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gojorgeous · 10 months ago

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arranged marriage! gojo heacanons

pairing: gojo x fem!reader synopsis: just some headcanons about arranged marriage gojo! headcanons do follow a linear plot content: MDNI (18+ONLY), nsfw & sfw content, arranged marriage, p->v, oral (fem!receiving), pregnancy, breeding, not proofread because i'm lazy!!! a/n: i had a request to do a sort of expansion/sequel/prequel (?) on my business or pleasure fic, so... this is that. enjoy! and remember AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED!! divider credit to: @cafekitsune wc: 2k (that's so much headcanon lmao)

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who reluctantly agrees to an arranged marriage when the clan decides it’s time to secure the lineage and make a new heir.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose jaw nearly drops when he sees you for the first time as you’re walking down the aisle. No way you’re that hot…

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who’s practically rocking on his feet waiting for the minister to give him permission to kiss you.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who drags said kiss on a little (a lot) longer than he needed to and spends the rest of the night wishing he’d dragged it on even longer.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who’s actually really pissed that there are so many damned guests at his wedding. All of them want to talk to him when all he really wants to do is talk to you!!!

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who only gets about three words into you the whole night and feels like pouting every time someone pulls him away from your arm.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who finally relaxes a bit when the party’s over and he finally gets you alone.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who has a hard time keeping his hands to himself on the drive home.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who can’t help but stare at your lips as you answer his silly little questions about your favorite color and your favorite food.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who has to restrain himself from literally pulling you out of the car and up to his penthouse.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who suddenly finds himself a little nervous when he finally has you to himself. It’s his wedding night and he has to please his wife, right?

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who revels in tearing away your dress until he sees the lacy little white set you have on underneath.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who pins your wrists to the bed just so he can admire the way you look beneath him.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who nearly comes with no warning the first time he hears you moan his name. He decides it’s his sole purpose in life to make you moan like that as much as possible.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who is somehow both gentle and rough, who peppers you with kisses but rocks into you so good he has you seeing stars.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who thinks he ascends when you come around his cock and then ascends again when he remembers he married you and gets to see it for the rest of his life.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who makes sure to cum inside you and give you every last drop. After all, you have to make a new little Gojo heir, right?

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who holds you tightly to his chest until you drift off to sleep with your head atop his heart.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who takes the next two hours to be able to fall asleep himself, too hyped up on all the endorphins he’s feeling.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose brow furrows and stomach drops when he wakes the next morning to you not in his arms.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who scours the house for you and finds you in the living room reading, already having been up for hours.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose heart fractures a little bit when you greet him soooooo formally and tell him that there’s some breakfast in the fridge.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who spends far too long in the shower, letting the water run over him and trying to figure out where he went wrong.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who comes to the conclusion that he just needs to win you over a little more slowly, who smiles and thinks he knows exactly how to do it.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who finds you still reading on the couch and tells you to get ready to go out– you’re going shopping.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who takes you to every designer shop he can think of and buys everything your eyes so much as graze over. Even if you tell him you don’t want it– he doesn’t care. You’re getting it.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose heart flutters in his chest when you smile at a pretty little necklace he buys you. It’s not the most expensive thing he’s bought you by far, but it makes you the happiest nonetheless.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who’s confused as to why you keep thanking him so profusely on the way home. His money is your money now… do you not know that?

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who makes a stop at the bank on the way home and gets you a flashy black credit card with your name (and new last name hehe) printed at the bottom. He loves the way your eyes widen and your lips part when he tells you there’s no limit.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who asks you what you want to do that night. Fly to Paris for dinner? Pack for a vacation to Bali? Maybe just a fancy meal at Tokyo’s most exclusive restaurant? He’s shocked when you say you’d prefer takeout and a movie on the couch, but all too happy to oblige.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who orders half the menu at your favorite ramen restaurant that he’s never heard of.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose eyes go wide when he takes the first bite and tells you it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who stares at your lips when you laugh and ask him, “really? The best?”

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who’s suddenly tugging your skirt down your thighs and burying his face between your legs. He takes one long lick and moans, saying that the ramen is now only second-best.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who thinks he could fuck you for hours on his couch, but stops after just a few rounds. He doesn’t want to tire his little baby out.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who savors the way you let him hold you after sex. Why couldn’t he hold you like this all day? So what if you’d just met– you’re his wife???

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who buries his face in your neck to memorize the moment, dreading the second you pull away from him.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who almost protests when you wrap a blanket around your body and pad off, saying you’re going to take a shower.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who debates cornering you in the bathroom for another round, if only so he can hold you again, but thinks better of it and cleans up your forgotten ramen instead.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who is completely exasperated when you never return to finish the movie. He finds you sitting in your shared bed, reading again.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose heart drops when you only look up long enough to give him a small smile instead of tumbling straight into his arms.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who finds himself once again in the shower contemplating his existence.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who decides he’ll win you over one way or another, even if it takes longer than he originally intended…

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who climbs into bed next to you and slings an arm around your waist casually, like his heart isn’t hammering in his chest when he buries his face in his pillow.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who doesn’t truly fall asleep until you turn off your bedside lamp and lie down beside him. His heart does little skips when you don’t wiggle out from under his arm.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who wakes first in the morning this time to find you curled so tightly into his chest he’s sure his pounding heart is going to wake you.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose eyes turn into little hearts when you wake blushing after you realize how closely you’ve curled into him.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who tells you it’s okay and pulls you back into him and smirks when you can't see his face.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who spends the next few weeks buying you every knick and knack, every snack and meal, and bending you every surface in the house.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose eyes light up whenever he sees you wearing that little necklace he bought you on that very first shopping trip.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who buys you another necklace… this one with his initials dangling from the chain.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who makes you ride him so he can see his letters swaying from your neck as you come on his cock.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who spends every waking moment with you on his mind, who gets in a sticky situation while fighting more than once because he’s waiting for you to text him back or remembering all the nasty things he did to you last night.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who finally takes a look at the pages of those books you like so much and realizes the pure filth his dirty little wife reads right beside him every night.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who’s not angry or put off, but rather excited. He uses it as a manual the next he has you under him and when he repeats a line verbatim from your book he laughs so loud at your shocked little blush that he’s sure you’re both getting a noise complaint in the morning.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who makes every effort to find out what you like (beyond reading smut) and buys you front row tickets to a concert for a band that you both happen to love.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who finds out your favorite movie series and takes three (unapproved) days off of work just to have a marathon with you.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who is having his morning coffee (full of cream and sugar and caramel sauce, of course) when you make your way into the kitchen with your lip pulled between your teeth.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo whose eyes blow wide when he sees a stick with two little pink lines and realizes he’s managed to knock you up on the first try.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who simply has to have you right then and there, bending you over the counter and groaning your name when he slides inside your cunt. He’s gentler this time, though. Can’t be too rough when his wife is pregnant, right?

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who goes overboard with his excitement and buys a new car the same day he finds out you’re pregnant. It’s practically a tank with all its safety features. He says you’re only allowed in that specific vehicle for the foreseeable future. Get used to it.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who’s all over you now. Whatever restraint he had before is gone now that you’re carrying his baby. He touches you… everywhere. All the time. It’s like it pains him to not have at least a smidgen of his skin on yours.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who keeps trying to win you over in the following weeks. He needs you. Not just your body, but your mind and your soul, too!

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who just lets it slip that he loves you when he’s balls deep in your cunt. Doesn’t even get embarrassed or flustered about it, just keeps pounding into you and whining about how much he loves you over and over again while he’s filling you up.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who lets the floodgates open after that. He tells you he loves you at every opportunity. It gets to the point where those three little words don’t even fluster you anymore, but you haven’t said them back. Not yet.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who waits patiently. He knows he’s getting to you, little by little. He’s sure he’ll hear you say it back soon.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who’s blindsided despite having convinced himself he’d be able to play it cool. He’s got you on the couch, wrapped up in his arms with his head on your tummy (he gets to hold you as much as he wants now hehe). You’re braiding his hair when you tell him that you love him.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who flushes the deepest shade of pink you’ve ever seen and pulls down his blindfold like he needs to see you say it again.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who begs to hear it again and again and again until he’s smiling so wide it's literally blinding.

Arranged Marriage! Gojo who thinks his arranged marriage was definitely the best thing to ever happen to him <3

taglist (DM me to be added!): @lacheri, @la-undercover-latina

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#bree’s fics #jjk #jjk smut #jjk gojo #jjk x reader #gojo #gojo smut #gojo headcanons #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jujustu kaisen

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wife-of-all-dilfs · 11 months ago

Note

Hii! I love love love all of your finnick fics! Could I please request a fic where reader is also a victor from an earlier game and she is in an established relationship with Finnick. They both get reaped (not the same district) for the 75th games and reader gets critically hurt in the part where the cornucopia spins. Like she falls into the water after maybe being injured and she can’t swim, so Finnick has to risk everything to save her life.

I’m really looking for like a hurt/comfort with a seriously injured reader and Finnick going through hell to save her because he cannot imagine a life without her in it.

Thank you so much if you’re willing to write this or something like it, feel free of course to change anything to your liking!

two souls, one heart | f. odair

masterlist

summary: finnick refuses to lose the love of his life. your inability to swim complicates things, especially when the cornucopia begins spinning.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: pre-established relationship, heavy angst, drowning, death, bone fracture

notes: thank you so much!!! i really enjoyed writing this, shed a few tears but still enjoyed it lmao. listen to 'beginning of the end movement v' by the newton brothers on repeat for the full experience <3

A quiet nursery rhyme was being sung by the water's edge.

The calm waves around the Cornucopia lapped at the rocks, the blistering sun causing the surface to sparkle. Wiress' voice interrupted Peeta as he mapped out the arena's clock-like wedges in the dirt. Everyone was focused on the map; you should have been too.

Dark blue ripples had your eyes captivated. So tranquil. So hauntingly beautiful. Loving the sea was in your blood, as your District Four was your home. You would think coming from a fishing district would mean your swimming abilities were mastered. In reality, they were practically non-existent. No matter how many times Finnick had attempted to give you lessons, they never stuck.

Neither of you seemed to care though, always too enraptured by simply being in each other's company—feeling Finnick's hands support your body as you floated on the surface...

"Don't you let go of me, Finnick Odair, or I swear to god I'll drown you."

"Will that be before or after you drown first?" he chuckled, though ultimately tightening his grip on your body in an attempt to reassure you.

....hysterically laughing when he got wiped out by a sudden wave...

"No way! I can't—" You broke into a fit of laughter— "I can't believe that just happened!"

"Are you laughing at me, sweetheart?" Finnick asked, trudging through the water towards you, his hair drenched and swept across his forehead.

"Yes!"

You doubled over, knees buckling as you struggled to contain your laughter. Despite trying to put up a serious front, Finnick too let a few chuckles slip at the hysterical sight of you.

"Oh really?"

Just like that, his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you down into the cold water, earning him a squeal just before you crashed together below the surface.

...and washing up on the sandy shore in each other's arms, salty lips capturing one another.

"I'm covered in sand," you murmured against Finnick's lips.

He gave you another kiss before pulling away. "It's okay," he said, pecking your lips again. "I'll help you wash off in the shower when we get back." And then sent you a stomach-flipping grin.

Even though you wouldn't trade those memories for the world, if you had known your life would soon depend on the ability to swim, you would have paid much more attention to the lessons.

Finnick stood closely beside you, his trident digging into the dirt as he gripped it tightly in case of an attack. He had noticed your drifted attention, observing the way your eyes stared at the rippling water, like death was lurking just beneath the surface waiting to drag you down to the murky depths.

He could protect you from most things in the arena, but fear was something entirely different. A trident couldn't defeat the darkness in your mind.

A hand slid onto your lower back, rubbing gentle strokes to gain your attention. Your gaze tore from the blinding blue and settled onto Finnick's face beside you, watching his mouth curve into a light smile. You knew the silent words he was trying to convey: 'You're okay, sweetheart. I've got you.'

For a fleeting moment, the anxiety had disappeared. How could anything ever go wrong with Finnick by your side? The corners of your mouth quirked, preparing to send him a smile in response. But it never came. Something new had caught your attention. The woman by the water was no longer singing.

Wiress had been murdered.

The second Katniss let her arrow fly into Gloss' chest, everything around you seemed to explode into action. Anything that could go wrong would go wrong—Murphy's Law. And it did.

The Careers had initiated an attack.

Charging forward from the waterside was Cashmere, determined to avenge her brother's death. Instinct quickly kicked in and the spear in your hand was sent barrelling through the air and into her chest. As you watched her body slump to the ground, an enraged yell came from the side.

Finnick was fighting Brutus.

With your only weapon lodged within Cashmere's chest, aiding Finnick was impossible. Enobaria revealed herself beside Brutus, displaying her vicious fangs and throwing a dagger that sliced a small cut across Finnick's shoulder. Though the wound was minor, your heart lurched as he cried out in pain.

Before a single thought in your brain could form, your legs were moving. Not towards Finnick, but after Enobaria. Remember who the real enemy is—screw that. Finnick could have died. Your Finnick. He called out your name, his voice hoarse and frayed, but you continued on, hatred fuelling each step. It seemed Katniss and Johanna had the same idea, following behind you with their weapons bared.

Salt water sprayed onto your face, but you paid it no attention. Nor did you notice as the jungle surrounding the island began to blur into one overwhelming hue of green. Only when your body was thrown to the harsh rocky terrain did you realise what was happening.

The Cornucopia had started to spin.

Nothing could compare to the terror you felt as gravity's merciless force dragged your body toward the violent waves surging against the rocks. Just as your lower legs breached the edge, a hand grabbed onto your own. Katniss. She too was hanging onto Johanna whose only lifeline was an axe buried in the rocks.

A moment—that was all you were given to scan your surroundings. Supplies and sharp-edged weapons were flying everywhere. White water was spraying into the air. Finnick, who was thirty feet away, was gripping onto a rock ledge whilst keeping Beetee from sliding into the furious waves. His head turned to the side and even from a great distance, your eyes met.

It was at that moment you knew, you just knew the odds weren't going to be in your favour. God forbid you lived a simple happy life with the man you loved, days spent together on a calm beach. God forbid the Gamemakers gave you one last chance to be in his arms. God forbid you survived.

And with that sudden realisation, the universe, sick as it was, decided it was time.

Your hand began slipping from Katniss's; an unseen tear fell from your eye, and you smiled. A smile of goodbye sent to the love of your life. His face contorted into one of agony, lips moving but you couldn't hear his voice over the roaring waves. Still, you knew exactly what he was shouting.

"NO! NO!"

There was nothing he could do but watch your body disappear into the waves, repeating over and over "no, no, no," and praying his cruel eyes had deceived him. They hadn't.

Dark blue was in every direction you looked. The undertow tossed and rolled your body like a ragdoll in a washing machine and despite your attempts to swim, the surface only seemed to be slipping further and further out of your reach. Darkness engulfed you, so thick that you couldn't tell which way was up or down. That was when the panic set in.

Your arms and legs thrashed frantically, struggling against the water's force, desperate to reach safety or an air pocket. Cold water flooded your throat as you gasped uncontrollably. You screamed as every attempt at breathing felt like fire burning in your lungs. Finnick. Where was he? Where were you? What was happening? Why wouldn't it stop?

Thoughts submerged your mind in terror, and you were powerless to stop them. All you could do was feel. Pain. Fire. Burning

At some point, the Cornucopia had ceased its spinning and your body came to a rest in the water. An eerie calm suddenly washed over you; a sense of clarity stilled your wild movements. This was the end. There was no future. No hope. The world above wasn't yours to call home anymore. You now belonged to the sea.

Of course, your water-logged mind had forgotten that home was where the heart was, and your heart was still beating... above the surface, in the aching chest of another.

Tendrils of hair floated around your face like fronds of seaweed. Rays of sunlight penetrated the surface, turning the surroundings a vibrant sparkly blue. As you sank further down, the water, now a comfortable lukewarm, cradled you in its embrace. It felt safe, like being in Finnick's arms again. Like home.

You gazed at the sun's rays; they looked beautiful. You felt beautiful. But time was running out and the bright light soon began shrouding your entire vision, though not before you witnessed a dark figure dive beneath the waves.

**********

Finnick loved the ocean. He spent most days in District Four down by the beach, swimming, spearfishing, and watching the sun rise and set on the blue horizon. If he believed in reincarnation, he would have imagined himself to be a lionfish or dolphin in his past life, living in an underwater world, free from tyranny and oppression. He loved the ocean.

But that love was incomparable to what he felt for you. So, when he dove into the rocky waters to save you and felt the currents fighting against him, he determined there was nothing he hated more than the ocean. Not as he watched its strong grip drag your motionless body further down below him.

Your back had just touched the soft seabed when he swam far enough down to envelope you in his embrace. He should have swum you back to the surface immediately, but in his distressed state, he couldn't help but foolishly stare at your lifeless appearance. Your skin was blue. It's just the water's colour, he told himself. Your eyes were closed. She's just asleep. Your neck didn't pulse under his touch. She's... She's...

He had no justification for that. Feet planted firmly on the sandy floor, he propelled both himself and you back up to the surface. As Finnick paddled back to the Cornucopia, the others reached down and helped lift your limp body onto the rocks.

"Is she...?"

"Peeta," Katniss quietly reprimanded him.

Finnick paid them no attention. He said nothing but trauma screamed in his eyes. His breathing was ragged and his hands were trembling as he frantically checked your pulse again—in both your wrists and your neck; he even pressed his ear to your chest. All he heard was the waves lapping against the rocks.

"No," he whispered again.

It seemed to be all he could say anymore. No. No, this couldn't be happening. You were just standing beside him a few minutes ago; your eyes were just looking into his. However much he tried to deny reality, it didn't seem to make it any less true. You were gone.

He choked out a rough determined breath, interlocked his hands over your chest, and began pressing repeatedly over your heart. Wet strands of tangled hair were strewn across the rocks like dead seaweed. The usual soft pink accompanying your cheeks was nowhere to be seen, devoid of any life.

"Come on, sweetheart," he muttered before pulling down your chin to blow air into your lungs. The kiss of life. And when nothing happened as he pulled away, he restarted the chest compressions. "Oh, don't do this to me," he begged, voice breaking. "Don't do this. Breathe."

Any moment now. Any moment, your eyes would flutter open, the colour would return to your glowing skin, and your heart would beat with life beneath his hands. Your lips would whisper his name and he would pull you into his arms, where he would keep you safe until the end of time.

"Breathe."

Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Nothing. He did it again. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Silence. Maybe he should've just ripped his heart out and replaced yours with his own. Death would come for him within seconds but hearing something beating inside your chest would've made the sacrifice worth it.

Life would flash before his eyes and your beaming smile would be the last thing he'd get to see. His last thought would be of relief that you were alive.

Johanna rested a tentative hand on Finnick's shoulder. "Finnick, she's—"

"No, she's not!" he exclaimed, continuing his movements. "She's fine. Aren't you, baby? You're fine." He cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your soft skin before he pressed his lips to yours and blew twice. "You're fine."

The golden bangle around his wrist glimmered in the sunshine as he pressed on your ribcage. All he had to do was keep you alive until Plutarch rescued everyone. One simple task and he failed.

"Finnick, we have to go," someone said. Who? He didn't know nor care.

Leave me, he wanted to say. Leave me here to die. Let the Careers mutilate my body, take my life, my last breath, but let it be by her side.

Something cracked beneath his palms and he knew one of your ribs had fractured. His arms stilled, half-expecting you to cry out in pain but then he remembered. And with that sickening crack came a devastating realisation—you really were gone.

A sob erupted from his throat and his head fell to your chest, drenching your already-soaked wetsuit with hot tears. Everything else seemed to disappear. The arena, the Careers who could attack again at any moment, the spectators who were avidly watching. Everything.

It was just him and you. He didn't care that his screams and deafening sobs could bring unwanted attention or jeopardise the group's safety. Any tribute with half a mind would know crossing him in such a state would be a fatal flaw. Even if they did, it wouldn't matter. Nothing mattered. Life no longer had meaning.

Finnick pulled your lifeless body onto his lap and cradled you protectively in his arms, lightly rocking back and forth. His forehead rested against your own, cold and damp. You always were the cold one, needing his touch to light a fire beneath your skin. He loved having you rely on him for warmth, but not like this.

"Come back to me, baby, please," he begged almost inaudibly. Tears were running down his cheeks as he brushed pieces of hair away from your face. His lips were on yours once more, heartbroken and painfully delicate; not to fill your lungs with air, but to fill your heart with his love in the hopes it would be enough to bring it back to life. "Don't leave me."

Pleas, prayers, begs, and wishes flew past his lips, over and over. And then they stopped and Finnick simply stared. Silence fell across the entire arena. The birds didn't chirp, the other tributes remained quiet, and the trees stood still. Even the water had calmed, resembling a perfectly flat mirror.

Finnick only had three words left on his tongue. Three final words to give you, wherever it was that you were. He slowly leaned down, squeezed his stinging eyes shut, and pressed a long farewell kiss to your forehead. His eyes remained closed as he parted from your skin, unable to take another look as he whispered his final goodbye.

"I love you."

And then, for the first time since he had rescued you from the blue depths, he felt his heart beating again. Just like yours was.

**********

There was a voice, distant yet reassuring—a lifeline to consciousness. Black was all there was. Coldness was all that was felt. It was desolate. But that voice... that voice was so anguished yet so familiar and encouraging that it lit a fire inside your chest, warming you from the inside out.

In the distance of the dark void was a figure, their body made entirely out of a pulsating golden light. Each word the voice spoke enhanced the light's brightness. "Come... me, please..." Brighter. "Don't leave..." And brighter.

The light was warm and comforting, just like the voice attached to it. Whoever's voice it was that brought the light resonated deep in your mind, tugging at the strings within your heart.

Your heart.

The thumping in your chest was weak, almost non-existent, but it was still there. Though it seemed time was running out. Pitch-black darkness outweighed the golden light ten-to-one; you could feel its cold breath creeping onto your back. So, you started running towards the figure. Sprinting. Until all that surrounded you was golden.

"I love you."

Water. At first, it came trickling out in two fluid streams from the sides of your mouth. Then suddenly, it was spraying into the air as choked coughs forced the liquid from your burning lungs. Light flooded your vision—not golden and inviting, but vivid and overwhelming.

There was something warm beneath your legs, against your arm, rubbing at your back, holding you in an upright position. While you heaved, dry-retched, and gasped, that soothing warmth remained.

As your airways began to clear and the expulsion of water ceased, your half-lidded eyes rolled around the area. Still dazed and disoriented, you struggled to make out what surrounded you. There was immense rippling blue, vibrant hues of green in the distance, dark rough grey beneath you, and elongated blobs of colour that stood a few feet away.

"Just–just keep breathing, sweetheart." That voice. The one belonging to the figure of light that brought you back. It was madly repeating the same words over and over. "You're okay", "Deep breaths", and "You're alive."

Shaky fingers brushed the stray wet strands of hair from your face. So warm. With the little energy you had, your head turned to seek out the golden light again. And you found it.

The blinding sun shining down reflected off his bronze hair, turning it a divine golden hue. His brows were raised and scrunched together as though he couldn't possibly believe what he was seeing. Deep lines were etched into his tear-streaked skin, evidence of his previous turmoil. Those sea-green eyes stared at you, afraid that if he so much as blinked, you would fall lifeless in his arms once more.

"You're here," he whispered.

Finnick. YourFinnick. Your light.

When your eyes met, a splitting grin lit up his face, made up of an inconceivable amount of raw emotion. You weren't sure what to do—smile, laugh, cry, kiss him? Your mind was scrambled, overwhelmed with love for the beautiful golden-haired man in front of you.

Without warning, your face scrunched up and the tears began flowing. You weren't sure why you were crying. Maybe it was because you had just been brought back from the brink of death; maybe it was because you couldn't believe someone actually cared so deeply about you.

Finnick cradled your face in his hand. "It's okay," his voice trembled, tears now cascading down his cheeks. His smile, however, never disappeared. "You're okay. You're safe now. I'm not letting you go."

He took your face into two large hands, brought you to his lips, and pressed a tender kiss to each tear that rolled over your skin. One of your hands rested over his; the other was placed against his chest, feeling it rise and fall so you could synchronise your breaths.

His arms moved to pull you tightly against him, almost like he was trying to merge your body with his. Or perhaps, it was your soul. You didn't care about the pain aching in one of your ribs. You wanted to tell him that his soul was already intertwined with your own, but words couldn't describe the sentiment as profoundly as you felt it.

In the simplest of terms your water-logged brain could muster, you whispered, "You're my light, Finnick."

Brows scrunched together, he looked down at you, fighting back the urge to start sobbing in your arms. If he had been anywhere else, if there wasn't an entire country watching, he would've gone on for hours, explaining how stupidly, selfishly, and incredibly in love with you he was.

But he couldn't do that. Not now. So, he placed his hand over the one you had resting on his chest and readjusted its position. He could feel the thumping, even through your palm.

Your eyes were full of emotion as you stared up into his. You already knew what his next words were going to be and for the first time since you were thrown into the water from the Cornucopia, you smiled.

Rhythmically, your hand and his pulsed together. Finnick's gaze flickered across your face and he grinned. "You're my heart."

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mariasont · 7 months ago

Note

can you do aaron x wife reader who also works in the bau with him & on a case a police officer openly flirts with aaron in front of the team and reader so she stakes her claim on her husband && the team ( mostly derek & pen ) are teasing the two of them for it ??

Marked Territory - A.H

A/N: AHHHHH thinking ab claiming aaron hotchner as ur man has me giggling & kicking me feet

THANK you sooooo much for requesting angel <3 hope you like it!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

wk: 1.2k

pairings: aaron hotchner x wife!bau!fem!reader

warnings: heavy makeout, jealously

You stood a few feet away with a watchful gaze, arms locked across your chest. The consultant was laying it on thick, her eyelashes sweeping up and down in a practiced rhythm aimed at Aaron. It made you want to throw up. You couldn't help but let out a soft, almost inaudible scoff. The consultant's laughter pierced the quiet, an exaggerated display that felt out of place. Her hand rested on Aaron's arm a moment too long. Your glare could have set the room on fire, you were sure of it, and it only seemed to intensify when Aaron offered a polite, yet distant smile in return.

"Careful there, sugar," Derek joked, sliding into place beside you as he nudged your side. "You're about two seconds from turning this into a crime scene."

You offered a half-glance towards him, "I suppose I can't fault her taste," you said with a forced lightness, even as a twinge of jealously coiled tightly within you, your attention fixed on the hand that dared to claim familiarity with Aaron. "But good taste doesn't come with good sense, apparently."

Penelope swept in with a gasp that could rival a Greek chorus, her eyes wide with a feigned shock. "Wow, I could practically taste your fury from down the hall! Mrs. Hotchner, are we in strategy mode, or should I grab some popcorn?"

You rolled your eyes with a dismissive wave. "You two are ridiculous. What do you expect me to do? Drag her by her hair? Please, I trust Aaron," you stated firmly, because, well, you did. This, however, didn't stop the tiny spark of irritation that flickered within, unbidden and unwelcome, but you squashed it with a laugh. "Besides, if I started a catfight every time someone flirted with him, I'd need my own filing cabinet for all the assault charges."

A glance was all it took for Garcia and Morgan to share their amusement. "Sure, sure," Garcia drawled, her voice dripping in sarcasm.

Morgan's eyebrow arched in silent agreement as he smiled knowingly. "Of course, you're calm. But we both know if that bubble of anger pops, it's going to be one hell of a show."

You tried to ignore it; you really did. You buried your nose in your work, determined to keep your mind off that infuriating woman. You shuffled papers, dove into your case files, and tapped away at your computer with a vigor that doesn't go unnoticed by the team. Every time you caught a glimpse of Aaron, there she was--the consultant--hovering like a shadow. It's almost comical how she mirrored his every move, but you were not laughing.

You found reasons to be anywhere but where Aaron was, taking your coffee break when he's in the break room, opting for the stairs when he took the elevator. It's a dance of avoidance that has you mentally exhausted, but you're trying to channel your inner zen, and being around that woman is doing you no favors.

The office air is thick with tension, a tangible presence that envelops your desk, your focus splintering with every laugh and hushed conversation that drifts over from Aaron's direction. You're the very image of concentration until you see it--the consultant, her proximity invasive, her hand lingering on his shoulder with a familiarity that sears through your veneer of calm. It's the tripping point, the moment your restraint fractures.

You stand, a fluid motion that betrays her anger that charged the room with an energy that has the whole team's attention snapping to you. They recognize the signs--the firm line of your jaw, the fire in your eyes--a rare display that signals an unstoppable force is about to be set in motion.

"Hotch," the name is a clear, firm declaration across the room, a tone you usually reserved for the field. "Can I speak to you for a second?"

