A/N: This piece is part of the Sexy September Scribbles challenge, hosted by myself and @soelstress Sep 30th: Don’t you dare close those legs
The stone slab was rough under your palms, candles throwing mad shadows across the crypt as Spike buried his face between your thighs. His tongue was ruthless on your clit, sucking, lapping, groaning like you were his last meal. Slick dripped down the backs of your thighs, the sounds obscene in the silence.
“Spike- fuck- ” you gasped, hips jerking. The pleasure was too much, too raw. You tried to snap your thighs closed, to shield yourself from how wrecked you already were, but he caught you instantly.
A sharp slap landed on your inner thigh, making your palm smack down on the stone with a sharp crack. He pulled back just enough for you to see his grin, his mouth glistening, teeth flashing. “None of that,” he rasped, accent filthy in your ear. His hands shoved your knees wider, pinning you open. “Don’t you dare close those legs. You’re gonna let me eat you proper, even if the whole soddin’ world hears.”
“God- please- ” You squirmed, back arching as he dove back in, tongue thrusting deep before circling up to lash your clit. He growled into you, the vibration tearing another curse from your throat.
“Yeah, that’s it.” His voice was muffled against your cunt, then sharp again when he surfaced for air, lips shiny. “Love you drippin’ down my chin, pet. Can taste how bloody close you are.”
You fisted his hair, dragging him harder against you, swearing brokenly as the heat coiled, unbearable. Your thighs trembled but his grip was iron, keeping you spread wide as his tongue flicked mercilessly.
Your orgasm hit like a shockwave, tearing a scream from your chest. You slammed your palm against the stone again, body shaking, while Spike licked you through it, chuckling darkly into your cunt like he owned every sound you made.
bau!reader who comes to work hungover sunglasses latched to your face after a night out with emily and spends the whole day being quiet and grumpy.
bau!reader who gets reprimanded by strauss for your office attire after she catches aaron peaking down your shirt when you weren’t looking.
bau!reader who can never catch a break when you’re flirting with officers on a case because somewhere lurking around a corner is aaron hotchner ready to ruin the fun.
bau!reader who has to sit through getting yelled at by morgan, rossi and hotch after you almost gets shot saving morgan from an unsub.
bau!reader who’s favourite line is “is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?”
bau!reader who often gets caught online shopping by the boss man when he’s on his silent patrols, sneaking up behind you and closing your tabs.
bau!reader who often ends up sharing a car with aaron on cases because of your displeasure for driving.
bau!reader who milks your injury after being tackled by an unsub on a case and gets morgan to be your lackey until you “fully heal”.
bau!reader who with spencer often babysits for hotch and jj whenever they’re in need.
bau!reader who improvs when you and hotch are undercover playing a couple and you more get risqué with the comments you’re making to your very flustered older “boyfriend”.
bau!reader who bribes penelope into helping you hack your ex boyfriend’s social media after he starts spreading rumours about you.
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.
I really love your writing and was hoping to put in a request please? If it’s no good please ignore.
The Volturi Kings are already very protective of their mate (especially Marcus), so what do you think their reaction would be if she got seriously attacked and injured in their castle?
Like, she was sitting in the library and a guest thought she was a secretary (food), the guards could have been busy, out on errands and weren’t watching her?
Thank you!
Protection
A/N: AHHHH I LIVE FOR THESE TYPES OF REQUESTS
How would the volturi kings react to a severely injured mate? Can be poly or not!
Aro
His face would have little to no change in expression, maybe an eyetwitch or a small curve in his lips. But you could see the rage, the desire to protect, to avenge you to whoever did it. He would simply snap their heads off and gift it to you, a twisted gift that makes your heart race with horror and affection.
He would proceed to yell at Carlisle for an hour demanding the fix and replenish your lost blood from the vampire who fed on you until you were almost drained. Thankfully Carlisle wad able to fix you up before Aro could snap his head and turn you into a vampire.
Marcus
Would panic, he refuses to lose another mate. He went out in broad daylight and risking exposure all to find a human with your blood type. He would collaspe to your knees and cry, thanking every god he was able to save you.
He would proceed to kiss every inch of your skin afterwards, lustful or not. But he would punish the attacker soon after, and he made sure to let Jane and Alec have their fun with them
He will whisper apologies into your ear, he hated himself for not being able to protect you, unable to defend you when you needed him most
Caius
Oh the bloodshed that will happen
He would kill the vampire and anyone they held dear to them, to punish them for ever getting close to a monster. He refuses to let them go unpunished. He will avenge you whether you like it or not. Of course after hes done healing you
Would spend the rest of the day frantically trying to fix your lost blood, trying to heal and soothe your pain. He was able to save you but you were still put to bed rest and seen by Carlisle for treatment, suggested by Aro (much to Caius's dismay) but he would have to grudgingly let him touch you.
A/N: I hope this is character accurate, i havent watched all the movies yet, only BD2 TwT
Pairing: Caius Volturi x Reader
Summary: Aro's niece returns after decades of traveling, only to find interest in a certain King she hadn't met yet.
Warnings & Themes: slight age gap but ur vampires so it doesnt rly matter i guess, caius slow burn!!!, sexual tension, aro adding fuel to fire LOL #girlboss, reader basically bugs caius into being her man, caius is kind of mean as usual </3, SEXUAL TENSION X2, eventual brat taming
You were Aro's beloved niece.
Sometimes, you were all the King talked about. Photos you'd sent of places you'd been, people you'd met, people you'd eaten (though Uncle Aro didn't typically encourage reckless behavior, it was quite impressive). Besides, you always cleaned up your messes.
And eventually, you always returned home.
And here you were, after close to 70 years. Pushing the doors to the throne room open, a bright beaming smile on your pointed teeth. You dropped your bags onto the porcelain floor with no shyness, looking straight up at your uncle. You ignored the other two on the thrones, not bothering with introductions. After all, your uncle had never allowed you to formally meet them. Not until you got old enough, of course.. Ironic considering how ancient you truly were.
"Dear Y/n!" Your uncle nearly squealed with delight, erupting off from his throne in flight. When he reached the floor, you pulled him into a tight hug.
Caius Volturi remained on his throne, arching a snowy eyebrow. Hugs. Aro typically despised them. He'd throw someone's head against a wall for even attempting to make contact with his pure velvet cloak.
He studied you while you greeted. You certainly looked the part. Long, black hair cascading down your back. Bright red eyes. A jaw droppingly gorgeous face, made to be a very alluring monster.
Aro held you at arm's length, his crimson eyes sparkling with genuine delight. "Seventy years, and you look more radiant than ever, my dear! The world agrees with you, it seems."
"The world is a fascinating buffet, Uncle," you replied, your voice a melodic hum that echoed pleasantly in the vast chamber. "But even the most exciting buffet grows tiresome. I missed home." Your gaze finally drifted from Aro, sweeping over the other two thrones. Your eyes lingered on Marcus for a moment, acknowledging his eternal, melancholic silence with a slight, respectful nod, before they landed on Caius.
And stayed there.
He was exactly as Aro had described in his letters: severe, pale as a marble statue, with an aura of pure, unadulterated frost. His white hair was like a crown of ice, and his golden eyes held a permanent, simmering irritation. He looked… challenging. And you had never been one to back down from a challenge.
Aro, ever the perceptive showman, saw the flicker of interest in your eyes. A slow, cunning smile spread across his lips. "Ah, but where are my manners! Y/n, you have been away so long, you have not been properly introduced to my dear brothers. You know Marcus, of course." He gestured vaguely. "And this," he said, his tone dripping with theatrical importance, "is Caius. The sharp edge of our justice. The fire to my… intellect."
The same kind of smile snaked across your lips as you analyzed Caius further.
You took a step forward, your movements fluid and utterly un-intimidated by the imposing throne room or its icy king. "Caius," you repeated, your voice tasting the name. "My uncle has written so much about you. Though, I suspect he left out the best parts."
Caius did not move. He simply stared down at you, his expression one of profound boredom laced with a hint of contempt. "Did he," he stated flatly. It wasn't a question.
"Indeed," you continued, undeterred. You circled slightly, your eyes tracing the lines of his throne, his posture, his face. "He mentioned your… fervor for order. Your distaste for chaos. He failed to mention how the light catches your hair. It's like freshly fallen snow."
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Caius's mouth was your only reward. Behind you, Aro made a sound somewhere between a cough and a chuckle, quickly disguising it by clasping his hands together.
