#target reader: observer

[voice-of-desire]

:(

Alright I told myself I'd keep it together... BUT I CAN'T!! I'M SO SORRY, DESI! 1.0'S A TOTAL PRICK AND I DIDN'T MEAN ANYTHING I SAID AS THEM! I don't think you're a freak, I love you as much as I do Hades! I care about you like I do Spectra and my friends!

I'm... just sorry about everything that happened to you. You deserve better than that asshole insulting you.

H̷̥͂u̶͎̿ȟ̷͇.̴̹̂.̶̟̆.̸̬́?̴̙͆!̵̪͘ 😨⁉️ Oh, I 🤐—Obby...? 👁💋💘❔

It's, um... 🙁 It's a̵l̸r̵i̷g̵h̶t̸.̶.̷.̸ 🤗👍 I s̶h̴o̷u̵l̸d̶n̷'̵t̵ 🙅🚫 have j̷u̶m̵p̸e̵d̴ you 🦘❗➡👁 like that 🫂🙀 when you w̶o̵k̶e̴ up. 😪💤🆙❕ I a̷p̴o̷l̴o̴g̴i̵z̴e̸ ̷🙏🧎 for s̸c̵a̵r̴i̸n̷g̵ 😱👻 you... 😞 and u̶s̴i̷n̴g̵ ☝️➕👉 your E̷y̶e̴ ̶t̵h̴i̵n̴g̷s̴ 👁🧿⚠️ on you... 😔 and, ☝️ er, the o̷t̶h̷e̴r̷ thing. 🥵💦😖 I'm s̷o̸r̴r̶y̷.̶.̶.̴ 😢🧎🙇💔

.̸.̶.̴ ̶I̷t̴ ̴w̸a̴s̷ ̴m̵y̵ ̸f̷a̸u̵l̶t̶ ̷a̵n̸y̶w̶a̸y̷.̵ ̸N̶o̶t̵h̸i̵n̶g̴ ̸u̴n̷d̵e̷s̵e̴r̶v̴e̸d̶.̴.̷.̶

... Are you 🫵👁 a̶l̶r̸i̶g̸h̷t̸.̸.̴.̶?̶ 👍🤕📊❔

[sttoru]

idk who needs to hear this but write what the fuck u want man 😭😭 drabbles & long fics about whatevaaaaa. jus do what YOU want, not because you feel obligated to

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Monster x Reader Headcanons

You find yourself kidnapped into a half-breed family of monsters and humans, for the purpose of an arranged marriage. Luckily for you, the groom is their only pure human, terribly handsome and charming. You'd perhaps appreciate him more if your eyes weren't glued to his monstrous older sibling...

Content: female reader, monster smut, reader is a shameless monster hoe

[Part 2]

You always imagined such kidnappings to be of theatrical intensity, being scooped up against your will as you scream and flail your arms, longing for a savior. The affair itself felt more like a formal summoning. Mysterious men appeared before you and merely announced that your presence is required, unfortunately without the choice of refusal. Might as well. You packed necessities under their polite supervision and now you're sitting at the table, facing multiple strangers who are casually enjoying their lunch. One of them, the head of the family apparently, explains that half-breeds are in a rather sensitive place when one considers human and monster politics. Thus, every now and then, they will do whatever it takes to strengthen their bonds and show good intent towards both species. This time it's an arranged marriage with a fellow human.

Why you, in particular? No need to concern yourself with intricate details. What matters now is that you are to be married soon and your groom is right here, enthusiastically waving in a welcoming greeting. You scan his features and can't help but agree with the family: he is, by all definitions, a conventionally handsome man. His face is carefully chiseled in most elegant, yet masculine features. His voice is confident but warm, and you can tell by the flock of servants hovering around that he's rather popular. After the luxurious meal he guides you around the imposing home, showing you to your room and briefing you on future responsibilities. Caring, attentive, and several other checks that you can easily mark in his favor.

Yet one vital aspect has been omitted. The prince's mesmerizing beauty was rather swiftly discarded once you realized the presence of his older sibling, a pure monster blood towering above everyone else and idly eating his food, uninterested. You managed to hide your blush in time, but you couldn't help throwing curious glances. Might've been easier for everyone involved if they handed out 'monster lover' badges. Alas, you weren't prepared to ever be faced with the choice.

The next day you're awoken by the murmur of diligent work, as both servants and family pace back and forth about their plans. You sneak your way out - since nothing is yet expected of you - and wander until you find your intended target: the beastly sibling is polishing a bizarre weapon you don't recognize in what seems to be a storage room littered with battle memorabilia. He notices your presence and acknowledges you with a bored nod. You ask whether you may observe his current activity and he looks up at you, raising an eyebrow suspiciously before agreeing. Why would you care? Certainly there's more entertaining things for you to do as a soon-to-be bride.

As you listen to his little stories from the battleground (hardy monsters like him are better off fighting, not socializing), you have to pat your cheeks in desperate attempts to cool down your burning blush. "H-how comes you don't have a partner?" You mutter, almost feverish. "Not interested. Plus, who would dare to marry me?" he jokes, focused on the sharp item in his clawed hands. There it is. Hesitation and diplomacy out the window, you rearrange yourself, smoothening your clothing, and whisper: "Well, if I had to choose, I would've preferred you as my husband..."

Once again he stares at you bewildered. Have you come here to mock him or something? A frail, pretty human like you, about to tie the knot with his stunning younger brother, showing up here and behind everyone's backs to openly flirt with him. Ridiculous beyond comprehension. His skin is thick enough to not mind such twisted humor, so if anything he's impressed by your audacity. Alright, if you've come for jokes, he'll comply. He places his weapon down and fully turns to you. A little scare might teach you to be more respectful with your in-laws next time.

With a speedy movement that's barely registered by your eyes, he pushes you on the floor and pins you by the wrists, lowering himself uncomfortably close to your face. "If you tease me like this, I might not be able to hold back." He says as he forces himself to smile extra hard, revealing the multiple rows of fangs. "In fact, I can't guarantee you'd make it out of here alive." Hopefully he isn't going too far with his tactics. He senses your frantic breathing and is about to apologize for continuing your prank, but you blurt out in a daze: "Yes, please! I've been thinking about it ever since I saw you." You're panting for dear life as your face is turning a deep shade of red.

Uh oh. Now this is awkward. You weren't...you weren't kidding. For a moment, he freezes in place, trying to recollect himself to no avail. Fucking your brother's future wife in a storage room in the middle of the day feels like poorly written erotic romance. Then again, he can't deny the sudden urge overwhelming him at the mere thought of it. You're squirming underneath him, gliding your legs across his now obvious bulge. His common sense is hanging by a comically thin thread and he can almost hear the instant when it snaps. Thankfully some leftovers of sanity must have remained in the back of his mind and his lustful grunts while pounding you are kept low enough that no one is notified of your horny deeds. Shutting you up was the bigger challenge.

"Is this too tight, miss?" You spin in front of the mirror and the servant readjusts the lace corset adorning your wedding dress. You have to hold back your yawn. Downright shameless and perverted of you to daydream about your monster boyfriend while trying on bridal gowns, but it's not like you agreed to it to begin with. You were kind of hoping to discuss future dating prospects post-intercourse, but someone had been looking for you shortly afterwards and you struggled to regain your composure. Your scary-looking suitor shooed you away with the promise of a reunion.

Before the servant can reach for the next dress, you both jump, startled by angry shouts coming from the hall. You rush outside to witness the older sibling standing before the head of the family. The wrathful threats were coming from the much smaller half-human. "Y-you can't just decide like that!" He screams. "Of course I can. You're welcome to fight me for it." The monster sibling flashes a smug grin. "Can anyone here defeat me?" His question is met with silence. He spots you and gestures you to come towards him. "I'll say it one more time. Find another human for my brother if you have to. This one is mine." He ends his sentence in a low growl and you shiver underneath his heavy arm. Boy, what a time to be alive.

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　MIDNIGHT COMPANY

chris sturniolo x reader

SUMMARY: While filming a car video, the triplets witness a girl - Y/N - arguing with her boyfriend. When he smashes her phone and leaves her alone at midnight in the middle of a random parking lot, Chris steps in.

WARNING: Toxic relationship, yelling, fighting, being hurt physically and emotionally, manipulation, panicking.

REQUESTED?: Yes, by anon.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Y/N didn't meant for things to end up like that.

She really didn't.

She was just walking alongside her boyfriend through the Target aisles, her eyes darting nervously between the shelves and the floor.

But she should know better. He had already been irritated when they left the apartment - something about her taking too long to get ready - and now, every move she made felt like a mistake.

"Stick close." Her boyfriend had muttered, his voice low but firm. His eyes darted around the store, scanning the aisles of brightly colored products with an air of impatience. "I don’t want to spend all night in here."

Y/N nodded quickly, her throat dry.

"Okay."

They made their way down the main aisle, her boyfriend grabbing a few items and putting them into the cart with little regard. It was always like that; he made the decisions, and she just agreed and moved on.

He paused at the end of that same aisle, scanning the shelves with a discerning eye. She lingered a few steps behind, observing.

He grabbed a box of granola bars from the shelf, tossing it into the cart with a louder thud. She winced at the sound, her stomach knotting with unease.

"Why are you standing there? Do you see the cereal we get?" He asked, his tone clipped.

Her throat tightened. She scanned the shelves frantically, her eyes moving over the rows of colorful boxes. She wasn’t sure if it was the green box or the blue one.

"Um, I think..." She started, reaching hesitantly toward one of the options.

"Don’t think. Look." He snapped, already sounding exasperated.

Her hand faltered, and she pulled it back. Her heart was pounding, and her palms had grown clammy against the leather strap of her purse. She wanted to go home.

They turned into the household goods section, where shelves were lined with glass containers, picture frames, and other fragile items. Her boyfriend stopped abruptly, examining a set of drinking glasses with a critical eye.

"Do you think these match the ones we already have?" He asked, holding up a box with pretty crystal wine glasses.

Y/N hesitated, unsure if he wanted an answer or was just thinking out loud.

"I-I think so."

Her boyfriend sighed, setting the box down with a clatter.

"You’re not even paying attention."

"I am." She said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper, desperately searching for his free hand. "I promise."

"Whatever." He muttered, letting her squeeze his fingers once before dropping hers, moving on.

Y/N quickly followed, trying to stay out of his way, her eyes fixed on his tall figure, crossing her hands in front of her body and forcing her brain to pay more attention to anything he touched or pointed out. She couldn't risk him thinking that she didn't care.

As she passed by one of the shelves, her purse brushed against a precariously balanced display of small vases. Time seemed to slow as the first vase teetered, then fell, hitting the shelf below it and sending a chain reaction through the display.

Crash!

The sound was deafening. Glass shattered across the floor, the pieces glinting under the white lights. Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at the mess, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst out of her chest.

"Oh my god. Are you serious?" Her boyfriend hissed under his breath.

She dropped to her knees instinctively, trembling as she tried to gather the pieces with her bare hands.

"I’m sorry." She whispered, her voice trembling and desperate.

"You're fucking nbelievable." He muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear.

She stopped for a moment, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t crying because of the spilled glasses. It wasn’t even about the moment itself. It was about the weight of knowing that every mistake she made was a reason for him to get tired of her. To leave her.

"I’m sorry." She whispered, again and again, the words tumbling out of her mouth as though they might undo the damage. "I’m so s-sorry."

But it wasn’t just an apology. It was an instinctive response, born from the fear of making him feel any sort of negative emotion at all. She knew that he wouldn’t brush this off, wouldn’t laugh, and say it was no big deal. He would be mad, and she couldn't let him get mad at her. Not again.

She desperately wanted to shrink herself down into something more digestible for him at that moment. Something he could chew up, spit out, and discard - like gum.

A woman at the end of the aisle glanced over, her expression a mix of surprise and concern. A man on the opposite side peeked around the corner, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

Y/N’s face burned with humiliation. She felt their stares on her, for sure, full of judgment. Her hands fumbled over the shards, shaking too hard to pick them up properly.

Her boyfriend crouched down beside her, his expression now unusually calm. His hand landed on her shoulder, but the grip was firm, bordering on painful.

"Y/N, honey, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself."

"I’m sorry." She whispered again, the tears on her eyes starting to burn her orbs with the force she used to stop the drops from escaping. She couldn’t let him see her break. She’d learned the hard way that crying only made him angrier.

"Stop it." He said more firmly, moving his hand through her arm, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away from the glass. He looked up at the people looking back at them and forced a polite, almost apologetic smile. "She’s... a little clumsy. Always has been. Right, honey? I know you didn’t mean to. You can’t help it, can you?"

Y/N stiffened, her stomach churning. She forced her head to move up and down, the movement coming out almost robotic.

"You’re just... distracted. All the time." He continued, his smile cold and tight. "That’s why these things happen. You can’t focus."

She wanted to argue, to tell him that she wasn’t some careless mess, but the words died in her throat. What good would it do?

"Here." He said, taking an empty cardboard box near them and shoving the pieces to the side with it, taking it all out of the way. "There. Fixed. See?"

She nodded, swallowing hard.

"Now, get up."

She stood, her knees wobbling slightly as she adjusted the strap of her purse. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin.

"It’s okay." He continued, speaking louder now so the others could hear. "She just gets a little overwhelmed sometimes. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of this."

The man at the end of the aisle nodded, giving her boyfriend a small, understanding smile. The woman pursed her lips and turned away, muttering something about how 'accidents happen'.

"Let’s go." He said through clenched teeth as he started walking toward the exit.

"But-"

"No." His voice was low, but the warning was clear. He smiled tightly at the few remaining onlookers as he dragged her past them.

Her face burned with humiliation, but she kept quiet, her eyes glued to the floor. His grip tightened when her feet seemed to disobey her brain, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

The automatic doors slid open, and the cool night air rushed over her, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside her head. Her boyfriend’s pace didn’t slow, his hand still gripping her skin as he led her toward the parking lot.

Her heart was pounding, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. She felt like a child being scolded, small and powerless, her voice locked somewhere deep inside her throat.

When they reached the car, he finally let go of her arm, shoving her away as if she were a piece of garbage. She stumbled slightly, catching herself against the side of the car, waiting for whatever came next.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

From the other side of their spot in the parking lot, the triplets were parked, their van slightly away from the main entrance. It was Wednesday night, and they were filming their weekly video, the interior of the van alive with yells and laughter.

"... No, seriously, people do that sometimes." Chris said, turning slightly towards Matt while trying to prove his point. "Patches O'Houlihan, he did that."

Matt scoffed, looking at him with an 'are you serious?' look.

"From Dodgeball? The fictional character?" He laughed incredulously, looking at Nick through the rearview, ready for another weird thing to come out of Chris's mouth.

Nick's attention, however, wasn’t on him - or them, for that matter. It was on the world outside. He always had a habit of scanning his surroundings, probably in a way of caring for himself and his brothers.

As Chris kept going, earning a loud groan from Matt, Nick’s eyes caught movement across the parking lot, almost exactly in front of their van. Near one of the parked cars, a couple stood in the golden glow of a streetlamp.

Nick’s stomach twisted. Something about the way the guy loomed over the girl, his gestures sharp and erratic, immediately set off alarm bells. The girl was visibly distressed, her arms crossed over her chest, her posture shrinking with every second.

Without thinking, Nick leaned forward and slapped Chris on the shoulder, interrupting him.

"Nick, what the-" Chris began, turning sharply, his annoyance evident.

"Shut up." Nick hissed, his voice low but firm, cutting through Chris’s protest. He nodded toward the couple. "Look."

Chris frowned but followed Nick’s gaze, his expression shifting from irritation to curiosity and then to concern. Matt, who had been in the middle of adjusting his hoodie, leaned closer to the windshield.

"What’s going on?" Matt asked, his voice quieter now.

Nick didn’t answer, instead reaching for the button to lower his window, easing it down. A faint, angry voice carried into the van, growing clearer as the man’s yelling intensified.

"... do you even understand how embarrassing you are?"

The girl stood frozen, her arms clutching her sides as though trying to hold herself together. Her head was bowed, her hair shielding her face from the world. She didn’t respond, didn’t dare to look up, and that only seemed to fuel his anger.

"What the fuck?" Matt muttered, leaning forward slightly to get a better look, his eyes glued to the scene.

"You think I’m joking?" He snapped, stepping closer to her. "You think I enjoy having every pair of eyes in that store on me because you can’t manage to walk without causing a damn scene?" The man continued, stepping closer to her.

Her response was so soft that it barely reached the triplets’ ears.

"I’m sorry..."

"Sorry?" The man laughed bitterly. "You’re always sorry. You’re sorry when you spill coffee, you’re sorry when you trip over your own feet, and now you’re sorry for knocking over half a shelf like a goddamn child?"

The girl flinched at his words, biting her bottom lip while taking a small - almost imperceptible - step back.

Chris tensed after watching her reaction, his jaw tightening.

"This guy’s a piece of-"

"Chris, shush." Matt snapped, his voice low.

"I told you before, didn’t I? Stop acting like a fool every time we’re out in public. This is for your own good." The man spat.

"I didn’t mean to-" She started, but he cut her off quickly.

"Shut up!" He barked, his voice echoing across the lot. She shrank back, her body trembling. "You know better than to talk back to me." He growled, taking another step closer.

"I wasn’t-"

"Stop talking!" He barked, his voice echoing across the empty lot probably louder than intended. "Every time you open your mouth, you make it worse. Do you even understand that? Or are you too stupid to figure it out?"

Tears accumulated inside her eyeballs, shining below the lights.

"Look, I’ll call an Uber, okay?" Y/N murmured, her voice cracking. "You can go home and calm down. Please."

"Oh, you’ll call an Uber? Sure, let’s waste more of my money on your screw-ups." The man’s laugh was sharp and bitter.

She reached into her purse, her hands shaking as she pulled out her phone, unlocking it and trying to search for tha app, being harshly interrupted when the man snatched the device from her grip with such force that she stumbled.

Chris shifted uncomfortably, his fists clenched on his lap.

"Do we step in?"

"I don't think we should, not right now." Nick whispered.

"Give it back. Please, baby." She asked, her voice weak, trembling.

"Why? So you can text your little friends about what a terrible boyfriend I am?" He sneered, holding the phone high above his head.

Y/N's mouth dropped open, her wet eyes widening as if he had just committed the worst crime.

"Baby, please." She begged, her tears now falling freely, causing her voice to break. "I would never ever do that. I love you so much, you know that, right?"

He ignored her. With a single, violent motion, he hurled the phone to the ground. The sound of glass and plastic shattering against the pavement echoed in the silence.

She recoiled as though the blow had landed on her instead of the device, a squeak involuntarily escaping from her mouth. Her arms wrapped tighter around herself as she stared at the broken pieces. Her whole life, broken.

"Should've had taken that shit from you sooner." The man spat, shaking his head. "Pathetic. Can’t do anything right."

