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call-me-little-sunshine84 · 21 hours ago

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Watcher in the Woods

Pairing: Remmick x female reader

Warnings: 18+ MNDI ~ smut, infidelity, oral sex, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, vampirism

Summary: you come across a stranger in the woods outside your house, and he makes you a tempting offer

W/C: 2150

A/N: I haven't written in a while, but I am absolutely feral for this man. I don't even know if this is any good, it was just an idea I couldn't get out of my brain

Night closed in, the cotton candy sky fading to black. Even at this hour the heat was still oppressive, the humidity making your thin night shirt cling to your body. That was one thing you still hadn’t gotten used to about living in the south - it was always so damn hot.

You had thought moving with your husband for his job would have been a welcome change of scenery; that it might help fix the cracks that were already beginning to show in your marriage. Instead, you were miserable. While he settled in quickly and easily, you struggled to find another job in a city you knew nothing about. When you finally did, you ended up working opposite shifts, you on days and him on nights. Only seeing him in passing, you were quickly becoming strangers. When you did spend time together, it always resulted in a fight, or worse - you ignored each other completely. The strain was becoming more than you could bear, but you didn’t know how to leave. You could almost feel the fragmented pieces of yourself that broke off a little more each day.

Your house was literally in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods. Initially you were scared to be there by yourself at night, but you quickly realized it was really pretty peaceful. The best feature was the wrap-around porch, complete with a swing. It wasn’t long before you were spending every night outside, watching the stars and trying to clear your head.

That night, you headed out the front door, glass of whiskey in your hand, when you realized something felt different. The air felt charged, heavy. Downing your drink, you sat the glass down and took a few steps off the porch. A noise in the distance caught your attention, barely audible over the sound of the insects in the woods. Was that…music? Surely not. You had no neighbors to speak of, and there was no reason for anyone to be in the woods surrounding the house. You had seen enough true crime documentaries to know that you should immediately run in the house, lock the door, and call the police. But it felt like something about the music wouldn’t let you. It was haunting and melodic, and before you knew it, you were walking toward the source.

Carefully making your way through the woods, you approached a small clearing. The music was louder now; it had to be close. Parting the last of the branches in front of you revealed a man sitting on a fallen tree branch. He was playing a banjo and singing, only stopping when he saw you. Panic should have set in, but just looking at him transfixed you.

He was gorgeous. Beautiful really, and not in that pretty-boy way that usually signaled a bad attitude and shittier personality. He looked up at you with puppy dog eyes that stole your ability to think. “Hey there, name’s Remmick,” he drawled in a southern accent so thick it was practically dripping. “What are you doing out here?” you asked as he sat the banjo down. “Just playin’ some music,” he replied with a wink. Irritated at the obvious avoidance you said “Yes, I can see that. I mean why are you here. On my property.”

“Well darlin’, I’ve been waiting for you,” he replied with a smile. Ignoring your brain’s screaming warnings, you moved closer to him. “What are you talking about? I don’t know you and you sure as hell don’t know me.”

What could this man possibly want with you? He cocked an eyebrow and seemed to be considering his response. “Don’t I though? I’ve been out here watching you for a long time, practically since the day you moved here. I’ve seen how your so-called husband treats you. I’ve heard you cry yourself to sleep at night over him. I’ve seen his indifference, how you just want to be loved and respected. What if I told you I can offer you that and so much more?”

Just like that, in a split second, your world shifted. It understandably took a minute to even be able to form a coherent sentence. “Wait, you say you’ve been watching me for months. Why would you do that? There’s nothing special about me,” you replied, spinning out from the thousand thoughts running through your brain. “Well, now, it saddens me to hear you say that. You’re so much more than you think you are. You just need someone to show you. I can give you an eternity of happiness, of pleasure like you’ve never known. No getting sick, no growing old. And you’ll never feel like you’re not enough. Come with me and I can give you everything you ever wanted.” He held out a hand and fixed you with those doe eyes again.

What was he talking about? How was any of this even possible? Did you drink more whiskey than you thought, and this was an alcohol-induced hallucination? Narrowing your eyes, you asked him “How? What are you?” Looking back up at you, his eyes flashed red, and he opened his mouth, revealing a row of razor-sharp fangs.

Vampire??

You should have run, displayed at least some kind of self-preservation instinct, but you didn’t. Instead, every cell in your body seemed to come alive. You felt excited, curious. You had always been intrigued by the darker things in life, and now here it was right in front you.

He seemed to sense the shift in your thoughts. You walked toward him, standing face to face. He was perfectly still, afraid if he moved even an inch it would scare you off. Reaching a hand out tentatively, you ran a finger slowly across the points of his teeth. Fascination danced in your eyes, and he closed his with a look of absolute satisfaction.

“Again, I’m asking you why me.” Pure longing crossed his face. “It’s something in your blood. It calls to me. I’ve been around a long long time and never felt anything like it. It’s like a sickness, a burning need that never goes away. I have to taste you, have to have you,” he practically begged.

Thinking about it, what exactly were you holding onto? You had no family left, no friends, a dead-end job, and a failing marriage. Here was a sexy stranger that wanted to worship you. It had been so long since you felt wanted by anyone and it was intoxicating. “And what if I say no?” you asked. He shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to go back to watching you from afar,” he responded. “Really? Just like that? No repercussions?” you ask, skeptical. How was any of this real? His seeming desperation made it hard to believe he would just let it go if you said no.

He gave a small laugh. “I could have just taken you, claimed you for my own a thousand times before tonight, but I wanted to give you a choice. I wanted you to come to me willingly.”

You asked the only question your brain could come up with. “Would it hurt?” He paused before answering. “Only for a moment. After that you would never have to hurt again.”

Were you really considering this? Then an idea struck, and you couldn’t help but smile. You had never felt so powerful, so emboldened before. “Okay, convince me. If you want me to give up my humanity for you then you need to show me what I’ll be getting in return. If you really want me so badly then I need you to prove it. Make me believe you’re more than just a lot of pretty words.” The fire returned to his eyes. “Oh sugar, that I can certainly do.”

Before you could blink, he was on you, literally flying you back through the trees and onto the porch, slamming against the screen door. “Let me in,” he growled, already trying to rip your clothes off, kissing your neck fervently. “Mmmm, come in. Please,” you answered, pulling him by the straps of his suspenders over the threshold of the doorway. He pushed you against the wall, tongue tracing designs over the delicate skin of your neck. You burned from his touch, nerves on fire with desire. One of his hands snaked its way up the inside of your thigh, stopping when he reached your apex, ripping your panties off with one quick jerk.

“Is all this for me?” he asked, running a finger between your legs while you whimpered. You managed a nod. It was embarrassing how fast you felt yourself falling over the edge for him.

“He really has neglected you, hasn’t he?” Again, you nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore; you’re never leaving me.” What would have sounded like a threat coming from anyone else only served to turn you on even more coming from him.

Tossing your clothes aside you stumbled your way into your bedroom, falling onto the bed. You looked at him, his pale body ethereal in the moonlight from the nearby window. Is this really going to be my life? Eternity with this gorgeous man?

Fingertips ghosted slowly over his chest, admiring every inch of him. He pressed you back against the mattress, trailing kisses down your chest. His tongue licked along the slopes of your breasts, teeth gently biting at your nipples. When he looked up again his pupils were blown wide, the expression on his face alone enough to have you clenching the sheet in your fists. He was propped along your side, the length of him heavy against your leg.

Working his way down your body, he pushed your legs apart and settled between them. He latched his mouth onto you, his movements slow and purposeful; gentle licks that felt like nothing you had ever experienced. You could feel his fangs extending, brushing against that most sensitive skin, and your body bucked off the bed. He did his best to stay attached through all your movement, your thighs shaking as an orgasm hit you hard and fast. “Good girl,” he said, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Remmick, please,” you begged. “Please what?” he asked, already knowing exactly what you wanted. You whimpered. “Please, please just fuck me. Now.” He shook his head. “Now darlin’, I’m supposed to be convincing you, remember?” he laughed. “I can’t just give in now, can I?” You groaned, your own words biting you in the ass. “I don’t care. I don’t need convincing. I’m yours,” you replied, trying to grind yourself against him to feel some kind of relief. The burning need was lighting you on fire from the inside out. Powerful hands gripped your waist and held you in place. “Are you sure you know what you’re agreeing to?” he asked, fire blazing in his eyes once again. You gave a small nod. You had accepted it in your head; this offer of his.

“Okay,” he said, kissing you fiercely while lining himself up and entering you. A thousand tiny stars exploded behind your eyes as he set his pace, hips rocking in slow, measured movement, giving you time to adjust to him. It seemed like such a cliche, but he felt like he was made for you, his body perfectly molded to yours. He settled on his knees, drawing your legs up against his chest, his hands roaming your body. He was hitting all the right places, and the pure pleasure felt like it would tear you apart. That feeling was building again, driving you toward yet another orgasm. He sensed it; you could tell he was close also. His hips snapped at a brutal pace and you felt the wave break inside you.

As you rode out the final pulses of the most powerful orgasm you had ever experienced, Remmick grabbed your hair and pulled your neck to the side. You felt his fangs sink in, pain and pleasure mixing in perfect harmony. He drank and drank with no end in sight. Your vision blurred and you felt everything fade to black; you heard him say one last word as your heart beat for the final time: mine.

Time passed - it could have been minutes or hours, you didn’t know. When you finally opened your eyes again you were still in bed, but Remmick had cleaned you up and redressed you. He was lying beside you. “Hey there darlin’,” he said, kissing you on the forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Stretching your limbs, everything felt different. “Is it…am I…” you asked. He nodded. “We’ve got to get out of here; the sun will be up soon.” He rose, holding out his hand. This might have been the oddest day of your life, but now you felt like you had a purpose. You finally belonged - to the night, and to him.

#jack o'connell #sinners #remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick sinners #remmick x you #sinners 2025

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pazzisworld535 · 23 hours ago

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Not for rent

Chapter 1

A/N okay it's my first time writing story here!! Please send help for my improvements and thank you!! Hope you'll love it✨

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

It's an Au fic where paige is a basketball player and the daughter of the CEO of "buckets company" While azzi is a baker in cafe and a waiter in the club.

3rd person POV

‎

‎For paige her morning is not new. it always start with the voice of her mom Yelling like she got slap in her face 5x. She don't mind that, she's good at ignoring her mom.

‎Her morning routine is normal.

‎Get up, brush her teeth, get a shower and ignore her mom.

‎

‎She's about to step out when her mom call her

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‎"are you even listening?" amy ask

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‎"yeah" she said, cold and measure

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‎"I'm saying that if you don't get marry anytime soon your father will kill you. Who's going to handle the company when he retired?" amy said with a sharp tone

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‎"why are you rushing? I'm not yet 30" she said not making eye contact with her mom

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‎"paige, you're 28 you need someone to be with" she exclaimed

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‎Paige wanted this to end just brush her mother off. She about to get in her car when she hear her mom again

"I'm 28, able to play basketball and i can find someone soon.....not yet" she walks through her car

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‎"if you don't find someone yet, I'm going to arrange a marriage for you with a man. You choose"

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‎That's all and she slummed the door

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‎____________________________________

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‎🐐WHOREMEMBERS🫡

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‎Kk: okay something is off with paige

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‎Ice: yeah, i noticed she's not texting us for 3days

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‎Nika: maybe her mom pushed her guts again😂😂

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‎Amari: she's been finding a girl for a week now.

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‎Nika: let's just go to the club later, to ease her up. And maybe find a girl for her taste😜😜

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‎Kk: do you think she'll show up?

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‎Nika: of course she will.

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‎Paige: so you're deciding for my self now?

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‎Nika: earth to paige!!

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‎Kk: just hit the club, bueckers and find someone that will ease you up

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‎Paige: my fist will ease you up kk.

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‎Aubrey: hey chill, it's 8am in the morning Y'all need to get breakfast first and stop talking about some girl.

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‎Paige shove her phone to her pocket and

‎Drove her car to the nearest cafe

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‎___________________________________

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‎Paige arrive fast. park fast.

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‎She enter the cafe and smells the fresh bread and butter

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‎She's walking confidently to the counter when a girl bumb her.

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‎____________________________________

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‎Azzi's POV

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‎Azzi is late, AGAIN. she can't afford to lose her job now when her brother is suffering a cancer.

‎she's running for her life....or maybe for her job. It's the same lol

‎That's when she bump to something like a rock.....a solid rock. She look up and saw a tall, blonde,blue eyes, 6'2(she think) and twice her size. She knew this is the end of her job.

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‎"I'm— I'm sorry" she said looking up

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‎The blonde just stare at her for a sec before clearing her throat.

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‎That's when azzi realize that she's been gripping the woman's shirt.

‎She immediately fix her posture and bow her head

‎When she look up again, she's met with blue eyes

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‎"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to bump you" she muttered low

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‎"just watch your way next time" the blonde says. cold.counted

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‎God her voice it's making my knees weak

‎Azzi thinks

‎"do you want me to buy you a drink?" Azzi ask even though she doesn't have any money left.

"do you think I can't buy my own?" The blonde said and raise her left brow.

Azzi thinks "rude" but she didn't voice it out

‎"I'm really sorry" she apologize again

‎The blonde just nod and walk to the counter like nothing happend

Its not a big deal though.

‎

‎Azzi slips in the back of the cafe

‎She's about to put her apron on when she heard her manager

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‎Caroline

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‎"you're late again" she said

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‎"sorry car, it won't happend again" she said with low voice

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‎"I don't mind if you're late 5 or 10 mins, just don't 26mins. Per day" she said with a tone, cold and sharp

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‎"I'm sorry, you know i always walk from my apartment to here. I can't afford a dollar just for a taxi" she said her eyes is glassy now. She hates being a soft hearted.

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‎"it's okay az, i just don't want you to lose this job. If you need some help you knew where to find me" she said hugging her best friend

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‎"you already do so much for me car, I can't repay you for giving me all" she said with a sniffing sound

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‎"oww what happend azeray" Aaliyah their friend appears

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‎"nothing, just another drama in 8am" she laugh it off

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‎Caroline and Aaliyah didn't push more, they know azzi needs some air and focus on her job.

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‎3hours later-

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‎"azzi, boss is calling for you" Aaliyah said

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‎It made azzi froze

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‎Maybe it's the end of her job here

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‎"I'm coming" she said but inside her she just want to disappear

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‎In the office, she saw Inès, they're boss

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‎"so i heard you're late again" inès began

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‎"I'm sorry, i promise it wont happen again" she said

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‎"make it sure, cause if you don't do your job good. You know what will happen" she said and got up to her chair

‎"I'm not pressuring you, but you know my rules" she added

‎

‎Azzi is left.

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‎When she get out, she's met with a smiles from her friend. She don't understand why they're like a koala grinning at her.

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‎"what the heck? What's happening? She ask confused and her brow furrowed

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‎"we have a gift for you" lili said

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‎"follow us, it's our break time" caroline said

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‎Azzi just follow them, confused

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‎Outside, there's a bike.

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‎"okay?"