"Caius, my brother, do not be so stern! My niece has just returned. She brings fresh perspectives from the outside world," Aro chimed in, the picture of innocence. "Y/n, you must tell us of your travels. Caius is particularly interested in the… disciplinary measures of other covens. Aren't you, brother?"
Caius’s golden eyes narrowed slightly, shooting a silent warning at Aro. "My interests are in effective rule, not tourist anecdotes."
"But discipline can be so… nuanced," you purred, stopping directly before his throne and looking up at him. The height difference was significant, but you held your ground, your stance confident. "In the East, I learned a technique for interrogation that involves a single, precise needle and the slow drip of venom. It’s not about pain, you see. It’s about anticipation. The mind breaks long before the body. I thought it might appeal to your… sensibilities."
For the first time, his gaze shifted from one of pure dismissal to one of analytical consideration. He was, if nothing else, a connoisseur of punishment. He leaned forward ever so slightly, the movement so minimal it would have been missed by a human eye.
"Anticipation is a worthless tool if the subject lacks the imagination to be terrified," he countered, his voice a low growl.
"Then you find a way to inspire their imagination," you countered smoothly, a sly smile playing on your lips. "It's a art form. Perhaps I could demonstrate sometime."
The sexual tension in the air was now as thick as the ancient stone walls. Aro looked like a cat that had gotten not only the cream but the entire dairy. He had thrown a spark into a room full of kindling, and you were happily fanning the flames.
Caius leaned back again, the brief moment of engagement over. He looked away from you, as if you had suddenly become a mildly irritating stain on his vision. "Your travels have made you bold, child. And talkative."
You laughed, a sound like chiming bells that seemed horribly out of place in the grim hall. "I'm centuries old, Caius. Hardly a child. But if you'd prefer I act like one, I can start by pestering you relentlessly until you pay attention to me. I'm told I can be very persistent."
You turned on your heel, your long hair swishing behind you, and picked up your bags. "It's been a delight, truly. Uncle, I'll be in my usual chambers. Caius," you said, throwing a final, challenging look over your shoulder. "I look forward to… boring you with more of my anecdotes soon."
As you swept out of the throne room, leaving a trail of disruptive energy in your wake, Aro floated back to his throne, humming with satisfaction.
Caius finally spoke, his voice cold and hard. "You brought that here on purpose, Aro."
Aro's smile was wide and unapologetic. "My dear brother, the castle has been so dreadfully quiet. I merely thought it needed a bit of life. And who better than my dear, persistent niece to provide it? Do try to play nice."
Caius said nothing, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the arm of his throne. He stared at the spot where you had stood, the ghost of your impertinent smile and the echo of your laugh seared into his mind. It was going to be a very, very long eternity.
It became your new favorite game: finding Caius. He was a creature of rigid habit, and after a week, you had his schedule memorized. Your favorite place to ambush him was the ancient, cavernous library, where he would often review centuries-old decrees.
You found him there, silhouetted against a towering stained-glass window, a scroll in his hands. You didn't speak. Instead, you drifted to a shelf nearby, pretending to browse. You selected a heavy tome on medieval torture methods — a subject you knew he respected — and leaned against the shelves, reading aloud a particularly gruesome passage about the Judas Cradle.
Your voice was low, melodic, giving the horrific description a sensual, rhythmic quality. You let your scent, a unique blend of night-blooming jasmine and cold, ancient stone, waft towards him. You felt the air shift, a subtle tightening that indicated he was listening, despite his perfectly still posture.
After a long moment, he lowered the scroll. "The historical account is inaccurate," he stated, his back still to you. "The angle of descent was steeper. The point, blunter. It was not about slow impalement, but about the explosive rupture of internal organs. The author was a romantic."
You smiled, closing the book. "A pity. I rather liked the slow, theatricality of it. But I defer to your expertise." You took a step closer. "Perhaps you could give me a private lesson on the correct application? I'm a visual learner."
Caius finally turned. His golden eyes were like shards of topaz, cold and hard. "I am not a tutor for bored nieces with too much time on their hands. Go pester your uncle."
He turned back to the window, dismissing you as completely as if you’d vanished. The rejection was absolute, a door slammed in your face. But as you left the library, you didn't feel defeated. You saw the way his fingers had tightened on the parchment, crinkling the edge. He had heard you. He had corrected you. It was a start.
Next, you found him walking the perimeter of the inner courtyard, a nightly patrol he undertook alone. The moon was full, bathing the stone paths in silver. You fell into step beside him, not saying a word for several laps. The only sounds were the soft fall of your feet and the distant chatter of the guard.
"You know," you began, your voice soft against the night, "in my travels, I met a coven in the Amazon. They believed that walking in silence with someone under a full moon created a bond stronger than blood. That their souls would intertwine."
Caius didn't even glance at you. "Superstitious nonsense."
"Perhaps," you conceded. "But it's a beautiful thought, isn't it? That without a single word, you could become tied to another for eternity." You let your hand brush against his cloak as you walked, the faintest whisper of contact.
He stopped dead. The air around him grew frigid. "Your attempts at seduction are as subtle as a thunderclap," he snarled, finally looking at you. His gaze was furious, but in the moonlight, you caught something else, a flicker of raw, primal awareness. "You smell of desperation. I have no interest in bonds, beautiful thoughts, or the childish games of a fledgling who has seen too much of the world and understood too little of it."
You smiled in his face innocently, your eyes peering up at him unbothered.
He turned and strode away, his form disappearing into the shadows of the castle walls. The insult should have stung, but it only made your unbeating heart thrill. Furious was better than bored. He was feeling something. You had gotten under his skin.
Finally, you tried once more.
This was his most sacred space. The map-strewn table, the battle plans, the seat of his power as a military strategist. You entered without knocking, finding him leaning over a map of Northern Europe, his brow furrowed.
"Aro said you might need a fresh perspective on the Balkan situation," you announced, moving to the opposite side of the table.
His head snapped up. "Get out."
"I know the terrain," you continued, ignoring him and pointing to a mountain range. "I spent twenty years there. The local covens don't fight by your rules. They use the humans as shields. They—"
"I said, get out!" he roared, slamming his fist on the table. The stone cracked under the impact. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot. He was across the table in a blur, his face inches from yours, his features a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "You think your pretty face and your stories give you the right to invade my space? To speak on matters of strategy? You are a distraction. A nuisance. Aro's indulgence is the only reason you are still breathing in my presence."
You didn't flinch. You held his fiery gaze, your own expression calm. The sheer force of his anger was intoxicating. This was the real Caius, the storm beneath the ice.
"You can yell all you want, Caius," you said, your voice as cold as steel. "But it doesn't change the fact that I'm the only one in this castle who isn't afraid of you."
For a long, charged moment, you stared at each other. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the desire to simply snap your neck warring with something else, something he refused to name. With a sound of utter disgust, he turned and stormed from the room, leaving you alone with the cracked table and the scent of his fury hanging in the air.
It was his strongest resistance yet. You were sure you had lost. In fact, you were ready to switch your attention to something else.
Caius was gorgeous, yes. A prize. Something you had your eyes set on more than anything else.
But there were other men in the world. Not as beautiful or interesting as Caius, but.. Close.
For days, you let him be. You were either exploring the mountains of Italy, hunting human prey, reading the millions of books that your uncle had to offer you, or ordering expensive silks and velvets from the tailor to boost your self esteem (not that you needed it much.)
It was past midnight when a silent presence at your door pulled you from your thoughts. You opened it to find Caius. He wasn't raging. He wasn't cold. He looked… weary. And resolved.
He didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, final click. The room suddenly felt very small.
"I have resisted you," he stated, his voice low and rough, as if the words were being torn from him. "I have insulted you. I have threatened you. I have banished you from my sight."
"You have," you agreed, your heart a still, silent stone in your chest, waiting.
He took a step closer, his golden eyes burning in the dim light. "You are a plague. A persistent, maddening, insufferable plague upon my existence."
You said nothing, simply watching him.
"And yet," he continued, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again, "I find my thoughts are of nothing else. Your voice. Your scent. Your infernal impertinence."
He closed the final distance between you. He didn't reach for you, not yet. He simply stood there, allowing you to feel the full force of his presence, his centuries of power, his surrender.
"The bond under the full moon," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "A foolish superstition."
"Utter nonsense," you breathed.
His hand came up, his cold fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw. The touch was electric, a shockwave after so much resistance. "Then it seems our souls will have to intertwine the old-fashioned way."
And finally, after weeks of chasing and four brutal rejections, Caius Volturi bent his head and captured your lips with his. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a conquest and a surrender all at once, a release of seventy years of tension. It was full of anger, and frustration, and a raw, undeniable need that had finally, irrevocably, caved.
