#other options would be electric or dark.

[avephelis]

Ave. Avph. If you were a Pokémon gym leader what would your team and typing be!! Your nuzlocke Art driving me crazy!21!1!:3

so maybe i went a little overboard because i got excited. and maybe did a little play on caustic because that's silly. maybe.

also a post-game rematch team for good measure. BATON PASS ISN'T BANNED IN CORE GAMEPLAY BABY !!

[gaydryad]

ok question if hypothetically I were to make a html + css template for making custom pokémon teams (cough such as for OCs cough) in the Bulbapedia widget style, would anyone else be interested in using it? if so I will go into this trying to write it as an actual decent template

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly (Part 2)

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: near death experience, hypothermia, cuddling for medical reasons, implied medically-related stripping, implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a two-shot.

The cold burned.

Once the sun set, the weather front moved in, and the temperature plunged. Snow fell thick and fast, just short of a whiteout. Your feet sank to the ankle, then to the shin, and your aching trudge became a slow-motion nightmare. It was about that time you realized – you were in real danger.

It was a two-mile walk – uphill, through old snow and frozen sludge – from your stranded vehicle. Home was closer than town, so you put your head down, buried your mittened hands in your armpits, and threw your emergency blanket from the car over your head as a bright orange cloak. And you set out.

It really took you too long to leave the car, but it was a life and death decision, and you waffled between shit options. On a busier road, you’d stay in the car. But this kind of snowfall would keep people home for a day or two. More than enough time to freeze to death, curled up in the driver’s seat.

If you lived, you’d make a better emergency kit for your ride.

In the meantime, the path demanded all of your attention. Even under fresh snow, it was easy to follow the road. Thick forest covered this stretch, and there was nowhere to go but forward. Hopefully you wouldn’t miss your drive. Should luck bless you for the first time in a decade, you’d see your neighbors’ lights in the dark.

But you had miles to go, yet. And the footing was terrible.

Old snow, half-melted and refrozen, threatened to turn your ankle with every step. Staying upright took work. Every muscle joined the battle, from your toes to your shoulders. Your abs clenched, and your thighs soon shook from exertion. As cold as you were, sweat stuck your hair to your face. Your neck.

The wind turned the moisture to ice.

Pins and needles prickled under your clothes.

Worse, and worse, and worse.

But there was no choice, so you moved on. No one was coming, so you would go. Keep calm and carry on and all that noise.

You had tea at home. An electric heating blanket under heavy quilts. Dry clothes and fuzzy socks.

So, you walked.

One foot in front of the other. Wobbling. Trying to find safe footing.

You crashed to your knees, bracing for pain that didn’t come.

Fuck.

You were losing sensation in your extremities.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The fresh layer of snow swallowed your hands where you’d braced to catch yourself. It didn’t look right from your perspective. You hadn’t punched holes into the drift. You’d joined it. Flesh flowed into freeze, and it sucked the heat from your body. Hungry. Careless.

Physically shaking the image from your head, you rose. You pushed on. Slow and unsteady as your thoughts lost traction on the creeping ice.

It never seemed right that such an oppressive season made the world so bright. Even on a moonless night, the snow practically glowed. When you first moved to the mountain, you’d look out the window and marvel at how clearly you could see the world you couldn’t explore. The endless white always looked so inviting, but it kept you locked away, isolated.

Snow ate the color out of the world. That was why it sparkled so brightly in the sun, full of ingested prisms stolen from kinder seasons.

What colors, you wondered, would it digest out of you.

Once you were buried.

Lost to the white void falling without. Swelling within.

Everything felt damp. Warm. Your muscles went syrupy. You were your own personal swamp, and you panted, dropping your blanket. It was too heavy, too waterlogged anyway. You couldn’t carry that weight forever. It fell easily. All you had to do was let go.

Your feet turned, and you began to ascend. Uphill. That was correct, somehow.

Fuck.

You were on fire.

The snow was up to your knees and still falling. Maybe, if you just took a nap, you’d wait it out. Better to travel in the daylight, right?

No. Not quite right.

One arm hung out of your coat, and you couldn’t shake the second free. It clung to your wrist like a needy child, and you just wanted rid of it. Wanted to be free and finished and home.

Lights blazed, and it felt like dawn. Had you walked all night, or did you just look up?

The path split. Or you thought it did. The snow covered the way, but your instinct sniffed out the divide.

You wanted to be closer to the lights. Lights were good. Even though they hurt your head. They looked so pretty, flushing the snow gold. You imagined they’d paint you gold, too. A Midas-touched statue – pretty, lifeless, and cold.  

Snow always looked so soft. You’d felt cheated as a child when you discovered it was nothing like the fluffy duvet you imagined. But in a pinch, it was wonderful.

It held you, gathering you up as you sank. The flakes landing on your cheek didn’t melt anymore, and frigid works of art gathered on your eyelashes, slowly eating the lighthouse you’d followed home from the bright white dark.

-------------------------

“Fucking hell.”

Death had a British accent. Not bad. A shame you somehow disappointed him.

“Johnny! Get some towels. Clean shirt and sweats.”

You blinked up at Death, swimming through waves of unfamiliar sensations to get a glimpse of the end.

Really, you’d hoped for Death to wear a kinder shape – like in Sandman – but the grinning skull seemed appropriate. It was the rare case where the destination mattered more than the journey. Or the escort.

Being dead was exhausting. As curious as you were about Death’s face, the quiet void already had a deposit on your soul. Resting limp in the psychopomp’s arms, somehow you relaxed further. He was so much more solid. More real. Soon you’d melt between his fingers and rain into the underworld.

“She isn’t shivering.”

Dreams ate your mind. Time rose and faded like steam as strange hands prepared you for burial. Your grave was warm. The soil packed tight, wrapping around you as the first gnawing sense of dread woke with the agony in your hands. Roots squeezed around you, tightening as you writhed against the sting in your feet.

You did not rest in peace.

You’d fallen into hell. Your skin burned, your muscles seized, and a sharp scream of a moan shrieked through clenched teeth.

“Easy, easy.”

A broad palm pressed over your heart, hauling you back to a second pulse. Someone else’s words rustled over your hair. Someone else’s breath pushed someone else’s chest flush against your back. Their smell and shape surrounded you.

A someone. A living someone.

That finally reminded you of the need to wake.

To rise from death.

Every inch you climbed towards consciousness scorched you, and reality came in bursts of pain. Your fingertips felt like you’d clutched red-hot iron, and shivers wracked you like private earthquakes. Everything wanted to tear itself apart, escape the pain radiating from every other piece. If the stranger wasn’t holding you together, you’d shatter like your poor, ugly mug.

You had a body but no control.

The stranger shushed you, a second hand settling over the top of your head. Locking you in. Keeping you in your flesh. You thought he might stroke your hair like a cat’s fur, but nothing moved between you besides the heat seeping from his palm to your scalp.

If you had a choice, you’d go back to sleep, but you were too aware. Pain dared you to relax, running knives along the underside of your skin, threatening to stab you inside out with the next shudder.

And you didn’t know where you were – or who was cuddling you back to life.

Helpless as you were, you knew to be afraid.

“Johnny,” the chest behind you rumbled, “she’s coming to.”

Wrath caught on the name. It bit the hook and followed the line to the light so your eyes could flutter open. They were painfully dry, and the gathering tears offered some relief, but you recognized the mohawk over broad shoulders leaning through the doorway through the blur. Your restrained whimpers turned into a growl.

“Think she recognizes ya.”

“Aye.” Johnny approached, kneeling by the bed you found yourself in. His pretty face was all bent out of shape with apprehension. “How you feeling, hen?”

You wanted to shout at him. Or slap him. Both at once and more. Instead, your shaking tongue fumbled the words, and your arm flopped weakly under the quilt, thudding into the branch-like arm caging your chest.

Which meant –

Wait.

If Johnny was in front of you, you must be in his house. He lived alone. Except for a hulking giant in a skull mask.

Like he could read the fresh stiffness beneath your shivering, Ghost said, “Spotted you from the window. Had to get you dry and warm, but you’re safe. Body heat’s best at this stage. We’re both dressed, and if you can’t stand it, I’ll trade out for a fleet of hot water bottles.”

You struggled to pick up his words and put them in order. They bobbed through the snowmelt in your brain like so much flotsam, a murky sea you already worried would drown you. But you did it. You got it all. But it was a lot.

He was barely more than a stranger, and you found yourself in bed with him.

But a man so hesitant to show his face wouldn’t be eager to show more skin than necessary, and while it was hard to tell what fabric was clothing and what was bedding, nothing but cloth touched you. Except for the hand on your head. Which was fine, actually. It could be better than fine if you thought about it much longer.

How much did it cost such a reserved person to get so close? You were no better than a stranger to him, too.

He saw you in trouble and moved to help. Everything he said was practical. Reasonable. He’d probably saved your life.

You felt you understood Ghost. Maybe it was the confusion or the onset of a fever, but you got him. And he was so, so warm. You wanted to crack open that giant chest and burrow inside him like a tauntaun.

When you felt better, you’d make it up to him. You’d apologize for being a burden and make your imposition right. In the meantime, you didn’t want him to leave you alone with some shitty substitute.

You wriggled, trying to put your hand over his, but something was over your fingers, and you had to guesstimate. Maybe you patted his knuckles. Maybe you smacked his wrist. Hard to know. But you felt you made your point.

“S’fine.”

He shifted in response, settling in for the long-haul. “Good.”

You tried forcing yourself calm. Everything had a mind of its own, though, and you curled up tight, trying to preserve heat even when it was given freely. Ghost supported your new position, bending his knees to keep contact, spooning with purpose.

How far had your temperature dropped for you to be this miserable? Very. Dangerously. Fucking shit.

Johnny cleared his throat. “I could join? Help get you toasty?”

Though you were still in gods damned agony, you wouldn’t let Johnny Fucking MacTavish join you under the covers if he was the last thing between you and death. You’d already touched the door to Hades that evening, and he hadn’t been the one to bring you back.

You lashed out the only way you could.

“No.”

The first word you managed to say clearly. You sent it off with a scowl, daring the Scotsman to try you.

He practically jumped back from the bed, anxious expression washed clean in shock. You’d never told him no. Never drawn a boundary. Never shared your anger or hurt.

Well, you’d finally learned your lesson.

Fuck that man.

He wouldn’t be getting anything from you ever again, not even a clear conscience.

Ghost hummed, his thumb stroking over your temple. “Got you right pissed off, has he? What’s he done? He the reason you got caught in the storm?”

Nodding was easier than speaking. You’d said the most important part.

“Thought as much. You’re too well prepared. When you feel up to it, you can tell me what Johnny needs to set right, yeah? He’ll clean up his mess.”

Across the room, where he’d stumbled after your rejection, the man in question blanched. “I didn’t – I couldn’t – What did… Ah, Christ. ‘M so sorry, hen.”

“Plenty of time to talk later,” Ghost said, still fully felt and entirely invisible at your back. “Let her rest. When I’m confident she won’t choke, you can make us something warm to drink.”

Johnny accepted, nodding with big eyes. His shoulders rose to his ears as he turned on his heel and marched away, fists squeezed tight.

He’d only been out of the room for a minute when you heard something crash, and you jumped.

Ghost just hugged you tighter and sighed.

Eventually, you did sleep. It was a night for achieving the impossible, apparently. Ghost kept one hand on your chest, waking or sleeping, and as the daylight slowly burned away the icy mist in your head, you realized he was monitoring your heartbeat. Keeping his arm around your chest was better for your recovery, and you might not have reacted so calmly to a hand on your neck.

You still felt like shit.

“How bad was it?” you whispered.

Asking was a struggle, and not just because your lips cracked and burned around your voice. Staring doom in the face only scared you if you recognized it, and you were afraid to hear how close your choices had brought you to the point of no return. Words could hurt. Knowledge could hurt.

“Should’a taken you to a hospital,” Ghost murmured. “No way to get there in this weather.”

You closed your eyes, burying your face in the pillow. You did it in defiance of the windburn over your nose and cheeks. In defiance of your chapped lips. Dead people couldn’t feel pain, and it was hardly the worst you’d suffered through the night.

“Your shivering’s manageable now. Think you could drink something?”

Could and should.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go tell Johnny. Stay here.”

You didn’t answer, but you swam all the way under the heavy quilts as his solid heat left you. With only your eyes peering over the blankets, you watched him – probably cold in his thin t-shirt and worn sweats – breeze across the room, quiet as his namesake. He had a lot of tattoos, a whole sleeve. You couldn’t catch all the shapes as he moved farther and farther away, but deathly themes curled like gun smoke and curses up from his wrist, towards his heart.

Once you were alone, you examined yourself under the covers. There were socks over your hands, impromptu mittens. You’d worry about any horror beneath them later. You wore a loose tee you’d seen on Johnny when he was resting up, staying comfortable as he nursed his cold. The gym shorts they’d dressed you in were bunched up where the drawstring fought to draw them into a smaller size, and the fabric would fall to your knees if you stood. Maybe farther.

They’d dressed you in a piece of each man’s wardrobe, and the embarrassed heat creeping up your neck was almost as warm as Ghost.

But you wouldn’t read between the lines. There were no lines. They’d saved your life and carefully explained their actions. It didn’t mean anything else.

They were only being neighborly.

[whytheylosttheirminds]

haunted - r.c.

house arrest!Rafe Cameron x mysterious neighbor!reader one-shot (5.4k words)

content: angst, smut, references to dark pasts, mentions of obsession (mild), oral (f), unprotected p-in-v, 18+ minors do not interact

﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒

That first night, the summer air was so thick you could drown in it. You could taste the salty sea on your tongue as you took a deep breath, bracing your hands on the high lip of the brick wall. You’d only get one shot at the jump, too much noise would draw the neighbors’ attention. You checked your phone once again, 9:09 pm, late enough to cover you in darkness, but not late enough to ensure the neighborhood was asleep. Stealth was your only option. Squaring your shoulders, you stuffed your phone back in your bag and launched it over the wall, listening for the soft thud in the grass that meant there was truly no backing down now.

Little spurs of pain pinched your ankles when you landed on the other side, but you’d made it, unscathed aside from the torn skin on your palms from the wall’s unforgiving stone. The hard part was over, now you froze with uncertainty, you hadn’t planned to make it this far.

The house stood mighty under the bright light of the moon. This was the first time you saw it in its grand entirety, the view from your window across the street revealing only the white siding and a few shuttered windows. You’d watched for a few days - no cars came or went, the small windows you could see from your own were never opened, no lights turned on and off beyond their panes. 

The few neighbors you’d talked to since your mysterious sudden arrival got cagey when the topic came up, a seemingly unspoken rule that this was the one house off limits for their ever turning rumor mill. Though the shifty glances and wrung hands at the mention of it hinted at something sinister lying behind this ancient brick wall, something dangerous. The risk was too alluring, and you were too bored, trapped in your cookie cutter McMansion with your father, a man who never understood you, and a twisted past you were running from even when you were standing still.

Now, on the other side of the alluring border, was the first time in months you didn’t feel trapped. Your heart raced as you looked around the massive yard, no lights in the windows confirming your theory that the house was abandoned. A chill shot through you despite the record high July temperatures, something so haunting about this storied land, and so forbidden. I should not be here, you thought as your feet carried you further into the trespassed property. This was the most alive you’d felt since you arrived on this island a few weeks ago, your sordid past nipping at your heels. For the first time since the incident, your mind wasn’t consumed with it, with the horrible memories, the regrets, the what-ifs. Here inside the gates of Tannyhill you were an outlaw, so far from what you have done and even farther from what you should be doing. 

Euphoria swept over you, the most heady high. An almost manic laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You reveled in the electric feeling as you padded through the grass back to the wall. You’d only made it a few steps toward the house, but you knew you’d be back, finally finding something to make your heart race, something to come back to, something to live for. 

After that night, the empty house became your obsession. All day, every day you thought about the sprawling property, the grand pillars and white walls that housed a thousand mysteries. While the sun was up, you dreamt of what you might find when you finally found a way inside, and as soon as it set, you were creeping back over that wall, making it a few steps further each time. 

Finally, after two weeks of dreaming, trapped inside the house across the street that would never be your home, fighting with the father that would never be your family, you knew it was time. Tonight, you’d go farther than you ever had, touch the walls of that ancient house, the promise of the thrill almost as heady and dizzying as the moment itself.

Climbing over that wall was muscle memory at this point, the calluses on your hands proof you’d formed an addiction you were nowhere near kicking. After the trek through the tall, unkempt grass you’d walked fifteen times now, you made it to the stone walkway you’d yet to touch. Without stopping to think, to second guess, you sprinted over the stones, rounding the corner of the house for the first time, stopping in your tracks at the beauty the backyard held.

The moon reflected off the water, rippling from the slight breeze, calling to you. Perfect. You’d go for a swim in the pool that wasn’t yours, maybe even find a little rock and break a window, sneak into this haunted house, anything to keep feeling the rush that had brought your body back to life the second you stepped foot on this forbidden land.

﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒

Rafe saw you the very first night. For six months now, he’d spent every waking minute pacing these empty halls, wishing for a hit of something, anything, to make the silence less deafening. The only noises keeping him company on these endless nights were the sound of his own erratic voice and the occasional beep of the monitor strapped tight around left ankle. 

They’d gotten him for the drugs, but he knew what they were really trying to uncover, the secrets he kept buried so deep even he forgot about them sometimes. His sentence was two years house arrest, every movement monitored, all substances strictly forbidden. 

It only took a few days for the loneliness to become crippling. Over and over, he imagined turning the corner and seeing someone standing in the hall, someone he knew, someone he didn’t, anyone, to talk to, to make him feel like he wasn’t going completely insane. 

Then a soft thud in the distance, followed closely by another, the second slightly louder. Any noise out of place immediately perked his ears, far too familiar with the creaks and groans of this old mansion to miss even the quietest of disturbances. Maybe the thuds could have been something innocuous, a branch breaking or wind whipping against the walls. What came after, however, was unmistakable. 

The soft, sweet melody of a woman’s laugh floated across the night air and in through an open window. The sound was so welcome and warm as it washed over Rafe, the purity of it washing him clean, illuminating the world around him. Suddenly, in the midst of his darkest hour, a bright light had appeared before him, calling him home.

His days quickly became consumed by thoughts of you. He spent his hours watching the sun journey across the sky, east to west, willing it to set faster and bring you to him. All he knew of you was your moonlit silhouette, coming to him every night like the sweetest dream. Each time the sun set and you appeared, you got closer and closer to him. The hesitancy in your steps was maddening, but he couldn’t go to you, the risk of scaring you off was far too great, your nightly visits the only thing keeping him earthside. 

And then, on the fifteenth night, when he thought for sure you’d never come to him, never cross the rest of the distance that kept you apart, you broke into a run, disappearing around the side of the house and out of view. He ran from window to window, looking down from the second floor trying to find you. His panting breaths and pounding heartbeat were the only things he could hear, until, so miraculously he wondered if he imagined it, a splash and that same angelic laugh, so beautiful and melodic that his whole world shook. Risks be damned, there was no holding himself back, feet moving of their own accord as he ran down the spiral staircase, toward you.

﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒

You stripped your clothes under the cover of darkness, toeing the edge of the water as a test, gasping at the sharp chill. Despite the hot summer day, the water was ice cold, only adding to its alluring mysticism. There would be no easing in, your stomach twisting in anticipation as you stood in only your bra and underwear at the edge, a deep breath, a bend in your knees and - SPLASH.

Your heart nearly stopped as the water engulfed you, your hair whipping around you as you shot back up to the surface. Every cell in your body was buzzing with excitement, and just like that first night you couldn’t hold back the wild laugh that spilled from your lips. You could not believe what you were doing, so reckless and wrong, and yet so right.

Each stroke tearing through the water's surface, you swam with abandon, feet kicking up big splashes and the sound of ragged, desperate breaths filling the night air every time you craned your neck for a gulp of air. The more you swam, the more you forgot. Forgot that you were breaking the law, forgot that you were not supposed to be here, forgot about the events that led you to this island, that tore the life you knew from you in one fell swoop. You didn’t know what you’d do next, how you’d sneak into your house without water dripping everywhere, how you’d ever move on from this incredible feeling, but you didn’t care, you just kept swimming. 

Arm swinging through the air, you took what must’ve been your hundredth stroke, twisting your head to the side to grab a breath, eyes just barely catching the dark, towering silhouette of a figure at the edge of the pool.

You shot up so fast the splash of water threatened to fill your lungs and pull you back under. Your shoulders shivered as you stood in the chilly water, blinking fast to clear your vision as your brain tried to catch up to what your eyes were seeing.

You hadn’t imagined it. He stood tall and stoic at the edge of the pool, hands in his pockets, shoulders broad enough to partially block the glow of the moon. 

Something in you knew that he was dangerous, goosebumps dancing across your dripping skin, warning you “go, flee, run now.” But you didn’t move, frozen in the water as he looked down at you with the slightest tilt of his head. Darkness covered his features, only the light of the stars  reflecting off his sharp jawline and high cheekbones.

He was a total stranger, his presence a threat that should be terrifying you, and yet in the same way that you knew after the first time you’d jumped the wall that you’d keep coming back to this place, you knew that you couldn’t run from him, that you didn’t want to. Drawn to him in a way that stole your breath, you moved forward, the slightest imperceptible step, and yet you knew he could feel it too, the magnetic pull between souls that made escaping him impossible. Maybe it was a dream, or maybe you had drowned and fallen into some dark, twisted underworld, this man your own personal devil. But if he was your damnation, you wanted to fall right to the seventh circle.

For what felt like hours, neither one of you spoke. Only the gentle lap of the water against the tile edge of the pool filled the air between you - the Caught and the Capturer sizing each other up in the darkness. 

Then, with no urgency, no threat or accusation against the trespasser standing half naked in his pool, the man turned on his heel and headed toward the house, pausing at the threshold of the grand sliding glass door to mutter over his shoulder, “come in,” and after a moment’s pause and some internal battle, “please.”

﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒

Rafe turned when he sensed you hesitating outside the sliding door, his anxiety over finally seeing you up close frustrating him as he flicked on the lights in the house. When he turned, seeing you illuminated by light for the first time, everything softened, the sight of you dripping and shivering on the stone patio making his heart ache.

He looked around desperately for something to offer you, no towels or blankets available in the grand dining room he was standing in. He tore the jacket from around his shoulders, handing it to you with shaky hands. It wasn’t enough, but he needed to stop your lips from turning purple, needed, in some terrifying, primal way, to protect you.

“Th-thank you,” you stammered, eyes wide and hand trembling as you took the jacket from him hesitantly.

The realization hit him like a bullet to the chest: you were scared of him. Then a second shot, right to the gut: you were right to be.

The hands that held out this peace offering weren’t clean. Maybe you’d heard the stories about him, maybe you weren’t as enchanted by him as he was by you. He prayed you didn't know who he was, the rumors that came with the mention of his name. But then, why did you keep coming back? He needed to know, the question leaving his lips before he could stop it.

“Why are you here?”

His voice was rough from lack of use, harsher than he wanted it to be, causing you to take a hesitant step back.

“I shouldn’t be.”

You backed away slowly, making panic rise in his chest, a terrible sense that his salvation was slipping through his fingers. He stepped towards you, the movement too fast and frightening, unable to control himself, as always. 

“I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but it was too late, you were already gone, flying across the grass from the pool’s edge.

All that remained to prove you were ever even there was the puddle where you’d stood outside the door. By morning, it’d be dry, and he’d be wondering if he hallucinated the whole thing.

﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒

Waking in a cold sweat, you grabbed at his sweatshirt like you were trying to ensure it was still wrapped around you, for what reason you weren’t sure. It was the third night you’d slept in it, not crossing the wall again since the night you’d met him. Your body shook with chills, a dull ache everywhere as though you were in withdrawal. 

You tried to tell yourself it was done, you’d been caught and your little excursions over the wall had to stop. The house wasn’t empty as you’d assumed, and it would be insane to get near him again. He couldn’t possibly be trustworthy, his voice deep and menacing, a wildfire in his eyes that clearly held a history. His hair was long and unkempt like the grass outside his house, unruly and overgrown in a way that did not match the grandeur and luxury of the home he never seemed to leave. Something about it, about him, wasn’t right, and you knew if you got too close to the flame, you’d get burned.

Still, your thoughts always found their way back to him. And in your sleep, he appeared in every dream, those same ocean blue eyes tearing through you like he could see to your soul.

Rising from your sweat soaked sheets, you padded the worn path from your bed to the window, the creaks in the floor familiar as you spent so many hours perched in that spot watching his house. This time, for the first time since you'd started surveying the house weeks ago, the lights in the windows were on. Your heart caught in your throat when you saw a shadowy figure walk past, then again, the man from the pool pacing back and forth.

You wondered if his thoughts were as consumed with you as yours were of him. Then, as if he could hear your thoughts, he looked up, eyes meeting yours across the distance.

You knew which spots on the stairs squeaked, avoiding them as you snuck out, past your father asleep on the couch, across the street towards the house that haunted you, toward him. 

﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒

The splash was loud on purpose, intended to catch his attention. You waited in the water with baited breath until, gloriously, he appeared through the sliding doors, standing in the same spot he had been a few nights ago, looking down at you with the same curious glare.

Slowly, your eyes ever trained on him, you swam to the edge, climbing out of the water so you could stand in front of him, chest to chest. Finally seeing him up close, your heart fluttered at his striking features, jaw locked tight as he stared down at you.

You shouldn’t reach up and touch his face, but you did. You shouldn’t whisper quietly, “what’s your name?” but you did. You shouldn’t follow him as he turned and walked back into the grand dining room, but you did.

Not answering your question, not saying anything, he turned toward you once you were standing inside, eyes darting around the luxurious space, taking in it’s beauty before landing back on him. You didn’t know his name, you didn’t really need to. There was only one thing you needed to know, the thing that had kept you up at night, the thing that both kept you away and pulled you helplessly toward him.

“Are you dangerous?”

His eyes answered you before his words could, a flash of recognition and regret behind his blue irises preceding his nod and broken-throated, “yes.”

“You could hurt me, then?”

“Yes,” less hesitancy this time, an edge of warning in his tone, as he stepped closer to you, his large, intimidating frame invading your space and making your breath catch in your throat. 

You didn’t back away, skin igniting, a rush of need and pure lust overtaking your body as he crept closer. The certainty in his voice left no doubt, if he wanted to, he could hurt you right here and now and there’s nothing you could do to protect yourself. And yet his touch was light when it ghosted over your lips, pads of his fingers rough against the soft skin as he traced the shape of your mouth.

“Are you going to?” 

Sparks flew between you as his touch became firmer, hand cradling your head. His answer like gasoline to the flickering flame, a fire neither of you would walk away from unburnt flared to life with one word.

“Never.”

