutes later, the team and the police arrived. Spencer had called Hotch the second you’d calmed down enough, and by the time they got there, Christopher was still passed out. The officers dragged him into the back of their car, while JJ and Prentiss took it upon themselves to reassure the neighbors that they had someone in custody.

You knew exactly what was coming when Hotch finally made his way over to you and Spencer, but your head was pounding too much to care.

Hotch scanned the two of you with a sharp, disapproving look. “Really? You went to catch an unsub in your pajamas?”

“The whole ‘catching the unsub’ thing wasn’t exactly part of the plan,” you muttered, wincing slightly as the headache flared.

Hotch exhaled sharply, then turned to Spencer, his gaze a little more pointed. “I could’ve expected this from her, but I expected better from you, Reid.”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, knowing there was no defense. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Hotch gave a sigh in response, his expression softening just a fraction. “I’m too tired to deal with the two of you right now. I expect to see both of you in my office in the morning.”

“Actually, I checked all the rooms in the cabin, and there’s no office. Which is surprising, considering—”

“Spence,” you interrupted him with a nudge of your elbow.

He shot you a tight-lipped look, turning back to Hotch. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

—————

The second you closed the car door behind you and buckled your seatbelt, you passed out. You’d always slept best during car rides, and especially now, with your mind much quieter now that Christopher Eriksen wasn’t your problem anymore.

When you finally arrived back at the cabin, you were still sound asleep. Derek told Spencer to wake you, but he didn’t have it in him. Instead, he carefully made his way to your side of the car, unbuckling your seatbelt. He lifted you into his arms, trying not to huff too loudly as he carried you through the thick snow. He made his way up the stairs quickly, hoping Penelope wouldn’t notice the wet tracks from his boots inside the house—he couldn’t take them off while holding you.

He was glad you were in your pajamas as he gently laid you on the bed. He walked over to the closet, grabbing some extra blankets and draping them over you, hoping it would help you regain some warmth.

Then, he crawled into bed beside you. Closer than he would’ve dared if you were awake, not quite touching, but close enough to share body heat. His gaze lingered on you, watching how peaceful you looked. The night had been a lot to handle, but he knew he’d do it all again if it meant keeping you safe.

The bright light reflected off the snow outside, filtering into the room. Groaning, you rubbed your eyes, the movement only making your headache worse. You huffed and carefully opened your eyes, being met with the sight of Spencer. His hair was a curly mess, and a small, warm smile painted his face.

“Hey, how’s your head?” he asked softly.

The events of last night rushed back to you, and you groaned again. “So, all of that really happened?”

“It did,” Spencer confirmed.

“I really hoped I just got drunk on too much Glühwein,” you sighed, wincing at the thought.

“You can still do that tonight,” he teased.

“No,” you muttered in disgust. “I need to recover from this first.”

You glanced over at him again, seeing the concern still shining in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for putting you in that situation last night,” you said quietly. “Everything about it was just... stupid.”

“If you hadn’t insisted on going, who knows who else he could’ve hurt,” Spencer pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.” You thought about it for a second, the weight lifting slightly. “Still, I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

“I’m glad I went with you,” Spencer said, his voice softening. “If I hadn’t... I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened to you. I would never forgive myself if I wouldn’t have been there in time.”

You gave a heavy sigh, turning your gaze to the ceiling. “That’s why it’s probably best we stay friends,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him. Despite Emily’s pep talk, this was proof that it wouldn’t be wise to start something serious with Spencer.

“Friends instead of what?” Spencer asked, his voice higher, as if eager to hear the answer.

“Instead of us dating,” you said, almost offhandedly, not realizing you were speaking aloud about something you’d never discussed before, even though the topic would come up eventually.

Spencer froze, his eyes wide, hope flickering in them as he looked at you. “You would date me?”

Your heart skipped a beat. You froze too, catching up with the fact that you had said that out loud. Your cheeks warmed, and you immediately turned your gaze to the ceiling, not daring to look at his expression.

“Uh—hypothetically,” you stammered, scrambling to cover your tracks.

“You would hypothetically date me?”

You swallowed, still too flustered to look at him. “Yes. If... you would, I mean. If you wanted that, too...?”

Spencer was silent for a beat, his gaze never leaving you. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes,” you answered, your voice steady despite the racing thoughts in your head.

He slowly moved closer to you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. You flinched back instinctively, and he immediately withdrew his hand, his expression apologetic.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your heart beating faster.

“You said you’d want to date me,” he murmured, his voice unsure.

“Yes, but—” you stopped yourself as the realization hit that he was planning to kiss you. “Oh.”

Tentatively, you reached out and placed your hand on his cheek. You leaned in a little, but this time it was him who pulled back.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice breathless.

“Kissing you.”

“Oh,” he breathed out, his tongue darting over his lips. “Okay.”

You smiled softly, then closed the distance, your lips gently pressing to his.

Spencer hummed in satisfaction, both of you staying like that for a moment, neither of you wanting to pull away. You were the first to break the kiss, catching your breath. If it were up to Spencer, he’d keep his lips on yours forever.

Your eyes fluttered open, faces still inches apart. Spencer cupped your face and pulled you back in, placing several soft pecks on your lips before he leaned on his arm, slightly hovering over you as he deepened the kiss.

You tried to mirror his movements, but a sharp pain shot through your skull. “Ouch,” you hissed, pulling back.

“Just lay down, let me take care of you,” Spencer assured, the warmth of his words making your heart flutter. You slowly lower yourself onto your back, the soft sheets crinkling beneath you, and Spencer moves above you, the blankets still covering both of you.

His lips found yours again. He kept them slightly parted, giving you the chance to slide your tongue against his. The world outside seemed to disappear as you melted into each other, lips moving in sync.

The kisses become more heated, each one a little deeper than the last. His hand moved to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, the other hand resting on your side, his touch sending little sparks of warmth wherever it brushed.

You could feel the heat between you growing. “I’m so warm…” you mumbled against his lips.

His eyes darkened slightly. “Yeah?” His voice was rough as his fingers lightly trailed over the buttons of your pyjama shirt. “Do you want me to take this off?”

You nodded, and he slowly started undoing each button with purposeful care. His gaze flickering between your eyes and the exposed skin. He let out a moan when your shirt finally fell open, his eyes taking you in.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed out in awe, before pressing his lips to yours again.

You responded eagerly, your hands fumbling between your bodies to undo his shirt in the same way. You slid the fabric off his shoulders, letting your hands run over the muscles of his back, feeling the heat of his skin.

He gently pressed his body weight down on you, and you shuddered at the feeling of your nipples pressing against his bare chest.

His lips delicately kissed your face, until he reached your ear. He nipped at your lobe, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Do you like that?” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

You answered in a soft moan, your body arching into him. He didn’t need to ask again; he could tell you were enjoying this as much as he was.

His lips slid lower, kissing and sucking on your neck, while his hand slid down to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, teasing circles.

His mouth moved to your collarbone, and then he teasingly dipped lower.

“God, Spence,” you softly moaned as he placed a wet kiss on your lower stomach. “That feels so good.”

His hand, which has been resting on your breast, trails down until it reaches the waistband of your pyjama pants.

“More, please,” you whimpered, lifting your hips instinctively. His fingers slide around the band as he slowly pulls them down, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

He lowers himself onto his stomach on the mattress. With a tender touch, he lifts your legs over his shoulders.

“Is this okay?”

For a moment, you’ve lost yourself in his gaze—those warm brown eyes looking up at you, his pink lips swollen from his kisses…

“Y-yeah,” you manage to respond, nodding.

You moaned as his mouth made contact with your inner thighs, his tongue warm and wet against your skin. He took his time, kissing his way to the sensitive spot where you needed him most.

“Spencer…” you breathed, your voice shaky with need.

The anticipation was unbearable as his hot breath tickled you, but you didn’t have to wait much longer. Slowly, his tongue flicked over your pussy, and you gasped, your body trembling at the touch.

He moaned in response, as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste of you, his tongue swirling in soft, teasing motions that had your hips lifting off the bed in search of more.

“So fucking sweet,” he muttered against you, before repeating the motion, licking you again and again, while he grinded himself against the matress.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him closer, deeper, your body quivering as he continued. He alternated between sucking and licking your clit, his finger moving up and down your pussy until it entered you gently, then slowly adding another, the stretch an overwhelming pleasure.

You gasped his name, your body writhing beneath him as the pressure built with every move. “Spencer… please, don’t stop…” you begged, voice thick with need.

His fingers curled inside you, pressing just the right spot as his tongue continued swirling around you. Your legs started trembling as you reached the edge.

“I’m—“ you gasped, but the words dissolved into a string of moans as the wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your legs were shaking as you came undone, clenching around his fingers, your hips bucking against his mouth.

Spencer didn’t stop, though. He kept going at a gentle pace, letting you ride out the intensity of your orgasm. Then, he slowly pulled away, his lips glistening as he looked up at you, eyes wide and full of wonder.

“Was that good?” he asked softly, licking his lips.

You laughed breathlessly as you nodded, your chest still rising and falling rapidly. “Come here,” you whispered seductively, pulling him in by the back of his neck to kiss him. You could taste yourself on his lips, which only added to your arousal.

Spencer’s eyes darkened with desire, his forehead pressed to yours. “I need you. I need to be inside of you.”

You nodded, moving your hand down his body, feeling the hardness of him against your palm. He helped you pull his pants down, and you stroked him gently, feeling him twitch in your hand before guiding him toward your entrance. He let out a low groan, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pushed into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moaned, his hips stuttering as he filled you completely. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as his thrusts grew deeper, more urgent.

You could feel every inch of him, every movement as his cock repeatedly hit those places inside that made your head spin. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, your moans mixing with his ragged breaths.

“You’re so warm,” Spencer whimpered. “So perfect for me.”

Your hands gripped his back, nails digging into his skin as you urged him on, your body moving with his. His pace quickened, and you couldn’t hold back the desperate cries that escaped you.

