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cleo-fox · 1 year ago

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Overtime

Summary: Sometimes, working overtime isn’t all that bad.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ minors DNI, sex, cunnilingus, teasing, light bondage, office romance.

Series: Overtime (I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel).

A/N: This was largely written prior to season 2 and posted right before episode 4, so it’s not entirely canon compliant and the parts that are may be compliant by accident.

Also, @give-me-a-moose and I were on a similar wavelength about Loki angrily reading romance novels and I would strongly recommend checking out her fic The Imagine Nation if you too are enthralled by this idea.

You don’t think that Mobius intended to keep Loki’s desk behind yours.

“It’s temporary,” he tells you apologetically. “He just needs somewhere to go for now, until I figure out what to do with him.”

“You’re talking about him like he’s a stray cat that you found,” you say.

“You won’t even know he’s there, I promise.”

“You’re still doing it.”

Mobius sighs and puts on his most sincere, earnest expression—the one that he always uses when he’s about to ask you for a stupidly massive favor.

And it’s only because you almost never, ever see this look from him that you back down.

“Okay, fine,” you say. “But he’d better be on his best behavior.”

Mobius puts his palms together and tips them toward you. “Thank you. You will not regret this, I promise.”

You sigh and shake your head. “Just remember this next time you’re budgeting for raises.”

But then—in a move that you certainly don’t expect—Loki ends up sticking around. And, in the subtle way that the stray you’ve been feeding slowly turns into your cat, Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. And strangely enough, Mobius’ assurances turn out to be more correct than not: Loki does a lot of fieldwork and is often away; when he is at his desk, it tends to be because he is working on more complicated missions, the ones that require poring over mountains of files looking for patterns and trying to untangle the slippery mess of time itself.

Your work is decidedly less glamorous than Loki’s—almost no fieldwork, lots of files. Endless files. Some days you feel as though you must have seen every file in the TVA’s extensive library and then you’re immediately proven wrong by another wing of filing cabinets that you swear wasn’t even there before.

Although he is generally well-behaved as your desk neighbor, Loki’s presence has a way of distracting you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, your gaze would still naturally drift his way, lingering on those regal cheekbones, that ink black hair, that cunning smirk. The way that the fabric of his dress pants clings to his thighs certainly doesn’t help, to say nothing of how his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He can make your heart start to race with no more than a casual glance in your direction and god help you if he gives you one of those devastating smiles. Luckily, you don’t think he takes that much notice of you. You have the sort of pleasantly dull exchanges of coworkers who don’t really know each other and he is almost painfully polite to you. It’s a strong departure from the way he interacts with others—with others, he is bold, charming, sarcastic, talkative, a far cry from the more subdued, almost courtly tone he strikes with you. It’s a difference that is so stark that you can’t help but attribute it to some sort of negative feeling on his end.

“How’s it going with Loki?” Mobius asks you during a one-on-one meeting a couple of months after Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. “He’s behaving himself, right?”

“It’s been fine,” you say, “though truthfully, I don’t think he likes me all that much.”

“What? Of course he likes you,” Mobius says. “Why wouldn’t he like you? You’re lovely.”

You shrug. “I dunno, he’s just different with me than he is with everyone else. Like…overly polite. It’s like he thinks I’m going to send him to the principal’s office or something.”

“Let me get this straight,” says Mobius. “First you were worried that he wouldn’t behave himself and now you’re worried that he’s too well-behaved?”

Privately, you realize he has a point. Outwardly, though, you’re not going to admit it. The sardonic tilt of Mobius’ mouth suggests that he knows this.

“No, I just…I don’t think he likes me all that much,” you say. “And he’s entitled to that. People don’t like each other all the time, it’s not a big deal.”

This is also a little bit of a lie—you do wish he liked you. Loki is so magnetic it’s hard not to want his attention. And with the matter of your silly little crush, well…that doesn’t help either.

Mobius sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. He likes you, sometimes it just takes him a little time to warm up. He’s a bit of a prickly guy.”

You bite down the urge to point out that you’ve seen him warm to other people almost immediately. This conversation has already gone on longer than you want and you are edging dangerously close to having to admit that you care so much because you have a big stupid crush on him, which is obviously unacceptable.

“Well, the point is that it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to project an aura of cool confidence. “I don’t have any complaints, he seems like he’s settling in, so let’s move on. Did you have any feedback on my recent report?”

The furrow between Mobius’ eyebrows deepens just slightly, the only indication that he doesn’t fully believe you. But for whatever reason, he decides to let it go and follows your change in topic without further comment.

This is one of the reasons you like Mobius as much as you do: he always seems to know the right moment to push and the right moment to bend.

You’re not sure if your relationship with Loki would have changed had it not been for the problem of Charles Berlitz.

The joke around the office is that after Mobius convinced Loki to work for the TVA, he needed something new to obsess over and Charles Berlitz was the next best option. It’s hard to say exactly who Berlitz is, as he has a tendency of showing up, well…everywhere. He is quite literally in every timeline, at least as far as anyone can tell. Sometimes he is an author, penning serious, scholarly essays on outlandish theories like the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment. He seems to have a fondness for all manner of schemes—he was responsible for introducing both homeopathy and multi-level marketing to no fewer than sixty different timelines. His ability to peddle bullshit naturally led him to politics—pick any rebellion, coup, or campaign on any given timeline and there’s a good chance you’ll also find Charles Berlitz.

Scammers and con artists are not atypical in your line of work, but what makes Charles Berlitz an enduring mystery is that he has never been found. You can have reputable documentary evidence that Berlitz was present at a certain time and location, but if you show up to investigate, he is never there. There have been some glimpses over the years—a shadowy face in the back of a crowd, the hem of a cloak disappearing behind a corner—but nothing concrete or substantive.

“Our ghost in the timeline,” Mobius had said in one of his more poetic moments at an all staff meeting, his voice overly hushed and dramatic. You had seen Loki roll his eyes and you had to fake a coughing fit to hide your laugh.

Time moves differently at the TVA, so it’s hard to say how long Mobius has been working on this case when he makes a breakthrough, but it’s not terribly long after your conversation about Loki. A campaign button had been found in an apartment that Berlitz rented for two years in the French Quarter. That particular campaign button could only have existed in one specific timeline and its distribution was limited. You aren’t entirely clear on all of the details, but Mobius seems to have a plan.

And unfortunately, that plan involves you giving up most of your weekend to work.

It’s near quitting time on what passes for a Friday at the TVA. Loki has been in today and you can hear him starting to pack up. Technically, he’s got twenty minutes of work left, but you’re not about to tell him that.

You doodle absently on your notepad. Technically, you’ve also got twenty minutes of work left, but realistically: nothing is happening.

“Oh, great, you’re both still here.”

In general, this phrase has never meant good news for you and when you look up, you see Mobius with a sizable armful of files.

Also not a great sign.

Mobius plunks the stack of files directly on your desk. “There’s been a development with Berlitz. I need you both to review these now.”

“It’s Friday,” says Loki, affronted. “Surely it can wait until Monday.”

“No can do. I need this done by Sunday at the latest,” says Mobius. “This is an all hands on deck situation.”

Loki glances pointedly at the office around you, which has already started emptying out for the weekend.

“All hands on deck, but most hands are already in the field,” Mobius concedes. “Which is why I need the two of you—” He points to you. “You because you’re good—” He gestures to Loki. “And you because you’ve got desk duty.”

“I beg your pardon—” begins Loki.

“He’s grounded,” Mobius says to you in an exaggerated stage whisper.

This is not surprising to you: you had heard a rumor last week about an incident that had occurred on a mission to the inauguration of Richard Nixon and you suspect that these two events are likely connected.

You look at the pile of paperwork on your desk. You could probably get through it on your own in a couple of hours, but if Loki’s helping, maybe you still have a shot at having Saturday to yourself. You bite back a sigh. “What do you need me to find?”

“Anything that mentions anyone from the Lucchese crime family or Nero Variant N2815,” says Mobius. “I’ll go get the rest.”

Your heart sinks. Farewell, Saturday. “There’s more?” you say.

“It’ll be triple overtime, I already got it approved!” he calls over his shoulder

You sigh and glance at Loki who is scowling at the pile of files as though they’d wronged him personally.

There’s a long moment of silence before you speak. “Is there any truth to the rumor I’ve been hearing about the Nixon inauguration?” you ask.

“If it involved a hot air balloon, then yes,” he says rather tonelessly.

“Well.” You pause as you stare at the pile of papers. “At least it was worth it.”

That at least earns you a hint of a smile.

Several hours later, your stomach is growling and you’ve developed a rather impressive crick in your neck.

You lean back in your chair, stretching your neck to the side and rubbing the knot that is pulsing in your upper trapezius. Office work has done nothing positive for your posture in general, but tonight’s work has you hunched over more than usual and your neck is aching.

You and Loki have made good progress, but your pile of finished and sorted files is scarcely comparable to the full cart that Mobius had brought in. Back when the evening was new and you weren’t quite so tired, you’d been optimistic about possibly having half a Saturday free from work; that hope has slipped away the longer the evening has dragged on. Now you’re hoping that you’ll still have a bit of Sunday to yourself and even that feels unlikely.

Your stomach growls again. You should probably eat something—you’d worked through your regular dinner hour in a fit of misplaced optimism. The cafeteria is closed this time of night, but there’s a vending machine not far from your office that has shitty coffee and mostly edible sandwiches.

You stand and stretch, stifling a yawn as you turn around. “I’m gonna grab a coffee and some dinner,” you say. “Do you want anything?”

Loki looks up at you from the file in front of him, blinking somewhat dazedly and running a hand through his messy curls. “I’d like to stretch my legs a bit, if you don’t mind the company.”

You honestly didn’t expect him to want to join you. It’s a pleasant surprise, certainly, but also a little nerve wracking in the way that interacting with Loki always is. He’s so handsome and aloof and you’re not quite sure how to talk to him without acting like a total fool.

But you’re also not about to say no, either.

“Of course,” you say, “I don’t mind at all.”

The TVA is unusually quiet at this time of night—the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the murmur of distant voices is all that accompanies the tap of your shoes on the linoleum. It only heightens the jittery, nervous feeling you get from Loki—like your stomach is filled with drunk, lightning struck butterflies.

“Are you finding much?” asks Loki as you enter the hallway together.

You shrug. “A bit. Mostly on the Nero variant. I’m not having as much luck with the Luccheses.”

“I’ve got all of their property transfers, I think,” he says. “Renato Lucchese never met a vineyard he didn’t like.”

“Or racehorses, from what I understand,” you say. “I think that’s how he lost most of his money.”

You arrive at the vending machines. Loki looks at the vending machines and then back at you, a somewhat puzzled and troubled expression on his face.

“This is what you meant when you said you were going to get coffee and dinner?” he says.

You shrug. “Yeah, what’s wrong with this?”

He points at the coffee machine. “Mobius calls that machine Satan’s coffeemaker, does he not?”

“Yes, but I know how to trick it into giving me something that’s almost palatable,” you say.

Loki gives you a rather dry look. “Something that’s almost palatable?”

“I mean, I’m just trying to manage your expectations. It’s still pretty shitty coffee, it just tastes less burned.”

He looks at you for a long moment before tilting his head toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s go.”

It’s your turn to look skeptical. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going out for dinner.”

He takes you to a twenty-four hour diner called Frank’s that’s maybe a five minute walk from the TVA. It’s one of those places with yellowing Formica tables and big booths covered in red faux leather patched with the occasional square of duct tape. It smells like coffee and grease with a faint odor of cigarette smoke despite the prominent no smoking signs.

“I wouldn’t have thought this kind of place was your style,” you say as you sit down in a booth next to the window.

“I’ve expanded my horizons,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you.

An older woman with greying blonde hair approaches your booth. She wears a nametag reading “Connie” in big capital letters, a sticker of a pink cat stuck on the space next to her name.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” she says as she hands you each a laminated menu. She looks at Loki. “You want your usual?”

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She turns to you. “How ‘bout you, hon, can I get ya started with something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

“All right, I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

You raise your eyebrows at Loki as she walks away. “You eat at diners and you have a usual order. My expectations are being completely upended.”

He returns your pleasantly amused expression. “And you have vending machine coffee for dinner. It’s a revealing night.”

“I mean, I don’t actively seek it out,” you say. “It’s a convenient option that I exercise only when I have no other choice.”

“No other choice?” A sly smile curls at his lips. “Do you not have the entire array of space and time at your fingertips?”

“Well, first of all, we aren’t supposed to use TemPads for personal errands without a supervisor’s approval.”

“Technically.”

“No, actually. It’s in the personnel manual. Like verbatim.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You would put yourself through the egregious physical suffering of vending machine coffee simply to appease the capricious whims of our cruel overseer Miss Minutes?”

You bite back a laugh. “You know she’s not actually our boss, right?”

“I can’t discount that possibility. She wields a concerning amount of power within the organization.”

Connie is back with your drinks—coffee for you and tea for Loki. “Sunday Special?” she asks Loki as she sets a metal teapot and empty mug in front of him.

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She looks at you. “Didya get a chance to look at the menu or do you need a minute?”

You’re feeling a little daring. “I’ll try the Sunday Special as well.”

“All right, two Sunday Specials comin’ right up,” she says, collecting your menus.

“So, what’s in a Sunday Special?” you ask Loki as you take a sip of your coffee.

“Boiled fish eggs, mainly,” he says, pouring the hot water into his tea mug.

“Liar,” you say promptly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look at the menu, how could you know?”

“Places like this don’t serve fish eggs,” you say. “Way too unusual and definitely the wrong price point.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to see,” he says with a playful glint in his eyes. The easy charm that you’ve seen him use with the others is on full display and it’s enough to make you giddy. Maybe he doesn’t dislike you after all.

“Well, if it’s fish eggs, you’re picking up the bill,” you say, “and I’ll be getting something else instead.”

“You’d really hold me responsible for your impulsive dinner selections?”

“Yep. And I don’t even feel bad about it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you could be so unforgiving.”

“Well, you don’t know me all that well.”

“To be fair, you keep to yourself quite a bit.”

“A little bit,” you say. “But also to be fair, you haven’t really asked.”

“On work time?” he says, widening his eyes in mock horror. “That would mean write ups for both of us, I couldn’t let that happen.”

“I think I know enough about you to know that getting in trouble is not one of your primary concerns.”

He gives you a sly smile, like you’ve caught him out and he likes it. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” He takes a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table and tears it open before pouring it into his mug. “Well, we’re on break now, so you can safely tell me something about yourself.”

You drum your fingers on your coffee mug. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, this can’t be the only part of your life. Who are you outside the TVA? What did you do before this?”

That giddy feeling comes to a screeching halt and you take in a long, slow breath. It’s a simple question, one that most people can answer to some degree. For you, though, it’s a bit more complicated.

“Well,” you say. You take a sip of your coffee, mostly to give your hands something to do. “I don’t actually know—I chose not to remember when they gave me the option.”

You’re surprised by how gentle his eyes are when you look up. “My apologies,” he says, “I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” you say and you really do mean it. “You couldn’t have known.”

Usually, you say something like this and then gently redirect the conversation, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to continue. Like maybe he understands difficult things and doesn’t mind hearing about something that others would shy away from.

“When they told us everything and said they could fix our memories…” You clear your throat and focus your gaze just above his shoulder. “It’s weird, but I just had a feeling that it wouldn’t be good for me to know…that something really bad had happened. So I asked Mobius to check for me, just to be sure…” You swallow, blinking hard.

You remember how sad Mobius’ eyes were, how he’d gently placed a hand on your shoulder and said, “I think you’re making the right call, kid.”

“It’s not really okay, is it?” Loki says softly.

You shrug. “I mean, it’s…it is what it is.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“It’s not a lie—”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow and you remember that he is, in fact, the god of lies.

“It’s more like…I can’t really miss what I don’t know, but at the same time, the reality of that absence hurts a little. So maybe not exactly okay, but not exactly not okay, either.”

There’s a lot of kindness in his gaze and you have to look away because it makes your head spin and your breath catch in your throat. “I’m not really sure if that makes sense,” you say.

“It does.”

There’s a silence between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“Do you…do you think you’d want to forget if you had that option?” You’re not entirely sure what prompts the question and you regret it almost as soon as it leaves your mouth. “I’m sorry, that’s probably too personal.”

He shakes his head and there’s a warmth in his eyes that you don’t expect. “I rather think I owe you one.” He pauses, running a finger around the rim of his mug. “Sometimes I do,” he says finally. “It can be quite painful remembering.” He worries his lip between his teeth. “But I’m not sure who I would be without the knowledge of my past, either.” His gaze flicks back to you. “What’s it like for you? Do you feel like you know who you are without those memories?”

It’s a good question—one you’ve never been asked. “I mean, it’s hard to say for sure. I think I do,” you say. “Sometimes I wonder if I was different in my timeline. Maybe I was kinder because I had different experiences that made me more empathetic. Maybe I wasn’t—maybe I was worse. Maybe I had a villain arc.”

He chuckles. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“I dunno, maybe it explains the vending machine coffee and my fish egg related threats,” you say and you feel almost giddy when he returns your smile. “Or maybe I’m the same and all those experiences that shaped me are just scars I can’t see.” You shrug and take a sip of your coffee. “At the end of the day, though, that timeline is gone. I’m all that’s left. It’s sad, but it’s also freeing, in a way.”

He nods. “Mobius has said much the same.”

You smile slightly. “Our philosophies are similar, I suppose, though I think there are probably more bits of his past self in his present self than he realizes.”

Loki grins. “It’s the jet skis, isn’t it?”

“I mean, I just don’t think most normal people spend that much time expounding on the reliability of the Yamaha engine versus the pure, raw power of the Kawasaki.”

Loki holds up a finger. “But have you gotten the lecture about Yamaha’s braking system?”

“I think I have that memorized at this point.”

“‘The perfect choice for families.’”

“‘You just tap the brakes. Just tap them. Perfectly smooth stop every time.’”

“‘Reliability meets affordability.’”

“‘You can’t say no to that.’”

You think you probably could have riffed on this for a bit, but you’re interrupted by the arrival of Connie with your dinner.

The Sunday Special turns out to be a fairly traditional breakfast—eggs, hash browns, two fluffy pancakes, sausage, toast, a little bowl of strawberries.

“Definitely lots of fish eggs in this meal,” you say to Loki after Connie leaves.

His smile is small, but genuine. “You haven’t looked under the pancakes yet.”

You feel it then, but you don’t fully understand until later that this dinner has unlocked something important between the two of you. After months of awkward, stilted conversation, it’s like you finally understand how to talk to each other. And you’re surprised to find that even outside of your big stupid crush, you actually like Loki. You like his sly smiles and his dry humor and how easily the two of you fall into a routine of playful banter. You click in a way that surprises you, in a way that makes you mourn the lost potential of all those awkward, stilted months and feel giddy about the possibilities ahead.

Dinner is over too soon and you walk back to the TVA feeling revived from the coffee and the conversation.

Disaster awaits you back at the office, though: you’d left a stack of the Nero variant files on your desk and evidently the construction was too precarious, as the entire pile had tipped off your desk and spilled to the floor, contents scattered everywhere.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. You’re not sure whether you want to laugh, cry, or scream. Possibly, it’s all three.

“Here.” Loki is bending down on the floor to gather the files. You studiously try to not ogle his ass or thighs. Or at least not obviously. “Clear off some space on your desk—I’ll help.”

Twenty minutes later, you’ve set up an entirely new system—Loki has dragged his chair over to your desk and the cart of unsorted files sits between you, like a surly metallic chaperone. And even later when you’ve sorted out all of the files from the floor, he remains parked at the end of your desk, a stack of new, unsorted files in front of him. Admittedly, it’s a lot more efficient for you to work like this: privately, though, it gives you a warm glow that has nothing to do with workplace efficiency.

“I’ve invented a new game,” he says some time later.

“What’s that?”

“Every time either one of us finds documentation showing Renato Lucchese losing money on a racehorse he was told was not a good investment, I get to have a drink.”

You look up at him. “Look, I know you’re a god and everything, but I am pretty sure that will kill you.”

He sighs and tosses the file into the Lucchese pile. “I think it would add a little excitement to the evening, don’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows and look back at the file in front of you. “You mean this isn’t your idea of a fun Friday night?”

“My idea of a fun Friday night includes far fewer files and a lot more debauchery,” he says, taking a new file from the cart.

You glance at the clock. “Well, it’s only eleven. I don’t usually start body shots until after midnight.”

“What are body shots?”

For one horrifying moment, you think that you’re going to actually have to explain this to him, but then you get a good look at his expression.

He’s teasing you.

“You’re an ass,” you say, swatting him on the shoulder with the file you’re holding.

He wags a finger at you. “That’s workplace violence. I’m going to have to report that.”

You lean back in your chair and return to your file. “I’m pretty confident that you’ll be put off by the amount of paperwork that process requires.”

He shakes his head as he returns to his own file. “Uncontrolled bureaucracy is how bad actors escape accountability.” There’s a brief pause. “And…there’s another racehorse.”

You continue on like this for the rest of the evening, occasionally chatting and Loki proving definitively that the Renato Lucchese racehorse drinking game could not be played without resulting in a fatality. It’s nice, though. Yes, it’s sorting files and yes, it’s not the most intellectually riveting task you’ve ever done, but spending time with Loki is nice. It’s because of this that you find yourself trying to stay awake, pushing past your looming exhaustion.

But around two, you can’t quite fight the heaviness of your eyelids any longer and you doze off in the middle of a report on the sinking of the Lusitania.

“Hey.” Loki is gently shaking your shoulder. The way he says your name in that deliciously deep voice makes you want to swoon and you’re glad that you have the ready made excuse of sleepiness to explain any embarrassing behavior on your end.

“I think you’d better call it a night,” he says gently. “Get some sleep and come back with fresh eyes.”

“What about you?” you say. “Are you going to do the same, or are you just all talk?”

He smiles at you and it warms you to the very tips of your toes. You could bask in that smile like a cat in a sunbeam.

“I’m starting to fade a bit myself,” he says

“Very convenient,” you say and he grins at you.

“Come on, I’ll see you back home.”

Part of you wants to protest—there’s really no need for him to walk you home—but a larger, louder part of you wants to let it be, prolong the magic of tonight for just a little longer.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you as you walk out of the office together.

“What time do you think you’re going to come in tomorrow?” he asks as you approach the residential wing. “It’s probably sensible to coordinate our efforts a bit.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” you say. “I was thinking nine, but that will be dependent on how much coffee I have.”

“Yes, about that,” he says. “I cannot stand idly by and watch you torture yourself with vending machine coffee.”

“Well, the cafeteria will be open, so I was going to torture myself with cafeteria coffee, which is at least thirty percent less over brewed.”

He clicks his tongue. “You’re not making a compelling case for yourself.”

“To be fair, it’s quite late and I’ve been staring at files for hours.”

“All the more reason to get decent coffee,” he says. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, we are?”

“Consider it an intervention,” he says. “I’ll come collect you at eight.”

You’re not quite sure if this is just his natural confidence and swagger coming through or if he’s flirting with you and this counts as a date.

“Where are we going?”

“I know a place.”

The place in question turns out to be a food cart in Central Park in 1998.

“Should I even bother asking if you have supervisor approval for this?” you say, looking skeptically at the time door glimmering before you.

Loki scoffs. “I don’t have a supervisor.”

“You do. It’s Mobius.”

“That can’t be right, we’re peers.”

“You’re absolutely not. Did you read any of the onboarding materials?”

He ignores your question. “I don’t see why I’d even need a supervisor, honestly.”

You snort. “Need I remind you of what happened at the Nixon inauguration?”

He spreads his hands in front of him. “It’s not my fault that I’m the only one with a sense of humor.”

“I’m not entirely sure that was the problem,” you say. “Gerald Ford is never going to be the same, from what I understand.”

Loki waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine, the tail isn’t permanent. Now, are you coming or not?”

You roll your eyes at him and make a halfhearted complaint about proper protocol, but you know that you’re walking through that time door and not looking back. You knew that before he even posed the question.

The food cart is owned by a man named Samir who has a wide smile and booming laugh. He talks to Loki like he’s a friend and he tells you that you have the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. You are fairly certain he’s exaggerating, but you stuff a few extra bills into the tip jar anyway.

“I can’t believe you fell for that,” says Loki as you walk away, each carrying a coffee and a brown paper bag with a breakfast sandwich.

“Fell for what?” you say, batting your eyes at him. “I do have beautiful eyes.”

