#bone case reports

[catchcrows]

man, something about interacting with wildlife in western europe will never not be so, so fucking weird to me

like it truly does feel like you have to make a concerted, intentional effort to encounter A Creature in a way that i've never experienced before (disclaimer here that i grew up and lived in cities where The Outdoors started well within city limits and we regularly had deer and cougars and coyotes just fucking meander through town, i'd probably feel differently i grew up in the middle of nyc or something)

jfc let alone how wild it was to live in the manicured garden island of the uk, although even in belgium my colleagues tell me that you really have to be deep in the woods to encounter a wild animal larger than a cat (and fucking forget about large predators/herbivores)

anyway! was pondering this again bc i got got by a stray cat a few days ago (unhappy accident, i was sat on a bench and a cat jumped up bc it didn't realize i was there and got startled, but immediately wanted to be pet the second it realized i was Just Some Guy). so i went home, cleaned and disinfected it.....and then spent an increasingly baffled twenty minutes trying to find what my options were for getting a rabies vaccine course and only getting options for rabies vaccinations upon return from foreign countries, before i remembered that belgium is considered a rabies-free country lmao

ffs my colleagues looked at me like i was asking them directions for the oregon trail when i was telling them the story

[osterby]

The thing all the archaeologst vs. trans body things misses is that archaeologits will know that we were trans and will care about what that meant for us. Even if the archaeologists themselves were to come from an impossible future where no one is trans and where male and female sex and gender binaries are rigid and clearly defined, they would know that we did gender differently and they would be digging us up to find out who we actually were, not to squint at a funny angle on a fragmented ilium to decide which box to put it in. The whole point of archaeology is to learn about the past, and archaeologists understand that the past is not precisely identical to the culture they live in. And future archaeologists, no matter their own culture and perception of gender, are going to have even more tools for getting information out of corpses than we do today.

Right now we can look at someone's hair from 2000 years ago and tell where their drinking water was coming from*. We can look at the DNA in a tiny sliver of degraded bone and know the person had Klinefelter Syndrome. It's very common for archaeologists to look at a body for signs of dentisty, injury, illness, or medical treatment.

Future archaeologists will absolutely have the tools to look at our bone fragments or teeth or mummified skin and understand things like HRT and top surgery. I fully expect anyone working with my archaeologically significant remains will be able to tell at what age a person started T or E. They might make some wrong guesses about our culture and our feelings about our genders, and they might have trouble telling the exact gender of a person from their remains and grave goods, but they will know that trans people existed and they will be able to recognise a lot of us in the archaeological record., and the relative length of a femur will have very very little to do with that.

Grave goods are another important facet of gender in archaeology which is often overlooked in the mainstream. Take a look again at the person with Klinefelter Syndrome; before we had the DNA results, people had various theories about this person's biological sex or lived gender based entirely on the grave goods. We believe the person buried at Sutton Hoo was a king and a man, because all the grave goods are typical of that social role and gender; there is no body left in Sutton Hoo with bones to measure or DNA to test, all we have is a the outline of a ship and the metal grave goods. If you are buried in a suit and your headstone says "brother and son", the archaeologists are going to assume you are male long before they measure your bones (get your wills in order, guys. Don't get buried under a deadname).

Don't worry about your bones getting measured by a twitter phrenologist. Let your burial reflect who you are, and trust the future archaeologists to be curious enough to look at your actual remains and grave goods in the context of what they know about your era and culture, and go "yup, that sure is a trans person who ate a bunch of microplastics circa 1900-2400CE".

*I love this paper in particular because it's such a snarky rebuttal to another paper, but that's beyond the scope of this reblog.

Only the most miserable people on the planet are obsessed with bone structure. Terfs. Incels. Racists probablty. Whoever still thinks that the weird skull shape astrology- no wait I did remember the word. Phrenology. Whoever still thinks that phrenology has any scientific value. Nobody who's enjoying their life goes out of their way to turn the framework of your meatsuit into an inescapable prison.

Future archeologists aren't going to look at my implausibly well-preserved carcass and go "this is a female skeleton", and call it a day. They're going to look at it and go "hmm, this isn't the standard early 2000s era cadaver amount of microplastics. This mf was eating macroplastics."

[kitkatscabinet]

BROTHERS BEST FRIEND

Pairings: Wally West, Roy Harper, Conner Kent, Clark Kent x fem reader. Platonic batfamily x sister reader.

Summary: Your brother finds out you’re dating his best friend. It goes about as well as you’d think.

A/N: Nsfw themes 18+, minors dni

WALLY WEST & DICK GRAYSON

"Can't wait to see you later baby <3"

Dick stares at the text from Wally, a frown on his face as he tries to recall if they'd made any plans. Though baby was definitely an odd new term of endearment from his best friend. After spending a few minutes wracking his mind and deciding he hadn't forgotten any important plans, he replies:

"What are we doing later?"

He sees the dots indicating Wally's typing

"Why would you assume that was for you?!"

Dick's frown deepened, if that wasn't for him, then who was monopolising his friend's time? More importantly, who was he calling baby?

“Who’s it for then? :((" He conveniently gets left on read.

"Wally!"

"WALLACE RUDOLPH WEST!!"

His messages turn green. That annoying little fuck! Did Wally just block him? Oh, this was so far from over.

If Wally thought Dick was going to just let this go then he was sorely mistaken.

Dick was a man on a mission, determined to catch Wally with his new partner. Only, the redhead suddenly seemed to be a master at avoiding him. It was driving him insane, but Dick was a dog with a bone and this was the one thing he was never going to let go.

He's so focused on his hunt for the perp, that he doesn't notice the clues right in front of his face. The way you seemed so amused whenever he whined or ranted to you or the way you reached for your phone to send Wally a heads-up text. Or the second toothbrush in your bathroom or the men's hoodie slung over the back of your desk chair.

You were starting to feel a little bad, and you'd finally convinced Wally to let Dick in on your secret when the beans get accidentally spilled, in the Titans group chat of all things.

You were texting Wally privately, looking away from your phone the exact second you accidentally clicked on the notification taking you to a different chat, not noticing until it was far too late.

TheSexiestBat: I love you, idiot. Even if you leave dirty dishes in the sink like a war criminal <3.

SpeedyGonzalez: and I love YOU even if you steal the blanket every night 😘

WingDing: BLANKET. EVERY. NIGHT?

LeanMeanGreenMachine: They sleep together. They sleep. Together. They’re sleeping. TOGETHER.

That'sSoRaven: It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. Except I live in the car and the driver is texting.

Pwincess: Shall we begin making couple name suggestions now?? WalliBat? BatAlly? SpeedWayne?

SpeedyGonzalez: SpeedWayne kinda goes hard not gonna lie

TheSexiestBat: oh god oh GOD wrong chat WRONG CHATTTTT

WingDing: WALLY.

SpeedyGonzalez: it was gonna be a soft launch 😭

LeanMeanGreenMachine: BRO WE JUST GOT HARD LAUNCHED INTO ORBIT

SpeedyGonzalez: So like are we officially telling everyone now? Should I change my bio to “taken by the most gorgeous woman on the planet?"

WingDing: BLOCKED REPORTED BANNED EXCOMMUNICATED FROM THE GROUP LEAVE THE TITANS AND THE PLANET

TheSexiestBat: I'm erasing myself from the narrative :D

TheSexiestBat has left the chat.

SpeedyGonzalez: in my defense your sister is hot and emotionally stable and laughs at my jokes. She's literally the perfect woman.

WingDing: Count ur days West.

That'sSoRaven: I call dibs on the funeral playlist I’m thinking something upbeat. “Dumb Ways to Die” maybe?

Dick screams so loud his neighbours call the cops, fearing he'd been murdered.

Meanwhile you and Wally decide it might be time to give up texting.

ROY HARPER & JASON TODD

It’s been a long night. He’s tired, cranky and covered in mud and blood. He also might be nursing a concussion. Whatever the case, he was ready to crash and Roy’s place was closer than any of his.

He stumbles through the window with a thud, uncaring of the noise he's making. Roy's always been a heavy sleeper. Still, it's a bit disconcerting when he doesn't come to investigate the noise.

Ok, that was a little concerning; what kind of vigilante slept through a potential break-in?

He's just checking his friend's not bleeding out or dead, is what Jason tells himself as he throws back the covers on Roy's bed. Flicking the lights on with an amused laugh that quickly turns into a horrified scream at the sight of his friend, naked, an arm wrapped around his chest from behind.

"Dude, what the fuck?” You croaked, lifting your face from Roy’s back to blink blearily at whoever had interrupted your sleep. Jason's scream turning into a stream of scandalised expletives at the sight of your face.

"Seriously?! MY SISTER, ROY? MY ACTUAL SISTER?!"

"Jason, I swear to god, you better—" you grumbled, still half asleep as you tried to hide your face against the back of your barely conscious boyfriend.

"I better what? Calm down? Don't you dare tell me to CALM DOWN. My SISTER! MY SISTER and my BEST FRIEND!" He shrieks, tugging at his hair as he paced restlessly. Suddenly, he whirled on Roy, grabbing the man's shoulders. "How could you do this to me?"

"You’re talking like I’m the one who got into her bed. She climbed in here herself, dude." Roy mumbled, still sleep-laden and beyond over the situation already.

"You—YOU—climbed into his bed?!"

"I mean yeah? This is Roy's apartment." You whined, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, ignoring his unintelligible stutters.

"Quit clutching your pearls Jay, we're both adults." The scandalised gasp he lets out, hand clutching his chest is one you'd remember forever.

You finally sit up, making him screech and cover his eyes, blindly trying to throw his jacket at you. "Cover them up, you slut!"

"I dunno, Roy likes when my tits are out. Don't you honey?" You mock, relishing in the way Jason's ears turn bright red behind his hand.

Roy hums in agreement before remembering exactly who was standing before him. Your very overprotective brother, who had some very real guns.

"You know, Jase, you’re acting like I’m a bad influence on your sister, but" he turns to look at you, making you melt a little "—who could resist? She’s a catch, man."

"Did you just flirt with my sister in front of me?!" He takes his hand away from his eyes only to nearly run into the doorframe when he realises you're still naked.

"Jason give it a rest." You snickered, finally pulling on the jacket he'd thrown at you, your brother turning around at the sound of the zipper. "Besides. I've known him for longer than you."

Jason sputtered, arms crossed over his chest in extreme offence. "Well, I know him better!"

You let out a screech of outrage, smacking Roy's chest. "Baby! Tell him he's wrong!"

Roy simply turned and buried his face in his pillow, wondering if it was too late to break up with both of you.

CONNER KENT & TIM DRAKE

It wasn't exactly out of the norm for Tim to call you down to the Batcave, he often did so when he was having trouble with a case. But there was something different about the text he'd sent you. It was short and sharp, with perfect grammar and spelling, and most telling, no emojis. Yeah, something was definitely wrong.

The sight of your very much still secret boyfriend standing behind Tim with his arms crossed is enough for your stomach to sink. Luckily, years of exposure to your family's bullshit had let you perfect the art of the poker face.

"Kon? What are you doing here?" You try to remain calm; Kon visits Tim all the time; they're best friends. Yet you can't shake the sinking suspicion that starts to settle in your gut. Just as your boyfriend's about to answer, Tim swivels in the large chair facing the bat computer like a cliche supervillain.

"Now that we're all here, we can begin."

You almost don't want to ask, "begin what?"

Tim's fingers are interlaced in front of his stone-cold expression as the monitor whirs to life, showcasing a PowerPoint slide titled 'Evidence'.

"Evidence of what?" You sigh.

"Of you two dating."

"Tim," you sigh in exasperation, "you're being ridiculous."

Conner, however, is as convincing in his denial as a little girl with lipstick all over her face, swearing she didn't touch Mum's makeup.

"So we're doing this the hard way. Are you ready?"

"Tim, we really don't need - "

"Yes." You throw an incredulous look Conner's way.

"What?" He shrugs, "Kind of seems like he put a lot of effort into this."

"I did." Tim confirms.

"Oh for fuck's sake, fine, Kon and I are dating." You exclaim, throwing your arms up in exasperation.

"Thank you for your honesty, we can skip ahead a few slides." Tim nods serenely, flicking through an absurd amount of slides until he stops on.

"What this means & the consequences"

“Breakup = emotional devastation = forced to choose = loss of sibling"

“They work out = I have to hear them be gross for eternity???”

“Bruce finds out = He kills Kon = I lose my best friend.

"Hold on, you'd choose Conner over me if we broke up?" You squawk in offence.

"Obviously. No offence, babe, but we are best friends." Conner grins and you turn your mutinous glare on him.

"You're sleeping on the couch for a week." You hiss, watching in satisfaction as his grin evaporates.

"Wait, you're sleeping together?!" Tim shrieks, reaching for a suspicious batarang.

"On second thought I'm on your side!" Conner laughs nervously.

"No offence, babe, but you made your choice." You smile unnervingly widely before turning and leaving him to deal with Tim's meltdown.

CLARK KENT & BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce had given a lot of thought to how he'd die over the years, how couldn't he with the life he led? Of all the possibilities he'd imagined, choking on the tea Alfred had prepared him from the image plastered across his morning newspaper.

The picture. The picture of you. His beloved sister. You and Clark Kent. His best friend. Kissing. That picture.

"Wayne Princess spotted with new beau?" The newspaper he holds in his hands stares up at him mockingly until he accidentally rips the offending paper in half.

Plans for the day-long forgotten, Bruce hunkers down at his computer, obsessively scrolling through gossip columns, collecting information. The headlines were nearly endless: “Wayne Royalty Meets Smallville Simplicity", “Billionaire Bloodline and the Boy Next Door?", He Stole Her From Us! Gotham Mourns as Beloved Socialite Taken Off the Market.”

“BREAKING: Gotham’s IT Girl is Dating… WHO???”

The Wayne Princess: You know her, you love her, women want to be her, everyone wants to be with her — was spotted yesterday cosying up to a mystery man. It turns out, that man is Clark Kent, a journalist at the Daily Planet. Yes, a journalist. With GLASSES. Not a billionaire, not a pop star, not even an actor. Just... Clark. Look, we’re not here to judge true love or whatever, but Gotham is reeling. Our queen, our light, our socialite supreme… has chosen a man who probably thinks khakis and cardigans are acceptable date attire. The internet is in mourning. Group chats are in shambles. Thirst edits are being watched through mournful tears. Meanwhile, Clark Kent? Unbothered. Thriving. Possibly winning the “man most likely to be assassinated by bitter Gothamites" award.

All the while, he's sending countless texts and voicemails to his currently wayward sister. You'd always answered him immediately, even when you were busy; yeah he smelled a conspiracy.

Guess it was time to pull out the big guns, his kids, you never could ignore them. He calls Tim and Damian into his office, trying not to feel a little unnerved when the oldest announces that you're in Metropolis with no prompting.

"I figured you'd seen the news." The teen shrugged, answering the silent question in Bruce's eyes.

"What news?" Damian scowls, looking between his father and brother in suspicion. The kid was a Wayne alright.

"Auntie's dating Superman." Tim yawns.

"Father, I require some Kryptonite... for completely unrelated reasons," Damian says so unconvincingly that any other day Bruce might have been amused. Now though, he considered it for a few seconds.

"Ooookay, I'm going to take this one to school now." Tim chuckles awkwardly, grabbing Damian by the shoulders and hauling him out of Bruce's office before the two could plan to murder one of the greatest heroes on Earth.

(Though not before he drops your exact location for his adoptive father, he wasn't that magnanimous.)

Bruce strikes when you're in the shower, waiting until he hears the water start to run before he steps out of the shadows.

"What are your intentions with my sister?"

"Jesus Christ! Bruce!" Clark practically screamed, pulling the sheets up to cover his chest like a blushing maiden.

"Answer the question, Clark." He reiterates.

"Bruce, seriously," Clark tries to placate, only to pause at the deadly look on his friend's face. "I love her."

The earnest sincerity in Clark's gaze knocks the wind right out of his sails.

"Listen to me, Bruce, I love her, I'd protect her with my life. You have to know that." The dopey, lovesick grin that grows on his face is disgustingly sweet. "I'd marry her if she let me."

"Really?" Your breathless voice cuts in. Bruce's eyes narrowed; you tended to take long showers; there was no way you'd finished already. Unless, you intended to set him up.

Unwilling to stay and witness the inevitable sap fest, Bruce turns to you for confirmation.

"Is he good to you?" You nod and something in him softens just a little. "Then I trust you. Both of you." He pauses, barriers going back up when he notices the way you relax into Clark's welcoming embrace. "But if he breaks your heart, I will break his kneecaps"

[osachiyo]

" LEMME HIT YOU WITH THAT DUMB DICK ! "

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — dazai, chuuya, jouno (+ tecchou), oda, sigma x fem!reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 & 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — [n]sfw content, somnophilia, these are random scenarios ok don't come at me, degradation, humiliation, doggystyle, rough, getting caught, pussy slapping, s.ex at work, oral (m & f receiving), fingering, piv, unprotected s.ex (be careful babes), praise, creampie + etc • this was originally supposed to be their fav places to fuck but i had to scrap that bc i lost motivation :') anyway, happy reading and i hope you enjoy !! not proofread soz babes

ps. reblog to show your favorite writers support, they're greatly appreciated ! <3

⁰¹ 𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 — fucking you in a storage room of the agency

This man is a sex fiend, so of course he would love to fuck you literally anywhere anytime. Though he can't lie, being balls deep in your juicy little cunt at work — risking both of your dignities and possibly your jobs has him harder than a fucking rock.

"Osamu— what if we g-get caugh— mmh-!" you let out a muffled moan as dazai delivered a particularly harsh thrust into your cunt, effectively shutting you up. "Relaaaax, sweet thing — almost no one c-comes here — fuck, you're so damn tight," Dazai panted into your ear, hot breath making a chill run down your spine — back arching even further against his chest.

"God, you're so good f'me — so warm 'n right, fuck!" each word was rushed, dripping with lust — the desperation in his voice made you wanna look at his pretty face, pussy clenching just from imagining how good he'd look with his hair disheveled — his usual doe eyes narrowed and a deep blush covering his skin, sweat dripping down his forehead and making his hair stick to his forehead —

Your train of thought got cut off abruptly when Dazai slapped his hand over your mouth, before his hushed voice reached your ears, "shh, stay still f'me, sweetheart."

You were about to question it when you heard the president's voice from just behind the door. The door of the room you were currently getting your back blown out in.

"Yes, I keep hearing strange noises from this one room in particular," you heard fukuzawa's muffled voice — the thought of your boss catching you in the act made your pussy flutter around Dazai’s length, making the brunette grunt in response.

"Are you trying to get us caught, darl'?" Dazai hissed into your ear — oops, you unintentionally clenched down again upon hearing the keys jingle from the other side of the door. Luckily Dazai was ready for it this time, and managed to bite down on your shoulder before he could get a sound out.

"W-what do we do, 'samu? He’s gonna come in!" you whisper-yelled, panic settling in your bones when you saw the doorknob rattle — but before he could unlock the door fully, you heard the high pitched voice of another worker, "president! an important client has come to personally see you."

"Hm, alright. looks like i'll have to tell someone else to take a look in this room later. Let’s go,"

You let out a breath of relief once the footsteps faded away, leaving you both in complete silence until dazai decided to speak up —

"You clenched reaaal hard when he was about to open the door — don't tell me you actually wanted us to get caught, did you, naughty girl?"

⁰² 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 — having you suck him off in his office

Chuuya's job as an executive of the mafia is stressful, to say the least. Not to mention some of the idiotic workers not doing their job right never fails to make his blood pressure go especially high — his anger issues doesn't help his case at all. But what does help is his sweet sweet girlfriend giving him some... 'under the table service' at work.

Chuuya's fist slammed against the hardwood desk, a loud 'thwack!' echoing in the room,

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" he sneered at the poor man in front of him — who couldn't help but flinch at seeing his boss so angry at him failing to complete a simple report.

Truth be told, Chuuya wasn’t really that mad at the worker, for the report at least — he was just.. super on edge from you deep-throating his cock under the goddamn table. He struggled to think properly, and the poor worker interrupting his private moment with you really ticked him off. Can you really blame him though?

How could he think straight with your skilled tongue swirling around his glossy tip so sinfully — fucking tease. Oh and the way you peered up at him through lowered lashes, your eyes glazed with a dreamy haze.

It all made his head spin like crazy.

“-ir, I can re-do it if you would like me to..” Chuuya’s train of thought unfortunate got cut off short, blue eyes snapping back to the man before him — right, the report.

“A-ahem — alright. Have it finished by 6 pm.”

Chuuya hated the way his voice cracked, fingernails digging into the palms of his hands as he tried not to moan out loud when you fully took him nose deep in that right, sweet little throat— shamelessly rutting your hips into his crazy expensive slacks, rubbing your juices all over the smooth, polished material.

You felt Chuuya’s fingers entangle themselves in your hair immediately after hearing the ‘click’ of the door shutting — the guy must’ve finally left.

You couldn’t help but gasp as you were pulled up from the cold, hard floor — and being shoved onto the desk instead.

You felt your pussy throb in your lacy panties as Chuuya spread your legs open — two fingers pressing and prodding at your cunt before sliding the flimsy material to the side,

“Now, let’s get into the real fun, shall we darl’?”

⁰³ 𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐎 — teaching tecchou how to eat you out properly

Jouno was a good friend. Even though he might've had a tendency to be a little harsh and.. sadistic at times, he wasn't a bad person. I mean, he had to be atleast a decent person for teaching his inexperienced co-worker how to eat pussy — specifically, his own girlfriend's.

"No, not like that you fucking idiot —" Jouno grumbled, pulling Tecchou's head off of your cunt as he blinked in confusion like a lost puppy, sticky strings of your arousal still attached to his lips. "What do you mean? She's clearly enjoying it.."

"I mean that you can do better. You do want to make her feel fuckin' amazing, don't you?" Jouno raised a questioning brow. "Well, of cour—" "Then start acting like it."

A gasp left your honeyed lips when Tecchou's face was pushed back against your cunt — hot tongue working with even more fervor as he ate you out like he had been starving for days.

"Oh fuck — feels so g-good, sai," you whimpered out — head thrown back and your tongue threatening to loll out from the sheer pleasure the man between your legs was giving you. "Yeah, baby? Feels good when Tecchou eats that sweet cunt out reaaaaal good, huh?" Jouno's tone was condescending — his lips curled up into a cocky smirk.

“Y’smell so sweet - taste so sweet -” Tecchou's voice was low and dripping with need — your pussy throbbed from just how desperate he sounded.

"A-ah shit - can feel you throbbin' on my tongue, princess —" he groaned, tongue flattening against your clit as he shook his head side to side.

You babbled out Jouno’s name like a prayer — all while the man between your legs worshipped your cunt like it was his god, pink tongue repeatedly flicking your clit, making you see stars as your hole stretched around two of his slim fingers.

“Please — wanna c-cum s’ba- mmh!- ,” you let out a strangled noise as a harsh slap landed on your soaked pussy, clit throbbing as you threw your head back once more. “Fuckin’ slut, so damn eager to cum on another man’s tongue in front of your boyfriend, hmm?”

“Don’t — ah fuck, squeezin’ so tight ‘round my fingers, baby - don’t be so mean, Jouno,” Tecchou threw a side glare to the man next to him, which only earned a shrug from said man, “quit talking and enjoy the meal, dumbass. She’s close.”

And enjoy the meal he did — lapping up every single drop of your sweet juices so enthusiastically you’d think that he hadn’t eaten in days.

⁰⁴ 𝐎𝐃𝐀 — morning sex with him

Mornings with your husband, Oda Sakunosuke, were sweet, blissful and filled with love. Sometimes he'd surprise you with breakfast in bed, it's the least he can do considering everything that you do for him, is what he says. But sometimes — you crave him instead of the delicious food.

“My pretty girl,” Oda smiled sleepily, moving some of your hair out of your face to admire your effortless beauty — blissfully unaware to how his deep morning voice made your heart flutter in your chest, and your pussy throb with need.

You grinned back, scooting closer into his arms as you gazed into his deep brown eyes, “pretty enough to fuck?”

Oda raised a questioning eyebrow, full lips curling into a grin, "oh? that's the game we're playing, love?" Strong arms wrapped around your bare figure, the marks of last night still fresh on your skin — a reminder to how he fucked you dumb on his cock only a few hours prior.

You felt your face burn from the memories of last night rushing back into you — god, you two were insatiable - you're sure Oda fucked you in every single position in the book, and it did nothing but make you crave him more.

"Still with me, darling?" he lightly tapped your cheek, snapping you back to the present. You nodded, a gasp falling from your lips as big, calloused hands found themselves groping at your tits, pinching at your cute nipples as he pressed open mouthed kisses on your neck — his stubble tickling the sensitive skin there.

"O-oda—"

"shhh, baby — lemme do all the work, yeah?"

