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selenezq · 5 days

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🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞MDNI🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞

CW: dub con, loss of control, sex pollen trope

Pairing Alastor x Reader

Reader is AFAB

Edited by the lovely @the-demon-of-a-thousand-eyes

But That's A Freaky Sex Flower

It is a beautiful day in Hell, about as pretty as it gets, really. You take in all the sights and smells as you walk along the sidewalk. You are heading to the store, on an errand for the hotel, when the most lovely flower catches your eye. Coming to a standstill, you bend down to get a closer look.

Pink petals with a beautiful, intricate, black design surrounded a lovely red center. You bring your nose down to get a whiff, inhaling its saccharine scent. Gently plucking it, you tuck it into your hair to wear as a beautiful accessory.

You’ve never seen anything like it before. Excited by your new discovery, you find some extra pep in your step as you walk the short distance to and inside the store. You pass the aisles filled with various foods, houseware goods, and personal items, reading the signs above each one until you see the one you need. You turn left to walk down the aisle, looking around until you see what you had come for: some pens and paper.

Reaching your hands out you gingerly grab them. As you leave the area and make your way through the store to checkout, you suddenly begin to feel warm. Placing your items on the counter, you give a kind smile to the store clerk. "It's a scorcher out there today, isn't it?" You ask congenially.

"Nah, it's not that hot," the cashier responds curtly followed by rather rude eye roll as they ring your items up, then tell you with a monotone voice, "Your total will be $7.93.”

Quickly pulling the money out, you pay for the items. With a smile and a wave despite their rudeness, you head out of the store and are on your way back to the hotel. Walking back, you feel like it's getting hotter out by the second. In an attempt to cool off, you undo the top button of your blouse. As you continue walking home, a drop of sweat trickles its way down your neck.

After what seems to take an eternity, your journey back to the hotel comes to a close. You feel a sense of profound relief at finally being able to get inside out of the heat of the Hellish sun. Opening the door, you step into the hotel, dropping the shopping bag on the nearest surface before throwing yourself onto the couch in the lobby.

"Heya Toots, how’ya doin’?" Angel Dust asks you as you attempt to regulate your breathing. Has it always been this scorching in the hotel? You wonder to yourself.

"I'd be better if the weather cooled off a little." You mutter, a little irritated, the poor attitude unusual for you. You bring your hand up to wipe at the sweat now threatening to drip down your chest. "I did find this pretty flower though." You say, a smile returning to your face as you turn your head to show Angel the beautiful bloom that is adorning your hair.

"Oh toots, that's not a regular flower, it's a freaky sex flower. It's used as an ingredient in the love potion Val makes," Angel says somberly, leaning forward to get a better look. "How long ‘ave ya had it on ya?" He asks with genuine concern. "It can be pretty potent when undiluted." He finishes with a worried frown.

"Probably a little over an hour," you say, beginning to freak out. "How long does it take before it starts to affect someone?" You ask, your tone rising with your temperature.

"Well, love potions usually act pretty quick; I'd guess such a concentrated dose of the aphrodisiac, directly from the pollen’s faster ya know?" Angel theorizes aloud.

"Fuck,” you mumble as you pulled the flower from your hair quickly before tossing it into the trash, as if to pretend it never happened. "Is there an antidote I could possibly take?" You enquire, your tone laced with apprehension.

"Nope, ya gotta fuck someone to get it out of ya system," Angel replied, trying his best not to laugh. "Ya know, I've actually got someone I could ca-"

"NO." You blurt out instantly to shut his idea down. "I mean," you clear your throat uncomfortably, then finish hurriedly, "that's not necessary, but thank you for offering."

"Okay but, you're in for more than mild discomfort if ya don't find someone to help ya." Angel warns you, still trying to get you to see the situation clearly.

"I can handle myself; just please don't tell anyone." You ask the spider demon, deciding to keep this development a secret. You fail to notice the shadow in the corner that had been listening the entire time. You stand up, a wave of arousal shooting straight to your core making you feel almost dizzy.

Composing yourself as much as you can, you bid farewell to Angel Dust and head towards the staircase. As your footsteps lead you closer to the next floor, you grip the railing for support as a particularly painful bolt of arousal sweeps through you, causing an intense ache in between your thighs. When the pain level rises from mild discomfort to something more, you begin to move as quickly as you can down the hallway to your room.

Reaching your room at long last, you hastily grab the doorknob only for your sweaty, clammy hands to slide right off if it. Struggling with the knob for what feels like an eternity, you finally manage to get it open and gain access to your room. Slamming it shut behind you with a bang, you throw yourself onto your bed as another sharp ache wracks your body.

Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you open the drawer to your nightstand, reaching around until you feel the cool silicon material of your most trusted toy. With a sound of triumph, you pull the vibrator out and set it onto the bed. Turning it on with a click, you pull your panties to the side and bring the pulsating object to rest on your throbbing clit as a loud moan of relief rips itself from your mouth.

Your pussy already soaked from the effects of the pollen, the toy slides right into you with ease and you cry out in relief. You can't remember a time this ever felt so good. The toy vibrates right where you need it and the feeling of an orgasm creeps up quickly. Your back arches off the bed as you finish loudly. The toy continues buzzing as you lay there in the aftershock of it.

Pressing the button to turn the device off, a contented sigh leaves your lips as you remove the vibrator from your cunt with a wet noise. The relief your orgasm brought is short-lived, however. because the painful aching feeling quickly returns. Your walls clench and spasm needily around nothing but air. A feeling of desperation quickly rises inside you.

Just as the tears of frustration are about to fall from your wide, blown-out eyes, you hear a knock at the door. Hastily, you shove the sex toy away in its drawer and you pull your panties and skirt back into their proper place. Lurching towards the door as hastily as you can, you try your best to avoid falling amid the dizzy feeling that overtakes you.

Another knock sounds, followed by Alastor's voice calling out, "Everything alright, my dear?" Just the very sound of his voice has your cunt gushing, the aching sensation heightening to a new degree.

Trying to appear as composed as you can, you open the door and greet him, "Hey Alastor, I'm feeling just fine."

"Are you quite sure about that? You look rather flushed," He says, his gaze on your red, damp, complexion. Alastor places his hand on your face and your pulse quickens, you feel as if your blood is boiling you alive. You’d do anything to have his hands lower, where you ache the most.

Letting out an audible gasp, you cut it off before it fades into a moan, the sensation of his skin on yours sending a pleasurable tingling down to your very core.

"I just don't think that's true." Alastor states, pushing his way past you into your room. You stumble, and he reaches a hand out to steady you, gripping your arm firmly.

When Alastor touches you this time, an embarrassing, obscene, moan leaves your lips. The warmness of his skin makes the point of contact feel as if it is on fire. You wonder briefly, Would he touch me there, if I asked him to?

"Whatever is the matter, darling? Could it be that you need something? You'll have to use your words if there’s something you desire." He finishes, smirking down at you.

"I want you to touch me, please." You whine needily as you look up at him. Your eyes shine with desperation.

"Ah, I'm afraid you'll have to be a bit more specific, dear, as I am already touching you." He says, voice full of his usual snark. His signature smile widens, gaze falling to where his hand is still on your forearm, steadying you. You look away bashfully before his other clawed hand comes up to cradle your chin, tilting it up so your gaze meets his crimson one.

"Alastor, please, be kind to me just this once." You plead, voice soft.

"I'm being plenty kind, checking up on you, asking how you're faring, and what you might need." Alastor says, his tone warning. "Now tell me what you need, in better detail." His commanding tone leaves no room for disobedience.

Giving him one last pleading look, you let out a breathy sigh before letting the words fall from your lips, "I need you to touch my cunt, please, Alastor."

"There; that wasn't so hard now was it, my dear?" He says with a winning smile. Alastor pushes you back up against the door, caging you in with his much larger body. He lets his hand trail agonizingly slowly down the curve of your breasts, before playing with the hemline of your skirt. "I could do anything to you right now and you would thank me for it wouldn't you, darling?" Alastor remarks, his grin widening almost sinisterly.

"Yes, please, please help me relieve this burning and aching. I can't take much more." You almost sob out.

"Well, now, we shan’t keep a lady waiting then. I do have manners after all." He declares before hooking his hand in the waistband of your skirt. With a firm yank, he has the garment falling down to your feet. Alastor quickly rips your panties to shreds with a flick of his sharp claws. His fingers find your throbbing clit and begin tracing circles.

"Ah, ah, yes please." You moan in relief, his fingers already providing so much more comfort than your own did. It feels so divine. Bringing his other hand down, he slips one finger into your soaking cavern. Alastor starts pumping it in and out of you as you lean against the door for support. Adding a second digit, and then a third, your lips form an ‘o’ of pleasure. The nosies his fingers make as they push in and out of you are almost pornographic.

It feels pleasurable, but you find yourself craving more, the throbbing you feel in your cunt needing something much bigger. "Please sir, I need more. I want your cock." You beg prettily.

"I'm inclined to reward you for asking so politely." Alastor remarks. Pulling his hand out of you, he brings your juices to his mouth, licking his fingers clean. The movement almost distracts you from the empty feeling between your legs. Before the aching sensation has a chance to return he's spinning you around, face pressed against the wall, bent at the waist. The motion forces your cunt up so he has a better view of it.

Licking his lips hungrily, Alastor takes one hand off your lovely form to undo his trousers. You hear the sound of the zipper moving down before his massive cock springs free. Without warning, he is shoving all of those so many inches inside of you, burying himself to the hilt. He lets out a shuddering groan feeling your tight warmth around him.

You wail as you feel the tip of him press into your cervix. This is the feeling of fullness you’ve been dying for.

"That's it, isn't it, my doe. You just needed to be filled by my cock, didn't you?" He coos softly into your ear, each word punctuated by a hard thrust. His hips snap into yours, each upward movement sending the most delicious sparks through your body.

"Yes Alastor; I needed you," You moan out as his movements become faster and harder. The sound of slapping skin fills the room as his slams his hard member into your dripping cunt. His hand finds its way to your clit again, moving in time with his quickened thrusts. The feeling of your orgasm barreling towards you reaches its peak and you cum on his cock with a shout. Alastor feels your soft pussy walls clenching tighyly around him and he continues to fuck you through your climax, chasing his own release.

With a growl, he finishes inside of you, his cock throbbing as he paints your walls with his cum in powerful spurts. He tightens his claws around your waist, leaving marks on your skin where his sharp tips press into you. Bringing the hand from your oversensitive clit up and away, Alastor strokes your hair gently while you are lost in the haze of fucked-out bliss.

"Tell me; did you really think you could satisfy yourself, my dear? You should have come right to me. Hopefully you are feeling more like yourself now." He hums, pulling out of you gently. Taking you into his arms with ease, he carries you to your bed before tucking you in tenderly. "Rest now darling; your body needs it." He tells you, planting a gentle kiss on your temple. You slip easily into slumber, lulled by the effects of your post-orgasm elation.

#alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor x you #alastor x reader #alastor smut #alastor x you smut #alastor x reader smut #sex pollen #hazbin hotel alastor

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allurilove · 12 days

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Yandere x Zombie you

Rated 18 + — mature short content!

Includes: He tries to sew his dick back on, stalking, begging, mentions of dead bodies and blood, cannibalism?, gender neutral reader, unrequited love.

*This is the second part to the first one! Check the first one when you can! He is referred to as “your stalker” and this is purely fictional writing!*

Synopsis: You thought that by eating him he would leave you alone. However, he just comes back to life- continuing to follow and bother you.

You never saw yourself becoming a zombie “mentor” especially to your stalker, but he’s so defenseless and dumb, it’s hard not to step in.

You try to keep him in line, making sure he doesn’t make any romantic advancements towards you, but he doesn’t listen.

He screamed in agony as you munched on his body, his heart beats becoming faint, and he finally let out his last breath. You pulled back, and admired your work. There is a huge chunk of his torso missing, and there are little bites everywhere. You lick your lips, his sweet blood tasted nice, and he was one of the better meals you’ve had.

That was months ago. You moved on, and you were looking for your next victim. It seemed like the humans were getting smarter, they knew to avoid certain areas as they became zombie hotspots. You shuffle through the forest, moving your head back and forth to detect any movement.

Your eyes zero in at the man that stands by the lake, he’s so still and he’s barely moving. His face is flat, eyes are bloodshot, and he lets out a groan. Your eyes trail down lower, and you realized he didn’t wear any pants.

Gross.

Your stalker jerked awake, his eyes widening and he put his hand on his chest. He felt his still heart. He pats himself down, his hand grazing his smooth hip. Shit. His cock. He slowly looked at the dick that was tossed to the side, it was limp and oddly colored. He almost missed it.

He pouted as he crawled to his dismembered body part, and he took it into his hand. He had an idea. It took him awhile to find his footing, and he kept tilting to one side. His body couldn’t really support himself after you did a number on him. He pushed himself to try to remember the area he was in, most of the buildings had turned to dust, and it was unrecognizable with all the blood and dead bodies.

He sighed as he had to shove his way through the door, a dead body right in front of the entrance and when he finally got in, the body got smushed against the wall. He gagged as the body “popped.” He stumbled his way into the store, and he looked around for a needle and thread.

The place he was in used to be a “Joanne’s” and he sometimes came here for yarn and fabric, he went to the familiar aisle, and started to look for what he needed.

He rummaged through the basket filled with left over thread, he decided on a color, and he hoped that pink would help his… misfortunate situation… prettier. He had his shirt in his mouth so he could get a good look at his hips, he shimmed off his pants, and he aligned his dick to where it would usually be.

He let out a surprised yelp when he pierced the needle into his skin, he continued to sew his cock back on, and eventually it was done. He let out a sigh of relief, letting his saliva coated shirt out of his mouth. He tossed the needle to the side, and he examined himself in the reflection of the window.

He thinks he looked good. Probably better than all the other male zombies out there. And now, all he had to do was to find you. Maybe you would date him now that you two were the same species. He walked around for months, trying to find you, taking breaks to eat, and damn was it hard to convince someone to let you eat them. He would gesture wildly, pointing at the scared human and then at his mouth- he started to make chewing noises. The human screamed and shoved him out of the way.

How rude!

He groaned as he had to pick himself back up, which always took him awhile. He sighed as his stomach rumbled and he began his hunt for another poor soul.

And then he saw you. It was like his heart could start pumping again, and his cheeks turned pink. He was almost in shock that he was able to find you like this, and he couldn’t believe his luck. You finally stared back at him, your eyes were on him and he was elated. His feet started to walk, and he sped towards to you- almost breaking into a sprint. He opened his arms to engulf you into a hug, you were about to get tackled, but you swiftly moved out of the way.

He landed onto the ground with an oomph!

He whined as he had no more energy to pick himself up. Your ears perked up as you heard his stomach growl, and… was he crying?

You bend down and you roll him onto his back. His eyes drift towards yours, so lifeless and glazed over, he pouted and he reached for you again. You slapped his hand down. You took pity on the man, and you made sure not to make any eye contact with his nude lower half. You helped him get up, forcing him to lean against a tree, and you hand him a piece of meat you’ve been saving up for emergencies.

You couldn’t help but gag at the sight of his dick flopping about. Does he have no shame?? And when you two came across a human who was near close to death, you heartlessly just walked right over, and yanked his pants off. Your stalker puts the pants on as he watched you devour the person.

