#this might be the last one i do for the night

[gojosoups]

cw: yandere!Gojo, revolutionist!Gojo, royalty au, mentions of sexual relationships, unhealthy behavior, manipulation/coercion, blood, death, abuse of power, gaslighting, toxic relationships, possessiveness, and jealousy. not proofread lol

a/n: I had this idea come to mind when I was cleaning lol, might make this into a mini series, like 4-5 chapters? this was in my drafts for a while, but it went through some VERYY heavy editing

a/n 2: imma kms and everyone for not telling me I spelt coronation as coordination 😭😭😭

Gojo Satoru who's been obsessed with you since childhood, the kingdom's beloved princess and heir in line for the throne. Betrothed to another, a man of the neighbouring kingdom for the sake of diplomacy,

Gojo Satoru—your shadow, your other half—your best friend since childhood, trusted with your life by your parents. Gojo Satoru, a mere servant, and yet he was entirely yours to serve.

The years passed, and what was once an innocent friendship blossomed into something more. Childhood years that were spent in the same bed, throwing sleepovers and tossing feather pillows at each other were now spent with longing glances, shared whispers, and stolen touches beneath the very same sheets.

But of course, no one could know.

The King and Queen would never allow it—their pride and joy, the heir to the throne—lusting after a mere servant? Unbelievable. After all, you were a princess, meant for greatness, beyond whatever a mere palace worker could offer you.

And yet, behind closed doors, your secret was kept safe.

Behind closed doors—you were his. Each day began in his arms, and each night was spent in his arms.

In the eyes of the court, both of you kept up the act.  

Gojo who kept you busy during galas, an arm wrapped around your waist, guiding you towards the ballroom, away from the prying eyes and hands of the men. Meanwhile you, just as possessive of your lover, who kept the female servants busy and as far away from him, because even if he were a mere servant, he certainly was a sight for sore eyes across kingdoms. 

Of course, this secret would not last forever. 

Not when the king and queen, bless their old souls and frail bones, had dreams of grandchildren running around the floral grounds of the palace. Not when they announced your coronation and engagement in front of the whole kingdom. 

While the kingdom rejoiced, streets bustling with excitement as preparations began, that night, you wept in the arms of your lover, crying for your untold future as he held you close. Sobbing into his chest, gripping onto him like he was the only thing you knew. He held you tighter, soothing you and whispering sweet promises in your ear. 

Promises he intended to keep. He would never let you go.

Overnight, the kingdom was taken down.

Your so-called in-laws never made it past the palace gates. Their carriages left abandoned at the border, the once-pristine gold and polished wood torn down. And not a single soul in sight—only a trail of blood leading into the depths of the wood. Yet no one said anything.

Not when the crown was placed atop Gojo Satoru’s head. Not when he took his rightful place on the throne and the kingdom could only bow.

Your parents—silenced with a mere look—could only watch as they were exiled, sent far away from the imperial palace, and kept under his watchful eye. 

After all, how could they object? 

He gave them everything they wanted. 

A kingdom. A legacy. And above all, an heir with eyes as blue as his. 

And he would never let them—or anyone—take you away from him again.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[valeriapryanikova]

ominous

(itsy-bitsy fanfic concept/idea/? under the cut)

[A page ripped out of a journal; the owner’s handwriting is messy and barely legible.] 

february, 29th

i'm surprised i'm not dead now.

yesterday, in the late evening, as i was painting, it started storming. suddenly and hard. one second the dark sky is clear from any clouds, and the next moment the droplets are pelting me with a surprising force. i rapidly abandoned my easel and canvas (not like there would be anything lost—the piece was dull and not working out the way i desired) in favor of seeking cover.

i was still near the village, on its outskirts, but just a bit too far from my house to reach it quickly before my whole being was drenched through and through. so i ducked into one of the huts, all of which stand empty, desolate… or so i thought, at least.

only once inside did i spot the dim, ominous, red glow of the overhead lamp; the sound of a muted conversation; the overwhelming sense of “wrong���, like i was not meant to be here. abruptly silence fell and two sets of bright eyes stared me down.

terror froze my body. i felt like a prey caught in between two predators, i could practically feel their jaws snapping around my neck.

the dredger slowly smirked at me, barring her sharp, sharp teeth. (since when are they sharp? i may not have crossed path with her often, but i swear i would’ve noticed if she had shark teeth before.) i did not stay to see if the fisherman would further react to my presence too. the control of my body returned, allowing me to let out a panicked apology for interruption and bolt out of the hut, running home at full speed.

it’s been hours since then. i couldn’t fall asleep. i’ve been up the whole night, haunted by fear. the scene of those two beasts in the darkness, ready to snap me like a twig for overhearing something (i don’t remember what exactly, all the horror of the situation evaporated all my thoughts), got stuck in my mind’s eyes. so i’ve been doing what i know how to do best—painting.

[Attached to the diary entry is a typewritten note.] 

That painter fellow is an impressionable and imaginative type. Needless to say, the actual interaction with the two fish merchants was likely a lot less… Dramatic.

The painter was reluctant to show me the painting mentioned in the last paragraph, but after some convincing I did manage to take a quick look on their recollection of the witnessed scene: it seems mostly useless for my research, but I noted down some details that might be of use in the future (refer to “AudioLog#143” transcript for more information).

Collecting data on “The Fisherman” continues to prove itself annoying. The subject is allusive: there’s not many sources mentioning him, and folk around here rarely witness him out and about. Currently the only lead I have is finding that one old newspaper article about the docks that, if I recall correctly, mentions him in an interview with workers. Perhaps, when I have time, I’ll try asking the collector from the other side of the river if he has a copy of that newspaper issue.

However, for now, I’m significantly more interested in “The Dredger” subject. There’s more than plenty info about her—I would actually say there’s too much info about her, all inconveniently inconsistent. In an attempt to get more reliable data I’m getting in contact with Mined since they have done scientific observation of this area and the people of interest. My request for access to their data has gone unanswered so far and, if shoving my anthropology degree in the faces of those bumbling idiots won’t work, I’m sure that that city nearby has enough hackers willing to do some dirty work for a pretty diamond.

I will get the data I want, one way or another.

[ssa-dado]

Cat Equals Sign Of Integration

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: fluff, smut (implied) Summary: Aaron, ever the strategist, decides that a little wine might help soften the blow of figuring out with you how to tell the team you’re dating. A solid plan - except for one tiny flaw: wine makes him a whore. Warnings: +18, MINORS DNI Hotch is a touch starved whore, a few cuss words here and there, wine gets a bit into both of your heads. Word Count: 5k Dado's Corner: Did I hallucinate this while working on one of the many requests still on my to-do list, only to realize halfway through that it was completely derailing from the main plot - but too cute to abandon? Yes. Is this fun? You tell me (pretty please).

masterlist(s)

One of the many rules you and Aaron had in your relationship was that if you cooked for date night, he was the one doing the dishes.

His idea.

You had been opposed to it at first - not because you minded, of course. You were actually a huge fan of grown men handling household chores without whining like toddlers about how it might somehow demasculate their poor, fragile egos.

No, you were opposed because you didn’t want him doing it out of some sense of obligation.

It took you a while to accept that Aaron wasn’t doing this because he owed you - he was doing it because he wanted to.

Because that was just… Aaron.

Ever the caregiver, always looking for ways to make life easier for the people he loved. He could give you the world and still come to you like a wounded dog, begging for forgiveness because he thought he wasn’t enough.

It was infuriating - for all the deep psychological reasons you could analyze for hours, but also for a much pettier one: when it was his turn to cook, instead of letting you do the dishes like the so-called rule dictated, he just… did them anyway.

And thus, the noble Mr. Clean - brave warrior of dish duty, his arms submerged in treacherous, frothy depths - found himself utterly helpless against the sudden, most dreadful buzzing of his phone.

A cruel twist of fate, indeed!

Stranded, defenseless, bound by duty to his porcelain captors, he could do nothing but stand there, a tragic figure of great importance, cruelly denied his right to immediately bestow his undivided attention upon whatever poor soul dared summon him.

Oh, the agony! The injustice! How swiftly the mighty are humbled… by a sink full of bubbles.

That was because, logically, if even a single drop of water touched his phone, he would instantly lose all of the very important, highly classified FBI secrets stored inside. Of course, phones couldn't possibly be waterproof.

Ha, imagine?! What a concept.

“Who is it?” Aaron asked, still scrubbing at your wine glass like he was trying to erase its entire existence.

Which – by the way - was completely pointless, considering that in less than five minutes, he planned on refilling it with some more. A different wine, yes. But for God’s sake, you weren’t going to die if the last few drops of white mixed with the red.

…What a fussy man.

“Penelope,” you replied, admiring the view.

What a view, really. That man was all legs and no ass, and you were finally learning to appreciate it. 

“Ignore it,” he said, not even turning around.

Unfortunately for him - and for the HR department still blissfully unaware that their most serious, by-the-book boss was fraternizing with a subordinate - you were a profiler.

The U.S. government literally paid your bills every single month because you were exceptionally good at reading people.

And the way he answered? Yeah, that wasn’t the tone of a man casually dismissing an unimportant text. No, that was the tone of a man caught red-handed, scrambling for plausible deniability.

Embarrassed. Secretive. Suspicious. Frankly, if you didn’t already know what he was hiding, you’d be halfway to slapping cuffs on him. Wouldn’t even be the first time.

And so you read it – out loud.

Penelope Garcia, 7:56 PM:

hotch sir hotch bossman sir, i am DYING please tell me if you found out who her mystery boyfriend is i am suffering!!!!!!!! i know you know. i know it in my heart. if you can’t say it just give me a hint. a tiny one. a cryptic riddle. a blink. i will take anything.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

By her, of course, she meant you - because despite a few months of keeping your relationship under wraps, you still hadn’t gotten around to telling the team. Your colleagues. Your friends. Your unwanted, overly nosy adopted children.

That their elusive "mystery boyfriend" was, in fact, your mutual boss.

You were going to tell them. Eventually.

Didn’t know when. But you would.

Then again, it wasn’t like you were surrounded by some of the best profilers in the country, trained to pick up on the slightest behavioral shift.

It’s not like the second two incredibly touch-starved people like you and Aaron started walking around with even a fraction of happiness, that wouldn’t immediately raise suspicions.

…Except, apparently, it hadn’t.

Because somehow, the team had only managed to land on half the conclusion: you were seeing someone.

But Aaron? Not even a blip on their radar.

It was almost impressive, really. The answer was so obvious that they had discarded it entirely, still wandering around in the dark, trying to piece together a puzzle that was sitting right in front of their faces.

Just like Penelope was doing now, so desperate for some reason that she was straight-up asking him outright - when not that long ago, she still thought twice before even making a dirty joke in his presence.

And so, you got up, walked over to Aaron, and held the phone directly under his nose. “What does this mean?”

He squinted at the screen, then at you. “Oh, honey, I don’t know. She always sends me that - I don’t understand what exactly equals the sign of integration”.

…What?

You were suddenly just as confused as he was.

He blinked at you, eyes wide, eyebrows raised in that utterly sincere, slightly bewildered way of his. “That sign before it,” he said, completely lost. “It looks Chinese. Thought you knew Chinese, sweetheart.”

…What?

Oh, for the love of God.

If this man hadn’t already seen the absolute worst horrors the world had to offer, you would fight for his innocence with your nails, your teeth, and - if absolutely necessary - one of the worst shooting records ever logged in the Bureau.

You looked at the screen again.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

Oh.

Oh, that’s what had confused him.

“Aaron,” you said gently, doing your absolute best not to kiss him right then and there, “that is a cat.”

You sighed, then pointed at the message again. “By the way, the ‘sign’ in the middle is in Korean, not Chinese.”

He looked at the screen again - then back at you. “…Cat equals sign of integration?”

“No, honey,” you said, barely suppressing your smile, tapping the little text emoji. “It’s just a cat.”

He studied it for another second. “Oh.”

There. That did it. You gave in. Leaned in and pressed a loud smooch to his cheek.

At least your dignity was still intact - he had no idea why you’d done it, just assumed it was one of those spontaneous bursts of affection that came with being hopelessly in love.

Honeymoon phase truly did work wonders.

���Do you think I can have the cat too?” he asked, grabbing the bottle of red and a corkscrew.

That was a trap.

Because Aaron Hotchner still signed every single text he sent.

And while it wasn’t an issue when he was sending something standard -

Lawyer, 6:17 PM:

They found a new body, we’re gathering at the precinct in 30.

A.H.

- it became a lot more unsettling when he sent the filthiest, most depraved things you’d ever read, only to end them with that stiff little A.H. like he was dictating official Bureau correspondence.

Lawyer, 11:51 PM:

Sweetheart, if only these stupid walls weren’t so thin, I’d have you right here with me, bent over, face pressed against this mattress, making you come so many times you’d forget your own name. At least three. Maybe four, if I’m feeling generous.

A.H.

So now, standing in his kitchen, watching him pour wine like he hadn’t just permanently scarred you with his painfully bureaucratic approach to sexting, you knew that if you admitted he could simply copy-paste that ‘cat equals integration sign,’ it would only be a matter of time before you were subjected to something truly traumatizing, like -

Lawyer, very-late-office-hour PM:

It’s your fault I’m getting distracted with the paperwork, because I’m still thinking about how good you tasted last night while sitting on my face. God, I can still feel your thighs shaking, you were so sweet for me, honey, so fucking perfect.

P.S. How many reports do you still have left? Because I’ve been thinking about having you on my tongue again before the night is over. I think I’ve got about an hour or so left but then I’m all yours.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

Yeah. No. Absolutely not.

That man could not be trusted with the cat.

“Oh, honey,” you cooed, pressing a soft kiss between his shoulder blades as your fingers brushed over his back. “I don’t think you can get it. She must have programmed it herself into her phone.”

You truly hoped you were as convincing as he was clueless about text etiquette.

“It’s a pity,” he sighed, both of your wine glasses in hand as he made his way to the couch. “I would have loved to send you the cat.”

…Of course he would. Smug ass.

But as the words left his mouth, something shifted in him - just barely. A pause that didn’t usually belong there... weird.

Still, you followed, watching as he settled in, patting the cushion beside him with a half-smile. “Come here, sweetheart.”

A misleading gesture, considering his legs were very much spread - a much clearer invitation. At least, that’s how you chose to interpret it.

Because you could swear - those legs spoke to you. Called to you. So you slid right into your rightful seat - his lap.

…Would have been rude not to answer.

��Back to Garcia,” he said, resting a hand on your thigh as he handed you your painstakingly polished wine glass - so clean, so immaculately spotless, that the red wine inside looked redder than red. A real masterpiece, Mr. Clean. “She doesn’t seem to be letting up about finding out who you’re dating… This is the fourth message this week.”

You raised a brow, taking a sip of your wine. “Well, she’s second only to you when it comes to being nosy about gossip.”

Aaron exhaled, shaking his head, that same small half-smile back on his lips.

That particular smile.

The one he used when he was trying to convince someone he was fine when, in reality, he was not - when he was trying to reassure everyone else while simultaneously refusing to admit, even to himself, that something was eating him alive.

Oh, now you knew what this was about.

He had definitely practiced this conversation in his head - refined it down to the perfect phrasing. Measured. Logical. Reassuring.

A version so well-rehearsed, so carefully constructed, that he’d convinced himself first before trying to convince you - that this didn’t scare him.

That this was just another rational step forward.

That it was fine.

Because if he could make it sound easy, maybe it would be.

Maybe it would give you something solid to lean on, because the last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were standing on shaky ground with someone just as fractured as he was.

But in the end, even the best-laid words couldn’t withstand the weight of his emotions - whether he liked it or not, even rocks are meant to erode.

“I think it’s time we come clean to the team,” he admitted, completely veering off-script - though, of course, he still made sure to soften the blow with a kiss to your temple.

Not that it made much difference. You both knew this moment was inevitable, but somehow, you’d managed to delude yourselves into thinking that if you just kept putting it off, the perfect time would miraculously appear.

At first, you’d delayed it until things were official.

Then, because you needed to be sure this could work in the long run.

Then, because you wanted time to just enjoy each other.

Truthfully? If it were entirely up to the two of you, you’d probably keep postponing it indefinitely - at least until the day you were both retired, far away from any fraternization rules or painfully awkward team dynamics.

Unless, of course, your eyes had been deceiving you all along, or life decided to be cruel and rip this happiness away from you before you ever even got the chance. All you could do was hope not.

Aaron sighed, watching you carefully. “So, how do you want to do this?”

At least he could take comfort in the fact that his very specific plan of having wine while discussing this was still intact - especially since the very large sip you took the second he asked hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He huffed a laugh.

Yeah.

This was going to be fun.

“Are we sure we have to?” You groaned, tilting your head back against his shoulder.

“I’m afraid so, sweetheart. It’s the only way to keep them from getting the satisfaction of figuring it out first and do this our way…”

It was his turn to take a long sip now… he surely wasn’t thrilled about the lack of an actual game plan.

“…Still need to figure out what exactly we mean by ‘our way,’” he admitted. “But, you know… that’s what these are for.”

He tapped a finger against his temple, then against yours, clearly implying that your very skilled, highly trained profiler brains would surely work this out.

You, however, were placing your bets on your problem-solving skills drastically improving after a few more glasses of wine, because right now?

“We are so fucked,” you commented.

Aaron clinked his glass against yours, deadpan. “Completely.”

You both took long, slow sips of wine like it might somehow provide divine intervention.

It didn’t. You were indeed left pretty much alone in this.

You sighed, setting your glass down on the coffee table. “Well, you definitely have the face of someone who already has a plan...” You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “...a very handsome face.”

Cheesy. But deserved.

Aaron chuckled. “I believe…” He kissed you on the cheek – twice - before setting his own glass down too. “…We should tell them directly. Get ahead of it. Lay it out as matter-of-factly as possible.”

“Matter-of-factly?”

He nodded, all serious, like he hadn’t just suggested the worst possible approach.

“Sweetheart…” You pinched his cheek, making him scrunch his nose, hoping – more like praying - that it would snap him out of whatever fantasy land of logic, reason, and good intentions he was apparently living in.

“If we tell them directly, Penelope will throw an actual partypersonally design matching t-shirts, and have the entire team wear them.” You paused, leveling him with a look. “And you know it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I know.”

“Emily and Derek will immediately start making jokes like two middle schoolers who just learned what sex is and will not let us breathe.”

“I know.”

“JJ will be quiet but then ask all of a sudden, ‘So when’s the wedding?’ which will restart the chaos all over again.”

“I know.”

You turned to face him, deadly serious. “Spencer-”

“-Will hit us with a full statistical analysis of workplace relationships,” Aaron finished, exhaling sharply, already bracing himself.

Because there was only one team member left to account for - the worst of them all.

“And… oh God… Dave…”

And with that horrifying realization, he did the only logical thing a man in his position could do - he face-planted directly into your chest with a dramatic, muffled groan of pure defeat.

You blinked down at him, amused. “Honey…”

Why was he even so touch starved like that?

“All I ask,” came his muffled voice, still very much nestled between your breasts, “is five minutes of peace.”

You snorted. “You do realize this isn’t exactly discouraging me from making fun of you, right?”

He sighed again. “You do realize that if you keep laughing, you’re just shoving them further into my face?”

…Damn him and his irritating ability to state the obvious.

You sighed, fingers absentmindedly combing through his short spikes of hair. “…So we’re back to square one.”

Aaron exhaled, still very much face-first in his chosen safe haven. “Unfortunately.”

You hummed, “Okay, hypothetically, if we just… never tell them, how long do you think we could get away with it?”

That was so absurd that it actually made him lift his head. He blinked at you, utterly offended by the suggestion.

“I am not spending the next decade pretending I don’t stare at your ass every time you walk away.”

…Alright. That was definitely the wine talking.

In vino veritas, as the Romans said. Wine makes people say dumb shit: the truth.

“Wow. Didn’t know you were a poet, Hotchner.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t pretend you’re above it, because I catch you every time you drift off during briefings just to stare right at-”

“Alright, alright,” you cut him off, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could fully call you out... he was not happy about it. “We’re both shameless…"

You needed an exit strategy. Fast.

You reached for his wine glass over the coffee table. “Well, at least the bright side of telling them is that we won’t have to schedule our coffee breaks in advance anymore and pretend to look surprised when we see each other.”

And all of that was just for one single moment.

The fleeting brush of fingertips as you handed him the cup you always poured for him.

The way his hand was always warmer than yours, despite the fact that you were the one holding the scalding mug, as if basic thermodynamics simply did not apply to Aaron Hotchner.

And if it was one of those days, sometimes, there’d be a little extra something.

A longer touch.

Eye contact that lingered just a second too long.

A slow sip from his cup while still holding your gaze, and suddenly, it felt indecent - like something you definitely shouldn’t be doing in broad daylight, let alone in a federal building.

And now - here, in the comfort of his apartment, with nothing and no one to stop you - he reached for the wine glass you were offering, except… he wasn’t actually reaching for the glass.

He was just holding your hand.

Aaron chuckled, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles. “I think we’re holding onto this touch just a little too long,” he murmured, nuzzling into you, his breath warm against your ear. “Might start looking suspicious.”

Didn’t he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Oh, also some-” you started, or at least tried to, because as if everything else wasn’t enough, now he was kissing just behind your ear, his lips just brushing the sensitive skin there, warm, and slow, and wet and… God…

Okay. Okay.

Maybe it was the wine.

Maybe it was the fact that you were always kind of a little bit obsessed with him.

Either way, the result was the same: you really, really wanted him right now.

You sighed, tilting your head to grant him a little more access - but not too much, or you might actually end up using the full length of his three-seater couch instead of stubbornly remaining curled up in the same cramped two-foot space you’d unofficially claimed as your own. Ergo - going horizontal with him instead of just being seated on his lap.

“I thought we were having a serious discussion,” you murmured, though the breathy edge to your voice wasn’t exactly helping your case.

Aaron hummed in response, slowly dragging his lips from behind your ear down along the curve of your jaw, pressing a kiss at the hinge. “We are.” Another kiss. “What were you starting to say, sweetheart?”

And another one.

You tried to think. Really, you did.

But it was getting increasingly difficult with his mouth still very much on your skin, moving towards places that were making it exponentially harder to form coherent thoughts.

You would’ve made a mental note to never wear anything that resembled a tank top around him again, if only you had the actual brain capacity to form any notes right now.

“Aaron-”

Aaron smirked against your skin. “You were saying?”

…Blank. Absolutely blank.

Your brain stalled for a solid three seconds before mercifully rebooting.

“I-” You licked your lips, cleared your throat. “Penelope.”

That, thankfully, was enough of a keyword to get him to back off - though, the second he did, you already desperately missed the warmth of his mouth on your skin.

He tilted his head, “Penelope?”

You swallowed. “She’s… gonna be beaming.”

Aaron blinked at you. “Beaming.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, because God, he was too cute when he was confused like this. “Her and Kevin have been desperate for another couple to go out with. Ever since JJ and Will stopped leaving the house because they’re too busy baby-proofing every square inch of their lives.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “And by ‘go out with,’ you mean double dates.”

You hummed, fingers grazing his cheek. “Mmm. Yeah. Double dates.”

Aaron didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, absolutely not.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “Wait, what?”

His face was resolute. “I’m not doing double dates.”

You squinted at him. “Okay, but why?”

And that’s how you learned that if there was one thing your boyfriend hated - more than messy paperwork, more than delayed flights, more than the Bureau’s budgeting meetings - it was double dates.

Not specifically with Penelope and Kevin. God, no. He was practically the puppet master of their relationship in the first place. Just… double dates in general.

“They’re impractical,” he said.

You snorted. “What do you mean?”

Aaron sighed. “They are a waste of time. You sit there, and for the first fifteen minutes, it’s fine. The usual small talk, polite conversation…”

You nodded, barely biting back a grin. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Honestly, this just sounded like some classic Aaron Hotchner being the most adorable introvert to ever exist.

He shot you a look, deadly serious. “It’s a trap.” You nearly cooed. Adorable. “Because at some point, you end up talking one-on-one with someone from the other couple. And right when the conversation is actually getting interesting-”

He suddenly paused.

His hand started at your shoulder, innocent enough - until it wasn’t, until it drifted lower, fingertips skimming down until they found your thigh, before sliding inward, squeezing your soft flesh there.

“See?” Aaron murmured, voice deceptively casual. “It starts off innocently. A hand on the shoulder…”He angled his fingers just a notch further up your upper thigh. “…Then the thigh. Then-”

He leaned in, kissing you just at the corner of your mouth.

"A little kiss here," he murmured, lips barely brushing your skin.

Then another - softer, lingering just at the very edge of your lips.

"A little peck there."

Okay.

Ahem.

For a man who hated double dates, he was making a very strong case for them.

This was clearly foreplay.

Had to be foreplay.

You chose to interpret it as foreplay.

So, naturally, just as you were about to pull him in properly - to finally taste the wine on his lips – he pulled back.

Mixed signals whore.

“And then,” he continued, and you swore his voice had gotten even lower - sluttier, if you were being honest - "it escalates.”

...Wine-induced yapper. "Because one couple decides a little peck isn’t enough, so they turn and start devouring each other’s faces… in public.”

The wine that was in your system, instead, suggested you should have him biblically, right here, right now, on his couch.

“Care to demonstrate this part too?” You licked your lips, tilting your head.

Aaron sighed “Honey.” You knew you were in trouble the moment he smirked. “You’re demonstrating my point…”

Your stomach dropped.

“…You want more.” Aaron tutted, shaking his head, feigning disappointment. “Of course you want more. A chaste kiss isn’t enough. How could it be, sweetheart?”

Hell yes you wanted more.

Badly.

You might have even nodded without meaning to.

“But imagine if this was happening in public. In front of two other people. What about them?” he murmured, tilting his head, voice dropping into something dark, silky, dangerous. “In front of two other people.”

You swallowed, very much not thinking about them right now.

“Because at that point, they only have two choices: they either sit there - third-wheeling, watching - or…” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide over your bare waist, gripping, pulling you that much closer. "… they start doing it too."

Your breath hitched. “Aaron-”

"With just a kiss, it creates an environment," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear, "where both couples get competitive. Where they start copying each other - but making it more…"

He dragged his nose along the curve of your jaw, the ghost of his lips tracing just behind it. "Passionate."

A teeth-grazing kiss against your pulse.

A slow drag of his lips down the column of your throat, before he made his way back up, tilting your chin up with his fingers just so, forcing you to look at him.

And God, that look.

"More tongue," he continued, letting you see it first - his own darting out, wetting his lips just before he brushed them over yours.

Not kissing.

Not yet.

“More biting.” Aaron caught your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just enough to confirm what you already knew -

He tasted like red wine.

Rich. Dark. Addictive.

And so did you.

“More touching.” His hand drifted, fingertips just skimming over your ribs, teasing along the underside of your breast - so close, so close, before he let it trail lower again, just as his lips ghosted over your ear.

"More sounds."

You barely bit back the breathy, desperate little moan clawing its way up your throat because -

Aaron shoved you off his lap.

In one fluid motion, he shifted, pressing you back into the couch, caging you in beneath him, his arms bracketing either side of your head.

His knee slotted between your thighs, pressing up just slightly - just enough to make you gasp, make your hips twitch without thinking.

You were pretty sure now that this was, in fact, foreplay.

“At that point,” he murmured, lowering himself, pressing his body against yours, pinning you down with nothing but his weight, “if you’re already getting ideas…”

Aaron rolled his hips against you, his knee shifting just enough to have you sucking in a sharp breath. “…it’s better off just staying home. Because at least then,” he whispered, “we can do this.”

And then he kissed you. Properly.

Deep and hungry, pressing you down into the cushions until you moaned into his mouth, pulling him closer as one of his hands slipped under your shirt.

“You-” you swallowed, trying to find words, but he stole them from you, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “You expect me to believe this is why you hate double dates?”

“I expect you to understand,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of your neck, “that if I ever go on one…” he nipped at your pulse, making you gasp. “…I’ll be thinking about this the entire time.”

Then - click.

The sound of the button of your pants being undone, followed shortly by the hiss of your zipper. You felt the warmth of his fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of your pants, resting over your hip bone.

Well, fuck.

“You’ll be sitting across from me,” he continued, voice so unfairly composed, so infuriatingly smooth, “pretending to listen to whatever they’re taking about.”

He tilted his head, kissing along your collarbone, then much lower. You made a mental note to always wear anything resembling a tank top in his presence from now on.

“And the entire time…” his fingers dipped just slightly beneath the elastic of your underwear.

You shuddered. “Aaron.”

He hummed, pleased - so deeply pleased - before finally sliding lower, his fingers finally brushing right where you needed him most.

You whimpered.

“I’ll be remembering,” he murmured, “exactly how you sound right now.”

Your back arched into his touch, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as his fingers moved.

“And how you look,” he added, his lips brushing the curve of your breast, “when you fall apart for me.”

Your breath hitched-

And then.

Then-

He stopped.

Just - stopped.

His hands left you completely as he leaned back, settling onto his knees above you, looking far too pleased with himself.

You gaped at him, betrayed. “Are you kidding me?”

Aaron just smirked, gaze flicking over you, taking in your flushed cheeks, your uneven breathing, the way your body was still desperately aching for him.

“See?” he shrugged, voice so damn smug. “This is why I hate double dates.”

How funny would it be if these ended up being his last words?

You huffed, adjusting yourself on the couch, crossing your arms like you weren’t still ridiculously turned on and very annoyed about it. “Alright, you know what? Fine. No need to suffer through a double date if we just… conveniently wait to tell the team about us until after JJ and Will start going back out with Penelope and Kevin.”

Aaron smirked.

At least you’d both come to an agreement - the exact same procrastination tactic you’d been using, just with a new and improved excuse attached.

“…Smart girl.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, still breathing heavily, still so deeply unsatisfied, as Aaron pressed a kiss to your temple, then stood, stretching his arms.

“I’ll clean the wine glasses,” he mused, already heading toward the kitchen. “And then I’ll be back to you.”

You stared at him.

He paused, glancing at you over his shoulder, smirking.

You huffed, sarcastic, “glad we could work this out.”

You were not glad. Not at all. Especially because not even a full minute later, your phone buzzed with a text.

From him.

From Mr. Clean himself, who was currently just a couple rooms away from you.

Lawyer, 8:43 PM:

Sweetheart, I hope you're ready, because I’m going to spread you out on that couch and fuck you so deep, you’ll still feel me when you sit at your desk tomorrow.

^.ᆽ.^= ∫

A.H.

"Garcia just told me how to get the cat," came his voice from the kitchen - so damn smug you could hear the smirk in it, followed the sound of his footsteps getting closer.

Before you could turn, before you could say anything, he was there - leaning in from behind the couch, arms sliding around you, caging you in, whispering into your ear -

"It was just a simple copy-paste."

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe2

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

//the slightest of shaking you

Sonic's ego is actually used for the delight effect on his friends hhhgh your killing me with wholesomeness/j

I wonder though, is there's ever any nonverbal platonic methods aspecSonic could have developed?

Aroace Sonic pt 8 (no they're not dating)

Sonic’s got all kinds of ways of showing affection. Obviously there is more than just these, it’s just all i doodled last night before passing the heck out in bed hgLKJSDF

1. Sonic usually moves away if anyone expresses active verbal dislike of his physical affection; Knuckles is the exception to that rule. He would genuinely throw Sonic through a wall if he actually didn’t like what he was doing, no words required. But Knuckles is touch starved! He doesn’t know how to do this whole physical affection thing, and most everyone else is kinda nervous about crossing boundaries with him so it means he gets very little touch. Sonic notices that and instead of drawing attention to it, he just invades personal space like the gremlin he is and no one questions it, chalking it up to his usual antics. Knuckles gets a safe place to get the physical affection he needs without worrying about how it looks and Sonic gets to love his friend, it's a win-win. (Rouge is p much the only other person chill with touching Knuckles casually since she’s just comfortable with physicality and not the least bit nervous around him.)

2. Speaking of Rouge she and Sonic are very silly with physical affection because Rouge is extremely comfortable expressing herself physically and Sonic is chill with p much any small gestures because its just another way of showing affection. Platonic cheek kisses and aggressive flirting are pretty normal for them! They find it funny to fluster other people this way.

3. Sonic will very randomly just plant his hand on someones face if they're standing close enough. No context, no warning, usually they're not even part of the conversation that's happening and he doesn't move it off unless they move it themselves or it's time to leave. (He does this whenever he notices someone zoning out or look like they might be lonely since they aren't part of the main conversation to make them know someone else notices they're there and cares.)

4. Sonic's physical affection is so incredibly casual that if you're around him long enough it kinda starts to fall of your radar and you just stop noticing when it happens, (i.e Tails.) It's much more common than his verbal compliments so it ends up pretty commonplace. Physical touch is actually his first go-to unless the person is really touch-averse.

5. Falling asleep on people is his ultimate weapon because they're less likely to try and escape if he's asleep (cat sleeping on lap rules sorry.) The other reason is because they're free to be as soft as they want without worrying about him using it to gloat at them later. (A lot of stuff this dude does is hecka strategic.)

[jazziejax]

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐤 ‘𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐰𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Cowboy!Terry Richmond x Black!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - They had always had this lingering tension between them. But not it seems that whatever feelings were there have now boiled over and at the Sweet Tooth Saloon, things get a little hot.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - 18+!, MINORS DNI, Heavy tension, sensual dancing, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), soft!Terry, mild dominance, tender aftercare, implied feelings

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - since yall only like me when I write about Aaron Pierre 🙄 I’m not good at wiring smut and I don’t even like doing it but this is something to hold yall over in case I drop off the fave if the earth soon. I have Finals next week :( UNEDITED, sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes. There probably many because my laptop over heated…also, I can’t write a short fic to save my life.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭- 9,567+

The small bell above the door jingled as the large man stepped into the beauty salon, ducking slightly to avoid the low-hanging dried herbs strung up near the entrance. The scent of lavender and bergamot mixed with the faintest trace of hot iron and other chemicals, the kind used to curl or straighten a lady’s hair.

He had never set foot in a place like this before. Not because he didn’t believe in looking presentable—he just never trusted another person with a razor near his throat. And, to be honest, he didn't mind looking rough sometimes, but he was starting to become a little self-conscious whenever a woman looked at him for too long. Especially her. But the dust of the road clung to him, so his beard and his hair had grown past the point of comfort as he and his comrades spent more time than they thought in Sugar Cane Creek. Everything needed a trim. At least, the mirror at the bar last night told him as much, and Jim had made a comment about him “starting to look like a wild man”.