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‎"Me and lili team up to buy this bike for you. We knew your walking for like an hour and you're always late so....we combined our money to give this" caroline begin

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‎"i love you guys" azzi said and cried

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‎"we love you more, our sunshine"

‎

#azzi fudd #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #pazzi #pazzi fics

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americasfavoritelesbian · 3 days ago

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WU TANG WENDY pairs : juju watkins x fem!reader in which : your the karate kid here at usc ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ MASTERS LIST || #USCWBB

JUJU WATKINS X READER . ( 2025 USC ™️ )

you grew up in the bronx. that means your morning started with yelling and sirens, ended with more yelling and maybe a chopped cheese from the corner store. you were never the "delicate" type — not when your parents enrolled you in karate at five years old after you accidentally roundhouse kicked your cousin in the head. they thought it was a phase.

turns out, it wasn’t.

you spent years waking up at 4:45 a.m., eyes still crusty, slipping into your old gi and heading to a worn-down dojo off 149th street. you dreamed your sensei would be like sensei larusso — wise, chill, a little mysterious. maybe he'd say cryptic things like “balance is everything.”

nope.

your sensei was wendy. young, tired of your bullshit, and mad strong. she once made a grown man cry in sparring and didn’t blink.

wendy has been in your life longer than any best friend, any girlfriend, any teacher. she’s the only one who’s ever said she’s proud of you after you win — but also the only one who’s told you you’re full of yourself when you start walking around with too much swagger. she still trains you to this day.

you love her. like… love her. not romantic, not weird. but that kind of love where if anybody even looks at her the wrong way, it’s up.

anyway. all that’s just background. fast forward. you got into usc. full ride. not for basketball, not for academics — they gave you a martial arts scholarship. who even knew that was a thing. you still train every morning with wendy over facetime, 5:30 sharp. she doesn’t care about time zones. and then there’s your crew. mia and delaynee. they’re not in your program, but they’re always around. they’re loud and unserious and they swear you need to “get out more” and “touch grass.” you tell them you spar people, you touch flesh.

they don’t laugh. they just shake their heads and tell you to come to more parties.

then came the weird girl. that’s how it started.

you were just in the rec center, on the mat, doing light sparring with mia and delaynee. nothing serious. just showing off, if you’re honest. you’ve been feeling untouchable lately.

and then she walked up. light-skinned, braids in a bun, oversized hoodie and basketball shorts that went like to her thighs. she had a calm swagger about her, like she was used to being the best in every room she entered.

"y’all mind if i hop in?"

delaynee blinked. mia looked you. you shrugged.

"you fight?" you ask.

she laughed. "nah. i hoop."

“so why are you here?” delaynee said, arms crossed.

“because someone told me a girl was out here handing out Ls like flyers.” she glanced at you. “figured i’d check it out.”

and then she got on the mat. no warmup. no hesitation. just… got on the mat.

"you sure?" you asked, tying your belt. "you sure?" she threw back.

cocky. annoying. but intriguing.

you weren’t going full speed — not really — but she was fast. her instincts were ridiculous. no formal technique, but she read your moves like subtitles. every punch you threw, she ducked. every kick, she spun out. when you swept low, she jumped.

you ended the match in a hold, but only barely. she stood up, smiling. not winded. not mad. just smiling.

"what’s your name?" you asked, fixing your gi. "juju."

"juju what?" "juju watkins."

you blinked. mia and delaynee’s jaws were open like cartoons. you had no idea who she was.

“…should i know you?” you asked.

juju grinned. "nah. but you will."

next day, mia pulls up your instagram and says, "ayza. you sparred juju watkins. like. the juju watkins. you live under a rock or something?"

you just blink. "she hoops. okay. cool."

"she doesn’t just hoop," delaynee groans. "she’s like, the chosen one. she been playing ball since she was four. she had scouts watching her in middle school."

you scroll through her page out of curiosity. she’s got clips, interviews, game highlights, videos of her dropping 30 like it’s nothing. and for someone with a big name… she’s chill. her captions aren’t try-hard. her smile’s real. her style’s clean.

you’re annoyed at how interesting she is. and how much she actually got under your skin during the match.

next time you see her, it’s at a team open gym. she’s got practice but stops to talk to you when you pass by. you’re sweaty. she’s sweaty. you should say bye and leave.

but she holds you up. "yo," she says. "you ever teach people karate?"

"i don’t do kids’ birthday parties," you smirk. she laughs. “nah, i meant like… me. i wanna learn.”

you raise an eyebrow. "why?"

she shrugs. "footwork. discipline. mental stuff. plus, i wanna beat you next time."

you stare at her. "you lost the first time."

"i almost had you." she steps close. “next time, i’ll finish the job.”

you roll your eyes. but you can’t lie. you’re already thinking about what move you’d teach her first.

maybe juju’s got something. maybe this season at usc won’t just be about degrees and dojo calls. maybe it’ll be about rivalry.

and maybe something else.

☆ ~LULU SPEAKS // GUYSSS , WHY IS EVERYBODY GETTING INJURED ,, LIKE CC AND EVERYONE ALSO . angel needa sit her hoe ass down , tryna fight cc . like bitch that’s why you got leaked ??

#juju watkins #juju x reader #usc wbb #usc trojans #usc x reader #juju watkins x reader #juju watkins imagine #gxg imagine #🌺#🫧#🎧 .#☆ ~ talula

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samhadjblog2 · 3 days ago

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Here's the thing if you enjoyed S2. That's great I'm glad you found something that you enjoy.

However a lot of people's issues with S2 is that is abandon's the more interesting nuance political ideas set up in S1, as well as rushes through 3 seasons worth of story.

For starters the Zaunites were very much under the leadership of Sevika as well as looking towards Jinx's as a leader. And in the end "Big existential threat" is just an excuse to ignore the more complicated political issues set up by the show. Hence why people aren't onboard with this direction.

And Vi's enforcer and pit fighter arc do an excellent job of pushing her character to the limits.

Not really, Vi "Enforcer storyline lasted for like 1 1/2 episodes and everything that happened in it was just a montage. We never get to explore how other characters besides Jinx would react to Vi becoming an enforcer or her thoughts on "The Grey". The same with Vi's pit fighter storyline it was only montage when a lot of it should of been an arc or the very least an episode.

She feels responsible for fixing the consequences of her perceived failure to protect Powder, and since Caitlyn was going to invade Zaun anyways, Vi took the chance to protect both Caitlyn and Zaun from Caitlyn’s wrath as well. Again, trying to make something good of an awful situation

And very little is done with that because as I mention this arc lasted for one episode. And then Caitlyn knocks Vi in the gut and then she go's into her pit fighter story. And nothing else is done with this

The Black Rose storyline is the weakest of the show because it has nothing to do with anything and all it is just a tease for the next show. Mel is just trapped in a dark room for an episode and then awakens her magic powers. Nothing about it has anything to do with the conflict of Piltover and Zaun. Also Mel was already a "Force for positive change" her whole deal is that her political manipulation was her means to trying to accomplish good and not adhere to her Mom's violent ways. And so her having magic force field power really doesn't add anything to this.

It also gave us a glimpse at the sheer power and diversity of what magic can be and by doing so, shows the scale of the forces that Piltover is caught between, and how heroic Mel, Ekko, Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn and the others chose to be by standing up to them. Once again, using a hopeless scenario to forge themselves into better people.

Raising the power scale like this kind of makes the tension less interesting because when your dealing with end of the world stakes "Of coarse the heroes will win" no story would ever try to end the world. On top of that characters staying to fight against isn't "heroic" in the sense they are showing their bravery. Because of coarse they are going to fight to save the world its something that anyone would do. It say's nothing about the characters choices in the long run. Nor do's it really "forge them into better people".

Jinx found Isha and Ekko was sucked into the alternate universe when they were at one of their most hopeless points. Jinx just lost the two people she cares about and Ekko’s tree and the whole firelight base was at risk by something he could never fix in barring the status quo of Piltovian society being turned upside down.

Ekko's tree and the firelight base are never brought up ever again nor do's it seem like the situation they were is never fully explored.

Then, they two of them encounter Isha/The Alternate Universe which gives them actual hope of a brighter future, for Jinx, is the revival of Powder within her and the realization that she can build instead of destroy, and for Ekko, it’s seeing that it is possible to create an idealistic future where Piltover and Zaun are both flourishing and thriving as equals and his crush can be a healthy contributor to it.

Interesting read of the texts. I really like your analysis of Jinx and Ekko learning to have hope for the future. However there are a lot of problems with these respective story's. Isha is barely much of a character, there isn't much to her beside her blind idolization to Jinx. And that isn't really built on anything interesting or meaningful. And this is something that also ignores a lot of the other issues of Jinx like her hallucinations and her crimes. As for Ekko's alternate world it seems kind of cheap that it only got better due to Vi's death. And nothing else. It also doesn't help how it kind of paints Hex-tech as this evil thing that the world was better off without.

Ekko accepts that change is possible and goes to save the person he loves, fights a off literal god and builds a better society in the ashes of the war, and Jinx starts using her skills to build a good life for herself and Isha and campaign for a true revolution for Zaun’s independence. Or, in other words, they both are able to positively change themselves and the world after they had been reduced to one of their lowest and most hopeless points in their lives.

I mean Ekko was going to fight no matter what, because as I said end of the world stakes are not engaging and is an obligation on the parts of the protagonist. Also Isha didn't inspire Jinx to be better it was Ekko because when Isha died Jinx gave up on herself and was willing to just commit suicide. And it was only until Ekko saved her that she had a change of heart off-screen.

I don’t get why people don’t like Season 2, it does a beautiful job of showing how messy relationships, politics and social reform can be while still maintaining a hopeful, yet realistic tone.

Like, yeah the brewing conflict between Piltover and Zaun kind of just disappeared, but also, Zaun is in disarray and is in no position to stand up to Piltover, and the Piltover government has been gutted and had a bigger problem on the horizon. And it’s for sure not fair to the Zaunites that their homes are being surrendered just to give Piltover a chance against Noxus, but what else can they do? They have no leaders and no way to try to play Piltover and Noxus off each other. It makes sense that that’s how it turned out and from it, there came some hope for lasting progress in the future as Piltover needed to rebuild and included representatives from Zaun in the process to. And I think that’s a beautiful message of turning a catastrophe into a better world.

And Vi's enforcer and pit fighter arc do an excellent job of pushing her character to the limits. Her main motivation is to protect those around her and after the dinner scene, the only people she has left is Jinx, whom she regards as a constant reminder of how she failed to protect Powder, and Caitlyn. She feels responsible for fixing the consequences of her perceived failure to protect Powder, and since Caitlyn was going to invade Zaun anyways, Vi took the chance to protect both Caitlyn and Zaun from Caitlyn’s wrath as well. Again, trying to make something good of an awful situation

In regards to the Black Rose plot, not only was it a great way to set up a plot for a future project, but it was an excellent way to facilitate Mel’s growth from a scheming political mastermind, to, maybe not a revolutionary, but definitely a force for positive change. It also gave us a glimpse at the sheer power and diversity of what magic can be and by doing so, shows the scale of the forces that Piltover is caught between, and how heroic Mel, Ekko, Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn and the others chose to be by standing up to them. Once again, using a hopeless scenario to forge themselves into better people.

And last but not least, the Isha and Alternate Universe plot lines did an excellent job of showing the power of what a little hope can do. And Ik that comparing Isha and the AU is a bit out there so hear me out: Jinx found Isha and Ekko was sucked into the alternate universe when they were at one of their most hopeless points. Jinx just lost the two people she cares about and Ekko’s tree and the whole firelight base was at risk by something he could never fix in barring the status quo of Piltovian society being turned upside down. Then, they two of them encounter Isha/The Alternate Universe which gives them actual hope of a brighter future, for Jinx, is the revival of Powder within her and the realization that she can build instead of destroy, and for Ekko, it’s seeing that it is possible to create an idealistic future where Piltover and Zaun are both flourishing and thriving as equals and his crush can be a healthy contributor to it. Afterwards, both of their lives change for the better: Ekko accepts that change is possible and goes to save the person he loves, fights a off literal god and builds a better society in the ashes of the war, and Jinx starts using her skills to build a good life for herself and Isha and campaign for a true revolution for Zaun’s independence. Or, in other words, they both are able to positively change themselves and the world after they had been reduced to one of their lowest and most hopeless points in their lives.

Basically, season 2’s main theme seems to be when we are left with nothing, we might as well build something better in the aftermath, and I really like that.

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tennessoui · 1 day ago

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cheating au ficlet - stop the presses

@daisy-stardust requested a ficlet set in the cheating au in exchange for a ko-fi donation (ty ty ty ty <3) so this is 3k, set four years or so after obi-wan and anakin begin sleeping together behind their wives' backs

Obi-Wan’s been tense since the moment his secretary knocked on his door to inform him that a Set Starkiller has requested an appointment at the end of the day.

He’d told her to schedule the man in, of course, before requesting she leave early for the day, and she’d given him a bow in response, and they’d both pretended they didn’t know that Set Starkiller was Anakin Skywalker and that Anakin Skywalker could meet with Obi-Wan Kenobi whenever he wanted.

It’s just a strange time, a break from their established tradition. When Set reaches out to schedule time in Obi-Wan’s calendar, it’s usually for lunch meetings. Usually for the purpose of arranging a lunchtime tryst in the relative privacy of Obi-Wan’s office space in the Stewjoni Institute.

At the end of the day, Anakin usually must pick the children up from their school on the days he isn’t tied up in late-night gallery shows. He usually ferries them home to their high-rise apartment building in the newer, shinier area of Coruscant. He usually fixes dinner and—presumably—greets his wife with a kiss the moment she returns from the Senate.

Usually, at the end of the day, Anakin has no time for his affair, for Obi-Wan.

Except for those times where Obi-Wan bullies himself and his family into the mix: suggesting outings to the opera to Padmé during recesses between bill amendment proposals, sending her holo-bulletins for the latest, hottest restaurants in the newest up-and-coming district of Coruscant. Places she should be seen, and who is Obi-Wan if not someone she should be seen with as her mentor in the Senate? As her confidante? But it may send the wrong message, open them both up to nasty rumors should they be photographed alone together at a dinner place. So really, Obi-Wan should check with his wife, to see if she is free. And if he is bringing his wife, then surely Padmé can bring her husband.

And Korkie enjoys the area, likes the spicy food from the Outer Rim that’s so in vogue at the moment. If Obi-Wan brings his wife, his child, and Padmé brings Anakin, then surely they should bring the twins too. The twins, who light up around Obi-Wan, who fight between themselves about who gets to sit next to him at the table.

But usually, Set Starkiller does not schedule appointments to see Obi-Wan during the evening. The evenings are usually reserved for his family, which Obi-Wan tends to allow him to believe does not include Obi-Wan’s family as well.

So the fact that he’s strayed so far from their usual, established pattern, makes Obi-Wan feel tense and hot all over from the moment his secretary alerts him to the request and then through the rest of the day.

Thankfully, if nothing else, Obi-Wan has beaten into Anakin an appreciation for punctuality over the last four years, so at the turn of the hour there’s a knock on the door.

Anakin enters without being told he can, because of course he does. Because this is Obi-Wan’s office and Obi-Wan’s space and whatever is Obi-Wan’s is Anakin’s as well. It’d be presumptive and irritating if Obi-Wan hadn’t spent the last four years trying to instill such beliefs in the other man.

