#finally crossposting this one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shadowsofdread · 3 months ago

Text

i, carrion

word count: 5639

warnings: child abuse & neglect, implied sexual assault of a minor + a scene that is arguably (attempted) sexual assault for Realsies, and canon-typical violence - more tags on AO3

featuring ... hyroh kaah & tsahet

Hyroh Kaah, Jedi Padawan, is undergoing special training under the strange, enigmatic Master Tsahet on Taris, whose training regimen includes casual child endangerment and heaping helpings of projection. Nothing good has come out of this. (cross-posted from AO3)

The light grew, first from an infinitesimal point, then radiating outward, slicing the cave walls into ribbons, bursting from the ravenous well until it devoured Hyroh's vision completely. For several moments, he was blind. His boots squelched unsteadily in the mud, and he threw out a hand towards the wall of the cave.

His hand caught nothing, and the ground slipped from beneath him. The Padawan grit his teeth and brought his hands underneath him to save himself from falling face-first into toxic muck. The impact of his hands against the unstable ground flung it into his face anyhow.

His respirator saved him from most of it. A necessity out in the jungle, because while the vaccine protected him from the plague, it protects him from little else. Back at Olaris, they set up gardens and atmospheric converters to clean up the air surrounding the base, and then the subsequent strongholds pockmarked throughout what little of the planet they managed to tame, so as to minimize the amount of respiration equipment needed.

But the rakghoul tunnels were dug far from these settlements, deep within the irradiated jungle that constituted most of the planet. The Sith bombardment left nothing unscathed.

The starbursts finally faded from his vision, leaving him to stare at his hands half-swallowed by wet earth.

Hyroh swiped mud from above his brow, ultimately passing it into his hair. Not that the motion did anything either way. He was covered, head to toe, in mud and viscera. He smelled of it, too. He did not have much to compare to - besides, perhaps, the fish and game he and Aric skinned and butchered on the kitchen table in their small home on Ord Mantell - but rakghoul guts had a particular stink to them. Bitter and acrid, reminiscent of metal and burnt hair.

Carefully, Hyroh pushed himself completely onto his knees, then got one foot underneath him, and finally the other. The mud gurgled underneath his boots. A shudder went through his spine. Rakghouls - they sounded like mud, when they died.

One cautious step at a time, he extricated himself from the mouth of the cave and further still, until mud turned to damp earth to crumpled, dry grass. Once he was confident he wouldn't trip, he allowed himself to breathe.

Which hurt.

Every pull of air placed an uncomfortable pressure on his ribs, like his lungs were pressing up against them. The respirator made taking full breaths difficult. Out of every deep inhale, most of what he breathed in was particulate and radiation that the mask filtered out. It made fighting in one a battle with asphyxiation.

Even away from the tunnel, Hyroh felt lightheaded. During the short distance towards his speederbike, little black spots flit across his vision. Specks of ash landed on his eyes, inconsequential at first, until they started drowning out the light.

Hyroh steadied himself on the handlebars. He was panting and nearly blind again, head hung low enough that it kissed the cold metal of the speederbike's frame. In, out. In, out.

He blinked hard. Though warped by the steel mirror, Hyroh could make out his reflection. Rakghoul blood - a deep green, nearly black - clung to every part of him, caking in his hair and the fur of his face, and likely staining his robes. Not that it mattered. Every change of clothes he brought with him to Taris were stained near-black with rakghoul blood. But they were in relative good condition otherwise, so Master Tsahet saw no need to requisition more.

His lip curled. His eyes hardened, so much so that they cracked the dried blood around them.

Then he cut his gaze from his reflection and forced himself into the seat. Leadened limbs reluctantly obeyed him. He managed to lift his wrist near to his mouth, pressing the button of his comm with the opposite hand. "This is Padawan Kaah. The tunnel's been cleared out. I'm on my way back."

He didn't bother waiting for the reply.

Hyroh didn't remember the ride back. This was normal. After every tunnel, time seemed to - skip forward, like someone else was pressing fast-forward through his own life. Or maybe it was himself with the controls in hand, ever impatient and wanting to skip right to the good parts. The parts that, at least, were not here. On Taris.

He wasn't always clearing them alone. The first several dozen, he did with Master Tsahet. The rakghouls more or less ruled Taris in the wake of the violent, total destruction of its cities. Other fauna posed lethal threats if encountered, but none colonized Taris' surface so successfully as the sick and corrupted survivors of the bombardment.

He threw up, the first time he smelled the insides of a rakghoul. It reminded him of the races that the grunts at Fort Garnik ran when they were bored. He heard whispers from classmates, and conspired to follow a few (naturally, they hadn't invited him) after school that day.

Five thousand credits to the brave soul who makes it across the minefield with all their limbs attached, cried a Republic trooper in dusty, dirty white, like a carnival barker. Five thousand credits was a small cut out of a trooper's salary. Five thousand credits could feed a refugee family for two weeks, if they were smart.

Master Tsahet's golden lightsabers tore that first rakghoul apart, and it smelled just like the elderly man that Hyroh knew had lost his home and most of his family in a Separatist attack the previous year. Most of his family, save for two of his young grandchildren. The mine had blown him ten, twenty feet in the air, and left pieces of him scattered over the entire field.

Hyroh ran from the tunnel, sobbing. Throat burning from the bile and tears. Master Tsahet cleared that first tunnel alone.

Then he got an earful once they returned to Olaris. Being a Jedi would ask far more from him than this, Master Tsahet said, and did he really think peace (if they could call it that) with the Empire was truly going to last? No, one day, they would ask Hyroh to fight a war just as they asked Tsahet and his master.

This was what it took. The rakghoul blood had fully dried by the time he was struggling his way off the speederbike; little flakes broke off and fluttered off on the breeze every time he moved. His boots met the broken up slabs of duracrete. The little tufts of grass peeking up between the cracks were crushed beneath the soles of his feet.

Partly to guide it, mostly to keep himself upright, Hyroh set the speederbike to hover and pulled it along by the left handlebar. Out from underneath the cover of the jungle, the sun beat mercilessly upon his head. Even after three hundred years, the planet's ozone layer hardly recovered. Probably the radiation.

His free hand shielded his eyes so that he could make out the two guardsmen posted at the main gate into Olaris. Hyroh's jaw tightened. He forced his chin higher, and dropped his hand.

"Hold on!" The guardsman to his right called as he came closer to the gate. Hyroh drew a breath and his boots shuffled to a halt. He held one arm in front of him, palm skyward, and the other loose at his side. The guardsman - Hyroh recognized him from the new platoon that arrived last month; a Human with tousled, sand-blonde hair - approached him warily, fumbling for their checker.

Hyroh's attention switched to the other guard. Yes, he remembered this one. Whatever his actual name was, he didn't know. All the other troopers just called him Ripper.

The Twi'lek glowered down at him while his Human partner pressed the checker - a small, cylindrical device with an opening at the bottom - to his forearm. "I was wondering what that smell was," Ripper sneered. "Was gonna call Command and tell 'em there had to be a horde coming our way. Turns out it's just you."

Hyroh flinched when the needle punched into his flesh. "It was a big colony." He watched his blood fill the checker's small repository. "I counted twenty-six on my way out." Likely, he missed a few. Some hadn't died cleanly enough to be recognized as one body. Rakghouls could not be counted while they were alive. Their hulking, hunched forms would lead one to suspect that they were slow, though brutish in strength. The latter was true, the former was not. They were faster than they had any right to be. Not only that, but once you swung at the nest, it was as though they poured forth from a bottomless well. You could never know if you'd gotten them all until the tunnel finally fell silent.

Then you could count.

The Human withdrew the checker from him and studied its interface carefully. They must've been new to guard duty. The checker always took longer than you'd think, for such a small amount of blood.

"Twenty-six?" Ripper echoed, brow rising incredulously. He wrinkled his nose. "By yourself?"

Ripper had two long, curved, parallel scars on either side of his mouth. Beginning at the corners, they stretched all the way to the hollows of his cheeks. The left scar rippled as Ripper's lips pulled into a sideways smirk. It was not the sort of scar one earned in battle. Hyroh saw similar ones, born by those who fought like dogs upon scraps. It was a scar done with the intention of sending a message; like a slave brand, it marked you forever. A scar like that, they held you down for. Someone with a scar like that wouldn't be keen to be pinned down again.

Hyroh's ear twitched. "I don't need you to believe me." And it was true. His first month here, he might've balked at the insinuation that he was a liar. He saw no need for it now. The blood told the story plain enough.

"Oh, I believe you." Ripper's grin grew. "Based by the smell, I thought it'd be more."

Hyroh felt it keenly. The flick of a match being thrown into the tinder at the pit of his stomach. But the tinder, and everything else, was too wet. Soaked with green-black, sticky, viscous blood. He was exhausted. The drive back had done little for his energy; on the contrary, it sapped him almost entirely of whatever he had left.

"I must've missed the bathhouse on the way back," Hyroh replied tiredly. Inwardly, he grimaced. Master Tsahet hated it when he talked back. It's unbecoming, he remarked, and that wasn't a new criticism. Master Le'raya expressed similar sentiments from time to time, though she intended them gently and constructively. Stand up straight, with your shoulders back, so they take you seriously. Speak with grace, and always remember you are representing the Order, and, perhaps most often, try not to swear, Padawan mine.

Master Tsahet was a quiet man. He spoke low, hardly above a whisper, and refused to raise it in order to demand attention. If Hyroh missed him, if he was enthralled with a task and either ignored or never heard at all Tsahet's mumbling, the Jedi Master would not repeat himself. Which usually meant that Hyroh also missed a vital task, or assignment, or their training for the day had been pushed up, and so on.

The first lesson of Taris was to never make Tsahet repeat himself. The second was to listen, and to listen always. Tsahet's first warning had been it's unbecoming, and the second had been, when they mock you, or rebuke you, you take it. Let it pass over and through you. To acknowledge it injuries your pride, which invites anger in retribution. That is not a path you can take.

The Human soldier looked up nervously. Their green eyes flit between him and Ripper. Ripper, whose face had gone dark.

"You think you're smart, huh?"

Hyroh bit his tongue. Quite literally, lashes fluttering from the pain of it. Any harder, and his fangs might've gone straight through.

The checker chimed. Both he and the other soldier looked down at it. The interface glowed green. "He's clear."

Hyroh dipped his head. "If you'll excuse me." The words burned at the back of his throat. He knew men like Ripper. Fragile prides like the hollow bones of birds. Bitter, caged, in their own way, even if enlistment was voluntary. They had no power - not over themselves or their fates, not over their comrades, and certainly not over the war. At any moment, whether by blaster or grenade or airstrike, their infinitely significant lives could be over. Crushed like a bug.

But what control they did have, what little of the game they could play and decide the outcome, they brought their resentment and bitterness and rage down upon those who had, somehow, even less power than them.

Hyroh hated them. It was a strong word, and not an emotion befitting a Jedi, but it was true. People like Ripper blew up war orphans' grandfathers for a fun afternoon, and what point was there to being a Jedi if he couldn't stop them from doing so? What good was he?

But, on top of the exhaustion of the day, he did not need Tsahet's disappointment. Hyroh chewed his tongue and angled past the two soldiers, making for the gate -

(Sometimes, he thinks the Force is betting against him, and rigging the game.)

The warning came a moment too late. A flash in his mind's eye of a large, meaty hand, just as fingers hooked into the pocket of his hood and yanked. Hyroh choked, breath kicked out of his lungs all at once as his body lurched backward, like he weighed nothing.

"Get -" Hyroh began to snarl once he gulped down breath, trying to spin to face his attacker. But Ripper only yanked again, dragging him, like a dog on a leash. Hyroh's voice cut into a strangled cry. His ankles kicked and slid across the duracrete road and found no purchase. He reached back blindly, claws unsheathed, and grappled at Ripper's wrist. The Twi'lek only swatted him away.