“Spencer… I’m so close,” you gasped.

“Me too,” he moaned, his hips slamming into yours. “Let me come with you. Please, let me come with you.”

You nodded, your body trembling. “Now, Spencer…” you begged in a breathless plea.

His breath hitched, his body tensing as he gave one last deep thrust, and then, with a loud, guttural moan, he came inside you. You followed a moment later, your body clenching around him as you fell apart.

The room was filled with nothing but your ragged breaths, the sound of two bodies, tangled in a quiet, shared moment of bliss. Spencer collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling as he took your hand in his, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

“That was… perfect,” he whispered, his voice full of awe.

You smiled softly as you placed your head on his chest, fingers lazily tracing his stomach. “Yeah,” you said in a breath, your heart full of him. “It really was.”

You let out a soft groan as Spencer stood up, and you instinctively reached for his hand, pulling him back toward you. “Don’t go yet,” you pouted.

Spencer smiled, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and affection. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, wrapping a blanket around his waist before walking to the corner of the room. He rummaged through his bag, his back turned to you for a moment as you blatantly checked him out.

“I miss you,” you murmured, leaning back into the pillows.

He chuckled softly, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not even five feet away from you.”

You shrugged, your voice a little teasing. “Still feels like you're miles away.”

With a smile, he walked back toward you, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hands behind his back. “Which hand?” he playfully asked.

“Left,” you replied without hesitation.

He swiftly shifted the small box he’d been holding from his right hand to his left, then grinned, revealing the gift. “Here you go.”

You blinked in surprise. “That was your present?” you asked, your voice filled with wonder as you recognized the familiar wrapping Garcia had handed you the day before.

Spencer nodded, watching you closely. “Yeah. Open it.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you unwrapped the gift, your heart racing with excitement. Beneath the paper was a velvet black jewelry box. You glanced up at Spencer, your eyes searching his for reassurance. He gave a soft nod, his smile encouraging.

With a gentle flick of your fingers, you opened the box—and there, nestled inside, was the most stunning heart-shaped locket you’d ever seen.

“Oh my God, Spencer,” you breathed, your voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

A shy smile tugged at Spencer’s lips as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it behind his ear. “It used to be my mom’s,” he said. “She doesn’t wear jewelry much anymore, but she wanted me to keep it... to give it to someone special one day.”

Your heart melted at the thought, and you looked at him with newfound tenderness, the weight of his gesture sinking in.

“She was happy when I told her I wanted to give it to you,” he added, his eyes soft with sincerity.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Your mom knows about me?”

Spencer nodded, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “I tell her pretty much everything. She likes hearing about you most.”

“Why?” You curiously asked.

Spencer's smile deepened, and he looked down at his lap for a moment, as though gathering courage. When he looked up at you again, his eyes were soft, full of love.

“Because you make me happy.”

After your intimate moment with Spencer, the inevitable conversation with Hotch had to happen. Just before the talk, Hotch received a call from the lab confirming the DNA found on the Reynolds matched Christopher Eriksen’s—meaning the bittersweet news of Christopher going to prison.

“I still don’t get how the two smartest people on the team act like half a brain when they’re together,” Hotch had said with a half-smile, glancing at you and Spencer. “But… you did good work.”

—————

Later that morning, Emily spotted you, her eyes immediately drawn to the locket around your neck. “Fancy,” she commented, her smirk growing as she cocked an eyebrow. “Where did that come from?”

You felt your cheeks heat up as you absently played with the necklace, a soft smile on your lips. “It’s Spencer’s. He gave it to me.”

Emily’s smirk turned into a knowing smile, and you could see the proud glint in her eyes. “You two are something else.”

—————

Throughout the day you and Spencer did your own thing, trying to act casual in front of the team—yet every time his hand brushed your back or he leaned in for a quick kiss in the empty hallway, your heart fluttered. You couldn’t help but sneak glances at him as he played chess with Rossi, your eyes catching his in those fleeting moments.

You felt Spencer’s presence behind you like a familiar warmth as you stood in the kitchen. He slipped his arms around your waist and buried his face in the crook of your neck, placing soft kisses.

“Who would’ve thought you’d be such a romantic?” you mused, running your fingers through his hair, the feeling of him against you enough to make your heart race.

His lips hummed against your skin. “It’s your fault,” he stated, his voice thick with affection. “You drive me crazy.”

You tugged him up the stairs to your shared room, pushing him playfully onto the bed. You stood between his legs as you began to slowly peel away your clothes, revealing the red laced lingerie set Derek had gifted you during Secret Santa.

“Never thought I’d be thanking Derek for gifting you this,” Spencer mused, his hands sliding up and down your legs, a smirk displayed on his lips.

You smiled, tracing his jaw with your thumb, the heat between you growing. “What do you think of checking out the hot tub?” you purred.

He swallowed nervously, his eyes flicking down to his lap. You rolled your eyes as you responded in a sigh, “You can choose the temperature.”

Before you could say another word, he scooped you up, lifting you over his shoulder with a playful slap to your ass. You yelped, giggling as he carried you off toward the bathroom.

—————

The cabin was large, but unfortunately not big enough to avoid Garcia, so you knew what was coming when you heard the familiar sound of her heels clicking against the hallway floor. She was heading straight toward you, her finger pointing accusingly at you.

“I slept with Spencer.” you hurriedly spilled out before she could say something.

She stopped in her tracks. Her face went through a thousand different expressions in the blink of an eye—confusion, disbelief, excitement—before she finally let out a high-pitched squeal. “You... you slept with Spencer?”

“Twice,” you giddily answered, the smile creeping across your face before you could stop it.

Garcia’s expression finally broke into a huge grin, and without missing a beat, she grabbed your hands and started bouncing on the spot. “Derek is gonna lose his mind!”

You barely had time to protest before she was already up the stairs.

As the end of the day drew near, the group gathered around the fire pit in the backyard, cocoa mugs in hand, the warmth of the flames casting flickering shadows on everyone’s faces.

“Are you sure your phone is on silent?” Garcia asked Hotch, eyeing him with suspicion.

“I’m sure, Garcia,” Hotch replied with a small smile.

She was satisfied, her focus shifting to Rossi. “The honor is yours. You may present the last Secret Santa gift.”

Rossi cleared his throat, glancing around awkwardly. “Now, this might sound like a cheap excuse for forgetting to buy a present…” Laughter rippled through the group, and Garcia shot him an offended look. “But... I think I can speak for all of us when I say the best gift is us being together in this beautiful location.”

He turned to Hotch, his voice genuine. “Aaron, you’ve built a good team here. A good family. You should be proud.”

Hotch’s smile softened, his eyes briefly glancing over the group, the weight of the moment settling on him. “I am. Thank you, David.”

And for the first time, you didn’t question whether you deserved a place in this loving, dysfunctional family—you knew you belonged.

121 notes · View notes

mysteria157 · 1 day ago

Text

Ryu!!!!

I’m so so sorry for the delay, but I’m here! Do not apologize for writing all of this because I loved it!! To see what made you smile and laugh and blush is the best part for me heehee.

Sukuna was so daunting at first. Because the only thing in my mind was the fact that he would never even entertain having a human next to him LOL. But I think that’s what’s so fun about fandom writing and characterization. You can think of the wonkiest scenarios and say to yourself “he might not ever do this…but if he did, what would it look like?” For Sukuna it was, he doesn’t even like other emotions besides power amongst others…definitely not love. But if he did experience love, how would that be shown for someone like him?

You’re a human yes, but you were the one who he saw as worthy to be called his Queen, so clearly there’s something there. So to show sukuna’s process of coming to terms with what he’s feeling…through his care and consideration he tries to wave off, I think it felt right for him. If he’s going to make a gingerbread house, I knew he would love the tale behind it LOL. If he’s going to watch Elf, I knew he would complain about Buddy. And at first I only wanted to write just little traditions, but the concept of him trying to guess his gift seemed so funny Lolol.

He’s experiencing love for the first time and you’ve given him the space and patience to process it in his own way.

When I looked at your blog to get inspo, I was so blown away. It’s beautiful, Ryu! Your fragrance posts?!? I took notes for myself LOL.

And I know you think you can’t see yourself with Sukuna but you should! I think that’s what makes selfshipping so amazing. We have the freedom to imagine whatever we want. And you should embrace that Sukuna doesn’t love…but if he is going to love, it’ll be for carnage and fighting and you. And you’re worthy of that, just like you said. You’re deserving of it. Don’t ever feel like you shouldn’t write about him. Because I would love to see more of it 💕

I hope your heart isn’t too heavy today and that your holidays are going well ❄️

Writing about Sukuna for you was such an honor. I had so much fun. And to learn more about you in the process was one of the best gifts of this entire journey.

Happy Holidays, Ryu 💐💕🎄

Merry Christmas from my little corner at the @pixelcafe-network. Thank you so much for hosting this gift exchange! I had so much fun writing this for my elf @grimmweepers. Your Christmas list gave me the opportunity to write Sukuna for the first time. I wanted to lean as much into your likes as much as possible so that it feels like it's you in this story.

I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: True Form!Sukuna x Reader (Ryu)

Rating/CW: slight dark romance, fluff, implied sexual content, dark themes (references to violence, blood, destruction, and a hint of cannibalism because it's Sukuna). MDNI!

WC: ~8.5K

Summary: Sukuna gives in to mortal festivities, for the promise of a worthy gift, unaware that some traditions leave marks deeper than ancient power.

Divider: @cyberbeat @arminsumi @firefly-graphics

The winter night drapes itself across the ancient estate, stars scattered above like diamonds on black velvet. Fresh snow has transformed this formidable domain into something almost magical—though no amount of pristine white can truly soften the centuries of power that seems to pulse through every shadow of the grounds.