A sound, half-gasp, half-moan, escaped you. The challenge in you, the one that had teased and provoked him, sparked to life one last time. Your hands came up, not to pull him closer, but to push against his chest. It was a futile, reflexive act of defiance.
A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, predatory triumph. He captured your wrists in one of his large, cold hands, pinning them easily against the stone wall behind you. The movement was fluid, effortless, a stark reminder of the immense power he’d always held back.
"Did you think your games would end with a gentle caress?" he snarled against your mouth, his breath a frosty whisper. "You begged for a monster, little one. Now you have one."
He used his free hand to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to give him deeper, more brutal access. This wasn't about pleasure; it was about possession. It was about marking you, branding you as his after so long denying the claim. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, not enough to draw venom, but enough to make your entire body jolt with a sharp, electric thrill.
You being systematically dismantled. Each dominating kiss, each restrictive hold, chipped away at your defiance, melting it into a pool of raw, submissive need. Your struggles ceased, your body going pliant against his. A whimper, genuine and utterly surrendered, vibrated in your throat.
He released your hair, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh there with bruising force. He ground the hard ridge of his arousal against you, a blunt, unmistakable promise of what was to come.
"All that impertinence," he murmured, his lips trailing a searing path down your jaw to your throat. "All that clever talk." He nipped at the sensitive skin where your shoulder met your neck, and you arched against him, a silent plea. "Silenced. Finally."
He released your wrists, but you didn't move them. They stayed pinned against the wall by the sheer force of his will. His hands roamed your body now, not with tenderness, but with a frantic, greedy urgency. He tore at the delicate silk of your shift, the fabric rending with a sound that was obscenely loud in the quiet room. The cold air hit your bare skin, followed immediately by the colder touch of his palms, mapping your curves, claiming every inch.
His mouth found yours again, this kiss slower, deeper, more devastatingly intimate. It was no longer just about anger. It was about a hunger so profound it felt like agony. It was the final, irrevocable cave-in, and you were both buried in the avalanche.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were panting, your mind blank of everything but him. His eyes, burning like liquid gold, scanned your face, your lips, your dazed expression, the complete and total submission in your posture.
The ghost of a smirk touched his lips. The brat was tamed.
He leaned forward, until his lips were against your ear. "Now," he whispered, the word a dark, delicious threat. "We begin. And remember, little one," he hummed. "This is what you asked for."
One moment Grand Regent Thragg is alone in the throne room, contemplating matters.
The next you're in his lap, a human, and asleep.
... who is Thragg to deny such an obvious gift?
Tags: NSFW/smut, Thragg is befuddled, sex, sleepy flirting, reader is ovulating and horny, breeding/breeding kink.
1.9k words.
Completely and utterly still, Thragg was sat in his throne, still in the same position as he had been in before– one hand on the armrest and fingers drumming against it in thought, his other in a fist, cheek pressed against it– except now, instead of gazing ahead vacantly while his mind was busy going over plans and information, he was now staring down at his lap.
Or rather, the figure in his lap.
Just moments ago he'd been alone, left to think and decide on what should be done next. Then, out of nowhere, there'd been a weight in his lap, one that had his eyes shooting downwards and freezing.
Most confounding of all though, was that you were asleep.
Dressed in flimsy clothing presumably for sleep, you were curled up in his lap, softly breathing, lips slightly parted but not yet drooling. There was no sign that this was a trick of some kind, that you were faking it. Based on your breathing and heart rate, you were truly asleep.
Frowning, Thragg looked at your face more closely.
Based on the fact he didn't recognize you, he knew you weren't a Viltrumite, which could only mean you were a human from Earth, a planet he had a great interest in for obvious reasons.
Which only made him more confused. Because how had a human appeared here? Did you have powers? Their reports did claim that a rare few humans had powers, which was more proof their species were compatible. Not all species carried the genome to have powers after all.
Though if you did, they weren't very useful, were they? Making you appear elsewhere in your sleep… though the range was impressive.
Minutes ticked by with Thragg contemplating what to do, truly struck dumb for the first time since his teenhood about what to do. Tilting his head some, he glared down at you, frustrated at his own indecision– which he blamed on your surprise appearance. His knuckles dug into his temple as he thought and thought, only to stop, interrupted by you stirring.
You hummed softly in the back of your throat, stretching your legs out only to let out a confused warble when your feet hit the sides of his throne. Then your head bumped against his stomach. It was enough to make you open your eyes.
Blinking blearily, you gazed up at him, still half asleep. You squinted, frowned, tilted your head; all the signs you were questioning your situation even through the haze of sleep.
“… ‘s this a dream?” You slurred, humming as you nuzzle his stomach sleepily. Thragg went completely still, not even breathing as he merely watched, stunned, that any creature would dare to do this. “You're hot. Where'd I see you, huh?”
“What.”
“Mm, y'know. The people you see in your dreams are of faces you've seen before.” You explained lazily, still nuzzling and nosing at his– oh.
Beneath his royal garb, Thragg felt his cock twitch for the first time in centuries.
Slowly, Thragg reached down, grasping the back of your head. “Enough. This isn't a dream. Now explain–”
“Pfft, sure it ain't.” You roll your eyes– actually roll your eyes at him– and throw your legs over the armrest. “Ah– right, dream rules. Don't mention it's a dream or you'll say some ominous shit, right? Yeah, I know.” You give him a crooked grin, movements languid.
Then you press a finger to his lips.
“Shh, keep this between us, alright? I'll pretend if you will.” You say lowly, tone almost…
Thragg didn't know how to respond, just glaring down at this wicked, stupid creature in his lap. The insult alone…
But then you were nuzzling him again, hands slowly caressing his sides with fascination.
Thragg exhaled sharply through his nose. “You are a vexing creature. Cease your attempts at… whatever this is and answer my question. How did you appear here?”
You shrug. “I dunno, dude, I was all cuddled up in my bed, and then… here.” You said lamely, sniffing him. He smelled of something fancy, rich, old school.
His expression darkened. “Do not call me ‘dude’. I am Grand Regent Thragg of the Viltrum Empire, and you will speak to me with respect, human.”
Your lips form an O shape. “Really? Fancy.” You rub your cheek against his thigh. “Can we skip to the part of the dream where we fuck already, or is this a plot heavy dream?”
What the fuck in Argall’s name were you talking about.
“… you speak in tongues.” He said simply because he just couldn't comprehend your logic or meaning. Did you truly think this was some dream? You didn't appear to be lying, and Thragg had been trained to spot such tells ages ago, so he had no choice but to believe you did.
Which meant whatever had brought you here wasn't your own doing.
So who's was it?
You let out something between a groan and a laugh, hefting yourself up. Your movements are ungainly, heavy, almost as though you were still half asleep despite you clearly being awake.
“You. Me. Sex.” You state with a grin. “Look, I can't spell it any clearer. And I'm not about to deny myself this. Do you know how rarely I have dreams about hot men? Especially when I'm ovulating?”
That catches his attention.
“… you are fertile?” He asks, tilting his head, sitting up straighter so you still had to look up at him.
“Mmm-hmm, especially this time of the month.” You murmur, trailing a finger up his chest.
He resisted the urge to shiver.
“You are capable of carrying a child?” He asked, needing clarification before he did anything… foolish.
You let out an amused huff. “Oh, I get it, you have a breeding kink. Hmm, luckily, so do I.” You lightly sung, pressing against his large form, visibly shuddering at his warmth and hard muscles. “But yes, I can. I have all the parts needed.”
Thragg hummed. Then, before he could overthink his decision, he gripped you by the hips and slammed you down into his lap and the growing bulge under his skirt.
You gasped, making him smirk beneath his moustache. Slowly, he forced you to roll your hips, breathing deep at the sparks of pleasure he hadn't felt since he was young and they were many.
When had he last indulged? Even just used to his fist to clear his mind and de-stress?
A long time. Thragg didn't allow himself many pleasures. But this?
He watched the way your lips parted, the way your fingers and blunt nails scrambled uselessly against his chest, felt you buck and writhe against his growing length.
This was for the Viltrum Empire. He'd been given a gift, having a fertile human appear in his lap like a concubine, ready to be mated and seeded.
And Thragg intended to seed you as much as possible.
The throne room echoed with the wet claps and moans of their coupling.
Thragg stood before his throne, clothes discarded alongside your own– mostly. You still wore your “hoodie” and had it pushed up to reveal your chest. It made for a tantalizing sight, one he had no complaints for as he suckled on a nipple loudly, grunting every time he bottomed out.