"Keylan, get the hose," Ripper called over his shoulder. Hyroh's eyes widened. He watched, mouth agape, as Ripper's Human partner looked helplessly back. They chewed their bottom lip, met his eyes, and then - then they looked away.

"Stop it," Hyroh croaked, no more than a weak push of air. Keylan turned, following after Ripper toward the gate, where there was an emergency fire hose hooked up to the outer wall barricading Olaris from attack. "Let go. Let go of me!" He felt his claws cut into the meat of Ripper's big hand. The man winced, but he didn't let go. He didn't even budge.

Then the ground disappeared beneath him. Hyroh braced himself even if he couldn't see for what. His head met the barricade first, snapping against it and bouncing off. His vision exploded with bright, blistering white light. Terrible, awful pain erupted at the back of his skull and reverberated through the bones, all the way into his jaw and chattering up to his teeth. It ran down his spine too, momentarily snapping the connection between brain and body. He was falling still, knees too weak to hold him, and he landed in a graceless heap of limbs on the duracrete.

But even through the pain, even though he was exhausted and sore and bruised and now potentially concussed, instinct was a powerful force. Hyroh, still half-blind from white spots in his eyes, found his mainhand 'saber at his belt and brought it in front of him in a guard. White turned fierce blue as he depressed the ignition switch, and he had to squint past it just to make out the fuzzy, hulking shape of Ripper standing over him.

Hyroh bared his teeth and growled.

Ripper chuckled. He stood with hands set on his hips. A few winks of blood drip-dropped off of his hand. "And what are you planning on doing with that, youngling?"

Hyroh's tail snapped to-and-fro. Though it hurt, he dragged himself up onto one knee. "Defending myself. So don't make me."

Keylan reluctantly appeared beside Ripper. They weren't very strong-looking; kind of wimpy and frail, like how Hyroh himself looked when he was inducted into the Order. The hose was enormous in their hands - they had to hug it against their chest just to keep it up.

The Twi'lek took it with another bemused snicker. And it took no effort at all, for a man like that to hold the emergency hose. Hyroh's gaze flicked from Ripper's face to the mouth of the hose. There were all kinds of ammunition inside Olaris, as well as the fuel depot and the farms that grew some of their food - Olaris and open fires did not mix. These hoses were for quelling any sudden outbursts, or incoming vehicles if they were damaged and throwing flames. The water pressure needed to not only put out but put down a fire was immense.

"If you do that," Ripper began, and Hyroh forced his chin up to glare at him, "you're gonna be in a lotta damn trouble." Ripper cast his eyes down to the hose, then jerked his head at Keylan. They didn't look at Hyroh as they went to the spigot. "Don't you know they got a place for bad Jedi?"

Hyroh's ears pricked up. Then flattened. He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his lightsaber. "And what would you know?"

Ripper shrugged, jostling the hose. "Maybe I don't know shit. Maybe it's all rumors. But, y'know, I gotta feeling that good Jedi don't get sent to Taris. Good Jedi aren't stuck clearing rakghoul tunnels like hunting dogs." Ripper flashed his teeth in a wide grin. "If you can't even take that, what else can they do with you? They gotta have a place they put the bad dogs they can't do nothing with."

Instinct was a powerful force. A living being's instincts are primed to react against real and perceived threats. Instinct was the enemy of a Jedi. Instinct was rash. Instinct was action without cognition. Instinct meant people get hurt because someone else got scared.

But what was the difference between instinct and precognition? What was the difference between relying on instinct, and relying upon the millions of little warnings and blips from the Force that piled on, day after day? Was that not what he was being trained to do, being sent into the rakghoul tunnels and fighting - in the most literal sense - for his life?

They wanted to take his teeth. His edges were filed knife-sharp because they had to be. You couldn't be someone that the soldiers saw amongst the crowd and thought there, that's the one - the one that was young, old, weak or sick. That, when the crowd took to running, would lag behind the rest.

There was no clear answer as to what the Jedi wanted from him, or what they wanted him to be. No response that he could give that would be correct. Eventually, sooner or later, he was going to fail them all. And maybe Ripper was right. Maybe they would put him somewhere, or put him down, if he spun and bit someone he wasn't supposed to. If the hunting dog spun and bit the hand that fed it instead of the acceptable target.

That is not a path you can take. What other one was there?

Hyroh lunged. Even in his terror, he wasn't foolish. He angled his blade and intended it to only graze Ripper's hand. An ultimately painful, but temporary injury that would force him to drop the hose.

Too late.

Water burst from the hose's mouth. A tidal wave, if the wave was also made of trillions of individual, needle-pointed daggers. The pressure blew Hyroh back into the wall. At point-blank range, when his head hit the wall a second time, the world plunged into black rather than white.

For a breathless, infinitesimal moment, Hyroh was nothing at all.

Then, unfortunately, he was something again. A painful, cold something. Hyroh groaned and gargled and squinted through his lashes. He could not see anything except stray shafts of light and a massive shadow over him.

"Stars, you still reek," came a deep, fuzzy voice overhead. "You're gonna bring a whole nest on us like that."

Rakghoul were cannibals. Hyroh did not witness this much himself, because he and Tsahet left every tunnel entirely devoid of life. Nothing could be spared. But he read it somewhere, surely he had. Then, through pain and ache and fear, he recalled one of his first outings into the jungle. Him, on the back of Tsahet's speederbike, holding on tight to the Jedi Master's armor. They were on recon, and Tsahet brought the speederbike to a crawl when they both spotted a pale shape nearby, bowed over another pale, faceless corpse.

The corpse, upon closer inspection, was a rakghoul. And so was its devourer. They were all that remained of Taris' civilization, and they would endure and survive at all costs.

And, without eyes, smell was the rakghoul's primary way of tracing the contours of the world. Rakghouls knew intimately the stench of flesh, including their own.

Hyroh heard, more than he saw, a vibroblade being unsheathed. His eyes went wide and feral, though it did little to clarify his vision. Instinct, or the Force, or whatever the hell they wanted to call the cold, clear, protective lightning that jolted through his nerves and propelled his limbs in defense of a threat he couldn't wholly perceive - he kicked wildly and threw out his arms, a vicious snarl bubbling up his throat.

A large, meaty, warm hand grabbed his skull - his skull, it dwarfed him, it could crush him - and pushed it down. Ground his face against the duracrete. Hyroh shrieked furiously, and his hands scrabbled to attempt to leverage himself up. The weight bore down harder.

"Ripper, I don't know if -"

"You wanna deal with a bunch a' rakghouls trying to climb the barricade?" Ripper shifted his position. Hyroh hissed and spit against the ground as the Twi'lek planted his knee across his shoulder blades. In the corner of his eye, Hyroh saw the wink of his vibroblade as Ripper brought it to his tunics. "Or you just scared of getting in trouble?" Keylan didn't answer. Ripper huffed. "The bitch attacked me. It's self-defense."

Tears burned in Hyroh's eyes. He couldn't move, and his pulse thundered mightily in his ears. He couldn't move, and suddenly all he could hear was Ripper's vibroblade sawing through fabric. The warm, Tarisian breeze hit him where fur was exposed as the blade drew down, splitting his tunic open at the side.

Even his jaw was locked shut. All sounds of resistance had frozen up in the back of his throat. He couldn't see - what he could see was a kaleidoscope of refracted light - and all he knew is if Ripper wanted, he could drive that blade right between his ribs. His life was as fragile and insignificant and easily ended as the rakghouls he was wearing on his robes.

"What is this."

Instinctively, Hyroh's head snapped to attention. Except all he did was push up a little against Ripper's hand before it fell back to the duracrete. Ripper too, went quiet and still. A beat, then two, and he finally breathed again.

"Master Jedi -"

"What. Is this."

Keylan spoke first. "Uh, we - I mean, Ripper -" they swallowed nervously. Hyroh blinked through his tears enough that he could make them out. They'd moved from the spigot, but they were still several feet away. Their hands shook in tightly balled fists at their sides, and they glanced from Ripper to Hyroh. Their brows furrowed. Almost apologetic. "We - Ripper told your Padawan that he needed to clean off before he came in, in case he attracted rakghouls. He said no, and then he - he attacked."

Hyroh inhaled a ragged breath. "You - you liar," he spat. His lungs trembled as he struggled in another gulp of air. It was hard to do much, with a man at least twice his size putting his full weight on top of him. "You coward, you pathetic piece of-!"

Tsahet reeled toward him. "Not another word." It was quiet, but it was not soft.

Hyroh stared desperately up at the Jedi. "Master Tsahet, you have to believe me."

Tsahet merely looked away. He ground his jaw as he regarded Keylan, and then Ripper. "Captain," he started, addressing the latter, "get off of him."

Ripper slowly returned the vibroblade to its holster, removed his knee, and then finally withdrew his hand. Hyroh stayed perfectly still as the Twi'lek stood up and brushed himself off. Hyroh hated him, he hated him, he -

"Both of you will explain this incident to Governor Saresh, and you will tell the truth." Tsahet folded his hands behind his back. "Do not bother to lie. There is no defensible or justifiable reason for trying to forcibly disrobe my Padawan. At least if you are honest, your punishment will not be as severe."

"Sir, he really did attack me," Ripper blurted.

"And you had him subdued and the situation well in hand, Captain. Anything further was unnecessary cruelty." There, something scathing entered Tsahet's tone, like he was near to being sick with disgust. He paused, then added, "need I discuss with the governor your intentions to motivate you to take accountability for yourself? She is willing to overlook a lot of bad behavior, but not that."

Hyroh didn't dare lift his head, but he sensed Ripper's heart drop to his stomach. "Sir, it wasn't -" Ripper stopped, presumably cut off by the harsh, steel-gray and steel-cold glare that Tsahet leveraged at him. Ripper bowed his head. "We'll tell her, Master Jedi."

Tsahet acknowledged that only with a slight nod of his head. "Leave us."

Keylan and Ripper didn't need to be told twice. Hyroh watched, still on the ground, as the two scuttled off like dogs with tails tucked between their legs. It brought him a little satisfaction to see them scared. But only a little.

The Rattataki finally regarded him again. Hyroh's pleasure dissipated like smoke. He was terrified to move, so much so he didn't realize that he was still locked in the position that Ripper had manhandled him into: flat on his stomach, cheek rubbed raw against the hard ground.

He flinched as Tsahet moved toward him. But he moved slow, purposefully so, and kneeled next to him. Cool fingers brushed through his locks and found the back of his head. Tsahet's face contorted, jaw pulled ever tighter, crow's feet jumping at the corners of his eyes. Then he closed those eyes, and breathed deep in through his nose, and the vicious, rolling sea that had risen up in the Force relaxed back into a still, smooth plane of water.

"You should be able to move. But be careful, Padawan. We will have to get you checked for a concussion."

Hyroh put his hands underneath himself and pushed. The world spun when he lifted himself up, and he would've fallen right back onto his face if Tsahet hadn't caught him by the shoulders. Carefully, his master guided him to sit upright.

Half of Hyroh's tunic slipped right off his shoulders, flayed open at the seam. He gasped and moved quickly to try and pull it back up. It was hardly indecent, and he wore his bindings underneath, but it still - it still.

He glanced to Tsahet, mouth flopping open as if to - apologize? Plead? But Tsahet had - closed his eyes. He had closed his eyes, and was shrugging off his cloak. Hyroh stared in disbelief as Tsahet pulled his arms out of the sleeves, turned them right-side out again, and enshrouded him in it. Shakily, Hyroh grabbed the corners of the worn, warm, musty smelling cloak and held them tight to cover himself.

Tsahet opened his eyes. He was silent for a time, gaze flicking over Hyroh's face and hair and the shaking whole of himself. Then he sighed; a deep, tired sigh, like he'd been holding it in for years rather than moments. "Did you?"

Hyroh's mouth was dry. "Master?"