Terry didn’t care much what people thought, but he cared about feeling like himself.

A woman stood behind the counter, fingers-deep in a bowl of soapy water, scrubbing a comb. The early morning light that poured through the shop window was caught in her dark hair, making it shine like polished mahogany. She looked up, recognizing him instantly—because who in Sugar Cane Creek didn’t know who he rode with? But she didn’t stiffen or frown like some folk did when they saw a man from the Nat Love Gang.

Instead, she wiped her hands on a cloth, tilted her head, and smiled just enough to let him know she wasn’t afraid.

“Well, well." She mused, setting her rag aside. “Never thought I’d see the day you walked in here.” She said, a soft grin on her face. Her voice was as rich and smooth as honey fresh from the comb.

Terry removed his hat with a sigh, brushing a hand over his curls that had gotten a little thick on top of his head. “I think I'm in need of a trim.”

She raised a brow. “Hair or beard?”

“Both.”

Her gaze flickered over him, lingering on the rough edges of his beard. “I’ll say. Starting to look real close to a mountain man.” She quipped. Terry, however, didn’t smile, but something in his dark eyes did shift, a flicker of amusement that only she would catch. They had always danced around one another. Something they had been doing for a while now—exchanging looks in town while Terry earned his keep over at Cotton's and she began to start her work day at The Blush and Brush Parlor, brushing shoulders when they shared time at The Sweet Tooth Saloon. He was a quiet man, but she liked that about him. A man who didn’t talk just to fill space.

Her eyes flickered over his face, then lower to where his suede, dark brown, coat stretched broad across his shoulders. “Take your coat off." She said, already gathering her scissors. “You might be here a while.”

Terry hesitated, looking down at the shorter woman with a tired look. "Don't talk about me like I'm some sort of ruffian, now." He said, his voice deep and his country drawl thick. The brown skinned woman gave him a faux pout with a small laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry, bright eyes, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Now take a seat and let’s get you looking decent again, okay?" She grinned, playing coy with him. Terry didn't flinch at the name, but a small twitch was his lip was noticeable to her before he then shrugged out of his coat and laid it over the empty chair not far from him. He then sat down in the chair she stood in front of, allowing the woman to drape a sheet over his front, tying it at the back of his neck with nimble fingers before combing through his hair. She was gentle, but precise—no wasted movements, no hesitation.

"You know how to do men's hair?" He asked.

"Yup." She said. “Been cutting my daddy’s since I was eight. Used to say I was better than any barber in town.” He could hear the smile in her tone at the thought, though it veered off into something a little sad.

Terry hummed, the closest he’d come to laughter anyways, but he could also tell that the subject was a little sensitive to her. He let her work, let the soft snip of the scissors fill the quiet. Every so often, he felt the barest brush of her fingertips against his skin. He could also feel her large chest brush against the back of his neck every now and then, causing him to look up into the mirror in front of him, watching the woman work. He wasn’t a man who flinched easy, but something about that gentle touch made him tense in a way he couldn’t explain.

The shop was quiet except for the snip of her scissors. She worked with practiced ease, combing through his hair, trimming away the weight. Every so often, her fingers brushed the nape of his neck, light and deliberate. She felt the way he tensed, barely noticeable, but there.

“Relax, cowboy." She teased. “I ain’t gon' hurt you.” She said softly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, settling into the chair.

She then suddenly grabbed the side of his head, straightening his head and looking at him though the mirror. He wasn't quite sure what she was doing, but he didn't question it as he watched her intensely though the mirror.

“Alright." She murmured after a while. “That’s the hair. Now the tricky part.”

She brush the excess hair from him before she turned to the washbasin, dipping a cloth into warm water before wringing it out. He expected her to hand it to him, but instead, she pressed it against his face herself. She held his head steady with her other hand, gripping his chin. And he couldn't help but wonder if she did the same procedures with all her clients, because even though his hair looked better than before, the way she was touching felt oddly intimate. The heat from her touch as well as the warm cloth sank into his skin, soothing the roughness of travel and the dry air. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that.

She worked carefully, rubbing a mixture of soap and oil into his beard before picking up the straight razor. She tested the blade against her thumb. She hummed before moving over to the leather strap against the wall to give it a quick sharpen. She tested it again, obviously to her liking since she walked back over and tipped his chin up with two fingers.

“You ever had a woman shave you before?” She asked, looking up from inspecting his unruly beard to lock eyes with his bright ones. It was a simple question, calling for a simple answer, but their gazes were intense. Terry shook his head, just barely, caught in her big eyes and soft touch as he licked his lips.

His response, or lack there of, caused her to grin. “Good. Means you’ll keep still.” She said, only leaning in briefly as she joked with him, but her sudden contact made allowed him to catch a whiff of sweet scent like, something like Ambrosia.

“Lean back,” She instructed, her foot hovering over the pump that allowed the chair to recline. Terry hesitated, blinking at her. It's not that he didn't trust her, he'd known her for quite some time now. He trusted her hands in his hair, but a blade near his throat? That was different. He never trusted anyone that much, not even his closest comrades. It's the reason why all his self-cut's were a little choppy. Something that wouldn't have mattered if he was still up to his outlaw duties and on the road. But now he was spending his time in saloon's and around beauties they didn't offer at home.

She caught the shift in his posture, her smirk turning knowing. “You scared?” She questioned.

Terry met her gaze, his own steady. “No.”

“Then sit still.” She said before she pushed down on the pump under the chair, allowing it to recline. And that he did, opening his growing facial hair to her, ample room left in case of his worst fear. But he had no reason to fear her and her intentions, because her blade was steady. Her hands were sure, and he trusted her, even though he had no reason to.

The razor glided slow, careful. She kept her grip steady, the blade sharp and sure as it skimmed along his jaw. The heat of the late afternoon pressed into the shop, thick and lazy, but it wasn’t what made her skin prickle. It wasn’t what sent that slow, creeping flush up her neck, settling warm in her cheeks.

No, that was him. It was his eyes that were watching her.

They were unblinking, steady, tracking her every move like a man who had nowhere else to be. He was always like this—silent, still, and always looking—but something about it felt different now. Maybe because they were closer than usual. Maybe because she could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the slow rise and fall of his chest under the weight of her touch.

She set her jaw, trying not to let on just how much she felt him. The every move he made under her touch.

Instead, she focused.

“Bet you’re the kind of man who don’t like feeling vulnerable." She murmured, trying to make small talk with staring man.

Terry’s eyes stayed on her. “You talk too much.” He said, quirking a brow at her. She chuckled, dragging the blade along his jawline. “Maybe. But you don’t talk enough, so it evens out.”

Her hand shifted, fingers pressing just beneath his chin as she tilted his head for a better angle. He was warm beneath her touch, his pulse steady, but she felt it jump when her nails scraped lightly against his throat. She tilted his chin just slightly, her fingers light under his jaw, and dragged the blade down his throat in a slow, deliberate motion. He let her, not moving, not even swallowing, though she could see the tight pull of his muscles beneath his skin, right at the peek of his shirt.

She shouldn’t be looking there, but how could she not? This hunk of a man was lying below her, almost open and willing as he gazed up her with a soft look in his eyes. The air between them was thick, something unspoken curling at the edges. Her grip on the razor tightened just a little as she worked, and his gaze burned hotter for it.

“You always watch this hard?” She asked finally, keeping her tone light as she wiped the hair she cut on a rag after shaking it off in the water basin and then wiping it away. She glanced up some, catching sight of his lips—pink, full, and slightly parted—tipped up at the corner. “Always.” That single word, rough and low, sent something straight to her stomach.

She swallowed as she continued working, trying her best to focus, steadying herself. She wasn’t about to let him get the better of her, no matter how much heat curled between them. But she also took her time finishing the shave, enjoying the rare sight of the outlaw that is Terry Richmond—silent, still, and at her mercy.

“You’re awful quiet for a man with so much to say in his eyes." She murmured, brushing away the lingering shaving foam with the pad of her thumb. Her hand lingered a second too long, caught in the shape of his jaw. Terry still didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched her.

“Didn’t know I needed to talk." He said, and she could’ve sworn she saw his blue eyes flicker to a sea green as the light hit them. The warmth in her cheeks…and else where, deepened. She pulled back, making quick work of the last stroke of hair she had to eliminate, but her hands weren’t as steady as before.

And he knew that.

By the time she was done, the shop felt too small, too warm, too much. She grabbed the cloth and wiped his face cleaning, looking at her finished product around his mouth. Her eyes met his briefly as she took in the goatee she set him up with, a small smile beginning to grace his feature as his eyes bounced across her face. She cleared her throat softly, wiping an imaginary spot of lather from his jaw and leaned back to admire her work. “There. You clean up nice, cowboy.” She said with a grin.

She turned, quickly wiping the blade clean, setting it aside, and moving a few steps away to compose herself as she gathered the material she sat out in front of the mirror.

But then she felt him stand up from the chair, taking the cape off. She felt the shift in the air when he got close—just behind her. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her back. She glanced up, watching as he inspected his face in the mirror from behind her. He rubbed his large hands across his face, taking in his fresh look. He only did that for a few seconds before his gazed dropped to the round woman below him. He her her eyes in the mirror, nothing but an exchange between their eyes. She was the only to look away first, cleaning the station.

Terry sat the hair cape he had in his hands in the chair, looking as himself one last time before he hummed in content. He place his hand on her shoulder, large over her breakers that was far from small. “Good job.” He said, voice low near her ear. He then stepped away, his hand dragging down and across the back of her waist as he moved over to shoulder on his coat. She froze at the feeling of him touching her, and then gulped at his fingers tracking off her body. She looked up, looking herself in the eye and blinking, making sure this was all real, before looking in the mirror to watch him put the coat over his large frame.

Terry ran a hand over his chin, feeling the smoothness. He met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

“How much?” He asked after putting on his hat, straightening his clothing, and she tried not to get distract by the way he grabbed his belt, using it to adjust his pants. She turns, tiring her head at him as she gave him a noticeable once over. “Hmm.” She stated with a hum, placing her hands on her hips as she stepped closer. “Well, if you were any other customer, I’d charge five cent. But for you, Terry Richmond, I’ll charge you three.” She smiled.

Terry’s lips twitched, his expression unreadable as he glanced off into the distance out side of the parlor’s windows. He adjusted his belt, the large buckle dinging softly while the leather shifted under his grip. His eyes, sharp and knowing, flicked back to her.

“Three cents, huh?” His voice was smooth, lazy, but there was an edge to it—like he was turning something over in his mind. “Mighty generous of you. Can’t help but to think I’m special.” He quipped, though his tone never really wavered from his deep baritone and his serious manner.

She lifted a brow, arms still crossed as she tilted her head at him. “Well, I’m feelin’ kind.” She smiled, playing along to the game she knew she started, all for the hell of it.

That little smirk of his deepened. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, closing some of the space she’d put between them. She felt it immediately—his warmth, his presence. It was impossible not to.

“You always this kind? Or only to me?” His voice had dropped, rough and low, like gravel dipped in honey.

Her pulse skipped. She held his gaze, not backing down, but he knew what he was doing. He knew the way his voice curled around her, the way his eyes made her skin prickle. Her breath caught, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she kept her expression even, playful, letting her smile linger as she tilted her chin up at him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She murmured, voice smooth as satin. “Mr. Special.” She finished, a certain glint in her eye as she tilted her chin just slightly—like she wasn’t the least bit affected. Like she wasn’t keenly aware of just how close he was now.

Terry huffed a quiet chuckle, but there was something else in his eyes—something sharp, knowing. His gaze flickered down, just briefly at the Lowe part of her face, before settling back on hers. His presence was suffocating in the best way, heavy and warm, filling up the little space between them.

“I would.” He admitted, voice slow and deliberate, like he was testing the weight of the words. “Got a feelin’ the answer might keep me up at night.” He said, crossing his arms.

She let out a soft laugh, looking away from his heavy stare as she shook her head. The heat curling in her stomach was unmistakable. He was good—too good. And she didn’t now how’s long she last in this little game they always played before she pounced on him.

“Don’t go losin’ sleep over me, Richmond.” She teased, even as her pulse thrummed in her ears. She breezed past him, making sure her side brushed against his as she moving over to the small counter on the left side of the door. His eyes trailed down her figure once her back was to him, taking in her round and voluptuous curves from behind. “Wouldn’t wanna be the cause of your troubles.” She finished as she turned to look at him from behind the counter. She leaned her weight in the counter, her hand clasped together with her forearms resting on cold wood. She watched as Terry stood there for a moment, the look in his eye darker than before as he stated at her. He then blinked before moving, not taking his eyes from her with his pace slow and deliberate before he stood on the other side of the counter, looking down at the woman.

Terry tilted his head slightly, studying her like he was seeing something no one else had the sense to look for.

“Too late for that.” He said. The words were quiet, but they landed heavy between them, sending a shiver straight down her spine. Before she could find something clever to throw back at him after gulping, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver dollar, and placed it on the counter in front of her hands. His fingers brushed hers, Cushing him to glance down at the small touch.

He then looked back up, his blue eyes staring into her brown ones. “That oughta cover the next few visits.” He said, voice even, but there was that flicker of something else in his eyes again—something smug, something dangerous.

She laughed, shaking her head. “That’s too much.”

Terry simply shook his head, glancing away from her. “Nah.”

She narrowed her gaze at him, lips parting slightly, but he was already shrugging into his coat, the weight of his scent—tobacco and something deep, something him—lingering in the air. “And here I thought you didn’t like to talk.” She mused, watching him, arms placed on the counter as she thought over all their silent but pleasant times together in the Saloon while the rest of the gang chatted.

Terry confined to gaze at her, his eyes taking across her face. “I don’t.” He said, his smirk lazy, knowing. He paused, casting her a slow, lingering glance—one that made her stomach twist up in knots. He then turned to the door, but before pausing and casting one last glance over his shoulder. His gaze swept over her—slow, deliberate, enough to make the air feel thick with something unspoken. Then, after a beat—“But you make it worth it, Mrs.Special.” Then he tipped his hat and walked out.

And then, just like that, he was gone, leaving her standing there, staring after him, her heart racing, her face burning hotter than a summer’s day in Cane Creek, her fingers gripping the counter a little tighter than before and the lingering ghost of his eyes still burning against her skin.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The Sweet Tooth Saloon was alive tonight—thick with the scent of whiskey, tobacco, and the heat of too many bodies pressed close together. Laughter and conversation swirled beneath the hum of string instruments, boots tapping against the wooden floor. The music was thick, rolling through the air like smoke, wrapping around every body packed into the space. Heat clung to the walls, thick with whiskey, sweat, and the deep, throaty hum of anticipation.

But all of it quieted—just a little—when she stepped onto the stage. Her deep red dress hugging her curves, sinching in her waist and pushing up her breast.

The pianist struck a slow, rolling tune, and a hush fell over the crowd like a held breath. She let them wait, dragging her fingertips along the microphone stand, tilting her head slightly as she took in the sea of faces before her. Then, just when the tension thickened, she let her voice pour out, smooth and rich like warm molasses.

The song was sultry, the kind that curled its way around a man’s spine and made him lean in just a little closer, made him think about things he shouldn’t in a room full of people. And Lord, did they lean in. The entire saloon was hanging onto her voice, watching the way she swayed, the way her fingers trailed down her own arm, the way she made every lyric sound like a promise whispered against bare skin.

Men leaned closer, their drinks forgotten, their gazes fixed on the woman commanding the stage. Her voice was rich, full of promise, of something dark and sweet.

But there was only one pair of eyes she felt, steady and unwavering through the thick haze of smoke and lantern light. In the very back, where the light barely reached, where the smoke curled the thickest—she saw him.

Terry Richmond.

He was leaning against the bar, broad and still, his hat tilted low but not enough to hide the way his bright eyes. He was half-shrouded in shadow, his bright blue gaze cutting through the dim like a knife. He wasn’t drinking, wasn’t talking—just watching.

Her heart skipped a little.

Heat licked up her spine at the intensity of it, but she didn’t let it shake her. She didn’t falter under his gaze. Instead, she let it fuel her, let it shape the way she sang, the way her lips curved around the lyrics, the way she dragged her fingers over the curve of her own waist. If he wanted to look, she was gonna give him something worth looking at.

She kept singing, dragging out the final note, letting it settle over the room like the last flicker of a candle before it goes out. By the time the last note left her lips, the saloon erupted in cheers, men whistling, clapping, stomping their boots against the floor. She gave a slow, knowing smile, dipping into a slight bow before stepping down from the stage.

She didn’t make a show of looking for him, but she knew exactly where she was going.

The moment she reached the bar, a whiskey was already waiting for her—on the house, as always. She took a slow sip, letting the burn settle deep before finally turning, finally meeting his gaze up close. The bar was crowded, but somehow, the space next to Terry was clear. He didn’t look at her right away, just lifted a hand slightly to catch the bartender’s attention. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just looked at her, that same unreadable expression on his face.

“Whiskey?” He asked, voice low, smooth like dark molasses as he gave a small gesture to the glass she already downed. She leaned against the counter, close enough that the edge of her skirt brushed his leg. “You know me too well.” She grinned, already feeling the buzz that the alcohol as giving her. At that, Terry slid a silver coin across the counter, and within seconds, a glass was in front of her. She looked away from him as she took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in her chest. She could feel him watching her, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. That was the thing about Terry—he could say more in a look than most men could in a thousand words.

“You always stare this hard, Richmond?” She asked, looking over at him with a tilt of her head once she had enough of the hard liquor, her voice still thick with the remnants of the song. His lips quirked, just barely, his eyes drifting over her figure. “Only when I like what I see.”

Her stomach flipped at his words, but she kept her expression even, playful. “That so?” She asked, a smirk in her lip and quirk of her brow. “That’s so.” He repeated in confirmation, then kicking his lips. Terry then leaned in just a fraction, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, close enough that she caught the scent of tobacco and cedarwood clinging to his coat.

“So much so.” He murmured, “That I might just have to get my hands on it.” Her breath caught, pulse quickening, but before she could say something sharp, something smart—before she could even decide if she wanted to—Terry’s head tilted slightly, his gaze flickering to the dance floor.

A new song had started.

Something slow. Something meant to be felt more than heard. She barely had time to set her glass down before Terry’s hand slid to her waist.

Without another word, without giving her the chance to refuse, his other hand reached for hers, his grip warm and sure as he led her away from the bar. Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded as she let him pull her into him, his palm settling low against her back. He didn’t ask. Didn’t say a damn word. Just pulled her onto the dance floor.

If he wanted to play with fire, she was more than happy to let him burn.

The moment they stepped into the space, bodies made room for them. Not out of fear, not tonight, but out of knowing. Because everyone in Sugar Cane Creek had eyes. And at that moment, everyone had seen the way Terry Richmond looked at her. The way she looked back.

The tension wrapped around them thick as smoke, curling in the air, pressing against their skin.

Terry moved slow, deliberate, his hand firm at the small of her back, the other clasping hers as he pulled her close—closer than what was proper, closer than what was wise. She let him, her breath shuddering as she settled into him, the warmth of his body seeping into hers. The saloon blurred around them, the lights dim, the chatter distant. None of it mattered. Not when his blue eyes were locked onto hers, not when she could feel the slow drag of his thumb against the back of her hand.

“You dance?” She murmured, her voice teasing, her lips dangerously close to his jaw. She felt him take in a breath with her chest against hers, and if she paused attention, she could’ve sworn she felt the way his heart was beating. “Only when I got reason to.” He answered, his voice a low rumble against her skin. “You given me plenty.” He said, his lips close to her ear as they danced.

She swallowed that his tone so close, heat curling in her belly. “Is that so?”

His fingers flexed against her back, pulling her that last inch closer. His breath, warm and slow, ghosted over her cheek. “Mmhmm.” He hummed with a lick of his lips, the sound causing his body to rumble against hers. She exhaled softly, turning her head just enough that their noses brushed, just enough that if either of them leaned in—just a little—they’d be past the point of no return.

The music swelled, the rhythm thick and slow, wrapping around them like a promise. The way they moved now—close, slow, like something dangerous just beneath the surface—only confirmed what they both had long suspected.

His hand was firm against the small of her back, his other clasping hers as he led her through the steps. It wasn’t a fast dance, nothing rowdy or wild, but it was just as electric. Every turn, every shift, had them pressing together. His breath skimmed the shell of her ear when he leaned in, his grip tightening just enough to let her feel the strength in his arms.

“You always hold a woman this close when you dance?” She whispered, looking up at him through her lashes. Terry’s lips barely curved, his smirk lazy, knowing. “Only when I don’t plan on lettin’ go.” He said, his eyes inspecting every crevice her face had to offer. He didn’t know if he’d bee be this close to her again, and he was taking advantage of the blessing he had to hold her in this way, and gaze at her face as he did.

Her breath hitched.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them blinked.

Lord, the way he watched her. He looked at her as if she was the only thing in the room. Like he was memorizing her in real time. She met his gaze, bold as ever, and let her fingers trail slow up his shoulder, tracing the line of his coat until her nails met the hot skin of his neck. A muscle in his jaw ticked at that. His grip on her waist flexed. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

And then, just when she thought he might tip his head and close the space, just when she thought she might lose her damn mind waiting for it—

He pulled her into the next step of the dance, smooth as silk, a satisfied glint in those blue eyes of his. He was teasing her. Daring her.

If he wanted a game, she was more than happy to play.

“Oh, is that how you want to play?” She asked, feigning innocence while her pulse quickened with anticipation.

Terry’s smirk returned, a challenge wrapped in his expression. “You started it, darlin’.” He replied, stepping into her space that was no longer available due to him, their bodies flush against one another. The heat radiating from him was intoxicating, lulling her in despite the playful facade they each wore. He controlled their movements with a firm yet gentle lead, the world around them fading as she lost herself in the intensity of his gaze and the cadence of their bodies moving in sync.

She narrowed her eyes, but her smirk was knowing. Two could play that game. She let her body press just a little closer, her curves molding against the hard lines of him, her breath a warm whisper against his cheek. He swallowed, his fingers tightening against her waist, a sharp inhale the only sign of restraint.

She felt it, that slip of control, and it sent something hot through her veins. "Careful, cowboy." She murmured, voice all honey and silk. "You might not want to let go, but I ain't so sure you can handle holdin’ on."

His eyes then darkened. His grip flexed, strong fingers digging into the curve of her waist, keeping her against him like he had no intention of letting her go. Not now. Not ever. Now, Terry didn’t scare easy. Didn’t flinch and didn’t fold to many.

But her?

She was dangerous in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Her voice, all thick honey and slow-drawn silk, wrapped around him, testing, teasing, tempting as it spilling through his ear and ran though his veins like it was his blood. Keeping his heart pumping. He could feel the shape of her, soft and warm against the hard planes of his body, the sway of their dance turning into something far more dangerous, far more intimate.

He leaned in, just enough that his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You think I can’t handle you?” He asked, his hands drifting lower as he practically engulfed her in his body. She let out a breathy little laugh, conveniently covering the way she took in a sudden breath at his touch, one that made his pulse jump, made his restraint strain at the edges. "Wouldn’t be the first man to try and fail, cowboy.” She whispered to him, her fingers brushing against the nape of his neck, feeling the freshly shaved haircut he had gotten only hours prior.

Terry exhaled through his nose, amused, darkly so.

She was pushing him, daring him. And he welcomed the challenge. So he let his hand slide lower, fingers grazing the base of her spine, just above the curve of her ass, applying the slightest pressure that had her breath catching. She was quick, though. Slipping her arms around his shoulders, she placed her hand on the back of his head, nails scratching ever so lightly. That same muscle in his jaw ticked again.

Her smirk widened.

That was it.

The last frayed thread of his patience snapped.

Without warning, Terry spun her, pressing her back against his front, effectively caging her in. The movement had her chest rising, her lips parting, and damn if that wasn’t the prettiest sight he’d ever seen as he looked down at her. His voice dropped, a low murmur only for her.

"Darlin'..." His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down the side of her neck, lingering at the base of her throat. He could feel her pulse hammering beneath his touch while his other hand rested low on her waist in the front, easing down to a place unimaginable in front of folks. “You’re playin’ with fire." He muttered.

She tilted her chin up, leaning her head back against his chest, gaze smoldering. "Good thing I ain't afraid to burn.” She whispered. And that was all he needed. He quickly spun her around and his mouth was on hers, rough and consuming, his kiss leaving no room for question, no space for anything but him—his hands, his body, the heat of him pressing against every part of her.

She met him with equal fervor, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, gasping into his mouth when he pressed himself fully against her. The saloon around them might as well have disappeared.

Nothing else existed in that moment. Just him and just her. That and the fire threatening to consume them both.

One moment, they were moving with the rhythm of the music, spinning slow in the dim glow of the saloon lights. The next, he was leading her off the floor, through the press of bodies, past the thick haze of cigar smoke and whiskey-scented air. The second the cool night air hit her skin, she was backed against the wooden frame of the saloon’s outer wall, the rough grain pressing into her spine, his body caging her in.

There was no more teasing, just as there was no more space between them. She barely had time to breathe before his lips found hers again. Slow, at first, like he was still savoring, still memorizing, but the second she sighed against his mouth, the second her fingers slid into his hair and pulled, something broke between them. The kiss turned hungry and deep.

Like he’d been starving for this—for her—for longer than he cared to admit.

She gasped when he gripped her thigh, hitching it up against his hip, pressing her flush against him, making her feel a bulge she that didn't know was his belt buckle, the crease of his jeans or his manhood. Heat coiled between them, urgent and burning, his mouth trailing from her lips to her jaw, down the curve of her neck. She tilted her head, giving him more, losing herself to the feel of him—the weight of his body, the heat of his breath, the quiet growl he let slip when she dragged her nails down his back. "Oh, Terry," She breathed, and damn if he didn’t shudder at the sound of it.

He lifted his head, his forehead pressing against hers, their breath mingling, their bodies still tangled together in the shadows. "I ain’t lettin’ go," He murmured, voice rough, edged with something dangerous. "Not tonight."

She grinned, breathless, running her fingers down the side of his face, feeling the slight roughness of his freshly shaven jaw. "Good." She said before grabbing him by the collar and pulling him to place her lips against her. The kiss lasted for mere seconds, a mash of panting breaths and slick tongues before Terry pulled away. He didn’t say a word before he took her hand, his fingers wrapping firm around hers, rough and warm. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes, the quiet pull of his grip, said enough.

She followed him back through the saloon, past the clinking glasses and low murmur of conversation, past the haze of cigar smoke still hanging thick in the air. The wooden stairs creaked under their steps as he led her up, slow and steady, his thumb tracing slow circles against her palm like he was trying to keep himself anchored. Or like he was memorizing her touch.

She should’ve felt nervous. Should’ve felt some sense of hesitation as they moved further away from the music, from the people, from any excuse to slow this down.

But she didn’t. All she could focus on was him.

The broad stretch of his shoulders. The slow, deliberate pace of his steps. The way he glanced back at her over his shoulder, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable, something that made her stomach dip and heat coil between her ribs.

They reached his door.

And for a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just stood there, facing the wood, his breath slow and measured like he was giving himself a second to think—to decide if this was a line he was ready to cross. Then, without a word, he pushed it open. The second they were inside, it changed.

The tension that had been simmering, stretching between them in the dance, in the way he watched her, in every unspoken moment leading up to this—it snapped.

She barely had time to take in the room before she was against the door, her back pressed against the worn wood, her breath stolen by the press of his body. Terry’s lips crashed against hers, no hesitation now, no teasing restraint. He kissed her like he’d been holding back for too damn long, like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again, and she felt it all. The hunger. The need. The slow, deep pull of something dangerously close to devotion.

She gasped when his hands—big, warm, calloused from work—spanned her waist, dragging her closer, molding her to him like he needed to feel every inch of her against him. His hands tacked down, bending slightly to gather the bunch of her skirt. He hiked it up, catching a feel of her warm thighs that molded under his grip. The feeling of her hands caused her to moan in his mouth, her hands moving over him feverishly as she was filled heat she was giving her. He didn’t hold back, moving his hands up for the back of her legs and gracing over the smooth skin of her ass. He tightened his grip, needing it and causing her to gasp into his mouth. He took his as an option to slip his tongue deeper, almost sucking on hers while he moved his hands to begin to untie the strings of her corset.

She didn’t hold back either. Her fingers found the buttons of his vest, fumbling with them, her hands eager and desperate to feel the heat of his skin. His breath hitched against her mouth when she dragged the fabric from his shoulders, then she felt the quiet rumble of a chuckle against her lips when she yanked his shirt free and ragged her hands down his ribbed abdomen, impatience getting the best of her.

"So eager.” He murmured against her lips, voice low and teasing.

She narrowed her eyes, nipping softly at his bottom lip with her teeth, her nails grazing down his chest, feeling the sharp inhale he took at the touch. "So are you." She purred.

And he didn’t argue. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he reached back down, cupped her though just under her ass, and lifted her, carrying her further into the room like she weighed nothing at all. She barely had time to register the shift before she felt the softness of the mattress beneath her, his weight pressing her down, his mouth trailing slow, lingering kisses down the column of her throat. His touch was slow and sensual, his hands finding any place to rub and caress. Like he was still memorizing, like he was savoring.

But the moment she whispered his name—breathy and wanting—something shifted again. His slow, deliberate control had snapped.

And neither of them held back anymore.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulled him closer as if she was trying to meld them into one. Terry's breath caught as his bulge hit her core, his hands gripped her tighter, holding her as if he were afraid she might slip away. The world outside faded -no clinking glasses, no murmurs, just the vibrant thud of their hearts battling for attention in the silence between their kisses. Their mouths slid together with a hunger that left her breathless. Every kiss deepened the fire sparking between them, waves of adrenaline crashing over her as she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him even closer as he dipped down to claim her throat once more. He kissed his way down, worshipping her skin with heated touches and soft bites, igniting every nerve ending in her body.

"Tell me what you want.” He murmured against her collarbone, his breath hot against the cool air of the room. “Come on, tell me baby. Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” He breathed out. There was something dangerously tender in his rough but needy words, as if he genuinely wanted to know-not just in the heat of the moment, but in that space where everything was laid bare.

She didn't hesitate. "You. All of you. Right here, right now, baby. Give it to me." It was a wild and brisk admission, and a thrill shot through her at the honesty in her voice. She could feel Terry's pulse quicken at her words, a primal urge coursing through him. He raised his head, looking directly into her eyes, and in that moment, she understood. This was more than a fleeting encounter. This was a collision of desires that had been simmering for far too long.

With a sharp intake of breath, he dove back into her mouth, a feverish kiss that stole her thoughts and drowned her in pleasure. She felt the weight of him press into her, his body a delicious contradiction of strength and softness. He paused for the briefest moment to catch her gaze, the heat in his eyes burning deeper than before, and she sensed the shift—not just in the proximity of their bodies, but in the intensity of everything that hung between them.

"Are you sure?" He rasped, pulling back just enough for her to see the uncertainty mingled with desire in his eyes. She could sense it— the weight of the moment, the gravity of their choices. "Absolutely.” She replied, her heart racing with certainty. She reached for him again, pulling him closer, and felt a grin split his face as he dove into her once more, taking her breath and leaving nothing but a breathless gasp in its wake.

Their clothes were off in an instant.

Once her corset was off and the full expanse of her skin was showing, he sucked a nipple into his mouth, his tongue trace the outline of her areola to his heart's content before pulling away to show the other the same attention. He listened to her sigh and smiled. "I love the way you sound." He said before grumbling out her name.

"Yeah?" She sighed, eyes closed as she took in the feeling of his tongue as he licked up her sternum. "I love the way you say my name." She breathed.

"Yeah?" Terry releated as his hands drifted lower in her body. “ I love your body. Your perfect." He paused to place a kiss on her stomach. “Perfect.” Another kiss, this time below her belly button. “Perfect, body.” He finished, his warm breath blowing on her core. His hands moved from her waist, deriding lower to ease her legs apart as he took in the sigh before him. He audibly moaned at the sight, practically drooling as he looked at her. “So fucking pretty.” He whispered. He wanted to taste all she had to offer. Before she could sink in, She placed her hand on his head, pushing his head back. “Wait.” She said.

Terry looked up at her, his large blue eyes dark and blown with lust. “What is it baby?” He asked, licking his lips as his eyes trailed over her form laid out before him. Her eyes sifted away from his stare, biting at her bottom lip before she spoke. “I…I’ve never had a fella go down there before.” She said softly.

Terry’s smirk faded, his expression shifting into something softer, something reverent. He rested his hands on her hips, his thumbs stroking slow and reassuring circles against her skin, before he placed his head on her bender knee. “Ever?” He asked. His voice was quiet, almost disbelieving, but there was no judgment—just understanding, just care. And something a little more that neither of them knew.

She shook her head, eyes darting away, almost shy. “Ain’t never been with a man who wanted to.” She shrugged a bit, still biting at her lower lip.

Terry exhaled sharply, his brows pulling together for the briefest moment, like the thought alone frustrated him. He cupped the side of her thigh, grounding her, making sure she felt him, felt the sincerity in his touch.

“Well.” He said, voice warm and steady, “You got one now.”

Her eyes flickered back to his, searching, cautious. But all she found was certainty. His lips brushed against her skin, his breath warm as he murmured, “You just tell me what feels good, darlin’. I got you. I just want you to play back. You ain’t gotta worry no more.” He said, his voice going back into the deep ruble that set her ablaze. And the way he said it—so sure, so gentle—made something deep in her chest tighten. Because she believed him.

So that’s what she did, ladies back against the pillows and open her legs further, barring it all and offering it to him. And Terry took it with life, gratitude, as well as pure lust. Like a magnet, Terry's fingers found their way to her slick lips as he gathered wetness before dragging his skilled digits around her clit. Her breath audibly hitched from the contact, making him chuckle before he pressed his lips against her plump thigh, squeezing with the other hand. Slow circles, maddeningly slow and gentle enough to feel like nothing at all had her willing to agree to just about anything to get off.

He then lunged forward with hunger, letting his tongue do all the talking, slithering inside of her warm walls as his nose nudged her clit. She tensed up with every nudge, let out small pants at the unfamiliar yet raviging feeling that washed over her. He glanced down, watching as he freely put his face in her center. He made it messy enough to admire when he pulled his mouth off of her, her pussy glistening like he just doused her in oil.