You used to take these walks alone, finding solace in the environment that gave way to the shifting change of the seasons. But now, on this chilly and almost silent night, your solitary footprints are accompanied by another. Deeper, more commanding treads belong to Sukuna, whose very presence seems to make the stars above burn brighter, as if they, too, acknowledge the power that moves beneath them, feeding off the cursed energy he emits with every breath.

Your exhale forms a frosty white cloud before vanishing into the night air. It’s cold, far too cold for a walk, but you’re out here to clear your thoughts, to quell the overwhelming urge to ask Sukuna a question that you don’t want to imagine the answer to.

The thought first emerged when fall gave way to winter, the autumn leaves replaced by the starkness of bare branches now hidden beneath blankets of snow. The thought of markets late at night adorned in yellow lights, of hot cocoa and gifts wrapped in red ribbon.

The words, having coiled behind your teeth for days like a spring, finally slink past your lips. “I was thinking…what if we celebrated Christmas together?”

“Christmas.” The word leaves his mouth not as a question, but as if it’s not worth inflection.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting your rolling anxiety. He’s never been one for new things. This is his domain, after all—his home, his formidable walls that he has erected and ruled with an iron fist. The mere thought of anyone—let alone a mortal—suggesting something outside his design is almost laughable.

You pause in your footsteps, tracing his looming shadow in the snow before you look up at him. He’s tall, looming with a height that comes not from this realm, his silhouette dwarfing everything around him. While you are covered in furs and wool and warmth, he stands in a simple black Haori, barely covering his skin and open to show his chest.

The dark markings of his tattoos glow like black embers in the moonlight, each one a testament to the ancient power that pulses beneath his skin. Two pairs of muscular arms fold across his chest, large and thrumming with strength. An archaic strength that can level cities and destroy with little effort, yet those same fearsome arms cradle you with unexpected gentleness in the depths of night.

The fact that you understand this side of Sukuna, gives you the strength to press on.

“It’ll be our first Christmas together,” you press.

“A mortal festivity,” he claps back, naturally sharp but with little heat.

“I’m a mortal,” you counter, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to back down from the menacing glare you can see right through. “And from what I remember, I am your Queen.”

Quadruple crimson eyes narrow from your truthful declaration, their glow cutting through the frost-laden air like embers in the snow. The two on the right gleam brighter against the rough texture of his half-petrified cheek, like jagged stone contrasting with smooth flesh on the other side. “You mistake indulgence for approval.”

You shrug, nonplussed, sniffing the chilly air up your runny nose. “Then indulge me. Mortals, like myself, put up Christmas trees, decorate their homes, bake treats, and watch movies.”

He hums, taking a step toward you. As he draws closer, the air shifts. While you have no cursed energy, you’ve come to know his intimately. It presses against your skin like an unseen force, electric and stifling, its movements mirroring the emotions he tries to smother. You’ve learned to read it like your favorite book, though it’s a story only you seem privy to, and you don’t intend to let him know.

“Indulge me?” you try again.

He remains unconvinced, his characteristic indifference plucking at your cold skin as you look up at him unflinching. It’s not like he denies you often. Sukuna, for as powerful as he is, gives to your many asks with a wave of his hand as if your happiness is unwarranted, even if his gaze flickers to you minutely for praise at haven catered to you.

Your confidence has only grown steadily, but that anxiety that curls around an ask still tastes sour. So you pull out another mental note card, a line you practiced in the mirror for days for this very moment.

“Gift-giving is also another tradition,” you sigh in faux nonchalance, pursing your dry lips as you try to ignore the flicker of curiosity you see on his face. The subtle tick of his jaw, the way one of his eyes tightens just so, the feel of his cursed energy pausing in its movements as if to hear you more clearly. “I know you’d never turn down any sort of offering. Especially from your Queen.”

Only seconds of anxious silence pass before that deep hum permeates the air, a gentle give. “You use that title often, Ryu.” You shrug again, biting the flesh of your cheek to suppress the victorious smile you can feel in your muscles. “Why must I wait for a specific day of the year to receive a gift? I can simply take what I want with little effort.”

His hubris knows no bounds. Neither does your perseverance.

“You put up with a few days of Christmas cheer, and I’ll make sure you get the best gift ever. Something wonderful and fitting for the King of Curses,” you promise, hoping to bring him home with your sales pitch. “But no griping.”

Sukuna scoffs, indignation heavy in the sound as he puffs white smoke into the air. “I do not gripe.” The look you throw him is unimpressed; one brow arched in a silent challenge that grants you a narrowed-eyed glare of concession in return. “Why do you assume you will get what you want?”

He reaches for you as he complains, and despite his sharp tone, you lean into the weight of his touch. You’ve come to know the language of his hands, each gesture a revelation of the complex nature he embodies. Like now, as he adjusts the furs draped around your shoulders—precious things hunted and skinned himself. His movements are deliberate, with hands impossibly gentle despite their proven capacity for destruction.

“Because you see me,” you whisper, the words soft but heavy with meaning. They carry the weight of something unspoken, a recognition of the four-letter word he is not yet ready to voice—your understanding of his care beneath his praise, his protection weaved into his possession.

A sales pitch now seems trivial, disrespectful even, in light of how the tone has shifted around you. Shame prickles at your skin, but it fades just as quickly, overwhelmed by the truth of your words. You do see him, even when he's being stubborn.

Sukuna’s answering hum to your question—to the anxious worry that started this conversation—reverberates through the air, an unspoken approval that settles in the space between you both.

Days later, the skies bloom with gentle hues of cotton candy—pale blue and pastel pink, slowly darkening as the sun peeks on the horizon. The dawn of winter greets you with its chilly embrace, its breath sharp and unrelenting, its touch frostbitten. You’re bleary-eyed as you shuffle over broken branches and moss-covered paths in the East forest.

The weight of your determination keeps you moving, even as your body protests, regretting your tenacity because why would Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, buy a tree when he can simply ‘get one from the backyard.’

“I like that one,” you offer, shakily pointing with a heavily gloved finger at a modest six-footer, its snow-laden branches slumping under the weight.

“If I’m to entertain a mortal festivity, it will not be done poorly.”

You’re far too cold to point out his first gripe of the day. His voice carries that familiar edge, but beneath it rests a note that only you can hear—the same careful attention he uses when observing the movements of his enemies, now turned to the expansive forest to the east of his estate.

You close your mouth around an exhale, your cheeks puffing like a fish in your own rendition of a pout as you follow him. The forest stretches silent and vast around you, a living extension of how far his power goes. Sukuna stops abruptly, still as stone as he surveys the trees with a menacing gaze. The dominance he exudes seems to make the air itself hold its breath. You’re simply a spectator—watching an apex predator stalk its prey—it would be a marvelous sight if you weren’t shaking like a leaf.

“This one,” he declares at last, voice carrying the familiarity of pride and authority as he looks up at a magnificent pine.

It’s uncharacteristically different in every way; a shadow brown trunk as thick as his waist, strong branches that house deep green needles, forming their own canopy over the other and covered in the white blanket of snow. Its towering height practically pierces the sky, a physical representation of how the being in front of you sees himself—ambivalent and all-seeing.

With a flick of two fingers, Sukuna’s Cleave technique slices cleanly through the thick trunk. The looming pine shivers, snow plopping from its arms in white globs before it slowly falls to the ground with a muffled thud. The wind that picks up from the disturbance tousles his pink hair, strands whipping against his marked face. One of Sukuna’s muscular arms grabs his prize and effortlessly hoists it onto his shoulder.

You can’t help but admire the broad expanse of his back. The curve and dip of muscle against black markings that shift with each movement, the skin warm to the touch despite how cold he makes himself seem.

The sight of him makes you think of his Christmas gift—your secret project—the fabric carefully chosen to embrace that strength with something just as enduring. You wonder if he will notice the details, the painstaking intricacy you’ve chosen just for him.

His gift is soon forgotten when his gaze falls on you, an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Carmine pools that invite you to step closer and gaze beneath its liquid, to see small slivers of vulnerability presented in the form of the pine on his shoulders. He’s waiting, expecting not praise for his strength, but praise for what he has provided. An offering.

You smile gently, genuinely, and without quivering despite the temperature. “I love it,” you compliment, watching as your words card over his offering like a caress that only fans the flames of his pride. His belly mouth curves into a smirk, chuffed in agreement with its host, white teeth glistening and ghostly breath puffing in steaming plumes.

He walks to you, thunderous steps shaking the forest floor but doing little to shake you, tucking and readjusting your furs once more before ushering you back to the estate, his unspoken need for you to get warm carving a smile onto your face.

In Sukuna’s vast estate, where shadows roam, and servants move with silent reverence, there is no room for joviality and merriment. He rules unflinchingly, with a face usually etched in disinterest and a heart that beats only in the throes of violence and battle. But since you’ve set foot in his domain that he keeps dark and teeming with fear, things have changed.

Now, the halls carry the scent of your vast perfume collection, a blend of smoky oud and earthy florals that linger in the air long after you pass. The servants, once bound by fear, now offer gentle smiles to the mortal who goes against the rules of this cursed realm.

Now, the shadows walk with you, satisfying your thirst for the paranormal as they follow you like a silent watchdog, a testament to the orders of their master—a being with four arms, four eyes, and a grudging acceptance of your presence.

Now, the mortal who carved her way into Sukuna’s domain with hardly a blink, the mortal who can see beneath his veneer of bleach-white bone and hardened blood…

Now… that mortal has decided to bring Christmas to these ancient halls.

Darkness now flickers with light. Pine garland decorates the windowsills in the expansive front room of Sukuna’s estate, its sharp scent striking through the air with every brush of your fingertips along its needles. The front room, what was once empty and meant only as a tunnel to another destination, is now lively from your touch.

A tall fireplace, its mantle wrapped in garlands of cypress and silk ribbons the color of deep red wine that reminds you of his eyes, casts a warm glow over goblet-red curtains that frame looming windows and fur-lined chairs that you curl into when you read your many books.