Before you could think, you shot up on your toes, fingers digging into his shoulders as your lips crashed into his, an involuntary groan ripped from his chest and transferred into yours through the connection of your open mouths.

He grabbed your waist, his grip bruising, flex of his muscles animalistic as he lifted you off your feet, planting you firmly on the edge of the dining room table. 

Still kissing him, your teeth and tongues devouring each other, your hands dropped to his waist, fingers pulling at the leather of his belt. He was quick to stop you, fingers easily wrapping around your wrists, a reminder that physically, you were completely at his mercy, nothing stopping him from overpowering you. And yet, his touch was gentle as he pulled your hands away from him, dragging your arms up and guiding you onto your back, hands pinned above your head. 

Leaning over you, his eyes roamed your face and body, spread out on the cold oak table like his last supper. Your bra and underwear still wet from the pool soaked through his shirt as you arched your back, unable to resist the urge to press up into him, to feel his warm, strong body fully against yours. 

Rafe’s eyes closed tight, nostrils flailing as he willed himself not to take you the way you were inviting him to. You didn’t understand his hesitation, mistaking it for rejection, cowering underneath him.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered, almost to yourself.

His eyes flew open, searching yours with panic, terrified by the thought of finally having you so close only to lose you. The thought was too painful, he was in far too deep to let you go now.

“Please, stay. Let me- I, I can take care of you,” his lips attached to your neck, sucking down like he was trying to make you understand how desperate he was. “Let me make you feel good.”

You gasped when his eyes suddenly shot back up to yours. They seemed darker somehow, pupils blown wide, the crease in his forehead a pleading request. Unable to stop yourself, just as frenzied as he seemed to be, you nodded rapidly, all at once agreeing, demanding, and begging.

His lips were back on you immediately, dragging down the skin of your neck to your chest, which was rising and falling with pants as your heart threatened to pound right through it. He paused every so often to nip, painting over every bite mark with a drag of his tongue. When his searching lips reached the valley between your breasts, you pulled the straps of your thin bra down your shoulders, brushing the material down to reveal yourself to him.

“God,” he moaned out, breathing warmly against you as he steeled himself, dragging his tongue over one of your breasts to your hardened nippled, closing his lips around it and sucking once before pulling back to whisper, “so beautiful, my angel.’

His words were confusingly intimate for a man you were meeting for the second time, and yet his apparent adoration of you was intoxicating, your hands flying to his hair, tugging at the roots to express what words couldn’t.

“From the second I saw you climb over my wall, I knew I needed to have you,” he confessed against your goosebump-ridden skin.

Your eyes shot open, lifting your head off the table as much as his controlling stance would allow you. 

“You saw me? The first time?”

Rafe nodded, shifting to pull your other nipple in his mouth, pulling a whimper from your lips. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He paused his work on your skin to lift his gaze to yours, a sheepish look in his eye as he confessed, “I didn’t want to scare you away.”

You traced your fingers along his jaw, eyes tender as you promised him, “you couldn’t.”

The assurance in your voice emboldened him, his eyes flaring once more before he shifted himself down, his tongue running a wet line along your stomach as he lowered himself. You writhed helplessly underneath him, lifting your hips once he got to the waistband of your panties to grant him access, which he took happily, dragging the lacy material down to reveal you to him fully.

Glistening for him under the sparkling chandelier’s light, you opened your legs wider, mesmerized by the hunger in his eyes as he took you in.

Rafe placed an exploratory kiss on your inner thigh, his lips featherlight. He couldn’t suppress the upward twitch of his lips when he observed the way you flinched in anticipation, thighs pulling together slightly, already over sensitive from the build up. 

“Don’t run from me now,” he growled, another kiss closer to your heat as his hands pulled your legs back apart, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your flesh to reassure you.

“Don’t make me wait,” you demanded, an edge to your voice he hadn’t heard yet, making you even more alluring to him, a feat he didn’t think possible.

Obediently, his thumbs slid closer to your wetness, opening you fully to him, after months of forced sobriety, he felt drunk on you. No further delay, he licked a gentle, testing stripe between your folds, pausing just before reaching your clit, his cheek resting on the inside of your thigh as he steadied himself, trying to keep from losing himself completely.

“So fucking perfect,” he hummed against you, diving in again once he’d gotten his bearings. 

When the tip of his tongue finally swept over your throbbing clit, you cried out, body rising from the tabletop helplessly.

“God, yes, I needed this, I needed you so badly,” you babbled mindlessly, hands flying back to his hair, pulling harder than before and causing him to groan against you, thrilled that he’d found the right spot to make you crazy.

“I know, I know, me too,” he cooed against you, words muffled by his frenzied consumption of you.

Unleashed by the sounds of your moans, the tension in his muscles melted away as Rafe ate you out in the way he really wanted to. Messy, teeth and tongue working in tandem, curled fingers stretching you open and exploring you with reverence. The was no self-control left in your body as you wriggled and writhed on the hard table, nerve endings on fire, mind fogged over with the most addictive pleasure.

The light from the dusty chandelier above you was low, but the white behind your closed eyelids was blinding, like some heavenly glow was burning through you from the inside out. For a moment, you forgot where you were, everything that led you here and the consequences that were sure to come. All you knew was him as he unlocked something within you that you didn’t know existed.

Soon you were close, the coil in your stomach wound so tight you were almost frightened of what would happen when it inevitably snapped. You needed him, closer, deeper, with you, in you.

“Wait wait wait,” you pleaded, pushing on his shoulders to guide his mouth off of you as you sat up on the table. 

Brows furrowed, he pulled back but kept his eyes trained to you, his mouth, soaked with you, hung open as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Wh-” he began to question, but your hands shot the hem of his shirt, bunching it up to pull it over his shoulders. 

He helped you undress him, arms flexing as he tore the fabric up and over his head. You eyes danced over his bare torso once he was shirtless before you.

“Holy fuck,” you meant to just think it, but you might’ve accidentally said it outloud. 

Either way, Rafe was too focused to notice, needing to be back on you, but stopped by your outstretched arms as you reached between your bodies again, fingers aiming for his belt again. He stepped back before you could unbuckle him, his left leg swinging back further than his right, like you’d hurt it somehow. 

He avoided your searching gaze, wiping his face with the back of his hand before running his fingers through his hair in frustration, eyeing your legs dangling off the end of the table, your vulnerable position in front of him cracking his defense, your next words the nail in the coffin to his dwindling restraint.

“Please, I…I need you,” you whispered.

“You don’t even know me,” he retorted.

Eyes finally meeting yours, you shared a look more meaningful than any words you could exchange. There was a connection between you so far beyond knowing the details of each other’s lives, and a shared need that couldn’t be ignored any longer.

Rafe’s hands landed on either side of your face, inadvertently squeezing too hard as he crashed his lips back to yours. This time, he let your hands wander down and undo the button of his slacks. Once he was free of the fabric between you, pulling his pants and boxers down just far enough to free himself, he brought his throbbing cock to your entrance. 

Pulling back just an inch from your lips, he brushed a strand of hair from your face, flushed with your need for him, and tucked it behind your ear.

“Are you sure, angel?”

You would never be able to explain it, but you were more sure of this than anything in your life.

“Please.”

Sinking deep with one stroke, you cried broken moans into each other’s open mouths as he finally gave you what you needed. One arm behind you for support, one slung tight around his shoulders, you met each of his thrusts with a cry of pleasure. 

Forehead pressed to yours, he looked so deeply into your eyes as he fucked you, mouth agape in awe as he watched you take him so perfectly.

Emboldened by your vulnerable state, you decided to push the issue, “please, I need to know your name.”

Either he was too distracted to care or you’d gained his trust, because he didn’t pause for a second before answering, “it's Rafe.”

Your lips turned in slow smile at the sound of his name, quietly echoing his confession with your own name, a sound that made him close his eyes and smile before leaning in and moaning your name into your ear. Over and over he whispered your name like a chant you knew you’d play over and over in your mind until it was cemented there permanently.

He knew you loved the sound by the way you clenched around him helplessly when he said it. His hands clutched your hips hard, leaving bruises behind as he picked up his movements. Your head fell back as your legs began to shake, fingernails leaving marks in his shoulders. He took advantage of your exposed neck to find the same spot he’d attached to earlier, sucking between whispers as he brought you closer and closer to the release you were chasing.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me? You’re all I think about, all I can focus on. You’re driving me insane.”

His words brought tears to your eyes. By the sound of it, he’d been as haunted by you as you were by him. You didn’t understand this madness, the almost cosmic connection between you. It was like some dark magic pulling you together, this meeting of your bodies and souls inevitable, despite being total strangers. The power of the connection, the feeling of him filling you so completely, the low growl of his voice, the strength of his shoulders beneath your grasp, it was all too much.

“Rafe, I’m - oh fuck! Rafe!”

You came with a shriek, tears slipping free and falling down your face as you pulsed around him, a euphoric feeling you’d never experienced in your life washing over you, all at once terrifying and perfect. He felt it too, you could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice as he lost himself and spilled inside you, his whole body shuddering against you, forcing you to lay back on the table under the weight of him.

The panic set in immediately. He whispered your name as he peppered exhausted kissed against your chest, and your eyes flew open, the aftershocks of your high wearing off like you’d just woken up from a long slumber.

You didn’t know this man, who was again chanting your name like a prayer, you didn't know why he was stuck in this house alone, you didn’t even know his last name. How could you be so reckless? He told you he was dangerous and you’d begged him to take you. It was the behavior of someone who’d completely lost their mind. 

When he stood, you slipped from the table quickly, gathering your clothes and pulling them on haphazardly without words. Rafe just watched you as he pulled his own clothes back on, worry in his eyes at the way you were avoiding him, keeping your body shielding from his as you quickly covered up.

“Are you o-”

“I have to go,” you didn’t even spare him a glance as you fled back across the threshold and ran out into the darkness.

﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒

This time, he did what he wished he had done the last time, chasing after you as you ran. You were faster than he expected, expertly navigating the overgrown jungle that had become his yard. He reached the wall, stopping himself with a painful clash of his hands against the stone before he ran straight into it. Tall enough to watch you land on the other side and sprint across the road, his eyes went wide when he realized where you were going.

All this time, while he sat inside and dreamt of you, imagining all of the places you could be during the agonizingly long days without you, you were just across the street. 

Your house couldn’t have been more than a few yards from his own property line. And yet, as the monitor on his ankle reminded him with a series of warning beeps, you were unreachable. White knuckles clutched the wall as his greatest fear swept over him: that he may never be able to reach you again.

﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒﹒₊˚﹕﹒₊‧ ﹒

a/n: I'm so deeply rusty but this really helped me get the wheels turning, sorry if it's not my best! I missed dark, brooding rafeypoo! thanks for reading!

reminder, writers live off reblogs, don't forget to feed your faves! <3

[kiwriteswords]

Blushing [Aaron Hotchner x Shy!Reader]*

Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 7k|| AN: Here is the full version of this story I have been working on...since December? Smut is just so not something I feel confident with in my writing, but I did add a bit at the end here, so hopefully, my fellow smut-lovers will enjoy it! Also, this is likely filled with errors since I have come back to and abandoned this like 30 times. Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, smut, sexual tension, established relationship, hotch is a flirt, shy!reader, kinda fade to black smut, alcohol tw, reader is shy but like...only to an extent? idk she might not even be categorized as shy but that was the intent lol Summary: Hotch likes making you blush.

You thought Aaron Hotchner was supposed to be the serious one--the unreadable, stoic, always-in-control one. That's what you had signed up for when the teasing turned tangible, when subtle glances turned into late nights and when the soft-spoken tension finally broke, leaving you tangled in his sheets.

Tonight, you were at his apartment. It wasn’t unusual--things had been happening between you and Hotch for a while, nights spent together whenever cases allowed, secret moments exchanged between cases and jet rides.

But tonight was different. Not because of where you were, but because of how he was looking at you.

You stood in his kitchen, clad in one of his dress shirts draped loosely over your pajama shorts, the soft fabric brushing against your thighs with each movement. You scrolled through takeout options on your phone, the bright screen casting a glow against the dark granite countertop. The air was filled with the subtle scent of coffee left over from the morning, mingling with the faint, lingering spice of his cologne.

You felt him before you saw him--his presence warm behind you, his body just close enough to make your stomach flutter.

"What do you feel like eating?" you asked, your voice casual, scrolling through the options.

There was a beat of silence. Maybe he hadn’t heard you? 

Then--

"You."

Your fingers fumble, nearly dropping the phone, your pulse spiking like a live wire.

You turned sharply, eyes wide, because no way did you just hear that right--

Only to find Hotch, completely calm, watching you like he hadn’t just shattered your ability to function.

"Excuse me?" you finally managed.

His lips curved slightly, his voice smooth, measured, just the slightest bit flirtatious--

"You asked what I wanted."

You stared at him, your brain short-circuiting, because Hotch--the man known for his restraint, his control--had just completely unraveled you in two words.

And he knew it.

Oh, he absolutely knew it.

His gaze didn’t waver; just watched you as you scrambled for a response, his lips twitching in the smallest smirk when you failed spectacularly.

"I meant for dinner."

"So did I."

Your breath caught.

Because fuck, that was not fair.

That was not the way this was supposed to go.

You were supposed to be the one making him blush, the one teasing him until he snapped.

Not the other way around.

And then--to make it worse--he stepped closer, his hand coming up to trace the hem of the shirt you were wearing, his touch barely there yet sending electric shivers down your spine. His voice was low, smooth, devastating. "You look good in my clothes."

Your stomach flipped.

Your throat went dry.

Because fuck, this wasn’t fair.

Aaron Hotchner was not supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to be composed. Reserved. Contained. 

Not this.

Not smooth and utterly wrecking you with a few choice words.

And yet, here he was--watching you squirm, his touch slow, deliberate, entirely in control while you were the one standing there blushing like a damn rookie.

Sure, you would have never considered yourself the type of person who took on the contained, reserved, mysterious persona--but you were unraveling right before his eyes.  

And that?

That was the moment you realized--

You had never been in control of this game.

Aaron Hotchner had been playing you the entire time. And he had tricks up his sleeves. 

xoxoxo

The first few times Aaron Hotchner caught you off guard, you convinced yourself it was a one-time thing.

A fluke. A slip of restraint.

A rare moment where he let himself say what he was thinking instead of keeping it locked behind the walls he’d built for years.

But now?

Now, sitting in the BAU bullpen, surrounded by agents, the hum of paperwork being shuffled and keyboards clicking filling the air--

You realized you had been very, very wrong.

The office was alive with the usual post-case exhaustion, a strange mix of relief and tension still lingering in the air.

The team had only gotten back this morning--after a case that ran for days, a case that left you exhausted but wired, adrenaline still flickering beneath your skin.

Most of the team was wrapping up reports, lingering in the bullpen with coffee cups and sighs of relief that they finally had a few days to breathe.

And you?

You were sitting at your desk, typing up the final notes, trying to focus but finding it impossible.

Because you could feel him. It was this magnetic pull. This energy shift. 

Hotch was in his office, his blinds half-drawn, his body partially turned toward the window.

And he was watching you.

You knew, because every time you glanced up, you found him already looking.

Not in a way that anyone else would notice.

Not in a way that said, “hey, something’s happening here!” 

But in a way that sent a warm, twisting pulse through your stomach, in a way that made your fingers hover just slightly over your keyboard, in a way that made you forget what you were even supposed to be typing in the first place.

Damn it.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to refocus, fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, the words forming on the screen feeling far less important than the heat creeping up your neck.

And then--

"Agent, a word?"

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain must have shut off and lost track of time or the atmosphere because, for one moment, he was up at his desk looking at you with those eyes--now? Now, he was standing at his door, pulling you from your thoughts. Your scrambled, less than work-appropriate thoughts. 

Because fuck, that voice.

That low, even tone--just professional enough that no one else would think twice about it, but you?

You felt the weight of it.

You exhaled carefully, schooling your features before standing, aware of Morgan’s knowing smirk as you passed his desk.

"Getting called to the principal’s office?" he teased.

You shot him a pointed look, but it lacked any real bite, because truth be told, your brain was already spiraling.

Because Aaron Hotchner wanted to see you in his office.

That should not have been a big deal.

But God, it was.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, the usual scent of coffee and paper filling the space.

Hotch was behind his desk, one hand resting on a case file, the other rolling a pen slowly between his fingers. The faint sound of the air conditioning hummed in the background, a stark contrast to the palpable silence that fell between you.

"Close the blinds."

You blinked, confusion mingling with the sudden spike in your pulse. The blinds filtered the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across his stoic face, giving him an almost ethereal glow that didn't suit the gravity of the moment.

"What?" you managed to stutter out, your hands unconsciously tightening at your sides.

Hotch lifted his gaze slowly, and fuck, the weight of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

"The blinds," he repeated, calmly, smoothly, like he wasn’t already unraveling you from across the room. "You don’t want an audience, do you?"

Your pulse spiked.

Because Jesus Christ.

What did that mean?

What did that mean?

Your pulse spiked, adrenaline coursing through you as if you were on the edge of a precipice. The office felt smaller suddenly, the walls inching closer, filled with the scent of leather from his chair and the faintest hint of his cologne--a sharp, clean smell that was all too familiar.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly against your side, your throat suddenly dry, because this was not the Hotch you were used to.

This wasn’t the man who delivered briefings with an unreadable expression.

This wasn’t the Unit Chief who kept his emotions locked down so tight that you sometimes wondered if he ever let himself feel anything at all.

This was someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

Someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And fuck, you weren’t ready.

"I--" You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat spreading through you, the fact that your hands were trembling slightly as you reached for the cord and tilted the blinds shut.

When you turned back, Hotch was still watching you.

But this time?

This time, his head was tilted slightly, his gaze slow, assessing, his fingers tapping against his desk in an almost lazy rhythm.

"You’re blushing." It was less of an observation and more of a fact. 

Your breath hitched.

"I am not." You moved to go sit at the chair in front of his desk, but your legs felt wobbly. Your palms sweaty. 

Hotch hummed--low, thoughtful, like he knew you were lying, like he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"I don’t know," he mused, leaning back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping slower against the wood. "I think you are."

Your stomach twisted.

Because what the hell was happening right now?

"Did you need something?" you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady, but fuck, it was so much more complicated than it should have been.

Hotch just watched you for a second longer, his expression unreadable--except, this time?

This time, you felt the shift before he even spoke.

"Yes." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, like this was some mild inconvenience to him, and God, that only made it worse.

Then--

"Come here," he instructed, his voice not commanding but inviting, which was somehow more unnerving.

You blinked, startled, your fingers pausing against the back of the chair you had barely pulled out.

"What?"

Hotch didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t clarify.

Didn’t explain.

He just sat there, calmly watching you, like he had all the time in the world, like this was nothing unusual at all.

And fuck, something about that made your pulse kick up.

"Aaron--"

"Come here," he repeated, smoother this time, his tone velvet over steel. Your stomach flipped, heat curling low in your spine at the way he said it--smooth, even, just a little too controlled.

Like he already knew you were going to listen.

You exhaled, cautious, unsure, but you stepped forward anyway, the room suddenly too quiet as you stopped just in front of his desk.

Hotch didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, assessing, his gaze dragging over you, the air between you thick with something you couldn’t name.

And then--

He reached out.

His fingers hooked into your belt loop, pulling you forward, slow, unhurried, until your thighs pressed against the edge of his desk. The touch was light, but it might as well have been a chain for all the escape it afforded you.

Your breath hitched.

"Aaron."

"I’ve been thinking about kissing you all morning." 

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You stared at him, pulse hammering in your throat, because Jesus Christ, what?

"You--" You swallowed, brain short-circuiting, your fingers gripping the desk for support. "We’re at work."

Hotch hummed, unbothered, his thumb skimming lightly over your waistband, just the slightest touch, but God, it burned. "And?"

"And--" You exhaled shakily, completely thrown, because what the hell was happening right now? "And the door isn’t locked," you finally managed.

Hotch’s lips curved, his gaze flicking up to yours, something dark and knowing glinting behind his eyes. "Would you like me to lock it?"

Your stomach dropped.

Your breath came uneven, your fingers gripping the desk tighter, because fuck, you were losing this so fast.

"Aaron," you hissed, voice quieter now, because you could feel your face burning, and God, you could not afford to be flustered right now.

Hotch just watched you, so damn pleased with himself, his fingers still resting against your hip, his throat bobbing slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. "See, you are blushing." 

Your heart nearly stopped. "I am not."

"You are." His voice dipped, smooth and devastatingly confident. "And it’s because you like it."

You gaped at him.

Because holy shit, when did he start talking to you like this?

When did he become so damn sure of himself, so deliberate, so utterly` unbothered by the fact that you were two seconds away from completely losing it in his office?

"You’re impossible," you muttered, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened slightly, keeping you right there, pressed against his desk.

"You love it." Your entire body locked up. Your breath caught.

And before you could even process that, before you could think of something--anything--to say back, there was a knock at the door.

Your stomach plummeted.

The moment snapped like a rubber band, Hotch’s hand releasing you instantly, his expression falling back into something neutral, completely composed, like nothing had just happened. As if he was able to use some sort of remote and hit the pause button on whatever version of himself he became around you these days. 

Like he hadn’t just spent the last minute ruining your ability to function.

You took a step back just as he called--

"Come in."

The door opened, Morgan stepping in with a file, his brows raising slightly at the sight of you still standing in front of Hotch’s desk. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," you rushed, your voice a little too high, stepping away before Morgan could get any funny ideas.

And Hotch?

Hotch just hummed, flipping open a case file, unbothered, completely unaffected, like he hadn’t just wrecked you. "We were just finishing up."

Morgan shot you a look, but you ignored it, too focused on trying to steady your breathing, on forcing the heat in your cheeks to fade.

And the last thing you saw before stepping out--

Was Hotch’s smirk, just barely hidden behind his coffee cup.

And fuck, you were so, so screwed.

xoxoxo

You’d kissed him before.

You’d slept with him before.

You’d spent nights wrapped up in him, tangled in sheets, learning the feel of his hands, the weight of his body, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath in the dark.

But this?

This was something else.

This was Aaron Hotchner in daylight, in his office, in the middle of a workday--fully dressed, fully composed, and still completely ruining you.

And the worst part?

He knew it.

He liked it.

And now, it seemed, he had absolutely no plans to stop.

After leaving his office, you spent the next few hours actively avoiding him.

Not obviously--you weren’t that obvious--but strategically.

You kept busy, buried yourself in reports, made coffee runs just to stay occupied.

But it didn’t matter.

Because Hotch wasn’t doing anything.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t following you around, wasn’t pushing further, wasn’t going out of his way to tease you again.

No, he was just existing.

Existing in the same space as you, taking up too much room in your mind, leaving you hypersensitive to every moment he was near.

Like now.

Now, standing in the elevator, the doors about to close, your mind was blissfully Hotch-free--

Until, at the last second, he stepped in. The doors slid shut with a soft whoosh, sealing you inside the small, confined space. The air shifted, becoming charged as he pressed the button for his floor. The soft glow of the elevator buttons cast a dim, amber light across his features, sharpening the angles of his face. He slid a glance toward you--subtle, casual, nothing outright provocative--but your body reacted anyway.

He exhaled, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh that you felt more than heard, and shook his head slightly. “I’m surprised you’re not avoiding me anymore.”

Your stomach flipped, pulse quickening, because so he noticed. You kept your expression neutral. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Hotch made a low hum, unconvinced. “You were.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’d say you lasted a solid three hours.”

Your throat went dry. Because Jesus Christ, was he keeping track?

Your fingers curled into your palms, but before you could fire back, the elevator jolted to a stop. Hotch barely reacted, shifting his weight slightly, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other pressing against the wall behind you.

You tried to focus on anything but the fact that he was close. Too close. His body just inches from yours, the weight of his presence too heavy to ignore. The faint smell of his aftershave mixed with the sterile scent of the elevator, enveloping you in a cocoon of unwelcome intimacy.

You swallowed. “You like this.”

He tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in a way that was almost amused. “Like what?”

You huffed, your arms crossing. “Making me flustered.”

The moment stretched, his gaze flickering over your face, assessing, calculating, like he was debating whether or not to humor you. And then, slowly--

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, his voice low, quiet, meant just for you. “I like watching you realize you’re not as in control of this as you thought.”

Your stomach twisted, heat licking up your spine, your breath hitching before you could stop it. And fuck, he heard it.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and his fingers brushed your hip, just the slightest touch--barely anything at all--but God, it was enough. Enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your body sway slightly toward him, enough to make you forget how to breathe for a full second.

And then--

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open. Hotch straightened, unbothered, stepping out like nothing had happened at all. Like he hadn’t just left you wrecked against the back wall of an elevator.

You let out a slow breath, your fingers tightening into fists, because Jesus Christ, this was your life now. Hotch, already walking down the hall, turned back just briefly, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips before he disappeared into the bullpen.

And you? You were so damn screwed.

xoxoxo

You were still recovering from the elevator incident when it happened again.

It was later that evening, most of the team having already packed up for the night, the bullpen quieter than usual.

You had planned to finish one last report before heading home, but apparently, Hotch had other plans.

Because he showed up at your desk, leaned down, and murmured--

“Come over.”

You blinked, your pen pausing mid-word, your brain completely blanking for a full second.

You turned, staring at him, because surely he wasn’t just asking you to come over like it was nothing.

“I--” You swallowed. “Tonight?”

His lips twitched. “Unless you had other plans.”

Your pulse skipped.

Because technically, no.

You didn’t have other plans.

But fuck, this was still new.

Navigating this whole blending your lives thing, figuring out what it meant to go from stolen nights to actually knowing each other on a different level.

Still, even though your brain was short-circuiting, your body was already answering for you.

You nodded, clearing your throat. “Okay.”

Hotch hummed, satisfied. “Good.”

Then, just because he could, he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“You might want to finish that report before you get to my place.”

Your stomach flipped.

Your breath caught.

Because Goddamn him, he was doing it again.

And before you could even process what he meant, he was already walking away, leaving you to sit there, completely undone, pulse racing, trying to figure out what the hell you had just agreed to.

xoxox

By the time you showed up at his apartment, you had spent far too much time overthinking everything.

But as soon as he opened the door--standing there casual but effortless, his tie long discarded, his sleeves rolled up, his expression unreadable--

You knew.

You were in trouble.

So before he could get ahead of you, before he could smirk and tease and say something that left you breathless--

You stepped forward, pushing your palm against his chest, making him back up just slightly, your voice quiet but firm. “You like this.”

Hotch arched a brow. “We’ve already established that.”

You shook your head. “No.” Your fingers tightened slightly against his shirt, your breath uneven, because God, you weren’t used to feeling this way.

You had thought he would be the restrained one.

The one holding back.

But he was not holding back at all.

You exhaled. “You like seeing what you do to me.”

The moment stretched too long.

Too thick.

