#but even if I were the only one who thought that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

evilmenenjoyer · 3 days ago

Text

City of Love

Pairing: The Salesman x fem!Reader

Summary: Months after winning the Squid Games, you receive an unwanted visit from the man who's been haunting you since the very beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: smut (minors dni), drinking, sex in a public place, some murderous thoughts. Don't be fooled by the title, it's very much not a fluffy romantic fic lol.

The City of Love.

At least, that's what everyone calls it. It felt like the place to be after all the horrors you had endured in the past year – horrors you don't dare to say a word about to another soul. Friends and acquaintances have told you about how great it is, how beautiful, how magical. About how just a few days here will heal any woes in your heart.

Of course, it didn't work. Now you're just depressed in Paris.

It's not all bad. The Eiffel tower looks just as pretty as it does in pictures, especially late at night when it lights up and sparkles. The historic architecture and cobblestone streets are a nice break from the modern buildings you're used to from Seoul, so different it almost erases the memories sometimes. Never for too long. Just when you think you're slipping back into something resembling normalcy, they return in your nightmares in the shape of blood, pink jumpsuits and children’s games.

This afternoon, it takes the shape of a ghost – a tall, handsome man, whose face you’ve only ever seen in dreams and in the subway lines of Seoul.

All color drains from your face in a matter of seconds, all that pink winter flush.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, like you're an old friend. It nearly throws you off your balance by how natural it looks, like he's not forcing it.

“Beautiful city, isn't it? Especially at this time of the year.”

This can't be happening. The whole reason you left South Korea was to put distance between yourself and those horrific games, and all the people associated with them. To just run into one right here, in a different continent, mere months after your victory; it makes you feel like you're about to pass out.

You stand up from your seat and walk right out of the patisserie, leaving your ridiculously overpriced hot chocolate nearly untouched on the table.

You knew, somehow, that he would follow you, but you still prayed he wouldn’t. That it had been your imagination, or the PTSD, or anything other than the Salesman himself crossing paths with you in Paris.

“I expected a warmer welcome,” a voice behind you says, making you pause your stroll down the street. Fortunately – or maybe unfortunately – you still haven’t completely lost track of what's real and what's not, and you can tell that voice is real, clear as day. He’s real and here and that terrifies you to your very core.

Turning around to face him, you hate how he still looks every bit as infuriatingly handsome as he did the first time you saw him.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat, your voice shaky and not nearly as incisive ad you’d like it to be.

“Visiting,” he replies. He turns to gaze at the scenery around you. In your hurry to get away from him, you didn't even realize you ended up at the Pont Neuf, the old bridge crossing the Seine River. Dusk settles around the two of you, the purple-ish color of the sky reflected on the river, almost too pretty for this situation. “Like I said, France is quite nice during the winter.”

You scoff. “You expect me to believe it's just a big coincidence that you and I ended up in the same place, five thousand miles away from home, at the same time?”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“I’m serious. I did everything you people wanted. I beat the games, I took the money and I kept my mouth shut. You were supposed to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Did what we wanted?” Something in his smile changes, shifts from warmth to something more sinister. “We never forced you to do anything. Remember that. You brought whatever happened on yourself.”

Cold air rushes over you, drawing a shiver out of you. It's not snowing yet, but it start might soon. It's hard to remember you were once excited for it.

He reaches out, ignoring the warnings in your eyes as he runs a finger over the smooth fabric of your scarf, then wraps it around your neck one more time. It’s almost a tender gesture, if he was someone else entirely. It should have you flinching, or slapping his hand away. Instead, it only makes you freeze in your spot.

“Yves Saint Laurent,” he notes. “I see you’ve been making good use of that money.”

It doesn't sound accusatory, but it feels like it anyway. Even after months, it still feels wrong to use the money, despite all the literal blood, sweat and tears it took to get it. Like you should be gathering it all in a pile and setting fire to it in protest. But what would that change? Why shouldn't you be allowed to use it to build a new life for yourself?

So you stayed in five star hotels. So you bought a few more pairs of Louboutin shoes than necessary. Therapy was out of the question, so this was the next best thing you could come up with for the time being. Best-case scenario, a therapist would think you're a nutcase. Worst case, they’d turn you in to the authorities for confessing to multiple murders you had committed at the Squid Games. You didn’t want to take the risk.

“I thought that was the idea,” you say. The Salesman’s hands are still on the fabric, merely touching it, but that doesn't stop your mind from picturing him gripping it, pulling on it until you suffocate in the garment you bought as some empty, mediocre sign of victory.

“It suits you.” He lets his hands fall with no damage to your throat or to your respiratory system. “Much better than those knock-offs you used to wear.”

It disturbs you that he even remembers that. As far as you know, you were only one of the hundreds of people who had played ddakji with him at the subway station. You remembered every second of it, replayed it in your mind over and over again, but there was nothing particularly memorable about you back then. You lost most rounds. You hoped against hope that he would ask you out, even after your cheek was red and stinging.

That was a different version of you. One that smiled more, even with all the hardships in your life. One that was too naive to realize she was selling her soul to the devil from that very first game of ddakji.

“Since the city brought us together,” the Salesman says, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

It would be impossible to keep the surprise from your face if you’d tried. Those are words you would've loved to hear all those months ago, and now that he says them, you can barely draw enough air into your lungs to tell him to fuck off.

“Why? So you can kill me the second we’re off the street?”

He chuckles, like he finds your confusion amusing. “Why would I do that?”

“Isn't that why you're here?” Why else would it be, after all? Maybe it's part of their sick games; to give one person the illusion of victory, let them enjoy the money for a few months, then go after them and kill them. Or worse, pull them back in.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could do it anywhere.”

You suppose there's no arguing with that, but you're not sure if it makes you feel better. Good news: you're still breathing. Bad news: you're still breathing only until he allows you to.

“You still didn't tell me why you came after me, then,” you point out.

“Let's have a drink, and I’ll tell you.”

You must be insane for even considering this. The naive girl that had first seen him in the subway, coming home late at night from work, would be enthusiastically urging you to go. You’re supposed to know better than her.

“One drink,” you say. “Then you go home and never contact me again.”

His smile widens. “I know a nice place.”

He brings you to a piano bar just a few blocks away from the bridge. It's a fancy place, the kind that makes you feel underdressed even in your designer clothes. He blends right in – not only because of the sleek, tailored suit, but because of his demeanor, the natural elegance with which he carries himself.

Not for the first time, you wonder if he was born into wealth, or if he was ever like you. Someone who had to claw his way out of poverty. You can't picture it, but there's so much you don't know about him. It's what makes him so scary and confusing to you, but also so damn intriguing.

He orders for you before you have the chance to open your mouth. Dom Pérignon, two glasses. You raise your eyebrows once the waiter walks away.

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Your victory.”

The response makes your stomach drop. “I don't want to celebrate that.” Not with anyone, but especially not with him.

He gives a small shrug. “Just a special occasion, then.”

The dimmed, warm lights of the bar make the place feel so intimate, almost romantic in a sense. You don't know what to make of it, so you force yourself to look away from him, even when you can still feel his stare unflinching on you. Luckily, the waiter shows up just in time, pouring you both glasses of the bubbly drink and leaving the bottle in a bucket on the table.

You turn back to the Salesman, glaring at him. “I said one drink, not one bottle.”

“You never specified,” he replies, fake innocence in his eyes. “Gives us more time to catch up. Maybe even play a game, for old time’s sake.”

The mere mention of a game makes you want to run away, to lock yourself in the restroom and refuse to come out. It has to be intentional; he has to know what kinds of things would be running through your head, after everything you’d gone through. You take a long gulp of the champagne, nearly done with the entire glass in one go. You can't let him get to you like this. You do your best to look unbothered.

“Do you walk around with ddakji tiles everywhere?” you ask. “Just in case you find someone who wants to play?”

That earns a soft laugh out of him. “No, not ddakji.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a standard deck of cards.

“Have you ever played blackjack?”

You have, but hesitation is written all over your features. “What if I don't want to play?”

“Do you think I’d force you?” he asks, like you're a fool for even thinking so. “Like I said, you were never forced to do anything. It's your choice.” He sips his own champagne in a much classier, more contained way than you. Like he's happy to draw this out for hours, rather than wanting this night to be over as soon as possible. “But you’ve beaten much harder games before. This should be nothing for our big victor, right?”

There's a challenge in his voice, in his eyes. You should know better than to fall for it. So why is there a part of you that still feels like you have a point to prove? That feels like, with a little bit of luck and skill, you can finally beat this man at his own game?

“Fine.” You cross your arms over the table. “Let’s do this.”

Pleased with your answer, he shuffles the cards in his hands. You watch him, almost as mesmerized as you’d been watching him play ddakji at the subway station. It's so hard not to get lost in it, but you refuse to look away in shyness and hesitation again, keeping your eyes on him as you sip the rest of the champagne in your glass.

He refills it before placing four cards on the table: two facing upwards for you, one face-down and one face-up for himself, the dealer.

The rules are simple: your cards all together need to get as close to 21 without going over. Whichever one of you gets the closest wins the round. You have a nine and a four, totaling thirteen. The Salesman has a five, and a card that's invisible for you.

“Hit me,” you say, figuring your odds can't be too bad.

He places one more card to your pile: a seven. Twenty in total. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, already triumphant even before the end.

He reveals all his cards to you: the five you’ve already seen, a nine, and a three. Seventeen. Your smile widens, relief washing over you like you’d just escaped a near-death experience. You don't think beating a game, no matter the kind, will ever not feel like this again.

“Not bad,” he compliments. He reaches into another pocket for his wallet, drawing a hundred euro note and pushing it towards you on the table.

You just stare at it with an eyebrow raised, baffled and, frankly, a bit offended. With the tip of your index finger, you push the bill back to him.

“Do you really think I still need your money?”

“It's just symbolic,” he argues, but still tucks the money back into his wallet. “Of course, we can bet on other things too, if you’d prefer.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever you want. You won.”

“Whatever I want?” A grin stretches across your lips as you lean forward on the table. “Like a dare?”

He leans forward as well, like he wants to meet you in the middle. His eyes never leave yours. “Like a dare.”

You wonder just how far he’d take this game, if he would do something outrageous or serious just because you told him to. Maybe not. But even this is the kind of power that you never, ever imagined you would have over this man.

“Okay. Let me see your wallet.”

He hands it over without a fight. You rummage through all of it, ignoring all the cash and instead looking for something else, anything personal. But there's nothing. No family photos, no old receipts, not even a condom tucked inside one of the pockets. At last you find his ID license, the name Park Ha-Joon listed beside a smiling picture of him that looks so normal you almost want to laugh.

“It's not your real name, is it?”

He smiles. “Smart girl.”

“It was worth a shot.” You close the wallet and hand it back to him.

He shuffles the cards, hands them over again. Seven and six. You tap the cards in a sign for him to hit you with one more.

“Do you really want to know why I came to see you?”

Your eyes snap in his direction, not even looking at the new card that’s placed in front of you.

“I thought you’d be one of the first to die in a place like that.” He looks focused on the game as he talks, “When I found out you were the winner, I wanted to see it for myself.”

Your throat tightens, making it hard to draw in my next breath. You look around yourself, as if trying to make sure you're really here and not at that disturbing colorful scenario, or at the bunk beds in the dorm. Still the piano bar. Warm lights, soft chatter of conversation, piano notes ringing through the air. The mental image of that place still doesn't vanish from your mind.

“See what, exactly?” you ask, even though you know it would be better not to.

“If you truly earned it, or if you’re just one more piece of trash who got lucky, like all the others before you.”

Your hand must twitch, an involuntary movement you're not even aware of, and the Salesman places another card to your pile. You look down at it in horror, realizing all the cards together total to twenty-three.

“I didn't say hit me,” you protest.

“You tapped. You know that's the sign.” He looks over the cards again, as if just noticing the source of your distress instead of directly causing it. “Too bad.”

It's not fair, and you both know it, but you doubt pointing it out will make a difference. You bite your tongue around any words as well as the lump that's formed in your throat, tears trying to rush to the surface. Your gaze meets his and holds it.

“Are you going to slap me?”

He’s still for a moment, considering it. It's one thing to hit you in the face in a mostly-empty subway station late at night, and another entirely to do it in this sophisticated bar, with all these people around as witnesses. Still, you don't doubt that he would do it. You hold yourself back from flinching when his hand comes out, bracing yourself for the impact.

It never comes. Instead, his hands merely cup your cheeks, tilting your face to face him fully. He looks at you like he's studying you, his expression unreadable.

“Not now. I want something else,” he says. “A round of shots.”

His grip on your face is firm, but he runs the pad of his thumb over the curve of your cheekbone, like wiping away a teardrop that never fell. A gesture that can only be described as affectionate, and it's messing with your head way more than the slaps on the face did.

You nod.

He holds on for just a second too long before he lets you go. He orders the shots to the waiter – you pay no attention to the brand, or even the type of booze –, and you don't say another word until after they're placed in front of you on the table, small glasses so clean they gleam under the light.

“I crawled my way out of that hell,” you tell him. “You have no idea what I had to do to survive. You don't get to sit here and tell me I didn't fucking earn it.”

He looks more amused than anything. “To kill for necessity, anyone can do. It doesn't make you as special as you think it does.” He nods towards the shot on the table, reaching for his own. “Drink.”

You count one, two, three in your head before throwing the shot back, unable to suppress a grimace when the drink comes down your throat like liquid fire.

“Why do you wanna get me drunk so bad?”

He empties his shot glass as well. “Drinking together ensures none of us has an advantage.” He picks up the deck of cards again, before you ever have the chance to tell him you’ve had enough of this game. The words die down in your throat.

One more round. Your cards add up to seventeen.

It’s too risky to ask for one more card; anything higher than four would mean an instant loss. Only then you notice the sweat under your palms, the rush in your ears overpowering the piano music in the background. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to remember that your life is not on the line anymore and losing doesn't mean certain death, even though it feels like it.

He reveals his cards. Eighteen.

“Fuck.”

He seems pleased with himself, accessing you as you brace yourself for whatever he has in mind for you now.

“Come a little closer,” he orders.

You frown, but you find yourself obeying without much questioning, getting up from your chair to slide to the seat next to him on the booth.

He pours you both more Dom Pérignon, and this time he doesn't have to tell you to drink. You focus on the way the bubbles dance inside your mouth, if only to have something to distract yourself from his proximity, from the faint smell of his cologne or from the fact he still hasn't told you what he wants from you for losing this round

His hand lands on your thigh.

You jump in surprise, and his hand tightens its grip there, digging into your skin and keeping you in your seat. Your eyes widen and search for his, a question clear in them.

With his free hand, the Salesman pushes the cards in your direction. “You’ll be the dealer now,” he says, “and for each time you lose, I get to keep my hands on you for one more round.”

Say no, you tell yourself. Say something. A better, stronger woman would throw the champagne in the glass on his face and walk right out of this bar. Instead, you find yourself still as a statue, a sudden rush of warmth overflowing your senses – first, it rises to your face, coloring your cheeks red, then it travels lower to the pit of your stomach and down right into the space between your legs.

You can’t even tell if it’s the alcohol, spreading through your bloodstream and bringing a buzzing sensation to your head that’s not all unpleasant, or the fact you haven’t been touched like this in what feels like forever, or simply the man sitting next to you. How many times had you fantasized about this, until you realized that he was the catalyst of your ruin?

Maybe even a few times after that.

You take the deck of cards. He grins like he knew you would, like a master pleased with a dog following his command. You want to wipe that look off his face, but you can barely concentrate enough to properly shuffle the cards.

If you felt like you were fighting for your life before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The hand doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as twitch until the very final moments of the round, when you realize the two of you are tied. A fingertip slides up the fabric of your stockings until it stops at your knee, your skin erupting in goosebumps following the movement. Your heart beats so hard inside your chest you can barely hear the chatter of people around you as the bar fills in with people.

You lose the next round, and the next, and the one after that. You can’t even tell if you’re doing it on purpose anymore.

With each passing minute that you don’t push him away, that you allow him to test and cross your boundaries, he gets more daring, drawing shapes in the perimeter of your leg and curling into your inner thigh. Your chest rises with a breath that comes tumbling out, the sound of it way too close to a whimper for your liking.

You can tell he notices it instantly, observant and apparently fluent in your body language like he’s spent years of his life studying it. He takes the opportunity to let his hand wander under your skirt, to the spots it hadn’t covered yet.

That’s enough. You need to win this next round.

It’s like, for once, God listens to your prayers. Your cards add up to an even, perfect twenty-one to his nineteen.

He retrieves his hand as if on cue. You thought you would be gasping in relief, but what comes out instead is a pitiful, almost desperate don’t.

He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t as in stop?” he asks. “Or as in don’t stop?”

Your body answers the question for him before your mind can even process what happened, grabbing his hand and pulling it to the spot where it was. Your skin comes ablaze the second he touches you again, like his touch is charged with electricity.

“Did you know,” you can feel his breath so close to you when he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you were the first person who ever challenged me to play ddakji at the subway? Usually it’s the other way around. Nobody but you ever made the first move.”

It’s hard to concentrate on his words like this, with his body leaning into yours and his hand that still touches you under the table and– whoa, that is not your thigh. The solid press against your core makes your whole body twitch, but you don’t jerk away. You try to focus on the memory.

“I didn’t give a fuck about the game,” you reveal. “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I know.” He draws small, precise circles over you. “Do you ever think about how I would’ve left you alone otherwise?”

Of course you do, more than you would ever admit. But having him confirm it hurts. It’s bad enough to know you’re the one who caused all the trauma you’ve been through since meeting him, that you could’ve just carried on with your life, shitty as it as, if only you weren’t a foolish girl with a crush on a stranger. But to be in his arms right now, your head falling over his shoulder and your lips releasing a tiny whimper; it just makes it all the more fucked up.

“Was it worth it?”

The smile on your lips is devoid of any humor. “Never.”

“Let me prove to you that it was.”

Just like that, everything stops. He scoots away from you in the booth and stands up, bringing all the heat with him aside from the faint lingering warmth on your face. He leaves a few bills over the table, enough for the entire tab, and walks away.

He doesn’t head towards the front door, instead making his way to the opposite direction. You watch him, confused, for a few moments before you trail after him, past the kitchen and the restrooms until you see the red glow of an exit sign.

A chilly breeze rushes over you the second you step outside, and you expect to see him walking into the dark narrow street. But he’s waiting for you, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He raises his eyebrows in that same condescending way he’s done all night, daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate for even a second longer. You grab a fistful of his impeccable suit jacket and pull him closer, crashing your lips together.

From the start, it’s not sweet or gentle. He digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise, wasting no time before he lifts you up into the air and pins you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth, parting your lips and practically begging his tongue inside. Your legs part almost in unison, allowing him to settle between them and effectively trap you, his larger frame blocking any exit.

As if you would dream to get away.

In one swift movement, he reaches between your legs and rips at the fabric of your stockings, the sound echoing through the empty street. You’re already making quick work of his belt; or trying to, frustrated by your lack of mobility from his position. He doesn’t seem willing to let you go, so he does it himself instead, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself from the confines of his underwear.

You’ve soaked through your panties in whatever time it took to play all those rounds of blackjack. It felt like it was drawn-out for hours, but you know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes. He moans when he feels it, before he even pushes into you – a heavenly, otherworldly sound, one you want to hear again and again. You push your hips towards him, feeling yourself throb when he rubs his length over you, burning hot where skin meets even though everything around you is cold. He rewards you with another sound that you drink right in as you deepen the kiss, happy to never have your lips separate from each other ever again.

He pushes the fabric of your panties to the side and thrusts into you without a warning, drawing a strangled, sharp gasp from you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the invasion, setting up a punishing pace that pushes you against the wall hard with every thrust. You claw at his back, losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, helpless to stop it as he all but consumes you like this is his last chance to.

“Ah– fuck,” you have to break away from his lips to attempt to draw in some air, your breaths and sounds interrupted by the rhythmic, vicious snaps of his hips into yours. He takes the opportunity to tilt his head and follow the line of your jaw with his lips, to mouth kisses and graze his teeth over your throat.

Hands find their way under pieces of clothing, trying to cling to as much bare skin as they can. He does most of the work, still holding you up in the air with the help of the wall (you curl your toes just to test the waters, the ones on the foot closest to the ground, and they barely touch the pavement), bouncing you on his cock however he sees fit, and it’s embarrassing how close you are already just from this.

“Fuck, baby, that’s so good.”

It’s intoxicating how vocal he is, all the grunts and moans he breathes into your neck, how it rips more sounds out of you than you would usually make. The street is completely silent save for the two of you, not another soul in sight. You could kill him right here and he would never see it coming. Gut him with the knife tucked away in your purse, leave him on the pavement gasping for his last breath. Who would catch you? You have enough money to run to yet another country, to give yourself a new identity and reinvent yourself as many times as you want.

The purse is on the floor where you’d carelessly let it fall, out of reach. Still you run your hands down over his bottom, feeling for any guns or weapons he may have tucked into the back of his waistband, or hidden in his pockets. There’s nothing, but you don’t have a lot of time to be disappointed about it before you’re coming with a high-pitched, broken shout, like your orgasm has taken you by surprise. He holds you up, squeezing you against the wall for support, the only thing stopping you from falling straight to the floor.

The Salesman follows right after, a stream of goods and fucks and your name falling from his lips as he spills deep into you. You wish you had it in you to be offended, to tell him off for it. But all you can think about is how much you wish you knew his name so you could shout it, gasp it, whisper it, for as long as he keeps holding you this tight.

#salesman x reader #the salesman x reader #the recruiter x reader #gong yoo x reader #squid game x reader #the salesman x you #my fics

592 notes · View notes

allhopesforlove · 3 days ago

Text

Farewell, my love: part 2

Summary: In the midst of a battle, y/n realizes that their only way to victory would be through her sacrifice. Determined with her decision to lead an army of soldiers to the frontlines, there was nothing that could hold her back. Because she was sure that if she continued living on she wouldn’t survive any more of what was blooming between Elain and Azriel.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader, Azriel x Elain

Word count: 4.2K

Warnings: Angst, panic attacks, jealousy, and just more angst than before I’m sorry (not) :)

part 1

———————

He couldnt breathe. It was too much, too many feelings flooding him at once and it felt like little needles were prickling him all over his skin. It was getting hot and if he hadn’t been leaning on Elain he was sure that he would’ve actually fallen down on his knees. He was breathing faster and the constant flood of emotions and thoughts weren’t making this any better. He was scared. Scared to even think what this meant.

“Azriel, sweetheart, talk to me.. hey, hey look at me.”

But he couldn’t. He, he needed air. He needed space, because this didn’t make any sense. Why now? Why when he finally found the happiness he was looking for, for so many years? Why when he finally settled his heart for another and dared to bare his soul to her? Why now, when his fucking mate decided to take on something that’d cost her her life? Why was he put in a position where he couldn’t decide what and who to choose?

He still heard her heart, how it beat almost the same as his. Warmth spread around him and he looked up again to see the cause of all this turmoil inside of him. There, he saw her. His mate. His. Oh god, he had a mate. He felt tears already rolling down his face, but he didn’t care. Somehow, only looking at her already made him much calmer than before. She still looked at him with wide eyes as if she herself couldn’t believe what had just transpired between them and he couldn’t blame her, because neither did he. There was a sudden urge to just hold her and take away all her pain and-

“Azriel.”

He felt two soft hands cradling his face and turning it to the side to make his golden hazel eyes meet with brown ones. It caused him to break out of this bubble that was forming and he was brought back to reality. Elain, oh Elain. He- oh god- he really forgot about her for a second, because everything, well everything was so sudden and he actually didn’t mean to, because he loved Elain, with all his heart- his heart, he already gave it to her, he was hers as much as she was his- and he already felt another set of tears forming in his eyes.

“Sweetheart, I want to help you, but you have to help me here a bit yeah?” She said while looking at him with soft shiny eyes and a small smile. The smile he fell in love with.

“Try to breathe along with me.” He was still shaking as Elain lead his hand towards her chest- her heart- to make him calm down and follow the same rhythm as hers. He tried to focus, he really did, but the constant flood of emotions really distracted him. So with all his strength he breathed in and out just as Elain did. He brought his forehead towards hers and closed his eyes. In. And out.

“Just like that, you are doing so great.” He felt a kiss on his nose and he had to smile at that. He was calming down a little.

“Thank you ‘lain” he rasped out.

And when he opened his eyes, Elain looked at him with such intensity that he needed a second to think. He really does love her huh. While the heartbeat of another was becoming more silent, it still was there. He took a deep breath and took the hands on his face in his own. Looking her in the eyes, he kissed the inner part of Elain’s hands and mustered up another set of words to reassure her.

“I am feeling better.” Elain smiled at that, however the confusion was still present in her eyes, and- oh god- she didn’t make this easier for him when she looked up at him with that soft gaze.

“Would you mind sharing with me what just happened?” She asked in an almost hushed tone, as if she didn’t want the other’s around them to know.

How was he supposed to explain to her what had just happened, when he himself still hadn’t any time to think. When so many thoughts were whirling around in his head and he couldn’t grasp to control them.

Elain must’ve noticed his confusion and hesitation as she reassured him.

“Its okay you can take your time. But you really got me scared here for a second Azriel and I, I just want to help you and know if you are-“ she choked on her last words and something in him felt so bad for not telling her instantly. For not choosing her instantly. For having thoughts of another in his mind. For feeling what another woman is feeling, for hearing a heartbeat and feeling a connecting string to another and it not being her? How could he tell her that it took all the strength in him to not just turn around and walk towards his mate to hold her in his arms, while on the other hand his mind and heart is yelling at him for forgetting all the promises he made to the woman standing infront of him for a second. A second that is a second too much. Because all the space in his heart is already reserved for Elain, there shouldn’t be any space left for another. But how could he explain to Elain that with every growing second he itches to just follow his instincts.

“I know this is confusing, trust me, I- I am confused but I, I- can’t and-“ he tried to stay calm and took a breath. Elain took his hands in hers again and encouraged him to go on with her eyes whenever he felt ready.

But ready he would never be, because just as he thought that he had everything under control, something inside of him jolted and made his head turn around sharply towards y/n. Alongside that, he felt a disgusting amount of hurt rolling over him that it took his breath away.

There she stood, tears rolling down her eyes while still looking at him. While Cassian was holding her wrist and trying to turn her towards him. He saw that he was saying stuff to her, but all the voices were quieted down by that ringing noise again. Now, if only he understood that she was crying because she saw her mate seeking comfort in another woman and that Cassian, along with his other friends, was only trying to understand the situation, was trying to comfort his friend, he wouldn’t have swatted off Elain’s hand this fast. He wouldn’t have taken charge towards Cassian. No, because this? This was pure male instinct taking over him. A male was touching his mate. She was crying.

His brain screamed at him to think for a moment before he took such rash decisions, but again, the bond had just snapped and all his emotions were running high, thoughts suppressed down by instincts. So he did what every mate would’ve done in his situation. He went to protect his mate.