The pants were quite snug, and he winced as the crotch area was very uncomfortable for him. He slowly sank down to his knees, and he cautiously opened his mouth.

You slowly look up at him, expecting him to start eating on the human, but he just waits. You let out an angry groan and you take a good meaty chunk off the man’s thigh, you spit it out onto your hand, and you gave it to your stalker. Which he gladly takes. He didn’t care that it was covered in your saliva, and he swallowed it whole.

Your stalker waddled as he followed you, his legs looking like they were about to burst through his pants. However, it did make him walk a couple of feet behind you. He couldn’t speed up and press himself right against you, his breath hot on your neck, and his hands wouldn’t be able to wander on your body. So that was a bonus.

You lied to him that zombies slept. He was a… fledgling of sorts, and he didn’t really know the “rules.”You just wished that he would leave you alone. You would lay down onto the grass, and he slides himself right next to you. He fluttered his eyelashes and he subtly tried to wrap his arms around you. You gesture that zombies did not hug, and he said that you two could start a new phenomenon.

You tied him up that night. He stood straight as an arrow, the tree and ropes holding him firm. You tossed around, trying to get your body to sleep. Sensing your restlessness, he let out a sound that he only knows how— a whine. It’s the sort of whine that dogs use to get the attention of their owner.

You ignore him of course, however, it led him to start whining even more. He tried to writhe out of the ropes, grimacing as the rope grinds onto his skin. He starts to move around like a fish out of water, and he pouts heavily. You let out a frustrated growl, your hands gripping at the grass before you rip it out of the ground, and throw it at the male zombie. He coughed, his mouth sputtering as he tried to spit it out.

It was the middle of the night when your body finally relaxed, but your ears picked up on some gnawing noises, and you slowly opened your eyes. Foamy drool and saliva dripped out of his mouth, his teeth firmly latched onto the rope as he tried to cut himself out. You roll your eyes and you rest on your elbows, watching the man cut through the final thin string that kept him apart from you. When he bursted out of his binds, he approached you again. He got onto his knees, his hands clasping together, and he pleaded.

He wanted to feel your body against his, for you to wrap your arms around his waist, and for him to be able to nuzzle his face into your neck. He wanted you to touch him- not because you had to eat him- but because you loved him. What does a man have to do for you to pay attention to him? He already tried to cut off his dick for you, but you didn’t want it. He fed you, kept you safe, and stalked you around to make sure you were doing okay. He even tried to trap you for your protection.

Your stalker was just worried about your wellbeing. He started to bow his head, his forehead resting on the ground as tears swelled up in his eyes. He started to sniffle, his hands still together in prayer that you would let him be with you. That you would let him be yours. If he could form a coherent sentence he would beg. He would use his words to sway you (that never worked) and he would say the sweetest, and the kindest and truest words known to mankind.

You are magnificent in his eyes. You are so captivating, and sultry in your own way. He has never met someone like you, and he wasn’t planning on letting you go. You are a rare find, a person that only comes every thousandth year.

So, why not him?

Why didn’t you want to be with him?

He slowly looked up, holding back his tears, and he saw that you were…. gone.

Allure: tysm for 560+ followers! This fic is pretty unedited, and I’ll fix the mistakes later!

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confused-pyramid · 5 months

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Coming Up For Air | s1

pairing: aaron hotchner x childhood bsf!reader

summary: Hotch and his childhood best friend working together at the BAU: a slow burn across the seasons.

word count: 10.4k

warnings: canon!typical violence, mentions of abuse, death of a spouse, slow slow slow burn, specific episodes mentioned in this part are 1x01, 1x06, 1x07, 1x08, 1x15, 1x16, and 1x22

a/n: I started rewatching Criminal Minds from the beginning, and this is what came out of it heh. This is the first part in a little series I'm starting that follows Hotch and his childhood best friend in the BAU, beginning with the pilot. If all goes well, this will continue through the rest of the show, with ~1 part per season :) Title is from Coming up for air by Signals in Smoke

series masterlist

You haven't used your oven in over a year. It's not that you don't like cooking - because you do - you just haven't had the time. If you could, you would blame it on the extra hours you have had to put in after starting at the BAU, but that wouldn't be fair. Your transfer to the unit was the only thing that got you through his death at all.

After your husband was shot and killed in action while tailing a kingpin of one of the New York mobs, you couldn't bear to be in this house at all. You had gone back home to stay with your father for a couple of months, but eventually you had to get back to your real life. With a month remaining on your bureau-mandated leave, you returned to the home you had shared, before one of the lower-level mob soldiers misfired -

You didn't let yourself think about it for almost a year, but time heals all wounds. The poets were right. At least you hope they are.

Even back at home, you still couldn't bear to be there alone, other than when you were sleeping. That's why your peloton was gathering dust and your kitchen went untouched, until just now.

So, of course, the call from the office comes when you're making dinner. It takes five minutes to change into slacks and a button-up, and two more to toss your half-cooked vegetables in the trash, before driving down to headquarters.

A fourth girl has been taken in Seattle, and the local PD only now decided to invite your team. You know the BAU isn't well-liked by the other departments, but that doesn't mean you aren't effective.

When you enter the building, you rush through the I.D. check and jog over to the lecture hall, where Morgan and Reid are standing outside of a neighboring office like children waiting for their father to come and get them.

Shooting them both a thin-lipped smile, you step inside just as they finish discussing the unsub's pattern.

"They want you back in the saddle," Hotch says to the man beside him after greeting you with a nod.

Your eyes are so immediately drawn to Hotch that it takes you a moment to realize that you recognize the man standing next to him. You haven't seen him since the day you were assigned to the BAU, mostly because you were technically transferred to this unit because of his extended leave.

What was supposed to be one month became six, before Hotch informed you that your temporary placement would be permanent, if you were willing to stay in Virginia.

It was a no-brainer.

You turn your gaze to Jason Gideon as everyone in the room stares at him expectantly. He looks self-assured, but you're sure the confidence is a front. "They sure they want me?"

"The order came from the director," Hotch says simply.

"Well," Gideon states, "we'd better get started, then."

Hotch glances over at you as everyone files out of the room and you raise your eyebrows momentarily, a quick check-in between the two of you. He nods imperceptibly and it's enough for now. He didn't tell you Gideon was coming back today, but now isn't the time to give him hell for that.

***

Hotch is the last to board the plane, and he takes his usual seat beside you, this time in the aisle, a few rows away from the rest of the team.

"I was going to tell you," he says as soon as you close the case file in your hands. "The section chief wants me to evaluate him to see if he's ready to return to the team."

"That's a lot of pressure." They have to know that Gideon will be able to smell him out within the day. "You sure it won't get in the way?"

Hotch makes that face you hate, the one that says he knows you're deflecting. "I was going to tell you."

It doesn't take much for you to forgive him. It helps that you trust him completely, especially after everything he has done for you.

"Still," you smile, bumping his shoulder with yours, "it would have been nice to know about the sudden change to my job security."

You're mostly joking, but his frown is genuine. "Don't be silly. You'll always have a place on this team."

He takes everything so seriously these days. You suppose it's only fair, given the files he has to sort through on a daily basis. Picking which case deserves the team's attention the most.

But he wasn't always like this. You're the newest member of the team, but you've known Hotch longer than any of them.

You still remember the first time you met him, at eight years old. He was your first real friend at school, and you became inseparable easily. Your shared love for The Beatles and Law and Order made you fast friends, and as you grew older, your interests shifted in tandem.

Sometimes when you look at him, you still see that little boy who knew too much, but still managed to always make you laugh.

***

The team disperses soon after you land in Seattle. You've never had to come up with a profile in one afternoon, but it's also been a long time since your ticking clock to find the victim was just over a day.

When Gideon and Morgan head to the latest crime scene, you join Hotch and Reid to interview the victim's brother. The moment the three of you step into his house, his dog, Sandy, starts barking up a storm.

"It's what we call the Reid effect," Hotch smiles, walking over to pet her. "Happens with children, too."

You can't help but smile as well, peering over at Spencer, who looks about as uncomfortable as he usually does.

It doesn't escape your notice that the brother looks looser now. Hotch has a way with people that traces back to his childhood self. He was always wiser than his years, something you chalk up to his need to grow up faster than he should have, but his paternal instinct comes from practically raising his brother, Sean, after his dad's untimely death.

The casual interview reveals enough about the victimology that when you head back to the station, Gideon calls the officers in to explain the profile.

You can feel Morgan's agitation wafting off of him as he watches Gideon state his assumptions with startling clarity and confidence. Hotch, on the other hand, looks contemplative, which reminds you that he's been tasked with the returning agent's evaluation.

He can see your furtive glances in his direction, even as you try to remain secretive about your interest in his demeanor. He presses his lips together to keep from smiling as he thinks about how lucky you are that you went into profiling and not covert operations.

You have never been especially good at keeping your own thoughts or intentions to yourself around him. While some would call that a weakness in this field, he sees it as your greatest strength, because it clearly shows how much he can trust you.

As a kid, you were outspoken about every idea you had, and you used your strength and willpower to look out for him when he needed it. It took him a long time to admit how much he used to need you (maybe too long), but you always knew.

***

Gideon's profile leads to the arrest of Richard Slessman and Tim Vogel, and Elle manages to save the last girl while she's still alive. You catch your breath for the first time in 36 hours as you stand with Hotch in the shipyard, watching the paramedics and local police clear the scene.

"What are you going to tell them?" you ask under your breath as his gaze turns to Gideon, who is getting patched up in the back of an ambulance.

He had goaded the unsub into shooting him instead of the girl, but your mind can't seem to focus on the silver lining.

Hotch sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, as though to hold his coat closed against the breeze. "They want to know if he's fit to be a field agent again."

Normally, you would give him shit for using that tactic. Avoiding a question by providing more information. This time, you know he's just thinking out loud.

"What would you say?" Hotch asks as Morgan walks over and sits on a barrel next to you.

"Gideon saved her life," Derek shrugs, his eyes flashing to you for a moment. "That's good enough for me."

Hotch seems to ponder this for a second. "Do you know what Gideon means in Hebrew?"

"Mighty warrior," Reid interjects, popping in to the conversation with the subtlety of a tiger.

You're confused at first, but then you remember the baby names book that was sitting in Hotch's living room the last time you visited him. "You cannot let Haley name your child Gideon."

Hotch laughs suddenly, and you can tell you surprised it out of him. Your chest warms comfortably as he smiles, his cheeks flushing softly in the chill air.

He looks over at Gideon again, deciding in real time that he's going to recommend him to come back to the team. He would never admit it to you or anyone, but he knows that if your position on the team was in jeopardy from Gideon's return, he wouldn't have been able to complete his evaluation fairly.

It was Hotch who recommended you for the open position after he was promoted into Gideon's role as unit chief. You deserved the spot, of course, but Jeff's death had still been fresh and he knew better than most how much the job can take one's mind off of the other aspects of their life.

While Hotch watches Gideon, you watch him. You can tell from the look on his face that it's a done deal. Jason's coming back to the team. It will be a change of pace for everyone, but that doesn't mean it won't be good.

Having joined the team right after the bombing, you saw exactly how Gideon changed after getting the profile wrong, but so did everyone else. What people didn't talk about was how Aaron changed too. Rising into the rank. Growing to fill the hole that Gideon left in the unit, but somehow also shrinking into himself at the same time, because that's what this job does to you...it takes and it takes and it takes until you have nothing left to give.

But sometimes that's what you need: to give something up so you know you aren't losing everything.

***

Gideon settles into the team faster than you anticipated, and soon it's almost like he never left. Even though you can see the vein on Morgan's neck pulsate every time he hijacks a profile, you can't help but appreciate the support he gives to Spencer and Elle, both of whom are becoming incredible profilers before your very eyes.

That's also why you find yourself a little worried when Hotch tells you that Reid failed his weapons recertification.

"I thought you said you were helping him practice," you say as the two of you walk past security and toward the bullpen.

"I was," he emphasizes, before correcting himself, "I did. I'm sure he was just nervous."

You nod, pushing open the doors and spotting Reid sitting quietly at his desk. "He can test again in two weeks. He'll be fine."

When Morgan hands him a whistle with a quippy joke, you sigh into your coffee tumbler, but don't bother stepping in. He's being childish, but if you try to intervene, it'll just embarrass Spencer more.

"Okay," JJ starts, "Franklin Park, Des Plaines. Yesterday afternoon."

She dives into the case, but you have already read the file (and you know Reid has too) so you scoot your chair over to his desk and lean forward so only he can hear you. "I failed my first weapons certification at the bureau too."

Spencer looks up immediately, his face colored with surprise. "Really? You're one of the best shots I know."

You smile with a shrug. "The tests aren't real life. When it comes down to it, I get the job done. Just like you will."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, but then his lips curve up into a small smile. You both turn your attention back to the front just as JJ finishes explaining the case details.

"Wheels up in 30."

The flight to Illinois is filled with heated discussions about the bureau's fruitless history of trying to profile long distance serial killers.

"L. D. S. K.s are so rare, we haven't been able to build a standard profile," Hotch explains as the jet reaches cruising altitude.

Gideon chimes in immediately. "Here's what we do know: they're always male, and they frequently have law enforcement or military experience, and they always contact the police or the media."

Elle looks confused and you echo her sentiment as you lean your hip against her armrest. "To take credit or relive the experience?"

"Both," he says simply. "All serial killers attempt to relive the ecstasy they get from their killings. Some use souvenirs taken from the victims, and others return to the dump site to interact with the body. Both modes require contact with the victim, contact which, by definition, long distance serial killers don't have."

"Our unsub hasn't contacted anybody," you point out. "What do we do until then?"

"Sometimes it's not what the unsub does that reveals the profile. Sometimes it is what they do not do."

Reid glances up from the file in his lap, and you notice that he looks at Gideon first. "He doesn't kill his victims."

"Underkill's a unique signature," Hotch ponders, standing up and walking along the cabin. He only paces when he's deep in thought. "The question is, does he shoot them in the stomach intentionally just to wound them, or is he just aiming at the biggest part of the target?"

The team is silent as you take in this new analysis. You're not surprised when Gideon is the first to speak up. "Specifically, does the unsub lack the skill to make the head shot, or simply the will to take it?"

When the plane lands, you check out the last crime scene before spending the day talking to the local police and the victims' surgeons at the nearby hospital.

That night, when you check into your hotel room, the click of the door lock closing behind you is a welcome relief from the tension of the day. Many of the Des Plaines police officers were unhappy with the team's initial assessment, because it heavily implied that the unsub may have been a law enforcement official himself.

You wash your face and change into a tee shirt and a comfortable pair of sweatpants, before climbing into bed and opening the case file back up again. The rest of the team has also gone to their own rooms, but you can't help but wish you had another set of eyes looking at this with you.

As though reading your mind, a knock thuds on your door and you stand up quickly, in case it's an emergency. When you check the peephole, you see Hotch standing way too close to the door.

Unlocking it slowly so you don't startle him, you open the door to find him in still in a full suit.

"Is there a problem?" you ask immediately. "Do I need to get dressed?"

He shakes his head, glancing around the hallway so quickly that you almost miss it. "I was just looking over the profile and I wanted your opinion on some thoughts I had."