And that's how you ended up with your face pressed into the pillows — silken bedsheets tangled around your bodies as Oda fucked his fat girth into your sopping cunt nice 'n deep.

A large hand was pressing your back into the meanest arch ever — strong hips slamming against the fat of your plush ass with each deep thrust, thick mushroom tip prodding at your g-spot - making you bleat out your husband's name pitifully. Oda only pushed your head deeper into the soft pillows — clearly too lost in the feeling of your velvety walls clenching around him.

He watched his cock slipped in and out of your pussy so easily — your slick covering his balls down to his thighs. Oda groaned deeply in his throat as he watched a creamy ring form around the base of his cock — your cunt sucking him in so eagerly that he almost thought it hurt for you to let him go.

You let out a particularly loud moan as Oda's cock hit that one spot in you — you could only bite down on the pillow as your eyes shut closed, pussy slobbering shamelessly all over his length.

"Oh? Did you like— argh! - t-that spot, sweet girl?"

⁰⁵ 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐌𝐀 — fucking you in your sleep

Sigma was a busy man — with running the sky casino and being part of the decay of angels didn't leave too much alone time with just him and you — especially for some.. intimacy. You knew he needed to relieve himself someway — all that workload while being pent up as fuck certainly wasn't good for him. Plus, you have been craving him as well.. so you came up with an easy solution.

The door to your shared bedroom clicked open — your beloved boyfriend, Sigma, letting himself in as his eyes racked over the entire room, searching for anything out of the ordinary — you did tell him that you had a surprise for him, after all.

Upon finding nothing, he stalked over to the bed, confusion lacing his features as he glanced over at your sleeping form. Slender hands slowly slipped the soft blanket off of you and oh —

It all clicked suddenly.

The lavender coloured lace suited your complexion so perfectly, the expensive material hugging your features like it was made for you. Sigma gulped, eyes fixating on the way your tits were practically spilling out of the flimsy fabric — your stiff nipples very much visible to his hungry gaze.

It wasn't long before he had his face buried between your plush thighs — Sigma was so desperate, not even bothering to take the lingerie off your body. Besides, why would he when you just looked way too good in it?

He was practically eating you out through the thin lace — nose bumping against your clothed clit as his tongue tried to push deeper into your cunt. You had him in a chokehold — but he couldn't care less.

Sigma's slim hips were rutting into the expensive sheets — precum leaking from his sensitive tip as he tried his best not to cum untouched just from tasting your sweet pussy, but fuck, you were making it so hard for him.

He felt his cock throb in his pants when you started letting out soft moans and sighs in your sleep — or were you even asleep anymore? He didn't know and neither did he care — mind too focused on making you cum on his pretty face.

"ohh s-shit — best surprise - sluurrp - e-ever—" he whined into your cunt, spitting directly into your sticky hole before slurping it all back up.

Safe to say, he definitely enjoyed your little surprise.

© 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐘𝐎 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 ─ do not copy/translate/repost and/or recommend any of my works on different platfroms under any circumstances. reblogs greatly appreciated !

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

The Bronx Zoo has just released Flaco's necropsy results.

He was not thriving, as the people championing the ideal of "freedom" claimed.

He was poisoned.

He was sick.

He was suffering.

"Freedom" would have eventually killed him. A building just happened to do it first.

"Postmortem testing has been completed for Flaco, the Eurasian eagle owl that was found down in the courtyard of a Manhattan building a little over a year after his enclosure at the Central Park Zoo was vandalized on February 2, 2023. Onlookers reported that Flaco had flown into a building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan on February 23, 2024, and acute trauma was found at necropsy. Bronx Zoo veterinary pathologists determined that in addition to the traumatic injuries, Flaco had two significant underlying conditions. He had a severe pigeon herpesvirus from eating feral pigeons that had become part of his diet, and exposure to four different anticoagulant rodenticides that are commonly used for rat control in New York City. These factors would have been debilitating and ultimately fatal, even without a traumatic injury, and may have predisposed him to flying into or falling from the building. The identified herpesvirus can be carried by healthy pigeons but may cause fatal disease in birds of prey including owls infected by eating pigeons. This virus has been previously found in New York City pigeons and owls. In Flaco’s case, the viral infection caused severe tissue damage and inflammation in many organs, including the spleen, liver, gastrointestinal tract, bone marrow, and brain.   No other contributing factors were identified through the extensive testing that was performed. Flaco’s severe illness and death are ultimately attributed to a combination of factors—infectious disease, toxin exposures, and traumatic injuries—that underscore the hazards faced by wild birds, especially in an urban setting."

The naturalistic fallacy kills animals in horrible ways. The romanticism of what humans want to think of as a "free, wild, pure life" cannot be allowed supplant the reality of injury, sickness, and death. Releasing captive animals (or keeping them from being recaptured) because it's "better" for them to suffer untethered than live a healthy, safe, captive life is inhumane and horrific.

Flaco's life didn't have to end in pain, sickness, and suffering.

Flaco's death didn't have to be tragic.

But once the idea of "freedom" entered the chat, Flaco's fate was unavoidable.

[neverendingford]

.

[hotchnerwrites]

“Enemies to lovers, but only one of them thinks they're enemies. The other has been entirely obsessed since the beginning.” Saw this concept on here and got me thinking—reader works at the bau and thinks hotch hates her, but in reality it’s the opposite and she’s misreading his signals?

Mixed Signals

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: SFW, idiots in love, good ending, swear words

A/N: Hi hi hi hi!!! sorry for the long wait!!! finally have some time on hand from exams and im getting all reqs done!!! chose to go down a dry humour/funny route for this. honestly reminded me of my olive branch fic, except it's reversed ahahah. anyway, thank you so much for your patience. i hope you enjoy this!!!! so much love, mwah mwah mwah <3

My requests are open. Send me stuff! Please read the rules before asking, and be advised there is a slight wait time right now. But I will post for sure. :)

ps- i kind of maybe forgot to proofread so let's pretend any errors don't exist 😬 

At the end of the day, it was just work.

You all were colleagues— professionals selected for their skills, all crammed together into one bullpen and expected to play nice. That didn’t mean you had to be friends. People were allowed to dislike each other if they wanted. It happened. Tensions flared, personalities clashed, and someone always ate the last yoghurt tub.

And if Aaron Hotchner happened to hate you in particular, well, that was his right. It was just part of the job. And you were aware of it. Oh, so aware. Acute, constantly and embarrassingly aware.

There was no question about it: he hated you. Not disliked. Not tolerated with professional indifference. No— this was loathing. Cold, calculated, deep-in-his-bones hatred. 

You felt it in your blood every time Hotch walked into the bullpen and skipped over you when saying good morning. It radiated from his office like a laser death ray whenever you laughed a bit too loud. 

It wasn’t paranoia. You’d done the math.

Morgan? A nod of approval. Prentiss? Professional respect. Reid? Indulgent patience. Rossi? Best friends. You? Fuck all.

You were sick of the stone-faced silence. And that look he did. That little glance from the corner of his eye, paired with a crease between his brows. Like your presence caused him physical pain. You’d once made a joke in the SUV, and he sighed. Not laughed. Sighed. It was actually quite impressive, how consistent he was about it. 

You’d retaliated by calling Hotch all kinds of names. Mentally, of course. It was childish and dramatic, you know. But no more dramatic than the way he had once corrected your paperwork with a red pen, and hadn’t even told you— just left it on your desk like a cursed object. 

You tried not to take it personally. For a while, it worked. But then he started doing this thing— this new thing— where he’d enter a room, and leave as soon as you walked in. It had only happened twice, but it had been the same excuse both times: that superiors called him away. Suspicious.

So you did what any well-adjusted and emotionally mature adult would do. You went straight to Garcia’s office and told her that your boss hated you and you were going to get fired because he could smell your weakness. She’d gasped, handed you a bejewelled stress ball, and offered to hack into some database on your behalf (you declined, but it was nice to feel loved for a change).

Still, you couldn’t shake it. It seemed like he couldn’t be in your orbit for more than three and a half minutes without the need to file an HR report.

So when the moment came, you weren’t prepared.

●・○・●・○・●・

You were in the briefing room, finishing up your notes after everyone else had gone. The case had closed. People were smiling. Even Hotch had smiled at someone. (Not you. Obviously. But still.)

You were alone now, sorting through crime scene photos, muttering under your breath about timelines, when his voice startled you.

“You missed lunch.”

You jumped. Clutched a photo like a weapon. “Hotch—you can’t just sneak up on people like that.”

He looked vaguely alarmed. “I knocked.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did,” he insisted, like someone trying to explain doorbells to a raccoon.

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you want?”

He paused. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and—without ceremony—placed a sandwich in front of you. Neatly wrapped. Labelled with your name. From your favourite place.

You blinked. “…What is this?”

“You didn’t eat.” A beat. “It’s been a while since the brief ended.”

“I— I was going to—”

“I’ve noticed.”

You stare at the sandwich like it’s a bomb. Then at him.

“You got me food?”

“Yes.”

“Because you hate me and you’re trying to poison me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s fine,” you said, hands raised in mock surrender. “I respect it. A clean kill. No one would suspect a thing.”

“…Why would I hate you?”

You let out a single, disbelieving laugh. “Are you kidding? You avoid me like I’m radioactive. You only talk to me when absolutely necessary, and even then, you struggle. You sigh when I speak.”

Hotch looked absolutely, entirely baffled.

“I sigh at everyone.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. It’s a thinking thing.”

You scoffed. “Well, you don’t think around Morgan that much, apparently.”

He exhaled. Then, before you could launch into Exhibit D (the Unspoken Broom Closet Incident), he said:

“I’ve always valued your insight.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your reports are consistently the most thorough. Your geographic profiling is precise. You’re one of the most detail-oriented agents I’ve worked with.”

You stared at him. “…So you don’t hate me?”

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Quite the opposite.”

Silence.

You opened your mouth, about to ask what the opposite of hate even meant in Hotch-speak, but he was already turning away, clearing his throat.

“Anyway,” he said, suddenly very interested in the wallpaper, “I thought you might want lunch. That’s all.”

And then he was gone. Just—left. Like he hadn’t just lobbed that cryptic grenade over his shoulder and walked away.

●・○・●・○・●・

You don’t eat it right away. Not because you’re still suspicious—it’s from your favourite deli and has your name written on the brown paper in what can only be described as Hotch's weird, neat serial killer handwriting—but because you're too busy mentally disassociating.

Quite the opposite.

What on earth did he mean?

The rest of the day passes in a weird, slow-motion haze. JJ gives you a weird look when you accidentally sit in her chair. Reid asks if you’ve seen his recent paper, and you blink at him like you’ve just returned from war.

Because you’re thinking. Hard.

Like:

That time Hotch asked if you were staying late and then looked weirdly panicked when you said you were walking home.

The morning you came in limping from breaking your ankle, and he said, “You shouldn’t be here,” in the flattest tone imaginable.

How he called you by your first name once, and you almost fell out of your chair because he never uses anyone’s first names. You chalked it up to a lapse. 

And then. Then, the worst one.

Last month. You’d been coughing like a maniac during a briefing. He had placed a bottle of water in front of you with a dull thunk. At the time, you had taken it to be his passive-aggressive way of saying please shut the fuck up right now. Only to find out later from JJ that he’d actually gotten up and left mid-meeting to get that water for you.

Now you're sitting at your desk rewatching it all in your head like the twist ending of a psychological thriller.

●・○・●・○・●・

You don’t see Hotch again until nearly 6 p.m., and when you do, he’s at his office door, jacket folded over one arm, clearly intending to head out.

You’re not even thinking when you get up and intercept him halfway down the hall.

He stops mid-step when he sees you. “Everything alright?”

“I… need you to clarify what’s going on.”

He exhales like someone who just got caught by airport security. “About what?”

You try to keep your expression neutral, but your heart is pounding like you’re about to ask your boss if he’s mad at you—because that’s exactly what you’re doing.

“You’ve been… weird,” you say finally. “With me. For months.”

Hotch tilts his head. “Weird.”

“You barely speak to me unless it’s about a case. You avoid sitting near me on the jet. I brought cookies in last week, and you took one, then put it back. Who does that?”

He has the audacity to look mildly horrified. “I didn’t mean to put it back.”

“That’s not the point.”

You’re spiralling and he knows it. You can tell by the way his jaw tightens like he’s trying not to laugh. You, on the other hand, are mortified.

“I just need to know,” you continue, quieter now. “If I did something wrong. If I’ve annoyed you somehow, or if you genuinely just… can’t stand me.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you want to crawl into the floor tiles.

Hotch runs a hand down his face. “I don’t hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I—” He pauses, and then, with all the charisma of a man giving a congressional hearing, says, “You make me nervous.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You… distract me,” he mutters, like he’s admitting to tax fraud. “I didn’t mean to be distant. I thought it would help.”

“Oh.” It comes out stupidly small, because your brain is too busy cataloguing every single interaction the two of you have ever had and realising, oh no, he was just emotionally repressed and completely, tragically bad at this.

You swallow. “So… you don’t think I’m annoying?”

“No,” he says, almost immediately, and then after a pause, “Not even a little. Not even when you talk over me in briefings.”

You almost laugh. “That’s because you talk like we’re in court.”

“And you talk like you’re arguing with your GPS.”

Now you do laugh, and something about the way his shoulders ease tells you this is maybe the most honest conversation you’ve ever had with him.

You look at him for a second longer, searching his face. “You’re really bad at this.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just said you liked me.”

“I’m saying it now,” he says, softer.

And okay—maybe Hotch didn’t confess it with a rose in his teeth and violins playing in the background. Maybe it came out like a man filing paperwork for a broken heart. But it’s still something.

“You want to get coffee or something?” you ask.

He nods once. “Yeah. I do.”

You don’t know what this is yet. But it doesn’t feel like work. And this time, he didn’t glare— so, by your standards, that was basically a proposal.

Thanks for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[letthemkook]

🂱 ACE jeon jungkook (two)

18+

Pairing: Yandere!Crimeboss! Jungkook × Detective!Reader

Themes: Obsession, power imbalance, cat-and-mouse tension, psychological warfare, forced proximity, dark seduction, corruption

Genre: Dark romance, crime thriller

Warnings: Dubious consent, manipulation, possessiveness, graphic language, coercion, criminal themes, stalking, dark erotic content, emotional degradation, SMUT

“He was just another criminal on your list — cold, untouchable, dangerous. But the moment you walked into that room, Jungkook forgot every crime he ever committed and started planning a new one: making you his.”

part one

——————-🂱———————

It had been seven days since you fled the club.

Seven days since you’d pressed your palm into Jungkook’s body, watched his face twist in pain, and used the chaos to vanish into the night with your friends.

You hadn’t heard a single word from him since.

No calls. No notes. No playing cards slipped under your door.

Just silence.

And somehow, that was worse.

You didn’t tell your friends the full story. Over coffee, you offered them just enough to keep their concern at bay — “Something shady went down. I was being followed by someone from a case. Dangerous, but I handled it.”

They asked questions, but you kept it vague. A little too calm. And that scared them more than anything.

“You should report it,” one said.

“I am the report,” you answered quietly.

You still went to work.

The office felt the same — fluorescent lighting, scattered files, the familiar scrape of chair legs across tile. You passed your coworkers in the hall, gave nods, shared tired smiles. No one questioned your presence. No one questioned your rank. Despite your age, you were respected. You had solved cases no one else could crack, spotted patterns no one else saw.

But no one had ever taught you what to do when you became the prey.

You checked your reflection in the window of the precinct entrance — eyes duller than they’d been a week ago, lips pressed into a line. You’d stopped wearing your hair the same way. Stopped wearing perfume. Stopped taking the same route home twice.

And still, you felt him.

Not visibly. Not physically.

But under your skin.

You’d feel it most when you walked through town — passing strangers who stared too long, flinching at shadows where nothing moved. You stopped going out after dark. Started scanning every alleyway. Your fingers never strayed far from the weapon in your coat.

You were a detective. You knew how to look for signs.

And what terrified you most… was that there weren’t any.

Because you knew Jungkook.

This wasn’t giving up.

This was strategy.

You’d seen it before — the pause in behavior, the vanishing act right before the trap sprung shut.

He was watching.

He was waiting.

And that knowledge settled in your chest like a stone.

Each night when you returned home, your steps slowed at the door. You checked the handle. Looked around the hallway. Sometimes, you’d just stand there, holding your keys like a blade, pulse pounding.

Inside, you swept every room.

Closets. Bathroom. Kitchen. Under the bed.

You placed your weapon beside your pillow. Your badge on the nightstand. Double-locked the windows. Triple-checked the front door.

Still.

You didn’t sleep well.

Sometimes you swore you heard footsteps above your ceiling. Sometimes you’d wake up convinced you’d heard your name whispered from inside your closet.

It wasn’t rational.

But it didn’t have to be.

You hadn’t heard from Jungkook.

But you felt him.

In your bones. In the way your chest tightened in crowded rooms. In the way your fingers twitched every time your phone lit up with a number you didn’t recognize.

And one night — the seventh night — it finally happened.

You came home late. Rain soaked through your coat, cold clinging to your skin. You unlocked your door. Walked in. Tossed your keys on the counter like always.

Paused.

The air smelled different.

Not bad. Not chemical. Just… not right.

You moved slowly, methodically. Checked every room.

Nothing.

Every lock still latched. Every drawer still closed. Nothing missing.

Except your sense of safety.

You changed clothes. Made tea. Forced your body through the motions.

And when you finally slid into bed, body tense and spine stiff, you reached for your phone.

It was face down.

You hadn’t left it that way.

You picked it up slowly, turning it over.

There was no message. No missed call.

Just a faint, unfamiliar fingerprint smudge across the top right corner of the screen.

It wasn’t yours.

You stared at it for a long time.

Heart still.

Breath shallow.

He’d been here.

Not to hurt you.

Not yet.

Just to remind you.

I can reach you whenever I want.

—————————-

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of your space heater and the ticking of the old analog clock on the wall. You had just started to relax — not trust, not forget, but breathe. One of those rare nights where you let your shoulders drop an inch lower than usual, hair loose, sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, the warmth of tea still lingering in your throat.

Then the door opened.

“Hey!”

Hari’s voice. Light. Laughing.

You flinched.

“Why do you have your lights off like you’re hiding from the world?”

You got up fast, meeting them at the entryway. “You shouldn’t just let yourselves in like that.”

“Relax,” Minji said. “We brought snacks and a plan.”

You blinked as they entered, cheeks flushed, makeup half done. Outfits too fancy for a night in.

“No,” you said instantly. “Whatever it is, no.”

Hari laughed. “We’re going out again. Chill bar. No mystery penthouses, no weird clubs.”

You stared. “Are you actually serious?”

They glanced at each other. Hari shrugged. “What? You freaked out last time. You never even explained why.”

“You don’t want to know why,” you snapped, voice sharper than intended.

Hari tilted her head. “You sound like someone’s mom.”

“You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Hari’s smile faltered, just briefly.

You softened your voice. “Please. Stay. Just for tonight.”

They paused, looked at each other again — but the moment passed. “We’ll text you when we get there,” one said, already fixing her hair in your hallway mirror. “You need sleep, babe.”

You didn’t argue again.

You watched them leave. Closed the door. Locked it. Deadbolt. Chain.

Then you sat on the edge of your bed for a long time, phone gripped in your hand like a weapon.

Nothing.

Not a text. Not a ping.

And hours later, after pacing the room, trying to distract yourself, eventually, you lay down.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid, they’re probably having fun. You thought to yourself.

Your room was dark. The heater clicked softly.

You almost drifted—

Until your phone rang.

It was Hari.

You sat up fast, heart thundering.

The second you answered, her voice filled your ear.

“Y/N…?”

It was faint. Slurred. Not quite drunk. Not quite awake.

“Where are you?” you asked, eyes already darting toward your door. “Are you okay?”

A pause.

Then laughter.

But it wasn’t the same.

It was wrong.

“We’re on a boat,” she said. “A yacht. Isn’t that crazy?”

Your blood turned to ice. “Hari—where? Who took you there? Is someone with you?”

Another giggle, Minji. And then—

Another voice.

Low. Warm. Velvet with just the barest rasp.

“We’re having lots of fun, Y/N.”

You froze.

“You should join us.”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’d hate for you to… miss out.”

More laughter, other men, and your friends.

“Yes Y/N! Come join us! It’s beautiful here!” You hear Minji scream from the background.

The call ended.

You didn’t move.

Not for a full minute.

Then — ping.

A message lit your screen.

[Location shared]

Coordinates.

And a simple text: Join us.

You stared at the blinking dot on the screen. Your friends on a boat with the man you hated most, and his lackies.

He wasn’t done with you. He wasn’t being quiet. He just knew how to play the game better than you. He knows you. He knows that you would never leave your friends alone with him.

After contemplating whether or not to call your supervisor, you grabbed your gun and your keys and ran out the door.

He’s thought of everything. And you weren’t stupid enough to draw his wrath by calling for backup. This was a trade. You for them.

And you knew—

The game had begun again.

Only this time?

You weren’t the only one on the board.

—————

The bar was dim and buzzing, tucked high in a downtown building with windows that looked out over the harbor. It was a nice place, nothing too wild — just enough bass in the music to feel young again, just enough glitter in the lights to pretend the world outside didn’t exist.

Minji was on her third drink and Hari was still scrolling through the menu pretending she hadn’t just taken a risky shot on an empty stomach.

Minji rolled her eyes at that. “She’s always tired. She works like she’s trying to retire by thirty.”

“She’s a detective, Min,” Hari muttered, still eyeing the cocktails. “She’s probably out chasing some crime lord.”

Minji giggled. “And we’re chasing gin.”

That’s when he walked in.

Jungkook didn’t arrive. He entered. Like a ripple in the atmosphere. Like something dark and ancient had taken human form in Balenciaga and Prada and decided to look bored about it.

They didn’t notice the two men behind him at first — tall, composed, watchful. No one did. Because when Jungkook’s eyes scanned the room, the world seemed to narrow.

Minji tilted her drink toward Hari. “See? This is exactly what we needed. Chill. Cute crowd. Not one mention of handcuffs or murder cases.”

Hari gave a thin smile. “You say that like we didn’t almost get abducted two weeks ago.”

“That was Y/N’s fault,” Minji said, rolling her eyes. “She’s always so serious. We’re not even the ones the guy wanted.”

Hari stirred her drink, unconvinced. “Still. Creepy.”

But Minji wasn’t listening anymore. Her gaze had drifted — locked on the figure near the back corner of the bar, standing half-shrouded in shadow. Black button-down, sleeves rolled up, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a short glass he hadn’t sipped from in minutes.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

But he was watching.

Not them — not directly. Just the room. The way a wolf might observe a herd.

Minji licked her lips, adjusting the neckline of her dress. “Holy shit.”

Hari followed her gaze and stiffened. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. That guy has cartel energy.”

Minji was already rising. “Exactly.”

Jungkook didn’t flinch when she approached. He had seen her the moment she walked in. The way her heels clicked on the floor. The way her perfume bloomed behind her like bait.

He’d picked this bar for a reason. He knew you’d warn them to stay home. He knew Minji would come anyway. She was predictable. Easy.

“Hey,” she said, leaning on the table beside him. “You always stand around looking mysterious, or is this a special occasion?”

His eyes trailed lazily over her, slow and unreadable. “Why?”

“Because it’s working.”

A beat passed. Then: “Is it?”

She smiled. “Depends. Are you gonna offer me a drink or just stare?”

“I already bought you one,” he said, gesturing subtly toward the bar.

The bartender placed a new glass in front of her at that exact moment. Minji blinked, surprised. “How did you know what I like?”

“I didn’t,” Jungkook said flatly. “But I watched you order.”

Her smile faltered for just a second — not enough to leave. Just enough to feel noticed. “You been watching me long?”

“Long enough.”

He still hadn’t smiled. Not once. But Minji couldn’t look away.

“Let me guess,” she said, taking a sip. “You’re not from around here.”

“I’m from wherever I want to be.”

She laughed, softer this time. “You’re trouble.”

“I know.”

There was no ego in the way he said it. Just fact. The same way someone might say I’m hungry. Or I don’t miss.

“So…” she leaned in, voice hushed like a secret. “Where’s a guy like you headed after this?”

He drained the last of his drink and glanced toward the door. “A Dock.”

“Dock?”

“There’s a boat there.”

“Yours?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

She smiled again, bolder now. “If you’re trying to impress me, it’s working.”

“I’m not.”

Her breath caught.

He took one step forward, close enough for her to feel the difference in temperature — like standing too near a flame that hadn’t touched you yet.

“Bring your friend,” he said softly. “We’ll make room.”

Then he walked out.

Minji was already waving Hari over, flushed and exhilarated. “Come on. We’re going with him.”

Hari hesitated, her skin prickling. “Who was that?”

