#i need to get better at resting. i spend a lot of time thinking but. i need to get better at not feeling bad for resting.

[actuallysaiyan]

Menage A Trois(Retsu Unohana x Fem!Reader x Kenpachi Zaraki)

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, threesome, vaginal fingering, bodily fluids(squirting and cum), power dynamics, Retsu is calling the shots, slight mommy kink if you squint, breast/nipple play, pet names(good/bad boy, good girl), just a whole mess of sex and threesome goodness word count: 1.9k pairings: Retsu Unohana x Fem!Reader x Kenpachi Zaraki a/n: this has been in the works(aka I've been daydreaming this) since THAT episode of Bleach TYBW, and this is thanks for @yeowangies that it exists cause I think she helped gas me up enough to write it.

dividers: @adornedwithlight

taglist:  @cherryblossombankai, @Misty-angerose, @yeowangies,  @felixmr, @thissaintjessi, @kenpachisbrat @pixelcafe-network.

You’re not sure how you ended up being the little plaything to not only Captain Zaraki but also Captain Unohana. It’s sort of a mystery considering you don’t think you’re anywhere near the strongest nor the smartest, but you caught the attention of that pair. And while you usually spend a lot of time with Captain Zaraki as he has a voracious appetite, tonight Captain Unohana requested the both of you in her chambers. You know better than to refuse this request.

The last time the three of you were together, you needed a few days rest from the immense bliss and pleasure you were subjected to. You figure it’ll probably be something similar this time, and you have no complaints at all.

When you get to her chambers, you find Captain Zaraki there. He smirks at you, towering over you like he always does. He eagerly takes you into his arms, kissing you and caressing your body. You love the way he’s always kissing you like he could never get enough of you. Kenpachi is very hungry for you.

Retsu walks in, frowning a little when she sees how Kenpachi has basically attacked you with kisses. She clears her throat and he jumps away from you. You notice how Zaraki seems to only really respect her. You look at her with curiosity before she points at him.

“Didn’t I tell you to get on the bed with your clothes off? You aren’t supposed to be pawing her as soon as she walks in the door.” Retsu commands.

Kenpachi rolls his eyes, “I don’t need you to tell me what to do, woman!” You notice the obvious bulge in his pants growing even bigger now.

He gets on the bed, taking off his clothes and folding them in a haphazard pile. Then he lays down, showcasing that gorgeous body you’ve come to love. Retsu comes over and she begins to massage your shoulders. She leans in close to you, you can feel her warm breath on your neck.

“He’s still a brute with how he handles his sex drive,” she whispers in your ear. “But we can teach him a lesson.”

She ushers you over to the bed. Captain Unohana knows how to set the scene. She’s gentle with you, but a little more firm with Zaraki. She then begins to undress you in front of him, narrowing her eyes whenever he tries to get off the bed to touch you.

“What did I tell you, Zaraki? You have to pay attention to my commands.” She scolds him.

He’s growing more and more impatient with every bit of clothing she takes off of you. He begins to stroke his cock, getting himself even harder than before. Retsu laughs softly and she leans back in to whisper in your ear.

“Look what you do to him.” She says, making you shiver. Her hands are on your body, groping and kneading the tender flesh. “You make him hard like some horny boy who’s never had sex.”

This is when she pushes you onto the bed gently. She commands you to lay down on his chest on your back. Kenpachi grunts when he feels your soft, warm body pressed up against his. He can feel your warmth radiating off of you, dripping deep down into his soul. Then he reaches up to begin kneading your breasts. He begins to hump you a little. His cock presses against your plush ass.

“Did I say you could touch her?” Once again, Unohana is on his case.

Kenpachi growls, “I don’t need to be fucking told to touch her!” But you can tell this is turning him on.

Retsu gets on the bed with both of you. She looks at where Kenpachi’s cock is between your folds now. You’re just starting to get wet too. She leans in and begins to massage his heavy balls. It’s always been something she’s loved to do. He grunts in response, eager to feel even more of her soft but calloused hands.

“That’s my good boy,” she coos at him. He’s blushing now and tries to look away from her.

You feel her hands soothing up and down your body, making you shudder with pleasure. She looks up at you from her spot between both yours and Kenpachi’s thighs. She’s loving every single moment of this.

“Do you want to fuck her?” Unohana asks him.

He scoffs. “Of course I want to fuck her, what kind of damn question is that?”

He grunts when she squeezes his cock just a little. This is to remind him who’s actually in charge. He growls loudly once more, but then it turns into moans as she begins to stroke his cock. It twitches and leaks precum in her palm, making her sigh. You can barely take your eyes off of her. You love the way she’s commandeering this entire event.

“Look at that,” she coos softly. “Look how horny our good boy is.”

You can hear him grunting and trying to protest again, but it’s all for nothing. She starts jerking him off, hard and fast. Kenpachi moans and growls under you, pumping his hips in time with her carefully planned strokes. Soon he’s moaning that he’s cumming and she doesn’t quit. Ropes of thick, warm cum spurt out and cover your mound completely.

“Oh what a good boy. You made such good lube for our pretty little plaything.” Retsu says, smearing the cum all over your pussy.

You gasp when she begins to finger you. It’s warm and slippery with Kenpachi’s cum added to your already wet pussy. You whine as she begins pumping her two cum filled fingers into your cunt. Kenpachi begins touching you; he’s kneading your breasts and tugging on your nipples. When Retsu uses Kenpachi’s cum to lube your clit, you know you won’t be able to last much longer.

“Awhh you two are both so cute.” Retsu coos as she works you towards a messy orgasm. “Are you both ready to make me cum?”

You can barely answer. Kenpachi holds onto you, keeping you as steady as he can. When the waves come crashing down, he’s actually the one coaxing you through every part of this pleasure. Then you slowly come down, shuddering and panting. Retsu leans in to kiss you softly, then she brings her cum coated fingers to your mouth.

“Suck on them. Lick them clean.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You begin sucking off the mixed juices. Kenpachi is growing hard once more just from watching this lewd act. You feel his cock between your folds once more. Retsu then pulls her fingers from your mouth, smirking at you.

“Undress me. You first, Zaraki.” She commands.

Her voice is so hypnotic. It’s so entrancing. It makes your heart race whenever she gives you a command like this. Kenpachi helps you off his body, laying you down on the bed with care. You know he’s got deep feelings for you too, which makes you happy.

Then he’s kissing her softly, to which she doesn’t protest. Instead, you watch as she pulls him closer to herself as they kiss in a hungry way. His large hands begin to take off her clothes and he greedily touches her. He’s groping her body, showing her off in a way. You crawl closer to the pair, but you still wait patiently for her next command.

“What a good girl,” Retsu praises you. “Come here, undress me.”

You eagerly crawl over and undress her. Your hands are almost shaking as you pull down her bottoms. Kenpachi smirks at the way you’re reacting to everything. It’s almost cute for him to see you lusting after the previous Kenpachi. He’s seen you two together before, but it’s always so alluring to the big man.

“Kiss me.”��

As your lips collide with hers, you feel Zaraki’s hands on your body again. It feels like heaven to have him groping you in such a greedy way, just like he had with her. Soon, she’s pulling you on top of her, and your breasts press together.

“I think it’s time we let Zaraki use our holes, hm?”

“Y-yes, I want him.” You confess, making both of them find you so adorable.

Kenpachi positions himself between both of your thighs. He’s stroking himself, making himself so hard and lubing up his cock with precum. Then you gasp when you feel him spreading your cheeks and prodding your hole with the tip of his dick.

“Do it, make her scream.” Retsu commands and Kenpachi can’t hold back anymore.

You gasp as he begins stretching you out on his cock. Unohana brings you down to kiss her, allowing you to moan against her lips. Having her body under you to keep you grounded while Kenpachi begins to ram into you really is perfect. Her hands keep your cheeks spread, allowing Kenpachi to fuck even deeper into you. 

“That’s it, show this cute little plaything how good she’s got it with us,”

Her words are swirling in your mind as you struggle to stay lucid. The way Zaraki is pounding into you has you moaning like a bitch in heat. Retsu’s hands all over your body and then going back down to grip your ass cheeks has you steadily getting to your peak so fast.

“C-cumming!” You cry out, gritting your teeth.

Neither of them expected you to begin squirting all over them. She’s laughing and coaxing you through the pleasure, calling you her good girl. Your mind is swimming with pleasure and lust. Eventually, Kenpachi pushes into Retsu and she’s squealing with pleasure.

“Oh you bad boy! I never said I was ready!” She growls, but she’s loving the way he’s already reaching so deep inside of her.

Kenpachi leans in to kiss her, sandwiching you between their toned bodies. You’re still recovering from such an intense orgasm, and having them both pressed up against you has such a soothing effect on you. Retsu begins moaning his name, then she’s guiding you back into a desperate kiss.

“Go on! Cum on my cock!” Zaraki is the one commanding now. Something about this really seems to turn both you and Unohana on.

She’s kissing you much more hungrily now. Her hands on your body are groping a little harder, making you squirm under her grasp. Her voice sounds so angelic as she’s getting closer to cumming. And the cry she lets out when she reaches her peak is so erotic.

Kenpachi is not far behind, grunting and growling that he’s close. He pulls out just in time to cover your ass in his thick seed, then he slowly pushes it back into your pussy to finish some more inside of you. Retsu doesn’t make any comments now, instead helping you lay back on the bed.

They both fuss over cleaning you up, then she’s helping Kenpachi onto the bed. You’re between them both, as Kenpachi leans over to begin sucking on your nipple. Retsu runs her fingers through his wild hair.

“What a good boy. Next time, I want you finishing inside of me, okay?” She asks him, tugging on his hair.

Kenpachi moans, “Yes, I will be good for you. I’ll finish inside you next time.”

You close your eyes, relishing in the way Retsu is massaging your shoulders and Kenpachi is sucking on your nipples.

reblogs and comments always appreciated!

©actuallysaiyan 2024– do not repost on other platforms, copy, translate or edit my works!

[etherrreal]

"if it's with you"

Pairing: todoroki x fem!reader Genre: fluff, very light hurt/comfort if you squint Summary: as pro-heroes, downtime is especially hard to come by. when you and your boyfriend todoroki finally get the weekend off after a few particularly hellish weeks on the job, you’re determined to make the most of it. the universe, however, seems to have other plans— and a twist you never would’ve expected.WC: 9,889 Warnings: pro-hero!au where both todoroki and reader are pros, like one suggestive line buried somewhere, mentions of divorce and past bad relationships, reader has some trust issues and has also been through A Lot but she’s working on it, todoroki being the best bf ever A/N: my first mha fic! and before anyone asks, no i haven’t read the ending 😅 i’ll read it one day but until then, it’s none of my business <3 -Dawn

Your suffering begins, as it so often does, with the best of intentions.

You wake in the comfort of your boyfriend Todoroki’s arms, the two of you tangled together in the sheets of his bed, your back pressed comfortably against his front. The morning’s first rays of sunlight peek in through the gaps in the curtains, casting the entire bedroom in a warm, golden glow.

You smile to yourself, despite the early hour, contented by the simple fact that there will be no alarms going off this morning, no patrols to attend or mission reports to file. For once, there’s nowhere else either of you needs to be except right here, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

Today is a special day, after all, the first one both you and Todoroki have had off in ages as a result of your demanding and often impossible schedules as pro-heroes. Unsurprisingly, you planned to spend it and the rest of the upcoming weekend together, determined to make up for all the time you’ve had to spend apart lately.

You shift in his arms, just enough so that you can admire him properly, and find yourself struck —though not for the first time— by how unfairly handsome he is, all mussed up hair and perfect features as he rests peacefully beside you. He’s always been devastatingly attractive, beautiful in a way that leaves people starstruck and enamored, that makes them wonder if he’s even real, and this is just as true of him when he’s asleep as it is when he’s awake.

Even now, you can’t help but stare at him, taking in the pretty curve of his lips, the strong slope of his jaw. He always looks so peaceful when he sleeps; softer, too, and it fills you with both gratitude and satisfaction, knowing you’re the only one who gets to see him like this, all serene and unguarded. It’s a testament to how deeply he trusts you, how much the two of you have grown together since you officially started dating a little over four months ago.

You’re tempted to curl further into him and fall right back asleep, letting yourself share in the warmth and comfort of his embrace in the way you so rarely get to do. That temptation only grows when he makes a sleepy little humming sound and nuzzles his face further into your neck, his lips brushing against your throat, right along your pulse point.

It takes a tremendous amount of effort not to fall back into him after that, but somehow, you’re able to steel yourself against it, knowing that what you’ve planned for today involves you having to leave bed sooner rather than later.

You know better than anyone that Todoroki’s had a pretty rough few weeks, even by pro-hero standards, enduring multiple overnight shifts, extra patrols, and mountains of paperwork he’s gone through great lengths to avoid.

The metaphoric cherry on top of it all was a fight with the escaped villain Mayhem that left him with a dislocated shoulder and you with a concussion that you know he still blames himself for, even though you’re the one who jumped in without thinking, as you are often prone to do.

It’s why you promised yourself, as you packed your bag for his apartment the night before, that you would do everything in your power to make this weekend together the best one yet, spoiling him with the kind of care and affection he so rarely affords himself. And the first step in your best weekend ever plan is to surprise him with breakfast, which is what leads you to slip out of his grasp and into the kitchen as stealthily as you can manage.

It’s far from an easy feat. Todoroki’s a bit of a serial cuddler, especially in the mornings, with an iron grip that latches around your waist and all but crushes you to him. But with a little bit of patience and a lot of maneuvering —plus a small boost from your wind-based quirk— you manage to escape and start on breakfast without waking him, leaving him behind with a fond look and a light kiss on his forehead.

And, to your utter delight, everything turns out pretty well. Amazingly well, in fact— or at least it starts off that way.

You locate almost all of the ingredients and materials you need for breakfast with relative ease, humming a little tune to yourself as you get to work. Soon there are strips of bacon sizzling in the skillet, the griddle you set on the stovetop heating up in preparation for the pancakes you plan to make. The mix itself sits in an All Might-themed bowl on the counter, sweetened with fresh fruit and just a pinch of cinnamon.

All that’s left for you to do is find a separate pan for the eggs, which you quickly spot on the top shelf in the cabinet, just out of your reach. Still, you refuse to let that deter you, climbing up on one of the nearby stools to grab it.

Why, of course, you willingly choose to get up on a stool when you’re a certified pro-hero with an entire wind quirk at your disposal —one that quite literally lets you breeze through your problems— will remain a mystery to you. Looking back, you’d like to think it’s a consequence of you working too hard, but really, the more you think about it, the more convinced you become that it’s really just a consequence of you being an idiot.

You’ve just latched onto the handle of the pan and are starting to bring it down when your foot slips. Immediately, you begin to panic, and it’s like every bit of pro-hero training you’ve received over the years vanishes instantly from your brain, leaving you almost comically off-balance and flailing. All of the instincts you thought you’d honed to perfection fail you at once, and just like that, you’re tumbling off the stool before you can stop yourself.

You land on your ass on the kitchen floor with a distressed and undignified yelp, your foot twisting painfully as you go. The rest of the pots and pans on the shelf follow you down, clattering onto the floor around you in a way you’re certain the entire apartment complex is able to hear.

You lift your hands automatically, shielding yourself with an invisible wall of air that protects you from getting smacked around with a frying pan like you’re some sort of cartoon character. It isn’t much, but it’s the best you can do for now, the rest of your senses distracted by the sudden throbbing in your ankle and the sheer bafflement —not to mention complete mortification— you feel for being in this situation in the first place.

Todoroki is next to you before you’re even able to form a coherent thought, having woken up and rushed into the kitchen after you the moment he heard all the commotion, which, admittedly, was probably loud as hell.

His mismatched eyes are wide with worry as he examines you, the trail of ice you see behind him letting you know that he must’ve used his quirk to get to you as quickly as he could. You think you’d be more touched by it if the majority of your energy wasn’t currently being focused on trying not to die of embarrassment.

“Are you all right, love?” Todoroki asks, voice filled with concern as he helps you sit up into a more comfortable position. “Does anything hurt?”