“I’ve heard him say that on at least thirty separate occasions.”

“Yeah, but this time he really meant it. I could tell.”

He rolls his eyes and leads you to a park bench overlooking a wide, grassy field. The leaves are just starting to change and the air has a little bit of a bite to it.

You sit down on the bench and take a sip of your coffee.

“It is good coffee, I’ll give you that,” you say.

“See,” says Loki, “you can’t go back to that vending machine sludge after this.”

“I mean, if it’s eleven o’clock at night and I’m on a deadline, I can.”

“Darling. You have a TemPad.”

“Loki. Read the personnel manual.”

He wrinkles his nose. “It’s not really my genre.”

You roll your eyes and take out your breakfast sandwich. “What is your genre?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question?”

“Of course it is,” you say. “I love talking about books.”

He gives you a slight smile and takes a sip of his coffee. “A little bit of everything, honestly,” he says. “Philosophy. Magical theory. History. Politics. Anything from Asgard, really, though it can be a bit more challenging getting some of those titles.”

“I’ve had pretty good luck with the Library of the Sacred Timeline—have you checked there yet?”

He frowns. “I’m not familiar.”

“Oh, you’d like it—it’s on the eighteenth floor. It’s intended to be a collection of the greatest works of literature from as many branches of the timeline as possible,” you say. “It started as a research project, but people liked it and it just kind of evolved into this huge collection. They’ve actually got a pretty sizeable collection of books from Asgard.”

It’s like you’ve told him that his personal paradise had been located on the eighteenth floor this entire time. “Will you show me?”

He is practically vibrating with the sort of anticipatory, manic energy that you typically would associate with Christmas morning right before you tear into presents. It’s sweetly endearing.

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later, you’re leading him through the winding hallways on the eighteenth floor. You’re not surprised he hasn’t heard about the library—it’s a bit out of the way and the eighteenth floor is so poorly designed that it’s not terribly easy to find.

The design of the library is a sharp departure from the rest of the TVA. The shelves and floors are made of the kind of dark mahogany that you typically see in the kind of estates that look like something directly out of a Jane Austen novel. Worn oriental rugs muffle your footsteps on the creaky wood floors and the air smells faintly of dust and paper.

There’s a subtle change in Loki when you walk through the doors—almost like a muscle in his shoulders finally relaxes and he seems truly at home for the first time since he arrived.

You touch his hand. “This way.”

You lead him into the stacks, back to the far corner, right after the books from Alfheim.

“You can borrow whichever ones you like,” you say softly. “There’s a sign out sheet at the front desk.”

He nods, though you don’t think he really hears you—he only has eyes for the shelves, his gaze sweeping across the spines like they’re old friends. You’re about to excuse yourself to give him a little privacy when his brow furrows and he exhales sharply. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

“What is it?”

They have the entirety of the finest Asgardian literature at their disposal. Untold centuries of the writings of our greatest minds—” he plucks a book off the shelf, “—and they choose to include this?”

The title looks fairly innocuous—a red, leather bound book with the title The Cloistered Heart embossed in gold script on the front. You take the book from him and open it. “What’s the problem with this?”

“It’s inconsequential fluff, literary pablum of the highest order.”

This is the Loki that you’re more familiar with and a smile curls at your lips. Almost on cue, you flip the book open to a chapter titled “The Wedding and Bedding of Aloisa.”

You bite back a laugh and look up at him. “It’s a romance novel.”

“Precisely my point,” he says. “To think that this is on the same shelf as Nielsen and Auber.”

“That’s kind of how libraries work,” you say, flipping further into the book. The phrases “throbbing length” and “eager moans” draw your eye and you have to tamp down another laugh. “Oh, and it’s a sexy romance novel.”

“It appeals to the lowest common denominator, yes.”

“What, so you’re too good for a bodice ripper?”

He scoffs. “I prefer to do the bodice ripping myself, not read some overwrought description of it.”

You are glad you’re looking at the book because you’re pretty sure you’d disintegrate if you had to make eye contact with him while he delivered that line. “Oh spare me,” you say lightly, snapping the book shut and drawing it to your chest. “I’m gonna read this.”

He blows out a puff of air. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“I’ve got lots of time, I can afford to waste it,” you say cheekily. “Besides, I’m curious to see what kind of book turns the god of mischief into a pearl clutching prude.”

Loki sputters. “Prude? Darling, let me assure you, I’m no prude—”

“I’ll leave you to browse,” you say with a grin as you turn away from him. “Come find me at the front when you’re ready to go.”

You’re a few chapters into the book when Loki rejoins you at the front of the library, a small stack of books tucked under his arm.

You close your book with a snap. “This book is a delight. I think your real issue is just that you’re no fun.”

He scoffs. “I’m very fun.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You bicker playfully back and forth as you check out your books and leave the library. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you spent much more time there than you’d planned. You can’t quite bring yourself to worry about that, though, not with the memory of Loki’s wonderstruck expression burning so bright in your mind.

There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation as you wait for the elevator.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For showing me that.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you didn’t know about it sooner.”

He looks at you, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something. His tongue swipes briefly over his bottom lip and you would swear that his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second.

For just a second—one heady, slightly irrational second—you think he might be about to kiss you.

The ding of the elevator arriving breaks the spell, startling you just a little. You run a hand through your hair, trying to give off the impression of composure even as your heart beats wildly in your chest.

Loki gestures to the elevator doors. “After you.”

There is a group of analysts in the elevator already, chatting animatedly and completely obliterating any chance you may have had at recapturing that moment.

You try not to dwell too much in contemplating what ifs or timeline branches—often, it feels too much like work, something Mobius might assign you.

But you know that the possibility of that moment—what if the elevator had been a hair slower, what if those analysts had taken a different route, what if you were braver—you know that’s something that’s going to haunt you for a while.

You wouldn’t give up that time in the library for anything—it’s one of those moments that feels formative, something that you’ll return to again and again for one reason or another.

But it’s also true that it’s time that you probably could have used for sorting files and as Saturday ticks on, you can’t help but wish you had a way to pull another hour out of somewhere.

“We’re not going to be able to make this deadline, are we?” you say with a sigh.

It’s getting late into the evening and the cart of files still to be sorted still remains depressingly full, despite the fact that you’d brought both lunch and dinner back to your desk so you could continue working.

Loki eyes the remaining files. “I think we might. We made good progress today.”

You rub your eyes. “My brain feels like it’s about to leak out my ears.”

Loki takes the file you are working on and sets it back in the stack of unsorted files. “I think that might be a sign it’s time to turn in,” he says.

“There’s still so much left.”

“There’s still tomorrow.”

You reach for the file. “Well, let me just—”

He pulls your hand away from the pile. “You can come back to it in the morning. Besides, if you’re this tired, you’re not going to do good work anyway.”

He squeezes your hand and drops it. It’s brief enough to still be friendly, but unusual enough to make you wonder and send your mind racing back to that moment by the elevator.

You shake the thought away. It’s late and you’re tired.

You heave a world weary sigh and slump back in your chair. “I hate it when you’re right.”

To his credit, he only smirks a little. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Once again, there’s no reason for him to do this, but once again, you’re inclined to let him.

You pack up for the evening and walk out of the office side by side. You’re trying very hard not to think about the fact that this is likely the last night that you’ll do this, that tomorrow the assignment will be over.

As you near the residential wing, you start to hear distant shouts. If you inhale deeply, you catch a very faint whiff of explosives—you’re not sure what kind.

“I think someone brought work home,” you say with a sigh.

This happens from time to time—things get out of hand in the field or something happens when retrieving an asset or a target and all hell breaks loose at the TVA. Mobius had once referred to it as “bringing work home” and the name had stuck.

“Wasn’t there an incident in this wing not long ago?” asks Loki.

“Yes.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I had to call off the next day—I got no sleep that night.” You listen carefully, trying to determine the source of the noise and the status of the problem. “But maybe it’s almost over,” you say with an optimism you don’t fully feel. “Sometimes these things are resolved really quick.”

Your heart continues to sink the closer you come to your home. The acrid burn of explosives only increases and you think you catch the low, dull roar of something not quite human.

And indeed, when you turn the final corner, you are immediately stopped by an electric blue barrier being monitored by a hunter. G-21–you’ve worked with her on a couple of missions before.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“There’s an ongoing incident in this area,” says G-21 and you almost want to laugh because no shit.

“How long do you think it’s gonna be closed off?” you ask.

She shrugs. “We’re at a code 54 right now, but it’s probably gonna escalate.”

With pitch perfect timing and before you can even try to remember what a code 54 means, there’s an almighty crash and a low bellow.

“Go!” she yells before running toward the commotion amid frantic calls for backup.

Loki is grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a run.

Your standard issue work shoes are comfortable enough on a day to day basis, but you certainly want to have words with whoever decided that leather soled shoes with absolutely no grips were a good choice for a building floored almost entirely in linoleum. In a low stakes situation, it’s meant occasionally you wipe out in the cafeteria and hurt nothing but your pride. In this situation, it means that Loki’s firm grip on your hand is the only thing keeping you upright.

But there’s a small mercy in that while you can still hear distant crashes and shrieks, whatever is happening down that hallway doesn’t seem to be following you and eventually, you both slow to a brisk walk and Loki drops your hand.

You haven’t even had a chance to consider where you are going to sleep tonight. You could probably curl up on that terrible couch in the office and just plan on getting up early enough to run back to your place for a quick shower and a change of clothes…assuming the incident resolves by then—

“You can stay with me,” says Loki, as though he can hear you trying to sort this out.

“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just—”

“If you say you’re going to sleep on that terrible couch in the office, I will personally take you to the most boring governmental proceeding I can find and leave you there until you come to your senses.”

“Sounds like a great place to fall asleep,” you say.

His eyes glint, but his tone brooks no arguments. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

You sigh, but you can’t think of a counterpoint. “When did you get so bossy?”

“Darling, I’m a prince,” he says with a bit of a wry smirk. “It’s my birthright.”

Loki lives on the opposite end of the residential wing and his place looks quite a bit like yours—he’s got an extra window in the kitchen but the floor plan is otherwise the same. A lot of his furniture is standard issue, but there are little details that make it seem more personal: an area rug with a bit of fraying on the edges, a painting of what you think is an Asgardian landscape, a vase filled with dried flowers so delicate they look like they might disintegrate if you were to touch them. And books—so many books. Books on shelves, stacked on the coffee table, tucked into the little rack that you know is meant to hold magazines. Hardbacks, paperbacks, leather bound, dog-eared, well-worn and brand new. It’s no wonder he was so excited about the library.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll get some things for you.”

You sit down and he disappears down the hall. You idly examine the books stacked on the end table next to you. Many are quite clearly from Asgard and it sparks a pang of sympathy—it’s like his homesickness is on full display in his living room and there’s something sweet and sad about seeing that vulnerability laid so bare.

He returns a few minutes later with a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, and a hand towel.

“Here,” he says, handing you the pile. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. I’ll make up a bed for you.”

“Thanks.”

In the bathroom, you realize that the pajamas he’s given you aren’t the standard set you can order from the TVA. These are made of a dark emerald silk that ripples over your skin like water, and somehow, that makes it feel a thousand times more personal than if he’d loaned you a standard set. They don’t fit quite right on you, but they’ll work well enough for tonight.

You brush your teeth and attempt to get through as much of your evening routine as you can before collecting your clothes and exiting the bathroom.

When you return to the living room, you expect to find that he’s made up a bed for you on the couch. These living units only have one bedroom—it would be quite reasonable to have you sleep on the couch.

You do not expect to find a pajama clad Loki stretched out reading on the couch, a blanket over his lap and his head propped up on a pillow like he intends to sleep there.

You exhale slowly. “Please tell me you are not giving up your bed.”

“Don’t be absurd, of course I am,” he says without even looking up from his book. “The point of this was to prevent you from sleeping on a couch, not simply put you on a couch in a different location.”

You wish you had something to throw at him. “You don’t even fit on that couch.”

“Luckily, my knees bend. Besides, you’re a guest,” he says, as though that settles it.

You roll your eyes and plunk yourself down in the armchair across from the couch, setting your pile of clothes on the floor. “I’m not moving until you give up the couch.”

He finally looks up from his book. “You’re really going to do this?”

You examine your fingernails, flicking away an invisible speck of dust. “I’m not the one being unreasonable. I’m simply meeting you at your level.”

“If you think that I’m being unreasonable and you’re also saying you’re meeting me at my level, does that not mean you are admitting that you are being unreasonable?”

“It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. I’m not arguing semantics with you.”

“Fine.” His eyes glimmer as he sets his book down and slowly rises to his feet. “But you’re still not sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh, you’re going to be so disappointed when you realize how wrong you are,” you say. You think you see your opening and you try to play it cool.

He’s walking toward you, leaving your path to the couch wide open. In your head, you can see exactly how this works: you’ll spring from your chair and dart around the coffee table before diving onto the couch like a baseball player sliding into home plate, soundly defeating Loki. Easy peasy.

Instead, what happens is that you spring to your feet and Loki moves with inhuman speed, grabbing you around your waist and pinning you to the front of his chest, stopping you in your tracks almost immediately.

“I suppose I should have expected that,” he says. Your back is facing him, but you can almost hear the dry, sardonic look he’s giving you.

“Probably,” you say. “God of mischief and all.” You struggle fruitlessly against his iron grip. “You can let me go now.”

He laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t. It was clearly a mistake to trust you. I won’t be making that error again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying again to squirm away from him. “Let me go.”

“The interesting thing about all of this is that you’ve made a rather substantial tactical error,” he says, continuing as though he can’t hear you.

“You’re bluffing,” you say with more confidence than you feel.

“Fascinating theory,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”

With that same ridiculous speed, he’s suddenly spinning you around and lifting you, tossing you easily over his shoulder.

“Hey!” you shout in protest.

“I warned you,” he says, his voice full of mirth as he carries you toward the bedroom.

This is not exactly how you’ve imagined being carried off to bed by Loki.

Though, admittedly, you do have a nice view of his ass.

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

“You brought this upon yourself.” He’s walking into the bedroom and a moment later, he’s lifting you from his shoulder and tossing you unceremoniously onto his bed.

You scramble to your feet and try to lunge toward the door, but he’s clearly expecting that. Before your feet even hit the floor, he catches you around the waist and hauls you back to the bed. Your back hits the mattress and you try to leverage the momentum to propel yourself back onto your feet.

He catches you immediately and you find yourself back on the bed again.

“I don’t mean to be patronizing,” he says, failing to bite back a laugh, “but it’s adorable that you think you can outmaneuver me.”

That is deeply offensive and the only way you can earn my forgiveness is by letting me take my rightful place on the couch.” You can’t quite keep the laugh from your voice.

He grins. “Not a chance.”

You attempt to dive off the opposite side of the bed, only to have him grab you by the ankles and pull you back. You manage to dislodge him and lunge in the opposite direction, only to be immediately thwarted.

It becomes increasingly hilarious the longer it goes on and soon your sides are aching from laughter. Loki is laughing too, but it doesn’t seem to affect his strength or speed at all.

Eventually, he wrestles you back down onto the bed and you are fairly certain there’s no way out of this one—he’s got your wrists pinned above your head and his legs locked around yours. You’re both a little out of breath.

“Yield,” he says.

You shake your head. “Never.”

His gaze flicks to your lips and back to your eyes. “Yield.”

“No.”

Something has changed. There’s an electricity and intensity that crackles in the air between you, possibilities blooming in both of your gazes. It feels a little like that moment by the elevator, but you’re afraid to hope, afraid to even wish because the idea of him wanting you still feels as impossible as capturing smoke with a net.

But the way he’s looking at you, the way his gaze keeps drifting between your eyes and your lips…that’s not nothing.

“Yield.”

You lick your lips, your heart beating wildly. “No.”

Is it just your imagination, or did his breath hitch when you licked your lips?

“Yield.”

God, he’s so close and you want him so badly.

“No.”

He looks again at your lips and this time, he closes the distance between you.

They call him Silvertongue—you’ve heard the jokes, you’ve rolled your eyes at all of them. But as he kisses you, you realize that there’s an element of truth there because only seconds in and you’re ready to sign away your soul to live under the power of Loki’s tongue. The slow, warm slide of it against yours, the way he guides your mouth against his, the way he lets out a soft sigh as he tastes you—you would give up everything if it meant you could stay like this.

“Yield,” he breathes against your lips.

“No,” you say.

He deepens the kiss, catching your lower lip between his teeth and gently tugging until you whimper and arch against him.

He still has your hands pinned against the bed, his grip unyielding when you try to wrestle them away.

“Let me touch you,” you say when he draws back. You want to touch him everywhere—run your hands along every muscle you’ve admired from afar.

“Then yield,” he says with a grin, his eyes flashing with devilish intent.

You consider this for a moment. You could give in—there aren’t really any stakes at this point and you’re pretty sure you’re both going to end up sleeping in his bed tonight anyway. But that glint of mischief in his eyes also promises some intriguing possibilities if you stand firm.

“No,” you say.

“Such a pity,” says Loki, though his expression is one of hungry delight.

His hands slip free of your wrists then, but they stay pinned to the bed by some invisible force.

“Cheater,” you say.

“I think this is only fair,” he says, his hands sliding to your hips. “I’m clearly the victor, am I not entitled to my prize?”

You shiver. “Your prize?”

“Yes.” He kisses down the column of your throat. “My lovely, lovely prize.”

“How can I be your prize if I’m also your competitor?”

“You think too much,” he mumbles against your neck.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Generally, it’s not.” He sits back on his heels between your legs, looking you over with satisfaction. “But in this case, it’s distracting you from more pressing matters.” His hands creep under the hem of your shirt, stroking the small of your back, thumbs tracing teasingly along the waistband of your pajama pants.

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy seeing you in my clothes?” he asks. There’s a husky depth to his voice and a hunger in his eyes that sends a flood of arousal to your cunt.

“You have not,” you say.

“A casualty of too much thinking,” he says solemnly, his thumbs gently grazing the skin at your hipbones. “You look utterly delectable. I almost want to leave them on.” His eyes glitter with mischief. “Almost.” His hand strays to the bottom button on your pajama top. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He slips the button free and slowly makes his way up until your shirt is open. He carefully pushes the fabric aside, baring your breasts to his sight and touch.

You’ve never felt more beautiful seeing Loki stare at you, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and hungry. He trails one hand up your stomach and rib cage and slowly brushes a thumb over your nipple. You gasp and the sensitive skin puckers and stiffens as he palms your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs as he lowers his mouth to your breast, his tongue and lips taking up the role of his hand, while his other hand moves to cup your other breast. You whimper, wishing you could run your hands through his hair. “That’s it,” he purrs, “I want to hear all the sounds you can make, my love.”

You rock your hips forward and arch your back as he lavishes attention on your breasts. It’s the most delicious kind of torture, having him so close, but not being able to touch him.

He’s taking his time, which you both love and hate. He feels so good, but you need him to touch you, you need to touch him, you need him inside of you. You wait until you can’t take it any more and breathe his name like it’s a prayer.

You wonder if this is what he was waiting for because with little more than a brief smirk and a wicked look, he starts kissing his way back up your chest and neck. You whimper when his lips meet yours and you can feel him grin as he kisses you. He fits his hips against yours, angling himself so that his cock rubs up against your clit just right and you moan into his mouth. You can tell that he’s big and part of you wants to savor the anticipation even though you feel like you might go mad if he doesn’t fuck you now. You rock your hips against him, trying to feel that friction.

His large hands frame your face, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head so he can draw you deeper, the other trailing from your cheek to your throat.

Both hands soon stroke down your sides, lingering teasingly at the waistband of your pajama pants. He hooks his thumbs underneath the waistband and you lift your hips. He slides your pants down maybe an inch and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you. You lift your hips again and your waistband creeps down another inch.

“Loki.” His name falls from your lips with a sigh.

“What is it, my love?”

“Touch me,” you breathe. “Please.”

You lift your hips again and this time, he pulls the fabric fully down and off your legs. He guides your legs apart and stares appreciatively at your bare cunt, his teasing expression replaced by a rapt awe.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

You believe him.

His hands stroke your thighs, seemingly in no hurry, despite your pleading whimpers and the way you arch against the mattress. He draws his thumb gently along your slit, barely grazing your clit.

“Do you know what an utter distraction it’s been sitting behind you?” he asks, tracing your clit in the slowest, lightest circle.

You arch upward, hands still bound by his magic. “Tell me,” you breathe, your hips rising to chase his hand.

“Every time you stood up, I could only think about bending you over the desk.”

You manage a sly smirk. “And here I thought you didn’t like me much at all.”

His thumb presses a little more against your clit and you moan.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he says, rolling his thumb in a slow circle. “I kept you at arm’s length partly as a matter of protection.”

For who?”

“You,” he says. “I’m not fully redeemed in some eyes and you being involved with a dangerous variant—”

“You’re not,” you say.

“Some would disagree.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” you say. “You’re not a dangerous variant. You’re Loki Laufeyson and I want you just as you are.”

There’s something unreadable in his expression and it makes you wonder how many people have told him that he can just be himself.

“You should be careful saying such lovely things to me, you know,” he says solemnly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? And why is that?”

“Because it makes me want to do very wicked things to you.”

You’re surprised you’re not shaking, you want him so badly. “What kinds of wicked things?”

“Oh, all manner of wicked things.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, his tongue swiping briefly against your skin. “Things with my mouth...” His thumb rolls over your clit again, his index finger teasing your entrance before retreating. “…my hands…” He drags his gaze over your naked form before locking eyes with you. “My cock.”

A shiver works its way up your spine. “So if I talk about how I think you’re really clever and funny and I find it unbelievably sexy, what sort of wicked thing would that merit?”

The intensity of his gaze makes you shiver again. He crouches down and presses another kiss against the inside of your knee, slowly moving upward. “If you keep talking like that, I’m not going to let you leave my bed for days.”

“You know that’s not a disincentive, right?” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as he nips at the soft skin of your inner thigh. “I’ve wanted you for such a long time, Loki.”

“I’ll make it weeks if you’re not careful.”

“Again, not a disincentive.” You gently tug at your bound wrists and find that they’re still firmly secured. It’s exhilarating, even though you really wish you could run your hands through his hair, especially if he ends up where you think he’s going.

“What else should I tell you?” you muse as he continues his agonizingly slow path along your thigh. “You know, half the reason I kept to myself was that I wanted you so much I was certain that I’d make a fool of myself.”

That earns you a few circles of your clit with his thumb, but his progress up your thigh remains slow. You have a theory about what might move the needle, though.

“I know you like to act like you’re this sort of barely reformed villain, but I think there’s more good in you than you’d like people to believe.”

This time, he moves up to the crease where your thigh joins your hip, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting along your labia. His tongue traces a line along your skin and you briefly wonder if you’ll be able to hold it together enough to deliver the last part.

“And,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “yesterday and today made me want you even more because I feel like I finally saw who you really are and you’re even more wond—”

Your words abruptly give way to a breathy moan because his perfect, skilled tongue has finally found its way to your clit.

You had a plan from here, but whatever it was has dissolved into nothing under the skilled caress of Loki’s tongue. You suspected he would be good at this from the way that he’d kissed you earlier, but you could not have imagined that it would feel like this.

“Oh my god, Loki.” Your thighs are already quaking. You tug again at the invisible bonds on your wrists, but they hold fast. Something about the way the bonds are keeping you gently stretched along the bed combined with how his large hands have your thighs spread open seems to heighten every sensation. There’s no wiggling away from him or adjusting yourself so that you feel more or less of the onslaught of his tongue on your cunt. You are completely at his mercy and you’re not entirely surprised that you fucking love it.

He slides a finger into your aching channel and your cunt shudders around the thick intrusion. The warm, roiling center of your orgasm starts builds in your hips with every stroke of his tongue, spinning faster and faster, like ocean winds whipping up into a hurricane. Your back arches and his tongue presses flat against your clit, and suddenly you know that this is going to be what takes you over the edge.

Loki seems to know it too, at least from the way that he presses his tongue more firmly against you, one arm slung across your hips to hold you in place. His other hand slides two fingers inside you, rocking and curling against that aching, tender spot.

You whimper, your hips bucking wildly. It’s so good and so much and you are almost there.

You look down at him then, his hair wild, hollowed cheeks flushed pink as his tongue works you over, his eyes closed like he couldn’t imagine anything more blissful than being in between your legs while you come undone.