Then--

Hotch’s lips curved, his hands settling firmly on your waist, his touch warm and steady. “Of course I do.” His hands holding you like they were meant to. 

Your breath faltered.

And when he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dark and so damn sure of himself, he sealed your fate entirely. “I love watching you fall apart for me.”

And God help you, you knew then...

Aaron Hotchner was going to be the death of you.

xoxox

The team had known for a few weeks now.

After the initial teasing, the sideways glances. 

The endless smirks from Morgan. The numerous questions from Spencer. The poking for details from Penelope and JJ. The knowing eyebrow raises from Rossi. Emily was honestly the only one who remained… reasonably quiet. 

Things had finally settled into a new normal.

No one made a big deal about it anymore.

No awkward comments. No pointed jokes. No Hey, you two gonna behave? remarks at briefings.

It was just a fact now.

You and Aaron were together.

So, really, tonight should have been easy.

A casual night out after wrapping a case, a chance to unwind, a chance to drink, laugh, and just exist outside of work.

And it was easy. For about ten minutes.

The local bar was a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the undercurrent of music that was just loud enough to make you lean in to hear the person next to you. The dim lighting cast everyone in a soft glow, the neon signs flashing intermittently, reflecting off the polished surfaces.

You were seated in a large booth, a round of drinks on the table, the air filled with the residual adrenaline of the case just closed. Hotch was beside you, his presence both a comfort and a source of tension. His arm was casually draped over the back of the booth, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

And it was nothing.

It should have been nothing.

But you knew better now.

You knew what he was doing.

And when you glanced at him, eyes narrowed slightly, he didn’t even look at you.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t acknowledge what he was doing at all.

Which, of course, made it so much worse.

You were mid-conversation with JJ when you felt it--

You felt his fingers lightly touch your arm as he reached for his drink, a simple gesture to anyone watching, but to you, it was a direct challenge. His touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary, his fingertips tracing a path down to your wrist, barely noticeable under the hum of the bar.

You caught your breath, the sound drowned out by a burst of laughter from Morgan. Hotch’s touch was feather-light, yet it ignited a fire that you felt all the way to your toes. You glanced at him, his expression unreadable in the low light, his eyes a shade darker than usual.

He was watching you, a slight tilt to his head, assessing your reaction. You knew this game, the push and pull of it, and you hated how well he played it. The warmth from his hand seeped through the fabric of your sleeve, spreading slowly up your arm.

His thumb brushed casually against your pulse point, a touch so light it might have been accidental. But nothing with Hotch was ever accidental. Your heart hammered against your ribs, betraying your calm exterior.

Under the table, his knee pressed more firmly against yours, a silent acknowledgment of the tension crackling between you. It was a bold move, given the company, and it sent a clear message: he wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared.

You took a sip of your drink, the cold liquid doing little to cool your flushed skin. The ice clinked against the glass, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. You tried to focus on the story Rossi was telling, the familiar timbre of his voice usually so soothing, but tonight it was just background noise to the silent conversation happening between you and Hotch.

As Rossi's story reached its finish, the team's laughter filled the air, but you barely heard it. Hotch’s fingers were still on your wrist, his presence enveloping you, pulling you into an undertow of desire that you weren’t sure you wanted to resist.

Just kept listening to the conversation, completely unbothered, completely compossed, while you sat there actively trying not to combust.

Finally, as the laughter died down and the team’s attention shifted to the next round of drinks, Hotch leaned closer. His breath was warm against your ear, his voice a low rumble that only you could hear.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” he murmured, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

Your stomach flipped.

Because Goddamn him, he knew exactly why.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay level.

"Just listening."

Hotch hummed, his fingers brushing over your thigh, absently, unhurried, like he wasn’t doing anything at all.

"You always get this quiet when you’re distracted?"

Your throat went dry.

"I’m not distracted."

That time, he did smirk.

Just the tiniest curve of his lips, still out of sight from everyone else, still completely subtle, but God, you felt it.

"No?" His fingers pressed just slightly, his voice dropping lower. "Then why are you gripping your glass so tight?"

You hated that he was right.

Your fingers were wrapped tightly around the glass in your hand, your grip white-knuckled, your body burning alive.

And Hotch, fully aware of it, just sat back, composed as ever, taking a slow sip of his drink.

Like he hadn’t just wrecked you in public without anyone noticing.

By the time the team was wrapping up, you were fully over it.

Your face was warm, your heart was pounding, and Hotch was still sitting casual as ever, like this hadn’t been a test of endurance.

And maybe you could have left it alone. Perhaps you could have brushed it off.

But then--

As everyone stood to leave, Hotch leaned in one last time, his hand settling lightly against your lower back, his lips brushing just barely against your ear.

"If I didn’t know better," his voice was smooth, dangerous, "I’d say you like it when I do this to you."

That did it.

Your face burned, your body tensing, and before you could stop yourself, you whipped around, voice low and warning.

"Aaron Hotchner, if you don’t stop--"

Hotch blinked at you, mild, unreadable, the picture of innocence.

"Stop what?"

You glared. "You know what."

And then--

Then, the bastard smirked againl.

"No, I don’t think I do."

And fuck, you knew then. You had completely, utterly lost.

The car ride home was silent, the air thick, the tension tangible.

And Hotch knew it.

You knew he knew it, because he was smirking the whole damn way back to his apartment.

Finally, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you turned toward him, voice exasperated.

"What was that?"

Hotch didn’t even look at you, "What was what?"

"Don’t play innocent, Aaron."

He exhaled, amused, shaking his head slightly. “I was just enjoying a night out.”

You stared at him, jaw tightening. “You were trying to make me lose my mind.”

Hotch made a low hum, thoughtful, "If I had been trying, you wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did."

Your brain short-circuited.

Your body locked up.

Because Jesus Christ, he was serious.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling into your lap, because if you responded now, you were going to lose even harder.

Hotch, of course, knew this.

Which was why--when he pulled into the parking garage and put the car in park--he finally glanced over at you, his gaze slow, dark, knowing.

"Come inside," he said simply.

And fuck, that was all he had to say.

xoxoxo

You had barely gotten through the door before you felt it--the weight of his presence, the air charged, his demeanor too casual, too confident, like he already knew how this was going to end.

You should have walked away. Should have seen it coming.

But you had walked right into it.

You had let him pour you a drink, let him pull you onto the couch beside him, let yourself breathe in the warmth of him, the sheer gravity of him.

And then--

The first move.

He had leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing the exposed skin of your shoulder.

Nothing obvious. Nothing that would call attention to itself

But enough to make your breath catch--to make your body react before your brain could catch up.

And Hotch? He had noticed immediately.

His lips curled slightly, his voice lower than before, “You tense up every time I touch you.”

Your stomach flipped.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I do not.”

Hotch exhaled a quiet, amused sound, shaking his head. “You do.”

His fingers brushed lower, skimming along your forearm now, his touch light, unhurried, deliberate, “And you don’t even realize it.”

Your breath hitched, your body betraying you instantly because Jesus Christ, this man was dangerous.

“You’re fighting it.” Hotch shifted, his voice smooth, devastatingly confident.

Your throat went dry.

You hated how right he was.

But you couldn’t let him win.

Not yet.

So you exhaled sharply, tilting your chin up, “And what exactly am I fighting?” Giving him your best unbothered expression.

Hotch smirked.

And then--

He leaned in.

His lips ghosted just along your jaw, his breath warm, deliberate, controlled, and when he finally spoke--

It wasn’t fair.

“You want me to ruin you.”

Your entire body locked up.

Your pulse spiked so hard it nearly made you dizzy.

Because fuck, that was it, wasn’t it?

That was exactly what this was.

You had spent weeks trying to endure him, trying to pretend you could keep up with him--

But now, you realized--

You didn’t want to keep up.

You wanted to lose. You wanted to fall apart for him.

And Hotch knew it.

It happened so fast.

One second, you were holding onto your last shred of restraint, trying desperately to pretend like you weren’t completely and utterly wrecked by him.

And the next--

You snapped.

You turned on the couch, grabbing the collar of his shirt, pulling him toward you with zero hesitation.

Hotch barely had time to react before your lips crashed into his, your hands fisting into the fabric, pulling, needing, demanding.

And fuck, he gave in instantly.

A sharp inhale against your mouth, a low sound deep in his throat, his hands gripping your waist, grounding, steadying as he pulled you closer.

You shifted, straddling him without a second thought, your fingers tangling into his hair, and God, the way he groaned against your lips, the way his grip tightened around you--

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

This was everything you had been holding back, everything he had been pushing you toward--

And now, neither of you were pretending anymore.

You pulled back just slightly, breathless, your body burning, alive, completely consumed by him.

And Hotch?

He tilted his head up toward you, his gaze dark, heavy, knowing, his breath warm against your lips.

“I told you.”

Your chest heaved, your hands still gripping his shirt, and God, he looked so satisfied.

So pleased with himself.

So infuriatingly smug.

And that?

That just made you kiss him again.

And this time--

You weren’t holding back at all. Hotch’s hands tightened, fingers digging just slightly into your waist, his breath warm against your lips as he murmured--

“I knew you’d break eventually.”

Your pulse spiked, your body thrumming with heat, your entire world tipping off its axis--

Because fuck, he was right.

And you hated that he was right.

You gritted your teeth, your breath uneven, your nails curling into the fabric of his shirt as you yanked him closer, your voice low, warning, desperate.

“Shut up, Aaron.”

Hotch chuckled--low, dark, impossibly knowing--his fingers tracing slow circles along the bare skin beneath your shirt.

“Make me.”

You did.

Your lips crashed into his, teeth and heat and hands grasping at anything solid, your body pressing into him, needing more, needing all of him.

And fuck, he let you take what you wanted--

For about five seconds. Until, he took over.

Hotch shifted, his grip tightening, his body twisting, and before you could even register it, you were suddenly on your back against the couch, breathless, pinned beneath him.

You gasped, your fingers fisting into his shirt, because fuck, when had he learned to move like that?

Hotch smirked, his breath brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice low and completely unfair.

“Now that’s better.”

Your stomach flipped, a breathless sound catching in your throat as his hands skimmed up your sides, slow, controlled, deliberate.

And then, his lips brushed over your pulse.

Just a whisper of contact, not enough, never enough, but God, your body arched instinctively, your breath catching, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Hotch hummed against your skin, pleased, “You’re so easy to unravel.”

Your breath stuttered, your mind blanking, because Jesus Christ, he was doing it again.

And the worst part?

You loved it.

You hated how much you loved it.

Hated how effortlessly he could reduce you to this--

To breathless gasps and frantic fingers, to helpless tension, to something desperate and completely undone beneath him.

Hotch, of course, knew it.

Which was why, after another slow, deliberate brush of his lips against your throat, he murmured, “Tell me what you want.”

Your stomach twisted, your body shaking beneath his, because fuck, he was making you say it.

You swallowed, your fingers trembling against his shoulders. “You.”

Hotch hummed, “Say it again,” pleased but not satisfied, his lips dragging along your collarbone, his hands smoothing down your sides, taking his time, making you burn.

You hated him (you didn’t).

You hated how much you loved this (you did love it).

You hated the way he was completely in control of you without even trying (you’d let him control everything).

You hated how badly you wanted him to never stop (you hoped he didn’t).

“Aaron,” you gasped, half a plea, half a demand, your fingers tugging at his belt, desperate, impatient.

And the walk to his bedroom was a blur.

Your back hit the wall, his lips crashing into yours, hands grasping, pulling, anchoring, never letting go.

Your shirt hit the floor, his hands skimming every inch of you, learning, memorizing, his breath hot and desperate against your skin.

And God, he wasn’t just toying anymore.

This was real.

By the time you made it to the bed, you were burning alive, your fingers desperate to strip away everything between you, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

Hotch hovered over you, watching you, his hands framing your face, steadying you, his breath ragged, uneven, barely controlled.

Your breath shook, your fingers brushing over his jaw, his cheek, memorizing the moment.

And then--

You smiled, soft, cheeky and completely breathless, “You’re flustered, Hotchner.”

Hotch exhaled sharply, his jaw tensing, his fingers curling against your skin.

And then, with a low, rough sound--

He kissed you like he was never going to stop.

You gasped against his mouth, your own hands grasping at his shirt, fisting into the fabric, yanking him impossibly closer.

His voice, low, rough, almost teasing, broke through the haze, “So impatient.”

You bit his lip in retaliation.

Hotch groaned, deep, guttural, wrecked, and fuck, that sound sent heat surging through you so fast you nearly melted into the mattress. 

He dragged his lips slowly down your jaw, his breath warm against your throat, his hands firm on your waist as he pinned you in place.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, voice low, dark, unbearably smooth, “how long I’ve wanted you like this today.”

“Then stop holding back.”

His jaw tightened.

And then, with zero hesitation--

He didn’t.

The rest of the clothes hit the floor in a blur of movement, hands grasping, mouths searching, heat building with every breath.

You pulled him flush against you, your hands everywhere, your nails skimming down his back, pulling him closer, desperate to have him right where you needed him.

Hotch groaned against your lips, his breath uneven, wrecked, completely lost in you.

And God, you had never seen him like this.

Never seen him completely, utterly undone.

Never heard his voice this raw, never felt his hands this desperate, this needing.

And fuck, you wanted all of it.

Wanted him to ruin you.

Wanted to ruin him right back.

Your lips dragged down his neck, tasting, taunting, savoring, and when he groaned, his hands gripping your hips harder, you smirked against his skin.

“You always so composed, Hotchner?” you murmured, your voice breathless, wrecked.

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head as his hands slid lower, his breath ragged and completely destroyed.

“Not with you.”

And God help you, that was the moment you knew--

This wasn’t just about giving in.

This wasn’t just about breaking tension.

This was something else entirely.

And now, there was no stopping it.

His hands were everywhere.

Rough. Desperate. Needing.

And God help you, you weren’t any better.

The heat between you was consuming, spiraling into something neither of you could stop even if you wanted to.

Hotch wasn’t gentle now.

Wasn’t careful.

He was fully, completely undone.

And fuck, you wanted him like this.

You wanted all of him.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing firm, anchoring, pulling you flush against him, bare skin meeting bare skin, and Jesus Christ, he was solid.

Strong. Unyielding. Overwhelming.

Your lips crashed together again, the kiss messy, starved, like you’d been waiting for this your whole damn life.

Hotch groaned against your mouth, low and wrecked, his hands sliding up your spine, fingertips pressing into your skin like he never wanted to let go.

Your stomach tightened, your breath shaky, your body already burning alive beneath him.

And when he moved lower, when his lips ghosted down your neck, his breath hot against your skin--

You gasped, your fingers tangling into his hair, your entire body shuddering as his lips brushed lower, then lower still.

Tasting. Exploring. Claiming.

You arched beneath him, your body seeking, aching, and fuck, Hotch noticed instantly.

He chuckled against your skin, his voice dark, knowing, completely unfair.

“So eager.”

Your breath hitched, your nails digging into his back, because, God help you, he was taunting now.

And he knew it.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging, and when he groaned, his grip on you tightened right back.

“If you don’t stop talking,” you whispered, your voice shaky, breathless, “I will make you.”

Hotch huffed a laugh, his lips dragging along your collarbone, slow, deliberate, completely in control.

“I’d like to see you try.”

You did.

You flipped him over, your hands pinning him down, your breath ragged, your lips crashing into his like you were determined to make him unravel this time.

His breath stuttered, his hands gripping your waist, his body tensing beneath yours, his control cracking at the seams.

And God help you, it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Hotch’s hands skated along your sides, his touch slow, reverent, exploring, like he was memorizing the feel of you beneath his fingertips.

You shivered, your breath coming in soft, uneven pants, your pulse skipping every time his fingers traced over newly exposed skin.

And fuck, he was taking his time.

His lips dragged along your collarbone, warm and open, his breath heavy, steady, consuming.

His fingers gripped your waist, grounding you, his body solid against yours, heat radiating between you in a way that made your stomach twist. It wasn’t long until you were back beneath him, bodies pressed so close together. 

And God help you, it wasn’t enough.

You wanted more.

Needed more.

So you arched beneath him, your body pressing up into his, your fingers skimming down his back, gripping, seeking, pulling.

He groaned, low and wrecked, his breath catching, his fingers tightening against your hips. He lifted his head, his gaze dark, heavy, completely unreadable.

And fuck, he just looked at you.

Just stare.

Like he was taking you apart with his eyes alone.

Like he was seeing you for the first time and still somehow knowing exactly how to touch you. Like you hadn’t already been under him, over him, and all around him before. 

His voice, low, thick, almost strained, "Are you sure?"

Your stomach flipped, your breath hitching, because fuck, how could he even ask?

You let out a soft, shaky exhale, your fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him down, closer, needing him right where you wanted him.

"I need you to stop asking questions and just--"

Your words were cut off as his lips crashed into yours, swallowing whatever remark you were about to make, leaving nothing but heat and wanting and absolute, complete surrender.

His hands slid lower, his touch burning and slow, his body pressing into you, against you, against every part of you that had been waiting for this, aching for this.

And God help you, you let him. You gave in completely.

You let him take you apart, piece by piece, breath by breath, kiss by kiss--until there was nothing left but him.

Much later, long after the tension had snapped, after the air had settled, after the last remnants of desperation had faded into something warmer, slower, softer--

You found yourself laying against him, your body tangled with his, your skin still thrumming from the aftershocks.

Hotch’s arms were wrapped around you, his fingers trailing lazy, absentminded circles along your spine.

And for the first time--

Neither of you spoke.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Because every word had already been spoken in the way his hands had held you, in the way your body had moved against his, in the way neither of you had let go even once.

Your fingers traced along his ribs, your breath steadying, your body finally settling into his.

And then, barely above a whisper--

He murmured against your skin, soft, quiet, so damn real, "You’re dangerous."

You huffed a breathless laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest. "Me?"

His arms tightened slightly, his lips brushing your temple, his voice gravelly and warm.

"I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you." Your stomach flipped, your chest aching, because that wasn’t teasing anymore.

That was something else entirely.

And now, there was no going back.

That was real.

That was something else entirely.

And God help you, you felt it everywhere.

His hand rested against the small of your back, fingers splayed wide, thumb absently brushing over your skin--a slow, reverent kind of touch, the kind that felt more like grounding than claiming.

You swallowed, your fingers tracing light, thoughtless shapes over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, still just slightly uneven.

You should say something.

You should respond, should acknowledge what he just said, should do anything but lay here drowning in the weight of it.

But all you could do was stare at him, at the way his jaw was still tense, at the way his throat bobbed slightly, like he was bracing for whatever you were going to say next.

Like maybe he wasn’t sure if he should have said it at all.

So you did the only thing you could think to do. 

You reached up and cupped his face, fingers tracing along the sharp line of his jaw, your thumb brushing just under his cheekbone, slow and deliberate.

Hotch exhaled, heavy, measured, but he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull back.

Just watched you; waiting.

Your voice came soft, quiet, barely above a whisper, "You mean that?"

His brow twitched, like maybe he expected you to brush it off, to tease, to challenge, to do anything other than meet his honesty with honesty.

But you didn’t.

Because you couldn’t.

Not with him.

Not now.

His fingers curled just slightly against your back, like he needed something to hold onto, and when he finally spoke--

"Yes,” his voice was low, careful, unwavering.

The breath pushed out of you, your fingers tightening just slightly where they rested against his face, your body warming from the inside out.

Because fuck, there it was.

No hesitation.

No second-guessing.

Just truth.

And that?

That was more dangerous than any teasing remark he could have thrown your way.

You swallowed, unsure if you were steady enough to speak, but knowing you had to anyway.

"I’ve never wanted someone like this either."

His jaw tensed beneath your fingers, his throat bobbing again, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Like he was committing every word to memory.

Like he was afraid to breathe, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile moment had settled between you.

But then--

Your fingers slid lower, tracing along the column of his throat, across his collarbone, down over the scars and stress and everything that made him who he was.

And you whispered, "I think I might be in trouble."

Hotch huffed a breathless laugh, shaking his head, his lips twitching just slightly, but his fingers tightened against you, his voice lower, quieter, something dangerously close to soft.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, your own smile breaking through, "yeah,” your forehead falling against his as you exhaled.

And then, before he could say anything else--

Before either of you could ruin the moment with too much thinking, too much overanalyzing, too much wondering what the hell you were supposed to do now that you’d both admitted this out loud.

You kissed him.

Slow. Steady. Intentional.

Not desperate, not rushed, not frantic--

Just this.

Just you and him.

Just something that neither of you were pretending wasn’t real anymore.

And fuck, if that wasn’t the most dangerous thing of all.

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

[countdykulaa]

Ok I know you probably mean new requests but I am genuinely in love with obsessed reader and dark sevika I LOVE when both characters are crazy I need to see more, would you want to write maybe either sevika thinking about obsessed reader's voice for a while or maybe her trying to track reader down?? Or even Sevika organizing a meeting???

cw : sexual content. breeding kink . referring to strap on / dildo as cock. dom!sevika. mean!sevika. overstimulation. porn with absolutely no plot

Sevika wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about you, no matter how hard she tried. She’d throw herself into work, bury herself in stacks of paperwork, and even humor her family more than usual, just to keep her mind occupied. She’d sit through mindless meetings, hands twitching as her focus drifted again and again to the same thoughts. your voice, low and breathy, whispering against her ear. Begging her for more. It played like a broken record, over and over, no matter how much she tried to drown it out.

Her phone would become her greatest enemy. Every buzz, every notification would send a jolt through her, her stomach twisting with a hope she couldn’t shake. Her eyes would flicker to it more times than she’d ever admit, and when it wasn’t you, a frustrated snarl would form on her lips. Leg bouncing, jaw clenched, she’d curse the way you’d wormed your way under her skin.

But then,   you'd call.

For the first time in two weeks, the "No Caller ID" would flash bright and wide on her phone at midnight. Sevika didn’t hesitate. The call connected on the second ring, her breath short and uneven as she brought the phone to her ear.

She didn’t speak at first, didn’t trust her voice not to give her away. She could hear you on the other end, though ...the faint sound of your breathing, hitching in a way that sent heat prickling up the back of her neck. The silence stretched, taut and electric, before you finally broke it.

“Sevika.”   

You breathe out her name as if it were your one salvation. She leans forward, desperate for more.

“What are you doing right now? ”   

A moment passes between you two that feels like a scenary . the faint sound of something sqelching can be heard in the background after your ever growing moans .

“I'm … i'm fucking myself on your cock … i added lube but it's so big i can't.. it wont fit . and im so wet”   

your voice breaks by the end and sevika's pants feel tighter than ever as she twists in her seat . her eyes flutter for a minute and she swears she can see you , the unamed , unshaped mess riding her into an oblvion . she can see the tears welling your eyes through the pleading in your voice .

“ride me harder. faster.”   

“Sevika., i can't , i can't my thighs are shaking . sevika it hurts.”

"Yes, you can. And you will. You wanna be lazy, call someone else."

She gives you little options or mercy, and judging from the slight hiccup in your voice, you comply.

“sevika  ,   sevika you're sobig .  please ,  please touch me i  need you  to grab me and pull me down i  can't  ...   sevika please ”      

fuck .

she lets her head lull back and her hand roughly grab her crotch  .   she can't bring it in her to touch herself  ,   but the shame carries through her when she grinds down . she feels a million muffled sparks shoot through her thighs , all inhibitions lose as she groes desperate . she was going to cum , soon and hard . and it was like you could tell . could hear the slight in her voice judging from the way you moaned her name so heavenly.

Your next words are whispered and barely audible, but they catapult her to new heights.

“  sevika   ...   please cum in me .” 

her voice staggers and if she wasn't close before she is now  .   the   only sound that echoes is her laboured breath.  a pit forms in her  ,   she can feel it growing  ,   expanding until it holds her entire   beings attention  . her body goes rigid  , a groan shot out of her mouth as she clenches around nothing .

it takes almost two minutes for sevika to breathe out the next words .

  “tell me where you are .”      

She throws her phone against the wall and watches it shatter when the only answer she receives is the static of the disconnected phone.

And now she was here.

After days , weeks of those calls , of surrounding to your darkest desires every time your hand so much as touched your clit, your day of reckoning had finally arrived .

Your heart stops in its tracks as her face fills your vision. It’s like seeing a ghost, an imposing, unshakable ghost that you’ve dreamt about and dreaded in equal measure. Blood rushes from your face as a wave of panic surges up your spine. Sevika takes a step forward, her sharp eyes pinning you in place, but the heavy weight of her presence sends your instincts into overdrive. Your feet betray you, stumbling backward in shaky, uneven steps.

Her gaze doesn’t falter, and you swear you catch the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth as she watches you retreat. It’s predatory... intense, deliberate, and knowing. The apartment feels too small now, like there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape her.

And so, you run.

The click of your heels against the floor echoes louder than ever, each step ringing out like a countdown to your inevitable fate. Your chest heaves as you turn the corner, adrenaline burning through your veins. You feel like prey, hunted, cornered, and entirely at her mercy. Your mind screams to keep going, to find a way out, but your body betrays you with a craving you can’t ignore. Deep down, beneath the panic, is a desperate, unspoken desire for her to catch you. To claim you.

And then she does.

It’s only a matter of time before her hand wraps around your arm, rough and unrelenting. With a force that knocks the breath from your lungs, she slams you against the wall, face first. The cold surface bites against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating off her body, so close behind you.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”   her voice is a low growl, 

You shake your head, a feeble denial that’s betrayed by the wetness pooling between your thighs. You can feel her smirk even without looking at her.

“Don’t lie to me,” she says, her breath warm against your ear. Her free hand snakes up to your neck, her touch firm but teasing. You feel like a doe caught in the jaws of a lion, trembling under her gaze, powerless yet willing.

You shudder , feeling her grip tighten just slightly , enough to remind you that she’s in control .

And then, with the ease of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing , she drags you to the bedroom . Her hand stays at the back of your neck , her touch like a leash , and you stumble behind her , unable to find the will to resist.

“That’s why you called all those nights,” she spits out. “Begging me for this.”

She’s harsh in the way she handles you , no ounce of tenderness softening her grip . The final shove sends you sprawling onto your own bedroom floor , the impact reverberating through your body with a solid , jarring thud.

Your palms press against the cool surface as you push yourself up slightly , trembling. But then your gaze lifts … and there she is.

Her shadow towers over you, broad shoulders squared, her chest heaving faintly as her predatory eyes rake over you. She doesn’t move right away, and somehow that stillness is worse. It gives you time to take her in, the taut set of her jaw, the dangerous curve of her lips, and the way her presence seems to fill the room, leaving you no space to breathe.

Your body shudders violently, not just from fear, but from something deeper, something primal that you can’t seem to wrestle into submission. That commanding aura of hers, it pins you to the floor more effectively than any hand could.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Look at you,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain, but there’s something else lurking there, something that makes your stomach twist.