The corner of your mouth twitches and you open the door further to let him in. He doesn't miss a beat as he takes a seat on the armchair in front of your bed and flips open his notepad.

"I was thinking about the bullet we recovered on the scene," he says slowly, like he's thinking through every word he's saying.

You nod, sitting on top of the bed covers and crossing your legs under you. "Garcia called after you left the station. The bullet was a .223 fired from the M-4 variant of the M-16."

"That means he's military," Hotch says, reaching his hand out without taking his eyes off his notepad. You close the case file you had laid out and hand it to him. "M-4 is a shorter barrel than the M-16, so it's less accurate and a lot harder to fire, especially at these distances."

"This level of skill indicates specialized training. That means..."

"It means the underkill was on purpose," Hotch says, finishing your thought. "What is he trying to prove?"

You purse your lips as he sits up in the chair to give himself room to remove his jacket. His pinstriped button-down is slightly crinkled under his arms, but you can tell it was freshly ironed this morning.

"Maybe he's in a fast-paced occupation," you suggest, "which would fit with the profile that he has a big ego."

"Then we're back to law enforcement."

You lean forward, your eyes following his hands as they fidget with his cuffs and undo the buttons, one at a time. You've always been attune to every one of his movements, but maybe it's just because you've spent so much time around him.

"Hotch," you whisper-yell, snagging his attention from your case file, which he tosses back to you.

He hums and you take that as an invitation to continue speaking. "Be careful tomorrow, when you're giving the profile."

One of his eyebrows lifts and you can tell he's holding back a smile. "It's just in front of the Des Planes PD. You'll be there too."

"It's not that," you sigh, shaking your head. "Everything about this profile points to the shooter being either current or former law enforcement. I'd be surprised if they didn't take it personally."

His eyes flit up to yours, his brow furrowing. "I can handle myself."

"I'm sure you can, Hotch," you say with a breathy laugh. "Doesn't mean I don't still look out for you."

He pauses and it's like his whole body takes a beat. "I know."

***

You're talking to Dr. Landman with Derek, Elle, and Jason the next day when a gunshot rings out through the hospital. Last you checked, Hotch and Reid were in the E.R., but you haven't heard from them since you arrived.

"It's Phillip Dowd," a nurse informs you when you meet with local police outside the closed E.R. door.

After a quick call to Penelope, the profile becomes clear.

"He joined the army at 18," Gideon recites, pacing around the room in a vaguely reminiscent manner, "went to ranger school, did 6 years before being dishonorably discharged in '95 for conduct unbecoming. Obviously lied about it, joined the Arlington P. D."

"You were right," the police captain sighs. "He was a cop."

His hopeless tone is disheartening, and you find yourself upset for not the first time that your team was correct in their assessment.

After the initial commotion, the E.R. is silent except for a few muffled voices. You can't hear what's being said, but the lack of gunshots or loud noises is all that's keeping you from falling apart.

"It'll be okay," you hear whispered from next to you. You turn to see Derek, who presses his shoulder to yours briefly. "Hotch will know what to do."

You know there's nothing you can do from out here, especially with how precarious the situation inside is, but doing nothing has never been your strong suit.

"I know," you tell him, echoing your thoughts. "I just wish we could help."

Derek cocks his head at the S.W.A.T. team readying themselves to break the door down. "We can help. We need to give Hotch and the kid time to wear Dowd down."

His tone is light and you feel yourself laugh, ignoring the thickness that swells in your throat. "That shouldn't take long."

Derek bumps your arm again in a silent extension of comfort, and you mouth a silent thank you.

You can feel Gideon losing patience as he reasons with the captain, but he eventually buys them three minutes to do what they can. When the final five second countdown starts, you unconsciously hold your breath, only to be released when Hotch's voice calls through the door.

"Hold your fire!"

Your breath comes out like a gasp and you squeeze Derek's arm before rushing forward. Hotch stumbles past you with a murmur that sounds obscurely like "help Reid", so you push your way through the throng of civilians moving to escape until you see him.

"Spencer," you gasp, crouching down to help him into a standing position. You would never admit it to him, but ever since he joined the team, he's been something of a little brother to you. "What happened in here? Are you okay?"

"You were right," he says with a surprising steadiness to his voice. "I got the job done."

You don't ask what he means, knowing that Hotch will fill you in when the time is right. Instead, you decide not to fight the vaguely maternal urge rising within you and you pull him into a tight hug. It's more of a quick squeeze, because you don't want to push past his physical boundaries, but he doesn't complain, instead looking over at you with a small smile that's more than enough for now.

***

You find Hotch where the departed ambulance that patched Reid up was parked. All of the hustle and bustle of the paramedics and local police officers and bureau agents comes to a standstill as you walk over to where he's sitting on the edge of the curb.

"I heard what happened," you say as a way to announce your presence. "Can I sit?"

He nods without looking up, and you crouch down next to him, settling on the curb with your shoulder pressed to his. You can feel the tension in his muscles as he grips the sidewalk, his palms digging into the concrete like he could break through if he pressed hard enough. "Reid.."

"..is fine," you whisper, nudging him so he looks up to where Spencer and Jason are chattering excitedly. "He's more proud than anything."

He doesn't say anything, so you bump your knee against his. "I guess all of the physical training classes you made him take at the academy paid off."

He knows you know exactly what is running through his mind, so he doesn't bother trying to articulate it. Instead, he lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding, and looks over at you. "Do you remember that self-defense class we took before law school?"

You're not expecting this question, and you almost laugh. "You mean the singular self-defense class you dragged me to before dawn in the summer before we started at Georgetown?"

He levels you with a look that you would think is serious if you didn't know him so well. "You don't regret it, though."

"No," you smile, your eyes blurring with emotion. That's where you met Jeff. "I don't."

He was your instructor that day. He only taught that class twice a week, between lectures at Georgetown Law, and it doesn't escape your mind that you so easily could've missed him. One day earlier or later and you never would've met him, never would've been his girlfriend, or his wife, or his widow.

Hotch remembers meeting him that day too. He had to literally come to your apartment and drag you out of bed to make the seven AM class that he had signed you both up for, and you had been grumpy the whole drive over.

There wasn't much, other than coffee, that could get you alert before eight in the morning, but the moment you walked into that gym, it was like you were wide awake. He spent the rest of the class trying not to look as the man he would later come to know as Agent Adler kept coming over to give you extra pointers, and he pretended that the coil of ice slithering up his spine was there just because he was watching out for you.

When he found out the two of you had started dating, he continued to pretend the nausea rising in his stomach was from the day-old sandwich he had had for lunch, because it wasn't fair. Especially since he was with Haley, and he was happier than he had ever been, even if the new law school course load was making it harder to see her as often as he wanted to.

But eventually, your happiness with him overpowered every protective urge he felt, and he realized that even if there was a feeling in his gut that he didn't recognize when he saw you two together, Jeff was perfectly suited for you.

***

"He's so gorgeous!" JJ coos, her hands twitching at her sides like she's trying not to reach forward and take the baby out of Haley's hands.

She brought Jack, their newborn son, in to work today to show the team, and Hotch looks prouder than you've ever seen him. "Thank you."

"If you find baldness and wrinkles attractive."

"Reid!" you chastise, swatting at him. He dodges your hands without even looking.

"Look at his widdy biddy nose," Garcia squeals, before turning to Morgan with an inquisitive look. "Don't you want one of these?"

He just laughs as he rests his chin on her shoulder. "Mm, I'll stick to practicing."

"Congratulations," Elle chimes in before returning to Gideon's side to continue discussing the new case that came in. She's always on top of things, and it's something you respect greatly about her.

"Thanks," Hotch smiles, his gaze returning to Jack after looking away for only a moment. Jack is like a siren, the way each of his little sounds or movements holds Hotch's attention so steadily. He's the most focused of all of you, but you've still never seen him this enamored. "She's amazing. I'm a little terrified."

"You're glowing," you tell Haley as the rest of the team heads to the briefing room. "How is it that you had a baby just a few weeks ago?"

"You're sweet," she smiles, before tilting her head forward. "Do you want to hold him? You're practically his aunt."

You gasp quietly, so as not to wake little Jack. "That is a title I will carry proudly. And yes, I would love to hold him."

Haley hands him to you slowly, and you make sure to support his head carefully as you cup your arms around him. He looks so much like Haley that you almost make a joke about Hotch's genes not even putting up a fight, but that nose...that nose has Hotch written all over it.

When you glance back to where the team left from, you see him turn back at the same moment and offer you an encouraging smile.

"How are you holding up?" you ask Haley, barely able to focus on your surroundings with a newborn in your arms. Maybe there is something to the siren thing.

"Jack's been incredible. He barely cries, it's kind of a godsend...but I do wish Aaron could take time off with me."

You give her what you hope is your most comforting smile. "We've been super swamped with cases here, but in all my years working with him, I have never seen him so eager to leave every night."

She laughs, a pretty sound you remember from your youth. "I know. I feel so unfair when I complain about these things, but I appreciate you humoring me."

"Not at all," you assure her, glancing back down at Jack, who is mid-yawn. "I understand completely. If I had one of these little guys, I wouldn't be able to think about anything else."

You hear her breath catch and you open your mouth to reassure her that it's fine, but she is already reaching forward to squeeze your arm. "You and Jeff would have made amazing parents."

When you both joined the bureau, you were so busy with work that kids weren't on your mind at all. It wasn't until you got settled at the BAU, and Jeff found his place with organized crime, that you even started talking about it.

You want kids, don't you?

Only a few. Maybe four or five. Yeah, five's a good number.

"I should get back to the team," you say softly, blinking away the memories.

Haley sees your face and she smiles sadly as she takes Jack back from your arms. "I'll see you soon. Tell him I'm heading home, will you?"

You nod and watch the elevator doors close in front of her, before joining the team.

***

"I can't believe you went bar hopping without me," Derek shakes his head, feigning offense as he leans so far back in his chair you're afraid it may tip over.

"I think hopping is kind of a strong word," you say, glancing over at Elle, who is perched on the edge of your desk. "We only had one bar in mind, but it closed earlier than we thought, so we went somewhere else after."

"This was a much needed girl's night," Elle grins, patting Morgan on the shoulder as he continues to pout. "We'll invite you next time."

"How was your weekend, Dr. Reid?" you ask, turning around to face him.

Spencer doesn't look up from his crossword.

You say his name again, recalling the attention of Derek and Elle, who had started talking about some trip they've been planning for what feels like months.

When he still doesn't look up, you pick up one of the BAU-provided pens on your desk and chuck it at him, just hard enough to bridge the gap between your desks, but not so hard that it hurts on impact.

"Ow!" Spencer yelps anyway, glancing up with a look that's somewhere between confusion and indignation. He picks the pen up off the ground and turns it over to see the tiny insignia on the cap. "This is FBI property."

"How was your weekend, Spencer?" you ask again, ignoring him. "Didn't you say you had some fun stuff planned?"

"I did," he lights up, instantly forgetting about the pen incident. "My local movie theater was showing reruns of the first season of the original Star Trek, so I got to experience it on the big screen."

Derek laughs and walks back over to his desk next to yours. "We have very different definitions of fun weekend plans, kid."

You're about to tell Derek that no one wants to hear what his idea of fun is when the office door upstairs flies open and Hotch and Gideon walk out.

Reid hands you back your pen, and Derek sits up in his chair so fast it's almost comical.

"We have another case," Hotch announces before coming to a stop.

Gideon takes it away. "Our unsub is male, intelligent, organized and methodical. He has the confidence of a man who's been killing for a long time."

"Only victim removed from the scene is Freddy Condore indicating some tie to him."

Hotch turns to you. "You, Elle, and Reid stay on Condore's background with Garcia. The rest of us will head to the crime scene."

You nod before standing up. "Let's go, kids."

Penelope's lair is just as eccentric as you remember it.

"Take a seat," she instructs before logging into her computer and opening up her criminal history database. "Just don't get too comfortable."

Your lips quirk up as Elle flashes her eyes at you, and you nod your head at the empty chair on Garcia's opposite side. Reid is already sitting on a desk chair by the back, spinning in aimless circles as he rattles off a list of markers to search for.

After a minute, Penelope stops typing. "Credit card receipts show Freddy loved crab cakes, preferred light beer and used to spend his Thursday nights with a woman in Fells Point."

You pick up a stress toy shaped like a tomato from one of her shelves and bounce it in your palm, just for something to occupy your hands.

"What about his associates?" Elle asks, grabbing a pen with a pom-pom on the end and poking it at Spencer's knee.

"Most of them have criminal records."

Elle glances up. "That much I guessed."

Penelope frowns, and looks pointedly at the pen in her hand.

"She's holding the tomato!" Elle complains, throwing a finger at you.

You lift up your hands in surrender, dropping the stress toy. "Thanks a lot, Greenaway."

"Anyway," Reid interrupts, to everyone's surprise, "One of these guys is particularly interesting. Pull up James Baker's rap sheet."

Penelope turns back to her computer as Spencer reads over her shoulder. "He spent time in juvenile detention for attempted murder, was released at age 21, and then subsequently arrested for, and this is in order, armed robbery, petty theft, burglary, narcotics sales, and rapе."

"What's so interesting about that?"

"When it comes to psychological behavior, anything is possible but this criminal history? It just isn't probable."

Elle nods in agreement. "I mean, as a minor, he began with attempted murder and then devolved into pettier crimes?"

"It's the criminal history of a fractured schizophrenic with multiple personality disorder," you sigh. "It just does not make sense."

***

Hotch calls you into his office when he and Morgan return from Baker's address. You can tell something is off before you even step through the door, so you shut it behind you and take a seat in front of his desk.

"What's going on?" you ask, your eyes glancing over his face to see if his micro-expressions can give you a hint. "What's wrong?"

He looks up with a sigh, his hands clasped on his desk. "Baker's place was an artificial dwelling, and the weapon we recovered on the scene was standard law enforcement issue."

It takes you a few seconds to comprehend what he's trying to say - a few seconds longer than usual - and your breath stutters in your throat. "He was undercover?"

"That's what it looks like," Hotch agrees. "I wanted to inform you before telling the rest of the team."

You nod, pressing your eyes closed for a beat.

He missed his pick-up, Mrs. Adler.

We'll call you as soon as we know more.

The memories start to flood back in and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter before opening them. Hotch looks blurry for a moment until your eyes adjust to the light again.

"Does organized crime know where he is?" you ask, desperately needing to fill the silence.

He looks down at the case file. "We assume so, but it's not like they would tell us. They weren't too happy that we were taking on this case at all, and now we know why."

"Maybe they'll talk to me," you suggest, even though the idea of talking to Josh Cramer makes you taste bile. You haven't seen him since a month after the funeral. It's not for his lack of trying, you just couldn't stomach looking at any of them after what happened. One missed call turned to ten and eventually they stopped trying.

There's a piercing pain behind your eyes and you squeeze them shut for a momentary relief. "It was only supposed to be three months."

Hotch's brow furrows and you don't look up at him just yet. You can already picture his expression, the anguish you know he feels for you whenever you bring up Jeff.

"It was a three month operation," you continue, knowing you won't be able to discuss it later if you stop talking now. "That's all we signed up for. Three months away from me and then he was on leave for the rest of the year, so that we could focus on us again. Maybe even start a family."