Obi-Wan stands, but waits for the door to slide shut behind the man before he speaks. “Darling,” he says, striding forward until he’s close enough to touch the other’s elbow. “Has something happened?”

Anakin’s hair, usually such a beautiful and precise mess of curls, looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day. There are dark shadows under his eyes, bruises imprinted over golden and flawless skin that Obi-Wan’s spent cumulative hours pressing his lips against.

“There are pictures,” Anakin says. Perhaps it’s supposed to come out strong, like a statement, but his voice cracks, and he rubs a hand over his mouth instead, turning away from Obi-Wan’s touch—no—and looking out over the cityscape through the one-way windows behind his desk.

Obi-Wan blinks at his back. He’s still clad in the conservative, high-necked starchly-white uniform he prefers for working in the offices atop the art gallery. It’s jarring to see him wearing such colors; he usually prefers dark clothes, black and brown leather. Night-sky blue and deep, bruiselike purples. The white looks good on him, but then most things look good on Anakin Skywalker.

It just also makes him look that much more like a stranger.

“Pictures,” Obi-Wan repeats when his mind catches up with the conversation. “Of what?”

“Of us,” Anakin says, whirling around to stare down at him, eyes narrowing in anger.

After four years of feeling the burn of this man’s anger and knowing it is an essential aspect of the burn of his love, Obi-Wan is not moved to ire of his own. He crosses his arms and leans back against the edge of his desk. “There is no need to get angry at me, Anakin. I assure you, I did not hold the holocamera.”

It’s not an inaccurate statement, but it’s definitely also not something that Anakin appreciates if the scowl he throws him is any indication. Anakin’s hand runs up and into his hair, tugging at the curls as he frowns at Obi-Wan, waiting.

Obi-Wan gives in. He always does, when it comes to Anakin. “Pictures of us,” he says. “What are we doing?”

It’s not optimal, of course, and Obi-Wan’s pulse is already hammering beneath his skin at the idea of some holo-pap capturing an unsavory picture of the two of them out in Coruscant. After all, Satine may know of their relationship, but Anakin has carefully kept his wife in the dark. If a holo-pap caught them…kissing, it could be ruinous.

For Anakin’s marriage, of course.

But for Obi-Wan and Anakin’s relationship as well.

After all, blaster to his head, Obi-Wan isn’t sure what Anakin would do should his wife find out about the affair tomorrow. Would he beg her to stay with him? Would he promise never to speak to Obi-Wan again? Would he call it all a mistake, a lapse of judgement, a drunken mistake that only happened the once?

Eventually, Anakin will have to choose. Obi-Wan knows that, maybe better than Anakin does. He knows himself, knows that he will not be satisfied with only the crumbs of Anakin’s attention for long. Not when he knows that Anakin needs him. That Anakin wants him. That his children love him the same. One day, Obi-Wan will make him choose, but it will only be when he’s sure that he’ll be the one chosen.

And that’s not today. Not yet.

“Last week,” Anakin tells him, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “When we were leaving the Outlander.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows furrow before they raise. Last week, they’d gotten far too drunk at a dancing club in the lower levels. They’d stayed longer than they planned, and the night had ended with the two of them stumbling out the door, arms around each other, and into a taxi-speeder back to Obi-Wan’s private accommodations.

“Alright,” Obi-Wan says carefully. He drops his arms, taps his fingers along the edge of the desk. “I must admit that I don’t remember us doing anything particularly…scandalous that night.”

Like kiss. Obi-Wan remembers wanting to kiss him, so badly it hurt to look at him sidelong. Obi-Wan remembers wanting to wrap his fingers around the leather cord around Anakin’s neck��his necklace, the japor snippet that was Obi-Wan’s—and pull him in so he could taste the alcohol on his lips right there.

But he hadn’t. Even as drunk as he’d been then he’d known that he couldn’t. That as much as Anakin was his, he could only be his in the shadowy corners of the club, the absolute privacy of his apartments.

Anakin shakes his head in a sharp jerk, plunging his hand into the folds of his tunics and pulling out a handful of colored flimsi paper that he slaps down onto the desk next to Obi-Wan’s hip.

The pictures.

Obi-Wan studies them with a pursed mouth, mind racing.

They’re not scandalous, really. The holo-pap had not, in fact, caught them kissing. He hadn’t even caught them in a position that could be construed as scandalous. Their hands are, for the most part, visible, though Obi-Wan has an arm wrapped low around Anakin’s waist, hidden from view of the holo camera by the dark cloak he’s wearing.

Obi-Wan blinks and looks closer, trying to find whatever hidden message has made Anakin so upset.

But they’re just photos. In one, they’re leaning close together, heads nearly touching as they whisper. Obi-Wan can’t quite recall what was said, can just remember the feeling of Anakin’s hair brushing against his temple as he said it. In another, Obi-Wan is leaning against the club’s wall, deathstick lit and pressed between his lips as Anakin watches him from—alright, perhaps too close. His head is resting against Obi-Wan’s shoulder, face upturned to keep him in his eyeline. In the last picture, Obi-Wan is mostly out of view, negotiating a price for a ride with the taxi speeder. Anakin’s slumped back against the wall, head tilted back against the brick but eyes on Obi-Wan’s bent form. His lips are curved into a slight smirk. It’s heated, possessive, carefree and arrogant.

Not how friends look at each other, perhaps. But not necessarily damning either.

He looks back up at Anakin, who is already staring at him with his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

“I assume these haven’t been published yet,” he says, even though it’s not the first thing he’d like to say. “How did you get your hands on them?”

Anakin works his jaw for a moment before he says, “The Coruscanti Suns’ editor has a youngling in the same daycare as the twins. She gave them to me this morning. Said she couldn’t hold the story, but implied it was just cause she didn’t want to, the sleemo.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes fall back to the pictures. Must be a slow news day. Or perhaps the story is more telling than the pictures by themselves. He tries to think back to that night in the club. They’d danced, but then everyone had been dancing. They’d been—he’d been—so careful not to kiss his partner. But perhaps the Sun found a source, an underpaid server or bartender, footage from one of the serving droids’ memory cards that wasn’t erased properly. Perhaps there’s a story, dangerous and ruinous, lurking beneath these photos.

He sinks back his desk chair and rubs at his forehead for a moment as he considers the pictures before him.

“If she’s giving them to you free of charge and before the story runs, then obviously there’s something she wants more than to see this published,” he tells his lover, drumming his fingers along the armrest of his chair before he picks up the picture closest to him again and studies it. It’s the one of him talking to the speeder driver, the one of Anakin looking at him as if he were a piece of meat to be eaten.

“I don’t know anything about politics,” Anakin says flatly. He moves around the desk until they’re at odds with it between them, deep like a canyon. “She’s wasting her time.”

“Ah, but perhaps she realizes that the other person in these pictures does know a thing or two about politics,” Obi-Wan points out only half as condescendingly as he wants to be. He sets the picture down and taps his own pixelated face. “You, dearheart, are being blackmailed. Congratulations. You’ve taken the first step into your political career.”

Anakin’s scowl is fiercesome and entirely deserved. On the other side of the desk, he begins to pace, movements sharp and frenetic. “Well, what are we going to do about it?” he asks, far too loudly.

Obi-Wan places both his hands carefully on the desk so as to not give into the temptation to tighten them into fists. “My inclination is to let them publish,” he admits, watching Anakin with narrowed, assessing eyes. It wouldn’t do for the both of them to lose their heads. Obi-Wan can’t admit that the idea of this going to print—and the article that must be behind it and must be ten times as damning—makes his chest tighten with worry of his own.

Blaster to his head, he doesn’t know what Anakin will choose—he cannot allow him to make a choice yet. So this cannot be the thing that backs him into the corner. Animals, even predators, act out of instinct and fear when in corners. Everyone knows that.

But it won’t do to say this, any of this, now.

Not when Anakin is already shaking his head, glaring at Obi-Wan as if he’s the enemy here. “No, no way,” he snaps, fists clenching at his sides. “This cannot print.”

Obi-Wan blinks at him, as wide-eyed and innocent as he can look. The truth is that he knows the editor of the Coruscanti Sun, knows that her political chair has been asking for an interview with him for months, has instructed his secretary to decline every attempt the holosite makes to contact his office.

It is a rather heavy-handed attempt at blackmail; but she’s smart to have gone through Anakin. His eyes fall back to the pictures, as if magnetized, and he studies them with a fresh mindset, wondering if there’s anything in his expression that gives away how much of a weakspot Anakin Skywalker has become for him.

“Obi-Wan, please,” Anakin says, begs, really. Begs prettily, rounding the corner of the desk to drop to his knees beside Obi-Wan’s chair. For someone so unused to playing politics, he truly does know how to be as dramatic as the best of them. “Please do something.”

Obi-Wan reaches out, runs his hand through the curls framing Anakin’s face, before grabbing his chin and tilting his head up to study his expression. “You do know that it would be as good as confirming it to her, to stop this story from running,” he points out. Anakin’s eyes are dark but so pretty.

All of him is, really. That’s half of what got them into this mess in the first place.

(The other half being that he’s charming, and whip-smart. Brash and assertive, full of surprises and begging for a firm hand almost as often as he’s raring for a body to take out his anger on.)

“Obi-Wan, please,” Anakin repeats. He presses his face into Obi-Wan’s touch. Relaxes into him. Trusts him. He has a problem; shouldn’t Obi-Wan take care of it for him? Hasn’t that been what Obi-Wan has taught him over the last four years? Of course Anakin came to him immediately with this and made sure to bring with him all of the information that Obi-Wan will need to solve the problem for him.

“Alright, darling,” he says. Gives up, gives in. Because Anakin needs him to. Anakin needs this. Under his hand, Anakin melts in relief, turning immediately to press a kiss against his palm, anger forgotten or burned through as quickly as it was lit. “I’ll get in contact with her.”

“Thank you—”

“Only if you tell me why,” he finishes, and Anakin’s eyes snap to his.

“What do you mean why,” Anakin says, suspicious now. Still beneath his touch but not moving away from him.

“Those pictures are embarrassing, perhaps. Proof of a drunken night out that two men are far too old to partake in,” Obi-Wan says. “And stars, look at me, I haven’t smoked a deathstick in a decade. Hardly a good look for a galactic senator running for re-election.”

Anakin gets to his feet stiffly, jaw working as he glances from Obi-Wan to the holos then back out the window to the cityscape beyond.

Obi-Wan loves this man to the detriment of the both of them, but he’s never met an advantage he hasn’t wanted to press.

“But that’s me,” he says. “And I have a publicity team on standby whose job it is to spin these sorts of articles into a positive. And you, my dear, as important as I know your job is, hardly hold the same seat in the court of public opinion as I do. So. Why is it so important that these holos do not go to print? When all they depict is two men, enjoying a night out like they are reliving their glory days?” Anakin glares at him, expression surly and rebellious, but Obi-Wan has the upperhand. And beyond that, Obi-Wan wants to know. Obi-Wan wants to hear it.

“Did she say anything else to you?” he asks, adopting a concerned tone. “The editor? Anything to make you think that they have more on us than just this?”

“No,” Anakin snaps. Then, finally: “The photos are enough.”

Obi-Wan raises both eyebrows and shakes his head. Paranoia does not become his lover. “Truly, they are no–”

“She’d know,” Anakin interrupts, rubbing at the line of his neck before tangling his fingers into the leather cord of the necklace around his throat. A nervous habit he started up a few months ago. “She’d look at the pictures and know.”

There is no need to ask who Anakin is talking about. It is not the news editor. Obi-Wan finds that he does not particularly want to hear her name in the sanctity of his office either. “How?”

Anakin’s eyes are burning when he looks at him; one could almost mistake the emotion in them for hatred. Obi-Wan knows better. It seems, finally, Anakin knows better as well, because he says lowly and clearly, “Because that’s how I look when I’m in love with someone and she’d recognize it. And she’d know.”

Obi-Wan’s chest tightens and then expands with the feeling of victory. Of love. Of guilt, but only slightly. Only just. He turns away from Anakin, focuses his eyes on the datapaad on his desk instead of him or the holos. “I’ll make a few calls,” is all he says.

#kit's fics #cheating au #cw: infidelity #obikin #i wanted to write a scene where one of the pictures does get printed cause obi-wan makes a compromise or something #and padme comes and talks to him about it #and she basically asks him what he and anakin were talking about in that photo #cause anakin looks so at peace and happy #and obi-wan is like #oh he told me i was the closest thing he's ever had to a father #you know we'd been talking about the children and how much ive helped him raise them 0:)#or help him feel confident as he raises them i mean 0:)#edit my b the keep reading didnt work the first time

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bedazzled-applesauce · 21 hours ago

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went into the last three episodes expecting to end the series and yap on tumblr and be generally crushed and then i got slaughtered and they put my dead remains through a wood chipper.

let’s get started. end spoilers under the cut.

cas died an episode before i expected him to, and i had my hands over my mouth the entire time freaking the fuck out. that was the only scene in the entire show i kept far far away from spoiling for myself, so i was reasonably unprepared for the absolutely devastating scene that played out before me. i’m gonna need to reanalyze that and read a whole bunch of fix-it’s before i can re-convince myself that dean actually loved him back. evil

FUCKING LUCIFER PRETENDING TO BE CAS AND CALLING DEAN TO LET HIM IN?? DESPICABLY EVIL

we are completely void of topics regarding cas, jack seems like the only one affected until they figure out god and he heads off to better brighter things never to be seen again. evil

the last episode, everyone seems fine, but the entire vibe was just so so off, for which i will cast the blame onto jared and jensen and all the others, because i mean it’s the last episode on a 15 year project. the end. no more. so it’s completely reasonable they’re out of wack. but why is dean so uppity? this is not entirely credited to a secretly very sad jensen, as dean is just making corny ass jokes left and right, which usually i love him for, love myself a silly man, but why can’t they grieve? sam brings it up and dean just absolutely shuts him down. which technically i know could be attributed to dean shoving it down into his “do not open” repressed trauma box, but still, at least some struggle would be nice. evil

heaven, actively grieving the loss of the roadhouse, and honestly the ending just felt hopeless for me. like it’s all over and there’s nothing we can change. mainly just because it was kinda boring. it felt like we were avoiding something, with dean just driving along and sam growing old. i felt like there was some key component missing. but hey we hinted at cas somehow not being in super mega hell so 1 point for the cas likers ig, light shining through the dark and all. still evil

the “supernatural was made possible through viewers like you” speech, panning into the everyone ever, that was really unfortunate. heartbreaking. evil

all and all, i’m a hater. because it’s two in the morning and i’m done with a series i’ve been consistently watching with my parents since october. and it ended with everyone dead and seperated. screw this. i’ll be reading fix-its until i cry myself to sleep tonight. love yall ☹️

#supernatural #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #spn #season 15 #the ending of supernatural #s15e18 #s15e19 #s15e20 #really i’m just scared for the day i lose interest.#i’m afraid of going back to other fandoms #after the absolute journey #the longest show i’ve ever watched #and the most active and vast fandom i’ve ever been a part of #i love you all #nighty night #💔

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xxfaithlynxx · 11 hours ago

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The Gravity Between Us

Word Count: 7.8k

Hearts In The Static

...Caleb comes in with a perceptive eye!