This is ultimately what tips you over the edge. The storm that has been forming inside you is finally let loose and you arch your back and cry out in a wordless scream as your climax crashes into you.

Only then do the bonds around your wrists release and your hands fly down to grab his hair as your body shakes with pleasure.

It takes a moment for you to get your breath back and reacquaint yourself with the concept of speech, but when you do, you find Loki looking up at you, his expression pure mischief.

“And to think you wanted to sleep on the couch.”

“It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep on the couch, it’s that—” Your voice cuts off as his tongue starts stroking your clit again.

“It’s what?” he asks in between strokes, his smirk obvious in his voice. The lingering ripples of your orgasm are coalescing around the path of his tongue, tightening that coil in your belly again.

“Fuck—you’re not playing fair, you can’t just—” You lose your sentence to a low moan that rises up from your chest. “You can’t just—fuck, yes—you can’t…oh god, yes, just like that.”

His laughter rumbles against you as your hips start rocking against his mouth. How are you already so close?

“You can’t just—fuck—win an argument by—”

You’re trying to say that he can’t expect to win an argument by making you come and you think he might understand this based on how determined he seems to be to prove you wrong. His fingers curl again until he finds that soft, tender spot that is so often the key to your unraveling.

You have stopped trying to complete that sentence—you moan, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the swell of your climax rushes up, inevitable as a tidal wave looming over a seaside village.

You cry out as it crests and breaks, falling down over you in a rush of tingling pleasure that feels like champagne and fireworks all at once.

“Now, what was it you were saying, my love?” he asks as he releases your clit a moment later. “Something about how I can’t just win an argument by making you come? I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of you coming completely undone on my tongue.”

“Oh, you think you’re so smart,” you say, giving him a stern look as he crawls up your body.

“You know what I think?” he says, settling himself on his side next to you. “I think you liked submitting to me.”

You shiver before you can even think about hiding it and his smile turns decidedly vulpine.

“You did, didn’t you? You liked having your hands bound and being completely at my mercy while I licked your pretty cunt until you came undone in my mouth.”

“You are enjoying this far too much,” you say.

“I am enjoying it the correct amount.”

You realize your hands are now free to explore his body and you tug at his pajama shirt. “I think you’re wearing too many clothes,” you say.

He gives you a wicked grin as he lets you pull his shirt over his head. “Yes, perhaps it’s time we even things up.”

You pull the shirt away and rake your eyes over him greedily, your hands following the path of your gaze. He is as perfect as you imagined, unfairly beautiful in the dim light of the bedroom.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants and lower them an inch, a cheeky parallel of how he teased you earlier. His lips curl into a sharp smile when he realizes what you’re doing.

“Interesting strategy.” There’s a bit of a growl in his voice, a rough desperation that makes your cunt clench. “But I think you forgot that I have the upper hand here.”

He raises his hand and with a twist of his wrist, his remaining clothes dissolve in a shimmer of green and he is bare before you.

Your breath catches in your throat. His cock commands your immediate attention, nudging up against your thigh—he’s big, as you suspected, but completely bare and rock hard, he somehow seems longer and thicker than he had when he was grinding against you.

He pulls you into a slow kiss as you reach for his cock. You wrap your hand around him, delighting in the silky hardness of him, the way he throbs in your hand and the low groan he makes as your hand moves from base to tip and back, the way his hips thrust along with you. Your cunt clenches in anticipation.

After a moment, though, he places his hand over yours, slowing your movements.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He rolls on top of you and you’re not sure that you’ve ever felt anything quite as wonderful as the heat of his bare skin and yours pressed together. This feeling means intimacy, a closeness that you’d longed for but never expected even in your wildest daydreams.

He pulls you into a kiss, slow, soft, and languid, like you have all the time in the world and he intends to take it. It’s decadent and dreamy and perfect.

But the heavy weight of his bare cock resting against your stomach combined with the ache between your legs—an ache that would be so perfectly soothed by the hard column of flesh currently throbbing against you—proves to be a force too powerful to resist for very long.

You cant your hips against him, snaking one leg around his waist, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He does.

He braces himself on one hand, the other sliding between your bodies to rub his cock along your slick folds. He positions himself at your entrance, waiting for your breathy plea to begin to ease himself slowly into you.

He fills and stretches you in the most wonderful way, but even more than that, he feels like home. The thought strikes you quite suddenly and you’re not entirely sure about everything it means, but you know it’s good and right.

He pauses for just a moment, seeming to savor the feeling.

“You feel better than I ever imagined,” he says.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You imagined?”

He gives you a hungry smile as he leans in to kiss you. “Like I said: it has been an utter distraction sitting behind you.”

His rhythm is slow and easy, like he wants to take his time learning every inch of you and memorizing how you react to his touch. His mouth moves over yours in a slow kiss that’s somehow both languid and demanding, his tongue gliding in and out of your mouth in the same rhythm of his hips rocking into you. His cock bumps up against that sweet spot inside of you that his fingers had teased earlier, each stroke inching you closer to bliss.

He shifts the angle of his hips so that his pubic bone grinds against your clit and it feels so good you almost see stars. You can feel your orgasm building, your cunt growing slicker and tensing around his thrusting cock.

He draws back to look at you, eyes hazy with a loose, dreamy kind of pleasure.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel?” he breathes.

You are shaking. “Loki, I’m gonna come.”

“I know you are,” he purrs. “Let go for me, let me feel you, my love.”

With two more thrusts of his hips, you unravel.

He groans as you tremble around him, but mostly, he watches your face, rapt by the way you throw your head back against the bed and gasp his name like it’s the only thing that will save you.

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he breathes. “Absolutely stunning.”

He waits until you catch your breath before he kisses you again, slow and sensual. His hips are still rocking in that beautifully slow rhythm and you don’t know how it can still feel so good.

He keeps moving against you, his touch and his low murmurs of praise invoking a symphony of sensations. He presses deeper and your body sings with every thrust, your muscles tensing and tightening around him like you never want him to leave. Your climax swells again and you come with a whimper, your whole body shaking as he fucks you through it.

You want him to come, want to hear the sounds he makes and feel his sweet, hot release burning inside of you.

“I want you to come for me,” you breathe.

He grins at you. “Oh, I will, but not yet. You’re not done yet.”

You whimper. “Loki—”

“Two more, my love, two more and then I’ll come for you.”

Somehow, you give him three. By the second one, he’s panting and his words have become rough, his voice a growl as he utters some of the filthiest praise you’ve ever heard. The third builds quickly after that and you know instinctively that you’re going to take him over the edge with you this time.

You fight to keep your eyes open against the tidal wave of pleasure blooming again in your hips. You need to see him come undone.

As in everything else he does, he’s unfairly beautiful—he throws his head back, letting out a low groan that you can feel all the way to the tips of your toes. His cheeks are flushed, a few ink dark curls plastered to the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can feel him emptying himself inside you, his release hot and hard won.

It seems to last a long time and it’s another minute before his hips slow to a halt. He kisses you, so soft and sweet it would almost seem chaste were it not for the fact that his cock is still throbbing inside of you.

After a moment, he slowly eases out of you, rolling over onto his back, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you to him like he can’t bear to be parted from you even for a moment.

You curl up against his side, your legs tangling with his. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before resting your clasped hands on his heart.

You could fall in love like this, you think sleepily to yourself.

You don’t know it then, but you’re right.

Time moves differently at the TVA, but a couple years later, there’s a ring in a box on your desk.

Loki likes a spectacle and you’d daydreamed about a traditional wedding, but when you talk it over, you both agree that you want to do something different, something quiet, something just for the two of you.

“I do think we should tell Mobius beforehand,” you say to Loki.

“Isn’t the point of eloping that no one knows until after it’s done?” says Loki.

“Yes, but I feel like we could make one exception,” you say. “If we’d done a full wedding, I would have asked him to give me away.”

Loki’s gaze softens a bit then and he pulls you close. “All right. But we only tell him right before we leave. The man can’t keep a secret.”

But Mobius doesn’t seem terribly surprised when you tell him—in fact, he seems far more concerned about your wedding gift.

“I didn’t have a chance to wrap it yet,” he says. He’s retrieved a large picture frame that had been propped against his desk, though he keeps it turned away from you. “So…this also requires a bit of an overdue confession for context.”

You raise your eyebrows. “A confession?”

“A confession,” says Mobius.

“Will I be angry about this?” asks Loki at the same time you say, “Is this like a go to jail confession or a misdemeanor confession?”

Mobius gives a good natured chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “God, the two of you. Always so dramatic. No wonder you ended up together.” He takes what feels like an unnecessarily long drink from the coffee mug on his desk. “It’s not bad, I promise.” Another sip of coffee.

Loki sighs. “He always does this,” he says to you. “Have you noticed? Whenever he has something that you want to know, he stalls and drags it out just to torment you.”

“Okay,” you say, “but you jumping in to bicker with him probably doesn’t help.”

“I’m not bickering,” says Loki. “I’m simply pointing out that he’s stalling—”

“What was it you were saying, Mobius?” you say brightly, nudging Loki with your elbow.

Mobius’ eyes twinkle. “See,” he says to Loki, “I always liked her. It’s a good match.”

You don’t have to look at Loki to know he’s rolling his eyes, though he also makes a point of surreptitiously pinching your ass, a detail you hope Mobius doesn’t notice.

“Anyway,” says Mobius, taking a deep breath, “it was pretty clear to me from the start that you liked each other. And you also seemed absolutely determined to get in your own way.” He points to Loki. “Especially you with your whole stilted Asgardian prince thing.”

Loki frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Mobius sighs. “Anytime you like someone, it’s like your brain gets a factory reset and you get all overly polite and courtly.”

Loki scoffs. “I don’t do that at all.”

“You do. It’s deeply weird. You’re like a mannerly robot.”

Loki turns to you. “Darling, tell him he’s being absurd.”

You reach over and squeeze his hand. “You did call me ‘my lady’ a couple of times in the early days.”

Loki sighs and looks back at Mobius. “What was your point in mentioning this?”

“Well,” says Mobius, “you seemed pretty determined to get in your own way, so nothing was happening. And eventually I got sick of all of the pining, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“What do you mean?”

Mobius pauses, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “There wasn’t a breakthrough with Berlitz that weekend. What there was was a surplus in the overtime budget and a high priority indexing project for Archives.”

Your lips part as your brain slowly puts the pieces together. Mobius’ eyes twinkle.

“Wait,” you say, “you lied to us?”

“I did not lie,” says Mobius, his demeanor suddenly becoming very serious. “That would have been wrong.” He nods at Loki. “Also, it would’ve tipped him off and that would have ruined the whole thing. I simply failed to mention that the cart of files that I gave you needed to be sorted for indexing for the Archives department and I peppered in a couple of unrelated things about Berlitz.”

“But the office was empty that weekend,” says Loki.

Mobius snaps his fingers. “Right. I did make some adjustments to the schedule that weekend.”

“And the disturbance that prevented her from returning home on Saturday night?”

Mobius spreads his hands wide and grins. “All me, buddy. Paid G-21 five hundred bucks for that one.”

Loki pauses for a moment and then looks at you. “I don’t think I can be mad about this. I’m genuinely impressed.”

“I mean, I can’t argue with the results, but Jesus, Mobius, you could’ve just set us up on a blind date,” you say.

“Ah, but that’s not as fun,” Mobius says. “Plus, it wouldn’t have made for as good a wedding gift.” He turns the frame around and hands it to you both.

It’s both your timecards from that pay period, neatly framed side by side. Your eyes well with tears and Mobius smiles.

“Honestly, I’m just relieved it’s not a jet ski,” says Loki.

“He's deflecting,” you say to Mobius in an exaggerated whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back.

But you can’t help but notice that Loki’s eyes are brighter than normal.

“Okay, now get out of here,” says Mobius. “You’ve got a wedding to get to.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re wearing a simple white dress and standing with Loki in front of a time door, your hand clasped in his.

“Technically, we don’t have a supervisor’s approval for this,” you say with a wry smile.

He looks at you, eyes dancing with mirth. “I had Mobius sign off on the paperwork while you were getting ready.”

Your heart swells and your smile is so wide that you feel like your face might split in two. “Then hurry up and marry me, Laufeyson.”

He grins and tugs you through the time door.

-------

But wait! There's more: I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel.

#loki smut #loki x reader #loki x reader smut #loki laufeyson smut #loki x female reader smut #loki x female reader #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #tva loki x reader

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flaggermuser · 7 months ago

Text

When You Loved Me

1,209 words || Fluff, Spoilers for Season 4 Episode 4, Hurt/Comfort, GN Reader, Doctor Reader, Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma ||

Inspired by the idea that at least one doctor would have formed an attachment.

Thank you to @bisexualhomelander for being my beta

They're nearly all dead, there's just one loose end that Homelander needs to tie up.

So he stands outside the unassuming house, ready to cross the final name off his list, which he found in an old abandoned file documenting his ‘development’.

It was a stroke of luck that he found you - it seemed as if Vogelbaum scrubbed you from all official records.

Determined to finish what he's started, he knocks on your door and waits impatiently, ready to strike you down where you stand.

“I’m coming!”

He freezes, his entire body tensing up as your voice unlocks memories from his time in the lab, ones buried deep somewhere at the back of his mind.

A frightened and hurt little boy being held, being comforted after the incinerator and the other horrible forms of torture he was subjected to.

“Shhh, it's okay, you're okay. I'm here. Shall we read another story?”

The door slowly opens and there you are.

Now that he's seen your face, the memories are more vivid. There’s still that kindness in your eyes, the one he saw every night before he went to sleep.

At least, for a few months before you disappeared.

“Hello, John.” Your smile is still as warm as he remembers. “My, how you’ve grown. Come in, come in!”

With trepidation, he slowly enters, unsure of what he’ll find. It’s homely, filled with curiosities and everything he’s ever associated with a true American home. As he follows you into your living room, he notices some of the pictures on the wall with you and your former colleagues at Vought, some of whom he’s already killed.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“A glass of milk would be nice,” he replies, trying his best to smile while conflicting thoughts swirl in his mind.

He was so convinced that you were like the others that had you not spoken, he would have killed you the moment you opened the door.

“Well take a seat, I’ll be right back.”

He takes a seat on your couch, hands in his lap, looking around the room again. That’s when he notices the mantelpiece, covered in photos and newspaper clippings, all in ornate frames.

Not of your family - of him. They’re all of him.

Taking pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece is a picture from several years ago.

“Don't worry John, it's just a camera. All I'm going to do is take a picture of just the two of us. I promise it won't hurt.”

He's sat on your lap, your arms around him, holding him tightly, protectively, a smile on your face.

He’s smiling too. He’s happy. He’s with you.

They took you from me.

“Here we go,” your return snaps him back to reality, his eyes softening as he notices the glass of milk in your hand and a plate of cookies in your other, settling it down on the coffee table in front of him.

It’s such a sweet gesture.

You take a seat in a nearby armchair, “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

After all these years, you’re still this beacon of absolute kindness.

“Do I call you John or Homelander?”

“John.”

How did I forget how lovingly you said my name? How did I forget you?

“I’m so proud of you, you’ve done so well. And look at you, you’re The Homelander! Leader of the Seven!”

His lower lip quivers, trying to keep himself together but it’s proving harder. Your praise comes from a place of pure love, something he’s never experienced or at least, he can’t remember experiencing.

“I see you’ve noticed the mantel. I know I must seem mad but I’ve been following your progress.”

You cared about me, you care about me, it’s all genuine.

“You were so young when I last saw you, with that lovely little smile.”

You reach out to take his hand but he pulls away, only so he can take off his glove. It looks so small in his, he knows if he squeezes just a little, all your bones would be crushed to dust.

But he won't.

“The things we did. Oh John, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I didn’t do anything to save you. I should've stood up to Vogelbaum, I should've protected you."

Saved him, protected him - the regret is written all over your face.

They regretted their actions too, only after he reminded them. Then they apologised but it was too late for them, maybe it’s still too late for you.

He squeezes your hand, trying to comfort you.

“You know, I think about you every day. I wanted to reach out but I figured Vogelbaum would have any attempt at contact blocked, especially from me. All because I chose to be human.”

Human. They were human too and they tortured me.

It’s clear that is a sore subject for you, nowhere near as painful for him but the fact it makes you sad somehow makes him feel better. It shows that you cared.

“They fired me for ‘interfering with the experiment’ but how could I not?! You were scared, you were crying and they left you all alone in that horrid room.”

The bad room.

“I couldn’t just leave you there to cry yourself to sleep. So I volunteered to take the night shift. Do you remember… remember the first time?”

His jaw tightens, desperately searching his mind for even the tiniest hint of a recollection yet all of the torment he was subjected to has buried everything deeper.

“You were terrified that I was going to hurt you, your eyes glowed red and you trembled. I knew you didn’t want to hurt me but you would if you had to.”

You understood.

“It took you a few minutes to realise I wouldn’t hurt you - I think it was the books under my arm that convinced you I wasn’t a threat.”

A single flash - “Would you like me to read you a story?”

“I sat down on your bed, you sat on my lap and we read story, after story, after story. Until you didn’t want me to read anymore, you just wanted me to hold you. So I did exactly that.”

He desperately wants to remember, he needs to remember.

“Then Vogelbaum found out, I must have forgotten to turn the cameras off and I was removed from the project. I should’ve fought for you, I should’ve marched right back in there and demanded to take you. But I didn’t.”

But you’re here now. They’re all dead but you’re still here.

“I forgive you,” it slips out of his mouth, however, this time it’s heartfelt. He means this without malice.

You’re the parent he’d always wanted, living in a house he always dreamed of, serving him milk and cookies like he’s still that young boy you cared about.

Maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe there could be something here, born from the ashes of your past sin and his trauma.

Sniffling, you wipe away your tears, tightening your grip on his hand. When the smile returns, it’s affectionate and all for him.

“I want you to know, John. I need you to know, that you’ll always have a place here and in my heart."

#homelander #homelander fanfiction #homelander x reader #antony starr #the boys #the boys spoilers #homelander x gn reader #homelander x gn #season 4 spoilers #the boys season 4 spoilers

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kaluxsims · 16 days ago

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Happy merry!! Merry happy!! Jingle twinkle! Double well-wishing for channukah and xmas!! I usually give our sims some pj's for the holidays, but this time it's somewhere to wear those pj's. I might actually have gone "ooo" when I first saw @bostyny's Ageless Bedroom for TS4. It had to be my xmas set this year. A must. Then part 2 came out and I wondered if I'd bitten off more than I could chew. This is part of why my updates have been a bit sparse lately.

I mean...look at it though! Don't you just wanna snuggle in and wait for Santa?

Since this is a long post, you can download it up here or down at the very bottom. Choose either merged or unmerged recolors. Unmerged is almost 500 files total. Merged is 22. There are a ton of recolors and I could only repo some of it.

Download:

merged - SFS or MediaFire unmerged - SFS or MediaFire

Full details, credits, more previews, etc under the fold.

I love that this set is called Ageless. It's the perfect name. Depending on the colors and items, this set can be airy or dramatic. It's so versatile! Great stuff, Bostyny!

I didn't convert absolutely everything. I didn't have the time, and some stuff was beyond my skill level. I left out the mirrors, paintings, ceiling lamp, and jewelry stands.

Each object comes with 27-ish recolors. I only added some new recolors for the olive branches. Everything else is Bostyny's swatches. I repo'ed what I could, but there are still almost 500 files total in the unmerged folder. Yeep.

I reduced poly counts here and there, when needed. I also reshaped and tweaked some stuff. The table comes in two different sizes, a side table and a larger one you can use as a desk. The TS4 dressers I did as console tables, for multiple reasons.

Here's a list of what's included, poly count, recolors, etc:

Single bed - 1432 polys - 27 recolors

Double bed - 2240 polys - 27 recolors

Single blanket - 872 polys - repo'ed to double

Double blanket - 1166 polys - 27 recolors

Deco blanket - 730 polys - 25 recolors

Candle - 557 polys - 33 recolors

Candle 2 - 557 polys - 33 recolors

Chair - 2002 polys - 28 recolors

Console table 1 - 1486 polys - 30 recolors

Console table 2 - 1242 polys - repo'ed to console1

Console table 3 - 1486 polys - repo'ed to console1

Nightstand - 632 polys - 26 recolors

Nightstand 2 - 980 polys - repo'ed to console1

Olive branches - 1718 polys - 32 recolors

Olive branches small - 1718 polys - repo'ed to olive branches

Rug - no mesh - 60 recolors of NL 3x3 round rug

Side table - 566 polys - repo'ed to table

Table - 566 polys - 27 recolors

Slippers - 588 polys - 26 recolors

Slippers 2 - 436 polys - 27 recolors

Table lamp - 1662 polys - 19 shade, 11 base recolors

I've included a collection file.

And a few more previews, because why not?

The rug and bed blankets aren't in these previews, but you can see them in the ones further up.

Here's that download stuff again, because I'm not gonna make you go all the way back up.

Download:

merged - SFS or MediaFire unmerged - SFS or MediaFire

Credits: @bostyny for TS4 meshes and textures, @hugelunatic for the bed blanket that doesn't need cheats to place (I cloned it)

#the sims 2 cc #sims 4t2 #s2cc #sims 2 cc #sims 2 custom content #sims2cc #sims 2 download #ts2cc #the sims 2 custom content #4t2 conversion #4t2 #4t2cc #4t2 download

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chithereader · 2 months ago

Text

stir crazy / aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x f!reader

word count: 2k

genre: fluff/angst if you squint

cw: omniscient pov, hotch being vulnerable

“My agent has been asking me for the manuscript but it’s just not ready yet. And I’ve still got my day job that keeps me busy enough,” It’s a quiet day at the BAU. No urgent cases or serial killers, just a few feet worth of case files. Leaning against Reid’s desk, Rossi, Emily and boy genius himself have been talking about the next big David Rossi book.

“Oh c’mon, I see you typing away in your office and writing in that little notebook of yours– which I know is for your drafts by the way,” Emily teases. Rossi shrugs it off with a soft smirk and looks to the boy genius who has been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few minutes.

“Nothing to say, kid?” lowering his head to catch the young man’s preoccupied eye but Reid’s sight is incredibly glued far away.

It took Reid a good 6 seconds to realize he’s kid before he shakes himself out of the trance and answers, “Well, considering the hours he’s spent typing on his personal laptop as opposed to the office computer and adding the minutes he allots on the jet to jot down on his writing notebook– assuming he’s writing in a similar format to his previous books– I’d say….you’re actually well into the third chapter of your manuscript.”

Still with his eyes trained on whatever caught his attention in the first place, Reid unsurprisingly impresses Rossi again because he is indeed a little over halfway into the third chapter.

But Rossi and Emily instantly become interested with what or who Reid has been staring at for the past minute, noticing that even when going off on his boy-genius tangent, his stare had been focused somewhere else.

Reid jumps in his seat a little as the two level their heads on either side of his to see where his gaze has been glued. He had been so focused on figuring out the worrying sight and what caused it that he hadn’t noticed how much of him wasn’t aware of his surroundings.

To their surprise, they’re met with a seemingly everyday sight: Hotch, in the pantry, stirring his coffee. And by everyday, they mean that to any passerby they’d think this is incredibly normal. Nothing at all out of place or out of character.

But to the trained eye- to profilers who also spend almost everyday with the man, they slowly see what Reid must have seen.

Hotch is stirring his coffee. But he doesn’t even put sugar or creamer in his always black coffee.

He’s doing it absentmindedly. Literally looking lost in his head. Hotch is a busy guy, a busy boss guy, with millions of things to think about, but Hotch is never absent. His movements are always purposeful, precise, and calculated. Never lacking and never excess.

Hotch has his head tilted down and to the side. Like a perpetually confused puppy. One of the things that make Hotch Hotch is his posture. His rigid, firm posture. Back always so straight, hands always clenched, jaw always tight– Hotch is never just there, his presence alone is commanding.

And worst of all, Hotch’s hair is neat. Too neat. Okay, Hotch’s habit of being neat -with his pressed suits and shined shoes no matter where he is- naturally extends to how he styles his hair. Over the years, he’s learned to gel it out of his face for both convenience and aesthetic. But this neat- this neat looks a little too flat and ruffled at the same time. Like he’s run his hand through it a hundred times in a matter of minutes.

So Rossi and Emily finally understand. The two share a look of understanding, while Reid looks up at them with curiosity and a little worry.