Minji grinned, grabbing her purse. “Does it matter?”

From the dock, Jungkook stood with his men, waiting. Watching. Already dialing your number.

He didn’t have to bait you with threats this time. Just a voice.

—————————

The coordinates led you to the docks just beyond the city limits — private access, where the air felt colder and quieter than it should. The streetlights thinned as you approached, and the only sound was the soft lapping of dark water against wood and metal.

You kept your gun tucked against your ribs and your badge hidden deep in your coat.

He wanted you to come alone.

And you did.

You found the yacht waiting at the far end of the dock — sleek, shining, and too still. Lights glowed amber through tinted windows. Soft jazz hummed from inside, rich and wrong. It was far too elegant for what this was.

You stepped aboard without a word.

The deck was empty. No crew. No guards. Not even footsteps.

You moved slowly, carefully, eyes darting to every reflective surface. You gripped your weapon tighter.

And then—

His voice behind you.

“Looking for someone?”

You spun, gun raised instantly, breath caught in your chest.

You turned sharply, gun raised—

But he was already in front of you.

Jeon Jungkook.

Hair slightly tousled. Black button-up unfastened at the collar, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms. He looked so calm it made your skin crawl. Like this was just a reunion. Like you were expected.

“Where are they?” you asked, gun still raised.

He smiled. “They’re safe.”

“Show me.”

“Not yet.”

Your hands didn’t shake. You wouldn’t give him that.

But he still stepped closer.

And closer.

Until the barrel of your gun pressed to his chest.

He didn’t flinch.

“I missed you,” he said softly.

You hated the way your breath caught.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“Don’t what?” His hand moved slowly — slowly — up to your wrist. “Don’t lie? Don’t act like you weren’t waiting for this?”

You didn’t pull the trigger.

You should have.

But he took another step — and backed you against the cabin wall, gun still caught between you, now useless.

“Your friends are just fine,” he whispered. “They’ve been pampered. Fed. Entertained.”

You clenched your jaw.

“But that’s not why you came,” he continued, leaning in. “You came because you knew I’d call. You came because you wanted to.”

“I came to end this,” you spat.

“No.” His fingers curled gently around the grip of your gun. “You came to find out what happens next.”

He stepped forward.

You pushed the gun harder into him.

He didn’t care.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth.

“You haven’t won anything.”

“No?” His voice dropped to a purr. “Then why are you here?”

He took your wrist. Gently. Like a lover.

“Why’d you come if you knew it was a trap?”

Your throat tightened.

He took another step — now flush to you — and your gun arm was trapped between your bodies. His hand slid up your spine with agonizing patience, and then—

He spun you.

One quick, fluid motion.

You gasped.

Now you were against the wall — again — only this time, his chest pressed to your back, his hand coiled at your waist, fingers tight but not cruel.

You were locked in place. Pinned. Not violently — but possessively. Dangerously.

He took your weapon.

Tossed far onto the floor behind him.

You didn’t fight.

Not yet.

Because you knew — every second you played his game was another second your friends stayed alive.

He leaned back slightly, studying your face.

And smiled.

“Let’s not pretend this is war anymore,” Jungkook murmured. “You made me feel something the night you ran. Something real.”

He leaned closer again, lips brushing your jaw, not quite kissing. “But now it’s your turn.”

He pulled back.

And gestured toward the hallway.

“Let’s talk,” he said simply. “Unless you’d rather scream.”

His breath ghosted your ear.

And then:

“You’re not walking off this boat the same way you came on, sweetheart.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Your friends…” he continued, voice lowering, lips barely brushing your skin, “I can make sure they get home tonight. Maybe even in one piece.”

You froze.

He smiled against your cheek.

“Depending on how good your apology is.”

————————

The cabin was silent but heavy — thick with tension, thick with your heartbeat. Jungkook still stood behind you, chest pressed to your back, arm caged around your waist like it belonged there.

You hadn’t moved.

Not even after his whisper sank into your ear like poison.

“Depending on how good your apology is.”

You twisted in his hold, glaring up at him, lips parted with fury but no words. You wanted to shove him. Spit in his face. Draw your weapon and end this game for good.

But your gun was gone.

And your friends were somewhere on this yacht.

He circled behind you — like a wolf assessing a wounded animal — and leaned down near your ear.

“Ready to beg, baby?” You turned to glare up at him.

“Let them go you son of a bitch.”

“I don’t think you get to make demands,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek. “Not when you left me aching for a week. Not after you put me on the floor and ran like a thief.”

His hand slid over your shoulder, down your arm, slow enough to make you shiver. Not from fear. From rage.

“You want to know what your friends are doing right now?” he asked softly. “Because I can make that phone ring again. You can listen to them beg. Or scream. Just say the word.”

Your stomach twisted.

You turned your face away.

“Still so stubborn,” he muttered. “Still pretending you have choices.”

“I hate you.”

He chuckled low in his throat.

“Louder,” he said.

“I love when you lie,” he said, voice smooth and smug. “It makes the moment you break that much sweeter.”

You clenched your jaw.

You felt powerless. You felt humiliated. But your pride wasn’t stronger than your desire to keep your friends from suffering for your mistakes.

So you didn’t push him away when he walked you backwards into the bedroom — a lavish private suite lit by low golden lamps. You didn’t speak when he sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, watching you from beneath his lashes like you were prey already cornered.

“On your knees.”

You stayed still.

Your breath caught.

He tilted his head, resting one elbow on his thigh. “You must not care much about your friends after all.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. “They don’t belong in this.”

“Neither do you.” He leaned forward. “But we’re far past that.”

You stood frozen for a long second.

Then slowly — hating every step of it — you lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him.

Jungkook exhaled, his head falling back for a moment like he was savoring the image. “There you are,” he murmured. “Finally where I pictured you.”

You glared up at him, jaw set tight.

He smiled.

“You’re so pretty when you’re furious.”

He undid his belt slowly. Deliberately. Letting the metal click echo through the quiet room. His zipper followed. He didn’t say a word, just watched you as he freed himself — thick, heavy, already hard.

“Crawl.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Or I make the call.”

That was all it took.

You crawled forward, stiff, resisting every movement, until you were between his legs.

“Open.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t obey right away.

So he cupped your face gently, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb.

“You really don’t like this, do you?” he whispered, pretending to sound hurt. “Bet you won’t be able to lie with my cock in your mouth.”

You slapped his hand away.

He only laughed.

“God, I missed you.”

Then he tilted his head.

“Now open that mouth for me, sweetheart. This time… mean it.”

You shut your eyes in frustration as he brushed his fingers against your jaw, and then squeezed your cheeks together.

Your eyes fluttered open, and with a gulp your lips parted. He took his hand away from your face and leaned back.

You reached for him slowly.

“Ah—” he tutted, voice smooth. “Stick your tongue out.”

You hesitated. The power in your hands was slipping fast.

But you did it.

He slapped the weight of his cock down onto your tongue — heavy, wet, demanding — and your cheeks burned at the obscene sound it made.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Apologize.”

You blinked.

“What—?”

His fingers tangled in your hair, firm but not cruel. “You heard me. For running. For lying. For hurting me. You want your friends safe? Start with ‘I’m sorry.’”

You could’ve said no.

You wanted to say no.

But you looked up at him, saw the gleam in his eyes, the satisfaction blooming already in his expression — and worse, the patience. Like he had all the time in the world to wait.

You swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice went lower. Begrudging. Bitter. “I’m sorry for running. For hurting you.”

“Mmm.” He leaned back against the bed, his thighs spreading further. “Now show me how sorry you are.”

You wrapped your hand around him. Warm. Veined. Throbbing.

And you took him into your mouth.

He groaned instantly, hips shifting forward, hand tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Good girl.”

You hated the heat that pooled in your stomach. Hated how he sounded like he meant it.

You bobbed slowly at first, letting your spit coat him, letting your tongue swirl — dragging along the underside, then hollowing your cheeks just enough to make him groan again.

But it wasn’t enough.

He cupped the back of your head and pushed slightly deeper. “Sloppier,” he hissed. “I want you drooling on my cock.”

You pulled back just enough to breathe, saliva dripping down your chin.

He smiled down at you, flushed and cocky. “You’re doing so well now. Look at that mouth. Look how sweet you’re being.”

You moaned around him — half defiance, half necessity — and he twitched again.

“Fuck,” he gritted. “I could stay like this forever.”

You moved faster, wetter, eyes glaring up at him as tears pricked at the corners.

“Look at you,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “So obedient now. You must really care about them.”

He didn’t stop watching you.

Didn’t blink.

You pulled off him with a gasp — lips shiny, chest heaving, breath ragged from the effort and the rage knotting in your chest. A string of saliva still connected your lips to his cock, your jaw sore, your pride bruised. You braced your palms against his thighs, not moving away, not daring to stand — not yet.

“Keep going,” he said softly. “God baby, your mouth is a fucking sin.”

Jungkook let out a soft, satisfied sigh and looked down at you like you were a reward he’d finally earned.

“Mm, messy already?” he murmured, voice thick and low. “I haven’t even started.”

Your glare would’ve cut a lesser man.

He smirked.

“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. You’re the one on your knees.” His thumb came down to trace the spit trailing off your chin. “What a pretty fucking mess.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

He leaned forward, hand fisting gently into your hair again.

“Open.”

You hesitated just a second too long.

He tugged.

You gasped, mouth falling open, and he groaned, just the sound of it making his cock twitch in front of you.

“Stick your tongue out,” he said, lower now, smug and slow. “Wider. Yeah… good girl.”

He stroked himself once, thick and glistening, then slapped the weight of his cock down onto your tongue again— again, again — letting the wet sound echo in the space between your breaths.

“You hear that?” he whispered, leaning down just slightly. “That’s what shame sounds like.”

You whimpered.

He dragged the tip over your tongue, smearing your own spit across your lips.

“Now take me. Deeper.”

Your throat tightened.

But you obeyed.

You sank back down onto him, slow and careful, relaxing your jaw as he filled your mouth again — thicker, harder now, and hotter from how worked up he was.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Look how obedient you get when you’re scared.”

He held your head still, his hips barely rocking, just enough to fuck into your throat with shallow rolls. You tried not to gag, tried to keep your breathing steady through your nose, but he didn’t make it easy.

“God, your mouth,” he rasped. “It was made for this. You were made for this.”

You whimpered around him again, spit spilling over your lips as he pushed deeper.

He moaned softly, voice all honey and venom. “Sloppy. Fucking perfect. I should’ve done this the second I had you alone in interrogation.”

You clawed at his thigh, nails digging in lightly — not to hurt, just to keep yourself grounded.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

“I could come just like this,” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded. “Would you let me? Hmm? Let me come down that pretty little throat?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

He smiled wider. “Of course you would. You’re already so good for me.”

You moaned despite yourself — or maybe because of how dizzy you were getting.

He chuckled low. “I love how you sound with my dick in your mouth.”

You started to pull back, needing air, needing something—

But his hand held you there, firm but not cruel, just enough to keep you on edge.

“No,” he whispered. “Stay. You want to be good, don’t you?”

You blinked up at him, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.

He licked his lips.

And smiled.

“Then show me.”

——————-

Your throat burned. Your jaw ached. Spit coated your lips, your chin, your fingers as you gripped his thighs to stay upright. He tasted like salt and sin, thick on your tongue, and still — still — he wanted more.

“Don’t stop,” Jungkook rasped, fingers flexing in your hair as he guided your rhythm. “Fuck—don’t you dare stop now.”

You gagged, and he moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever heard.

“Just like that,” he breathed. “Let me hear it.”

You pulled back with a gasp, slick dripping down your chin, a breathless glare in your eyes. You were shaking — not with fear, not exactly. With fury. With the effort it took not to bite down and ruin him.

He leaned forward, resting his elbow on one knee, watching you catch your breath. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, collecting the drool.

“Such a fucking sight,” he whispered. “My sharp little detective… on her knees for me.”

“Shut up,” you rasped, voice raw.

Jungkook grinned — smug, amused, too pleased.

“You think you’re still fighting me?” he said, tilting your chin up. “You’re on your knees, gagging on my cock, and I’m the one who should shut up?”

You clenched your jaw.

“Cute.”

He leaned in closer, voice dipping to a dark, dangerous murmur.

“I could’ve fucked your mouth until I came,” he said. “Could’ve held you there and watched you swallow every drop.”

Your stomach twisted.

“But I want something better.”

He stood, slow and controlled — his hand guiding you up with him. Your legs wobbled as you rose, but he didn’t let you fall.

He sat back on the bed, this time dragging you with him, until you were straddling his lap, your thighs on either side of his, your hips pressed down against the hard length still slick from your spit.

His hand slid around your throat — not squeezing. Just resting. Claiming.

“Now,” he murmured, voice brushing your lips. “You’re going to apologize properly.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t breathe.

He tilted his head.

“What’s wrong?” he teased, mouth curling into a smile. “Getting shy again?”

“You’re disgusting,” you whispered.

“And yet you haven’t moved once.”

His hips shifted up, grinding against you — slow, firm, controlled.

You gasped.

He moaned, deep in his throat. “Fuck, you feel good. Warm. Shaking. You’re pretending you hate this, but your body already knows who you belong to.”

You tried to pull back.

His hand around your throat tightened just slightly — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

“You want your friends to walk out of here, right?” he whispered. “Unhurt. Untouched.”

You stopped struggling.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Then you’ll stay.”

Another roll of his hips, pressing the length of him against your heat, teasing. Almost-there pressure that made your thighs clench around him.

“You’ll let me have you,” he breathed. “All of you. Tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

So he kissed your jaw.

Then your neck.

And then said, soft and low:

“Because if you don’t—maybe I’ll just send them home in pieces.”

————-

The second you stopped struggling, something in Jungkook changed.

The tension in his jaw didn’t ease. His fingers didn’t loosen on your throat. If anything, his grip on you got steadier — hungrier. Your stillness wasn’t victory. It was submission.

And submission was all he’d been waiting for.

“Good girl,” he whispered against your cheek. “My girl.”

You didn’t move, sitting in his lap, thighs pressed tight around his hips, your soaked underwear clinging to the shape of him beneath. His hand slid down the back of your head, petting you gently. Too gently.

Like you hadn’t just given in. Like you were made to.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured. “That scared little look in your eyes… fuck, it makes me so hard.”

Your lip curled, but his hand gripped your jaw tight.

“You keep glaring at me like that, baby,” he whispered, tilting your face closer, “I’m gonna come before I even get inside you.”

He kissed you before you could speak.

Rough.

Breathless.

All teeth and dominance.

He didn’t kiss like a man trying to earn you — he kissed like someone who owned you, tongue sliding over yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands moved fast, pushing up your shirt, grabbing your tits through your bra like he’d been thinking about them for years.

“Off,” he growled, yanking the fabric over your head.

You gasped as he unclasped your bra, tugged it down, and wrapped his lips around one nipple without warning.

“Fuck—Jungkook—!”

He bit down gently — just enough to make you jolt — and then licked over it with a groan.

“Say it again,” he murmured,

He kissed down your chest, then looked up, eyes glazed and filthy.

“Say ‘daddy.’”

You clenched your teeth.

He laughed.

“You’re so cute when you try to act strong,” he said, grabbing your waist and flipping you beneath him.

You hit the mattress hard, your legs spread around his hips, panties ruined with how soaked you were. He knelt between them, dragging the fabric down, slow and greedy, humming when the string of slick broke from your cunt to the crotch of your underwear.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he whispered, spreading your thighs wide. “Look at that. You’re dripping. And you still think I’m the monster.”

He didn’t give you time to answer.

He leaned down and spat on your pussy, then used two fingers to smear it in with your slick.

You jerked under him. “You’re disgusting—”

“You’re mine,” he snapped, grabbing his cock and lining it up with your entrance.

You were trembling beneath him, legs forced apart, skin hot with shame and fury. His cock pressed against your entrance—thick, hard, pulsing—and yet he didn’t move. Didn’t push in. Not yet. Instead, Jungkook looked down at you like you were prey still twitching after the kill, his palm spread low across your stomach to hold you still.

“Are you ready to take me, baby?” he whispered, grinding just enough for you to feel the stretch, the threat of what was coming. You turned your face to the side, breath ragged, eyes burning. He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “How about you ask nicely?” His voice dropped, syrupy and cruel. “Say: Daddy, please fuck me.”

You clenched her jaw. Said nothing.

“Come on,” he cooed. “I’m being sweet right now. But if you keep being a brat, I’ll take it anyway. Or Maybe I’ll send a little warning shot to your sweet friend Minji first.”

Your whole body went cold. Your glare cut up at him, and yet—your voice shook as you finally rasped the words, like they’d burned your throat raw on the way out. “Daddy… please fuck me.”

You didn’t get a warning.

He thrust in hard — one sharp stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out, back arching off the bed.

“F-fuck—Jungkook—!”

“Daddy,” he growled, grinding deeper into you. “Say it.”

You whimpered, blinking back tears.

His cock twitched inside you, thick and throbbing.

“Daddy—” you choked out, voice breaking.

He groaned, voice wrecked. “That’s my girl.”

Then he fucked you.

No teasing. No mercy.

Just thrust after brutal thrust, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he slammed into you over and over. The bed shook. The walls creaked. Your moans bounced back at you, too loud, too wrecked to be real.

Jungkook hovered over you, sweat dripping down his neck, lips parted in a snarl.

“You feel that, baby?” he panted. “That’s me stretching you out. That’s my cock making you mine.”

You couldn’t speak — only whimper, arms curling around his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

He leaned down and licked into your mouth like he needed it, groaning into the kiss.

“You take me so good,” he whispered. “So fucking tight for daddy. So wet for being owned.”

You sobbed his name, legs tightening around his waist.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled. “Cling to me. Beg for it.”

“I-I hate you—”

“No you don’t,” he said, snapping his hips harder. “You just hate that I’m right.”

He grabbed your jaw again, forced you to look at him.

“Say you’re mine.”

You whimpered, on the edge.

“Say it.”

“…I’m yours.”

He came with a growl, burying himself deep, cock twitching as he filled you.

You didn’t breathe.

Not for a long time.

Not until his hand stroked your hair and he kissed your jaw, whispering,

“That’s my good girl.”

———

You barely had time to breathe.

Your body was still shaking from the force of him, still slick and pulsing from the way he came inside you, and yet—he wasn’t finished.

Jungkook didn’t pull out.

He didn’t even pause.

He grabbed your waist, strong hands locking into your hips, and dragged you up the bed with one arm under your stomach — flipping you onto all fours before you could protest.

You gasped, palms sinking into the sheets, chest dropping as he pushed your back into a perfect arch.

“Jungkook—”

Smack.

His palm landed sharp across your ass.

You jolted, a choked sound tearing from your throat.

He groaned behind you, already hard again, his cock pressed thick and wet against your entrance.

“Don’t talk,” he panted. “Just take it.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling.

Another smack.

“Look at you,” he hissed. “Bent over for me like a whore. After everything. After you ran.”

You felt the tip of his cock slide through your folds — once, twice, lazy and filthy — before he slammed back into you without warning.

You cried out, hands gripping the sheets hard enough to burn your palms.

“Fuck— you’re still tight,” he growled, snapping his hips. “You should be ashamed. Letting me fuck you like this. Letting me use you.”

Another slap, harder this time. Your whole body rocked forward from the force.

“You were supposed to be the strong one,” he mocked, voice breathless, filthy. “Supposed to be the cop. The one who could resist me.”

His hand wrapped in your hair, yanking your head back.

“But look at you now, baby.”

He leaned down, breath hot on your ear.

“On your hands and knees. Dripping all over me.”

You sobbed his name — part pain, part pleasure, part humiliation.

He moaned. “That’s it. Say it again.”

You bit your lip. He thrust harder.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you’re my pretty little thing. Say this pussy’s mine.”

You shook your head, breath hitching—

Another slap. Hard. Then another.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growled. “All of you. Every inch.”

He gripped your hips again and fucked you harder — faster — dragging obscene, wet sounds from between your legs with every stroke. The pressure built again, sharp and fast, your thighs shaking as your body betrayed every bit of your willpower.

“Look at this,” Jungkook hissed. “You’re loving it. You’re soaked. This isn’t fear. You were made to be fucked like this.”

You whimpered, blinking through the tears stinging your eyes.

“Say thank you,” he demanded. “For ruining you. For making you mine.”

You gasped. Your body was right there on the edge — overwhelmed, raw.

“Say it.”

“…T-thank you.”

He let out a growl — dark and satisfied — and slammed into you one last time, burying himself deep, holding your hips as he came again with a broken gasp.

You dropped forward, cheek to the sheets, body twitching.

His hand slid up your spine, slow and warm, petting you as you trembled.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, breathing heavy against your back. “And I’m never letting you go.”

————

note: minji gmfu. like bitch u rlly couldn’t listen to hari??? Anyways, ace will have like one more 3rd part and then maybe a few drabbles ! I wrote this quickly to celebrate my husbands return from the military <3

[goofygubegubler]

hi hi

reader gets period during sex (yes i know im a freak 🥲) and is very embarrassed but spencer is super sweet and cute… 😔

𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒖𝒖𝒖 (𝑺.𝑹)

wc: 1.2k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: Period Sex, Blood Mentions, Bodily Fluids, Explicit Sexual Content, Embarrassment/Shame (Resolved), Tender Aftercare, Bath Scene, Late-Season Spencer Reid Softness.

Spencer had been giving you exactly what you needed—those sharp, deep thrusts laced with the confidence and precision that only experience could bring. He moaned low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin as he leaned over you, holding one of your legs high against his chest to open you up just right. That angle. God, that angle. Your vision blurred at the edges, your thoughts flickering into static, your skull knocking lightly against the headboard with each powerful stroke.

"Spence," you whimpered, voice cracking with need. He was so deep you could barely think. So deep it felt like your bones had liquefied. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he gasped against your throat.

"You're so fucking tight," he groaned, lips dragging along your jaw. "Feels like you’re made for me."

You could only nod, trembling, nails digging into his back. Your body burned, a slow spiral of heat in your belly. His hips snapped forward again, and the pressure inside you swelled—

—and then he froze.

His brow furrowed. Not in discomfort. In concern.

"Wait—hold on," he whispered, voice tender now. He slowed his thrusts and eased back slightly, and your stomach plummeted at the change in his expression.

"What?" you asked, breathless. You tried to hide the panic in your voice, but your gut already twisted with embarrassment.

Spencer sat back on his heels, still inside you but gentle now. He looked down—

—and you saw it too. Red. A smear of it across your thighs. On him. On the sheets beneath you.

Your heart seized. You bolted upright with a strangled gasp, pulling the sheet around yourself like it could rewind the moment.

"Oh my God," you choked, horror flooding your system. "Oh my God, Spencer, I—I didn’t know, I didn’t feel—"

"Hey. Hey," he interrupted quickly, reaching for you with those steady hands, the same ones that had just been gripping you like lifelines. "Look at me."

You didn’t want to. You kept your face buried in your hands, burning with shame, but he wouldn’t let you disapp, notNot like this.

"Look at me, sweetheart. Please."

You finally glanced up through your fingers, and what you found in his eyes wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t revulsion. It was softness. Concern. Love.

"It’s okay," he said quietly, brushing your hair from your face. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

You tried to speak, but your throat locked. All you could do was shake your head, whispering, "I’m so sorry. That’s so gross—"

"Stop," he said, gently but firmly. "Don’t say that. It’s not gross. It’s just... your body. It’s natural. It happens. Actually—statistically—about 30% of people with periods have reported unexpected onset during intercourse due to a variety of physiological triggers."

You blinked, stunned into silence as he adjusted the sheet around your waist with the same care he used handling case files and fragile crime scene evidence. "Also, menstrual blood isn't harmful in any way. It’s composed of roughly 50% blood and 50% other natural bodily components, like cervical mucus and uterine tissue."

"Spencer," you said weakly, but there was a smile threatening the corners of your mouth now. "Are you... giving me a period TED Talk right now?"

He shrugged, a bashful grin touching his lips. "I have three PhDs. One of them includes human physiology. It's hard to turn it off."

You snorted, the embarrassment slowly starting to burn off into something else. Relief. Affection. Love.

And he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your shoulder, and whispered, "But we can stop if you're uncomfortable. Or..."

You looked at him, your heartbeat steadying. His eyes were still so full of want—tempered now with care.

"I want you to keep going," you whispered. "If you're okay with it."

He kissed your shoulder again, lower this time. Slower. More reverent.

"I'm more than okay with it," he murmured against your skin. "Let me make you feel good again."

And when he eased you back against the pillows and touched you like you were precious—still precious—every ounce of self-consciousness bled away.

He moved with care now, slow and deep, every thrust more of a caress than a claim. His hand held your cheek like he was grounding you, his mouth whispering soft nothings between kisses—your name, his name, stars, science, everything blurring together.

