Commit Arson, I Dare You

Probably gonna be weird shit Any pronouns 18 :)

[commit-arson-i-dare-you]

Rocky mate bad as hell, statement.

[aroace-ryland-grace]

Some of a random Eridian's favourite Grace noises

[ramqiu]

the upgraded xenonite suit was invented shortly after

inspired by this tweet

[wolfythewitch]

all all all

[crunchi-yuriful]

patron saints of one way trips

[amaranthinespirit]

ELIZABETH'S 2025 KINKTOBER MASTERLIST | CALL OF DUTY

an — first time participating in kinktober, so we'll see how long and how far I'll participate! I tried to add variety in character so it's not just simon or könig, so we'll see how that goes!

more details will be added as the days go by! tw — potentially dark themes — dead dove.

OCTOBER 1ST — knife play w/ simon

OCTOBER 2ND — overstimulation + breeding w/ soap

OCTOBER 3RD — monsterfucking w/ könig

OCTOBER 4TH — webcam w/ simon

OCTOBER 5TH — cuckoldry w/ price + simon

OCTOBER 6TH — breathplay/choking w/ keegan

OCTOBER 7TH — somnophilia w/ gaz

OCTOBER 8TH — masturbation w/ könig

OCTOBER 9TH — pumpkin fucking w/ simon

OCTOBER 10TH — outdoor sex w/ price

OCTOBER 11TH — exhibitionism w /keegan

OCTOBER 12TH — kidnapping w/ könig

OCTOBER 13TH — stalking w/ gaz

OCTOBER 14TH — drunk sex w/ simon

OCTOBER 15TH — size difference w/ könig

OCTOBER 16TH — waxplay w/ simon

OCTOBER 17TH — uniform kink w/ keegan

OCTOBER 18TH — aftercare w/ all

OCTOBER 19TH — angry sex w/ gaz

OCTOBER 20TH — cum eating w/ könig

OCTOBER 21ST — overstimulation, dacryphilia, + praise kink w/ simon

OCTOBER 22ND — wall sex w/ price

OCTOBER 23RD — messy sex w/ soap

OCTOBER 24TH — forced orgasm w/ simon

OCTOBER 25TH — remote-control + semi-public w/ könig

OCTOBER 26TH — body worship + biting w/ simon

OCTOBER 27TH — crawling w/ keegan

OCTOBER 28TH — double penetration w/ simon + soap

OCTOBER 29TH — tentacles w/ könig

OCTOBER 30TH — devil's night.

OCTOBER 31ST — happy halloween.

what are you most excited for?

[scary-noodlesblog]

Stop 👏 tagging 👏 x OCs 👏 as 👏 x Readers 👏

FUCK

[badathumanemotions]

Marked for the Mission (Part 1)

@reidgif Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI Masterlist CW: Smut, Undercover As Couple, Play Party, Sub Spencer, Collared Spencer, Dom Reader, BAU Reader, Impact Play, Suspension Play, Pet Play, Shibari, Orgasm Denial/Edging, Hand Job, Oral Sex, Vibrator, Catching an Unsub. WC: 14,438 Reader and Spencer go undercover at a play party. Spencer takes to being a sub a little too well. (Not Proof Read) (Part One of Two) (Part Two)

The hotel room is quiet but tense. Not tense like a briefing room or a takedown—tense like something coiled, waiting.

Spencer is standing near the window, arms crossed loosely, shoulders drawn in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed with your phone screen still lit, the mansion’s invite-only guidelines pulled up for the fifth time.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Security’s going to be tight. They scan for electronics at the door. No comms. No cameras. No help unless we press the panic buttons..”

“Still don’t like this,” he mutters.

You glance up. “But you still volunteered.”

“I didn’t volunteer exactly. I said I was willing.”

“That’s volunteering.”

He makes a soft sound that could be a scoff, or a sigh. “You didn’t hesitate.”

You shrug. “Someone had to do it. And let’s be honest you're the obvious choice… Morgan in a collar? We’d lose the unsub in a heartbeat.”

That gets a short, surprised laugh out of him, and for a moment, the tension shifts.

“But that also means no one from the team’s going to see us like this.” Your voice was light, but there was an undercurrent there. Something just shy of a question.

He shifted his weight. “I’m… honestly relieved.”

Your smile flickered, quiet and genuine. “Me too.”

You set the phone down, letting the quiet settle. Spencer’s eyes are still on the window, but his fingers twitch against his bicep.

“You’ve never been to a play party before.”

He doesn’t answer right away. “No,” he says eventually. “Read about them. Studied them. The psychology, the community. But not in person.”

You nod slowly. “There’s not much difference between theory and practice. Except, you know… everything.”

He looks over at you, a little sheepish. “I just don’t want to look like I don’t belong.”

“You won’t.” You pause, then smile faintly. “And anyway, it’s not like anyone at the Bureau will ever know I’ve done this before.”

That startles him a little. “You have?”

You lift a brow. “You think I'm pulling all of this out of thin air?”

He flushes and looks down.

“I’m not broadcasting it,” you add, a little softer. “But it helps to know the rules when the place we’re walking into doesn’t have any posted on the wall.”

Spencer nods, still not quite meeting your eye. “That’s… kind of a relief, actually.”

You stand, walk over to where his small pile of neatly folded clothes sits on the dresser. “I know we don’t have much time, but let’s talk about what you’re wearing.”

He follows you with his eyes.

You pick up the black button-up. “This, obviously. Simple. Clean. It doesn’t scream anything. You can leave a couple buttons undone.”

He blinks. “How many is a couple?”

You tilt your head. “Four.”

He hesitates. “That’s… a lot of sternum.”

“You’ll survive. You should feel lucky that I’m not putting you in a harness.”

That earns you a quiet huff of air. Not quite a laugh, but close. He leans against the wall as you hold up the black jeans.

“These will work,” you nod. “Not tight, but they fit well. Comfortable, subtle. And if you have to take them off...”

His head jerks up slightly. “Wait—off?”

“Spencer,” you say, calm and steady. “It’s a possibility. If we’re going to stay in character. If someone pushes. You don’t have to let anyone touch you, and I won’t let it get anywhere near that far. But there’s a chance someone will expect a scene. Light restraint, service kneeling, maybe removing a shirt. Maybe pants. We have to blend in, or we’ll stand out.”

He swallows hard. “Okay.”

You meet his eyes. “You trust me?”

He nods. “Yeah. I do.”

You hold up the collar next. Simple, black leather with a silver D-ring. Clean stitching. Quiet elegance.

His gaze lingers on it. “That’s… not subtle.”

“No,” you agree. “But it tells the right story.”

You watch him stare at the collar.

Not glance. Not glance away. He stares, like he’s trying to work out what it means for him, what it will say to everyone else. What it already says between the two of you.

You let him have the silence. Let it stretch.

Spencer has always been good at dissecting symbolism. He knows what the collar represents. He knows what it marks him as. And right now, you can see the pieces moving behind his eyes, trying to figure out how to exist inside that symbol without falling apart.

He shifts his weight again, arms still crossed over his chest, but tighter now. Not protective, exactly. Contained. Like he's trying to keep something in.

You reach for the collar, letting the soft leather unwind in your hands. You’re not looking at him when you ask, “Have you given any thought to what you’re going to call me?”

That gets his attention.

His gaze flickers from the collar to your face, then away just as fast. A flush begins to rise under his collar.

“No,” he says, voice a little too fast. “I mean, yes. I’ve read… options. Common titles. But I didn’t know if you had something in mind.”

“I figured we should choose one that feels natural. Something you can say without stumbling.” You pause. “Too much.”

He exhales, clearly trying to collect himself. “Right.”

“Let’s rule out the obvious ones,” you offer gently. “Ma’am?”

His mouth twitches. “Too formal.”

“Miss?”

He shakes his head. “Too classroom.”

You let a little smile pull at the corner of your mouth. “Mistress?”

That one lands. You watch the word hit him like it has weight. He doesn’t recoil, but his breath hitches just slightly, and the blush spreads higher on his cheeks.

You give him a moment.

“Mistress is... fine,” he manages.

“Fine?”

“It’s good. I mean. It works.”

You tilt your head, enjoying the rare chance to watch him unravel. “You sure?”

He nods, still not looking directly at you. “It’s the most appropriate for the dynamic.”

You let the collar slip through your fingers until it rests flat in your palm. “Mistress it is, then.”

The flush on his face deepens. He doesn’t respond, but his hands curl slightly at his sides, like the word is still echoing inside him.

He looks like he wants to sink through the floor.

“And for you,” you continue smoothly, like you didn’t notice how red his ears are, “I need something I can say that sounds natural. Something that fits the space.”

He opens his mouth, then hesitates. “I don’t really… know what fits.”

“Let’s try a few.” You tilt your head. “Sweetheart?”

He blinks. “That’s very… tender.”

You nod. “Okay. Noted. Boy?”

His mouth tugs. “A bit on the nose.”

You hum. “I could just call you by your name.”

“You could.”

You smile faintly. “But it might be more fun to choose something else.”

He doesn’t disagree.

You let your gaze drop to the collar for a beat, then look back at him.

“What about Pet?”

Spencer goes still.

The blush creeps slowly from his neck up to his cheeks again. His mouth opens like he might protest, but then he closes it. And then, finally, he gives the smallest nod.

“Pet,” you say again, trying it out.

His throat works. He nods once more. “That’s… manageable.”

“You like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” you agree, watching him. “But you didn’t say no either.”

He exhales, soft and short. “It makes sense.”

“Pet, then.”

He nods. His hands are curled a little tighter now, and he won’t quite meet your eyes.

“Do you want to sit?” you ask softly.

He nods after a second, sits at the edge of the bed like it’s habit more than choice. You stay standing. Not looming over him. Just nearby. Steady.

“I can walk you through the rest of it,” you offer. “Before we get dressed and ready to go.”

His gaze flicks up. “Yeah. Please.”

You nod. “Once we’re inside, we’ll stick close. You’re my submissive, not a free agent. That means you don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t answer questions from anyone unless I nod first. And you don’t touch anything or anyone that isn’t me.”

He nods quickly. “Right. That’s one of the rules, right? Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.”

You give him a faint smile. “Exactly. And for tonight, that’s you. You belong to me.”

He feels those words sink into him like a stone in water.

You belong to me.

They shouldn’t affect him. Not like that. He’s heard lines like it in case files, read them in interviews, watched footage. They’re just part of the role, part of the world they’re stepping into. But something about the way you said it, steady and sure, no room for interpretation… it wedges itself under his skin and stays there.

His mind slips, just a little.

Not visibly. He keeps his face neutral, nods like he’s just processing. But inside, the shift is immediate and overwhelming. A scene playing out in full colour behind his eyes before he can stop it.

He imagines kneeling in front of you. Your hand in his hair, gently guiding him down, not harsh, not cruel—just commanding. Certain. Your voice low and warm when you tell him what a good boy he’s being. How proud you are of him for obeying. The approval in your tone curling under his skin and lodging in his chest like something vital.

He pictures your fingers under his chin, tilting his face up to meet your gaze. Your eyes heavy with authority, with knowledge, with that quiet, devastating focus only you have when you're in complete control. He imagines the collar around his neck, snug and unmissable. Your thumb brushing over the D-ring, anchoring him to you like it means something real.

Then he’s stripped down, hands behind his back, body exposed and offered. On display, not just to be seen, but to be claimed.

Not in front of strangers. Not for show.

For you.

Your mouth near his ear, breath warm against his skin as you tell him he's yours. That he doesn't have to think. That he doesn't have to speak unless you say so. That every part of him belongs to you tonight.

And maybe every night.

The thought lands hard in his chest. Too hard.

His breath catches. Not loud, but enough.

He shifts on the bed, uncrosses his legs, then crosses them again the other way. His palms press down against his thighs. His fingers twitch. He’s suddenly aware of the way his jeans fit. Of the subtle pressure building beneath the zipper.

No.

He clenches his jaw. Tries to breathe evenly.

You’ve just finished explaining the basic flow of the night when you notice it.

Spencer hasn’t said anything in a while, not since your last instruction. He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, posture tight. His hands are on his thighs, fingers rigid like he’s forcing them to stay still. His eyes are locked on the floor, and his breathing has gone shallow.

You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s spiralling.

Quietly, you set the shirt down on the dresser and turn toward him. You don’t walk over right away. You give him a second, then another.

“Spence,” you say gently. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look up. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are fixed on the carpet like if he moves, something might snap.

You take a step closer.

“Talk to me. You’ve been fine all day, and now you’re panicking.”

“I’m not panicking.”

His voice is hoarse. Immediate. Unconvincing.

You sit next to him on the bed, leaving space between you. Close enough to reach him if he needs it. Far enough not to crowd.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re not panicking. But something’s wrong.”

He shifts. Crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them like they’re too heavy. His whole body is wound up, too still in a way that feels brittle.

“I’m just thinking through the scenario,” he says.

You wait.

He glances at you, then away. The flush on his neck gives him away.

“I didn’t consider... until just now...” He stops. Swallows hard.

“Consider what?”

“That I might get an erection.”

The silence after it is immediate. Heavy.

He exhales like he’s just dropped something dangerous.

You don’t laugh. You don’t tease. You just nod once, slowly.

He stares ahead, not at you. “It’s not something I planned. It’s just… the environment. The psychology of it. Being surrounded by all of that.”

You nod again. “Arousal is a common response at these kinds of events.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know that. I’ve read about it. I just didn’t think it would affect me. And now I’m realizing that it might. When we’re in there. When I’m in character.”

There’s shame in his voice, and tension in every inch of his posture. Like he’s waiting for you to recoil. To judge. Like the possibility alone is enough to undo everything you’ve built.

But you don’t flinch.

“It’s not something you need to apologise for,” you tell him. “You’re reacting to a high-stimulation environment. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m...” He cuts himself off.

“I don’t,” you say before he can finish. “I don’t think anything bad about you. You’re being honest, and that helps me keep you safe.”

That startles him a little. His eyes flick to yours.

You offer the smallest smile.

“I’m the one bringing you in there,” you remind him. “You’re mine tonight. And it’s my job to know what’s going on with you.”

He nods, his throat tight, and looks away again. Still tense, but not frozen.

“Let’s keep going,” you say gently. “Only if you’re ready.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quiet. “I’m ready.”

But even as he says it, his hands are still trembling slightly against his legs.

You watch him for another moment, noting the tension still coiled beneath the surface but his breathing steadying.

“Before we move on,” you say gently, “do you have any more questions? About the dynamic, the rules, what to expect once we’re inside?”

He shakes his head slowly. Then hesitates.

You wait.

“I think I have the basics,” he says finally. “Stay with you. Don’t speak unless you prompt me. No touching anyone else. Consent is non-negotiable.”

You nod. “And if someone touches you without permission?”

“I let you handle it.”

“Good.” You pause. “Let’s talk through the profile again.”

You can tell his mind is working, already shifting back into case mode. The nervousness is still there, but now it’s more focused, more analytical.

You keep your voice even, clinical. “Three victims so far. All dominant women. Each one killed after attending private parties like this one.”

Spencer nods slowly. “No sexual assault, but all signs point to rage. Overkill. Personal.”

You sit back slightly. “The working theory is that these women are stand-ins.”

“For someone else in his life,” Spencer says.

“Right. Someone specific. Not a general hatred of women, but something... narrower.”

“Someone he knows. Or knew. A woman with authority over him.”

You nod once. “We think he’s submissive in his day-to-day life. Professionally. Personally. He’s used to being controlled.”

Spencer glances toward the collar still resting on the bed, then back at you. “So the party lets him be near that dynamic again. But on his terms. Where he can watch it. Choose his moment.”

“And target someone who reminds him of her. Whoever she is.”

You let that settle between you for a beat. It’s all theory. Probabilities. Patterns that might line up or might lead nowhere.

But the pattern of the victims makes something very clear.

“He’s not picking at random,” you say quietly. “So tonight, we need to pay attention to who’s watching.”

Spencer’s jaw tenses.

“Not just who’s active,” you clarify. “But who’s standing still. Who lingers. Who watches the women in charge too long, especially if they’re with a male submissive.”

He nods slowly. “He won’t be obvious.”

“No. He won’t risk it. But he’ll be there for a reason. And if we fit the image... we might be what draws him out.”