“Do you guys think he’s.. okay?” Reid asks quietly with a little grimace. He looks between the two, trying to figure out what they’re thinking, “I mean it has been exactly 12 minutes that he’s been stirring nothing into his coffee.”

“12?!” If Emily had any sort of drink in her mouth, she surely would have spat it out all over Reid–for which he is silently thankful she doesn’t because as much as he adores Emily, he’s just not mentally prepared for… well that.

Finally, there’s movement in the pantry. Unaware of his colleagues now watching his every move, Hotch wakes up from the trance he was trapped in and quickly retreats back into his office with his now-cold cup of coffee.

Knowing that Rossi’s the only one to easily get through to Hotch, Emily and Reid turn to look at him, wordlessly nudging him to check on the poor man who spent 12 minutes stirring his painfully plain black coffee.

Raising both his hands as he stands from where he was leaning, Rossi surrenders “Alright alright! But I am not telling you rascals what he tells me in confidence.” pointing at the doe-eyed pair.

Rossi lets the possibilities run through his head as he walks up the stairs to Aaron’s office. Maybe Jack’s having trouble with that one kid again– what’s his name? Or maybe Jack’s having trouble with Mothers’ Day coming up. That’s never been easy. But the stirring and staring into space and the hair? What could possibly– Knock knock.

Rossi doesn’t even wait to hear Aaron’s voice. He pushes the door open to be greeted with the sight of Aaron finally looking a little more him: writing on his desk knee-deep in case files.

Aaron looks up for a second and continues writing reports, “What can I help you with, Dave?” Putting extra pressure on penning that last period before closing the case file and grabbing another to open.

Dave stays quiet for a bit and takes in the sight. Looks fine to me. But his silence halts Aaron’s writing and he looks up to Dave who’s just studying him by the door.

“You know you can sit right?” Aaron stoically jokes.

And a joke?! Dave finally cracks and sits down to say, “Boy genius just watched you stir your coffee for 12 minutes which we all know is black. Your hair’s messy and too fixed at the same time, you were standing in the pantry just minutes ago glaring into nothing. And you were slouching with your head tilted to the side.”

“Honestly whatever it is, it’s none of my business but you just scared two members of your team and I think this may be the seed of doubt in your leadership skills because you’re finally not a robot.” It was obvious that Dave was trying to play it cool, masking concern with humor and sarcasm.

But Aaron is a painfully private guy. He’d think it over for days before he decides to open up or seek advice from a close friend. Only he has thought about it for days and not saying anything’s been driving him insane he genuinely feels like he could implode at any second.

Aaron takes one big breath and through clenched teeth he grumbles out, “It’s a she.” Finally staring Dave straight in the eyes, he clarifies, “the it in whatever it is is a she.”

Realization and more worry hits Dave at the same time which Aaron clearly sees on his face. But Rossi quickly recovers and gives Aaron a soft, comforting smile, “Well what’s so bad about your she that’s got you so shaken up?”

In Dave’s head, he’s already preparing responses for the worst:

She doesn’t approve of my job. Well she can suck it. This is who you are.

Jack doesn’t like her. Aaron, the one thing I like about kids is that they give it to you straight. I think you should take that as a sign

She’s not comfortable with the age gap. She’s way older. She’s way younger. I’m scarred in more ways than one. I’m not sure I still know how to–

Aaron could see the increasing concern in Dave’s face, “I just–” he started.

Dave’s thoughts were cut short by Aaron’s voice, thankfully because his mind was starting to reach the point of no return. Anticipating Aaron’s explanation, he leaned forward in his seat trying to read Aaron’s expression.

“A few months ago, I’d stay here. After a case, when I know my son’s fast asleep and Jessica’s with him- I’d stay here.” Dave kept quiet, intently listening and trying to piece together where this could possibly go.

“I would choose to stay here and finish reports, make a dent in the never-ending pile of case files because when I’m focused on helping others, I don’t have time to think of how alone I am.”

Before Dave could try and quell this ‘alone’ sentiment, Aaron quickly follows it up “I love my son. And he’s always been more than enough. And I have the team but… you guys have people to come home to. Arms to fall into at the end of a grueling day.”

“For the longest time, since Haley.. I haven’t allowed myself to feel. To want. And if I’ve just been honest then it’d be known, I want to be loved. All that I carry, I drop all of it at the door and then there’s just this exhaustion that hits me. And all I want is for someone to hold me.”

Dave takes all of this in, feeling an immense amount of love and sadness for his friend who deserves nothing but happiness but hasn’t for the longest time allowed himself the one thing that can give him that.

“I know you think that getting into a relationship makes you a bad father, splitting the only time you have left with someone else instead of your son. But the truth is Aaron, Jack’s growing up. He has his sleepovers, camps, and football now. Soon he’ll leave for parties and college, and as much as he adores you he’ll have his own family.”

“I know. And then I’ll be alone.” Aaron’s voice starts to sound rough. Like this fact’s caught in his throat and he can’t speak. Dave studies Aaron and considers all the things he knows are holding Aaron back.

“So give it a shot.” Dave insists. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Just set a date, and show up.”

Aaron looks at Dave pointedly, “You make it sound easy–” “You make it sound hard.”

Aaron appears to recover. He smoothes a hand over his tie and straightens his back yet again. In an instant, he’s back to looking stoic and stern with brows furrowed and eyes glaring.

He’s not used to being vulnerable, even in the privacy of his own office. Feeling like an open book for others to read makes goosebumps trail up his spine- in a bad way. Dave quickly reads this and decides to lighten the mood.

“So…. when will we meet her?” Dave asks smugly.

“Funny.”

“I understand.. your concerns. But I don’t think you’d be so worried about it if you weren’t already serious about her. So, what’s really going on with her?”

Aaron thought he could get away without revealing much about her. He’s uncomfortable enough talking about himself, and all the more protective he is when it comes to you. Especially as someone who wants to keep your little world away from the harshness of everything else–

He sighs. He knows Dave is relentless and as payback for his concern, he decides he has to give Dave something.

“I don’t know. Really. I don’t– I told you one day I’m tiring myself out so I don’t have to come home and process my empty bed as empty..”

“Now I’m tiptoeing in my own kitchen so as to not disturb this crazy singing person washing my dishes while my kid wipes the plates. And I watch them for god knows how long, instead of going up to my office to attend to case files whose deadlines are a bit too close for my liking.”

“I don’t know,” Aaron shrugs. A soft, weak smile grows on his lips at the memory of you.

Dave stands from the seat, a knowing smirk on his face, “Hmm.” Teasing Aaron as he walks to the door and grabs the handle.

“I think you’ll be just fine, Aaron. Just fine.”

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds #david rossi #emily prentiss #bau team #spencer reid #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction

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gojoidyll · 4 months ago

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stubborn heart ch. 3

yan!capitano x wife!reader

summary | or in which capitano is told he needs a wife. and he begrudgingly agrees.

previous | next

After your “wedding” of signing marriage papers and Capitano’s disappearance after taking the documents away, you found yourself alone in the mansion. The blanket still engulfing you in a tight embrace as you sat in a momentary silence at the table.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

You posed the question to yourself when you looked around the massive dining room. Your eyes scanning the walls, the paintings, the decorations and even the windows. Capitano had stated that working or doing any sort of maid duty was unneeded.

“Am I really going to be doing nothing for the rest of my life?”

You shook your head at that, no way! You absolutely refused to be bored.

Standing up from the chair you decided to head back to your room and get ready for the day. Luckily you still have some money left from when you worked diligently at the hearth, so maybe it was time to go on a little shopping spree, but…

You stopped suddenly once you got to the stairs at that thought.

“That’s right… he said I need to inform him when I leave this place…wait a second.”

You immediately brightened just then, a smile stretching across your lips as you hiked up the blanket and started up the stairs, “he said I just needed to notify him when I leave, not to get his permission!”

It was a loophole, but a way to at least do your own thing. Though, how to notify him? You didn’t exactly know where he went. He either left the house to hand deliver the documents or went to file them somewhere in the house. Honestly, you weren’t sure who the documents the went to after their signed. All you knew was how weddings worked, not the wedding documents.

Finding your room, you quickly went in and towards the closet. Opening the door, you froze. Your clothes were in there, but were hanging next to someone else’s as well.

“We- we’re sharing a room,” you whispered yelled to yourself as you briefly went over Capitano’s clothing, “well- I guess since we’re married now it will only make sense that we share a room,” you muttered. Though, you were sort of nervous. Does that mean you both will be sleeping in the same bed tonight?!

Hastily grabbing some of your own clothes to throw on, you were careful not to accidentally pull one of Capitano’s down along with your own, then heading out fo the closet you went to dresser and pulled one of the drawers open before shutting it closed a millisecond later.

THAT IS DEFINITELY NOT MY UNDERWEAR-

Calming yourself for a moment as you still couldn’t believe that you were living in a time where you would actually see Capitano’s underwear, you started going through the other drawers before finally finding your underwear and bras all neatly sorted.

“I sure hope the maids were the ones to put these here,” you said sadly to yourself. Because despite being part of the House of the Hearth you never actually lived a life of luxury much like the others who were maids or the ones who joined the fatui. You were paid, of course, but not enough to afford luxury clothing. So a lot of your panties and bras were … very very plain. Definitely not something sexy that a wife would wear.

You paused at that thought, “wait, why am I worrying? He said not to expect anything so it’s not like I’ll be dressing up for him…”

You grabbed a clean pair of underwear and a bra, “so I have nothing to-“

You looked over when you finally noticed a presence by the doorway.

“Do you always talk to yourself?”

Why must he always catch me doing something stupid?! Will I never give the man a good impression of myself?!

“Not- not always,” you mumbled as Capitano entered the room. Noticing his stair, you hid your undergarments under your other clothes that you were carrying.

“Are you planning on going somewhere?”

Luckily he decided not to dwell on your embarrassing moment much like last time. (Thankfully.)

“Yes, I was… going to let you know that I was going to go to town.”

“For what purpose?”

“I want to buy some new books.”

He regarded you for a moment before pulling something out his cloak and holding it out to you. Tilting your head to the side, you looked up at him quizzically.

“Mora. For your shopping.”

You instantly shook your head, “what- no! I can’t take your money!”

“You no longer work at the hearth, nor do you have an income now. So I have already expected that you will be needing this-“

You cut him off which surprised you, “I- I don’t need your mora, ok? I have my own, and I plan on looking for a job in town as well.”

It felt like you just annoyed him, but you were insistent. He told you not to expect anything, so you weren’t going to expect any mora from him as well.

“As you wish,” he finally said when he didn’t detect any sort of wavering in your stance. The bag of mora disappearing behind his cloak as he most likely hung it back on his belt, “though, if you do find a job I expect to be-“

“Notified of it,” you finished.

“Hmm, you’re quite mouthy.”

“I- I was only finishing-“

“My sentences. I got that. Now, I will be leaving also. I have some business to attend to with the other harbingers.”

You nodded, still a bit lost on the exchange you both shared.

“Would you like to leave together?”

You shook your head at that, “no Lord Capitano. I still have to get ready, and I don’t want you to have to wait on me.”

He nodded, but before he turned to leave, he spoke to you once more, “there is no need to refer to me as Lord anymore.”

“Alright… Capitano.”

taglist

@nas-ha @simp-simp-no-mi @emmathecouchpotato4583 @sendria @riotakire @littlekohai77 @lvtuss @kreishin @floffytofu @nastylilcvnt @mikoslightnovels @feral-childs-word @barbatoss-bitch

some say "no blogs found" </3

#genshin impact #genshin #capitano #yandere capitano x reader #yandere capitano #yandere capitano x you #yandere capitano x y/n #yandere capitano x wife reader #capitano x reader #capitano x you #capitano x y/n #genshin capitano #capitano genshin

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fr0stf4ll · 17 days ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 4

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

Trigger warning; Blood, pain, injuries.

notes; Hello everyone! I'm super exited on how this story is going to turn (and let me be honest it's probably going to be long, at least longer than the Forger of starlight for those who read it). Still I hope that you are going to enjoy this chapter ! Don't hesitate to comment <3 See you soon !

Link; Part 3 or Part 5

---

The next morning’s light cast a pale glow through the clinic’s windows, the faint scent of antiseptics and dried herbs greeting you as you unlatched the doors. You tried to steady your breathing, tried to keep your mind on the tasks at hand rather than on the unsettling knowledge lodged behind your ribs. A mate—Azriel was your mate. Even thinking the word sent your pulse skittering.

One of the healers—a younger fae named Elira, with cropped auburn hair and warm brown eyes—stepped inside just as you finished propping the doors open. She paused, studying your face with a hint of concern. “Morning, Y/N. Are you all right? You look… tired,” she said gently, pulling her shawl tighter over her shoulders. The morning still carried a chill, and you realized you’d barely felt it through the fog in your head.

You mustered a weary smile. “I’m fine,” you lied, voice quiet. The words felt brittle, and you suspected Elira might sense the untruth. But you couldn’t burden her with the chaos pounding in your skull. “It was a long night. Emergencies.”

Elira nodded, sympathy softening her expression. “Did something serious happen?”

“Serious enough,” you answered vaguely. “I managed it, but… I’m still recovering.” You forced your shoulders to square, as though you could physically straighten your resolve. “Do we have the morning’s patient lists ready?”

Elira didn’t press further—perhaps sensing you weren’t ready to talk. She offered a tentative smile and said, “I’ll sort the files. You should rest, even if just for a few minutes.” There was kindness in her voice, a gentle understanding that you were carrying more than you cared to say.

Rest. The suggestion sounded laughable. There was no rest in sight, not with the secret you held, not with Azriel’s bandages and salves waiting for you at the House of Wind. But you nodded anyway, grateful for Elira’s compassion. “Thank you, but I need to tend to something first,” you managed, grateful that she didn’t look offended. Instead, she nodded and moved toward the record room, leaving you to your own thoughts.

For a moment, you lingered by the door, one hand still on the frame. The clinic hummed softly as healers arrived, exchanging greetings, setting up their stations. Usually, this hum would soothe you, give you purpose. Today, it only reminded you that you were somewhere you once felt safe—somewhere you now felt oddly displaced.

You inhaled, drawing in the scent of herbs and polished wood. It was time to go back. Time to face Azriel again, to apply the ointment and ensure his recovery progressed smoothly. Your heart fluttered with a mixture of dread and longing. How would you act in his presence now? Would he sense the shift in your energy, even unconscious as he was?

Stepping out into the crisp morning, you let the door close gently behind you. The sound of the city waking up drifted through the streets—vendors setting out their wares, the faint laughter of children, distant footfalls of those heading to their day’s work. You pulled your cloak tighter, the weight of your responsibilities and secrets pressing against your shoulders.

With determined strides, you set off toward the House of Wind, each step both too quick and not quick enough. You wanted to get this over with, to fulfill your duties, to reassure yourself that he was alive and healing—and yet every pace brought you closer to him, and to the golden bond you didn’t know how to handle.

In the rising daylight, Velaris shimmered with quiet beauty. Its peace mocked your turmoil, but you kept walking, forging ahead, praying the trembling in your chest would ease before you reached the High Lord’s halls and the wounded spymaster waiting within.

With quiet steps, you entered Azriel’s room at the House of Wind. The morning light streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the space in pale gold. You had your supplies in hand—a jar of ointment and fresh bandages, carefully prepared in the clinic’s familiar hush. Your heart gave a nervous flutter at the thought of approaching him again, but duty called, and you pushed forward, easing the door open with a soft creak.

At first, you saw only Azriel’s still form, cocooned in blankets, his wings carefully arranged to avoid pressure on his healing injuries. His dark hair fell over his forehead, his lashes resting against his cheeks. He looked peaceful, his pain soothed by rest and the remedies you’d applied before dawn.

But then your gaze caught movement. Someone else was here—a young woman seated by his bedside, her head bowed slightly as if in prayer or silent plea. She had delicate features, long brown hair cascading around her shoulders. A gentle profile that, when she turned, revealed a face not unlike Feyre’s—similar bone structure, the same warm eyes, though softer in hue.

Your footsteps faltered. Your mind flashed with questions: Who was she? Why was she here? Azriel was asleep, unaware of your arrival. You swallowed hard, feeling the tension coil in your stomach. The golden thread of the bond still lingered in your mind, making the sight of this unknown woman’s hand resting lightly on Azriel’s arm feel like a knife twisting in your chest.

As you approached, the woman looked up, startled yet hopeful. You noticed the worry etched on her face, a sorrow and concern that spoke of care and affection. Without hesitation, she stood, moving gracefully toward you.

She offered a trembling smile, eyes bright with tears unshed. “You must be the healer,” she said, voice quiet and earnest. “I’m Elain. Elain Archeron.” Her gaze flickered to Azriel’s sleeping form, then back to you. “Feyre’s sister,” she added gently, as though knowing her connection might reassure you.

Elain reached for your arms in a gesture of gratitude and relief. Her touch was soft, tentative, but sincere. “Thank you,” she said, and her voice caught. “Thank you for saving him. I-I’ve only just heard what happened. If not for you, he might have…” She trailed off, unable or unwilling to complete the grim thought.

Your heart twisted at her obvious worry, and despite the turmoil inside you, you forced yourself to remain composed. She was worried for Azriel, nothing more. Any sting of jealousy or fear you felt was misplaced, you told yourself. You were here to help, to heal. That was all.

“I’m glad I could be there,” you managed, voice quiet. Your eyes drifted to Azriel’s face, the rise and fall of his chest steady and sure. “He’s stable now, and with proper care, he’ll recover.”

Elain’s grip tightened slightly on your arms, as if finding comfort in your words. “He means so much to all of us,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “We were afraid—” Another half-spoken fear cut short. She swallowed, releasing your arms and folding her hands together. “I won’t keep you from your work.”

You nodded, steeling yourself, and moved closer to the bedside. The world narrowed down to the tasks at hand: checking Azriel’s bandages, applying ointment, ensuring his wounds were clean and healing as intended. Behind you, Elain hovered, her presence a soft reminder that you were not the only one who cared about this man’s survival.

The ache in your chest remained, but you channeled it into precise, gentle care, grateful that Azriel slept on, oblivious for now to all the unspoken emotions filling the room.

As you carefully lifted Azriel’s wing to apply fresh ointment along the fragile membranes, the door opened. Looking up, you expected perhaps Feyre or Cassian, but it was Rhysand who stepped quietly inside. He halted at the sight of Elain, surprise flickering across his features. She stiffened, then dropped her gaze and slipped past him without a word, leaving the room as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Her sudden departure hung in the silence, unanswered questions lingering in the space she vacated.

You remained focused on your work, smoothing the ointment gently and checking for any sign of infection. When you were done, you lowered Azriel’s wing back onto the soft padding you’d arranged. He stirred slightly, but remained in a healing sleep. The faint hiss of his steady breathing was the only sound until Rhysand approached, stopping a respectful distance away.

“How is he?” the High Lord asked, voice low. His violet eyes held concern and relief in equal measure—he clearly trusted you, but he needed reassurance. You wondered if it was strange for him to stand here, watching you care for one of his closest friends, after seeing how you worked miracles with moonlight just hours before.

You inclined your head, wiping your hands on a clean cloth. “His vitals are stable. The bleeding has ceased, the stitches and salves are holding up. He will heal, but it’s going to take time.” You glanced at the bandages, ensuring everything was in order. “For the next two or three weeks, he should be extremely careful. Any strain could reopen those wounds, especially where the wings are concerned. If he follows instructions, he should make a full recovery.”

Rhysand exhaled quietly, tension easing from his posture. “Thank you,” he said simply, yet the depth of gratitude in that single phrase was undeniable. He stepped closer, examining Azriel’s peaceful face, the neat wrappings. “I know you’ve done more than what could be expected.”

You offered a faint, professional smile. “He responded well to the treatments. I’ll check on him regularly. With proper rest and caution, he’ll be back on his feet soon.” You paused, hesitant, then added, “He might chafe at the restrictions. I trust you and the others can help ensure he doesn’t push himself too hard.”

A hint of wry amusement touched Rhysand’s lips. “Oh, that will be a battle,” he said, a spark of humor in his tone. “Azriel’s not exactly fond of lying in bed. But we’ll manage.”

As you turned away to rinse the cloth and reorganize your supplies, the High Lord lingered, watching over his friend. The hush in the room was gentler now, as if the worst of the night’s nightmares had passed. In the corridor outside, you heard distant murmurs—life carrying on in the House of Wind, even as Azriel slept through his healing pains.

In a few hours, you’d return with more salves, check the stitching again, monitor his temperature. The routine would help ground you, a steady path forward as you navigated your new role and the unsettling bond you’d discovered the night before. For now, Azriel’s safe and stable state was a small victory, one you both needed.

After you finished tending to Azriel and making certain he was resting comfortably, Rhysand gently guided you from the room. In silence, you followed him through the House of Wind, eventually arriving at his office. It was a spacious chamber lined with shelves full of books and maps, and a large window offered a breathtaking view of Velaris and the mountains beyond.

He gestured for you to sit in a chair opposite his desk and took his own seat with a measured elegance. You settled into the soft cushions, mind still churning with the events of the night before and the morning that followed. Rhysand allowed a brief moment of silence, his violet eyes studying you with calm interest. You appreciated the courtesy he afforded you—allowing you to compose yourself, if only for a breath.

“There is some business we need to discuss,” he began quietly, resting his forearms on the desk’s smooth surface. “Specifically, Illyria.”

Your heart sank a fraction, remembering the plight of the Illyrian females. The clipping of their wings, a barbaric tradition meant to keep them grounded, powerless, had long stained the culture of the mountain camps. Anyone who’d lived in the Night Court knew about it—knew the cruelty it entailed. It made your stomach knot, the injustice of it all. But Rhysand’s gaze was steady, his tone matter-of-fact. He didn’t need to explain the tradition or its brutality to you. You already knew.

He continued, “We’ve made strides in changing policies and punishing those who practice clipping, but traditions die hard. There’s a deep-seated reluctance in some of the camps to embrace new methods, to trust outside help. And while we can enforce laws, people need more than punishment—they need healing. Not just in body, but in mind and culture.”

You nodded slowly, understanding the layers to his request. Illyria was a complex knot of pride, pain, and ingrained habits. Simply banning clipping hadn’t eradicated it overnight. Change would require education, trust, and time. As a healer, you might wield some influence. Heal their wounds, show them better ways, and perhaps, over time, their hearts could soften.

“You’re aware of the situation,” Rhysand acknowledged, reading your thoughtful silence. “I know you’ve only recently returned and you have your hands full with Azriel’s recovery and the transition of your role. Still, I must ask: would you be willing, sometime in the coming week, to travel to Winghaven? Begin there. Examine their current medical facilities—or lack thereof—and train some of their healers. Introduce new methods. Show them what can be done, especially for those who’ve suffered under these old customs.”

You caught his eyes, the sincerity and gravity in them. This wasn’t a small favor. It was a step in a long journey of reform. “I know Winghaven,” you said quietly. “They have rudimentary healers, but nothing on par with Velaris. The conditions are… difficult.”

Rhysand inclined his head. “Indeed. Start there, build rapport, and then move on to the other camps in the following weeks. A thorough evaluation, some training sessions, maybe even demonstrations of advanced healing techniques. Whatever you think might help them trust and adopt new methods.”

Your pulse fluttered, considering what this meant. You’d travel again, but within the Night Court’s borders this time, extending the reach of your healing and knowledge to places that desperately needed it. It was daunting, but also a chance to enact real change. Madja had chosen you not just to heal wounds, but to heal a culture’s mindset if possible. This could be the first step in doing just that.

“I can do it,” you answered softly, your voice firming as you spoke. “I’ll need a day or two to prepare. I should bring some portable tools, samples of herbs, and notes to leave behind. And I’ll finish stabilizing Azriel’s condition, make sure everything here is organized before I leave.”

A hint of relief, and perhaps admiration, touched Rhysand’s features. “Thank you,” he said. “I won’t pretend this will be easy. You may face skepticism, even hostility. But we’ve set certain laws in place—call on them if you must. Cassian, in particular, is familiar with Winghaven and can advise you on how to approach certain leaders.”

At the mention of Cassian, you nodded again, making a mental note to consult him. His insight could help navigate the subtle power dynamics and stubborn pride of Illyrian warriors.

You exhaled slowly, embracing the weight of your new mission. Healing was never just about wounds. It was about hearts, minds, and cultures. It was about offering better ways to live, even to those who resisted. You’d do what you could, and hopefully, over time, your efforts would take root.