The room falls still, a collective breath held by the team as Aaron excuses himself and follows you into his office. The door closes behind them with a soft click, leaving just the two of you. His gaze meets yours, a furrow of worry creasing his brow as he takes in the tempest swirling in your stance.

"Honey, are you alright?" he asks, the professional facade giving way to a soft undertone of worry, as he takes a deliberate step towards you, his eyes searching yours for signs of distress.

With a swift assurance of privacy, your eyes lock on the drawn blinds, and you waste no time diminishing the space between you, hands clasping up to his neck with an urgency that pulls him down to you. Your lips found his in a fervent collision, coaxing a surprised murmur from him. He softly pulled back, his chuckle deep and knowing, as his hands encircled your waist.

"Honey--I, we're in the office."

His words may have carried a hint of reprimand, but the gentle exploration of his hands across your back drawing you nearer seemed to contradict him. An innocent smile graced your lips as your fingers wove through his hair, eliciting his head tilting back in contentment. "Just missed you is all."

An eyebrow lifted in amused acknowledgement. "Mm, is that so?"

Gently tugging his head closer, your lips crashed against his with a desperate intensity, your hands gripping him as if he were a lifeline.

With deliberate strokes, you raked your fingers through his hair, creating artful disarray. Your hands glided to his tie, tugging it just enough to break the perfect line, then across his jacket, crumpling the fabric with feigned carelessness. Each touch a strategic step in enhancing his unkempt image.

A gentle exhale escaped you as he pressed you back against the desk's edge, his hands forming a cage around you, both protective and possessive. Your lips curved into a smirk, your teeth capturing his bottom lip and tugging with a teasing pressure, probably a little harder than you should have, causing him to pull back. "Christ, sweetheart."

Instinctively, your hand rose to trace his bottom lip, smoothing over the swollenness your teeth had caused. A soft smile graced your features as you took in the delightful disarray of his appearance. With a satisfied nod, you left a featherlight kiss on his cheek and glided towards the door. "I love you, Mr. Hotchner."

His eyebrows knit together in loving exasperation as he observed your retreat, his hand absentmindedly caressing his lip. God, you kept life interesting. "I love you more, Mrs. Hotchner."

Emerging from Hotch's office, your hair perfectly disordered, a small smirk etched on your lips. You watch as the consultant's eyes stretch wide, a flush of embarrassment covering her cheeks. With a sly wink tossed her way, you glide towards Penelope and Morgan.

"Well, well, well," Morgan drawled, a sly grin spreading across his face as he watched the scene unfold, arms folded confidently over his chest. "I had a feeling those claws were just waiting for the right moment to strike."

"That's our girl! Showing the world whose boss without breaking a sweat." Penelope chirped. "Well, I mean, maybe a little sweat. I'm seriously striving not to speculate about what you two were doing in there."

A playful smirk dances on your lips as you peer over your shoulder at Hotch's door. "Just wait for it," you tease, fingers poised for the dramatic reveal as you count down. "3, 2, 1.."

Right on cue, Hotch steps out, looking every bit as ruffled as you'd intended. His tie hangs crooked, his suit crumpled, and you didn't miss the dark red tint around his bottom lip. The sound of Morgan and Penelope's laughter filled the air as you offered a nonchalant shrug.

"It's all in the day's work, besties. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do."

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch #hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #hotch x reader #hotch x you #aaron hotchner x your #criminal minds x you #criminal minds fic

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reidmarieprentiss · 2 months ago

Text

Something Better

Summary: You overhear Spencer and Diana talking about JJ's confession, it hits too hard with the issues you and Spencer have been experiencing.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt

Warnings/Includes: crying, insecurities, fighting, leaving

Word count: 2.5k

a/n: sorry!!!! i am notttt having a good time in my relationship (he doesn’t know we’re in a relationship)

main masterlist part two

The complexity of your relationship with Spencer had deepened significantly, ever since the enigmatic and dangerous Cat Adams had entered the picture. Understanding the nature of Spencer's job, you had been kept well-informed about his interactions with Cat, ensuring that you were on the same page with him throughout this unsettling chapter. You and Spencer had been together for four years, a relationship that was marked not only by affection but also by the trials that had weathered your joint experiences, including Spencer's traumatic stint in prison. Amidst the turmoil, recent events had only added to the strain: Spencer had once again found himself a hostage, and in those fraught moments, JJ had confessed her love for him.

This unexpected confession stirred a troubling mix of emotions within you. Despite your deep-seated trust and the solid foundation you had built together, insecurities bubbled to the surface. The knowledge of Spencer's initial crush on JJ during his early days at the BAU added layers of doubt and fear. You couldn't help but wonder about the what-ifs—whether Spencer harbored any regrets about the path he had chosen with you instead.

—

As you held the tray with steaming mugs of tea, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into your palms, your intention was simple: to bring a small comfort to the room where Spencer and his mother, Diana, were deep in conversation. But the words that drifted through the slightly ajar door halted you in your tracks, the comforting heat from the cups suddenly replaced by a cold grip of fear tightening around your heart.

“You think that’s what I’ve been doing? Closing myself off to possibilities because I’m waiting for JJ?” Spencer's voice carried a mix of confusion and introspection, a tone you recognized all too well.

“I hope not,” Diana’s response was gentle, yet it carried an undeniable weight of concern.

The gravity of the conversation, the raw honesty of the words spoken, pierced through the veil of assurances and understandings that had surrounded your relationship with Spencer. The mention of JJ, with the concept of ‘possibilities’ he might be closing off, struck a vulnerable chord. It echoed the very insecurities that had been gnawing at you—fears of being a placeholder, of not being the ultimate choice but rather the safe harbor in the storm of his complex life.

The impact of this realization was instantaneous and visceral. The ceramic mugs slipped from your numb fingers, shattering on the floor as a symbolic fracture mirrored in your composure. A sob escaped your lips—a sound of pain so raw it seemed to carry the weight of every doubt and every shadow of fear that had gathered in the corners of your relationship.

“What was that?” Diana’s voice was sharp with alarm, slicing through the tense air as the sound of the breaking mugs echoed down the hall.

Unable to face them, to see the concern or confusion on Spencer’s face, you turned and fled down the hallway. The coolness of the walls was a stark contrast to the pain burning inside you as each step took you further from the room, from the conversation, from the man you loved yet suddenly felt miles away from. Your mind raced, caught in a whirlwind of emotion and a desperate need for solitude, a space to breathe and to grasp the full meaning of what you had just overheard.

“I’ll go check it out, Mom,” Spencer said, patting his moms hands.

Spencer's heart thudded with increasing urgency as he navigated the hallway, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene of shattered mugs and spilled tea, a silent testament to a sudden departure fueled by distress. "Y/N?" he called out again, his voice tinged with confusion and concern. The lack of response only heightened his worry, each unanswered call amplifying the fear that something was profoundly wrong.

As he passed by a window, his gaze inadvertently swept over the driveway, catching the sight of you getting into your car. The pieces clicked together in his mind, albeit without understanding the why behind your actions. His concern morphed into sheer panic, propelling him into a jog as he made his way swiftly towards the front door, his mind racing with possible reasons for your abrupt exit.

Reaching the door, he flung it open and stepped out into the cool air, his breath visible in the quiet of the afternoon. "Y/N, wait!" he shouted, hoping to catch your attention before you could drive away. His voice carried a desperate edge, a plea woven through the urgency.

Spencer's mind was a whirlwind of worry and bewilderment. He had no clue what had triggered your sudden need to escape, no understanding of the emotional turmoil that had driven you to such a rapid departure. As he jogged towards the car, his only thought was to stop you, to understand, to fix whatever had gone wrong, unaware of the conversation you had overheard and the doubts it had reignited within you.

He reached the car just as you were about to start the engine, his expression full of fear, confusion, and concern. His hands gestured slightly, asking for a moment of your time, his eyes pleading for you to stay, to talk, to explain what had caused this rift to suddenly appear between you.

As the window descended, revealing your tear-streaked face and the distress clearly written across your features, Spencer’s heart sank even further. The sight of you so visibly upset was enough to tighten the already squeezing panic in his chest.

“What happened?” he asked again, his voice rough from the sprint and the growing dread. He leaned closer, his eyes searching yours for an answer, for anything that could explain the sudden shift in the day.

“I don’t want to hold you back from anything,” you managed to say between sniffles, the words muffled slightly by your emotional state. Your voice was thick with pain, each word laden with the weight of your fears.

“What?” Spencer’s confusion deepened, his brows knitting together as he tried to decipher the meaning behind your words. His face fell, a mix of worry and incomprehension as he struggled to connect the dots. He reached out tentatively, resting his hand against the car door, needing some physical connection to bridge the gap that the conversation had opened between you.

“You’re not holding me back, Y/N. Please, tell me what’s going on,” Spencer urged, his tone softening, trying to provide a calm amid the storm of emotions swirling around you both. His eyes held yours, filled with concern and a plea for clarity, as he tried to understand the source of your sudden decision to leave.

As you struggled with the words, each one a reflection of the turmoil within, Spencer's expression shifted from confusion to a dawning realization of the depth of your concerns.

"Why haven't you proposed, Spencer?" The question came out choked, a manifestation of the culmination of doubts and fears that had been gathering, fueled by recent events and lingering insecurities.

"Y/N...what? What is happening?" Spencer's voice was tinged with a blend of confusion and fear, grappling with the sudden confrontation of an issue he hadn't realized was so pressing in your mind.

You shook your head slowly, signaling the seriousness of your need for an answer. "Just answer me," you said quietly, a firm resolve underlying your soft tone.

"I don't... I don't know," Spencer admitted, his voice faltering. His uncertainty was palpable, reflecting his own confusion about the future and his feelings about where your relationship stood, especially in light of his recent traumas and challenges.

"That's not good enough for me," you stated, the pain in your voice evident as you began to roll up the window, a physical manifestation of the emotional barrier you felt compelled to erect in the face of his indecision.

Spencer's heart raced as he saw the window closing, a barrier rising not just between him and the outside air, but between him and you. He placed his hand against the glass, a silent plea for you to stop and listen.

"Please, Y/N, wait," Spencer's voice cracked, his usual composure unraveled by the intensity of the moment. "I love you. I'm just... I've been dealing with a lot, and I didn't realize you felt this way. Can we just talk about this? Please?" His words rushed out in a torrent of emotion, a mix of apology and confusion, desperately trying to bridge the growing gap with his earnestness and vulnerability.

The tension in the air thickened as you left the window half-cracked, Spencer stood rooted to the spot, his heart heavy with the burden of your words.

"I know you’re going through a lot...I understand, I’ve been here with you through it all," you said, your voice steadier now, each word deliberate. Taking a deep breath, you lifted your gaze to meet Spencer's, the pain in your eyes a clear reflection of the turmoil within. "Are you waiting for something better?"

The question hit Spencer like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily breathless, his mind reeling. "Something better? You’re the best there is, Y/N," he managed to say, his voice laden with sincerity and a touch of desperation, wanting nothing more than to dispel your doubts.

That response, however, triggered a shift from sadness to anger. "Then why did you tell your mom you’re waiting for JJ?" you yelled, the volume of your voice a stark contrast to the quiet despair of moments before.

Spencer's face paled, the accusation and the misunderstanding cutting deep. "No, Y/N, that’s not what I meant," he stammered, his mind racing to correct the misunderstanding. "It was taken out of context. I was talking about not closing myself off to healing, to moving forward with my life, which means with you. JJ's confession threw me off, yes, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you, and I'm not waiting for anyone else."

He stepped closer to the car, his expression earnest, almost pleading. "I haven't proposed because I've been scared—scared of not being enough for you with all my baggage. But I know that's no excuse. You deserve certainty, and I've been unfair. I'm sorry for making you feel this way."

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of understanding or forgiveness, hoping his words could bridge the gap that had opened up between you, driven by fears and miscommunications.

Your glare didn't waver as Spencer began to unravel the layers of the conversation you had misinterpreted, each word weighed with a heavy mix of regret and urgency to clarify the misunderstanding. He shifted uncomfortably under your intense gaze, knowing how crucial this moment was to salvage the trust and future of your relationship.

“Bullshit,” you had said, the sharpness in your voice slicing through the air.

“What?” Spencer’s confusion was evident, a mixture of desperation and hurt flashing across his features.

“That’s bullshit, Spencer. Tell me the truth,” you pressed, your voice firm, demanding honesty over comforting lies.

Spencer took a deep, steadying breath, recognizing the necessity of complete transparency. “Fine. My mom…she wants grandkids, she wanted to know why we hadn’t given her any. I told her the truth, I’m scared to bring children into this world.” His admission came out in a rush, a confession of his deepest fears about fatherhood and the future.

You continued to glare, silently urging him to continue, to explain every nuance of the conversation that had driven you to such a state of distress.

“She asked if I thought JJ made a mistake having kids. I didn’t know what to say. She thought I was being quiet because I was upset about JJ being with Will, which I am not—definitely not. And that’s what you must have heard,” Spencer explained, his voice earnest, pleading with you to understand the context and his true feelings.

The air between you seemed charged with his words, each sentence he spoke unraveling the knot of misunderstanding that had tightened around your heart. His explanation painted a different picture, one not of longing for another but of fear and apprehension about a future he felt unequipped to navigate.

Your expression softened slightly, the initial rush of anger ebbing as the truth of his words began to resonate. The misunderstanding had morphed your fear into anger, but with his honest explanation, the foundations of trust began to show signs of mending.

Spencer watched you carefully, gauging your reaction, hoping that his honesty and the vulnerability he displayed would be enough to start healing the rift that had formed. His eyes conveyed a silent plea for forgiveness, his posture open and unguarded as he stood before you, laid bare by his confessions.

“Okay,” you had said simply, leaving Spencer clinging to that word as if it were a lifeline in the turbulent sea of your relationship.

“Okay? Is that—is that all? Are we okay?” His voice was tinged with uncertainty, searching for more reassurance, more solidity than the ambiguous affirmation offered.

“I don’t know,” you replied, the honesty in your voice reflecting the turmoil within.

“Y/N...please, I love you so much,” Spencer implored, his words thick with emotion, his eyes begging you to see the depth of his sincerity.

“I love you too, but saying it and showing it are two different things,” you sighed, the weariness in your voice painting a vivid picture of your emotional state. “You’re my world, Spencer. I just want to feel like I’m yours too. Can I go please?”

His heart sank with those words, a stark reminder of the disconnect that had formed between your perceptions of the relationship. “Go? Go where? You’re leaving?” The panic was evident in his voice, his mind racing through scenarios of loss and loneliness.

“I need to be alone right now. Can you catch a cab?” you asked, your tone resolute yet gentle, not wanting to hurt him but needing the space to sort through your swirling thoughts.

“Are you breaking up with me?” The question was out before he could stop it, a fear-driven reflex.

“No,” was your simple, firm reply, a small comfort amid the storm.

Spencer nodded, accepting your need even as it pained him. “I can get a cab. I love you, darling. So, so, so much.” His words were a whispered caress, an affirmation of everything he felt, everything he hoped for despite the current heartache.

“I love you too,” you responded, a whisper of reciprocation that served as a temporary balm to his aching heart.

With that, you drove off, leaving Spencer watching the space where you had been, his mind heavy with love and fear. He pulled out his phone to arrange a ride, his heart clenching in his chest.

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pricegouge · 4 months ago

Text

Haul

Part Three MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon nudity, noncon touching, graphic depiction of injuries

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure. If you survive this indeed, though.

You count distance in the taste of fabric on your tongue. As hours and miles pass, the cotton fades from heavy copper, to salt-lick piquant. The trailer heats with the rising sun, metal hull hotboxing you in. The tight space you're kept in is padded, probably for sound proofing though you're almost grateful for it, given how it prevents you from burning yourself on the corrugated siding.

It's hard to guess how much time passes. It feels like days, but the trailer does not go through a cooling cycle, nor do you die of dehydration, so you assume only a handful of hours pass. You spend them drifting in and out of consciousness, wishing you had enough wherewithal to try escaping. Unfortunately, with the heat and the dark comes exhaustion, and with the adrenaline crash comes intense pain so you do little more than catalog injuries when you can concentrate enough to do so.

If you survive this indeed, though.

Poor Ash. She may have been a pain in the ass, but no one deserves to go out like that. It's hard to stop the tears when you think of her but you try anyway, knowing full well that further inflaming your face isn't going to do anyone any good. You wonder why they kept you alive - why Ash didn't make the cut. Or, did, you suppose. Maybe they felt two victims would have been too difficult to deal with. Maybe they thought Ash, who was still able to get around quite well, would've been too much of a handful.

Maybe you're trying to reason with hurricane season, as it were, find rationality where there was none. These men were motivated by something you'd never understand and perhaps it was best not to waste your efforts on it. Still, it's hard to move past Simon and Gaz's brief exchange.

'For cap?'

'For all of us.'

The thought of being shared by them made your stomach turn, but the thought that there was another one - one they evidently often brought victims back home to - that was even worse.

'Captain,' you sneer. You can't help but picture some old geezer who couldn't pull his own victims anymore; real Texas Chainsaw shit. The boys would probably have to hold you down so he could wax poetic at you about what a good hauler he used to be, help him lift a tire iron so he could get his rocks off. It would be enough to make you laugh, if it didn't feel like the tire iron was already whaling on you.

Still, you suppose knowing your fate lies with an old man and his lackeys is better than the alternative; even in your current state you know a truck with a soundproofed false back generally spells human trafficking for anyone with the misfortune to find themselves stuck in one. Your prospect doesn't make you happy by any means, but you suppose the enemy you know is better. Even if that enemy is a group of known killers.

It's not too long after the trailer starts to cool that the quality of the roads changes; long, smooth interstate giving way to potholed, winding highway. You grit your teeth each time you're jostled, groan every time you remember your jaw is actually your biggest source of pain.

The passiveness with which you wonder about our whereabouts surprises you, but you're so exhausted you don't hold yourself too accountable for that. It's not until the truck slows to a stop that you sit up straighter, heartbeat hammering when the back up alarm confirms your fears that you have arrived at your destination. They let you sit for a while after. Long enough to get cold. There's the occasional sound of air brakes firing and you figure you're in some sort of lot. You try yelling for help a few times, but between the gag in your mouth and the soundproofing around you, your cries go unanswered.

At least you hope that's the reason. Otherwise this entire lot is filled with people who are in on this potential trafficking ring and Simon's words echo even more ominously in your ears.

A quiet rattling form the end of the trailer tells you when they open the doors hours later. The truck engine roars to life seconds after, backing up the final few feet necessary to slam into the loading dock hard enough to make a gruff voice from within yell.

It's unfamiliar, makes you steady yourself harder against the unknown quality of it. You figure this must be Cap, feel some small sense of satisfaction when the old, ragged voice matches what you'd pictured. You listen intently as pallets are cleared away, the loud clatter of the jack ringing even through your soundproofing. There's a lower murmur of laughter, the boys regaling the older man with a story you can't quite hear but can definitely infer. When the truck is fully unloaded, their heavy boots tread the short runway - Johnny's truck, then; you'd wondered who you'd been riding with -, their voices coming clearer as they draw near.

"- banged up, but mostly from the crash," you hear Simon rumble.

Johnny's next, his grating brogue echoing within the trailer, "Well, except her nose. We can thank Gaz for that one."

"She can thank herself for it," Gaz snarks back, and you would bite your tongue if you could. There's a beat of silence. You can almost feel the heavy gaze their silent captain turns on Gaz, prompting him to elaborate, "She ran. Not very fast. When I caught up, she tried bite me so I headbutted her a little."

"A little!?" Johnny cries, but is cut off by a gruff scoff.

"No way to treat our new guest, Kyle. Go on, make it up to her. Bring her out here."

You expect something dramatic, like a flood of blinding light or strong hands reaching in to yank you out. Instead, when the panel is pulled back, the indirect light from the building is mostly blocked by the row of bodies in front of you, and Gaz squats off to the side, body language friendly and inviting despite the coldness you can feel radiating from him. This man hates you, you can feel it. You remember how he wanted to kill you, wish you could tell him the feeling was mutual. Rather, you stare at him loathingly until he tires of your inaction, leans in to grab you by the zip ties that bind your feet and cuts them with a knife you didn't even see him pull. When he grabs your wrists and pulls, you resist as much as you're able but in the end you're no match and he pulls you from your hideaway with little more than a grunt of pain and annoyance when you elbow him in the ribs.

"Feisty one, is she?" the captain's low growl observes and you turn to the newcomer with fury in your eyes which stalls out when you take him in properly for the first time.

You're disappointed to discover he's not as old as you'd been expecting. Nowhere near, in fact. Mid forties most likely, early fifties at absolute most. And densely built enough to speak of a physicality far younger. None of them were small, but the captain still managed to look big among them - nearly as tall as Simon and just as broad as Johnny, though it looked a little leaner on him given his height. You think the worst part about him is how genial he looks. Like Gaz, he's a brand of handsome that comes with charm and approachability, and you wonder how long it will take for that facade to crack like Gaz's did. Worse, if it ever will.

Certainly, his voice is disarmingly sweet when he greets you, coos and calls you a dove. "Weren't lying were they, love? Did a number on the poor girl, Ghost."

Simon - Ghost? - grunts in acknowledgement, motions for you to step closer. You don't, of course, and get a sharp shove from Gaz which sends you stumbling toward the larger men, caught by a firm hand on your bad shoulder. You yelp, breath heaving behind your gag as Cap adjusts his grip, studying you by your hip instead as his eyes dart to Simon.

"Shoulder. Maybe collar bone. Happened when she flipped her car." When you flipped it. Right.

The older man tuts dissapprovingly. You try to swat his hands away but stumble without his support. He ignores you anyway, hand returning easily while the other reaches up to carefully grip the edge of the duct tape. "Can't be easy to breathe in there, can it doll? Not with that poor nose. Let's get this off, shall we? Easy," he soothes, voice a low pur. His task hurts like hell anyway, the sticky strip pulling your tender, swollen skin. He's gentle about it at least, murmuring sympathetically when you can't contain your whimpers. You don't judge yourself too harshly when a few tears slip through, but do very much so when his thumbing them away twists your stomach unexpectedly.

It's just because you haven't seen tenderness all night, you reason, and resolve yourself against him, even as he removes the gag with utmost delicacy.

"That better, dove?" he asks when your breaths come quicker, deeper. It's like resurfacing after being submerged for too long, clarity coming to you like a cold breeze on soaked skin: this is a calm meant to put you at ease, but you will die here if you become complacent.

So when Cap tells you to call him John and asks what your name is, you spit at him, blood and mucus staining his shoes.

The boys go quiet, like a record scratch moment in an old b-movie. You stare up at John defiantly, waiting for him to scream at you, hit you - anything.

Instead, he just pulls a pocket knife from his pants, grabs your bindings when you go to flinch away. "You've had a long day, love," he starts as he slips the thin blade between your wrists. Your skin is tender there, rubbed raw from the tight binds. The cool blade feels sharp despite the care he takes to aim the edge away from you, never once letting it touch your skin. "You've had a long day, so I'm going to let you get away with that this time." When he pulls against the zip ties, they cut into your skin briefly before giving with a sharp twang. He pulls one of your wrists into his free hand, rubs the raw skin there with a calloused palm before taking the other wrist in his grasp and giving it the same treatment. "But the next time you misbehave will not go well for you. Understood?"

Of course, you don't listen. Fuck this guy for real, you figure. What's the worst he can do? Kill you?

This time, when you go to spit at him, he catches it against his palm, wide hand slapping over your mouth so hard you're breifly concerned for your good cheek. You gasp in shock and pain, nearly choking on your own spit. John steps closer, one boot knocking your foot wide to let himself between your legs. He's so close, if he moved his palm you'd be breathing the same air.

As it stands, you can barely breathe at all, nose flush against the fat side of his hand. His own breath fans across your skin, heavy and hot as a bellows. The quality of it is thick, humid. You're glad you can't smell anything because it feels like it reeks.

"Simon, she give you a name?"

Ghost's uncomfortable movement is obvious in its silence. "Took to calling 'er Betty."

"Betty," John repeats, lips curling in amusement. "Like an old timey, proper little wife. That you, pet?" You wanna shake your head, fear for your sinus cavity if you do. "Not yet, eh? Gonna have to train you up first. Ease you into it." As if in demonstration, his body sags into your own, presence oppressive. "That's okay, pet. We'll start you off easy. Get you nice and clean, get you fed. In the morning, Kyle will help with your injuries and when you feel more like a proper lady, we'll try again, hm?"

You can't say anything, so you don't.

"But in the meantime, I can't let that kind of behavior go unchecked. Boys," he calls, eyes still boring into you. "Which one of you wants to help our guest clean up?"

The general din of excitement makes you flinch, eyes going wide as if pleading with the man who holds you so cruelly will do any good. When Johnny suggests they play rock paper scissors to decide who gets the honors, it's suddenly, belatedly clear to you that your murder would almost be a kindness. No, the worst thing this man could do for you would be to keep you. John sees it the moment you realize this. His grip eases, eyes softening in some gross perversion of kindness. He strokes your cheek soothingly when Simon goes out in the first round, smiles condescendingly when you flinch at Johnny's crow of victory. John tuts at you, but says no more as he turns you toward the Scot.

"All yours, Soap," he rumbles, pushing you not ungently toward the other man. "Spic and span, you hear?"

"Aye, sir. Thank ye, sir." Johnny's hands are much harsher than John's when he guides you from the trailer, giving you no sympathy when you flinch under the harsh warehouse lighting. You try to take stock of your surroundings as you're pulled along: spare, dusty racking; a forklift in need of repair. There are multiple loading docks, most of the viewports obscured by backed up trucks. One sits vacant and you briefly wonder if there's even more of these monsters waiting in the wings before you're pulled past a dank little office. You catch sight of outdated equipment - a rolodex, a CB - but it's the shadow boxes full of military honors that your eyes lock on the longest.

Of fucking course.

The door Johnny leads you out through is tucked off the side of the building. You stumble when he pulls you down through the door, feet unsteady where they kick up dirt. It's cold outside, colder than it had been in the dankness of the trailer. You can't help but shiver, bite your tongue as best you can when your companion takes that as invitation to draw you in close and rub a big, solid hand up your arm.

"We'll have ye warmed up in no time, lass," he promises, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. This man murdered your friend with a crowbar and dragged her around like a slaughtered animal. You expect no kindness from him.

He orders you to strip before turning to a small station built into the side of the warehouse. You do not strip, electing instead to take off running in the opposite direction, cursing as the gravel churns loudly under your shoes. Soap swears, his own heavy boots following at a pace you didn't think his burly body capable of. Your breaths burn your chest, each pull coming labored in your blind panic but you refuse to slow or relent, ignoring the flaming pain in your shoulder every time you swing your arm forward for propulsion.

Well, you ignore it until the ground comes tilting up to meet you, your body crushed beneath the considerable weight of one grunting, cursing Scot. You sob at the pain, or maybe the fear - hard to tell. When he levers himself off you, he wastes no time grabbing your ankle as he stands up, towering over you. If you were capable of stringing two thoughts together, you'd wonder if this was the last thing Ash saw: pale blue eyes gleaming in the low light, the cruelty that twists his face. Instead you wonder how likely your arm is to maintain full mobility after a night like this.

Not very, you decide, sobbing in pain as he drags you back to the warehouse. He's muttering something above you, but you can't hear him over your own cries. When you kick at him futilely, he yanks on your ankle until you fear for it and you don't try it again. Not even when he gets you where he wants you, back under the wan outdoor lighting of the station he'd turned to before, crouching down next to you to rip at your shoelaces.

"Please, don't," you murmur instead, fear churning in your belly as he continues to strip you. You'd known it would come to this, known the moment the captain had mentioned something about a wife. It doesn't make it easier, doesn't make the prospect of the gritty sand underneath you any more comfortable, or your repulsion for the man above you any less sharp. "Please, please, please let me go. I could -."

"What? Suck me off?" Soap laughs harshly, "Think ah'm gonnae ge' tha' anyway, hen."

You were going to say keep your mouth shut, but you suppose that never works anyway.

The sound you make when he pulls your pants off is wretched, but the shriek he earns when he pulls a knife on you is worse. His laugh is mean, reveling in your fear for a moment before cutting your shirt from you with one deft movement. He's pulling you to your feet before you can really process why and shoving you against the metal siding of the warehouse.

"Stay there," he warns and you're unsure if his tone or the throb in your shoulder is a more effective threat. When he walks back toward the station he'd been after earlier, your gaze turns to follow until you catch sight of your own shoulder at the bottom of your field of view and you draw short, taking in the severe swelling there. You prod at the edges of the mottling, wincing at your own ministrations.

Absorbed in your own injuries, you don't notice when Soap turns on the spigot, or when he aims the nozzle of the high pressure hose at you. He calls for you to hold your breath, but gives you no more time than that which is necessary to look up, confused, before he's spraying you down.