—————————

The last thing y/n heard was the sound of Mor’s cries and Emerie’s words, because after that everything seemed to go silent and only a ringing was heard. A ringing from her opposite site, right where Azriel was standing. So she looked at him, looked how his eyes widened and how a string was forming to connect them. No. This, this couldn’t be right?

But an overwhelming amount of woody notes hit her nose and she became painfully aware that Azriel was unconsciously sending over his emotions. So much confusion and helplessness. She… she was his mate?

She felt the tears forming in her eyes while she didn’t know how she should feel about this revelation. The shadowsinger, the one person she has loved desperately for decades, the one person whose attention she never fully got, the one standing besides another, holding her hand, that person was his mate? And the bond snapped right before she signed her death warrant? Oh how cruel. How cruel all of this was, hasn’t she suffered enough?

She felt like she couldn’t breathe, this was too much. And then Elain had to cradle her hands around his face. Her mate. She was touching her mate. She was furious, but realized too quickly that she couldn’t do anything about it. Because why did she feel less and less of Azriel’s emotions as he leaned his forehead against hers? This hurt, this hurt so much. Someone should’ve just gotten a knife and pierced it through her chest, because it would’ve promised her a less hurtful death.

This was agony, as she felt her brain carving in this sight in her memory so that she always remembered that even when the bond snapped between them, something so sacred, Azriel still chose another woman over her.

There was no place for jealousy in her when she saw Azriel placing little kisses in Elain’s hands as she only felt an enormous amount of pain and loss and grief, grief for something she didn’t have to begin with.

She felt like she was dying if it was not for Cassian noticing her sudden silence while the others were still arguing.

“Hey.. y/n, hey, what’s wrong? Hey-”

but she couldn’t hear, she couldn’t understand… why was his mate not looking at her? Why was it that another male was seeing her and not him? So she tried to look for something inside of her, she had to try breathing again, she needed to pull, pull on something.

And finally, Azriel turned her way, finally he looked at her. One moment he still had that sad look on his face when it suddenly turned into this eerie and intense gaze that felt like a predator sizing up his prey. She had never seen that look on him, his stare sending shivers down her spine. And suddenly he was moving.

—————————

His expression was carved in stone, a chilling coldness radiating from his gaze. Fists already clenched and ready to pounce on someone, feet moving with fast precision and his target clear. The bond in him shining brighter and encasing him completely. He was going to protect his mate and make the male pay for hurting her.

“Y/n you are scaring us, what’s going on- oh- Az what are you- YO WHAT THE FU-“ and Cassian felt a scrunch in his nose. But before he could stand up from the ground he felt Azriel already pouncing on him. What. the. fuck.

Azriel didn’t care. Didn’t care if the male in front of him was nearing his death with every punch he threw his way, and when he felt other arms trying to force him away from the male, he growled and felt so much strength course through his body, because no matter what, he was going to make this male pay and no one could prevent him from doing it.

No one; but apparently a strong pull within him. Because he felt his mate again and looked up instantly from the ground where he was just punching Cassian. And from this near he could see her eyes more clearly- a green color with a soft touch of brown and blue. She was ethereal and he was mesmerized by this woman standing in front of him. His mate was gorgeous. Just like that his heart started pounding faster again and for a moment he felt his ears reddening, because how could this beautiful being belong all to him?

“Are you alright?” He almost wheezed out at her, because he lost all his stamine to fight Cassian- wait. CASSIAN. Almost instantly he scrambled up and looked down to see a bloody faced Cassian laying on the ground.

“What has gotten into you Azriel?!” Rhysand screamed at him. And rightly so. The High Lord had struggled to get into his shadowsinger’s mind to yell at him to stop after he couldn’t get him off of Cassian. But he had been met with an iron wall, which is why he couldn’t reach Azriel.

“Brother I don’t know, if you just got possessed by something but damn if you needed to let off some steam, warn a guy beforehand yeah?”

Cassian tried to lighten up the mood a bit, because what had just transpired was far from normal, far from the Azriel they knew. And quite frankly it scared him and made him worry for his friend. From the corner of his eye he saw Nesta rushing out the tent she was in with what looked like some healing supplies. Thank god, he couldn’t feel his face.

Azriel looked frantic. His head was spinning and he couldn’t think clearly. What had he just done? He looked around him and saw his friends attentively staring at him, some worried, some scared of what he might do next.

“What were you even thinking?” He met the cold stare of his mate. Of y/n. God. A mate. She wiped the tears of her face with fast movements and stood tall again. And before he could respond her

“Azriel..?” And there, the voice that made his toes curl whenever he heard it. However, he wasn’t brave enough to turn around and face her. Amongst all, she had seen him do this. She had seen this side of him, but most of all she was probably confused by his actions or maybe she got a clue, he didn’t know. He needed to get out of here, but their situation didn’t really allow him, as he was reminded of their conflicting conversation before the bond snapped. As if nothing happened, as if the bond hadn’t snapped, and as if he hasn’t caused such a big scene mere minutes ago, y/n turned to Rhysand once more.

“Breaking this to the soldiers will be a tough one, I am sure all of them will understand that our charge means nothing but promised death. I just hope they’ll follow along.”

Then a pause. He saw her trembling slightly but whatever it was she snapped out of it and a deathly coldness radiated off of her.

“I will wait for your command Rhysand.” There she stood, like a perfectly trained warrior, someone who was drilled into this role.

“Y/n are you just going to ignore wh-“

“Rhysand.” She really was going to do this?

“We are in the midst of something bigger. Our enemies-” she pointed towards the Northern side, where she knew Hybern soldiers resided.

“-they won’t wait for us to take our sweet time to discuss these matters. We don’t know when they will charge next, but damn it if they get to us before we get to them, all of us will die on this battlefield, I can assure you that! We need to move and we need to do it faster than them.” She heaved out.

Rysand looked at her with an expression that pained her, he looked conflicted, like he was struggling to switch between his role’s of a brother and friend and his role as the High Lord of the Night Court.

Of course he knew that all y/n was saying was true, but damn it, he’s got the feeling that if he doesn’t interfere now, if he doesn’t press on the matter more, he would regret it for the rest of his life. That Azriel may regret it for the rest of his life. He looked at him then, at Azriel’s disheveled and unmoving form, as if he was in a trance. He waited for him to intervene again, but when nothing came out of his brother’s mouth, he made the decision.

But not before talking to his mate. Are you sure of this? She asked in his mind. We’ve got no other choice Feyre he returned sadly but determined. And then he spoke out what he always feared most towards a member of his close circle.

“You may leave whenever you feel ready. Thank you for all of your services soldier.” He had to. he needed to switch to his High Lord tone, because if he didn’t get ahold of himself it would mean their ultimate death. Of everyone.

Y/n just sharply nodded towards him, because they couldn’t do emotional farewells now, not now, when she knew that she and all the others would break down and they wouldn’t actually let her go. And by that she would just endanger the lives of everyone. She didn’t want that. So she and Rhysand had to act their roles. With that, without taking another look at her friends, she turned around and headed towards their military base.

But she was suddenly grasped by another force that turned her around once again.

“You’re insane if you think I’ll just let you go!”

The way her heart started fluttering faster when he hold her hand was almost too pathetic. However, she couldn’t do this with him. Before, this was always what she had wanted, but now… now everything has changed, she couldn’t get herself to be influenced by his sweet words.

She looked him in the eyes then.

“Please let go of me Azriel, you are making this more difficult than it already is.”

And she told him the truth. This was difficult for her. Knowing that her mate stood right before her, that she may have a chance to maybe, she didn’t know but .. but it hurt that only now, only now that he was forced by the bond he started to care for her. This is definitely not what she wanted, not this way. So against everything that the bond demanded of her, she pushed his hand out of the way, but he grabbed for her again.

“Difficult? I am making this difficult? Are you out of your mind? So you want me to stand here as if nothing happened between us? As if we aren’t-“

“Don’t end your sentence shadowsinger.” And he looked pained that y/n almost surrendered to kiss his frown away and take away all the sadness in his eyes. She snapped out of it. She couldn’t do this to him.

“You want to act like I belong to you all of a sudden? Who gives you the right to tell me what or what not to do? I made my decision, end of discussion. So now if you would please kindly let go of my hand.”

But he didn’t. Rather he strengthened his grip around her.

“Y/n, I understand that this is very bad timing, I understand your anger, but we need to talk about this before you make decisions of life and death, don’t you understand!”

He was trying so hard to find the right words, afraid of saying something that may aggravate the situation even more. Afraid of losing his mate before even having a chance at life with her. God, he still couldn’t believe it.

“Okay, then I got a question for you and you have to be honest with me.”

She needed to stop, she needed to stop self sabotaging herself.

“Ask me and I’ll answer truthfully y/n, I swear it to you.”

He didn’t know what came over him, but all he wanted for now was bring his mate back to safety, have more time to think this through more thoroughly.

“You want me to come back with you, but can you actually promise me that you are going to accept this bond with me? Are you actually going to leave Elain for me? Someone you chose out of love rather than obligation? Be truthful shadowsinger.”

Whatever he expected her to ask him, it wasn’t this. He- no he, he couldn’t make that decision now, not now, he needed more time to think, for the past minutes he hasn’t been in his right mind so how .. how could he possibly answer her without giving her false hopes.

“I…” and he looked into her pain filled eyes. He visibly shook as he felt her side of the bond. He was causing this pain?

“Y/n, you need to understand that I can’t- I can’t promise you that now. I don’t want to hurt you, but Elain she-“ he thought of choosing his words carefully “We have been together for a while now, and I can’t lie to you that I suddenly stopped loving her because the bond snapped. I am confused and I need more time-“

she gasped at that and god he wished he could make this easier, could prevent her from getting hurt

“-and I am aware that this is the most selfish I can get. Please, just, please don’t go there-“

her tears were already falling uncontrollably and he couldn’t hold back his own ones. He wished someone just ended him right then and there, so that he hadn’t had to see the agony in her eyes.

“-please allow me to just have more time so that I can sort this all out, I don’t want to hurt any of you, it is the last thing I want-“

“Do you actually hear yourself?” she whispered in a tone that made him want to stab himself for making her sound so helpless.

“Do you hear how selfish you are? I tell you what shadowsinger, if I can’t be your first choice I dont want to be a choice at all. I have loved you for so many years already, I have desperately wanted what you gave other women in your life, but if a bond is what gets you acting all caring towards me, then you can go to hell with that.”

What.

She loved him?

How come he never noticed her, how did he let it get to this point?

“… for how long?” he asked with widened eyes.

He was scared of the answer and judging by her reaction it wasn’t something he was prepared for.

“Too long for me to count.”

She sounded almost resigned, almost like she just wanted to be put out of her misery.

She felt the stares of the others, so she looked behind Azriel and saw how everyone was holding their breaths and waiting for something to happen.

One piece of eyes, however, pierced through her, one pair of hurtful glassy eyes that made y/n happy and sad at the same time. But she couldn’t blame the woman, and to be honest, she couldn’t blame Azriel as well. They chose each other and she was the other woman. She tried to stay calm.

“Azriel… you have to forgive me for my outburst, but try to see it from my perspective. I know our situation isn’t quite fair, but we can’t choose fate. This is where it has brought us. Do yourself and everyone a favor and go back to your woman. She is waiting for you.”

It took everything in her to choose these words, to fight against her will, to fight against her desires, her want to sling her arms around him and claim him for herself, to show everyone that he belonged to her as much as she belonged to him, to love and care for him how she had wanted to for so many years. To look him in the eyes and and declare her love to him and to finally feel that mouth of his on hers to test if it tasted how she had always imagined.

But she couldn’t.

While her words pierced through his soul, his grip on her loosened and she took this as her chance.

“I am sorry, I wish.. I just wish I could have been better, but- but y/n this doesn’t mean that you have to die for this.”

“I’d rather not live when my mate loves and nurtures another, Azriel, so please forgive me for-“

“But you don’t know what the future holds!”

She applauded his resilience and to be frank she didn’t expect this much fight for her from him, but it still wasn’t enough.

“Dont act like you would actually choose me Shadowsinger, you never did.”

And with that she broke the last piece of his soul that was still standing. Because, because she was right. He never chose her so why would she believe him? This beautiful, strong woman in front of him, who has carried so much hurt because of him, was he selfish for asking her to live?

He was numb. And he just wanted this anguish to end. A sudden hand on his shoulder made him jolt, while he heard y/n talk again.

“Let go of me, let go of that little piece of me that has formed in the past minutes. It will be easier this way.” Y/n told him with resignation.

No he- he couldn’t do that, this couldn’t be the end for them. He wanted to step forward but the hand on his shoulder held him back, so he wanted to swat it off, because he had to get to his mate.

But another pair of hands was stopping his way to his mate, so now he got really irritated and tried to fight them off.

“Get your fucking hands off of me-“ and his vision suddenly became blurry as he heard his High Lord’s voice in his mind you need to let her go, she has already made a decision for herself. No, no! He was not letting her walk off to her death, he-

and while he tried to fight off every force trying to hold him back from her, he heard her distant voice Farewell, Azriel.

From the corner of his eyes he saw her blurry form walk off and disappear from his vision.

—————————

A/n: Whewww here is the second part! I never imagined I would go this direction or this far with the story but here we are 😭 First of all I want to thank everyone for your sweet reactions to the first part, this really means a lot to me, because this is my first time writing ever so thank you for your kind words <3 Secondly, I hope this was what you expected for the continuation of the story and that I didn’t leave you hanging. I am also open for any ideas and suggestions, so please don’t shy away from suggesting <3 The third part will probably come out a bit later than this as I have to focus on uni stuff again, but dont worry I wont leave this story as it is!

Again if you have some feedback, I would love to read what you think, and if you want to be added to the taglist just inform me :)

Oh and please tell me if the taglist worked!

Tag list:

@kingshitonly @phoenix666stuff @blackgirlmagicforever @dragonsandrinks @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tele86 @isa1b2h3 @curlyhairkk @jencole214 @willowpains @thestartitaness @romantasyreader28 @highladyofhogwarts @wrenisrad @minaaminaa8 @meritxellao @blepskies

#azriel angst #azriel x you #azriel x yn #acotar x you #acotar angst #azriel imagine #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #acotar #farewellmylove #pure angst #this one hurt #love triangle #fated mates #azriel

663 notes · View notes

mariasont · 2 days ago

Text

A Pen For Your Thoughts - A.H.

a/n: hi besties, this literally took my five hundred years but i love it so it was worth it <3 i just love these two soo much

masterlist

summary: 5 times hotch found himself unexpectedly drawn to bimbo!assistant!reader before they were together and 1 time when they finally were

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: just a whole bunch of fluff, fem!reader, aaron being a straight up simp, pining, 5 and 1

wc: 7.3k

Aaron Hotchner's steps slowed before he realized why.

The first flicker came in the form of a colorful blur in his peripheral vision. He might have ignored it—probably should have—but the movement tugged at his attention like a reflex. Without thinking, he glanced over his shoulder.

Big mistake.

You were seated in one of the stiff, fabric-covered chairs that lined the hallway outside HR, and he felt as though someone had hit pause on his mind. Your legs, crossed at the knee, seemed endless, every line perfectly sculpted. Your hair spilled over your shoulders in perfect waves that looked effortless but undoubtedly weren't, and your lips--gods, your lips--pulled at his focus like gravity.

It wasn't unusual to see someone unfamiliar on this floor, and most strangers barely recognized. But it was unusual to see someone who looked like they'd stepped out of a magazine shoot—as if the universe had dropped someone out of a dream into the most mundane place imaginable.

Aaron had seen beautiful women before--countless ones, in fact, across years of cases and courtrooms and the occasional social outing. But you? You looked like you had walked out of another world completely (one completely out of his league), all shimmer and gloss. The kind of stunning that made it hard to look away--or to think clearly.

Aaron knew he should have kept walking. He didn't have time to for this, whatever this was. But then you shifted, the smooth, unhurried motion of uncrossing your legs pulling his gaze like a thread he couldn't snap. His eyes betrayed him, flicking back to you before he could reel himself in. He hated that he looked, hated the lack of control in the moment—but most of all, he hated how much he wanted to look again.

There seemed to be nothing accidental about you. From the way there was not a single hair out of place, to the unbroken line of your posture, it all felt... intentional, like you'd been crafted with care by someone who didn't believe in flaws.

Aaron felt a twist of discomfort in his chest, something about you left him off-balance, and he didn't like it.

When your eyes lifted to meet his, Aaron felt the shift immediately. The tightness in his chest changed, became something warmer, something less familiar and far more dangerous.

Your gaze was steady, curious, and completely unaware of the way it held him in place. He wasn’t used to being the one caught—being the one struggling to pull himself free from a moment that had stretched too long—but here he was, unable to look away.

Somewhere in the background, computers hummed and printers sputtered out pages, but none of it mattered. The world around him felt muted, stripped down to only you. You tilted your head slightly, that faint curve of your lips threatening to pull a smile from him in return—something he hadn’t done in a place like this for longer than he cared to remember.

Aaron blinked, hard, tearing his gaze away finally like a man breaking free from a spell. He resumed his stride with sharpness he didn't necessarily feel. Focus, he told himself, jaw tightening as though the word alone could erase the lingering pull in his chest.

He had far more pressing matters to deal with than... whatever that had been. He told himself it didn’t matter, even as a faint ache settled somewhere deep in his ribcage at the lie.

But as he passed you, a faint, unexpected sound followed him.

"Excuse me--uh, sir?"

He turned slowly, his gaze landing on you a few feet away. You stood there with a pen in your hand, arm outstretched, as though you were offering him the world's most valuable artifact.

Seeing you up close was worse—or maybe better, he wasn’t sure. The graceful slope of your jaw, the delicate shape of your lips, and the faint light in your eyes that seemed almost too perfect—it was too much. He thought, briefly, about stepping back, as though more space could dull the effect you had on him.

"You dropped this," you said brightly, like you were genuinely pleased to hand it back to him.

Your smile was brilliant, almost too much in its sincerity, and it caught Aaron off guard. It clashed so completely with the hard lines of his own expression—the squared shoulders, the set jaw, the seriousness he wore like a second skin.

He frowned slightly, glancing at what was in your hands: a pen.

"That's not mine."

"Oh." Your expression faltered, but only for a second. Then you shrugged, your smile back in place. "Well, it was on the floor, and you were walking by, so... I figured it had to be yours."

"It's not," he repeated, his tone more clipped than he intended.

He didn't mean to be rude, really he didn't, but the interaction felt dangerous—like stepping to close to the edge of a cliff and daring to look down. If he let himself give you even an inch, he knew he’d risk losing his footing completely.

"Right." You nodded, not in the least bit deterred. "But, I mean, it could've been. You look like the kind of guy who always has a pen. You sure you don't want it? Just in case?"

You twirled it once between your fingers before holding it out again.

For a second, he almost walked away. It would've been the logical thing to do—move on, let the moment slip into irrelevance. But something about the way you stood there, head tilted like you were sizing him up, your lips twitching with barely-contained amusement, made him pause. The whole exchange was absurd, and yet, he couldn't quite bring himself to end it.

With a resigned sigh, he reached out and took the pen. His fingers brushed against yours for the briefest second, a fleeting touch that felt entirely too noticeable.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice rough, as though the single word had taken more effort than it should have.

"No problem! Good pens always find good people. Or, like, maybe the other way around?"

You laughed softly, the sound light and unselfconscious, like you hadn't just made one of the most absurd statements he'd ever heard.

"Anyway, it's yours now. Fate or whatever."

Hotch blinked, unsure whether to laugh, respond, or simply walk away. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

Before he could decide what to do next, you gave a quick, cheerful wave, the motion fluid and natural, as though it required no thought at all. Turning on your heel, you moved back to your seat with an easy stride, settling in as though nothing had happened. Your legs crossed neatly as you opened the glittery notebook, your attention shifting back to it without hesitation, leaving him standing there like a man caught in the middle of something he didn’t understand.

Aaron forced himself to resume walking, the pen clutched in his hand as though he might actually use it. He had a drawer full of pens—good ones, expensive ones, and this one wasn't even his. Still, as he rounded the corner to his office, he felt his grip tighten on this particular one.

Aaron shut the door behind him with more force than necessary, the sound reverberating in the otherwise quiet office. The pen—your pen—landed on his desk with a clatter far louder than it had any right to be.

He stood there for a moment, his hands braced against the edge of his desk, his breath coming heavier than he wanted to admit. Unusual.

Sliding into his chair, he opened the first file and scanned its contents, letting the familiar details of a case seep into his mind. A triple homicide in Phoenix. Victims were a family of four—father, mother, two children. The youngest, a boy, survived. Age seven.

He wrote a note in the margin, flipped the page, and tried to ignore the memory of your voice.

His fingers tightened around the pen he'd grabbed from his desk—not the one you'd handed him, which still sat untouched where he'd tossed it earlier. He stared at the file, his handwriting blurring slightly, jagged and uneven in a way that irritated him.

Victimology. Unsub profile. Possible geographic location. He moved carefully through the pages, his mind grasping onto the structured familiarity like it was all he had left.

By the time he reached the third file, he felt a flicker of relief. Routine. Structure. This was his element.

And then his mind betrayed him.

The memory of pink heels, a short skirt, and soft lips that he wouldn't mind—

Aaron scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering a curse under his breath. This wasn't like him—he was better than this. Or at least, he liked to think he was. He didn't get distracted. Not by anyone.

Certainly not by a bright-eyed woman who looked like she'd stepped out of some sparkly alternate reality.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as though it somehow might clear the intrusive thought. Gripping the file tighter, he buried himself back in the details, his jaw clenched with the effort of willing himself to focus.

An hour slipped by, then another. He busied himself in his tasks, methodically combing through reports and notes until the details blurred together in a haze of ink and paper.

Just as his mind began to clear, a sharp knock at the door cut through his concentration, pulling him abruptly from his thoughts.

"Come in," he called, setting down his pen and leaning back in his chair, already bracing himself for whatever new interruption was about to derail his morning.

The woman he recognized as the head of HR stepped inside. She carried a folder under her arm, expression brisk as ever, and Aaron felt the slightest prickle of irritation at the disruption.

"Agent Hotchner, I wanted to introduce you to your new assistant," she said without preamble, gesturing toward the door.

His brows knit together. "My assistant?"

"Yes, we finalized the selection process this morning," she said, stepping aside. "I thought it would be best for you to meet her in person."

Aaron's stomach dropped. He'd completely forgotten about the interviews for the assistant position—Strauss had been pushing him for weeks to fill the role, but it had fallen so far down his priority list he hadn't given it a second thought.

And now, as you stepped into his office, notebook in hand and that same bright smile lighting up your face, Aaron felt the sharp pang of realization: he was doomed.

"Hi again!" you chirped, offering a little wave. "Guess I'll be seeing a lot more of you!"

He blinked, trying to keep his reaction in check, though disbelief and a hint of dread churned just beneath the surface. You were his assistant? This had to be some sort of test—Strauss’s latest ploy to see if he could remain composed under the most absurd circumstances. Or perhaps the bureau had finally decided that sending someone like you—someone who looked like you—was the surest way to undermine him, to make him throw in the towel.

He wasn't sure the motive, but he was sure he did not like it.

The HR representative gave a curt nod. "She'll be handling your schedule, communications, and general support tasks. Her credentials are impressive, and I think you'll find her capable and efficient."

Aaron forced a polite smile. "I'm sure."

His voice was even, but internally he was so certain that you could never be of help, that he'd never be able to focus again with you around 24/7.

You beamed, seemingly oblivious to his hesitation, which he couldn't figure out if he preferred or not.

The HR representative cleared her throat. "I'll leave you to it, then. She's officially on the clock as of this morning."

With that, she left, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Aaron. By himself. With you. The gods hated him. That was the only logical explanation.

For a moment, silence hung in the air.

You tilted your head, studying him with a curious smile. "So, what's first on the agenda, boss?"

Aaron let out a measured breath, his thoughts already spiraling into contingency plans. Logically, he couldn’t fault your qualifications—your resume likely backed the bureau’s decision, and they didn’t make careless hires. But logic couldn’t compete with instinct, and instinct told him that having you around wasn’t plausible. Not for him.

"We'll start with familiarizing you with the basics," he said, his tone clipped but professional. "My schedule, ongoing cases, and departmental protocols. After that, I'll assign tasks as needed."

Despite his words, he was already combing through ways he could reverse the situation. Could he request a reassignment? Shift your duties elsewhere?

You nodded enthusiastically, flipping open your notebook. "Got it! Basics first. This is gonna be great—I can feel it."

He pressed his lips into a thin line, glancing at the pen still sitting on the corner of his desk. The one you'd given him.

The filing cabinet gleamed mockingly at Aaron Hotchner from across the office. Or maybe it was the glitter that gleamed. Yes, definitely the glitter.

He squinted at it, half-hoping that prolonged focus might transform it back into his carefully maintained filing system. No such luck. Pink and purple labels seemed to mock him from the distance, each one emblazoned in a font that could only be described as aggressively cheerful. Post-it notes stuck out at sharp angles like rogue confetti, and—God help him—there was definitely a smiley face in the corner of one drawer.

Aaron crossed his arms, his jaw clenching as he drew in a slow breath through his nose. He wasn't a man prone to dramatics, but at that moment, the cabinet might as well have had a neon sign reading crazy flashing above it.

He'd been meticulous about keeping things orderly since day one at the BAU. His filing system had been straightforward, functional, and--most importantly--serious. And now it looked...

Well, it looked like you had gotten involved.

You had been his assistant for just over three weeks now--twenty-four days, to be exact. Not that he was counting. Aaron still wasn't sure if the role suited you--or if you were bending the role to suit yourself.

He had no intention of snapping, no matter how tempting it was to question your sanity, but with a final glance at the glittery atrocity in his filing cabinet, he rose from his desk.

"Is there a reason," he said, voice calm albeit clipped, "why my filing system looks like it's been vandalized by a kindergarten art class?"

You popped your head up from the other side of the office, face brightening instantly. In true form, you didn't look even slightly apologetic. Instead, you grinned, holding up a stack of color-coded sticky notes like you'd just won an award.

"Oh, you noticed!"

"It's hard not to," Aaron replied dryly, gesturing toward the cabinet that now sparkled like a disco ball under the overhead lights. "What exactly am I looking at?"

You practically skipped over to him, the soft swish of your skirt catching his attention for just a second too long.

"It's called innovation. I color-coded everything—pink for cold cases, blue for active ones, purple for solved. Oh, and the glitter? That's to, you know, boost morale."

Aaron schooled his expression. "Love isn't the word I'd use."

Aaron stared at you, then at the glittery disaster. "Morale."

"Yep! Morale," you said, nodding. "It's proven that bright colors make people happier and more productive. Or... at least, I think I read that somewhere."

Aaron opened his mouth, then closed it again, momentarily at a loss. He'd been managing this filing system for years without so much as a single misplaced folder. Efficient. Logical. And now, his cabinets looked like they'd been hit by a craft store tornado.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "Let me get this straight. You reorganized my filing system—without asking—and added glitter. For morale."