“I’ll do everything in my power to make a difference,” you promised, voice steady despite the uncertainty that loomed ahead.

Rhysand’s smile was small but genuine, a touch of warmth breaking through the High Lord’s composed demeanor. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

The hush of the office fractured abruptly by muffled commotion from down the hall. Your conversation with Rhysand froze mid-sentence, both of you snapping your heads toward the door. There was a look in his violet eyes—concern and a steeled readiness—that mirrored your own. In a heartbeat, you rose from your chair, following him at a brisk pace down the corridor.

The sounds led you back to Azriel’s room. The door stood ajar, and you entered to find Elain near the bed, wringing her hands, her face stricken with alarm. Azriel lay on the mattress, his breathing ragged, his skin flushing and mottled as if reacting violently to something.

Elain’s voice quavered, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she pleaded, voice trembling. “He seemed uncomfortable, in pain, and I just thought—my salve… I didn’t know—”

Your heart pounded with a hot surge of anger. This was exactly why you insisted on careful protocols and avoiding any unapproved treatments. “What were you thinking?” you snapped, too concerned to temper your tone. “Applying something else without knowing its properties? Mixing plants can cause severe reactions!” Your voice cracked through the tension in the room, startling her.

Elain’s lower lip trembled as she retreated a step. She looked horrified and remorseful, but you had no time for comforting her now. Azriel jerked under the covers, his wings twitching fitfully. You needed to move fast.

“Get out,” you ordered, pointing to the door. Your command was clipped, professional, but unyielding. Elain let out a small sob and stumbled back, leaving the room in a blur of skirts and regret.

Azriel’s breath came in short, pained pants, his eyes half-lidded. You tossed your head toward Rhysand. “I need you to hold him down,” you said urgently, dropping to your knees beside the bed and flinging open your medical kit. “If he thrashes, he’ll make it worse. I must flush this foreign salve from his system.”

Rhysand stepped forward without hesitation. His presence, calm and contained, would help keep Azriel still. With a nod, he took position near Azriel’s shoulders, pressing down firmly but gently, careful not to aggravate existing wounds. Az let out a ragged moan, wings scraping restlessly against the blankets.

Your hands moved quickly, selecting herbs and tools you’d never intended to use twice in one day. You measured doses with exacting care, mentally reviewing which compounds countered which toxins, which would draw out the harmful concoction Elain had unwittingly introduced. The scent of your preparations soon filled the air—bitter, pungent, but necessary.

Biting your lip, you applied a cleansing solution around the affected areas, your fingertips deft and gentle despite your racing pulse. Rhysand’s voice was quiet, murmuring something soothing to Azriel, trying to keep him calm. Your own heart ached to see him like this, so vulnerable and in pain, especially after what he had already endured. But you banished the ache and focused on your role as healer.

The minutes stretched thin. You worked methodically, using a special wash to neutralize the reaction, applying cool compresses to reduce inflammation. Outside the room, you could still sense Elain’s presence in the hall, her quiet weeping. You pushed that distraction aside, refusing to look anywhere but Azriel’s face and the wounds you tended.

“Stay with me, Azriel,” you whispered as you worked, your tone softer now, though he might not be lucid enough to understand. “I’ve got you.”

Behind you, Rhysand’s gaze bore into your back, silent trust and support emanating from him. He kept his hold steady, ensuring Azriel didn’t thrash off the mattress and disrupt the delicate mending you were attempting.

Slowly, the color in Azriel’s cheeks began to normalize, the flush fading as the compounds took hold. His breathing, labored and strained, began to even out, shallow gasps replaced by steadier inhalations. It would take time, more careful applications, but you could see the signs of the countermeasures working.

It wasn’t over yet, but you’d gained precious ground. You adjusted your grip on another vial, heart pounding with renewed determination. You wouldn’t let him slip away, not now, not after everything.

“Hold him just a moment longer,” you said to Rhysand, voice steady once more. “I’m almost done.”

Once you were certain Azriel’s condition had stabilized, you stepped out of the room, still breathing heavily from the tension of your work. You found Elain in the corridor, lingering where you’d left her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tear tracks staining her cheeks, her posture slumped with remorse. But right now, you were too furious, too rattled by the near catastrophe, to offer comfort.

You closed the distance between you and her in quick strides, the echo of your footsteps making her flinch. “What were you thinking?” you demanded, voice low and tight. “You are no healer, Elain. You had no right—no right—to apply anything without my approval.”

“I-I was just trying to help,” Elain stammered, voice quavering. Her hands twisted in her skirts, knuckles turning white. “He looked like he was in pain, and I had this salve that’s helped me before—”

“Stop,” you cut in sharply, and she recoiled as if struck. “This isn’t about your intentions. It’s about what could have happened. I’ve seen lives lost because someone thought they knew better than the professionals. A bad mix of herbs, a plant reacting poorly with other treatments—and a patient dies. You could have killed him.”

Tears welled again in her eyes, her breath coming in shaky gasps. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

You tightened your jaw, fighting to keep your emotions from spilling over into cruelty. “I don’t care who you are to him, or what you think you can do. Right now, Azriel is my patient. My priority is saving his life, not sparing your feelings. And if you ever pull a stunt like that again…” Your voice trailed off ominously, anger vibrating in your throat.

“Elain,” came a quiet voice from behind you. Rhysand’s hand settled gently on your shoulder, the subtle pressure a reminder that you’d made your point. You breathed in slowly through your nose, attempting to calm the fire in your blood.

Elain looked at Rhysand as if searching for reprieve, but found little. His face was composed, yet stern. “It’s best you return to the townhouse,” he said calmly. “We cannot afford any more risks to Azriel’s recovery. Until he’s better—fully better—I’m afraid you’re not allowed in the House of Wind.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, shoulders slumping further. With a trembling nod, Elain turned away, tears still glistening on her cheeks. She moved off down the corridor, footsteps fading into silence.

You let out a shaky breath, shoulders still tight with residual fury and fear. Rhysand’s hand remained on your shoulder a moment longer, a silent token of understanding. When he removed it, you stood there, heart pounding, your mind already shifting back to Azriel’s condition. He was stable for now, but you would have to keep a closer eye on him than ever.

No more unnecessary risks. No more interference. Not while his life hung in the balance and your responsibility, as his healer, demanded unwavering vigilance.

———

Back at the clinic, the familiar hum of voices and quiet steps on wooden floors welcomed you like a gentle embrace. You’d returned not long ago, having decided you wouldn’t check on Azriel again until the next day. He was stable, and after the emotional whirlwind of the morning, you needed to focus on your other duties, regain your footing in the place that felt most under your control.

The other healers had noticed your tension, though none had dared comment openly. But as dusk settled, while sorting through jars of herbs in the storage room, you found yourself beside Elira—the same young healer who had noticed your fatigue earlier. She had a careful way about her, kind but never intrusive, and you appreciated her steady presence.

She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, tightening the string around a bundle of dried leaves. “Everything all right?” she asked softly, as if testing the waters. “You seem… troubled.”

You exhaled slowly, considering how much to share. “There was an incident,” you admitted, voice low. “I had to step in this morning to save someone who was already on the mend.” You paused, picking through lavender stems. “Let’s just say someone interfered with the treatment, and it nearly cost him dearly.”

Elira’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds serious. Did they mean harm?”

You shook your head, remembering Elain’s tearful face. “No, I think she meant well. But intentions aren’t enough. She mixed treatments without understanding the consequences.” The words tasted bitter, like you were defending your anger yet again. You looked at Elira more directly. “I might have been harsh, but… there was a real risk.”

Elira nodded slowly, a knowing sympathy in her gaze. “It’s never easy when outsiders meddle. Most don’t realize how delicate the balance is, or how small a mistake can undo hours of careful work.”

You busied yourself with organizing a stack of bandages. “What’s harder is… I’m curious about who she was to him. The patient, I mean.” The admission made you feel exposed, but you pressed on. “I know she’s related to the High Lady—her sister, Elain. But what about her relationship to him?” You pursed your lips, scanning Elira’s face for any sign of judgment. “I can’t help it,” you added softly, as if apologizing for your curiosity. “I saw the way she looked at him, how worried she was. It… made me wonder.”

Elira seemed thoughtful. “I’ve only heard rumors,” she said carefully. “He’s one of the High Lord’s closest advisors, part of that inner circle. They’re all very… intertwined. Friends, allies, perhaps more sometimes. Elain is well-known as someone gentle, kind, a bit shy. She’s close to all of them, I think. There’s talk that Azriel and Elain… share a bond, but nothing confirmed.” She shrugged lightly. “You know how rumors are.”

You nodded, your stomach twisting. A bond. The word reverberated in your mind, tangling with your own secret discovery. Could it be that you weren’t the only one feeling something unexpected? Or perhaps Elira had it wrong, and it was merely idle gossip. Regardless, your heartbeat fluttered nervously at the thought.

“I’m not one for gossip,” you said evenly. “I just… I need to understand the dynamics so I can navigate these situations better in the future.”

Elira gave you a small smile. “Don’t fret too much. Relationships in that inner circle are complicated, from what I’ve gathered. All you need to focus on is healing and doing what you do best. The rest will fall into place, or so I’ve learned over the years. Fate has a way of showing us truths when we’re ready.”

You pressed the bandages into a neat stack, forcing a steady breath. “You’re right. I shouldn’t get tangled in their personal affairs.” But even as you spoke the words, you knew the tangled knot in your chest was not so easily undone. If a bond truly existed—be it gossip or reality—you’d have to face it in your own way, in your own time.

For now, you settled for the comfort of the clinic’s routine, and the quiet solidarity of another healer who understood that sometimes, wanting answers was part of the human—fae—condition. You’d return to Azriel the next day, as promised, focusing on his recovery and ignoring, for a few hours more, the silent questions that thrummed under your skin.

Night had fully fallen, and the hush that blanketed Velaris seemed deeper than usual. In your small apartment above the clinic, a lamp cast a gentle glow over the modest furnishings. You sat curled on your couch, cradled under a thick cover, a warm cup of tea balanced on your knee and a book open in your other hand. The scent of chamomile and honey rose with the steam, comforting and mild.

A soft, muffled tap came from the window. You paused your reading, glancing up just in time to see Ydil—the eagle who’d followed you through countless journeys—perched on the sill. His feathers ruffled slightly in the night breeze, and his keen eyes shone with recognition. Without hesitation, you set the book aside and rose to open the window. The chill of the winter air nipped at your cheeks as Ydil hopped inside, letting out a small, happy sound—a rough, throaty chirr of delight.

You closed the window with care, sealing out the cold. Ydil nudged at you with his head, as if in greeting, his beak gently tapping your arm. The affection was unmistakable, and a tender smile curved your lips. “Hello, old friend,” you murmured quietly, stroking the smooth feathers along his neck. He had traveled with you through distant courts and unknown lands, watching over you as you honed your healing craft, bearing witness to triumphs and losses. Now, here he was, comforting you in this new chapter of your life.

You settled back onto the couch, rearranging the cover so that it would fall partly over your lap and leave room for Ydil. He hopped closer, tucking himself beside you with a small flutter of wings, drawn to your warmth and the promise of quiet companionship. The lamp’s glow highlighted the subtle patterns in his feathers, the soft shine in his dark eyes. He was safe here, as were you.

Reclaiming your mug, you took a slow sip of tea, the sweet warmth settling in your chest. The book rested on your lap, its pages waiting patiently for your attention. But for a moment, you just breathed, listening to Ydil’s faint rustle as he positioned himself more comfortably, feeling the soft weight of the blanket, and smelling the gentle floral notes of your tea.

Outside, the night carried on in hushed whispers. The starlight and the faint hum of distant laughter from the city below reminded you that life went on, despite all your questions and uncertainties. You would face them—tomorrow, the next day, whenever fate demanded. For now, you had this peaceful moment: a warm couch, a loyal companion, a cup of tea, and the quiet promise that you weren’t alone, not tonight.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. One moment you were reading, the gentle rustling of Ydil’s feathers at your side, the soft lamplight glowing over the pages of your book; the next, your eyelids grew too heavy, and your mind drifted into a gentle haze. The mug in your hand grew tepid, and the words on the page blurred. By the time your book slipped from your grasp and settled lightly against your lap, you were already lost in quiet slumber.

Ydil noticed immediately. With a soft, rustling sound, he slipped out from under the cover. The eagle cocked his head, studying your face as though ensuring you were truly at peace. You looked so tired—no wonder you had succumbed so easily after the long, restless night before.

He hopped lightly onto the arm of the couch, where the lamp rested on a small side table. Balancing his weight with delicate precision, Ydil stretched out and pressed the lamp’s switch with his beak. The soft glow vanished, leaving only the faint silver gleam of moonlight filtering through the window. In that gentle darkness, the world felt hushed, a cocoon of calm around you both.

Carefully, the eagle tugged at the blanket’s edge with his beak. Bit by bit, he pulled it higher until it covered your shoulders, ensuring you would remain warm against the night’s chill. Satisfied, he settled himself beside you again, his head turning as if listening to your steady breathing.

Ydil tucked his wings close, sharing the silence and stillness. Outside, Velaris slept, stars glittering softly in the winter sky. Inside, the quiet companionship of bird and healer spun a fragile moment of comfort—no demands, no urgent calls to duty, no doubts hovering at the edge of your mind. Just rest, and the gentle presence of an old friend looking after you in the deep hush of the night.

----

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse

#azriel fic #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar fanart #acotar #rhysand #azriel acotar #cassian #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #feyre #elain

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 7 months ago

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"I'm competing for your attention again, aren't I?" w Art Donaldson 🙏

From the Domestic Bickering Prompt List

Sure thing!

Warnings: Established relationship, twice-divorced Art Donaldson, fluff, smooches

You've caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye two, maybe three times—but you've been so damn busy answering the usual questions that you've hardly had a chance to catch up with him. You're certain that he's been getting a healthy handful of them, too, along with a heap of sarcasm—

Will you have the ceremony on the court?

Will the bridal party be in tennis whites?

Third time's the charm, eh, Donaldson?

While you hadn't had any idea who Art was when you'd first met him, he'd been forthright with you about being twice divorced. He'd told you that his first wife had cheated on him, and his second wife had been a rebound.

"I wanna get married again," He'd admitted, "But I want this one to stick."

Now, you pass a nervous smile toward where Tashi Duncan and Patrick Zweig are in the corner of the party. They've been keeping to themselves for the most part, seeming to trade smiles and barbs between one another, and exchanged bland pleasantries with Art's family.

Art having such a close relationship with his ex-wife had unsettled you at first, but they had a child together. His bond with Patrick was just as obvious but admittedly a little more nebulous to you. But, they were important to Art, so you adjusted.

Patrick catches and holds your eye, raising his beer in a mock-toast and shooting you a wink. Tashi meets your gaze you next, her brow arched slightly as she gives you a nod. It's just enough and nearly too much all at once.

You're drawn into Art's mother's arm a moment later, giving you a squeeze as she coos over your engagement ring.

"You have to meet Alan and Edith—they're Art's godparents."

"Oh, I'd love to!"

"There you are."

You look up, doing a double-take at the sight of Art leaning in the doorway.

"Hey! Where did you put that bottle of wine that your mother brought?" You ask, scanning the crowded counter tops in Art's kitchen—well, it'll be your kitchen, too, once you're fully moved in.

"Can't that wait?"

"It must be in here somewhere."

"Honey."

"Can you check the dining room? Or—maybe we left it in the front hall?"

You hear Art sigh and expect to hear him leave, but when he doesn't budge, you turn your head to get a good look at him. His head is hanging, his thumb sliding over his left ring finger.

"...Art?"

"I'm competing for your attention again, aren't I?"

You purse your lips, rounding the counter toward him. When the two of you had begun dating, he hadn't been the only name on your dance card. When he'd told you that he wanted to be exclusive all of that had stopped, of course—but he'd made his dislike of sharing your attention very clear.

"You know it isn't the same," You remind him. "I'm not texting a Tinder fuckboy. I'm trying to find the gift that your mother very kindly brought us to make sure I stay on her good side."

"You don't need to worry about that. She loves you."

"I worry about it all the same."

"C'mere." Art reaches out, taking hold of your left hand and drawing you in. You smile as he raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the ring, and then to your knuckles. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm just not used to having to chase you down for a kiss."

"Is that what that pout's about?" You lean in, pressing a tender kiss to his lips and grinning as he raises a hand to curl around your jaw.

"I wanna leave," Art murmurs.

"What?" You frown, drawing back to get a better look at him. "Why?"

"I'm sick of the party. I'm sick of this already," He thumbs your ring. "I wanna marry you tonight. Right now."

"Art!" You laugh, "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not kidding."

"You have to be. We haven't filed for a license yet—and we still have to arrange everything."

"We'll go to Vegas. If we leave right now, get tickets at the airport, we'll get there before the marriage license bureau closes. We can file online, on the way to the airport."

"...Art," You shake your head. "You're—Seriously?"

"Seriously." His eyes search yours. "I don't want to have to wait to call you my wife."

"We can't just leave everyone here."

"They're adults, they can see themselves out."

"It would be rude."

Art sighs, looking toward the busy patio. "Alright. We'll give everyone a very polite brush-off. And then can we fly to Vegas?"

"Won't your family be disappointed?"

"I don't care about that." He pauses, a wave of concern passing across his face. "Will you be disappointed?"

"What do you mean?"

"...I've done this a couple'a times. I can do without the big white wedding. But," His brows raise as he tips his head toward you, "If you want it, we'll have it."

You consider for a few moments, glancing toward the patio.

Tonight has been such a whirlwind. You've hardly had any time to catch a breath. The politics of wedding planning can be so nerve-wracking, and you'll have those little comments, those teases of third time's the charm hanging over your head. You'll have to invite Tashi and Patrick to the wedding, and where to seat them? With Art's other friends from the Academy? Will themed drinks be expected? Some hair-brained concoction called The Grand Slam, accompanied by a toothpick with a little tennis ball on the end?

There's press coverage to be had, too. Art may not be playing right now, but that doesn't mean he isn't news. You're not ready for those cameras, the questions, the months of speculation about your dress, about Tashi's attendance—

You look up at Art, resting your hand on his chest.

"I'm going to find the bottle of wine that your mom brought. We're going to finish this party like we planned...And pack when everyone leaves. We'll go to Vegas tomorrow."

The grin that breaks across Art's face is so bright and beautiful that you have no doubt you made the right decision. The crushing force of his kiss nearly bowls you into the opposite side of the door frame.

"I love you," He murmurs.

"I know, baby. I love you, too."

#Art Donaldson x Reader #Art Donaldson x You #Art Donaldson/Reader #Art Donaldson/You #Art Donaldson fic #Art Donaldson imagine #asks #replies #anon #Domestic bickering #requests #prompts

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revelboo · 2 months ago

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sometimes i think this is how some of the bots think about humans

lowkey don't know how to feel about that myself, i actually put myself in some of the human's shoes and wow it's no easy task to deal with their situation and having to keep themselves calm

That’s probably how a lot of them unconsciously view humans because of the size difference.

A Lifeless Ordinary Pt 4

Scavengers x Reader

• By virtue of Swindle’s reputation as a crook, Misfire voted Crankcase to use the language file and everyone else agreed. Most likely the con wouldn’t intentionally off a customer he can scam again, but still. Now Crankcase leans over where the human is sitting on a crate, little legs dangling and heels thumping against the side, and he spouts gibberish at you. Your head comes up, eyes widening as you say something back and get to your feet. “Do you understand it?” Krok demands, right as your little shoulders slump, hands gesturing.

• When the one with the chunk out of his head starts talking and you recognize human language, you lunge to your feet. Asking if he knew your language, because while the sounds are familiar, it’s still nonsense to you. And he’s just staring back at you in incomprehension. It’s the wrong language and you’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. Or scream. You’re still stuck at square one playing charades with giant, alien robots.

• “Still gibberish,” Crankcase growls, leaning back as the human goes on a rant, little hands flapping about and gesturing before you flop back down in frustration. Reaching out he nudges your shoulder with a servo and you immediately swat him. Those eyes glowering when he uses that same servo to tip your chin up. Because he gets it, to be so small and trapped somewhere? Unable to communicate? You must be terrified even if you hide it well. And that’s something he understands. What happened to him left more scars than just the chunk missing from his head. Sometimes the other Scavengers come up on his bad side and he almost swears it’s Thunderwing looming up behind him, that old nightmare digging it’s claws in.

• “Of course it is,” Krok sighs, slumping back on the bench in the cargo hold. Doesn’t even realize when he starts clicking the device in his hand because it’s become a nervous habit by this point. Whenever something goes sideways, he plays with it and now you look up at the noise and meet his optics. As he watches, you hold up your fist, thumb moving to mime him until he stops. “Signal that crook.”

• “I told you,” Misfire growls, wings flaring as he watches you stop copying Krok and look up at him. Unable to understand, but trying. Those intelligent eyes alert. As he watches, Spinister finds that stuffed animal as big as you are and pushes it firmly at you, knocking you flat on your back as you wrap your arms around it in self defense just to get him to stop. “I mean, his name is Swindle,” he mutters as he stalks off.

• Arm looped around the stuffed bear, you crane your neck to watch the one with wings stalk off. They’re obviously all unhappy and it hurts to get your hopes up only to have them crushed again. If you can’t communicate, you can’t ask to go home. You’ve tried mimicking some of the sounds they make, but they always just look at you funny. Expressions giving away that they can’t even tell you’re trying so hard. That your attempts are just nonsense to them. Anxiety lifting through you, you’re aware of the biggest one, the one that had found you and ran you down, still staring at you. He’d scared you nearly to death then, but if he hadn’t spotted you that day? You’d have probably starved on that barren world, scared and alone. He saved you whether or not he realizes it.

• “Think they really were a pet taken after the war?” Fulcrum asks as you chatter at Spinister, trying to get back up only for him to keep pushing you back over with a servo. He’d stop him, but you’re laughing instead of angry. “Why abandon them out here?” Because you haven’t been that much trouble except for the handful of times they’d accidentally poisoned you trying to keep you alive. Swindle’s food at least had been legitimate, though whatever those black and white discs are, you’d tried to devour the entire package as soon as they weren’t paying attention to you. And he’s almost positive you had been swearing at him when he had to take the package away to ration them out slowly. Like now as you manage to get away from Spinister and move as close to him as you can get, big eyes imploring as you hold out a hand. Aware of the others watching as he produces the little package and holds it out, holding up a servo of the other hand in warning. And huffing at him, you take only one instead of trying to snatch them all, reaching out as soon as you pop it in your mouth to pat his servo and mumble nonsense at him.

#transformers x reader #idw scavengers x reader #idw krok #idw misfire #idw fulcrum #idw spinister #idw crankcase

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easy-there-leftovers · 7 months ago

Text

Magnum Opus (Prologue)

When an MIT prodigy on their gap year is contacted by the FBI regarding potential involvement in a series of murders in Washington D.C., she must now cooperate to uncover how paintings are mysteriously appearing at the crime scenes. (Written with Season 1-4 Spencer in mind, but the timeline could be anywhere pre-season 12. No mentions of past cases)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Artist! reader|cw: Canon-typical violence|word count: 700 words

Notes: I made up a bunch of chemicals and their chemical properties up so shhhh!! Also, I'm not American, I have no contextual understanding of the distance of one place to another. The US is large enough.

Also on Ao3!!

Series Masterlist

---------

"Muses are the silent artists of our souls, whispering inspiration into the canvas of our thoughts, painting the colors of creativity with the brushstrokes of imagination." - Author Unknown.

“Seven months ago, one freelance architect named James Carter aged 42 was murdered in his own home in Newton Massachusetts. The victim was posed like the painting placed at the foot of his own couch. All forms of ID on him were missing.”

JJ made her way from the map inside the meeting room to the screen to present pictures of the crime scene. All other agents made their way inside, with Garcia jotting down notes, as they listened and took their respective places.

“Four months after that, indie artist Daniel Lopez, aged 25, was also found dead in her apartment with another painting and missing ID. Posed just like the girl in it too. Autopsy revealed similar entry and exit wounds through the chest.”

Images of the victims’ wounds that have already been cleaned up were exposed to the camera. Wounds that could’ve been missed if investigations weren’t conducted made themselves notable as Emily and Spencer opened up their files.

“Ballistics?”

JJ shook her head at Morgan's question. “No bullets were found.”

“The unsub probably killed them somewhere secluded, then placed them back in their home.” Emily looked to Spencer, only to see him already getting up towards the screen.