"Ohh, look at you, baby.” The grumble that came deep from within his throat as he watched her cute clenched around nothing as she continued to whine from the loss of contact from above. And his green eyes on her most intimate parts made it so hard not to get hot and bothered even with him not doing anything. Her poor nub was jumping with excitement as he used his large fingers to spread her lips open. “Look who’s happy to see me." He said as he took in a sharp breath, feeling her slick coating his fingers, the sound of her wetness loud within the room. “You happy to see me, hun? Huh?“ He questioned, looking up at her.

She moan and nodded eagerly, bringing her hand to cover her mouth at the stimulation he was giving her down under. Terry smiled at that, sharp teeth flashing from under his lips. He tried to keep his eyes on hers, looking into her large orbs that were filled with pleasure and a slight sheen of tears at his touch, but her pussy that just kept sucking his fingers in had him in a trance as his sick standing at attention in his underwear. “Tell me you’re happy I’m down here. Making you feel so good.” He demanded. His tone didn’t leave anymore for defiance, which she took as she angered him. “I’m so happy you’re here, Terry. You feel so good, baby.” She whined out as best as she could, breaths short and rocked her hips into his fingers.

"Mmm, yeah, I know.” Terry grinned. “When the last time sometime touched you, huh?" He asked, but this time he got no response watching as she began to reach her high and feeling her clench around his finger. Tweeting pulled his hand back at that, causing the woman to whine at the loss of contact. “Tell me, hun, and we can continue.” He said.

"I-I don't remember.” She said, and she was telling the truth, she truly couldn't. It had to be nothing worth remembering, especially in comparison to what he was making her feel now.

"Well, I’m gon’ make sure you remember this, hear" He then bent down to deliver a bite to her plush thigh, almost as if he was warning her for what's to come before he dove his face back into her heat, slurping at her hard and soaked clit. Her belly was doing summersaults, she could barely contain her volume at the feeling of his long and warm muscle working a magic she’s never felt before. But her sounds were the last of his worries, they were actually only fuel to his already burning fire.

As he ate, he made noise. He moaned, grunted, groaned in her, letting he know and feel that he was having just as much fun as she was.

Her legs had began to shake the longer he was down there, her hands gripping onto the white sheets of the inn bed since that was all she had to hold on to after he practically ripped her’s and his clothes off beforehand.

"Yes! Yes, oh, yes! I'm so close, Terry baby.” She struggled to keep her eyes on him even with his staring back up at her over her pudge, his eyes low lidded and dark. They beckoned her to stay, to not go levee the edge just yet, but her pleasure had came rolling through like a monsoon and wiped all the thoughts from her brain. She was a shaking, blubbering mess under his weight as he continued to lick and eat at her juices. He moved his mouth away from her pussy only to replace it with his hand, rubbing her clit in tight circles as he subconsciously moved her hips.

"Just feel it, baby. Let it happen.” He cooed in that sexy country drawl. She tried to fight against his hand, her thighs subconsciously closing around his wrist. But he smacked his large hand into her juicy thighs and kept at it with his other hand until he felt like he was done. "Be still and met it happen, baby." He cooed, enticing another moan from the woman. She felt like she was literally about to float up into the heavens, her back arching up off of the couch just to get away from the overstimulation.

"Okay! Oh, Fuck!" She screamed. “Yes, Terry!” He moved his hand to allow her to go through the motions, watching as she twitched until that special feeling left her center. "Good job, baby.” He said, pressing a soft kiss on her thighs. “Good job, my pretty girl." Another kiss from him was placed beside her opened mouth as heavy breathing left as he moved up her body.

As the tremors faded from her body, she lay there, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, her skin flushed and glowing in the dim lights of the room. Her limbs felt weightless, boneless, as if she’d melted right into the bed.

Terry was still there, right where he had been, his hands firm on her thighs, holding her steady like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. He pressed slow, lingering kisses to the inside of her knee, then another, trailing up, as if savoring the aftermath.

When she finally opened her eyes, she found him watching her, his expression unreadable at first—like he was memorizing her in this moment, like he was trying to etch the sight of her pleasure into his bones. A slow, lazy smirk then tugged at his lips. “Ain’t never seen somethin’ so damn pretty.” His voice was rough, thick with satisfaction, but there was something else there too. Something deeper.

She let out a breathless laugh, her fingers finding their way into his hair, rubbing lightly. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special, cowboy.” She smirked. Terry hummed with chortle, leaning into her touch, his hands sliding up to rest at her waist as he crawled up beside her. “Ain’t about makin’ you feel special.” He murmured against her skin, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “You already are.”

Her breath hitched, her heart fluttering in her chest at the way he said it—so simple, so certain. She turned her head to look at him, finding those piercing blue eyes already on her, unwavering. And for a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need to.

Instead, she reached for him, guiding his face to hers, and kissed him slow—letting him feel exactly how much she believed him. She slowly came back to herself with her lips attached to his, still basking in the warmth of his touch. She let her fingers trail down his chest, her nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his briefs. She could feel the way his breath hitched, bus bulge rubbing against her. The tension still coiled tight in his body despite the easy way he lay beside her.

A slow smirk pulled at her lips as she traced top of his boxers, slipping her hand into them with practiced ease. “Reckon I should return the favor.” She murmured, her voice soft, teasing.

But before she could go any further, Terry’s hand caught hers—not rough, not forceful, just firm enough to stop her in place. She looked up, brows furrowing in confusion, but the look in his eyes made her pause. “Ain’t about that.” He said quietly, his voice still thick, still warm, but full of something deeper. He squeezed her fingers, rubbing slow circles into the back of her hand. “You just came down from somethin’ real intense, darlin’. I just wanna hold you right now.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by his words, by the tenderness in them. “Terry, I—”

“I know.” He gave her a small, lazy smile, shifting so he could pull her closer against him. “We got time for all that. Just… let me have this. Let me have you right here in this exact moment. We might not ever get it again.”

And the way he said it, like holding her in his arms was just as much of a pleasure as anything else, sent something warm through her chest. They wet her already planned for this to be sitting more made her body flutter in a way only he can make happen. She sighed, settling against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That’s my good girl.” He said before placing a kiss on her warm skin.

And with that, they stayed there, tangled up in each other, letting the night stretch out slow and easy.

@kneelarmhstrung @winorlosetogether @joshuafatubaee

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[riddleswhcre]

────۶ৎ his hunger, your ruin

tom riddle doesn’t just want your blood—he wants to ruin you, break you, and fill you until you know you’re his.

warnings: smut, vampire!tom, bloodplay, creampie, overstimulation, slight dacryphilia, degradation, possessiveness.

𓂃⭑ a/n. this wouldn’t exist without my love marleen, who first blessed us with the vampire!tom. all credit for this deliciously dark concept goes to her, so go lose your mind over her au + fic. show her all the love and tom might just pay you a visit in the night x

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝

his breath is cool against your throat, a ghost of a touch that makes you shiver beneath him. ‘pretty thing,’ he murmurs, voice like silk laced with something darker, something more dangerous. ‘mine.’

you whimper, thighs already trembling where they’re spread around him, the heavy weight of his cock pressing against your slick folds. he hasn’t pushed in yet, just letting the tip tease you, smearing your arousal over himself. he loves this—loves watching you squirm, watching the way your body betrays you.

‘needy little thing,’ he taunts, dragging a single, sharp fang along your pulse point. you jolt, body arching up, but he pins you down, fingers bruising where they dig into your hips. ‘do you have any idea what you do to me? how fucking sweet you smell? i should drain you dry right here, watch you go limp on my cock.’

your breath stutters, a whimper slipping past your lips. and fuck, it only makes him harder, cock twitching against you, precum leaking onto your swollen clit.

‘please,’ you gasp, and that’s all it takes for his control to snap.

he thrusts into you in one brutal motion, splitting you open, a strangled moan tearing from your throat. you can feel him—feel every inch, every ridge, feel the way his cock stretches you, forces your body to take him.

his fingers find your jaw, tilting your head back, exposing your throat. he watches you, eyes blown black with hunger, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

‘so good for me,’ he purrs, rocking into you, dragging his cock along your walls, slow and deep, making sure you feel every fucking inch. ‘so tight. so warm. you were made for me, weren’t you?’

you nod—desperate, delirious, pleasure pooling low in your belly. ‘yes,’ you breathe. ‘yes, tom—’

his teeth sink into your throat.

the pain is sharp, white-hot, and then—bliss. a rush of pleasure so intense your vision blurs, your walls clenching tight around his cock as you cum, a cry tearing from your throat.

he groans, fucking you through it, drinking deep, his hips snapping against yours, chasing his own release. your blood is thick on his tongue, intoxicating, his grip unrelenting as he ruts into you, dragging out every last tremor of your orgasm.

‘so perfect,’ he breathes, pulling back just enough to press his bloodstained lips to yours. ‘so fucking perfect.’

then, with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep, spilling inside you, his body shuddering against yours.

but he’s not done.

‘look at you,’ he breathes, dragging his fingers through the mess between your legs, pushing his own cum back inside you. ‘soaking my cock, full of my cum, and you still want more, don’t you?’

you whimper, but you don’t deny it. can’t. not when your body is still trembling, still burning with the need to be ruined by him.

he smirks—dangerous, sharp. ‘such a needy little thing.’

and then he moves, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing your overstimulated clit with the flushed tip before slamming back inside.

the sound that rips from your throat is obscene, high and desperate, tears spilling down your cheeks as he fucks you open again, raw and wrecked.

‘crying already?’ he taunts, thumb swiping away a tear before he shoves it past your lips. ‘s’too much for you, sweetheart? can’t take it?’

you shake your head, tongue flicking over his thumb, sucking it into your mouth.

he groans, jaw tightening. ‘that’s what i fucking thought.’

his hips snap against yours, unrelenting, the wet slap of skin-on-skin filling the room. he’s deeper this time, fucking you rough, ruthless, possessive, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, ruin you for anyone else.

‘you’re mine,’ he growls, fingers curling around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin. ‘mine to fuck, mine to fill, mine to break.’

your walls clench around him, drawing a deep, shuddering moan from his lips.

he loves this—loves watching you unravel, loves knowing you can’t get enough of him, loves knowing you’re his.

his free hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, desperate circles over your clit.

‘come on,’ he urges, voice dark and dripping with sin. ‘cum for me again. make a fucking mess, sweetheart.’

your body obeys before your mind can catch up—pleasure slamming into you, knocking the breath from your lungs as you cum, clenching down on him so tight he groans, hips stuttering.

but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow.

he keeps going, fucking you through it, dragging out every last aftershock until you’re sobbing, thighs shaking, body wrecked.

and still, he keeps fucking you. keeps using you.

‘one more,’ he whispers against your throat, voice thick with hunger. ‘one more, and then i’ll fill you up again.’

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.

[sv3t1ana]

SYNOPSIS ᯓ You were always meant to be nothing. A servant, a shadow in the grand halls, another soul swallowed by his world. And yet, he sees you. Knows you better than you want to be known. When you stop running, was it ever a chase at all?

PAIRING ᯓ trueform! Sukuna x fem! reader

WARNINGS ᯓ fem! reader, throat fucking, Sukuna is murderous, choking (barely), oral (m + f receiving), two cocks (one hole), second mouth, he's lowkey down bad for you, stomach bulge, he cries, choking on it, he wants everyone to hear you, you're lowkey jealous because he fucks you so well.

WORD COUNT ᯓ 3.4k

SERIES ᯓ GOJO ⋮ GETO ⋮ CHOSO ⋮ SUKUNA

No time for anything but duty.

Dawn was yet to break when you stirred from your thin, pearl white bedding, the distant toll of a gong signaled the start of another day to service the King of Curses. Frigid air coming from your open window causing goosebumps to kiss your skin, fingers stiff while you pushed upward to swing your feet off the bed.

The grand hall awaited.

Moving quickly through the dim corridors, your footsteps slapped against the stone. Other servants were bouncy, murmuring among themselves as they hurried to their own tasks. For some reason, Sukuna preferred you. That fact alone ensured you were allowed no leisure, no freedom, no pleasure.

The grand hall was vast, towering pillars with gilded braziers. It was your responsibility to rekindle them, to sweep away the remnants from last night’s indulgences. Scattered bones, wine stains, the destruction Sukuna left wherever he went. You worked in silence, sweeping, scrubbing, making sure to leave not a trace of mess before he entered.

By midday, your monotonous duties led you to Sukuna’s chambers. A cavernous space lined with dark silks and the ever-present scent of blood. You moved with your usual practiced efficiency, wiping down the lacquered surfaces and straightening furnishings. All while listening, there was always something to hear.

Today it was Uraume’s voice, calm and collected.

“They begged for mercy.”

Sukuna chuckled, low and amused. “Did they?”

“You slew them anyway.”

“Their supplications did but offend me,” he spoke, tone laced with disdain, waving his hand dismissively. “To levy demands upon one such as I… how unworthy the breath spent.”

Uraume didn’t argue. They never did. No one did.

It was always like this, he destroyed for no reason. No one dared to question it.

A heavy presence filled the room as you straightened the last piece of furniture. A kind of presence that made the hairs along your arms raise before you turned. You knew what was about to happen.

“You are slow today.”

His voice was smooth. You kept your eyes down, focusing on the task at hand.

“I am thorough,” you corrected, wringing the cloth in your hands over the soapy water bucket.

“Hm.”

A single sound. You’ve been here long enough to hear his smirk.

You swallowed the sharp retort that rested on your taste buds and moved toward the door when you finished your last task. Before you could reach it—

“Woman.”

You stopped, not by choice but because it was a command. Even if it wasn’t meant to be.

“Do you find my chambers displeasing?”

You blinked once, face expressionless. “I find them filthy.”

Another pause, then a laugh. Though not cruel, but entertained.

“Good.”

He merely watched as you turned on your heel and left.

You hated him.

You hated everything about him.

His arrogance, his amusement of suffering, the way he looked at you as though he were waiting for something, like one day you might offer him more than disdain.

You hated being here at all. That all your life was to serve him. Losing all purpose and reduced to serving a homicidal monster who thought himself a god.

And yet, he preferred you. That was the worst part.

He would never let you be. That's why you were the only servant allowed to perform duties inside his personal chambers. It made you wonder why you were always given the task of cleaning up after him, it was like he wanted you to see what he did.

It had been weeks of the same grueling routine of your new schedule, of enduring his presence and feeling the unwieldy weight of his gaze even when you weren’t looking. You should have expected it, that sooner or later he would grow tired of the silent treatment.

Your summons came at dusk. One of the lesser servants palpitating as they spoke.

The lord has requested you.

His chamber was dimly lit, braziers casting shadows against the silk-draped walls. Sukuna was reclined, one arm against the curve edged atop his throne.

“Woman.”

You stopped a few paces before him, reluctantly bowing to the floor.

“Lord.” The word seared your tongue, burning like embers from a growing flame.

A slow smirk grew on his lips. “How obedient.”

He studied you for a moment, tilting his head and squinting his eyes. Exhaling through his nose like he was disappointed, “you hate me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Is it amusing to state the obvious, my lord?”

He chuckled, “I find amusement in many things.” A pause, then quieter, more deliberate, “you, most of all.”

Your fingers twitched, brows furrowing slightly as your eyes narrowed. “Then find new entertainment.”

His smirk widened. More certainty than mockery from before.

“You loathe me,” he mused. “And yet, here you stand. When I call, you come.”

“I am a servant.”

“A servant whose words do not wane. And yet, you do not leave.”

You swallowed, no response to give. Truth is you took up being a servant for added protection and the free rent. Beforehand, you had been struggling to make ends meet for years. Now, you are one of the longest lasting servants Sukuna had the pleasure of employing. You could leave, sure, at the expense of your life. But you already gave your life up to serve him. It was this or death.

Sukuna leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Is it duty that keeps you here?” His eyes flickered, “or something else?”

Your breath caught halfway down your throat.

There it was, the shift. The shift you refused to acknowledge, the one he stoically waited for you to realize.

The thing is, he didn’t demand it. He didn’t ask. He simply made it inevitable.

And you hated him for it.

The silence between you stretched. You should have scoffed and turned on your heel already, leaving without another word. But here you were, feet remaining on the polished floor, fingers gripping the inside of your sleeves.

Sukuna only watched, an unreadable expression you’ve grown to detest. He had no smug grin, no sharp amusement. Only patience. He was waiting like he always did.

Your jaw clenched while your eyes darted to the floor. “You are mistaken if you think—”

He shifted and rose to his feet in one shift motion. The space between you disappeared too quickly. His presence was overwhelming, looming over him the thousands of innocent lives taken for the sake of amusement. Entertainment. One clawed finger reached forward, catching the edge of your chin and tilting your face upward.

“Am I?”

His voice was low, deep. Something sent heat crawling through your blood vessels, blaze threatening to set your skin on fire.

“You assume much,” you bit out. Resisting the instinct to pull away, resisting the urge every cell in your body was screaming at you for to pull away. After all, he would win if you did.

“I assume nothing.” His thumb brushed the curve of your jaw, cocking his head back to truly look down at you. “I see.”

Your breath was uneven, rage and something else twisting in your chest creating the perfect mixture of rage, uneasiness, desire? “And what is it you think you see?”

A deliberate smile spread across his face slowly.

“A human who does not flinch.” His fingers traced lower, skimming your throat before resting his fingers around the back of your neck and thumb resting lightly in the curve between your collarbones.

“A human who has spent years writhing over a hatred that wavers.”

“No.” You answered, “you’re wrong.”

He hummed, stepping back and releasing the hold around you. Giving you just enough space to breathe, but not enough space to release you from the metaphorical tether he tied, binding you both together.

“Perhaps,” he pondered. “Or perhaps you are afraid of what hatred becomes when it festers too long.”

There was an invitation, a challenge in his tone. Something else entirely different from the usual amuse present in his gaze.

You should leave.

Walk away.

Turn and never come back.

But you didn’t.

That was all the answer he needed.

The worst part was he never saw you as weak, he didn’t dismiss you like he did other servants. He knew you would kneel before him willingly so there was no point in asking. Instead, he lured, pulled, and twisted until you were the one standing too close.

He leaned in, breath ghosting over your ear and down your neck. “Tell me, human,” he murmured. “If your hate is so pure, why is it that you linger?”

You could only shake your head, will your heart to stop its swift pace.

Moments of silence pass, Sukuna feeling you through his eyes, arms crossed across his chest while you kept your gaze low and head slightly bowed.

“What is it that you want?”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Ah,” he said, tilting his head and bringing his hand up to his chin as if he was in great contemplation. “Finally, the right question.”

“You know what I want,” he continued, his voice nothing over a small rumble. “The real question is, what is it that you seek?”

Your breath stilled, he was doing it again.

Twisting, digging, forcing you to see something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You hated him.

And yet—you wanted him.

He hummed and walked away, turning around half way to curl his finger at you, petitioning you to follow. You did just that, unsure of how this all happened. How had you got here in the first place? Your own feet brought you here, yet you barely remember the journey. Here you remain, following your lord where his bed lay.

It’s then that he grabbed your body whole, whipping you around to face him while he sat on his bed as you stood between his legs.

“Well?” He began after moments of stillness and silence. “On your knees.” While he gripped the crown of your head and pushed you to the floor.

You didn’t resist. In fact, you obliged without hesitation.

You skillfully opened his robe to reveal his rock hard length. Holding back a gasp at the sight before you—two cocks. Nimbly gripping both with each hand, choking each while you lapped your tongue on both tips, spitting and letting it drip to his base, giving each equal treatment.

He watched before you, an expressionless face as you loved on his cocks, reacting indifferently.

You gazed up with inquisition to watch his reaction as you dragged your tongue down one and began pumping a steady rhythm with the other in hand.

He let out a quiet hiss, almost too quiet for your dept ears to hear when you completely enveloped him in your mouth, tongue swirling around his length while his cock head grazed your uvula, causing you to gag. You coughed around his cock, letting dribbles of spit mixed with his precum drip from your mouth to his base. You sucked and sucked, pinching your cheeks around his thick veiny circumference.

You only popped! your mouth off him when you felt his hips jerk in attempt to throat-fuck you. It wasn’t now that he was allowed that control. Not after the nauseating consciousness he forced upon you earlier.

Lowering your lids while you traced the veins up and down his second cock, using your free hands to jerk his other, twisting in tandem, squeezing tightly when you reached his angry red tip. You pointed your tongue and circled his tip and opening, as if to tease the one you serve.

You watched as his eyes narrowed, you saw the way he held back his moans. You saw the way he had to fight his body going limp by positioning his arms to brace his upper body behind him.

You embraced his second cock in your mouth, this time letting one hand pump the length your mouth couldn’t reach. He brought his hand out to smack yours away, gripping the back of your skull and pushing you down.

You choked, coughed, gagged. Tears brimming the corner of your eyes when you moaned and adjusted to the sensation of his cock in your throat.

And he was so deep you were sure he could see the outline of it. His breath quickened for a moment before he pulled you off. “Enough.” He said calmly. He wasn’t calm.

He grabbed your forearms to pull you atop him, forcing your clothed pussy to graze his spit covered, sloppy cocks.

“Your garments. Remove them at once.” He demanded.

You did as told, taking your time in attempt to mock him. Pulling your shirt over your head slowly to reveal your braless chest. You watched his blank face, not missing the way his pupils dilated ever-so-slightly when your rotund tits bounced out from the fabric holding them back. He gripped one firmly in his large hand, letting the plush tissue of your breast pillow between his fingers as he massaged with greedy desire, letting out a quiet hm like he was deciding something, or rather, coming to a conclusion.

He wanted this just as much as you.

When you removed your pants and panties he grabbed your waist tightly to position you so your pussy would grind against his cocks that lay on his naturally-defined abs.

“Hah,” he laughed. Feeling your dripping cunt coat him in even more of your sweet fluids. “Ready for me already, are you?” He still gripped you with two hands, using an extra hand he slapped your pussy. The sound of it squelching filled the empty room as he kept slapping it, causing your eyes to roll back into your skull.

You splayed your fingers on his chest for support, looking up at him with a distressed look on your face when he positioned his first cock at your entrance.

“Human, can you not handle me?” It was a rhetorical question. Not that you’d give him the pleasure of hearing your answer even if it wasn’t.

You furrowed your brows and sat down as if to prove a point, filling yourself up immediately with one of his cocks, ignoring the pain, the sting you felt while he nearly tore you apart.

He gritted his teeth, “I see now.” He smiled, “you are too inexperienced.”

You stuffed yourself repeatedly, almost seeing stars every time your hips descended at the limited capacity your small body had in comparison to him. “Inexperienced?” you huffed out between breaths, tears rolling down your cheeks and eyes pinched shut. “My lord… should you… expect me to… lay with more men?”

“I never said such a thing.” He growled, seeking the strength to resist stuttering his hips from your painfully languid pace. He didn’t want to hurt you too much.

You felt your walls begin to flutter around his cock already, your clit hitting the wet tongue of the mouth on his stomach every time you filled yourself with him. It had been only a few minutes of this, and yet your body still hasn’t adjusted. He had a good two inches that wouldn’t fit. His tip was already kissing your cervix, the ache that rang through your entire body like a bell when your poor pussy couldn’t keep up with even a slow pace. He was painfully large.

“Make haste, human.” He spoke, lowering his lids and sucking an inhale through his lips. “Hasten your pattern. Reach your precipice.”

You felt the building pressure in your stomach when he spoke, the coil tightening in your abdomen as you lost composure and came from a single one of his cocks alone when you felt him internally grunt and muscles tighten beneath your palms. Your body nearly went limp, as when you went to collapse forward he caught you, switching positions quickly so you lay on your back with him between your legs, now pulled out from your entrance.

“Inadequate,” he voiced, gripping both cocks with either hand, centered at your entrance. “This shall be rectified at once.”

And before you knew it, he was inching both of his cocks inside you. It burned, it felt as if he was searing you apart, like you were a fly compared to an elephant. The throb you felt radiating through you that started at your center, the sweet, sweet throb.

You saw the way he looked up at you, looking for permission to continue. You threw your head back whimpering, gripping the sheets at your sides with your mouth agape. Looking at him once more to see him avert his concerned gaze turn into a more nonchalant one.

“You must take this.” He looked down, having the tongue on his lower stomach dart out to lap at your folds, caressing your clit with care as if to soothe your pain.

He took the hint when you linked your ankles behind his sculpted back, pulling him in. He gripped your thighs, threw your ankles above his shoulders and pulled your body to him. Letting him fill up as much as possible before hitting the limit.

Getting in another inch or two, he began his erratic pace. Grunting as he thrusts, he held a wicked, evil smirk on his face while he gripped your waist like you’d run away.

“I… I still hate you,” you reminded him. Sukuna made you drunk. It was the pain, the pleasure, the agony from losing this fight with him. He only let out a demented laugh in response.

You panted loudly, clenching around his length as if it were a lifeline. You’d gotten somewhat used to his size with just one cock, and now he fucked you apart with both. It was truly a transcendental experience, pain morphing into pleasure, hate turning into a reluctant passion.

He removed one cock and began fucking you at an erratic pace with the other. His other cock slapping your stomach each time he snapped his hips, rutting into you and grunting like an animal.

You were still so tight, and now his one cock could fit fully inside you, like he really did stretch you out to fit him. He saw the bulge of himself outlining your lower abdomen, giggling to himself.

“You humans,” he huffed out, voice low and gritty, “are so fragile.”

Your moans only became louder when he pounded faster, deeper. At one point deciding to cover your own mouth in attempt to lower your voice from being heard, he smacked it away.

“You must not.” He commanded. “The estate must be apprised of our connection.”

He then brought his calloused hand to rest at the base of your neck, teetering on the edge of just barely gripping you but still keeping you in his hold. Your fingers linked behind his neck, beckoning him to come closer.

Your lips met, kissing for the first time and sharing breaths, moaning in his mouth. And fuck, was he a good kisser. You wondered if he’d ever done this before… and with who.

His lips devoured yours like he’d been waiting years for your arrival. Like he could never get enough. It was such a stark contrast to his usual bloodthirsty demeanor. He was ruthless in having you, lying in wait for you to realize what you already knew. The festered hatred splitting in two to create something new. The fire burning in your chest with hate wasn’t so different from the fire in the pit of your stomach as his cock alone made you cum for the second time tonight.

Sukuna rarely demanded, and he never chased. He simply stood, watched, and waited.

When the moment came, and years lying in wait for the moment when you turned toward and not away, he would not gloat. He would only smirk, as if to say, finally.

For all his taunting, smug certainty, he was just as bound to you as you were to him, your lord. Something about you was different than the rest of the servants. The care and precision you put into your duties was different than their usual mindless acts of submission. Your defiance was sharp and deliberate. You may serve him, but you never belonged to him.

And that was what he sought most from humans and rarely found. Not a servant, not obedience, but you. Entirely and willingly consumed by something stronger than hatred.

That’s why he gravitated towards you, and that’s why he picked you to be the first human to ever become intimate with him.

Therefore he waited. He waited for the moment you’d stop resisting the inevitable. For the moment you were his just as he, in the depths of his cruel, stubborn heart, was yours.

Which is why when he expended himself, painting your walls with thick ropes after ropes of cum, room filled with the slowing slap of skin, grunts, panting, smelling of shared sweat and sex, you just had to ask,

“My lord, are you crying?”

[miyaz6ki]

watching kinich jerk off n hes nervous about it 🙏🙏

NSFW content below the cut // old ass ask 😞

fuckfuckfuckfuck why are you looking at him like that?! fuck he feels like he's gonna cum already if you tend to keep watching that intently!

there was nothing wrong in getting 'confortable' in your own room but it was another thing if you got caught jerking it to your roommate.

but damn this whole watch him get off to the thought of you thing was making him real sensitive now. no way— was he really turned on by.. the mere thought of it?!

yes to tldr!! because he was caught like a bitch in heat, moaning your name oh-so-sweetly, thinking you wouldn't hear but there you were. on the edge of the bed, and observing his fingers slowly move up and down his shaft.

"no need to be so slow just because I'm watching you know." he only flushes harder hearing your words, but if he goes too fast than what he can handle right now, he feels like he's gonna explode!!

"buuut... you know.. that's fine.. I could.. always help you though." ahhh fuck what a loser you'll think of him, his dick just spurting out a load hearing that sentence. you'd really help?

he didn't let out a single damn moan, kinich was too embarassed to face you after what just happened. his head still thrown back out of pleasure, his back forming a perfect arch.

yet another warm, strong grip was felt on his cock. he immediately sprung back up— "what- what're you doing, (name)?!" the sudden panic sets in, yet it felt so pathetic as he tried to move away but the friction against your hand was too much for him to handle.

"look like you want help. and i'll give it pretty boy. don't worry." he wasn't one to submit but damn were you hot when in control. he shrunk back to his original position and let you stroke his member instead. it'd probably feel a lot better anyway.

and better it was—the euphoric feeling of your digits running over all seven inches, and teasing the slit of his dick. he actually just might cum all over your palm if you keep stroking it like how you are right now.

"ahhn—(name)..." his face scrunched up in pleasure, your touch lasting longer as it romaed over the tip of his shaft.

"soooo good right? you like the way that feels?" and all he can really do is hum, hum that slowly turns to a moan as he tries to find the letters of your name.

this was gonna be a long night.

[avaredava]

Sooo

You're "coworkers" with Toji/Shiu. Let's say you're like an independent contractor, similar work as them. Shiu walks in on Toji bending you over a counter and fucking you?

Oh man. I 100% believe Shiu has a filthy mouth and would tease you through it. Better yet, him AND Toji talk you through it.

I also think Shiu wouldn't really join. He MIGHT jerk off. He would definitely take pictures if he knew you were okay with it and tell you he would use them later.

I'm barking-

Damn marry me Malice 😩 YOU MALICE make me scratch at the walls and bark istg

MDNI

Master list's

⯌Sum

Shiu helps you and Toji fuck like dogs ◖⚆ᴥ⚆◗

⯌ Wc

1.3k

(Not proof read)

⯌ Warnings

Shiu rubs your clit for a second, masturbation, toji's insane backshots, shiu smokes (duh), some killing, consensual groping (toji killed him), blood splatter, guns, crying, overstim, Shiu directing what Toji should do to you, size kink, size diff, praising, degradation, unprotected (wrap before you tap ya'll), creampies

୨୧・・・・୨୧

It was late at night and the air was crisp as you walked into this big mansion for this fancy gala. You needed information from a rich guy to effectively know what he does and also effectively kill him.

But he was also a horn dog...

So your objective was to seduce him while Toji and Shiu stay on the lookout.

When you were finally settled in, you went to the target, dancing and swaying beautifully. But Shiu's eyes were clearly planted on your ass. Toji elbowed him to focus on the targets movements and if he runs and shit like that.

What he really wanted was for Shiu to stop looking at your ass.

Eventually fucking ugly ass old man target (what Toji thinks he was), let out his obvious perv tendency's and the guy groped your ass. The objective was to kill him anyway and get information.

But Toji fully forgot about the last part and shot him in front of everyone. All the women in the fancy dresses screeched, scrunching their front of the long dresses up then running out.

The men screamed like little bitches it made you chuckle but the blood on your face made you disgusted. What made you more pissed is that you didn't get information that you needed since Toji got fucking jealous or something.

The three of you ran out and as soon as the cold air hit your skin in the skimpy dress you were wearing sent a shiver down your spine but you were still livid.

You and Shiu scolded Toji. He just smirked the whole time then you lost it. "Toji take one fucking thing serious! You can get us into big trouble! Just because you don't know how to control your stupid fucking emotions! You're so full of yourself! We can get in very bad danger not just from the cops knowing what we look like, but from the very dangerous people!"

You were panting heavily after the very long rant. Toji grinned at Shiu and he fucking smiled back, you were about to continue calling them both immature this time but you got cut off.

Toji was the one to talk first. "Such a brat." Shiu nodded and let out a huff before replying. "Last time I checked they need to be punished."

You should be yelling more but the way that Shiu grinned with a cigarette poking out of his rosy lips and Toji's deep raspy laugh just made your thighs squeeze shut and you get wet.

"Well she got quiet." Shiu commented. "Lets get her back to the office, eh Toji? Maybe make sure she makes other noises. Not the bratty ones; but the bratty ones are cute though."

_

You all eventually get to the office from the long car ride. Before Shiu even fully closes the door Toji's stuck to your body, kissing your neck like a hungry man. He really was hungry for you, for your body.

Shiu lights one of his cigarettes, some smoke filling the room. "Toji put her on the desk." Shiu commanded in that cold stern voice that made your juices practically drip down your legs because you were so wet and needy.

Toji picked you up throwing you over his shoulder smacking your ass and you let out a small needy whine. While Shiu sat down on the chair at his desk still smoking.

Toji put you beside the area where Shiu was sitting so he could get a full view of what he's gonna do to you. Shiu just kept smoking as Toji undressed you.

Toji slid up your dress and made out a deep chuckle, you tried to close your legs for some friction but obviously Toji didn't let you.

"No panties or bra? Such a little slut, you wanted this." He was about to take off your red heels that have ropes that wrap around your calves. But Shiu obviously thought it was hot. "Keep the heels on."

He did just that.

Toji tried to quickly undress but you were letting out needy whines so Shiu stood up and put his cigarette in your mouth. He put his lips to your forehead and rubbed your clit to keep you stimulated.

Toji let out possessive growls he really wanted to touch you.

Once he was finished he pushed Shiu to the side and took the cigarette out of your mouth and threw it back at Shiu. "Don't want the pretty girl to have damaged lungs huh?" He glared at Shiu.

He pumped his big cock. You let out a nervous whine. Shiu held your hand gently as toji lined up with your entrance. Your ass was still on the desk while your legs were around Toji's waist.

"Biggg stretch." Toji mumbled in your ear getting you ready for his big cock. He pushed in and his veins were hitting spots you didn't know existed.

"Toji be more gentle." Shiu commanded. He looked at your poor small hole that was on display for him and chuckled. "Is he big baby?" You nod already cock drunk and it hasn't even been a minute.

Shiu noticed Toji was more pleasuring himself, not even trying to hit your g-spot so he stood up and whispered in his ear. "Thrust up a little, and go a little deeper."

He did exactly that and you practically screamed. Shiu had a small (big) problem. The way your pants and whines got louder because of his help just made the tent in his pants tight.

He sat back down before taking out his cock and pumping it slowly, teasing himself. "Thrust harder." Shiu said breathy. Toji's lips pressed to yours in a way that made your legs shake around him.