Matt and Nick exchanged horrified glances through the rearview, Chris's face pale by their side.

"P-please, don't leave me here, baby. I love you, I'm so sorry." The girl begged, gluing her hands in a praying gesture in front of her body. "I promise I'll do better."

"I can't even look at your face right now." The man shook his head. "I need some time, okay?" He didn't wait for an answer before storming off to the driver-side of his car, slamming the door and speeding out of the lot, tires screeching against the asphalt.

Y/N stood frozen, her trembling figure illuminated by the lights and the moon.

Chris didn’t think. One second, he was staring at her, and the next, his hand was on the van door handle, yanking it open.

"Chris!" Matt hissed from the driver’s seat. "What are you doing?"

"Chris- what the fuck?!" Nick added, his voice urgent but not loud enough to stop him.

But Chris couldn’t wait. He couldn’t sit there any longer, watching this girl suffer alone.

He bolted from the van, the cool night air hitting him like a slap, but he barely noticed. His long strides carried him across the parking lot, his heart pounding not from his pace but from pure urgency.

"Oh my god, he's crazy!" Matt’s groan echoed from behind him, but it was distant, like background noise.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

The closer he got, the more his stomach churned. Her face was streaked with tears, her cheeks blotchy and raw from crying. But she wasn’t just crying. She was panicking. He could see it in the way her hands trembled uncontrollably, and in the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Chris slowed as he approached her, not wanting to startle her. She was staring at the exit of the parking lot, her wide, unfocused and tear-filled eyes locked on the gate arm as though it was the only thing anchoring her to the ground.

"Hey." He said softly, his voice gentle but firm.

She flinched, her head snapping up, and her gaze locked on him as she took a step back. For a moment, she looked utterly terrified, and Chris's throat tightened.

He quickly held his hands up, palms out, trying to show her he wasn’t a threat.

"Hey, hey, it’s okay." He said quickly. "I just... I saw what happened, and I wanted to check if you’re okay."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out. Instead, a fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks. She shook her head, taking another step back, her back almost hitting the metal post of the streetlight.

"You don’t have to be scared." Chris said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I’m not going to hurt you, I swear. I just want to help."

She looked at him again, her watery eyes studying his face as though trying to figure out if he was lying.

Chris took a cautious step closer, keeping his movements slow.

"You’re shaking." He said gently. "It's freezing out here. Can I... can I give you my hoodie?"

She blinked at him, her brows furrowing slightly.

"Why?" She croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because it’s cold, and you’re upset, and I’d feel better if you weren’t standing out here like this." Chris said honestly, shrugging off his hoodie - ignoring how the hairs on his arm fully stood up with the cold air - and holding it out to her.

She hesitated, her eyes darting from his face to the piece of clothing, then back again.

"It’s okay." Chris reassured her. "You don’t have to take it, but I promise it’s clean. And warm."

After what felt like an eternity, she slowly reached out and took the hoodie from him. Her hands were trembling so much that she almost dropped it, but she managed to pull it to her chest, pressing it against her covered skin.

"Thank you." She mumbled, her voice shaky.

Chris exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Of course. What’s your name?" He asked in a soft tone. "I'm Chris."

She blinked her eyes at him, frowning, clearly surprised by the question.

"Y-Y/N." She said hesitantly.

"Y/N." He repeated, offering her a small, reassuring smile. "It’s really nice to meet you... Um, do you want to sit down? You look like you need a second."

She looked around the parking lot again before nodding slowly, and Chris gestured to the curb nearby. He waited until she sat down before taking a seat a few feet away, giving her space but staying close enough that she wouldn’t feel alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"I’m fine." She finally said - even though it wasn't what Chris was expecting to hear, her voice cutting through the silence, hoarse and shaky.

Chris tilted his head slightly, his brows furrowing.

"I don’t think you are."

"I am." She insisted, but her voice cracked on the words, betraying her.

Chris turned his face slightly to the side to meet her eyes, curving his upper body, trying to make himself seem less imposing.

"I know you don’t know me. Well, only my name now." He said softly. "But I can tell you’re not fine. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be. Not after that."

She bit her lower lip hard, and for a second, Chris thought she might break down again. But instead, she straightened her spine, her trembling hands wiping at her tear-streaked face.

"It's not as bad as it looked. He was just angry." She said quietly, almost as if she was saying that to herself. "It’s not his fault. I... I messed up."

Chris’s heart sank at her words.

"You didn’t mess up." He said firmly, his voice laced with conviction.

She shook her head, her hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie tightly.

"I did. I dropped something, broke it, actually. It was stupid, and it drew attention to us, and... and he doesn’t like that. He was just trying to make me understand."

Chris stared at her, his chest tightening painfully.

"That’s not okay." He said softly. "No one should treat you like that, no matter what happened."

"You don’t understand." She said, her voice rising slightly as she hugged herself tighter. "He just... he gets frustrated sometimes, but it’s because he cares. He doesn’t mean to be mean."

Chris’s jaw clenched, a mix of anger and sadness boiling inside him.

"Love isn’t supposed to be like that, Y/N." He said gently. "It’s not supposed to hurt you and leave you standing in a parking lot crying, shaking, and alone."

Her eyes filled with fresh tears again, and she looked away, staring at the ground as if she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

"You don’t know him." She whispered, shaking her head vehemently.

Chris wanted to scream, to grab her shoulders, and shake her until she understood that what she was describing wasn’t love. It was control, manipulation, and abuse. But even though he had never helped a victim of a toxic and abusive relationship before, he knew he should keep his voice calm, so he did it, maintaining his tone soft and steady.

"You’re right." He said. "I don’t know him. But I know what I saw, and I can only imagine what it feels like to have someone make you think you’re the problem when you’re not."

Her head whipped toward him, her eyes narrowing.

"You don’t know anything about me."

Chris held up his hands.

"You’re right again. I don’t. But I’m not here to judge you. I’m here because I want to help. No strings, no expectations. Just... let me help. I can't leave you alone here for the rest of the night."

She shook her head again, her hands trembling as she brushed her hair out of her face.

"I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this. It isn't fair to him. He’d be so heartbroken if he knew."

Chris watched her for a second too long.

"But you deserve to talk to someone." He finally said. "You deserve to feel safe."

"I am safe!" She snapped, her voice ringing out in the empty parking lot. The declaration sounded hollow, as if she was trying to convince herself more than him.

Chris took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second.

"I just want to help you." He said, his tone pleading. "Do you have someone you can call? A family member, a friend? You can use my phone-"

Her reaction was immediate and panicked. She shook her head furiously, her eyes wide with fear as her body tightened, seeming ready to stand up and run.

"No! No, I can’t call anyone."

"Why not?" Chris asked gently, though his heart was racing, his eyes traveling quickly to his car where his brothers were before going back to Y/N. "They’d want to help you, just like I do."

"I said no!" She cried, her voice cracking. Her breathing was shallow and quick now, teetering on the edge of hyperventilation. "You don’t understand. I can’t just call someone. And you... you need to go. God, you shouldn’t even be here."

Chris frowned, his brows knitting together.

"Please, I’m just trying to-"

"You don’t get it." She interrupted, her voice hushed but frantic. She glanced around the parking lot as though expecting her boyfriend to be there somewhere, watching them. "He’s going to come back. And if he sees you here, if he thinks... you need to leave. Now."

Chris’s stomach dropped at the sheer terror in her voice.

"Y/N, he won't hurt you in any type of way while I'm here with you. I can promise you that." He moved a bit closer again, careful not to make any sudden movement. "Let me do something for you. Anything, please."

"You can’t." She whispered, her voice barely audible. "No one can. Please, just go. He’s going to be here soon, and I-I can’t let him see you."

She was holding onto that story like it was a lifeline, but the way her hands trembled and her breath hitched betrayed her doubt.

"What if he doesn’t?" Chris asked gently. "What if he’s not coming back tonight?"

Her face fell for a brief moment before she quickly masked it, straightening up.

"He will." She said, though there was no conviction in her tone. "He always does."

Chris nodded, looking around dismissively.

"Okay. Maybe he will. But just in case... maybe you could let me help you. You don’t have to trust me, I get that. I'm a stranger. But let me offer you something. A safe place to wait."

"I don’t have anywhere to go." She admitted, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the night air. "Just our house. And I don't think I should go back there now."

Chris’s heart twisted at her words and how uncertain they sound, but he kept his expression neutral, careful not to show pity.

"Okay." He said softly. "Then maybe you can just... talk to me. You don’t have to get in my car. We can sit out here. I’ll stay right here in the open where you can see me."

She hesitated, her eyes darting to the ground.

"Why do you care so much?"

Chris crossed his legs above the pavement, relaxing his posture further.

"Because I know what it’s like to feel like you’re on your own." He said simply. "And because I don’t think anyone should have to go through something like this alone. You don’t deserve that."

She hesitated, her gaze watching her hands above her thighs.

"I won’t call the police unless you want me to." Chris added. "I won’t push you to do anything you don't want to do. But you don’t have to deal with this alone."

Her lip quivered, and she closed her eyes tightly, her voice barely a whisper.

"I don’t even know what I’d do."

Chris’s heart ached for her, but he kept his tone steady.

"How about this." He said. "I’ll stay with you until you figure that out. If you want, I can take you to a hotel, or I can help you find somewhere else to stay for the night. But whatever you decide, I’m not going to leave you here."

She was silent for a long time, her shoulders rising and falling with each shaky breath. Finally, she nodded, just once.

"Okay." She said.

Chris exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.

"Okay." He echoed.

For the first time that night, she looked at him fully, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and cautious hope.

He opened his widest smile in response, leaning back slightly with his palms against the curb behind his back and glancing up at the sky.

"You know." He started, his tone casual. "This isn’t exactly the way I imagined spending my Wednesday night."

Her eyes scanned his face carefully, frowning, feeling like she was the one to destroy his day - or night.

"What do you mean?" She asked hesitantly, her voice hoarse.

Chris shrugged, being careful not to mention his career. He didn't want to overwhelm her.

"Well, usually on Wednesdays, I’m sitting in my van with my brothers, arguing over who gets to pick the fast-food spot. We’re probably debating something ridiculous, too."

That earned him the smallest, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was something. It encouraged Chris to continue.

"My brothers are idiots, by the way." He said, his tone light. "Don’t tell them I said that, though. They'll get big heads thinking I actually pay attention to their nonsense."

Her brow rose slightly, curiosity tugging at the edges of her expression, her body instinctively leaning towards him.

"What are they like?"

Chris chuckled, throwing his head to the side, laying his cheek against his shoulder and looking at her eyes.

"They're amazing. Weird, but amazing. They're so funny in their individual way, always making me laugh so hard that sometimes I feel like I could pass out."

This time, she let out a soft, breathy laugh, and Chris felt a flicker of warmth in his chest. It was small, but it was progress.

"You’re close with them?" She asked quietly.

"Yeah." Chris said, nodding. "It’s hard not to be when you all live and do everything together. But they’re good guys. Annoying as hell, but good."

She looked down at her hands, her fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of his hoodie sleeve.

"Must be nice." She murmured.

Chris’s smile faltered for a moment, but he recovered quickly.

"It is." He admitted. "But, you know, we fight sometimes. Like, really fight. Last week, Matt threw a punch at me because I wouldn’t stop talking during his game."

Her lips twitched again, and this time, it was a small, shy smile.

"What were you saying?" She asked, her voice soft but carrying a hint of amusement.

"Oh, some random shit. Can’t even remember now. Probably something embarrassing, knowing me." Chris grinned. "Matt said I was ruining his concentration, but honestly, I think he just doesn’t appreciate my brain work."

She shook her head slightly, her smile lingering.

"You’re ridiculous." She said softly, almost reflexively, but as soon as the words left her mouth, her expression shifted. Her body tensed up, her shoulders pulling in as her eyes darted to him in alarm. "I didn’t mean-"

"Guilty as charged." Chris smoothly interrupted her, opening a smirk while looking at her, trying to express through his eyes that it was okay. "But, hey, if ridiculous is what it takes to make you laugh, then I’m all in."

Her looked down again at the pavement, scraping her shoes over the small rocks.

"Thanks." She said quietly.

"For what?" Chris asked, his voice gentle.

"For... keeping me company." She said, her gaze fixed on her lap. "I don’t feel... as bad right now."

Chris felt a lump in his throat but pushed it down, keeping his tone light.

"Anytime." He said. "I’ve got a whole arsenal of dumb stories and good jokes if you need them."

She looked at him then, her eyes softer than before.

"You’re really nice." She said, pressing her lips in a fine line.

Chris shrugged, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

"I just don’t like seeing people hurt." He said honestly. "And, I don’t know, you seem like someone who deserves a lot better than... all this."

Her eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, Chris thought she might start crying again. Instead, she took a deep breath and nodded.

"Thanks." She said again, her voice steadier this time.

Chris gave her a warm smile.

"No problem. Now, how do you feel about bad puns? Because I’ve got a killer one about a duck and a lawyer."

Her laughter filled the cold night air, causing a large smile to stretch across Chris's lips. He would do everything in his power to help this girl.

[just-aake]

Whispered in Russian

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha teaches you how to speak some Russian during your time together on a mission.

A/n: this was inspired from a request. Not sure if it was what you expected but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

Warnings: fluff, suggestive themes, cursing, Russian translations from google (because I unfortunately do not know the language)

Words: 3250

“Bron' dlya Nataliyi Romanovoy.��

Natasha’s Russian accent flows effortlessly, her voice smooth and confident as she speaks to the front desk receptionist. Her tone carries the ease of someone completely at home in the language. 

It’s a voice you’ve grown intimately familiar with—not just as her teammate for years but also as her partner.

Which also makes it easier to pick up and piece together some of the words, though you’re still far from being fluent. 

Reservation for Natalia Romanova, you translate silently.

The receptionist offers a polite smile, tapping away at her computer until she finds the reservation. With a nod, she retrieves a key card and slides it across the counter to Natasha.

“Dobro pozhalovat, gospazha Romanova. Vot vashi klyuchi ot nomera.”

You listen intently, trying to match the sounds to meaning, but the words come faster than you can process. Your grasp falters after the first few phrases. 

Welcome…Romanova…key

You almost have it, but the rest slips through your mental filter, lost in the quick flow of syllables. Before you can catch up, the receptionist continues in a kind but rapid tone.

“Esli vam ili vashey zhene potrebuyetsya pomoshch, pozvonite na resepshn, i my s radostyu vam pomozhem.”

At that, Natasha’s lips quirk up in a small, amused smirk. The expression is subtle but unmistakable, and it draws your curiosity. 

You glance at her, silently asking what amused her, but she offers no explanation, only thanking the receptionist with a graceful nod as she takes the key card. 

“Spasibo,” Natasha says, her voice as composed as ever.

Thank you. 

That part you recognize immediately, the basic phrase standing out like a familiar face in a crowd.

Natasha’s hand finds your waist as she guides you away from the desk, her touch grounding and affectionate. 

Still, your mind lingers curiously on the exchange. 

Once inside the room, you dive into setting up your equipment for the mission, carefully pulling out the listening gear from your bag. 

Meanwhile, Natasha checks the room methodically, her eyes scanning for anything amiss. She ends her sweep at the window, drawing back the shutters slightly to observe the building across the street—the one where the targets work at.

“What did the receptionist say to you at the end?” you ask, your curiosity finally spilling over as you adjust the calibration on the gear. 

Natasha glances over her shoulder at you, a glint of amusement in her eyes. She takes her time responding, watching as you work with meticulous focus.

“She said if we needed anything, we could call the front desk,” Natasha replies casually, her tone almost too neutral.

You pause, narrowing your eyes as you turn to face her. 

“That’s it?” you ask, skepticism lacing your voice. “Then why did you react like that?”

The smirk you’d noticed earlier reappears, tugging at the corners of her lips. Natasha steps closer to you, wrapping her arms around your waist and leaning in.

“Zhena,” she repeats slowly, enunciating the word with deliberate care. Her breath is warm against your skin as she presses a quick, affectionate kiss to your cheek. “It means ‘wife.’ She called you my wife.”

“Oh,” you reply, your heart fluttering at the thought. 

You fall silent for a moment, processing, before quietly repeating the word under your breath. 

“Zhena,” you murmur, practicing the pronunciation like a secret you want to keep safe. You say it again, slightly louder, trying to mimic Natasha’s intonation.

Natasha’s expression softens as she watches your reaction, her smirk giving way to a small, genuine smile.

Once satisfied with your attempt, you nod firmly, confidence growing. 

Your gaze shifts to the small table in the corner of the room, and something catches your eye. You gesture toward it, brow raised.

“Well,” you say, “that explains the bottle of champagne.”

Natasha follows your gaze, her chuckle warm and rich as she spots the chilled, unopened bottle perched beside two crystal glasses. 

“Hill said this was the only room available,” she replies, her fingers tracing soft patterns at your sides. Her voice drops slightly, the edge of a smirk returning to her lips. “Guess that means we’re playing newlyweds.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, leaning against her as you ponder the situation. 

“Alright,” you nod thoughtfully, “and it won’t look suspicious if we don’t leave our room much since, technically, we’re on our honeymoon.” 

Natasha’s smirk deepens, her eyes glinting with mischief. She tilts her head closer, her lips brushing lightly against yours. 

“Oh, that sounds fun,” she murmurs, her tone dropping into a suggestive lilt.

You roll your eyes, though the small smile tugging at your lips betrays your amusement. 

“I meant it’s a good cover for our mission,” you say pointedly, pulling back just enough to regain your composure. You gesture toward the gear on the table before raising a brow at her. “Or did you already forget the reason why we’re here in the first place?”

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately. 

Instead, her smirk shifts into something a little more daring as she tightens her hold on your waist before pulling you flush against her. Her lips ghost over yours again as she leans in, just close enough for her voice to drop to a whisper.

“I’m multitasking,” she teases, the husky tone sending a shiver down your spine before she closes the small distance between you two.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Some time later, after you two manage to refocus on the mission, you settle in to monitor the listening equipment. 

The two of you wait patiently, earpieces in place, scanning for the key information you need.

But after a few hours of static-filled recordings, indistinct conversations, and absolutely nothing useful, Natasha notices your shoulders beginning to tense with exhaustion. 

She rests a hand on your arm. 

“Take a break,” she offers softly. “I’ll keep watch for now.”

You hesitate, but the encouraging smile on her lips convinces you. 

“Alright,” you relent, stretching out your stiff shoulders before heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Once inside, the hot water works wonders, the steam easing the tension in your muscles. 

You feel the stress of the mission starts to melt away, but as you finish, you realize you’ve made a small mistake. 

You forgot to grab your change of clothes for the night. 

With a sigh, you wrap the towel around yourself, water still clinging to your skin, and step out of the bathroom.

The cool air sends a shiver through you as you pad quietly toward your bag.

Natasha’s back is to you as she speaks on the hotel phone. 