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Isekai, OC insert, Polyamory / Polyamorous Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Chronic Illness, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Found Family, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, body image issues, Unreliable Narration, Protective Male Characters, rivals to lovers (sort of), past trauma, Everyone Loves Her But She Doesn’t Know Why, Heavy Angst, Fix-It Fic (but of the soul) Mental Health Themes (Depression, ADHD, pcos, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome), Suicidal ideation (past), Self-Harm Mention (Non-Graphic Flashback), Emotional Abuse (Referenced past) - Freeform, Body Dysmorphia, Trauma Recovery, Discussion of Medical Symptoms, feelings of worthlessness, Slow Healing & Difficult Conversations, themes of death, Survival, and identity

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

Chapter 4:

I didn’t notice the door open again until the familiar, rich voice broke through the quiet.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

I turned my head too quickly and regretted it instantly. My stomach pitched. My heart climbed up into my throat and refused to dislodge.

Greyson.

He stood there in a crisp white coat, sleeves cuffed to the elbow, lanyard ID swaying gently against his chest. His dark brown hair was neatly parted, skin golden under the soft halogen lights of the room. A practiced, charming smile played across his mouth—but his eyes behind those glasses, a warm and alert hazel, were already scanning me with quiet concern.

I knew that face. I knew him.

And he was here. Not a sprite, not voice lines scripted on a screen. Just a man. Real. Breathing. Seeing me.

“Dr. Greyson,” Zayne said with a nod. He set the macaron box down beside my flowers. “Did you pull her results?”

Greyson nodded, his smile tightening. “Yvonne flagged a few anomalies in her triage report, and I followed up with some bloodwork and baseline scans. Figured I’d deliver it myself since you were both here.”

Both.

Both of them.

I folded my arms across my stomach before I even realized I’d moved, instinct dragging me into myself, as if that could shield me from what came next.

“I’ll keep this simple,” Greyson continued, flipping open the translucent tablet in his hand. “Endocrine instability. Thyroid markers show irregularity, possibly chronic. Your hormonal profile—estrogen and androgen levels—are indicative of PCOS. That’s likely contributing to the fatigue, the weight retention, and the heightened cortisol response.”

My heart dropped like a stone.

He kept going, too gently.

“Your dopamine and serotonin uptake is low, suggesting depression. There’s neural patterning consistent with ADHD—high left-prefrontal theta waves, low beta reactivity in the parietal region. And your adrenal function suggests chronic stress burnout.”

I wanted the floor to open and swallow me whole.

Greyson paused, then added, “None of it is untreatable. But it explains a lot of what you’ve been feeling.”

My face burned hot enough to scald.

I knew this. I knew all of it. These weren’t new diagnoses—they were the constellation of things I’d been dragging behind me for years. But hearing them laid out like this, clinical and clean, with Xavier standing at the edge of my vision and Zayne sitting just two feet away—it felt like being dissected under floodlights.

I couldn’t look at anyone.

The silence was too loud.

All I could think about was how much they knew now. About me. My broken wiring. My failures, chemical and otherwise.

No secrets. No shields.

Just... exposed.

I curled into myself tighter. “Is there... more?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.

Greyson’s gaze softened. “Just one more thing.”

I braced.

“You’re alive ,” he said gently. “Which, given what Xavier reported, is nothing short of miraculous.”

That didn’t help. Not really.

Alive wasn’t the same as whole.

Not when you were surviving in spite of your body, not with it.

I felt the tears pressing behind my eyes again, hot and useless. My throat was too tight to speak.

Greyson seemed to sense it and gave a small nod toward the door. “I’ll file a treatment recommendation for a full consult. We’ll talk more after you’ve rested.”

He left without waiting for a response.

The moment the door clicked shut, the air felt thick again. My chest hurt from how hard I was trying to breathe evenly.

Xavier didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

Zayne didn’t either.

Until finally—softly—Zayne said, “None of that changes anything.”

My head snapped toward him, eyes wide and disbelieving.

“You think I’m judging you for what your body’s doing?” he added, voice still quiet. “You think that matters more than the fact that you’re here ? Alive ?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Because my brain wouldn’t let me believe it.

Because all I could hear was the echo of old voices—mean, familiar, cruel.

Too fat. Too slow. Too emotional. Too disorganized. Too loud. Too much.

But then Zayne added something I hadn’t expected.

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to outrun my own biology. I know what it’s like when your body feels like the enemy.”

His voice was steady, but there was something raw just beneath it.

I looked at him again. Really looked.

And this time, I saw it—not the surgeon, not the genius with the scalpel, not the suit or the smug retorts.

Just a man. With edges and weight and the same gravity I’d been feeling since I landed in this impossible world.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “You don’t have to be.”

I blinked fast, but the tears still came.

I didn’t wipe them away.

There were no poetic metaphors here. No dreamy cutscenes or slow camera pans. Just reality. Raw and exposed.

I wrapped my arms around my stomach and tried to pretend the walls weren’t closing in.

“Hey.” Xavier’s voice was low. Not soft, but measured. Like he knew if he said it too gently I’d crumble. “None of this changes anything.”

My gaze flicked to him. He met it steadily.

“You’re still you .”

That wasn’t comforting. Not really. I didn’t like me very much.

But I didn’t argue. Just nodded, like I believed it.

Before the silence could stretch too long, there was a soft knock at the open doorway.

Yvonne’s head poked in, her smile as warm as always. “Dr. Li?”

Zayne turned.

“There’s been a new triage intake. A friend of yours, I believe. He’s asking for you specifically.”

Zayne’s brow furrowed, the smooth composure on his face dipping just slightly.

Yvonne added, “Files says his name was Caleb?”

Something in Zayne’s expression flickered. Frustration, maybe. Or concern.

Then he muttered, barely loud enough for me to hear it:

“Damnit, Caleb.”

The name detonated in my brain like a struck match.

Caleb.

It echoed through me, rattled in my ribcage, caught in my lungs.

Caleb— Love and Deepspace ’s fifth love interest. The military prodigy. The brown-haired colonel of Skyhaven's Farspace Fleet with eyes like violet supernovas and a voice that cracked like thunder through comms. The one I’d argued over in forums, written fanfiction about, memorized voice lines for.

He was here .

Alive.

Part of this.

My heart thudded painfully against my ribs, confused and hopeful and terrified all at once. If Caleb was here, then...

Who else?

How deep did this rabbit hole go?

I barely noticed as Zayne nodded and quietly excused himself, already halfway down the hall before Yvonne could add anything more. The door whispered shut behind him.

I didn’t realize my eyes had drifted shut.

Not all the way—just enough for memory to slip between the cracks of the moment. Caleb’s 5 Star Memory, the one when he was sick– Hidden Waves. It came unbidden, like so many others since arriving. Familiar yet fragile. Caleb’s voice, husky and low, curling through my mind like smoke.

“You wanna see my weakness? Well, now you have.”

The image hit with brutal clarity: Caleb, slouched in bed, his usually sharp posture undone by fever. Blue short-sleeved shirt clinging to his skin, gray sweats low on his hips, tousled brown hair damp at the temples.

I had seen that memory too many times.

The dim lighting. The flush in his cheeks. The way he looked at the MC like he didn’t deserve her care—like it hurt just to be seen that way. And the way she’d leaned in, pressing her forehead to his to check his temperature, their breaths mingling in the quiet tension between them.

He’d grunted, blushed, and looked away.

My heart clenched.

“When you were sick, I used to sing to you… you’d laugh, say I sucked, and cover my mouth.”

She’d offered to sing for him in return. He’d seemed shocked but let her, but the look in his eyes—

That moment , when he leaned forward, his hand hovering between their faces, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to touch her cheek or just stay suspended in the ache of wanting.

I remembered the pause. The breath held between them.

But I didn’t let it finish. I couldn’t .

My eyes opened sharply.

White walls. Silver trim. The soft hum of medical monitors.

Xavier was still in the room, sitting nearby with one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through something on his sleek, foldout holopad. He looked relaxed—but not detached. Occasionally his gaze flicked toward me, as if quietly confirming I was still present. Still tethered.

I blinked hard, trying to shake the lingering image of Caleb's flushed face from my mind.

He’s real too. Somewhere out there.

That one thought made my pulse spike again.

And it wasn’t relief. It was dread.

“You were gone for a second.”

Xavier’s voice cut through the air with gentle precision—just enough to anchor me back into the here and now, but not enough to stop the thudding echo in my chest. I blinked, turning my head just enough to meet his eyes.

He was still leaning in his chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, holopad now resting idle in his lap. But his gaze was fixed on me, steady and knowing. Not judgmental. Just observant.

“You alright?” he asked.

I hesitated. A second too long.

He tilted his head slightly. “You looked like you were somewhere... else .”

My mouth opened, then closed again. Words tangled and twisted behind my teeth. How the hell was I supposed to explain that ? Sorry, Xavier, just remembered a video from your world that was never supposed to be real, featuring another extremely attractive character in sweatpants, nearly kissing the other version of me. Totally normal.

I gave a weak, awkward smile instead. “Just... thinking.”

“Thinking usually doesn’t involve staring into middle space like you’re listening to an invisible opera.”

“Maybe I like opera,” I muttered.

He huffed, almost— almost —a laugh. “Do you?”

I stared down at my blanket, picking at the hem. “Not even a little.”

He leaned forward slightly, something flickering across his expression—a subtle shift. Curiosity, maybe. Or concern. He looked like he was about to ask more, his mouth parting—

And then the noise started.

A clatter. Voices. The faint hiss of automated doors failing to close all the way as something—or someone —forced them open without waiting for clearance.

Both of our heads turned sharply toward the door at the same moment it slid halfway open.

And there he was.

Caleb.

Tall and unfairly lean, brown hair tousled like he’d dragged his fingers through it in frustration or distraction. His eyes—those unmistakable violet-orange eyes, sharp as flame and yet so full of mirth—were already locked on me like I was a riddle he was dying to solve. Something about the look in them wasn’t cruel or mocking. Just... curious . Intensely so.

“Damn,” he muttered, stepping into the room with an almost catlike grace, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, head tilted slightly. “Zayne wasn’t kidding.”

I froze.

Every inch of my body went taut.

He was here.

He was real .

And the moment I saw him, something in my stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Zayne came in a breath later, his expression considerably more irritated—jaw tight, movements clipped. “Caleb— don’t just barge in—”

Caleb waved a hand lazily, still not looking away from me. “She’s awake. And you wanted to wait ?”

My mouth went dry.

My entire body felt hot and cold all at once.

I could feel Xavier tense beside me—subtle, but there. His attention shifted from me to Caleb and then back again. I couldn’t look away from Caleb’s eyes. I couldn’t breathe .

I had seen those eyes in moments both tender and furious. I had watched them soften when the MC reached for him during his nightmares. I had seen that exact smirk twist into something vulnerable when he admitted how much it scared him to feel something real.

And now he was here. In my room.

Like the universe wasn’t just blurring the lines anymore. It was shredding them.

My fingers curled in the blanket.

I couldn’t do this.

Not all of them.

Not when every single one of them looked at me like I was some new variable in a puzzle they weren’t supposed to be solving.

Not when I already knew the answers.

Caleb didn’t stop at the threshold.

He crossed the space between us with an ease that made my chest tighten—smooth, confident, a predator with curiosity in his blood and too much focus in his eyes. That grin of his, crooked and sharp, danced at the edges of his mouth like he knew something I didn’t.

He stopped just short of my bed, hands still buried in his jean jacket pockets, gaze sweeping over me without shame or hesitation.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said quietly. “But you feel... familiar.”

Familiar.

God, not again .

The word landed like a punch, straight to the sternum. My pulse spiked, loud in my ears, my breath catching before I could rein it in.

The monitor beside me beeped—a soft but sudden crescendo of tones that turned heads .

Zayne’s brows furrowed, the tension in his shoulders sharpening like a blade pulled halfway from its sheath. He stepped forward slightly, the movement subtle but unmistakable.

Xavier, still beside me, glanced quickly at the screen. “Her heart rate just jumped.”

No shit .

Caleb looked amused. “Guess I still have that effect,” he muttered under his breath, almost like he meant it to stay private. But then his gaze flicked back to me and something changed.

That crooked smile faltered—just for a second.

“You okay?” he asked, voice dipping into something almost sincere. The kind of tone that made you think he could be gentle, if he really wanted to be.

I swallowed hard, mouth dry. I didn’t trust my voice.

Didn’t trust anything about this moment.

Three of them. Three . Three of the five.

Standing in the same room, close enough to touch. Watching me like I was a static-charged signal they couldn’t quite decrypt.

“I—” I choked on the word. Shook my head instead.

The monitor’s pace jumped again.

Xavier moved instinctively, fingers brushing the edge of the side rail, his brows drawing together in a rare crease of concern. “Aven—breathe.”

“I am ,” I snapped, too fast, too sharp.

The air felt thick, like the room had lost pressure. My skin itched with heat, nerves fraying at the seams.

Caleb didn’t back off.

He crouched slightly, coming level with my eye line. “What’s your name?”

I knew he already knew it.

Zayne had said it. Xavier had used it. But the question felt like a test. Like he wanted to hear me say it .

“Aven,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion. In focus.

“I’ve heard it before,” he said. “Recently. But not just from Zayne.”

“What does that mean?” Zayne asked, voice low, cautious.

Caleb didn’t answer. He just kept looking at me, like peeling back a veil that didn’t want to lift.

I pulled the blanket higher over my lap, like it might protect me from the weight of being seen .

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. Too quickly.

None of them moved. Not at first.

And then Zayne did.

He stepped between Caleb and the bed—not harshly, but firmly enough to create distance. He didn’t look at me, not directly. But his posture had shifted. Protective. Controlled.

“There’s no reason to overwhelm her,” he said, calm but edged. “She’s recovering.”

Caleb tilted his head, mildly annoyed but not surprised. “Relax, Li. I’m not interrogating her.”

“You kind of are,” Xavier muttered under his breath, arms crossed.

Caleb’s attention flicked to him, then back to me.

“Maybe,” he said. “But she’s not just some lost girl, is she?”

The silence that followed burned.

I wanted to vanish. Melt into the seams of the bed, dissolve into nothing.

They were getting too close.

Too much.

I couldn’t breathe again. The edges of my vision blurred.

I closed my eyes.

Tune it out. Tune them out. Focus. Anchor. Anything but this.

But even with my eyes closed, I could still feel their presence—like the gravity in the room had changed, pulling inward.

Three of them.

Drawn to something they couldn’t name.

And I knew exactly what it was.

Me.

The one mistake the universe wasn’t supposed to make.

Caleb leaned in a little closer, folding his arms over his chest. His violet-orange gaze was locked on mine, electric with some curiosity he didn’t bother to hide.

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

The words were soft. Not accusatory—but pointed . Like a needle pressed just hard enough to break skin without bleeding.

I froze.

Everything inside me clanged at once—alarms, instincts, terror. The question cracked across my chest like a whip, ripping the air out of my lungs.

“What?” I croaked, my voice scraping the bottom of my throat.

He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t play coy. “The way you looked at me when I came in. That hit wasn’t shock—it was recognition. You know me. You know all of us.”

I could hear the heart monitor accelerating again—beepbeepbeepbeepbeep—louder now. Caleb’s gaze flicked toward it but didn’t back off. If anything, he stepped closer.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

I was suffocating.