He easily lifted you up and down, forcing you to bounce on his cock, hands like iron bands around your waist, so big that his fingers were able to meet and just about intertwine. Your legs were thrown over his forearms, feet occasionally flailing every time he struck deep and glided over something sensitive. Thragg had half a mind to place you on the floor and force them beside your head.
The thought of mating you in such a primal position made the Grand Regent groan, sucking your bud harder, receiving a loud cry for it.
He released it with a pop, switching to your other breast, sucking marks all along the fatty flesh before sucking the hard bud into his mouth, tongue swirling around your nipple faster than a human ever could.
For a successful mating, Thragg did not have to do all of this. But he wished to, and so he did. And why shouldn't he? You were a gift, and gifts should be cherished. Soft and fertile, appearing in his lap like a divine appointed concubine. He silently sent a thanks to the past Emperors of Viltrum wherever they now rested for leading you to him. It was the only explanation he had despite Viltrumites not being superstitious outside of old traditions here and there.
As Thragg fucked you, you moaned like a whore, mouth agape and unable to stop. Not when he was moving faster than anything, fat cock striking deep inside of you and hitting all the right places. And everything else didn't help either. The sting of his hips meeting the back of your thighs, the lewd sounds filling the air, his hungry mouth littering your chest in hickeys and sucking on your nipples hungrily, and not to mention his sheer attractiveness.
It was easily the best sex of your life, the proof dripping down onto the shiny floor as another orgasm ripped through you. You cried out weakly, head hanging back.
“Please! Please just cum already! I wanna break!”
He growled, pulling off your tit with great reluctance.
“No. I'll finish when I'm ready. And you will take it all like the whorish creature you are without complaint. Understood?”
You just whined, walls snug around his pistoning cock, still overstimulated from your orgasm. Thragg landed a sudden, stinging slap to your rear, ripping a scream from your throat.
“I said, understood?”
“Yes! I'm sorry! I just– I wanna feel you cum so bad.” You whimper, words slurring. Your eyes began to feel heavy.
Thragg just grunted, looked down towards where your bodies met, eyes glued to the way his cock speared into you, your body flowering, blossoming around his shaft beautifully.
Then his gaze caught on the bulge in your belly and Thragg moaned.
That did him in finally, the sight, the proof he was so deep, claiming you so entirely. He shoved himself as deep as he could and grinded against the seal to your womb, grunting and holding you still as he came in thick, long spurts, thick base keeping you plugged up as he filled you.
Then, slowly and carefully, he lowered you, kneeling with you laid on the cold floor, hips held up so his seed was sure to take. You whimpered as he did, looking ruined.
Minutes went by. Thragg began to soften by then, long since finished climaxing and feeling more calm and relaxed than he has in some time. And you…
Your eyes drift shut again, and not long after you fall asleep, you disappear. Just like that.
Thragg just stares, once again confused, before he abruptly punches the ground.
Meanwhile, millions upon millions miles away, you awoke in your bed with a jolt, blinking as you looked around.
Outside your window, the sun steadily rose through the sky.
“Fuck!” You groan, rubbing your face. What a weird dream… yet so fucking good.
Yet as you sat up, you yelped, feeling a deep ache and something spill out of you.
Slowly, you looked down, finding yourself in the same exact manner as you had been in your dream– well. “Dream”.
“Shit.” You whispered, realising it had really happened.
૮ ⊹ ࣪၊၊||၊ IMAGINE; Grand regent Thragg x fem reader :: you are the wife of the great regent, the wife of the strongest :: possibly an out-of-character Thragg.
꒷꒦ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 + 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀: english isn’t my first language, so i use Google translate to help with my posts due to my limited proficiency, please bear with me.
ׅ 𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄 REGENT THRAGG, who somehow 'chose' you as his wife and future mother of his children, for the simple fact that you would be the perfect woman who would give him healthy children. Apart from being the only inferior person with whom he would agree to share his time, not his life, because he knows that you would not last more than 100 years by his side.
ׅ 𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄 REGENT THRAGG, follow some of General Kregg's advice, to know how to deal with you, a human who lives in terror of any courtship attempt that comes from him. On rare occasions Thragg feels suffocated by everything that has to do with you, he demands that you not be ashamed to tell him what you want and need. He's more than willing to give you anything you want... of course, all in exchange for you ceasing to regret your pathetic existence.
ׅ 𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄 REGENT THRAGG, he hates that you ask him to return you to Earth to see your family. Your old life is of no importance to him. Even though he's learned to love you and treat you less like a pet, he still claims that no one in your old life would want you back.
ׅ 𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄 REGENT THRAGG, lives and breathes only to make you happy, even if it means showing emotions and feelings that he shouldn't, as he is a killer and conqueror of planets. He knows that to show these weaknesses is typical of foolish and weak races. It makes you forget everything that was once your old life, your first love, your adoptive family the Graysons, your friends and above all, the longing to be able to escape from their violent hands someday.
ׅ 𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄 REGENT THRAGG, he is more than satisfied to be able to boast to Nolan that he finally managed to tame you, now he will be able to say that he will be a father very soon. There is no greater happiness than seeing the face disfigured by the anger of the traitor, know that Nolan and Mark would fight for you, for the daughter and sister they once had. But it won't let them leave their side. He is your husband.
ׅ 𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄 REGENT THRAGG, who presumes that his wife is a very obedient girl and an attentive and dedicated mother to their 3 children. He is so pleased with the news to know that very soon he will be able to have twins, of course, first you have to have a little rest, you deserve it.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ 𝗔/𝗡; this post was aimed at viltrumite Mark, but everything wrote gave me more vibes of the regent, so modified it. By the way i accept requests to write for any character, just please look at the masterlist to see what content write and what i don't.
tags ܍ angst, dark content, dubcon, p in v sex, breeding, creampie, separation, overstimulation, possessiveness, thragg is evil, s4ep7 made me simp more for thragg...5k word count, MDNI 18+
synopsis ܍ that traitor bastard's son always interferes with his plans, but he will sure pay the price, it's all his fault after all now-that the regent takes an interest in you.
You remembered the way Earth smelled-or at least, you used to.
The fresh air you’d breathe in when you stepped outside. The feel of soft grass beneath your feet, just to remind yourself it was real. The taste of human food, warm and familiar, the real food, the kind that had texture, flavor, comfort, and something you could savor instead of endure.
You remembered your friends. Your family.
You remembered him.
His eyes-warm, chocolate brown-and the way he looked at you like you were his world. His everything, the way he held your hand so gently, like you were something fragile, something worth protecting, like always yours. Like no matter how much the world demanded from him, no matter how heavy it became, there was always a part of him that belonged only to you.
Because you were his first love.
Even as Mark Grayson, and as invincible, the mask full of weight and hardships that was forced onto him to wear, he swore nothing would ever reach you, not even over his dead body. He would fight, bleed, tear the universe apart if it meant getting back to you.
You knew he would try.
That’s why it hurt the most.
The sound of his screams, agonized, and broken.
You were being dragged away, pinned down by Viltrumites, tears blurring your vision as you struggled, you tried to get away, but your strength was no match for viltrumites and as you looked at him, tried reaching for him, even while they forced you onto the ship.
He was still fighting, still screaming your name.
Threatening to kill them-all of them-if they touched you, and you heard it, you heard everything.
The sickening crack of bone, the wet, brutal sound of blood, and the way his voice faltered-but never stopped.
Even as the ship doors sealed.
Even as you were taken from him.
The last thing you saw was him still trying to stand.
Still trying to reach you, and the ship was cold, oh silent, save for your sobs.
Viltrumites stood around you, unmoving, their expressions carved from something inhuman-cold, indifferent, untouched by your grief.
It was already over, too late.
Because the one who had taken an interest in you was not just another soldier, it wasn’t just anyone else.
It was worse.
It was Thragg.
The Grand Regent.
To him, you were nothing more than a weak human-the lover of Invincible,
And what better way to savor victory than to take what mattered most? to tear him apart not just physically, but completely because Thragg knew that no matter how many times he crushed Invincible into the ground…no matter how many Viltrumites he sent to dismantle the Coalition of Planets… and no matter how much pain he inflicted-
Mark Grayson would always stand back up.
So this time, Thragg chose something different, something final.
He took you.
And he would make you his wife, not out of love never that.
Humans were weak, fragile and beneath him really and he did not care for you-not truly.
But your kind had one use of course, something that Mark and that traitor bastard refused to go along with his orders for, the reason why their kind was so interested in your planet was because of-compatibility, the ability to bear Viltrumite offspring, it was efficient, practical.
