Thinking about a scenario with a chubby reader where Rocky says something like “(Name) wider and heavier than Grace and human diagrams, statement.”. Which you have to agree with because you are.
But when Grace scolds him Rocky just fully goes “Rocky not being rude. On Erid, bigger and heavier mate is ideal because can defend and insulate clutch better. Very sought after. Many Eridians fight with others to mate with. Rocky giving compliment, statement.”.
And then Grace gets even more pissed because he’s been trying to compliment you and say that he likes your body type this whole time but couldn’t work up the courage only for Rocky to basically start hitting on you first.
A blurb in which Grace and Rocky fall into the innate masculine desire of digging a gigantic hole in the sand while you and Adrian watch.
“Is digging large hole in ground part of human mating ritual?” Adrian asks as you both sit on the artificial beach watching Grace and Rocky hard at work on said giant hole in the sand. You think about that question for a bit before answering “I don’t know.”.
Adrian turns towards you, “So what is the purpose of Grace informing (name) on progress of hole if it is not some sort of display of worth?” they ask. “Your guess is as good as mine.” you shrug, “It’s just an innate desire that all human men have in them for some reason.” you remark as you watch said man and his rock companion continue with their meaningless task.
“Is digging a hole a mating thing on Erid?” you ask.
“Creating gifts and simulated nest making to show that eridian can provide for mate, yes. Creating large hole in ground, no.” Adrian answers as they turn back to look at Rocky coming up from the hole and using his two front legs to dig and his back leg to push the sand out of the way at the new spot. “Do not know why Rocky is doing this and also updating Adrian on progress.” they claim.
As if on cue, Grace looks up to both of you a little ways away and calls out “We’re making it wider!” with a big smile on his face. “Cool!” you call back in approval and watch them go back to their labor.
“Men are such fascinating creatures. You can spend years with them and never know what’s going on inside their brains and why they do half the things they do.” you remark, focusing on the way his muscles move and flex as he does his work. You stare for a while, admiring the show for a while only to hear Adrian letting out a long rumbling hum. A sound that you have learned is the hum of an Eridian basically checking someone out.
“Grace and Rocky look good digging hole.” their translator relays.
A/n: I love this Rock and this movie, also Ryan Gosling is still fucking fine.
The first time Rocky decided you and Ryland Grace were a “mating pair,” it wasn’t said gently, or privately, or even at an appropriate moment. It was said with the same blunt certainty he used when announcing atmospheric incompatibility or structural integrity issues....like it was simply a fact of the universe that had finally finished loading.
It happened while the three of you were working in the lab, the quiet hum of systems filling the space as Ryland muttered half-coherent explanations under his breath and you leaned over the console beside him, checking calculations. You were close—closer than necessary, really but neither of you had commented on it. Ryland had just stiffened slightly, hyper-aware, the way he always did when you were within reach, while you pretended not to notice how his voice dipped or how he kept glancing at you like he needed to make sure you were still there.
Rocky, of course, noticed everything.
“You are mating pair,” he said abruptly over the comms.
Ryland blinked. “I’m sorry....what?”
“You and female human,” Rocky continued, completely unbothered. “You are mating pair. This is obvious.”
You froze mid-motion, very slowly turning your head toward Ryland, who looked like his soul had just tried to exit his body without permission.
“That is not!! we are not!!? that’s not—” Ryland’s voice cracked, and he dragged a hand down his face, already spiraling. “Rocky, you can’t just—there are… there are steps, okay? There’s a whole process—”
“Yes,” Rocky said. “I have observed process. You are failing at it.”
You bit your lip, trying and failing not to laugh.
Ryland shot you a betrayed look. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging him,” you said, though your smile said otherwise. “I’m just… curious how he came to that conclusion.”
Rocky didn’t hesitate. “You maintain close proximity beyond efficiency requirements. Heart rate increases when interacting. Vocal tones soften. You prioritize each other’s safety above mission parameters.”
Ryland made a strangled noise. “That is just basic human decency!”
“No,” Rocky replied immediately. “This is different.”
The silence that followed was heavier than anything before it, stretching just long enough to make everything feel… too real.
Ryland cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Okay, well, even if....hypothetically, that were true, you don’t just say that out loud.”
“Why not?” Rocky asked.
“Because it’s—” Ryland gestured vaguely between the two of you, flustered beyond belief. “It’s complicated.”
Rocky paused, processing.
Then, very simply, “It is not complicated. You are mating pair. You should proceed.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”
Ryland groaned, dragging both hands over his face now. “I am begging you, please ignore him.”
But the problem was… you couldn’t.
Because once it had been said, it didn’t just disappear. It lingered, hanging between you, coloring every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every moment that suddenly felt a little too intentional.
And Rocky? Rocky only got worse.....because of course he did.
Over the next few days, he began adjusting things.
Assignments that used to be split were suddenly shared. Tight workspaces that could have fit one person comfortably now somehow required both of you. Doors malfunctioned at very convenient times, trapping you together for just a little longer than necessary.
“Rocky,” Ryland said one day, voice tight as the door behind you refused to open, “why are we locked in here?”
“System delay,” Rocky replied.
You crossed your arms, raising a brow. “Really.”
“Yes,” Rocky said. Then, after a beat, “Also, you should use time for bonding.”
Ryland smacked his forehead against the wall with a soft thunk. “I’m going to die out here. Not from space. From embarrassment.”
You laughed, the sound warm and unrestrained in a way that made Ryland peek at you despite himself. And for a second, just a second he forgot to be mortified.
“You know,” you said, softer now, stepping a little closer without thinking, “he’s not entirely wrong.”
Ryland stilled.
“About the… proximity thing,” you added quickly, though your voice didn’t quite match the casualness you were aiming for. “We do tend to end up together a lot.”
“That’s because he puts us together,” Ryland said immediately, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Mm,” you hummed, tilting your head slightly. “Sure.”
There was a pause then, quieter than the others, charged in a way neither of you quite knew how to handle.
Ryland swallowed, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I mean, if it were… I mean, hypothetically—”
“Hypothetically,” you echoed, smiling just a little.
“I wouldn’t....hate it,” he admitted, barely above a whisper.
And there it was.
Not a grand confession. Not smooth or practiced. Just Ryland, honest, a little nervous, completely real.
Your expression softened, something warm settling in your chest as you stepped just a fraction closer, close enough that his breath hitched.
“Good,” you murmured.
Before he could respond, the door slid open with a cheerful hiss.
“Bonding progress detected,” Rocky announced immediately.
Ryland made a sound of pure despair, dropping his head back. “Rocky, I swear to God—”
“You are welcome,” Rocky said.
And somewhere between the embarrassment, the laughter, and the way your hand brushed Ryland’s as you both stepped out of the room, neither of you pulling away this time, because it became painfully, wonderfully clear that maybe…
in which aaron sees you with glasses for the first time and his brain can't handle it.
warnings: kissing, hotch is head over heels!
✦ ˑ ִֶ⊹
It's not that your day starts off necessarily bad, because the extra minute in bed comes nicely to you. What isn't as great is having to rush around your apartment to make it to work in time, huffing as you button up your shirt before clumsily throwing a sweater over it.
The only thing reassuring you that you didn't put it on backwards is the scratch of the annoying tag against the back of your neck — you'll have to remember to rip it off later.
You only realize you forgot your contacts when the letters of the ads on the subway blur, relieved when you find the glasses you always keep with yourself just in case inside your bag.
Not much thought comes into it, not used to wearing them if not in the comfort of your home late at night but simply a necessity now. You don't not use them for thinking that they look bad, but because they used to bother you more than help you and now you've simply gotten used to the contacts.
Once you arrive at the bullpen, you're only five minutes late and don't seem to be the last one arriving. You let that be a victory.
With your morning drink close by, you finally start working on the mountain of files pilling up at your desk.
"Good morning." You're only half an hour in when the familiar voice sounds behind you, steps sounding closer as Aaron comes to stand beside your chair.
"Hey." You greet back, leaning your head to look up at him.
"I don't mean to put even more in your plate but i really need you to fill these out." It's only now that he looks away from the papers and at you, eyes widening for one second in surprise.
You try to ignore it, though it settles something in you. It's a strict rule that have to act professional around each other at work — all an atempt to not have Strauss ripping your heads off.
"No problem." You take the files from his hands with a polite smile, setting them in front of you to start working on them.
Aaron lingers on his spot, clearing his throat. "You're wearing glasses."
“I am.” You state carefully, not sure where he’s getting at. Though you find yourself shifting on your seat a little subconsciously.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so dumbfounded.
“Since when?” His eyebrows are furrowed as if wondering if he’s missed this trait, sweet Aaron.
“Always?” You say with confusion, “I just usually wear contacts. Was a bit late today and forgot them.”
Your boyfriend nods at your explanation, eyes still fixated on you with concentration as you feel your skin grow hot under his gaze.
“You look good.” His words are gentle as he speaks after a moment.
His hand comes to tug a little on his tie — something you’ve noticed he does when nervous. It’s hard to believe you’d be the one to make him nervous.
“Thank you.” You answer just as soft, a little like a question.
It didn’t cross your mind that he’d never seen you with your glasses when you put them on earlier. But you suppose his reaction makes up for it.
Aaron’s lips pull into a small, “Anytime, honey.” Even lower than before. And then he’s walking back into his office like he didn’t leave you melting.
You almost forget about it as you distract yourself with work, getting up from your chair once you’re done and knocking on the door to Hotch’s office.
Once you’re given the green light to come in, you slip inside and close the door behind you before heading to his desk.
“Here you go.” You leave the files on it, moving to get back outside.
But before you can reach the door, you feel his hand catch your wrist. A gasp leaves your lips as he turns you around and presses his own to them in a hard kiss.
Aaron’s hand are on your face as he kisses you, a sight escaping his nose as he gets the first taste of you in the day. Instinctively your hands come to rest on his arm, fingers slightly gripping his button up.
He tastes of coffee with a mix of the mints he always has while working. The bump of his nose against the rim of your glasses has him pulling you closer, one hand moving to your waist to help with doing so.
You let your own hand wonder to his shoulder, feeling the muscles relax under your fingers as you softly massage them.
“You’re driving me crazy, sweet girl.” He mumbles after pulling way, lips still dangerously close to yours.
“What?” You giggle with curiosity.
To prove his point, you feel his fingers tap the rim of your glasses with care. “These are the reason.”
Your heart thumps furiously, shy grin on your lips as you keep him close. “You like them?”
“Love them.” Aaron corrects with an arm tightening around your waist, eyes set on every detail of your face.
“Not too nerdy?” You muse, mostly teasing compliments out of him.
“Just enough.” He reassures nevertheless, lips to your cheek for a sweet peck. “So pretty.”
You squeeze his elbow in return, not surprised when his lips chase you for another kiss. Not that you can complain, relished by the attention.
This one is softer, as if he knows you should get back soon and not wanting to get himself worked up.
“Wear them to our date tonight.” He practically begs, lips shiny from you.
“Pervert.” Your joke earns a grin from him.
“Can’t help it when it comes to you.” Aaron says with honesty. His grip loosens, mouth pressed to your temple.
“Pervert and corny. Wow, Hotchner.” You snort, hitting his chest with your pointer finger.
He catches it with ease, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss there before reaching to adjust your slightly crooked glasses. “There.”
You hum in thanks, fixing his rumbled button up in return before leaving his office with a giddy feeling on your stomach.
I'll be honest I just want Egon smut lol. Maybe it could be them doing it in the lab after hours?
After Hours (Egon Spengler X Reader Smut)
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Summary: With the uptick in ghost sightings, you and Egon rarely get to spend time together. But when the boys go out to get a late dinner and you find your boyfriend hunched over his desk in the lab, you see the perfect opportunity to make up for lost time.
A/N: porn without plot bc i couldn’t think of a plot sorryyyy
C/W: p in v sex, unprotected sex, blowjob, sex in lab duh
***
Egon shuddered, gripping the edge of his desk with intense force as you sucked him off. To say that your mouth engulfing his stiff cock was more effective in waking him up than coffee was an understatement. When you found Egon in the lab, he was slumped over, almost dead asleep.
But now, he was more alert than ever.
“Fuck…” Egon bucked his hips ever so slightly, reveling in the way your lips wrapped around him while your hand took care of the length you couldn’t fit in your mouth. But when his tip nudged the back of your throat, and your moans sent vibrations up his spine, he knew he was about to lose control. “You’re so, ah, doing so good.”
The compliment encouraged you to speed up your ministrations. Egon was slowly melting from your touch, and you wanted to see how long it would take to turn him into a puddle.
But Egon seemed to have different plans. “If you don’t stop now, I’m gonna come.” He let go of the table and caressed your face, practically covering you with how giant they were. To be fair, though, everything about him was giant. It took everything in him to not push your head further on him, but he managed to pull you away.
You looked like a mess. Lips and chin covered in spit, hair tussled, eyes lustful and tired. Egon may have been a man of science, but in the low light of his workstation, he was sure you were an angel. “That’s kind of the point, Eegs.” Your voice was low and sultry, only turning Egon on more.
Despite your protests, he managed to get you up on your feet before lifting you up to sit on the desk in front of him. Thankfully, Egon had only been taking notes when you found him. If he had been working with ectoplasms or fungi, he never would have let you get as far as putting your hand over his clothed crotch.
“Unfortunately, my refractory period is too long for my liking.” With the hand still on your face, Egon pushed your hair back before gliding his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. “If I had to choose, I’d rather come in your pussy than your mouth.”
You sported a wolfish grin, escaping Egon’s hold to lean back on your elbows. “Then get to it, Doctor Spengler.” He watched as you spread your legs apart, the hem of your nightgown raising up your thighs.
You didn’t have to tell him twice. In a matter of seconds, Egon was fully sheathed inside you, forever grateful that you decided not to wear panties before coming to find him in the lab. The pace he set was erratic and forceful, drawing out every moan and whimper that he could from you.
Egon knew he wouldn’t last long. He was already close to the edge when he first thrust inside you, so he put all his mental power into making sure he didn’t come before you. But luckily, it seemed like you were just as close. Your body writhed and shook with every hard thrust.
Exhaustion seemed to catch up with your boyfriend, who bent over to rest his head on your chest. He scattered kisses around your breasts, smirking when your nipples stiffened at the stimulation.
“Eegs!” You whined, hands reaching out to grab onto the back of his neck. “I’m so close.”
As if those words were a trigger phrase, Egon’s hand slithered down your body to where the two of you met to play with your sensitive clit. Your chest arched into him, and it wasn’t long before you were falling over the edge. Your cunt spasming around Egon’s cock triggered his own orgasm, and he huffed and panted as he fucked you through your highs.
When you both came down, everything felt still and peaceful. You weren’t exactly used to peaceful, so you did your best to savor the moment.
After a few minutes, Egon finally moved. He lifted his head from your chest, and you giggled at his askew and foggy glasses. You straightened them out for him before running your hands through his hair, the tall man almost purring at your touch.
“The boys are gonna be home soon.” You finally say, trying to give Egon the hint that maybe the lab wasn’t the best place to stay in the position you two were in, Egon practically laying on top of you, dick still inside you with his pants and boxers around his ankles.
Egon huffed like a child being told to stop playing with his favorite toy and go to bed. He looked at you for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. He didn’t want this moment to end, not when you rarely had time for each other.
Jack and Robby made sure to always take care of you, and now that you were pregnant that was exasperated ten fold. And you, you just wanted this baby out by any means necessary.
Note: take it easy on me please this is my first piece since taking my break and I feel so rusty!!! Loll, but this was done for an ask that has been sitting in my inbox for soooo long, it is technically a continuation or epilogue of “The Bet” so I will link the other parts as well. Again I am so sorry for the wait but I hope you enjoy!
38 weeks had gone by too fast and excruciatingly slow at the same time. By now it was the middle of July in Pittsburgh meaning you were sweaty, hot, pissed, and way too pregnant to cope. Even though Robby and Jack have been so sweet and kind throughout your pregnancy. Neither caring who the true biological father was, they were both just ready to love this child and you forever. Always making sure your needs were met and that you were comfortable at all times while carrying precious cargo.
It was a sentiment that warmed your heart. At least it was until you had hit the third trimester. Being unable to tie your shoes or put on pants without help tended to put you in a bad mood. All of this along with a small scare at 36 weeks. You hadn’t felt your baby girl kick for a whole day, this had you taking a cab to the hospital to where both Robby and Jack were. Thankfully after a quick scan in south 5 done by none other than the two men who put you in this position, it was confirmed everything was okay, she was most likely taking a long nap.
However, you about strangled both of them when you saw them measure her more than twice before giving each other an odd look. When Robby finally looked over at you and gave a sheepish smile as he reluctantly told you what had them wide eyed and cherry red. Your sweet baby girl was measuring about 10 whole pounds already.
You wanted her out now.
But you weren’t exactly in your right mind to care about their feelings for very long. Seeing how it was 90 degrees with not a cloud in the sky, and your AC was rattling while working overtime. Robby was at work so it was just you and Jack, who hadn’t woken up just yet since he had a shift tonight. So after struggling for about ten minutes to get off the couch you made your way towards the bedroom on a mission. Operation get this baby out of you in the next 24 hours.
As silently as you could, you settled onto the bed grateful that Jack rarely wore more than his boxers to bed. Taking a moment you took in the peaceful expression that settled across his face, counting the freckles that spanned across his skin. Each one had mapped by yours and Robby’s lips at some point.
Soft snores escaped his slightly ajar mouth, making you almost feel bad for what you were about to do. Not completely bad, just a teeny bit. Or at least it did until a sharp kick was delivered to your ribs and you were reminded of what you came here to do.
Jack was both a heavy sleeper and a light sleeper all at once. It depended on the kind of day he had, and today seemed to be a deep sleep kind of day seeing as you were able to reach into the front of his boxers and grip his cock without even a change in his breathing. It wasn't until you pulled it out and gave the already flushed pink tip a few licks that he showed signs of rousing.
A small scrunch of his brows and a slight groan emitted from him as you enveloped his now half hard cock in your mouth, wasting no time you wrapped your lips around him starting with a faster than normal pace. You didn’t have time to spare seeing as his shift was drawing nearer and your needs grew with each touch.
With his length now at full attention you made sure to keep your gag reflex down, mostly because if you gagged you were very likely to pee yourself at this point in your pregnancy and that wasn’t something you wanted to have happen and interrupt your plans.
Swiping your tongue at the little ridge of his cockhead, you knew that would alert him to open his eyes. And it was an almost immediate reaction letting out a gruff moan as his eyes struggled to open under the sheer pleasure that consumed him the moment he became conscious.
“Fuck, baby w-what’s, shit, slow d-down” his voice low and rough from just waking up and strained as he was trying his best to not cum in .2 seconds after waking.
Pulling off him with a slight pop you gave him a sly smirk, “Good morning Jackie!” you sat back on your knees before swinging one leg over his torso so that your back was to him. In one smooth movement you didn’t know you were still capable of, you lined him up with your enterance before sinking down halfway with very little resistance, “Oh fuck, s’big Jackie!”
“H-hold on baby, we shouldn’t be-”
“Oh yes we should, Jack Christopher Abbot! You and Mike fucked this baby into me and the two of you will be getting it out the exact same way you got it in. And I will not hear another word unless it’s no, do I make myself clear” Your voice gave him no room for argument but a pause for his answer. With zero hesitation he found himself nodding in agreement and letting you continue.
With a satisfied nod of your own, you dropped your body weight down onto him. The rest of his length sliding into you and pushing the breath out of your lungs at the overwhelming sensation of having him so deep. A moan left your own throat as pleasure overtook your body, Jack letting his own noises out as he couldn’t help but grip your hips in an attempt to slow you down.
“I don’t w-want t’hurt you” his words low as he voices one last concern before giving into the feel of you completely as you grind your hips against him, “but shit, that feels so goddamn good baby”
His words spurred you on enough to use as much energy as you could to brace your hands on his knees and start riding him within an inch of his sanity. Up, down, grind. That was the rhythm you kept until Jack could tell you were getting tired. Not wanting you to overexert yourself he began sitting his body up and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. He pulled your upper body flush with his before tipping over to one side as he repositioned the two of you onto your left.
“Heard from a nurse that laying on your left side can help induce and advance labor” Jack's words were fairly clinical before following up with the start of his thrusts.
Keeping his pace, Jack brought your top leg back and over his hip. Hooking his other hand around your jaw so that he could turn your head toward his. This new angle had his cock pushing deep into your cunt, pleasure forcing your eyes shut as you laid there letting him do all the work.
“Open”
And without a second thought you obliged, warmth filled your senses as you felt his spit hit your tongue. Swallowing it without needing to be told.
“That’s it, such a good girl once you get what you want aren’t you?” the hand that rested at your shoulder traveled down over your swollen belly caressing the taught and stretched skin. He stayed there for just a moment longer before bringing two fingers down and straight to your clit. Creating tight circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Fuck Jackie!” Your body unintentionally trying to jerk away from the overstimulation. “S’too much, h-hold on”
“Shh, shh, you can take it baby. You wanted it so bad and now you’re trying to run away, I don't think so” Jack was now determined to give you exactly what you wanted, because who was he to deny his precious girl. “Its your turn to shut up and listen”
His pace sped up, hips thrusting and fingers circling your clit at a brutal speed you didn't know he was capable of. However, Jack made sure that he kept a slightly shallow depth not wanting to injure your cervix. Jack was still a doctor after all, and if this was successful you didn’t need anymore trauma.
Everything was overwhelming for you, especially seeing as it had been the first time he or Robby had touched you like this in a long time. And with the addition of pregnancy hormones your whole body was responding to the arousal coursing through you. You weren’t alone though, Jack was in the same situation (minus the hormones). And as a direct reflection of this, the two of you were already on the edge of cumming. His hips stuttered as your walls fluttered around him, both of you desperately trying to hold off for just a bit longer.
You were the first to lose. One hand gripping the sheets and the other wrapped tightly in his short grey curls as your body seized with pleasure, toes curling at the same time your walls clenched in rhythmic pulses choking his thick cock. Moans clawed their way through your chest as your body fully let go, allowing your orgasm to rush down our spine.
The tight squeeze of your body sends him catapulting into his own edge, balls drawing up tight as he releases his hot cum as deep as he can get it. Your bodies were flush and slick against each other leaving no trace of space between. Heavy pants filled the room as the two of you came down from your shared orgasm.
Jack saw how you laid there with a satisfied expression on your face, content that he had you fucked out and tired. But despite your exhausted expression, it wasn’t long before Jack felt you shift and squirm. Still stuffed full of his thick cock and his cum leaking slowly from the space you two were still connected, didn’t stop you from squeezing your pelvic floor. Hearing Jack hiss as you tightened around him once more. With one look into your eyes he knew he was in for a long few hours.
————————
It was safe to say that a few hours later Jack was walking into his shift stiff, limping, and halfway asleep. And while he was taking report from Baran, Robby spotted how exhausted he looked from across the room where he was sat at the nurses station. His long strides had him beside Jack within moments, concern marring his expression.
“You ok, brother? Look like you’re about to drop where you stand” a small huff of a laugh left Robby’s lips as he tried to lighten Jack's seemingly worn out mood while easing his own worry.
But instead of humoring him with a response that addressed his demeanor, Jack just patted Robby’s shoulder and placed a chaste kiss to his lips before walking away mumbling a ‘good luck’ under his breath. An ominous send off for the man who was already having an off day.
Robby had been on edge since he left you this morning, wishing he had just called off so that he could finish some things around the house and keep you company. A thought he wished he had listened to when his fourth trauma rolled through, accompanied by two pregnant patients. Finally finishing with one amputated limb that brought Park the shark down to the ED which was never a good thing.
As Robby walked through the door of your shared home he was ready to heat up food he knew was left for him on the stove and crash on the large California king bed that was practically calling his name. So imagine his surprise as he let his eyes drift closed for only a split second while leaning back against the kitchen counter when he felt a small and eager hand gripped his heavy cock through his scrub bottoms.
“Woah there kid!” Robby's voice cracked and his knees buckled slightly in his stupor “And what exactly do you think you're doing?”
His brow raised in question while he simply watched your bottom lip stick out right before you slipped behind the waist band of his scrubs. Your hand finding exactly what you wanted in seconds, connecting instantly with the warmth of his soft cock. Pumping him at a languid pace feeling how he began to stiffen. Your approach was similar to earlier yet slightly different. Jack needed to be given permission, but Robby, he needed to be begged. He needs to know how much he’s wanted.
“Pleasee Mikey, I need you so bad!” you pleaded with him while lifting up onto your toes and kissing your way up his chest, “just wanna feel you, it’s been so long. Need you to fill me up so bad”
You dragged the syllables in a whiney tone, an attempt to coax him further into you. But Robby just let out a sharp tsk at your behavior, he had absolutely pieced together Jack’s behavior at shift change and your current display of affection.
“This must be why Jack was about ready to drop as soon as he walked through those doors” Robby held your face with both his hands, “tell me what you want sweetheart”
Placing an innocent pout on your face you went to shake your head and tell him you didn’t know what he meant. But you should’ve known he wasn’t as easily manipulated as Jack was.
“Ah ah ah, don’t play dumb with me. We both know you want something” using his hands that rested on your face he tilted your head so that you were looking straight at him, “tell me what it is and I’ll make sure you get exactly what you want.”
His gruff tone had you body buzzing and mind almost blank, but as he walked you backwards towards the couch you finally found your words.
“Please Mikey, I want this baby out of me, and I want you so bad” your body was being gently lowered onto the couch before you were even done speaking. Expertly Robby was able to sneak a pillow behind your lumbar spine so that any pressure was removed in this position.
Rough hands gently slipped off the oversized shirt you wore, revealing your bare and flushed body underneath. Those same hands ran a similar trail that Jacks had hours ago. From your full aching breasts and down to your swollen stomach, his lips placing gentle kisses where his hands leave.
Your gaze followed his movements until you made a sound that was between an annoyed and aroused moan. This was due to the fact that once he had set his lips to where you needed him most he disappeared from your view. Your stomach obscuring his face, but that was quickly forgotten as he gave a harsh suck over your clit and teased two fingers at your entrance.
“You always taste so good sweetheart, I can still taste Jack too” plunging his fingers as deep as they could go, Robby set a new rhythm to your sensitive nerves.
“Fuck Mikey, right there!” You were already breathless at just the start of his ministrations, still so responsive after yours and Jack's escapades.
It didn’t take long before he could feel the telltale flutter of your walls around his fingers. Robby took that as his sign to crook his finger up and to the front, right where that specific spot of yours he knows is located.
“D-don’t stop! Fuck, I-I’m gonna cum Mikey!”
It only took two more strokes before your orgasm seized up your body, choking his fingers with everything you had. Arousal covered his hand and beard when he finally pulled away. By this point he wasted no time before slipping off his pants and boxers in one go.
Spreading your slick up and down his now fully hard cock and moving your legs to rest over his shoulders. Not quite bending you in half seeing as your belly wouldn’t allow it. But enough for you to feel a stretch in your hips, the pillow he placed doing wonders for your back in this position. Notching his leaking tip at your cunt he reminded you to breathe before slowly pushing his way into you.
The feeling of his heavy cock finally pushing his way into you had caused your eyes to roll back so far you swore you could see the inside of your brain. It didn’t matter that Robby had just pulled a mind blowing orgasm from you, it already felt as though you were seconds away from cumming once more. You were doing your best to hold it off, wanting it to last but he was making that task very difficult.
Robby’s pace began a deep and slow, his tip pushing ever so slightly against your cervix with each thrust. Not enough to bruise, but just enough to hopefully help you along. And the amount of arousal coating his cock told him just how much you were enjoying yourself. That and the noises that were constantly ringing through the room.
“Poor baby, went so long without us touching you didn’t you?” You nodded at Robby’s words, “such a desperate little thing begging me to make it better, even after Jackie took care of you”
He felt how your body clenched at the memory that must’ve passed through your mind at the mention of the missing man. Finding himself wishing that Jack could be here as well, he decided to include him. Reaching for his phone Robby snapped a quick photo of the two of you and sent it to Jack. It was mere seconds before the chime of a new message came though. Jack had simply responded ‘she got to you too huh?’
Robby just chuckled before focusing back on you. You who’s eyes were still screwed shut while trying your best to meet his thrusts. Releasing one of your legs to rest at his hip Robby settled forward just a bit more so that he could reach just a little further. His soft tummy resting against yours.
Pulling back until just his tip was left inside you, before pushing back in slow. The friction of his coarse hairs against your clit sent shivers down your spine. Balls pressed up against your bottom with each thrust, every movement had your senses on overdrive.
With one hand securing the leg he kept over his shoulder, his other wandered back towards your chest. Grabbing a hand full of your breasts giving a light squeeze before focusing on your nipples. Rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers before tugging slightly.
“F-fuck, feels so good” Robby pressed a kiss to the inner part of your ankle, “one more f’me, you can do it”
Shaking your head you felt like all your nerves were going off. Too sensitive for another, too tired. But Robby was having none of it. Tilting his hips just slightly and grinding into you with a bit more pressure had you giving in. The leg that was left around his hip you wrapped it tighter bringing him closer as you finally let go.
Your whole demeanor released as this orgasm took over your mind and body. A shudder ran through you as a burst of fluid soaked the two of you and the couch below. Robby not far behind as your body tightened around him. Giving a few more thrusts before he was more than content to simply shove himself as far as he could go before releasing himself into you.
“So full of us in every way now aren’t you sweetheart?” His words went in one ear and out the other as you were too busy trying to stay awake, “let’s get you cleaned up and to bed okay”
With an absentminded nod you allowed him to help you up and to the bathroom. After cleaning you up he tucked you into bed before cleaning the mess the two of you made in the living room and finishing his meal. All the while you were none the wiser to the conscious world, snuggled peacefully in the warm blanket satiated to your hearts content.