Your voice cracks on the last word and you tilt your head down to hide your face. He hates it when you cry, but that's not fair. He knows how important it is to get your emotions out, so they don't pile up inside of you, but if he had his way, you would never have had a reason to cry in the first place.

"I hadn't seen him in over a month when he was..."

He can hear the tightness in your voice and he resists the overwhelming urge to reach his hand out and take yours. You're sitting a foot back from the desk, and it's not he could reach you from here anyway, but his fingers still ache.

"I don't want to blame them, Aaron," you sigh. Your words sound watery, and he pulls a handkerchief out of his inside jacket pocket and hands it to you. He's almost surprised when you accept the gesture, pressing the cloth square under your eyes to catch the tears leaking out. You were so self-reliant as a kid, never wanting or needing anyone else's help. "I don't want to blame them, but I do. I can't help it, I just do."

Someone else would have consoled you. They would have assured you that feeling this way was natural, and that no one could blame you for feeling what you do, but that isn't who you two are. "Jeff wouldn't."

His name is like a dagger to your heart. You practically wince as Hotch digs further. "That team was his family, just like we are yours. He wouldn't blame them, not for this. Not for something he chose."

Something he chose. This is why you don't let yourself remember that day. This is why you kept that day - the day you got that horrible call - locked up inside your brain, where not even you could reach it. Because if you let yourself think about it and remember, then you will remember that it wasn't really Cramer or his unit or the bureau that you blamed. It was him.

For choosing to miss his pick-up. For choosing to go undercover. For choosing to join organized crime.

You take a deep breath and re-adjust yourself in the uncomfortable chair Hotch refuses to replace, even though it's literally splitting at the seams. Something about your tax dollars hard at work. "What are you going to do about Baker?"

He lets you change the subject. "We have to contact Agent Cramer before-

"What the hell is wrong with you people?"

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"Sorry?" Hotch frowns, both of you standing up immediately.

Cramer doesn't take his eyes off Hotch as he seethes with anger. "I told you, this is my case! You ran my agent through IBIS?"

"Because I wanted to know who he worked for and now that I do, I'd like to talk to him."

"You don't have him?"

You can hear your heartbeat in your skull.

Hotch looks at you then, and finally Cramer notices your presence. "Y/N...it's been a while."

Your lips press into a thin line. "Almost two years." The anger you've been trying to avoid seeps into your voice against your will and you sigh, returning to the investigation. "How long has Baker been missing?"

"About 12 hours."

"You think he ran?" you ask, watching Cramer closely as his jaw ticks.

"No, Jimmy's too experienced to run without contact."

He realizes his misstep immediately and his shoulders fall. To his credit, he doesn't break eye contact, even as his expression softens. "That's not what I meant. All I'm saying is that I think someone's keeping Jimmy from calling in."

You can feel Aaron looking at you, but you avoid his line of sight. If you're going to have to interact with organized crime, you might as well make yourself useful. "We all want the same thing, Cramer: to get Baker back to his family."

You wait outside as he explains the situation in more detail to Hotch and Gideon, and you're surprised when he's the first to leave. "Can we talk?"

Hotch comes out behind him and raises his eyebrow for a fraction of a second, a check-in. Swallowing thickly, you nod your head and follow him down the hall to the top of the stairs.

"I'm sorry I haven't reached out recently," he says as soon as you're out of earshot of the others. "You know Jeff was one of our top guys."

Your eyes shut at his name, as though someone clapped their hands too close to your face. It's almost laughable how sure you were that you were past your grief. You passed the bureau's psych evaluation after your six month leave with flying colors (because your team practically wrote the answers yourselves), and as each new day passed and you weren't so debilitated by just the thought of him, you thought it meant you were fine. Because time heals all wounds. At least it's supposed to.

"I know," you whisper scratchily, before clearing your throat. "I know that. And it's okay. We've all been busy." You look down at the bustling bullpen where his agents are interacting with your team. "Clearly."

Then you remember you're job here in the first place. "We really are just trying to help. It wouldn't hurt to keep us involved."

Cramer sighs and you know he won't refuse. "We'll loop you in."

***

James Baker is found and Vincent Perotta gets taken into custody, but you can still hear the end of the interrogation ringing in your ears.

"You were just responding to what you learned, Vincent.

When you grow up in an environment like that, an extremely abusive and violent household... it's not surprising that some people grow up to become killers.

And some people grow up to catch them."

You can't pinpoint exactly what you're feeling, but if you had to guess, it would be sorrow. Sorrow for that little boy who got dealt the worst hand you can imagine, and still turned into the best version of who he could've been.

Hotch can't get the interrogation out of his mind either. He had grabbed his briefcase and headed out to the elevators as soon as Perotta was taken away, in the hopes of avoiding everybody. He's about to let out his breath when a hand reaches between the doors and sends them flying open again.

Normally your appearance is a welcome sight, but tonight, he's had enough talking. Perotta took everything he had to give, and then some, and he doesn't know if he has the strength to go through the proceedings again with you.

"I just want to get home," he says as you stand next to him without a word and face the doors. To my family.

You don't say anything as the little fluorescent floor number ticks down - has it always been this slow - and he feels his nerves tighten with agitation. You're never silent, especially not about something like this.

Just before the elevator reaches the second floor, you reach forward and pull the emergency stop button. He whispers your name, half irritated half relieved, and you step in front of him, focusing your eyes on his. It's a classic profiler technique, both to mentally establish trust and to physically block him from the keypad.

"You're a great father, Aaron."

His mind flashes back 25 years, but he squeezes the hand in his pocket into a fist to keep himself from succumbing to the memories. "I'm trying."

He knows what you're doing, and he would normally be open to a healthy exchange between two adults, but tonight he just can't. It's too fresh.

You seem to understand at least a fraction of what he's trying to convey. Your next words are gentle. "That already makes you a thousand times better than him."

That almost makes him smile. "You can say his name, you know."

You shrug, looking at him with a glint in your eye. "Honestly, I don't think I can. I'm afraid I'll turn into a pile of ash, with the fury your father instills in me."

That's what gets him. He coughs out a laugh that echoes around the elevator, and you return to his side, giving him a moment to breathe on his own.

This time, when his mind spirals back to his childhood, he's not as equipped to block it. The memories come in flashes, a blackening bruise on his abdomen, a split lip explained away through roughhousing in the backyard, the thin scars on his hands and elbows as he finally started to fight back. He would've taken it all forever if he had to, if it meant that he could keep the horrors away from the people he loved. "I really should go."

"Yeah." You push the emergency stop back into place and the elevator hits the ground floor in no time. "I'll see you tomorrow, Hotch."

He steps out, half expecting you to follow him. Instead, the doors close and he's by himself again, and he suddenly can't remember why he wanted to be alone in the first place.

***

When the Keystone Killer is finally caught after 18 years of inactivity, he finds himself expecting for there to be some sort of celebration, either in the form of a commendation, or a much-needed break. Instead, what he gets is a mountain of paperwork.

He usually doesn't mind the paperwork that comes after a long case. It's a helpful way for him to sort through his thoughts on what went down, and to learn from mistakes that were made along the way, whether in the profile or in the capture of the unsub.

Lately, paperwork has felt like an added torture to the long hours he already spends at work. It's not that he wasn't excited about going home before, but ever since Jack was born, he hasn't been able to get out of the office fast enough. But being the unit chief of the BAU has its responsibilities, and this is one of them.

He's drowning in consultation files and case reports when you knock on his door, two coffees in hand.

"Thought that was you," he says, finishing the sentence he was writing.

You frown, setting one steaming cup down on his desk. He hasn't even looked up yet. "How'd you know? Or do you just say that to everyone who walks in here?"

His lip twitches and he puts his pen down. "I could smell the coffee. It always smells the same when you make it."

"Oh?" You weren't aware you had a method. "And how's that?"

"Burnt."

You take the lid off your cup and chuck it at him with surprising accuracy. It would have thwacked him in the forehead if he hadn't swatted it aside with his stupid catlike reflexes.

"What are you working on?" you ask after taking a scalding sip of perfectly brewed coffee.

He looks up for a beat before diving back into the file he was skimming. "Paperwork for the Keystone Killer case."

"But we just finished that," you point out before reaching forward and taking the file out from under his nose.

He huffs. "I was...looking at that."

"This is a report on what happened a couple of hours ago," you say, ignoring his remark. "You can easily do this tomorrow, or later this week."

"It's fresh in my mind now. I don't want to forget any details."

You shrug in a motion that says 'fair enough'. "Or, you could actually go home before midnight for once."

You slide another file off the top of his pile and flip it open, reading over the notes Hotch has scribbled in the margins. He's so meticulous about his job that you almost forget he was promoted just a little over a year ago. He became unit chief at the same time that you joined the team, so you didn't get to see him in his early days, but looking at him now, you almost can't imagine it. It's like he's built for this, for taking responsibility and leading people with kindness and respect.

"Elle said something on the plane today," he says suddenly, jerking you from your thoughts.

You close the file and look up as he runs a hand over his head, pushing his thick hair back just for it to bounce forward again. "She said that she's scared she's going to look up and see that her life has passed her by while she was chasing monsters."

Something cold runs through your veins and you sit up straighter in your chair. "And what did you say?"

"I told her the truth."

You smile in an effort to keep your eyes from shining. "What, that we're all doomed?"

He looks at you candidly. "That this job will eat you up if you let it." Your smile falls and he continues. "You just can't let it."

"I'm sure Elle loved hearing that."

He shrugs. "She was surprisingly receptive."

That gets a laugh out of you, even if the good humor doesn't last long. "I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?"

"This job, while also being a husband, and a father." You sigh, and you can almost feel the weight of the air as it leaves your body. "When I go home, I don't have to be anything to anyone. Most of the time it feels awful, but sometimes, after an especially bad case, I'm almost relieved when I can go home and just check out."

You aren't talking about him anymore, and he can tell. He doesn't mind, if this is what it will take for you to work through your emotions.

"We were gonna start trying for a baby."

That surprises him. Not that you wanted to be a mother - he knows that - but that he didn't know you were already thinking about it, especially because of how you grew up. You don't talk about it often, but after losing your mother to a drunk driver when you were ten, you almost transformed into her, becoming the emotional support for your family when there was no one else to fill that role.

You press your lips into a thin line and take a deep breath, your coffee cold and forgotten on the desk in front of you. "We had been talking about it for years, but with the paths our careers were taking, there just wasn't enough time before then." Your eyes look far away, and you don't seem to notice that your lips have unconsciously curved up into a reminiscent smile. "Jeff wanted five kids. Five. God, can you imagine?"

He can, but he doesn't say anything, because he knows you aren't looking for a response. Just for someone to listen.

"I'm an only child," you say with a laugh. "I don't even know what it's like to have one sibling, let alone four." But Jeff had come from a huge family, and he had wanted you to experience that. He loved how full his home always felt growing up, never without someone to talk to. Now you won't ever get to experience that. "I guess I just wish sometimes that we had tried earlier."

"You'll have it someday," Hotch says simply, practically reading your mind. "If that's what you want, you'll have it."

"I waited so long," you whisper, closing your eyes for a long moment. "I was just so afraid that I wouldn't do it right, because I didn't have my mother anymore to help me."

"You would've been a great mother," he assures you, his voice confident. "One day, you will be."

Your breath comes out like a gasp and you clear your throat to keep the tears at bay. "How do you know?"

"I just know."

***

When you push through the doors to the bullpen the next morning, you are greeted by a familiar head of blonde hair.

"Sean?"

He turns around slowly, clearly recognizing your voice, and pulls his lips up into a smile that you return. "Hey, Y/N, how's it going?"

You weren't close to him as a kid, mostly because of the age gap between him and Hotch. You had tried to make more of an effort after graduating college, but Sean was fierce in his convictions, and there were a lot of things he didn't understand about his childhood that you certainly weren't going to explain to him now.

"Good, good," you say, leading him away from the throng of staring women. You shoot them a look that makes them disperse. "You here for your brother? He's upstairs."

He nods, glancing up at the closed office door. You start to lead him to the stairwell when he stops in his tracks and turns to you. "What mood's he in?"

"Why?" you ask, your brow furrowing. "You got bad news? Nothing I need to worry about, I hope."

Sean shakes his head, glancing up at the closed door again. "Nothing like that. I'll just go up."

You let him walk up on his own, knowing he doesn't want you getting involved in whatever he's thinking about. Before you have a moment to catch your breath, the three women return to your side.

"That's Hotch's brother?" Penelope asks, standing so close you can feel her breath on your ear.

"Maybe Hotch is adopted."

"What do you mean?" you ask, unconsciously glancing up the stairs. "They're honestly pretty similar." You're only half joking. They don't look anything alike, but that Hotchner brand of righteousness runs deep.

JJ frowns. "I don't see it."

"Yeah, he looks...like that," Penelope murmurs, before looking at you. "Did you know him when you were younger? Was he hot then too?"

You choke on your own spit. "He was nine years old when I left for college, so...no."

Her eyes widen and she lifts her hands in surrender.

"Ooh, here he comes."

You look up to see Sean storming down the stairs, Hotch hot on his heels.

"Sean, listen to me."

He turns so fast, you're afraid they're going to crash into each other. "Don't profile me, Aaron."

Sean stomps out of the bullpen while Hotch watches him leave, and you can't get the striking feeling of deja vu out of your head. Two boys, 15 years younger than they are now, standing in the same positions, with the same looks on their faces.

You imagine that you and Hotch probably act the same way around each other as when you first met, at eight years old.

The memory comes easily, even with more than two decades of time standing in the way. The little boy with dark hair who had sat next to you on the school bus, just because there were no other empty seats available that day.

You hadn't said anything for the first few stops, just watched him out of the corner of your eye as he nodded his head unconsciously to the music coming out of his large headphones. Eventually, curiosity got the better of you and you tapped on his shoulder. "What are you listening to?"

He had taken his headphones off quickly, as though caught in the act. "What?"

You repeated your question before leveling him with a pointed stare that meant 'there is a correct answer'. You were a feisty kid, and you weren't always the best at making first impressions, so his steady response impressed you. "Beatles. Revolver album."

"I love that one!" you had gushed, leaning in closer without a warning to press your ear to one of the speakers on his headphones. "Is this Yellow Submarine?"

He had nodded, the confusion in his eyes slowly transforming into delight. "You know their stuff?"

"Of course. My favorite's Eleanor Rigby."

He had frowned then. "That one's too sad."

You weren't surprised by his opinion. You had yet to find a boy your age who could appreciate serious music, but liking The Beatles was a start, at least.

"I'm Y/N," you had said, extending your hand like you were starting a business meeting.

He shook your hand furtively. "Aaron."

"Maybe I'll see you around."

The school bus had stopped at your street then, and you had gotten up without another word to this boy, who would one day become your best friend in the world.

Luckily, the next day, Aaron chose to sit next to you again, this time with a second pair of headphones to attach to his compact cassette deck. Two days turned to three, and before long, you had a new friend.

***

"I can't imagine what two weeks away from this place is gonna feel like," you sigh, packing some essentials into your bag and snapping it shut. "I might actually miss you guys."

"Not me," Morgan grins, before pressing a kiss to your cheek as he zips around you. "Two weeks of pure heaven with nothing but young, beautiful adults looking to make vacation memories."