You don’t add that it’s why you were chosen. Why the two of you make the best bait.

You don’t have to.

Spencer’s already thinking it.

You reach for his shirt again, fingertips smoothing the folded edge. You keep your tone light as you ask, “You ready to get dressed?”

His gaze lingers on yours for a second longer.

Then he nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

You let out a slow breath and stand. The collar stays untouched on the bed, for now.

You step into the bathroom without a word, closing the door behind you. The light is harsh, clinical, but it doesn’t matter. You’re only in here to change, to breathe, to keep your balance.

The dress slides on like a second skin. Black PVC, glossy and tight, hugging every line of your body. It stops high on the thigh, the hem teasing more than it covers when you walk. The neckline dips deep, a plunging V that leaves your cleavage exposed and impossible to ignore. You smooth it down with steady hands, adjusting the straps where they cut in just slightly, then step into your heels. The extra height makes your legs look even longer, your stance more commanding.

You lean over the counter pull together a quick smoky eye. Nothing heavy, just enough to change the shape of your gaze. A swipe of bold lipstick follows. Something rich and red, deliberately striking. When you catch your own reflection in the mirror, there’s a flicker of recognition. It’s not exactly you. It’s the version you’ve built for tonight.

You open the bathroom door and step back into the room.

Spencer is already dressed. He’s seated at the edge of the bed, shirt clinging to him just right, black fabric soft and open enough at the collar to bare a stretch of skin you’ve never seen before. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The jeans mold to his frame, dark and neat and subtle until he shifts his weight and the way they stretch across his thighs makes your mouth go dry.

He looks up.

And freezes.

His eyes catch on the gleam of your dress. They flick down—slow, unwilling—and you feel it when they hit your legs. The short hem, the way the PVC hugs your hips, how your heels make your stride longer and more deliberate. Then higher, tracing the arch of your waist, the slick black curve of your breasts framed by the plunging neckline.

He doesn't speak.

His lips part, just slightly, but no sound follows. His throat bobs. His fingers flex faintly against his thighs, and for a beat, neither of you move.

The room is too warm all of a sudden.

You turn toward your coat just to stop yourself from staring outright, but you don’t make it two steps before you're glancing back over your shoulder. You catch him again, right in the act. Still looking. Trying not to, but failing.

He shifts like he’s trying to get comfortable. It only draws your attention again, down to where his legs are braced wide on the mattress. His jeans hug the shape of his thighs tightly, muscle drawn out and defined under the stretch of dark denim. You’ve never let yourself notice before, not like this. Not how thick his thighs are, how good they look under pressure, how easily your fingers could dig into them while you tease him with your tongue.

Your stomach twists with the thought. Heat ripples just under your skin.

And then your eyes lift, drawn to the open line of his shirt. His throat, pale and smooth, exposed and so fucking tempting. It’s unfair, how delicate he looks like this. Not fragile, but something softer. Skin that’s never been shown to you, on offer now without meaning to be.

You want to touch it.

You want to lean in close and bite.

You suck in a breath through your nose and look away, pulse thudding a little too loud in your ears.

Neither of you say a word.

But the air between you is thick with something you can’t name without giving yourself away. Something more than nerves. Something more than just the case.

Spencer stares down at the floor now like it's safer. Like if he looks at you again, he won't be able to stop himself.

And you’re not sure you would want him to.

You take the collar with you, slipping it into the inside pocket of your coat before either of you leave the room. Spencer doesn’t comment, and you don’t explain. It doesn’t need to be said. Once you’re inside the mansion, the collar will matter more than anything else.

The team is waiting in one of the smaller conference rooms on the main floor. Final briefing. One last chance to go over the profile, the plan, every moving part before you disappear behind the doors of the mansion.

Everyone’s calm. Focused. It feels like standard protocol, even if this is anything but.

JJ goes over the plan again, voice low and steady.

“Security is going to be heavy at the door,” she says. “No cameras, no phones, no means of communication. Once you’re in, we’ll be dark until you signal us.”

“They scan everyone on entry,” Rossi adds. “No last-minute surprises. Anything unexpected gets you turned away.”

“We’ll already be in place by the time you get there,” Morgan says. “Unmarked cars, perimeter covered. If you see the unsub, make sure he sees you too. Try to get him to come to you.”

You nod once. Spencer follows your lead. His silence isn’t nervous now—it’s focused. He listens, absorbs, thinks.

The others leave ten minutes before you, SUVs pulling out in pairs to loop the back roads and slip into position without drawing attention. You and Spencer take your own car. Nothing flashy. Something expensive enough to pass but common enough not to stand out.

The ride is silent.

He sits beside you with his hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes fixed ahead, jaw tight. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. It’s all already there in the quiet. What’s waiting. What’s expected. What could happen.

When the mansion appears ahead, glowing in soft light, you don’t say anything. You pull up and park without fanfare.

You sit for a beat.

He looks at you without speaking.

You reach into your coat and draw out the collar.

The silence turns heavier.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes drop to the leather. He watches as you unbuckle it slowly, letting the ends part in your hands. His breathing stays steady, but something flickers in his expression. Not fear. Not resistance.

Anticipation. Something deeper.

“May I?” you ask, turning toward him.

He looks at it, then up at you. His voice is quiet.

“Yes.”

You lean in.

He tips his head without needing to be asked.

The collar slides easily around his neck, snug but not tight. Your fingers are steady as you fasten the buckle at the back, then smooth the leather once it’s in place. The silver D-ring catches in the light. You let your thumb brush it, once.

Then you sit back and look at him.

His eyes lift to meet yours. Quiet. Composed.

Owned.

You take a breath. So does he.

And then you open your door.

Time to go in.

You step out into the warm night. Spencer follows close behind.

The paved walkway stretches ahead, lined with soft lights that guide your path to the wide front entrance. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look around, just walks a step behind you, steady and quiet.

The mansion doors are already open. Two guards in fitted black attire wait just inside the threshold, neutral expressions in place. One gestures you forward without a word.

You stop when instructed.

“Names?” the man asks, tone efficient.

You give them, calm and clear. He checks a list, glances back up, and gives a short nod. “Step to the wall, please.”

Another staff member approaches for the pat-down. They start with Spencer, quick and thorough but never rough. His shoulders stay relaxed. He doesn’t flinch. He watches you while they work.

Then it’s your turn. Their hands move across your coat, along your waist and hips, respectful and practiced. You let it happen without comment.

“Thank you,” the staff says once finished. “You may enter.”

Inside, a woman steps forward, hands clasped politely in front of her. “Coats?”

Spencer shrugs his off first. The collar around his throat is revealed fully now, the silver D-ring gleaming against the open neck of his black shirt. The woman’s gaze lingers for only a moment before she hangs it on a rack behind the entryway.

You remove your coat next. The glossy black PVC catches the warm light, pulling attention across the room. The hem of your dress barely brushes the top of your thighs. The neckline dips low and unapologetic. You don’t flinch under the glances. They’re not inappropriate, just curious.

You thank the woman softly and move forward.

The foyer is expansive and bright. Soft music plays under the low hum of conversation. Crystal light fixtures glint overhead, casting warm reflections across marble floors. The air smells faintly of perfume and polished wood.

People are everywhere.

Some are dressed in elegant suits or sleek evening wear. Others wear lingerie or leather or just enough to cover their genitals. Some submissives kneel beside their partners with quiet focus, hands resting on their thighs or clasped behind their backs. Others move freely, laughing softly, sipping from glasses, speaking with ease.

The atmosphere is vibrant. Relaxed. Like any high-end social gathering, except for the honesty of the power dynamics laid bare in posture and proximity.

You pause just inside the threshold. Let your eyes move slowly across the space.

No one stares at you, but several notice.

Spencer stays close behind your shoulder, his gaze sweeping lightly across the crowd. His expression doesn’t shift, but you can feel the tension in him. Not discomfort. Just awareness.

You let your fingers brush his hand once. A silent cue.

He falls into step beside you.

You pause near one of the wide columns, letting the crowd move naturally around you. The foyer remains a steady hum of conversation, the air warm with body heat and quiet anticipation. Movement is fluid, unhurried. Groups form and shift, the social rhythm calm but deliberate.

Spencer stops just behind your right shoulder, quiet and still.

You glance down at him. Then lower your voice.

“Kneel.”

He obeys immediately.

His movements are smooth, practiced even if they’ve never been put into action like this before. He sinks down onto one knee first, then both. His hands settle palm-up on his thighs. His eyes drop in submission. No hesitation. No visible strain.

It sends a quiet hum through your blood.

He doesn’t overplay it. He doesn’t perform. He just waits there at your feet, calm and composed.

You let your hand rest lightly on the back of his head. A casual gesture of ownership. Grounding for both of you.

Then you scan the room again.

You look past the doms chatting in pairs and the couples trading soft laughter. You look for men standing alone, watching too intently, hovering without fully engaging. It’s early still, too soon to draw conclusions, but it’s enough to start building a sense of who’s there to play and who’s there to linger.

A few eyes move in your direction.

Your outfit demands attention, but it’s Spencer who earns it.

A woman in a long red gown passes with a glass of something dark in her hand. She slows as she catches sight of him at your feet.

“Well trained,” she murmurs as she walks by. Her eyes flick up to yours, amused and approving. “And pretty. I like that.”

You smile faintly but don’t respond. Just run your fingers through Spencer’s curls once before letting your hand fall away.

Another pair stops near you. The woman holds a leash but doesn’t tug on it. Her submissive, a tall man in silk shorts, kneels at her side and eyes Spencer like he’s sizing him up.

“You’ve had him long?” she asks you.

“Long enough,” you answer.

Her smile widens. “Lucky girl.”

They move on.

Spencer doesn’t react. He stays perfectly still. His breathing is steady. His posture doesn’t waver.

He doesn’t need instruction.

He belongs to you. And tonight, everyone here can see it.

You let the moment settle before finally turning your head, casting one last glance around the foyer. You’ve studied the crowd long enough to know your unsub isn’t here. Not yet. If he’s inside, he’s deeper in the house.

Time to keep moving.

You give Spencer a small gesture and head toward the hallway. He follows silently.

The hallway feels quieter than the foyer, more concentrated. The air has weight here, charged not with tension but with intention. Every step seems to matter more. Every glance feels heavier.

You come to a stop in front of the first room.

A small chalkboard is mounted beside the doorframe. The words Shibari have been written in soft white chalk, the letters neat but slightly smudged at the corners like someone wrote it quickly, with practiced ease. A delicate white line is drawn beneath it, almost decorative.

Spencer doesn’t speak, but you feel the shift in his posture beside you. His eyes are on the board too, processing what it means.

You glance at him. He meets your gaze, gives a small nod. He’s ready.

You open the door.

The room is dimly lit, the lighting warm but focused, pulled downward by a few directed spotlights that leave the corners in shadow. A long wooden beam has been mounted horizontally across one wall. Thick ropes hang in orderly loops from hooks. A single scene is already in progress.

A woman stands with her back to the audience, bare skin wrapped in a precise pattern of jute rope. The knots run across her shoulders, down her spine, looping around her breasts and thighs, snug but not harsh. Her arms are pulled behind her, wrists bound and anchored just above the curve of her waist. Her breathing is slow. Measured. Trusting.

The rigger moves with a quiet confidence, checking tension, adjusting placement. His expression is focused, reverent. He doesn’t rush.

You feel Spencer shift beside you.

His breath catches, so softly no one else would hear it. Not shock. Not discomfort. Just the involuntary response of someone new to seeing this up close for the first time. A naked woman bound in something beautiful. A kind of vulnerability that isn’t helpless, only offered.

He straightens subtly, weight adjusted, jaw tightening just slightly. He schools his features quickly, folding himself back into the role. You don’t look at him, but you feel the effort it takes.

Your eyes return to the knots.

They’re clean. Balanced. Every strand symmetrical. The lines across her thighs support rather than constrict. The wraps around her chest curve like sculpture.

A few others linger along the perimeter of the room, standing or seated in quiet observation. You count them without seeming to. Most are male. The power balance is quiet, but present.

You stay for another moment. Then you shift your stance.

“Come.”

Spencer follows you out without a word.

The next door is just a few paces down. Another blackboard hangs beside it, the chalk clean and bold.

Impact Play Underlined twice, a small symbol of a paddle drawn beside it.

You glance at Spencer. He doesn’t hesitate this time, just follows silently as you push the door open and step inside.

The room is warmer than the last. The lighting lower. Shadows curve along the walls. A wide desk sits at the centre, heavy and dark-stained, angled slightly toward the small crowd lining the back and side walls.

A woman is bent over its surface completely naked. Her elbow braced against the desk. Her legs are parted, feet braced. Her body shudders slightly with each strike, tension rolling through her spine.

The man behind her is fully clothed in black slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His posture is casual but controlled, one hand resting at the small of her back, the other raised and coming down in steady, measured slaps against her ass. The sound echoes off the walls in crisp, regular rhythm.

Each hit sends a ripple down her frame. Her breasts swing forward with the movement, caught in the low light, the curve of her body fully visible from where you stand.

Spencer’s weight shifts beside you.

You glance at him once, just enough to see the way his throat works as he swallows. His jaw is set. His eyes are fixed forward, deliberate. Focused. He’s in control, but it’s costing him more here than in the last room.

The man delivering the spanking pauses, then turns his head toward the gathered guests.

“Any requests?” he asks lightly. “We’ve got time.”

A few chuckles rise. Someone suggests a paddle. Another calls for a crop. The dom smiles faintly.

“Generous crowd tonight.” He looks down at the woman, hand drifting slowly across the red bloom of her skin. “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”

She moans quietly, barely audible. Her thighs tremble.

The dom picks up a leather paddle from the desk. Tests the weight. Turns slightly, letting the audience see his angle before lining up for the next strike.

You glance through the room. All men along the walls. All watching. Some with subs leaning into them, some alone.

You scan each face.

Spencer stays quiet at your side, hands loosely clasped behind his back now, the image of obedience.

You place your hand gently on his lower back.

“Follow,” you murmur.

And you both turn to leave.

The third door comes into view, just around the slight curve in the hallway. The blackboard next to it is marked in tall, slanted strokes of white chalk.

Suspension Play

You pause for only a second, your eyes on the lettering, then glance toward Spencer. His gaze is already there. You nod once and open the door.

The space inside is taller than the others, the ceiling reinforced with black steel rigging bolted deep into the beams. Thick rope hangs from above in long, weighted strands, the ends tied into carefully positioned harnesses that hold the woman suspended a few feet off the ground.

She’s completely nude, strung up by the hips and thighs, chest angled downward, arms drawn behind her. Her knees are bent, feet off the floor. The ropework bites cleanly into her skin, supporting her full weight, keeping her tilted in a vulnerable, open curve. Her head hangs low, hair swinging freely as she moans, the sound sharp and unrestrained.

The man behind her, also nude, is steady, hands gripping the rope for leverage as he thrusts into her with slow, brutal control. He uses the suspension to deepen his movement, pulling on the ties to drive into her harder. Every thrust rocks her forward in the air, her moans loud and unfettered, echoing off the walls.

Spencer freezes beside you.

Just for a breath. A blink. The shift is barely perceptible. But you see it.

You scan quickly, letting your gaze move from one face to the next, just long enough to read body language, power dynamics, placement. There’s curiosity here, arousal, focus—but nothing sharp. No anger hiding under the surface.

You conclude quietly that this isn’t the scene you’re looking for.

Whatever you’re meant to find tonight, it won’t be here.

Your hand finds Spencer’s wrist for just a second.

“Come.”

And you slip out together into the hallway.

The chalkboard outside the next room is drawn in rounded, playful letters. White on black.

Pet Play

You glance at Spencer once. His face is unreadable, jaw tight, arms loose at his sides like he’s trying not to clench his fists. You reach for the handle and open the door.

The air inside is warmer. Softer lighting. Plush rugs underfoot, thick enough to muffle the sound of movement. It’s quieter than you expect for a room hosting live sex.

Until you hear it.

A whimper, high-pitched and needy, followed by the rhythmic slap of skin.

Two couples occupy the centre of the space, lit gently from overhead. The scene is already in progress.

The female sub is bent low, her hands and knees pressed into the rug. Her hips are high, back arched, thighs spread wide enough to display everything. A tail plug shifts between her cheeks with every jerk of her body. She’s panting, flushed, her moans broken up by soft little yips that sound almost practiced.

