#panel beating near me

[xobunni0]

𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

౨ৎ 𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡.. what started innocently. over time grew more deeper, more personal, and attraction was undeniable.

- E.T is HIS song, a man that yearns is a man THAT EARNS!!, giggling while writing this, once again he’s a sweetheart, 𝐰𝐜- 1526

𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥…

the halls of the facility were silent, with the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional distant beep of monitors. you moved carefully clutching the stolen clearance card in one hand. the night shift was low tonight, but if anyone caught you.. there’d be no way to explain what you were doing

finally, you reached the heavy steel door that led to where he was being kept. with a swipe of the card and with a soft beep the lock opened. you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in and slipped inside

the dim lighting of the containment room made you feel even more uneasy. seated in the far corner of his glass enclosure was Shadow. he sat with one leg stretched out, and the other bent, his back resting against the wall. his eyes were closed but the moment you entered his ears twitched ever so slightly, and his gaze moved to you.

“risking a lot just to see me again” he said, his voice low and smooth but with the faintest hint of teasing

“yes.” you smiled, stepping closer to the glass barrier

his expression softened in a way that only you ever seemed to see. it made your heart skip a beat every time. he stood and approached the glass, stopping mere inches from where you stood on the other side

“are they suspicious?” he asked, his tone now more serious

you shook your head. “not yet. but I can’t stay long. If they catch me-”

“they won’t.” his voice was firm. his hand hovered near the glass and instinctively you mirrored the action, your fingertips meeting the cold glass that separated you

“I hate this” you whispered, “I wish I could do more. I hate sneaking around like this.”

Shadow’s gaze never left yours.

His smirk returned, faint but there. “You do plenty. more than anyone else would dare.”

the warmth in his voice sent a flutter through your chest, and for a moment.. the severity of what you were doing did not matter. in this moment it was just the two of you.

“time’s running out” you said hesitantly, glancing down at your watch

shadow’s faint smirk faded, “Then go. Don’t get caught.”

you hesitated, your eyes locking with his.

you stepped back from the glass slowly, your hand lingering against it for just a moment longer. “I’ll be back” you promised

“I know” he replied, his voice softer now

your hand was on the door when Shadow’s voice stopped you.

“Wait.”

you turned back. heart pounding, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. he stepped closer to the glass his movements slow

“I want to feel you” he said, his voice low

you knew what he meant. “Shadow…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I trust you” he said, the tone in his voice cutting through your fear. “If anyone can do it.. it’s you.”

you hesitated for only a moment before nodding. you had been on the edge of risk for weeks, but this… this was crossing the line. and yet you couldn’t deny him. not when he looked at you like that

quickly, you turned to the control panel beside the glass. your fingers flew over the keys, entering codes you weren’t supposed to know. you had spent countless nights memorizing the system just in case a moment like this ever came

the hiss of the containment seal breaking startled you both. the glass slid aside, revealing Shadow standing there. his presence overwhelming now that the barrier was gone

for a moment, neither of you moved. then slowly he stepped forward. his crimson eyes searched yours, as though waiting for confirmation that this was real

you reached out first, your fingers trembling as they brushed against the soft fur of his chest. the contact sent a jolt through you both and Shadow let out a breathy sigh

“Warm” he murmured, as if surprised

Shadow’s other hand came up hesitantly. his gloved fingers brushing against your cheek. his touch was gentle

you let your fingers trace along his arm, his fur soft under your touch

you leaned against the cold metal wall, your heart hammering. Shadow moved closer his crimson eyes scanning every inch of your face , taking you in completely.

“You’re trembling” he said softly, his voice carrying none of its usual sharpness

you hadn’t realized it until now, but your hands were shaking. the adrenaline of what you’d just done was coursing through you and the risk you’d taken started weighing heavy.

“I’m fine” you lied, your voice uneven

Shadow stepped even closer, his towering presence blocking out the harsh glow of the lights overhead. he reached out his gloved hand brushing against your cheek softly

“Don’t lie to me” he murmured

the concern in his eyes broke you completely.

“I’m just… scared” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly

Shadow’s hand moved to cradle your face, his touch warm despite the coolness of his gloves. “You don’t have to be.”

his words were simple, but enough to melt your fear. his had been building between you for weeks, months…

without thinking you leaned into his touch, your eyes closing shut. his gloved fingers moved gently along your jawline his touch so soft and tender. when you opened your eyes again his gaze was locked on yours.

“Shadow…” you whispered, your voice trembling for an entirely different reason now

he leaned closer, his other hand coming to rest against the wall beside your head caging you in. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes” you said without hesitation, the word falling from your lips too quickly

“Then let me show you what freedom feels like.”

the space between you was no longer there as he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. the kiss was cautious at first, as if testing the boundaries. but when you tilted your head to deepen it his hesitation melted away.

his big gloved hands moved to the small of your back pulling you closer, and you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, clinging to him like you would lose him if you let go.

no alarms, no guards, no glass keeping you apart. it was just the two of you, pressed together in the dim corridor. sharing something that puts everything on the line… but was so good.

when the kiss finally broke, you were both breathless. Shadow rested his forehead against yours his eyes half-lidded.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper

you smiled, your fingers tracing the edge of his quills. “me too.”

Shadow’s crimson eyes lingered on yours, his hands rested lightly on your waist, his touch something you didn’t know you needed so bad. for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done for me” he said softly, his voice rough. “For so long… all I had was the glass. All I could do was watch you… memorize every detail of you from a distance. Your voice, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you liked. I lived for those moments.”

your breath hitched at his words, your chest tightening. Shadow’s thumb traced a soft circle against your side

“You were my only connection to the outside” he continued, “Every time you came to see me even if it was just for a moment. but.. it was never enough. I couldn’t reach you. Couldn’t feel you.”

“Shadow…” you whispered

he reached up brushing his fingers along your cheek, his touch slow. “But now, you’re here. You’re real. I can touch you, hold you, feel your warmth.”

you placed your hand over his pressing his palm to your cheek.

his hand slipped from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer. “You’re more than I deserve” he murmured. “You’ve risked everything for me.. and I don’t even know how to begin to tell you what that means. your brave, kind…”

he paused, his voice faltering for the first time. “and so beautiful.”

before you could respond he leaned in, capturing your lips in another kiss. this one was deeper, more intense, soaking in every minute of it now that the barriers between you were gone

when he broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you” he said softly.

for the first time... a small genuine smile curved his lips, softening his sharp features. he held you closer, his big arms wrapping around you as if he was afraid you might slip away

“You’ve given me something I thought I’d never have” he whispered

you buried your face in his soft chest, your arms tightening around him.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 ⏦ﾟᢉ𐭩 - 𓊆ྀི𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི [𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰] 𝐌.𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[erinaeris]

Laios Touden and the Responsibility of Power

First off, let me gush just a bit about how fucking STRONK this man is. Olympic weightlifters are dying of sheer envy and lust over this man. He is a FUCKING POWERHOUSE.

My favorite panels ever, and judging by the cropping of the second photo, Tumblr agrees.

AHEM, where was I?

Ah yes. He's not just strong and incredibly hot, my man is literally an invasive species in this dungeon. He knows every single weak spot of every monster Thistle tried to throw at him and when he finds it he just fucking RAMS HIMSELF AT THEM AND TAKES THEM DOWN.

And when he's a dwarf HE LITERALLY BENDS STEEL.

"Beat Namari at arm wrestling"? My boy, she wouldn't let you anywhere near because you'd FUCKING BREAK HER HER HAND ALONG WITH THE TABLE. (It's such a fucking shame we didn't see Senshi at least raising an (perfectly plucked except it just grows that way naturally) eyebrow in the background when he sees this. Alas, he was too distracted by his hair.)

But I mentioned responsibility, didn't I? Strength is power in the dungeon, and we all knows what comes with great power. And Laios is, in fact, very responsible with that power!

(Futther examples under the cut, wee bit spoilers for anime watchers)

This scene lives rent-free in my head forever, because of two things: Thistle suddenly realizing just what the hell he's up against,

And Laios breaking Thistle's arm.

Now, I think Laios didn't mean to actually break his arm here, he's just half-blind and dizzy and knows he has to restrain Thistle or it will all go to shit. So that's what he does. The move you see above is a restraining hold. The point is that the person pinned down can't struggle much because the position of the arm presses the suprascapular nerve, so it hurts a lot, but unless they're held that way for too long they'll be fine.

But Thistle is TINY and elves are generally fine-boned. I think Laios really did just underestimate his strength.

And the moment the dragons aren't an IMMEDIATE THREAT anymore?

Laios heals him. Thistle's a better mage than him by miles, he could have done it himself. But no. Laios does it. He was too rough, too careless with his strength, and he immediately backtracked, fixed what he broke, and continued with more mindfullness.

And these are just the examples that stuck in my mind the most. And it happens often enough that the team isn't even fucking surprised! Laios' strength would 100% scare people who only saw him in a barfight and didn't know anything else about him. Hell, the other adventurers they meet fucking quiver before this guy who just took down a monster they had nightmares about in one blow, up until he opens his mouth and they relax. You put more malevolent software in that sort of hardware and he'd be the next Shadow Governor.

But Laios is Laios. He's a gentle soul at heart (a Great Pyrenese, specifically, the gentlest souls ever unless you're out for their flock) and he is VERY CAREFUL with his strength, ESPECIALLY around his team. Chilchuck, who is literally half his size and underfed to boot, can smack Laios as much as he wants with ZERO fear because Laios is aware he can hurt Chilchuck by literally tripping over him, so he just stays still and lets Chilchuck smack at him. I'd be surprised if he ever managed to leave a bruise. Chilchuck has to aim at Laios' weak spot (back of the knee here) just to get Laios to notice him!

But because I have some experience with marital arts and close combat, I think the fight with Shuro exemplifies my point so fucking well! Laios is HURT here, he's living every autistic person's worst nightmare.

And he HOLDS BACK. His restraint is fucking IMMACULATE.

Shuro is fucking lucky Laios still liked him when he started talking shit, because he would have broken his spine otherwise. Laios doesn't even take the fight seriously! He starts with a fucking SLAP.

Shuro retaliates with an actual punch (that does nothing but piss him off)

Laios wobbles. Shuro HITS THE DIRT.

And this is the part where he realizes just how outside his weight category he is. Shuro definitely has technique on his side, but that means jackshit when you need ten blows to to even bruise your opponent, but one hit from them will leave you drinking through a straw for a week. For a second there, Shuro thought he was in ACTUAL DANGER.

But instead of finishing the job, Laios tries to talk him down, which just sets him off again. Man was at his fucking LIMIT, and it snapped. Self-preservation who?

And the best part is? Shuro is throwing all his strength behind his punches and Laios just takes them, but Laios? He mostly pushed Shuro around!

They're mostly grappling here, precisely because Laios is very conscious his friend is pretty fragile right now.

And when he does have enough?

Shuro is flat on the ground again, and Laios has a black eye and a bloody nose. He sits down and five minutes later he's ready to go! Like yes, Shuro was at a low point here, but he's been mowing through monsters at only a bit slower pace than Laios' party. He's no weakling regardless. And Laios had to HOLD BACK SO HE WOULDN'T HURT HIM. And it's so obvious that Maizuru takes one look at the two of them and leaves them to their toussling.

When I saw her reaction I had to scroll back and take another look, because I was sure she would intervene! But she doesn't! She is aware of Laios' strength, she has to be, and she doesn't lift a finger to help her precious charge. She knows the big dog he's wrestling with knows to watch his strength.

And that's my whole point: my boi is STRONK AF! And he is very aware of his strength, and how he could hurt the people around him is he wasn't careful, so he is ALWAYS CAREFUL. He has deeply internalized the fact that to have strength is to be careful with it, to use it in service of people rather than to hurt them (possibly from his dad). He is going to SUCH a good king! He's not going to like the job but by GOD he will do it really well.

And I will give my right arm to see a fic about the first corrupt lord/governor/courtier who attempts to misuse their authority for their own gain. Kabru's gonna have to talk Laios out of an execution.

[junkdrawerfan]

So I’m catching up on Batman lore and comics.

I NEED A FANFIC WHERE SOMEONE SITS DOWN AND TELLS JASON THAT BATMAN TRIED TO KILL THE JOKER, ALMOST STARTED A WAR, AND WAS STOPPED BY SUPERMAN.

It drives me insane that the only reason Joker is not in a lead box at the bottom of Gotham Harbor is he somehow magically became the Iranian ambassador (how?!) and the UN hired Superman to stop Batman from causing WW3.

AND NO ONE TELLS JASON!

Oh! I hear you cry, But he saved Joker’s life after Dick beat him to death! Jason deserves to be angry.

OH BULLSHIT!

Dick wasn’t trying to avenging Jason! He almost kills Joker by mistake in a moment of grief and Joker egging him on! Dick literally mourns after he realizes what he’s done, claiming by killing the Joker “Joker won.”

So why would Batman save the Joker? I’ll tell you why. Batman didn’t save the Joker for Joker! Batman saved the Joker to save Dick!

Dick is acting on revenge for the near death of Tim and despite it being Killer Croc who had captured and presumably killed Tim, Dick blames the Joker and goes on a poorly thought out vengeance quest that haunts him even when it doesn’t work. He’s spiraling the minute Tim points out Joker is dead. You really think Bruce couldn’t see the writing on the wall that actually killing someone would destroy Dick and try to minimize the guilt Dick would feel by not letting the Joker die.

His second son is dead. The third was just thought to be dead. Batman isn’t going to sit back and let his oldest kill himself!

(Now you could argue all that I’m saying is fandom rationalizations of weird character choices made by multiple writers over at DC (Disregard Canon). Batman does let Dick walk away in shame after reviving Joker. But if I chose to forget that Bruce PUNCHES Dick after Dick rightfully demands to know why Bruce didn’t try to tell him his brother died before the funeral, I can damn well recontextualize a stupid panel and scrape together a consistent character profile based on the versions of Batman that I like! Fuck you!)

So yes! SOMEONE PLEASE JUST TELL JASON WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED AFTER HE DIED SO HE CAN MAKE AN INFORMED DECISION FOR ONCE!

[divagrace]

The First of Many

SoftRafexSweetPoguePrincess First Date!

Summary: Rafe take’s SweetPoguePrincess on their first date!

Warnings: None! Just fluff

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚

Y/N impatiently paced back and forth in her tiny living room waiting for Rafe’s arrival. It is 5:58 right now. He should be here in two minutes. Every time she glances up at the clock, time seems to be going slower. But long enough, a knock echoes from her front door.

She rushes to it, gripping the handle, but pausing and taking a deep breath.

You’ll be fine.

Y/N swings the door open and there stands Rafe. He’s wearing a pair of black shorts and a white polo shirt to go with it.

He’s holding a bouquet of flowers, an assortment of lilies, her favorite.

“Hi.” He says, laughing at her look of pure awe.

“Hi Rafe.” Y/N says.

He now takes a moment to drink her in. She’s wearing a patchwork sundress, covered in various colors. She has a denim jacket resting on her shoulders and some beat up light pink converse. He can see a hole in the toe of her left shoe.

“You look amazing.” Rafe says breathlessly.

“Thank you.” Y/N giggles, a blush spreading on her cheeks.

Rafe looks down at the flowers he’s holding. “Oh! These are for you.” He says handing them to Y/N.

“Thank you Rafe. I'll put these in some water and I’ll be right back.” She says before disappearing into the house. She emerges a minute later with a bright smile on her face.

“You ready?” Rafe asks her.

“Yup! Let’s go!” Y/N says while bounding down the steps of her shabby house to the door of his truck.

But Rafe was not having it.

“Hey slow down.” He says taking long strides after her and quickly letting where she was at.

“What?” Y/N stops in her tracks and turns to face him. He has a look of determination in his eyes but she doesn’t know exactly why.

“I have to open your door for you.” He says in a ‘duh’ tone. Brushing past her and reaching his truck door. He opens the door and she climbs in. Once she is situated in her seat, Rafe leans over her to help her buckle her seat belt. The smell of his expensive cologne filling her nostrils.

“I can do…” Y/N starts to argue but immediately closes her mouth after seeing the look on Rafe’s face. No room for argument.

“Thank you.” Y/N says shyly, looking down at her lap. Once again, a rosy tint covering her cheeks.

“Of course.” Rafe says before tapping her hip and then shutting her door. He quickly walks over to his side and gets in. But he doesn’t miss the now red shade of blush on her face. Smiling to himself, he starts to back out of his driveway, throwing one arm around the back of Y/N’s seat and looking through the back mirror.

Y/N dang near folds right then and there in her seat. That was so hot.

While Y/N is lost in her own thoughts, Rafe takes a moment to really look at Y/N’s house. It’s very small, basically the size of a trailer. It’s located in one of the roughest parts of the Cut. Many people are known for having shitty houses in the Cut, but this area is known for the worst ones.

The outside is made out of metal paneling, and it’s light blue in color. It has grass stains going up the side of it, and her porch looks like it could break with one wrong step. The best part about her house is the closeness to the beach. It’s right on the water. But other than than, it’s probably the size of Rafe’s bedroom alone.

