#if you want to read it on ao3 i will post it there too

[starmocha]

Doctor's Note [Zayne + Son ★ 1289 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Zayne calls home during lunchtime. A/N: orz this was supposed to have been written and posted in December… orz Tag list: @lavlynyan @miudle @alfredosaws @solifloris @nezuswritingdesk @valkyyriia @natimiles @yourlocalcatscammer @callilypso @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @qyuin 【 request to be added 】

The meeting was finally over.

Thankfully, it was just a little bit past noon by the time Zayne had returned to his office. As he settled into his seat, he started a video call, waiting patiently until a face completely identical to his popped up on the screen.

“Daddy!”

He chuckled at the sight of his three-year-old son’s bright grinning face. The boy immediately turned away, yelling for his mother. “Mommy, it’s Daddy on your phone!”

“Did Mommy let you answer this call for her?” Zayne asked teasingly, smiling when his son looked bashful and nodded. “Good, I don’t want you answering any phone calls without our permission, remember?”

The boy nodded solemnly. “I remember, Daddy!”

“Good boy,” he responded. He quirked a brow, noticing a rice grain on his son’s mouth. “Are you eating lunch without me?”

“Mommy made me…” the toddler said with a pout. “I told you Daddy would call, Mommy!”

“Zayne, are you turning our son against me again?” You immediately entered the screen with a playful glare. You bent lower and rubbed the rice grain off your son’s face, adding, ���We just started eating.”

“Daddy, do you have your lunch?” the boy asked, wriggling his way back into the screen to look at his father hopefully. “Mommy and I made it just for you!”

“Yeah, Zaynie, our darling boy and I made it just for you,” you added with a mischievous smile.

“What did you do?” Zayne responded with a raise of his brow, matching your smile with his own. He set a bento box down in front of him, noticing a folded note attached on top. He opened the note, chuckling softly when he saw the crude handwriting written with green and yellow crayons.

“Is this my little doctor’s note?” he asked playfully, turning the paper with the scribbles to face his phone.

“That’s my note for Daddy!” his son yelled out excitedly.

“Wow, Zayne, our son’s handwriting looks so much nicer than yours,” you teased him again, making his eyes rolled.

“Very funny,” he answered, tone flat. He sighed exaggeratedly. “I’m afraid I have misplaced my reading glasses. Can you read it for me, son?”

The boy nodded. “It says, ‘Daddy should have a good day! I love him very, very, very much and miss him very, very, very much.’”

Both you and Zayne smiled, touched by the little boy’s earnest message. Zayne’s smile seemed to widen as he watched you pulled the boy into your lap to snuggle, his son’s giggles always managing to relieve him from his daily stress. He responded, his voice tender, “I miss you, too. I’ll be home this evening with a surprise.”

“Macarons?” the boy asked hopefully as he wriggled excitedly on your lap, making you giggled as you tried to keep the toddler still. You kissed his cheek sweetly and said in a lower voice:

“Darling, it could be a carrot cake, too, right, Zaynie?”

Zayne’s smile instantly dropped while his son’s excitement grew, as did your teasing smile. The little boy was squirming excitedly on your lap and clapping his hands. “Carrot cake!”

“Oh, but Mommy said we shouldn’t be eating too many sweets,” Zayne added, his eyes darting to meet yours in warning. He smiled stiffly, faltering when you responded cooly:

“Occasionally is fine.”

The boy peered up curiously before turning to look at his father. “Daddy, are you going to eat your lunch?”

Zayne felt grateful for the sudden topic change. He nodded and opened the lid of his bento box, his voice taking on an exaggerated tone as he asked playfully, “Now what do we have here?”

“Rice!” the boy answered brightly, continuing, “And…and…Mommy, what did you say this was called?”

You giggled, your hand smoothing over his hair. You glanced at where Zayne pointed with his chopsticks, seeing the bite-sized fried chicken pieces. “Karaage, my darling.”

“Karaage!” the boy repeatedly loudly, “And…and…”

Zayne smiled as he watched his little carbon-copy son struggled to remember the name of the dishes.

“Rolled omelet, darling.”

“…and omelet, Daddy!”

Zayne laughed at the boy’s earnest declaration. “Sounds nutritious,” he said, adding with a gentle smile, “And they look delicious.”

“Daddy, don’t forget to eat your carrots!”

Immediately, Zayne’s smile disappeared. He managed to compose himself before his son noticed his mood change. Patiently, he asked, “What carrots?”

“The hearts, Daddy!”

He peered down at his lunch again, noticing the heart-shaped carrots and the rounds they were cut from neatly and strategically placed throughout the bento box for a cute design. He looked up, feigning confusion. “I thought these are just decorations?”

“You can eat them!” the little boy insisted happily with a wide grin. “They’re yummy and good for you!”

“You hear that, Zaynie?” you interjected with a mischievous grin, delighting in how your normally calm and collected husband was struggling to maintain his composure, his lips subtly twitching with disgust at the sight of his least favorite food and even worse at the prospect of having to eat them. You continued, chirping happily, “Your personal doctor has just told you they’re yummy and good for you.”

Just as quickly, Zayne directed a sharp glare to you, but you didn’t care, continuing with delight at his misery, “My hubby is so lucky to have such a dedicated doctor who cares about his patient’s health.”

“You put him up to this, didn’t you?” he accused.

“This was his idea!” you protested with a smug smile. “He said—and I quote—‘Mommy, can we cut out hearts for Daddy’s lunch?’”

You leaned down and kissed the top of your son’s head soundly. “Didn’t you, my little darling?”

The boy nodded innocently, his sweet little smile still shining brightly as he waited for his father to take his first bite of his lunch.

“Now Zaynie,” you said teasingly, struggling to stifle your giggles as your husband continued to pierce you with his glares, “Won’t you be a good boy and eat your carrots, per doctor’s order?”

Zayne sighed helplessly when his carbon-copy son stared at him with bright, hopeful eyes. He picked up his chopsticks again, his eyes peering down at his lunch as he quickly tried to gauged which piece of carrot appeared the smallest. He started to reach for one of the rounds with a heart-shaped holes, but you immediately tutted disapprovingly. “A real piece of carrot, sir.”

“They’re all still carrots,” he insisted practically through clenched teeth.

“Daddy, do you not like my lunch for you?” the boy asked with quivering lips.

Damn it.

Zayne smiled reassuringly, speaking gently to the little toddler, “Of course not, son, Daddy was just trying to pick the most delicious piece for his first bite.”

Mentally, he sighed. He unwittingly chose the largest heart-shaped carrot piece and plopped it into his mouth. He struggled to smile as he chewed on the vegetable, his tastebuds screaming in disgust. Eventually, he swallowed, his smile stiff.

“De-delicious,” he fibbed, consciously trying to maintain his smile for his son’s sake. The smile, however, fell completely at the little boy’s innocent declaration:

“Mommy, we should give Daddy more hearts tomorrow!”

“We should,” you agreed with both glee and mischievousness, adding playfully, “Because we love Daddy so much, right, my darling boy?”

“Yeah!”

Through clenched teeth, Zayne’s hand tightened around his chopsticks, and he responded with a forced smile to you, “I love you all, too…so I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself on my behalf.”

“It’s no trouble, Daddy!” the boy said happily, seemingly unaware of his father’s internal struggles. He continued cheerfully, “I want you to have lots of hearts tomorrow!”

“Because we love you so much, Zaynie,” you added smugly, seeing the light in his eyes fading.

“…I love you, too…”

[wemlygust]

personally, I have at long last discovered that I have the most success - by far - actually going to bed, if I entirely cease to treat it as mandatory (and by extension never yell at myself about it).

Making it a Should, and yelling at myself, both just make stress go up. And then you're either lying in bed yelling at yourself, or you're not lying in bed and instead you're trying to relax or do work while also mentally yelling at yourself. And in the latter case, you therefore fail to relax, or you don't get enough work done, and now you're MORE stressed and yelling at yourself EVEN MORE, and this spirals into pain and suffering and sleep deprivation that makes it even worse and

So

I recommend, instead

Speak to yourself kindly, and, if you don't want to sleep yet, then don't. You will be alright. (sometimes actually I find another effective method of getting myself to sleep is to lie in bed and imagine that I am supposed to be getting up and going to work right that minute, and then suddenly I am aware of how cozy I am under the covers and not wanting to get up and wanting to sleep. Go figure.) (... also try imagining you are a cat. Like. Move around, stretch, get comfy like a cat in a beam of sunlight would, you know? Sometimes it works.) /unsolicited advice for whoever //ao3 admittedly throws an extra gigantic wrench into all efforts to sleep always ///downloading a fic and putting it on an e-ink ereader can help sometimes? ////or otherwise turn your screen brightness down REALLY low. Like, use a program to turn it down lower than your phone usually allows you. /////also! read only fics with sleepy tags, like "literal sleeping together", or "cuddling", or "cuddle pollen", or "huddling for warmth", or "nesting" (minus the explicit fics unless that actually helps you sleep too), or "cozy", or even just plain old "fluff". It is easier to apply this limit than to deny yourself bedtime fic entirely. //////and also avoid the "MUST TURN PAGE NOW" danger zone tags like "hurt/comfort" or "angst" or "mystery" or "misunderstandings" or "whump". Or whatever other type of fic you know gets you too ramped up for sleepy time. ///////don't ask why I'm formatting this post like this; I literally don't know. It's just that kind of day? I guess.

*proceeds to snooze the alarm for over an hour*

[juricel]

seeing your posts and as a small attempt to break authors block here's a lil request (^_-)

ok so id like to request yandere shadow milk cookie with a s/o who somewhat acts like candy apple cookie? like... not ACTUALLY candy apple cookie but theyre obsessed with him and is willing to do everything he desires and commands + gets really jealous when he interacts with someone ^o^

-🐧 anon

(btw ive read your old orphaned fics in ao3 and miraculously found your tumblr you dont know how happy i am)

a/n: okay first of all... how... and second of all, we do NOT talk about my orphaned ao3 fics. not in this household. zip mouth.

— yandere! shadow milk cookie x obsessive! reader

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: yanderes, heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, implied emotional abuse, psychological manipulation, emotional abuse, threats of physical violence, imprisonment/kidnapping, coercion, control, dependency, non-consensual power dynamics, potential ooc.

𖦁 to say that he adored your obsessiveness is an understatement—no, he was besotted with it: savoring your sweet fixation like a sugared poison on the tongue, watching with bright, slitted amusement as you knelt before him without question, without hesitation, a devotee at the altar of his caprice. how you squirmed beneath the lightest flick of his attention, how your breath hitched when he, with deliberate carelessness, let his interest wander elsewhere. ah, but that was his favorite part—the way your jealousy trembled at the edges of you, coiling tight, teeth bared but mouth shut, the way your hands clenched in your lap, as if to keep yourself from lunging, from begging. he would press upon that wound like a scholar taking notes, tilt his head to better see how it darkened in your chest, how it shaped the curve of your shoulders, how it swelled against your ribs like a swallowed scream. It was divine, this spectacle of you unraveling in real time, caught in a dance between anger and longing, between dignity and desperation, ah, you were just too cute like that, he couldn't help himself from prodding on it, gently, softly, and slowly making you break in jealousy! but more than that—more than your ire, more than your brittle restraint—it was your fear that delighted him most, that quiet, gnawing terror that, if he ever truly turned away, you might cease to exist altogether.

𖦁 cruelty? oh, but that was such an ugly word, so ill-fitting, so crass. he never meant to be cruel—never. he was merely curious, merely an observer conducting a harmless little experiment, a scholar of your trembling devotion. how could he resist the temptation to nudge, just a little, just to see? a whisper here, a lingering touch elsewhere, a fleeting glance in another’s direction—what a marvel it was, the way you burned. and if you had not responded so exquisitely—if your breath had not hitched so prettily, if your fingers had not curled into your palms, if your voice had not quivered with that delicious mixture of fury and desperation—then, surely, none of this would have been necessary. but you had, and so it was, and really, really now, how could you blame him for indulging in such a delectable reaction? oh, but please—don’t cry. won’t you look at him? won’t you listen? there’s no need for all these trembling lips and damp lashes, no need for those hands to shake at your sides as if they don’t know whether to strike or to cling. he’ll never leave you, not ever, so why weep as if he would? and really, as much as he wants to regret it—the tears, the way your breath catches between sobs, the exquisite fire in your eyes when fury overtakes sorrow and your hands lash out, striking him with more love than hatred—he simply can’t. because you are beautiful like this, you are his like this, raw and fraying and utterly caught in the web of him. surely, you wouldn’t mind a few lies, would you? soft ones, sweet ones, warm as milk and thick as honey, sliding down your throat. if only you had paid him more attention, this wouldn't have happened. if only you had never turned away, never left his side even for a moment, he wouldn't have done this. if only you had been good enough, loved him enough, wanted him enough—then, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, he wouldn’t have needed to do this at all. but he knows you understand, don’t you? you always do. that’s what he loves about you. wasn't he such a sweetheart? a cruel obsessive lunatic

𖦁 oh, but perhaps, perhaps… if you came to his spire, if you lived in it, breathed in its air, let its walls wrap around you like an embrace—if you stayed within the sanctuary of his love, right beneath his pinky, tucked neatly where you belong—then maybe, maybe he wouldn’t have to be so cruel. yes, yes—that was it. the answer had been so simple all along! if you stayed, if you never left, if you allowed yourself to melt into the fabric of his world, then surely he wouldn’t need to do such things, wouldn’t need to test you, wouldn’t need to watch you unravel just to be certain you were still his. stay, won’t you? let him love you properly, let him keep you as you should be kept. it’ll feel just like home, he promises—just like home, only better.

𖦁 you’ll do anything he says, don't you? of course you will. you always do. so then, listen closely—for this was his command: be good. be quiet. be his. come to him, right where he can see you, right beneath his strings. it’ll be heaven. oh, it will—a place where you don’t have to think, don’t have to fight, don’t have to worry. just let go, let him pull, let him move you as he pleases. wouldn’t that be easier? wouldn’t that be beautiful?

𖦁 surely you won’t mind being kept in a cage, right? after all, isn’t this what you wanted? to be his, to have his undivided attention, to be held so tightly you could never slip away? oh, but he’s giving you everything—his love, his time, his adoration. isn’t that enough? isn’t that what you craved? so don’t ever leave. don’t even think about it. because if you do—if you even try—then, well… he’ll have to make sure you never do it again. he’ll have to fix you, won’t he? break you down, piece by piece, until you can’t walk, can’t eat, can’t move without him. until every little thing you do, every breath you take, is only possible because of him. oh, but don’t look so afraid. this is love, isn’t it? this is what you wanted, this is what you've yearned and sought for all along, there was no use in thinking anymore, he'll help you! for he has more than enough knowledge to assist you.

a/n: I loathe shadow milk cookie so much I want to wrap him up in unmarred flowers, let the thorns of roses prickle his skin and watch until his blood mingles with the petals, till air thick with the smell of iron, till life drains from him in a slow, sickly feast of pain.

anyway, for those who had requested during my hiatus, please resend your requests if you still would like it done! the second owner usually deletes them without a glance so I could pay more attention to my studies and church duties (all requests after this work has been deleted as i immediately went into hiatus afterward)

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Best In Show

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Naya "Bambi" Walker (OC)

Read on AO3

Word count: 4.8k

CW: BDSM, Sexual Content, kink negotiations, hucow kink, speech restriction, themed lingerie, lactation kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, so much dirty talk, pre-nut insanity (one of my favorite flavors of Simon), fantasies of dub-con (no actual dub-con), post-nut laughter

Notes: This was supposed to be a short addition to the Kinktober prompts, but obviously I am bad at keeping things short. Also, the working title for this was "Moo Moo Moo."

Simon is hiding something. Maybe that’s the wrong way to look at it. There’s something he’s not saying, not making obvious. It itches at the back of your mind.

It starts with looking at your own nude body in the mirror after a shower. You’ve been going to the gym, just a little bit. Weight training and cardio to keep up with all of the sex you’ve been having since moving in with Simon. You haven’t really lost any weight. In fact, your hips are wider, with no real change in the pouch of your belly.

Simon makes an interested noise when he walks into the bedroom. “Guess we should ‘old off on supper, eh?”

“No, no, I want to try that recipe I found,” you say, ignoring his discontented noise as you pull on underwear. The pleased noise he makes when you tug on his shirt is predictable, just like the kiss he presses to your cheek. “I was just… looking at myself. Kind of surprised that I’ve got more hip. Still got the belly, though.”

Simon surprises you by saying, “Tit’s’re bigger, too.”

“Are they?” You bunch the shirt in the back, and take yourself in. “Huh.”

“More pectoral muscle,” he says with a shrug. “More breast.”

“That’s not how that works,” you scoff, shoving him playfully before leaving the bedroom. “Besides, I heard your tis are the first to go when you lose weight.”

“Then I hope you don’t lose weight,” Simon answers, following you into the kitchen for a kiss. “I like all’o you.”

He spends extra time worshiping your thick parts, that night. Kisses you and kisses you and kisses you while rubbing your belly and groping at your hips, stroking and pinching at your breasts, your thighs, your love handles, your arm fat. He’s ravenous as he eats you out. The two of you are loud as he takes you apart. You fall asleep completely drained and covered in sore spots.

It doesn’t occur to you that you’ve been missing anything for a while after that. In fact, nothing seems off until he catches you masturbating a couple of months later. One moment, you’re alone at home, in bed, and the next he’s climbing in next to you with a groan and a sigh of relief.

“Whatcha wachin’?” he asks over your surprised yelp. “Tha’s not y’r usual boyfriend.”

“What do you know about my usual porn,” you laugh as you pass him your earbuds to place on the side table. You roll to kiss him as you admit, “It’s not really exciting, I was mostly done.”

“What counts as exciting?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, cuddling up. He smells so good. “You know my usuals, why don’t you tell me?”

Simon chuckles into your hair. “Big dicks ‘n ‘elplessness. Bonus points for dubious consent.”

“…Well… You’re not wrong.”

“I know what my girl likes.”

“Okay,” you giggle. “Well, what’s exciting for you?”

If you didn’t know him, you would have missed the split second pause before his answer. As it is you barely catch the way his hand twitches against the curve of your ass.

But he says, “You know what I like. A beautiful woman asking for what she wants.”

“And getting it until she cries,” you purr, rolling on top of him.

“Lies and slander,” he deadpans, grinding his hips up into yours. “I’d never enjoy seeing you with those pretty tears in your eyes, beggin’ me t’ keep goin’ and t’ stop at the same time.”

Of course, you both prove him wrong in short order. After, he holds you while you tremble, pressing kisses to the crown of your head. He laughs, just a little, when you can’t sit up enough to get your water on your own, but he also helps you, so that’s okay.

The next day, you realize that you actually don’t know what porn Simon finds exciting. He’s shared some with you, of course, on the nights where sex was too much work until it suddenly wasn’t. Every now and again, though, he would scroll past something with a dismissive noise. It wouldn’t be noteworthy, except… well, they’re all videos he’s saved in his favorites. So he likes them, but doesn’t necessarily want to share them with you. Which is fine. Heaven knows you’re deleting your porn history regularly. Whatever you look up when you’re ovulating is between you, Bowser, and God.

But the last straw for your curiosity comes when you borrow his phone to do some quick online shopping. A friend is having a themed pool party and wants everyone in shades of blue. You’ve been on a pink and purple kick, so you don’t actually have an appropriate bathing suit. So you pull up the search engine and look up bathing suits.

And there, in the search history: ‘Cow Print Bikini’.

Your research brain goes, “Jackpot.”

There’s no way to tell what, if anything, Simon looked at in the search results. But you’re good at knowing where to look. More importantly, you know your man. And after a full 24 hours of research, you have a pretty good idea of the shape of things.

  -

  “Hey Simon,” you call, a week later.

“In the den,” he answers.

“Can you… actually, I’ll be right there!”

When you get there, he’s playing one of his video games. He turns his head to kiss you, then curses under his breath when a pink slime eats the fruit he’d been trying to harvest. It’s such a sweet, domestic moment that you almost don’t want to interrupt.

“Do you have space for a kink discussion?” You settle onto the couch next to him, and pull your legs up under yourself. “Nothing bad. Just… maybe some negotiations. You can keep playing.”

He taps the controller against one of his palms, twice, then says, “Sure.”

You take a deep breath, then ask, “Have you ever heard of hucows?”

The pause menu comes up immediately, but Simon doesn’t look at you. In fact, he’s so still that you’re sure he’s stopped breathing. When he doesn’t say or do anything for a full ten seconds, you look up at him.

His face is blank, and he looks back at you from the corner of his eye.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” you whisper.

He blinks, then shakes himself back into his skin. He looks back at the television, but doesn’t resume the game. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been doing some research,” you answer. “And I thought you might find it… interesting.” When he looks at you again without saying anything, you confess. “And there were cow print bikinis in your search history.”

All of the air leaves Simon in a whoosh. He leans back into the couch and scrubs a hand over his face. “’M sorry. I don’t… I wouldn’t ever… You know I love you. ‘N that I respect you. I’d never-”

“Woah, woah, wait!” You grab one of his hands in yours. “Hang on. You love me, I love you. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

Simon doesn’t answer for a long moment, and then he says, without taking his hand from his face, “I trust you to be ‘onest with me. Trust you’ll accept a no. Trust you’re not g’nna yell. Trust you not to punish me if you’re upset.”

“Acknowledged,” you breathe against his bicep. “I trust you to be honest with me, too. And I trust that it’s okay to tell you if I’m not comfortable with anything we discuss or do. I trust that you won’t yell at me. I trust that you’re not going to hurt or harm me on purpose to correct my behavior. Acknowledge.”

Simon sighs, again, then peeks through his fingers at you. “Acknowledged.”

“Okay,” you say, coaxing him to release some of the tension in his shoulders. “So. I did a little research. But I just want to know for sure what you think, what you find exciting.”

He’s pink when he asks, “Y’ve seen the videos?”

“No!”

That finally makes him look at you skeptically. “No?”

“I wasn’t snooping through your stuff,” you protest. “I literally searched for a bikini on your phone and it had the little history symbol next to it. I got curious.”

“Hell of a distance between a bathing suit an’ niche kinks.”

The hint of humor in his voice gives you the permission you were waiting for. You climb into his lap and throw your legs over one of his arms. He hugs you exactly the way you want, just as loving as ever.

“So then,” he eventually says. “What did you find?”

“So much bad porn, oh my god,” you answer. “Not that the actual hucow stuff itself is bad. It’s just that the non-paywalled stuff is steeped in so much spam. And what isn’t pure spam doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing. Just… lots of humiliation and degradation and misogyny kink. Stuff you’ve already said takes you out of the mood. And if that’s sometimes the mood, that’s fine, too. I know we don’t always masturbate to things we’re usually into-”

“It’s not that,” Simon interrupts.

You’re both quiet after. You realize that his heart is racing under your hand, and your heart is beating just as fast. But he keeps holding you, and you keep petting over the dip of his collarbones.

Your stomach churns. “I shouldn’t have said the porn was bad. I’m sorry.”

“It is bad,” Simon snorts. “’S part of why I never mentioned it. Some of that shit is nasty.”

“I like nasty.”

He hums and rubs a hand over your back. “I know, beautiful. But this feels… bad. Some ‘f it… ’S ‘ard to find the words. But I didn’t want you t’ think I see you that way, that I ever want to see you that way.”

“Porn isn’t real life,” you remind him. “Things that happen in a scene that everyone consented to-”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes as you glare up at him. “Let’s not pretend that kink has no basis in reality. Our dynamic is special to me, Naya. I don’t want to… disrespect it, or you, or us, with this.”

“Okay,” you whisper, tucking your face into his neck. You take one of his hands back into yours. “We don’t have to keep talking about it, if you don’t want to. But,” you can’t help but add with a smile. “I did get cow print lingerie. And a headband. It’s got little ears and horns.”

Simon groans. “No, you didn’t.”

“I did!” You press a kiss to his chin. “I’m glad I didn’t try to surprise you with it.”

“Would’a given me an ‘eart attack.”

“That would have been fun to explain. ‘Oh gee, Captain, I didn’t think he’d like it that much.’”

“Oi,” Simon growls.

He dips down to press his lips to yours. You don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around his shoulders and shift to straddle his lap. The kiss is sweet, a reassurance. Like aftercare. Maybe it is. Both of your bodies relax, until you can’t even hold yourself up to keep your lips on his. You lay your head on his shoulder with a content sigh.

You’re like that for a long time before Simon speaks again.

“Its the idea that her body… your body… could be nothing but pleasure and instinct. That I could pull pleasure from you until it would be pain not to.” He’s quiet for a moment, then continues when you don’t reply. “There’s something about it. But it’s a fantasy I never intended to bring to the bedroom. It’s… just something to think about, sometimes.”

  Simon presents the cow print bikini on a Thursday. At first, you’re confused. Then you’re amused, because a year ago you would have worked yourself into a tizzy trying to figure out what he was saying about your weight. But Simon loves your body, and you, and after months of avoiding talking about it, this is a huge step. So you stay silent, and look up at him expectantly.

“Would like to do a scene this weekend,” he says. “Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledged,” you answer, biting back a smile. “What are the parameters?”

Things seem downright vanilla for the first half. A whole day of pampering - spa, nails, hair - that means he’s been planning this for a while. Your favorite, just fancy enough food for dinner, and a dessert to go. All the usual rules apply: Simon’s in charge, you promise to be honest. All in all, a perfect date night.

And then he says something that boggles your mind.

“Okay, wait. I put on the cow print, and then I can only moo? After we get home?”

“No,” he surprises you by saying. He takes a deep breath, then continues. “I want you to wear it all day. An’ you’re only allowed to moo. Except durin’ your appointments. Please don’t moo at your stylists.”

“But at dinner…”

“I’ll order for you,” He says. His eyes flick away, then back to yours. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“But we won’t talk,” you press.

His ears go pink, but he cracks a smile as he says, “I’ll talk. And it’s not a rule that you have to be silent.”

He’s embarrassed, you realize. He’s finally acting on this thing you discussed so long ago, but he’s still nervous about what you’ll think. You have to stifle the part of you that wants to coo.

“Okay,” you say, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Unless I’m using a safeword, I can just… make cow sounds. All day. Acknowledged.”

  The day of comes quickly. And then you’’e contemplating the lingerie you bought months ago. It’s much nicer than the flimsy thing Simon got, “just as ‘n experiment, no sense in wastin’ money ‘f things aren’t good as the fantasy.” The bikini he got you is… cheap. Your purchase will certainly fit under your clothes nicer.

As you pull on the silky material Simon apparently didn’t believe you actually ordered, you take a couple of deep breaths. You’re going to wear cow print for your partner. It’s not much different, you reason, from asking him to graze his knife over your skin while he watches TV. It’s not not his thing. And this isn’t exactly your thing. But you love each other. So you’ll do this thing, because his enjoyment can be yours.

Yeah.

  -

  By the end of dinner, you’re much deeper into a submissive headspace than you ever expected to be. You’re so aware of the urge to talk and the fact that you can’t. It’s a constant cue to look to Simon. More than once, you almost slip up. The words catch in your throat and you have to pivot to a lowing sound, a drawn out vowel that leaves you feeling helpless as he smiles and pets at your hand. You expect it to be maddening, but it’s not. Simon anticipates your needs so well that there’s nothing you need that he doesn’t already provide for you. All you can do is shiver at the way he gives you everything, touches you everywhere.

By the time you’re in the car home, you’re a mess. You can’t sit still, find yourself staring at the side of Simon’s face as he drives. You’re startled when he looks back at you at a red light. He reaches out and you lean in, then jump when he pinches your nipple just hard enough to make you gasp. He watches your face as he pets and plucks, chuckles as you pant and groan and moo.

When the light is green again, he stops. You’re very aware of your right breast.

At the next red, he says, “Give me the other one.”

You do.

“Sweet, pretty girl,” he praises as he tugs at you again. He hums, pleased, as you arch your back. His eyes are dark when he says, “Not wearin’ what I gave you. C’n se y’r nipples beggin’ for attention.

When you look down at yourself, heat flushes through you from your crown to your toes. He’s right, the thin bralette that you’d chosen does nothing to hide you body’s reaction to being teased. And the dress he’d picked for you was already tight around your chest…

The light turns green. You moan as he releases you and turns back to the road.

“What’re you wearin’?” He asks. When you look at him, he’s smirking. “Tell me. Wha’s my pretty girl got under her dress?”

You open your mouth, and your voice sticks. “…Moo?”

“Oh, tha’ sounds nice,” he chuckles. He takes your hand in his. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ it.”

Your thoughts and legs stumble into themselves when you finally walk through your front door. Simon doesn’t let you get far. He catches you around the neck with a big hand and brings you close for a kiss. As soon as the door is shut, his hands make their way to the back of your dress. He unzips and then guides the soft material down until it’s past your hips, and drops down to your feet.

When he pulls away to look at you, his breath catches, and his whole body goes still. You’re so caught in the way his pupils dilate that it takes you a moment to remember the bralette, the panties, the garter belt. The cow print feels like an exaggeration of itself, when you look down at your own breasts. You vaguely remember feeling silly, when you’d put them on, but you don’t remember why. Simon’s eyes are so hot when he looks at you, you can’t help but preen a bit.