Mounted behind her is the male sub. Also on all fours. His movements are erratic at first, shallow thrusts, his breath loud and wet. His cock slides between her thighs in frantic, eager bursts, guided loosely by instinct. He’s making small noises too. Not words. Whines and groans, completely lost in it.

Their doms are standing just behind them, watching.

The woman is tall, striking in a fitted red corset, heels sharp enough to pierce. Her hand rests on the back of her sub’s head, keeping him in place as he humps into the woman beneath him.

“Good boy,” she croons sweetly. “Such a good little mutt. Fuck her just like that.”

Her fingers tighten slightly in his hair. “Get that knot in. Breed her.”

The woman moans louder. Her breasts sway beneath her with every impact. Her knees scrape forward slightly across the rug as the male sub fucks into her harder, burying himself to the hilt, balls slapping wetly against her skin.

She cries out, eyes squeezed shut, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth. Her dom strokes her hair lazily, like petting a well-behaved dog.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, mock-soothing. “Good girl. Be a good bitch and let him fill you up. You don’t need to think, do you? You just need cock.”

Spencer sways almost imperceptibly at your side.

His breath isn’t steady now. Not quite. You don’t look at him, but you feel the way his body pulls tighter. The way his shoulders lock. His hands twitch once, then flex open again at his sides.

You stay close, eyes drifting casually along the perimeter. Watching. Cataloguing.

You can feel Spencer next to you, holding it together. Barely. His eyes stay on the scene in front of him, and you can almost hear the questions churning behind his gaze.

You don’t say anything.

He shifts, just a fraction. His eyes flick to the doms. Then to their subs. Then back to the space between them.

He doesn’t understand why this scene is getting to him. Pet play had sounded absurd when he read about it. Ridiculous. The ears, the tail plugs, the crawling. He thought it would feel like theatre.

But here it’s raw. Degrading. Intimate.

And something about it pulls at him.

His hands twitch again at his sides. He presses his thighs together slightly, like his body is trying to regulate itself. His jaw flexes.

Shame creeps in slow.

He doesn’t want to react to this. He doesn’t want you to know he’s reacting.

You don’t look at him. You give him that privacy.

You make a mental note of each man watching the female dom. No one lingers too long. No one yet sets off the instinct to look twice.

The male sub begins to rut harder now, erratic and desperate, hands fisting in the rug for leverage. The dom above him strokes down his spine.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Breed her for me. Be a good little mutt and fill her up.”

You scan the room one last time. No lingering stares. No unusual interest.

Then you touch Spencer’s arm gently, just a brush of your fingers.

He exhales like he’d been holding his breath.

You turn for the door, and he follows without a word.

The chalkboard outside the room is filled in with sharp, deliberate handwriting.

Orgasm Control & Denial Couples welcome to join

You open the door and step inside.

The space is larger than the others. Dim, but not dark. A low platform runs the length of the far wall with a few wide, padded benches spaced evenly apart. One is occupied. The others are open, waiting.

The energy in the room is different from the others. Louder. Not with talking, but with sound. Heavy breathing. Guttural moans. Sharp, strangled cries. The kind that come from being edged too long, held just out of reach.

It isn’t a stage show. No one’s performing. But the people here are watching, and they’re enjoying it. Heat in their eyes. Fingers curling into partners’ thighs. Everyone’s tuned to the same frequency.

Beside the occupied bench, a man kneels naked. His cock is flushed and twitching, painfully hard, the head glistening with pre-cum. He’s trembling. His dom is standing just behind him, holding a slim vibrator lazily in one hand.

She drags it along his shaft, featherlight. Barely touching. Just enough to make his hips jerk forward against his will.

“Still holding out?” she murmurs. “You’re really starting to leak now.”

He chokes on a moan, breath stuttering. “Ma’am—please—”

“I didn’t ask you to speak.”

He goes silent instantly. His thighs are shaking. He keeps his hands clasped behind his back even though every inch of his body is screaming for relief.

“You’re dripping all over my bench,” she says coolly. “Do you know how pathetic you look? Kneeling there, humping the air like a dog. Have some control.”

His whimper is immediate. High, needy, involuntary.

“Tell me what you are,” she murmurs.

He closes his eyes. “A needy, disobedient little slut.”

“For?”

“For you, Ma’am.”

You don’t move from your position near the wall. Neither does Spencer.

But you feel him beside you. You feel the heat radiating off him. The restraint, the tension, the confusion.

He’s breathing harder now, even though he’s trying to be subtle. His hands twitch at his sides. He shifts his weight again, then stops himself, like any movement might draw attention.

His reaction is visceral. Immediate.

It hits him harder than any other room. The command, the denial, the humiliation being folded gently into control—it breaks something open inside him. You can see it. His throat working. His jaw locked. His eyes wide and too bright.

You glance down, only for a second.

He’s hard. Undeniably.

He doesn’t even try to adjust himself. He just clenches his fists at his sides and keeps watching, flushed and frozen, like he’s terrified of what it means.

He swallows hard. His jaw is tight. Like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this, how much it's affecting him. But he can’t tear his gaze away.

You shift your focus to the rest of the room. More people have entered since you arrived. Some paired off. Some standing alone. All absorbed in the scene playing out.

You scan slowly. Deliberately.

Not everyone is looking at the sub. Some are watching the dom with awe, admiration, arousal. A few even look inspired. But one stands out.

A man standing rigid. Alone. Eyes locked on the dom. Not the sub. Only her.

His arms are crossed. His shoulders drawn high, mouth a tight line.

Every time she denies her submissive, his body tightens. Each word of degradation seems to land directly on his skin. His stare never wavers. His anger simmers just beneath the surface, unreleased.

You’ve seen men like this before. But never quite like this.

This isn’t discomfort. It isn’t confusion.

It’s loathing.

And he hasn’t looked away from her once.

The dom settles into a chair behind her sub, her movements smooth and deliberate.

“Turn around,” she says softly, tapping his shoulder.

The sub scrambles to obey. He moves between her thighs, eager and desperate. She doesn’t touch him. She simply leans back, one leg crossing over the other, fingers resting lightly on the arm of her chair as his mouth presses to her, eyes closed like it takes everything in him to keep from grinding himself into the bench.

“You want to cum?” she asks.

He moans something into her skin. She lets him keep going, doesn't bother waiting for a real answer.

“Then earn it.”

You flick your gaze to the man at the edge of the room.

Still watching. Still locked onto the dom and no one else.

He’s not angry now, but he’s not indifferent either. His jaw isn’t clenched anymore, but his arms are still crossed tight. He’s not fighting the scene, but he isn’t enjoying it either. His stare hasn’t moved from the dom’s face.

He’s studying her. Measuring her.

And that’s a problem.

You glance at Spencer.

“I think that’s him.”

Spencer’s eyes shift subtly, following your gaze.

“He hasn’t looked at the sub once,” you add. “He’s obsessed with her.”

He nods slightly, still flushed. “So what do we do?”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then you turn to him, more certain than before. “We give him something new to focus on.”

His breath catches. “You mean… us.”

You meet his eyes. “If we get up there, it might be enough to shift him. If he starts watching me instead of her, if he follows us when we leave—”

“Then we have him,” Spencer finishes.

You nod once. “Exactly.”

He glances toward the platform, then back to you. He knows what it would mean. What it would look like. He’d be undressed. Vulnerable. Exposed in front of strangers, with your body over his, your hands on him, your voice in his ear.

It should scare him.

And it does.

But it also sparks something else.

Something he’s tried not to name for months now. That pull toward you. The way he thinks about your hands on him when he shouldn’t. The ache in his chest when you smile at someone else. The secret hope that maybe, just once, you’d really want him like that. Not for the job. Not for a case.

But because you wanted him.

This won’t be real. It can’t be. But it might be the closest he ever gets.

His voice is quiet.

“Yes.”

You meet his gaze.

And your stomach flips.

Because you want it too.

But you nod like it means nothing. Like it’s just strategy.

“Do you trust me?” you ask, quiet and deliberate.

His breath is shallow, but his answer doesn’t waver.

“Yes, Mistress.”

The words slide out of him without hesitation. Not preformative. Not forced. A declaration.

Your fingers slide into the D-ring of his collar, hooking there with quiet control. You turn without another word, tugging gently to guide him toward the platform.

The moment you hit the edge of the stage, you feel the subtle shift in energy. A few heads turn. A few glances flick in your direction. But most of the room is still caught in the ongoing scene. That’s fine. You don’t need the whole room.

You just need one man’s attention to turn.

You lead Spencer to the far side of the stage, placing yourself between him and the man standing just off to the right. Close enough for him to see every detail. You keep your tone light, calm, authoritative.

“Take off your shirt.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Spencer’s fingers immediately rise to the buttons of his shirt. They fumble just once before he catches himself. The fabric parts slowly, revealing the line of his throat, the soft skin of his chest, the curve of his waist. He shrugs it off and folds it once in his hands.

Your gaze skims over him, clinical and cold. You don’t let your expression give anything away, even as your stomach tightens at the sight of him like this. Bare. Willing. Obedient.

“Now your pants.”

He hesitates for only a moment, then obeys. The button pops. The zipper slides. He steps out of the jeans, leaving only his black boxer briefs. You note the line of his thighs, the quiet tension in his stance. He doesn’t cover himself. He doesn’t look away.

You step close.

And begin your circle.

One hand lightly grazes his shoulder, then drifts down his spine, unhurried and firm. You walk slowly around him, gaze cool and assessing, fingers brushing down his arm, across his lower back, skimming the side of his thigh.

You stop at his front and drag your eyes down the length of him, lingering on his stomach, the curve of his hips, the outline of his cock through his underwear.

You click your tongue once.

“Hm. You’re not much to look at, are you?”

Your tone is unimpressed. Cool.

Spencer flinches just slightly. You tilt your head, studying him

He doesn’t speak.

You let your fingers trail just above the waistband of his briefs.

“I expected more,” you say softly, as if to yourself. “For someone so eager to be owned.”

Your fingers skim across his stomach. His breath catches. You ignore it.

"I’m not even sure what use you’ll be to me tonight.”

“Maybe I’ll make you kneel in front of the whole room just so they can see how eager you are to be used.”

You glance to the side. Not directly at the unsub. But you can feel the weight of his stare now, aimed at you. Not the other dom. Not her sub.

You.

Good. Let him watch. Let him stew in it.

You take one more slow lap around Spencer, trailing your fingers along his skin like you’re still deciding if he’s even worth keeping.

Then you step in close behind him, voice low but sharp.

"You don’t get to cum tonight unless I say so. And if you’re lucky, I might let you beg."

Your fingers skim lightly along the small of his back. Not tender. Intentional. A show.

"But for now, you stand there. Hard. Humiliated. And you take it."

His breath catches.

And to the side, you feel it. That stare. Heavy. Burning. Locked on you.

Exactly what you wanted.

You stop at Spencer’s side and let the silence stretch just long enough to press on him. His breathing is quiet but quick, just barely. You tilt your head.

“Hard already?” you murmur, just loud enough to carry. “I’ve barely even touched you.”

He doesn't respond. He knows better than to speak without permission.

You let your eyes travel downward, pausing where his cock presses thick and obvious against the front of his briefs. You don’t reach for him. Not yet. You just stare. Then slowly turn away with a small, unimpressed sound.

“Desperate,” you say coolly. “And untouched. That’s almost impressive.”

You step behind him and lean in close to his ear. “Is this what gets you going? Standing still, surrounded, humiliated?”

His breath stutters, but he keeps his body locked in place.

You move in front of him again. His gaze doesn’t move from the fixed point on the wall. His fists are clenched at his sides now, tight with effort.

You raise your voice, just a little. “I wonder what they’d all think if I picked someone else. Someone who could keep their cock soft unless told otherwise.”

That lands. His jaw tightens. His cheeks flush.

You don’t give him a moment to recover. Just let the words hang there while you slowly pace behind him again, heels sharp on the platform.

“Maybe I should ask for volunteers,” you say, smooth and loud enough for the room. “Find someone who actually knows how to behave.”

You don’t mean it. Not even a little. But the unsub doesn’t know that. And Spencer—Spencer’s shoulders twitch, almost imperceptibly.

You slow your step. Pause at his back.

Then lean in close again, low enough for only him.

“But that wouldn’t be nearly as fun, would it?”

A full shiver runs through him. You can see it travel down his spine.

You step around to face him again, standing just outside his reach. You tip your head slightly as your eyes drop back to the thick outline in his briefs.

“That’s what I thought,” you murmur, softer now. “So easy to control.”

You take another step forward. Just one. Close enough that he can feel the heat of your body. You watch the tension in his arms, the way his fingers flex against his thighs. He’s trying so hard not to react. Not to move. Not to give himself away.

But his body is already betraying him.

You tilt your head again.

“Say thank you.”

His throat bobs. He swallows.

“Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse.

You give him a long, cool look.

“That’s not how you address me.”

His eyes flick up for a second, then drop again.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

That earns him a quiet hum. Pleased. Like he’s passed a test he didn’t know he was taking.

You let the pause settle. Then reach up, very lightly, and brush your fingers along his jaw.

Not a caress.

An inspection.

You meet his eyes for only a second.

Then smile.

“Good,” you murmur. “You’re learning.”

You don’t look at the crowd. Not yet. You know they’re watching. You know he is watching.

You keep your focus on Spencer.

The tightness in his jaw. The heat rising in his neck. The flush that’s spread to the tips of his ears. He’s trying so hard to stay still. To hold onto the role. But it’s not a role for him anymore, not really.

You step in close again. The tips of your boots brush his toes. Your body lines up against his, just enough to let him feel the distance he’s not allowed to close.

You meet his eyes. They flicker up toward you, quick and questioning.

You hold his gaze, searching.

He gives you the smallest nod.

You reach between you, slow and unhurried, and let your palm drag along the front of his briefs.

He flinches like he’s been shocked.

Hard. He’s already so hard. The fabric is damp at the tip, tight and stretched across him, and your fingers are steady as you press in just slightly, enough to make his hips jerk before he reins it in.

A sound escapes him. Sharp, bitten off. Half a gasp.

You let your nails drag back across the same path, featherlight.

Then you glance up again.

He meets your eyes. His breath stutters but his nod is there, barely visible.

You move to his side and let your hand linger, fingers curving over the swell of him, thumb grazing the slick spot at the head through the fabric. His breath hitches again. His fists tighten. You feel the tension vibrating off him in waves.

“Look at you,” you say, louder now. “Shaking. Dripping. We haven’t even started yet.”

You step forward just enough for the crowd to see the outline of your hand on his cock.

“Surprised you're still standing,” you add, cool and unimpressed. “You’re so easy to manipulate it’s almost pathetic.”

He shudders.

You shift your focus outward now, scanning the faces for the unsub’s. Your fingers stay planted like a claim.

“Isn’t he precious? Can’t even stay dry from a few compliments. Maybe he is more pet than man.”

That draws a ripple through the room. Not laughter. Just quiet, approving heat. You know the unsub is watching now. You can feel it. A different kind of weight behind the attention. Fury.

You don't look at Spencer right away.

You face the crowd instead.

Your fingers stay on him, resting lightly over the thick shape of his cock where it’s stretched tight and twitching in his briefs. Just enough pressure to remind him it’s there. That you know it’s there. That everyone else does, too.

You lift your chin. Voice smooth. Calm. Cruel.

“Look at him.”

Some of the crowd shifts their attention fully toward you now. Others were already watching. Your tone makes sure of it.

“Can’t speak. Can’t move. So hard he’s throbbing just from the sound of my voice.”

Your hand slides up again, teasing a wet streak through the fabric.

“I haven’t even taken off his underwear. Haven’t touched his skin. And he’s leaking like a fucking faucet.”

You look back up at him, slow and dismissive. His cheeks are red now, his hair curling just slightly at his temples, damp with sweat. Still standing. Still trembling.

Still holding himself back.

You walk a half-circle around him again, letting your heels click across the wood of the platform. You know it draws attention. You know exactly where your unsub is now, tucked near the side, half in shadow, staring. Not with curiosity. With tension. Jaw tight. Arms folded. He’s listening to every word.

You speak louder.

“He’d let me do anything up here. Wouldn’t you, baby?”