“Look at the way they’re dressed. Clothes fitted like that aren’t meant to be worn without the intention of meeting someone.” Spencer motioned to their clothes. “They didn’t intend to go just anywhere looking like that.”

“Yeah, well neither did this man.” JJ then presented a picture of another victim, another male, another painting, posed in another home. She then turned to redress the rest of the team. “Found yesterday with similar signatures. The only difference is that he was actually staged in a vacant apartment. Everything in there was left by the previous owners. Still no ID on him.”

The resident team genius furrowed his eyebrows at the information, turning to see what the others thought. “Kills both males and females…”

“Victims were found with their clothes on. Dressed to impress but no signs of torture, no experimentation,” Hotch lifted the pictures nearer to his face. “Doesn’t look like he’s interested in either.”

“A serial killer with no sexual preference?” Emily raised her brow at that.

“Wouldn’t be the first.” Spencer replied, looking closer at the paintings in his own file. “Although the subjects in the paintings look exactly like the victims they’re placed on. It brings up the question of which one came first, the person depicted in the painting, or the painting itself…”

“Says here forensics found no prints anywhere but did find traces of 5-dur– durasta—”

“5-durastalene. Also known as ‘Lunacite.’” Spencer corrected Rossi.

“Actually, this synthetic compound is a little on the newer side, a compound that was originally developed by an MIT student for their dissertation in the Chemical Engineering program. I tried figuring out what the naming convention she used was but she didn’t give an explanation on that part. I assumed it could’ve been one out of a number of references, ranging from an anagram of—”

“How new are we talking?” Hotch interrupted, but deeply thankful that someone on the team seemed to have a lead.

“13 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days new. But it’s weird.” Spencer punctuates his statement by flicking through the papers.

“The compound shouldn’t be commercially available anywhere and it’s meant to make other materials resistant to corrosion. No one should be using it in paint, let alone processing it.” The team let his words ring in their head before Hotch broke the silence.

“Garcia, look for MIT graduates who have worked with Lunacite and a background in fine arts.”

“Already way ahead of you chief, and deliciously, only one name fits the bill in every angle you can have it.” Their tech analyst who had been typing away then placed her laptop pointedly and turned it onto the round table for everyone to see. Everyone leans forward, but the BAU’s resident pretty boy is the one who says the name out loud.

“Y/N L/N.” On the screen is a put-together picture of you on various digital scans of your passport, driver’s license, doctoral degrees in Chemical Engineering and Anthropology, and undergrad degrees in both Philosophy and Sociology.

“Watch out, pretty boy. You may have just found your match.” Morgan’s comment is greeted with a few snickers, much to Spencer’s dismay.

------------

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #Spencer Reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction

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hazelfoureyes · 10 months ago

Text

Someone nice, Somewhere safe

Angel x Virgin Male Reader

જ⁀➴ Angel x Virgin Female Reader - Someone nice, Somewhere safe*

*same story, just your bits and bobbles are changed

You let it slip to the group you were a virgin, and instead of laughing, Angel grabs you before bed to offer a friendly hand.

listen here virgins, if I could craft a perfect first time for you, this is it. Minus the lack of condoms because—it’s hell? Sex workers are tested bi-weekly?? This is still a fantasy??? Just if anything, please take from this the importance of a safe and trusting environment at all times 🙏

minor dni (shoo! get outta here! Go on, git! 🧹)

You thought everyone would laugh when you said you were a virgin. The group awe’d and said it was cute, which was definitely better than the response you’d gotten in the overworld. But when Angel made a joke that your toys must be worn to the base, you felt the need to clarify. Total virgin, never used toys or your hands for, you cringed, penetration. Everyone just looked… sad? The conversation was quickly derailed by Angel launching into a list of wildest orgasm faces he’s seen, Charlie leaving the room entirely.

Continuing with the evening’s theme of surprise, you hadn’t expected Angel to catch up to you when everyone was filing off to bed. His hand gently reached for your wrist, “Hey ya got a sec?”

For Angel, the epitome of smiling through the pain, you’d give him the remainder of your time in hell if he just asked. Every second, his.“Always!”

“So uh”, he rubbed the back of his neck, “about bein’ a virgin and all that.” Your stomach dropped, was the famous porn star about to embarrass you into a second death?“I think it’s real important that like— knowin’ yourself, and what makes you feel good is like super healthy. I dunno if you are interested in that kinda stuff but,” he was wildly moving his hands round, nervously stumbling over his words, “I’d be happy to help ya out.”

All of the blood rushed to your face.

“Oh fuck!” Angel grabbed your head and tipped it forward, “I would have accepted a simple no, jesus!” With one hand pinching your nose, he led you into his room just down the hall.

What— what was happening, exactly? At all? In general? With your entire existence?

He kicked the door closed behind him and grabbed a handful of tissues, “Keep your head forward. Everyone who says tilt it back is an idiot.”

His hand was red when he drew it from your face, using his other hand to now hold tissues between his fingers as he pinched your nose shut.

“Is- is my nose bleeding??” Your voice cracked.

“Does that happen often?”

“Never.”

“Well I got to help you with at least one first, right?” Angel laughed, moving his hands away as you took over the task.

Oh, right. The offer. You glanced around the room, small but lived-in. Everything was pink and purple and soft.

“Angel, do you think because you’re a sex worker, you have to help me?” The room fell silent. Angel completely still beside you. You would love someone you could trust to take your virginity, but you would never want to use Angel like so many other people did on a daily basis.

“Ya know— a lot of people get real confused about this.” He sighed, chest heavy with the many misconceptions others had, “What I do for work, what I gotta do to get through the day, has nothin’ to do with who I am as a person.” You turned to look at him, “Why should I limit my experiences because of what other people have done to me?” The words hit you like a truck. You had unintentionally boxed him into his job, in turn into his trauma, summing him up as a warm body and incapable of any depth past that. Just a sex worker.

“No, no I didn’t mean anything like that. I just, I don’t want to ever,” you grabbed two of his hands, “ever take advantage of your kindness.” You squeezed, “or any part of you.”

His frown turned up, “We’re dead, yea, but you still exist. If you want to, you should enjoy every part of your afterlife. And I’d hate you to meet some asshole who’s too rough or doesn’t get ya warmed up first. A bad first time can be really traumatizin’.”

You nodded without actually thinking. Your brain wasn’t really processing meaning, his words were just soft and kind and your nose still stuffed full of tissue.

“Do you wanna?”

You nodded more vigorously, “Did my nose start bleeding again?”

Angel took the tissue away, giving a second to see, “Nope.”

Taking a deep breath, you said, “Okay. Yeah, I want that. Someone nice, somewhere safe.”

“It ain’t quite nice but-,” Angel looked around his room.

“It’s perfect, Angel.”

“Aw fuck, I should clean up,” he hurriedly carried trash from his nightstand, flattening out the comforter and adjusting his pillows. He placed fat nuggets on the floor with a little pat on the head.

Finally, he stood in front of you, two hands on his hips, two gesturing to you.

“Alright baby! Let’s pop some cherries! Undress~” he elongated the word, shimmying his hips a little, “-to your comfort level.” He began to unbutton his blazer, “Bare minimum, take off your pants and underwear, please and thank you. Though I have fucked through underwear…” He was momentarily lost in a memory.

You hadn’t anticipated getting naked in front of a friend tonight. But Angel so effortlessly shed his clothes, peeling off his gloves. Pulling off your pants, you paused.

“Is it weird if I keep my shirt on? Like— do you know who Winnie the Pooh is?”

“Nothin’ weird about bein’ comfortable, pookie.” He pinched your cheek, “I’d offer a modesty blanket but I kinda need to see what I’m doing.” His eyes flitted to the left, “No, wanna. I wanna see.” Angel’s laugh relaxed you, the idea of anyone wanting to see you made you feel a little less—-naked. Still, your hands seemed frozen on your underwear’s edge.

With a hum, he disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a towel. “Go on, lie down. I’ll help ya relax. This is already feeling too medical-like.”

Were you going to need a towel? Were you going to need a towel?? Were you going to need a towel!?

You sat back on his bed, and when he crawled up to meet you, all legs and arms and Angel Dust, you buried your face in your hands.

“Oh hey—,” his voice was so soft, lacking its usual sass, “Wanna just, cuddle and watch stupid shit on my phone?” You groaned, face sinking further down. This would be easier if he wasn’t so sweet. You could at least take a backseat, then.

You shook your head, and felt his hand on your ankle. It snaked up your calf, slipped down your knee and thigh, finding the waistband of your underwear. When you looked up from your hiding place, Angel was a foot from your face. His features lit only by the purple neon signs hanging beside his bed and near the door. He lifted his brows, a question he didn’t need to vocalize. You sank back into the purple and pink pillows, different sizes, different textures, gently enveloping you.

With two hands now, he slide off your underwear. You might die, again. Your heart would give out any second, incapable of handling the moment. You were manually breathing.

He lifted your hips with two hands, a third sliding the towel beneath you before setting you back down.

“Do ya-,” he was rummaging now inside the nightstand drawer, “not play with yourself? Ever?”

“Not really. Not like, there.”

“Whaddya do with all your free time?” His short but enthusiastic laughter forced a smile to your cheeks. Angel slid the drawer shut and came to rest in front of your tightly shut thighs and knees. You heard a cap pop, and found the courage to sit up and see what he was doing.

“What?” He squeezed a clear, thick lubricant onto his right hand, “Don’t let anyone tell you ya don’t need lube. No fun for no one, trust me. Could start a fuckin’ fire—- and spit ain’t lube!” Angel said it like he spoke from a personal experience.

Ah, the towel. That made sense now.

“Should I do something?”

“Just lie back, baby~,” he opened your knees and followed your face as you settled back down, “Do you like kissin’?”

You’d kiss a trashcan if Angel said it got him hot, so, “Yeah.”

“Good,” One hand touched your cheek, sliding to your chin as he brought your lips to his. You thought you’d melt, his hands so soft on you, lips confident and sure. He used his thumb on your chin to pull down your bottom lip and ask you for entrance. When you opened up to him, his tongue slid into yours as his sticky wet hand finally touched you. Two fingers rubbing the lube up and down your ass.

You nearly inhaled him with your shock, he giggled into it, “You’re so cute.” You twitched under his hand, “Ooh, and reactive! Daddy likes.”

Stop. Stop talking. I’m going to black out.

His mouth returned to yours, tongue over your tongue, as his fingers just massaged your entrance. No attempt at entering, no prodding, just gentle up and down motions. Slowly, your felt your skin heating beneath his hand, the lubricant somewhat melting with your warmth.

At work, Angel was never the lead. Never the top, and never afforded time to ease anyone open. He had no issues with topping, it just wasn’t his normal role. Watching you sigh and twitch under him felt like a treat. Such a sweet response to what so many people made unnecessarily dirty at work. He wasn’t shocked to find his cock twitching, swelling as your breathing hitched with every stroke of his hand. When was the last time he could just… slow down? Be the one in control? Not control like Val, control like—- can I get you a pillow? Is the pacing good? Let’s soften these lights. Hold my hand, sweetheart.

His head felt a little dizzy. His middle finger pressed now, and with a slow but constant motion entered you. ‘Uncomfortable’ was the best word. Your body tensed around him, but he gently pressed past your virgin walls. He hummed, “First one down! Atleast,” he paused, “two more to go.”

“Atleast??” You shook your head.

“It’s sex math, trust the professional in the room.” He withdrew the finger and slid it back in, starting a slow pace of long drags from knuckle to fingertip.

It didn’t hurt, to his credit. The excitement of having Angel touching you so intimately made the finger easier to relax into. Angel must have noticed, his finger leaving you. He popped the top again of his lube and pressed in two fingers. This was harder. You whined, his fingertips pushing past the tight ring of muscle and settling into the wet warmth behind.

Lying on your back, you stared at the now upside-down photos behind his bed. He looked so happy. Could you join that wall? Was this wall worthy?

“You still good?” He leaned over you, fingers moving.

You nodded, “Can I have another kiss?”

Ah, you might as well have punched him in the chest. “Of course, darlin’~ Ask and you shall receive.” You liked kissing, genuinely, but were always scared you’d kiss someone too long and end up in an awkward situation having to explain you weren’t wanting sex. But that fear was all gone, you’d broken the code. Get naked first, then kiss.

You smiled into his mouth, and he smiled back, “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“I like kissing you.” You leaned up, pressing your lips to his chin. His fingers quickened, and you moaned without warning. You felt your cock twitch, erection growing as nervousness was slinking away and finally letting you feel aroused.

“Ooh, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” he leaned back, repeating the same steps and trying to press a third finger into you. His abundance of hands were a blessing, one at your entrance, one on your knee to keep your shaking legs open, and two roaming down the sides of your body. When three fingers finally entered, you could feel the burning stretch of your skin around them. He pushed in, and the skin followed. He pulled out, your sensitive hole pulling too. The hand on your knee came to your crotch, his palm pressing lightly down on your growing erection. You glanced up to him, his eyes focused as he watched his fingers slowly drag in and out of you. It burned still, but just past that burning was a slippery sensation that made your cock jump under his hand.

He let his fingers sink in entirely, before bending and feeling inside you. Your knee jumped when he hit something.

“Bingo! Say hello to your g-spot.” He beamed down at you, gold tooth shining, “You don’t really need it to cum but oooh boooy does it maximize pleasure,” it sounded so pornographic when he said it.

You weakly copied, “B-bingo.”

“I can do this now~” he replaced his palm with his fingers, sticky with lube, and they wrapped around your cock. His hand slowly pumped up and down your shaft. “Sex math. Don’t need your virgin ass locking up on me.” He said quietly to himself, fingers in and out of you picking up speed. Your head was pressing into the pillows as your neck strained, you’d never masturbated while someone, something, penetrated you. Every stroke of his hand made your body clench, the feeling of something hard and unforgiving pushing back against your quivering hole made a pleasure you couldn’t describe.

“Feelin’ good yet?” The way he said it, he knew damn well how you were feeling.

You whimpered into one of the pillows, “Feels good.” A weak nod.

Angel’s grin bordered on wicked, hand slowing. He leaned down and placed a kiss on your cock head. Then another. His tongue flattened against his bottom lip as he dragged it over your sensitive slit.

You moaned, a half spoken-half cried, “Oh fuck, Angel-.” Hips bucking up, his fingers kept their place and followed. You humped up against his tongue, ground down into his fingers; up, down. Soft tongue, rigid fingers.

“You can fuck my face, baby,” He opened his mouth, tongue out, and looked up at you from your stomach. “I ain’t got a gag reflex anymore, popsicles slide in like— well, cocks.” He lowered his mouth onto you, leaving room for you to move. His fingers slowed in you.

You thrust up slowly, testing the sensation. His mouth closed around you, tongue moving along you shaft as you rutted into his face.

One hand held tightly to the pillow, the other coming to Angel’s hair. Your body kept jumping away from overstimulation but you fought against it every time and tried to grind against his face.

His fingers slipped out of you, your body closing back around the space where they were. That feeling of your hole tightening made you hungry for his fingers to spread you back open. His hand came to cup your balls, feeling the weight in his palm.

He lifted his mouth off you with a deliberate pop, “Gettin’ close already?” You nodded, eyes closed. “Ready for the real thing?”

“Yeah. I need more, Angel.” It came out as a whine, shocking you a little.

His hand came to his erection, red and leaking. Stroking himself, he returned to massaging at your puffy and swollen entrance.

“You comfortable with gettin’ on your knees? This position ain’t so conducive for what I’m tryin’ to do.”

Somehow, ass up sounded better than face to face, “You’re the expert.” You rolled onto your stomach, hips up, face resting into the sea of pillows. You paused, lifted off your now sweaty shirt, and got back into position.

“Sexpert, but thank you!” The lid popped open again, cold and viscous lube being dripped directly onto your ass, “Finally some recognition around here.” He coated himself with what was still on his hands, and raised your hips to line himself up.

“Deep breaths, okay?” He leaned over your back, kisses falling down your skin. Two hands held your hips, one guided himself into you. You tensed when his head began to push in, “Relaaax, just like the fingers.”

A muffled, “okay” from your place in the pile. Your heart was suddenly racing, erection now gone. He wiped his dick up and down your ass, swiping past your entrance, dragging the edge of your hole with the crook of his head. Lining up, he pushed in, getting his head firmly sunk into you.

“Breath, baby,” he moaned into your shoulder. You took a deep breath in, your body tight still. But, it didn’t hurt like you’d thought. It burned, but there was no sting, no tearing. Angel’s hands ran up and down your sides, along you ass and thighs. He gently touched everywhere he could reach, until he felt you soften, “Ready to keep going?”

“Yes please”, you turned your head to look at him.

He pulled out slightly to collect more lube on his shaft, before slowly sinking into you until he bottomed out.

You were gasping, your brain misfiring. You couldn’t feel anything but him, your body just a formless thought with Angel’s warm, solid cock reaching deeper into than you thought possible. One roaming hand reached for your shoulder, “Can I move?”

“Slow,” your hand searched for a loose fold of comforter to grip, but it was soon encased and intertwined by one of his.

He pulled out, and slowly thrust back in. A saccharine moan fell from his mouth, and it made you whimper.

You were so soft around him, yet your entrance was gripping him so snuggly he felt like he was melting into you. His breath was unsteady, “You feel so good on my cock, baby.” A burning blush took over your face, your erection jumping back to life.

“How ya doin’?” Angel sounded nervous, timid.

You had to collect saliva to get any words out, mouth running dry from panting, “S’good.” You tried again, “So good.” Your fingers tightened around his.

He adjusted his hips, watching you closely. When your eyes closed and your hand nearly broke his, he grinned down, “Bingo~,” his speed began to pick up.

“Fuuuuck, Angel-,” you dragged out the last syllable of his name. You could feel your orgasm returning after dying down earlier.

Angel took languid thrusts out to the tip and pushing back past your still resisting entrance. Every time he pulled out and slipped in felt better than before. The sensations of him opening you around his cock again and again had your stomach and thighs tensing. You brought your hand up to stroke your own pulsing dick, slowly pumping.

Angel’s hand came down and wrapped around your cock, taking over your own attempts. The feeling of him in you and around you was overwhelming.

“Cumming,” You hissed, squeezing his hand tighter, his thrusts becoming faster and shallower. His repeated pressing of your g-spot pushed you over the edge, hand slowly milking you of every drop of cum.

Angel’s moans got louder, your body tightening in spasms as you emptied your balls onto the towel. Your body was so inviting, warm walls sucking his head deeper. He rarely got to feel this sensation. His head rested against your back, hands running along the curve of your hips as he melted into your sweet heat.

He picked up speed, only drawing out an inch or so now with each thrust. The lube made a pop and squelch every time his skin pulled from yours, the sound making his legs weak.

“Where can I cum?” His breath was raspy, messy with the pleasure of your soft insides rubbing along his shaft. You gripped the blanket, dick jerking from the feeling of Angel chasing his release with your body. You could hear the strain in his voice, “Gonna need an answer real fast, babe.” You hid your face in the pillow mountain again, embarrassed to answer.

“Inside,” you tried to say it loudly enough for him to hear.

He whimpered a, “Fuuuuck” down your spine, “Such a dirty little virgin.” His hips stuttered before he sunk into you with such force your legs gave out. Your body came down flush onto the bed, towel sticking to your stomach and thighs. Angel was pressed into you, chest against your back as his breathing calmed. You could feel his heart through your ribs, his chest fluff silky on your skin. Your body was warm, his hot cum filling you.

Small, lazy kisses on your back, then up your neck, he leaned to kiss your cheek. He slid out of you delicately, but you didn’t move. His weight left the bed, then returned as a warm, wet cloth wiped you clean. After a couple of minutes of gentle cleaning, you felt the throw blanket cover your back. Angel plopped down on his back beside you, pulling the blanket over his legs and unlocking his phone, “Wanna see this fuckin’ hilarious video of my boss runnin’ into a glass wall?”

You chuckled, nodding, making no effort to get up. One of his hands came down and ruffled your hair, he leaned in to your head and as you watched Valentino collide head first into a wall, he said softly, “Let me know if you need anything. I got a bitchin’ tub in there.”

You hummed, reaching a shakey hand up and pressing ‘replay’ on his phone. Angel’s laughter echoed off the walls, and you decided you had no plans on leaving bed anytime soon.

Sweet smut inspired by HunnyPaint on pornhub and fansly! 🍯🎨 If you like femboyxfemboy, I highly recommend. They make love look hot. Their fansly is also priced well! 10/10 (again, talking to legal adult humans here)

༻Masterlist༺

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chaotic-birds · 1 year ago

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strong for you || j.pt

Jason comes home injured, prepared to patch up and rest with you, but he soon realizes something isn't right.

❤️‍🩹 Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

❤️‍🩹 Genres/AUs: Action, some angst & fluff, established relationship

❤️‍🩹 Warnings: Use of guns, mentions of killing, hostage situation, blood, injuries, reader referred to as girl

❤️‍🩹 Word Count: 2.3k

❤️‍🩹 Author's Note: Just felt like writing more Jason 🥰

masterlist

Jason uses the rest of his strength to lift open the window. His panting grows louder after he tumbles inside, feeling a bit safer in his home. He doesn’t have to worry about people hearing him in pain and taking advantage of his weakened state.

He knows you’ll be by his side in a matter of seconds. He hates how he came home injured since it always worries you, but he rather be hurt here than anywhere else.

His eyes shut tightly as he tries to calm down. It’s becoming harder to breathe under his helmet. He feels suffocated. He needs fresh air.

With a shaky hand, he begins to raise it to unlatch his helmet. However, an all too familiar click makes him halt; his eyes open wide and he forces his breathing to slow so he can hear better.

It’s then he realizes you should’ve been tending to him by now. You should be easing him out of his suit as you comfort and scold him simultaneously.

He lowers his arm as slowly as he can, worried whoever it is will act irrationally if he moves too quickly. Maybe if he was somewhere else and not injured, he would’ve leaped up and snatched the weapon from their hand.

But he can’t.

He’s home. He can’t put you in any more danger.

In slow motion, he turns his head to assess the scene.

There are five men in total. Each has a rifle in their hands, accompanied by a handgun on their hips. You’re seated on one of the dining table chairs that’s been moved, hands and feet tied together. You’re staring at him with big eyes—a mix of worry and panic.

Jason curses to himself mentally.

You’re already fearful of being held captive, but now you’re fearful of his wound too.

He already knows what questions are floating in your head: How deep is it? How much blood has he lost already? Are there any more injuries?

Jason hates that he was stupid tonight. He hates how out of all the nights to have fucked up, he fucked up tonight. But that doesn’t stop his determination. He’ll power through the pain if it means you’ll be safe in the end.

You turn your head to the man on your right. He holds himself to a different status than the others. The amount of confidence this man must have makes Jason want to gag.

“I’ll give you the files if you let me tend to his wounds,” you bargain.

Macho Boss smirks down at you before moving his sight to Jason.

“Well, you’re surely an unexpected guest. Didn’t think one of the bats would come to rescue a mere civilian when there are bigger crimes out on the streets,” he observes, then glances at you. “I guess this one’s special, huh?”

Jason suspects that this guy thought he could get away with his act since he’s not committing a big crime, compared to others in Gotham. Illegal activities happen all the time here, right? Jason almost snorts at his bad luck.

Macho Boss nudges your shoulder with the barrel of his gun. The cold metal touches your bare skin exposed by your cardigan, making you shiver. It must’ve fallen in your scuffle earlier.

Jason narrows his eyes at him even though his glare is hidden by his helmet. He’s grateful he etched a permanent scowl on it now. He wants your captors to know that despite being injured, he’s still got enough strength to incapacitate them.

“Please,” you grab the captor’s attention again. “Let me help him.”

“Why should I let you? His injury means he’s weak. I can’t let him stop us, now can I?” he questions, slightly mockingly.

“You can tie him up after I’m done.”

“Like hell you will,” Jason gruffs and the other person holding a gun to his head jabs him with it.

You send him a glare—signaling it isn’t the time to be snarky. Jason rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything more.

“Do you want the files?” you ask Macho Boss.

“You’re going to give us them whether we let you play nurse or not.”

“Perhaps, but you’re wasting time. Why take the hard way when I’m offering to give them up so easily?”

The man hums in thought. Finally, he nods at the man to your left.

Within seconds, your ropes have been cut. You gesture to the bathroom.

“First aid is in there,” you inform and carefully make your way to the room.

One of the men follows you, gun pointed to your head. You expect nothing less.