"I-I'm gonna cum!" You holler out. "Take it from the back." Shiu whined this time and that beautiful noise he made just made you squeeze around Toji so hard and get impossibly wet. Toji pulled out and made you get off the desk and bend over holding it. He slapped your ass before plunging in.

"Fuck your tight..." Toji moaned out. Shiu took some shaky pictures of your fucked out face drooling on his desk.

"Rub her clit- fuck." Shiu grunted out, once again Toji complied to his exact requests. He wanted to make you feel good! He never wanted to admit but, a big reason why he's listening is because, Shiu is a bit more experienced.

Toji wanted to cum so bad but he kept thinking of the ugliest things. It was worse especially when someone was watching. His fingers quickened on your clit making sure he was safe from cumming first.

The pleasure was mind shattering, the combination on his tip hitting your cervix and sliding out and massaging your g-spot made you feel absolutely nothing but his dick and those throbbing veins making you feel so good.

You felt your orgasm coming quick. "I-I'm gonna cum Toji!" You let out a little high pitched moan. "Harder and rub her clit quicker." Shiu commanded once again in that breathy tone that made your knees buckle.

The way his cock bruised you so nicely, Shiu's commanding tone that makes your mouth water. His hips smacking your ass so fast, his thick cock makes you squeeze so tight around him.

"Cum inside Toji."

That sentence you spoke in that breaking voice, that voice that clearly wants your insides painted white. The gross things didn't work anymore, he came instantly with a loud groan, you came right after with a beautiful moan.

You squirted, mixing with his cum as he fucked it back in with his cock. He pulled out, both of your juices and cum rolled down your legs.

He kisses your neck and grabs Shiu's tie that was hanging loosely around his neck to clean your messy thighs and pussy. Shiu grunted when he messed up his tie but he's gonna use it for personal matters later anyway.

Toji picked you up kissing your fucked out face as you leaned into his warmth. Unfortunately Shiu hasn't had an orgasm yet and has just been teasing himself.

"Well Toji you had your shot, my turn."

୨୧・・・・୨୧

A/N: omfg i had to re-write it twice bc it deleted the draft i'm so pissed

[crowsofdarkness]

After weeks of arguing, you thought your relationship with Bucky was near the end. That was until you held something positive in your hand.

18+ CW's below the cut(angst, language, unprotected pinv in Bucky's computer chair, Bucky having a sudden breeding kink)

The door slamming in the small confines of my apartment echoed causing me to jump, doing whatever I could to keep the tears at bay. I wouldn't cry, not for him. Not for Bucky.  Even though the moment he walked in the door, all I wanted to do was cry not only because of the constant arguing but because I missed him terribly. He was here physically but emotionally, Bucky was checked out. 

"Asshole," I grumbled under my breath, eyes boring daggers into the closed door of his office/studio. 

It had been weeks of non stop fighting yet barely speaking to each other. He’d been gone on missions constantly so he could avoid being home. When I needed him the most, he was gone. 

Ignoring the thoughts plaguing my existence lately, I blew out a shaky breath and forced myself to turn back towards the kitchen counter.  The exhaustion had been buried deep in my bones for the last couple of weeks and I didn’t think it had anything to do with working almost every day. All I wanted to do was curl in bed to sleep the rest of the evening away. Even though Bucky's words from our fight this morning before I left for work kept pestering me. 

"I haven't thought much about the future. I'm trying to focus on getting myself better, mentally, before having kids." 

I asked him in the middle of yet another argument where he thought this relationship was going because I made the mistake of mentioning how I felt like things were stale between us. Bucky didn't think of the future. Of our future. He only thought of the now. 

It had been weeks of arguing. Weeks of walking on eggshells around each other. Weeks of not having sex. And weeks of keeping a secret to myself. Now that I knew how Bucky felt, I couldn't decide on if I should continue to keep it to myself or tell him which could potentially ruin everything. 

The urge to cry burned in my throat as I snatched the bag off of the kitchen counter and locked myself in the bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a long moment, noting the dark circles under my eyes. 

Averting my gaze away from the mirror, I dug out the box from the bag and nearly choked on a breath when I read over the letters once more. I nearly dropped it in the pharmacy when the realization began to sink in. 

Pregnancy Test. 

I had missed my period last month and it was coming up on when I was supposed to get it this month but with how I’d been feeling, I knew I wouldn’t be getting my period this month either. 

That night was a night where we had a huge blowout argument, both of us questioning if we loved another. Deep down we knew we still loved each other and it was wrong for us to question it. But both of us were stubborn so instead of admitting our love, we decided to fuck out our frustrations; Bucky dragging me to the shower with him as I wrapped my legs around his midsection, marking his neck as mine while his cock slammed into me. Afterwards, Bucky helped me to our bed and apologized for the fight as he held me against his chest. I took the morning after pill later that afternoon once we realized we weren’t safe which is why I was hoping the test would be negative. Maybe the reason why I missed my period was because of all the stress I’d been under. 

“Might as well get this over with,” I grumbled under my breath while ripping open the box. 

It came with two tests and I figured it would be better if I used both so after peeing on both sticks, I set them on the counter and washed my hands. These next five minutes were going to be incredibly slow so after I changed into one of Bucky’s shirts and opted out of wearing pants, I paced the bathroom.

“Shit,” I clutched my chest when the timer on my phone went off. 

As I reached for the tests which were overturned, I paused for a moment wondering if maybe I should have been doing this with Bucky. 

“If he wasn’t such an asshole,” I muttered to the thought in my head and turned over the two tests. 

My heart was in my ears, in my throat, and in the depths of my stomach when I saw the one word that sealed our fate. 

Positive. 

Both tests were positive. 

“Fuck me,” I breathed while resting a hand on my stomach, the tears finally falling. 

There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that even though we were fighting, Bucky would be fine with whatever I decided to do. It was my choice. But would he stay with me? The Avengers seemed to be all over the world, helping people who needed it, hence why Bucky had been in a mood lately. I knew his anger wasn't directly related to me but because he’d been overworked. I also knew that didn’t give him the right to take it out on me. 

Pulling up Bucky’s text thread on my phone, shaking fingers worked out a text even though he was still in the next room. 

Me: I need to talk to you. It’s important. Can you meet me in the living room please? 

Bucky 🩶: Not right now. 

With a snarl, I snatched the tests off the bathroom counter and stormed out into his office, letting the door smack against the wall. Bucky didn’t bother to look away from the book on his lap as he sat on his computer chair. 

“Congratulations. You’re going to be a father,” I snapped before turning to walk away. 

The chair creaked as Bucky leaned forward to gaze down at his desk, a soft breath catching in his throat. 

“Doll,” his vibranium fingers grazed my wrist, halting me. “Wait.” 

“What? Are you going to claim I’m faking this?” I snapped, slicing him with my gaze. 

“I-,” Bucky’s face softened as he looked back at the pregnancy tests. “You’re pregnant?” 

I let the anger fade momentarily when I heard the sincerity in his voice; the slight excitement. 

“Yeah, I guess so. I missed my period last month and I’ve been so exhausted lately. Not to mention my boobs have been really sore,” I cringed while running a hand over my chest. 

Bucky glanced up at my breasts with a small smirk but then he let his gaze lower on my stomach where it rested for a long few beats of silence. Fear of what he would do or say weighed heavy on my shoulders causing me to remain frozen in front of him. The air in the room was thick with an unreadable tension and the ringing in my ears was deafening. I couldn’t even hear our shared breathing as Bucky continued to stare at my stomach before his large hands rested there.

“Hi,” he breathed. “I’m your dad.”

I dragged a finger over his cheek, those ocean eyes I adored so much gazed up at me. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what, doll?” Bucky asked with furrowed brows. 

“For everything. For avoiding fixing things between us by working non stop.”

I rattled off which made him link fingers with me and brought me down onto his lap, both of us now sitting in his computer chair. He rested his hands over my hip, slowly raising up the hem of my shirt so he could drag calloused fingers over my skin. It was the most contact we’ve had in a week and I leaned farther into him. His nose dragged over my jaw, breathing me in. 

“I’m sorry for all of the hurtful things I’ve said. I’m sorry for ignoring your feelings when I should have asked you up front what was wrong. I’m sorry for locking myself away with work instead of fixing things between us,” Bucky apologized. 

I looked deeper into his eyes, taking in the slight freckles on his face. “Can I be honest?” 

When Bucky nodded, I continued. “You freaked me out when you said you never thought of our future and now that I’m pregnant, I’m worried you’re going to leave.” 

“Absolutely not,” he cupped my cheek, dragging his thumb just underneath my eye to wipe away the stray tears. “I’ve never thought about the future until you came into my life, doll. I might not express it enough, which is my fault but please know you’re in my future. Especially now.” 

His free hand grazed over my stomach and I nodded into the grasp on my cheek, leaving a kiss on the inside of his palm. 

“Can you promise me one thing?” I asked. 

“Anything.” 

Biting my lip, I spoke. “Can you promise not to propose to me just because I’m pregnant? I want you to propose because you want to, not because you feel like you have too.”

Something flashed in his eyes but Bucky eventually nodded. “Of course.”

While sitting on his lap, the chair continued to creak underneath our shared weight and I sighed, ready to get off which caused him to tighten his grip on me. 

“Stay,” he breathed in the crook of my neck. “I need to show you how sorry I am.” 

Quickly, Bucky’s lips were on mine in a leisurely kiss. It started off like how our first kiss did, like he was testing the waters again. I nearly sobbed into the kiss when I felt the love pour out of him. I’d been desperate to feel this way again. With his hands on my hips, he began moving me up and down his lap, the hardness of his cock pressing against the thin material of my panties. His name fell from my lips, almost immediately swallowed by his tongue as it explored my mouth; tasting me. 

Vibranium fingers slinked up my shirt to graze over my back before Bucky tossed it over my head and down to the floor, breaking our kiss. Lust bleed in his already dark eyes as he looked at my stomach, his cock straining in his jeans. 

“Shit,” he groaned while pressing kisses along my chest. “I can’t wait to see you round with my baby.” 

A moan fell from my lips as I exposed more of myself to Bucky, his teeth now grazing over my nipples. Along with my sore breasts, my nipples were extra sensitive. 

“Bucky,” I pulled on his shirt. 

He immediately understood and helped me work it off. Immediately my nails raked along his chest as my lips met his again in a fiery kiss, this one more intense than the last. With a gentle tap to my ass, I raised my hips slightly so Bucky could drag down my panties with a bit of maneuvering. However with his jeans, it would have taken way more manuerving on his part to slide them off completely. 

“We should move to the bed,” I suggested, breathless. 

Bucky shook his head, keeping his lips on the current mark he was working on my neck. “Absolutely not. I want you to sit on my cock while I sit on the chair.” 

Feeling feisty, I pulled away from him slightly to gaze down at him. “Really? This has nothing to do with Steve making it slip the other day how he and his girlfriend did something eerily similar to this.” 

He rolled his eyes with a groan. “Please don’t bring up Steve having sex right now.” 

When he motioned towards his unzipped jeans, I let out a soft giggle and then reached my hand in his briefs to grab his cock, already so warm and hard. 

“I’ve missed this,” I whispered, gathering his precum to drag it over his head. 

“Doll,” my name came out through gritted teeth as Bucky rested his head on my shoulder. “I need to be inside of you. Please.”

Pulling his cock out from his briefs completely, I dragged it between my folds a few strokes before sinking down on him; both of us letting out a loud groan of pleasure.  It had been so long since we’ve felt this so I knew we wouldn’t last long. 

“Fuck,” Bucky strangled out while wrapping his arms around me to bring me closer. “I can’t wait to watch your belly get round with my baby.”

I mewled in response, mouth busy with leaving dark marks across his neck while one of my hands slipped between our bodies to press circles on my clit, bringing me closer to the edge. 

His cock twitched inside of me, indicating he was close when his hips stilled. “You'd look so beautiful pregnant with my kid. Your belly and tits-oh shit." 

“Don’t stop,” I begged while riding him faster this time, the chair nearly falling over. 

“Doll,” Bucky’s voice was strained so I brushed away the hair from his sweat slicked forehead. “I’m going to fill you up over and over again.” 

I nodded as the coil in my stomach began to ignite in a blaze of ecstasy, my orgasm about to snap. 

“I love you,” I cried out when my body finally snapped, arousal coating Bucky’s cock. 

With one final thrust, he followed me over the edge as he filled me with his cum and breathlessly announced his love for me as well. Falling into him with exhaustion, Bucky lifted me from the chair and carried me through our apartment towards the bathroom. 

“Are you alright?” He questioned while still carrying me. 

I pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m okay.”

Setting me on the closed toilet seat, he turned on the shower and removed his pants while we waited for the steam to bellow around us. 

[satocidal]

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭“Smile for the Camera!” - Suguru Geto

Synopsis: one night really does change all - where you meet a hefty porn director Suguru and in the process of misunderstandings, you end up in his office, in the cutest maid suit.

— word count: 4.5k (i am sorry i just dk how to stop and how to start)

— a/n: this had been in my wip for so long lmao - it feels a little rushed to me but i'm also a bit rusty since it's been a while so yes lol @indiewritesxoxo you'd asked for a tag so😭hope you do like

— warnings: MDNI!!Fem Reader!! slightly manipulative! suguru, i tried to make him as gentle as i could; dumbification(?); camera; soft!dom geto; very botched representation of the porn industry; i have nothing against porn actors; masturbation; dressing up; Suguru is bisexual here, so is Satoru; reader has fem clothing; leashes and stuff; humiliation; praise kink: oral (fem rec)

The two men sat pretty and sprawled, Suguru Geto, head director of the freefuckforall website, along with Satoru Gojo, the website's longest running and most loyal actor.

“The industry is getting boring,” Satoru rolled his head, eyes closed, words directed towards his best friend who sat across from him on the couch.

Suguru only smirked, eyes stuck and watching every moving slide with lucrative detail - “I’ve been telling you, start filming sex with men, you already have it - just film it, more money, more opportunity,”

Satoru only giggled to himself - the boyish nature somehow suiting his towering self, "you know i have a different sort of fanbase - full of perverts who like seeing me fill up a cunt,"

He popped in his mouth the last of his grapes, eyes hazy as he looked at Suguru, “besides, what for? To fulfill your wretched fantasies? You already act as half a cuck anyways,” 

Suguru snorted along, shutting his laptop then and getting up to stretch, “a. develop a new fanbase then, those who'd like watching you get your ass stuffed, b. someone has to edit and direct, no? Lest you want people to see all the clips where you lie all fucked out - which would fall in common with your new style if you try it,”

The story was so fresh in both their heads - that one time Satoru had been reduced from his cocky self to a pleading and begging mess as the girl rode him - it took a lot of convincing (read: sex and treats) from Satoru before Suguru agreed to keep his ego intact.

Satoru just pouted, reaching over to grab Suguru’s share of snacks - having finished his own, “that was one time - and that girl was such an amateur, just started going at it suddenly,” 

“And the might Satoru, the amazing porn star couldn’t take it,” Suguru teased, his voice a low drawl, “but eh, it’s true, i don’t have fun filming the same shit over and over myself - it’s all repetitive,”

“Any new projects then?” Satoru asked, popping a grape in his mouth, Suguru grinned and shook his head - “not for you, but...I’ve got this new chick, she’s cute,” 

Satory raised a brow now, “cute like…date cute or cute like new fuck and more bucks?”

“Both,” Suguru grinned, “met her last night, at a party - seemed a little slow at first, she was awfully innocent,” he laughed, and Satoru did too.

“So the corruption kind huh,” 

They laughed again.

“I called her for a meeting today, said she had a dream for modelling, wanted a breakthrough in the industry - well, not this industry but..yeah,”

Satoru smirked, “you lied? How’d ya’ get her to agree?”

But Satoru knew all too well how Suguru got girls to agree, especially your kind - a few smiles, a few drinks, a little back story about himself and a little attention sprinkled, as gentle as he could be, Satoru really couldn’t remember any girl who had denied him a second date.

“Didn’t lie or nothin’...just told her i’m a director, we shoot a bit…unorthodox but it is what it is and makes good money, she couldn’t see an issue there,” he laughed.

Satoru did too - it wasn’t a lie, nor the truth.

“When’s she coming?”

Suguru checked his watch, smirked, “15 minutes, better get going then,” he grabbed his phone and laptop, ready to reach his office.

“And when would she really come?” Satoru egged on, with a grin. “Well they usually get wet by the time the camera begins anyway so…” Suguru grinned as he stepped out of the lounge and towards his office, where you were already seated.

-

The buzz felt alive, it made him feel alive.

Another wink to some girl he’d been gazing at - another sleazy line whispered in the ear of a boy who’d been grinding against him all night, none would accompany him to his mansion, he revelled in that itself.

Suguru focused on a waving hand - Shoko’s, he smiled softly at her, striding over to her, “yes ma’am?” he grinned, watching her down her drink.

“Wanna meet someone?” she said simply - a little flicker of a smile on her face. “Like a date?” he asked, before following her regardless, he knew better than to question.

And that’s where he saw you, a sight, he deemed you instantly.

A mini skirt you’d on, and a little top - just a tease - clearly out of your zone as you sipped on your-whatever-drink, eyes instead, drinking into the crowd, obviously searching for Shoko.

“Her?” Suguru asked, leaning down to Shoko’s ear, “sure?” 

A hint of worry seeped into his voice - girls like you often proved to be tough to work with, a little silly, always nervous around his work space and huge cry-babies.

Shoko grinned in response - she’d been tasked weeks ago to find Suguru a new girl for his pieces, a new face, some new energy to spice things up.

What he hadn’t expected was that she’d find someone so…inexperienced with his workspace, clearly.

Well, of course Suguru could tell who was and wasn’t - the director in him was keen, very keen — he saw money shots before one could even consider one.

And just like that, introduced to Suguru Geto you were, a nervous smile, yours and a smirk, his.

-

One drink, three and then a total of five, the bartender merely glanced up as he passed suguru’s bill to him, you sat beside him, all giggly now.

“How much do i…?” you slurred - a grin on your face, Suguru chuckled, “don’t worry darlin’ - got ya’ covered,”

You smiled wide at that, “you’re so nice - at first i was scared of you,” you confessed innocently, promptly, making his grin almost wolfish now.

“Tell me,” he nudged, hand leading you through the crowd so gently, to a secluded spot in the club, to the couch, “what did you think, hm?” 

His voice was smooth, his touch smoother - comforting and yet, you’d felt on the edge the entire night.

And yet, Suguru had nothing but sweet all night, not a single touch that went wrong, not a single gaze that was lifted wrong - just a long ear offered as you spoke and spoke, about work and life, obviously you'd needed this little escape.

Shoko has been gone ever since she introduced you to this gentleman.

“I thought…I thought…” you slowly had your eyes meet his, a flicker of confusion in them now, “i’m still thinking, what do you…do?” you asked - rightfully so - even if you did jump the conversation all too sudden for his taste.

Something he'd been avoiding all night, respite the true intentions of this meeting.

However, You’d bared your days and nights already - a huge mouth that you had, all under the drink of course, otherwise, the sober you was biting your lip beside him so hard that he was afraid you’d bleed.

And all you’d learned about him was that he was named Suguru Geto, and his friend was Shoko, all details shared by Shoko.

Suguru smiled, considering how much to share, “I’m a director,” he mused, watching your eyes widen, “yeah? I always wanted to become a model,” your tone was almost excited,  “what kinda’ director?” you asked next, he shrugged casually.

“Here and there, ya’know?”

You shook your head in a no, he smiled softly and slowly helped you out of the club, it was getting late anyways.

-

You both stood outside, his car was right there in the parking.

“Rather have me drive you home doll? Or do I get you an uber? Whatever makes you feel better but…” his words trailed off as your fingers tugged at him partially from the cold and partially from the many people lined outside the club, “...i think it’s better i drop you, yeah?”

And so, that’s what he did - civic duty? Maybe; Did he find you adorable and wanted to hear you talk more? Definitely.

As you climbed in his car, he hummed - mind unsure but he didn't want to let the shtick drop just yet, “you asked what kinda’ director, yeah?”

You nodded in your seat, as he fixed your seat belt, hands brushing against your plush skin, you licked your lips at the contact, he did too.

“Well, it is a bit…unorthodox,” he said, lips pursed, debating if it was okay - if he wanted to drag you in, “how desperate are you, to be in the industry doll?”

He asked softly, as the car revved, somehow you felt your cheeks heating up, “uhm…it’s like…a dream, i - well, not very ambitious but…if a chance,” you stammered out, he couldn’t help but chuckle, deepening the warmth you felt.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said as he nodded to the directions you gave him for your house, “why don’t you drop by at my office tomorrow hm? You can come, see the work and all, and if you are interested, why not? Shoko will have you filled in with the details, yeah?”

You could only nod, after all, this gentleman wouldn’t be an issue, right?

-

A deep breath inhaled, a lot of regret exhaled.

You flinched every time you heard footsteps approaching, you recoiled every time a moan sounded out from one of the adjacent rooms.

You were officially in a porn-making-building-or-whatever-those-are, wearing the shortest, sluttiest outfit you ever had on - the little maid suit that Shoko had handed you right as you left the house.

“Don’t peek, it’s a surprise,” she’d reminded, and you just complied - like an idiot.

Because now, seated in this dingy office that you were, posters of porn-actresses and actors, you were sure you’d seen some of them a couple of times yourself - until, your eyes panned to the logo of the website in the corner of one of them.

Officially in the office of the biggest porn website - all because a stranger asked you to.

The previous night was fresh in your eyes - well, not really, but the regret was.

What were you even thinking? Letting a random man drive you? Coming to meet him? Talking to him about your work and life?

Perhaps, nothing.

What were you thinking when the said man actually walked into his office? With his busy footsteps and a gaze that meant business now, last night you’d thought everything else - with his charming face and laptop which would essentially also hold your file in a while?

Nothing, you really couldn’t fathom a single thought to be exact.

“Ms….l/n, is it?” he read from his sheet - pretense - yours was the only appointment he’d scheduled for that day, cancelling all others. He didn’t bother eyeing you properly, but he knew well, about how enticing you did look.

He smiled, the same smile, more twisted now, “why hello, nice seeing your pretty self again,” he said with a grin, you could only nod.

You let a small silence etch between the two of you, unacceptable, Suguru opened his laptop promptly.

“How was the ride over? All comfortable? My…” he said in almost disdain, “you haven’t even been offered water? How long have you been-”

“-why didn’t you tell me it is all this?”

The disgust was so evident in your voice, he almost felt bad.

Almost.

He hummed, “I did mention it is unorthodox…”

“How dare you assume i’m into all this - what the fuck?” you muttered, ashamed by just entertaining the thought of you being a pornstar.

“Assume what? That you would want to work in the porn industry?” he smirked, all business now, “you really can’t tell with people and then,” he rolled the cuffs of his shirt’s sleeves now, “the innocent ones like you are often the biggest whores,”

He seemed amused, you seemed tense.

You huffed, “fucking whatever - i don’t…i’m not the kind of girl… and - and this dress? Goodness it is so…” a scowl on your face finished the rest.

Suguru couldn’t blame you.

Geto shrugged, a hand raised, gesturing to the door, “very well then, you can always walk out, i understand, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea…” 

All bluff, the confidence, the flair, all bluff - he wanted you, ever since last night.

You got up, right on cue, all bluff as well, you wanted to play the gamble.

“It’s a shame…” Suguru mumbled, “shame indeed,” you did too.

His eyes narrowed as you turned, eyes dipping then to take an appreciative glance at your ass, “tell you what?” He took a deep breath.

It felt desperate, it was.

“Let me take your profiles, yeah? You’ll get it for free - by a professional of course, just compensation for all the trouble,” he shot you a smile, you gulped.

“I…i’m not sure…it was - last night, just a lot of babbling, i don’t think i’m cut for…you know? And then this outfit also…”

You weren’t sure how a smile appeared on your lips so easily when you’d been pissed the moment you realised what he’d called you for, but it did.

He shrugged again, “just some pictures doll - and who doesn’t like dressing up, yeah? I’ve got plenty more for you to choose from,” he licked his lips, eyes boring into you, you could only nod.

-

“Tilt your pretty face a little to the right, please,” you gulped, still in that maid outfit - which was now being used to its full potential, the top was half open, you were on a steel chair that felt so cold against your flushed skin, and sitting right under the spotlight - while the director sat behind his camera, not rolling, nothing, just making assessments now.

Your profiles had been done half an hour ago, the photos had been sent too, it was a little job for Suguru, you were so compliant after all, following every instruction to the dot.

Which is why it had been harder for him to resist this.

After the pictures you were served drinks again, all hefty smiles and silly conversations - about porn of course. He told you everything, how he’d shot this shot, how long the process goes, how sweet you look, and how cute you are.

“Why don’t you just show me off once again, yeah? Just…so I can see, take inspiration?”

And ever the generous that you were, ever the charming as he was, somehow, you once again found yourself at a loss for no.

Which was how you’d ended up finally, in this position.

“Press your breasts together please…i want to…ah yes,” he murmured as you did what he asked for, albeit with a gulp, it felt so weird.

In front of a camera, his gaze on your every move, and he sounded so professional, dressed well too. And then there was you, just a built in thong with that dress, the top had a sheer torso, your side boob seemed so tantalising to him.

Your nipples had hardened just as well, it was just so cute, matched with your nervousness.

-

Your top lay now open - still on, after all Suguru wouldn’t ask you to do anything out of your comfort zone, right? On the monitor suguru only watched you fidget with your fingers on your thighs, smoothening the hem of the short dress as if it would help - provide some modesty.

Top open, thighs spread - a sheen of sweat from the small humid room and face hotter than ever - hair messy and eyes now dazed, Suguru had halted with his instructions for the moment, and you -? 

You continued staring at his fingers, thoughts ran rogue - you wondered if he’d ever been on camera himself, if he’d used those skilled hands for something other than recording, if he was anything close to as long and thick as his fingers - you looked away.

shameless.

The room went quieter then, just a slight buzz, Suguru stared at his screen with eyes furrowed, “hm..i don’t know, it’s not working out very well,” he said - tone regretful, your face jocked to the side. “What? …why?” 

Suguru wanted to coo at your simplicity - so bothered, he then got up, “you were correct, it’s not for girls like you,”

Such an insult it seemed, an unknowing pout fell on your lips, you got up too, your shorter frame moving slowly towards Suguru, the skirt was so short and given the humidity, it clung to your curves perfectly now - “can i…” you licked your lips, see? 

You wanted to ask that simply but refrained, too shy of his disappointment and too prude to watch yourself.

And thus the secret of the fact that Suguru was recording nothing of you displaying yourself so shamelessly remained all but a secret.

“I’ll…oh, i’ll do whatever you ask,” you ended up muttering - exactly how he wanted to have you.

“You can’t…” he just muttered, not even trying anymore, just a small smirk as he stared at you - all aware of that raging boner in his pants, hidden only because of the dark, all aware that just a glance down would show your pretty tits, all so aware.

“I can,” you said determined this time, “it’s only for your inspiration…right? And if they do come out good…it might help somewhere,” you licked your lips, now he touched you, your cheek - his hands felt warm, sweaty.

Oh but it would help somewhere indeed.

“You sure doll? Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable,”

It felt patronizing, the smile - the eyes, he knew you  wouldn’t say no, he knew exactly how he’d sprawl you.

“So well…” he sighed deeply and then looked you up and down, “take the blouse off actually, please, go in back to the seat,” he spoke smoothly.

And you did just that.

You sat there - breasts, soft peaks - your gasps softer still, all exposed to his skillful eyes, “atta girl,” he murmured, smiling now - finally.

“Play with yourself - don’t be shy okay? Forget i’m here…”

You licked your lips…play…?

If you’d have told Shoko yesterday that you would be found half naked in the office of a man you’d found about 12 hours ago, she’d laugh in your face.

And so you began, hands cupping your tits, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh, they felt so full now - your face scrunched in focus as you tried to make it appear as sexy as possible.

“Perfect, jus’ like that…” suguru encouraged, a gulp of his own drawn - the camera finally began shooting, he couldn’t help himself after all.

your hands  - all over the swell of your breasts, slender fingers kneading and squeezing the flesh, you massaged them, slowly drawing circles around your nipples. 

“Pinch them,” he ushered from front of you, moving the camera closer now, moving towards you - he could tell with your hesitation, you were still nervous.

Your eyes remained stuck on him, so wide as he moved closer to capture your hardened nipples - “so cute,” he mumbled as you flicked them, “you play with your tits often doll?”

“N–no i…well,” you looked away shyly - only so long, Suguru had his fingers grip your jaw quickly, forcing you to look into the camera.

“Rule no. 1: always face the camera,” you nodded, he patted your cheek with a slight smirk, “go on, maybe imagine me…mm’hmm, imagine i was squeeziin’ those pretty tits, yes…”

He smiled - almost proud as you finally closed your eyes, a soft inhale as your back arched, chest obscenely jutting out - same ministrations, much hotter.

And just when you moaned - he paused the recording, “ok enough of this, get up.”

Swift you moved - feeling the shyness coat you again, he himself placed the camera down momentarily - jogging back to his table to grab you a new fabric, bright pink - shorter, skimpier.

“Wear this now, like it better than the last one?” it was small playboy bunny suit, the little bunny ears gave it away - and the tail of course.

“If it is okay by you, of course…you’re already doing so good,” he drawled and then without a word - his own hands latched t your boobs, pressing them softly - feeling them, “mmhmm, so pretty,” you gasped as he pinched your left nipple.

He continued fondling your boobs - as you stumbled a little, his practiced hand held you tight as he switched between your two boobs perfectly - teasing just so perfectly.

And when he did pull away, his fingers had you so sore - you could practically beg.

“Ready to change?” he added with a small smile - chuckling to himself as your eyes cast him a desperate look - exactly as they all did.

He handed you the costume, eyeing you expectantly, and you looked around - for the changing room.

“Uh…here?” your voice was squeakier than you’d have preferred, he laughed, “well don’t be silly,” he booped your nose then, “it’s a small office for me - of course, no changing room.”

So whatever else remained of your little shame, you pulled that down just as swiftly as you pulled the maid-skirt off, aware of just how Suguru stared.

And he did so with utmost detail, he took not of just how your slick clung to the gusset of the built in panties - of how cute you looked, trying to hide yourself, of pretty your entire body was, of how stiff his pants felt and of how he wanted to absolutely eat you up from how adorable you looked.

And he made a mental note of definitely not posting that recording anywhere.

The bodice of the suit was flattering to say the least - the pesky heart cut out for the breasts barely contained anything, and Suguru made you give him a twirl too, only to watch the little tail bounce on the curve of your ass.

“Now…i want you to get on the floor, all okay?” he asked - not caring any longer, “get down and spread your legs f’me,”

The camera was up once again, capturing every detail, the shiny suit and the way you sprawled out.

“I want you to touch yourself - forget that i’m here or we’re recording, okay? Play with that lil’ cunt for me - please?” he added the please with a little pout - as if it would solve the issue at hand.

“T- touch myself?” you echoed, eyeing him now, “isn’t that…oh it’s…”

“Too much? I get it,” suguru was quick to file in - so easy to make you think otherwise, “as i said…you’re not cut for this,”

You sighed - not wanting to prove him right and closed your eyes, “uh…okay but…fuck, okay,” you caved in, suguru wanted to kiss you deeply to comfort you instantly, to tell you that he would be the only one who got to fuck his fist while watching this recording.

But he didn’t, at the moment at least.

Thus you began again, this time your fingers on your clothed sex, rubbing slow - deliberate circles, eyes closed and mind focusing, the camera was set, Suguru simply sat aside and rubbed his own bulge, muttering little praises for you every minute.

Five minutes in and the shiny pink fabric of the bunny suit had ridden up, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of your inner thighs. Suguru felt his mouth go dry at the sight, his heart pounding in his chest.

"That's it, sweetheart," he encouraged, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "Now, I want you to start rubbing yourself faster through the fabric. Slowly, teasingly. Pretend it's my hand touching you, stroking you, making you feel good."

It was a stretch, using his name to get you off - but he knew it wouldn’t fail, never did.

Suguru watched as your hand moved between your legs repeatedly, fingers brushing faster over the front of the bunny suit. He could see the fabric beginning to dampen, to darken as your arousal grew. The sight made his cock throb, straining against the confines of his pants.

"That's my good girl," he praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. "Keep rubbing yourself, doll. Imagine it's my fingers teasing your pussy, my thumb circling your clit. I want to see you get yourself nice and wet for me."

He watched, enraptured as the camera continued recording, as your fingers moved more deliberately now, rubbing yourself more firmly through the damp fabric. 

Your breathing grew heavier, chest rising and falling more rapidly as you lost yourself in the sensation.

"Fuck, you look so sexy like that," Suguru growled, his own hand moving faster to palm his aching cock through his pants. "Don't stop, baby. Keep touching yourself, keep teasing yourself for me. I want to see you get so fucking wet, so ready for me."

Suguru watched, transfixed, as your fingers moved, your hips beginning to rock against your  own touch. 

You dared not to look into the camera - or at suguru, “go on, get yourself to cum for me doll,” he called out - eyeing the way your fingers moved more frantically - eyeing the way your breath was more ragged.

But as the minutes ticked by, Suguru began to sense something was off. 

Your touches - more frantic; breathing - more labored,and  yet the telltale signs of an impending orgasm were nowhere to be seen. Your cheeks were flush with exertion and frustration, brows furrowed as you gritted your teeth.

And just like that, Suguru's patience began to wear thin. 

He had expected you to pick up easily - but obviously, your shyness just got the better of you.

Because here you were, struggling, failing to deliver the intense, authentic performance he craved. Irritation flashed in his purple eyes as he watched you, his grip tightening on the camera mic.

"Fuck, y/n," he called, his voice a low, annoyed rumble. "What's taking so long? You should be done by now doll, not just... come on- don’t toy with yourself halfheartedly."

He watched as you tried to pick up the pace, her fingers moving at a frenzied speed, the wet spot on your bunny suit growing larger, darker. But still, no release came. Suguru clenched his jaw, his cock twitching - begging to be the help you desperately craved.

"Dammit, you're not trying hard enough," he snapped, his patience finally snapping. 

With a harsh curse, Suguru ripped off his headphones and stormed out from behind the camera. He marched over to where you sat, panting and flushed, her fingers still moving weakly between her thighs.