Spencer lifts his eyes, just enough. His voice is a rasp.

“Yes, Mistress.”

The reaction in the crowd is audible. A ripple. Small, but noticeable.

You lean in close again, hand still pressed just under the waistband of his briefs, brushing just close enough to drive him wild.

“He’s not trained,” you tell them. “Not really. Not yet. But he’s obedient. And that’s what matters.”

You lift your eyes and find his.

The unsub.

Watching you with something more than anger now. Disgust. Revulsion.

You smile. Sweet. Sugar-laced venom.

“Don’t need to think. Don’t need to speak. Don’t need control. Just need to be used.”

You drag your nails along the back of Spencer’s neck lightly, then rest your hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move. You see the twitch in his thighs, the way his breathing stutters.

You raise your voice.

“Pathetic.”

There’s a shift from the corner. The unsub’s arms drop. His hands flex at his sides.

You glance at Spencer again.

He looks at you, just for a moment. A subtle nod. Eyes glassy but focused. He’s with you.

You turn back to the crowd.

“You see that?” you ask the room. “He doesn’t even beg. Not without permission. He knows his place.”

You turn slightly, making sure he sees it.

“Isn’t that right?”

Spencer answers, breathless but loud enough.

“Yes, Mistress.”

The words land like a strike.

The unsub’s jaw moves. His eyes narrow. Something flashes just beneath the surface.

And you smile.

Because you’ve found the wound. Now all that’s left is digging in.

You glance down at Spencer’s flushed face, then look back out to the crowd, voice smooth as silk.

“How many times do you think I can edge him before he begs?”

A murmur rolls through the room. Some laugh, some smirk, others lean in to see what you’ll do next.

Spencer stays frozen. Breathing heavy. Hard as ever in his briefs, straining for friction, desperate for your touch.

You palm him through the fabric.

He jolts.

Not a flinch. Not quite. Just a quick, involuntary shift of his hips like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

“Be a good boy,” you murmur, loud enough for the front row to hear, fingers wrapping around him with firm pressure through the cotton. “Work yourself up for me.”

His breath punches out of him like you’d knocked the air from his chest.

And then he moves.

Hesitantly at first, rocking his hips into your hand with cautious rhythm. But it doesn’t take long for caution to fall away. He grinds against your palm with slow, desperate rolls of his hips, each motion a little more frantic than the last.

You keep your eyes on him. On the way his face crumples with effort. How his mouth parts like he might moan, but clamps shut at the last second

You lean close but loudly declare. “That’s it. Let them see how pathetic you are.”

A visible flinch from the unsub.

You turn your head toward the crowd and raise your voice again. “He’s humping my hand like a bitch in heat, and I haven’t even properly touched his cock.”

Spencer’s hips stutter. You tighten your grip, just enough to keep him grounded, and you see his eyes flutter. He’s close. Already.

“How many strokes do you think it’ll take before he starts to beg?” you ask again, sweeping your gaze over the audience.

“Ten?” You tilt your head. “Five?”

You glance at him.

“Maybe three.”

You lean in. “You hear that, baby? They don’t think you can handle more than three.”

His breath comes faster. His eyes are glassy.

And then your smile sharpens.

“You poor, pathetic thing.”

The unsub shifts sharply, fists clenched, chest rising.

You let your hand fall away, denying Spencer the last inch he needs. He gasps, stumbling forward half a step before catching himself.

You speak louder. For the room. For the unsub.

“You can't even hump right without supervision.”

He stands there shaking, cock visibly twitching in his briefs, body taut like a wire stretched too tight.

You cup his cheek with mock gentleness. He doesn’t pull away.

He looks at you like he’d do anything you asked.

And that look does something to you.

Your nipples tighten under the PVC. A pulse beats low in your belly. Your panties are soaked, slick against your skin, and you haven’t even touched yourself. Haven’t been touched. All you’ve done is humiliate him. Control him. Speak to him like he’s nothing more than your toy to use and discard.

But this—this is different.

It’s him.

Spencer standing there, undone and obedient, shaking with need. Spencer letting you use him. Wanting you to. Craving it.

And none of it is pretend.

You drag your thumb slowly along his cheekbone, letting your gaze trail back to the unsub. He’s still watching. Tense. Coiled. Like he’s waiting for a reason to explode.

You glance back at Spencer. His chest is rising fast. His fists are clenched, still trembling from the edge you’ve walked him to and left him on.

The ache between your thighs deepens.

You step closer again, close enough that he could feel the heat of you if he weren’t already lost in his own. Your hand settles over the bulge in his briefs once more, gentle but firm.

“Again,” you say softly, but the word cuts through the room.

He whimpers. Just once. Barely.

Then obeys.

Rocking forward into your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath coming ragged, hips jerking faster with every pass. He’s already there, right on the edge, straining toward it with everything he has.

You press your palm harder against him. Just enough. Almost enough.

And then you pull away.

His knees nearly buckle.

“Pathetic,” you murmur. Your voice is still clear. Still level. But your heart is racing. Your skin hot under the PVC. You can feel your own slick coating the inside of your thighs, and you don’t even care. You want him ruined. Shaking. Crying from the ache of it.

And he is.

You just haven’t let him show it yet.

Not until the unsub is watching close enough to burn.

You press in close behind Spencer, your body aligned to his, and let your hands drift again over his bare chest. He’s warm and tense beneath your palms, holding himself still like it’s taking everything not to move.

Your fingers skim down, tracing the shape of his ribs, then lower. You don’t rush. You explore. Touching him like you’re deciding whether or not he’s earned what’s coming.

You thumb one of his nipples, slow and purposeful.

He twitches.

You do it again.

He sucks in a breath and stiffens, but doesn’t speak. He knows better.

Your hands move down again. Over his abdomen, fingers trailing just above the waistband of his briefs. You hook your fingers there. Let the moment build.

He leans forward ever so slightly, as if his body’s already trying to follow your touch.

And then you pull your hand away.

His whole body tenses.

You shift around to his side, still close, still touching. Your nails drag lightly along the path they just traced, up across his stomach, back to his chest. You do it again, slower this time, until he shivers.

His cock is hard, straining against his briefs, and he’s fighting not to thrust.

Your hand returns to his chest, tracing down once more. This time, your fingers linger. Slipping just under the waistband. Your knuckles brush the base of his cock.

He jerks, ever so slightly.

You slide your hand deeper.

Your fingers wrap around him, warm and steady, your palm pressed flat against the heavy weight of his cock.

Spencer's whole body tightens at the contact, his hips giving a shallow jerk forward before he locks them in place again. His breath breaks apart, quiet and shaky, and you don’t stop him this time. You stroke him once, slow and deliberate, and feel how hard he is. How sensitive.

How completely undone he already is.

You start to move your hand.

Measured, controlled strokes.

His body leans into it almost immediately, the rhythm drawing out a soft sound from his throat that he doesn’t quite manage to bite back. The moment stretches between you, charged and hot, humming with something reckless.

You know you shouldn’t want this as much as you do. But you do.

The way he reacts to your touch. The effort he’s putting into staying still for you. The sound of his breath catching every time your fingers tighten at the base. It all sinks under your skin and curls deep.

He thrusts into your hand now, small restrained movements, desperate for friction. You stroke him again, slower this time, forcing him to work for it. Your own breath catches just slightly. You’re wet. You’ve been wet since the beginning of this, but now you can feel it. The heat between your thighs growing, the tight ache of your nipples under the PVC, the pulse of arousal making it harder to play it like it’s only for the mission.

You lean in close to his ear, voice firm, a little breathless.

“When you're close, I want you to tell me.”

He shivers at your tone. Nods.

“Yes, Mistress.”

You hum, pleased, and stroke him again.

You can feel him responding to your voice as much as your hand. Every quiet command, every teasing word is soaking into him, driving him further. The tension in his body is mounting fast, his thighs tightening, his hips twitching against your palm.

You keep going. Drawing it out. Keeping him just shy of where he wants to be.

Both of you are trembling with it now. The line between performance and desire vanishing beneath your hands.

He’s panting now.

Soft, open-mouthed, desperate. His hips are moving without thought, thrusting into your fist in tight, restrained pulses. Every muscle in his body is pulled taut, trembling. His thighs, his abdomen, even the way his shoulders pull back against you like he’s bracing for something he knows is coming.

Your hand moves in steady strokes, twisting just enough at the tip to keep him right where you want him. You can feel how close he is. The tension vibrating through him, the involuntary twitches, the heat building faster than he can manage.

His voice is ragged. “Close. Please. So close.”

You stroke him a little faster. Just enough.

His breath breaks. “I’m going to—”

You let go.

Just like that.

He gasps, broken and wrecked, his whole body jolting forward as if the release was ripped out of him—but nothing comes. Nothing happens. He stands there, hard and aching, twitching in the open air, still leaking from the tip.

A sound punches out of him. Not loud. Not even fully voiced. Just air. Frustrated, devastated air.

His hips jerk again, empty. Needing something. Needing you.

You don’t move.

You let him stay there, suspended in the aftermath. His chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths, his cock flushed and dripping, denied. His muscles twitch again, as if his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that the orgasm didn’t come. As if it’s still expecting release.

You circle around to face him again, keeping just enough distance that he can’t reach for you, even if he tried. Not that he would. He’s still too well-behaved for that. Too wrecked.

“Did I say you could cum?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head, sharp and shameful, eyes blinking too fast.

“Use your words.”

“No, Mistress,” he chokes out.

“Then why did you get so close?” You cock your head. “You were humping into my hand like some desperate little thing. Did you forget who you belong to?”

He closes his eyes like it hurts. “No, Mistress.”

“No,” you echo, letting the silence press down between you before leaning in slightly. “I think you did.”

You slide your fingers along his inner thigh, slow and deliberate. His hips twitch again, involuntary and so eager it borders on pathetic.

He stiffens the moment your fingers graze his cock again, breath catching hard in his throat.

But you’re not here to give him relief. Not yet.

Your hand moves lower, wrapping tight around the base of his cock. Firm. Controlling. He jerks forward instinctively, a strangled sound breaking in his chest, but you tighten your grip.

“No,” you murmur, just above his ear. “Not yet.”

He goes still.

You hand stays pressed at the base, holding him tight, denying the rush of pressure building in him. You can feel the tremble in his thighs, the twitch of his muscles trying to beg without words. His cock pulses in your grip, thick and hot and leaking against the inside of his briefs, aching to move.

But you wait.

You give him time to settle. Time to come back from the edge you dragged him to so cruelly. He breathes through his nose now, sharp and shaking, trying to focus on anything but your hand, your body, your voice.

Only when you feel his pulse steady, just enough, still needy, but not ready to tip over—you start to move your hand again.

Slow strokes at first. Barely there. Just your fingers gliding over the slick, sensitive head of his cock, coaxing more precum from the tip with every pass. You feel his thighs tighten beneath your touch, feel the twitch in his stomach as his breath stutters again.

He doesn’t moan yet. He’s trying not to. Trying to keep it in, to show some kind of control. But it’s useless. Not with you behind him. Not with your hand on him.

You stroke harder, your palm wrapping around the full length now, pulling him steadily. His cock throbs in your grip, flushed and soaked from the earlier denial, and already leaking again. You feel him swell even more, impossibly hard, so eager that every brush of your fingers has him twitching like he’s being shocked.

He breathes in through his teeth, sharp and hitched, hips jerking into your hand. You don’t stop him. You let him fuck your fist, sloppy and desperate, every thrust more frenzied than the last.

“Already?” you say against his ear, making sure the words travel. “I've only just started.”

He whines. A real, honest sound. Shame and hunger tangled together.

“You’re moaning again,” you say louder, for the room. “I thought I told you to act like you had some control.”

You stroke him harder, firmer now. His body shudders, helpless under your hand.

“Oh, you like this, don’t you?” Your voice cuts through the noise. “Putting on a show. Making those pathetic little noises just because I’m touching you. Like you’ve got no shame at all.”

His mouth opens. His eyes squeeze shut. You feel his cock jump in your hand.

“I—” he pants, voice ragged, wet at the edges, “I think I’m—”

His hips snap forward, breath caught. You feel him tense, every muscle locking down.

“Please,” he begs, head dropping. “Please, Mistress, I’m going to—”

You stop.

He chokes on a sob.

This one hits different. His knees give the slightest bend. His whole body curls in on itself, like he’s trying to disappear. A broken, wrecked sound falls from his lips. His cock kicks in the air, aching and useless, denied again, leaking and throbbing with no relief.

Tears spill now. Unchecked.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t plead.

Just breathes, shallow and frantic, trying to hold on.

You grip his shoulder, steadying him, then turn slightly toward the crowd, letting your gaze sweep the room. You don’t linger anywhere too long, but you feel the weight of his stare, sharp and burning, coming from the right side. You can’t look at him, not directly, but you can feel the hate building in his silence.

Only when his breathing evens out—just barely, just enough to function again—do you start to move your hand.

You stroke him slow. Cruel. He’s still so hard it must ache, the head flushed and leaking, the shaft slick and throbbing in your grip. You feel everything. The tension in his thighs, the way his muscles jump under your hand, the helpless twitch of his cock when you circle your thumb over the tip.

His whole body is strung tight like wire. It won’t take much now. You know that. But you’re not being merciful.

You work him just a little faster. Just a little tighter.

And he reacts instantly. The sound he makes is wrecked. Too loud. Too honest. A moan that cracks in his throat and dies on his lips. He’s past pretending now. Past playing the part. His hips twitch forward like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, like it’s the only way to survive what you’re doing to him.

“You’re not behaving very well, pet,” you say to no one in particular. You’re still behind him, body curved close but not touching, your voice steady like it’s nothing to you. Like this is just another night with a cock in your hand and a toy on display. “You’re making the same pathetic sounds you made the first time. And the second.”

Spencer’s breath catches, a full-body jerk shaking through him. He chokes on the next moan, trying to hold it back.

You don’t let him.

“You think holding back now is going to save you from what’s coming?”

You pump him harder. Faster. Your palm glides up the shaft and squeezes on the down stroke, giving just enough friction to make him crumble.

He gasps. Loud. Uncontrolled. “Mistress—please—I’m—”

“No,” you snap.

Your other hand leaves his hip and slides up his front. You don’t slow your stroke. You don’t give him a second to breathe. You drag your nails lightly up his stomach, over his ribs, across his nipples. You pinch one hard between two fingers and he sobs. Actually sobs. His body shakes in your grip, his cock twitching wildly like he’s right there again.

And he is.

“Please—please—Mistress—I can’t—”

He’s so close. You feel it. His thighs are trembling. His whole body locked up. His chest is heaving. His cock is pulsing so violently it’s a miracle he hasn’t come already. The heat under your palm is unbearable. And his face—

His eyes are glassy. His cheeks are flushed and damp. His mouth hangs open, working for air. He’s shaking with effort not to come without permission. And it’s killing him.

He doesn’t even notice the tears.

But you do.

And so does the unsub.

You see the movement, just barely, from the corner of your eye. Not enough to confirm. But enough.

Time to finish him off.

You turn your attention back to the man in your hands. Your toy.

You stroke him harder now. Faster. Relentless.

He cries out again, open and ruined. His thighs quiver. His hips jerk. His head drops forward like he’s trying to hide the tears but he can’t stop shaking.

“Oh, you like this, don’t you?” you sneer. “Being reduced to a trembling little mess in front of everyone. Crying like a needy whore because I won’t let you cum.”

You feel his body seize.

He’s going to cum. He’s going to cum without permission.

You stop instantly. Your hand drops from his cock and your other hand grips his shoulder, hard. Not to hurt—just to hold him still.

“No.”

He collapses forward with a noise like something torn out of him. His knees buckle just a little. He shudders, cock twitching wildly and leaking down his thigh. He was seconds away. Less. And you stopped him again.

He chokes on a sob. He can’t hide it now. His face is wet. His cock is painfully hard. His body is wrecked with denial. And the crowd sees all of it.

The unsub sees all of it.

And he’s livid.

His fists are clenched. His face is flushed red, the skin blotchy with rage. His jaw is locked tight and his shoulders are squared like he’s forcing himself not to move. Not to act.

You step in close again, not touching, just letting your presence hover like heat across his skin.