Necessary, two purposes, fulfilled at once, break Invincible and rebuild the empire.
And you-
You would serve both.
Whether you wanted to or not.
You don’t remember the beginning clearly, only fragments.
The journey was long, too long and time stretched into something shapeless, marked only by the dull ache in your body and the suffocating awareness that you were being taken somewhere you could never return from.
Then-hands, harsh, unyielding hands.
They seized you, dragged you forward and before you could even gather yourself, you were shoved off the ship’s dock, the unfamiliar air greeting you as you stumbled hard, your knees striking the unfamiliar ground, pain flared sharp and immediate, forcing a gasp from your throat as your palms scraped against the smooth, cold surface beneath you, and you slowly looked up.
And your eyes slightly widen at where you were now.
Viltrum.
You’d heard the name before, from Mark, in quiet conversations at night when you were at his side in bed, and he would have this unreadable look in his face, every time he talked about it, always carrying an edge of something darker, something unspoken but hearing about it had done nothing to prepare you for seeing it.
The long tower cities gleamed white, towering, impossibly pristine and everything looked engineered to perfection, sterile and advanced in a way that made Earth feel primitive by comparison and above you, the sky burned in a muted orange hue, and there was a low, constant hum in the air, like the planet itself was alive and watching.
For a moment, despite everything, you just stared.
“Move, human!”
A female voice cracked against your ear like a whip, you barely had time to react before a leg shot at your side, your already unsteady body giving out beneath you and you rolled and hit the ground a second time, harsher now, the sting in your knee sharper despite the shallow wound.
A sharp breath escaped you and when you looked up, two blue piercing eyes were already glaring down at you.
Cold. Disdainful.
The woman standing over you had short brown hair, her expression twisted with open contempt. You recognized her… not from memory, but from Mark’s voice, from the tension that used to creep into it when he spoke her name.
Anissa.
“Pathetic,” she said, her lip curling. “You have legs. Use them. Or are humans truly this useless?”
Your throat tightened, and you shrank under her gaze, instinctively folding into yourself as more figures gathered behind her-other Viltrumites, silent, watchful, their presence pressing in on you from all sides.
You looked down. It felt safer that way, because you were easily disposable.
“Enough.”
The word wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
It rolled through the air like distant thunder, deep and absolute. Instantly, the tension shifted. The hostility didn’t disappear-but it bent, reshaped itself into something quieter, more controlled.
You felt it before you saw him.
Anissa straightened, the others followed, their postures sharpening, submission clear in the rigid lines of their bodies.
And then he stepped forward.
Thragg.
He moved without urgency, but there was weight in every step-something inevitable, something that made the air feel heavier the closer he came. His gaze passed over you lazily at first, like you were nothing more than an object left in his path.
Then he stopped in front of you and before you could react, his hand closed around your shoulder.
The movement was fast-too fast. One moment you were on the ground, the next you were being hauled upright as if you weighed nothing at all. Your breath hitched, your body going rigid as instinct screamed at you not to resist.
Your eyes dropped immediately to the floor.
“She is to be my wife.”
His voice was calm. Measured.
That made it worse.
“You will be delicate,” he continued, his grip tightening just enough to remind you how easily he could crush bone beneath his fingers. “Humans are fragile. We cannot afford damage to the stock before its use.”
The words settled over you like something suffocating, the way they talked about you as if you were merely nothing more than just stock, a resource to be harvested.
Not a person, not you.
“...Yes, Regent Thragg,” Anissa said stiffly, her earlier arrogance gone, replaced with something colder, more controlled. “My apologies.”
Thragg released you as abruptly as he had grabbed you.
“Have her escorted,” he said, already losing interest. “Do what is necessary.”
You didn’t even have time to steady yourself before the hands were on you again.
–
After that, everything blurred.
You were moved from place to place without explanation, more cold rooms, more white walls. Unfamiliar technology pressed against your skin. Your knee injured only moments before was healed in seconds by something you couldn’t comprehend.
No one spoke to you unless necessary and no one looked at you for long.
When they did, it was the same every time-detached, clinical, as if you were something to be examined, not someone to be acknowledged really.
Days passed… you think, you were fed-if it could be called that, the food was tasteless, textureless, barely distinguishable from paste but just enough to keep you alive. Nothing more.
That was all you were here for, to be kept alive, to be used.
And at night-
At night, it was worse.
You weren’t given a room, no you were placed in Thragg’s quarters.
Not with him, not always but close enough that his presence was inescapable. It lingered in the silence, in the vastness of the space, in the constant awareness that you were never truly alone and you cried yourself to sleep more times than you could count quietly, carefully and you learned quickly not to make noise.
And every time, your mind reached for the same thing.
Mark, his face, his voice gentle and soothing like waters on the shore and the way he used to say your name like it mattered. Like you mattered, you clung to those memories desperately, replaying them over and over until they blurred at the edges because you were afraid that you’ll forget, you don’t know how long you have here, would you even be rescued?
No. How can you be rescued? Who would even stand a chance against Thragg of all people, Mark couldn’t do it, no one could-
You were going to rot here, and the realization was too horrifying to bear so sometimes you tried to pretend you were still there. This wasn’t real, that you’d wake up and everything would snap back into place, into Mark’s arms again, in his familiar bed, him holding you whispering words of comfort, your old life too, maybe hugging your family again, having tea with Debbie in her house-
Just anything to remind you that you were still home even if you weren’t.
Sometimes you almost believed it too, other times, you let yourself drift.
Anywhere but here.
Anywhere but Viltrum.
But dreams never last for long.
“Look at me.”
The command cut cleanly through your thoughts, It wasn’t loud and it didn’t need to be and you were dragged away from your mind, it felt cruel as you now looked up facing reality before you.
The voice wasn't loud, it didn't need to be. It was a bass rumble that vibrated through the marble floor and up into the very marrow of your bones. It was a command, absolute and undeniable, spoken from the shadowed expanse of the regent's bed, and now you were here.
Where you didn’t want to be, and you wished you could be anywhere but here, you wished you were with Mark, him holding you like it’s gonna be okay, you wish you could be at home with your parents, you didn’t want this.
You forced your eyes up, away from your own bare feet on the cold stone, and past the sheer, silvery fabric of the ceremonial gown that you wore, well forced to, and you wish you could take it off, and past the towering, muscular form of Thragg, Regent of the Viltrumite Empire, who stood between you and the bed, illuminated by the harsh light of twin moons streaming through the arched window, perhaps the sky would’ve been beautiful tonight, but it wasn’t not for a day like this.
Because today was the day, the day you are forced to do your ‘duty’
His arms were crossed over a chest that looked carved from granite, his expression was… assessing, not cruel, not kind, utterly pragmatic, just like a farmer inspecting a new piece of livestock, which that’s what you were.
"You understand your purpose here," he stated, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
Your throat was too dry to speak and you managed a shaky nod, the thought, which had been a screaming storm in your head for weeks, was now just a cold, hard pebble in your gut.
That you didn’t have a choice here, you didn’t have a say.
And now you have to give a piece of yourself to a man, the same piece of yourself you gave to Mark those nights ago, something intimate and sacred between the two of you will now be ripped away.
"Good, then remove that."
He nodded at the gown, and your fingers, trembling and cold, hesitantly went to the single clasp at your shoulder, and the fabric slithered down your body in a silent heap, leaving you exposed in the vast chamber and the air was cool on your skin, raising goosebumps, you wrapped your arms around yourself and your pupils dropped down.
"Arms at your sides."
You flinched, but obeyed, letting your arms fall felt like surrendering the last shred of a shield you never really had, and you now stood there, naked before a man who could crack a planet with his fists, feeling smaller and more fragile than you ever had in your life.
And the worst part is you couldn’t even stop it if you wanted to, because if you tried you would die.
All you can do now is stand here helplessly as he now can have his way with you.
Thragg took a single step forward and the distance between you vanished. He didn't smell of sweat or steel, but of something clean and sharp.
And his hand, large enough to cradle your entire skull, came up and you braced for a rough grip, but his fingers merely brushed your cheek, tipping your face further up toward his, his eyes, dark and fathomless with no mercy, scanned your features briefly
"I will take pleasure in taking what is his." he murmured, almost to himself and the words made your skin crawl. “and you will bear my offspring, over and over again as much as I want." the implication of his words sent a chill down your spin, and your lips trembled, and you shook, you couldn’t speak and your eyes shut in guilt and shame and the anticipation of what’s going to happen to you now, on this night and his thumb stroked once over your cheekbone, the touch was startling in its lack of violence. It was possessive, not affectionate. The touch of a man confirming the quality of his property, as if he already knew you were his.