Her voice flows smoothly in Russian, soft but clear, and you catch a few familiar words—borscht, pelmeni, blini—dishes you’ve heard her name before.

As you rummage through your belongings, it hits you: she’s ordering dinner. You smile to yourself, amused by the domesticity of the moment, even in the middle of a mission. 

Not wanting to take any longer, you quickly grab what you need, tossing your bag back in its original position as you hear Natasha finish up.

“Da, prosto ostav’te—blyat…”

The abrupt edge in Natasha’s voice pulls your attention, her sudden exclamation making you look up in curiosity.

Her words have stopped mid-sentence, her lips parted slightly as her eyes roam over you. Her gaze lingers on the droplets of water still glistening on your skin, the curve of your shoulders, and the towel that clings just a little too loosely to your body.

It takes her a moment to catch herself. Natasha clears her throat, her voice steadier as she quickly finishes her conversation. 

“Prostite,” she mutters into the phone. “Ostav’te yedu u dveri. Spasibo.”

You pause where you stand as you attempt to piece together what she just said. Your limited Russian skills manage to translate fragments: leave…food…door. 

It’s enough to guess that she told them to leave your dinners outside the room so they won’t come in and see all your equipment set up.

But you also notice that there’s one word missing from the sentence—the one she exclaimed earlier.

It lingers in your mind, unaccounted for, and you try remembering how Natasha said it.

“Blyat…” you repeat, testing the word carefully, sounding it out until you nod in satisfaction, confident you’ve got it.

A low groan comes from Natasha, prompting you to look back at her. Her eyes are noticeably darker now.

“Bozhe moy…” Natasha mutters under her breath, shaking her head lightly in exasperation.

Your brow quirks in amusement at her tone, a small smile tugging at your lips. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a curse word—just something someone would say when they’re surprised or frustrated,” Natasha says stiffly, her voice a little strained, though she manages to seem mostly composed.

Her eyes eventually betray her, though, drifting back to the droplets of water sliding down your skin. 

“So what’s the translation?” you press, crossing your arms at her vague response. The motion inadvertently shifts the towel, loosening it further.

Natasha’s jaw tightens. Her gaze flickers to the towel, and she exhales sharply through her nose, her control clearly fraying. 

Even though she looks like she’s about to close the distance between you, it’s clear she won’t answer your question, which makes your expression fall lightly into a mock disappointed pout.

“You said you’d help me improve my Russian during this mission,” you remind her, your tone innocently light as you step closer to stand in front of her. 

The memory of her promise lingers in your mind—how she’d caught you practicing in secret and insisted you ask her for help whenever you needed it.

Her lips twist in hesitation, probably also remembering her promise, and for a moment, it seems like she might resist.

But then she relents with a sigh. 

“It’s basically like saying ‘fuck,’” Natasha explains, her voice low and even. She fixes you with a pointed look, her gaze burning as she adds, “As in, you surprised me, standing half-naked in the middle of the room like this.” 

A laugh escapes you, though your cheeks warm at the intensity of her gaze. You move to hover a hand above her chest, tracing a finger lightly against the edge of her tank top.

“Were you surprised…or frustrated?” you ask, your tone full of mischief. 

Natasha shoots you a warning look, one that says you already know the answer.

“I don’t think learning Russian curse words was part of your original goal here,” she counters, her voice tight.

“Who says I haven’t learned some phrases already?” you reply with a playful shrug.

Her eyebrows lift, intrigued. “Like what?”

You shake your head, refusing to elaborate. “I’m still practicing my pronunciation.”

Natasha smirks, leaning closer. “I can help.”

The listening equipment chooses that moment to beep suddenly, interrupting your conversation, as it signals incoming noises.

“Too bad we’re still on the clock,” you quip with a teasing smile.

Natasha’s attention flickers reluctantly to the gear, her expression briefly clouded with disappointment.

You take the opportunity to head back to the bathroom and finish up.

As you go, a smirk tugs at your lips, the Russian phrase you’ve been practicing simmering in your mind.

Just as you step through the doorway, you hum thoughtfully, your voice low and deliberate as you mutter under your breath—just loud enough for Natasha to hear.

“How did it go again...trak-hni…menya…trakhni menya…”

You don’t need to turn around to know the effect your words have. Natasha’s sharp intake of breath is unmistakable, and your smirk widens in satisfaction. 

Behind you, Natasha freezes, her lips parting slightly, her entire body going still as she processes what you just said. The weight of your casual tone and the boldness of your phrasing leave her momentarily stunned.

By the time she regains her composure, you’ve already disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click.

A low, disbelieving chuckle escapes her after a moment, followed by a quiet grumble as she mutters to herself, “Of all the times to be on a mission…” 

Natasha shakes her head and exhales, grabbing the earpiece with a resigned sigh.

Sliding it back on, she tries to focus on the task at hand, her eyes scanning the equipment as if sheer willpower could drown out her thoughts.

But her gaze betrays her, drifting back toward the bathroom door.

It lingers there, her resolve wavering as the temptation to follow you creeps in, tugging at her self-control.

Her mind conjures an image of you inside—water still clinging to your skin and your voice low and teasing as you repeat the Russian phrase for “fuck me” over and over again. 

The imagination is enough to make her swallow hard, her grip tightening on the table’s edge.

With a sharp, frustrated exhale, Natasha forces her attention back to the mission, her eyes narrowing as if determination alone could block the distractions. 

And she does succeed in regaining her composure eventually, though, every now and again, your voice echoes in her mind—soft, playful, and full of mischief.

Each syllable you murmured is as clear as if you were still standing there, taunting her with that dangerous smirk.

The corners of her lips twitch despite herself. 

You’ve always told her how much you love hearing her speak in Russian—how the sound of it stirs something in you. 

Natasha had always found your words amusing, but hearing you just now, with your hesitant yet deliberate tone, she’s beginning to understand exactly what you meant.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

After dinner, Natasha takes it upon herself to continue monitoring the listening gear, insisting that you rest up first after the long trip here and the exhausting setup.

Her tone left little room for argument, so you relented, knowing how stubborn she could be about these things and the fact that she is more than capable of staying concentrated on the task for longer than you can.

Hours pass, the rhythmic static and indistinct chatter from the equipment blending into the quiet of the room.

Natasha barely notices how late it’s gotten until she feels your arms wrap gently around her shoulders from behind.

You lean in close, your warm breath brushing against the side of her head as you carefully remove her earpieces. 

“Poydem so mnoy spat’,” you whisper softly.

Natasha’s lips curve into a small, pleased smile at your perfect pronunciation. Turning to face you, she raises a brow, her expression amused.

“Did you learn that specifically for moments like this?” she teases.

You smirk back at her. 

“With how often you lose yourself in work, I figured learning how to call you to bed should be one of the first things I perfect.” 

Natasha shakes her head fondly, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. 

“Of course you would,” she murmurs, but there’s no mistaking the affection in her voice.

Obliging you, she removes the rest of the gear and allows you to pull her gently from the chair toward the large bed.

As she moves, her gaze flickers to the nightstand, catching sight of your tablet screen. The familiar display of the language-learning app you’ve been using to practice Russian glows faintly in the dim light.

Settling in beside her, you lie back against the pillows while Natasha props herself up on one elbow, her head resting on her hand. Her green eyes glimmer with a soft light as she looks at you, a small smile playing on her lips.

“You know,” she says, tilting her head slightly, “I’m sure I can teach you Russian better than that app.” 

Her comment makes you laugh lightly. 

“I know, but our free time doesn’t always line up for me to get a lesson from Ms. Romanoff,” you tease, smirking.

“It’s Mrs.,” Natasha corrects, her playful smirk matching yours. “Don’t forget, we’re technically married right now.”

You smile, your gaze softening as you look at her. 

“Right. How could I forget that you’re my ‘zhena?’”

The word slips out in a playful, teasing tone, but it has an unexpected effect.

Natasha’s heart flutters so much at hearing you call her your wife in Russian that she has to look away for a moment to regain her composure. 

Her expression is tender when she looks back at you, her other arm moving around your midsection and pulling you closer. 

“I have time now,” she offers, her voice low. “Anything you want to learn?”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your chin as you consider. 

“Alright, how do you say…‘you look beautiful?’”

Natasha’s smile widens slightly. 

“Ty vyglyadish’ prekrasno,” she replies smoothly.

You repeat the phrase under your breath, scrunching your face slightly in concentration as you practice. Once you’re confident enough, you turn to her with a gentle smile.

“Ty vy-glya-dish’ prekrasno,” you say, your pronunciation close but not perfect.

Natasha chuckles softly in amusement when she realizes you just wanted to say the phrase back to her. 

“Are you trying to make me fall for you even more by complimenting me in Russian?”  

You smirk playfully. “Depends. Is it working?”

Huffing lightly, Natasha rolls her eyes, though there’s a clear fondness in her exasperation. She looks away briefly, but you catch her cheek gently, turning her gaze back to yours.

“How do you say…‘I love you?’” you ask softly, your voice tinged with both curiosity and affection.

Natasha’s expression softens further, her features open and vulnerable as she answers. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she says, enunciating each syllable carefully for you. 

“Ya tebya lyu…blyu,” you repeat slowly, trying to mimic how her lips move, but the last syllable doesn’t quite land how it should.

Natasha chuckles lightly, her hand moving to cup your chin. 

“When you say ‘lyublyu,’” she explains gently, “you have to purse your lips more.”

You try again, adjusting your pronunciation, and then glance at her for confirmation. 

“Like that?” you ask innocently, unaware that you had said it perfectly, making Natasha’s heart beat a little faster at the sound of your voice saying those words to her in her native language. 

“Say it again,” Natasha murmurs, her voice soft. 

Focusing intently, you follow her previous instructions.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Just as you say the last sound, Natasha leans in suddenly, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. 

Your smile grows against her mouth as realization dawns that she made you repeat it for her benefit. 

“Mmm, you’re teasing me when you're supposed to be teaching me,” you murmur lightly in reprimand.

Natasha pulls back slightly, her green eyes glinting with playful mischief. 

“Maybe I just love the way you say it,” she counters, her tone low and warm. 

You huff lightly, rolling your eyes in mock exasperation before scooting closer.

Natasha relaxes fully into the bed, letting you rest your head on her shoulder and tuck your face into the curve of her neck. Her arms wrap around you, holding you in a soft embrace.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Natasha’s voice breaks through, gentle and curious. 

“What made you decide to learn Russian?”

There’s a brief pause as you consider her question, and then you tilt your head to look up at her, your eyes filled with affection. 

“Russian is a part of who you are, Natasha,” you say earnestly. “Where you came from. To learn another way to connect with you…” You trail off, your soft smile widening. “Who wouldn’t want to do that?”

Natasha’s heart swells at your words, and for a moment, all she can do is hold you closer, her fingers brushing lightly over your back.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she whispers, her voice barely audible but still filled with the depth of her feelings for you.

You settle back against her, smiling into her shoulder, your voice gentle as you reply.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, too.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: got distracted by a cute request and made another little fluff fic. thank you for reading! Now I'll get back to working on my series. 😅

Also here are the translations below:

“Bron' dlya Nataliyi Romanovoy.” - Reservation for Natalia Romanova.

“Dobro pozhalovat, gospazha Romanova. Vot vashi klyuchi ot nomera.” - Welcome, Mrs. Romanova. Here are your room keys.

“Esli vam ili vashey zhene potrebuyetsya pomoshch, pozvonite na resepshn, i my s radostyu vam pomozhem.” - If you or your wife need assistance, please call the front desk and we will be happy to assist you.

“Spasibo,” - Thank you

“Zhena,” - Wife

“Da, prosto ostav’te—blyat…” - Yes, just leave it—fuck...

“Prostite, Ostav’te yedu u dveri. Spasibo.” - Sorry, leave the food at the door. Thank you.

“Blyat” - fuck

“Bozhe moy…” - My god...

“...trak-hni…menya…trakhni menya…” - ..fuck...me...fuck me...

“Poydem so mnoy spat’,” - Come to bed with me

“Ty vyglyadish’ prekrasno,” - You look beautiful

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” - I love you

[unriding]

KINKTOBER DAY 17 — APHRODISIACS. dan heng (hsr) x f!reader! ﾉ link to return to kinktober 2024 masterlist & taglist

it’s only natural that you’d try to play it off, especially when he had already warned you about this ahead of time. your bad, you’ll admit. unfortunately for you though, this aphrodisiac is one of the strongest, and it won’t be going away anytime soon.

CONTAINS — aphrodisiacs, hints of mutual pining, marking, wall sex, squirting (reader cums from him putting it in)

To your surprise and nobody else’s, Dan Heng was right after all.

A small part of you knew he was when he had initially warned you- advised that you stay on the Express because you’d make for an easy target, but you also couldn’t deny that you’d much rather join him than stay cooped up in your room all week.

Any time with Dan Heng is better than no time with Dan Heng, or so you thought. Maybe if you’d pictured this outcome in your head a bit earlier, you wouldn’t have tagged along.

But you’d also rather die than admit you were wrong.

The Express’ hallway looks hazy when you try to make your way back to your room after wishing him a good night. Similar to how the world appears when you’ve come down with a high fever. You think you can feel the blood buzzing in your ears, and it wasn’t even a direct hit. You’re certain of this fact- you’ve always been quick on your feet.

But this one has already started to make you feel lightheaded.

The thought of him taking notice of how your nails dug into his door frame earlier to prevent yourself from collapsing onto the floor haunts you a little. He’s so observant that you’re surprised he hasn’t said anything yet- besides a couple glances and maybe one or two concerned “Are you alright?”

Perhaps he really didn’t know, and you were just that capable of hiding the fact that you’ve been hit with one of the strongest aphrodisiacs in existence.

Though that seems unlikely.

It seems to only worsen with each passing minute. Switches from the initial dull ache between your legs to a sharp throbbing, and you feel so hot. Feverish. Maybe even delirious at this point. It takes all the strength in your body just to roll over in bed and flip open your computer to search if aphrodisiacs can actually kill.

You sure hope not. What’ll happen if you’re dead by morning? Having never kissed Dan Heng a single time?

You don’t even want to imagine a life with that kind of depressing end.

It’s possible that you ended up lasting for another thirty minutes at least. Maybe five in reality. Though it’s hard to keep track of time when you’re rubbing your cunt back and forth against your pillow like it’s the last thing you’ll do. Imagining that it’s him you’re straddling only seems to make it even worse.

You want him so bad.

That’s why after some time, you find yourself in front of his room again- head hanging low, chest rising up and down in heavy pants, and your legs barely able to hold up your weight. You don’t even bother facing him. Not when you can already tell what face he’s making when he says the words,

“I told you that you shouldn’t have come along.”

If you wanted to give him a sheepish laugh, it only comes out as a pained whine instead. “S-sorry,” your eyes widen at how strained your voice sounds, and you think you see him stiffen in front of you. “Do you think….. um, do you know to fix it?”

It falls eerily silent.

“..Please…? I can’t… can’t really.. ask Welt for help.”

“Don’t ask Welt.” His voice softens ever so slightly, but you think there’s something unfamiliar behind it. You suck in a sharp breath as soon as he takes a step forward to reach around you and close the door behind you— slowly, as if giving you time to change your mind. “I know how to help.”

Your first thought is that he smells nice. Really, really nice. You’ve always thought that he’d smell good, but with the way you are now, it’s intoxicating. Your knees almost buckle, and you hope he doesn’t hear you swallow a gulp.

You could just lift your arm and touch him. You could pull him in for a hug and take a deep inhale straight into his chest. You could bury your face deep in-

“If I were to help you fix this, then I would need to touch you.” Your eyes widen, walls instinctively fluttering around nothing at the suggestion. His words carry more weight to them, and you at least know Dan Heng well enough to recognize this as his way of asking if you’re okay.

And you’re much, much more than okay with receiving his help.

“Please…. yes please.”

Time seems to slow down as he closes the distance between the two of you— backs you up until you’re pressed against the wall and your face heats up. Your entire body follows as soon as you look at him, head fuzzy and clouded and you’re barely able to process just how close he is.

This is something you’ve always wanted. Maybe even dreamed about.

“I…” your eyes slam shut when you feel him hike up your skirt— slowly, and his fingers briefly ghost over your waist before he finally slots his thigh between your legs and nudges. “F-fuck..!” Your head falls back, back of your hand instinctively coming to hide your face— and he freezes.

That sensitive? You didn’t know it was possible for it to worsen. If you weren’t in such a daze, maybe you’d feel more embarrassed about it. “Close your eyes,” his voice is so close that it sends a shiver down your spine, “and let me touch you more.”

You listen. It’s a confirmation to him that you desperately need his help— because you never listen. “You’re lucky that you weren’t hit directly,” you feel him tilt your chin up, and a part of you wishes you could hold it— nuzzle your cheek against his palm— but then something suddenly clicks in your head.

“..You… you saw—”

His lips slot against yours the next second. Just one peck, and then another. It shuts you up immediately- sends a weird warmth coursing through your body and bubbles up in your core. Feels good. Feels good and he hasn’t even started. He pulls away, only to mumble a “yeah. I saw everything. I always keep an eye on you because you never listen..though I couldn’t make it to you in time” before his lips are back on yours.

To his surprise, you keep your eyes shut like he told you to. Maybe it’s all too much for you to take in, so closing your eyes and focusing solely on how he feels is the only way you know you’re not dreaming. Your body goes into overdrive, knees buckling as soon as he deepens the kiss and you almost moan when you feel him wrap an arm around you to keep you upright.

You’re practically melting. Melting into the kiss- letting him pull you even closer and letting him press his thigh into your cunt. Everything after that becomes a blur in your head. Where you end and he starts is something you don’t bother thinking about. It’s a mess of kisses— deep and full of tongue— and he trails them down your neck, ends just below your ear after he’s kissed every inch of your skin.

You’re certain he’s left marks, but his lips feel too good for you to care. The exact moment when he picked you up to press your back against the wall never registered in your head either. You only open your eyes when you finally feel him prod at your hole, and your heartbeat is practically thumping against your ribcage. “I’m going in. Hold tight.”

He starts to pushes inside, and your vision goes white. “Wait— w-wai—” You choke, embrace around his neck slipping, loosens just a bit too much and you sink down onto his length— mouth falling open in a silent scream as soon as he bottoms out in one rough motion.

It hits you all at once. A violent orgasm that rips from deep inside you- one you’re not quite familiar with- has you screaming into his shoulder, nails digging into the muscles of his back as you gush all over him. He practically growls at the feeling, fingers digging into your thighs even when they tremble and jerk against him.

The room falls silent aside from your panting and his breathing. Your walls spasm around his thickness- strongly feeling the aftershocks, and he feels your slick dripping down his cock and onto the floor beneath you.

“‘S n-no fair at all,” you whimper, “feels too good. I’m almost scared—”

“Don’t say things like that.” If it was even possible, he holds you even closer. Even with the softness in his voice, you can tell he’s struggling to hold back. “You don’t need to think about anything,” he reminds you, “just hold tight and let yourself feel everything.”