"Enough," he barked, grabbing your wrist and yanking your hand away. "Get your fingers out of there. I'm going to show you how it's done- can’t manage nothing without me, huh?"

You looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise and a flicker of shame grappling back at you -  But there was also a glimmer of excitement, of anticipation, at the thought of Suguru finally taking control.

And as promised Suguru didn't waste any time. He dropped to his knees in front of you, pushing your legs further apart, exposing the soaked crotch of the bunny suit to his hungry gaze. Without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his mouth against the damp fabric, his tongue laving over your clothed slit.

"Ohhh!" you gasped out loud, your back arching off the floor at the sudden, intense sensation - fingers moving to grip his hair.

Suguru was quick still, to move the crotch of your suit aside - tongue lapping on your slick folds.

Suguru groaned against her, “shit, been thinkin’ bout’ this cunt since last night,” the vibrations of his voice did none but to add to the incredible stimulation. He could taste your arousal through the thin   drenched fabric anyways, but what fun would that be ? he could smell the heady scent of your desire. It spurred him on, making him lick and suck at your clit harder, more insistently.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he muttered, his words muffled against her pussy. "I bet you're just aching to come, aren't you, baby? Desperate for release? See…told ya’ you’re perfect for this,"

He punctuated his words with a hard suck on your clit, making you cry out, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth studio floor. Suguru could feel your thighs beginning to tremble, your hips starting to buck against his mouth as he ate you out with wild abandon.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice a low, approving growl. "Let go. Come for me. I want to feel you fucking explode in my mouth. Want you on record as you lose yourself."

He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive nub. 

At the same time, he pushed a finger under the crotch of the bunny suit, rubbing your bare, slick folds, stroking your inner walls.

"Ahhh! Oh god, Suguru!" you choked, your voice echoing off the studio walls. Your body went rigid, muscles locking up as the intense pleasure crested over you. 

Suguru groaned in satisfaction, feeling your juices gushing against his finger, soaking the bunny suit even more. He lapped at you greedily, not letting a single drop of your juices go to waste.

For a minute, neither spoke - as he allowed you to catch your breath - “well, that would make…one hell of a video,” he finally muttered, picking you up along side him, “you okay doll?” he confirmed once, smiling when you nodded.

He sat you down on his chair now - behind the camera as he paused the recording again, “i won’t post it, i just…well, it’s shady but you did say you …i mean,”

You hadn’t known him long - but it felt cute to see him fumble, “it’s okay - i…i liked it,” you said shyly and he grinned - “what will you do with it then?” you asked quietly as he handed you water.

“later use of course…” he chuckled, “you want a copy?” he laughed again when you nodded.

“Say…ready for round two…without that badboy?” he referred to his camera - “with handcuffs and chains maybe?”

You could only giggle at his suggestive eye brow raise.

All of this work is original and entirely my own—please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

[stylesispunk]

"Blind Faith" | part i

Priest!Joel Miller x nightclub dancer!reader

masterlist | next chapter

summary: Running away from your home, you found a small town to stay. Once there, you met people and the priest, Joel.

wc: 5,2 k

warnings: age gap (Joel is in his late 40s, reader in his last 20s), religious conflict, a crisis of faith, temptation, forbidden attraction, forbidden romance, eventual smut, social expectations, nightlife themes, the contrast between joel's and your world, protests, mentions of exile, mention of politics. For clarification, reader is Latina on this one.

a/n: Hello. I wanted this story to be something beyond a forbidden romance between two people, after reading books and watching things I wanted to recall that reader's background comes from her being an activist. I want to approach all the topics with all due respect and I hope you do too, nevertheless, those are not going to be the main center of the story.

Happy reading and please tell me what are your thoughts about this one.

You had built a life most people only dreamed of. A life filled with passion, purpose, and the kind of joy that comes from doing what you love. You were surrounded by friends who understood you, a family you cherished with every fiber of your being, and a career that made waking up every morning feel like stepping into a dream.

You had studied dance at university, dedicating years to perfecting your craft until movement became your language, your art, your very identity. But you didn’t see yourself just as an artist, you were educated. You had spent your life asking questions, seeking answers, and standing for what was right. Politics fascinated you, not as a distant game played by men in suits, but as something alive, something that shaped the world around you. You were drawn to justice, to fairness, to the fight for those whose voices were drowned out by oppression.

Protests became as much a part of your life as well as performances. You had stood in the streets, chanting until your voice was hoarse, raising signs, raising awareness, raising hell when it was necessary. You believed in change, in the power of people united. But belief alone was never enough to stop what came next.

The illusion of safety shattered the moment power fell into the wrong hands. The men who took control of your country did not tolerate opposition. They did not welcome free thought or voices that questioned their authority. People like you, the educated, the artists, the teachers, all who had seek justice, were dangerous but because you couldn’t be controlled. Because you saw through their lies.

You remember the night your world collapsed. The hurried whispers in the dark. The fear in your mother’s eyes. The way your brother’s hands shook as he cut your hair, disguising you in a desperate attempt to buy you time.  

He drove you to the airport as your heart pounded, then, you boarded that plane, leaving behind everything you had ever known. Your home. Your family. The life you had built.

And that is why you ended up here, in a bus driving to a foreign city located in California. The bus rattled as it rolled into town, the low hum of the engine filling the silence of the nearly empty cabin. You sat near the window, watching the Californian sun stretch across the dry fields, golden and endless, nothing like the dense, humid air of home.

 Home.

The word sat heavy in your chest, a place you could no longer name without feeling the weight of exile pressing against your ribs.

This town was small, quieter than you expected, but that was good. You needed a quiet, a place to disappear, to become no one, to not be recognized. You stepped off the bus with only a battered leather suitcase and a name written on a slip of paper.

The paradise, a nightclub where a friend of a friend had said you might find work.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, though the air was warm. You must have learned to move carefully, to keep your eyes down, to not be recognized. But you couldn't help glancing up at the church as you stepped off the bus.  

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing on the steps, speaking to a woman holding a little baby in her arms. There was, a priest, dressed in black, with tired eyes and a kindness in the way he bent his head to listen. He looked up, meeting your gaze for the first, just for a fleeting second. Then, his gaze left your eyes, leaving you with a weird feeling, warmth rising up to your cheeks.

You pulled the slip of paper from your pocket, staring at the name scrawled in fading ink staring at the name scrawled in fading ink. The paradise.  

When you lifted your gaze again, the priest wasn't there anymore.

You sighed and adjusted the trap of your suitcase over your shoulder, feeling anxious creeping upon your skin as you try to picture your life in a foreign place.

You looked towards the church in the front of the street, where the priest had stood minutes before, perhaps trying to look and answer to your questions. You weren't a religious person, but you did believe in calls, and you felt the pulling thread forcing you to walk towards the church, as if something were calling you, perhaps someone.

Your feet found their way to the old church at the edge of town, its stone walls worn and cracked from years of standing against the wind. It loomed tall and hollow, the kind of place that had seen more sorrow than joy. You hesitated at the entrance, your heart beating faster than you liked.

Why am I even here? you thought. But the pull wouldn’t let you turn away.

You stepped inside.

The stained glass cast soft, fractured colors onto the worn wooden pews, painting the empty space in hues of crimson, gold, and deep blue. The scent of burning wax and old books filled your senses, grounding you in a place that felt both foreign and strangely familiar.

Your footsteps echoed as you moved deeper inside, the vast silence of the church swallowing every sound. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, an answer, a sign, something to tell you that coming here wasn’t a mistake.

The priest where nowhere to be found, so you took seat in one of the wooden benches, perhaps waiting, perhaps resting.

You got yourself comfortable, the sleep catching upon you. Your body felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your bones the moment you allowed yourself to rest. The weight of the suitcase by your side, the long journey that had brought you here, it all pressed down on you at once. The church, with its quiet stillness, felt like the safest place you’d been in weeks.

That was where Joel Miller found you.

On a quiet evening when the chapel was empty, save for the flickering candlelight and the faint scent of incense clinging to the air. You were curled up on one of the wooden pews, arms folded beneath your head, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

He cleared his throat, but you didn’t stir. He hesitated before reaching out, tapping your shoulder. “Miss?” His voice came softer than he expected. “You can’t sleep here.”

"Father, do you always wake up strangers like this?"

Your voice was thick with sleep, eyes blinking against the dim glow of the chapel’s candlelight. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and something faintly metallic, like rain on stone. You looked young like this, your face soft, but Joel knew better. You shouldn't be older than thirty.

"You can’t sleep here," he repeated.

You smirked, rubbing your eyes. "Didn’t know God kicked people out."

Joel exhaled sharply. The world outside was changing, rock ‘n’ roll, free love, protests, women in miniskirts. But in this town, in this chapel, things were supposed to stay the same.

This town hadn’t met those changes.

Joel stood over you, stiff-backed, his fingers still hovering near your shoulder from where he’d tapped you awake. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your legs stretched across the pew, the way your blouse, too low-cut for a place like this, shifted as you moved, leaving no place to imagination.

Joel exhaled sharply. Lord, give me patience.

"This isn’t a shelter," he said. "If you need a place—"

"I'm not homeless" Your tone was firm and final, as if you were done, but there was something else in your voice too, something he couldn’t quite place, but it hinted sadness. "I just got into town," you admitted after a beat, glancing toward the stained-glass windows, dark now with the night. "Didn’t know where else to go. At least not tonight."

Joel studied you, his chest tightening."Are you in trouble?"

A small, humorless laugh left you. "Depends on what you call trouble."

Silence filled the chapel, thick and unmoving. The rain had stopped, leaving only the distant hum of the highway beyond the hills.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said finally. But his voice had lost its authority, had softened just enough that he felt the weight of it settle in his own bones.

“Why?” You asked

Joel exhaled slowly, shifting on his feet. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, something he was holding back.

"You can’t stay here," he said again, voice firm but not unkind.

You sat up properly this time, stretching your legs out in front of you, your boots scraping against the floor. His eyes flicked to them, brief, barely noticeable, you caught it, but you chose not to say anything.

"Didn’t mean to cause a problem," you said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"You’re not a problem," he said, then hesitated. "But this isn’t a place for…"

You arched a brow. “For what? For a woman like me?”

For someone wearing boots and a blouse that clung a little too tight, a skirt that rode too high when you stretched out.

He didn’t utter that the sentence. Instead, he sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

"Where you planning on staying tonight?" he asked.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Haven’t figured that part out yet."

Joel frowned. "You got family here?"

"No father, I don’t."

"Friends?"

"No."

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. So, you’re alone.

You weren’t sure if that unsettled him or if it was something else.

He shifted again, exhaling through his nose like he was about to say something he’d regret.

"There’s a place near the church," he finally said. "A small guesthouse. Church used to use it for traveling pastors, but it’s empty now. You can stay there tonight."

You studied him. "Why?"

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, why?"

"I mean, why help me? You don’t know me."

Joel was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That doesn’t mean I should turn you away."

You held his gaze, searching for something in it—hesitation, reluctance. But there was only conviction.

And yet you could feel something else there, buried beneath all that righteousness behind his clothes.

Something you hadn’t named yet.

"Alright, Father," you said finally, standing up. "Lead the way."

He hesitated, just for a second. Then, he turned, stepping toward the chapel doors, and you followed.

Back at his house behind the church, Joel lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams above cast long shadows in the dim glow of the lamp beside his bed. He should’ve been sleeping, his body was tired enough for I, but his mind refused to settle. It was noisier than ever.

His thoughts kept drifting back to something else, to you. To the way you’d looked at him when you stood up from that pew, like you already knew he wasn’t as correct as he pretended to be.

To your voice, husky with sleep, the way you stretched without a care in the world. To your legs.

Joel shut his eyes. Lord, give me strength.

It had been a passing glance, barely a flicker of a thought, but now it gnawed at him.

He had seen a lot of things in his years as a priest. A lot of people in need, a lot of wandering souls. But he wasn’t blind. He could recognize beauty when it was right in front of him. And tonight, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just his faith speaking.

It was something else. It felt dangerous.

He turned onto his side, sighing through his nose. This was just another test. He’d seen men struggle with temptation, had guided them through it. This was no different.

You were just a woman in need. That’s all. That’s all.

And yet, sleep never came easy that night.

The early sun cast long golden beams through the chapel windows as Joel made his way to the guesthouse. He carried a small plate of toast and eggs, as a gesture of hospitality. He thought about last night, on how he hadn’t offered food or a cup of tea.

He wanted to show kindness, but the second he stepped inside, he knew.

The bed was made, the blanket neatly folded. No sign of anyone.

And on the small wooden table by the window, a note.

Joel set the plate down and picked it up, his fingers tightening around the paper.

"Thank you for your help, Father."

That was it. No name, no explanation. Just a quiet departure, as if you’d never been there at all.

Joel exhaled slowly, staring at the empty room.

Something settled deep in his chest, something that felt too much like disappointment.

He was afraid of the fleeting feelings coming to him. Because last night, he’d told himself you were just passing through. But now, standing here, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

You were strong and brave enough this day. When you found yourself in the front of the paradise, the neon light flickered weakly in the daylight, music pulsed behind the doors, muffled but steady, a heartbeat beneath the night.

You inhale deeply, pushing the door behind.

The club smelled of sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t alive as you expected to be during the day, but there were men in tight pants, women in flowing skirts, people who existed somewhere in between, all shining under the low, colored lights of the place.

This wasn’t the kind of stage you were used to. But it was something.

Behind the bar, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard was pouring whiskey into a glass, his gold rings catching the light. He spotted you instantly, eyes narrowing slightly before softening.

“You must be the new girl,” he said, voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place.

You hesitated for a moment, but then you nodded.

The man wiped his hands on a towel, then leaned over the counter, studying you.

“You dance?” He asked.

You lifted your chin. “Yes.”

He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

A warm hand touched your back.

Your turned to find a woman at your side, tall, dark-skinned, with a shimmering dress that clung to her curves. Her lipstick was deep red, her eyes lined in black.

“Come on, cariño,” the woman purred. “Let’s get you ready.”

You swallowed, but you followed her backstage.

Backstage was a blur of colors, perfume, and laughter. The other dancers moved around you effortlessly, adjusting their costumes, fixing their makeup, teasing each other in rapid-fire whispers. You stood still, taking it all in. People here were wild, free and beautiful, and you smiled at that.

The woman who had led you back, Carmen, handed you a black slip dress. It was simple, barely more than a tiny thing of fabric, with thin straps that draped off your shoulders.

“You need shoes?” Carmen asked, watching as you slipped it over your head.

You shook your head “I’ll dance barefoot.”

Carmen raised a perfectly sculpted brow but didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”

The music outside shifted, growing louder. Your stomach tightened.

You had danced for crowds a thousand times before, but never like this. This wasn’t a stage with velvet curtains, with polished floors and orchestrated movements. This was something raw and new for you, something meant to be felt rather than admired.

You exhaled slowly.

You’ve already lost everything. What’s left to be afraid of?

A hand touched your shoulder. She turned to find Carmen smiling. “You’re up next, estrella.”

The lights were dim when you stepped onto the small, elevated platform.

The club wasn’t packed, but there were enough people to make the air thick with murmurs and expectation. A few heads turned, eyes gliding over you as you took your place.

You closed your eyes.

The music started, a slow, sultry rhythm, deep bass vibrating through your bones.

And then you moved. At first, it was instinct. The slow bend of your knees, the gentle sway of your hips. You let the music guide you, feeling it the way you once had in the studio, back when you were still the dancer, before you became the fugitive.

Your arms lifted, fluid and controlled, your body following in careful, deliberate motions.

And then you forgot to be careful. You turned, arching into a spin, the hem of your dress fluttering around your thighs. You let your feet move the way they had been trained to—pointed toes, precise steps, every motion a whisper of the ballerina you once were.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

Someone murmured, “Mierda… she can dance.”

You barely heard them. For the first time in months, you felt like yourself again. Not a girl running, not a girl hiding, but a girl who had been born to dance.

You let yourself go. By the time the music ended, a hush had fallen over the club.

And then—applause. You stood there, breathing hard, your skin glowing under the soft red lights.

When you stepped down from the platform, Carmen was waiting, grinning.

“Dios mío,” she said, shaking her head. “Where the hell did you come from?”

You just smiled. You didn’t have an answer for that. But for the first time since you had arrived, you felt like you had found a piece of home to stay in.

The night air was warmer as you made your way back to the church, the scent of warm pastries wrapped in cloth filling your hands. The applause from the club still echoed in your ears, the feeling of movement still lingering in your limbs. You felt light. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt less lonely.

You paused at the entrance, looking up at the towering stone structure, its stained glass barely illuminated by the sunlight. The contrast was almost laughable.

The dancer and the priest. A contradiction in itself.

With a breath, you stepped inside.

He was there, seated at one of the pews, his back turned to you. His posture was stiff, as if he’d been deep in thought, or perhaps in prayer.

“Father.”

He turned sharply at your voice, his dark eyes immediately landing on you. For a moment, he said nothing, just studying you as if trying to figure out why you had come back.

You held up the bundle in your hands. “I brought you something.”

His gaze flickered to the wrapped pastries before settling back on your face. Slowly, he stood, walking toward you with careful, deliberate steps. When he got close, the faint scent of smoke and candle wax clung to him.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered, but he still took them from you. His fingers brushed yours briefly, warm, rough, calloused. The hands of a man who had worked long before he had ever been a priest.

You shrugged. “It’s a thank-you. For helping me yesterday.”

He watched you for a beat before nodding. “Did you find a place to stay?”

“I did.”

He didn’t ask where. He just looked at you, waiting. Maybe he wanted to know. Maybe he already had an idea.

You weren’t going to tell him either.  Instead, you smiled. “Don’t eat them all at once, Father.”

Joel’s eyes flickered down, lingering for a second longer than they should have. You noticed.

It was brief, so brief you might have convinced yourself you imagined it. But you didn’t. His gaze had traced over the curve of your waist, the way the fabric of your blouse rested against your skin, the gentle swell of your collarbones. The flicker of something unreadable in his expression disappeared just as quickly as it had come.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Do you—” He hesitated. “Would you like to talk?”

You raised a brow. “Talk?”

He nodded, tilting his head toward one of the wooden pews. “If you want.”

A small part of you wanted to tease him, ask if priests usually invited strange women to talk in dimly lit churches. But you swallowed the thought.

Instead, you sighed, walking past him and settling onto the worn wooden bench. You crossed one leg over the other, tapping your fingers idly on the surface. Joel sat beside you, close, but not too close.

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“Is this the part where I have to confess my sins?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

Joel exhaled through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh. “Only if you want to.”

You studied him for a moment. The way his hands rested on his lap; fingers curled slightly as if he wasn’t quite at ease. The tension in his shoulders, the quiet restraint in his posture.

You tilted your head. “What about you, Father?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours.

“What do you believe in?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, something shifting in his expression. He looked away, staring at the rows of empty pews, at the altar beyond. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “Why’d you come here?”

You blinked at him. “Here? To the church?”

He nodded. “Last night”

You considered lying. It would be easier. But something about the way he was looking at the altar, like it held answers he wasn’t sure he wanted, made you tell the truth.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just… felt like I had to. Like, something just called me, you know?”

His gaze flicked to you then, studying, searching. “You’re not religious.” It wasn’t a question.

You smirked. “Is it that obvious?”

Joel didn’t return the smile. He just kept watching you, unreadable. “Then what are you looking for?”

That was a harder question. Peace? A sense of belonging? A place to rest? You weren’t sure.

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Something different. A fresh start.”

Joel hummed, thoughtful. He leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him. “And you think you’ll find that here?”

You sighed, tilting your head toward him. “What’s with the interrogation, Father? Trying to save my soul?”

This time, he did smile. Barely. Just a flicker of amusement in his expression. “I think your soul is doing just fine on its own.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter the way it did.

Joel shifted, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You got people looking for you?”

Your breath caught. There it was. The question you’d been dreading.

You glanced away, suddenly very interested in the cracks in the wooden pew beneath you. “No,” you said eventually. “No one’s looking.”

Joel didn’t press. He just nodded slowly, like he had believed you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The church was silent except for the occasional creak of wood settling, the distant sound of footsteps from somewhere outside.

Then Joel inhaled, shifting beside you. “You should be careful.”

You turned to him, frowning. “Why?”

His jaw tightened. He hesitated, then sighed. “This town—it’s small. People notice things.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “And what have they noticed about me?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to your hands resting in your lap, then back up to your face.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Yet.”

The word lingered between you, heavier than the silence that followed.

“What about?” you asked, “What do you notice about me?”

Joel didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, eyes unreadable, something working behind them, something you couldn’t quite place.

You held his gaze, waiting, heartbeat steady but slow.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “I noticed you don’t like talking about yourself.”

Your lips quirked. “Maybe I just don’t like talking to priests.”

That got the barest huff of amusement from him. “Could be.” His fingers tapped lightly against his knee before he added, “But I think it’s more than that.”

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

Joel nodded, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “I think you’ve been running from something”

That made your stomach tighten.

Your first instinct was to deny it, to smirk, roll your eyes, brush it off like he was just another man who thought he had you figured out. But Joel wasn’t just another man. And the way he was looking at you, like he could see past whatever mask you were wearing, made it harder to lie.

Your fingers curled slightly against your lap. “And what makes you think that?”

Joel leaned back slightly, stretching one arm along the pew. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “The way you don’t settle,” he said simply. “Not even when you’re sitting still.”

The words sent something sharp through your chest.

You swallowed, looking away, suddenly feeling too seen, too exposed. “Maybe I just don’t like these wooden benches.”

Joel hummed, like he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t push, instead he smiled at you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows across the empty church.

Then, finally, Joel shifted beside you. “Did you eat?”

The abrupt change caught you off guard. You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

His expression was unreadable again, but his voice was casual when he repeated, “Did you eat?”

You frowned. “Why?”

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Because if you haven’t, I got food in the back.”

You tilted your head, a small smirk playing at your lips. “Are you asking me if I want to eat these pastries with you, Father?”

Joel huffed, shaking his head as he glanced down at the bag of pastries still resting between you. “You brought them” he said gruffly. “Seems only fair.”

You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against your knee. “Well, I supposed I must take you for a man who shares.”

He shot you a look, one that might’ve been stern if not for the flicker of something else in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something deeper, something you weren’t ready to name.

“Don’t make me take it back,” he muttered.

You bit back a grin, shrugging as you reached for the bag. “Well, if you insist.”

Joel stood, nodding his head toward the back of the church. “Come on. I’m not going sit out here and eat in the dark like some kind of—” he gestured vaguely before shaking his head. “Just come on.”

You followed, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The air was warmer in the back rooms, less hollow than the empty church.

Joel pulled out a chair for you at a small wooden table, and you sat, watching as he grabbed a couple of plates and a knife.

“Tea?” he asked.

You arched a brow. “Didn’t take you for a tea drinker.”

Joel shot you another look. “Or coffee. Pick one.”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Tea.”

He nodded, setting a teapot on the stove before sitting across from you. The candlelight flickered between you, soft and warm.

You broke off a piece of pastry, popping it into your mouth. “Not bad,” you admitted.

Joel took a bite himself, chewing slowly. Then, he glanced at you,

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the pastry in your hands, the way the flaky crust crumbled against your fingers. But he was looking at you.

He hadn’t meant to, not like this, not for this long. But there was something about the way you sat there, elbows on the table, the candlelight casting soft golden hues over your skin. Something about the curve of your lips as you chewed thoughtfully, the way your lashes lowered when you focused.

You were different. A fresh breath in a town that had long gone stale, where faces blurred together, where days passed without change. But you—

You weren’t part of this place. Not yet. And maybe that was what drew him in.

His gaze flickered lower, just for a second. The delicate slope of your collarbones, the soft neckline of your blouse that dipped just enough to hint at what lay beneath. He swallowed, jaw tensing, and forced himself to look away, to focus on something else, the flickering candle, the steam rising from the kettle.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice pulling him back.

Joel cleared his throat. “Just thinking.”

You tilted your head, studying him now, those sharp eyes of yours peeling away layers he hadn’t realized were there. “About what?”

He could’ve lied. Could’ve told you something simple, something easy.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing important.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t push, just took another bite of pastry.

And Joel? Joel tried not to look at your lips when you did.

The teapot whistled, breaking the silence. Joel pushed back his chair, a little too fast, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a curse, maybe just an exhale—as he stood and turned toward the stove.

You watched him, chin resting in your hand, fingers tapping absently against your cheek.

He moved with quiet fast, pouring the hot water into two mismatched mugs, the steam curling up between you like an unspoken thought.

“Sugar?” he asked.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Do you have honey?”

Joel shot you a dry look but opened a small cupboard, rummaging until he found a half-used jar. He set it down in front of you, his fingers brushing the edge of your mug as he did.

You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, taking a slow sip.

Joel sat back down, quieter this time, his elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

You tilted your head. “So, do priests always offer tea and pastries to strangers passing by?”

A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No.”

You raised a brow. “Just me, then?”

Joel held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his brown eyes. Then he looked away, took a slow sip of his own tea.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just you.”

You set your cup down gently, the porcelain clinking softly against the table. "Thanks for being so kind to me." you said, your voice low, more than just for the tea and pastries. It was for the quiet, for the refuge, for something you couldn't quite explain.

Joel didn’t respond right away, but you saw the faintest shift in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders easing just a little. His eyes flickered back to yours, and there was something different about the way he looked at you now, less guarded, almost as if he’d let a small part of himself slip into the space between you.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, then reached for the teapot, his fingers brushing the warm ceramic. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "It's... it’s nothing."

But you both knew it wasn’t nothing. It never was.

Behind his intentions there was always kindness, but now something new flickered.

A temptation threatening his faith, like the world had set on fire the moment you glances met for the first time and he wanted the flames to catch him to be saved by you.

tags: if you want to be removed, you're free to tell me.

@jasminedragoon @mandaloriankait @jellybeanxc @spencercmlover @lilac-boo @myownwholewildworld @disco-fairy75 @correapunk @existentialdreadofhumanity @secretcheesecakenacho @laliceee @exzidss @missladym1981

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@iamtoriasworld @priincehoseok @luunarr0

[sleepwxlk]

“Lebanon, O Lebanon”

They call you broken, shattered, torn,

A land of scars, of nights forlorn.

But they have never walked your streets,

Felt the warmth where strangers meet.

They do not know the scent of thyme,

The echoes of an oud in time,

The voices rising with the breeze,

Like whispered prayers in cedar trees.

They say your people burn with rage,

A storm confined within a cage.

But I have seen their laughter rise,

Like sunlight spilling from their eyes.

I have seen hands, rough yet kind,

Give their last, leave none behind.

Even when the cupboards bare,

A seat is saved, a meal is shared.

You build from dust with borrowed thread,

You carry dreams where others fled.

Your streets may crack, your lights may fade,

Yet in the dark, no soul’s betrayed.

The morning hums with Fairuz’ song,

A melody both soft and strong.

She sings of love, she sings of pain,

And somehow, we all heal again.

Your sunsets set the sky on fire,

Batroun’s waves reflect their pyre.

Byblos whispers tales of old,

Its stones still bathed in dusk-lit gold.

Baalbek stands, unshaken, proud,

Its ruins draped in crimson shroud.

While in the caves of Jeita deep,

The rivers dream, the echoes weep.

At 2 AM, the beaches glow,

With voices light, with footsteps slow.

As if the night refused to end,

As if the stars were still our friend.

Your mountains stand, unbowed, untamed,

Your sea still sings, though tides have changed.

The air still hums with jasmine’s breath,

A place where life outdances death.

How weddings turn to city choirs,

How grief is met with arms, not fires.

How even when the times are cruel,

The streets will fill, the hearts will fuel.

O Lebanon, my wounded grace,

You are more than time, more than place.

You are the soul that will not cease,

A raging storm, a heart at peace.

And though the world may call you lost,

May count your suffering, weigh the cost,

They’ll never know the love you give,

The way you die—yet always live.

And still, I hope, with all my might,

That one day soon, you’ll shine with light.

That all who left will find their way,

Back to the homes from which they strayed.

That nevermore our hearts will ache,

For lands we love, yet must forsake.

That Lebanon will rise, will mend,

And homesick hearts will heal again.

- DK

[bradleysass]

Map - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 773

"You're holding it upside down."

"I'm not holding it upside down, Regulus."

James’ voice wobbled dangerously, which was a sign that he was either going to cry or laugh hysterically. Regulus hoped for the latter. He didn't have the emotional energy to console him if he broke down into frustrated tears.

"You absolutely are," Regulus said, snatching the wrinkled, smudged map out of James' grip. "The words are upside down, you idiot."

James made a strangled noise. "Oh, because that’s the problem! Not the fact that the ink is running, and we have no idea where we are, and my socks are wet, and we—"

"James."

James inhaled sharply. He looked one second away from a full-blown tantrum. His glasses had slid down his nose, and his curls were frizzing from the humidity. Regulus should’ve found it funny, but he was too busy being angry.

"This was your plan," Regulus reminded him, holding up the ruined map like it was exhibit A in James’ trial for Worst Navigator of the Year. "You said we wouldn’t get lost. You said, and I quote, 'Reg, my love, my moon and stars, my most beautiful boy, I am a professional at reading maps.'"

James groaned, running a hand down his face. "To be fair, I really thought I was."

"Clearly, you were wrong."

"You could be a little less mean about it," James muttered, kicking a stray rock.

Regulus folded his arms. "We are stranded in the middle of nowhere. My shoes are covered in mud. There is no signal. There is no road. There is—" He gestured vaguely at the abyss of trees and dirt surrounding them. "—nothing, James. How, exactly, am I supposed to be nice about that?"

James sniffled.

Regulus exhaled through his nose. "Oh, don’t do that."

"I'm not—" James cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. "I’m not doing anything."

"You’re going to cry," Regulus accused.

"I am not going to cry!" James said, deeply offended, even as his lower lip wobbled.

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Merlin." He was stuck in the middle of the wilderness with a man who was possibly on the verge of tears and definitely not on the verge of getting them out of this mess.

James huffed, rubbing his nose. "I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas."

"That's because I'm too busy being furious at you."

"Okay, but if you put that aside for a second—"

Regulus fixed him with a glare.

James sighed, defeated.

The trees rustled ominously.

Regulus stared down at the smeared map in his hands. The ink had bled in long, inky streaks, their route a meaningless blur. They might as well have been looking at an abstract painting. He let his hands drop to his sides, feeling the last of his patience drain out of him.

"Well," he said flatly. "I suppose this is where we die."

James groaned dramatically. "Oh my god, Reg, you’re being so dramatic."

"Am I?" Regulus turned his glare back on him. "Are we not two idiots lost in the wilderness, with no sense of direction and no survival skills to speak of?"

James opened his mouth, then closed it. He considered. "I have survival skills," he finally muttered.

Regulus arched an eyebrow.

James hesitated. "Some survival skills."

"Which ones?" Regulus asked, voice syrupy with false sweetness. "You mean the ones that got us lost? Or the ones that made you bring a map drawn on parchment when rain was in the forecast?"

James groaned again, dramatically collapsing onto the nearest tree stump. "You love being right, don’t you?"

"I love not dying in the woods, James."

James scrubbed his hands over his face. "Okay. Okay. Let's think. Worst case scenario, we sleep here for the night—"

Regulus made a strangled sound.

"—but we won’t have to do that," James hurriedly added, correctly interpreting the look of absolute horror on Regulus' face. "Because we are capable and resourceful and will get back to civilization before sunset!"

Regulus inhaled deeply through his nose. "If we get out of here, I’m going to kill you."

James grinned at him. "You’d miss me too much."

Regulus didn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, he turned on his heel, facing a random direction. If James had ruined their only map, then they would have to get out the old-fashioned way. "Come on," he said, grabbing James by the wrist and yanking him to his feet. "We’re walking until we find a road."

"You're so bossy," James muttered, but he followed.

Regulus didn’t let go of his hand.

Even if they were doomed, they’d be doomed together.

[reidsmanuscript]

Sweet echoes of the past

Summary: When the gentle hand of the past becomes the present, it tightens around the ADA's throat, forcing the hidden faces of darkness into the light. Pairing: Spencer reid x lawyer!reader Genre: HURT/comfort wc: 19k! (i know it's long but its a retribution for the wait time) TW: cm canon violence, FEMALE RAGE, kidnapping, discuss of child trafficking and abuse, discuss of domestic violence, vertigo, discuss of drugs and reader's past (talked in part III) gets disclosure! A/N: i support women's rights and women's wrongs. it's supposed to be jesus reid through the whole chapter but i didn't find a pic that would match. not proofread yet. part I - part II - part III - part IV - masterlist

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

As the elevator doors slid open, you stepped into the hallway of your apartment complex, exhaustion settling deep in your bones from the lack of sleep over the past few nights.

It had been months since you helped Morgan in Chicago. The determination you had shown—sometimes unnecessarily—and the disclosure of your past to gain Morgan’s trust had made you the BAU’s preferred unofficial legal advisor. Whenever they needed legal assistance—whether it was a warrant, a last-minute consult, or navigating bureaucratic red tape—you were the first person they called. It was never official, never written down anywhere, but the weight of it still lingered, pressing against your already demanding workload.

You weren’t complaining, though—you loved to help. And you would never admit that maybe, just maybe, Reid’s presence was a factor in your willingness to do so.

Ever since that conversation on the jet—the one that had been abruptly cut short when Hotch interrupted—you hadn’t tried to continue it. You had left the seat in front of him, and going back felt… strange. Too obvious? Too desperate? What if he didn’t want to talk? So you didn’t.

Which was incredibly frustrating, because you would have listened to him for hours. Every thought, every opinion, every ridiculous fact he might throw your way.

Still, in that time, you had learned a few things about him. He was brilliant—almost impossibly so. You had overheard him ramble, though never to you, about the most fascinating things: statistical probabilities, obscure historical events, literary references that seemed to live at the tip of his tongue. His mind was like an endless black hole of knowledge, and the more you listened, the more you wanted to be the one he shared it all with. The more you wanted to crawl inside his head and understand everything about him—the books he read, the things he liked, his favorite foods, his favorite things in general. Everything. Anything.

But the more time you spent with him—with the BAU in the middle—the heavier the guilt sat in your stomach. Someone like him, someone that brilliant, wouldn’t turn to drugs because he thought it would be fun or relaxing. Something must have happened. Something bad. And instead of reaching out, instead of trying to talk to him like a normal person, you had freaked out. You had gotten mad. You had acted on impulse—flushing his drugs, shoving a card with a number into his hands without even checking if he understood what it meant.