You shake your head before he even finishes the question, plastering a smile to your face. Your ego may be bruised beyond belief, your pride all but ready to shrivel up into a ball and disappear, but you'll be damned if you let this put a damper on your weekend, especially when it’s barely even begun.

“No, no, everything’s okay. I’m good, really, let me just—”

What’s left of your sentence quickly transforms into a wince, pain flaring in your ankle and shooting up your leg the second you try to stand up and put pressure on it. Todoroki is quick to reach out and steady you, lowering you back to the floor carefully.

“What happened?” He’s both curious and concerned as he lifts your injured foot and sets it gently onto his lap. He places his right hand on your ankle, fingers cool and careful with the iciness of his quirk, providing you with instant relief that has you sighing and squeezing his other hand gratefully. “Don’t tell me you were training on your day off.”

“I wish,” you huff, letting out a humorless laugh. At least then, you’d feel less annoyed about it, having already accepted such injuries as part of the reality of your work as a pro-hero, but nope, no such luck.

Instead, the injury you’re currently suffering is one that was both completely avoidable and partially self-inflicted. Leave it to a common kitchen stool to humble the shit out of you; and so early in the morning, too.

“I was trying to make breakfast before you woke up.” You can’t help pouting over it, heaving a disappointed sigh as your gaze falls to your lap. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, it worked.” Todoroki places a hand beneath your chin to make you look at him, the smile he offers as loving as it is teasing. “Consider me thoroughly surprised.”

You purse your lips, shooting him a flat look that makes him laugh. You can’t stop yourself from softening at the sound, especially when he leans in close and presses a soothing kiss to your forehead, smoothing away the furrow of your brow.

When he pulls away, you’re all but putty in his hands, the pain in your ankle reduced to a mere afterthought in the wake of how gentle he’s being with you now, how attentive he always is to every single one of your needs. You’ve always known he’d make an incredible partner, even before you started dating, and the fact that you’re the one who gets to witness it now never fails to make your heart stutter with glee.

“Come on,” he says, entirely unaware of the effect he has on you, his voice steady and reassuring. “Let’s get you somewhere a little more comfortable.”

His words snap you back to reality, returning your attention to the situation at hand. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he means to carry you, and while normally you’d jump at any chance to have his hands on you, the fact that it’s only happening as a result of your own clumsiness has you feeling a special kind of pathetic that you’re not entirely comfortable with.

It’s why you’re so quick to try to talk him out of it, placing a hand on his chest to stop him— or, at the very least, slow him down.

“I’m fine, Shouto, really,” you insist, waving your free hand back and forth in some vague gesture of reassurance. “You don’t have to—”

Todoroki cuts you off by scooping you into his arms, ignoring your protests about the food you still have cooking and the kitchen being a mess in favor of starting on a path back to his bedroom. Once you’re there, he deposits you safely on his bed with an effortlessness that would normally have you swooning, if only you weren’t so annoyed with yourself right now.

He takes the time to make sure you’re comfortable, fluffing up the pillows behind you and handing you your phone, like he can tell you’re just itching to complain about your misfortune in the group chat. It doesn’t make you feel like any less of a bumbling idiot, but it does temper your irritation for the time being, so much so that you don’t even protest when he excuses himself from the room in search of supplies.

He isn’t gone long, returning only a moment later with a handful of items from his hero duffle. You’re still pouting when he does, glaring at your swollen ankle as if that’ll be enough to make it go back to normal. You sit up when you see him approach, taking note of the first aid kit and the ice pack in his hands.

He takes a seat on the bed beside you and lifts your swollen ankle into his lap. You watch as he turns it back and forth to assess the damage, careful not to injure you any further.

In no time at all, you find yourself utterly transfixed by his movements. Your phone is still in your hand, the screen lit up with a half-typed text to your friends, but right now he’s all you’re interested in looking at, mesmerized by the gentle press of his hands against your skin and the delicate, almost reverent way he handles you.

You’re no stranger to the process of patching up your wounds, having experienced countless injuries over the course of your pro hero career, but what is new for you is letting someone else be responsible for it. You’ve never been good at asking for help, much less allowing yourself to be taken care of, convinced by an ugly voice in the back of your mind that doing so would reveal a weakness you might never recover from.

You like to think you’ve gotten better at it over the years, but old habits die hard. Your hyper-independence has always been a point of contention in your relationships, made worse by partners whose reactions to your vulnerability only served to remind you why you kept it hidden in the first place.

With Todoroki, though, it’s different. Years of friendship before you started dating have ensured that he’s seen you at your worst, probably more times than you would’ve liked. He’s been there for all your bad decisions and all your stupid mistakes, through shitty breakups and even shittier fights with villains— and not once has he ever faltered in his support of you, nor has he let any of it change his opinion of you.

Even now, he’s still taking care of you, and you’re actually letting him, knowing he’s someone you can trust to do so without any fear of appearing weak or less than. You know you’ve been kind of a brat this morning, huffing and puffing as he tends to your injury with all the petulance of a pouting child, but he’s taken it all in stride, soothing away your frustration with gentle hands and even gentler kisses against your wrists and forehead.

You’ve never been one to open your heart so easily, never saw any reason to, but you take one look at Todoroki and you know— you’ve never loved anyone the way you love him.

Not that you’ve ever told him that, of course. You know all too well about the trauma of your boyfriend’s upbringing, just like you know how hard he’s worked to put himself in the headspace of actually pursuing a romantic relationship. It’s why you refuse to be someone who pressures him into exchanging any sort of I love you’s unless you’re sure that’s a step he’s ready to take with you.

And while you’ve certainly done your own fair share of healing and growth when it comes to being vulnerable in your relationships, there’s a part of you that’s still hesitant to say those three words out loud, terrified that everything will go wrong once you do. That he’ll hear them and change his mind, and then he’ll leave, just like your dad did with your mom. Just like everyone does eventually.

It’s an irrational fear, you know, especially with someone like Todoroki, who’s proven time and time again how much he cares for you, how deep his devotion to you truly runs. Unlike your previous partners, he’s given you no reason to doubt him, but try as you might to convince yourself otherwise, the truth of the matter is that you’re not ready to say I love you either. Like you said before, old habits die hard.

Across from you, Todoroki opens the first aid kit and unfurls a set of bandages, distracting you from your thoughts. He uses one hand to lift your foot beneath your calf and the other to wind the bandages around your ankle, each one of his movements careful and practiced.

“It’s not broken,” he tells you, finishing off the wrapping and setting your foot on his thigh, “but it’s definitely sprained. You’ll have to rest and stay off of it until you’re ready to try putting pressure on it again.”

“Well, there go our dinner plans.” You can’t help the disappointed sigh that leaves your lips, meeting his gaze to send him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to trying that new soba place downtown.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He stacks a few pillows by your foot, his voice easy and reassuring as he rests your ankle on the highest one, elevating it. “The restaurant can wait. I’m more concerned about you.”

“You’re choosing me over cold soba?” You pretend to be shocked by it, eyes wide as you place a hand over your heart, though the teasing smile on your face betrays your satisfaction. “Yikes. You must really like me, then, huh?”

“More than you know,” he answers, steady and sincere, without any sort of regard for the effect his words have on you.

He says it calmly, doubtlessly, with the kind of sureness you’ve always admired in him. It’s a habit of his, you’ve learned, to say such romantic things without any sort of hesitation, to speak of his affection for you so bluntly and unapologetically. As if he doesn’t even have to think about it, as if the feelings he has for you are just another fact of life, a truth as natural and easy to him as breathing.

“Besides,” he adds a moment later, as if he isn’t the one responsible for the current fluttering of your heart inside your chest, “there’s always takeout.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, despite the situation. Todoroki returns the gesture with a smile of his own, reaching for the ice pack next and placing it on top of your ankle.

“How’s that feel?”

“My ankle’s definitely sore, but it’s not so bad. My pride, on the other hand, is hanging by a thread. At this point, I’m not sure it’ll ever recover.” You heave a dramatic sigh, slumping against the pillows behind you in defeat. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything that could help with that, would you?”

He pauses to consider it, tilting his head in a way that only serves to make him more adorable. Then he starts to smile to himself, sliding one hand up your leg and using the other to brace himself over your body.

He shifts on the mattress and leans in close, his lips hovering just a few inches away from your own. “I have one idea…”

You wrap your arms around his neck, more than happy to indulge him, your lips meeting in a soft, sweet kiss. He deepens it just for you, tilting his head and moving a hand to cradle your jaw.

You’re both smiling when you break apart for air, all tender and warm as your eyes meet his once more. He cups your face with both hands, and you lean into his touch, his thumb grazing your bottom lip.

“Feeling better now?”

“Much,” you answer, turning your face to kiss his palm. “But we’ll probably need to try that again. You know, just to make sure it’s actually working. Nothing serious, either, just two, three, maybe twenty more times—”

Todoroki laughs, a light, quiet sound you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing. He presses one kiss to your mouth and another to your forehead, and then he’s standing up, lightly pinching your cheek as he goes.

“I’ll go get us something to eat,” he says, squeezing the hand you lift to swat at him. “Try not to fall off any more stools while I’m gone.”

“Hey!”

You gasp and make an affronted sound, reaching for one of the pillows you’re not already using and launching it directly at his head. He dodges it, of course —figures his hero reflexes are working just fine, unlike yours— and smirks to himself on his way out, while you stick your tongue out at him.

Thankfully, your boyfriend’s wise enough to know better than to test your temper by coming back empty-handed. He appears in the doorway of his bedroom a few minutes later carrying a tray with two plates stacked with pancakes, an iced coffee for you, and a cup of tea for himself.

You perk up immediately, both at the sight of him and the amazing smell coming from the food, though you can’t help the guilt that settles in your chest when you remember that you were the one who wanted to bring him breakfast instead. You’re happy that the two of you are spending time together now, especially after the week you’ve both had, but it’s definitely not the way you imagined it would be.

Not that Todoroki seems to mind it, his lips curled into that fond little smile he only ever gets around you as he walks across the room to join you on the bed. He takes a seat beside you and sets the tray that’s holding everything down on the mattress between you, careful not to spill anything as he makes himself comfortable at your side.

“The bacon was beyond saving,” he announces solemnly, pausing as if he’s giving you time to mourn, “but the pancakes were surprisingly resilient.”

You can’t help but snort at his words. “They weren’t even cooking yet, Sho. It’d be a miracle if they hadn’t made it.”

“The real miracle is that they aren’t on fire. You know my culinary skills are abysmal at best.”

“Oh, come on. They can’t still be that bad. Isn’t Fuyumi teaching you a few recipes?”

“She’s certainly tried to. I’m afraid we never made it past our first lesson. Apparently the way I sauté vegetables is both frightening and destructive.” That makes you laugh, and Todoroki smiles, pleased at the sound, before handing you a fork and knife from the tray. “Thankfully, the pancakes were a lot more forgiving. I was able to get them out of there alive, and I even had time to add your favorite syrup.”

“My hero,” you coo, cutting off a piece of the pancakes from your plate and taking a bite. And though they’re certainly delicious, they do little to distract you from your earlier embarrassment, or from the disappointment you feel at being the reason why your weekend plans have gone down the drain. “I’m glad at least one of us lives up to our job description. After my epic failure in coordination this morning, I should probably suspend my own license.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Todoroki says, nudging your calf with his foot. “It was an accident. It could’ve happened to anyone, and it definitely doesn’t make you any less of a pro. You have nothing to be embarrassed about, especially not around me.”

“I know that, Sho, but it’s not—” You cut yourself off with a sigh, your gaze falling to the plate that rests in your lap. “It’s not just that.”

Being embarrassed is definitely part of it, you know, a feeling you’re sure won’t be going away anytime soon, but right now, more than anything, you feel guilty. When you woke up this morning, you were determined to help him relax and spoil him the way he’s always doing for you, but all you’ve done so far is give him more work. And though you know in your heart that Todoroki is far too kind and understanding to hold such a thing against you, that doesn’t make you feel any less awful about it.

You still aren’t looking at him, but you can hear the concern in his voice when he speaks, patient and considerate as ever. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Sho, it’s just— even though we work together, we barely see each other. And when we do, you’re always taking care of me, you know? This weekend was supposed to be my chance to return the favor, especially with how crazy things have been at the agency lately— but here you are, taking care of me again, all because I went and busted my ankle in the stupidest and most unheroic way ever.”

“Why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing?” You look up at him just in time to catch the way his eyebrows furrow, his head tilting in confusion as he abandons his breakfast in favor of reaching for your hand. “I like taking care of you. I always have, especially because I know how hard it is for you to let me in the first place.”

“I know you do, baby. And I’m trying to get better at letting you, really, I am, I just—” Another sigh, tinged with both guilt and disappointment, falls from your lips, but you don’t hesitate to let your hand rest in his, winding your fingers together. “I wish I could take care of you even half as well as you’re always taking care of me.”

“Love, you remember all the mission reports I forget to file, you bring me soup whenever I’m sick, and you quite literally save my life on a daily basis,” he says, voice gentle but firm, reassuring in all the ways you didn’t even realize you needed until now. “You take care of me plenty.”

He brings your hand to his lips, and you watch, smitten and starry-eyed, as he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. And just like that, all your doubts and guilt fade away, lost somewhere between the graze of his lips on your skin and the sincerity in his mismatched eyes as they meet yours.

“So forget about returning the favor,” Todoroki continues, squeezing your hand lightly, “because you already have. And I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to keep being the one who gets to take care of you.”

And well, after hearing that, it’s hard to do anything besides kiss him, so you do. You kiss him, gentle and sweet, sweet the way he always is with you, and you hope he can feel the gratitude in it, the affection that’s burrowed its way so deeply inside your chest, it’s a wonder your heart hasn’t burst from it.

“I know,” you murmur against his lips when the two of you pull away for air, “and I—”

Love you, your heart supplies, meaning it. I really, really love you, you want to say, but can’t, the words honest and heavy on the tip of your tongue, held back by memories of past bad relationships and an irrational fear of what will happen if you let yourself be that vulnerable.

“...I want to do the same,” is what you end up telling him instead, safer and not as frightening, but still every bit as true. You place your hand against his cheek and smile at him, even as the voice inside of your heart curses yourself for backing out at the last second. “Always.”

“Always,” Todoroki agrees, returning your smile with one of his own, smooth voice echoing with promise.

The rest of your breakfast is a quiet, peaceful affair. You and Todoroki enjoy both the food and each other’s company as you exchange stories from earlier in the week, content to finally get to talk about something other than work. He tells you about his and Fuyumi’s growing suspicions that Natsuo has a new girlfriend, and you tell him about the gaggle of freakishly large geese you’re pretty sure tried to kill you the last time you flew over the city.

When your plates are empty and your stomachs are full, the two of you spend some time cuddling together in his bed. You pull up your calendar on your phone, wistfully rearranging your itinerary for the weekend now that you only have one good ankle left to work with, while your boyfriend watches from behind you, his chin hooked over your shoulder and his arm draped around your waist.

The reservations you made at the spa are the hardest for you to part with, a woeful sound leaving your lips as you swipe to confirm your cancellation. Thankfully, Todoroki is there to distract you, murmuring a suggestive promise into your ear about giving you a massage that has you sighing for a different reason entirely, his hands gliding along your body and making you feel warm all over.

When you’re comfortable and sated, he excuses himself to clear the dishes and take care of the much-needed cleanup in the kitchen. You try to convince him to stay, insisting that you should be the one cleaning up your own mess, but he refuses to be swayed, slipping away after distracting you with a perfectly timed kiss that’s as romantic as it is conniving.

It isn’t long after he’s left that you find yourself completely bored out of your mind. Scrolling through your phone can only be so entertaining before 8AM, and staring at the ceiling while you wait for Todoroki to come back to you isn’t helping much either.

You FaceTime Bakugou to distract yourself, which is your first mistake. Or maybe your second, if you count the whole spraining your ankle whilst making breakfast thing. But he’s an early riser and also responsible for covering your morning patrol shift, so you take your chances, figuring he’s the most likely of your friends to be awake.