It's freezing, the flow hard enough to bruise where it jets against the fatty bits of you; feels like it might sheer straight through hide where your skin thins around joints. You gasp, get a mouthful of aerated hose water. Spluttering, you try blocking the stream with your hands despite it feeling like your palms are being struck by a thousand rulers.

"S'wha' we use tae wash the trucks!" Soap calls, cackling loud enough to be heard over the spray that engulfs you. You can't get away from it no matter how much you fold into yourself, catching the jet alternatingly on your hip, your ribs, your ass. It does a better job of indexing your injuries than you did, the blooms of pain where you accidentally turn a bruise toward it letting you know that the hip which took the brunt of the collision is sore, that there's a spot on your good shoulder where Gaz tackled you which smarts. Your knees and elbows are all scuffed up, dirt grinding in before being stripped away. You feel like you're being sandpapered down; buffed until you're gleaming despite knowing how the dirt he kicks up clings to your skin wherever the hose isn't actively being pointed.

Soap keeps it up for another minute or so, only turning it off when your shaking gets so bad you think you're like to fall apart. "Quit yer whinging," he warns, creeping closer as he adjusts the nozzle to another setting. "Jes' havin' a laugh, bonnie, no need tae get all bent outta shape."

You want to tell him you're not laughing, but a small voice in your head says you should be grateful he didn't turn that hose on your face, so you keep quiet to prevent him getting any ideas.

When he's close enough to touch, Soap reaches out and grabs your wrist, spraying your pebbled skin down with a softer shower of water that would set you at ease, if not for how cold it is. From your arm, the stream moves up over your head, mussing your hair beyond recognition before trickling down your battered face. Here, the cold water feels good against heated skin and despite yourself, you heave a sigh of relief, tilting slightly into the unexpected relief.

"Like tha' hen?" he asks, and you hesitate briefly, wondering how much satisfaction you want to give him. He doesn't give you a chance to decide, ruining your brief moment of reprieve by reaching out and tweaking one hard nipple.

You squawk, swatting at him. Johnny laughs long and loud, letting the stream from the hose fall dead as he watches you fume, shaking.

"Look like one ah them wee doggies, lass," he chuckles, "angry cause ye cannae even bite properly." The bastard flicks your cheek, feigning a sympathetic coo when you flinch away. "Tha's righ', bonnie, nothin' ye can do tae fight back," he murmurs, gliding his fingertips against your cheek in a move he probably thinks is soothing. "Ye jes' remember tha', eh? Might keep you alive."

You swallow back the lump in your throat, eyes boring a hole into his shoulder because you can't stand to look him in his terribly cold eyes. When Johnny moves again, his touches are back to the easy, soft caresses from before as he hoses you down. He's surprisingly good at it, despite being armed with only a shammy and a gnarly looking bar of soap. At least he knows to avoid your hair once he realizes he'll need conditioner. That damage is already done, but you appreciate him not dragging his fucking fingers through it on top of everything else. You try taking the soap from him once but he just tuts at you warningly so you go back to shivering, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to preserve body heat and keep yourself marginally modest. You can't decide if he's being obstinately particular just to torment you longer or if he's genuinely just like this until he raises your good arm above your head and finds your armpit overgrown.

He grins, sending you a delightfully scandalized look. "See Ghost chose well. Cap's gonnae love ye," he chuckles, and you feel your panic heighten when you think of the threatening older man again. Soap notices. "No need tae worry, hen. You jes' keep bein' good fer us and Cap'll be good tae ye."

For some reason, you don't trust this man's definition of being treated well.

After getting you all washed up, Johnny marches you back into the warehouse where the other men gather around a small, dingy breakroom table pecking at microwaved burritos. They're laughing uproariously as you arrive, Gaz talking animatedly about a loading mishap back in Arizona. The noise drifts off when they spot you, eying you over like a scrap of meat. There's no covering everything and despite yourself, you're almost grateful when John stands, bringing you a blanket he had folded on the seat beside himself.

"Feeling better, doll?" he asks, patting you dry with a gentleness you didn't expect from the big man. He frowns at the swelling of your shoulder, eyes darting between you and it with an exaggerated level of concern that makes you want to hurl.

You avoid his gaze, your own flickering around the room as you ignore John, trying to gather your resolve enough to appease him. It's a struggle until your eyes find Simon's, apathetic as always despite the disapproving set of his scarred mouth.

"Yes, sir," you murmur, watching raptly as Simon disguises a quick nod as a glance at his plate. Your heart rate picks up, an impossible tendril of hope slithering up your aorta when John hums contentedly at your words.

"That's a girl, love," he starts, warm palm falling heavy on your back as he starts to guide you back through the warehouse. "Gaz, bring the soup. You're hungry, right pet?"

You are, but Gaz doesn't wait for confirmation, falling in stride as John guides you toward the quaint office you'd caught a glimpse of earlier.

"Now, one day, you'll be able to stay up here with us," John promises, gesturing magnanimously across the dingy warehouse as if it contained all the gold of El Dorado within its rickety racking. "But until then, we're going to have to keep you below."

Gait faltering, you glance up at the older man fearfully but he pays you no mind at all. "Don't worry honey, only temporary. And I'll have the boys visit you daily to keep you nice and stimulated, hm? Gaz," he barks before you can reflect too much on his choice of words. Kyle, evidently knowing exactly what's expected of him, places the soup bowl he's been carrying on the cluttered desk before moving some chairs, rolling the rug back enough to reveal a cutaway door in the cement slab.

You still, every muscle in your body tensing up when John tries to coax you along. "'S'not so bad, sweetheart, I promise. Come look, yeah? Think you'll have a nice little time if you just give it a try."

Like hell you'll give it a try, knees locking up so tight you look like a GI Joe when John guides you first down the stairs. It's cool, the descent marked by the wet gradient of the cement slab as you pass further underground. It's deeper than you'd expect, the dug dirt bottom damp under your feet when you alight on the landing. There's a short hall ahead, braced by rotted-looking timber. A lone door on the opposite end, braced on one side with a long line of bolts and locks. A single light hangs from the short ceiling, low enough you could smack your forehead off of it if you're not careful.

"Had Simon come down while you were out, get it nice and ready for you," John brags. You doubt the room on the other side of that door could be made live-in ready even if Simon had been given three years to work on it, but you know better than to say as much.

This time, when John prods you forward, your legs don't obey. "CanIsleepwithyou?" you blurt, a last ditch effort you're not sure you want him to accept.

But John just chuckles. "Eager, eh pet? Don't worry, you'll earn that right soon enough. Now go on, I'm sure you'd like some nice new clothes to put on, hm?"

Damn him, but you do, so you slink forward, ducking under the hanging light as you pass. The door creaks when you pull it open, weight heavy despite how meager it looks. It feels solid, unbreakable, and you notice quickly that you won't be able to barricade it if you have to pull it open. John does not notice your hesitance, following you into the room with a proud little smirk on his mustached face.

"Well, what do you think?"

Not much. The floor isn't finished, just cold tile pressed into the dirt. The walls and ceilings are, though, and you briefly feel grateful for it until the batting on the door registers and you realize it's for soundproofing purposes. There's a bed in the corner, larger than you need yourself and made up in cutesy sheets with a strawberry motif. A pile of heavy quilts sits folded at the foot and despite yourself, your fingers twitch eagerly at the prospect of sleeping soon, warm and snug under all that weight.

"We've got some clothes for you here," John continues. You get the feeling he doesn't need a lot of input so you stand there quietly as he opens a foot locker for you, tattered and olive green. Inside sit two neat stacks of clothes, battered looking but approximately the right size. You remember Johnny's comment about the Captain liking your pits and wonder if they always bring him back a certain type.

And if so, where they are.

"G'on love, pick out something you like," John leers, and you realize you won't be able to get away with waiting until he and Kyle leave to get dressed.

There's a marked efficiency to your movements. Grabbing the first top you see, you briefly check the tag before doing the same with the bottoms at the top of the pile. Close enough for rock and roll, you figure, dropping your blanket to the cold floor and pulling the clothes onto yourself as quickly as possible. Kyle's eyes are heavy, John's heavier. Your skin crawls, the goosebumps which never really went away after your little bath returning with a vengeance. To your immense displeasure, John has to help you pull your bad arm through the sleeve and he tuts sympathetically when you whine.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'll bring you down some button ups tomorrow, yeah? You nod when he pauses too long, realizing you're not going to be let off the hook without a proper answer. You creep toward the bed when he hums in acknowledgement, but he tuts in warning again, nodding toward a little desk shoved off to the side of the room. You sit obediently, thanking him with a little murmur when he ferries the bowl of soup from Gaz to you. He hovers, watching raptly until you bring a spoonful of the room temperature meal to your mouth.

"Good, right?" he asks, before you can even get a proper taste of it.

You take your time swallowing, playing up the pain in your cheek as you try to suss out a good response. It's just microwaved soup as far as you can tell, but you figure saying as much won't garner you any favors. Instead, you hum appreciatively and shovel in another bite before John can ask you any more questions.

It works, mostly. John takes a quick lap around the room instead of standing over you, sighing now and again at whatever he finds while Gaz continues to stand in the doorway, evidently unamused.

"It needs work, I'll give you that," John eventually concedes as you slurp at your meal. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until that sweet sweet MSG hit your tongue. "It needs work, but if you're good, we can spend some time down here fixing it up for you. Would you like that?"

You stall, spooning through some of the chunkier bits at the bottom of your bowl. It was kind of them to give you soup, you registered belatedly. Solid foods would have undoubtedly fucked up your mouth. Instead of answering, you ask John what would happen if you were to be bad and watch as his genial nature flips like a switch.

"Got a couple of news articles upstairs if you'd like to read 'em and find out."

Next>>

#dark fic #dead dove fic #141 x you #141 x reader #haul #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #Kyle garrick x you #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x you #john price x reader #john price x you #poly 141 #💷🔪

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writersblockiskillingme · 4 months ago

Note

hi! could you write a chloe x red x fem!reader (ben's younger sister) imagine where the reader is sick and they take care of her?

Sick Days | Chloe Charming & Red

Pairing: Chloe Charming x Red x fem!reader (Ben's!younger!sister!reader)

Summary: Being sick certainly isn't fun. Luckily, girls are always ready to take care of you.

Warning/s: fluff, short fic, like really short fic, sickness, possible grammar and spelling mistakes

Author's note: My Wi-Fi sucked the whole day yesterday AND today, so I'm only posting this now even though I wanted to yesterday. Anyways, here you go. Hope you enjoy it!

The Isle of the Lost was a place where shadows clung to every cracked cobblestone, and love was a rarity. But you, Ben's younger sister, had always been drawn to the unexpected—the way Chloe's laughter echoed through the narrow alleys, and the way Red's eyes softened when she thought no one was watching.

Your secret relationship with both Chloe and Red was a delicate dance.

Chloe, the daughter of Cinderella, was fierce, but a true softly and she was never afraid to show it. Her blue hair fell in curls, and her eyes held secrets she'd never share.

Red, on the other hand, was all brooding intensity—the daughter of the Queen of Hearts, tuff nature with eyes filled with determination, but with a big golden heart.

One chilly evening, you stumbled upon their dorms. The fire crackled in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

Chloe's eyes widened when she saw you, shivering and pale.

"You're burning up," she said, her voice gentle like always. "Red, we need to take care of her."

Red grunted, but there was concern in her eyes. She pulled you closer, wrapping you in a blue and yellow blanket.

Chloe brewed a cup of herbal tea, her fingers deft as she stirred in honey and whispered incantations for healing.

"You're lucky we found you," Chloe said, her fingers brushing against your forehead. "We're not exactly known for our nurturing skills."

Red scoffed, but she stoked the fire, making sure you were warm. She pulled out an old book—a relic from Auradon—and began reading aloud. Her voice was deep, resonant, weaving tales of magic and redemption. You leaned against her, feeling the fever slowly go away.

Chloe sat on the other side, humming a soothing melody. Her touch was tender as she traced patterns on your arm.

"You're going to be okay," she whispered. "We won't let anything happen to you."

And in that moment, surrounded by two unlikely protectors, you believed her. The Isle might be harsh, but love had a way of healing even the deepest wounds. Chloe and Red took turns caring for you—Chloe with her potions and Red with her stories. They stayed by your side, their hearts entwined with yours.

Days blurred into nights, and you drifted in and out of fever dreams. Chloe braided your hair, and Red traced intricate patterns on your hair. They argued about the best way to break the curse that plagued the Isle, their voices rising and falling like a symphony.

When you finally opened your eyes, weak but alive, Chloe pressed a kiss to your forehead. Red grunted, but her hand found yours, rough and steady.

"You're stuck with us," she muttered.

And you realized that maybe, just maybe, the Isle wasn't so dark after all. One of them almost came from it. Love had found you in the unlikeliest of places—in the arms of a villain's daughter and a scarred hero.

As you recovered, you vowed to protect this fragile connection, to let it bloom like a forgotten flower pushing through the cracks.

And so, hidden in their dorms, surrounded by whispers of magic and the warmth of two hearts, you healed.

Chloe and Red became your anchors, and you, their shared secret—the missing piece that completed their fractured souls.

TAGLIST:

@xoxo-h3arts @i-am-fork @a-homosexual-homosapien @snixx2088 @cyb3r-st4r @heartsfromcoco @angeliangelo @judgment-days-kid

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angelicyoongie · 1 year ago

Text

lovesick (XII)

— pairing: yandere ot7 x (f) reader — word count: 6.3k — warnings: yandere, obsessive behaviour, explicit sexual content (vaginal fingering), other content that may be triggering. — summary: You dreamed of the day you would get your very own soulmark. Though, you didn’t expect to wake up to a searing hurt in your arm, the phantom pain of your shoulder being dislocated and your forearm fractured. As if dealing with the worst possible soulmark ever wasn’t bad enough, you also have to come to terms with the fact that you’re being stalked. When the letters and gifts you receive begin to escalate and the police offers no help, you have no other option than to figure out who’s behind it yourself – and hopefully before it’s too late.

Previous – Next

You pad slowly into the common room, rubbing your eyes.

Yoongi was abruptly called into work a few minutes ago – something about missing files and a tight deadline – so he had to usher you out of bed with gentle touches and soft apologies, sending you to wake up on the couch with Namjoon.

"Hi darling," Namjoon croons as you collapse next to him, picking up one of the thick blankets strewn about to bundle you up with.

You let yourself be tucked in, the extra warmth is more than welcome with how chilly the cabin gets in the early mornings. The fireplace is barely crackling, the flames struggling to take hold with how recently they've been lit.

You mumble something unintelligible in return, pulling the blanket up to your nose to fend off the cold. Namjoon lets out a fond laugh as he scoots closer on the couch. He puts an arm around your shoulder, guiding your head to rest on his chest as he mindlessly plays with your hair. The soothing touches make your already heavy eyes flutter shut immediately, your consciousness drifting further away with every rise and fall of Namjoon's chest.

You drift off for a while, the sounds of Yoongi's rushed goodbye as he runs out the door and Namjoon turning the pages of his book muffled under your sleepiness. Sitting curled up against Namjoon allows your body to slowly wake up, and lets you forget about everything that awaits you while you're caught in the in-between of sleep and reality.

It's the sound of cupboards slamming that finally wakes you up, a sheepish sorry! being called from the kitchen. Namjoon's fingers still in your hair as you huff, your eyebrows creasing with displeasure as you realize it's time to open your eyes.

"Morning," Namjoon murmurs warmly, "Jungkook doesn't always remember how strong he is, especially not when he's tired, so he has a bad habit of slamming things shut. I'm sorry he disturbed you."

"'S okay," You yawn, "I should probably get up anyway."

"Hmm, you don't have to," Namjoon curls his arm around your waist, holding you securely against his chest. "We can just stay here and cuddle until breakfast is ready."

I'm sure you'd like that, you–

You stifle the vicious voice inside your head as soon as it rears its head. Even though you have decided to accept the cards you have been dealt, or rather, the cards that were forced into your hands; it's not something that can happen overnight. They've terrorized you for over a year so rewiring your brain to follow the path your soulbond is trying to lead you isn't easy. But you are trying.

"Sure," You concede, snuggling closer to Namjoon's firm chest.

You watch as he delicately turns another page in the book he's reading, your eyes growing wide as you recognize the poem that's printed on it in faded letters. Your breath hitches as you blink, dumbstruck, down at the same collection you asked him about that day you visited him at the library.

"Aren't these the poems Jungkook used in his letters?"

Namjoon tenses as he notices where your attention has drifted. His fingers subconsciously splay across the page, almost as if he's trying to hide the words, as he says, "Yeah, it is."

"Why did you bring it here?" You ask as you eye the book warily. It's not like the book carries any good memories for you and on top of that, Namjoon seemed rather perturbed by the sight of it all those months ago.

"It... I guess you can say it holds sentimental value," Namjoon murmurs.

"My mom passed away when I was young so I don't remember much of her. I just have a blurry memory of us visiting a garden somewhere, her blue dress fluttering in the wind. Her passing broke my dad's heart. They were soulmates, so I think a part of him died that day too," He heaves a heavy sigh.

"Grief made him do stupid things and one of those was throwing away most of her belongings. I think it just hurt too much, that her things were still there but she wasn't, you know?"

You give a silent nod, heart squeezing at the way Namjoon's voice turns slightly shaky.

"He luckily donated most of her books to the library. I don't think he knew she had written one of them," He gently taps the collection in his lap. "It wasn't until a few years ago that I found some old papers he had missed, once that were drafts of half-written poems and random thoughts. It was just luck, fate maybe, that I recognized her writing. I had read through most of the local donations by that point to do a little feature stand and hers was one of them."

"I'm sorry, about your mom, I mean," You push aside the throw to curl an arm around Namjoon's waist, giving him a comforting squeeze.

"It's okay, it happened a long time ago," He whispers in return, resting his cheek on top of your head.

"Do you know what happened – why she passed so young?"

"I'm not sure," Namjoon says, "Dad never told me the full extent of it. I just know she had a lot of health issues."

The pit of your stomach feels heavy as you rub your cheek against Namjoon's chest, hugging him close. His mom's history must be why he's been so adamant on making sure you're healthy and taking care of yourself, why he even went as far as scheduling medical check-ups for you. It doesn't make it right and it does not excuse his behaviour, but it does explain things.

"Do you know how Jungkook found the book? I remember the section being pretty hidden away," You tentatively say, trying to steer the conversation over to something a little lighter.

"Hm, I showed him that aisle a long time ago. It's probably the section that needs the least work since so few people know about it, so it would be easy for him to use it and put it back without me even noticing. He probably copied them down in his letters whenever I wasn't on shift – I guess he didn't want me to notice and ask about it."

You suppose that makes sense. No one besides Taehyung and Yoongi was open about their newfound soulmate connection and letters, so it adds up that Jungkook would want it to be a secret too.

"It's weird that he ended up with that particular collection out of every book in the library though," You muse.

Namjoon's breath fans across your hair, his voice equally as thoughtful as he says, "Maybe it was our bond that did it. Even if it's just connected through you, it's still strong enough to influence us. That could explain why he was drawn to it."

"Right," You swallow thickly.

You suppress the shudder that wants to travel down your spine. It's a truly terrifying thought that everything has fallen into place like it was supposed to happen, like the universe made it that way. Even if Namjoon said that your bond is rare, there have to be others out there who are dealing with the same thing. Or, at the very least, there has to be some sort of explanation as to why all seven of them are acting this way – it surely can't be that it's just because they're feeling the bond more intensely than you are.

"Actually, do you think you could do me favour?" You pull back just enough to glance up at Namjoon, giving him the sweetest look you can muster as you say, "Could you bring me some books on soulbonds from the library the next time you're there? I think knowing more about it will make everything a little... easier for me, you know?"

Namjoon stares at you in silence, the second dragging on for much too long before he breaks out into a pleased smile. "Of course, darling, anything for you."

"Thank you," You press a fleeting kiss to his jaw, hating how the action makes your own heart pick up speed.

You catch a glimpse of Namjoon's bright grin, dimples indented on his cheeks, as you hurriedly settle back down against his chest. He puts his book aside in favour of wrapping you up in his arms, humming something under his breath as he holds you close.

Perhaps not all luck has left you just yet. Namjoon practically runs the local library, so if there's anyone who can bring you all the books you could ever want on soulmates and soulbonds, he's the right guy for it.

You're sure there is some information out there that can be useful for you – you just need to find it first.

"He's not giving up."

You halt at Jimin's low hiss, wiping off the last bit of moisture on your hands on your sweats. You're halfway between the bathroom and your old room, shrouded in darkness as you wait with bated breath for Jimin to continue.

"This is the second time he's come by this week and he even brought his boyfriend along to 'act as a witness'. I barely managed to keep them from making a scene."

You can hear the agitation in Jimin's voice, can easily picture how his lips must be pressed together with annoyance as he paces around the room. You keep to the shadows as you creep closer, making sure you can't be seen from the open door.

"It's Heejin– no wait, Heejun right? Y/n's friend?"

Your heart jumps to your throat as you catch Seokjin's low murmur, gripping the wall for support as you listen to them talk.

"That's the one," Jimin lets out an exasperated sigh. "He refuses to accept the story we came up with even though there's no evidence to suggest foul play. He keeps prodding and poking and if he continues, something will eventually lead him back to me, hyung. I don't care if he thinks I'm an incompetent cop; but if he's starting to suspect me, we'll have to deal with it – one way or another."

You press your hand to your mouth, muffling the broken noise that squeezes past your lips. You have accepted your faith, have decided to work with it instead of against it, but your best friend doesn't know that. He just knows that you were being stalked and then one day, you were suddenly gone. If the situation was flipped, you would've been beside yourself with concern. You know he cares too much to give up but you can't let Heejun get hurt because of you. You miss him and Jaemin so much your body aches with it, but their safety is all that matters. You won't be able to live with yourself if the boys harm them in any way.

You stumble back, ears ringing as Seokjin says something in return. You feel along the wall as you hurry back to the bathroom, your breaths falling quicker and quicker. You close the door behind you with shaking hands, leaning on it as you sink to the floor.

You're not sure how long you sit there, mind racing with possibilities of what you can do to stop them until Seokjin knocks on the door.

"Angel, are you doing okay?"

"Yeah! Just a minute," You clear your throat, legs unsteady as you clamber to your feet.

You glance at the mirror, wincing at how disheveled you look. You brush your hair back with your fingers as you take deep breaths, attempting to make yourself look more put together and not like you weren't just tethering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack.

"There you are," Seokjin grins as you open the door. He doesn't seem to find anything amiss as he grabs your hand, leading you down the dark hallway toward Jimin's room.

Should you ask Seokjin about what you heard? Should you beg him to stop Jimin from doing anything rash?

"Let me know if you need anything, angel, you know I'm right across the hall," Seokjin's long strides take you to Jimin's door before you can make up your mind. He pauses before he opens it, leaning down to deliver a lingering kiss to your cheek.

Warmth blooms where he touched your skin, your burning face thankfully hidden by the low light.

"Sleep well, Y/n," He whispers. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze before he pushes the door open, guiding you in by your shoulders.

"Angel delivery!" Seokjin announces as he walks you into the room, snickering at the embarrassed noise you make in protest to the cheesy line.

"About time!" Jimin whines, "I thought hyung had stolen you away for the night."

He pulls you out of Seokjin's grasp and into his arms before the older can hog more of his time, shuffling backward towards the bed as he says, "Close the door on your way out."

"Excuse me?" Seokjin splutters, "Is that any way to treat your hyung?"

"Oh right," Jimin has his chin hooked over your shoulder, flashing Seokjin a teasing smile as he says, "Please close the door on your way out."

"The disrespect! I swear– " Seokjin's voice tapers off into irritated mumbles as he shows himself out, closing the door behind him as Jimin requested.

Jimin waits until he hears Seokjin's footsteps recede and another door close before he pulls back, making sure he isn't going to pop back in to ruin the moment. The boyish smile Jimin is sporting after teasing Seokjin softens as he meets your gaze.

"Hi baby," Jimin cradles your face in his palm, running his thumb soothingly over your cheek. "I missed you."

"Hi," You murmur back, easily returning his smile.

He's only been gone for two days, but something in you settles as you feel Jimin's touch; like a weird itch you didn't even know was there has been scratched. Jimin's shifts at the station often force him to be away for multiple days at a time and while it's a bitter pill to swallow, you've actually started to miss him while he's gone. It's not even just Jimin – if any of the boys are gone for more than twenty-four hours, your chest starts to feel hollow, like an important piece is missing.

You hate it.

Jimin looks at you like he's drinking you in, his eyes never settling on one spot for too long.

If you're feeling their absence this strongly already, you're sure it must be a much worse experience for them. You've grown accustomed to the boys being a little more clingy than normal when they return and the extra skinship always seems to soothe you too. Yet, your breath still hitches as Jimin moves his thumb down to your mouth, lightly grazing over your bottom lip.

The way Jimin's gaze keeps flickering back to your mouth makes it very obvious what he wants – craves – but he doesn't act on it; none of them do. So far the boys have seemed content, though perhaps somewhat resigned, to limit their kisses to your cheeks and hair. They know that pushing you past your limits will only backfire, that they'll only get what they truly want once you're willing and want them just as much as they desire you. They've already spent over twelve months watching you from afar, so you suppose a few months more doesn't make much of a difference now that they already have you in their grasp.

It's only a matter of time before you break and you all know it.

"Let's go to bed, baby. I've had a long day."

"Everything okay?" You grip Jimin's hand a little tighter than intended as he leads you to bed, his earlier conversation with Seokjin echoing in your head.

"There's been a string of minor burglaries that have been giving me a headache, but there's nothing you need to worry your pretty head about," Jimin pulls the covers back, throwing you a reassuring look over his shoulder as he adds, "You're safe here with us, Y/n."

"I know. Thank you," You murmur, swallowing around the knot in your throat.

You couldn't care less about some random break-ins, not in a situation like this and with Heejun's safety in jeopardy. Why would you worry about the monsters that are out and about in the city when you're fighting your own demons right here in the cabin? Regardless, you know that Jimin is speaking the truth. You pity anyone who would ever think to come to this cabin when you got seven, frankly unhinged, soulmates that are willing to do anything to 'keep you safe'.

You crawl into bed first, getting yourself situated on your side as Jimin slips into place behind you. You raise your arm just in time for Jimin to curl his own around your waist, your legs slotting together with practiced ease.

Jimin hugs you close to his chest, letting out a content sigh as he breathes in the slightly woodsy scent that lingers on your skin. "Sleep well baby, we'll catch up tomorrow," He drawls, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck.

"Good night," You whisper back.

You curl both hands beneath your chin, staring aimlessly out the dark window that's visible from the bed. The rapidly approaching winter has made the already dark nights almost pitch black, engulfing the trees despite the clinging snow that tries to brighten them. There are no stars out, nothing but endless darkness that stretches around the cabin like an all-consuming void.

You find you can't quiet your mind, your thoughts racing much too fast for it to happen. You can't shake off the conversation you overheard earlier, of how annoyed Jimin sounded as he mentioned Heejun and Jaemin. The boys have already proven that they're willing to go to great lengths to ensure that they get what they want, so you don't doubt for a second that they'll hurt your friends if they deem them to be in their way.

You can't let them harm them. You won't be able to live with yourself if they do.

Jimin's breathing has almost evened out when you reach down to grab his hand, your mouth opening to blurt out a choked, "Please don't hurt them, Jimin."

There's a second where you wonder if he's already asleep when there's no movement aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Maybe it would be better if he is asleep, at least that would give you time to come up with a plan, but you're too frazzled to think straight. All you know is that you need to convince Jimin to back off.

"Jimin–"

You're gently shushed as he intertwines your hands, resting them on your stomach.

"I guess you heard us talking," Jimin mumbles drowsily.

He rests his face against your shoulder, voice muffled against your skin as he asks, "Do you remember how I told you about the night I first felt the bond? That time your 'friends' ditched you at that club. Do you know how you got home that night, baby?"

"What? Don't change the subject–"

"Just indulge me," Jimin interrupts you with a squeeze to your hand.

"No, I... I don't remember. I don't know," You mumble, eyebrows creasing as you try to recall any details from that night. Everything is fractured into broken memories, blurred from the copious amounts of alcohol you had in your system.

You can only picture the sneer one of your 'friends' was sporting behind your back, clearly not meant to be seen by you as you suddenly turned around to ask her something. The flashing lights on the dance floor. Your bleeding knee as you tripped outside the club. Dark, polished shoes barely visible through your tears.

"I didn't just see you that night you fell outside the club, baby. I was the one that brought you home."

"You did?" You stare into the darkness, stomach twisting with emotions you can't quite place.

"Yeah," Jimin confirms with a slight nod. "You were drunk as hell and all alone, it wasn't safe for you to attempt to find your way home on your own. I knew you were hurt so how could I just leave you there to fend for yourself?"