"You know, during arousal, the cervix actually elevates, which—" He groaned when you clenched around him, interrupting his own monologue with a breathless laugh. "Okay. Okay. No more stats right now. Just—God, you feel incredible."

You were trembling again, this time not from embarrassment but from how deeply he adored you. His lips found yours, and you melted into him, rocking together in that slow, aching rhythm that said this wasn't just about sex—it was about trust. About knowing you'd shown him a vulnerable part of you, and he had only drawn you closer.

You came with his name on your tongue, gasping into his shoulder, his arms wrapped around you like he wanted to shield you from the world. And he followed seconds later, groaning low, pressing deep before stilling, resting his forehead against yours.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just the soft sound of breathing, your heartbeat in your ears.

Eventually, he slipped out gently, kissed your knee, and murmured something soft against your skin. Then he was gone, padding quietly into the bathroom. You heard water running—first the faucet, then the tub.

A moment later, he returned with a warm, damp towel and knelt between your legs. His touch was gentle, reverent, as he cleaned you up, murmuring little apologies even though there was nothing to apologize for. You watched him, heart aching with something deep and fragile.

Then, with that same calm tenderness, he cleaned himself, tugged on a pair of boxers, and reached for your hand.

"Come on," he whispered. "I ran you a bath. Let’s get you comfortable."

The bathroom was filled with soft steam, the tub nearly full. He helped you in with both hands, steadying you like you were something sacred. The warm water enveloped you, and your muscles sighed with relief.

He brushed your hair back, tucked it behind your ears, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I’ll be right back," he said gently. "I’m just going to strip the bed, rinse the sheets, see if the stain will come out. Shouldn’t be too bad if I get to it quickly—oxidization is the real enemy with blood, you know."

You gave a small laugh through your exhaustion. Of course, Spencer Reid would think of everything.

But as he turned to go, you reached for his wrist with water-slick fingers.

"Spence," you mumbled, head tilted back against the porcelain. "Fuck the damn sheets. We can buy new ones. Just... get in with me. Please."

He blinked, halfway to the door, caught off guard by your voice—so soft and tired and raw. His shoulders relaxed, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips.

"Yeah?" he asked, toeing off his boxers again.

"Yeah," you breathed, watching the steam curl around his silhouette.

Spencer stepped into the tub behind you, easing down with a quiet groan of comfort. The water shifted, rising around your bodies, and then his arms were around you, tugging you back against his chest.

You exhaled, sinking into him completely.

"This okay?" he asked, lips brushing your temple.

"Perfect," you whispered.

He kissed your damp shoulder, then rested his chin in the crook of your neck. "Sheets can wait. Holding you can’t."

[sincerelybubbles]

spencer reid x bubbly!reader || everywhere you touch

in a quiet moment during a case, Spencer helps you relax with a shoulder rub and conversation about your sub-par sleeping habits.

warnings: none; fluff.

||

"You're staring again." The words roll off of your tongue in a whisper, barely above the rustling of papers, but you know Spencer hears you. You don’t even have to look up from the mess of journal entries spread across the table to see the way his eyes widen, the way his hands hesitate mid-movement, betraying him before he even speaks.

"I'm not!" Spencer insists, too quick, too defensive—so, so predictable. An evil grin pulls at your lips, the anticipation of his reaction almost as satisfying as the reaction itself. You finally glance up at him, resting your cheek against your fist, tilting your head in mock thoughtfulness.

"It's okay," you say, voice soft, teasing, pulling at a thread he won’t acknowledge. You lean forward in your chair, just enough that the space between you shrinks, just enough that your presence wraps around him like warmth. "I like the attention."

Spencer scoffs, shaking his head as his hands return to the pages in front of him. He won't engage, but you know him too well. You've got him rattled, at least a little, and that's enough for now.

You enjoy this with him: the push and pull. Spencer is your favorite person, the teasing some as naturally as breathing. You catch yourself feeling the truth behind a lot of the show you put on for him, belly warm with the implications of melting fully into the jokes you put on for him.

The precinct is quiet, save for the occasional shuffling of exhausted officers or the hum of printers churning out reports. It's a dead hour of the steel day where exhaustion weighs heavy, settling deep in your bones. Dusty sunlight sprays across the room, catching dirt in its eternal dance. It makes everything hazy, dreamy, and you catch yourself staring off into the distance, caught in the mist of it all. It’s been over 24 hours since anyone has properly slept, and you're toeing the line between restless and delirious, stomach clenched with the unsatisfied need to move, to be anywhere but here, hunched over these haphazardly assembled journals.

A bed would be nice. Sunlight, unfiltered by unwashed police station windows, even better.

You roll your shoulders back and stretch, arms reaching high over your head, joints cracking in protest. Then, with practiced ease, you tilt your head left, then right, seeking relief from the tension coiled tight in your neck. You're about to cross your arms out in front of you, ready to push the last bit of stiffness from your shoulders, when Spencer exhales sharply through his nose.

"Please, stop," he says, setting his papers down with a finality that makes your hands freeze mid-motion.

Your first instinct is panic. You don’t flinch—Spencer doesn’t snap, not really—but you can’t help but wonder if this is it, if you’ve finally worn him thin. It’s always been a fear, even if you’d never admit it aloud. You’re a lot, and Spencer has more patience than anyone, but patience isn’t infinite.

You're afraid for a moment you've found a habit of yours that sets him off - a task you've apparently been unsuccessful in over the past two years. You're well aware that you can be a lot; you're high energy and excitable to a fault. You never have trouble keeping friends but keeping friends who are never exasperated with you? Well, you would have said it was impossible before Spencer. 

He doesn’t give you time to overthink it—a habit you have bt pretend you don't. If questioned, you'd insist it's only the sign of a good profiler. Instead of walking away or rubbing at his temples like he’s fighting off a migraine, Spencer stands and moves behind you.

"Can I?" he asks.

"Yeah, of course!" you answer instantly, too fast, without question. You’d let Spencer do anything to you.

It's only when his hands press into your shoulders that you realize what he meant.

The first touch is firm, hesitant, as though he's waiting for you to pull away. You don't. You wouldn't dream of it. Instead, your head drops forward, a sigh spilling from your lips before you can even think to stop it. His fingers are long, deliberate, pressing slow, rhythmic circles into the muscle, and you swear you can feel the tension unraveling beneath his palms.

“Wow, love, you’re a pro,” you mumble, voice crumbling as your facade fades.

The nickname earns the same response as always—a subtle stiffening of his hands, a sharp inhale, the unmistakable warmth creeping up his neck. You think it’s funny, the way Spencer, who can talk for hours uninterrupted about quantum theory, short-circuits over one little word. You said it absentmindedly once, ages ago, and it stuck.

Now, though, you don't say it to witness the exciting rush of blood under his skin or the way he rolls his eyes, pretending to hate it. Instead, you say it fondly, melting like putty under his hands. 

Spencer doesn’t acknowledge it, but his hands keep working, traveling up the length of your neck, fingertips pressing carefully into the space where your skull meets your spine.

"You haven't slept, have you?" he murmurs in lieu of a reply, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head once. "Too restless."

He makes a noise, something soft and knowing, something that says I see right through you. You fidget under the weight of it, suddenly needing to justify yourself.

Spencer caught you, more than a handful of months ago, awake one night while away on a case. It was usual for you to not sleep while away, too pumped from the adrenaline from the day. It's a habit you've always intended to keep for yourself - you get awfully melancholic when awake late at night and really, you don't mind the hours alone to think. Since then, though, he's looked at you with those worried puppy eyes when you emerge from your hotel room, voice probably a little too loud for the morning.

"Plus, nobody else has either," you add, as if that changes anything.

Spencer hums, unconvinced. "We've all napped here and there," he counters. His thumbs find a knot between your shoulder blades, and you gasp when he presses into it, hard enough to send a dull ache radiating through your spine.

"I'll be okay," you say, but the words lack conviction. of course. Your body betrays you—sinking, pliant, as if you could just let go, just for a moment, just for tonight.

"You always say that," Spencer murmurs. His hands slow, broad palms sweeping a path down your upper back, methodical, grounding.

"And I always mean it," you try, but your voice is softer now, words slurring at the edges, betraying you in ways Spencer doesn’t miss. "Ow, Spencer," you groan after a few silent moments, biting down on your lip, pain lancing through your entire back. Probably a necessary evil but damn that hurts.

"Sorry," he says, though he doesn’t sound very sorry. He kneads the muscle again, gentler this time, and you can’t even bring yourself to care that you must look ridiculous, half-melted into your chair.

Your breath hitches when his fingertips graze the base of your neck, feather-light, a touch so gentle you could almost believe you imagined it. The room is warm, humming with something unspoken, and you could swear Spencer’s hands linger just a moment longer than necessary.

The exhaustion presses in, heavy, relentless. Your eyelids droop, your breathing evens out, and you think, just before your mind slips under—

This is nice.

Too nice.

Don’t get used to it.

But as you drift off, lulled by the steady press of his hands, the warmth of his presence, the quiet affection he gives without saying a word—

You wonder if maybe, just maybe, Spencer is thinking the same thing.

[paintedwritings]

Missing In Action

Pairing: Azriel x Reader 

Word Count: 8.2

Summary: When Azriel doesn’t return from a mission on time, Y/n does her best to find him. (Sorry I’m no good at summaries)

Warning/Notes: Angst?????????? I don’t really know how to categorize my posts, but there is brutality and dark themes in this one (Death, kidnap etc.). So read at your own discretion, if there’s any warnings I need to add, please let me know. Hope you enjoy!!

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Time dragged slowly by, a dusting of moonlight peeking through the ornate windows that allowed for a beautiful view of Velaris. Homes and businesses alight with fae of all kinds, night had always been the best time of day to witness the beauty of Velaris. It was a view that, typically, Y/n would be in awe of, sitting in a comfortable lounge while reading her favorite romance novel and sipping a smooth chamomile draught.

A warm, calming way to spend each of her nights. 

Tonight couldn’t be more different. 

The room absorbed the light menacingly, devouring it whole and leaving nothing but cold, miserable darkness. The normally inviting aroma now sat heavy in her stomach, the chill of the room engraving itself into her bones. The last time she had been in here, Azriel had been with her– the first time in weeks she had allowed herself to be near him, to revel in his presence. 

He had been trying to soothe her, finding her in a state of disarray from one of her more tragic reads. Tears streaming down her face, heavy breathing faltering when he reached out and tried to capture her tears with his thumbs, a task far more difficult than he had realized. If she hadn’t been so distraught, she may have noticed his incandescent gaze, and the slight tilt of his lips, as he tried desperately not to let her see his smile, looking on in wonder at a girl so emotionally fraught by fictional characters, that his shadows had woken him in the middle of the night to try and offer her comfort.

Tonight she paced the length of the room, her long silk robe chasing after her feet with each step, the uncoordinated way her body moved causing her to trip quite a few times. Her hands had run through her hair over and over again, eventually she had started pulling it out. The small pile, now clasped desperately in her hands, the only thing providing any sort of warmth to her frost-in-cased body. 

Azriel was late.

He should have been home hours ago. 

A few days ago, Rhys had received reports concerning dozens of Illyrian women and girls going missing in some of the smaller Illyrian camps nestled along the outskirts of the Steppes. Rhys had been especially concerned because Devlon, the War Lord of Windhaven– a larger Illyrian camp– had been the one to report the women as going missing. Ordinarily, the wretched male, who thought women belonged inside completing chores and bearing children, would never show an ounce of concern for the lives of a few women. But when women started disappearing in his camp, the man had finally decided to do some investigating, enlightening Rhys when he realized how big of an issue this had become. 

The women had started disappearing three days prior to their meeting, there had been no information on their vanishings, no screams or witnesses to any acts. The camp would reawaken for their day, only to realize that family members, all women, had disappeared in groups of three sometime during the night. One group each night, nine total from Windhaven.

After the first night, Devlon had ordered even more of his men to stand guard, not that it made much difference–Illyrians were a warrior race, born and bred for fighting and protecting their kind– The added patrols and enforced curfews hadn’t changed anything, no one had seen anything. The women had been present before bed and then… poof, gone, as if they were never there at all. No bodies had been found, nothing to indicate foul-play. 

Digging deeper, Devlon had somehow managed to find six other camps, small ones, that had the same issues going on, but for far longer. As far as the Inner Circle could track, the first disappearance had occurred four months prior, only one woman vanishing at a time. It seemed, the longer time went on without anyone connecting the dots, the more confident the culprits had become, eventually becoming efficient at kidnapping women in troves.

To say that Y/n’s heart felt like it had been carved out and skewered would be an understatement. How could they have not known about this? Sure, the smaller camps weren’t usually heard from all that often, only being visited on the rare occasions that something important had come up and needed to be addressed. Cassian visited all the camps, but there were so many, that sometimes it took months to get back to one’s he’s cleared. Not to mention Azriel’s spies, they did all sorts of things for the Spymaster, and she knew that he kept some in the War Camps to ensure that women were being properly trained. 

But– in the past six months Azriel had been working more, with the threats of the Mortal Queens and Koschei, everyone had been working overtime, she supposed that perhaps, now had been the perfect time for these sick sadists to infiltrate, they were distracted, and had let things slip through the cracks so easily. Too easily, a menacing voice in the back of her head spat.

As Azriel’s second-in-command, a spy trained for two hundred years under his wing, she should have been more present, should have helped Cassian with his trips to the camps, she should have pushed, done something.

Y/n couldn’t stop the bile that rose to her throat, having only a moment to find the nearest potted plant before losing the contents of her stomach into the poor shrub. 

Rhys had sent Cassian and Azriel to the camps immediately, the two leaving not more than thirty minutes after their meeting with Devlon had begun. She hadn’t been enlightened on the exact details of the mission, but she could make an educated guess based off of the years she’d worked with the Inner Circle. No doubt, Cassian and Azriel would split up, both men death-incarnate and capable of hitting more areas quicker, if not slowed down by having to visit one at a time. They would have had to question people, search nearby areas, look for anything that could give them some sort of lead. Devlon would stay and help in Windhaven, and Azriel and Cassian would each take three of the smaller camps, the latter traveling to the camps that had been hit first.

Cassian had come back earlier today, his face grave and sullen, but ultimately with no further information that could help with the women’s whereabouts or who had taken them. He had found out, however, that the camps he visited all had one thing in common: they all conformed to the order of having women train with little to no fuss. They were all camps that had a proactive approach to the change in the law. Devlon may have given Cassian and Rhys issues regarding the women training, but the past month, he had been on top of it, hadn’t been forcing women to complete ungodly amounts of chores before having mere minutes left for training. 

Could this all stem from a group of people who truly despised the idea of women learning how to protect themselves, learning how to fight? Y/n knew they existed, had seen first hand how cruel men could be in the face of a well-trained female, someone who could put their disgusting and misogynistic views on full display for all to see. 

Shaking her head, she tried to remain focused. Amren and Mor were working on the details, Nesta scrying for any information she may be able to find. Y/n had had the unfortunate task of holding down the fort at home, making sure that Nyx and the people of Velaris remained unharmed while everyone else did their best to put an end to this nightmare.

She hated having to stay behind while everyone else, all of her family, put their lives at risk, while those poor women could be injured and in need of help.

Things had really taken a turn for the worst when Cassian had returned, though, without Azriel. The Spymaster apparently never showed at their meeting location, Cassian waiting hours for him to no avail, he’d eventually reached out to Rhys, letting him know Azriel was MIA. The High Lord, worried about both of his brothers, had told Cassian to return home, that they would all reconvene to go over their next steps. 

That’s where they are now. Rhys and Cassian heading the conversation, Feyre trying to soothe a devastated Nyx, the boy still too young to understand what was happening, but his instincts helping him sense the worry of those around him. Elain sat quietly in the corner, tears streaming down her beautiful face, hands clasped so tightly on her skirts the knuckles had turned white. Nesta scryed at the table, butting in every now and then with her thoughts on the conversation. Mor stood leaning over the scrying board, the space under her hands creaking as she tried to get more information from Cassian about his visits, fury a clear mask on the blonds face as she kept shooting looks over to Amren where she sat quietly at the end of the table, taking everything in.

Y/n stopped pacing, standing before the window, doing her best to calm her rushing pulse and her rapidly-growing lack of control.

Each tick of the grandfather clock seemed to be mocking her. Laughing at her each second that her friend remained missing. Somehow she had let Rhys and Feyre convince her that leaving in the middle of the night to try and find him wouldn’t do any good. Something about it being dangerous, she had stopped listening once she realized they wouldn’t allow her to go, trying to leave despite their qualms. It was only when she realized that the House of Wind agreed with them, slamming any doors she tried to go through in her face, that she had calmed herself down enough and just started panicking, instead.

Azriel always came home, he never missed check-ins or drop-offs, out of all of them, he had always been the most vigilant. So where the hell was he? Why hadn’t he contacted anyone? Not even a shadow had made itself known in the hours he’d been gone. In two hundred years, this had never happened. Azriel was her boss, her senior spy, the person she trusted most with her life, a family member she held so close to her heart, she had almost been able to convince herself he meant the same to her as all her other family members did. That somehow he didn’t hold her entire being in his hands without even knowing it. Anything to ensure the solidity of her place within his life. 

He had never not contacted her if something went wrong, so where is he? Her mind screamed, and screamed, and screamed. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, everything swam around her, hitting her in every direction, not a singular thought being able to finish before the next knocked it from its place.

She grabbed at her scalp again, her eyes closing as a blinding pain shot through her chest, her skull, panic clawing up her throat like a beast finally being released after years of captivity, consuming all her senses. 

Someone was screaming. 

She thinks it might be her.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Y/n had a secret.

One she had been trying to bury in the deepest crevice of her soul for months, to hide from her family, from him.

For years, she trained under Azriel, learning how to fight, how to lurk around corners, how to bleed into the background. He taught her how to gut a man without getting a lick of blood on her, and how to hit a moving target with so much force it knocked grown men clear off their feet.

One didn’t simply train under the terrifying Spymaster of the Night Court and not accomplish dangerous and difficult tasks. She was one of the best, good enough to be considered his second, a place amongst her family she had earned, and is grateful for. 

Of course it helped that she had the ability to read and elicit emotions, an empath of sorts. She could visualize a person’s emotion and pluck it right out of them, she had been able to help people rid themselves of fears and anxieties, had been able to feed into the warming emotions that helped a person heal. On the opposite end, however, the side she honed so thoroughly, she could cut a grown man down with a simple flick of her wrist, sat a far scarier beast. One she rarely allowed to surface out of fear of falling victim to herself.

Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian had found her when she was twenty-two, beaten and left for dead on the edge of an embankment, clinging to life so loosely they hadn’t been sure she was even still alive until their fae hearing heard the faintest pulse. The roaring of the river nearly blinding them to the noise.

Rhysand hadn’t even taken a moment to consider bringing her back with them and helping her heal, allowing her safe sanctuary for however long she needed. He hadn’t expected anything from her. He was the first man to give her something without expecting anything in return.

After months of getting to know the much smaller Inner Circle and trusting Rhys enough to tell him about her abilities, he had offered her a job that she accepted with little to no other information. She could still remember the grin that had lit up her High Lord’s face, laughing about how he hadn’t even had a chance to tell her how much she’d be making. It hadn’t mattered, she’d wanted to prove herself to them, to these wonderful people who had helped her grow, and she would make the same choice over and over again.

So, when she found out about her mating bond with the Spymaster, it had complicated things. She hadn’t been surprised, she had actually thought they might be mates for long before the bond snapped. She had always felt a sense of security with Azriel, something that everyone else in her life had to earn, something that usually took months, if not years. But, with him it had always been as simple as believing him, as feeling like she knew him deep in her soul. Which, she supposed she did. 

But, being Azriel’s mate complicated so many aspects of theirs and their families lives. For one, he’d been pining over Morrigan for centuries, ridiculously obvious for someone who called themselves a spymaster, but she digressed. Then, when he finally seemed to move on from her, Elain had entered the picture. Sweet, innocent Elain who liked speaking to plants and baking.

In all honesty, Y/n had mastered the art of acting like she didn’t care so effectively, that one day, Azriel stopped being her first thought in the morning, and the last one before she fell asleep. She had gained control of a beast that had run rampant for the first few decades of knowing him, something he had helped train her to do without realizing. To her, it had been worth more to keep their friendship and working relationship, than risk losing him all together because of a pitiful crush a young girl had on her mentor.

Everything had changed nine months ago, though. Apparently, she discovered, if you keep a beast chained long enough, it will eventually break free– and bite her right in the ass in the form of a mating bond. 

Gods, the Mother certainly had a sense of humor. 

Azriel had been sparring with Cassian the moment the bond snapped. She had found herself having to remind herself not to think about Azriel in any way other than a friend more frequently, as of late. Doing her best to avoid the male at any given moment. 

So, when she noticed him in the training ring that morning, she tried to spin on her heel, intending to get as far away as possible. The absolute last thing she needed was to witness Azriel in his half-naked glory. Sweat and sunlight gleaming perfectly off of his skin, gaze alight with unfiltered arrogance as he pushed the General Commander closer and closer to the edge of the ring. His fist connected with Cassian’s face so swiftly, he had the male cursing at the crunch his nose made, doing his best to ignore the blood as it slithered down his face. 

Y/n had stopped, only for a moment, but it was long enough for Azriel’s gaze to connect with hers, his eyes widening at the sight of her, the first time in weeks he had been able to get her to meet his gaze. And, unfortunately for the Spymaster and his second, that moment of distraction allowed Cassian to punch Azriel so hard he’d careened backwards, falling on his ass. 

When Cassian’s fist made contact with Azriel’s face, the bond had snapped, her world completely tilting, her hand having to grasp the door’s frame to avoid falling on her ass like her mate. She had lost control of her breathing, fighting the instincts to go to him, to help him, to beat the hell out of Cassian for daring to lay a hand on her mate. 

She could hear a ringing in her ears as the small golden thread had made its way from her heart to his, fighting against her hold on the door, as she did her best to keep her feet firmly planted where they were. She thought she might’ve heard her name being called, not daring to look back and see both men’s eyes on her shaking figure.

She had used her abilities then, and shoved her emotions down, down, down. She had planted them deep within her soul, far enough that she ran the risk of not being able to find them again, but it was a risk she had to take to get herself out of this moment without completely falling apart… or jumping Azriel. Or bashing Cassian’s teeth in.

For nine, agonizing months she kept this secret to herself, didn’t allow herself to think about it, held it far enough away that she had started questioning whether she imagined the entire thing.

Then she’d cross paths with the shadowsinger, something she never seemed to realize he tried so desperately to make happen, and it would all come rushing back. A cycle that kept repeating over and over again.

One that sucked the life from her each time it made a reappearance.

It didn’t matter how far she ran from her problems. They always seemed to catch up.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Her head lay on something soft, voices surrounding her on all sides as she slowly came to. 

“If nothings wrong with her, why was she screaming like that? Why did she pass out?” A steel voice demanded. Rhysand. 

Gods, why did her head hurt so badly?

“She had a panic attack. It overwhelmed her body so much her mind took control when she couldn’t, it’s a safety mechanism built into all of us.”

“You didn’t hear her, Madja,” That sounded like Cassian, panic clear in his voice. She groaned inwardly, she hadn’t meant to add more stress to her family’s already full plates. She tried to sit up, but her body didn’t seem to be connected to her thoughts. “Her screams were so painful, I’ve never heard anyone scream that way.”

Madja sighed, her hands roving over Y/n’s arms, a warmth encasing the places she passed, making it hard for her to stay awake. 

“Y/n isn’t like the rest of you, her abilities make it harder for her to separate her emotions from those around her. She feels things ten times more than the average fae, she can’t help it–it’s a part of her gifts. She has had episodes like this in the past, but she’s usually better at containing them, keeping them to herself so as to not worry you lot.”

The silence was deafening. Murmuring that she couldn’t make out floated above her, why were they speaking so low? It made it hard to eavesdrop.

Madja told the truth, this happened more than she cared to admit. It was difficult for her to read the emotions from those around her without mixing them around with her own, sometimes feeling like an outsider in her own body. She had gotten better at it with age and practice, but when in high-stress situations like this– her mate missing– she was basically a ticking-time bomb. It also didn’t help that she had been confined in a small space with eight people feeling varying degrees of intense emotions.

If she had been thinking more clearly, not so worried about what was happening, she would have noticed the signs. Her clammy hands, the cold that seemed to bite at her skin, the headache that seemed to thicken with every passing moment… her inability to breathe properly. 

Yes, this had happened so, so many times. It never got easier.

And, she had kept this information from most of her family, not wanting to worry them, or make them feel like she needed to be taken care of. She knew they wouldn’t hold it against her, but that hadn’t changed the fact that she hadn’t wanted to feel dependent on them, or as if she were taking something from them by asking for help.

Azriel had known, though. 