The peace however didn’t last long. It was around 1:30am that you woke up in a slight panic. It wasn’t immediately clear what had your unconscious mind in such a worry. Not until two minutes later when you were just about ready to go back to sleep was when you felt a deep cramp flow through your body. Breathing your way through the wave of pain you settled a hand to your stomach, which was now rock hard.
You may not have been an L&D doctor but you knew enough about labor to know it was time to go. Especially when another contraction seized your body less than five minutes later. After punching Robby awake and watching him scramble around the house for the needed bags, he loaded everything and you into his truck before heading to the hospital.
In the frenzy of everything neither of you had remembered to text Jack. Not until the two of you walked in through the ambulance bay doors and were met with his wide eyes and confused expression.
“W-what, is t-that? BABY!?!”
“Fuck!” Clenching your jaw as another contraction hit you, “Yes Jack, wonderful observation skills now get me a damn wheelchair! And if you tell me to breathe one more time Michael I’m going to castrate you!”
It only took five hours before the three of you became a family of four. Your sweet baby girl came in weighing 10lbs 4oz and 23inches with a full head of dark hair and large hazel eyes. And while you cursed them out every moment you could while pushing your little bowling ball out. As soon as she was placed in your arms, and you saw the loving looks fill Jack and Robby’s eyes you were ready to do it all over again.
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You scroll through dating profiles, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: I’ve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”
You stare at him.
“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you can’t.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
Dunk (Ser Duncan the Tall) X Fem!TravelCompanion!Reader
Warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, no y/n, mutual pining, accidental voyeurism, fingering, unprotected sex, size difference, praise kink ( i think?), one use of “good girl” (I had to guys), knight/lady dynamic, porn with little plot, not proofread
Word count: 5.7K (*does debby ryan hair tuck*)
You lay in bed, your body scarcely covered by the itchy sheets. You were exhausted. This was the first real bed you’d gotten to sleep in for a few days now. It wasn’t the best quality — you were at an inn, so you hadn’t expected fine sheets or anything of the sort — but it sure beat sleeping on the rough ground.
Unfortunately, exhaustion wasn’t the only thing you were feeling. Your hand traveled down your body, tracing over your stomach before slipping between your thighs. Your legs widened softly as you began to toy with yourself, your eyes closing slightly.
You hadn’t had the luxury of privacy as of late — not with Dunk and Egg sleeping right beside you every night — but now, in a room all to yourself, you found yourself ready to scratch an itch you’d been harboring for what felt like ages.
Your eyelids fluttered as your movements grew more certain, your fingers slipping inside you with ease. Your breathing became labored, your eyes squeezing shut as you allowed images to fill your mind — his hands, his large thighs, the way his blue eyes gazed at you whenever you spoke.
Your free hand moved over the sheets, gripping the rough fabric as your mouth parted softly. The chill nipped at your bare nipples, but you paid it no mind, far too consumed by thoughts of him and the sensation of your own touch to care.
Maybe if you had been paying attention to your surroundings, you would have heard his feet thundering down the hall. He never tried to be loud, but his large size did not make stealth easy. Perhaps if you had been paying attention, you would’ve been able to tug your hand out from inside you before your door came crashing open.
But you hadn’t.
When you heard the door slam against the wall, followed by Dunk’s voice, you startled, your body jerking upright into a sitting position as you quickly yanked the sheets up over your bare frame.
“You hungry? Dinner’s—” Dunk paused, his eyes landing on you on the bed. They widened more than usual.
For a moment, you thought perhaps he could see the flushed state of your face, could notice the way your chest heaved behind the sheets you’d tried to hide yourself with. He stood there in the doorway, practically blocking it with his large frame, his mouth unmoving, his eyes fixed on you.
Then something clicked. He wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring… lower.
Your head snapped down before you could stop yourself, eyes widening as you realized your left breast was completely exposed. In your haste to pull the sheets up, you hadn’t done a very good job.
Your gaze shot back to his just as he finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours. If the embarrassment on your face wasn’t obvious, the deep red flushing Dunk’s certainly was. You tugged the sheets up quickly, covering yourself completely this time, your arms crossing tightly over your chest.
Dunk opened his mouth as if to say something — perhaps an apology for staring so long — but before he could get the words out, Egg slipped beneath his arm and into the room.
“Did the Ser tell you, my lady? The food’s ready, aren’t you—” The young boy paused, the excited tone he’d carried into the room fading as he looked at you. “Oh. Did we wake you?”
The innocent way he asked, as though he were genuinely sorry for disturbing you, made your heart ache. You forced yourself to give him as soft a smile as you could manage despite your embarrassment. But then your eyes flicked back to Dunk’s, and your expression shifted again into mortified horror.
“I’ll be right down,” you managed to squeak out.
Dunk grabbed Egg by the shoulder, guiding the boy back out ahead of him.
“Yes, of course, m’lady, we’ll see you—” His head smacked against the doorframe in his haste to leave, earning a soft ow from him and making you grimace.
He shook his head as if to clear it, then muttered without looking back at you, “See you downstairs.”
You watched him close the door behind him, your eyes lingering on the spot where he had stood before finally turning back to the bed and burying your face in the pillow to muffle an exasperated groan.
Nothing had been said about that exchange — not at dinner, when you three sat together chewing your food in silence, nor in the morning when you mounted your horses and continued on your journey.
You and Dunk didn’t avoid each other exactly, but the ease you’d always felt while interacting seemed to have vanished. You only exchanged words when necessary, and whenever your eyes met, you were both quick to look away, faces flushing as you searched for anything else to focus on.
Luckily for both of you, Egg never seemed to tire of talking. When he wasn’t telling you about his family and sharing facts about the kingdoms — according to him, there were nine, not seven — he was singing songs that were pleasant enough, though some carried meanings you weren’t sure he fully understood.
The journey went well enough despite the lingering awkwardness, and by the time you stopped beneath a tree to make camp that night, you had almost forgotten the ordeal of the evening before.
You nudged at the fire with a stick, trying to keep it alive. Dunk was off with Egg somewhere, presumably gathering more wood. Leaning back, you watched the flames dance while you waited for them to return.
The patter of feet against leaves sounded to your left, and you turned just as Egg came racing toward you.
“Look at what I found!” he exclaimed, finally reaching you.
He opened the piece of fabric he’d been using as a sack so you could see the contents. Your eyes widened at the variety of berries he’d managed to gather.
“Well, look at that,” you said softly. “Well done, Egg.”
You smiled at him, and he beamed in return.
“He wanted to eat them straight away,” Dunk’s voice rumbled from behind him.
You lifted your gaze through the dim light and found him easily in the darkness. Your eyes drifted down to his forearms, catching the way they flexed beneath his sleeves as he shifted the weight of the logs he was carrying. You quickly dragged your gaze back up before your thoughts could wander too far.
“But I thought it best to have you look at them first.” Dunk grunted softly as he dropped the logs beside the fire and dusted off his hands. “Don’t want him poisoning himself by accident.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“Or us, for that matter,” he added with a faint smile.
Your shoulders relaxed at the sight of it. Shaking yourself from your distraction, you turned your attention back to the berries in Egg’s lap.
“Yes, that was wise, Ser Duncan.” You examined the fruit carefully, searching for any telltale signs of danger. “It seems your squire has been paying attention to my lessons. All of these are safe to eat.” You grinned and gently ruffled Egg’s hair.
The boy settled beside you, legs crossed, the bundle of berries resting in his lap. You plucked one from the cloth and popped it into your mouth just as Dunk lowered himself onto your other side. His arm brushed yours as he reached past to grab one as well.
The brief contact made you glance at him. Your eyes met for a heartbeat, and though neither of you spoke, the shared awareness lingered in the air.
Gods, how were you meant to survive this?
After you’d eaten your fill, Egg let out a soft yawn, the day’s excitement finally catching up to him. He settled onto his bedroll with a quiet goodnight and was asleep moments later.
You remained by the fire, watching the flames. Your body was tired, but your mind felt far too awake. Sleep seemed distant.
Beside you, Dunk shifted and pushed himself to his feet. You looked up at him.
“Off to sleep as well?” you asked.
“Oh — uh, not yet,” Dunk muttered. “I’ve got to, uh… take care of something.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion for only a moment before you understood. He needed to go to the bathroom. Dunk always seemed oddly shy about such matters around you.
“Alright,” you said lightly. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary before he turned and disappeared into the trees.
It was unusual for Dunk to take so long to relieve himself. Even on the rare occasions he lingered, it was never for this long. You were beginning to worry.
Then the rain started, sudden and heavy, dousing the fire you had been carefully tending so Dunk could find his way back with ease. Without the guiding light, you were certain he would struggle to locate the camp in the darkness.
You stood beneath the tree, trying to shield yourself from the downpour, your hands twisting together anxiously as you searched for Dunk’s large frame in the shadows. You couldn’t just stand there and wait. Dunk was a good knight and knew his way around the wilderness well enough, but your skills were sharper when it came to tracking and foraging.
What if he had gotten turned around? With the rain falling this hard, it would be nearly impossible for him to retrace his steps before daybreak — and dawn was still a long way off.
“That’s it,” you muttered to yourself.
You cast one last glance at Egg, making certain the boy was still fast asleep and sheltered from the rain, before stepping into the trees in search of Dunk.
It didn’t take you long to find him. He wasn’t far from camp at all. Your eyes caught his frame against a tree almost immediately. He was leaning against the trunk, no doubt trying to shield himself from the rain as he waited for it to pass.
You thought about calling out his name, but with the thunder rumbling overhead, you were sure he wouldn’t hear you. Squinting against the rain, you began moving toward him.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the world around you for a heartbeat. You froze, your heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it — if the light had played tricks on your eyes. But when another flash followed, you realized you had seen correctly.
Dunk wasn’t simply hiding from the rain. He wasn’t lost.
He was touching himself, his hand wrapped around his length as his head rested back against the tree. His mouth was slightly parted, his movements slow and deliberate despite the downpour soaking him through.
Your breathing quickened. You felt rooted to the spot, unable to look away.
Another crack of lightning struck, closer this time, jolting you back to your senses. You turned and ran, racing toward camp as fast as your feet could carry you.
You dropped down beneath the tree, casting a quick glance at Egg to ensure he was still asleep before squeezing your eyes shut, your head falling back against the trunk. The image of Dunk seemed burned into your mind.
“You’re wet.”
Your eyes flew open, a startled gasp leaving you as your hand flew to your chest. Dunk stood beside you, rainwater dripping from his hair and clothes, strands plastered to his forehead. You forced yourself not to let your gaze wander anywhere but his face. He was looking at you with mild confusion.
“Oh — yes,” you managed. “The rain caught me off guard.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing up at the sky. “Wasn’t expecting it either. Sorry I took so long. I was waiting to see if it would ease up.”
The lie slipped from his lips so naturally that it made your stomach twist.
“No problem,” you replied quietly.
“Is Egg alright?”
Grateful for the change in subject, you looked toward the boy.
“Yes, he’s fine. The princeling’s tougher than he looks.”
Dunk grunted in agreement as he lowered himself to the ground beside you.
“We’ll sleep at an inn tomorrow,” he said. “It’ll be more comfortable.”
“Whatever you think is best,” you whispered.
He shifted, turning his back to you as he settled in. “Well… goodnight, m’lady.”
“Goodnight, Ser.”
Sleep would not be finding you anytime soon.
This inn was a bit better than the last one. The sheets were certainly softer. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, dressed in your sleeping gown. You’d learned from last time. A soft knock pulled your attention to the door.
It seemed you weren’t the only one.
You pushed yourself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come in,” you called.
There was a brief silence. You wondered if you hadn’t been heard, but before you could repeat yourself, the door creaked open. Dunk’s head peeked inside, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. You caught the flicker of relief that crossed his face. He stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him.
“Is everything alright?” you asked quickly. “Is something wrong with Egg?”
“Oh no,” Dunk replied at once. “Nothing’s wrong, m’lady. I just wanted to… well, I wanted to— uh— I…”
You rose from the bed, your bare feet padding softly across the floor as you approached him.
“What is it, Ser?” You placed a hand gently against his chest. “You’re worrying me.”
“I don’t mean to,” he said quickly. “There’s nothing to worry about. I just— well— I wanted to—”
“Your heart’s pounding, Dunk,” you murmured, concern lacing your voice.
The sound of his name seemed to steady him. He exhaled and lifted his hand to cover yours where it rested against his chest.
“I apologize.”
Your brows knit together. “Whatever for?”
Now it was his turn to frown. “Well… for the other night. In the inn.”
“Oh. Right.” You blinked. “That.”
“I should not have entered without knocking. I know that now. And I apologize for staring. That was not the right thing to do. I should have left as soon as I—”
“I saw you last night.”
The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them.
“I— you what?” Dunk asked, confusion clouding his face.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze.
“I. Saw. You. Last. Night.” You spoke slowly, not to mock him, but to be absolutely clear.
From the way his eyes widened and his brows shot upward, you knew he understood exactly what you meant. The color drained from Dunk’s face before rushing back twice as fierce. His hand slackened slightly around yours.
“You—” he swallowed. “You did?”
You nodded once. There was no point pretending otherwise now.
“I meant no dishonor,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I would never— I wasn’t thinking. I just—”
His jaw tightened. He looked away first this time, staring somewhere over your shoulder as if he could will himself out of the room.
“I didn’t know what else to do with it,” he admitted quietly. “With… the wanting.”
Your breath caught, startled by his confession — by how deeply he seemed to be affected by you.
“Dunk…” you whispered, your fingers twitching slightly beneath his hand.
Your heart was beating so loudly you were certain he could feel it beneath his palm.
“If I’ve offended you—”
“You haven’t.”
The answer came too quickly to be anything but true.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up again, as though even that fleeting glance felt like too much.
“I am not a man practiced in this,” he said softly. “I don’t know what the right way is. I only know that when I think of you, it feels…” He hesitated.
Your lips parted, your body drifting closer to his without you even realizing it.
“Tell me,” you breathed.
His eyes locked onto yours.
“It feels as if I am burning from within.”
You gasped, your fingers tightening slightly against his chest.
“Dunk…” you whispered again.
He searched your face as though bracing himself for rejection. For command. For dismissal.
“I do not wish you to burn alone,” you said quietly.
His hand flexed around yours.
“You would not ask that of me if you knew what I think when I look at you,” he murmured.
Your pulse fluttered. “Then tell me.”
His jaw worked for a moment, restraint warring with honesty. Then honesty won.
“I think about touching you,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Not in passing. Not by accident. I think about it the way a starving man thinks of bread.”
You slid your hand slowly higher along his chest, feeling the tension there, the strength beneath your fingertips. His eyes darkened at that. At the way you stared at him, eyes full of something not at all innocent.
“Tell me to leave,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “If I stay, I do not know that I will remain a gentleman.”
“I do not want you to leave,” you answered.
His hand rose — slowly, giving you every chance to pull away — and hovered near your cheek before finally, gently, cupping it. The touch was careful, as though you were something precious rather than something he had confessed wanting.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He leaned down then, hesitating only a breath away from your lips — waiting. When you closed the distance yourself, pressing your mouth to his, the last of his restraint broke. His hand wound around your waist keeping you pressed to him.
He kissed you like a man who had held himself back for far too long. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as though you needed something solid to anchor yourself. He made a low sound in his throat when you did, the hand at your waist tightening just slightly. You parted only because you both needed to breathe.
“I thought wanting you from a distance was difficult.” His thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, almost unconsciously. “This is far more dangerous.”
You felt it too — that edge. The way the air seemed charged. The way every small shift of his hand sent a ripple through you.
Your hands slid from his chest to his shoulders, feeling the strength there. Solid. Steady. Real. He shuddered faintly at the contact, as though your touch affected him more than he had expected.
“I do not wish to frighten you,” he said quietly. “If we go further—”
“You will not frighten me,” you interrupted softly.
You lifted one hand to the back of his neck, guiding him down into another kiss. It was rougher this time, filled with the quiet hunger you both seemed to harbor for one another.
Dunk’s hands slipped lower, his broad frame bending slightly as he grasped your thighs. You gave a small gasp at the sudden movement, but you didn’t resist. Instead, you let him lift you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
His boots thudded softly against the floor as he carried you toward the bed, your lips still fused together. He placed his knee against the mattress, lowering you slowly onto the bed, his large frame remaining above you. Your legs unwound from his hips, moving to rest your feet flat on the bed instead. Dunk's hands moved over your leg, pushing the fabric of your nightgown up as he went. His forehead rested against yours as his hands inched between your legs. You gasped as his fingers grazed your pussy.
“You’re wet,” he murmured.
A faint, breathless laugh escaped you. “Second time you’ve said that.”
His lips brushed yours as he exhaled. “It wasn’t what I meant last time.”
“I know,” you whispered, nipping gently at his lower lip. “But I was wet then too.”
He let out a groan at that, his head moving down to place kisses on your neck. Your body arched off the bed as his tongue lapped at your skin and his hand continued to move against you, not teasing exactly but not touching you entirely either. His head trailed down until he got to your chest. He raised himself enough so he could use his free hand to tug your nightgown down enough to reveal your breast. As soon as your skin was free from the cloth Dunk leaned down, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking. Your hand moved to his head, fingers tugging at his hair as you moaned.
The hand that lay on your thigh tensed at the movement, squeezing your skin between his fingers without him even noticing. The action only heightened the sensation, your back arching softly against the bed. A low rumble escaped Dunk as your body pressed into his. He pulled off your breast with a soft pop.
“Gods…” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
Your fingers were still tangled in his hair, your body still warm and responsive beneath him. You could feel the hesitation settling back into him—the part of Dunk that always tried to do the right thing, even now.
“Dunk,” you said softly.
His eyes flicked back to yours, and even though they were blown wide with desire, you could still see the restraint in his gaze. You could tell he was searching for a reason to stop this before it was too late.
Your hand moved from his curls to his face, a finger trailing over his lips for a moment before your eyes lifted back to his.
“Touch me,” you breathed.
“I am,” he whispered, his voice tinged with confusion.
You shook your head softly, your hair dragging against the sheets beneath you.
“No, I mean—” You grabbed the hand resting on your thigh, lifting it from your skin. Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, you guided it slowly between your legs. “Here. Touch me here.”
A faint, almost disbelieving smile ghosted across his lips.
“Here,” you repeated softly, your voice gentler now.
His breath caught, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to your face, searching—always searching—for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might stop him.
He didn’t find it.
Slowly, carefully, his hand moved where you had guided it, his movements tentative at first, as though he feared misreading you. The moment your breath hitched, his eyes snapped back to yours.
“Is that—” he started, unsure.
“Yes,” you whispered, your grip tightening slightly around his wrist. “Don’t stop.”
That was all it took.
Not for him to lose control—not entirely—but for something to settle. His touch steadied, growing more certain, though never careless. Every small reaction from you seemed to anchor him further, to teach him.
Your head tipped back against the bed, a soft breath escaping you before you could stop it. His name followed without thought, quieter this time, but it made his jaw tighten all the same.
“Gods,” he murmured again, almost under his breath.
Your free hand found his shoulder, then his neck, pulling him closer—not just for the contact, but for the closeness, the shared heat of it. He leaned in without resistance, his forehead brushing yours, his breathing uneven.
“You’ll tell me,” he said, voice low, almost strained. “If it’s too much.”
“I will,” you answered, though your body was already answering for you, leaning into him, urging him on.
Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck as he slipped his finger deeper, your mouth opening in a silent moan. Your hot breath mingled with his as he continued his movements.
“More,” you groaned.
“You sure? I don’t want to—”
“Dunk. More.”
The way you said it—like a command rather than a question—made Dunk twitch against his breeches.
“As you wish, m’lady.”
As his second finger slipped inside you, you couldn’t help the groan that left your lips. You buried your head in his shoulder, teeth grazing the strong muscle there as he quickened his movements slightly. Your thighs trembled despite yourself, hands clawing at Dunk in desperation.
“Is it good?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “So good, Dunk. Please don’t stop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, m’lady.”
You weren’t sure if he’d meant to say it so confidently, but it did things to you. You’d grown so used to seeing him shrink back—not in fear exactly, but in a way that showed he knew his place. But now, alone with you, his muscles flexing as he continued to pleasure you, that shyness you’d become accustomed to seemed to have disappeared.
He’d said he didn’t know how to do this, but the way he was working you with such ease told you that perhaps he was underselling himself.
And when he found that spot that made you cry out, your nails digging into his skin as you came undone against his hand, you were certain he had lied about just how much he knew.
His breath stuttered when you cried out, your grip on him tightening as if you might come apart without something to hold onto.You sagged slightly against him, your forehead pressing into his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath. Your fingers loosened their hold, though they didn’t leave him entirely, as if you still needed the reassurance that he was there.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t expect…”
Before he could finish whatever he was thinking, your lips were on his. He groaned against your mouth as you clung to him, your tongue brushing at his lips in search of entrance. He granted it, of course.
The kiss was messy. It was unclear whether it was due to inexperience or overwhelming desire, but you didn’t care.
Dunk shifted, his muscles flexing as he moved. A soft gasp left his lips as his hardness brushed against your thigh. You didn’t pull away, your mouth still pressed to his as your hand slipped between your bodies to caress him through his breeches.
Dunk let out a strained breath against your mouth, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and something deeper. His body reacted before his mind seemed to catch up, hips shifting slightly before he stilled himself again, as though fighting the instinct.
His hand found your wrist—not to pull it away, but to still it, just for a moment. His grip wasn’t firm, just enough to make you pause, to make you look at him.
“We should slow down,” he said again, quieter now, though his gaze hadn’t softened. If anything, it had deepened.
“Is that what you want?” you asked earnestly.
“Gods, no,” he breathed. “But I don’t know if I’ll—”
“Then don’t,” you cut in.
Something flickered in his eyes at that—something close to surrender.
“I want you,” you stated simply, the words making Dunk swallow a groan of need. “And you want me. Well, I assume you do, unless I—”
“Of course I want you,” Dunk cut in, his voice more certain than you’d ever heard it.
You couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across your face. You placed your hand on his cheek.
“Then why should we not?”
Dunk closed his eyes, biting into his cheek for a moment before opening them again.
“I don’t—” He stopped himself, the red on his cheeks deepening before he forced himself to continue. “I don’t want to hurt you, m’lady.”
Your heart tugged at the words, and before you could even think about it, you placed a reassuring kiss on his lips.
“You won’t,” you whispered.
Perhaps you should have expected it. He was a big man—it was only natural to assume that all of him was big—but you were still taken by surprise.
When Dunk finally pulled down his breeches, your eyes widened immediately. But before he could see the expression on your face and call the whole thing off, you schooled your features into calm.
Still, the only thing running through your mind as he made his way back to you was: How in the seven hells is that going to fit?
It wasn’t a simple task, but with some patience, you managed. You tried to keep your eyes from rolling back with every one of his thrusts, but he wasn’t making it easy on you. Not only did he hit the right spot every time—how could he not, when it felt like he was reaching so deep—but he was also incredibly vocal.
His head barely left your shoulder as his hips continued to move against you, so every sound that escaped him was heard clearly in your ear. And the praise—gods, it was driving you insane.
“Feels so good, m’lady… taking me so well,” Dunk groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly enough that you were sure they would leave bruises.
The sound of his voice sent a shiver through you, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you tried to steady your breathing. Every word he spoke seemed to go straight through you, leaving you more unsteady than before.
“Dunk…” you breathed, his name slipping out without thought.
He answered with a low, strained sound, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as if he needed the contact to ground himself. His hands were still firm at your hips, but there was something careful in the way he held you—like he was always just a breath away from pulling back if you needed him to.
“Fuck… could live inside you,” he groaned.
You moaned at that, surprised by the dirtiness of the words slipping from his mouth. Who would have known that beneath Ser Duncan the Tall there was this whole other man?
“Dunk, please,” you moaned.
“What is it, m’lady? What do you want?”
“More,” you whispered. “Give me more.”
“Greedy thing, eh?” Dunk murmured, amusement clear in his voice. “You sure, m’lady? I’m not going to hold back.”
“Ah—ugh—more, Dunk, please.”
“Alright… as you wish.”
You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. As soon as the words left his mouth, Dunk lifted himself off you. You looked at him as he straightened up, brows furrowing in confusion.
Dunk just gave you an easy smile, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs before dragging you closer to the edge of the bed without fully pulling away from you. Once he seemed satisfied with the position, he looked down at you.
“Ready?”
You nodded. Dunk raised a silent brow at you. You flushed immediately, understanding what he wanted.
“Yes, Ser.”
The smirk that graced his face dripped with sin, and before you even had time to process it, he moved again with sudden, overwhelming intensity.
The shift in him stole the breath from your lungs.
Your hands clutched at him instinctively, your head tipping back as the sudden change drew a sharp sound from you. Dunk’s jaw tightened at the reaction, his control visibly fraying at the edges.
“Careful,” he muttered, though it sounded more like a reminder to himself than to you.
You shook your head faintly, your grip on him tightening. “Don’t be.”
That did it.
Not recklessness—but permission.
His movements grew firmer, more certain, no longer testing but knowing. Each shift of him was met with your response, your body answering in ways that made his breath hitch, his composure slipping further with every passing moment.
“Gods…” he groaned, his voice low and strained. “You feel—”
He cut himself off, like even saying it might push him too far.
“Dunk, I’m—I—”
A moan tore through you before you could finish.
“You close?”
You nodded quickly, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto as the sensation became almost overwhelming.
“Yeah? You gonna come all over my cock, huh?” Dunk asked, his movements speeding up. “Gonna make a big ol’ mess, aren’t you?”
“Yes—gods, please, Dunk, don’t—”
“Not going to, m’lady,” Dunk muttered, a groan escaping him before he could stop it. “Go on… be a good girl and come for me.”
That was the tipping point. You cried out his name as you came, your body spasming as you clenched around him. Dunk wasn’t far behind, with one more rough thrust and a groan of your name, he came.
Dunk stilled, a rough breath leaving him as your body relaxed around him, your name still echoing in his ears. Your grip on him slowly loosened, though your hands didn’t fall away entirely, still clinging to him as you tried to steady your breathing.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Dunk finally pulled out of you, a soft hiss leaving your lips as he did. You were still trying to catch your breath when Dunk’s hands slipped beneath you, lifting you with ease before repositioning you in the bed. Once he had you settled, he lowered himself beside you with a soft grunt.
You waited only a second before inching closer, resting your head against his chest. Dunk’s arm wrapped around you in a way that felt natural, almost instinctive.
“Gods…” he murmured again, though this time it was quieter—almost awed.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound muffled slightly against him. “You say that a lot.”
A faint huff of amusement left him, though it was still threaded with something heavier. “I don’t think I’ve ever meant it more.”
That made something warm bloom in your chest, softer than what had come before, but no less intense.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice still rough, but steadier now.
You met his gaze, your lips curving faintly despite the lingering heat in your body. “I am.”
Relief flickered across his face so openly it almost made you smile wider.
“Good,” he said, quieter now.
For a moment, the world seemed to settle around you—no urgency, no rush. Just the quiet aftermath of something neither of you had quite expected, but neither of you seemed to regret.
Your hand found his cheek again, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin.
“We should probably be quiet,” you murmured, a hint of teasing returning. “Unless you want Egg knocking on the door next.”
Dunk let out a low groan at that, his head dipping briefly. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Content warnings: 18+ porn with plot, sex pollen/drugged lust/ consent under duress, P in V penetration, spitting, rough sex-ish, possessive language, praise kink, creampie, overheard setting, kind of angsty at the end.. I guess?
Summary: You, Steve, Tony, Thor and Bruce are sent to investigate a long derelict Hydra space station orbiting above the Atlantic. The mission goes wrong when you are exposed to an experimental chemical- one that turns your body against you, burning you out from the inside. Desire and danger crescendo as every second brings you closer to disaster.
With two long hours left until landing, Steve Rogers faces a decision that could change everything.
★Steve’s hardest mission yet…★
❀ an: First post on tumblr YAY. This fic has kind of tame sex pollen effects, (as in, reader is not completely sex crazed, just extremely aroused and physically affected) And similarly I tried to stay true to the professional and moral Steve- in certain scenes hehe. Lots of build-up in this one! Enjoy ♡︎
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“Med bay, this is Rogers- we need a team ready. Possible chemical exposure, unknown origin.”
“Understood. Who has been affected?”
Helen Cho’s voice crackled back through the comms, steady in its urgency.
Steve, Tony, Bruce and Thor all turned toward you in unison. You were slumped in a harsh metal chair to the left of them, every muscle in your body screaming in protest.
Steve turned to speak again, but you barely caught the words as they swam in and out, dissolving under the shrill ringing in your ears. The ship hummed beneath your boots, each vibration from the strained engine rolling through your spine.
Nausea began to creep up your chest as you pulled your legs together, trying to stay grounded. You were still in the aftershock, clinging to any semblance of understanding as your body tensed and shuddered.
The last thing you remembered from the mission was the room exploding in a flash of gold, and Thor’s cloak catching the light as he found you lying in the Hydra space station hallway, orbiting over the Arctic Ocean.
Every breath dragged heavier than the last, and a metallic tang clung stubbornly to the back of your throat. You pressed a hand to your temple, attempting to will away the effects of whatever this was, but the spinning only deepened.
Steve’s hand clamped firmly around your arm, pulling you out of the fog suddenly.
“Y/N, can you tell me what you’re feeling?” His voice was calm, comforting. And suddenly, your whole body felt aflame with signals, too many to focus on, too sharp to put a name to. You blinked against the lights smearing into watercolour streaks above you.