Sukuna has molded his domain to fit your silent requests. Your Christmas spirit that Sukuna continues to entertain if only for the promise of his reward, breathes life. His spoils—the cleaved pine—stands proudly by the fireplace, its branches wrapped in shining white lights and delicate ornaments.

Uraume was diligent, while unwilling to entertain anything pertaining to mortals, their loyalty outshines their disinterest when it comes to their Queen. Said loyalty shines in the snow that rests on each emerald branch, crystalline shimmers colored amber and orange from the roaring flames of the fireplace. Their technique ensures it will never melt, an ethereal touch of winter preserved.

You can’t help the warm smile that graces your features as you admire the transformed space. But it’s the scents wafting from the kitchen that draw you from your admiration. Cinnamon and nutmeg dance with something darker, a metallic tang that speaks to how well you’ve learned to blend your world with his.

Uraume, for as menacing as a curse user they are, has the cooking skills worthy of Michelin praise. The kitchen is their sacred domain but is now a battlefield of flour and spices, mortal and ancient alike. The heat from multiple ovens warms your bare toes, and copper pots and pans clank and steam with soluble renditions of a Christmas feast.

Sukuna’s dutiful servant moves about the kitchen with practiced ease, refusing help from the other cursed spirit-like servants in your presence no matter how many times you’ve insisted that you don’t mind.

“The consistency is correct,” Uraume observes, subtle praise in their soft tone as they nod toward the ruby liquid you’ve folded into dough. “Sukuna-sama will find it acceptable.”

You hide your smile at their careful choice of words. Months of coexistence have taught you to read the subtle ways in which Uraume expresses care—their meticulous attention to your recipes when cooking for you, your happiness from delicious meals enough to mask their fondness they will never admit to.

“We’re going to make gingerbread houses,” you exclaim an hour later to an indifferent Sukuna. His presence in the kitchen is rare, and you’ve had to ignore the peep of garbled eyes from cursed spirits who poke through the kitchen doors in disbelief before scuttling away in fear of being caught.

The counter is littered with cooled cutouts of gingerbread house walls, arches, and windows. White icing in pastry bags that will serve as glue and gumdrops to be adorned as paneling is the perfect setup for this small occasion between you both.

Despite Sukuna’s menacing demeanor, he is astute. It’s why he’s achieved the status he has now, why he’s feared among the world, both mortal plane and astral. So he wastes no time piecing together his own creation, his eyebrows creased in concentration fitting of a warrior planning a siege.

As Uraume flutters around you both, you recount the tale of Hansel and Gretel, Sukuna’s crimson eyes gleaming with interest at the more gruesome parts of the brothers Grimm.

“So this witch,” he muses, two hands delicately pipping white icing for a jagged wall, his other two hands covered in flour. “She devoured children who wandered into her domain.” His eyes twinkle with approval, his belly mouth curving into a devious smirk. “An acceptable response to trespassers.”

“She built the house to lure him in,” you add, swallowing a chuckle as you feel his cursed energy wiggle around you in interest. “That’s why it was made out of sweets.”

“Why did these children not become a proper meal?”

“They outsmarted her,” you explain, watching in muted supplication as his face drops from satisfaction to disapproval. “Pushed her into her own oven.”

His belly mouth scoffs, frowning as his thick tongue tastes the spiced air. “Mortals.”

As your special cookies perfume the air with metallic sweetness, you admire Sukuna as he works. He utilizes all four hands to guide his gingerbread creation to completion, clicking his teeth when a wall crumbles in his palms and humming in delight when the icing holds steady. Your gingerbread house lays half-created as you watch him, observing in silence until his masterpiece sits before you.

It’s a fortress—walls as imposing as a cathedral’s, windows designed to daze would-be escapees. The path to the door winds hypnotically, sugar-crystal steps that seem to pulse with cursed energy, leading young feet exactly where he wants them. The final touch? Miniature figurines made of pretzel sticks and marshmallows that are arranged at the front door like an offering.

“The witch’s failure was in her execution, not her concept,” he declares. Where normal gingerbread houses invite warmth, his promises something darker—a blend of Christmas tradition and Sukuna’s deadlier inclinations. “No child would think to check for a secondary barrier here.” He speaks as if defending a dissertation, pointing to the candy canes that could easily become weapons instead of the holiday cheer they should represent.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your chest, soft and genuine, as you admire his evil architecture. Four eyes find you immediately, piercing in their gaze as if defensive, yet still holding something akin to wanting your approval. Your hand finds his marked cheek, fingers tracing the tattoos that mirror all over his body. He leans into your touch with imperial indifference, wary of Uraume’s presence in the kitchen but not indignant enough to deny your warmth.

“A domain worth of the King of Curses,” you praise, watching how his belly mouth curves into the wide grin that his master does not offer. It’s more than enough to know he’s satisfied.

“And why is yours unfinished?” Sukuna asks, crossing his arms in mock reproach despite the splattering of flour on his skin and Haori. “Surely, my Queen will make something of equal likeness.”

The oven behind you dings before you can reply, and Uraume retrieves your treat, the aroma rich and spiced. You slide the steaming plate between you, the burgundy cookies still piping hot and ready for him.

“I had other priorities,” you supply, blowing on your fingers before you offer a cookie to his belly mouth. It opens wide, tongue lolling to the side like a panting dog and already watering before you place the cookie on his taste buds. He chomps loudly, sharp teeth devouring the concoction of ginger, blood, and aged spices from Uraume’s private garden—a perfect blend of your world and his. His cursed energy warms, wrapping around your waist in approval as Sukuna throws cookies into his own mouth now.

“Is this my gift?” is all he asks, satisfied but ever impatient as he and his stomach finish the plate. You don’t resist the eye roll. “It’s a very acceptable gift. However, I wouldn’t have entertained Christmas if you only wanted to cook.”

“It’s not your gift Sukuna.” You wave him off, snatching the now empty plate before his belly mouth’s tongue can lick at the blood crumbs, another heaping plate taking its place that Uraume leaves. “And don’t try to guess. You won’t get very far.”

“Hm.” He leans back slightly, one of his hands reaching to dust flour from his forearm. You roll your eyes again, choosing instead to finish your gingerbread house while he sulks. “Then it must be something more…significant. Ancient scrolls, perhaps? Found deep within forgotten temples, imbued with curses?” His voice drips with mock curiosity as if daring you to reveal even the slightest clue.

You snort, pausing mid-pipe to give him a flat look. “First of all, ancient scrolls? Really, Sukuna?” His belly mouth grumbles at being ignored, lips covered in a red dusting of cookie smacking for more. “Second of all, what would I be doing roaming around a temple? This isn’t the Heian era, despite how much you like to talk about it.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, more intrigued than annoyed by your commentary. “So I am wrong?”

“Completely,” you answer, biting back another laugh as you return to your task of piping green icing along a gingerbread wall to resemble bushels of grass. “Do you think your gift revolves around curses and destruction?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” he counters smoothly, his tone smug and his gaze unwavering.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the nth time in only so many minutes, feeling the warmth of his cursed energy curling around your waist again, tugging at you like a child pulling his mother’s sleeve for attention. “Just eat your cookies and stop guessing, Sukuna. You’re nowhere close.”

His belly mouth snickers as Sukuna throws another cookie into it, but his narrowed gaze lingers on you as if memorizing every shift in your expression, every subtle movement of your hands, waiting for you to slip. You have a feeling that even though Christmas is only days away, his curiosity will make it seem like an eternity.

As he often says, Sukuna indulges for you quite often. Trivial mortal instruments meant to stave off your boredom. He tells himself it’s for his own peace, to keep you from pestering him in the throne room, even though he still searches for you and longs for your presence in his lap.

One of those mortal instruments? A television. He knows what they are but has never been bothered to pay attention—an invention he dismissed as frivolous and mind-numbing. The flickering screen is often a source of laughter and comfort on one of your sleepless nights, and though he swore to never sit beside you while it played, here he is. On Christmas Eve. Reclined casually on the expansive sofa in your chambers, a disdainful sneer aimed at the annoying mortal known as ‘Buddy the Elf’, judgment radiating from his very being.

“Ryu, you cannot possibly enjoy this,” he huffs, one hand picking at nonexistent lint on his linen pants, another draped over the back of the couch, and one more cradling your soft form against him.

“Elf is a Christmas tradition!” You insist, handing a heaping hand of buttery popcorn to his belly mouth who accepts with a please grumble. Unlike Sukuna, who prefers a more…carnivorous diet, his belly mouth will eat almost anything it is fed. You chuckle softly, laying your head on his naked chest as you both watch Buddy decorate the department store into a winter wonderland. "I love it."

“He trespasses into their domain and then defiles it. Disgusting.”

“I thought you agreed not to grumble.”

“I never agreed.”

You hide your smile in the warmth of Sukuna’s side, breathing in the familiar aroma of burnt incense that clings to his skin, grounding and intoxicating. The movie plays on, you enjoying, while Sukuna analyzes each scene with the precision he’d use to raze a village. He won’t admit what he’s been reduced to—a powerful being indulging in idiotic entertainment to please the mortal lady of his estate. All for a gift that he cannot guess.

You trace idle patterns on his marked arm. Each touch makes his cursed energy flutter beneath your fingertips, electric kisses on your skin that he pretends not to notice. These are the moments you love most—when the fearsome King of Curses allows himself to simply…exist beside you, his pride softened by the peace you often bring.

“A weapon,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through Buddy and Jovie’s shower singing.

You blink, craning your neck to look up at him. “What?”

He gestures expectantly to the room around him. “You’ve found a weapon worthy of my domain.”

You should have known the moment he stopped complaining about the movie that his attention had drifted. The fact that this is what he is thinking about makes warmth bloom in your chest. “Are you guessing?”

“I do not guess,” he insists, glowering at the television to avoid looking at you, his curiosity-tinged cursed energy betraying him. “I deduce.”