"Were they telling the truth?" Tsahet didn't sound frustrated, or impatient, just - tired. That seemed worse. "Did you attack them?"

Hyroh bristled. He would not let Tsahet shame him for this. "You weren't there, you didn't hear the things that bastard said to me!" Bitterly, he wondered if Ripper would've dared to say them at all if Tsahet had been there.

Tsahet sighed again and pinched his nose. "So you did. Padawan -"

"No. No, you do not get to tell me this was my fault," Hyroh snapped. He wanted to throw Tsahet's cloak off, or rip it to shreds. He would not accept kindness if it was accompanied only by admonishment. "I did exactly as you've asked me to. Maybe I talked back, but I wasn't going to push him. I knew I was angry, and I was walking away! Master, I was walking away, and then he attacked me first!"

Tsahet looked down at him. He scanned Hyroh's face again, like he was looking for something there, an answer that he didn't have readily available. Hyroh pushed on. "I'm hot-headed, fine. I'm impatient, fine. I don't have respect for authority or - or whatever! But I did exactly what you said I'm supposed to do. But how must am I supposed to take before I'm allowed to defend myself?"

"You think it's about whether or not you defend yourself?" Tsahet asked wearily. "Hyroh, I never told you that you should disregard your physical safety." Hyroh thought about rakghoul tunnels, and black-green blood, and doubted even that, but he bit his tongue. "Defending yourself is one thing. But this was a matter of your pride. It always is."

"I wasn't even trying to attack him, I was going to disarm him, like you taught me to."

"But you wanted to do more than that, didn't you?"

Hyroh fell silent. There was no point in lying. Tsahet seemed to know him better than anyone else, sometimes.

Tsahet rubbed his face. "Try your best to believe, Padawan, that everything I say and teach you is for your own good, not because I am out to get you." Grey eyes met his. "Maybe you intended to disarm him. But your 'saber was guided by fear and rage, invited in by the threat not simply to your body but your pride. You do not hide your hate well." Hyroh flinched viscerally, but Tsahet continued undeterred. "A weapon is a fickle, unpredictable thing when wielded by hands driven by emotion. No matter how sure you think you are, it can slip -" Hyroh's breath died in his throat when sunbright, burning gold burst into his vision. He hadn't seen the movement, hadn't even sensed it, but all of a sudden Tsahet's lightsaber hovered just to the side of his neck. Any closer, and it would be burning the fur. "Whatever control you believe yourself to have over your weapon and your abilities, know that it can disappear faster than you can even perceive."

Hyroh, pupils narrowed to slits by the blinding light, glanced between Tsahet's blade and his eyes. He kept his breaths shallow, so as not to touch the ignited lightsaber by accident. Apparently noticing this, Tsahet deactivated it and returned it wordlessly to his belt. Hyroh gulped.

"Hyroh." Tsahet inhaled, then gently put a hand to his shoulder. Hyroh blinked hard, and resisted the urge to run. "All I want for you is to have learned the lesson I hadn't known at your age. What I teach you, I learned firsthand. I don't wish that pain upon anyone, especially not you." He inclined his head. "Could you live with yourself, if you killed someone you didn't intend to? Someone who cared about you?"

Unbidden, Hyroh saw his Master. She was sitting, legs folded underneath her, on a scraggly, grassy knoll overlooking the low tide outside of Oradam. Her robes were traded for simple worker's garb, her hair tied up and underneath a hat. It was a rare pleasant day, and the sun shone on her warm, orange face, and her hands folded in her lap had a few less tattoos than they did now. She turned toward him, and smiled, and silently patted the grass beside her.

He decided in that moment, without realizing he'd been deliberating on it at all, that he could never tell her about this day. No, not even this day - he could not speak to her of Taris, ever. He would need to fabricate a lie of this entire blasted, ugly year. He could not tell her of all the ways his life had been put in danger. He could not tell her that they all made him into their dog.

"No," Hyroh said hollowly. It was the right answer. It was the only one he could give.

Tsahet nodded, whether in sympathy or because he was appeased, Hyroh couldn't tell. It didn't really matter either way, did it.

Tsahet's knees popped as he stood. In some distant memory that wasn't actually as distant as it felt, Hyroh made some joke about it, and Tsahet had smiled at him. He held out his hands to Hyroh. Silently, Hyroh took them, and allowed himself to be pulled up off the ground. "Come, let's get you cleaned up."

Hyroh looked down at himself. Despite being hit with the full force of a high-pressure emergency fire hose, designed to smother fire out of existence, to douse every single inch of it with unrelenting water, there was still blood stained into his robes.

#MEMOIRS.#( oc. ) hyroh kaah #( oc. ) tsahet #( dynamic ) — hyroh kaah & tsahet #hey i finally remembered to crosspost this! yahoo!#for prosperity and what not /lh #generally speaking i will crosspost all fics it just took me awhile with this one because i kept forgoring

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victorygrasped · 7 months ago

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Rly need to use tumblr more,,,, well trying to get back into editing in between working on finals and im just gonna say aroace venture my beloved

#void rambles #going go b making full set n posting but aroace venture save me save me aroace venture #immediately clocked as aroace the second they were revealed #tried for more posterized vibes than i usually go w/ not sure how i feel but will mess around more when i work on others #might try n make full sets w/ the ones i made on twt like ace or bi ram uvu #pride edits are fun to make #but nods. rly want to use tumblr more #w/ twt exploding and all going to. eventually try bsky as well #but tumblrs always going to be my belovd bc of tags #god i love rambling #one of these days ill. actually continue crossposting my writing but for now #woe! singular aroace venture edit b upon ye #sighs. back to finals hell #me when im a bit silly w/ it (i am behind ten trillion assignments and there are less than 2 weeks left)#at least when its over #locking back writing bc GOD i miss writing sm

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eggshellsareneat · 2 years ago

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Alright, I think I like tumblr now.

A pun post crossed my dash, and I reblogged it with an equally bad pun in return. A couple of my followers find it funny, it's a good day for everyone.

That was on July 7th.

Virality on Reddit was entirely algorithmic. You could garner a couple crossposts, but the success of a post was entirely dependent on whether or not it hit r/all--the main page of Reddit. If your post does that, it's immediately exposed to 10x the number of people and immediately gets upvoted.

On my pun post, I get a couple reblogs. And those reblogs get a couple reblogs--nobody really adds any content to the post, it just gets a couple reblogs here and there.

There's a specific chain of reblogs that I'd like to focus on. The most popular post on this chain has about 25 reblogs on it. Half the posts have three reblogs or fewer. Five posts in this chain have just one reblog total.

But the reblog chain keeps going. And going. It breaches containment many times over. And finally, after a chain THIRTY SIX posts long, at 9:30 AM, July 22nd this morning, it hits a popular account.

99% percent of the people who have seen the post--virtually unchanged from how it left my dash--have seen it because it was curated by 36 different people. That's insane to me.

None of those 36 people know that they're part of this chain. They saw a post, reblogged it, and moved on. If any one of these people had not reblogged, the post would have a fraction of the impact it has.

And yet, after two weeks, the post has effectively hit the main page of tumblr. It was picked up, only because people liked it enough to show it to their followers. There were no algorithms necessary.

You really, truly, cannot get this on any other website.

#eggshell writes #reddit migration #tumblr culture #reblog graph #new to tumblr #text post

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m-robinavitch · 30 days ago

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in passing.

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot/Wife!Reader Summary: While working opposite shifts for two weeks, Jack Abbot finally gets a day off to spend with his wife. But in true Jack Abbot fashion- he needs to make sure you knew what you had missed out on. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, age gap relationship (older man/younger woman), soft!Dom Jack, overstimulation, teasing, spanking, and Dr. Yapper with his gremlin smile comes with his own warning. Crossposted to AO3

“Hmm, there better be a damn good reason you’re waking me up, Jack.” You smile, sighing into the way your husband’s lips dragged across the back of your neck- his heavy hands pushing your hair to the side as he makes little bites and nips with no particular direction set yet. He needs to shave- you think to yourself, biting your lip a bit from the scratch of his stubble along your neck because it feels good.

“Mhm,” he nods, smiling into your neck and wrapping his arms around your waist to drag you closer into his chest. “Missed you.” Mumbling, his fingers tease along the bottom hem of the shirt you were wearing to bed- his shirt, the one he was given in basic. Ratty, seams coming apart slightly with every wash but it was so soft and smelled like him and didn’t even fucking fit him anymore yet he still complains that you steal his clothes. You weren’t asleep- not really. You knew that he would be home soon and you expected him around now, 6 am- crawling into bed behind you and grumbling about how you’re on his side, in his spot. His pillow smelled like him, his side was firmer and it felt like sleeping in his arms when it was like this.

What was this? This- was two weeks of opposite shifts. Two weeks of him working evenings and you on rotating shifts- working wherever you were needed and currently one of the ED residents was on leave, so the morning shift was where you were needed for the time being. It was fine. You liked everyone you worked with but it was hard because you missed Jack. Not just working with him- which honestly was fun but he annoyed you to no end with his incessant need to be the dominating player on the team. But you worked well together- he could count on his wife favorite resident to flank him when he needs, hands working in unison, knowing which clamp he wanted or what to push in the patient's IV before he even asked. Missing him at work aside- you obviously missed him at home too. You missed sleeping next to him, wrapping your arms around him, eating dinner together and laying on the couch with him to watch whatever stupid war documentary that was on because he just had to see.

You had both been trying to work with seeing each other only in passing for the last few weeks. Where you were waking up to make breakfast for you both- spending only 30 minutes together while you sip your coffee before work and Jack fights sleep to spend those few precious minutes with you. Where you were coming home from work while he showers before he leaves for the night- then jumping in with him, kissing the freckles along his shoulders until he has to physically tear himself away from you to not be late again. Where you were making him something to eat for when he wakes up and he was making you dinner so you can just go home and rest, not worrying about anything else other than sleep. A quick kiss while you’re leaving the Pitt, passing him in the stairwell on his way in. Where you were sitting for a few minutes on the roof together after he’s brought you coffee so you can wake up for your shift, just giving each other details of what to expect or what patients were waiting on what before he leaves to go home and sleep. You didn’t even have any days off together. On his days off, Jack had been at the VA hospital with Mel- volunteering some of his limited free time. On your days off you had been helping the resident who had been on leave, maternity leave to be exact- cooking, cleaning, or just holding the baby so she can have a shower or nap. It was fine. Everything was fine. You just missed Jack. And he missed you. And you both finally had a fucking day off together.

“Prove it,” you smirked, still laying on his side of the bed with his chest at your back- kissing your shoulder while letting his hands skim up under your shirt now. You knew he missed you but right now it’s been so long since you’ve had him in bed with you- you just had to tease him. “You don’t miss me. Such a very neglectful husband.” Joking, hearing him scoff at your words but continued dragging his hand up your shirt to cup your breasts.

“I am- so fucking neglectful,” he nods, shoving his hand to come out the neck of your shirt, just so he can grab your jaw and turn your face to him- catching your lips in a desperate kiss. “You should just divorce me. You can keep the house, the kids, the cars” kids meaning the ones you’ve adopted at the hospital- Whitaker, Mel, Santos, Mohan, and Victoria, “just let me fuck you one more time- one more time and I’ll sign wherever the fuck you want me to.” His hand returns to its spot on your breast, palming at it now and you try to giggle at his ramblings but he’s pushing his hips into your ass now- letting you feel how fucking hard he was, moaning in your ear and dammit you missed him so fucking much. His other hand trails down to snake into your underwear- well, it would if you had any on and he groans when he realizes it.

“Think you can slip the kids in there like I wouldn’t notice?” Mumbling into his lips, moaning at the feeling of his fingers running along your slit, collecting the wetness that accumulated after only moments of finally being with him after two weeks. “We split custody, 50/50.” He’s manhandled you a bit- hovering over you now and dragging your shirt up just enough so he can circle his tongue around your nipple, hooking your legs over his hips for him to be able to grind into your uncovered center.