“Thought you was jokin,” Simon murmurs, cupping one of your breasts in his hand. His other hand cradles your jaw and makes you look up at him when he pinches your nipple again. His thumb dips into your mouth when you gasp. “But my sweet girl don’t lie to me. An’ she’s always show ready, huh? My sweet, soft girl,” Simon murmurs, going to one knee. He takes one of your hands and kisses your knuckles before placing it on his shoulder. Then he gently lifts your calf to take one of your shoes, then the other as he says, “Not a worry in the world, an’ you still give me so much.”

Even kneeling at your feet, he takes your breath away. His hands smooth up your stockings until he can dip his fingers under the straps of your garters, then he groans. You groan with him. You never know what to do with yourself when he gets like this. Hungry. Reverent on his knees. With a sigh, you close your eyes. You don’t need to know what to do, because he does. The gravity of him makes you sway forward as he leans forward to kiss just above your belly button.

You must signal your mental shift, because Simon stands and lifts you into his arms in the same movement. He kisses your lips like he’s starving. And you try to meet him, try to put everything you haven’t been able to say into the drag of your lips against his.

I love you. Thank you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

You expect him to be rough with you, heavy handed. But Simon is gentle as he touches you all over. When he lays you on the bed, instead of diving into your chest, he keeps kissing your mouth, your neck, down to your shoulder. You can’t stifle a giggle as he sucks kisses into your bicep and down to your forearm.

“Fuck,” he growls. He takes a hold of your hips and gives you a little shake. “You’re so perfect. ‘Ips ‘n thighs ‘n this arse. So strong and still so soft for me.” He dips down to press a kiss to your hip, even as one of his hands starts pinching at your nipple through your bralette again. “Eatin’ good and’ workin’ out ‘n sleepin’ better. Gonna let me give you that life of leisure? No more workin’, pretty girl. Just whatever feels good, whatever makes you ‘appy an’ soft, whatever I c’n give you.”

You try to gasp something that might be “yes” or “please,” but it turns into another drawn out moan. It doesn’t really matter, because Simon flips you onto your hands and knees so fast that your head spins. You almost fall over, but he catches you.

“Sorry sweet girl,” he chuckles. “But you’ve got me so caught up. ‘M gonna take care of you, don’t worry. Just so pretty - distractin’ me.”

Then he’s kissing across your shoulders, then makes his way down to your hipbones. You moan and sigh as his hands grope at you. His hands squeeze at your breasts, then your belly, your thighs, back to your ass. When he bites you, you yelp and groan, arching away from his teeth and into the hands.

“Shh, pretty girl,” he hushes. “’M sorry, I’ll give you what you need. Easy, tha’s it.”

You’re surprised into a gasp by his fingers rubbing gently over your clit through your panties. His other hand eases your back down - from cat to cow, you giggle to yourself - with another shushing sound. The tension bleeds out of your spine at the sound. Simon’s got you, he’s going to take care of you.

“There you go,” Simon rumbles as you drop your head between your arms. He strokes a hand down your back as his other hand gives you just a hint more pressure. “Is that better? Feel nice an’ relaxed?”

You’re feeling less relaxed by the second. Simon knows how to touch you if he wants you to melt. This? Is not that. He’s giving you just enough to tease, to make you instinctively chase his fingers. You shake your head and whimper, shuffling your knees knees further apart and arching your back again. You don’t even try to swallow a grunt of frustration when nothing you do makes him speed up or give you more pleasure.

“Hm?” He presses his lips against your hip as he asks, “Wha’s wrong, pretty girl? You need something?”

You open your mouth to beg, then remember that you can’t say anything. This motherfucker. When you tilt your body to glare at him, his eyes are sparkling with mirth. It’s hard not to smile back, to hold your frown long enough to let him know that you know what he’s doing.

But as usual, he’s a step ahead of you. As soon as you open your mouth to moo sarcastically, he slips a finger under your panties and into you, just as his other hand shoves the bra out of the way to pinch your nipple.

“So wet,” Simon whispers against your cheek. “Took care of everything else today, but you still need more, don’t you? Greedy girl.”

You are wet, have been since before he plucked at your nipples in the car. Since dinner, when he’d explained the cut of his steak, why he liked it. Since he paused and visibly considered what he couldn’t see you wearing. Since he’d looked at you with so much hunger that you’d had to take a sip of your water to gather yourself. You couldn’t say anything, then, by his direction and your own body’s need. You couldn’t make any sound at all, had practically ground your teeth together so you wouldn’t moan like a whore at the table.

Your jaw isn’t clenched now. The sound you make as two thick fingers push in is exactly as obscene as you imagined it would be. They press into you exactly where you want it as his other hand sends sparks through your chest and down your spine. Simon echoes you, breath hot against your face. You can’t keep yourself from chasing his lips with yours.

“Yeah,” he pants between biting kisses. He growls when you rock back into his fingers, and pinches your nipple until you gasp. “Settle, Bambi, ‘m gonna take care o’ you.”

His words melt you. Even as he ratchets your body into more tension, you believe him, and the promise alone is nearly a relief. When he pulls his fingers free, you don’t even think to protest. All you can do is hang your head between your arms and try to catch your breath. Something like a sob scrapes it’s way from your throat when he pushes back in with three.

The sound of Simon undoing his belt makes you tip your hips back and up, automatic. He groans again, deep in his throat, and slaps the meat of your ass. The sharp sting of it reminds you to be almost embarrassed, and you drop to your elbows to bury your face in the bedding.

“There you go,” Simon grunts as he lines himself up. He pushes in slow, so slow, as you pant and writhe and make animal sounds. One of his huge hands comes down to grip the back of your neck as he grunts and shoves deeper. “There’s my sweet girl. Shouldn’t’a kept you waiting. You can take it now, tha’s it.” He leans down, pushing just that little bit deeper as he plucks at your nipple again. He growls against your shoulder, “Gonna do this every day, yeah? Quit your job so I c’n keep you soft like this all the time. Breed you up proper, bet y’re gonna taste so sweet when your milk comes, when it’s all y’ve got to do, just a life of milk ‘n honey.”

You almost can’t make out what he’s saying over the sound of your own noises and the wet sounds of him pushing in and out of you. The fireworks up and down your spine have you writhing back into his thrusts. You can tell he’s rambling, that he’s so lost in your bodies that he’s losing control of his mouth. A change in angle has you crying out again, every nerve on fire as he pushes into you just right. The orgasm that had been building steadily rushes over you. It’s impossible to stop, shakes through your limbs until you collapse onto your chest under him.

“Tha’s it,” Simon hisses, pace steady and devastating as he chases you down to the mattress. “This what you need? Need t’ be bred an’ fucked ‘til you can’t think of nothin’ else? Yeah, tha’s what you need. Gonna make you come on my cock again, fill you up the way you like. Then I’ll hook you up, huh? Can’t leave you wantin’ jus ‘cause I need a break. C’n put a pump at each o’ your tits an’ keep fuckin’ you with a machine, too, ‘til I’m ready to go again, yeah?

Jesus, you think, giggling under him. Your pussy flutters as he gasps something else you can’t quite make out over the rushing in your ears. He wants to ruin you. You want him to, to do all of these things he’s growling about. The thought that he might is thrilling and terrifying, that after he comes and breeds you full he could go to the closet and pull out the machine and the dildo you bought for when he’s deployed to keep fucking you…

Your stomach swoops as you get caught up in your own fantasy. He doesn’t have to stop. You’d be too weak to fight him. And if he tied you up, bound you where he wants to keep you, he could do whatever he wants. Did he actually have a pump, something to pull at your nipples while he watched across the room? Would this be the time he finally surprises you with something you hadn’t quite negotiated? He could, he could, you’d let him, you’d beg-

“Simon!”

The second orgasm hurts. It hits so fast and hard on the heels of the first. You can vaguely feel the wetness running down your thighs as you squirt, legs shaking. Above you, Simon goes abruptly silent as he comes, breath coming out in barely-there grunts as his cock kicks and twitches inside of you.

All of the air huffs out of your lungs as he partially collapses on you. Another giggle stutters out of you. It turns into a moan as he guides your legs down and open so he can grind into you some more until you’re prone. His own gentle chuckle tickles your ear.

“Fuckin’ ell,” he pants. The arm that’s braced to keep his weight off of you shakes a bit. “Gimme… fuck, gimme a minute. ‘Ll get up in a mo’.”

“Mmm,” you hum, kissing at his wrist. You tip your head back to grin up at him. “Moo.”

He crushes you a bit when his laughter makes him fall, but you can’t even pretend to be upset.

[kiwriteswords]

Because You're Just a Man [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist (updated!!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 10k|| AN: Who's going to explain to my boss that seeing this prompt caused me to get ZERO work done today. I'm getting more comfortable with writing smut again and this was honestly my favorite piece I have ever written so far! Also! Thank you for the encouragement on my original post @honeypiehotchner @ssamorganhotchner and @hoe4hotchner <3 Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, canon typical themes, sexual themes, flirting, hotch and reader pushing each others limits, jealous!Hotch, simp!Hotch, unprotected sex, horny hotch, horny reader, provoking hotch hours. Summary: Based on the prompt from @urfriendlywriter: "You're making it really hard to be a gentleman right now."

The hum of the BAU office felt different at night--quieter, but still charged with the weight of unfinished cases and the scent of stale coffee.

It was late, most of the team had already left, and the bullpen was washed in the dim glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the overhead fluorescents. You sat at your desk, typing halfheartedly on your laptop, stealing occasional glances at the one person still in the office.

Hotch.

He sat in his glass-walled office, posture perfect as ever, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been at this for hours. His jaw was tight, his fingers moving steadily across reports, and even from here, you could see the muscle in his cheek flex every time he clenched it.

God, he was impossible.

You’d been seeing him--or at least talking about the possibility of seeing him--for weeks now. There had been stolen moments, almost-confessions, a tension so thick between you that even the team had started noticing. But Hotch, ever the professional, ever the stoic leader, hadn’t given you much to go on. A lingering glance? A stray touch? A sharp inhale when you got too close? Sure. But he never acted. Never said anything.

Nothing concrete, anyways. 

And it was starting to drive you insane.

At first, you thought maybe he was just slow to act. That he wanted to be sure. But the more time passed, the more you started to wonder: Was he even attracted to you?

You knew he cared. You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. In the way he checked in after cases, always ensuring you were okay. But physically? He was impossible to read. He was so composed, so disciplined, that you couldn’t tell if he was holding himself back or if he simply didn’t feel the way you did.

So you decided to test him.

Nothing outrageous, nothing too obvious--just enough to see if you could shake his composure.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead, the hem of your blouse riding up just a fraction. If he was looking, he didn’t show it.

Fine.

You stood slowly, making a deliberate show of gathering your things. You could feel the soft stretch of your pencil skirt as you shifted, the way your blouse clung just right in the low light. You weren’t normally one to be overly conscious of what you wore to work, but tonight? Tonight, you wanted him to notice.

File in hand, you took your time walking toward his office, letting the faint click of your heels punctuate the silence.

He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he knew you were there.

"Still working?" you asked, voice just a little softer than usual.

Hotch finally glanced up, dark eyes flicking to yours before settling back on the paperwork in front of him. "Looks that way." His voice was smooth, measured. Controlled.

You stepped inside, setting the file down on his desk--closer than necessary. Close enough that you could smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne, something rich and warm beneath the sharpness of his aftershave.

"You should take a break," you mused, tilting your head slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. "I don’t have time for a break."

"Not even for me?" You rested your hand against the edge of his desk, fingers just barely brushing the wood as you leaned in--just enough to make it impossible for him to ignore the proximity.

That did it.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you saw it.

The slight shift of his jaw. The way his fingers tightened around his pen just briefly before setting it down.

A rush of satisfaction curled in your stomach.

So, he does notice.

But the moment passes as quickly as it came. Hotch barely spares you another glance, flipping the page of his report with that same unreadable, impassive expression. If he was affected, he sure as hell wasn’t showing it now.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, watching him.

That’s how you want to play it, Hotchner?

Fine.

You could almost see it--the way his mind worked, the methodical discipline he relied on to keep himself locked up tight. He was compartmentalizing. Shoving down whatever impulse had flickered through him the second he caught your scent, or felt the heat of your body just inches from his desk.

He wasn’t indifferent. He was deliberately refusing to acknowledge it.

That realization sent a slow hum of intrigue through you.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought. If you wanted to get a real reaction out of him, you’d have to be smarter about it. Subtler.

You straightened up, deliberately not lingering the way you had been. Let him think you were backing off.

“Don’t work too hard,” you said lightly, turning toward the door.

You swore you felt his eyes on you as you walked away--but when you glanced back, he was already staring at his paperwork again, jaw tight.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Back at your desk, you settled into your chair and let your fingers drift over your keyboard, not really typing, not really thinking about work anymore. Instead, your mind was spinning, plotting.

What else would get to him?

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

You had all the time in the world to figure that out.

oxoxoxoxoxoxox

The conference room was buzzing with low chatter, the sound of files rustling, and the distant whir of the coffee machine in the bullpen. The team was gathering for a briefing, and you were one of the last to arrive, slipping in just as Hotch stood at the head of the table, setting down the case file.

You slid into the chair across from him, casually smoothing the hem of your skirt as you crossed your legs, slow and deliberate.

His gaze flicked up--so brief, so controlled, that anyone else would have missed it. But you didn’t.

Your stomach hummed with satisfaction.

His eyes dropped immediately to the folder in front of him, fingers adjusting his watch before flipping open the case file. His movements were precise, methodical. A man rebuilding his walls, brick by brick.

Good. You weren’t done testing their strength yet.

Morgan and JJ were still chatting, waiting for Garcia to finish setting up, so you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, watching Hotch as if you were actually interested in the file he was reading.

“You didn’t go home last night, did you?” you mused.

Hotch’s jaw tightened just slightly. “I was finishing reports.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Right. That explains why you’re so grumpy today.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he replied, voice smooth, but the way his grip subtly flexed around his pen told you otherwise.

“You kind of are.” You let the amusement curl in your voice. “At least a little.”

His exhale was barely audible, a long, slow breath through his nose. He still wasn’t looking at you, keeping his attention on the paperwork in front of him, but his fingers tightened around his pen just slightly.

You smiled.

And then, because you wanted to see just how much he was holding back, you stretched--a lazy, innocent stretch, your back arching just enough to accentuate your figure, your blouse shifting ever so slightly.

Hotch froze.

Just for half a second.

But it was there.

The slight pause in the movement of his pen. The subtle way his jaw went even tighter. The fraction of a second where his eyes flicked toward you before snapping back to his papers.

You bit back a smirk.

This was working.

You tapped your fingers against the table, feigning nonchalance. “You know, Hotch, if you ever actually relaxed once in a while, I think the world would keep turning.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to respond--but at that moment, Garcia’s voice burst through the moment, her usual chipper tone filling the room.

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Hotch’s shoulders as he very purposefully turned his full attention to the case.

He was trying so hard.

And it was only making you more determined.

xoxoxoxoooxox

The night air in Quantico was thick with humidity, the kind that settled into your skin and made the inside of the BAU feel heavier than usual. It made you wonder if this is where they decided to save bureaucratic dollars, by turning the air conditioner off when people worked after office hours.

Most of the team had already left, the bullpen dimly lit except for the faint glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the coffee machine cycling through its last brew of the night.

Hotch was still in his office, as always.

And you were still here.

At first, your little experiments had been entertaining--a game to see if you could shake his impossible composure, test the limits of his discipline. And while you had noticed the cracks--those fleeting glances, the small shifts in body language--he never let them grow into something more.

And it was starting to piss you off.

It wasn’t as if you expected him to shove the desk between you aside and kiss you breathless (though the thought was an incredibly tempting one). But you needed something. A sign. A confirmation that this thing--this slow, unbearable push-and-pull--wasn’t just in your head.

Because if he wasn’t interested, if all of this was just a cruel trick of your own imagination, then what the hell were you doing?

You pushed away from your desk, snatching up the case file you’d been pretending to work on, and made your way up the stairs to his office.

His door was open, but he was in his usual state of intense focus--pen in hand, elbow resting on the desk, brows drawn together. His sleeves were rolled up now, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his tie was loosened just enough to be tempting.

You leaned against the doorway, tilting your head. “You do realize the case is over, right?”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Paperwork isn’t.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “You work too much.”

“I’ve been told.”

There was something infuriating about his ability to stay perfectly neutral. You stepped closer, rounding his desk slightly, just enough to lean against the edge.

Close enough to be impossible to ignore.

“You ever think about taking a break? Doing something fun?”

His eyes flicked up at that--just for a second--but his expression didn’t change. “I have fun.”

You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms. “No, you don’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

You took it further. “When was the last time you let yourself actually relax?”

“I don’t have the luxury of--”

“Oh, come on, Hotch,” you interrupted, frustration leaking into your tone now. “You’re always like this. So composed, so in control.” You leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something just a little more pointed. “So unaffected.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. A warning. A silent caution that you were pushing too hard.

You ignored it.

You tilted your head, considering him, your frustration bubbling into something sharper.

And then, because you couldn’t stop yourself, because you were tired of second-guessing and waiting for something that might not even be there, you let the words slip:

"You must be the most disciplined man on the planet, Hotchner." You let it sit for a beat before adding, deliberately flippant, "Or maybe I’m just not your type."

That did it.

It was instant.

His pen stilled, fingers tightening around it before setting it down with deliberate care. His jaw tensed, the muscle there flickering under the low light. And then--finally--he looked at you.

Not a glance. Not a fleeting acknowledgment.

A look.

Slow. Measured. And dark in a way that made your breath hitch.

For the first time, you felt something shift in the air between you--something crackling, something dangerous.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, his gaze locked onto yours like he was considering his next move. Like he was deciding.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. “You really think that?”

Your stomach tightened.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse picked up. “Well, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

His exhale was slow, controlled--like he was reining himself in.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were the one poking him--or if you had just walked straight into something you weren’t ready for.

The room felt smaller.

Hotch hadn’t moved--not an inch. He was still leaning back in his chair, arms resting on the desk, posture as composed as ever. And yet, something had shifted.

Maybe it was in the air between you, thick with unsaid things.

Maybe it was in his eyes--still dark, still unreadable, but no longer distant.

Or maybe it was in the silence, the heavy pause after your words had landed, stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Maybe you were right? Maybe you were wrong? 

"You really think that?"

He repeated. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something new in it. Something deliberate.

You lifted a shoulder in a shrug, determined to keep your ground, even as your heartbeat knocked against your ribs. “Well, again, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, tilting his head ever so slightly as he studied you.

And then--he smirked.

It wasn’t full, wasn’t obvious, but it was there. The barest hint of amusement curling at the edges of his lips, just enough to make your stomach tighten.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

He tapped his fingers against the desk once--just once--before leaning forward. Not much, but enough that the shift in proximity sent a shiver down your spine.

"You expect me to react on your timeline," he said, voice smooth, steady. "You think if I don’t, it means I don’t feel it." His eyes flickered over your face, slow and deliberate. "That I don’t want to."

Heat licked up your spine.

His words were careful, calculated--but there was something beneath them. A warning.

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to let him see it. You lifted your chin slightly. "Am I wrong?"

Hotch exhaled sharply, the ghost of a laugh under his breath, before shaking his head.

“No,” he admitted. “But you are underestimating me.”

Your stomach flipped.

You felt the weight of those words, how easily they unraveled the confidence you’d built up.

Underestimating him?

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could speak, he continued, voice dropping just slightly:

“If I wanted to give in, I would have already.”

The sheer certainty in his tone sent a thrill down your spine.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "So why haven’t you?"

He held your gaze steady and unwavering.

"Because I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of winning this little game you're playing."

Your breath caught.

So he knew.

He’d known this whole time.

Bastard. 

Every shift in your tone. Every touch that lingered just a little too long. Every glance, every tease, every attempt to get a reaction out of him.

He had seen all of it.

And he had been letting you play.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, frustration and thrill curling into one. You had been trying to push him, to get under his skin, but now it was you who felt unsteady, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"You think this is a game?" you challenged.

Hotch’s gaze flickered lower--just briefly, just enough to make your breath hitch--before snapping back to yours.

“I think you’re trying to get a reaction out of me,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “And I think you’re getting frustrated because I won’t give you one.”

You sucked in a breath, hands curling at your sides.

“And that’s why you’re underestimating me.”

Your throat tightened.

He’s turning this on you.

You had walked into this office thinking you were the one in control, that you were the one poking at his restraint.

But now, sitting there, completely composed, unshaken, he was making it clear:

He had never been the one losing control, but you did have an effect on him.

He was letting you think you were winning--letting you push, letting you test, letting you play.

But the second he wanted to break the tension, he would.

And not a moment sooner.

Silence stretched between you, and you realized that if you said anything now, you’d only be proving him right.

So you did the only thing you could.

You stepped back.

Not much. Just enough to put a few inches of space between you. Just enough to breathe.

Hotch’s lips twitched slightly, almost like he knew he had won this round.

"Goodnight," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

Your nails pressed into your palm, heat still simmering low in your stomach, but you forced yourself to stay composed as you turned.

And as you walked out of his office, one thought burned in your mind.

You had severely underestimated Aaron Hotchner.

And now, you were more determined than ever to make him break.

xxoxoxoxoxo

The local precinct smelled like stale coffee and cheap disinfectant, the kind of place that saw too many long nights and not enough successful arrests. The team had been working with the local PD all morning, briefing the officers, pouring over evidence, and establishing a strategy for catching the unsub. The air was thick with tension--case tension, but also something else.

Hotch tension.

You had been careful, playing it safe the last couple of days after your last conversation with him. He had successfully flipped your game back on you, made you second-guess your own approach, and that had annoyed you. But more than that--it had intrigued you.

You had underestimated him.

But that only made you want to try harder.

So now, standing in the middle of the precinct, surrounded by officers, detectives, and your team, you found your next move.

It happened when one of the younger officers--a rookie, maybe mid-twenties--sidled up beside you while you were scanning over a map of the unsub’s hunting ground. He was cocky, too casual for a case like this, but harmless enough.

“You guys always get put on the bad ones, huh?” he asked, shaking his head.

You hummed, glancing at him briefly. “Something like that.”

He smelled like cheap cologne and bad news. 

His eyes flicked over you--not in a way that was offensive, but in a way that was obvious. “So, what’s it like working for him?” His gaze drifted past you, and you knew exactly who he was referring to.

You glanced toward the other side of the room, where Hotch was standing with Rossi and Morgan, discussing logistics with the local captain. He was doing what he always did--keeping his tone measured, his posture unwavering, his presence demanding attention even when he wasn’t speaking.

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb.

The rookie smirked. “I mean, he’s kind of intense, right? Seems like the type of guy who doesn’t let his team breathe.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, he lets us breathe. Just not when we’re wasting time.”

The officer chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “And what about after hours? He loosen up at all then?”

It was an innocent enough comment. It wasn’t inappropriate, wasn’t particularly suggestive, but it was loaded--an implication lingering beneath the surface.

And that’s when you felt it.

The shift.

It wasn’t obvious. No one else in the room would have noticed. But you did.

His energy--you could feel it surrounding you without him even making as much as a subtle eye movement. He was all around you. All at once. Just not physically. 

The way Hotch’s posture stiffened, ever so slightly.

The way his conversation faltered for just a fraction of a second before continuing.

The way his fingers twitched, like he had the urge to look over but refused to.

You had just done something dangerous.

And you liked it.

A slow, wicked idea unfurled in your mind.

You didn’t even have to flirt with the rookie. You just had to let him think he had a shot. Let Hotch think that someone else might be in your orbit.

So you smiled--just a small, amused smile--as you said, “Why? You looking for some FBI mentorship?”

The officer grinned. “I wouldn’t say no.”

And then, because you could, because you were feeling reckless, you let your fingers lightly trail over his forearm. A barely there touch. A casual, fleeting thing.

But it wasn’t casual at all.

You felt the shift further before you even looked up.

And when you finally glanced toward Hotch--when you saw the way his gaze was locked onto you now, the sharp, barely restrained tension in his features--you almost lost your own composure.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes?

His eyes were burning.

A rush of heat surged through your body.

Oh.

You had found something.

But before you could process it, Hotch’s voice cut through the air--calm, too calm.

“Agent,” he said sharply. “A word.”

Your stomach dropped.

And not in the way that made you nervous.

In the way that made your pulse spike.

You turned slowly, heart hammering, as Hotch gestured for you to follow him.

He didn’t wait for you--just walked toward one of the quieter hallways of the precinct, expecting you to keep up.

You did.

His legs were so long--such long strides. 

Your mind was racing, trying to figure out if he was mad or if this was something else--if you had finally managed to push too far.

When he finally stopped, he turned abruptly, standing so close that you almost collided into him.

His jaw was tight. His breathing controlled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked up at him, playing the part of the innocent. “Excuse me?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “The officer.”

Your heart thumped. You knew what this was now.

It wasn’t anger.

It was something else entirely.

A slow, knowing smirk curved your lips. “Oh,” you said, tilting your head. “You were paying attention.”

His nostrils flared slightly.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, voice even lower now.

Your pulse thrummed in your throat. “Am I?”

Hotch’s gaze locked onto yours, something sharp, something restrained--but this time, barely.

For the first time, you knew you had him.

And now?

Now you were dying to see what happened when Aaron Hotchner stopped holding back.

The hallway was too quiet.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just you, hyperaware of every single breath, every shift in the air between you and Hotch. The precinct buzzed faintly in the distance, but here, in this small, dimly lit corridor, it felt like another world entirely.

Hotch hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

The space between you was barely a few inches, and yet, the tension crackled like a live wire, sparking in the narrow gap separating you.

His jaw was tight. His shoulders squared. His hands twitched--just slightly, like he was debating what to do with them.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, but there was something off about it--something that told you it wasn’t just an exhale. It was restraint.

Tightly coiled, barely-leashed restraint.

You had never seen him like this.

He was always so careful. So composed. So in control.

But right now? Right now, there was something just beneath the surface, something barely held together by the thread of his discipline.

And it was because of you.

You could feel your pulse hammering against your ribs, heat rising up your spine, but you didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

“I didn’t realize talking to an officer was against BAU protocol,” you mused, letting the words hang in the air between you, testing, pushing.

Hotch’s eyes darkened. “That’s not what this is about.”

Your lips curled slightly, your confidence returning in full force. “No?”

His breath hitched--just a fraction, just enough.

Then, before you could blink, he took a step closer.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But it was deliberate.

You were trained to decipher human behavior, after all. This man--he was one of the hardest shells to crack, but something told you how to put the pieces together now. 

Your spine straightened instinctively, the sudden nearness setting off a slow burn low in your stomach.

For the first time, it felt like he was the one testing you.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured, voice dangerously low.

A shiver trailed down your spine.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as the heat between you thickened. “And what am I doing, Hotch?”

His jaw ticked. “You want a reaction.”

You tilted your head slightly, barely suppressing a smirk. “Do I?”

His exhale was sharp this time, less measured, less composed. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was physically keeping himself from moving.

Then, before you could process what was happening, he leaned in--just enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, warm, sharp.

“You really want to test me?” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

Your lips parted slightly, a retort forming, but nothing came out.

Hotch let the moment hang, suspended, the air thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then--just as quickly as he had closed the space--he pulled back, his expression unreadable once more.

His discipline snapped back into place like a steel trap, as if he had never let it slip at all.

But you had seen it.

You had felt it.

And as he straightened, adjusting his tie, clearing his throat, you knew.

He wasn’t unaffected.

Not even close.

“Get back to work,” he said finally, voice smooth, controlled.

But he didn’t look at you when he said it.

And that?

That told you everything you needed to know.

You thought you had won.

You felt the tension, saw the moment Hotch nearly cracked, heard the shift in his breath. You knew now--knew for certain--that you affected him. That you weren’t imagining things.

That Aaron Hotchner wanted you.

And yet, as you walked back into the main room of the precinct, trying to steady your own breathing, trying to refocus on the case, something gnawed at you.

Because when he had pulled back, when he had gathered himself, when he had smoothed his tie and sent you back to work like nothing had happened--there had been something in his expression.

Not regret. Not hesitation.

Something else.

And you realized it too late.

You had just handed him the upper hand.

oxoxoxoxoxxoox

It started small.

You were seated at the long table in the precinct’s war room, reviewing files, mapping out patterns on a whiteboard with Morgan and Prentiss, when you felt it.

A gaze.

Hotch was across the room, engaged in a discussion with Rossi and the lead detective, his voice even, steady. Composed.

But he was watching you.

Not directly. Not obviously.

But you could feel it.

The way his eyes flicked toward you between sentences, the way his attention lingered just a second too long before returning to the conversation at hand.

It shouldn’t have rattled you.

But it did.

Because you had spent so long trying to get a reaction out of him. And now, suddenly, he wasn’t ignoring you. He wasn’t brushing it off.

He was watching you back.

And worse?

He wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Your stomach twisted in a way you weren’t used to.

You forced yourself to refocus, flipping through the files in front of you, but it was impossible to concentrate, not when you could still feel his eyes on you, his presence like a gravitational pull you couldn’t ignore.

And then--he upped the ante.

It was in the small things.

Like the next time you spoke to him--when you handed him a report, expecting him to simply take it like he always did, business as usual.

But instead, his fingers brushed yours as he took the file, slow, deliberate.

The touch was barely there, but it sent an electric jolt up your arm.

You glanced up at him, startled, only to find his gaze already on yours. Steady. Controlled.