“My skin’s on fire” you managed to huff out.
Steve crouched down to your eye level, taking in your blistered appearance.
“I’m hot.. and dizzy and my clothes feel-” your breath splintered as your words failed you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the sight of Steve’s deep azure eyes in front of you had just knocked the voice from your throat.
Tony cut in, pacing across the cabin, scanner in hand. “Temp’s climbing fast, oxygen saturation’s tanking. We’re dealing with a classic mystery toxin- Banner, tell me you got eyes on this feed? Don’t make me play doctor here, I look terrible in white.”
“I’ve got it” Bruce answered, voice taut.
“Cap, keep her talking. Thor, don’t let her slump forward- airway needs to stay open.”
Thor bristled at the command, already at your other side. He pressed a steadying hand between your shoulder blades, thumb hooked around your neck, and the skin beneath exploded into chills.
“Fear not, comrade. I will bear your weight. No poison born of cowards shall claim you while I yet draw breath.”
“Fantastic” Tony muttered, his tone sharper than playful.
Typically you would have laughed at Thor’s grandiose bravado, or maybe even appreciated the sentiment considering the current state of affairs- instead, something deep within your stomach lurched at the feeling of his large, strong hand pressing into you. The effects of the mystery toxin had become suddenly clearer to you, as a familiar throbbing began in your cunt. You bit your lip, hard.
“Med bay, her heart rate is ramping up over here, Banner says we’re running a two-hour clock ‘til touch down. You might want to clear the crash carts and prep for something ugly.”
“Two hours..” Helen’s voice hardened. “Keep her conscious, that’s priority one. Banner you’ll have full lab access when she’s ground-side.”
“Copy that,” Bruce replied, his voice steady, but you could hear the whir of calculation underneath.
“Is this chemical makeup becoming any clearer to you? From what I’m seeing, this compound is based on Bremelanotide, some kind of Terpenoid and… Meth? It’s reminiscent of a back-alley viagra.”
“Give me a minute” Helen’s voice rang out after a short pause.
“Y/N” Tony snapped, eyeing Bruce.
“I need you to slow your breathing- Inhale for four counts.. yeah that’s it..
Hold..
Exhale.
Good, just like that. Again.”
The ship tilted around you as your mind raced, attempting to follow Tony’s commands. You were unable to focus on your breath with the feeling of your suit clinging to your hot skin, it was suffocating.
“I need this off” you spluttered out, finding Tony’s face above you.
“You need… what off?” He questioned, shoulders tensing into stone as he looked into your tearful eyes.
Your head tilted to the side as a ragged breath escaped you, chest rising unevenly. Your fingers circled into fists, nails biting into your palms as your eyes squeezed shut. Slowly, your back arched off the seat, hips tilting forward, chasing a relief you couldn’t quite grasp. The nausea that had churned your stomach earlier had shifted, twisting into something heavier. Heat bloomed beneath your skin, prickling like a relentless fever. It rolled lower, coiling tight in your belly, spreading out in sharp pulses impossible to ignore. The primal, unshakeable urge to be filled, stretched open, left you dizzied and undone beneath its grip.
Focus had always been your greatest strength. On missions, you were always the quiet one- sharp, trained to hold fast to discipline and drown out distractions. But all those lessons in detachment and control offered no help here, not when you were confined to the steel belly of the Quinjet, hours away from reprieve, with four men as your only companions. Four men whose presence pressed in on your every thought. Each formidable. Each admirable. Each unbearably handsome in their own right. It was pure torment.
With your body becoming harder and harder to control, all you wanted to do was get up and run.
“Fuck-“ you gasped, “my suit.”
Tony and Steve glanced at each other, the thick tension between them shifting from concern to urgent realisation. Tony cleared his throat, turning to Bruce who had been having a quiet and brisk conversation with Helen.
“What was that you were saying about back-alley viagra, Banner? ‘Cause I, uh, I think we have a situation over here.”
Bruce looked back at Tony for a beat, sighing as he chose his next words.
“Well it’s confirmed, this isn’t just an irritant. We’re looking at systematic damage if this isn’t neutralised fast… but it’s manageable.”
The words punched harder than the drilling in your ears- and the pulsing in your cunt.
Life-threatening. The phrase hung heavy and unspoken, but you read it in the lines deepening across Steve’s brow. He was upright now, broad marble shoulders flexing under his suit. You brought in a ragged breath.
“Understood” he answered firmly.
Tony exhaled sharply, pushing both hands through his hair before stabbing at the scanner again. It clicked back to life with a sharp zip.
“Manageable, huh? Manageable by who, exactly?” He questioned, words clattering over a tension he couldn’t quite disguise. Still, his eyes kept darting to you, sharp and calculating, like he was measuring every flutter of your chest.
It was apparent he knew exactly what was unfolding inside of you, and panic slingshotted through the back of your neck like a whip. You wanted the floor to swallow you up.
Thor shifted beside you, restless as a caged storm. His jaw clenched, knuckles whitening around Mjolnir.
“I shall manage it! If it’s poison, then give me its name and origin right now, and I will strike it from the nine realms!”
Tony sighed, shaking his head. “Banner, can you let the rest of the team in on what’s going on, like, now?”
“Yeah.. yeah uhm- I’ve run a partial analysis. It’s not a natural compound, it’s engineered. Hydra designed it to destabilise the body at a cellular level. Essentially to preoccupy the contaminants, make them vulnerable and unable to defend themselves.”
Steve’s jaw tightened. “Can you get to the point, Banner?”
Bruce exhaled. “It’s a hybrid neurotoxin. It piggybacks into the bloodstream through the lungs, not designed to kill outright, but to hijack the nervous system.”
“Hijack? Meaning what?” Steve frowned, he crossed his arms over his broad chest, beneath them you could see his hands clenching into fists.
“Meaning I’ve been watching her dopamine levels go through the roof since we strapped in. Banner, tell me I’m wrong” Tony answered.
“You’re not,” Bruce admitted, voice taut. “The compound -hypothetically- targets neurotransmitters, specifically those linked to arousal. It pushes the body into a hyper-stimulated state, essentially it’s an aphrodisiac- times one hundred.”
Tony let out a low whistle, eyes narrowing onto his scanner. “Called it. Spiked heart rate, blood pressure increase, system going into overdrive. Reads like a businessman at a strip Club.”
Thor straightened, finally catching onto the situation. His confused expression darkened into disgust, but not with you.
“They would force such.. urges? Drive a warrior into madness with lust?” His tone rumbled, indignant. “Vile sorcery.”
Steve’s jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to you, then away just as quickly, visibly unsettled.
“So, is this thing lethal or not?”
“Not immediately,” Bruce said. “But the strain on her cardiovascular system alone could be fatal if it continues to run unchecked. And psychologically…”
“Hydra always did love their party tricks,” Tony muttered, though his voice was tight. He adjusted the scanner again restlessly.
“Guys, this is serious. At this rate, she isn’t going to make it back here without intervention. She needs stimulation” Helen said, her words sharp.
The feeling had swallowed you now, you were unable to contain it any longer. Your breathing was coming out in short sobs as you twisted within the chair.
“Well, I can probably whip up a better-than-average vibrator, just need a decent motor and some batteries” Tony mumbled.
“No. That’s not gonna cut it.” Helen sighed. “She needs male DNA, which is available through saliva or.. ejaculate.”
The tension had reached its crescendo now, all parties aware of what that meant.
You shifted in the chair, trying to press your knees together, but the movement only stoked the fire. A gasp slipped out before you could stop it.
Steve noticed instantly, his hand pressed onto the armrest next to you.
“Easy” he murmured.
Tony’s eyes flicked from his scanner to your flushed face, his usual smirk didn’t come, instead his jaw ticked.
“Well, banner, your neurotransmitter theory has already left the hypothetical stage.”
“That’s the compound, it’s overstimulating her system. Her heart rate is elevated way past safe levels. If she keeps reacting it could tip into arrhythmia.”
Thor growled, the sound thunder deep. His hand hovered near your shoulder, but he hesitated, unsure if his touch would soothe or worsen.
You squeezed your eyes shut again, breathing in uneven gasps. Every inhale felt too shallow, every exhale a struggle against the pulse roaring through your blood.
“Y/N, you’re going to be okay, just hang in there” Steve said.
At the sound of his gravely voice, your mind betrayed you, spinning out pyretic visions you couldn’t hold back. You could almost feel the weight of his hot mouth pressing to your throat, his tongue dragging slow, wet lines down the delicate curve of your neck. Licking stripes lower and lower until his warmth ghosted over your peaked nipple. Closing his lips around it, sucking hard enough to make your back bow and strain, tongue flicking until you whimpered. You imagined him flicking against your swollen, aching clit instead. Sucking, licking gently until you could feel it bone deep and dragging languidly through your every nerve. The phantom pleasure was so vivid it hollowed you out, left you fluttering around nothing.
“Do we have any kind of protocol to run off here? I mean, this can’t be ethical. How would we even..” Tony trailed off quietly.
Your body jolted like it had been shocked. Heat flared then drained so fast it left your teeth chattering. The whiplash left you gasping, you clutched Steve’s sleeve like it was the only thing tethering you down.
Desire licked through your veins, prickling your skin like fire ants. You yanked at your suit, desperate for air, the feel of it clinging to your skin becoming unbearable in the isolated cabin. You ripped the zipper down, fabric popping open to reveal your bra.
“Okay, guys, we really need a plan here” Tony said quickly, swivelling around so his back was to you. Thor’s eyes widened, and he began to spin around as he followed Tony’s movements.
Steve shifted then, sliding one arm beneath you and the other behind your shoulders. You sucked in a gasp, chewing on your bottom lip.
“Steve-“ you began to protest, but he shushed you, lifting as though you weighed nothing. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed ahead, remaining far more composed than could be said for the rest of them.
Tony twisted half around, eyebrows raised.
“Well isn’t that a wholesome picture, Rodgers. Doing the full bridal carry. And, although I know you’re big on procedures, I sure hope you’re not planning on consummating this marriage so soon. We haven’t signed off on anything yet.”
Steve didn’t even glance his way.
“She needs privacy right now, that’s all.”
“Sure, sure, just saying. You’ve set the bar real high for bedside manner.”
Before Steve could answer, Thor stepped forward, solemn and classically dramatic. His gaze rested on you, then on Steve, as he pressed a broad hand to his chest.
“Captain Rodger’s bears you with honour. Fear not, Y/N. No harm, nor shame, shall touch you today. By my oath, you are protected.”
Steve adjusted his grip, bringing his hand further down towards your knees as he felt the wetness that seeped down your thighs.
“Let’s just keep the focus on getting her stable.” He said firmly.
“Aye-” Thor said, smiling humbly as he bowed his head in assent, “-yet the vow still stands.” His voice rumbled through your pussy like a distant storm.
Steve walked steadily toward the Quinjet cabin quarters, shoulder sliding open the door slowly. He placed you down on the bed, his hand lingering just a second too long on your shoulder- meaning to steady you.
“Breathe with me, gonna be just you and me for now.” He straightened up, eyeing you intently.
You tried, the air clawed at your throat with every inhale, your body felt like it wasn’t yours anymore. Like an enemy- it spun, it ached, it begged, every urge fighting against your own mind.
“I’m burning” you sobbed, fingers curling into the soft sheets below you.
Steve hated the way you trembled below him, every sense coming undone. His usually composed demeanour strained within him. You had always been quiet, a steady pair of eyes. He always trusted you to keep your attention on the job, in a way, you were the one he had come to rely on the most.
“I know” he answered simply before lifting his hand, palm falling flat against your arm.
He shifted around from beside you, blue shadows bled across the cabin walls as he moved, flicking on a lamp with a muted click. The light framed him in a gentle glow as you drifted in the electric hum rattling your bones, preventing you from finding your words. You squeezed your eyes shut as your fingers found the edges of your suit instead, tugging weakly.
Steve was back beside you then, crouching down steady and capable as you writhed. His fingers found yours, coaxing your trembling grip down to your side.
“Let me help” he murmured, catching your eyes as they fluttered open. You wanted to relent, insist you were trained for this- but the words dissolved somewhere, and all that remained of your argument ceased as you gave a fragile nod.
He exhaled slow, shoulders loosening as he shifted forward. His presence folded over you, seeming to hit you like gravity. A forceful pull ricocheted through every limb. You shivered under the pressure building within you, your efforts to force the toxin to yield.
He peeled back your suit slowly, each touch precise, almost reverent. Cold, large hands traced down your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake, sending sparks scattering through your veins. The sensation swelled, crashing over you, ebbing and flowing through every inch of your body until you were just a floating thing lost somewhere deep in the flame.
“Better?” He asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead, letting his hand fall to the back of your neck.
A shaky breath escaped you, more whimper than anything. The knowledge of what loomed between you both pressed in heavy, too much to comprehend. Steve Rogers, the most honourable man for the job, would be the one to see you through this- it couldn’t be anyone else. And after, somehow, you’d have to stand at his side on missions like nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t watched you lose yourself on his cock, gasping and writhing, breaking apart in helpless waves. Like he hadn’t steadied you through it all, while you sobbed and clawed at his shoulders.
He was going to see every crack in you, hear every desperate sound his cock pulled from you, every shiver that tore through your body as it shattered around him. He’d carry those memories in his hands, his mouth, they’d be behind his eyes every time they found yours from across the room. That invisible, dangerous pull of tension would follow you everywhere he was.
You were too far gone for embarrassment to reach you yet, but you knew it was coming. The emotions within you buckled around each other, bitterness lingering somewhere under the toxin. You silently cursed the universe for subjecting you to this. But yet, maybe it was for the best, maybe it had to be you. You couldn’t imagine the chaos if it had been Thor, or worse, Bruce.
Steve adjusted the air system overhead, his chiselled arm stretching out long above you, muscles taut beneath his suit. Cool air began to float over you, peppering onto your fevered skin. His other hand was still at your neck, thumb circling against the tense muscle there. The motion was slight, soothing. You couldn’t help but wonder if he knew how it burned, how every graze of his skin against yours ignited the well in your stomach. If he was subtly accustoming you, weaning you onto it for what was to come.
“Focus on me” he ordered softly, voice low and commanding. You tried, eyes locked onto his, breathing with him.
The cool air should’ve soothed you more than it did. Instead, it ghosted over you in the most unbearable way, every waft over your overheated skin felt like electric to your nerves, feeding the fire.
His hand steadying the back of your neck should’ve felt clinical, like a soldier caring for an injured comrade, but each time his thumb grazed against your skin a shiver bolted through you. Heat pooled lower and lower in your stomach, spilling out in heavy waves.
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to focus on the sting, willing the sharp edges of your teeth to drown it all out. But the sound that broke from you was no sob from pain, it was a breathy moan, erotic and needy.
Steve didn’t falter, his grip became firmer, holding you grounded to him as your vision fizzled again. The clean lines of his face blurred into something too sharp, too consuming.
The sheets clung suffocatingly to your sensitive skin, the feel of your underwear unbearable. You twitched restlessly, pulling your legs tight one moment, straining to stretch them the next. Steve saw the shiver that ripped through you, the instinctive arch of your spine.
He kept his face calm, but the heat churned under his ribs too. He knew he had no right to think about the hot flush he felt creeping up your neck, about the tremors that rippled through your legs, about the wet slick that was flowing down them, about how much you needed him.
He could feel your pulse stammering beneath your neck, and it settled the havoc building within him.
“I’ll be right outside” he said softly, getting up to move toward the door. “You’ll be okay, I’ll make sure.”
The door slid shut behind him, and for the first time, the room fell into silence. Your heart thrummed like a drum within your chest. Somewhere beyond the wall you heard the voices bleed in, muffled and airy.
“She shouldn’t be in there alone right now” Tony snapped. “I don’t care how noble it looks. She needs help. Now.”
Thor rumbled low in response, words catching in the air heavily. “But who among us can endure such a trial without dishonour? A weaker man would falter.”
“That’s exactly the point” Tony cut in, sharper. “She needs someone who won’t falter. And that rules me out.”
Silence pressed back in for a moment, then Steve’s voice broke through, resolute.
“I know, trust me, I know she does” he breathed. “And I know it’s got to be me. Just, give me some direction.”
“Banner? Care to give our soldier a manual?” Tony prodded, pausing to look back at Steve. “Wait, what are we talking here Cap, you need to know how to make her cum? Or are you just tryna gauge what’s off limits?”
“No need to be crude, Tony” Steve cut in quickly, tone dropped, edging on warning.
Bruce exhaled heavily before answering, voice taut in its reluctant authority.
“I can’t tell you how to handle this. It’s between you and Y/N. What matters is keeping her system stable. She needs release, stimulation, your DNA in her. Whatever way that works.”
“So, it's decided” Tony hummed.
The heavy silence picked back up, then the door slid open again.
Steve stepped back inside, shadows cutting across his face. His eyes were already on you, and you couldn’t quite identify what was behind them.
He shut the door with deliberate care, effectively sealing you both away from the outside world. He found his place back at your side, allowing his hand to find yours.
“Are we both on the same page? Do you understand this is the only option?” He questioned slowly, head bowed as if he daredn’t look at you until he knew.
Your chest stuttered with a sharp inhale, tears pricking at your lashes as you managed a shaky “yes.”
“You trust me, don’t you?”
The words carried more conviction than question, like an affirmation he needed to ground himself in. His thumb traced soft, steady circles on the back of your hand as his eyes lifted to yours.
“I do” You breathed out.
“Good.”
His voice gentled, coming out like a quiet vow, “I’ll guide you through this, one step at a time.”
With practised care, he shifted you, strong hands gripping your fleshy hips toward the edge of the bed where he towered over you. He placed a pillow beneath your head, bringing his touch to wipe the corner of your eye, then to cradle your cheek lovingly. The small motions had you quivering, leaning your face into the sensations.
“Tell me what you need” He murmured.
The room swam around you, edges blurring. His presence, his husky voice, the warm smell of spice and amber clinging to him, they all cut through your haze like an anchor. This felt right. It had to be him. Salvation seemed to pour through every part of him, a divine guidance that soothed even as the ache enveloped you more intensely than ever.
The heat within you twisted at the surrender, surging into a fresh wave of ache, twisting through your veins with every reminder of his presence. Every pass of his thumb to your skin, every firm squeeze to your hip.
You turned your face toward him, eyes glossy, plump lips parted delicately. God, the way you looked at him, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. It hit him harder than any blow he’d ever taken in combat. He swallowed, jaw clenched tight. His historical resolve tore and trembled within him, giving way to something else. Something stronger than responsibility, more consuming than duty. Something he’d never allowed to surface until now- with you lying below him, lost in lust, your perfect, round tits heaving below your bra.
You felt it too, that slip in the air. The toxin didn’t just force urges upon you, it cradled them, pulled them together, forced them into shape from the very edges of your mind.
It sharpened them until they exploded with every forceful heartbeat.
Your body arched toward his, a sob catching in your throat. His eyes flicked down toward your soaking heat, and when they snapped back up to yours the blue in them was darker. Storm laced and determined.
“I just need you” you whispered, pleading. “Need you to fuck me.”
Steve’s hands steadied you, one sliding from your face to unclip your bra with practised ease. He swallowed thick as his eyes settled on your tits, breath deepening. He leaned closer, letting his hand trace around from your back, down your body to tug your soaked underwear slowly down your thighs, letting them land somewhere below him. He parted your legs gently, pulled them out wide as he brought them closer to your chest. His eyes were locked onto your glistening pussy between them. His voice came in a low murmur.
“I’ve got you… make you feel all better, yeah?”
For a heartbeat, the stretch of your legs left you feeling raw and fragile, every nerve trembled under the exposure. But a pulse of relief swept through you too, stable and certain, as though Steve was the only reprieve left. You let out a breathy hum.
His fingers moved to his own clothing, working quickly to tug at the seams of his uniform. The fabric slid down over his broad chest and shoulders, cut from years of discipline, serum forged perfection. Each new inch of skin made the air feel thinner, left your skin buzzing with want. Muscles rippled as he shrugged the suit down, and you could barely think past the rush in your veins, the way your whole body was clenching down in raw need.
His gaze never left yours as he worked his pants open, that unyielding blue seeming to hold you in place, promising stability as your body trembled. Then his cock sprang free, solid and heavy, thick with veins that throbbed in the same restrained urgency written across his face. Heat flared through you like wildfire, the sight of his length had your hips jerking upward, a wordless invitation.
“God…” the word cracked from him as he looked down at you- spread wide, trembling, eyes glossy and pleading. His hand wrapped around the base of himself, pumping twice before guiding his swollen head to your entrance. The first brush against your slick hole made you jolt, unbearable and perfect all at once. He held himself still, letting you steady- then he began to press in, slow and deliberate. You gasped, body seizing tight around him, pulling him deeper with every shallow thrust forward.
“Jesus, you’re-“ he cut himself off, teeth gritting as his breath shuddered. His fingers dug into your hips as he breathed measured exhales through his nose. “You’re so damn tight.”
Inch by inch, he pushed in deeper. The stretch was overwhelming, every nerve screamed, every muscle pulled taut, straining to accommodate him. It was too much- the stretch of him splitting you wide, filling you to the hilt until there was nothing left for you to give, but still he took more.
Your nails clawed at the sheets, unable to ground yourself against the flood of sensation as he bottomed out inside of you. A broken moan ripped from you, whiny and desperate. Steve stilled, eyes screwed shut.
“Just breathe honey” he rasped after a second, voice as wrecked as you. His thumb traced soft circles at your waist as his chest rose and fell in heavy pulls.
“That’s it, let me in.. nice and deep. We don’t have to rush a thing”
A low rumble vibrated from him, the sound raw, as if the molten heat of your pussy threatened to undo him. He bit down hard on his lip, exhaling rough, forcing back his urges. The ones to take you completely, to pound you into the mattress, give you everything he had all at once.
He pulled back only slightly, then pushed in again, hard. His rhythm was controlled, slow measured thrusts, but still threaded with need. Each movement sent sparks licking up your spine, hot pleasure searing up your abdomen, tightening low as his balls slapped lazily against the round of your ass. Each drag of him inside you stroked every tender, explosive nerve, the friction had your mouth falling open, breathing in ragged sobs.
The feel of your soaking cunt, clenching, scorching, swallowing him whole had his control fraying with every pound. He ground in deeper, his blunt head pressing against that devastating spot, tearing another cry from your throat. Pleasure flooded you, so sharp, so consuming it bordered on pain.
“Can’t hold back when you sound like that” he groaned, his words almost a growl.
His hand slid down, thumbing roughly against your clit, the harsh circles a wicked contrast to the slow, heaving rhythm of his thrusts. Your vision blurred, every sensation folding into the next until you were sobbing, body arching helplessly into him.
His eyes flickered, darkening as his hips began to snap harder, faster, each stroke punctuated with a guttural moan torn from his chest. He bent to your ear, voice low, heated.
“You feel that sweetheart? Your tight little pussy shaking around me? Tell me how it feels.”
The words sent lightning through your spine, walls clamping around him so violently he swore aloud. Wet, obscene sounds filled the air as his body hammered into yours with punishing precision, pleasure breaking over you in dizzying sputters.
“Feels so good, I can feel you everywhere” you blubbered, gaze dropping to where your bodies connected, the squelch of it filthy, undeniable. Your body trembled, hips chasing his with every ragged slam.
“Look at me” he ordered, his hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face back toward his, forcing your eyes to meet his burning stare.
The heat of his skin, the weight of his body pressing into yours, the deep stretch splitting you apart and remaking you around him, it overtook you. You sobbed again, clutching at him, tidal wave cresting higher with every thrust.
Steve groaned, low in his chest, unravelling with each broken sound you made. Your cries cracked his resolve. “Open your mouth for me” he rasped, pulling into excruciatingly slow grinds that forced you to feel every inch, every ridge, every pulsing throb of his cock as it bullied into you.
You parted your lips, and his spit fell onto your tongue, warm and filthy. The sound you made had his cock twitching deep inside you. He kissed you, swallowing the taste of himself on your tongue.
“Good, baby. Taking what I give you so well” he muttered against your lips, humming back into a kiss. The rhythm that followed was brutal, you felt him claim you with each wave of hot pleasure, each stroke branding you inside out. He kissed along your throat, sucked at the hollow beneath your jaw until your skin was raw.
Each thrust dragged against the tenderest places tucked deep within you, coaxing whines from your lips that he shushed gently, thumb brushing over your wet cheek as his hips drove mercilessly deeper.
“Shh, I’ve got you. Told you I’d make it feel better. Wanna take it slow, I want you to feel all of it, want you to know it’s me.”
The intimacy laced with filth, the drag of his cock, the lingering feel of his spit down your throat all tangled together until your body shook beneath him, ready to snap.
He dragged back until only his tip was pressed inside you, then pushed in again, achingly slow, savouring the way your walls clenched and fluttered. You whimpered, fingers twisting in the sheets.
Another shallow thrust, another moan caught in your throat. His hand still cradled your jaw, thumb pressing in softly.
“That’s it, just look at me” he whispered.
You tried, lashes fluttering, but heat swamped every nerve, dragging your focus away into a dulled floaty delirium. He huffed a low laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. He steadied your hips against the bed as you tried to buck for more.
“Not yet” he breathed, voice firm. “Wanna hear every sound you can make for me first.”
A sharp, deliberate thrust knocked the air from your lungs, your cry echoing through the room, desperate and drawn out. He groaned in response, forehead pressing to yours.
His pace stayed maddening, slow enough to torment, hard enough to wring pulse after pulse of need from your slick pussy. You were soaked, trembling, your whole body begging for release.
“Please, please… I wanna cum” you whimpered, voice breaking.
“Shh, it’s okay” he cooed, kissing your temple, “I know-” he kissed over your throat again, leaving open mouthed heat across your skin.
“I’ll give it to you, sweetheart, just hold on for me a little longer, yeah? Can you do that?” He said, words broken by heavy breaths.
The world narrowed to the press of his body and the cadence of your breath, the molten coil tightening inside of you. “Anything you want, I’m yours” you gasped.
He hummed, half grief and half hunger, the sound wound straight into your cunt. “That’s my girl. So good for me, taking me so well. You’re so beautiful like this” he breathed against your temple.
Towering up over you again, his palm pressed flat to your sternum, feeling the frantic drum beat beneath. His hand slid lower, cradling your fleshy tit as he pinched your hardened bud between two fingers, rolling it until your thighs shook. He soothed with his thumb in gentle circles over the peak, then pinched again, teasing until you were stuttering.
“You gonna cum baby? I know how bad you want it” he purred, his other hand gripping hard into your thigh as his pace snapped sharper. “So good… let go sweetheart, wanna feel you fall apart, milk my cock, it’ll fix you right up” his voice broke on the words, low and rough, praises spilling from his lips in an endless flow.
Your release wasn’t sudden so much as inevitable. The mark of him was everywhere, invading your every sense until you shattered. You gasped, breath hitching as the coil in your stomach finally broke free, pleasure springing outwards, up to the top of your tummy, down the length of your legs, warm and tingling.
You let out little sobs as he kept driving into you, unrelenting, his hand stroking the hair back from your damp face. Every punch from his cock dragged your orgasm out, clamping you tighter around him on the verge of overstimulation.
Steve’s jaw dropped as he felt it, the way your cushiony walls fluttered desperately around him, wringing him from base to tip. He slowed just slightly, breath shuddering, eyes locked on the way your body seized around him. His control buckled at the sight, hanging over you on trembling legs.
“Fuck-“ he spluttered out, “I’m gonna cum in your pussy. Keep me just like that- yeah that’s it… you’re gonna take every drop, you hear me?”
You blinked up at him through wet lashes, glassy eyes struggling under the weight of your climax. You clung to his arm, words tumbling out softly. “Wanna feel it all, want you to fill me up.”
Every muscle in him folded, every restraint unspooling with the flutter of your pussy. He poured himself into you in hot spurts, buried deep, moans tearing out in deep rumbles.
The storm ebbed slowly, leaving only the sound of breath- yours ragged and shallow, his heavy and uneven above you. Steve pressed his forehead to yours for a fleeting second, grounding himself before shifting carefully. His thumb brushed the salt from your damp cheeks, tugging the blanket from the bed’s edge and pulling it around your shivering frame. When you squirmed at the sticky pull between your thighs, his jaw flexed. Moving with quiet efficiency he reached for the tissue box at the nightstand and dabbed you clean as best he could with gentle touches.
He slid in beside you, tugging you against the breadth of his chest. His palm caressed over your back lightly, a simple and grounding lull as your heart still thrummed frantically beneath your ribs. Silence hung between you for a few moments, heavy but not uncomfortable. It was dense with unsaid sentiments you both wanted to linger in a while longer.
Then he exhaled a long breath, as if he was collecting pieces of himself. “How are you feeling?” His voice was careful, controlled, still frayed at its corners.
Your brain still felt scrambled, the heat echoing around the edges of you. “I’m okay” you breathed, though your brows knit together faintly, your body not yet catching up with your words.
Steve’s chest tightened at the answer. For the first time in a long time, he felt lost. Lost to his feelings, to the gentle, honey-dripping warmth that still cluttered around in his chest.
You swallowed, shifting against him. Part of you wanted to press in closer, soak in the heat of his body. The other part recoiled from every biting stab of fondness that furled around Steve’s very presence.
“You should rest for a while” he murmured, voice quiet. “I’ll.. check in with the others.”
You hummed in response, the sound small in the hush. His warmth lingered as he pressed one last reassuring squeeze to your side before untangling from you. He sat on the bed’s edge, shoulders hunched, jaw tight as he pulled his uniform back together. For a moment he sat still, broad back falling and rising as if he was zipping up more than just his clothes.
“We should talk, after” he said, looking back at you, not cold, but his gaze was heavy with an unreadable steadiness.