"The Empire needs strength, pure strength," he continued, his voice a low drone that filled the room. "Our numbers are few and your… compatibility… is a tool, you will be the vessel for that strength, tonight, and many nights after, that is your only function now. Do you understand wife?"
Wife. A title that should have held love, but it wasn’t, once, you dreamed of walking toward a man who would cherish you, that word should have been warmth, should have been light, now it rotted inside you, filling every hollow space with dread, with hopelessness, with a suffocating, endless despair.
Tears welled, hot and shameful, you hated this, you bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper, forcing them back. The words stripped you of everything you were Mark’s girlfriend, a college student, a person with dreams, a person that had a family, one that didn’t involve being bred like an animal on an alien world.
"Yes…" you whispered shakily out of fear, the sound barely audible.
A faint, almost imperceptible nod. "Then we begin."
His hands moved to your waist and they were shockingly warm, his palms rough with callouses earned from years of combat and rule and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, your feet leaving the floor, and placed you in the center of the enormous firm bed. The sheets were a dark, silken material, cool against your back.
He towered above you, his massive frame blocking out the silvery moonlight, casting you in his unyielding shadow, without any flourish or hesitation, he stripped away his armor-each piece clattering to the ground with deliberate intent, revealing the raw power of his sculpted body. There he stood before you, utterly naked, his thick cock already hardening, veins pulsing along its length as it jutted out aggressively, ready to dominate.
Your breath hitched.
Thragg was pure, his body was a monument to Viltrumite ideal, his impossibly broad shoulders, a chest layered with dense muscle, a stomach ridged like carved stone and between his powerful thighs, his cock was already fully erect.
It was thick, long, and prominently veined... a fresh wave of dizzying fear washed through you. That… that is supposed to go inside you.
“I-” your lips parted in shock and uncertainty.
He saw your wide-eyed stare, he didn’t let you finish. “Your body will adapt," he said, as if commenting on something mundane.
"It has no choice." Then he lowered himself, not on top of you, but beside you and one massive arm slid beneath your shoulders, pulling you halfway onto his chest. The other hand returned to your face, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "You are tense, fear serves no purpose, you will take me." and you shakily nodded,
His proximity, it was so suffocating and intimidating you felt the heat radiating from him, the sheer power held in check, was overwhelming.
"Breathe," he commanded.
You sucked in a ragged breath, your eyes pooling with tears at the realization of what’s going to happen to you and you try not to think about it, a deep pit growing in your stomach.
You didn’t have a choice.
"Good."
His head dipped. You stiffened and you felt his lips met the frantic pulse at the base of your throat, they were firm, warm. He didn't kiss so much as he tasted, his mouth moving slowly down the column of your throat, over your collarbone, and your body trembled, you tried to still, to not move, to not resist, your heart was pounding and he could feel it.
His hand left your face and cupped your breast. His touch was firm, encompassing the entire soft mound, his thumb circling your nipple and it peaked instantly under his attention, a traitorous response you couldn't control, you tilted your head in the pillows, slowly surrendering to his touch, and he moved lower, his lips and tongue charting a slow, deliberate path down your sternum, over the curve of your breast. He took the tight peak of your nipple into his mouth.
You gasped.
You felt his tongue flattening against the sensitive bud, suckling it with perfect, controlled pressure. A bolt of pure, sharp pleasure shot from your nipple straight to your core, making your hips jerk slightly. A small unwanted pathetic sound escaped you.
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same thorough, devastating attention. His hand slid down over the dip of your waist, coming to rest on your hip. His grip was solid, anchoring you. The duality was confusing-his mouth wreaking slow, sensual havoc, his hand holding you in place with undeniable strength.
Then he moved again, shifting his body down the bed. He pushed your thighs apart with his shoulders, his hands gripping the tops of your legs. You were completely open to him.
"Wh-what are you…?" you stammered, your eyes shooting down to look at him frantically.
He didn’t answer, his voice now a husky growl from between your thighs and then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, back arching off the bed, the worst part it was so intimate, so shockingly vulnerable. His tongue was broad and hot and he didn't start gently. He licked a firm, slow stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you saw stars.
Oh fuck
He mapped you with his tongue, learning every fold, every hidden spot. He circled your entrance, pressing inside just enough to make you clench around nothing, before moving back up to focus on your clit, and your hips twitched, but his hands held them down with an iron grip.
He pressed the flat of his tongue against the bundle of nerves and applied a steady, relentless pressure, moving in slow, tight circles.
Pleasure, hot and the sensation began to build in your belly, and you couldn’t help it, a knot tightening with every flick of his tongue.
Your fingers twisted in the dark sheets. Your earlier fear was being drowned out by a rising tide of pure sensation. You tried to hold back, to stay detached, to not want this, but your body was betraying you utterly. Soft, broken whimpers fell from your lips.
He grunted, a sound of approval that vibrated through your very center. One of his hands left your thigh and slid beneath you, his big palms cupping your ass, lifting you closer to his mouth and he devoured you. The pace of his tongue increased, the circles becoming faster, more precise. The knot in your belly pulled, tighter, tighter…
"mm…please…" you begged, your voice so high and needy without you knowing it, not even knowing what you were asking for, he gave it to you. He sealed his lips over your clit and sucked, hard, while his tongue lashed against it.
The orgasm ripped through you with shocking violence, white light flashed behind your eyes. Your body bowed off the bed, held aloft only by his big hand under your back and his mouth between your legs.
A raw, guttural scream was torn from your throat as the pleasure convulsed through you, wave after wave after wave, milking every drop of sensation until you were limp and trembling, gasping for air, and slowly, he released you, lowering you back to the sheets. He rose up over you again, his face glistening with your arousal. His expression darkened as his eyes looked all over your body that he already claimed you and your body reacted as if it was his.
Your body was already responding to his touch, as if your body was craving it, and he will make your body submit to his will for he owns it, he owns you.
“You belong to me.” the words left his lips satisfyingly, you were boneless, your mind floating in a hazy cloud of aftershocks. You barely registered him shifting, positioning himself between your splayed thighs. You felt the blunt, huge hot head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance.
The reality of it crashed back in again, cutting through the pleasure haze. You tensed, a small, fearful sound escaping you, and you shook your head. Your vision blurry as you keep shaking as if it could grant you some respite, or even change this man’s mind. “..no…please-” you hiccuped tearfully, and he paused, looking down at your face. His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
"Look at me," he commanded again, his voice strained.
Tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down your temples into your hair. But you obeyed, meeting his dark gaze, because he can easily snap your neck in half if he wanted to and it wouldn't be the greatest way to go,
"Your body has accepted its purpose," he said, each word precise. "Now, your mind will follow."
He didn't ask for permission, oh he didn't need to, for he took you from earth and now you were his prize, he can’t wait if he ever saw that boy’s face again, the boy’s face full of distraught knowing that he has claimed you and you will now bear his children.
He pushed forward.
The burn was instant, sharp, a stretching fullness you were utterly unprepared for. You cried out, a sharp sound of pain, and your nails dug into the hard planes of his shoulders. He stopped immediately, buried only an inch or so inside you and his body was a rigid statue above you, trembling with the effort of holding still.
"Breathe through it," he gritted out, his own breath hot against your cheek. "It will pass."
You sucked in shuddering breaths, tears flowing freely, The initial sting began to recede, replaced by a deep, profound feeling of being filled, stretched, occupied inside you, impossibly hard and hot. You could feel every thick inch of him, every prominent vein.
“Wait-” You sobbed out, your eyes fluttering shut at the intense feeling of being so full, and maybe one more pathetic plea, an attempt to beg him not to do this-but your words fall deaf and in vain.
Slowly, with care that seemed at odds with his brutal nature, he began to move. He withdrew almost completely, the tip sliding out feeling it near your folds then sinking back in, a little deeper this time and the friction was exquisite, a blend of lingering discomfort and shocking pleasure that made you gasp, your eyes helplessly rolling back in your head as he set a slow, relentless rhythm, each thrust taking him deeper, stretching your folds further, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours.
A low, guttural groan tore from his chest. "Finally."
You let out a pained nose, more tears streaking down your face, god Mark…
You were so sorry, images of Mark’s face full of horror, his eyes full of pain, he would look torn if he could see you right now and eventually what would become of you, shame coiled through your stomach, But even against your will, thoughts of him began to drift away.