Your lips part, but no words come out, only shaky breaths. Every instinct tells you to move, to do something, but you don’t. You can’t. All you can do is kneel there, trembling under the weight of her dominance, as if she’s already claimed every part of you without lifting a finger.

“Please,” you gasp out, voice barely above a whisper.

“Say it.”   

“Please don’t make me…” Your words falter, and she laughs softly, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through you.

“Say it,” she repeats, more insistent this time.

Your lips part, and the words spill out before you can stop them. “Please touch me.”

The dam bursts, shattering every last inhibition you’ve tried to hold onto. The confession hangs in the air between you, thick with tension and raw desire. It’s as if those three little words have unleashed something primal within her, something that craves, consumes, and devours. And as she lets herself indulge in you, you realize you’ve never felt more alive.

she exhales slowly, her   hands moving to her belt with a quickness . she unbuckles her belt , shoving her pants down to reveal boxers . your eyes eagerly trail down her thick thighs , before rising back up . Your desperate words are caught in the back of your throat . Your eyes freeze at the obvious bulge and you can't believe this is happening and you can't breath . to breath in her presence would be the greatest sin in your eyes as you bestow upon her .

you need her . you need her so bad you can hardly see . you need her so bad you can hardly think . you've been reduced to a thing that needs sevika .

“take it baby.”

Your hands wobble and shake as you reach for her underwear . you tug on her band until the cock bounces free . the first thing you notice is the way it slightly bounces in the air , your own breath hitches . you're certain that a woman like her wouldn't dub this her most largest toy and the simple fact sparks a sharp , icing pain through your chest . you had to show her how much everyone who so much as touched her didn't matter before . didn't matter anymore .

you trailed your fingers along its length , noting it's rubbery and smooth texture , right to the tip , which you lightly stroked; and then, amazed by your own boldness, moved back down a little , to grasp her cock firmly . you lean forward , a hesitent lick being given to the tip . the sharp inhale it receives spurs you to wrap your lips around the head . your hand strokes the silicone toy as your head slowly bops .

her hand grabs at your braids , rough calloused fingers tightening the grip as she thrusts into your mouth . you relax your jaw , a vigor running through as you quicken your pace . Your gags echo the room as she shoves you deeper , longer and your fighting every urge to grind your thighs together . you can almost smell it . the taste of her musk . the rougher she thrusts, the deeper you take her , her scent lingers in your nose . at least you swear it does . you can almost taste it . when she comes minutes later , pushing your head as deep as it goes you can almost feel the cum shooting down your throat .

You barely even make it to the bed after that .

she grabs you by the arm and drags you by your wobbly and thrumming knees and grabs the back of your thighs . the squeak , doesnt leave your mouth but your nails dig into her shoulders the same .

sevika walks you to the bed and thrusts you onto the bed . your body barely has enough time to bounce before she climbs onto of you . you feel her cock on your thigh . your bare thighs . your night dress is high nearing your hips and you're sure she has a view of your pearly pink panties and you can't breathe .

you feel her touch before you see her hand moving towards your thigh . you feel the way it hovers over your under , the gentle strokes it gives to your clothed clit . before you can beg , plead , speak , you feel her thumb slightly press down on your clit . you slightly jolt , your eyes never leaving hers and your slick pooling down the same . she presses circles and you can feel how wet you are . how much you've been begging for this moment .

"se - sevika."

you barely breathe out her name before she pushes your underwear to the side . her fingers , now presumbly slick , rub on your clit gently before pressing down . you almost feel your body go rigid , your jaw go slack as she inserts two fingers . you don't have it in you to feel ashamed at how you open up to it , to her . she fucks you in a way so gentle you almost float off .

"pretty little thing aren't you." she whispers in your ear , the only response she gets being a whimper . a moment later , before you can even thrash and shake , she pulls them out of you.

you feel the head of her cock near your entrance and sink your claw like nails in her back when she puts it in . you almost feel small tear drops of blood the longer you sink in but your eyes are shut and she's so big . you wrap your feet tightly around her back so she can’t get away .

 she begins a rhythm , rhythm quickly accosted with the creak of your bed slamming against the wall . she's not nice in the way she fucks you . rough , deep strokes dragging you further down until you're almost suffocating . you can't speak , can barely function beyond punched out moans and she doesn't try to fill in the silence .

The longer she fucks you the more quiet you get  .   your eyes flutter shut  .   a growing intensity settling in your lower half.

“Tell me something doll.” she whispers in your ear . you feel something building inside you , your breath staggering and almost coming to a halt. “Did you get the chase you needed?”

“Oh.”   you whimper out  ,   voice high pitched   and downright   pathetic in sevika’s eyes . an orgasm rumbled through you and your nails sunk in your palm as you writhed and clenched around the toy .

static washes through your ears and it takes a minute to realize sevika hasn't stopped fucking you . her hand moves from its position of make shift bound and cups your jaw . your arms ache as they remain in their position

you slump into the sheets , unable to suppress the whimpers that crawl from you . your eyes are shut , babbles and moans overtaking any sense and you in your oversensitive state can feel the edge she drags you to . your clit pulses , limbs shaking .

“look at me.” she softly commands

yours eyes flutter open as you look at her through tear welled eyes , the sweat clinging her hair to her forehead , the way her lips part slightly , the pleasure that tremors through her body. the darkness in her eyes that greets you immediately sets you off before you can control yourself . your whine shatters through the air like glass and your face scrunches as you're shoved into your next orgasm .

TAGLIST : @saycubed , @r3starttt , @cyb3rdino

[honey-pages]

Tea and Biscuits - Viktor X Reader (Study Date Part 3)

This is part 3 to Study Date - as requested and crossposted to Ao3.

Description -

You awake in Viktor's bed after the adventurous night before.

1.1k words

F/M. 18+. Fluff. Brief Mention of Sex. Mostly SFW.

You wake up in Viktor’s bed the next morning. It is large and empty, prioritising comfort and space. His room is quite dark, lit only by lamps and small light sources. This was not the kind of sexual encounter where you wake up in an unfamiliar bed in a blur - you remembered exactly what happened the night before.

After the sex in the lab, Viktor held you tightly, not wanting to let you go. His smug cockiness in the library had given you the impression that he was perhaps more confident than he actually was in his acquisition of you. As he began to untangle himself from you, he learnt down and planted a kiss on your forehead.

In the closeness he spoke, “I want you to know (Y/N), that I would not get into this kind of entanglement if I did not intend to keep at least a part of me attached.”

You took a second to read further into what he was trying to say.

“I am not in the science of casual encounters.”

You allowed him to continue, providing no response.

“I have feelings for you.”

You felt almost as frozen as you did in the library. It was not that you did not reciprocate, you did. It was just that this confession came on so suddenly.

“It feels as though I have always had this passion for you, and I can’t hold it back anymore.”

You allow more time before realising that this is not what Viktor needs. Reassurance.

“Viktor, I feel the same.” You reply.

His face softens and his brow relaxes. He returns, “I always thought you were so special. Special enough that I was content to watch you and be around you, even if just from afar. I didn't know if my attention was what you needed.”

“What I needed?”

“You are so full of potential. So much power and emotion. I have seen you work, and I am interested in you far more than for just your brain, I assure you, I have not seen such passion in someone. You really are a rarity.”

You smile. It feels nice being seen. You knew Viktor on a work time basis, and it was nice to know you were not just more work for him. You had always imagined that he struggled to switch off, and he sometimes did, but when there is nothing to switch off and relax for- why not keep working? It was why you visited the library so often. Why you were so focused on your project. Shit. The project. Your mind focuses on the present. Your work is due Wednesday, and you need to defend it before the council panel. You wonder where Viktor is right now.

Looking around the room, you notice your clothes from last night are folded and draped over a chair next to his bed. You had slept naked in the end. You had not initially planned to, though the room was cold enough that when the two of you finally climbed into bed, you shed your clothes to press against each other. You skin to skin contact was electric and you held each other until now.

There’s a rattling sound coming from behind the door.

“Good morning (Y/N)” Viktor calls.

He walks in through the door backwards, propping it open with his back as he tilts down the door handle, juggling his cane and balance in the process. In his other hand precariously balanced is a tea tray.

He places down the tray on the nearest available surface - the end of the bed- and turns towards you.

“I made us some breakfast tea.” He beams.

He looks happy. His hair is fluffed and dishevelled and he wears just a loose pair of pyjama bottoms. He has been waiting in his lounge so as to not wake you, though to be close enough that when you did wake, he could go to the kitchen and make you-

“Breakfast tea! It’s made with tea (obviously), but also sweet milk and (optional) caffeine!” He looks proudly over the tea set he has put together.

You giggle, “Viktor that’s just regular tea”.

“Aha! You have fallen into my trap Miss (Y/N), regular tea is not served with…” He makes an anticipatory gesture with his hands. “Biscuits!”

You don’t correct him that tea is quite often served with biscuits. He looks so incredibly proud of his work. He has neatly arranged the pot, milk and cups and has served them in pristine fashion with accompanying small sweet brown sugar biscuits. You realise that this perhaps is a luxury Viktor does not have time to normally allow himself, you fill with gratitude and warmth. The teacups are mismatched. Living alone, it made sense as to why. He has never had to cater to anyone alongside himself, he only owns one of each set.

“Viktor it’s amazing, this all looks amazing!”

He sits himself in the chair, shifting your clothes onto the pillow behind you for when you need them. You become aware of your nakedness now your clothes are beside you. He stands once more, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. He covers you both back up to the waist with the bed sheets and pulls the tray onto the flat of the both of your legs.

“How do you have it?” He asks.

You describe it to him, he pours it. You nibble at one of the biscuits, being careful to hold your hand underneath so no crumbs get into the bed. After he pours a drink for himself, one that’s very heavily milky, he wraps his arm around you, and you cuddle with your backs to the headboard. The world is warm again.

“Wednesday” Viktor states.

You look up at him, clueless.

“Your project. You need to defend your project to a board on Wednesday.”

“You remembered?”

“I’m on the board.” He grins.

Viktor spends the rest of his day running through techniques regarding presentation. He himself dislikes giving presentations, but he is experienced by proxy through the amount of projects he has seen go through the panel. You are not allowed to disclose the full details of your project to Viktor, now knowing he is on the board; however you allow vague descriptions of the concepts and rough ideas through the filter. He is very much interested and onboard- convinced you will succeed. It is only a few days until the presentation is scheduled and you are growing nervous.

“I have an idea that may ease your nerves. It is untested and it is one of my own creations, but I think it will help you remove some of the nervous associations you have with the boardroom.”

“That sounds like exactly what I need” You chime.

“It is slightly unconventional, but I think you are the perfect subject.”

[spotlight-if]

Lights, Camera…Chaos.

[PLAY HERE] (October 23rd, 2024) Act 1, Chapter 1, 64.2k words.

For as long as you can remember, your dream has stayed the same—you want nothing more than to make it as an actor in Hollywood. After years as an overlooked, overworked talent, your big break comes from an unlikely source. And it’s one that changes everything, for better or worse.

Hollywood is its own character within this world—sometimes it loves you, sometimes it wants nothing more than to see you crash and burn. Navigating this ever changing landscape while balancing your own interpersonal relationships is only half the challenge. The other half is memorizing your lines.

Navigate the red carpet, bloodthirsty paparazzi, cut-throat tabloids and complicated relationship dynamics with A-list celebrities (who may or may not be completely insane.)

But, hey: isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?

Key Features:

- Customize your Actor: are you a classic Hollywood heartthrob? An eccentric and unconventional recluse? Are you kind and genuine despite the fame, or a cutthroat diva with undeniable talent?

- Navigate scandal, paparazzi, and stan culture: dodge or embrace the flashing lights. Interact with your fans, or distance yourself from them for your sanity. Wait—who are they shipping your character with?

-Build your legacy: choose between the stability of superhero blockbusters or turn into an indie darling. Or, maybe forgoe both to become a household name in the horror genre.

- Network and build relationships: whether they’re manufactured by your well-meaning publicist or spawned from real feelings, forge dynamic and ever changing relationships with other industry icons.

- Try to manage your mental health: the dark side of the industry lurks in every corner—the highs are high, but the lows are ever lower.

Characters:

Kendall Mays (gender selectable)—ever the loyal best friend, Kendall followed you into the throes of showbiz without hesitation. From fighting over toys on the playground to helping you run lines for a major motion picture, you can always count on them to have your back. That is, before they met Mason—their ever-present boyfriend who demands more and more of their time. You were never that great at sharing.

[Note: Kendall is not a romance option.]

Sutton Foster (he/him, she/her)—child star turned award winning powerhouse. Sutton Foster has everything an actor could want—well, minus the countless stays at rehab centers around the world. It’s undeniable that Sutton is a generational talent, but what’s even more notable is their messy personal life. You yourself have been caught in Sutton’s gravitational pull, once upon a time. The question lies in whether or not you’ll pull yourself away.

Wyn Grace (he/him, she/her)—on stage, Wyn is electric. The same cannot be said for Wyn off-stage. The lead singer of the up-and-coming Indie band is struggling with their meteoric rise to fame. As the awards pile up and the crowds get bigger, Wyn is unraveling at the seams. All they wanted to do was make music with their friends, but the fame makes them reconsider it all.

Lex Moreau (he/him)—an older, award-winning director with an…eccentric disposition. Yet despite his volatile nature and obsession with perfection, anyone who’s anyone would kill to work with him. Lex is always in search for a muse, a great beacon to pour all of his artistic vision into. And now, he thinks he’s found that in you. Lucky you?

[C is a conditional character, only appears based on choices you make.]

Carlo/Carmen Mencina (gender selectable)—C is harder to pin down than a stable acting gig in LA. When you’re together—it’s kismet. The problem lies in when you’re apart. C’s frequent disappearances abroad leave a bad taste in your mouth, and when a shocking truth comes to light, it’s not just your relationship in the spotlight—it’s your life, too.

Flings and other mini-romances will be available as well. But these I will let be revealed as the story progresses.

When writing this game, I knew what themes I wanted to focus on, and the care/detail needed to do so. Hence, this game is strictly 18+.

TW: death, substance abuse, suicide, bullying, explicit language, violence, and explicit (skippable) sexual content.

Thank you for reading my intro! Reblogs are welcome, and my ask box is open (:

And major thank you @thecutestgrotto for the gorgeous headers!

[sunboki]

— HELLION INN. a Stray Kids fiction

🌖 : Lee Minho x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. dystopian! au, enemies to lovers, monster! au, apocalypse! au, “we have to get along to survive” au, angst, high stakes

WORD COUNT. 10k ⭑ 50min read

WARNINGS. gory descriptions, cursing, descriptive violence, implied intercourse, death, a dubcon kiss, talk of vomit/vomiting, lots of mentions of death, one mention of k*lling oneself, parasites, murder, inclusion of fire, injury, usage of guns, injury, knives, reader and minho are “hunted”, mature themes

AUG'S NOTES. it’s finished! i wanted to cry (out of happiness!!) closing the last part :) i truly love this piece, and, though it certainly isn’t all too lovey dovey compared to alternative fics of mine, i was so incredibly fortunate to be able to write for themes i adore! i hope my enthusiasm was able to be conveyed in the subject of monsters/apocalyptic au’s!! please enjoy<3

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Receiving an ominous letter in the mail, a monster invades Seoul minutes later, carrying an uncanny sense of smell despite its blindness. Countless people have been slaughtered already, and with your letter as the only meager explanation to this madness, you find your feet leading towards the one place it said was safe: Hellion Inn.

or alternatively :

Minho won’t let you die. Not if it means letting this Monster get him or hell’s dawning itself. You’re going to survive. Together.

Run, something is coming. Go to Hellion Inn, you’ll be safe there.

Something? What is something? A terrorist attack? War?

Never had such a letter arrived at your doorstep other than this Tuesday, with the morning sunlight peeking through half-opened blinds casting your pajama-clad frame in its cascades.

And again, you reread and reread, questions raging in a distorted frenzy amidst your once just-wakening mind. 

Little were you aware what would come. What already roamed Seoul’s streets, approaching closer, closer. 

One objective resides in too many possibilities. 

Find Hellion Inn. 

.

.

.

Stuffing the letter in your pocket serves as the most sensible solution while you go over your options. If you didn’t have a clue about what dishes would be cooked, you’d check the ingredients first.

And yet, upon turning on the TV, you find your meal already served. 

On a platter, dripping with blood.

“This just in, an unidentifiable entity is making its way through Seoul in a rampage. The creature is highly dangerous. It appears to lack vision, and speculation has deemed it relies upon its smell to discern other beings. The creature has not been detained at this time. Under no circumstances should citizens leave their residences, and in the case you’re on the street, please evacuate to the nearest shelter immediately. Further information will be released.”

Your blood runs frigidly cold, enough you swear you could’ve turned to ice.

All of a sudden, war or a terrorist attack doesn’t sound nearly as daunting as before.

A monster. Ruthless, bloodthirsty. 

Monster. 

Instantaneously are news sites everywhere exploding, posting footage, pictures, and accounts of the creature each second. 

More and more and more until-

It all goes dark, your home plunged into a black abyss meagerly sustained by the sun’s rays, phone in hand ultimately powering off. 

Electricity down. Fully.

This isn’t like a usual predicament of a public threat, not something you’re prepared for, nor something anyone was prepared for. There’s no drill for a monster, no tsunami shelter or high rise building to reside upon. 

Was it obliviousness? Or were you all simply sheep to a ravaging wolf?

The latter seemed most convincing.

An exhale. No, a growl is what breaks your train of thought. Like the chuff of a tiger, curdling in its throat. 

Above. 

You can’t even bring yourself to move, can’t bear to breathe in fear you’d give yourself away as a shadow covers that once hopeful sunlight.

No shadow, but a thing. A monster. 

How did it get here so fast? How.. how the hell is this happening?

The sound of tiles shifting on your roof makes your fingers twitch, eyes stuck wide. 

The worlds apex predators turned into the prey. 

Each pound of your heart lies evident in ringing ears, listening to those low, horrendous gurgles, repeating that same chuff before it shifts again.

Again and again, and you’re unmoving.

Leave. Run. Anything. 

Yet, you can’t move a muscle, glued in place.

Until you do, and your legs act before you can process a thing. Grabbing for items, whatever it may be. Mind unable to process in its frantic state.

No. No.

A plea as your hand wraps around the doorknob, beginning down the apartment complex’s stairs in rapid descent, listening to the slow growls of the creature.

Don’t look behind, just go.

A mistake you find yourself making even when a life is on the line.

Your life is on the line.

And when you spare that single glimpse, murky lifeless eyes stare blindly back at you, bulging from its skull as if they never were intended to be there. Skin a hallowed, fleshy tone — ligaments hung awry. 

Disorderly, distasteful. If you look close enough, you swear you could’ve seen a beating heart, watched the oxygen cells rush through a pumping bloodstream. 

Gaping jaws hold copious teeth, ant-like incisors residing on either side of a ceaselessly smiling mouth, the corners of what appears to be lips ascending all the way up to nonexistent ears. 

Four legs, two antennae atop its head. At least two times the size of a human.

Horrific.

Never had such a thing appeared so terrifying.

With the letter clutched in one hand and your powerless phone in another do you run, praying that nonexistent vision truly is nonexistent.

Well, until a car alarm begins to ring, and you feel your stomach climb to your throat simultaneously.

Because it twitches. Not even a glance-sort of reaction. The entirety of whatever neck that monster hones twitches to look at you with a nausea-worthy crack! of its ligaments. Those jaws parted, a flattened nose breathing in.

And then it lurches, and you don’t think you’ve ever ran as fast as you did now.

Far, far. As far as you can go. 

It’s futile listening to gargled cries for help amongst rubble, the reaching of hands for your feet you can’t even spare a moment for as those scraping claws continue their perilous dance after you, scavenging on people as they go. 

So the second an intact person comes into view—a boy, looking about your age (and freakishly calm at that) with fluffy hair and rounded cheeks retaining such youth—you’re racing ahead before you can even think, ramming through those convenience store doors in a flurry of panic and fear.

“Monster— Monster- there’s a monster we have to go-“

“Do you like grilled cheese?” He mumbles, and you wonder if he’s talking to himself or you, no less asking such a question during this downright apocalypse.

“No, no there is—“ A shriek pierces the air in the distance, the clutter of debris alerting the monster’s proximity.

You, in a frantic attempt to redirect his attention, place either hand on his shoulders.

“A monster. There’s a monster out there and if we don’t hide, it’s going to kill us.” 

The boy licks his lips, cocking a contemplative brow before looking toward the freezer section. 

“Freezer?”

At this point the creature might as well be turning the corner, and you don’t need to respond for either of you to go running as fast as your legs will carry you, stuffing yourselves into the biting cold just as the bells above the entrance door ring.

Scariest part is this customer is intelligent enough to open doors.

This customer isn’t human. 

Like slow-motion you hear it. The pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, the lack of air in such a tight space, the monster’s rumbling.

Your hidden counterpart lodged himself into a freezer opposite to you, eyes squeezed shut the nearer clicking footsteps on tile sounded.

Click.

Click.

Click.

You don’t realize your eyes are closed until you open them, met with the monster’s face, hundreds of razor-sharp teeth lining its mouth, stretched into that same, chilling smile while it stares at you through the glass.

It can’t see you. It can’t see you. It can’t see you, You internally plead like a mantra, suffocating on the scream rising in your throat.

The loud clanging of a soup can the boy throws has the creature’s disfigured face whipping around, and you wordlessly communicate through mere terrified-eye-contact what either of you are thinking:

Run.

Without conscious you go flying, ramming past discarded groceries and tormented bodies into Seoul’s open roadway, void of any vehicle whatsoever.

Except for one.  

It’s a tow truck, key still lodged into the ignition, window broken with streaks of blood lining the door where a middle-aged man’s body had been dragged out. He rests lopsided below the front tire, abdomen severed in half.

Grotesque. 

“Car- Car!” You cry out, wildly gesturing for him to follow suit while you pry the driver’s door open, the monster’s frustrated growl enough motivation for the stranger to throw himself in as well.

In the nick of time you press down on the pedal, winding the wheel in a quick motion just as the hell-sent smashes itself from the shop, evidently angered.

“I’m Han!” The man occupying the passenger seat shouts, the hole through the windshield causing enormous amounts of wind to soar through the car and synonymously blur your senses.

“What?!” 

“My name is Han! Han Jisung!”

Squinting whilst looking through your mirror at the wickedly approaching Monster, you veer past as many obstacles as possible — most being corpses — as fast as the engine will let you.

“Oh! Uh, I’m Y/N!”

Han nods, grasp clutched onto his seat the more you speed increases, recklessly maneuvering left and right as if dodging a crocodile. 

Unfortunately, this wasn’t a crocodile, but a blood-thirsty beast wanting nothing more than to behead you. How sweet.

“Do you… Do you know how to drive?” He yells, and you raise your eyebrows, narrowly shifting past a shopping cart.

“If you count Mario-Kart as driving, I’m a pro!”

Han audibly squeaks his fear in response, eyes squeezing shut as if to not stare at the monster’s face nearing the mirror.

The speedometer cries out, vehicle shuddering as you near train tracks just at the edge of the city. 

Hopeful. 

Fleeting hope when the roar of a train’s whistle soars through the air, the look Han gives you doing little to sustain your already thinned sanity.

Perhaps you’ll die getting hit by a train than this monster.

Perhaps it’s better that way.

“We’re not gonna make it we’re not gonna make it we’re not gonna make i—“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP—-“ You screech, foot slammed as far down on the gas pedal as possible, the rumbling of the train’s engine deafening. 

“HOLY SHITTTT—“ The man screams, mouth ajar as you soar over the tracks, preparing for impact only for a hair of the train’s front barely brushing over the car’s bumper. 

Currently realizing you’re still breathing and not dead, you floor the brake, either of you launching forward in your seats while the endless train keeps the monster at bay on the opposite side. 

Both panting hysterically, you place a hand on your chest, hoping to slow down the terrifyingly fast pace of your heart — close to bursting out of your chest. 

Your passenger, Han Jisung, turns to look at you, eyes wide as saucers, a gradual open-mouthed smile growing upon his flushed, sweat-stricken face.

“That was.. sick.”

The flashlight flickers here and there, found in the tow truck’s trunk along with a med kit currently carried along by Han.

By chance did you end up in what remained of the red-light district, rubble dotting roadways as evidence of the Monster’s previous siege.

Amidst the held supplies, your pocket seems to ache with the weight of the letter, sitting there in its futile warning of what was to come, now arrived.

You hadn’t brought it up to Han yet, a persistent fear of blame lingering in the back of your mind. Was it your fault you didn’t react in time? Disregarded the letter?

No. There’s no time to regret now. Whatever past existed has been annihilated. 

Night is approaching, and with that comes rising unease and a desperate need to find shelter.

Seoul’s red-light district had always been a taboo for Korea’s upper class. A hushed word, quenched beneath harsh scolding and wrinkled noses at the mere mention.

As if their own well-off sons don’t get driven there on a daily basis, ignorant to their own affiliation as if it’s a genetically determined trait.

Quite funny how none of that matters now. Not when it’s the end of the world, that is.

Every (once) building looks the same. Rubble. Litter lines the roads, cars strewn awry, wrecked into buildings, run over people. 

A pattern lies in everything. 

This pattern consists of fear. 

Struck on faces, painted carelessly along torn apart surfaces and walls, splattering the cities ruby red.

Incessantly, you can’t help but fear. A natural biological response when in the presence of actual or perceived danger, inflicting sharp wounds throughout your body, mind on an endless neurological high of adrenaline-fueled paranoia. 

How could someone not be paranoid when they were being hunted?

“In here.”

Han’s voice pulls you out of your head, turning where he points to a brick building, multicolored beach towel draped over a window torn to shreds, soil from plants staining the cracks of tiles, floor a mixture of blood and bacteria. 

“It’s abandoned,” He notes, prying the creaking door open. 

Abandoned isn’t the word for it. The inhabitants left as most people did upon hearing the news of invasion, although they didn’t get far, you’re plenty aware of that. 

What a shame. Thinking they could escape, in their wake, slaughtered ruthlessly. 

Instead of abandoned, call it evacuated, barren.  

Inside, a radio runs in a constant string of white noise, the addition of broken air conditioning the only source of apparent life. Haunting, flickering lights cast the few rooms in an eerie, ghoulish green like that of a basement.

“I’ve been here before. There should be a mart nearby.”  

Allowing his remark to sink in, you pause, a slight grin drawing upon your lips. 

“You’ve been here before, in the red-light district?” 

Phrase lingering amusedly, he stops as well, shifting on his heel to grace you with a similar smile.

“What? Not everyone can stand high and mighty in this society. Plus, there’s no need to pretend anymore when death is so close by.”