If they weren’t here, you’d be rushing to the kit, but any sudden movements will get them trigger-happy.

Your movements are slow as you retrieve the first aid along with a wet washcloth. You make your way to kneel beside Jason. Blood continues to seep through his fingertips, creating a pool of red beneath him. You fight back the worry consuming you.

You gently guide his hand from the wound so you can begin cleaning it.

Jason watches you for a second before shifting his gaze to the others. They’re staring at you both, weapons aimed. They seem impatient and ready to fire.

“You should be making a run for it,” Jason says to you lowly. Though it doesn’t matter the volume of his voice, it’s so quiet that everyone will hear him regardless.

“And get shot in the back? No thanks,” you argue, setting the bloodied rag to the side to start patching him up.

Jason wants to reply he wouldn’t let that happen. He’d have his hands on his guns, shooting everyone before you could get hurt. But he doesn’t want them to know how much he cares about you. Perhaps that’s a fruitless wish since they’ve probably already gauged their affection from their body language.

Jason grunts when you touch a certain area. He’s been trying to keep his cool—for the sake of seeming stronger than he appears to his captors, and for the sake of your sanity.

Your eyes move to his helmet, and there’s a silent “sorry” in your expression. He can tell you’re trying to appear strong, too.

All Jason wants to do is fill these guys’ heads with lead, then snuggle you in bed.

As you continue attending to his wound, he asses his options. He could quickly shield you with his body while he took out the men, but even then, he wouldn’t be able to move and risk the potential of you getting shot. The thought about tossing you out of the window since there’s a fire escape there is strong—get you out of harm’s way so he doesn’t have to worry about you in the crossfire.

Jason’s thoughts get interrupted when you lean in. He watches quietly as you kiss his helmet softly. His lips twitch in an immediate response, but then he feels something slip into his palm.

Clever girl.

With one hand, he slips the small knife you gave him up his sleeve; with the other, he caresses your back. He hopes his action distracts the men from the quick exchange.

You pull away carefully as Macho Boss grits out, “Touching. You done now?”

“Yes,” you reply.

The second the word leaves your lips, a pair of hands are pulling you from Jason roughly.

Jason quickly begins to stand but a heavy boot stomps on his fresh wound, forcing him down again. He breathes in a sharp inhale at the impact, head tilting back and fists clenching.

“Red!” you gasp, struggling against your captor’s hold. More so for his health and safety than yours.

“Relax, love,” Macho Boss coos, but it’s nothing close to soothing. “You can’t expect us to trust your buddy here.”

Then, he turns to the person who’s pinning him down. “Tie him up.”

“You better be treating me to dinner after,” Jason huffs.

Suddenly, Jason’s hauled up and shoved into a nearby chair. His arms get pulled back, forcing a grunt out of him because of his injury. His feet are then secured.

“What a charmer,” Macho Boss scoffs. “Now, the files.”

Your gaze lingers on Jason to make sure he’ll be okay before walking to your bedroom where your laptop is.

“Put me in that room,” Jason demands as he watches you leave.

“Not a chance. You can sit pretty with me right here,” the man behind him says.

Jason clenches his fists as you disappear from view. There are only three of them in the room now. Two went with you.

Easy.

Jason shimmies the blade low enough to reach the rope around his wrists. He waits a few minutes for everyone’s focus to dim before beginning to slice at the material.

“So what’s Red Hood doing in some rando’s apartment, hm?” Capture Two says.

Jason shrugs, subtly cutting the rope as he speaks, “Would you believe me if I said I have a magical power that lets me sense trouble? Because wow… My inner crime detector was blaring.”

Captor Two huffs in annoyance. “Yeah right. You probably got cameras set up around here.”

Jason catches on to the man’s agenda: Find the location of the cameras so they can take them out next time.

“There’s even one over there,” Jason says with a nod to the left.

“There is?” the guy questions and turns.

The second he does, Jason breaks through the rope and disarms and knocks out the man behind him. Gunfire erupts and Jason quickly takes cover in the kitchen nearby.

“Fucking liar,” Captor Two growls.

Jason laughs. “Sorry, man. Let me make it up to you.”

Jason peeps around the cabinets and aims with proficient precision. Two down, one to go.

Upon hearing the scuffling in the living room, you quickly retrieve the gun that’s taped under the desk. For once, you’re grateful for Jason hiding guns around the apartment.

Before you can second guess your actions, you shoot Macho Boss in the kneecap before ducking and shooting the second man in the same place. Once they’re both down, you take away their guns in case they try anything on the ground.

Jason rushes into the room hearing the gunshots, both pistols raised. He pauses in his trek when he sees you—seemingly unharmed—standing between the two men on the ground.

The men are groaning, blood soaking the carpet he vacuumed yesterday.

“Next time come when the carpet is already dirty,” he says before slamming the heel of his gun onto his head—knocking him out. He walks to the second guy and does the same. It’s tough for him to do so since he really just wants to shoot them instead, but he told Bruce he’d attempt his no-killing rule. It’s day four, and he already feels like giving up.

“Nice teamwork,” you comment and place the guns on the desk.

Jason stuffs his pistols in his holsters before he unlatches his helmet. He tosses the item on the bed, then pulls you close until his mouth captures yours in a heated kiss.

You yelp in surprise into his mouth. Jason smiles at the sound and squeezes your body tightly against his armored one.

When you pull back, you’re looking at him with a silly smile.

“Don’t tell me all this is what gets you hot and bothered?” you tease, fingertips gliding down his chest gradually.

Jason grins and pecks your lips with a proud grin. “Can’t help it. You’re sexy when you’re in action.”

You laugh, pushing at his chest until he’s loosening his grip reluctantly. “You’re sexy too.”

Jason can’t resist but lean in again, although this kiss is shorter.

“You okay?” he asks, mood turning serious. He holds you at arm’s length to examine your body.

“I’m okay, don’t worry about me. Are you okay?”

“Nothing but a flesh wound,” he beams.

You shake your head and glance around the untidy room.

“Can you call Dick or someone to clean this up while we go to a safe house?” you plead, too lazy to help with the cleanup. You just want to sleep with Jason next to you.

“We don’t need him. I’ll take care of it,” Jason informs and bends to pick up one of the men.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself more, Jay,” you sigh, words meaningless as he throws the second body over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

“I’ll be fine, babe. Give me ten then we can cuddle. I know that’s what you want.” He smiles knowingly.

You roll your eyes playfully at his light tone. He isn’t wrong, but you wish he wouldn’t exert all his energy now when he’s injured.

But this is Jason.

Stubborn ass.

Jason takes two trips to carry the men out. You rest your elbows on the window seal, watching him drag the unconscious men in a small circle with their backs to each other. He takes a chain and secures it tightly around them. You think he’s done but he pulls out a paper. You squint, leaning a little out the window.

Sprawled in black ink is:

BAD GUYS FOR PICK UP

Jason steps back to admire his work, then turns to look at you. Although you can’t see his expression due to his helmet, the two thumbs up he gives you indicate there's a smile adorning his handsome features beneath.

Chuckling, you shake your head playfully and return the thumbs up before nodding to come back inside.

Your gaze follows the tall man as he struts back toward the building. You tuck yourself inside, shutting and locking the window as you stare at the silly paper with his handwriting.

He wouldn’t be your Jason if he wasn’t mischievous. After all, it’s one of his many talents.

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

#jason todd #jason todd angst #jason todd fanfic #jason todd action #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you

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noiriarti · 5 months ago

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The Winner Takes it All: Anakin Skywalker x Reader (Enemies-to-Lovers Modern AU) | Chapter 5

NSFW! Minors DNI!!! Summary: The moment the thesis competition was announced, you knew your biggest threat. Anakin Skywalker, golden boy of the engineering department. He's the only other person smart enough to beat you, and the only other person insane enough to stay in the lab until midnight every night. He's also an asshole, but you're starting to think maybe he's not as bad as you thought he was... Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Fem!Reader CW: oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, overstim? WC: 6.2k AN: hehehehe i have written something nefarious!!! requests and asks are open, as always <3

Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, [Ch. 5], Ch. 6, Ch. 7

Chapter 5: Learning

Your knees were shaking as you unlocked the bathroom door. The metal handle was cold under your fingers, but your body was blazing hot, an inferno trapped inside a person. Only two people were left, one of whom was Barriss, so you smiled tightly and told her that, actually, you were gonna head home, that you fell asleep on a bench outside and it was time to turn in. You hoped she didn't smell the cum on your breath.

You almost forgot to pack your laptop, but slid it into your bag haphazardly at the last minute and managed to leave the room with a smidge of your dignity still intact. On unsteady legs, you walked over to the door of the building, resting your fingertips on the cool glass, just to steady yourself. Images of Anakin flashed in your mind. His yell as he shattered that wood. His desperate moans as he tried to keep it together before cumming last night. His hands buried in your hair, rough and unyielding. His strong legs under your hands as he fucked your throat. His smile when he woke up next to you.

All of them kept you unbelievably horny until Anakin joined you with the clicking of the lab door behind him. He'd probably made some similarly lame excuse to the others, but you could see the flush of his cheeks from earlier hadn't faded, even when he cast you a grin. If they knew to look for it, maybe the other students would have noticed the slightly heavy breathing or the looseness in his movement. But only you knew that about him, and it sent a thrill down you.

"Let's go home," he said, pausing in front of you, far closer than any friend would be. Your heart jumped again, and you could feel that he still made your knees weak, even after everything the two of you had done. There was no one in this area, and you took the risk to put your hand on his chest, then drag it slowly, almost imperceptibly, downward.

"Oh? What are we gonna do when we get there?" You pouted up at him. This was crazy, you thought. Two weeks ago, if someone had told you that you would be drooling, practically begging Anakin Skywalker to fuck you, you probably would have filed for a restraining order. Now, it was all you could do not to mount him in the middle of the lobby of the engineering building.

Anakin obviously enjoyed the way you teased him, based on his smirk and flaring eyes.

"Don't act innocent. We both know where your mouth was ten minutes ago." His voice was low, gruff, but it was like he'd lit you from within. Everything buzzed and tingled, and you couldn't wait to get home. God, how did he do this to you?

Anakin must have noticed, his eyes catching on your slightly open mouth. He grabbed the hand that had stopped its path somewhere around the top of his stomach, and took it in his. "Come on," he murmured, then turned around and started speedwalking out of the building. You followed him, in a trance, and somewhere around the second block of your walk home, you realized that your hand was still in his, and his thumb was rubbing over your knuckle and leaving fire under its wake.

You were holding hands. You hadn't even held hands while you fucked, or anything else really. The two of you weren't supposed to be like this, all romantic and sweet and hand-holdy. But there was nothing that would have ripped you away from him right now, horny or not. You'd give anything to solder your hands together like pins of a chip, intertwined eternally.

Fear curled in your stomach, and an image flashed in your mind. His face, crestfallen, his eyes pleading, begging fate to give him another chance. His prototype in his hands, delicate and made of hundreds of hours of his best ideas, but still not enough. The creamy paper of the certificate under your fingers on the hot lights of the stage. The thunderous applause of the audience, your classmates, as you looked out at the one person in the audience who mattered. The tears welling in his eyes, even though he tried to will them away by looking up and blinking as fast as he could. His cold look when he ignored you in class for the last six weeks of the semester.

The breath stalled in your chest, but you looked up at the Anakin in front of you now, walking home with his hand wrapped around yours. Strong, powerful, unbreakable. He'd get over it, right? Going home with him now surely couldn't make it any worse down the line, you tried to tell yourself.

You were quiet for the rest of the walk, but the ache between your legs didn't stop. No matter what you thought about the future, the current you wanted him more than anything. More than whatever fears you had that he'd never look at you again in three months' time. And, if that did happen, you wanted some memories to keep you warm while you got over him. (But what was there to get over? This wasn't anything more than some comfort between friends, right? You tried to quiet the racing voice in your mind.)

The front door of the building was there, and, as soon as you slipped into the elevator--not yours, the one on the other side of the entrance--Anakin was kissing you again. Your mind went quiet, and the only thing left was that you wanted him. You wanted him more than anything in your life. He was leaning, looming over you with his imposing figure, and kissing you like you were his oxygen. And, if you were being honest, right now, he was yours.

Your hands came up to his strong jaw as you tried to bring him closer and closer, but the elevator dinged, and he yanked away. Anakin really was strong, you realized when he almost dragged you down the empty hallway to his room.

It was your first time in his space, and you were shocked by how neat it was. You'd expected energy drink cans covering every surface, or maybe random devices and wires all over the floor, but it was like someone had taken special care cleaning up. Not a speck of dirt on the carpet, and the bed was made almost militantly. He had been planning to ask you over tonight, you realized. You started grinning like an idiot as he dropped his backpack by the door and threw his coat over it. You took yours off too, but with more care than he did.

His desk was the only sign of chaos, covered in old papers and sketches. There was a bucket in the corner of the room of what looked like shells of old Raspberry Pis, and a gleaming array of servers blinked in the darkness on his dresser. There was a picture there of a woman, kind-looking, older. She had his eyes, but her hair was darker, thicker. Their smiles were identical. That must be his mom, you thought. Somehow, this new window into his life made you want him even more, but in a different way. In a scary way.

The thoughts disappeared when you felt his warm lips on yours again and his arms wrapping around your waist. It never got old, even if you'd kissed plenty of times before. It was always new, exciting. He furiously pulled you closer to him, his fingers digging into your back. He was devouring you, his tongue lapping at your lips insistently. You met it with your own, and he groaned loudly before exploring your mouth further.

You stumbled backwards until you hit the desk, sending a few papers flying. Anakin detached from you, just for a second, and shoved the papers off like they'd affronted him personally. Immediately after the desk was clear, his hands came up on the back of your thighs. You both know what it meant. Jump, just like the first time in the lab, and you obliged, shimmying onto his desk until you were fully seated.

"Get your fucking clothes off. Right now," he ordered, already starting to peel off your shirt. You threw it off, then took off your shoes and socks, leaving them forgotten somewhere on the floor. He had already shrugged off his tee, and, forgoing any extra steps, yanked his pants and boxers down in one go. His cock bobbed up, already leaking and hard again. With a similar annoyance at the existence of clothing as a concept, he yanked down your leggings and underwear and tossed them aside, leaving you bare, panting, and looking up at him expectantly. You'd been waiting for so long, so desperately, that you could feel the slick had spread to the inside of your thighs.

He opened one of his desk drawers with his right hand, his eyes still fixed on your pussy, and fumbled around until he found a condom. He couldn't resist before opening it, and shot out one hand to gently smack your clit. You keened as sparks exploded across your body and made your back arch. You were sensitive. So sensitive, you wondered if you could cum with him inside you. He put his hand on your hip, and it was big enough that he could reach your clit with his thumb, rubbing small circles that made you produce gentle noises of pleasure.

Eventually, he gathered enough self-control to pull away and roll the condom onto his dick before stepping in between your spread legs. Taking his cock into his hand, he slapped your clit with it a few times, just to get a rise out of you. The contact, the pressure, was perfect, and with every slap, your hips twitched to chase the spongy head of his cock. He watched your desperate writhing and chuckled darkly. You knew what he wanted, and you were too far gone to try and stop yourself.

"Please, please, Anakin, I need you," you begged as you slid to the edge of the desk, trying to get closer to him, just enough to touch. You added another desperate, quiet please, and he gave in, slamming into you all the way.

Both of you let out ragged groans as his hips met yours, finally filling you to the brink. You'd been thinking about this for hours. The whole day, even. Then he pulled back and started fucking into you with an aggression you hadn't seen before. The previous time you'd fucked, he was energetic, sure, but he wasn't like this. This was wild, a remnant of how excited you both were from the way you'd blown him earlier. His thrusts wracked your frame, making you shake with each vicious jab into you. The smack of his hips into yours and the squelch of your wet pussy taking him was obscene, dirty.

Anakin's hands came to your knees, moving them so that your feet rested on the table. You were completely folded over, and you realized why when he pressed his hips to yours and rocked into you instead of thrusting, creating amazing friction from his skin on your clit. You threw your head back with an unrestrained groan of his name. He was out of breath, ragged and feverish, but he just kept going.

"Look how good you take it, baby," Anakin growled. "God, you feel amazing, so fucking wet for me." One of his hands found your hair and grabbed it while he hit a particularly tender spot inside you. Your scalp screamed, and so did you.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck Anakin, right there!" You could hardly recognize your hoarse voice as you begged him. "Harder, faster, please," you moaned. You could feel that coil of pleasure in your stomach that had been wound up for hours because of him getting tighter and tighter. He was moving so quickly, his eyes wild, feverish and desperate like an animal. His usual smile had faded, and you saw a sort of intensity you only noticed when he was angrily working. Like you were the only thing he wanted.

Each thrust pulled a grunt or curse as you started tightening around him. You were so close, only a few more thrusts until you'd finally feel relief, and you started shifting your hips up to meet him, just to get an extra bit of friction. Anything would be enough to push you over the edge. Anakin noticed your erratic thrusts upward and held your hips down to the desk. You hoped bruises were forming.

"Fuuuck, you're so needy. You're not gonna cum until I say," he ordered. You weren't sure if that was possible. Your pussy was twitching wildly, and your walls were fluttering around him. You bore down and clenched as hard as you could, but that bought you thirty seconds at best.

"I can't--please--I can't--" you started, trying to tell him that you were too close, and he quickly stopped panting to smirk, before slamming into you even faster. You were trying so hard to be good for him, to do what he asked, and your pussy was betraying you as it started barreling towards your orgasm. Your face scrunched into a grimace as you tried, in vain, to control it, and you counted one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten excruciating seconds before he grabbed your chin and forced you to look up at him as he finally gave you permission.

"Cum on my dick--ughhh ffuck--Do it now. Cum for me," Anakin gritted out. As soon as he did, something inside you exploded, and you let out a howl as you finally came. Wave after wave hit you, and you went limp in his arms, like you were made of nothing but pleasure and loose limbs. Even though your eyes were squeezed shut, his face was all you could see in your mind, everything that mattered at that moment. Aftershocks made your head buzz, and he could feel you constrict around him.

"Shit, you're so good for me, baby," Anakin choked out between gasps, "So fucking perfect, fuck I'm--" And then you felt him twitch and jump inside you, thrusting in a couple of final times before he buried his face in the crook of your neck as he let out wild grunts of pleasure from his second orgasm of the day. Beneath him, you were boneless, thoroughly exhausted from everything the two of you had done that day.

After a few moments, you felt his strong arms lift you up to your feet, then help you over to the bed. You slowly started to catch your breath, splayed out on the soft sheets which smelled like a mix of clean, fresh laundry and him. You wanted to swim in it. Maybe if Anakin wasn't right there to see you do it and then make fun of you mercilessly after, you would have stuck your nose into the pillow.

You felt the springs of the shitty dorm mattress shift under you as Anakin joined you on the bed. You expected him to lay next to you, maybe spoon you if you were lucky. (If you were lucky? When did you start wanting that?)

Instead, you felt Anakin's fingers, still warm from your body, come to brush your thighs above the knee, tracing patterns. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. When his hand reached the crook where your leg met your pussy, it was entirely clear what he wanted. Stirrings of arousal started inside you again when the tip of his finger barely ghosted over your clit.

"You're not done. I came twice, you're gonna cum twice," Anakin said as he sank his finger inside you. You let out a high, keening moan, which turned more desperate when he lowered his hot, wet mouth onto your clit. He was merciless, driven, precise, repeatedly licking circles into your skin as he watched you squirm above him. Anakin was a quick study, based on his success in classes, but you didn't realize he was this quick of a study. Even based on just the first time he'd eaten you out, he was near-perfectly doing exactly what he knew would get you close. Last time, he had been tender, exploratory, but today, he was going directly for what he wanted. You were still sensitive from the way he'd slammed into you, and the finger inside you was stroking your walls gently, just to remind you it was there. Despite how tired your pussy was from everything he'd done to you, his pointed tongue directly where you needed it, sucking you and covering you in his spit, was enough to restart the tension in your stomach and light it on fire.

Your hand fumbled on the sheets, looking for him, his head, his hair, his shoulder, his anything, and instead his hand came to meet yours. You interlocked fingers, and you caught his eyes looking up at you tentatively. As if you'd pull away at any second. But you wouldn't, not by a long shot.

"Fuck, Anakin, I'm close," you moaned out, even though you were fairly certain he could tell, based on the little breath he huffed out when he felt your thighs clench. The idea that he knew you that well was enough to push you over the edge, gentle waves lapping at your core and spreading through your body. It was softer, weaker than the one before, but it was still enough to make your toes curl. The knuckles of your hand that was intertwined with his went white, and he gripped you back with equal intensity. Your moans floated through the room. You heard them as if they weren't even yours, just noises in your ears as you came on his tongue.

When your rhythmic clenches became softer, Anakin pulled his finger from you and came up to lay beside you. He squeezed the hand he was still holding to try and grab your attention when he saw you were still a bit dazed. Your eyes shot open and fixed on him. He was holding a water bottle, and helped you sit up so that you wouldn't spill.

"Drink some, baby," Anakin said, bringing the bottle to your lips as you took a couple tentative swallows. Sometime around the third mouthful of cool water slipping down your throat, you realized that he'd called you baby again, and that you hadn't flagged it as weird.

He pulled the water bottle away and took a couple of gulps. It was an oddly intimate gesture, drinking from the same water bottle, but it felt right. It felt natural. The way his Adam's apple bobbed would have made you feel something if you weren't so thoroughly spent, but you could at least ogle him a bit and save the image for later. A bit of water dribbled out of his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Wanna watch some TV or Netflix or something? Once we clean up, I mean. It's kinda early for bed," Anakin said. You nodded, and slowly dragged yourself out of the bed to the bathroom, which Anakin shared with his neighbor. You locked the doors and started cleaning up the wetness along the insides of your thighs.

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When Anakin exited the bathroom a couple of minutes later, he was still naked, and quite annoyed he had forgotten to bring a pair of underwear or pants or anything. Instead, he was pacing in his bathroom trying to figure out if whatever the two of you were was the kind of relationship where he could walk around flaccid without it being weird. Or would it be weirder if he wrapped a towel around himself? That would definitely be weirder, because he still smelled like sex, and he was going to shower tomorrow morning, anyway. He was too tired tonight.

After a few minutes, he decided to just leave, and if you got weirded out by him being soft, so be it. He couldn't imagine you would, but the delicacy of it all had him second-guessing everything. How far was too far? Would you push away a suggestion to wear his shirt to sleep tonight? What if he held your hand again?

He got his answer when he opened the door and found you wearing one of his old CU hoodies and pulling on a pair of his boxers. The grey hoodie was stretched out and soft, and it was too long on your frame, so it ended more around your upper thigh than your hips. His boxers looked a bit silly, but comfortable on you, and he felt a flare of possessiveness in his stomach. God, you looked like you were his. But that wasn't what this was, right? When he looked at you, he wasn't sure. He'd give anything for you to be his right now.

"Sorry, I didn't ask. Is this okay?" Your innocent eyes looked up at him, like you didn't know what you were doing to him. Yes, it's fucking perfect, and I kind of want to rail you again, but I think I'd pass out, he thought.

"Yeah, um, it's great," he said, trying to hide how pleased he was. He did not succeed, but he caught you hiding a smile.

The two of you settled into the bed, covered by one of his blankets. He grew up in a warm climate, he explained, and duvets were just so stuffy, so he used a pile of blankets and sheets instead. His laptop sat on your laps, balanced between one of his thighs and your leg.

"Have you ever watched Pride and Prejudice?" You asked.

"Uh, I think I watched the start of it once." He had, sometime at friend's house when it was playing on the TV. They didn't have cable when he was a kid, so he got most of his pop culture knowledge acquired before the age of thirteen from snippets at other people's houses and doctor's offices, before someone changed the channel.

You nodded and pulled it up on his laptop, slotting yourself just perfectly under his arm and on his chest. He was almost too distracted to look at the screen, and instead kept finding his eyes drifting back to the way your soft lips mouthed some of the lines. Every time he saw you, it made him smile like a maniac, and his cheeks were hurting by the time he noticed you were asleep. Darcy's first proposal rolled around, and you were gone to the world, so he gently closed the laptop and pulled the blanket up around your shoulders.

As Anakin drifted off, he thought about peace. The kind of stillness that you inspired in him when you were together, the focus you brought. And sure, he teased you, but you made him better. He was the best version of himself around you, and he wanted to spend every second of every day by your side. He slipped into a deeply restful sleep, but, before it took over, he asked himself if he'd ever felt this way about anyone before, and concluded that the answer was no.