“Trust me to take care of it.”

dividers by @ cafekitsune

[dollishmehrayan]

# “MRS. WAYNE I THINK THIS IS FOR YOU!” ── .✦ ( bruce wayne wife headcannons )

a/n: this was request by a anon (here) so yeah but anyways I Lowkey used to be OBSESSED with like batmom stories but like I genuinely then lost all care for liking anything bruce wayne but this might just like help me (jason todd girly converts into a batmom Stan😭) tags: (bruce wayne x fem!reader)

CHAOTIC HEADCANNONS ── .✦

“No, Bruce. That’s Not a Normal Thing to Do.”

You frequently have to remind him that billionaire habits don’t translate to normal life.

Bruce: “I thought I’d buy out the café you like so you wouldn’t have to wait in line.”

You: “Bruce, we’re just getting lattes. Calm down.”

The expensive car Dilemma: He’s tried picking you up in one of his expensive cars once, and you’ve never let him live it down.

“Bruce, we’re not running a car dealership we’re going to Target.”

Tech Mishaps: Bruce likes to show off his gadgets, but they always malfunction around you. Once, the Batcomputer locked him out because you accidentally spilled coffee near it. You took a picture of his shocked face and made it your phone wallpaper for weeks.

The Disastrous Cooking Attempts: Bruce insists he can cook. The truth? Alfred banned him from the kitchen after he tried to “surprise” you with pancakes and set the stovetop on fire.

“I’m Batman, but I can’t handle pancake batter.”

OVERPROTECTIVE HUSBAND™ ── .✦

He’ll interrogate any new friends you bring around like they’re suspects in a heist.

Bruce, shaking someone’s hand firmly: “And what do you do for a living?”

You, glaring: “Bruce, they’re not applying to join the Justice League.”

GOSSIP FINAL BOSS ── .✦

He pretends not to care about gossip, but he secretly listens to you rant about gala drama. Sometimes, he’ll even chime in with hilariously accurate observations.

You: “That woman was glaring at me all night.”

Bruce: “Because she kept seeing her husband looking at you’re instagram posts. Trust me, Alfred told me.”

ROMANTIC HCS ── .✦

Constant Gentleman Mode: Bruce is always opening doors for you, carrying your bags, or pulling out your chair. You tease him about being old-fashioned, but it’s clear he loves taking care of you.

Private Dance Lessons in the Manor: When you’re stressed, Bruce will put on some music in the empty ballroom and sweep you into an impromptu dance. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, but the way he looks at you mid-spin? That’s what makes your heart race.

Personal Love Notes: Bruce doesn’t text much, but he leaves little handwritten notes around the house.

“Don’t forget, you’re the best part of my day.”

“Coffee’s ready downstairs. So is your husband, who can’t stop thinking about you.”

The ‘I’m Watching You’ Look: At galas, Bruce can’t stop staring at you. When you catch him, he gives that little smirk that says, Yeah, you caught me, but I’m not sorry.

Soft Batman Moments: Even in the Batcave, he has moments where he’s just your Bruce. When he sees you waiting up for him late at night, he’ll silently take off his cowl, walk over, and hold you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Protective, but Not Controlling: He worries, of course, but he respects your independence. If you’re ever in trouble, though, the Bat is out faster than you can blink. “No one touches my wife.”

Gift Giving Expert: He puts serious thought into gifts. One time, he recreated your childhood bedroom in the manor when you were feeling homesick. “I just wanted you to feel at home,” he said, completely nonchalant.

The Morning Ritual: He wakes up early to watch you sleep for a few minutes (in the least creepy way possible) because it’s his quiet reminder of how lucky he is. When you stir awake, he presses a kiss to your forehead and whispers, “Good morning, love.”

Subtle Public Affection: In public, his affection is subtle—hand on the small of your back, thumb grazing your hand, or an almost imperceptible wink across the room. But behind closed doors? He’s all cuddles and kisses.

Always Puts You First: Whether it’s cutting a patrol short to spend time with you or risking everything to keep you safe, Bruce’s priority will always be you. “The city can wait. You can’t.”

MIX OF CHAOS AND ROMANCE ── .✦

When Bruce tries to be romantic but Alfred bringing him back to reality: Bruce, holding your hand: “You’re the light in my dark world.”

Alfred, walking in: “Sir, you said that to the last woman, too. Shall I fetch your script?”

You once jokingly wore a bat-symbol T-shirt to tease him. Bruce didn’t say anything, but later that week, he wore a matching shirt that said, “I <3 My Wife.”

[madwomansapologist]

──────〃✰ KINKTOBER DAY 1: 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏 𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐑

title: poker face synopsis: luckily, mr. zero didn't knew you were a mugiwara. luckily, mr. zero fell for your bluffs. unfortunately, you never imagined it would be that hard to not fall for crocodile's charm. [3.1K] cw: mugiwara!fem!reader, strip poker, strip tease, public sex, cock crush, nipple stimulation, size difference, fingering (f!receiving), riding, biting, scratching, finger sucking, p in v, creampie, possessive behavior, mob boss meets a baddie, pussy so good he wonders about marriage.

PREV POST ✰ NEXT POST

With a thick cigar between his teeth, Crocodile forced himself to smile. “Five of a kind”, he dropped his cards on the table. “Seems like the house won. Again.”

Crocodile’s presence in Rain Dinners works to reinforce his reputation as a hero in this wretched island. Unfortunately, it also means Crocodile is tormented by the most boring clientele.

To watch someone gambling everything they own out of delusional hope and losing it all because of sheer mischance is only interesting the first few hundreds of times. Now, all Crocodile feels is disdain.

He curses those vermin that stole the joy of victory.

Murmuring complaints, two bettors left the table. The croupier stretched his arm, reaching for the cards left far away from him. As the cards were shuffled, Crocodile took in the chance to observe the tables nearby. Searching for chaos to be dealt with, such a common occurrence in a casino, an unusual sight stole his attention.

A long, thick, light pelted fur coat. Crocodile inhaled the smoke, holding it in. Admiring you with that coat over your shoulders, no one would’ve imagined this is the middle of a desert. And still, you didn’t break a sweat.

One of the bettors decided it was the right moment to thank Crocodile for his protection over Alabasta. He did his best to sound modest, heroic. To embody the last hope of this dying island. The moment a white blur entered his peripheral vision, Crocodile simply ignored the man’s existence.

With a hand over the chair’s top rail, you stared directly at the croupier. “May I?”, you asked, voice sultry as the desert.

Crocodile took the cigar out of his mouth, releasing the smoke in the direction opposite from you. “Made just in time”, he moved his hand towards the croupier ready to start. “Do you know how to play, hon’?”

You took a sip from your glass, not bothering to answer him. Placing your coat over the chair’s rail, you reached inside its pocket and took the poker chip’s box. You left it open on the table, emerald dress moving on your body as you sat down and crossed your legs.

The box was filled to the brim.

Your lack of interest on him ignited something within Crocodile. Curiosity. Something far more interesting than gambling against weak bluffs. “New to poker?”, Crocodile smiled devilish. The sort of smile that make pretty women like you forget about decency.

If only you had looked at him.

“New to this island”, you answered, sounding as bored as Crocodile was before you got there. The way you danced around his question was enough for him to know you didn’t want the others to think of you as an easy target. Usually, Crocodile would simply profit on it. This time, with you staring straight into his eyes, he couldn’t care less about this game. “Is it worth?”

“It will be.”

A promise Crocodile intended to fulfill.

Feeling his gaze burning your skull, to not smile was never so difficult. If you were weaker, you would’ve laugh until your cheeks fell apart from your face. How funny. How alluring. Ah, Luffy really told you the truth.

Your life will be funnier around me, Luffy gave you the brightest smile you ever saw. Stroking your cheek, he cleaned the trace of tears. I will never let you get bored.

A Shichibukai stands before you, unable to see you as part of the threat he is so interest in dealing with. The man that sent thousands of bounty hunters after your crew, that forced Vivi to witness as unnecessary violence tore her nation in pieces, doesn’t even know that you’re part of the group he wants to exterminate.

Good. That means the plan of distracting Crocodile has a chance of working.

Each bettor made an initial contribution for the deal to start. At every round, you raised the amount of chips. It didn’t matter if others were dropping out of the deal or if Crocodile doubled the bet with no hesitance. You simply continued to bet more.

That was alluring. It told more about you than your pretty lips could. You’re not here to make money. You’re not here to waste it. You’re here for amusement. And that Crocodile can give you any time.

“Showdown”, the croupier called. “Please, bettors, show your hands.”

The woman sitting beside you sighed, showing two pairs. Two bettors had dropped out, choosing to wait until the next deal. You placed your cards on the table. 4, 3, K, 10, 10. One pair. “Does that mean anything?”

The first man to drop out chuckled. “Only that you lost.”

Lost in the way your smile spread across your face, the croupier had to remind Crocodile it was his time to show the cards. “Three of a kind”, he murmured. This time, he put no effort into acting as if he cared that he won. Crocodile just wanted to learn more about you. “Do you know the rules?”

“Does it really matter?”, your bright smile was enough to enlighten the whole place. As the croupier changed the card sets, you gave him your solely attention. “The best liar wins at the end.”

“No surprise you haven’t won yet”, Crocodile smirked. He spread his legs, cigar between his fingers. His golden hook glistened, reminding you of the threat he represented simply by breathing. “It’s so easy to see right through you.”

But not to see how I stole all those chips from you, was what you thought. “Seems like a failure of mine”, was what you said out loud.

With a movement of his hand, a waiter approached. Crocodile whispered into his ear; eyes still fixated on you. Intoxicated on his presence, you forgot to look away. What a tempting man. From then on, your glass never remained empty.

Deal after deal, you continued to lose just as Crocodile continued to win. Deal after deal, you continued to answer just as Crocodile continued to ask.

Until there were only you two left at the casino. You let go of your glass and closed the poker chip’s box, raising from the chair. “Should have expected a pirate to be a good gambler.” You took your coat, walking away from the table. “Have a good night, Crocodile.”

“One last deal?” Crocodile was quick to offer. Desperately, you would add. “And then we call it.”

You raised the empty box. “I have nothing left to bet.”

And at that, Crocodile saw his last chance of amusing you. “Then let’s bet everything we have.”

Sat down again, chin supported by your palm, you frowned. The wine had started to affect you both. “And by that you mean…”

“Everything”, Crocodile spread his legs, resting his hook on his thick thigh. You told yourself he was begging for you to stare, but you weren’t that sure of it. “Every chip on this table. Everything on our bodies.”

As he closed his mouth, a part of Crocodile feared his proposition would offend you. It doesn’t happen often, but there is a chance he misread your signals.

“I’ve been eyeing your rings since I sat here”, you wondered out loud. “Just as you been eyeing my dress.”

But to be so straight to the point… Crocodile wasn’t quite expecting that. It was what he wanted, but to see how you two were connected made harder for him to breath.

Then you sighed.

“As tempting as it is,” and you were standing again. Crocodile hated to see that. He would hate even more to see you leaving. “It is also getting late. Like I said, I’m new to this island.”

“You have nothing to fear”, Crocodile bargained. “Not when I’m around.”

“But you won’t be around on my way back to the hotel.”

“Then stay here”, he offered. You arched an eyebrow. “I don’t intent on letting you walk away that easily. I’m a pirate. I’m used to taking what I want for myself.”

For an eternity, you both stared into each other’s eyes. A silent negotiation. His final offering, your final chance of doing the right thing and walking away from danger. You could see his very soul. How it burned just beneath the surface. Crocodile felt the same heat coming from you.

The croupier forced a cough, remind you of his presence. It took much of his strength for Crocodile to not kill him right then and there.

“Shuffle the cards and leave”, you ordered.

He obeyed. Quickly. You both took a look at your cards sets. A smile died within you. A smirk grew on Crocodile’s face. The moment the croupier closed the exit door, Crocodile showed his hand.

Crocodile looked even bigger than he already was, filled with the confidence of a winner. “Four of a kind.”

Dropping your hand on the table, you were the winner he believed to be. “Royal flush”, you smiled. “Pretty sure that’s the highest since we’re not using any wild cards.”

Shock was a good look on Crocodile. After analyzing your cards, his gaze returned to you. “You said you didn’t know how to play.”

“Oh”, you drank the last sip from your glass. “Did I?”

And at your answer, all he could do was laugh. Crocodile ran his hand through his black hair. “You hustle me”, he whispered. Crocodile wasn’t able to get rid of this genuine smile.

Your laugh was real too. It made Crocodile breath in your scent, get drunk on the sweet sound coming from you. Not a bluff, not an act. It was real, and it only made you more beautiful. “And now you have a debt to pay.”

His face darkened, reminding you of who he is. You hustled Crocodile. You hustled Crocodile. You never thought of yourself as a stupid woman, but here you are. For fucks sake. Luffy really is rubbing on you.

Crocodile bended over the table, his broad shoulders creating a shadow over you. His hand grabbed your chair’s arm, his hook moving your chin upwards. A strand of hair fell in front of his orange eyes, and looking into them you felt like a powerless prey about to be ravished.

Face lurking inches above yours, Crocodile smiled devilish. A smile that made you forget about decency, focusing only on the promise of more of him. More of the man that wants to kill you. “Enjoy the show”, Crocodile whispered.

His blue scarf was the first to be throw away, and neither of you cared about where it would land. His long fingers worked on the buttons of the rumpled black-striped vest, so slowly you almost took it off of Crocodile by yourself.

The peach shirt beneath showed a portion of his wide chest and instead of finally getting rid of it, Crocodile held the leather belt around his waist.

He had so much fun teasing you, admiring how you couldn’t look away. A man as handsome must feel entitled to the silent praise. He really thought he was the one in charge, didn’t he? And for long enough, Crocodile was.

You’re a lot of things, but you’re not patient.

Leaning against the chair, you raised your leg. The silver heel brushed against his pants, from down on his ankle until the insides of his thigh. And when your painted nails shined right in front of his crotch, you forced your feet against it.

“Stop playing around.” Cocking your head, eyes explored his still covered up body. “Don’t make me wait.”

Crocodile grabbed your ankles, calloused hand stroking softly your skin. It wasn’t a rough touch, but not less possessive because of it. You put more pressure, making him groan. “You are insane.”

“And why is that?”

“Anyone else would fear me”, Crocodile’s voice reminded you of velvet and sharp knives. It lingered on your ears. “And here you are. Demanding more.”

You sighed, fingers brushing against your lips. That voice… it was your last straw. Fighting his hold, you put your foot down on the ground. You grabbed his shirt, pushing him back until Crocodile sat down on his chair again.

He opened his mouth as you sat down on his lap, but you gave him no time to do anything. “You talk too much.”

Holding the chair’s top rail as leverage, you dive into him. Tooth biting his lower lip, tongue forcing a passage into his warm mouth. Your free hand found a spot on his large neck, bringing Crocodile closer to you. Instead of waiting, you took what you wanted for yourself.

Just like a pirate would.

She isn’t fragile, Crocodile thought. She won’t break.

Sinking into you, Crocodile forgot about self-control. He simply ravished you, just like you demanded of him. A wild animal and nothing more. Exploring your mouth as if it was his to control, hand grabbing your soft skin without a care about finesse or decorum. Crocodile pressed his hook against your chest, enjoying how it didn’t stop you from moving as you wanted to.

You got him out of that stupidly tight shirt, hands scratching his chest as your hips moved on top of his crotch. He forced you down, putting your whole weight upon himself, and ripped your emerald dress into pieces with his hook.

“You’ll pay for this one.”

It was a complain, but your fingers working to unbutton his pants made clear you couldn’t care less. His kisses travelled to your neck, tongue leaving a trail of drool on your shoulder, mouth closing against your nipples. Your fingers intertwined with his hair, encouraging Crocodile to continue.

“I will get you anything you want”, he said, voice muffled. He couldn’t get away from your body to speak. “You burn hotter than the fuckin desert.”

No shame, no hesitation. Freed from his pants, you licked your palm before grabbing his cock. You pumped him with zero delicacy, thumb pressing against the dark, sensitive head. Just like everything in Crocodile, it was big enough to make you wonder.

As if he could read you mind, Crocodile slid his hand into your panties. Long fingers explored your lips, precise with every movement. Thumb pressing against your clit, two fingers against your wet slit. His hook brushed against your thigh, arm locking around you to press you down on his fingers.

Your loud moan embarrassed your very soul, but all Crocodile did was laugh. His teeth closed around your neck, biting hard enough to make you whimper. That’ll mark you for sure. “Ride me, hon’.”

With your nails deep into his back, you stretched yourself on Crocodile’s fingers. You bit his earlobe, brushing your face against his as you speed up your movements. In your hand, his cock throbbed. Crocodile was leaking, burning in the same way you do.

“Take what you want”, you whispered against his ear. “Fuck me already.”

It happened so quickly, you barely understood how he moved. A second before you were on his lap, two fingers deep into your hungry cunt, lips around his ear. Then you were sat on the table, poker chips falling on the floor, Crocodile standing between your legs.

A fucking monster.

Crocodile took his drenched fingers from you, and wasted no time before sucking them clean. He grabbed your thighs, exposing yourself from him. “She’s delicious”, Crocodile stared at your pussy. His fingers pulled your lips apart. “Will get me addicted to her.”

Using your legs, you got him even closer to you. Crocodile grabbed your hair, pulling you into a messy kiss. Fighting against your tongue, he fit the head of his cock into you. You moaned into his mouth.

Moving your heels against his thighs, you forced him inside of you. A stupid decision. Your head collapsed against his shoulder, the entirety of his length touching all the right places. So good, so right, so… much.

Crocodile wasn’t in that much of a better situation. Eyes closes tightly, lips hanging open as a deep cry escaped. So wet, so warm. Moving slowly, Crocodile chortled. He had no control over his mind anymore.

“Don’t you dare stopping”, you manage to say. “Just… fu-fuck, just like that.”

Deep thrusts as his fingers worked on your clit: Crocodile wouldn’t dream of doing anything other than you wanted. He could feel your drool gathering on his shoulder. How your fingers were deep into his forearms, or how the hold of your legs around his waist weakened.

All Crocodile wanted was to make you as addicted to him as he already was to you. To get you to scream his name, begging for more and more. He wanted you to take from him. To get what you wanted. And Crocodile wanted everything you could give him.

Feeling waves of pleasure washing over you, mind empty as a white canvas, you tilted your head back. Eyes half-open, you admired him. His raw lips, face covered in sweat. Marks of lipstick all over his chest, just as deep nail marks and surface scratched. You looked down, watching as he entered you.

“You are worth way more than eighty million.”

Crocodiled bended, tongue playing with your aching nipple. “After my head, hon’?”, he sucked on them. You stroked his hair, enjoying how primal Crocodile looked.