You had been a monster.

And you didn’t know if there was any way to fix it. 

Anyway… you tried not to go down that road too often. Your impulsiveness wasn’t entirely your fault—though if Dr. Fitzgerald were here, she'd make sure you took responsibility for your actions.

Still, Reid didn’t seem to hate you or anything. If anything, he was almost… friendly. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he was wary of you—of what you could do, of what you could become.

You definitely needed a bath. A long one.

One that would take your mind off him, off your spiraling self-doubt.

Though, if you were being honest with yourself, you’d probably just end up thinking about the major case that had landed on your desk months ago.

At first, it seemed like a straightforward prostitution case—three men arrested for running a ring. But things took a darker turn when financial records revealed suspicious transactions, and lists of names and ages were hidden under the guise of real estate properties.

On paper, they appeared to be children and teenagers. But no bodies were found. None of the rescued individuals were underage, and every single one of them insisted they hadn’t been forced into anything.

You had call transcripts connecting D.C. to Virginia, Maryland, and even Baltimore, but they weren’t enough to prove people were being trafficked and sold. You didn’t even have a confirmed transportation route. With the evidence you had, the harshest sentence you could secure was 20 years—at best.

That wasn’t good enough.

You and Austin had been working non-stop, digging for anything that could reopen the case. The police had committed a dumb mistake, totally unintentional, and blamed it on a rookie officer. 

You weren’t so sure.

The trial date was still a month and a half away, and if you didn’t find enough evidence to charge them under RICO, you’d be forced to fight for every minor charge you could throw at them.

It was a high-profile case. You knew that. Your boss knew that. Your very proud—but slightly concerned—parents knew that. Soon, the press would probably know that too.

Did the pressure affect you? Maybe. It added weight to your shoulders, sure, but nothing compared to the pressure you put on yourself.

As you reached your door and unlocked it, the usual sense of ease and relaxation never came. Your body knew it wasn’t safe yet.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Coincidence. Paranoia. Your mind playing tricks on you after digging too deep into something dangerous.

But then, the little things started adding up.

The unsettling feeling of being watched, the man you were almost certain had followed you during your morning run. Papers on your desk shifted just enough to make you second-guess yourself. A black car parked across the street, there one day, gone the next—then back again.

You were methodical. Filed the complaints, knowing full well they'd be ignored. But you did it anyway. It was something to fall back on—a formality, a way to say you tried.

But nothing prepared you for this.

The moment you stepped inside, something felt wrong.

The silence, thicker than usual. The stillness in the air as if it were holding its breath.

Something incredible happens to the brain after it experiences trauma. The amygdala heightens the sensibility to danger helping recognize and avoid potentially harmful situations in the future. It can also enhance emotional resilience—some people develop a stronger sense of intuition, quicker reaction times, and a greater ability to read social cues.

Your bag hit the rack. Your coat slipped off your shoulders, but you didn’t move—didn’t breathe—until you saw it.

A piece of candy. Then another. And another.

Everywhere.

Scattered across the floor, the counters, the table—spilling from the cabinets, tumbling from the couch, everywhere.

Your skin prickled. Your stomach twisted. You didn't want to follow the trail, but your feet moved anyway, step by step, against every instinct screaming at you to turn around.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Crinkling wrappers, glinting under the dim light.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Your breath came shallow. The air felt thick. Too sweet. Sickly.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You followed it into the kitchen. More candy.

Piled high, spilling over the edges of the counter, the table, the chairs. The sheer amount of it—obscene, suffocating, grotesque. Like a tide that had rushed in and drowned the room in sugar-coated horror.

Your fingers twitched. Your jaw clenched.

A candy wrapper crinkled. Your body jerked—but you hadn’t moved. Had you?

You looked down. Your hand. Your fingers, clenched so tightly around something that the foil had crushed against your palm.

Your heart lurched. You didn’t pick anything up.

You swallowed, throat dry. Then you saw it. Amidst the mess, perched at the very top of an overflowing heap.

A folded note.

The candy was pressing in, the sweet artificial scent clogging your throat.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You reached out.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your vision blurred. The room felt smaller, pressing in, squeezing, pulling you back—back to the days when candy was more than just candy. When it meant something else. Something worse.

Your knees locked. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You weren’t breathing. You couldn’t breathe.

The paper crinkled between your fingers as you unfolded it.

Miss me, sugarcube?

—Dr. C.

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The night was settling over the city as the bullpen slowly emptied. The BAU had just wrapped up a case in Louisiana, and exhaustion lingered in the air, each agent buried in their own work.

Spencer wasn’t paying much attention until Morgan’s phone rang.

“What's up, Woody?”

That caught his ear. They usually called you. Not the other way around.

A flicker of jealousy sparked—irrational, unwanted, but there. Morgan had the privilege of calling you by your nickname, not just your name, like it was second nature. Like it meant something.

But that flicker died the second Morgan’s posture shifted.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's going on? You have to bre—”

Whoever was on the other end cut him off. Morgan sat up straighter, his brow furrowing.

Spencer felt his pulse tick up.

Morgan nodded sharply, already reaching for his jacket. “I'll be there in ten. Is she okay?”

The words hit like a hammer to the chest. You.

Something was wrong.

Reid was on his feet before he even realized it, trailing Morgan as he grabbed Prentiss’s arm on the way out.

“What happened?” he demanded, voice tighter than he intended.

Morgan didn’t answer right away. He was moving too fast.

That only made the knot in Reid’s stomach tighten.

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Morgan's knocking on your door was frantic, sharp raps against the wood that barely left room for a pause. Behind him, Prentiss and Reid stood tense, their eyes flicking toward the door, waiting.

Inside, Austin peered through the peephole before unlocking it, swinging the door open without hesitation.

“I got her to take a shower,” he said, stepping aside to let them in. His voice was steady, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.

The apartment felt wrong.

Reid stepped inside, his gaze immediately scanning the space. The lights were on, but there was an eerie stillness, a weight hanging in the air. The scent of something sharp—maybe soap, maybe something harsher—lingered.

Morgan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What the hell happened?”

Austin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked toward the hallway, where the faint sound of running water could be heard. “Someone broke in during the day”. 

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the kitchen. In the middle of the aisle sat a large garbage bag, its top loosely tied. Austin pulled it open, revealing an unsettling sight—piles of candy, an overwhelming amount. He reached inside, pulled out a small card, and handed it to Morgan.

“This was scattered all over the place,” Austin said, nodding toward the bag. “And this was left with it.”

Morgan’s eyes scanned the card, his expression darkening. He turned it over, glancing at Austin, waiting for an explanation.

Austin’s voice was steady but clipped. “Dr. C,” he said, the name alone carrying weight. “It stands for Dr. Calloway.”

Morgan frowned. “Who is that?”

“He was my foster father.”

Spencer turned at the sound of your voice. You stood in the doorway, wrapped in a long, fluffy white robe, your damp hair clinging to your shoulders. The only skin visible was the curve of your neck, the length of your forearms, and a glimpse of your legs beneath the hem. You clutched the robe tightly against your chest, as if trying to shield yourself—not just from the cold, but from the lingering presence of what had invaded your space.

“He used to give those… a lot of them, before and after he—” Your voice stuttered, catching on the words, unable to finish. 

Spencer’s gaze flickered to the kitchen, then back to you, the weight of your words settling heavily. Then, he noticed it—the raw redness of your skin. Even from across the room, he could see the angry patches where you had scrubbed too hard, as if trying to wash away something that wouldn’t come off.

You cleared your throat as best as you could. “What did the cameras show?” Your voice was low, raspy, as if it hurt to speak.

Spencer barely registered the words. All he could focus on was your eyes—wide, searching, and for the first time, so… small. The sharp edges of your presence were still there, but instead of the formidable woman he knew, you looked like a child—a scared one, cornered with no way out.

Austin sighed, his expression unreadable as he chose his words carefully. “The staff said the cameras haven’t been working for about a week.”

Something in you snapped.

“What do you mean they aren’t working?” Your voice rose, trembling with anger. “This place brags about its security system!” You whirled toward the door, fists clenched. “I’m gonna sue them for negligence and breach of contract! They’re going to—”

Austin moved fast, already anticipating your reaction. He caught you before you could storm out, arms locking around your waist as he turned you away from the door.

“You are not going out.” His grip was firm but steady as he spun you to face him, hands settling on your shoulders. His voice softened, but his words struck hard. “You’re losing focus. You’re losing perspective. You’re losing energy.”

It was a mantra he told you every time you were being too impulsive, too reckless, lashing out without thinking. His voice grounded you when you were ready to burn everything down.

You refused to look up—to meet the gazes of Reid, Morgan, or Prentiss. You could already picture their expressions. Judgment at your impulsiveness. Pity at your situation.

You didn’t know which was worse.

“Woody I understand this is a lot for you right now” Aside from Austin, Morgan was the only aware—partially—of what it meant that note. “We can help catch whoever did this okay? We'll take this to the rest of the team.”

You nodded, not being sure if that's what you really wanted. “I-” You couldn't help but stutter while swallowing the knot on your throat you forced yourself to. “He's supposed to be in prison now”

Prentiss began scanning the apartment, checking the corners with a trained eye. She ran a gloved hand over the door frame, inspecting the lock closely before crouching near the handle. “No visible signs of forced entry,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Morgan asked carefully, “Is there any chance he got out?”

The thought of someone like him—a monster—walking free through the streets made you sick. “I’m not sure. His sentence was 20 years, but the charges didn’t exclude parole opportunities.”

“Did they break anything else?” Reid asked, his gaze shifting to the shattered glass on the floor.

You shifted your weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other, at the full display of your anger, shaking your head. “No, I—um… that was me.” He didn’t miss the note of shame in your voice as you spoke. 

“Have you noticed someone following you or watching you, maybe?” Prentiss asked carefully from the entry door. 

You nodded, exhaling shakily. “Yeah, um… on my morning runs and outside the courtroom sometimes. There’s a folder in my desk.”

Without waiting, you walked in toward your office. As they entered, they took in the mess from the case you were working—registers in the floor, files and records pinned in a corkboard, a stark contrast to the rest of your apartment. The mess in here felt intentional, like the chaos inside your head had spilled into the space.

You dropped to your knees in front of the desk, pulling open the bottom drawer. Then, instead of rifling through it, you gripped both sides and yanked it out entirely, setting it aside.

Their eyes followed your movements as you reached down, pressing your fingers against the smooth wood floor until you found what you were looking for. A red folder, hidden beneath the drawer, its worn edges marked with a single sticker that read Austin.

You stood slowly, gripping it tightly before handing it over. “I have copies of every complaint I’ve made over the last couple of months… it’s all in here in case—”

The thought of you leaving proof in case something happened to you made Spencer’s chest tighten. His fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before he opened the folder.

Inside, neatly stacked yet slightly worn from being handled, were copies of official complaints, incident reports, and personal notes. Dates, locations, descriptions of suspicious figures—some written hastily, others with meticulous detail. 

Before he could say anything, Morgan spoke up. “Do you know if they took anything from here?”

You shook your head. “It looks normal, and if they did take something, I have copies of everything in my office.” You paused for a moment, thinking. “Did you find anything at the hospital?” you asked, turning to Austin.

He shook his head. “They insisted on a warrant, but a nurse said she could help me if I came back tonight.”

A sigh of exhaustion left your lips as Morgan glanced between the two of you. “Then why don’t you just get a warrant?” he asked, his tone laced with confusion.

The question made you tense up.

You and Austin exchanged a wary look before you answered carefully. “We’re conducting an investigation that has to stay off the record.”

“What do you mean ‘has to stay’?” Reid asked, his brows knitting together.

“It’s a case I’m prosecuting, but we think it’s bigger than what’s on paper, and we can’t prove it yet,” you explained, crossing your arms as you stood. “Weeks ago, some evidence was ‘mislabeled’—sat in storage for weeks before anyone realized. The police chalked it up to a clerical mistake, and now they’re insisting on closing it.”

Morgan exhaled sharply, glancing at Austin. “And you think someone did it on purpose?”

Austin nodded. “There’s too many coincidences. Too many people trying to shut this down.”

Morgan nodded in understanding. “Tomorrow, we’ll tell the rest of the team about this. It’d be best if you didn’t go out much—stay indoors as much as possible.”

You shook your head immediately, running a hand over your forehead. “I can’t. I have to go to work tomorrow. I have a trial.” Your voice was firm, unwavering. You weren’t about to let someone else control your life. Not again.

Reid, who had been silent up until now, felt his mind start running the numbers. He calculated the probabilities of something happening to you if you insisted on going to work—factoring in everything they knew. Your stalker’s escalation pattern, his growing confidence, geographical profiling probabilities based on your work location. The percentage of workplace homicides committed by known aggressors versus strangers. The statistical likelihood of an abduction attempt in broad daylight versus early morning or late evening.

The numbers weren’t in your favor.

The higher the risk, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. Rationally, he knew he couldn’t control your choices, but emotionally, the thought of you walking straight into danger made his pulse quicken.

He swallowed and called your name softly. “It’s too dangerous for you.”

“If he’s watching and I don’t go to work, he’ll think he’s in control.” You met Reid’s gaze, and for a moment, the numbers ceased to matter. The statistics, the probabilities—none of it held weight against the quiet determination in your voice. You weren’t demanding, just asking. Asking to hold onto some semblance of control over your own reality.

Austin, who had promised long ago to stand by your side, spoke up. “The courtroom and the D.A.’s office are always packed with officers. Plus, if we escort her, he’ll see us and maybe back off.”

Or get even angrier, Reid thought. The probability of escalation was high—too high—but when he looked at you, at the way you squared your tense shoulders despite the fear you were barely keeping at bay, he knew you already understood the risk. You were scared, that much was obvious. But you refused to let that fear dictate your actions. And maybe that terrified him more than any statistic ever could.

Prentiss re-entered the room, her gloved hands brushing against the doorframe. “The lock wasn’t forced, but the scratches on the latch suggest someone picked it.” She gestured toward the window. “And there are faint scuff marks on the sill, like someone checked it as a secondary entry point.”

You nodded. "So it's not safe for me to stay here, is it?" Even if it was, you weren’t sure you’d ever feel safe here again.

Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss exchanged hesitant glances. Eventually, Morgan let out a deep breath, looking at you with concern. "We can set up surveillance outside, keep a close watch. But you need to think about what you want, too. If you don’t feel safe here, we’ll figure something out."

You hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on you. Spencer could see it in your eyes, and it ached him to realize that you didn’t feel safe in your own home. 

Austin noticed the hesitation too and, without another word, made the decision for you. “Fix a bag with what you need. If you forget something, we can come back together, you are staying at my place.” he said, his voice steady and firm.

You nodded slowly, the practicality of the suggestion grounding you, but the knot in your stomach tightened. The idea of leaving felt like a step further into something you couldn’t control, but at least it was a step toward safety—toward some semblance of normalcy.

As you turned toward your bedroom, you felt a flicker of gratitude for Austin’s unwavering presence. Spencer’s gaze followed you, his concern etched deep into his features, but he remained silent, understanding that you needed space to process it all.

As they were walking out of your office, something caught Reid’s attention—a small yellow post-it note buried among the clutter. The handwriting was nearly indecipherable, but the quote stood out:

"To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's."

He recognized it instantly—Dostoevsky.

Almost reaching your bedroom, you suddenly froze. A realization hit you like a punch to the gut. Someone had been sending you baskets of candy and chocolate for months—always without a card. You had dismissed it every time, taking them to the park to share with the kids. The kids.

“Austin!” you called out, horror tightening your throat.

He was by your side in an instant. “What? What is it?”

“The c-candy… we have to—”

“I’m getting rid of all of it, don’t worry,” he said, grabbing your trembling hands.

“No! You don’t understand.” You shook your head frantically. “You have to test them. See if they were spiked or something.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he nodded, his grip on your hands tightening.

“I’ll call your dad, tell him to get them tested first thing in the morning,” he reassured you.

"Tested how? Why?" Spencer asked, his sharp gaze flicking between you and Austin, picking up on every detail—the stiffness in your posture, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to curl into fists. The horror in your eyes.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You should have had an answer, a perfectly structured explanation. But your mind wasn’t cooperating. The words tangled, stuck somewhere between logic and memory. If you said it out loud, it would be real. And if it was real, then—

Austin moved, getting you into your bedroom before you could even try to force something out.

"Sit down," he said, his voice softer now but edged with quiet urgency. "Take a breath, and when you feel ready, pack a bag."

He stepped out, finally giving you a moment of silence. Outside, he joined Morgan and Prentiss, their conversation hushed but focused as they mapped out their next move.

Ten minutes later, they had a plan—Austin would relay all necessary information about you to Garcia and JJ. But Spencer wasn’t listening. Not really. His mind was elsewhere, caught on you and how you were holding up. He didn’t want to intrude, not while Morgan and Prentiss were deep in discussion, but his gaze kept drifting to your door.

Slowly, he approached, noticing it was slightly ajar. The dim light from inside spilled into the hallway, offering him a glimpse of your space—neat, controlled, yet somehow fragile. He hesitated, then knocked softly, calling your name.

No answer.

A flicker of unease tightened his chest. He knew you needed space, but silence had never felt so heavy. Pushing past his hesitation, he stepped inside.

You were curled up on the window seat, dressed in loose black sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. The window was half-open, a faint cold breeze stirring the fabric of the curtains, cooling your senses down. Your back was turned to him, your hand moving absently over the soft fur of a gray cat curled against your thigh.

Reid hesitated, watching you for a moment. There was something fragile about the way you sat there, staring out at the night. The weight of the evening still clung to you, but the cat’s quiet presence seemed to ground you—if only just.

He took a careful step forward. “Hey,” he said gently.

He startled you, making you jump clumsily in the seat. The sudden movement spooked the stray cat perched on the windowsill, its fur bristling as it let out a sharp hiss. In its panic, it lashed out, claws swiping against the back of your hand before bolting.

You flinched, instinctively pulling your hand close to your chest as the cat leapt from the ledge and disappeared into the night. A bright line of red was already forming where its claws had caught you.

“I’m sorry, I—” he started, but you quickly cut him off.

“It’s okay. I didn’t hear you coming.” Your voice was quiet but gentle, like you didn’t want him to feel bad for it.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say—unsure of how to reach you through whatever you were going through. Finally, he settled on the only thing that came to mind. “What’s its name?”

That earned him a small, tired smile, and for a brief moment, he thought he might have done something right. “Um—he sorta came with the place,” you admitted, glancing back at the empty windowsill. “I just call him Stray.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You named a stray cat ‘Stray’?” His voice held a hint of humor, soft but genuine.

You couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread in your chest at the sound of it. “Yeah…” you replied with a lighter tone. “He owns up to his name.” You raised your right hand a little, showing him the long scratch on the back of it, as if to prove it.

He pressed his lips together, rocking back and forth on his feet nervously. “Sorry again,” he muttered, his voice soft.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s fine, he just got scared.” You glanced back toward the window where the cat was tentatively returning. You placed your hand a few inches away from him, watching as the stray slowly approached. It only took a second before he leaned against your hand, purring softly and licking the scratch he had done, as if he felt guilty and was apologizing.

“He’s been coming around since I first moved in years ago,” you said, your voice gentle as you scratched the back of the cat’s ears, causing it to purr louder. “It took me an entire year, some food, and a lot of scratches and patience to get him this comfortable.”

You smiled a little at the softness of the moment, but the warmth faded just as quickly as it came. The reality of it all crashed back down on you—this place you called home had been invaded, your sense of security stolen. Again.

“I have to move out right?” the thought of leaving Stray alone and without food pained you. 

Spencer saw the shift in your expression at his nod, the way your shoulders sagged and your eyes darkened with exhaustion. He hated that look on your face, hated the weight of it. Desperate to pull you away from the spiraling thoughts, he let his gaze sweep across the room, searching for something—anything—to get you out of it. 

“Did you go to Harvard?” Reid asked, his eyes landing on a framed picture sitting on the bookshelf.

In the photo, a younger version of you stood between your parents, your diploma in hand. Your mother held a crimson banner with the university’s name in gold, while your father wore a red sweater emblazoned with a bold yellow ‘H.’

“Yeah. Law school. Though I look awful in those pictures,” you admitted.

You were 18 in them, and in your opinion, it wasn’t your best moment. The smudge eyeliner and dark clothes—an attempt to make yourself look unapproachable—clashed awkwardly with the family-intended picture. Besides, college wasn’t exactly a time you looked back on fondly.

Thankfully, you had outgrown the phase of needing to prove yourself. Sort of.

Reid, however, thought you looked pretty. Despite the heavy makeup that aged you, he could still see the youth in your features—the sharp intelligence in your eyes, the quiet determination. He wanted to ask more. At what age had you graduated high school? How had your teenage years in college been? Were they anything like his—lonely, spent buried in books?

You stood from the window seat, moving to zip up the bag you had packed for the next few days at Austin’s. Your gaze flickered to the closet, pausing briefly on the dress hanging behind the door.

Prentiss knocked lightly before stepping in with a small smile. “Ready to go?” Her eyes landed on the dress. “Oh, that’s fancy.”

It was. The dark purple silk draped elegantly, the halter top flattering yet professional, the long skirt flowing with just the right amount of sophistication. You and your mom had picked it out together for an important dinner—she had insisted you needed something that made you feel beautiful.

You exhaled, brushing a hand over the fabric. “Yeah… It was for a work dinner. But I guess I finally found the perfect excuse not to go.”

You grabbed the bag and walked out of the room, Spencer and Prentiss leading the way. With one last glance over your shoulder, you reached for the light switch, casting the space into darkness before quietly closing the door behind you.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Walking into the bullpen of the BAU felt like stepping into a pressure chamber—every glance, every hushed conversation carrying the weight of unspoken questions. You weren’t just another visitor; you were the case. The reason for the extra tension in the air. 

Morgan led the way, having picked you and Austin up for security reasons—Austin’s bike wasn’t exactly the safest option. The briefing room felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken concern. You tried to ignore the warmth creeping up your back, the telltale sign of exhaustion clawing at you. Sleep had been scarce last night, and the extra-bitter coffee in your hand was doing little to keep you grounded.

Everyone was already there when the three of you arrived. Their eyes flicked toward you, subtle yet piercing, like they could see right through you. You hated this feeling—vulnerability wrapping itself around you like a second skin. Have you ever walked into a room and felt like a lamb walking straight to the slaughter? You swallowed the knot in your throat and forced out the proper good mornings, your voice steadier than you expected.

Some habits never leave you. Like the art of avoiding physical touch—something you’d perfected in your teenage years. Always keeping your hands full, whether with books, files, or a cup of coffee. A strategic shield, paired with an apologetic smile when someone offered their hand, as if to say, Oh, I’d shake, but my hands are full. Sorry. Every movement calculated, arbitrarily staged, yet second nature by now.

And yes you could perfectly just say no to a simple handshake but playing against the rules wouldn't have gotten you anywhere. 

You stayed at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, trying to avoid the pitying looks from the team. JJ began explaining how, over the last few months, you had been stalked—someone had followed your routine, watching your every move.

Images appeared on the screen, displaying your apartment filled with candy. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you quickly averted your eyes, staring out toward the bullpen instead. JJ continued, explaining how the situation was even more concerning given that your personal address wasn’t listed in any public records—precautions you had taken after past incidents.

“There was a note left behind,” she said, pressing a button to reveal a close-up of the paper on the screen. The message was short but chilling.

“‘Dr. C.’” JJ read aloud. “It stands for Doctor Calloway.”

Garcia chimed in, her voice devoid of its usual warmth. “Doctor Dean Calloway is a convicted felon. Over twenty years ago, he and his wife, Michelle Calloway, ran a foster home. He was sentenced to 30 years in prison for child neglect and public assistance fraud in Wallens Ridge State Prison.” 

The picture of him on the TV makes your legs go weak. His cold, piercing eyes—the same ones that had once looked at you with a twisted, possessive kind of love—make you feel like you want to rip your skin off, just to escape the memory of them.

Hotch frowned at the pictures. “And what’s the significance of the candy?”

You cleared your throat, knowing this was an important detail you had to clarify. “Calloway was—is—a child molester.”

The silence that settled over the room was suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a weight.

“He used to call me like that and drug me on the nights he—” Your voice wavered, threatening to crack, but you forced yourself to continue. “I never knew how or with what. All I know is that he made me eat thousands of those, maybe to hide the taste of whatever he was using.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of their eyes pressing against you, seeing through the cracks you tried so hard to keep together.

“His license was revoked after his conviction,” you added, your tone carefully measured, though your hands clenched at your sides, wanting to stop the trembling. “And I never had enough proof to go after him.”

A heavy silence followed, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. The team exchanged glances—understanding, anger, maybe even guilt for not realizing sooner. You weren’t sure which was worse.

Hotch was the first to break the silence. His voice was steady but edged with something close to anger. “If he’s been sending you these messages, then he’s either out or has someone on the outside working for him.”

Reid shifted on his seat, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Calloway was sentenced to thirty years. Even with good behavior, he shouldn’t be out yet.”

Garcia’s fingers flew over her keyboard, her usual warmth replaced by urgency. “Apparently, Wallens Ridge had a fault in their security system three days ago, making it really easy for a whole lot of very bad people to escape.”

“Three days ago?” Morgan’s voice was incredulous. “The stalking’s been going on for almost two months. Why didn’t we hear about this sooner?”

“They say they’re not sure who specifically got out,” Garcia responded, her fingers pausing over the keys. “The place is huge, so they’re still updating the fugitives list.”

“I never told anyone about the candy,” you said, your voice thick with the weight of the revelation. “He’s the only one who could’ve known about that.” Your mind raced, trying to piece together any possible logical explanation.

“Unless he has someone on the outside, someone who’s been following you,” Rossi suggested, and his words made your skin feel clammy. 

“Or there are two different stalkers,” Austin added, his gaze focused on you. “It wouldn’t be the first time a case backfired, especially if people have been watching you for other reasons.”

“So, we’re talking about two UnSubs?” Prentiss asked, her brow furrowing in thought.

You nodded slowly, the weight of the situation sinking in deeper. “It’s a high-stakes case. A lot of powerful people are expecting it to be closed and moved to trial as soon as possible. If something goes wrong…” You trailed off, feeling the invisible pressure of it all.

Hotch looked at you, his gaze intense and almost protective. “What kind of case is it?.”

You placed the file down on the table, your fingers brushing over it as you tried to keep your voice steady, but the weight of everything pressing down on you made it hard. You could feel the room’s tension shift, everyone leaning in, focused on your every word.

“The police investigated what on paper are prostitution houses,” you continued, your tone serious, “leading to the arrest of four men—two of them were real estate agents as a cover-up.” You paused for a moment, glancing at the file again, then at the faces of your team, your voice steadying as you pressed on. “All the victims we managed to rescue are adults who claim they weren’t being exploited. But when I went to check the financial records of these real estate agents, I found a ton of transactions tied to a series of properties they owned. The weird part? It was incredibly difficult to get access to the catalogue of properties, and none of them have a real, tangible address.” 

"At first, I didn’t think much of it, but then I realized—each property is actually a person they’re selling. It’s a human catalogue disguised as real estate listings." You knew you probably sounded crazy, but recognizing patterns and hidden meanings had always been how you survived.

"If a property is listed for rent, it’s prostitution. If it’s for sale only, it’s trafficking. A single-story house means the victim is a minor, while two or more floors likely indicate an adult. A garage means it’s a girl, no garage means it’s a boy. I think a porch signifies plastic surgery. And the descriptions of the walls and floors? They match the victim’s physical characteristics."

You laid out the pictures from the folder across the table, arranging them with a methodical precision. "These are the rescued victims. All of them are adults, former prostitutes, found in houses packed with bedrooms."

Then, you placed photos of houses and their corresponding descriptions beneath each victim’s picture. "Look at this one. Dark skin, dark eyes. And this house? Walnut floors, two stories, only available for rent, and it has a garage." You tapped the listing with growing certainty. "They aren’t selling homes. They’re selling people."

The team exchanged looks, some curious, others frowning with concern. Morgan was the first to speak. "How certain are you about this?"

"About 80%. Finding consistent leads has been really difficult," you explained, trying to keep your voice steady.

Hotch leaned forward, his expression sharp. "What does the DA say about all of this?"

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “She… doesn’t know. She’s planning her retirement and wants me to run for her position so I can ‘follow her legacy.’ She thinks this case could secure my election—and she’ll be telling everyone that at the Annual Winter Gala for the District Attorney’s office tonight,” you explained carefully. “If I find proof that the case has crossed state lines, it would automatically fall under the Department of Justice’s jurisdiction, leaving our office completely out of it.”

“Let us help,” Emily stated firmly.

Hotch nodded in agreement. “Garcia can look into this further to see if she uncovers anything else. Meanwhile, the rest of us will split up. JJ, Rossi, and Prentiss will focus on finding Calloway, profiling where he could be hiding, and the other half will stay with you, just in case.”

You hesitated but didn't decline knowing it was the best shot you had. 

“And it would be better if you stayed home,” Hotch said tentatively.

“Absolutely not,” you snapped, barely holding back the venom in your voice. “I have cases to handle and a trial in two hours—I can’t just sit around doing nothing.”

He nodded as if he already knew your answer, but still insisted that you not go to the Gala. You didn’t complain; you barely wanted to go anyway.

The thought of staying home, of locking yourself inside like some helpless prey, made your stomach churn. You weren’t a child anymore, weren’t that drugged, defenseless girl he could control. If Calloway showed up, you wouldn’t freeze. You wouldn’t run.

No, you’d put him down like the rabid animal he was.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Going through sexual abuse leaves a deep, lingering sense of desperation. Last night, you scrubbed your skin with everything you had, trying to erase the phantom touch of ghost hands. It never worked, though. The sensation stayed, haunting you no matter how hard you tried to wash it away.

Being a survivor also carries a heavy burden of guilt. You knew, logically, it wasn’t your fault—what happened to you wasn’t something you could control. But the aftermath, the side effects of being drugged nearly every night, still clung to you, refusing to let you forget.

The familiar hallways of the DA’s office offered a fleeting sense of normalcy, a place where you could breathe a little deeper without your chest aching so badly. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

Fresh from the courtroom, you felt like you finally had some semblance of control over your life—at least for a little while, without the suffocating presence of a stalker lurking in the shadows. Morgan and Reid had been accompanying you all day, which was both mildly embarrassing and infuriating. The idea of people thinking you needed babysitters made your skin crawl.

On the other hand, Spencer couldn’t have been more eager to stay by your side. He hated the circumstances, hated the way you refused to meet his or Morgan’s gaze, but more than anything, he hated the way your hands trembled—no matter how hard you squeezed them together or tried to hide it. He wanted to reach out, to take your hands in his, to offer you something—anything—to anchor you.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like to have your past dissected and laid bare on a table for everyone to see. If just hearing you say Calloway had drugged you had made his stomach twist with sickness, he couldn’t fathom what it had done to you. So if you couldn’t look at him, he understood. He just wished he could hold you instead.

Watching you in court had been mesmerizing. Then again, everything about you captivated him.

Almost at your office, a sharp voice cut through the hallway. “Counselor!”

Spencer immediately tensed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morgan’s hand instinctively move to his holster.

You turned at the sound, already bracing yourself and recognizing the voice from Defense Attorney Bennet. Just the sight of him made your stomach tighten, and the way your jaw tensed and your nose twitched slightly—a near-wince before you masked it—didn’t go unnoticed by Reid.

Bennet strolled toward you with his usual smugness, and you barely resisted the urge to take a step back.

“No deal.” Your voice was flat, dismissive. His client had been arrested for attempted murder—of his own wife, in front of their children. The woman had come to you, fear in her eyes, begging you to make sure he wouldn’t get out and try to hurt her again.

Bennet didn’t seem fazed. “I'm not looking for one. My client isn't guilty.,” he said smoothly, as if that was enough to make you care. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose, the corners of your lips threatening to curl in distaste. “Your client belongs in a pine box... but I will settle for an 8-by-10 cell where he can rot until he dies.”

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Ms. Woodvale. He was under a lot of stress due to his demanding workload, which caused him anxiety and insomnia," he says smoothly, as if that excuse isn’t absolutely ridiculous.

You catch a glimpse of Morgan and Reid stepping into your office. Exhaling sharply, already fed up, you fix him with a cold stare. "I have anxiety and insomnia. I don’t go around shooting people."

You turned on your heel and got inside your office, you shut the door with more force than necessary. “I’m sorry for th—” A yawn caught you off guard, cutting off your words as you let your forehead rest against the cool surface of the door. 

"Do you want some coffee?" Spencer offered, his voice so gentle that, for a moment, your shoulders eased ever so slightly.

"Uh—yeah, thank you," you said, watching as he moved toward the small table where the machine sat. Then, quickly, before he could pour, you added, "No sugar, please."

The thought of sweetness on your tongue made your stomach twist. On a normal day, you couldn't stand it. But today? Today, when the fact that Calloway was still out there felt like a breath against the back of your neck? You weren’t willing to find out how you’d react.

Across the room, Spencer nodded, his fingers brushing over the sugar packets before he left them untouched. He finally understood. The incident in Chicago, the way you had recoiled, the way you'd run. He clung to every fragment of insight he could gather from you, anything that wasn’t in a file.

Caleb, Molly’s temporary replacement, entered your office without knocking, looking harried—like he’d just remembered something important, or more likely, forgotten something crucial—Caleb nearly tripped over himself as he spotted you.

"Miss Woodvale," he started, already sounding defensive, "I was just about to—"

You didn’t have the patience. With a sigh, you reached into your bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, pressing it into his hands.

"I need two things, and I need them before midnight," you said, your tone clipped. "First, look up any prior convictions for Daniel Rogers—everything, even sealed records if you can access them. Second, type up a subpoena for the evidence request I noted down."

Caleb blinked at the paper, then back at you. "A subpoena? Like… now?"

You leveled him with a stare. "Yes, Caleb. Now. Before I have to argue in court for evidence I should already have."

"Right! Right. On it." He gripped the paper like it might disappear from his hands.

"Caleb," you added before he could rush off. He turned back, looking hopeful.

"Sign it under my name before filing. Properly."

"Of course! Totally on it."

You watched him scurry away and exhaled sharply. You should’ve just done it yourself.