Rafe would usually judge someone based on their house, but not Y/N. He doesn’t understand how she can come from such a shithole and still be the kindest human he’s ever met.

Rafe glances over at Y/N. She’s peacefully staring out at the soft waves lapping against the shore. He can tell that she loves the beach.

Rafe decides to break the silence. “So tell me some more things about yourself. Something that not everybody knows about you.”

Her head whips around from its resting spot. Y/N looks like she’s thinking.

“Well umm. My mom passed away when I was eight years old. She’s the kindest and nicest human being ever. I try my best to be like her. My dad and I both try to make her proud.” Y/N says and a look of fondness crosses her face. Rafe’s eyes soften. He knows what it’s like not having a good mother figure in his life. Rose is the worst and he cannot stand her.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He tells her sincerely. She just nods.

“It’s okay, I’ve learned to live with it. Your turn.”

Rafe can’t say he’s surprised. He looks out the front window while passing through the streets of OBX.

“Umm. I used to be super addicted to drugs.” Rafe starts and Y/N sucks in a breath. He gets worried that she might not want to continue hanging out with him but her face tells him to go on.

“It was bad. So bad. Like I couldn’t go a day without snorting a line of cocaine and shit. My dad was mad at first but then he was done with my shit. He sent me to a rehab facility. I got into shape real quick.” Y/N reaches over to grab Rafe’s free hand and immediately warmth spreads throughout his body.

“It took me five months to finally be clean. Normal. That was honestly the proudest I’ve ever seen my father of me. And his reaction to me being clean is the reason I still am today. And not to mention, I just feel better. I was a crazy mother fucker back then. I know why people couldn’t stand me. I don’t ever blame them for hating me now.” Rafe finishes.

They come to a red light and Y/N squeezes his hand. “Thank you for being so vulnerable. I know it’s hard.” She says.

“And I’m proud of you too. For changing. For being a better person. If other people can’t be proud too, that’s their fault.”

He looks at her and smiles, his chest full of pride. And a light pink tinges his cheeks.

“Now. Let’s go have fun on our date!” Y/N giggles and squeezes Rafe’s hand again.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Rafe pulled into a parking lot. Y/N looked up from their hands to see multiple tents and stands set up.

“You brought me to a farmers market?” She asked him. Rafe looked over at her and smiled.

“Yeah. You said last night how much you love supporting local businesses. So what better way to do it than here?” He tells her.

Y/N’s heart just melts into a puddle. She couldn’t believe that he wouldn’t remember that small thing she mentioned. She loves getting out and supporting the small business in OBX, but it can be hard when she has other priorities for the little money she gets every month.

Before she can say thank you, Rafe is already out the door of his truck and opening hers. She scrambles to unbuckle and grabs his outstretched hand to jump out.

“I’m so excited. I haven’t been to a farmers market in so long!” She exclaims.

“Well pick out whatever you want. I read that there are some things here that I think you’ll like.” Rafe says.

Y/N squints in the sun trying to look at Rafe’s face. He has to be at least a foot taller than her so it’s quite a challenge.

“Rafe. You don’t have to spend a ton of money on me.” She grumbles. She finally catches his eye and he’s giving her that look again.

“I will spend however much I want on you Y/N. It’s no big deal.” Rafe says before taking her hand and leading her through the stands.

They end up stopping at a stand that has cute little journal and book covers. They are hand sewn and have multiple different patterns and designs. Rafe tells Y/N to pick out whatever ones she wants. She hesitantly gets two, one for her current book that she’s reading, and one for her journal.

Then Rafe sees a person selling handmade jewelry. He insists that Y/N picks out a few pieces. She ends up picking up a ring made from sea glass, and a necklace that has a starfish charm on it.

Y/N is trying to refuse the things that Rafe is to buying for her, but all it takes is one reminder from him that it’s for the small business and she crumbles.

He ended up seeing a dress that he thinks she will look amazing in. The sweet old woman who was selling them had a sign up saying she was selling her handmade dresses in order to pay for her chemo therapy treatment. Y/N’s heart shattered while seeing that because her mom passed away from breast cancer.

She quickly agreed to buy not one, but three dresses. While she was searching for two more, Rafe couldn’t help but notice Y/N’s reaction to the sign. It was much more than just sympathy. So while Y/N was browsing, Rafe leaned down and asked for the woman’s name and phone number. He would be in contact with the hospital about paying off all of her treatments, and anything else she might need.

Rafe also paid for the dresses and once again saw the look of absolute despair on Y/N’s face. She eventually cheered up though after seeing a vendor who had crocheted stuffed animals. She picked up two sea turtles. One with a little pink bow crocheted in, and the other one with a little grumpy face.

“Look Rafe! It’s us!” She giggled loudly at her joke. He playfully scowled but handed the vendor the correct amount of money and threw a 50 in the tip jar.

Again, Y/N literally had no idea how he could just spend money like this. But since it was helping small businesses, she was okay with it.

Y/N continued to drag Rafe through every single stand in the farmers market. She made them stop at every one because she claimed that ‘you never know what they might have to offer’. Rafe happily went along with her because he got to see her eyes light up every time she started a conversation with someone. And because her arm was wrapped around his bicep the whole time.

Eventually Y/N had successfully went through every stand with Rafe and they walked back to his truck.

While he drove her home, Rafe kept his hand tightly held in hers, and she wasn’t complaining.

Rafe pulled up into her driveway. He turned to look at her.

“Do you need any help with your bags?” He asks her. Y/N shakes her head while digging through one of the bags.

“No. But here, don’t forget your stuffie!” She says while shoving the turtle into his hands. He takes it and puts it right in his lap.

“Thank you Rafe. For everything you bought me today. And for just spending time with me.” Y/N says sincerely.

“You’re welcome. I’ll try to find you on the island, but if I can’t, I’ll come visit you here. I’ll see you soon.” He tells her.

“Bye Rafey!” She yells. All he can do is scowl because before he knows it, she’s slamming his truck door shut and laughing to herself the whole way up her porch.

Rafe waits until Y/N gets back inside safely, before pulling out of her driveway.

Yeah. He could get used to this.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚

I’m like so proud of myself for this one! 🫶🏻

Thank you guys for the love!

[averycutesalamander]

ok SOMEBODY at hoyo knew what they were doing with that encounter in the new event right

reader + boothill are already in a relationship. gn reader. nsft / 18+ content. extremely poor hardware etiquette in the form of wire play. you know how it goes. also on ao3

For a split second, when Boothill pulls you into that alley hours after dark, you're certain that you're about to have to beat some mugger's ass for daring to lay hands on you. But as you whip around, you see familiar eyes – so you suppose you should spare him the pain.

"What in the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you?" you scold, swatting him away; you hiss when your knuckles smack right into his metal.

"What, ain't ya happy to see me, sugar?" he bemoans, and you frown when you hear his voice. The normally subtle static that's beneath it has multiplied several times over, crackling like he's speaking over an old radio.

"I'd be a lot happier if you didn't scare the shit out of me," you mutter dryly. "What's up with your voice?"

He sighs in a way that seems genuinely weary, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, that's why I pulled ya in here." He raps his knuckles on his abdomen, and something about the hollow sound feels exceptionally humorous right now. "Somethin' went all fudgin' screwy, n' now I'm havin' all sorts a' problems. Vision's shortin' out, mostly. Sensitivity settings are all forked up, too."

You frown, now genuinely concerned. "Are you alright, honeybee? Any pain?"

His lip quirks a little fondly. "Nah. Just a pain in the ash, if ya feel me. Real issue is that I can't reach the damn panel that's causin' problems."

"…So why don't you go to the mechanic?"

"Well, I would, but there's nobody safe in this city, n' I've got a target lurkin' around here somewhere." He scratches his cheek, looking particularly annoyed. "Don't wanna leave n' let the bastard slip while I'm gone, but if I go for him now, my eyes might go out at a bad time."

You nod slowly. "So you need me to give you a hand, huh?"

"If it ain't too much trouble," he drawls, as if he doesn't love to pester you at every possible opportunity.

Slowly, you smirk, leaning against the wall of the alley. "I think you're forgetting something."

For a moment, he blinks at you cluelessly. You can practically see the gears churning in his brain. When it finally clicks, he rolls his eyes and sighs like you've just sentenced him to death, although he can't quite contain the little quirk of his lip.

"Please, sweetpea?" he whines.

"You can do better than that," you tut, waggling your finger at him dramatically.

He sighs even harder than the last time, and suddenly, he has you on the back-foot, because he steps close and leans toward you, one hand braced on the wall next to you. Your heart stutters in your chest when he hooks a finger under your chin, his mouth twisting into a victorious grin.

"Pretty please, angel? Won't ya give your poor ol' lover a hand?" he purrs, the heat of his breath washing over your lips. "I'll be good for you, honey. Promise. I can reward ya, too, if that's what you're after."

You blink at him, your brain completely empty. "I– Um…"

He leans just a bit closer, so close to your lips that you can almost feel the warmth of him, and you make a strangled noise when he suddenly freezes, scowling heartily. "Eyes just went out again," he grumbles, pulling away. You're immediately dissatisfied with the distance. "Can't even see the look on your face now."

God, he is such a bastard. "Alright, alright. Let's get on with it." Then, you grin wickedly. "Pants off."

He gapes at you. "What the fork did you just say?"

You bark out a laugh. Worth it. "Well, I don't know where the panel is. Could be in your ass, for all I know."

He guffaws, shaking his head fondly. "It's on my back."

"Close enough."

He grumbles something under his breath, then turns around.

"Right, uh…" There's a faint click, a whirr, and a hiss, and suddenly, one of the plates near the center of his back pops open ever-so-slightly. "See the plate above the chargin' port? The one that just came loose? Should be a lil' button ya can push behind the dip at the top. Uh… Press twice."

You hum as you lean closer, following his direction. Your touch is gentle, but he shivers anyway as you find the button. You press it twice in rapid succession, jumping a little as the plate pops out even further, sliding up and out of the way – but you're even more startled by the way he hisses, hunching against the wall.

"Son of a–" he grits out.

Your heart jumps with alarm. "You okay, bee?"

"Yeah, j– just… Sensitivity's all over the place right now," he says, sounding strained.

Damn. This must be worse than you thought. Now you're sort of regretting teasing him. "Right. I'll be careful."

You kneel down behind him, fumbling to grab your phone and turn on the light. Now that you can actually see, you more carefully examine the structure within. The titanium structure of his spine is blocking most of your view, but you'll have enough space to stick your hand in around it. It's a surprisingly organized nest of wires, but damn are there a lot.

"Uh… circuit board near the top left," he says, a subtle shake to his voice. "Should be some loose wires in there, if I'm right."

You squint, having to kneel a little further to get a glimpse of it. You angle your phone light, and sure enough, you can see the one he's talking about. There's a kaleidoscope of colored wires attached, but two of them are dangling and disconnected.

"Yeah, I see them. There's a black one and a green one, and a red one that looks kinda loose."

He sighs with some measure of relief, his voice crackling with static. "Plug those back in, n' it should be good. Ports should be labelled."

Carefully, you reach in, fixing your fingers around the black wire. But the moment you line up the connector and start to fit it into the corresponding port, he gasps raggedly. You freeze, your eyes darting up in concern. You can see his fingers digging into the brick beside him, shaking subtly.

"Are you alright?" you ask, genuinely worried.

He makes a strangled noise in reply, and the moment you pull the wire away, he slumps like a puppet with cut strings. You can hear his whole body rattling, the metal plates clinking against each other in a way that might've been comical if you weren't so concerned.

You can hear the audible noise of him swallowing. "I– I'm fine. Just…"

Suddenly, it hits you.

You've helped him with issues like this before, and you know what he sounds like when he's in pain. This is very decidedly not like that. If anything, it sounds a lot like…

"Oh my god," you blurt before you can stop yourself. "Are you– Is this–"

"Shut your damn mouth," he whines, and in a blink, the entire situation flips on its head.

You grin, wide and devious. "Baby's feeling a little sensitive, huh?" you croon.

"I said, shut your damn– Ah!"

He gasps when you press the connector against the port again, just barely fitting it in; you can see the plastic clips meant to lock it bending, ready to snap into place, but you're hovering just millimeters too far for it to be fully seated. You sit there, waiting as you watch him shake, oh-so quietly whimpering under his breath.

"Just– P– Please, just…" he whines, tight and desperate, and it goes right down your spine and settles in your gut. Fuck, it should be a crime to sound that pretty. He's so unfair.

Finally, you click it into place, and his whole body shudders like you just took the head of his cock into your mouth.

Oh, you can't believe you've never done something like this before. It's so hard to wreck a man that can literally numb his nerves at a moment's notice, but right now, he's utterly at your mercy.

"This don't even… I– I shouldn't be– be able to feel that," he pants.

You hum in consideration. "Are any of these wires connected to anything essential?"

He laughs in a way that's almost comically nervous. "W– What? I… No, but–"

You grab the blue wire on the left, pinch the clips locking it into the port, and pull.

His voice crackles with static as he moans, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. You don't relent, though, because you press it right back in, jamming it into place mercilessly. His hips actually buck at that, and that plants a very, very devious thought in your mind.

Without pushing the clips in to unlock it, you grab the wire by the connector and slowly tug on it, applying pressure as his voice breaks.

"B– Baby, oh, you can't– I–"

Without letting go, you get to your feet, pressing as close to his back as you can. You fumble to turn off your phone light, then shove it carelessly in your pocket. With your newly freed hand, you reach around toward his front, resting your fingers on his belt and leaning in close to his ear.

"Take your cock out, bee," you purr, slowly beginning to slide the leather out of the loop. You can see him shiver at the sound of your voice so close.

"You're c– crazy," he hisses, then gasps as you reverse the pressure on the wire, now pushing inward against the circuit board. He doesn't stop you as you undo his belt, though, tugging it to release the buckle and letting it fall away.

"Yeah," you croon, your fingers seeking out the button on his jeans. "And you like it, don't you?"

You don't give him a chance to reply, because you suddenly switch over to the black wire again, going by touch as you pinch the clips and pull it back out. He makes a strangled noise, bucking his hips again as you lower his zipper.

You're proven right when you hear the subtle whirr of machinery, of his plates rearranging as he takes out his cock from its internal compartment. You grin wickedly, rewarding him by clicking the wire back into place. He moans, long and ragged into the palm of his hand, but he's so loud that it doesn't do much to muffle it.

"Careful, baby. Don't wanna get too loud, do you?" Without giving him time to recover, you swap over to where you think the red wire is, gradually beginning to rock it against the port but not letting it snap into place. "It'd be a shame if someone saw you like this, moaning like a little whore for me. Or maybe you'd enjoy that, huh?"

His hips jolt again, and you're certain that he's already dripping with precome. "T– That's not… You–"

You cut him off by grasping his tip, snickering quietly at the wetness you find there. So easy. He damn near wails at the pressure, his whole body shaking as he tries to strangle the sounds you're prying out of him. You're relentless, though, slowly pumping your fist down his shaft and smearing the lubricant under your touch.

"No? You wouldn't?" you hum. You lean closer, so close that your lips graze his ear. "You're such a liar. You're dripping, honey."

He shakes his head, but he can't deny the way that he shudders with the next pass of your hand. "'S not– Mm! N– Not fair–"

"Yeah, it isn't, huh?" You pinch the clips to prevent the wire from locking, then press it all the way in. "I could do anything to you right now, baby. And you probably wouldn't even be able to stop me."

Slowly, you start to rock the connector in and out, even and steady in the same rhythm you'd fuck him with. He pants into his palm, whimpering with every pass.

"Oh, but let's be honest… You wouldn't stop me anyway, would you?" you croon, grinning deviously. "You like this, don't you? You like being at my mercy?"

He doesn't reply, occupied as he is. He starts to buck his hips in time with the movement of the wire, fucking your fist with a desperation that has your mouth watering. You still your hand, forcing him to take initiative. He takes up the task in your stead without a breath of complaint, rocking into your grip desperately.

Slowly, you start to lightly twist the connector, feeling the resistance of the port as you ease the pressure on.

"Answer me, bee."

"Yes!" he gasps, and you smile, rewarding him for his honesty by releasing the wire. You go to a new one you haven't fiddled with yet, then pull it out without ceremony just to hear him whine.

"Good boy," you purr, and you can actually feel his cock twitch against your palm, his hips stuttering. God, that never gets old.

You slow down the pace you're moving the wire with, and a thrill runs up your spine when his hips instinctively follow your guidance. You tighten your grip around his cock just a little, listening to his breath hitch. You can hear the slick noise of him fucking into your fist, the sound of his precome smearing obscenely along the length of him. Part of you mourns the fact that you can't suck him off in this position, but the way he's shivering under your touch is too perfect.

"F– Faster, please– Oh! Please, sugar…"

The confirmation that he's following your pace is fucking intoxicating. There's something absolutely euphoric about having a man this powerful quaking under your touch, begging you for permission.

"Yeah? Greedy boy wants more?" you hum, nibbling at his ear just to feel him jump. Cruelly, you slow the pace of the wire even further, grinning when he whines in open frustration. Despite that, though, he follows your lead, slowing down to a crawl as his cock twitches under your fingers.