“Do I look insane?”, you moaned.

Crocodile looked into your eyes, face near yours. You placed your arms around his shoulders, but he held you in place. Crocodile simply looked at you. As if there was something new, something he never saw before.

“You do”, Crocodile whispered. It felt so intimate. For a moment, you weren’t being fucked in an empty casino. For a moment, you two were sharing a secret. “You’re perfect.”

You melted against him. Lost on your orgasm, you unlearned how to breath. The fact you couldn’t think didn’t stop Crocodile from kissing you. As you closed around him, Crocodile reached his limit. Tooth deep into your throat, he marked you again.

Tears formed behind your eyes, throat aching as you finally breathed again. You laid your head on his chest, feeling it rising with his unregulated breathes. A firm hand held your waist, his nose stopped in the union of your shoulder and neck. His biting hurt so good, just like your scratches on his skin.

When Crocodile opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his hand holding onto the table. He looked at the fours rings you said caught your attention. And he saw how there was only one finger lacking a ring.

Insane, Crocodile thought. She’s making me insane.

As his hips moved away, a cry left your throat as he emptied your pussy, your legs finally stopped working. Crocodile took his cigar from the ashtray, smoking it for a few seconds. When he released the smoke, you grabbed his chin and made him face you. Inhaling it, you closed your eyes.

Not a second after you let it go, his hand and hook slid beneath your thighs. Effortlessly, Crocodile took you from the table. Your shaken legs closed around his waist as he carried you. “What you doing?”

Crocodile finally looked into your eyes again. He smiled, and it was genuinely. “Taking what I want for myself.”

taglist: @ffinosie @lovelyy-moonlight @alzaira @s2-angells @eyes-ofhell @inlovewithmariah @chiiyohiimee @shaquilles-0atmeal @bloodyziggy @salemey @kcch-ns @notanalienindisguiseblink

© all rights reserved to MADWOMANSAPOLOGIST

[ellecdc]

I’ve been thinking about a Remus (or ig any ship that includes him?) x metamorphmagus!reader who is always turning into other people in order to mess with people. despite them being very good at acting and visually/audibly indistinguishable from their target, once the moon comes close and his senses are heightened Remus is able to recognize them from scent alone. I also think he’s observant enough that even when his senses are as normal as they can be, he is able to notice little ticks and habits that break through the disguise. I don’t think he would ruin their fun, observing and if he isn’t in pain even helping with their mischief.

It’s just such a cute little concept to me, and I think it could be fun to play with, so I would love to see if you can come up with a little Drabble or something about it! Thank you mother ❤️ I love confident and mischievous readers with quiet but enabling characters

this was a cute concept! thanks for the request! also, I didn't intend for this to be Potter!reader, but with the way the story went it ended up feeling like it had to be potter reader hahaha

Remus Lupin x Potter!reader who is a metamorphmagus [800 words]

CW: fem!reader, 'your mama' insults, talking about students getting it on in a broom closet

“Never thought I’d find myself happier to see this Black than the other one.” Barty Crouch Junior drawled as he sauntered into the library looking innocent for all intents and purposes - but Remus knew better.

“Sod off, Junior.” Sirius sneered back as he glared at the Slytherin from behind his book. 

“Oh, someone’s getting off, I can assure you.” He jeered; a mischievous sparkle shining in his eye giving Remus not nearly enough time to prepare for the coming theatrics. 

“Oh? Could you hear me and your mum last night?” Sirius replied haughtily, turning a page of his book for show. “I’ll try to make sure we’re quieter next time, but she’s a screamer.” 

Barty simply hummed as he dragged a finger across the back of a chair; expression glowing like he was simply loving this. “Are family members not off limits then, Black? Because if that’s the case, someone really ought to tell Reg and Potter that there's no need to be rutting against each other in the third floor broom closet like a couple of ne’er-do-wells.”

Sirius was standing in record time; his chair grating across the floors before landing with a thunk and his book (prop) laying long forgotten.

“You’re not serious.” Sirius spat menacingly, a true testament to how riled up he got over his brother and best friend (even though the two had been publicly dating for almost two months now) that he didn’t even bother censoring himself against the verb form of his name.

“Deadly.” Barty smirked, and that was all it took for Sirius to go racing off into the castle to cause a bigger scene than either Regulus or James had been prior to the announcement of their secret tryst. 

The library returned to its prior volume as Remus watched 'Barty' simply stare after the last place Sirius could be seen. 

“That’s not nice, dove.” Remus chided gently, though he didn’t bother hiding his smirk as he stared back down at his book.

“Whatever do you mean, Lupin?” You sneered back, but you were wearing a beaming smile that told him clearly you knew the ruse was up. 

“James has been trying very hard to make sure he isn’t throwing his relationship with Regulus in Sirius’ face.” Remus explained tiredly, though it was all for show. 

“And James has been making it very hard for me to not want to stab myself with a quill during quidditch practices.” You pouted as you took the seat across from him.

“All this over quidditch drills?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

You didn’t break his gaze nor the pout of your lips as you added “and he ate the last of my fizzing whizzbees.” 

Remus hummed in understanding. “An egregious crime, certainly.”

“Right? What would you have done if he’d eaten all your chocolate?”

“Nothing short of murder; he’d be out the dormitory window.”

“See, I knew you’d get it.” You replied with a smirk, though your eyes turned soft as you looked him over.

“Be nice to your brother.” He murmured quietly, earning a dramatic groan as you threw your head back in exasperation.

“I don’t have to be nice to him, he’s my brother.” 

“What would your mum say?” He asked as he leaned back in his chair and held his book against his lips to hide the smile on his face.

You groaned again and looked over at him nonplussed. “To be nice to my brother.” You offered back in monotone.

He lowered his book so you could see his beaming smile, causing you to launch forward in an attempt to swipe his book from him only for him to catch your wrist instead.

“How did you even know it was me? I thought I had the impression down pat.” You murmured quietly, face now inches from his.

“You certainly look like Junior.” Remus conceded as he gave you a once over. “But he would have never let that comment about his mum fly.”

You let out a bark of laughter that Remus knew to be only yours. “That’s true, I suppose. I’ll do better next time.”

Remus gave you a shake of his head in faux admonishment as he leaned closer to you. “I’ll always recognise my sweet girl.” He murmured, massaging the inside of your wrist that he was holding captive with his thumb. “I’d recognise you by smell alone.” 

Your gaze turned hungry as your eyes flit down to his lips and then back up again. 

But Remus pulled away before you could connect your lips to his.

“Do not kiss me as Barty Crouch Junior.” He deadpanned, causing you to let out raucous laughter that got you more than a few shush’s from surrounding tables before he watched you melt back into yourself.

Remus loved your mischief, but this was by far his favourite version of you.

[ozarkthedog]

𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐀𝐜𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬

summary: Declan introduces you to a friend.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x afab!reader / Rupert Campbell Black

warnings: 18+ mdni. filth. unspecified age gap. oral sex (m). Declan calls the shots. fingering. edging. no m/m. slight anal play. dirty talk. squirting. rough sex. Rupert pushing the boundaries aka he’s a menace. cuckhold of sorts. male masturbation. cream pie. light, barely there after care. ep 8 spoilers. w.c: 2.4k

author’s note: i'm a Declan girlie but I had to write something feat. Rupert.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Soft golden rays bleed through the aged windows of the O'Hara estate. Its owner, Declan, sits comfortably on a worn chair in the middle of his study. Books and papers litter the room, even on the small sofa adjacent to the chair. As the fireplace crackles, the bright orange flames warm your skin as you kneel naked between your employer's thighs.

Declan groans as he feeds you his cock. His thighs widen, as much as his unzipped trousers will allow, on the tattered chair, giving you more room to swallow him down. His heart beats steadily under his lush brown sweater as you suckle his cock while looking up at him under your lashes.

Declan enjoyed times like these when the house was empty, and he got you all to himself. With Maud gone, leaving everything to Taggie was unfair, so he caved and hired a housekeeper. Little did he realize he'd fall head over heels for you.

You both took your time dancing around one another like nervous teenagers at a school dance. Harmless flirting and late-night conversations over the meals you'd cook for him led to Declan taking matters into his own hands.

He was used to control. He enjoyed it, really. The power felt comfortable, and he had no issue wielding it.

Declan was still on edge one day after a trifling day at Coriniuim. His usual soak and cig in the tub wasn't helping. The radio was blasting ear-aching songs, and the water was getting too cold too fast, but that all changed when you walked in on him with an armful of fresh towels.

He took a chance, one that could've ended with him locked up, but you didn't run. You followed his dubious commands and let him exert his dominance, allowing him to reign over you.

Since then, you two have been inseparable.

"Ah, right on time," Declan notes, looking at the clock perched on the mantle in his study as the large front door creaks open.

Declan mentioned inviting a friend over earlier in the day, but you didn't think he meant now.

The sight of your wide doe eyes makes his gut fervently twist. He's always appreciated someone yearning after what was his, especially an individual so well-loved by the women of Rutshire.

"Don' stop, Love," Declan instructs. His Irish accent dips low as he curls a solid hand around your head when you start to draw back. Your wary, garbled sounds vibrate Declan's cock eliciting a hiss from his lips. He sends you a pensive look and keeps you locked as the steps draw near. "You know I like people ta watch, but I wan' to try somethin' new."

Your heart lodges in your throat. Declan had divulged this kink not long after the two of you began dating. It was harmless fun flirting with other men while Declan observed from the shadows like a deviant; the journalist grew feral until he could no longer hold himself back, scurrying off with you in his arms, leaving the poor target in a stupor.

No one could ever come close to Declan; you never want them to.

"I seem to have come at a rather inconvenient time, have I not?" A pondering English baritone fills the room.

Rupert Campbell Black.

With arms crossed, the affluent man leans on the rustic doorframe. He catches your uneasy gaze with a cheeky smile, prompting a wildfire in your belly.

Declan shakes his head, his thick mustache ticking excitedly, "Not at all. Come in."

You try to move again, but Declan doesn't budge an inch. Your brows knot in confusion as your hands fly to cover your exposed bits as best you can.

"Say hello, ta Rupert, Swee'heart," Declan instructs, his dark chestnut eyes alight with devilry.

Your gaze trails from the man's supple leather loafers and pressed lined slacks to the sepia colored dress shirt that exposes a svelte chest as the top two buttons are undone. Rupert oozes high society and overt confidence, the kind of man you'd go dumb even looking at.

"My, my, where has Declan been hiding you?" Rupert croons. His azure orbs fixate with dark intrigue at your naked, shivering form.

As you greet Declan's neighbor, a slight garbled noise barely registers to the men. Tauntingly, Rupert leans over and puts a hand behind his ear, "Sorry, Angel. What was that?"

Your belly flips, and butterflies flutter carelessly in the wake of being so degraded. Still, your cunt produces a wave of arousal and clenches around nothing.

Knowing he doesn't have much patience, you chance another look at Declan and wish you hadn't. His white teeth bared, and his lips pulled back into a light sneer, like a wolf facing down prey, waiting for you to heed his command.

Declan bites back a moan at the hedonic sensation of you stringing together a messy greeting for the affluent man.

Rupert snickers. "Aren't you cute."

"Thatta' girl." He praises before thrusting his length into your throat and cutting off your air.

He waits for a beat, relishing in the watery glaze that coats your eyes and how your chest heaves. Fidgety hands dig into his darkened slacks, knocking the loose ends of his belt. Drool spills down your chin and settles at the base of his cock.

"Ya know ya waited too long ta give Rupert a warm welcome." He fumes, his expression twisting lightly with displeasure.   

With a soft growl, Declan eases his grip. You fall back on your heels, a blight, coughing up spittle and trying to suck down fresh air at the same time.

"Might I say, you've got a real treasure here," Rupert leers down at your messy face and spit-soaked breasts that make your nipples shine in the light. "Lovely to meet your acquaintance."

"Though' you migh' like a taste." Declan offers, looking up at Rupert like you weren't perched at their feet, anxiously awaiting their next move.

"Would I ever." A Cheshire grin tugs at Rupert's lips. He makes a show of folding his button-down sleeves over his muscular forearms as he stalks around you.

Declan beckons you with the tilt of his head, "C'mere, Love. I ain't done wit' your mouth."

You sniffle before taking your place between his knees once more. Declan can sense your worry as Rupert traces a finger down your spine while he crouches behind you. "Don' worry abou' him. He won' do anythin' out of line."

Declan taps his bulbous crown against your swollen lips, drawing your attention away from the blue-eyed beau. His sturdy thighs are a protective shield, enveloping you like a fortress from harm.

As curious fingers tickle your sticky thighs, your lips part with a gasp, allowing Declan to thrust into your warm, wet mouth.

"Jesus Christ, she's soaked." Rupert husks as he softly skims your glistening folds. Your cunt throbs from his unfamiliar touch, coursing a frightening spark of arousal up your spine.

"She's not 'ad much experience." Declan hisses as his crown breaches the tight confines of your throat. Your hand tugs at the thick base that's peppered with dark curls, fingers barely overlapping, pumping in time with his languid thrusts across your tongue.

"You don't say." The Englishman trails off, no doubt thinking of all the crude ways he could defile you.

As you start a slow rhythm, bouncing your head up and down Declan's cock, making the older man unashamedly moan, Rupert swipes his fingers across your seam and gathers all your shiny slick, drawing it up to your clit before lazily circling the tender bud.

Bright lights erupt under your eyelids. Blood rushes south, pooling in your core, heightening your suffocating lust as your body bends to his will.

"Ah ah, Angel." Rupert tsks, grabbing hold of your wriggling hips. His grasp keeps you stock still, unable to evade his voracious touch.

The pads of Declan's fingers press into your scalp as a soft warning. "Be good ta Rupert."

Being pushed and pulled between the two older men was agony of the luscious kind. You only knew of Declan's touch, the succulent highs and lows. The amorous sublime.

A gentle hand glides over your ass before massaging the plump cheek. Your frantic cries are a mumbled mess as you're pushed higher and higher into the pleasurable abyss from Rupert's caress.

He winds two fingers into your core, cursing from your tightness, and splays his dexterous digits along your walls. His thumb lands square on your clit, swiping back and forth with prowess. "So sweet and responsive. Such a good girl." he curls his fingers along your walls, drawing pathetic noises from your chest.

Your body rolls like waves, back and forth between the two men. Rupert's teeth sink into the tender skin of your ass before a gentle tongue soothes the marks and trails down the valley of your cheeks, causing you to choke around Declan's cock.

A wad of spit lands directly on your rosebud just before a wicked tongue ravishes the tight, untouched hole.

Your belly drops at his vulgar touch. No one ever touched you there before. A heavy wave of arousal slips from your cunt as you fight the urgent need for release. Rupert moans hungrily as he laps the rim of your ass.

Your incessant wriggling alerts Declan to Rupert's perverted actions.

"What'd I say, ya daft cunt?" Declan fumes. His mustache twitches as he shoots daggers at the man posed behind you.

Rupert swirls his tongue one final time before leaving your rosebud with a loud pop. "Sorry, chap. I forgot you haven't filled all her holes yet." The tug of his lips says otherwise.

Declan mumbles under his breath and leans back in his chair, focusing on you. "What'a fuckin' sight," he grunts, yanking your tear-coated face off his girth. His large hand completely cups the side of your face, making you feel like a doll with glossy, swollen lips as he stares at you like a man possessed.

Rupert twists his wrist, and your eyes grow wide as saucers. The need to come moves to the forefront of your mind. Declan can tell you're fighting, doing everything you can to hold back as you're slowly dragged to the edge.

Your jaw goes slack, and eyelids flutter; you're willing to endure any repercussions for coming without approval, but then Declan stamps your orgasm out just as quickly as it started.

"No, no, no. Don' be greedy," he tsks, shoving your dumbstruck face back down onto his length.

With Declan's cock stretching your lips and drooling pre cum over your taste buds and Rupert curling his fingers into the spongy spot behind your clit, your nerves scream for release.

The insides of your thighs are soaked, slick from want and a need held so close yet so far away. A soft cry falls from your spit-stained lips as Declan snatches your head off his cock and curves a large hand under your chin, holding you like a precious piece of art.

His opaque orbs sweep across your face, wild and feral; he's on the edge of breaking but holds steady like the stubborn man he is.

"Come on, Declan, let the girl come," Rupert implores to the stoic man holding captive your utmost pleasure.

The corner of Declan's lips tilts. He knows what'll happen. He can see it in your face, how truly gone you are, how nearly close the dam is to breaking.

"Go on, show 'im what he's missin', Swee'heart." Declan encourages, finally allowing you the taste you've wanted all this time.

Your body writhes in their combined hold with unkempt ecstasy as a ravenous cry fills the large study. You come like a geyser, locking like a vice around Rupert's fingers, forcing a curse from his lips as you coat his wrist and trousers with your creamy release.

"Jesus-" Rupert moans, dark and depraved, watching with rabid fascination as your core pulses in time to the beat of his heart.

Declan gathers you into his arms, away from the still man, propping your knees on either side of his thighs. "Sit on the couch and watch," he orders a dumbstruck Rupert before easing you down on his swollen cock.

A whimper catches in your throat from the obscene stretch as his girth widens your channel for the first time that day. Declan grabs your ass and steadily bounces you on his length, helping you rise and fall since your legs have turned to jelly.

"Gone so dumb, ya can' even move," Declan mocks. Coarse whiskers chafe your skin as he nibbles your chin, pouring filthy praises against your jaw, "Still so tight. Maybe two cocks'll do the trick," he drives his girth into your exhausted body. "Wan' your pretty cunt gapin' fa' me."

The seam of his brown sweater grazes your clit on every thrust; the fibers are soft yet overstimulating, your body boils, on the verge of combusting, and there's nothing you can do.  

A low moan catches your attention, dragging you from your frenzied state. As you turn your head to find the strange noise, you see Rupert with his swollen cock in his hand, barely out of his trousers. His cock weeps, the bulbous tip pulsing red, while he sucks your juices off his glistening fingers like a man starved for days.

His animalistic gaze bores into where you and Declan connect. You can imagine how obscene it is. Declan's sticky balls thwap immorally against your ass. Sticky sounds bounce off the walls as he draws more slick from your core, staining the base of his cock in a creamy ring.

Rupert's eyes flit to yours. You silently mouth his name, playing with the man who's used the women of Rutshire like a kid with infinite toys. The subtle action pushes the posh man over the edge.

Biting his knuckles, Rupert spills over his other set with a ragged string of grunts. The image sets off a chain reaction. You follow suit, crying as you come around Declan's cock, and dragging your other half with you. Declan's thick brows furrow, groaning his ecstasy as he fills you with ropes of white.

The three of you gradually come down from the hedonistic scene. Your hearts beat to their natural rhythm as the birds outside sing a dusk setting song.

"T'was lovely to meet you, Angel," Rupert flirts, cleaning his cock with a handkerchief before tucking himself into his trousers. "Hope to see you again real soon."