"And to make your life easier," you said with a grin. "You're welcome."

Aaron opened his mouth, but you weren't done.

"Also," you added, holding up a small floral notebook, "I wrote a guide for the system! Just in case anyone gets confused."

He blinked, unsure where to even begin.

'You added a guide?"

You nodded enthusiastically, twirling a pen with a little gem on the end between your fingers. "Uh-huh! You never know—someone might need it. I made it super clear, though, so even Derek can figure it out."

"You're saying Morgan needs help with file tabs?"

"Well," you said with a grin, "he's very action-oriented. This system's a little more... delicate."

Aaron stared at you, his expression giving nothing away. "Right. Delicate."

"It's perfect, isn't it?" you said, oblivious to his tone as you turned back to the cabinet and pulled out a folder. "See? You need a case file—bam! There it is. No digging, no hunting. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy."

He wanted to be irritated. Really, he did. But to his growing dismay, the system actually worked.

"It's... functional," he admitted reluctantly.

Your eyes widened, and you pressed a hand to your chest as if he'd just handed you the world's most heartfelt compliment. "Hotch! That's, like, the nicest thing you've ever said to me!"

"I wouldn't go that far," he said dryly, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

You gasped dramatically, leaning against the cabinet with a grin. "I'll take it! Oh, this is the best day ever. I can't wait to tell Garcia. She's gonna lose her mind."

Aaron sighed, running a hand down his face. "Please don't."

"No promises!"

He shook his head, turning sharply toward his desk, as if reclaiming his focus were as simple as shifting direction. His hand moved automatically, landing squarely on the case file he’d been working on earlier. No fumbling. No sorting.

Aaron glanced at the filing cabinet again.

It was efficient. He hated that it was efficient.

And you—standing there with your floral tape and sparkly folders, looking so impossibly pleased with yourself—made it impossible for him to argue. He didn’t have the heart for it.

From his desk, Aaron glanced toward you. You were seated at your usual your spot, head bent over a stack of case files, highlighting passages with a bright pink marker. You were bathed in a warm light, and for once, you weren't humming under your breath or tapping your nails on the desk.

Aaron leaned back in his chair, watching as you quietly worked. Your hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few strands framing your face, and your usual heels had been kicked off, leaving you in a pair of fluffy socks with little bows at the ankles. On the corner of your desk sat your water bottle, the words Sparkle Like You Mean It emblazoned across the side in bold script.

Aaron frowned slightly, returning his gaze to the papers in front of him, though his focus remained divided. You'd stayed late before, of course, but always with your usual energy--talking a mile a minute, asking endless questions, or filling the silence with offhanded comments. But this quieter version of you felt unfamiliar, and though Aaron knew he shouldn't, he found himself wondering why.

He cleared his throat. "You didn't have to stay this late."

You glanced up, startled, as if you'd forgotten he was there. Then you smiled, soft and easy. "It's not big deal. Besides, it's not like I have anything better to do."

Aaron raised a brow. "No plans to color-code your closet or reorganize your pantry?"

Your smile widened just a little, but the teasing edge he expected wasn't there.

"Already did that last weekend," you said lightly, returning to your files. "I figured this was a better use of my time." Better use of your time. The words seemed to hang in the air, unexpected and uncharacteristically serious.

He watched as you flipped to another page, carefully highlighting a section and jotting a note in the margin. Pink folders were stacked neatly beside you, each labeled in your unmistakable handwriting--looping, bubbly, with tiny hearts dotting every "i". The sight should have annoyed him. Should have.

Aaron wasn't sure how long he watched you before you looked up again, catching his gaze.

"What?" you asked, tilting your head, a faint smile playing at your lips.

"Nothing," he said, clearing his throat and looking back down at his file.

Silence settled between you again, the kind of quiet that felt heavy but not unpleasant. He could hear the faint swish of your marker against the page, the creak of his chair, and the soft sound of your breathing. And, without meaning to, Aaron found himself listening more closely than he should have.

The clock on the wall ticked past midnight by the time Aaron closed the last of his files. He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion beginning to set in. When he glanced up, he noticed you stifling a yawn, your shoulders slumping slightly as you stretched your arms over your head.

"You should go home," he said, his voice softer than usual.

You blinked, as if surprised by his tone, then shook your head. "Not yet. I'm almost done."

Aaron frowned. "You've done more than enough for one night. I'll finish the rest."

"No way," you said, a spark of your usual energy creeping back into your voice. "I said I'd help, and I'm gonna help. I mean, unless you're saying you don't trust me with this, boss?"

The corner of Aaron's mouth twitched. "That's not what I said."

"Good," you replied, sitting a little straighter and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

He sighed, standing and crossing the room to your desk. As he approached, he noticed how quickly you shifted, as though trying to regain your usual poise.

"At least let me walk you to your car when you're done," he said, his tone low but firm.

You glanced up at him, and for a moment, something soft flickered in your expression. Then you smiled, teasing but lighter than usual. "What, are you afraid I'm going to trip over my own two feet in the parking lot?"

He regarded you for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a faint twitch of his lips, he replied, "It's not entirely out of the question."

You laughed, pushing your chair back as you gathered your things. "Well, I guess it's good to have an FBI escort. You never know when the sidewalks might strike."

He stepped aside, letting you pass, and followed as you made your way into the hall. You cradled the papers to your chest, your ponytail swaying gently with each step. A strange, nameless feeling pressed at the edges of his mind.

"You know," you said as you pressed the elevator button, glancing at him with a grin, "I think you're starting to like me, Boss Man."

He raised an eyebrow. "Starting to?"

You laughed, the corners of your eyes crinkling as your grin widened. "Oh, so it’s official then. We’re besties."

Aaron waited until the elevator doors opened, stepping inside before glancing at you. With a small smirk, he said, "If that’s what you want to call it."

Aaron's pen stilled in his hand, the soft scratch of it against paper replaced by the voices rising behind him. He didn't react immediately—he rarely did. Years of leadership had taught him the value of restraint.

But then he heard it.

"Damn," one officer muttered, the smirk practically audible in his voice. "If that's what the FBI's hiring, sign me up."

His colleague snorted. "She might not know how to handle evidence, but she's definitely handling that skirt."

Aaron's shoulders stiffened. His eyes stayed on the profile in front of him, even as the words began to blur. His fingers curled tightly around the pen, the slight tremor in his grip betraying the simmer of irritation he fought to contain. Normally, he could ignore the noise, let it slide off his back, but the sound of their laughter grated against him, making his jaw clench.

"Wonder if her job description includes anything extra," another voice chimed in.

"Bet the boss has her bending over files all day. Lucky bastard."

Aaron's head lifted slightly, his sharp gaze flicking to you. You were still focused on the corkboard, entirely oblivious to the attention you were drawing. Your fingers tugged at a pinned map, your heels lifting off the ground as you reached higher, and the hem of your skirt crept up just enough to draw another low whistle from one of the men.

Aaron set his pen down carefully, his fingers flexing against the table.

"If she reaches any further, I'm gonna owe her dinner," one of them added, his laugh rumbling through the room.

Aaron's chest tightened, heat rising uncomfortably in his veins. He could feel the pulse in his temple, his irritation mounting with each word.

"I don't doubt she's great at after-hours work."

Aaron didn't hesitate, stepping forward with quiet, calculated purpose. The officers’ laughter sputtered and died as they registered his approach, their bodies stiffening in response.

He stopped just close enough to unsettle, positioning himself squarely in their line of sight. His broad shoulders blocked their view of you entirely, his gaze cold and unflinching—a silent warning that left no room for misinterpretation.

He stood there for a beat too long, letting the tension grow. The officers shifted awkwardly under the weight of his stare.

"Hotch?"

Aaron turned, his expression easing as his eyes met yours. You stood by the corkboard, one hand absently adjusting a pin, your head tilted in question.

"Everything okay?" you asked, your brows knitting slightly.

"Fine," he said, his tone smoothing out as he addressed you. "Are you finished?"

You glanced at the board, tilting your head before stepping back to inspect your work. "Almost. Just need to add one more report. Be right back."

You gave him a quick smile before heading toward the other side of the room, your heels clicking softly against the floor. Aaron's gaze followed you briefly before returning to the officers in front of him.

They shifted awkwardly under his unrelenting stare, their earlier smugness dissolving into unease.

Aaron's voice was quiet, almost too quiet. "If you have time to make inappropriate comments, I assume your reports are finished and flawless."

One of the officers opened his mouth, but Aaron held up a hand, silencing him before a single word could escape.

"I don't tolerate disrespect on my team. If you feel the need to revisit what professionalism looks like, I'm sure your supervisor will be happy to help."

"Yes, sir," the first man mumbled, his face burning.

"Understood," the second added quickly.

Aaron stood there for a moment longer, his jaw tight as he exhaled slowly. With a sharp pivot, he returned to the table, his expression composed once more as he resumed his place at the head of the team.

A few minutes later, you appeared beside him again, balancing another stack of papers. His gaze flicked to you almost instinctively, his expression softening before he even realized it. The shift was subtle, natural—something he didn’t let himself dwell on.

The knock at Aaron's door was sharp, urgent, and loud enough to pull him from the lull he was trying to fight against by pouring water into the coffee maker.

He crossed the room in three long strides, his body reacting on instinct before his thoughts could catch up. A million scenarios flashed through his mind, each one worse than the last—someone hurt, an emergency. By the time he reached the door, his hand on the knob, his breath felt tight.

What he didn't expect was you.

You stood in the hallway, frozen in place, your hand still half-raised from knocking. Your sweatshirt hung loosely off one shoulder, the hem unevenly bunched, and your sock-covered feet shuffled against the carpet like you were contemplating bolting. But it wasn't just your disheveled appearance that hit him like a freight train.

It was your eyes.

Tears hovered on your lashes, catching the hallway light like fragile drops of glass, ready to fall at any moment. Your lips parted, trembling slightly as though forming words that never came.

Your lips parted as if to speak, but no words came, and the sight of you--glassy eyes, unshed tears bubbling as if they were waiting for permission to fall--hit him like a gut punch. The look in your eyes—raw and exposed, holding back a flood of emotions—struck him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs.

For a moment, all Aaron could do was stare. His mind raced, scanning your face for clues, cataloging your every movement like a case profile.

Aaron had spent the entire day watching you more closely than he cared to admit. He hadn't said anything—hadn't wanted to overwhelm you—but this had been your first real exposure to the kind of cases the BAU handled. You’d tried to bury your discomfort under a sunny smile, but he’d seen it anyway—the way you avoided looking at the crime scene photos, the nervous energy in your hands when someone mentioned the unsub.

He'd seen it all, and now, standing in front of you, the weight of his worry hit him full force.

"Are you okay?" His voice was sharper than he intended, but he couldn't stop the questions from spilling out. "Are you hurt? Did something happen?"

Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first. You shook your head quickly, your hands twisting in the hem of your sweatshirt.

"No—I'm fine," you said, though your trembling voice and red-rimmed eyes told a different story. "I just—I couldn't sleep."

Aaron’s jaw tightened, his gaze sweeping over you once more, lingering on your tear-streaked eyes and the way your shoulders curled inward, as though shielding yourself from an invisible blow. His mind raced, unwilling to accept your answer at face value.

He opened the door wider, stepping aside.

"Come in," he said firmly, his voice low but steady.

You hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, your movements slow and uncertain.

The door clicked shut behind you as Aaron turned, his focus still trained on you. You stood frozen in the center of the room, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your fingers nervously twisting the hem of your sweatshirt. Tears clung stubbornly to your lashes, and for one heart-stopping moment, Aaron forgot how to breathe.

"What's going on?" he asked, his tone softer now but no less serious.

You glanced at him, your lip trembling as you struggled to find the words. Finally, you let out a shaky breath, your voice cracking as you spoke. "I can't stop thinking about the unsub. About what he did. I just... It's like.... it's haunting me."

Aaron stayed rooted in place, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides as he forced himself to speak evenly.

"It's hard to turn it off," he said. "Especially the first time. I know."

"All those people," you continued, your gaze dropping to the floor. "And he didn't care. Not even a little. He just—he just did it, like it didn't even matter. How can someone be like that? How can someone be so... empty?"

Aaron stayed quiet for a moment, watching as your gaze stayed fixed on the floor. He recognized that look—the hollow kind of disbelief that came with trying to reconcile the worst parts of humanity. He'd seen it in new agents, in victims, even in himself. And now he saw it in you.

"People like him don't think the way we do," he said finally, his voice calm but firm. "You can't make sense of it because it doesn't make sense. You're not supposed to understand someone like that."

You looked up at him, your brows knitting together as you searched his face.

"But why?" you asked, your voice cracking again. "Why would someone want to hurt people like that? Just for... for no reason?"

Aaron exhaled softly, his hands resting on his hips as he glanced away for a moment. It wasn't an easy answer—not one he could sum up in a way that would make this any less awful for you.

"People like him don't think the way we do," he said, choosing his words carefully. "To him, it's not about right or wrong. It's about control. Power. That's all he understands. It's not something you can rationalize."

Your arms tightened around yourself, and you looked away, your teeth worrying your bottom lip.

"I just keep thinking about everything they went through—all those people. Like, I can't stop picturing it, and it's just... it's too much." You exhaled shakily, your voice trembling. "I know this is your world, but it's... it's really awful."

Aaron stepped closer.

"It's your first case," he said. "And it's normal to feel overwhelmed by it. This kind of work—it takes a toll. On everyone."

You let out a shaky laugh, swiping at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "Do you ever get used to it?"

Aaron paused, considering the question.

"You learn how to handle it," he said finally. "You focus on what you can control. On what you can do to stop it."

Your nod was faint, tentative, and the tension in your shoulders didn’t ease, not completely. He’d pieced others back together before, often without a second thought, but with you, the need to protect and steady you felt far more personal.

"You should try to get some sleep."

"I don't want to go back to my room," you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

He froze, his back to you as he processed what you'd just said. When he turned, you were staring at him, wide-eyed and wringing your hands.

"Not in your bed!" you added hastily, gesturing toward the spare bed in the corner of the room. "I mean—not with you. Just, like, over there. In the other bed. So I'm not alone. You know, because... nightmares."

You pressed your lips together as you continued. "Don't worry, I'm not making some grand declaration of love or trying to seduce you or anything. Promise."

Aaron's lips twitched faintly, but the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. He took in the way your breathing hitched, your hands still at your sides, fingers clenching and unclenching as if searching for something to hold onto. He could see it—how hard you were trying to smooth over the cracks, trying to make the moment lighter than it was.

He hesitated, his thoughts swirling. Having you in the room—spare bed or not—introduced complexities he wasn’t ready to address. His gaze flicked to the empty bed and then back to you, taking in the way you shifted nervously under his silence.

Aaron raised a brow, his tone wry but gentle. "Well, I guess I'll have to cancel the champagne and roses."

Your laugh came quickly, a little more genuine this time. "Okay, now you're just mocking me."

His expression softened, and he gestured toward the spare bed. "Stay as long as you need. It's fine."

"Thanks, boss," you said, standing and moving toward the spare bed. "Promise I won't snore—or, if I do, I'll deny it forever."

Aaron didn't answer right away. He followed you to the bedside, crouching down until you were eye level.

"If you need anything," he said, his voice low, "wake me up. Understood?"

Your smile wavered for a second before you nodded. "Okay."

He stayed there for a beat longer, his gaze searching yours, before standing. When he finally stepped back, you had already drawn the blanket around yourself. Without a second thought, he leaned down and adjusted the corner over your shoulder, his hand lingering for the briefest moment before he straightened.

As he settled into his own bed, he glanced over at you one last time, taking in the way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks as you drifted closer to sleep.

It wasn't in his nature to dwell—not on things he couldn't change. But as he stared at the ceiling, the image of your tearful expression stayed with him. He'd seen it coming, the way this case had worn on you, and he'd worried all day about how it would hit you when things finally went quiet.

Aaron exhaled softly, rolling onto his back as he closed his eyes. This job didn't leave room for many absolutes, but he was certain of one thing: he'd make sure you never felt that way again.

Aaron sat at the far end of the table, his customary spot for team dinners, where he could watch over everyone without drawing much attention to himself. Usually, his gaze moved easily from one teammate to the next, but tonight, it kept circling back to you.

You were seated next to him, close enough that he could catch the faintest hint of your perfume, something light and sweet that lingered every time you shifted in your chair. The warm lighting of the restaurant cast a soft glow on your skin, highlighting the curve of your jaw when you laughed, the way your lips curved upward with such natural ease that it felt like a magnet for his attention.

He'd spent much of the evening trying to appear unaffected, keeping his gaze on the table or his plate or even his wine glass when he felt himself watching you for too long. But you weren't making it easy.

"Hotch, you have to try this," you said, holding out your fork, a small piece of bruschetta balanced precariously on the edge. "It's amazing."

"I'm fine," he replied automatically, though his lips twitched slightly as he glanced at you.

You rolled your eyes, leaning just a fraction closer. "You're always fine. Live a little—this is life-changing bruschetta."

The team chuckled softly, but Aaron barely noticed.

He sighed quietly, relenting, and took the offered bite. The warmth of your fingers brushed his when you handed him the fork, and he swallowed quickly. The bruschetta tasted fine—probably great, even—but the flavor barely registered.

"Well?" you prompted, your head tilting slightly as you watched him expectantly.

"It's good," he said, his voice even, though he felt anything but.

You grinned, satisfied, and turned back to your plate, your shoulder brushing his in the process. The touch lingered for a second too long—or maybe it didn't, but it still sent a wave of heat up his spine.

Aaron reached for his water glass, more to ground himself than anything else, and found your hand there first. Your fingers bumped his as you pulled back, your eyes darting to his with a flicker of apology that melted into something softer.

"Sorry," you murmured lightly, though the smile curving your lips made it clear you were anything but.

He shook his head slightly, his chest tightening in a way he couldn't fully explain. How had this happened? How had you, so unapologetically bright and warm, managed to work your way into his life so seamlessly that he now couldn't imagine it without you?

Across the table, Emily made a comment about the case, and you chimed in, your voice as animated as ever. Aaron listened, though his attention strayed to the way you gestured when you spoke, the soft movement of your hands, the way your lips curved when you made a point.

"This place is so cute," you said brightly, glancing around at the rustic décor. "I mean, it's no Olive Garden, but still, it's got charm."

Across the table, Derek snorted, folding his arms. "Olive Garden? That's your gold standard for Italian food?"

You gave him an incredulous look. "Are you saying unlimited breadsticks and salad aren't the peak of dining luxury?"

Emily raised her glass with a smirk. "I feel like we're learning a lot about you tonight."

A laugh bubbled out of you when Emily made a dry joke, and Aaron couldn't help but feel the corners of his own mouth lift in response. He glanced away quickly, hoping no one noticed, but when his eyes drifted back to you, you were already looking at him.

Your smile softened, your gaze lingering on his for a moment longer than it should have. Aaron cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as his hand brushed against yours under the table.

The light pressure of your fingers against his was brief but intentional, and Aaron's chest tightened as he realized how quickly he was starting to crave these small moments—moments that, not long ago, he would have never allowed himself to have.

You didn't pull away immediately, your fingertips grazing his before the noise of the team pulled you back to the conversation. It was subtle, so subtle that the others might have missed it entirely, but JJ didn't. She raised a brow, her gaze flicking between the two of you.

"So," JJ said, her tone casual but edged with curiosity. "How long has this been going on?"

Your hand froze mid-reach for the butter, and you glanced at her with wide eyes. "What's been going on?"

Spencer Reid tilted his head, his gaze narrowing as he studied you and Aaron. "You and Hotch."

Your eyes darted to Aaron, who had straightened slightly in his seat. He didn't look uncomfortable, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—something softer than his usual stoicism.

"Depends," you said, flashing a teasing smile. "How long do you think it's been?"

Derek leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he chuckled. "Oh, you're good. Deflecting like a pro."

"It's not deflecting," you said, feigning offense. "It's a legitimate question."

Aaron sighed quietly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "It's been a few months."

The table fell silent for a moment.

"A few months?" Emily repeated, her brow arching. "And you didn't think to mention it?"

"It's not like we were hiding it," you said quickly, glancing at Aaron. "Right?"

"We just weren't announcing it."

"Well, it's about damn time," Derek said, breaking the silence with a wide grin. "Seriously, Hotch. I was starting to think you didn't have it in you."

Aaron gave him a look, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. "It's not up for discussion, Morgan."

"Noted," Derek said, his grin unrelenting.

You leaned closer to Aaron, your shoulder brushing his as you lowered your voice. "Think we'll ever live this down?"

"Doubtful."

The conversation shifted, the focus moving to Spencer's latest trivia tangent and JJ's plans for an upcoming weekend with her family. But as the night wore on, Aaron found himself more at ease than he'd expected.

At one point, you leaned over to steal a bite of his pasta, and he let you, his lips twitching into a faint smile when you made a show of how much better his dish was than yours.

By the end of the evening, as the team trickled out of the restaurant one by one, Aaron found himself standing beside you near the entrance, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

"That wasn't so bad," you said, tilting your head up to look at him.

"No," he agreed, his voice quiet. "It wasn't."

You smiled, leaning slightly into his touch. "See? Told you they'd be fine with it."

He huffed softly, shaking his head. "I think Morgan's already planning his next round of questions."

"Probably," you admitted with a laugh. "But, hey, it's progress. You smiled twice tonight."

His lips twitched slightly, though he shook his head in mock exasperation. "Twice, huh? You're keeping count now?"

"Absolutely," you teased, leaning a little closer. "I'm very goal-oriented, you know. Almost got a smile out of you with my pen trick, too, but you were a little too busy that day."

Aaron frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. "Pen trick?"

"Oh, come on, Hotch," you said, rolling your eyes with a grin. "That was my totally genius plan to get you to notice me. Thought maybe you'd smile, maybe even flirt back, but no—you shut me down with the whole, that's not mine. Absolutely brutal."

His frown deepened as he stared at you, trying to process your words. "You planned that?"

"Obviously," you replied. "I saw you walking by all serious and handsome, and I thought, why not? Of course, I didn't realize I was interviewing to be your assistant. That kind of killed the whole plan."

He tilted his head, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Killed it how?"

"Well," you said, giving him an exaggerated shrug, "if I'd known you were the guy in charge, I would've worn something with more cleavage. Really sell it, you know?"

Aaron stared at you for a moment, then leaned in slightly, his voice low and dry. "There's still time to test that theory."

You gasped, swatting at him as your laughter bubbled up. "Aaron Hotchner, are you flirting with me?"

"I don't know," he replied smoothly, his lips twitching into an almost-smile. "Did it work?"

You looped your arm through his, your grin softening into something fonder. "A little late for flirting now, boss. You've already got me."

"Good to know."

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme @pansexualhailstorm @averyhotchner @looking1016 @everythinglizzy @sky2nd @alexxavicry @spencerssatchel @candyd1es @storiesofsvu @pleasantgardenwitch @kodzukenmaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spennciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @jstcln @just-here-to-read13 @c-losur3 @wondergal2001 @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @estragos @khxna @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72 @piinksdoll @justyourusualash @whimsicalpolitical @kcch-ns @cool-light32 @reidfile @sugarbutterbailey @ssamorganhotchner @persephonestears @moonyxstars @spookyysinsanity @proxxyshouse @spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack

join my taglist here!

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x bimbo reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader #hotch #hotchner #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x bimbo assistant reader

534 notes · View notes

somnoir · 1 day ago

Text

Damian's future husband

Got inspired by this specific line in a Tumblr thread and my brain went to work

Phantom was a strange hero—a vigilante that often worked with Justice League Dark. Constantine was always so antsy around the man, while Phantom himself often muttered about taxes and blasted fragments whenever said trech coat man was in the vicinity.

The Bats were, of course, initially apprehensive of the death defying being that could rip a man skeleton out of their body, manipulate space itself to rip open portals to different dimensions, and vanish better than they did. They were wary, mildly hostile after realising that Phantom had now issue killing.

But then time passed and Phantom was proven to not be a serial killer but only used killing as a last resort. Though Batman wasn't too pleased, he was—begrudgingly—tolerant of that. Because, yes, Phantom was a nice guy, a very likeable person in general. He made sure that the environmental damage during battles were kept to a minimum, he chose civilians over the enemy whenever it came to hostage situations, he was tactile and kind, and he cared so much for the innocent that he was willing to lose his innocence to keep theirs.

Of course Batman was fond of the young man, especially when he found out that Jason of all people had some sort of crush on him. A very big and almost pathetic one that he and Alfred would watch while sipping tea.

Seriously, Jason was his son! Has he not learned anything from his Brucie persona? The poor thing was like a Victorian maiden and would be scandalised at the mere thought of showing an ankle.

It was embarrassing how he'd practically start blue screening the moment Phantom was in the vicinity. As a father, Bruce was gracious enough not to bully his poor son whenever it came to Phantom. His siblings, on the other hand, held no such qualms and mercilessly dug into Jason.

In all honesty, he pitied Jason after hearing that Phantom assumed that Jason just didn't like him.

He really had to talk to him.

"You fucking hypocrite."

And that was a failure because Bruce forgot that he was just as constipated as his son.

"I'm not taking advice from the man who couldn't even try to be softer in his secret crush!"

With that, Jason slammed the door and left.

Okay... Plan B?

But what the hell was plan B?

Right.

Dick Grayson.

Bruce: About your brother...

Bird child #1: OH MY GOD

Bird child #1: THANK FUCK YOU FINALLY MENTIONED IT

Bruce: it's become an issue

Bruce: Alfred has commented that it's pathetic now.

Bird child #1: Wait wait

Bird child #1: I'll add you to the group chat!

And this Bruce Wayne found himself in a GC named 'Phantom of the Watchtower'. Along with all the complaints expressed by both family and friends when it came to Jason's bullshit.

Ah well... At least he wasn't alone in the suffering.

(Jason did not need to know that there was a video of him grappling through Gotham, Phantom passing by and waving at him, and Jason proceeding to hit a wall mid flight.)

Dick knows that his little wing has had trouble in relationships for a long time. His resurrection changed him, changed how he perceived his relationships. Dick didn't have the heart to be mad about it.

Phantom's arrival was a breath of fresh air for them.

But he suspects that Jason's attraction began with the fact that Phantom had died young as well. Fourteen from what was said. He had died much younger than Jason and had came back a hero, willing to protect the innocent and do what was best for those around him. Sometimes Dick suspects that Jason not only wanted to be with Phantom, but also to be similar to him.

Now he's watching Jason fumble with his words again, immediately going quiet once he realized that nothing coherent was coming out of his mouth. The helmet most likely hid how red his face was.

"Are you alright?" Phantom asked, frowning up at Jason. "You don't feel too good. Is the corrupted ecto acting up again? Oh, I knew I should have sped up the process of removing it but then it'd be very painful if I did it at once. And Frostbite recommended that we went slowly so we could monitor the side effect... And, and—"

"I'm okay." Red Hood immediately assured, his hand practically flying to Phantom's cheek then he shoved it down before he could even touch Phantom. "It's been a long day."