Spencer handed you the cup of coffee, and the brief touch of his fingers against yours sent a small tingle through your skin—just enough to take the edge off, to let you breathe a little easier.

"Where's your usual girl?" Morgan asked, nodding toward the door.

"Molly's on maternity leave. She’s got three weeks left." You sighed. Three weeks with someone incompetent felt like thirty years.

Morgan’s phone buzzed, and he stepped out to take the call, leaving you alone with Reid. Ignoring the nerves creeping up your spine at the thought, you turned and made your way to the back of your office. As you pushed the door open, the room beyond was revealed—a chaotic mess, not unlike the study in your apartment.

He followed you inside, and for the first time, the sight of the mess actually embarrassed you. You shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a soft smile, his eyes scanning the board. His brows furrowed. “Why is the map unmarked?”

“I—uh—” You took a sip of your coffee, stalling. Admitting this felt ridiculous. “I’m not very good with directions. Or maps in general… I was going to ask Austin for help, but I always forget.” You hated how left and right sometimes blended together in your head, how frustrating and embarrassing it was.

“Let me do it,” he offered.

Your first instinct was to refuse, but he stepped closer before you could protest. “I do the geographical profiles for the BAU. I’m good at reading maps.”

Something about the way he looked at you—puppy eyes, long hair framing his face—made it hard to say no. Or maybe it was just him. And you couldn’t say no to him.

"Those are the directions," you gesture toward the board just as your phone rings. Seeing Austin’s name on the screen, you pick up.

"Good news, Woody. The candy wasn’t spiked, and I doubt the rest of the baskets were either."

A weight you didn’t realize you were holding in your chest suddenly lifts. The thought of someone twisting something as simple as sharing candy—something that once brought you comfort—into a potential nightmare had been unbearable.

You exhale, murmuring a thank you as Austin reassures you they’ll catch him. When you hang up and relay the news to Spencer, he gives you a small smile, his focus still on the map. Then, as he places a thumbtack, something clicks in his mind. 

"How did you get the lab to run the test that fast?" he asks, glancing over at you. The average turnaround time for something like that would usually be at least a couple of days, even for a small lab.

You shrug. "My dad’s a chemist. He runs a lab, so... it wasn’t hard to get him to push a few tests through."

The irony isn’t lost on you—how your birth parents had also run a lab, except theirs was a meth lab. And now, you’d been raised by someone who ran a legitimate one. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Another piece of you gets stored forever, engraved in Spencer’s mind, and the way you’re being so… casual with him makes his chest warm.

“I’m sorry you can’t go to that party tonight.”

“Oh, it’s fine, really. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to get pampered around by my boss, making promises on my behalf.” You lean against the wall.

“Yeah, social environments aren’t my thing either,” he says, placing the last thumbtack on the map. “So, you don’t want to be the DA?”

You take a second to think. “I know it’s a big position, and it would be great for my career. My boss is always saying the tabloids would go crazy—she can already see the headlines with my name on it. And I know it opens a lot of doors, but…” You trail off. “It comes with things I don’t want to do, like playing politics. I’m not interested in that. I’d barely even step foot in a courtroom, and I want to help people. Bring closure. Maybe even some peace, if I can.”

Spencer watches you as you speak with such passion. For a moment, your eyes don’t look as haunted. Your words seem to carry a weight he’s never seen before, and the strand of hair falling over your face is so tempting for him to tuck behind your ear. It’s as if a magnetic force is pulling him closer. 

He smiles at you, opening his mouth to respond, but his phone rings. “I got something for you about our secret mission,” says Garcia on the other line when he picks up and puts her on speaker.

“So, I tracked the license plate from the arrested man. Stumbled upon something—two of them always went periodically to a location where there are no cameras around. It’s pretty far, almost at the border with Maryland,” Garcia continues.

“Is there anything over there?” you ask, feeling a slight sense of urgency.

“It’s a pretty abandoned area, but from a street view program, apparently, there’s a warehouse over the Cicero street,” she replies. “I sent you the location.”

Spencer thanks her, but before he hangs up, Garcia adds, “Rossi picked up Morgan from there. A street camera caught someone who looks like Calloway near the Capitol.”

Your breath catches in your chest for a moment as the weight of her words sink in. You exhale slowly, Spencer hangs up and you speak urgently. “We have to go check that warehouse.”

You see hesitation in his eyes “Please?

He nods, but the hesitation doesn’t leave his eyes. He doesn’t want to go alone without the team, but something shifts when he notices the tremor in your hand. It was slightly worse than before, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he decided not to mention it, knowing that pushing you away now wouldn't help.

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Arriving at the warehouse, you felt anticipation creeping through your bones, an almost electric tension settling in your chest. You were close—so close that whatever detail had been slipping through your fingers had to be right in front of you.

The aged wooden floor groaned beneath your boots, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the space. Dust floated in the slanted beams of light filtering through broken windows, and the air smelled of damp wood and rusted metal.

If Spencer cursed, he would have done it the moment you didn’t wait for him to clear the area first. Instead, he sprinted to your side, his breath sharp as he yanked his gun from his holster, his fingers tightening around the grip.

The place had two floors, surrounded by nothing but dry, brittle trees. Looking back, you wished you could say you had been cautious, but the events of the day had started to numb your judgment. There was no hesitation when the door didn’t budge—you shoved your shoulder against it without a second thought.

Spencer inhaled sharply behind you, his voice cutting through the stagnant air.

He called your name as a warning, his tone edged with unease. And if you had time for waiting you would've picked on the hint of fear in his voice. 

The door gave in, and you stepped inside immediately. The interior was somehow worse than the outside—humidity clung to the rotting wood, the scent of decay thick in the air. The space was lined with tiny bedrooms, each one filled with small beds. The sight made your stomach turn. You didn’t need to imagine what had happened here; the walls practically whispered it.

“You go check upstairs, I’ll check here,” you said, already moving.

“We should wait for backup.” Spencer's voice was firm, his grip on his gun tightening.

"This place is abandoned," you countered, dismissing his concern before he could argue further. He sent Garcia a quick message as you moved through the rooms quickly—most were the same, two beds, a small closet, nothing significant.

Until the last room.

It was different. A desk sat by a small, cracked window, standing out among the neglect. You crossed the room immediately, opening every drawer, rifling through them with practiced efficiency. But there wasn’t much. Loose papers. A few pens. Dust coating the insides.

Then, just as you were about to move on—something.

Tucked in the very back of the bottom drawer. A flash drive.

Your fingers barely brushed against it when— crack.

A footstep. A snap of dry wood behind you.

Your pulse slammed into overdrive. Every muscle tensed, locking you in place for a fraction of a second—just long enough to see a blue shadow move between the trees, fast, deliberate. They had something in their hand. They took something from the desk.

And then your body moved before your mind could catch up. You bolted.

The cold air burned your throat as you tore through the doorway, barely registering Spencer shouting your name behind you. The forest was a blur—branches whipping past, the earth uneven beneath your feet, every instinct screaming at you to keep going, keep your eyes locked on the figure ahead. 

Then it hit.

A wave of vertigo crashed into you like a freight train when you were jumping off a rock.

The world lurched.

Trees stretched and twisted, the ground tilting violently beneath you. Your stomach turned, and suddenly there was no up, no down—just a sickening pull as your balance shattered.

Your foot slipped.

You didn’t fall so much as collapse, legs giving out as the world spun in a dizzying, nauseating spiral. Your shoulder slammed into the dirt first, then your head, the impact ringing through your skull like a gunshot making you groan in frustration and dizziness. 

Distantly, you could still hear Spencer yelling. His voice was closer now, urgent, frantic.

You tried to push yourself up, but the world wouldn’t stop moving. The trees swayed, the ground rolled beneath you, and the sickening weight of disorientation kept you pinned where you fell.

The sirens screamed in the distance, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat, loud and erratic in your ears. The earth tilted beneath you as you tried to push yourself up, twigs and dirt digging into your scraped palms. 

Right now, Spencer could only see himself in you—that reckless, desperate version of himself from two years ago. The one who told JJ they didn’t have time to wait. The one who ended up at the mercy of Tobias Hankel. Right now, those magnets—the ones that should have drawn you together—were mirroring instead. And magnets that mirror don’t attract. They repel.

The nausea surged again, your stomach twisting violently as you heard Spencer’s footsteps closing in.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

His voice, along with some police sirens, cut through the ringing in your ears, sharp and edged with frustration, but you could barely focus on it. The ground felt unsteady beneath you, as if the earth itself was shifting. You blinked hard, trying to ground yourself, but the pressure in your skull only worsened.

Spencer didn’t notice—didn’t see the way your fingers dug into the dirt just to keep yourself upright. All he saw was a reckless choice, the same mistake he had made, playing out all over again. And it terrified him.

"I almost had him!" you shot back, breathless, the words slurring slightly as the world swayed again when you stood up again.

"You ran off alone!" His voice cracked, raw with frustration. “You have no idea of the hundred things that can happen when you go alone in the field! You are not even an agent or a police officer!”

The words hit like a whip, laced with something deeper than anger—fear. But your head was spinning too much to fire back. The ringing in your ears pulsed in and out like waves crashing over you, swallowing his words before you could fully process them.

You thought you saw another figure moving toward you—just a flicker of motion in your blurred vision, a shadow against the trees. The ringing in your ears drowned out everything else, making Spencer’s voice feel distant, like he was speaking through water.

“Woody!”

Morgan’s voice cut through the static, sharp and urgent. You barely registered the moment he reached you—his presence was solid, grounding—but the nausea clawed at your stomach, threatening to pull you under again.

“Someone—a blue jacket was—” you tried, but the words barely scraped past your throat, your breathing uneven, shallow. You forced yourself to stay upright, to push through the dizziness, but Morgan’s hands were already on you, steadying, his gaze scanning your face with concern.

“They… they took something from the house. I don’t kn—” Your voice broke off as another wave of vertigo surged through you.

Morgan’s grip tightened, firm but not harsh. “You don’t look good, Woody. Sit down before you fall down.” He guided you down against a tree with your knees to your chest. 

“I’m fine, it’s just—this vertigo shit, I—” The lie barely made it past your lips before the ground tilted violently beneath you. You staggered, your vision swam, and this time—there was nothing you could do to stop it. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to stop the nausea clawing up your throat. “I—I just need a second.”

As if he snapped off his frustration. Spencer crouched down in front of you, eyes scanning your face, his own panic shifting into something else. “Just take a deep breathe,” he said, and now it wasn’t frustration in his voice—it was realization. 

You blinked at him, but the edges of your vision were still blurry. You hated this. Hated feeling weak in front of him, hated that your body had betrayed you at the worst possible moment.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, even as another wave of vertigo made you squeeze your eyes shut.

Spencer wasn’t buying it. And suddenly, he felt so much shame over how he hadn't even helped you out because he’d been so caught up in his own fear, his own anger, that he hadn’t even seen you struggling.

And that scared him just as much as watching you run into danger alone.

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Once again in the BAU bullpen, you had finally recovered from the vertigo, knowing it was brought on by stress and anxiety.

While you had been struggling, the rest of the team had sprinted through the woods, searching for the person you saw. JJ was the one who found a crumpled, half-burned document about 50 meters away from the house. As for the figure in the blue jacket—there was still no trace.

The files contained lists of properties, and they were marked with prices. For the looks of it, you sensed they could indicate age or maybe height but you didn't get much opportunity to look into it. As for the flash drive, Garcia had taken it to analyze. 

They had told you that the one man they caught on a street camera thinking it was Calloway was just a false alarm, meaning he was still free, you hated feeling like a prey again.

Austin was crouched in front of your chair, watching you carefully.

"I'm fine. And we both know it’s just because my body doesn’t handle stress well," you muttered, taking a sip of the gatorade he handed you. You were no stranger to vertigo and dizziness—episodes that had come and gone over the years—but this one felt different. More intense, more unsettling. A doctor had once told you, years ago, that it could be a lingering side effect from drug abuse.

"Just eat," he said, opening a paper bag and setting it beside you.

You sighed, grabbing the sandwich but leaving the small cardboard box inside. Breaking the sandwich in half, you offered him a piece, but he shook his head. Rolling your eyes, you spun your desk chair to face JJ instead.

"Want half my sandwich? I’m not going to finish it."

She frowned slightly but quickly answered, "Oh, thank you." Taking a bite, her eyes widened. "Oh my god, this is really good," she said, covering her mouth as she chewed.

Smiling, you took a bite yourself. "My mom’s a chef. She likes to send me food sometimes, and since she knows I like sharing, she always sends extra."

JJ hummed in approval before handing a piece to Prentiss, who had the same reaction. 

Just then, Hotch entered the room with Garcia and Spencer behind him. Garcia grabbed the remote and turned on the TV showing the FBI logo.

“My lovely ducks this flash drive was cripting nightmare. But! as your dear tech colorful genius I got it.” She pressed a button, and a series of documents filled the screen—spreadsheets, names, locations, and timestamps. She took a deep breath before speaking.

"Okay, so this flash drive? A goldmine of incriminating evidence," she said, her tone more serious than usual. "We’re talking organized trafficking orders—detailed lists of victims, complete with coded identifiers, transaction dates, and destinations. But that’s not all."

She clicked to another file, and a map appeared. "These are transport routes—highways, backroads, even rest stops marked as exchange points. Whoever put this together is meticulous. And then, there are these."

Another document popped up. It was a list of addresses.

"Safe houses," Garcia continued. "Not just in DC—there’s here in Virginia, Maryland, Baltimore and a few in Pennsylvania. Meaning, this isn’t some local operation. It’s an entire network."

The room fell silent as everyone processed the weight of what she had just revealed.

The breath you had been holding escaped in a slow exhale as you sank back into the chair. You and Austin exchanged a glance, both of you silently acknowledging the weight of what was in front of you—the information you had been chasing for weeks was finally right there.

In retrospect, it seemed almost absurd—how just three men were possibly going to be convicted for minor felonies, while they and so many others were responsible for running and ruining God knows how many lives.

Hotch’s voice was firm. “We’ll give this to the Head of the Domestic Trafficking Task Force, Andi Swan, to continue with the investigation. They will be communicating with the Department of Justice.”

You nodded slightly, processing the weight of the situation you had been unknowingly tangled in. Austin’s voice cut through your thoughts. “You have to go to the gala for an alibi.”

He was right, and you knew it. Not attending such an important event, coupled with the fact that the office was losing an important case while FBI agents had been seen talking to you, could easily make you a target—marked as a 'snitch.' The irony stung, especially when all you’d been trying to do was uncover the truth.

You turned to face the team. “What about Calloway and the other threats?”

Garcia’s expression softened as she responded. “Wallens Ridge has cleared 75% of the area. They haven’t ruled him out as a fugitive yet.” Her voice took on a pitying tone, one you didn’t want to acknowledge but knew was meant to protect you.

“We’ll protect you,” Morgan added, his voice steady. “The gala will be crowded with security. We’ll drive you there and back, and by tomorrow, we’ll continue to look for him. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, knowing the smart decision was to attend the gala and put on a convincing smile. Austin had told you it was 6 p.m., giving you two hours to get home and be ready by 8.

Hotch assigned Rossi, JJ, and Garcia to keep tracking Calloway, while Morgan and Prentiss would drive you to the event.

Once the team had their tasks, you stood, picking up the brown paper bag before heading toward Spencer’s desk. You placed it on top, glancing toward Garcia’s office, where you’d just seen him disappear. It was a terrible excuse for an apology—‘Sorry for being impulsive and reckless. Here’s a sweet treat.’ But words had never been your strong suit, especially when it came to your feelings.

Time had a cruel way of shifting things. Over two years ago, you had stood in front of another desk, clutching an identical paper bag—only back then, it hadn’t been an apology. It had been his drugs. And you had thrown them away.

Austin was waiting for you. You caught a glimpse of Prentiss flipping through files and swallowed your nerves. You never knew if your difficulty making friends came from feeling like a freak or simply not knowing how to connect.

You hesitated before calling her name. “Uh—could you help me? Maybe? I know you probably have more important things to do, so—”

Prentiss looked up, offering a friendly smile. “No, it’s okay. What do you need help with?”

You shifted awkwardly. “Getting ready? I—I don’t really know how. I mean, I can dress myself, obviously, but—”You exhaled, frustrated at your own fumbling. “I barely know how to do any of that ‘pampering’ stuff.”

Prentiss smirked, grabbing her coat. “Oh, you came to the right person. I’m a diplomat’s daughter—I was practically trained in this.”

You blinked at her, surprised by how quickly she jumped in to help.

She gestured toward the elevator. “Come on. Let’s make you look like you belong at this gala.”

Trying not to seem too eager, you followed her. Before stepping in, she quickly told Morgan she’d be driving you and Austin.

A few minutes later Spencer finally emerged from Garcia’s office, barely escaping yet another lecture about overthinking things. His eyes landed on his desk—and the familiar brown paper bag sitting atop it.

Inside was a small cardboard box. And in it—a piece of chocolate cake. 

A flicker of guilt settled in his chest as he stared at the cake. Had he really made you feel like you needed to apologize?

Maybe he felt it even more acutely after taking a bite—sweet, rich, and undeniably good. The kind of thing that made him wonder if he even deserved it. 

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

You glance at the reflection in the mirror, taking in the clean, elegant look. The dress falls delicately, the long strips cascading down your back—so stunning, so unlike what you’d usually wear.

“You look good. Don’t overthink it,” Austin’s voice comes from behind you.

“Thanks,” you reply, offering him a faint smile, but it comes out more like a thin line.

Emily had done a great job polishing you up. She even revived the black nail polish you thought was long gone since your college days, using some remover drops. Your hair was styled in an updo, the final touch to a look that felt like someone else entirely.

“Here you go” she says, handing you the long black coat, giving your makeup a final check. It felt strangely nice to feel this... pretty. You knew without her help, you wouldn’t have pulled it off. To be honest, you liked pretty things. You liked makeup, but you just didn’t know how to do it right. And you wanted to have girlfriends, though you weren’t sure what you’d talk about with them. But that didn’t matter, and Emily seemed nice enough to not mind.

“The car’s downstairs. Morgan and Reid will be taking you” she adds. Right. Reid. You nod as you slip the coat on, trying to ignore the unease creeping up on you.

The thought of Reid seeing you like this, this version of yourself that was so different from the usual, made you squirm.

Would he think you looked good? Pretty, even? Why did you care about his opinion? Maybe because you cared about what he thought in general. Maybe because having his attention, even for just five seconds, felt like something sacred. Why would someone with such an incredible mind waste more than five seconds on someone like you?

You didn’t know which thought haunted you the most: the sense of insecurity that came with the fact someone had broken into your place, erasing the feeling of home and comfort you’d hoped for while getting ready, or the look in Spencer’s eyes—the one that made you feel like you’d been stupid.

The elevator doors opened, revealing the lobby, and in front of the glass entrance doors of your apartment complex stood the familiar black SUV. Your stomach churned with nerves.

Spencer’s breath hitched when he saw you, the way the dress fit you so perfectly, so timelessly elegant. If someone had told him you were a duchess or from some aristocratic family, he would have believed them. The way you carried yourself—controlled yet poised, with your head held high and your back straight—was enhanced by the silk of the dress, giving you an almost regal presence.

He got out of the car to help you in, and the rush of warmth that flooded your face instantly banished the winter’s cold. You smiled awkwardly at him, unsure of what to say.

The low whistle from Morgan saved you.

“Lookin’ good, mama,” he said, flashing that charming smile of his.

You smiled back at him, relieved, before turning to say goodbye to Prentiss. Spencer gently helped you into the car, making sure the dress didn’t get caught or ruined in the process. You felt the tingle of his hand lingering where it had touched yours, and you couldn’t shake the electric pulse it left behind. 

Slipping into the back seat, you settled in with Austin in the front, relaying the venue’s address to Morgan. Spencer sat beside you, trying to keep his composure. He had to be extra careful not to stumble as the scent of your perfume hit him, wrapping around him like an intoxicating mist. It was all he could do to focus on anything else, the smell of it swirling in his senses and pulling him into a dizzy state he could easily get lost in. 

Throughout the ride, you stared out the window, mentally preparing yourself for the event ahead. You knew you had to play the part—professional, charming, decisive, almost regal if you wanted to make an impression. The problem was, you didn’t want to win that way. You didn’t want to play the political game that came with it.

Looking at Morgan was a reminder that Calloway was out there, and you could let him throw you off. But then your gaze shifted to Reid, and the tightness in your chest made you stutter for a second. His presence had that effect on you, unsettling yet magnetic in the most infuriating yet addicting way.

Your phone rang, pulling you out of your thoughts. You rummaged through your purse and saw it was your office number, making you frown as you picked it up.

“Hello?” you answered doubtfully, everyone was supposed to be at the venue or on their way there by now.

“Miss Woodvale!” Caleb’s voice came through, making you fight the impulse to roll your eyes. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid there’s been a problem.”

You sighed, bracing yourself. Caleb was pretty useless as an assistant, and you could already feel the frustration bubbling up. “What’s happened now?”

“It’s the subpoena for the evidence in the Rogers case, the one about the gun,” he said, his voice tinged with panic. “The judge declined it, and I... I’m not sure what to do about it. The paperwork was filed wrong, and—”

You cut him off before he could ramble further. “Is it the one I gave you a draft on how to do it exactly?”

Yes! I typed but—I don't know something must have gone wrong and I’m at the office right now and I-” You sigh knowing you had made a mistake in asking him to handle such an important thing like a physical evidence paperwork. 

Knowing it was pretty urgent and could jeopardize the case, you decided to take care of it in the moment “I’ll handle it.” You ended the call, already plotting the quickest way to fix this.

You glanced at the others in the car, a sudden sense of urgency creeping over you. The event felt like it had slipped from your mind for a moment, but the reality of your job brought you back into focus.

“Is everything okay?” asked Spencer, with a concerned look on his face.

You nod slowly “Yeah just…” you said, turning to Austin and Morgan. “Can we please make a stop in the office for a second? There was a problem and I’ve got to go fix it.”

Morgan glanced at you, eyebrows raised. “You sure? We’re almost there”

“It’s on the way, just some paperwork issue that I don't want to escalate” you said, your tone firm. “I’ll be quick. I promise”

Morgan nods and turns towards your office. A couple minutes later you are in front of the office, stepping out of the car. Spencer, followed quietly behind you. His voice was low, but there was concern in it. “I’ll come with you”

You just nodded, knowing that convincing him you’ll be fine was a waste of time. As you walked toward the courthouse, your mind raced through possible solutions to fix Caleb’s mistake, not wanting to think of the effect Spencer’s presence by your side had on you, and how the silence between you two was almost suffocating over the unsaid feelings.

Spencer cleared his throat. “You look beautiful,” he said, offering a sincere smile. He wanted to say more—wanted to apologize—but the words tangled inside him, unsure of how to make it right.

The compliment caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily defenseless. You felt the warmth of a genuine smile tug at your lips, and Spencer’s chest tightened at the sight of it.

“Thank you,” you said softly, meaning it.

Spencer exhaled, deciding to take the chance. “About what happened in the warehouse, I—”

A sharp gasp from Caleb cut him off.

“Counselor! I’m so sorry—I completely forgot the gala was tonight!” Caleb’s voice was frantic as he adjusted his glasses, guilt written all over his face. “I wanted to apologize. I know you trusted me with this, and I—”

“Just give me the files and let’s fix this,” you interrupted, already feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

Before anything else could be said, Spencer’s phone rang with Garcia’s name in it.

He picked up immediately, but something was off. The call crackled, her voice cutting in and out, fragmented in a way that sent a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Garcia? You’re breaking up—what’s going on?”

As you, Caleb, and Spencer stepped into your office, the static grew worse. He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, but Penelope’s words were barely making it through.

“Ca—way… Welle—ridge…” The interference distorted Garcia’s words, making it impossible to understand what she was saying.

“What? Garcia, I can’t hear you,” Spencer said, pressing his hand over the other ear to block out the noise.

Your assistant glanced up. “There’s better reception downstairs at night.”

Spencer gave a quick nod and stepped out of your office, heading toward the lower level. By the time he got there, the call had already dropped. With a sigh, he immediately tried calling Garcia back as he got further and further from you. 

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Upstairs, Caleb handed you more files, his usual carefree expression in place. As you took them, your eyes flicked to the dirt under his nails, and you fought the instinctive wince of disgust.

“I gave you notes on how to do this. Did you check them?”

You really didn’t want to lecture a man who was two years older than you and a bit taller, but at this point, it felt unavoidable.

What felt even more ridiculous, though, was how he managed to mess up every task you gave him.

Caleb scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “I mean… sort of? I figured it was just a formality thing, so I—”

“This isn’t even from the Rogers case, Caleb,” you interrupted, exasperation seeping into your voice as you handed the file back to him. You didn’t even try to mask your frustration.

“Oh! Right—sorry!” He fumbled through his stack of papers before hastily picking up another document and handing it over.

You sighed, taking it from him, already dreading what mistake you’d find next.

He disappeared down the hall, leaving you staring at the stack of files, irritation simmering under your skin. With a sigh, you scanned it carefully, your frustration shifting into confusion. There was nothing wrong with it. No technical error, no missing information—just a perfectly valid request.

Frowning, with your back towards the door, the file still in hand, rereading it just to be sure.

“Caleb, I don’t think thi—”

You never got to finish the sentence.

A sharp, jarring thud struck the back of your head, and the world lurched sideways. A burst of pain shot through your skull, white-hot and disorienting. The file slipped from your fingers, papers scattering across the floor as your vision blurred.

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Morgan’s phone buzzes sharply against the desk, the name Garcia flashing across the screen. He barely has time to press accept before her voice spills through the line, fast, frantic.

“Morgan, this is weird—really, really weird—I don’t understand how th—”

He straightens, instincts flaring. “What’s going on? You caught Calloway?” With a flick of his thumb, he puts the call on speaker so Austin can hear too.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end, then Garcia’s voice—urgent, almost breathless.

“Morgan I called Reid first but his phone it’s not working, Wallens Ridge just called. Calloway never left the facility.”

The blood in their veins turned to ice at the thought of it. If it wasn’t Calloway—the only one who knew about such a macabre detail—then who? Who else could possibly know?

They both bolted out of the car. Who even had your address? It had to be someone trusted. Someone close. Someone you had let too close.

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A blinding explosion of pain cracked through your skull, turning the world sideways. The room twisted, floor tilting beneath you as your knees buckled. The taste of copper flooded your mouth.

Hands—rough, too strong—grabbed at you, yanking you forward before you could catch yourself. Your body slammed into something solid. A wall? A desk? It didn’t matter. The impact rattled through your bones, sending shockwaves down your spine.

Panic surged through the haze. You tried to move—tried to fight—but the dizziness slowed your limbs, making everything feel sluggish. You wanted to scream for help, for someone, anyone, for Spencer, to come help you, but the spinning world had stolen your words.

Your fingers clawed for anything—something—to defend yourself. Your vision swam, but you felt it: the sharp edge of something on the desk. A pen? A letter opener?

Your hand closed around it.

But Caleb was faster.

A crushing grip seized your wrist, twisting, forcing your fingers open. The object clattered to the floor. He shoved you back—hard. Your shoulder slammed into the wall, pain blooming through muscle and bone. The air left your lungs in a choked gasp.

You had to move. Had to run. Had to— A sharp sting. Cold flooded your veins.

Your body locked, every nerve screaming in protest as the drug hit.

No. No. No.

You thrashed, arms flailing weakly, but your strength was already draining, slipping away like water through your fingers. Your vision blurred at the edges, dark spots creeping in.

Caleb yanked you by the arm, dragging you across the floor. The wood scraped against your skin, tearing at you as you kicked weakly. Your fingers clawed at the ground, desperate for an anchor. You dug your nails into the floor, hanging on, fighting to the last.

A white-hot burst of pain exploded through your hand as your index’s fingernail caught on a splintered groove in the floorboards—and ripped clean off.

A strangled cry wrenched from your throat. The agony barely registered before the blackness swallowed you whole.

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They were too late.

Your office was a disaster—papers scattered, the desk chair overturned, a letter opener lying abandoned on the floor. The air felt wrong, thick with something unsaid, something violent. But it wasn’t until Spencer’s gaze dropped that his stomach lurched.

A fingernail. Lodged between the wooden floorboards.

His breath hitched, nausea creeping up his throat, but there was no time to process it. Austin was already moving, frantic, his eyes darting toward the hallway. He knew there were cameras out there—but not in here. Whoever had taken you had known exactly how to stay hidden.

Morgan and Austin had sprinted up the stairs the second Garcia’s call came through, barely stopping when they saw Spencer frozen near the entrance. The silence in the office was suffocating. There was no one else here. Everyone was at the gala.

Spencer was supposed to be watching you. Supposed to make sure nothing happened. And yet—he had failed. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating, as Morgan barked into his phone, demanding that Garcia access the security cameras, cursing when the signal started to fail.

That’s when he heard the soft creak of a door.

He turned just in time to see Caleb stepping out of the bathroom, his face and hands damp, water still clinging to his skin.

Something wasn’t right.

“Where is she?” Austin’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Caleb blinked, frowning. “Where’s who?”

The nonchalance sent a cold chill through Spencer’s body.

Morgan wasn’t wasting time. He tore through your office, yanking open drawers, rifling through papers, looking for any sign of where you’d gone, but there was nothing. Austin was shouting your name now, advancing on Caleb, his voice rising with barely contained rage.

Then—Morgan cursed. Low. Cold. Spencer turned just as Morgan reached into Caleb’s desk and pulled something out. A signal jammer.

That was why his phone hadn’t worked.

That was why Morgan’s call had cut out.

You were gone.

And they had walked straight into it.

Austin was the first to react. In a blur of movement, he grabbed Caleb by the collar of his blue jacket and slammed him against the wall with enough force to make the drywall tremble.

Someone close. Someone who knew the building well enough to avoid the cameras. Someone who knew you—your schedule, your address.

Austin’s grip tightened. His voice was razor-sharp. ��What have you done to her?”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His face paled. “I—I swear, I didn’t w-want t—”

Austin didn’t let him finish. He slammed him back again, harder. “Where is she?” His voice was low, lethal, vibrating with fury.

Morgan was calling Garcia again, his voice tense in the background, but Austin barely registered it. His entire world had narrowed to the man in front of him—the only lead to where you were.

“They—they threatened me,” Caleb stammered, hands raised in surrender. “My family—I’m sorry, I—”

Austin didn’t care. He shoved him harder against the wall. “Where. Is. She?”

Caleb’s breath came in ragged gasps, terror widening his eyes. His voice cracked as he stammered, “I—I don’t know—they just gave me the needle, and they took her through the back door.”

Morgan was already moving, heading toward the back of the building in search of any trace of you.

Austin didn’t budge. His grip on Caleb’s jacket tightened, his knuckles white. “What did you give her?” His voice was sharp, edged with something raw and dangerous. When Caleb hesitated, Austin snapped. “I’ll kill you with my own hands—what did you give her?!”

You had been drugged.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of sobriety—stolen in an instant.

The thought sent fire through Austin’s veins. His chest heaved with barely contained rage, but before he could lose himself in it, Spencer’s voice cut through the chaos.

Spencer’s gaze locked onto Caleb’s blue jacket, his mind racing. Then, he caught it—the dirt under Caleb’s nails. His stomach twisted.

The warehouse.

Caleb had been there. He was the one you saw. The one you spoke to in your office—where he could have easily eavesdropped.

You had been watched. You had a target on your back for far longer than any of them had realized.

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The air smelled of damp wood and rusted metal, creeping through your nostrils as your vision swam in and out of focus. Slowly, you began to regain awareness of your body and surroundings. A harsh light flickered overhead, blurring your senses, and a sharp pain on the side of your head made you wince.

Your hands were bound tightly behind your back, the rope digging into your skin, and the searing pain made it almost impossible to ignore. A sound, sharp and unsettling, reached your ears—the click of someone’s tongue. It was enough to snap you from your fading consciousness. You fought to stay awake, but your body felt like it was on fire, an unnatural heat that made your skin crawl. Despite the whistle of the wind coming from somewhere in the room, that warmth felt suffocating, as if it were dragging you deeper into memories—or perhaps the lack of them. Blurry flashes, distorted sounds, and a gnawing sense of wrongness churned in your mind, making you want to destroy anything within reach.

Then came the steps, heavy and deliberate, each footfall resonating through the creaking wood beneath.

“This one used to be one of my favorites, you know?” A low, cold voice slithered through the air.

Something about it... felt familiar. Your mind, clouded by pain and fear, tried to place the voice, but it wouldn’t come. It wasn’t Calloway, you knew that tone—there was no forgetting in the one that had whispered awful things to you in the dark, its pitch a disgusting echo in your ear.

Your mouth was dry, coated with a thick, cottony feeling that made it hard to speak. "Who... are you?" Your voice came out barely a whisper, weak and fragile—closer to breathless than you would’ve liked.

He hummed as he approached, the light casting long shadows over his grey and black hair, his dark clothes blending into the ominous surroundings. His presence was suffocating, strong and undeniable. He squatted down in front of you, the light revealing his sharp features and a long, crooked nose that seemed to sharpen his sinister presence.

"It doesn’t matter who I am, sugar," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with malice. "What matters is how close you've been sticking your nose in my business."

Another wave of sharp pain surged through your skull, confusing your thoughts as you tried to place the familiar face before you. But it was like trying to grab smoke—elusive, slippery.

He stood, his footsteps heavy as he moved behind you, his presence darkening the space.

"A friend of mine gave me some tips about what to do with you," he continued, his tone cold and casual, as if discussing something mundane.

You felt a jolt as his hands grasped your arm, and instinctively, you tried to squirm away, but his grip tightened like iron.

"Although," he mused, his voice taking on a sickening quality, "he preferred you docile. I’d rather have you... more awake." His words made you feel sick, each one like poison dripping into your ears.

The needle slid deeper, it's cold metal scraping against your skin, and you could feel the fluid entering your bloodstream—too quickly, too forcefully. Panic surged within you, clawing at your chest, suffocating you. You fought against it, trying to tear your arm away, but his grip was unyielding.

The world began to spin. The adrenaline hit you fast, a hot wave of electricity zipping through your veins, making your heart race and your breath catch in your throat. Your mind was a fog, thoughts slipping in and out like water running through your fingers.

"You feel that?" He whispered close to your ear, his voice smooth, almost coaxing, like a predator with its prey. "The rush. It's all just a little push, and you'll be awake for everything. For all the things that are coming."