“70/30 and I keep a car.” Jack negotiates, biting your nipple and tugging a bit before coming back to kiss up your neck and lips again. Thrusting your hips up, you use a leg as leverage to roll him back against the bed- clambering up to straddle his hips now and grinding your own down to elicit a whine from him.

“60/40 and you can borrow a car.” Giggling, you pull at his clothes, tugging his boxers and undershirt off- the remaining few clothes he hadn’t rid himself from in anticipation and excitement of getting into bed with you as soon as he was home. You were able to drag your bare pussy over the underside of him now, he was impossibly hard- his cock pointed up, laying flat against his lower stomach and the veins were giving you the perfect texture to grind on. Jack’s large hands settle on your hips, digging into them to guide your movements a bit and if you tilt your hips back just so- the tip of him could easily slide into you and-

“Deal,” he nods, sitting up so he could nip along your jaw- pushing your hair back from your face as his teeth map out a path to your lips again. You sigh into the feeling- letting your arms hang off his shoulders while you lazily kiss him, enjoying the way his slightly chapped lips you know you gave him lip balm and you’re sure it’s shoved into his backpack and lost way at the bottom gave texture to the pleasure, it was something that felt very- Jack. You don’t stop the way your hips move, canting into his slowly while he traces his tongue along your bottom lip- opening your mouth for him so his tongue can swirl around yours. “Now let me fuck you baby, it’s been two weeks.” He thrusts his hips up now, trying to roll you both over so he can be on top but you shove him back down to lay flat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You ask, reaching under you to grab his cock as you rise up on your knees- teasing the tip along your lower wet lips. Jack rises up on his elbows now, groaning at the feeling of your wetness and anticipation of finally being inside you but-

“Trying to fuck my wife? What are you doing?” He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head like it was obvious- oh. Oh no he’s acting like he doesn’t remember. You knew he remembered, he tries to sit up fully so he can hover over you but you shove him back down again.

“No? I’m fucking you- it’s Monday, I’m on top.” Yes- you did have to make a schedule due to some nights there would be fights over who would be on top and sometimes no sex would happen because neither of you would relent. And of course in true Jack Abbot fashion- he would always try to switch days or say he’s had a hard shift and deserves to be on top or ‘Are you sure it’s not my day?’ And before he could argue more or poorly gaslight you into believing it’s his day- you sink down onto him quickly, gasping and sighing in relief. Two weeks has maybe been the longest you’ve gone without fucking him, not counting the time you banned him from the bedroom while you were studying for your Step 3 exam- that was purely a necessity because there was no way you’d be able to focus with the man literally breathing down your neck.

“That’s not- f-fuck that’s not fair.” It was never fair. That’s the point. And you giggle at his frustration- rolling your hips into a steady and slow rhythm. Jack didn’t try to argue the point anymore, his hands found their way onto your thighs- caressing gently while you got to work on fucking your husband the way you wanted. You liked it slow, loved rocking your hips just right to where you could feel every inch of his thick cock rub against your g-spot, where the curls that collect at the top of his pubic bone kiss at your clit with every roll of your hips. You have one hand on his chest- hand flat to keep him from leaning up and trying to roll you over really pulling the dog tags around his neck slightly, then brushing against the dusting of hair along his pecs before dragging your nails down to his taut stomach- still maintaining his fucking abs at his age was a gift you didn’t know you wanted. Your other hand dragged up your own body, feeling his eyes on you because if anything, your husband had a staring problem and especially loved to stare at you. You kept his eye contact- biting your lip in a smile when you lean back now, hand on his thigh to brace yourself and continue to roll your hips, sighing at the feeling of his cock just grinding into your wet pussy.

“Keep going baby, just like that,” he’ll let you have your fun, for now- but Jack couldn’t deny that you looked fucking ethereal in this moment, riding his cock like you were made for it, sunlight just peeking through the blinds now and kissing your skin in a golden glow. He’s obviously been on edge the last few weeks- but he’s not too proud to admit that burying himself into your cunt keeps him sane, that fucking you into your shared mattress keeps Jack’s patience leveled. Because he can already feel the stress melting away from his body with every slow move you make. He’s watching you drag your hand down your body, fingers circling around your clit and you shudder- clenching around him at the feeling and Jack groans out something almost painful. He can’t cum yet- fuck he needs this to last. “Good girl- play with your clit a little more.” If you cum first then he’ll feel better about blowing his load so fucking fast. But you need to cum first.

“Play with it for me,” You smirked, grabbing his hand from where it was squeezing your thigh- dragging it along to right above where you both were connected. He blacks out for a moment- he thinks. Jack circles his calloused thumb around your swollen clit, slow tight movements that work in tandem with the way you rolled your body on top of his. Your other hand grabs his free one and drags it up your torso, settling on your breast, palming at it with warm heavy hands- leaving you moaning from the added sensation. You started to roll your hips faster, leaning forward a bit to place both your hands on his chest to secure your movements. You were so fucking wet- you could hear it with each pass of your pussy across his cock and you would almost be embarrassed from the sound but you were so fucking worked up that you gave no shits. He could feel you leak from around his cock- using the collection of wetness to rub your clit faster. “Like that baby- fuck keep doing that.” You praise him. Even with such a minimal effort, the swirl of this thumb along your clit had your body on fire- the sparks of your orgasm starting to tease along in your gut. Jack rolled your nipple between his thumb and index finger- groaning when you whined, clenching around him again. You were close- he could tell. He could feel it in how your body was reacting- he just needed to push you a bit farther.

“Let me help you baby,” Jack sat up now, ignoring your protests as he removed his hand from your breast- using his arm now to wrap around your waist and pull your chest closer to his face so he can get your nipple into his mouth. Oh. Fuck- it’s was good. His mouth sucked and bit your nipple while he continued rubbing perfect circles around your clit- stubble scratching your chest but gave that extra bit of pleasure that had your thighs tightening around his hips. Fucking asshole, he knew exactly what to do- exactly how to make you cum fast. You tug on his curls at the back of his head- making him moan and bite down on your nipple now before giving a soft kiss so he can give the other equal attention. Fuck you were so close and this was so good- but you needed him deeper. Using his shoulder as leverage, you rose up on your knees until he was just notched at your entrance- looking down at him from where he was sucking marks along your chest and smiling when he nodded, almost begging you to slam down on his cock and you’re definitely not one to deny your husband. You are and you’ll deny him on purpose to be a bitch- just not this time.

Slowly, so teasingly slow, you sank back down on him as you stared into those fucking eyes you love so much- seemingly dark and brown but you spent so much time staring into them when you first met that you realized they’re hazel. Golden flecks on the inside and rings of green on the outside- you could get lost in them if he’d let you. He would. He would do anything that you asked- minimal complaints. He groaned now, eyebrows scrunched up and mouth slightly open as you sank back down onto him so devastatingly slow- just to feel every ridge and vein of his cock until you were seated onto him once more. Tugging on his hair again- you force his mouth against yours- moaning into a hot kiss, tongue and teeth mostly but shared breaths from the panting of your efforts. The hand around your waist dipped down a bit to grab a handful of your ass, helping to guide you onto his cock- up and down and he’s trying to get you to move faster because he needs to feel the slickness of your wet pussy around him. “Faster.” He barks out- tugging your bottom lip between his teeth, slapping your ass hard for emphasis.

“Stop topping from the bottom Jack.” You scoff- trying to comply, but honestly your thighs were starting to burn and were sore now from just the width of his hips keeping you open. He needs more and it’s so hard to keep composure when you're gently bouncing up and down onto him and he can’t fucking take it anymore. You’ve had your fun- his turn now. He reluctantly removes his fingers from your clit- kissing your cheek when you whine but grabs your hips with both his hands to keep you still, hovering just above him. You knew what he was going to do- you braced yourself on his strong freckled shoulders for it. He keeps you immobile- heavy hands settled on your hips and you couldn’t move even if you fucking tried as he thrusts up into you. Dammit- he was going to ruin you. You couldn’t take the hammering, the devastation and ruin of the pace he started to pound into you from below. You couldn’t make a sound- mouth hung open from the pleasure that started to build up in your veins. You’re so fucking glad that you were still impossibly wet- aiding the slide of his thick cock spearing up into you because the were still some resistance just from the fucking girth of him.

“Someone sounds pretty fucking ungrateful for how good they’re being fucked right now-” he growls out- removing his hand to slap your ass again. He was only slightly right. You weren't being completely ungrateful because he was fucking you so good- just how you like it. He tilts your hips just slightly back, angling them so he can fuck up into your g-spot and you’re sure you scream from the pleasure and you just pray the neighbors don’t call the cops again. Heat courses along your veins- the familiar height of a peaking orgasm strangles its way down your spine to settle into your gut, pulling each wave higher with every thrust of his cock up into you. His pace doesn’t falter- one thing about your husband is that his stamina is still that of a fucking soldier. More than 10 years your senior and you’re the one panting and exhausted after being fucked into the mattress while he can go at least another two rounds with just a sip of water- as a treat. You bite his shoulder- not carrying if it hurts him because this feels so fucking good and you need to not scream in his ear but he’s threading his fingers through your hair and forcing you to look at him and- “don’t hide now baby- you wanted this remember?” He doesn’t stop wrecking into you, doesn’t stop slamming his hips up into your wet pussy- smirking when you close your eyes and his hand slams back down onto your ass because ‘you know better honey.

“Wait Jack nooo-” You whine, feeling him shift so he can shove you back to lay at the foot of the bed while he settles on top of you, cool metal of his dog tags now against your chest to soothe the marks he made- never fully leaving the delicious tightness of your cunt. Asshole. At least you lasted longer on top this time. “You’re such a dick.” You moan out- wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively before he can do it for you. He didn’t care- well he did but in his mind he’s fucking you so you can relax and let him do the work, ‘it’s a love language honey’ he’d tell you. And it was so hard to deny that logic as he drives himself into you deeper, burying himself so fucking deep that it pushes you farther down the bed and your head is hanging off the edge now but it gives him access to kiss along your neck and suck marks on your collarbone to match the ones adorning your chest.

“I know- a neglectful dick of a husband who fucks you so well,” he replies in a mocking tone- taunting you while kissing along your neck and jaw now, so gentle and sweet in contrast to the way his hips were slamming into your own. The sound was bouncing around in the room you shared- sweaty hips against each other, panting and moans that were muffled by sloppy kisses, Jack fucking talking so much that you know he’s about to cum when he finally does shut up, which he hasn’t- not yet. “Now you can’t divorce me- who will treat your pussy this good baby?” He’s baiting you now- getting you riled up from the way his mouth spews filth and nonsense into your ear while he tugs the lobe between his teeth. You just accept the pleasure, sinking into the bed with one hand braced on the wall next to you and the other clawing at his back while he drills right into your tight heat, unwavering speed that has you gasping for air, holding your breath with the impending orgasm in sight. “I said who?” He slows, pulling out and letting his cock rest between your folds now- slapping the side of your thigh now and grabbing your jaw so you can look into his eyes. “Lemme see those pretty eyes while you tell me who fucks you this good.”

“J-Jack- don’t stop,” you whine, your voice pitching at the end- frustrated and wiggling your hips a bit to get him to wreck into you like he had been. He chuckles, squeezing your jaw tighter and it opens from the pressure- his thumb sliding in for you to suck.