"Is the Joker out again?" Phantom's frown deepened.

Another thing Dick has learned about the dead and the undead! The fact that their murderer was still active unsettled then greatly and affected their entire mentality and behaviour.

"No. No. He hasn't tried escaping."

Phantom hummed, "I see. So what's bothering you."

"It's nothing." Jason grunted, sounding a little too much like Bruce for Dick's liking.

Okay, nope, he wasn't going to let this continue if his baby brother was going to continue making Phantom assumed he didn't like him. Nightwing to the rescue!

"Phantom! Hi!" Nightwing quite literally dropped into the alley, running his fingers through his hair and smoothly directing Jason away from whatever catastrophic misunderstanding he was walking into.

"Hello Nightwing! It's nice to see you again? How's Kori? Oooh! I wanted to invite her to a space date again—" He rambled on and on, eyes practically starry. Wait, nevermind. His eyes really were starry.

(Meanwhile, Jason was cursing his older brother for taking the attention from but also very thankful that Phantom didn't have to witness his stupidity again.)

Tim had noticed that the Joker hasn't attempted to break out in a long... Long time.

It's not a bad thing, no. It was great, in all honesty. But of course, Tim was paranoid, almost batshir crazy (pun intended, in the words of his damn boyfriends). The surveillance feed on Arkham was updated a long time ago, watching it very closely until static overtook the screen.

"Replacement," Tim startled, blinking before he saw Jason peering at him with a questioning look. Practically interrogating him on the spot. "The hell is that?"

"I don't know." Tim clicked his tongue, "This hasn't happened after Babs and I updated those damn cameras. Fuck, give me a second..."

"Did the Joker get out?" Jason practically growled.

"No, no. I'm sure he didn't. He would have been causing trouble by now." Tim reassured, clicking his tongue again before the feed went back to normal. Joker's cell seemed perfectly fine, with the Joker fast asleep on his little cot. "See, just some static. Maybe Phantom passed by."

The mere mention of Phantom has Jason blue screening, instincts kicking in as his older brother shoved his helmet over his head again. Then the idiot gets on his bike and speeds out of the cave.

Coward.

Tim whipped his head around, quickly surveying the area.

The static wasn't random. Phantom always had to be in front of the camera to directly affect the feed. So thank fuck when he made friends with Phantom's teammate—Pharaoh—and figured out how to fix any distorted imagery.

He sees Phantom standing over the Joker's unconscious body, plunging his hand into the maniac's chest and pulled out a glowing green orb. A core, from what he remembered. Holy shit, was the Joker a ghost too?

But he saw how Phantom seemed to put restraints around it, literal chains before shoving it back inside.

Slowly, Phantom turned to the camera, his entire figure still distorted, but he could see that fanged grin that his brother seemed to swoon over.

(The Joker was still alive, very much, but no one could understand how he was stuck in an almost permanent coma. Tim wasn't going to give Jason even more reason to start giggling over Phantom, unless he wanted to ruin the entire Dead on Main operation.)

Damian did not quite understand the insanity that was multiple individuals (including those that were not of their brood) attempting to matchmake Todd with Phantom. He didn't understand what was so great about Phantom, in all honesty.

He was heroic, powerful, and quite intelligent. Many people held similar traits. Perhaps it was the fact that he was a deathly being that attracted Todd in the first place.

"Hello, Robin!" Phantom greeted one day, eyes shimmering like the stars in his cape. "Superboy said you had something to tell me?"

Damian shifted slightly, "Yes. Are you aware of the Lazarus Pits?"

"Ah... Yes, of course. My court and I have been trying to destroy all of them. The Lazarus is corrupted ectoplasm that has been mixed with filth of all kinds." Phantom hummed.

"Filth of all kinds... Disgusting." Damian frowned, nose scrunching up at the memory that he's bathed in those pits before. "But I digress. I would like to assist in the destruction of the pits. Father and the rest of the family has fretted over my grandfather's pits for many years and we have barely grazed the surface on what the Lazarus truly was."

"I see! I was planning on asking Batman to help out on that. But since you've already asked, would you like to come to the Realms? I'm sure you can interrogate some of the ghosts your grandfather has wronged." Phantom grinned, already offering Damian a hand. He was floating, while Damian stood in the roof and stared at the hand.

It reminded him of the kryptonians. But Phantom's hand was cold and he didn't yank Damian the same way Jon often did.

No, Phantom took Damian's hand and then proceeded to hook an arm around Damian's waist, pulling him of the roof and into the air. And then they were flying into a glowing green portal that reminded Damian of the pits.

The moment they were in the infinite realms, Damian felt the overwhelming pressure of the dead. He swallowed the bile that rose from his throat as Phantom set him down on solid ground. The entire place felt eerie and strange, of course it was. This was the afterlife.

"Right, I forgot." Phantom cursed, "You're not as liminal as my family. Give me a second, baby bat." He murmured, his hand glowing green before it's gently pushed into Damian's chest. A sudden wave of warmth overtook his entire body and Damian stared at the ghost.

"I'm giving you a bit of Ecto to reduce any discomfort here in the realms. It'll flush itself out in 24 hours so don't worry about becoming overly liminal." Phantom smiled softly, before he offered his hand to Damian again. "Let's go? I have to stop by my keep to check the records of Al Ghuls victims."

"Of course."

And instead of being carried like a cat, Phantom picked him up bridal style and flew past what seemed to be floating islands and towards a large red and purple castle.

Is this was Todd feels? Damian asked himself, oddly enjoying this experience.

The moment they landed—

"Your majesty!" A floating eyeball yelled, rushing towards them. "You've brought an outsider—"

"Away with you." Phantom snapped, a crown and cape of stars suddenly appearing on him. "This is Robin. Ra's Al Ghul's grandchild."

"The Demon's head..."

"Yes, now shoo." Phantom snapped, before leading Damian away from the eyeball. "I'm sorry for my Observants. They're a conservative bunch."

"You are a king?"

"Mhm... Though I don't like to advertise it. The last king was a tyrant and I defeated him a little while after my death. I never intended to be king, in all honesty. But here I am." He gestured to the crown of fire and ice and the cape of stars. His grin was strained and quite troubled but he didn't mind leading Damian towards a large room filled with bigger files.

"Now, would you like to search yourself or do you want me to have someone else do it?"

Damian grimaced at the sight. "I'd prefer for someone else to suffer."

And that's how Damian found himself touring the realms, with Phantom happily bringing Damian to the arena where a ghost named Skulker awaited them. The man was a hunter, respectful towards Phantom yet troublesome as he challenged him. Phantom looked utterly annoyed, before he turned to Damian with sparkling eyes.

"What about you, Robin?"

And then Damian was fighting everyone and everything in the realms at the behest and amusement of Phantom. The ghost king provided him with different weapons each time an enemy switched.

It's only when they returned to the land of the living that he's informed that any weapon he's used is now his.

And he has a cat with him! The ghost of a small yet ferocious kitten that had his under Phantom's cape whilst Damian and other ghosts fought to glorious battle. Phantom kindly offered her to him, naming her Astra with the star shaped pupils in her eyes.

Damian is quite sure he has fallen in love.

Damian returns to the manor, utterly awestruck and infatuated. Thankfully (unfortunately), Todd is in attendance when Phantom carries him out of the portal, still held in a bridal carry with Damian actively clinging to Phantom like he had hung the stars (maybe he did).

"Sorry if we worried you! Robin wanted to help with our Lazarus problems since it's also your problem too." Phantom quickly explains once he saw Batman's troubled expression. "Don't worry about your gifts. I'll figure out a way to make you a dimensional bag."

Damian stared, "May I visit the realms again? If you would be amendable to it."

"Of course! You're my favorite, so why wouldn't I?"

Hah! Hear that? Take that, Todd!

Phantom vanishes into his portal seconds later, leaving Damian with the most beautiful and intricated sword in his hands. Blinking quietly, he whirled around and pointed the sword at Jason, who instinctively went into a battle stance.

"You may be my brother, Todd, but if you have not married Phantom once I am of age, I shall fight for his hand in marriage himself."

(Jason knows very well that Damian isn't joking and proceeds to practically plan the most novel-esque confession to date. Jane Austen might just be proud.)

Masterpost

#Damian's future husband #dpxdc #dc x dp #crossover #danny phantom #danny fenton #batfam #jason todd #red hood #Bruce's secret crush is either Hal or Clark in my head #I'm a sucker for BatLantern and SuperBat #Damian ends up crushing on Phantom after he gets spoiled with weapons and a cat #jason is whipped #poor guy knows his entire family and his friends have a gc #now he has to deal with his stabby little brother wanting to marry the love of his life #or afterlife #Danny just thinks Damian is cute cause he reminds him of Dani and sometimes Dan

609 notes · View notes

arabellasleopardcoat · 3 days ago

Text

Autumn (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Unreliable narrator!!!! Mature language. Descriptions of grief.

A/N: I was not expecting the response my silly little idea has gotten. I am very thankful for all of you who decide to read it, and would love to hear what you think of this chapter. Series masterlist here.

YOU CRUMPLE THE letter in your fist, hearing the parchment wrinkle with a satisfying sound. Then, you throw it into the flames, watching as the fire grows slightly bigger, and the ball uncurls, alight for a second, before it is fully consumed.

It doesn’t soothe you as you thought it would. The odious parchment offering you an honor guard from your future husband might be gone, but you still have to journey North before a moon since Luke’s funeral has passed.

At the thought of your brother, a sharp, stabbing pain, manifests in your chest. You choke down a sob. You had not realized you had started to measure time like this. Before and After Luke’s death, as people did with Before and After the Conquest.

Your grief only serves to fuel your rage, though. How could he? How could he demand you be wed when you were still in mourning? When you were still thinking of your sweet brother, not of keeps, and lords, and men?

“You dare!” You screech, barging inside Jacaerys’ rooms. Whatever he is doing, hunched over his desk, is interrupted. “You cannot do this to me! Mother will not allow it.”

Jace sets down his quill. He turns to look at you, his expression calm. You would think him indifferent, were it not for the fact that there is the slightest furrow of his brows.

“We need men.” He states, simply, and when you are about to interrupt him to say there are many more in the realm, he keeps speaking. “We need his men. The North is the largest kingdom, you know this as well as I. And when a Stark calls the banners, they are the only ones who respond in full.”

Your hands ball into fists. You hate that he is acting so composed, so rational. After Luke died, you felt like a chained dragon, roaring your grief and wishing to be freed to set ablaze those that had wronged you. Once, you had been as gracious as him and mother, composed even in the height of emotion. But grief has made you into live lighting, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Your emotions are out of control. You know this. You get angered at the barest hint of an insult, you cry as easily as a newborn babe. Knowing it doesn’t stop you from lashing out, though. It only makes you regret it later.

“Our mother promised I was to have my pick of suitors, not that I would be sold like a cow!” You point an accusing finger to his chest. Jace sighs and gets up, surrounding the desk.

“I understand you are upset.” He tries offering you a hug, but you jerk away. His face hardens slightly. “But this is war.”

As if you do not know. As if you haven’t lost a sibling, too. Your face crumbles, and Jace calls your name, but hearing his voice, how similar Luke and him sound, only makes you cry harder.

“Hey, hey, it’s not so bad.” He hugs you, pressing your face against his doublet. The material is soft against your skin, and you feel tempted to let go of your rage against him and sink into his arms. Jace is barely a man, too, just as you are barely a woman. He is doing as best as he can, spread too thin by the weight of responsibility that comes with being heir. “Cregan is a good man. I got to know him during the time…”

Yes, he was doing as best as he could. But it hadn’t been his own hand that he had bartered away, had it? The insidious voice in your head asks. It isn’t him who is making a sacrifice. And such a hollow one. He claims to need men, but he won’t be getting even the full northern army.

“You sold me for a few Greybeards! Not even a proper army! Good Gods, you are a fool.” You cry out.

“Lord Stark assures me…” Jace starts, with the tone of someone who has already had this same argument. Were you thinking clearly, you would pause and realize why. Instead...

“He has put a wife in the grave already.” It is the only thing you know about him. Not much is whispered about Cregan Stark, at least, nothing concerning. You would remember it. The only thing that you know, though, is that he is a Stark and his wife is dead.

“You make it sound as if he killed her himself with his bare hands.” Jace scoffs. “I assure you, he dearly loved Arra Norrey and would have never harmed her. You know the dangers of childbirth. Perhaps even better than I.”

Perfect. He hadn’t killed the damn woman, he was just still in love with her. By the Seven, Jace was a fool. You hated being second in anything. Here, at home, you were already second to Jace, and you resented it. Being a twin meant having to share everything, including the love of those around you.

When you married, you had hoped to be the only woman in your husband’s life, not to be compared to a ghost. You had seen exactly how that went. King Viserys had never forgotten his first wife, calling for her years after her death, even as Alicent was the one to nurse him during his illness.

“He is still a widower.” You repeat, stubbornly.

Jace pinches the bride of his nose, before letting out a deep exhale. His next words are spoken extremely slowly, as if talking to a child. It makes you bristle.

“You said you were afraid of childbirth, and he already has an heir. There is no better solution.”

It would be thoughtful, were it not for the fact that:

“His first wife died in childbirth!”

As Jace prepares a scathing comeback, face scrunched up in mirrored displeasure to your own, the voice of your mother startles you both.

“What is going on here?” She asks, mouth pursed in an expression identical to Jace. The Queen looks as regal as ever, and it only serves to make you feel a tad embarrassed. With wild hair and eyes, face flushed from rage, you are sure that next to her, you must look like a wilding. “Why can the whole castle hear your quarrel?”

“It’s his fault.” You accuse, pointing at Jace.

“My fault?!” He says, placing his hands on his hips. “Apologies, I think they didn’t hear your screeching about Lord Stark in Driftmark!”

“So you informed her?” Your mother asks, calmly. Too calmly for someone who has just found out. Had it been her plan all along?

“Did you knew all along?” You whisper.

Rhaenyra turns to look at you. As always, your mother has a smile ready for you, but as of late, they are laced with sadness. This one is no exception.

“I did. I think it is for the best. You will be safer next to Cregan Stark, in Winterfell, than you could ever be here.”

You examine her expression. Her eyes are swollen and red rimmed, grief clouding her regal face. There is a certain determination in her features, a calm acceptance in her eyes, that tells you that her mind is already made.

Her face is not one of a distraught mother who will soon give her daughter away. You know her too well to mistake it for that.

“You hoped for this.” You keep your voice dangerously low, your anger threatening to bubble up in your throat. “You did because I have no dragon. I bet you are scheming to send Rhaena away too!”

Your mother doesn’t answer.

Her silence is damming. You turn to look at Jace, disbelieving. Of course the two of them had been scheming behind your back. Your brother had always been the closest one to your mother.

“And neither of you could tell me to my face?” You ask, letting out a hysterical laugh. “I had to find out from a letter from fucking Cregan Stark. I am not leaving. You cannot make me. ”

Suddenly, your mother grabs you by the shoulders. Her face is frightening, like an avenging goddess of Old Valyria. Her lips are curled back, teeth bared, and her eyes are as wild as yours.

“Listen to me!” She says, shaking you hard. Tears begin to fall from her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to register them. “Listen to me! Luke is dead. He is dead, and you will obey me because I cannot bear to lose any more of my children. You are going North. Your Queen commands it.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, leaving you standing on still shaking legs.

CREGAN HAD BEEN lingering near the entrance of Winterfell ever since his men had spotted the Queen’s banner on the horizon. Back then, they had expected the party to arrive in half a day. He didn’t care if he appeared too eager, his usual stoicism was failing him in the face of his nerves.

The first time Cregan had married, he had known the bride for a long time. Arra had been his childhood companion, and they had spent many moons together, playing Come-into-my-castle and Bears-and-maids. Cregan had unfortunately been the maid many more times than he preferred.

He had not feared marriage then. Spending forever chained to another person wouldn’t be so bad if that person was Arra.

Now, he did. Cregan had been content on his own, and had no desire to remarry. Even if he had, a southron princess wouldn’t have been his first choice. Though Prince Jacaerys had been honorable and dutiful, he was still naive. They were nearly of an age, but when Cregan had stood next to him, he had felt as old as his Greybeards.

A naive little princess would never survive in the North. His lords would eat her alive. The Lady of Winterfell couldn’t be some frail little thing, she had to be strong. Strong enough to hold Winterfell in his absence if needed, were the threat from beyond the Wall come to pass.

Arra had been the only woman he had thought of marrying because she had been the only woman he had thought fit to the task. She had been of the North, as he was, and it had helped him envision a future together where they ruled over the very same land that had birthed both of them.

It was only adequate that the Lady of Winterfell was a woman of the North. Southron Princesses, especially those who had been groomed to marry inside the family, could be of little help running a keep. If he had to remarry and choose a southron, Cregan would have preferred a stronger one.

Yet if wishes were dragons, beggars would soar through the skies. Prince Jacaerys had seemed a bit insulted at his offer of Greybeards, but with winter coming, it was all Cregan could spare. He was no stranger to political games, though, and knew he had to smooth down the feathers his offer had ruffled.

Hence, the offer. To receive the toothless dragon in his home and keep it safe. A favor, from an older brother to another. The Gods knew if Sara was near war at all, Cregan would do everything in his power to send her somewhere safe. He would be forever indebted to the man who aided him to do so.

And Prince Jacaerys, showing himself to be the dutiful prince and brother he was, had understood the offer for what it was. A true alliance. A Pact of Ice and Fire, to bound their bloodlines and keep the beloved, but defenseless sister safe.

It had impressed Cregan. Jacaerys was a serious man, no matter his dubious parentage. He could picture himself following him. After all, his Targaryen blood and character were the important part. That was what made him a worthy King.

Without a dragon of your own, your journey had been perilous. He knew you had ridden without banners until you had safely arrived into northern territory, a feat that had taken you a whole moon. Cregan had offered to have his men meet you halfway, but his letter doing so had gone unanswered. It had only prompted new anxieties for him.

What if he failed to fulfill his promise because you were abducted or harmed in the journey? What if the people riding with Black banners weren’t truly your honor guard, but an ambush prepared by the enemy?

Cregan doubted he would be at ease until he saw you emerge out of your wheelhouse, whole and unscathed. Hence, his waiting by the door. He would not be nervous a moment longer than he needed to.

The first thing Cregan saw was that your honor guard was smaller than he expected. He had known you would travel with a sparse escort, as to not attract undue attention. It was a miracle you had made it here with only ten guards, though. The wheelhouse and the men carried so many packages that Cregan would have known you were a Princess even without expecting you. Anyone would have known.

In contrast, the woman who stepped out of the wheelhouse wasn’t miraculous nor was she what Cregan envisioned when thinking of a Princess.

You were… Pitiful. Cregan understood now why Prince Jacaerys was so desperate to protect you. You wouldn’t survive a winter in the North, hells, it looked like a strong breeze would blow you away.

Your hair and eyes were as dark as the ones of your brother. You wore a pretty wool dress, in mourning black. The lacings on the back were done too tightly, a lot of the ribbon hanging limply, and the dress was loose around your chest and hips. It was clear you had recently lost weight, probably during the journey because the gown hadn’t been altered to fit you.

There were dark circles under your eyes, which were also red rimmed. Your skin was pale, your dark hair braided back in a severe style. Grief didn’t suit you. You looked small and sad, despite having a pleasing figure.

It didn’t help that the dress you had chosen was one far too thin for a sensible northern woman to wear. The day wasn’t even that cold, but you were already shivering. It was barely snowing, for the Gods’s sake!

Cregan approached you and gave you a bow.

“Princess.” He extended his arm to you. You took it, shivering. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Pleasant enough.” At least your voice isn’t frail. The last thing Cregan needed was a soft-spoken southron lady. You even manage to smile at him, which makes you look considerably more attractive.

Cregan would admit one thing, and one thing only: Queen Rhaenyra made pretty children. Both you and Jacaerys had sinful mouths and bewitching dark eyes, though he found yours far more pleasing.

“I am sorry for your loss.” He says, as he escorts you inside Winterfell. Your trembling intensifies, instead of subsiding in the warmth of his hall. You say nothing.

When he risks a glance at your face, your eyes are suspiciously wet. You avoid meeting his eyes, even as he offers you the customary salt and bread.

“I remember when Arra got here.” Cregan offers, awkwardly. He isn’t quite sure of what to say to a grieving Princess, so he decides to share something about himself in hopes that you will open up too. He desperately needs to change the subject. Or to start a subject. He is not picky, anything that keeps you from crying will do. “She brought less of a procession than you did. And less luggage.”

“She was quite closer to home than I.” You reply, and your tone has regained strength. You no longer shake, body stiffer. Cregan decides to take it as a good sign. You are clearly struggling to get a hold of yourself, which is why you turn so tense, so he decides to keep speaking to give you some more time.

“She was. By far a more practical woman.” He smiles at you, teasingly. “But if the fuss makes you happy…”

You laugh. When he gets to know you better, Cregan will realize that your laughter wasn’t genuine.

He will also realize this had been the moment your heart iced over.

YOU PAGE THROUGH your book, in silence. Winterfell doesn’t have court musicians, and for that, you are thankful. Silence has always been your preferred companion right before bed. That, and a good book.

Your obsession with Valyrian history and traditions had been carefully nurtured by your stepfather, Daemon. Neither your mother nor siblings had much interest in your shared heritage, beyond the ability it gave them to ride dragons.

While Baela and Rhaena spoke fluid High Valyrian, the same could not be said for your brothers. As the only girl in the household, your lessons had been spent with the former and not the latter, forcing you to improve. Once you did, you had found reading the tales of old was a pleasant pastime.

You enjoyed laying in bed and imagining all the stories about magic, dragons, and empresses. When you had turned four and ten, Daemon had gifted you your very own book with Valyrian tales, a beautifully bound and illustrated edition that had followed you in your journey North.

“For you to read to your future children.” He had said, back then. You had barely flowered, so you had laughed. “I mean it, Princess. Out of my three girls, you are the only one I envision doing so.”

The day he had acknowledged you as one of his daughters, even if you didn’t share blood, was the happiest nameday you had had. He was right, too. As much as you loved the twins, you couldn’t picture them being motherly. Baela would have to have a son, to inherit after Jace, but you believed that it would be him who took charge of the more fatherly duties while she dedicated herself to statecraft. Rhaena, instead, had a thirst for adventure, to travel and know the world. Her ambition wasn’t conducive to motherhood either.

You, instead, had always dreamed of marrying a man who loved you and starting a family of your own. You envisioned yourself as the lady of a great keep, where you would rule fairly, and raise your children without wet nurses.

Those dreams had already been shattered. The man you had married didn’t love you. He had only done so to secure an alliance. And the man already had a child of his own, an heir. There was no need for you to be a mother anymore.

You turned another page of your book, watching the beautiful illustrations. You had dreamed of reading this to a little girl who looked like you, or perhaps a boy that would have looked like the man of your dreams. They would have learned High Valyrian, and spoke it as beautifully as your mother and stepfather did.

It would not come to pass. Not any longer.

A soft knock on your door makes you set down your book, closing it with great care. Then, you get up and put on your robe over your sleeping shift.

“You may enter.”

Your husband steps in, dressed for bed already. He is a handsome man, you think, biting your lower lip. Tall, dark and handsome, Cregan is the sort of man your childhood self would have pictured marrying.

He could have been the perfect man to fall in love with, were it not for the fact that he would never love you back. He already loved someone else, someone who you could never aspire to match. His first wife, Lady Arra.

As Alicent had learned, it was impossible to overshadow a ghost. Dead as she was, she could never make mistakes. He would forget all her imperfections.

She gave him a child, she was the wife he chose. The one he married for love, not duty. A practical, northern woman his bannermen had surely liked far more as a match to him than a soft southron princess who didn’t even have a dragon.

“I was wondering if you would welcome my company tonight, Princess.” Your husband says, voice emotionless. He is only here because of duty, it seems. “We could share the bed.”

“You said we could wait to consummate our union.” You keep your voice firm. It is not a task you anticipate eagerly, but you are not afraid of it either. You had seen enough of your mother and Daemon to know bedding someone can be pleasing. It is only the awkwardness of doing so with a stranger that puts you off.

“I was not referring to that.” Your husband says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “The nights are cold in Winterfell. Is it wrong for a man to seek closeness to his wife?”

You frown. His behavior is most puzzling. He intends to share your bed… To sleep? Your mother shared her bed with Daemon, but she also bedded him. It makes no sense to you that he wants to sleep next to you without touching you. Most marriages don’t do that. Much less if they are political matches.

“It is not a sin. But why would you..?” You question, but your Lord Husband is getting up already, huffing. He seems angered that you are unable to understand his message, whatever it might be. He storms off, leaving you confused over his behaviour.

That night, Cregan dreams of running. Of having a snout covered in blood, of jumping into the river, trying to trap a seahorse.

He never manages to. Wolves aren’t meant to hunt seahorses.

#cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x female reader #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #hotd fanfic #hotd cregan #cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark x oc #cregan x oc #seasons of my love series #hotd #asoif/got #asoiaf fanfic #asoif fanfic #asoiaf #cregan stark #house stark

459 notes · View notes

bbokicidal · 3 days ago

Text

But What Do I Know? | SKZ [Virgin!OT8]

Just some odd headcanons I've got regarding Virgin!SKZ. Some things I think they're into, how they behave as virgins, etc. But again, what do I know?~

Members are grouped into categories for these headcanons.

Warnings: 18+ Content; Oral sex, fingering, spitting/spit mentioned, dry grinding/humping, cum, makeouts, biting

NSFW Masterlist | SFW Masterlist

Group Number One : The 'I swear I didn't know it would happen!' Boys [The Pants Cummers]

Virgin!Minho swears on his life - to himself, of course - that he WILL NOT come in his pants the first time the two of you have a heavy makeout session - but it happens anyways. And he realizes after that, that he kind of.. likes it? He learns if he grinds on you a little he also gets the friction from his jeans and that helps him come even faster. Forget being put down because he reaches his high in just a few minutes - he's trying to makeout with you as long as possible to see how many times he can come.

Virgin!Jisung is WILDLY embarrassed when it happens, until he realizes you never noticed. Even if he'd gotten all blubbery and started to whimper in nervousness, you'd though he was just enjoying himself and whining into your mouth because he was happy. But then he excused himself to the bathroom to clean up and took nearly half an hour, his ears still beet red when he returned to you. You'd asked what happened and when he was honest, you reassured him it was fine that it happened - and that you thought it was kind of hot. Now, he lets it happen to please you because he knows you like it - which makes him love it even more.