The blurry edges of your vision started to sharpen, your breath coming in short, rapid gasps, your chest heaving with every painful inhale. Each breath felt like a battle, the world spinning around you as the adrenaline pulsed through your veins, burning you from the inside out.

Behind you, you heard him laugh—a harsh, cruel sound that sent ice through your veins. But it wasn't the laugh that made you shudder; it was the anger underneath it.

"If only Dean could see how big his sweet girl has grown," he spat, his voice thick with venom, dripping with something darker than just anger. "He was a good associate, knew exactly how and when to prescribe pills for our little business."

The words were like poison, each one meant to wound, to remind you of the twisted connections. You could feel your pulse racing from the adrenaline, your body on edge as the drug coursed through you, making your heart hammer and your vision swim.

"He's rotting in prison now," he continued, his tone laced with twisted satisfaction. His hand grabbed a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back so roughly that a sharp gasp of pain ripped from you.

But it didn’t stop you. The adrenaline only fueled the fire in your veins, making the anger burn hotter. You gritted your teeth, trying to focus, your throat raw and dry. "Same place you'll go when they catch you," you spat, voice hoarse but unwavering, as the rage swelled inside you.

He chuckled darkly, the sound grating against your ears, before the cold, hard press of metal settled against your temple. The weapon’s chill did nothing to cool the heat that roared inside of you, only making your body tremble with a surge of fury.

“Don’t be so sure of it, sweetheart,” he taunted, leaning in closer, his breath hot and rancid against your skin. “You and that friend of yours have been causing me a lot of trouble.”

Your chest heaved, but this time, the adrenaline wasn’t clouding your thoughts—it was sharpening them, feeding the fury that burned in your veins. Austin. His words only made the fire inside you grow.

“You’re the little bitch who runs that human catalogue? The whorehouse we searched?” you hissed, every word dripping with venom.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your blood boil. “Whorehouse? Is that how you call orphanages now?” His twisted smile spread across his face when he saw the flicker of confusion in your eyes.

A sharp sting ripped through the right side of your cheek as he slapped you hard, the pain jolting through your skull. Orphanages? You tried to focus, trying to make sense of his words, but the anger only surged more violently within you.

He laughed harder, the sound reverberating through the cold air. “I thought they called them foster homes now. You’re one to know, aren’t you, sweetheart?” His voice dripped with mockery, savoring the way his words landed, knowing exactly how to twist the knife.

He circled around you like a predator, his steps slow and deliberate, inspecting the room. “Like I said, this one was one of my favorites.” His words were casual, but they carried a weight that made your stomach turn.

Through the sharp blur of your vision, you turned your head, your eyes darting to the right. The trees outside were bare, dry branches silhouetted against the bright moon. Recognition hit you like a blow to the chest, and your heart sank. You were in the warehouse you and Spencer had searched earlier.

The memory hit you like a freight train—rows of tiny beds, abandoned, empty, each one a reminder of the lives stolen and shattered. The thought of those children, trapped in that hell, sickened you, making every inch of your skin crawl with the need to escape.

A low, guttural groan escaped your lips, fury burning in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You fought against the ropes binding your wrists, the adrenaline sharpening your senses, making everything feel raw. "I’m going to kill you," you snarled through clenched teeth, barely able to contain the rage. The thought of being in that place again, again, after everything you'd been through... it made your entire body tremble with fury.

“Where’s Calloway’s little girl? His sugarcube? The one he refused to sell after seeing her so tiny and beautiful in that hospital bed?” He taunted, pulling a piece of candy from his pocket. “He told me you loved these. Didn’t you like my special delivery? He used to give you these and you’d just love them.”

His words hit like a sledgehammer. The memories flooded back—sharp and violent, dragging you into the past. You could almost feel the sticky sweetness coating your tongue again, the bitterness mixing with the sugar, and the suffocating control of it all.

Calloway used to feed you those damn candies—piles of them—whether you wanted them or not. He would shove them in your mouth, watching you as you had no choice but to swallow, his sick pleasure in the power he had over you written all over his face. He reveled in your discomfort, in your helplessness, in your inability to escape.

Once, you’d tried to hide some of the candy, just a few pieces, to give to the other kids in the foster home. Maybe it would make them smile, maybe it would give them a little relief from their own nightmare. But Calloway had caught you. He’d punished you for it—made you pay the price for defying him.

You never tried to hide the candy again.

The sickening memory made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat. The pain of the past felt so close now—too close, threatening to overwhelm you. The heat of adrenaline still surged through you, but it didn’t dull the disgust, the rage.

“I have proof of your sick business,” you spat, your voice rough and dripping with fury. “Every escape route, the safehouse, the money transactions—everything. And you’ll go to the most disgusting 2x2 cell I can find in this world and rot there, going crazy in isolation.”

He hummed, his gaze cold and calculating as he slowly pointed the gun at your forehead, steady between your brows. You stared him down, defiant, refusing to let him see even a hint of fear.

“You think that’s going to save you?” His voice was a low murmur, twisted with mockery. 

His grip tightened on the gun, and for a brief moment, the world narrowed down to the cold, unforgiving barrel pointing against your forehead. You could feel his anger radiating off him, a palpable heat, but it only fueled your own defiance. His words were venomous, designed to rattle you, but you stood strong.

“You’re going to die here, sweetheart. You’ve been a thorn in my side for too long. All your little threats, all your big talk? It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll put so many bullets in your head, God wouldn’t even recognize you.” He sneered, the words dripping with malice.

You rested your head against the cold steel, the metal biting into your skin, but you didn’t flinch. In that moment, the sensation was almost soothing, like the clarity that comes when everything else fades away, leaving you focused. Focused on one thing.

“I don’t believe in God,” you said, your voice low and steady, despite the terror churning in your chest. "Go ahead and shoot. See if that stops me from haunting you from the grave."

His finger moved over the trigger, just a whisper away from pulling it. The sound of quick footsteps approaching was the only thing that stopped him.

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The BAU stepped out of the SUV with precision, their movements sharp and efficient. Spencer felt his chest tighten beneath the bulletproof vest, adrenaline buzzing through his veins.

After your kidnapping, they had brought Caleb in for questioning. He had confessed to aiding people who had threatened him and his family, revealing that he had given them your personal address. He had been sent to retrieve documents from the same warehouse where you'd been taken, but he panicked and dropped them before JJ could reach him.

The threats had been traced to a man named Graham Sullivan, a former doctor who no longer practiced. He traveled frequently, never staying in one place for long. Garcia had tracked his rented car through its online GPS, leading them straight to the warehouse.

Spencer could only hope they weren’t too late. Again.

Hotch directed the team to surround the house, already briefing them on the structure. He and Morgan led the breach, kicking the door down and clearing every room with practiced efficiency.

"FBI! Put the gun down!" Morgan’s voice rang out from the last room.

Reid rushed in behind Hotch, his heart pounding. His eyes landed on you—sitting in a chair, wrists raw and red from the restraints tied behind your back. Across from you, Sullivan stood with a gun aimed directly at you.

Sullivan’s grip on the gun was steady, his finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes flicked between the agents and you, calculating his next move.

Reid could feel the pulse in his throat, pounding, deafening. He tightened his grip on his own gun, but his hands were steady—years of fieldwork had trained them to be.

“Graham,” Hotch’s voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “There’s no way out of this. Put the gun down.”

Graham’s presence triggered something in your memory—distant, almost dreamlike, but unmistakable. The image of Uncle Gram flashed before you, an echo of Calloway’s manipulation. You could almost hear his voice, coaxing you to greet him every time he visited, making you act like everything was normal. But it never was. After his visits, the house always felt emptier, the silence heavier, as if another group of children had been “adopted,” leaving behind only their absence.

Graham moved to fire, but Hotch was faster. He saw the threat in his eyes before Graham could make a move, and with practiced precision, he shot him in the leg. Graham crumpled to the floor, dropping the gun as he went down, clutching his leg above the knee. Spencer immediately rushed to undo your restraints, but you didn’t follow him. Your eyes were fixed on something else. You weren’t looking at Graham, or even at Spencer. 

All you saw was the gun in the corner. All you felt was the burn of your newly freed hands. All you wanted was revenge.

Before anyone could stop you, you lunged for the gun, fingers closing around the grip. Adrenaline surged through your veins, your breath ragged as you turned the weapon on Graham.

He was on his knees, bleeding, vulnerable.

Morgan called your name, but you didn’t hear him. Your eyes were locked onto Graham’s.

Your right hand trembled slightly, the raw, nailless finger resting over the trigger. It pulsed—as if calling you to pull it.

The sirens in your head were deafening, drowning out Morgan and Hotch as they tried to reach you.

“Where’s your God now?” you spat, voice sharp and shaking with rage. “Because He sure as hell wasn’t in that house.”

Your entire body trembled, but not with fear. Not with hesitation. With something darker, something primal, something that had lived inside you for years, clawing at the walls of your ribs, screaming to be let out. And now—now that monster had a name, a face, and he was kneeling right in front of you.

Your chest heaved as you tightened your grip on the gun, the cool weight of it grounding you, fueling you. Your hands ached, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer force with which you clenched the weapon. Your index finger twitched against the trigger, the tendons in your wrist pulled so taut they might snap, the palace were you nails used to be pulsated as if it was calling you. Do it.

“This man trafficked children across the country.” Your voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the fury that laced every word. It crackled in the air around you like the moments before a thunderstorm, suffocating and electric. “He made them think they were safe. He made them trust him. He took their hands, promised them safety, and then he sold them. He ruined their lives—just like Calloway did.”

Morgan’s expression hardened.

You knew if you kept talking, you could get to him. You could make him see. Maybe, just maybe, he would let you do this. You could say it was an accident, that it was life or death. And you could walk free.

You didn’t move. You didn’t take your eyes off Graham, who had the audacity to grin.

The sight of his teeth—white, clean, untouched by suffering, untouched by the pain he had inflicted on others—sent something violent and raw ripping through you.

"Finally," he mused, his voice tainted with amusement, mockery, knowing. "Calloway’s little sugarcube. The angry one. The wild one. The one who snapped that boy’s arm like a twig when she was what—six? seven?"

Something inside you cracked.

The air turned thick. The blood in your veins ran hot, too fast, too much. You felt it in your fingertips, in the throb of your pulse, in the back of your skull where pressure built like an overfilled dam, desperate to break.

Your ears rang with the phantom sound of his voice—not Sullivan’s, but Calloway’s—the slurred taunts, the threats, the sickly sweet way he’d whispered your name while he—

Morgan took a careful step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Put the gun down," he urged, his voice calm but firm. "This isn’t you."

But it was you.

The gun in your hand felt like the only real thing in the room. The weight of it, the cold metal against your palm—it was control, justice, revenge.

Graham’s smirk deepened, unfazed. "Go on," he taunted, his voice raspy. "Show them who you really are."

Your heart pounded. Your finger hovered over the trigger, aching to pull it.

"You don’t have to do this," Morgan tried again. "You pull that trigger, you don’t get to come back from it."

The words hit you like a slap, but they didn’t land. The sound of the gun, of Graham’s taunting grin, drowned everything else out.

Your chest was tight, your breath ragged and shallow. Every fiber of your being was screaming, do it. End him. Make him pay. But something else, something deep inside, tugged at you—just a whisper of hesitation, but it was enough.

And then Spencer appeared at your side.

His voice, when it came, was soft. It wasn’t the sharp edge of a command or the hard lines of Morgan’s warning. It was patient, the way he always spoke to you when he thought you needed to be reminded of your worth. Of your humanity.

He called your name, his voice threaded with something like understanding, like he was walking on glass but knew that you needed him to be there. “I know what you’re feeling. I know you want him to pay. But this won’t fix anything. You know that, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were locked on Graham, on his smile. The gun in your hand felt so right. But there was something in Reid’s voice, something gentle, that made you waver.

You could feel his presence now, right next to you. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body that seemed to pull you in. He wasn’t backing off, wasn’t giving you space to breathe—he was there. Centered.

Reid repeated your name, his voice lower, more insistent. “You’re not him. You’re not the monster he’s trying to make you. Please.”

But you were a monster. Weren't you?

You finally tore your eyes away from Graham, the weight of your anger still pressing down on your chest. And then you saw him—Reid. His eyes weren’t filled with fear, or judgment, or pity. No, they were soft, gentle, as if he was trying to reach something deep inside of you.

He wasn’t looking at you like you were some broken thing to be fixed, or a threat to be afraid of. He wasn’t recoiling in disgust. He was looking at you like you were human. Like you mattered. Like you weren’t the monster you thought you were.

"Please," he whispered, his hand—slow, tentative—moved toward your trembling wrist. "You don’t need to do this. You are not alone."

Your breath hitched. A sob built up in your chest, hot and sharp. The rage was still there—so there—but somewhere in the flood, you felt something crack. A dam breaking. The years of holding everything back, all the hurt, the memories, the weight of a life you had never asked for, crashing down on you. You closed your eyes, and in that moment, Reid’s voice was the only thing you heard.

“I’ve got you,” he said, almost like a prayer, his fingers brushing yours, a lifeline in the chaos.

Your chest burned with the need to scream, to yell at him to stay away, to let you do what needed to be done. But instead, your hand—still holding the gun—slipped. Your fingers, raw and trembling, lost their grip, and the weapon fell to the floor with a soft, final clink.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. You stared down at the gun, a wave of dizziness crashing through you.

The urge to kill, to make him feel the same terror, the same helplessness, was gone. But in its place… there was nothing. Just emptiness.

Reid’s hand was on your arm now, guiding you, steadying you, like a shore amidst the storm. You let him pull you back, away from Graham, away from the moment you almost gave in to. You let him lead you out of the fury, out of the darkness that had almost consumed you.

Hotch kicked the gun away, and Morgan quickly cuffed Sullivan, but none of it registered. All you could hear was the thudding of your own heart in your ears, drowning out the world around you. You couldn't shake the feeling of weakness gnawing at you—how you couldn't pull the trigger, how pathetic it felt to even consider it. The shame washed over you in waves, thick and suffocating.

And then, hands were on you—Spencer’s hands. Soft, steady, and protective. They guided you, as if he could sense the storm raging inside of you, and he didn’t let go. His touch grounded you, calming the chaos, but it didn’t stop the guilt. You wanted to pull away, to hide from the vulnerability that threatened to swallow you whole, but Spencer didn’t let you. His presence was a quiet reassurance, his grip gentle yet firm, and for once, you let yourself be guided. You needed it. You needed him.

The freezing raindrops began to fall as Spencer walked you out of the building toward the waiting paramedics. Each drop felt like a sharp reminder of everything that had just happened. As the cold settled into your bones, everything hit you all at once. Your body trembled, weak and exhausted, while self-loathing thoughts swirled in your mind. You couldn't stop thinking about what you'd done—or what you had almost done.

Spencer noticed the way your body quivered, how your shoulders were bare in the downpour. Without a second thought, he draped his FBI windbreaker over you.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice broken, eyes filled with regret.

Before he could reassure you—that none of this was your fault, that you hadn’t done anything wrong, that everything would be okay—one of the paramedics rushed toward you with a stretcher. In an instant, they pulled you from his arms, guiding you toward the ambulance.

Spencer cursed under his breath, the image of you in that moment burned into his mind. He knew it would stay with him for the rest of his life.

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The sun bathed the park in a golden glow, its warmth fighting against the crisp breeze, making the trees shimmer with life on what the weatherman called ‘the warmest day of our winter’. Everything looked prettier at sunset. It was a beautiful day—one best spent among the laughter of children and the quiet focus of elderly chess players, their skill not only clearing your mind but offering it a rare moment of peace.

It had been two weeks since the night you almost lost control. After that, you decided to take three weeks off work—time you had spent searching for a new place, moving in, visiting your parents, and coming to the park.

"Check in five," Ethan said with a confident smile.

He was good—really good. He assessed the board with careful precision, you considered every move, from the forced plays to the controlling one's for the next move. 

"I see it in four," a voice said behind you.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

“Yeah, but he plays with the rooks,” you said, studying the board after spotting the move Spencer had pointed out.

Ethan frowned as you moved your bishop, setting up a check he hadn’t seen yet—not until he moved his pawn.

“Check in two,” you announced.

He sighed and pushed his king piece forward. “I officially surrender because I do not remember moving my bishop there.” His confused expression made you smile. Then, he glanced behind you. “And I’m glad you finally showed up. Can’t wait to see which one of you is better.”

Spencer tensed slightly but forced a polite smile at Ethan, who had no idea what had happened between you two. And Spencer hadn’t come here looking for you—but considering the probabilities of both of you being at the same place at the same time, he wasn’t exactly surprised either.

Still, he didn’t know how to talk to you. He still felt guilty about how he had treated you in the warehouse, and you were ashamed of how you had reacted.

As Ethan walked away, Spencer took the seat across from you. Something shifted in your stomach when you noticed his hair—it was shorter now, messier, no longer brushing his shoulders. Your blood rushed at the sight.

“Hi,” he said, offering a small, tight-lipped smile.

It was infuriating and embarrassing how impulsive you became around him. “You cut your hair.”

“Uh—yeah. My boss said I looked like I joined a boyband.” He ran a hand through it, chuckling nervously. 

“I think it looks good.” Where had all the apologies you prepared for this moment gone?

He smiled softly, wishing the hair was long enough to cover his pink ears, and you looked down at the chessboard, unable to meet his eyes.

“Do you want to start over?” he asked gently.

When you looked up again, it wasn’t the board he was focused on—it was you. There was something in the way his eyes shine, the way he swallowed nervously. That’s when you realized he wasn’t just talking about the game.

So much remained unspoken. Too much. Fear and shame sat heavy between you. You had convinced yourself that no one could love someone with the monster you carried inside you. But Spencer had seen it. And somehow, he was still here, offering a way forward.

He extended his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

His skin looked soft, and you hesitated for only a second before reaching out. For the first time in weeks, physical touch didn’t make you flinch.

You smiled. “I’m Woody.” Your voice was soft but steady.

“I’ve been told you’re good at chess.” He smiled at you the way the sun warmed the park—quiet but certain.

“Well, wanna see for yourself?” You began arranging the pieces.

He did the same, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Maybe the odds suggested otherwise, and maybe you didn’t believe in destiny—but if Spencer ever confessed how he had felt inexplicably drawn to the park that day, you might just believe him.

Dostoevsky once wrote, “To love someone means to see them as God intended them to be.” And Spencer, ever the atheist and man of science, found himself willing to believe in God every time he looked into your eyes.

　　　　 　　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　　　 　　 　　 　

FINALLY MY BABYS ARE TOGETHER. the request for them are OPEN. And the series is going to take a jump in time, next time i post about them, they are going to be already together

Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

tag list: @arialikestea @hellsingalucard18 @pleasantwitchgarden @torturedpoetspsychward @cultish-corner @nymph0puppp @l-a-u-r-aaa @cherrygublersworld @theoceanandthestars @i-need-to-be-put-down @esposadomd <3

[maskedcrawford]

Green Eyed Monster

G-Dragon x Reader x platonic! Jackson Wang

Summary: You and Jackson Wang get close through work and your ex isn't too keen on the fact that it looks like you've moved on.

Warnings: Some angst, fluff at the end.

A/N: Thank you to anon who requested, I got to try my hand at writing for Jackson Wang and I'm going to OPEN requests for him if you guys want something. Leave a like and/or a reblog if you enjoy! Much love <3

Requests are OPEN

You’re sitting in the makeup chair when you feel a pair of hands delicately touch your shoulders. You look up from your phone in the mirror and you see his big dark eyes and light brown hair in the mirror.

“Well, it took ya long enough, J,” you say with a teasing smile as you get up and hug him. You and Jackson Wang had been working together for the last 4 months on a song for your album and today you were shooting the video.

“Always a pleasure,” he says genuinely and returns your hug. Were you and Jackson together? No. Were there rumors about such things? Absolutely. The song being about love didn’t help matters. You guys had known each other briefly through mutual friends but when you had the idea for the song, you knew his vocals would take it to the next level.

“Jackson, Y/N!” the director shouts and you two spring into action with the video. The video itself was pretty intimate; the two of you on a bed tangled together in the sheets, touching, be all close and having no sense of personal space whatsoever. But, Jackson is a professional.

“So if I put my hand here,” he’s talking to the director and looks at you and you give him a nod before he touches your hip.

“And then I can slide it up like this,” he does the motion and pulls you closer to him.

“Yeah, that’ll work perfectly,” your director says and you roll with it.

“Let’s move on to the kiss,” the director announces after that scene. You blush as the time comes for the practical make out session that’s needed for the scene. Jackson was obviously cute, and him so being so respectful and kind? That only made it worse.

You can’t help the nervous laugh as you two are placed together and he starts smiling at you.

“You ok?” he asks genuinely, “We can figure something else out if we need to, find another way to,” you put your hand on his chest to stop him.

“I’m fine, seriously. Just don’t eat my face,” you wink at him with a chuckle. He gives you a gorgeous smile while shaking his head.

“Might be hard, you’re lookin extra good in that outfit,” he subtly looks you up and down. You two had a flirty relationship, but both of you knew it wouldn’t really go anywhere. The scene commences and you lock lips passionately and for a brief moment you forget its for a music video, that is until you hear the director call cut and you both slowly separate, a slight blush on both of your cheeks.

“That was great, guys. We’ll pick it up tomorrow!”

The video is done after a few days and the album dropped four months later. Your adventures continue with a world tour together, but tonight you were performing at the infamous MAMA awards. Since you two were doing a love song it was known that you would have to kiss for the sake of the performance.

“Look, people love us together,” you smile as you show him a picture you posted with a bunch of likes. He smiles as he clicks on the comments.

“This isn’t helping the dating rumors ya know,” he winks at you playfully and you roll your eyes.

“Us kissing every night doesn’t either, not to mention neither one of us have confirmed or denied anything. Besides, who we go out with really isn’t their business.”

“Ever since you made headlines with G-Dragon though, they think it is,” he corrects you.  You raise your eyebrows with a sigh that confirms he isn’t wrong.

You and Jiyong had been together 4 years, until the beginning of this year. Schedules got in the way, and Ji had admitted to kissing another woman at a party when he was drunk. It was a one-time thing and for a while you were able to move past it, but eventually, everything came crashing down.

“How could you still not trust me?” he shouted. You were in tears, your nerves were shot and honestly you didn’t want to have the argument.

“You were all over her, Ji. Tell me I’m lying! You kissed another woman before, it’s not like you couldn’t do that and more,” your voice was bitter and weak from tears.

“Oh my god, are you ever going to let it go?” he looked annoyed, he looked weak and desperate to escape the mistake that played through your mind more than you cared to admit. You loved him more than anything, more than life itself practically. But who was he to tell you how long it took to heal? Who was he to say that he atoned for what he did just because of a few ways he tried to make it up to you. Girls were constantly all over him so it wasn’t like he was in short supply. It had caused you to feel insecure, regardless of whether or not he was drunk.

The two of you stayed silent, deafeningly silent, until Ji finally sighs and rubs his temple with his fingers.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he mumbles, “I can’t keep paying for this when I think I’ve proven I’m not that person,” his eyes are cold, depleted of life. It broke him to do this, but he didn’t see any other way.

“We’re done,” he said before walking out of your house with nothing more than a kiss to the forehead.

“Earth to Y/N,” Jackson calls out and you shake your head pulling yourself out of the intense flashback.

“Huh, oh, sorry,” you sheepishly rub the back of your neck.

“Let’s practice one more time,” he takes your hand helping you stand up.

“Ji, have you seen this?” Taeyang was over at his house and pulled up the love song you and Jackson put out.

“Hmm?” he glances away from his phone and furrows his brows at the video. He see’s the two of you kiss on screen and he feels, that pang of jealousy. He’s seen the video before, he seen it the day it came out, actually. But he didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t want to think of it.

He hadn’t seen you since that night, not in person anyway. On TV shows and award ceremonies, he would watch, quietly support you and your career, even liking the first picture or two you posted of you and Jackson.

“They are performing tonight at the MAMA awards, so you’ll probably get to see her,” Taeyang calls out as he heads to the kitchen.

“She’s going to be there?” His voice is rushed, excited almost.

“Yup, we better go too, we’ll be late.”

You and Jackson are at the venue preparing for the show, hitting the choreography perfectly multiple times.

“OK, we gotta get dressed,” you say as you two come out of each other’s embrace

“We got this in the bag,” you both high five and he brings you in for a hug.

“You should really layer a little more deodorant,” you say with a giggle. He sniffs his shirt and makes a twisted face.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he laughs as he jogs off stage. As you walk off to go to the dressing room you stop as your breath hitches in your throat.

Ji-yong laughs as he feels someone stop and stare, he looks away from his manager and he spots you. His smile fades as he takes in your shocked face.

It’s still as beautiful as the first day he met you. He gives you a small wave and smile and you can’t move. His gaze is friendly and lingers for a moment. He starts to walk towards you, until he see’s Jackson come up behind you with his hand resting on your back. You look up at him directly and he can see the smile on your face when you look at him.

He feels the aching jealousy well up inside him but he pushes it down. You nod your head at something he says, and Jackson flits his gaze to Ji before giving a pursed lip smile and dragging you off with him in another direction.

“What could she possibly see in him?” Ji yong asks out loud not really expecting an answer.

“Hyung, did you really think she wouldn’t,” Ji-yong shoots Taeyang a glare, “Move on?” he finishes carefully.

“It’s been 8 months,” he tries to be gentle with Ji’s feelings, but the sting is too much. Jackson Wang was in a place he was supposed to be in. One he’d still be in most likely if he hadn’t of screwed up.

“Still fucking stings,” he grumbles. Taeyang sighs and gives his friend a hug.

“You both,” he pulls back and looks his friend in the face, “Need to move on. It’s time.” He tries to encourage him, tries to show him it’s healthy to move on, but the way Ji-yong loved you, despite his mistake, he was sure he’d never love anyone the same way.

“It’s not that easy, hyung.” He sighs as he sits down for the stylist to do his hair.

“She was everything, my muse, my rock, my reason for breathing. There were days I only got out of bed because I knew I would see her and that it would help make my day better,” he remembers fond memories as he talks to Taeyang about you. One of you and him riding the ferries wheel and getting stuck on top, that’s where your fist kiss was. When you accidently spilled ice cream on your top and he gave you jacket to cover it. When you’d both grow bored at parties after a little while and want to leave to just spend quiet time at home. He missed the way your touch made him feel like everything would work out, the way you made him feel like he was enough for exactly who he was. He sighs as he finishes getting ready for the show.

“Ok, are you ready for this?” Jackson asks you with anticipation.

“Absolutely, just don’t kiss me with tongue tonight,” you swat his arm and he laughs.

“No promises,” he winks and kisses your temple. You both get into position and the song starts as the lights go up. You follow the normal dance routine, spinning and swaying your hips to the beat, and kissing at the end of the song.

As the song is performed Ji can’t help but watch from the side of the stage, the way your body moves so gracefully and how it fits to Jackson’s so well when he had to wrap his arms around you, but it wasn’t the perfect way it fit Ji-yong’s. No, your body wouldn’t fit to anyone else’s the way it did his. He noticed the happy smile on your face, only noticing it falter when your eyes locked as you look his way.

The song ends and the lights go back down. You and him rush off stage and as soon as you are out of view you jump into his arms, adrenaline running high. He catches you with a huge smile on his face and he kisses your cheek sweetly. Ji-yong watches just off to the side and he rolls his eyes. He walks past you and you catch him out of the corner of your eye, his face deadpan.

You stay to the side of the stage to watch him perform. As he looks off to the side, he catches you watching, swaying your body to the music and nodding your head. He gives a half smile your way and you return one. His performance ends and he runs off stage he takes his mic off and before he can run to you, Jackson once again is in the place he wants to be, by your side.

“So, I was thinking, we could go down to the club and celebrate,” Jackson’s excited nature was infectious.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” you glance at Ji-yong who’s giving you a glare again and you furrow your brows at him.

“We’ll leave in a few, get changed!” He runs off to get his stuff together and you go to walk off, but before you can you feel a hand around your wrist pulling you back. You look back and see it’s Ji-yong who has an unreadable expression on his face. You look at each other for a moment.

“I really need to talk to you,” he pleads.

“I,” you look in the direction Jackson went and back at Ji who looks slightly hopeful you’ll stay.

“I can’t,” you say tearing your arm away. He lets you go and for a moment lets you walk away before following you.

“Y/n,” he catches the door to your room. You look over at him, he still takes your breath away, the way his hair clings to his forehead from the sweat, the way he looks at you with his dark eyes, the way his clothes somewhat soaked with sweat cling to his body.

“What, Ji? I have somewhere to be, Jackson isn’t going to wait on me forever,” he scoffs and looks off to the side, mumbling something to himself.

“You want to share with the rest of the class,” you sass him.

“Not really,” he sasses back. You roll your eyes.

“I’m changing so at least shut the door. He walks in and shuts it.

“I meant with you on the other side of it,” you shoot him a glare of annoyance.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen, held or tasted before,” he smirks and you roll your eyes with a sharp exhale.

“Whatever,” you pull your top off your head and his eyes go directly to your body, not in a sensual, sexual way, but in a way that he’s curious. He notices you’ve put on a just little weight in the last 8 months and you instinctively wrap your arms around your torso.

“Can you not, stare,” you pause looking away from him, “at me,” you hear his footsteps come closer and he lifts your chin with his thumb and index finger.

“You’re beautiful,” he slowly reaches for your arms to pull them away and he’s inches from your face.

“Ji-yong,” you put a hand on his chest pushing him back slightly. His eyes flash with hurt before he recovers.

“Be honest with me,” he says standing back further as you find a different shirt. While you’re slipping it over your head you hear him ask, “Does he touch you better than I did?”

“What? Who?!” You all but shriek.

“Your little fling,” he motions his hand as you pull the shirt over your head you take off your pants next and put on some comfortable leggings.

“What ‘fling’,” you ask bewildered by his audacity. He rolls his eyes, saying his name makes him feel ill.

“Your little affair with Jackson Wang, y/n, I know about it, and so does the rest of the world, besides with the way you were sucking face out there, you don’t try to hide it.” You can see his jealousy and you quirk a brow at him. You decide to have a little fun at his expense. After all if he’s going to be nosy and a jerk at the same time, why not have a little fun.

“What Jackson and I are, or aren’t,” you pause and stare at him directly into his eyes, “doing is none of your concern. You left me, Ji, who I’m with now is none of your business.” You strap on a pair of sandals and walk out the door leaving him standing there.

“Jackson,” you call out and race to him. You can feel Ji-yong watching you so you slip your hand in Jackson’s as you walk off.

At the club the music is loud and the drinks are good, but you start to let your mind wonder back to your ex-boyfriend.

“What are you thinking about,” Jackson yells over the music as he see’s you staring into space.

“Ji-yong,” you huff.

“He nods his head understandably. He heard about all of it, multiple times, and he knew you still loved him.

“You wanna dance?” His offer is intriguing and you decide it’s better than sitting there thinking of the guy who broke up with you. As you and Jackson dance you happen to look over your shoulder and see that face that makes your knees weak.

“Holy shit,” you yell and Jackson notices your body tense as he looks at you concerned.

“What?” you point to Ji-yong as the answer to his question.

“Go talk to him.” He tries to push you forward.

“No, he was a dick.” You pout. He nods and walks over to Ji-yong for you. You watch as he gets closer, and even buys your ex a drink.

“Listen, man, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but me and your girl,” you see him gesture to you, “We ain’t together.” He throws back a shot and so does Ji.

“She isn’t ‘my girl’,” he corrects solemnly.

“Could’ve fooled me. She talks about you constantly,” he chuckles and Ji-yong quirks his brow. Jackson knew you’d either thank him or kill him for this, but he wasn’t worried about that right now.

“She does?” he looks over to you, seeing you dance alone.

“Oh yeah, how bad she misses you, wishes things would’ve been different.” He nods his head and looks down at the bar.

“So what’s with the rumors and the kiss and,” Jackson nods interrupting him.

“We did the song together and just became close friends. As far as the kiss, management thought it’d be good for the song if we kissed like in the video. We’re completely platonic though.” He downs another shot, Ji-yong decides not to, he wants his head clear when talks to you.

“Go get her, man,” he encourages and Ji-yong nods his head as he makes his way to you. He slides in behind you while you dance and the intimate smell of cologne and cigarettes wafts to your nostrils. You feel his hand on your hips as he moves with you.

“Can we talk,” he asks in your ear and you just keep dancing, ignoring his words but not his touch, you bring his hands around your torso so he encapsulates you.

“Jagiya,” his voice is soft, sultry even, and once the music ends you sigh and turn to face him.

“Can I please talk to you,” you see Jackson at the bar smirking at you. You give him a half smile as you find an area in the club away from all the people.

“What is it,” you don’t know how else to ask.

“I miss you,” he’s straight to the point and you didn’t expect that.

“Ji,” you sigh.

“Look, I wasn’t planning on telling you, but I seen you with him tonight and I hated it. He had you the way I should, the way I did.” He steps closer to you; you back up hitting the wall. He closes the space, your mouths just inches apart. He’s intoxicating, the way he looks at you, smells, and just the feeling of his body near yours is electric.

“He kissed you the way I did, the way I still want to,” he mumbles as he caresses your cheek.

“Not really,” you utter barely above a whisper.

“Hmm,” he asks like he doesn’t understand.

“He didn’t,” you look into his dark, beautiful eyes, “kiss me the way you did. It wasn’t the same passion or love. It wasn’t the same feeling I got with you.” You feel your cheeks blush as you confess to him.

“His touch,” you runs your hands over his arms that are locked onto your hips now,“Isn’t the same. Its not as electrifying.” You look at him through your lashes.

He looks relieved.

“So, you really aren’t with him?” you shake your head no.

You bring your forehead to his and whisper to him, “I’m not with anyone, I’m yours Ji-yong, I always have been,” and before any other words can be said his lips are on yours, smoothly moving in sync and he pulls your impossibly closer as you fist his shirt.

“Aegiya,” he practically whimpers when you separate.

“I need you to come home.” You smile at his confession.

“Promise me something,” you say cautiously.

“Anything,” his desperate eyes search yours.

“You’ll give us time to rebuild trust and be patient with me,” you’re asking more than telling.

“As long as you want to trust me again, I’ll prove you can.” He smiles.

“Then lets get out of here,” you grin as he takes your hand and leads you out of the club.

If you enjoyed consider buying me a coffee