Everything felt too bright —the lights, the pale sterile walls, even Zayne’s stark white coat at the corner of my vision. My fingers twitched against the blanket, gripping it tighter, nails biting through the soft cotton weave.

“I don’t know anything,” I whispered.

But it was too late.

The air had shifted again—Zayne had caught it. He’d gone still, quiet in that terrifying way he did when he was watching too closely. Xavier too. The weight of their eyes pressed into me like gravity cranked up to eleven.

“I think,” Caleb said slowly, “you’ve been watching us for a long time.”

That did it.

I panicked.

My hand shot sideways, fingers scrambling for the call button on the bed’s side rail. I slapped it, the dull chirp sounding like a fire alarm in the room.

The red alert light blinked overhead.

“What are you doing?” Zayne asked, startled.

“You need something?” Xavier added, stepping forward.

I couldn’t look at them.

My eyes stayed locked on the empty spot where Yvonne had stood earlier, silently begging the universe to send her back.

“I need—” I licked my lips. My mouth was dry. “I need to use the washroom. Alone. Please.”

The lie was weak. Flimsy. But it was all I had.

Caleb stared at me, his expression unreadable now. The intensity had pulled back just a hair—but I could feel it still there, humming beneath his skin like static before a storm.

Zayne’s voice was closer. Gentler. “You could’ve just asked me. I’m right here.”

That almost broke me.

Because he meant it.

There was no coldness in his tone—just concern. Quiet and genuine.

But I couldn’t let that sink in.

Couldn’t let myself fall into the illusion that this was safe, that this was something real . That any of them were. Because they weren’t supposed to be real. They weren’t supposed to know me. And if I slipped—if I said even one wrong word—they’d know everything.

So I kept my eyes on the wall and said nothing.

The door slid open a second later with a soft hiss , and Yvonne stepped in, brow already furrowed. “Everything alright?”

“I need to use the washroom,” I repeated, softer this time. “Can you help me?”

Yvonne’s gaze bounced between me and the three men in the room. She didn’t comment. Just nodded once, briskly. “Of course.”

Zayne took a step back, uncertainty passing through his features like a flicker of shadow. Caleb’s jaw tensed, his mouth flattening into a thin line. Xavier tilted his head, unreadable but watchful.

I didn’t wait for them to argue.

I shifted my legs to the side of the bed with Yvonne’s help, body aching like I’d run ten miles in broken shoes. My knees trembled when I stood.

“Give her space,” Yvonne said gently, but firmly, as she eased me toward the private washroom down the hall.

Only when the door closed behind us and I was out of their line of sight did I finally let my legs give out.

Yvonne caught me with surprising strength, helping me onto the small bench near the sink.

“Take your time,” she said, voice low. “I’ll keep the door closed.”

I nodded mutely, knuckles white against the edge of the basin.

Through the walls, I could still feel their energy lingering.

Caleb’s burning curiosity. Zayne’s quiet worry. Xavier’s focused calm.

But more than that… the pull .

Like they were tethered to me by threads I couldn’t see—but felt like they were tightening with every breath.

The moment the washroom door clicked shut behind Yvonne, I collapsed forward over the edge of the sink, bracing myself on trembling arms.

My breath was coming too fast. My chest heaved, muscles twitching from the effort of staying upright. My stomach clenched like it had swallowed broken glass, sharp and wrong.

Caleb had seen too much .

He’d peeled me open with a glance. Like he already knew —not just my name, not just my face, but the truth buried under my ribs. The truth I couldn’t afford to say out loud.

He felt familiar to me because I’d spent months watching him breathe behind a screen. Because I’d memorized every laugh, every snarl, every scar etched in shadow and myth. But I was nothing to him. A stranger. A glitch.

Except… I wasn’t, was I?

“You’ve been watching us for a long time.”

The way he said it. So certain. So goddamn accurate .

He’d nearly cracked me open in front of Zayne and Xavier— Zayne , who’d looked at me like I was something small and fragile he hadn’t quite figured out yet. Like he was trying to read a blueprint written in a language he hadn’t seen before. And Xavier—sharp-eyed and analytical, yet calm. He hadn’t said anything, but I wasn’t stupid. He noticed things. Always had. Maybe they both knew. Maybe they were just biding their time.

My reflection in the mirror swam.

I blinked.

My eyes were rimmed in red. My cheeks blotchy, sweat sticking the baby hairs at my temples. The soft folds of the hospital clothes clung unflatteringly around my middle, and I hated myself for even noticing that right now.

But I couldn’t stop spiraling. Couldn’t stop the ache in my chest from becoming something jagged and hollow.

How long could I keep this up?

Pretending I didn’t know. Pretending I didn’t know who Zayne became in his nightmares. Pretending I hadn’t watched Xavier’s story arcs a dozen times. Pretending I hadn’t cried when Caleb— Caleb —first smiled at the MC after letting his walls down.

And now he was here.

And he saw me.

I pressed my fists against the sink’s edge, digging my nails into my palms until my skin screamed.

It was too much. Too close. The wires were fraying inside me.

A knock broke the pressure like a bubble bursting in my ears. Gentle. Familiar.

“Aven?” Yvonne’s voice, soft through the panel. “I’m coming in.”

The door eased open, and she stepped in with a careful glance at my posture—half-folded, hunched over the sink like I was trying to hold myself together with sheer will.

Without saying a word, she crossed the small tiled space and knelt beside me.

Her hand came to rest on my back—not firm, not invasive. Just present .

“Breathe, honey,” she murmured. “You’re safe.”

My throat tightened.

I didn’t feel safe. I felt seen. Exposed . Like the universe had turned me inside out and paraded every vulnerable corner of my heart in front of the very people I couldn’t afford to break in front of.

“I can’t…” I choked. “I can’t screw this up. I can’t—”

Yvonne’s hand rubbed slow circles against my back.

“You’re not screwing anything up,” she said gently. “You’re surviving. That’s more than enough.”

I let out a ragged, wet breath, shoulders shaking under the weight of everything I’d been carrying.

“I’ve spent my whole life invisible,” I whispered. “Now they’re looking . And I’m terrified that the second they see me—really see me—they’ll turn away.”

Yvonne was quiet for a moment. Then, “Maybe. Or maybe they’ll stay. Maybe they already are.”

I clenched my teeth against the words, against the hope that curled beneath them.

Her hand paused only briefly before she stood, offering me a towel and a cup of cool water she must’ve grabbed on her way in.

“Drink. And then come back to the world slowly. One minute at a time.”

I did as she said, sipping the water even as my stomach writhed. The coolness helped. A little.

She offered a soft smile. “You want more time in here?”

“No,” I whispered. “But I need a minute to… look like a person again.”

“You don’t have to look like anything for anyone,” she said. “But I’ll give you space.”

With that, she stepped out, the door clicking softly behind her.

I leaned against the cool tile wall.

Just a moment more.

Just long enough to gather all the pieces of myself that were scattering across the floor.

Because if Caleb could see through me that easily… it was only a matter of time before the rest of them did, too.

I stared at my reflection one last time, jaw clenched tight.

I looked like a storm that hadn’t landed yet—red-rimmed eyes, skin still splotchy, hair sticking up in wisps no matter how I tried to tame it. But I’d survived worse. Or… I thought I had.

Straightening my spine, I wiped my hands on the hospital tunic and forced one deep, steady breath into my lungs. One foot, then the other. That was all I could do.

When I cracked open the door, I stepped lightly into the corridor just outside the room, careful not to let it creak. I wasn’t ready yet—not for more probing questions or sharp eyes or knowing smiles.

But what I heard instead stopped me in my tracks.

The voices carried just far enough through the half-open room door.

“She looked at me like she knew me,” Caleb said, his tone low but impossible to miss—sharp, electric, and far too certain. “Not just a ‘seen-you-somewhere’ kind of knowing. It was all over her face. You didn’t see it?”

There was a pause. Then Zayne’s voice, clipped and flat in a way that only betrayed how much effort he was putting into not reacting.

“People form strange attachments in trauma. You know that.”

Caleb huffed out a humorless breath. “That wasn’t trauma. That was recognition.”

“She could be experiencing imposter syndrome,” Xavier offered, always the clinical voice of reason. “Or displacement anxiety. She’s not from here, remember? There’s going to be some cognitive chaos.”

“No,” Caleb said, more forcefully now. “This wasn’t confusion. She looked at me like someone who’d seen too much and was trying not to fall apart. Like she’d already fallen apart, and was just trying to keep the seams from showing.”

I pressed my back flat against the wall, breath lodged in my throat.

He knew.

Or at least, he suspected. More than the others. And he was saying it out loud .

“She’s hiding something,” he added, quieter now, but no less certain. “And you two are too used to dodging your own shit to admit when someone else is doing the same.”

Another beat of silence. I could practically feel the tension on the other side of the door.

“I’m not saying she’s dangerous,” Caleb continued. “I’m saying she’s wounded . And whatever she’s holding back—it matters.”

My heart slammed against my ribcage, wild and disoriented. My fingers curled into my palms again, nails digging in.

Zayne’s voice was softer this time. “She’s just… fragile.”

“No,” Caleb said firmly. “She’s scared. There’s a difference.”

I blinked hard against the prick of tears that threatened again, throat thick.

Because he was right. Damn him.

And hearing them talk about me like that— like I hadn’t spent months knowing everything about them from the distance of a glowing screen—felt like an intrusion I hadn’t earned.

Like being on the wrong side of the glass.

I swallowed and stepped forward, footfalls light as I pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward me instantly—Caleb’s still burning with that too-intense curiosity, Zayne’s flicking immediately to my face for signs of distress, and Xavier’s calculating stare softening just enough at the edges.

I didn’t say a word.

No one said anything.

Caleb straightened where he leaned against the window ledge, arms crossing as he watched me with eyes too sharp, too knowing . Violet-orange flickers caught the light, like embers barely tamped down. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t play it cool. He just looked at me—unwavering and unfiltered.

Zayne’s gaze followed next. Less direct, more measured. Protective. Assessing. A part of me wanted to crawl into that expression, tuck myself into the safety it offered without ever admitting I needed it. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t deserve it.

And Xavier—he just dipped his head in that quiet, observant way of his, like he was noting my return in a ledger he kept hidden behind his eyes. His phone was no longer in his hands. He’d been listening, too. Of course he had.

I pulled my sleeves down as I crossed the room, heading toward the bed. My hands trembled, so I pressed them flat against the side rail and pretended it was just the cold.

“Sorry,” I muttered, not looking at any of them. “Didn’t mean to take so long.”

No one corrected me. But no one said you’re fine either. The silence pressed into my skin.

“I needed a minute,” I added. Still not an explanation. Still not the truth.

“Everyone does,” Zayne said after a beat, his voice low and deliberate. “Especially after what you’ve been through.”

His words were gentle, but I felt the tight coil under them—the thread of something coiled and waiting. An edge he was trying not to draw.

I nodded faintly and shifted back onto the bed. My legs felt like they didn’t belong to me anymore.

I could feel their eyes.

Caleb moved first. Not toward me, thankfully. He slid back to the corner of the room near the small cabinet where some of the equipment rested, like he needed to put something between us. Like he sensed the way my chest was heaving even if I kept my breathing quiet.

But it wasn’t distance I feared. It was the truth sitting between us like a fourth body in the room.

He was right.

I did know them.

I knew the way Xavier’s eyes changed when he moved from logic to instinct. I knew the tilt of Zayne’s head when something challenged his belief system. I knew the heat of Caleb’s voice when he let down the walls he pretended didn’t exist.

And they didn’t know me . Not really.

But they were starting to. And that was worse.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” I said softly, not even sure who I was talking to. “I didn’t ask to be here.”

“You didn’t,” Xavier confirmed, calmly.

“But you’re here,” Zayne added.

I closed my eyes for a second. Just enough to steady myself.

“I’m not lying,” I whispered.

“No one said you were,” Caleb cut in, though his voice was still edged like glass smoothed only by time.

“But you’re hiding something,” he added, quieter.

My eyes flew open, meeting his, the contact sparking something raw in my gut.

It was like he could see me. Like he was carving through the layers I’d so carefully stacked between myself and the rest of the world.

I flinched, fingers curling around the blanket near my thigh.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I managed, but it sounded wrong even to me.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Zayne said. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone in it.”

But I was . Because no matter what they said, they didn’t understand. They couldn’t possibly understand what it meant to fall into your favorite world only to be swallowed by the jagged realization that the people you loved on the screen were real—and they didn’t know you. Didn’t love you back.

I pressed my hand to my chest. Not for comfort. For containment .

I didn’t know how long I could keep this up.

“Look,” I said, voice cracking around the edges, “I’m just trying to make it through the next hour without imploding. So if this is an interrogation—”

“It’s not,” Zayne said instantly, stepping forward, hand half-raising like he wanted to reach me but stopped himself just short. “You’re safe here. This isn’t a test.”

“Feels like one,” I breathed.

There was a beat. A hesitation.

Then, unexpectedly, Caleb’s voice—softer this time, but still with that underlying flicker of emotion—cut through.

“Do you ever get the feeling that you were meant for something… but you missed it?”

My heart clenched.

Because yes .

Yes, I did. Every single day.

I stared at him, and for the first time since he’d burst into the room, I didn’t feel overwhelmed by his presence. I felt understood . And that was so much worse.

“I should sleep,” I said abruptly, fingers already tugging the blanket up. “I just… need to rest.”

No one stopped me. But the weight of all three of them lingered in the room like smoke even as I turned my face away, feigning fatigue, pretending I couldn’t feel the tears I refused to shed welling hot behind my eyelids.

Because the truth wasn’t that I was tired.

The truth was that I was breaking .

And I didn’t know how much longer I could hold it together without shattering completely.

Zayne was the first to move, lingering by the end of the bed with a look I couldn’t decipher—equal parts reluctant and protective, like he was fighting the urge to say more.

“If you need anything,” he said, his voice low, that same firm cadence I remembered from every voice clip in the game, “ask. Don’t try to tough it out alone.”

He didn’t touch me, didn’t linger too long, but his eyes held mine for a moment longer than they should’ve—deep and unreadable, like he was trying to memorize something about me before he turned to leave.

Xavier stayed.

The door clicked shut behind Zayne and Caleb, and silence fell like a weighted blanket. Xavier’s eyes tracked the heart monitor, then flicked to me.

“I know it’s overwhelming,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softer than I’d ever imagined it in the game. “But you’re doing better than you think.”

I wanted to believe him. But the knot in my throat was already tightening again.

“You’ve been through a lot. And there’s more coming,” he added, as if reading my fear like a file. “But we’ll get through it. You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

I tried to nod, but the pressure behind my eyes made it hard to move.

Xavier didn’t press. He just offered the faintest tilt of his head, something almost like a bow, before murmuring, “Rest, Aven,” and exiting quietly, the door whispering shut behind him.

That was when it cracked.

The silence. The space. The too-bright lights.

The second the room was empty, the air seemed to thicken, pressing down on my chest until I couldn’t breathe. My throat burned. My skin itched with the weight of everything I hadn’t said, hadn’t screamed.

I pressed a fist to my mouth.

The sob came anyway.

Loud. Ugly. Crooked like a shattered mirror.