A weapon would be fitting for someone like him—his strength, his dominance, his endless hunger for power. But it’s a far cry from what he will get. You throw more popcorn into your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at just how wrong he truly is.

He’s silent only for a moment before he adds. “Why must I wait until tomorrow, when you can simply tell me now?” His logic is, as usual, rooted in authority and impatience. You chew another handful of popcorn deliberately, ignoring him as you keep your eyes glued to the screen.

Not even five minutes pass before one of his large hands brushes against the nape of your neck. His fingers card through your hair, tugging the strands—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You know what he’s doing. His touch feels like a predator sneakily luring in prey. You know this game—this is Sukuna feigning boredom because he’s curious, using seduction to coax you when you’re being stubborn. It’s as effective as it is dangerous. But this time, you’re prepared.

“If you’re going to ignore the movie,” you trail off, your voice a mix of seductive challenge and amusement. You twist in his lap to straddle his waist, sliding your hands up his chest, tracing your fingers around his nipples in slow, deliberate circles. He does not react, at least not on his face. But you can feel the imperceptible jut of his hips, feel his cursed energy hum up your calves, and wrap around your body like a warm fog.

“I know of something else we can do.” You’re suggestive, voice dropping to the pits of your stomach as your lips brush along the sharp edge of his jaw. The shift in power is immediate, and exactly what you want. His hands tighten on your waist, head tilting slightly, giving you better access to lavish him with praise.

“Is that so?” His voice is pitched low, heady already. “Anything is better than this drivel.”

You roll your eyes as you fall back on the sofa, your body arching under his touch as he pulls you closer. Your hand slides lower, tracing the edge of his haori where it hangs loose against his skin.

“You’re impatient as usual,” you whisper, nipping lightly at his neck. “But you’ll wait this time. Won’t you?”

His eyes narrow as if in protest. But he doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, his hands roam your body, each touch firm and possessive. You grin against his skin, knowing you’ve managed to distract him…at least for now.

“A temple,” his voice rumbles through the darkness, shaking you from the deep edges of sleep. His massive form curves around you possessively, his warmth seeping into your skin. Both of you lie tangled in the aftermath of your earlier indulgences—the sofa, the wall, and, finally, the silk sheets of his bed. All bearing witness to his insatiable need for you.

“Mmm?” you mumble, still trying to pull yourself awake.

“Built in my honor,” he elaborates without repeating himself, shaking you again with a harshness that makes you yelp and throw a glare over your shoulder. He smirks to himself as if he’s finally solved the mystery. “That is my gift.”

You groan, burying your face in your pillow, but secretly relishing in the way he can’t seem to let this go. Rolling over halfway, you peek up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. The moonlight creates a shimmering backdrop, outlining his form with silver, blood-red eyes gleaming with determination. For someone who claims to have no interest in mortal traditions, he’s relentless about this one.

“You woke me up to guess….again,” you grumble, glaring at him through a half-open eye.

“I do not guess,” he starts, ready to repeat the same phrase from hours ago. “I simply—”

“Deduce, yes, I got that the first time.” You cut him off and surge up to give him a kiss, feeling his surprise for only seconds before he melts into your affection. “Go to sleep.”

“A secret text,” he murmurs against your lips, undeterred even as his arms pull you closer. “Written in blood.”

You grimace before answering with your lips on his again, your leg curling around a thick waist, ready to use the ammo from your arsenal just like a few hours ago. “Do I need to distract you again?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

The midnight air watches with bated breath as Sukuna rolls on top of you, his towering frame rousing the tingle between your legs.

“I know your method of distraction,” he whispers against the skin of your neck. His belly mouth kisses the skin of your inner thigh, licking its lips at the promise of what you might offer if you’re willing. “Considering you are no novice, one might think that you keep secrets from your King often.”

Your affronted laugh dissolves into a sigh as both stomach and Sukuna adorn your skin with wet kisses—one along the vein of your pelvis while the other works at the skin behind your ear. “O-one might think,” you manage, gasping as his mouth finds the pulse in your neck, “that my King is simply impatient for Christmas morning.”

“It is already past midnight,” he growls at the feel of your touch drifting lower, his cocks already throbbing and oozing precum. “Merry Christmas.”

“A proper Christmas morning!” you correct with a chortle, smacking his chest playfully. He hums noncommittally, the sound vibrating through you both, possessive and yet tender in a way that only you are privy to. “A few more hours. Let me wake up properly.”

With those final words, you promptly roll over, denying him any more sensual touch that could ignite the early morning. Sukuna, used to your defiance, simply grumbles at your withdrawal, choosing instead to press searing kisses along the naked skin of your back. They ignite the embers in your belly but are not persistent enough to tempt you further.

“A domain expansion,” he insists, inhaling the perfume at the dip of your spine, lips brushing the soft skin there.

“I can’t even do that.” Your voice is heavy, the dredges of sleep finally pulling at your consciousness.

“More blood cookies.”

You remain silent, using his solemn guesses as music to lull you back to sleep.

Sukuna can feel your presence even deep in sleep, his cursed energy wound tightly around you like a second skin, always attuned to your warmth, your breath, the way you shift beneath the covers. So when that connection shivers—when his energy touches only empty space—his crimson eyes snap open. Your side of the bed is still warm, a ghost of you lingering on his silk sheets.

He can still feel you in the estate, so he rises slowly, surveying his chamber. He takes in the transformation--the pine and silk ribbons that are around the mantle now present in his chambers, and the smell of cider and blood cookies that still wafts in the air around him. Resting along one wall is a beautiful vanity carved from marble with obsidian-lined mirrors and velvet surfaces adorned with your plethora of fragrances. The table near his window is littered with books, a speaker—another mortal instrument—rests quietly, no classical music that you enjoy playing.

His room—once untouchable, dark, and sacred—is now infused with you. It should feel like a violation, his personal sanctum defiled with the touch of a mortal. And yet.

His body is no longer cold in the halls because you thrive in warmth. His servants may bow in fear to him, but they smile at you. Shadows, once tools of terror, are now a source of protection and amusement, a manic gleam of fascination with the otherwordly preventing you from being fearful.

His emotions are still a mystery, but slowly unfurling like petals that have been sleeping for many winters. Anything besides strength and power, besides determination and tenacity are weak—should be weak. But you feel these emotions plenty, and to Ryomen Sukuna, you are far from weak.

The soft yellow lights from the pine tree spill against the floor, welcoming his bare feet as he enters the large living room that has come to life because of you and for you. He won’t admit it out loud, the pride that surges through his chest like a rushing wave when he looks at the tree. A pagan symbol meant to honor a god that is not himself, willingly brought into his domain by his own hand, a rare sight in his forest that only his eye could catch. He cleaved it. He carried it upon his shoulders. He cupped the approval in your eyes like water in a shallow pool in a drying desert, sacred and coveted.

His efforts have become yours, decorated in tinsel and ornaments, in obnoxiously bright lights and snow that will never melt. And you sit next to it, your silhouette glowing against the roaring fireplace, your gaze looking up at what he’s allowed you to have. You noticed his presence long ago, but you remain transfixed with the tree, a soft smile gracing your features as he draws closer.

“It is far too early,” he rumbles, his voice gentle but heavy in the silent Christmas air. “Come back to bed.”

You huff in reply, not bothering to offer words even as he sinks down next to you. His arms crossed over his chest, his legs folding in to sit with grace on the fur-covered floor. This close, he can smell another fragrance that you collect, a smoky Oud that coats your skin like a second skin.

It’s one of his favorites, yet another thing he will not admit, but you know. You know from the way he buries his face in your neck at night, his chambers shrouded in darkness beside the slanting of moonlight on his sheets, his cursed energy caressing your skin in appreciation.

“It’s a great tree, you know,” you sigh, wistfully. You hope to keep the tree up and lit long after Christmas passes. It’s a wonderful sight, a depiction of a past life before you became aware of the unknown, of curses and spirits, sorcery and realms besides Heaven and Hell. To see it now, in the domain of a powerful king, shining brightly as if the one who cut it down did not have four arms and eyes. “It’s strong…resilient.”

“Of course it is. Who do you take me for?” he snaps, tone not holding any heat as his sharp gaze looks at you from head to toe. He leans imperceptibly into you when you laugh, a sound that shakes from your robe-covered chest and into the warm air, the shadows catching it as if they are fireflies in the night.

You finally pull your gaze from the tree, looking to Sukuna and he refuses to let you hear the hitch in his breath. He refuses to tighten his jaw or let you hear the click of bone as he fights the urge to openly bask in your gaze. “I have something for you.”

You grab a box beneath the tree, the only object that decorates the skirt. You’re climbing into his large lap before he can protest, willingly invading his space without fear of the consequences. For others, a swift death. For you, a subconscious shift in his form, one of his arms falling behind you and hitching along your hip to steady you on his thigh.

“I hope you like it,” you muse, shrugging with indifference to shield your anticipation. “I know "human sentiments" are not your specialty.”

The hands not holding your back trace along the red ribbon, silky soft and tied neatly by you. But before you can push the box more insistently into his hold, his hands slide under yours, firmly stilling your movements.

One of his hands reaches behind his back, his form shifting closer before he presents you with his own box. It’s smaller than yours, crafted in dark, polished wood, the flames from the fireplace glimmering along the surface.

“How can I let you meddle and not have anything to counter it with?” It’s all Sukuna offers, tone low and edged with something warmer than usual. He places the box in your hands, his gaze heavy on your face as though waiting for a reaction. Truly, the thought of him getting you something had not crossed your mind. Sukuna seemed more than willing to put up with your holiday antics if only to get something in return. So the weight of the box in your hands, cool against your palm, feels substantial.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid, the dark wood creaking softly. Nestled inside a bed of rich blue velvet, is something that steals the breath from your lungs. It gleams against the firelight as you pick it up, its crystal surface refracting shards of gold and crimson that dance across your body. The shape is elegant yet otherworldly, the surface etched with markings that you’ve come to see throughout his estate. A stopper made of black Onyx crowns it, carved into a teardrop that you pinch and pull to open.