"I think you, or the bond maybe, recognized me right away. You were all over me as I was trying to walk you to my patrol car, touching my face and giggling about how handsome I was," Jimin lets out a breathy chuckle. "You're a touchy drunk, baby, I almost had to put you in handcuffs on the way over to your apartment."

– handcuffs, but I'd rather not do that to you right now. Just keep your hands in your lap, alright Miss?

Baby, you hear your own voice sniffly grumble, not "miss" – that's so boring.

You're not going to make this easy for me, hm? Okay then, baby it is.

The memory comes out of nowhere, catching you off-guard. You were the one that permitted Jimin, no – practically begged him – to use such a nickname for you?

"You weren't easy to handle, Y/n," Jimin snorts. "It took me way too long to wrangle you to your couch and you almost started crying again when I left the room to grab your first-aid kit. You kept stroking my hair as I patched up your knee, switching between acting pouty and cute as you tried to convince me to come to bed with you."

"I didn't, by the way," He adds as he notes the tension in your body. "I just helped you into bed and made sure you fell asleep before I left. Nothing happened. I would never take advantage of you like that."

You believe him. Jimin's letters were always so sexual, always so ready to describe the ways he would touch you as if he was picturing your first time together. If he had already done so, you can only imagine what kind of imagery he would've painted for you in his letters.

"So that's how you know where I lived," You say, mind reeling with the new information. You just thought he had passed you by that night, just long enough to feel the bond. You had no idea that he was the one that safely got you home.

Jimin hums.

"If you knew, why didn't you tell me? All of this, everything, could've been avoided that way."

You feel him pause and hold his breath, before he slowly releases it. "I don't know, baby. I was overwhelmed that I had finally found you – scared that you wouldn't like me when you were sober. It just felt easier to watch you from afar and try to build up the courage to approach you again."

Your heart twists with the idea of what could have been.

Jimin was the first soulmate who felt your bond and who later sent you a letter. If he had just approached you normally the day after your night out, you're not so sure everything else would have transpired the way it did. Maybe you would have looked for your remaining soulmates with his help once you figured out there was more than one. Maybe you would've met the other boys through Jimin or perhaps they would've been more inclined to approach you normally once they realized you shared a bond with their friend.

Perhaps everything would have been different if Jimin had tried.

"Why are you telling me this?" You whisper.

"I know I haven't given you a great first impression but I'm not a bad person, baby. I just.. wanted you to know that," Jimin says, lips moving against your skin.

This new knowledge does paint him in a slightly better light. You're mortified over the way you acted that night and you clearly gave Jimin some signals as to how you felt about him, but it still doesn't excuse the way he has acted or the things he has said over the past year.

He lets out a small, sad sigh when he doesn't get a response.

"You asked about your friend. What if we come to an agreement on how to deal with him?"

"Yes," The word spills out before you can even consider the consequences.

Jimin goes perfectly still behind you, his voice a low rumble as he says, "Do you even know what you just agreed to, baby? I haven't told you what I want in return yet."

You swallow thickly, giving him a barely-there nod. He might not ask for what you're thinking about but when it comes to keeping your friends unharmed, you're willing to do anything. Giving Jimin what he's been craving for over a year should hopefully make him more inclined to listen to you, to trust you.

Jimin's breath hitches as you slowly bring your intertwined hands up your body, not quite touching but still making the implications very clear. You untangle your fingers as you reach your chest, leaving his hand resting just shy of it.

You bite your lip, heart racing, as you wait for Jimin to touch you. A beat passes, and another, but his hand stays frozen in place where you left it, not even a finger moving closer to your body.

"Why aren’t you?–"

"You're tense," Jimin murmurs, nudging his nose against your tight shoulder. "I’ll only touch you if you want it – want me."

"Do you?" He asks.

The question hangs in the quiet air between you, pending, as you try to find your answer. Had Jimin asked you the same question a few months ago, you know what your response would have been. Your body would have curled up in disgust, you would have screamed and kicked and punched if he had so much as tried to put a finger on you. But now... You're not so sure anymore. While the thought of what he's put you through still sickens you, it's not repulsion you feel as you imagine him touching you.

You want it.

Whether it's the soulbond, the isolation or just your mind breaking apart, you don't know. But that doesn't change the fact that you don't mind the idea of Jimin touching you. You even brought it up first, not knowing if this is what he wanted out of your agreement or not.

You want him.

You lick your lips, your mouth feeling dry as you whisper out a quiet, "Yes."

"I need a full sentence, baby. I want to make sure."

"Jimin," You barely manage to raise your voice, but it sounds so loud, so damning, in the quiet night. "Please touch me."

Jimin stifles a groan against your shoulder, sounding hoarse as he says, "Okay, baby, as you wish."

He nudges your oversized shirt to the side with his nose, attaching his mouth to the revealed skin. You let out a soft mewl as you feel the slight sting of his teeth sink into your shoulder, the sensation soothed by his tongue as he licks over the bite, sucking the skin between his lips.

Jimin moves his mouth from your shoulder to your neck, leaving behind a trail of kisses and slowly forming bruises. He reaches out to grope your chest, moaning at the resulting shiver that runs through you.

"Gods," He groans as he massages your breast, rolling your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt, "Been thinking about this for so long."

"Jimin–" You arch your back, gasping, as he suddenly pinches the nub. Jimin pulls and rubs at it in a way that makes your core throb, wetness coating your folds. As you push your breast into his hand, you feel something hard poke against your lower back, Jimin's hips rolling forward on instinct as he feels some friction.

After all you've been through you know you shouldn't enjoy it, but it feels like your soul preens at the contact. You never thought you would end up here, that you would ever want to be in a position like this, but there's no denying that your body is practically vibrating with excitement as Jimin touches you. Still, there's a small knot in your stomach that only feels heavier the more skin you let him explore. You don't know how much of this is actually you and how much of it is just the bond that ties you together.

"My pretty baby," Jimin murmurs as he moves his hand over to your other breast, giving it the same treatment as the first as he slowly grinds his cock against your body.

He gives your nipple one last mean tug, one that makes your cunt clench with need, before he slowly trails his hand down to your stomach. Your breath hitches as he moves his fingers under your shirt, the skin-on-skin contact causing you to let out a soft moan. Your body feels electrified as Jimin caresses your stomach and sides, his fingertips mapping out every inch of the area before he dips them down under the waistband of your sweats.

"Please," The word barely has time to leave your mouth before Jimin obliges, hand sliding between your legs to cup your cunt. He glides his fingers between your folds, groaning as he feels how soaked the material of your underwear has become.

"Fuck, you're dripping for me already, baby," Jimin curses as he continues to feel up your cunt, dragging the pad of his finger from your aching clit down to your slick hole, giving it just enough pressure to feel the tip of it dip in.

The sensation makes you squirm with want, rolling your hips against Jimin's cock. He lets out a choked sound at the action, attaching his lips to your neck to give you another hickey. He hisses with frustration as he struggles to touch you properly, the angle awkward and your clothes restricting his hand.

Jimin taps the inside of your thigh to make you spread your legs further. Heat floods your face as you feel just how wet you are as your legs part, hooking your foot over Jimin's calf to give him more room.

"Good girl," He praises as he finally pushes your underwear aside. The first touch of his fingers against your aching cunt makes you both moan, your heart thumping harshly in your chest with anticipation.

You know there's no going back after this. The knot in your belly, the lingering hostility, is practically overshadowed by your mounting pleasure. You can feel the part of you that's still angry quieting down more and more with each touch, the tight grip you've had on your resentment loosening. You know this is wrong, that you never should have let Jimin – your stalker – touch you like this regardless of how much your soul is yearning for him. But the horrible truth is that you're never getting away from them. And if this makes Jimin happy, then that means you should have it easier too, right?

Gods, how could you sink so low–

Jimin doesn't waste much time teasing you, too impatient for it when you're already this dripping wet.

He drags his finger along your slit, coating it in your slick before he prods at your entrance. The digit slides into your wet heat easily, your walls fluttering around it as you try to get used to the feeling. He gently pumps his finger in and out at first, making sure you're relaxed before he adds another one. He thumbs at your clit as the second finger joins the first, the jolt of pleasure masking the slight discomfort as you're stretched out more.

You can't quite believe how easily your body allows him in, how painless it feels compared to the previous times you've been with someone in the past. Maybe Jimin is just more skilled, but it feels like your body knows to relax in Jimin's hold, like it wants to be good for your soulmate.

"Shit," You whimper as Jimin's fingers curl against your walls, bumping into the spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. You clench down around him, trying to keep him in place and yet draw him in even deeper, desperate for that burst of pleasure again.

"P-Please don't stop," You beg, your mind blissfully blank aside from the mounting pleasure in your core.

"I won't, baby, I won't," Jimin groans. He keeps up the steady motion of rolling his hips against your body, grunting as you work yourself on his fingers, pressing your ass harder against his cock.

You bury your head into your pillow as Jimin's fingers begin pumping into you faster, stifling your increasing moans as he touches that sensitive spot over and over. Your leg trembles, toes curling, as Jimin angles his fingers, ceasing his thrusting in favour of rubbing your g-spot head-on.

Desperate noises fall from your lips as your stomach begins to tighten, your release building so quickly that it leaves you gasping for air. You're almost there, your cunt clenching needily around Jimin's fingers.

"Come for me, baby," Jimin rasps. The faintest brush of his slick thumb against your clit is all it takes for you to come undone.

"Jimin!" You cry out his name as your pleasure unravels, your vision whitening out as your release hits you. You feel your slick gush around Jimin's fingers as he keeps brushing against your walls, prolonging your orgasm for as long as possible.

The sound of you moaning his name with so much passion makes Jimin growl, his hips snapping forward. Your wetness coating his fingers and your warm body twitching underneath his is all it takes for Jimin to find his own release; he grinds his hard cock against you once, twice, before he explodes with a deep groan.

You lay in bed, panting, as you try to catch your breath. You let out a choked whine as Jimin carefully pulls out his fingers, everything feeling so sensitive after the intense orgasm you just had.

"You're amazing, Y/n," Jimin croons as he presses a kiss to the nape of your neck. He slips his hand out from your clothes, rubbing your stomach contently as he says, "Just give me a second to find something to clean us up with, baby, I'll be right back."

You let out a soft noise in return.

You wait for the deep regret and anger to come rushing in as you hear Jimin swiftly exit the room, for the high in your veins to turn to disgust as he returns to carefully wipe you down with a damp cloth and whisper sweet nothings about how much he adores you.

It doesn't happen.

Everything in you feels thrilled at Jimin's attentiveness, at how closely he wraps you up in his arms when he's done. Your heart flutters with excitement as he tucks you close to his chest, arms wrapped around your body securely.

Your soul feels so content that you struggle to grasp onto the hatred you feel for them, the feeling buried deep beneath the happy emotions your soulbond tries to overwhelm you with.

Your resentment hasn't changed. Won't ever change. But how do you explain that you wanted Jimin to touch you – that you enjoyed it? You don't want this or them so why do you feel so content? It breaks your heart to realize that while you do hate them, some small part of your is starting to like them too.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out Jimin's pleased hums as he runs his fingers up and down your arm. You know you won't get any answers tonight and letting your mind run around in circles won't do you much good either. You need the books Namjoon promised he would get for you, that's the only place you'll be able to find some answers.

You let Jimin's repetitive motions soothe you towards sleep, your eyelids growing heavy.

"Baby?" Jimin murmurs, the rhythmic fall and rise of his chest skipping a beat as he tenses up for a split second.

"Hmm?" You make an affirmative sound in return, brows furrowing at the sudden shift in Jimin's mood.

"We've been pretending to be you on your phone, texting your friends and family to keep up appearances. Heejun doesn't buy it."

Your eyes snap open in the darkness, your breath catching in your throat.

"He knows something is wrong since we can't pick up whenever he tries to call you. We won't hurt him or his boyfriend, I– we, know you'll never forgive us if something happens to them. But we need him to back off," Jimin grumbles.

You clutch at his tee, sleep washed away and voice bordering on frantic as you ask, "What do you need me to do?"

"Simple," Jimin sighs, pressing a fleeting kiss to the top of your head, "You just have to convince him that you don't want to talk to him anymore. That's the only way he'll leave us alone."

The thought makes you want to laugh. There's no way Heejun would ever believe something like that. You've practically been attached at the hip ever since you were young, been through so many highs and lows that you taking a trip to the moon sounds more possible than ever growing bored of him. Heejun would never buy such a simple excuse, hell, he would probably only double down harder to figure out why you're so hellbent on ignoring him.

"Right, simple," You echo, deflating in Jimin's arms.

It's never going to work.

You'll have to come up with a much better idea if you want to protect your friends and keep them safe.

a/n: hhh.... so that happened?? 🫣 we got a lot of new information in this chapter! we finally learned more about namjoon's backstory and his connection with the poems, the mc needs to figure out how to convince her friends she's okay and well... we have finally reached the smut!!

please leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the chapter and let's scream about what went down with jimin lol 💖

see you soon!

#yandere bts #bts x reader #yandere x reader #bts smut #yandere jimin #yandere seokjin #yandere jungkook #yandere yoongi #yandere hoseok #yandere namjoon #yandere taehyung

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vatelixx · 1 month ago

Text

On the concept of ‘want’, (part 2):

Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader (written with early-ish seasons Spencer in mind)

Part one here.

—> SMUT!!! and copious amounts of yearning and fluff, and like maybe some angst??? I wasn’t originally going to do a part 2 because it worked pretty well as a one shot, but I really liked their dynamic (and hyper fixated on it for HOURS), so here we are— it details the build up to their relationship, and then provides an epilogue to the end of part 1.

Warnings: sub spencer, corruption kink still present (but Spencer plays into it this time, what? who keeps writing that??? they need help???), greek mythology references and endless space facts (nerds), autistic Spencer (the way it should be), mean reader always (except she still for the life of her can’t be mean to Spencer, it’s those fucking brown eyes), begging, crying (pussy remains that good), praise kink, degrading names (slut, whore, because hello??? Spencer Reid breathes and he’s a slut to me), them being total losers for each other, they’re both still geniuses and they’re both still too domestic for my sanity, alcohol but no inebriated sex (a lot happens OKAY??), aftercare always!!

— brief brief mentions of rape in correlation to Greek Mythology (male Gods are disgusting)

w.c: 8k (im not mentally okay)

a/n: i wrote the smut and then had to take a cold shower (i cry for my digital footprint). i wanted to put this out on Spencer’s birthday, but I got distracted— i think he would be happy I dedicated all of my shots to him (and then had to explain that no he’s not actually a real person but rather a fictional character)

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Prequel, the build up, (pre ‘part I’):

Spencer is barely conscious, drifting in that half-way state, all tousled hair and messy clothes. He’s dishevelled, at best, cradling a coffee (too much sugar, limited caffeine). Early start, the sun has only begun to burn by the time he reaches his desk. Torture, it’s torture the way you linger, it makes his brain distort, fracture into a tangled mess of nothing. How is it scientifically possible that one’s presence alone can reduce his mind to static? He’s not sure whether he loves or hates the abrupt decline in his IQ.

7AM. There’s bags pooling beneath his eyes, crimson distressed shadows, insufficient sleep can hinder the brains ability to regulate emotion, attention. It’s fine. He’s fine.

To put it simply, you’re terrifying. A carefully crafted figment of intelligence. He wonders if you’ve ever pressed a knife to someone’s skin before, it’s more intimate than a bullet. Hands on. It’s not a morbid thought, he doesn’t consider himself that hedonistic. Jobs in the BAU are coveted, and yet, in despite of your age, you were offered to join. No strings attached, no extensive training— nearly a year of working alongside you has proven that you’re more qualified for this than anyone could’ve anticipated. Is it cruel to say you were made to analyse, to deceive and coerce the most callous minds?

It’s demeaning, sure. But there is nothing more to you than the job. You clock in, and your personality becomes bound, restrained, kept away from him.

He’s trying. They’re all trying; to accommodate you, to ease you into the team. Drinks after hours, even intoxicated, you’re meticulous at keeping yourself away from anything inherently personal.

But right now, you’re here, and you’re so pretty. “Early,” he groans, letting his face drop to the desk. He likes that you’re shifting closer to him, that out of everyone, the rare, celestial phenomenon, moments of vulnerability are reserved for him. They’re brief, and admittedly a little sharp around the edges, but Spencer is selfish in admitting that he wants them all to himself. To hoard them and gloat, because no one has ever chosen him first before.

And you, you justify this ‘friendship’ because you’re indisputably human, because you do need someone (even if you’re too proud to ever accept that), and of course it would be Spencer. You’re both too young to be here, skipping a multitude of stages in the rise to an FBI agent, trauma bonding over the weight of your scathed experiences. Plus, you share an element of difference; your brains are abnormal, wired in unique, distinctive ways in contrast to the average human. It makes sense. It’s logical.

“Too early.” you agree, shifting to lean against his desk. “Did you read that article I sent you? The one about astrophysics and how it can shape human experiences?”

“Of course I read it,” He looks up, bleary-eyed behind his glasses, half-lidded gaze flickering across you. Maybe there should be an element of competition to your dynamic; you’re both geniuses, working alongside each other in close close (oh— close) proximity, but there’s not. For all of your sharpness, you’ve never once seen him as anything but your equal.

He turns his head, hair falling, obstructing his sight, a mess of brown, tousled and out of place. His brain is already working overtime, absorbing every detail about your appearance: your heavy, maddening eyes, your shirt (wrinkled, untucked), your watch (gold), the pen stuck behind your ear. Analytical, analytical, analytical.

“Don’t ask me about it.” he continues, “I’m halfway through an essay on my thoughts about it, expect a message tonight.”

That’s a new progression. Whenever he can’t sleep, whenever his thoughts are fervid and incessant, his mind caught on obscure facts, he’ll text you. Let you wake to paragraphs upon paragraphs of information on miscellaneous subjects. He’s never really understood ‘texting etiquette’, abbreviations and short responses.

“Can’t wait.” you hum. Oh, and you mean it.

“Can’t wait? First time i’ve heard that one,” he laughs.

He glances down at your shoes— combat boots, of course. Practical, sturdy, thick leather worn down with use. He can’t look at your face right now, not when you’re soul-crushingly beautiful, and you’re taking an interest in his quirks. But, oh your face— using the golden ratio as a foundation, you’re… well, perfect. Sure, the dark shadows pooling beneath your eyes reduce points, but he likes them, it’s a subtle, yet impaling, reminder that you’re real, that despite everything, you’re undeniably human.

It’s a mess, he’s aware that it’s an unnecessarily disjointed mess; the universe decided to torture him (painfully so), by placing the personification of perfection in front of him. Reachable distance, and yet, you still feel light years away. So far, because god he loves you— he loves you in ways he can’t even speak about. But what is love, and how does he comprehend it when he’s never been in its orbit? Not until now.

“And yeah,” he continues, adjusting his glasses. “I’m drafting a response, of course I am. You think I’d not send you an in-depth message? That would be a disservice to your knowledge.”

────────────

Detroit, 8hr flight, mid-morning, coffee and case files, an endless haze of intentions, behavioural patterns regarding the most recent unsub. Spencer always chooses to sit beside you, it’s non-negotiable, assigned. He spends half of his time curled up in the corner, catching a few minimal hours of sleep, and the other half rambling. At this point, you know a lot about him. Months and months of knowledge, some he’s told you, some you’ve profiled: he always carries a satchel (dog-eared novels and notebooks consisting of half-finished thoughts), his favourite season is halloween (when he first came to your apartment and saw various autumnal decor, despite it being mid-July, he smiled so much you thought you were going to die), and he’s afraid of the dark. Trivial pieces of information. Unnecessary, and yet you still store them for safe keeping.

“So,” he mumbles after briefing, “It’s nearly Halloween…”

Those words. The simple declaration of a date that you were already aware of sentences your fate. Of course you’ve noticed the rest of the team deftly turning down his invites at any occasion possible, but to receive one? You’ve never been a people pleaser, in fact, if anything you’re the polar opposite. Blunt like a knife, intransigent, unwilling to spare feelings for the sake of etiquette.

But you do agree when he offers to make plans.

────────────

Pumpkin patches, seasonal harvest. The leaves beneath your heavy platforms are ochre. It’s late- afternoon when you get to the festival, even later when you manage to coerce Spencer into humouring one of the ghost-walks.

But, you got distracted, tangled up in some tangent about Roman philosophy, Plato’s symposium, different accounts of eros. Socrates and his belief in stoicism, unwavering to the pretence of beauty, turning down Alcibiades— the most desirable.

You can only laugh. You laugh, and no, you’ve never laughed like that before. It shuts down Spencer’s body, renders him incapable for a good few moments. And now, suddenly he’s gone dumb, because he wants to get lost every weekend, just to hear it over and over again until it’s firmly imprinted into his brain for good. You breathe, and he’s brain-dead.

“This isn’t funny—“ he tries.

“No you’re right. It’s not funny at all.” you lie. Straight. Through. Your. Teeth. All things considered, you’ve had fun today— which is admittedly a feat in itself.

“Don’t worry,” you continue, knocking your shoulder into his. “I’ll protect you.“

“You do that enough anyways,” he states; it’s true, you’re a little too assertive on the field, unwilling to let him stumble inadvertently into danger. Maybe it’s just because you’re now acquainted with the knowledge of his previous missteps. Or maybe it’s because you care — not in the way he cares about you, obviously. But he’s willing to take what he can get. Anything, as long as it from you.

Spencer hates the dark (it’s common knowledge, the absence of light is unsettling) and with his flashlight wavering, stuttering in and out of use, he’s forced to stray close to you, to share your working one. It feels like the start of some budgeted horror movie he’d possibly take you to see, speaking through the entirety, pointing out the obvious scientific flaws.

“Why do you have so many layers on?” He asks, watching your face. The flashlight in your hand illuminates the small clearing around them, casting your face in a starker light. Every contour, every blemish, every freckle is more pronounced in the cold.

“You look like a burrito,” he adds, unable to stop himself.

You scoff, “I run cold.”

Pine-oak and cold, the air is sharp, plainly glacial at this time of night. It’s an amusing way to spend halloween; even though you’re currently missing out on the tour you paid for. “And, I don’t look like a burrito, thank you. Very astute evaluation, Reid. Your words are clearly so intellectual.”

“Yes, well— I am a doctor, remember? Astute observation skills are a priority on the requirements list. And actually,—“ you huff out a breath, and his forthcoming tangent dissolves before it can escape his lips. Usually, you humour the onslaught, the mess of facts— but, considering they’re directly aimed at you tonight, it’s clear that circumstances are in fact different.

He tucks his hands into his pockets, knuckles blemished red from the cold, rose shadows that match the flush to his face. “I’m glad you said yes, to this. Most of the team,” he laughs awkwardly, “Well, they usually ignore my invites. So yeah, it’s nice not to be alone for halloween.“

He’s quick to move on, to shift shift the subject. “And— as for the,” he continues, glancing down at your attire. “The excessive layers— I just meant that you look comfortable. If you’re running cold, then you need all those layers. It’s not a critique.” Another huff, and he glances awkwardly around the clearing.

“I’m just rambling.” He murmurs, “As per usual. I need to, uh— to stop doing that.” A pause. Silence.

You’re not really digesting his words anymore, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts— it’s a few moments before you speak again. You turn your gaze towards him, observing the sight of him in the perpetual darkness, profile only illuminated by faint trances of your flash-light. Swollen lips, half-bitten, brown eyes blown out of proportion, irises wide and unabated.

You know a lot about him, that’s already been established. Albeit, there’s still fragments you haven’t quite discovered yet. And sure, you shouldn’t want to find out, to unravel him completely. You shouldn’t— because that’s a direct transgression to the rules you’ve always set for yourself. But you do.

“Are you..” your face softens, “Uh, are you alone a lot?”

You’ve never been the type to ask about personal life, about the complexities behind closed doors. Sure, you can deduce his home-life through months of experience and mannerisms, but you’ve never asked specifically about his own relationships. The question catches him off-guard.

He blinks, a few too many times, and then finds his eyes are very very interested in staring at his shoes.

“Yeah.” he finally answers, “But it’s okay! I’m used to it. I don’t mind,”

“I have lots of time for my own pursuits,” he adds. “Reading and-— um, chess and stuff. And the team, of course. But— they’re not- they don’t want to, like, hang out. Outside, I mean. They have their own lives, partners. Families, so it makes sense.”

It’s not okay, and you’re uncertain why it pains you so much. Maybe because he makes the effort to arrange plans, to connect, and it goes undervalued, wasted. In contrast, you’re content in loneliness. People are overbearing, insufferable at best. You’ve never had much of an interest in an abundant social life, you’re content in your small, reserved circle. But he has no one.

And yet he has the audacity to pretend it’s okay?

“Well, if you want to like, be lonely together sometime. That would be fine with me.” you say after a moment of strained silence.

His whole life he’s struggled to fit in, to meet, to conform to the expected societal norms. Acceptance, community, humans are wired to want integration, and yet he’s always fallen short. It’s why he throws himself into facts, into research, into studies and books.

His shoulders have slackened. For a slender frame he’s remarkably tense, like he’s waiting for an eventual downfall. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I’d uh, also be fine with that. More than fine actually..”

No one has ever wanted him, they’ve just needed him and he wonders if there’s really even a difference.

────────────

That’s how it starts. Inevitable, in the grand scheme of life and work and you. Spencer watches as you soften, slowly unfold protected layers over countless evenings of chess and movies, and suddenly you’re not so untouchable, so beyond conventional existence, and yeah, berate him for loving you even more because of it.

You’re restless, completely. A night in his apartment is always fated to end with you tugging him through cobbled streets, desperate to catch some air. Tonight, it’s raining. Protected beneath a ledge of a closed shop, you’re approximately 12 minutes away from his place. Spencer should hate you for bulldozing his routine, he really really should. But it’s never that simple, not when it comes to the intricacies of you, and the exhausting effect you prove to have on his sanity.

He leans back against the soaked brick, watching the rain pour over the road, greyed streets, washed out by water. Just passing 10PM, like most nights, his mind seems to be insistent on you you you. And sure, he’s longing (if that even encapsulates his want), longing for something, to connect the invisible line between you two.

“Why am I not surprised,” he mutters, “Always a disaster with you.”

The cold will undoubtedly lead to you being sick, but the sight of you under the glow of streetlights, water-stricken and frustrated— he can’t bring himself to complain. For a moment, he simply stares. At your profile, the sharpness of your features, the exasperation in your blinding gaze. You’re beautiful, in ways he can’t comprehend.

“Hey,” he backtracks, “Not in a bad way, but like, in a you-cause-so-much-unexpected-stuff-to-happen kind of way. You’re always bringing me into messy situations.”

The space between you is so minimal, but so stretching. There’s an invisible wall, one that he won’t ever tear down, can’t ever tear down, in case he loses you. He wants to reach out, to grasp at your hand, your wrist, or even your shoulder. Anything, to feel the barest touch of your skin. Something.

Touch. To feel. He’s never allowed himself to sink into the warmth of someone else before, he’s never been able to. But for all your terror, he knows you’d hold him. Or maybe that’s just what he hopes for. Maybe it’s a delusional hypothetical.

When you do return to his apartment, you’re laughing. A common sight these days, as mind-bending as that might seem. The journey back was discombobulated, rushed movements, jackets spilling over heads, drenched thoroughly, attempting to outrun the inevitable storm that now seems to consume the area.

There’s not a part of you that regrets your offer to be ‘lonely together’ because whilst you despise most humans, Spencer doesn’t seem to be on that list. No, you could spend hours doing nothing with him, and still find it more gratifying than the best laid plans.

Plus, these days he seems happier. You both do.

“You look like a wet dog,” you say as you attempt to sort your way through his soaked hair. You’re sitting on the floor of his kitchen, cold skin pressed against tile.

He grins. You’re both laughing, and it’s so good. “Thanks for the compliment. You know, you’re not much better—“

He finds himself subconsciously, instinctively, leaning into the touch, as if his body has been searching for this, as if his skin is merely wired to only ever respond to your hands. Head tilted backwards, allowing access to the tangled strands, his neck arched slightly so he can still see your face, every expression that passes by.

He has a brief internal war with himself, wondering which part of the situation exactly he’s freaking out over. Maybe it’s the cold, which will undoubtedly leave him sick for the next week? Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve initiated a touch of some variety, your hands in his hair, a moment of human connection. Whatever it is, he can’t help but sit in silence, staring at you like you’ve just hung the stars.

────────────

Both of you are incontrovertibly devoted to work, married in some key aspects. You stay late, ceaseless over-time, covering offices with evidence and reports, rehashing cases until you’re too exhausted to function. So naturally, it’s no surprise that you’re coerced into taking time off, mandatory leave— if only to appease the rest of the team, and their wilting sanity.

Road trip. That’s the ‘logical’ solution, considering you’d both end up exasperated at your respective apartments, overthinking the cases you’ve been shut out of. The Appalachian trail. Neither of you have any interest in the hike, albeit the skyline yurt, overlooking the area, endless planes of landscape, certainly seems like a selling point. If only to keep you countless miles away from work.