"Please. Need more. I'll– I'll do anything, baby, please," he whimpers, hunching even further against the wall.

A tempting offer, admittedly… But you have something planned already, so you'll let it slide for now.

You click the red wire back into place, then grasp onto the green. He takes a ragged breath when you slide it in, pinching the clips yet again to grant you free movement. Then, you start to rock it into him, just like before, gradually speeding up the pace. He moans brokenly into his palm, thrusting into your fist with a desperation that feels almost animalistic in its intensity. He chokes when you start to move your hand with him, his hips stuttering frantically as his cock twitches.

He gasps with the next pass, his whole body rattling. "I'm– Oh, honey, I'm–"

"Don't come yet," you murmur. "I'm not done."

He's shaking so hard that it might've been a little concerning if you weren't so busy savoring it. There's something so exceptional about wrecking him like this, about ruining him like this. With his plates open, you can hear the quiet hiss of his hydraulics tightening, shivering in preparation for a devastating orgasm. You can feel his internals heating up, the air around your hand steadily warming as his body fights to dispel the building heat.

He bows his head, his voice crackling as he groans. He's nearly unintelligible when he stutters, "I– I can't–"

"What, can't help yourself? Gonna come?" you croon, your voice tilting with mockery. "Go on, pretty boy. See what happens. Just don't be mad at me when you pay the price."

Eager to torture him, you speed up just a little more, tightening your fingers around his length as he struggles. His head shakes frantically, and he starts to babble; his voice is beginning to go out, rendering his words completely incomprehensible. You swear you can feel his heartbeat echoing through his entire body, rapid and thunderous. His fist is balled up tight, pressing hard against the wall as if the tension can save him. But he's the one fucking into your hand like a dog; he's the one moaning like a whore into his palm; he's the one tightening like a spring, ready to burst at a moment's notice.

With a whisper, you break him. "Come."

You can feel the moment he snaps like a bowstring.

He cries out your name as he reaches his peak, so loud that it makes your heart jump before his voice shorts out entirely. His cock jumps and twitches in your palm as come spills out of him, hitting the brick below in thick ropes. It'd feel like a waste if he didn't sound so fucking incredible right now. You follow his pace as his hips jerk, chasing the stimulation, dragging out his high for as long as possible.

It's almost a pity that his voice went out. He always sounds so fucking pretty, all broken and needy in a way that makes you hungry.

Gradually, he slows, his breath hitching uncontrollably as he bucks shallowly into your grasp. With a final whimper as you click the wire into place once more, he falls limply against the wall, still rattling with the aftershocks as he pants.

You really wish you could see him. The face he makes after he comes is always stunning.

…That'll have to wait, though – because you have unfinished business.

Without warning, you ruthlessly yank out one of the wires, smiling as a startled moan tears from his throat. It gets even louder when you rub your thumb tauntingly across his tip, cruelly grinding the pad of your finger into the very end of his head. Then, you start to stroke his cock again in earnest. Your grin widens when he jolts, struggling against your grasp as if he couldn't overpower you in the blink of an eye.

"B– Baby, wait, wait, I can't–" he pants, his voice straining, then breaking as you pull another wire.

"I told you you'd pay for it," you sing. "Don't act surprised."

You speed up, stroking his cock even faster as he twitches and squirms. You pull another, savoring the ragged moan that tears out of him.

"Mercy– Oh! Mercy, baby, please–"

You pull another. His hips jolt involuntarily into your fist.

"That's not the safe word," you coo.

You can't remember the last time you heard him this wrecked. It's glorious. He pants and whines, his back arching when you swipe your thumb across his head again.

"I'm–"

His voice cuts out entirely when you pull the next one.

You don't feel bad about it. If he really wanted you to stop, all he'd have to do it reach down and grab your wrist, or even just tap you twice. He's not going to, though.

You know very well that he loves this just as much as you do.

Which is why you don't feel guilty about pulling another wire, then another, then another, steadily speeding up the pace of your hand. With his voice cut off, the only noise is the sound of his heavy breathing, the obscene noise of you stroking his cock, the click of wires being disconnected, and the quiet hum of machinery that always radiates from him – though the latter is exceptionally loud right now. You can feel his body shuddering again, already forced back to the brink.

"Go on, bee," you purr. "Go ahead. One more time for me, sweet boy."

You plug in the cord connected to his voice just in time to hear the broken wail that wrenches from his throat. It's loud, and if nobody heard the two of you before, they probably have now – but frankly, you don't give a damn when he sounds that fucking pretty, that fucking perfect. You work him through it, remaining steady while he shakes and shivers under your grasp. Another load spills against the wall, though plenty of it leaks onto your hand this time, smearing under your fingers, thick and creamy and damn, you really want to taste him.

His comedown is much faster this time around, and it feels a bit like he crashes back into reality. The moment his whimpering changes, edged with genuine discomfort, you let him go. All at once, he slumps down into the wall, panting raggedly.

His breath hitches when you take your hand off his cock. You don't even think twice before laving your tongue across your palm, swiping up the mess he left there. It's as mild as usual, musky and tangy and a little salty, but it's the gesture that has your heart skipping more than anything.

When you get the worst of it off, you unceremoniously wipe your hand on your pant leg. No need for modesty at this point. "Want me to reconnect everything, honeybee?"

Wordlessly, he nods, moving with the sort of mellow lethargy that usually arrives on the coattails of orgasms. Your lips quirk, but, true to your word, you get back onto your knees to peer back into his internals.

You quickly switch on your phone light again (and make a mental promise that you'll clean it later), then get to work fitting everything back in their proper places. He shudders and whines with every click, but you don't tease him any further, certain that he's probably worn out by now. You make short work of the rest, and when you settle the final one into place, he sighs and somehow slumps even further into the wall.

With your phone returned to your pocket, you get back to your feet, watching with no small amount of interest as the plate on his back withdraws and clicks back into place. His body is so damn fascinating. You've got to ask him to give you a full tour, one of these days.

Now, though, you lean up and curl your arms around his waist, molding tightly to his back. He's warm, still dispelling the heat he'd built up, and you're shameless about basking in it. Although…

You can't help yourself. Smugly, you begin, "So, that–"

"Not a word," he growls, though you're somewhat relieved to note that his voice is back to normal.

You can't bite back a snicker. "Look, if I knew you were this into wire play, I would've–"

Your heart leaps into your throat when he whirls around, grabbing you by the throat and surging forward to press you against the opposite wall, though he's careful to shield your head from the brick with his other palm.

"You just don't know when to quit, do ya?" he rumbles, low and smoky. "Always runnin' your mouth like I can't make ya pay for it."

You freeze like a prey animal that's just realized it's been cornered. Your heart pounds in your chest, strong and fast. For a long, silent moment, he observes you with that glint in his eyes – that look that tells you that he's plotting.

Uh oh.

"Y'know, my joints are feelin' a lil' dry," he says carefully, his eyes burning into you. "I could probably use a lil' lubrication."

Uh oh.

He releases your throat and presses his hand on your shoulder, then slowly, steadily pushes you to your knees. Your eyes immediately gravitate toward his cock, and you swallow dryly at the sight; a heavy line of come is dripping from his head, tempting your lips, your tongue. He's so close that you would only need to lean forward just a bit to lick it away.

Your heart stutters when he grasps your jaw, forcing you to crane your neck up at him. His eyes glint red in the dark, and his grin is as sharp as his teeth.

"You'll help me out, won't ya, sugar?"

Oh, you're in trouble.

(How lucky for you that trouble with him is always fun.)

tag list ♥

@opheliaflavoredinstantnoodles @ikeagroceries @shadowstadium @theswashbucklingspy @cosmo112 @fxngtasy @rinzis 

[qivrae]

mine - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: what harm can a little friendliness do when youre at a bar with your coworkers and boyfriend?did i fall off guys?💔

The bar hums with low music and clinking glasses, the kind of cozy place the BAU always seems to stumble into after wrapping a case out of town. It’s dim but warm, with wood-paneled walls and slightly sticky floors and the energy is that perfect mix of exhaustion and buzzed relief. You’re sitting near the end of a long table pushed together from smaller ones, knees touching Spencer’s under it—accidentally at first, then intentionally.

Emily’s to your left, halfway through a margarita and mid-story about a disaster Tinder date involving a magician and a live rabbit. “He said it was a ‘surprise element,’” she says, making air quotes. “I said I don’t want to date anyone who says the word ‘abracadabra’ in a sexual context.”

You snort into your drink. “Did he at least pull it out of a hat?”

“No. A fanny pack.” She shudders.

“Jesus,” Morgan mutters, leaning in across the table. “That’s not even the worst part. The real red flag was you agreeing to go out with a magician in the first place.”

“I was feeling adventurous!” Emily defends, throwing a napkin at him.

Hotch, surprisingly relaxed with a beer in hand and just shakes his head. “Remind me to check your judgment when we’re assigning interrogations.”

“Check your own, you’re the one who hired me,” she fires back, laughing. Conversation flows.

JJ’s talking about Henry’s newest obsession with dinosaurs, “He calls them ‘roars,’ which I think is honestly more accurate” and Garcia is showing you all a filtered picture of Sergio with tiny devil horns photoshopped on his head. And Spencer? He’s quiet beside you, fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of scotch he swore he didn’t like. His knee is still pressed to yours. You feel him glance at you every so often, like he wants to say something and isn’t sure how. Eventually, he does.

“I read a paper last week that said alcohol doesn’t actually lower your inhibitions,” he says, not looking at you. “It just impairs your ability to consider consequences.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Is that your way of telling everyone you’re about to make a bad decision?”

His lips twitch into the barest smile. “No. Just… thinking out loud.”

Morgan leans in then, grinning. “Alright, y’all, I don’t know about you but my old man back is calling it a night.” A chorus of agreement follows—bags being gathered, jackets slung on, the check already halfway paid by Garcia who’s holding the receipt like a trophy.

“I think there’s still part of the tab open at the bar,” Spencer says, glancing around. Then he turns to you. “You wanna close it for me?”

You nod, taking his card and sliding out from the booth, smoothing your hands over your skirt. “Sure.” You don’t notice the way his gaze lingers on you a beat too long as you turn. Don’t see the flicker in his eyes when the bartender greets you with a smile that’s a little too friendly. At first, it’s all polite. Just a casual exchange—he confirms the card, prints the receipt. But then he makes a joke. Something about your drink choice.

“Classy and lethal,” he smiles, leaning on the bar like he has nowhere else to be. “That’s a rare combo.” You laugh. Just a little. Just enough to be polite.

You don’t realize how it looks. You’re still buzzed, still warm from the laughter with your team. You lean in slightly without meaning to, fingers brushing his when you sign the receipt. Across the bar Spencer’s still sitting at the table, arms crossed. His expression is unreadable. He watches you talk—sees how your lips part when you smile, how your weight shifts onto one hip, just the way it always does when you’re relaxed.

Morgan looks between the two of you, low whistle barely audible over the music. “Uh oh.”

Hotch doesn’t even turn. “Let it play out.”

“She’s just being nice,” JJ murmurs.

“Yeah,” Emily adds, “but look at Reid.”

He’s not fidgeting. Not rambling. He’s just… still. And that’s worse. You come back a minute later, receipt in hand and slide it across the table. “All set.”

“Thanks,” Spencer says. His voice is clipped. Short. His jaw tight as he stands and heads for the door. You fall into step behind him, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence. The others follow behind, a few trailing slower, probably already whispering. The ride back to the hotel is quiet. No one says a word. Spencer doesn’t even glance at you as he opens the door to the passenger side. And you? You sit there, heart thudding, as the air thickens around you like storm clouds gathering behind his eyes.

Because you know that silence means something’s coming. And whatever it is, it’s going to be loud when it finally breaks. You shift slightly in your seat, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself like it’ll shield you from the weight in the air. “Are you mad?” you finally ask. Quiet. Testing. He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t even blink. You almost think he won’t say anything at all—like he’s going to drive you both in silence all the way back to the hotel and just leave it at that. Let the tension rot between you.

“No,” he says. And it’s not convincing. Not even a little.

You blink at him, scoffing. “Okay. Great talk.” His fingers curl tighter.

“I’m not mad,” he says again, jaw stiff. “I’m just trying to process.”

“Process what?” His voice is low, sharp.

“Whether or not you were doing that to get a rise out of me.”

You stare at him. “Doing what?”

“The bartender, the laughing, the touching.” he says, eyes still forward.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, sitting back. “Are you serious right now?” Silence.

“Spencer. I wasn’t flirting. He made a comment. I was being polite.” He doesn’t answer. “You told me to close the tab,” you continue, voice rising a little. “What did you expect me to do? Glare at him?”

“I expected you not to smile like that,” he says tightly. “Not with him.” You open your mouth then close it. Because the way he says it—the way his voice drops on him—that’s not jealousy. That’s something deeper. Something territorial.

“You’re drunk,” you say quietly.

He exhales through his nose. “I’m observant.”

“Don’t profile me.” You stare out the window for the rest of the drive. The air between you crackles. It’s furious. It’s quiet. And it’s not done. When he pulls into the parking lot of your house, he doesn’t say a word. Just parks and climbs out, walking toward the entrance without waiting for you to catch up. You follow anyway. Neither of you say a thing as you move through the house.

Only when you reach your room—when the hallway ends ahead, empty and quiet—does Spencer finally speak. “I’m not mad,” he says again, voice low.

You stop walking. “Then what are you?”

He turns to you. His eyes are dark. Heavy. “I’m not used to feeling like I could lose something I haven’t even let myself want.”

It knocks the breath out of you. Just a little. “Spence—”

“I need to get this out of my system,” he says, stepping forward. He’s close. Closer than he’s been all night. His voice drops lower. “You’re mine.” Then he’s stepping into your guys’ room. And this time—this time it’s you who follows in silence.

You don’t even make it past the doorway. The second the lock clicks behind you, he turns—grabs you, pulls you in and kisses you like he’s trying to make up for the twenty minutes you spent with someone else. You gasp against his mouth, hands scrambling for balance as your back hits the door. “Spence—” You barely get the word out before his mouth is trailing down your jaw, then your throat.

“This is what you wanted?” he murmurs against your skin. “You wanted me to watch you flirt with him?”

You grab a fistful of his shirt. “I wasn’t flirting.” He scoffs, low and bitter.

“You were laughing at everything he said. Leaning in like he was saying something so fucking profound.” You swallow, breath catching as he shoves your jacket off and it hits the floor. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, dragging you toward him. You feel the hard line of his cock through his slacks, pressed flush to your stomach.

“It didn’t mean anything,” you whisper but your voice is shaky, already caving to the heat in his eyes.

“Sure didn’t look like that,” he mutters. Then he spins you around.

Your hands splay against the door, your chest pressed to it as he kicks your feet apart. His hand slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you there. “You looked happy,” he says, breath hot against your neck. “So tell me—why’d you look happier when you realized I was watching?”

You make a sound. It’s half a moan, half a gasp as he rolls his hips against your ass, slow, grinding, teasing. “Spencer—”

“No,” he cuts you off. “You don’t get to talk your way out of this.” His hand pushes under your waistband, fingers sliding past your underwear. He groans when he feels how wet you are. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re soaked.”

“I told you it wasn’t anything,” you whimper.

“Then why’re you like this?” He curls two fingers inside you, slow and firm. “Why’d watching me lose my mind turn you on?” You moan—head dropping forward, legs going soft. His other hand comes around and grabs your throat, squeezing softly. His thumb strokes over your pulse point then down, dragging along your collarbone. You grind back against him instinctively, needing more friction but he pulls his fingers free, slick and slow. He groans. “You taste so good.”

You whimper. “Spence…”

“I’m not gonna let you off easy,” he breathes. “You don’t get to play innocent and then fall apart the second I touch you.” He undoes his belt—slow and loud, letting the sound echo. You twitch at the sound, pressing harder into the door. He pulls his cock out, presses the head against your entrance but doesn’t push in. “You want it?” he asks.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, I do.”

He doesn’t move. “Then say you’re mine.”

You let out a broken moan. “Spencer.”

“Say it.” He breathes

“I’m yours. I’m yours, Spencer—” And then he pushes in, slow and deep, with a groan like he’s waited all night for this. Your eyes squeeze shut. The stretch is perfect. He doesn’t move at first, just holds you there—pressed full of him, his hand still loosely at your throat, his hips locked against yours.

You let out a choked whimper. He pulls back slowly, then thrusts in hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. You cry out, head lolling back onto his shoulder. He bites your neck, open-mouthed and rough. You try to speak, try to apologize but all that comes out is a breathy moan. “Shhh,” he soothes, voice dark. “You don’t need to say anything. Just take it.” He keeps fucking into you—long strokes, steady rhythm. Not fast, not yet. Just deep. Just punishing enough.

He leans in close, breath heavy in your ear. “You know,” he murmurs, “sex increases dopamine and oxytocin levels. It heightens emotional memory. Which means you’re going to remember every single second of this.” You shudder, toes curling, thighs shaking. “That’s why I’m not letting you finish,” he says, biting your shoulder. “Not soon. I want this burned into your fucking brain.” You let out a broken moan, desperate for more. For release. For anything. And then he pulls out. You whimper at the loss, hips twitching back toward him, chasing it. But he doesn’t give in. He steps back, pants open, eyes dark, jaw clenched.