They had traveled together for centuries, completing hundreds of stress-inducing missions together. He always helped her through them, offering soft touches and kind words as he held her through the worst of it.

She felt tears stream down her face.

“Have you found him?” She asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Blinking her eyes open, she tried to sit up, her head spinning at the motion, nausea rising once more. A hand– who she could only assume was Madja– held her firmly down, a chastisement rolling off the older fae’s tongue.

Her family seemed to hold their breath, none quite sure how to respond, how to let her down, she guessed. 

Rhysand is the one who finally spoke, ever the High Lord, “Not yet, we haven’t been able to get a good reading on him, and I can't reach him via his mind, his shields are firmly in place.” He paused, contemplated his next words, “Some of us are about to head out to search–”

Y/n sat up, ignoring the roaring in her skull, the pinpricks dancing along her vision, “I’m going.” 

“Absolutely not,” Mor said, her worry evident in her voice. “You’re hardly in any state to be out there searching for something we don’t even know what is.”

“I don’t care,” she hissed, more venom in the words than she had ever used to speak to a member of her family. “He is out there, and I am not about to sit back and wait for information while my mate could be lying dead somewhere.”

She spoke without thinking, without realizing what she said. Standing up, shoving the dizziness down. “Madja said I’m fine physically, I can get my abilities under control for a few hours, I’m going.”

Her family all stared at her, mouths agape, the House finally seemed to agree with her, as if taking pity on the poor women. It laid leathers out for her to quickly change into.

“You know?” Cassian whispered, as she headed towards an empty room to change in, the three words stopping her in her tracks.

Rhys’s head snapped towards Cassian, disapproval written all over his features.

Oh gods.

She turned to face the male slowly, “What do you mean?” Her words were clipped, terrified of the meaning behind his words. 

Cassian clamped his mouth shut, something burning beneath his gaze as he looked anywhere but at her.

“We can discuss that later, we need to hurry,” Rhys jumped in, shutting down the line of questioning entirely.

She wanted to push him, to make them tell her what they knew. But, he’s right, there were more important things going on. She couldn’t afford to be distracted.

She did not look back as she left, she’d be able to interrogate her family later, once everyone was home and safe.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Y/n searched deep within her for that thread she had discovered all the months ago. Dug and pulled and ripped pieces of her soul away until she found where it had been buried. 

The golden thread had withered, since the last time she allowed herself to feel it, it’s once strong warmth now dull and frigid as she acknowledged it. 

Please, I know I was selfish and ignored the bond you blessed me with, but– but I need to find him, and I may be the only person who can. Please, let this work.

She gave a silent prayer to the Mother, hoping that her plan would work, it was the only one they had. 

She gave the thread an experimental tug, a small pull that she was sure wouldn’t rip the poor, desolate thing. 

She didn’t feel anything.

Desperation frosted her soul.

Her eyes shut tight in concentration, she felt Feyre take her hand, a silent offer of support. They had decided that Y/n would pull on the bond, see if she could feel where it attached on the other end. Rhysand would occupy a space in her open shields so that the two of them could winnow wherever it led. 

It took a few more tugs, Y/n feeling better about how hard she could pull on the bond. The longer she acknowledged it, the more it seemed to blossom with life, with a warming sensation lighting her chest.

Surely that meant he couldn’t be dead. It would be a cold, useless cord attached to her soul if that were the case. 

She felt Rhysands talons scratch lightly across her mind, as if soothing her thoughts, being in her mind allowing him full access to her worries.

Then she felt it, a feeling that caused her to jolt forwards, her body falling forwards at the sudden intrusion within her chest, Rhysand barely managing to hold her still where they stood, his hand clasping her upper arm, ready to winnow them at a moment’s notice. 

She had felt a tug.

Her gaze snapped to Rhys’s, her confusion evident… Did that mean he knew? That he felt the bond, too? Was that what Cassian had meant, that Azriel already knew of their bond? Did he not want it? Y/n’s thoughts raced around her head so quickly she felt Rhys tense, trying to keep her grounded, focused on the task at hand. 

Try it one more time, Y/n, I should be able to follow his lead. Rhysand spoke in her mind, his voice effectively scattering her spiraling thoughts. 

Caressing that bond once again, she tried sending her fear and worry down it, hoping if he realized how worried they all were, he’d have the courage to respond again.

Then, the world turned to stark darkness, her body held tightly against Rhys’s side as he winnowed them away.

Her feet landed on cold, hard ground. A twig snapping beneath her boots as Rhysand released her, making sure she was steady on her feet.

Taking in her surroundings, blades in hand, head more clear than it had been in days, she allowed her instincts to take over, to guide her. 

The first thing she noticed was the smell. Blood and rot permeated the air, her nose involuntarily scrunching as it tried rejecting the acrid smell. The brutal cold soaked her skin, causing goosebumps to rise beneath her leathers, the warmth of the fur-lining doing little to keep out the bite of the harsh winters in the Illyrian Steppes.

Then her gaze locked on a large field, mounds of dirt and open holes scattered along the plot, and she swore– were those bodies lying next to some? Her hand came to cover her mouth, anger, fear, hatred all seizing within her body.

Where is Azriel?

Rhysand moved before she did, beelining for something she had yet to acknowledge. In the center of the field, the plots of unbound earth seeming to circle it–in an almost ritualistic way– stood an alter, an Illyrian male pinned to it, knifes displayed in his wings, the blades imbedded so deep in the wood that they had no trouble holding up the two hundred pound male. His cries of agony had sputtered off into small, near silent whimpers. 

And stood before him, raging darkness swarming around him chaotically, stood Azriel. Truth-Teller in hand, blood covering every inch of his body. 

Y/n moved without thinking, her mind chanting at her to get to him, to make sure he was okay. Why is he standing? He should be sitting down if he’d sustained major injuries. Why didn’t he seem to care that his safety mattered to his family?

Why hadn’t he told them where he was?

She tried to shut that voice out of her mind, she didn’t want to jump to conclusions, none of them knew what had happened to the Spymaster in the last three days. She could only imagine the horrors he’d witnessed. The way this would haunt him for years to come.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she and Rhys had both crossed the field, meeting Azriel in the middle.

The shadowsinger did not address them, some of his shadows coming to greet her, their usually warm nature towards her all but gone as they tried dragging her closer to their master, eating the distance between the two. 

She knew Rhys had already begun speaking to his brother, trying to figure out what in the Mother’s name was going on here, how this had happened. 

That didn’t stop her from stepping towards her mate, though. Making sure there were no other fae around but the three of them, and the bastard who hung before them. There were bodies scattered around, she closed her eyes briefly as she realized they were women. Illyrian women with their wings ripped off.

Vomit climbed up her throat, grief washing over her. Azriel’s head whipped in her direction, concern lining his features as he took her in, his gaze roving over her as if she had been the one missing in action for hours.

She could smell the blood on him, but thankfully, none of it seemed to belong to him. She took a breath, taking a step closer to her mate. He seemed to watch her like a hawk, as if one wrong move could send either of them fleeing in the opposite direction. Then he turned back to Rhys, a viscous look on his face.

“You brought her here?” He snarled, the first words she had heard him speak in days. Neither she or Rhys missed the accusatory tone laced with his exclamation.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, she does what she wants.” 

“I’m right here,” she hissed, “And I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you overgrown bats.” Irritated at how they were speaking about her as if she were incapable of defending herself.

They ignored her. Protective instincts seeming to lead Azriel’s words into battle.

“They are kidnapping and sacrificing women, Rhysand, and you brought her here. What if I didn’t have it under control, what if she got hurt, if they got ahold of her?” He demanded, the words flying out of his mouth like acid.

Truth-Teller remained in his scarred hand, slightly worrying over the safety of their High Lord, Y/n reached for him. Her hands met his, slowly peeling his fingers off the hilt one at a time. He tensed, turning to look at their hands. His death-grip on the blade made it nearly impossible, but as she set the weapon free from its confines she slid her fingers into his. Squeezing once, twice, three times, relaxing only slightly from the feel of his skin against hers. She didn’t care that his hands were covered in blood, standing next to him had been the only time today she felt any semblance of safety.

His eyes bore into hers, an anguished expression passing over his features quickly before his usual stoic, uncaring mask slid back into place. He turned back to Rhys, still intent on fighting about her as if she weren’t right here. 

She rolled her eyes, focusing rather on their surroundings, keeping an eye out just in case.

At least he hadn’t let go of her hand.

Maybe he felt just as safe holding hers, as she did holding his.  

She could allow herself to pretend that he was hers in this moment, even if only briefly. His hand tightened around her, pulling her slightly closer to him.

“She’s your second, and not once, in two hundred years has she ever needed to be coddled, why would that change now? Neither you or I would ever let anything happen to her,” The High Lord gave his Spymaster a meaningful look. “I couldn’t very well tell her no when she is the reason we could find you.”

Azriel swallowed, his back rigid, his shadows were surrounding her figure, covering every inch of her skin that they could reach, almost as if to hide her from the nightmare they were living in.

Rhys stepped forward, a pleading look in his eyes, as if begging for his brother to understand. “I was worried about you, brother. She was worried about you. It’s not fair to keep her from things, dangerous as they may be, to ease your peace of mind.”

She recognized some of his words. Reminiscent of something she had once told him when he’d kept the dangerous nature of Illyrian pregnancy in high fae women from Feyre. 

She smiled at her High Lord, appreciation and love for her friend– her family– shining in her eyes.

Azriel’s gaze locked on hers once more, “Stop looking at him like that,” his teeth gritting together, “Please.” He ground the last word out, as if remembering to be respectful in his out of control male instincts.

She sighed, sending an apologetic glance to Rhys before scowling at Azriel. They were definitely going to have to talk about the bond now. She groaned.

Anger remained evident on Azriel’s face throughout the exchange, but–she knew it wasn’t aimed at her or Rhys–well, maybe a little towards their High Lord– She knew that he was angry with the situation with how far out of control this had become. Before he could open his mouth and piss her off further she spoke to him softly, but firmly.

“You’ve been missing for hours, Azriel. We have all been going out of our minds with worry, trying to get in touch with you. We didn’t know if you were alive or injured or safe. If I did that to you–” she couldn’t help the catch in her voice, eyes leaving his, his stare too intense. 

“You would skin me alive, ban me from missions for– for forever, probably.” Head shaking, she had to take a step back, dropping his hand in the process. Maybe the extra space would allow her to gather herself. “I would have never done that to you. Especially knowing we’re–” A tortured sentence that she cut off, too scared to say the words aloud, or to him, at all. “I certainly wouldn’t stop you from entering a situation just because it’s dangerous.”

“You don’t understand–” He shook his head, his eyes pleading.

“Then explain it to me!”

She knew they shouldn’t be doing this here, that it would be far more appropriate to have this conversation in the safety of their home. And without an audience.

But, he had terrified her today, so much so that she had thrown all disregard out of the window, she had a panic attack that she was still feeling the effects of, despite her insistence on coming. She wanted answers, and she’d be damned if she waited until he could practice his responses, or quell the demons swarming from within him that made his filter disappear.

He looked away from her, a tick in his jaw as he searched for his patience, his words.

 Rhys stood back, watching the male hanging from the altar with unwavering hatred. Y/n assumed he was using his Daemati powers to see if there were any survivors as his brows pinched in concentration, sweat lining his face. Trying to give them a bit of privacy.

“I am not upset that you are here because I don’t think you can protect yourself. I am not even upset that you are here, I know you can take down any threat that so much as breathes in your direction.” He took a long, dragging breath, his hands tightening at his sides. She could see how desperately he searched for what to say, the male wasn’t exactly known for explaining himself or his feelings.

“But, my brother who knows what you mean to me,” A sharp look pointed towards said brother, “who is worried about my safety, my life, didn’t stop to consider what would happen to me if anything were to happen to you,” he shook his head disbelievingly, landing softly against yours. 

Understanding flashed across both Y/n and Rhysand’s faces, the latter no longer looking at his brother with irritation, but rather empathy. If anyone knew the struggles of mate bond, it would be him.

“Okay,” she said softly, a silent acceptance of his anger. She clasped his hands with hers, her eyes relaying that they would talk more about this later, when they weren’t surrounded by death.

Azriel bowed his head, a submission that signified his understanding of what she meant. His apology. She could feel his guilt, his sorrow for how the day had turned out. She tried to understand his thought process, tried to understand that he had probably been so caught up in putting an end to this and finding information out, that he hadn’t realized how much time had passed, hadn’t even thought his family may be worried for his safety. 

Her eye twitched, just slightly. He never seemed to realize what his absence did to those who cared about him, always believing he was expendable, that his fate didn’t matter. It made her sick.

Finally offering an explanation, he loosened a breath, hair falling forward. His chin dipped, shame coating his features as he whispered, in a broken voice, “they’re all dead.” A despairing agreement from Rhys, the only response.

Y/n’s eyes shut tightly, her body tensing as what she already feared became a reality. 

“They ripped their wings off in a sacrificial ceremony to the old pagan deities. Sixty-seven Illyrian women and girls, slaughtered because of these sadistic occultists,” he snarled the last words, aiming them towards the male that hung loosely before them, his breaths becoming slower and shallower the more time that passed.

So low that if they hadn’t had fae hearing they never would have been able to decipher his words, he spoke, “Our Gods need to feed just as yours do.” A terrifying, wet sounding laugh bubbling out of his throat.

Horror spilled into her, her fingers flexing against her own blades, willing her to carve this sorry excuse of a male to pieces and feed them to the monster who lived in the pit of the library.

Instead, she settled for eating his fear. She ignored the disapproving sound coming from Azriel as she took a step closer, wrapping her power around the fear the Spymaster had brought forth in this disgusting fae. She stroked and exploited that feeling, heightening it so abruptly that the front of his pants became coated in piss as he trembled. She watched as life began draining from his eyes, the strands of his hair rotting into a blistering white color as she ripped every happy and pleasant emotion from his being. Leaving him with nothing but a cold empty shell of fear, guilt, shame, hatred, and disgust. She wanted this male to die more than she had ever wanted anything, how dare he play God, taking these women from the safety of their homes and then justify their deaths with his religious fanaticism bullshit. She wanted to be the last thing he saw, pride taking over as he realized that he would meet his end at the hands of a woman, not the two males standing at attention behind her. 

He began thrashing, cursing her until he finally ran out of breath. 

“We need to get the others, we have a long day ahead of us.” Rhys said softly, anger behind his violet eyes for what his people had endured right under his thumb. 

They would need to identify the women, and then return their remains to their families, set up proper barriels and commence funerals for each and every one. 

Things would need to change, protocols put in place, and Y/n wanted to be leading those changes, wanted to be the one to ensure the safety of women within the Illyrian race, they had suffered for far too long at the hands of men. And, Y/n would do anything to ensure that something like this never happens again.

Rhys met her gaze, nodding his head in understanding and agreement. They would figure the details out later.

 Dawn crested over the mountain side, the early morning rays of light making the devastation of this place all the more noticeable. It was then she noticed the mass grave set to the south of the field, it wasn’t filled with bodies, though. 

No. 

It was filled with wings.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Two weeks had passed since that day in the Illyrian Mountains. 

Days and nights blending together in a blur as the Inner Circle worked hard to smoothly put everything back in order. At least, as much as they were able to. Massacres like this weren’t easy to fix, especially when it came to reassuring their people that they were safe and could rely on the court officials who had let them down in so many ways. 

Y/n had been so busy she hadn’t had a chance to see Azriel much the past few weeks, the spymaster busy with his own tasks for rebuilding. He and Cassian had been responsible for tracking down any members that hadn’t been present the night Azriel had found the women–using information he’d fileted out of the Illyrian male he’d kept alive.

He’d explained how he came to be in that clearing to them once he returned home, a dark, haunted look lingering behind his hazel eyes.

It had taken a day and a half for Azriel to find where the women had been taken. Following a lead from one of the young Illyrian women in one of the smaller camps. Her sister had gone missing along with two other women a few weeks prior to the Spymaster’s arrival. They had been playing in the woods when the young girl lost track of her sister, only to find her in a dazed state, a strange symbol drawn on the back of her neck in what looked like blood. Not able to get any information from her, the young women had made their way home. The next morning she had awoken to her mother’s frantic search for her eldest daughter. 

The young girl had drawn the symbol for Azriel, she’d done her best to remember it after the weeks that had passed. His shadows scouring nearby areas for anything that resembled the symbol. They had come across the altar, calling for Azriel in an agitated state.

 He hadn’t realized what he’d stumbled upon before he’d had to take action. He hadn’t had time to reach out to Cassian, making the decision to continue on alone, afraid that any time wasted would lead to more devastation. When he arrived, most of the women had already been killed. But, six or seven still remained, barely breathing from the days of torture they’d endured. Once the men responsible had realized the Spymaster of the Night Court had found them, they began slaughtering the remaining women ruthlessly, trying to stop any of them from getting out alive. 

Az had killed seven of the men, ending their miserable lives too swiftly for his liking, but he had managed to keep one of them alive long enough to question him. Thoroughly. That was when Rhys and Y/n had found him. 

She knew he blamed himself for the women who had died once he arrived, that their screams haunted him in the night. She had been swarmed by nightmares the past few weeks, a mix of his and her own. Unable to escape the hell that her subconscious locked her into each time the moon came out.

She hadn’t gotten much sleep the past fourteen days.

After six days of following leads and tracking the men down, both the Commander and Spymaster were positive that they had captured all of those who remained, now wasting space in the latter’s dungeons beneath the Hewn City where she had no doubt they’d receive far worse treatment than they’d ever been able to deal out.

Going over new laws and ordinances that Rhys, Feyre, Amren, and Y/n had worked religiously on the past few weeks, the war camps finally seemed to be finding their rhythm again, daily life going on as it once had. 

They still had a lot of work to do, but they were making progress, and they had to take what victories they could, no matter how little. 

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

More weeks passed by, some so quickly she hardly noticed the growing chasm in her chest. Others passed slowly, as if her life were passing by her in slow motion, waving as it went. Leaving her behind without so much as a second glance.

Initially, she and Azriel hadn’t seen or spoken to each other because of how busy they’d been. But, work had slowed down marginally, allowing for the Inner Circle to breathe a little more freely, and Azriel still avoided her like she had the Illyrian flu. 

If she passed him in the hallways he quickly dipped into his shadows before she could call out to him, he avoided her regular training times all together, and did his best to go on solo missions, claiming to Rhys he needed to remain focused.

His behavior was really starting to get on her nerves. 

If he didn’t want this bond, then, as much as it would break her heart, she’d rather have him suck it up and just tell her. Dragging out a brutal crushing of souls just seemed cruel and unnecessary.

Stuck in some never ending limbo that she couldn’t seem to find the way out of. She’d tried tugging on the bond, only to be met with a cold, bitter resistance. 

She still had no idea how long he’d known about it for, or how he’d found out, or why instead of telling her, he had told Rhysand and Cassian.

It’s not as if she were mad at him, she had kept the bond a secret, too. But, she had done it out of fear of losing someone who had never once shown romantic interest in her. She had done it out of fear of disrupting her family’s dynamic so wholly, they may never be the same. 

She had always wanted the bond with Azriel. She would take the scraps off his plate if it was all he ever offered to her. There just hadn’t been a world in which she could imagine him ever loving her the way she loved him. 

Now all of her fears were coming true the longer he avoided her. Their friendship might as well be in the can, he hadn’t spoken to her for weeks, and even before then there had only been a few times over the past nine months they’d interacted normally. 

And, well, that had been her fault.

Y/n halted in her path to the library, stopping so swiftly, air kissed her cheeks and hair in a windowless hallway.

Azriel had only been avoiding her for five weeks. Before he had left for the Illyrian Mountains, he had always been around, chasing after her shadow in the light of day, looking for her in the crowds of people, always making it difficult for her to go more than a day without having some sort of contact with him. 

He had wanted to be around her despite what, she now realized, was an infuriatingly annoying dance of avoidance she had subjected him to for months?

Gods, what was wrong with her? Who handles adult situations that way? How could she possibly have felt any justification in her anger towards him. He was only doing what she had done, and it had been for a significantly shorter amount of time. If anything, she deserved this.  

Did he think that she hadn’t told him about the bond because she didn’t want it? Had he known about the bond for months like her, trying to figure out if it had snapped for her yet? Was he avoiding her because he thought it was what she wanted?

No, no, no, no. 

That sounded so much like something Azriel would do that she physically cringed as the thought thundered across her mind. 

She needed to fix this. She had to track down the Spymaster of the Night Court, one of the most elusive fae alive, and keep him from slipping from her grasp.

Thankfully, Y/n had been trained by the best.

[lavenderspence]

Missing the happy hormone | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Content warning: emotional reader, period mention, fluff

Word Count: 1.8K

Summary: Apparently Spencer Reid could make anything better - even the emotional disaster of being on your period

A/N: First, huge thank you to the cutie that sent in this request, you literally caught me while on my period so this was born. Also, here’s to my inability to write short fics, this is your only warning that i can make and will make anything long, lol. Also, my titles suck omg. And shoutout to my crazy bestie for making me a Mamma Mia girly, she rocks.

But also, happy one month to this blog! When I carved out this little space for myself a month ago I wasn’t really sure how I’d feel being back here and writing again, but so far it’s been a treat. A huge thank you for all of your support and love and thank you to my mutuals and everyone that interacted with my blog. 💕 Here’s to many more months to come!

Request: spencer x fem!reader on her period/ovulating and shes in tears all the time?? Im ovulating and have been crying for hours and keep calling my mom lmaoo he’d been so lovely and sweet I know it I can feel it in my bones

masterlist

It was a slow day at the BAU. The most exciting thing in the 6 hours Spencer had spent at work was Rossi’s invitation to dinner the following weekend. 

Paperwork had piled high after their last 2 cases, so every team member was hunched over their desk, writing and revising reports. It was a never-ending cycle - finish a report, close the file, open a new one, and start all over again.

His eyes had started getting tired after four and a half hours, his hand had started cramping and he was down two pens so far, yet there was still a prominent pile on his desk.

He suspected Morgan and Emily might have pushed a file or two from theirs onto his load, seeing as he was getting done the fastest. Regardless, every few hours JJ was bringing even more to pile on top of everything that wasn’t finished, so buried in paperwork they stayed - no matter how fast he wrote or read, or how used to the load he was.

He was just thinking about getting up to prepare a fresh pot of coffee so he could function properly for a few more hours when his phone started ringing. He felt around the pockets of his suit jacket, where it sat draped on his chair, and then pulled it free. 

His display showed an incoming call, a picture of you as he hugged you, hands around your middle and face almost buried into your neck, a soft smile gracing both your faces. A scenery rich with reds, browns, and yellows stood behind you, the beauty of fall was nothing short of spectacular. 

The picture you’d taken last year when the team spent a weekend at Rossi’s cabin in the woods, surrounded by the beauty of landscapes and leaves, nature for miles. 

He accepted the call right away, a small smile on his face. 

“Hey sweetheart.” His voice was gentle, if a little raspy from misuse. He hadn’t talked much in the last few hours - just a distracted short answer here or a hum there. He was happy you were calling, though, welcoming the reprieve from the most recent report. 

It was silent for a few seconds, and he wondered absentmindedly if maybe you hadn’t called him on accident, and then there came a tiny little sniffle from your side. 

“Sweetheart?” He prompted, “Are you there? What’s going on?” Worry was starting to creep into the base of his spine, but he still remained calm and kept his voice gentle. 

“I’m here. Hi.” Another small sniffle, “All’s good. Just…I was just wondering how much longer you’d be gone.” Your voice was small,like you thought you might upset him by asking, and a little crackly, like you yourself were upset about something. 

His eyebrows furrowed, and he checked the time quickly - 3:57 pm. 

“Probably about two more hours, there’s a lot of paperwork we need to go through.” His eyes met Emily’s as she sent him a curious, questioning look. 

“Oh, okay.” The resignation was clear in your voice, “I’ll see you later then.” The call ended abruptly, and it took him a second to catch up.

He couldn’t help but feel like not everything was as good as you claimed it was. For one, you rarely called to ask when he’d be home - you knew his work could span into the late hours, or even stretch for days. You let him update you on any changes in his work schedule. 

In your interactions, your voice was usually upbeat and teasing - especially on the phone. Your kindness was always evident in your voice, as was your mood. You were a sunshine person, if he ever met one, that’s probably why you and Penelope formed such a close bond upon meeting. 

There was something that nagged him - a change in your mood he could pick up on just by your voice - too low, too small, and the cracks that he could now identify as he replayed your conversation in his head. You were keeping yourself from crying out, and yet there was nothing more apparent than the tears in your voice. And that made him worry. 

“Reid, are you okay?” Emily’s voice snapped him from the hard stare he’d been giving his phone in the last several minutes since the call ended. 