The machines near my bed began to beep erratically, one flatline scream of alarm splitting through the room as my pulse spiked and my breath hitched into stuttered gasps.

I couldn’t stop.

I curled into myself, fingers clenched in the blanket, heartbeat a thunderstorm beneath my ribs.

I didn’t hear the door open.

But I felt the shift in the room—the calm that preceded it.

Yvonne’s voice, soft but firm. “Aven.”

I flinched, wiping at my face uselessly.

“I’m fine,” I croaked.

“You’re not,” she said gently, crossing the room in a few steps. “And that’s okay.”

She silenced the machines with a practiced motion, her presence settling the chaos with gentle authority. Her hand hovered near mine, not touching—just there .

“You’ve held a lot in,” she said. “It had to come out eventually.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

She pulled a fresh blanket from the cabinet, wrapped it gently around my shoulders, and sat beside me.

No questions.

No pressure.

Just… presence.

Sleep didn’t come like a balm. It came like surrender.

After Yvonne smoothed the blanket over me and the room dimmed to a soft, dusky hue, the tension finally cracked somewhere deep in my spine, and I let the weight of everything pull me under.

I didn’t dream of Zayne or Xavier. Not of Caleb or Linkon or Akso Hospital.

I dreamed of home .

Of Earth.

Of the life I’d tried to erase.

The too-yellow fluorescent lights of the café flickered overhead, buzzing faintly as I wiped down the counters for the third time that morning. The scent of burnt espresso clung to the air, permanent no matter how much cinnamon I sprinkled in the air to mask it.

The hum of the overhead fan ticked in a lazy loop. Someone coughed in the corner booth. My apron felt too tight across my middle, clinging to every insecure inch I tried not to notice in the reflective oven door.

No one smiled at me.

No one saw me.

It shifted—abrupt and jarring—to my apartment.

That freezing little box with the drafty windows and the radiator that only hissed instead of heating. My couch—the secondhand one I’d picked off a curb, too small to lay on and too narrow to curl up on properly—sat like a lump of disappointment against the wall. The chipped coffee table was still littered with unopened mail and empty pill bottles.

I stared at it all in the dream with the strangest ache. That couch I used to sit on after long shifts with aching legs and aching thoughts, curled under a threadbare blanket scrolling through mobile otome games I told no one about.

A version of comfort. A version of escape.

Love and Deepspace had always felt like my only tether to something better. A world where people were extraordinary, and I could pretend—for just a little while—that I was worth loving.

And now… I’d crossed over.

And I still didn’t feel like I belonged.

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

I woke to daylight.

A warm, steady beam of gold-orange filtered through the tall windows, casting blurred grid lines across the floor and the edge of the bed. The scent in the air was neutral, clean—but not antiseptic anymore. Something gentler. Maybe a subtle shift in the time of day, or just my body finally letting me rest long enough to register softness again.

I blinked slowly, my throat dry and my limbs heavy. It took a second to realize I wasn’t tangled in that too-small couch. No burnt coffee. No flickering fluorescents.

Akso.

The room was quiet.

Yvonne was gone. I didn’t remember when she’d left. Whether she’d said goodbye. Whether I’d even acknowledged it.

I looked around slowly. The Observation room was dimmer now, the shadows different—longer. I could tell I’d slept through more than just a nap.

The whole damn day?

There were no signs of Zayne or Xavier. No fresh flowers. No open door. Just that silence again—gentler than the one that met me on Sky North, but still emptier than I was ready for.

My stomach growled.

The machine at my bedside blinked quietly with soft pulses. Stable, now.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and stared at the window for a long time.

What happens now?

I didn’t plan to leave the room.

But the stillness had started to feel too quiet—like the kind that creeps in after a fight, or when someone leaves and doesn’t come back. My body was still stiff from sleep, muscles slow to stretch as I swung my legs off the bed. No one had come in for hours for sure, and the silence felt… strange. Not threatening. Just hollow .

I pulled the loose hospital sweater tighter around myself and stepped into the hallway, barefoot but for the thin slipper-socks I’d been given. The floor felt cool beneath them, the lights dimmed just enough to suggest early morning. Peaceful. Too peaceful.

The hallway curved gently, soft-lit signs pulsing at the edges of corners like low-lit stars. I followed them without needing to think. My body already knew the way—even if technically, I’d never walked it before.

Cafeteria: Level 2. Café: Atrium Access.

I almost smiled. Of course it was still there.

My hand brushed the wall as I moved toward the elevator. Each step was strangely grounding—quiet, rhythmic. My ribs still ached when I breathed too deep, but the pain had dulled into something bearable. Manageable.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and I stepped inside, pressing the glowing icon for Level 2. When they closed, I caught my reflection in the metallic sheen. My hair was a mess. Face pale. Eyes darker than usual. But I was here.

Still here.

The doors slid open, and the scent of fresh espresso and toasted rice met me like a soft wave. I stepped out into the café wing and almost lost my footing—not physically, but mentally. It looked exactly like it had in the game.

Glass walls curving into the open atrium, sunlight diffused across potted greenery and silver paneling. The café itself was quiet, with a few early risers and nurses grabbing drinks. Menu boards hovered gently above the counters in clean, angular type.

I stood in line, dazed.

Everything was too familiar. The scent of soy milk and matcha. The soft hum of the grinders. The rows of mochi buns and buttered toast tucked neatly into glass cases. I ordered a latte and a rice bun on instinct, my voice barely above a whisper.

When the barista handed me the tray, I thanked them and turned toward the corner seating area. Just a moment to breathe.

Then it came.

“Dr. Zayne Li, please report to Radiology. Dr. Zayne Li to Radiology.”

The voice rang out from overhead—smooth, automated—but it still sliced through me like a blade.

Zayne.

I froze mid-sip, the coffee burning the tip of my tongue. I set the cup down slowly, fingers trembling just a little as the heat settled into my palms.

So he’s still here. Still nearby.

Memories of yesterday flickered like too-bright film reels behind my eyes. His voice. His hand steadying me. The way he’d looked at me like he saw something beneath the surface. And worse—how I’d looked at him .

Like I’d known him my whole life.

Because I had. In a way. Just not a way I could ever explain.

I sat at the nearest table, pulling the tray close like it might anchor me. I stared into the swirl of foam in my cup, trying not to imagine where he might be now. In a hallway? With a patient? Talking to Xavier or… or Caleb.

I bit my lip, hard.

I’d basically pushed them all away. And they’d let me. But what happened after? Did they argue? Did they compare notes, try to make sense of me? Did they know I was hiding something?

Are they planning something now?

The thought made my stomach twist. I took a slow sip, pretending it was just caffeine making my hands shake. It wasn’t. The truth was settling over me like fog: I was known now. Seen. And worse—starting to care about being seen.

Especially by them .

I drew in a breath and let it out slowly. The coffee was warm. The bun was sweet and soft. I was still alive. Still sitting upright in a chair in a hospital café like this was all normal.

For now, I let that be enough.

I finished the last bite of my mochi bun, savoring its slightly chewy sweetness. The warm steam from my soy latte curled between my fingers. It felt grounding—like each slow sip pulled me further from yesterday’s chaos.

When I stood to head back—tray in hand and stomach settled—a pair of voices trickling from beyond the atrium caught my attention. They were just close enough to be private . . . and compelling in their calm, deep tones.

I froze, traced their direction: toward the glass-walled hospital lobby.

The first voice had a soft, artistic drawl—like someone who painted with fire and broken waves.

“. . . the Hunter’s Beacon flagged the anomalous readings near the East Bridge. That’s where he first found her?”

The impassioned edge struck something raw in me.

The second voice was low and measured, a controlled force—sharp like a blade, sheltered behind contempt:

“He said the markers were off‑the‑charts—energy fluctuations not seen since the Protofields overflow. It’s not standard Wanderer energy.”

I stepped closer. My tray clattered on the table, my pulse picking up, but I couldn’t move. I recognized them.

Rafayel . His voice with that gentle fire. I remembered: tall, slender, purple waves of hair, blue‑pink eyes, the Lemurian artist whose scales and tail emerged under stress.

And Sylus . The energy‑manipulating chieftain of Onychinus. Silver‑messy hair, striking red eyes, powerful presence even in speech.

My heart thundered.

They continued, voices toying with foreknowledge I wasn’t supposed to hear.

Rafayel: “So she stumbled into our world, fractured—bearing records of metabolic irregularities, emotional resonance spikes, any Evol signatures?”

Sylus: “Xavier provided the readings. Zayne is containing her in Observation. We need eyes on her. I’ll handle logistics.”

Xavier. Zayne. The web thickened.

Rafayel sighed, tone haunted with curiosity. “She wasn’t just another case file. The moment Xavier saw her, he hesitated. It was recognition, not protocol.”

Recognition.

Sylus scoffed, low. “Hunter’s instinct. He won’t admit she’s carrying more than a proto‑signal.”

Rafayel’s voice wavered around the edges. “But the data supports it. Her brainwaves, her energy output—off‑grid levels. We need to know who she is.”

Then Sylus pulled the pivot. “Fine. But don’t let ideals cloud your judgment. She’s unknown. And we can’t afford loose ends.”

The gravity in his voice made my chest clamp shut.

Unknown.Loose end.

Pieces of me fractured at their vocabulary.

My knees trembled, but I backed silently away, tray forgotten. Wrapping my sweater tighter, I slipped down the hall, each step heavier than the last.

They didn’t see me.

But they were talking about me—like I was a variable to be measured. Not a person. Not even a patient.

I ducked into the hall leading to the elevator, breath stuttering.

And all I could think was: All of them know.

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

#love and deepspace #love and deep space #lads sylus #prose #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads caleb #lads xavier #faithlyn writes #lads #loveanddeepspace

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tiktowafel · 1 year ago

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do you ever think about how all you used to draw when you were 10 was ponies and that you should still know how to do that, then get an idea and proceed to draw something like these in nearly one sitting and it turns out better than any drawing you've done in the entire past month

sooo anyway does anyone have cutie mark or pony name ideas for them?? lol

#(the b girl lineups are older than a month because i procrastinated a lot on doing minor fixes. nothing i drew in the month of june 2024 #is really worth showing it's all shitty doodles lmao)#bnha #class 1b #mlp #?#yui kodai #setsuna tokage #itsuka kendo #ibara shiozaki #(i love how she came out in particular! creature :3)#reiko yanagi #tikto's art #you may be wondering why pony of all people isn't here.#i did draw her! but i kind of ran out of steam so i ended up not really liking the result lol same for kinoko #anyway shoutout to elementary school me i was SO obsessed with mlp. brony stuff was one of the first things i used the internet for #and you know what. i wouldn't say it ruined me it was a pleasant experience #i just read what was basically a polish version of equestria daily and constantly checked the deviantart profile of one (1) specific artist #that i liked a lot #i did watch some weird speedpaints (yknow the horror ones) but i honestly dont remember being very bothered by them i just liked the art #i was just chilling there lurking and never actively participating due to being 10 and afraid of online strangers (good for me tbh)#i remember having an identity crisis though because can i really call myself a brony if i'm a little girl? the target audience of the show?#lmao anyway i would also draw ponies constantly and write oc fanfics (and the ocs were actually my irl friends ponified)#and i even had my own little g5 concept. good times good times #tag story time over god bless enjoy your day

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maliciousalice · 8 months ago

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Hear me out (or don't... it's fine I'm just venting and mean) yeah um I don't believe Chakotay was saved in Prod*gy s2.

#the 'time travel' makes no sense when you think on it. What happened to Prime Chakotay? He got killed they showed that.#At the end s1 Janeway finds an 'alternate chakotay in an alternate timeline' and that's the one they go and get #we saw the original get merc'd in the message. That ACTUALLY happened. Lmao.....#They didn't prevent THAT death because they didn't go to THAT Solum with the Infinity and stop it from happening #instead it was 'ALTERNATE #' implying other.#OG Chakotay wasn't taken over by the alternative one either nothing suggests that was the direction for him in s2 #they didn't do anything like 'well you see chakotay because at the end of s2 when we converged timestreams you have merged with your other'#if they did want to recover the original from s1 then keep that clear instead of being convoluted dont use an alternate timeline wtf #instead the plot was focused on gywns stupid fucking paradox plot and her being fixed #chakotay was the one in a paradox too did that not matter nah dw about it he had to die for this outcome or someshit lmao why #In the extended message given to admiral janeway it shows him clearly getting left behind and surrounded. Sadly no one intervened.#I dont understand why they couldnt have just made s2 about his rescue alone IF they took their time it wouldnt be so difficult #to follow #above that the one they rescued was ruined by the 10 year gap so he wasn't 'saved' at all. God i hate s2 when you break it apart #I dunno the more i look at s2 Janeway and Chakotay the more upsetting it is. Janeway would NOT have settled for an imposter.#everyone going goo-goo gaa gaa over s2 but it's sloppy af imo and undermines a huge portion voyagers struggles #id really like them to flatly lay out their ideas because literally nothing ive heard explains the story or choices of s2 with conviction #instead it's oh clap for wesley or the new vulcan and other references yay #describe to me your timetravel clearly and i'll happily take a seat on it (there is still other crap stuff mind you)#this is the most repressed shit i my head i swear #im angry because s1 is so clearly mapped out to a brilliant degree and for whatever reason it's not in s2 #i can see through it #insultingly people are eating it up and claiming it's better than ever nah dawg embarrassing #there are nice ideas inside s2 but they arent adequately rewarded #it doesnt compare to the timetravel in other trek because they kept it clear #i mean it could have been an interesting parallel to endgame but in the end janeway didnt even rescue him lmao they dropped her #why bother building up this mission only for her to give up and go 'i'll hand it over because im told to'. Janeway had fuck all this season #let alone settle for not fixing her own timeline and her own friends deadly circumstance dw just grab another one from the shelf i guess #the emotional fallout was absolutely missed because they didnt elaborate on anything. Plenty of show but no substance from the characters

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rosesradio · 3 months ago

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#i genuinely don’t want to do this anymore #i’m so so tired and drained emotionally and just so over it #everyone in my life who’s ever pretended to put up with me or like me just wanted something from me #money or emotional support (with none in return) or sex. fuck fucking sex and fuck playing therapist #there are no good people that exist out there for me. i can’t get my hopes up. i don’t deserve it.#i’ve always been different and there’s no fixing it #no making people like me with no ulterior motives #i just want friends that love and appreciate me and a partner who loves me before the promise of sex #(the fact that i’m a virgin makes this post even more disjointed and sad)#i just feel like i’m working towards…nothing. grad school jobs fucking around in this shithole economy #what is it for??#i mean sure i like to write and i like my little tv shows but at the end of the day it’s the romanticized—#friendships and relationships that i enjoy. and if i can’t have that in real life i just feel delusional #i have to sleep for work in the morning and i just. don’t even see the point. fuck everyone #if anyone wants to say something nice that’s fine & appreciated & all but just don’t ask if i wanna talk about it i really really don’t #just waiting for this wave of crushing reality to pass before going back to the delusion that i may be loved—#with no ulterior motive by supposedly flawless people #rose.txt #tw vent

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iridescentoracle · 2 years ago

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Hello! I am here to ask about your Dior headcanons re: the political cohesion of Doriath. 👀

Oh man, I didn't expect anyone to actually take me up on that!