He doesn’t give you time to recover from the loss of him. The second you shift to face him, his hands are on your hips again, walking you backwards—step by step—until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. “You think you get to do whatever you want,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “and I won’t do something about it?”

Then he pushes you—not hard but firm—until you fall back onto the bed with a breathy sound. The mattress bounces slightly under you, your body catching on the sheets as he moves between your legs without hesitation. You reach for him, maybe to pull him back on top of you but he shakes his head once. Then, very deliberately, he sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed. “No. You don’t get to call the shots right now.”

Your thighs are still spread from earlier, underwear long discarded somewhere in the room. His hands slide up the inside of your legs, fingers grazing your skin like he’s testing the weight of your want.

“Baby,” he says, his voice going a little dreamy—dangerous, like the kind of tangent he only slips into when he’s in full profiler mode, “there’s this study about anticipation and the way it activates the caudate nucleus. It’s the same part of the brain that lights up during addiction.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. Then another, slower this time, higher.

“You’re saying I’m an addiction now?” you breathe out, chest rising and falling fast.

“I’m saying,” he murmurs, lips brushing just barely over your folds, “that I’ve been getting high off your reactions all night. And I’m not even close to done.”

You let out a gasp as his tongue finally drags through your slick folds—slow and smooth, like he’s savoring it. Your back arches immediately, hands clutching the comforter. He groans softly at the taste, his fingers tightening on your thighs. “God,” he mumbles, already going in again, firmer this time. “I should’ve done this hours ago.” You try to speak, try to reply with something smug or sarcastic but the second he wraps his mouth around you, it’s gone—your brain blanks, your legs jerk and all you can do is moan.

He’s methodical with it—of course he is. Spencer Reid with a vendetta and something to prove and he’s proving it with every flick of his tongue, every shift of his jaw. He pulls back just enough to say, “You know I could explain exactly what I’m doing to your nerve endings. How I’m stimulating the pudendal nerve to maximize your orgasmic response.”

You let out a breathless laugh, even as your hips buck toward him. “You’re such a fucking nerd—”

He growls against you and the vibration sends a shock straight through you. “You love it,” he mutters, before sucking hard again. You cry out, loud and open and his hands move to pin your hips to the bed—holding you still, making you take every second of it.

He alternates between teasing flicks and deep, slow licks that leave you shaking. You can feel how wet you are, dripping down your thighs, soaking into the sheets. He’s moaning against you like he’s starved, like this is something he’s been dreaming about since the second you met but of course he stops. You lift your head with eyes glassy and parted lips. “What—“

“I want to be inside you when you come.” He’s already climbing onto the bed, already shoving his pants down enough to free himself again. You see the dark flush on his face, his pupils blown, the sheen of sweat on his skin. His cock is red and hard, already leaking at the tip. He drags you further up the bed, flipping you onto your stomach before you can even react.

“Oh my God—”

“Don’t act surprised,” he grits out, lining himself up again. “You knew what you were doing tonight.” You let out a broken moan into the pillow as he thrusts in again—hard, deep, the angle even better from behind. His hand snakes under your torso, presses to your stomach as he pulls your hips back into his. “Fuck, you feel good like this,” he mutters. “You feel—God—you feel made for me.” You whimper, arching into him.

“I’m not stopping until you scream,” he growls, voice low and hot against your shoulder. “I want the whole fucking building to hear how good I fuck you.” Your body is barely able to keep up with his pace. Spencer’s thrusts are fast, brutal, each one pushing you closer to the edge and yet you can barely register it because your head’s still spinning from the way he’s fucking you. His fingers grip your hips, pulling you back against him, grinding deeper as his cock slides in and out of you. Each stroke feels like a reminder of how far gone you’ve both become and you can’t help but meet him halfway, pushing your ass back onto him, inviting him to go harder. To take more. “Fuck, you’re so damn tight,” Spencer growls, his breath hot and uneven against your back. “I’m never going to get enough of this. I’ve been dying for this all night. I’ve wanted to feel you like this all night—fucking you just the way you deserve.”

His hand snakes between your legs, fingers pressing against your clit roughly. It’s so much, so overwhelming, and you whimper, unable to stop yourself from clenching around him. “Yeah,” Spencer says, his voice dripping with that controlling edge. “Squeeze me, baby. Squeeze around me like you’re begging for it.”

Your breath catches in your throat when you try to respond as he drives in deep, his pelvis slapping against your ass. The sound of it echoes in the room, each hit of his body against yours pushing you further into a daze. “You love this, don’t you?” His voice drops, like he’s not even out of breath. “You love the way I fuck you. You’re made for me. Made for this.” You feel his fingers tighten on your hips, digging in hard enough to leave marks as he holds you in place. It’s like he owns you in this moment—like everything you are is his. The thought only makes you wetter, makes you want to prove him right, to show him just how much you need him. You nod, almost desperately wanting to please him, to let him know you’re completely his.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, your voice a broken whimper. “I love it.”

“That’s right,” Spencer murmurs. “You’re mine. Just mine. Nobody fucks you like this. Not that bartender. Not anyone. Only me.” The way he says it, his voice low, dripping with authority—it makes you gasp, makes you crave more. The dominance in his tone hits something deep inside you, a switch that’s only been waiting for him to flip. Spencer pulls your hair, yanking your head back until your back arches and you cry out at the sting, your body forced to meet his thrusts even more forcefully. His cock fills you, stretching you and it’s all you can do to hang on as he drives into you with a brutal rhythm.

“You want me to ruin you?” Spencer grins darkly, his breath ragged in your ear. “Want me to make you mine? Want me to fuck you so hard you can’t walk straight tomorrow?”

“Yes,” you whisper, desperate, your hands clawing at the sheets beneath you. “I want it. I want you.”

His fingers grip your throat and squeezes, a reminder of his control. Of how much power he holds over you, how much he fucking owns you. “Tell me who you belong to,” he demands and you’re so far gone, so desperate for him that you don’t even hesitate.

“You,” you say breathlessly, barely able to get the words out. “I belong to you, Spencer.”

“Good girl,” he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “That’s all you had to say.” He shifts his angle, thrusting deeper. The shift makes you see stars, the air catching in your lungs as your body jerks forward with each punishing thrust. You’re soaked and you don’t know if it’s from your own arousal or the fact that Spencer’s fingers are still working your clit, pushing you closer to the edge, making everything burn.

“Made for me,” Spencer grunts, his voice darker now. “Every inch of you. You love being fucked like this. You love knowing nobody else gets to have you like I do.”

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Yes. Yes, only you.”

His hand pulls you up slightly, just enough for your chest to meet his. He’s still fucking you relentlessly from behind, every thrust calculated, each one punctuated by his dirty words.“You’re such a fucking mess for me, I can feel it,” he says, his voice rough as he watches you collapse back into the pillows. “Can’t even talk straight anymore. Can’t even think straight. All you can do is beg for me.”

“Please,” you breathe, on the edge of something, your fingers digging into the sheets as you push back against him. “Please let me come.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just keeps fucking you with that maddening rhythm, his cock hitting so deep you’re seeing stars. But then he finally speaks. “You can come,” he murmurs. “All over my cock.”

Your entire body tightens at his words and he picks up his pace. You can’t hold back anymore. You don’t even care that you’re so close to the edge—you just need him to finish it. You need him to make you come. Spencer’s grip on your hair tightens as he slams into you once more, making you scream as your orgasm crashes over you. It’s intense, almost violent and you come undone, your body jerking as he fucks you through it, using your body as his own personal release.

“Good girl,” he breathes, voice barely a whisper in your ear as you shake beneath him, still trying to catch your breath. You feel the last thrusts and finally, he comes inside you. He’s groaning into the crook of your neck as his body shudders against yours. For a moment, the only sounds are his breath and the steady beat of your heart, both of you slowly coming down from the high. He’s whispering “Mine.” over and over again, his high slowly leaving him.

[pearlywritings]

Hi!! Can I request Dan Heng + Euphonium BUTTT, the reader is the one who's correct 🤭

Took a bit longer, but it was fun to write for him hehe

Overdid it

pairing: Dan Heng x reader

prompt: "I hate to say it, but I told you so"

word count: 1.4+ words

~ The Music of the Night event ~

His head is splitting. It feels like he was hit with a giant hammer, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his head was cracked in halves. But he can’t even check - his whole body seems to weigh a tonne, and attempts to lift an arm only makes the overall ache worse.

The eyelids are heavy too and it feels like a total bother to even move his eyes behind them. At this point Dan Heng isn’t quite sure if he is sleeping or is hanging somewhere on the brink between obviously needed sleep and torturous reality. He doesn’t want to be sure. He doesn’t even want to think.

His mind, however, is restless. There are numbers running through it, and who’s to say whether they are a part of some data or they define how many mugs of coffee he’s had in the last few days. Last few days..? And for what reason, he’s turned to such foolish means–

Realization hits him like another blow of a hammer and jade green eyes snap open. The headache immediately intensifies and the man hisses, shutting his eyes and knitting his brows in distress; the head sinks deeper in the pillow.

Wait a moment. It doesn’t feel like his pillow.

Groaning and with laboured breaths, Dan Heng raises himself on an elbow. He forces his hand up to press the heel of it into his forehead. The world around spins.

It’s only on the will’s effort that he manages to sit somewhat straight. Running the palm down his face, the male makes attempts to regulate his breathing. The hand ends up pressed to his chest. It takes some time, but eventually he manages.

His eyes hurt and are so tired, but Dan Heng is conscious enough to take in to his surroundings. In the darkness of the room, - your room, - he makes out the familiar silhouettes of the furniture: the desk with currently turned off PC and the chair over which you almost had to fight Stelle because it was comfortable; the wardrobe with mirror sliding doors, the shelves where you displayed mementos from various trailblazing missions, the walls decorated to your tastes, the bed he’s currently half-sitting half-lying on… And the nightstand with a singular source of dim light in the whole room.

It is kind of a nightlight, but instead of the lamp there is a plastic screen inserted in a wooden base which is filled with colored lights. Totally March 7th’s gift, and he saw you draw on it with a special white marker regularly to have a highlighted image. 

Right now he could swear there is something written and he has to lean to the nightstand and squint to read.

In your pretty handwriting it says: “Take the pill and drink the whole glass. If you want me to come, press onto the bracelet. Love you <3”

There is indeed a glass of water and a pill next to the lamp, as well as a long-distance touch bracelet - one of the pair you got together during the visit to the planet Dan Heng can’t make his brain remember right now. His heart skips a beat, touched by your care, and a small smile graces his lips.

The pill slides down his throat and is quickly rushed by the cool water. The man doesn’t realize he’s chugged down it all in less than a couple of seconds. He feels like really could use more.

Next he picks the bracelet. It’s designed simply and has a moon ornament on the touch panel (yours has sun), but at the moment this little thing feels like the most sacred link between you and him. It’s not often when the vidyadhara allows himself to feel vulnerable, but he is exhausted beyond comparison, so if the press to the rising moon will bring you to him right now, he’ll gladly take it.

He lets out a trembling breath when you send him the same gentle signal.

Ten or a little bit more minutes pass, but he finally hears footsteps nearing the room. With anticipation the man watches the cabin door slide open, lifting his hand to shield the eyes from the bright light seeping into the room from the hall. It is gone as soon as it’s appeared however, and Dan Heng has the pleasure of seeing you.

You are standing there, closing the door behind you and balancing a tray on your one hand. Dressed in a robe over your casual homewear, you are an image of comfort, and your boyfriend wants nothing more than to have you close to him. He thinks he catches the glimpse of the bracelet when your other hand joins its twin and he glances down at his own, still clutched between his long slim fingers. Ah, he’s forgotten to put it back on the nightstand.

“How are you feeling, love?”

Your voice shocks him. Sounds tend to worsen his headache when it’s there - after all, all his inhuman senses are sharper. Yet your soft worried murmur of a question doesn’t aggravate it further. Maybe the pill has already kicked in.

“I…” He swallows, testing the vowel on his tongue, feeling his throat being hoarse. He feels like shit, but he is too polite to speak such unsightly truth. So he does something else - says another truth. “I overdid it.”

He sees how you tilt your head, studying him. Your gaze, scanning his face, his slouched form, brings a strange sense of embarrassment to him. He must be looking horrendously.

“You know, Dan Heng…’ You say slowly, stepping closer and putting the tray onto the nightstand, carefully nudging the night lamp and a mug further. “I hate to say it, but I told you so. Many times.”

Your lover downcasts his eyes. He knows you are not criticizing him, but softly scolding, yet it makes his stomach flip. He made you worry about him. That’s probably worse than you being wholeheartedly mad at him.

The mattress dips under your weight as you sit down, reaching for his face. The man leans into the touch instantly, closing his blood-shot eyes. Your palm is so warm… How can a simple caress bring a sense of tranquility? It will never be clear to him.

“I apologize, my love,” you softly murmur, shifting closer to him, ”I know you are not yet comfortable to sleep somewhere that is not the archive, but I couldn’t let you lie on a barely covered floor. So I made Mister Yang and Sunday carry you to my room.”

“Mhm…” he slightly nods, head still heavy, and accepts your fingers sliding between his, resting in his lap. He hears you sigh. It means there will be a lecture.

“Seriously though, when will you start taking better care of yourself? And I’m not speaking about your questionable choice of bed,” your words hold no malice and the tone is more puzzled than exasperated. “You are not a machine, you know. You do not have to rush. No one expects you to finish a week-worth of research task in a da-” you cut yourself when his forehead rests onto your shoulder. He tightens his hold on your hand.

“‘m sorry. I’ll do better. Promise.”

Your gaze softens. It is a rare sight - seeing Dan Heng like this. Raw emotion and lack of restraint is not what your boyfriend usually is. Moreso, he really looks like he needs a break - desperately.

So you decide to drop the conversation until he feels much better.

“I believe you,” a lingering press of your lips to the top of his head along with your other hand enveloping the lock of his and yours, and you can swear there are pleased dragon noises vibrating in his chest. Sometimes you almost forget he can do that. “I also brought you tea, if you’d like to. And a jug of water. Do you want anything?”

Tea, not coffee. Is he capable of loving you more?

“Can you…stay?”

Just stay with him… That would be enough.

“Stay? Of course, I wasn't planning on leaving. But are you sure you don’t want to drink something?” 

“No,” he shakes his head against your shoulder, his own dropping, “feel sleepy.”

“Must be the pill finally working at its fullest. I'll sit with you, alright?”

It doesn’t take much time to get him to lie back down and adjust the blanket. Once you settle next to him to be able to monitor his condition, with your back leaned against a pillow and the headboard underneath, Dan Heng moves impossibly close to you. His hand ends up wrapped around your thigh and his face - pressed to it. You are so warm and soft. 

He wants to be warm and soft too.

And as your fingers thread through the short black strands, gentle strokes bring him to sleep, letting the anxious mind rest, and the iron-heavy body float.

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - May 1-7

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles!

1. Massive marine sanctuary the size of Yosemite created in the South Atlantic Ocean

“Patagonia Azul Provincial Park aims to protect one of the most biodiverse areas of the South Atlantic, home to whales, sea lions and over 50 species of seabirds. […] The new park draws a protective blue line around over 60 islands and islets, kelp forests and rugged coastal habitats. […] Plans are already underway to build trails, campsites, a biological station and marine access points, making it easier for people to connect with the sea and its incredible wildlife.”

2. Farmers are making bank harvesting a new crop: Solar energy

“[… G]rowers are fallowing acreage and installing solar panels. Some are even growing crops beneath them, which is great for plants stressed by too many rays. Still others are letting that shaded land go wild, providing habitat for pollinators and fodder for grazing livestock. […] On average, that energy savings and revenue added up to $124,000 per hectare (about 2.5 acres) each year, 25 times the value of using the land to grow crops.”

3. Maine Gov. Janet Mills beats Donald Trump, gets school meal funds restored while defending trans kids

“The Trump administration has backed down after a federal court intervened in its attempt to cut off funding for Maine’s school meal programs—punishment for the state’s refusal to discriminate against transgender people by barring trans girls from participating in girls’ sports. [… “W]e are pleased that the lawsuit has now been resolved and that Maine will continue to receive funds as directed by Congress to feed children and vulnerable adults.””

4. "It gives some hope": new population of near-extinct tiny chameleons discovered in Madagascar

“[T]he Belalanda chameleon [… has] one of the smallest known distributions of any land vertebrate[…. T]he team discovered two males and one female Belalanda chameleon at the new location, around five kilometres outside of its usual range in the Belalanda area. […] Work’s now underway to help locate and protect any remaining individuals, harnessing the local knowledge of surrounding communities, with hopes of bolstering efforts to safeguard its habitat.”

5. State’s “largest urban solar farm” and battery switches on to help power university

“[… T]he 2.9MW solar farm and 2.5 MW/4.5 MWh battery system is expected to cut the University’s total energy emissions by a further 15 per cent, taking overall emissions reduction at the Bundoora campus to over 65 per cent [since 2019…. T]he new Bundoora solar farm and battery is connected to the grid, meaning that La Trobe will be able to provide support to the grid when required in emergencies to help avoid power issues in the local community.”