November. The days are hazy, mostly due to your shared fatigue, interminable exhaustion. Spencer has abandoned his glasses now, and you try not to mourn the loss.

The drive felt eternal. Hours stuck listening to the radio, only interrupted by Spencer’s endless rambling and your sporadic requests for coffee. There’s something intimate to travelling together. Being trapped in a car, in close proximity, sharing a space.

Now, the two of you are situated in the middle of nowhere, nature, something he’s never really sought out in his life. He’s an intellectual not a lover of the outdoors. Sure, the science of it fascinates him, the endless cycle of life and death, but actually being here — in the midst of it all, amongst the trees and fog — is a foreign concept.

You’re standing beside him, eyes observing the landscape, sharp gaze tracing the outline of the horizon. He wonders if you’re thinking of the city, of work, of anything else besides the freezing air. He just wants to get inside, to feel warm, to stop shivering.

But no, you’re too busy looking at the stars.

“That’s Cetus,” he says, pointing out a constellation, “Sometimes referred to as ‘The Whale’. Cetus, uh.. he was a sea monster in Greek Mythology, sent by Neptune to devour Andromeda. Perseus saved her by turning him to stone using the head of Medusa. Medusa, who he beheaded using a mirrored shield whilst she slept.”

You hum, “It also represents the whale that swallowed Jonah when he disobeyed the Christian’s God.”

“Yeah! Yeah, because Jonah went to Nineveh instead of Tarshish.” he looks back at you, “You know, Cetus covers over 1200 square degrees of sky. But personally, personally, my favourite is Ursa Major.”

“The great bear? Cmon, that’s so basic.”

“No it’s not! What? Don’t judge my taste,” he protests, “It’s named after Arcas. Zeus fell in love with Andromeda—“

“Mhm, and Hera, his wife, turned Callisto into a bear. Zeus raped her, the Gods were fucked up.”

“The Gods were fucked up, yeah.” he agrees, before knocking his shoulder into yours. “But Ares wasn’t, you know he counts as a pseudo god for feminism.”

“Shame he was brutal in every other aspect.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, “You’re paying more attention to the stars than me.”

Later, much later, you end up on the floor. Laying back against cold wood, you both stare at the domed ceiling. Distorted vision, clouded by alcohol; there’s not much to do around here, and you had incautiously thought a bottle of whiskey would be a good idea— no, actually, you just wanted to see Spencer intoxicated. Beyond messy nights at the bar in D.C, when the team was desperate for a break from work, he’s never really been in this state before.

The area is vast, too big, but you were hardly going to plummet yourself into the middle of nowhere without a few prominent luxuries— you’ve always been devoted to the city, the endless drama, sleepless nights and constant futile noise.

This is… different.

Alcohol has made everything more intense, magnified, in every aspect. The yurt is dark now, the only light coming from the occasional flash of lightning, slicing through the sky and illuminating the area in fragmented beats. The room is cold, but he’s over-warm. Not accustomed to the alcohol, to the buzz it leaves him feeling, the pleasant numbness in his limbs. As if nothing matters.

He’s laying next to you, mid-tangent about space. “Did you know that Jupiter has 95 moons. That’s more moons than the average solar system. And that most of them are named after Greek or Roman mythology. There’s— there’s Ganymede, that’s the largest natural satellite in the solar system. It’s nearly the size of Mars..”

He turns on his side to face you, watching as you mirror his movements, “And, and,” his words fail him, “You are so pretty, — you have amazing, amazing eyes, you know that? And this laugh….” that makes me burn, “You should laugh more. I’m going to make you laugh more.”

He’s staring at you, half-lidded gaze following every line, contour, every feature. He wants to trace his hand along the curve of your cheek, your jaw, down your throat, your shoulder. He wants to touch, to feel you. He can’t tell if you’re aware of his suffering. The torment that comes with being this close to you, yet not able to touch you. How painful it is. To love you.

“Spence..” you mutter, and oh, you’ve never called him that before.

“Mhm, yeah,” he says, bringing himself back to the point; the topic of space. Ignorant to his words. “The planet Jupiter, it’s a gas giant. You knew that, right? It’s got the shortest day of any planet. And on top of all that, it has a redspot! Like, this huge, massive vortex, bigger than the Earth, and it’s just roaming the atmosphere.”

A loud peal of thunder interrupts his speech, followed by the incessant, incessant rain, pounding against the walls. “I love when you listen to me. No one’s ever really listened to me before.”

It’s not fair, not fair that you’re about to plunge yourself into the centre of the storm. That Spencer Reid laying next to you, in the middle of nowhere, would be your fatal flaw. Hamartia. The downfall of the walls you’ve kept resolute for so long. You could blame the alcohol, curse yourself for encouraging this when you’ve both always balanced on a thin, trembling line.

But perhaps it was always inexorable.

You cup his face, running your hand over his pretty profile. Pupils blown out of proportion, so beautiful it scalds. You can’t stop yourself from leaning forward, from pressing a soft, fleeting kiss against his lips.

“I’ll always listen to you.” you promise. Because if no one else has the decency to acknowledge him in full capacity, you will.

And Spencer? Oh, he’s frozen, caught in some location of suspended space. Every thought, every coherent piece of logic in his head has come to an abrupt hilt, silenced by your mere touch.

Your words sink into his skin, seeping into his bones like fire. He’s burning, burning hot and feverous under your hands. The kiss is brief, and he whines involuntarily when you pull away. “Don’t stop. Please— not yet.”

You want him, repeats like a mantra. In all universes, in the grand scheme of time, he never considered this alternative.

Suddenly he’s glad he resides in this reality.

So you kiss him again. You’re aware that you’re both a tangled mess on the floor, limbs interwoven, lips pressed against lips. You’re aware that you’re both drunk beyond comprehension, and that you’ve used alcohol to cheat, to skip time, to fast-forward to the good. Because if you were sober right now, you’d be too calculated, too rational to allow this.

And it hurts— kissing him. Because he touches you like he’s never felt anything before, like he’s been impossibly starved for the entirety of his life. Neglected, in so many ways. You’ve never been interested in caring for someone before, but somewhere along the way, he buried his way into your chest, and now, you’re hopeless to the consequences.

Right now, that doesn’t even feel half as terrifying as it truly is.

His hands are everywhere, everywhere they can reach, grasping at anything they can find, trying to bring you closer, closer, to keep the heat burning against his skin. He needs it, needs the feeling of your lips. He’s overwhelmed, overwhelmed as his tongue slides against your own, as his hands press at the curve of your waist, tracing over skin he’s only been dreaming of touching. He feels alive, incandescent with pure bliss.

“I’ve wanted this,” he mumbles against your skin, between breaths. Between the fire. “For so long, so long,” he sighs, pressing his forehead against yours when you both become reacquainted with the concept of oxygen. “Don’t regret this tomorrow, please?”

“I won’t.” you say, drawing his lips back to your own.

And you do stay true to your word.

────────────

Epilogue (—post ‘part I’):

You’re not entirely sure how to approach the situation of sex, considering you’ve just defiled Spencer Reid on various surfaces of his apartment. So, naturally, you untangle yourself from his body, and take him to see some mundane documentary on sealife. Mostly because you know he’ll enjoy it (and you’ll certainly enjoy him leaning over your seat to comment on omitted pieces of information and technical inaccuracies). Then, when it’s over, you muffle his protests on crime as you coerce him into sneaking into another screen.

Now you’re not the most inconspicuous pair, sitting in the back row, practically hidden by shadows. He has one arm wrapped around your shoulder, thumb tracing over the bone there, lost to your proximity, the warmth of your leg, thighs pressed together.

“You are so pretty,” you mutter, transfixed by the sight of him, illuminated by flashing lights. Some excessive slasher playing in the background, discarded.

“Shh,” he sighs, “Be quiet, there’s— you’re distracting me.”

You’re difficult, you know; your head is leant against his shoulder, lips dragging along his jaw, then his neck, just under his ear. He can’t focus on the screen, the movie barely registers, not when all he can feel is you, your lips against skin, leaving remnants of heat wherever they touch.

You’re aware that you’re a few meticulous touches away from giving him a heart attack, albeit it’s not like you have any interest in stifling your attraction. Not when he’s sitting right next to you.

“What was that? Oh? You want me to be quiet. Maybe you should do something about it then, because personally I have no interest in—“

His lips are quick to silence you. Ruinous, you kiss like you talk, with a sense of assertiveness, all encompassing and dizzying. He’s leaning forward to deepen the contact, to chase chase chase your mouth with little regard for etiquette.

“It’s—“ he mutters, stumbling into his apartment when you predictably get kicked out of the cinema. “All your—“ his hands are tangled deep in your hair as he silences your protests with his lips. “Fault.”

He’s lovesick, pressing his thumb against your bottom lip to stifle the contact. He feels light, like everything will be okay, all of the ache will dismantle, disintegrate if he keeps kissing you. But comfortability breeds defiance, so when you try to close the distance again, he’s laughing breathlessly.

“There’s paperwork we need to do—“ he says, and you blink. “It’s stacking up, and uh.. it’s very very important.”

You both stare at each other for a moment. Then, he’s grinning, leaning forward to press an apologetic kiss against your lips. “Sorry, sorry. Had to.”

“You’re a dick.” you confirm, hands slipping beneath his sweater to trace warm flesh. His reaction is scarring, body clattering back against the wall, torso arched forward as every part of him follows your touch mindlessly. He’s not sure if he’ll ever grow tolerant to you, or if it will forever feel this devastating— his swollen lips are parted and a soft oh escapes.

“But a pretty one, so maybe it cancels itself out.” you laugh, adorning his neck in soft kisses that trail, growing sharper, more biting as they begin to puncture skin, leaving behind mauve blemishes. The process is delirious, and you’re coaxing the most destroyed, whiney noises from him now.

Spencer sighs, “I don’t think that’s how it works—“ his sentence is destroyed by a whimper, something pained, when you run your tongue along a forming mark, when you deepen the burn. “I’m uh— yeah.”

You laugh at his mindless sentence, “I thought we needed to do paperwork, hm?”

“What’s paperwork?” Spencer responds, gripping your hips, guiding you back, back, back until you both meet his couch. “I’ve never heard of that— stop making things up.”

“Are you going to behave?” you ask, straddling his hips, pressing against his clothed dick, working in slow movements to intensify the stifled stimulation between you.

“No.” he answers simply, plainly. As if the answer is self-evident. Which, considering the state of him, debauched beyond reason is. His needs are conspicuous, from the scattered bruising that lines his neck to the indecent noises spilling from his throat. He grips your hips, whines when you refuse to push harder against him.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that you can reduce him to this state, diminished to nothing but want the moment your touching becomes calculated.

And god, he wants— he wants to trace every part of you. The shape of your collarbone, the dip of your throat. He wants to mark himself on every part of you. The curve of your wrist, the inside of your hip. Every part available. He feels like an open wound, vulnerable in ways he never anticipated he could be, desperate for you to thread the skin back together, to ease him from this repetitive cycle of desperation.

“Going to punish me?” he teases, watching the myriad of emotions that cross your features. The way you’re so intently focused on him, on his skin, the need he emanates. Fuck— he loves it, he loves how he’s the object of your attention, every thought, every sense devoted to him. No one else, just him.

He knows he’s begging, that he’s all but pleading with you to fix him, to make him whole again, because for some reason, he can’t remember what he was like before you.

“Maybe,” you answer, moving off his lap to destroy the friction, and he wants to protest, but before he can even cohesively think of words, he’s clattering off the couch to sink to his knees.

He’s looking at you now with this distinctive gaze, big, innocent eyes, pupils dilated beyond necessary reason, and you’re disorientated, undone just by the sight of him. It’s fervent, this thing that burns between you, and neither of you are sure when you got so tangled in each others orbit, but you’re not complaining, not when you’ve got him sitting pretty on his knees for you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you state, drawing your hand across his jaw, tilting his head up so he can meet your gaze entirely. You let out an exasperated breath of air, “Don’t look at me like you’re innocent here,”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about…” he says, and of course he’s playing naive, utilising his lack of experience in this moment, exploiting it to spite you.

Your palm meets his cheek, and he’s gone, just staring up at you, too distracted to formulate a coherent response. He never considered himself to be a particularly ‘dirty’ person until you kissed him, and then he crumbled, evanescence of logic, sanity.

He pushes his thighs together, moaning whorishly at the friction.

And oh, that has you gripping his hair hard, earning an assortment of obscene sounds. With your thighs parted, you hike your skirt up further, allowing him to slot himself in place. He’s quick, needy with his actions, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, trailing them up up up until he meets your panties. Wet, soaked through, a prominent indication that you’re feeling this as much as he is.

He drags them down your legs with little regard, fabric discarded, forgotten about for greater priorities. His tongue, tentative at first, runs along your clit, and you’re responding, hips canting against his face– yeah, suffocate him. He could die very happily right here in this demeaning position.

Tug, he buries his face entirely into you, moaning at the taste, at the sheer concept that he’s being throughly used. It’s messy (in more ways than one), but he knows that it’s good based on your reaction, the way your thighs are wrapped around his head, digging into his shoulder, the way your hand is threaded through his hair, controlling, instructing until he’s just a mindless instrument to your desires.

“Oh— fuck, Spence, that’s it— that’s it. So good, so good f’me.”

“Taste so good, needed this so bad.” he all but whines, pussy-drunk, a little too gone for anyone’s good. He’s straining against his pants, creating damp spots that he really can’t justify, and it hurts. He pushes his thighs harder together, trying to relieve the ache with some pressure, even if he’d love nothing more than to shamelessly grind against your leg right now, to rut in the most indecent way possible. He’s squirming, and don’t come untouched don’t come untouched, focus.

You’re tight, and when the first finger slips inside of you, there’s a visceral reaction from both of you. His hands are deft, slender and long, and with a subtle curve to his movements, he finds that spot before he’s even added a second digit. He would be fairly content with staying here forever, at service to you, watching as you fuck yourself against his face, body bucking and squirming, and yeah– there you go, that’s it. Right there. When you tense, he looks up to meet your debauched gaze, noises spilling from your swollen mouth as you fall apart. Clenching to unclench, perfect.

He’s still dizzy when he comes up, tongue and fingers and mouth and chin all obscenely coated in the aftermath. Oh god, he can’t even stand it, he looks way too satisfied with himself, and he is. He is. He is. He is.

You say how amazing it was (which is sweet, very very sweet) and then you say you’ve used him like a whore. And um. Yeah. Okay. That’s good— great even. He loves being useful!

There’s his bruised knees and then there’s the couch. Stumbling movements, the way he collapses, the way you follow after, shifting to straddle his body.

“Need you. Just you— please. I’ve waited for this, want it so bad.” he mutters.

He’s painfully hard, and he’s been so good, which means he’s prone to acting out now. As you work on staining his neck with remnants of this night, he slips his hand into his pants, and yeah, much better. He could cum just like this, with his palm wrapped around his dick and your lips all over his neck, polluting skin. He should be patient, he knows but he’s so hard and the need is too overwhelming. And oh oh oh. He squirms, releases a pitiful noise that has you reacting, noticing.

After that, his hands get bound behind his back.

He probably deserves that.

He can only watch the depraved actions, the formulated process of you removing his trousers, then his ruined boxers. By the time, he’s bare, undone to your eyes, he’s a disjointed mess. Every time you touch him, the sensory nerves that formulate inside his body burn, agonisingly so, to the point where he can only melt, capitulate to you alone. You, only ever you. He’s fairly certain he was created for you exclusively.

You roll your thumb across his tip, watching as he squirms, grasping your hip, and your free hand, discernibly breaking orders to keep them tethered behind his back. You just lace your fingers together, press a soft kiss against his knuckles, before you return to the simple task of tearing him to pieces.

No. Big. Deal.

“You like that, hm?” you ask, letting out a dissatisfied hum when Spencer only nods, flushed and breathless, debasing little whimpers escaping his mouth with every stroke. “Use your words, — use them or i’ll stop. You don’t want that, do you? Because I don’t think you want that at all.”

“No—no, please, god please don’t stop. I like it— I like it a little too much. Feels, oh.. feels so good.”

Your hand is wrapped entirely around him now, and he can only shift closer, bury his face into the crook of your neck, shelter his gaze from your sight because if he looks at your pretty eyes again, he’ll finish immediately.

God, he’s loud, he’s so loud, a litany of whimpers escaping him with every cataclysmic stroke. It gets to a point where you have to untangle your hands, push your thumb into his mouth, and thankyou, something to do with himself— he just moans around the digit.

“That’s it— taking it so well.”

“I’m trying! Oh, oh… m’trying. Just wanna be good for you— please, please it’s so much.”

He’s so sensitive, too sensitive, it’s good and bad, and it’s a complete onslaught to his deprived body. He’s not sure he’ll ever comprehend how you touch him, the way every movement seems to be perfect in derailing his mind until he’s too blissed out to know anything beyond you.

He’s really trying to form words with your finger in his mouth, but it’s just a mess of saliva and he wants to tell you that he’s a germaphobe, that hands carry so much bacteria, but he’s more than willing to trade germs with you anyway, to offer himself up on a sliver platter, lamb to the slaughter. Sacrifice, he can’t even articulate how much he would renounce for you.

You push your thumb deeper into his mouth, watching as it hits the back of his throat, as he gags around it. There’s blind, unwavering obedience to his actions now, taking it all willingly, passive in a way that counteracts his previous behaviour.

So naturally, you ask if he feels like a slut right now, and yup yup yup. But, as morbid as it may appear, he has no qualms in being your slut, because it’s just you, and the thought that you’re here, that you’re with him, taking care of him in ways he was never convinced he would receive, is intoxicating. Dismantling. Self-destruction, he supposes.

You draw your thumb from his mouth, push it into your own to show him that yeah, sharing germs is not an issue. “Such a good boy for me, Spence. So proud of you.”

“Oh..” now he’s just crying. It’s formidable.

“That’s it— you’re safe. I’ve got you, gonna make a pretty mess for me, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. Mhm. Wanna cum so bad, need it— pleasepleaseplease.”

You hum, “Just a little longer for me. You can do it. Be a good boy and hold it.”

“Cant—“

“Spencer.” you say, actively silencing his protests, and he can only nod, following your command mindlessly.

It’s a form of art, he believes, the way you dismantle him piece by piece, the way you destroy his cognitive function, strip him raw until he’s just a tangible mess of everything he was always deprived of. Until it’s just him, just him who you still stare at starry-eyed.

When you finally grant him permission, the bliss has him unable to form anything beyond stuttered oh oh oh’s, his back arching, his nerves ignited, and maybe he’s falling, falling fast because it’s all just a labyrinth of transient pleasure that his body struggles to keep up with.

But afterward, when he’s satiated, you’re still there, and you’re still so painfully warm and real.

There’s something gratifying about the sight of you, taking unprecedented care to clean his skin, to coax him out of his stupor when you’re supposed to be the incarnation of sharpness. It’s a hard concept to grasp, that the blade will never penetrate him, that he’s always going to be your exception.

When you’re tangled in sheets, foreheads pressed together, when it’s just the two of you, and nothing else matters, he does consider luck again. And how so much sacrifice was worthy of enduring, if only for a fleeting second of this.

“I love you,” he mutters, “I have for a long time.”

And you sigh, cup his face, it feels like a solar eclipse, like something astral. “I’m not sure when it happened, but yeah. I love you too, Spence. Love you enough to deal with the insane amount of paperwork HR are going to give us for this shit.”

“Worth it.” he mutters, kisses trailing along your jaw, dipping to meet your neck. “So so worth it.”

#sub spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #his head game is crazy #i want that nerd so bad #spencer reid #did i mention spencer reid???#spencer reid angst #except there’s less angst and more hopeless pining

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catslvrr · 4 months ago

Text

you know all my dreams (you were one)

danielle marsh x fem!reader | one shot

Synopsis: Being a superhero involves a lot of saving, like saving people from burning buildings, saving cats stuck in trees, and even saving yourself from being evicted from your apartment. There’s one thing that you haven’t saved yet, and that’s your relationship with Danielle.

Contains: cursing, blood, violence, death, cliche hero stuff

You would like to believe that you are a good roommate.

But when you come tumbling through the window, landing with a raucous thud, all you have the strength to do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray to the heavens that your roommate graciously ignores you. Again.

This is the fourth time in a week that you have managed to enter your room in such a manner. You rely on the fact that your roommate is abnormally nocturnal and is most likely asleep by now.

You grimace as you remember that one time you accidentally crashed through her window, blacked out, and woke up to her grim face as she poked you with her foot. It wasn’t that far off from how she originally found out you were Spider-Woman two years ago.

It had been a rough day. You didn’t leave exactly scot-free after fending off the attempted escape of some maximum security prisoners at the Raft.

This attempt may have been catalyzed by the recent blackout that you may have caused by fighting off another escape attempt, but who’s to say that’s the case?

Regardless, all escapees were given a scenic swing, free of charge, straight back to prison—a temporary one anyway. Now all you had to worry about was making it home in one piece.

By the time you reach home, the muscles in your arms giving in from the endless web-slinging, you don’t have enough energy in you to ease your landing (which really just meant trying to land on cool superhero poses). You swoop right onto the floor, face-down and limbs sprawled out like a measly bug helplessly trapped in a web.

You’re not entirely sure of the full extent of your injuries in the moment—mostly because of the way your whole body is burning, reminiscent of the building you were thrown into, but you’re pretty confident you have at least multiple bruised ribs, a black eye, and a mild concussion.

“So, all things considered,” you say half-heartedly to no one in particular. “Not too bad.”

(Future note: You actually also had one fractured toe.)

You’re happily drifting off into unconsciousness, with nothing but the belated, slightly panicked thought of whether you locked your door or not, when three sudden strikes at your door jolt you awake.

Suppressing a groan, you roll over and pull yourself up as best as possible, ignoring the way your ribs scream at you. God, you were in so much pain. You let out a breathy exhale and even muster a crooked smile, even though you know your roommate can’t see you.

“Roomie! What’s up?”

A pause.

You cringe. Seriously, ‘Roomie’? You should’ve gone with the name you saw on the leasing contract.

(When you first saw it, you thought that the lease was some sort of scam, because your roommate’s signature looked like someone trying to draw Australia from memory. Upon further questioning of the landlord, you were left with the information that your new roommate, Haerin, was indeed real.)

Before you can even apologize for your lame attempt at a greeting, Haerin’s response comes curtly.

“There was a crash.”

You pick up on a slight inflection of curiosity in Haerin’s tone—is glad that despite her nosiness, she didn’t decide to barge in and see you in your full Spider-suit glory. You force out a chuckle, hoping your roommate doesn’t notice the strain.

“Oh—right. I just fell. Tripped over my own feet. I mean, while dancing. Well. Trying to, you know?”

Your embarrassment grows with every word that bumbles out of your mouth, and when the heat in your cheeks is too much to bear, you manage out a simple:

“Yep,” to eloquently finish it all off. You cross your fingers and hope your roommate doesn’t question the fact that there is no music playing at all.

You barely hear a non-committal hum over the pounding in your ears, and only release your breath when you hear the familiar obnoxious typing of keys, finding your heartbeat in tandem with its rhythm.

There are some things you can always depend on, and one of those things is Haerin’s perpetual typing as she attempts to finish her journalism assignments at the last minute. The incessant clicking of the keyboard gradually becomes soothing, almost therapeutic. You pass out before you can even register any sliver of drowsiness.

And then you wake up to a deafening bang and splinters of your doors ricocheting toward you.

Reflexively, you flick your wrist, effectively webbing any stray pieces of your door to the ceiling. But you also web your roommate’s face. There are a few seconds of silence as you both just stare at each other.

“Funny how you find me in my Spider-Woman cosplay,” you chuckle awkwardly. “Because I’m not, you know, Spider-Woman.”

Haerin slowly peels the web off her face, face wholly impassive, still menacingly holding the ax. “I’m hungry. Buy me Wingstop.”

It takes you an hour to get the Wingstop back home. Ten minutes was dedicated to a mini meet-and-greet.

“What the fuck, Haerin,” you say with a mouth full of lemon pepper fries. “You broke my door down with an ax.”

“I was hungry,” she replies matter-of-factly, as if that’s a reasonable justification for the insane property damage she just inflicted. “But you were also not responding for sixteen hours.”

“I was out for sixteen hours?”

“A bit of an exaggeration. Maybe around 10.”

“Why do you even have an ax anyway?”

“Look at where we live,” Haerin clicks her tongue. “And you being Spider-Woman just slaps a big target on our backs.”

“Pause,” you raise your hand and stop chewing. “I’m not Spider-Woman. I’m just… a huge fan.”

Haerin’s exasperated eyes flicker to yours.

“I’m serious!”

“Yeah right,” she scoffs. “You make way too many spider puns.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘I’ll swing by’, or ‘I’m kinda tangled up in something right now’,” she explains with air quotes.

You noisily take a sip of a lemonade you bought from a random stall. “Huh.”

“So,” you chew thoughtfully. “Hypothetically, if I was Spider-Woman, how would you react? Would you tell anyone?”

Haerin scans you, still wearing the Spider-suit, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, ungracefully shoving chicken tenders in your mouth with ranch dribbling down your chin. “I’ve known for, like, three months.”

You almost knock the ranch cup over in shock. “What?”

You swallow the chicken tender too quickly, and have to take a breather because you almost choke on it. “How—I mean, why would you think that?”

“You discarded one of your broken web-shooters in my room.”

“Oh. That’s where it went,” you scratch your cheek. “So… you won’t tell anyone, right?”

Haerin smiles. “Only if you pay for the door.”

You hear the screeching of a chair against the floor, hear the imposing footsteps headed toward your room. You feel something poke you. It’s probably the handle of that stupid ax she’s so attached to.

“You good?”

You respond with an unintelligible noise.

Another poke. “Rent’s due soon, you know.”

You roll over with a groan and pull off your mask. “Spare me some sympathy, I’m dying.”

“No you’re not. You’ve had worse.”

Haerin squats down to your level and dabs a cut on your forehead, leaving a burning sting. “Ow!”

You stay mum as Haerin wipes your face free of grime and blood. It’s rare, but when Haerin patches you up, there’s a tinge of gratefulness that twists your heart, and you know it’s better to leave it unspoken. That’s just how you two are.

You break the silence after a while. “I really need to find a job, don’t I?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Haerin replies. “I think you should start your own business: Spider-Eats.”

“Like… Uber Eats?”

“Exactly,” Haerin nods proudly. “But you don’t need to pay for gas, because you just swing over. And I’m sure people will tip you because you’re Spider-Woman.”

“Huh. That’s actually a really good idea.”

As you shuffle out of your Spider-suit and wince at the way your bloody clothes stick to yourself, you make a mental note to start designing and coding a Spider-Eats app. And to also do laundry again. You languidly stretch your limbs, trying to ignore the aches and pains.

“Thanks, doc,” you grin at Haerin. “I feel better already.”

Haerin nods and walks out to the living room. You hear some faint rustling, and the smell reaches you first: pepperoni pizza. You can practically hear an orchestra of trumpets and horns and trombones sing as Haerin re-enters your room, like an angel from heaven, holding three boxes of pizza. It’s even from the same parlor joint the two of you always loiter around.

“Wait,” you pull a can of grape Fanta out of her hand and toward you with a web. “I’ve always wanted to try something.”

Haerin watches as you dangle from the ceiling upside-down and crack open the can. You bring it to your mouth and attempt to drink it, only for you to choke and spill it on your floor.

“Oops.”

After that sad display, you both find yourselves in a familiar position: sitting cross-legged on the floor across from each other, absolutely devouring the food you’ve chosen to be a victim to your outrageous appetite. It comes with being a superhero.

“Seriously, Haerin,” you sigh in satisfaction. “I love you so much.”

You and Haerin mostly eat in silence and scroll on your phones until all three boxes are demolished. You pack up all the boxes and push them to the side, flopping into a starfish position and feeling bloated already.

“You know,” Haerin starts, her voice surprisingly sincere. “Tomorrow’s the day.”

You slowly exhale. “Yeah.”

She flops down beside you. The two of you stare at the LED strips (set to red and blue) that you both went to hell and back trying to tape on the edges of the ceiling.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

You offer a small smile. “Nah. You know how it is.”

The two of you lie there for a while until you both fall asleep.

Unfortunately, being a superhero is not all glitz and glamor. You find yourself to be quite the average Joe, living an ordinary life. At the end of the day, you’re just an engineering college student with no job. Well, besides the occasional side gig of being a masked vigilante.

You tend to relish the mundane moments these days, and maybe it’s the age. (Haerin would roll her eyes if she heard you say this.) Those fleeting moments where you can bask in the serenity of a night without any pings from the local police database you hacked into, although often only lasting several minutes, are valuable to you. Sitting on rooftops and indulging in the view that is the city skyline at night—you never get sick of it.