The scent curls into the air, smoothing beneath your nostrils in a delicate yet commanding embrace. It’s sharp at first, with notes of what you recognize as juniper and lemon, fresh and crisp like the frost that curls on the windows in your chamber. You’re an expert in fragrance, so it doesn’t take you long to detect the undercurrent of bergamot and pepper, adding an edge that’s reminiscent of Sukuna’s power—lurking beneath the surface.

It seems as if the notes are never-ending. Pine needles and incense weave into a rich, earthy warmth, like the forest you both walked through to cut down the decorated pine that rests behind you. Amber and balsam provide a sweetness that lingers with its base notes and a touch of vanilla. Finally, the richness of cinnamon adds a spicy conclusion, as if kissing your skin before it fades into the morning air.

“You didn’t,” you begin, mouth suddenly dry, your eyes quite the opposite. “You made this…?”

“Do you think anyone else could, Ryu?” he counters, his tone holding a rare softness that you wish you were more levelheaded to preserve forever. A hand not resting on your back drifts along your shoulder blades, caressing in a mixture of observance and reverence. “It is yours.”

Like everything else in this domain.

That is what he wants to add. Is what curls at the tip of his tongue. But he uses your fluttering eyelashes to distract that urge that throbs in his chest. Uses the sight of you resting the perfume carefully back in its velvet encasing before closing the wooden box as if it might break.

“It’s beautiful,” you finally whisper, uncaring of how shaky you sound. The gift is uniquely Sukuna, deeply reflecting his essence but still having you in mind. “Thank you.”

He offers that characteristic hum, rumbling through your body and clenching around your heart with a force he’s not yet ready to acknowledge. His belly mouth curves into a smug grin, but his eyes are still on you as if searching for something.

“Another example of my indulgence that you mistake for generosity.”

The way his cursed energy hums around you, warm and protective, tells you otherwise. And it only serves to make you laugh, finally wiping the tears from your cheeks and gently setting the wooden box on the fur rug beneath you both.

“Uh huh,” you tease, snickering at his frown you can see right through. You finally pick up your box, the surface warmed by the fire, now resting in his hands. The teasing air around you both falls to the wayside, hushed anticipation taking its place.

He’s spent days pestering you about what he would get, and now, with you on his lap and his massive hands cradling the box with unexpected gentleness, his curiosity morphs into something else. A prize he’s excited to have and now afraid to open. Not in fear—Sukuna has no room for fear—but in anticipation.

It takes everything in you not to snatch the box and open it yourself, but eventually, he does, and the purse of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes fall before you like a book as old as time finally opening.

The silk is as dark as the shadows that roam these halls, shimmering like oil in water as it slides along Sukuna’s thick fingers. To anyone else, the material would simply be silk. But to Sukuna, he can feel the cursed energy that pulses along it, no doubt stitched together with a cursed thread strong enough to embrace him and yet still soft to the touch.

You had no way to conjure or control cursed energy to weave into the fabric, so you had to turn to Uraume for help. Their frosty hands had guided yours, harnessing the cursed energy necessary for you as you wove the threads, ensuring the haori could hold the weight of Sukuna’s power while remaining as delicate as the intentions behind it.

The silk mirrors the intricate markings on his skin, its edges dyed in gradients of shadow and blood.

“It’s a Haori,” you finally speak, soft and given space so he can observe his gift without hurry. “It’s all you really wear, so I thought crafting something of my own would be….nice.”

Words gather on his tongue, and then scatter like leaves in a storm, too feeble to express the weight of what he feels. He knows that a simple hum of approval won’t be enough—not this time. Not for you. But as he readies himself to speak, opening his mouth just so, his breath catches when he looks inside one of the sleeves.

The inner lining is adorned with ancient symbols sewn in patterns only he would recognize, the same ones you’ve felt him trace in the air around you when he thinks you’re sleeping, offering protection for when he cannot be near you. They shimmer faintly, their glow deepening in the shadowed folds of silk and fading when touched by light—a testament to the darkness he commands and the solace he finds within it.

“Ryu—”

“At least put it on,” you interrupt, voice slightly shaky and betraying your exposed nerves. You hold the garment delicately, taking it from him and helping each arm through the sleeves. The silk moves like smoke around his massive form, designed to accommodate while maintaining the elegant lines that befit a being of his stature. Your eyes are on his skin, focused on the hem of his lapels as you trace over it and rest your hand on his chest.

“There,” you whisper, smiling but not looking up at him. His heart is steady beneath your palm, not fluttering like a bird in a cage, and you’re not sure whether to be upset that your gift doesn’t make his heart race. “It looks good on you.”

It fits him perfectly and thrums with a warmth that echoes the temperature blooming in his chest. That three-letter phrase—that elusive word that’s made his lip curl in disgust since the beginning of time, now pounds in his ears from the garment that sits on his skin.

It’s not just a garment—it’s an acknowledgment of who he is in his truest form, a declaration that you see his beauty in both his power and his evolution. The way it drapes over his marked skin, how it seems to pulse with its own life in response to his cursed energy—these details speak to your understanding of him, how you’ve learned to…love both the demon and the subtle changes your presence has wrought in him.

“You see me,” he finally speaks, uncharacteristically hushed. You see him—demon and protector, destroyer and creator, ancient force and the being who has learned to nestle mortal joy in hands only meant for destruction.

They’ve always been directed at you. Not from him. He’s never said them before. He’s never really known how, and part of him has always been envious of how the words can fall so effortlessly from your lips.

He’s never said them before. And yet now, at this moment, it feels like if he doesn’t act, the opportunity will be lost forever, forced down into the pit of his belly for who knows how long.

You hold your breath when you feel one of his hands cradle your cheek, massive enough so that his fingers card through your dark hair.

“And I see you, Ryu.”

The words feel like a promise. Like they will probably be rare but will only hold more and more weight as time goes by. And that’s okay for you. To be in his presence. To open him up and show him that he is capable of something gentle enough to hold you. That’s your gift that you will never need to wait until the 25th of December for.

His belly mouth is unusually silent, but his cursed energy tightens around you like a caress. Warm and vibrating, a protective weight that will remain around you for as long as you breathe. It speaks volumes that his pride won’t quite let him voice.

You lift a hand to rest on his cheek, tracing along the smooth skin that gives way to the rough texture that wraps around his right side. His two eyes on this side are more narrowed, encapsulated in the hard surface around it but still oozing dominance that could make others cower and definitely not come closer like you do. You cup his jaw before finally meeting his gaze—soft meeting a harshness that will never affect you, love meeting the beginnings of the same that linger beneath crimson pools.

“I see you too, Ryomen.”

The sound of his name makes his chest tighten, the organ behind his sternum pounding irregularly for only a second before falling back in line. His given name is forbidden for any who wish to speak it in likeness—he will only tolerate the name ‘Ryomen’ if it is wrapped in fear, or if it falls from your lips.

The silence lingers for what feels like forever, his hands holding you on his lap while he lets you map his face. Your heart flutters, happiness pulsing through your veins with every beat, cataloging every aspect of this moment in your mind forever.

“There is one mortal tradition,” he finally muses, his voice carrying that particular note of mischief that always makes your breath catch, “that I find…acceptable.”

It’s the kind of tone that usually follows lips along your skin and hands between your thighs, reminiscent of a man who can only bask in vulnerability for moments before shifting to something heady and tinged with lust.

Before you can question his motives, one of his hands lifts to hover above you both. His cursed energy manifests between his fingers, dark and potent, morphing itself into something that makes you snort in delighted surprise. Dark tendrils grow slowly from the mass of energy between his fingers, twisted and mangled to form branches, its leaves pitch black with berries that gleam like drops of blood.

A twisted version of mistletoe, the only representation that would be acceptable to someone like Sukuna.

“Of course, you’d make it look menacing,” you tease, giggling softly as his other arms draw you closer to his chest. His belly mouth snickers from below you, ready to join his host in whatever is planned. One of your fingers traces the metal of his gauges, your eyes narrowing in playful indifference.

“Then I advise you to have one ready for next year.”

Your heart stops, lungs seizing in your chest as the words tunnel into one ear and out the other. Next year. The idea hangs in the air, fragile and precious—proof that even Ryomen Sukuna, with all his arrogance and dominance, is willing to entertain a future with you.

The mistletoe pulses above you, casting reddish shadows across your faces, and you don’t need to think any longer as you lean in to slide your lips along his. His hands widen the expanse of your back, your robe slipping off your shoulders to hang in the crevice of your elbows, the heat from the pulsing mistletoe spreading over your chest. The naked feel of you against his torso pleases him, and beneath the prideful smirk against your mouth, beneath the snicker from his belly, you taste that four-letter word in his mouth, siphoning as much of it as you can before you pull away and rest your forehead against his.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper against his lips, your body warming even further despite the heat from the fireplace.

He offers that hum—that characteristic hum that means so much.

Acquiescence.

Agreement.

I see you.

The mistletoe falls to the floor, crunching beneath your weight as Sukuna lays you on the fur, hands tracing your waist, sliding along your spine, hiking your legs around him. He doesn’t speak, content to admire you beneath him—a mortal without cursed energy who loves perfume, the paranormal, and classical music. A mortal who hates spiders, but loves Gothic architecture, monsters, and the many books that line his walls.

A mortal who has crawled beneath his skin and nestled there, unwilling to leave. And he’s too ashamed to admit that he gave up trying to pry you from inside of him a long time ago.

You throw your arms around his neck, impatient and tired of his staring, carding your fingers through deceptively soft pink hair to pull him down so that you can once again honor this particular tradition—one that, like everything else between you, has been transformed into something uniquely yours.

Merry Christmas, @grimmweepers !!!!