You catch him just as he’s leaving his apartment for the day. He answers the call with a gruff “the hell d’you want?” that you imagine would’ve been more threatening if he hadn’t also picked up on the first ring, betraying his fondness.

You let him pretend to be annoyed with you anyway, thanking him for covering your shift in the most sickeningly sweet voice you can muster and laughing when all he does is roll his eyes and flip you off in response. Then you launch into the story of your own morning, eager to complain about your misfortunate to a set of fresh ears.

When you tell Bakugou what happened with your ankle, he offers no sympathy. Instead, he cackles so hard he drops his phone, and you hang up on him, vowing to yourself that the first thing you’re going to do when you see him is summon a tornado to knock him clean off his ass, childhood friendship be damned.

You FaceTime Midoriya next. He’s entering his apartment when he answers your call, having just finished up the tail end of his overnight patrol shift.

He yawns halfway through his greeting, his hair messy and his cape rumpled, but he doesn’t hang up, nor does he let you end the call once you notice how sleepy he looks. Exhausted as he is, he’s also a really great friend. Your best friend, in fact, one who’s far too kind and caring to ignore you, even if it’s for something silly.

He’s definitely amused when you tell him about your sprained ankle and failed breakfast adventure, but unlike Bakugou the gremlin, he doesn’t laugh at you. Instead, he offers you his sympathy, knowing how much you were looking forward to your weekend off. Still, he urges you to stay positive, convinced you’ll recover sooner than you think.

He lets you vent, too, listening to you with his undivided attention as you complain about finding shoes that’ll fit an ankle brace and having to rearrange your plans, and by the time you’re done, you feel a lot better.

“See, I knew I should’ve called you first. All Katsuki’s annoying ass did was laugh at me for being uncoordinated. ‘Some pro you are, Tempest.’” You do your best impression of Bakugou’s voice, complete with a matching sneer, making Midoriya laugh. “I swear, as soon as my ankle gets better, the first thing I’m going to do is kick his ass.”

“Kacchan means well,” he says. His camera is pointed at the ceiling while he changes out of his hero suit, so you can’t tell if he actually sees you rolling your eyes or not, but you imagine he doesn’t need to, having played the peacemaker between you and Bakugou for most of your life. “I’m sure he was worried about you in his own way.”

“Is that what he calls it? Because I’m pretty sure if we called him right now, he’d still be laughing at me. Jerk.” You shake your head, flashing a hopeful look at the camera as Midoriya, now clad in his pajamas, reappears on your screen. “Promise you’ll super glue his locker shut for me the next time you’re at the agency?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he chuckles, walking into his room with his phone in hand and settling into his bed. His green eyes are cloudy with sleep, but the concern they hold is clear as day he meets your gaze with his own. “You’ve been taking care of your ankle, right?”

“I’ve got an ice pack on it as we speak,” you answer, reassuring him with a playful salute. “I’m elevating it, too. Shouto made sure of it. He’s been taking really good care of me.”

“I figured he would. Speaking of which, has he asked you yet?”

“Asked me what?”

Midoriya’s hand freezes in place where he’s running it through his hair. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other through your phone screens, neither one of you moving. His eyes are wide, and he has that look on his face you’ve only seen a handful of times before, the one he only makes whenever he realizes he’s really screwed up.

None of it is making you feel better, especially not when he drops his hand and blinks like he’s trying to reboot himself.

“Uh...nothing?”

“Nothing, my ass! You can’t just say something like that and not tell me what it is,” you insist, narrowing your eyes at him as threateningly as you can manage over FaceTime. “What do you know? What is he going to ask me?”

“Nothing! R-Really, I— I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“Izuku, I swear to god—”

He hangs up on you.

You’re left to stare at your lock screen with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. You scramble to call him back, infuriated that he would even dare to hang up after dropping a bomb like that on you with no explanation whatsoever.

Predictably, he doesn’t respond. Your calls go unanswered, which means he’s either ignoring you, or he’s dead. And if he’s not dead, then he will be soon, because next time you see him, you’re going to strangle him, Symbol of Peace status be damned.

Your fury lasts only momentarily before transforming into panic when his words really hit you.

Todoroki is going to ask you something? Holy shit, is he going to ask you to marry him? What the fuck? The two of you have never talked about marriage before. You didn’t even think that was something he’d want, and honestly, before him, it wasn’t something you’d ever considered yourself to want, either. Not after your parents’ divorce, and definitely not after your own tragic romantic history.

The two of you have only been dating four months, for crying out loud. Granted, you’ve known each other since high school, but still. He can’t actually want to marry you already.

You know Todoroki’s always been a little slow on the uptake when it comes to social cues and expectations, but this is pushing it, even for him. He literally just witnessed you wiping out in the middle of his kitchen while doing something as mundane and uncomplicated as making breakfast. What part of that horrific performance would make him think you’re marriage material?

Why would he even think you would say yes? You —avoidant, allergic to vulnerability you— ready for something as serious and life-changing as marriage? Yeah, right. And to spring it on you without any sort of discussion first? Without even hearing you say you love him? How could that possibly make any sense to him?

But what else can it be? What else is significant enough of a question that it made Midoriya abandon you like he revealed a horrible secret, like you don’t know where he lives and won’t show up to strangle him for leaving you in the dark like this?

This is too much for you, too early in the morning. Your ankle still hurts and now your head does, too, plus you’re panicking and sitting on the bed of the man who may or may not be on his way back to propose to you right now.

Part of you is tempted to run from it, to avoid any and all attempts at discussing your relationship and pretend that what Midoriya told you doesn’t exist. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time if you did. It’s your go-to strategy in relationships, after all: ignoring the problem until it eventually goes away, if it ever does.

And maybe it’s a testament to how much being with Todoroki has changed you and pushed you to grow, but you don’t actually want to do any of that this time. As stressed as thinking about this has made you, the truth is you don’t want to run from him. You love him, after all, even if your trust issues have made it practically impossible for you to tell him.

The one thing you know for certain is that you have to talk to him about it. You have no idea how you’re going to bring it up, much less how you’re going to navigate the conversation once you do, but sitting here overthinking it is only making your anxiety worse. If you and Todoroki are ever going to have a chance at getting past this, then you’re going to have to stop running and start being honest with him, even if the idea of doing so kind of makes you want to hurl.

Still, you think, if anyone’s worth making yourself vulnerable for, it’s him. It’s always been him.

It’s with that thought in mind that you push yourself to stand, rising from the bed on your one good foot. You take about three steps away from the mattress before deciding that hopping around on one leg makes you feel more ridiculous than serious, which is what you’re trying to be right now. You end up activating your quirk instead, using it to hover above the floor without having to put any pressure on your bad ankle.

It’s at that exact moment that Todoroki decides to return to you, the two of you running into each other just before you can reach the doorway. He sighs when he sees you’re out of bed, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze that lets you know he isn’t at all surprised to find you like this, floating above the ground in the middle of his bedroom.

“And where are you going?” He raises an eyebrow at you, leaning against the doorframe with his hands crossed over his chest. “Off to take your revenge on my poor kitchen stool?”

For the second time today, your words fail you. The whole reason you got up in the first place was to talk to him about everything, but now that he’s here in front of you, you find that you have no idea what to say.

All you can do is give a shaky laugh, fidgeting with your hands before wrapping them around yourself protectively, as if somehow that’ll give you the strength to say what’s on your mind. “Something like that, yeah.”

“I had a feeling you’d get bored and want to start walking again instead of resting,” Todoroki says. “It’s why I went back into my hero duffle and brought you these.” He uncrosses his arms, and that’s when you notice the pair of ankle braces he has tucked away into the crook of his elbow. “I figured at least one of them might fit you.” “Oh,” you mutter, “uh, thanks.”

It’s awkward and unsure, the complete opposite of all your playful and easy banter earlier this morning. If Todoroki notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

He makes his way towards you, and your eyes widen when he reaches for your waist. He wraps his free arm around you and leads you over to the bed, helping you sit back down. You deactivate your quirk and watch as he lifts your injured ankle, carefully propping it back up onto the pillow so you’re comfortable.

It’s sweet, the way he takes care of you, how gentle he always handles you. He’s sweet, and devoted, and protective. He’s taken such good care of you this morning, as he always has, and you know, somehow, that he always will.

And you realize, right then and there, that if there’s anyone you want to be married to, it’s him. Because he’s kind, and he’s gentle, and he’s brave. And more than anything, he’s good. He’s really, truly good, good in the way you never imagined you could deserve, good in a way that makes you think about forever.

And thinking that is just— it’s insane to you, really. Borderline impossible, because you never thought it would happen. After everything you’ve seen, all the shitty breakups you’ve been through —both in your home life and your personal one— you never imagined you’d feel comfortable or safe enough in a relationship to want more, but here you are.

Here you are, tentative but open and growing. Willing to try, with Todoroki.

And what a wonderful place that is to be.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts you don’t notice that he’s taken a seat at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He holds an ankle brace in each hand, offering them for you to take.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d like more, so I brought both—”

“What are you planning to ask me?” you blurt without warning, unable to stop yourself.

Todoroki blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting your outburst. You weren’t expecting it either, honestly —when you decided to have this conversation with him, you really were hoping you���d be able to bring it up a lot more smoothly— but it’s too late to take it back now. And as rushed and awkward as your delivery is, you need to know before you pass out from all the stress.

It takes a few moments for him to understand what you’re talking about, but you see the realization dawning on him slowly, his eyes widening a fraction.

“How did you…” His voice trails off, and then he sighs. “Uraraka told you.”

“Izuku, actually,” you correct sheepishly, biting your lip. “Though, in his defense, he was coming off a night shift and half-asleep when I called him. Not that I should be defending him, anyway, since the bastard hung up on me without telling me what it was. Coward.”

You clear your throat, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Anyway, that’s why I’m asking you now. Whatever it is, I’d like to hear it from you, if you’re still comfortable sharing it.”

He’s silent for a few moments, like he’s considering whether or not he wants to move forward with this. But Todoroki has never been anything but honest with you, so it isn’t long before he lets go of the braces, getting to his feet and moving closer so he can face you properly.

He kneels in front of you by the edge of the bed, and the voice inside your head starts to scream, either in excitement, fear, or some strange combination of both.

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this,” he says softly, reaching to take one of your hands in his own. “It was supposed to happen tonight over dinner, when it was just the two of us.”

You don’t say anything, not trusting yourself to speak. He’s definitely not doing much to make you think this is anything besides a marriage proposal.

One of his hands moves to open the drawer in his nightstand, and you nearly have a heart attack right then and there. You swear your whole body jolts, your free hand shooting out and latching onto his shirt to stop him so fast you almost fall off the bed.

He stops reaching for the drawer, his hands going up to your arms to steady you instead.

“Are you all right?” he asks, frowning in concern. “You’re not feeling light-headed, are you? Because if you are, you should lie down—”

“I’m not light-headed, Shouto, I’m in love with you.”

The confession falls from your lips, as most of your words do, before you can stop it. It’s hurried and breathless but also true and sincere, the culmination of four months of rooftop lunch dates and Facetimes between patrols, of comforting touches and lingering glances and all the wanting and affection you’d harbored in the years before that.

It seems to stun him into silence, which is quite honestly your worst nightmare, but you don’t let that deter you. Despite the doubt and irrational fear your past relationships have burdened you with, you know what kind of man Todoroki is. He was your friend long before anything romantic happened between the two of you, and you trust him completely, not just with your life, as you have for years now, but with your heart.

It’s with that thought in mind that you push yourself to continue, taking his hands into your own and intertwining your fingers together while he watches you, wide-eyed and hanging on to every word.

“I think I have been for a while. I just didn’t know how to say it, or if I even wanted to, because honestly, I was afraid to. Not because of you or anything you’ve done, but because of everything else. Because of what happened with my parents and all my shitty exes— and god, I’ve had some really, really shitty exes—”

You shake your head, stopping yourself before that train of thought goes any further, because it’s not the point. The point is that you love him, that you’ve been in love with him this whole time, and you need him to know that before anything else happens.

“What I’m trying to say is that I was scared. I thought that if I told you the truth about how I felt, then things would change, and the thought of putting myself out there only to lose you in the end just— well, it terrified me. But I’m not afraid anymore, because I know you, and I trust you, and I just— I love you, Shouto. I really, really love you. And I don’t expect you to say it back unless you’re ready, but I just—”

Todoroki doesn’t let you finish the rest of your sentence, cutting you off with a kiss that quite literally takes your breath away. He moves his lips against yours with purpose, breathing you in and cradling your face in his hands like you’re something precious, like close will never be close enough, and it’s all you can do to kiss him back, sighing into his mouth and tangling your fingers into his hair.

It’s not the first kiss the two of you have shared, nor will it be the last, but somehow it feels like the most important, the one where you finally stop being afraid and start being honest. The one where you both do.

It feels like too soon when he pulls away, but even then, he doesn’t get very far, drawing back just enough to stare into your eyes. Todoroki looks at you like you hung the moon, like you’re the one thing he’ll never get tired of seeing. He looks at you like he—

“I love you,” he says surely, doubtlessly, without the slightest waver to his voice, and now you’re the one who gets to stare, wide-eyed and hanging on to every word. “I’ve always loved you, even before I knew what that meant. And I understand everything you said about being afraid, because I was, too. All of this is still so new to me, sometimes I’m not sure what to say or what to do, but when it comes to you…”

He lets his voice trail off, moving his hands from your face down to your wrists, and then taking your hands into his own. Your heart soars when he leans down to press a kiss across your knuckles, rising and stuttering with affection where it rests inside your chest.

“You are the one thing I’ve never been unsure about,” he says, and you can tell by the look in his eyes how much he means it.

It’s the kind of confession that steadies you, one that makes all the doubt and uncertainty you felt earlier disappear, until all that’s left behind is the love you have for him, the love you know is returned.

Your eyes are watery, your bottom lip trembling with relief and affection, but still you find it in yourself to make a joke, winding your fingers through his. “Even when I do something ridiculous, like twist my ankle in the lamest way ever?”

Todoroki laughs and squeezes your hand. “Even then,” he promises. “In fact, I happen to love you the most when you’re doing something ridiculous, whether it’s falling off a stool, or jumping into the middle of a fight without a plan, or even telling off one of the biggest reporters in the country despite what it could do to your career.”

“When did I…” It takes you a few seconds to think about it, but eventually you understand what he’s talking about. You blink as the memory resurfaces, images of yourself in a pretty gown, him in a well-fitted suit, and about a million cameras flashing around you replaying in the back of your mind. “You’re talking about the charity gala for the children’s hospital, with that reporter who wouldn’t leave you alone while we were on the red carpet.”

“She kept asking me all those questions about my father and what our relationship was like. I didn’t think it’d ever end.” He strokes the backs of your hands with his thumbs, lips curling into a small, fond smile, as if the memory somehow pleases him. “Then you showed up and chewed her out for being, and I quote, ‘an invasive, insensitive parasite who was more concerned about being on the front page than she was about sick children.’ I thought your manager was going to have an aneurysm when she heard you.”

“She almost did,” you admit with a laugh, recalling the sight of your usually poised manager Misaki staring at you in horror on the other side of the velvet ropes, red-faced and furiously shaking her head in an attempt to get you to stop talking, which of course hadn’t worked. “I had to commit to a month of good behavior and PR deals just to get on her good side again.”

The incident had been all over the news, the reporter you’d offended labeling you an ill-tempered, bad-mannered brat who had no respect for the art of journalism or even her own country. And that, of course, was nothing compared to the field day the rest of the press had with your reaction, speculating on what your actual relationship with Todoroki was, despite the fact that back then, the two of you were still just friends.

Your boyfriend at the time hadn’t appreciated it at all. In fact, he’d hated every second of it, to the point he’d broken up with you as a result, but you never regretted it. You still don’t.

You tell Todoroki as much, brushing a few strands of hair away from his eyes and smiling at him. “It was worth it, you know. You were worth it. And I’ve never regretted it.”

“I know,” he says, returning your smile with one of his own. “And that’s when I realized how important you are to me. I’ve been in love with you ever since.”