Like he knew exactly what he had done.

Your lips parted, but he simply nodded, expression unreadable. “Thank you.”

And then he walked away.

Your breath stuck in your throat.

Oh, he’s good.

It only got worse from there.

During the next strategy meeting, you found yourself seated beside him--not an unusual occurrence, but this time, you felt it.

The space between you was almost nonexistent.

His arm rested along the table, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of your notepad, each accidental touch sending a slow hum through your body.

But the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

Was when you went to reach for your coffee mug at the same time he reached for his.

Your fingers brushed again, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Not right away.

Instead, his thumb lingered against your skin for a half-second too long.

And when you looked up at him, startled, he just--

Smirked.

It was small. Subtle. So quick that if you hadn’t been looking, you might’ve missed it.

But it was there.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee mug like it was your lifeline, because suddenly, the temperature in the room felt ten degrees hotter.

And he just continued on like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just turned the game back on you.

You barely heard a word Morgan was saying, barely processed anything but the way Hotch’s arm remained just close enough that if you moved, even slightly, you would touch again.

He was toying with you now.

Testing you.

And suddenly, you understood.

He had been waiting for this.

Letting you push him. Letting you get bold.

Because he had known the whole time that the moment he pushed back, you wouldn’t be ready for it.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to refocus, forcing yourself to push through the way your stomach twisted, the way your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Fine.

If he wanted to play, you could play.

But you were starting to realize something you hadn’t expected.

Aaron Hotchner was a much more dangerous opponent than you had ever given him credit for.

And now, you weren’t sure if you were winning--or if you were about to completely lose yourself in him.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place the team liked to celebrate in after a case closed--a quiet enough spot to talk, but loud enough that no one paid much attention to a group of FBI agents drinking in the corner.

The case had been a difficult one, drawn out and exhausting, but the unsub was in custody, the victims’ families had answers, and--for tonight at least--you could all breathe a little easier.

You nursed your drink, watching as Morgan and Prentiss laughed at something Garcia said, Rossi swirling his whiskey in his glass as he smirked at whatever banter they were trading.

And then there was Hotch.

Sitting beside you, as always.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still distant in that way only he could manage--always composed, always aware of himself, of his surroundings.

Always in control.

You had spent the entire night testing that control.

At first, it was subtle. A lingering touch when you handed him his drink, a fleeting brush of your fingers against his wrist when you leaned in to speak over the noise of the bar.

Then, bolder.

A teasing remark, the way you laughed just a little softer when he said something dry and sarcastic, the way your hand rested lightly against his thigh just as you shifted in your seat.

You had expected a reaction.

You wanted one.

But instead of pulling away, instead of scolding you, instead of doing what he always did--remaining unaffected, unshaken--Hotch did something worse.

He played along.

He didn’t move your hand. He didn’t shift away.

He let it happen.

And the worst part?

He let you sit with it.

Let you feel the weight of your own actions, the way the tension between you thickened, the way your pulse picked up when his dark eyes flicked toward yours, unreadable but aware.

He was so much better at this game than you were.

And you were losing.

You needed to tip the scales back in your favor.

So you made a choice.

You reached for your drink, fingers brushing the rim, and took a slow sip--letting your lips close around the edge of the glass, letting your tongue flicker just slightly against the rim as you pulled back.

It was innocent enough.

But the moment you placed your glass back down, you shifted in your seat--legs crossing deliberately, brushing against his knee as you tilted your head, looking up at him from beneath your lashes.

And then you said it.

Low. Soft. Just for him.

"You know, Hotch…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flustered before."

It was a direct challenge.

A blatant, deliberate provocation.

And this time?

He reacted.

The shift was instantaneous.

His fingers tightened hard around his glass, his jaw clenching as his breath hitched--so subtly that no one else would have noticed, but you did.

His lips parted slightly, his tongue flicking against the inside of his cheek like he was considering his next move.

Then, finally--finally--he turned to look at you fully.

And the intensity in his gaze?

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

His voice was low, rough around the edges, laced with something you had never heard from him before.

"You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman right now."

Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table, and you swallowed, suddenly feeling so much smaller beneath the weight of his attention.

You had wanted this.

You had asked for this.

And now?

Now you weren’t sure if you were ready for what happened next.

Because the way Hotch was looking at you?

Like he had been holding back for so long--so painfully long--and was finally, finally reaching the edge of his control?

It sent a shiver down your spine.

And suddenly, for the first time since this little game started…

You realized you might have just gotten in over your head.

Your stomach clenched, heat flooding through your body in waves, but you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when his fingers flexed against his glass, his jaw clenched so tightly that you could almost hear the strain in it.

Not when you realized--really realized--that you had finally done it.

You had finally pushed him to his limit.

And now, for the first time, you were the one feeling unsteady.

A slow smirk threatened at the corner of his lips, barely there, his fingers tapping against his whiskey glass before he finally--finally--pulled his gaze away from yours.

But not before he leaned in, just a fraction closer.

Just enough for you to feel his warmth.

Just enough for his breath to ghost against your skin when he murmured, “Finish your drink.”

Your breath hitched.

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping the glass as your pulse pounded in your ears, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he hadn’t given you an order before.

Not like that.

Not in a way that made your thighs press together beneath the table.

You took a slow sip, the whiskey burning down your throat, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was making your head spin.

It was him.

You were utterly and completely drunk on him. 

Hotch leaned back in his chair, as if regaining some of his composure, but you could see it now.

The way his fingers still flexed against the glass.

The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual.

The way his entire body was coiled tight, like he was waiting.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

You had no idea what he was waiting for.

A few minutes passed, conversation continuing around you, but it felt like background noise now--like nothing else in the room mattered except the heavy weight of whatever this was sitting between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Hotch glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair.

The shift sent a jolt of anticipation through your body.

He leaned down slightly, voice low in your ear.

"Let’s go."

Your stomach flipped.

You set your glass down, fingers slightly shaky as you grabbed your coat, barely managing a quick glance at the team.

Morgan smirked. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Prentiss definitely noticed something.

But you didn’t have time to care.

Because the moment you stepped outside into the cool night air, the second the door shut behind you, you barely had time to turn before Hotch’s voice--low, measured, dangerous--cut through the silence.

"Tell me something."

You looked up, breath catching. “What?”

His gaze burned into yours, dark and unwavering.

"Was this just a game to you?"

Your throat tightened.

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched. “All of it,” he murmured. “The teasing. The touches. The way you looked at me back there.” His eyes flickered to your lips before snapping back to your gaze. “Was it just a game?”

The air between you was electric.

Your stomach churned, your pulse hammering in your chest, because this was it.

This was him--finally, finally dropping the act.

And the rawness in his voice?

The realness in it?

It made you realize exactly what you wanted.

Your lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping before you whispered, “No.”

Hotch’s entire body reacted to that word.

A sharp inhale. His fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

And then--finally--he stopped holding back.

His hand lifted--slow, deliberate--fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your chin up.

Not demanding. Not rushed.

Just assessing.

Just waiting.

Like he needed you to give him permission.

Like he needed to know you wanted this as much as he did.

And God, did you want this.

Your breath stuttered, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, you leaned into his touch, exhaling softly as your fingers curled against the lapels of his jacket.

That was all it took.

Hotch moved.

His lips were on yours, firm but controlled--measured, like he was still trying to hold back, still trying not to lose himself completely.

But you wanted him to lose it.

So you made a sound--soft, desperate--pressing yourself closer, and that was it.

His restraint snapped.

A sharp inhale against your lips, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His body was warm, solid, hot, and suddenly you were gripping him, fingers twisting into his shirt as his lips parted, deepening the kiss, letting out a low, gravelly noise that sent a shockwave down your spine.

The street was too open.

The world was too present.

But Hotch--Aaron--was kissing you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

And the second his hands tightened around you, the second his teeth grazed your lower lip, you knew.

You had both lost this game.

And you couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

The kiss was heated, sharp, and all consuming, a slow unraveling of every ounce of tension you had been building for weeks.

Hotch’s hands were firm against your waist, fingers flexing like he was still battling the instinct to pull you closer, like he was still trying to cling to the last fragments of control that were slipping through his fingers.

You weren’t making it easy for him.

Your hands fisted into the front of his shirt, tugging him forward, pressing yourself into the solid warmth of his chest, needing more--needing all of him.

And God, the way he reacted--

The sharp inhale against your lips, the way his fingers dug into your waist, the soft, barely-contained groan that rumbled deep in his chest--

It was like nothing you had imagined.

He wasn’t careful.

He wasn’t measured.

He was starved.

Hotch tore his lips from yours, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your hips as if he was physically keeping himself from devouring you completely.

Your own breath was uneven, your hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping lightly against his shirt.

“Aaron--”

His groan was immediate, like hearing his name like that sent a direct current through his body.

Then his hands moved.

He skimmed them up your sides, tracing the curves he had so painstakingly ignored for weeks, months, forever--his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your blouse before one of them slid into your hair, tilting your chin just so before he kissed you again.

Harder.

Rougher.

No restraint now.

It sent a shockwave through your body, heat pooling low in your stomach as his teeth scraped your lower lip, his other hand gripping your waist like he needed you, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

And God, you didn’t want him to stop.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were aware that you were still outside the bar, still in public, still far too exposed for what was rapidly spiraling into something uncontainable.

Hotch must have realized it at the same time because he broke away, breathless, dark eyes burning into yours.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The ride to his place was a blur.

You barely remembered getting into the car.

Barely remembered the way his hands tightened on the wheel, the way his jaw ticked as you sat beside him, thighs pressing together, anticipating.

The air in the car was thick, electric with everything unsaid, everything about to happen.

And the second the door to his apartment closed behind you--

It snapped.

Hotch was on you before you could take another breath.

His lips crashed into yours, his hands gripping your hips, backing you against the wall like he needed to feel you, like he was making up for every second he had spent denying this.

Your breath hitched, your arms looping around his neck, nails dragging along the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you kissed him back, tilting your head to let him deepen it, let him take what he wanted.

And God, did he want.

His hands wandered, gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers teasing the hem of your blouse before slipping beneath it, palms searing against your skin.

He let out a low groan, his mouth moving to your jaw, down to your neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower, sending a pulse straight to your core.

“Aaron--”

Another groan.

His fingers tightened on your hips, his breath warm against your skin.

“You--” He exhaled sharply, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

You shivered, gripping his shoulders. “Then show me.”

Something snapped in him at that.

His hands slid to the back of your thighs, and before you could react, he was lifting you, guiding your legs around his waist, pressing you firmly against the wall, his body pressing flush against yours.

Heat flared through you at the sheer strength of him, the way he held you so effortlessly, the way his lips found yours again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, owning the kiss in a way that made you dizzy.

He walked you to the bedroom like that, lips never leaving yours, never giving you a moment to breathe.

And when he laid you down, settling between your legs, hands braced beside your head, his breath coming out ragged--

You realized you had been so, so wrong.

You had thought you were in control.

Had thought you were winning this game.

But the way Aaron Hotchner was looking at you now?

Like he owned you?

Like he was done holding back?

You knew.

You had never stood a chance.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room was dim, bathed in the soft glow from the city lights spilling through the window. The air was thick--heavy--with heat and want and weeks of barely restrained tension finally snapping apart at the seams.

Hotch hovered above you, one hand braced against the mattress, the other tracing along your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, teasing.

You exhaled sharply, your chest rising beneath him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. You had never seen him like this--eyes dark, his breath uneven, his entire body wound so tight, like he was fighting every urge to just take you right then and there.

He was still holding back.

You weren’t having that.

Your fingers tugged at his collar, pulling him down until his lips crashed against yours again, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues meeting, consuming.

A low sound rumbled in his chest--a groan, gravelly and wrecked--as his weight settled between your legs, pressing firm against you, and God, you could feel everything.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, your nails dragging down his back, and that was it.

He broke.

Hotch's mouth moved--leaving your lips, tracing a path down your jaw, to the curve of your throat. He sucked, bit--just enough to make you gasp, his tongue sweeping over the sting.

"Aaron," you breathed, your hands threading into his hair, tugging hard.

His reaction was immediate--a deep groan against your skin, his fingers gripping your waist, his hips pressing flush against yours in a slow, torturous roll.

You gasped, arching up against him, heat flooding through your body as his hands wandered, sliding beneath your blouse, fingers tracing over your stomach, exploring.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, lips dragging down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You and your games.”

You smirked, gasping as his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “I think you liked them.”

Hotch exhaled a sharp breath, pressing his forehead to your shoulder for a moment, laughing, but it was low, dark--not amusement, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Then he lifted his head, his fingers tilting your chin just so until your eyes met his.

“I let you play, sweetheart.” His voice was silk and steel, deep and gravelly, thick with desire. “But now?”

He smirked--smirked--and leaned in, lips brushing against yours in a whisper of a kiss.

“Now it’s my turn.”

A shiver ran through you, your pulse pounding, your entire body on fire.

Then, in one swift motion, he sat up, pulling you with him, his fingers tugging at the hem of your blouse. His eyes met yours, giving you one last out.

But there was no hesitation.

Not from you.

Not from him.

Your hands covered his, pushing the fabric up, and then it was gone--tossed aside, forgotten.

His eyes--God, the way he looked at you.

Dark. Devouring. Like he was memorizing every inch.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick, rough.

Then his hands were on you again--roaming, claiming--his lips pressing, trailing, worshiping.

Your head tipped back, another breathless gasp escaping as his hands found the clasp of your bra, his fingers making quick work of it before sliding the straps down your shoulders, his lips following their path, tongue flicking, teasing.

You arched into him, needing more, your own hands tugging at his shirt, desperate to even the playing field.

Hotch chuckled--deep, dark--before obliging, sitting back just enough to yank the offending fabric over his head.

Your breath hitched.

You had seen him in varying states of undress before--worn-down hotel rooms, bulletproof vests over tight shirts, dress shirts rolled up to his forearms.

But this?

Seeing him like this--the broad lines of his shoulders, the toned muscle of his chest, the faint scar near his ribs--

Your fingers traced over it instinctively, your touch featherlight.

Hotch inhaled sharply.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, a teasing edge beneath the gravel.

You barely had time to process before he was kissing you again--deep and desperate, his hands sliding down, over the curve of your hips, fingers gripping, pulling you closer.

You gasped, hands curling around his biceps, feeling the tension in them, the way he was still holding himself back, still reining himself in.

So you tested him again.

Rolling your hips just so against his.

Hotch groaned, a sharp, wrecked sound against your lips. His fingers dug into your thighs, his control finally fraying--

“Fuck,” he exhaled, forehead pressing to yours.

You smirked, barely able to breathe.

“That’s all it took?” you teased. “I thought you had more self-control than that, Hotchner.”

His breath hitched.

Then--

You barely had a second to react before he had you pinned, his body flush against yours, his lips ghosting over your ear.

His voice was low, dangerous, devastatingly wrecked.

"You're going to regret saying that."

Your breath caught.

Then his hands moved--and you shattered.

Your pulse pounded, every inch of your body burning under Hotch’s touch, under the way he was looking at you now--like he had waited for this, ached for this, and was finally letting himself have it.

You swallowed, fingers tightening against his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he was still holding himself back--even now.

"Then make me," you whispered.

Hotch moved.

His lips crashed against yours, harder this time, rougher, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to touch you, like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

You moaned into the kiss, arching against him as his hands slid down, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, exploring, learning you.

You were already dizzy, already losing yourself in him, but you didn’t care.

You didn’t want careful.

You wanted him.

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, but Hotch caught your wrist, breath ragged, his forehead pressing to yours.

His eyes--dark and burning--searched yours, his fingers tightening around your wrist like he was waiting for something.

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough, strained, but still careful.

Your heart ached at the question, at the way he was still thinking about you, still making sure this was something you wanted.

You lifted your other hand, tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," you whispered.

Something in him snapped.

His lips were on yours again, his hands sliding lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you, guiding your legs around his waist before pressing you firmly against the mattress.

His body was solid, strong, his weight pressing into you in a way that had your breath catching, heat spreading low in your stomach as his mouth wandered--down your jaw, your throat, lips and tongue claiming you inch by inch.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gasping as his hands explored, learning the shape of you, teasing, tormenting--

"Aaron--"

The groan that ripped from his throat was wrecked, his fingers digging into your skin as his hips pressed flush against yours.

"You love saying my name like that, don’t you?" His voice was low, teasing, but you could hear the strain in it.

You smirked, tilting your head back, offering him more as his lips traced a path down your collarbone. "I like what it does to you."

His breath hitched.

Then his teeth scraped, just enough to make you gasp, his hands finally making quick work of the last barriers between you.

Fabric was pulled away, discarded, forgotten.

And when his gaze lowered--when his hands finally moved where you needed them most--

You shattered.

Hotch devoured every reaction, every gasp, every moan, learning you, memorizing you, until you were a writhing, trembling mess beneath him.

And when he finally, finally pressed into you--

It was slow. Deliberate.

Like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

Like he wanted to ruin you.

Your fingers clawed at his back, legs wrapping tighter around him as he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck.

"You feel so--" His voice broke, his breath ragged, his lips pressing against your shoulder as he rolled his hips--

You gasped, arching into him, pleasure crashing through your veins.

Hotch cursed, a low, deep sound against your skin, his movements slow, controlled, but hard, perfect.

He was relentless.

He set the pace, dragging it out, making you feel every second of it, torturing you with the way he pulled back just enough before thrusting deep, the friction sending sparks down your spine.

Your moans were breathless, your nails scraping down his back, but it only spurred him on.

"You wanted this," he groaned, his breath hot against your skin. "All those games--"

You gasped as his hips snapped harder, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"You wanted to see if you could break me."

He rolled his hips again, making your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach.

"Do you feel broken now?"

You let out a sound that wasn’t even words, your fingers fisting into the sheets, your entire body on fire.

Hotch smirked against your skin, but his composure was fraying now--his thrusts turning more erratic, his breath coming faster, his muscles tensing beneath your hands.

He was losing it too.

And God, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

His head dipped, lips crashing into yours in a deep, desperate kiss as the tension finally snapped.

Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body trembling as his name tore from your lips.

Hotch groaned, his movements turning sloppy, frantic, chasing the edge--

And then he fell, his body shuddering against yours, his lips parting in a low, wrecked moan as he collapsed, breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your bodies were still tangled, limbs entwined, your hearts pounding in sync.

Then, finally, Hotch exhaled--a slow, deep breath--before lifting his head to look at you.

His gaze was soft now, but sated, his thumb brushing lazily over your cheek, tender.

"You really are trouble," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, but teasing.

You smirked, tracing your fingers down his chest, lingering. "And yet, here we are."

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re insufferable."

You grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to his lips. "You love it."

His smirk widened slightly.

"Maybe."

Then he kissed you again--slower this time, softer.

Like he was memorizing the taste of you.

Like he already knew this wasn’t the last time.

And God, neither of you wanted it to be.

You blinked, the haze of exhaustion settling in as reality began to sink in.

You had slept with Aaron Hotchner.

And it hadn’t been careful. It hadn’t been measured.

It had been raw. Consuming.

Desperate.

You swallowed, turning slightly in the bed, suddenly hyperaware that he was rolling off of you.

For a moment, your stomach twisted--should you leave? Would this change things between you? Was he already regretting it?

But before you could spiral, before you could even begin to untangle your thoughts, you heard it--

The quiet sound of running water.

You furrowed your brows, shifting up slightly onto your elbows, and then you saw him.

Hotch was standing near the bathroom sink, his back to you, shirtless, his lean muscles flexing as he ran a washcloth under warm water.

Your breath caught.

And more than that--he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t rushing.

He was taking care of you.

Your throat tightened.

He turned a moment later, towel in hand, his dark eyes immediately finding yours.

“You should lie back,” he murmured, voice softer now, the roughness of the night before smoothed into something gentle.

You blinked at him, lips parting, but you didn’t argue. You simply did as he asked, sinking back against the pillows, watching as he approached the bed.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his warm hand skimming lightly over your thigh before he pressed the warm cloth against your skin.

The sensation made you exhale, your body still aching in the best way, but his touch was tender, careful.

"You don't have to--"

Hotch gave you a look.

You stopped.

Because you realized--he wanted to.

He continued in silence, wiping away the remnants of the night before, his touch slow, thoughtful. His fingers brushed against you so gently that your chest tightened.

The air between you was different now.

The tension of the past weeks, the game you had been playing--it was gone.

All that was left was this.

Him.

You.

The weight of what you had just done, settling between you like something neither of you could take back.

When he was finished, he set the towel aside, fingers tracing over your hip absentmindedly before finally speaking.

"Are you okay?"

You blinked.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because you weren’t--God, you were--but because you hadn’t expected him to ask.

You swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. I am."

His lips pressed together slightly, his fingers brushing against your skin again, almost like he needed to feel you still there.

Your stomach twisted--not in doubt, but in something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

So you asked.

"What about you?"

Hotch exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself, and then--finally--he met your gaze.

And you knew.

Whatever restraint he had left--whatever pieces of the mask he had been holding onto--it was gone.

"I'm not sure I know how to stop wanting you now," he admitted, voice low, raw.

Your breath hitched.

Because that?

That was the first real truth he had given you.

Your fingers curled against the sheets, your heart hammering in your chest. "Then don't," you whispered.

Hotch exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, his fingers tightening just slightly against your hip.

"You don’t understand," he murmured. "I’ve wanted you for so long."

Your stomach flipped.

You opened your mouth, but he continued before you could speak.

"I tried--" He exhaled again, rough, like he was frustrated with himself. "I tried to ignore it. To pretend it was nothing. That it was just...passing attraction."

You swallowed. "Was it?"

Hotch let out a short, almost humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"No," he admitted. "It never was."

Your breath caught, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter, because this--this--was more than you had ever expected him to admit.

"You drove me insane," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "The way you looked at me. The way you challenged me. The way you--" He exhaled, shaking his head. "The way you said my name."

Your heart stuttered.

"You noticed that?"

Hotch huffed a soft laugh, his fingers trailing up your arm, his touch leaving a burning path in its wake.

"I noticed everything," he murmured. "The way you crossed your legs during briefings. The way you stretched when you were tired, your shirt lifting just enough to make me lose my train of thought. The way you knew exactly what you were doing--"

You let out a breathless laugh. "I didn’t always know."

Hotch tilted his head slightly, studying you.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into something dangerous.

"No?"

Your stomach flipped. "No."

His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing over your lower lip.

"You really think you weren’t getting to me?" His voice was low, rough, something dark beneath it.

Your breath hitched.

"You were always getting to me," he admitted. "And you loved it."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling very small beneath the weight of his gaze.

Because God--he was right.

You had.

You had loved it.

But what you hadn’t realized was that he had loved it, too.

"I--"

Hotch moved before you could speak, pressing you back into the mattress, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

His weight was warm, solid, comforting.

And for the first time, there was no hesitation.

No restraint.

Only truth.

"I’m done holding back," he murmured against your skin.

You shivered.

"Good," you whispered.

And when his lips met yours again, soft and slow, hands sliding under the sheets this time--

You knew.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was real.

And neither of you were walking away from it.

Not now.

Not ever.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

I don't know why I bite (Dean Winchester x female reader)

You and Dean can’t stop fighting, so Sam locks you in a room together, literally, to hash it out.

Read it on AO3

Rated E, 18+. 6.9k words. Violence. Rough sex. Everyone's pretty dysfunctional. General hurt. Biting. Dean + dog metaphors because it just makes sense.

I don't really know how I feel about posting long fics like this here - it seems a little awkward to read, but I'm gonna let y'all decide whether you like this format.

My friends think I like to fight, but it's just not true. Sometimes I lose my temper and blow off a little steam, but I've never enjoyed it.

I'm not a violent dog.

I don't know why I bite.

- Isle of Dogs

Dean Winchester is driving you crazy.

From the first moment you mouth off to him when you first meet you know you found a good sparring partner.

He’s quick, you’re quicker. You’re clever, he’s more clever. He grins at your teasing and you laugh at some of the jabs he gets in.

It works, because you’re both intensely aware of your own roles, your own pitfalls – you can’t hurt him by making fun of something that’s part of the character he’s created, because it’s not really him you’re making fun of. It’s the same the other way around.

You make fun of how much sex he has with strangers, because it’s part of his bad boy glamour, just another coping mechanism.

He makes fun of your excessive violence towards the less humanoid monsters you fight, because he knows you don’t actually enjoy it, that you do it to look tough in this boy’s club that is hunting, that your hands shake when you wash them later.

You make fun of his love for his car, but never of the fact that it’s one of the few kindnesses his father’s ever given him, because the first is fair game but the second would be like pushing a knife between his ribs.

He makes fun of how jumpy and irritable you are sometimes, but never of how often you wake up screaming, because one has been weaved as a silly trait into your personality and the other he knows too well himself.

How well you have to know each other, how intimate the understanding of that line you don’t cross is, is something neither of you is willing to look at. It’s like surgery, sometimes, how close you have to cut to the line, to give the other one that thrill of being known, of being seen, but never of being known too well, of being watched. That would go too far.

If Dean or you were able to take that, you wouldn’t need those intrinsic personas to shield you from everything that could be painful.

You’ve known each other for about a year when it takes a turn. It doesn’t happen on purpose and, looking back, it’s no one’s fault.

You’re attracted to Dean because, well, you have two eyes and a sex drive. You know he is attracted to you because he checks you out, which, well, Dean would probably check out a wall if it had a nice pair, but he does it with a look in his eyes that’s different, that’s not the mask he uses to bang waitresses and co-eds and unhappy wives, all non-descript shadow people passing through his life.

Potentially something could have come of it. Maybe, if one of you would have been lonely enough or horny enough, you could have let your personas, your life-long starring roles, play with each other. It probably would have been hot, but performative, both of you too busy to prove how much you don’t need to be there.

It doesn’t happen that way, though, because this happens:

Dean and you are hurt, which isn’t unusual. You can’t open your right eye so well and you hear a whistle every time you exhale. Dean’s got blood running down his face from a cut somewhere in his hair and the thing you were hunting speared him with a pen, a pen, because that’s what was in reach when Dean was standing over it, getting ready to beat its head in. It wanted to live, and you can’t think about that too much because if you do you think you’ll be sick.

Essentially, you both look like you’re on death’s door, so you don’t go back to Sam, because you know it will terrify him. Instead, you stop at a gas station, get everything you need to imitate a visit to the emergency room. The guy working at the gas station looks at you two and you must look like Natural Born Killers but neither of you cares. You get a bottle of shitty whiskey as well.

Then you hunker down, in the cheapest pay-by-the-hour motel you’ve ever seen. There’s red neon everywhere and you don’t even want to know what the room would look like under a black light.

“You first,” you say to Dean, and he complains, but you push him down on the chair you’ve moved to the middle of the room. “Stabbed beats carved-in lung,” you say, and Dean scoffs, which makes him cough.

“Anything to get to put your hands on me, huh?” he jokes when he’s recovered. You sort of chuckle, trying to find the cut on his head first. “Been a long time, has it?” he asks, flinching when you find it.

“Winchester,” you say, laying a cotton bud soaked in alcohol against the cut, making Dean buck under you, a deep groan leaving him. “You could be the last man on earth and I’d still prefer celibacy.” Dean chuckles.

“Don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he says. The cut’s mostly stopped bleeding, so you decide to leave it for now.

“Yeah, a bunch of STDs,” you mumble as you kneel down, suppressing a whine at something hurting, you don’t even know what.

The stab wound is next. Dean, in his infinite wisdom, pulled out the pen. It’s a natural instinct, to want something that is hurting you out of your body, but he still should know better.

You push up his shirt, look at the wound, ignore all that skin around it.

Cotton bud. Alcohol.

Dean hisses. “Whiskey?” he says, and you stop what you’re doing for a second to grab the bottle off the table near you, pass it to him. He opens it, takes a deep gulp, while you watch his throat work, swallowing. He drops his head, the bottle leaving his mouth, some of it running down his chin. It shouldn’t make you feel what it makes you feel. He’s a mess, and so are you, but getting to watch him like this is a privilege you know not many are afforded.

Stripped down, broken, fresh off a kill. It’s him at his best, in a way.

He passes the bottle to you, and you don’t wipe the rim. You set it down when you’re done.

“This is gonna need stitches,” you say, motioning to the wound. He nods. “What are you waiting for then?”

He barely makes any sounds while you do it, while you sew him back together. It’s over soon, since you’re quick and practiced and it’s not a huge wound. He sighs when he’s done.

“Good?” you ask.

“Magnificent,” he says, panting a little. You give him a second to recover, then push his arm for him to move. He gets up, and you take his place.

You’re not sure how much he can do for you but you’re not going to skip the chance to have him touch you, to have him try to fix you. He looks at your eye first, cleans it but it’s just a shiner, there’s not much to do. While he does it, his thumb rests on your cheek. You’re intensely aware of it, but you just look ahead.

“Saw you miss that one shot,” he says, when he’s done, and his hands leave your face. “The first one? At the big guy?” He shakes his head as he takes the whiskey and drinks again. “I’ve seen some bad shooting from you, but that was sad. Such a big target, too.”

You chuckle, but something pulls in you. No, you think, but you don’t know why. This should be save terrain.

You flinch when Dean lays his hand on your chest, above your breasts but the inside of his wrist is brushing against you. You think for a second that you can feel his heartbeat through it but then you’re not sure.