Your lips parted, but you couldn’t find words to fill the space. What if he didn’t mean what you wanted him to?
When he finally stood, he didn’t meet your eyes again, just flexed his hand at his side restlessly. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
The door sealed shut behind him, leaving you back in the quinjet’s quiet hum. Silence wrapped around you, heavy and disorienting. As if on cue, you heard Tony as he clapped his hands together.
“Well” he said, drawing out the word like a verdict, “looks like our gamble paid off. She’s alive, you’re still standing. Nobody… faltered?” You could hear the smirk threading through his tone. “Although, judging by your rosy disposition, I wouldn’t say you came out untouched.”
Even through the door, you could hear the weight that dragged in Steve’s silence. A long exhale, clipped and even, proved how Steve was holding himself together by a thread.
Bruce’s voice came quieter, a gentle counterweight. “She’s stabilising already, she’s okay. That’s what matters. He did exactly what needed to be done.”
“Exactly!” Thor’s voice boomed. “He selflessly placed her before himself, as an honourable warrior should. Many men would’ve been consumed, lost to the storm. Steve Rogers was not.”
“Was not?” Tony countered. “‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like our fearless leader very much.. was.” The vague hand gesture that surely followed needed no translation.
Your cheeks burned hot. Steve made a low, incredulous sound in his throat- something between a huff and a sigh.
“I’m teasing” Tony added, a shade softer. “Any of us could’ve- hell I probably would’ve- made it about ourselves. Cap, he kept it about her. That’s the difference. That’s why Boy Scout here gets the gold star.”
In the silence that again followed, you couldn’t picture what expression could’ve painted Steve’s face at those words. What happened between you, the lingering flutters that seemed to swim around you, it all felt like more.
Bruce cleared his throat then, redirecting. “Med bay’s ready, we’re clear to land. Once we’re on the ground she’ll be fully stabilised. Just keep her comfortable until then.”
“Comfortable, huh?” Tony said, whistling low. “Well. Pretty sure Cap’s got that covered.”
word count: 7.1k
summary: only a few weeks after a breakup, you go out for the night with the team. steve doesn’t show up, and he’s been purposefully not showing up to anything non-work related after the breakup. however, tonight you drink a little too much, and insist that steve pick you up.
warnings: angst (breakup, talk of bullying, body image issues), swearing, drinking, *smutty implications.
"I'm sorry, I just didn't know who else to call," Sam explains, his voice raised to speak louder than the blaring music.
"She keeps asking for you, and she won't go with anyone but you," Bucky adds as he and Sam lead Steve through the crowded dancefloor.
The blond sighs and shoves his phone into the pocket of his jeans. "It's alright, really, but just how drunk is she, exactly?"
Before Sam can respond, they come to a stop right in front of the team's reserved booth. Bruce had only come for all of an hour of the night, but Clint and Tony had left about thirty minutes prior to Steve's arrival, leaving your well-being in Natasha, Bucky, and Sam's hands.
Steve looks over you and Nat; you're laid down on the long, cushioned seat with your head resting on her lap. Her jacket is slung over your lower half to cover your exposed legs from your dress rising up on your thighs. You're looking up at her adoringly, reaching up to twirl strands of her hair between your fingers as you mumble about how pretty her hair is.
"That answer your question?" Sam whispers, chuckling slightly.
Another sigh falls from Steve's lips, and although his heart aches, he has to stop himself from cracking a smile. "That it does."
He steps closer to the booth, taking in the sight of you with softened eyes. Typically, you never let yourself get this drunk, not in the public eye at least. Even though it's clear you've had more than a bit too much to drink, the sight is endearing.
Nat directs her attention from you and up at the three men approaching the table instead. Her expression is one of amusement with a slight hint of relief as she looks down at you again. "Hey, look who's here, honey," she says softly to you.
You turn your head in her lap and let your hands fall back down, finally releasing her hair from your gentle grip. Your eyes land on Steve and you blink up at him before a wide, drunken smile spreads on your face.
"Steeeeve!" you exclaim in a slur, reaching your hand out for him. "You came!"
He crouches down next to the booth, hesitantly taking your hand into his. "Hey, doll. 'Course I came, I always will. Looks like you've had fun tonight, huh?"
You nod excitedly and your smile spreads into a grin. "Nat's hair is sooo pretty, did ya know that? 'S soft too, like a pillow," you ramble, your words somehow not coming out scrambled.
"I bet," Steve says, watching Nat brush your hair out of your face. "Let's get you home, yeah?"
"Your home?" you ask in a softer voice.
Right. His home.
"I don't..." Steve starts before falling into silent contemplation.
He looks up at Nat who's already looking back at him, her expression apologetic and soft. Then his eyes shift back down to you, and his heart clenches in his chest. Your eyelashes flutter as you blink at him, your eyes light up and twinkle in a way that they only do for him, and your lips part a little as you take slower breaths.
How could he say no to that?
"Sure, yeah, we'll go back to mine," he concedes gently, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.
You smile again and scramble to sit upright. Nat lays a hand on your back to help keep you balanced, Steve taking your other hand in his free one to pull you up gently. When you're sat up straight, he takes Nat's jacket off your legs and helps you tug your dress back down.
He slides your phone off the table and into his pocket before throwing your arms around his neck. You take the hint to hold on as he slides one of his arms under your legs and the other behind your back.
Effortlessly, he lifts you into his arms. You clasp your hands together behind his neck and a giggle slips out of your lips- a sound that was once music to his ears which had now become one he longed to hear again.
"G'night, Nat," you say sweetly, turning your head to look at her.
Steve's body follows the direction of your head, turning towards the table so you don't strain your neck. Her eyes meet yours and she smiles at you once more.
"Goodnight, babe. Text me tomorrow, alright?" she requests before looking up at Steve and saying, "Make sure to get some water in her, we had to trick her into drinking some by watering down her tequila."
"Will do-"
Your gasp cuts Steve off effectively, her words only just now sinking in. "That wasn't tequila?!" you exclaim, your voice coming out quieter than you realize.
The three at the table laugh a little- even Steve lets out a low chuckle of his own.
"I'll let you in on a secret," Nat starts, her voice dropping to a whisper before continuing, "It was definitely tequila, but you know these guys are no fun, so we can't tell them that."
"Ohhh, right, right. I can keep a secret- you're the world's bestest adult sitter," you reply softly.
"The best, huh?" she questions with a half smirk.
When you nod, she takes a sip of her drink, placing the glass down before saying, "I'll be expecting my plaque soon then."
"You wanna say bye to Sam and Bucky?" he asks, looking over slightly to meet your eyes.
You hum in response and he walks you over a few steps to Bucky and Sam who are sitting at the other end of the table. The pair smile at you, though it's more of an amused grin on Bucky's end, and you return the gesture.
"Bye, Bucky," you say, sleep and intoxication ridden in your voice.
Bucky chuckles and rises to his feet to ruffle your hair playfully. "Bye, doll. You get some good sleep, alright?"
Your nose scrunches at the feeling of his hand in your hair. "Always good sleep when with Stevie."
Bucky sits back down, and Sam starts to speak, "Punch it in," he instructs, raising his fist up to your level.
You oblige happily, curling your hand into a fist to the best of your ability and bumping it against his. "G'bye," you slur, nuzzling your face into the crook of Steve's neck.
"Call us if you need us," Bucky says to Steve.
"Yeah, thank you for watching over her," Steve responds appreciatively, "Goodnight, be safe getting home."
"'Night," the three say collectively, smiling at him in a way that's bordering apologetic.
Steve forces a smile before turning to walk away. He makes his way through the crowd, holding you tight and protectively against his chest.
"You can go to sleep if you want, I can tell you're sleepy," he murmurs low enough for just you to hear him.
A small whimper emits from you, making a warmth spread through his body. He looks down at you adoringly before looking back up, shifting his focus back to the rather slow journey to the exit. Although some people part to make way for who they know to be Captain America himself, most of them are too drunk to care. So, Steve focuses heavily on navigating through the maze of bodies.
When he steals a glance down at you again, you're sleeping peacefully and your head has fallen back away from his neck. You must've felt him move though, because you immediately nestle your face back into his neck, and the warmth of your breath against his skin makes him shiver. The scent of the alcohol you'd been drinking lingers, but it's mixed with the familiar fragrance of your vanilla perfume, and it creates a blend that only you could pull off.
When you reach the exit, the cold, autumn night air hits both of your faces. Steve adjusts his grip on you to make sure you're comfortable and then walks to the car he ordered that dropped him off. The driver steps out, and opens the passenger side door for the two of you, allowing Steve to slide you comfortably onto the seat.
He thanks the driver as you whine at the loss of contact. You melt sleepily into his touch when he reaches in to brush your hair behind your ear to let you know he's not leaving. The bright city lights reflect in his blue eyes, and a soft, but achy, smile plays on his lips at the sight of you. Careful not to wake you or pinch your fingers, he fastens your seatbelt, making sure you're secure before closing the car door.
He walks to the other side of the car and gets in, choosing to sit by the window instead of next to you in the middle seat. As the car starts up, he can't help but look at you and admire you. The admiration quickly turns into longing, though. He takes in every part of your face, his mind plaguing itself with the memory of just over two months ago.
"I don't think I'm right for you."
The words flow easily from your mouth like water between open fingers. Steve looks at you, utterly confused and hurt. His jaw tightens, his eyebrows furrowing as he opens his mouth to speak, only to close it again when he can't find the words.
He gets off the couch, rising to his feet and looking at you from across the room. "You want to leave, to forget everything from the last year and a half, just because you don't think you're right for me?"
The weight of your decision and his words sit heavily on your shoulders as you slouch over, putting your face in your hands for a moment. "I... I'm no good for you, Steve, and you deserve better than me... I can't be what, or who, you need."
"What are you talking about, y/n? You're perfect to me, I wouldn't trade you for anything," he explains, trying to keep his voice soft and reassuring despite the fear and irritation building up in him. "Please, tell me what I can do to make you feel better and I'll do it, I'll do anything-"
"You can't do anything!" you finally snap, your emotions being misdirected towards him. You let the warm tears that were welling up fall freely from your eyes as you continue, "There's nothing you can do, Steven, I'm not the person you need, and I never will be. Drop it, just leave it at that, and move on."
"'Leave it at that?'" Steve repeats back in bewilderment. "We have been together for almost two years and you expect me to drop all of it just like that?"
All you can muster up in response is a quiet, "I'm sorry."
He watches you stand up and sling your purse over your shoulder. Desperately, he scrambles for the right words to say to make you stay. "Baby, please, tell me what's really going on here- this cannot be it for us, I won't let it be."
Steve takes long strides towards you only for you to back away from him. For some strange reason, that small action hurt worse than any of the words that came, or could possibly come, out of your mouth. He stops dead in his tracks, trying to search your face for any sign of changing your mind. When he doesn't find it, he bites down on his tongue to save himself more heartache from the useless begging he wants to let out.
"I'm sorry, Steve. You deserve better, and you always have," you mumble, wiping the tears off your cheeks and walking quickly to the front door.
"I love you," he says, only to receive no response other than the front door slamming shut as you walk out of it.
“You alright back there?” the driver’s voice snaps Steve out of his thoughts. “You need heat or air? Seat warmers? Anything?”
Steve shakes his head slightly, snapping himself out of it. His hand reaches over to you, and he rests the back of his hand on your forehead. “A little heat, thanks,” he says with a smile after nothing the tinge of cold your skin has.
“Of course,” the driver says with a returned smile as he turns the heat on.
As he avigates the familiar route to Steve’s apartment, with the sleepiness Steve feels, he's thankful for the fact that there's only a minute or two remaining of the drive. And on the other hand, he’s sulking about the short time left because that’s two minutes closer to you being gone by the time he wakes up.
He turns his gaze back to you, still peacefully asleep with your head resting against the window. The soft hum of the engine provides an almost calming backdrop that yet does nothing to soothe the ache that persists. Focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest always seems to soothe him though, and it still does so now.
The car comes to a stop in front of the apartment, and Steve reaches into his wallet to pull out some cash. He pulls out his keys too, to make it easier when he gets to the door. Then he hands the cash to the driver with a grateful nod before getting out of the car and making his way to your side. Gently, he opens the door, reaching up quickly to lean your head back on the headrest.
You grumble a little, and he's quick to ease you as he unbuckles your seatbelt. "Sorry, sweetheart, but we're home now."
"Home?" you murmur, still half asleep.
He carefully lifts you into his arms once more, and you instantly cling to his jacket. "Yeah... home."
The building's lobby is quiet as he enters through the automatic doors, the night shift doorman giving him a knowing smile. Steve offers nothing but a small and short nod in return, his focus solely on your drunken state. Luckily the elevator ride is short, but every second feels like an eternity to him.
The weight of your body curled up in his arms provides a comforting familiarity. It's a familiarity he soaks up though, having not seen you outside of work during the few missions you had together. In fact, you hadn't spoken to him outside of work since you left either.
Even during missions, you were short with your comments. And when you picked up your things from his apartment, of which you were actively moving into, you did it on a day when he was gone. You'd left your key under the mat and shot him a brief text letting him know. He replied, only asking how you were doing, but he got no response back.
The elevator dings, snapping him out of his thoughts again as he steps out, taking long strides until he reaches his door. He turns to the side, bending down ever so slightly to unlock the door with his keys in the hand hooked under your legs. He twists the doorknob and pushes the door open, carrying you inside with practiced ease.
The soft glow of outside city lights filters through the open windows. Paired with the dim tv, the lights cast a cool ambiance over the living room. With a deep breath, he heads straight to his room and slowly lays you down on the bed.
The bedroom is dark except for the blue and green aurora projected on the ceiling from the starlight projector you insisted he get since his room was too 'plain.' At first, the light kept him up at night because he found it too distracting, but since you'd left, he couldn't sleep without it on. After all, it was the only piece of you that you left with him other than the few shirts and undergarments.
Steve sighs deeply, taking your heels off your feet and placing them next to the bed. He covers you with your favorite blanket from the foot of his bed, and with a heart heavier than typical, he makes his way to the kitchen to fill up a cup with water. He then carries the glass back to the bedroom and sits it on the bedside table.
He takes a moment to simply watch you as he sits on the edge of the bed next to you. The soft features of your face relaxed in sleep makes him contemplate waking you up- you were always a peaceful sleeper, and he hated disturbing those few moments of peace.
Before he can attempt to wake you, you begin to stir, your eyelashes fluttering as your eyes slowly open. You blink slowly a few times, allowing your eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and then a sleepy smile forms on your face when you see Steve.
"Hey," he greets you softly, reaching over to offer you the glass of water from the nightstand.
"Thank you," you say.
It's obvious that you're still not sober as you take the glass and sit up too quickly, the sudden movement resulting in your head throbbing as you groan. "Ouch," you mumble, pressing the palm of your free hand against your forehead.
"You okay?"
"Think so," you reply, sitting up much slower than before.
The cool water soothes you a little as you take small sips of it. A contented sigh falls from your lips, your body appreciating the non-alcoholic beverage. You place the glass back onto its spot on the nightstand and then focus your attention back on Steve.
Your eyes reflect the projector's lights as your eyes rake over him for a few seconds. Slower than you realize, you raise your hand and brush it gently over his cheek in admiration. "You're like... like an angel, but a reaaally handsome one," you croon.
Steve chuckles, a mixture of amusement and genuine joy spreading across his features. "I'm flattered, but you're the angel here, honey," he says with a smile.
He captures your hand in his and brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. You giggle in response, the alcohol still evident in your system, and then your happy expression fades away. You look down, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious.
"I'm sorry for, uhm, causing a fuss t'night. I never meant to ruin your night..."
The look on his face becomes one closer to sympathetic as he drops your hand, now reaching over to cup your cheek. Carefully, he forces you to look at him as he speaks. "Hey, you didn't ruin anything, alright? I'll always come when you need me, and I'm just glad you're okay."
Missing the feeling of his skin on yours all too much, you lean into his touch, letting his warmth soothe you. "Thanks for...everything."
"Anytime, truly," he replies.
There's a comfortable silence that falls between you, the weight of the obvious unspoken words lingering in the air. You look up at him, trying to keep yourself awake. Steve drops his hand and tries to memorize every detail of your face. He knows that tomorrow things will go back to how they were, and he's not sure he can stomach that.
It only takes a few more beats of silence before he breaks the said silence, his voice low and gentle. "Can we talk?" he asks, his blue eyes searching yours.
You hum for a moment, taking a slow breath before saying, "Jus' for a minute, very sleepy."
"I just... I have one question, that okay?"
"Hm?"
Steve musters up the courage to speak, only breaking apart from your gaze for a second. "Could you maybe tell me why you left? Like why you really left?"
When your eyes flicker with hesitation and sadness, he starts to regret asking. The air feels heavier than it ever has, holding the weight of everything spoken and not yet said, but he breathes it all in. Right as he's about to tell you to not worry about it, you take a deep breath and smother your vulnerability with the knowledge that he deserves the truth. Slowly as to not give yourself another headache, you nod.
"S'like I told you, that was the truth, 'm not good enough. You look at me with so much love and admiration, and I know...I know I could never live up to what you think of me," you explain, drawing out each word a little more than you would if you were sober. "'M holding you back, always have been, and you deserve better."
His eyebrows furrow as he takes in your words, his gaze intense and sharp. "I look at you like that because of who you are, not because of who I think you should be," he says in an attempt to reassure you. He reaches out to take your hand in his as he continues, "You're always been more than enough, honey. I mean, hell, you're more than I deserve, and-"
"No, no, you don't get it!" you exclaim lowly, cutting him off and taking your hand out of his grip. "Y-you're perfect, you're America's golden boy, and 'm jus' me. I hate my body, my mind, an-and everything about me. Could never be good enough for you, Steve. As if I don't already hate myself enough, everyone says and sees how much more you deserve, except for you."
Steve's mind races and his heart tightens as he takes in your words. The obvious pain in your voice cuts through him like a scalding knife, the tears welling up in your eyes cutting him even deeper. He's now sure that nothing could measure up to the pain of hearing you talk about yourself in the complete opposite way of how he thinks of you.
Silence passes as he dwells on your words. Then it clicks.
"Who's been saying that?" he questions sternly.
You avoid his gaze like the plague, immediately breaking the eye contact you were holding. Physically, you can feel yourself shrink. Whether it's the guilt from your outburst, the shame from everything you've heard and thought about yourself, or the intensity of his gaze- you're not sure.
His jaw tightens in anger, but not directed at you. "Who, y/n?"
A deep and heavy sigh falls from your lips as your eyes dart around the room. "Phone," you say quietly, holding out your hand to him.
Steve looks at your outstretched hand, confusion covering the concern etched on his face briefly. He pauses for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out your phone. Placing it in your hand, he watches closely as you unlock it with shaky fingers. Your eyes scan over the screen, but it doesn't take long for you to find what you were looking for, and your expression tells it all.
You hesitate to hand the phone to him, but you do so anyway, lying down on the bed and curling up into yourself as soon as the phone touches his hands. And, not that you see it, but his eyes narrow as he reads over everything rapidly. You'd had it all saved in a little folder; every message, every media report, every post made about you.
He's not sure what's worse of the situation, to be honest. To know that you'd felt this way about yourself for God knows how long and not have said anything about it was painful, sure. However, the words written about you were downright cruel, analytical, and simply not true at all.
But the amount of things that were written and you had saved for you to read at your whim, only reaffirming whatever untrue things you thought about yourself? That was a different level of hurt that he could imagine hurt you hundreds of times worse than it does him.
Unable to stomach anymore, he places your phone face down on the nightstand. Silently, he scoots up on the bed to be closer, reaching out to place his hand on your cheek. You flinch at the contact at first, but his touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the words you've been subjected to.
"I'm so, so sorry, my sweet girl," he says softly, trying to force down tears of his own.
You take a shaky breath in and out, your voice barely above a low murmur. "Didn't want you to leave me, so I left first."
Steve's heart sinks at your admission, his thumb gently stroking your cheek to wipe away the stray tear that escaped your eye. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a gesture that's meant to offer some kind of comfort and reassurance.
"I would've never left you, and I still won't, okay? I know you care about what they say, but I don't. Nothing could ever skew my image of you, angel, you're my definition of perfect- you don't have any image to live up to in my mind," he promises with a soft-spoken tone.
You can't find it in you to respond even though you want to, all too scared of your voice failing you. Sheer pain radiates from you to the point where it's almost suffocating. While he's more than aware that no words can take back anything you've read or heard, the simple fact that he can't undo what has already been done riddles him with guilt still.
If he could, he would take all of that ache and bear it all for you.
"When did all this start?" he inquires, waiting patiently for your answer.
"I don't know..."
"I know you do, honey, you can tell me."
"Only... Only a week after we got together, got worse after I started moving in here."
"Scoot," he instructs gently, careful to control his tone with you although he feels a deep rage.
You oblige and scoot over slowly. Almost instantly, he lays down behind you, curling up so that his body molds with yours. He brushes a few pieces of your hair back before wrapping his arm around your midsection to hold you protectively against him.
"Can I ask you one more thing?" he asks, adding on, "And you don't have to answer if you don't want to."
After thinking about it for a second, you nod. He tries to find the best way to ask what he wants to ask. Deep down he wants, but somehow already knows, the answer, yet he doesn't want to make things worse. Nor does he want it to seem like the subject is the only thing he was thinking about.
"Is…is all of this, meaning what people have said and what you think about yourself- is this why we've never, you know, done anything together?" he inquires with furrowed brows from the overwhelming amount of emotions. "I'm just asking because I never thought this would be why, I thought I was doing something wrong or you just weren't ready."
Your body tenses at his question, and you have to steady your voice before answering, "Part of it. Never felt good enough, and I didn't want you to see me like that and be disappointed."
Steve frowns, sighing lowly as he presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck. The gesture is simple, but it effectively conveys the depth of what he feels.
"I don't care how long it takes me to convince you, but I'll spend forever trying to get you to see yourself even a fraction of the way I do if I have to," he says as his thumb traces circles on your side. "You're absolutely breathtaking, angel. Fuck anyone who says you're anything other than beautiful."
A quiet giggle slips from between your lips, unable to hold contain your momentary amusement. For the first time in a while, he smiles a real, genuine smile. "You don't know how long I've missed the sound of that pretty laugh."
"You said 'fuck,'" you tease, trying to soak in the temporary joy.
He chuckles and the sounds rumbles through his chest. "Sometimes I can be a little hypocritical, especially when it comes to protecting you."
The smile you hold fades again, and you're left with nothing but the sadness and warmth of Steve's body behind yours. "Thank you," you whisper.
Steve tightens his hold around you and presses another gentle kiss to the nape of your neck. "You don't need to thank me for telling you the truth, it's what I'm here for, and I meant every word."
The two of you lay there in silence for a while. The room stays filled only with the sounds of your delicate breathing and the occasional passing of a distant car. This time, the silence isn't agonizing though. Steve's presence makes it feel comforting, and his words make your brain go mute even if just for tonight, making the weight of the world lift just a little.
"Stevie?" you murmur, breaking the silence.
"Hmm?" he responds.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist. "Don't wanna be alone t'night," you admit.
"Then you won't be," he promises softly. "Do you want me to help you out of that dress? No pressure, of course, I was just thinking it might be more comfortable for you to sleep if you changed. I think you've still got a shirt here or you could wear one of mine, and like I said I could leave if-"
"Steve?"
"...Yes?"
"Don't think I could get out of this dress by myself right now if I wanted to, and I'd love one of your shirts."
Steve smiles at your response, relief washing over him at your comfort with him. He unwraps his arm from around you, sitting up slowly before helping you sit up. When he slides off the bed, walking over to his dresser to find a shirt, you scoot yourself slowly to the edge of the bed. Your legs dangle off the edge and your shoulders slouch as you try to keep yourself awake.
With a worn-out gray t-shirt in his hand, he walks back over to you. "Alright, sweetheart. Let me take care of you," he says.
He places the shirt on the bed and reaches behind you to unzip your dress. You allow your head to fall against his chest, trying to soak in his warmth. His movements are slow and delicate, precise too, ensuring that he doesn't cause you any discomfort.
Once the zipper is down, he leaves his hands resting on your back to help you slide off the bed. Then he slips the thin straps down your arms, allowing the dress to fall to the floor, leaving you in just your underwear.
Crystalline, icy blue eyes rake over your body for a moment as he bends down to pick up the discarded fabric. It's not a sexual ogling, and you know that; he's simply admiring you the way he has always wanted to.
Suddenly feeling bashful, you avoid his gaze. You look at anything but him or your body, opting to focus on the street lights outside the big window. He catches your slight shyness immediately and quickly tries to soothe you.
"Hey," he coos with concern written on his face, one hand resting on your waist and the other cupping your cheek, "You're perfect, angel. Are you feeling uncomfortable, do I need to step out for a minute?"
"N-no," you answer promptly and force yourself to meet his eyes. "'M jus' not used to being looked at like this."
Steve's gaze softens, clearly showing he understands the vulnerability you feel. He leans in to press a lingering kiss on your forehead. "If you let me, I'll help you get used to it- and I'll make sure you never feel unsafe or uncomfortable with me. How's that sound?"
The corners of your lips manage to quirk up into an appreciative smile. "Sounds nice, Stevie," you reply, your voice low but still audible.
Returning the same appreciative look, he picks up the t-shirt and says, "Thank you for letting me see you, and touch you, but let's get into something more comfortable for right now. You need some sleep."
You nod and raise your arms up in the air so he can slide the t-shirt onto you. It's then that you notice he'd given you the same shirt you wore the first night you ever spent the night at his place, and almost every time since then, threatening to make you cry.
The fabric is as soft against your skin as it always has been, and the scent of Steve's cologne envelops you, providing a sense of security. A warm feeling spreads through your chest at how he cares for you.
Steve takes a small step back to admire you in the shirt, and just to get another look at you. A fond smile plays on his lips as he looks you over once more. "Always has looked better on you than it does on me. Good to know it still does," he says, honesty obvious in his voice.
Again, your eyes lock with his. You search him for any sign of anything negative, coming up with nothing almost instantly. He searches you for any look or hint of discomfort, but he finds nothing other than sleepiness and adoration in your gaze.
Silence passes over the two of you like it had just mere minutes ago. The quiet environment feels even more natural and comforting than it did before, though.
He clears his throat, trying to prevent the eye contact from becoming awkward for you. "Uhm, let's get you into bed, alright?"
You step to the side so he can pull the comforter back, your hands playing with the bottom hem of the shirt. He turns to face you, and you take a wobbly step towards him, balancing yourself by placing your hands on his chest. His hand flies to your lower back to offer you more support, and you look up at him through the eyelashes of your sleepy eyes.
Slowly, tracing your way up and down his chest once, your eyes stare into him with something he'd never seen in you before. In fact, the look is so intense that it could make any man weak, he's sure of it. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly at your sudden touchiness.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asks, somehow oblivious to exactly what look it is that you're giving him.
"Mhmm," you hum, drawing out the 'hm,' with a voice laced with a soft and sleepy seduction from still being tipsy. "Y'know, 'm not thaaat tired."
"Oh? The way that you're hardly able to hold yourself up says otherwise, angel. We have all of tomorrow to talk, let me just help take care of you tonight."
A giggle slips from between your parted lips in response to his cluelessness. "S'cute when you're so sweet," you croon.
"Do you, uhm, do you need something before bed? Like an Advil maybe?"
Instead of a verbal response, you grab onto his jacket and give it a slight tug. You take a step forward, pushing him back gently to force him to sit on the bed. He looks up at you in confusion, but you don't let go of him as you slowly straddle him. With your weight being supported by your knees on the bed and his legs under you, you lean in, nuzzling your face into his neck.
"Angel, what're you-"
Your lips brush lightly under his jawline, leaving a trail of tender kisses as you gradually make your way down to under his chin.
Steve's breath hitches, and his free hand comes to rest on your waist with a delicate, but firm, grip. "O-oh," he murmurs in a sigh.
You nibble gently on his jaw. "Jus' need you," you mumble before pressing your lips to his.
He lets you kiss him, unable to resist the feeling because, well fuck, how could he?
The taste of your lips is all too familiar, and as his lips work against yours, his hands find your hips. His hold on you is secure, and it does nothing to ease the arousal building up in your stomach. You whine from the contact, and he tugs you closer, still careful to keep you steady on his lap.
His resolve weakens, and he becomes hyperaware of your vulnerable state again. So, he breaks the kiss, looking down and into your eyes.
"Y/n, I'm not sure if-" he starts, only to be interrupted by you dipping down to bite on his neck. You suck harshly on his neck as you reach down and palm him through his jeans.
A low groan emits from his chest, his voice husky when he speaks. "God, baby.”
Thoroughly enjoying the reaction he gives, you whimper against his neck. He can feel the corners of your lips turn up into a slight smile. His other hand is on the other side of your waist, gripping it firmly, as soon as you start grinding down onto his thigh. He loses himself in the moment for just a second before reminding himself of your inebriated state.
“F-Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Wait, wait- stop.”
You bite down once more, whining slightly before pulling away. The sensitive spot on his neck pulses, rushing with blood from the sucking and vibration. He tenses up with a mixture of both surprise and arousal at your forwardness. Then he lets both of his hands find your hips and settle on them, his hold tightening on you.
"D-did I do somethin' wrong? Did that not feel good?" you ask with a deep frown.
"No, no. That's not it, I promise; everything you've done feels amazing," Steve reassures you, quickly shutting down your negative thoughts.
Once again, he clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure. "Angel, you're just… not in the best state right now. I won't take advantage of you, and I don't want you doing anything you might regret," he explains as he looks down to meet your gaze.