#ryukuna #jjk #jujutsu Kaisen #sukuna ryoumen x you #ryomen Sukuna #jjk Sukuna #Sukuna x reader #Sukuna x Ryu

112 notes · View notes

anonymouse9172 · 2 days ago

Text

They meet (again). Part 2. (Yandere! Poly! Twisted Wonderland x Male Reader)

Riddle and Floyd: M/n needed a job after ending up in Twisted wonderland with his little brother, Yuu. He didn't have many choices and only had experience with restaurant work as a waiter. So when he heard there was a restaurant on campus, the Mostro Longue, and that it was hiring he immediately went there.

Azul, the manager of the restaurant and dorm warden of Octavinelle, surprisingly hired him on the spot after hearing he worked in a restaurant back on Earth. When the interview was over they were taken out and introduced to most of the other staff. Jade Leech, octavinelle's vice dorm warden and the assistant manager, told his twin brother Floyd was off with his boyfriend, Riddle Rosehearts, and would not be in til later when his shift started in a couple hours. However 10 minutes later Floyd came in with a short red haired guy M/n assumed was Riddle and they sat at a table in M/n's section.

M/n walks up after a few minutes and smiles at them before he can introduce himself as their waiter. Floyd looks at him intensely and then grins far to widely. Riddle however barely gives M/n a glance. M/n feels nervous but before he can talk Floyd does. "Hello, shrimpy. You're new here? You should be careful in a place like this. You might attract some weird attention.", he says and giggles afterwards while smiling way to widely. Riddle glares at Floyd before turning to M/n.

"Just bring us some water for drinks for now.", says Riddle without smiling but not scowling either. M/n nodded and walked away. As soon as he was out of sight and ear shot Riddle turned to Floyd and hisses through gritted teeth. "You fool, you almost scared him off. We have to play by the rules I set or we will surely lose him. If do something like that again it will be off with your head. Do you understand me?", says the red head. Floyd nods and giggles again. "Crystal, goldfish.", he says while crossing two fingers behind his back.

Epel and Jack: M/n was a student at RSA and Neige's fraternal twin brother, the plain and insignificant brother to almost everyone including their parents. The only one who really cared for him was Neige himself. It all worked together to give M/n very little self esteem and make him depressed.

Which is why when the headmaster at RSA said he was sending M/n to NRC for a exchange program he could not work up the courage to say no. He went to NRC and was sorted into a Pomefiore. The dorm warden, Vil, assigned M/n to room with someone called Epel Felmier. M/n had just finished settling in to the previously unoccupied bed in the room when the door opens.

A purple haired guy who is as short as M/n is and a tall white haired tanned wolf beast man came into the room. They stopped and starred at M/n. M/n shifted uncomfortably under their gazes. Finally the purple haired guy spoke. "I heard you're Neige La Blanche's brother. You look different from each other.", he said.

M/n flinched. He knew what that meant. He wasn't as good-looking as Neige. Everyone either said it bluntly or in a round about way like purple haired guy. M/n forced a smiled and said, "That's because we're fraternal twins not identical."

"Oh, how fascinating. It must be wonderful to have a brother like that.", the wolf beast man says cheerily. M/n forces a smile again and nods. He looks at the clock in the room and gets up.

"I have to go. I'm late for something.", says M/n and then he rushes out to door to find a place to cry privately. It seemed to him that no where could he escape his brothers shadow. As soon as he was he was out the door though he couldn't see or hear the wolf beast man and the purple haired guy turn to each other and speak lowly.

"I want him, Jack. He's perfect.", says the purple haired guys says causing the wolf's tail to wag slowly. "Me too. He'd been so cute and sweet in between us, Epel.", says Jack.

33 notes · View notes

talaok · 1 day ago

Text

Christmas encounters

Summary: You invite Joel, Ellie, Din, and Grogu to your and your boyfriend's Javi Christmas party.

Warnings: Javi’s a bit jealous, but other than that, it's just chaotic writing

This is my gift to @lokischocolatefountain as a part of the @pedrostories Secret Santa event Merry Christmas Eve love!! I really hope you'll like this, I tried my very best i swear. It was such a cute idea btw, I really really loved it!! (also i hope you won't mind the joel and javi dinamic im a slut what can i say)

"c'mon Joel is just a few people I promise"

"You didn't tell me"

"I-" you stuttered "I didn't because otherwise you wouldn't have come!"

"Exactly"

he was giving you that stern dad look you'd see him direct toward Ellie countless times before

"c'mon" you smiled, looking at him and his kid "There's someone I want you to meet"

He raised his brow, not even remotely interested.

But Ellie, oh Ellie indeed was.

"Who?"

You smirked... your plan had worked perfectly.

"You'll have to find out inside"

"Joel c'mon put your big boy pants on and socialize for once"

A chuckle fled your mouth before you had time to cage it.

Joel shot a look Ellie's way, but every single one of you knew that he was gonna budge, he was nothing but a pushover when it came to her.

"an hour tops"

Ellie rolled her eyes as you let them in with a huge smile, even when Joel was shooting daggers at you.

"Stop pouting pretty boy, come meet my friend"

He sighed, before grumbling "If it's another one of your single girlfriends I'll save you some time, I'm not interested"

"I'm not setting you up Joel calm down, I've learned my lesson"

"Ellie" you called for her before she slipped through the people and you'd never find her again "Come here"

The new pair was greeted with hello and Merry Christmas by every person mingling in the entrance, and as you walked, the voices of the small crowd gathered in your living room slowly got louder until finally, you had arrived.

"there she is!" one of your friends yelled, making you smile

"Hi Joel!" Jenna almost jumped from the excitement when she saw the man.

She was one of the unfortunate women you'd set him up with... only she'd remained infatuated by him, while he on the other hand... not so much.

"Hi" he forced a smile in return as Ellie snorted.

But just as Jenna approached, you caught sight of the man you wanted to present your friends and made a beeline for him, hurriedly followed by the pair beside you.

"Din!"

He was sat on one of the chairs close to the fireplace, contemplating it deeply.

He turned at the sound of his name, his helmet reflecting the fire on its right side now.

"Hey" his modulated voice answered you, as his gaze, even if you couldn't actually tell for sure, took in the people next to you.

"These are the people I was telling you about" you smiled, pointing to the men on your left "This is Joel- and this is Ellie"

"Nice to meet you" he nodded

"nice to meet ya too... Din, right?" Joel repeated his name with uncertainty.

Yes, he was grateful it wasn't one of your girlfriends, but he still wasn't exactly expecting... this.

"yes, Din"

"Hey where is Gro-"

But just as you began pronouncing his name, you caught sight of one of the firey logs starting to magically lift from its place.

"Grogu!" Din's voice was immediately followed by the log falling back into place, as a very sorry green little guy appeared from behind his dad's armchair.

"It's ok" you smiled, your voice softening at the sight of him "don't worry about it Grogu"

"What the fuc-"

"Ellie" Joel immediately hushed the girl, who was urgently tagging at his sleeve, her eyes as wide as they would go

"What is- how- I-"

You chuckled, watching the kid stutter in amazement, her gaze trained on the little green guy who happened to be curiously watching her too.

"This is Grogu" Din spoke, "He's my- uhm... friend"

"you're friends with an alien!?"

"Ellie"

Joel's sigh was louder this time

"I guess" Din simply shrugged, seeming almost bored with the whole situation

"What!? Joel, are you seeing this!?"

But just as Joel was starting to respond, surely a lecture about being polite on the tip of his tongue, a voice sounded from behind you

"what's all the fuss? what did I miss?"

An arm wrapped around your back as you felt your boyfriend slide against your side, bringing you impossibly close to him.

"hi baby" you turned your head to look at him with a smile "Ellie and Joel just met Grogu"

"oh" he hummed, a grin splitting his lips "I see"

He took his time glancing away from you, only after getting a good look at your pretty painted lips.

"Joel" he finally said, nodding to the man

Javier had never liked Joel much, something to do with the alleged longing stares he'd direct your way far too often.

"Javier"

Joel in return, never liked him much either, you'd never figured out why.

"Hi Ellie" your boyfriend smiled now

"hi there" she took an eager step forward, as if she was presenting him with a business proposal "Changed your mind about letting me see your gun yet?"

Javi couldn't help but laugh as he shook his head "I'm afraid not"

And as Ellie went back to her place beside Joel's side to grumble with annoyance, Javier nestled his head right against your neck, leaving a quick kiss on the side of it

"you look stunning sweetheart"

You couldn't help but laugh

"And you're being ridiculous honey"

I mean it wasn't like Javier was one to be shy about showing affection for you in public, but you knew what he was doing- why he was doing it now- when Joel was right next to you

"What, I can't tell my girlfriend how beautiful she is?" his hot breath was fanning against your ear as he whispered into it "How amazing this dress looks on you?" he purred, his hand on your back slowly lowering "that I can't wait to see it on the bedroom floor ton-"

"and that's enough" you stopped him with a giggle "You're supposed to be entertaining our guests, not traumatizing them"

He shook his head with a grin, as you turned back to your guests

"So anyway, Din is a very interesting man, Joel, I think you'd get along very w-"

"Y/n!"

A shout sounded from the other side of the room. Your friend Sarah was waving her arms around to desperately get your attention

Oh god, what now?

"The bathroom!"

the bathroom? What about the bathroom?

"I'm sorry, let me just check real quick"

You excused yourself and rushed toward the commotion to find a freaked-out Sarah nervously biting her nails

"I swear I didn't do anything, I came in and there was already a pool of water there"

You frowned, opening the door to the bathroom to inspect it further.

Of course the fucking sink had to break right now

"fuck" you muttered

"It's alright maybe we can just... put a bucket under it" Sarah tried to lighten the mood

But right as she spoke those words, some valve turned or something and more water started dripping onto the floor.