You used to hate this—being human, that is. After the bite all those years ago, being Spider-Woman was riveting. The novelty of your superpowers made you feel competent. Made you feel like someone. (Only after you persevered through the beginner's clumsiness.) Of course, there are the not so great parts of still being human. Like attending mandatory labs, dealing with group project partners who go M.I.A., and the exorbitant rental rates. Regardless, you believe the good still outweighs the bad.

But like most good things in your life, they never stay. How foolish of you, to think that your newfound powers could somehow transcend the inevitability of pain and loss. If anything, you face it more now.

That youthful naivety led to more trouble than you can handle. That night when you swung past that robbery at the bodega, without a care in the world, unwittingly sealing the fate of your aunt. Any last connection you had to your family was violently torn from your grasp.

It was your fault. And nothing can change that. It haunts you every waking hour of the day, manifests itself as a wicked virus, and its suffocating tendrils latch onto you on the nights when you’ve delved too deep into your own thoughts.

You try to block it out now, but the best you can do is repeat to yourself that it’s a reminder. A reminder of who Spider-Woman has to be and what she means to the city. An unwavering hero who stands for justice and protects everyone. A hero who does the right thing.

You hum to yourself as you push the door open with your shoulder, exiting the shop with a bouquet of pale purple forget-me-nots. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie after adjusting your backpack, slightly shivering at the crisp chill of the early morning.

You greet the local store owners as you pass by, even giving a hand in moving crates or supplies to help set up shop. It would be so much easier to just swing to the cemetery, but there’s a sense of reverence you feel you need to uphold, and the only way to do that is just to visit as yourself. No mask, no secret identity. Just you.

You’ve just crossed the threshold to the cemetery with one step when there’s a prickling sensation on your skin. As you get closer to her grave, the discomfort only grows, and so you swing to the nearest tree and perch yourself there.

And then you see her. In the flesh.

“Danielle?” You whisper to yourself, dumbfounded. What was she doing back here, after all these years?

Danielle stills for a moment, and so do you. She turns around and eyes the surroundings as if she heard your voice. You duck and burrow yourself deeper within the leaves.

You observe her quietly, donning her own bouquet of roses, and you smile wryly at the sight of them. Of course, she remembers her favorite flowers. Danielle sits at the grave for a while, her lips moving as if talking, but the music blasting in your headphones blocks it out. You don’t try to eavesdrop.

She’s dyed her hair blonde now, and you didn’t think it possible, but she stands out even more. The color suits her—it matches her personality, akin to a warm and inviting sunflower. Seeing her treat the grave with such care and tenderness makes your heart pang. You grip the tree branches tighter to try to steel yourself, swallowing the guilt and heartache that arises. You don’t expect anything less from her. She’s still so kind and loving even after what you did.

She takes out a small pouch, eventually settling down and crocheting. You’re surprised for some reason, but you also make yourself comfortable in the tree. Even though you’re a hundred feet apart, being in the same vicinity of her fills your body with a sense of repose. You allow yourself to believe that you’re sitting next to each other, still friends, grieving together, and you think that helps you heal a bit.

Half an hour passes before you feel a droplet hit your face. And then another. You and Danielle look up at the same time, only to see the billowing clouds roll in.

Without a second thought, you slip your mask on and shimmy out of your clothes, fishing an umbrella out of your backpack before webbing it to the tree. You clear your throat as you land behind her, as gently as possible so as to not scare her.

“Need this, Miss?” You forcefully deepen your voice, holding out the umbrella above Danielle’s head.

She turns around, lips slightly parted in shock, and it takes all your willpower to not visibly tremble.

“Thank you,” she smiles sweetly. You wonder if she would greet you like this if she knew who you really were. “Let me give you something in return.”

Danielle hands you a crochet ribbed beanie, a bright red just like the roses she brought, with a white pom pom on top.

“This one took me a few days.”

It’s incredibly endearing, but you’re panicking at her presence so you can only express your gratitude with an awkward, “Thanks!”, voice crack included, before slinging to the nearest building.

You make sure to wear it on the way home.

Haerin notices it as soon as you return.

“What’s with the new look?” She asks, not looking away from her laptop.

You set an iced Americano for her on the coffee table, and then proceed to drape yourself on the sofa, feet nudging Haerin’s side to annoy her. She chooses to ignore you rather than resort to violence only because you bought her coffee. She also chooses to ignore how your suit is still wet from the rain outside, droplets of water permeating the sofa. You take off the beanie, making sure to gently lay it on the table before slipping your mask off.

You rest your head against the arm of the sofa and close your eyes, but all you can think about is Danielle. The sincerity in her eyes as she gifted you the beanie and her saccharine voice rings out in your mind. You lay there and reminisce in silence for a while. You end up falling asleep for a few minutes.

Then Haerin wakes you up.

“Hey.” She slaps your foot. “Answer my question.”

“What—oh.” You mumble in confusion, trying to regain your senses. “I saw… someone at the cemetery.”

She finally turns to give you a deadpan expression. “Be more specific. A ghost? One of your many archnemeses?”

“Worse,” you rub your face tiredly. “Danielle.”

Her typing pauses. “Wait, the childhood best friend you told me about?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you ghosted?”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“The one you pitifully pine over?”

“Well—yeah.”

Haerin lets out a low whistle. “She gave you that?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “She didn’t know it was me.”

“You should keep it that way,” Haerin says. “It’d suck to open up old wounds after so long.”

“I know.” You puff your cheeks out. “And that’s not even the end of it. I spent forty bucks on flowers just to leave it to rot in a backpack in a tree.”

She glances at the wet puddle you created on the couch. “We can go back tomorrow and get it?”

“It’s okay,” you reply, opening your eyes to the pouring rain outside. You hope Danielle made it home okay. “I’m gonna wait for the rain to die out a bit and then head out again to investigate that weird case. I’ll put the flowers where they belong on the way there.”

“Is there a new lead?” You can practically hear Haerin’s ears perk up.

“Yeah, all the reports of the disappearances seem to pop up in the same area. I just checked for a location that shares an equal distance to all of them and came up with an abandoned warehouse.”

Haerin sits in thought for a second before asking, “Can I come with? You know how the college blog always relies on me for Spider-Woman content.”

“Fine.” You begrudgingly acquiesce. “Only if you get a cool shot of me.”

Haerin takes out her camera and snaps a quick photo of you.

“How about this?” She turns the camera around to show you the result.

You scoff in offense. “Seriously?”

“Is it not flattering enough?” Haerin teases, wrestling the camera away from you.

“I look like a wet dog!”

You web the camera to yourself and delete the photo.

“Stop abusing your powers.” Haerin clicks her tongue. “Go web a towel to clean this mess up.”

“What a coincidence,” you cheerfully ignore her. “The rain’s stopped.”

Like a miracle, the rain has cleared out, the darker clouds making way for the sun. You web a towel to dry your suit (but not the couch or floor) and slip your mask back on again.

“Alright,” you step out onto the balcony and turn to Haerin. “You want a ride there? Uber? Spuber…?”

“Let’s just stick to Spider-Eats.”

“Yeah.”

“And, no thanks,” she winces. “You almost swung into a pole last time.”

“Oops,” you say with no sign of regret. “Anyway, I texted you the coords. Meet you there.”

You hop on the balcony railing and salute Haerin before proceeding to fall backwards with your hands behind your head. The rush as you swing through the city is unmatchable. You savor the wind rushing against you, the boisterous noise of cars honking and mindless chatter zooming in and out of your ears.

You’re back at the cemetery in no time, and after checking if anyone’s around, you stand before your aunt’s grave once again. Danielle’s roses are still lying there. You wipe some raindrops off the headstone before laying your bouquet down. Then, you’re off again. There’ll be time for that later.

The abandoned warehouse is not too far from the docks, a very typical location for people who are up to no good. You perch on the roof of a building opposite it, where Haerin is already squatting and taking photos. You can spot her motorcycle stationed in the parking lot behind the building. She barely flinches as you tap her shoulder.

“How did you get up here?”

“A good journalist never reveals her secrets.”

“Isn’t it ‘sources’?”

Haerin shrugs. “Same thing.”

You squat next to her. “So… did you notice anything before I came?”

“I did some research. Think this warehouse is registered under the name of just Jace.”

“Just Jace? That’s such a sick name.”

Haerin doesn’t bother to correct you.

“Name doesn’t ring a bell though.” You squint and scan the seemingly innocuous warehouse. “And I’m not picking up any heat signals… looks like nobody’s home.”

“How are we getting in?”

“This is a job for Spider-Woman!”

You leap off the roof and swing around the warehouse, sweeping the perimeter to search for a way in.

“There’s always an entrance when you can climb walls,” you muse to yourself.

You open up a voice channel as you crawl up the side of the warehouse, eventually reaching the roof where there is a conveniently open skylight. “Bingo!”

“Psst, Haerin,” you say. “There’s an open window on the roof.”

“Awesome,” she replies, although you note that her tone lacks excitement. “Can you get in and open the door for me?”

“The door?” You peer inside the open skylight. “You mean the gigantic sliding doors?”

“Don’t tell me you’re too weak to open those.”

“No,” you huff. “It’s just that… wouldn’t it be too loud?”

Haerin’s response is reluctant. “I guess.”

“You know what that means,” you sing-song. “It’s time for a Spuber ride!”

There’s some silence followed by a long sigh.

“I thought we agreed to not use that anymore,” she grumbles. “Hurry up and get back here.”

Haerin’s pick up and drop off is quick and easy, much to both of your satisfaction. You asked her to give you a five star rating, to which she replied, “That took literally less than thirty seconds.”

Inside the warehouse is dark, with only some dim flickering lights providing you with a shadowed view of the interior. The warehouse is stocked with looming cargo containers.

“Seems pretty filled for an abandoned warehouse,” Haerin muses, her voice echoing in the void. The silence feels foreboding, which makes you glad that Haerin asked to come, not that you would ever admit that.

“There’s gotta be something here,” you run your hand over the undulating surface of the steel containers. “A secret room, or some complicated contraption.”

“What about that?” Haerin points at a scrape mark on the floor in front of one of the containers, which coincidentally matches the circumference of a quarter circle.

“Oh. That was fast.”

You walk over and tug on the latch, before pulling the door open.

“No worries,” you strain out. It’s heavier than you thought. “Leave it all to me.”

“If you say so,” Haerin says with a smug smile on her face, standing there with no care in the world.

Once you finally get it open, inside the container is a set of stairs that lead downwards to an ominous tunnel.

“Totally not creepy,” you laugh nervously and gesture to Haerin. “Ladies first?”

She rolls her eyes before making her way down. The tunnel is fairly well-kept and it’s not long before you find yourselves in the secret room. It’s a lab, wires running hazardously on the ground, bits and pieces of machinery scattered on tables and filling up boxes, and computer screens displaying complex data and research.

“Okay,” you drawl. “Kinda getting evil mastermind vibes.”

You ruffle through some papers lying around. It seems to be sketches of some cylinder machine with cogs and complicated wiring in it. After inspecting the lab for a bit longer, you both come to the same conclusion.

“He’s trying to time travel,” Haerin notes as she snaps some shots of the lab.

You nod. “His experiments are probably what’s causing all those people to disappear into thin air.”

“What were the statements of the witnesses again?”

“Like the victims were just sucked into an invisible portal.”

Haerin pulls up some files on one of the computers. “It makes sense. It looks like he’s trying to time travel to the year his daughter died.”

You both are silent at this information. Until that silence is broken by a screeching sound outside, one that oddly sounds like the gigantic sliding doors opening.

The two of you immediately break out into a sprint and up the stairs. You don’t hesitate to scoop up Haerin once you’re out of the container and soar up to the roof with a web.

“He’ll know someone was here,” Haerin whispers.

“I know,” you sigh. “Hopefully it won’t lead to anything. We’ll have to come back later.”

Like the true neighborhood-friendly Spider-Woman you are, you give Haerin a Spuber ride back to her motorcycle. She revs the engine once to get your attention, then bids you farewell with a teasing “Race you home!” as she accelerates into the distance.

“So not fair!” You shout out at her retreating figure, swinging to catch up. You’re straining your arms to keep up with Haerin’s motorcycle, but a police car passes by with sirens on, and you know what you need to do. At the last second, you snap your left wrist to make a breakneck turn. Haerin will understand.

You can barely keep your eyes open as Minji nudges you with her elbow.

“Late nights playing 2K again?” The image of her stupid grin floats by in your mind.

“Something like that,” you whine, flicking your head up so your lab goggles fall on your nose. “I should’ve skipped today.”

Minji pulls up the DXF files you made for the project and resumes with the task of readjusting the ratio of some gears. “You don’t even need your lab goggles for today.”

“I look smarter with them on.”

“Yeah, right.” Minji peeks at your rough outlines of the gearbox transmission on paper. Some edges are ripped and it’s crinkled under your folded arms. “Damn. When are you gonna digitize that and render it?”

You slump back in your chair and close your eyes. “When I get a good night’s rest.”

“So, never.”

“Yeah.”

“The assignment’s due next week.”

“Yeah.”

“I hate you.” But she doesn’t. Because the two of you have been lab partners ever since you tripped on her lab coat in class a year ago and knocked over a bunch of her circuits and wires, which, to this day, she still blames you for, which is ridiculous, because who on earth owns a lab coat long enough to the point where it spills on the floor? But, you digress. Her lab coat is now properly tailored.

You’re half a second from drooling and snoring when there’s that prickling sensation on your skin again, and the hairs on the back of your neck shoot up, leaving you with that sinking feeling in your stomach. You sit up so abruptly that you almost slam your forehead onto the table.

Minji’s arm flies in front of your chest to steady you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you stammer. “I just… need to go to the bathroom.”

You grab your backpack and sprint out of the lab, navigating yourself to the nearest exit. You’re on the roof of the building in no time, in your suit, and you immediately see what’s wrong. There’s a man in the middle of campus, floating above the ground, and whatever objects are around seem to be gravitating toward him. The objects begin to orbit around him, creating a mini tornado.

You try to call Haerin, but she doesn’t pick up. You try to call Minji too, but no luck. Your stomach coils with anxiety. You don’t have long to dwell on it though.

As objects slam into one another, students begin to file out of class and understandably panic. Campus security is screaming and directing people to emergency exits, but the whirlwind only gets worse and things are smashing into windows and buildings.

“This isn’t good,” you mutter, immediately diving into action. You web benches, bicycles, poles, and trees in all sorts of directions to disrupt their trajectory toward anyone. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a blur of orange amidst green, and hear a very distinct meow.

“Tiko!”

You hurtle yourself toward the flying tree and narrowly shoot through the branches, successfully grabbing Tiko. You were going to plop him down somewhere safe, but it seems he had other plans, because he crawls into your backpack and nestles inside it, sticking his head out.

“Hang tight, Tiko,” you scream, swinging toward the mystery man. “I’m going to stop this!”

The man now stands on a rooftop, the debris around him thrashing against the building which is threatening to fall apart. You land not too far from him.

“Hi!” You yell over the deafening winds.

He whips his head around, raising his palm to hurl a rock at you. “Stay away!”

“Wait!” It narrowly misses you as you skillfully duck just in time. “You’re Just Jace, right?”

“How do you know my name?” He falters for a second, taking a step back. “…And it’s just Jace.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” You mumble to yourself in confusion.

You shake your head to focus on the situation at hand. “Please stop this, Just Jace. You’re hurting others!”

“I… I know!” Jace’s hands tightly grip his hair in frustration. “I don’t know why it’s not working.”

As his ire flames up, so do the winds, dust and small rocks starting to obscure your vision.

“Please, calm down!” You desperately yell, slowly making your way toward him with arms raised as a sign of peace. “Let me help you!”

The sound of police sirens grows louder, and you can hear the whirring of helicopter blades behind you. The police helicopter sways in the midst of the tornado, and you fear for both Jace and the police.

“No, no, no!” You try to wave the police away, knowing their presence would only distress Jace more.

“Police! Hands in the air!”

Police officers begin to rappel down from the helicopter, guns aimed at Jace. He scrambles in fear, sending rubble hurling at them in defense. Bullets fly out immediately after.

The sound of gunshots rings through your ear as you expertly maneuver through the ricochets and try to keep everyone safe. You burst through the combat and tackle Jace whilst he’s busy with the officers, trying to Spuber him to somewhere safe.

He wrestles in your grasp, screaming at you to let him go. Tiko gives him a few smacks in response. As you swing through a window, you release your hold on him, both of you rolling over to catch your balance.

You lean against the wall, taking a moment to catch your breath. You’re rubbing your head that’s throbbing in pain, not noticing Jace’s sudden silence.

“The police really have the worst timing, am I right?” You awkwardly laugh.

You look up to see Jace stalking toward you, like a predator to prey, a dark intensity in his eyes. Any trace of the Jace you encountered before is gone. You bounce on your feet immediately.

“Jace?” You say hesitantly, walking backward. “We can talk about this…”

“You broke it,” he snarls. That’s when you notice what he’s clasping onto so stiffly. It looks awfully similar to those sketches you and Haerin saw in that secret lab. He lets it go and it clatters on the floor.

“I didn’t mean to,” you try to ameliorate the situation. “I was trying to save you.”

Your pleas don’t seem to reach his ears. He just simply repeats, “You broke it.”

“No need to get so upset,” you laugh sheepishly, hands in the air, discreetly scanning for the nearest exit. “I know a really good tech support guy.”

Your skin tingles. Jace then lunges at you, and out of instinct, you web onto the broken device and you swing it around to slam it into the space between you and him. The device makes contact with the concrete and shatters into pieces, shards of glass flying everywhere. For a moment, you feel as if time has slowed down, and everything sounds muffled, like you’re sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean.

And then everything goes black.

You wake up with a gasp, cold sweat sticking to your body. Haerin steps back, surprised. She’s holding her beloved ax, its handle hovering dangerously close to your cheek.

“You’re awake.”

“What?” You look around frantically, hands squeezing the sofa. ��How am I back here?”

“What do you mean?” Haerin frowns. “You fell asleep.”

You stand up and squish your face against the window. The college campus is untouched. “What happened to Just Jace? Is Tiko alright?”

Her eyebrow furrows. “Who’s Just Jace? And Tiko the campus cat?”

You don’t respond, still lost in your own thoughts.

“Did you get a concussion on the way to the cemetery?”

You stop pacing and look down, and sure enough, you’re still in your suit, wet from the rain just like two days ago, and the beanie Danielle crocheted is lying on the table.

Then it dawns on you.

“Oh my god, Haerin.” Your jaw is slack. “I just traveled back in time.”

“What.”

It takes you fifteen minutes to sum everything up.

“But the weird thing is that the device didn’t seem to be done when we were in the secret lab.” You bite your cheek in thought. “I don’t know how he would’ve been able to get it working in the next two days.”

“He probably knew someone was onto him when we left the door open,” Haerin says, searching up ‘If you travel back in time, will you break time and space if you get into contact with someone?’ on Google. Most of the results are fruitless.

“That makes sense,” you nod. “But I wonder why he would end up at our college campus out of all places.”

“Maybe it’s the college his daughter went to?”

“Right,” you nod again. You prop your laptop on your lap as you start scouring through the map of the area around the college. “I need to know where he first appears so I can stop him before he gets to campus.”

Haerin ponders for a second. “You mentioned that there was some research on nuclear fusion, right?”

“Yeah… hold on.” You zoom into a nuclear power plant just a few miles from the college. “The device must need a lot of energy to work. He probably got it from here.”

“So,” Haerin hums. “What’s the plan?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Haerin’s voice is unimpressed over the static. “This was your plan?”

“You know me,” you quip ironically while weaving in between the blasts of energy that Jace is throwing at you. “My plan was to come up with a plan now.”

“And have you thought of one?”

“Not really!” You coolly avoid his punches and slide in between his legs. “I’ll call you back!”

When you manage to catch Jace off guard with a roundhouse kick, he stumbles and you use the opportunity to swoop into a vent to hide. You did not expect this alternate version of Jace to be so hostile. You tried to talk to him, really.

(You lower your web bit by bit as you dangle upside-down behind Jace. His back is facing you, clearly focused on wiring his device to the generator.

You tap his back. “Hey.”

He swivels around so fast he almost loses his balance, but immediately regains it and squares up. “Stay away!”

“No, no.” You plop on the floor. “I’m not here to hurt you. I know you’re trying to time travel. I’m from the future, actually.”

There’s an air of hope in Jace’s voice. “The device worked?”

“About that,” you rub your nape and flash an embarrassed smile under the mask. “I kinda had to smash it onto the ground for it to work. You were kind of trying to kill me. But no biggie, I forgive easily!”

Jace narrows his eyes. You stiffen as you feel dread trickle into your stomach. His fist jerks out and you jump back just in time, feeling the wind from the blow brush against your face.

“What the hell, man?” You pout. “I literally just forgave you.”

He doesn’t waste time and continues with a flurry of punches. “I must’ve been attacking you for a reason.”

You shake your head as you roll to the side. “Don’t say I didn’t try to be nice.”)

“Come out and face me!” Jace yells, his voice reverberating throughout the power plant. “You’re nothing but a pest.”

You silently crawl out of the vent and onto a supporting beam. Once you’re positioned right above him, you web him up, landing a nasty uppercut. You don’t have time to celebrate though, because on the way down, he grabs your ankles and pulls you down back to Earth.

“Oof!”

“This ends now.” He hisses, blood dripping from his mouth. He charges toward you, bearing a metal rod in his hand.

“Really getting into the villain role now, huh?” You joke, voice strained as you leap off the ground and kick him square in the face. “Give me some time to think of a name for you.”

You side step another one of his tackle attempts. “Oh! How about Prime Time?”

The only response you get is Jace surging forward with more punches and kicks. “You could just say you don’t like it!”

Jace doesn’t deign you with an answer. He unexpectedly throws a crate toward you, and just as you duck to avoid it, he gets his revenge with a successful blow to your chest with the metal rod.

You slam against the wall, slumping as the wind is knocked out of you.

“Like I said,” Jace says with heavy breaths, towering over you and looking down with a sneer. “This ends now.”

You can only see his silhouette because of the light shining through from the entrance to the power plant behind him, and this gives you an idea. You muster up any remaining willpower and web onto two pillars, pulling yourself toward it and using the momentum to swing kick Jace.

You both fly through the air and outside the power plant, crashing on the roof of a passing car. You wince as you feel the dent in the car. Jace rolls down to the hood of the car. Logically, the driver starts steering off course because the windshield is blocked and they’re probably freaking out at the fact that there are two injured people on their car.

Your body moves before your mind processes what’s going on—you’re webbing people out of the way of the speeding car, even though you’re still lying on your side. But the car spins out of control too fast for you to react. It ends up ramming into the front of a cafe. The impact of the crash sends you flying into the glass wall and into the cafe. You’re getting deja vu: glass is shattered and people start screaming and running away.

“Oh no,” you groan, trying to ignore the burning pain. “This will not look good in the press release.”

What’s also burning is the car that you’re pinned under—the heat from the crackling fire licking at you, so hot that you can feel it through the spandex. All you can see is the thick smoke that blankets the cafe. From the shadows emerges Jace.

“Please,” you wheeze, feeling like you’ve been hit by a train. Which actually happened once, an experience you wouldn’t recommend to anyone. “This isn’t what your daughter would’ve wanted.”

“Don’t mention her again.” He digs his boot into the car, forcing pressure on you, and you’re exerting all your muscles in your arms to hold the car up. “And some superhero you are. Look at what’s left of this place.”

You strain your neck to stare at the inside of the cafe, and the sight horrifies you. It’s a complete wreckage. Your eyes zero on blonde hair that peeks out under a table that’s been flipped over. Your blood runs cold and there’s a sharp pain in your gut, like a knife sickly twisting itself over and over again.

Jace chuckles cruelly at your silence. “What, no more snarky remarks?”

She can’t be dead. It’s all your fault—you were too busy slinging people out of the way to notice where the car was headed. How did she not get out in time?

“No,” you choke out. Your lip trembles pathetically. “Turn back time. Please.”

He follows your gaze and smirks. “See someone you know? I guess now you know how it feels.”

Any empathy you felt for him is overridden by the sheer anger that engulfs you. Your body shakes with rage. What comes out next is guttural and raw.

“I’ll kill you,” you spit. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Jace turns around and cackles, and you wonder how everything went to hell so fast. You wonder how he changed so fast. He’s walking out of the cafe, to the college campus probably, and as much as you want to grab him and beat him until he’s blue, there’s something more important. Or rather, someone.

The adrenaline from the rage earlier is still coursing through your veins and you use your remaining strength to push the car off you. (You wanted to hurl it at him too but your arms were failing). You know exactly what you need to do. You sling a web to the device he’s holding loosely, then repeat that same swinging motion that you did the other timeline, slamming it so hard on the ground you almost feel like your arm will rip off.

Time slows again, and you find yourself in a familiar position, deep in the abyss. The world goes black.

It takes you three times before you realize you’re stuck in a time loop. You don’t know why, but you only get sent back a few hours to the nuclear power plant. You try everything, anything to keep Danielle safe. You know it’s selfish, that you should be caring about everyone else too, but you can’t stand the thought of her dying. You’ve already lost her once, back then when you left her. You can’t be the reason for the world losing her.

In the first loop, you spray the wheels of the car with webs to prevent it from crashing in the first place, but the car stopping in the middle of the road only causes another car to veer off the streets and into the cafe. In the second loop, Jace hurls a boulder mid fight and despite you redirecting it to the building next to the cafe, that building ends up collapsing… on top of the cafe. Everytime, you saving other people leads to Danielle dying in some way.

It’s the third loop. You’re at the nuclear power plant again, head in your hands, and Jace hasn’t noticed your presence yet. You want to cry. Nothing is working. Maybe this is karma for ghosting Danielle all those years ago. Being a superhero is all about sacrifices—is this the sacrifice you have to make? You thought you would be better at letting go by now.

Haerin’s voice is soft in your ear. “Have we had this conversation before?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “This is the fourth time.”

“I’m sorry I can’t remember. And that our solutions didn’t work out.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” You bite your lip. “And it’s my fault anyway.”

There’s some faint rustling of paper and typing.

“Nuclear fusion,” Haerin says after a while. “Have you tried slamming the device into the generator? The sheer energy might just break the loop.”

“I might as well.” Your voice is thick with fatigue. “I have nothing else to lose.”

You don’t even bother to greet Jace this time, just immediately pulling the device toward you and slamming it onto the generator. The reaction is instantaneous—the device explodes and the generator rumbles, sparks flying. Waves of energy start pulsing out in irregular patterns. It’s so strong that you’re knocked off your feet and your back hits a railing.

You’re knocked out again. Maybe you’re setting a new world record.

Hidden under the knitted quilt, you stir, the thin web of strands barely stifling the bite of the morning cold. Someone is sweetly humming a melody that’s on the tip of your tongue. The constant hum finds its way into you, it softens your bones and eases your heart. The constant hum sings, enveloping you, lulling you back into the solace of the darkness.

This tranquility is swiftly broken by you remembering. You launch out of bed, blinking your eyes to gain a hold of your surroundings. You’re in a campervan. Nostalgia washes over you as you realize that this is the campervan Danielle’s family used to take on road trips. You wearily eye the photo frame stuck to the rustic fridge. Gleeful smiles and sand-covered faces adorn the frame, reminding you of what you left behind.

You were known as that quiet kid who had no parents. Any attention you received would consist of pitied stares and hushed whispers. You didn’t mind the loneliness—you were used to it. And your aunt took care of you and showed you love. That was enough. You didn’t think you needed any more love until Danielle moved in next door and changed your life.

She was the first to approach you, holding out a four-leaf clover with a bright smile, saying “Hi! I’m Danielle, you look like you need some good luck!”. It only took you a few months to warm up to her, not that it was hard, because she was so understanding and cheery. She never cared about what other people said at school. She cared about what you had to say, and that’s something you never thought you needed, let alone deserved, until her.

Danielle’s family is equally as sweet, and they welcomed you with open arms. Every few months, they would go on a road trip and you and Danielle would always say farewell with teary eyes and lingering hugs. Until Danielle insisted you tag along, and that’s how it became a tradition.

Lightly caressing miscellaneous decorations as you make your way outside, you take it all in. The gentle twinkle of fairy lights shyly shines through the tinted windows that are littered with stickers and magnets. This caravan was your second home. Inextricably imbued with memories with Danielle, the two of you left no inch of this van unexplored and untouched. Outside, the fresh smell of subdued smoke (bacon and eggs) wafts to you, beckoning you. Your stomach growls. You forget about the ravenous appetite of a superhero.

But you’re not a superhero right now. You’re twelve, not yet bitten, meant to be blissfully unaware of the terrors that await you as you grow up. You run outside to find Danielle. She’s preparing a plate of breakfast for you.

“Danielle!” You rush toward her and tackle her in a hug, tears subconsciously spilling onto your cheeks. She steadies herself so that the plate of food isn’t knocked over.