“Wait, what?” The confession leaves you floored, eyes widening as you all but gape at him. “Sho, that gala was almost three years ago. You’re telling me you’ve loved me since then? And you didn’t say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure how to,” he admits. “Besides, you were already seeing someone else. And while I certainly didn’t care for him, I didn’t want to get in the way of your happiness. But I know now that I want to be the person who makes you happy. I want to be the one who’s there for you and who takes care of you. Always.”

You can’t help the joy that floods your heart at his words, your lips curving into a goofy smile. “Really?”

“Really. That’s why I want to ask you to move in with me.”

It sounds like a metaphorical record scratch. You have to take a moment to make sure you heard him correctly, and even then it still feels like you’ve just been thrown off a cliff.

“Wait, what?”

Todoroki releases your hands to open the drawer of his nightstand. This time, you don’t stop him, letting him reach inside to retrieve what he was looking for earlier.

You hear the jingle of keys before you see them, and sure enough, when he opens his hand, there’s a copy of the keys to his apartment resting in his palm, complete with the matching downstairs alarm and all. And you feel like—

Well, you feel like an idiot, mostly. An irrational, unbelievable idiot who jumps to conclusions and makes stupid assumptions but who is also really, really excited at the idea of getting to wake up with the love of your life every day.

“You were right earlier when you said we haven’t seen each other as much as we should,” Todoroki says, oblivious to both your earlier panic and how hard you’re trying not to laugh at yourself right now. “Our schedules and careers are mostly responsible for that, but having to go back and forth between apartments isn’t helping, either. That’s why I wanted to ask you to move in with me tonight. I even made a whole list of reasons to convince you.”

“Is that so?” You raise an eyebrow at him curiously, taking the keys out of his hand and twirling them around your finger. “Let’s hear them, then.”

“Our agency is closer to here than it is to your place,” he begins, rising from the floor and taking a seat next to you on his bed. “Midoriya and Bakugou are only ten minutes away. There’s a cat cafe on the corner, a plant shop across the street, and you’ve already tried all the local restaurants, so you know what you like and dislike.”

“All very practical reasons.” You move a little closer, and he lifts his arm and wraps it around your shoulders, allowing you to lean against his side. “Go on.”

“You spend more nights here than you do at your apartment. You already have a toothbrush, a place for your clothes, and a cabinet dedicated to just the foods you enjoy. And…”

“And…?”

Todoroki smiles softly at you, resting a hand against your cheek as he meets your gaze before he speaks again. “And I very much like the idea of getting to come home to you.”

“I like the idea of that, too,” you tell him, barely able to contain your own excitement as you smile and lean in for his lips.

The kiss you share now is slow and sweet, soft with the devotion you have for each other, the love you finally get to share. You feel him smile against your lips, gentle and content, and then he’s pulling back to meet your eyes, his fingers brushing the hair out of your face.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a definite yes. I’d love to move in with you, Sho.”

And when you see the way he smiles at you, warm and fond and so, so in love with you, you know you’ve made the right choice.

You snuggle into his side, making yourself comfortable with your head on his chest, while he welcomes you eagerly, tightening his arm around you and letting his cheek rest on the top of your head. When you remember your earlier distress, so different from the calm and comfort you’ve settled into now, you can’t help but laugh, pressing the keys that you were so sure were going to be a ring into your palm.

Beside you, Todoroki hums and faces you with a questioning look. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just— for a second there, when Izuku told me you wanted to ask me something, I panicked. I thought you were going to ask me to marry you.”

A beat of silence follows. You expect him to laugh with you, but instead he grows quiet. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing, but then he reaches for your hand and slides his fingers through yours, shifting so he can face you properly, mismatched eyes curious and searching.

“Is that something you’d want?” he asks, more quietly than he needs to, like he’s afraid he might scare you off. “With me?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” you answer, voice as quiet as his. “In fact, I’ve actually tried really hard not to think about it. I didn’t think it was an option for me before.”

“Same here,” he says, and for some reason, hearing him be so honest and knowing that he thought the same fills you with relief, the steadiness of his voice comforting you the way it always has. “But if it’s with you…”

“If it’s with you…” You lift your head to look at him and press your palm flat against his chest, right above his heart. “I think we could make it work.”

He kisses you, then, slow and soft just like before, with his heart beating against your palm, strong and steady, unwavering when it comes to you, the way it’s always been. There’s a promise in it, too, one you hope he feels is reflected in the way you kiss him back, one that feels like forever.

You’re both smiling at each other when you pull away. Todoroki looks at you like he’s always looked at you, like you’re all he wants to see. Like you’re home, and for the first time in your life, you know you are.

And he doesn’t need to say anything else, doesn’t need to prove himself any more than he already has, but he says it anyway.

“Yeah. I think we could, too.”

And the best part is, he means it.

Written by: Dawn Taglist link

[leadergorilla]

Yes liberals, you can demand better.

A lot of liberals in the following months will lash out wildly at everything and you will see leftists such as myself stand on a high ground for being proven right yet again. I don't want to act like a gloating camp sitter and I think anyone who has repeated the inevitable out come of this election that wants to take this time to say "I told you so!" Needs to reevaluate what it is they're actually doing.

I want every woman who had their abortion rights stolen from them to look past the blatant misogyny from the reactionary right or whatever excuse the democrats come up with to move the narrative along to something else and remember the reality. Kamala Harris ran a terrible campaign and said all along the way that "Democracy is on the line" "Your rights are on the line." and now i'm writing this as trump is not only being confirmed the predicted winner but has also WON THE POPULAR VOTE. How could a party lose both the electoral college and popular vote and tell themselves and their base that they gave it their all, that they ran like your rights were on the line and they really did care to save them? The Last time the popular vote was won by a republican was Bush after 9/11 and spending 3 years revving up the reactionary hatred towards muslims as a result.

Kamala Harris is a failure. The democratic party is a failure. Because of their incompetency, you still don't have your rights. You didn't need to settle for "harm reduction" and you still don't. You can demand a candidate who wont spend your money glazing Liz Cheney and seriously thinking that will win them the election. Incompetent failures don't deserve your vote just because they've become comfortable you'll give it to them regardless. Kamala Harris targeted a voter who doesn't exist for 6 months and lost you your chance at getting your fundamental rights back because of it. She doesn't deserve a pat on the back or a "it was close", she deserves to be remembered as running one of the worst campaigns in US history and you don't need to find an excuse for the democratic party incompetence. Get mad at them because they failed you.

If you want to point your anger at anyone, point it at the incompetent, lazy, party of people who have gotten comfortable for 15 years now with just needing to say "harm reduction" and expect you to settle for whatever they give you.

It wasn't the "tankies" or the rampant misogyny of the patriarchal structures we're under currently that dropped the ball against an 80 year old convicted felon running simply to avoid a prison sentence. It was the party that expects you to settle for even worse in 4 years because they've never been pressured to purge the failures they share a table with and give you a candidate that tries to secure your rights.

Please remember these 6 months for the rest of your life. Please remember them whenever the democratic party are calling leftist protestors "spoilers" or someone is demanding you vote for harm reduction. Please remember when this party demands your vote for the person they want to be in charge next no matter how out of touch their campaign is, Donald Trump won the popular vote in 2024.

[nomairuins]

its so embarassing likee. going to talk abt a feeling you have but you already know ppl will be like Oh that sounds like depression lol and its like. well yes . i know . trust me i am so aware i am depressed . but its still like a thing ive been thinking abt and wanting to talk abt but ik itll just be like Ok hun 👍. idk idk what response i would want tho ig FNFNFNF

[loverboybrightsideghost]

god i can't wait to take my acting class

[daydreamerdrew]

The Defenders (1972) #70

[be-good-to-bugs]

the world isnt so bad

[vadlings]

Represention of Autistic Frustration in Laios Dungeon Meshi

Like many other autistic people, I related strongly to Laios Touden while reading Dungeon Meshi. This post isn't going to spend time disputing whether he displays autistic traits or not—while I could do that, I want to focus on why specifically his portrayal struck a chord with me in a way the writing of most other autistic-coded characters has not.

Disclaimer: as the above suggests, this post is strongly informed by my own experiences as an autistic person, as well as the experiences of my neurodivergent friends with whom I have spoken about this subject. I want to clarify that in no way am I asserting my personal experience to be some Universal Autistic Experience. This post is about why Laios' character feels distinct and significant to me in regard to autistic representation, and while I'm at it, I do feel that I have interesting things to say about autistic representation in media generally. This also got a bit long, so I'm sticking it under a read more. Spoilers for up to the end of chapter 88 below.

The thing that stands out most to me in regard to Laios' characterisation is the open anger he displays when someone points out his inability to read other people. This comes up prominently in his interactions with "Shuro" (Toshiro Nakamoto):

The frustration pictured above (Laios continuing to physically tussle with Toshiro, using crude language toward him) becomes even more notable when you remember that this is Laios, who, outside of these interactions, is not easily fazed and often exists as a lighthearted contrast to the rest of the cast. Then we get to Laios' nightmare.

In Falin's words: "Nightmares love emotional wounds. Wounds you hold in your heart. Things that give you stress, or things that were traumatic for you. They aggravate memories like that and cause the dreamer to have terrible dreams." (chapter 42, page 10.) (damn. i'm properly citing for this post and everything.)

Thus, Laios' nightmare establishes an important fact: even if he is unable to recognise social blunders while he's making them, he's at least subconsciously aware that other people operate on a different wavelength to him, and that he's an outsider in many of his social circles (both past and present). His dream-father's disparaging words stress the impact this has had upon his ability to live up to the expectations set out for him, and we also get a panel of kids who smirk at him (presumably former bullies to some degree). Toshiro's appearance only hammers home how much Laios is still both humiliated and angered by his misunderstanding of their relationship.

I've thought a lot about anger as concomitant to the autistic experience. When autistic representation portrays ostracization, it's generally from an angle of the autistic character being upset at how conforming to neurotypical norms doesn't come easily to them; as a result, they express a desire to 'get better' at meeting neurotypical standards, a desire to become more 'normal' (whether the writing implies this is a good thing or not). In contrast, not once does Laios go, "I need to perform better in my social interactions, and try to care less about monsters, because that's what other people find weird." His frustration is directed outward rather than inward, and as a result, it's the people around him who are framed as nonsensical.

The Winged Lion starts delineating Laios' anger, and Laios' reaction is to think to himself, "It can sense all my thoughts, huh?" (chapter 88, page 16.) This is the scene that really resonated with me. I'm not saying I have never felt the desire to conform to neurotypical norms that is borne from insecurity, but primarily, I know that I don't want to work toward becoming 'normal'—I don't want to change myself for people who follow rules I find nonsensical. It's the difference between, "Oh god, why can't I get it," and, "WHY CAN'T YOU GET IT?" (phrasing here courtesy of my friend Miles @dogwoodbite). And for me personally, Dungeon Meshi is the first time I've seen this frustration and the resultant voluntary isolation from other people portrayed in media so candidly. Laios' anger is not downplayed or written to be easily palatable, either.

The culmination of Laios' frustrations in this scene wherein we learn that Laios has fantasised about "a pack of monsters attacking a village" drives home just how alienated he really feels. I need not go into his wish to become a monster himself, redolent of how many autistic people identify/have identified with non-humans to some degree as a result of a percieved disconnect from society (when I was younger, I wanted to be a robot. I still kind of do.)

Obviously, wishing death upon other people is a weighty thing, but the unfiltered nature of this page is what deeply resonated with me. The Winged Lion is laying Laios' deepest and most transgressive desires bare, and they are desires that are a product of lifelong ostracization by others (whether intentional or unintentional). This is the brand of anger I'm familiar with, and that my neurodivergent friends express being familiar with, but that I haven't seen portrayed in writing so explicitly before—in fact, it surprised me because most well-meaning autistic representation I've experienced veers toward infantilisation in trying make the autistic character's struggles easy for neurotypicals to sympathise with.

Let's also not neglect the symbolism inherent to Laios' daydream. "A pack of monsters attacking a village". Functionally, monsters are Laios' special interest—he percieves everything first and foremost through his passion for monsters. His daydream of monsters attacking—killing—humans, is fundamentally a daydream of the world he understands (monsters) overthrowing the world that is so illogical to him, that has repeatedly shunned him (other people). I joked to my friends that it's an autistic power fantasy, and it actually sort of is. And in it, his identity is aligned with that of the monsters, while his anger manifests in a palpable dissociation from the rest of humanity. This is one manga page. It's brief. It's also very, very raw to me. I think about it often.

To conclude, I love Laios Dungeon Meshi. This portrayal of open frustration in an autistic character meant a lot to me, and I hope I've sufficiently outlined why. Also, feel free to recommend media with autistic representation in the notes if you've read this far—I would really like to see if there is more of this nature. Thank you for reading. I'm very tired and should probably sleep now.

[heyhotbitchrs]

when you stay up too late and suddenly you're unloved :/

[midwestprincesss]

never say sorry -sub!art donaldson x fem!reader smut

notes- this was literally supposed to be super short but i got carried away cause i am a whore (and proud of it)

cw- art is a little insecure:( , mentions of him having sex with tashi before (NO TASHI SLANDER I LOVE MY GIRL BUT IT'S FOR THE PLOT😭) , he cums prematurely (like...really..) art's a whiny little slut, art keeps calling reader love ( i got a thing for that pet name sorry y'all) , reader calls art 'artie' once cus it's cute&idc.

thinking about art constantly apologizing while having sex :( like ur unzipping his pants and he's already bucking his hips up into your hand, and then immediately muttering "sorry":(( my babyyy

so at first you think that okay, whatever, it's just something that slips out

but then he does it SO many times that you're actually starting to be concerned

like, you're giving him head and he moans a little too loudly- he's apologizing again. while kissing, you pull back for air and he still follows you, mouth half-open, wanting more - but then he realizes and he apologizes again.

but one time he really caught you off guard-

it had been a long day for him, spending almost all day training for his upcoming match. he barely had any time to rest, so he comes back to his dorm, taking off his shirt and pants, getting into bed with you only with his baby-blue boxer briefs on.

he kisses you. he's so fucking tired, but he still kisses you. 'cause he needs you, especially after the day he just had. you could feel his hard cock, practically begging you to take his boxers off.

"please love, wanna see you" he says while tugging at your top, watery eyes glistening with tears waiting to be spilled.

you take it off and unclasp your bra, little whimpers leaving his lips at the sight of you over him, with your tits out. you would love to take your time with him, really. to hear him beg and plead for you. but he's so eager, and so polite about it too- you just can't do that to him right now. so when you take off his boxers, his cock immediately jumps up, slapping his lower abdomen, right over his strawberry-blond happy trail.

"aww baby, look at you. you're so pretty aren't you?" you smile down at him, admiring how his legs shake slightly at every word you say. "hmm? aren't you?" you repeat. "mmghn- yeah, i- uhh i am" he says, eyes almost rolling back from the lack of touch. "you're what? say it." he sighs. you do this a lot. 'self love is important' you usually tell him- but not now. not when his dick is out, aching and leaking and begging to be touched. but just for the sake of it- just because he wants to please you, he says it. "i'm pretty"

"good boy," you coo, finally bringing a finger down to his cock, only to circle his pink, wet tip. and with that, he loses it. his mind goes blank, and he can't help it- all the waiting, the anticipating made him lose control of his body. he really didn't want to cum, he wanted to be good for you, but you were just so hot, he couldn't hold back. so immediately after his white, thick and warm liquid lands partially on his stomach and a bit on your hand, he starts babbling out apologies.

"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry love, please don't be mad, please- i'll clean up after myself- oh my god i'm so sorry-" he was so obviously tired, he could barely make up the words, yet he still continued apologizing. until you cut him off.

"art, baby- you dont need to apologize to me! what's up with this" you ask, softly. "you know i love making you feel good. and it's even better when i get feedback like this" you giggle. his cheeks turn bright pink as he covers his face.

"but i literally came the second you touched me" he mumbles, shyly.

you kiss his shoulder, smiling. "and it was hot."