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"Hey, Anakin?" You asked him the next morning, when you were throwing on a loose t-shirt of his and some old joggers.

"Yeah, what's up?" He tossed a jacket over his sweater. You were a bit nervous to bring it up, but the harshness of the morning light had made you think more about what you should have been doing last night than you would have liked.

"I was thinking, um, I'm worried about that thermo final, and I ended up not finishing what I wanted to last night, so, would you mind if we kinda sorta did less stuff for a tiny bit? Not that I don't enjoy it, I'm just worried about my grades," you explained. Anakin nodded.

"Yeah, of course. Why don't we say that we'll keep it PG until the thesis deadline on Monday?" His suggestion was great timing, actually, because you weren't sure you'd be clear-minded or awake enough for the next week to be able to have good sex anyway.

You agreed. And it was easier than you expected, too. Anakin was never too far away, which soothed the ache if you ever really felt like you needed to fuck him. Now that TKD practice was finished for the semester, given that you were in the week before finals, all his time was dedicated to classes and his thesis, both of which involved you. You left your dorm together, worked on your projects together, and walked home together.

Sometimes, you'd catch glances filled with something across the lab, and you didn't realize that you were shooting them at him too. When you were alone, which was typically after 11, you allowed yourself a hand on his shoulder, or a brush of his back. Just enough to remind you that he was still there, still real. Then you'd go back to your wiring, and everything else faded away.

You touched yourself in your bed nearly every night, thinking about him. One night, when you were particularly shameless, you pulled up his Instagram and looked at his photos as you got yourself off. It had only been three days since he last fucked you, but you were insatiable.

On Thursday, when you woke up, you got a text from him.

Anakin: hey, was thinking about typing my report n studying for thermo today in the library. wanna join?

You texted him back that, yes, you would, and that you could meet there after breakfast. On the way, you stopped by the campus bubble tea place for some much-needed caffeine to top up the supply of Celsius in your bag, and then entered the library. It was a grand space, all old-money style marble and granite. It made you feel like you were getting ready to go to some swanky gala, covered in Swarovski with a champagne flute in your hand.

Through the check-in desk, you found your way to the elevators, which took you to a distinctly less old-timey space. Anakin told you to get to level B3, which you did, and you found it to be quite cool for a subterranean lair. It had mesh rolling chairs, oak tables, and a little overlook of B4, which appeared to be a massive computer lab with rows of desktops set up. Only five were in use, which made the space pleasantly quiet. Anakin had saved you a seat at a table overlooking the students below. It was already covered in hand-sketched schematics for his thesis, and some crumpled slips of paper that were probably thoughts he'd had on the go and written down before he'd forgotten.

When he spotted you, he grinned and waved you over, and you told yourself the warm feeling in your gut was from him being such a good friend. He asked what you were drinking, then admitted that he didn't get the hype around boba. He'd had it once, at a freshman year event, and thought it was too expensive.

You spent the rest of the day trapped inside the library, only coming up for air to pick up a to-go box from the dining hall. He took about seven trips to the vending machine, four of which were to get Skittles, which he inhaled by the bag. He admitted, when prodded, that he maybe had a sweet tooth. The other three vending machine trips were for Red Bull, which he was using to get through the week, he explained. Around 3am, he forced you out of the building, and walked you home. Thankfully, the library was only three minutes from your building, but the city was not particularly safe at night, so the buddy system came in handy.

When you reached the elevators of your building, past the completely empty entrance, he hesitated before pushing the call button.

"I was wondering if you'd like to come up?" He asked the question while staring at the elevator door, and you hardly realized it was directed at you.

"Anakin, I thought we said we wouldn't--"

"No, I mean, just to sleep," he interrupted. The silence hung in the air between you, cut by the ding of his elevator arriving. "Sorry, that was weird of me. Good night," he said as he stepped inside. It seemed to surprise him when you followed him, but it wasn't like you'd say no, ever. You wore his hoodie to sleep again. You'd wanted nothing more than to feel his weight next to you all week, and it was a relief you didn't know you needed.

On Friday, once you'd gone to your room to change and grab some stuff, you met at the library again. This time, he texted you "i have a surprise for u." He was holding two bobas, one replica of your order, and one for him. He got the sugar wrong (it was too sweet), but it was the taro milk tea with a double serving of tapioca pearls. He'd gotten himself a mango green tea with jellies, so sweet that, when you tried it, you needed water to make your throat feel normal again. He laughed heartily when he saw your reaction, and pronounced your drink "too milky," but you saw him go for sips when you weren't looking.

(It was something he wouldn't have spent money on if it was just for him, but treating you was a treat for him, he told himself. His mom told him to take care of himself, and making you smile was the best feeling he could imagine, so it was technically self-care to buy this, right? And he could just work another hour in the Jinn lab this week to make up for it.)

Sometime around midnight on Friday, in the silence of the library, you felt his pinky graze yours. Sparks shot across your hand, just from that simple touch. When you looked up at him from your thermo textbook, you found him staring intently at you, mouthing is this okay? You nodded. It was. It was so okay.

You didn't know when, but, the next time you looked up, your fingers were laced with his, and he was grinning like a maniac as he looked down at some equations about air pressure.

You slept in his arms again that night, but in your bed this time. He would have to do the walk of shame this time, fair was fair.

On Saturday, after Anakin had slipped out to avoid questions from Ahsoka, you joined him at the lab for an hour, just to get photos of your project, then you both scurried over to the library for a couple more hours of writing. You were already at 56 pages, which you felt proud of, but then you saw Anakin hit 70, and you typed faster.

When he outpaced you and hit 80 before you hit 65, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the stacks at the back of B3, then kissed him silly. That will slow him down, you thought to yourself. It also slowed you down, but you didn't really find yourself caring much when you found him blushing for an hour afterward.

You slept in his bed that night, but a more appropriate description would have been that you both collapsed around 5 am.

On Sunday, you were both completely focused in the library, and consumed more caffeine than food. Anakin insisted he get you lunch, which he did, but he only ate bits of his. Dinner rolled around, and he got it for you again. You were finally finishing your first draft, and so was he, so you read each others'. His was, unsurprisingly, brilliant. His results section was a little sparse, but he was still in the prototyping phase, so that was fine, but you added a few comments anyway and caught a few missing verbs and weird sentence structures. When he returned your draft in half an hour, you found he had passed through it carefully, marking "justify more" and "good argument, put it in the intro too" and "why not use a different material for the shell?" all over the document. He was good at editing too, apparently. You hated to admit it, but his comments made your paper better. You just hoped you'd returned the favor.

The two of you passed out in your bed at 7 this time, only for an hour, before getting some food and writing furiously in the dining hall. The deadline was in four hours, and you were so, so close. Ahsoka joined you around 9, just to eat, but then went back to your room to study an hour later. The clock was ticking down, and you were bouncing off the walls. You still had to generate two graphs, and add all your citations.

You were practically vibrating in your chair when Anakin's hand found your knee under the table.

"It's okay. It's already good, don't get in your head about it," he assured you, just for a moment, before turning back to his own laptop and frantically adding some images of existing microsurgical tools.

At 11:59am, you both hit the submit button, then, without words, looked at one another and instantly went back to his apartment.

You didn't even take off your sweater before collapsing onto his bed. His warm body wrapped around you, and you had the best sleep you'd had all semester. You woke up at 9pm, but then promptly went back to sleep. You had a debt to catch up on.

The next morning, you dropped by the lab again. Just to get everything squared away from your submission, and to grab some basic parts so you could work over finals next week and maybe even over winter break the week after, if you found the motivation.

The only other person in the lab was Barriss, who greeted you warmly. You'd missed her sass and chipped black nail polish. She was a breath of fresh air among all the other dudebros who you had to deal with. Plus, she actually cared. She asked you questions about how your finals went, if you thought the thermo final was actually the tenth circle of hell too, and filled you in on her dating life. She had been seeing this girl, but it wasn't working out, so she was going to end it in a few days. You were dreading where the conversation would inevitably go, and you were getting ready to tell her that, no, you weren't seeing anyone, but she had another question. A much more direct question.

"Are you… with Anakin? I've seen you two together a lot lately." Barriss asked, her deep green eyes unreadable. Your blood went cold. Were you too obvious? Did Barriss see or hear you two fucking in the bathroom downstairs that one time you'd done anything in the building? You had to say something, quickly, or else you were scared she would get suspicious.

"Um, no? We're friends, nothing more," you said, intently staring at some imperfection in a section of the plastic. You grabbed some sandpaper, just to have something to do. Did she know about the two of you?

"Friends? I thought you hated him?" Her question was joking, lighthearted, and the tension eased from your shoulders. She was just being perceptive. You were spending a lot of time together, someone was bound to realize you weren't quite so anti-Anakin anymore. If you hadn't been so relieved, you would have noticed the edge underlying her tone.

"Well, I used to. But he's actually kind of a good person, turns out," you commented, shrugging as you worked a little too hard on the divot under your fingers.

A derisive snort flew from Barriss.

"What?" You suddenly couldn't give less of a damn about the plastic or the sandpaper. All you could look at was Barriss, who was tightening a nut on the body of her bike with a wrench like nothing was wrong.

"Just that you think he's good. It's kind of funny, actually," Barriss said as she shrugged nonchalantly. What the fuck did she mean? Anakin was a good person, a great person even, someone who you'd really like to spend more time with. What did she see that you didn't? Was it still that bot thing from sophomore year?

"What do you mean?" The question came out more tentative than joking, and you cursed your lack of subtlety. But it didn't matter how you asked it, not in the slightest, because what she would say would throw any facade of yours out of the window.

"Anakin Skywalker is a thief."

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pretzel-box · 5 months ago

Text

PROLOGUE: WELCOME TO URBANSHADE

Word count: 3,3k

Tags: GN!reader, Graphic mention of surgery and experiments on a human body

Summary: You get hired by Urbanshade, thanks to your father, but every start has its obstacles. And some obstacles might feel deeper than they should be.

The time on the wall clock showed it was just a few minutes past noon. Warm sunlight gently crept into the waiting room through the tall panoramic windows of the building. A quick glance to the side, catching a glimpse of the clock, was enough to tell you that it would still be a few moments before it was time to move from the comfort of the leather chair you were currently sitting on. Your freshly disinfected hands clung nervously to your phone as you swiftly scrolled through the list of contacts you had saved over time. You were so focused that it startled you slightly when another caller ID popped up on the bright screen, displaying the picture of your father's face.

This particular man had called you a lot lately, sticking his nose into your business after you dared to ask him for a tiny favor, hoping he would help since you are his beloved only child. But one thing you didn't expect from him at that specific moment was that he would take the opportunity to call you, considering that he was somewhere on the ocean.

He works as a high-class businessman, primarily sponsoring a company called Urbanshade. You didn't know much about them, but your dad mentioned something about how they specialize in underwater mining with some high-tech inventions. This explained his temporary stay on one of Urbanshade's ships, where they were testing and showcasing another new underwater mining robot of some sort, called Trenchbleeder. Your dad had funded the whole project over the past few months, so he was more than excited to see how his money was being put to good use.

"Did they call you yet?" Despite the slight static, the seagulls, and the waves in the background, you could make out the strict tone in his voice. Of course, he was curious. You had asked your dad if he knew someone who would hire you, his child. And naturally, the first thing he applied you for was a position at one of Urbanshade's research facilities. They weren't really looking for new employees in the first place, but your dad was very close to the higher-ups, so he bought the job for you. The fact that he paid the company to hire you made your stomach twist in discomfort, but it was too late to turn back and say no. "I risked a lot by doing that for you."

He referred to the payment he had made on your behalf, and you could feel the pressure he had placed on your shoulders.

You nodded, even though your dad couldn't see it over the phone. "I'm at their building, sitting in the waiting room. We're signing the contract today." You tried to sound confident, but you knew your dad could see right through your facade. "They should be calling me into the office soon."

Your name was called loudly through the room before your dad could reply, and he would probably have given you another warning not to mess it up for his reputation's sake. "Sorry, Dad, it's time."

You ended the call with a swift push of the red button, putting your phone on mute so nothing would distract you during the meeting with one of the higher-ups at Urbanshade. The lady at the reception told you where to go, and another employee guided you to a glass room, where a middle-aged man in an expensive-looking suit was seated. His arms were crossed, and the way he scanned your application papers made your stomach turn.

The man must have noticed your little stare from the other side of the glass wall because he looked up from the file, and it wasn't hard to miss the coy smile on his lips. The previous expression on his face was quickly replaced with a more welcoming one. "Ah, we finally meet. Your father has already told me a good deal about you."

"I am grateful for the opportunity to work for your company, Mr. Wiltshire." First impressions count, especially at a company like Urbanshade. So you took the opportunity to present yourself in the best possible light, even if it meant pretending to be something you're not—in this case, motivated and interested. Your hand almost raised itself to offer a polite and respectful handshake.

"I assure you, we are the ones who are honored to welcome you to our team. Welcome to Urbanshade."

A few months passed after Urbanshade recruited you, and it didn't take long for you to get the hang of all the small details involved in your job at the luxurious office—details like how the overpriced coffee machine worked, how to sort the endless stacks of paper files, and even how to avoid getting on your new boss's bad side. At this point, you'd even admit it feels like being a well-paid version of an intern since your higher-ups only trusted you with minor tasks so far.

Despite the simplicity and comfort of the tasks, you volunteered more than once for harder assignments, showing your most motivated side in the hope of getting a little more action in your otherwise boring life. But every single time, Mr. Wiltshire blocked you off with a polite smile and a shake of his head. "You're not ready yet."

It was frustrating; you felt there was more behind it than just a lack of skills, but you couldn't force your way into the deeper levels of the job without risking ruining it all for yourself.

A high-pitched female voice suddenly pulled you out of your regular daydreams, making you aware that you were indeed not alone at the moment. "Ah, look who's here!" Your black-haired co-worker beamed at you with the fakest smile you had ever seen, making you raise your eyebrow slightly. The action didn't go unnoticed by her, and you could feel her sharp acrylic nails digging uncomfortably into your left shoulder. "Be a sweetheart," she started again, leaning in from behind and speaking directly into your ear, "and take care of my files too, alright?" She no longer tried to hide her snarky tone and instead showed you her true nasty attitude. "We don't want Mr. Wiltshire to see how much you slack off at work, right, hon?" The pain slowly disappeared as she lifted her hand from your shoulder, wiping it off on her expensive business blazer. A glance over your shoulder to meet her gaze was enough.

Her smug smile hit a nerve deep inside you, but you swallowed your newfound anger like the smarter person and just nodded without a word. In the end, it wasn't worth the drama, and maybe you could use the opportunity to score some extra credit points with your boss if he saw you doing some well-executed extra work.

The fake woman left the moment you tried to open your mouth to give her a straightforward answer, leaving you behind like some worthless object in the middle of the office. By this point, it wasn't really offensive to you since you strongly disliked that woman for her weird attitude toward you, and every second without her was surely a good second. After watching her leave and get into the elevator at the end of the hall, you turned around too and slowly made your way to the coffee machine in the plain break room, pouring yourself a nice cup of dark liquid into your favorite mug. You would surely need it if you had to put in some extra hours to get the work done. With newfound motivation, you left the room and headed to your co-worker's personal office.

It was a neat space inside a glass room, furnished with minimalist-style furniture and a nice office chair made of quality leather. Some of the woman's personal items were scattered across the mahogany table, and your lips curled up as you felt the smooth surface of the table, thinking you could earn one of those fancy offices yourself if you worked hard enough.

Then you saw the stack of brown files on the table. It was in an unacceptable, messy state, with paper corners sticking out from all sides and some mysterious stains on the front covers. Yet, the weirdly pleasant smell of cigarettes and old paper hit your nose, filling you with a strange, comforting feeling all over again. Your eyes also didn't fail to notice the bright yellow note on the stack, with a hastily written message in black ink:

"Please sort by Thursday night. Return Z-13 file to higher-up when done."

Reading it gave you a sudden boost of excitement, seeing that there must be an interesting file usually in the hands of higher-ranked people. You didn't question it but rather saw it as an opportunity to dive deeper into the business that Urbanshade conducts, sensing a way to escape the boring intern tasks and join them on the front lines, maybe even leading a mining operation in the exciting underwater world.

Your hands took the small note from the files, discarding it without a care into the bin, assuming your co-worker was aware of it since she knew about the work the files required. It was another simple job of sorting papers and making sure everything was in its place before returning them to the basement archives below the building.

The warm, rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee replaced the smell in the small office as you took a careful sip from your favorite mug. The dark liquid was the only thing keeping you grounded amidst the tension of the day. Your fingers traced the rim of the warm cup absentmindedly as you scanned the chaotic stack of files on the mahogany desk.

Determined to make a good impression by sorting through the files with precision, you placed your mug at the edge of the desk, within easy reach. You started to carefully separate the documents, making piles according to their categories, when your mind began to wander.

You reached for another file, but just as you were about to grab it, your elbow knocked against your mug. Time seemed to slow as you watched in horror as the mug tipped over, spilling hot coffee across the desk. The dark liquid cascaded like a wave, soaking the neatly sorted papers in seconds.

"No, no, no!" you gasped, frantically grabbing at the files, trying to salvage what you could. But it was too late—the coffee had already seeped into most of the pages, leaving large brown stains that spread and blurred the ink in matter of seconds. The once crisp documents were now soggy and wrinkled, some of the text smearing into an illegible mess.

Your heart pounded as you stared at the ruined files. A wave of panic surged through you. These weren’t just any papers; they were official documents, meant to be returned to the higher-ups. And that one file—about something called Z-13—it was supposed to go directly to someone important. You remembered the note and its simple instructions, now crumpled in the waste bin, and felt a sinking dread.

Grabbing a handful of napkins from the small break room drawer, you desperately tried to blot the coffee from the papers, but the evidence of your mistake would be painfully clear, no matter how hard you tried to save the files. The edges of some files were curling up, the ink bleeding out, and some of the pages were beyond saving. The more you wiped, the worse it seemed to get.

You slumped into the leather chair, your hands trembling as you stared at the coffee-stained disaster in front of you. What would Mr. Wiltshire say? Worse, what would your father think if he found out? The pressure to prove yourself, to show that you were capable of handling the job, suddenly felt crushing.

With a deep breath, you tried to calm your racing thoughts. There had to be a way to fix this. Maybe you could reprint the damaged documents, or perhaps there were backups somewhere in the archives. You needed a plan, and fast. But first, you had to get rid of the evidence of your mistake—before anyone saw the mess you had made.

Forcing yourself to think clearly, you carefully gathered the soaked files, praying that you could come up with a solution before anyone found out about the spill. And then you saw it, the important file with big red letters on the cover, slightly drenched in warm coffee. The damage seemed to be at a visible minimum, making you slightly relax despite all the panic in your body.

Your finger traced over the paper cover before picking the file up from the messy table. It was slightly heavy, and as you felt the weight of the file in your hands, a ripple of curiosity surged through you. You hesitated for a moment, wondering what kind of secrets might be concealed within these pages. But the urge to know won out, and you carefully opened the front cover, revealing a neatly typed summary that seemed to offer a glimpse into the contents of the file.

The first thing that caught your eye was a series of police reports, meticulously detailed and organized, each one stamped with the official seal of Urbanshade. They were followed by a set of photographs, their glossy surfaces reflecting the dim light of the room. The first image you saw was a clear mugshot of a young man. His face was striking, not in the sense of beauty, but in the way it conveyed a deep weariness, as if the weight of the world had been pressing down on him for far too long. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and they censored his eyes, leaving them to your imagination.

His expression was a frown in each of the photos, a look of quiet defiance mixed with something else—something that sent a strange sensation through your chest. It wasn’t pity, exactly, but a deep unease that you couldn’t quite place. There was a coldness in his expression, yet also a flicker of something more, something human and raw, buried beneath the layers of exhaustion and anger.

You turned the page, your fingers brushing over the edges of the police reports that followed. The papers were old, some of them yellowing with age, but the text was still clear. Your eyes skimmed the lines, taking in the grim details of a murder case that had been closed years ago. The words felt heavy, each sentence a stark reminder of the horror that had unfolded.

The reports detailed a series of brutal killings—nine victims in total. The descriptions were uncensored, each one more gruesome than the last. As you read, a chill ran down your spine. The level of violence, the cold, methodical nature of the crimes, it all painted a picture of someone deeply disturbed, someone with a darkness that ran far deeper than you could have imagined.

And there, at the center of it all, was the young man from the photos. His name was typed in bold letters at the top of the report: Sebastian Solace. The name seemed almost ironic—“Solace” suggesting peace or comfort, while the man it belonged to was associated with such unspeakable acts.

You stared at the name for a long moment, trying to reconcile the tired, defiant face in the photos with the monstrous deeds described in the reports. The file mentioned psychological evaluations, interviews, and even some speculation about his motives, but none of it seemed to add up. There was a note in the margin, scrawled in a hurried hand, suggesting that the case was far from closed, despite what the official records stated.

A photo paperclipped to the back of the file caught your attention—a grainy image of a dark, empty room. The caption underneath simply read, „Day of Execution“ The picture showed the electric chair that they used in Solace his execution, but any sign of his presence was missing in it.

Then you turned the pages and the police reports changed into a large series of lab reports, endless lists of medication and a collection of pictures that left you in a nauseous state.

You read and read for what felt like hours, your eyes moving mechanically over the pages as the horrors of Sebastian Solace's life unfolded before you. Each detail seemed more grotesque than the last, painting a picture of a man who had been systematically stripped of his humanity. It wasn’t just the surgeries—those brutal, invasive operations where limbs were removed and reattached like parts of a machine. It was the utter disregard for the person he once was, the complete and total annihilation of his identity, his very soul.

The deeper you delved into the file, the more your hands began to tremble. You could feel your stomach churning as you flipped through page after page of graphic images and cold, clinical reports. The pictures were the worst—high-resolution photographs of Sebastian’s disfigured body, his skin pale and sickly under the harsh fluorescent lights of a laboratory. There were stitches crisscrossing his limbs, metal tools embedded in his flesh like cruel mockeries of life-saving instruments. His eyes—those once defiant, tired eyes—were vacant now, lifeless, as though the man he had once been was already dead.

Your breath hitched as you turned to a page detailing an experiment labeled "Procedure 17-C." The accompanying photograph showed a close-up of Sebastian's chest, where wires and tubes had been inserted into his heart, his blood replaced with a thick, unnatural fluid. The caption beneath it coldly described the experiment’s purpose—to test the viability of synthetic blood in deep-sea environments. The thought of what he had endured, of how much pain and suffering had been inflicted upon him in the name of science, made your vision blur with tears.

You forced yourself to continue reading, even as nausea clawed at your throat. The reports became increasingly more deranged, describing how Sebastian’s body had been treated like a puzzle, dismantled and reassembled in ways that defied all logic and ethics. The word "specimen" appeared frequently, a stark reminder that to his captors, Sebastian was nothing more than a test subject, an object to be used and discarded.

It was around page 35 that you couldn’t take it anymore. You shoved the file aside and staggered to the bin next to you, emptying the contents of your stomach. The bile burned your throat, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish in your heart. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to steady your breathing, but the images lingered in your mind, imprinted there like a brand.

Sebastian Solace—the name now felt like a curse, a grim reminder of the horrors that could befall anyone who crossed paths with Urbanshade. And the Hadal Blackside... it was no longer just a place. It was a living nightmare, a twisted abyss where humanity was stripped away,

The weight of the file in your hands felt unbearable as you reluctantly picked it up again, your fingers trembling as you closed the cover. The secrets contained within were like a lead weight on your soul, pressing down on you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. When you finally set the file back on the table, it was as though you were laying down a burden too great for any one person to bear.

But even as you tried to distance yourself from what you had just read, the haunted eyes of Sebastian Solace refused to leave you. They stayed with you, those hollow, lifeless eyes, staring back at you from the depths of your memory. They were a reminder that in the Hadal Blackside, there were things far more terrifying than the dark waters and the lurking creatures within. There might were men—once human, now monsters—who had been twisted by the same forces that now ensnared you.

You were tangled in their web now, caught in a nightmare from which there was no waking. And as you sat there, in the dim light of that office room, you realized that the true horror wasn’t what had been done to Sebastian. It was the knowledge that, in time, the same fate could await you, if someone found out what you saw.

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