"Fuck off, Rupert," Declan quips, jutting his chin toward the door.

Rupert sends you a wink before rounding the couch and exits with the fattest smile you've ever seen.

Declan mumbles under his breath and curls his arms around you. He tucks your head under his chin, letting you unwind comfortably before the crackling fire.

"Was that okay, Swee'heart?" Declan's asks with softened eyes.

With a satisfied sigh, you snuggle deeper into his hold, seeking the warmth and protective embrace he can only give. "More than."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[cimmanonrowl]

OMG I love dbf trope 🫣… could I req dbf!Hotch and reader where they’re secretly dating and the team accidentally catches them on a date together or something similar to that?

lowkey

There must be something with the coffee. Or the new water dispenser in the BAU breakroom. For a couple of weeks, Aaron Hotchner seemed to be in the best mood everyone in the Bureau has seen in a long time. And well, the mystery was solved when the team caught you both red-handed on a date.

Pairing: dbf!aaron hotchner x rossi!reader

Theme: fluff mallows

Content: age gap, cheesy date, secret relationship.

Rumor has it that SSA Hotchner was dating someone.

Even you have heard the whispers in the hallway, the gossip they spread in the breakroom, and even the cautious murmurs in the elevator. For many weeks, the team had been a target of all faux inquiries in different conference rooms before every meeting started; all pertaining to when Aaron Hotchner found his happiness. And who the lucky woman was.

They know Aaron has a special someone. They just don’t know who it was– no, scratch that. They just don’t know it was you. 

“I’m not saying this because I don’t like seeing him happy...” Emily murmured to you and Morgan, who was already filling his third mug of searing coffee for the day. “But he’s acting too happy lately, it’s starting to freak me out.”

Emily leaned against the counter, quietly observing Hotch from a distance with her red lips pursed and suspicious eyes. As you turned around, you saw Aaron caught in an interesting conversation with Reid; a big, endearing smile lighting up his usually stoic and serious face.

Morgan shook his head as he looked over his shoulder, chuckling in obvious agreement. “He’s been joking around lately, too. It’s almost… unsettling.”

“Right? It’s literally been ages since I saw him like that- wait, do you know he went home early last night?” confusion was deeply etched on Emily’s face as she babbled, her eyes wide in faint excitement.

“Yeah. Nearly gave me a heart attack when he peeped into my office and told me he was heading home,” Morgan also leaned against the counter and took a sip of his drink.

“He went home earlier than Derek Morgan?”

“Shut up, Prentiss,” was all he could say.

You nodded along with their conversation in silence, not having anything interesting to say. Besides, your attention was fixed on your boyfriend from across the room; observing the way he listened intently and patiently to Reid’s genius ramble, the way he’d give him an encouraging nod to continue talking, his strong arms crossed over his chest, and with a kind smile plastered on his face. That look on his face sent hundreds of butterflies fluttering around your stomach. 

You love seeing him smile, which in return, also made you smile behind your mug.

“Maybe it’s the new water dispenser,” Emily suggested out of nowhere, half-joking. “Or the coffee. They changed it recently. What do you think?”

“I think it’s still shit...” you chimed in before you could even stop yourself, scrunching your nose at the bitterness of your drink.

Derek let out a surprised laugh, almost spitting the hot coffee in his mouth before quickly placing his mug on the counter, nodding frantically. “That, I fucking agree.”

Across the room, the sound of your hearty laughter caught Aaron’s attention. He quickly glanced at where you were standing, his expression softening a tad more at the sight of you talking animatedly with the other team members. It took all of his self-restraint not to grin at the familiar sound, although his heart fluttered at the very moment he heard it. 

He shook his head as he tore his eyes away from you, biting his lip to stop the smile slowly tugging on his lips, only to meet Reid’s inquisitive gaze the moment he focused back on him.

And all Aaron could mutter in his head was: Oh, fuck.

“Or maybe someone special has put that smile on his face. You know there’s a lot of rumor he’s seeing someone,” Morgan wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

“Yeah, the barista across the street.”

“What? The ba- what?” Emily’s eyes widened as she turned to you. “Did you see them? When? What happened? What does she look like?”

“Do you mean the one with crooked bangs? I swear that girl’s barber used a butcher’s knife or something.”

You chuckled at the description Morgan used. “I don’t know. I’m just kidding, anyway. That’s the new gossip I heard from Anderson’s team.”

“Last week they’re saying it’s some model in New York.”

“New York?” you repeated, feigning interest in the information.

“Uhuh, even Strauss was curious. Did you know that’s what she asked me on the elevator instead of asking how’s the bullet hole on my leg?”

“You’re being dramatic, Derek.”

Morgan snorted. “If you get shot, that’s the first thing you’ll hear from me, Prentiss.”

You let out a soft sigh, clutching the report in your hands as you approach Hotch’s office. The door was wide open, just the way he would always leave it, and you could see him focused on a stack of paperwork on his desk even from afar.

When he didn’t notice your presence, you took that as an opportunity to observe him. Aaron’s attention was focused on the document laid on his hand, his thick eyebrows tugged together, his eyes sharp with precision. You know it’s been a while since he shaved, and now there’s a hint of dark stubble shading his chin, adding a rugged edge to his otherwise polished appearance. You vividly remember the feeling of his growing beard on your neck whenever Aaron kisses you there. Just the memory alone makes you giggle and blush to yourself.

You tapped lightly on the doorframe.

“Agent Hotchner?” you called out softly, “Here’s the report you’ve been asking.”

Aaron looked up almost instantly, his stern expression softening just a fraction when he realized it was you. “Thank you, Agent,” he replied with a smile, mirroring the one you have on yours.

Aaron stood gracefully and walked around his desk to take the report from you, his fingers brushing lightly against yours in a fleeting touch. Up close, you noticed the shadow of exhaustion looming over his head. The tired frown, the dark circle under his eyes- you almost reached out and touched his face. All you wanted at that moment was to kiss the weariness away.

“How’s your day been?” you intended that question to sound professional but eventually failed as it was laced with obvious worry.

“Busy, as usual,” he said, his lips curving into a smile that only you would recognize as genuine. “But I feel better now.”

You bit your lower lip before nodding shyly.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

He darted his attention to the report and skimmed through it, nodding appreciatively. “This is thorough, as always. Excellent work.”

“Thank you, sir,” you beamed, your heart beating a little faster at his praise. “I try to keep up.”

Aaron’s eyes meet yours again, his voice low and smooth as though he was passing top-secret information. “About tonight, baby,” he began, “I made reservations at that Italian place you like. Eight o’clock work for you?”

You nodded promptly, keeping your expression neutral for any potential onlookers. Not only the door was left open but also the glass window. This old man and his professionalism, really. And it still freaks you out to think that, just last week, Reid has taken an interest in learning the art of lip-reading. No one has the nerve to call him out yet but he’s slowly becoming a menace to society.

“That sounds perfect. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause, and then Aaron nodded. “Good. I can’t wait, angel.”

That was your cue to leave so you quickly bid him goodbye, but not before giving him a sweet smile and a subtle wink. “Don’t stress up too much, Agent Hotchner.”

“You too, Agent,” he replied before you turned around, fully aware of how his eyes followed you as you walked out of his office.

When you returned to your desk, Emily glanced up from her paperwork, a tired smile plastered on her lips. “Everything alright with the report?” she asked innocently.

“Perfect,” you answered casually, keeping your tone light. “As always.”

Hours dragged on and the bullpen was slowly winding down for the evening. For the third time in five minutes, you glanced at the clock, your heart beating a little faster as the hands crept closer to eight. Tonight’s date with Aaron was all you could think about, and you couldn’t wait for the night to end when the both of you are already on his bed and resting.

Until suddenly, your father leaned against your desk, his trademark grin in place. “Ready to head out, kiddo? I was thinking we could grab dinner at that new Italian place you’ve been wanting to try.”

You gave him a small smile, not wanting to draw any suspicion for the sudden rejection. “Actually, I have plans tonight, Dad.”

“Plans, huh? With whom, if I may ask?”

Obviously, that piqued his interest. It’s been a year since you joined the Bureau and have been living independently since. You no longer live under his roof, but knowing your father, he still loves to act as if you do. He’d always offer you a ride to your apartment after grabbing dinner together.

You tried to keep your expression normal, but the excitement bubbling inside made it hard to hide your smile. “Just... a friend. We’ve been planning this for a while.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “A friend, mi cara? Anyone I know?”

“Well, sort of...” Hesitation lidded your expression for a moment. “But it’s still pretty new, so I’m not ready to share all the details yet.”

Rossi shook his head, chuckling at the sight of you blushing over some trivial question. “Alright, I won’t pry. But you know, you can tell me anything, right?”

You nodded quickly. “I know, Dad. And I will tell you about him... soon.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Alright. Just be careful, okay? And have fun.”

“I will, Papà,” you promised after giving him a quick hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Make sure to use protection.”

“Dad!” you glanced around the bullpen in scandal.

“Don’t be silly, just making sure he wraps his willie.”

From her desk, you heard Emily burst into boisterous laughter, obviously listening to the conversation. Your ears felt hot with embarrassment and you almost stumped your feet on the floor like a child.

“Oh my goodness, Dad!”

“What?” he feigned innocence. “Just a reminder, cara. But do enjoy your evening.”

You watched your Dad turn to leave before you breathed a sigh of relief, the tension finally easing from your shoulders. When you glanced around the office, that’s when you noticed Dr. Reid’s eyes focused on you, making you panic inside your head. What now?

After a while, he gave you an adorable tight-lipped smile before waving his hand. You gathered your things as everyone did, making sure to match everybody’s pace, eager not to appear suspicious from any angle.

Just as you were about to head out, you caught sight of Aaron emerging from his office, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. He gave you a discreet nod, which you only returned with a smile.

The soft glow of candlelight flickered across the table. The air was filled with the melody of an old Italian song, distant conversations, and clinking of cutlery. At times, you would hear a champagne or wine bottle being popped open. And the moment Aaron pulled back a chair so you could sit, it was as if time had finally slowed down.

Aaron’s eyes were locked on yours, his gaze so tender you almost melted in your seat. He leaned slightly forward, an adoring smile present on his lips.

“You know,” he began softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “You get more beautiful with each passing day. You keep me on my toes, baby.”

You chuckled at his terribly sweet words, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “We need to leave some room for dessert, love.”

“Just saying, angel,” he reached across the table to gently touch your hand. “Did you even notice how many men looked back at you when you walked past them? I bet some of them are on a date, too.”

You giggled, squeezing his hand lightly. “Can’t say I have. I’m too busy thinking of being in your bed.”

“Ah, my bed,” Aaron’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Laters, sweetheart. It feels cold and empty without you in there.”

As soon as he said it, the waiter arrived with your meal, setting down a plate of creamy fettuccine Alfredo and a glass of rich, red wine. Aaron took a moment to admire the spread, then turned back to you. When he lifted his glass for a toast, you noticed a flicker of hesitation flash in his eyes.

“Fuck. I was planning to say something sweet but I forgot it now.”

You laughed at his confession. “Take your time, Papi. You can do it.”

“No, really. Fuck...” he chuckled heartily. “Stop looking at me like that, darling. You make my heart flutter.”

“Like what, Aaron?”

“Baby, stop. Have mercy on me.”

You tilted your head innocently. “Like what, Aaron?”

He heaved a deep sigh, finally tearing his eyes away. “Jesus Christ...”

Heat crept into your cheeks as you lifted your glass. Giggling at his flushed expression, you clinked your glasses together, the sound resonating amidst the noise.

“I love you,” you said warmly, your heart swelling with every word. “And I know all the ways to cover a crime scene so don’t ever hurt me, Aaron Hotchner.”

Just as he was about to say something, the familiar voice of your father suddenly interrupted. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

You turned to your side and saw the rest of the team standing beside your table, all with different looks on their faces. Emily looked absolutely in shock, her eyes wide and lips ajar. JJ was biting back a smile, shaking her head. While Penelope was squealing and shaking JJ’s shoulder.

Behind them, Reid was already bantering with Morgan and asking for the price money he had won on their bet.

“I told you he called her ‘Angel’ not ‘Agent.’ I know I’ve only been learning how to read lips for a week but my skills are highly reliable.”

“Yeah, whatever you say, pretty boy.”

“It’s true!”

Motherfuckers.

And to your dread, your dad was the first to break the silence. “So this is the willie—”

“Oh my god, Dad!”

Penelope clapped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with happy tears. “Oh my gosh, this is the cutest thing ever! Wait, what do you mean he’s the willie?”

No, because I tear up writing this while listening on-loop to lowkey. LOL. I'm so hopelessly in love with Aaron. Someone pls kill me.

[darklcy]

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐭.

────˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚─────

‣ vi x reader | arcane masterlist | 1.9k words | enemies to lovers, angst, not super fluffy but happy end, mentions of low self esteem

‣ you assumed she hated you, but maybe it goes deeper than that when a fight has you taking shelter in her childhood home

‣ welcome back vi lovers! the arcane s2 brainrot is here and im back from my hiatus! (i hope you enjoy i may be rough i haven't written in a while)

Vi was too reckless for her own good.

Self-sabotaging can only carry you through so much, her invisible trophy wall of each violent encounter growing by the day. It was frustrating to see her do this, and yet every time a splotch of bruises formed, or a new line of blood dirtied her cheek, the more her perseverance began to crack. 

The pressure was abundant on her shoulders, you could practically feel it yourself. Whether she pulled you in, or you jumped yourself, the burden was also yours to carry. 

Sometimes you wondered if she disliked you. A simple question of well-being, how are you, earned a chilling glare and passive aggressive comments she meticulously crafted to falter your ego. Maybe she thought you were too weak to understand her pain, or perhaps it was the way your concern pushed through whatever bite she spat at you. 

Or maybe she just didn’t like you.

A bit ironic, seeing her sustainable relationship with the Enforcer from topside, the last person you would’ve thought her to be acquaintances with. And if you observed closer, Vi seemed to carry herself differently around her, this Caitlyn from Piltover. 

Though, there was credit to give. Her marksmanship was unlike anyone you’d ever seen in the lanes. She was light on her feet and agile, shooting her targets with perfect precision. No wonder she bore a badge proudly. 

And you were anything but a fighter. Maybe that’s why Vi looks at you the way she does. She’d marked you as a liability, vulnerable to the dangers of the world. It upset you, the way her nose scrunched up with her glares and cold shoulders. 

Who was she to judge you anyway? Every time you choose violence, you come out broken and bloody, so what’s the point? Whatever. Screw her and her opinions. Who the fuck needs her anyway. 

If only you’d fucked off when she told you to. Maybe then you wouldn’t be in this mess. Here. In the ruins of Vi’s childhood home, with a bloody nose and bruised cheek. With Vi. Damn your determination to prove her wrong. Damn those thugs for surrounding her completely, for not giving her a second to get back up. There was no stopping what was to come, that was clear the moment your bags were strewn hastily to the ground and shouts were thrown at her perpetrators. A sock to the face immediately took to the ground. The punk wouldn’t stop pounding hits to your face. Damn you, Vi.

Your pain wasn’t for nothing when Vi dragged herself up and freed you from his grip, knocking his ass to the concrete with a bloodied lip. Your vision was blurry as she took off running with her fingers tight around your wrist. When you stopped to breathe is when you realized your surroundings, confirmed with a stone marked with the names Power and Violet. 

The neon sign that previously towered over this ghost town had been toppled over and destroyed; half the foundations of the house torn to dust. The sight made you frown. The only remaining wall was to your left, sheltering a twin sized bed mattress with a tattered sheet on top. A groan to your side beckoned you to look over, watching as she shuffled to the mattress. In the distance, you could make out the faint echoes of yelling, the vast cliffs muffling the words together into a vague holler. 

“It’s probably best to sleep here. They’re not gonna leave anytime soon.”

Vi grumbled, not missing the hint of annoyance coming from her. She was laying on her side now, back to you and arms circling her stomach. You didn’t respond, instead trudging over to the bed and stiffly laying down beside her, back slightly grazing hers.

Neither of you spoke a word. 

It was hard to tell what she was feeling. She never was one to vocalize her thoughts, especially with you. With Caitlyn, maybe.

“...I didn’t need your help.”

Your shoulders tensed up. 

“I had control of everything. You just messed it all up.”

The fabric of the thin sheets acted as a stress reliever as you gripped tighter and tighter.

“...What the hell was I supposed to do? Seriously,”

“Not interfere? Now we’re stuck here.”

Today was not the day to be dealing with her attitude. You were sore, bloody, and in the worst mood possible to be treated like this. It didn’t help that her words stung, the bitterness stabbing into your open wounds.

“Well, maybe don’t pick fights with a group of guys who are clearly bigger and stronger than you.”

She snapped her body up and looked down on you.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You rolled over to your back, glaring up at her.

“They were clearly stronger than you! If I hadn’t shown up who knows what the fuck they would’ve done?”

“Oh yeah? And what good did you do? Take a few swings to the face?”

You rolled your eyes, sitting up to be eye level.

“I mean, yeah?! If I hadn’t taken those punches, you would still be on that damn street!”

Vi mockingly put a hand over her heart. “My hero.”

“Fuck off.” You moved to shove her in the shoulder, but her hand snapped around your wrist. Her glare intensified, eyes turning sharp and nose scrunching up. All your anger drowned in a pool of nerves while her fingers tightened, the skin of your hand turning red. She leaned in uncomfortably close.

“You really wanna go there?”

Her eyes bore into yours, not faltering eye contact for even a second. 

You could feel the tension in your neck beginning to ache. You would never win against her, but the thought was intoxicating. After a few quiet seconds, you yanked your wrist back, her fingers marking red indents into your skin. 

She scoffed, nodding her head while moving away from you. “That’s what I thought.”

You wanted to beat her. You wanted to win, just once. 

“What the fuck is your problem anyway.”

Her sharp eyes flickered to yours. It intimidated you every time, like she was the big bad bully in school, teeth grazing her lips as she fought back the retaliation.

You pushed through. “...All I’ve ever done was just try to help. Yet here you are, always pissed at me for no damn reason. What have I done to make you hate me so fucking much?”

Her eyebrows pinched together for a breath of a second. “...Huh?”

You threw your arms up, shuffling forward and standing from the cushion. 

“Every single day, you treat me like I’m some helpless child, like I’m a fucking idiot who can’t do anything. I’m an adult, Vi. Just because I can’t fight doesn’t mean I can’t do anything, for fucks sake.”

She watched you pace throughout the empty house, her eyes heavy as lead. You huff.

“It’s like, every time I try to do anything, you look at me like I’m some stupid child who keeps messing up. I’m tired of it. Either tell me straight up or leave me alone.”

Your spine met stone as you slid down to the floor, her carved name above your head. 