You're staring up at him with those big puppy dog eyes that you always use as an effective method to sway him. Tonight, though, is vastly different.
"C'mon, doll. Don't look at me like that. If you still want me in a few hours, when you're sober, that is, then I am all yours," he promises, trying to bargain with you.
You stick your lower lip out a little unintentionally, giving him the cutest pout he's ever seen. "Sober..." you repeat, looking away almost in shame as you add, "Promise you'll still want me then?"
Steve tilts your chin up with his finger and forces you to lock eyes with him. "I can promise you. I've never wanted anything more in my life than I want you. And that's never going to change."
Tantalizingly, he runs his thumb across your lower lip, a small smile playing on his lips. "But, I need you to be sure that this is what you want. I want you to remember every moment, not just bits and pieces of it, and know that everything we do is your choice," he says softly.
After taking a moment to process his words, you nod in understanding- noting the sincerity in his eyes. The room fills itself with an assortment of emotions, ranging everywhere from desire, uncertainty, and just a touch of venerable fragility.
Steve brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his expression one of soft neutrality. "Alright. Let's get you tucked in," he whispers, his voice a low murmur.
You let go of his jacket after he scoots back on the bed, bringing your knee from the other side of his leg and lying down. You curl yourself into a ball, and Steve's eyes never leave you as you do so. He takes a moment to appreciate the mere sight of you back in his bed, and a wave of warmth rushes through his chest. His earlier desires are still very much present, but so is the respect for the boundaries he set for your well-being.
He gets up briefly to pull the blankets over you before sitting down in the comfy chair in the corner of the room to take his shoes off. The chair you'd begged him to get as well to fill up the empty space in the room.
After sliding the boots under the chair, he makes his way to the dresser to change into some loose-fitting sweatpants. When he's about to put a shirt on, you grumble a 'no,' that catches his attention and makes him turn to face you.
"No?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow up questioningly.
"Nuh-uh," you respond with a shake of your head.
He chuckles lightly. "Why not?"
"Warmer without it, not a bad sight either," you say softly, following it up with a yawn.
Steve smirks in appreciation of your usual playfulness. "If you insist," he concedes, deciding to forgo the shirt. He slips the shirt back into the drawer and walks back over to the bed.
He settles himself in beside you and lifts his arm up, allowing you to scoot into his side and rest your head on his chest. Happily, you hum, soaking up his warmth and focusing on his steady heartbeat. He then reaches down with his free hand to pull the blanket over himself.
"Uncomfortable?" you murmur, sleep laced in your voice.
"No, I'll be alright as long as you're comfortable."
A second passes by before you speak again. "Thank you."
"For what, angel?"
"For being so...you."
You feel Steve's chest rise and fall with a deep, contented sigh. His fingers trace slow circles on your back through your shirt. "Always," he whispers, his soft voice lulling you even closer to sleep.
The room stays wrapped in a soothing silence, the only sounds heard being the quiet breaths from both of you. As you lay there trying to sleep, you can't help but marvel at the man beside you. Everything about him is truly perfect, from his basic concern for your well-being to the way he has always taken care of you.
Your eyes begin to feel heavy, slowly shutting fully as you find yourself on the brink of slumber. Just before you succumb to sleep, you muster up the energy to mumble, "Steve?"
"Hmm?" he responds, his chest rumbling under your cheek.
"'M glad it's you."
"Wouldn't trade you for anything, sweetheart," he murmurs, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "And, for the record, I'm glad it's you too."
Steve continues to run his fingers over your back as you fall asleep. His fingers create a rhythmic pattern that mirrors the peaceful in and out of your breathing, only making your rest more soothing. He looks down at you and smiles to himself, reveling in the sheer joy of having you back, even if it's only for tonight.
Often the weight of his responsibilities feels too heavy to bear, but with you, there's a sense of solace that transcends the chaos of the outside world. Everything about you and your presence is a sanctuary. It's all a nice reminder that, after everything he does for everyone else, he's worthy of a little tranquility at the end of the day too.
Steve presses another gentle kiss into your hair before closing his eyes, savoring the sweet moment. "Goodnight, angel."
He hears your tired, softly grumbled response before he falls asleep. Though he tries not to let himself get too wrapped up in the moment, too used to your presence again, he does anyway. If there is anything he wants for the rest of his life, it's you next to him.
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Summary: Being in love with Steve Rogers isn’t easy with all the dates Natasha sets him up with. One day you’ve had enough and ask her to set you up, something you’ve never let her before – and a certain blonde isn’t too pleased.
Warnings: Angst to fluff! Jealous! Steve and Jealous! Reader. Misunderstandings. Two blind idiots in love with each other. 4.3k words.
“Okay, I’m off to bed,” You said through a yawn and got up from the chair you’d been sitting in for the past hours, drinking and chatting with Natasha and Wanda.
Natasha took a sip from her glass, before asking, “See you in the morning for our run?”
“Count me in,” You nodded and walked towards the exit, your head facing Natasha, “Goodnight ladies.” The second you faced away, something tall crashed into you, making you trip on your own feet.
“Woah careful, doll!” A familiar voice said, as a hand grabbed you by your waist to steady you, “Are you okay, angel?”
“Steve! Oh- Thanks!” You felt a bit embarrassed as he was still holding onto you, his blue eyes looking down at you with what seemed like concern. His face was close, so very close, and his lips-
“Steve you’re back!” Natasha cheered from behind you, interrupting the moment, “How was your date?”
You immediately felt your heart drop at her question. Steve had been on a date. Again. You took a step away from the super soldier, looking down as he shifted his attention to Natasha, “It was good.”
You snuck out of the room in the blink of an eye, not wanting to hear about yet another one of Steves ‘good’ dates that never lead to a second one. Couldn’t he just choose one of the girls and make it official? That way you had no reason to hold onto the hope that he just might, someday, reciprocate your feelings.
You didn’t see the disappointment in Steve’s face when you suddenly disappeared out of sight.
You woke up in the morning with a burning headache. Partly because of the wine last night, but mostly because of Steve keeping you awake for hours. You always stayed to hear how his dates went, but it was always the same: “It was good, but there won’t be a second one, I’m afraid. Better luck next time Nat.”
Though what if it was different this time? What if he finally found the one? Your thoughts and feeling of regret were interrupted by a harsh knocking on your bedroom door.You knew it was Natasha and got out of bed. The floor felt extra cold this morning.
“I’ll be down in five!” You yelled trough the door and went to get dressed for your run. After swallowing some painkillers for your headache, you left your room to meet the redhead, desperately in need to get some fresh air.
You and Natasha jogged from the Avengers compound and ended up in the nearest park. As you felt the morning sun warming your skin, you felt a little relief lift off your shoulders. You needed this.
The two of you sat down at a bench, kind of like creeps, observing the civilians enjoying their own morning.
A dolled-up lady was walking her dog, or more like, the dog was walking her. You shared a laugh with Natasha at the sight. Your eyes followed her movements, watching as she passed a little girl blowing soap-bubbles. The little one let her tongue out to taste the bubbles, only for her nose to scrunch up in disgust.
“Cute.” Natasha commented from beside you. You smiled and let your eyes wander along with the bubbles flying away, which popped right next to an older couple holding hands. “Aww, look at them!” You commented.
The husband of the old couple, smacked his lady’s butt, growing a mischievous grin on his face. “Now, that’s cute.” Natasha commented this time.
“I know! Old people are the cutest.”
“I can only partly agree with you there. Buck and Steve are quite the old men,” Natasha laughed, “Wouldn’t call them cute.”
You chuckled lightly as your eyes left the old couple. To you, Steve was so much more than cute. He was the kindest, most caring man you’d ever met. He always listened to your small and bigger problems. He was always willing to drop everything to help you out. He was always by your side whenever you got hurt on a mission. You had no doubt he cared for you, and yet… he still went on all those dates like you weren’t even an option. He made you feel so special and loved, and you weren’t even each other’s. Oh, how lucky the one who wins his heart would be.
“Y/N? Earth to--”
“Oh, sorry!” You snapped out of your thoughts at Natasha trying to get your attention.
She gave you a concerned look as she spoke, “Are you okay? You seem down.”
“It’s just my head, it really hurts.” You excused, wiping away a tear you hadn’t noticed before.
“I’m sorry. Should we walk back? We can take it slow.” Natasha asked and got up from the bench, lending you a hand.
You accepted her hand and cracked a small smile, “Thank you kind lady.”
Once you started walking back towards the compound, a familiar figure caught your eye. Steve, with a girl beside him, was walking in your direction.
“Would you look at that! Steve’s on a second date,” Natasha cheered at the sight of Steve and Sharon Carter coming closer, “He said yesterday they wouldn’t go on a date again.”
Natasha was clearly trying to share her excitement with you, but all you felt was a knot tightening in your stomach. You liked Sharon, you really did, but of course she, a Carter, would be the one to finally win Steve’s heart.
Natasha was waving at the pair, just to make sure they saw the two of you. The jealousy in your body didn’t help much with the headache, making you feel sick, “Nat, I’m just gonna go, okay?”
You weren’t in the mood to stand around and wait for Steve to arrive with his new love interest, you didn’t even bother to give Natasha a smile, “You can wait for them if you want. I’d like to have some alone time anyways.”
Natasha wasn’t sure how to react, starting to feel like it wasn’t just a headache bothering you, “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you later.” You left without taking another look back, leaving Natasha to start worry about you.
You didn’t see Steve’s expression go from excitement to concern as he watched you leave Natasha behind.
Back at the compound, you fall down onto your bed, soft sobs rocking your body. You’re tired of loving a man you’ll never have. You have his friendship, but your heart is still not satisfied. Now that Steve has found a beautiful woman like Sharon, maybe you can finally try to move on.
You roll onto your back, looking at the ceiling as your tears dry out. What are you going to do?
Then, it hits you. Natasha.
Just a soft knock on the door and a hug later, the redhead asks what she can do to make you feel better. You let out a sigh and ask away, “Could you help me, maybe… find a date?”
Natasha wasn’t sure she heard you correctly, but when you nodded, her face lit up in excitement, “Of course! It would be my absolute pleasure!” She didn’t even ask why you wanted a date all of a sudden, she was just happy you’d finally give her matchmaking a chance.
“Oh my god! I have so many guys in mind. They would all be so lucky to have you Y/N. I have to pick one worth your time though!”
You chuckled as you listened to Natasha ramble on about who to pick for you, a feeling of excitement growing in your stomach. You were finally ready to give someone new a chance.
As the moon shone through your window, you thought about what tomorrow would bring. Natasha had already picked out a date whom you’d meet tomorrow night.
Busy in thought, you suddenly felt your stomach growl. Slipping out of bed, you put on a pair of slippers and wandered out your door towards the kitchen. Truth be told, you had been avoiding going around the compound in fear of meeting Steve, which also meant skipping dinner.
You fixed yourself a bowl of cereal and let your thoughts wander back to your upcoming date. What dress would you wear? Maybe the blue one? No. What about the white, the one you knew Steve loved so much?
“Hey.”
The sudden sound of a voice made you jump in your seat. As you choked on your cereal, you felt a hand patting your back.
“I’m sorry for scaring you. Are you okay, angel?”
You looked up to find Steve looking down at you. Damnit. You managed to embarrass yourself in front of him again.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Your voice sounded hesitant, your eyes going back to your cereal. You listened as Steve made himself a cup of tea behind you, not a single word shared. You felt awkward.
You hoped he would just make his damn tea and leave - but of course not. The man sat down, right beside you, half facing you as he took a sip.
“So…” Steve began, and you felt yourself wanting to disappear. You were in the mindset of moving on a few minutes ago, but here he sat, the man you were so in love with, alone, giving you all of his attention. “How’re you doing? We haven’t talked much since, well, yesterday.”
Steve’s voice sounded hesitant, and you knew, that he knew, that something was up. The two of you hung out every single day, so not talking for 24 hours was unusual.
“I, uh… I’m okay. I’ve been a bit tired lately, that’s all.” You lied, and you didn’t sound very convincing either.
“Nat told me about your headache earlier today, at the park-”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You interrupted him, a hint of annoyance in your voice. You really didn’t want to talk about it. Especially not think about the sight of Steve walking alongside his new girl.
You hear Steve let out a sigh at your answer. You were hoping he’d let it go, though you knew Steve too well. The blonde put down his cup and turned his body fully towards you this time, “Y/N,” His voice sounded serious, “I know something’s up, more than just a headache, and it worries me. So, please, what is going on? Did I do something?”
You didn’t know you had it in you to be angry with Steve Rogers, but when you felt your blood boil, there was no going back. You jumped out of your chair and looked at him with rage in your eyes, “Why do you care, huh?”
You saw the immediate hurt in Steve’s eyes, his expression shocked at your sudden outburst. You didn’t care though, “It’s been a fucking day, and you’re worried about me because I haven’t talked to you yet? You haven’t even been home! The last time I saw you, quoting Natasha, you were on a second date with Sharon! Shouldn’t you be with her now anyways?”
“Y/N-”
“No! Why the fuck do you sit here and talk to me like I’m the only thing you care about, like it matters how I’m doing? It doesn’t make any sense! You’ve always been like this, yet I’m just a friend sitting around while you go out and fuck all the girls Natasha find for you!” Your breath is heavy, tears threaten to spill from your eyes,
Steve was reaching out a hand to you but retracted it as tears streamed down your cheeks. You pointed a finger at the man, your teeth gritted together as you spoke, “And lastly, I am under no obligation to tell you anything about my feelings! So please, stop treating me like I’m your fucking girlfriend!”
Without taking another look at him, you spun around and left the room. As you disappeared out of sight, you ran down the hallway to escape into your room, not wanting Steve to follow. It was when you shut your bedroom door, you realised what you just did.
You yelled at Steve, for the first time ever. Worst of all, he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. That night, never ending sobs were rocking you to sleep.
As you stormed out of the kitchen, you didn’t see the look of heartbreak in Steve’s eyes. They carried more worry than before, confusion and a load of regret as he started to catch on to what was going on with you. It was all a misunderstanding, and he felt like the biggest idiot in the world.
Getting ready for your date was supposed to be fun and exciting, but after you yelled at Steve last night, nothing seemed to cheer you up.
You regretted every single word you yelled at him. He came to check up on you, but all he got in return was your anger. Though maybe it was for the best, now he had no reason to care about you anymore. You were an asshole. The thought hurt like hell, but you chose to use it as an excuse to ease your feelings.
You dressed up in a white beautiful dress, paired with a pair of white heels. It was Steve’s favourite outfit of yours – he had told you so with words, but his eyes when he looked you, oh, they said so much more. That's were you got the nickname angel from.
It was time to give the outfit a new association, perhaps, the first outfit you wore out with your new potential love interest?
As you walked down the compound hallway to leave, familiar voices came from the kitchen. You knew snooping was wrong, but you couldn’t help listening as it was Steve talking.
“I’ve been a fool Buck,” Steve sighed, “What am I gonna do?”
“It’s all a big misunderstanding, right? Just tell her everything and I’m sure she’ll understand. Y/N always understands.”
“Yeah, tell her I’ve been going on a new date every week for the past year so that I can forget about her?” Steve groaned, “It sounds awful.”
It did sound awful. He really wanted to get rid of you huh? You didn’t understand why but his words hurt. “-so that I can forget about her.”
You sniffled and was ready to sneak past them, not wanting to hear anymore, but of course, both men noticed your presence. Stupid super hearing.
“Y/N?” Steve asked and walked a little closer to where you were standing, “Wow, angel, you look-” Steve gave you the same look as he always did when you dressed up. He looked at you in awe, which you usually loved, but now, you hated it.
“Princess, you look beautiful!” Bucky commented and walked over to kiss the top of your head, “Where are you headed off to?”
“Oh, I-” You looked at Steve, then shifted your attention back to Bucky, giving him a shy smile, “I’m going on a date.”
The words felt relieving to get out in front of Steve. Now he would know not to treat you like a girlfriend, since you were trying to see someone else, right?
“Oh, really?” Bucky sounded surprised, but you ignored it, “Have uh-” You noticed as Bucky gave a quick look at Steve, before plastering on a big smile, “Have a nice one then! Can’t wait to hear about it!”
“Thanks Buck,” You smiled, “I gotta go.”
As you rushed out of the room, you didn’t see Steve clenching his jaw and fists. He was irritated at himself for letting it come to this. The feeling of jealusy made him feel sick.
It was an hour into the date, and you were actually enjoying your time. The guy Natasha had set you up with was an agent you had met before during some mission, Christopher. He was cute and had such golden retriever energy - he made you genuinely smile for the first time that day. Apparently he had been smitten with you for a while now, and to no surprise, Natasha knew.
As time passed by, it was time to head home. Both of you had work in the morning anyways. Cristopher followed you all the way back to the Avengers Compound, giving you a kiss on the cheek, “Thank you for giving me a chance Y/N. I had a really wonderful time. Will I see you again?”
Busy with your date, you didn’t see Steve standing nearby, observing the whole thing. He was tense, saddened and growing more and more jealous as he watched you laugh with the other guy.
Steve had come out to get some fresh air, to clear his head, but was interrupted by your arrival. You looked so beautiful, and the sound of your sweet laughter made his knees weak. Oh, how he wished he was the one who caused it.
The morning after your date with Cristopher, you felt the best you had in the last few days. You hummed as you entered the kitchen, the smell of something delicious hitting your nose, “Oh, what’s that smell? It’s amazing.”
“’I made pancakes, so I hope you’re hungry!” Bucky cheered and handed you a plate. You accepted it gladly and sat down at the table next to Natasha and Wanda to your left, and Tony to your right.
“Hey girl, you seem happy. I’m guessing the date was a success?” Natasha asked as she took a bite of her breakfast.
“You finally went on a date with Steve? Rhodes owe me money-” Tony started at the information.
You almost chocked on your first bite of the pancake. Why would he even think that? Didn’t he know Steve was dating Sharon?
“No, Tones, wrong,” Natasha corrected him, “She went with that guy Cristopher. Remember that agent who wouldn’t shut up about her?”
“Oh yeah! The guy who was blabbering about Y/N almost as much as Steve does!”
Steve was blabbering on about you?
“Anyways, tell us how it went? When’s the next date?” Wanda asked, eager to know.
You chuckled a little nervously, “Well, you see--” You stopped talking as soon as Steve entered the kitchen, shocked to see his fallen shoulders and saddened eyes.
You observed as he grabbed a plate of pankakes, before heading over to the counter to make his morning tea. It was weird not hearing a good morning, or getting greeted with his soft smile. You had no idea what was bothering him, and it killed you inside.
"Y/N? You were saying?" Natasha questioned, as you had left them all hanging.
Your eyes didn't leave Steve's figure, even though he was facing away, "It uh... The date was good."
You watched Steve's whole posture tense as you spoke. Oh, how much you wanted to ask if he was okay. You just didn't feel like you had the right to. The last time you spoke, you were yelling at his face.
"Come on! Give us the details!" Tony pushed.
You shook your head, suddenly not wanting to bother Steve with details of your date. You plasteted on a forced smirk, "You'll have to wait and see if we weet again."
"No come on!"
As Steve was facing away, you couldn't see the tears forming in his eyes. You couln't see the absolute heartbreak on his face from the thought of having lost you. He really felt like he had lost the most important person in his life - and you didn't even know he saw you as such.
Over the past few days, you hadn't shared a single word with Steve, and it was starting to drive you crazy. You didn’t even face each other while in the same room - it was a good thing you hadn't shared a mission yet.
All you wanted was for Steve to be happy, and to be his friend again, so with that, you decided it was time to apologize for your behaviour – even if he wouldn’t forgive you for being such an ass, you knew it was the right thing to do.
Your palms felt sweaty, and your mouth all dried out as you stepped outside his room, “Okay… here goes nothing.” You knocked on the door, feeling your heart thump rapidly against your chest.
When he didn’t answer you knocked twice, then again and again. Giving up, you asked Tony’s A.I. for help, “FRIDAY, where’s Steve?”
“In the gym ma’am.”
You let out a sigh, “Is he… okay?”
“From what I can tell, he seems distressed and angry.”
You felt a knot in your stomach. It was 8 pm, and Steve never worked out in the gym that late unless he was upset, “Fuck… Thanks FRIDAY.”
Earlier that day, Steve had been walking past the door to your room at least five times, with the intention to make up. Though the super solider was way too nervous to bother you and chickened out. It was killing him not having your company every day. He missed you. So, with his emotions changing from heartbreak to anger, and the heavy regret from not telling you the truth and let your relationship come to this, he escaped to the gym.
You entered the gym and carefully closed the door behind you. It took you seconds to see Steve by the six destroyed punching bags on the floor, the seventh about to face the same faith.
Steve’s back was tense, and you could see the anger he was feeling in every punch. You felt the knot in your stomach from before tightening, your palms even more sweaty. Taking a deep breath, you walked up to him; it was time to face the music.
Speaking of music, before you knew it your ears were singing a high-pitched tone, your head hurt and your whole back was facing the cold floor beneath you.
“Oh my god!” Steve rushed to your side, worry in his voice, “Are you okay? I’m so sorry Angel!”
You blinked a few times before looking up at the concerned man above you. Putting a hand to your head, you groaned out due to the pain. Releasing deep breath, you let Steve help you up, “I guess I deserved that.”
You had been so smart to come up behind the Captain and stand in front of the punching bag. Because of Steve’s quick and hard punches, he failed to notice you in time, and punced the bag into you, sending you flying to the floor.
“Seriously, are you okay, doll?”
The concern in Steve’s voice made you forget why you came her in the first place. You only nodded and let him lead you to sit down on a bench. He didn’t let go of your hand as you both sat down.
Steve let out a shaky breath. It was clear it had scared him when he saw you flying in the air, and it was all his fault too. You could see the guilt on his face. He still cared so damn much.
You had enough of Steve feeling so down because of you, he didn’t deserve a second of it, “Steve I’m okay. I’m the idiot for creeping up on you like that… Also, I kinda deserved it after how shitty I’ve been treating you.”
“What are you talking about?” There was confusion in the Captain’s eyes.
“Just… let me talk.” Suddenly you had the courage to just get it out. You took hold of both his hands and looked deeply into his blue eyes, “I’m so sorry Steve. I’ve been an absolute asshole towards you.”
Steve opened his mouth to say something, but closed it as you shook your head, “Let me continue. You’re my best friend and I have so much love for you. You’ve been nothing but good to me, and I was yelling at you for it. Thinking about how good you treat me, your friend, I can only imagine how good you treat Sharon. She’s very lucky and I wish you guys the best.”
Your gaze fell from Steve and down into your lap, “I… I’ve been jealous. With all those dates you’ve been on… Why couldn’t you just pick one the girls and get it over with? I…”
“Cause none of them were you.”
You looked up at him, shock in your eyes, unsure if you heard him correctly. Steve plastered on a small smile, his eyes so soft as he looked into yours, “Y/N, there’s nothing between Sharon and I. The other day, when you saw us at the park, we were walking back from visiting Peggy’s grave. It was only a coincidence we were there at the same time.”
“Oh… but what about your date the day before? You said it was good?” You asked, feeling almost ashamed.
“You left too soon to hear what I told Nat and Wanda. I had a good time, but I wasn’t interested. I’d have way more fun with someone else there with me…” Steve’s voice was low, his hand coming up to caress your cheek, “I can’t hold it back anymore Y/N. I love you; I always have. And those stupid dates?”
Tears were streaming down your cheeks at his confession. Never in a million years would you have thought he loved you back.
Steve chuckled lightly, a hint of sadness in his eyes, “I went on those to get you off my mind. I never belied you could love me back, you’re way too good for me, Angel. Though every damn date I went on, I just couldn’t get you off my mind. Every time they wanted me to come home with them, I only thought; No, I can’t do that to my best girl.”
“Steve…” You felt so stupid for not having confessed your feelings earlier. All this misunderstanding could’ve been avoided, “I love you too. I love you so damn much Stevie.”
Steve breath caught in his throat, not sure he was hearing you clearly, “What?” The word came out weak, like he was scared to wake up from a dream, “What about--”
“Cristopher?” You giggled, “Oh, I had a nice time with him, but you know, he wasn’t you.”
Steve laughed loudly and you joined in. Both of you realised how stupid and blind you had been. You loved each other.
Steve caressed your cheek again, his thumb stroking over your soft skin. The look in his eyes were different than before; you knew it was love. His features, his voice, all soft, “Can I… kiss you?”
You only nodded and let him lead you towards his lips. The kiss was gentle, but a firework erupted inside of you. It made tears fall from your eyes, his too. Pulling away, Steve kissed the top of your head before speaking, “My beautiful, Angel. I can’t believe I finally have you.”
You threw yourself forward and let him wrap his strong arms around you. His embrace felt like home.
It felt so right, and finally, your heart was satisfied.
You didn’t see the tears continue to stream down Steve’s cheeks. You didn’t see the huge weight being lifted off his shoulders. He was so damn in love with you, and he already knew that someday, he wanted to call you his wife.
THE END! Thank you so much for reading, feedback is very much appreciated <3
part two of reader who is an unfortunately a “too honest for their own good” drunk
somehow, with improper supervision, you manage to sneak a few for more drinks in that night which doesn’t help your state of mind as you’re being driven back home.
luckily, you’re passed out the whole ride which eases the worry of simon who has been subtly shifting around his stiffy the whole night.
finally, the car is parked, and you’re being nudged awake. “oi, can ya hear me? let’s get you some proper rest now, aye?”
your eyes flutter open to see gaz- such a pretty pretty face that you just can’t help but smile. “kyle…so pretty, so so so pretty,” you hum sleepily.
as if deja vu, soap stifles a laugh. kyle merely rolls his eyes as he unbuckles your seat belt, urging you to sit up so he can help you out of the car. “are you all coming up with me?”
soap turns around from the front seat, hooking his arm behind the drivers side to make eye contact with you. “just gaz and captain price, lass. someone’s gotta make sure you don get brain damage falling up the stairs.”
“shame. I’m gonna go touch myself to the thought of you all tonight.”
soaps eyes widen, and there’s a moment while he’s completely still as you get out of the car. then he’s fumbling with his seat belt, slightly too buzzed to undo it with any type of grace but he manages to stumble out of the car nonetheless, dragging ghost with him as he catches up to you, price, and gaz, on the way up to your apartment.
“seriously, soap?”
“hey, not to be dramatic but if she’s actually being serious, id blow my brains out if i didn’t see it myself.”
“obviously not. she’s gon pass out the moment she hits the bed.”
that’s when you interject- with the same impeccable honesty that you’ve had the whole night. “oh, I’m being so serious. what sounds hotter? being choked while sucking on the lieutenants cock or being eaten out by kyle till im crying of overstimulation? OR! what about the captain ordering johnny how to fuck me? ooooh that’s the one. promise I’m real good at taking orders, captain.”
“bloody hell…” murmurs price, unlocking your apartment door.
soap howls in laugher as he saunters into your place. “she’s unstoppable tonight.”
and when you plop on your bed, you’re already crawling to the beside table, pulling out a modest pink dildo from the drawer and shuffling your pants down.
gaz is trying to talk some rationality into that head of yours but it’s all kind of a blur as you sink the dildo inside your warm cunt.
when ghost finally walks in the room with a cup of water and soap right behind him, they both freeze immediately. “garrick! how could you let her do that?!”
gaz sputters, hopelessly gesturing in disbelief. “well what the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t touch ‘er like this! she won’t even listen to me!”
soap sighs, closing his eyes briefly as if praising god. “I knew I made the right decision,” he mutters, earning a smack in the head by his captain as he passes into your room.
“[x], you even know what you’re doing right now?” price speaks gently, making a strong point of keeping eye contact with you instead of looking at anything else.
you look up at him, eyes blurry with alcohol and lust. “faster, captain. order me to go faster, please.”
there’s a lump in his throat that he swallows down quickly. tension is high in the room as he watches in his peripheral the way your hand slows against the pink toy.
time slows as he exhales a deep sigh of regret. “faster, soldier.”
your body visibly curls at his command, and you hand immediately obeys.
and from there, it’s all downhill. soap is first, because of course he is. he insults your dildo, calling it a “mockery to the real thing” as he watches your eyes roll back while sinking in his own length.
he’s rough, as promised- holding your jaw open to spit into your mouth while his hips gradually bang you closer and closer to the edge of the bed where your head eventually hangs off.
coincidentally, it’s the perfect position for you to grab ghost by the belt loops, pulling him closer till his bulge rests right above your nose. conveniently, his zippers already down which gives you a perfect front row seat to the bulge you got a preview of earlier. “knew you were so fucking big,” you mumble against his balls.
Gaz’s curiosity gets the best of him and he inches closer unknowingly, watching the outline of his lieutenants cock slide down your throat which just looks so small compared to the girth being shoved down.
and if you weren’t already greedy enough, he’s close enough just for you to grab his length, urging him to buck his hips into your palm while explain how you want him to fuck soaps cum back inside your cunt next in between gargles and gasps.
your promise is soon delivered as soap spills into you with a grunt, relishing the way your pussy flutters as you welcome his seed.
you manage to pull yourself up, climbing on top of gaz and eagerly plugging yourself up with his length to prevent any more of soaps cum to escaping. and despite the filth, gaz doesn’t seem to mind watching a creamy ring disappear and reappear with each bounce of your ass.
then there’s price, whose length you’re kissing up and down while muttering words of thanks. “thank you, sir. love it so much- th-thank you,” you manage to say between little smooches against his shaft.
and despite being the lowest ranking member in the room, you continue to ask and they continue to follow. soon you’re humping against ghost’s mask, soaking it with his teammates cum. then, price is deep in you, holding you by the hips while you arch back to take soap between your lips-no limbs even touching the ground. they indulge in each one of your wildest fantasies, even the one where gaz cums in your mouth just to let him kiss it off your lips.
no one questions the rationality of any of the decisions made. no one counts the hours that pass until honesty gives way to exhaustion. and no one thinks of the consequences of tomorrow morning.
and whether “honesty is the best policy” still applies? that’s debatable.