Spencer's body tightens, spine straightening as if pulled by a string. He’s trembling from head to toe, every inch of him flushed and open, his cock still hard and leaking against the inside of his briefs. The memory of your hand still lingers in his nerves. He’s straining for it again, barely breathing.

You let your fingertips ghost up his side, not quite touching. Let them hover near the waistband of his underwear, like you might finally slide your hand back inside. He gasps, body twitching, pressing helplessly toward the contact like he’s forgotten what it means to resist.

But you don’t touch him.

Instead, you smile—sharp and satisfied—and step back.

“No,” you say coolly. “Not tonight.”

His whole body jolts like you’ve slapped him.

“I was going to let you cum,” you continue, louder now, for the benefit of everyone listening. “But then you embarrassed me. Look at yourself. Leaking, shaking, falling apart over a little attention. You want to know what that earns you?”

His eyes flicker. His jaw trembles.

“Nothing,” you snap. “You don’t get to cum at all.”

The words hit him like a brick.

He stumbles, just a step, breath breaking in his chest. A soft, pained sound escapes him, something between a whimper and a sob. He shakes his head once, tiny, like he doesn’t believe you.

You take another step forward and lower your voice, still loud enough to carry.

“This is your punishment. You’ll stay hard for the rest of the night, aching and needy, with no one touching you. No one helping you. You’ll feel every second of it, and you’ll thank me for the chance to learn your place.”

He tries to answer, but the words catch. His lips part and nothing comes out. His eyes glisten now, wet and wide, his face a wreck of frustration and shame. His chest rises in shallow, rapid breaths, the fight to hold it together unravelling right in front of you.

You don’t soften.

You don’t reach for him.

You just stand tall, composed, cold, and turn your body slightly toward the crowd again. Not directly at the man on the right. But you don’t need to.

The unsub is nearly vibrating where he stands. Red in the face. Clenching his jaw so tight it looks painful. Every time Spencer flinches, every time you twist the knife of denial deeper, the unsub’s rage coils tighter and tighter.

You’ve got him. Now all that’s left is leading him out.

You glance down at Spencer, taking in the flushed skin, the unsteady rise of his chest, the way he hasn’t stopped trembling since you pulled your hand away.

“Get dressed.”

His breath catches, but he obeys. Still hard. Still leaking. He reaches for his jeans first, and the second the denim brushes against his cock, he shudders like he’s been slapped. It’s too much. The heat of his skin, the wetness pressed into cotton, the heavy drag of denim over something raw and desperate.

He fumbles with the waistband, struggling to button them, and when he finally gets the zipper up, it presses in cruelly, caging him in heat and friction. A soft, helpless whimper slips past his lips. He bites it back too late.

You say nothing.

He moves slower with his shirt, like even the air is too much. Each button seems to take concentration, fingers shaking so badly he misses one and has to start again. He gets it closed, but his collarbone stays flushed, his cheeks stained red.

He doesn't meet your eyes.

You step closer, reach for him, and hook your finger through the D-ring of his collar. The silver glints faintly under the lights.

You don’t say a word. Just give a slow, deliberate tug.

He follows. Oblivious to the crowd now. A mess of arousal and humiliation trailing behind you with his head bowed.

As you lead Spencer from the stage, the crowd shifts with interest, not surprise. A few approving nods. A soft chuckle from somewhere in the back. One woman murmurs, “Cruel thing,” with something like admiration in her voice. Another dominant leans toward his own submissive, tilting their chin to whisper, “That’s how you break them properly.” There's heat in their attention, not shock—just hungry satisfaction. The kind that says you gave them exactly what they came to see.

The foyer is quieter now, the crowd thinning just slightly, giving the illusion of calm after the scenes inside. You keep your expression smooth as you unhook your finger from Spencer’s collar and move to the coat check. They hand over your coats without question.

Spencer slides his on with stiff movements, the fabric dragging across skin still flushed and oversensitive. You see him wince, but he doesn’t complain. Just lowers his head slightly, letting the collar stay visible.

You step out the front door together, heels clicking softly on the smooth stone as you make your way down the steps and across the paved path. The air is cool, brushing your exposed skin like a shock. Spencer follows close, obedient and quiet.

You unlock the car. The interior light glows warmly as Spencer slides into the passenger seat. His eyes are still wide, lips slightly parted like he’s struggling to come back to himself. You lean down to tuck his coat properly around him.

“Stay here,” you whisper.

He nods without question.

You grab your phone from the console, slipping it into your palm as you shut the car door behind you. Spencer stays seated inside, still quiet, still wrecked, the collar peeking from beneath his shirt. You don’t look at him again. Not yet.

You walk toward the edge of the lot, far enough from the house lights to make yourself vulnerable but not so far that the team will lose visual.

You don’t dial. You don’t speak. You just walk like you’re waiting for someone to pick up. Like this is just a call, nothing more.

Then he grabs you.

A hand clamped around your arm, the other at your waist, pulling you back into the trees before you can even react. Your heel slips, shoulder colliding with bark, the phone tumbling from your fingers.

“I should slit your fucking throat.”

His breath is ragged, reeking of sweat and cigarettes. His eyes gleam in the dark, wide and rabid.

“You think you’re powerful? Walking around like that. Making him beg. Like it means something. Like you’re better than me.”

He slams you harder into the tree, bark biting into your back.

“You’re a disease. You’re fucking poison. Females like you ruin everything.”

You try to move, but he’s stronger than he looks. His forearm crushes your collarbone. A knee drives between your thighs, locking you in place.

“I’ve seen them. The men you break. I’ve seen what they become. Hollow. Obedient. Nothing. You take everything from them, and they thank you for it.”

He’s not looking at you anymore. Not really. He’s not here. He’s speaking to someone else, some woman from his past, some memory twisted by years of resentment.

His hand flies up. Something flashes.

“Had him whimpering like a little bitch. Thought that made you queen of the fucking world? I want to see you cry for me now.” he hisses.

The blade gleams cold and sharp in the dark.

“FBI! Drop the weapon!”

Voices crack through the night. Footsteps thunder.

The unsub turns but only for a second.

That’s all Morgan needs.

He tackles him to the ground, slamming him into the pavement with a grunt. The knife scatters across the lot. Prentiss kicks it away while Rossi drops to one knee, yanking the unsub’s arms back into cuffs as he writhes and screams.

“You fucking bitch! You did this to me! All of you—every goddamn one of you! I was fine before you!”

Morgan digs his knee into the unsub’s back, shoving his face into the pavement.

“You’re done talking,” he growls.

The unsub keeps thrashing, eyes wild, veins bulging with rage.

“You think this changes anything? There’s a million more like me. A million more who see what you really are.”

Hotch crouches beside you, hand on your arm.

“You alright?”

You nod. Just once.

Behind him, Spencer’s still in the car. Frozen. Watching you like he stopped breathing.

Hotch gives a curt nod as Prentiss and Morgan secure the scene, then turns to you with sharp, unreadable eyes.

"You and Reid can head out. We'll finish up here."

You straighten, still catching your breath. "Sir?"

"You've done your part. Go get some rest."

His tone leaves little room for argument. It isn't warmth exactly. It's protocol. Detachment. But it's the closest thing to care you'll get from Hotch in a moment like this.

You nod.

"Yes, sir."

He turns away without another word, already barking quiet instructions to the agents nearby. No one follows you as you make your way back to the car.

You open the driver's side door first, then move around to the passenger.

Spencer is still where you left him. Eyes wide and unfocused, hands slack in his lap. He doesn't speak. He just watches you.

You crouch slightly, one hand braced on the open door, the other on his knee.

"Spence," you murmur. "We're going now, okay?"

He blinks slowly, then gives a small nod. Like he's surfacing. Like he's still half inside something he hasn't quite shaken loose.

You help guide him just enough to shift so you can buckle him in, fingers gentle but quick. He leans into it, faint and pliant, but says nothing.

You circle back around, slide into the driver's seat, and start the car. (Part 2)

[commit-arson-i-dare-you]

OH DAMN

[afreakforyautja]

Trapped (yautja x human)

Part 9

[So apparently you can’t post over 4.096 characters on a single post 😆 so tune in for the next part tomorrow 💚 Once more, I want to express how grateful I am for every single one of you who comment and show love to this story. You’re the best thing and can’t wait for your reactions on this one 🥰]

Read: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 💚

Tagging 💚: @celticsrightbuttcheek @shmoopah @kyriedesai @btsgangleader @legallyblindasian @ineffable-maniac02 @tea-drinking-nerd @umbralremedy @maemaymayo @fujistarrbytz @blushycadaver @lilly-main @jaxxyz @shylahjoy24 @spoopydidit @broken0verseer @lemonbl0od @bamtomio7597 @stupendousnightmaretrash @just-a-sewer-goblin

Faint sounds… distant shouts, maybe screams… a gunshot in the background.

Your body floated, weightless and with no direction, like you were being moved by something other than yourself.

You couldn’t feel anything. Only sound reached you.

Am I dead?

The thought drifted through your mind like a whisper. It didn’t come with panic, just a strange detachment. You tried to hold onto something familiar, something real. But nothing responded. You were trapped, somewhere between awareness and total darkness.

It felt like sleep paralysis.

Only deeper.

Only colder.

You tried to speak. Tried to breathe. But your lungs didn’t move. Your voice never came.

You weren’t sure if your mouth was even real anymore.

Am I dreaming?

You begged the void for an answer. But it didn’t answer, it never did.

So you stopped asking.

And in that silence… you found something like peace.

No more running.

No more bleeding.

No more pain.

Your body had fought beyond its limits. You were no warrior — not in the way others were — but the fight moulded you into one anyway. You had endured. That was enough.

It had to be.

And you found peace in that thought.

So you let go.

It was quiet.

And it was good.

No more chaos, no more alarms. Just this numb, soundless abyss where nothing could hurt you anymore.

And that, somehow, was mercy.

But then…

A flicker.

A tremor in your eye, twitching against the darkness.

Your thoughts confused, reluctant.

Wait… wasn’t it over?

Why were you still here?

Why was your mind still awake?

Still thinking?

Your lips trembled. You could feel them again.

Then your neck. Stiff and heavy.

Your back. A crawling ache starting at the spine and sinking into your hips.

Your stomach twisted.

Everything hurt.

Then came the fire.

Your hand was burning.

The kind of pain that doesn’t make sense at first, like your skin was in shock, melting and freezing all at once. It was unbearable.

You wanted to scream.

Stop. Please. Stop.

But your lungs heaved, dry and strained. One breath. Then another.

Your throat burned as you gasped, and when your eyes snapped open, light stabbed through them like knives.

You lurched upward.

Blurry and painful.

Everything was wrong, too loud, too bright.

You flinched at the hand that pressed you down, not sure if it meant harm or help.

You fought it, or at least tried to. But your limbs barely listened.

Somewhere, through the chaos and panic in your mind, a word came. The only word that made sense.

Keth’raal.

Over and over. That name.

Like your brain had chosen it as the only anchor left.

Keth’raal.

You tried to speak it. Call his name. Ask where he is.

But it slipped away.

And just like that, you were gone again.

Dragged under the weight of your broken body and mind.

The light blinked out.

And again — silence.

You shot upright with a gasp, as if emerging from deep water.

The air hit your lungs like knives again, but this time you welcomed it.

You blinked and gasped, looking around you.

The world was blurred at the edges, but it was there. You could feel it. Real. Tangible.

Pain throbbed beneath your skin like a reminder, but it was manageable.

You looked down, your hand was wrapped in layers of gauze. Sloppy, maybe, but careful enough to mean something.

Someone had tried.

The fingers on your damaged hand twitched. Barely. The tips stung but you could feel them.

Still yours.

Then your throbbing leg, bandaged too. The pain flared in your shin when you moved, but that meant it was still there. Still alive.

You weren’t dead.

But that begged a deeper, more terrifying question.

How?

You remembered falling beside him, not just collapsing but choosing to stop, because there was nothing else to give.

And now…

The thought came before you could even stop it.

Him.

Keth’raal.

Your breath caught, heart pushing violently against your chest.

Where was he?

Your eyes darted around the room, searching, frantic.

Was he captured? Left behind? Did he—

No. You couldn’t finish that thought.

Couldn’t even let the image form in your mind.

“Oh God, please no” you pressed your palms over your eyes, as the pain returned, sharp and blinding.

You hadn’t even said goodbye.

Not after everything.

You didn’t get to thank him, for protecting you when no one else did. For being the only one who stood between you and certain death.

He had given everything.

And something in you knew… it hadn’t just been about honour.

Your throat tightened.

A sob threatened to break loose, but you swallowed it down, muffling it against your hand.

It felt like something had been carved out of your chest.

You looked up.

The flickering ceiling lights caught your eye, and for a moment, the room started to look familiar again.

You were still in the facility.

Still in one of the labs.

But this one… it was far north, tucked into the coldest wing of the facility.

Why were you still here?

Was this some kind of personal hell?

Had you died after all, and this was it?

You tried to make sense of it, but the pain in your skull pulsed like static, blurring every thought before it could land.

You inhaled—through your nose —just as he had taught you. That first time you had panicked in front of him, breath hitching, frozen, wild-eyed… and he had shown you how to come back to yourself. One breath at a time.

You closed your eyes.

And there he was, your mind conjuring him, standing before you, whole and unbroken, silently watching.

His mandibles twitched with a familiar click, soft now, not threatening.

His eyes, always dark, glowed faintly with that strange green that somehow made him look gentle. Not human. Never that. But still—gentle.

His gaze had always changed when it found you. You had seen it.

The tension in his face, the sharp lines of his head, softened when you were near.

Even in silence, he looked at you this way.

And you could never quite define what you felt for him—not back then, not now.

It wasn’t simple. Wasn’t clear. Wasn’t anything human.

Because he wasn’t human at all.

What you shared wasn’t friendship, though there had been respect. A kind of recognition. You both offered help when it was needed, and maybe that was a kind of trust.

But it went deeper, stranger.

Even when he wasn’t using the translator, you understood him.

Even in the silence, something unspoken flowed between you.

It wasn’t romance.

And yet, it stirred something in your chest—something warm, magnetic.

The first time he stood close to you, you had felt it, like particles crashing together.

It wasn’t love. Not the kind you had grown up reading about.

It was something rawer. Something that went beyond language entirely.

It felt like belonging.

You had both been trapped in this cursed place.

Both prisoners.

And somehow, you found each other in the ruins of it.

You had pieced together the truth behind the facility long before it collapsed.

This wasn’t about peaceful contact or research, it never had been.

It was about control. Evolution through manipulation.

Humanity didn’t want to understand aliens, it wanted to use them. Enhance its soldiers. Build its weapons. Prepare for wars it intended to win.

And in that chase of power, it had created something it couldn’t contain.

The bioweapon that tore off Keth’raal’s arm, too fast, too strong, a beast that turned on its creators.

Evacuation protocols failed. Containment went under.

You guessed someone, reckless or terrified, had tried to return Keth’raal to his chamber and left it unlocked.

And maybe, by accident or instinct, that’s how he found you.

But no…

He hadn’t found you by chance.

He knew you. Your voice. Your scent. Something in you had pulled him close, something deeper than instinct.

And it wasn’t desire. It wasn’t attraction in the way people often meant it.

It was connection.

When he was near, you didn’t feel afraid.

Your body moved differently, faster, braver.

Pain dulled. Breath steadied.

You lived, in a way you hadn’t before.

Even caged, you felt free.

Like the universe had pushed him into your path, so you could fight beside him.

So you could share his burden.

So you could know him.

You sniffled, wiping at the corner of your eye with the back of your hand as a tear slipped free.

You had fought like hell to help him.

But in the end, you had failed.

And now that he was gone… it hurt more than you ever imagined.

Your sigh shivered in your chest, as tears trailed down your cheeks.

You stared up at the ceiling.

And then, slowly, closed your eyes.

The world went quiet again.

“Na’thek.”

You heard the low, guttural rumble echo through the air, and your eyes snapped open.

You turned your head sharply to the left and there he was.

Materializing before your eyes, rising out of the dim light like a ghost you had begged the universe to give back. For a second, you couldn’t breathe. Your palm flew to your mouth, muffling the gasp that escaped you. You didn’t want him to see you weak like this. But you wanted to fall apart. Wanted to leap off the bed, wrap your arms around him, and feel that he was alive. That he was real.

And… you did.