“Breathe in”, he says, and you do, while he concentrates on where the wheezing sound you make is coming from. “Throat?” he asks, then frowns. “You got choked? When?”

No, you think again, and this time you know why. You swallow, and it hurts.

“While you were hiding out downstairs,” you say, but your voice is missing the apathy required to deliver the jab, so it falls extra flat. Dean picks it up, though, but he misunderstands.

“Oh, you mean when the big guy decided to chase you after you didn’t shoot him?” He chuckles, his hand not leaving you, but then he stops, thinking. “No, no, he was already dead.”

You need him to stop. You need him to stop trying to figure this out. He’s doing it so he can make fun of you. If he knows which of the freaks hurt you, he can pick out specifically why that one getting to you is embarrassing. It’s fine, normally, but you don’t want him to know.

“Let’s see,” he says, his hand slipping off you. “There was the big guy, the squirrely asshole that stabbed me, and those two in the basement,” he counts off while he reaches for the whiskey again. He shakes his head, concentrating. “Who was upstairs?” he wonders.

He can never shut up. It’s like he was born without the skill, without the knowledge of how to ever just shut the fuck up.

He lowers the bottle, then holds it out for you but you don’t grab it. “Be honest,” he says. “Did you just run into a door at a funny angle and now you’re pretending there was a fifth?” He shakes the bottle a little, because he thinks you didn’t notice it.

You can’t reach for it. You don’t feel your hands.

“It was a child,” you say.

It wasn’t a child, of course, at least not a human one, for whatever that’s worth. It was something that was wearing a child, the kid itself burned out long ago. But it looked like one. It sounded like one. Not when it launched itself at you across the room or when it gave that godawful screech. But later, when it was lying there. That’s when.

You swallow again, and your throat hurts. Little chubby hands did that, the ones with the dimples. You feel a tear roll down your cheek. No no no. This isn’t supposed to happen.

You wipe at it, immediately, but you know Dean’s seen it. Seen you.

He lowers the bottle, slowly, like the strength is going out of his arm. He says your name, and you say: “Don’t.”

He says it again and before you know it you are standing up so quickly that the chair goes flying.

“I said fucking don’t!” you snap at him, because you just need him to stop. You need him to stop sounding like that and you need him to stop looking at you like that, his eyes all soft and his mouth in a straight line. This is worse than anything.

No, you need to get out. Your chest is constricting and you just need to not be here.

You stride towards the door and Dean is stupid enough to come after you, and he’s grabbing you, his hand like a vice around your upper arm. You turn so suddenly that he has to let go, the turning making pain flash through you, and you think good.

“Don’t ever touch me,” you grunt and Dean takes a step back. Then you’re out the door, no idea where you’re going.

You don’t come back for three days.

You left your phone at the motel with Dean so there’s no way for him to contact you. You barely remember the days. You have your wallet on you, so there’s that.

You drink, you know that. You drink and you don’t stop drinking because it’s the only way you can sleep.

You pick someone up, at some point, hoping you can be fucked senseless but it’s disappointing, doesn’t get you anywhere, so you leave. You don’t dare touch yourself, your body and what it can do horrifying and disgusting to you.

It doesn’t feel like three days, but apparently that’s what it is.

When you return to the motel, the one you were originally staying at, not the one you and Dean went to, you expect the brothers to be gone.

You get a room, get cleaned up, sitting in the bath water while it goes from boiling hot to lukewarm. You walked past a second hand shop earlier, picked out some clothes, just jeans and a shirt, carrying them with you in a plastic bag. You also bought some other essentials, and you clean yourself as much as you can, make yourself as presentable as possible.

Not to look good. Just to look not broken. Just so you can pretend nothing happened.

Then you go to the room you shared with Sam and Dean. You knock. They’re probably long gone, but then you hear foot steps behind the door, familiar murmuring and the door opens and Sam’s there, all puppy dog eyes and awkward posture.

He looks immensely relieved when he sees you, and you think for a second that he’s about to pull you in for a hug but something on your face stops him.

“Jesus”, he says, as the door swings open to reveal Dean, farther back in the room, his phone in his hands. “We called every hospital around, we thought you were—”

“I’m fine,” you say, tearing your eyes from Dean. “Your brother didn’t tell you I was going out?”

“Going out?” Sam says, unbelieving and a little bit angry as you push your way past him into the room. “You were gone for three days!”

You ignore him, look at Dean, your eyes daring him. He’s looking at you like he’s expecting your head to explode, but then he says: “She said she was going out, Sammy, leave it alone.” Sam looks bewildered as you turn to him.

“But you said—” Sam starts, but Dean must throw him a look that shuts him up. You don’t turn back in time to see it.

That is how the balance is thrown off. Once it is gone, you cannot reestablish it, no matter how hard you try.

The jokes you make at Dean’s expanse are all missed shots. They don’t cross that invisible line, but they’re… they’re mean. They’re nasty. They’re no fun. They come out of you that way and it makes you cringe at yourself, but you can’t stop.

Dean, on the other hand, overcompensates the other way. His jokes are soft, way too soft, and every single one of them makes your blood almost boil over. Reminds you that he thinks you’re something that needs to be spared, needs to be put in bubble wrap.

That you’re something he can look at the way he looked at you that night.

You two become unbearable to be around, so you don’t really blame Sam for putting his foot down.

It’s another no-name town in another no-name county and you know, and Dean knows and Sam knows that the evening will drag on the way every other evening has dragged on in the last weeks – with tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. With you being mean to Dean and Dean barely defending himself, barely hitting back.

You get to the room, put your bags down and Sam is already by the door again. You and Dean both look at him, wondering where he’s going.

“I’m getting another room,” he says, face serious. “And you two,” he continues, “you two will stay here and figure out what the hell it is that’s going on, because I’m not dealing with it anymore.”

You open your mouth to speak but Sam turns to you and says: “No, figure it out.” Your mouth closes. Who knew. The little guy could actually be imposing.

“Sammy, this is stupid,” Dean says, because of course Dean’s allowed to say something. “You’re grounding us?” Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Or what?” you ask, before Sam can stop you. He looks at you both, then shrugs, and then he’s pulling the door closed behind him.

There’s silence, and then Dean says: “Well, that was ominous.” He looks at you, maybe hoping you’ll laugh or agree, maybe you can dogpile on Sam for a little while, but you don’t.

You feel terror sitting in your jaw and in your hands. You don’t want to talk to Dean. You don’t want to figure anything out. You want to shed your skin and start your life over and go to sleep and never wake up, but none of these seem to be realistic options.

So you sigh, instead, sitting on the bed nearest to you. There’s not even any alcohol in the room, since you’re in a dry county, and of course Dean’s thinking the same thing.

“He couldn’t have done this when we were in Vegas?” he mumbles. Still no reaction from you as you hear him sit down on the other bed behind you. You hate this. You feel like an animal in a cage. You feel itchy.

“Okay, should we do this?” you hear Dean behind you, and you think you hear him slap his thighs.

You finally turn around to him, slowly, your face unbelieving. He’s sitting there, looking prettier than ever.

“What?” he says.

“Just... you,” you reply. “I can’t believe you’re being so gung-ho about this.” Dean inclines his head. “If Sam thinks—”

“No offense,” you say, fully intending offense, “but screw your brother, okay? I’m not a child. I’m not getting sent to my room without dinner.”

And of course, at that you see it, that child, that child-thing, sprawled out, little eyes looking at the ceiling but seeing nothing. You almost shake yourself.

Unsure if Dean notices, you stand up, but instead of walking outside, you pace.

“He’s not wrong, you know?” Dean finally says, but you don’t stop moving.

“About what?” you ask, without looking at him.

“You’ve been a real asshole the last couple of weeks,” Dean answers.

And God, why does it feel so good that he calls you that?

You stop pacing, turn to him, a grin that’s probably a little psychotic-looking forming on your face.

“Now was that so hard?” you ask.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Not treating me like a little porcelain figure?” you say. “Calling me an asshole?” Dean shrugs. “Well, don’t act like one if you don’t wanna be called it.”

He doesn’t get it, doesn’t get that this is exactly what you want, but it doesn’t matter because even that little bit of disrespect makes the itch in your flesh feel a little less overwhelming.

“I know I have,” you say. You nod at him. “And you’ve been acting like a wuss.” Distantly you realize that you are actually doing what Sam told you to do. You’re talking about it, or at least you’re acknowledging that there is something to talk about, which is more than you’ve done in this whole time. So, good for Sam, you think. And you keep going.

“What happened, Dean?” you ask, your arms going wide. “You saw me upset once and now you’re too much of a bitch to joke around?” You feel yourself teetering at the edge. This could go so horribly wrong but you can’t stop tap-dancing at the edge of that volcano.

“You’re gonna protect my feelings?” you ask in a mocking tone, and you think your voice sounds shrill. “Dean Winchester always saving everyone but himself, huh?”

Dean’s looking down, his face tense and you can’t help but keep pushing.

“I’m an asshole?” you say, and for some reason there are tears burning in your eyes and you don’t know why. “Well, you’re a pussy,” you spit.

“That’s enough,” Dean says, and his voice is cold as steel. He looks up at you, still sitting on he bed, and he terrifies you for a second. But the terror is a thrill.

You scoff at him. “Fuck you if you think you can tell me what to do.”

He gets up faster than you can react. You gasp in fear when he’s suddenly in front of you and then he’s pushing you against the wall behind you. It’s only a foot or two, but the impact hurts beautifully, making clearness and focus rush through you for a second, but it’s over before you can even really enjoy it.

You want to whine at the loss of it, at the sudden lack, everything turmoil again, like a family of rats has nested in your chest. You need it back, that focus.

“Fuck you, Dean,” you say, too joyous by half about your words. “Gonna show me what a man you are? You’re pathetic.”

You see his hand raise and form a fist out of the corner of your eye, and something goes through you, something horrible and you think he’s going to hit you.

You look at his hand and something like a yes comes out of you. It sounds almost sexual, and maybe it is.

Dean’s threatening demeanor drops immediately. It takes him a second to understand what caused your outburst, and he looks at his own hand and then he looks at you.

He wasn’t going to hit you, you suddenly realize. He’s balling his fist because he’s mad, and you see it from the angle he’s holding it. You’ve seen Dean throw a million punches, and this isn’t how he would do it, even if he was mad with anger.

But Dean understands, understands that that’s what you thought he was doing and that that’s what you wanted him to do.

He takes a step away from you immediately and your stomach drops. His face is as open as it’s ever been. He finds your gaze and you’re not sure what he sees in yours but you know what you see in his.

You’ve gone too far, you can feel it in your blood. You can see it on his pretty features. This is his weak spot. The holy part you’re not allowed to touch just like there’s parts of you he’s not supposed to touch. His own fear of himself, of his clever and precise violence. The one that’s been cultivated in him from the time he was four to however old he is now. The one he keeps at bay, no matter what, for those he loves and wreaks on those he doesn’t.

There’s that clear line that neither you and Dean are supposed to cross, and everything beyond that is below the belt. And you just went for it.

He’s fought so hard to bury that part of himself, so that the people he cares about never need to be scared of him like he was scared of the people that were supposed to care about him. It’s cost him everything.  And you just came for his throat.

This is so far beyond your usual arguing. This just hurts.

“I’m—” you start, but Dean’s never been good at listening, so you falter immediately. You feel tears burning in your eyes. God, he looks so sad. You blink, run the back of your hand over your nose. It’s deadly silent in the room.

Dean looks, and you don’t know how else to describe it, like a dog whose owner is holding a news paper. He knows what’s coming and he can’t stop it. He’s fear and shame and disgust in himself. You don’t want to give a shit. He’s not your mess to clean up.

But you do. Of course you do. Just like he did. He cared enough to let you verbally pummel him for weeks, barely keeping his fists up to deflect.

You say his name, or you think you do, and then suddenly he’s moving. He’s walking towards the door and you don’t know why and you don’t know how but you know you need to stop him. If he walks out that door you don’t think you’ll ever see him again.

So you rush forward, manage to get yourself between him and the door.

“Dean, don’t,” you say and he says: “Get out of my way.” His voice is deep and he's not yelling and in a way that is way scarier. But you can’t move. You can’t let him leave.

“Please don’t go,” you say, hoping you can simply convince him. You lean your back against the door, and you’re pretty sure he won’t grab you and simply pull you out of the way, because you can see his hands are trembling.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because your stupid pride has been stopping you, but now it’s the least important thing in the world. “I shouldn’t have pushed you,” you say, but you’re not sure he can hear you. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I just wanted to make you mad.” His head shoots up.

“Why?” he pushes out through gritted teeth.

“Because I couldn’t stand that you pitied me,” you say. God, Sam would love this. A real heart-to-heart. How precious.

Dean frowns. “I don’t pity you,” he says, disdain in his voice.

“Yes, you do,” you insist. “You’ve been pulling your punches for weeks. And it made me… it just made me so angry.” Dean shakes his head.

“You’re insane,” he says, and then he goes for the door, reaching around you to open it.

“No!” you say, and you push him back. He stumbles, just a little bit, but it makes him look so angry that you press yourself harder against the door. Just like you thought, he’s not going to move you out of the way, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to get around you.

“Move,” he says, and then: “Get out of the fucking way.”

“Make me,” you bark back. Dean stands there for a second, and you think he will. You think you have completely misjudged the situation and he will make you move. But he just goes for the door knob again, reaching around you. You push your arms against him. Now that he knows you’ll try to shove him, he plants his feet and there is no way you can move him.

He’s so close to you and so angry and you don’t know what to do, you don’t know how to get yourself back and you don’t know how to get him back.

Your mouth lands on his before you even know you’re going to do it. Dean flinches and immediately moves back. He looks shocked, and you try to congratulate yourself because it worked. Even though that wasn’t what you were doing. You weren’t trying to stop him, you were just trying to kiss him.

It’s fucked up to do it like this, in the situation you’re in. But then you’re both pretty fucked up.

Dean swallows, and looks unsure. Both of you are breathing hard and for a second he seems to just listen to that, so you do too. It’s erotic, and you don’t know how but you feel it do something to you. Dean’s gaze meets yours. He’s either about to kill you or fuck you.

He moves forward and presses you against the door. You think for a second that he’ll try for the door again, but he doesn’t. His lips find yours, but what you do can barely be called kissing. It’s a battle, like everything between you is, but you manage to get your hands into his hair, grabbing it, making him grunt. He pushes you harder against the door and you find it difficult to breathe and it’s perfect.

You lean your head back at the feeling of containment, and Dean goes for your throat. He runs his teeth over a sensitive spot, making you buck and then he’s sucking against the skin so much it hurts. Your grip tightens in his hair and he makes a noise.

Before you know it you’re pushing his jacket off his shoulders, his hands barely leaving you to let you, and then his flannel goes next. When he’s free of it, he grabs your wrists and pins them over your head, attacking your neck again. You moan, you can’t help it and he ruts himself against you.

You move your head to catch something of him, anything, and you manage to get at his jaw, nipping at him. Dean flinches, but he lets you do it. Then his hands let go of your wrists and travel down your arms, down and down, until they are at your chest and he roughly squeezes your breasts. Another moan escapes you and then you’re dropping your hands and he’s dropping your tits, moving on to your hips instead.

You find his crotch first, press your hand against it, agitating what you find there. Dean hisses, and his mouth slams against yours again, but this time you force your tongue past his lips, keeping him there as you battle again, open-mouthed and breathing hard.

Dean’s hands wander from your hips to your ass, squeezing and then he’s pushing one of his legs between yours. You grind yourself down on him, but it’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough to dispel any of the energy you need to dispel. He’s pushing you against his leg by grabbing your ass but again, it’s not enough.

You tear one of his hands from your ass and maneuver it to your front, push it between the waistband of your jeans and your skin, shove him down. Dean doesn’t stop mouthing at you when you do it, except to groan into your mouth when he fingers make contact with your underwear.

He takes control, shoving his hand deeper until he finds you there. Both you and him are surprised by how wet you are. You’re not sure when that started but neither of you cares for much longer, when you feel Dean push two fingers into you.

You almost sob and with just enough wherewithal you unbutton your jeans to give him room to move, before you grab his hair again and lean your head back against the door. He feels good, and even though his thrusts are rough, they hit the right spots within you, forcing you to close your eyes at what feels like electricity running through your body.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” you pant and feel Dean’s plush lips against your jaw. He’s not kissing you, not exactly, just making contact, just getting as close to you as he can. You pull his hair a little and feel the air come out of him when he moans.

You don’t know how it’s possible, but he's getting you to the edge fast, and you have high-pitched, desperate moans leaving you soon. Then you’re pushing him away.

His head snaps up, and he looks worried for a second, but all you want is more of him. His hands leaves you, and you’re pulling at his t-shirt, trying to get it off him. You manage, and then he’s tugging at your shirt.

“Get that off,” he says, and his voice is rough and deep, the timber of it running through you. You do, pull it over your head and he goes for your bra before you have even pulled it off your arms. He nearly tears it off you, and then he reaches around you, bringing you close, as he pushes his hands into the back of your pants to push them down.

You use the closeness to open his jeans but then you have to step out of your pants and underwear and shoes as Dean makes them fall to the ground, to avoid stumbling.

Dean manages to turn the two of you, so that you are with your back to the bed and he pushes you towards it. When you get close you let go of him and crawl onto the bed, but you kneel on it, facing Dean. The two seconds it takes you are enough for him to unbuckle his jeans the rest of the way and drop them, along with his underwear, step out of them and his shoes and socks and kick them to the side.

He’s there in front of you, all glorious nakedness, but neither of you wants to lose a second to thinking, to wondering what it is you’re doing, so instead you collect some spit in your mouth, then run your hand along your tongue to collect the moisture and a moment later you have him in your hand.

Dean inhales sharply but you don’t hurt him, only stroke him until he’s fully standing. He’s beautiful, all of him, and if you took a second to admire him, you would see just how beautiful, but you can’t. You don’t want to break the spell.

He grabs you by the ass again, pulls you close to him, and you can hear him breathing hard, grunting at what you’re doing to him. One hand goes to the back of your head and he kisses you, really kisses you this time, roughly, yes, desperately, yes, but it’s still a kiss.

You stroke him faster until he grabs your shoulders and shoves you down on the bed. You land on your back, hair flying into your face and an insane chuckle leaves you. Maybe you’re losing your mind. Or maybe this is what you’ve been craving all along.

Then Dean’s over you, and he’s kissing you again, his hand running from your breast to your neck where he holds you tight, pulls you roughly against him. His erection is pressing against your stomach and you want him.

You get your mouth off his, and then you’re turning around under him. Dean barely leaves you room to do it, but you manage, and then you’re pushing your ass against him. He grabs your hip, strokes it.

And then he kisses your back and you freeze. He does it again, leaning over you, kisses, and then bites you there, but gently.

You gasp and you need him suddenly, need him so bad. Need him to make you feel anything else.

You push your ass up again and this time he does it, does what you want him to do. He lines himself up and then he’s pushing into you. A whine leaves you as you work yourself down on him and his hands are grabbing you everywhere, touching you everywhere and it makes you almost believe that you can be free of all this anger if only Dean keeps touching you.

He starts driving into you and for a second it’s overwhelming, so much, too much and too fast. Your breathing stutters and you need to concentrate on regulating it. But then Dean finds a rhythm and suddenly you can breathe. One hand of yours wanders back, grabs his underarm where he’s holding you and he grabs your elbow, holding onto you.

“Dean—” is all you can say, and his thumb strokes your arm.

“It’s okay,” he says and he’s driving into you, making you gasp again, which quickly turns into a moan.

“Yes,” you pant, “yes, don’t stop.” He doesn’t. He keeps up the pace, his thighs meeting the backs of yours with loud slaps until you think you're going to pass out.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then suddenly he’s pulling out of you. You turn around to see what’s wrong but then he’s turning you around and your back meets the mattress again. Dean leans over you, pushing your leg higher.

“I want to see you,” he says, and your next inhale lets you feel the spiral again, brings tears into your eyes. Don’t be kind to me, you think, but at the same time you crave it. You want to see him gentle, want him to see his own gentleness.

He kisses you again, and you return it, wrap your arms around him and pull him close. He sighs against you, and then he’s pushing into you again. Your head falls back, you almost whimper and as Dean enters you, pushing your leg up against your torso, his hand cupping your cheek and his thumb running over your lips, you wonder when this turned from a hate fuck into whatever it is now. You find his thumb with your mouth, kiss it.

Dean leans closer to you and your hands go into his hair again. You still pull it, still make him grunt, but in response he lays his face against yours. What is this? you just have time to wonder when the movement of his hips makes you see starts.

He keeps going and going and going and you whimper and come and he holds you through it while tears run down the side of your face from the intensity, but still he keeps going.

“Fuck, I—” he mutters and you feel him throb inside of you, so you pull him close, bring your mouth to his shoulder and bite. Dean grunts, and then you kiss the place you just bit and he comes inside of you.

For a second you’re terrified he’ll roll off you immediately, so you wrap your arms around him. Dean moves into you once or twice more, but it’s just a reflex. His forehead is against your shoulder.

You find you’re stroking his back and just as you wonder if you should stop, Dean flexes his back, his shoulder blades moving under your fingers and he says: “Keep doing that.” So you do. Because you’re not ready to look at his face yet. You don’t know if you ever will be. But eventually you have to.

Eventually Dean needs to move, pulls out of you and rolls himself to the side. Your breathing has quieted down. For a moment, he’s not looking at you, but staring up at the ceiling.

Little eyes staring up at the ceiling.

A sob goes through you and Dean turns to you. He rolls himself towards you and then, after a moment of hesitation, pets your cheek.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. You shake your head.

“No,” you say, your voice quiet. “You made it not hurt for a while though.”

He nods, and you’re pretty sure he understands exactly what you mean.

“I’m sorry,” you say then.

“You don’t have to—” Dean starts, but you interrupt him.

“I know what I made you feel. What I made you think. I’m sorry.” He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. “I will never do it again,” you add. He runs his thumb over your chin.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you needed to be pitied,” he says. “I’m sorry I…” he sighs. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

You nod. “I know,” and then: “I knew you weren’t going to hurt me. I knew but I wanted you to.” He nods again.

“Why? I mean why did you want me to?” You shake your head. “You know, Dean.”

And you see it in his eyes, because of course he knows. It’s the reason he sometimes drinks until he passes out. The reason he takes more punches than he needs to. Because it’s better than feeling the other thing.

He tugs some hair behind your ear and you lean into the touch. Suddenly the gentleness doesn’t hurt. Suddenly it’s everything you want.

You both lie like that for a while, just touching, just looking at each other.

“So what now?” you say. “We just go back to how it was before?” Dean thinks for a second.

“I don’t think that would work,” he says finally, and you have to agree. “Maybe,” he says, “we can both turn it down a few notches?”

You nod. “Probably a good idea.”

“And this,” he says motioning to nothing, but you know he’s talking about what you just did. “We can see where this leads?”

That one you have to think about for a moment. You feel that old thing roar its head in you, the one that wants to destroy any possibility of anything good possibly coming out of something gentle, something sweet. You fight it, and nod.

“That sounds good,” you say. Then you take a deep breath. “Do you think this is what Sam imagined when he told us to sort things out”

Dean huffs. “I really hope not.”

You smile a little, and then you do something daring.

Moving your shoulders, you scoot closer to Dean. He wraps his arm around you, holds you close.

You still look at each other, like two skittish animals but eventually, the warmth and comfort of another body so close overtakes you.

You can’t fight the need to be close so you stop, stop fighting it.

Dean’s hand rests on your chest and this time you’re sure you can feel his heartbeat. You listen to it, try to focus on it.

Ba-dum-dum, ba-dum-dum.

You’re too tired to fight. You always thought you’d need to be strong to stop, but it turns out tired works too.

Ba-dum-dum, ba-dum-dum.

You’ve never enjoyed it anyway.

[hyperions-light]

How Do You Write a Long/In Depth Fic Comment?

First of all, let me say-- there's no 'wrong' way to write a fic comment (unless you are being rude or offering unsolicited concrit). Short comments are good, emojis are good-- all of it's good! Don't take me making this explainer to mean you have to write long, analytical comments. Express yourself however you want! Authors love hearing about how much you liked their work no matter how you choose to tell them.

This is meant to be a guide for people who want to do this, but don't really know how, because they find it difficult to express themselves, or don't know what authors like to hear. If that's you, let's continue below the cut!

EDIT: Also, here's a post by bourbon-ontherocks about how to add a floating comment box to AO3, in case you want to grab quotations you like as you go! Thank you @flowersforthemachines for finding it <3

Why should you do this?

because it's fun!

because you really like someone's work!

because it's motivating for an author, and can sometimes inspire them to post more, or re-post old stuff!

because it's usually a great conversation starter! Some of my best fandom friends have been made in comment threads on AO3!

What do authors want to hear about in long comments?

Many things, but primarily:

What you liked about their work

Why you liked it

You can show them what you liked by quoting their work back at them (I find it useful to put quoted text in an indented section; the html code for this is <blockquote>text</blockquote>), talking generally about which events or characters you enjoyed most, or, if you have thoughts about it, what you liked about the structural parts of their work-- i.e. plot, pacing, sentence structure, etc.

As for telling them why you liked something, getting into emotional reactions is great for this-- you can tell them where you laughed, or cried, or where you felt moved by something they said. If you found the way they had the characters talk or think realistic or relatable, tell them that! If you want to, authors love hearing that people noticed them foreshadowing events, or planting clues within the text.

You can also tell them where you were when you read it, or your overall experience -- did you read at 3 am? Do you have school or work tomorrow, but you just had to finish reading? Did you read their fic in the club? Tell them! And if you're feeling especially brave or you want to share, feel free to tell authors how or why you related to the text. If it makes you uncomfortable, don't worry about it, but those are some of my favorite comments to reread.

How do I comment on specific parts/lines of a fic?

Okay, a demonstration! I am going to pretend to analyze my own work here, for convenience:

He dreams of it, ceaselessly. It seems to echo throughout his days; he cannot let his mind drift too far, lest he fall back into it. He has to cling to this world, like a drowning man to a raft, though it rarely feels worth the effort.

Okay, so let's pretend I read this section and I really liked it. If you want to talk about that, stop and consider what about it was special, for you. Maybe I thought that the third sentence really captured what it felt like to be depressed, or the second reminded me of something that happened in my own life. I might say:

"I really loved this part! I found the way you wrote about [the character's] feelings in this paragraph so relatable; I think you captured exactly what it feels like to feel consistently hopeless."

You can also take a look at the way the author has written the sentences-- try reading them out loud. If I think the last line has a nice sound, I might say something like:

"I liked how you chose to structure the last sentence! The grammar you used gave it a really nice combination of phrases and stops. I loved how it sounded, and the rhythm the punctuation created."

Another thing you could talk about was how the sentence or paragraph made you feel about the character. If that section made me feel particularly sorry for them, or if this was the point in the story where I connected strongly with them, I might say:

I think this part worked really well to demonstrate how [character] felt! You communicated the pain they were in really effectively, and I was very connected to them, during this part.

You can also just express your excitement! I love great writing, and sometimes I just keysmash, or put a million exclamation points, or say AHHHHHHH!!!

Okay, that's all the advice I have for writing long comments, for now! If you have any questions, or would like to talk about similar things with me, please feel free to ask or DM me at any time! Thanks for reading, and happy commenting!

[oceangirl24]

Fandom drama finally over (next chapter on the way).

Well, this month has been surreal.

For those of you who have been following me for a while you know I have dealt with plagiarism and harassment by a fandom writer since October of 2022- exactly twenty years after I posted the first chapter of AiP on FFN.

Totally gone.

Everything has been deleted everywhere.

The name has been scrubbed, even on pages that tagged her. Only a few gift fics on FFN and a few stories on WhoFic.com remain.

Gone like she never existed.

I've held off saying anything in case it was a just a dream, but it's real.

She is gone!

It's over.

Finally!

I cannot tell you what a massive relief this is.

I have never named her publicly through all of this, although I know some of you figured out who it was.

MrsFizzle. Kaylie Night.

I never shared the extent of what went on for several reasons, but mostly because I knew my socials were being watched and I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that what she was doing was so badly affecting my physical and mental health.

I was already dealing with a severe bout of depression and anxiety when she contacted me on FFN in October 2022. At that time, I did not have any socials linked to my FF accounts other than my art account on FFN. I was just getting back into fandom and hadn't decided how I wanted to engage yet. We had been talking in comments on AO3, and instead of asking me if I wanted to talk privately, she just appeared in my dms saying she wanted to talk so she "found" me. This was disturbing, especially since she indicated she was aware I likely did not want to hear from her, but I brushed it off as anxiety talking. I had said I wanted fandom friends after all. And I had no reason not to talk to her.

I should have listened to my instinct.

She straight up told me what she was going to do and how she was going to do it- take my work and Audrey to chop up and use as she pleased. She immediately began to gaslight me by saying she had all of this already written and was giving me a heads up so I wouldn't think she copied. Later, she insisted she would not change anything about Ashley, which made her previous offer to change her name not sincere.

I felt I couldn't say anything about this, not even saying yes, please change the name. What right did I have anyway? It's fanfiction. Mine is the only story like it in the fandom and recognizable, so she'll credit me, and I'll get over it.

I hated it, though. I hated what I thought she was trying to do, and I hated myself for thinking that of someone new to and excited about the fandom. I've been in BMW fanfiction since 2002 and have always had a great experience with it and the people in it. I convinced myself that I was reading into things, and that depression and anxiety were skewing my perception.