“Don’t be greedy,” he clicks his tongue while slowly dragging his cock back and forth between your wet lips and letting the tip catch your clit but pulling back before it can really do much else other than stress you out and beg, “I’m being very fucking nice to you right now- don’t be a greedy little girl.” He notches at your entrance again, just teasing the tip slowly in and out to annoy you now. He doesn’t count on you still being so fucking pent up from two weeks of deprivation that you roll your hips into his, shoving yourself forward so he can ram back inside your wet cunt. It catches him off guard, the way you angle your hips so you can fuck yourself on his cock in desperation- sucking on his thumb and moaning helplessly while trying to catch back up to the fleeting orgasm from only moments ago. You’re fucking sight to behold in his eyes- chasing your own orgasm, taking it from him and he smiles now because- “that’s my fucking girl.” Pulling his hand away from your jaw and burying his face into your neck, he grab both your thighs to spread you open for him now so he can absolutely fucking ruin you.

“Fuck- Jack,” the way you say his name is stuttered a bit with every thrust he pounds into your tight pussy. Your thighs start to shake, being forced open by his hands- you’re sure there will be bruises tomorrow in the shape of his fingers wouldn’t be the first time- won’t be the last. “I missed you so much baby, fuck I love you, I love you so fucking much.” He moans into your neck, nodding with every single whisper or whine that you spit out as you drag your fingers through his curls to pull. When you’re close to a mind altering orgasm, you start talking- babbling almost incoherently about anything, how good his cock feels, how good he fucks you, how much you love him. When Jack is close- it’s the only time he ever fucking shuts up, concentrating on making you cum first before he can even think about getting there, listening to the way your voice gets higher like it does when your about to cum, feeling your thighs shake and your pussy clenched around him.

“I’m- I need you to cum okay?” Pressing his forehead against yours, gritting out the words because it takes so much of his fucking energy to think and speak as he’s sliding viciously between your legs- the feeling has him drunk off your pussy and he needs to concentrate. You just nod, whimpering and inching your hand between you both to rub your clit but he catches it- pulling it up to kiss your knuckles before- “let me do it baby- let me.” He mumbles, dragging his rough hand down your body now and you swear you see stars when his fingers finally trace around your clit lightly. Even when he’s teetering on the edge of cumming so deep inside you with so much of his load- he needs to make sure you’re taken care of first. You tried. Fuck- you had tried so hard after that first week to get yourself off. Laying in bed with your fingers as deep as they could reach- but they weren’t like Jack’s. Didn’t reach like his could- didn’t fill you up like his and you just ended up annoyed and frustrated and digging in that box of toys for that vibrator he uses on you when you’re tied up to the bedpost and begging him to fuck you. It still didn’t work and after hours of trying you were in tears.

“A-almost, fuck- almost there Jack,” the thick drag of his cock was laying waste to your pussy- demolishing every single thought you had about anything. The only thing you cared about in this moment was your husband on top of you, burying his face in your neck and biting his dog tags to keep from cumming until you’re ready. A few more rough thrusts, a few more rolls of his fingers around your clit and then it finally happens- the drop. The sick fucking drop of your gut and the pleasure takes over to seize your body in a blinding orgasm that has your mouth open in a silent scream- which would’ve been his name if you had any neurons available to do so. You thought your orgasm would inspire one in him- thought the spasms and clenching would push him to cum but he preserves. His pace falters slightly but Jack doesn’t stop, lets the dog tags fall from his mouth to lick up your neck and into your mouth now- tasting the way you whine and sigh, lazily letting his tongue trace along your own. His pace is slow now, removing his hand from your sore clit and inches his way slowly through your walls because he doesn’t want this to end. He’s been deprived of your body for two weeks- he tried to use his hand, fucking his fist in the shower while leaning against the tiles but it did nothing. He couldn’t cum no matter how much he thought of you, no matter how he stroked himself, fast, slow, hard, gentle- he wanted you.

You know he wants to cum, you know Jack is using whatever sense he has left to force himself to make this last. You’re whispering to him- telling him it’s okay to cum, that you want him to cum inside you so bad. That makes his hips stutter, his resolve starts to crack because you’re begging him to cum now- begging him to fill you up with his cum and he’s fighting within himself. Between the feeling of wanting to cum so fucking back inside you and wanting this to last- he’s struggling. He forces himself to slow down more, resting his entire body on yours for a small bit of relief while just- grinding into you now as he figures out if he wants to cum or feel your hot, tight, throbbing pussy for longer. You’re bordering on the edge of too much- but you’ve missed Jack so much that you just lay there and take it. Take the impending overstimulation from how he lazily fucks into you. One of your hands comes to thread through his sweaty curls now, almost trying to soothe the tension that he’s creating within himself. You feel the tightness in your gut again- the first orgasm opening the door to countless more because your husband is fucking relentless and can’t make a decision on which way he wants to kill you. Jack mindlessly kisses and licks at your neck- moaning when he feels the trembling of your thighs from another devastating orgasm and you can only whimper through it. He pauses- momentarily because if he kept fucking your through your orgasm he’s sure he’d cum from the way your pussy flares and gets so much wetter. And once he knows you’ve came, his pace continues. Slow. Nowhere to be but in bed with you. Inside you

“J-Jack-” helplessly whining, ignoring the few tears that fall from your cheeks from a combination of pleasure and inching on pain. Not hurting but raw and sensitive no matter how fucking wet you still were. He doesn’t care- he makes a little shake of his head and a- ‘nuh uh’ sound that was muffled from being buried in your hair and shoulder. He can’t. Not yet. A few more minutes but not yet. He promises, mumbles that he will cum soon but he just needs to be inside you for a bit longer. The grinding of him inside you, not even thrusting just grinding to conserve his energy- has him rubbing against your sore clit and you can fucking feel another orgasm clawing its way up your chest and you have no time to mentally prepare because it’s slamming its way into you again. You shake and cry and whimper against Jack but he’s steady, sighing into the feeling of you trembling underneath him as if it was a comfort to him. He’s found his voice again- softly whispering praise into your ear and telling you how much he loves you, that he’s going to fill you full of his cum soon- ‘you’re being such a good girl for me baby, always my girl.’ You’re so tired and sore and the sun has finally risen fully to bathe your bedroom in light but you can only stare up at the ceiling, sighing with how softly Jack fucks into you because it’s so good- so fucking good but almost getting to be too much again. You can feel him throbbing inside you, his slow grinds have gotten sloppy- no real pace or rhythm to them as he’s losing the grip he had on his determination.

“Cum inside me Jack-” you whimper, turning your face to nudge against his, making him look into your eyes. “I want you to cum inside me baby- I need it so bad. Please Jack?” God his heart and strength shatter when you beg. He’s never really been able to tell you no- not when it mattered really. You were his biggest weakness, Jack Abbot was a man fucking whipped for his wife- you who just have to bat your pretty lashes at him and he’ll fall to his knees for you. And asking him to cum inside you? He only gets a second- maybe two before he’s stalling and tensing while he cums inside you, making sure to get it as deep as he can. He doesn’t move- not just yet. Mumbling incoherent praise and kissing along your jaw and neck that was red and rare from his stubble making a mental note to yourself to make sure he shaves later. Leaning up on his elbows he pants, groaning just a bit when he finally pulls his cock out of you but doesn’t leave your arms just yet. Shared breathing and giggles, soft pecks of your lips against his- pushing the sweaty curls that have fallen onto his forehead back.

“I love you,” he repeats, a final kiss as you happily moan into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and stretching the aching muscles a bit. Jack rolls off of you, coming to lay shoulder to shoulder now and his hand drops to catch yours, bringing it up to his lips to kiss where your ring was nestled comfortably on your finger.

“You need to shave,” turning to face him and running your hands over his jaw to emphasize the point. “Lucky you didn’t eat me out- would’ve had rug burn on both my fucking lips.” He barks out a laugh- intertwining your fingers together and letting your hands rest between you both.

“Guess I know how I’m waking you up then,” he smirks, turning his head to meet your eyes and-

“If you give me beard burn on my pussy you’re taking full custody of the kids,” you throw back, sitting up to stretch and for a yourself to stand because you absolutely need a shower now and-

“So is that a no to licking you awake or?”

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fic #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot smut #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x female reader #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x you #dr. yapper #my random typings

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halovians · 15 days ago

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࿐ ♡ ˚ . 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞. — 𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒙𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒔. ˒ ⊹

syn. where professor anaxagoras teaches you how to touch yourself properly. (3.1k)

cw. fem reader / shameless porn w absolutely no plot 2 be found / teacher x student dynamic (but its only briefly referenced tbh) / vaginal fingering / oral sex (f!receiving) / overstimulation / pet names used; good girl, starlight, my dear

love, oak! HELLOOOOOO we are so freaking back omg. what started out as what was supposed to be a wee little drabble ended up a monstrosity a little over 3k words (which like isn't much tbh but it's alot for ME!!!). i fear i'm a little rusty so i apologize if the writing is rough around the edges, but i just had to get this out of my freaking head. i listened to death by glamour on loop while editing this. also crossposted to ao3 here!

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI. NSFW UNDER THE CUT.

“So you’re coming to me for help with such a thing?”

Anaxa’s sharp gaze meets yours, pinning you in place. Your shoulders hunch slightly on instinct. Even with only one good eye, his stare is incredibly intimidating.

“Well— yes?” Your voice wavers with uncertainty.

Anaxa clicks his tongue, unsatisfied with your answer.

“If you’re so unsure, then I’m not quite convinced you truly need my assistance with anything at all.”

Anaxa’s office is quiet. Private, which is good for a conversation of this nature. Various candles flicker amongst shelves of books and side tables cluttered with research papers. Outside the window, the incessant night sky glimmers, stars winking down upon the Grove.

Silence sinks between you as his words register.

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you shake your head and cast your gaze towards the floor. Your voice escapes you in almost a desperate plea, “No, no— That isn’t it, I just-!”

“Look at me.”

Anaxa’s inflection is stern, but not cold, as he cuts you off. The command in his tone forces your eyes back up, clashing with the pale blue and magenta of his. The gold detailing on his eyepatch glints in the soft glow of the candlelight.

A pause. This time, when he speaks, it is gentle—uncharacteristically so for him. “What is it that you need?”

(You’ve always known the professor had a soft-spot for you, but it always takes you by surprise when it properly manifests. When it becomes something so glaringly obvious.

You suck in a breath. Your heart thumps traitorously beneath your ribs.)

Anaxa’s unusually soft tone causes your shoulders to slump, tension seeping out of your bones in a slow wave. There’s a beat of silence as you manage to steel your nerve. Repeating your request feels humiliating in a way, but at this point, you’re a little desperate.

“I need your help. With... with climaxing. I can’t on my own, and I’m so frustrated.”

The words fall past your lips before you can properly rethink it. Your face flushes with heat—with embarrassment—

Anaxa leans forward, arms folding on his desk. His soft chuckle stirs you from your whirling thoughts.

“And why, pray tell, are you seeking me of all people out for this?”

His question takes you by surprise. You glance away briefly, shame curling low in your stomach like smoke, but the sound of fabric rustling and a chair creaking draws your attention back to him. Anaxa stands slowly, a calculating look about him as he stares down upon you. He doesn’t say anything—he simply waits patiently for you to find the words you wish to speak. Your hands clasp together in your lap, and you find your resolve buried deep within you. The smoke dissipates.

“I trust you, professor,” you finally say. You mentally curse the way your voice warbles faintly. “You are the only one I’d ever think to go to with this sort of… issue.”

Anaxa makes a contemplative noise—something between a hum and a sigh. Slowly, he steps around his desk, fingertips dancing along the wooden edge.

“Just me?” A pause. “Not even Phainon? I know the two of you are.. particularly close.”

The mention of your best friend makes your spine stiffen. His head angles just slightly as the silence settles like dust. You carefully consider his question; then, you shake your head. Your voice comes out breathless, but unwavering: “No— just you.”

And there’s only truth there in your statement. With Phainon… you’re sure he’d be eager. He always is, when it comes to lending a helping hand. But this isn’t the sort of problem you plague best friends with. Maybe in another universe, another cycle— but not this one.

No. In this one, it is you and Anaxa. He is the one you crave the most.