She gasps out your name, concern etched in her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head and nuzzle her neck, sniffling like a baby. “I’m just glad you’re my best friend.”

Your voice is so high and prepubescent, which makes you burst into laughter out of nowhere. Danielle laughs with you. “I’m glad you’re mine, too.”

“Where’s your parents?”

You lean back as she tilts her head to the barbeque grill a few yards away. “Cooking up their breakfast.”

You eventually let go, quite reluctantly, and take a moment to admire her. You’re smitten. Her hair is brown, bangs slightly ruffled, and she’s sporting a toothy grin. You’re so overwhelmed with love you can’t even speak, but this is soon overshadowed by guilt. This is the girl whose heart you broke.

Nothing about you gets past Danielle, so she immediately notices your wavering.

“You okay?” She intertwines your fingers together “Let’s eat breakfast.”

‘I don’t know,” you mumble, feeling a wave of nausea hit you. “I feel a bit dizzy.”

She quickly sets down the plate of bacon and eggs, her hands instantly finding their place on your waist.

“Maybe you should get some more rest,” she pouts, gently squeezing your waist. You try to suppress the shiver that this causes.

“Yeah,” you agree without a sliver of resistance. “Come with me?”

Danielle sends you a knowing smile. “Okay.”

You both make your way back into the van, ditching breakfast. You climb into the comfort of the bed, lifting the same knitted quilt so that it hugs both of you. Your body relaxes, for the first time in a very long time, and you bask in the heat radiating off Danielle.

As your eyes involuntarily close, you can hear the faint sound of ticking. You’re unsure of what is to come, but the curl in your stomach unfolds and pardons you, allowing you to feel Danielle’s love. For just one more time.

–

There’s a brief moment where you regain a shred of consciousness at the nuclear power plant, but everything is too bright and you have to squeeze your eyes shut. You only feel another wave of energy vibrate against your skin before your vision’s black again. Definitely a world record.

Someone’s playing with your hair. Deft fingers weave through strands of your hair and twirl it, lightly pulling on it before letting go and repeating. You blink your eyes open and are met with Danielle already staring at you. She’s older than the last time-travel episode, but younger than the current her. You’re still smitten.

You’re laying in her bed, in her room, in her house. You surmise it’s probably a sleepover night. She’s wearing those glasses with a clear frame, so it must be midway through senior year. You smile to yourself as you remember that she breaks it just before graduation by sitting on it. (She forgot that she put it on her seat.)

“What are you smiling about?” Danielle pokes your nose. “Are you thinking about how that one kid fell off his chair while falling asleep in class?”

“No,” you giggle as you sit up, nostalgia pervading your chest. “But that was funny though. Thanks for reminding me.”

She’s playing with your fingers now, head tilted with that starry look in her eyes that always leaves you dumbfounded. Your smile slowly fades. You feel like a kid again, even though this was only the two of you from three years ago.

“Danielle,” you say shakily, eyes locked onto your entwined fingers. “Would you believe me if I said I’m from the future?”

She considers your question for a second. “What happens in the future?”

You swallow a lump. Where do you even start? ‘Well, I’m actually gonna ghost you in a few months and we’ll never speak again, but then we meet, well not really—it’s more like I see you, and then you die in a cafe because of me. Oh, and I’m Spider-Woman.’

“You dye your hair blonde,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. You’re holding back tears. “And you go to college overseas to study.”

Danielle’s face shifts into something sadder, half sympathetic. “That doesn’t sound too far-fetched.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” your voice cracks. “I do some really bad things in the future, and I’m really sorry.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Danielle tries to lift the mood. “Can’t be worse than the time when you spilled orange juice all over my biology assignment the morning it was due.”

Your rambling teeters on the line of coherence. “I push you away—and I’m such an asshole. But I had to, you have to believe me. I can’t tell you why because it hasn’t happened yet and it will probably break some rule of time-traveling, but I just want you to know that I’m so–”

“Hey,” she cradles your face like you're something delicate. Like you’re not the person who will leave her behind with no explanation. “It’s okay.”

“I miss you so much, Danielle.” It’s all you can say. “I miss you so much.”

Her thumb tenderly swipes away any tears that fall. “I’m right here.”

But she’s not.

You’re sobbing pathetically into her hand. You can’t remember the last time you cried. It must’ve been at your aunt’s funeral. Your head is pounding and even though you’re in the body of your younger self, you can still feel the phantom repercussions of fights with Jace. Danielle continues softly, “I could never hate you, no matter what. All you need to do is talk to me—the me in your world.”

“I love you,” you hiccup, lip quivering. “I never got to say it in my timeline. I hope you know that.”

“You know I do too,” Danielle smiles, bitter-sweet. “Promise me you’ll say it to the other me.”

You nod, looping your pinky finger with hers.

She seems satisfied. “You’ve been through a lot. Let’s get some rest.” She guides you back onto the pillow and onto your side, nestling behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and clasped on your stomach.

The ticking sounds again, and it slowly floods your mind as your vision fades to black.

“Please tell me it’s over,” you plead weakly as you wake up to the sight of peeling plaster on the ceiling. You force your body up, and you see an unconscious Jace collapsed against the wall. The broken device is just a fingertip away from you. This is the room you Spubered him into while distancing him from the police. You’re back.

“Thank you,” you breathe out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Tiko hops out of your backpack and rubs his face against yours.

“Hey, buddy,” you coo, scratching his chin. “Thanks for the help. I’ll see you around campus.”

You pick yourself up, shaking stray shards of glass off you. You web Jace against the wall, and make sure to add extra to ensure he doesn’t escape. You briefly notice the wrinkles on his face and his calloused hands.

“Some things we have to let go,” you say softly to him, even though he can’t hear you. “I need to take this to find the missing victims.”

You leave a space in your heart to mourn for Jace’s daughter, and genuinely wish the best for him. Tiko’s already run off somewhere. You take the device and stretch your limbs, preparing for the long journey home.

Actually, you have two stops before you go home. First stop is a safe place to change out of your suit and temporarily hide the device.

Second stop. You run to find Danielle. You think that this has been a long time coming, considering that you’ve been running away from her for the past three years.

You’re standing like an idiot outside the cafe, hands in your pockets, just staring at Danielle through the glass wall. She seems to feel the weight of your gaze though, because she eventually looks up and her eyes widen at the sight of you. You wave awkwardly, to which she starts packing up her things in a hurry.

You breath hitches as she says your name. It rolls off her tongue in a way that is so familiar.

“Care to join me on a walk?” You rock back and forth on your heels, avoiding eye contact with her.

Her face is passive. It scares you more than it should. But she complies without any questions. “Okay.”

It takes around twenty minutes to reach your aunt’s grave. You pat the space in front of you as a gesture for Danielle to sit down, and she does.

“Before I start,” you say. “I just wanted to say thank you for visiting my aunt. You didn’t have to.”

But she did. Because that’s what she always does—go above and beyond. You take a deep breath before releasing it. “I’m sorry.”

She nods, showing that she’s listening, but doesn’t respond.

“I… was an asshole,” you clench your jaw and close your eyes. “I said some hurtful things.”

(“Are you avoiding me?” Danielle asks, eyebrows furrowed.

It’s another morning of a school day.

“No,” you exhale deeply. You don’t spare her a glance. “I’ve just been really busy.”

“We’ve both been busy for a while,” she counters, frustration laced in her voice. “But the difference is that we still made time for each other.”

You slam your locker door shut. The spider bite thrums with pain. “Take the hint. I don’t have space for you in my life anymore.”)

“And even after I said those things, you still tried to reach out to me.”

(More unread texts from Danielle. Can we talk? I’m sorry about the other day.

Hey, I’ve been trying to give you space, but I just wanted to check in.

Why are you ignoring me?)

“There’s a reason I ghosted you. Not that I’m trying to justify it, but I just wanted to let you know it wasn’t because of you or anything.”

The other Danielle’s words flash through your mind.

“I love you,” you finally say, and it feels as though there’s this weight lifted off your chest. “I have, for a long time. And I needed to leave you because I love you. Because I was scared.”

Her eyebrows crease in thought. “Because you were scared I didn’t love you back?”

“No—well, not no! Of course I care about that. But that wasn’t my main concern.”

“How do I say this,” you scratch your head. “Oh. You gifted me a beanie the other day. Crocheted by you, red with a white pom pom.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Oh.”

You fiddle with the grass that you’re sitting on. “I accepted a long time ago that anyone close to me will be in danger because of, well, who I am. And being Spider-Woman… it’s a responsibility that I have to commit to. I can’t just fall in love.”

A pause. “Who said you can’t?”

“Well,” you stutter. “It’ll put you in danger. And I have to put my Spider responsibilities first.”

She shifts closer to you. “And what if I’m okay with that?”

“You’d… you’d have to actually like me back anyway.”

Danielle punches you on the shoulder.

“Ow!” You frown. “What was that for?”

“For being an asshole.”

“Oh.”

“You should’ve just talked to me.”

“I know,” you admit. “But I just felt like I couldn’t.”

“I never stopped thinking about you all these years,” Danielle shakes her head. “I was a mess. I wanted to hate you so much, but I just couldn’t. And I hated that even more.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Danielle says, and the look in her eyes tells you that she really does mean it.

You hesitantly reach out toward her. She grabs your hand and moves it to her face. It’s your turn to cradle her, making sure that she’s really here and that this is real. Her smile is teary.

“I love you,” you breathe out. And that’s the only thing you want to say for the rest of your life. To make up for all the times that you didn’t.

“I love you, too.” Her smile is so enchanting and you want to lean in and kiss her.

But gunshots ring out nearby and there’s shouting. You turn to Danielle, distraught. She grabs your phone from your pocket and adds herself as a contact.

“Go,” she nods softly, handing you back your phone. “Call me when you’re done. I’ll tend to your wounds.”

Your eyes flit over to your aunt’s grave. You hope you’ve become a hero she can be proud of. And you thank her for everything. You slip on your mask and stuff your clothes in a backpack.

Being a superhero isn’t all that easy, but you’re glad you have people you love to lean on to relieve the burden. You leap off the ground with confidence, swinging toward the chaos.

Dedicated to user phamphamz... happy early birthday!

Title is from Autumn by Niki :]

#newjeans x reader #newjeans fanfic #newjeans fic #danielle marsh x reader #mo jihye x reader

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wandagcre · 11 months ago

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under your spell | sam carpenter 🔞

(Mob Boss!Sam Carpenter x Fem!Reader)

Samantha Loomis will do everything to keep the journey of your love story with her floating, come what may. Even if it takes killing an important figure in your life, she won't risk it.

WARNING: dom!mob boss sam, sub!reader, manipulation, graphic depiction of violence, strap-on sex, teasing, 69 - not proofread | 18+ men & minors dni. Words: 3.5k Note: more of mob boss sam! this was requested by one of my favs, @romanoffsbish! hope i did justice with this one ahhh🫣

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You lost count of how many times you tossed and turned in the bed. It’s particularly lonesome even while you’re enveloped in the comfiest mattress and sheets of layers that provide much-needed warmth. You craved Sam by your side.

It was unimaginable how you didn’t want to be in this bed almost a year ago.

Now, it was nothing but an embarrassing fact as to how your body and mind depended on the woman. You yearned for her touch; her chin perched against your shoulder as her strong arms wrapped around you protectively and how you heard Sam’s light snores that oddly brought comfort rather than a nuisance. In your comfort lies the much-needed presence of the woman.

The thought raised concern for you, as usually, Sam wouldn’t waste any time to join you here.

Having enough time alone, you got up quickly took your robe, and sauntered your way to Sam’s office. You’re immediately relieved that you put on a robe, covering your sheer nightgown underneath. You just saw some of Sam’s men patrolling outside the house as you passed through the wide halls, one of them nodding in acknowledgment as they saw you through the sliding door. The last time someone saw you vulnerable…it did not end well.

You rub your arms for warmth. Entering Sam’s office at your home was an experience. You’ve been here only a few times, understanding that the woman needed her own space – even if that concept felt foreign for the two of you. Pushing one of the two doors, the intimidating air welcomed you. The high ceiling, and the modestly tiered chandelier hued her lair. It was as grandiose as it can get; with the pillars and currently enclosed European rolling shutters, layers that provided extended privacy. If it weren’t for her chandelier and lamps in the room, it would be a total blackout as light did not stand a chance.

Whether it was out of Sam’s paranoia or extra precaution of safety, you love her just the same.

When you carefully made your way through her to the U-shaped table, Sam didn't say much, but you figured she knew it was you already. She’s pensive and painstakingly occupied with the files on her hand.

“Mi amor, come over here…” Your heart soared at her tiny voice.

Sam welcomes your touch with ease. Like a reflex; she freed one of her busy hands to clasp it with yours that hugged her front. Yet, it was her mind that was drifting.

“I miss you, come to bed.” You murmured and felt her soft laughter vibrate against your body.

You ignite a familiar glint in Sam’s eyes. “I like the sound of that. Domestic. Married.” She turns the paper with a faint smile.

In closer view, you have the sight of Sam in her trousers and importantly, her cufflinks and blue button-down undone, hugging her from behind. You take advantage of the proximity, breathing in Sam’s scent which is mixed city dirt and a particular musk that you love, heightening your serotonin. You can’t help but wet your lips with the thoughts you’re being wrapped into.

“Hm. Well, your wife needs attention now.”

“I’m sorry, mi amor.”

“Hey. I knew what I signed up for, Sammy.” A fracture of it, your mind quips. Not that you minded. It blows over quickly as Sam hums. “Nothing that a few kisses can’t solve. You can start by downplaying them now…”

Your sultry words didn’t fly over her.

She indulges your play immediately. “And you’re charging this with interest, I suppose?” Sam can feel your devious fingers dancing on the expanse of her toned stomach, skipping over the material of her work clothes. The air rapidly thickened with the brewing hunger and tension, rousing both of you into a familiar pit of lust.

Sam’s back still is facing you, momentarily pulling away to unbutton her top.

“Very much so I’m afraid.” You lazily murmured against your girlfriend’s back as you jumped back near her. Sam feels herself grounded towards reality, her icy exterior melting. You feel Sam’s tense muscles wearing off. A faint smile comes over you. How do you even do that? Sam wonders each time. “What are you even worrying about? Your beautiful eyebrows are bunched up like a grandma.”

Sam swiftly turned. Her kisses soon trailed over your jaw and lips, insistent.

“I need to pay up first, amor.”

“But Sammy—Oh!”

Sam deflects. Although you noticed, it was hard to be devoid of her wishes as you did not have a choice but to take in her little yet adamant pecks. Soon, it grew into seemingly aggressive and bruising kisses. She tasted a hint of whiskey, burning on your tongue. Letting out a gasp wasn’t too good either as Sam took it as her chance to kiss you harder and swallow your moans. She lifts you to have you sprawled out on her oak table, determined to stir a carnal disarray. With each tilt and lean, the bites and growls that Sam released onto you had made your brain all muddled. You caress her firm shoulder and decide to pay back; you give her breast an adamant squeeze through her sports bra.

Sam pulls back and her matching gold accessories shine from your view. God, she looked beautiful – almost forbidden. Her shiny, half-lidded eyes peer over you lustfully and mischievous.

“M-mm, you’re so good for me… I had something in mind, would you excuse me for a second mi amor?”

You teasingly ran your fingers through her nape and undid her tied-up hair, letting her alluring black tresses cascade messily, and tugged her hair back for good measure. Sam gulped at your assertiveness, gripping your hips firmly.

“I won’t go anywhere but here.”

As Sam came to fetch a spice to spruce up your evening, you gratefully absorbed the time she gave you. She can be an intense lover who knocks the air out of your lungs without fail. Your eyes flit over the mess sitting atop her desk. The sepia-colored portfolios were noticeable, strung up neatly. Her Glock particularly stood out with its metallic shine that made your heart race in nervousness. The daydreams can be hot, sure, yet if you were to be frank; you’re still taking in this new life one day at a time.

Until you saw another notable profile related to you.

It struck a personal vein as it was none other than your beloved partner and coworker for years, only her papers were marked “CLOSED” with a bright, red stamp across her personal description and profile shot. Your stomach churned at the possibility of her in danger. She was the closest figure you had for a mother. Although a part of you feels worthy of the success you have now, you can’t help but also think you have grown selfish and self-centered.

The last time you talked to her was 2 months ago, her birthday. A bittersweet smile spread across your features. You even kept postponing a simple brunch date with her – one that you didn’t have trouble with, until… no.

What’s wrong with you?

It’s not like she also reached out to you. You wonder what Grace thought of your Sam. She appeared skeptical, though you brushed it off knowing that what you and Sam have are unique. Perhaps you left out a few minor details that made her disapprove of it – detecting easily when you’re secretive about things. You didn’t find the point to it, though. You, among all people, were the most aware of you and Sam being from two worlds that happened to collide. But you insisted that it works; both of you put effort and love into it.

Sam is your person.

A hand rubs comfortingly on your shoulder. “Mi amor, are you okay?”

“Sammy, why do you have these files? What does Grace have to do with your business?” You bit the inside of your cheek. “Is she… okay?” The apprehension coursed through your veins unsettlingly.

You’re not even sure if you were ready to hear the truth.

With shaky hands, you gather the papers and examine them. Reading them made the coldness eerily vivid as though you’re holding a decomposing body, as though Grace that you once knew was now nothing but a closed history. Your vision blurred as your eyes trail over the personal information. Not one has registered in your mind.

Meanwhile, Sam carefully examined your reactions, silent as you soaked up the files that appeared to rattle you. Lost in your bewildered thoughts, you didn’t even notice the tanned woman’s presence until she gently took your forearm and her lips were pressed against your wrist.

“You won’t be seeing her anymore. Would you like me to elaborate?”

Fuck, you sure hope so. “Sam. This– this doesn’t look good to me,” Your voice cracked at the end and your eyes were starting to well up. Your figure moved in discomfort.

“You’re right.” Sam sighed and threaded her fingers through her hair. “It does not look good… but for all right reasons. Can you lay your back on the desk?” You tilt your head inquisitively, yet following Sam made her appeased with your actions.

“O-okay,”

She hooked her hands around your legs, making your lower back pressed on the oak table. The robe you wore slid off, but you didn’t mind — Sam did not mind.

“Good girl.” Sam praised you with her honeyed voice. You felt the familiar desire stir in your stomach. However, it did not stop you from staring – waiting – at those plump lips to further elaborate. “She’s gone.”

It expeditiously induced a sharp pain in your chest. Grace is gone – echoed faintly in your head. Your heart and mind throbbed at the sudden news.

Despite Sam’s monotonous tone, you’re unable to dissect the emotion further as you feel Sam lock your lips into a titillating kiss, her body atop you. A tear rolled down your cheek, Sam did not mind, hurriedly swiping them away with her thumb. Your mind ebbs slowly of its previous worries, tangled in the woman’s skillful touch; latched onto your skin with greed that appeases both of your needs. It confused you greatly, while as despair filled you, you were also throbbing, your cunt aroused again and wanting for more.

“My men bagged her head with a canvas, almost suffocating her.” You helplessly groan as Sam places a hand over your mouth. You couldn’t speak at her firm hold. “But don’t worry, she passed swiftly… least as I could let her be. She was interfering with us, mi amor. I hope you do understand – I’m doing this for us. I haven’t failed you yet, have I?”

You only nod weakly. It was the truth; she didn’t disappoint at all. Your body was still in fight mode and attempted to relieve it by desperately clawing on your girlfriend’s tanned bare back – searching for something tangible. Your fingernails dug into them and rewarded you with Sam’s breathy moans, swallowing the lump in your throat. On the other end, Sam was relieved by your response. No matter how it was laced with sugar coating, she still fears that you will never meet each other by the eye.

“I can’t hurt you, ever. You know that I wouldn’t do something bad when it comes to you, (y/n/n).”

She’s real and you’ll be alright… your girlfriend always had a good reason for her decisions, right?

Sam’s carnal ways did not waver; instead, you hear the rustling of her trousers and how she unzipped them. You didn’t even notice how she smoothly set your underwear aside, your wet pussy exposed to the cold air that made you quiver as Sam was ready to plunge in the tip of her strap.

“The things you do to me, amor, fuck!” Sam uttered gruffly as she parted your folds, the action impenitent and dirty. Her thumb probes over your wet insides, resulting in your breathing growing erratic and your head being thrown back, as she didn't hesitate to put a few inches on you unannounced. “I had fun playing Russian roulette with your dearest Grace. I can hear her terror each time my revolver clicked. If only I had the reins to get messy, I would have gutted her stomach apart until her insides spilled!” She punctuates the anguish in her tone by pounding in you harder, rocking both of you and the entire length of the strap almost inside of you.

The squelching and the slapping of skins reverberated in her room. You felt dirty and guilty, knowing it was the place where parts of Sam’s empire were laid tactfully. Though, you fucking loved every second of it. It felt that it was a Cathedral and all you knew was to worship and moan Sam’s name — until every fiber of your being occupied nothing but her.

Your ragged breathing and continuous moans were interrupted with Sam grabbing you by the cheek again. Her brown eyes were pierced into your drunk ones. “I love you. Nothing’s going to wreck that. Not even the slightest.”

This was a real woman in front of you, unashamed to tell the tales of how far she was willing to go for you. You never had that in your life – until her, your Sammy. So, you gratefully nod, your heart felt as though it was going to burst in hopes that your eyes could convey how the feeling was mutual.

It should be disgusting but you can’t help but gush more at the stretch even while in Sam’s morbid monologue. “And I’m here, fucking you with my cock senselessly. Do you like being put in this situation? You have no shame, amor. That’s why we fit perfectly,” She grabbed you by your jaw, “Answer me.”

“Y-yes! Fuck, yes!” You wail as the phallic inside of you feels too vivid against your walls. Your eyes rolled at the back of your head. The shame burned your insides but oh so satisfyingly. “I-I love it!”

“You do, don’t you? This is what you deserve. Goodness and me. Your partner didn’t even cry out for you, they cried out for Marly, the bitch from work that they cheated on you with. Don’t worry mi amor, I’ll gut her next for ever hurting you like this…” The huff and panting of Sam’s eagerness had overpowered the internal dilemma growing out of you. It cemented your mind on one thing; you were hurt, but Sam has once again swooped in to rescue you.

Marly was soon history as Grace was. You couldn’t believe your mother figure had disposed of you just the same.

“You’re always there for m-me… ‘could never doubt you, Sammy,” You choked in moans and felt Sam’s breath ghost to your bare neck. “I-I love you,”

Reeling back to full pleasure, you’ve easily taken it in, both Sam’s strap and the new life you were in. You might as well accept it – take it wholly – no matter how much red is drowned in Sam’s ledger. And Sam? The macabre beast melded inside of her and groaned in satisfaction. Your robe was halfway off, the nightgown almost ripped in half, revealing your skin and breasts that were painted with deep red and purple hues, as you’ve braved through a storm. More importantly, you took her with almost no hesitance and your pretty lips affirmed how much you loved her, even with Sam admitting her sick ways of keeping you both safe.

It made her feel worthy and on top of the fucking world. All of the blood and gruesome journey she has gone through — it was all for you and so, so worth it.

You wail underneath Sam’s relentless pounding that fueled her to thrust in varying angles to make your mind all fuzzy. You feel everything and then nothing all at once, completely spent as your orgasm crashed — the strap still buried inside of you. You were certain that Sam wanted it molded on your velvety walls until all it knew was her.

In your drifting-off state, Sam gently pulls back the robe on you and picks you up, carrying you against her front. You’re perched against the crook of her neck and you want to giggle at her sidestepping, the bodyguards looking away from your sight as Sam is careful to not reveal your current state. It was proving to be a challenge not to moan and simply fuck yourself against the strap, as for some reason Sam kept it in.

You thought it was the end as your girlfriend placed you on your shared bed until Sam fully unbuckled her then loose belt, and her trousers pool by her ankle. She’s bare for you, her blemishes and scars were open to you, and somewhat they made an appetizing touch to her perfectly carved body. Now you feel the familiar throbbing rising on your tummy once again and your thighs spasmed at the light strain it encountered from earlier activities. Sam deviously chuckled at your reaction and crawled her way on top of you.

“I wanted to return the favor…” You whispered against the shell of Sam’s ear, hands busying themselves on undoing the strap laced on her waist. “I need to have you in my mouth.”

Sam’s stomach visibly twitched at your words, her throat drying up at how they dripped with much desire, just for her.

“Funny, because I was planning to eat you, too.” A tender kiss was pressed against your lips. Sam moved teasingly as her words did, affecting you greatly.

“We can do it at the same time, you know…”

Sam’s heart constricted at your suggestion. She would be stupid if she were to turn down your offer. Imagining you between her thighs and putting all of her will not to suffocate you? Sam grew wet. She twitched like a junky in need of a fix and her orbs were glazed with excitement and tenfold desire. Perhaps, Sam was rubbing off on you too much these days.

“Fuck, you mean—?”

You timidly nod. “Yes. It’s a win-win situation for us, Sammy.”

You strip out of your useless clothes quickly. There was no use for it. Sam watches you as if she were hypnotized. How this woman has a nonstop carnal desire to take you at every moment possible was lost on you.

Getting into position was inevitably awkward. It was a new thing, both of you were testing the waters. But given Sam’s words of encouragement, the intimidation soon dissolved and it made you communicate better. In reverse positions, you were met with Sam’s long and toned thighs. Having the strong inner skin wrapped between your head was a daydream much as her face. You can smell her arousal vividly – one that was caused by none other than you – which had made pride surge wildly in your chest. Sam easily slid and handled your body towards her face.

“You’re so wet…” Sam whispered as she peppered your thighs with soft kisses. Each contact had left you squirming and frenzy for more. “My pretty girl, have you imagined this for so long?”

You were too shy to admit it.

Although it was very telling on Sam’s end, seeing your slick smeared. Her mouth watered. Soon it will be all over her face. She grabbed the back of your thighs and eagerly lapped on your wet folds, your cries of pleasure served as wonderful stimulation against her exposed cunt. Her tongue flattened up for good measure, Sam slid perfectly against you. Opposed to her confident moves, your movement was gentle and slow, as though you wanted to savor all of Sam’s fluids. This made your rhythm against hers messy and uncoordinated, but it was you so she didn’t mind.

Your cheeks were heated not only out of disbelief that this was happening, but also from the warmth that Sam emits – somehow that makes you flustered. While you’re lost in the haze of lust, Sam tries to be gentle with her thigh grip. However, as it grows tense and firm, it seemingly pulls out a moan from you that makes Sam weak in her knees.

You feel the tip of her tongue dip inside, as though Sam is curious to extract more – savoring the flavor on her tastebuds. The repeated motions continue with the relentless lapping of her tongue, muscle invasive and fast, almost slurping between. It was addicting, like seeing red, only with Sam’s stimulation and breath existing to reel you in further. You keep up and mimic her actions and soon you two find the groove, moving and grinding on each other’s body – mouths barely detaching from the waterfall of wetness. As happiness is meant to be consumed, you do it with such bliss, eyes closed.

Soon, both of you convulsed at the rush of release. Hurriedly, you lapped on Sam’s cum like it was the last thing you’ll ever drink. Sam was more brutal, and practically buried herself in your pussy until you had to push her away. Your fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, both cunts were tender and as Sam did, your breath was heaving as well. A sheer sweat covered both of your bodies. Fuck, you can’t believe you’ve just done that.

This was fucking heaven.

Sam was the first to get up. You were spent and your clothes were gone, meant for replacement again. She giggled at your adorable sight, a chaste kiss laced with strong remnants of your taste greeted your mouth – ending it with you in her arms, lulled by Sam's heartbeat against your bare chest, and open-mouthed kisses on your tired jaw.

A triumphant smile makes its way to her devious features and whispers I love you against your forehead.

She has done it again. You barely knew what rattled you moments earlier, instead, your mind was filled with the woman and how you can’t live without her.

#gg.writes #sam carpenter smut #sam carpenter x fem reader #sam carpenter x female reader #sam carpenter x you #sam carpenter x y/n #wlw #lesbian #fanfic #au #scream vi #requested #sam carpenter x reader

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porkcutletbowl44 · 4 months ago

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Beauty & Her Beast

John Price x F!Reader

Warnings: CAVITY WARNING!!fluff, VERY MILD hurt(mention of infertility), husband & wife banter(lovingly)💖 SUGGESTIVE NSFW🔞🔞🔞

(I hope this idea isn't taken! this was just too cute to not write 🥺)

╔═*.·:·.✧🪷✦🪷✧.·:·.*═╗

Accidents happen. And John isn't one for big change, so when you fractured your wrist trying to get out of a hostile's aim of fire and injured yourself, John had a fucking meltdown and finished up the mission quickly to get you back to base. Luckily you only escaped with a fracture and nothing serious, just a few months of taking it easy with your hand.