"i- I don't know how to explain it to you, love- i just don't want to disappoint you. tashi used to hate it when i did any of this, she hated hearing me, and stuff like that- sometimes it made me feel like i was an object to her or something, y-you know? she'd get mad at me, and uh- it wasn't great."

"oh." you could actually feel your heart breaking for the boy. he was so sweet, he never deserved any of that. "well i'm not tashi, and i definitely won't get mad at you for anything like that. i like hearing you, and believe it or not, this was really fucking hot. you're letting me know i'm making you feel good. what's wrong with that?"

"just don't wanna upset you." art shrugs.

"i promise you artie, you could never upset me." you peck his lips and he smiles. "now let's clean you up"

[suguann]

✎. you've been on the run for a while. you knew someone would come eventually—but not him.

tags. fem!reader, old west era, bounty hunter simon, size difference, size kink, implied the reader's husband is a terrible human, accidental voyeurism, period-typical sexism, masturbation [18+ only]

masterlist

You’ve been running for months, first from your husband (the phantom grip of his hand still sending an ache through your wrist) and now as a wanted conwoman for stealing the clothes from an unsuspecting cowpoke who thought he was getting lucky. You can only imagine what Mama would say about trading your ruffled skirts for grass-stained trousers and boiled-leather suspenders.

(It’s unbecoming of a respectable woman, dear. Uncouth.)

She’d probably have a lot to say if she knew everything you’ve done to survive.

You hop from one place to the next only by the mere chance someone was willing to let a helpless woman accompany them on their travels. Nearly a month has passed since being stranded in a dusty old mining town after a man and his wife dump you off and leave you behind. Washoe’s a little gritty and not welcoming unless there’s money to spend.

It’s not exactly safe, not unsafe, either, but nobody asks questions as long as you keep your head down and play the part of a mourning widow just passing through.

You know you’ve overextended your stay when you can’t leave your room during the day without worrying about a noose and the open end of a barrel meeting you outside. 

(That your husband or that gun-waving cowpoke finally found you.)

Sleep practically clings to you like a second skin, but you don’t dare close your eyes—you can’t.

This is how you end up sitting in the corner of the saloon, using the last of whatever you have in your change purse to order something strong, something your husband kept locked away, and anything else he thought women shouldn’t have a part in. 

You don’t even realize that your eyelids begin to feel heavy, steadily blurring out the flickering lantern on the wall while you wait for your drink. 

You catch yourself once or twice before your head can hit the table, rapidly blinking away the exhaustion before your eyes slide to the swinging doors.

You should stay awake. 

You need to stay awake just a little bit longer—

Your luck runs out that day. 

It’s one thing to know it’d happen eventually, and something else to realize that you make it easy for him—the man with an infamous name and a faded black bandana covering half his face—how he walked into the saloon and scooped you up (all unladylike sleepy dead weight) out of the weathered booth without a fight.

When you’d woken up to find yourself trussed up and thrown over the back of his horse, you cursed him out with every word you could think of that would make Mama clutch her skirts. Your captor ignored you, only talking to you whenever he warned you he was about to set up camp. 

“Did my husband send you?” Acknowledging him after all this time tasted like pennies on your tongue.

The man, Simon Riley, had leaned back against his bedroll and tipped the brim of his hat over his eyes. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

That was several weeks ago. 

Now, you find yourself stranded in another state that’s more green and vibrant than anything you’re familiar with, stuck with a man who refuses to answer the questions you throw at him. He doesn’t talk outside a few cursory words you greedily latch onto. Anything’s better than silence and the sound of hooves hitting earth. 

The pace he keeps you at is exhausting. You complain about it enough until he moves you in front of him, tying your hands to the saddle's horn.

“I would strongly advise you to shut that mouth for the rest of the ride unless you want me to do something about that, too.” The low growl of his voice in your ear makes the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up, muddling your brain.

You’re distantly aware you had something to say to that, but you don’t. 

And that is really saying something.

It’s because there’s someone he needs to meet in town—an errand that lawbreakers who run their mouths aren’t allowed to go on.

This is how you end up sitting in camp alone, twirling around a knife he gave you solely for emergencies. 

(Surprise, sharp and quick through your middle, when he tosses his pocket knife into the grass beside you. “What’s to stop me from leaving?”

You could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes. “Will you?”

It doesn’t seem worth dignifying with a reply. You don’t want to travel alone, and there’s a high possibility of getting lost, finding yourself saddled up with worse company than the one you’re stuck with.

Until he evidently catches you again.)

He’s a lot nicer than you first gave him credit for—if only by a fraction—not that you know much about Simon other than what you overheard from gossip circles before you became Mrs. Thornton. Afternoons spent sipping tea laden with honey and lounging around a table full of cakes in the sun parlor while wealthy women talked behind their lace-covered hands to hide secret smiles you were too naive to understand. 

Trying not to stare at the bulge of his arms with thin pink scars—unlike the men you’re used to who got through life with a silver spoon hanging from their mouth—as he places his saddle back on his horse, you think you finally know what they smiled about.

You learn those scars also litter his torso from the time you accidentally walked upon him mid-way through putting his trousers on after washing in the river. It’d been too dark for you to see much else, and you quickly returned to camp before he could say something that would embarrass you both. 

Then, of course, tucked away into your bedroll, you can’t help wondering what the rest of him would have looked like if you had stayed a second longer. 

If his jaw is sharp or soft behind that mask he insists on wearing—that’s if he’d let you see at all. 

Simon’s always so serious that it’s often hard to determine whether he’s merely tolerating your existence until he can get rid of you or if he’s unused to traveling accompanied for so long. It’s not as if he goes out of his way to make pleasant conversation with you for you to assume otherwise.

You look off in the direction where he disappeared into the dense line of trees hours ago, wondering if you should go out looking for him (mainly because you’re hot and sticky from the humidity) despite his order to stay put. 

But after four hours turns into five, you head off, searching for something to help cool you off.

Luckily, unlike the heavily eroded lands you’re used to, there isn’t any water shortage in a place that sees rain three times a day, so it doesn’t take long to find a lake. You set your knife down on the stone-covered beach, followed by your boots, until you’re left in nothing but your undergarments. 

The water is icy cold and laps gently at your feet when you step in. You can’t find it in you to complain as the heat from the day slowly washes away the further you walk in and find a wide ledge to sit on. 

Your thoughts drift back to Simon, incessant and intruding even though you shouldn’t be thinking about him while wet and naked. And suddenly, you can picture it: his hands replacing yours as they trace along your neck. You have a feeling they’re probably rough and scarred from years of living hard and gunslinging, extracting the readily available knowledge that they’re big enough to encase your waist.

He could maneuver you around however he wants (you know this), and you feel dizzy just thinking about it.

Sighing, you sink deeper into the water while your hands smooth over the tips of your breasts and down your stomach. 

You wish you could see him without violating whatever personal preservations hide him from the rest of the world. Instead, you’re left with your imagination—the benefits of being a married woman and the little experience you have in the bedroom finally coming into play. 

Closing your eyes, you picture what he might look like under those sun-weathered leathers, knowing that the broadness of his shoulders isn’t only due to his vest and holsters but also from how his job has shaped him.

Your hands travel lower, fingers brushing through the creamy, soft wetness between your legs, evidence of what Simon does to you even when he’s not around. A moan, too high and breathy, slips past your lips as you use your middle finger to circle your clit in slow, clumsy swirls from lack of practice and patience that spreads warmth through your middle despite the cold water. 

It’s good, your fingers discovering places your husband always ignored—too many nights spent with your hand under your nightgown long after he’d tucked his cock away and gone to sleep—but probably don’t compare to the ones you’ve caught yourself staring at far too many times. 

They don’t fill you nearly enough, unlike how you know Simon’s would—thick and unrelenting. Rough and long, reaching deep enough to make you breathless.

Your breath hitches from pinching the tight, sensitive peak of your nipple until you feel a slight sting, and then it slips out, a tiny thing that’s only audible to your ears—Simon—a secret you now share with the lightning bugs and crickets.

“Dirty, no good rotten—” he’d tell you for thinking such lewd thoughts about him, for sinning so easily. Maybe you are, for getting so worked up over a man who isn’t your husband (no matter how terrible a husband he may be).

A man who’s so big that he makes you feel small, the type that gives before he takes. It’s enough to make you work your hand faster—your body vibrating from the chill of the water and the ache between your trembling thighs.  

Fantasies aren’t enough to sate the deep longing in your chest. Yet you’re slipping over the edge of ecstasy before taking your next breath—all of it builds up and gradually crests inside you like the lake rippling against the shore.

Afterward, it leaves you feeling soft and blurred around the edges, a watercolor painting drying under the sun while you wait for your rapid heartbeat to slow.

You don’t realize your eyes have fallen shut until they flutter open, and you’re startled to find Simon standing at the shoreline, his chest heaving as if he ran here. 

(Though he probably did to see if you took the opportunity to leave.)

You’re glued to your spot on the rock, suddenly struck with the mortifying realization that he’d seen you come—that he possibly heard you cry out his name so intimately.

You watch him remove his hat and hang it on a branch with wide eyes. Followed by his undershirt, guns, and—

He keeps removing clothes until he’s completely naked on the shore—aside from his face that stays hidden—scars marred his chest, spreading to his collarbones and below the water as he steps into the lake and sits on another ledge across from you.

His mask makes him look more menacing, erasing any trace of softness there. And you wonder if he’s angry at you for wandering off.

"Come here." His voice is low and deep, rumbling in his chest.

You don't think he'd hurt you. If he wanted to, he would have done it by now.

At least, that’s what you’re going with to settle the nervous fluttering in your middle.

Water laps at your arms as you wade through the water, each shaky step bringing you closer until you stop before him.

"In my lap."

Your breath sticks in your throat as you do as he says, settling down onto his sturdy thighs, palms falling flat against his broad chest. That same breath comes out in one large exhale as his fingers slide along your jaw, to the nape of your neck, curling into your hair, wet and falling around your shoulders.

“Like this?” you ask, trying to ignore how breathy you sound.

He grunts, apparently in confirmation.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt so conflicted in your life—fear and arousal turning into a messy cocktail in your veins.

“Why do I always have to use a heavy hand to make you listen?”

Your lips part. Breath growing short. “I’m sorry.”

And then—

Simon pulls your head back sharply, exposing your throat.

Your body goes slack against his. Mind blissfully blank.

“No,” he says, tone flat. “But you will be.”

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader

Simon's short term rental is almost claustrophobic.

He tries to stay out of it, tries to keep himself busy. Active. After a week since you asked him to go home, to give you some space, he noticed he's lost weight. The thick of his ribs, his stomach, his thighs, has thinned out, cutting his bulk, exposing more muscle.

The grief feels more fresh than it has in years. Talking to you, telling you, has dredged up long buried things, agony and regret, pain that steals his breath and leaves him paralyzed. He forces himself not to think of it, but it still finds a way to creep in. To make him feel torn apart, turns him into a ghost.

He walks a lot. Walks to the store. Walks to the pub. Walks to the park. Sometimes he sits on the bench and watches mums push their buggies, wondering if it's something you might enjoy, if you were feeling better. Wishing he had made more of an effort to get you out of the flat, into the sunshine.

He's still walking to your building at night, standing under the tree, watching the lights flicker on and off. Your windows stay lit longer now, periods of sleep more infrequent, leaving him to worry that you're not getting enough rest, not taking care of yourself.

He walked all morning into early afternoon today. Tried to quell the nausea swirling in his stomach, tried not to watch the clock, or count the seconds. Tried to brace himself for the bittersweet he knew was coming.

>Hey, I'm going to be leaving pretty soon for work, and could be gone for a while. Could I see Orion before I go? Spend some time with him?

>Sure.

Your reply still rings in his ears. Short. Torturous.

But he doesn't blame you. He did it the wrong way. You have a child, his child, to protect, to take care of. Of course, you should be concerned. Maybe he should have found a better way to tell you. Maybe he shouldn't have told you at all.

A large part of him, the instinctual part, considered refusing you, when you asked him to give you some time, and he still hasn't made a decision about what he will do in the long run.

It would be so easy, to hide you away. To take you in the middle of the night, wake you up in a brand new home, high in hill, in a whole new country across a border.

When the knock on his door finally comes, he crams the overflow of emotion coursing through his heart into a teeny tiny box, and prays he'll be able to keep a lid on it.

"Hey." Orion turns in your grip, looking for Simon's voice, and you smother a wince at the shift in his weight.

"Hi." You look through him. Past him. To the left of his elbow, at his shoulder, the floor. Anywhere but his eyes.

"Thanks for letting me spend some time with him." Your lips go flat, but you shuffle the baby into his arms, managing to avoid skin to skin contact. It makes his stomach hurt worse than it already did.

"Of course, you're... you're his dad." You peek around him, trying to get a better look of the flat. "Do you uh, have stuff for him?"

"I went to the store."

"Okay. Well, good." You hand him the bag next. "I wasn't sure what you had so there are a few changes of clothes in there, just in case, and some bottles. They should probably go in the fridge. Diapers, some toys. Just in case... I didn't want.... I wanted you to have everything you might need." It's thoughtful of you, and he wants to smile, but you won't look at him.

"Thank you." You nod.

"Alright well, I'll come pick him up later? Just text me I guess, when you're ready. Hopefully he'll take a bottle."

"I can bring him-"

"No, that's okay." you cut him off sharply, shaking your head. He frowns.

"Why not?"

"I- I don't mind, coming by to get him."

"But if it's dark..."

"I can manage." You snap, and he purses his lips, but says nothing.

"Alright well, see you later then." You make some noncommittal noise, and then step closer, mouth pressing to Orion's cheek.

"Bye baby, love you." You finally look up at him, really look, and he holds his breath when he sees it all in your eyes. Pain. Confusion. Worry.

He did that.

The evening goes too fast. He manages to get Ry to nap, and drink over half a bottle, a huge win, but spends most of the time just holding him, walking him in circles in his flat, trying to memorize the feeling of his baby in his arms. He's fussier than usual, crying anytime Simon tries to put him down, which he doesn't mind, but concerns him. Is he like this at home, with you? Is this why you've been up more at night?

Still, it's over too soon, and when you're knocking on the door again, he stands on the other side a few seconds too long, wishing he had more time.

He's always wishing he had more time.

"How was he?"

"Good. More fussy than usual, but I got him to take most of a bottle. Is he doing alright?"

"He's been like this, the past few days. He's either going through a growth spurt, or developing some late colic. I hope it's the growth spurt." Oh no.

"Well, I'm here if you need anything. If you want me to take him at all." You nod.

"When uh... when are you leaving?"

"Two weeks or so. Once the guys get back, they'll have a few days debrief and then... we'll be off."

"Okay, well. Just let me know, when you want him again?"

"I will." He kisses Orion's cheek, whispering in his ear how much he loves him, before passing him to you. You have to reposition your posture to support his weight, and he winces. "Are you okay?" You blink at him, skeptical and surprised.

"I'm great Simon. Really peachy."

"Look, I know I really sprung-"

"Sprung? Is that what you're calling that? Simon... you blindsided me. You... you-" He holds up his hands.

"I'm much more careful now. I've learned a lot of hard lessons, and I would never, ever allow anything to happen to you or Orion." His shoulders slump, and he drops his eyes to the floor. Ashamed. Grief trying to work its way, trying to break him down just as it has all these years before. "I've learned from my mistakes." There's a long, uncomfortable since between the two of you, one that Orion fills with fussing, and then your voice cracks.

"Simon, that wasn't your fault.... I'm not... I'm not upset about... that. Or anything, that happened to you. I mean, I'm upset but not at you for that..." You take a deep breath. "I am upset for you, that those things happened to you, that you've been through such trauma, such horrible things." Tears wet your cheeks, but he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. "I would never hold that against you. I'm upset about your job. And the danger it puts us in. I'm upset that I didn't know that you'd been gone for weeks, possibly months at a time. I'm upset that you promised me you'd be here, and then never mentioned the super secret task force that will... take you away from us." Orion cries, and you bounce him back and forth, finally looking Simon dead in the eye, facing him head on. "It feels like you've been lying to me, for weeks now. I thought we were in this, together, that we were- we were building something, together. Now it just feels like... I could lose you at any second instead. That Orion could lose his father, grow up without you." The last word rips from your lips in a sob, and you shake your head as he steps close.