A hint of a smile pulls at his lips—barely there, fleeting as a daydream. He beckons you with a finger. “Come. Sit on the desk.”

The night sky’s light filters through thin white curtains, bathing everything untouched by candle in a soft silvery glow. It casts Anaxa in a sort of ethereal halo, silver gleam and gold candlelight flickering against each other; it’s a sight you have a hard time tearing your gaze away from as you rise to your feet. But he waits, patiently, as you situate yourself on the cool wood of his work desk.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you have to shove a few papers and pens out of the way. Something clatters to the floor suddenly and you flinch, but Anaxa isn’t even bothered. His attention remains solely on you.

You swallow slowly, begging your nerves to settle down. Something like anticipation buzzes like static beneath your skin. Your eyes squeeze shut.

When you open them next, Anaxa is there in front of you.

Close. So, so very close.

You squeak despite yourself.

“Nervous, are we?” He observes.

“A little,” you reply.

Your candor draws an amused chuckle from Anaxa. Your heart flutters again— utterly traitorous.

“You have no need to be,” he says quietly. “It’s just you and me.”

He studies you for a beat, his eye drinking in your form. Slowly, so achingly slow, he reaches a hand out, brushing his knuckles along your jaw, across your cheek. He’s gotten so close now, his breath mingles with yours. His scent wraps around you, like parchment and sandalwood and something deeper— a hint of something citrusy, maybe. You feel lightheaded.

You shiver. Anaxa smiles.

“First,” He starts softly, as if trying not to startle a deer. “I’d like you to show me how you touch yourself.”

Your lips part slightly in surprise. Anaxa’s smile does not waver—in fact, it grows a little wider. Smug, almost.

His head tilts just slightly, pale green hair shifting with the movement. Your fingers twitch as you tamp down the urge to brush the stray strands out of his face.

“Right now—?” You stammer.

“When else, my dear? You’ve oh so bravely made your request—now it’s time to follow through.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow thickly. He’s right—if you were brave enough to ask, then you are brave enough to listen.

So, you don’t verbally respond. Instead, with trembling fingers, you slowly brush the fabric of your dress up your thighs, exposing the skin to him under the soft candle glow.

Anaxa’s tongue darts out briefly to wet his lips. Your gaze meets his, but his gaze is on the slow reveal of your flesh. Without warning, he places a hand on each knee, urging you to spread your legs. His hand is cool against your heated skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake as he lets them drift further up your thigh.

He doesn’t go much higher, though— he’s very intent on seeing how you pleasure yourself first.

Then he’ll think about touching you. If only to satisfy his own selfish cravings.

Your breath hitches as the silken fabric of your panties is revealed—already damp, soaked with the proof of your desire. There’s a satisfied gleam in Anaxa’s eye as you peer up at him.

His thumb brushes across your inner thigh, gentle sweeps meant to ground you in his presence. But really, it just makes the ache between your legs worse. You squirm a little.

“Don’t be shy, starlight. Go on.” Anaxa murmurs. No— he rasps. The anticipation is killing him, and if your eyes were to drift lower, you would see the way his cock strains against his pants— aching, wanting. All for you.

Alas, your attention is on something else entirely:

Starlight. The pet name shoots straight through your beating heart, a cupids arrow tipped in a sweet poison. And the way he sighs it, stars above; it’s like the blasphemer has finally found his faith, and he finds the truth nestled in the space between your ribs.

Your lips part, a little dumbfounded. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this. Anaxa shouldn’t be affecting you like this. Yet here you are, thighs slick with want, face flushed with heat.

He’s going to be the death of you.

Confidence bolstered by the way Anaxa seems to drink you up like the sweetest of wines, your fingers dip into the waistband of your panties. You toy with the elastic, teasingly, before peeling the fabric away.

(And Anaxa so kindly helps—you can’t stop the way your heart leaps into your throat as his hands settle on the curve of your hips, lifting you just slightly to lessen the struggle of removing your underwear. You try not to think too hard about how smoothly he does so, or the warmth of his hands against your sensitive skin.)

Arousal makes you ache. Your pussy clenches around nothing as Anaxa guides your legs open once again, a steady anchor between your thighs. Even in the low lights, he is enamored by the sight of you. Glistening with desire. Pliant. Needy.

Your breath leaves you in a shudder as Anaxa’s hands makes themselves at home on your inner thighs. His head dips, lips brushing along the shell of your ear as he breathes, “Show me.”

He doesn’t have to say much more than that. Your hand brushes the hem of your dress out of the way as the other descends, slowly gliding against your wetness. You bite your lip to suppress the whimper that desperately wants to escape you.

Gathering slick along the pads of your fingers, you slowly circle your clit. Pleasure zips through your body, the pool of heat in your stomach slowly growing deeper with every movement.

“Good girl,” Anaxa breathes, attention raptly on you. “Keep going.”

You let out a strangled whimper, fingers clumsily rubbing faster. It’s good— it feels good, but it’s not quite enough, like there’s something missing…

Anaxa kneels, and the movement is so sudden it snaps you out of your pleasure-fueled haze. Your lips part as you stare down at him, watching as his hands brace on your thighs. His head tilts just slightly. You can’t find the words to say—how to ask him what exactly he thinks he’s doing.

Heat blooms across your cheeks. It feels far too intimate, far too much, the sight of Anaxa kneeling between your parted legs as your fingers twitch over your heat. You wonder if perhaps this was a mistake. But then he hums, pleasantly, and you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I didn’t say to stop,” he says, huskily. “Go on— resume.”

And obediently, you listen. Your fingers slip lower now, dipping into your wet heat, starting with one finger, and then two.

All while Anaxa watches.

He looks almost calculating—like he’s mentally taking notes as you tremble and whine in front of him. It shouldn’t turn you on this much. Really.

But it does. And you’re sure he’s taken note of that, too.

Your head tilts back, a low moan falling like honeyed sin from your lips as you finger yourself. And then: a foreign feeling. A brush of fingertips not belonging to you, ghosting over your clit.

“Ah—!?” You gasp, but Anaxa shushes you.

“You’re doing well, but I suppose I should do what you asked of me, hm?”

Typically, Anaxa is much more patient man—but with the sight of your wet heat in front of him for the first time, your little fingers thrusting sloppily, he feels his resolve cracking much quicker than he’d like. A hairline fissure in his foundation, fracturing further and further until he feels it crumbling away. And when it does, his hand wraps around yours, pulling your desire-slick fingers away from your cunt. He brings them to his mouth, and you watch with lust-blown pupils as his tongue darts out, tasting the wetness coating your digits.

“Anaxa—?”

“Anaxagoras,” he corrects, but there’s no real ire behind it. Like he doesn’t actually mind your use of a nickname he believed to have hated.

(He finds that he does not mind it as much if it comes from you.

He tucks this revelation of his away to contemplate later. Right now, his attention is on the pretty pussy dripping for him. His tongue swipes over his lips, savoring the remnants of your taste.)

You’re still reeling from the sensation of his mouth on your hands, but he doesn’t let you sit long in your shock, as his hands move quickly to replace yours. He starts with one finger—sliding it into your wet heat, humming appreciatively at the way your walls clench around him. You let out a weak moan.

“You’re singing so pretty for me, my starlight,” Anaxa murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Don’t worry. I believe it best to learn this sort of thing through experience. So I’ll show you how to cum—again, and again, and again.”

His fingers are longer than yours. Thicker. They reach the spots you’ve never been able to quite reach, and when his fingers brush against a particularly sensitive spot, you keen for him.

Anaxa lights up, as if making a discovery worth screaming to the world. “There it is.”

And he presses against it. Over, and over, and over, like he had promised. One finger turns into two as he slips another inside, and the stretch has you whining as his fingers pump into you. Something foreign in your belly coils tight. Anaxa is deliberate with his every movement, making sure to hit that sweet spot inside you with a cruel precision.

The tension crests to a head when he leans forward to wrap his lips around your clit.

“A—naxa!” you cry, fingers curling into the soft locks of his hair. You give it a tug, but he only groans into your pussy, tongue flicking over your clit in tandem with every thrust of his fingers.

The coil snaps.

Your back arches as you cum, hard, a soft cry falling from your lips as Anaxa chuckles between your legs. It zips through you like lightning, sudden and sharp, leaving you feeling absolutely molten in its’ wake. His fingers pump lazily, drawing you through your high.

Orgasming.. is fucking fantastic, you think. You’d like to experience it again, perhaps.. though the thought of attempting to do so without Anaxa’s assistance is a little daunting.

You curse softly, bringing a hand up to clutch your face as you pant softly. Your other hand remains entangled in his hair—you give him a soft tug.

But he.. doesn’t stop. In fact, his fingers slowly pick back up. What was once shallow, aimless thrusts meant to coast you along return to that vicious preciseness from when he was working you towards your release.

“What are you—”

You’re cut off by a your own gasp when his mouth attaches to your clit again. Your eyes widen as the sensation rips through you, sharp pleasure just bordering on the side of too much.

“I-I can’t!” You cry. “Fuck— s’too much!”

“You can. You will.”

His voice is tinged with obsession, an absolute need to tip you over the peak again. If he could, Anaxa could perhaps spend forever between your legs, playing you like an instrument to draw out the sweetest of melodies your voice could produce.

Your thighs attempt to press together, your hand pushing at him as he continues to lap at your far too sensitive clit—but Anaxa is sturdy, unmoving, positively devoted to his endeavor of making you cum as many times as you can physically manage. He simply uses his free hand to hold you open while the other continues to pump into your aching cunt.

His fingers curl inside you just right and somehow, some way, it happens.

You cum. Again. It almost hurts how good it feels.

You gush around his fingers, and Anaxa laughs, bordering on maniacal. The mere sensation of his breath ghosting over your clit makes your hips jerk, and this time he lets you push his head away. He’s satisfied—for the moment, at least.

Anaxa withdraws his fingers, studying the way your essence coats his hand. He rises to his feet as you’re left to catch your breath. Tears line your lashes as you process the fact that Anaxa has brought you to orgasm not once, but twice, in quick succession. You didn’t even know your body was capable of doing that.

Dizzy, you look up at him, watching as he runs his tongue along his digits. When his eyes catch yours, all offers is, “I enjoy the way you taste.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you huff breathlessly, heat blooming across your cheeks.

Anaxa simply shrugs and turns to the side.

“Just observing.” He pauses. Then: “I’d like to study you more. Your body. The way you react. I find you fascinating.”

You blink at him—still feeling a little hazy from the brain-shattering orgasms he just inflicted upon you, it takes you a moment to realize that this is his way of asking if you’d let him do it again. If you’d let him continue to touch you in ways you’ve never let anyone else touch you before.

You slowly close your trembling legs, smoothing the hem of your dress back over them—where did your panties go?—and tilt your head as you process his statement.

You don’t think you’d mind baring yourself to the professor.

“Okay,” you say softly. At the sound of your voice, Anaxa turns back towards you. His face is carefully schooled into neutrality, but there in the depths of his eye, there’s a glimmer. Something warm. You fold your hands in your lap to prevent yourself from fidgeting. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Anaxa’s lips split into a smile, ecstatic at your agreeance. He approaches you again, the tops of his thighs brushing against your dangling legs as he looks down at you.

“Fantastic. Then— we shall continue to meet in here during the Parting Hour.”

You hum in agreement. Out of all things you had expected to occur this evening, establishing a routine of meeting with Anaxa for what was essentially nightly dick appointments was not one of them. You blink up at him curiously.

Suddenly feeling rather bold, you ask, “Will you kiss me?”

Anaxa blinks down at you— taken by surprise, you note none too smugly. There’s a pinkness that rises to his cheeks, faint, but against his pale skin it’s easy to notice. You smile.

“I suppose I can,” Anaxa finally murmurs, cupping your cheek with a hand. The way he caresses you is gentle. Perhaps a promise of things to come.