Over a year later, while putting the report together, I saw her own words in comments with the dates on them telling me she read AiP and Flashbacks before writing her story, I just didn't catch it. I also saw all the lies she told her readers about the situation. I saw the little comments picking at my characters and story line, the ones she said she loved so much to make herself look better. I can't imagine what she was telling people privately with how bold as she was publicly.

She lied to me about everything from why Ashley's name was so similar to Audrey's to the plot she had planned for her "little family". Told me our OCs had to be the same because they were written for the same character. They had to be younger than Jon, had to have a traumatic backstory, and had to be good with teens, very pretty, etc. There were differences: her character wasn't as young as mine and "had more of an edge to her".

Also she said she couldn't tag Ashley as an OC because she wasn't. Not really. To say she was original would be "presumptuous". She existed in GMW.

Somehow Audrey did not nor did any other OC love interest for Jon even though they too were nurses like in canon. Unbelievably, she even told a reader Ashley was a canon character.

We talked for one week.

It was a miserable seven days. I set my discord status to invisible to get rid of the pressure to respond right away when she messaged. She didn't like this and wanted to know why she couldn't tell when I was online.

No one else ever shows up like that she said, why do you?

I made something up and said a bunch of things to appease her, but I was worried about why this was such an issue, especially since many of my friends were also permanently invisible. The fear she was watching my online movement just had to be my anxiety driving paranoia, right? She couldn't be. Who has time for that?

A fandom friend I had been talking to about the conversations as they happened advised me to get out. She said I shouldn't be afraid and anxious when talking to someone about fandom things.

I finally got the courage to end it. She didn't like being cut off. I tried to be nice about it and took all the blame on myself for this fandom friendship not working out, but that wasn't enough. I finally had to be forceful (or honest I suppose) and tell her I felt like I was being lied to because what she told me was different than what she was telling other people.

She denied it of course and was very offended.

"May God deal with me as He sees fit if I have intentionally decieved you."

This closed out one of her last FFN messages and always bothered me. Was it purposely worded like that or a Freudian slip? In hindsight, now that she's deleted everything, maybe He did just that.

I found out later that the "repetitive stress injury paired with hypermobility" in her wrists that left her unable to type for a year was not her story. See I have hypermobility in my lower body, really bad in my hips. In talking to her, a lot of what she said didn't make sense and she often wouldn't give direct answers. Later on Reddit she announced that her wrists were suddenly healed, all better now. I had no clue you could be cured of hypermobility (you can't).

When compiling the plagiarism report, I came across the AN on a story written by a close friend of hers (I was blocking all close associates). What was it about? A repetitive stress wrist injury paired with hypermobility. It looked like it went up during the time we were talking.

She told me one thing about why she left her job in the AO3 comments. Then she used my own AN about why I left teaching (internal school politics) to come up with a different reason for leaving education on FFN that honestly made no sense to me but I didn't question her. She then told Reddit something different.

There were other instances where she took someone else's story and claimed it as her own real-life tale. Some of this was public, too. Either she thought no one would pick up on it, or she thought she could say anything she wanted and not be held accountable. I don't know.

Then there was the drive to push me out of the fandom using what weaknesses she knew I had to do it. Looking back, she was very good at it. Too good for it to be the first time she'd done this to someone. She claimed I was the first person since high school she'd had drama with and the first ever online. I highly doubt that now.

I had Cameos from Tony Quinn and had spoken to him in dms. I mentioned these to her, and she insisted on seeing them. I didn't want to share them. They were special to me with a lot of personal things said. But I was selfish by not sharing, right? So, I gave in, edited out the personal stuff, and sent them to her.

Immediately I regretted it.

As soon as she indicated she's seen them, I deleted them. Then she said she hadn't seen part of one and none of the others, could I send again? I ended up making an excuse as to why I couldn't - too much personal info. Truthfully, I had the inexplicable fear she was going to take the videos and claim them as her own.

You see, she didn't care anything about Tony whom I've been a big fan of since 1994 when we first started talking. He was just some old guy to her. Until she found out how much I liked him. Then suddenly she was his biggest fan and just had to meet him because he was so wonderful. They lived in the same state after all. Oh, but don't worry I would get to meet him too someday for sure, she told me... on the other side of heaven. 🙄

When I told my friend about this one, she said to cut contact.

(Ironically, by the time we started talking, Tony had already moved back to my home state, where he and his wife are from. Learned that from his Pod Meets World interview that came out a month after we stopped talking. I cried-laughed the first time I listened to the interview.)

She liked to point out how old I was. I never told her, she did the math and figured it out she said. She was wrong, but it didn't matter. She was aware of personal insecurities and liked to push this one. I told her things I should not have but I was desperate for another friend and I convinced myself that all the warning sirens I was hearing in my head was just anxiety.

Towards the end of our time talking on Discord, she had started the subtle dismantling of my confidence in AiP. I was very aware that my work was outside of the norm for the fandom at the time and was often insecure about it. With little feedback at the time, I didn't know what to do.

It's a trilogy, split it into three parts maybe, so the word count isn't so intimidating?

She told me the story was too long, and even splitting it into three parts wouldn't help- no one reads sequels or will go back to read the first parts. On the other hand, no one would be interested in giving it a chance because of the length. Also, the story wasn't healing- and that is why people read, you know. Her attitude toward Audrey grew chilly and very, "she's an OC, people don't like OC main characters." This was a drastic departure from her comments on AiP.

Then she started bragging about how well her story was doing and all the comments she got. Fans were just begging her for more.

After I cut contact, she blocked me on Reddit and purposely took over the Jon and Jon and Shawn threads so I couldn't participate. This continued until I blocked her. She didn't like having her participation limited.

Blocks on both sides were lifted for awhile. I wish I hadn't lifted mine. But I had been so looking forward to season 2 of PMW and wanted to talk to others about it and Mr. Turner. I thought I could handle dealing with her more out there takes.

During this time, I noticed a sharp drop in interaction on my stories.

Readers not from Reddit or FFN disappeared. I always wondered about the timing. Readers gushed over her, though, and several indicated they were talking to her on Discord, too.

She knew how much fandom connection meant to me and took every opportunity to flaunt hers, whether in her comments or on Reddit. She had a thing for following me around and posting where I did, including on other people stories.

I mentioned this feeling of being left out and wondering if there was a Discord server for BMW I didn't know about. She said there was none she knew of and told me no one wanted to talk about BMW in a discord server anyway. All the people she talked to were uncomfortable with that. They only wanted to talk to her privately.

Turns out that was another lie.

Not only did I find that people wanted a discord server, in a comment thread with her and another reader about wanting to discuss head canon offsite, one of those readers "uncomfortable with discord servers" created one of their own and dropped a link inviting them to it some months before that conversation.

It wasn't the existence of a private server that bothered me so much. If there was, there was. It was the way she told me: everyone wanted her, nobody wanted me.

Had it not been for readers alerting me to the stolen work, I would never have known any of this. I'd still be wondering why the fanfiction side of the fandom wanted little to do with me when I sincerely tried to give back as much as I got and tried to welcome/encourage writers, especially new Jon & Shawn writers.

Then she contacted me on Christmas Eve 2022 on Reddit. After I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with her. As always, I was too nice. I still blamed myself and the anxiety for everything that happened. She offered friendship and apologies and then abruptly ripped the offer away when I expressed having reservations. When I didn't do what she wanted, she got mean.

Admittedly, her hurtful words about having "tons" of fandom friends to talk to when I didn't upset me. Since she liked to talk about God and being a Christian, I shot her some Bible verses about words and told her how cruel she was.

That didn't go over well.

Later I felt bad about it. Maybe I was too harsh, too judgemental, too sensitive. Blaming my anxiety for my reaction, I stupidly reached out on Valentine's Day 2023 to try to make peace with her.

She was even meaner and now saying she was afraid of me. She said I had hurt her so much she couldn't trust me. She admitted that she'd hurt me too but wouldn't say how, just that we kept hurting each other, so she was too scared to talk to me.

What?

I was talking about her, she claimed. And that was too much. She couldn't take the pain and stress of being talked about online. Oh, and her depression was worse and she struggled more, so what I was going through didn't matter.

Did I talk about her online?

In the aftermath of the Discord chats, I was angry she wouldn't leave me alone when asked. I resented her trying to push me out of a fandom I've been in since I was a little kid. I vented my frustration by making a wildest opinion that fans had heard over the years post on Reddit. Mine was that Jon was a coward for letting Shawn go back to Chet. I never named her or how I'd heard this opinion. I didn't think she was even still around the subreddit.

She outed herself.

I think the biggest problem with the post was that no one agreed with her take. I deleted the post not long after it was made and apologized to her for it later, but it wasn't good enough.

The next thing wasn't even about her. I told her that when she contacted me on Reddit. Someone had posted about having to block someone online and why. I responded sympathetically, referencing something that had happened before I met her. She refused to accept that my comment wasn't about her. Of course, I was talking about her, how could I not be?

Everything was about her no matter what the topic was.

But these were the terrible things I did to her that made her afraid of me. She couldn't come up with anything else. Turns out what she was really afraid of was that I would find out what she was doing and what she was telling others.

For 16 months I was so stressed and depressed that I started having panic attacks again. @lizettevanessa and later @mrsmungus virtually held my hand and talked me through these. They spent hours trying to help me calm down and get me to think rationally over that time.

I have type 1 diabetes and stress is a killer for me. Throughout this ordeal, my blood sugar was stuck at over 300 for hours on end and it seemed that no matter how much insulin I used it wasn't enough. And then the bottom would fall out and my blood sugar crashed. It was a never-ending cycle of trying to bring down highs and bring up lows. This led to stomach problems, constant migraines, and eventually hair loss. I had so many nights where I couldn't sleep. I was so depressed I couldn't work out and I couldn't cope with online or rl situations that shouldn't have been a big deal.

It also triggered the ED.

I hadn't had a relapse in years.

Online I was always looking over my shoulder wondering if the people in fandom were being honest with me or if they were pretending to be my friend while reporting back to her. I know for a fact one person in the BMW server was doing this. I know at least a couple of readers/friends were involved and that she created alts impersonating others.

Trying to run an inclusive, welcoming fandom server while trying to protect myself was a nightmare.

I honestly can't put into words how much damage she did. It was only because of my chaos family and sis @mrsmungus that I didn't quit everything. No exaggeration. I came very close several times to deleting over 20 years of work and history because of her.

What I've just told you is a just a part of what I've dealt with since late 2022.

The worst part is I think she'd be pleased to know how effective her tactics were. I don't know what was going on in her life that drove her to do this. I don't know if she is just that jealous, entitled, and petty a person or if she was lashing out because of something done to her and this was the only way she could get revenge- by going after an easy target and inflicting the same hurt she'd suffered.

What did she gain by doing all of this? If if I had left the fandom, what was the end goal? There were/are a lot of Jon and Shawn adoption writers out there. Would she drive them out to so she could be the BNF of BMW?

I've been in online fandom for over 20 years and I've learned that fandom is cyclical. Favorite tropes, characters, etc. change over time, falling out of favor and then becoming popular again. It would be a full-time job plus overtime trying to stay on top.

As for me, all she had to do is admit where her inspiration came, just once, just a note. Instead, she chose to lie, manipulate, and harass me just so she didn't have to admit it.

It's incredibly stupid if you stop to think about it.

But she is gone now and all of that is gone with her.

I don't know what happened that made her nuke everything and I do not care. It doesn't matter.

I used to want that story rewritten or gone. But in all honesty, I am ecstatic to see she's gone.

Good riddance.

Looking back, I get the feeling she is a very privileged person who has been sheltered from having to deal with the consequences of her actions for a long time and not just online.

Going back over all the private correspondences with her, the ones she had a with a mutual reader that were sent to me, and her response to AO3 that was removed by staff, in them is a trend in claiming something awful happened to her making it impossible for anything to be her fault when confronted with something negative. Flu, injury, baby, computer theft, ID theft, etc. There was always an excuse. She was always the victim.

She got away with it until she didn't.

I really do hope she deals with whatever caused her to act this way. It's terrible for those who cross her path who aren't her constant cheerleader, but it's worse for her in the end.

You can't be like that and be happy.

You know what is sad?

She's actually a talented writer. She could have taken that story and really done something special with it. The foundation was there. She could have taken Ashley and made her into a fully developed, living, breathing character who could have shaped her family unit in a way that didn't look anything like mine even if the same basic elements were there. It would have been so easy for her to do. Instead, she picked what she wanted from mine, minced it up, and harassed me over what she was doing.

AO3's verdict on my report, which was still out a year later, no longer matters since she deleted everything.

If by chance Kaylie is reading this or does read this someday, let me be very clear: Do not think I feel sorry for you in any way. Do NOT contact me for any reason, not even to apologize. Do not come at me with new accounts anywhere. I do not care if it's ten years from now. I want nothing to do with you.

Yet out of all this mess, there were some incredible things that came of it. Because of her behavior, it drove me to get involved with fanfiction outside of the fandom and find my online family. If I had the chance to go back in time and avoid her, but it meant not finding my family, I'd decline. Her nonsense was worth finding them.

Because of her, I did become afraid to get involved with fandom people and very nearly missed meeting someone who is very dear to me. @justanotherpersonwhowrites posted her story on FFN and I completely panicked when I saw the description of her OC. Thankfully she posted on Tumblr and AO3 later on as I was finding my family. I reread her story and fell in love with her OC. I got up the courage to reach out and I am so glad I did. She is an amazing person, a talented writer, and an incredible friend.

Also the BMW discord server happened because of Kaylie. I didn't want others to be isolated from the fandom like I was and Reddit is good for some things but not others. Not only is it an archive for the show but a place for fans to find each other. It is also a safe place for fanfiction writers to get together.

So what happens now?

Autumn in Philadelphia will go on, without a doubt. And I will be picking up my other stories that were more lighthearted and fun. I have a series of Jondrey one shots that I really want to do too. A lot fun stuff and art. I'll be more active on here and in the BMW server.

The AN that's on every story will be changed to link to this post.

As for blocks, they will remain for now.

The reason is I've been through too many bouts of silence only for her to resurface. Although she can't return in the same way, I don't know that she doesn't still have former readers acting as her eyes and ears. Eventually all blocks will be lifted except on those I know to be her friends because she named them as such.

I still have the report, the screencaps (soooo many screencaps), all her messages, and a copy of that story. I took screenshots of all the places she used to exist but doesn't anymore because it still doesn't seem real. I thought about purging everything, but they are now a part of AiP's history. Someday I'll get around to building that neocities site as a tribute to the era this all began in and I will include everything: the fantastic, the strange, and the nightmarish.

I want to extend my eternal gratitude to one of my dearest friends, @lizettevanessa, to my sis @mrsmungus, to little sis @justanotherpersonwhowrites, to @lena-hills @kayedium-writes @hylianjo @sliebman10 @axolotlsupremacyowo @udaberriwrites @fattybattysblog @narcissasdaffodil @danceswithdarkspawn and the rest of my Chaos family for your love and support during the past two years. I owe you everything.

And to my readers, who've been with me whether from the beginning or just joined, THANK YOU. I love and appreciate you more than you know.

❤️❤️❤️❤️

-Aria

[smilingformoney]

Die With a Smile

Chapter VI. Never Tear Us Apart

Summary: Every action has a reaction, but nothing lasts forever.

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

Mary had never expected to get married, but of course, she’d fantasised about it. When she was fixing a hand-me-down wedding dress, she’d wonder about the kind of dress she might wear. She thought about children, and the sort of things married couples did to create them, and though she yearned for a brood of her own, she never thought she’d have one. She’d accepted long ago that her purpose in life was to protect Tommy, and maybe one day he’d be the one to find a nice girl to marry.

She’d thought about a wedding day, the first night, the life that comes after. She’d fantasised about what life would be like to live amongst the gentry.

She’d never imagined it would be like this.

Elliott was right. Turpin only wanted her for her body. He filled her up with his seed at every opportunity, at minimum every morning and every night. He’d mutter filth into her ear as he fucked her, telling her how good she’d look once her belly began to grow with his child.

The rest of the time, he ignored her. He spent most of the day at court, and if his evenings weren’t spent socialising with his peers, he sat at his desk and worked on his paperwork. Sometimes he’d have visitors over, other important-looking men who sat around drinking gin and smoking cigars, talking about whatever men talked about.

Mary always had to stay out of sight when visitors came over. She didn’t mind that. Turpin’s friends frightened her almost as much as he did. And sometimes he’d be too drunk for sex, so she’d have a night of respite, and sometimes a morning too if his hangover was too troublesome.

At least when he was out, Mary could see Tommy. They’d go out into the courtyard and play games, and because he was acting under orders of the Lady of the House, the butler who bossed him around couldn’t tell him off.

She had a weekly allowance, which she used to buy materials, as Turpin had allowed her to turn Johanna’s old room into a makeshift workshop. She wasn’t to sell anything she made - Lord Turpin couldn’t have anyone thinking his wife had to make her own money - but he allowed her to do it as it kept her busy and out of the way. She mostly made children’s clothes, and at night Tommy would sneak out with them and give them to Mrs Harris to hand them out to the children who lived on the street, those who had once been Mary and Tommy’s friends.

After the first month, Mary worked up the courage to ask Turpin about the promise he’d made.

She knew she had to get him in a good mood first. Some days he ordered her to visit him at court during lunch, so when he sat at his desk with a sigh of frustration, Mary obediently knelt between his legs and took him in her mouth.

When he finished, she licked him clean, then sat on his lap as he tucked into the sandwich she’d brought him.

“Sir, might I ask you about something?”

Turpin grunted through a mouthful of sandwich.

“When you proposed to me, you said you’d put Tommy into school. Did you really mean that?”

Turpin snorted derisively, then swallowed.

“Yes, I did. But surely you don’t expect me to follow through on that, do you?”

Mary blinked in surprise. “Oh - um —”

“You also told me you’d marry me, then promptly made every effort not to do so. I don’t see why I should follow through on my promise when you tried so ardently not to follow through on yours. He’s working in the kitchens, that’ll teach him everything he needs, and I’ll hear no more on the subject.”

“…Right. Of course. Sorry, sir.”

After Turpin returned to court, Mary went down to the Post Office.

She was learning to read and write, but her progress was slow. All she had were the letters Elliott had taught her. She had to put words together bit by bit, and no doubt her spelling was atrocious. Fortunately, since very few people in London could read or write, the Post Office offered a scribe to write out dictated letters to those who could pay. And thanks to her allowance from Turpin, Mary could pay.

Once the letter was written, she almost cried when the scribe read it back to her.

Dearest Elliott,

I know you must hate me, but I beg of you not to throw this letter in the fire. When I first accepted William’s proposal, before I knew of your feelings for me, he promised an education for Tommy. I know now he has no intention of following through on that promise. I cannot stand the thought of him spending his life in the kitchens, but it seems William is determined to leave him there. I know he would thrive with you. I don’t ask you to adopt him as you said. Employ him as you would any other, if you must. But please, I beg of you, take him away with you. I know I would never see him again. But I’d rather he leave forever, and know he’ll thrive, than have him by my side but wasting away in the kitchens. I know I ask a lot. But Tommy is only a boy. None of this is his fault. I won’t ask you to forgive me, and if you refuse, I’ll understand. But please, if you truly loved me, do this one thing for me. For Tommy.

All my love, Mary

She gave the return address as Mrs Harris’ shop, and waited anxiously for a reply. Even just to hear a “no.” And when the night came that Tommy delivered the weekly bundle of children’s clothes to Mrs Harris, Mary waited for his return, hoping he’d come back before Turpin woke up and found her missing from the bed.

The response she received was worse than a no.

Tommy handed her an envelope addressed to her, and inside was another envelope - her own letter returned, unopened. With it a note. By candlelight, and with much difficulty, Mary managed to read:

Lady Turpin,

I return your letter unopened. Although curious, it’s not for me to interrupt the communiqué of lovers. My nephew left for Australia mere hours after you left for London. He’ll be almost to Cape Town by now. Below is his address in Australia. Though I warn you, you may wait six months before receiving any reply. Good luck.

Sincerely, Duke R. Beaumont

Mary tore off the bottom part of the letter containing Elliott’s address, stashed it away between the pages of her sketchbook, and promptly burnt both her unopened letter and the body of the Duke’s response.

It was another hour before she went back to bed, once her tears had dried. She knew Turpin would never stand for her crying in bed, much less if he knew the reason for her tears.

It was about two months into the marriage that Mary realised one day that she hadn’t yet had her monthly - not, she realised, since the week before she’d met Elliott. The only bleeding she had was after sex, when Turpin hadn’t prepared her properly.

She tried not to think too much of it. But when she began bringing her food back up for no apparent reason, she couldn’t deny the truth.

She told Turpin her suspicions one night after he’d finished, and in a rare display of emotion other than irritation or lust, he grinned with excitement and kissed her.

“Oh, darling, I knew you’d be able to give me a son! Such a good, dutiful wife.”

He took her again, the news apparently springing his cock back to life, and held her close against his body as he thrust into her.

“What a good wife you are, taking my seed so well… mhm, yes, I can’t wait to see you swell. My perfect wife, carrying my son…”

He’s not your son.

The thought came unbidden, but Mary knew it was true. Logically, she couldn’t. She couldn’t even know it was a boy, let alone that Elliott would be the father. But something deep inside her - perhaps her mother’s instinct, or perhaps something deeper, something in her soul - it told her the truth. Yes, she was carrying a son, but not her husband’s son.

She swore to herself, there and then, as her husband spilled his seed inside her for the second time that night, that he would never learn the truth.

She was already lying to him. He still thought that he’d taken her virginity the night he’d snuck into her bed and raped her. What harm could it do to let him think the child was his?

When the baby was born, Mary had little choice over the name. He was William Turpin’s first son, so tradition dictated he would also be William Turpin.

It felt strange, though, to call her son the same name as her husband, so she nicknamed the child Billy.

Turpin wasted no time trying to get Mary pregnant again. She was exhausted from spending all day looking after the baby, too tired for sex, so she simply laid there and let her husband do what he needed to do. He quickly got bored of that, though, so he hired a nanny to help look after the child, giving Mary some time to rest.

Not because he loved her, or because he cared about her needs. Mary had accepted a long time ago that things like care and kindness were things she’d never get from him. But it was because, he told her, she had a duty to her husband. And, despite everything, she was still attracted to him, so when she had the energy for sex again, she was an eager participant.

It was really the only connection they had. And because he kept her inside, it was pretty much the only connection she had at all other than Tommy. So Mary took what Turpin would give her, and if that was nothing but sexual chemistry, then so be it.

It wasn’t long before she was pregnant again. She recognised the symptoms straight away this time, but there were some other symptoms she was more concerned about than her own.

Turpin was sick.

The doctor threw every treatment he could think of at him, but sickness was even more powerful than the great Judge Turpin, and he died within a week of falling ill.

Mary sat dutifully by his bed every day, nursing him the best she could, making sure he got as much time with little Billy as he could.

He must have known when he was about to pass. He’d been stubbornly trying to get up and go to work all week, even flirting with Mary as if he was in any state to do anything. But that day, he’d been lethargic and quiet, not like himself at all. And as Mary rocked Billy to sleep in her arms, Turpin just watched her.

“Mary,” he croaked when she returned from putting the boy in his crib. “Mary. Mary…”

“Yes, I’m here, Will,” Mary said softly as she sat back down and took his hand in hers. His hand that looked nothing like his hand, now it was ghostly pale and thin, hardly capable of moving.

“Mary… I need you to tell me the truth. I know… I know you loved Elliott. Tell me… is the boy his?”

Lying to him was almost second nature to her now.

“No. No, he’s not, Will. I’ve only ever been with you. You know that.”

Turpin let out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezed. “Mary, I’m so sorry. For taking your innocence as I did, for forcing you to marry me. Elliott was right. You can tell him that, from me. He said so, didn’t he? He said I’d die miserable and alone, that no one could ever love me.”

“You’re not alone,” Mary said earnestly. “I’m here.”

Turpin looked at her and smiled.

“I couldn’t help falling in love with you.”

Mary wiped away a tear.

When she looked back at him, he was gone.

She cried. She didn’t know why. She hated him, didn’t she? He’d trapped her, hadn’t he?

But he was her husband, and he’d been alive, and now he was neither of those things.

So she cried.

- - -

Elliott was having a lot of fun playing with his food.

Ever since his return to Australia, his men had noticed a change in him. He’d always been ruthless; he’d slaughter an Aborigine camp without a second thought just to get a nice spot to build a new pigsty. But something had changed, and nobody dared ask why, because just the slightest change in the wind was enough to set him off.

He had a vendetta, but the source of his ire was back in London, so he took his frustrations out on anyone who pissed him off.

And for the last few weeks, that someone had been Matthew Quigley.

Now, he had his prize in front of him. The great Quigley, the hero of the Aborigines, the fucking pain in Elliott’s backside. He thought he could show up, take Elliott’s money, and refuse him. Well, nobody said no to Elliott Marston. Certainly no one who lived to tell the tale.

“Now you’re right in front of my old pistol target,” Elliott laughed. How many times had he practised shooting here, imagining himself in a duel with some outlaw? Now here he was, laying down the law - his law, on his land - and the American cowboy was no match for his quick draw.

“Some men —” Elliott began, but he cut himself off when he heard the familiar sound of a horse’s hooves on the ground, the creaking of wooden wheels turning.

Elliott frowned as he looked in the distance at the approaching carriage. He wasn’t expecting any visitors.

“O’Flynn, get the gate,” Elliott commanded. “Dobkin — take back the revolver, make sure he can’t do anything while my back is turned.”

His two remaining men ran to follow Elliott’s command, both well trained by now to obey him without question.

Elliott watched as the carriage came closer and passed through his gate. He thought it intriguing that it was a carriage, not a wagon. The visitor must be someone important, or unused to Australian heat, or both, with very little luggage.

The driver finally pulled to a stop and hopped down to open the carriage door. Elliott approached with a mixture of caution and curiosity. The door opened, the driver gave a small bow, and held out his hand to help the mysterious occupant down.

It was a good thing Elliott’s gun was still in its holster. He might have dropped it in shock.

He never thought he’d see her again. He’d resigned himself to a life without her, come to terms with the fact she’d been a fleeting light in the darkness. He’d neither love nor marry again, and that was something he’d accepted months ago.

Yet here she was, as beautiful as the day she’d left for London, despite his begging and his promises. She’d left with a cloud of misery hanging over her shoulders, and leaving another hanging over him too.

She reached back into the carriage for something. She pulled back, and the driver closed the door as Mary straightened up, holding…

A baby.

She had a baby.

She turned, her eyes searching, and when she spotted him, she smiled. A true, radiant smile that, although Elliott didn’t know it, she hadn’t sported in a very long time.

“Mary…” Elliott croaked. He took a few steps towards her, then jogged the rest of the way, too impatient to walk.

“Mary, what - what are you doing here?”

Elliott glanced around, wondering who else might be in the carriage, but he saw no sign of the man who’d torn them apart.

“You said you’d wait for me,” Mary said hesitantly. “…Did you?”

“Yes! Yes, of course I did, I… oh, Mary, look at you.” Elliott took her face in his hands as if to check she were real. “I could never love anyone but you. But why — where —?”

“He died,” Mary said, answering the question he was hesitating to ask. “Some sickness, it took him quick. I sold everything and bought us passage to Australia. I don’t expect anything from you, Elliott, but… I wanted you to meet your son.”

“My —?”

Elliott looked down at the baby in her arms, one hand carefully reaching out to cradle the boy’s round, bald head.

“The moment I knew he was there, I knew he was yours. I just knew.”

She didn’t have to explain. There was no science to prove it, the timing told them nothing, but Elliott knew it too. He could tell, looking at this tiny human clinging to his mother, that he was his son.

“What’s his name?”

“I didn’t dare tell him he was yours, so I didn’t have much choice. Everyone calls him Billy, though.”

“Hello, Billy,” Elliott said softly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Buh,” said Billy, and his tiny fingers wrapped around Elliott’s thumb.

“What a gentleman, he’s shaking your hand!” Mary laughed.

“He certainly is. Oh, Mary, he’s perfect.”

He looked up at her, a grin on his face and the threat of tears in his eyes.

“Just like his mother.”

Mary smiled coyly. Over her shoulder, Elliott saw the driver unloading the bags from the back of the carriage. And with him, a few inches taller than Elliott remembered, was Tommy.

“Tommy!” Elliott called. “I’m glad to see you’re alright!”

Tommy waved back, then turned his attention to the bag he was lifting. Elliott turned back towards his men, who were both standing guard over Quigley, watching with no doubt a lot of confusion.

“O’Flynn, keep an eye on him. Dobkin - put the boy’s bags in the lodge, and Mary’s in my house.”

“You’ll - you’ll let us stay?” Mary said cautiously.

“Mr Marston, what’re we doing with him?” O’Flynn called over, interrupting before Elliott could respond.

Elliott rolled his eyes. He glanced lazily over at Quigley, who was still standing by the fencepost, not daring to move with no gun to defend himself with and O’Flynn standing guard.

He’d spent the last few weeks obsessing over capturing Quigley, and now, Elliott found he didn’t care about playing with his food. The man had to be executed, and Elliott would certainly not be giving him a gun for a duel, not with three precious lives so close.