"You will never lose me. Do you understand? That will never happen." He vows it, swears it, forces it out into the universe as a covenant, but you only shake your head again, sadly.

"You can't promise that."

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

When someone hurts you, you and Aaron both need time to get better, and to put things right. fem, 8k

cw canon typical violence, graphic scenes and imagery of assault/battery, recovery, mentions of being sick, issues eating. established relationship, lots of angst and comfort, hotch being vulnerable, jack being sweet 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

You lay backward over the luxurious stretch of the couch and sigh as your spine gives a sharp crick. Your head feels heavy after a long shower, your arms ache from a day at work, but the feeling of soft cotton on your legs deters any moping. 

I hope these are more comfortable, his note read, a white post it note stuck to a boutique bag. You wrap an arm around your waist remembering how Aaron’s message had made you feel: spoiled, and considered. 

You’d mentioned in passing that all your pyjamas are old and rough as a consequence, thought nothing of it, and promptly forgot about the conversation entirely. 

When Aaron finally comes home tonight, you’re going to give him a proper thank you. You can imagine his reaction to such a thing, his smile as he says it’s no problem, his eyes shuttering closed as you press a kiss to his cheek. You hadn’t realised how prevalent affection would become in your life after meeting him, but everything he does inspires love. Awful, soft, marshmallowy love where he looks at you and you want to sit in his lap. 

You slide your phone up your chest lazily and click the button on the side to light the display. Aaron hasn’t claimed to know when he’ll be home tonight. All he’d said was to let yourself in. 

It’s odd but not the worst thing in the world to be alone in his apartment. There’s less and less free space each time you visit as Jack begins to outgrow his and his fathers lodgings, but there’s never a stain or bad smell, the Hotchner apartment feels homey. You’re excited whenever you’re invited to spend the night with them. 

Maybe some time soon he’ll ask you to move in, or better, to marry him. You’re not a hundred percent sure how you feel about marriage, about being someone’s wife, but there’s a great well of pleasure to be found in the idea that Aaron would want to marry you. He makes you feel loved already in a hundred different ways but the ring might be nice, like a symbol to signify how much you mean to him. 

You rest your hand across your eyes. It’s silly to think of. Sillier to want so soon. You’ve been together for just under a year, and you have no false hopes about rushing into the future, but it’s certainly a future you want with him (and with Jack, too). He’s taking things slowly for a hundred different reasons but he loves you, and gifts like your new pyjamas cement that. He really listens to you. 

Your phone rings a moment later. 

You smile at the screen. It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves you too. 

“Hey,” Aaron says when you answer, his voice warm even through the phone, “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“How come?” You sit up with a little start. 

“It’s getting late, honey. I called Jess and Jack was already gone.” He doesn’t say anything further. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I wanted to hear your voice, I think.” 

“Well, where are you?” You struggle to envision him speaking saccharinely like this where his colleagues could hear him. He’s nice to you often, but he’s a reserved man. 

“I’m just,” —a crunching sound of metal, the trunk of his car closing— “about to get in the car. I’ll be home before ten. Can I have you until then?” 

“I don’t see any reason to say no. But do you think you could come home a little faster? I have a crick in my neck.” 

“And you want me to fix that?” 

“You always fix my neck.” 

“How have you done it?” There’s a sound you assume to be the car door closing, but you can’t hear anything beyond that. 

“I have bad posture.” 

“You have perfect posture.” 

“No, it’s quite bad.”

He laughs loudly. It took some time to draw the humour from him but he isn’t as stony as you’d think, and for a while he didn’t have much worth laughing for, anyways. Whenever you hear it, you try to prompt it twice. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, Aaron, it’s just like when you said my weird rash wasn’t weird.” 

He laughs again, to your pleasure. “It wasn’t weird, it was a heat rash, I promise. You act like you’ve never seen heat rash.” 

“One of us goes to hot cities all the time and one of us lives permanently in Virginia.” 

“What are you talking about? Virginia’s far from cold. You’re being argumentative, I can see your smile in my head. I’m never going to fix your crick if you keep acting like that.” 

“No, don’t be like that,” you laugh, tipping back into the cushions. “You’re always such a sore loser.” 

“What did I lose?” 

You can tell from his tone that you’ve promised yourself one of those hugs that borders on a straight jacket tightness, his face tucked into your neck as he asks you to repeat yourself. What did I lose? he’ll ask again, kissing your chin, the line of your jaw. Tell me clearly.  

“It hurts,” you say honestly, “please don’t be mad. I really need one.” 

“I’m not mad… I’m going under the overpass, my signal might cut out.” 

“Okie dokie. Hey, did you eat? I can make you something for when you get home. I got groceries.” 

“I’m not hungry, but you can make yourself hot cocoa, and I’ll drink it when I get there,” he says. 

“Or I could make us both some?” 

“It’s much more fun if I drink yours before you can, honey. You know that—”

You pause in the quiet, then hear a quick beeping. You pull your phone from your ear and find the call disconnected. 

Cruel overpass, you think. 

Sure he’ll call you back, you take your phone into his kitchen and set about finding all the things you’ll need for hot cocoa. One mug, because you should hate when he forces you to share, but you love the feeling of his fingers on yours as he takes it and the thankful kiss he dots on your cheek. 

The kettle is uncomplicated. You toy with the stovetop, set the kettle on the burner, and let the temperature rise. It begins whistling lightly a mere thirty seconds later. 

You click your phone on again. He’ll have passed through the tunnel now and will be calling you back any minute. You stare at the phone, hoping to summon him, slouched over the counter with the tin of cocoa powder by your fingers. The kettle whines with growing heat, but cool air kisses your back. 

Goosebumps rise. Up and down the lengths of your arms, the back of your neck—

A sudden chill. 

The lack of air comes before the hand, the pain a rush, a burst to be away from. Leather on your neck creaking without sympathy as a hand tightens and drags your body back against something hard. 

Not Aaron. Your scream comes strangled under cruel fingers as you fight to move forward again, straight for the burner, the kettle shoved across the burner grate and exploding with scalding water, heat of the burner kissing your chest— you scream, only it’s worse than a scream, sound from the deepest part of you forcing itself past the heat at your neck as you try to fling yourself away from the pain. 

You fall with a hard clout. “Stay still!” comes out enraged against the back of your neck. You drop to your knees, the pain lighting flaring up your chest, your gaze frantic as you search for a flame that isn’t there. You’re not on fire, you’re crawling and then scampering up into a standing position when the heavy weight drops itself on you again and smashes your face into the floor. 

All your fight leaves you. Your ears ring. Your panic wanes but the pain stays alert in your mouth. 

A hand grabs you by the back of the head and drives your face into the ground. It’s like light in your eyes and your nose, the brunt of it, the crack of your bone and the hot trickle of blood that swiftly follows. You gurgle in pain, spluttering and gagging against the linoleum, waiting for Aaron to turn you over and say sorry. It’s an accident.

Blood drains from your nose in spurts to match your racing pulse, so much blood you can see your eyes reflected in the dark stretch of it. Water drips down the front of the stove, your breath aches and begs, and your attacker takes a measured breath. 

He flips you over. You can’t slide away, there’s nothing left in you, your head a second body as he raises something. 

Your phone rings on the counter. 

“Please, don’t,” you plead with a sob.

You pass out as the pain connects. Just as quickly as it started, your body takes the reins. 

—

There’s a strange darkness waiting for you. Like waking before your alarm and stealing those last minutes, body aching, not wanting to get up and face the day. Aaron gets up early every morning, sometimes as early as four AM, and whenever you get up with him your eyes hurt for hours. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Hey, hey, I think your boyfriend’s coming.

What will he make of my handiwork?

You didn’t stay awake long enough for that one, did you? But you’re waking up now.

The pain is enough to wake you up again, a hot drag down the side of you to your hip and in. You aren’t aware of the sounds you make, but you can hear them. Your panicked squealing as the heat presses further and further in. Your crying, and your whispering, “Stop, stop.” 

“There’s handsome,” the dark voice says. “I’ve gotta go hide somewhere, does he carry after hours? I think I’ll find out.” 

“Oh,” you say, feeling sickly. You attempt to curl into yourself, when did you turn onto your back? “No,” you mumble, lips wet with something hot. 

“Honey?” a voice asks. 

“Honey,” you repeat, woozy again, darkness falling in all over again, where it stays. 

Honey, are you in here?

—

The window behind Aaron’s shoulder is cold. Rain patters fast like floods, thunder occasionally chewing through clouds, and Jack Hotchner cries sluggish tears into his dad’s shoulder. 

Aaron has his eyes closed. They’ve been at this for a while. “Shh, shh shh, buddy,” he says softly, patting the bottom of Jack’s back. He’d sway him back and forth if his arms weren’t about to fall off. 

Jack squirms closer, no room left between them. 

“I know it’s scary,” Aaron says. 

Jack just cries. This approach of quiet support isn’t working; Jack isn’t a baby that needs to be put to sleep, he’s a panicking little kid, and Aaron needs to change gears. He ushers him away from his chest and crosses his arm behind Jack’s back. Careful, he shifts Jack’s weight to free his other arm and brings his fingers up to the silky brown hair dropping onto Jack’s forehead. 

“She’s okay,” Aaron says, stroking Jack’s hair. His little forehead is clammy. “She’s not hurting. I know it looks scary, honey, but… she’s just resting.” 

Jack looks him in the eyes. “Her face.” 

“I know.” He nods emphatically. “It’s hard to see. Blood isn’t nice. You don’t have to see her again today, not if it’s too scary.” 

Jack lifts a hand to Aaron’s face. Clumsy but with clear attempts to be careful, he wipes at the skin under Aaron’s eye. Aaron bites back a smile. 

“I look tired,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Jack brings his hand back to wipe his eyes. He sobs as he does it. Aaron can’t describe the ache it gives him to see it. 

“Buddy, I’ll do it. Let me wipe your face. I can do it.” 

Jack drops his hands. Aaron turns his hand and wipes the smudge of Jack’s tears from hot cheeks, testing the waters with a little smile. 

“I couldn’t see you under all those tears.” 

Jack does a little smile back. “Yes you can.” 

“I couldn’t! But now I’ve wiped all your face I can see you again. You’re handsome, did we know that?” 

Jack giggles. He sniffles, and he presses his palm to Aaron’s neck. “I don’t want her to be sad, dad.” 

“She’s going to be sad, because something scary happened, but it’s okay. I’m gonna take care of her.” 

Aaron would offer to take him home, but they can’t go home. They may not go home for a long time —the team is still trying to work out how someone made it into the apartment without alerting the building’s security or Aaron’s internal system. And then escaped again without Aaron’s notice. Until then, Aaron has to make a decision about a safe house, for himself, Jack, and Jess, though she's extremely unreceptive to the idea. 

Aaron has to look after Jack, and he needs to take care of you. 

“What do you think, bud?” he asks, cupping Jack’s head in his hand. “Do you want to go home?” 

“You said I can give her a hug.” 

“If it’s too scary, we don’t have to. I don’t want you to get upset again.” 

“I’m not scared. I want to give her the hug,” he says. 

Aaron pulls him in for a hug of his own. “Okay, buddy. Just try to think of it like this. She’s where she needs to be to get better. Everybody here is looking after her. She’ll be okay soon.” 

Aaron looks over Jack’s head down the hospital hallway. It’s a quiet ward, and here between the main ward doors and the hallway that leads down to the individual rooms there’s complete silence. Night is approaching quickly again, and with it comes Aaron’s panic. Your head turned into a puddle, your face lax of expression in the dark. He can’t stop finding the women he loves bloody and on their backs. 

“Ready?” he murmurs. “Can you walk with me? My arms are tired.”

“Yeah.” 

Aaron puts Jack down gently onto his feet. He neatens his hair, chucking him under the chin as he goes to see his smile. He’s so pretty, like Haley was, with shiny eyes. He’s a beautiful kid. Aaron takes his hand and together they make their way down the hallway to your room. 

You’re sleeping. 

Aaron herds Jack through the door and to the plastic covered chair by your side, where he lifts him up and sits him down. He stays between you both. Jack isn’t scared of you, just the blood, but he wants to show Jack that he’s going to protect him from anything he needs protecting from. He also desperately wants to touch you, and reassure himself that you’re still breathing. 

He looks for your hand. Your pinky finger is splinted, but he can take it with care, give the palm of it a squeeze. 

The blood matted in your hair has finally been washed away after a turbulent day, as well as the staining that marred your face. Your nose is broken, and looks it, the bruises so fierce your eyes have turned puffy and your top lip has inflamed. There are second degree burns in multiple places but most affectedly on your chest. There’s a stab wound at your hip, allegedly done with a small blade. It nicked your small intestine. The bandages laid over you are a lump under your hospital gown. 

Aaron looks at you, and he feels a passionate disdain for himself. He wishes he could… be someone else. Someone who doesn’t have such a deep connection to a job that hurts the people around him, over and over. Haley used to say he was obsessed with being the hero, but this doesn’t feel heroic. 

“Do you wanna give her your cuddle?” he asks softly. 

Jack stays sitting. 

He’ll have to give it to you himself. Careful, Aaron leans down over your prone body and presses a half kiss to your ear, the only place that won’t hurt. 

You have an IV drip going into your arm, painkillers, an ECG monitor to the left. The room is white but busy, you’re a burst of colour against it all, your cuts and bruises, the evidence of violence he can’t remove. Aaron’s tired. He perches on the gap of bed by your leg and holds your hand, turning to Jack, who watches with a frown. 

“She’s sleeping,” Aaron says. 

“When can she come home?” 

“In a few days.” He feels the pad of your hand, terrified of your broken finger but needing to hold a part of you. 

“Why is she sleeping all day?” 

Traumatic experiences are exhausting. “I think she might want to be alone, so she sleeps.” 

“Should we go?” 

Aaron shakes his head. “I think we should stay. When she wakes up again she’ll be happy to see us, because we’re not strangers.” 

“We’re family,” Jack says. He’d liked that, when the nurse asked you how Aaron was related to you. Family only.

“We’re her family,” Aaron agrees. 

If he somehow miraculously fell out of love with you, you’d still be family to them. You’ve given so much of your heart since you met them. Aaron wants everything you have to give. 

You wake in a slow, slow upheaval. It takes effort on your part, the opening of sore eyes, the dreary decision to face your pain. Your hand jumps in his but relaxes when he shushes you, your slimmer fingers stilling under his rubbing thumb. For a split second, you keep your gaze half-lidded, jaw soft, like you’ve been indulging in a stolen nap. 

Then your breath catches and you screw your eyes tightly. 

“You’re okay,” he says, quietly, and not as lightly as he means to, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” in quick succession. 

“Hurts,” you say, and gasp, a whine stuck in your throat. 

He doesn’t know what to do. Jack shouldn’t watch this but he can’t leave you alone. “It’s okay,” he says, holding your wrist to stop it climbing up your bruised face. 

You were worse the first time you woke up. Catatonic, then sobbing. You mumble and whimper now, pain threading goosebumps down your arms. 

“It hurts too much,” you say. A sob falls out of you like you’ve been ripped open. 

Aaron doesn’t think, but an instinct sparks. The pain, to hit you right out of the gate like this, to make you say something like that when you’ve always always made your problems small, must be torture. It must feel new and sudden all over again. 

Aaron checks that Jack is alright and leaves the room. He looks down one hallway and then the other, but there’s no nurse around —he races to the reception desk and begs the two nurses there for help with you, “She’s in intense pain,” he says, grasping the desk. 

The nurse he’s more familiar with clears her throat. “Mr. Hotchner, she’s already had enough motrin for two people at your request, she really shouldn’t need–”

“Pain is just as important to treat as the injury.” 

A second nurse puts her salad down with raised brows. “Do you want to overdose her?” 

“Excuse me?” 