Virgin!Jeongin isn't really sure what happened the first time. He was making out with you, you were on top of him - and then his thighs were trembling and you were sitting up in shock. As soon as he realizes he'd just nutted in his boxers, he's flushed in the neck and chest with embarrassment. How did that happen - WHY did that happen? He's all whiny and whispering about how he's so so sorry that he'd just done that with you on top of him. But when you shush him and whisper that it's okay while kissing his neck and tugging his collar down to mark him up, he'd begun to think maybe it wasn't that bad. And if you kept kissing him like that it was definitely going to happen again.

Group Number Two : The Masters with their Hands

Virgin!Chris doesn't really have full confidence in himself when he slips a hand in your panties for the first time, but he'd done as much research as he possibly could before his date with you earlier that night so he was sure he'd be fine. And his confidence only raised after you let your head tip back and moaned out his name. He'd let out a sigh as he pushed two fingers into your warmth, new to the feeling of being inside of you but enjoying it nonetheless. And your reactions, your whining of how much you loved his hands and how big his knuckles are, how good they feel on your walls - Yeah, he's a bit cocky after that and no longer worried about if he'll be able to please you.

Virgin!Hyunjin knows what he's doing in theory - not in practice. He did no research but it can't be that hard; and for him, it's not. It seems to come to him naturally (after you having to guide his thumb to where your clit actually is), with his middle and ring fingers pushing deep into your pussy until your thighs were quivering against his hips. He's a master at multitasking, able to rub your clit with his thumb and pump his fingers into you almost too quickly too well. And all while hovering above you, biting his lip and looking so good, too? Almost a bit mean of him to be this pretty and talented in bed.

Virgin!Seungmin really only is good at this because he plays games on PC. He's use to clicking the keys quickly, using multiple fingers at once - so you'd best bet he's good at fucking his fingers into you so quick it's got you nearly crying against the sheets. Also another who's good at multitasking - again, because of gaming - but it's with his other hand this time. And his mouth. He'll lean down to suck on your clit, fuck two or three fingers into you, and reach up to grope and tug at your chest with what feels like practiced (even though it's not) ease. Also mean in bed but.. in a different way. ;]

Group Number Three : The 'I can't help it' Boys [The Bed Humpers]

Virgin!Changbin swears that he didn't even realize he was grinding against the mattress while making out with you until he was making a mess on the sheets. Usually it's you he teases about your orgasm hitting early or the way your legs tremble in need when he sucks on your chest during heavier makeout sessions. But this time? This time it was him being teased, plump cheeks rosy pink and eyes darting over the sheets where pre had leaked from his tip and smeared on the mint of your bed. He's pouty, swearing up and down he didn't realize he had done that, before being welcomed back into your waiting arms with a shy smile. He waits until he has your reassurance that it's okay and it's nothing to be embarrassed about before he lets it happen again - and even blushes and gets shy when you ask him a few weeks later why he isn't humping the blankets while he sucks on your neck and chest. You think it's cute - and he's happy to please.

Virgin!Felix is.. kind of shameless about it. He's happy to let you know he's into you by touching and kissing and whatever - but he's a little too shy, and inexperienced, to even think about grinding on you. Your hips? His hips? Not connecting just yet. He's waaaay too shy to do anything like that. But he does want the friction, does crave the touch and grind of it all, so he'll go for the next best thing - laying between your legs while he kisses you all nice and slow in the early morning and rolling his hips down against the mattress. The feeling of his pajama pants rubbing on his cock is perfect, and the stiffness of the mattress... It's enough to satisfy him without getting too touchy with you just yet. And you seem to find it cute, too, that he humps the mattress all shy and sweet. If he notices you looking or watching he'll probably stop but any other time he's happy to keep going. Though there have been a few times he's gotten closer and humped your thigh instead. Not that you were complaining.

Group Number Four : The '*moans while neck deep in pussy*' Boys [The Messy Eaters]

Virgin!Hyunjin looooooves eating pussy. It's his favorite past time actually. Not busy? He's on his knees between your legs while you watch a show. Getting ready for sexy time? He's on his knees at the end of the bed waiting. Getting home from work? He's kissing you in the doorway and pinning you there so he can go down on you right away and relieve any stress. Honestly just a househusband with a nasty mouth who CANNOT keep his spit in it. It's like he's feral, almost. The type of guy who growls when you try to pull away or who bites at your thighs, nipping at your clit when you squirm too much. Again, so inexperienced that he's honestly not super great at eating you out - but does his best and is more than enough to please, at the cost of spit dripping down his chin and your thighs.

Virgin!Jisung. I've said it before, I'm saying it again!! Jisung likes to eat you out but really only when it's something casual and lazy. At first he was SO nervous because he was afraid he'd mess up or be bad at it - but then he realized, you're.. pretty chill about it all. You'll be on your phone and he'll be between your legs, sucking on your clit and dragging his tongue through your folds like you're the sweetest ice cream he's ever tasted. He's sweet when he eats you out and he's really careful about it, but he's.. drooling everywhere. Maybe even builds up the courage to spit on it if he thinks you're not paying attention, only to apologize and giggle when you flinch in surprise.

If y'all want a part two let me know - I have like 4-5 other groups already written in my notes lol.

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @jabmastersurpriseee @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek

#skz imagine #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz smut #stray kids smut #bangchan x reader #felix x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #seungmin x reader #IN x reader #han x reader #lee know x reader #skz scenario #skz headcanons #stray kids headcanons #bbokicidal

715 notes · View notes

carnalcrows · 2 days ago

Text

NO HARD FEELINGS - SQUARE GUARD

genre: smut

pairing: square guard x circle guard m!reader

content warnings: bottom reader, top guard, blowjobs, y/n is not used, facefucking, choking, hair pulling, reader is used as a stress buster, mentions of guns.

word count: 0.8k

A/N: based of this fic (changed triangle to square for increased power dynamics

The silence in the square guard’s quarters was thick enough to cut with a knife. You stood stiffly near the door, unsure of what to expect, your hands clasped behind your back. It wasn’t every day you were summoned by the square guard himself—your superior, the one who barked orders and ensured every task was carried out with precision.

“Relax,” his voice came, smooth but authoritative, as he leaned back in his chair. His mask, angular and imposing, tilted ever so slightly in your direction. “I didn’t call you here for a disciplinary matter.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. Beneath your own circular mask, your pulse raced. What could he possibly want from you?

“I’ve noticed you,” he continued, rising from his chair. He moved with an unnerving calm, his black-gloved hands clasped behind his back. “You’re efficient. Quiet. Not like some of the others who bumble around like they’ve forgotten the rules the moment they step into this place.”

“Thank you, sir,” you replied quickly, your voice steady despite the warmth creeping up your neck.

He stopped just a few feet away, towering over you, his presence as commanding as ever. “It’s not a compliment,” he said, though there was an edge of something—admiration, perhaps?—in his tone. “It’s an observation.”

You swallowed hard. “Understood.”

For a moment, the room was silent again, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights. Then, he reached up, his fingers brushing the edge of his mask. With a deliberate motion, he removed it, revealing sharp features and an intense gaze that seemed to pierce right through you.

You froze. Protocol dictated that guards never reveal their faces, let alone their superiors. But here he was, unmasked, watching you closely, waiting for a reaction.

“You’re wondering why I called you here,” he said, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

“I… yes, sir.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make the air between you feel charged. “I’ve had a long day, and I thought I could use some… company.”

Your breath hitched as his words sank in. The subtle shift in his tone, the way his eyes lingered on yours—it was clear what he meant.

“I—uh—”

“Relax,” he said again, this time softer, his hand brushing lightly against your arm. “No one’s going to know. And if they do, they won’t dare say a word.”

Before you could process what was happening, he removed your mask, and he closed the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but tentative. It was firm, commanding, yet somehow inviting. His gloved hands cupped your face, holding you in place as his lips moved against yours with an intensity that left you breathless.

Your mask clattered to the floor as you reached up, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. His lips were warm, his stubble rough against your skin, and the sheer dominance in the way he kissed you sent a thrill down your spine.

The kiss deepened, growing messy and desperate as his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You couldn’t help the small noise that escaped your throat, which only seemed to spur him on.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and ragged.

“Me?” you managed to gasp out between kisses.

“Don’t play coy,” he said, his smirk evident even as he pressed another searing kiss to your lips. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

The heat between you was electric, your heart pounding in your chest as his hands roamed, firm but controlled. He kissed you like he owned you, and for the moment, you didn’t mind at all.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your lips swollen and your faces flushed. He ran a gloved thumb over your bottom lip, his eyes dark and unreadable.

He roughly pushed you down to your knees, and unbuckled his belt. Before you could say anything, his erection sprang out, hitting your cheek lightly.

“You know what to do,” he stated, so you kissed the angry red tip before swallowing his length.

He hissed and threw his head back, which you assumed was a green flag to continue. You bobbed your head up and down his length, while using your hands to massage his balls heavy with his load.

He gripped your hair harshly, forcing you to take him all the way until your nose pressed against his pubes.

You mumbled incoherently around his length, to which he groaned before snapping his hips back and forth into your mouth at a rapid pace.

He sensed that he was about to climax, and his grip on your hair tightened. Knowing not to pull away, you scrunched your eyes closed and waited.

No sooner than a few seconds, he pushed your head all the way to his hilt, the musky scent of his balls hitting you. Your hands gripped on his thighs while he forced you to swallow his entire load, before slowly pulling out.

As you lay there panting and your knees feeling quite numb, you hear the sound of a gun clicking in place.

“I assume you know the rules, any guard caught without their mask is to be…terminated. No hard feelings.”

A shot is fired.

#squid game x male reader #squid game #squid game guard x male reader #x male reader #male reader #squid game x reader #gay #male reader smut #x male reader smut #smut #x reader #bottom male reader

459 notes · View notes

quarterlifekitty · 3 days ago

Text

net meet cute

aka: how they start cyberstalking you. Some of these are more on the innocent side, some are slightly more intense.

Gaz sees you pop up in the people you may know section. He most certainly doesn't know you, but you are his type. As it turns out, you have some ridiculously distant relation of people that leads to his circle of connections (you're like his sister's college roommate's wedding photographer's cousin or something). But that one little tether is enough to make him feel tugged.

Soap started following you for your artwork. He follows anyone who even remotely interests him, and he liked what you made. You become a name he looks forward to on his feed-- he feels a bit parasocial about it, he knows your body of work so well now. And one day, he sees you share a post you were tagged in: It's a photo of you with another artist, both holding up the pieces you'd made to trade each other at a convention. He'd known you were talented, he didn't realize you were gorgeous as well.

Ghost sees you in the background of a video Soap shows him. Some disgusting display where people are trying to identify liquids they're drinking. When it's your turn, your face twists and you stick out your tongue, a little patch dyed umber from the soy sauce you'd sipped. He does a little detective work, finds you have a tiny little channel of your own. Nothing with a consistent schedule, clearly just a hobby, but there are a few videos of you restoring old toys, repainting dolls faces and things like that-- usually just showing your hands, but he finds your voice so soothing and you work with such delicate precision. Pretty soon he's obsessed with you, and fantasizing about ending up on your work table.

Price has very few reasons to surf online, but he does have a guilty pleasure: r/AITA. He loves a bit of tabloid level gossip now and again, and its the perfect place for it. He can see the world's most delusional people hard at work. His favorite ones are when both sides are clearly deranged and meant for each other. But then he sees you, posting about your shitty boyfriend, and all too willing to take the blame for the sorry state of things. And he finds himself rather keen on showing you how girls like you ought to be treated, as well as kicking your current man in the teeth.

I've mentioned this before, but I think König meets you in an online game. At first, you never speak on the microphone, and he doesn't either, but you're quite good, and your playstyle compliments his rather well. So he sends you a friend request on a whim, you accept it, playing a few rounds before turning on the party-only voice chat. And once he can hear you when you thank him for tanking damage, or targeting a player who'd been flanking, or pinging a pick-up for you, he's cooked. Looking you up on every social, trying desperately to find pictures of you, because he's sure you'll be as pretty as you sound.

Nikolai find you on a movie review website. He watches movies by the dozen when he gets some time off, but he's admittedly a little bereft of discussion partners, so review suit him fine. He typically disagrees with most of them, partially because he's naturally a contrarian, partially because the majority of online reviews are made by casual watchers and not lifelong cinephiles. And he comes across you, having written one of the only full, multiple-paragraph reviews for the obscure little number he'd just watched. And it straight up made him smile. Your review was punchy, funny, addressed multiple areas including the score, cinematography, casting, and costuming, and he agreed with a surprising portion of it. What he didn't agree with, he was intrigued by. He looks at your page to see what else you've written. You've seen and shared thoughts on many of his favorites, but quite a few things he's never seen, as well. He ends up watching them all, and feels a certain perverse excitement when it comes time to read another review, like he's a teenager taking you on a third date. Before long he's wondering where you are, if you go to the cinema. If they have non-hostile airspace.

Nikto finds you on the staff of some insanely obscure wiki/ID forum. Like, you help run a website/blog that's devoted exclusively to soviet era stuffed animals produced in Sergiev Posad (formerly known as Zagorsk). You help people identify them from pictures, from vague descriptions sent in to you of something from their childhood. He doesn't know why, but he ends up searching up images from others, often from unpopular and defunct listings on marketplace/bidding sites just to send to you. Just to read what you have to say about the stitch markings and stylistic eyes and the little tab of fabric on the leg seam from where the tag was cut. Maybe he'll take it further, maybe he won't. Maybe he'll find out where you are, just to make sure you're safe. Maybe he'll have to keep you safe. People with hearts like yours don't last in this world.

502 notes · View notes

th3mrskory · 2 days ago

Text

Unspoken Desires

Pairing: fem!Reader x Old Man!Logan

Warning: 18+ MDNI, SMUT,explicit language, coercion (if you squint), oral (male/female receiving), handjob, fingering, unprotected p in v, missionary, doggy style, anal play, creampie.

Summary: Y/N is always the one taking care of everyone, but tonight Logan decides it’s her turn to let go. Rough, tender, and unapologetically intense, he’ll make sure she doesn’t forget who’s in charge—or how good it feels to be taken care of for once.

Word count: 5.6k

A/N: As @coocoocachewgotscrewed so brilliantly put it, 'As the girl that takes care of everyone: SOMEONE TAKE CARE OF ME.' And that’s how this little fic came to life.

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

The world had never been kind to her softness. In her youth, she'd learned early that the only way to survive was to take up space, to become a force others couldn't ignore, even if they didn't understand it. She had built walls from the ground up, stone by stone until they formed a fortress no one could breach. She had everything together—mostly. She had to. People depended on her and needed her strength to carry them through the chaos of life, so she did. She carried it all. Always.

But there were moments—quiet moments, when the world was still—when the weight of it all pressed against her chest, relentless. The loneliness in her veins. The unspoken ache buried deep within her ribs.

She never asked for help. She didn't need it. Her hands were too used to giving. And when she laughed, when she made jokes about being single—"Men want to be babied. I don't have time to raise a child."—it was easier to mask the truth. It was easier to hide the hunger that lingered beneath her words. The hunger for something she couldn't name, something too soft to fit into the life she'd built.

It was supposed to be just another day, another task, another moment in the long string of motions she went through without thought. But then she saw him—Logan, standing there with that quiet, raw strength of his. The way he didn't try to impress anyone, didn't need to, because the power in him was as much in his silence as it was in his actions. There was no pretense. No façade.

And she hated that it drew her in.

She hated how much she wanted him—him, the one man who wouldn't cower in her presence, the one who wouldn't need her to be anything other than exactly what she was.

She noticed him more these days, more than she cared to admit. She tried to bury the thoughts, to ignore the way her heart would quicken whenever he was near, the way her body seemed to ache for something it didn't know how to name.

Logan saw it, though. He always did. The way she wore that strength-like armor. But he'd spent enough time with it to know what armor looked like—he knew what it meant to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and never let anyone see how heavy it was.

He didn't pity her. Hell, he admired her more than anyone he'd ever known. But he saw the cracks. The storm churned behind her eyes. The way she pulled away just when things might have gotten too real, too close.

She never let anyone in.

But he wasn't afraid of it. Not of her. Not of that ferocity.

And so, on that night, after a thousand little things had piled up until there was no room left for her to breathe, it came out.

Her words were sharp, and cutting, but they were the truth. The raw, jagged truth that she never allowed to be spoken. She was tired of pretending. Tired of holding the world together when no one saw her crumble beneath it.

"What, you think I don't need help? You think I like doing everything myself?" Her voice trembled only slightly, a crack in the fortress that she had so carefully built.

He didn't flinch. Didn't back away. He'd seen that wall before, and he didn't fear it.

He only stepped closer, his presence as solid as the ground beneath them.

"I think you're too damn stubborn to ask for it," he said, his voice low, but the understanding in it was enough to make her heart catch in her throat.

For a moment, the world paused. The storm inside her stilled, and she saw it—really saw it for the first time. He wasn't afraid of her strength. He didn't want to tear it down. He just wanted to be there, beside her, when it all became too much to bear.

He didn't need to fix her. He didn't need to save her.

He just needed to let her be.

Let her lean into him. Let her rest.

Her breath caught as she stepped toward him, her hands trembling, unsure but desperate. For once, she wasn't the one giving. For once, she could be held, could be taken care of.

Logan's hands were steady, as they always were, but now, they weren't just offering strength. They were offering safety—something she hadn't realized she'd been searching for all along.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice low, soothing. "You don't have to be strong all the time. You're allowed to let it out."

The words broke something inside her. Heat prickled behind her eyes, and her chest heaved with the weight of everything she'd kept buried.

Logan didn't move. He didn't push. He just let her cry, his hand resting firm and comforting on her back, his presence solid as the ground beneath her.

"Y/N..." His voice was softer now, laced with something she couldn't quite place. Gently, his hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away her tears with a tenderness that made her knees weak.

"You don't have to carry it all, bub. Let me in, just this once."

Her hands shook as she pressed them to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Grounding her. And when she rubbed her cheek against his palm, the motion instinctive, something inside her gave way.

Her eyes fell to his lips. The urge to kiss him became impossible to ignore.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against her forehead, but then he paused, his gaze locking with hers.

She couldn't stop herself. She leaned in, kissing him hard, desperate for the release, the comfort, the closeness. It was a kiss that broke everything wide open—a kiss that held the weight of everything they'd both been holding back.

The kiss deepened, the world narrowing to the warmth of his lips and the solid strength of his hands still cradling her face. She felt the tension in her chest unravel, replaced by a need that clawed at her, desperate and all-consuming.

Logan didn't rush. He never did. His hands slid down, slow and deliberate, tracing over her arms until his fingers wrapped around her wrists. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his breath hot against her lips.

"No walls. No fightin'. Just let me.", he murmured, his voice gravelly and sure, sending a shiver down her spine. The words hit her like a hammer, shattering the last of her defenses. She wasn't used to this, wasn't used to handing over the reins, but with Logan, it felt...safe. Right.

Her pulse thundered as she nodded, the tiniest of movements, but it was enough for him.

Logan's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile before he kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands guiding hers up and over her head. Her fingers curled instinctively as he pinned her wrists against the wall behind her, the roughness of the surface contrasting with the gentleness of his touch.

"Just let me make you feel good," he said, his voice low and commanding. She exhaled shakily, her head tilting back as his mouth moved to her neck, teeth scraping lightly against her skin before his tongue soothed the spot. Her body arched into him, her hips pressing forward, seeking more, needing more.

"Logan..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, a plea wrapped in the sound of his name.

He hummed against her throat, one hand still holding her wrists in place while the other traveled down her side, his fingers skimming over the curve of her hip. "That's it," he rumbled. "Let me hear you."

Each touch, each kiss, stripped away the layers she'd built to protect herself. She wasn't in control anymore—not of her body, not of her mind, not of the way she melted beneath him. And for once, she didn't care.

Logan moved with a precision that left her breathless, his hand slipping beneath her shirt, rough fingertips tracing the softness of her skin. He paused just below her ribs, his eyes flicking up to hers.

"Say it, darlin'," he coaxed. "Say you'll let me have you."

Her lips parted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I'm yours."

And that was all it took.

His hands, calloused and strong, gripped her thighs, hoisting her up with an ease that sent a shiver racing down her spine. She gasped, clinging to his shoulders as her body pressed tightly against his.

"Where's your bedroom?" he growled against her ear, his voice low, gravelly, and filled with the kind of raw command that made her knees weak, though she wasn't even standing.

"End of the hall," she whispered, the words trembling out of her as his teeth grazed her earlobe, a low hum rumbling deep in his chest.

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise almost too rough to feel soft, and yet it sent heat pooling low in her stomach.

He moved through her place with purposeful strides, each step a reminder of the strength coiled in his body. She felt the steady rhythm of his breathing against her chest, the way his arms tightened around her as if he dared anything or anyone to take her from him.

When they reached her bedroom, Logan kicked the door open without hesitation, the force behind it making it swing back against the wall. The dim light from the hallway framed his silhouette—broad shoulders, wild hair, and eyes that burned as he looked down at her.

The room felt smaller with him in it, his presence overwhelming, and consuming. He didn't glance around, didn't make a single remark. His focus was entirely on her as if the world beyond her didn't exist.

"On the bed," he rasped, his voice cutting through the thick silence.

Before she could even process his words, he was lowering her onto the mattress, her back meeting the cool sheets as his hands lingered, pressing her down as he needed her to stay right where she was.

"Logan—"

"Quiet." The single word was sharp and commanding, and it sent a jolt of heat through her.

His eyes roved over her, dark and smoldering, drinking her in as though he was committing every inch of her to memory. One knee pressed into the mattress beside her, his weight shifting as he leaned closer, his hands bracketing her head.

"Spent your whole damn life holdin' everything together," he muttered his tone a mix of frustration and something darker. "Not tonight. Tonight, you're mine."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out, just a sharp intake of breath as he tilted her chin up with his thumb, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"I'm not askin', darlin'." His voice dropped to a growl, sending a shudder down her spine.

Her heart thundered in her chest as his lips claimed hers again, rough and unrelenting, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip just enough to make her gasp. The sound made his grip tighten, his hands sliding down her sides slowly as if savoring the way her body responded to him.

"You don't have to be strong tonight," he murmured against her lips, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. "Let me carry it. Let me carry you."

Her resolve cracked beneath the weight of his words, her body trembling as her hands found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. For once, she didn't fight. She didn't resist.

She just let go.

Logan's eyes never left hers as he straightened, standing tall above her. His hands were steady as he reached for the hem of her shirt. The air between them felt charged, and heavy, like the moment before a storm.

"Arms up," he commanded, his voice low and rough, leaving no room for hesitation.

She obeyed without a word, raising her arms as he gripped the fabric, his knuckles brushing against her sides. He pulled the shirt up slowly, dragging the material over her skin with a sensuality that made her shiver. The shirt caught for a moment, tangled in her hair, and Logan let out a low chuckle, dark and throaty.

"Relax," he muttered, his voice softer now as he freed her, his fingers lingering against her temple, brushing stray strands away from her face.

The shirt dropped to the floor with a quiet rustle, forgotten the second it left his hand. His gaze roamed over her now-bare skin, unhurried and scorching, like he wanted to memorize every curve, every scar, every inch of her that she'd never let anyone else see.

"You're beautiful," he said, the words rough and quiet as if they weren't meant for her to hear, but they landed with the force of a confession.

Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny, but there was no hiding from him. He stepped closer, his hands moving to the waistband of her jeans. His fingers brushed her skin, calloused and warm, and she bit back a gasp as he popped the button with ease.

"Look at me," he ordered, his tone low but firm.

Her eyes met his, and the intensity in his gaze made her breath hitch. He was utterly focused as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world. Slowly, he slid the zipper down, the sound loud in the quiet room.

"Lift your hips," he murmured, his hands curling around the waistband, tugging the denim down with maddening slowness.

She shifted, doing as he asked, and he peeled the jeans away, dragging them down her legs. His fingers brushed her calves, and her ankles before the fabric joined her shirt on the floor. The air felt colder now, her skin hypersensitive to every little movement, every little touch.

Logan's eyes raked over her, his expression dark and unreadable. Then he reached out, his hands gripping her ankles, his thumbs running along the delicate bone there. He tugged her toward him, pulling her to the edge of the bed with a strength that made her stomach flip.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he growled, his voice ragged, laced with something almost feral.

Her heart raced as he leaned down, his fingers hooking into the thin straps of her bra, sliding them off her shoulders with an aching slowness. The straps fell away, his knuckles grazing her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"You don't need this," he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her collarbone as he reached behind her, unhooking the clasp with a practiced ease.

The bra slipped from her body, and Logan let it fall without a glance, his hands already returning to her, tracing a path down her sides. His palms were warm, rough in the best way, and they left trails of fire wherever they touched.

"Every inch of you," he whispered, his lips ghosting over her skin as his hands slid lower. "Mine."

Her breath hitched, her body arching toward him instinctively, surrendering completely to his touch.

Logan's hands paused at her hips, his fingers slipping under the thin elastic of her panties. His gaze flicked up to hers, holding her there with an intensity that made her pulse thunder in her ears.

She nodded, her voice failing her, but it didn't matter. Logan saw everything he needed in her eyes.

With one smooth motion, he slid the last barrier from her body, baring her completely to him. He stood there for a moment, his gaze raking over her with a hunger that made her shiver.

"Perfect," he muttered, more to himself than to her, before leaning down, his lips brushing against her ear.

"Now let me show you what it means to let go."

Logan knelt between her legs, his hands on her knees, gently parting them as he moved with calm, deliberate intent. She froze for a second, a wave of embarrassment washing over her as she realized she hadn't shaved. Her gaze quickly flicked away, her cheeks flushing with the sudden vulnerability she felt.

But Logan noticed. He looked at her with a reassuring, almost amused smirk, his eyes flickering down her body before meeting hers again.

"Don't," he murmured, his voice low and soothing as he pressed a thumb along her inner thigh. "I like it just like this."

Her breath hitched at his words, the tension in her body slowly melting under his touch.

He lowered himself slowly, nuzzling his face against her inner thighs, placing soft, teasing kisses along their expanse. His right hand moved to her center, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her sensitive bud. His middle and ring fingers slid over her hole, collecting her wetness, and spreading it across her labia.

"She's drooling for me," he murmured as his fingers slowly began to push inside, allowing her to adjust to the stretch. He kept his gaze fixed on her face, watching her pleasure as his fingers began to pump in and out, each movement deliberate and slow.

His fingers continued their rhythmic motion, working in tandem with his mouth. He moved his tongue over her clit, the tip flicking over the sensitive skin in a slow, teasing rhythm that made her body arch toward him. Her hands fisted the sheets beneath her, desperately trying to hold onto something as the heat of his touch seared into her.

"Logan... please," she gasped, her voice trembling, her hips pressing closer to his face.

Logan didn't stop. His tongue flicked faster now, tracing every curve, every inch of her, his mouth drinking in her arousal. She couldn't stop herself anymore; her back arched as her body responded to him, the tension building within her like a wave. "So good," she moaned, her voice breathy and desperate.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Logan murmured against her skin, his voice rough, thick with desire. He paused for a moment, lifting his head to look up at her. "I can feel you shaking. Let go."