And with the stars as your only witness, Anaxa leans forward, pressing his lips to yours.

please don't repost on other platforms. rbs and comments are super appreciated ♡ !!

#☆ oakie writes #anaxa x reader #anaxa smut #anaxagoras x reader #anaxagoras smut #hsr x reader #hsr smut #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #anaxa x you #hsr x you #banners by cafekitsune

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spencerreidenjoyer · 9 months ago

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we've already done it in my head | spencer reid x reader

You have fantasies about Spencer, and you feel bad about it when you have to see him at work. Thing is, he has fantasies about you too.

wc: 4.8k, rating: explicit

tags/warnings: professor!spencer, post prison!spencer, bau!reader, fem!reader, sexual fantasies, masturbation, daddy kink, getting together, hookups, friends with benefits (?), mentions of public sex/exhibitionism (they don't actually do it), fucking with feelings but neither of them really realise it yet lol...

a/n: i am insane and that's all i'll say about this fic. jk i started this at the top of the month and i'm glad i've finally finished it. this was such a crazy one to work on, aside from being swamped with school work. thank you to my lovely friend from twitter vic who kept encouraging me to work on this hehe. inspired heavily by taylor swift's guilty as sin? (obviously) and chappell roan's picture you just for those horny yearning vibes yknow? please enjoy this insanity!!! (crossposted to ao3)

Spencer rushes in from the university when Emily calls. It’s a serious case, one that Emily decides Spencer needs to be pulled away from his teaching for. She doesn’t feel good doing it – the whole team knows how important teaching is to Spencer, but he understands all the same when he comes into the round table room. Spencer sits down at the last empty seat next to you, his hair a mess as he sets down his things and flips open the case file. He turns to smile at you, before Penelope starts the case brief.

It’s a long, tiring day of work after landing in California, the BAU having been called in to investigate the murders of young moms in the area, and you need a glass of wine and a nice hot bath to even fathom everything you’ve seen today.

You should just turn in for the night, the Bureau being particularly kind with their budget as you all get individual rooms. Your drowsiness should put you fast to sleep, but your mind is racing with thoughts of Spencer.

Spencer’s been in his nice suit all day, filling out his shirt nicely. You’ve noticed his stubble growing in, and his hair is messy and gorgeous. You can’t help yourself for feeling this way, as guilty as you feel about it. You’ve been harbouring your crush on Spencer for way too long, in the couple of years since you joined the BAU. Spencer is a sight for sore eyes for sure, but his kind gentleness despite the horrors of what you all do for work is a welcome reprieve.

While his sweet nature was what had you falling for him in the first place, Spencer could be extremely sexy, even if he didn’t know it.

Today was especially tough for you. You and Spencer were sent in to interrogate a particularly uncooperative suspect, playing into the good cop-bad cop dynamic. Your coaxing wasn’t doing anything, and Spencer had ended up raising his voice in an attempt to intimidate them. He’d slammed his hand on the table, a loud clang against the metal, and his large figure only served to crowd the suspect in to scare them further.

You only got to know Spencer after the mess that was him getting wrongly sent to prison, but Spencer supposedly wasn’t like this before prison. Still, you found Spencer’s quiet intimidation incredibly attractive, and you had to keep your composure in the interrogation room earlier.

And your mind drifts to Spencer from earlier, his rough callousness with the suspect, his glare wild and intimidatingly sexy, you end up thinking about him.

About Spencer, who is so kind and sweet with you and the rest of the team, seeming like he couldn’t hurt a fly.

About Spencer who could also be domineering and intimidating. He seems like he’d only pull it out if you asked, but the duality has you hot under the collar.

Your eyes slip shut, mind swirling with thoughts of Spencer, about having him all to yourself, about him wanting you.

About his large hands on you, making you feel so small under his firm grasp.

About him pinning you down on the hard, cool metal of the table in the interrogation room.

About him caging you in with his arms, the look in his eyes almost crazed and full of lust for you.

“Spencer,” you gasp, before Spencer kisses you fervently. His stubble is rough against your skin, but you don’t care. Spencer kisses you like he’s a starved man and you’re his next meal, with such desperation that you feel weak in the knees.

“You’re gorgeous,” Spencer says. He kisses your jaw, down your neck, and his large hands are all over your body. You feel so secure in his grasp, he feels you up and drinks his fill of you. He gropes your tits, your thighs, your ass, manhandling you into spreading your legs, so he can press the hardness of his cock to your cunt. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper, fully indulging in this wet dream as you slide a hand into your underwear. “Spencer,” you gasp.

“You’re so hot, you make me feel crazy,” Spencer hums, rolling his hips against you. You’re separated between layers of fabric, but Spencer humping you like this turns you on to no end.

You rub at your clit in tight little circles, your wetness aiding the slide as you get yourself off to the thought of Spencer.

“Spence,” you moan, frustrated. While Spencer’s hardness grinding against you is literally a dream, you want to imagine his cock buried inside of you. You’re perfectly capable of moving this along, so you do.

Magically, Spencer’s clothes are off and so are yours, the perks of a fantasy being that you don’t have to awkwardly stumble through taking your clothes off. You have a hazy picture of what he’d look like naked in front of you. You imagine toned muscle, a slight pudge to his tummy from his time in prison, his pecs filled out nicely. You imagine his cock would be pretty, as pretty as he is, veiny and thick and all sorts of perfect.

“You’re too fucking good to me, baby,” Spencer groans, the blunt head of his cock pressed up against you now. He rubs off against you, sliding over your clit, your folds, over the wetness leaking from your whole. “Gonna fuck you so good, just like you deserve.”

Without hesitation, Spencer’s cock slips into you, the perfect thickness to make you feel full as he slides in inch by inch.

You slip your fingers into yourself, aided by how impossibly wet you are just at the thought of Spencer, and your groan weakly. Two fingers aren’t enough, not when you bet Spencer could fill you up, like he’d split you in half on his cock.

He pushes into you until he’s pressed flush against you, buried inside of you to the hilt. He starts to pound into you, like he’s uncaring of what you need, but the way he treats you turns you on impossibly.

Your fingers aren’t enough to satiate you, but you thrust them in and out of you in an effort to mimic how Spencer fucking you might feel. You moan, a little louder than you’d like.

“Spence–” you gasp, in your fantasy. It should be scandalous, Spencer taking you over the table in the interrogation room. You don’t know if the thought of people being behind the one-way mirror turns you on or not – being watched, letting Spencer take you in front of everybody. You like the thought of Spencer being so obsessed with you, so desperate, needing to fuck you right where you work.

The metal table is cool and harsh against your hips, but you don’t care if it hurts as Spencer fucks you relentlessly, quickly taking on a brutal pace. It’s exactly what you need, what you want Spencer to do with you, being rough and frantic enough to make you scream his name.

You whimper his name under your breath, bashful even while in your fantasy.

Spencer has you pinned down, but it’s not like you intend to get away. You want to savour this even if it’s only in your mind, shameful as you’re getting off to the thought of your coworker. You just need this out of your system, need Spencer out of your system, and then tomorrow you can face him like a normal, well-adjusted person.

“Fuck,” you gasp, palm grinding against your clit, fingers pressed inside of yourself. You’re shaking, with the thought of Spencer fucking you until you can’t take it anymore, the ideal of him in your mind too perfect, until you’re moaning into your hand as you orgasm. You sob, clenching tight around your fingers, feeling your slick gush out as you ride your high.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but after both a long day and a crazy good orgasm, you end up passing out with a tissue clenched in your hand, with your panties and sleep shorts kicked off to the foot of the bed.

---

Spencer can’t stop thinking about you.

He shouldn’t, not when you’re his coworker and also one of the people he’s friendliest with in the unit.

Spencer would say he couldn’t bring himself to trust many, especially after coming out of prison, but you were the one he warmed up to the easiest. A new face in the BAU wasn’t uncommon, but Spencer had found himself drawn to you. You were kind and warm to him fresh out of prison, your tenderness a welcome reprieve as he’d gotten accustomed to being back at the BAU. With your intellect and quick wit, matched with your beauty, Spencer could not help but be attracted to you – but that’s besides the point.

Spencer knows how much your friendship with him means to you, and he’s certain that that’s all you see him as: a friend.

Yet, he can’t stop himself from thinking about you in those pants. Those pants that hug your curves just right. Those pants that make your ass look great – not that he was looking – especially when you’re leaning over an interrogation table, trying to play the good cop with the suspect from earlier.

Spencer had hung back, trying to get a read on the suspect while you spoke to him. Him getting to ogle your figure and stare at how good you looked in those pants was unintentional, but he definitely wasn’t complaining.

Spencer only felt a bit bad wrapping his hand around himself in the shower, mind flooded with thoughts of you. Water, almost scorching, running down his body, his hand moves fast and reckless, exhaling harshly as he gets himself off.

He can’t get you out of his mind, your gorgeous figure, your pretty face, your wide eyes and thick thighs and soft lips – he shouldn’t be thinking of you like this. You were a coworker, a friend, for God’s sake, and yet he can’t stop imagining you under him.

He can’t stop imagining pressing you against the table in the interrogation room – your lithe frame underneath him, making you look so small, making him feel so big.

He presses his growing problem to your perfect ass, watching you writhe underneath him. You keep looking back up at him, with your wide, wet eyes and your flushed cheeks, looking like you need him to give you exactly what you need.

“Please, daddy,” you whine, and Spencer is groaning and undoing his belt before your pants get pushed down too. Stroking his cock quickly, Spencer easily finds his way to your entrance, wet and dripping with your slick. He pushes into you, pressing kisses to your neck as you groan with the intrusion.

“Daddy,” you whimper, “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Spencer coos at you. Spencer feels you press yourself back up against him, pushing his cock deeper, and he loses all sense of control as he starts to fuck you hard. He feels like a madman, unable to hold himself back as he takes and takes and takes, fucking into your tight wetness, his head spinning with how good you feel around him.

You’re whining and moaning under him, your noises music to Spencer’s ears as they echo off the walls. Your cunt is wet and sloppy as Spencer fucks you, wanting to give you everything you need and more.

“Fuck, baby,” Spencer groans, his hand tightly fisted around his cock. The way the tip of his cock leaks is easing the slide, as he pictures in crystal-clear detail how your cunt would draw him in, slick and messy be fucks into your perfect, tight cunt. “You’re too good to me.”

“Daddy,” you sob, your hands clawing down Spencer’s back. Spencer gropes you greedily through your clothes, grabs your tits and feels his fill of your waist, your perfect ass, your thighs as he rocks himself back and forth between them.

“Gonna cum inside of you, love,” Spencer grunts, his pace unrelenting. His hands are on your thighs, gripping you tight, both fucking into you and dragging you onto his cock over and over. “You’re gorgeous. Gonna make a mess of you.”

You’re whining underneath him, making him feel too good, as you clench around him tight and moan even louder. Spencer can’t help himself, thrusting into you hard and fast and eager until he’s cumming.

He spills into his hand, the thick white ropes of his cum washed down the drain with the spray of the shower from above him. Visions of you flash through his mind, your gorgeous frame, your pretty face, your mouth on his.

He’s barely towelled off before he’s knocked out in his bed, too tired to even process feeling guilty about jerking off to you.

---

Sure, perhaps it’s childish to try and avoid Spencer all day, especially when you have an active case all of you need to be working on. You must be a fool to think that getting yourself off to Spencer would help, because all you can think about is your fantasies of him last night, how you imagined him bending you over and taking you– Not helping, you remind yourself.

Emily must secretly be on your side or be able to read your mind or something, because Spencer is relegated to work on geographic profiles and speed-read through case files back at the police precinct, while you get sent out onto the field to chase down your killer.