Your smile drops, and you suck on the skin of your cheek, a loud breath through your nose enough to continue the descent.

Perhaps you should change the abandoned description. 

Just then, from the corner of your eye do you see a figure emerge, the glinting edge of a kitchen knife barely brushing your shoulder blade before you dodge to your left, the attacker colliding with an ironing board.

Mere seconds later the figure rises to their feet, identified as female, adorning lanky limbs and skin as pale and zombified as the surrounding room. Her lips are cracked and purple, eyes nearly black, blanketed with equally raven hair reaching the floor in length.

The girl looks like a creature, barely alive with the lack of coordination in her loose stabs, alienated stare vividly murderous. 

Only by narrowly pummeling into the wall do you manage to immobilize her, Jisung’s efforts stalled.

Liquid obsidian blinks back up at you from where you’ve caged her to the floor, her nostrils flaring in hasty breaths, your own panting ringing in your ears.

“Look kid- I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? Now if you calm down and let me—“  

A third of the steak knife puncturing the side of your thigh veers your head back, choked scream jostling your nerves tenfold. Bubbling blood slips from the wound, trickling warmth dizzying you into a foggy spell.

It’s not until a low bang! sounds that her arm, raised for another strike, falls limp to the floor, looking behind you to find Jisung holding a pistol, silencer attached to the muzzle, aimed directly at the girl below you. 

Immediately, before you can release the unheralded screech compressing your lungs, Han hoists you up by your elbows, the jarring movement beckoning a squealed sob you bite your tongue containing.

Snatching clothing from a closet behind the door, the man rips the fabric using his teeth, returning to your slumped frame.

Reminding you to hold your breath, he aligns the makeshift bandage prior to tying it, your reaction becoming quieted as your eyes roll back.

And the world falls into a dark abyss. 

By the time your lashes flutter open again, searing light invades your vision, the urge to open your eyes aiding a roaring headache.

Although, it appears you’re still in the same room, alternatively relocated to a futon on the floor, leg propped up using folded pillowcases and books. 

“You’re up.”

Han enters the room, two metal cans of mashed spam and rice held in either hand, one of which he gives to you. 

“You were knocked out cold,” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, uncharacteristic to the fact he just shot someone.

“The shirt should staunch the bleeding. Eat.”

Staring down at your meal, you glance up, stomach churning in an unsightly manner merely considering food.

But you eat anyway, gulping the bites down despite the nausea.

“And the girl?” 

Han takes a bite, scraping every last grain from the noisy tin without so much as a shiver.

“I took care of it.”

It’s your turn to laugh, confusedly surveying the teenage-boy-looking friend of yours.

“What are you? A hitman?”

He clicks his tongue, eyes thoughtfully flickering to the ceiling. 

“I’m.. somebody who really wants to survive.”

All you do is return his tight-lipped expression.

Yet, truly accounting for your introduction, there’s a whole lot you don’t know about him. His past, his goals. What his life was like before. 

He comes off as cheery and good-natured, disposition claiming he wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

You’ve come to realize that isn’t the reality whatsoever. Because Han Jisung is exactly what Han Jisung said he was.

Somebody who really wants to survive. 

You can relate to that.

“So.. Random note, random warning, no location?” 

“Pretty much.” 

Seated beside you, Han surveys the letter, reading over the contents a few times before folding it back up and handing it to you. He’s redressed your wound, utilizing the medical kit’s antiseptic and gauze to wrap the skin.

“Hellion Inn,” Han repeats softly, brows knitted. “Never heard of it.”

You shrug once more from your place on the ground, leg still propped while he squats to your left.

“If anything, it’s likely it was destroyed if it’s an actual Inn,” He mumbles, tapping a puffy bottom lip with his index, earning your half nod before you pause.

“We can still try it though? We can find a stick or somethin’, I’ll use it as a crutch.” 

This time, it’s his turn to nod — rising up with a somewhat-assuring: “I’ll be right back” before leaving the room, returning after a few moments with a table leg, nearly comical in the proud manner he lifts the wood, jagged edges evidence of his severing with a knife. 

After copious laughter do you glance at him, brow cocked. “This is really all you’ve got?”

Asking from your place beside him, you brace more weight onto the makeshift crutch, granting Han a side-long glance.

“If I had more I’d use it,” He huffs, watching you hobble slightly but remaining upright with worried brows, hands poised to stabilize your steadying adjustment.

That’s most important, you deemed, no matter how puny. A drag to the team means death; you won’t be that drag.

Tomorrow morning you’ll head out. Find somewhere else to occupy whilst searching for Hellion Inn.

The one remaining routine amidst the apocalypse is time, and as the sun cracks above a horizon once able to be admired and not envied, you’re helped to your feet, gathering bags slung over each other's backs. Additional clothes, torn tablecloths. Anything of even insufficient use.

You don’t think these streets had been this quiet since your grandparent’s time, with bustling citizens and raging business overtaking wherever you look. Now, it might as well be a ghost-town. No more cries for help, no more groans and moans in agony.

And yet, it’s almost unsettling as it is reassuring. Suffering has ceased. Cries for help drawn to a close. 

Peace within death.

Trekking for only about a mile feels tumultuous, the ache already coiling in your bones like snakes seen slithering through rubble, waiting for rats to swarm decomposing carcasses in search of easy victims.

Seoul has become a jungle, eat or be eaten. It’s only a matter of time, a split-second ignorance, that can have you eaten. Perhaps by the true Monster, perhaps by your own kind.

The sight of broken columns and french doors parted in what looks to be a hotel in front of you redirects your focus, granting Han a hum of acknowledgment. His hand reaching for the pistol in a fashioned holster, yours coming to the kitchen knife held in your bag.

Wary, but slow steps paired with your hobbled ones make for the small bout of stairs, buzzing of flies caught in flurries littering goosebumps along your arms.

Something about this place is abnormal. That much is known. And if this is the so-called “Hellion Inn” (or what remains of it), your hope for sanctuary plummets in tandem with the temperature upon stepping in. 

Cold. That dead, stale kind of cold, warmth from the heart void, no longer beating.

Matchstick providing barely enough light, you carefully pry open the squeaking doors in the second doorway, blade wielded close to your being. The putrid odor of decay perplexes your gag reflexes, allowing Han to take the lead in his observing endeavor. 

Abruptly, your foot smushes against something below, and when you look down only to be met with a lifeless hand there, bulging, horror-stricken eyes staring back up at you, you hurriedly bite your lip to conceal the bubbling scream clawing from your throat, frothing like a brewing cauldron. 

Han can only grimace. 

It was here. You’re not sure when, but these wounds — these corpses mercilessly ripped apart — aren’t the doing of humans.

A bone chilling thought surfaces in your mind.

What if the monster is still here?

Your traveling companion spins around on his heel, hands placed on his hips. Honeyed irises momentarily flit between your paled frame to the obvious terror staining your features, his eyebrows raised.

“Hey, I know it’s scary, but the monster’s likely gone by now, and if we can find someone or a sign that’ll redirect us then maybe…”

His words trail off, suddenly all too familiar with the sound of chortled breathing ragged in his ears. Exhales stenching of rotted flesh, the scraping of sharpened claws on the floor.

And how you’re not staring at him, but above him. 

Your palms slowly reach up to cover your mouth, taking the tiniest step back manageable.

“..It’s right behind me, isn’t it?”

Yet, before the Monster can swipe a clawed hand and hack off a limb, deja vu strikes in the form of another gunshot, not silenced, booming,

It soars right past your shoulder with pinpoint precision to land within the Monster’s side, collecting a shriek in return. The beast flails wildly as Han races from its clutches towards the unknown savior of his.

Fluffy hair, a torn, mud-stained jean jacket over his shoulders, white undershirt equally unkempt. The four of you survey the monster’s descent deeper into the hotel, not appearing to execute anymore attack attempts.

For now.

No less, you’re helped outside in your wobbly state, the shot-gun boy leading, another seeming to take up the rear behind you and Han. His companion, maybe. Just as you and Han are.

Sharper features oppose the shotgun-carrying boy’s downturned eyes with inquisitive, apprehensive ones. Lighter hair, jeans bagging by his shoes, white tee’s once graphic design smudged, unrecognizable. His own weapon lies in spiked boxing gloves, nails seemingly ruptured through the cushioned layers.

And when his eyes meet yours, you feel fire in your veins. Blazing, warming you from your toes to your fingertips.

“You guys alright?”

Shot-gun boy, introduced as Kim Seungmin, speaks first, spinning on his heel to regard either of you. Though, it’s hard for your mind to stay attentive, the feeling of Seungmin’s companions’ eyes incessantly boring into your back causing a wary twitch of your fingers. 

“Lee Minho.”

His voice breaks you from that apprehensive spell, that watchful gaze of his surveying both you and Han with an unimpressed exhale.

“Don’t slow us down,” He scowls, shouldering past Han, lips drawn into a tight line. He heads for their own vehicle, a worn down truck narrowly resting in better condition than your earlier tow truck by the tracks.

Real friendly.

Seungmin, a tad bit more benign, gestures with a curt nod to the vehicle, ushering your injury-wielding self to sit in the passenger seat with Minho as driver, Seungmin and Han taking the truck’s bed.

Just then does the Monster make its return, bursting from the hotel in a seemingly rejuvenated spirit from before, gaping jaws aching to be filled.

You could only hope your flesh wouldn’t be the filler.

“This is why I hate introductions,” Minho, already slamming his foot onto the pedal, grumbles, not granting a response upon tires burning rubber over dusty roads as you speed off – a replay of your ride with Han on loop each time you see the Monster in your mirror.

Approaching closer, closer again.

It seems food becoming involved is a common theme, jarred when the truck swerves in front of a supermarket. Seungmin shouts from the back as he and Han race ahead, beckoning you two to follow them, your steps lightly hobbled with feeble help of the makeshift crutch.

“The hell do I have to be on babysitting duty for?” Minho, lifting your arm over his shoulder, grovels, and you fight the urge to whack him with your crutch, making through the desolate supermarket. 

Weapons in clutch, it grows taxing trying not to grimace hearing clattering glass, the mental picture of those bulging eyes doing little for your already queasy stomach.

“It’ll hear us!” 

With your horrible luck intact, this already dislikable stranger ends up being the same soul you're lodged into a bathroom stall with.

Minho hisses, furrow of his brows causing his face to scrunch with distaste, the loud clatter of soup cans and chip bags alike resounding from outside in the thick of the Monster’s carnage.

“No, it’ll hear you. More people means more death, and lucky for you, I’ll be off your hands in no time.” Now it’s your turn to retort, the man lacking of his usual boxing gloves, strap of Seungmin’s shotgun over a shoulder instead.

Wriggling yourself from his grasp, you hesitantly slide the notch to the door, movement only stopped by Minho’s lingering hand grabbing your sleeve. 

“And what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m repaying a favor.”

Weighing your ability to walk well, you snag the shotgun from his shoulder, granting the man a wink and a: “Thanks for the shotgun”, before slipping from the stall, leaving his starstruck figure in tow.

Ignoring the biting ache in your thigh thanks to a discarded crutch, you savor cool metal beneath your fingertips, watching the blur of the other two boys racing past the Monster’s attempts of attack. 

“Hey! Ugly fucker, over here!” You shout, chilled seeing blind eyes rip your way.

Cocking the gun, your eyes narrow, focusing the sight on its head and–

Bang!

Echoing around the supermarket does a copper bullet gnash into thin skin, puncturing straight through, shell casing crinkling onto the floor below in tandem with a low groan of the creature.

Minho bursts from the bathroom moments later, still sporting a starstruck visage. Han and Seungmin go thundering right past back to the truck, the wild goose chase persisting. 

What wasn't persistent was Minho’s arms wrapping around your back, hauling you over his shoulder like a sack of rice whilst chasing right after his counterparts.

As much as you’d like to thank him, your thigh still hurts like hell.

“Yah! That- hurts- asshole!” Shrieked between his hurried footsteps, you smack his shoulder blade defiantly.

Hopefully that serves as a thank you.

However, escaping is far from reach, and feeling presumably safe is equally residing far from grasp when, after finally being able to inhale without a stutter to your lung halfway down the road, the sharp snap of a tire blows.

And the truck flips over.

It was one thing maneuvering from the flipped car, shards of glass embedded in your skin beckoning pinpricks of blood, and another continuing on foot to wherever the two acquaintances planned to lead to.

The largest of things, however, was learning the name of this apparent destination.

Hellion Inn.

With Seungmin sustaining a minor head injury, Han luckily unharmed, and an also unharmed Minho reluctant to aid in being your temporary crutch, you’re given plenty of time for interrogation along the way — wondering just who the hell was responsible for the letter. 

As far as their replies go, not a soul knows.

And at this rate, you can’t bring yourself to care about pestering for answers anymore, not with Minho’s aggravating complaining and equally as irritating, stupidly good-looking side profile.

So, the torturous walk to this supposed ‘Inn’ prevails, which, turns out not to be an Inn at all. Instead, it’s this metal, bus looking contraption, like a trailer.

Silver of the exterior tarnished, it hides within a surrounding forest entryway, vines curling around door fixtures as if with time, what remained would be swallowed by the greenery.

From the bus two more men exit, and you can’t help but wonder if this so-called Hellion Inn has just as many residents as an actual Inn.

Christopher Bahng and Seo Changbin introduce themselves hastily, quick to rush back into the bus and retrieve a medical kit. After enduring both the painful removal of glass, your reopened wound stitched, and Chris’s heart wrenching smile of assurance (followed by a pat to your kneecap after, ensuring an imminent heart attack on your part), you’re finally invited inside, introduced to the others.

Three more. 

It’s a clown car. Definitely. 

Yang Jeongin, Hwang Hyunjin, Lee Felix. Boys- no, men, with features you’d like to deem frustratingly attractive. 

Maybe photoshoot, not a clown car.

No less, the seven interact with ease, Han intermingling as if he’d been by their side for eternity. A bonfire, expertly lit behind the bus hidden amongst foliage to conceal smoke, provides warmth in the night.

Cold, just as it’s always been. Even more so with autumn’s presence.

Yet, you find your eyes falling right back to him.

Minho.

Man of fire, whose gaze on yours feels like your ribs cracking apart, as if his fingers bend your windpipe every which way, rendering no air into your lungs. He is fire, licking at your skin in the most deplorable of ways.

And you crave it.

If he were Hades, you’d eat the pomegranate seeds like a fool just to feel his eyes on you again and again.

Selfish.

When he looks at you, you feel selfish. Perhaps it’s the stakes, perhaps your heart has grown too weak, beat too fast it falls for any and all. Adrenaline-induced love.

You aren’t naive like Persephone, aren’t blindsided by curiosity.

That latter is a lie. Especially when you shift on the log, purposefully scooting closer to catch bits and pieces of his conversation with Jeongin, listen to the perfect pitch of his voice, aided by the crackling of flames before you.

You wonder if touching him would rival those white-hot flames. Scalding your fingers till you grew numb. 

You’d take that bet.

Fluffy fabric placed over your shoulders makes you flinch in place, sympathetic eyes of chocolate meeting yours.

Honeyed. Chris.

“It’s cold, stay warm,” He ushers, crouching to take a seat on your left.

Then do you register his actions. A blanket, the material a survivor of water’s toil and plenty of stains. But it’s warm, durable, and most importantly, sweet. Chris is sweet, you decide, a bit like this warm blanket.

Your nod of thanks doesn’t feel like it even slightly compensates for his kindness, though, for now, it’s enough.

Tomorrow, Chris, Changbin, Minho, and Jeongin will relocate the flipped truck. Haul it back, fix it up again. That’s what your sensible mind discerns, seemingly adopted into the group like any other as sleeping arrangements in the bus are modified for both you and Han.

Strays, huh.

A flickering gas lamp keeps your gaze glued to the ceiling where you lie, watching shadows twirl like a strange ballet along the walls. Near the front of the bus does Chris sleep, Changbin glued to his side, Felix tucked beneath his arm.

It brings a smile to your lips, watching them. Even Seungmin, with his more boundary-oriented persona, close to the others, his hand brushing against Hyunjin’s shoulder, Jeongin’s head. 

Human beings, after all. Even when it all falls apart. And maybe, maybe in monsters as well, there is human. The need to be close, to feel skin on skin. 

Counting heads, you find one missing.

“You should be sleeping.”

Minho flicks a lighter on and off, waiting to relight the gas lamp. He squats down in front of you, jeans stretched over muscular thighs.

Your brow furrows, wondering if he’d been here this whole time amidst your ignorance.

“Are you scared?”

His words dull your ability to reply, retort something smart. But, the tone keeps your mouth shut. Cool and calm, like when he spoke to Jeongin by the fire. Not taunting, nor instigating.

“No.”

The words are a lie, unveiled in the crease of a dirt-stricken face, chapped lips pulled taut.

His pinky finding yours verifies that fire theory. From the tips of your toes to the very top of your scalp you feel it. 

Scorching. Hot.

Your skin seems to melt from your bones, but only you can see it.

There are lots of questions to ask. Wondering, hope. Why?

But he beats you to it. It seems you’ll have to get used to that characteristic.

“Go to sleep. Nothing can get you here.”

A lie, you know it well. Any second that monster can stumble here. Smell you, turn the perfect corner to find the bus, sheen shimmering beneath a full moon. Ravage each and every one of you beneath claws and blood.

But the letter, no, Minho says you’ll be safe here. That Hellion Inn will be your safe haven. 

Tonight, you choose to believe that, falling asleep with his pinky twined with yours, his back to one of the side booths, focus trained on your features.

Safe.

“Hnn..” 

Insistent poking to your cheek abducts you from your dream, bleary eyes straining to open. Jeongin sits up, bracing himself with his hands, youthful smile stretched over his face watching you. Meanwhile, the hellspawn guilty, Hyunjin, can’t help but laugh cheerily.

“Wah— I wish I had a camera!” Ebony strands peek from beneath a white ball cap, his voice carries from the bus for Felix’s head to peek in, echoing Hyunjin’s laugh with his deeper baritone.

Similar to Chris are you met with Felix’s kindness, his lithe form slipping past the bus doors to gently smooth back your bed hair, utilizing a hair tie on his wrist to bind the unruly strands before patting your head.

It’s easy to ache for anyone’s touch, you discover.

In the early morning, the car was retrieved by Minho, Chris, Jeongin, and Changbin, the low chatter of voices outside evidence of their progress restoring the once flipped vehicle.

When you step out, Changbin hands you a tin of steaming soup as meager breakfast you’re quick to thank him for, bringing the spoon to your lips whilst lingering near the car, watching them flit about, handing each other tools and screws alike like busied ants.

“You just gonna stand there or help out? Last time I checked you weren’t worried about appearances.”

Instantaneously, Minho becomes his normal, annoying self with each snidely sarcastic remark, cocked brows urging you to retaliate.

Unfortunately, your barely conscious mind can’t formulate something smart back, so you resort to serving as the tool-supplier, handing different ones here and there from a stool near where the Man of Fire works on the popped wheel.

His new title, apparently.

Man of Fire.

“Wrench.”

“Did you just call me a wench?” You scoff, eyes wide with shock at the murmured comment. 

Perhaps you were blindsided after all by his nice face.

“Wrench.”

Or not.

Begrudgingly, you extend the wrench, scowl embedded in your expression he can’t help but crack a bemused grin at.

Attaching the wrench to a bolt to crank does his vein-littered forearms flex, and your throat feels unnaturally dry, forcing yourself to focus on something else in order to school an unaffected facade.

Nevertheless, by night, he’s.. different. Lacking cockiness, harshness.

Unspoken things, like when you’re stirred from sleep, dazed gaze settling on Minho across the bus, his fingers tenderly patting Changbin’s head when he stirs awake. They speak in hushed whispers alternative to Changbin’s boisterous presence. 

And sometimes, amidst the other seven, you’re the one beneath his comforting hand. Those times nightmares plague your sleep, his careful hands tracing your knuckles, slow circles over your skin urging you back into the solace of sleep.

To you he doesn’t talk, just hums a low melody, wipes unshed tears from your waterline. Seeing his face makes you want to cry more, so you can be scooped into his hug.

Though, you doubt you’d ever let go, so you never allow yourself more tears. Maybe that’s for the better.

Because while you’re so selfishly enamored as night falls and he becomes that doting figurine bathed in moonlight, Minho is endlessly selfless. Wordless, but selfless.

The guardian of the night, sustaining a semblance of care and safety that silently engulfs the bus each time a star twinkles within the sky.

Then again, risks are always present. Missions out for food, stashing of possessions in case of invasion.

Windows of the bus covered, the group convenes that evening, leant over a book on the floor, huddled with knees held close to chests. Sharing things of value, adding more.

An old journal, spine tattered and moth-eaten. Inside looks to hold the secrets of the world, hidden within yellowed pages, hurried writing of smudged ink.

All of it, from the Monster’s mannerisms, exterior, presumed weaknesses. Written, documented. How such information was gathered is beyond you. Intricate, detailed.

Study after study, page after page. 

In two days, you’re arranged to head out with Chris for a medical restock. The pharmacy isn’t too far from the Inn, and it’ll only be a few hours of collecting before returning back.

The morning of, Seungmin hands you his shotgun, and Chris takes Minho’s—the Man of Fires’—nail-wielding boxing gloves. Two backpacks, one goal.

Fortunately, the journey isn’t too grueling, filled with quiet conversation and query till barely divisible characters reading ‘PHARMACY’ come into view, slipping into the hollowed, whitened confines of a once thriving business.

Eerie, with medication strung awry, unknown blood splattered along a wall behind the register.

It’s almost funny how the money there goes untouched. What use is it now?

Captured within your peripheral does a door become of topic, shielded behind a hanging towel in the far corner of the pharmacy that you slowly pad over to inspect, fingers tentative in nudging to the side. 

Though, it’s the sudden flick of lights, electricity, that makes you gasp, flashlight of little necessity as you part double doors.

The sight makes your heart stop.

Because beneath the disguise of a pharmacy rests a drug-den, a laboratory, first and foremost.

“Uh.. Does Seungmin have this in his journal..?” 

Building long since redlined by the look of it, Chris is quick to join your side, muttering an awestruck: “Holy shit” you would’ve laughed at if it weren’t for your combined surprise. 

Though, he places an arm in front of you as your foot moves to step inside, instead advising the muzzle of your shotgun to lead you, clearing the area before feasting on this monstrosity.

Countless test tubes litter every surface in sight, but it isn’t mixtures, isn’t a combo of products.

It’s insects, piled with them.

Many deformed in gruesome ways, trapped inside the tubes. Chris, hastily pulling an old camera from his bag, snaps photos, the shutter’s sound echoing around the room.

Yet, you can’t help but notice a near uncanny resemblance.

Incisors, bulging eyes, like the Monster.

No, it wouldn’t be. A mega ant? No, that thing is far from solely ant with its hulking size.

“Don’t you think this is just.. odd? I mean, they’re already up to their noses in cash from the drugs, I’m sure, so why the.. ants?” 

Chris exhales slowly through his nose, shaking his head.

“My guess is as good as yours. And calling it a ‘guilty pleasure’ just makes me nauseous, I mean look at them, they’re.. infected.”

Fungal growth is clear as day, that’s agreed. The true question rests in reason.

Just what were they doing here?

The longer you linger, the more unsettling it becomes.

Because somehow, your gut can’t shake that resemblance to the Monster.

Your walk back to the bus is quiet, shrouded in nerves and a wanting for familiarity. Safe to say you both sigh in relief seeing that silvery, unmoving vehicle.

It’s almost comical how the uneasiness spreads, like whatever fungus altered the insects, contorting them in disfigured shapes, features. Overtaking the nine of you similarly.

Merely thinking about it gives you chills, Chris’s description, as you’re coddled into the bus with the others to explain, doing little for the vomit tempting your throat.

Effortlessly, your same silence washes over the others, paled as they acknowledge the identical resemblance you’d conjured before.

“You don’t think..” You’re feeble in attempting to disprove the suspicions, trembling of your fingers stilled only when Minho’s index traces your wrist. 

Though, it isn’t night, and the look he grants you makes you wish for his touch even more.

Assurance, worn within the grooves of his face, repetitive stroke of his fingertip over a hammering pulse.

“I do think, show me the picture again.” Seungmin beckons, hurriedly flipping through his own notebook as he narrows his eyes on the photo Chris shows. 

Seungmin, you learned, used to be an entomology major in Seoul’s most prestigious university. Studious, with a bright future nearing.

Interesting how easy those aspirations can crumble apart within a day, within seconds.

But there’s no purpose in reminiscing, is there?

Now resorting to gathered notes of the past, he finally stops at a page, finger glued to the scribbled notes. His other hand reaches to the photo, pointing to a tiny label taped to a test tube halfway outside the frame, writing messy and uneven, barely legible against the blur of the camera.

Ophiocordyceps unilateralism, or, in easier terms, zombie-ant fungus. 

Thanks to Seungmin’s insight, his knowledge dictates the occurrence as “a fungus capable of infecting the mind of its host while simultaneously altering its body.”

So, in a horror-movie-esque, freakish way, a parasite. 

Jeongin pipes up, and you swear at least four of you flinch at the sudden sound of a voice against leaden silence.

“But the Monster’s too big to be an ant, right? How could the—“ 

“What if it wasn’t an ant, but another animal? A bigger animal. Some scientific breakthrough where the host was able to be taken over, not by an ant, but by something bigger.” 

The entirety remains consumed in a stillness, taking in the revelation they’ve just come to. 

Fear is almost palpable. Nearly able to be tasted, smelt. 

Han’s leg bounces anxiously, dirty fingernails reaching to claw at his hair, tearing at his scalp with visible shuddering Chris’s warm palm hopes to ease, placed on his shoulder.

“We’re being hunted by a parasite.” He croaks hoarsely in disbelief, tone pathetically cracking in terror. 

A parasite, yes. This, however, is different. 

The monster lurking through Seoul was planned, arranged accordingly under the guise of law and human greed for motive unknown.

A lone pharmacy, meant to cater to human health, now manufacturerers of human destruction.

This parasite is man-made. 

Your spirit could’ve been staunched easily, dampened by the weight of discovery. Grown unwilling to fight anymore, unwilling to try surviving.

Who are we if not going for each other's throats? Why must someone’s greed become everyone else’s problem?

Something so selfish, so horrid it grew out of control, festering like a seed of hatred in one’s heart till spiky leaves and branches poured from their lungs and suffocated them.

For a moment do you entertain the doubts, the scornful attitude over the boiled egg in hand. An early breakfast the day after the realization, with the nine of you seated along the bus’s roof, legs swinging off the side while watching the sunrise. 

You feel like the only people in the world. 

And a bit longer seeing shades of orange and crisp blue bleed across the sky does it feel like it’s all worth living for once again.

So instead, you adapt.

Jotting down more details about the fungus, figuring out ways to combat it. Continual stocking of food, the usual.