Aaron has always seen himself as a gentleman, but the argument that ensues is tricky to navigate while remaining respectful, and he’s no closer to better treatment for you by the end of it. He gives each nurse a disapproving glower and takes his phone from his pocket, turning on the spot, ready to call whoever it is he needs to call for a second opinion. He’s not gonna listen to you cry when there’s no need. 

He pushes the door open with the phone still clutched in his other hand. Jack’s climbed onto your bed. He cuddles your face, sitting by your pillows and bent over you protectively. 

Aaron lets out a breath. 

“It’s okay,” he says, his arm behind your head and his arm on your shoulder. “W’gonna take care of you.” 

“I know,” you say, crying without sound, shaking under his arms.

His cheek smushes against your forehead. Your eyes are closed and your face braced for contact Jack doesn’t make, careful not to hurt you as he rubs his cheek into your skin. Your blankets are falling off of you from the squirming and your bruises shine with tears in the light, but Jack has calmed you down some. 

Aaron shouldn’t have left Jack with you. He’s been so scatterbrained since he found you when he should be the opposite, but Jack is doing better than Aaron managed alone. 

“I’m sorry for crying,” you say slowly. “I’m hurting, but it’s not bad. I’m okay.” 

“That’s good. You have a big scratch on your face, and bruises.” 

“I know.” 

“Dad says you have a bruise on your tummy too.” 

“I got lots of bruises, but it’s okay. Don’t worry about me.” You bring your hand up injured and uncaring to rub his leg. “You’re being a really brave boy, thank you.” 

A tear rolls down your cheek. 

“It’s teamwork,” Jack says. “I hug you and you hug me.” 

“Is that what you want? You want a hug?” 

“I want to go home,” he says, hugging you harder. 

You grasp his arm loosely where it’s just under your chin. “Jack, can you move your arm?” you whisper. 

Your breath comes quickly, but Jack moves his arm away from your bruised neck and you try to calm yourself down. 

Aaron jolts himself back into action. “Sweetheart,” he says, rushing to sit Jack back and give you more space. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

He watches. Not sure what to say. Not sure saying anything is wise. You squint at him through your lashes, eyes opening slowly, your mouth a line pressed hard to stop from crying. 

“I think it's time for Jack to go home,” he suggests gently. 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes swimming with tears. 

“No.” Jack squeezes your head again, to your panic. 

“Jack, buddy, please don’t touch her neck,” Aaron says, grabbing Jack from your pillow. 

He erupts into tears again. Frantic and vying for you, Aaron tries to calm him and he kicks against his chest, tears turning to disgruntled sobs at not getting what he wants. You wince, pressing your face completely into the pillow. 

Aaron carries Jack from your room, phone in hand. 

—

Is she breathing? Can she talk? 

I don’t– I don’t know, I don’t– She’s breathing. Honey, can you hear me? I don’t know what to stop. I don’t know where it’s all coming from. 

Where’s the worst of the blood? 

It’s everywhere. 

Abdominal? Chest? 

I can’t tell. I can’t tell. 

Mr. Hotchner, you can’t panic. Does she have a chest wound?

Yes. Yes, but– 

Is she conscious? How’s her pulse? Be ready to start chest compressions. 

Honey, can you hear me? 

Your name said clearly. 

“Hey, can you hear me?” 

“Yes,” you murmur. 

“If you need a minute, that’s okay.” 

You cover your mouth with your hand. Emily Prentiss has a soft voice like your boyfriend’s when she wants to have it. She’s never spoken to you like this, none of his colleagues have, but since the incident, everybody treats you like you’re made of glass. 

Cognitive interviews are meant to happen immediately after an accident, but you weren’t up for company. Aaron promised this would be on your terms, that Emily is the most practised, and that she’s reaped the most information from them than the rest of the team. So far, it’s worked to drag bad memories to the surface. 

“Maybe we should start from the beginning.” 

There isn’t a beginning. There’s just conversation. Aaron’s hand on your heart and his shaky voice, so unlike him.

“Okay.” 

Emily reaches for your hand. She smiles, and her nice features get nicer. That’s another thing they all share, good looks. “Okay. What did you notice, in the kitchen? It’ll help if you close your eyes,” she reminds you. 

You close your eyes. 

“What stuck out?” 

“Nothing,” you murmur. “I’ve been in there lots of times, and nothing ever changes.” 

“Nothing? Not even the drawings on the fridge?” 

“Jack’s particular about his best work, even if I think they should all be on display.” 

Emily’s voice turns to a shard of itself. “What did you do? Can you take me through it step by step? Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate.” 

“I never got that far.”

“What did you do?” 

“I filled the kettle.” 

“What kettle?” 

You don’t understand the need for specificity, but you answer. “Aaron got it for me, when he… he told me he loved me, and when we got home he’d bought me a kettle and a bunch of stuff to make my being there easier. The kettle, because… he said something about superheated water. How the microwave can be dangerous, and this would be easier than a pan.” 

“Alright. Okay, and what did you do after that?” 

“I put the kettle on the stove.” You lit the burner, and heat kissed your palm, and suddenly the room had felt cold. “I got goosebumps.” 

“When?” 

“The kettle started to whistle, and it was cold.”

“And then–”

“Then he grabbed me.” 

“Yeah,” Emily says softly. 

You touch your nose. “I tried… He didn’t feel like a person. He didn’t feel like someone I was fighting, it was just painful.” 

“Like he was quick on his feet?” 

“He was silent. I didn’t hear him until I made him fall.” 

“How big did he feel?” 

Your stomach churns. Big. He’d felt big. 

Where’s the worst of the blood?

“He said he was going to hide,” you remember. 

“He said that? He said ‘hide’?

“Yeah. And he asked me if Aaron carries after hours.” 

“When was this?” 

It’s a headache. You try to remember more, because that’s what they need right now. If you ever want to go home, if you want Jack to go home, you need to remember more. The BAU are good, but nobody can make a map out of slivers. 

“That was at the end,” you say. 

“After he stabbed you?” 

You wince. “Yes. After.” 

“You’re doing so good,” she praises, “I just want to fill in the gaps.” 

“I can’t remember. I was unconscious.” 

“When Hotch found you?” 

“No, before.”

“Before?” she asks. 

You’re sick of sitting there with your eyes closed. Sick of your hands shaking with nowhere to hide them, and sick of feeling sick, your nausea as present as the stinging pain of your burned wrist against your sleeve each time you move. 

You open your eyes and look around the conference room for something interesting. How nice would it be to think of something else for a few minutes?

“He called it handiwork when he cut me. Asked if I thought Aaron would like it,” you say, bordering monotonous as your gaze fizzles, unfocused, across the room. 

“Okay, Y/N. Okay. I know you’re tired.” She reaches for your hands to squeeze at the same time. “You did really well. Any details at all are details we can use to find him.” 

You’re not in the mood for talking anymore. Tears burn your eyes, waiting for a blink to set them loose. 

“I want to see Aaron,” you confess quietly. 

“I’ll find him for you.” Emily stands but bends, the dark of her hair a contrast to her pale face. She’s lovely, and her hand is gentle on yours. “Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat?” 

So Aaron’s not keeping that to himself. “I want to see him, please.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

This is a horrible room. It’s not their fault, but the big white board is tacked with bad photos of grisly cases —currently your own. You stare at a photograph of your blood in the kitchen and don’t know what to do. Should you look away? You hadn’t realised you bled so much. 

You turn your chair toward the door. Emily looks back as she leaves and smiles at you softly, but your eyes are already moving to the smaller dry erase board by the doorway. It’s ‘Hotch’s turn to clean up on Thursdays. How strange that they make the boss clean the conference room. 

You can picture him picking up coffee cups and wiping down the table. You can always picture Aaron. 

You can see him hovering over you, his hand pressed to the bloody mess of your hip to stop the blood. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, wanting to break from the memory, following Aaron’s example. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” You repeat it into your hands, head tilting down. You sink until your knuckles touch your knees. 

That’s all he says when you panic. He’ll say it over and over again until you can breathe right. I have you, I have you, you’re okay. 

He’s much quieter this time. You hear his footsteps, his familiar gait, your head pounding too hard to move. Aaron makes a sound between a sigh and a hum, like he’s saying a sorry hello as he kneels in front of you. His hand takes your face, rubs softly over your ear. 

“My head’s just hurting,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t respond. You sit together for some time as your mind races with bad memories, your fear a rush of goosebumps down the lengths of your arms and thighs. It’s hard not to think about what happened, mostly because you’re still a walking bruise, your stitches sting when you move, the blisters on your chest ache, all of it inescapable. But it’s your anxiety that plagues you most. You’re in a constant state of dread. 

You had no idea someone could hurt you as badly as they had until it happened, and now you’re desperate not to be hurt again. 

“You have to look after me,” you say eventually, throat sore with how awful it feels to say. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Please don’t let me get hurt again.” 

Total silence. You sniffle at his lack of an answer, only slightly comforted by his hands at your wrists now, pulling them from your face. “Let’s sit up,” he says, standing himself. “Come on, let’s sit up. You shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on your abdomen.” 

You lean back and everything aches like a stretch after a long run or a bad night’s sleep. 

Aaron pulls a chair next to yours. When he sits, your knees are pressed in between one another’s thighs, so close he could hug you. You might need one.  He’s given you a ridiculous amount of them each day, some for him and some for you. 

He has with him a takeout box and a bottle of water. 

“Here,” he says, popping the seal of the drink. “Three sips.” 

You feel like crying, but you drink. He opens the takeout box to reveal a normal looking sandwich already cut into two halves, but he takes a plastic knife from his pocket, peels away the wrapping, and cuts the sandwich again into quarters. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” you say. 

“No, you’re not. You won’t be.” He presses the sandwich flat with his hands and holds it to you until you take it. “Please, Y/N. You only have to eat what you can.” 

“I don’t want it.” 

“Please.” 

“Did Emily tell you about my interview?” 

He reaches for your thigh. Mildly unlike him when you aren’t at home. You assume it to be a tether for your sake. “No. Is there something you think I should know?” 

“I don’t want to say it again.” 

“Then you don’t have to. Someone will tell me when I get back.” 

You pinch the fluffy bread in your hands, eyeing wearily at the wet insides. “Can I come with you?” 

“You’re having trouble in the cognitive interviews, you won’t want to hear what we have to say.” 

You split the sandwich in half again, watching as salad and mayonnaise ooze from the bread. 

“If you don’t eat, you won’t get better,” he says, a touch stern. 

“I can’t eat when you won’t let me come with you.” 

“I’m not the only person capable of protecting you. I…” He circles your wrist before you can make a mess. “Can you please eat it?” 

You take a bite to appease him, your stomach roiling, food wet and cold on your tongue. You eat the whole quarter queasily, a lump at the back of your throat begging you to stop. 

Aaron takes an empty hand and rubs it tenderly. “Thank you,” he says, that rubbing turned more forceful, his hand journeying to your elbow and back again. 

It’s sweet how attuned he is to your needing his touch, but mortifying. This entire experience had been embarrassing from start to end. Couldn’t defend yourself, can’t get to grips with it, and can’t keep anything down. Aaron looks at you and your bruises and you wonder if he’s seeing you with blood matted in your hair, or hearing you beg for him to get you something stronger. All you’d wanted was a sedative. 

“I’m far from the only person capable of protecting you,” he says. 

“You saved me,” you say. You mean it in every sense of the world. 

“…This is my fault.” 

“I want to be with you,” you say honestly. “I don’t feel okay by myself right now, I just need you, or I feel so sick I wish that I died.” The anxiety is marrow deep. 

Aaron looks gutted. “Don’t say that.” His hand goes back to yours, back to tenderness. “I know you're scared.” 

“Then why won’t you listen?” you ask weakly. 

“I’m listening to you,” he says, his tone a dulcet, pleasing softness you’ve never ever heard before, “I need you to be safe, and I need Jack to be safe, and I can’t do that while he’s still out there.” His brows pinch together, agonised. “I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t protect you. But I won’t let anything happen to you again.

“I love you. Please believe that I’m doing what’s best for you right now.” 

You turn your head away. He cups your cheek regardless. 

“I love you,” he says again. 

“I know.” 

“No, I love you.” 

He’s saying sorry.

“I love you,” you mumble back. 

“How are you feeling? Is anything hurting more? Weeping?” 

Your eyes are heavy at his touch. “You only looked at me a couple of hours ago.” 

“Alright. Can I kiss you? I need to go.” 

You don’t answer. Aaron kisses your chin, your jawline, the type of roving, teasing kisses he’d give as he squeezed your sides, only he doesn’t squeeze you, he can’t without hurting you. His hand hesitates just above your deepest wound. 

His bright kiss works to spark a modicum of life back into you. Not a lot, but enough. It was likely his intention, some quick prodding kisses to remind you of something happy between you both. 

You curl your fingers over his hand and turn your face for a chaste peck. He smiles, the curve of his lips evident and relieving against yours. 

“Someone will take you back to the safe house, okay? Give Jack a kiss for me,” he says. 

You nod. Aaron strokes your cheek. 

—

Your assailant could have killed you while you were vulnerable, but he didn’t. “He assumes he’ll have another chance,” Emily surmises. 

“That’s cocky,” JJ mutters. 

“It’s telling,” Aaron says. “But he won’t.” 

The coaching has been extensive. You, sick, a breath from tears and hurting, your shoulders in his hands and his grip too tight. If someone tells you I’m dead, you wait. If Morgan tells you I’m dead, you ask Rossi. If he says I’m dead, you ask Emily. You can’t believe the first thing someone says. No one is going to move you from this safe house to another without seeing me first. If I do get hurt, you and Jack will be moved separately. You will always get my confirmation before you’re moved. 

I’m not gullible, you’d said, wincing at his sharp tone. 

It’s not about that. People will lie, and they will lie well. They will talk their way into the house if you let them. You can’t let them. 

I won’t. 

He’s racing against a countdown, because no matter what he says, what you know, or how many agents wait outside your house, sometimes it’s a force of will. 

Foyet didn’t need much more than that. 

He admittedly feels on surer footing knowing where you are. The decision to guard you without putting you in WITSEC is aching and scary but better, too. He knows where you are. He can be there in ten minutes. No guessing games, but no hiding for you either. 

Your dread is taking over everything you do. Today’s the first day since you came home almost two weeks ago that you could function without a live-in nurse or Jess there to look after Jack, and already he’s worried, because he’d convinced you total honesty was what’s best for the both of you, and so your texts are candid. 

One an hour for his sake, more if you're up to it.

Threw up my beta blockers. Jack misses you, he wants to make you a Lego boat and fishing rod, but I’m not sure how to do it. Please make sure you eat dinner. 

Your next message makes him smile, thankfully. I’m kidding about the dinner thing. Ha. I had one of those gels you got for me, and Jack wants fries, so I’m making waffle fries. 

He texts back quickly. Eat dinner. Please tell Jack I miss him too, and don’t worry about the boat, he’ll work it out. Then, feeling awful, he adds, I love you

Aaron should go home. He’d feel better if he knew he was there to help you keep your medication down, but if he leaves… He knows his team will give you everything they have, but he has more. He can fix this. 

He can’t fix this, god, his head hurts badly. You’re covered in cuts and bruises and burns and he thinks he can make up for that? You’ve been brutalised. Aaron can’t believe this is happening again. 

He rubs his brow. 

“You okay?” Emily asks. 

When he looks up, JJ is gone. 

“I’m fine.” 

“It’s okay if you’re not.” 

He’s not fine, but he knows what she’s asking. “I’m okay enough to do this,” he says. 

It’s hard not to confuse you with memory, your hurting similar to his own, your situation one that he’s already lived. Haley will haunt him for life. It doesn’t usually feel as punishing as he fears he deserves: he gets to remember the best parts of her everyday. He sees her in Jack all the time. He sees her in you, occasionally —you’ll touch his hair or rub his arm like she would’ve done, and it doesn’t make him miss her any more than he does, he’s not in the business of wishing you weren’t yourself, he loves you, but he remembers her. Aaron remembers how he failed her every day. 

He can’t fail you, too. 

“Is it ever easy?” Emily asks. 