But you can’t avoid Spencer forever, and you aren’t any good at it either. You feel like Spencer’s eyes are on you the whole day when you and him are in the same room, but you never look up at him to find out. While you could chalk up your nerves to a serial killer still being out on the streets, you don’t have any more excuses at the end of the day when you’ve finally caught him, and the team decides to get dinner to celebrate.

You purposely wedge yourself between JJ and Emily when you sit down at the table, trying to avoid Spencer, and you think you’re successful with getting away with seeming a little out-of-it when you end up slipping away early, claiming you had a rough sleep last night.

You’ve barely settled down in your hotel room for the night, finally feeling like you can relax, when there’s a knock at your door. You have no clue who it could be, but you open the door, and–

There Spencer is.

“Hi,” you say curtly, feeling embarrassment wash over you all of a sudden, because all you can think about is getting off to the thought of him last night. You feel your cheeks warm, but you hope it’s not obvious that you’re blushing. Then, in an attempt to seem somewhat normal and well-adjusted, you add, “What’s up?”

“I should be asking you that,” Spencer says, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. “What’s up with you today?”

You press your lips together in a thin line before you say, “Nothing’s up. I’m fine.”

“Come on,” Spencer prods, his head cocking to the side as he deadpans. “You know I can read you like an open book. Something’s up.”

You frown, Spencer stoking the flames of brattiness in you. “Yeah? Tell me what’s the matter, if you can read me so well.”

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“I- I thought we said no inter-group profiling,” Spencer says, his voice a little weak, and for the first time, you see Spencer look a little helpless. It’s kind of hot.

Do you make him… nervous?

“Yeah, but if you insist on thinking something’s up with me…” You shrug, smiling. Spencer just blinks at you.

No. You couldn’t possibly entertain the thought.

Spencer clears his throat. You watch him fidget with his hands just slightly, before he puts them by his sides to seem confident. “Well, you’ve been avoiding me, on purpose or not – both attest to your desire to avoid me somewhat. You could barely look me in the eye all day, which means you might be embarrassed or guilty of something, likely having to do with me.” Spencer says, his voice even, but he isn’t looking at you.

You raise your eyebrows. His explanation is both specific and vague, and you feel slightly called out and safe from his scrutiny at the same time. But, you can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something more to Spencer’s words, the way he’s looking at you like he hopes you can’t pick his brain apart.

So, you turn it back onto him, “Then, what do you think is the problem? You aren’t looking at me either, and you were fidgeting with your hands. Is something up with you, then? It almost sounds like you’re projecting, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer freezes, like he’s a deer caught in headlights. You can practically see his brain running a mile a minute, overthinking every possible outcome, overly self-aware of himself, his actions, his thoughts.

You try to stop yourself from smiling, because Spencer is kind of cute like this. “You wanna tell me what it is then, Reid?”

“When did this become about me?” Spencer squeaks, his usually cool facade quickly disappearing. There’s a look in Spencer’s eyes, as he nervously looks you up and down, and oh– “I just– Well, I– You–”

“I’m thinking we might be on the same page, here,” you say, smirking. “Wanna tell me what it is?”

Spencer furrows his brows, his mouth agape as he looks up at you, but you’re putting your hand on his chest and trailing it down slowly. “Oh–”

“Tell me, Dr. Reid,” you cock your head, eyeing him up and down lazily. When you look at Spencer’s face, he’s shocked, enamoured and turned-on all in one.

“You’re… attracted to me,” Spencer says, somewhat uncertain. “The same way I’m attracted to you.”

“And what makes you say that?” You hum.

“I thought I heard you last night. Through the walls,” He says timidly, nothing you’ve seen from him before. “Thought I should’ve gone over to help, but I realised you were, um– You were pleasuring yourself. To- To me.”

“The walls are thin, huh?” You laugh, a little sheepish, but you note how Spencer’s becoming shy at the thought. “Did you…?”

His eyes grow wide. “Did I do what?”

You smirk. “That tells me everything I need to know, Reid,” you say, laughing.

“Well, you shouldn’t presume–”

“Shut up and kiss me, Reid,” you huff. You pull Spencer closer to you by his tie and you press your lips to his.

It’s too perfect, when Spencer’s mouth is finally on yours. His hands cupping your face, Spencer kisses you hard and eager, like he can’t believe that he finally gets to have you. He kisses you like he’s starving, desperate for you as his next meal. You moan as his hands reach for your hips, pulling you in closer to him, greedy as he feels you up.

“Did you fantasise about this too? About me, like this?”

“This is better than I could’ve ever imagined,” Spencer says breathily. “You… You’re so attractive.”

“Could say the same about you,” you laugh, reaching to unbutton his shirt. His tie is already loose, hanging around his neck, but you want to see more. You undo the top few buttons, revealing more of his chest. You trail your finger over the exposed skin, letting your nail graze it slightly. You hear Spencer inhale sharply, and grin to yourself, proud of the effect you have on him. “So, do you want to just stand around and talk, or do you want to fuck me?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, and you chuckle. As if he hadn’t expected this was how it was going to go. Spencer purses his lips. “I mean, absolutely. I want to fuck you. But, um– We should definitely talk about this though.”

“Later,” you say, waving him off, before you lean in to kiss him again. Spencer grabs your waist again, like he needs to have you close. He lifts you slightly, making you squeak, but the both of you stumble over to the bed, unable to keep your hands off of each other, unable to keep your mouths off each other. You sit down on the bed, Spencer crowding you in with one of his knees on the mattress.

You loosen his tie and take it off, while Spencer moves to unbutton your shirt. HIs hands move deftly, eager to undress you, and he pulls away to marvel at the curve of your breasts in your bra when he pushes the satin shirt off of you. “Wow.”

“Wow yourself,” you say. You appreciate the view: a dishevelled, eager Spencer Reid in your bed, his hands all over you, his shirt half-undone, revealing tanned skin and a gorgeous body. “Need you to fuck me right now.”

Spencer laughs, perhaps a little incredulously, and he instead moves to take his shirt off instead. “I’ll- I’ll do that.”

“Good,” you say, distracted as you admire Spencer’s frame, the lines of his body, the softness of his stomach. He’s so hot you might die. “Very good.”

“I’m glad you like the view,” Spencer says, a little timid, like he’s shy to show off in front of you. He meets your gaze when you look up at him, caught in the middle of ogling him with no shame.

You smile up at him sheepishly. “Please fuck me, Spencer.”

“Okay,” Spencer smiles, warm and gentle. He helps you slide your pants and underwear off your legs before you spread them. Spencer’s jaw drops, his eyes focused on the slick mess of your cunt. “Oh, my God.”

“Yeah?” you laugh, thoroughly amused with his reaction. “Show me how much you want me, too.”

Spencer’s hands are quick to push down his bottoms, dress slacks and boxer-briefs on your floor in an instant, wrapping a fist around himself as he works himself up for you. You can’t tear your eyes off of him – “Spencer, you’re… big.”

“Am I?” Spencer asks, and you’d lose your mind if you weren’t expecting Spencer to fuck your brains out.

“You are,” you say calmly, because if you let yourself sound any more excited he might think you were insane. “But I can take you.”

Spencer grins. “Good.”

His fingers press against your cunt after you tell him to do so. His slender digits pick up all the slick that’s leaking from your hole, spreading it around messily as he toys with your clit. You shudder with the sensation, throwing your head back against the pillows. Then, one of his fingers slips into you, and he coaxes you open with a care you haven’t felt from most partners before. “How’s that?”

“So nice,” you groan, getting used to the feeling. He fucks you on his fingers, slow and careful, intent on stretching you out until you’re comfortable. You whimper and whine, feeling embarrassed at how vocal you’re being, but Spencer is kissing your breasts without a care in the world, and then you’re thinking about letting him know that you do feel good. Your next gasp is less ashamed, as Spencer coaxes a second finger in.

You’re panting as Spencer fucks you on his fingers, the repeated motion only working you up even more. The squelch from his fingers fucking you is obscene, and his eyes are wide as he looks at you. “You’re perfect,” he whispers.

“Fuck me, Spence,” you say.

Spencer bites his lip as he sits up and settles between your legs. He’s tugging at his cock as he lines himself up with your entrance. He slides his length along your folds, wet with your slick, and you groan at the friction. You grunt, wanting more, “Come on, Spence.”

His hand on your leg, Spencer leans forward so he can press into you, and Spencer is practically folding you in half so he can fuck you. You moan at his thickness deep inside of you, filling you up, and the stretch is so undeniably amazing. Spencer’s length drags against your walls, such a delicious sensation deep in your bones, and you sob a little.

“Does that feel good?” Spencer asks softly, his voice tender.

“So good, Spence,” you gasp. Spencer kisses your cheek, down your neck, and waits patiently for you to give him the go-ahead.

You feel his cock twitching inside of your heat, both your fantasies unable to live up to the real thing. Confident, cocky Spencer in your dreams is just that – a dream. The Spencer right in front of you is perfect, more perfect than what you’ve dreamed: shy but so attentive and sweet. He takes such good care of you. It makes you lose your mind a little bit.

“Fuck me,” you insist, and Spencer puts his hands on your hips as he starts to move. He fucks you deep, just the way you need him, and you cry out as he digs into your soft flesh, holding you tight so he can fuck you hard. The way Spencer pounds into you has your whole body trembling, pleasure coursing through you like electricity, till your mouth has fallen open and your toes are curling.

“You’re so much better than I imagined,” Spencer groans, eyes squeezed shut as he puts all his energy into railing you. “Can’t believe this is real.”

You clench around him just to hear him moan, and you’re proud of yourself when his hips stutter and a groan rips through his throat in his pleasure. He glares at you. You grin, as Spencer keeps fucking you.

“What- Oh, fuck– What did you imagine? With me?” You gasp, as Spencer rolls his hips in a particularly deep thrust.

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut, before looking down at you, like he’s really contemplating if he should say this. “I– I pictured bending you over the interrogation table. Fucking you, making you scream my name, taking you right there, I–”

You moan as Spencer hits that perfect spot inside of you, your legs trembling as you gasp, “I– Why did we have the same fucking fantasy? Fuck–”

“What? You thought of me that way too?” Spencer sounds incredulous, like he can’t imagine you thinking of him that way– As if he isn’t drilling you into the hotel bed right now.

“Fuck, Spencer– Oh, my God– Yeah, I– You had me pinned down on the table, and you were fucking me in the interrogation room, in front of all of them–”

“God, you’re perfect,” Spencer grunts, burying his head in your shoulder as he uses the leverage to fuck you deeper, harder, faster. You can’t stop moaning Spencer’s name, simply too overwhelmed with the pleasure he’s giving you, the way he’s fucking you into the mattress. This is all you’ve ever wanted. Spencer fucking you like a madman, giving you all the pleasure you need but still being greedy enough to take and take and take.

“Please! Spencer, you– I’m gonna cum, I can’t–” You cry, sobs wracking their way from your throat, so loud but you can’t be bothered to keep yourself quiet. Spencer groans your name, a sweet, sultry sound, and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind.

“Cum for me,” Spencer hums. “You’re so perfect, and you’re laid out like this all for me. You’re so fucking hot. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You’re sobbing as your orgasm hits you, overwhelmed by Spencer’s filthy words and his filthier actions, so intense as he fucks you into next week. It’s too good, and you lose yourself much sooner than you expect. Your pussy clenches tight around Spencer with your orgasm, sending him over the edge as he fills you up, cock twitching as he cums inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, his weight comfortable as you both catch your breath. Your mouth feels dry, but you don’t care when Spencer is leaning over to kiss you again. It feels so right, this wild feeling you only thought existed in your dreams.

The next morning when the team is gathered in the hotel lobby to head to the hangar to fly back to Quantico, Emily gives you a pointed look, and Rossi is clapping Spencer on the back with a knowing grin. You apologise sheepishly, while Spencer grows red, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the team. He only meets your eyes, and the two of you share a smile. You can tell neither of you want this to end here. Maybe you’ll talk about it when you get back home.

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