Fixing things, keeping up with communication. Laughter and smiling, momentary glances to that Man-of-Fire making you clam up, just like before.

At least that was predictable. 

A continual gas lamp, those same quiet visits of his within the night. And, more often than not, you’d find Minho’s pinkie linking with yours while he slept, without a nightmare or sleepless night as explanation. 

In the mornings, you’d pretend like it never happened. Go back to cat and mouse, square one.

Hold my hand, but keep quiet. 

I don’t want you to leave.

Plenty of things echo through your mind as dawn arises, when your lids twitch and disoriented eyes flutter open to find him beside you, peacefully asleep.

Most days, he’s gone by dawn, somewhere across the bus sleeping, leaving your groggy mind to configure his touch as a mere dream.

No matter the awe, your body betrays such an occasion, and you fall right back to sleep again hoping he could read your mind, keep that contact beneath the blanket.

Unbeknownst to you, the moment your eyes close, his eyes open.

But you’re already asleep when a gentle index traces your cheek, his lips parting with a slow breath. 

“Pretty,” Is whispered, failing to echo around the bus in its hushed volume, a pinch of normality within the chirping of birds, the breach of an emerging day peering over sparse clouds.

“Hm?” 

He wasn’t anticipating your response, breath catching in his throat.

“Hi Minho,” You murmur gently, greeting his surprised disposition as your lips wind into a tiny smile. 

Involuntary. Lips quirking upwards the longer you hold eye-contact.

And surprisingly, Minho cracks a smile too.

It’s feeble, barely divisible apart from the twitch of his lips. Your thumb traces the crinkle, too sleepy to speak, too comfortable to act. 

“Hi there.”

His hand returns your touch, finding your cheek to rest on, savoring the feeling of your skin on his, his on yours.

Stay here, don’t go.

I don’t want to be left alone again.

His brisk glance at your lips has your nerves buzzing beneath such a gaze.

Knowing, obliging.

Obliging as his head tips, as yours complies. Capable of fitting like the perfect puzzle as—

Seungmin mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, and it’s all a dream once more how Minho slips from your hands as if he was never there in the first place.

Three and a half months at Hellion Inn passes in a flash. Research on combatants to the zombie-ant fungus prevalent, plenty of days spent crowded in the bus, throwing around possibilities and idyll conversation. 

Monster sightings have become sparse, with the vast majority of reports informing of its scavenging of the city’s copious bodies.

A sense of relief until it runs out of flesh and craves more, which is where your apocalypse began all over.

Starting with that same, chillingly bellowed chuff at least half a mile out from Hellion Inn.

You don’t think you’d ever seen the eight of them move so quickly. Gas lamp extinguished, weapons cocked and loaded with ammunition ready to fire. Minho’s studded boxing gloves, Seungmin’s shotgun, Chris’s dual pistols. Plentiful traps arranged about the bus, ones you never anticipated having to utilize up till tonight.

How foolish you were.

However, the bus’s roof isn’t caved in by a claw, the nine of you intact for the remainder of the restless night, void of any more sound from the Monster. 

Then again, the torment is far from yielding, with those same, restless nights becoming avidly frequent, Minho’s soothing capabilities tested as a nightmare per week triples in number.

In those times, you find comfort in each other, comfort in bodies snuggled together, in shared pain and happiness. In as much comfort support allows in the thick of a never-ending hailstorm. 

As for you, you find that longing has folded itself into squares of eighteen from a once meager eight. Folded over and over that, the greater the paper grows with each parted fold, the greater that longing burns. 

Burns, like the smoke billowing from a fire outside.

Location of the slow-to-set sun leads you to believe it’s around 3pm, your figure slumped to the floor of the bus.

Though, the missing factor rests in a lack of eight others who currently occupy the fire outside for dinner.

Yesterday, you and Jeongin took on a water restock, roaming about what seemed to be innumerable miles to repeat the walk with heavy packs of water all the way back, currently the cause of your exhaustion as you sleep into the evening the day after.

If only the sleep was peaceful, refreshing.

It’s not.

Well, it was. But not for long.

A shower, according to the flickering of your consciousness as you dream. Warm water droplets pattering on the tile floor underfoot, cleansing grime from your skin. Electricity.

And somehow, a peculiar name leaves your lips upon seeing a shadow behind the shower curtain.

“Minho.”

The sound of your voice is light in this dream. Awaiting, familiar. 

Yet, the pit in your stomach grows, unnaturally.

You find the cause when pulling back the shower curtain, that same, leering smile of the Monster staring back at you as it lunges.

Not Minho.

Your vision goes black, only able to hear the ringing screech of your scream, the heat of the shower now putrid metallic. Blood, replacing the water.

It fills your senses, suffocating you slowly but surely. Overflowing from your nose, your eyes, till you cry crimson.

A sharp twitch of your hand jars you awake.

You’re not bleeding, not in a shower, no Monster in sight. Although, you’d be lying to yourself to say you can just forget it all, act like nothing’s the matter.

More so when you see Minho—recalling his name uttered so sweetly in your dream—standing at the bus’s doorway, seemingly a witness to your horrors as he closes the door behind himself.

Ah. 

No, don’t look at me right now with that doting gaze, as if I’m something to be cared for, something delicate. 

For once I wish you away, so I don’t begin to cry, so my love for you doesn’t become my ruin.

“And it was- it was right in front of me and—“

He sees through you each time, through the toughened exterior, the shake of your head when he asks if you need anything, want to talk about it. 

He came in for an extra blanket, apparently. One long forgotten by now.

Spill your guts, but when it comes to him, you find your heart spilling with it. Words caught in a hyperventilating daze, your hands flail, eyes struck permanently bulging.

At some point, everyone starts to break. No time table to give you an estimate, forewarning.

It just bubbles until bursting.

“I don’t… I don’t want to do this anymore..” Voice a desperate plea, sobs wrack your body numb.  “Why can’t…” You begin, eyes flitting to Minho.

“Why can’t we all just die together?”

Heaved between sharp inhales is your face taken between calloused hands, his brows knitted.

“Cause who’s going to take our place? Who else is alive?” He whispers, kneeled upon the floor, staring at you nonsensically.

“This once, let me be selfish. I won’t let you die. You can’t die because I want you alive. Do you understand?” 

Slow to nod, bleary vision situates upon the man, cursing the dip to your usually strong tone — cracking, weakened.

“Can… Can I just.. forget?” 

His eyes flit to your lips if only for an instant, like that time a month ago, stolen. 

And for a moment, you think he may have just read your mind.

“Minho, please… I want to-“

Ah.

And he kisses you, and then, no, more. More and more, till you’re tangled up in sprawled blankets and sleeping bags. Smoke tainting the air from outside, calves dangling from his shoulders, toes curled. 

Minho makes you forget, forget and forget, leaving you to helplessly utter his name past chapped lips — till another round turns into what feels to be a lifetime. 

Your palms pressing to his jaw like a plea, head tossing back once more with a sound purely guttural. 

It’s sloppy, it’s clumsy. Sweat-stuck kisses to sweat-stuck skin. Nails digging into already moth-eaten clothing, his lips permanently pressed to your pulse, hammering and hammering in a wordless incantation of bliss. 

And yet, no amount of greedy, mindless sex, no amount of his doting kisses, his careful assurances, praises, can deter your mind from a reality unavoidable.

There’s no euphoria, no recovery your skin can even acknowledge as he flops to your side, both out of breath.

“.. Am I selfish for a pleasure I can’t even enjoy?” 

Silence breached, your eyes flutter closed, an involuntary tear slipping down your cheek where you lay upon the bunched sleeping bag.

This had been a dream, to be burned by the Man of Fire. Allowing his kiss to brand you, his touch searing every ounce of skin raw.

Little did you know you’d already scorched it all yourself.

Cruel. Irrevocably cruel.

Not even clarity grants your senses, emotion muddled between undergarments feeling too tight and grimy and the lack of fresh air rendering sticky bodies into a cold sweat.  

From beside you, his hand extends to your cheek, thumbing away the salty droplet with a weary smile.

“There is no selfishness, just… grasping onto what’s left. You’re not selfish for taking what you can get, not when everything is being taken from you.”

Hellion Inn was not your safety, it was the one gazing at you, the seven others outside. 

This is only a house, Minho is your home.

Fifth month arising, a conclusion is met. Amongst not-so-helpful input, bickering, and plenty of runs to libraries to gather more books on Ophiocordyceps unilateralism for a very studious Seungmin, he presents a possibility, an option.

Of its known enemies, the zombie-ant fungus doesn’t have many. There was the initial hypothesis on ways ants protect from the parasite, but with the Monster already infected, those methods were out of the question.

Then came the breakthrough.

Torrubiellomyces zombiae, or T.Z. An additional, fanciful word for a more powerful parasite. A Hyperparasitic fungi, zombie-ant fungus’ predator.

Create an ultimate beast without known opponents? Simply double the size, the power.

That’s where T.Z arrived, the species a core option for the Monster’s destruction. Get the spores on the Monster’s skin, and stay alive until it takes over and stabilizes the fungus’ infection.

Much easier said than done, which left room for the organized members of the group separating steps into phases.

Phase one focuses on collection of the spores. Extra photos Chris took that first encounter in the pharmacy unveiled the likely presence of the desired spores, which Felix, Hyunjin, and Seungmin have been elected to collect as Team C.

Phase two regards locating the Monster, introducing the presence of a harpoon gun (an idea Han loved (for the sole reason of fooling around with the harpoon gun)).

The point of the harpoon will be coated in collected spores, teams of three with three members each (A, B, and C) dispersed throughout the surrounding area the monster before Team A shoots.

And of course, courtesy of Han’s mention on what phase three should be: 

Run like hell. 

Phase two enacting in exactly a week, Hellion Inn spends its days in preparation, plaguing each breathing moment with gathering necessities and ensuring utilities are present.  

Between those lines comes the lividity.

Kisses in the night, his kisses. The shared cockiness, incessant teasing when the others are around as original as it comes despite such tenderness in private.

Your souls bared, secrets spoken into the air for only your ears to hear.

While the others sleep, you love till your heart hurts, watching him fall asleep against your palm where he’d kissed each of your fingertips minutes prior.

“I love you,” He whispers one night, his nose buried into your cheek with a heavy sigh. 

There’s not a single doubt within your mind, a hesitation, a hint of surprise.

Plenty of times it’s been said without words, repeated in the peck he presses to your skin.

“I love you too.”

And you repeat the words in a kiss to his lips. Slow, careful.

Savor. As if it were your last.

Dark clouds wrinkle your vision, spitting rain nothing short of irritating as you, Han, and Minho slip through cluttered underbrush.

Gathering of the spores had been successful by Team C according to the flare gun’s signal, and Team A—consisting of Changbin, Jeongin and Chris—tracked the location of the monster. 

Itaewon hasn't changed apart from the lack of bodies, assumed to be the Monster’s doing. Debris prominent, scavenging animals littering the streets without the usual congestion of people.

When the second flare blooms into shaded sky, that’ll be the indication the last stage: shooting the monster, is underway. For now, the three of you wait, listening in as hurried footsteps of Team C come thundering towards you.

Seungmin offers the vial, Minho lifting the harpoon gun to plunge into what appears to be an oddly shaped mushroom, your arm already lifted to the sky to fire Team B’s own flare gun.

Half way. Not done yet.

Now for Phase three, but, prior to the “run like hell” notion.

Jeongin is the retriever of the harpoon gun, angling through side streets past a lingering monster in the center to deliver the catalyst.

Almost there, almost–

His foot clashing against the metal of an alleyway trash-can disrupts that peace, and synonymously do you feel all breath held.

Chris was supposed to deliver the shot. Jeongin was supposed to make it to Team A unnoticed.

The world seems to grow mute, Han’s wrenching scream from beside you fallen upon deaf ears as the Monster’s gaping jaws beeline for Jeongin, claws extended, the boy kneeling to the ground.

Then, a ping! resounds, and your eyes are slow to open in fear his mutilated body would sit there, bright eyes lifeless.

It’s almost slow motion seeing it. Centimeters from Jeongin’s face does a palm outstretch, twice the size of his head, fingers twitching as if frozen in space.

Then you see it.

In the middle of that palm, the mere edge of the harpoon—only able to get halfway from its sheath—embeds.

Cavernous jaws of the creature part, incisors poised as if disbelieving of the matter itself. Disbelieving of the parasite taking over, altering its blood stream. 

Wilt.

White, almost decaying in the manner the alternate fungi destroys the weaker one, its muscles failing, body freezing.

You half anticipated the creature to at least try fighting in the meantime, land one last swipe. 

But the more time ticking past as you lean forward disproves any chance of movement, able to physically see the blood cells permeating the creature ashen, once curved claws diminishing simultaneously like that of crumbling embers.

Just then does Hyunjin’s voice breach your focus, curdled in urgency. It’s his cry that beckons Jeongin back to his feet, racing back after the others, tip of the harpoon still wedged within the Monster’s palm.

Oddly enough, as you watch the last of it dust into the wind as if melting, it doesn't feel real.

Too simple, uncanny. As if millions hadn’t extinguished in its horrid maw—a single parasite killing off the apocalypse bringer as easy as that.

Yet, it wasn’t easy at all.

Testing every last ounce of your wish for life, wish for a reality snatched from not just you, but eight others’ fingertips.

It was taxing. Surviving, experiencing the start of new love you didn’t think could sprout among a wintery wasteland included. 

But it did sprout, and the way you’re the first person Minho’s eyes drift to speaks that loud and clear.

Twin blossoms of the most brilliant colors, growing brighter the nearer they are. 

Closer than love, truly. 

We made it.

The Monster is gone.

There isn’t a word spoken as you make back for Hellion Inn, make back for home. The crunch of footsteps along gravel rings in your eardrums, breath exhaled from parted lips, matted, grease-ridden hair the least of your concern. No joyous shouting, no celebratory behavior in the slightest.

What is there to celebrate anyway? So many lives lost, too many to mourn.

Progression of your footsteps carries each soul with it, allowing them a final sleep in their eternal resting place.

Sleep well, Seoul. 

“It’s all over.” 

Whispered amidst roaring flames, you can only stare at the pharmacy as fiery flickers—vials, chemicals, ants included–swallow whatever has been left, torching hell’s origin once and for all.

One last stop. One last goodbye to all that was, the last chapter.

Without a word, Minho’s pinky links with your own.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @linocvp1d

[limethefirst]

UGH MY HEART— I READ THE FANFIC YOU WROTE WHERE THE READER REMINDED SHADOW OF MARIA AND IT WAS SO CUTTEE!! Can I request another one with the same concept? Maybe one where the reader gets hurt in some way connected to the movie’s story line, and Shadow’s scares of losing them? Like how he lost Maria!

Not again

pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x reader [platonic]

warnings: sonic 3 spoilers, mentions of injury, G.U.N shoots a (implied) minor…when don’t they

summary: While trying to infiltrate the G.U.N headquarters, you get caught and are fortunately saved by Shadow after a rough encounter

a/n: this request was challenging for me to think on because I wasn’t sure how to incorporate the reader getting hurt in the story since I didn’t know any moments that made sense but here you go! I’m sorry if it’s not the best but I hope you enjoyed and tysm for supporting my stories!!!

The plan was simple, Robotnik and Gerald would get in and out, while you would infiltrate the GUN base. Unfortunately life had a way of throwing curve balls at you. As you hid behind a wall, opening your computer to try and deactivate some security protocols a stray guard managed to stumble upon you.

“Hey, you,” the guard somewhat yelled, making you quickly snap your head up from your small laptop. You definitely did not look like you belonged here, you were too young compared to most of the other people here who were in their mid 30s to late 40s, “Let me see your badge,”

Oh no, this was something you didn’t prepare for, you didn’t have a badge, you were stuck here. Quickly thinking you set a small distress signal to Stone from the small laptop still held in your grasp, letting him know of your situation.

Nervously you responded to the guard, “Uh I- uhm forgot my ID back home,” you patted yourself down, pretending to look for an ID that you obviously didn’t have. As you did you slowly put the laptop on the floor.

The guard, clearly not believing you, turned on his radio calling for backup. Your mind was racing, you knew getting caught was not an option so the only thing you could do at this point was run.

“You get back here!” You made a quick glance back, seeing as two other men, with actual guns started to chase after you, their weapons raised to you.

There was no way they’d actually shoot at someone, especially someone actively way younger than them.

Suddenly your arm stung, red began to seep through your fake uniform, oh god they were really shooting at you.

You quickly turned the corner running behind a wall, trying to get away. A small lab was close by, maybe you could hide in there and hope they would pass you by.

The door was open by some miracle; quickly slipping into the dark and empty room you made your way to the desk off by the far right and sat down there, covering your mouth holding back the scream you wanted to let out from the burning bullet wound on your arm. It wasn’t a massive wound, not by any means, it was a graze but it was still a gun shot and it hurt like hell. Tears were threatening to spill from your glossy eyes but the fear of making noise kept them at bay.

You heard the door creak open, light footsteps echoing in the room. They were nearing and you had nowhere to run, surely they wouldn’t kill you, that wasn’t morally right but they shot at you, well you were trespassing on government property so you weren’t sure what they’d do.

You heard a creak to your left; they’d found you. You saw the man reach for the electrical handcuffs but before he had the chance to grab them a sudden flash of red caught you by surprise.

Shadow had found you as well, you watched him take down the three men. He teleported throughout the room, confusing the men. He began to teleport between the men, going from one to the next, landing a hit on each before he did it again.

You sat there, your back against the wall, your breathing was heavy, your eyes wide, fear lacing your every feature.

Once Shadow had finally finished he turned back to you, his stoic and angry gaze quickly falling, his eyes widened as he quickly made his way over to you. He gently but urgently grabbed your bloody arm, his face a mix of anger and fear.

He was normally very neutral, the only thing on his mind revenge, but currently all he sensed was fear. This scene was all too familiar to him, it reminded him of those terrifying moments he had so many years ago.

As Shadow held a tight grip on your arm, the tears that were brimming your eyes had finally fell, you tried to choke the sobs but all the adrenaline had finally wore off. Shadow looked around the room, finding some gauze that he then used to wrap around the wound.

Once he had stopped you could no longer hold yourself back, you quickly grabbed onto Shadows torso as you sat on the cold dirty floor, your face red with tears and snot. Shadow stood still, he was enraged, long ago GUN had taken something he cared about, and once again they tried to take something else.

He slowly let his arms wrap around your shaking figure, he knew how to comfort people, he’d done it with Maria before, but it had been so long.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Shadow quietly comforted, his words didn’t do much but you knew you could trust them. So you just sat there, as Shadow waited, remembering what it was like to care and comfort someone.

[rememberwren]

/•Harmless Fun 6•\

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

Everyone comes clean.

About this: some explicit talk about consent and non-consent.

-

Johnny insists that it will be easier for the three of you to talk in the ruined bathroom, which is how you end up in the bathtub. A part of you thinks that Johnny should be the one in the tub (he’s the one limping, after all), but he had taken the broom from your hands and insisted on sweeping up the remains of the ceiling tiles himself. 

“Don’t need two good legs to work a broom, hen. Be reasonable,” he’d said with a roll of his eyes. 

Simon keeps busy at the other end of the bathroom sopping up the standing water that threatens the bedroom carpet. With nothing to do and no one who would accept your help, you had minimal options: sit on the closed lid of the toilet or curl up in the empty tub. 

At least in the tub you could draw the curtain shut and retain a little dignity. 

“The bathroom needs major reconstruction,” Simon says, the close quarters and tiled walls making his voice sound as if it is coming from every direction. Not that you mind, with a voice like his. You take in this news while examining the bottles of soap and shampoo nestled in the nook of the wall, reaching out quietly to take one and pop the cap open. God, it smelled like Simon did after his post-run showers, woodsy and clean. You inhale deeply. “So we’re down to one bathroom for the next few weeks.” 

Your belly swoops with relief: they weren’t kicking you out. You peek out of the shower curtain, soap held out of view, and maybe it is partly that outlandish relief that has you saying: “That’s not so bad.” 

Simon stares, kneeling on the tiles, wet towels all around him. “It’s an invasion of your space and privacy.” 

“Yeah, who knows the sort of girly things you keep hidden in there,” Johnny says. 

Simon shoots him a dry, unamused look. 

“I don’t mind sharing,” you admit (thank God you’d hidden the only real incriminating item before Johnny had used your bathroom). “My last roommate and I had to share while we lived together. We just locked the door and tried to respect each other’s time. I’m sure the three of us can make it work.” 

“We’ll have to,” Simon says, sounding about as thrilled of the prospect as a man might be of the electric chair or other unwilling euthanasia. He turns his dark, all-seeing eyes on you. “What is it that you needed to talk to us about?” 

You pull the curtain shut abruptly. With care, you sneak the soap back into its former position and hope that Simon won’t notice it’s been moved. Your hand shakes while you do. You’re horrified to feel tears of embarrassment and shame filling your eyes, grateful for the cover of the shower curtain as you palm the tears away before they can fall. Even if they weren’t planning to kick you out, it made you feel no less shameful about what you had done on the car ride home.

“I just feel terrible about last night. What I did to you, Johnny—and you, Simon—it, it was trashy to say the least. I mean, it was predatorial—” 

The soft rasp of the broom’s filaments against the floor stops. 

“Preda—? Alright, I’m coming in there.” Johnny draws the curtain back, frowning down at you. You don’t want to imagine the sight you make: curled up in his bathtub, eyes red from rubbing them raw. He turns himself sideways and sits on the ledge, wincing as he does so. Ever attuned to Johnny’s needs, Simon reaches out and helps him adjust his leg into a more neutral position. “What’s all this? Yer no predator.” 

“You tried to stop me.” Your voice is thick, cracking at the edges. 

“I didn’t say no, not in so many words—” 

“You didn’t say yes either, Johnny,” you remind him. “If a man had done to me what I did to you last night, you’d break his teeth in.” 

Johnny’s face twists into a grim expression. “Aye. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it wasn’t right what you did—but I get a say in it too, don’t I? I get to decide what happened to me, and I don’t feel like I was taken advantage of. Jesus, I could have stopped you if I hadn’t wanted it so bad.” 

“I think you’re—” you pause, blinking as Johnny’s words make it through the fog of your own self pity. Your eyes flicker to Simon, unsure if you had heard correctly. Simon gives nothing away, his eyes reminding you of cool dark rooms, if only you could find a lightswitch to illuminate them. “Johnny, did you just say—” 

“Is it easier if I shut the curtain again?” 

“Might be.” 

“Alright.” Simon helps him stand and Johnny tugs the curtain shut again. “Let me preface this by saying that you can say no to the likes of us, fer any reason, explained or otherwise, and there won’t be any consequences! But since the day you moved in, we’ve felt a chemistry with you that we haven’t felt with many people before, and we wanted to know if you felt the same way.” 

Chemistry. That was one way to put it. Overwhelming attraction and unshakeable fondness was another. While you knew that the three of you got along well enough (and more than once Johnny had referred to you all as friends), it loosened some tight, anxious muscle in your chest to know that they felt the connection too. It wasn’t just wishful thinking on your part; there was chemistry.

“What sort of chemistry?” you ask, adjusting yourself into a more comfortable position.

“There’s more than one?” Simon mutters. 

“I mean, there’s chemistry in a friendly way or a more romantic way—” 

“A sexual way,” Johnny suggests. You jolt and accidentally bang your knuckles against the porcelain of the tub. Hissing, you cradle them against your chest, mulling over his words.

Your mouth feels almost too dry to speak. 

“Right. Well—yes, I feel…that.” In the back of your brain, a tiny fire burns, fueled by disappointment. You try to smother its flames before it grows out of control and threatens to burn up your higher reasoning. Not every relationship needed to be centered around romance; this was the twenty-first century. You were perfectly within your rights—some would consider it smart, even—to have physical relationships without the complication of emotional aspects.

You’ll keep working on convincing yourself. In the meantime: “So you’re saying you want to have sex.” 

“I’m open to taking things slow and seeing where they lead,” says Johnny.

Dimly you remember something: some night spent curled up on the couch, your head lighter than air, listening to Johnny and Simon talk beside you. Something about their conversation reminded you of this moment, but the more you tried to remember, the more it slipped through your fingers like sand. 

“All of us?” you ask, noticing Simon’s pointed silence. 

There is shifting on the other side of the curtain. You see shadows moving through the thin plastic and fabric, like the two of them are trying to have a silent conversation with only hand gestures. It does nothing for your nerves. At length, Simon says: “Not me. Just you and Johnny.”

Your heart does a strange dip, like a bird changing course and soaring toward the ground. You feel strangely, stupidly hurt by this, though you couldn’t put into words why, and you wouldn’t want to even if he asked. It was within his rights to say no. Hadn’t you just learned that lesson?

“Are you sure you’d be okay with that?” you ask. Simon had never come off as a jealous sort of type (and you imagine that a jealous type wouldn’t last long with Johnny anyway, not with the way the other man liked to flirt), but everyone had a limit. You weren’t sure that if the situations were reversed you could be so affable. 

“Someone needs to keep a clear head,” he says. “I’ll be the designated driver.” 

Maybe he’s right. If you truly plan to sleep with Johnny, maybe it will be best to have someone in the apartment still as detached as possible. 

“Thanks, I guess,” you say, trying to force a little humor into your voice. “I think I proved last night that I don't make the best decisions under the influence.” 

“You did make the best decision,” he says solemnly. “You called me.” 

Johnny’s hand appears from around the edge of the shower curtain. Grinning, you stretch out to touch his fingers with your own and lace them together. It’s a little awkward, but most new things are. His hand is warm and gentle, and you could get used to it. 

“We’ll take it slow, yes?” 

“Alright.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. Lunch?” 

“Definitely on the same page there.” 

“Get out of my tub then.”

-

“Hey. Stay back.” 

Feeling a little like a student asked to stay behind after class, you watch with envy as Johnny slips into the living room to call for takeout, leaving you alone with Simon. You don’t get to spend a lot of alone time with Simon, and that time is usually spent in companionable silence as he reads. Nerves bubble in your belly, wondering what else he could have to talk to you about that he wouldn’t want to say in front of his husband.

“What’s up?” you ask, aiming for nonchalant. 

“I’ve got a rule,” he says. “One for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Don’t fall in love with Soap.” You blink up at him. Of all the things you could have imagined him saying, this hadn’t been on the list—though perhaps it should have been right there at the top. “I know how easy he is to love. But I also know that this is going to end at some point, one way or another. Let's not let it end up a mess. That’s my advice. As the driver.”

“Just friends,” you clarify around the knot in your throat. “Believe it or not, I was thinking the same thing. This is all just for fun, right?”

Simon stares at you hard, like he is trying to see through you to the door behind you. You hope your face is arranged into something neutrally appropriate but know that if it isn’t, it’s already too late. 

“Right,” he says at length.