Pulling your knees up, your chin fell to your chest, arms dangling across your kneecaps to finally give your body some rest. Didn’t feel like a victory, but the weight of her burden dissipated just by a little. You’d never snapped back before, never given yourself the strength to stand up to her. Enough was enough. You can’t live like this anymore.

Vi remained quiet, whether she was debating on arguing or not, you didn’t care. The fight of sleep was winning, and your eyelids began to slowly surrender.

“...I wasn’t going to do anything, yknow.”

They snapped back open.

“Earlier, I mean. I wasn’t actually gonna hurt you.”

You don’t move to face her. Vi continues.

“I don’t hate you, you just,” She sighs. “You do things that confuse the fuck out of me, and frankly it pisses me off.”

You scoff. “Like what?” 

“Like jumping into that fight. That was a dumbass move, and you know it.”

“Oh my god. How is that a dumbass move- I helped you out, didn’t I? Besides, I put myself there, why are you the one pissed off? I should be pissed off.”

“Yes. Yes, you should!” She stands up from the mattress to tower over you, her voice beginning to raise.

“You should be pissed off, because you got socked in the face and now, you’re stuck here. Why did you do that? That was so stupid.”

A pinch pulled your brows together. “Obviously I know what happened, I’m literally here. What point are you trying to get at?”

Vi shakes her head and runs a hand through her spiked, greasy hair. 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe how dense you are.”

You watch as she saunters over to the same name engraved stone to slide down the rock, her knees knocking with yours. She’s silent for a moment as you stare at her profile, the hint of a smirk coming up her lips.

“It’s stupid of you to concern yourself with me. It’s my problem, not yours.”

You still didn’t get it.

“But why does that piss you off?”

She turns towards you now.

“I know what I’m capable of. I know what I’m getting into. You don’t. You walked into a fight that wasn’t yours to begin with, and in return, you got hurt.”

“So…you’re mad that I got punched in the face?”

A groan leaves her falling chin. 

“I’m mad that you were there to begin with. I’m mad that you got hurt on my behalf, and I’m mad that you’re dragged into this mess. It’s my shit to deal with.”

She pauses to take a deep inhale. “And…I took my frustration out on you, and I’m sorry.”

The tensed muscles of anger faded from her apology, her eyes carrying a softness you’d never seen before. She was being genuine. Open. Vulnerable. 

You sighed with her. 

“Thank you.” 

The quiet that fell over you two now was pleasant. It was nice seeing Vi like this, being used to her thirst for arguing. Your head leaned back against the rock as you let your eyelids close once more. 

“How bad is it?”

Her fingers touch you softly before you peer up at her. She gazes at the blood smeared under your nose with a grimace, her pointer finger stroking the welt on your cheek. 

“It’s fine. Could be worse.”

She shakes her head. “...It’s my fault you got hurt.” 

You scoffed. “It’s completely mine. I’m the dumbass who jumped into a fight that wasn’t mine, remember?”

You smile at her despite the twang in your jaw. Her hand falls back to her side.

“My hero.”

Her lips upturned, the scar on her upper lip flashing itself at you. You don’t miss the way she falters for a moment, relishing the close proximity her face is to yours. Her fingers twitch by her thighs to touch your cheek again, but instead she smacks a hand on top of your head, gently ruffling your hair. 

She stands up to make way back to the bed. “Come to bed. You need rest, too.”

You haven’t moved just yet, the whirlwind of her processing slowly in your brain. Your skin felt hot under your cheeks, but as you shakily stood up to join her, you found the burden of her turning into something else. 

Vi was different, now. Good different. You liked this different. Laying down beside her on the mattress, you don’t turn away from her.

[tteokdoroki]

☆༉ — SATORU GOJO. a flicker of a flame.

about. when satoru notices the flicker of cursed energy within your unborn child, he starts to feel the weight and nerves of becoming a father.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! sfw, fluff, expecting parents, reader is pregnant, hospitals, nerves about being parents, listen idk how gojo’s cursed technique works so here u go >:( canon verse, expecting father!gojo, fem!reader.

“i can see it…like…flickering inside of you.”

satoru carries an expression of intrigue, like a child who’s just discovered a new sensation.

you flip the page of your magazine, not bothering to spare your husband a glance while you instead choose to admire the many strollers and their offers that decorate the page. “don’t be weird, satoru.” you tap a perfectly manicured nail against the one you like most, leaning over to show the item to him.

“but it’s there… like actually there.” the sorcerer replies, keeping his voice low despite the loud ambience of the maternity ward’s waiting room. people crying, people celebrating, families already full of children gathering around to hear more exciting news. “i like that one. it’ll fit in the hallway too. do you want it in grey or in black?”your husband passes you a pen from the depths of your tote bag in his lap, letting you circle the stroller in the magazine so you know to come back to it.

this time, you do him the honours of looking up at him — a fresh glare settled on your glowing features. “satoru gojo please stop referring to our baby as an ‘it’.” you sigh in exhaustion, watching him slump in his seat because you know he hates it when you’re irritated with him. “i thought you were excited about having a baby girl. and the grey one, it goes with your eyes.”

that seems to perk him up enough, earning you a kiss to your cheek that has you smiling like a fool in the nurses office. “sorry, sorry…” satoru starts to coo warmly, a soft tone that’s usually reserved for you and his students. “it’s just that… every time i look at you, i see two vessels of cursed energy instead of one. there’s a flicker of a flame there, right where she would be. it’s blowing my mind.” he points to your bump, nestled away under the layer of his clothing since they’re the only thing that makes you feel comfortable right now.

you close your magazine slowly, fighting the flutter of your heart and the warmth that spreads through your body. you know that your husband is being cautious, overly observant and extremely over protective — being pregnant and having a baby in your line of work was dangerous. scary, even. but you knew that satoru wanted this with you, and you him. that he cared a little too hard or worried slightly too much because while he was the strongest, you’d become every target and every weakness to him.

you and your daughter.

an unborn child who may possibly have the powers of a god among men.

so, instead you tuck away the irritation that comes with your hormones and let your gaze slink over to the large man squished into the abnormally small seat of the waiting room — just to be by your side. “do you need me to explain how pregnancy works, satoru?” you quip and rest your head on your knuckles, just to make him laugh and ease up a little.

a wiry smile starts to tug at the corner of his soft, pink lips. “i’d rather you show me but i think we got the fun part nailed.” gojo’s face splits into a wide grin, making you roll your eyes. “we made her, yanno. she’s alive in there because you’re keeping her safe.”

“and you too, mister six eyes.” you tap his skull, brushing against pure white locks, as gojo leans over you affectionately — probably in demand for a kiss (which you give).

the receptionist calls your family name from the front desk — no doubt to call you in for your neonatal appointment. another set of scans to help confirm your little girl is nice and healthy before you tell the rest of your friends and family later today.

gojo wanted to hand out copies of your scans to everyone at dinner. show off.

but as you stand, satoru goes quiet, offering you his hand as aid. “do you think…do you want…” pressing his lips into a thin line, your husband mulls over his words whilst guiding you down the hall to the doctors office — nodding to the receptionist to thank her as you pass. “i hope she doesn’t have what i have. i wouldn’t wish this burden on anyone.” he looks you straight in the eye, blue eyes piercing your soul. you feel your baby move and kick, forcing you to wonder if she’ll have the same mind blowing eyes as her father. “i hope she’s like you. beautiful and strong and—“

“ours. she’ll be ours and the best parts of both of us. her daddy’s strength, bravery, good looks and her momma’s wits, pretty ‘get me what i want eyes’ and smarts too.” you laugh, bright and loud as you cut gojo off — turning to look at him with a happy smile. “if she turns out like that, the best parts of both of us she’ll be perfect. i’ll love her because you gave her to me, we can figure out the rest later.”

that seems to reassure satoru, who sags in relief by your side as he wraps an arm around you, his large palm splaying across your baby bump. “you’re right, you’re right,” he grins again, feeling her little feet mercilessly kick at his palm. “as long as she’s healthy, we’ll be fine. i love you.”

“we love you too.” you swoon a little too much.

satoru gojo will be a great father, you think, your baby girl is so lucky — she has the strongest daddy in the world and he loves her a little too much already.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[writersblockedx]

A Rekindled Kind of Love

Pairing - Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Summary - Spencer and Y/n hadn't talked since the Summer before college and then he sees her name as the only survivor in their latest serial killer case. Warning - violence, drinking Words - 3.6K

A/n - It's be a while! I've had a surge of inspiration lately since becoming a little obsessed with character ai lol and thought to write this one into a little one-shot.

masterlist

Spencer was lying if he ever called any day at the BAU normal. Between serial killers, sadists, and everything else in between, the boy had a blurred definition of normal. So, he expected anything - or so he thought. When he entered the meeting room that morning, he hadn't expected the name of Y/N Y/L/N to pop up.

"We've got three victims and, weirdly, one survivor." Garcia started to explain, clicking through the victim's dead bodies, the woman squirming at just a glance of the photos. "Whoever this sicko is, he's going after journalists. His latest victim, Y/n Y/l/n, was actually able to get away before he had a chance to kill her."

Spencer stopped. His gaze snapped up as Garcia clicked once more and he caught sight of the girl he once knew. Only now was she older, and her expression was stern. The unsub had left her features tainted, early bruises and several cuts littering over her. "She's pretty distraught says doctors, but she's alive and well."

He couldn't stop staring at her, memories of high school, of that last summer, of their blissfully ignorant friendship fueling his feelings. This was not normal. None of what he felt was normal - not for him away. "He stabs them?" Emily observed, all of the team had yet to clock onto the haze Spencer had suddenly found himself in.

Garcia hummed, "Yep, as many times as it takes before they...you know...die."

"He's aggressive, he's got no remorse for these victims," JJ spoke, glancing between her file at the screen in front of her.

"Not only are they all journalists, but they're female journalists too." Rossi added. "There's got to be some reason for that too."

Hotch nodded, "Either way, we should take Y/n into our care. She's the first to get away, I doubt he's happy about that-"

The shaggy-haired boy couldn't seem to take it. The way Y/n had gotten herself mixed in like she was any other victim, like she wasn't once the most important person in Spencer's life. "Excuse me," The boy stood abruptly, not giving any reasoning to the team before he practically ran out, gasping for breath.

The team were left with nothing. Their expressions moulding into ones of confusion, and puzzlement, "What's up with him?" Morgan was the first to question. But it was only met with the same uncertain expressions and a shrug from Hotch.

Morgan took it upon himself to stand, following Spencer out into the adjacent hallway where Spencer was panic pacing. A hand swooped through his hair as his thoughts raced. "Hey, kid, slow down," Morgan soothed. He hadn't realised the arrival of Derek until he spoke. Spencer turned, swallowing the lump which had since grown in his throat. "The hells going on with you?"

He took a breath. He evened his lungs and took a moment before confiding, "I- erm- I know her, Y/n Y/l/n, the survivor." He explained and that was enough for Morgan to understand. "Well, I suppose I knew her, we lost contact when we went to college, but we had been friends."

Morgan gazed back into the meeting room, "Reid, it's okay. She's okay, you know? She survived."

His head shook, "It doesn't matter. You heard Hotch, she's still a target." She wasn't safe and that fact was only nagging at Spencer.

"Alright, alright, how about I talk to Hotch? We'll go to the hospital, you make sure she's okay yourself?" Reid had barely agreed before Morgan walked back into that meeting room.

Of course, he wanted to make sure she was okay. But that also meant seeing her, after all these years. Spencer didn't know what had changed - if anything had. And he didn't know which option was scarier. Either way, he soon found himself at the hospital, waiting at the reception desk as a doctor went to find her.

His feet were tapping, his nerves obvious to Morgan. "Reid, calm down, she's gonna be alright," He said, but no words from Morgan or a doctor was going to help. He needed to see her.

"It's not just that I'm worried about." What if everything had changed? What if nothing had? What if-

He turned and found his eyes on her. She still had that same look. That same smile, the same soft gaze, the same ease about her that Spencer craved. But this was the very moment he feared.

She wandered up to him, quickening her pace as much as she was able to considering her state. "Spencer," She said his name like a sigh of relief. Before he realised it, her arms were wrapped around his neck, melting into his touch as if no time had passed.

"Hi," He breathed into her ear; she was safe. The hug didn't last long enough. How could it? They had 12 years of missed hugs.

"I can't believe you're here, the doctor said a profiler and then said it was Doctor Reid and I-" She trailed on, "I don't know why I was so surprised. Of course, you made it big."

Spencer shrugged, "I wouldn't call this big." The boy became sheepish, almost flushed and Derek Morgan had certainly taken notice. "I'm sorry I stopped calling and I should have-"

"Oh, Spence, save it," She chuckled lightly, "I could have picked up that phone just as well as you had. I just wish we could have met under different circumstances."

He nodded, "Yeah, well about that," Spencer turned to bring Derek into the conversation, "This is Agent Morgan, he's erm gonna help."

Morgan sent his usual cheeky smirk as he did with any pretty lady, "It's good to meet you, sweetheart. Glad to hear you're feeling better too."

Spencer hadn't expected anything less from the man. "Look, I don't know if the doctor explained it to you, but we're under the belief that this unsub may still be targeting you."

"Unsub?" She reiterated.

"The killer that went after you." Morgan answered, "Unknown subject, unsub for short."

"We erm- we have to take you in, make sure you're safe kind of thing," Spencer explained, fidgeting with his fingers as she glanced between them and the girl in front of her.

Her pupils grew worrisome, "You think I'm still in danger?"

Spencer hated that word. Even the thought of Y/n in danger made his spine shiver. "You're the first to get away, we erm- we don't think he'll be very happy about it. He could lash out, many unsubs, new unsubs especially, a victim getting away could be like a double stressor, he could be on a rampage, he could be doing nothing but think about getting to you." He realised he was rambling and his words were only worrying the girl more, "Sorry, I just, I want to make sure you're safe."

But Y/n understood, "It's alright, Spence. I'll go grab my things."

With that, a rush filled the girl as she turned her back on the two agents, wandering back into the hospital room she had come from. Spencer's eyes hadn't left from where her figure was once standing. This was personal for him - even if he hadn't seen the girl for years now. "She's not just someone from high school, is she?" Morgan realised as he observed Spencer.

He turned to him as if he had just left the trail of thoughts in his mind, "Hm?" He turned back to look at Morgan.

His response had only made Morgan smile, "Y/n, she seems more to you than that."

"It was..." The boy thought back to it, to that Summer, he didn't know how else to describe it, what they had, her. "Complicated."

✧･��: *✧･ﾟ:*

12 Years Prior, Las Vegas

Y/n always had something Spener didn't: Popularity. Well, in a way. Spencer was cast away from many of his peers. A social reject. While, Y/n was a social butterfly of sorts. She took to a crowd with ease. The type of girl that could make friends with anyone.

The boy had certainly hit the jackpot when he was assigned to tutor her. Over the course of several sessions, they had bonded over literature, future college plans and, surprisingly, Y/n's distaste to certain 'jocks' - as the social hierarchy liked to describe them as.

She was the only reason Spencer turned up to the end of year house party. Crowds weren't his thing, drinking neither. But she...she was worth it.

"Spencer!" The girl gleamed as he wandered into the house. 

He didn't belong at all. His shoulders were stiff, his glasses at the edge of his nose. But, despite such, Y/n still took him into a longing hug. "H- Hi." He greeted, his eyes flickering all over the place. From the demolished kitchen to the living room where drunken teens were dancing on top of couches and coffee tables.

Her brow raised, "Come on, we'll get you a drink." Her hand slipped into his, bringing the boy back to his attention: her. "You do drink right?" She checked as she guided him towards said demolished kitchen.

"Erm, not a heavy drinker but, sure I can have one."

"You sure?" She spoke ever so softly, "You know you don't have to."

"Just one." He offered her a smile.

She grasped a few bottles: vodka, rum, tequila. "Pick your poison."

Spencer had simply shrugged, a chuckle at the tip of his tongue, "I'll have whatever you're having."

"Rum it is!"

She poured the two the same drink - almost half liquor, half mixer. Spencer coughed when he swallowed, causing the girl to giggle, "Too much?"

But Spencer simply shook his head, "Just perfect," He almost joked as he leaned onto the kitchen counter next to the girl, "I almost didn't come," He admitted.

"I don't blame you," He gazed down at her answer, his expression urging her to add some context. "Ashley James puked up after two drinks, Kacy and Liam broke up, now Liam's making out with Polly. It's just...a mess." Her eyes rolled. "But then again, what was I expecting?"

Spencer smiled at her. She was good at knowing like everything. While he was filled with facts and statistics, Y/n knew everything about everyone. Within one look, she knew your secrets. Maybe that's why she was so good with people. "We can go somewhere else if you want?" He suggested.

His question brought along an idea for the girl. With her free hand, she took Spencer's and led him out into the back garden. Whoever lived here was almost rich. Well, rich enough for a pool and a pretty big outdoor area. "Come on," Y/n urged him as she pulled the boy towards the edge of the pool.

She slipped her shoes off, sitting down and letting her legs dangle into the fresh water. Spencer watched her for a moment before joining her, the two sipping on their drinks. "Better?" She asked him.

He nodded, "Much."

"At least we've got Summer now, no more being forced to see them assholes." She joked.

Spencer's brows narrowed in thought, "You mean the assholes that you were friends with until you met me?"

"Well you got me there, Spence." She shrugged, "Social survival, that's what I call it. It's not as if there won't be similar people in college. I mean, fucking sororities, semi-pro football leagues, frats?"

"I'm sure you'll fit in amazingly at Princeton." His smile seemed to falter at his own words.

She gazed at the boy who seemed captivated by the slowly swaying water below them, "We'll still call you know, text, just cause we're in different places, doesn't mean anything, Spencer." Y/n attempted to comfort him.

"That's what everyone says but, I don't know." He shook his head, ignoring a thought.

But she noticed it; she noticed everything, "But what?"

He huffed and stared over at her, his eyes pooling in admiration. "You're one of the best things to have happened to me in a long time you know," He offered her a smile, "I couldn't even imagine losing you."

The girl bit her lip. Something was on her mind and Spencer had noticed. He too noticed everything about her. But he didn't ask. Partly, because he didn't have the chance to. Her eyes flickered to his lips. Then to his eyes. And before Spencer could realise, she had leant in, her lips at his. Without even realising, she had changed everything for the boy.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Spencer accompanied the woman towards a private, interview room. He would offer support and comfort but at the same time, he had a job to do. A part of that was questioning. She was the only person to know this unsub. As difficult as it would be for her, he would have to ask them questions.

"Hey," Emily spoke as he entered the room, two coffees in hand: one for Spencer and one for Y/n. "Coffee orders are here," She smiled as she placed them at the table between the two. "I'm Emily, Reid says you're an old friend."

Her eyes flickered to the man before she shook Emily's hand, "Something like that yeah."

"Well, we're here if you need anything, alright?" She said, "You're in good hands here, especially with our Doctor Reid."