April 22-28 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[energ00n]

OKAY so I know that post with the Orion and D-16 where everyone went analytical was way WAY back then but I just realized something. I KNOW PEOPLE BEAT ME TO IT BUT HEAR ME OUT.

The way that D-16 has a look of confidence on his face with Megatronus near him and holding his shoulder with a firm but gentle grasp. But there's one thing I haven't seen mentioned. D-16 silent. Megatronus is silent. There is a feeling of being certain. Words need not be said.

On the other hand, Orion is being talked to. Not held surely, but held by fingertips. It's not a sure grasp, light and small yet graceful. In the same way, Orion's devotion to the church (as you mentioned before) is light. Unlike for D-16, words are needed. Not silence, but things that need to be heard. And perhaps.. it is Orion who needs to be heard as well.

(Dude if I got anything wrong I'm so sorry I have been off Tumblr for so long I can't get a picture either😭💔)

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS FINALLY SOMEONE TALKS ABOUT THE SPEECH BUBBLES I'M FREED I LOVE YOU

You're 100% absolutely correct by paying attention to them. I don't want to say too much but yes, Prima's EVERYTHING in that last panel was supposed to portray that Orion needs a lot more encouragement, his spark is neither with the church nor Prima. Meanwhile D-16:

[shahrwrites]

Call me delulu for this one, but the parallel occurred to me whilst studying for an upcoming test and now it’s all I can think about so of course I had to post it.

The two times Dick went berserk over what had been done to Jason and I’m all here for it.

The panel on the left is when Joker kidnapped Tim and made the mistake of mentioning Jason’s name. That famous moment that Dick *killed* Joker.

The panel on the right is Gotham War when Dick finds out Bruce kidnapped Jason and psychologically manipulated him.

Funny thing is, both times Tim stopped him, and the one he was a little late for. Makes me wonder how far Dick would have gone if Tim hadn’t been there to stop him beating Bruce.

[Im gonna put a little headcanon in the following, so beware.]

The parallel kinda occurred to me because I was imagining a scenario actually. Post Gotham war where Dick’s taking Jason away from Gotham and all it’s crazyness. So they’re in the car and Dick’s driving, looking out at the roadside and the sun’s beating down on lush green grass and he’s reminiscing about a forgotten memory buried deep in the treasure trove of his most cherished memories of a time long bygone. A memory of himself and Jason picnicking out near the manor grounds one day with Alfred and Bruce. And they were playing some game of chase or another that ended up in a bit of rough housing and lighthearted bickering and hearty laughter and—It turned out to be such a good day. A rare memory.

And what if they stopped on the way to picnic on the roadside, for old time’s sake? Because they’ve got a blanket in the back and they’ve already packed food for the road and basically they’ve got everything they’d need, and wouldn’t it be such a shame if they let that opportunity to go to waste?

So here they were now, stomachs full and lying on their backs, staring at a partly cloudy sky, playing a childish game of pointing out the shapes of passing clouds to each other. It’s a little stupid, and because it’s stupid they start arguing over pointless stupid details. A harmless argument that—ironically enough—develops into a round of rough housing, again. And maybe for just a moment they’d both allowed themselves to forget what they’re running away from. But a frown flashes over Jason’s expression for the barest of seconds and Dick just—stops.

They’ve ended up with Jason on his back and Dick over and above him, and Dick can’t help but caress his hair, touch the side of his face, checking his expression and body responses to make sure that Jason’s alright.

And Jason’s fine—Dick stop fussing, it was just a moment!

So Dick’s hand just drops and he’s moving away, not looking at Jason, not able to meet his eyes.

He’s holding himself in that way he does when his thoughts are chipping away at his soul, a sight that’s become recognizable to Jason over the years. “What happened?”

Nothing but the usual, he wants to say. Once again something terrible happened to you and I wasn’t there to stop it. To protect you. But I made sure to take out the simmering rage running through my vains out on the man responsible with my fists. Because that’s what I can do. Twice you needed me, and twice I wasn’t there. But I made sure they paid for it, right? I made sure of it.

[plumipal]

Omg who is she?

She’s so pretty.

She has twice the wings Eden has. Idk what that means but it probably means something.

Also her name being Lilith… guys I’m sensing pattern here. Are you keeping another one named Adam locked in the basement?

Is she maybe his sister? I mean you can’t just drop a new bit of lore and run away. Explain yourself. Please? Pretty please with a cherry and cream on top? It would be much appreciated and desperately looked forward to.

Little side note who hurt my boy Eden in the second picture? Was it Lilith? If so her likability just dropped of dramatically.

Chat, meet Edens... Sister.

HER NAME IS LILITH!!!

So to even start this off, they are NOT human (I know, shocker). They're children of the stars, serving to protect and help the stars shine as bright as they do. Becasue of defects on both of them (the extra parts near their star core, making them unstable), they were cast out of the colony, cursed to wander the endless galaxies.

I know no one has wondered why Eden has a huge scar on his back or why he even got into the twst universe in the beginning, BUT LET ME TELL YOU ALL! It's her fault.

After a childish spat where it ended with Eden reaching for his weapon to strike her, she instead grabbed for hers and beat the ever living shir our of him, sending him flying to hopefully kill him. This resulted in him reaching the atmosphere of the twst world, crashing down (like a fallen star) into ramshackle around a week before the prefect arrived.

He was passed out for a week, motionless untill y/n, grim and crowley discover him in a vacant room in ramshackle, waking him up and tending to his wound.

So yeah this blond little bitch is the reason we have Eden in the twstverse mmm...

A look at the weapons, they both serve to be protection incase the star they serve gets attacked. The little vacant spot on the spear is for the core to be put in, aka their little star in their chest, the source of their power.

They can take it out, the spear acting as a magicpen sorta to help with their "magic" and being able to direction it. Don't take the core too far away from them tho, it serves as someone cutting off oxygen or blood flow ro us, easy kill on them.

Lilith has a few more wings on hers than a normal one does, just like her defect. This was becasue of a power imbalance, leading to her absorbing way too much power compared to the others during her creation, leading to her being very dangerous (basically a ticking timebomb).

Also a look again on Edens scar that Lilith caused. She foes not feel sorry for that, nor does she feel sorry for burning half of edens face off (first panel whre he is badly damaged, don't worry he will regenerate quickly).

You may also notice her wings being lighter, and that is becasue of their "purity" of other magical influences. Edens darkened quickly during his first week in twst, the blot around him forcing its way into the pigment. This also depends on how easily they adapt with other living beings, with Eden easily being able to copy and show humane emotions.

The love and devotion he feels for you is something he felt similar to his creator while he served the star, that love however turning more dark and twisted because of him copying the environment around him (aka the other twst men into you lol). He is also very heavily inspired by a raven, whish is why he has this "copying easily" ability.

Meanwhile Lilith is meant to resemble more of a dove, elegant and beautiful. Will she be romanceable? We will see...

One thing to make clear,

EDEN FUCKING HATES HER GUTS!! DO NOT PUT THEM IN THE SAME ROOM ONE OF THEM WILL DIE-

Thank you for coming to my Eden Ted talk I will be here all week.

[spookysanta]

Nothing to Prove. (pt. 1/2)

Pairing: Aaron Pierre x Reader

Warmings: implied smut but not a lot, toxicity if you squint

(from the drafts)

heyyy my babies! we're back and the sluttiness is in full swing. be prepared. i have a lot to say!

Her dress was the color of something expensive and unbothered — deep green satin, maybe silk, with a slit that nearly disrespected everyone in the room. It caught the light when she moved, kissed her dark skin like it was custom-made. And the moment she walked into the venue, all warmth and quiet confidence, Aaron felt the temperature change.

She was late. Not disrespectfully so, but just enough to make an entrance.

Aaron clocked her the second she stepped through the double doors. Gave her a once-over that started polite and ended with him dragging his tongue across the inside of his cheek, hand flexing once at his side before tucking itself calmly into his pocket. Back in business mode. Barely.

They were midway through a press-heavy networking circuit — film panels, back-to-back Q&As, too many people with opinions and access. He’d been running hot since 10 a.m., his name on every schedule, his voice stretched thin. She knew better than to pull focus when he was locked in.

And she wasn’t trying to. Not really.

She smiled at people who greeted her. Waved when someone called her name. Held his gaze only once across the room. But he could see it.

The tension.

The way her jaw was set a little too tight. The way her hands kept smoothing over her dress like she needed something to do. The fact that she hadn’t made her way to him yet.

She was upset.

Jealous.

And she was trying her best not to act like it.

He’d spoken to a woman twenty minutes earlier. Old industry friend. Too many teeth in her smile. Touched his forearm when she laughed. He didn’t think anything of it. But his girl?

She thought.

She always did.

She finally made her way over near the end of the session, standing just a little too close to his side. Her hand rested on his arm for a beat too long. When he turned his head to speak to her, she kissed his cheek lightly, smiling for the press cameras just over his shoulder.

To anyone else, it looked casual. Affectionate.

To Aaron, it was the first warning shot.

“You good?” he murmured under his breath, not looking at her.

She nodded. “Of course.”

He didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t have the time — or the patience — to deal with it here.

-

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet.

Not tense. Just… heavy.

She sat with one leg crossed over the other, looking out the window like the skyline would fix the ache in her chest. Aaron rested one hand on her thigh. Didn’t move it.

When they stepped into the suite, she headed straight to the bathroom without a word. He dropped his things on the desk, pulled his jacket off, and exhaled.

The silence kept crawling.

She came out a few minutes later in one of his shirts, bare-legged, makeup washed away but eyes still sharp.

“Say what you need to say,” he offered, folding his arms.

She shook her head. “It’s stupid.”

“You’re upset.”

“You were busy.”

“That not what I asked.”

Her mouth pressed tight. Then: “You let her touch you.”

Aaron sighed once. Stepped forward.

“I didn’t even notice it,” he said. “Didn’t mean shit. But you…”

His hand slipped under her jaw, tilting her chin until she looked at him.

“You've been acting up in your head ever since.”

She didn’t speak.

He kissed her. Soft, then sharp.

“Is that why you were on your little attitude parade at the event? Wavin’ like a princess and not even greetin' me?”

“I didn’t wanna interrupt you.”

He leaned in closer. “You've always got access to me. Don’t act brand new.”

She swallowed.

His voice dropped. “And don’t ever question where I stand. Not in front of a room full of people who wish they had what you've got.”

Her breath caught.

He kissed her again, this time deeper, guiding her backward toward the bed. Clothes loosening. Skin heating. Her hands trembling against his chest.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he whispered, laying her down like something precious. “I already chose you. I’m still choosin’ you.”

She nodded, lips parted.

“Good,” he said. “Now behave.”

[ethereal555]

CHEETAH ! PART ONE

:)

virgil van dijk x black!reader

essentially virgil is a cheetah in this.

------

His matte black Mercedes pulls up into your driveway. Just like routine, he flashes his lights twice.

It acted as a greeting - he always assumed I was watching like a nervous little girl. I always was though; like a kid at Christmas in hopes of catching Santa.

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, you can damn near hear it in your ears. In a daze, you turn quickly to observe yourself in the mirror. As a result your cheetah print robe falls losely around your chocolate frame. The robe framed your pear shaped figure well, exposing your black lace push up bra that made your cleavage pop out. The matching black lace panties you wore on show also, and you had to admit the way it elegantly sat on your wide hips was to die for.

It goes without saying that he loved your body, like a dog and its bone. Let alone when you had it oiled up for him, waiting for him - like a meal.

You tie your robe around you so that only your cleavage was on show. For now. You admired the way in which it cinched your waist. And you took time to admire the way you looked - as a whole - in the reflection before you.

There was always a sense of pride that floated within you, when you looked at yourself. Not in a cocky way but because you invested in yourself : in how you ate, bathed, the products you used, the perfume you used, the quality of hair you bought and the clothes you wore.

This drew Virgil to you, you were a young woman with an advanced sense of maturity; a quality possessed by no one your age. You knew what you wanted, got it and then attracted people who were likewise - like himself.

Your naturally coily type 4 hair that would usually sit on your collar bone was now bone straight and hanging down your shoulders, different from the last time he saw you. It was the month of October and therefore in your world, silk press season. Virgil loved your curly hair. He worshipped it and you did too but, during the months of winter where it was usually very hectic - because of the annual buzz of your shapewear business - you knew having your hair in this state was easier to manage and would be less time cosuming.

You run your fingers through your hair, shamelessly flexing your hang-time in the mirror until you hear your door bell ring, a notification popping up on your phone that read,

Virgil

im at the door :)

You take your time walking towards the door not wanting to look out of breath when you were face to face with him but, also due to a part of you burdened with jealousy. You hadn’t seen this man since last month, September 3rd to be exact. It was now October 29th. You missed him dearly and wanted to really spend this time with him wholesomely but the inferno of jealousy burning within you seemed to be overpowering your mind as you got closer and closer to the door.

Seeing his signature manbun through the glass panel on your door made your heart skip a beat. Logically it wouldn’t be fair to express your selfish feelings about his lack of communication with you as you were involved with an occupied man who had both a wife and multiple kids; especially during these autumn months when his kids were starting back at school.

You both were in a difficult position, him mostly as he had the most to lose and you because of your dignity. You’d never usually go for someone married or with kids as to do so you’d need to bare an innate sense of maturity to cooperate in those situations but with Virgil it was how he treated you that drew you to him. Hell, how he looked at you alone would make you fall to your knees. The gifts he showered you with; the cars, the jewels, the houses, the sex and the bags were big tokens of love for a girl like me. As a 22 year old girl, there weren’t men my age with these capabilities, so you can imagine I was immediately onboard.

It was addicting; the disguising, the private jets, the meeting at hotels, the sense of mystery he brought to your life. The ‘on edge’ feeling, it riled you. It enlivened you. Not to mention way he fucked you, rough and hard and senseless somedays and then when he would make love to your pussy with his tongue and fingers on other days.

How aggressive he was with you, it enticed you. It brought a sense of danger, a feeling you lacked in your life.

You know it did say a lot about your character, but from your perspective you were young and allowed to make mistakes. You deserved to be loved, and in your head life was too short to miss out on this experience of “love” or lust. Not many people your age could claim an experience like this so you embraced it, even when parts of you knew there was potential for this to be a short-lived rollercoaster ride.

There were boundaries that I intentially set with Virgil when we first started seeing each other. I no longer wanted him to sleep with his wife, especially because he was sleeping with, unprotected at that. This was something that “showed my age” he always said and something he often dismissed as me “trying to start with him'”. But I swore to him, if I was to ever see any evidence of them sleeping together, we would have a problem. Gladly, I feel he is listening, he has spoken about their sexual spark diminishing ever since having kids and to support this; his sex drive with me is insane in a way it wouldn't be if he was sexually active with her.

He knocks again, breaking me out of my deep ponder.

You exhale, opening the door wide enough for him to enter. He ducked, walking through the door way, his hair as always slicked back not a fly away in sight. He wore a black crew neck shirt and black baggy joggers, and a silver cuban link that adnored his chest.

He knew what his chains did to you.

You sway your hips into your kitchen leaving him in the doorway his mouth agape, his mind racing not able to verablise how good he thought you looked.

He follows you into the kitchen like a lost puppy. The smell of vanilla invading his nostrils both from you and the candles you’d lit throughout the house. He looks around, his eyes admiring the new rugs you'd bought whilst you went to collect your green juice from the fridge. A nightly ritual you underwent.

“You don’t wanna give me a hug?” His deep voice sounds, the bass in his voice drawing you to look at him as you drank the entirety on your juice, hiding your smirk behind the bottle.

He eyes you back, his intimidating eyes falling from yours to your cleavage, and back up again appreciating how good you looked behind the kitchen island, your breasts spilling out of your robe. The older man walks up to you, standing behind your body. Your 5’7 self nothing in comparison to his 6'5 goodness. He lands his cold fingers on your collar bone rubbing them in circular motions. He hums, the vibration heading straight down your body.

You breathe in and out deeply, your eyes rolling back. Putting the bottle down, you turn around to face him not before making sure your plump bum rubbed up against him. You embrace his rock solid physique.

His firm hands travel down the length of your silk pressed hair, “Where are you curls Ameena?” he queried trying to find your eye contact.

You sigh at the memory, pushing them back and standing firm in your nonchalance.

“Not here” you muffled into his chest.

Feeling his body against yours brought out the feline in you, it needed to be studied. This cat like feeling manifests as you drag your fingers up and down his back inhaling in his intoxicating fragrance.

His chin lands on the crown of your head. “I’ve missed that attitude.”

The storm that had once subsided was back, you draw back fast, smacking at his chest. “Where have you been? Of course you’ve missed me, you haven’t bothered to see me in ages' you complained, your upper lip raised in irritation.

“I’ve been busy, klein mesije” he drags pulling you back towards him by your waist.