She shuddered under his gaze, the command in his voice stripping away the last of her resistance. Her body wanted to obey, to give herself over completely to the sensations he was creating. "I can't... I need you, Logan," she pleaded, tangling her fingers in his hair, urging him back to her, wordlessly begging for more.

Logan smirked, his hands sliding down her sides, gripping her hips tightly as he pulled her closer to his mouth, continuing the rhythm with even more force, more hunger. Every lick, every flick of his tongue brought her closer to the edge.

He could feel the way her body tightened, the way her breath quickened. And then, without warning, his mouth pressed harder against her clit, his tongue moving with desperate speed as he drove her to the brink. She moaned loudly, her body shuddering as she reached the edge. "Logan... oh god," she cried out, completely surrendering to the pleasure.

As she caught her breath, her body still humming with the lingering sensation of his touch, a quiet yearning stirred within her. She sat up, her eyes locking onto his as she gently took his hand. Without a word, she brought his fingers to her lips, her eyes never leaving his. She traced them with her tongue, sucking them clean, savoring the taste of her arousal, before pulling back just a little.

"Dirty girl…" he said, his left hand cupping her cheek.

"I could be sucking something else", she said seductively.

He looked at her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. "You don't have to," he murmured, his voice low, steady.

"I want to. Please."

Logan stood up slowly, keeping his eyes locked with hers. There was an intensity in his gaze, an unspoken challenge, and a silent invitation all at once.

She positioned herself on her knees before him. Her movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic, as her hands traced the strong lines of his shoulders, sliding down his chest, and over the hard muscles of his belly.

When her fingers reached his belt, she didn't hesitate. With a swift motion, she unbuckled it, the leather slipping free with an audible click before it fell to the floor. Her hands moved quickly to the button of his dress pants, flicking it open, and she slowly lowered the zipper.

She tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it free from his waistband. Her fingers, delicate yet determined, began to unbutton the shirt, one button at a time. Her gaze never left him, and the way her hands worked with such slow precision sent a wave of heat through his chest. The act was intimate, each button a whispered invitation.

Once the shirt was undone, she moved to the cuffs, gently opening them before pressing a soft kiss to the back of each of his hands. Logan closed his eyes briefly at the touch, the tenderness of it catching him off guard. His thumb stroked the curve of her cheek, the touch affectionate, reverent.

There was something magnetic about the way she undressed him—each movement slow and filled with purpose. Her eyes held a quiet hunger that mirrored his own, a silent language between them that made his pulse quicken.

He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. She didn't waste a moment, pulling his pants and boxers down his legs in one smooth, fluid motion, letting them drop to the floor as he stepped out of the garment.

He stood there, bare in front of her. His body was exposed, but it wasn't the nudity that left him feeling vulnerable. It was the way his body didn't respond like it once had, the slow burn of frustration creeping in.

But that did not deter her. She braced herself on all fours, the movement full of quiet confidence. Leaning in, she began licking and gently sucking at his balls, the heat of her mouth sending a shiver through him. His breath hitched as her right hand took hold of his semi-hard dick, her touch light but teasing, coaxing him to respond. The softness of her lips, the pressure of her hand, stirred something deep inside him, and he could feel himself slowly hardening.

She licked a long stripe from his balls up to his tip, her mouth hot against his skin. The sudden surge of sensation had him grunting low, his hands instinctively finding their way into her hair, fingers curling into her locks as he pulled her closer.

"Fuck," Logan breathed, his voice low and rough, as his grip tightened on her hair, pulling her in deeper, the feeling of her mouth sending waves of heat through him. "Don't stop," he muttered.

Y/N could feel him growing heavier and thick in her mouth. She released his dick with a loud pop and with both hands began pumping it.

At the sight Logan closed his eyes and let his head fall back, the hold on her hair tightening. She took him in her mouth and, hollowing her cheeks, began taking him deeper.

She gagged around him when her nose reached the grey hairs on the base and pulled back coughing, a string of saliva connecting her to his member.

Y/N looked up and smiled mischievously seeing him fully erect.

Logan pushed her onto the bed, his hands firmly pinning her wrists to the mattress as he hovered over her. His eyes locked onto hers.

"You're trouble," he finally muttered, his voice deep and rough.

She smirked, but there was a glint of challenge in her eyes. "You don't seem to mind," she teased, her breath hitching as his gaze darkened with hunger.

His lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. Without warning, he moved, pinning her down more securely. "No, I don't," he growled, his voice low as he leaned in closer, brushing his lips over her neck.

Her breath quickened as she felt the weight of his body pressing against hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him, and despite herself, she arched up, meeting the intensity of his gaze. He was in control now, his hands steady as he guided her into place.

He took a breath, his lips brushing against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. "You're going to beg for it," he whispered. His tone was rough, yet there was a subtle edge of something softer, almost possessive. "And I'll make sure you don't forget who's in charge."

She bit her lip, anticipating what he would do next.

Logan smiled darkly and kissed her again, his right hand traveling down her chest and grabbing her right breast, giving it a harsh squeeze.

He positioned himself between her legs, gripping his member at the base as he ran his tip along her sensitive center, teasing her with deliberate strokes from her clit to her entrance. Each motion made her hips twitch, her body responding instinctively to his touch.

Her moans filled the room, "Logan," she said breathlessly.

"Yes?"

She closed her legs around him pulling him closer. Logan laughed at her antics. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned back slightly, gathering spit in his mouth before letting it fall onto her, aiding his movement.

Her moans became desperate, almost broken, her hands clutching at his forearms. "Logan," she whimpered, her voice raw with need. "Please… I need you."

His smirk deepened as he held her gaze, the intensity in his eyes making her squirm beneath him. "I told you, you'd beg" he murmured, his voice low and rough.

Her chest heaved, her lips trembling with the words she couldn't seem to stop. "I'm yours, Logan. Please…"

One large hand moved to her throat, his palm pressing gently against her skin, holding her in place. His thumb traced the line of her jaw as his other hand gripped her thigh, pulling her even closer. "Mine," he growled, his tone possessive, claiming.

The pressure at her throat made her head swim, a strange mix of restraint and trust that sent a bolt of heat through her. She arched into his hold, her body surrendering completely.

"You like this, don't you?" he rasped, his lips brushing against hers but not quite touching. His voice was low and commanding, but there was a glint of something softer beneath it, a promise just out of reach.

Her breath hitched, and she let out a shaky moan, her hands clutching at his wrist. "Yes," she whispered, desperate and trembling.

His mouth curved into a wicked smirk as his hand shifted, loosening his hold just enough for her to feel the contrast. "Let me take care of you," he murmured, dragging his thumb along the curve of her jaw.

The words lingered in the air, heavy with intent but unspoken in full. His free hand slid down her body, fingers tracing her curves with a deliberateness that made her skin tingle.

She whimpered, her body responding to every calculated movement. "Logan..."

He leaned in, his lips ghosting over her ear. "Stop thinking. Just feel," he whispered, the edge of his voice rough yet grounding. "That's all I want from you tonight."

He shifted between her legs, his hands gripping her hips, lifting her with ease as he positioned himself. The heat of his body pressed against hers, and her heart thudded in her chest, anticipation coiling tightly in her core.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper.

She nodded, her breath hitching as she felt the tip of his member pressing against her entrance. With a slow, fluid motion, he eased himself inside, feeling the resistance of her body disappearing.

Y/N threw her head back, a low moan slipping from her lips as her body adjusted to his length, "Fuck," she breathed, unable to hide the raw need in her voice.

She bit her lip at the feeling of him twitching inside of her. Logan leaned forward, his tongue sliding down the side of her neck. He then moved to her breasts, attaching his mouth to one of her nipples and sucking. He released her nipple.

"Breathe," he whispered, his hand sliding up to rest on her waist, grounding her. "I've got you."

He straightened up, his body towering over hers, and braced his hand on the headboard as he drew his hips back, the feel of his withdrawal sending a shiver through her. She barely had time to adjust before he slammed back into her.

She was trembling beneath him, her nails digging into his shoulders as she tried to keep up with the brutal rhythm he set. Every time he pulled out, every time he pushed back in, the pressure inside her built, and she couldn't help but whimper.

He picked up the pace, his thrusts turning faster, more brutal, as he pushed into her with a hunger that matched the fire in her veins. Her hips moved to meet him, desperate for more, and he responded with a growl of approval, his hands tightening on her hips to anchor her in place as his rhythm grew harder, more punishing.

"Fuck Y/N."

She smiled at him.

"You like that, don't you?" Logan's voice was rough, and dark, as he pulled back slightly, only to push in even harder.

She couldn't stop herself from moaning, the sharpness of the sensation hitting her in waves.

"That's right," Logan growled, his grip on her hips like iron as he rocked into her with force.

Her body responded without thought, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, faster as if she couldn't get enough. The sound of skin slapping echoed in the room, mixing with the desperate gasps coming from her lips.

Without warning, he shifted his position, his hands leaving her hips for a moment, only to slip under her and lift her body, pulling her into a new angle. She gasped, the sudden shift throwing her off balance, but Logan's grip on her was firm, and controlling, as he guided her back onto him.

Her back arched instinctively, the new position deepening their connection, and she moaned, her hands reaching for the headboard to brace herself. Logan's thrusts grew slower but deeper, more deliberate now, aimed to bring her right to the brink.

Logan's hand came down hard on her left asscheek jolting Y/N forward.

"Logan…" she gasped, her voice trembling with need.

He could hear it—the desperation in her voice, the way her body was bucking against his. He watched her face, her eyes closed tight, her lips parted in a silent plea for release. He wanted to hear her, wanted to feel her break under him.

He gave one last hard, deep thrust, then paused, letting the sensation build before pulling back almost completely. She whimpered, the loss of movement driving her crazy, and before she could protest, he repositioned again, this time bending her further back, his hands now holding her shoulders down as he ran his member between her asscheeks.

Her breath hitched as she looked back at him, over her shoulder, her eyes filled with raw desire.

Logan didn't wait any longer. He positioned himself behind her, his hands firmly gripping her hips as he pushed into her slowly at first, savoring the tight, intense heat that engulfed him. The change in angle sent a shockwave of pleasure through her, and she moaned, her hands clutching at the sheets in desperation.

"Fuck," Logan muttered, his voice low and full of grit as he began to move, his thrusts quick and forceful, each one pushing her further into the bed.

She gasped with each hard thrust, the pleasure taking over her senses, her body rocking in time with his. The deeper connection from this position sent waves of bliss coursing through her, and she pressed back into him, her hips meeting his with every thrust.

"Does this feel better?" Logan growled, his hands tightening on her hips, guiding her with raw intensity.

She could barely manage a breathless, "Yes, harder…"

His thrusts grew harder, faster, and relentless, pushing her toward the edge.

She couldn't hold back anymore, "Logan …I'm gonna…"

His strokes grew sloppier as he grabbed her neck, angling her face so he could kiss her.

Y/N's moans filled the room. The mixture of his hard thrusts and the slap of his balls on her ass pushed her over the edge as she began shaking.

Y/N fell forward, her face on the bed and her ass in the air. Logan didn't stop. His hands opened her asscheeks as he watched his thick, veiny member going in and out of her hole, creating a creamy ring at the base of his member.

The new angle allowed Logan to continuously hit her cervix. "Be a good girl, come on my dick."

Her hands fisted the sheets and Logan, with his thumb began circling her other hole. The new stimulation tipped Y/N over the edge as she came hard on his member.

Logan didn't stop. Didn't even slow down as he followed her, his movements like a force of nature, unyielding, as he pushed her through the waves of pleasure, every last inch of her shaking with the force of it.

Her mouth fell open as she felt him stilling and his release spilling inside of her.

"Fuck!", he said, throwing his head back.

He remained still for a moment but then pulled out when he felt his member softening. He sat on his knees admiring their joint releases dripping out of her spent hole.

"Jesus, that's a fucking sight.", his index finger reached collecting the release and pushing it back.

Y/N moaned and fell on her stomach. He removed his fingers and lay next to her.

"Did it help?", he asked playfully.

"Shut up Logan."

______________________________________________________________

430 notes · View notes

mojavebluez · 3 days ago

Text

Bleed - the salesman x fem!reader

"What can I say?" His mouth curls into a soulless smile. "I like watching girls bleed."

summary - days after your first encounter, the two of you meet again, exactly as promised. This time, he’s eager for you to get to know him better. You play a game of two truths and a lie - with a twist: for every lie you miss, he gets to make you bleed.

tags - knifeplay, age gap, praise kink, degradation kink, blood as lube, bdsm, non-con, sadomasochism, sub!reader, dom!salesman, creampie, unprotected sex

a/n - thanks for the love on part 1! This is one of my first times writing nsfw stuff so I’m so grateful for the positive feedback :))

part 2 to ‘Russian roulette - the salesman x fem!reader’

4.3k words

———————————————————————

The days leading up to Friday were painfully slow. Your mind was plagued by thoughts of him, mostly denial about the entire situation. You were conflicted. The memory of him, so tall and utterly imposing - it sometimes made your heart skip, sometimes made it sink. You got the feeling you were only seeing a small part of him, a sample of his entire character. It filled you with dread. And excitement.

Friday came and there was no sign of him. You spent your whole day twiddling your thumbs and glancing out windows, searching for any sign of him. Occasionally, you would see a man in a suit walking past, and frantically stand up to see if it was him. But it was never him. You had memorised the curve of his back after nights of reminiscing, the exact slope of his jaw. It was ironic, really: with this information you could easily go to the police and explain the situation. You never did, though, and he must have known you wouldn't. That card - incredibly incriminating evidence, really - was just another symbol of the power he held over you.

On the way home, the reality of the situation becomes very real indeed. If you ran away, would he know where to find you? If you stayed at a friend's place for the night, or even in a hotel, would he seek you out? No. You aren't the sort of person to back out of something. Not now you're so close to finding out who this man really is.

You knock on the door of your apartment, expecting one of your parents to let you in. Usually, it stays locked during the day. But when you bring your hand to the door, it opens at your touch. You glance around. Then, step inside. The entire apartment is dark, every shutter closed and every light off. You don't turn them on, too afraid of what you might find if you do. Carefully, you search the place, trying to make your footsteps as silent as possible. But there's no sign of your parents.

Finally, you open your mouth to call their names. From behind, a hand claps over your face, muffling your voice. Your eyes widen in realisation, and you grab at the hand, attempting to pull it off. You recognise the smell of him. Something musky and expensive, though slightly metallic. The smell brings you to your senses, and your adrenaline kicks in. You scream against his hand, scratching at his fingers and kicking out your legs in an attempt to break free from his hold. He doesn't waver, just pulls another arm around you, holding you even firmer in place than before.

Eventually, you grow tired, and decide to do something you don't really want to. You bite his hand as hard as you can. He makes a pained noise and rips his hand away, staggering backwards. You jump forward, away from his hold, then turn to face him. He holds the wrist of his injured hand, studying it with a frustrated expression. When he looks up at you, eyes burning, fear sinks in.

You step backwards, anticipating his response. "I'm- I'm sorry, I didn't know-"

"Now, now," he shakes his head, a false smile on his face, "what did you do that for, sweetheart?"

You blink frantically, assessing your options. The only way out is the door, and in order to escape you would have to pass him, but he could grab you with ease. After a moment, he decides for you. He moves towards you, gripping your upper arm and wrenching your body toward him. His fingers easily curl around your entire arm. Your head rushes with regret. An assault like that can't go unpunished with him. You know it.

He pulls you through your own apartment and into the dining room, an action which indicates he already knows his way around. He pulls out a chair at the head of the table and pushes you into it. He wastes no time. Already set on the table are coils of binding; he grabs them and instantly starts tying your ankles. He then pulls your arms behind you with painful force, binding your wrists.

"I was really hoping we wouldn't have to do this," he says bitterly whilst tying the ropes.

"How did you get in here?" You ask him, tears thick in your throat. "Where are my parents?"

"Questions I can answer later. Be patient," he stands back once he finishes, and dusts off his hands like an artist that has just finished a project.

"Please-" you begin to say, but he cuts you off with a palm raised in the air. A ring of purple, angry teeth marks are imbedded in his skin.

"You talk far too much. Do I have to keep you quiet?" He lowers his hand carefully.

You press your lips together and shake your head frantically. That would only make the situation worse. He smiles approvingly, then lowers himself to his haunches, studying you from head to toe in a clinical manner. You feel scrutinised under his cold gaze.

"Need I remind you," he stands up, "you called me. I come here out of my own kindness, and this is how I am repaid?" He raises his hand again, showing the teeth marks. Then, he tuts and shakes his head as though he is greatly disappointed.

"I said I'm sorry," you watch him carefully, fighting back tears. His level voice seems more terrifying to you than any sort of outright aggression. When he is in control, he knows just how to make you scream.

He leans back against the wall and folds his arms. "I had something else planned for this little rendezvous, but I'm not sure it will suffice after that outburst. Something else, I think."

You watch him ponder. Everything about him is still a mystery to you. Why did he choose you? There are so many other girls. You scan him from head to toe, almost sizing him up. He wears a different suit this time: dark navy and paired with a black tie. His shoes are perfectly polished, and his hair is slicked back into its usual style. Memories of him rush past, flushed and sweating after practically violating you. That was someone else. You wonder if you will meet that man again tonight.

He seems to decide on something. "Well, I know so much about you, but you know nothing about me. It seems unfair, don't you think?"

"Everything about this seems unfair," you say bitterly, pulling at your ropes for effect.

"You're right, of course. But that's just the dynamic you'll have to get used to, sweetheart," his lips curl as he says the word. Nothing about him is sweet.

You eye him as he moves toward you and pulls out a chair. He sets it opposite you, closer than he was sitting last time. You instinctively shrink backwards as he lowers himself into the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees so he can be level with your eyes. "I have a proposition."

"What is it?" You say quietly, searching his eyes. Nothing.

"A game," his eye sparkles.

"Another one?" You whisper, breaking eye contact.

"Don't worry," he leans backwards, smirking, "no guns involved this time."

"How lucky for me," you say through gritted teeth.

"You're a very lucky girl," he smiles. "Something else - you probably played it in school."

You struggled to think of a school game that involved being tied down to a chair. "Peekaboo?"

"Funny," he doesn't laugh, "no, not that." He holds up two hands. On one hand, he raises his index finger, and on the other, he raises two more fingers. "Any guesses?"

You watch the gesture, thinking. Then it comes to you. "Two truths and a lie?"

His mouth breaks into a wide smile. "Good girl."

"But that's not fair," you say, voice raised, "I don't know anything about you! How am I supposed to win?"

"I'll make it easy for you," he clasps his hands together like a games-master on a TV show. "Round one, are you ready?"

You nod.

"Your parents are dead. Your parents are alive. Or your parents are in this apartment, right now."

Your eyes fly open. The mention of them was completely unexpected. You feel your heart rate pick up as you think of an answer. You so desperately want them to be alive - but would he even say it if they were? You decide to go for the most simple option: after all, you searched the whole place and saw no sign of them.

"You're lying. They aren't in this apartment." You say stoically, meeting his eyes.

He smirks. "Correct. So, dead or alive?"

"That's not how you play. I already found the lie-"

He darts out a hand and grips your thigh, making you cry out. "In case you haven't noticed," he squeezes your leg, "I don't play by the rules. Answer me."

Tears make your vision blurry. "They're alive," you choke, nearly sobbing, "that's the lie."

He pauses for a moment, not letting go of your thigh. "Incorrect."

"So they are alive? Oh-"

"You were wrong. You know what that means?" He dips a hand into his blazer pocket, pulling something out. You squint into the darkness, then freeze when you realise what it is.

"Oh god, no-" your whole body begins to tremble.

"Shh," he brings the blade towards your inner thigh, the metal reflecting your smooth skin, "if you try to win, this won't have to happen."

"I didn't know! You tricked me!" You whimper as he pushes back the material of your skirt and brings the blade to your thigh. There was no way for you to win that round, and he knows it. Once again, he uses you as a tool to show his own deception. He can’t be trusted.

"I'm shocked at how cruel you think I am," he says with fake surprise.

He presses the blade to your skin and you scream a bloodcurdling noise. Red-hot pain seeps from your thigh as he draws a deep line in your skin. You thrash around in the chair, but it only makes the pain worse. He makes a tutting noise, the noise an adult might make when a child falls and grazes their knee. When he raises the blade again, you look down to see a dripping line, like a crimson tally mark. One.

Your chest heaves as you try to console the pain. He pulls a cloth from his breast pocket and wipes the knife with one swipe. You meet his eyes and find that familiar mist clouding them again. He's finally hurt you now, and the cracks are beginning to show.

"Now you know the punishment for failure," he sets the blade on the table, raising his chin with a superior expression.

"I'm sorry- it hurts-" the words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. You are only aware of the pain flooding your thigh. How deep did he go?

"I've barely touched you," he tilts his head, moving your thigh to assess the injury. "You're so fragile."

You just stare at him, chewing your lip in an attempt to distract from the pain.

He smirks. "Round two, are you ready?"

You hold eye contact, hoping he can see the utter hatred in your eyes. Like it would make any difference. He takes your silence as a sign to continue, and leans back, thinking. "I work as a messenger. I work in an office. Or I am a mass murderer. Which is the lie?" He says it with an amused smirk on his face, as though he already knows what you are going to pick.

You console yourself and try to think of an answer. Judging by his smug expression, he said must have said the last one as a joke - though, you wouldn't put it past him. "The last one. It's a lie."

His smile falls. His expression turns dark. "Wrong. Again."

Realisation falls on you like a ton of bricks. Slowly, as if it pains him to do so, he grabs the knife off the table. You scream again, tears falling too fast for you to stop them. You pull at the ropes, arching your entire body to escape his grasp, managing to shuffle the chair a few inches. It doesn't help. He grabs the bottom of the chair and wrenches you forwards with one hand, close enough that his knee is planted firmly between your legs.

"The more you scream, the deeper I go." He says, lip curling and his voice husky. You watch helplessly as he brings the blade back down, holding your legs back with his knee. The knife, now stained with the product of your failure, meets your skin. The pain is easier to handle this time, though still just as awful as before. Another thick, seeping line beside the last. Two marks. Two losses.

You hang your head, body heaving with sobs. He makes that same pitying noise, using one finger to lift your chin. You watch him through your eyelashes as he brings the blade to his mouth, running his tongue along the flat edge. Your blood stains his mouth and drips from his tongue. He makes a small, pleased noise, then sets the blade back down, now clean.

Unmistakable arousal clouds his eyes. You're really giving him a show this time. He leans back in his chair, adjusting his trousers. "You're on a bit of a losing streak, aren't you?" His voice is breathy as he rakes his eyes from your wounds to your face, savouring every inch.

"What is it, huh?" You speak up, voice broken. "What's your angle? Why are you doing this?" Desperation seeps into your words and you search his face for any sign of remorse.

"What can I say?" His mouth curls into a soulless smile. "I like watching girls bleed."

Your mouth falls open. Hopelessness overwhelms you. There it is. The confession. If he doesn't kill you tonight, he will leave you a bloody mess on this chair, alone and stained and scarred.

The game resumes for several rounds more. Each loss is marked with another line, and you feel yourself growing more distant with every tally mark. His dick pushes harder against his trousers every time he makes you bleed or scream, reminding you of your last meeting. He held out that time, however, and seemed satisfied just by making you cum. But not this time. You knew something was different.

By your fifth loss, he strikes a final line across your thigh, and you feel yourself getting faint. Blood pools on the seat of your chair, dripping from your leg so thickly you can barely distinguish the individual lines. His breath picks up, mouth open wide as you scream once more, leg trembling.

"Fuck it," he grunts. Suddenly, he rips off his blazer and throws it onto the table. It slides away to the other end, and you watch him, terrified at every movement he makes and his plan for you.

It's not what you expect. He bends down, ripping away the binding at your ankles so roughly that it hurts. Then, he moves behind you and tears off the rope at your wrists, too. You freeze for a moment, registering your freedom. You attempt to move, but wince when the pain in your leg overwhelms you. Instead, you rub your wrists, marvelling at the ring of purple bruises on each arm.

He moves back toward his chair, breath fast and heavy, then grabs your waist. He lifts you with ease. You cry out as he hooks two hands beneath your knees and pulls your legs around his torso. Scared that you might fall, you wrap your arms around his neck, holding on. He falls back into his chair and you realise the purpose of his hold on you. Your legs straddle his hips, and blood flows from your thigh to stain the fabric of his trousers.

"Fuck," he swear again, looking down at the mess. He releases his hold on you to unbutton his trousers, ripping down his zip quicker than you can see. You whimper, knowing what is to come. The pressure of your leg on his makes the pain worse and the room begins to spin.

You watch helplessly, loosening your grasp on him. His cock springs from his trousers, already hard and dripping with precum. Veins span from the base to his swollen tip. "Look what you've done," he tuts, watching the blood from your leg stain his hands. "Look at the mess you've made."

You sob quietly and watch as he runs a hand down his cock, painting it with your blood. You make a strangled noise when he swipes a finger over the deep slashes on your thigh. He sucks in his breath sharply. "I need to fuck you." He mumbles it so quietly you almost don't hear.

Your head falls back as he lifts you up, lining up his cock with your entrance. He moves your panties aside with one finger, already wet with your own arousal. More and more blood drips onto him and he grunts, gasping slightly as he eases himself inside you. You cry out at the size of him. He's bigger than the gun. Much bigger. He's barely inside you, but the blood on his cock makes it easier for him to slip inside.

"You're so tight," he grunts, gripping your waist with one hand and your thigh with the other. He's barely halfway inside you before he pulls out and rams himself back into you, using the hand on your waist to lift you up. You have no choice but to take him. Your walls tighten around him, and you squeeze your legs together, trying your hardest to fight the discomfort.

Tears fall from your eyes. Your senses are heightened in your last moments of clarity - you feel like you might faint. Somehow, the blood keeps pouring, turning his suit trousers black.

"Don't you dare fucking pass out," he says, gritting his teeth. He squeezes your thigh and you cry out, the pain too much to bear. Your body feels weak.

Still, he fucks you harder, slamming his cock inside you with every thrust. Somehow he goes deeper until you're sure he must be hitting some vital organ. You've never been fucked like this before. You almost forget the pain he just caused you as you buck your hips against him, desperate to take him even deeper.

"Such a whore. You want it, huh?" He squeezes your ass, lifting you so that you bounce on his lap. Pleasure builds in you, a jarring contrast to the utter agony you felt almost moments ago.

His head falls back hangs off the chair as he thrusts in and out of you. You lift a hand to his face, desperate for something to hold onto, not noticing your fingers are still marked with your own blood. He sees and grips your wrist, sticking a finger into his mouth. He sucks them clean.

"You taste even better than you look," he smirks. He can't hold the expression for long. His eyes roll back slightly when you move your hips over him, making wide circles. You press a hand to his chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, and he lets you keep your grip there, too distracted by the hypnotic movements of your hips. You notice that blood drips from the corner of his mouth, instinctively, you lean in and swipe it off with your tongue. He chuckles darkly.