He whipped his pistol out and shot Quigley clean in the head.

Mary yelped in surprise, and her hand flew to cover Billy’s exposed ear, the other already pressed against her chest.

“Chuck him in a ditch somewhere,” Elliott called back to O’Flynn before reholstering his gun and turning back to Mary, who was staring in shock at Quigley’s dead body.

“Elliott, you killed him!”

“Sorry, darling, you came right in the middle of his execution. He’s a dangerous man — or was, anyway,” Elliott smirked. “He killed almost all of my men. Dobkin and O’Flynn are all that’s left. I can’t have him free, especially not with you here. Come on — let’s get you out of the sun. Dobkin will get your bags.”

Elliott put an arm around Mary’s waist and guided her towards his house.

“I know you told me how big Australia is, Elliott, but it’s hard to comprehend until you see it. It’s enormous! I thought we must have been going in circles with how long it took to get here from Perth. And the driver told me most of the land we crossed is yours!”

“It certainly is,” Elliott said with pride. “And I took about another 200 acres of farmland after I came back. Here we are. Do you want some water? You must be parched.”

Once inside, he guided her to the sofa, and gestured to his butler to bring her some water. Elliott sat down next to Mary and rubbed her back gently as she adjusted Billy to sit on her lap.

“Was the journey okay for you? I know how arduous that boat journey can be, and the ride here from Perth isn’t exactly fun either.”

The butler set down a tray on the side table and Elliott dismissed him with a wave of his hand so he could pour Mary a drink himself.

“Honestly, Elliott, it was awful. As it turns out, I get horribly seasick. I was so worried for the baby, but everybody was so lovely to me. People would give me portions of their food to make sure I ate enough, even though most of it ended up coming back out again.”

“Well, you’ll just have to make sure you never make that journey again,” Elliott said cheekily. “Good thing everything you need is here. And how’s Tommy? I’m glad to see he seems to be alright, I was worried that even if you married William, he’d still harm him.”

Mary smiled gratefully as she took the glass of water from Elliott.

“Oh, Elliott. You really worried about Tommy?”

“Of course I did. I’ve been worried for both of you. Trapped in a house with him — I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.”

Mary took a long drink of her water.

“It wasn’t too awful. He ignored me most of the time except when he wanted sex. He could be callous, but he wasn’t cruel, not really. He never wanted to hurt me — he just didn’t care if he did. So long as I was obedient, he treated me well enough. I had an allowance and he even let me set up a workshop in Johanna’s old room. And I taught myself to read! I used the letters you taught me to figure out words in books. I’m not so good at writing, though.”

“Then I suppose I ought to teach you. Tommy, too. And Billy, once he’s old enough. Would you like that, Billy?”

“Ga ba da ga!” Billy replied when Elliott looked down at him with a smile.

“What about you, Elliott? Are you alright? I tried to write to you after a month or so, but your uncle told me you’d left soon after I did, and I was too ashamed to write to you here.”

“You’re the one who was forced into a loveless marriage, and you’re worried if I’m alright?”

“I broke your heart, Elliott,” Mary said in a small voice, hanging her head slightly in shame. “It’s haunted me every day.”

“Hey.” Elliott took her chin between his fingers and forced her to look up at him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and her lip began to wobble.

“It - it is my fault, though. Oh, Elliott, I’m so sorry!” Mary sobbed, and Elliott immediately wrapped an arm around her and held her close, rubbing her arm soothingly.

“It’s not your fault, Mary,” Elliott said again. “It was his. He took Tommy hostage and forced you to marry him. You had no choice. I know that.”

Billy seemed to notice his mother’s distress, because he started crying too.

Elliott was at a bit of a loss. He was exhausted from being awake all night watching out for Quigley, and now he had a crying woman and a crying child in his lounge.

Fortunately, at that moment Tommy and Dobkin came in with the bags. Dobkin was as confused as Elliott, but Tommy simply put down the bags he was carrying and came over to pick Billy up.

The child clung to him, and Elliott realised that Billy must recognise Tommy as caregiver just as much as he did Mary.

Tommy carried Billy outside to soothe him, and Mary took the opportunity of being babyless to wrap her arms around Elliott’s waist and bury her head against his chest. Tears were still streaming down her face, but Elliott realised he didn’t give two figs if she got his shirt wet.

“Take her bags to my room,” Elliott said to Dobkin, then turned his attention back to Mary. He didn’t know what to do or say, but she seemed to want to be held, so he wrapped his arms tight around her and held her close, rubbing her back and muttering words of sympathy against the top of her head as she sobbed.

After Dobkin left, not without another uneasy glance at the mysterious crying woman who’d suddenly appeared, Elliott and Mary were left alone for a little while — that was, until the door opened again, and one of the Aborigine women backed into the room, apparently carrying something.

“What do you want?” Elliott snapped.

Mary looked up, curious, still sniffling although her sobs had subsided.

The woman didn’t respond. She just carried on into the house, followed by another of the women, who was carrying the other end of —

“A cot!” Mary gasped.

It was rudimentary, and Elliott would definitely have to send someone to Perth to get a good and proper one made, but it was a cot.

“Put it in the bedroom,” Elliott commanded when the women hesitated, unsure where he would want it. They obeyed, and when they emerged, they kept their heads bowed respectfully as they passed back through the lounge to leave.

“Thank you!” Mary called after them. They paused, evidently surprised to be thanked, then curtsied clumsily towards her before leaving.

“Oh, Elliott, they gave us a cot! How kind! I must see it!”

Mary sprung to her feet, her tears apparently forgotten, and Elliott had to hurry to follow her into his bedroom, where the cot had been placed against a wall.

She examined it with a grin on her face. It was literally made of sticks stuck together with resin, the most basic, clumsy cot that Elliott could have imagined. Billy had probably had a significantly fancier cot back in London.

And yet, Mary loved it. Something about the rudimentary cot that had been made by an Aborigine whore for her halfling child was magical to Mary, and that was what Elliott loved so much about her. She saw wonder in everything — even him.

He couldn’t resist her.

“Mary…”

Elliott crossed the room in a few long strides and took her in his arms, pulling her in for a kiss. Their lips met, and Mary reciprocated eagerly. Her lips were still a little wet with tears, but Elliott didn’t care. She was here, she was real, and she was his. That was all that mattered.

He placed his hands on her waist, ready to encourage her out of her dress, when he felt a strange fluttering coming from her belly.

Mary broke the kiss and looked down, laughing. She took Elliott’s hand and guided it over her belly.

“Someone’s saying hello.”

He’d been so focused on her, he hadn’t looked at her belly. Hadn’t noticed the way it protruded just a little. Not obviously, easily missed, but now that he looked, it was clear as day.

She was pregnant.

Pregnant with his cousin’s child.

The thought didn’t anger Elliott as he would have expected it to. So what if he was a Turpin by blood? Elliott would make sure he was a Marston by name. Billy and Tommy too. He’d adopt them both, and if Mary wanted more children, he’d give her more. They were her sons, and that was enough for Elliott — they’d be his too.

“Marry me.”

Mary looked up at him, eyes wide.

“You’re certain? Even after everything that’s happened? Even - even with a child that’s not yours?”

“But he is mine. Because he’s part of you, and you are mine. I told you that a long time ago, didn’t I? I’ll adopt Billy, Tommy too, and we’ll have more if you want more. I’ve got plenty of space. We’ll have a whole litter if you want. Just say yes, Mary. Say you’ll marry me.”

She beamed up at him with the most adorable smile he’d ever seen. It lit up not just her face, but the entire room, and Elliott’s heart with it.

“Oh, Elliott, of course I’ll marry you! I won’t let anybody come between us this time, I swear it!”

“Perhaps we should do it quickly, just in case,” Elliott said, only half-joking.

“I know you jest, Elliott, but let’s do it! I don’t need a big fancy ceremony, I already had one of those and I hated it. All I want is to pledge my heart to you.”

“Alright, then,” Elliott agreed. “There’s a chapel in Meekathanga nearby. Let’s see if the chaplain’s at home, shall we?”

Elliott barked some orders at his men outside, instructing one of them to clean up the bodies that Mary hadn’t even noticed were scattered around, and he sent the other to Meekathanga to bring back the chaplain.

“Oh, and if you find any men looking for work, tell them I’ve got plenty of work and gold for them,” Elliott added as an afterthought. “I can’t be picky, so take deserters if you must. I’m sure Ashley-Pitt will forgive me, given the circumstances.”

“Elliott, why are there so many dead bodies around here?” Mary asked with trepidation as Tommy handed a now calmed Billy back to her to feed.

“Thank God you didn’t arrive earlier. Quigley, the man I shot earlier - he’s been on a rampage across the Outback recently. Murdered nearly all my men last night. Fortunately I - bloody hell, darling, warn me before you get your tits out, won’t you? I’m as weak a man as any.”

Mary laughed as she held Billy up to her breast and he eagerly latched onto her nipple to feed.

“This is what they’re made for, you know.”

“They can have two purposes. There are two of them, after all. One for him and one for me.”

He grinned cheekily, leaning against the pillar of his porch as Mary sat in the shade with Billy in her arms, and Mary thought he looked particularly handsome out here, in his natural environment. London had never suited him. It was too cramped, too stuffy. Someone like Turpin might thrive there, but Elliott, he belonged out here, in his home country. It was very easy to believe that he owned the ground he walked on.

“What are you smiling at?” Elliott asked with a smirk.

“I was just thinking about how handsome you are.”

“Oh, really? And how handsome am I, exactly?”

“Handsome enough that I sailed halfway around the world just to see your face again.”

“Ah, so you’re only here for my looks!” Elliott put his hand to his heart in an imaginary wounded gesture. “What if I’d had a horrible accident that disfigured me, hm? Would you turn around and run back to London?”

Mary laughed. “No, of course not! I’d love you just the same no matter what. Even if you shaved!”

“Now that is love,” Elliott teased. “Maybe I’ll shave just to test that theory.”

“Oh, no, please don’t!” Mary said in alarm, and Elliott laughed to see just how much the thought of him shaving panicked her. “You look perfect just the way you are.”

“I’m joking, I’d never shave it off. It makes me look powerful, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes,” Mary agreed earnestly. “And I like the way it feels against my lips when we kiss.”

“Oh, you do, do you? So something like this?”

He crossed the gap between them, then leant down to kiss her — and cheekily grabbed her spare breast while he was at it.

“Elliott!” Mary laughed as he fondled her breast brazenly, for all to see — not that there was really anyone left to see.

“God, look at them, they’re so fucking full,” Elliott growled. “I knew pregnancy would suit you.”

“Elliott, stop it,” Mary blushed, covering up her breast again as she batted his hand away. “Not while I’m feeding, please. They get very sensitive.”

“Of course, darling,” Elliott said, and he kissed her gently on the head before pulling another chair over to sit next to her. He looked away for only a moment to grab the chair, and when he sat himself down and looked back at her, she had tears in her eyes. “Oh, Mary — did I do something wrong?”

Mary shook her head as she wiped a tear from her face.

“No. No, quite the opposite. Oh, Elliott, I’m sorry. That’s twice now I’ve cried since getting here.”

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re pregnant. If women weren’t unpredictable enough as it is, pregnant women are even worse. Is there something I can do?”

“No, Elliott, there’s nothing you can do. It’s just… oh, but I shouldn’t speak of William, it’s uncouth…”

“Nonsense. Tell me what you’re thinking, Mary. Tell me what’s got those pretty eyes all wet.”

He wiped away a tear from her cheek, and she smiled as she leaned into his touch.

“Well, it’s just… he used to do that too, he’d grab my breasts and - and even when I said it hurt, he didn’t care. He said that because we were married, they were his to play with as he pleased.”

Elliott sighed. There was no doubt about the fact that his cousin had left Mary with a lot of trauma. It was going to take him a long time to help her heal — and fortunately, they had the rest of their lives to do exactly that.

- - -

It was a good few hours to Meekathanga, and the same again in return. That left Mary and Elliott waiting all day for Dobkin to return with the chaplain — and, Elliott hoped, some new men looking for work. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to manage with just Dobkin and O’Flynn around.

Fortunately, they had a lot to entertain themselves with. Elliott introduced Mary to the horses in the stable, and the cattle in their pen, and he promised that when he next went out to tend to the sheep, she could come with him. He earned himself an extra kiss for that promise.

When the heat became too much for Mary, she said goodbye to the farm animals, and Elliott brought her back inside. Billy was getting restless in her arms, so she opened up one of her bags in the middle of the lounge and Elliott moved some furniture around to make some space for a little play area.

“I couldn’t bring much with me, but I brought his favourite toys,” Mary explained as Elliott rolled out a woollen blanket for her to lay Billy down. “He doesn’t really play with them as much as he tries to eat them.”

She put him on his back and placed his favourite coloured blocks just out of arm’s reach.

“You’re not going to give them to him?” Elliott asked with amusement.

“It’s important that he gets them himself so he learns to move. Look, see!”

She watched with a grin of pride on her face as Billy spotted the colourful blocks, reached out for them, and when he couldn’t grab them, he rolled over to his front to bring himself closer.

“Good boy!” Mary cheered. “Isn’t he clever, Elliott?”

“A veritable genius,” Elliott replied sarcastically as Billy began trying to put the square blocks in his mouth.

“Oh, shush,” Mary laughed. “It’s been difficult to teach him to roll over when he’s spent half his life on a moving boat. I imagine it must feel rather odd to him now to be on dry land.”

“Gahhh baya!” Billy exclaimed excitedly, holding up a blue block and showing it to Elliott.

“Do you want to play with papa, Billy?”

“Baga!” Billy replied, still trying to give Elliott the block.

“Alright. Christ, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Elliott sighed. He looked the block from Billy. “Now what do I do?”

“Show him how to play with it!”

“It’s a cube, Mary, I don’t know how to play with it. Unless I’m supposed to eat it too?”

Mary plucked another block from the pile and placed it in front of Billy.

“Show him how to make a stack.”

“…Alright.”

Elliott placed the block he was holding on top of the other. Billy looked up at it, eyes wide and curious, then reached out and knocked it over with a squeal of joy.

“Hey, I built that!” Elliott protested indignantly, but Mary just laughed.

Billy, catching onto his mother’s mirth, laughed too, and he began banging the two blocks together, enjoying the clacking noise they made.

Mary turned to Elliott and looked up at him with a grin.

“He likes you! He doesn’t share his blocks with just anyone, you know. Do you think he can tell that you’re his papa?”

“Maybe. Did William ever play with him?”

Mary’s face dropped and she glanced away.

“No. He wouldn’t even hold him. He said he didn’t know what to do with a baby. As if any of us know… I certainly didn’t when Tommy was a baby, and I figured it out. He didn’t even try…”

Elliott rubbed her back soothingly. “It’s his loss, Mary. You won’t be doing any of this alone anymore. Tommy’s clearly good with him, and you’ve got me now. I can hire a nanny to come from Perth as well, if you like. You might need the help when Elliott Junior comes along and we’re trying to juggle two babies.”

“Elliott Junior?” Mary laughed. “Is that what we’re calling him, is it?”

“Well, why not? William named my son after himself. I might as well return the favour.”

“Well, I — I did have another name in mind. But if you really want to call him Elliott —”

“No, no, tell me,” Elliott said, placing his hand over hers. “What did you have in mind?”

Mary threaded her fingers through his.

“Well… your uncle was so kind to us. And after William died, I went to him, and he refused to listen to arguments when he proposed to buy everything from me. It was his idea, you know — he insisted on buying the house, the furniture, everything, under the condition I use the money to buy our transport here. I’m not sure he even wanted the house — I think he just knew I wouldn’t accept it as a gift. So, well, I was wondering… maybe we could call him Rupert.”

Elliott smiled. “You’re right, he was very kind to us. A byproduct of having nothing but daughters, I think, it turns a man soft. I’ll have to write to him and thank him for everything. But, I’ll be honest with you, Mary…”

“You don’t like the name?”

“It’s an awful name.”

Mary laughed. “Alright, alright, not Rupert. But maybe as a middle name?”

“A middle name, yes. What’s Billy’s middle name, by the way?”

“Sinclair Alexander Lionel. Why do rich people have so many names?”

“God knows. I think my father asked the same question, so I ended up with just the one.”

“Which is?”

“Elliott James Marston, at your service, milady,” Elliott said with a mock bow.

“Oh, James, that’s a lovely name! My parents didn’t even give me a surname, let alone a middle name. I was always just Mary. I added the Taylor on myself.”

“Sounds better than Mary Seamstress, I suppose.”

“Or Mary Theapprentice, that’s how Mrs Harris used to introduce me.”

“You know what name does sound good? Mary Marston.”

Mary blushed. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Oh, but I do like James. Maybe we can give him your middle name.”

“Well, James was my father. I wouldn’t mind naming him for my father.”

“And if it’s a girl? What was your mother’s name?”

“God, no, we’re not naming her after my mother. I adored her, of course, but her name was Eunice.”

“Oh, Lord, the Beaumonts didn’t have the best taste in names, did they?”

Elliott laughed. “No, they certainly didn’t. Is Mary Junior out of the question?”

“I’m not giving her my own name! What about Victoria, for the Queen?”

Elliott hesitated.

“Well, ah… I never told you this, but… I was married once before. Her name was Victoria.”

“Oh.” Mary bit her lip. “What - what happened?”

“The sickness took her. Too much sun can make you sick, and… well, it made her sick. This was… it must have been five years ago now that she died.”

“Oh, Elliott, I’m so sorry,” Mary said softly, stroking her thumb gently over the hand she was still holding. “How long were you married?”

“A year.” He frowned. “Strange, that we both were married for a year before they got sick. But Victoria was nothing like William, she was amazing. She really got stuck into farming the land, it was a matter of pride for her not to ask the men for help. That was her downfall, I think — she’d rather stay out working on something alone for hours than get it done in half the time with help. So she’d spend much longer in the sun than she should have… and it took her in the end.”

“She sounds wonderful. I wish I could have met her.”

“As fun as it might be in bed, I think two wives might be a little much to handle.”

Mary slapped Elliott playfully. “Get your mind out of the gutter, El! Honestly.”

“I’m just teasing you, Mary,” Elliott replied, tickling her back to make her squirm. “I have you now, and you’re all I want.”

“Well, back to the actual topic at hand! If we have a girl, I’ll gladly call her Victoria. Both for the Queen and for your first wife.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Of course. It’s a lovely name. And Victoria Marston deserves to live on, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Mary. Your good heart knows no bounds.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Alright, then. James for a boy and Victoria for a girl. You don’t want to use your parents’ names?”

“I… don’t know what their names were. I always just called them mama and papa. Maybe they were Mary and Tommy too, who knows?”

“Well, Mama and Papa Taylor made two wonderful children. Strong, resilient, hardworking, and very, very brave. I especially like the daughter, she’s ever so beautiful.”

“Sounds like you have a bit of a thing for her,” Mary teased.

“I most certainly do,” Elliott teased back, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her close. “I think I might marry her, actually. Do you think she’ll say yes?”

“It’s not her you’ll have to ask.”

Mary picked Billy up off the floor, where he was still trying to eat his blocks, and sat him on her lap.

“What do you think, Billy? Should mama and papa get married?”

Elliott uncrossed his legs to lay down on the floor, propped up on his elbows, so that he was face-level with Billy.

“Oh, please say yes, Billy, I’ll treat her ever so well,” he pleaded. “I’ll show her that I love her every single day, and I’ll give you as many little brothers and sisters as you want. What do you say?”

“Bah nana!” Billy said confidently.

“…Did he just respond to my proposal with ‘banana’?”

Mary laughed. “I think he’s calling you bananas. But it sounds like a yes to me.”

“Oh, Billy, you’ve made me the happiest man in Australia,” Elliott grinned.

He leaned forward to give his son a peck on the forehead, and Billy laughed to feel Elliott’s moustache tickling his skin. He reached up and grabbed at Elliott’s face, curious and amused by the funny hair on his face.

“You like it too, hm? Yes, mama likes it, so I’ll be keeping it. Maybe one day you’ll grow a nice strong moustache like mine, hm?”

“Gabada!” Billy replied.

There was a knock on the door, and Elliott reluctantly pulled away from his son’s grip to answer it.

Dobkin looked over his shoulder, still flummoxed by Mary’s presence, but decided against questioning who this woman was and why she had suddenly appeared.

“Just got back from town, Mr Marston. The chaplain’s here, and I managed to pick up half a dozen men. I can get more from Perth.”

“Excellent. Get them settled in the men’s quarters, then put them to work. I want a count of all the outer pens, I wouldn’t put it past Quigley to murder my livestock as well as my men.”

“Yes, sir.” Dobkin hesitated, glancing again at Mary, who was standing up now with Billy in her arms. “Mr Marston, can I ask —”

“What? Oh, right. Introductions.” Elliott beckoned Mary over. “Mary, this is Mr Dobkin. He’s the best of my men, even before they were all slaughtered. He kept the place going while I was away. In fact, if I weren’t able to trust him, I’d have never gone to London.”

“Oh, in that case, I must thank you, Mr Dobkin!”

“Er - no problem?” Dobkin replied with confusion.

“Dobkin, this is Mary. She’s to be my wife. She’s to be treated with nothing but respect, so make sure those new men know it, alright? She has just as much authority as me. More, in fact, because I do what she says.”

“Elliott!” Mary laughed.

“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Dobkin said with a tip of his hat. “And who’s the little one?”

“This is our son, Billy,” Elliott said. “And the lad you met earlier, that’s Mary’s brother, Tommy.”

“Your —?”

“Our son, yes. I’ll tell you the whole story later, but I need those headcounts. And where’s the chaplain? He has a wedding to officiate.”

- - -

All that time Mary had spent imagining what getting married would be like, she’d never imagined this.

Her wedding to Turpin had been large, opulent, the pews of St Dunstan’s filled to the brim.

It had also been terrifying. Mary was miserable, she didn’t know a single one of the guests, and any affection she might have harboured for her groom had dissipated the night he’d threatened to hang her brother if she didn’t marry him.

But her wedding to Elliott was everything the first hadn’t been.

It was small, intimate, with only Tommy and Elliott’s trusted worker, Mr Dobkin, in attendance — and Billy, of course, in Tommy’s arms. Mary had married Turpin in a church and become a Lady — now, she was marrying Elliott in the middle of the desert, and she didn’t care that she was relinquishing her title as Lady Turpin. She’d rather be Mrs Marston any day.

Mary hardly heard what the chaplain was saying. She recognised the prayers and the blessings she’d heard at her first wedding, but she didn’t really listen. All she could do was look at Elliott, so handsome in the Australian sun, and when he recited his vow to her, she began to cry.

She just about managed to hold it together as she repeated the vow back to him.

There was no wedding ring, but neither of them cared for that. That could come another day. All that mattered was that the other was there.

More prayers, more blabbing from the chaplain. Mary began to get impatient. Then, finally, she heard the words she wanted to hear.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

“Finally,” Elliott growled. He wrapped his arms around Mary’s waist, pulled her in close, and kissed her fiercely.

Somewhere, Tommy and Dobkin were applauding, but Mary didn’t pay them any mind.

She was married! To Elliott! She was married to Elliott! She was Mrs Mary Marston, and nobody could change that.

Elliott eventually pulled away, and quickly scooped Mary up in his arms, causing her to squeal with surprise.

“Right, nobody disturb us for at least an hour. I need to spend some time alone with my wife.”

“Er - just a moment, Mr Marston,” the chaplain said, hesitant to interrupt Elliott’s enthusiasm. “The certificate first, please.”

“Oh, right, right. Quickly!”

Elliott set Mary back down to her feet and the chaplain unrolled the certificate onto the table on the porch.

“Right, then, here we are. Names… Elliott James Marston… Mary Turpin… ages?”

“Forty-three,” Elliott replied.

“Nineteen,” said Mary. Not that she was certain, but it was her best guess.

“Condition - both widowed. Rank or profession. Pastoralist, I suppose, Mr Marston?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Father’s name and profession?”

“James Marston. Merchant.”

The chaplain looked at Mary expectantly, and she hesitated.

“Oh, um… I don’t know.”

“That’s alright, we can leave it blank. Mr Marston, sign here — Mrs Marston, there. Then these two can sign as witnesses and we can leave you two to, uh… celebrate.”

Elliott had never signed anything so fast or with such certainty. Mary did her best attempt at a signature, though it looked childish next to Elliott’s, and Tommy’s was just a cross.

“Come on, Dobkin, hurry up,” Elliott snapped as Dobkin signed the last signature. “Right, is that it?”

“Yes, I’ll get this registered back in town and send it back to you,” the chaplain said, but Elliott hardly heard anything after “yes.” He swept Mary up in his arms again, grinning, and practically kicked the front door down.

“No interruptions!” he barked back at Dobkin. “And I want those headcounts!”

The door slammed shut behind him, and Mary laughed as he practically sprinted to the bedroom, kicked that door open too, and threw her quite unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Clothes off,” he commanded, already shrugging his waistcoat off, and Mary eagerly stood to undress. “I’ve waited too fucking long for this. You have no idea - no idea… you ruined whores for me, you know? I tried, but they were all disappointments. I’d rather my own hand than a cunt that’s not yours.”

“I… thought of you,” Mary admitted with a blush as she loosened her dress and let it fall to the floor to reveal her undergarments. “When I was with William, I’d… think of you.”

Elliott grinned with pride. “I bet you did. Thinking of my cock while taking his. The little one might as well be mine. Go on, let me see him.”

Mary pulled her vest over her head, revealing her swollen breasts and her slightly protruding stomach, and Elliott groaned. The sight of Mary - his wife - round with child… it touched something primal within him.

He knelt down and placed both hands on Mary’s belly, his lips ghosting her skin softly.

“Hello, James. Or Victoria. But hopefully James.”

Mary laughed.

“Another man may have planted his seed, but make no mistake, I am your father. And once you’re out, I’ll put another one in there, as many as your mama wants.”

“Two more,” Mary told him. “I’d like two more, if that’s alright with you.”

Elliott looked up at her with a grin. “Oh, I will very happily keep impregnating you. Let’s practice, shall we? Get these bloody things off.”

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of her bloomers and pulled them down, leaving her fully nude in front of him.

“God, I missed this,” Elliott groaned. He guided Mary to sit on the edge of the bed, instructed her to lie on her back, and promptly buried his face between her legs.

“Elliott!” Mary gasped as his tongue began exploring her folds, hungrily lapping at her like a man starved.

It had been a long time since she’d felt his mouth down there. Turpin had certainly never seen the point, since it wasn’t for his pleasure. And Elliott had never eaten a whore’s pussy — he didn’t pay to give her pleasure, only to take his own. So he really was a man starved, not having tasted a cunt since he’d last brought Mary to orgasm with his tongue in Sussex a million years ago.

Not that he seemed out of practice. He easily recalled the way she liked his tongue to circle her clit, and when he slid his fingers inside her, he knew exactly where to go to find that inner sweet spot.

He showed no mercy to her, continuing his precise movements as she came, and only when she mumbled, “Stop… too much…” did he pull away, grinning victoriously with a face covered in her juices.

“I could stay buried in there all day,” he said as he wiped his face on the back of his hand. “I’d gladly die suffocating between your thighs.”

“Mmm, well, I think it’s time you put something else between my thighs, don’t you agree?”

Mary shuffled up the bed as if to prove her point, laying her head against the pillow as she spread her legs for him.

“Oh, someone’s grown bold,” Elliott purred. He gladly climbed on top of her, rubbing his cock between her legs to spread her slick along it. “All that time I spent trying to get you out of your shell, and all I had to do was marry you.”

“I spent over a year without you, El. I thought I’d never see you again. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Elliott leant over her, their torsos pressed together, though he tried not to put too much weight on her belly. He kissed her neck and nibbled on her earlobe, then muttered in her ear, “Tell me what you want, Mary. I’m yours to command.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, desperately trying to pull him close.

“Fuck me, Elliott.”

There was no way he could resist that.

He lined himself up with her entrance and pushed, and her cunt gladly let him in. It gave him all the wetness he needed to move without resistance, and her walls easily acquiesced to him, stretching around his cock as he moved deeper inside her.

Mary had never felt the pull of any drug, but she suspected that the first hit of an addict’s substance after a long time without it felt something like this. Like she’d been missing something, and finally she was whole again.

Pregnancy made her cunt more sensitive, she’d learnt this last time, and so she felt every inch of her stretching around him, every nerve on fire as his cock filled her up so perfectly. And when he began to thrust, Mary felt like she might just die of pleasure as his cock dragged along her walls and pushed against that sweet spot inside her.

“More, Elliott, please,” Mary begged, desperate with frustration at his slow pace. “I can take it. I won’t break, I promise.”

He chuckled, and looked at her with his amber eyes darkened with lust.

“Anything you wish, my love.”

Mary clung to Elliott as he fucked her harder, his hips pummelling into hers as if trying to make up for lost time. The bed began to creak — Elliott had had this bed for a long time, and he’d never known it to creak. He’d taken plenty of whores here, his first wife too, and none of them had ever made the bed creak. Maybe it was getting old. Or maybe he just hadn’t ever desired someone as much as he did Mary.

The creaking of the bed was matched only by their moans. Mary was sure she’d never heard a sound so beautiful, so arousing, as the noises Elliott was making right now.

“Elliott…” Mary panted between moans. “Elliott, I love you.”