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY // barbarianking!simon, f!reader, kidnapping, noncon, eventually consensual, pregnancy, mention of intimacy, mention of fingering, possessive simon, caring simon, childbirth
part 1
Simon was angry.
Firstly, at the healers. The local midwife was shocked when he broke into her house and pinned her against her wall, scaring the hell out of her children, who immediately grouped together, shaking at thinking what their king might do. The middle-aged woman shook her head, saying that nothing was her fault, that she had determined pregnancy at a time when your small bump was not yet there, and that she could not even imagine that the news would not reach Simon.
Then at himself. Because you did not trust him enough to tell him that you were carrying his child in your womb. And looking at how he treated you, he understood that you simply had no reason to trust him.
The day he saw you mourning your father, who was slain during the battle, he just threw you over his shoulder and moved towards his horse. You were punching his back and crying, so he had to put you in front of him and literally squeeze into your back so that you were trapped between him and the edge of the saddle. You cried the whole first day when his men stopped for the night in the woods, and Simon just covered you both with one big piece of fur, not noticing how you slipped out of his arms and slept on the side, but not next to him.
But you did not shed a tear at your wedding ceremony. You did not even look Simon in the eye when the local spiritual leader tied your palms together with a thin strip of bearskin, and then, after you were both treated to wine, you poured yours right into Simon's mouth when he kissed you.
You were not to share a bed with him, but Simon refused to do anything that would provoke your tears. What was the point of a woman hitting his chest while he fucked her? Instead, his fingers were the first to enter your core, and you frowned through barely suppressed moans when you first reached your peak, pressing into his palm.
He was the one who kidnapped you, took you away from your home, forcibly married you, and now you were pregnant with your unwanted husband's child.
But Simon was still angry. At himself.
His was raised as a brut; the shortage of sentences he spoke and tight muscles of his arms were what he was raised to act like and have, his culture valuing rought instead of gentle. His men did not spare a glance to women they fucked after the victory, whether it was they wife or a wife of their neighbor. Women's tears were not seen, men's were disgusting.
But you... You were the one whom he married, despite his advisors seeing you as a whore, hardly even worth of their king's bed. But Simon's actions were not to be questioned, he made sure of such a reputation when he took the position from his uncle.
At yet, in the face of his wife, pregnant with his babe, Simon clutched his fists on his way back from the midwife's house, swearing to himself to become a better man for you. And for the second heart, already beating inside you.
***
You noticed you were no longer present on the main room of the house, when Simon usually returned from the hunt with his men. The gatherings were held in this big hall, men dragging their prey on the wooden floor, soaking the wood with blood still pouring out of the corpses, laughing and chanting in unison on a language you still were yet no learn. The action always made you nauseous, seeing the blood, the fur being removed from the deer's body, men roaring and biting the raw meat right from the flesh.
Yet when the voices were heard again, Simon did not appear on the doorstep, as he usually did, with the "inviting" gaze of his that forced you to come out, to sit on one of the tables by your husband, to look at all the chaos, the pure madness happing around you.
No.
You could hear his voice, telling the servants to gather the drinks. But he did not "invite" you to the gathering.
The same night, when he slipped under the furs, making the bed creak under his weight, you asked, not looking over you shoulder.
"Why did you not make me come out?"
The silence stretched for too long, making you nervous, almost thinking that he might have just fallen asleep and you were speaking into the air.
But it was his sigh and short, always short answer, that made you put you palm on your belly.
"Not good for you to see the blood."
***
Everything began to change since that night. Since when Simon's eyes, brown and stoic, caught the slight bulge of your stomach. You were on top of him, bouncing on his cock, whining and gripping the headboard of the bed with you fingers, when he outlined the new curve of yours.
Hiding that from him was the only thing you felt you had the right to. After being taken from your home, forced into the marriage, the life around the people unfamiliar to you, the new life that bloomed in your womb was the only thing you thought could belong to you.
But since Simon found out, since the silent conversation of your gazes colliding happened, he changed.
He was still the same giant of a man, almost too small for the bed, speaking of short sentences and giving orders to everyone around. Yet, your new state made him soften the littlest bit.
The knife, placed in front of you, made you raise your gaze up from the embroidery (on which the servants looked down on). The blade was small, yet sharp, and the handle wooden with some shapes carved in. The item appearing so suddenly made you stiffen, but Simon was quick to speak.
"Tradition. Men gives a babe a knife. First weapon."
A weapon for their unborn child.
You raised a knife in your hands, examining the handle. The symbols carved into the wood, yet, made to sense. The tree, as if the one he had slung you over his shoulder near; the flower, similar to ones you had been embroidering; the sun that you cherished to have and always pulling your face towards when walking out of the house for mere seconds.
"Those... Are those for the babe?"
The real question that made Simon clench his fists, but not tearing his eyes away from you. The tradition required a future father to carve in the symbols of his future babe. Yet, those he put on the handle, were not about that particular being.
"You left everything there when I took you. You need to have something yours here."
Something yours.
He said no more, walking out the room, but your heart skipped s beat, taking the said in.
Simon made the knife not for your future child. But for you.
***
The day your belly became too huge for you to sit up came quicker that you had expected.
The servant, the girl, prepared a bath with a hot water for you, and called when everything was ready. Having laid down for a moment to ease the pressure off of your back, you struggled to sit at the bed. Clatching the headboard, you tried to wiggle to the side, to find the balance and reposition newly gained weight.
But before you knew it, the strong, calloused hands, gripped your shoulders and set you straight, you finally being able to sit. You looked up, and there Simon was, hair slightly sprinkled with fresh snowflakes, as the first snow settled on the village a week ago.
His hands moved, one under your knees, the other on your back, and he carried you, as if weightless, to the other end of the room, where the wooden bath tub stood near the fire.
You found yourself silent, expecting him to follow you into the tub, to perhaps try to initiate intimacy, which you lacked for some time.
The first time you shared a bed, you shed a tear and blood, having lost your virginity. But he was never cruel with you during sex. Persistent, perhaps, sometimes even rough. But he always made you shiver and whine in pleasure, as your hips twitched, catching this sweet release again and again.
The moment your wool dress dropped, and you climbed in the water, you scooted over, making some space for him. But Simon stayed outside. Maintaining some distance, he sat on the fur on the floor, seeing your body being fully covered by the water for a second, as you wetted your hair.
The bathes were what made the pain of your big belly ease. The weight you had gained and will gain, most of which were the babe inside you, made your already small statue clumsy. Simon had noticed you several times placing your hands on the wooden pillars of the house while walking, as if ensuring some safety for a small adventures.
But he saw now how big the babe had gotten.
The curve of your belly, soft yet strong, was undeniable. Poking out of the water for a mere inch, it was a big evidence of all the shared nights of yours. The pregnancy made you stronger. He saw how you started sharpening the knife he had gifted you, cutting apples and helping the servants with cooking. You were refusing to be a burden in a state where your body was making another human being inside.
That made Simon proud. For a woman he had taken away, but not taken the spirit of hers.
The small movement from the inside of your stomach, the glow casket on your skin from the nearest torch, it made Simon stiffen, his hand quickly reaching for the axe on his hip.
But you chuckled, shaking your head.
"No need for that. The babe is simply kicking."
Kicking.
"Kicking you?" His brown arched, the anger and confusion, the strange mix in his eyes.
"It is moving." You clarified, moving your palm, stroking the skin at the exact spot, as if soothing the babe inside you. "It shows the strength."
Strong. His child would be strong.
He let you bath in silence, sitting nearby, looking how you enjoyed the warm water, the comfort. And that night, he feel asleep with his palm on your belly, and you already sleeping face to face with him.
***
You found him hear the open doors, the ground sprinkled with snow, the winter not harsh enough yet to make him cover his bear chest. Yet, you were the one covered in warm clothes.
The wood between his legs looked smooth, the curve not subtle, but the length not long enough to be one of those where people carried water in on their shoulders.
"What are those for?" You stepped closer, palm stroking your belly, the babe being active all morning.
Simon raised his eyes briefly, looking at yours, and then at the movement of your palm. His hands did not stop, still smothering the wood, but his haze lingered on your belly, the reminder of an approaching labour.
"The babe bed."
"The crib?" You asked, dumbfounded.
Just the other day, the woman from the village, a wife of one of the warriors, brought the local version of a crib into your house. Two small wooden pillars firmly embedded on the ground under the floorboards, and a sack of fabric hanging in between. You looked puzzled, eyeing the construction with a curiosity, asking Simon what for did you two need a cheese press when the goats in the village hardly have enough milk to make one.
You were horrified to discover this was how his people made newborns sleep.
"Monk said your people use wood." Simon mumbled, his eyes back on the wood in his hand.
The monk. The kidnapped slim man from the same lands as you, taken and kept as a slave for one of the chiefs of Simon's. He talked to him. About the babe, about you refusing to let the fragile being sleep in something without a steady ground under.
And he made a crib.
It stood near your bed two weeks after. Steady, strong, and full of clean fabric and warm furs.
"Woman said babe needs warmth." Simon said, dropping two more fur pieces in the already full crib.
You nodded, and, walking closed, snuggled closer to his side, desperate for his always hot skin and warmth.
"It will need warmth, coming in the winter."
***
The wind outside made the doors swing from side to side with force. Or was it the hurry with which the servants and the midwife were running in and out, bringing more warm water and fresh linens? You could not tell, too lost in the agony that gripped your body.
"Why she screams?"
"She is having a child, the child needs a way out of her body. It is expected of her to-"
"If you do not do anything I will take my axe and-"
You interrupted the threat, ready to slip out of Simon's mouth and reached for his hand. He gripped your palm in an instance, moving closer, until your foreheads were pressed to one another.
"I need the knife."
"Knife?"
"The knife you- Ugh! The knife you gave me."
The one you never parted ways with, always looking at the pattern, tracing the symbols with you finger pads.
The horror passed into Simon's eyes, and before anyone could notice that, you said.
"The cord. Cut it with the knife."
He did, just several moments later. When you collapsed on your face, babe being pushed out, and servants helped you to lay on your back from the hands and knees you were relying on while the midwife wiped the babe with a fresh fabric. The newborn screamed, finally here, finally breathing the air for the first time.
"What a big boy. A mighty warrior."
A son was placed into your hands, and Simon cut the cord not leaving his eyes off of the child on your chest.
He would do anything for the two of you. He would conquer new villages, fight a thousand battles, build a bigger house, hunt a dozen deers, kill anyone who dares to look wrong at you.
summary: rick finally takes it upon himself to have you the way he wants. read part 1 here!
content: age gap (rick is in his late 30's reader is in her early-mid 20's), gentleman!rick, fluff, smut, fluffy smut, porn with plot, i can't help myself, the smut is worth it i promise, rick is a munch, alexandria safe zone, no use of y/n
warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, p in v sex, oral sex- m receiving, oral sex- f receiving, dirty talk, use of pet names (baby, honey, sweetheart, etc.)
word count: 7.6k
author’s note: PART TWO IS HERE <3 smutty smut as promised. everyone can thank @twd-bee3 for the initial request that inspired this two-part fic! and a HUGE thanks to @tinytownn for beta reading this. you are the GOATTT. reblogs always appreciated :3
You pull away for a moment to catch your breath, Rick’s grasp still firm on either side of your face. You touch your lips softly with your fingers, feeling a little shy.
“I-uh,” you stutter, Rick’s panting distracting you from your thoughts.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Rick asks, the nickname disorienting you even more.
You nod.
“You sure?” He pushes.
You reassure him by kissing him again, climbing on top of his lap and straddling him. The already-hard bulge in his jeans is making you giggle into his mouth.
“Listen, I’ve been thinkin’ about you – this – for a while. Cut an old man some slack, will ya?” Rick teases.
“No more day dreaming then,” you palm him through the thick denim, getting even more excited when you feel how well endowed he is.
Rick’s breath catches in his throat, huffing out a needy moan against your cheek. His breath is hot on your skin. Suddenly, he grabs both of your wrists in one hand, stopping you. He takes a deep breath, almost as though he was re-centering himself before speaking.
“Be patient for me, honey,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your forehead, “wanna do this right.” You lean further into his touch, grinding your hips down onto him– wanting more. This makes him close his eyes and groan.
“What d’you mean?” You ask with a shamelessly cute pout on your face. Rick wonders if you’re making this impossible on purpose.
Knowing her, she definitely is, Rick thinks to himself.
“Don’t want you thinkin’ this is all I want from you,” he squeezes your upper thigh, grazing over the zipper of your jeans as he says this.
You feel a little disappointed at the thought of not getting to jump his bones right this second. You also admire how sweet it is that after all this time, Rick still wanted to try to take things slow with you.
“Okay, yeah” you say, trying to mask the fact that this is ever-so-slightly bruising your ego-- but you can’t help but blush at his reasoning. You card your fingers through his curls, holding intense eye contact with him. He leans in close to your ear, continuing to massage your thighs.
“You know I want you,” he says, voice low and gravelly, “I just don’t want to mess this up.” He’s earnest.
“I know,” you say, matching his sincerity.
“Let me do this right. Wanna take you on a date, pick you some flowers, a version of something normal, something nice. Yeah?” He sounds almost nervous as he says this. You sort of find it endearing.
“That sounds really nice, Rick. I’d love that,” you say, leaning forward to give him a sloppy kiss on his scruffy cheek, earning a toothy grin from him.
“Alright, then.” He says, sighing contently. He envelops you in his arms now, pulling you forward to lay on his chest.
The two of you relish in the moment for a while, the comfortable silence calming your system. Any anger or resentment you felt towards him before this evening was slowly melting away. You don’t want to let him in too quickly, but you don’t want to shut him out either.
Maybe he’s right about taking things slow, you ponder internally.
The sun has nearly set now, you’d almost fallen asleep. However, you don’t want to overstay your welcome. You yawn and sit upright, still on his lap.
“I should uh- be gettin’ home soon,” you say as though you have anyone waiting on you– you have a house to yourself in Alexandria. You peel yourself off of him and head towards his front door, bending down to put your shoes back on.
He stands too, stretching his arms above his head (his exposed, curly happy trail distracting you for a split second).
“Got places to be?” He asked, thinking maybe your night shift on the lookout had slipped his mind.
“Nope,” you say with a pop, “just thought you might enjoy an evening to yourself without the kiddos for once. Didn't wanna intrude.”
A quiet moment passes.
“I’d like it if ya did,” Rick says, a boyish look on his face, C’mon, just a little while longer?” he asks, grabbing both your hands and rubbing circles on your palms with his thumbs.
You leaned against his door frame, staring up at him with a love sick look in your eyes. You debate with yourself for a moment, trying to figure out how to avoid pouncing on him if you’re here a second longer.
Then you think to yourself- How could I say no to him when he’s looking at me like that?
“What’re we gonna do?” you ask. In that moment, you realize you and Rick have never really ‘hung out,’ before. There wasn’t time for anything like that until very recently.
“You play cards?” He asks.
“Used to, yeah,” you reply.
“I found a deck on a run not too long ago. Carl wasn’t interested in learnin’ how to play anything, but I’m holdin’ on to ‘em hoping someone will indulge me,” he raises his eyebrows at you with a soft smile.
“Can-do, Grimes,” you take off your shoes, again.
~~~
You and Rick enjoy a few beers while you play Gin Rummy. For just a moment here with him at his kitchen table, you forget about the dead outside, you forget about any fight that inevitably awaits– all you can think about is if he’s holding onto the ace of hearts you need to win this game.
“Y’know, there was a time not too long ago… that I didn’t think I’d ever get to do this again,” he says, voice low and a tinge vulnerable.
“Do what?” You ask.
“Just- this. Wasn’t sure I’d ever see a day where I was able to stop long enough to play cards again, have a drink or two,” he fiddles with the bottle cap from his beer, “Or enjoy someone’s company.”
Anytime he starts to talk like this, you just listen; if Rick Grimes is opening up, you want to give him the space to do so. You move slowly, like he’s some stray dog and you’re trying to avoid scaring him off.
The admission hits you like a truck. It’s as though he’d read your mind.
“I get that,” you fiddle with the two remaining cards in your hand, “I’m having a really nice time, Rick,” you say, trying to assure him you were more than okay with not going any further than this tonight.
His eyes scan the cards in his hand, grunting before begrudgingly discarding exactly what you’ve been waiting for. The ace of hearts. You try to mask the look of excitement on your face.
It’s your turn now. You eagerly pick up his ace from the discard pile, join it with the two other aces already in your hand, and lay them down on the table.
“Gin!” You say, excitedly.
“Shit- I knew you were waitin’ on that card. Shoulda’ held onto it a little longer, dammit,” Rick hated losing, but he loved seeing you happy.
“What do I get for winning?” You say with a devilish smirk on your face.
Mustering every ounce of self-restraint he has, Rick lets out a soft laugh and scoots his chair out from the table a little bit, patting his thigh.
You all but prance over to him and sit nicely on his lap, eagerly waiting for your reward.
“Winners get kisses,” he says before greedily attaching his lips to yours. This time, you instantly part your lips for him, begging for him to explore you with his tongue. He obliges, licking and moaning shamelessly into your mouth. His hands wander all over your figure, mapping you out, memorizing you.
God, if he kisses you much longer he won’t be able to stick to his plan– Rick is nothing if not a man of his word. He pulls back from the kiss, a large hand still tangled in your hair. Your pupils are blown out and your lips are sweetly swollen from his kiss.
He takes a mental picture. If this is how she looks now, imagine how she’ll look stuffed full of my cock.
Rick internally scolds himself for the lewd thought.
“I think I’m gettin’ sleepy, Rick,” you say truthfully. It was getting late, and the beers had caught up to you. He scratches at your scalp now and you nudge into his palm, almost cat-like.
“I know, darlin’. Let me walk you home?” He asks.
“I’d like that,” you say, smiling.
You were about halfway back to your house when Rick laces his fingers with yours, squeezing once interlocked. The action makes your stomach tighten, even in your tired state.
He walks you all the way to your front door step and gives you a chaste, sweet kiss on the lips. A kiss that said, there’s more where that came from, I promise.
~~~
Over the course of the next week, you and Rick are like a couple of giddy high schoolers– sneaking around Alexandria between shifts to steal kisses from one another where no one can see, winking or smiling at each other from up in the watch towers. He’s even been coming to your porch every evening just to tell you goodnight and to, “see your pretty face one last time today.”
~~~
It had been a little over a week since your conversation with Rick now. You were nearing the end of your shift in the garden when you heard a familiar pair of boots knocking against the pavement in your direction. Without turning around to face him, you speak.
“‘Afternoon, officer,” you say, wrist deep in dirt as you turn the compost over.
“How’d you know it was me?” He asks, genuinely curious.
“Those damn boots, they give you away every time,” you crane your neck around to look up at him from your crouched position. His thumbs are looped into his gun belt and that constable uniform is tight in all the right places. You make sure to keep eye contact, not letting your gaze go below his belt for long.
Focus.
“I was wonderin’ if you were free this evening after you finish up here?” he asks. He knows the answer, already having looked at your schedule.
“I sure am, what do you have in mind?” You ask, wondering if tonight could entail this so-called-date he promised.
“I’ll come pick you up at 7, is that enough time for you to get ready?”
“Plenty. I’ll see you then?” You try to hide how excited you are, playing it as cool as you can.
“Yes ma’am.” He affirms, walking away with a little more pep in his step than before.
The rest of your shift at the garden is mindless. Your head is elsewhere– busied by daydreams of what tonight could hold.
~~~
You take your time getting ready for your date with Rick. You took a long shower, scrubbing all the remaining dirt out from under your nails- of course you had a garden shift the same day as your date.
Date, huh? You talk to yourself in your head.
Your closet didn’t have much to choose from, it being mostly filled with practical things- a few pairs of jeans, a warm jacket for the winter, and a small variety of plain-colored shirts.
As you file through your options you find just what you were looking for– a dress one of the Alexandrian women had given you to wear to the first dinner party at Deanna’s. Your group had arrived with only what was on your backs, you’d certainly not made room nor time for dresses before arriving at Alexandria. You still think about how kind she was to give it to you. Even now, it was still the only half-decent thing you owned.
You put the dress on, admiring yourself in the mirror for a moment as you fix your hair. Seldom did you tend to your appearance these days, you’d forgotten how pretty you can be when you try a little bit.
A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts and your stomach drops.
Why am I so nervous?
You take a deep breath before stumbling your way down the stairs to the front door, unlocking it to reveal a sweet, smiling, clean-shaven Rick Grimes.
His hands are clasped tight in front of his belt, holding a mix of wildflowers (and weeds) messily plucked together into a makeshift-bouquet.
“Riiiiiick,” you draw his name out all sing-songy. The image of him walking around searching for these, squatting down and picking each bloom one by one has you just about melting.
“These are for you, sweetheart,” he hands them to you, intentionally brushing his fingers over yours during the exchange. You blush, hard. He looks so handsome, it’s rare that you see him like this– a crisp off-white button up and a clean pair of black slacks, his usual boots, curls neatly laying on his neck.
“Why thank you, sir,” you say, making an attempt at some first-date-formalities with him. Rick’s pants tighten when you call him that, but he decides to save that thought for later.
“Anything for a pretty girl like you,” he says, stealing a kiss to your cheek, “You look beautiful by the way, this dress is quite nice.” His fingers play with the fabric around your shoulders.
The two of you stand awkwardly in your kitchen for a moment until you finally break the silence.
“Sorry, I’ve uh- never done this before,” you admit.
“Done what?” he questions.
“This- a date,” you say sheepishly.
Rick is beside himself. He could understand not going on any dates in the last year or two, given the apocalyptic circumstances. But, before? He finds it hard to believe that no one has ever taken a girl like you out on a date.
You can see the gears turning in his head, you interrupt his thinking.
“–And no, I’m not a virgin. I just– no one from before ever really wanted me for more than just bedroom stuff, I guess,” you trail off, trying to figure out how to explain this to him in a way that didn’t feel totally humiliating.
Suddenly, he feels all the more grateful for choosing to take his time with you the way he wanted to. He now has the opportunity to show you– for the first time– what it’s like to be treated right. Although Rick knows the point of tonight was to give him a chance to do some much-needed-grovelling with you, the added pressure of this being your first date makes him wonder if what he’d planned would be good enough. He pushes that thought aside as he takes your hands in his.
“That’s a damn shame, honey. Those boys don’t know what they’re missin’,” he pulls you into his chest, embracing you for a moment, feigning some necessary confidence, “Let a real man show you how it’s done tonight, will you?”
Your stomach twists into knots. You glance up at him with the most endearing expression on your face, and he can’t help but imagine what other looks of pleasure he might pull from you tonight.
“C’mon, let’s head out. We’re not goin’ far,” he says, tugging your hand and leading you out the door.
The two of you walk hand-in-hand toward the large tree that hangs over the lake; you spot a small backpack perched up against the tree trunk.
“What have you got in there?” You giggle, poking him in the side.
He smiles, clearly pleased with himself that he’s fostered some giddy, girl-ish anticipation from you. He begins to unpack the bag, unfolding a tightly rolled blanket to lay flat on the ground. He pats the corner, gesturing for you to take a seat while he finishes setting up.
He pulls out a lantern and a book of matches, a tupperware full of some food, a slightly dusty bottle of wine, and a deck of cards. You pull a puppy-dog-pout, eyes almost bleary as you look his way. The way you leap to hug him nearly knocks him over, but he quickly steadies the both of you.
“Easy, darlin’,” he coos, stroking your hair gently.
“Rick, this is- this is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me,” you say wholeheartedly. It was the truth.
“I know it’s not much, but I’m workin’ with what I’ve got,” he admits, “even asked Carol to make us somethin’ homemade to eat. Didn’t wanna have you eatin’ canned beans on your first date,” he says with a hearty laugh.
You beam at him, his every word making you swoon.
The two of you enjoyed friendly banter while you ate, the warm glow of the lantern and the faint hint of moonlight cast over the water made for a rather intimate atmosphere.
Brief touches are exchanged throughout the picnic-ish meal. He’d brush your hair out of your face, or place a hand on your lower back for a moment longer than usual. Though any soft or sweet version of you that existed vanished during your game of Gin Rummy. This was a re-match, and you were determined to go 2-0.
He let you win this time, but he’d never tell you that.
After you’d finished eating food and playing cards, he quietly moved up to sit against the tree, opening his legs for you to nestle there. You scoot closer to him– dress riding up a little bit in the process– and press your back to his chest. Being in this position with him reminds you of that night in the barn with Judith, how he’d kissed your head when he thought you were sleeping.
Only this time you were fully awake; you tilt your neck back to rest your head on his shoulder, leaning to the side to sneak a kiss to his clothed bicep. You don’t see it, but he smiles.
The warmth of the day now long-gone, the two of you opt to pack up and make the short walk back to your house. You walk slowly, wishing the night wouldn’t end just yet.
“I had a really, really nice time tonight, Rick,” you say sweetly, twiddling your fingers.
“Me too, baby,” he replies.
Baby, you think, that’s new.
“Is this the part where you kiss me goodnight?” You say, always wanting more of him, but vowing to respect his timeline with you.
He shakes his head no, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, “this is the part where I get what I’ve been waitin’ for,” his grip on your waist tightens as he yanks your hips to meet his.
“God, finally,” you say, your voice breathy and needy.
His lips find yours in a desperate kiss, you devour each other– hands everywhere. He grabs the back of your neck, threading his fingers into the base of your hair and tugging lightly. You moan, an embarrassingly loud noise for such a small gesture.
He takes note of your reactions to every little thing, determined to learn what makes you tick the most.
One of his large hands splays wide over the side of your face, the other roaming down to tug at the fabric of your dress.
“As pretty as you look, I’ve been dyin’ to find out what you’re hidin’ underneath this dress,” he teases under the hemline, fingers barely grazing the curve of your ass.
You tug at the collar of his shirt, then trail your hands slowly down his clothed chest, resting your hands on his belt, “I could say the same to you, Mr. Grimes.”
He wonders if you know what you do to him when you talk like that. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to hold back anymore.
“Careful, callin’ me that,” he says, tugging harder at the fabric around your waist. You love how he communicates with you, telling you exactly what he likes.
“Or what? What are you gonna do to me, Mr. Grimes,” You tease.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, hiking you up with one arm.
You instinctively wrap your legs tightly around his waist, “smart girl,” he whispers in your ear as he carries you to your bedroom. The words bounce around in your head making you feel dizzy already.
You hold on to him, fingers tugging on his hair as you steal a few kisses (and bites) on his neck while he takes you up the stairs.
He doesn’t throw you like you thought he might, rather he places you down gently onto your made-bed. He slowly gets down in front of you– the soft thud of each knee hitting the floor causing your skin to erupt in goosebumps– and looks up at you with a reverence you hadn’t quite seen in him before. He pushes your dress up, allowing his hands to roam over the bare plush of your thighs.
He starts leaving kisses all over your exposed skin.
“I know it’s not your first time,” kiss, “but it's your first time with me,” kiss, “and that matters to me,” kiss, “I’m gonna show you how this is really done,” kiss, “show you how sorry I am,” kiss, “if you’ll let me,” kiss.
“Yes, Rick, please,” you don’t even know what you’re asking for, you just want him.
His hands trail underneath your dress now, grazing over your stomach.
“May I?” He asks, tugging on the dress.
“Take it off, please take it off” you beg.
“Good manners, baby,” he says as he pulls the flowy fabric over your head, “m’so proud of you.”
You slightly resent the way his words made you instantly wetter than you were to begin with.
While you had been getting ready for your date with Rick, you knew there’d be a chance that tonight was the night that he finally gave in. You thought it might be funny to wear the same cheeky pair of white, frilly panties you’d teased him with during your Spencer-scheme. You’d been waiting for this moment, wondering if he’d notice.
And he did.
“Aren’t you clever,” he says, nudging his nose into your hip bone, breathing you in, “did’ya pick these out just for me this time?”
You nod, feeling shy all of a sudden.
“Words, darlin’,” he pinches your waist earning a small yelp from you– he smirks at your reaction.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
“Picked these out just for you tonight,” you say, desperate for him to give you more, “thought you might like seein’ me wear ‘em.”
“I think I’d like ‘em even better on the floor,” he says, toying with the elastic at your waist.
You whimper at his actions, his words, your fingers playing with a few of his misplaced curls.
“You tell me if I do somethin’ you don’t like,” he breaks for a moment, looking at you for confirmation.
There was a certain little word that got a reaction out of him earlier, you wanted to test it out again.
“Yes sir, I will,” you look down at him wearing a knowing smirk. He looks beautiful like this– on his knees between your legs. You regret not having him here sooner.
He grunts at your words, fingers digging into your skin now. His head tilts to the side ever-so-slightly, inching closer to where you want him most. You feel his breath hot on your core. He spreads you further, pushing your legs apart to give him more access.
“God, you’re perfect,” he says, biting up your inner thighs, nose almost nudging your clit multiple times. Fucking tease.
“Rick,” you whisper, your patience wavering.
“You want it?” He asks.
You nod.
“Not good enough. Say it, I need to hear you say it,” he says, voice low.
“I want it,” you moan, “I want it, Rick, please,” you beg.
He tightens his grip on your knee, “Mmm, no, sorry. Maybe I wasn’t clear,” he says, “tell me you want me.”
He presses wet, sloppy kisses to your inner thigh, “or do I have you all wrong?” He drags out his words.
You tug at his hair, trying to pull him closer to your clothed sex, “Yes, fuck, I want you, Rick,” you run your thumb against his cheek, he shamelessly nuzzles his head into your hand.