Naturally you struggled to the adjustment, and John did too. You couldn't hold his hand with your dominant hand for the time being, couldn't make yourself certain dishes, couldn't train to your full potential. You couldn't even shower properly with the handicap hand. Trying to get your hair out of your face was a hassle, pony tail, bun, claw clip, nothing worked. You couldn't do it one handed.

John, being the amazing husband he is, kindly offered to help.

"Let's see..." He mumbles, awkwardly holding a piece of hair in his hand. "Uh," He hums in hard contemplation.

"Never done it before?" You joked softly, feeling him make lose strands twirl together.

John breathed in slowly, trying to hold back an eyebrow raise — something he failed at as it shot toward the ceiling, his lips twitching in a slight smile.

"Yeah..." John murmured, continuing to "braid" your hair with gentle movements, letting the quiet settle in between you two.

"It's not as easy as it looks." He finally spoke up, chuckling softly.

"It's alright, divide into three sections." You instructed softly.

John's eyes narrowed in thought, his hand moving a little slower as he worked.

"There..." he muttered, "Three sections."

He took another breath in, focusing on how he'd separate the strands... and he'd do the braiding. John looked up at, eyes meeting yours in the mirror, and he was met with the vision of the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, and you were here... in this moment... with him.

You nodded slightly, "Okay, good. Now take one part, and cross it over the middle."

John listened carefully, taking a few moments to process what you were saying before he acted. He grasped a strand farthest from the other two, and he started to cross it over the middle, pulling it together once he'd cross it. His fingers moved nimbly, he seemed to be getting the hang of this.

"Is that right?" he asked, looking up and meeting her gaze.

You laughed softly, "Now tighten those two strands criss crossed, grab the last part that's free, and pull it into the middle. Rinse and repeat." You replied.

"Right..." he muttered, his fingers moving to follow the instructions now that he had a better hold onto the process. With a few moments, he'd pulled the third stand into the middle, and he worked to adjust the strands until it looked like it was actually braided properly. He was surprised; he'd thought it would be harder than it actually was.

"So..." John asked, looking up at you, "Is that it? Or are there still more steps?"

"Nope, go until you run out." You answered.

"Okay." John murmured, glancing down at the strands, and then he continued to braid, repeating the same motion over and over again, his hands starting to ache with the effort as he worked to concentrate. It was a simple process, however, his mind started to drift... wandering to the day he'd been told he couldn't have kids, with his wife in the same room. He didn't snap out of his train of thought for a moment until he pulled the final strand, and he examined the work — it looked good.

You grabbed the end and tied it off, examining in the mirror.

"Perfect," You praised kindly.

"Mhm... looks like you could've done it by yourself." John teased, chuckling as he looked over the finished braid. He then leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly, his shoulders and back relaxing in the same breath.

"I guess I'm just not used to doing it... but it's actually not that hard." John murmured, and suddenly, he raised a brow, wondering how a simple action like this was so intimate, loving.

"My wrist hurts, alright? And you said so yourself. It's not so hard," You teased gently.

"Alright, alright," John chuckled, not resisting any urge to smirk at your little comment.

"I guess you're right." he responded, "And... I think I'd much rather do it for you anyway."

Despite that last comment coming out of nowhere, he didn't think much of it — he'd just speak and then hope he didn't get into trouble, as usual. You were always independent.

"I've been thinking about cutting it..." You pondered.

"Cutting it?" John asked, looking up at you again, confusion plastered on his face before he raised a brow.

"No." he replied instantly, sounding oddly more authoritative.

"Why not? It would be much easier on deployments," You shrugged.

"Because your hair is beautiful." John said back instantly, his expression a stern disbelief. His fingers laced together, forming a steeple of his hands as the thought of your hair being shorter — or possibly gone — sent chills through him.

"And besides," he muttered, "I've got the braiding skills."

"You can do a basic Indian braid, John." You smiled.

"You said it was perfect earlier," he defended, folding his arms over his chest and raising a brow.

At the thought that you doubted the skills he'd just demonstrated, he looked down at you, eyes almost narrow in jest.

"it is! A perfect, simple, quick braid. Everything else is a bit too complex," You explained.

John's face softened; you were right — he'd only done the simplest of braids.

"But..." he started again, thinking of the possibilities, "What if I practiced and got good at the more complex braids?"

You sighed softly, "Not even a little trim?"

"Not even." He muttered.

John glanced away from you into the distance for a moment, thinking about the question you posed. The thought of you without your hair — or just shorter hair — terrified him. He knew he wouldn't be able to say anything or even stop you from cutting off your hair — but that didn't mean he was going to budge in telling you that it was an awful idea.

"Don't." he said simply.

"My hair grows fast, you know that..." You tried again a soft pout.

"Your hair is part of what makes you... you." John replied, "Don't cut it."

The mere thought of you cutting it made him a little itchy, as if something would be... well... missing if you removed part of yourself like that.

"Please..." he finally said, his expression softening a bit.

"Okay, okay," You relented, your hands going up in surrender. Your wedding band glinted in the lighting as you moved.

John sighed, relief washing over him as his shoulders lowered. He then raised his hand to the back of yours, gently grabbing them both to stop them from moving.

"Promise me you won't ever cut it," he muttered, his voice soft and gentle, but still holding that authority it seemed to have when addressing you about more serious matters.

"I promise, John," you gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Good." John whispered, but his smile didn't go anywhere.

He was happy with that answer — relieved with that answer.

"Now..." he started again, his voice shifting slightly as he tried to change the subject, "What was with the pout? Did you really think I'd let you cut your hair?"

"...Maybe." You shrugged, a smile tugging your lips.

"Oh?" John murmured, he knew it — you definitely could pout and get your way.

"And what did you expect me to say? 'Oh, I know how much you want your hair gone, so go right ahead!'" John asked sarcastically, his body shifting back in his chair and folding his arms again, "That what you expected?"

"Well I do kinda miss it when it was short..." You considered.

"So you want to cut it?" John asked, his words laced with a heavy dose of skepticism in response to your comment. He'd heard people talk about their 'old hairstyles' missing from their memory, but... were you seriously considering cutting that beautiful hair off?

Not on his watch, he decided.

"Don't do it." he said again swiftly, still keeping up the facade of authority.

"Don't you remember my short hair? I thought you liked it!" You pointed out.

"I do. But it's not... it's not nearly as beautiful as the hair you have now," John replies quietly.

He was right — when your hair had been shorter, it was a simpler look, and it looked... more carefree, for the lack of better wording. But now? Your long hair was just more... more you. It made you look radiant and... more feminine, he supposed. He did everything he could after your wedding to postpone your hair cuts, He loved seeing your hair down. It was beautiful, radiant, it was absolutely gorgeous the way it falls over your shoulders, lays on your back, frames your face.

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath at his words...Being just a tad bratty.

"Oh, stop..." John grumbled, and it was clear in that moment that he was being playful.

But then he went quiet for a moment, wondering if cutting your hair short now would actually make you happier. Was that why you wanted it to be cut? Because you missed it? He'd have to ask you that at some point... but right now, you were too cute to be upset with.

"Then what to you suggest I do?" you questioned.

"Nothing." John responded swiftly, "You leave it... leave it all alone."

It may have been a simple braid, but if you cut off your hair now... he didn't know how he'd feel about it. He didn't like the thought of your hair being shorter. In his mind, that was a part of your femininity, a part of you that made her... you, that made you beautiful. And if it was cut, he may never get to braid your hair again.

"Please." he whispered, looking at you with a soft gaze.

"And a little trim is going to be the end of the world?" You joked slightly, walking over to him with your arms crossed.

"Yes." John replied swiftly, incredulously, staring up at you.

Maybe you saw it as a joke, but he didn't think you understood just how he felt about your hair — just how much he liked it. He loved running his fingers through it, watching you brush it beside the window as the sunlight makes it glow. He loves even more how he can grab a handful to force your head up at him, make you look up at him as you take every girthy inch of his cock cramming against your cervix, dragging against that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll and you moan raggedly. You would paw at his back, slurring 's too much, John-

He didn't want something like that to change about you... and yes, he knew it was just hair. But there was something about it that was just... you.

"Fine, then you can't ever shave your beard again." You made a ultimatum.

"Fair." John muttered, not realizing just how easy of a win that was to pull.

He'd go years without shaving his beard if it meant that your hair would stay just as it was. His hand went to his chin, and his fingers rubbed against his beard — the familiar feel brought a comforting smile to his face. You did enjoy his beard.

"I wouldn't shave it off anyway." John added, "not after how much you like it."

"You'd just look weird without it,"

"Oh yeah?" John asked curiously, raising a brow, "Do you think I'd look that weird without it?"

He seemed a little intrigued by the concept, as if his facial hair was just a permanent fixture on his face — almost as if he couldn't imagine a version of himself without it.

"I'd look like a twelve-year-old." he stated with a smirk, making a mental note to not shave it off under any circumstances.

"Yeah probably. More unrecognizable though," You added.

"And you wouldn't like me being unrecognizable..." John teased softly, his head tilting to the side as he thought about your comment.

He enjoyed being able to look at his reflection and know that it was him he was looking at — but more than that, he liked the look of confidence that he saw on his face. He knew he was attractive, you had told him enough times.

"Okay, fine, I see where you're coming from...do you only love me for my hair?" You laughed softly shaking your head slightly.

"Only your hair?" John responded, raising a brow, "No, not just your hair."

He knew his answer. He loved everything about you — from your playful personality and your sassy, sassy mouth, to, yes, your hair, to your... everything. John couldn't put it into words, but he loved everything about the woman standing before him.

"You're gorgeous, love. you're strong, and you're a cheeky little thing...damn that mouth o' yours." he mumbled, teasing you and returning that smirk.

You grinned, a soft blush on your cheeks.

You both finished off your daily military work, John smoking his nightly cigar while reading reports. You were across the room in his connected bedroom, undoing your braid after it got lose and messy through out the day.

Damn. John thought to himself — that look was just far too perfect to not see. He took a puff of his cigar, his eyes shifting across the room to watch you. It was a gorgeous look, one that would be a shame if you cut off your already beautiful hair.

"You look beautiful today, love." John eventually piped up, not realizing that he had been staring for longer than he'd meant to.

"Just today?" You teased, your hair now curly from the braid, soft waves on your shoulders as you walked into the office again.

"Everyday." he amended, looking back at the reports in front of him, "But today, you look even more beautiful."

John's gaze followed you as you walked across the room, and he almost wanted to drop everything and follow you to the bedroom. He took another deep breath, trying to stay calm — You smelled so good and you looked so damn good with all those waves in your hair and those soft curves...

You sat on the chair across from him, taking your own folder. In the silence, you noticed John was in deeper thought than usual.

"What are you thinkin' about?" You asked gently.

"Nothing," he lied, but he knew you could tell he wasn't telling the complete truth.

You knew him a little too well by now to let just a simple "Nothing" answer go unchecked, and he didn't want to tell you the truth. It wasn't like he'd been staring like a complete moron just because of the way you looked, his thoughts wondered from earlier; the position his marriage was, not having children yet in the military still.

"You sure? You can talk to me, John." You said affectionately,

"Just thinking about our marriage..." John responded, then his tone softened slightly. "Just the fact that we're still..." and then he went quiet again, not knowing what to say.

He wanted to say that they still hadn't had children yet, but could he? Could he really say that to you, after you both found out he wasn't able to?

"...Married?" You finished for him with a confused smile.

"Not just married." John responded, "But that we still... have no children yet."

He sounded... defeated now. And he didn't want you to be able to tell — because God knew if you heard him, you'd feel pity for him, something that he hated.

"We still can't seem to..." and he went quiet again, not knowing how to finish that sentence.

"I know." You murmured softly, your eyes softening at him.

"You know, I don't need kids to be happy. I just need you," You assured. "You took it harder than me, to be honest." You added.

"I know, I know." he said softly, but your words still cut deeper than you knew.

His heart squeezed with emotion, with the feeling of failure being the central theme of the words you said about not needing children to be happy. You didn't need them to be happy, he knew that... but did you want them?

Did you truly have no desire to become a mother? That's what he feared, deep down, in his heart, that he would disappoint you.

"I mean, the doctor said you weren't completely sterile, we would just have a hard time... so the chances aren't zero at least?" You offered, trying to give him peace of mind.

"But the chances are still low." John responded, his eyes falling to the files in front of him.

He didn't want to think about the fact that there was a chance. Hell, he didn't want to think about what it would feel like to have those hopes raised, and then crushed back down again when it didn't happen.

He hated hope already, but this... this was just... worse.

"I know." You sighed out, reaching and grabbing his hand, giving a small squeeze.

"I just... I want a kid, so badly." he becomes slightly frustrated, "Everyday, I feel guilty for not giving that to you."

He knew you'd say that there was no reason to feel that way, that you were already happy enough... but he wasn't. He needed to make your life better.

"You deserve it." John muttered, almost to himself.

"do I need one though?" You asked, a playful smile on your lips as you searched his eyes.

"No, you don't. You don't need one..." he murmured.

But he couldn't help but think, did you want one?

Did you?

The playful look you gave was adorable, and it made his breath catch in his throat.

"But... if you wanted one..." and he went quiet again, not knowing what to say afterwards.

"I certainly wouldn't mind, to have one with you. If we don't, then I'm perfectly fine with that too." You assured.

"Promise?" he mumbled, that hint of hope returning to his voice.

He hoped that she meant it, that you did feel fine with it... because if you did, then it wouldn't leave you feeling unfulfilled. You didn't need child to have a fulfilling life. Or, at the very least, you both didn't need one to be happy.

"You're okay with the possibility of not getting one?"

"Of course... We can keep trying though. If you want," You offered.

"I do... god yeah." he muttered, looking away.

If you were... okay with it, he was too. He wouldn't force you to have a child if you didn't want one. And even if you never did get one he couldn't bring himself to get that upset over it because you had said that you were perfectly fine without one.

"Let's keep trying..." he murmured softly, looking down at your hand in his, "And whatever happens, happens."

"Okay," You muttered.

"Okay." he repeated, and for a moment, you sat in silence in your usual comfort.

John was silent, but his mind was going a mile-a-minute, going over all the different scenarios that may happen after all of this. And you were sitting, hair a bit messy in the braids you'd undone, his hand in your, still thinking about children as your future. He wouldn't give up on that dream, with you.

He wouldn't, not ever.

"I love you." he murmured softly, then his tone became somewhat teasing. "I don't think I've said it today yet."

"I love you too," You responded back, a loving smile on your face.

He let one of his signature mustache smiles take over as his thumb lightly traced over the back of your hand. Everything was quiet for a moment as he did so, taking in this moment with his wife — your soft curls, beautiful eyes, and the way your fingers moved in his. Your breath was short and sweet, and your smile was infectious. In that moment... it was as if the world had paused for just a little while longer than necessary.

You stood up, releasing his hand. "I'm gonna go to bed, you gonna keep working?"

"Hm? No..." John responded, also standing up, "I'm gonna go get changed for bed as well."

It had been a long day, and though part of the Captain wanted to stay up just a little longer than needed for some sort of closure... tonight just felt like one of those nights, where you could sleep in his bed together, cuddled up and holding each other tightly.

By the time John comes in, you've changed into pajamas, you were trying to tie your hair back, with some difficulty due to your wrist. John had returned, slowly and leisurely making his way into the room, then pausing his steps at the sight. He smirked and approached, taking your bad wrist gently.

"Let me," he murmured.

You dropped your hands, letting him re-braid your hair back with ease now that he learned how to.

"You're having fun aren't you?" You mused quietly.

"Can't deny it." he smiled, and his touch was... slow, and meticulous as he braided your hair from the fresh memory.

He knew you'd notice, but he didn't care because you deserved to feel cared about in the same way that he wanted to feel.

"I mean, after learning to braid your hair today..." he muttered, a smirk on his face as his hands moved methodically to your hair, "Of course, I'm having fun."

He tossed the braid over your shoulder, giving your waist a soft pat.

"Here you go, love" he breathed, "all done."

His touch stayed on your waist for just a few seconds longer, before eventually removing his hands. You looked so pretty, with your hair all nicely braided. Your hips swayed slightly as you moved, and when you did... John couldn't help but to look at you, even your walk was intoxicating to him. You grinned happily, grabbing him by his shirt and tugging him along with you to bed.

This made John chuckle, his eyes moved to yours with a sly grin on his face.

It seemed his wife had been wanting something else for tonight, other than simply sleeping in bed together. He obliged, and let you pull him along, with that sultry smirk still on his face.

"What's the grin for?" You chuckled, falling back on your side of the bed.

"Wouldn't you like to know." he teased back softly, smirking.

He fell onto the bed with you, his arm reached around your waist, and pulled you closer, his hand came up and cradled your face. He could tell when you might have been in the mood, and he could tell that you were in the mood for something tonight.

His thumb moved slightly, and it gently pressed against your skin. And, for a second, he was silent as he stared at you, his eyes moving over you in the comfortable space you were in together. Finally, he broke his silence with a quiet mumble.

"Hey, love?"

"hm?"

"Come closer," he said softly, almost in a whisper.

His hand slid from your face and down to your shoulder and tugged, pulling you closer to his chest, his other hand shifting to your lower back. You scooted a little closer with the help of his movements. The hand on your lower back slowly moved so that both of his hands could slide under the loose T-shirt you were wearing, his warm hands gently touching your back sensually.

You shivered, arching into him with a exhale. His body almost buzzed with excitement when he sees how he can make you react. He felt goosebumps on your skin, letting his hand wander. Up, down, left, right... they continued to move around, just gently, barely touching your skin. He relished in the sensations he was causing. He was taking this slow, as he loved to do. After all, there was no need to be in a rush, not when you had all the time in the world.

He loves the way he makes you squirm, trying to get closer, tugging on his shirt needily. His cock swells against his hip, waking up and getting ready to sink into your hot pussy.

When he spoke next, his voice was quiet and soft, like a gentle breeze.

"You inna mood, dove?"

"If you keep doing that I'm gonna loose my mind," You mumbled against his chest.

"Doin' what?"

He smiled, one of his hands moved up slightly, and his fingers grazed over between your shoulder blades.

"Touchin' you...?" John asked, almost innocently. He was doing this on purpose.

"Touching me like this," You clarified.

"You like it when I touch you like this?" he asked, and his hand slid higher, all the way up to the nape of your neck near your hairline where the base of the braid was. He wraps it around his knuckles once, tugging to pull your head back.

Oh, this was much better than when your hair is down.

One hand continued to move over your body as he spoke, trailing over your skin, and moving to tease the underside of your breast, before disappearing back around your back once more.

"John," You whimpered at the tug, licking your lips, as you closed your eyes at the feeling of his beard scratching your throat with kisses. "I like it when you actually touch me."

It made him feel somewhat primal— wanting to take and claim, and he shifted quickly, his hands gripping your waist. His teeth softly bit down on your neck, and he slowly started marking his way down to your collarbone, while he continued to speak.

"I am touching you."

"But—not all the way," You whined.

"Not all the way?" he repeated back, his tone playful and teasing, as if he had no idea what the hell you were talking about.

He could tell what you wanted all too well, but he was gonna tease you anyway, until he got the words from you. John was a man of consent after all. He continued to mark his way down, shifting down so that he could bite and suck at the sensitive skin above the area of your sport bra, grinding his girthy cock against your covered cunt.

"John," You grumbled, grabbing a fist full of his shirt with your good hand.

Hearing you grumble his name was a sign that he was really, really starting to get you worked up. It was cute, seeing his wife grumble and complain, as if you couldn't just use your words to explain yourself.

"Say please," he suggested, and his beard scratching your skin.

You glared up at him, going to grab the pillow to shove in his face— only to hiss in pain when you used your fractured wrist to grab. His expression hardened for a second before he quickly shifted his attention to your injured wrist, gently taking it away from the pillow and holding it up.

"What are you doing-" he said firmly, and the tone of his voice changed from playful to concerned in just a few seconds.

"I forgot," You gritted in pain, sitting up with him as he cradled your brace.

"You forgot?" he echoed, a scolding eyebrow raised up and an unamused glare on his face.

He sat up with you, being careful to not jostle your wrist that he was holding, making sure his fingers were gentle on the brace. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with, while in a moment like this, but it had happened, and now he was set on making sure you were okay.

"Forgettin' that you're supposed to be restin', that wrist of yours?"

"This is the hand I use for everything," You defended, pouting.

"I'm well aware o' that," he responded back, and his voice was more stern than before.

He knew exactly what you used that hand for, probably more than you did, which is why when he saw your cast move it sent him into a short-lived panic. He took a moment to let the panic subside, taking a breath to calm himself before he spoke again.

"You can't be doin' somethin' like this," he said, his voice still firm. "If you hurt yourself even more, I swear to God..."

"I get it, I forgot, I'm sorry," you retorted in a grumbling irritated tone.

"Look, I get that it's hard with your wrist bein' like this and all, but you can't go forgettin' about it. It's not going anywhere until it heals, and it could take a couple weeks for it to get better."

"It's not like I can help it. I write with this hand, I open lids with it, carry stuff, grab, my other one is practically useless..."

Of course it was hard to forget that you even have a fractured wrist, since it's something you have to use constantly. But it being something you have to use constantly doesn't mean you should.

"You can still do things using your other hand," he said softly, "it's not useless."

"it feels useless." You grunted.

"Maybe useless is the wrong word, then..." John mumbled, and his thumb moved to rub circles on the back of your hand.

He hated seeing you this frustrated, and it just wasn't right. He didn't like that you had to deal with this.

"Impairin'?" he said after a moment, "or maybe uncomfortable?"

"...wrong?" You offered.

"Maybe inconvenient is the word you're lookin' for, then?" John replied back, his expression lessening into something more relaxed.

There was a faint smile on his face now, and he brought the back of your hand up to his mouth to press a gentle kiss to it.

"And it really itches." You added with a whine.

"Yeah?" he smirked.

He wasn't surprised that you were complaining about it. In fact, he figured you'd start complaining sooner or later about the itch.

"It itches, does it, love?" he mumbled, and he pressed a few more light and gentle kisses to your knuckles.

"Id rather have a bullet wound than this..." You grumbled. "Id at least have range in my damn hands."

His head tilted up at that, and his smirk became a little more amused.

"Now that's not true, now is it?" he said, a soft tone to his words, and he started to brush his beard softly against your knuckles.

"You sayin' you'd take a bullet for me, dove?"

"Without a second thought." You whispered.

His smirk slowly faded at that, his expression softening, and the tone of his voice shifted at the words. He knew you weren't lying to him, he knew how much you loved him and cared for him, but it still wasn't fun hearing it spoken so... casually.

"Don't... don't say stuff like that," he said softly, and he let go of your one hand to reach the other to press it against the side of your face.

"I mean it." You implored, barely above a whisper.

He knew you did, and that's what made it so difficult to hear. Seeing you right in front of him, the love of his life, telling him that you'd take a bullet for him.

"I know," he breathed.

His thumb brushed over your cheek as he spoke, his voice still so soft, and his own expression was filled with nothing but affection.

"I don't care to hear you speakin' about takin' bullets."

"Any more than I already have?" You asked wryly.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at that question, and his eyes sparkled a bit.

"That's completely different, and you know better than to go bringing up old memories," he said softly, and his hand moved to scratch the back of your neck lightly with his fingers.

"I'm bein' serious. I don't want you sayin' things like that, dove, and I really don't want you actually doin' it."

"But I would if I ever had to," You quip.

"I swear, you are a pain in the ass," he mumbled, but there was an affectionate tone to it. He was half-glaring at you when saying it, but you could tell that he wasn't really annoyed.

"You just love to give me a hard time, don't you, dove? Always findin' a way to make yourself a thorn in my side."

"It's because I love you," You grinned.

That damn smile and cheeky grin always got him, and no matter how annoyed he was, it would still make him smile a genuine smile to himself.

"Love me so much that you make me want to throttle you, huh?"

"In the good ways?"

"In both the good and the bad ways," he confirmed, and that smirk came back full force.

"You've still got your fair share o' brat in you, after all, even after all these years of being married."

You laugh through a bitten lips.

"See? That's what I'm talkin' about," he pointed out.

When you started biting your lip like that, he knew that there was some cheeky comment coming.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" he asked, a hint of tease to his voice as tugged he you into him. "you think it's funny gettin' on my nerves, don't you?"

"100%." You sighed, settling into his arms.

He shifted to get a bit more comfortable with you in his arms, and his arms wrapped snuggly around your form.

He loved having you near. In his lap, in his arms— close enough for him to feel your body heat, to smell your hair, to feel you.

"You are a brat," he repeated softly, and his hand started rubbing up and down your side again.

You stuck your tongue out at him. He knew that was coming the second you settled into him. He was about to respond to the tongue, maybe with a comment about how you're a child or a brat, but he was a bit distracted. He smirked, and his arm snaked around your waist to keep you in place, and in one quick, fluid movement he leaned forward and caught the tongue between his teeth, tugging gently. Your squeak only fuels his smirk, and now there was smugness to it.

He loved to get the upper hand over you in these moments, and he loved the noises that were coming from you. He loved you. His hand on your side slid into the small of your back, and he used it to bring you closer into him, keeping you right against him.

"That was mean," You grumbled, cuddling him while his hand traced your braid.

"Yeah, I know," he said softly, his hand continuing to run along the length of the braid.

His fingers moved gently across it and moving up, his nails brushing over your scalp.

"You just make it so easy, I can't help myself, sometimes. Besides, you know you like it."

He chuckled again, and his arms wrapped around you a little tighter as you cuddled into him. His own hold on you was always safe, a secure feeling that came with the strong arms that wrapped around you, and the gentle warmth that came with his chest and body heat. His beard brushed against your temple as he buried his nose into your hair, and his voice was a soft whisper.

"Did I mention that I love your hair when it's braided like this?" he gave it a soft, gentle tug, to feel it slide against his hand.

"It looks even more adorable when it's braided, I swear. It's like I find new ways to love you more and more each day, and I wasn't sure that was even possible."

"All thanks to you and your braiding skills." you giggled.

His smirk morphed into a small, prideful smile at that compliment, and he gave a dramatic scoff.

"Damn right it is," he said in a playful tone. "All my doin', I'm the reason your hair looks so cute right now."

"Just wait until you see what it looks like when I make extra curls." You said, closing your eyes with a smug smile.

"Fuckin' hell," he said with a shaky exhale, and he almost felt a bit light-headed just at the thought.

And if he was being honest, his mind was definitely imagining it, picturing what you'd look like with your hair a little differently, and he knew that it would be breathtaking.

"Purposefully curling hair?" he mumbled, his voice soft, and there was awe mixed with surprise. "You can do more?" and he could suddenly see it, your hair all freshly done, framing your face, and it was making his heart flutter.

"You'd do that f'me?" he asked softly, and his voice was just filled to the brim with adoration as his expression.

He already knew the answer, he already could imagine what you'd look like with your hair all dolled up, and the thought of it was just-

"I could, if you'd like." You shrugged.

That was all it took.

Just the idea of how you'd look like with your hair curled, adding a little extra, the thought of you running your fingers through the ringlets, or how you'd look with your hair all fresh curled, blown out and bouncing around when you moved.

"Please," he said quickly, and his voice came out almost pleading. "I would very much love to see that, dove."

He was already dreaming about it, the images in his head of you laughing and smiling, your hair all curled and moving around, the way he knows you'd probably mess with the curls.

"You're going to look absolutely gorgeous, you know that, right?" he asked with a soft murmur, his tone one of complete adoration.

"You're so dramatic sometimes," you teased, using his chest as a pillow.

He playfully scoffed a laugh at that comment, and he feigned offense.

"It's not dramatic, dove," he mumbled, "It's called being honest."

Your head was resting against his chest, your cheek using his firm, broad chest as a pillow, and he tightened his arms around your form to keep you snuggled up to him.

"Mhm, honest, my bad..." You mumbled, finally getting settled with him.

He gave a small, satisfied hum as you finally got settled against him, and he laid back against the sofa, bringing you with him as he laid down. His hand continued to rub up and down your side, moving in a small, smooth motion, his touch soft and gentle. His breathing was slow and steady, a slow, gentle rise and fall beneath you. He loved how you smelled, the familiar scent of your shampoo and whatever else you'd use in your hair was comfort, and it made him smile each time.

"Goodnight," You whispered.

Soft, warm feelings swelled in his chest when you murmured your goodnight. He could feel his features soften, and his expression turned tender and affectionate.

"Night, dove," he replied softly, his voice a quiet murmur.

His hand snaked up to your head, fingers sliding through and gently massaging your scalp. His hand moved slow and soothing circles across your scalp, rubbing gently and massaging tenderly.

His nose slides against yours, pressing a loving, prickly kiss to your lips.

He could feel himself growing more relaxed with you snuggled up and rested against his chest, feeling you rest against him, your warmth and weight a comfort. His eyes were already closed, and his breathing slowly evened out, his chest falling and rising evenly with each deep breath.

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