He grinned, full of pride. “Of course you do. I love you too, Mary. I love you so - fucking - much. Fuck! Mary… Mary, I’m afraid I won’t - ah! - last long.”

“Fill me up, El,” she begged. “Please, El, please, I wanna feel it inside me…”

“Oh, I’ll fill you up. Gonna fucking - mhm - fill you up with my cum. ‘Til you’re leaking. You want that, huh? You wanna be full of my cum?”

“Yes, yes, please, Elliott, I need it, need to be full of you…”

“Say it,” he commanded, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Say you want my cum, Mary.”

“I want your cum, Elliott, please, I need it, need your cum…”

He exploded with a roar of pleasure, his cries loud enough to be heard back in Perth, and Mary felt his cock pulsing inside her as, just as he promised, he filled her cunt up with his seed.

He’d barely finished when he was kissing her again, his tongue demanding entrance, as if he needed to follow his cock fucking her cunt with his tongue fucking her mouth.

His cock was softening inside her, but it was only a temporary reprieve. Elliott knew he had more in him. Oh, he’d fill her up alright. Again and again until his balls were expended and he had nothing more to give.

They finally parted for breath, and Elliott propped himself up on his elbows, gazing down at her with a possessive pride.

“I hope you don’t think that was all I have for you,” he purred. “You wanted my cum, you’re gonna get it.”

Before Mary could answer, Elliott pulled out of her and shuffled down the bed to position his head between her legs again. He used his fingers to push apart her lips, gazing with pride at the way his seed was leaking out of her.

“This is what this cunt was made for. Being stuffed full of cum. Fuck, you take it so well, Mary. Better keep it all inside, though, hm?”

He used his fingers to scoop up the cum that had leaked out and pushed it back inside.

“Gotta keep it all in there,” Elliott said, as if he needed a reason to push his fingers up inside her. “Mmm, such an obedient cunt… it deserves a reward, no?”

He pressed his lips against her clit, which was still swollen and sensitive, and Mary moaned his name as he licked her again, his fingers fucking her cunt as fiercely as his cock had.

He could feel it twitching to life again against the mattress, but Elliott ignored it. He was enjoying this, savouring every moment of his wife’s pussy against his face. Besides, the way she was gripping his head now, her fingers tugging on his hair, he couldn’t have moved away even if he wanted to.

To his surprise, just when he thought she was about to reach her peak again, Mary pulled his head back, and he looked up at her.

“Lie on your back,” she said.

She didn’t need to tell him twice. Elliott moved over to lie on the other side of the bed, his cock fully awake again now, and Mary took full advantage of it. She swung her leg over his waist, took his cock in her hand, and sank onto it with ease.

“Oh, Mary,” Elliott groaned. The short time they’d had together, she’d never done this. Never taken control — never owned her pleasure. She was too shy, too eager to please. She had no idea how to do anything for herself, only for others.

And she rode like an expert. She’d definitely had practice — it seemed Turpin had been good for something, at least.

Lord, she was beautiful like this. Her belly round with child, her tits swollen with milk. She was already pregnant, she had no need to take his seed. No, she was taking it because she wanted it. She was riding him for the pleasure of it, for the intimacy, for the sheer decadence of bringing herself to orgasm. And when that orgasm began to build, Elliott grabbed hold of her hips and took over thrusting, letting her lose control of her body as she came around his cock, her tight walls squeezing him. He had no choice but to follow suit, another round of seed exploding inside her as they both cried out, Mary’s cunt milking his cock for all he had left.

She collapsed, exhausted, on top of him, and Elliott gently rolled her to her side, ever wary of her belly.

They laid there together in silence for a little while, Mary comfortably snuggled up in Elliott’s arms, as they both caught their breath.

“When you said you wanted to learn to ride, I thought you meant a horse,” Elliott murmured eventually. “But I think I like this better.”

Mary giggled and looked up at him. “Well, I definitely didn’t sail halfway around the world to ride a horse. There are plenty of them in England.”

“Plenty of men, too. And I’m sure they’d happily let you ride them.”

“Mmm, but none of them are you.”

Elliott smiled at her.

“I’m so proud of you, Mary. I know how difficult it is for you to do anything for yourself. And yet, here you are, following your heart half a world away.”

Mary shook her head. “No, I - I didn’t do it for me. I did it for Tommy, so he could have a better life, away from the class system that keeps him from achieving so much. I did it for Billy, so he could know his real father, and for the baby, so he can live without ever having known the struggles Tommy and I faced.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself, Mary. Not to me, never to me. Yes, I swear it, your sons - our sons - they will have a better life here. But if it weren’t for them - if you were all alone, with no home and no family in England, just your late husband’s inheritance - would you not have come anyway?”

“I - I guess,” Mary admitted. “If there was truly no reason to stay in England, and I knew you were out here… I suppose, yes, I would have come to find you.”

“Then I am truly honoured to be the first thing you ever chose for yourself.”

Mary blushed. Elliott tucked her hair behind her ear, and kissed her on the forehead, before letting her settle back against his chest.

“I think you might be my soulmate,” she whispered.

Elliott thought back to the day they met, the way she instantly felt so familiar to him, so comfortable. Like home was within her… as if the homesickness he thought he felt for Australia had been for her all along.

He remembered the day he’d decided to visit England. Nothing in particular had triggered it. It was something he’d wanted to do, but the timing had never felt right — until it did. As if fate itself had whispered in his ear: She’s waiting for you. Go and get her.

Mary giggled at something, interrupting Elliott’s train of thought.

“You know, we only met because you were pickpocketed,” she said, looking up at him with amusement. “If you hadn’t been in the right place, at the right time, you may never have walked into the shop. Isn’t it lucky you were?”

“I don’t think it was luck, Mary… I believe it was fate.”

“Do you think we find each other in every life?”

Elliott cupped her face with his hand and looked deep into her eyes, as if trying to communicate with her very soul.

“Mary Taylor-Turpin-Marston —”

She giggled at the silly name.

“— with God as my witness, I promise you this. Whatever happens in the next life… I’ll find you. I will always find you.”

Mary grinned.

“Not if I find you first.”

[scribbly-artist]

With You in the Dark

Summary: You were having a really bad day. Nothing you tried seemed to help, it was a pretty awful episode, not uncommon for you. You’ve gone to your two favourite people to help, Viktor and Jayce, and they are happy to listen to your problems and put a smile on your face in return.

Author’s Notes: I was reluctant to post this (and even finish this, really) as I was writing this when I was feeling really shitty myself (yaaaay we love feeling sad a lot). But I figured if someone else is feeling this way and reads this, maybe they might feel better, too. I projected a LOT onto the Reader, but still used they/them pronouns so everyone can put themselves in their place. I just wanted comfort by getting tickles by my two faves. :( Stay safe out there, everyone.

Words: ~2,500 | AO3 Link

Everything currently feels so… grey. 

You saw things in grey. The food you ate tasted grey. The bags under your eyes were grey. The feeling inside your chest… all a disheartening, disgusting monochrome blended into your heart and soul. It felt unavoidable at this point. 

And you felt awful about it, as you felt as if you were always meant to be colourful and bright for others. You felt like you were the light for your friends when they needed it most, when they were feeling awful themselves. People came to you when the world was grey for them. But how could you be that shoulder to cry on when you were in this state yourself? 

You tried many things to distract yourself from this feeling – but your usual tricks didn't seem to work. Reading books at the library, going for a walk, drawing whatever silly pictures you could, just sitting outside and feeling the warm sun hit your skin… nothing worked, it was all so demotivating. 

You lay your head on your arms that were resting on the bench, sighing, looking down at your lap. 

You were in one of the academy's laboratories with your two favourite people – Jayce and Viktor. Usually, they would be able to cheer you up right away with their presence alone. But the awfully sad look on your face struck something in them today. You had asked them if you could just hang out and think as they worked. Of course, they agreed. 

They attempted to try to help you at first, but you just wanted to be alone with your thoughts for a while, but in the company of others as you felt safer that way. So, at your request, you just… sat and existed for a while. 

You wondered if you could bring the colour back into your life at all for a while. You were prone to these episodes, each one feeling like it was longer than the last. It just… happens, you supposed. 

You disassociated into your thoughts, constantly thinking for what felt like an eternity. Your brain couldn’t be silenced, loud noises that wouldn’t stop. Time seemed to pass without your knowledge as your thoughts swirled into more of that disgusting colour you despised. At one point, tears started to bud into the corners of your eyes that you couldn't stop from running down your cheeks. 

Once the tears came, that's when you finally noticed that the unusual comforting sounds of metal being hit and chalk being scraped halted to a stop, as a warm, comforting hand gently touched your shoulder. 

You whipped your head up – both Jayce and Viktor were sitting on either side of you. You hadn't noticed they stopped until now, let alone moved their chairs to sit beside you. Your hands darted to your eyes, wiping the tears away. Looking at both of their faces, though, they started to well up again. 

They looked sad – you immediately thought you did something wrong. 

“I-I'm sorry,” you gasped out, but their expressions changed to concerned confusion. 

“‘Sorry’? What for?” Viktor was the first to pipe up, his golden eyes radiating worry. 

“You don't have to apologise for crying,” Jayce nearly looked like he was going to start tearing up himself. “If you feel up to it, you could tell us why you're feeling upset today.” Jayce’s hand on your shoulder slowly stroked some comforting circles into it with his thumb. 

You let out a sigh so deep from inside your lungs, you felt like you were going to shrink up and run out of air. “It's n-nothing, really guys–”

“We know it's not just ‘nothing’,” Viktor interrupted you before you could get another word in. “Both of us can tell when you're feeling especially awful. We've known you long enough to deduce as such.”

They were both very perceptive young men. Nothing could get past them. 

You turned to your head to your right, seeing what Jayce wanted to say about that. 

“You don't have to tell us if you don't want to,” his hand slipped down to your back. “We’re not trying to force you. But, maybe we can help you if you open up.”

You paused for a moment, your face changing from thinking everything over, to an upset frown. You sucked in a shaky breath, mentally preparing yourself to spill all your thoughts out in the open for the first time.

“I don’t know what triggered inside me to feel this way…” your hand reached up to the collar of your shirt, fiddling with a button. “Sometimes, nothing does. Sometimes, my mind will wander and it’ll just happen,” you lowered your head, not daring to attempt to look your two friends in the eye. “But I hate feeling this way. I’m meant to be the one who’s meant to make people feel better, not the other way around,” tears started to well up in your eyes again as your words escaped your throat with raw, bubbling emotion. “How am I meant to help people if this feeling in my chest, suffocating me, won’t go away?”

Your hand moved hastily to fiddle with the hem of your shirt instead. Both men didn’t utter a word as you continued.

“Everyone thinks I’m a happy-go-lucky person, but I’m not. It’s a mask… and sometimes, it falls off,” the tears started to sting more, threatening to fall as your pained voice continued. “And when it falls off… I hate people seeing me this way. I feel stupid for being upset. For crying,” the tears were starting their descent now. “For being a burden. For worrying people… g-guys, I’m sor—” 

You weren’t able to get another word in.

Two pairs of warm, comforting arms wrapped their way around your body. You could hear heartbeats through chests on both sides of your head. You were confused in your frenzied state for a moment, until it dawned on you.

They were hugging you.

You couldn’t stop your tears from falling any longer, letting out a wet-sounding sob.

“You will never be a burden on us,” Viktor spoke from your left, hand tangled in your hair. “Please. Understand that.”

“We’re your friends… we want to be there for you, through thick and thin,” Jayce was next to speak on your right, he sounded as if he was on the verge of tears. “It’s fine if you need to lean on us, that’s what we’re here for… you need to fill your own cup up, too…”

Their words were the breaking point.

You cried — you cried a lot. You weren’t even sure how long you cried for, but they stuck by you the entire time. They didn’t even budge, they just held onto you tightly, as if you would go somewhere far away if they let you go.

It grounded you. And it made you feel better. You hadn’t had a big, long cry in a very, very long time. Same with such a nice, comforting hug…

Once you ceased, your head lowered, hands in your lap. “T-Thank you…” your voice was hoarse, weakened with every syllable you uttered.

The men broke their embrace, Viktor sliding a comforting hand up and down your back as you coughed and hiccuped, Jayce using his thumb to wipe the tears off of your cheeks. “Do you feel better?” He asked, a tiny bit of his own tears in the corner of his eyes.

A heavy weight was lifted from your body, so partially. However, you were a bit horrified that they had to bear witness to all of that.

But, at least you could feel a little colour again. 

“Guys… I-I'm sorry for crying in front of you.”

“You never have to apologise for showing emotion like that,” Viktor replied. 

“We’re glad that you felt safe to do so,” Jayce piped up, placing his hand on your shoulder again with a soft smile. “We just want to see you safe and happy.”

You responded with a nod, a small smile making its way to your face. But not a big one like they were expecting. 

Jayce got up, leaning a hand on the bench. “C’moooon, you can smile a little bit more than that, right?” A smirk grew on his face. 

To your left, Viktor wanted to be cheeky, so he reached over and gave your cheek a little pinch, pulling on it slightly. “I've seen much larger smiles on your face than this before. Surely you have more in you?”

Your cheeks started to reveal a bit of pink dusted on them. “W-What?” Your head darted to both of their faces, turning left and right. Their gazes started to look a little too eager… both of your index fingers pointed at your face, smiling a tiny bit more to show some teeth. “This is a big enough smile… right?”

Both men exchanged glances, then looked back at you. Clearly not. 

A chuckle escaped Viktor. “I believe our friend here may need some… ah, further convincing to cheer up.” He gave you a little poke in the side. 

You jumped at the touch, a shiver going up your spine. Your current smile started to turn wobbly. 

Jayce’s smirk only grew to look more evil and mischievous. “I agree. We need to make sure our friend doesn’t have anymore sad thoughts in their head, y’know.”

“Don't talk about me like I'm not here!” You jokingly piped up, a bit of nervous sweat started to build up on your forehead, cheeks ablaze. 

“I think I have just the trick.” Jayce clapped his hands. 

You attempted to get up with a start. You weren't sure what they were planning, and you didn't want to know. But, your escape failed. As soon as you rose from your seat and tried to sidestep Jayce and Viktor, Jayce grabbed you. He held you against his chest, an arm slipping around to hold you just under your arms and along your chest, resulting in you not being able to lower your arms. 

“W-We can talk about this, right? Right?” Your bargaining attempt fell on deaf ears, both men shaking their heads. 

“We just want to see your big, bright smile. We can help you with that!” Jayce spoke near your ear, and then nodded at Viktor. Viktor’s hands started to approach you, wiggling his fingers. You squirmed on the spot. 

“What are you going to– ahahaha!!” You erupted into giggles as Viktor’s fingers touched down on your ribs. Oh no! Tickling? You were too sensitive for this… they’ve played this game with you before. “Nohoho! Wahahait guys!!”

“Laughter suits you much better than crying. Don’t you agree, Jayce?” Viktor nonchalantly said as he scribbled right into your ribs and sides, making you flail about in Jayce’s hold with bright, bubbly laughter filling up the room. 

“Definitely! And your laugh is adorable, to boot!” Jayce cooed right into your ear.

If your face wasn’t already red, it was definitely on fire by this point.

“Dohohon’t say that!!” You protested with a whine. Viktor was switching things up to keep you on your toes, digging his roaming fingers into your unprotected armpits, causing you to bubble up in more laughter.

“But it’s true! I wouldn’t lie about that. What’s wrong, don’t you like being called cute?” 

You tried to respond, but you tripped over your words with your laughter, shaking your head.

“Quite the opposite, I believe. Judging by how flushed they got… I think they like it.” God, Viktor was annoyingly observant.

“Aww, that’s so cute!” Jayce teased. Realising his other hand was free, he decided he wanted to join in as well, his hand giving your side a couple squeezes.

Your laughter exploded.

“NOHOHOT THEHEHERE!!” A bit of fang was showing from how wide your smile got. You threw your head back, resting it on Jayce’s shoulder.

“Woah, a bad spot?” Jayce pointed out, giving you tender squeezes wherever he could reach, a much different feeling compared to Viktor’s agile wriggling fingers. It was hard to think straight with both sensations at the same time.

“What a charming smile you have,” Even Viktor teased you a little, your ears started to blush alongside your rosy cheeks. “I wonder…” Uh oh, you could hear the curiosity in Viktor’s voice when you knew he was up to no good…

Viktor’s hand’s darted down, squeezing right into your hip bones.

Oh god, you didn’t know how awfully ticklish you were there. You have never been tickled there before, but now you know it was definitely a bad spot. You nearly shrieked from the contact alone.

“I believe that might be what they call a ‘death spot’ ehehe…” Viktor chuckled to himself, giving it a few more squeezes to see you squirm and laugh.

New tears — tears of mirth — started budding into the corners of your eyes. You began to wheeze as your laughter grew hoarse, so both men slowed to a stop. You started catching your breath with a cough, Jayce releasing his grip on you, but he kept a hand on your shoulder as you were a bit weak in the knees from all that energy being sapped from you. He wanted to make sure you didn’t fall over or sink to the ground.

“There, how was that? Feel better?” Jayce asked, giving your shoulder a pat.

You weakly nodded your head, giving a thumbs up as you wheezed.

“We’ll have to remember this for next time you need some cheering up,” Viktor gave a small smirk when he looked in your direction, meeting your eye. “Your laugh and smile… it’s very endearing.”

“Ugh, noooo, stooooop…” You covered your face with your hands, not daring to look at either of them as they shared a laugh at your expense. “It’s embarrassing…”

“What, being called cute?” Jayce piped up behind you.

Your body whipped around, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Shut up, shut up, shushhhhhh.” Your cheeks only burned more.

“Alright, we’ll stop teasing you,” he grabbed your hands, lowering them back down, absentmindedly rubbing a thumb over your knuckles. “How about we go and get you something to drink?”

“You should have some sweetmilk. For a sweet friend. I’ll pay for it.” Viktor patted a hand on your shoulder, a small smile gracing his features.

“I think I need a drink after being tormented…” You were being a tad dramatic. They began to walk to the lab’s entrance, you following them in tow. 

“Torment? I think you loved it, actually.” Viktor couldn’t help but tease you just a bit more, chuckling.

“I’m not afraid to hit you, y’know,” You let out a dramatic whine from the tease, sighing. There was silence for a moment as you walked, until you spoke up. “…thanks, guys.”

They were always here for you when you needed it. And they were happy to help out.

Everything felt a little bit more colourful and brighter being by their side.

[socgf]

chapter 5 - half-truths and headlights (a little bonus chapter !!!!)

in which ... rosie has to tell darry where she's been all night and thanks god dally's a great liar.

dallas winston x curtis sister ! oc

wc: 502

warnings: none!

you really got me: masterlist

when we make our way up the porch stairs, i’m a nervous wreck, but dally’s fallen effortlessly into his typical swagger. he doesn’t give a second thought before barging in the front door, not that he ever gives a second thought before doing anything. and though i know darry can always see right through me when i lie, you’d only notice that my lipstick is smudged and my hair is messed up in the back if you were really looking.

darry’s reading a book on the couch, eyes heavy, and startles at the sound of the door. when he sees dally sauntering in before me, his entire body tenses like he’s ready for a fight. but before he can open his mouth-

“listen, darrel. all rosie was doin’ was her job and i came in loaded. had to sober me up, get me home so she wouldn’t get in trouble at work, and all.” he pauses. “i’ll tell you, ya got a real fuckin’ square as a sister.”

he’s really selling it, still slurring his words ever so slightly and grumbling like i ruined his fun. i silently bless him for doing the talking.

“that true, rosie?” darry’s anger slowly shifts into reluctant acceptance, but i have to finish the job.

i nod. “i couldn’t just leave him there, dar. i figured taking him to buck’s would just be worse.”

darry sighs, running his hand through his hair like our dad used to do, though he looked more tired than strict. “c’mon rosie, it’s late. get to bed, yeah?”

and i nod carefully, but i don’t want to go upstairs just yet.

then he turns to dally, keeping his tone firm. “you good to drive back now, winston? you know you can crash here.”

dally shifts his weight and i can see the slightest flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “nah. always am.”

darry just nods, a quiet truce passing between them.

dally catches my eye one last time before he’s heading out the front door, a look that says everything we didn’t say back in his thunderbird. but then he’s gone and it’s silent again.

darry hesitates for a moment, and softens his tone now. “you know you can talk to me, right? if he ever…” 

“i know, dar. don’t worry about me, i’m alright.”

“you’re tough, peach. but you’re gonna give me damn gray hairs, worryin’ bout you.”

and i feel like the worst sister in the world lying to him, and i silently swear to myself that i wouldn’t ever let dallas winston talk me into causing trouble again. though, as soon as that thought passes in my head, i kind of know it’s bullshit.

“love you dar. good night.”

i’m heading towards the stairs, and he’s closing up his book on the couch.

“love you too, peach.”

and as i settle back under my covers, i try really hard to forget the taste of rum and winstons on my lips, but i fall asleep with the image of one person on my mind.

a.n. this is very short and tiny and idk how convenient it is posting a multi part series on tumblr maybe i'll move to ao3. idk. i have like 10 more chapters left in my mind haha

also i feel bad tagging yall bc idk if u wanna be tagged for EVERY chapter so. sorry for spamming.

taglist:

@mrsdillonx @hailpacino @magefelixir @jujuheartz13 @coastershells @r0seb100d @awsomeemochick @mattdillonlvr69

[veliseraptor]

top 5 fic recs? any fandom

five? any fandom? anon I have 1,065 fics in my bookmarks on ao3, which doesn't include in progress works that I'm really enjoying, and while some of those are for fandoms I'm no longer in it's like. that's a lot of fic to try to pick five from.

but I guess if I say "five completed single fics on the longer side (i.e. not a series)" then that narrows it down a little at least. and I'm still like. but what about everyone I'm leaving out.

so consider this a top frive fics that's in no way definitive.

Hard Mouth by road_rhythm.

There's something in Caleb's dreams. It wants him to know that he's not alone. It wants him to know that he'll never be alone again. Elves don't dream, so all Essek can do is watch.

It's been a minute since I read this one but it's a remarkable piece of work. It's Shadowgast canon divergence from late in Campaign 2, featuring Caleb suffering a whole lot and one of the best action scenes I've read in a fic, ever. Knotty and plotty and compelling.

Bargaining by @proantagonista

Faced with an eternity without his brother, Loki strikes a bargain to change the past. Post TDW.

I feel like the fact that this is MCU and I still had to put it on here speaks for itself, a little bit. This fic is possibly the best one I read in the MCU fandom, in terms of craft and also how much it made me feel; the slow build and arc of the plot makes a thing of beauty. One of the Loki fics I read that just lives in my head.

The Shadow That Remains of You by tenddisorder

After failing for years to restore life to Xiao Xingchen, Xue Yang decides to take a different approach to the problem. It goes almost entirely to plan.

Given the premise of this one (SongXueXiao travel back in time to dinosaur country) I would've been skeptical, but I think it was recced to me compellingly enough that I gave it a go and boy was I rewarded for that decision. Turns out that concept is a perfect way of basically isolating all three of these characters from everything else while they work out their shit. And there's some truly choice whump in there, too.

Under the Wheel by @silvysartfulness

Some few lucky times, the only thing you need to fix your horrible shared tragedy is a single heartfelt wish and a second chance to get things right. Or two. Or three. Or- okay, it's a bit of a work in progress. Song Lan spends centuries searching for a way to go back to a time before all horrors, undo all hurt and give him and Xiao Xingchen another chance at happiness. It could have gone according to plan.

Admittedly this one was written for me so that probably informs this decision a little, but it really is tailor-made for my specific wants and pleasures and it really pays off. Several of my favorite concepts combined (time travel, time loops, multiple people having conflicting goals having to work together) into a delightful piece of work. (As far as Silvy's work, The only reason Heaven Has a Road didn't make this list instead is because it's not complete yet.)

til my feet are memory by @curiosity-killed

The first time he meets Crimson Rain Sought Flower, Mu Qing barely makes it out alive. He throws himself, claws, crawls his way back to the heavenly court with his soul half out of his body, his limbs shredded and heart fluttering weakly as it weeps blood into the floor of his palace.

I waffled a little on the final one for this list - there were a couple VegasPete possibilities and an FMA fic that almost made it on, and I considered just having this list be a top seven instead of a top five) but ultimately I decided on this one partly because I am obsessed with this pairing, there's very little fic for it with the dynamic I prefer, and the execution in this fic is everything I want from it. In general this author does excellent work just...across the board, but this is possibly my personal favorite, at least of the works on the longer side.

so there's five. but like. I'm serious about that 1,065 bookmarks, all of which I rec to one degree or another. this is just a selection.

[martialartslover7]

Sakura VS Sasuke (Kage Summit Arc - Rewrite)

Alright, I cannot hide this anymore. I HAVE to show this. Because I was so freaking annoyed with how the writing of Naruto Shippuden took a serious nosedive after the Pain arc (literally, the only big positive I can name, is Sasuke FINALLY killing that son of a bitch, Danzo, the guy just had it coming with his disgusting anti-Uchiha sentiment, abusing their power for his own aspirations), especially how the Five Kage Summit arc got concluded, with all of Sakura's sacrifices, once again, ultimately leading to yet another failure of hers, which, for some of her supposed IQ level, is just disgraceful (and mind you, I am not blaming Sakura, I am blaming Kishimoto for being a living laughingstock when it comes to writing females, I repeat myself, but this shit seriously gets on my nerves here, because the fandom is just as illiterate, as he is in writing any character with a vagina, on top of being a toxic cesspool too). You can dislike Sakura all you want, but it doesn't change the fact, she is part of the main cast, yet during this arc, where she could have done SOMETHING, she only ended up being a liability, yet again. All that training, all this yearning and devotion, all the sacrifices she made to get to this point to try and face Sasuke on her own terms, and she only ends up hitting a brickwall, as always. As if, all her attributes mean absolutely nothing, and she only exists for Naruto, or anyone else to save her, even in her best form. Yeah, no.

FUCK. EVERY. SINGLE PART. ABOUT ALL THIS.

And well, with all this in mind, I decided to rewrite the entire endgame portion of this arc, down to the root of it. Instead of Sakura hesitating, you will NOT be seeing this with me, the girls in Naruto are all queens, and deserve to be more than just the labels that Kishimoto put on them. She won't kill Sasuke, but she will beat the ever-living crap out of him. He is injured, blinded, exhausted and drained of almost all chakra. It would be STUPID to not see the chance, and get all in. Maximum effort.

And I was actually inspired to write this story, thanks to another dedicated Sakura fan on Twitter, who made this lengthy post, showcasing their efforts to rewrite that portion of the Kage Summit arc, as well. Go and check them out, this story wouldn't have been possible without them. In fact, I took a few notes from it, to write the fight choreography. You will notice, once I show you.

Side-note: And unlike what the canon story did, I will NOT go this route with the cast, Kakashi and the other Jonin will slowly catch on to the fact that, Danzo, and the Konoha elders, had always been the true evil, this whole time. And the assault on the Leaf village, along with the fact that, Naruto's arrival was uncomfortably delayed, all can be traced back to the elders, and mind you, for those who have read my "The Hero, The Blind & The Martyr" story (click the title to immediately get there, to get back up to speed, especially in the final portion), as a follow-up of the rewrite, Nagato had dropped a hint for them to take seriously. That there is a traitor among them, and he wasn't talking about Sasuke. So yes, once the war is over, do not expect Kakashi to play bootlicker to these assholes. And Sasuke WILL be getting the peace and pardoning he, and the rest of his family and clan, so dearly deserve. And Sakura is not blind to it either, anymore.

Especially not Neji, Shikamaru and Kiba, whose families unveil more evidence of what the elders had done, behind the scenes. Yes, another link, connecting to this story, and that is this one:

"Weird Wednesday Headcanon: Outside of Team 7, Neji, Shikamaru and Kiba sympathize the most with Sasuke's fall from grace after the Five Kage Summit"

And now, time for the main event, here is the link:

Sakura VS Sasuke (Kage Summit Arc - Rewrite) - AO3

PEACE.

[son-justdont]

okay so here's the update regarding my mom's opinions on catws

she fuckin gets it, dude

i talked about how despite everything hydra does to make him look intimidating, you can see that he's very neutral, sometimes even scared. i showed her this gif:

and she said "it's like he's lost"

we talked about how he's extremely calculating and doesn't react emotionally even in high stress or when he's being bested, like when Natasha fucked up his arm, or even during the face reveal. and she said "because they didn't understand the science of it... the serum enhances everything about the person, and he wasn't bad. that's why they had to work so hard and wipe him so much, because he wouldn't ever actually want to do those things." i couldn't help but smile while she was saying this lmao

she also said: "to me, Steve always seemed... independent. it's almost like Bucky relied on him more than the other way around" which is the most stucky thing she could've ever said. she's so fucking right

she was like "wait, so he pulled him out of the water... and then he just walked away?? so now he's just wandering around... and the longer he stays unfrozen, the more he's going to remember everything"

we can't quite yet watch civil war but we are very excited for it lol

oh, and she loved nick fury and she didn't even know who the fuck he was. i forgot to explain beforehand but she understood pretty quick. and then she was very upset when he "died" as well LOL she said "THEY NEED TO STOP DOING THAT." she hated rumlow immediately as well and i was like yeah that's the correct opinion

now i wanna respond to some of the comments under the cut cuz ive been having such a good time lmao

@bucky-boychik-barnes @impetusofadream HERE U GO (one of them is from a different post where i talked about the same thing lmao)

@ilovemosss i read this post out to my mom including the replies and when i read this one she went "YOU ARE!!!!!!!!!"