You didn’t wait. There was no time for hesitation anymore, not after everything. Time had become sacred, fragile, and you refused to waste even a second.

Your body ached as you pushed yourself upright with trembling arms. You knew your injured leg wouldn’t hold you, but you didn’t care. You shifted to the edge of the stretcher, used your good leg to throw yourself forward and crashed into him.

Your arms wrapped around his broad chest as your weight hit him, and you clung to him like a lifeline.

He stood still, unmoving under your hold.

His mandibles clicked in that strange pattern he always made when he didn’t quite understand your behaviour, but tolerated it anyway. His breath lifted his chest slowly, rising and falling against your cheek where you had buried your face. You pressed yourself tighter into him, refusing to let go. Not this time. Not now that you had found him again.

Your tears returned, warm and happy, soaking into his cold, scaly skin.

He was here. He was alive.

You didn’t even register the missing limb, the bruises, the scars. All that mattered was the pulse beneath your cheek, the scent you remembered, the sound of his breath.

And then, slowly, one of his arms shifted. He untangled it from your grip carefully. You lifted your head, not letting go but easing just enough to look at him.

His hand cupped the back of your head with odd gentleness, talons careful not to scratch, thumb dragging in cautious circles—like he was studying the motion, like affection was something new he was still trying to understand.

You stared up at him, and he looked down at you.

Words didn’t matter. Not right now. You both knew that.

His fingers slid now, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing faintly beneath the scar he had given you.

It was no longer just a mark of honour—it was a memory. Something shared between you.

A quiet piece of him that stayed with you.

“Ki’cte’ya,” he rasped, the word vibrating low in his throat. The sound was coarse, unfamiliar and yet you knew he spoke in his language.

You tilted your head, a silent question in your eyes.

His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb moving in slow circles. The heat of your skin met the coolness of his, and you felt your cheeks flush—not just from the touch, but from the way he looked at you. The way his presence wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” you whispered, barely audible, like saying it too loudly might fracture the moment. You were scared your closeness might break if you weren’t careful. Like it could disappear if you made a wrong move.

You knew well enough that the Yautja weren’t a species known for their affection. A hug like this might feel strange to him, maybe even like a challenge for dominance. But Keth’raal had always been different. Curious. Always eager to learn.

He had studied you just as carefully as you had studied him.

And you knew, without words, that he understood your touch meant safety and never harm.

He tilted his head again, the way he always did when something confused him. His claw traced the tears beneath your eye.

“Sometimes… humans cry when they’re happy too,” you explained, voice small, smiling faintly through the blur.

Your still-working hand rose slowly, hesitant about the contact you were about to make.

Your fingers trembled as they brushed against the single bead still clinging to one of his locks — the one that set him apart. That golden bead wasn’t just an adornment. It was a symbol. A reminder of freedom. A piece of the past he still carried. And you loved that about him, that something within him still resisted captivity. Still remembered.

Your thumb traced over the ridges of the bead. It felt foreign, yet somehow familiar. It gave him a sense of pride, of identity.

You knew — even though he never said it — that he cherished this tiny piece of gold.

As it meant belonging.

He had told you that when he woke up here, the only thing he remembered was you.

The rest of his past was a blur of violence and time.

Maybe it was the experiments. Maybe it was the brutal way he had been captured. Or maybe it was the guards, kicking and striking him while unconscious, simply because they could.

But this bead — someone had once placed it there with care. Someone he trusted.

It wasn’t rusty, but it was worn — old like a relic passed through time and pain.

He didn’t belong here, and he knew it. Somewhere out there, he had a home, a life, a name that meant something. And this bead was proof of that.

You didn’t know if his memories had returned since finding you. But you knew he was still fighting for freedom, for the right to reclaim what had been stolen from him.

You felt his gaze on you now, lingering on your hand. Watching, not with suspicion, but with curiosity. You were touching something sacred. His only reminder of who he was.

The golden bead was textured and cool beneath your touch. You rubbed it once more with your thumb, memorizing the shape of it before your hand slid lower, gently closing around the length of his lock.

His entire body went rigid.

It felt like he was holding his breath.

You remembered how aggressively he had reacted when you first touched his dreadlocks.

You hadn’t known why then. You still didn’t.

But now… now everything was different.

A deep, low rumble rose from his chest, a vibration that echoed into your bones.

You looked up at his face. Always unreadable.

But not now.

His eyelids were lowered. The sharp ridges of his face softened. The mask of aggression peeled back, revealing something else. Vulnerability. Maybe… even comfort.

He didn’t stop you this time.

“Na’kai,” he rasped, the sound rumbling through his throat, heavy with something you couldn’t name. It was a word you recognized, yet not the one he usually used for you.

Shorter. Different.

Intimate.

He had let you touch him where he was most sensitive.

And in doing so, you had earned his complete trust.

Not just as an ally.

Your eyes left the lock between your fingers and met his.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice soft, “for saving me.”

Reluctantly, you released the strand.

He seemed to nod, the soft purr in his chest fading as you let go.

His eyes opened fully now and he exhaled slowly, as if he could only now breathe again.

A strange tingle lingered over your fingertips. The reminder of a contact that had meant more than words ever could.

But you didn’t focus on that now.

You took a step back, heart sinking as you turned your eyes to the truth you had been avoiding.

You had felt it. You had known it.

But now, you had to look at it.

His body, once the epitome of strength, bore the aftermath of war now.

His face scratched, shoulders slashed, his thighs and knees bruised a deep shade of green.

But it was his arm that made your breath catch.

Gone.

The wound still sealed by the salve you had put on it.

It shimmered faintly, an odd blue hue glinting in the light. No blood. No oozing.

But he stood tall anyway.

No shame in his posture. No fear. Only pride.

He had survived. He had fought. And he had endured.

He had turned his back to the enemy once and had paid the price. A lesson learned.

You stared at the stump on his left arm, then down at your own ruined hand — the right one.

You raised it slightly in greeting, a crooked wave.

And he lifted his own damaged arm, mimicking your gesture.

Left and right. Mirror images of each other.

You were both broken.

But you were still standing.

You had a storm of questions spiraling through your mind, each one crashing into the next.

Was he the one who bandaged you?

How had he escaped the humans?

Did he carry you here?

But only one word left your lips.

“How?”

It felt too small—too simple—for everything racing through your head. But it was honest. It was all you could manage.

Keth’raal tilted his head at the question. It was vague, but he didn’t need more. He could hear your pulse and your nervous gulping. He knew confusion when it stared him down.

He glanced at his helmet first, then turned to walk toward it. You finally saw his back, damaged like the rest of him. More of his dreadlocks had been severed in battle, shorter now, uneven. But they weren’t bleeding. He must have used the salve.

You took two cautious steps backward, sitting on the stretcher to relieve the throbbing in your leg that was coming with every heartbeat.

He returned, slipping the mask over his face. The lights in its eyes blinked on. Then his hand gently rested on your shoulder, encouraging you to speak.

You stared at it. His touch wasn’t foreign, but it had never been quite like this. Maybe he pitied you. You were broken. Barely stitched back together after everything. But so was he, just as broken, if not more.

Your gaze found the line etched across his mask again—the one he had confessed was left by his own brothers in a sparring match. You lifted a hand, your index finger tracing it slowly, eyes soft and distant. Trying to find the right words. Trying to hold onto this fleeting moment.

“How?” you asked again, quieter this time. “How did you do it? I thought… we were both gone.”

The mask tilted as his hand slid from your shoulder. He lifted it to your face slowly, carefully. His thumb touched just beneath your brow. A shallow cut. You flinched as he tapped it once. Twice.

Then finally spoke, the mechanical voice from his mask almost gentle.

“I hid us under my cloak. Because of you… I didn’t bleed out. The humans never saw us.”

You remembered the blur, the chaos the voices in the distance, the weight of someone carrying you. That must have been then.

His thumb, now tinged with your blood, rose to the line on his mask. He pressed it there, your blood over the scar left by his own kind.

Your breath hitched.

What was this?

Another ritual?

He rubbed the blood into the old mark, like he wanted it to stay. To linger. A part of him now.

“Keth’raal—” you whispered, reaching up, your fingers just grazing his mask, until a loud sound cracked through the silence.

You flinched.

Both your heads turned toward the door.

“Come with me,” the voice said through the mask, thick with urgency.

You blinked at him, the noise still ringing in your ears.

“What?” your voice faltered.

He didn’t move. Just stared at you, still, silent, waiting. Maybe listening to the panic spiking in your chest.

Your skin flushed. Not just with fear, but something deeper. A growing pressure in your ribs, like a thought you didn’t want to name.

“I can’t—” you began, already shaking your head.

But he interrupted you, cutting through the hesitation like he could read it before you voice it.

“Why?”

His head tilted again, curious. Sincere.

You scoffed softly, trying to joke, even though your hands were trembling. “Do you see me? I wouldn’t last a second in your world.”

His response silenced you.

“That wound on your shoulder… is from a human.”

You looked at your arm.

He was right.

That bullet had torn through you without hesitation, without warning. From someone meant to be on your side.

“I can’t fight forever,” you muttered, letting your head drop. The ache in your bones felt permanent now. Your body begged you to stop, to just stop.

“I’m not built for this.”

“You think we only fight?” he asked, his voice lower now, quieter.

You looked up.

That… wasn’t what you expected him to say.

“And how do you think we reproduce?”

He shifted, weight moving to his other leg, the stance casual, but still looming.

You stared at him. Did he just—?

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Was he smirking under that mask?

You knew it was impossible.

But it felt like it.

“We have a life,” he continued, as though he saw your disbelief and chose to keep going. “We don’t just hunt.”

You felt heat crawl up your neck, a tension tightening your throat.

“You don’t have to fight,” he said, lifting his chin up. The same way he always did when he felt sure of himself.

You had picked up on his patterns. How he moved. How he expressed himself without words. Measured and minimal, never wasting energy or time.

But still, there was so much there, beneath the surface.

He was reckless and careful. Proud and watchful. Guarded and raw.

A complete paradox.

“I—” you started again, looking at the floor now. Blood stained the tiles—his blood. Still fresh.

“What if they attack me first?” you asked, your voice nearly lost.

He moved again, subtly. His hand hovered near the stump of his missing arm. Maybe it throbbed. Maybe he still hadn’t completely registered it was missing. You would never know.

“You fight back,” he said.

Three simple words.

But they hit harder than anything else that night.

You looked up at him again.

He believed in you. That much was obvious now. Not because he said it, but because he didn’t need to.

He had fought for you, over and over. Put himself between you and death again and again.

He had chosen you, the moment he woke.

“What if I can’t…” you whispered, looking down at your fidgeting hands. Skin bruised. Nails cracked. Just human.

“If you can’t, I will.”

Your breath caught.

You blinked at him, stunned.

That wasn’t a promise. It was a fact. A vow wrapped in reassurance.

You swallowed hard, the weight of it sinking in.

He would fight for you. Had always fought for you. And you—somewhere along the way—had started fighting for him too.

You had feared death your whole life. The void. The unknown.

But with him standing this close, you didn’t think of dying.

You thought of surviving.

“I don’t fear death,” he said, as if to echo your thoughts.

And you believed him.

You always had.

But now your chest ached.

Not because of the pain. Not even because of the fear.

Because you finally understood what you were most afraid of.

Not death.

Not pain.

But losing him.

And that fear had rooted itself so deeply, you hadn’t even noticed it growing.

Whatever this was—whatever bond fate had wrapped around the two of you—it wasn’t just survival anymore.

He had saved your life.

But you… had saved his too. Even if it had taken this long to see it.

“I would die for you.”

Your mouth fell open, unable to contain the gasp that escaped your lips.

His words struck you like the fine edge of a knife—not painful at first, but still making you bleed the most.

Your eyes burned, your jaw clenched, holding back the tears now threatening to fall. Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms, trembling as you looked at him.

He hadn’t moved.

He meant it.

All of it.

He would sacrifice his life—not just for honor, not for duty—but for you.

And deep down, you knew it wasn’t just because you had saved him. It wasn’t repayment.

He would do it for the bond you shared—the one neither of you could name. For the strange, inevitable pull that had tied your lives together from the moment you met.

And you knew the truth.

You would do it, too.

You already had—sacrificing your own hand—just for a chance that he might survive.

And you would do it again.

“I would too,” you murmured. First to yourself. Then, louder, to him. Your eyes unfocused, your gaze locked to the floor as thoughts churned through your head like a storm you couldn’t stop.

“I know,” he said.

His remaining hand reached for you—resting lightly on your head, fingers sliding to your jaw to tilt your face upward. Slowly.

“Come with me,” he said again.

But this time… it felt different. He meant it. He truly meant it.

You stared at his mask—the way your blood had dried, oxidized over that fine scar etched across it. A mark stained forever.

Yes. Say yes. Just say it.

A voice screamed inside your head.

You wanted to go with him.

You didn’t want to return to this lab—to the cold, sterile cage that had nearly destroyed you. You didn’t deserve this life. This prison.

You would do anything to escape it.

Even die in the process.

Your hand moved to his, guiding it over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into the touch like it was the last warmth left in the world.

But then, quietly… you shook your head. No.

You weren’t strong enough. You didn’t belong in his world.

His kind didn’t accept the damaged.

If he was damaged, it probably meant honor.

If you were damaged, it meant useless.

You were nothing but dead weight. A risk. A weakness he couldn’t afford.

His need to protect you would only lead him closer to death. If you hadn’t been in the battle… if you hadn’t needed saving… maybe he would still have both arms.

You were the reason he would die.

And you couldn’t live with that.

You needed him alive.

Your soul wouldn’t rest unless you knew he was safe.

Your eyes blinked open as his hand withdrew. You looked up, and even without seeing his expression behind the mask—you knew.

He was angry.

Why hadn’t his words been enough?

Why couldn’t you believe him?

He was frustrated. Not with you—but with the weight of everything he couldn’t fix. With your fear. Your silence.

“Why?” he asked at last. “You’re just as afraid of humans as you are of aliens.”

He was right. But that wasn’t the reason you couldn’t go with him.

You weren’t afraid of him.

You were afraid for him.

“I can’t,” you said softly, forcing a crooked, apologetic smile.

You couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, your eyes dropping to the floor.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

His silence said everything.

But time was slipping between your fingers, fast and unforgiving. You could feel it. Hear it. The humans would be here soon and this time, he wouldn’t escape.

This time, they wouldn’t let him live.

“Please, you need to go,” you begged, voice shaking, low, like you didn’t want to say the words at all.

You kept your gaze down. You didn’t want to see his reaction.

But you knew… it would all be over once he realized you meant it.

“Please…” you said again, barely audible.

Your chest ached. Your heart twisted in your ribs. The thought of never seeing him again felt like the final blow after all you had been through. After everything you had survived together. To be torn apart now?

You had always known it would end like this.

You just hoped it wouldn’t hurt this much.

You had grown to care for him, in ways you never thought possible. Somewhere along the line, survival became something more.

You couldn’t deny it.

But now, you had to.

His feet remained rooted. His stance unshaken.

You glanced up, trying to understand. Confused and desperate.

“You need to go,” you said again, louder.

“Humans are coming. You need to escape,” you said, your voice breaking as frustration took hold.

Still, he didn’t move.

He reached for a lab chair, dragging it across the floor with a loud scrape, placing it in front of you and sat down.

“What are you— You don’t understand?” you snapped, voice rising. “They’re coming! You need to run!”

“What are you doing?” you cried, already halfway off the stretcher, ready to grab him and shove him out of the lab if you had to.

“I’m making a decision,” he said.

His voice was calm. Certain. The lights in his mask glowed softly, unshaken by your panic.

“What?” you asked, heart pounding.

“I’m staying.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief and then fury.

You couldn’t believe the stubborn creature fate had dropped into your life.

You wanted to scream. Fight him. Drag him out by force.

But his words echoed through your mind.

“I’m staying.”

You couldn’t help it.

You thought of his name.

Keth’raal.

The one who watched and decided to stay.

Was it a coincidence?

Or had he given himself that name—after choosing to stay behind?

You remembered him saying he didn’t recall anything when he first woke up.

What if he had forgotten his name?

What if he chose that name—because of you?

What if… you were the reason he called himself that at all?

You bit your tongue, the thought crashing into you like a wave you couldn’t escape.

So many possibilities. All of them painful.