"Your friend's resort better be as nice as you say it is," Elle says sternly as she wiggles her finger at Derek, who is busy inviting Reid to join their vacation.

"Thanks, but I'm going home," he says quickly, without looking at any of you. "Have a good one, guys."

"I'll head out too," you announce, grabbing your things and following him to the elevators. "Wait up, Spence."

He doesn't seem to hear you, but you slip through the doors just before they close. "You okay?"

"Huh?" he says, finally looking up. "Oh, yeah. I'm just not looking forward to the Nevada heat."

You can tell he's lying, but you don't want to press him right before the long break. "You can always call me if you need anything. Seriously."

"Yeah," he nods. "I know."

You wave goodbye to him in the parking lot, and you're back in the silence of your home by the end of the hour.

The rest of your day is spent lazing around the house, and you're asleep when you hear a knock at your door. After Jeff's death, you started keeping your gun in your nightstand, more out of a general sense of security than any specific acute fear, but its proximity during late night calls has given you the peace of mind you needed to finally sleep through the night.

Lifting it from the drawer, you hold it behind your back as you tiptoe to your front door and look through the peephole. When you don't see anyone, you carefully pull the door open, only to find a small packet sitting on your welcome mat with your name scrawled on the top.

After bringing it inside the house and locking the door again, you pry open the seal and extract a large piece of paper covered in a series of numbers and dots.

That's when the phone rings.

***

"How's it going?" you ask Reid and Morgan as you enter the conference room where all of the Fisher King's clues have been laid out. Neither of them have taken their eyes off the paper you brought in since you tacked it up on the board.

As expected, Reid doesn't look up. "The answer to what book we need has to be in here."

"Yeah," Derek sighs, glancing over at you, "but we sure as hell can't see it."

"Yet."

You look at the numbers again, hoping that your short walk to the coffee station and back would have been enough to unlock something new in your brain. Nothing. "The answer has to be based on specific details of each person's clue." A small sound turns your attention to the couch, where Elle is lying on her side. "Is Elle asleep?"

"I'm awake!" she starts, sitting up lethargically.

At the outburst, Hotch walks into the room and points at her bags. "I'm sending you home. You need to get some rest."

"No-"

"We won't do anything without you, I promise."

"Elle, seriously, we're not any closer than we were."

She nods, her lack of sleep seeming to dawn on her as she yawns again.

"Anderson," Hotch calls out, before you stop him. "What is it?"

"I can take her home," you suggest, looking over your shoulder as she lugs her bags down the hall with bleary eyes. He looks like he wants to protest, so you speak up before he has the chance. "She barely knows Anderson. I'll make sure she's settled, and then you can send him to watch her house, so I can come back here."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," he sighs, his eyes still trained on Elle's silhouette lingering by the elevator. "We may need you here."

You cock your head at Reid and Morgan, who have been sitting in the same positions for so long, you're surprised their necks haven't locked. "It's like they said. We haven't made any progress in over an hour. I'm not helping here."

He still looks unsure, but you know it's just worry. He'll always worry about you. "Okay, go. Call me in an hour to check-in."

You dip your head in a nod and jog through the bullpen to catch Elle as she's heading out.

"So you're my bodyguard, huh?"

You laugh, pressing the button for the ground floor. "Something like that."

"Good," Elle says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn, "you're much more fun than Anderson."

"Prettier, too."

The car ride to her house starts off silent, but eventually you break your internal promise to let her come to you. "How are you feeling after last night?"

She just shrugs. "It was more annoying than anything. I'm just glad I got to enjoy at least some of my vacation."

"I heard there was blood all over your room," you point out lightly, trying to broach the subject in a delicate manner. "That can't have been fun to wake up to."

"It was all on the outside. That's part of why they weren't able to hold me. That, and Hotch's lawyer chops."

You raise an eyebrow, glancing over at her as you pull over to the sidewalk. "His lawyer chops?" You know he used to be a prosecutor before joining the bureau, but you never got to see his skills in action.

"Yeah," Elle gushes, her face brightening considerably, "you should have seen the way he walked in there. Those beat cops had no idea what hit 'em. He was in full prosecutor mode, went all rainmaker on them until they released me."

You can imagine it. If any of you were in trouble, he wouldn't let anything get between him and your safety. "I wish I could've seen that."

When you put the car in park, you help Elle with her bags and walk her up to her door, where she insists that she'll be fine on her own.

"I promised I would wait with you until another agent could come and relieve me," you emphasize, instinctively scanning the vicinity around her home as she walks inside and drops her things on the floor.

"In about thirty seconds, I'll be passed out on this couch right here," she points at the window seat behind her, "so you'll just be watching me sleep for an hour."

You open your mouth to argue but she cuts you off. "Y/N, I'll be fine."

If there's one word to describe Elle, it's stubborn, so you let her shut the door behind her and you walk back to your car. Even if she won't let you sit with her inside, you still can't bring yourself to start the ignition, so you lean your seat back halfway and close your eyes, just for a few moments.

You haven't gotten much sleep either, and you're about to doze off when you hear a loud thud from outside the car. Jerking up, you undo the clasp of your holster and push open the car door. The world is silent, except for the rustling of leaves in the wind, but you start making your way up the drive, just to be sure. There's another thud, quieter this time, and you reach for your sidearm as you ascend her porch steps. Then comes a gunshot.

You start running.

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astridthevalkyrie · 11 months

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tw: dubcon, noncon, bully!gojo, afab reader w/ she/her pronouns

Gojo's a sick fuck.

He corners you on campus in the strangest places, taking advantage of the fact that he's been here a year longer than you. Sometimes Getou or Ieiri are with him, but most of the time he's alone, and when he's alone he's even worse than when he's just putting on a show for his dickhead friends. They only get to bear witness to him teasing you from afar, just his general idiocy and inborn cruelty. When he's by himself, though, nothing stops him from trying to corner you literally, one hand on the wall next to your head and the other finding some excuse to touch you, either running a finger down your cheek or brushing some invisible dust from your shoulder.

And you've had enough. You just want to find a place to sit down and study or read or eat or literally anything else as long as you don't have to worry about the only guy who tormented you all throughout school continuing the cycle in university where you were supposed to be free from this, this cocky, stupid, bitch.

You're in the library today, but his approach is the same as it is in any other location. Your physics lab, outside a professor's office, the community pool, for Christ's sake. First, he makes his presence known, making you aware that he's being his usual creepy self. This time, he's leaning against the wall when you turn the corner behind one of the shelves. There's a book in his hands that has so many dog ears you think he reads one page then saves the literal next one for the following day.

He doesn't look up, not right away. Not until he feels you glare burning his skin for a good few seconds. It's when you assume the burn actually becomes painful that he looks up, feigning a surprised smirk as his icy blues practically gleam. "Fancy seeing you here," he purrs, book staying open in his hands.

"Go to hell, Satoru." There's no point engaging further with him. The only option you have is to get the hell out before he gets to touch you. If he touches you, it's all over. You turn on your heel and throw a quick thank you prayer out that you don't immediately bump into Getou, who would act as the other mousecatcher whenever Gojo decided he wanted to play.

Behind you, you hear him put the book down and your legs move faster without you even thinking about it. You don't even know how he always tracks you down. Maybe he installed some app on your phone without you realizing. You'll get a new one. Anything to just get rid of him.

Even though you've been on campus for at least a month now, virtually every building is still wholly unexplored, mostly because you're constantly trying to avoid these exact types of situations. The amount of times you could have stayed on campus but instead scurried home is already close to the triple digits. And for what? You've only avoided Gojo a handful of times and left yourself unprepared for a hasty escape too.

There's footsteps somewhere, and now that your heart is racing you can't calm down enough to pinpoint where they're coming from. It's a Friday night and not even close to midterm week, so there's a few regulars here, but not nearly enough people that someone will see you. Not that Gojo minds, you've seen him look someone dead in the eye and then squeeze your hip impatiently, as though to tell them do you mind? You don't know where he gets his confidence, but whatever it is, it's well earned. Everyone gives in to him, eventually. Even you.

You turn out of yet another aisle, and then your legs falter.

"Hey, sweetness," he grins at you. Your back hits the wood behind you and your bag thumps to the floor. On days where he wants to really torture you, Gojo acts like a charmer, kissing the back of your hand or carrying your bag over his shoulder, preening in the direction of anyone who calls him a good boyfriend, singing a sinister thanks knowing damn well he isn't your anything.

This isn't one of those days. You can tell.

Gojo doesn't want to be your boyfriend anymore than you want to be his girlfriend. He likes his lifestyle, and an average stick in the mud like you would definitely ruin the perfect image. But that doesn't mean he wants you out of his life completely. When he'd learned you'd be going to the same university as him, he'd sent you the only text message he'd ever sent you, a filthy picture captioned with a sweet and simple can't wait to have you.

And have you he will, whenever he wants. He's pretty open about that. "Are you in a rush?" His blues blink innocently. You're not sure why he keeps up the act even when no one is around, it only serves to set your nerves further askew.

"Leave..." Before you can even formulate the thought of a process, his hands are on your hips, pinky finger slipping under your sweater inconspicuously. "Leave me alone, Satoru."

"Nah," he breathes, "you look real pretty today, sweetheart."

While he doesn't make a move to take your sweater off, he does bury his face in your shoulder and inhale the scent. Then he slowly switches from the sweater to your actual skin, tucking down the fabric of the turtleneck to expose your neck, which you'd taken pains and suffered the heat to hide. Gojo moans a little at just the last remaining bruise he sees on you.

"Love when you don't try to cover it up," he murmurs, "don't need you treating me like a dirty secret."

As if you could keep him a secret. No one aside from your professors even tries speaking to you, and you have no doubts as to why. "I do try—I did cover it up."

"This doesn't count." Instead of just kissing you, because he's a bitch, Gojo kisses the inside of your turtleneck, his hair tickling your nose. "I meant makeup and crap. This? S'like unwrapping a present, baby."

"Satoru," you choke. It isn't just how he touches you, it's everything. The proximity, the casual way he says the most scummy things you've heard in your life and says them like they're just simple facts.

"Normally, I'd tell someone to stop playing so hard to get after so many times. But you're special, y'know." Two fingers push your lower lip down and slide in slowly, running over your gums before violating your mouth further. "This bitchy attitude only makes me wanna have you more." He waits, waits for you to gag, to choke on his fingers and look up at him with watery, pleading eyes before he removes his fingers and slots his lips over yours.

When Gojo kisses you, it's not demanding so much as needy. For someone who already has an ego that's sky high, he still seems to want you to stroke it, and nothing strokes his ego more than the noises you make unwillingly. Every little gasp, whimper, sharp breath, he swallows possessively, as he drags his nails gently along your lower back, making you squirm closer to his mouth to get away.

He plays you like you're his favorite instrument. And he knows exactly which strings to pluck.

His tongue nips at your teeth playfully, and that's when you pull away, summoning up whatever remaining courage you have. "Someone's going to come down this way," you beg, because the only thing you haven't experienced yet is being fucked with an audience, and you're not eager to change that. "Please, Sato—"

"It's okay." The fingers that were just in your mouth a few seconds ago now slide down your waist and under your jeans, nudging them down. "Don't need any foreplay. Been hard since you walked into the library, sweetness. And I bet you've just been dripping playing tag with me. I promise one of these days you'll get to be it," he mocks, as his other hand undoes his belt.

Tears spring to your eyes, but Gojo kisses them off your eyebags before they can fall too far. "You're so tired," his voice coos, "m'gonna make it all better. I'll make you feel so good."

His hand twists into your hair, yanking it back in a single motion that must be gentle for him, but it's rough for you. It's the sting in your scalp that you focus on as he takes your hand and wraps it around his cock, making you jerk him off in preparation. It's the one thing he always demands, claiming he can't get off unless he gets to feel your touch first. Bullshit.

Once he's satisfied, Gojo moves your hand away, intertwining your fingers and placing them on the shelf next to your head as he guides his dick to your leaking pussy, sliding the first inch in with a hiss.

Praise drips from him easily like this, when he has you between him and any hard surface. The individual shelves hurt your back, but less so when he slides an arm around you, pulling you closer as he pushes in with one lazy thrust.

"Ah!" your cry catches in your throat, but he bites you, groaning with your lip caught between his teeth. He pulls out and thrusts again, and your tear slips down to your mouth this time, where he licks it off.

"God," he compliments, developing a pace that's fast but not fast enough, not fast enough to ensure you won't get caught or to make you cum, "so fuckin' glad I don't let anyone else fuck you. This cunt's only for me, yeah? Belongs to me?" When you don't answer, too focused on the feeling of him filling you, leaving you empty, and then filling you again, he speeds up. To Gojo, the more you struggle to give him what he wants, the more fair it is to make it harder.

The shelf shakes as he loves you against it, it won't fall but you fantasize about him being crushed under it anyways. Then you think about being buried under with him, completely in his clutches with no telling when you'd be able to get out, and you clench around him, eyes rolling back.

"You think there's cameras in here?" he pants, digging his nails into your skin again. The pads of his fingers press roughly under your shirt, sure to leave even more bruises for him to lavish with his tongue later, whenever he pleases. "Think someone'll see you getting railed and jack off to it? I know I would, baby. If I only got you on camera I'd be fuckin' my hand and coming on your face every night. Lucky me," he gasps, and you feel him swell inside you, "that I got the real thing all to myself."

You hate how much his voice and his words affect you, how much each filthy thought of his makes your pussy practically gush for him as one of your own fingers rubs over your clit frantically. Each squelching sound makes him more feral, till he's rattling you against the shelf, every thrust of his hips growing more frantic and more desperate.

"I'm almost there, sweetness." Gojo reaches up and squishes your cheeks together, blues blown out as he kisses your puckered lips one more time. "Answer my question, baby. Tell me whose cunt this is so I can blow my load in it. C'mon, fuck, tell me."

You let out a sob that hiccups into a moan, force out, "Yours," and cum.

Gojo whines, thrusting one, two, three more times before he's coming too, filling you up with each jerk of his hips. His head falls onto your shoulder, panting on your neck. Your turtleneck is entirely too warm now, and useless to boot. Cum drips from your pussy; Gojo slides two fingers against your hole as he pulls out, sticking them in your mouth, just at your tongue this time. You taste him and yourself, and even though he's not forcing them in further this time, you still feel like gagging.

He takes them out, then places them in his own mouth, sucking them off and groaning at the taste.

As he tucks himself back in his pants, he runs a hand through his hair, setting it back into place before dropping a kiss to your cheek. Your tears have dried now, and you're trying to ignore his cum leaking onto your panties as you pull your jeans up. You don't even want to think about how you look, or about how you'll bring yourself to another orgasm tonight thinking of this, albeit not one as good.

Patting your hip, Gojo flashes you his best grin. "See you next time, sweetness. Maybe tomorrow?" Without waiting for your reaction, he strolls off, a single hand raised in goodbye.

Wiping at your cheeks and taking out your phone, you release an angry sniff, penciling it in.

#i have never ever written for gojo idk how this happened a charlie puth song really put me in a mood #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo #gojo satoru #jjk #jjk x reader #valkyrie stories

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kykyonthemoon · 1 month

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Nightmares

When nightmares strike, you are the sole source of warmth that could help him overcome his inner turmoil.