(Okay so I got partway into writing this and then realized I should probably note up front that I tend to stick to the Silm (& LOTR/the Hobbit where applicable, but they... aren't, here) as the most authoritative version of canon, and I can get into why and where the nuances/exceptions are there (I do say tend to stick, it's not hard and fast!), but that's mostly a side note here: the point is simply that I don't really factor other drafts or the poetic Leithian into my take on Doriath, Thingol, Dior, etc, just what we're told in the actual Silm. I also read the Silm as an in-universe history text compiled by in-universe scholars, who, being people, are going to have their own biases and blind spots, even when they're doing their best to be accurate!)

So, this is a two-part thing: #1, there's the political cohesion of Doriath before & at the time of Thingol's death, which i talked about in the tags of the post that prompted this ask but is kind of necessary as context for the Dior part to make sense, and #2, there's the actual Dior headcanons. Both of these parts are very long because I've never really seen anyone else suggest any of this stuff and I want to explain where I'm coming from thoroughly enough that it actually makes sense to people who aren't me, but the TL;DRs:

TL;DR 1: I think Doriath was probably a hot mess politically after Thingol died, with tensions between various groups of Sindar and Laiquendi in the leadup to Thingol's death & Melian's departure, and more political tensions afterwards between those who wanted Beren & Lúthien to come be the new rulers, and those who thought they should stay gone, with someone still in Doriath taking over.

TL;DR 2: I think Dior became Eluchil, potentially at the request of some portion of the Iathrim, hoping to help prevent Doriath from devolving into civil war, and saw dealing with the Silmaril-Fëanorioni situation as a lower priority than stabilizing Doriath's internal political situation until it was too late.

1. The political cohesion (or rather, lack thereof) in Doriath prior to Thingol's death

So, okay, the thing about Doriath is that we don't actually have any real idea of like... how much the Iathrim liked being the Iathrim? We're never told about any intra-Iathrim conflict, but a) the Silm was probably compiled mostly by surviving Gondolindrim or their descendants, so they wouldn't know about anything liike that unless surviving Iathrim told them, and after the Second Kinslaying I don't imagine many Iathrim would've been eager to talk about how things had actually been tense/messy/etc when they could remember everything as having been perfect until it was ruined by the Fëanorionrim, and doubly so after the Third Kinslaying, so why would anything like that make it into the Silm?

and b) what we do know about Doriath is that it wasn't really Doriath as we know it until Morgoth came back to Middle-earth, and everything went to hell.

At the start of the first age, you suddenly get Doriath (the fenced land!) being the one protected area of a continent that used to be totally free and open. How many Sindar actually didn't particularly care for Thingol's style of leadership, or simply preferred to live nomadic lives, going basically wherever they pleased, until suddenly that wasn't safe anymore, and you were only guaranteed survival if you were close enough to Menegroth to be within the Girdle when it went up? ditto how many Laiquendi had no interest in swearing loyalty to Thingol right after their own king had just been killed, but again, made it to safety and stayed there over taking their chances on their own in the outside world? (None of this is meant as any insult to Thingol himself, by the way; he can have been a good king who did his best for his people and still rubbed some of his new subjects-by-necessity the wrong way, through no fault of his own or theirs.)

I think it's entirely possible that there were always potential political tensions under the surface in Doriath that just... never got written about, because they never boiled over into actual political conflict, and so it was never the sort of tension that had any bearing on the historical record.

Except then Beren & Lúthien happen to the world, and a few years later the Narn, and in the blink of an eye suddenly the only king Doriath has ever had is dead, and the only queen Doriath has ever had is gone and the Girdle with her—and more than that, the only rulers the Sindar had ever had for three thousand years before Doriath existed.

And where a few years earlier I think the Iathrim would probably have turned pretty universally to Lúthien, now she's abandoned them for her human husband—and while she's my favorite character in the entire legendarium hands-down and I don't blame her, I think that's another place there might have actually been some very mixed feelings among the Iathrim that nobody wanted to admit to later because how could anyone have been upset with Lúthien—and on top of her abandoning them for him, I think it's extremely probable most of Doriath did not actually get over their xenophobia about humans in general or Beren in specific when Thingol did (we know for sure at least some of Doriath didn't, cf. Saeros insulting Túrin's mother & sister to his face), but again, who's going to admit to having had a grudge against the holy couple of Middle-earth after the fact, you know?

Conversely, there could've been a sizeable faction of Sindar who had been totally loyal to Thingol until everything happened with Beren & Lúthien, but who found his actions towards them and/or Finrod to be where they drew the line, and while (unlike B&L themselves) that faction stayed in Doriath, there could've been a new, additional tension on that front.

Finally, for all we know there were multiple factions within the Laiquendi of Doriath, with political tensions stretching back to before their king died, rooted in who-even-knows!

2. Dior

All of that, of course, sets up a very, very messy political situation for Dior to walk into.

The Doriath stuff is arguably more speculation than actual headcanon, but here's where the unambiguous headcanons come in: I don't think "Dior Eluchil set himself to raise anew the glory of the kingdom of Doriath." Obviously that's how it got written down, but bluntly, I can't see Beren and Lúthien having a kid that stupid or, like, power-hungry and arrogant?

What I can see is a situation where the messenger that brought word of Thingol's death and Melian's departure asked Beren & Lúthien to come take over as the new king and queen, we promise we're not mad about you leaving and we won't be xenophobic to your husband anymore we swear it's fine now pretty please, Beren & Lúthien said no, and the messenger either asked Dior as a second choice, or said "okay fine none of that was actually true but Doriath is falling apart and we need a leader ASAP and there's about eight different contenders* (mostly kinsmen of Thingol or Laiquendi) being backed by various factions and it's going to devolve into civil war any minute so if you care at all—" and Dior said "would I do?"

(* Ask me about my Galadriel headcanon)

I don't think Dior necessarily wanted to be king of Doriath, and I don't think he saw the throne as his birthright or anything like that; I don't think anyone involved, from Thingol to Lúthien to Dior himself, ever considered the possibility of Thingol dying and needing an heir! I think it's possible he was asked, or at most that he offered, and either way, I think he saw becoming king as taking on a responsibility for the sake of others.

(Which, like, "well here's a potentially impossible task that I'm going to take up even though probably no one thinks I'm actually capable of it, but it's my duty to help others as best I can" sure does sound to me like an attitude one might develop when raised by Lúthien "I kicked Sauron's ass cast a sleep spell on Morgoth and persuaded the Valar to find a loophole in the fabric of reality" Tinuviel and Beren "I stayed by my father's side as an outlaw to give my mother time to lead the rest of our people away hopefully to safety knowing I would never see her or any of them again (and then spent several years being a giant thorn in Morgoth's side for good measure)" Barahirion, where "apparently my grandpa I may or may not have ever met died, guess that makes me the king of a place i may or may not have ever been" does... not.)

I also think he either took on the epithet Eluchil, or was given it by whichever factions of the Iathrim accepted him as king, when he actually became king. Obviously he's going to be referred to as Dior Eluchil even before that in retrospect because that's how he's thought of later, but that doesn't mean it was actually a name he always had, you know?

The final thing is, I think if Dior essentially walked into a political situation five seconds from devolving into civil war, it makes his inaction regarding the Silmaril prior to the Second Kinslaying make more sense: the Fëanorioni have been sitting around doing nothing about the Silmaril in Doriath / with Beren & Lúthien this whole time, the letter saying "hey that's our Silmaril give it back now" is probably just a formality, and Dior's only been ruling for a couple years, there's still plenty of people dubious about whether he should be king at all, he might well be subject to at least some of whatever xenophobia remains about humans in Doriath, and in general all the work he's done on stabilizing the kingdom will absolutely come undone again if he screws up; he's trying to keep a kingdom from falling apart, the Silmaril thing can wait.

Of course, it wasn't a formality, and it couldn't wait, but why would Dior have known that?

#shrikeseams #replies #doriath #the silmarillion #dior eluchil #lotr #lotr meta #i guess?#character: dior #jesus christ this is so much longer than i meant it to be i'm so sorry #also my lunch break was supposed to end twenty minutes ago WHOOPS please forgive any typos i have no time to fix #also there wasn't a good place to stick this in #but i also think everyone in doriath probably has PTSD about thingol's death #(many of them may also have had PTSD already esp the laiquendi or those of the sindar who had to return to menegroth in a hurry #when the first waves of orcs showed up #but anyone who didn't already almost definitely does by the time dior gets there #because holy shit our king is dead the girdle is gone none of us are safe now and he was murdered before the girdle even fell #so have we even been as safe as we thought all this time or were the last couple centuries a lie?)#but yeah those are my dior headcanons!! idk if that picture of doriath or dior in particular are to anyone's taste but mine #but if nothing else i like the idea of dior getting to be... an actual person? and someone i can see having been raised by beren & lúthien #and he doesn't really get to be either of those in the silm and i rarely see him in fanworks getting fleshed out like other characters do #and i think that's kind of a shame #you know?#also yes i am completely ignoring that dior's name theoretically means ''successor'' bc like. why would they name him that #that is from an early draft and there is no way to know if ''dior'' would even have stayed his name #if tolkien had gotten around to updating all the names in B&L/CoH etc into modern Sindarin #never mind if it would have meant anything remotely similar #this is mostly a first-draft post written in one sitting in the space of 45 minutes partially while late for work #i have Definitely left many points out and i am sorry if anyone has questions about things i probably have answers / can elaborate further?

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tojisteddy · 2 months ago

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Ruthless

or: Country!Simon catches you attempting to tag his property, of course he has to teach you a lesson.

cw: 3.6k words, 18+ mdni, Country!Simon, alt universe, no use of y/n, some plot with smut, dub-con, spanking, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, age gap (Simon 29, reader 23), primal play & reencounter (if you tilt your head), pet names (little girl, city broad, lucky), fingering, lite pussy pronouns, degradation, lucky!reader

a/n: a scrapped Drabble turned into a full story cause I love plot

part 2!!! <3

You were running like your life depended on it.

It was dumb for you to even attempt to tag the Riley barn to begin with.

You knew that, your friends knew that, anyone in town would’ve warned you otherwise.

It all started with a little end of college fun, wreck havoc like the good ole days. Nothing out the ordinary. Something that supposed to be a silly little prank, saying goodbye to college and hello to adulthood by spray paint and a little egging.

Was it a little too much for your liking? Yes.

Just plain rude and disgusting because at the end of the day, what exactly did Ghost do to deserve any of this? But peer pressure is a nasty, annoying, bitch. Regardless of age.

The Riley Ranch had been rumored as evil and haunted, the only people who really interacted with the land being other farmers. Even when Simon Riley, the last standing of the family, came to church (on the rarest occasions), people kept their distance. Afraid his families “bad” energy would spread over to them.

They called him Ghost.

There was a fire at the families home, started by Ghosts father who was always in a rage. Your father made sure your family stayed clear of him when you visited, he wasn’t too kind to quote, ‘big headed, posey, no good, city slickers.’ No one thought his rage would grow so large into trying to kill his whole family.

No one one besides Ghost made it out that night, there was rumored to be a large burn mark on his back to prove it.

You’d gotten found too fucking quick, “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” His voice booming on the highway road.

Simon Riley was blessed to have ears like an owl. Heard the car pull up and stop on his property, the rumbling of the engine— a beat passes— the car doors slamming shut and the far off hushed giggles. Nothing new, people had passed his property to spook whoever the hell they were with. Try to show how “evil spirits” ran rampant on his land, even if they were, he hadn’t ask for them to be there. But they’d never stop. They’d do it before.

They’d do it again.

But he heard that can of spray paint shake and his boots hit the floor before he even realized it.

Not the brown farmhouse gate he’d spent so long sanding down as a child with the help of his grandfather. Not the white ranch fence he’d spend so long getting together as soon as the land was properly handed to him and in his name, that’d he hand painted himself and fixed up the grass so people knew better than to drop any litter there.

No fucking way.

Your friends were already in the mustang you’d arrived in, those bastards, revving the engine and zooming off. You dropped the can, more spray getting on the grass fuck, fuck, fuck— your brown eyes slowly looked up, meeting a more than livid pair blue eyes.

You wanted to squeak out, ‘im sorry’ but where would there be room for that? Not in between the ranch fence that already had a squiggly line and crooked smiley face with black spray paint on it created by yours truly. There would absolutely be no room for an apology when his face was already screwed up, jaw clenching from underneath the bandana that hid his face, eyes narrowing into slits.

Well duh, babe. Move those feet!

And you did, turning at a 90 degree angle and sprinting like it was the end of the world. Ghost mumbled a ‘god damn it’, and ran right after you, his boot quickly meeting a carton of unopened eggs.

Oh you were definitely in for it now.

You ran through the Egyptian wheat, tall as the eye can see, green leaves scratching your arms and legs. You prayed to God there wasn’t any crazy animals hiding in there. You were panting, taking a quick glance behind you and you could only hear rustling of the large plants that surrounded you, feet hitting the floor.

Then you heard a distant yell in the field, “[+], you get back here!”

Well it wasn’t exactly the hardest to spot you out, you looked like your mother— who looked like her mother. You came from a family known for actually being good people, never hesitating to help or providing when need be. You’d met Mr. Riley a couple times in your 23 years of life. Quick instances that you vaguely remember. But you knew his face, and he knew yours.

Your mom had been one of the few good people making sure he was well taken care of when he was younger, she couldn’t raise him like she had wanted to with having to travel back and forth from the city for work as a children’s author. But she’d made sure he was taken care of in whatever home he was placed in, encouraged him to join the Boys and Girls club, something to ground him.

“Just needs someone to look after ‘em is all,” she’d ensisted while braiding your hair one night before heading to meet him at his group home, fingers weaving through your curls with purpose, you were around eight. “Some kids need a lil extra love, show ‘em someone’s there for ‘em. Simon’s one of those kids, so is your older brother, even though he’s a pain in my side at times. They’re all good in their core— their heart. It’s important to have someone nurture it. Gods called me to do that.”

Though, the relationship strained when the foster system let him go. “He’s just having boy troubles. Boys go through those weird hormones when they hit a certain age. Wants to prove ‘imself as a man. They get real hard headed [+]. He’ll get over it ‘nd pull through. He always does,” she’d say. So certain. Undoubting. Like a sixth sense.

And Simon did manage well enough, clearly, for him to have a proper farm for himself, one that was properly taken care of and thriving. You’d visited with your mom two years back. It was so clear to you now. Your mother practically smothering him in a hug when she got close enough. Simon was awkward at first, but accepted it. His eyes and whole body softing by her touch. She’d been family when no one else would be.

He looked towards you, you met a gorgeous shade of blue, long blonde lashes to match his short blonde hair, face with a few noticeable scars and half his face hidden under a black bandana. You were standing a ways off so you couldn’t hear what he or your mother was saying, but you saw him nod toward you. Your mother saying something and him nodding in response. She waved you over,

“[+] you know Simon— I mean, Mr. Riley since you’re a grown man now, ain’t that right.” She laughed.

“Whatever you want ma’am.” He looks down at you and extends his hand. You take it, butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and give it a firm shake.

“Good seein you.” It wasn’t just words, he was sincere, caring. Like seeing an old friend.