With that, Emily left to join the rest of the team who were busy compiling a profile. Which left her and Spencer. This was the part he wasn't looking forward to. "I've erm, I've got to ask you some questions, it'll help us understand this unsub, help us find him." He explained. When she nodded, the boy continued, "I'm going to ask you to close your eyes, alright? And then I'm just going to go through the night you were attacked. Is that okay?"

She swallowed the lump which had grown in her throat, "Yeah," She muttered.

Y/n followed the instructions and let her eyelids close before Spencer started the exercise, "Okay, just go back to that night. You were on 9th Street, correct?"

"Yes."

"It was getting late, but it was summer, think about the air, was it still warm? What sort of things could hear, anything?"

She thought back to it. Y/n had just finished her work week, she was walking home from the Subway. "There's a group of girls on the other side of the road, they're giggling. Drunk, I assume."

"That's good, that's really good." Spencer praised, "Then when did you realise something was off?"

Her brows furrowed and she thought about it, the pit in her stomach growing, "Someone- someone was yelling. A man. I thought he was like bible bashing so I wasn't paying much attention to what he was saying."

"Think." Spencer jumped in, "Listen to him, pick any words, any phrases that stick out to you."

And she did so. Her mind ran through the memory, "Something, something about an agenda, the- the snowflake agenda? It's ruining America it's-" She cut herself off as the memory reached the worst part. "That's when he grabbed me." Her voice quickened, her breaths soon becoming uneven. "He had a knife to my neck- he pulled me to an ally. I- Spencer."

Her hand reached out over the table instinctively, "It's okay," He too had become panicked just seeing her's. "I'm here, it's over, you can open your eyes."

When she finally did, she took one breath. A sigh of relief that she was okay. And then, a single tear dropped from her eyeline. Spencer couldn't take it. He stood and she followed suit, "Come here," He spoke before taking her into a tight hug. "You're safe, I promise." 

She pulled away just slightly but never dared to break touch, "The only reason I got away was because I had pepper spray in my bag," She explained. 

Spencer thought on that and then an idea came to mind. "Come with me," The boy took a hold of her hand, guiding the girl through the bullpen towards the meeting room where the rest of the team had been.

The round table was scattered with files and papers. Garcia typed away at her laptop while the rest were debriefing. At the entrance of the pair, they glanced up. 

Before they could ask any questions, Spencer started rambling, never daring to let go of Y/n's hand. "The unsub was protesting on the street, he's some kind of right-wing enthusiast. He was going on about the left-wing 'agenda', about how it's ruining America." He explained. "Not only that, but Y/n used pepper spray on him."

Like that, they had something, "He would have had to go to the hospital?" JJ thought.

"Or at least bought some kind of medical supplies."

"Yeah, saline wipes or there's a nasal spray that helps the pain." Spencer went on to explain.

From there, Hotch turned to Garcia, "Cross check avid right-wing protesters in the D.C. areas, men with low criminal offences, things like hate crime. Then look at anyone whose been admitted for treatment of pepper spray or has bought any medical supplies to treat it."

Like that, the aggressive typing ensued. The team were all waiting, Y/n still at Spencer's side, anxious for the name of her attacker to be revealed. "I've got it, Tony Jones."

When Hotch stood from his chair, the rest of the team started to follow. "Send us the address, Garcia."

"Already done it, Sir."

Each of the team members stood, one by one walking passed Y/n. That was apart from Garcia who was still glued to her laptop, sending the address to the rest of the team. Spencer was about to turn when Y/n reached for the boy's hand once again. Her eyes filled with nothing but worry. "Do you have to go?"

Her question had made his heart ache. His eyes flickered to Garcia who was already glancing at the two, "I- I probably should but, but Garcia will stay with you." He offered.

Y/n looked back at the extravagant woman who was smiling, "Of course, I've got loads of things I can show you in my office!" She gleamed.

Y/n returned the smile before turning back to Spencer, "You'll be careful, right?"

The boy nodded, "Of course," He replied before taking her in his arms once again. But this time, when he pulled away ever so slightly, it was to place a gentle kiss to her forehead.

And like that, a soft smile, a goodbye, was passed between the two before Spencer turned away to join the rest of the team. She stared out the door of the conference room until Spencer slipped away. From there, she turned, a weak smile given to Garcia as she came to join her at the round table.

The other woman had watched the interaction and, while she wasn't a profiler, she wasn't oblivious to the world of loving. "He really cares about you, doesn't he?" She asked. Though, Garcia already knew the answer.

"I care about him just as much," Even after all this time, a piece of her heart still belonged to Spencer Reid - it always would.

"You're not just an old friend, are you?"

Y/n swallowed, glimmers of that high school Summer filling her brain. "It was, complicated." She described. "We erm, only really had a Summer as..." How could she describe it? "More than friends, I guess. And then we were both shipped off to college. And I mean, we lost contact. As a lot of people do." And 12 years later here she was.

Garcia offered her a smile, "You still love him, don't you?"

The girl giggled but gave a nod, "I don't think I ever stopped."

"Well, if my time with Doctor Reid has taught me anything, the way he is with you, I mean it's like no other." Her hand brushed at her shoulder gently, "I don't think your feeling is one-sided."

That would stick in her head for the next hour. While Spencer and the rest of the team were arresting Tony Jones, Garcia was giving the girl a tour of her office. Everything wonderful and weird. And while she tried her best to pay attention, her mind kept being dragged over to Spencer. If he was safe, if he was coming back...if, once again, everything had changed.

She knew one thing: she would make sure they didn't lose contact this time around.

When the boy finally returned, he practically rushed through the BAU to find her. She was at Garcia's side as they exited her office, "Y/n," He called.

The girl's head snapped to him, her pace quickening as she came to reach him, "Did you?"

He nodded, "He's at the station, don't worry." He assured.

"Oh, good, yeah," She spoke before a sigh fell from her lips. "So, I mean, what happens now? Do I just go home?" The idea of such, while stupid to think so, was almost disappointing. Going home meant she wasn't in Spencer's company any longer. And that wasn't something she wasn't to lose just yet.

But Spencer's reaction was a similar one, "I can walk you home, if you want of course."

Her smile grew, "I'd like that."

"I'll just erm," He gestured to his FBI vest, "I'll only be a second."

And so she watched him leave for barely a minute, coming back in his shirt. He took her hand, led her into the lift and pressed for the ground floor. A moment of silence. A moment of thought. One of which was urgring Y/n on.

She glanced over at the boy, "You know I always think everything happens for a reason." Her nerves suddenly flooded her body as she realised what she was about to admit, "And as much as getting jumped was not fun, I'm glad it brought me back to you, Spencer."

Y/n turned to face him, barely any space between them, "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Spence."

With that, Y/n made the leap. She closed that gap, their lips meeting every so soft, ever so longing. Like they had both been waiting for this moment for 12 years. And when they pulled away, her hands cupping his face and his placed at her waist, it was like they were 18 again. "Promise we'll keep in contact now?" He almost joked.

And she chuckled, "Promise."

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic. Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though. When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you admitted you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening the damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better aff jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een oot.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze. He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway. You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting his knuckles. He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit. You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any embarrassment from building in your gut. Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ an adult grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s. Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed. It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer. You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand. The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind. You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John just inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.” John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly the weather was tonight and hadn’t practically jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.” Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb. You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle. It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh. “Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much. Your sole scuffs against debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before. As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now. You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

He was smiling at you again. It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward. You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles. They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle. It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh? That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble. 

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over. You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits. At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right? But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it. Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek“—almost made us lose out.” he grumbled “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”. You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce.

Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[lcvemiyuki]

“when they get jealous” | hq

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓊝 ࿐𓂃𓂃𓂃

content: haikyuu boys x reader, when they get jealous over someone else

warnings: disgustingly cute, kenma x reader + tsukishima x reader are established relationships, fem!reader, osamu x reader (y/n is perceived as shorter than osamu)

characters: kenma, tsukishima, osamu

a/n: more! bc these also have been stuck in my head... (not proofread sorry!)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Kozume Kenma

'he would get distracted to the point of jeopardizing a game'

It was a weekend afternoon, and Kenma had carved out some precious time to play solos in the gaming room. His specialty was first-person shooter games, and he stayed absolutely silent to focus; a pin drop could be heard from how quiet it was. Only the sounds of his game controller clicking resonated softly in the soundproof room.

You two shared the room, with back-to-back monitors and a personalized setup on each side. Occasionally, you would enter and play a game or two, leaving when you knew he had a stream scheduled.

Today was one of those quiet days, with Kenma fully immersed in his game. His noise-canceling headphones ensured nothing but the game’s audio reached his ears.

You entered the room, aware of his headphones, and left rabbit-cut apple slices next to his keyboard. The colors from his monitor illuminated the slices, casting a soft glow on them as his slender fingers worked like a well-oiled machine.

As you moved, your figure momentarily blocked his sight, and he glimpsed you holding a phone to your ear, a smile plastered on your face as you talked. Kenma's eyes lingered on you for a few seconds before his monitor demanded his attention again. Usually, you would make some sort of light contact to remind him you were there, a gentle touch or a pat on the shoulder.

But this time, you didn’t.

Instead, you turned to your side and plopped down on the plush chair, fully engrossed in your conversation. Kenma wasn't overly nosy, but he couldn’t help but peek out from the side of his monitor to observe you.

‘Who has your attention?’ he wondered.

Knowing he couldn't keep glancing your way without compromising his game, Kenma adjusted his headphones so that only one side covered his ear, leaving the other exposed to the outside world.

Kenma's focus split in half; he tried to concentrate on his game, yet every time he heard your wholehearted laugh, his eyes darted to you instantly. Your joy was infectious, and it pulled at his curiosity with an unfamiliar force.

“Tomorrow? Yeah, that sounds great!” Your voice rang out, clear and cheerful. Kenma's brows furrowed as he strained to make out more of your conversation. His concentration slowly dissipated, the multiple noises becoming a chaotic blend in his mind.

“I can’t wait to see you!” Your exclamation, followed by another giggle, broke his focus entirely. He turned his head fully for just two seconds, enough time for his character on screen to be targeted and shot.

The screen flashed red with ‘GAME OVER’ in bold letters.

Kenma's eyes did a double take as the realization hit—he had gotten distracted a bit too long.

He never lost a game—ever.

He yanked the headphones off, letting them hang around his neck as he leaned back in his chair. A long sigh heaved out, his worn-out hands finding their way behind his head as his legs spread apart for a more comfortable position.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later, bro. Tell Mom I can’t wait to see you guys!” Now free from his game’s immersive audio, Kenma heard you loud and clear. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling a twinge of annoyance at himself for getting so distracted.

That really cost him a game—yet he couldn't help but feel his heart rate slow down after realizing you were just talking to your brother.

Lost in his thoughts, Kenma didn’t hear you approach until he felt the soft, slightly wet touch of your lips pecking his. His eyes slowly fluttered open to find you staring down at him with a confused look.

“You lost, Kozu?” Your eyes now drifted to his monitor.

He could only softly scoff at himself, a mix of embarrassment and amusement in his tone. “Yeah, I guess I did.” His lips pursed together, noting the twinge of sweetness they tasted.

He would never tell you the real reason, though.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

Kei Tsukishima

'his smile looks indifferent, yet his eyes shot daggers'

The sound of someone’s cough echoed through the museum as you and Tsukishima passed through another grand exhibit. The exhibits grew slightly crowded at times, prompting you to lightly grasp the edge of his coat, careful not to fully grab him. His strides were slightly faster than yours granted his slight eagerness. Tsukishima turned his head, peering down at your hand clutching his clothes.

“Is this your way of trying to keep up?” His light eyebrows raised slightly in amusement before he reached back, taking hold of your hand to guide you instead.

“Excuse me!” a slightly loud voice echoed in the room, causing you to close your mouth before you could respond. You turned to face the source of the shout, only to find a young man staring right at you.

Tsukishima halted with you, turning his head around with a hint of annoyance at whoever was shouting.

“Do people not know when to lower their voices?” he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. As he was about to finish his sentence, he noticed the man making his way toward you specifically. Tsukishima didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes were solely focused on you.

Turning his attention to you, Tsukishima also noticed how your squinting eyes suddenly morphed into one of pure surprise.

“Y/N? Is that really you!?” the man exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement.

As the man launched into an animated recount of his recent adventures, Tsukishima stood by, feeling a pang of irritation.

Soon enough, a few others caught up to your classmate. Tsukishima couldn't miss the way it took them a few seconds to avert their eyes or the eager way they held out their hands to shake yours.

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes, ‘How shameless.’

“This is my—” you began to introduce Tsukki, but he beat you to it, turning fully to face the group. “I’m the boyfriend.” His smile was anything but genuine.

His tone might have been friendly, but you could tell Tsukki was irritated.

Quickly realizing he might be upset about the abrupt interruption of your date, you hastily said your goodbyes to your old high school friend.

“Aw, c’mon Y/N, how about a reunion selfie before we let you go?” your old classmate nudged, pointing at the phone he was holding.

You awkwardly laughed, trying to think of a way to politely decline. But before you could say no, you felt a gentle but firm pressure on the small of your back, guiding you forward. You turned to see Tsukishima's long fingers splayed out against your back, his touch insistent. The action caused you to straighten up in response, feeling the solid reassurance of his hand.

You quickly took the selfie with your old classmate, offering a polite smile for the camera. Before you could say another brief goodbye, you noticed the three guys in the back all staring in your direction, only to quickly avert their gaze to some random object in the building.

Curious about what had caught their attention, you turned your head to follow their line of sight. Your heart began to race as you saw the reason for their sudden shift in focus.

Tsukishima, now several meters away, was turned slightly to the side, but his eyes were locked onto the guy next to you. His usual could-care-less demeanor was replaced with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Tsukishima's glare was menacing as if silently placing a bounty on his head. His hands were comfortably placed in his pockets; his black glasses failed to mask the daggers he shot their way.

There was no mistaking it—he was jealous, and not just mildly so.

You quickly excused yourself, murmuring a final goodbye to your old classmate. You made your way over to Tsukishima, your steps quickening with each passing second.

As you reached him, you hesitated for a moment before gently placing a hand on his arm. His eyes flicked to yours, then quickly shifted away, focusing on anything but you.

“Tsukki,” you said softly, “Sorry that took so long.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, his tone begrudgingly agreeing.

“Were their stares bothering you?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light.

Tsukishima’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“They were just...annoying,” he said, his voice clipped. “Like, read the room.”

A mischievous smirk played on your face as you interlocked your hand with his. “Is that why you were death-staring them like they were your sworn enemies?”

“Obviously. Anyone would with how noisy they were,” he replied, trying to sound indifferent.

He would never admit to it, but you could read him all too well.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

Miya Osamu

'wouldn't care if a purchase or two gets put on the line'

One day, Atsumu, his doting twin brother, waltzes into the semi-busy shop with open arms.

“Take a whiff, boys—the infamous Miya blood mixes with success,” he says smugly.

Osamu doesn't even welcome them once he sees who it is—he simply deadpans and shoves the curtains to go in the back.

With a bright smile that reaches your eyes, you quickly greet the customers. The two unfamiliar gentlemen behind Atsumu had a muscular and tall build—likely hungry athletes in need of rewarding food.

‘Time to sell the whole shop,’ you think with determination.

Although you weren’t an official employee at Onigiri Miya, you wanted to help Osamu as much as you could. That included selling his delicious food to hungry customers.

You devise a quick game plan and target the first tall guy, hastily approaching him. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly as he examines the menu, trying to decide what to eat.

“Hi there! If you’re looking for something delicious, you can’t go wrong with our classic tuna mayo onigiri,” you suggest cheerfully, your enthusiasm catching his attention.

The tall guy’s face lights up at your recommendation. “That sounds perfect, thanks!” he says, his serious expression softening.

Just as you’re about to show him another flavor, Osamu suddenly walks directly between you and the customer, almost bumping into you. “You should try the natto,” he says, grabbing a natto onigiri from the display, his tone a bit sharper than usual.

The customer looks a bit taken aback, clearly put off by the sudden change. “Uh, I’m not sure about natto…” he says hesitantly.

You frown slightly, trying to salvage the situation. “Well, we have plenty of other options too—how about the umeboshi?” you suggest, stepping around Osamu to point at another onigiri.

Osamu, however, doesn’t move, effectively blocking your view. “Natto’s a specialty here. You should give it a shot,” he insists, practically shoving the onigiri into the customer’s hand, his eyes darting briefly to you and then back to the customer.

The customer looks uncomfortable, but Atsumu, ever the opportunist, steps in with a grin. “Look at ya, ‘Samu. Can’t stand to see Y/N sellin’ your onigiri to my pal, huh?” he teases, clearly enjoying the situation.

Osamu’s scowl deepens as he grabs an onigiri from the counter. “Shut up, ‘Tsumu,” he mutters before stuffing the onigiri into his brother’s mouth, effectively muffling his cackle.

Atsumu’s eyes widen in surprise, slightly coughing from practically choking on a rice ball.

Trying to pretend the twins weren’t going at it, mouthing silent threats to each other on each side of you two, you try to make a pitch once again.

“I hope you try out all, but it’s up to you!” you quickly put all three into the man’s hands and in doing so, your hand encloses them and gives it a slight pat.

The shuffling stops as you feel two holes being burned into the back of your head.

You could hear a soft chuckle as Osamu's large hands suddenly and slightly encircled your neck from behind. His weight leaned lightly against you as he crouched down a bit to join the conversation.

"Y/N's putting in quite the effort to sell you these, man. I'd say take them and enjoy," he remarked, his face close enough to yours that you could almost feel his breath against your ear.

With a subtle maneuver, you sidestep out of his grasp and guide the customer towards the register; the mess the very owner put you through just to sell these damn onigiris. You mentally roll your eyes as Atsumu continues to tease Osamu in the background.

As soon as the trio of athletes bid the shop goodbye, the door chiming softly behind them, your attention soon fell on Osamu.

You could feel a slight tension in the atmosphere, the remnants of the earlier exchange still hanging in the air. Osamu stood behind the counter, his back turned to you as he methodically rearranged the onigiri displays. His movements were precise, almost mechanical as if he were trying to distract himself from the task at hand.

"Why the face, Y/N?" Osamu feigned confusion as he went around the stalls to continue his organizing.

You stood by the register with your arms crossed, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. "Oh, really," you began, "I mean, I get Atsumu—you guys always go at it—but that guy was just like any other customer, 'Samu."

Osamu paused in his task, his expression shifting into a thoughtful gaze as if pondering something. His fingers tapped absentmindedly on the counter before he finally met your gaze. "Yeah, but there's always something more to it," he said cryptically, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You tilted your head, intrigued by his response. "More to what?"

He chuckled softly, a glint of something indescribable in his eyes. "More to everything," he replied enigmatically, leaving you with a curious smile as he continued to work around the shop. His words lingered in the air.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

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