-

The night ends softly, with something mindless and easy on television. Simon sits on the floor with his back against the base of the couch, head against Johnny’s knees. Johnny lays outstretched across the couch on his side, one hand reaching down to rub at his aching thigh now and again. All while you sit curled up in the armchair, watching the television half as often as you watch the two of them. 

They’re beautiful. There’s something about the way they contrast with each other, the darkness and the light, which you find aesthetically pleasing. Sometimes Johnny slips his fingers into Simon’s hair and scratches softly at his scalp, and you get to watch the relaxed, blissed-out expression creep over Simon’s face at the stimulation. 

The domesticity of it does something to you. Deep in your chest—in between your legs. It’s time for you to call it a night; there’s a toy in your room with your name on it (not literally). Joints creaking from disuse as you stand, both their heads swivel to look up at you, making your heart squeeze fondly. 

“I think I’m tapping out for the night,” you admit. 

Simon wishes you a goodnight. 

Johnny says: “Where’s my goodnight kiss?” 

You feel zapped, suddenly wide awake. “You…want one?” 

Johnny nods. He tries to sit up but can’t find the leverage, face twisting in pain. 

“No,” you tell him, “You stay there, I’ll come to you.” 

Walking around the coffee table, you come to kneel beside Simon at Johnny’s head. Your chest feels tight, blood thrumming with nerves. You can’t help but glance toward Simon who hasn’t changed positions except to angle his body towards you both a fraction more, his eyes dark and shadowed. 

“Alright, hen?” Johnny asks. 

“Yeah,” you murmur. 

He reaches out to cup your cheek, his palm warm, thumb stroking along the length of your cheekbone. Steeling your nerves, you lean down and press your mouth against his. His lips are soft, warm as you give him the simplest, chastest kiss. He keeps you there, searching for more, tilting your head with his hand until the angle serves him best, parting his lips until you can taste the lemon from the tea Simon had shared with you both earlier that night.

His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip and your thighs shake, weak in the knees from holding yourself up. You grip a fistful of the couch cushion beside his head and meet his tongue with your own, a soft little dance, familiar steps but a new partner. He exhales, the breath fanning across your cheek, and something about that makes the ache between your legs so much worse. 

You break away. Your fingers find his hair, soft dark strands that slip through your fingers like silk. You whisper: “Johnny.” 

“Just a little more, please,” Johnny begs, and you can’t say no when you want it so bad.

You meet him open mouthed, shifting on your knees to make yourself more comfortable—and you brush against Simon seated beside you. It has you pulling back, sucking in a breath. You can’t help but look at him with wide, guilty eyes, only to find him watching you with quiet, earnest intensity. His mouth curls at the edges into the ghost of a smile, though why he would be smiling, you couldn’t say. 

Meanwhile, Johnny sighs, brushing his thumb against your lower lip.

“Chemistry,” he says, mouth red and kiss-swollen. 

You silently agree. 

[steddieas-shegoes]

At ten years old, Eddie’s mama gets a raise at work just in time for Christmas. This is the same year Wayne works enough to set aside almost $200 for Eddie’s Christmas presents.

Eddie doesn’t know this, and he’s a kid who knows better than to expect more than a few things in his stocking and one or two “bigger gifts” -usually books or tapes- so it’s a surprise when his stocking is overflowing and there’s a huge box under the tree Christmas morning.

Even more surprising is that it’s labeled from Santa, and Eddie hasn’t believed in Santa for nearly three years despite everyone in his classes still believing. He bounces on his feet while he waits for Wayne to get his coffee, for his mama to finish making their special hot chocolate.

The year he gets his first guitar is also the year he finds out his mama can sing like a rock star.

It’s the year he finds out Wayne used to play bluegrass at a bar back home and probably could’ve made it big if he was willing to leave his sister.

It’s the year Eddie finds out he can play by ear and uses it to his advantage to learn all his favorite songs as soon as he figures out the chords.

And for years, he is quick to pull out his acoustic to learn something new, even when he manages to buy his electric with money from helping fix cars at the shop where his uncle’s friend works.

After he saves Hawkins, and his hands stop shaking enough for him to play, he asks Steve to bring his acoustic to the hospital so he can entertain himself. Steve shares a look with Wayne, then his mama.

“It, uh, didn’t survive…everything.”

Nothing broke his heart quite like hearing that.

He pretends it’s okay though, doesn’t want his mama and Wayne to feel worse than they already did about everything.

He tables his emotions until he’s alone that night, shortly after dinner when everyone goes home to get some rest before the next day of volunteering, and cleaning, and visiting.

He’s woken up in the middle of the night by the door opening, and even though the person coming in is trying to be quiet, the door creaks from the building settling funny during the “earthquake.”

“Steve?”

Steve turns and even in the dark, Eddie can see his blush.

He’s holding something.

Something big and guitar shaped.

“What have you done?”

Steve walks over to him and gently sets the guitar case in his lap.

Eddie opens it and sees a gently used acoustic with Eddie’s name now engraved on the side.

“Steve.”

“You can have nice things. You should have nice things. We don’t have many options right now, but at least you won’t get rusty.”

Eddie cried.

Steve held him.

And after Steve wiped his tears away and kissed his forehead—which was something they’d be talking about as soon as Eddie could focus on something other than the guitar in his lap— he played slower songs, songs that even Steve could recognize, until a nurse realized Steve was here past visiting hours and kicked him out.

When his mama saw it the next morning propped by his bed, she smiled knowingly.

“I see the boy followed through.”

“What?”

“He asked me all kinds of questions about guitars and what your old one looked like and if a used one would be okay. Don’t know how he found one so quick.”

“He’s pretty determined when he sets his mind to something.”

“I think he’s set his mind on you, baby.”

Eddie thought maybe she was right.

[thewidowsledger]

Secrets Behind Our Dreams

Chapter 13: Option | 6.3k

© thewidowsledger - DO NOT REPUBLISH AND PLAGIARISE

Summary: You are a club dancer; a stripper. Natasha is a respected notorious mob boss. What would happen if your paths happened to cross one night? The only thing you knew about each other was your dreams, and neither of you knew what the other was.

Pairing: Mob Boss Natasha Romanoff x Stripper Female Reader

Tags | Warnings: 18+, bad writing, making out, smut, top!Natasha, Natasha has a penis, bottom!reader, cunnilingus, fingering (r receiving), arguing, cursing, hostage taking, drugging and kidnapping (I really don't wanna add this because it's a huge spoiler lol)

Author's Note: I added additional details on chapter 12 a few days ago after it was posted, so for those who have already read chapter 12, you might want to read it again because you might have read the unupdated version.

I am not a ballerina nor a professional one, I just wrote what I have researched so pls excuse my stupid mistakes here. This is not proofread and I wrote this chapter in a rush ;')) we are here to burn the slow xD and finally answer who's a lot better? Your vibrator or Natasha?

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⧗

You began to back away, contemplating your next move and your instinctive act of kissing her. Natasha suddenly took hold of you, her sly hands slipping gently on your lower back. She then pulled you back to her, pulling you into a passionate, heated kiss. This time it's not just a lingering kiss on the cheek, not just for a fraction of a second.

The kiss grew more passionate and heated with each passing second. You found yourself moaning against Natasha's mouth, the sounds escaping your lips involuntarily.

There was an undeniable hunger and need in the way Natasha's tongue fought for dominance in your mouth, and you let her have it, giving her control as she ravaged you with her lips—almost as if she couldn't get enough of you. You could only grip her shoulders, thumbs digging into her neck creating a crescent mark in her skin.

Natasha pulled away suddenly, her lips leaving you—leaving you wanting more. You almost chased her mouth, the string of saliva connecting your lips together.

Her gaze upon you was calm and collected, but beneath the surface, you can see the hunger and the dark desire in her eyes. She looked at you as if you were her last meal and she was starving. Her gaze landed on your agape plump mouth again.

“What if you could be all those three at once?”

You looked at her, still trying to catch your breath after the hungry kiss, “What?”

“You heard me.” She husked, her mouth inch closer to yours.

“Wh—” you breathe, “What do you mean?”

She leaned in dangerously closer, her voice dropping to a more sultry tone as she responded, “Well, I suppose it's my job to make sure you don't have to resort to those two options of yours. After all, I wouldn't want you becoming someone else's trophy.”

You felt a shiver course through you as her hand traced down the curve of your back, her touch electric against your skin as she pulled you even closer that you can feel the bulge against her jeans.

“But I’ll offer you a third option,” she continued, her tongue darted out in a swift second, slowly licking her lips as if savoring the remnants you left in her mouth. “You can be all those three at once. A degree holder which you already are, and…”

“Be my personal stripper and my trophy wife.”

The offer were bold and unexpected, yet somehow, they felt right coming from her mouth.

And only a dumb person would decline that offer.

Your breath coming in sharp pants as you look up at her, your eyes captivated by her dilated pupils and parted lips.

“I…I’m a virgin, Nat…” you stuttered in a whisper, your cheeks turning red at your admission.

“That’s not what I asked of you, detka…” her piercing green eyes studying you in a way that made your heart race faster than normal. “But if you're gonna be my wife, I guess I’ll have to know that.”

“I’m gonna ask you again…” her eyes never left yours, you can feel her breath fanning over your lips.

“Can you be my personal stripper and my trophy wife?”

She actually didn't have to ask, again.

You couldn't resist anymore. You surged forward, pulling Natasha into a fierce kiss. Your lips crashed together as your tongues danced in an intimate embrace. You locked your arms around her neck as she scooped your ass up, wrapping your legs around her waist. She carried you over until you could feel the cold pole against your back.

Natasha's lips moved down to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake. Her breath was hot against your skin as she teased you with soft nips and licks. The sensation sent shivers down your spine, making it hard for you to keep still.

She slowly lowered you back to your feet, her hands now working to unbutton your silk top.

With your top completely off, Natasha let her gaze wander down your body, taking in every curve and inch of skin. Her eyes gleamed with desire as she traced her fingers along the edge of your lace bra.

"You're so fucking beautiful, detka."

And with that, your bra is completely out of your body.

Natasha's hands were now on your breasts, caressing and kneading them as if trying to memorize every inch of your body.

“Is this okay? Detka?” She asked, eyeing you for any sign of discomfort.

“Please, Nat. Make me yours.”

And she did.

Natasha immediately leaned down, her mouth replacing her fingers on your nipple. She sucked and teased it with her tongue, causing you to arch my back with pleasure.

Her mouth was all over you, her tongue tracing a hot, wet path down your body. She moved your legs open and lowered herself between your legs that made you shudder. When she's finally kneeling down in front of you, you let her tug your silk pajamas together with your panties until they're pooling down your feet. She then brought your right leg over her shoulder.

She looked up at you with those piercing dilated green orbs before her tongue flicked against your clit.

“Oh fuck!” Both of your hands gripped her braided hair tightly from the pleasure as she continued to lap you.

Natasha pulled back from you for a moment, her lips glistening with your arousal. “You taste heavenly,” she purred, her voice husky with desire as she locked eyes with you. Her gaze was intense and full of hunger, making you tremble with need.

She brought herself back into you, moaning and sending even more pleasure through your body as she expertly brought you to the edge. This time she plunged one finger inside you with a hunger that matched your own. You can feel the rough texture of her finger through your core but it was immediately coated with your arousal.

Natasha still managed to smirk as she continued to eat you out, it's just one finger and she could feel your tightness clenching around her finger, pulling her deeper inside. That made her crave for you even more.

It has been so long since you had a vibrator inside you, but this one's not a vibrator and you would do anything to come right now.

Her tongue focused on licking and sucking your clit while her forefinger came in and out of your hole, fingering you in rhythmic thrusts that sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

“Oh god, fuck, Natasha!” you gasped, your right hand flew to your mouth, muffling your cries of pleasure. She's for sure a lot better than any vibrator you had in your whole life.

Natasha's fingers moved faster and deeper, pressing against that sweet spot inside you. The wet sound of her lapping your core and her finger pushing in and out of your tight hole.

“Oh, Nat I’m gonna!”

And you finally lost all control, crying out in release as your orgasm overtook you. Your body shook and trembled, every muscle tensed as you rode out the waves of pleasure Natasha brought you.

Natasha swiftly pulled your panties and silk pajamas back in place as she stood. You were still high from pleasure and the only thing that keeps you steady is the pole behind you. Your hands are still tangled in her hair and she's now in front of you, she eyed you as she slowly licked her lips and her arousal coated finger. Despite you being high in pleasure, you didn't miss that moment and you could only bite your lip at the sight of her. Your hands moved to her cheeks and desperately pulled her into a kiss, you moaned as you tasted yourself in her mouth.

Natasha gently pulled away and took her leather jacket and let it hang it to your shoulders to cover your bare chest. She now swiftly carried you in a bridal style.

“You did so good for me, detka. So good.” she murmured in your ears, pressing a light kiss against it.

You both left the room, leaving your silk top and lacy bra behind.

⧗

“Maria, we need to tighten up the security,” Natasha said, her voice brooking no argument. “It's not secure if Yelena can just waltz in unannounced like this.”

Maria sighed, crossing her arms, “Did you two talk?”

“If by 'talk' you mean papers scattered on the floor, broken glasses, and a slightly bruised wall,” she responded casually—too casually, “then yes, we talked.”

Maria sighed once again, a sense of weary resignation in her eyes. She had grown up with Natasha, witnessing firsthand the tumultuous relationship between her and her sister. When Natasha had decided to start building her own empire, Maria had been the first one to offer her support—she was even the one who told Natasha to start her own business so she could finally get away from her family.

“There was a change of plans,” Maria confirmed to Natasha, “Is it true that you weren't able to finish the meeting that was held here earlier? Because the associates asked to move to a different location.”

Natasha already knew about this and she nodded in confirmation. It was supposed to be done but your unexpected appearance disrupted the flow of the meeting, but Natasha didn't blame you, though, because she liked the events that followed after that.

If she would have you in that position again—you gripping her hair—pushing and bucking your core down to her mouth as you try to muffle your cries while she eats you out. Hell, she would let you disrupt every meeting she’ll have.

“You good?”

Maria's voice pulled Natasha out of her reverie, and she tried to shake off the thoughts that had been preoccupying her mind just moments ago. A faint blush crept onto her cheeks as she hastily responded, “Yeah, I'm good.”

Maria just hummed but she clearly knows what's going on in the redhead's mind.

“I had Y/N’s clothes that were left in that room put in the laundry.”

Natasha swallowed a lump on her throat as Maria walked towards her, “You might wanna tie your hair back.”

Natasha's hands instinctively went to her braid, her fingers tangling in the thick strands of hair as she pulled it over her shoulder. The hair tie had already been removed, leaving her braid slightly loose in its end.

“You left this too.” She placed a plain black hair tie on her desk, you might have accidentally tugged it while you two…

“Damn, Nat I didn't know that's the purpose of the room you asked me. I thought it was a studio or something.” Maria raised a brow before heading to Natasha's office door.

“Hey! It-it is a studio!” Natasha couldn't help but feel a little defensive as Maria teased her. She tried to maintain her composure, although the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed the things that were going into her mind.

She made it for you, it is a studio, at least that's how she planned it to be.

“Sure…sure, but I wouldn't get shocked if it would turn into a sex den.” Maria teased once again, winking at her best friend before she shut the door.

“Hey! Maria! Comeback here!”

⧗

You slowly blink your eyes open, feeling the soft silk of the sheets against your skin. As you push the comforter aside, realization dawns upon you—you're not wearing anything on your top, and Natasha's jacket is lying haphazardly on the pillow beside you.

Memories of the previous night flood your mind, a cocktail of sensations and emotions. You can still feel the remnants of her touch on your skin and the scent of her perfume lingers on the jacket—on you, sending a shiver down your spine.

With wide eyes, you quickly rush towards the full-length mirror in your room. As you look at your reflection, a wave of surprise and a little bit of shock washes over you. The marks on your skin it's like a roadmap outlining Natasha's path along your body.

You carefully trace your fingers down from your neck, tracing the marks that continue down to the valley of your breasts.

“Be my personal stripper and my trophy wife.”

“Fuck…” you screw your eyes shut at the memories.

Every touch, every caress, every sensation that Natasha had brought out in you came rushing back like a tidal wave. The need for her, the aching desire for her touch, was overwhelming. You closed your eyes tightly, your body instinctively reacting to the recollections of her lips and hands on your skin.

Your eyes scan the table next to your bed, and you spot a white box adorned with red ribbons. Curiosity piqued, you reached out to the box and saw a note tucked into the lid.

“A small trophy, for my wife.”

You bite your lip to the words of Natasha's note. The thought of being marked and claimed in this way awakened a primal part of you that longs to be desired and owned by her.

As you peer inside the box, you find that it contains a single item, a beautiful pair of pink pointe shoes. Your eyes start to glisten with tears as you gently touch the shoe. This one was different, so much more exquisite and perfect compared to the one you had before. Those were cheap, thrift store finds that you had to painstakingly repair and patch up. This new shoe seemed so much... better. It looked elegant and more importantly, it looked comfortable. But you weren't sure if you could wear it; your feet were used to the pain and torture that came with the cheap shoes you usually danced in. You let another tear fall down your cheek before you put the box down and slipped onto some comfortable clothes.

⧗

You had walked to the room Natasha said she made for you, seeking solace and a place to immerse yourself in your dance. An unfamiliar music played softly in the background, a random selection that you didn't recognize but chose to dance to anyway.

As you continued to dance, you looked at the wide wall mirror eyeing your reflection, you observed your movements. The music pulsated through the room, you began to perform a series of ballet moves that you’ve learned on your own. You're a quick learner, you’ve only seen these steps at least once and you can do it neatly in a blink of an eye.

Your body moves with grace and precision. You twirled in elegant pirouettes, extending your leg and pointing your toes during tendus, gracefully arched yourself in arabesques, and leaped through the air with powerful grand jetes. You allow yourself to lose in the movement, each step and twirl flowing effortlessly, your body becoming one with the rhythm and the space around you.

Your dancing was interrupted by the sound of the door opening forcefully. You turned to see Natasha standing at the threshold, her breath labored and her shoulders tensed.

“Natasha?” you ran towards her, your heart in yout throat when you saw the blood seeping through the fabric of her shoulders. The sight stopped you in your tracks and you reached out to touch her, your fingers trembling as they traced over the wetness of the fabric.

“I’ll find Maria.” you said firmly, trying to pull your wrists free from Natasha's grip. But she tugged you back, her eyes pleading with you not to leave her. “No,” she whispered, her was voice broken and vulnerable. “Please don't go. There's a kit behind those speakers," Without a second thought, you ran towards the speakers, moving them aside to reveal a small black case. You opened it up to find bandages, gauze, and painkillers.

Natasha walked slowly towards the pole, her body aching from the injury she had sustained. She sat down heavily, resting her back against the cool metal, and let out a deep sigh of relief, “The shoe fits perfectly?” she asked as she closed her eyes.

“Y-yeah, t-thank you,” you managed to say. And Natasha just hummed but you can feel that she was smiling.

You could feel your mind racing with panic, a million thoughts swirling uncontrollably in your head. Natasha needed you and you are struggling to keep it together. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears as you ran your hands through your sweaty hair, your heart pounding in your chest.

Natasha opened her eyes and looked at you kneeling in front of her. She could see the fear in your eyes and knew that you were trying to keep it under control. She smiled softly, trying to reassure you, “Come here,” she gently took your arm and pulled you on her lap.

“This seems normal to you.” You huffed, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall.

It is indeed normal for Natasha to walk back from her latest business, her body covered in bruises and scratches, her clothes tattered, and a gunshot wound on her thigh—it's a lifestyle.

She tugged at the fabric of her sleeves, pulling them up to reveal a fresh cut on her arm, she was stabbed. She winced slightly as you began to clean it, her eyes focusing on you as she gently circled her thumbs on your waist.

“Does Maria know about this?” you quivered.

“No, later maybe, yeah,” rambled, groaning as she adjusted herself. Making you move slightly on her lap.

“I need to call her,” you insisted, but Natasha shook her head, digging her fingers on your waist, “No, you're gonna stay here.”

As you finished cleaning her wound, the room fell into a moment of silence. Natasha sat quietly, her gaze unfocused as she took deep breaths, trying to steady herself. You couldn't help but feel a wave of anxiety wash over you, wondering if you were doing everything right.

The silence became too much to bear, and just as you were about to break the tension, Natasha spoke up. “You scared?” she asked, her voice softer than usual. In that moment, all the worry and fear you had been holding back came pouring out.

“Of course I am!”

You harshly wiped the tears that started streaming down your face. Natasha watched you cry, a pained expression in her eyes. She felt guilty, like she was putting you through unnecessary emotional turmoil.

She moved a strand away from your face, “I don't like seeing you like this,” Natasha whispered, so softly that you almost didn't hear her. But the words were enough to make you stop you, your hands frozen in mid-air as you looked at her. Your eyes were puffy and glossy.

“Natasha,” you breathe, “I don't like seeing you like this too,” you managed to say between sobs, you softly jabbed her chest with your finger. You cannot bear to see her in pain too, her going home with wounds, bruises, stabs, gunshots and for her it's nothing? Maybe for her it is, but for you it's not. What if she comes home cold? Lifeless?

“You don't deserve this.”

Now, you huffed hearing it from her, “Taking everything back?” your face hardened into a smirk as you wiped the tears out your face and quickly moved away from her lap. Natasha furrowed her brows, confused at your question. She tried to chase you to make you stay in that position, she wanted you close to her—now you just moved away.

“So you asking me to be your personal stripper and your trophy wife was what?” Your voice trembled slightly as you voiced your thoughts, “Out of lust? To get to me? To use me?” you chuckled slightly.

“Detka, that's not what it is,” her voice cracked, she didn't want you to think that she was just using you. She never intended that.

“You wouldn't wish a life with me!”

“What if I want this, Natasha?” You asked the question before you could even think, “What if I want this? What if I want you, Natasha? What if I want to be with you?” The words tumbled out of your mouth, each one a confession that left you feeling exposed and vulnerable. You gulped the lump on your throat, turning your back at her as you sob uncontrollably.

Natasha hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest as she processed your words. She watched as you turned away from her and her instincts kicked in. Without thinking, she stood despite the pain on her shoulder. Then, she moved closer, her hands gently reaching for your waist.

At first, Natasha was taken aback when you swatted her hands away. You turned to look at her, she saw the clear view of your face—the uncertainty and pain in your eyes, followed by a flash of something else - desire? She didn't think twice as she reached for you again, pulling you closer by your elbows.

“Natasha, no,” your voice barely above a whisper. You tried to move to push her away but Natasha was determined. She pulled you closer still, your face just inches from hers now. Her eyes locked on yours.

“Y/N, don't fight me,” gently, her hands moved down to your cheek and you didn't fight back. Tears started streaming down your face again as you cling to her touch, she looked at you before closing the gap of your lips, pulling you into a searing kiss. She could taste the saltiness of your tears on her lips and it only made her want to hold you tighter, wanting to stay like this with you forever.

You managed to pull away from her and Natasha tried chasing your lips but you immediately stepped back. You stood there for a couple of seconds, waiting for her to say something, you wanted her to say something but no words came out of her mouth.

You wiped your tears away and swallowed a sob before speaking, “I…uhh, I’ll find Maria.” With that, you turned and left the room not daring to look at her because you know what's going to happen if you do.

⧗

You just found clinging to Yelena as she drives her bike away from the manor. You just called Maria to get Natasha and you went into the kitchen when Yelena approached you and proposed an idea, suggesting a ‘little escapade’ as she calls it when she saw you all vulnerable alone after your encounter with her sister. And without hesitation, you found yourself nodding in agreement. The manor had been stifling and you desperately craved a breath of fresh air.

You were easy, too easy.

Yelena stopped the bike at a nearby ice cream place, she turned to you and inquired, “So, where do you wanna go?”

Your response was a nonchalant shrug, not having any specific destination in mind. Sensing your lack of a preference, Yelena grinned. “Let's grab some ice-cream then,” she said, gesturing towards the ice-cream parlor.

Yelena immediately went straight to the counter and placed the order for both of you, not even bothering to ask what you wanted. You sat silently, patiently waiting for her to finish. It was your first time leaving the manor in what felt like forever, and you relished the opportunity to be out and about once again. But as you sat there waiting, your mind began to drift to Natasha once again. Thoughts of her started to plague your mind, you couldn't help but replay the argument in your head, recalling every word and the addicting touch of hers. You tried to make sense of what had happened and how things had spiraled out—how you spiraled out.

You want her, you want to be with her. You long to hear the simple words that she used to soothe your worries and fears, that you just have to stay and be with her and no harm will come after you. Yet, deep down, maybe you yearned for more than just those words, maybe you wanted her to say the same thing—that she wants you and she wants to be with you.

“Ice-cream for your thoughts?” Yelena waved the ice-cream cone on your face, pulling you out of your deep thoughts of her sister.

You immediately took it and walked out of the ice-cream parlor and Yelena walked after you, “How much do I owe you?” You asked.

“Why? Do you have money with you?” She asked back, huffing knowing that you have none.

“No,” you replied quietly, savoring the taste of the strawberry ice cream. “I only have a black dress, a pair of heels, and a knife,” you mumbled. “And lingerie,” you added as an afterthought.

In truth, you barely had anything that was truly your own. All you had were the clothes you had worn the night you worked at Valkyrie's and that's everything you got since ending up in Natasha's penthouse.

After finishing your ice cream, you saw a nearby library. And you made a bold request, despite your attempts to keep your facade of aloofness intact. You tried to maintain a certain distance from Yelena. Yes, you accepted her ‘little escapade’ but that doesn't mean that you had forgotten how she had treated you since the day you two met. Her harsh attitude and scathing insults still echoed in your mind and you couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment and wariness whenever you were near her. But right now, you have no time for that, you want peace and a breather.

“I want to go inside,” you said, your voice betraying a hint of pleading despite your efforts to sound indifferent. “Please.”

“You look cute when you beg.”

Irritation flared in you at Yelena's mocking tone and teasing words. You couldn't help but roll your eyes in response, you licked your thumb after you finished your ice-cream to get the small crumbs left of the cone. With doe eyes, you stared at her that caused her to almost choke at her ice-cream.

“Yeah, thanks, your sister hears it a lot,” you replied with a wink, before crossing the street towards the direction of the library leaving her behind.

“Zlyushchaya suka.” (Feisty bitch) She whispered under breath before running after you.

As you entered the library, the aroma of old books and the hush of whispered conversations enveloped you. You approached the counter and without wasting any time, you signed your name on the guest book, eager to immerse yourself in the library's collection of books. Yelena followed suit, walking over to the counter and casually scratching her name onto the page.

As you maneuvered through the library, you were drawn to a section filled with the works of Emily Dickinson. Your eyes landed on her collection, and a sense of comfort washed over you. You had a deep fondness for the poet's work, and you eagerly reached out to pick up one of her books.