"fuck me, I'll have to call a plumber"

But just then, a voice rumbled from behind you

"I'll fix it"

You turned, finding Joel right in front of you, his eyes moving from the pool of water gathering on the floor to you.

"By the time the plumber comes the whole apartment's gonna be flooded," He said simply, his voice deep and casual

"No Joel I don't want you to spend the whole night repairing the sink, you're supposed to be having fun" you immediately shook your head "I'll call a plumber"

"it's no problem darlin'" he spoke, a soft smile pulling at his lips

"but..."

He let out an amused sigh "I promise"

"Joel- you a hundred percent sure?"

"'m sure, don't worry 'bout it"

You looked at him, inspected every inch of his face to find even an ounce of uncertainty, and when you came up empty, you finally nodded.

"uhm, alright, thank you, really, I'll go look for the toolbox"

He nodded, watching you walk away, but finding an obstacle in his gaze's path.

"y'know... you're not the only one who can fix a sink" Javi grumbled, walking closer to lean on the bathroom's doorframe

"Yeah? then how come you ain't doin' it?" Joel's voice was calm, collected, but Javier saw right through it

Your boyfriend scoffed "'cause I've gotta help my girlfriend host the party"

Checkmate

"Right" Joel muttered

"Right"

Just then, when the tension in the air started getting thicker, you appeared with a big toolbox in hand

"here it is!"

Both the men's eyes followed you as you set it down next to the broken sink

"thank you darlin'" Joel smiled as you turned back to him.

"Are you kidding!? thank you, Joel, you're my savior"

There was a huge, thankful grin splitting your lips as you talked

"y'know she has a name right?" Javi interrupted whatever Joel was about to say

"babe" you shot him a look, mortified

"'m sorry, I'll stop if it makes you uncomfortable darlin'"

Jesus Christ he wasn't making anything easier for you

"it's fine Joel, Javi's just being dumb, don't mind him" you shook your head, as Javi continued watching Joel as if he'd offended him deeply.

"thank you again Joel, I owe you"

"'s nothing" he promised softly "go have fun"

And with that, you smiled at him again as you exited the bathroom, dragging your boyfriend with you.

"you're unbelievable" you muttered as soon as you were out of earshot

"And you're perfect" he murmured with that annoyingly sexy voice of his as he leaned in "Merry Christmas baby"

and just like that, his lips were on yours and all was forgotten.

__ __ __

"so what do you do?"

On the other side of the house, Ellie had made herself comfortable on the armchair right next to the one Din had been sitting on all night, and she had only one thing in mind: finding out all about the man before her.

"I'm a bounty hunter"

She tilted her head, taking in his words "So you kill people?" she realized "Joel does that too"

Din gave her no answer, silence spread between the two, and she couldn't help but realize that:

"he also doesn't talk a lot- I think you'd get along well"

Din simply glanced at her, before his gaze turned back to the fire.

If she could at least see his face this would all be much easier

"Do you ever take it off- the helmet I mean- don't you get hot?"

A sigh sounded from behind the beskar

"I do, when I'm alone"

"oh" Ellie hummed "Is it like a religious thing?"

This time the man turned to her fully, and although the girl couldn't see him, she was sure he was shooting her an annoyed glare, Just like Joel liked to do... they really would get along well

"no"

A single syllable... quite the loquacious guy he was.

"Where are you from?"

Not even a second had passed and she'd already spoken again, and it was then Mando decided to accept his fate and turn fully towards the much too nosy girl... it was Christmas after all

"It's complicated" he explained, watching the girl scrutinize his hidden face "but I guess you could say Concordia"

"Is that in Europe or something?" Ellie's brow was raised as she inquired confused- she'd never heard of such a place, but then again, she wouldn't exactly be able to put the US on a map either- fedra schools and everything.

"no"

alright then

"cool," she nodded, trying to remember what else she wanted to ask "How did you get here?"

"you ask a lot of questions"

"Joel says that too" she shrugged "What can I say, I'm a curious gal"

Behind the Mandalorian's mask, a small smile pulled at his lips.

"I came here with my ship"

She frowned then "You came here on a boat? What are you some kind of pirate?"

The man shook his head "No, my spaceship"

Ellie's eyes widened so much she must have won some kind of Guinness world record

"w-what?"

"I came here with my spaceship" Mando spoke again, calm as ever

"you're fucking with me" Ellie decided

He was joking- he had to be joking. He was probably just making fun of her.

"I'm not"

"yeah you are"

The man shook his head, sighing

"it's right outside, go look if you want"

She was out of the chair in a split second, quite literally running to the nearest window and elbowing anyone in her way while doing so.

And there it was- a whole ass fucking spaceship parked just in front of the house.

"Oh my fucking god- no fucking way, no fucking way dude" she was excitedly blabbing as she ran back to him

"can... can I see it inside? please, please Mr. Din- pleasepleaseplease"

her voice had gotten higher and she was just about to kneel before him and beg him like you would for mercy when he spoke.

He let out a loud, exasperated sigh "You've gotta ask your dad"

"I'll go ask him right now!" she grinned, excitement oozing from her every pore " and he's not my dad- although he sure likes to act like it"

__ __ __

Joel was in the bathroom, kneeling underneath the sink despite his back's protests.

He'd already figured out what was wrong, so it shouldn't have taken much longer... not that he was in any rush of getting back to the party anyway.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opened to his left, and while he was expecting to explain to yet another guest that the bathroom was off limits for a while, he found himself face-to-face with the green guy that man Din had introduced as his friend.

"Uhm- Hi there little guy"

Grogu made a small sound as he walked closer to the man.

"If ya need to use the bathroom I can get out"

Another weird little sound

"I'm sorry buddy I can't understand you"

He was right in front of him now, his big expressive eyes examining him curiously.

He looked like Mando

"ya need to pee?"

Either he was imagining it, or he was getting better at understanding the creature because this time Joel was pretty sure the sound he made was much similar to a no.

"ok..." Joel murmured perplexed "Do ya need something or can I get back to this?" he asked nodding to the sink.

God what a weird fucking conversation- Joel felt like he was in a fever dream.

Once again Grogu chirped something incomprehensible, but his gaze shifted for a moment to the sink, so Joel decided to take that as a yes, and went back to what he was doing.

He was able to ignore the presence beside him for a little while. He was sure that at some point, he would just go away, but minutes kept passing, and the little green guy was still right there.

He turned around then, and as he did, he noticed that Grogu’s eyes weren't only on him, but on what he was doing too.

"I can... show you what 'm doin' if ya want"

Grogu's eyes sparkled with excitement at the proposal, and Joel couldn't help but smile

"Alright then, come closer"

And just like that, he listened, excitedly stumbling closer until he had the whole view of the sink.

“Alright, so you see this pipe here?” Joel asked “This is the cause of all our problems- now the thing is that it’s connected to here” he continued, pointing to the pieces he was referring to “so we can’t fix this if we don’t fix this first”

The man turned around to see confusion written all over the kid, and another small smile split his lips.

“‘s alright, you’ll get the gist of it as we go”

And so he started back up, fixing and turning and switching as he explained each and every single passage to Grogu, who listened avidly- and who as it turns out, was also a very helpful hand.

He did it so casually too-

Joel was trying to reach for a wrench just out of his reach when it was suddenly floating his way.

“what the he-” he’d started before looking right beside him, to the focused green guy who was guiding the tool to him with a simple raised hand

“right” he nodded, trying not to freak out “Right you can do that- thank you”

And from then on, he became his little helper

Can you pass me this?

can you pass me that?

can you turn this?

can you turn that?

He was going faster than ever with Grogu’s help, and he was even having fun explaining it all to him- it wasn’t often someone was this mesmerized by the process of fixing a sink.

Which is why in no time, he was done.

“there we go- good as new”

It really was- he’d done a hell of a good job with the little guy’s help, and just as he admired it, a voice he knew far too well sounded from the door.

“there you are, I’ve been looking for you!”

Jenna was a nice girl, but he just wasn’t interested.

He had no idea what he’d done to get her so into him, but every opportunity she got, she would corner the poor man and make it impossible for him to escape her.

“Goddamnit” he muttered beneath his breath, his gaze turning to the door “Hi Jenna”

“Hi Joel, you didn’t even come and say hi to me, that’s kind of rude you know- how would you feel if I-”

All of a sudden, the door had shut in her face.

And as protests sounded from the other side, Joel looked to his right to find Grogu lowering his arm while looking at him with what looked like a mischievous glinting in his eyes.

“did you just-?” Joel couldn’t help but laugh now, actually properly laugh “Oh you’re a menace ain’t you lil’ guy?”

His words were only proven even more right when said lil’ guy jumped with what looked like too much strength for such a small thing, right onto his lap.

Again, chuckles spilled from Joel’s lips as he took Grogu into his arms.

“thank you” he smiled “you just saved my ass kid”

As Grogu looked up at him with those big kind eyes and emitted another one of the weird incomprehensible sounds, Ellie’s voice suddenly sounded from the other side of the door.

“Joel open up!” she screamed “Din said I could go on his spaceship!”

He was up in an instant

“His what!?”

__ __ __

Who would have guessed that this is how the night would have ended?

Definitely not Joel

Him, Ellie, Din, and Grogu were in the Mandalorian's spaceship, and while the girl was just about losing her mind, touching and switching every single thing she encountered as Grogu showed her around, the two men were sitting back, watching their own two kids.

“thank you for… this” Joel spoke first

“It’s nothing” Mando promised, his eyes trained on Ellie now “She’s a good kid” he nodded, “she asks a lot of questions…”

“don’t I know it” Joel grumbled, making Mando chuckle

“but she funny- she’s great”

“yeah, she is… great”

It felt underwhelming to describe Ellie as great, but Joel decided this wasn’t the time to focus on semantics “So is Grogu- he helped me with the sink- he’s a good kid”

And so the two men returned to silence as their kids roamed around the spaceship as if searching for a treasure.

49 notes · View notes