“Keth’raal,” you whispered.

His name fell from your lips like a plea.

“Please… just go. They’ll kill you. I can’t protect you.”

“I’m begging you,” you said, as tears slipped down your cheeks.

He stiffened, his body instinctively reacting to your broken voice.

But he didn’t move.

He had made a decision.

It wasn’t up for negotiation.

“Let them come.”

He sounded young. Reckless.

“You can’t kill everyone,” you snapped. “They’ll get you.”

“Then I’ll get caught.”

“Is that what you want?” you cried. “You craved freedom a second ago and now you’re staying here to die?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His silence was the answer.

The noise outside grew louder—boots on tile, voices echoing.

Your mind was a chaos, your body hurt.

And the worst part was…

You didn’t want to survive this time.

Not without him.

[commit-arson-i-dare-you]

I’m actually going insane over this series oh my GOD

[reidingafterdark]

S.R. MDNI +18 munch!spence as demanded! switch!spence leaning dom here, but sub!spencer is right around the corner <3 gn

It happened before you could blink. First Spencer walked through the door after a long case, dropped his bags on the ground and only turned to shut and lock the door before he was gripping you, walking you backwards until you were in the bedroom, back landing against the mattress. "Spence-" you gasp, watching him as he begins un buttoning your pants, yanking them down your legs with a soft "Fuck," under his breath. He pushes your legs open, hooks his hands under your thighs and yanks you towards him at the edge of the bed. He keeps your legs spread, nose brushing against your soaked underwear as he inhales deeply, fingers digging into your flesh. "Fuck," he lets out shakily, pressing his nose a little closer to your core, inhaling again. "Missed this scent," he murmurs, mouth hot against your inner thigh. You're writhing already, but he wastes no time, freeing you from your underwear in favor of replacing it with his tongue, licking a fat stripe up your folds, groaning as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking lightly. He flattens his tongue out, swirling it around the sensitive bud until your hips are pushing up, moans spilling from your lips. He pins down your waist with his forearm, sucking harsher against the bundle of nerves. Your hand flies down to his curls, gripping them as your back arches, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. "Taste so good," he murmurs, taking a moment to breathe before he dives back in, drawing a pattern against your clit with his tongue that quickly has pressure building up inside of you. His mouth is hot, wet and perfect against your most sensitive spots. The pleasure is building quickly, and you attempt to slightly squirm away, worried as you feel that familiar pee-urge that indicates you're about to squirt. "Spence-" He growls. Actually growls, fingers digging into your skin as he yanks you closer, your legs going over his shoulders as his arms wrap around your thighs. "Give it to me," he commands, licking upward before sucking again. There's no chance of holding it back this time, and you feel liquid pulse out of your already dripping wet heat. Spencer doesn't waste a drop, desperately catching every last drop on his tongue, not easing up even after you've cum. His mouth stays hot on you. As you come down from your high, his whimpers suddenly pick up, and his body shudders as he starts begging into your cunt. It's not until he finally exhales, head falling against your thigh that you realize what's happened. "Did you just cum?" He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his cock twitch. "Yes," he pants. "Fuck," you throw your head back. "That's so hot." He chuckles softly against your thigh, giving it a kiss before hauling himself up beside you.

[afreakforyautja]

Trapped (yautja x human)

Part 8

[CHAPTER WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT]

(And now that the warning is out of the way, I want to thank everybody who has liked, commented and given feedback on the story 💚 it means everything to me! Looking forward to your reactions on this one)

Read: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Part 6 | Part 7 💚

Tagging 💚: @celticsrightbuttcheek @shmoopah @kyriedesai @btsgangleader @legallyblindasian @ineffable-maniac02 @tea-drinking-nerd @umbralremedy @maemaymayo @fujistarrbytz @blushycadaver @lilly-main (tumblr didn’t let me tag some of you guys I’m sorry 🫠)

You stood right beside him, eyes locked on the dark expanse of the lab ahead, where that echoing sound had come from, distant and unmistakably threatening. The air hung heavy again, thick with the kind of silence that presses against your chest, waiting to be broken by something worse than before.

You knew this wasn’t going to end easily.

There was always a bigger threat. And you had felt it in your bones since the alarm first screamed to life. Since that moment, you were always running, dodging from one unseen horror to another. Like all the other creatures in this cursed lab, you had just been trying to survive. You stumbled upon them, collided with them by accident, but always because something else, something worse, was coming.

And now… it was here.

You sensed Keth’raal shift beside you. It was subtle, a minor realignment of weight, but you felt it. He didn’t move, didn’t rush in. Not out of fear, no. You caught the reason quickly.

He was waiting for you.

You.

Not the fragile human who had once flinched at the sound of their own breath inside the sterilized lab, but the one who stood beside him now, blooded and marked. Equal in name and action. You were no longer just a survivor, you were someone he trusted to endure.

And… you had changed.

You never thought your life would intertwine with something like him. A Yautja, a predator. But then again, nothing about your life had gone the way it was supposed to. You were meant to work in xenobiology, to study organisms and take readings. You weren’t meant to form a bond with one of them. But that’s what happened anyway.

Your mind drifted off, too afraid to stay in the present and face the horror. You found yourself back in old memories. Memories of him. Your only ally.

Working on Keth’raal had become routine at some point, familiar. They always assigned you to him. Every day. There wasn’t a single shift you hadn’t checked his vitals, extracted blood, collected dermal samples. Always with care. Always with a part of yourself hoping he didn’t feel like another caged animal.

You couldn’t remember your first day at the lab clearly, your mind had pushed it somewhere far back, too loud and painful to relive. But you remembered the creatures you had worked on. Every one of them. The neomorph with translucent flesh that shimmered under lights, the river ghost with its uncanny exoskeleton. And him. Keth’raal.

You could never forget him.

Not with the distinct green shades blooming across his chest, his skin like a forest at dusk. Natural, wild, alive. His presence had stayed with you.

But what had marked him most in your memory wasn’t just his biology. It was the single golden bead threaded through one of his dreadlocks. A deep-colored talisman, worn and solid. You had seen the guards remove everything else from the others, every token, every relic, crushed under pliers or torn away without care.

But not that bead.

Maybe it was too strong, or maybe someone simply didn’t think it was worth the trouble. Either way, it remained. And with that, he became identifiable. Distinct. You could always tell when it was him, when they wheeled him into your lab, unconscious and bound. You never forgot his face. His shape. His presence.

You always apologized. Every time. For every needle. For every scan. For every moment he spent in that cold, artificial room.

And he had heard you.

You knew he had.

Because when he saw you again, free, unarmed, exposed, he didn’t attack. He had remembered your voice. He never saw you as a threat.

Another memory came back to you now, clearer than most. A particularly bad day. You had been on the verge of walking out. Out of the contract, the lab, everything. You were sick of being owned by a line of unread fine print. That day, you had been reckless. Distracted. Barely functioning.

You remembered extracting blood from Keth’raal’s arm, and for a split second, you had misjudged the pressure, pierced deeper than you wanted.

“Shit,” you muttered, the vial nearly slipping from your gloved fingers.

Blood surged faster than it should have, running dark down his forearm.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” you panicked, fumbling with gauze, pressing your palm over the broken vein. You lifted his arm quickly, applying pressure in all the ways you had been trained to.

“Please stop bleeding,” you whispered, voice trembling. It was silly, saying it out loud, but you meant it. You had already felt guilty every day. You didn’t want to hurt him—not him. Not someone who had bled far more than you could possibly understand.

Then— he twitched.

His head jerked, just slightly.

Your whole body froze.

The chill spread down your spine like a shot of ice. Was it a natural reflex? Or had you just stirred him awake?

You couldn’t tell. You slowly lowered his arm again, eyes locked on him, unblinking. Every breath was tight in your chest, as you took him in.

Of all the aliens, he had always felt closest to you. Not just in proximity, but in… something else. You didn’t even have the word for it.

And maybe that’s why you hadn’t screamed or bolted when you first saw him, standing, staring at you before the xenomorph attacked. You should have collapsed in fear. But you didn’t. Because something in you had already known him. Recognized him, not just as a subject, but something familiar.

But something still didn’t make sense.

You wondered now, how had he ended up so close to your lab in the first place?

His glass chamber was far from yours. If escape was the goal, he should have gone the opposite way. North, toward the docking systems. Toward freedom.

But instead… he ended up outside your lab door.

And you weren’t sure if it was by accident.

You made a mental note to ask him—later.

If there was a later.

Suddenly, his arm brushed your shoulder, a light, intentional touch that shattered the bubble of your daydream. The past dissolved, leaving you standing again in the suffocating darkness of the lab. Your breath caught for a moment as you focused on the vast blackness ahead, the unknown threat lurking just beyond the shadows.

But… maybe there wouldn’t be time later for the questions burning in your mind.

You turned, gripping Keth’raal’s wrist and pulling him down to your height, the urgency in your pulse demanding. Your face leaned in slowly, nuzzling the side of his head, fingers threading gently through the thick strands of his dreadlocks. You felt the subtle tension beneath your touch, a silent warning that these weren’t just hair, they were sensitive, a part of him you were only beginning to understand.

You expected resistance, maybe a sharp recoil or a warning growl like usual. But instead, Keth’raal froze, still as stone, like you had broken a fragile boundary and he was holding his breath now, waiting for your next move.

Your lips hovered near the hidden ear tucked within the dark tangle of his hair. “How did you find me?” you whispered, voice soft. You felt him shift away, just slightly, like the closeness of your lips was more than he could bear. You pulled back a little, giving him space. But now it was your turn to study him, head tilted in quiet confusion.

Because something didn’t add up.

Not anymore.

Not after everything.

Was this some twisted form of payback for what you’d done to him in the lab? Some kind of long, calculated vengeance?

Or was it… something else?

He looked at you, and you wished — just for a second — that you could see through the mask. Not because it would give you all the answers, but because you were starting to recognize the way he held himself. That strange blend of alien and familiar.

The way he sometimes felt… almost human.

He tilted his head slightly, a mirror of your own gesture and you swore he was studying you the same way you studied him. Like he was the one asking you the questions now.

Why now, his body seemed to ask.

Why questions… now, of all times?

A nervous laugh nearly bubbled up your throat. What the hell were you doing?

Right before facing death, standing in the dark, with your heart pounding and danger closing in?

Ah. Right.

You were stalling.

Your body betrayed you.

Face flushed. Hands trembling. Breath shallow.

You were afraid.

And, of course, Keth’raal noticed.

He always noticed.

Something bloomed in your chest. Painful and warm, like grief and safety tangled together. Because no matter how strange this all was, somewhere deep down, you knew.

He would fight death itself for you.

“Your smell,” came the answer, unexpected, distorted and rough through his mask.

You blinked.

For a second, everything just… slowed.

He what?

He had followed your scent? He remembered it? And that was enough for him to track you, through all of this?

Your brain struggled to keep up.

You stared at him like you couldn’t understand what he was anymore.

“Why?” you asked without expecting an answer. Not really knowing what to do with one, even if it came.

Silence stretched between you, you could only hear your breathes mingle with one another.

He clenched and unclenched his hand around his weapon, like a nervous tick. So painfully human.

You found yourself mimicking it, like it might ground you.

“Because you were the only thing I remembered.”

Your face… it burned hotter now, a fire in your gut twisting like restless butterflies fighting inside you.

It wasn’t a confession of love, not that kind of warmth. It was something rawer, painful. The thought that this creature—captured and experimented on—had woken lost, disoriented and yet somehow found his way to you, it filled you with a mix of sadness and awe.

No matter what…

He still chose you.

He trusted your scent. Your voice. The echo of who you were when he was powerless.

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t possibly find words right now. No words could describe what you were feeling.

And as if sensing your thoughts, he added lower now, almost inaudible.

“Your voice was always gentle.”

Your throat tightened. Because you always knew it.

It wasn’t just your scent he’d followed.

It was the apologies whispered when you thought he couldn’t hear.

The guilt. The regret. The way you spoke like he was still a person, not a specimen.

If you hadn’t talked to yourself while working…

He might have never come for you.

You looked at him , while he stared ahead, alert, still. His body coiled, ready to move. His focus was on the threat, but yours… yours was on him.

He had spoken more now than ever before.

And each word peeled away a piece of the mystery he was.

Your heart raced, and for a moment all you wanted was to reach for him, touch his shoulder, his hand—anything— to prove he was really here. That he had chosen to be here.

You didn’t know if he was avoiding your gaze or simply preparing for what was coming.

There wasn’t time to figure it out anyway.

You heard a crack at the far end of the lab.

Keth’raal’s grip tightened around his weapon. His arm tense.

He still didn’t aim, didn’t fire his plasma gun. He was protecting your position. Shielding both of you in silence.

You tried to steady your breath, mind spinning.

This is it.

“Stay alive and if you can’t, run.” Keth’raal’s voice was low, edged with a weight that made the words feel like a command.

“There’s no honour in that.” you half-joked, feeling your knees weaken as you matched his stride.

His head snapped slightly, just enough to glance at you.

“Then don’t be honourable,” he shot back, his tone sharp, almost a snarl beneath the mask.

He was already moving into the dark.

“I’m blooded, remember?” you said, forcing a smile. “I can’t do that.”

You walked beside him, blade clenched tight in your grip. The air between you tensed. Not with hatred, never that, but frustration. He knew what you were doing.

You were scared.

And you were covering it with bravado—unsuccessfully.

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. Even with the mask’s translator, he guarded his thoughts like they were sacred. He only spoke when it mattered.

A metallic sound scraped across the floor ahead. Loud, piercing, alien.

Your feet froze. Your body refused to move, desperately wanting to run instead of fighting.

But Keth’raal didn’t stop.

He kept walking, straight toward the sound.

Always ready to die with honour.

You swallowed hard.

Your mind screamed at you to turn around.

Run.

Hide.

There’s still time.

But your body moved forward anyway, helplessly, like it no longer belonged to you.

Is this what foolishness feels like? Knowing the bad ending… and choosing it anyway?

The deeper you went, the more the shadows devoured you.

Your eyes strained, struggling to adjust.

He didn’t have that problem, you knew that. His infrared vision cut through this darkness like a blade.

You noticed him shifting now, going left, moving slightly in front of you.

The danger had changed positions. And so did he.

He had seen it.

And without a word, he stepped between you and it.

He had told you to run if it got too much, but he never pushed you to leave the fight. The mark beneath your cheek wasn’t just a scar, it was trust, respect. He treated you as an equal, but always kept an eye on you.

Another sound sliced through the dark.

Metal on metal, like blades scraping together, throwing sparks into the air.

Closer now.

Much closer.

On your left.

Exactly where he had gone.

You tugged your shirt now, fingers twitching with nerves, the other hand clenched so tightly on your blade your knuckles whitened.

Then he suddenly stopped.

And you did too.

He turned slightly, enough that you could make out the faint glint of his mask. His eyes lit for just a second, then dimmed.

His finger rose to where his mouth should be.

A quiet hush.

Then he vanished.

Gone.

Like mist.

You stared at the spot where he had been.

Your heart jumped into your throat, caught there.

He wouldn’t leave you.

Not like this.

Not now.

You pressed your palm over your mouth to hold in the panic.

You trusted him. You had to.

“Better have a damn plan” you whispered under your breath, heart hammering.

Were you bait? Maybe. Would he really leave you to die? Unlikely.

Another scrape echoed, louder, sharper.

You stayed still, cringing at the sound but never backing away.

Then it screamed.

A high, wet screech that sent every cell in your body into retreat.

It wasn’t just the sound.

It was the wrongness of it.

It was like something had taken the scream of a xenomorph and twisted it.

Deeper.

Hungrier.

More… aware.

And it came from above.

You looked up, just as the flickering light buzzed to life for a fraction of a second and what you saw made your soul jump in fear.

It was taller than anything you had faced. Towering, hunched, unnatural.

But what stopped you cold were the blades.

Its claws weren’t claws. They were weapons. Bone-forged, curved and serrated, like it had grown to kill. Like it was only natural for it to attack.

You took a step back, throat dry.

“What the fuck…” you breathed, too low for anyone to hear but yourself.

You had never seen this creature before. Never examined it. Never heard a whisper of it in any file, any report, any careless conversation in the lab.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t trapped in here.

You were trapped here with it.

It hadn’t seen you yet.