“I…I don’t know.” His eye twitched, and he cleared his throat before he tried and failed to articulate exactly what was happening - he himself had a hard time understanding. One thing he knew was that he needed to get home. “I..um, I need to go. Can you, please?” He asked, gusting at the remaining three files on his desk before he pulled his suit jacket on and grabbed his satchel. 

Morgan and Emily shared a mildly concerned look before they both nodded their heads, “Yeah, go. Text to let us know if everything is okay.” Morgan reminded him before he exited the bullpen with a fast step and tried to keep calm.

He was aware the situation wasn’t anything that he needed to be incredibly worried over - if something was really wrong, he knew you would have let him know. Yet, he couldn’t help the way his heart constricted by the sound of your voice, or the overwhelming desire to come home and gently hold you, see what could have caused this behavior. 

You were curled up on the couch, watching as Donna helped Sophie get ready for her wedding, the gentle melody of “Slipping through my fingers” filling the empty apartment. Your eyes were watering, to the point that everything was starting to get blurry. A shaky exhale left your lips.

Today has simply been a rollercoaster. Kissing Spencer goodbye this morning was the highlight of the day. What followed was nothing short of an emotional disaster. 

You’d teared up during breakfast, images of picking berries with Spencer flying through your mind. The desire to make it a reality was strong. 

Following that had come the overwhelming urge to bawl your eyes out, for no apparent reason whatsoever. Just cry and cry until you had it all emptied out and you could take a deep breath and continue with your day. So, cry you did, and then you’d finished with your chores for the day. 

Apparently letting it all out and emptying your tear supply hadn’t happened. Seeing as around 3:30 you’d started missing your boyfriend so much, the need to hear his voice had won out, so you’d called him. You felt the need to have him home to hold you because this month’s visit from mother flow was making you feel like a crybaby.

But then there was disappointment at the notion that you needed to wait close to 3 hours before that could happen. So you quickly ended the call before he could pick up on the tone of your voice, and then you shed a few tears. 

Now here you were, rewatching Mamma Mia because you really needed a pick me up, and once again, eyes shining as the tears started falling. At this point, it was a losing battle, so you let them fall, humming to the song with a broken voice. 

That’s exactly how Spencer found you, not a minute later. His keys were in his hand, the satchel on his shoulder, and he was just a little bit out of breath. 

The moment his eyes met you, they softened as he dropped everything and sat down next to you. His hand reached up and he cradled the side of your face, wiping your tears away. 

“Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?” He asked in a whisper.

“Look at Donna painting Sophie’s nails, it’s...” You hiccuped, another wave of tears washing over you. “And you’re home, why are you home?” Your question was met with a furrow in his brow, as his thumbs continued wiping underneath your eyes. 

“You called.” He answered simply. 

“But you said-” He stopped you before you could finish your sentence.

“I did, yes. But you sounded off and sad, so. Want to tell me what’s going on?” He prompted you gently as he pushed your hair back and pulled you into his lap after, feeling like you needed the physical contact. 

You weren’t ashamed to admit it, per se, but you were ashamed that your hormones had caused him to leave work and race home to be with you. 

“It’s my period,” you mumbled, hands wrapping around his neck as you hid your face in his chest, too tired to prevent your eyes from watering again. “It’s been going on all day. Randomly, I’d just get so emotional, and the tears would start. I was missing you so much too, and then hearing the song, bam, tears again. I’m so done with this Spence.” You sounded barely coherent, with your face pushed as close to him as possible. 

It all made sense now, you’d been cranky a few days ago, and then you’d told him last night your cramps were unbearable, so he knew you were on your period, but right now he felt like an idiot for not figuring it out himself. 

“It’s okay, everything is fine. The drop in estrogen and progesterone, following your ovulation triggered this. This in turn reduced the production of serotonin, your happy hormone. So, we just need to boost it a bit.” He whispered into your ear as you played with the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“How?” You sighed into his chest, almost being able to pick up on the sound of his heartbeat.

He got deep in thought for a few seconds as you breathed in his scent, and a sense of calmness slowly overtook you now that he was home and holding you. One of his hands was running soothing circles on your back as the other held your hand, fingers interlocked. 

“How about we take a trip to the store and get you some snacks? We’ll pick up dinner on the way home and then I'll hold you some more and you'll pick a movie for us to watch.” He suggested, kissing the crown of your head once, twice, and many more times until you gave him an answer. 

“Yeah, yeah, I think that would help, but just having you here has done wonders.” You finally laid your head against his chest, looking up to meet his eyes. He smiled, and so did you. Having him here really had helped immensely, and when had it not? He was your other half, your rock, and even when your emotions ran rampant or you were feeling down, just his presence, his touch, and his understanding were enough to make it all okay. 

Later in the evening, Penelope sent you a photo of Sergio sleep-hugging a little plushy you’d gotten him, and the waterworks started all over again. Luckily, Spencer was there, wiping your tears and kissing your head, saying a thousand things without actually speaking a word.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Requests are open for both Spencer and Hotch if you want to send any!

[parfaitblogs]

perfect night 𝜗𝜚 s. reid x reader

in which your boyfriend pays not enough attention to you when you especially need it. 

spencer reid x fem!reader. fluff. 0.5k words. established relationship. reader is (semi) drunk and wearing makeup.

a/n: wrote this in 45 minutes. you can tell. i have a super crazy weird condition where i have to write fluffy drunk!r x spencer every two weeks or else ill die. apparently. here’s a draft because i feel like i need to post but also i have nothing to post..

spencer reid who looks up when his door handle rattles at the late hour of three a.m., though concern is nowhere to be found in his body because he can hear giggles and incoherent mumbling from the other side. who pretends to be engrossed in his work when you finally stumble inside, humming of the last song you remember listening to — poker face? maybe. you're not too sure, actually. your lips wet from licking them too many times, the top of them stained from reapplying your lip liner in your phone camera while drunk — you cannot properly do it in that state. 

spencer reid who doesn't even flinch when you slur out a 'hiiii' and climb into his lap at his desk, and only wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest with an acknowledging hum. who looks over your shoulder as he continues to scribe away at the paper in front of him, while you kiss all over his neck. spencer reid who turns his attention to you when your index finger pokes into his shoulder, asking 'what's wrong, honey?'. who laughs at you when you huff that he isn't paying attention to you, before explaining that he 'needs to finish this case report'.

spencer reid who compromises that by the time you finish showering and getting ready for bed, he will be done, and then he's all yours for the rest of the night. who laughs again when you very happily get off of him, and bounce towards the bathroom — you did crash into the wall right next to the door (he was concerned until you started laughing at yourself about it). who smiles when you return smelling less like alcohol and more like that body wash he oh-so loves, in his shirt which was another can of worms that had him smiling. 

who lets you climb back into his lap — now on the couch — and finally, finally pays you some proper attention. hands bunching the fabric of his shirt around your hips, staring at your still tipsy-induced grin. who traces circles on your hip bones and asks 'did you have a good night?'. who listens intently as you tell him everything that happened — or, as much as you can remember. which wasn't a lot, but he didn't seem to mind your long pauses and 'wait let me think's cutting up your explanation. 

spencer reid who waited until you confirmed you had finished telling him everything before he kissed you — an action you were sure he had wanted to do for awhile (he always waited until you had finished talking to kiss you. he refused to cut you off). who swallowed your laughter and randomised noises and huffs time and time again, until you were falling quiet and, eventually, limp. 

and spencer reid who must have taken you to bed when you fell asleep, because you woke up under blankets and to the smell of peppermint from the diffuser across the room for your head.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[manicmanuscription]

Sleepless

Pairing(s): Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of PTSD, probably slight medical inaccuracies dealing with insomnia. SFW

Word Count: 1436

Summary: You've always had bad insomnia, unable to sleep due to trauma, that slowly starts getting better with your mate Azriel and on a particularly rough night you seek him out to help you sleep.

acotar masterlist | main masterlist

divider by @cafekitsune

You always had trouble sleeping, sometimes going days to weeks with only 2-3 hours, running on pure adrenaline until eventually your body gave in and you passed out. 

You had severe PTSD and the nighttime always made it worse, anxiety crushing you so bone deep as you waited for the next terrible thing to happen to you.  The healer’s you’d been to had all tried different methods to trick your restless body and mind into sleeping. Weed, relaxing teas and herbal remedies, tinctures, pills, aromatherapy, exercise. You name it, you've tried it. 

The only thing that had even remotely helped you a little bit was Azriel. You don't know when or how but he had suddenly become a safe space for you, the peace you felt around him a foreign feeling, one that terrified you but you had become too addicted to abandon. Over the years, your shy and soft friendship had turned into something more until the mating bond snapped. 

The level of commitment scared the shit out of both of you but you wouldn’t be able to handle life without each other. He was a soothing presence and he made you feel safe, cared for and loved. You had never been loved by or been in love with someone as deeply as Azriel. 

It never failed to amaze him when you fell asleep around him. He knew about your bad case of insomnia (you’d even passed out a few times in his arms and scared the ever living shit out of him.) So when you fell asleep next to him or even with him it had his heart skipping a few beats, the bond in his chest glowing with pride. It meant you trusted him, felt safe around him and it was the greatest feeling in the world. 

This was another night that plagued you, rain pattering against the windows with an unyielding vengeance. Thunder occasionally cleaves the sky. You were at the River House tonight, work had you and Azriel up late as you went over reports with Rhys. Once you all found a good stopping point you headed to your shared bedroom, thankful for the rooms Feyre had installed for you all.  

You had tried falling asleep without Azriel insisting he stay to have drinks with Rhysand, giving the High Lord and Spymaster some much needed brotherly bonding time. 

All you wanted was to sleep. You were already on your fourth day of no rest and it frustrated you to no end, there’d been multiple occasions of you sobbing to your mate about the lack of sleep, your mind simply refusing to give into the needs of your body. You needed Azriel but you stuffed the feeling down, determined to force your body to rest so he could enjoy his time. 

Then an hour passed, then two eventually ticked by and you couldn’t help the gnawing anxiety growing in your gut. It twisted up until you felt nauseous doubt running rampant through your mind. What if something terrible had happened to him? You knew this house was probably one of the safest places in all of Velaris but you couldn’t stop once you started, each dreadful though only growing worse. 

A shadow twisted in the corner, skittering across the floor and opening the door to your bedroom. Another shadow curled around your wrist and tugged softly- but insistently and you took the sign for what it was and followed the impatient little things through the winding estate until they led you to one of the main common rooms. You heard the soft voices of Cassian, Rhysand Azriel echoing through the dead silent house. 

You were unsure of actually entering the living room, hesitating in the hallway as your stomach now twisting with a different kind of anxiety -what if he was mad at you for being so annoying? for interrupting him?-

The shadows were having none of that and immediately pulled you into the room and you almost tripped on the plush carpet’s until they steadied you. They swirled back to their master and skittered around him excitedly, his eyes immediately found yours and they softened, a look only ever reserved for you and your heart skipped a beat at the sight.  Conversation continued but for a moment it felt like it was only the two of you. 

The shadows must’ve tattled on you because those bright eyes immediately shifted to concern, you could practically taste the question on his tongue and you shook your head trying to silently tell him you were fine. You crossed the room “When did you get here Cass?” You asked as you settled next to your mate. Your body instantly relaxes at the familiar scent of him. His presence instantly soothes almost all your earlier anxiety. 

“About… an hour ago?” The General responded across from you and you snorted at his PJ’s. “Couldn’t miss the fun?” You snarked as you adjusted to lay your body across the couch and placed your head on Azriel’s lap, letting him softly run his hands through your hair. 

‘“He has the worst case of FOMO I’ve ever seen.” Rhysand responded with a smirk sipping on an expensive glass of wine. 

“No I do not!” Cassian insisted. Azriel and Rhys chuckled at that. “You ran to my home, in sleepwear as soon as my lovely mate asked you where you were.” Rhys pointed out, brows raised. 

“Sleepwear? Are you too fancy for the word PJ’s? Gods…” Cassian retorted, turning to his own glass of wine. I chuckled a little bit at that and Azriel sent a wave of love towards me at the sound. “Shouldn’t you be with your mate Cassian?” Azriel joined in on the teasing as shadows retrieved a blanket for you, wrapping it around your shoulders, Azriel still absentmindedly playing with your hair, another hand abandoning his glass so he could trace patterns on your arm. 

“She is currently with Gwyn trading me in for some new romance novel I’m afraid.” 

“Poor baby.” You mocked, eyelids fluttering close at Azriel’s continued touch, your body slowly melting into him, your side of the bond glowing with contentment at finally being in his arms. Everything about him, his touch, his scent, his voice, soothed your long day and warmed you heart. You chimed in the conversation here and there as it continued for a few more hours until finally your jaw grew heavy to talk, your breathing evening out as you fucking finally slept. 

Azriel couldn’t help the warm smile spread across his face at the sight of you. You looked so peaceful sleeping and he was happy you were finally able to catch some rest. 

“Look at that.” Rhysand chirped. “He’s so whipped.” 

Cassian grinned, opening his mouth to add on but Azriel interrupted him. “Sshh.” 

“Excuse you?” Cassian mocked, Rhys eyes alight with amusement. “Did you just ’sshh’ me in my own house?” “Wow that’s just disrespectful, you seriously gonna take that Rhysie?”

Usually Azriel would never dream of doing so, he respected Rhys and would for him but when it came to you and especially your health and sleep..? They kept teasing him trying to prompt a response until eventually he snapped when Cassian’s voice got a little too loud. 

“Don’t you have mate’s to look after?” Azriel snapped harshly, Rhysand and Cassian paused. 

“Yep, definitely whipped.” Cassian agreed and Azriel’s eyes flashed, his grip on your tightening just slightly, you had been struggling to sleep for days and if his idiot brother’s woke you up not even twenty minutes later than who knows when you’d eventually fall asleep again or worse maybe you wouldn’t and you’d just pass out which isn’t even sleeping- His mind whirled dangerously on how to protect your rest. “This conversation is over, wake her up and I’ll rearrange your teeth.”  He responded dangerously, shadows slowly covering your limp form. 

Rhysand and Cassian put their hand’s up in surrender, they knew your struggles with sleep and they knew what a male would do to protect his mate and they had reached their limit on teasing, Azriel could be quite terrifying when need be. “Feyre is waiting for me.” Rhysand said with a wink, wishing his brother’s goodnight before gracefully exiting the room. Cassian just mouthed a sorry, patting Azriel on the back before leaving too. 

Azriel stayed like that until dawn, not risking a chance at you waking up due to any movement. He was perfectly content to watch your peaceful sleep, listening to your deep breaths as he held you close, continuing to trace those same soothing patterns along your arm. 

[escelia]

New Sibling Just Dropped

Or Danny gets willingly isekai'd into the DCU and gets a twin out of it.

I know I disappeared from the face of the earth for a bit there, and there's stuff I should probably be updating, but I come baring different stuff this time :D

Just started this for fun, and I have at least one other chapter of it done, but idk how long this bout of inspiration will last, so I'm just rolling with it for now.

@flamingpudding look! i pulled a jason todd and rose from the grave!

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

Danny was tired. The kind of tired you felt behind your eyes and in your bones, and weighed heavy with achievement. He was perched on the edge of a building in his ghost form looking over Amity Park with a soft smile as he watched Youngblood run through the park with human children, Cujo playfully on their heels. His galaxy cloak (which had been a coronation gift) billowed around his lap like a gas with stars twinkling inside. 

It had been a few years now since he took up the Crown of Fire and became High King of the Infinite Realms, and while he had accomplished many things since then, graduating from high school wasn't something on that list. It sucked that he wouldn't get to walk across the stage with Sam and Tucker, but in the face of all he'd been able to do for both Amity and the Infinite Realms, it was worth it. They coexisted now. There was still trouble every now and then, but Danny had helped the ghosts who insisted on staying in Amity Park find a place in their city where they could thrive.

Youngblood watched over the children of the city, Box Ghost started a box recycling center, Lunch Lady started a program to get food to families that couldn't afford it, and Pointdexter started reporting bullying at the school since he was already there. 

On the Realms' side, Danny shut down Walker's prison. Since it was his lair, he couldn't take it away from him completely, but it no longer housed the many ghosts the warden had considered "rule breakers." He'd given Walker a new set of rules to enforce and essentially took him under his wing as a royal soldier, kept under the close watch of Fight Knight, who'd defected from Pariah Dark so fast after his defeat that it was laughable. 

He'd done something similar with Skulker, though he was a harder case to crack. Unlike Walker, who was happy as long as he had a set of rules to enforce, Skulker wanted to keep hunting. He'd been recruited forcefully by Walker and Fright Knight after they caught him on his way to fight Danny again.

All in all, everything had begun to run smoothly now. The fatigue weighing on him reminded him that it had been hard to accomplish, and continuing to lead his double life hadn't made it any less exhausting. A cold breath rushed through his chest as he felt a familiar presence slide up next to him. 

"You didn't time out," Danny pointed out without looking to face the ghost beside him. Clockwork hummed in acknowledgment.

"Sometimes it's pleasant to watch time flow in person." It was Danny's turn to hum at him. 

"How are you feeling?" The Ancient asked thoughtfully. The younger ghost tilted his head pensively. 

"It's hard to say. I'm tired, but I'm happy. And also sad..." he paused to gather his thoughts. "I feel like I've done everything I needed to."

But not everything he wanted to do. 

"Go on," Clockwork pressed. The teenager did turn his head now to make a face at his mentor. If the guy knew how he felt and what he was going to say, why would he say it out loud? But the other just arched a brow at him and waited.

"Fine," he pouted. "I've spent so much time and energy finding places for everyone here. The GIW are gone, my parents stopped hunting ghosts, Jazz got into the psychology program at Stanford, Sam and Tucker are graduating today... I helped make that happen, I know I did! But they're moving on without me. They're growing up and I don't feel like I am."  

'I don't feel like I'm ready.'

Danny stopped to take a breath and wipe away the icy tears gathering in his eyes. He felt stupid for crying over it. He was 17 for Ancients' sake! Jazz would have told him he grew up too fast, but he still felt like a child. He had no idea what he was doing! And yet! And yet... he felt...

"But you also feel ancient, right? Like you've been around too long and seen too much?" Clockwork said as though he were reading from a script. Danny sulked. Stupid time ghost with his dumb Time Stream TV or whatever. 

"Yeah..."

"All Ancients feel that way. Though you may be feeling unbalanced in more ways than one because of how young you died and the fact you are half human."

"What do you mean?" Danny turned his whole body to face him now, tucking his knees under his chin and circling his arms around them. His cloak moved with him in inky black wisps and settled around him again like clouds of galaxies. 

Clockworks form shifted to that of a child.

"You feel young because you died young. However, it is the nature of humans to grow and change. While you may have died at 14, your childhood died before that. You yearn to grow and learn, while also being an incredibly powerful Ancient."

He supposed that made sense. He recalled all the years cleaning the lab before the portal had even been built, and the fighting and neglect (Jazz's words, not his) that spawned his disdain of Christmas even longer before. He wanted to go back to school. He wanted a reason to love Christmas. He wanted pets and family dinners that didn't come alive. He wanted to grow up properly.

"But you still want to help people," the ghost said as though Danny had been talking out loud or having his mind read. 

"I hate it when you do that," Danny complained. Clockwork just smiled smugly.

"I know." He laughed at the glare Danny threw him. 

"I have a proposition for you," the older ghost began. Danny perked up in intrigue. "I know of another earth dimension with some problems that need to be addressed. Your role as High King puts you in a position to be helpful."

"Their problem has to do with the Realms?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Ectoplasm from the Realms is pooling into what are referred to on their planet as Lazarus Pits. They are both helpful and harmful as they do not dissipate into the air so they continually collect and concentrate emotion, but they do sometimes revive the dead."

Danny grimaced in disgust at the thought of dunking a person into a stagnant pool of contaminated ectoplasm. "That sounds disgusting."

"Quite," Clockwork agreed. 

"So what's your proposition?"

"Well, if it is agreeable to you, I would like to de-age your physical form and place you with a family that's had dealings with the Pits firsthand. I've found them to be quite charming." 

"Ah, so you want me to go in undercover?" Danny couldn't help but roll his eyes a little. It wasn't a half bad idea. He could try his hand at childhood again and still get to handle his duties as King Phantom. Leading a double life again would be easy enough, it was just stepping from one role into another. 

"Not at all." Clockwork smiled knowingly. Danny was officially suspicious of his ghost guardian. "This planet has had all kinds of dealings with the occult, and even humans with superpowers isn't that unusual. While I would advise against telling anyone you are a king right away, you are in fact just that: a king. You may do what you wish." 

For an ancient and wise time ghost, Danny thought Clockwork was really shit at hiding his expressions. Though he tried to keep the grin off his face, Danny could clearly see the twitching of his lips and gleam in his eyes that promised the old man was scheming. 

But to get his childhood back. Or, at least a semblance of one... it deserved consideration. Danny looked back out at the cityscape again. Sam and Tucker... they were down there graduating from high school without him. He'd been the one to encourage them to pull away from Team Phantom activities to zero in on their studies, but he didn't regret it. Sam wanted to major in environmental science and Tucker wanted to go to MIT and he just didn't fit into those plans. After Jazz left for Stanford, his parents often forgot he was still there. He'd managed to convince them to study ghosts properly instead of hunting them, and with a little help from the "friendly ghost King Phantom" they were given a place to start. They dove into their research with the same excitement and fervor they'd had all their lives. Which of course meant he went days, sometimes weeks, without seeing them emerge from the lab. It was easy enough to slip past them to the portal while they were distracted. 

The point was that he'd started to feel his anchor to this city, to this realm, start to dissipate as the people who kept him there started to break away from him. He still loved them, wanted to protect them, but they were safe and happy now. He felt fulfilled in his task of protecting them, but there was a buzzing beneath his skin to do more. 

Danny took a deep and controlled breath. He didn't need it in his ghost form, but it felt good to feel his lungs stretch to fullness. 

"When would I start?" He asked finally. The straight face Clockwork had been trying to keep, and he really was so bad at it, finally broke into a wide grin. 

"Right now. Everything is already in place and your duties in the Realms will be taken care of in your absence." 

Danny smiled softly at his guardian. Clockwork sure had a funny way of showing it, but he cared so deeply for the boy next to him that when Danny responded with a bad pun, he couldn't even be annoyed. 

"Well, no time like the present!" He winked.

Clockwork chuckled, and with a flash of light, he sent Danny on his way. 

The more time the older ghost spent with his young ward, the more he appreciated him. The Danny he’d come to know was nothing like the Danny’s from other worlds he’d encountered while trying to prevent Dan from existing. His Danny was now truly one of a kind. None of the others, not even the ones that eventually turned into Dan, had been Ancients. There would never be another Danny like him, and every universe was adjusting to include him should he ever decide to visit them. He had a place in any world, should he choose, but Clockwork knew he was needed most in the one he’d sent him to. It would be truly entertaining to watch the young Ancient settle into his role there, and Clockwork was actually finding himself looking forward to it.

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

It was dark and quiet a long while before Danny opened his eyes. And when he did open them it got really loud and really bright really fast. It belatedly occurred to him that he should have asked like a billion more questions before agreeing to be iseaki’d into a different dimension to join a family he knew literally nothing about. 

There was shouting before someone in what looked like a ninja cult uniform shoved a knife into his hand and pushed him in the path of a person in a different uniform. The man in front of him was dressed in blue and black and wearing a mask that covered his eyes, but Danny could see the surprised shape of his mouth before it morphed into something like anger. And then he was being lunged at.

He shrieked as he dodged out of the way. Not his most graceful save, but whatever. His voice was a bit shrill and his center of gravity felt way off. He must have actually been de-aged! He wondered how old he was now. He still felt light on his feet thanks to his ghost half which felt blessedly intact. But the other guy was fast and he ducked into a roll just in time to dodge whatever weapon he was holding. This guy meant business, but he had no idea why he was trying to kill him. 

‘Great, thanks Grandfather Clock for throwing me right back into the good ol’ days,’ he thought sarcastically. Nobody had attacked him for no good reason like that since Walker and Fright caught Skulker mid hunt for the very last time. 

What he now saw was a baton swung down from overhead and Danny knew he wouldn't dodge it in time, so he caught it with the flat of the blade that had been shoved into his hands.

“Wait! Why are we fighting?” Danny yelled, panicked as the guy pushed more force into it. The man's face twisted into something like confusion for a moment and he backed off just the tiniest bit before the scuffing of shoes to his right had him looking over just in time to see another guy in a mask, this time in red, rushing at him. He threw his hands up in surrender. 

“Wait!” He shrieked before he was absolutely bodied sideways into the ground. 

Why was he doing this? He was half ghost, he could have just gone intangible and disappeared. He didn't have to be body slammed into the ground. Wasn't he a child now? Did that guy in red actually just slam a whole child into the ground? 

“Red, hold on! This one's different!” 

“What do you mean?” The guy Red asked. He was still pinning Danny to the ground.