All your thoughts dissolved into the relentless rhythm of Thragg's thick cock slamming deep into your soaked pussy, stretching you wide with every brutal thrust, withdrawing just enough to before driving back in harder, faster.
Your walls clenching around the intrusion as juices coated his cock as he watched your face twist in pleasure, a smirk curling his lips. “See how you beg for it? Your body already belongs to me.” You stared at yourself in horror at him, too, his face gleaming with cold satisfaction, with something calculating, and the horror settling in your bones.
Because your body traitorously was responding and now the pain had melted away, transformed into a deep, building pressure and the sheer size of him was stimulating places inside you rubbing against hidden walls with every slow, powerful stroke.
Were you enjoying this… were you? Because why did it feel so-
His pace began to increase and the gentle, careful rhythm was abandoned as his control began to fray, his thrusts became harder, deeper, pounding into you with a force that shook the entire massive bed, the sound of skin slapping against skin, of his ragged breaths and your whimpering cries, filled the chamber, he drove deeper, his hips snapping until he was buried to the hilt, balls slapping against your ass.
One of his hands tangled in your hair, not pulling, but holding your head in place, forcing you to keep looking at him. The other hand gripped your hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, guiding your body to meet his punishing strokes.
"You will take it all," he growled, his face a mask of fierce concentration.
"Every drop. You will carry my child, you will give the empire its future." His words slithered in your ears as a cruel looming reminder that after all that’s done, you will be bred and you will have to bear his child, but you couldn’t think coherently at all.
You didn’t want this no, but the pleasure was too much, as he was fucking you brutally and thoroughly, the wet sounds of his cock driving in and out of you, the slap of skin against skin echoed in the chambers, and your mind was full of white cotton, and foggy, incoherent.
"oh fuck..." you let out under your breath, and you felt it, this orgasm was different, deeper, less sharp but more overwhelming. It rolled inside your womb, a clenching, possessive heat that made you scream, your inner walls fluttering and gripping his invading length like a vice.
Feeling your pussy clench around his cock tipped him over the edge with a roar that seemed to shake the stones of the palace itself, Thragg drove into you one final, devastating time, hilt-deep, and held there.
You felt him pulse, the long thick ropes of his cum flooding inside you, a torrent of his seed meant to implant, to breed, to fulfill his purpose.
For a long moment, he remained buried inside you, his body heavy atop yours, his breath hot and ragged in your ear. The only sounds were your combined panting and the slow drip of his fluids onto silk, the evidence of what was done to you.
And what could never be taken back.
Slowly, he lifted his head. He looked down at where your bodies were joined, at the evidence of his release already leaking out around his still-hard cock. A look of primal satisfaction settled on his features, and you cried, wailing in the bed uncontrollably.
Now, only his heavy breathing remained ragged and loud while your cries echoed hollowly through the room.
He withdrew from you, the sensation making you whimper, He didn't go far. He lay on his side, pulling you against him, your back to his chest. One heavy arm draped over your waist, his hand splayed possessively over your lower belly, his face tucked in your neck as you wept.
"You are forever mine." he murmured into your hair, his voice already thick with renewed intent.
He felt victorious that night, he has branded you with his seed, now in your womb and you shall bear his child.
Invincible may have not been dead.
But he took what was dear from him,
You.
Something he could never get back.
And he could try-over and over again.
Fight, bleed, crawl his way back to you if he had to.
But it wouldn’t matter.
Because Thragg wouldn’t allow it.
Not after seeing how much you meant to him, not after realizing just how easy it was to break him, and to break you.
You will forever be chained to his side-not just in body, but in fate.
Speaking of hand kisses, those hand kisses will Very quickly lead to wrist/arm bites for which I am very here for 🫠🫠 (I got deep seated veins, he gotta bite harder 🤭🤭)
He'll insist on you sitting between his legs, your back to his chest. To keep you comfortable & stable of course 🥰🥰
ANON!!! AA!!!!
He picked you out special, for Abigail.
It was always easier to get blood from the willing, or indentured. Not that the crime lord had issues feasting in more gruesome ways, but he'd found over the centuries that keeping a pliant blood-bag on staff was a useful precaution.
After the shit show with Lambert and Joey, he'd been much more attentive to his darling girl. You were a volunteer at studio where she did her dance training, and she'd always spoken so highly of you. He felt a fool, to have dismissed and ignored his precious spawn's words for so long - not only because he realized how much he neglected her, but because when he saw you he understood. You were special, he could tell right away.
And so, quickly after your first meeting, you found yourself at the mansion - initially under the pretense of private dance tutoring, but your role as walking blood-on-tap source was soon revealed.
You'd read Dracula, you knew vampire lore - but when you suggested that he considered you some sort of Renfield-esque familiar, the Lazaar patriarch laughed in your face. It was ridiculous a ridiculous notion, to him, but he realized that he was going down the same path of miscommunication he'd gone down with Abigail, and he couldn't risk that.
So that evening, when he summoned you to his office, he sat on his chaise by a crackling fire. He held a hand out to you, beckoning - not that you had room to disobey. You placed your hand, feather light, in his. He gripped you, not painfully but with far more intent than you had, and pulled you - making you shuffle until you stood between his spread out legs. His eyes locked on yours as he pressed a kiss to your hand. He often did this, and it sent your heart fluttering every time, which was annoying on its own - only to add on the fact that you knew he could hear your heartbeat, that he could hear you react to him. And you could feel him react to you, when a grin stretched his lips still pressed to your skin.
But, he didn't bite you.
"Please," he said - he always said, even though you were sure he never genuinely offered you a choice, it still felt like it was important to him to say it, if only for the appearance of gentlemanly manners.
Never the less, you let his hand guide you where he wished. You tried to suppress your sharp inhale of shock as he sat you on his thigh.
He looked at you, mesmerizingly inhuman eyes drifting down to your (... neck? No,) lips. You're ready, then, for him to finally feed, but instead he moved you further. Still holding your hand, he guided you off his lap to sit on the edge of the chair between his legs, pulling you back against his chest. You felt the weight of chin casually resting on your shoulder - a subconscious part of you anticipating hearing his breath ghost your ear, even though you knew he didn't draw breath.
He still was holding your hand.
His free arm wrapped itself around your waist, holding you against him. His thumb drew circles at your hip over your clothes, and the intimate, gentle gesture made you jump. The skip in your heart, and racing of your blood made him quietly growl, so low it came out as an almost soothing rumble in your ear.
Your hand, fingers laced in his, was brought backwards. Your arm carefully and slowly bending as he led it to his mouth.
His lips pressed against the back of your hand yet again. And again. And again. Then he went to the knuckle on each finger and did the same, dotting your hand in deceivingly innocent and slowly doled out affections. He finally turned your hand around, and pressed more kisses to your palm, to the tips of your fingers, along the length of your arm up to the inside of your wrist. When he finally reached there (where he always went, and you always knew he would go) you couldn't help the hitch in your breath, waiting for all this overabundant, overwhelming affection to end.
But still, no teeth - just more cold, dead, gentle kisses. Just him smiling once more against your skin as he felt your shock, taking in all of your body's reactions.
"Relax," he murmured, in a way that sounded too firm to be a suggestion, but too amused to be born of irritation. "Lean on me,"
The arm around your waist tightened, pleasantly. Its hand began to slowly move up towards your chest.
"If this is how you are after a few simple affections, I can't have you falling apart before we reach the main event, darling."
He always called you that. But,something about tonight had it sending your head in a spin.
You felt his teeth graze your flesh, a tease at your wrist that had you instinctively pushing your wrist up to meet him. Encourage him. He chuckled, and you felt the rumbled against your back.
His teeth finally pierced your skin, and he watches from the corner of his eye as your head instantly rolls back - falling against his shoulder - and you let out a whine.
You've always known about the monster in your neighbor's barn. You first discovered it when you went over to look at the new kittens. Your neighbors were very wealthy but kind, and they had a son with whom you sometimes played. Most of the time, though, you were there for the animals. Their property was massive, and the cows, chickens, and horses they kept drew you in like a moth to a flame.
One afternoon you were in the hayloft, cooing over the cat and her new litter of tiny fuzzy, kittens, when something moved off to the side. It was just dark enough in the hayloft that the shadowy corners could hold anything in them, but you'd never been afraid of the dark in here. You went over, thinking you'd find another cat.
Instead, you discovered a small, person-shaped lump wrapped in scraps of cloth. You nudged it with your foot and it moved. Something between a paw and a hand grasped at your ankle. That was enough to startle you, especially when you felt the sharp tip of a claw scrape your skin. You left the barn and ran up to your neighbor's house, where the housekeeper caught you by the shoulders before you could go inside.