You continue, thinking maybe he really does need some reassurance.
“I think about you more than I care to admit,” you say, looking him in the eyes, getting close to his ear, you whisper, “when I’m alone at night,” you lean forward to kiss his neck, “even when I was mad at you,” you bite at his collarbone, “still thought about you, Rick.”
Rick hums at your affection; he wastes no time getting eye level with your pussy, nudging his nose against your clit through the thin material of those fucking panties.
“Jesus,” Rick says tauntingly, taking in a deep breath between your legs, “you smell good,” a little creepy, but you loved it.
“Rick, you’re killing me,” you whine.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry sweetheart,” he says, kissing your bud through the cotton fabric. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the pet names with him, each one making your cheeks blush and your stomach turn.
You start to fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, needing him to take off something. He takes the hint, finishing the job for you– ridding himself of his button up and the plain white t-shirt underneath. You tug at his belt now, silently asking him to do away with his slacks as well.
He obliges - like always - unbuckling his belt, then undoing his pants and letting them fall to his feet.
The metal clatter of his belt against the hardwood floor made your core flutter in anticipation. You’re not sure how much longer you can wait, but you do your best to be patient for him– to let him have his way with you.
Part of you knows that’s what you really want from him. After months of Rick being so wishy-washy with you, you don’t care to lead the way with him– at least not right now. You want him to show you exactly how he wants you. So, you’ll let him do just that (and that’s not to say you won’t give him some encouragement along the way).
You lean back on your elbows, taking him in in all his glory, and finally, you aren’t feeling so shy with him anymore.
“This is weird,” you say plainly.
“Like I said babydoll, we can stop anyti-” he starts; you cut him off.
“No, this,” you gesture to his nearly naked frame on top of you. “You know, I never get to just stare at you,” you say, your hair fanned out on the pillow beneath your head.
“What d’ya mean, honey?”
“I always have to steal a glance, or act like I wasn’t looking… I never get to just look at you,” you admit. You trace your fingers up and down his toned abdomen, he tenses, muscles flexing under your touch. You gently graze each and every scar that decorates his skin, you even lean forward and leave a sweet kiss to the rather large one on his left shoulder (from where Morgan stabbed him.)
“I always notice,” he says, looking down at you with a smirk.
“Well, you look good, Rick, what’s a girl to do?” you say, coaxing him with the compliment. He seems to feel the same way as you, his eyes raking up and down your body, caressing every inch of your soft skin with the palms of his hands.
“You do too,” he says your name, “you’re beautiful, fuck,” he mutters.
You inhale deeply, letting out a shaky breath, “please just fuck me, Rick– want you to have me,” you look him straight in the eyes as you say this. As though he’d been waiting for a go-ahead from you, he doesn’t waste another second, immediately latching his lips to your neck and squeezing the flesh on your hips with both hands.
He kisses his way down your abdomen, leaving small love bites every now and then. Your skin erupts in goosebumps after a particularly hard bite, you inhale sharply.
“Oh, you liked that,” Rick says, biting you again– this time on your hip.
You let out pretty, needy little sounds at his actions.
Before you can speak again, he finally nudges his nose into your folds, grazing over your clit.
“Fuck, Rick–” you yank his hair (a little harder than you meant to), “shit- sorry,” you dotingly smooth over the spot where you’d tugged.
“Y’can pull harder than that, honey” and as though to reward you for your action, he darts his tongue out of his mouth, finally getting a taste of you.
I’m so fucked- Rick thinks to himself, feeling immediately addicted to you (as if he wasn’t already).
He moans into your pussy, the vibrations adding to the pleasure he’s giving you. He leans his whole body into it as he relentlessly eats you out
“What a treat,” he says, lapping the wetness from your core, drinking you in, “you’re soaked,” alternating between your entrance and your clit in a way that keeps you right on the edge.
“Rick, this feels so good, p-please don’t stop,” you tug on his hair again, knowing now how much he enjoys it.
He adds two fingers into the mix now, stretching you out in a way that gets you close instantly. His fingers were much larger than yours, and it had been quite a while since you’d had anything but your own hands to pleasure yourself.
If you were having to adjust to his fingers, you start to feel a little nervous about being able to handle all of him– you’ll cross that bridge when you get there.
Rick feels you begin to squirm under his touch, so he uses his spare arm to hold your hips down.
“I-I’m gonna-” your words get caught in your throat as your eyes squeeze shut.
“I know baby, I know,” he maintains perfect pace with his fingers, giving soft-tongued attention to your clit at the same time, “let me have it.”
And with that, you reach your high (a little quicker than you would have liked), but he’s had you so worked up all day– it's not your fault.
He slows his movements as you ride out your orgasm, you rut your hips into his face, gasping moans of his name.
You catch your breath before speaking, voice quiet and sweet.
“You’re good at that, Rick,” you run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching at the base of his neck. You pull him up toward your face, bringing him in for a kiss. Although he shaved that morning, he already has a 5 o’clock shadow– the new stubble scratching your face (you love it). You taste yourself on his lips and can’t help but swoon a little bit at the way he just ate you like you were his last meal.
“I’d have you everyday if it were up to me. You’re a pretty little thing, you know that?” He kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your nose.
Something you find yourself really enjoying about Rick is how much the two of you have been talking during sex. Having an open dialogue like this makes things feel so intimate. Hearing exactly how much he enjoys you, your lips, your hands, it’s giving you a sense of confidence you didn’t know you could have in the bedroom.
He loved it all the same, each moan, whimper, or whine from you felt like a special reward just for him. More than that, he loved to hear from you– how you were feeling, how much you enjoyed his touch, how long you’ve wanted this. Each admission bolstered his self-assuredness with you, making him determined to please you even more with his next move.
Your limbs feel like jelly, but you were nowhere near done with him yet. You muster up some much-needed strength before sitting up and tying your hair back. Rick’s eyebrows raise.
“You, here.” You say, patting a spot between the pillows at the top of the mattress. He listens, eager to find out what you’ve got in mind. He sits comfortably with his back up against the headboard, hands lazily laced behind his head as he lets out a content sigh.
“It’s my turn to show you,” you plant a quick kiss on his lips, “just how bad,” a bite to his neck, “I’ve been wanting this, Rick,” you lick a stripe along his collarbone. His breath stutters.
“You’re so handsome,” you kiss down his toned abdomen, raking your nails over his chest, “I don’t know why the women here didn’t pounce on you when they had the chance, I would have if I were them.”
“You think this doesn’t count as pouncin’ on me?” He teases with a smile on his face, clearly relishing in your words. You suppose he’s right; this earns him a barely-noticeable eye roll from you.
“I really do think about you when I’m alone, you know?” You say, as though it’s obvious as you palm his erection through his boxers.
“What do you think about, hmm?”
“It’s kinda embarrassing, Rick, I don’t know-”
“What is it baby? Wanna let me in that pretty head of yours?” he strokes your cheek with his thumb, his voice is quiet and reassuring, “I’ve been so proud of you tonight, you’ve been so sweet for me, so open with me, even after everything I put you through,” he says, trying to coax you back to confidence. He loved seeing you be so shameless with him, and he’s greedy– he wants to see that side of you again.
“I think about this,” you tug at the waist band of his boxers, silently asking him to lift his hips for you. He keenly accommodates you, tossing the plaid fabric onto your nightstand.
And if feeling him through his jeans the other day had told you anything, it’s that you were right. He was thick. Your eyes go cartoon-wide at the sight resulting in a cocky laugh from Rick– you supposed he’d earned it, just look at him.
In the moment you felt you needed it the most, your confidence found you again. The feeling quickly turned into smugness at the thought of getting to have Rick like this whenever you want.
You take him in your hand, your fingers barely wrapping all the way around his length. You thumb over his slit, already leaking with a sticky bead of white liquid. He says your name softly in a mix of moans and heavy breaths.
You decide that he’s waited long enough, you kiss his tip– your touch light and sweet. You lick up and down the length a couple of times to wet his shaft before fully taking him into your mouth. He’s so thick you hardly have the room to hollow your cheeks out, he’s stuffing your mouth full and you certainly aren’t complaining.
You stick your ass up in the air, arching your back at a delicious angle as you continue your efforts on him.
“You look so pretty,” he says, cradling your face in his hand, guiding your mouth up and down his length, “‘m kickin’ myself for not havin’ you like this sooner,” he breathes out the words slowly, holding eye contact so intense you almost want to shrink under his gaze.
With the world how it is now, you know he means it (as lewd as the context of his admission may have been). Time isn’t promised, you think that maybe both of you regret playing all those games with each other. What’s the point in beating around the bush with someone when tomorrow isn’t guaranteed?
All of a sudden, Rick pulls you off– a thin strand of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock. It’s a miracle he doesn't finish at the sight of you like this.
“What’s wrong? W-was I not doing a good job?” You ask, slumping your shoulders in defeat and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you talk.
Rick feels like he’s receiving his first ounce of good karma since this all started. With everything going on, here, out there, everywhere, all you’re worried about at this moment is pleasing him. The fact that you seem to be as lost in the moment with him as he was with you made his heart swell. The thought then makes him sick, feeling as though he doesn’t deserve you after everything he put you through these last few months, ignoring you like that. He shakes the thought away, telling himself this was his chance to make it up to you.
“Oh– my sweet girl, no. You were perfect,” he hoists you up to straddle him now, that sorry look still on your face, “so perfect, I got close there for a second,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “can’t leave my girl hangin’, can I? Gotta give you what you really want.”
My girl.
You crack a small smile now, adjusting yourself in his lap so that your wet folds slide over his length. Rick's hands find purchase on your waist, gripping you tight before swiftly picking you up to swap places with him. The strength and speed with which it happens makes you dizzy (in a good way).
The head of his cock teases at your entrance and you whine, even though he’s hardly given you an inch.
“You ready, sweetheart? This what you need?” He asks, doting as ever.
“Yes,” you say softly, barely-there.
With that, he starts to push into you, slowly, little by little. Your face scrunches up at the stretch, squeezing your eyes shut and digging your nails into his back.
Finally, when you feel as though you’ve adjusted, you let out a small exhale, opening your eyes to find he’s already looking at you with blown out pupils, jaw slack, eyelids hanging low with pleasure.
“I was worried for a second there that I wouldn’t be able to take all of you,” you whisper, a needy grin on your face.
He starts to pet your hair now, almost sympathetically, “oh baby doll,” he presses a kiss to your temple, “I’m only about halfway in,” he smirks, cocky again. He acts sorry, but he most certainly isn’t.
You close your eyes again, taking a deep breath, trying to relax your muscles.
“O-okay, I’ve got this,” you say, trying to convince yourself more than anything, “keep going, Rick, I can take you,” you assure him.
“I know you can,” he says as he pushes the rest of his length in with one leisurely thrust. You yelp, the sting quickly turning into bliss as he continues to say dirty things in your ear, “you’re a smart girl right? I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Your eyes roll back in your head as he begins to move at an even pace now, each slow drag of his cock against your tight walls works you up closer and closer to where you want to be again. Your bodies begin to mold together as though you’d done this a hundred times. This feels wildly unlike anyone else you’d been with before; with each thrust, you start to feel more and more like you were made for him. Unbeknownst to you, the same thought crosses his mind.
“Turn around,” he says, more demanding than he’d been thus far. You loved it. In an attempt to encourage him to lean into that a little more, you instantly obey, swiftly turning your body over– your stomach now flat on the mattress.
He splays both hands over your ass cheeks, giving each one a gentle slap and a quick squeeze, grunting low in his throat as he does so, as though he was trying to hold himself back from man-handling you a little harder. His hands clench your hips now, pulling your bottom half toward his pelvis. Your back naturally arches as you bury your face into a pillow, patiently waiting for him to re-enter you. He leaves a trail of kisses up your spine as he lines himself up with your entrance again.
He pushes in easily this time, you really have adjusted to him quickly.
“There you go, that’s my girl,” he coos, his hard, quickening pace contrasting his sugar-sweet words. You can’t even muster up a response, you just moan pathetic sounds of pleasure into the pillow.
Keeping one hand on your hip to steady you as he continues to fuck you (hard, now), he threads the other into your hair, angling your head to the side so he can get a little look at you.
Your eyebrows are upturned, your eyes half-closed, mouth dropped into a small ‘o’ shape as you pant out breathy moans and an attempt at a few words like, “yes, fuck, feels good, Rick, fuck, God, more, please.”
This is exactly how he’d imagined you’d be– fucked out, needy, perfect for him.
He feels you tighten ever-so-slightly around his length, your legs beginning to wobble, hardly able to hold yourself up. He intervenes, wrapping a strong arm around your waist, his chest flush with your back now as he maintains a steady pace.
He’s deep in this position, the tip of his dick repeatedly rubbing up against your sweet spot. Your sweet sounds get a little louder now.
You reach your hand back toward him, clenching around his flexed thigh.
“R-Rick, I’m c-close again,” you say, words coming out in the same rhythm as his thrusts. He weirdly enjoyed that.
“I know baby, I can feel you,” he says, his voice gentle yet commanding the room all the same, “let go honey, I’ve got you.”
The thought of him being this attuned to your body already makes you feel warm. More than anything, his words send you over the edge. You come harder than the first time now, clenching around his cock and gushing all over his length; you’ve made a mess of him.
The mental fortitude Rick mustered to stave off his own orgasm in order to coax you through yours was an impressive and close-to-impossible feat. He was focused, determined to put your pleasure before his own (tonight, and always).
When he was sure you’d finished, all the way, he pulled out, jerking himself with one hand and effortlessly flipping you over with the other.
“Look at me,” he orders, “eyes open,” he starts to spurt his white hot load on your soft stomach, “wanna see your face, my pretty girl.”
You reach forward to massage his balls as he finishes himself off, his eyes squeeze shut when he feels your soft fingers caress him down there. His mouth falls open to release a series of curses and moans, a few lewd utterances of your name spilling out as well.
Catching your breath, the sounds of your combined panting echo in your now quiet bedroom. You stare into his eyes with that same lovesick look on your face from earlier. He peppers your face with kisses, his hands never fully resting as they trail gently along the smooth skin of your arms, your legs, your hips.
“Let me get you cleaned up, hmm?” he says, just above a whisper.
“Mhmm,” you agree, eyes closed contently.
Rick reaches over the side of your bed, searching for his discarded undershirt to use as a rag, (he would make sure to be the one doing that load of laundry). He leans over you now, gently wiping you off, leaving a few sloppy pecks over your skin along the way.
You open your mouth to speak and promptly close it when you realize what you were about to say.
Was I actually about to tell him I love him?
You suppose that can happen when you get fucked for the first time in a while, especially when you get fucked like that– all intimate and domestic. You know it’s not time to say that to him yet, but God did it feel natural. Mind slightly clearer now, you draw circles with your fingers on his bicep as you speak.
“That was… that was really nice, Rick, like- really good,” you continue, “I needed that… with you,” you sort-of regret the vulnerable confession.
All cards on the table, I guess. You bargain with yourself internally.
“I love to hear that baby,” he kisses into your hair, “I needed that too,” he’s whispering now, “thank you.”
“For what?” You whisper back.
“For trustin’ me, givin’ me a chance to make this right with you,” he pulls your body impossibly closer to his, “I’ll keep on tryin’ for as long as you’ll have me.”
His words register with you as a version of commitment, that this wouldn’t be a one time thing, that he wants more with you, more of you.
“I’d have you forever if it were up to me, Grimes.” You don’t regret your vulnerability this time.
A toothy grin spreads across his face. You secretly love when you can pull this from him– that innocent, boyish smile that makes it look like maybe, for just a moment, he’d forgotten that the world is falling apart outside.
“Sounds like a good deal to me,” he breathes the words out as his arms settle comfortably around you now, both of you quickly fading.
Without so much as a discussion, he stayed with you, holding you close to his chest all night. He couldn’t wait to get a look at you when you wake up tomorrow– a glimpse of how he might start his mornings everyday now.
SUMMARY 𝜗ৎ you were raised on scripture, silence, and a father who mistook control for faith. rick grimes wasn’t looking for a miracle when he opened the locked door beneath the church—but he found you anyway and now the man who speaks for god has finally met someone he cannot command.
CONTENTS 𝜗ৎ rick grimes x preacher's daughter!reader ⸝⸝⸝ DEAD DOVE : DO NOT EAT ⸝⸝⸝ season five era ⸝⸝⸝ age gap ( rick is early 40s, reader is mid 20s ) ⸝⸝⸝ HEAVY religious trauma ⸝⸝⸝ spiritual/psychological abuse ⸝⸝⸝ mention of physical abuse ( but nothing actually happens in this part ) ⸝⸝⸝ isolation/captivity ⸝⸝⸝ religious fanaticism ⸝⸝⸝ loss of faith ⸝⸝⸝ brainwashing + gaslighting ⸝⸝⸝ wc 8.9k
CREDITS 𝜗ৎ layout inspo @/lovebugism | all dividers by @jacksabbotts
part one / part two
The apocalypse didn’t take your faith — your father did. You don’t resent God for ending the world. You resent Him for being quiet.
You resent Him for giving you a father who uses His name like a cage door.
You resent Him for watching. You resent Him for letting you pray yourself hoarse. You resent Him for letting you grow up in darkness and calling it light.
Silence was always the loudest thing in your life. Louder than hymns, louder than sermons, louder than the thud of your heart when you knelt on old pine floors and begged for something—anything—to answer you back. Louder than the dead outside, louder even than the living within the sanctuary walls.
Your father said silence was holiness.
God’s breath in the stillness. God’s hand in the hush. God’s judgment resting like fog over the rafters.
You learned to bow beneath that weight before you learned to read scripture. Before you learned the shape of your own name. Before you even knew what a childhood was supposed to feel like.
You were raised in a world carved by someone else’s fear.
Your father’s voice was the first thing you were taught to trust. It filled every corner of your home—your church—your prison masquerading as a sanctuary. It hung in the air like incense, thick and cloying, slipping through cracks in the walls and settling into your lungs. He didn’t need to shout or strike. He didn’t need to bar the doors with boards or locks or nails.
He just needed to speak for God.
And you, obedient and trembling, believed him.
“The Lord disciplines those He loves.”
“Purity is a covenant.”
“Obedience is the only path to salvation.”
“A daughter’s virtue is a father’s burden.”
You learned those lines before you learned the alphabet. They were lullabies. They were warnings. They were the rules of your small and shrinking world.
When the dead started walking, your father didn’t falter or panic. He didn’t mourn the collapse of civilization.
He preached.
“The wages of sin is death.”
“His flock shall be set apart.”
“The Lord maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside still waters.”
“But only the righteous deserve His peace.”
You repeated the verses, even when your voice cracked. Even when you hadn’t slept, when hunger gnawed at your ribs like teeth. Even when the dead pressed against the windows and your father called them the signs of the times. Mankind's divine punishment.
Even when you were fourteen days without stepping beyond the threshold of your own front door.
Fourteen days turned into months. Months turned into a year. Then into another. You stopped counting after the first winter.
You don’t remember the exact moment the church became a prison. Maybe it always was. Maybe you just didn’t understand the difference until the world outside collapsed and the world inside stayed exactly the same.
You were always meant to be tucked away, your father said.
A lamb among wolves. A light under a bushel. A daughter of God. You knew what it truly meant : you were his possession.
When you were seventeen, you were moved in the attic because your father said your childhood bedroom was too worldly. When you were twenty-two, he told you the attic was closer to God. Now at your age of twenty-six, he still tells you the same thing.
You sleep beneath beams that sag with age, their wood softening into rot. You sleep in a bed older than your mother, with a rosary hung above the headboard, its beads pale-green with wear. Your nightgowns hang on hooks like ghosts—white cotton, lace-edged, modest to the point of erasure.
There is nothing in that room that belongs to you.
Except the lace.
Your secret.
Your sin.
Your salvation.
You found it long before Alexandria, long before safety, long before the illusion of a community. You found it when you and your parents wandered, adrift between abandoned farmhouses and empty parish halls. It was tucked inside a drawer, folded between yellowing handkerchiefs.
A woman’s lingerie—soft, delicate, freshly clean, and impossibly beautiful. A thing made for someone who lived a life you couldn’t imagine : a life where skin was allowed to be seen, touched, celebrated.
Your father would call it temptation.
You call it proof that somewhere, once, there had been a world where beauty wasn’t a sin.
You hide it in your dresser beneath a pile of nightgowns, careful never to let it peek out when your mother dusts or straightens the blankets. You touch it with reverence, fingertips light as breath, as if it might disappear if you press too hard. You don’t wear it. You don’t dare. You don’t even unfold it fully.
You just need to know it’s there.
You need to know there is something in the world that was not dictated by your father’s voice.
Your mother says nothing. She is a shadow moving through the corridors, her eyes soft and hollow, hands always wringing, always trembling. She isn’t cruel. She’s merely broken. You don’t know when she folded under your father’s beliefs—before the world ended or after—but the crack in her spirit is old.
Sometimes you catch her staring through the windows, longing pooling in her eyes like rainwater in guttered stone. But she never steps outside, either. She never contradicts him. She never speaks of freedom.
You think she might have forgotten what it feels like.
You wonder if you ever knew.
Alexandria was supposed to change everything. A place with walls, food, people. A community. But communities have politics, and politics have blind spots.
Your father slipped into Alexandria like a wolf dressed in linen. Soft-spoken. Polite and scriptural. He hosted a prayer circle within days of arriving. He offered blessings over meals. He quoted scripture to Deanna with a gentleness that made her smile, made her nod, made her see piety instead of control.
He said you didn’t like crowds. That you were shy and had a tender disposition. He said you preferred the quiet of the church. He said you were fragile.
He said you were free to leave whenever you wished.
And he said it with a smile.
Everyone nodded. Everyone pretended to believe him. Everyone saw the way you avoided their eyes, the way you stood behind him, the way you folded in on yourself like a prayer half-whispered and half-swallowed. They saw the truth and ignored it because your father hadn’t done anything wrong.
Not anything they could prove and therefore nothing they could stop.
You kept to yourself. You prayed. You cleaned pews. You polished the same brass candlesticks until they gleamed. You scrubbed the altar cloths until your knuckles split.
You did everything your father asked.
You stayed inside.
The only light you touched was the filtered sun through stained-glass panes, fractured into colors you never saw in the sky. Blues and reds and golds that painted your skin in holy shapes you didn’t feel holy enough to wear.
Outside, Alexandria bustled, families rebuilt, children played, people laughed and fought and wept and lived.
Inside, the church was frozen.
Dust collected on hymnals. Scrolls of paper piled on your father’s desk. Your mother knelt in corners, whispering prayers you couldn’t hear. You walked the same wooden floors until you wore a faint path in the boards.
And God stayed silent.
He didn’t speak in storms. He didn’t speak in whispers. He didn’t speak through your father, no matter how many times he claimed He did.
But you didn’t leave.
You couldn’t.
Punishment becomes purpose when you live inside it long enough. Fear becomes faith. Obedience becomes safety. You tell yourself you stay because of God. But the truth is simpler, bleaker : you don’t know how to walk through the door.
You touch the doorknob sometimes. You feel the metal cool beneath your palm. You twist. You almost open it. Almost.
But then your father’s voice echoes in your mind—
“The Lord sets His chosen apart.”
“A woman’s virtue is guarded best by walls.”
And you freeze. And you let go. And you step back into the shadows.
The world outside may have ended, but your world ended long before it ever got the chance to begin.
Sometimes you press your forehead to the windowpane and watch the sunlight spill over the grass. Your breath fogs the glass. Your heart hammers. You wonder if the light would feel warm or if your skin would reject it, burn against a freedom it never learned to accept.
You’re twenty-six years old and you’ve never seen the world beyond ten paces from the door.
You’re twenty-six years old and you’ve never heard your name spoken without reverence or reprimand.
You’re twenty-six years old and you still fold your hands the way your father taught you when you were five.
You’re twenty-six years old and you still pray.
Even if the prayers taste like ash. Even if your God never answers.
The days in Alexandria pass slowly and predictably. But peace is a lie in a house built on fear.
The first sign is the hush.
Not the normal hush of the church—the familiar, suffocating silence you grew up in, the one that clings to you like incense. This hush is different. It has weight. It has direction and it is pointed directly towards you.
It creeps up the stairs before your father does. It reaches you before his shadow pools across the floorboards. It slinks under the door and wraps itself around your ribs, squeezing gently, reminding you that breath is a luxury.
Your skin knows before your mind does. It always has.
There is a particular way your father moves when he is angry. He doesn’t stomp nor rush. He doesn’t shout your name like other men might.
He just walks. Evenly, softly, like each step is part of a ritual.
Your heartbeat begins to thrum in that old, familiar rhythm—the one that kept you alive in the hole. The one that learned to listen for the hinges of the door, the cadence of his breathing, the scrape of his hand over the spine of a Bible.
He opens the attic door with a gentleness that makes the hair on your arms lift.
He always opens doors gently when he’s furious.
“What is hidden shall be revealed.” His voice is calm, conversational. The kind of tone neighbors would call warm, kind, and godly. Your stomach drops. You know exactly which scripture he’s choosing to embody today. You know exactly which version of God he thinks he is right now.
You rise from the bed automatically. Your body belongs to muscle memory in moments like this. Your hands fold themselves. Your eyes lower. Your breath tucks itself small and quiet inside your lungs.
He closes the door behind him. That is the second sign. Your father never closes doors unless he intends to make you smaller inside them.
He doesn’t look at you at first. He stays near the dresser. His fingers trail over the wood. Over the iron handles. Over the exact drawer where you keep—
No.
You swallow, your throat dry as old hymnal paper.
He hasn’t opened it yet. He hasn’t found the lace. He hasn’t seen your sin. But he doesn’t have to.
The anger in him was born long before the drawer existed. Long before Alexandria. Long before the world ended.
It is the kind of anger that comes from fear. From losing control. From knowing—somewhere deep and trembling—that you are a grown woman now, and grown women eventually stop obeying.
He stops touching the dresser.
He turns his head. Only his head. His body remains still, composed, steady as a steeple. Your father never turns fully when he’s angry. He understands the power of partial attention. He understands what it does to you.
“A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump.” His eyes meet yours. “Sin begins in small things.” Your heart slams once against your ribs.
What did you do?
You search your memory frantically, combing through the day:
Did you forget a prayer? Did you take too long lighting the candles? Did you leave a hymnbook crooked on a pew? Did he see you watching the children outside?
Did you think something you weren’t supposed to think?
Sometimes the sin doesn’t exist. Sometimes he just feels it.
He steps closer. Your pulse narrows into a single hot thread running down your spine. He doesn’t hit you. He never hits you. He barely even touches you. He doesn’t need to.
Your father’s rage is a sermon spoken through posture, through breath, through the quiet scrape of his shoe on the floor “Disobedience opens the door to corruption.”
There’s something in his hand.
Your nightgown from the wash. The one you folded imperfectly.
That’s all it is.
A crease wrong. A corner tucked unevenly. An innocent mistake that anyone else on earth would overlook. But your father sees disorder as rebellion. Improper folding means carelessness. Carelessness means distraction. Distraction means temptation. Temptation means sin.
You feel the world tilt.
You hear the echo of the hole behind your ribs.
He holds the cloth delicately between two fingers—as if it’s not cotton but evidence. As if your imperfection stained it. He smooths it out.
And then he lifts his eyes to you, and there it is—that serene fury
that calm, simmering disappointment, that holy wrath dressed in tenderness.
“Child,” he says softly, but the softness is cold, carved from stone.
“You are slipping.” Your hands tremble, not visibly, because God help you if your father were able to weaponize your fear more than he already has.
But your bones shake like reeds in the wind.
He refolds the cloth again, perfectly, edges aligned, and the corners sharp. His anger is quiet, but it is vast enough to swallow you whole.
You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. Because there are no words that soothe him. No words that absolve you. No words that exist between father and daughter when the father believes he is God’s right hand.
The attic feels smaller. The walls lean inward. The floor tightens beneath your feet. He sets the folded gown on your bed. Then straightens the sheet, straightens your pillow, straightens you with a glance.
“To whom much is given,” he murmurs, turning toward the door, “much will be required.” Your breath snags on a single, jagged thought : he is going to put you in the hole.
You don’t remember when the closet stopped being a closet or when it became the hole to you.
Maybe it never was.
Maybe it was always a mouth carved into the church’s ribs, waiting to swallow you the way your father said God swallowed Jonah. A place for repentance, for correction, for stillness. A place for you.
He never called it punishment.
“The Lord disciplines those He loves.”
That’s what he said the first time he closed the door behind you. You were too young to understand metaphor, too obedient to question motive. All you knew was darkness—thick and warm as breath—rising around you like a tide.
The closet earned its real name the second you realized you couldn’t see your own hand in front of your face. That is when you started calling it the hole.
There was no light. Not a crack beneath the door. Not a thread between floorboards. Not even the faint glow of the sanctuary candles bleeding through the walls.
The hole was absolute.
A void with edges you learned like scripture.
You measured it every time you were sent inside. Four steps long, one wall slightly bowed inward, another warped outward near the bottom where moisture had warped the wood. Three steps wide. Low ceiling—low enough that when you stood, your scalp brushed beams you couldn’t see.
You memorized each imperfection by touch alone, fingertips tracing splinters until you knew which corners jabbed, which swelled smooth as river stones. You mapped the dark like other people map cities.
The hole became your universe.
The Bible on the floor was the only object in it, though you could never read it. Your father said the Word of God should be near you in your suffering, but suffering was all you felt in that blackness.
The pages were soft from humidity, curled at the corners, and dusted with something you didn’t want to identify by smell alone.
Sometimes you held it. Sometimes you pressed it to your chest. Sometimes you screamed into it. Sometimes you prayed until your voice turned to grain.