“Yeah, what do you mean?” Danny asked breathlessly, then whimpered, “Someone please tell me what's going on!” 

The one hovering over him must have seen something on his face that convinced him to not try and kill him anymore, because he grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him along. 

“We'll take him in for questioning. Don't let Robin see him.”

“Who's Robin?!”

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

It had been a long, arduous, and confusing journey from wherever they were to… well, wherever they were now. They'd blindfolded him for the transport so he still had no idea what was going on. He had learned that the guy with batons was Nightwing, and Red was actually Red Robin. The one they called Robin was a feral looking thing with swords, he was very small and stabby. Then there was Batman, and he totally threw off the whole bird theme but was easily the most intimidating. And that was all he knew so far. He'd been restrained at an interrogation table. 

Danny groaned and knocked his forehead onto the table. He really, really wished he'd asked Clockwork more questions. He'd at least been able to catch a glimpse of himself in the glass behind Batman. He looked like he was eleven or twelve again, which was not as young as he'd been expecting, but much more preferable than being a literal toddler. The group of people he’d been brought in by seemed to be heroes. They were all incredibly weary of him, but hadn’t gone out of their way to harm him since his capture. Though it was hard to call it a capture when there wasn’t a chase involved. 

“How old are you?” Batman asked suddenly. His voice was low and rough and somehow Danny could tell it didn't sound like that naturally. 

“Um, maybe eleven or twelve?” Danny replied carefully, picking up his head from the table and having the decency to look a little embarrassed. 

“And what's your name?” He looked like he was expecting something.

“My name is Danny, sir.” 

“Hmm…” 

It was quiet and awkward for a long moment.

“Why are you different from the other clones?” 

“Yeeeaaah, I'm not a clone.” Danny absolutely did not jump when the brute slammed the file folder shut in front of him. 

“We'll see what your DNA results have to say about that,” he said confidently before turning to leave, his cape dramatically flaring out behind him.

Sheesh, and he thought he’d had a flair for the dramatics.

‘Okay, time for some assessment,’ Danny thought to himself as he looked around the small closed room. It was soundproofed incredibly well. While he didn’t have super crazy hearing, it was enhanced by his ghost half, and combined with his other sharp senses, it tended to help him gather more information than others could. The most he could hear outside the room was a quiet hum of activity and nothing discernible. Still, he needed to decide how much he would say to these people. How much truth did he want to weave into his tale? These people clearly already had their own assumptions about him in mind, and while there was absolutely nothing wrong with being a clone, he knew he didn’t have what it took to keep up an act like that for long, which would just end up being awkward for everyone. 

He also would not be telling them about his status as Ghost King, per Clockwork’s suggestion. His captors seemed like the uptight sort, and revealing that he was a big, scary ghost monarch didn’t seem like it’d go over well. Telling them he was a halfa would probably get them off his back over the clone thing, at least. He went over the list in his head.

He was a halfa from another dimension, so he couldn’t be a clone.

He had no plans of fighting with anyone unless absolutely necessary. 

He did not have a way back to his other dimension. 

His name was Danny, and he didn’t have a family anymore.

He did not know why he was in the middle of whatever fight he woke up in. 

No, he didn’t know those people.

Danny must’ve been lost in thought for quite a while because his thoughts were interrupted by Batman bursting back through the door. The man’s demeanor had changed completely and he whipped off his cowl to reveal disheveled dark hair, blue eyes, and an expression of absolute heartbreak that accompanied his shuddering breaths. With the mask off, he reminded Danny a lot of his father. 

Batman searched his face and, much like Red Robin had before, seemed to notice something there. 

“She did it twice,” he muttered to himself. “Two of them this whole time and she didn’t tell me about either of them,” he said through gritted teeth. His frown deepened. Danny copied his frown. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

He still had no idea what was going on.

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: Profanity, Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Missionary, Doggystyle, Fingering, Oral (m! receiving)…

WC: ~10k (grab your snacks)

Summary: 

Nanami runs into a problem that every man dreads.

Now, you find yourself navigating the treacherous waters of his bruised ego and growing hysteria, armed with nothing but your unwavering love and a seemingly endless supply of patience, as you try to help him overcome this unexpected hurdle.

Notes: Hello! Trying to get back into the swing of writing again after so many weeks on a break and naturally Nanami is who I gravitate towards. I thought this one shot would be a funny idea, and as someone once told me, I wrote this with “my c*it on the keyboard.”

Please do not ask me for more related to this story. This is just a one-shot of a random idea, please enjoy it for what it is lol. Thank you all for understanding!

Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated! Happy reading!

Dividers: @cafekitsune | Header: made by myself

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter |

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

“Fuck, Kento,” you breathe, fingers digging into the satin of the pillow case beneath your head.

The soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp bathes your intertwined bodies in a honeyed light, casting shadows that dance across your rich brown skin. Nanami’s lips, hot and insistent, trail a path of fire down your neck, pausing to lavish attention on the sensitive hollow of your throat. He drags his teeth along your clavicle, brushes his lips between the skin of your breasts. A breathy moan escapes you as his tongue traces lazy, deliberate circles around an already-sensitive nipple, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins.

His hands, strong and sure, yet infinitely gentle, knead the soft flesh behind your knees, coaxing your legs to open wider, allowing him to sink deeper into the welcoming heat of your body. The blunt head of his cock grazes that sweet spot inside you with each measured thrust, and you can’t help but arch your back, silently begging for more.

Your hair, messy from his fingers, frames your face in a splatter of curls, some clinging to the sheen of sweat on your cheeks. The sight of you like this—open, wanting, completely his—nearly steals the breath from his lungs and makes him double down his efforts.

It’s been weeks since you’ve had this. Weeks of Kento stumbling home late from working overtime, collapsing into bed still fully clothed. Weeks of missed connections, family obligations, and movie nights cut short with you both passing out on the couch. But tonight, finally, you have each other, free from the demands of the world outside.

As Nanami moves within you, his honey-wheat hair, usually so perfectly styled, falls in soft, tousled waves across his forehead, clinging to the perspiration that glistens on his brow. The strong line of his jaw is taut with concentration, a muscle jumping beneath the skin in a way that makes your fingers itch to trace its contours. His eyes, normally a cool, observant umber, now burn with a fierce intensity, a volatile mix of desire and something else, something harder to define.

But even as you lose yourself in the rhythm of your lovemaking, in the exquisite slide of skin against skin, you can’t help but notice the weariness etched into the lines of Nanami’s face, the slight tremor in his hands as they map the contours of your body. He’s been working himself to the bone, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion, and it shows in the tension of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. You had tried to get him to sleep when he sagged through the front door, but he was insistent, clawing at your too-big t-shirt, silent and too stubborn to listen to his body as he licked into your hot mouth.

He’s so tired. Mind still running through quarterly reports and half-completed project plans. But he won’t let that deter him. He’s determined to focus—to savor this moment, to lose himself in the intoxicating scent of your skin, to surrender to the tremors that course through him as your fingers ghost up his back. You marvel at the play of muscles beneath his skin, at the flex and release of his broad shoulders with each movement—a reminder of the strength he usually keeps so carefully controlled.

But as he leans in to capture your lips, that traitorous whisper of doubt in his mind grows in volume. That exhaustion that melted away from your touch has retreated to within him, to course through the blood in his veins and manifest again in its own, evil way at the apex of his thighs. Nanami’s movements falter, his rhythm turning erratic, unsure. You feel a change in him, a hesitation that wasn’t there before, and your heart clenches with concern. His brow furrows, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tries to hold onto the moment, to keep the passion burning between you. The confidence that usually radiates from him when you are both between the sheets seems to waver, leaving in its wake a man grappling with an unfamiliar sense of inadequacy.

He doesn’t want to believe it. He refuses to acknowledge the treacherous thought creeping into his mind. His cock, moments ago hard as a rock and pulsing within you, is betraying him. He digs one hand into the pillow beneath your head, fingers tangling in your curls, savoring the sharp gasp you shake out, desperately willing himself to focus on your heat, on your breath ghosting across his face—anything but the waning firmness of his erection.

With a low grunt, he thrusts deeper so there’s no room for his cock to leave you. The movement is sharper than usual, a force that has no trace of his care behind it and it immediately makes you blink through the fog of pleasure in your mind. You notice the change, concern filling you as you take in the tumultuous emotions on his face. His blonde hair falls in thick tufts over his forehead, brushing against the deepening crease between his eyebrows.

“Ken?” Your voice is soft, a gentle caress. You bring a hand to his cheek, and he leans into your touch as if your soft skin might anchor and keep him focused. “Is everything alright?”

Everything is far from alright.

It’s a nightmare scenario that Nanami can’t bring himself to voice. But he knows you feel it. Instead, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants against your vanilla skin, his fingers digging almost painfully into the flesh of your hips. He drives his hips deeper, angling upwards, trying desperately to lose himself in your pliant body.

But with his next thrust, the cruel truth becomes undeniable. What was once hard steel is now unbearably soft, slipping out of you as his hips collide with yours. Your gasp mirrors his shock as he jerks his head up to meet your gaze. The mortification in his eyes is palpable, a stark contrast to the passion that burned there mere moments ago.

“Ken, it’s okay—” you begin, but he’s already retreating, both physically and emotionally, his walls slamming back into place, shutting you out. You can practically see him retreating into himself, his shoulders hunching, his jaw clenching with a stubbornness of wounded pride.

“Hey, no, we aren’t doing this,” you insist, voice firm and laced with quiet determination.

You reach for him, your fingers wrapping around a thick wrist, anchoring him to you. You’ve spent years chipping away at his defenses, learning every facet of his being, and you refuse to let him shut you out now over something like this. This isn’t just embarrassment—it’s a fundamental shaking of his self-image, a crack in the foundation of who Nanami believes himself to be. An affliction that every man prays to the gods never finds them.

Limp dick.

You gently pull Nanami back to rest between your thighs, his weight a comforting shield against the cool air of your shared bedroom. Your fingers weave through his hair, feeling the tension thrumming through his body as he settles against you.

“Kento,” you murmur, your voice a low, soothing melody in the quiet room. “Look at me.”

He stills for a heartbeat, two, before raising his head, his eyes meeting yours. In their depths, you see a swirling maelstrom of emotions—frustration, embarrassment, shame. He’s tousled hair and flushed cheeks, an overwhelming exhaustion and stress etched beneath his eyes.

“It’s okay,” you breathe, cradling his face in your hands. Your thumbs trace the high arch of his cheekbones, feeling the heat of his skin. “This happens. It doesn’t change a thing—not how I feel, not how much I love you, none of it.”

Nanami’s jaw clenches under your palms, the muscle pulsing, a physical manifestation of the turmoil brewing within him. His gaze falls, unable to hold yours, as if the weight of his perceived failure is too much to bear. “I should be able to—”

“To what?” you interject, your voice gentle but firm. “To be some infallible sex god?” A soft laugh escapes you, your lips curving into a tender smile. “To never have limp dick?”

Those warm eyes glare at you, not at all amused by your light-hearted but poignantly accurate joke. “Now is not the time for a joke,” he grits out, his voice tight, strained.

“Now is exactly the time for a joke,” you counter, your thumb tracing the slight cracks of his bottom lip. You can sense his next moves, your body attuned to his very soul, feeling his inclination to withdraw, to roll over and brood, to let this momentary setback fester into something more. You tighten your thighs around his waist, refusing to let him drift away. “How long have we been together, Kento?”

“Three years.” His answer is immediate, automatic, a testament to the depth of your bond.

“And in that time, has this ever happened before?”

Your eyes lock—a silent battle of wills, logic against stubborn pride. He understands your point, recognizes the truth in your words, but his stubbornness matches your own. “No,” he admits, the word a reluctant concession.

“You’re human, Kento. Wonderfully, beautifully human, and the sexiest man I’ve ever known. Performance issues or not.”

He scoffs, but you feel his shoulders slacken, his body melting into yours as he exhales, the tension slowly bleeding from his muscles. His arms tighten around you, calloused hands splaying across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as if your touch alone could chase away the demons of self-doubt. Those beautiful golden strands tickle your cheeks as he nuzzles closer, his breath warm against your neck.

“Is that so?” he finally murmurs, and you can hear the small smile in his voice, a welcome change from the earlier tension. For as reserved as he is, Nanami preens under any sort of compliments you give him, a chink in his armor of cool composure.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, your hands sliding down to appreciate the firm planes of his back. “It’s a shame, really. You attract too much attention. I’ve been too generous with how long I let you out of the house.”

You feel more than hear his soft chuckle, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. Nanami pulls back slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours. The vulnerability from before hasn’t completely faded, but it’s tempered by a familiar spark of determination kindling in their depths. You don’t know if the subject has completely dropped. But for now, he doesn’t seem to dwell on it, content to focus on you instead.

“Well,” he begins, his voice dropping to that deep, velvety tone that never fails to send shivers cascading down your spine, “I should ensure your satisfaction. Maybe then you’ll extend my hours outside.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving. He sits up on his knees, hot hands wrapping around your waist before yanking your hips closer to him, a delicious show of strength that has your breath catching in your throat. Your giggle of surprise quickly morphs into a gasp as his lips find that sensitive spot just below your ear, tongue sliding against the skin before it trails down the rest of your body, leaving a path of desire that makes you shudder against him.

You expected a period of adjustment, a gradual return to the easy intimacy you and Nanami had always shared. But as time passed, you began to notice a shift, subtle at first, but growing more pronounced with each passing day.

That first sign of something odd presents itself on day three since that night, a quiet Saturday morning that dawns with a gentle golden light filtering through your bedroom curtains. You wake up to find Nanami’s side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Puzzled, you pad into the living room, your bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor, your eyes roaming the space for any sign of him.

Nanami sits at the dining table, surrounded by a veritable fortress of books, their spines forming a colorful barricade around his hunched form. His laptop glows in the morning light, casting his features in a pale blue hue, multiple tabs visible on the screen. He’s hunched over and shirtless, his bare back a canvas of dark moles, constellations you’ve traced countless times with reverent fingers, your lips mapping a path between each celestial point.

As you circle the table, drawing closer to his absorbed form, you’re struck by the intensity of his concentration, the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. His fingers fly over the keyboard with a single-minded purpose, a man on a mission, lost in a world of his own making.

“What are you doing up so early?” you ask, running a hand through the short, silky hair at his nape.

He glances up, and the determined glint in his eye catches you off guard. “Research,” he replies simply, as if that single word explains everything.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you lean in to examine the book titles scattered across the table, your brow rising with each passing second:

Male Sexual Health

Nutrition and Libido

Stress Management for Peak Performance

What the—?

A mix of emotions bubbles up inside you—amusement at his determination, concern for his state of mind, a touch of exasperation at his stubbornness. Part of you wants to tease him mercilessly, to watch that adorable flush creep up his neck, to see him squirm under your playful attention. But you bite your tongue, sensing the fragility of the moment, the rawness of his exposed insecurities.

“Ken,” you begin, your voice a delicate balance of understanding and concern, “is this about what happened the other night? I thought we talked about this, baby.”

“We did,” he nods, not looking up from his screen. “And I appreciate your understanding. But I can’t let it happen again. I’m going to fix this.”

There’s so much you want to say, so many reassurances you want to offer. You want to tell him how normal this is, how surprised you are that it hasn’t happened more often given his grueling work schedule. But you bite your tongue, sensing that this is something Nanami needs to process on his own.

“Don’t you think this might be…a bit much?” you try one last time, your fingers tracing soothing patterns on his bare shoulder, careful not to make him feel defensive and push him further into his own head.

“Nothing is too much when it comes to satisfying you.”

And with those words, spoken with such conviction, such raw honesty, your heart swells, a tidal wave of love and affection crashing over you. He won’t be swayed, and there’s no point in trying to argue with him when he’s set on something. You can’t help but sigh fondly, running your fingers through his hair again, your nails gently scratching his scalp in the way you know he loves. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment, a low groan of appreciation rumbling from his chest as he guides your fingers to just the right spot.

As Nanami launches into an explanation of the benefits of Ashwagandha root, his fingers running along a line of text in one of the magazines, you can’t help but shake your head affectionately. You love this man, even (or perhaps especially) when he’s being ridiculously over-the-top, his determination to be the best partner he can be, even if it means diving headfirst into a world of herbal remedies and performance-enhancing techniques.

The days slip by, each one blurring into the next, a haze of normalcy tinged with an undercurrent of unease. It’s not until the morning of day ten that the true extent of Nanami’s newfound obsession becomes impossible to ignore.

The soft schick of his razor fills the bathroom, a rhythmic counterpoint to the rush of running water. He stands before the mirror, shirtless, a towel draped over his broad shoulders to catch stray flecks of shaving cream. You watch, transfixed, as he meticulously glides the razor along the sharp line of his jaw, each stroke precise, measured.

You stand beside him, your own morning ritual underway, massaging a rich, creamy lotion into your melanin-kissed skin. Your favorite scent of vanilla fills the air, mingling with the crisp, clean aroma of Nanami’s shaving cream. It’s a familiar dance, this shared moment of grooming, of preparation for the day ahead.

But as you reach for your leave-in, your eyes catch on something new, something that sends a jolt of surprise through your system. There, amidst the clutter of skincare products and toiletries, sits a new addition to the growing collection of bottles on the counter. The mustard-yellow label boldly proclaims: “Maca Root: For Vitality and Stamina”.

“Ken?” you murmur, plucking the bottle from the counter, your eyebrows dipping in confusion. “What’s this?”

Nanami’s eyes flick to yours in the mirror, his hand pausing mid-stroke, the razor hovering just above his skin. “Just a supplement,” he evades, his voice carefully neutral, a forced casualness he uses to avoid arguments he won’t win that always sets your teeth on edge. “For…overall health.”

You turn the bottle in your hands, eyebrow arching higher in disbelief with each word you read as you take in the bold, almost aggressive labeling. Your gaze darts to the other bottles littering the counter, a growing sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you take them in for the first time.

“Uh-huh. And the Zinc? The Ginseng? The…” you squint at another label, your voice dripping with skepticism, “L-arginine? All for ‘overall health’ too?”

He clears his throat, his gaze darting away from yours, focusing intently on his reflection as he studiously avoids your probing stare. “That’s right.”

“Baby—” you begin, but he cuts you off, setting down his razor with a definitive clink and shutting the water off, turning to face you fully.

The sight of him, bare-chested and gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light, sends a bolt of desire through you, a hunger that’s been left unsatiated for far too long. The thick cords of muscle that stretch across his chest and arms, the taut planes of his abdomen, the trail of dark blonde hair that disappears beneath the low-slung waistband of his sweatpants—it’s exquisite torture, a feast for your senses after days of famine.

But there’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a skittishness in his gaze that sets off warning bells in your head.

“It’s the research I’ve been doing,” he admits, almost apologetic as he pulls the towel from his shoulders, wiping away the last traces of shaving cream from his jaw. “From what I’ve read, these have proven benefits for…various aspects of wellbeing.”

He seems almost afraid, as if he’s bracing himself for your reaction, steeling himself against the inevitability of your displeasure. Fortunately for him, the words are like a match to kindling, a spark that ignites a flame of mischief in your belly. You step closer, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, the supplement bottle forgotten on the counter behind you.

“Various aspects, huh?” you tease, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. This moment—when he smells of fresh soap, shaving cream, and mint toothpaste before cologne masks his natural scent—is one of many favorites. It’s one of the most arousing forms of Nanami Kento before he slides on his work clothes and gives the world a straight face and measured words. “Care to demonstrate some of these benefits?”

Your fingertips trace the muscles of his chest, slide along his skin with more purpose, your nails dragging lightly over his nipples, a teasing hint of pain that you know drives him wild. He inhales sharply, his muscles tensing beneath your hands, his jaw clenched tight, a reaction that’s as familiar to you as your own heartbeat.

For a moment, you think you have him, that he’ll give in to the desire that darkens his eyes, that he’ll roughly bunch your skirt up around your waist, hike your legs up and around him and make the bathroom mirror knock against your back until you’re gasping out his name as you tighten around his cock.

But then he’s stepping back, his hands coming up to gently catch your wrists, pulling your hands away from his skin.

“We’ll be late for work,” voice strained, conveying his own battling desire. He brings your hands to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the delicate skin of your wrists, your forehead, your mouth.“Let me make you breakfast instead.”

And then he’s gone, slipping past you and out of the bathroom, leaving you standing alone, frustration and disappointment warring in your chest. Your gaze falls on the supplement bottles, a physical manifestation of his growing hysteria, and for a moment, you’re seized by the urge to sweep them all into the trash, to rid your home of these unwelcome interlopers.

But you resist, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose as you silently repeat the mantra that’s become your lifeline in recent days: I love him. I love him. I love him.

But as you square your shoulders and stalk out of the bathroom to start your day, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s got to give, that this tenuous balance can’t hold forever.

Day seventeen. It feels like an eternity, a cruel and unusual punishment for a crime you didn’t commit. You’re a prisoner in your own home, trapped in a world where the man you love is just out of reach, tantalizingly close but impossibly distant.

Seventeen days too long when you live with a man as loving, kind, and attentive as Nanami Kento. Seventeen excruciating days since the concept of getting dicked down was a given, a pleasure you could indulge in whenever the mood struck. Now, you’re reduced to grasping at sloppy seconds, thirds, fourths—anything for a crumb of cock, a fleeting taste of the intimacy you crave.

You’ve become a connoisseur of stolen moments, of fleeting glances and brushing touches that once held the promise of so much more. A shared look in the bathroom mirror that used to lead to soapy sex in the shower. The brush of his hand against the small of your back as you pass in the hallway, a touch that used to lead to him pulling you flush against his body, his lips claiming yours in a searing kiss. Now, you’re like an addict, desperately chasing the ghost of a high, sucking at nicotine-stained fingers for the essence of a hit.

In a last-ditch effort to reignite the spark to show him just how much he’s overreacting, you’ve taken to wearing his shirts around the house. You leave the top buttons undone, a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage on display, the hem riding high on your thighs to reveal the faint marks that he likes to lick against. But each night when you reach for him, Nanami simply presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips trailing a path down your body in a reverent exploration, worshiping you with his mouth and fingers until you’re trembling and spent.

But never with his cock. Never with the part of him you crave most, the part that once made you feel so deliciously full, so utterly claimed.

You feel dramatic when you think about it because it always brings tears to your eyes, hot and stinging with frustration and despair. Like you’re a petulant toddler wanting a cookie that’s been sitting on the counter all morning.

You’ve never been one to let a man dictate your life, to let his whims and insecurities hold sway over your own desires. But Nanami has always been a man to put you above and beyond anything before himself. If the women of the world knew what they were missing, if they could experience even a fraction of the pleasure Nanami Kento can provide, they’d be falling to their knees in supplication, just like you.

How far you’ve fallen.

And how little you care.

Tonight, you vow, will be different. You slip into the silk nightgown he loves, the one that clings to your every curve like a second skin, the baby blue fabric whispering against your heated flesh as you step out of the bathroom. Your heart races with anticipation, your body thrumming with need as you picture his reaction, the way his eyes will darken with desire, the way he’ll pull you into his arms and finally, finally give you what you both so desperately need.

But the bedroom is empty, the sheets still neatly made, mocking you with their pristine perfection. You frown, a sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach as you pad down the hallway, your bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood. As you approach the kitchen, a pungent, almost medicinal smell hits your senses, growing stronger with each step, mingling with the whir of a blender.

You round the corner and freeze, taking in the scene before you. Nanami stands at the kitchen counter, surrounded by an alchemist’s array of strange-looking roots and powders. The blender in front of him churns away, filled with a murky-greenish-brown liquid that looks more like something out of a horror movie than anything fit for human consumption.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice thin and strained, confusion and exasperation warring for dominance in your tone.

He looks up, startled, nearly knocking over a jar of what looks like dried herbs. “It’s…a health shake.”

You want to argue, to shake his shoulders and scream that this has gone too far, that he’s lost sight of what really matters in his quest for some unattainable ideal. But the determination in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way he grimaces as he chokes down a sip of the vile concoction—it all speaks to a desperation that breaks your heart even as it fuels your frustration.

As he takes another sip, nose twisted to the side to avoid the foul smell, his eyes catch your frame. They roam over you, taking in the nightgown, giving you the exact reaction you pictured before coming out here.

For a moment, you see that flicker of desire in his eyes that you’ve been craving.

But then it’s gone, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like guilt.

“I’ll come to bed soon,” he promises, grimacing through another sip of his vile brew. “Get some rest. I know today was rough at work.”

His words are like a knife to your gut, a reminder of the distance that’s grown between you, the way his obsession has consumed him so completely that he can’t even see the pain it’s causing you both.

All of this, because of one night.

You press your toes into the hardwood, your fingers twisting in the hem of your nightgown as you fight back the tears that burn the corners of your eyes.