“Yeah doing what? Playing house? At award ceremonies with that b- woman -” you collect yourself pointing at his chest with your index finger, the nonchalant facade had faded. “holding umbrellas for her and shit? You didn’t even check on me to see how I felt after seeing that all over the internet. Or check on me in general for that matter!”

“Ameena-” he chuckles at your absurdity as he swipes his hands over his face.

'And no, sending me money isn't a form of communication', you rebute, crossing your arms over you chest in an act of dominance which actually had the complete opposite effect because now his focus was on your twin giriles that were sat even higher than before on your glistening chest.

“So you wanted me to bring you as my plus one? And how would that outcome be, Ameena?” he spoke softly to your suprise. He usually got very defensive with these topics, maybe he really did miss you.

“You’re on punishment, you should never go more than a week without talking to me. It makes me feel disposable and used. You claim we have more than just sexual chemistry - an emotional connection - yet you chose to ignore my existence. This is what I mean - this is why I couldn’t have that - no - why i can't have a baby with you.”

A crash of realisation paralyses you. You attempt to renege on what you had said but it’s too late as you see his head cock to the side almost instantaneously.

You hurriedly walk to the other end of the kitchen island towards the entrace of your living room in mortification, feeling his eyes follow your silhouette.

This was a low blow from you, throughout the 2 year entanglement, he had attempted many times to 'give you his son', to which you always profusely refused - you just weren't ready. He'd get offended saying that you were unserious, this whole saga stopped when you started taking birth control meaning he could cum in you. He doesn't know this, what he thinks is that you're now willing to have kids with him. The con regarding this temporoary victory was that you didn't know how you'd address him when 5 months down the line he asks 'why aren't you pregnant yet' .

His eyebrows furrow, a moment of realisation prominent in his expression. 'What did you say, Ameena?" he shot back.

There he was, the man we usually see on the field. You had no choice but to berate yourself, you couldn't keep your gob shut! The fibres in your body stopped moving for half a second. The world felt still until you spewed out some words to escape from the deafening silence.

'I said, you should never neglect me like this again or it's done.' you rush, knowing exactly where you'd taken this conversation to.

'No. After that..'

" I - I Listen Virgil if you're in the mood to argue you should leave, you should be making it up to me right now not grilling me. You are in the wrong, admit it." Your confident attempt to gaslight him fell upon deaf ears. You begin to strut off, not wanting to deal with the can of worms you had opened up or it was going to be a long night. You hoped nothing of the sort would happen.

You never thought you were one of those girls, the type to tell on themselves in the presence of a man.

'No Ameena. Come. Here” he forefingers beckon. “That’s right, one step at a time”.

You retreat towards the island. You lean both elbows on your kitchen island. “What!?” you question unenthuiastically, itching in trepidation.

"You're being disrespectful, you know how I feel about you walking away from me. Don't do it again." He walks towards you, licking his lips slowly. Slut, you screamed in your head.

"Stand up straight" he ordered following your movement with his eyes, his chin raised. You stay in this position, side eyeing him as he walks closer to you.

He grumbles with clenched teeth.

He latches onto your arms, pulling you into his chest, your back slamming against his front.

"Ow, Virgil" you grimace.

“You’re going to do whatever the hell I tell you to do” he rasped into you ear, you feel his left hand circle around your neck. You wince, trying to wringle yourself out of his embrace.

“When I want you to have my kids, you will. I'll make you the mother of my kids. Will you stop me?" you shake your head, a moan escaping your mouth as you fight to wriggle out of his nasty grasp.

"Use your words, Ameena"

“Ok Virgil!” you answer desperately, craining your neck upwards to loosen his hold on your neck. He keeps his hand there, walking you both closer to the island, so your bare stomach is pressed against the cold marble of the counter. Your robe, in the process of your tussle with Virgil, had unravelled.

''Virgil, my hair!" you cry like a brat in fear of all the tussling ruining your silk press.

"I don't care. Say you're sorry.' you gasp.

Now he held both your hands behind your back as if you were a hostage. With ever second that passed and you were silent, he manhandled your body in a different way.

Ten seconds had passed of silence so he pulled your robe off, earning a hiss from you when the cold marble met your skin.

"So thats the only thing you heard, I literally expressed my sorrow regarding us not speaking and the only thing you caputured was that I wouldnt have your babies?" you grit out kissing your teeth in disgust.

A stinging sensation, illicits a mini scream from your lips.

"Say you're sorry!" he repeated loudly.

The reality was, you weren't sorry. In fact, that was the most truthful thing you'd ever said to him. You didn't see him divoricng his wife anytime soon, and to have a baby with a secret woman, would in return make the baby a secret; yes you were flawed butyou wouldn't dare bring a child into that type of situatipn. It wouldnt be fair.

"I'm sorry Virg. I'm cold" you whisper.

'Louder.'

"I'm sorry!"you shout. "thats so humiliating Virgil" you mutter.

"Good girl' he kisses your back, slapping your ass one more time before letting you get up.

You stand, scoffing, being naked in the kitchen always seemed to happen whilst he was here. This man, you complained in your head, what have I gotten myself into for crying out loud.

"Pick up my robe" you ordered and like a dog he does as told. I think it's because he knew I was no longer in the mood as I hated when he dominated me like that during arguments. It made me feel weak.

"Next time, use your manners" he scolds scratching his goatee, I know it took everything in him to not cuss me out for speaking to him like that.

"Really though. For real, I will not have a kid with someone who doesn't contact me when they're away from me, and who keeps me as a second option. everytime. It gives deadbeat. I know you'd hate for me to find someone he doesn't do that", you finish tieing knot around your waist.

Virgil's jaw ticks for the second time this night, he swallows the anger he feels rising up so he could articulate himself without yelling at the young girl. She hated it.

"Ameena. Don't be silly, were you not just upset with me because I was not contacting you a lot? Why do you think that was? I was doing the opposite of what you have just accused me to be. I was being a father. I was spending time with my kids, who are most important to me. How dare you call me a deadbeat".

He turns around.

A breathe gets caught in your throat, but it's forced to stay there as he continues his speech. "This is what I mean when I say you show your age, you complain about me not seeing you and not texting you for days at a time as if you don't know how much my kids mean to me.”

"You really shouldn't complain about being a second option in regard to them. That’s my family, my everything . You will always be a second option - you knew what you were getting yourself into."

Nothing comes to your brain not a rebutal, nothing. The reality that was your situation dawns upon you. You felt as if common sense had only entered into you at the start of his latter speech. Clouds of humiliation hover over you.

His words had sucked the breathe of you. He was right, you couldn't interrupt a man's life and then claim first place.

You walk to stand infront of him, your voice small. This was the first time, in ages, he had made you feel like what you were, a little girl. "So, if I have your babies, would they, as well as I, still be a second option?".

His face is stoic, the horny and playful vibe that was once in the room had dissipated. “No, they'd be equal. But since I am such a deadbeat - what was the need for the question. You already have an assumption of me lodged in your brain, no?"

“My baby” you thought, he didn't show it but you knew he was upset. He blinked often, trying to conceal the disappointment in his eyes.

You press your chest on his, the urge to be in his embrace triumphing. You attempt to wrap his heavy arms around your waist.

“I'm sorry, truly. The comment was audacious and immature . I didn’t mean it. You're an amazing father, it’s just that the reality of having your babies seem so near, and its daunting Virgil. I was just projecting my fears”.

His arms fall back to his sides as soon as you let go of them, as if his arms were dead.

The sense of disheartment you felt wasn't going to prevail. In this moment, just like other moments you both had shared, you felt the only way to express your sorrow was to initiate something sexual. It usually worked, but this time you weren't sure.

You look up at him your chin snuggled onto his chest,whining..

"Daddy, I'm so so sorry..." you bite at his crew neck pulling your head back. He liked it when you acted like this, desperate. And in this case there was no acting, you were despearte to be in his good books again.

To your suprise he is looking back down on you, earning your heart a little jump, the eye contact felt intimidating. "Virgieeeee" you drag, puckering your lips on your tip toes. Vocalising your fustration of not being able to reach his lips, despite being on your tip toes with a small cry.

A nasty thought springs into mind, your heart racing as you predict the outcome. You untie the cheetah printed robe, making sure to not lose eye contact with the man. Aroused, you pull your perky breasts out of your lace push up bra squeezing them for him, enjoying the sensations of your needy hands on them.

A barley audible groan sounds from his throat as you collect saliva in your mouth allowing it to dribble down to your twins. You loudly suck the remaining dribble back into your mouth.

Virgil's eyes darken, a little quiver underneath his left eye. He tucks his bottom lip underneath his teeth fully entraced in what you were doing. You pinch your wet nipples, causing your chest to involuntarily rise.

"virgil, i'm ready, look, so why aren't you saying anything?" you whisper in a small small voice.

"You can do me however you want .. however." you plead, your wide eyes pleading alongside your words and voice.

"Get upstairs. Now".

---

I apologise for any typos. pt.2coming soon

xxxx

[discowingneckline]

“tim drake is rightfully annoyed and mean to damian because damian tried to kill him several times”

tim can be upset about it and not want to be nice or near him, yes, but have you considered tim ALSO wouldn’t want to be around jason?? noo because you changed tim’s favorite robin to being jason to fit your little world, and they got along in newer comics and stuff. well homie, have you actually LOOKED at the comics where damian and jason try killing tim?? because i’m telling you right now, jason’s attack was FAR MORE SEVERE than damian’s. and personally, if i were a vigilante, and i were almost murdered by these two, i’d be more wary of jason, who beat the living shit out of me, over damian.

like honest to gods, it’s like can you please read comics just a bit or look at some panels or something??? 😭😭 PLEASE

[hotchscoffeecup]

for her, i’d endure

pairing: emily prentiss x reader

rating: t

word count: 7.6k

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

warnings: torture, descriptions of blood/injuries, drugs

summary: When you and Emily are kidnapped by The Chameleon, an elusive unsub that team had been tracking for years, you’re forced to watch her endure torture at his hands. In the hospital, you reel from your own injuries and the guilt of not being able to stop anything from happening to her. Angst and hurt/comfort with a happy end.

It’s hard to keep them open from the pain it causes you to try. You can’t help the slow drowsy blinking that follows. If they’re closed it doesn’t hurt as bad. Maybe this is a dream. Yeah, a dream. Just close your eyes and go to sleep, you tell yourself. You’ll feel fine in the morning.

Someone harshly whispers your name. You stir, but ignore it. Closing your eyes, you murmur something that isn’t quite a response, and try to welcome the darkness to take over. You just want to sleep whatever this is off��you try to at least. The harsh rasping whisper returns. There’s your name two, three times.

“Huh?” is all you can muster as you crack your eyes open once more. There’s a fluorescent light somewhere to your left, casting strange shadows over your field of vision. Your eyes burn. You want to close them again.

“Yes, that’s it!” cries the whisperer, “stay with me!” There’s an urgency in their voice, and as you take a few measured breaths, you gain more and more control over your senses. “Are you hurt?”

Emily. That’s Emily’s voice.

“My head,” you complain about the throbbing in your temples. “I think I hit my head.” You move to touch the side of your skull to assess the damage when your wrists don’t follow through with the command from your brain.

“What the—” There’s a sudden clarity that takes over as you hear the clatter of metal against metal. Your wrists are bound behind your back. You kick your legs out, or at least you try to. They’re bound too with zip ties to the legs of a metal chair that’s bolted to the floor.

“Don’t panic.”

“Emily?”

Fingers brush against yours from behind your back and you cling to them, though it’s awkward as you try to reach them. You’d know the feel of her hands anywhere. He’s got you and her back to back.

“I’m here,” she says soothingly, despite the edge in her voice.

“What happened?” you ask as your field of vision begins to clear and the picture of where you’re being held begins to form. It's dark save the fluorescent light you noticed earlier. There’s a few panels in the ceiling still flickering to life, though most are dark. Wires and cables hang haphazardly from the ceiling and water drips from a cracked pipe that stretches over the width of the room. The floor beneath your feet is concrete. You can’t see a door and the only windows are two small rectangles high near the ceiling. You’re underground. “Where are we?”

“The Chameleon,” Emily says after a short while.

Your heart skips a beat and you have to take a few measured breaths to keep the panic from creeping in. “You’re sure?”

The Chameleon, nicknamed such by the local media, is a serial killer that you and the team had been chasing across the East Coast for the last two years.You and the team didn’t care much for these nicknames as they often sensationalize the killer and detract from the victims, but it the name was fitting due to his nature to blend in to every environment he’s been a part of. This is largely due to how he is able to gain his victims' trust. Some of his known ruses include posing as law enforcement, a member of the clergy, other first responders, caretaker for a “lost” elderly patient, and more. He’d feign a scenario that caused the victims to unlock their doors, stop their cars, or otherwise pull their focus under the guise of safety. Once their guard was down, that was all he needed to ensnare them in his trap. Victims were initially blitz attacked, as evident by the bruising to their heads and faces, but as he evolved he began to dose them with heavy sedatives before taking them to a secondary location where he’d hold them for twenty four hours. During this time, he tortured his victims indiscriminately; sometimes cutting, sometimes burning, sometimes removing pieces of them or utilizing a combination of all three before ultimately succumbing to his need to kill. He favored a knife, often slitting the throats of his victims once he’d grown tired of playing with them. Despite his ability to blend in and kidnap his victims undetected, everything else originally pointed to someone just starting out, unsure of their preferences. However, this unsub evolved quickly. Victimology stopped differing and he’d settled on a pattern for women in their thirties, dark features, and often in roles that provided some sort of power. Though methods of torture varied, the rotation or combination of torture implicated states similar enough to create a pattern. He stuck to the routine, though. One woman every three months for the last two years. That was until recently. Now, a woman had been going missing weekly, suggesting a major deviation. Something had changed for this unsub, increasing his need to kill quicker and more often. Emily fits the victimology, but taking you too? It didn’t make sense? He’d never taken in pairs before.

“Fuck,” you mutter. You pull at the cuffs around your wrists, but they’re clamped too tightly. They don’t budge. “How long was I out?” you ask.

“Hours,” Emily responds. She sounds tired. “I don’t know how many.”

You blindly reach for her fingers again, this time with your other hand. When you brush against them, they’re slick with something.

“Emily?” you ask, concern edging into your voice. “What’s he done to you?”

“Cutting,” Emily answers clinically. “Left arm, chest, and right leg. They’re superficial.”

Red clouds your vision knowing he’d hurt the woman you love, and that you’d not been conscious enough to at least try to do anything about it. When you get your hands around this bastard’s neck…you yank hard against your restraints and hiss when all it does is cause the metal to dig deeper into your wrists.

“Baby, stop,” Emily whispers, keeping her voice low in case The Chameleon can hear. “We’ve been closing in on this guy. We just have to hope the team recognizes we’re gone before…” her voice trails off as a door opens.

Your heart stops and then starts, it’s usually steady beat now pumping erratically against your chest. You remind yourself to breathe, to take measured breaths to slow your heart and fight off the instinct to panic. The body’s natural inclination for self-preservation is astounding, but you couldn’t just think about yourself right now. You needed to be alert and look for anyway to wriggle into this guy’s psyche, anything to keep him from hurting Emily any further.

There’s a metallic clank as whatever door that’s out of your eye line slams shut. Heavy footsteps echo in the space and you count. Twenty four. There’s twenty four steps. You can’t fight the way your body tenses as a silhouette begins to emerge from the shadows. As the figure comes into focus, your eyes widen in surprise.

“Surprised to see me?” the man says, a twisted smile curving on his

“You know him?” Emily asks as she attempts to crane her neck to look at him.

You take in the man before you: white, mid-30s, average build, dark curly hair, and blue eyes wild with evil intent. You don’t know his name, but you've seen him before. You all had. Your mind flashes to each body dump where the team had investigated and gathered initial evidence to further flesh out the profile. You close your eyes and let your mind’s eye expand your field of vision to include the gathering crowd of onlookers. As you mentally guide yourself through each crime scene, you can clearly see him.

“You were there the whole time,” you say with a surprisingly level of calm as you open your eyes and meet his gaze directly.

He extends his arms to either side, a look-at-all-i-have-accomplished gesture, though there’s no audience save the two of you to take in his performance. “What can I say?” he says. “The media named me for my ability to blend in anywhere I go. I like the nickname, I do.” He points his finger at you as he begins to circle around you and Emily like you’re an injured seal in shark infested waters. “Though you profilers don’t like when these major news outlets do that. It sensationalizes the killer while taking away from victims.” He stops in front of you and bends at the waist to look you in the eye. You muster as much contempt into your gaze as possible.

“Good,” he snarls. “Those sluts aren’t worth remembering anyway. Any thoughts on that, agent?”

You nod. “Yeah, actually, I think I’m pretty tired of listening to you whine about your mommy issues.” A fire ignites in his eyes as you say this. You smirk. “Ooo, that did something. Did that strike a nerve?”

His lip curls as he takes a shuddering breath.

“I think I did, didn’t I?”

His knuckles collide with your face and there’s an explosion of stars behind your eyes as you feel your lip split in two. Emily calls your name and curses the unsub’s. There’s a buzzing in your ears as you blink the fog away. You sit up as best as you can and spit blood onto the floor. If his attention is on you, it’s not on Emily.