ಇ. Character x Reader/MC

(Caleb, Rafayel, Zayne and Dawnbreaker, Xavier and Glitch!Xavier)

ಇ. Tags: hurt/comfort, angst with a little fluff, emotional hurt, comfort

ಇ. Word count: 3k7

ಇ. Requested anonymously.

ಇ. Masterlist

ಇ. Request

Pic from X

𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

It was a sunny afternoon when he returned to his old house.

That place still had a modest beauty, the kind of beauty that made family members feel sad every time they left. It was so deeply engraved in his mind that with every breath, he knew he was closer and closer to returning home.

There, would be someone always waiting for him.

The door creaked when opened. Caleb walked inside. The familiar smell of food and the sound of cooking in the kitchen were always the things that impressed him the most. He continued in that direction till he noticed a familiar figure sitting at the dining table, back to the aisle.

Caleb grinned and spoke your name. You did not reply. He went forward, putting one hand on your shoulder to turn you around.

Your lifeless eyes glanced up at him.

"Pipsqueak? What's wrong?"

You did not respond. You slowly rose up and entered the kitchen. Why was this place so dark and cold? Caleb failed to recall the house being this vast and gloomy.

"Where are you going? I'm back now, pipsqueak?

You halted. The warm sunlight poured down on him through the window, but where you stood just a few steps away from him, everything was in darkness.

Even you.

“You only came home now…” You spoke, but your voice didn't contain any emotion. You were always the one who ran into his arms when he came home after long journeys away! Why were you being so distant then?

“Pipsqueak…”

Caleb reached out to you. How he wanted to touch you! He wanted to hold you in his arms and if he had to beg your forgiveness for leaving you, he would definitely do so.

He had been gone for too long.

You looked at him. Tears began to fall and your face showed little emotion. Not joy, but resentment. You became distorted and writhed as if fire surrounded your body.

“You've been gone for too long!”

You screamed out in pain. Caleb quickly rushed towards you, but it seemed like a force was holding him back, making him unable to move. Just like that, he could only open his eyes and watch you burn. The kitchen was on fire. The house was on fire. Everything was on fire.

“You've been gone too long, Caleb!” You shouted. Your tears turned into blood as your body burnt in the flames. “You left me alone! You abandoned our home!”

The walls cracked, the windows exploded and debris flew all around, cutting you, cutting him. The ceiling began to collapse. But there was nothing Caleb could do. He just cried.

“Pipsqueak… Please…”

“You… left me… here...”

Your plaintive screams were swallowed by fire. When he finally was able to reach out and touch you, there was nothing left there but a burned corpse.

The fire disappeared. The cozy house in Caleb's memory had become ruins. He clutched your corpse, which was scorched black and was disintegrating into dust. The sobbing inside him turned into a protest against himself.

He left, because he thought it was the best thing for you.

When it all came back, to this place, many years ago, he had caused the house to explode. To you, he had been dead since then. He didn't have time to say goodbye. But he only had to do it to ensure your safety.

In the end, he could not save you. He could not save himself.

Still, you left this world. Still, you turned into ashes. Who did this to you; it was not the matter. Not when you had already died the day he left.

Caleb yelled with anguish. He lost you, he lost his home. The one thing that kept him going was gradually vanishing, soaring with the wind and never returning to him.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

“Pipsqueak!”

Caleb shouted. He opened his eyes to see the familiar bedroom ceiling, which was dimly lit by street lights outside the window and visible through the curtains.

Beside him, you turned over. With your eyes still closed, one hand struck his chest.

“What now?… Waking me up in the middle of the night…” You said in a sleepy voice. Caleb grabbed your hand and turned around to hug you. Only when he felt your warmth and buried his face in the scent of your hair could he calm down.

“It's nothing, pipsqueak…” He whispered. “It was just a nightmare… Sorry for waking you…”

You breathed evenly in a straight position on the bed. Your mouth grumbled something like: "Idiot... You're a grown-up now, and you're still afraid of nightmares..."

Caleb smiled softly. He gave you an even tighter embrace. "Yes. I'm such an idiot. I'm so terrified of nightmares every time I have to leave you."

“But I'm right here. Now will you let me go back to sleep?”

“Just let me hold you a little longer…” He whispered as he put his hand beneath the pillow and softly drew you into his loving arms.

You were real in front of his eyes.

And he had no intention of allowing you to vanish like in that dream again.

𝑹𝒂𝒇𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒍

Waves crashed onto the shore in regular rhythms. The twisted moon overhead sent a feeble light into the sea, engulfing the two little figures standing by it. The water had reached their knees, and the two were leisurely dancing together.

Spinning. Around and around. Magically shimmering water droplets continued to soar high with each stride. You smiled pleasantly at him. That night, you became his bride.

The celebration was over. Only the two of you remained together, from now until eternity. You were so beautiful, so perfect. Your love for him was as pure as your smile.

And he should have felt happy.

He should have, because after all, he had got you and this perfect ending. But was this really the end?

He gazed at you with melancholy eyes. You smiled heartily as you whirled around. Sea water surged up high, bathing your entire body in a vivid crimson color. The entire water surface became the color of blood.

You were still dancing, as if the pungent odor of death gave you delight. You were immersed in blood when he gazed at you. Hatred was the only thing burning in his heart at that time.

You swayed a little farther, then turned towards him. Your arms stretched out as you called affectionately:

“Rafayel! Hurry. Come with me!”

He moved closer. He was strolling through a pool of blood from his own kind. Lemurian blood was dispersed over the waters.

Unbeknownst to you, as you turned your back on Rafayel, one of his hands was wrapped around your waist, the other brandishing a knife.

“I like this place. Can we stay here forever?” You said, as if you didn't care about the blood gushing at your feet.

"Alright." Rafayel replied in a cold voice. “If you like it here, we'll stay.”

You leaned your head back with joy, resting on his chest. You were so little, yet you had a powerful heart. So gorgeous. He only wanted to strangle it, tear it out of your chest, and toss it into the deep sea.

He wanted you to pay the price.

You closed your eyes and hummed the melody he once sang for you. How foolish of him! He had given you everything—his love, his life, his whole kingdom... Everything was ruined by your hands.

Now, he shall take it all back.

Rafayel raised your chin and let you stare at him for a long while. You were smiling still. But he swung the sharp blade high, plunging into your heart.

In your eyes was terror and agony. Tears streamed from the corners of your eyes, but he still held your chin in his palm, making you unable to look away as his other hand forced the hilt of the dagger, deeper into your heart.

“Rafayel… Why… Why?…”

That was all you could say before the vivid red blood from your heart spread to his palm, spilling into the sea and merging with the blood of the Lemurians.

He should have been satisfied. He should have been thrilled since he carried out his vengeance.

But he simply felt broken.

When he tossed your lifeless corpse into the water, it seemed like he had died too that very moment.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

“Rafayel!!!… Stop… I can't… breathe… Rafayel!…”

You pinched Rafayel's cheek hard; he was sleeping on your chest. His weight prevented you from breathing normally. The ache awoke him. White pearls dropped from the corners of his eyes.

“Rafayel?…”

You frowned and watched him slowly rose up, both hands resting on your pillow. When he lowered his head, the radiant pearls continued to rain on your face and the bed.

“Hey… What's wrong?” You lifted your hands to caress his cheeks. “Why are you crying?”

“I… just had a nightmare…”

Rafayel gasped. It must have been a really horrific nightmare to make him this way. He fell asleep, his body was all over you, and then he started weeping. You had never seen him like this, and it concerned you.

"What did you dream about?" Your arms curled around Rafayel's neck, bringing him closer. He hesitated, as if he didn't want you to know, then revealed:

“In my dream, I had to kill the person I loved.”

Silence filled the room. The sky over your head was twinkling with stars. Rafayel's bedroom was filled with the lovely sound of the sea. You rubbed your face into the crook of his neck and murmured:

“I trust Rafayel will never harm me.”

“Are you sure? Even I don't know... The person in the dream... It's not me..."

"That's right." You rubbed his sweaty back. “That person is definitely not you. You know, people say dreams are the opposite of reality. What you saw will not happen.”

Rafayel was calmer, however, you still felt his body trembling in your arms.

“I won't allow that to happen…” He replied. “Having to end the life of the person I love… It is far more painful than being stabbed in the heart by that same person…”

“Rafayel.” You said in a serious tone. You held Rafayel's face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. His hair was tangled, and pearls were no longer pouring from his eyes, but they remained red. “I don't know what will happen in the future, but as long as I still breathe, I will never hurt you.”

Rafayel gazed at you for a time before gently smiling. “That's a promise between the two of us then.”

𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

“Zayne… So cold… I'm… so cold…”

Zayne helped you up, quickly wrapping his thick coat around you. His hands stroked your body repeatedly to keep you warm. But you were growing colder. Your breath slowly escaped your body as the sorrow smothered his heart

“No… Wake up… Don't sleep! Please!… Don't sleep now…”

Zayne's scarred and bloody hand clumsily held on to you. So tight. He wanted to give you all his warmth. But did he even have any warmth left?

“It's useless.”

The voice sounded as if it had just escaped his mind. Zayne turned around. Behind him stood Grim Reaper, another Zayne dressed in a cloak as black as the night. Cold and cruel.

“You know you can't save her.”

"Shut up!" Zayne's shouts resonated across the wind and snow. He would never leave you alone in this cold.

Yet Grim Reaper's voice still echoed:

“You know why she died.”

Trembling, Zayne gradually dropped his gaze to the girl in his arms. In the center of your chest, bright, sharp pieces of ice were developing more and more.

"No… NO!" Zayne screamed. His palm touched the shards, causing them to tear into his skin. Bleeding. “I will save her! I must save her!”

He breathed into your numbed hand. But the more he touched you, the greater the ice formed around your body.

“Give up.” Grim Reaper spoke again. Zayne ignored him, despite the fact that they looked absolutely the same.

Nightmare. He had always been his nightmare. Perhaps in another universe, he was the Grim Reaper. And he felt like he was progressively becoming the Grim Reaper as you left this life, leaving him behind.

“Stay with me, please… Open your eyes and look at me….” Zayne begged over her corpse. His tears turned into drops of ice. They fell onto your body and shattered.

You could no longer hear his cries.

"You cannot save her." Grim Reaper said. He was bending down on one knee beside you, on the other side of Zayne. His hand in the black glove brushed across your frost-covered face, as if he, too, was in grief. "After all, you cannot save yourself."

"Leave!" Zayne yelled in rage and suffering. His embrace of you became more intense, as if he wanted to take you away from Grim Reaper's reach. He grinned with bitterness.

"Remember. You are the one who killed her.”

Zayne shook his head, repeatedly. Everything in front of his eyes drifted away. Grim Reaper also vanished. There were only you and him remaining.

He had murdered you.

You and he promised to get through this together. He would save your dying heart, and you would help him in his escape from the curse of his Evol. It was a curse. He was unable to control it, and there came calamity.

Help you? No, he was not your savior. He was your death.

Zayne heard Grim Reaper's laugh - his own laugh - echoing in his thoughts. Cruel yet full of bitterness.

The snowstorm came, but it could not bury his sin and regrets.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

When you came into Dr. Zayne's office during lunch break, you noticed the temperature was unusually low.

You discovered Zayne asleep on the sofa. His body trembled, he broke out in a cold sweat, and his mouth moved without any word heard. You even caught a tear falling from the corner of his eye.

“Zayne? Are you having a nightmare?” You shook him by the shoulders. His entire body felt freezing. The nearest window was covered in frost. You started to panic. But no matter how you attempted to rouse him up, he failed to hear you.

You had to sit on the sofa, placing his head on your lap. You caressed his hair, patted his shoulders and head while comforting him:

"It's alright. I'm here with you… You will be fine…”

After a while, his quiver stopped. His eyes opened slowly. He found you.

“…”

Zayne's hand reached out towards you and then stopped halfway. He was about to touch you but hesitated. Seeing that, you clasped your hand with his.

"What's wrong? Doctor Zayne is experiencing nightmares from overwork, isn't he?"

You smiled. So gentle. That warm beam seemed to calm him down. Zayne's respiration and pulse rate eventually returned to normal. He replied:

“Yeah… My apologies for causing you to worry again.”

When he recognized your cold hand, he became fully awake. He rapidly gained control of his Evol, and the room warmed up to some extent.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes. Much better now.”

Zayne's eyes were still red. He wanted to sit up, but you kept him in your lap for a while longer.

“Lunch break is still long. You can sleep for a bit longer. I will stay here to watch over your sleep.” You declared out loud, as if you were his little defender.

This made Zayne quite happier. He grinned and replied:

“You are always the one who guides me out of nightmares. No matter how bad it gets, I know you will come to my rescue.”

"That's right. Now you can sleep soundly.”

Zayne slowly closed his eyes. He was unsure if he could sleep again after that nightmare. But having you by his side made him feel more at peace. Your fingers squeezed his hand. Your warmth enveloped him. You were alive and well. He still had time to save you, to save himself.

Knowing that made him feel a lot more assured. When you placed a kiss on his forehead, he was ready to face all of the nightmares to come.

𝑿𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓

When Xavier returned to Philos, he did so as a traitor.

He gambled with fate, and lost everything. Honor. Freedom. Love. There was nothing left for him when he returned.

His fleet had crossed countless light years, to innumerable realms out there. But what he was looking for was just an illusion.

And suddenly his entire existence became a curse.

To lose his freedom, to lose the love of his life for eternity. Was that the price to pay for opposing destiny?

In the dark corner of the room, Xavier knelt on the cold stone floor. He could not move, nor speak unless granted permission.

He quietly observed the girl he loved in the garden on the other side of the door. The warm sunshine tenderly casted a lovely aura over your body. Your grin shone brighter than the myriad of flowers in the yard. How many times did Xavier want to approach you, call your name, and touch you? But he could not.

Every time he came close to you, the crimson chain around his neck tightened. It did not murder him, but it was painful and debilitating enough. All he could do was stare at you holding hands with an unknown person. Someone with a physique similar to his.

That man was the King, you were his Queen. And Xavier was nothing but a sinner, a tool to be used, a killing machine. All for you. He would do everything for you, but you were no longer his lover.

You failed to recognize him. You were no longer the same as before. Since the person he truly loved was dead.

She was once a Queen. He had vowed to be the Knight standing beside her. But he left her alone on the cold throne. She died and was reborn, again and again. How many times had his love died before he came back?

The girl in front of him now had no memory of those lives anymore. It was a blessing. For you would no longer have to cry over the treachery you believed he had committed on you.

His only wish was to save you; to save the girl he loved from the spiral of death and rebirth. But when he tried to cut off your chains, he, too, was bound by another curse.

He watched you die and come back in another life. As many times as you sat on that throne, he became a slave at your feet, and as many times as he witnessed your death. He could not do anything else, not even scream and weep.

For, he had been cursed since the day he left you alone.

“Xavier… Save me… I don't want… to die…”

He stared down at your body, which was securely tied to the stone table. Trembling. His Queen begged him. Xavier was shrouded in black. The chain around his neck became tighter.

“Do it, Xavier! Stop wasting time!”

The crowd behind urged him. Xavier's palm clenched on the shiny hilt of his sword.

“No… Xavier… Please!…”

“The sacrifice must be completed! Do not forget your duty as Philos' royalty, Xavier! Do not forget how you betrayed us and what punishment you must endure!”