Aaron looks around for a bottle of water. “Is what?” 

“Being in love.” 

He thinks about it. “I must make it look hard.” 

She laughs softly. “Sometimes, yeah.” 

Maybe that’s not fair, then, to you. For him to make it seem difficult to love you. To fail to correct Emily when she asks. 

He chooses his words carefully. “Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. But… I continue to work a job I know makes me hard to love in return.” And that puts you in danger. 

It doesn’t feel wrong to be sincere. Perhaps it’s easier with Emily. She saw so much of him during Foyet, and she’s family, truly. He can tell her how intense it’s felt. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem hard for her,” Emily says. 

He shakes his head. 

She continues regardless, “Even during her cognitive, she mentioned the first time you told her you loved her. When it was over she wanted to see you over anything else.” 

But I put her here, he wants to say. Or doesn’t want to say at all, but instead knows with surety. 

“She can’t eat if I’m not home,” he says. What a thing to do to someone. “It’s my fault.” 

Emily smiles, hair slipping off of her shoulder as her expression turns to playfulness. “I think you’re seeing it all wrong. Something bad happened to her, and you’re so safe to her that you make it better when you’re with her. That’s not fault, Hotch. Just love.” 

He turns his attention back to the board without another word. 

—

When the day comes, when they find the man who hurt you, you’re sitting at home with Jack Hotchner in your lap. You’re laughing at his laughing, cartoon fish on the TV, and Aaron’s got a gun in his hand fifty miles away. You both giggle, nearly in hysterics as the safe house living room glows pink and red, Jack’s favourite character swimming hurriedly across the screen, as Aaron negotiates the arrest. 

Usually capable of mediation, Aaron finds his patience completely unravelled. He offers the UnSub two choices: he surrenders now, immediately, and he keeps his life, or he deliberates and Aaron kills him. 

He has reason to believe the UnSub will try again, of course. Will keep hurting you until it sticks. 

He goes home satisfied.

“Dad’s home!” you say excitedly, your movie long finished, your thighs numb and stitches stinging where Jack has leaned against you. You encourage him off of you as the front door closes, the cold air from outside rushing in. 

“Honey?” Aaron calls. 

“Yeah!” You stumble into a standing position, sure you look about as disgusting as you have since the situation began, promptly sitting back down as head rush hits. 

Jack races for the door, meeting Aaron in the hallway with a whoosh. “Hey!” 

“Hi, buddy, what are you doing?” 

“We watched Finding Nemo,” Jack says, “and now I’m hugging you, duh.” 

“Duh. Well, I need to talk to Y/N for five minutes. Can you wash your hands for dinner?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“I’m fine.”

You hear the sound of a light kiss, and then Jack rockets across the hallway and up the stairs. Aaron walks into the doorway, tie still knotted but with no suit jacket, and you know what he’s going to say before he says it. He wears a strange expression.

“You got him?” you ask. 

He puts a white bag on the coffee table, looking down at you fondly. “I got him.” 

“How did you find him?” 

He crouches down in front of you. He’s so careful to be harmless to you now, so tentative. “You’re not the only woman he hurt. We dealt with him in the past. From the information you gave Emily during your interview, and the information he left behind, we found him… If you weren’t as brave as you are, I couldn’t have kept you and Jack safe.” He holds your knee. “Thank you.” 

You stare at him. Staring, wondering what he means. “Brave?” 

“Brave.” 

“I’m a coward.” 

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” 

All you've done for days is cry and throw up and bleed, literally. You’ve ruined clothes and sheets, thrown up in his lap, terrified and aching. Each time was met with the same gentleness. A kiss on the cheek, or a hand rubbing your back. Is that bravery? You feel like a baby. 

Aaron’s brow is relaxed. He takes your two legs into his hands, and he looks at you with a reverence that leaves you breathless. 

“You’re hurt forever because of me,” he says quietly, you strain to hear him, “because of who I am, and what I choose to be.” 

“How can you say that? It’s not your fault.” 

“It wouldn’t have happened to you if I hadn’t missed his MO the first time.” 

“You’re not putting the knife in anyone’s hand,” you argue. 

“But it keeps happening.” 

His hair shines dark and wet. It must be raining outside, the safe house walls are thick, the windows shuttered permanently, you haven’t heard a peep. You stroke it back from his forehead. 

“Remember… when we first got together, and you told me you were sorry for how hard being with you could be. And I said it was okay, that it wasn’t hard, and you said it would be?” 

“I remember,” he says, practically mouths. 

“I was so afraid when...” You swallow roughly. “I still am. But not– not of you. Not of what you can do. When you told me it was going to be hard, I thought, well, it’s worth it, because I really liked you then and I love you now.” Tears collect in your eyes. Safe. I’m safe. “And you look after me, so– so–” 

You stop as your voice turns to glass, worried you’ll make a fool of yourself and cry in his hands. 

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says. 

“Nobody wants this. Bad things happen to everyone, but who has someone like you to look after them?” 

He breathes out heavily. “Please… don’t cry.” 

You wipe your cheeks, taking a lengthy pause before you say, “I’m okay now.” 

He looks at you in silence. 

“Come and sit with me,” you say, scrubbing your cheeks, hot tears cooling on the backs of your hands. “Your knees.” 

He actually smiles. It changes his entire face. “What about my knees?” 

Aaron sits on the couch next to you atop Jack’s blanket, a bag of pretzels tipping between your leg and his. You attempt to rake his damp hair into submission as his fingers run against your thighs, fishing for pretzels to put back into the bag. 

You’d like for him to grab you and kiss you harshly, give you one of his straight jacket hugs, some roughhousing, but you won’t get that from him until you're better, and even then, it’s up in the air. So much has changed. 

But not everything. 

“I love you,” you murmur, fingertips scratching down behind his ear to the back of his head. 

He turns to you, sagging with relief and exhaustion. “Kiss?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. He holds your cheek, and you close your eyes at the same time for a kiss. It’s not a lot, but you have time. He can give you another one when you’re both better recovered. 

He pulls away. You open your eyes, finding his closed, his face downturned. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

“Was Jack good?” 

“Jack’s always good.” 

“Did the nurse have anything to say about your chest?” 

“She said it’s healing okay. That I need to use, uh, scar patches when they start to scab.” 

“I can get those.” 

“I know, I knew you would.” 

He gathers you up for a hug. For a moment, you think he’ll move on, that the end of your nightmare will kill his remorse, but he breathes in, nose wedged against your cheek. 

“Do you think that tonight, we could pretend it didn’t happen?” You’d like to just sit with him, press your hand to his chest and doze. It’s the first night in a while that you’ll feel completely. 

“Yeah. I can do that.” He hugs you rather tightly. “Do you want to see your present?” he asks, relaxing his grip. 

“My present?” 

He grabs the bag on the coffee table and places it in your lap. “I’m worried it’ll remind you of bad memories, but I wanted you to have nice things then, and I still do.” 

In the bag, there’s a pair of pyjamas. Very different to the ones you’d been wearing when you were attacked, they were girly and sweet, soft in your hands, these are sturdy. Still soft, but thick. The shirt is short-sleeved and the pants cuffed at the ankles, a hoodie tucked underneath them, and a packet of minky socks. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

Thanks for everything, for saving you twice, for taking care of you at your worst, and for wanting you to have something comfortable to wear at the end of it. To have experienced an abjectly cruel battering will leave its marks in your forever, but you meant what you told him. He looks after you, and you love him. 

He kisses your shoulder. “You don't need to say that.” 

He doesn’t add anything else, his nose pressed to your shoulder, his hand on your hip. Whatever goes unsaid can be felt in the other’s touch. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u for reading!! it’s been a long time since I wrote a fic for hotch and it’s hard to write him being vulnerable but I hope this is alright anyways and that you enjoyed :D please consider reblogging if you did enjoy it (cos that way my fics get shown to more people <3) ❤️

[tsukasageorge]

Art block posting as usual

[lovelybucky1]

Treat Me Wrong

Kinktober Day 16- Degradation Kink

warnings: AFAB!Reader, manipulation, gaslighting, cheating, sex work, roleplay, spanking, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, mentions of pregnancy, 18+ minors DNI

main masterlist

kinktober masterlist

“I think we should break up,” you say.

Tommy’s face twists in anger and confusion. “Where’d you get that idea?” he asks.

This is exactly why you want to break up. He’s so dismissive and he doesn’t respect you. He’s sitting relaxed in his chair like you didn’t just suggest ending your relationship. Why is it so difficult for him to care about you?

“I’m not happy!” you say.

Tommy scoffs in response. “You live like a princess. What else could you possibly need?”

“Love and attention,” you huff.

“Christ,” he shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you a child? Do you really need me to attend to you all day to be content?”

“Not all day, Tommy. Just sometimes. What's the point in even having a lover if you won't spend time with them?"

"You act like I have a lot of free time to waste. I'm a very busy man."

His way of having excuses for everything make you feel like you're going insane.

"You have enough time to spend with prostitutes," you say bitterly. This makes Tommy perk up. "I know you go to see them after work and lie to me when you get home late. Why do you bother stringing me along if you'd rather pay for your companionship?"

Tommy chuckles darkly. "That's what this is about, eh?"

"Why the fuck are you laughing, Tommy?"

He stands up from his chair and crosses the room to stand in front of you. He places one hand on your hip while the other holds his cigarette. The smoke swirls in front of your face, the pungent smell burning your nose.

"You're jealous of my whores?" he asks smugly.

"What do they have that I don't," you ask angrily.

"I have certain needs that they satisfy."

You scoff and push his hand off of you. "We're together, Tommy. You should come to me to satisfy your needs, not step out on me."

Tommy rolls his eyes and grabs ahold of your wrist. "What I need isn't appropriate for a high society woman like yourself."

You furrow your brows in confusion, but no matter what he's talking about, you want to be able to provide it for him. "You don't get to decide what's appropriate for me or not. Besides, you'd know that I'm very adventurous if you ever took the time to actually be intimate with me."

He blinks slowly at you and licks his lips, then smirks devilishly. "You want me to treat you like one of my whores?"

"Yes, Tommy."

"Right." Tommy stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the side table, the turns his attention back to you. Both of his hands are on your hips now, holding you firmly. "You promise not to get upset?"

"Why would I get upset?"

Tommy fights back a smirk. "Because I tend to be a bit... harsh."

"Harsh?" you ask.

"You said you want me to fuck you like a whore. A dirty, cheap, used up whore that's only good for taking cock. Is that right?" You hesitantly nod. "Then until I'm finished, that's exactly what you're going to be. I'm only going to stop if you tell me to, otherwise I'm going to have you just like I have them."

"Okay," you breathe.

Tommy steps away from you and sits back in his chair. "Take your dress off," he instructs.

You find it a bit odd that he's just watching instead of also getting undressed, but it does make you feel better that the prostitutes he visits don't get to see him naked.

You strip piece by piece until you're bare in front of him. He stands up again and looks over your body, occasionally prodding and groping you.

"Turn around," he says, voice low. You do as he says and you allow yourself to be moved over to the couch. Tommy pushes you so you're bent at the waist over the arm rest, bare ass on display.

Tommy continues to grope you; he slaps your cheeks, spreads and slaps them, and teases at your folds.

“Wet already? Didn’t think whores got off on their work,” he says.

Without much prep, he shoves two fingers into your cunt. Like a true whore, you take them easily. He opens you up by scissoring his fingers inside you. He's going quickly, not bothering to take his time and make it pleasurable for you. You suppose he pays for his own pleasure, not yours.

"Already loose too. How many others did you have today?" he asks. When you don't answer him, he delivers a slap to your ass.

"N-none," you whimper.

"Sounds like business is slow."

He pulls his fingers out of you and wipes your wetness on your thigh. He then moves to press his hips against yours, allowing you to feel the bulge in his slacks. He grinds up against you shamelessly, making you feel even more humiliated now that he's simulating fucking you while he's fully dressed.

"Tell me you want my cock," he orders.

"I want your cock," you parrot with a whine in your voice.

"You can be more convincing than that," he says with a slap to your ass. "Be a good whore and beg me to fuck you."

You take a deep breath. "Please fuck me. I need your cock so bad... Mr. Shelby," you add for good measure.

That seems to please him, because he moves away from you far enough to pull his cock through his fly. He rubs the head through your folds, teasing your entrance with it.

"I'm not going to catch anything from fucking you raw, am I?" he asks, though he knows the answer.

"No, sir," you reply.

You're glad he bent you over like this, because that means he can't see your embarrassed face and you don't have to look into his intimidating eyes.

"Mm, good."

He pushes inside you, not gently but he doesn't aim to hurt you. Once he's fully seated inside, he begins to thrust before you're ready for it. You gasp in surprise, but you're helpless to do anything but take it.

"Didn't think pussy so cheap would take me so well," he groans. His hands grip tightly on your hips and he slams you back to meet each of his thrusts. His cock bumps against your cervix uncomfortably, but it feels best for him when you take it all the way, and that's the only thing that matters.

With each thrust, you make a punched out little moan. Tommy, however, is silent above you, save for a bit of heavy breathing. It isn't until you arch your back and really start putting on a show that he speaks up.

"Like a fuckin' professional, eh? I should come to you more often. Y'know, my woman's a real bitch sometimes. Never lets me fuck her like this. Thinks she's too good to get bent over. Has so many opinions, too. But you're a good woman; quiet, tight," he leans down, draping himself over your back to speak into your ear. "Obedient."

You can't help but moan at his filthy words, despite how degrading they are. You shouldn't find your lover talking badly about you so arousing, but you cant help it.

"She gets so mad I cheat on her but I think she'd understand if she felt this cunt for herself. 'm gonna marry her and fuck her full of babies to keep her busy while I give the real good stuff to you."

"Fuck," you whimper and immediately regret it.

"You like when I talk to you like a whore? You like getting fucked hard like I don't love you?"

It's rare that Tommy says he loves you. So rare, in fact, that you often doubt if it's true.

"Yes, yes," you gasp. "I love you."

"Mm," he hums. "Save it for when I'm not paying you."

[gremlingottoosilly]

thinking about konig asking to eat you out and you being like “lol no i’m on my period.” and he’s all “ohhhh idc idc i wanna eat it so bad 🥺” and you need to be like no. buddy. you clearly do not get it. i am not a 2-3 day period, “who needs pads i’ll just freebleed” girlie. i am a 7-8 day, heavy flow, bleed through the pad girlie, lmfao.

and then he eats it anyways because not only has he been around so much more blood than you could ever imagine but also he’s lowkey highkey into it teeeheeeeeeee ;P

"Schatzen, I kill people for money. You really think I'm scared of a little blood?" You wasn't nervous of the fact he wasn't scared of a bit of blood - even though it was not, in fact, just a little. Even though it was, in fact, a lot and made you ask him to bring you newer pads. You didn't really think he would be scared of a bit of period blood - but you were fucking terrified at the fact that he seemed to adore it. To cherish every drop, till the last one - to press his face between your thighs and look at you like a kitten who wants a bit of cream. The thing is, Konig missed you. Returning from a two month contract only meant he was ready to destroy your pelvis and fuck you for every hour he is on leave - unfortunately, he can't quite do that, you're too fragile to take his cock four times per day...but you can take his tongue. Even if that means having the metallic taste cling to his tongue for days on end, he would gladly spend the whole week buried in your cunt, relishing in your taste. It's a nice way to deal with cramps, he might think. Konig literally read one article about how orgasms can sometimes help some people with their cramps, and he'd use this for the rest of his life. Oh, your stomach is hurting and you feel like your womb is trying to eat you from the inside? Just let him eat you out! No matter how many times you push him away and beg for him to stop, he'd still laugh and push his tongue deeper, over and over. He is a mercenary, he is getting paid tons of money to cover himself in blood of his victims - having his pretty girlfriend cry and cum on his tongue is a nice addition. You don't even question it when he starts to track your periods, knowing you'd have it even when you forget - you don't question the dates he literally keeps posted on your shared calendar, don't care that the amount of heating pads in the house had largely diminished - and he won't buy you a new one because he is much better at being a heating pad anyway!