“You…you don’t want to come to bed with me?” you whisper, hating the way your voice breaks, the way the hope that once buoyed your words has been replaced by a hollow, aching despair and annoyance.

“I want to finish this and catch up on a few things for work before I come to bed.” His gaze slides away from yours, unable to meet the hurt and frustration in your eyes. Unable to see just how in his head he has become with all of this. “It’ll be a little while. Sleep for me? Please?”

The rejection, however gentle, leaves you feeling exposed and bereft, a physical blow to your gut. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak anymore, and turn to head back to the bedroom, your vision blurring.

There’s so much more to this than just you wanting to have sex. You want to be supportive, to give him time and space to work through whatever this is. But you hate just how disillusioned he has become. His gaze and his touch are tainted now—held back by shame and fear of disappointing you. And you can’t help but feel like this is getting more out of control instead of getting better.

You love him, more than anything. But right now, listening to the distant sounds of him choking down that awful-smelling shake, you’ve never felt further apart.

It all comes to a head on day twenty-five. The day dawns like any other, the sun’s warm rays filtering through the windows of your shared apartment, casting a soft glow on the well-worn furniture and the mementos of your life together. It’s your day off, a rare respite from the chaos of the work week, and you find yourself moving through the space with a sense of purpose, straightening and cleaning, trying to bring order to the disarray that seems to mirror the state of certain parts of your relationship.

As you work, your mind wanders, replaying the events of the past month like a melancholy film reel. The distance, the tension, the way Nanami has been pulling away from you, retreating into himself in a desperate attempt to fix what he perceives as a fundamental flaw in his being. Insisting that he won’t let this happen again even though he won’t actually fuck you.

It’s a weight that’s been bearing down on you both, a shadow that’s slowly suffocating the light and love that once filled every corner of your lives.

Your feet carry you to the bedroom, to the closet you share. As you reach for Nanami’s side, intent on straightening his crisp dress shirts, your hand brushes against something unfamiliar, tucked away in the shadows. Curiosity piqued, you pull it out, revealing a plain, unmarked brown box.

For a moment, your heart stutters in your chest, a cold fear gripping your insides as you lift the lid, praying that it’s nothing that would point your partner in the direction of infidelity. But no, you shake your head, banishing the thought before it can fully form. Nanami would never betray you, never seek solace in the arms of another because there’s only has and ever been you.

It makes complete sense in your head, but lately—

You yank open the lid and gape.

Inside, nestled among crumpled tissue paper, are items you never expected to find in Nanami’s possession. Your fingers tremble slightly as you examine them—a cylindrical pump, clear save for the rubber base, and an orange prescription bottle, its label stark against the translucent plastic.

You stare at the objects, your mind whirling with a chaotic storm of emotions. Shock, disbelief, a rising tide of frustration and despair. This isn’t just Nanami being health-conscious anymore, not just a passing phase or a well-intentioned attempt at self-improvement. This is something deeper, something more desperate, a manifestation of the fear and inadequacy that’s been eating away at him since that fateful night.

Carefully, you replace the items, your movements mechanical, your thoughts a jumbled mess. A part of you wants to laugh, to find the absurdity in the situation, to release the tension that’s been building in your chest like a pressure cooker. But you can’t bring yourself to even stifle a giggle, the weight of your worry too heavy.

You sink down onto the bed, the cool sheets soothing the heat of your legs, and draw in a deep, shuddering breath. The weeks of distance, avoidance, the way Nanami has been retreating further and further into himself, straying more and more from reason. There’s so much more to your relationship than just sex, but it’s a big part, a well-practiced part that you both can be your rawest selves during.

But all of this is a spiral that’s slowly dragging you both down, a vortex of unspoken fears and mounting frustrations on both ends.

And in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of your shared life in your apartment, the photos and trinkets that chronicle your love story, you know that something has to give. And it looks like you’ll have to take matters into your own hands. This ends today.

Tonight, when Nanami gets home, you’ll address this head-on. No more dancing around the issue, no more swallowing your grievances in the name of patience and nonexistent understanding. It’s time to remind him of who he is, of the man you fell in love with, the man who’s always been more than enough for you.

The sound of the front door opening pulls you from your thoughts, the soft shuffle of Nanami’s footsteps echoing down the hallway. “Love, I’m home,” he calls out, his voice weary but warm, a balm to your frayed nerves.

He appears in the doorway, his tie loosened, speckled black on yellow draped over his shoulders, the top buttons of his blue shirt undone. His glasses are gone, discarded in his haste to shed the trappings of the office, to leave the stresses of the day behind. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes softening as they land on you, a reverent smile playing at the corners of his lips. “So beautiful.”

Your heart flutters in your chest at his words, at the love and adoration that shines in his gaze, even though you’re in a ratty t-shirt and shorts, your curls thrown into a careless and messy bun.

“You always speak as if it’s the first time you’ve ever seen me,” you tease, tilting your head back to accept his kiss, a chaste press of his lips that nonetheless ignites a spark of longing in your core.

“Because it’s true,” he replies simply, his fingers brushing a stray curl behind your ear. “I’m going to shower.” He sounds despondent, unbelievably ragged with the weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin.

“Rough day?”

“A very rough day, my love,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, disrupting the sharp part that he makes every morning. He reaches a hand out to you, an invitation, a plea for your company. “Join me?”

The bathroom is a sanctuary of steam and heat, the air thick with the mingled scents of your body washes—cucumber melon and sandalwood. You perch on the counter, a fluffy towel wrapped around your body, watching as Nanami goes through his post-shower routine, his movements methodical, almost meditative.

Water droplets cling to his skin, tracing tantalizing paths down the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, your fingers itching to follow those rivulets, to map the contours of his body with your lips and tongue.

“Let me,” you murmur, your voice husky with repressed longing. Your legs spread, the open lapels of your towel exposing a creamy brown thigh that Nanami’s eyes flicker to before he meets your gaze. You reach for him, pulling closer until he’s standing between your parted thighs, the heat of his waist seeping through the thin barrier of your towel.

With gentle fingers, you work through the rest of his skincare routine—toner, serum, smoothing eye cream over the delicate skin beneath his lashes. The domesticity of the moment, the intimacy of caring for him like this in whatever way you can, it’s a way to show him that you’re here—that you’re not going anywhere, no matter how lost he may feel.

Your fingertips glide over his skin, applying the last of the face cream with gentle circular motions. As you finish, your hands move to his damp hair, brushing the strands away from his forehead. The strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the subtle crinkles at the corners of his eyes that crease faintly when he smiles.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer, a soft smile playing on your lips. Nanami’s hands come to rest on your waist, his thumbs tracing small circles on your towel-covered skin.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, thickly. His eyes, those warm pools of mahogany, are soft with gratitude and affection.

“Always,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with love for this man.

Nanami leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. It’s meant to be a simple gesture of gratitude, but something shifts in the air around you. Whether it’s the intimacy of you both so close or the heat on your skin—the kiss deepens, slow and exploratory, as if you’re rediscovering each other after a long absence.

Your fingers thread through his damp hair, tangling in the strands as his hands tighten on your waist. Your tongue slides along his bottom lip, tasting the coffee he must have had on the way home, the hint of want that he wants to crumble into. He returns with equal fervor, pressing closer to you, sliding his tongue against yours, shivering from the soft moan that shakes from your wet lips when you both finally break apart. A gossamer thread of saliva connects you before he pecks your lips one last time. Nanami’s chest rises and falls deeply, coiled masculinity oozing from his pores, tangling with the downy hairs on his chest.

“Kento,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, “we…we need to talk about what’s been going on.”

Your hands train down his chest as you speak, mapping the familiar terrain of his body. Beneath your fingertips, his heart thunders like a trapped bird, betraying the melting calm facade he’s trying to maintain. The defined muscles of his abdomen twitch under your touch, a visceral reaction he can’t control.

“The magazines, the supplements, the smoothies,” you continue, gentle but firm. “This has gone too far. One off night, Kento. That’s all it was. Yet here you are, acting like you’re broken, like every moment we’ve shared before was somehow lacking.”

Nanami tenses, his body coiling like a spring beneath your hands. But you’re not letting him retreat—not like that night—and certainly not right now. Your legs wrap around his waist, the gap of your towel widening as you yank him closer, anchoring him to you, skin to skin.

“You think that I would look at you differently?” you murmur, catching his distressed eyes every time they try to evade your gaze, willing him to understand. “Think I would think of you as a failure? You like logic, Kento and I’m telling you the facts. You were tired, case closed.”

“But I—” he starts, his voice rough with emotion, eyes narrowing in frustration as he tries to defend himself. You silence him with a thumb to the plump skin of his bottom lip, tracing the divots of soft, pink flesh.

“You’re the healthiest man I know, Ken.” Your other hand drifts lower, brushing through the trail of dark golden hair that disappears beneath his towel. “You take such good care of us. And you never, ever fail to satisfy me.”

His breath catches as your fingers ghost over his hipbones, alternating between soft cotton and the sharp cut of his skin. “One night doesn’t change that,” you whisper, the hand on his face sliding to card through his hair, you lean in to press your lips to the strong line of his jaw. His fingers dig into your waist from your touch, Adams apple bobbing against your gliding lips as he swallows the burning desire that’s slowly searing him from the inside out. “It doesn’t make you any less amazing, any less desirable.”

You pull back, meeting his eyes. In their warm depths, you see a swirling mix of vulnerability that makes your heartache.

“I just…I don’t want to disappoint you again. While I know that you don’t care, being unable to provide for you fully is something that I never wanted to experience.” The confession is thick in the air, sloshing with what remains of the steam from the shower, coating your skin.

“Oh, Kento,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to his. The scent of his skin—clean soap and something uniquely him—envelops you, offers that blanket of protection that you couldn’t imagine going away. “The only thing disappointing me is how you’ve been pulling away. I’m tired of you feeling inadequate when you’re anything but.”

You pause, weighing the options in your head before you take a bounding leap, throwing care to the wind. Slowly, deliberately, you slide off the counter, your body brushing against his as you descend. The cool tile of the bathroom floor contrasts sharply with the heat radiating from your skin.

Kneeling before him, you look up, your gaze never leaving his. Hands slide up thick thighs, the hair on his legs brushing against your fingertips as you travel further toward the rigid heat of where you need him most. The hitch in his breath is faint, almost nonexistent when your fingers toy with the towel’s edge around his waist. You only wait a moment, three seconds too many as your hand undoes the tight knot and the towel pools at his feet and your knees on the floor.

He’s just as he always is—thick and heavy from your proximity alone, hard and filled with the blood that pumps wildly in his veins. When you wrap your hand around him, the heft of his cock makes your cunt squeeze. You know exactly what it feels like to have the most intimate part of him carving out your insides, and god do you need it right now.

You give only one stroke and the effect is instant; Nanami hisses, fingers flexing at his sides, extending and then curling in a fist as a means to keep his hands to himself, the head of his mushroom tip red and prickles with a thick gathering of precum. Just the sight makes your mouth water.

“I found those things in your closet, you know,” you purr softly, stroking him at an excruciating pace. “You actually think you need something like that, baby?”

A flush creeps up Nanami’s neck, blooming across his cheeks in rushing embarrassment even though his pupils are dilated from the sight of you on your knees. He opens his mouth to speak, fumbling for words that choke around another hitch with your next stroke.

“You don’t feel like you would need something like that.” And you don’t wait a second longer, opening your mouth, dragging the flat of your tongue up the backside of his cock. Each taste bud slides against rigid bumps of veins, gathering with more spit as he groans from your attention. You offer a gentle kiss to his tip, licking the salty taste of his precum from your lips. “You sure don’t taste like you would need something like that.”

The rise and fall of his chest is quickly leaving the pace of steady, his eyes locked on you and jaw flexing with growing desperation. You squeeze his cock on an upward stroke, your own body beginning to heat up just from watching him fall apart.

“Look at you now,” you tease, widening the gap between your knees, the heat between your legs radiating against your ankles. “You don’t look like you need help. Responding so beautifully to me. Not a hint of hesitation.”

The velvety hardness of him in your palm twitches from your words, hard steel that’s blazing hot, and just the sight of him above you is more than enough for a whine to build in your belly, an innate urge to have any part of him inside of you.

Nanami’s eyes flutter, long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones as you lean in. When you finally take him into your mouth, your name falls from his lips like a prayer, brown eyes rolling halfway to the back of his head, eyebrows furrowing in equal confusion and pleasure.

You’re too eager to give him time to adjust—tongue swirling around the crown of his head and softening underneath him before building a nice, slobbery rhythm. In and out, in and out. Every stroke of your mouth around his cock makes your mouth water even more and your body relax, the dig of the tile on your knees forgotten.

“Fuck,” he pants, the rare curse slipping from his lips as one hand comes to rest gently on the back of your head. You hum in appreciation—in encouragement—building his confidence to squeeze the curly strands. The vibration of your hum of attention causes Nanami’s hips to buck involuntarily and you let your throat relax without thinking, let him hit the back before you swallow around him. “I-” he bites his lip, groaning from deep in his chest.

The heat of the bathroom is suffocating, your neck covered in curls prickling with sweat, sliding down your clavicle and onto the towel around your breasts that’s quickly loosening. Or maybe it’s your own body burning from the inside out, your blood pounding and surging to your core, swelling with arousal that leaks from you without even touching yourself.

And you’re dripping. The hand not at the base of him—stroking what you can’t swallow—reaches between your thighs, rubbing a clit that’s sopping wet with slick that drips between your fingers and onto the tile floor.

It doesn’t take long for that familiar ache to build in your jaw, a growing reminder of the thick cock between your mouth. But his throaty moans keep you going, keep your cunt pulsing and squeezing around the two fingers that quickly slide inside of you.

Nanami’s eyes, dark with desire, take you in—your messy hand twisting at the base of his cock, the hint of saliva on your chin, the prickle of tears at the corners of your eyes from the way he keeps hitting the back of your throat. Only he gets to see you like this. Only he gets to be with someone who will stop at nothing to make him feel supported and loved over something as trivial as a night of bad luck.

“I…you’re…” he gasps, unable to complete his thoughts when you moan around him. “Please just—just keep…don’t stop…don’t—”

As the tension builds, Nanami’s control begins to slip. His thrusts lose their measured control, the hands in your hair tighten, the quick breath from his mouth becomes tight as he bares his teeth and fucks your mouth. His abs are glistening with sweat, tight and flexing as he fights to stay sane.

You’re ready to burst from the seams, pleasure coiling at the base of your spine with each curl of your fingers inside of you, moans tight and sporadic in a familiar sign of your impending orgasm.

It’s when his eyes catch you fingering yourself that his control snaps in half, setting him off. He’s grabbing at you, yanking you from your knees with a strength that shocks you, your towel finally falling off your body and exposing you to the heat of the bathroom. Before you can protest, Nanami moves in a flourish, the last threads of his control dissolving at the shocked but excited gasp that leaves your lips.

In one fluid motion, he spins you around to face the bathroom mirror. Your breath catches at the sight of you both—flushed, desire-drunk, tanned and freckled muscles pressed against your back. His eyes meet yours in the reflection, a primal hunger burning in their depths, black eating away the warm brown.

The press of his cock against your lower back makes you arch your back, leaning over the counter without a second thought, taking him in through the mirror. His hands roam over your body with renewed confidence, cupping the heaviness of your breasts, sliding down tiger-striped brown skin to grip your hips. His eyes trail over the mess of curls on your sweaty back, the curve of your ass, the glistening of your cunt as it catches in the bathroom light.

He looks focused, almost angry—determined to make sure he does exactly what he’s supposed to do. Your body shivers in anticipation. This is the Nanami you’ve been missing—strong, confident, and utterly, deliciously yours.

Without preamble, you part your legs more, opening yourself up to his leering gaze as he watches you slide two fingers through your sopping folds. “I need you,” you whisper, your other hand kneading the flesh of a breast, pinching the nipple to make you arch your back more into him.

He presses forward at the sound of your voice, a beacon for him to bring you whatever you desire. “You have me.”

You feel him, hot and hard against you, and you can’t stifle the moan that escapes you. “All of you Kento,” you whimper, pushing back against him and stroking your clit faster, your slick sliding down your fingers to the center of your palm. “No more holding back, no more doubts. Show me how much you want me.”

In the mirror, the trepidation in his eyes, the worry between his brows. The disappointment from that night is surely playing in his head, teasing him evilly that he will never be able to make love to you again. But you won’t let him feel that way again, you’ll never let him feel inadequate. So you turn slightly to reach behind you, smooth a hand up the side of his face, caressing his jaw, angling your head to the side to kiss him softly. “You’re perfect,” you breathe, the words barely a whisper between you both, the perfect combination to relax the subtle tension in his shoulders. “So perfect for me, Kento.”

He releases a shaky exhale against your lips from your words, the vibration traveling through your body where you’re pressed together. With one hand braced on your waist, the other guiding himself, his eyes not leaving yours, Nanami pushes into you slowly. Finally. Twenty-five days too late and the feeling of completeness, of absolute rightness, is overwhelming. It’s as if a missing piece of you has been slotted back into place.

You whimper, panting into his mouth, sliding your lips messily against his. Your body stretches to accommodate him, a delicious burn that makes your toes curl and your cunt pulse around him.

“Oh fuck, Kento,” you keen, “you’re so fucking big—fill me so well—” His hips snap forward, cutting you off, a sharp cry punching from your lungs.

“I-I shouldn’t have—” he pants against your lips, ready to apologize from the force but you don’t let him finish.

“Yes,” you encourage, your voice breathy from the delicious zing of pleasure that throbs between your legs. “You feel amazing, Ken. So perfect.”

He shivers from your words and starts a slow, almost tentative rhythm. But your continued praise spurs him on. His thrusts become more confident, more forceful, driving you both higher in the stifling heat of your bathroom.

The room fills with the sounds of sex—the slick smack of skin on skin, breathless moans from his full lips, whispered praises from your mouth.

“So good,” you moan softly. “You feel so good inside me.” The hand on your clit resumes its pace, wanting Nanami to be fully immersed in focusing so he can get past this terrible roadblock in his mind.

“More,” he demands, kissing you deeply, the side of your jaw, nibbling your ear, begging you silently for more love and praise. “I-I have to know I’m doing well. That I’m making you feel good—"

“You are,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as he hits that spot deep inside you that makes white spots blot the edges of your vision. “You are—you are, Kento—shit fuck me harder. Give it to me.”

He bends to your will immediately, the pull of your voice—of your demands as easy as breathing, and he’ll give whatever it takes to make sure he can lay everything at your feet. “Fuck,” he groans, digging his fingers into the meat behind your knee, yanking it up onto the counter and you’re opening more, wider for him to slide in further.

It’s messy and animalistic, a building of sweat between your sliding bodies, a gradual intensifying thrum between your legs with each smack of his balls against you. Your body jerks with each thrust, pleasure scratching down your skin with sharp nails as your mind grows hazy, mouth falling open as the tip of his cock kisses that sweet spot inside of you, over and over and over with each inward stroke. The hand on your clit flies up to grab the sweaty porcelain of the sink in front of you, fingernails digging into the rubbery sealant along the sides. The other hand reaches back to tangle your fingers in his hair.

You’ve gone almost a month without him in the most primal way and your body is struggling to keep up. Your lungs struggle to pull in enough air, your slick-coated fingers slip against the sink, your hips burn from the open angle of one leg up on the counter.

But you can’t bring it in yourself to care, too deep in bliss to worry about your wellbeing, the pressure at the base of your spine building and building, molten pleasure bubbling in your gut as you feel yourself teetering on the edge.

“That’s it, baby,” you gasp as you both climb together, meeting his thrusts as the tension coils tighter in your core. “You’re so strong. Love me so well. Fuck me so well.” Nanami groans harshly, shivering from your praise, reaching down to stroke your neglected clit, and you tense around him, choking at the pleasure that wraps around your throat, your cunt pulsing as it tries to swallow his cock and never let it leave.

You watch in the mirror as Nanami loses himself in the moment, all his doubts and insecurities forgotten. His face is a mask of pleasure and concentration, his body moving with a grace and power that takes your breath away. His hips falter, stuttering briefly to signal his match of mounting pleasure. He leans over you, his face in the crease of your neck, body bowing over to make you press further into the counter, teeth grazing your skin as he groans and pants against you with feral need.

He presses his fingers harder against your clit, rubs with a practiced motion and you’re tensing against the counter, scrambling for purchase on the sink as high-pitched keens shake from your throat. “Fuck right there, Kentooo,” you moan tightly. He moans harshly into the skin of your neck, relishing in the way your hot and wet walls tighten around him, doubling down, the fingers on your waist digging crescent moons into your skin. “Make me cum. Oh fuck, make me cum pleasepleaseplease—”

The hand in his hair tightens around silky strands, your body tenses up, your nose scrunching, pleasure pulsing and building in your cunt as you climb and climb and climb until you shatter.

A cry of his name, loud and primal, rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Ecstasy floods your system in overwhelming waves, each one threatening to pull you under. Tears gather in the corners of your tightly shut eyes, born from the sheer intensity of your release.

And like always, your pulsing walls are the final push Nanami needs. He thrusts into you harshly with deep punctuating strokes until his balls draw tight, fingers digging deeper, a deep, guttural groan shaking from his body as he finally climbs up that wall of shame and follows you over the edge, his release pulsing hot and deep inside you as your body continues to shudder with aftershocks.

Nanami doesn’t have the energy to pull out, collapsing onto you without grace. The cool counter against your cheek is a balm for your burning skin. As you both come down from your high, trembling and panting, you stroke his scalp with the hand still twisted in his sweaty hair, fading spots behind closed eyelids painting your vision.

After a few moments, Nanami stirs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder before carefully withdrawing from your body. You whimper at the loss, but he soothes you with another soft kiss on your temple. You hear the sound of running water, the tub filling slowly as Nanami retrieves a warm, damp washcloth.

With tender care, he cleans you up, the soft cloth gliding over your sensitive skin. His touch is reverent, worshipful, as if he’s handling something precious beyond measure, and you melt further onto the counter. Once you’re clean, he guides your leg down from the counter, massaging the muscles of your hips and thighs to ease any lingering tension.

You let him lead you to the tub, sighing in bliss as you sink in the hot, soothing water. Nanami climbs in behind you, pulling you back against his chest as he settles you between his legs. The heat seeps into your aching muscles, the steam smelling faintly of lavender, the gentle lapping of the water against your skin a soothing lullaby.

For a long moment, you simply rest together, your head tipped back on his shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around your waist as a thumb strokes the skin. The bathroom is quiet, save for the occasional drip of the faucet and your slow, even breathing.

Your mind drifts to the vulnerability you’ve witnessed in Nanami, the raw, unguarded moments he’s bared his deepest fears and insecurities. And only you will be the one to see that. You’ll be the only one to build him back up when he’s stripped down, to remind him of his worth, to love through every storm. Even storms that are as weak and barely damaging as limp dick.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, rich voice vibrating against your skin, filling you with warmth from the inside out. He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply as if to memorize the smell of your leave-in. “For being patient with me…for being supportive…” You feel the tension drain from his body as he exhales, slowly, as if he’s releasing the last of his worries into the steam-filled air. “I love you. Deeply.”

You smile softly to yourself at the declaration and turn your head to meet his gaze, your eyes sparkling with a mix of adoration and mischief.

“This wasn’t an easy assignment you know,” you tease, your voice lighthearted even as emotion threatens to overwhelm you. “I expect payment for my unwavering devotion.”

Nanami’s eyes, hazy with post-orgasmic bliss, roll playfully, a smile tugging the edges of his lips. “What’s my bill?”

"Moissanite,” you declare matter-of-factly, nestling back against his broad chest with a contented sigh. “The carats are up to you, but—“

“A gold band,” Nanami interjects, warm with affection and certainty. “Emerald cut. I have it memorized, my love.”

He punctuates his words with a tender kiss to your temple, his arms tightening around you as if he never wants to let go. Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, a kaleidoscope of butterflies set free by his words.

“The box in the closet? Throw the penis pump and the Viagra in the trash,” you add, playfully jabbing your elbow into his side. “You won’t be needing those anymore.”

Nanami’s laughter rumbles through you, a deep, satisfying sound that fills the room and washes over your skin like a physical caress. “And if I want to be prepared, just in case?” he counters, his tone light and teasing.

“You’re 28, not 50,” you remind him, your own laughter mingling with his.

“Humor me.”

“I guess I could gather up all the magazines, powders, supplements, and various “aids” and present them to you in a nice box for you to use one day. Of course, you’d be single, so I’m not sure what good they’d do you then.”

Nanami’s body shakes with mirth, his breath puffing warm and sweet against your hair. “In the trash they go.”

You hum in agreement, an eyebrow raised before you tilt your chin. And like always, because you never have to ask, Nanami obliges, his lips slanting over yours in a slow, deep caress that steals your breath and fills your heart all at once.

Thanks for reading!