Xavier closed his eyes tightly. You and him, you could never escape this fate. He raised his sword, once more. He ended your torment, for another life.

Yet, his suffering would never cease.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Xavier awoke with tight agony in his neck and chest. His pillow was drenched from weeping. He heard your frightened voice repeating in his ears:

"Oh dear! You have a high fever!”

Through tears, he watched you climb out of bed. You were going to go fetch him a damp towel and medication. But he pulled you back. He wrapped you securely in his arms.

“X-Xavier? How are you feeling? You scared me?…”

“Sorry… I'm really sorry…”

He continued muttering like that. You began to suspect that his apology was not for waking you up in the middle of the night screaming, or that he was hugging you so tightly that you were suffocating. Was there anything else going on?

"Did you have a nightmare?" You questioned as you wrapped your arms around him, rubbing his neck and back.

Xavier responded with a gentle "yeah". He eased his hold slightly to allow you to breathe. But seeing his condition, you couldn't help but worry.

"You have a fever." You mentioned it again. "Let me get medicine for you…"

“Stay with me!” Xavier spoke, almost like a grumble. It startled you. His arm was draped around your torso, and his other hand gripped your wrist firmly. Xavier dropped his voice, recognizing he was becoming overly emotional: "Please... Just stay here a little longer..."

“Alright… I'm here…” You comforted Xavier. You cared about nothing other than his mental turmoil. But you believed he would feel better, and when he was ready, he would tell you everything.

A moment later, when he had calmed down, Xavier said:

“I'm sorry… I didn't mean to make you sad or worried…”

"It's fine. I just want you to know that I will always be by your side… Besides, we also have Galaxy Kid, Bunbun and these plushies..."

Both Xavier and you gazed at your plushie-filled bed. He grinned faintly, as if he was finally at ease. You added

“We'll get through everything together, okay?”

For a moment, Xavier said nothing. He just tilted his head slightly to look at you closely. His hand caressed your face as if you were a treasure he once lost, then found.

“Of course. We will get through everything together. Definitely…” His voice trailed off as he fell into a hazy condition caused by the fever in the middle of the night. “This time… I won't let you face it… alone…”

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fanaticsnail · 15 days

Text

Beautiful

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,400+

Synopsis: Big Mom has found her son, Charlotte Katakuri, a partner she deemed worthy enough for him to court for matrimony. While he is smitten immediately with you, he is determined to make a good impression on you by not revealing his face. Your curiosity gets the better of you.

Warnings: Katakuri x f!reader, talks of husband and wife, use of bride, massaging face, fluff, so fluffy.

Notes: wrote this half-dazed at 6:30am this morning because @gingernut1314 decided she needed the big man in her life and the brain-worm got me. Here he is, the big guy all for you, sweetheart.

Tag List: @feral-artistry @i-am-vita @indydonuts @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training

Being courted by the Minister of Flour was not something you had ever pictured to be highlighted on your impressive resume. When you first received an invitation from the Charlotte family to venture to Komugi island, this was not an outcome you predicted for yourself.

Charlotte Katakuri, the second son and third child of Big Mom, was told to find a bride. His orders were received, the date of his nuptials set, and his suit picked out for such an excitable occasion. The only thing that had not been set in stone was the partner joining him at his side after their soft march down the aisle.

Your family was titled, strong, and one of the only families Big Mom had deemed worthy enough to usher in a new generation of pirates to join in taking the Charlotte name. Katakuri had no choice but to obey his mother, apprehensively accepting the terms of an arranged marriage against his own desires to simply live to protect his siblings, nieces, and nephews. While this was out of his control, what he could control was how his intended bride depicted him.

He could continue to shield his face from you. His rationale was as such, “If they never view my face, they would never have reason to fear me.” And so he did as such, hiding his face beneath the fur shroud from the moment he met you, and every courtship session soon thereafter. As he laid his eyes on you for the first time, he was immediately smitten. Taken by your appearance alone, and your willingness to sign your name beside his on the registry to set your intentions to wed in stone, he could never be more proud to have a partner such as you.

As his trust in you began to build, he slowly allowed you into his heart, and shared his burdens with you as Minister of Flour. He confided in you, relishing in your company as he openly courted you under the watchful chaperone of his younger sister, Charlotte Brûlée.

One such occasion, he laid out a blanket for you and drew out a large wicker basket from behind his back. He presented you with an assortment of baked sweets and pastries with a soft blush dusting his cheeks beneath the fur shroud. While you accepted the treats with gratitude, you instead placed it beside you and knelt on the blanket, tapping your lap and asking him to lay on his back.

“Tell me about your day, intended. I want to know every detail,” you smiled mischievously up at him. He cautiously stole a look at Brûlée, who emphatically ushered him to do as he was told with flailing hands.

Lowering himself onto the mat beside you, he awkwardly shifted himself to attempt to do as you asked. Rolling your eyes, you reach your hands up to his shoulder and gently guide his larger form to lay his head in your lap. His entire head was the size of both of your thighs together, but you had no qualms or complaints about it.

“Come on, I don't bite,” you reassured him with a soft laugh, “Let me hear about your journeys abroad. Tell me anything that you want, you have my complete attention.” He was a giant, but so incredibly gentle and sweet to those he deemed as family.

Coaxing his head onto your lap, he immediately drew his hand up to his mask and secured it over his lips to keep his mouth and teeth hidden from your sight. You chose to ignore this, drawing your fingers up and settled him atop your thighs as he slowly, quietly spoke about his life to you.

While Charlotte Katakuri was immediately taken by you in the registry office with your family and his, you were horrified by the sight that was met with you. You had heard stories about some of the Charlotte's being of unusual size and stature, but you had no idea exactly how tall your intended was. His form was almost three times your size, his intimidating appearance did nothing to stifle your nerves.

Believing to have masked your concerns at the nuptuals well enough to be believable, your nerves all but melted away the moment his soft, soothing voice checked in with you afterwards. Charlotte Katakuri was a sweetheart, a 504cm tall sweetheart with such softness within his hardened exterior.

Reclining his head on your lap, you rubbed at his plum-colored hair as he spoke about adventures away from Komugi. His hand gestures out in a flurry in front of his chest, pointing to the sky as he speaks so eloquently to you. Although he does not yet trust you enough for you to reveal his face, your curiosity begins to gnaw at the seams.

You start to lower his inhibitions by massaging his scalp, scruff of his neck and forehead. His hair pricks your skin as your skillful touch chips away at his woes and worries. His voice quietens further as he closes his eyes as your hands firmly press against his forehead. You needed to see your soon to be husband’s face, you desperately craved to know what was going on beneath the furs.

As he leans into your touch, he seemingly forgets about the shroud over his mouth hiding his sharpened teeth from you. He is in bliss beneath your hands, and he slips away into a world carved by your palms and fingertips. Your hands dip deeper, lower into his cheeks, your digits feeling his muscles relax their tension beneath your fingers.

Smiling to yourself softly as he gasps at such sweetness befalling from you to him, he parts his lips gently. He arches his head further into your lap, the shroud finally lowering and revealing his sharp teeth and unnaturally widened mouth. His jaw falls slack as his brow becomes relaxed.

You crave to coo at his vulnerability, truly enjoying empathetically how much he allowed himself to relax into your soft touch. This hardened general, this pirate minister, this older brother to so many siblings in the Charlotte family, was as malleable as rice flour mochi beneath your skilled digits. You took in his appearance, almost relieved at feeling the twin slits up his lips as you looked down at him with nothing but pure adoration.

You were immediately in love with what you saw, your heart beating heavily against your ribcage as a warm flush rose to your cheeks. You loved him, all of him.

Brushing your hands over his cheeks, you silently and slowly commit his face to memory like reading a marble carving with a simple touch. He is gorgeous, and you remember to tell him so when he snaps out of his tranquility and looks at you with accusing eyes the moment he realized you slipped the shroud over his chin.

“What are you doing?” he growls quietly, “Why did you do that? I don't want you to fear me-...” A soft gasp flees from your lips as you take him completely in. His lips split up his cheeks in an unnatural slit through symmetrical scars, his sharp fangs extend up on his lower jaw and over his lips.

Although he feels slightly betrayed at the way you managed to easily reveal his face, his betrayal is eclipsed by shock and awe when he meets your eyes.

“I-I just…” you trail off, your body cowering away in response to his anger, but your eyes still depict the emotion you so desperately desired to show him, “...-I just wanted to know. I wanted to see.” Charlotte Brûlée watched the interaction with interest, her own shock evident on her face.

She witnessed the entire interaction with your hands on his face, almost calling out to warn her brother his face was going to be revealed, but quietly hoping you would fall in love with him further. She knew you loved him, knew you wanted to see him, and trusted you enough with her older brother that she knew you would love him more the moment his fangs and scars were brought into the light.

He was expecting fear, disgust, anguish and anger to be met in your curious gaze. But all you held in those calm and half-lidded orbs was pure trust, love, and pure adoration. His shock was adamant as he nervously floated his eyes between your gaze. His thumb and index finger circled around your much smaller hand, hovering it over his cheek as you felt your heart soar at the vulnerability.

“And now that you have?” his whisper came out more like a gasp, his voice breathy and craved to hear you say you weren’t afraid. He needed to know you did not fear his appearance, his wordless prayers spoken within his mind’s eye the longer your gaze soaked in his sight.

You placed your unoccupied hand on his cheek, leaning in closer to his face and your lips curling into a soft, innocent and intimate smile. Caressing his cheek, you cocked your head to the side and finally uttered a single word he truly did not ever think he would hear.

“Beautiful.”

#one piece #x reader #charlotte katakuri #katakuri #katakuri x reader #katakuri one piece #op katakuri #one piece x reader #one piece fluff #one piece romance #writing for a beautiful moot

358 notes · View notes

softshuji · 4 months

Text

Sometimes Tokyo is a suffocating place.

Rindou loves it, don’t get him wrong. The various districts, various people, all milling about, some on phones talking fast, pushing through crowds that part unwillingly as they plough through, mothers and babies in prams and it’s loud, so loud, the tinny buzz of voices on top of each other and his head aches with the need for some silence.

He walks into the library on a whim, his headphones blinking red and drained of battery and the cool quiet interior is a welcome respite from the noise, the collar of his shirt clinging to his neck under his hoodie, the occasional wisp of blond blue hair curling around his ears as the air con blows a blast of cold air.

Once he had hidden here with Ran, between the aisles as a police car rushed past, the two of them hunched over and catching their breath, a long stare that petered off into giggles and laughs, the two of them young and still new to it all. It’s a bit different now, a bit harder to get Ran’s attention since his Wife and child came along. He doesn’t resent it, he’s happy for him. Ran has been the source of his safety for years, it would be selfish to keep him like that- to rob him of what he knows Ran deserves. Peace, something to lean on when he is too stubborn to lean on him.

Old habits do tend to die hard.

But he can’t lie and say it isn’t lonely sometimes. The days when he picks up the phone, types out a text to his Brother- the only person who was only ever a call away, a message away, a shout across the house- and imagines him juggling the throes of newfound parenthood, something he loves and enjoys, and having his little Brother clinging onto him still, this far into adulthood when Rindou thinks he should be able to stand on his own two feet and wishes it was easier to do so.

There is only so much music he can listen to, only so much he can drink alone, only so many clubs he can waste his time at before it bothers him- the strobe lighting, the flirtations of girls who’ll forget his name when the next hotshot with a wad of cash comes along, and maybe he flirts back for a time, just to throw out the napkin with their numbers on later because it ultimately means nothing to him when there’s so little substance and he hates the idea of meeting someone like that- playing pretend because there’s so little else to do.

He’s angry that it seems so hard for him and he wishes he were a little less….him at times. A little more like Ran, a little easier, a little less rough around the edges, the jagged and sharp points of him that are stubborn and unwilling to be smoothed down by time. If it were a year ago, he’d call his Brother now and they’d drive at night and he’d feel a little less like he’s wading out to shore, a little more seen, a little less like he’s squashed between here and there and scrambling for something to understand.

Maybe he kicks at the ground then, and maybe he loses his footing and stumbles into you reaching up to get something from the shelf, you knocked sideways and him barrelling into you, one hand braced on the wall to stabilise himself, the other reaching for you to pull you to him instinctually.

‘Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,’ he says, headphones clattering to the floor, the wires corded around his hoodie, an avid crimson spillingacross his skin. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah, no I’m fine, don't worry.’ And you look up from where you’d bent to brush the dust from your legs with the beginnings of a smile. And maybe the light hits you at just the right angle, the sunlight dancing through the window, dust mites flickering in the golden glow- or maybe he’d touched your hand for a fraction of a second and it had been warm and soft or maybe he’s rationalising and something cold in him cracks a little but he smiles back and lifts a hand to rub at his neck with a trepidation that he curses himself for.

You laugh, awkwardly, a brightness around the edge of you that feels warm, that feels foreign and weird and genuine and he watches the reflection of himself in your eyes, bewilderment and confusion and an attempt at a lopsided smile when you retrieve his headphones from the floor, the two sides now coming apart in your hands.

‘Oh,’ you say, a worried bite on your lip, the two sides of his now broken pair in your two hands. ‘God I’m so sorry, I can pay you for these-’

‘No need, it was my fault, I’m the one who hit you.’

‘No, no, I was in the way-’

‘You weren’t, I was just not watching where I was going. You don’t have to pay for anything, they weren’t that good anyway.’

He neglects to mention that they were his favourite pair, a set he bought a year back to kick off the DJ thing that never really went anywhere, because it was only ever just him and the kit, him and the music and maybe it was a lonely experience to not have anyone to share that with, long nights where the tinny sound of the music is somehow an ache in the otherwise silent house.

‘You sure?’ You cock your head to the side, lifting the two halves. ‘They seem really good quality. I can’t pay for it all now but maybe-’

‘Don’t worry, seriously. I got a tonne more at home.’

You blink and he curses himself again inwardly, avoiding and resisting a sidestep on his feet in nervous apprehension. He sees then, your books scattered on the floor at your feet, and bends to pick them, resting them under his arm as he leans down before handing them to you gently, his fingers brushing yours on the underside and it makes his chest lurch when you murmur a quiet ‘thank you’ that he’s glad isn’t lost on the reverberating drone and shuffle of feet in the next aisles over.

‘Okay, I can get you a coffee? It doesn’t quite make up but I’d feel bad for not doing anything at all.’ You turn to pack the books into your bag and he watches you, the ease with which you hand the two sides back to him and wait expectantly for his reply, the loud and disastrous crash of his heart that he’s convinced you can hear, the long and ample silence that has his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth.

‘You don’t have to say yes by the way- I’m not trying to- you know, I just feel bad for breaking one of your things-’

His lips part. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll….’ he chews on his lip, hands helplessly holding the broken headphones, the swirl of something that feels like desperation clouding the flecked hue of his eyes. ‘Yeah, I think that’ll be okay.’

And it feels strange and different and new and terrifying when you grin brightly and pat his arm and the hollow of his throat beats with nerves, pink flashing across his cheeks and ears in a way that feels so utterly like a betrayal.

You hum, hoist a stack under your arm and the sun is out, streaming through the windows as you lift your bag over your shoulder. ‘Okay nice, I’m going to go check these out but I'll meet you outside in ten?’