Most of the time, you tried not to think at all.
Your father said the hole was a place to listen.
“He maketh me lie down in green pastures.”
“Be still and know that I am God.”
But there was nothing still about the hole. Your thoughts rattled against its walls like trapped birds. Your heartbeat grew so loud it became a sound outside yourself, a second presence pacing the darkness with you.
You learned quickly that doing nothing drove you mad.
So you made routines.
You cleaned invisible messes with your palms sweeping over wood you couldn’t see. You exercised, slow and careful, so you wouldn’t knock your knee on the bowed wall again. You walked in different countries—bare feet carrying you in tiny circles as you imagined snow in Russia, heat in Egypt, rain in Ireland.
You pretended to eat lunch at midday, even when your stomach was empty enough to scrape against your spine. You timed imaginary meals and imaginary mornings and imaginary nights, convincing your body to obey the rhythm of a world that wasn’t yours.
You prayed constantly.
You whispered stories into the hole just to hear another voice, even if it was your own. You recited psalms until you forgot where the psalm ended and where you began. You traced the outline of the Bible again and again until the leather felt like skin.
Most times, your father left you in there for hours. Sometimes, for days. And days in darkness stretch like lifetimes.
You learned the way air smelled when you were close to passing out. You learned the difference between hunger pains on the first day and the second.
You learned that crying filled the hole too quickly and left you breathless. You learned the sound of your mother’s quiet weeping through the wall, the way it trembled like a ghost dragging chains across cold stone.
You learned how to disappear inside yourself. How to fold your mind into something small and safe. How to hide your heart in a place even your father couldn’t reach.
Now, at twenty-six, you flinch at closed spaces like they’re hands reaching for your throat. You avoid closets, cupboards, narrow hallways.
You turn your shoulders sideways through doorframes. You sleep with blankets loose at your feet because the feeling of being tucked in makes your lungs seize.
The hole was inevitable. You don't know why you thought you could change that. Why you thought you could appeal to your father better nature when he has proved to you over and over again that he doesn't have one.
You move before you can think—because thinking is useless when fear is already dragging you by the throat. You cross the small attic in two frantic steps, fingers outstretched, voice breaking free of the cage you keep it in.
“I’m sorry—”
The door clicks shut.
You freeze with your hand hovering inches from the wood. Your breath trembles in your lungs, thin as thread. You know better. You know interruptions are dangerous. You know apologies are better offered with bowed head and folded hands and silence.
But the image of the hole claws up your spine like a living thing, and desperation does what obedience cannot.
You push the door open again and follow him down the first few steps.
“Father—please—”
He turns slowly and your apology falters on your tongue.
His eyes slide over you, not surprised to see you chasing after him, not curious, not patient. Just waiting, waiting for you to correct your posture. Waiting for you to make the next mistake.
You clasp your trembling hands together, hard enough that your knuckles ache, hard enough to hide the fact that your fingertips have already gone numb.
“I didn’t mean to . . . I wasn’t thinking.” The words shake as they fall out of you, like you’re coughing up stones. “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. Please—don’t put me—”
The word catches. You can’t even say it. You can’t say the name of the place that makes your lungs collapse and your thoughts unravel.
Your father’s expression doesn’t change. He never smiles when he’s angry. He just waits. You swallow. “I’m sorry.”
Silence stretches a moment. Two. Three.
You know this silence. You know what comes after it. Your breath stumbles again. So you try something else. Something shameful. Something desperate. Something you swore you’d never do again after the last time it failed—you attempt to appeal to his pride.
You soften your voice, careful, careful, careful. Like you’re offering an olive branch to a sleeping serpent. “What about the sermon?” You take a step down the stairs, then another. “Sunday is coming. What will the congregation think when the preacher’s daughter is absent?”
His blink is slow, measured but not angry nor surprised. Disappointed and disappointment is so much worse. “Father,” you whisper, “people will talk.”
There. That should work. It has before. Your father cares about appearances. He cares about being respected. He cares about being “the righteous man set apart.”
He cares about his sermons the way other men care about air. For a heartbeat—just one—hope flickers at the base of your throat. Then his head tilts. Only slightly.
But enough. His voice is quiet, even, and wholly terrifying. “You question me?”
The words drop into the stairwell like stones sinking into deep water. Your blood turns cold. “I—I didn’t—” You step back up, instinctively, breath punching out of you. “I meant only—only to remind—”
He steps toward you.
You step back.
He doesn’t touch you. He never needs to. He never has. The air around him does the touching for him.
His gaze sharpens—not hot like anger, but cold like judgment. His eyes sweep over you, taking in your posture, your trembling hands, the way you shrink when he raises his chin.
You fold. Like paper. Like grace. Like submission etched into bone. Your back hits the attic doorway. Your heart hits your ribs. And his voice—ironically soft—cuts through you, “Pride goeth before destruction.”
Your lungs seize. Because you know what this means. Pride is a sin. Questioning him is pride. Pride must be cleansed.
The sermon won’t save you. Your apology won’t save you. Nothing will.
You can feel the hole waiting for you. Downstairs, behind its door, silent, starved, remembering the shape of your fear.
Your father’s final words seal your fate, “Prepare yourself.”
He turns and walks away, not a sound out of place.
You stand at the top of the stairs, breathing like a hunted thing, trying not to think of darkness, of wood, of small walls pressing inward.
Trying not to think of the days, the hours, the silence. Trying not to think of the fact that this time, you won’t survive it the same way you used to.
Because the hole devours women.
Rick didn’t want to come.
He’d made that clear at least four times—once to Michonne, twice to Carol, and one long, pointed silence in Carl’s direction when the boy told him it “might be good for everyone” if he showed his face.
Rick was never religious man so a sermon at the last standing church in Alexandria was not a pass time he felt inclined to attend. But it had been disguised as a welcome gathering for him and his group seeing as they were the newest residents.
A whole community packed into pews like livestock being reassured they were safe. Rick didn't feel safe. He knew better than to let his guard down especially in a town that seemed almost too perfect.
Still—Carl insisted, and Carol backed him, and the look they both gave him was the kind that said: If you don’t go, none of us will ever hear the end of it.
And Rick Grimes knew when he’d lost an argument.
So he showered. He shaved. He put on clothes that didn’t smell like smoke or dirt or blood. He stepped back into the man people thought he should be, the version of himself Deanna wanted to present to the world tonight.
He felt ridiculous.
The shirt was too clean. The collar too stiff. His skin felt wrong without the familiar grit of road-dust on his throat and when he caught sight of himself in the mirror—hair slicked back, jaw bare, eyes still raw from everything he’d lived through—he almost didn’t recognize the man staring back.
He looked civilized.
He hated it.
Carl walked beside him with that stubborn quiet confidence Rick wished he still had. Carol hovered in her soft cardigan and floral blouse, looking like she belonged here more than anyone—deceptively small, deceptively gentle. They didn’t talk much on the walk. They didn’t need to.
They all heard the music drifting from the church before they saw it.
Not real music—just the sound of voices warming up, someone strumming a guitar, the kind of singing that felt too bright for this world. Too naive, too trusting. Rick felt his jaw tense.
Alexandrians had no idea what it took to stay alive.
They didn’t understand that comfort bred carelessness. That routine was a blindfold. That safety—real safety—never lasted long enough to cling to.
Rick stepped through the open doors of the church and instantly felt out of place.
The sanctuary glowed with soft yellow candlelight. Pews were polished, hymnals straightened, stained glass restored with care. The air smelled like lemon oil and warm bread, as though the world outside hadn’t ended at all.
People turned as he entered—smiling, nodding, whispering appreciatively that the newcomers had arrived. A few stared at him. Others whispered. A couple young teens pointed out Carl and whispered.
His eyes scanned the room with the precision of a man who had never stopped being hunted.
Cataloguing all doors, windows, exits, weak points, pattern of movement in the crowd.
Nothing about the place sat right with him. Then he noticed the man at the front of the sanctuary.
Black shirt, white collar. tThe posture of someone who believed himself important long before the apocalypse ever gave him reason.
The preacher.
He stood by the pulpit with the serene smile of a man who believed suffering existed for other people. His hands folded in front of him like he had never, not once, in the entire fall of civilization, dirtied them.
Rick immediately felt distrust boiling in the bottom of his stomach like acid.
The preacher’s eyes—dark, watchful, assessing—lingered on Rick a moment too long. Studied him in a way Rick had felt from men like the Governor, from Gareth, from countless others who wore masks of civility.
Rick held his stare.
The preacher smiled wider. To which only made Rick's discomfort rise. Carol touched Rick’s arm gently, grounding him. Carl slipped into a pew, motioning for him to sit. Rick exhaled through his nose and lowered himself into the seat, jaw tightening as the wood creaked beneath him.
He didn’t like the pulpit. He didn’t like the candles. He didn’t like the calm.
And most of all, he didn’t like the preacher.
The door closed hours ago.
You aren’t sure how many — the hole eats time the way fire eats oxygen — but you know the welcome gathering must be starting, because the sound above you has changed.
Voices and movement, muffled but legible, float through the vents and burn your ears. Footsteps crossing the sanctuary floor. Pews groaning beneath unfamiliar weight.
And then a burst of laughter — bright, warm, unafraid — drifting down through the thin metal grate in the ceiling.
It hits you like cold water.
You curl your knees to your chest, pressing your spine against the bowed wall, trying to make yourself smaller than the darkness already demands.
The floor is cold beneath you, the splintered wood digging through your nightgown. You stop yourself from reaching for the Bible at your feet; you don’t want to feel its damp leather tonight, don’t want to remind yourself that this place once tried to make you holy.
Your father always called the hole a place for reflection.
But tonight it feels like a grave and his voice is a eulogy.
“Brothers and sisters…”
His voice booms overhead, muffled by distance, sharpened by the vent’s thin metal ribs. You flinch instinctively. The walls vibrate with the cadence you know too well — the rhythm of a man who believes only he speaks for God.
You press your palms over your ears. It dulls nothing.
“…we gather to welcome our guests…”
You picture the sanctuary: candles glowing, hymnal spines aligned, your father standing at the pulpit with that immaculate posture, hands lifted in humble authority.
You picture the congregation smiling, nodding, breathing easy.
None of them know you’re beneath their feet.
None of them hear your breath hitch. None of them feel the panic blooming behind your ribs. None of them smell the dampness of the walls or the iron tang of old fear baked into the floorboards.
“…and may we show them the grace the Lord has shown us.”
Grace.
You almost laugh — a sound that would echo too loudly in the dark.
Your nails dig into your own arms. You can’t tell if it’s to keep yourself grounded or to keep yourself from screaming.
Above you, chairs scrape. Someone coughs. A child whispers. Someone shushes them gently.
Normal sounds. Human sounds. Sounds of life continuing without you. You close your eyes. Not that it makes a difference. You can't see anything even with them open.
The dark is a living thing here.
You breathe slowly — in, out, in, out — the way you learned during the longest punishments. But the air feels thinner than usual, as if the hole is shrinking around you, splinter by splinter.
The vent hums as more voices gather. You hear ones you don’t recognize — low, even, slightly rough. A man’s voice. Not speaking, just greeting someone, the rumble of it sinking down through the grate like a cold draft.
You’ve never heard him before.
Which means he must be one of the newcomers.
Your pulse stutters.
Not in hope — God no, hope is a dangerous thing here — but in raw animal fear. New people mean new eyes. New eyes mean new questions. New questions mean your father tightening his grip, making the walls close in even more.
“Let us pray.”
You can picture the vision of the congregation bowing their heads. You curl your fists so tight you imagine your knuckles have gone white. The vent pops softly with the shift in temperature.
And then, over the bowing, over the murmuring, over your father’s steady command, you hear it.
A footstep that doesn’t fit. Heavy, measured, purposeful. Not the shuffling of parishioners. Not the soft fall of your father’s polished shoes. Not the gentle tread of Alexandria’s sheltered residents.
A survivor’s step.
Someone who walks like the ground might attack him.
The hairs rise slowly along your arms.
You don’t know why this step sounds different — only that it does. Only that your bones recognize something your mind does not have a name for.
“—for though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”
His voice, the newcomer’s step, the congregation’s harmony — it all blends into a suffocating symphony vibrating through the walls of your cage.
You squeeze your eyes tighter. You try to steady your breath. But it isn’t prayer that comes.
It’s nausea.
The hole presses in on you, familiar and cruel. Your heartbeat stutters, fast and wild. Your fingertips go numb. Your legs curl tighter. You swallow hard, trying to quiet the panic rising like floodwater.
Above you, your father continues, voice ringing with false warmth, “—fear no evil, for He is with us.”
A lie. Your God does not walk with you here.
But someone else does.
That step again. If you didn't know any better you'd of thought the sound was getting closer to you.
You must have really begun to go crazy if you thought anyone was coming to save you.
Your father’s sermon dissolves but it doesn’t stop — his voice is still spilling through the vent in steady, practiced waves — but the words no longer separate into meaning. They melt together, forming a low, endless hum inside your skull.
Your vision pulses.
Your breath thins.
Your fingers tingle.
You are slipping. You can feel it — the edges of your mind softening like wet paper.
You curl tighter into yourself, forehead dipping to your knees, trying to breathe, trying to stay present, trying to hold onto anything that feels real. But the hole is swallowing your senses one by one.
Your father’s voice becomes a tunnel, long, narrow, echoing in your head like a battering ram. A sermon delivered from miles away and inches from your ear at the same time.
You press your palms against the floorboards, counting the grain under your fingers, but even that begins to smear into nothing. The darkness shifts, tilting like the world is trying to unseat you.
You need something solid.
You need a tether, something to stitch the fraying edges of your mind back together. And without thinking — without deciding — you start to sing.
Softly, barely even a breath.
It's a hymn you learned when you were seven. One your mother hummed during storms. "…Amazing grace… how sweet the sound…" Your voice cracks on the first word. You swallow and try again.
It’s not pretty, nor melodic nor even steady. It’s a lifeline — thin and fraying — but it’s the only thing you have left to grip. “…that saved a wretch… like me…”
Your lip wobbled and your eyes stung with unshed tears. “…I once was lost…”
You clutch your nightgown to your chest, rocking slightly. “…but now am found…” Your breath hitches. The irony burns your lungs.
You have never been found. Never seen. Never rescued. Your voice falters — but the singing doesn’t stop.
It’s either sing or go mad.
So you sing.
And above you — through the vent — the preacher’s booming voice continues, "For the Lord delivers His people from darkness—" You squeeze your eyes shut. “—was blind… but now… I see…”
Rick Grimes pauses by the front doors of the church.
Someone who was supposed to be sitting with the congregation — but who rose quietly from the pew, murmured something to Carol about water, and made his way toward the church entrance.
Someone who has lived in enough basements, enough barns, enough trap rooms and slaughter rooms to hear what others would call imagination.
One hand on the water pitcher. One hand lowering automatically toward his hip.
He frowns.
The preacher’s sermon is a distant murmur from here — muted by the sanctuary walls. The congregation’s shuffle and breath are blurred into background noise.
Which means the other sound — the faint, trembling thread of a human voice — stands out with painful clarity.
A voice singing. A voice coming from behind the closed basement door.
Rick goes still, absolutely still. His head turns slightly, the way a wolf does when it hears movement in the underbrush. The hymn continues — shaky, frightened, small.
Not joyful, not worshipful, not something anyone would sing at a welcome gathering.
Rick takes one step toward the basement door.
Then another.
The singing grows clearer as he approaches, the words warped by wood and darkness but unmistakably human. Unmistakably suffering.
His hand closes around the doorknob, slow and steady. He tests it. Locked, as he suspected. Rick’s jaw tightens.
He leans closer, listens and the hymn reaches him again — barely more than a breath. “…was blind…" His breath stops.
Rick grips the knob harder, jaw flexing. He twists again. The basement door doesn’t budge. He tries the knob once more, even though he knows damn well it won’t work.
His pulse kicks. Not in fear—but in anger. He glances over his shoulder. From this corner of the entrance hall, the sanctuary is a distant scene—soft candlelight, a warm crowd, the preacher’s voice rolling smoothly through scripture. No one notices him missing yet.
Rick exhales once through his nose, sets his stance, and leans his shoulder hard into the door. A dull thud, but it didn't seem to budge.
The singing falters—just slightly. A hesitation, as if the sound startled you. As if you’re not completely gone inside your own head.
Rick sets himself again, checks the hall again and when it is still empty, he goes in for another hit. Harder than the one before but quieter than it should be—he’s learned how to break doors without announcing it to the whole damn world. One of the only perks to having your greatest threat attracted by sound.
The frame groans. “Come on…” he mutters, breath misting the wood. He goes in for a third hit and a sharp, splintering snap echoes in his ears.
The frame gives way near the hinges—just enough. Rick wedges his fingers into the crack and forces the door open with controlled pressure, the wood bending under his hands.
A breath of cold, stale air spills out. The singing grows clearer immediately. Rick’s stomach pulls tight. For a moment, he thinks this might be a terrible idea, that he is putting his people in jeopardy when they have just found a place to call their safe haven.
But then, he hears your voice again. The new found proximity allowed him to hear the tears in your voice, the waver that made him a hundred percent certain that something was wrong.
But, you stop singing the second the footsteps reach the stairs.
They’re too heavy, too deliberate, too slow. It makes your stomach recoil and the bile rise in your throat.
They sound like him. Like your fathers.
Your breath seizes. Your fingers clamp over your mouth. Your entire body goes still, heart slamming so violently you’re sure he can hear it through the wood.
He found out you were singing. He found out you tried to anchor yourself with something sacred instead of his punishment. You squeeze your eyes shut. “Don’t… don’t… don’t…” It’s barely even a whisper.
Rick was quiet as he scanned the basement. He instinctively reached for his gun only to fall short when it wasn't there. Deanna still hadn't returned his or his people weapons. Something about the heavy artillery would make the townspeople nervous.
The smell hits him hard—damp, with the sharp hint of mildew. The kind of smell he associates with root cellars, storm shelters, old barns where everything rots.
He thinks about calling out, but he decides that might scare who ever has been trapped down here, as well as alert the congregation above that he has found out about their dirty little secret.
After scanning the entirety of the basement and not finding a soul, his shoulders sag. He hasn't heard the singing since descending down the stairs. His mind begins to doubt that he heard anything at all.
He turns back towards the stairs and a glint of metal catches his eyes. There is a small cupboard under the stairs. A door that is locked with a padlock. Rick’s heart drops into a hard, brutal rhythm.
He steps toward it, slow and steady, breath held tight. He crouches, hand extended, fingers brushing the jagged edge of the splintered frame. He feels something then—a cold rush of fury, sliding through his veins like ice.
You see a shadow under the door, a hand testing the locked knob.
Your lungs burn from holding still. You hesitate because why would your father test a door he knows is locked. A door that he himself locked when he forced you into the hole.
Then, there is a thud. It knocks you out of your skin and you scramble as far from the door as you can. Something is wrong because your father never uses force. He doesn't need to.
Your eyes fly open as another thud fills your ears. A harder hit, then doorframe groans.
Dust sifts from the ceiling of the cupboard, drifting over your hair, your shoulders, settling on your palms where they press into your knees.
Another hit.
But this one isn’t violent — it’s determined.
You realize that someone is breaking the door. Not picking the lock, not removing hinges, breaking it. You hear the sound of something sliding off a shelf or wall above you. Wood scraping, metal clinking. A tool being lifted.
What, you don't know. But from the sound of it hitting the padlock, you know it is heavy. Your heartbeat becomes static as you hear the crack of the padlock breaking and falling on to the concrete ground.
Your whole world jerks with the impact.
You let out a tiny, involuntary sound — not even a gasp, more like a swallow catching wrong.
Then, a final wrench, a splintered tear. The doorknob breaks free, clattering onto the basement floor outside your cupboard.
And suddenly, your whole vision is blinded by light. To anyone else the light might have well as been a speck of dust. But to you, who has been deprived of all your senses for hours on end, to you, it’s violently blinding.
You squeeze your eyes shut against the brightness, breath trembling. It pours into the cupboard like a flood, slicing open the darkness you’ve lived in.
You shake, not because it hurts—but because you forgot what light feels like. It warms your skin and your eyes begin to water.
And in the center of it, shrouded by the glow, outlined in white stands a figure.
Tall and broad and impossibly still. You can’t see a face nor can you see details. Just a silhouette carved by sunlight.
For a moment, this person, this man—he looks like an angel.
Not the gentle, winged kind from children's books or the peaceful ones from stained-glass windows. But the fierce ones, the messengers, the warriors who tear open darkness. The kind your father preached about but never believed in.
Your breath stutters.
Because angels don’t belong here. Not in holes, not in basements and definitely not in a space your father specifically carved for your suffering.
And yet—there is one standing in your doorway. He doesn’t speak and nor do you. You are frozen, trembling, shielding your face from the burn of daylight, unable to look directly at him.
He steps forward—not to touch you, not to drag you out, but simply to block the light from your eyes. A gesture so small, so human. Something your father would never think to do.
Perhaps, this man is an angel.
Then, he kneels.
The light still blinds you—blurred gold, too bright after so long in the dark—but the shape of him shifts as your eyes begin to adjust. The silhouette that looked carved from heaven slowly gathers detail, sharpening into something even more impossible.
But not like the men you’ve known. Not like the men your father warned you about. Not like the men your father imitated with scripture when he wanted to feel powerful.
His shoulders are broad—broader than any man you’ve ever stood near, but not hunched in superiority like your father’s. Not stiff with false piety.
His arms flex slightly as he braces one hand against the floor—thick muscle beneath clean fabric, veins rising subtly along his forearm. No man you’ve ever known has arms like that. Your father’s hands were soft from pages, delicate from ritual, pale from avoiding labor your entire life.
This man’s hands look capable of breaking doors and he just proved that they are. But they’re gentle now. Gentle in the way he rests them, palms visible, fingers relaxed. Gentle in the way he lowers his center of gravity so he doesn’t tower over you. Gentle in the way he looks at you.
His eyes—blue, impossibly so—are the first thing that steals your breath.
Not only because they’re beautiful but because they’re alive.
No man has ever met your gaze like that—not without expecting something of you, demanding something, judging something. Your father’s eyes were sharp in anger and dull in piety, never warm, never steady, never searching for truth. But this man’s eyes search your face like he’s trying to understand your fear, not punish it.
His stubble shadows his jaw, catching the light, giving him an unearthly glow. His hair is damp—he must have showered recently—and curls slightly against his forehead.
There’s a line between his brows, a crease of worry or concentration, and even that looks gentle compared to every expression your father ever wore.
He looks human, but the light behind him still shapes him into something more.
The halo comes from the window, but it frames him perfectly—outlining the slope of his shoulders, the rough cut of his jaw, the cautious bend of his posture.
The light turns his edges soft and bright, and you blink hard, once, twice, because it hurts to look at him, but not the way the dark ever did.
It hurts because you’ve never seen anything like him. You’ve never seen anyone like him.
You’ve never seen a man take up space without filling it with threat.
Even kneeling, he’s big—so big your breath catches—but his size doesn’t push at you. It shields. It fills the doorway not to block your exit, but to block the fear behind him.
Your father weaponized words because he had nothing else. This man looks like he could tear the world apart with his hands—
but he speaks softer than a prayer.
“Hey,” he murmurs, low and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he speaks too loud. His voice doesn’t echo like your father’s, doesn’t carry judgment, doesn’t drag scripture behind it like shackles. It wraps around you—steady, real, human.
Your heart trembles. Because even now, even with his face clear, he still looks like an angel.
You clutch your nightgown tighter, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at him as your breath shivers through your lips.
He leans forward a fraction, voice dropping to something even gentler. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
You flinch—because every man who ever promised safety used God's voice to lie but this man doesn’t say God. He doesn’t say salvation or obedience.
He says you and for the first time in your entire life—a man’s presence does not feel like danger.
You stare at him. At the man kneeling in the doorway. The light haloing his shoulders. A face that should frighten you but doesn’t.
You realize—slowly, sickeningly—that your terror isn’t pointed at him.
It’s pointed behind him. At the stairs. At the sanctuary. At the pulpit above your head and the man whose voice has shaped your whole world.
At your father.
Your breath collapses in your chest. Your father is going to find out. He is going to see the broken lock. He is going to know you were with a man.
Not only with a man but alone with a man, unprotected and unsupervised. He is going to know someone touched the door he told you was God’s punishment.
He is going to know you didn’t stop him.
Your pulse spikes into panic so sharp it feels like knives under your skin.
You scramble backward on instinct, pressing yourself flat against the back of the cupboard until the wood digs into your shoulder blades. Your hands fly up protectively, not to shield yourself from Rick but to shield yourself from the consequences.
“N—no—” Your voice cracks violently. You can barely form the word. Rick’s brows knit, concern flickering across his expression. “It’s okay,” he whispers, soft, soothing. “I won't hurt you.”
The words hit you like a blow.
You shake your head frantically. “No.” Another violent shake. “No, no—please—please go—” He pauses, thrown.
Your breath fractures into shallow, shaking gasps.
“Please—please—you have to go—” The words tumble out too fast, tripping over each other. “You have to leave—you have to lock it—put it back—put it back—” Rick’s eyes widen, horrified.
Your terror spikes higher, sharp enough to taste blood in the back of your throat. “You don’t understand,” you choke out. “You don’t understand—he’ll know—he’ll know you were here—he’ll know you saw—he’ll know—”
Tears burn hot at the corners of your eyes—not because of the dark, not because of the hole, not because of Rick but because you understand exactly what’s coming when your father sees the door splintered open.
“He’ll punish me,” you whisper. Your voice crumples. “He’ll think I let you. He’ll think I wanted—” You can’t finish the sentence.
Rick’s expression shifts—tightens—not in anger at you, but in anger at whoever put that fear into your bones.
Your hands shake uncontrollably as you reach forward, grasping his wrist—not to pull him closer, but to push him away.
“Please,” you sob. “Please go. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t—he’ll hurt you—he’ll hurt me—please—please—”
Rick doesn’t move but not out of stubbornness. It's something in your voice—that raw, hysterical, primal terror—tells him everything he needs to know.
This is the fear of a lifetime of punishment.
This is the fear of disobedience.
He lowers his free hand, palm out, gentle, slow. “Hey,” he breathes. His voice is softer than the hymn you were singing. “I’m not gonna let anybody hurt you.”
Your breath stutters. Your chest tightens until it aches. Because that right there is the most dangerous sentence anyone has ever spoken to you.
Dangerous because you want to believe it and because you know you shouldn't.
“Please…” Your voice is barely a whisper. “Just go.” Rick’s jaw locks. You know in this moment, nothing you can say will make this man leave you.
He leans closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that you can’t avoid the full warmth and seriousness in his eyes.
“You don’t have to be afraid of him,” he says quietly. But you flinch—visibly, violently. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t speak against him—”
Because if your father heard that? If God heard that?
Your punishment wouldn’t be days. It would be weeks. It would be worse than the hole. It would be something you don’t even have a name for.
Your whole body is shaking now. Rick notices and something in his expression changes.
Rick opens his mouth—to reassure you again, to promise something he has no idea he’s already sworn—and then the sound cuts through the basement like a blade.
It happens faster than breathing—your father’s voice.
It echoes off the stone, soft and measured. A single word dipped in honey and sermon-smoke. Your blood turns to ice. Your whole body reacts before your mind does.
You shove past Rick. It isn’t graceful and it isn’t strong. It’s pure, animalistic panic—your hands slamming against his chest, fingers curling in his shirt, pushing with every ounce of terror in your bones.
Rick’s breath leaves him in a soft grunt—not because you hurt him, but because he wasn’t expecting you to touch him.
The touch stops him cold.
But you barely notice.
You stumble into the open basement, falling to your knees before your father even reaches the bottom step. “Father—I—I didn’t—this wasn’t—” Your voice fractures, words dissolving in your throat. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I didn’t let him—”
You can’t even name the punishment you fear.
Your father appears at the bottom of the staircase like a shadow descending—calm, slow, composed. His eyes flick to the broken door, the shattered lock, the splintered frame.
You brace for fury. For scripture flung like a whip. For punishment dressed in holiness. For the quiet, cold wrath that always followed your failure.
But instead, he smiles. A small one. Warm and polite and soft enough to make your skin crawl. “Upstairs now,” he murmurs gently, nodding toward the sanctuary. “Go on, little lamb. Scurry along.”
Scurry.
A word he hasn't used since you were a child. A word he only uses when company is present. A word that means behave or else.
You freeze.
This isn’t the man who locked you in the dark.
This is the performance. The pastor mask. The shepherd routine. Rick sees a father addressing his daughter. You see a predator smoothing down wool.
Your father gestures again—elegant, rehearsed, patient. “Go on now.” Your throat closes.
A million questions swirl in your mind but the most prominent being—why isn’t he angry?
Why isn’t he dragging you by the wrist, quoting scripture, and condemning you for being alone with a man?
Rick's prominent gaze on you and you alone gives you al the answer you need. Your father isn’t being kind. He’s being strategic. He is putting on a mask for Rick.
Rick steps closer to you on instinct, protective posture tightening, jaw clenched—but careful, quiet, gauging the situation.
Your father’s eyes cut briefly to Rick. To measure him or intimidate him, you don't know.
Then he looks at you again. “Upstairs,” he repeats, the smile on his face makes you sick to your stomach. “Be a good girl.” The words hit you like a lash—but you don’t move.
You kneel there, shaking, breath shallow, completely unable to make your limbs obey. You’ve never disobeyed that tone before. But you’ve never been almost rescued before either.
Behind you, Rick speaks for the first time. “What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Your father keeps smiling.
And that is the moment Rick realizes something is very, very wrong.
Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
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