@sentowritesstuff @stuckydrewx @partofthefandom @musette22 @rillils @skullfragments

she really thought all these responses were so funny and sweet! i however will not be introducing her to ao3 lmfao. she's no prude but she's pretty shy. i'll have to just relay ideas i find myself, i think. if anyone has any non-M rated recs you think she might like based on what she's said, feel free to send them my way haha

honestly she'd probably enjoy herself but i am probably only be showing her Cap and Bucky related stuff LSKDJF we didn't even watch avengers and i sure as hell am not showing her AoU. i'm basically explaining the relevant information as to what went on in between movies. i was like "natasha is an ex russian spy that was groomed to be as a child. that's basically all you need to know" like i didn't even explain nick fury and she was SO UPSET WHEN HE DIED LMAO

and, i gotta spill the beans, but i haven't seen a marvel movie since the first black panther. yeah that includes IF and EG. i know what happens but my interest in marvel PLUMMETED back then and i never caught up. honestly i'm only back into this stuff because i rewatched jessica jones and then wanted to go through the whole MCU from the beginning, saw CA:TFA, went "oh yeah this was all that i liked," and went all in for them.

i have watched TFatWS and i loved it (it seems like the fandom doesn't though LOL) for what it was, so i'll probably show her that. she is gonna be so so so so so upset regarding steve's choice, just like the rest of us. and i'm not looking forward to it lol. but i'll update when that happens too

i'll have to make a post civil war mom thoughts once that happens haha

[werosmyss]

instead of writing for the stories that I actually put on ao3 for people to read I get lost in aimless garbage like this.

I have no direction with this and it's too short to post to ao3, so I'm just going to send it out into the void here if for no other reason than sheer boredom.

maybe I'll continue this and actually post to ao3, maybe I won't. I started this blog in part to get away from my perfectionist mindset surrounding fanfic and this is step one in digging myself out of that hole.

so feel free to read this weird pseudo-medieval modern magical realism radiostatic arranged marriage trope upon trope with no definitive start middle or end below the cut. No warnings, just radiostatic.

“Flowers,” The shadow-clad figure spoke before Vox could even step in the room. “How droll. I was so hoping for someone to come up with something interesting for once.” 

Vox stilled in the entryway. Should he be offended? A quick glance to his right revealed the source of the prince’s annoyance. A sturdy oak table that almost seemed to bend under the weight of what must have been dozens of bouquets— some in ornate gold-trimmed vases, some still in the paper wrap from the florists. With a flush, Vox added his own bouquet to the table, a rose arrangement with a smattering of cornflowers peeking from behind the dominant red, all sheathed in a crystalline vase with a royal blue bow. 

The dominant color of the bouquet table was red. He could pick out offerings from the other houses easily enough; bold pink lilies no doubt signified Valentino’s presence in this same room at some point. He stifled a laugh at the thought of his longtime friend attempting to play the flirt with the prince. He would be surprised if the man had survived. 

The largest, grandest bouquet certainly came from the Morningstars. It was a garish red thing, in a bold ceramic white vase with golden apple and snake imagery. Lucifer’s family was richer even than Alastor’s— he couldn’t help but wonder who was currying favors from who, there. 

Some smaller bouquets, yellow roses from Rosie and the Cannibal clan, no doubt. A black and red arrangement likely from Adam— or more appropriately his stern mother. He’d never seen Adam put that much effort into anything. Many more flowers littered the table from houses he couldn’t immediately identify. 

“Well?” He looked away from the veritable garden with a start. Red eyes glared out from the shadows at the end of the room. “Get on with it so that I might be free of your presence.”

“R-Right,” Vox brushed nonexistent dust from his coat. Of course, there had been no opportunity for his outfit to get dirty on his way here, his father had made sure of that. But the movement helped distract him enough to frantically recollect his thoughts. 

“My name is Vox. You may know my father as the CEO of VoxTek—” 

“No,” the prince waved a hand dismissively, he could just make out his silhouette in the frightfully dim room. 

“No, as in...” Vox glanced around, fighting the urge to wring his hands. “Should I—”

“No, as in I don’t know your father.” Teeth glinted in the flickering candlelight, the only source of light in the cavernous space. “Do you have any accomplishments of your own, or are you a cheap pawn like every other woefully inadequate suitor that has sullied my doorstep this week?”

“I– I– Well,” Vox frowned, usually people were clamoring to hear about his father’s business. Sure they weren’t old money like the Morningstars or commanded fear like the Cannibal clan, but everyone always wanted to hear about the next new thing. Everyone except the prince, it seemed. 

Was it concerning that the prince’s dismissal further emboldened Vox? He would have to think about that later. It wasn’t often that people asked about his accomplishments. 

Now, if he had any to speak of that weren’t tied to his father...

“I’m posed to step into the role as CEO upon my father’s retirement,” he tried. Maybe the prince liked the prospect of a stable income not tied to the sway of public opinion. After all, once his father had discovered Vox’s hypnotic powers they had both worked tirelessly to entwine that magic into every device they sold. Their products were less new and revolutionary these days, bearing more on the side of an addictive drug. 

Vox, secretly, wanted to return to the days where they had to fight to get their products on the market, where they sold based on the integrity of the craftsmanship and not on the curling strands of Vox’s hypnotism. 

But he would never tell his father that. Addiction was good. Steady, reliable money. 

Money that the prince didn’t need, he realized belatedly at the scrape of a chair. 

No figure emerged from the darkness. The prince’s voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. 

“If that’s all,” the prince spoke, “then you may leave.”

“I–” Vox tried not to make the frantic flick of his eyes noticeable as he tried to pinpoint the prince’s location. There was movement to his right, but when his gaze flicked to it he found just a shadow flickering in the candlelight. “I could give you a tour of our facilites!”

A disinterested hum echoed around the room. Vox could feel something tugging at his tailcoat, but when he spun around there was nobody there. “I could, I could, uh—” he frantically wracked his brain for anything that would make the journey home less of a tense affair, counting down the minutes until he had to face his father’s wrath for failing. Again.

The invisible force was pulling on him again, dragging him out of the room. He didn’t want to look desperate, but he wasn’t done here. Not yet.

Vox scrabbled at the door frame, finally hooking his fingers around the moulding. The force tugged harder, but didn’t try to rip at his coat. 

“Really, anything interesting?” A face appeared in the shadows before him. Less a face than two bright red eyes and a sharp grin. “Anything at all? You lasted longer than the moth, at least.”

Valentino? He’d never heard his friend described as a moth, but he supposed it was fitting, what with his poor eyesight and obnoxious little cloak. Their family was new money, like his. Their grandparents had long ago entered a business pact with another family— Velvette’s— to maintain market control over the land’s more carnal desires. 

“I brought you one other thing,” Vox offered, voice smaller than intended. His father had urged him against it, but it was a prototype of one of their newest products. 

Well, not anymore. His father had never seen the value in audio-only devices. Not when it was so much easier to draw a user in with flashy colors and fast-moving objects on a screen. Maybe if your audience was Valentino, sure. He’d gotten all the way to the prototyping stage before his father shut down the idea. 

“It was my own idea,” Vox felt the pull on his coat loose, and he straightened against the doorframe, hand falling to his pocket. “It isn’t anything special, but we aren’t putting it on the market, so I don’t...” he trailed off. The prince had appeared from thin air in front of him. Blood-red hair and ashen brown skin that bordered on the necrotic side of gray. His eyes were the same color as his hair, and glowed ever so faintly in the darkened room. 

Vox tried to clear his throat in a way that hid the growing flush on his face, hoping that the shadows would take pity on him and shroud him the same way they’d hidden the prince.  

No such luck, if the raised eyebrow he received in return was anything to go by. 

“I do so hate waiting,” the prince’s eyes expressed annoyance, but his smile remained full and toothy. “Go on,” he tucked his arms behind his back and narrowed his eyes further at Vox. 

“Right,” Vox nodded, “right,” he added more to himself. “Well, I heard through the grapevine that you might be interested in this sort of thing,” he dug through his pocket, fingers curling around a box no bigger than his palm. He lifted it out of the coat pocket, turning it over in his hand so that it wouldn’t look too terrible when he presented it to the prince. He regretted not picking up some sort of box or wrap to make the reveal a touch more grand. 

“What exactly is that?” The prince’s hands never left the small of his back, but a inky-black tendril of shadow plucked the box from Vox’s outstretched palm, bringing it closer for Alastor to inspect. “Certainly not one of those addictive little picture boxes I see about these days.”

Vox wasn’t sure if he was meant to answer or not, though a tendril of pride swelled in his chest at the thought that yes, the prince did know him— or, at least, his father’s company. Even if it seemed he didn’t have the highest opinion of their products. Take that, Lucifer Morningstar. 

“Well?” The prince’s eyes were back on him. Vox swallowed, hoping the action wasn’t too noticeable. 

“It– It’s a– well, we never got to the naming stage. It’s sort of like the TVs— the, uh, picture boxes, you mentioned. But not. For one, that’s the only one we ever made, like I said. Prototype.” He was babbling, he should shut up. The prince was staring at him with that same frozen smile. He couldn’t get a read on his emotions. Was he being annoying? His father would have told him to shut up by now. “It’s audio-only. It plays, uh, like music and stuff. Heard you... like... music.” Vox knew his face was burning, he hoped the prince wouldn’t mention it. 

Alastor just hummed, and the shadow dropped the audio box into his outstretched hand. The prince’s outstretched hand. Alastor, the prince, was holding Vox’s prototype, the silly little box that his father said would never sell in today’s market. “Music, you say? From this little thing?” There was a dial on the front, and a speaker on the inside. It could connect to VoxTek’s stations through the airwaves, could play anything they sent to the TVs, just without pictures. 

“Yeah,” Vox had embarrassed himself enough in front of the prince, a little nervous hand wringing wouldn’t hurt his image any more at this point. “It’s actually pretty cool how it works, I could tell you about it sometime—” Red eyes snapped to his own, and Vox cut himself off in stunned silence. There was something in those glowing eyes. It wasn’t an outright dismissal, he didn’t think at least. Was it mirth? Was the prince laughing at him? It was better, Vox figured, than anger. He could play the court jester, if needed. 

And it would be nice to gloat a little to Valentino. Maybe figure out what he’d said to draw the prince’s ire. Brag a little at getting Alastor to reveal himself from his shadows. 

“Yes, perhaps,” The prince turned the little box in his hand, speaking more to himself than Vox it seemed. “You may leave now, Vox.” 

He could feel his heart stop at his name coming from the prince’s mouth. Alastor didn’t deign him with a second glance, retreating back to his shadows like he hadn’t brought Vox to the very brink of death.

When he didn’t move, the pulling at his coat resumed. After a too-long beat of silence, Vox dipped into a messy bow and allowed himself to be pulled from the room. He had barely cleared the threshold when the door slammed shut. 

~

Alastor didn’t like eating dinner with his family. Not if he could help it, that is. But his father was growing impatient over his “indecision” regarding the hundreds of suitors he’d been forced to suffer through painful minutes of dull conversation with. And it helped that his mother had requested his favorite dish from the kitchen staff. 

So he ate slowly, savoring every bite as though it was his first and pointedly not looking his father in the eye. If he wanted to discuss this inane little power play, he could do it when Alastor was done with his meal. 

“How is your food, Alastor?” His mother sat across from him. The dining table was impossibly long, and it made the room feel ever emptier with the three of them crowded at the very end. Both of his parents had long since finished their food, and the only sound in the room was Alastor’s slow, contemplative chewing. 

He paused to swallow before answering. He may not be in the mood to speak with his father, but his mother was regularly pleasant company. It wouldn’t do to be rude just because the past week had been so taxing. 

“It’s delicious, as always Mother. You didn’t sneak to the kitchens to add a bit of spice, again, did you?” A teasing glint in his eye, his ever-present smile softening at its edges. His mother brought a hand to her mouth as she laughed. 

“Oh, I believe they got the picture last time, dearest.” Her curly bob bounced in time with her laughter, her smile a mirror of his own. 

Alastor was often compared to his father when it came to appearances. He was sure that it was intended as a compliment, but it only made his gut twist with disgust. How the kingdom saw his father as a ‘kind’ and ‘benevolent’ ruler was beyond him. They shared many of the same features, down to the shade of red in their glowing eyes and the black tips at the end of their hair. His father had much the same command over the shadows as Alastor, though he used them less for pranks and more to spy on the other nobles. 

His mother, however... Alastor studied her face. He had her smile, though only in the rare moments where it was genuine. Their eyes crinkled in the same way when they laughed. They had the same sense of dry humor as well, though she wasn’t a fan of the pranks he played on the staff. The lectures she gave him afterward were less about decorum and playing his role, and more about how the staff were people just like him, with families they went home to at the end of the night.

It hadn’t ended the pranks, but he had made an effort to keep them lighter— if only to not see the flash of disappointment across her face when he got caught. 

“Alastor,” his father’s gruff voice pulled him from his musings, and he felt his smile stiffen at its corners. He sat a little taller— against his will— and fought the snarl in his eyes as he turned to the man at the head of the table. His fork scraped ceramic, and Alastor realized that he had unfortunately run the timer down to its final seconds. 

“Oh, I guess I’m just about done with supper,” he hummed, gaze flicking to the plate to confirm. He speared the last savory chunk of sausage and brought it to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. 

“I don’t suppose,” he spoke again, only after swallowing the last bite and licking his lips clean, “that the staff prepared dessert?”

“You can’t dance around the topic forever, dear,” his mother chided from across the table. Her gaze was pitying, and Alastor instinctually bristled at the soft look in her eyes. He was nearly twenty years old, not a child to be coddled. 

Twenty years old. He was meant to have been married almost four years ago now. He’d stayed his father’s hand this long, why couldn’t they just leave him be? It wasn’t as though his father was going to keel over dead in the next month. He had all of the time in the world to find a suitor fit to his tastes. 

With a dramatic huff and a roll of his eyes, he turned to face his father again. He would suffer through the conversation, sure, but he wouldn’t make it easy. For anyone. 

“How was your week?” The question was innocuous enough. 

“Dreadfully boring,” Alastor drawled, inspecting his nails as though they were infinitely more interesting than the king. For all intents and purposes, they were. 

“Anybody... catch your eye?” Gods, his father was seemingly hellbent on making this conversation just as terrible, it seemed. Another similarity to add to the scoreboard: their stubbornness. 

“Not particularly,” he gave his nails another once over, picking at nonexistent dust. He flicked an imaginary particle in his fathers direction. 

“Nobody? Not that Lucifer fellow?”

Alastor found a growl rising unbidden in his throat. That Lucifer fellow had strutted into his rooms as though he owned the place, jabbering on about his parents, their neighboring kingdom, his vast riches and all that. Alastor would rather lay on a bed of nails than with that self-satisfied asshole. “Nobody,” he confirmed through clenched teeth. 

“What about the local nobles?” his mother spoke up now, and he really couldn’t project the same air of indifference in her direction, even if he tried. He settled for just avoiding her gaze. 

“Rosie was pleasant enough,” She was the only one of the nobles to not wheedle and whine about her status, after all. “Though you knew that.” 

They were old friends, him and Rosie. True, it was a smidge more awkward meeting her in an official capacity, as prince with her a prospective suitor. She was the only one he’d taken the allotted half-hour to speak with, though they mostly just caught up over tea rather than discussed the true intent of their meeting. She was also the only one to bring him something other than those garish red roses, which he appreciated. 

Well, that’s not right. Not the only one to bring something other than red roses. There had been someone else, a young man no older than him. He’d started with the flowers and the power play, like all the others, but had given him some curious little box before he left. 

“—And she’s from a respectable family, though I don’t know if I necessarily agree with her dietary choices,” he blinked, tuning in to the hushed conversation between his parents. Alastor mentally smacked himself for allowing his mind to wander. 

“None of the other nobles caught your eye?” his father addressed him again. Alastor narrowed his eyes. They should be thankful he even mentioned Rosie. If he was forced to cohabit with anyone other than his shadows, then it may as well be the only person he even considered a friend. 

Though, the thought of doing anything else with Rosie made bile stir in his throat. He pushed the very idea to the far recesses of his mind. Surely they didn’t actually expect him to sire an heir. 

Right?

It was a power play, Alastor knew that much. They want him to go for the Morningstar, that would be the most advantageous to their current position. More power on the world stage, and the incompatibility of their biology with the goal of producing an heir would be brushed under the rug and forgotten about. With any luck, whatever suitor he got stuck with would disappear once the political benefits had been reaped on both sides, and Alastor could return to his pleasant life of solitude. 

They want him to go for the smart decision politically. Alastor flipped through his mental rolodex of suitors— the ones memorable enough to stay in his mind, that is. The Morningstar would be top of his father’s list. Then the Von Eldritch, or the young Goetia boy— though they couldn’t hardly expect him to be interested in someone who was barely of age! After them, he assumed his father would have minimal complaints about some of the higher nobility of their own kingdom. Rosie they seemed to all agree on, though he didn’t share their discontent over her diet. 

He mentally ticked off more of the nobility. Zestial was a few years older than him, but he had been rather stimulating conversation. Carmine was more of a bother than her status was worth, and she hadn’t seemed too interested in his array of conversation starters. 

Back when he’d had conversation starters, when he was trying, if only for his mother’s sake. The books had drawn some attention, as had the piano in the corner. But he’d quickly done away with them as conversations rehashed themselves. By the end, he was dismissing people just for introducing themselves wrong. 

His thoughts trailed back to the boy with the box. He wasn’t nobility. He was the son of some businessman in town. His parents would hate for Alastor to be interested in someone of such low status. 

His grin slipped into something a touch more sinister. His parents wanted to play games? Use him as a little pawn on the world stage?

“There was one more...” he hummed, his parents both perking up at his sudden re-introduction to the conversation. 

He could play games.

[writing-until-i-drop]

Something About The Moon Brings Us Together | Ch. 1

read it on ao3

Buck was waiting for the day that Eddie came clean about being a werewolf. The entire 118 pack had scented it on him during his first day but he hadn’t brought it up or taken Bobby up on his offer to join them for their full moon night in the mountains. As it turns out, Christopher was going to force his father’s hand because in the middle of Buck’s living room was a half-transformed and terrified child.

Or: The one where Buck takes care of the Diaz boys, especially when Christopher turns out to be a werewolf too.

a/n: everyone can thank @closetspngirl for this getting posted

Buck was waiting for the day that Eddie came clean about being a werewolf. The entire 118 pack had scented it on him during his first day but he hadn’t brought it up or taken Bobby up on his offer to join them for their full moon night in the mountains. As it turns out, Christopher was going to force his father’s hand because in the middle of Buck’s living room was a half-transformed and terrified child. 

“S-stay away! Don’t come near me, I could hurt you!” The full moon wasn’t for another two days but partial transformations like this were normal for kids approaching their first full moon. Harry had scared the heck out of Athena, tearing up her couch mid-video game; a story Athena loved to tell almost as much as Harry hated it. 

“I know you can, buddy, but that’s why you’re going to take a couple of deep breaths for me. Can you do that?” Christopher’s shoulders shook as he tried to take a breath, dark eyes filled with tears, “You’ve got this, Superman.” Buck took a step forward, exuding calming, omega pheromones. It hurt his heart, the acrid scent of Christopher’s fear filing the air. Had Eddie not warned him that this was something that could happen? Buck frowned, Eddie was a good dad, there’s no way that he would intentionally hide something like this from Chris. Maybe it hadn’t been a problem with him and his sisters so Eddie hadn’t thought about it. That was more likely.

“I don’t wanna hur-hurt you.” Black fur was growing in patches and he had a tail, which was tucked between his legs. Buck took another step forward, watching the tenseness of Christopher’s posture relax more the closer he got, “Buck.” Christopher’s growing teeth were making it hard for him to properly pronounce anything and it was adorable.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Chris, you know why? Because I’m a wolf too, okay?” 

“You are?” Christopher sniffled, letting down his guard long enough for Buck to close the distance between them and pull him into a hug.

“A big, white wolf, I even keep my birthmark. Cool, right?” Chris nodded, taking a deep breath.

“You smell good,” Buck chuckled, kissing his curls. Eddie was going to be excited when he found out Christopher had grown into his wolf, after he got done being overwhelmed probably. “So, I’m a wolf?” Right. Christopher didn’t know what was going on, just that he suddenly had fur, a tail, and claws.

“That’s right, Superman. You know what werewolves are, right?” Christopher nodded, “Just like that. We turn into wolves on the full moon, when we’re wolves we act a lot like dogs, and even when we’re not wolves our senses tend to be a bit stronger. Like smelling and hearing things, especially the closer we get to the full moon.” 

“So, we definitely don’t want to eat dad’s cooking near the full moon,” Christopher’s face pinched together in disgust. Buck bit back a laugh,

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best. Don’t worry, Bobby cooks when we all get together for the full moon.” Christopher perked up like a puppy, looking adorable as his head cocked to the side.

“Bobby’s a werewolf too?” Buck tried not to wince as Christopher’s claws pierced the sofa cushions. At least he was doing less damage than Harry had. “What about Hen?” 

“Werewolf and werewolf,” Buck confirmed. “So are Chimney, Maddie, Athena, and the other kids.” Christopher blinked a few times in a row, processing the information. Buck waited with baited breath for Christopher’s reaction to these life-changing revelations. He was either going to accept it with childlike wonder or he was going to have an absolute freakout. Buck was hoping for one outcome but he was prepared for both, there was a container of cookie dough ice cream in his freezer for situations like this. 

“Wow,” Christopher grinned, showing off a mouthful of slowly sharpening teeth that garbled his speech. Oh thank god.

“Is something wrong?” Buck rolled his eyes at Eddie’s immediate question when he picked up the phone.

“What, no hello?” Christopher snuggled closer in his sleep. They had eaten ice cream and turned on a documentary on aliens that they liked and the young boy had quickly fallen asleep with his head on Buck’s lap. Eddie sighed, voice annoyed and amused.

-

“Hi, Buck. Is everything okay?” 

“Everything’s fine, I just wanted to let you know that Christopher had his first partial transformation which freaked him out a bit but I calmed him down.” There was a long silence that picked at Buck’s anxiety, so he started to ramble. “He’s really cute right now, at least the tail is, the claws digging into my thighs are a little less so but still. Luckily I’m not wearing my grey sweats or the blood-”

“I think I’m having a stroke,” Eddie cut him off, sounding winded. “Did you say tail?” Buck laughed,

“Come on, man, don’t act so surprised. Sure, Christopher is a little young for his first moon but you had to have known this was coming.” Eddie made a choking noise that definitely sounded like he was surprised and for the first time Buck wondered if Eddie hadn’t been born a wolf. Turnings were rare nowadays and the lack of familiarity with wolf customs would have made sense. “Eds, you do know that A shift is all wolves right?” 

“Holy shit.” Buck took that as a no. “So you…Bobby and…” He kept trailing off, sounding more and more desperate each time. “You know that I-” Eddie croaked like a strangled cat, “Buck.” 

“Take some deep breaths for me, ba-bud.” Where the hell had that come from? Buck shrugged his shoulders, shaking off the instinct to call his best friend babe. “Deep breaths, come on.” Buck soothed Eddie just like he had his son a few hours earlier. He could picture Eddie’s shoulders shaking as he took a breath. “Good, okay. When you get here later, we can talk about it.” Eddie made a softer noise, almost a whimper. “Just know that everything’s okay and Christopher is taken care of.” 

“Buck…” Eddie trailed off again, sighing his name like it was a hail Mary. Buck ran his fingers through Christopher’s soft fur. He was going to make it okay. Buck was going to fix everything.  He could hear Eddie’s fear and the smell of Chrstopher’s was burnt into his memory, neither of which made him feel good. 

“I’ve got your back, Eds.” There was a pause and Buck knew from all the way across town that Eddie’s hands were fidgeting like they always did when he was anxious. Eddie sighed heavily.

“I  know you do.” The affirmation warmed Buck’s soul, Eddie’s trust cascading over him like morning sunlight.

“We’ll see you in a few hours.” 

Christopher was now fully back to human form, well, besides the tail. The fluffy, black tail refused to go away and Buck was already thinking of ways to explain to his school why Chris would need a sick day that didn’t involve the truth. Maybe mono. Yeah, mono could work. Buck worked on typing up an email that Eddie could send into the school for the absence. 

“Can we order pizza for dinner?” Christopher asked, looking up from his game of Mario on the tv. 

“Yeah, we can order pizza. Do you want cheese?” Christopher’s brow scrunched together, thinking, and after a long moment he surprised Buck by asking for meat lovers, something he usually stuck his nose up at. Buck would have to make burgers for lunch tomorrow before they headed out to the mountains. 

When Eddie showed up, the pizza had just been delivered and Christopher was eyeing it hungrily, oblivious to the fact his father was staring at him with wide eyes. Buck, not wanting Christopher to feel embarrassed, quickly grabbed Eddie by the hand and dragged him upstairs while telling Christopher to tuck in without them. 

“He’s got a tail,” Eddie pointed towards the stairs and Buck swatted his hand down. “Why does he have a tail?” 

“Well, I assume it’s because you have a tail once a month,” Buck manhandled Eddie into sitting down on the bed, concerned and amused by the stunned look on his face. Eddie’s emotions were all over the place, there was fear and confusion rolling off of him, the scents filling Buck’s nostrils, triggering his calming pheromones once again. Eddie leaned forward slightly, inhaling deeply. 

“I don’t understand what’s going on, Buck. I know I’m a-” Eddie shuddered. “He shouldn’t have to be in that kind of pain.” Pain? 

“Pain? There shouldn’t be any pain, not unless you’re chaining yourself in silver or something.” The stricken look on Eddie’s face gave him away and Buck’s heart hurt. He squatted down to be eye-to-eye, reaching out to touch Eddie’s arm. Skin to skin contact was always the best way for omegas to soothe other wolves and it seemed to help. “Eddie, Christopher’s never going to be in pain because he’s a wolf and,” Buck squeezed his forearm. “I’m not going to let you be in pain anymore either.” 

-

Eddie watched as Buck sorted things out in a stunned silence. He was on the phone with Bobby, explaining everything, and had called Christopher’s school on his behalf before that. There was no physical clipboard in his hands but it was there in spirit. Eddie felt stupid for not coming clean to Buck sooner because even if he hadn’t also been a werewolf, Buck would have thrown all of his support behind helping Eddie figure things out. Just like he was doing now.

Because of course Buck knew how to fix everything, he always did. Honestly, Eddie was impressed that Buck had known about Eddie being a wolf for so long without forcing him to come clean. Warm fondness overtook Eddie as he watched Buck pace around the living room. The man had been a thorn in Eddie’s side when he first joined the department but he had managed to make himself integral to every part of Eddie’s life, of his son’s life. He was everything Eddie could want in a best friend and…more. 

“It’s settled,” Buck announced with a clap of his hands, startling Christopher who had been engrossed in his game. “You’ll both be joining us in the mountains tomorrow, Chris, Denny and Harry are very excited that you’ll get to play with them.” 

“Cool!” Christopher’s tail, which was still taking some getting used to for both him and his dad, wagged excitedly. “I’m gonna call Denny.” Christopher hopped up from the couch, moving towards the spare bedroom like he owned the place. With Christopher gone, Eddie turned his attention back to Buck, finding him already looking.

“You two can stay here overnight, hopefully when he’s asleep he’ll relax enough for the tail to go away.” Buck was taking everything in stride and it was impossible for Eddie not to feel soothed by the way he had everything under control. “You ready for bed? Christopher’s fading fast, he’ll probably fall asleep on the phone.” Bed. Sharing a bed. Bed with Buck. Buck who smelled really good. Eddie wasn’t going to make it out of the next 48 hours with his sanity intact.

“Yeah, bed sounds good.” 

Eddie checked in with Christopher before heading upstairs and changing into a pair of Buck’s sweats when offered. Buck’s bed was large enough for them to sleep side-by-side without touching but somehow they ended up shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the bed. 

“Why do you smell so good all the time?” Eddie flipped on his side and Buck did the same. “Is it a wolf thing?” 

“It’s an omega thing,” Buck explained, a soft smile on his pink lips. “When I’m trying to calm people down, my scent gets sweeter and stronger.” Omega? Also, if that was only supposed to happen when he was calming people down, why did he always smell so good? 

“What’s an omega?” Eddie asked because he couldn’t think of anything else to say and obviously, the classification meant something if that’s how Buck chose to identify himself. 

“Well, according to stereotypes, we’re peace seeking, child raising, submissive wolves.” Submissive? Why was that the only word that stuck out to Eddie? Was Buck blushing? Stop thinking about it, Eddie. Nope. Buck was his best friend, he wasn’t supposed to imagine Buck any type of way, especially not that kind of way but he couldn’t help it. Images of Buck on his knees, laying in bed beneath Eddie, whimpering and begging- 

Yeah. Eddie needed to get it together before he got hard. Buck took a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut, the smile on his face growing. 

“Come here, you still seem pretty stressed out,” Buck laid on his back and opened his arms, inviting Eddie to cuddle close. Buck’s chest was solid and warm beneath his head and Buck’s delicious scent was thick in the air around them, and Eddie found himself drifting off to sleep within seconds.

Next chapter

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