“Is that the best you can do?” you say, leveling your gaze back on The Chameleon. “You had to hit me from behind the first time. Are you scared to face a woman head on? Too much of a coward to face them? Or are you just too weak?” You incline your head toward your lap. “After all, you’ve got us tied up. Untie me and we’ll see just how well you do one on one.”

The Chameleon seethes, nostrils flaring as his rage blossoms. “You know nothing!” he bites.

“We know, everything.” You answer. He may not have been on the team’s radar, but you’ve seen this type before; a man that’s been forced into a submissive role and emasculated his entire life finally snaps and turns the tables on innocent women to make up for the lack of care he missed out on from a mother figure his entire life. He blames them because he can’t take his anger out on the person he wants to most. Mommy.

“Do you?” he sneers and you don’t flinch away from his hot breath on your neck.

“You’re easier to read than a children’s nursery rhyme,” you taunt.

The Chameleon snarls and this time his knuckles collide with the center of your face and there’s a sickening crunch. Blood pours from your broken nose onto the front of your shirt.

“Enough!” Emily shouts. “She’s not the one you want.”

You blink through the haze and blaring pain. Emily’s name is garbled as you try to say it, but there’s too much blood in your mouth. Just like the flickering gaze of a reptile, his eyes shift instantly to her. The desire that alights his face makes you want to throw up. She’s the one that fits the victimology. She’s the surrogate, the object of desire in his twisted fantasy.

“I think,” he says slowly, and you’re surprised you don’t see a serpentine tongue flicker between his lips. “That this next part will be more fun with an audience.”

Your vision shifts in and out of focus as you follow his movements. He shuffles just out of view of your peripheral vision and trying to force your eyes to see farther than they can exacerbates the splitting pain in your skull and face. Everything throbs. You can hardly see straight.

He returns with a syringe in hand. He holds it up for you to see. “Maybe I am weak,” he says bitterly. “But I’m the one in control and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He pushes the syringe into your arm and a slow, metallic heat creeps through your veins. Your limbs quickly grow heavy and your senses begin to dull.

Behind you, Emily pulls at her restraints. “Hey! What are you giving her? Leave her alone. You don’t want her, you want me.”

A choked laugh escapes the unsub as he cuts the zip ties at your ankles. You want to kick out at him and knock that smug look off of his face but the signals from your brain are cut off. Your body won’t follow the command your mind is ordering due to the drugs scrambling your system. Your eyelids are heavy. You want to close them. The unsub recognizes this and slaps at your face. “No, no. You can’t close your eyes, now. You’ve got a show to watch.” His lips twist into a sickeningly delighted smile. He slips a key from his pocket and undoes both sets of cuffs keeping you bound to the chair. You slump forward against him and he catches your weight easily. He wraps his arms around your waist and grunts as he hoists you over his shoulder. There’s static coursing through your limbs and despite every wish and desire to lift even a finger, your limbs don’t cooperate.

You slide off of him like rain down a windowpane, though instead of coming to a gentle stop you hit the ground like a stone thrown into a pond; all of your weight crashing down. Your head rattles against the wall and stars explode across your vision once more.

Emily calls your name and you try to focus on that. You blink and her form comes into focus. She’s bound in the same manner that you were in a chair exactly like yours. There’s blood staining her clothes, her blouse cut to ribbons and her pant leg tattered from where he slit it open with a knife; the same knife he used to cut into skin. Blood drips onto the floor.

She smiles at you and her gaze is so tender as her eyes meet yours. “Whatever he does to me, it is not your fault.” She’s soothing you. She’s about to endure more torture and she’s trying to comfort you.

You want to speak, to tell her you’re sorry, that you love her. You want to stand, to untie her and take her to safety. Most of all you want to put that unsub in the ground. A single tear leaks from your eye as The Chameleon wheels a tray table near Emily. The soft eyes she reserved for you steel upon seeing him.

He picks up a scalpel, his fingers gentle as he curls them around it; a stark contrast to the violence he inflicts with it. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Emily licks her lips and raises her chin to look him in the eye, defiant in the face of danger. “I’ve already come back from the dead once before. At least if you’re successful, I know whose ass I’m haunting first.” She narrows her brown eyes to slits. “Come on, lizard boy. Let’s dance.”

•

Tears leak down your cheeks as you’re forced to watch what he does to her. She continues to taunt him, but her voice has grown weak. She’s losing too much blood.

“I wonder,” Emily says, her breathing labored. She lifts her gaze to meet the unsub’s. “You love that knife.” She inclines her chin toward the blade in his hand and his fingers twitch. “Tell me, is it because you can’t get up? Are our mommy issues too severe?”

A wild scream tears from his throat as he backhands her. A sharp grunt of pain leaves her lips but no scream. She sheds no tears for him. She’ll show no fear to him and allow him to feed off of her emotions like he did with his other victims, but he knows she must be feeling the weight of the torture, of the exhaustion settling in.

Her voice is tired, but her words are dagger tipped. “You’re not a man,” she spits blood on the ground, her teeth stained with it as she bares them at him. “You’re just a coward, a little boy missing mommy’s hand to guide him through your pathetic, wayward life.” Each word is sharp and articulated, a needle digging a little deeper and deeper into his flesh with each cutting syllable.

“Enough!” he bellows, spittle flying from his mouth as he lifts his arm. In one swift downward motion, he plunges the scalpel into her thigh.

She screams, her voice ragged and raw. A panicked sound bubbles in your throat, but the drugs overpower your ability to call out to her. Your fingers twitch as you try to summon any amount of strength to them, but to no avail. You can’t move them anymore that. You try to wiggle your toes and only feel a tinge of movement from them. Tears leak down your cheeks and drip off of your chin. The tear stains left behind are cold overtop of the dried blood smeared across your face from your broken nose, still throbbing with pain.

Emily sits hunched over, her shoulders heave with shuddering breaths. She’s breathing. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive. The thought plays on repeat in your mind. If she dies, there is no place this slimy, spineless creature can hide where you wouldn’t be able to find him.

A strangled moan rumbles from behind your lips as The Chameleon approaches Emily. There’s a smirk on his lips as he brushes his fingers along her jawline. Just as quickly as the smirk appears, it dissipates as he shoves her face away from him, disgust twisting his features.

“I think I’ve had enough of you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “You’re all the same. There is no place for women like you. I’m doing the world a favor by getting rid of you.” He picks up another knife off the tray table and moves to stand behind Emily, knife poised beneath her throat. His shifting eyes fall on you and his smile returns. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the show.”

You feel your brow pinch as a wash of emotion floods through you. Your hand twitches and you manage to ball it into a fist, but you can’t force much more than that.

“Emi—” your tongue lolls inside your mouth and you can’t get her name out but it’s enough to get her attention. Her wavering brown eyes fall on yours and you hope she can feel your full apology and profession of love in your eyes as you await the inevitable.

“I love you,” she mouths and a sob shudders free from your own.

A single gunshot cracks through the air like a whip.

As the unsub slumps to the ground, Derek’s hulking frame comes into view. “He’s down!” He calls as he holsters his weapon and rushes to Emily. His hand moves to the knife in her leg.

“Don’t!” Emily warns. “Let the medics handle it. The keys to the cuffs are in his pocket.”

As Derek squats beside the unsub Hotch and Spencer clamber down the stairs, spilling into the room.

“We need medics,” Derek says to them, eyes filled with concern. “We need them now.”

“Copy that,” Spencer states as he presses against his earpiece and relays the information.

Hotch holsters his gun and rushes to your side. Crouching down, his hands smooth your hair back from your face to inspect the damage.

“Can you hear me?” he says. You blink heavily as his face comes in and out of focus. He repeats the question and says your name. He’s asking you to talk to him, but you can’t.

“He injected her with something,” Emily says weakly as Derek works to uncuff her. “A sedative or a paralytic, I don’t know. She can’t move. She can’t, she can’t—” Emily’s eyes flutter and roll back in her head. Your eyes widen as she slumps forward. Derek catches her before she can face plant the concrete and risk dislodging the scalpel sticking out of her thigh before the medics can do their job to ensure she’s not at risk of bleeding out, if she wasn’t already.

Your hand twitches, fingers jerking against your palm as a sound of desperation eeks past your still lips. Hotch presses his hand into yours and squeezes. His hard eyes meet yours and there’s pain and understanding in them. He’s born witness to seeing the love of his life killed by an unsub. It was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. He had to hope that Emily would survive what she’d endured here tonight. He squeezes all of that hope into your palm as the medics crash down the steps, backboards and kits at the ready.

“She’ll be okay,” Hotch promises, though there’s a hint of doubt on the edge of his words. “You’ll be okay.”

As the medics make way and his hand slips free from yours, you can only hope and pray that what he says is true.

•

A gentle beeping is the first thing you hear as your senses slowly creep back to life. The sound is soft, but each punctuated tone sends a pulse of pain to the space behind your eyes.

Your eyes crack open and you squeeze them shut again as the bright white of the fluorescent lighting blinds you.

“Shit,” you hiss. Your voice is hoarse.

“Hey, you!” greets a female voice. Penelope’s voice.

“Too bright,” you grumble.

“Oh! Hold on!” Her heels click against the tile of the hospital floor, a switch flicks, and the light behind your eyelids darkens. You feel the relief immediately though the bruising around your eyes and throbbing pain reverberating through your nose and cheeks starts to overwhelm your senses as you become more alert.

You crack one eye and Penelope’s bright face comes into view. Her pink cat eared headband matches her glasses frames and lipstick. Her smile reaches her eyes and that only just eases some of the anxiety that floods your system, the only other thing you’re able to feel besides the pain. If Emily was dead, Penelope wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye right now.

“I need to see her,” you say, sitting up and immediately regretting it. The room spins and your hand flies to your head, fingers pressed against your temple in a poor attempt to stop the whirling sensation.

“Sweetie, oh my God, don’t—” she stands up and crosses the room, but you’re already pushing the sheets back.

You curse as you rip the IV from your arm, the tape holding it in place ripping out the hairs on your arm. Garcia tries to take hold of your hands, but you bury them inside the folds of the hospital gown as your fingers feel for the numerous electrodes tacked to your chest. Hooking the tips of your fingers around the wire once you find a place to bunch them together, one swift tug is all it takes to dislodge them. The machine beside the bed flat lines as it no longer receives your heart rate.

“Honey please don’t make me—” Her face scrunches as you move to stand. She sticks her arms out to block you from doing so “Oh, you’re going to make me, ok— Derek! Hotch!”

Her shouts are like a drill through your skull. You blink and black spots your vision as it blurs. The pain in your face is so intense, but you have to push through it. If Emily could endure what she did, you can push through this to get to wherever the hell they were keeping her in this goddamn hospital.

Hotch and Derek burst into the room, eyes frantic and scanning the scene. Morgan swiftly cuts through the space, swerving in front of Penelope and taking you by the arms. Garcia may have hesitated to stop you in your tracks but Derek has no reservations whatsoever.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks sternly.

Two nurses rush into the room and Hotch placates them with a gesture implying things are under control . He says something to them in a low voice and they glance your way once before nodding and leaving the space.

“I need to see her,” you say as you push against Derek, but in your current state you may as well be trying to push the Leaning Tower of Pisa upright.

His grip around your wrists is firm, but gentle; his hands placed just above the bandages from where the cuffs had bitten into your skin.

“She’s not awake yet,” Derek says. His features soften as he looks into your panic filled eyes. “She’s stable. She’ll be okay, and I promise you that the minute she wakes up I will take you to see her.”

“But Derek—”

He clicks his tongue. “No buts. You’re no use to her if you’re not well. You nearly overdosed on the drugs that man gave you. He broke your nose so badly, they had to re-break it to set it correctly. You have a concussion. Are you hearing me? You need to get your ass back in that bed.”

“Honey, listen to him.” Garcia adds, her voice equal parts soothing and concerned. “You can barely stand.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as hot tears well in your eyes. They slip down your cheeks and seep into the medical tape plastered to your face and nose. You draw in a shuddering breath as Derek guides you back into the bed. He presses a warm hand to your shoulder before stepping back and putting an arm around Garcia.

“Come on, mama, let’s go get a coffee while the nurses get her hooked back in.”

Penelope’s mouth drops into an o-shape as if she’s about to protest.

“I’ll stay with her,” Hotch assures her. “Go. I’ll call if anything changes.” That comforts her enough to let Derek steer her out of the room and into the hallway.

As the sound of their footsteps fade away, Hotch exhales a heavy sigh. The heels of his loafers click against the tile as he crosses the room and takes the chair Penelope had been occupying at your bedside.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as he reaches over and presses the call button to summon the nurses.

“Like someone cracked me in the face with a sledgehammer.”

A hint of a smile passes over your supervisor’s lips and a ghost of a laugh passes your own. You wince as the motion sends a new wave of pain rippling throughout your face.

“How bad is it?” you ask.

“The doctors say it should heal fine. They’re baffled that the break didn’t do any damage to your septum. The bruising will take time but you won’t need surgery so—”

You lift your eyes to meet his. “Not me, Hotch.”

His lips press into a firm line. “She lost a lot of blood,” he says after a moment. “In total, he cut her about fifteen times before stabbing her. She was right to tell Morgan not to pull the scalpel out. It was dangerously close to her femoral artery. The unsub was either incredibly calculated in avoiding it or it was dumb luck that saved her.”

Your brow pinches as his words sink in. “What was his name?”

Hotch’s chin dips in response to your question. “Carson Peters. He was a Vet Tech on the perimeter of the geographic profile. We never even interviewed him.”

“The whole time we never knew his name,” you breathe.

“If I know Emily, I’m sure she came up with a few,” Hotch remarks, trying to lighten the mood.

Your lips twitch, but a smile doesn’t take shape. There is an entire slew of names you’d wanted to hurl at the unsub, to say anything that would have taken his attention off of Emily for even a second but you couldn’t because of the drugs he’d pumped into you. You squeeze your eyes shut as an image of him cutting Emily flashes through your mind.

Hotch says your name. You hear the deep tenor of his voice, but it’s as though you’re underwater. Emily’s cries of anguish echo in your ears.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as a tear leaks from the corner of your eyes. “Emily, I’m sorry.”

A firm hand slips into yours and you gasp, flinching from the contact. The image distorts and vanishes. You open your eyes and take a deep breath, dropping your gaze onto the hand in yours. You lift your eyes to meet Hotch’s hard stare. His fingers squeeze around yours and he nods.

“You’re safe,” he assures you. “Carson Peters is dead. He can’t hurt you, Emily, or anyone else ever again.”

Your fingers twitch around his as you blink back the onslaught of tears that want to pour out of you. “I couldn’t do anything.”

Hotch’s features soften. “I know.”

“I couldn’t stop him.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

You swallow the growing lump in your throat. Hotch squeezes your hand again, intentionally doing so to keep your mind from wandering. He’s keeping you grounded.

Your voice cracks when you speak. “I felt so helpless.”

“I know,” Hotch states as he levels his gaze on hours. His brown eyes waver as he speaks. “Witnessing a loved one’s abuse and not being able to do anything about it is a torture all its own. In our positions we have the authority to do something about it and in most cases, we can. When we can’t,” he pauses and takes a deep breath. “It’s natural to play it over and over again, to wonder where you went wrong, to think that somewhere along the line you could’ve done something, anything, to change the outcome.” His brow lifts toward his hairline. “We will kill ourselves ruminating on the what ifs and what could have beens.”

We. He’s not just talking about you anymore. He’s talking about his past when the unsub George Foyet killed his wife, Haley. You’d joined the team several years after her murder, but you’d been briefed fully on the case. It was well known to everyone in the BAU.

It’s your turn to squeeze his hand and you realize how out of the ordinary this exchange is. You’re as close to Hotch as anyone else on the team, but he’s not usually the touchy-feely type; the occasional half hug or handshake sure, but this level of vulnerability is uncommon.

A nurse walks into the room and Hotch stands to greet her. He shakes her hand and introduces himself formally; name, rank, and title. Establishing credibility for what, you wonder. He speaks in low tones and after a moment the nurse looks at you before looking back at him. She nods her head and he thanks her before she exits the room.

“What was that about?” you ask.

“A favor,” he answers as the nurse guides a wheelchair into the room.

“Five minutes,” the nurse says, aiming a pointed look at Hotch.

“Understood.”

The nurse leaves and Hotch pushes the chair up to the edge of the bed. He slips a hand behind your back to help stabilize you as he extends his other hand for you to grab hold of.

“Where are we going?” you ask as you take the proffered hand. You groan as you sit up and your head spins. You swear you can feel every bone in your face throbbing as pain threatens to split you in two.

“To see Emily.”

Your heart swells. You look at Hotch, eyes widening. “I thought—”

“I told the nurse you’d stay put and allow them to do their jobs and help you if you were allowed to see her. Hence, the five minutes.”

“Five minutes,” you repeat, nodding your head.

Hotch smiles reassuringly. “Five minutes.”

Slowly, Hotch assists with the transition from bed to chair. The shift exhausts you and it sinks in just how weak you are. However, the prospect of seeing Emily keeps you alert enough to push through.