Its head shifted, like it was tracking something… invisible.

Him.

You had one chance.

Its left side faced you.

So you moved, slowly, deliberately.

One step.

Two…

Three—

It screamed again.

And charged.

The entire floor shook as it sprinted toward you, its footsteps thunderous, primal.

You bolted, blade still clutched, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

You didn’t dare to look back.

You just ran.

The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, like a nightmare.

Your limbs felt slow, too small to escape what hunted you.

And death… was close. You could feel it behind you.

Then, all at once…

A crash.

A scream.

You turned just in time to see the creature, slammed against the wall, a spear impaled through its chest.

You stumbled into the exit door, shoving it open.

Light flooded in, cold and sterile, the kind of light that usually meant safety.

But not this time.

You turned back just as it moved.

The beast didn’t die.

It twitched , then slashed, breaking the spear shoved in its chest like it was nothing.

Its claws gleamed.

You choked on your own breath.

Terror curling deep in your gut.

This thing…

How were you supposed to survive that?

It stood now, towering—even taller than Keth’raal—balanced on its two hind legs with grotesque grace.

Its body seemed to pulse with violence, shoulders rising and falling with each breath like a living weapon itching to be unleashed.

It flexed its talon-blades, then let out a piercing, guttural screech, not a mindless shriek, but a taunt. A challenge.

Keth’raal answered it in kind.

He uncloaked without hesitation, emerging from the shadows.

His staff was shattered, split clean in half. No time to mourn it. He reached for his other weapons: wrist blades, shurikens , plasma caster.

The dance had begun.

They moved in circles, slow side steps at first, reading each other. Measuring. You could only watch, paralyzed, as two monsters, one bred for war, the other born of nightmare, stalked each other in the dark.

You thought of running. Maybe distracting the creature. Maybe buying time.

But you knew it wasn’t that simple. If you moved, Keth’raal’s attention might split and one misstep could leave either of you bleeding out in this cursed lab.

And then, it saw you.

The creature’s black, glistening head twitched slightly in your direction, and you felt it.

That weightless feeling in your chest, like your soul had just tried to slip out.

Keth’raal reacted instantly.

He recklessly threw himself toward it, but the creature was faster, impossibly fast, leaping over him like a shadow and landing with thunderous weight in front of you.

Your mind screamed the word.

RUN.

RUN.

But you didn’t. You stayed. Just long enough. Long enough to give Keth’raal a window.

Maybe it would be enough. Maybe—

It wasn’t.

It reached you. A blur of claws and wrath. You raised your blade, too small for what faced you and then came the pain. Pure and unforgiving.

The xenomorph’s tail lashed out like a whip, it struck your side, knocking the breath from your lungs before you could even scream.

Pain flared hot as your body twisted from the impact, but instinct kicked in.

You grabbed the tail.

Not out of strategy, just survival. Your fingers clamped down on its slick, ridged surface as it dragged you with it, hurling you like dead weight across the lab.

Your back slammed into the wall.

The world blinked out for a second and then the floor rose to meet you.

The sound your leg made when it hit was unforgettable. A sickening crack, sharp and deep like a branch snapped by a foot.

Your scream tore through the lab. Not threatening. Not brave. Just raw pain.

You grabbed at your leg, sobbing through clenched teeth. You couldn’t move it. Couldn’t feel it. You only felt that hot, white agony blooming across your thigh and knee.

But then — a roar.

Not from you this time.

Keth’raal.

You turned your head just in time to see him slam into the creature like a meteor. He wrapped around it, blades out, stabbing again and again. Relentless. Furious.

He didn’t sound like the warrior you knew. He sounded like something deeper. Something older. A primal thing screaming through him.

The creature thrashed and shrieked, acidic blood spraying in thick gouts and some of it landed on Keth’raal’s armor, hissing, smoking, melting.

You tried to scream a warning “Take it off!” but your voice broke before the words could form.

Instead, pain drowned you again.

You tried to move your ankle and it twitched. A tiny, useless hope sparked in your chest. Not a clean break maybe. Just shattered enough to keep you down.

You felt eyes on you.

Oh God… not again.

The creature — still alive — crawling toward you.

You watched, frozen. The light from the corridor behind you caught its form as it dragged itself upright.

It was hideous. Worse than any xenomorph you had ever seen. Taller. Thicker. Its claws longer than your forearm. And its face…

God, its face. It had no expression, and yet it looked hateful.

It stumbled toward you, faster than it should have.

Keth’raal was down behind it, missing some of his armour and struggling to get up.

You tried to crawl, dragging your useless leg behind you. Each movement lit your nerves on fire, but you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

You cursed aloud, your blade trembling in your grip as you turned to face it.

“If I’m dying,” you muttered, “I’m dying fighting.”

You gritted your teeth, let out a choked yell and held your blade up as the thing rushed you. You swung it in blind desperation, hoping for skin, hoping to draw blood.

Until the creature knocked the blade out of your hand…

And then chaos again.

An echoing thud. Keth’raal had grabbed it from behind, wrapping it in a brutal lock, dragging it down to the floor with him.

He pinned it, legs locked around its thighs, arms restraining its limbs. A dead man’s hold. Not to kill. To stall.

He didn’t roar this time. He just breathed, heavy, strained, furious.

And then he looked at you.

Run.

He didn’t need to say it. You felt it.

You pushed yourself up with trembling arms, your shin screaming with every inch.

Just a few more steps. You could make it. You could leave.

You could survive.

But…

You didn’t.

Of course you didn’t.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your blade again and hobbled toward the chaos, dragging your ruined leg.

You saw the way Keth’raal looked at you, even through the mask.

He knew.

He should have known.

You apologised to him— internally—for disobeying him.

But you were blooded after all.

You weren’t going to run away.

You leapt, falling onto the creature, driving your blade down with everything you had, but missing the stomach where you aimed. You caught the leg instead, pushing the blade in. You didn’t dare to pull it out.

You scrambled away before the acidic spray could touch you.

“MOVE! LET IT GO!” you cried.

Keth’raal didn’t hesitate. He kicked the beast off of him and rolled away in a fluid motion.

Then with a screech, the creature rose again, relentless.

Keth’raal let out a roar as the xenomorph climbed back to its feet. He aimed his plasma gun and fired, once, twice. The first hit landed, burning into the creature’s side. It staggered but kept going. Your stab had barely slowed it down.

Another blast rang out. The xenomorph hissed and then ran again.

It was heading straight for him.

Keth’raal didn’t move. He stood, blades out, grounded like stone. Ready. Death didn’t scare him. Regret did. Honour mattered more.

But then… he did the unthinkable.

He reached up and removed his mask.

With a growl that shook your bones, he hurled it across the room towards you.

It landed beside you and you stared at it, stunned.

You had reached the wall. You were right next to the door. You could leave. Survive. Escape.

But the mask beside you said otherwise.

Keth’raal had made a choice.

And now so would you.

You pulled yourself up, using the wall like a lifeline.

The helmet wasn’t far.

If you were going to live with no regrets, you had to wear it. Help him. Not because he needed you, Keth’raal was fighting like a monster unleashed, but because something in you refused to die a bystander.

Each step was a war. But you moved. You had to.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you reached the mask, just as Keth’raal was slammed against the wall with a force that echoed through the room. He crumpled to the floor, grunting in pain.

He was still standing, but barely.

Neon blood painted the floor, the walls, him. He was covered in it, shoulders, chest, legs, bleeding from wounds big and small, death creeping closer with every drop.

You weren’t much better. Knees bloodied, face torn, leg fractured. Every movement was survival carved into bone.

And the mutated nightmare? Untouched by exhaustion. Your blade still stuck in its leg like an afterthought. It fought like it couldn’t feel a thing.

Your mind threatened to crack… but didn’t.

Because somewhere in that second, clarity hit. You grabbed the helmet, slammed it on, and chose to fight.

The mask synced with your vitals, scanning everything—Keth’raal, the xenomorph, the air, the blood on your skin. It struggled to register the mutation, its data on the creature was scrambled, incomplete. But you could see what mattered… where it hurt.

You tapped at the interface, desperate to activate something, anything. You didn’t know how he used this thing, you didn’t care. You focused on the alien and shouted, “FIRE, DAMN IT!”

The gun roared.

The blast went off beside you— too close—sending you stumbling, the sound tearing through your skull. But when you looked up, the xenomorph shrieked.

You had hit it…

Keth’raal used that second, rising, grabbing the jagged end of his broken staff and driving it into the xenomorph’s ribs with a brutal snarl.

“Fire!” you yelled again, locking onto the target.

The gun obeyed, but this time, it clipped him too.

Keth’raal dropped, rolling to his side, body and dreadlocks soaked in green. He crawled away, panting, his body trembling. The xenomorph was still standing, wounded, furious, but alive.

Keth’raal let out another roar, but it was strained. He was running on fumes.

You stepped forward, firing the gun again. And again. Your eardrums violated by the blasting sound. You didn’t stop until the creature turned to face you.

That was the point. You wanted its rage. Its attention.

Keth’raal got it.

He launched a disc, slicing deep into the beast, then leapt forward with his wrist blades, driving them through its back. With a roar, he yanked your blade from its leg and plunged it into its side.

The mutated xenomorph let out a screech—then collapsed.

The thud it made was heavy. Final.

And for the first time in what felt like eternity, the room was quiet.

Was that it?

Was this finally over?

You took the helmet off with trembling hands, finally able to breathe, your limbs shaking from pain and shock.

Your eyes found him. He was still standing, looming over the corpse of the xenomorph.

You called his name, voice strained and raw. But he heard it. He always did.

Always ready. Always coming when you needed him.

He turned around, dreadlocks trailing behind him, slick with green blood and still, somehow, he looked like art.

Not the polished kind, but the kind born from pain. The kind you stare at for too long, unsure if it’s beautiful or tragic.

Because even bleeding, even broken, he was still standing.

And in that moment, you didn’t just see a warrior.

You saw the masterpiece pain had sculptured.

A shaky smile pulled at your lips, as you watched him. He was there—really there.

Alive and breathing.

You were free.

He took a step toward you.

Finally.

.

.

.

“NO!”

Your scream burst from your throat, your hands flying up to stifle it.

“No, no, no!”

You tried to run—move—but your leg gave out and you crashed back to the floor, pain splitting through you like fire.

All you could do now was watch.

Keth’raal hadn’t made a sound yet.

But his arm—his entire forearm—was on the lab floor. Severed clean at the elbow. Green blood poured from the wound in thick, urgent pulses.

He looked down. Stunned.

And for the first time… he looked afraid.

The xenomorph— its bladed arm soaked in his blood—let out one last choking breath. One final, dying twitch. Almost mocking.

Then came the roar.

It tore through the space. Loud, guttural, raw with pain and agony.

Keth’raal lunged. He grabbed the creature’s skull with his remaining arm and smashed it into the floor again and again, roaring, huffing, his body shaking in desperation.

You crawled.

You didn’t even feel your hands anymore, you just clawed at the floor, dragging yourself, trying to get to him.

“Please,” you begged your body, your voice breaking, your fractured shin pulsing like it might rip through your skin. It felt foreign now, no longer part of you.

Your stomach turned at the sight—Keth’raal drenched in blood, the floor slick with it. He stepped back from the crushed body, barely able to walk, holding his arm stump tight against his side.

His breath came in painful gasps. He was hurt, bleeding… dying.

But still… he walked to you.

And you, crawling, shuddering, reached out for him.

The distance between you felt unbearable. Too long. Too wide.

You pushed through it. Hands burned. Tears streamed down your face. You just kept going.

And so did he.

Step by step.

Until—

He dropped.

First to his knees, then down, his body collapsing hard onto the floor.

So close.

So unbelievably far.

You reached for him, your hand shaking as you touched his shoulder. “Keth’raal,” you whispered.

No response.

You shook him. Again. Again. “Keth’raal—please—wake up—” you yelled now.

But he didn’t move.

His blood soaked the ground. He had fought until the very end. And now that it was over, he let himself fall.

“Please don’t leave me,” you sobbed, pressing your palm to his chest. Trying to feel it, his heartbeat. Anything. Just a sign that he was still here.

But your hands trembled so hard you could barely feel anything.

Panicked, you reached into your pouch, grabbing the salve, the one thing you had left.

Your hands trembled at the thought of touching this impossibly cold substance again.

But you did.

Your fingers dipped into the salve, and it was like shoving your hand into liquid frost and fire all at once. A broken scream tore from your throat before you could stop it.

God—

It felt like knives. Tiny, invisible ones slicing deep beneath the skin. Your nerves lit up in blinding agony as the cold spread into your bones, gripping them like icy jaws. It burned so violently, you thought something had gone wrong, like you were about to lose your senses.

You gasped, nearly vomiting from the shock of it. Your vision blurred. Your mind screamed Drop it—drop it now! but your body refused to let go.

Keep going. For him.

You forced your shaking hand toward Keth’raal’s wound, your skin already pale and stiff, like it no longer belonged to you. Every nerve ending shrieked as you pressed the salve onto the open gash, spreading it as best as you could over the raw, mangled flesh.

He didn’t flinch.

You did.

The pain roared louder now. Your hand was going numb, but somehow that was worse, because beneath the numbness, you could still feel it. The biting, blistering cold. The fear that you were ruining your own hand in the process. That it would never move properly again. That maybe this was the cost of saving him.

Still, you kept going.

You smeared every last bit across the stump, watching the frost bloom, crystallizing over the wound like a shield. It slowed the bleeding. It sealed the worst of it. You hoped.

Your own skin was blistering now. Red. Mottled. Maybe worse beneath the surface.

You’re okay, you told yourself. You’ll live. Even if your hand won’t.

“Keth’raal…” you whispered, voice weak and cracked, as your frozen fingers fell away from his arm.

You wiped your ruined hand on your clothes, every nerve still flaring with cold fire.

And that was it.

Your body gave in.

The blackness crept in so quickly, like your body had just been waiting for permission.

Your vision dimming at the edges, when you felt it…

A shift.

He moved…

Keth’raal’s hand — his remaining hand — twitched, then dragged itself up slowly until it rested on your wrist. It wasn’t a grip, just weight. Just contact.

A reminder.

Alive.

Your breath hitched, a choked sound leaving you, half a sob, half a laugh, strangled and wet with relief. Your tears came faster now. You didn’t even try to stop them.

You looked at him, blinking through the blur. His eyes had opened, not fully, not sharp like before, but they were on you.

A low rumble escaped his throat, something like a word, though you couldn’t quite make it out. Didn’t matter.

You knew that sound. You had heard it before. The softer one. The one he only ever used for you.

Your lip trembled. You leaned closer, shaking under the weight of everything. Your ruined hand still sat beneath his, trembling like it was barely yours anymore.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I stayed.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Pain dulled them, but still… something moved there. A thread of recognition. Maybe even gratitude. Maybe something more.

His fingers slipped, falling from your skin.

You caught his hand instinctively, just for a second, holding onto the warmth before it left. Just to let him feel that you were still there.

Then, quietly… you let go.

And you let yourself fall too.

You had helped him. You had fought. You had stayed.

And now — only now — you allowed yourself to fall.

[commit-arson-i-dare-you]

I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER AAAAAAAAAA

[ash-rigby]

before pride month ends, do any hot monsters want to confess their maddening, uncontrollable lust for me and do something about it?

[moiyablochki]

[woodlouseandbird]

my therapist suggested i imagine my intrusive thoughts in the voice of donald trump bc i do not possess an ounce of respect for him or trust in his competence. going thru it today so i made this. hope this helps

[commit-arson-i-dare-you]

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

[commit-arson-i-dare-you]

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!!!!🎉🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

I hope all of you have a wonderful, safe pride and remember to celebrate yourself!!

[bubbleguppies42]

concerned and confused, my favorite genre of wilson

[ohcorny]

it really is crazy how quickly people were willing to just let chatgpt do everything for them. i have never even tried it. brother i don't even know if it's just a website you go to or what. i do not know where chatgpt actually lives, because i can decide my own grocery list.

[ohcorny]

i wisely turned off the notes on this when it was at 700 but oh my god stop telling me what you "just" use it for in the notes shut the fuck up shut the fuck up I AM NOT A CATHOLIC PRIEST, I DO NOT ABSOLVE YOU. WRITE YOUR OWN EMAILS.