"You're forgetting yourself," he says, slowing his pace. You make a desperate whimper, raising your hips again to continue the rhythm.

"I'm going to need more motivation than that," he mumbles, bringing his mouth to your collarbone. You slow down, unsure of his intentions.

Still inside you, he parts his lips and sucks at the skin of your neck. He applies intense pressure, sending shocks through your body and you cry out, dropping your head over his shoulder.

"That's it," he says, laughing breathily into your ear.

He doesn't stop despite the fact you wince away from him. He plants firm, harsh marks along your neck, leaving a dark line of bruises to your collarbone. Every time you make a noise, he presses harder, until you're biting your lip just to suppress your whimpers. Then, once he's satisfied, he plants two hands on each thigh, ramming his cock back into you. He grunts loudly with every thrust.

He's rougher this time. The flow of blood slows, but still makes his cock glisten red as he pumps in and out of you. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room, along with his grunts and your faint whimpers. His increase in pace makes the warmth in your stomach more intense, and you feel yourself on the brink of release. You arch your back, gripping onto his shoulder to keep yourself steady.

He notices you nearing your orgasm and uses his last burst of energy to make you ride him even harder. His hips buck up and down until his cock fills you entirely. You grip onto his tie, finally reaching your climax. You nearly scream as you cum with him still inside you, intense warmth and euphoria rushing through your entire body. He does the same, gasping for breath as he cums inside you, still bouncing your ass on his lap whilst you ride it out.

Your entire body goes limp. You collapse over him, taking in lungfuls of air. The euphoria is quickly replaced by exhaustion and pain. Your entire leg feels sore despite the blood no longer flowing as freely as it did before. He slows to a stop, then pulls his cock out of you. It's still stained red and dripping with his cum, and he grunts at the sight of your cunt, glistening with your own blood and his cum. He has complete control of you now.

"You're fucking crazy," he says, panting. He swipes two fingers over the wounds on your thigh, making you wince as he wipes the last of the blood away. He leans back for a moment as he comes down from his high, pressing a hand to his forehead. Strands of black hair fall over his eyes, damp with sweat.

"Let's take care of these cuts, shall we?" He says, too gently for it to be genuine. He lifts you up, straddling each leg on his waist. He lowers you onto the table, letting your legs dangle over the edge.

He makes a gesture that suggests he will be right back, and leaves the room in the direction of your bathroom. His clear knowledge of the layout of your home is concerning, but you can't find the energy to care. You close your eyes, letting your head hang, trying to suppress the dull thudding pain in your leg.

He returns after a few minutes, holding a medical kit and looking a lot more composed. The lusting look in his eyes has disappeared, replaced by emptiness, and his tie - which you managed to almost pull off earlier - is centred again. Blood still spatters his shirt, and his hair glistens as though he has dampened it and swept it back. You almost feel flattered that he tries to look so presentable for you.

He moves before you, lowering onto one knee. He kneels between your legs and parts your legs gently. Too gently. You wonder for a moment if you're dreaming. If you passed out back there and this was just some fantasy you invented to console yourself. But no. He opens the box and lifts out some alcohol wipes. Absently, you lay a hand on his head, stirring the dark waves. He doesn't look up. Just brings a wipe to your wounds, wiping away the blood. It stings so badly that you grip his hair as tightly as you can. You feel the urge to cry again.

Before you even register it, he places a large plaster over the wounds and pats the site gently, as if congratulating you. He stands up and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. You don't even meet his eyes. Your vision is cloudy. Exhaustion threatens to overwhelm you, and you're dangerously close to passing out altogether.

You have a faint memory of him lifting you and carrying you to your bedroom. You recall grabbing his arm after he lowered you onto your bed. Then asking, "when will I see you again?"

You couldn't make out his face. His voice was low and gentle. "Call me."

Then he left.

—

You woke up to the sound of the front door opening. Jolting out of bed, you rush to the hallway, hoping against hope. It's your parents. They greet you, smiling, and ask how your day was. You can barely find the words to respond. Your entire body aches, and you nurse the wounds at your neck and wrists to find they're covered by a hoodie you don't remember wearing.

They apologise for leaving and ask if you got their message. You say no. Then you leave in the direction of the dining room to confirm some faint suspicion. The room is completely normal. No blood. No ropes. No knife. Not even a chair is out of place. You press a hand to your forehead.

Later that night, you stare at the plaster on your thigh, the only evidence that the entire situation happened. You peel it back and your head rushes with adrenaline. Five slashes. Still there. You collapse back onto your bed, ignoring the pain that is almost a comfort by now - at least it proves the whole thing was, in fact, real.

Your phone rings. Every normal, human part of you fights back the urge to pick up. But, of course, you do.

The human part of you is long gone by now.

408 notes · View notes

lacydollette · 3 days ago

Text

HIS FAVORITE PERSON ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing: bsf!rafe x fem!reader

warnings: angst, rafe having a breakdown, mentions of a dead body, trauma, ward, comfort, slight fluff, kissing, cuddling, inspired by season 2 ep 2 of obx

Rafe’s room was a storm of chaos, just like his mind. His chest heaved as he sat on the floor, back pressed against his bed frame, fingers tugging at his hair like he could somehow yank the thoughts out of his head. His palms were clammy, his heart slamming against his ribs. The body, the ocean, his dad’s cold commands—the images were crushing him. He could still hear the splash, still feel the sick churn in his stomach as they drove away from the scene like nothing had happened. Like it was normal.

But it wasn’t.

“Fuck,” he hissed, slamming a fist into the floor. The pain grounded him for half a second before the panic resurfaced again, boiling over. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t be alone in this house with its suffocating walls and memories of what he’d just done. He couldn’t stay under one roof with Ward right now.

Without thinking, Rafe grabbed his car keys and stumbled out the door, the night swallowing him whole. The only place he could go was yours. You were the only one who could calm the chaos, the only one who made him feel like he wasn’t falling apart.

You were deep in your slumber when you were jolted awake by a loud knock at the door. Tired, you checked the time—2:37 a.m. You frowned, your sleep deprived brain struggling to process who would show up at this hour. Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the door, your favorite oversized t-shirt, one that you stole from Rafe, hanging loosely around your figure. And when you opened the front door, your confusion turned to worry. “Rafe?”

He stood there, his shoulders hunched, his hair a complete mess, and his blue eyes wild with something dark and unhinged. He was pacing on your porch, his breathing uneven, and his hands were shaking. “y/n,” he said, his voice strained, barely above a whisper. “Sorry for bugging you this late, I just—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Rafe, what’s wrong?” You asked, stepping forward. He looked up at you, his expression haunted. “I did something. Something bad. Really bad.” Your heart sank, eyebrows furrowing, “You’re scaring me.” Rafe was always intense—impulsive, reckless—but this was different. He looked broken, like he was barely holding himself together. You reached out, grabbing his arm to steady him.

“Come inside,” you urged, but he shook his head violently. “No. I can’t—I can’t breathe in there. I can’t breathe anywhere.” His voice cracked, and he backed away, running a hand through his hair as he began muttering. “He’s insane, y/n. My dad is insane, and now I’m—I’m just like him. I helped him. I didn’t want to, but I did, and now—”

“Rafe, slow down,” you said firmly, not understanding a single thing before stepping in front of him. “You’re not making any sense. Just talk to me. What happened?” He stopped pacing, his eyes locking onto yours. “A body,” he said, his voice barely audible. “We got rid of a body.” Your blood ran cold. “What?”

He let out a hollow laugh, his hands trembling as he pressed them to his temples. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. I did it. I helped him dump it into the ocean like it was nothing. Like it was trash.” His voice grew louder, more frantic. “And now I can’t stop hearing it. I can’t stop seeing it. It’s everywhere.” You stood there, stunned, mind racing to catch up. Rafe was unraveling in front of you, and you had no idea how to help him. “Rafe—”

“I’m a monster,” he interrupted, his voice rising. “I’m just like him. I didn’t even hesitate, y/n. What kind of person does that? What kind of person—”

“Rafe, stop!” You snapped, grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you. His breathing hitched, his wild eyes meeting your comforting ones. “You are not a monster. You’re—” you faltered, unsure what to say. “You’re you. And whatever this is, whatever happened, we’ll deal with it.“ You nodded, saying it more to yourself than him.

Rafe shook his head, his voice breaking. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what I’ve done.” His whole body was trembling. “Then tell me,” you said, your voice softer now. “Tell me everything.” He stared at you, torn between fear and desperation. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t lose you too.”

Your heart twisted painfully. You’d never seen Rafe like this, so vulnerable and raw. And yet, there was something else—a connection that had always been there, just right beneath the surface of your friendship. You’ve been best friends since forever, sure, but you weren’t just friends. Not with the way you looked at each other, the way you touched and held each other like it was normal.

Without thinking, you closed the gap between you two and kissed him. You’d kissed before—dozens of times, maybe more. It had always been casual, something you would do to calm each other down or just because it felt natural. It was soft and deliberate, a reminder that you were here, that you weren’t going anywhere.

When you pulled back, Rafe’s breathing slowed, his hands coming up to rest on your waist like he was grounding himself in you. He leaned forward, stealing another kiss, then another, his lips brushing yours with a quiet desperation while tears fled the corner of his eyes. Trying to shut up the voices in his head, and you didn’t mind. You never did. That’s just how things between you were and neither of you had questioned it before.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.“You don’t need to thank me, Rafe.” you whispered back. “Now come inside.”

In your room, you pulled Rafe onto your bed, wrapping the blankets around the both of you as you settled in. He curled into you, his head resting against your chest, as you tried to give him as much comfort as possible, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his back.

You held him close, your arms wrapped tightly around his body as his breathing finally began to even out. The storm of his panic had calmed, but his weight against you felt heavier than ever, like he was carrying something too big for either of you to handle. You didn’t know what to say—what could you say? His words kept ringing in your ears. A body. Dumped it in the ocean. You shivered, though the room wasn’t cold.

Rafe’s head was tucked under your chin, his breath warm against your collarbone. He was silent now, but his body still trembled faintly. You tightened your hold on him, resting your cheek against the top of his head. You’d always thought of yourself as his anchor, the person who could pull him back when he started spinning out. But tonight felt different. Tonight, it felt like you were trying to piece together an already broken vase.

Your fingers absentmindedly combed through his messy blonde hair. You’d been best friends since kindergarden, your lives so deeply intertwined it was hard to tell where one of you ended and the other began. But your friendship wasn’t normal, and you began to acknowledge that as time passed. Friends didn’t kiss to calm each other down. Friends didn’t fall asleep in each other’s arms, your touches lingering in a way that always felt like it meant more.

You weren’t just friends, you thought, the truth settling heavily in your chest. But whatever you were, figuring it out had to wait. Rafe needed you now, more than ever, and you couldn’t let him down.

You closed your eyes, breathing him in, the faint scent of saltwater and his cologne clinging to him. “You’re going to be okay,” you whispered, trying to convince both of you. You wanted to believe it, but the fear in his eyes earlier had shaken you to your core.

He didn't say anything, but his arms tightened around you, his head pressing harder against your chest. You didn't push him to speak. You just stayed there, holding him, trying to give him the comfort he so clearly needed. But the storm in his head wouldn't stop. He needed more—needed to feel you, to ground himself in you, to find something real in his world that suddenly felt like it was falling apart.

Without thinking, Rafe shifted, pulling you down to him. Before you could process what was happening, his lips were on yours again, and for a moment, he could escape reality. At first, you thought it would be like the kisses you’d shared earlier—soft and grounding, something to pull him out of his head and bring him back to you.

So you started to respond instinctively, heart beating a little faster. But it wasn't enough for Rafe. The panic clawed at his chest, and his kiss grew desperate, frantic, as if he could pour everything he couldn't say into you. Rafe thought maybe this was what he needed. Maybe you were what he needed. Because it had always been you. The only person who saw him, who really knew him.

Your breath hitched, heart pounding in your chest. You couldn't deny what it did to you—the way your stomach flipped, the way your hands instinctively gripped his arms as his lips moved against yours. You couldn't ignore how your feelings for Rafe had grown into something far more complicated than friendship. But this wasn't right. Not now. Not when he was like this.

"Rafe," you murmured against his lips, hands coming up to his shoulders to gently push him back. He resisted for a moment, his desperation endless, but then he pulled away, his eyes wide and glassy as they searched yours.

"y/n," he whispered, his voice cracking. For a moment, Rafe just stared at you, your hesitation hitting him like a punch to the gut. You weren’t rejecting him, not really. He could see the worry in your eyes, the care. You were right, but it still shattered something inside him. This wasn't what he needed right now. And it wasn't what you deserved, either.

"You need to rest," you said softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. "You're not doing fine right now, and that's okay. But this—it's not right like that."

He stared at you, his expression crumbling as the reality of your words sank in. He'd come here hoping to escape the weight of what he'd done, hoping that you could fix him the way you always had. But nothing could fix this. His chest heaved, and then, all at once, he broke.

A raw, heart-wrenching sob tore from his throat, and he dropped his head into his hands, his entire body shaking. Your heart ached at the sound of his sobs, and you reached for him immediately, pulling him into your arms again. He clung to you, burying his face in your shoulder as his cries wracked his body.

“I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice muffled and strained as his chest felt heavy. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have-"

"Stop," you interrupted gently, your hand threading through his dirty blond hair. "Don't apologize. You're allowed to feel, Rafe. I'm here." Rafe tried to believe you, tried to hold onto your words, but the guilt was suffocating. “I shouldn't drag you into this," he said, his voice breaking. "I shouldn't have put this on you.”

"Shh," you whispered, holding him tighter. "You just need to breathe, okay?” Rafe let out a shaky breath, his tears soaking into your shirt as his sobs began to calm.

You kept holding him, your heart breaking for the boy who had always seemed so untouchable, so invincible. You could feel all his shame, his guilt, his fear, and you wished you could take it away, even just for a little while.

Rafe shifted slightly, his arm wrapping around your waist like he was afraid you might disappear. “Don’t leave me,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, stroking his back in slow, soothing motions. “I’m scared, y/n,” he admitted finally, sobbing into your chest, “Of what I’ve done. Of what I’ll become. That I’ll be like him.” You shook your head, “You’re not your dad,” you said firmly, your arms tightening around him.

He’s not like Ward. He can’t be. You didn’t care what Rafe had done or how messy his world had become. He wasn’t a monster. He couldn’t be—not the boy who used to sneak you ice cream when you were sad, who called you every time he was having a bad day because he trusted you more than anyone else in the world.

But as much as you wanted to save him, a small, nagging voice in the back of your mind whispered that this might be bigger than both of you, but pushed the thought away, pulling him closer. “We’ll figure this out,” you whispered. “Together.” Rafe didn’t respond, but his grip on you tightened slightly, his breathing slowing as he finally started to relax. He didn't deserve you—your loyalty, your care, your softness. But for now he let himself trust you.

You stared at the ceiling, your mind racing even as your body stayed still. You didn’t know what you were to each other, didn’t know what might happen after this night or what was up with Ward, and maybe you never would. But right now, Rafe was yours to protect, and that was the most important thing.

tags: @gibson-g1rl @beausling @rafesheaven @rafescokewhore @rafespreciosa @rafeysbunny @rafey-baby @rafesangelita @drewspinkbunny @whinyangel @nativegirltapes @cherrygirlfriend @moremaybank @littlelamy @rafesweetie @deansbeer

#works ₊˚⊹♡#writers on tumblr #bsf!rafe x reader #bsf!rafe #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x fem!reader #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fluff

402 notes · View notes

verushkak70 · 3 days ago

Text

OK wait: hang on here: let me preface this with: I LOATHE THE REPUBLICAN PARTY - actively, vehemently loathe - always have, always will, never voted Republican, never will, wouldn't if they were the last/only party on earth - because, among many, many other horrible things, Republicans (Reagan & Bush Sr) kept the minimum wage at $3.35/hour for over a decade as COL continued to rise, for years, while minimum wage was what I earned

& furthermore Republicans (Reagan again) cut the minimum wage from $3.35/hour to $2.01/hour specifically for jobs that receive tips - & both of these things occurred while I was a waitress, so I (and millions of single mothers; let's remember Harvey Keitel's lines about tipping in the opening scene of Reservoir Dogs rn, k? because he wasn't wrong) literally had my shit wage cut by more than 1/3 simply because it was a job that generally (not always, trust me on that!) got tipped

& let's remember that Jimmy Carter put solar panels on the White House while he was President

& as soon as Reagan won & moved into the WH, that oil-money-funded piece of shit immediately ripped them down

Not to mention that while other countries were mobilizing national(ized) health services to combat HIV/AIDS when it was killing tons of people in the 80s & 90s, the Republicans blamed homosexuals for getting sick & dying, & Republican presidents wouldn't even address it - including the one whose son was semi-openly gay (Reagan again)

Not to mention that literally since the day Roe v Wade came down Republicans were trying to restrict abortion & working to block/overturn Roe v Wade

To sum up: for those & literally a thousand other crucial reasons, I loathe the Republicans & I always & forever will

But let's also be very, very clear: if the Democratic National Committee had not fucked Bernie Sanders over (twice!) & engineered Hillary to be the de facto candidate for 2016, Donald Trump would never have won the first fucking time & we would not be in this deep shit now

Corporate pollsters hired by DNC did what they do: manufactured consent for Hillary when the public clearly wanted Bernie Sanders instead - an Independent, not actually a Democrat - because they already knew he was not compromised like the Democrats already were

Well, they can lie about & statistically manipulate polls, but the proof was at the ballot boxes on election day: whether or not you agreed with it or liked it (& I did not) the majority of people voting did not want Hillary & did not vote for her - so Dump won

& tbf? I wanted Bernie too! Hillary was only ever the lesser of evils imo for a variety of reasons (one of which was that the Clinton administrations were the most corporatized, Republican version of the Democrats yet, plus NAFTA & GATT was on Clinton's watch, which also fucked over the working class of America)

Let's all just stop pretending - this current Democratic Party? Is not Jimmy Carter's Democratic Party & it hasn't been for a very, very long time

& this Democratic party elite was willing to utterly disregard the will of the majority of American voters to install who they thought "deserved" to win, whose "turn" they thought it should be, for the 2016 Democratic presidential nomination - with utterly predictable results for anyone paying fucking attention

Yet Nancy fucking Pelosi said that abortion was "kind of fading as an issue" in fucking 2017, while she knew the man in the White House was hell bent on pleasing his evangelical "Christian" base by appointing as many right-wing federal judges as possible - jfc, people! wake the fuck up!

Sure, bitch, maybe for your 40-years-post-menopausal ass, "abortion [was] fading as an issue" - but what about young women? Girls?

Rape & incest victims?

Your fucking Democratic principles? - or lack thereof??

Most of us post-menopausal liberal-to-left bitches still actually care about women's rights for everybody! We know not everyone has the power or money to just fly to a blue state & get yourself/your daughter/your granddaughter/your niece/a rape victim/an incest victim an abortion - or throw money &/or power at a red state doctor & get an abortion coded in the medical record as a medically necessary D&C

In fact 2/3+ of Americans believe the decision should be up to the woman or couple facing the choice

How the fuck could Pelosi even think that - let alone say it out loud to a reporter? This is our Democratic leadership??

How? I'll tell you how: Because she already did not care & had the arrogance to think that broadcasting her not-caring would not matter

So - can I make it any fucking clearer that the national Democratic party - all those career politicians like Pelosi who don't even bother to pay lip service to the party line anymore! - do not fucking care about us & haven't for a long time?

I can't say it any better than Bernie himself did: it should come as no surprise that the party that abandoned working class Americans has been abandoned by working class Americans

They abandoned us first

The Democrats did this to themselves & to us

The lesser of two evils is still evil

Stop blaming the abandoned for being abandoned, & then abandoning their abandoners

Were/are people who fell for this orange asshole's populist, racist, misogynistic bullshit idiots? Yes, yes they are!

Were people manipulated by the active efforts - all over every. Single. FUCKING. social media platform - at targeted election interference from Russia & other countries' intelligence agencies & terror groups? Yes, yes they were

Do Americans struggle mightily with understanding how voting & elections work, with critical thinking, & with maintaining a high index of skepticism?

Yes, they clearly do - but no more, I'd say, than the Brits who voted to shoot themselves in both feet with Brexit (& then asked the reporters who explained the consequences to them, on camera, how they could change their vote); or the rest of the multiple European countries who are similarly sliding into neofascism

All the votes that Bernie Sanders would have gotten in 2016 from the majority of independent voters? Went to Dump

Many votes that Sanders would have gotten in 2016 from Democratic voters, if he'd gotten the nomination, also went to Dump

Because - once more, with feeling - The Democrats abandoned us first

Those who abandoned them after they abandoned us? are not to blame for the current situation

So stop fucking saying that they are

25K notes · View notes

clockwayswrites · 2 days ago

Text

Mx. Minx - Dinner part 2

masterpost this is a first draft, please no editing or concrit <3 cw:mentions of blood and canon typical violence

He heard Danny move the bathroom and the sink running. Danny’s voice was garbled as he asked, “What sort of medical stuff do you need? Anything more than medication and some bruise cream?”

“A few scrapes,” he answered after a moment of assessing. He flexed his fingers. “My knuckles are probably bloody.”

“Bandages and ointment it is,” Danny said.

It was a while longer before the water shut off, long enough for Jason to be down to his pants, shirt, gloves, and mask. The rest of his gear made a small pile on the coffee table—an odd thing with cheap, mid-century modern lines covered in at least one full layer of stickers. It felt odd to have his weapons not only off, but just sitting where anyone could grab them. It made his hands itch.

He focused on carefully taking off his gloves.

Danny padded softly around the apartment, just out of Jason’s line of sight, before he set a haphazard collection of things on the coffee table next to Jason’s pile. There where the bandages, rags, wipes, and tubes but also bottles of sports drink, packets of crackers and those cheap powdered donuts.

Danny snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.

“Okay, let’s see to you. We’ll eat after, but if you need something now feel free. And you’re going to drink one of those bottles,” Danny said, tone matter of fact and oddly authoritative.

Not wanting a fight tonight, even just for the sake of being stubborn, Jason cracked open one of the bottles and took a long sip. Then he opened the other and set it purposefully in front of Danny, who rolled his eyes, but took a sip.

The gloves game off first. Jason hissed as the fabric pulled against the raw skin. The sound was harsh through the modulation of the mask, but Danny just made a soothing little sound in response and slowed down. When the gloves were finally off, battered knuckles revealed, Danny ran his thumbs under the mess.

“Lots of punching tonight, huh?” Danny asked.

Jason shrugged. “Lots of people needed to be punched.”

“I’m sorry that I don’t think there’s anyway for this not to hurt,” Danny said picked up the wet rag and pressed it to the knuckles.

It was surprisingly, soothingly, warm.

“I’m used to pain.”

Danny sighed. “I know. But I also know that really doesn’t make it any better.”

Jason could only shrug again. It didn’t, but that was also his life. It had always had pain in it. Still, it was nice of Danny to try and cause as little as possible. His touch was different than Leslie’s or Alfred. It was less clinical. Less numb to it all. Not that Danny seemed squeamish in the least or reacted poorly to the blood and bruises, but there was a sadness to him.

Not wanting to add to it, Jason tried to stay as quiet and still as possible as Danny cleaned and dressed the wounds and bruises. It was almost peaceful, despite the stings of pain, and Jason found the exhaustion pulling himself down into a lull.

“Any bruises on your torso?” Danny asked. His hands were already under Jason’s shirt, pushing the fabric up.

Jason stilled Danny’s hands, catching them in his own bandaged ones. “Not pretty under there.”

“I won’t mind.”

But would Jason?

Danny would see his scars—all of them. The one wasn’t something he could explain away. Worse, it was distinct. Identifying. People just didn’t have autopsy scars across their chest.

Jason thought about the guns and knives already on the coffee table.

His blood on the rags.

He dropped his hands.

#dp x dc #dead on main #danny/Jason #minx

340 notes · View notes

missarchive · 2 days ago

Text

american jesus³ ☆

spencer reid

part one part two part three

summary; The delicate veil of secrecy is torn, unraveling a truth neither were prepared to face.

A fleeting mistake reveals their intertwined worlds, forcing them to confront the forbidden desire that binds them. Love and restraint wage a quiet war, their connection teetering on the edge of discovery, threatening to unravel everything they’ve built.

cw; angst, spencer yells at the reader, age gap, sugar daddy/baby dynamics, big big feelings = big big argument, lots and lots of yearning, student/teacher relationship (ezra and aria who?) no smut in this part (i know, disappointing), you'll have to wait for part 4 ;)

an; as always, thank you for taking the time to read my work, i hope you all enjoy. please consider leaving feedback in the form of a comment or an ask if you did enjoy, i always love hearing from you <3

“Can’t believe how lucky I am,” Spencer murmurs, his voice low and steady, almost like he’s thinking out loud. He’s not saying anything groundbreaking, just a simple truth, but you can feel the sincerity in every word.

You’re lying next to him, the warmth of his body pressing gently against yours, the world outside his apartment fading away. There’s no rush, no urgency. It’s just you and Spencer, the quiet hum of the city muted by the walls of the apartment. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm, the touch both soothing and reassuring, like a silent promise.

You turn your head slightly to look at him, catching his gaze, and his eyes soften when they meet yours. “Lucky?” you ask, a small smile playing on your lips. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs, his expression relaxed, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—something that makes your chest tighten in a good way. “I don’t know. You’re... everything. You just get me, you know? You always know when I’m overthinking or when I need a minute, and you’re there without making a big deal out of it.”

You chuckle softly, rolling onto your side to face him more fully. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of mind reader.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” he continues, his hand resting lightly on your hip now, fingers gently tracing along your skin. “You’re so... intuitive. So much more than I ever expected.”

You’re not sure why, but something about the way he says it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world he could say that to. It feels real—genuine, even. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, your voice quieter now, the smile still lingering on your lips.

Spencer laughs softly, his fingers brushing over your hair. “I don’t know about that,” he says, though the affection in his voice is undeniable. “But I’m definitely glad you’re here. Glad it’s... us.”

“Me too,” you whisper back, settling a little closer to him, resting your head against his chest. It’s easy, this thing between you. Comfortable in a way that doesn’t need to be overanalysed or explained. You both know where you stand, and that’s enough.

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I really like being with you. More than I can say.”

You close your eyes, letting the simple words wash over you, content in the quiet of the moment. The world outside can wait. Here, with him, everything feels just right.

So as you crossed the campus the next morning, your bag tucked tightly against your side like a fragile secret, you couldn’t help but think of him. The air was crisp, carrying the faint tang of autumn, and the hum of the campus buzzed around you. Laughter echoed from a nearby bench, the scrape of skateboard wheels over concrete punctuating the morning stillness. It was a world in motion, but for you, each step felt heavier, each breath tighter.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, jolting you from your spiralling thoughts. A welcome distraction. You stepped into the shadow of a quiet corner in the quad, your back leaning against the cool brick of a building as you pulled it out. The message preview glowed softly on the screen, taunting you with its simplicity. Just a few words, but enough to make your stomach twist. You hesitated, the pad of your thumb hovering over the notification, before swiping it open.