The trip to Emily’s hospital room is short. She’s two right turns and one long hallway away from yours. The door to her room is cracked when you arrive and JJ opens it as Hotch reaches for the door.

“Sweetie!” JJ smiles brightly at you, though her eyes are tired. She leans down to pull you in a gentle hug, minding your face as she does so.

Her eyes flit between you and Hotch. “She’s in and out of consciousness. They’ve got her on some pretty strong painkillers, but she’s going to be alright.”

“Are you ready?” Hotch asks.

Your heart hammers in your ears, but you nod your head and whisper, “Yes.”

JJ steps out of the way so Hotch can wheel you inside the room. You raise your chin to peer over the threshold and whimper upon seeing Emily, hand moving to cover your trembling lips. She lies still beneath the sheets, which are pulled up over her lap. Her arms sit atop the sheet, her left arm bandaged from above the elbow to her wrist. Bandages peek out from beneath her hospital gown. An oxygen cannula is fitted under her nose and butterfly bandages hold close the split in her eyebrow. Hotch puts the brake in place after wheeling you right up to her bedside. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “JJ and I will be right outside. Five minutes,” he says.

Your eyes don’t leave Emily. “I understand.”

When the door clicks shut you let the floodgates open. You take Emily’s hand in yours, minding the IV jutting out from it, and cradle it to your cheek. “I’m so sorry,” you sob. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t do anything to stop what he was doing to you.”

You blink away the stars that dot your vision as each sob sends an intense wave of pain through the break in your nose and bruising under your eyes.

Emily’s thumb sweeps slowly across your cheek. You take a shuddering breath and swallow your tears as you turn your attention to her. Her eyes crack open and a small smile ghosts her lips.

You gasp and choke back a sob. The smile that splits your face sends a burst of pain through your bones, but you don’t care. It doesn’t matter. You’d feel this pain and all that she endured to see her warm, brown eyes on yours like they are now. Her smile, despite the pain meds dulling her senses, reaches her eyes and they’re so bright. As you look into them, for a moment you’re no longer in the hospital. You’re on a bench overlooking the Potomac and the sun is setting; its golden rays falling over Emily’s face and her eyes changed from brown to liquid gold. It was then you knew you’d never love looking into someone’s eyes as much as you loved looking into hers, that you’d never love anyone as much as you loved her.

You blink once and you’re back in the hospital. “I’m so sorry,” you blubber and clutch her hand to your chest. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

Her voice is hoarse when she speaks, but the way she says your name is as soothing as ever. She shushes you and presses her fingers into your skin as she grips your hand. “Shh, baby, honey, look at me.”

You swallow and try your best to still your quivering lip as you raise your eyes to hers. Hers are focused as she looks at you. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows arch toward her hairline as she inclines her head toward you. “There is nothing that you could’ve done that would’ve prevented this, and that is okay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head in refusal.

“Hey,” Emily says, pulling you back in. “Look at me.”

You sniff and take a deep breath as you open your eyes. “If anything,” she adds. “Your being there saved my life. He drew out the torture because he had an audience. If you hadn’t been there, there’s a chance he would’ve killed me before the team got to him. Do you understand?”

Your gut response tells you that she’s right, and you have to fight the part of your brain that’s telling you otherwise.

Her hand slips out of yours and reaches to cup your face, keeping her palm along your jawline to avoid your injuries.

She smiles and gestures to herself with her other hand. “Most of this is superficial anyway. The knife he jammed into my thigh will scar and take a while to heal, but that’s the worst that was done to me. I was,” she presses her lips together as tears glisten in her eyes. “I was so worried about you.”

Something between a laugh and a sob escapes your lips. “We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

Emily laughs in turn, the sound enough to make your heart swell three times over. “At least we’ll be able to spend our recovery together,” she says hopefully.

You smirk and tilt your head, considering. “My place or yours?”

Just then the door creaks open and Hotch steps inside. He smiles. “Sorry to cut the reunion short, but if I don’t get you back, I think the charge nurse will have my gun and badge.”

You all share a laugh. As he fixes the brake on the wheelchair, Emily tugs your hand toward her mouth and places a soft kiss to the backs of your knuckles. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You smile and nod as the tight feeling in your chest from before ebbs away. “Okay.”

As Hotch exits the room with you in tow, JJ hands you two cups of coffee. “For you and your watchdog,” she says with a nod towards Hotch.

You thank her and as Hotch pushes you back towards your room, you finally feel like things will be okay.

•

Two weeks later, you’re still on medical leave, but you feel as though you're getting back to normal. You’d been released from the hospital first and a few days later, Emily. Her apartment was bigger, so you’d gone to yours and with help from Penelope packed a bag. It was easier for you two to be in the same place knowing how often the team would be checking in.

Garcia had stayed over with you, helping you keep track of the medications the doctors had prescribed. She helped take care of Sergio too. The little guy had been all too happy to see you, weaving in between your legs and rubbing his furry head against your calves. When Emily returned home a few days later he couldn’t stop meowing. When she rested, he’d fall asleep beside her or curled up in her lap.

Just as expected, members of the team had been through in pairs, on their own, or as a whole. Penelope stopped in daily with coffees and pastries from the shop next to Emily’s building. Derek came by every other day, occasionally with Savannah when her work schedule allowed. She’d checked Emily’s wounds a few times from your insisting as you were worried about infection. Savannah assured you each time that Emily was and would continue to be fine so long as she kept up with changing her bandages and taking the antibiotics she’d been prescribed. Hotch had only visited once, which was unnecessary but still so kind of him. You knew he often stayed late working to ensure everyone else could go home on time. He did this all while balancing his responsibility as a father and the fact that he sacrificed a little bit more of his personal time just to check in on you two meant so much. Rossi had sent homemade Italian with Penelope or Derek. This week you’d been given enough carbonara to feed an army.

You’re fixing two bowls now for you and Emily, a late dinner as you’d both fallen asleep around 3pm and napped until 7pm no thanks to the pain medicines that kept you two on relatively similar sleep schedules. You shred some parmesan and sprinkle it over the top before sticking a fork into each.

“I’ve got dinner!” you call as you make your way back to the bedroom.

“Thank god, I’m starving.” You push open the door with your hip and place the bowls on Emily’s bedside table.

You lean down and kiss her, wincing slightly. The bruising around your eyes and cheekbones has gone down dramatically, but your nose was still bound and held in place by a splint and medical tape. The doctors say in about a week or so, it should be healed completely but to still exercise caution with day to day activities.

Emily rests on top of the covers. Her hair is up and out of her face in a loose ponytail, pieces of which had fallen out while sleeping and now stick to and around her face in various places. You try your best to smooth them down before cupping her chin in your hand. You smile and stroke your fingers along the smooth skin of her jaw before dropping your hands to pull the throw blanket down off of her waist, exposing her legs, bare except for the plaid pajama shorts she wears and bandages wrapped around her thigh.

She shivers in response to the air against her legs. “Sheesh, give a girl some warning!” she protests and you throw her a cheeky grin.

You open the bedside drawer and retrieve the supplies to clean and dress her wound. “We should finish the rest of that movie,” you suggest as you climb onto the bed to kneel beside her. Using a small pair of scissors, you carefully snip away the bandages to reveal the square gauze pad covering the wound. “I want to know how it ends and we keep falling asleep.”

Emily snorts. “That’ll happen when we both take narcotics before bed thinking we’ll make it to the end.”

“Yeah, but,” you remove the gauze and inspect the incision, searching for any signs of infection around the twelve carefully placed stitches. As you squeeze a bit of the antibacterial ointment onto your finger and gently rub it over the spiky black threads of the sutures, you can’t help but think of how much it resembles the caterpillars that used to invade the trees in your backyard as a kid, a story Emily did not care for your retelling when you first did this. “It shouldn’t be so hard to make it through a two hour movie.”

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen The Parent Trap,” Emily says, bristling as your fingers rub over a particularly sensitive area.

You apologize as you lay a fresh gauze pad over the wound. Your fingers move quickly as you unroll and wind a new roll of bandages to keep the gauze in place. When you finish, you wipe your hands off and gently massage the skin around her thigh knowing it helps to stimulate blood flow to the area.

Emily moans in response to the treatment. Her head lolls to the side and she peeks at you from behind long lashes. “I can’t wait to show you how grateful I am for your incredible nursing skills.”

You arch a brow at her as a smile quirks at the corner of your mouth. “Down girl,” you tease playfully.

Emily bends her opposite leg, raising her heel to curve around your body. She pokes her toes up under your tee shirt and your back stiffens as they touch your skin. You reach behind your back and grab her by the ankle, chastising her as you laugh and place it back on the mattress. “Emily!”

“What??” she asks, laughter tumbling from her full lips.

“We’ve not been cleared yet for that!”

She pouts in response and you clamber over her, carefully, so as not to disturb the injuries of her leg. You straddle her waist and lean down to place a soft kiss along the curve of her jaw. “Trust me, I want to get back to that as much as you do.” Your eyes drop to the swell of her breasts, her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her camisole. “But you and I both know neither one of us are capable of having gentle sex, and I don’t think our doctors would be happy if we did anything to make this take any longer than it already is.”

Emily groans in frustration. “Stupid doctors and their stupid orders.”

You laugh as you lean down to grab your dinners off her nightstand. Carefully, you lift your leg and roll over her body to your side of the bed; passing Emily her bowl as you do so. You reach down and pull the throw blanket up over both of you as you snuggle into the uninjured half of her body. She turns and places a kiss on your temple as she grabs the remote and clicks on the tv.

As she twirls pasta around on her fork, she turns to you and smiles. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” she says, eyes twinkling.

You smile in turn. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be than with you here, right now, at this moment in time.”

“I love you,” she says.

“Not as much as I love you,” you answer.

“Impossible,” Emily promises.

[seulgisqt]

𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 — laura freigang

laura freigang x frankfurt!reader

(a/n: had this sitting on my drive for eons, so let me finally finish it)

word count: 1433

genre: fluff, enemies to lovers if you squint incredibly hard

summary: coach calls it a friendly rivalry, but laura’s been flirting all season, and now she has you cornered in a broken elevator.

It all began as a playful jest. Coach Niko, sporting his trademark cheeky grin, had casually told the gathered reporters that Eintracht Frankfurt was blessed with “too many talented strikers” and that “a little healthy competition never hurt anyone.” However, anyone who had been paying close attention could easily discern that there was much more beneath the surface.

Laura Freigang, the team’s shining star with a contagious laugh and a penchant for drama both on and off the field, had embraced the so-called “friendly rivalry” with you with a fierce intensity—though perhaps not in the way most people presumed.

“Beat you to double digits,” she had whispered playfully during a particularly gruelling training session, nudging you with her shoulder after executing a flawlessly smooth finish. The gleam in her eye was challenging, electric.

You merely arched an eyebrow, wiped the beads of sweat accumulating on your brow, and turned away, leaving her to bask in her triumph.

It wasn’t that you harboured any ill will toward Laura; the situation was… more intricate than that. Laura embodied everything you weren't—bold, effortlessly charming, and undeniably magnetic. And you didn’t trust magnetic.

As the polished elevator doors slid shut with a soft, reassuring ding in the dimly lit corridor of the hotel where the team was staying for the away game, a wave of regret washed over you. If only you had paid more attention to those faded elevator maintenance signs plastered near the entrance.

Suddenly, the elevator jolted, lurching to an abrupt stop. The fluorescent light overhead flickered unsteadily, casting brief shadows against the stainless steel walls.

Instinctively, you reached out, your palm pressing against the cool metal of the wall to steady yourself, heart pounding slightly in your chest.

Laura, standing beside you, blinked in disbelief, and her fingers darted to the emergency button, pressing it twice with a sense of urgency. “No way,” she muttered under her breath. “Did we really just get stuck?”

You leaned forward to press the control panel yourself, but to no avail. “Looks like it,” you responded, the reality of the situation settling in.

With a playful glint in her eyes, Laura turned to face you, a crooked grin spreading across her face. “You didn’t sabotage this, did you? Trying to mess with my head before Sunday’s game?”

You let out a bemused exhale through your nose. “If I wanted to sabotage you, I’d just pass to myself during the match.” 

Her laughter bounced off the confined metal walls, a bright sound cutting through the cramped space. “Oof. Okay, I deserved that,” she admitted, her grin widening.

A beat of silence. You folded your arms.

“Do you ever, like…turn off the intensity?” Laura asked after a minute, settling cross-legged on the floor like they were in a yoga class instead of a stalled lift.

“Do you ever stop talking?” You replied flatly.

Laura grinned wider. “Not if I can help it.”

You looked down at your trainers. “Why do you keep pushing?”

Laura tilted her head. “Pushing you?”

“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” you muttered.

Laura’s smile faltered for the first time.

“This?” she asked softly. 

You gestured vaguely. “The teasing. The looks. The jokes. The late passes you never finish properly.”

Laura’s voice was quiet. “What if I told you it wasn’t a joke?”

The gravity of her words settled around you, heavy and unyielding, thicker than the silence that followed. You stole a glance at her; she was no longer looking at you but instead focused on a frayed thread on her sock, her brow furrowing slightly in thought.

“It’s not just rivalry,” the blonde continued, her voice losing some of its usual bravado.. “You make me nervous, you know. That’s why I act like such an idiot around you. You’re cool and unreadable, a little terrifying, honestly. But also really…kind. Underneath it all.”

You frowned. “I’m not kind.”

“You gave your protein bar to our intern last week because she skipped lunch.”

“That’s not—”

“You pick up trash after practice like it personally offends you.”

You sighed. “So?”

Her smile softened as she took a breath, grounding herself in that moment. “So,” she said, her voice steady yet vulnerable, “I actually like you. Not just because of your fierce competitiveness or those sharp elbows you throw on the pitch. I genuinely like you. And I don’t know how to say that without joking, because I’m not as brave as you think.” 

You stared at her, caught off guard. There was an unmistakable vulnerability beneath her playful facade—a nervous flicker in her knee, which bounced up and down rhythmically as if echoing your own racing heartbeat. You felt that familiar tension in the air, an intricate mix of rivalry and something far deeper, breathless and waiting. 

Finally, you mustered the courage to speak, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not good at this.” At that, Laura let out a soft chuckle, the sound light yet filled with sincerity. “Join the club. I’ve been fumbling through this for months now.”

A faint smile flickered across your lips, a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “So, what happens now?”

Laura's gaze darted upwards, her brown eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “Now we wait for someone to fix the lift. Hopefully, before you strangle me.”

“I haven’t ruled it out.”

The two of you erupted into laughter, the tension dissipating momentarily. Then, the laughter faded, leaving a comfortable silence, and easing the strain of the situation.

With a hint of challenge in her voice, Laura leaned back against the cool metal wall, arms crossed, an easy confidence radiating from her stance. “Ever thought about passing me the ball for once?”

“You ever thought about being in position for it?” you shot back.

Laura grinned. “Touché.”

Minutes slipped by as the two of you settled into a rhythm of companionable quiet. Laura began to hum softly, a gentle melody that danced on the edges of familiarity but remained just out of reach. You couldn’t help but shake your head, amused by her carefree spirit.

Breaking the silence, she glanced over at you, her voice tinged with vulnerability. “I always thought you didn’t like me.”

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you replied honestly, “I don’t dislike you. It’s just…trusting things that come too easily makes me wary. You make it look easy.”

Laura’s voice turned gentle. “It’s not.”

As your eyes locked, the air between you shifted. The tension still lingered, but it was different now—less of a suffocating weight and more of a delicate thread that connected you.

“So you’re nervous around me?” You asked with a smirk.

“Terrified.”

“Good.”

The overhead light flickered ominously, casting brief shadows across the small, cramped space of the lift. Suddenly, with a small jolt that sent a ripple of uncertainty through both of you, the elevator resumed its upward journey.

Laura brushed her fingers through her tousled hair, smoothing down the fabric of her shorts. “You know,” she remarked with a playful tone, “this has turned into the most unexpected therapy session I've ever had.”

You rose to your feet as well. “You’re not so bad. Off the pitch,” you replied, a hint of a smirk creeping across your lips.

Her eyes widened slightly as she processed your words. “Wait. Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

A genuine smile unfurled on her face, quieter and more sincere than the usual competitive banter.

When the doors of the lift slid open with a soft ding, the hallway beyond lay stretched like a quiet desert, void of the usual post-training chatter. Most of the team was likely still recovering from their exertions or taking a much-needed nap. Yet there you both stood, hesitating, immersed in the shared silence.

“So, post-match coffee sometime?” Laura proposed, her fingers fidgeting as she scratched the back of her neck, a habit of hers when she was nervous.

You paused.

“Don’t say no,” she rushed to add. “Say maybe. Say you’ll think about it. Say—”

“Yes.”

Laura’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, her brows arching in disbelief. “Wait, really?”

With a casual shrug, you stepped past her, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Just don’t be late.”

As you walked down the empty corridor, you could feel her gaze lingering on you. When you glanced over your shoulder, you caught her staring back, her face breaking into a radiant grin that seemed to light up the dim hallway, hardly believing her luck.

Perhaps, after all, rivalry wasn’t such a bad path to take in the journey of falling in love.