You nodded, “ ‘S good seeing you too.”

He showed you the farm after that in his truck. The big house that was farther toward the woods, properly fixed after the fire a decade ago, the Egyptian wheat field, the horses and chickens and the new blue barn he was building to accommodate them, the horse training area used to break in horses no one else would. It was a lot of land, a lot of work, but you could tell by the sound of his husk voice, he was proud of himself and the work he’d been able to accomplish. Even more happy when your mom praised him.

It finally clicked: that barn— and right on time, you’d caught sight of it. Not the one Mr. Riley had been fixing when you visited, the old one. Large and in charge that had old wood, and was definitely falling apart. But you made a bee line for it anyway.

What other option did you have?

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, nerves on a high because you didn’t even notice how close Ghost was to you before you ducked so he couldn’t grab you. Kicking his shin and dashing towards the barn that was bones.

“You damn brat! fuck me!” He cursed, hopping to ease the new pain on his leg before running right after you.

You undid the large wooden latch, sliding the doors open and immediately trying to slide them close. But his hand shot through the opening, a shiver runs down your spin.

Up the steps you went, the only place you could go, and Ghost was right on your heels, quick, almost silent— didn’t call him Ghost for no reason. You tripped and fell on a pile of hay and wild chickens went fluttering and clucking down to the barn floor, clouding your vision. Next thing you knew, Ghost finally caught you. His hands grabbed hold of both of your arms as you rolled around and thrashed underneath him.

“You fuckin asshole! Let me go!” You grunted, trying to kick your legs where the sun didn’t shine but completely missing when the older man closed your legs, gripping them together under your knees in his hands. He had you like a pig about to be roasted.

“You ruin my property but I’m the asshole?” The fucking audacity of you. “Gonna teach you a fuckin lesson cause clearly they don’t teach you city folk manners.”

With ease, Ghost sat himself down on one of the old hay bails, bringing you over his lap. He grunts, keeping you as still as you can, and then like thunder— his large calloused hand comes down to your plump ass, echoing in the empty barn.

“Mr. Riley!” You gasp, your head shoots up, eyes widening— there’s no way- was he giving you a spanking? The next one yanks you out of your thoughts, brutal, harsh, that makes you scream his name again, “Mr. Riley, that’s enough!” But he’s completely ignoring you.

“Spray painting my fences,” SMACK!

“Tryin to egg my house,” SMACK!

“‘Nd Ruinin my fuckin crops?!” SMACK!

“You’ve lost,” SMACK! “you’re damn,” SMACK! “mind! little girl!” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

You’re crying and whimpering, as his hand continues forming ripples in your ass. You’d gotten one singular whopping your whole life, from your grandma for breaking her good vase when she told you no ball throwing in the house. Life altering from one incident that made you into the goodest girl there ever was.

And then there’s this predicament, one that ripped your soul in two. One half fueled with hatred for doing something so crude— so audacious. And then the other that’s struggling to keep itself contained. one more hit that meets your tender bottom, one that hits you in a place you didn’t realize was boiling over— a smack to the ass that forces an egregious moan out of your trembling plump lips.

Simon stills, his eyes flicking over the state of you. You’re shaking, head down and legs finally not kicking. But he sees the way you try to hide yourself further into his lap, because you and he both know you just moaned because of a little whooping.

Oh— you're crazy.

You’d unknowingly created a fire and Simon would add lighter fluid to it.

He lifts the bottom of your short flower patterned dress, just to peak, you jump but still, your heart pounding even louder than it had before. And it’s a sight for the man to behold— your underwear soaked like the damn ocean. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to bring the hands down to hide the slick that was ever growing.

“D-don’t look.” You sniffle. Too damn cute.

But there’s a snicker, something that makes you look back at him and his eyes are shining with mischief, “My god, you’re a filthy lil thang, aren’t’chu?” It’s almost rhetorical, he’s not asking you, he’s asking your cunt. “Didn’t know you city broads were like that, learn somethin new every day, don’t you?”

You yelp when he yanks your underwear down to your knees, thrashing around once again, but Simon keeps you still. Your pretty pussys glistening as bright as sun on water, slick all over your fat second pair of lips. He brushes his fingers against them, sending shivers up your spine, you cant help but arch further into his touch.

You whine, “Mr. Riley-“

“—Shhhhh, gotta hear her,” he murmured, slowly slipping a finger in your drenched hole. Your pussys practically sputtering out with every thrust of his finger, slipping another one and coating it perfectly. He takes them out, sucking up the juices on his tongue that you’ve left on them, spitting down on your hole before stuffing his fingers back into you. He hums in satisfaction as you lose your mind, “such a fuckin slut, you just get this wet for anyone, don’t you?”

Your eyes reach the back of your head, breath hitching, “Nooo, I don’t- I wouldn’t!— ooh- agh- Mr. Riley!” your interrupting yourself with your own moans. Whatever anger you had before, folding into nothing.

He finally let’s go of your hands and you grip on to his leg, nails clawing at his jean cover thighs. Your stomach tightens running away as your orgasm builds but Simon follows, thrusting his fingers into your gummy walls even more, curving them to find your sweet spot with determination.

“Eaaasy now, don’t want to hurt you. Be good ‘nd cum. Know you want to, make a mess all over me darlin’.”

And that’s all it takes, with a twitch and a squeal, your cumming all over his hand. Simon thrusts his fingers a couple times, watching the wave of euphoria wash over you before sucking one of fingers clean, then bringing the other to your mouth.

“Come on, don’t be fuckin uppity, taste it lil girl” he tsked, you take the middle finger in your mouth, tasting your own arousol, swirling your tongue around it. Slowly pulling your head back with a ‘pop.’ It all goes straight to the blondes aching dick.

You hear it, the unbuckling of his belt, your stomach touching the tint that had built because of you. your mind finally snaps out of the trance he’s got you in. You barley manage to get out of his lap, scrambling through the hay, tripping over your underwear, on your as knees. Giving Simon the perfect view of your tender ass and the slick that’s dripping down to your thigh before you turn when you meet a wall. Pushing yourself into it.

“We- shit- someone- someone’ll come!” You ramble out, panting, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm. Your eyes avert to anything in this barn besides the man infront of you. But he made his way over to you, slow, stalking. And once he’s on his knees and hovering above you, he springs his cock from from his boxers. The blonde is hung, large and girthy, his tip strawberry red and leaking pre cum.

He bends down, sliding his fat cock between your wet folds, and then smacking his tip on your clit creating a plap, plap, plap. You can’t help but whimper at the sensation.

“You want it don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, taunting you, goosebumps wave over your skin. “Don’t want me all the way,” he traces over your belly, and then pokes right where your uterus is, “up here, hm?”

“Don’t want me to make you feel good pretty girl? Don’t wanna feel it once?”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s pulsing through you, the way he’s looking down on you like you’re pathetic, dick crazed maniac. And maybe that’s exactly what you are, just once— you just want feel him stir your guts just. this. once.

“I do.”

And your soft voice is just enough for the brute to yank your legs open, Simon throwing your legs over his forearms and spreading your pretty hole open with just the tip. The man starts bullying himself inside the tightness of your pink walls.

He’s big. He’s too big. You hiccup, shoving at his shoulder while he’s splitting you in half, “Mr.Riley, ‘s so much! hicc- can’t. I can’t.”

He croons, slowly thrust more and more of his veiny length into you. “Come oooon city broad, thought you could take it? Don’t go runnin. Been runnin from me alllll this time little girl.”

“Bet you won’t do no shit like that again, ruining my damn property,” Simon hissed, smacking down your clit a few times. “Gonna fuck that nonsense outta that lil brain ‘f yours.”

“I won’t! I promise! Mmmph- I’ll be good! S-so good just for you. Always for you.” You mewled, one hands clawing at the wall behind you and other hand at his shoulder. He finally feels it, his cock reaching the very hilt of you, balls smacking your ass crack. The damn obscene sounds your syrupy pussy is making to keep him inside you, and his tip giving your cervix the messiest and he’s sure, the first kiss it’s ever received.

A baby.

You’d look so fucking sexy, being all plump with his fucking baby. He pushes your thighs back to you head further, jackhammering into your heat rough and mean.

“Five,” he mumbles, groping at one of your tits in his hand. Squeezing and kneading it like a vice.

“Wha-“

“You’ll give me five ‘f ‘em, won’t’cha? Make me a daddy.”

He’s talking nonsense, partially. Simon wasn’t dead set on five, he’d wanted a baseball team but he’d settle for whatever you wanted. One would do if it caused you too much strain. He’d take care of you and the baby, buy you whatever you asked for, have you sat on that back porch, in a rocking chair. Your hand on your full belly, watching him as he worked all lovingly.

Simon breath hitches, rolling his hips into yours with a grunt, fucking drunk at the thought of it. The thought of you, all while your pussy was squeezing on him like you were reading his fucking mind.

“C-christ almighty, I got lucky with you huh? A snug lil cunt like this deserves to be up filled up with my cum.”

You still couldn’t believe it, thee Simon Ghost Riley, was with you in this old barn fucking your brains out like you were fucking Eve in that damn garden, on top of a pile of hay. Both of you letting out moans and groans like animals that you’re sure anyone who stepped foot on property would be able to hear. It’s hot, and sweat is forming on both of your foreheads, your skin is sticky. Simon’s big balls hitting your ass every punch of his tip into you G Spot. both of your eyes hazy, stupid off the other getting off.

“Feel so gooood M-Mr. Riley! So much!” You keen, reach for the bandana hiding his face. He always pushes your hand away but then he remembers what you’re about to be— his lover, his wife— the mother of hic children.

“Mamma’s gotta know the face of ‘er children’s daddy right? pull it off.” And you do, tugging it. And god, maybe this whole ordeal got you lucky.

So damn pretty. A scar on his nose, another one at the end of his pink lips, blonde strands swaying everytime he ruts into you, “Mr. Riley’s sooo pretty,” you slur, talking to him like it’s some secret. You’re lucid in his cock, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure while you stomach coils up.

“Uh-uh, eyes on me city broad, look at me!” He squeezes your cheeks together, planting a fat kiss on your smooshed lips. He snaps his hips forward, and your head would’ve hit the wall from how good you feel. But Simons still got your pretty face in his hands.

“Gonna have ya allll bare foot ‘nd pregnant, waddlin yer cute ass ‘round here with a ring on that finger.” He’s telling you, as if this is already happened and he’s seein it with his own eyes. All you can do is moan at his words. You can’t even form a sentence at this point. Just nodding your ditzy little head while he gives you his dick.

“Gonna be a pretty fuckin mamma too, fu- shit baby, your pretty tits all full with milk for our kin— damn, you love the sound ‘f that dontcha? You can deny it all ya wont, but she’s achin for it.”

God, you are. She is too. You didn’t even know how greedy your pussy was being as he pistoned in and out of you, “Gonna— gonna cum, fuck I’m gonna-“

“-Yeah, thaaat’s it lucky, come all over your husbands cock.”

All you can utter is a ‘s-shit’ when your orgasm smacks you, your toes curling in your converses, thighs shaking in Simons hold.

The blonde gets you in a headlock, smooshing you down into the floor further, brushing your curls with hay out of your gorgeous face. rutting into you as your walls clamp onto him, begging for his all milk he’s able to give you.

Simon growls, and the strings of cum fill your womb. Your clammy bodies are still stuck together as he rocks the last bit of cum into. Mumbling while kissing your neck, “take it lucky it’s all yours. Gotta keep you nice ‘nd full if you’re gonna get pregnant.”

It’s quiet finally. The barn itself is old and creaks but you can hear the chickens right down the steps clucking, the cicadas chirping, the breeze passing through the trees. The only think you hear are his and your pants,

Simon scoops you up in his arms, adjusting your dress to cover the mess he’s created thats dripping down on that barn floor with every steps he takes.

“Mr. Riley, where are we- where are we going?” You hiccup, gripping onto his shirt. All you can look at is him, a little in shock, a little blissed out. The only thing your able to focus on is the handsome man holding you against his chest. The way his heart pounds louder as he looks down at you.

“To the house. It just won’t take after one go.”

a/n: a draft that’s sitting since last month. Luv you bubs. Can’t wait to write more country!simon

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megumismyhusband · 4 months ago

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“how long was the bet supposed to last?”

rin freezes.

your voice is calm. too calm. the kind of calm that feels unnatural, like the quiet before a storm. but there’s no storm in your face—no anger, no hurt, nothing at all. just an empty, unreadable expression that makes his stomach churn.

“who told you?” his voice comes out rough, forced.

you shrug, like it doesn’t even matter. like he doesn’t even matter. “does it make a difference?”

it doesn’t. he knows that. he also knows that this is bad. really bad.

“was it a week? a month?” you tilt your head slightly, staring him down. “or were you just gonna keep going until you got bored?”

his jaw tightens. “it wasn’t like that.”

“really?” you let out a breathy laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “because from where i’m standing, it kinda seems like it was.”

rin clenches his fists, frustration curling in his chest. frustration at himself, at shidou, at the whole stupid situation that never should’ve happened in the first place.

“you weren’t a joke to me,” he says, voice low.

“that’s funny,” you murmur. “because i kinda feel like one.”

he wants to fix this. to reach out, to grab your wrist, to tell you the truth—how the bet stopped meaning anything the second he got to know you, how he tried to find the right moment to come clean but was too much of a coward to risk losing you.

but he waits too long.

“say something, rin,” you say quietly. “anything.”

he opens his mouth. closes it. because nothing he says right now will be enough.

so you nod, like you expected this, like you already knew how this would end.

“got it.”

and then you walk away.

rin lets you. because what else can he do?

—

the next day, your favorite drink is waiting on your desk.

you don’t touch it.

the day after, rin is standing by your locker, holding out your books.

“you don’t have to do this,” you mutter, not even looking at him.

“i know.” but he still shoves them into your arms before walking away.

the day after that, he shows up at practice late because he spent an hour in line getting that stupid pastry you like.

“you think buying me stuff is gonna fix this?” you ask, raising a brow.

“no.” he stares at the bag in your hands. “but i know you like them, so just take it.”

you sigh, but you don’t give it back.

on friday, he carries your bag before you can complain, waits for you after school even though you ignore him the whole walk home, and when you finally snap and ask what the hell he’s doing, he just says, “making it up to you.”

saturday morning, you open your door to find him standing there, hair messy, dark circles under his eyes, holding a stupidly large bag of snacks.

“seriously?” you cross your arms. “you’re still on this?”

“yeah.”

“why?”

he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “because i’m not giving up on you.”

you blink, caught off guard by how sure he sounds. how raw he looks.

he looks tired. frustrated. desperate.

like this actually means something to him. like you actually mean something to him.

you chew on your lip, eyes flicking between him and the bag in his hands.

“…you got my favorites?”

“obviously.”

“did you get the right drink this time?”

he exhales, shoving it into your hands. “yes.”

you stare at it for a moment. then sigh, stepping aside.

“fine. come in before you start looking even more pathetic.”

rin doesn’t need to be told twice. he steps inside, and for the first time all week, his chest feels a little lighter.

he still has a long way to go, he knows that. but if you’re letting him in, even just a little, then maybe, just maybe, he still has a chance to prove that this was never just a bet to him.

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ssa-dado · 1 month ago

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Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

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The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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