@ thefourthdoctor; Big day today, right? How's it going so far?

You smiled to yourself. He had a way of grounding you, even when the chaos of life seemed overwhelming. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as you typed back quickly.

@ laceandliterature; Surviving so far. One more class. Supposedly the professor is a genius or something.

@ thefourthdoctor; Genius professors are overrated. Bet you'll end up teaching them something.

You let out a soft laugh, earning a curious glance from the student beside you. You put your phone away as the chatter in the room began to quiet. The door at the front of the classroom opened, and a tall, slightly disheveled man stepped in.

"Good afternoon," he began, his voice smooth and steady, carrying just enough authority to quiet the murmur of the room. "My name is Dr. Spencer Reid, and I’ll be your professor for this semester."

A cold shiver ran through you, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. For a moment, your brain refused to process them, to connect the dots. It was like a veil had dropped over the classroom, the world outside of him fading into a muffled blur. He was your Spencer—your secret, your late-night confidant, the person who had slowly crept into your thoughts, into your heart.

And now, as you looked up, there he was. Dr. Spencer Reid. The very thought of it made you freeze.

The world around you seemed to tilt, gravity losing its hold, as if the earth had somehow shifted beneath your feet. The air in the room thickened, and your pulse hammered in your ears. You could feel every eye in the room, but all you could focus on was him—on the way his gaze flickered over the crowd, on the moment he paused as if feeling your presence before his eyes locked onto yours.

It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be happening.

Recognition flashed in his eyes, swift and sharp like a lightning strike, followed by something darker—something that mirrored the panic rising in your chest. His steps faltered, a momentary loss of composure. For an agonizing second, he looked like he might trip over his own feet, his hand reaching instinctively to grip the edge of the podium, as though it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His lips parted, as if he meant to speak, but the words didn’t come.

The room around you blurred, every sound drowned out by the rushing roar of your heart, by the sudden weight of the truth crashing down on you. Dr. Spencer Reid, the man you had been talking to for weeks, the one you had come to trust with pieces of yourself you’d never shared with anyone, was standing in front of you—your professor. The line between you had just dissolved into nothing, and the implications hit you all at once.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were filled with something raw and unsettled—confusion, maybe even disbelief, a look that mirrored the one you felt inside. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You were so close to something, to something more, to a feeling you’d been fighting to define, but now… now it all felt tainted. The connection you had with him was something that had blossomed in the quiet, the secrecy, and now it felt so exposed, so fragile, hanging on the edge of something you couldn’t control.

You watched him struggle to regain his composure. His face was flushed, his brow furrowed with tension, but there was something else beneath it—something deep, something that had been there all along, though you hadn’t dared to name it. The reality of the situation hit you with crushing force: the late-night conversations, the casual affection, the way he made you feel seen and heard… It had all been real. But so was this.

He opened his mouth again, but it wasn’t to speak to you—not directly. He cleared his throat, pulling himself together with shaky breath, and in that instant, you knew that everything had changed. He was no longer the man you had been texting, the one who had shared things with you that felt impossible to tell anyone else. No. Now, he was your professor, the person whose authority you were supposed to respect, the person who had the power to affect your future in ways you hadn’t even considered.

You tried to steady your racing thoughts, but the reality of what was happening, what had just happened, pressed down on you. This wasn’t just an awkward surprise. This was a violation of all the boundaries you thought you could keep between your personal life and the rest of the world. You felt your chest tighten as the dread crept in.

You had been so close. So close to something real, something that had started to feel like it could actually be more than just a fleeting connection. But now? Now, you were staring into the abyss of what could only be a mess. His eyes kept flicking to you, but he didn’t speak directly to you again. Instead, he turned his attention back to the class, clearing his throat one more time before continuing, his voice more composed but still carrying an undercurrent of something strained.

"...I’ll be teaching cognitive development this semester," he said, his tone firm but not quite steady. "It’s a challenging course, but I’m confident you’ll all be able to keep up."

His words felt hollow, detached, as though he were going through the motions, but every syllable felt like an echo of everything you could no longer ignore.

You stayed rooted in your seat, a cold heaviness settling over you, your heart racing, your mind reeling. The world had just shifted, and you weren’t sure how to catch your breath.

"Uh," he stammered, his voice betraying a crack of unsteadiness. "As I said, I’m Dr. Reid. I, uh, specialise in behavioural psychology and philosophy. If you need anything, my office hours are listed in the syllabus, which you should have received by email."

He spoke too quickly, the words tumbling out like they might shield him from the reality of the moment. His hands gripped the podium tightly, and though his eyes swept over the room, you could tell he was avoiding looking directly at you. His composure was a fragile thing, threatening to crumble with every second that passed.

Your stomach churned as the implications of this impossible situation sank in. The air in the room felt stifling now, too warm, too heavy. You were hyperaware of him—of the way he stood just a little too rigidly, the faint flush creeping up his neck, the way his voice had wavered when he said anything.

This was the man who had been your confidant, the one who made you feel seen in a way no one else had. And now, he was standing in front of you, holding a position of authority that made every shared moment, every word exchanged, a dangerous secret.

He risked another fleeting glance in your direction, his expression unreadable. The air between you felt charged, like the space before a storm, filled with things left unsaid and too many emotions packed into too little time.

Your mind raced, a tangled mess of shock, dread, and something heartbreakingly close to longing. How could this possibly work? Could it even work at all?

Spencer turned back to his papers, his shoulders tight as he forced himself to continue. But the damage was done. The moment had shattered the fragile wall between your two worlds, and now you were left to navigate the wreckage.

And now, he was standing here, just feet away, your professor.

You could still feel his eyes on you, even when he wasn’t looking directly your way. You knew he felt it too—the electricity, the undeniable tension.

As the class dragged on, each word Spencer spoke felt like it was coming from miles away. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t absorb anything except the overwhelming weight of the truth. Dr. Spencer Reid. The realization kept replaying in your mind like a broken record, the echo of it rattling your thoughts until everything else faded into white noise. You tried to look at him objectively, tried to see the professor in front of you, but all you saw was the man who had become your secret, your late-night refuge. The man who, just hours ago, you had felt yourself slipping closer to, only to have the ground ripped out from under you.

When the lecture finally ended, the final bell a dull thud in your chest, you stayed in your seat for a beat too long, uncertain. The others filed out, chattering and laughing, their voices lost to you as if you were underwater. You debated, internally torn between confronting him—demanding answers—or simply running the other way and never looking back.

But before you could decide, before you could move, you caught his eye. Just for a second. It was brief, fleeting, but in that shared glance, you saw it—the acknowledgment, the silent recognition that you were both trapped in the same web of confusion and unspoken desire. His gaze held something more: a question, a plea, a silent call for understanding. You weren’t sure which one it was, but you felt it.

Neither of you said a word, but the air between you grew thick with it, with everything you weren’t saying. It hung there, heavy and suffocating, the invisible barrier that now separated you. You wanted to speak, to ask him what this meant, to demand the answers that both of you seemed too afraid to say aloud. But you didn’t. And neither did he.

This was going to complicate everything.

The days after that first class passed in a blur. The initial shock had dulled, but it had left behind an uneasy tension, a strange sort of tightness in the air between you and Spencer. Something had shifted between you both, but neither of you knew how to handle it, how to navigate the mess of emotions and risks.

In lectures, Spencer kept his gaze trained firmly ahead, rarely letting it wander to your corner of the room. When he did glance in your direction, it was quick, as if he feared even that brief moment of connection might undo him. The smooth flow of his lecture, once so natural, now had a stutter to it when you raised your hand, your voice, anything. The usual rhythm was broken, disrupted by the constant awareness of each other. Every word you spoke seemed to have the weight of a thousand unspoken things behind it, like every sentence was a landmine that could blow everything apart.

Outside of class, things were no easier. The messages between you and Spencer, once frequent and filled with ease, had become painfully measured. You had both learned to carefully choose your words, as if a wrong one could expose everything—the feelings you were hiding, the longing you couldn’t keep at bay, the dangers that now clung to every thought and touch. Every interaction felt like it was wrapped in a shroud of what ifs—what if someone found out? What if this all fell apart? What if it was too late?

But despite the careful distance, despite the impossible situation you found yourselves in, you couldn’t stay away. There was something magnetic between you, a pull that neither of you could resist. Each encounter, each brief exchange, only made it worse, only made you want him more.

And yet, you couldn’t have him. Not like this. Not with the risk of everything unraveling in an instant. But every part of you screamed that you couldn’t walk away, that you couldn’t let go of the thing that had begun to feel so real. And every part of him seemed to feel the same way.

There’s something almost sacred in the way he moves, the way he speaks, each word falling from his lips like it’s meant only for you, like you’re the only one who can truly hear it. You can't help but trace every line of his face, from the sharp curve of his jaw to the faint scrunch of his brow when he's lost in thought. His every gesture seems like poetry, something you could study for hours, even days.

You idolise him in a way that feels almost holy, a quiet reverence in the way you let your gaze linger on him, not just as your professor, but as someone untouchable. Every time his eyes sweep the room, you hold your breath, hoping, praying that maybe this time, they’ll land on you—just you. But they never do.

And still, you can’t stop. He’s your obsession, your quiet prayer whispered to the stars. You don’t just listen to him; you drink in every syllable, every inflection of his voice, as if his words are the only truth worth knowing. And in those moments, the world falls away, leaving only you and him—alone, even if you’re not.

It started in whispers, in moments so small they were almost imperceptible. A lingering glance after class that held for just a second too long. The way his fingers brushed yours when he handed back a graded paper, the touch fleeting but electric. You told yourself these gestures didn’t matter, that they were coincidences or figments of your imagination. But you knew better. You felt it in your chest, in the way your breath caught each time his eyes met yours and lingered.

Then one evening, as you packed up your notebook and pens after a lecture, his voice stopped you mid-motion.

“Y/N,” he said softly, careful not to draw the attention of the few students still milling about. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

You froze, your heart skipping, then nodding as you tried to keep your face neutral. His eyes darted around the room, scanning for onlookers, before he gestured toward the hallway.

The atmosphere in Spencer’s office was tense, a quiet unease pressing down on both of you. The faint hum of the overhead light mixed with the distant sounds of the campus outside, but neither did much to distract from the gravity of the conversation.

Spencer sat behind his desk, his fingers lightly drumming against the edge as he stared at the scattered papers in front of him. His gaze was unfocused, the weight of what he needed to say pulling at his normally composed demeanor. You leaned against the closed door, arms crossed, your posture guarded.

“This isn’t just risky,” he said after a long silence, his voice steady but low. He glanced up at you, his eyes serious. “If anyone finds out, it could ruin both of us.”

You straightened, arms dropping to your sides. “I know the risks, Spencer. But walking away isn’t an option for me, and I don’t think it is for you either.”

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a quiet sigh. “It’s not. But that means we have to be careful—really careful. We need rules. Boundaries. Something to protect us.”

You stepped closer to his desk, pulling a chair to sit across from him. “Okay,” you said, keeping your voice even. “Let’s figure it out. What’s non-negotiable?”

He hesitated, his fingers lacing together as he thought. “First, no public displays of affection. Not even subtle things. On campus, we have to act like nothing’s going on. No lingering looks, no casual touches—nothing.”

“Agreed,” you said, though the thought of keeping that distance stung. “We can’t give anyone a reason to suspect us.”

“And no communication about us through email or official channels,” he added. “If we need to talk, it has to be in person or through something secure.”

You nodded. “There are private apps we could use, encrypted ones. Only for emergencies, though. No casual texting.”

The practicality of it all settled over you both, the careful parameters of what you could and couldn’t do drawing a stark line around the relationship.

Spencer looked at you, his expression softer now, though no less serious. “If at any point this feels like too much—if it starts to put pressure on your life or your future—you have to tell me. I don’t want you to feel trapped in this.”

You met his gaze, holding it firmly. “That goes both ways. If you start to feel like this is putting your career in jeopardy, you need to tell me.”

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Deal.”

The conversation felt clinical, like drawing up a contract, but it was necessary. The risks weren’t hypothetical—they were real, and you both knew what was at stake.

“Do you think this will work?” you asked after a pause, your voice quieter now.

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk as he looked at you. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I’m willing to try. For you.”

His honesty grounded you, cutting through the uncertainty. “Then we’ll make it work,” you said simply.

You found ways to navigate the tightrope of your relationship, though every step felt like it could be the one that sent you both tumbling into ruin.

You started meeting in places where no one would recognise you. A quiet café on the outskirts of town. A secluded bench in the park. The conversations were tentative at first, but the connection between you refused to fade.

One night, as the rain pattered softly against the windows of his apartment, you found yourself curled up on his couch, your head resting on his shoulder.

“You know this is insane, right,” he muttered, though his arm tightened around you.

“Probably,” you admitted, tilting your head to look up at him. “But doesn’t it feel worth it?”

His gaze lingered on yours, conflicted but warm. “It does,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead. “And that’s what scares me.”

The line between you and Spencer was razor-thin, a fragile, trembling thread neither of you dared to define. It felt like standing on the edge of a precipice, the dizzying height both thrilling and terrifying. You both knew the fall was inevitable, yet neither of you could step away. Instead, you lingered there, savouring the tension in those fleeting moments before gravity claimed you.

One late afternoon, as the sun dipped low and painted the campus in gold and shadow, you found yourself outside his office door. The brass plaque bearing his name gleamed faintly, a stark reminder of the boundaries you were about to cross. Your pulse quickened as you raised a hand and knocked softly, the sound barely louder than your breath.

“Come in,” he called, his voice muffled, distracted.

You slipped inside, closing the door behind you with a quiet click. Spencer sat hunched over his desk, papers sprawled across its surface like a chaotic map of his thoughts. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his hair fell untamed over his forehead, catching the fading light.

When he looked up and saw you, the tired lines of his face softened. His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, one that chased away some of the tension in his shoulders. “You’re here,” he said, his voice warmer now, but still tinged with a nervous edge. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” you admitted, stepping closer. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

He stood slowly, his movements hesitant as though torn between his delight at seeing you and the weight of the risks that lingered between you. “I’ve been thinking about you too,” he confessed, his hand moving to the back of his neck. “But this... it’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” you replied, your voice steady but gentle.

He shook his head with a quiet laugh, though it lacked humor. “You make it sound so simple.” His gaze dropped to the floor before returning to you, his expression earnest. “I’m glad you’re here—I always am—but... we have to be careful.”

“I know,” you said, your tone softer now. “But I needed to see you.”

He exhaled, taking a step toward you, the space between you narrowing. “This is dangerous,” he said, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed the firmness of his words. “For both of us. You understand that, right?”

“Yes,” you replied, your gaze locking with his. “I understand. But that doesn’t change how I feel.”

The honesty of your words hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. Spencer’s breath hitched, and he hesitated for a moment before closing the remaining distance between you.

His hands came to rest gently on your waist, his touch light but steady, as if testing the limits of how close he could let himself be. “You make it impossible to think straight,” he murmured, a faint, self-deprecating smile on his lips.

“Then don’t think,” you whispered, your hand rising to cup his face. Your thumb brushed against the stubble along his jaw, the touch grounding. “Just let yourself feel, Spencer.”

His resolve faltered, and after a brief, wavering pause, he gave in. His lips met yours in a kiss that was both tender and urgent, as though trying to convey everything he couldn’t say aloud.

When you pulled back, your breaths mingled in the space between you, your foreheads resting together. His hands tightened slightly on your waist, reluctant to let you go.

“This is reckless,” he murmured, though his tone lacked any real conviction.

“Then tell me to leave,” you said softly, challenging him with your eyes. “If you really believe this is a mistake, say it, and I will.”

Spencer’s silence stretched, his gaze searching yours for an answer he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Then, instead of pushing you away, he leaned in, capturing your lips in another kiss—slower this time, more deliberate.

In that moment, the rest of the world faded away. It didn’t matter that this was risky or complicated. All that mattered was the way his arms felt around you, and the way he whispered your name like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

But even as you clung to him, the weight of reality loomed just beyond the door. You both knew the balance wouldn’t hold forever. Every stolen moment brought you closer to the edge, but neither of you was ready to let go. Not yet.

The weeks that followed were nothing short of surreal, a delicate haze of stolen moments and whispered confessions that felt like they existed outside of time. For a brief, golden sliver of your lives, the rest of the world melted away. The tension and danger that had once defined your relationship softened, and in its place grew something that felt achingly close to normal—a fleeting illusion of safety in a house of cards.

During the day, Spencer was every bit the professor. His lectures were sharp, his insights unmatched, and his demeanour coolly professional. He kept his distance, his gaze skimming over you with the same neutrality he granted every student. But in the evenings, when the classroom emptied and the cloak of twilight fell over the city, those carefully maintained facades slipped away.

You found solace in the quiet intimacy of those stolen hours, the shared secret between you and Spencer feeling like a delicate, shimmering bubble that shielded you from the outside world—if only for a little while. His apartment, modest and unassuming, became your sanctuary. Under the cover of darkness, you would arrive, greeted by the soft, golden glow of a desk lamp that bathed the room in warmth. The light cast long, flickering shadows across the walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality.

He’d sit at his desk, his slender fingers skimming over pages of handwritten notes or flipping through the well-worn pages of a book. Papers were scattered in controlled chaos before him, but his focus would inevitably drift to you. Meanwhile, you lounged on his worn, olive-green couch, the fabric soft from years of use, a book resting in your hands. The faint scent of old paper mingled with the subtle aroma of his cologne, wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

One evening, the air felt particularly still, broken only by the soft scratch of his pen against paper and the occasional rustle of pages as you turned them. The tension between you wasn’t heavy—it was something quieter, more tender, like the gentle pull of a tide.

“I’m starting to think you’re only here to distract me,” he teased, his voice breaking the silence. His eyes flicked up from his notes, catching yours across the room. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, his expression a perfect blend of amusement and affection.

You looked up from your book, tilting your head with a playful grin. “Maybe I am,” you replied, your tone light but laced with an unmistakable warmth. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, the smirk softening into something more vulnerable, more honest. “I don’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, carrying a sincerity that made your chest tighten. His gaze lingered on you, filled with a kind of unspoken gratitude, as though you were the one thing anchoring him amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

The moment stretched between you, delicate and unbroken, like the fragile stillness before a storm. In that space, with only the golden lamplight and the quiet hum of shared presence, the world outside faded away.

Some nights, you’d find yourselves in his small, modest kitchen, an intimate space that seemed to wrap around you like a cocoon. The countertops were cluttered with mismatched utensils and a few carefully chosen cookbooks, their spines cracked from frequent use. The narrow layout forced you close, your movements effortlessly weaving around each other, as though this was a dance you’d been perfecting for years.

You’d stand at the counter, chopping vegetables with a focus that was occasionally interrupted by his amused glances. Meanwhile, he’d hover over the stove, stirring something fragrant and humming softly under his breath. The warm, savoury scent of simmering herbs and spices filled the air, mingling with the faint crackle of oil in the pan.

“Reid, you’re a genius, not a chef,” you teased, pausing to nudge him gently with your elbow. The touch was casual, yet the closeness sent a subtle thrill through you.

Without missing a beat, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “I think genius qualifies me for multitasking,” he retorted, his tone light and laced with dry humor.

The way he spoke, so earnest yet teasing, made you laugh—an easy, carefree sound that filled the small space. His smile widened at the sound, the fondness in his expression unmistakable. He turned back to the stove, stirring the pot with careful precision, as though the act of cooking together was as much about the process as the meal itself.

Occasionally, his arm would brush against yours, the fleeting contact as natural as it was electric. He’d reach over you to grab a spice jar, murmuring an absent “Excuse me,” though his hand would linger just a moment too long against yours.

He told you stories about the BAU, his voice animated as he recounted Morgan’s relentless pranks or Garcia’s exuberance. You’d laugh until tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, your sides aching from the joy of it.

“This feels too good to be true,” you murmured one night, leaning against the counter as you watched him stir a pot of pasta.

“It does,” he replied, glancing at you with a small, almost shy smile that made your chest tighten. “But I don’t want to think about that right now. I just want to enjoy this.”

And you did. You savoured the moments as though they might slip through your fingers at any moment. But beneath the surface, there was always a quiet awareness—a faint, unspoken dread. You both knew this fragile peace couldn’t last forever. The bubble you lived in was too perfect, too delicate, and the outside world was never far away.

The nights were the best, the moments you cherished most. Wrapped in his arms, the world outside ceased to exist. Time itself seemed to slow down, fading into the background as everything else fell away. The warmth of his skin against yours was enough to make the chaos of the day disappear. He’d trace lazy patterns across your back or along your arms, the soft rhythm of his touch sending a sense of peace through you, grounding you in the present moment. His voice would hum softly, a low murmur that carried the oddest mix of comfort and distraction. He’d recite obscure facts with the same earnestness he applied to everything else, his words a strange lullaby that somehow felt both educational and intimate.

“Did you know that octopuses have three hearts?” he said one evening, his body pressed close to yours, limbs tangled together like the quietest dance. His voice was warm, the amusement in it making your pulse quicken slightly.

You laughed softly, feeling the slight vibration of his chest against your cheek. You buried your face against his skin, closing your eyes for a moment to soak in the sense of peace that only seemed to exist here, with him. “And here I thought you didn’t have one at all,” you teased, a playful smirk pulling at your lips.

His fingers brushed against your cheek, a soft, almost reverent touch that stilled your teasing. His expression shifted, becoming something quieter, something that caught you off guard. The warmth of his breath against your skin softened, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade.

“I do,” he whispered, the words a soft confession, barely audible but filled with weight. “And it’s yours.”

The words hung in the air, more potent than anything he had said before. The way he said them, so sure, so vulnerable, made your heart skip a beat. You wanted to respond, but the truth was—there was nothing to say. The vulnerability in his voice, the sincerity in his touch, said everything you needed to know.

The bubble burst on an otherwise ordinary evening. You’d fallen into an easy rhythm with Spencer, your shared secret giving you a sense of intimacy that felt almost unbreakable. But the thing about bubbles is that they’re fragile, no matter how much you want them to last.

It started with a message.

Spencer had been quiet all day, his usual goodnight text conspicuously absent the night before. When you finally worked up the courage to check your phone, there it was.

@ thefourthdoctor; We need to talk. Can you come over?

Your heart sank as you read the words. “We need to talk” was never a good sign.

The walk to his apartment felt longer than usual, your mind racing with all the possibilities of what he might say. By the time you arrived, your hands were trembling as you knocked on the door.

He opened it quickly, stepping aside to let you in without a word. His expression was tense, his usually warm eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice barely steady.

He closed the door, running a hand through his hair. “Something happened,” he said, his tone clipped.

The weight of his words settled heavily in your chest. “What do you mean? Did someone—”

“Someone knows,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “Or at least, someone suspects.”

You blinked, your stomach twisting. “How? Who?”

“I don’t know who,” he said, pacing the small living room. “But today, a coworker asked me why I’ve been acting distracted. He didn’t say anything outright, but I could tell he’s suspicious. And if he’s suspicious, it’s only a matter of time before someone else starts asking questions.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “What did you say to him?”

“I brushed it off,” he said, his voice strained. “But this isn’t just about the team. If the school finds out…” He trailed off, his hands clenched into fists.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

“So, what are you saying?” you finally asked, your voice trembling.

He stopped pacing, his eyes locking onto yours. “I’m saying we need to stop this. Whatever this is, it’s not worth the risk.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “Not worth the risk?” you repeated, your voice rising. “Is that all this is to you? A risk?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, but the damage was done.

“Then what did you mean, Spencer?” you demanded, your voice cracking. “Because it sounds a lot like you’re saying I’m not worth it.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his silence louder than any words he could have said.

“Unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head. “I thought—” Your voice broke, and you had to swallow hard before continuing. “I thought this meant something to you.”

“It does,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You mean something to me. But this—us—it’s reckless. It’s dangerous. And if we keep going, we’re both going to get hurt.”

“So, what? You’re just giving up?” you asked, tears stinging your eyes. “You’re walking away because it’s easier than fighting for me?”

“I’m trying to protect you!” he snapped, his voice louder than you’d ever heard it.

“Protect me from what?” you shot back. “From caring about you? From wanting to be with you?”

“From yourself!” he yelled, his words cutting through the air like a knife. “You don’t think things through! You’re impulsive and immature, and you don’t understand the consequences of your actions!”

The room went still, his words hanging heavy between you.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your chest heaving as the weight of his words crushed you. “Is that what you really think of me?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

His face softened for a split second, regret flashing in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough.

“Maybe we should’ve never started this,” he said quietly, the words like a final blow.

You felt something inside you shatter. Without another word, you turned and walked to the door, your movements mechanical as you grabbed your coat.

"I'll write you a check, Spencer," you spat, your voice trembling with anger and hurt. "You can have every cent back, every single dollar you ever gave me. I don’t want it anymore—I don’t want any of it. Not the money, not the memories, not you.”

“Wait,” he called, his voice desperate now. But you didn’t stop.

As the door closed behind you, the tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the hallway as you walked away.

This time, you didn’t look back.

Spencer stood frozen in the middle of his living room, staring at the door you had just slammed shut. The silence in the apartment was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

He felt hollow, like the argument had carved out a piece of him and taken it with you when you left. His chest ached, and his hands hung uselessly at his sides, still trembling from the heat of the fight.

Anger flickered in him—not at you, but at himself. The words he’d thrown at you echoed in his mind, sharp and bitter. Impulsive. Immature. Reckless. He had said them to push you away, to make you understand the gravity of the situation. But now they tasted like poison, regret seeping into every corner of his mind.

What have I done?

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. He sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. His mind replayed the look on your face when he had yelled at you—the way your eyes had glistened with unshed tears, the tremble in your voice when you asked if that was what he really thought of you.

He didn’t mean it. Not any of it.

The truth was, you weren’t reckless. You weren’t immature. You were brave in a way he couldn’t comprehend, willing to take risks for what you wanted, for what you believed in. And Spencer admired you for it, even if he couldn’t admit it aloud.

But admiration wasn’t enough to protect you.

That was what haunted him the most. He had been terrified—not of you, but of what your relationship meant, of the potential fallout, the consequences that could ruin both your lives. He thought pushing you away was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. But now, sitting alone in the empty apartment, all he felt was loss.

Spencer’s throat tightened as he leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to call you, to apologize, to take it all back. But the rational part of him held him back. You were right to leave, he thought bitterly. I’m no good for you.

Still, the thought of never seeing you again, never hearing your laugh or feeling the warmth of your touch, was unbearable.

The apartment felt colder, emptier, without you in it. Spencer closed his eyes, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he had said and everything he hadn’t.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt utterly, devastatingly alone.

You got me red, white, and blue

Pledging my allegiance to you

Tell me you believe in me too

#missarchive #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #bau x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds

277 notes · View notes