Yelena, meanwhile, was casually browsing nearby. When she saw what book you had chosen, her eyes widened momentarily,

“You read Dickinson too?”

“Wild nights, wild nights, were I with thee wild nights should be, our luxury…” You lazily recited just to prove her that you do read Dickinson's works. You grabbed a book that caught your eye and walked towards the blonde, you placed it on the top of the book she's reading.

“Grumpy Monkey,” Yelena read the title to herself. Her mouth agaped slightly offended at what you did, she immediately immersed herself to look for a perfect book to give you.

Yelena approached you with a cocky smirk, slamming a book onto the table. With a hint of mockery in her tone, she asked, “You live there?” you looked at the book entitled: Bitch Planet, Volume 1: Extraordinary Machine

You flashed a book in her face, as if you're ready for this, “Mr. Author Lewis here wants to give you an advice on how to raise your I.Q.” She read the title in her mind, How to Raise Your I.Q. by Eating Gifted Children.

“Okay, that’s alarming,” Yelena pointed out, which made you giggle. She returned to look for more books and spotted a book with a hilariously controversial title. She couldn't resist the urge to call out to you in a loud whisper, waving the book in her hand. “Hey, hey!”

Eating People is Wrong you read, despite the distance between you, Yelena's infectious laughter managed to reach your ears. Her boisterous chuckle filled the library, causing a few heads to turn in your direction. You immediately shush her causing the blonde to slowly and pretend to look for a book to read.

“Games You Can Play with Your Pussy; and Lots of Other Stuff Cat Owners Should Know.” You read in disgust and you turned to look at Yelena who was sitting in front of you, her eyes watered as she fought back the tears forming in her eyes, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Terrible book title,” you remarked. She pulled another one that made you roll your eyes, did she really just collect books with controversial, alarming and terrible titles?

You sighed as you read the title again. “Still Stripping After 25 Years,” you gasped, which made Yelena slap the table, still trying not to burst into laughter. You didn't even read the blurb of the book before you judged, “They should not put this in a public library!” You whisper-shouted.

“Okay, that's enough,” you chastised her, she was sitting on her seat in an almost slouching manner and you found yourself crossing your arms across your chest as you raised a questioning brow at her but she instantly straightened up and adjusted her vest.

It feels like you're with a kid, honestly.

“I like your vest.”

Yelena’s eyes widened at your compliment, “I just absolutely love vests with lots of pockets. They're so practical, and they just have that perfect blend of style and function, you know?” she giddily rambled. You just hummed as you flipped the book you’re reading.

“It's actually Natasha’s,” the revelation made you look at her, “I took all her clothes when she left.”

“How long has it been since she left? If you don't mind me asking…” you inquired carefully, hoping that you didn't cross any line.

“18 years, papa made her manage the business with him at 16 then she left when she was 19.”

“She started that young?” Yelena just hummed, her energy immediately dropping down.

“You know, your sister loves you,” Yelena immediately eyed you after you said those words, “Even though you always come around her property with no invitations,” you chuckled as you closed the book that you had no plans on finishing reading.

She just shook her head slightly as if she's trying to focus her mind and remove thoughts in her brain.

She hates you, she reminded herself.

“Let's go out, go for a walk.” You gave her a smile and grabbed her hand, the closeness making the blonde guilty.

As you and Yelena stepped outside the library, you noticed a small box on the sidewalk, filled with six adorable puppies, each of them looking at you with curious eyes. A $20 sign hung over the box, indicating that they were for sale. Poor adorable puppies just being sold?

Yelena's phone suddenly vibrated from her pocket, causing her to break away from your grasp. She looked at you apologetically and told you that she will just get it for a second. You nodded and informed her that you will go see the puppies, you pointed the direction so she'll know where you are before you both went your separate ways.

“The delivery should be done in 15 minutes, we’ve waited for so long.”

Yelena's heart dropped as she saw the text on the small screen. Guilt and dread, that's what she feels right now. She made a huge mistake on getting too close to you, this wasn't supposed to happen, she never intended to let her guard down and warm up to you.

She hated the fact that you have no crumb of flaws in you, well yes, of course you have your own flaws but it's not enough for her to hate. She tried testing you as if she was digging the pandora's box, it's nowhere to be found. She can't find any reason to hate you.

And she hate you for that. She hates you, she did. She hated you.

Yelena's heart raced as she desperately searched for you, but you were nowhere in sight. She spotted a two black van meters away from her and panic gripped her as she frantically looked for you. But suddenly, she saw you waving at her, a small puppy cradled in your arms. She immediately ran towards your direction.

“Can we get this puppy for Natasha? You know your sister always wanted a pup—”

You were taken aback when Yelena withdrew a wad of cash from her pocket and swiftly pulled out a $100 bill. Without a moment's hesitation, she grabbed your arm and quickly yanked you away from the scene, she wasn't even able to get her change.

“I need to get you back to the manor.”

The golden retriever puppy was whining in your arms and you cooed it even though you're being dragged by the blonde.

Yelena's panic intensified as her gaze darted anxiously in different directions. She noticed the same van she saw earlier moving slowly, following closely behind the both of you. Her focus shifted to you, and she watched you coo at the puppy in your arms, blissfully unaware of the danger that was trailing behind. Yelena's heart wrenched as she realized that she had never intended for things to take this turn—with you.

Yelena fished out her motorcycle keys from her pocket. She quickly straddled the bike and turned on the ignition.

“Get in.”

Despite her brusque tone, you quickly obeyed her and swung your leg over the bike, settling in behind her. Suddenly, without any warning, she gunned the engine and the motorcycle shot forward, taking off like a rocket down the street. The small puppy in your arms gave a slight yelp, startled by the sudden movement. You instinctively cradled the furry bundle closer to your body.

“Can you drive slow?” you asked worrily as you try to balance yourself in the bike, you weren't holding anything for support just the little puppy in your arms.

As Yelena prepared to turn the corner, her eyes widened in horror as she suddenly saw a van blocking the road and she can't just maneuver around it. Yelena's heart raced, and she had no choice but to hit the brakes, bringing the motorcycle to a skidding halt. The puppy in your arms whimpered softly at the sudden stop. Yelena considered backtracking, but her hopes were dashed as she saw the van that had been pursuing you earlier was now blocking the return path as well.

“Yelena? What's happening?” You asked as you were practically being trapped by the two vans.

Yelena could only grip on the handlebars at your question, her knuckles turning white as she struggled to keep her composure. She didn't give an immediate answer, her gaze flickering between the van that blocked your path and the one behind, trying to figure out a way out. After a minute of contemplating, she gave up.

“Just stay here. I'm sorry.” Yelena told you, you nodded slightly as you adjusted yourself in the seat of her bike.

Why is she apologizing?

Yelena dismounted the motorcycle and slowly approached the van. The driver's door opened and a bald burly, threatening-looking man stepped out, a hardened scowl on his face.

The bald man's voice lowered into a menacing growl as he confronted Yelena. “You tryna run away from us?”

“No.”

The man's expression darkened and he took a step closer to her. “Give us the girl now,” he demanded, leaving no room for negotiation, though this is a negotiation.

In a snap Yelena seized the burly man and she held him like a shield, using him as a means to keep the others at bay. As the other men started to exit the van, their faces hardened and their hands reaching for their weapons, Yelena's eyes darted from one to the other.

“Let the girl go and I'll let this bald-headed demon man go.”

“Yelena what's happening?” You called out to her in a whimper.

“I'm sorry, Y/N. Please come here.”

You immediately obeyed her command, slowly stepping off the bike and moving closer to her. As you did so, you turned around, trying to keep an eye on the men who were approaching from behind.

As you stood behind Yelena, the weight of the situation started to sink in. Your heart pounded in your chest and fear gripped you. You clutched the puppy tightly, its small form shaking slightly in your arms. Panic coursed through your veins and you couldn't help but look around, searching for a way out or any sign of help. “Y-Yelena?” you stuttered.

“Y/N, forgive me. I promise I’ll get you back to Natash—”

She wasn't able to finish her words when she suddenly dropped to the ground, unconscious after being shot with a tranquilizer the men had fired at her. Your heart froze and you could barely comprehend what was happening.

“Yelena!” Your voice was filled with anguish as you called out to her, tears streaming down your face.

The man she has been holding captive earlier stalked towards you and yanked you by your arm. The suddenness of the grab made you release your hold on the puppy. The man's eyes roamed over your body and ripped your top, he quickly inspected your shoulders. Satisfied with what he saw, he glanced up at the other men and shouted, “This is the one!”

“Yelena!” you hollered as the man wrapped his arms around your waist and dragged you. Even in your disoriented state, your survival instincts kicked in. With all the strength you could muster, you tried to fight back against the man who was holding you.

“Fuck you!” You growled, you spat at the face of the man, he was really enraged as he wipe the spit on his face but when he poised to strike you a man intervened grasping his wrist.

“We cannot leave no marks on her,” he calmly said, a sinister smile starting to form on his face.

“Fuck you too!” You shouted, the adrenaline pumping through your veins gives you a momentary burst of courage.

He smirked at how feisty you are but he then shushed you and pressed a cloth over your nose and mouth, “You've brought us in so much trouble already, you're gonna pay for it.”

You never stopped to fight back but your limbs started to flail weakly, your attempts to kick and struggle against them proving futile.

The world blurred around you as tears streamed down your face, your voice hoarse from crying out Yelena's name once more before everything started to fade away and the last thing you saw was the small puppy nudging Yelena's unconscious body.

Secrets Behind Our Dreams: Masterlist

[sweetwolfcupcake]

Gaze

Secret Garden

Part II

Category: Drabble

Yandere John Wick x Reader

Warning: None really

The GIF does not belong to me; credit to the original owner.

Unedited

The place is grand. All glitter and gold, clinking glasses and trays floating around with formally dressed staff offering appetisers and drinks to everyone. This ‘party’, if one can call it that, is beautiful to you like a classic piece hanging on the wall of a reputed art museum. You can admire it all you want, but from afar. Admiring the technique and beauty with your limited knowledge about art would be futile, though you can come up with a story .

You are technically a guest because you are accompanying your friend, who is seeking to expand the reach of his art gallery. His collection has caught the eye of a man well-known in the circle, and so came the invitation.

You glance at your friend speaking to... well, you don’t remember. From above, you can see every individual walking into the main hall, mostly with a ‘plus one’. And only a few, alone. You count the people entering out of sheer boredom-

One

Three

Five

Seven

Nine

Eleven

Twelve

Thi—

You stop midway, just looking.

Because this is the first guest who has looked up, directly meeting your gaze. He is handsome, no doubt, but not more than the magazine-worthy faces you have seen today. Yet he stands out somehow. Dressed in all black, ebony, chin-length hair and a maintained patchy beard that calls for your fingers to run over them, he could have easily become one with the crowd. But he does not. 

There is just something about him that strikes out in a way that you straighten up, as if something primal is bringing you to alertness. It’s pure instinct, something years of evolution could not suppress, or perhaps had nurtured. You don’t know, but you stand slightly straighter, more alert, and you look into his. 

Ah, yes. It is his eyes. A strange and alluring studio of softness and steel with a tinge of melancholy that one can miss if they do not look for long. They are observing and assessing you. And you just know that he already knows that you do not belong here, that you are bored, and a silly part of your brain goes the extra mile to be afraid that he can read your thoughts. 

Yet something about his gaze is electric and awakening. What has awakened within you? The sharp heat that takes your spine and your abdomen before warming your cheeks? Or the realisation that you might be somewhere you should not be. His gaze is disarming—not like those giggly romance novels; it is disarming like a dark surrender. As if you know what ever you do, wherever you go, you are powerless here; there is no other option but to surrender.

You want to look away. At least a part of you does, but you simply cannot, you feel compelled to keep looking, drinking in everything his gaze has to offer–dark, soulful eyes—hypnotic, electric gaze, and you are caught, butterfly in a jar.

With sheer will, you manage to drop your gaze to your drink and turn around, baffled and flustered. Maybe it is about time you get laid; hopefully, those eyes will not haunt you the way they have imprinted themselves in your mind at the moment. Every time you close your eyes, you see his them.

Maybe you will find him again.

Maybe he is a stranger to you, but to him, you are not.

Maybe you will never find out that your friend has been explicitly instructed to bring you along in exchange for his gallery’s expansion.

He will only look for now, as he has been doing for so long.

****

Thanks to @johnwickb1tsch's Donaka bots, I got the idea of involving an art gallery. Whew! It has been a while since I wrote a John Wick drabble.

[solarismoons]

Astronomy (Pt. 2)

 ‘It’s astronomy, we’re two worlds apart’

Wally Clark x fem!reader

Summary: You and Wally grow closer.

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, angst, careful reading.

prev. chap next chap.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You walked through the street, the dark cover of midnight concealing you. Decked out in a thick, black turtleneck and sweatpants, you looked ready to burgle an old woman. You had managed to escape your house with no issues, except for a few scratches from the tree’s bark lining your palms. The school came into view quicker than you had hoped, as you only lived 5 minutes away.

You breathed in and out deeply as you stepped onto the school premises. Glancing around, you realized how stupid of a plan it was. How would you even find Wally? Considering how late it was, he was probably sleeping. Just as you pondered another question–did ghosts sleep–you saw a shadow lounging on a picnic bench.

As you snuck closer, you recognized the mysterious phantom. She was the ginger you saw lounging on the book return cabinet. In a split second, she sat up, like a fucking vampire. You instinctively jumped back, your hand flying up to clutch your chest. A string of foul words spewed out of your mouth as the girl looked at you blankly.

“Are you looking for him?” She said.

“What-”

“I saw you two talking,” She said, matter of factly, running her fingers through her hair. You opened your mouth to speak, but she interrupted, “Don’t worry- your secrets are safe with me.”

Your eyebrow raised at the strange girl.

“Dawn,” She offered, hopping off the picnic table and sticking a hand out. Returning the favor, you gave her your hand, completely weirded out as she shook it quickly. When you told her your name too, her face lit up and she began rambling about a freshman with the same name–whose phone she regularly stole. You put a hand up to stop her.

“Okay, Dawn,” You said slowly, “Is this normal?”

Dawn considered your question and looked off somewhere behind your shoulder. Her eyes snapped to yours as she twirled a finger through her hair. “Talking to the living?” Dawn shook her head, shrugging it off like it was a normal Tuesday. Judging by her eccentric clothes, you assumed she was from the 70’s or 80’s. Maybe she died from a bad batch of acid. Before you could think about it further, she turned around and skipped away.

You stood there, dumbfounded. Your eyes scanned your surroundings, almost as if a full camera crew would come out of the shadows and inform you that you were a part of some prank show. What the fuck just happened?

After a few minutes, you decided your best option was to leave. You already knew the doors and the window you used to sneak onto the roof the other night were locked. It was simply by chance that it was left open.

Just as you turned on your heel, your name echoed through the air. Whipping your head around to the source, you saw Wally jogging towards you. He skidded to a stop in front of you, his chest rising and falling heavily. “Dawn told me you were here,” He stated, catching his breath.

“How do you know my name?” You questioned, taking a step forward, eyes narrowed. Wally grinned sheepishly, his hand finding the back of his neck.

“I may have followed you to Calc… Mrs. D called your name for attendance,” He flushed. You bit down on your bottom lip, flopping onto the picnic table. You felt oddly exposed, knowing he could just follow you wherever he wanted.

“You could’ve asked me,” you said, your eyes tracking him as he sat next to you. A bolt of electricity prickled on your skin as his knee brushed into yours.

“I mean, you were pretty convinced I wasn’t real earlier,” Wally laughed, shrugging. Now it was your turn to flush and sink into yourself. Wally sunk into the bench, his arm stretching out behind your back. His thumb barely brushed the fabric of your shirt.

“Hey- I get it. It’s not every day you fall off a roof and start seeing ghosts,” He chuckled. You joined in, leaning back, slowly getting more comfortable. You had a million questions, and you hoped he could offer you answers. After all, he had been there for so long. He had to have at least a little knowledge.

“Have there been others?” You questioned. Wally tilted his head at you, eyes searching yours. “Other living people you could talk to,” you clarified. The jock shook his head, glancing back at the school.

“Nah. It’s always just been us. I guess you’re my first.” Wally brought his arm around and elbowed you in the side. Cheeks pink, you pushed against his bicep, shoving him playfully. He laughed again, the sweet sound filling your heart.

“So none of this is normal?” Wally slowly shook his head, returning his arm to its original position. You’re not sure what you expected to happen. He had seemed just as confused as you were. Disappointed at his lack of answers, you crossed your arms and looked away.

Wally could sense your disappointment. Wanting to help, he cleared his throat and began theorizing, “I mean- you could’ve died. Maybe that’s why you can see me.” He looked down at you, a warm expression on his face. You thought back to the other night–what caused you to fall off the roof in the first place.

“No- I swear… I swear I could hear someone talking before I even fell,” You whispered.

Puzzled, Wally looked back to the school, as if simply staring at it would give him answers. “Rhonda and Charley thought you saw us that night. You looked right at us,” He said–as if you knew who he was talking about. Still, you put the pieces together.

“Lollipop girl and the dude with frosted tips?” Wally snorted, flashing his bright teeth. He nodded, unconsciously scooting closer to you. His thigh was now pressed against yours, warmth radiating through his sweats.

Before you could laugh along with him, a thought hit you. You had wanted to die. You heard those phantom-like voices as soon as that thought ran through your head.

“I was upset,” Wally looked back down to you, eyebrows furrowed. “I… Had a thought.” He slowly tilted his head, trying to understand what that could’ve possibly meant.

“I wanted to die,” you clarified.

Wally sucked in a harsh breath, the crease between his brows deepening. “You don’t-” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t still feel like that, do you?”

That was an easy question. You quickly shook your head truthfully. “No. I didn’t really want to. It- It was just a thought, you know?” He didn’t. But, he still shook his head, desperate to understand you. He wanted to know what you were thinking, he wanted to know what your life was like. He just wanted to be there for you.

Although he had just met you the other night, he always saw you walking through the halls in prior years. He would follow behind you, trying to understand why he recognized you. It got to the point where Rhonda and Charley started to mock him for having a crush. But, how could he explain himself to them? He didn’t know you, yet he recognized you. How your lips curved, your deep dimples, the slight bump in your nose… Fuck.

The realization struck him with an overwhelming force as if a dumbbell had been dropped onto his chest. It felt as though the world had come to a sudden halt. It couldn’t be. His fingers found your chin. He gripped it softly, tilting your head to the side. Your jaw clenched, butterflies swirling in your stomach.

His eyes focused on two moles on the side of your neck, one on top of the other, like a vampire bite. They were smaller than his, but he still would recognize them anywhere. “Fuck, you’re Bill's daughter, aren’t you?” It was less of a question and more of a statement. You even laughed like him.

The name made your heart stop. Eyes widening, you turned your head to look into Wally’s eyes. His irises were swirled with emotions, all bittersweet. You nodded your head, although he didn’t need your confirmation.

He shifted his body to face you completely, his gaze intense. Leaning in, he delicately pressed the curve of his lips against the moles. A breathless gasp escaped your lips as your cheeks flushed, heat radiating from your skin. With a trembling hand, you tangled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck while his hand found your jaw. As many questions as you had, they all were rendered meaningless by his intoxicating closeness.

You could ask them later.

After a few heartbeats, he pulled back, hand still on your jaw. He looked at you with half-lidded, dazed eyes. Fuck, he was pretty. Completely forgetting what you wanted to ask, you slowly closed the distance between you.

Wally pulled back, his hands moving to your shoulder. You looked at him, rejection clear in your eyes. He smiled and shook his head. “You’re gonna have to wait for that, sweetheart,” he said, his voice lowering. The nickname sent heat pulsing through you. “Meet me here tomorrow night. We can talk then.”

It was late, and you both knew if you stayed any longer, you wouldn’t be leaving. Plus, he wanted to get to actually know you before jumping your bones. He wanted to know your dreams, your favorite color, and what your family was like. He just wanted to know you. Almost like you were reading his mind, you nodded.

He hesitantly let go of you, watching with a smirk as you stood up and walked away. You looked behind you, a sweet smile on your face. “Goodnight, Wally,” You yelled.

He shook his head and smiled.

────────────

The next day was a blur. You floated through each class, daydreaming through each lesson. You and Nicole sat on the bleachers above the field during your free period. She begged you to talk to her and got on her knees, but your mind was elsewhere.

You watched Wally’s figure as he ran up and down the field, doing cartwheels and drills. He glanced at you a few times, each look fleeting and shortlived–but they meant everything to you. Your feelings for him went deeper than attraction. It was a sort of connection that broke through the barrier of life and death, for fucks sake. Neither of you could understand why, but it didn’t matter.

You were always an imaginative girl. When your dad would tell stories of his ‘glory days’ you’d imagine each scenario, playing them over in your head countless times–especially the ones involving Wally. He’d tell you how deeply Wally Clark cared, how funny he was, how amazing a player he was. On and off the field, he was a spectacle. Late at night, a part of you always wished he was alive.

But, seeing him in front of you, being able to see and touch him? It felt like heaven. Treating your responsibilities as if they didn’t matter was wrong, but it was a unique situation. You could let yourself live in la-la land for a little longer.

So, that’s what you did.

Each night you would sneak out of your house to meet with Wally. You’d talk for hours until the birds began to sing. Sometimes, he’d break the door locks for you, and you’d walk hand and hand through the dark halls, giggling at each stupid thing he said. He’d walk you through only the darkest hallways, fearing the others would discover you.

He was your secret, and you were his.

One night, when you were both lying on the plush grass, gazing up at the stars, you asked him a question weighing heavily on your mind.

“Is this weird?”

Wally propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Is what weird, sweetheart?”

Cheeks pinkening slightly, you turned your head towards him. “You’d be like, 50 if you were alive.”

Wally laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Do I look 50?” He reached out, hand cupping your jaw.

You looked at him, really looked. Each freckle dotted his skin like constellations, each soft curve of his face drawing you in. You noticed the peach fuzz lining his jaw, the slight roundness to his jaw. In that moment, you realized pictures could never do him justice. A flush rose to your cheeks and you shook your head, clearing your thoughts.

Your heart beat in your chest like a drum as he drew closer. Every breath hung in the air, laden with anticipation. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the sensation of his soft lips brushing against yours. A soft sigh escaped you. As he parted his lips slightly, deepening the kiss, a rush of emotions flooded over you.

A soft breath escaped him as he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. Eyes fluttering open, you gazed into his deep, brown eyes. He smiled a goofy smile, his cheeks as pink as a rose.

“That was worth the wait, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, bunching his shirt in your fist. You pulled him back into your lips with a smile.

Over the next few weeks, everything felt perfect. Each talk was lighthearted, consisting of talks about the future, about your dreams. With each conversation, you could tell something was weighing on Wally. You wanted to ask him about it, but you didn’t want to push.

Besides each unanswered question and unsaid conversation, everything was perfect.

Until Maddie went missing.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

tags: @just-here-to-readd @shotos-angelic-whore @morstuavitamea-a @sweetdayme4427 @vanessa-boo @mylovelysnowflake @liyahrantssometimes @amara-mars

a/n: just a little warning, I'm a huge night owl, so you can expect chapters to be out at ungodly hours of the night. If this bothers you, please don't hesitate to ask to be taken off the tag list! I do not want anyone to lose sleep!

[pro-crastinate17]

hello!! so im going to try to make a disability inclusive picrew and id like some help making sure i include as much as i can!

the person would be seated and pretty much all of the body would be visible. ill post it when im done!

its mostly focused on phys disabilities, bc i so rarely can find picrews w good diverse mobility aid options, but ofc im including non phys disabilities as well! (sorry for clunky phrasing, im unclear on the preferred term for non phys disabilities so thats the term ive been using)

what i have so far is below the read more. be warned it is a very long list! (every option/category of option i could think of)

if you think i missed something, please recommend it!!! (related note: id much rather get recommended something that is already on the list than miss something!)

category: head

various jaw shapes 

missing jaw 

crooked/misaligned jaw

category: skin

wide range of skin tones, including white/extremely pale (albino) 

freckles, lots of scar variation (including burns), vitiligo, acne, facial hair, eye bags, other skin conditions (trying to make a list)

breathing tubes, masks, bandages 

bindis 

category: eyes 

blue, grey, green, hazel, medium brown, dark brown, black, red 

heterochromia options 

lazy eye options 

clouded eye options 

closed eyes that look like winking and closed eyes that don't 

missing eyes

category: mouth 

general expressions 

variations for color 

variations for cleft lip, scars, facial paralysis 

category: ears 

ear size, shape, missing ears, deformed ears

category: eye/ear accessories 

earrings, earplugs, hearing aids, bone anchored hearing aids, headphones, earmuffs (modifications for missing/deformed ears), cochlear implant

glasses, sunglasses, blue light glasses, eye patches, eye masks/bandages 

category: nose 

various shapes & sizes, bumpy noses, deformed noses  

category: eyebrows 

lots of expression options, thickness options, color options (including white) 

one missing, scarring, eyebrow slits 

category: body 

body types: very skinny, skinny, fat, very fat (options for muscularity too if i can figure out how)

body hair, scarring, freckles, tattoos   

range of missing limbs, deformed limbs, prosthetics   

diabetes patch 

category: hair 

wide range of hairstyles, bangs, and colors 

patchy hair, scalp scarring, receding hairline 

category: head coverings

range of hats, hair accessories, headbands, bandanas    

range of hijabs, turbans, kippot (+ more variation in cultural headwear if theres space)

head bandages 

category: clothes

range of styles and colors 

adaptable to body types (+ breasts), missing/deformed limbs 

category: shoes 

range of styles 

adaptable to body types, missing foot/feet 

category: hand accessories  

gloves, bracelets, rings, nails, wrist braces, splint rings

range of types, adaptable to missing/deformed hands 

category: pins 

range of queer pride flags 

pronoun pins 

animals, fandoms/characters (def muppets, feel free to recommend characters and i'll try to include some of the most popular ones) 

general disability pride, cripplepunk, madpunk, sign union flag, & pin (for systems), specific disabilities (need some help with these, send me specific flags and i’ll include them!) 

category: seat 

chair, manual wheelchair, power chair, spinny chair, throne, rollator, electric scooter 

category: mobility aids 

cane, white cane, crutches (underarm/axillary and forearm), rollator, walker (with and without wheels), electric scooter  

joint braces (shoulder, elbow, knee, ankle, back, others?), joint tape, compression garments 

category: other disability aids

AAC tablets, word cards, glucose monitor, sunflower lanyard, inhaler, medical id bracelet

stoma bag, central line catheter, picc line catheter, heart monitor, breathing tube, feeding tube (nasal and abdominal), tracheostomy 

stim toys/chewelry, stuffed animals, phone 

service animals