‘S-sure….’ he says, a whisper caught on his lips with a starved and suffocating breath, the dizzying euphoria, nerves and anxiety all rolling along his chest when he watches you leave with a short wav, the bag you’re carrying falling over your shoulder.

And maybe the pain is good this time, the sense of vertigo that has him bracing a hand on the shelf, a hand to his chest to rub at, slow and deliberate breaths to calm his racing heart.

Maybe this time, he feels a little less angry, a little less sad, a little more like something that feels scarily akin to happiness.

Reblogs appreciated!

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #tokyorev x reader #haitani rindou #rindou x reader

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delcakoo · 1 year

Note

Coudl you doooo bf!jungwon catching some guy staring at you and tries to scare them off? if requests aren’t open I’m so sorry!

wahaha ur wish is my command nonnie (warning neck kisses? marking)

now who did this guy think he was?

jungwon was in no way blind — unlike you, who seemed much too preoccupied picking a cereal brand to notice the disgraceful, unwanted, horrendously noticeable leer that this young man was offering you from down the aisle.

“—won?”

“huh?” craning back towards you, jungwon cringes in on himself at the concerned expression adorning your features.

“you okay? i just wanted to know which one you’d prefer.” supporting your words, you lift up a box of ‘nesquik’ in one hand, and ‘frosted flakes’ in the other.

in an attempt to not be obvious about his displeasure, he quickly nods to the latter. “we haven’t got frosted flakes in a while.”

the minute you turn around and begin scanning through the grocery list again, jungwon snaps his head back to the man, only to realize he still had his eyes on you. seriously, was he blind too? your very big, strong, kind-of-tall boyfriend was right there!

shoving his fisted-up knuckles deeper into the comfort of his orange hoodie, your cat boyfriend frowns. he wouldn’t just sit around and let that guy drool over you if there was something he could do about it.

even when jungwon wraps his arms around your waist, you don’t flinch at the abruptness of it, which only encourages him to move closer and rest his chin against your shoulder. his warmth is easily welcomed, including the light kisses that he starts gently peppering down your neck (even if such pda — that he usually never has confidence for — bewilders you a bit).

little do you know he most definitely isn’t reading the list over your shoulder — rather, jungwon’s busy glaring at this brown-haired man with the nastiest scowl he can muster. his face practically screams at the man to back off, and the tight grip his fingers find on your waist accentuates his claim further. you don’t fail to notice how his lips feel feathery and slightly wet against your skin, which only worsens as the male begins sucking to leave a mark with no prior notice.

at the ticklish feeling, you quickly shake him off. “yah, what’re you doing? we’re in the grocery store,” you remind in confusion, a slight blush dusting your cheeks. but it seems you’re too late; jungwon is now smiling proudly, and when you spin around to follow his gaze and discover what the commotions about, you’re left with an empty aisle.

“nobody’s here,” you murmur, rubbing your neck furiously. “geez, won. give me your hoodie, you dumbass.”

he obliges, dimples poking through his cheek even while pulling the soft material over his head. “now you wanna cover up my love, jagi?”

“yup. but maybe if you let me give you a matching one later i’ll call it even.”

his eyes can’t help but widen at that. “yoi..” jungwon giggles, pale fingers rising to shyly massage the back of his neck. he may have scared him off.. but perhaps he’d have to thank that guy later.

i missed writing for wonie it’s been so long <\3 also, reqs are closing again soon cuz exams r getting closer :( i’ll be working on the ones in my inbox for the meantime!!

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evalevaeva · 7 months

Text

only us | ryu shioh/ryu sio

HOW THE FUCK DO I SPELL HIS NAME

You waited on the steps outside your apartment as you pressed on the unread message from sio on your phone.

"Are you ready? I'm reaching soon," Sio's message read as you tapped on your keyboard, sending a response back.

"I'm outside my apartment, waiting," You sent back.

A grey bubble appeared as sio typed quickly, "I told you to not stay outside alone. Many people are after me, I don't want you getting pulled into this mess".

You smiled softly at the evident worry in his message as you heard the sound of a car pulling up in front of your apartment. You lifted your head as you saw the familiar car that sio used to get around. The door on the opposite side of where you were seated at opened as you stood up, dusting your bottom as you saw sio, in his signature black suit as he smiled.

"Did you wait long?" Sio asked as he opened the door on the side closer to you, motioning you to get in as you took a seat in the car, giving sio's assistant a smile as sio entered the car, sitting next to you.

"I promised you we'd go out on a date when I returned to Korea, so everything today is up to you. You can choose for us to go skydiving and we'll do it, if you want to pick worms, we'll do it," Sio said as he slipped his hand into yours, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb.

You thought about it as you chose two activities you'd like to do with him.

"Maybe not skydiving. Instead, how about we get canvases and paint? then we can go for dinner or I can cook," You suggested as Sio nodded, turning to his assistant as he said, "Drive us to the nearest art store, then drive us home".

The man simply nodded. You turned to Sio excitedly as you asked, "So what have you been up to so far? I'm sorry I didn't get to see you at the airport when you returned... my boss made me cover for another worker out of the blue. "

Sio hummed as he thought about his adventures since he came back to Korea.

"Well, I joined a heritage club, and I'm doing normal boring office stuff, that's about it. How about you love?" Sio switched the topic quickly as you thought about it.

"I got called in for a job recently, for CEO Hwang Geum Joo! Isn't that exciting?" You told him as your face was plastered with a big smile.

Sio's smile faltered slightly, his eyes switching to the mirror at the front, making eye contact with his assistant as he nodded, "That's good. Are you nervous?".

"Hmm.. well... not really! I think I have a pretty good chance at this job! and there's a lot of benefits, so I'll have more rest days," You admitted as the car turned into the front of the art store.

It had been a while since you had gone to one and Sio... well he had no time for things like that.

"I told you, you don't have to work. Let me pay for everything," Sio said as you shook your head. "I need to be independent too. What if I wanted to buy a house or something," You asked him as he turned to you, bending down slightly as he whispered, "Then I'll get it for you".

He knew his affect on you, and it didn't take long for a red flush to creep up your neck.

"Let's just... go in," You changed the topic as you led sio into the store, your hands still connected as the worker in the store greeted, "Welcome!".

You walked around with sio as you got to the aisle with different canvases. There were big ones, medium sized ones and small ones. You hummed as you look through the different canvases, trying to think of a project you could do together.

"What if we get a big one and we paint on it together? Then we can hang it up in your apartment," Sio suggested as you turned to him.

"Then you won't have one..." You sighed as you tried to think of something. A lightbulb lit in your head as you grab two medium-sized canvases and put them together, side by side.

"If we paint on them like this, it'll be one complete painting, then we each take one!" You said happily as you stared at the two canvases.

Sio was busy staring at you, smiling as he watched your eyes crinkle and your cheekbones rising when you were happy with your decision. Sio rested his chin on the top of you head as he said softly, "You're so smart. My girlfriend is so smart, I'm lucky."

You laughed as you responded, "You're just as smart. Don't boost my ego too high."

Sio took the two canvases from your hands as you walked to the paint section. Different varieties from water colour to acrylic paint were available there. Your indecisiveness began kicking in as you were torn on what colours to get.

"You can't decide on the colours, right?" Sio could practically read your mind. He bent down as he took a look at the small cans, looking at the colours that could compliment each other.

"Let's get this set, it looks like there's a lot of varieties so we won't have to decide," Sio said as he picked up a set of 8 colours.

Sio wasn't even looking at the price tag as he simply grabbed what he thought you'd need to paint while you were kind of worried if his wallet would survive. Who were you kidding? He's a ceo.

You grabbed a set of brushes as you ushered him to the cashier, not wanting him to look at anything else.

The cashier was stumped as she gulped, amazed at sio's height. She grabbed the items, scanning them and placing them into a plastic bag as she pressed a few keys on the cashier.

"That'll be 24,000 won," the cashier stated as sio took out his wallet before taking out his black card to pay. He tapped his card on the payment machine before taking the receipt and the bag.

"Let's go?" He said as he linked your arms, walking out the store as his assistant took the items from him, placing them in the back as the both of you made your way back home.

Sio played some music from the playlist the both of you had put together when he came back and sat down next to you as you taped the two canvases together. You wore a plain black shirt that Sio had lent you to prevent your outfit from getting dirty, while sio had on his normal black t-shirt and black jeans.

"What were you planning on painting, dear?" sio asked as you showed him a photo on your phone.

"The photo I took for you overseas?" Sio asked, unsure, as you nodded. "I was having a hard time at that point because you were so far away, but that picture was so beautiful, it's even my lockscreen," You said as you showed him your screen.

He smiled as he sat next to you, getting a paintbrush as he took some paint, "should we start?".

The both of you painted in silence with the occasional 'is this right?' or 'how do i paint this?'.

The painting was about 90% finished when sio suddenly placed his paintbrush down, placing his elbows on the table as he watched you silently. He felt as if he fell in love once again as he watched you like a little high school boy meeting his first love. He had spent too long away from you and he couldn't deny it.

"Why did you stop painting?" You asked as you looked at him. "I was busy admiring my painting," He said as he reached out to caress your hair.

"I think... it's finished!" You happily said as you removed the tape connecting the two canvases together, seeing the two separate paintings come together. "We did a good job, love. Where should I hang this?" Sio asked as he took his side of the painting, looking around his apartment as you pointed to his room.

"How about there? Then I'll put mine up in my room too, so when we wake up, we'll see our painting every day," you suggested as sio went to the kitchen, opening the bottom drawer to get a hammer and a nail as he knocked one nail into the wall, hanging the painting as the both of you looked at it.

Sio placed an arm over your shoulder as he pulled you close, placing a kiss on your head as he said, "It reminds me of you."

You chuckled as you responded, "It's supposed to remind us of each other".

The both of you never got to eat dinner as you fell asleep on the couch, head on sio's lap as he brushed your hair out of your face, leaning back as he also fell asleep.

---

wow finally a fic that doesnt follow original storyline eva ur amazing thank u guys

#ryu sioh #strong girl nam soon #byeon woo seok #ryu shi oh #ryu sio

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two-red-lungs · 1 year

Text

The Kids Are Alright (Eddie Munson)

Your first date with Eddie Munson is fine, as far as first dates go. You get pizza together: meet awkwardly outside the door at 7pm, hands sweaty, exchanging nervous, butterfly-riddled smiles. You eat. He can't stop moving in his seat opposite you, tapping his hands on the sticky enamel tabletop. He looks at you with big brown eyes. Wary, at first, then as the night goes on and it becomes clear this isn't some string-along joke, or a prank, with boyish glee.

But the second date is the one that really shines.

Eddie, in all his intellectual glory, takes you to the Dollar Tree.

It's late, again, and the D in the logo flickers in and out of existence. The air inside smells like cheap plastic, dust, and the urban sprawl of capitalism. This is a place that's usually... dead. A pathetic sort of dead, where dreams come to die, the cashier looks about five seconds from falling asleep, agonizingly boring elevator music plays over tinny speakers, and Hawaiian themed teacups are on sale for ninety-nine cents.

You think god, what the hell are we even doing here? This is hardly a dinner date, or the bowling alley, or makeout point, or any of the usual dates your friends always bragged so cooling about. But then Eddie looks at you over his shoulder, spins on his heel, and throws his arms wide. His outfit jingles.

"Welcome," he says with a glint in his dark eyes, "to the goddamn kingdom of imagination."

You should leave. God knows to anyone else at school this date could sound like a horror story, an uncouth, uncool, unladylike disaster. But there's something in those eyes. Something vibrant and alive and real. So instead of leaving you think, okay. Why not.

Best decision of your life.

He knows this place by heart, every white-tiled aisle under the buzzing fluorescents. And he's funny, too: you didn't expect him to be so funny. As you both slowly amble and push your squeaky-wheeled cart he picks up random shit, talking as he fiddles.

A fuzzy caterpillar cat toy becomes his moustache. He wraps a crinkled paper streamer around his neck like a boa and faints dramatically against some of the shelves. He scurries to the aisle next to you and pretends to walk down a staircase, disappearing from view: when his moppish head pops back up again, his wild hair flounces.

Huh. He smiles like the sun.

Eddie asks about everything possible, and god, under his stoner slang he's whip fucking smart. You crack a joke or a sarcastic reference and he smoothly returns it with equal emphasis, two tennis players on the court.

You check out picture frames. Eddie suggests throwing a little spraypaint on it, a little silver paint to light the edges, some weathering with sandpaper, and suddenly you've got yourself some primo decor.

"You like to paint?" You ask him, standing in the aisle, holding the shitty wooden frame. He's looking over your shoulder. You can feel his body heat, this close.

"I'm a big believer in, uh. Creativity, y'know?" His smile is big, toothy. Still nervous. Like as extroverted as he is, as big as his personality could be, the sting of a scoff or a sneer could still hurt.

You tell him that's cool. Something in his eyes softens.

God, you don't know how many hours you spend in that place, just talking and touching shit and discussing potential DIY projects and cool ideas. You talk comics, and music, and Hawkins social politics. He tells you about Tolkien. You tell him about David Brin. He likes David Murray, you like Siouxie Sioux. You both agree the autumn leaves this time of year make the Hawkins High look like its roof is on fire (and god, if only).

Your cart is full of bullshit you don't really need, bullshit full of promise and potential, and Eddie is letting you ride the cart with your feet on the front bar as he pushes it down the aisle at mach one speed. He splutters behind you, your hair in his mouth. He's laughing.

The total comes to 12 dollars even. The plan for the next date is to turn the kids bathtub toys you bought- ducks and dolls and dolphins- into zombies and mummies and other creatures with the shitty barely-opaque acrylics set you scored.

The sky is black outside, and it's raining. He asks if he'll see you again this week, and you say yeah, duh. The air feels like fireworks- like lightning, like a live wire. You think for a second that he's gonna kiss you.

Eddie pulls out a silver-plastic tiara from under his vest, nicked free of charge from the girl's section, and sets it on your head. It's cheap, pattern-punched plastic with pink plastic gems. It's perfect. He's made you a fairytale.

Munson bows, smiles again- the one that makes his eyes crinkle- and then he's off in his van.

He's so weird. He's so strange. You don't understand him.

You think you really like him.

#eddie munson #stranger things s4 spoilers #eddie munson x reader #stranger things imagine #my writing #I'M NOT DEAD I'M JUST IN UNIVERSITY

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beholdingslut · 2 months

Text

got married this weekend. wish u all could've come but there was one tumblr mutual in attendance as your surrogate. here's a brief rundown so you feel like you were there: walked down the aisle to an orchestral version of video games. left the ceremony to gold dust woman. quoted walter benjamin in my vows while nick dropped a karl marx ref in their speech. three of our guests surprised us with a haka and we sobbed. my married name makes me sound like a detective or a superhero. someone dropped a glass on the dance floor and it immediately migrated to my foot. great night. please remind tumblr user @nickandros that happy wife = happy life

#eeeeeeeee! im so in love that i might stop breathing #nick also quoted maya angelou darwish and ada limon. HURL. they know me so well #MY FOOT IS FINE BTW. i kept dancing after the glass was removed

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fatesundress · 1 year

Text

⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task."

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it.

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky.

And you do it.

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours.

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not.

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him.

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?”

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions.

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation.

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt.

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you.

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him.

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

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