"No outdoor shoes in the house, remember?" She said.
"There's a creature in the barn!" You announced, and she sighed.
"Yes, we know. Did he hurt you?"
"Not intentionally," you replied, glancing down at the thin scratch on your ankle.
"Good," she said. "Then leave him be."
"What is he?" You questioned.
"A stray," she replied. "Why don't you head on home? It's about time for dinner and your mother will be wondering where you are. Don't forget to put a band-aid on that scratch!"
You went home and for once in your young life, you decided not to tell your parents about your exciting new discovery. Instead, you went to the barn again the next morning, shivering from the cold as you clambered into the hayloft. The barn cat watched you calmly from her nest as you searched the shadows for the creature. The stray, as the housekeeper had called it.
You found him hunched in the corner with feathers stuck to his face. You could see him better today, and he looked somewhat human. He had soft cheeks and wide eyes, with sickly-pale skin and pockets of dirt under his claws. Two small stubs protruded from his hair, and there was a symbol of a flame on his forehead.
"Did you eat a chicken?" You asked, fascinated as you eyed the feathers.
He shook his head.
"A pigeon, maybe? There are always plenty in the rafters. Well, I thought you'd be hungry, so I brought some food!" You held out your offering of a peanut butter sandwich and two hard-boiled eggs.
He nibbled on the sandwich before discarding it, and then tried to eat the egg with the shell still on. You showed him how to peel it, and he sat and ate with wide eyes.
"So you like eggs?" You said with a laugh.
He held the other egg out to you and you peeled that one too, patting him on the head.
"You're kind of like a cat, so maybe it's good for you to stay here," you said. "It's always warm in the barn, even in the winter!"
You visited him multiple times after that, as much as you dared before your mother started asking questions. Life was simple but it was good, until one day, your parents made the decision to separate. Your mother moved with you to live somewhere far away. You remembered the barn and the kittens and your strange friend for a couple of years, but with time your memories blended together and it all began to feel like a fever dream.
Many years have passed, and you're finally back in the town you grew up in. Your father is getting older and has no one to rely on, so you told him you'd move back in. Of course, he tried to get you to change your mind, pointing out that the town was small and there was hardly anything to do. But, that's exactly what you want. Peace and quiet, and time away from the stress and hustle of the city.
You boil some eggs while you unpack and then make a beeline for your neighbor's barn, hoping your old friend is still there. The chickens crowd around for some corn, but you ignore them. You don't have anything for them anyway. The barn cat is gone but some of her kittens are still around, though they seem more feral than anything, running off the minute they see you. The barn is quiet, and the air is stale when you push the doors open and step inside.
"Is anyone in here? Hello–"
A figure drops from the rafters, landing with a thump in front of you and growling softly. It's him. He's still dressed in those same scraps of cloth, though they're faded and much smaller on his frame. He's taller than you now, dark-eyed and intimidating. His horns are no longer stubs. Now they curve back, framing his head like a crown. His claws have also grown, and he can definitely do much more damage than a mere scratch or two. He looms over you, backing you into a corner and waiting for the fear to kick in. He doesn't seem to recognize you, but you still remember him, and you're not afraid.
You hold up the plastic bag with four boiled eggs. He tilts his head and stares for a long moment before crouching and yanking your shoe off. At first you have no idea what he's doing, and then you realize he's looking for the scar. It's faint, but it's still there.
"It's me," you say.
He tugs on your hand, dragging you down to his level and practically throwing himself into your arms, purring loudly. His weight nearly bowls you over. You laugh and hug him, patting him on the head as you admire his horns. After a moment he pulls away and rips open the plastic bag, taking out an egg and holding it out to you. With a smile, you crack it open and begin peeling.
I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:
Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed
─── masterlist. being BRUCE WAYNE’S needy wife, who always clings to him. who always seeks his presence, the safety he provides. when you wake up alone in the middle of the night, wrapped around silk sheets, cold and you think, suddenly: you’re too needy, aren’t you? you want him all the time. but your husband always indulges you, your neediness is something he finds endearing.
harsh rain slams against the windows and you shiver, fingers hugged around the blanket, tugged close to your chest. bruce is gone again. the batcave is a place of obsessive retreat. most nights, he never returns and many nights he doesn’t sleep at all.
you drag your slippers across the wayne manor floors into the kitchen, soft blanket plush laid on your shoulders. you’ll make him so tea and find your way to the batcave. you wouldn’t bother alfred with such simple tasks. besides, there is something intrinsically intimate about this. you, under the warm kitchen lights on a rainy night. bruce’s absence fills your heart with heavy longing and you think of him, making him a warm cup of tea.
but you love him, and this love of yours translates in every single thing that you do for him. such as making tea. which oddly enough, is simple. you replace his usual earl grey with dried fruit and flowers sunk in the hot water, sweet and perfect. you grab a bunch of biscuits from the counter top and you leave, sluggish steps across the hallway until the secret elevator that takes you to the batcave.
it doesn’t take you long to get there. he sits still in front of the batcomputer, still in his batsuit, mask and gloves off, muscles pulse strong under the compression of his suit. in all seriousness, his handsomeness always prevails, no matter how much he ages.
it’s been 48 hours since he last slept and you can see it in the violet circles resting under his eyes. it’s something he has accustomed himself to.
when you hop in his lap, your husband accepts it wordlessly. bruce wouldn’t deny you the pleasure of being in his arms like this. and you rest, with your face safe in the nape of his neck; your lips and nose meet his warm skin and slight stubble, the scent of him wrapped around you familiarly, tenderly. everything about is manly. it’s bruce, it’s obsessively clean. it’s home. your forever home.
echoes of silence sing in the depths of the cave, yet you don’t feel the need to speak and neither does bruce. the silence is so deeply comfortable. the steady rythm of his breath on top of your head, it’s grounding and you feel safe, protected. his craddle is tender, it keeps you aloft. it’s the hug of a man who feels you like he hasn’t held properly you in a long, long time, with big, muscular arms wrapped tightly around your body.
you tell bruce that you miss him. he misses you too. you talk, maybe too much, as sleepy as you are, but he listens, he loves you silently.
“come upstairs, bruce, i’m cold.”
“so, so cold.” he tilts your chin up, his eyes seek yours and you finally see it. the i’m sorry. i’m sorry for being gone for so long. his lips press against yours in a kiss, which soft and slow, still intoxicates you with more longing and ache. you ground him just as much as he grounds you.
the tension grows bigger, more difficult to handle. with you in arms, his wife, so beautiful and precious, he could stay like this for days. forever. bruce’s hand wander, seeking for a reaction out of you. a whimper, a moan, a soft spot. he knows where to touch you, each and every inch of your skin. he knows how to make those pretty lips sing in his ear. that look in your eyes, he recognizes it, so he doesn’t wait any longer.
he presses two fingers inside your mouth and you swirl your tongue around them for barely a few seconds before he takes them out and his hand slips under your pajama shorts. the first stretch is heavenly and your pussy walls tighten on instinct around his thick fingers. he pushes further and you whimper in his mouth so sweetly.
he keeps the rythm slow and steady, helping you accustom to his fingers coaxing the greedy walls of your pussy. enough to ease you into wanting more, enough to build up pleasure. he knows exactly how to treat your needy body and you want more.
you look so nervous biting down your lower lip and holding in little whimpers, shaky legs trying to shut in utter pleasure. his other is hand preoccupied by your soft tits, playing with and twitching your nipples between his fingers. his hungry mouth finds one of your boobs a soft mmm escapes you he sucks onto your nipple and your trembling legs spread wider. “right there, yes, mmm!”
you cling so hard onto him, one arm around his neck. your pussy moulds perfectly around his fingers, tight and wet and he can tell it’s been missing his touch so much. he ought to take care of it. you moan against his mouth, hazed out, hips rolling mindlessly against the two fingers he’s buried inside you.
“bruce, i miss you! i… love you…”
“i love you too. forgive me, honey.”
you forgive him when you come on his fingers with his name on your lips, filling every inch of emptiness inside the batcave.
summary: who would have known Batman was in love with Bruce Wayne’s wife?
warnings: full +18 content. minors do not interact, please.
notes: hello, hello, my dear readers!! sooo, as you see i thought we could explore miss Ivy’s mischief and i thought why i am not creating chaos in the Gotham elite??? ughhh, here we go with this!! and secondly, if you’d want a small continuation to this, to Gotham’s forevermore legend about the Dark Knight’s forbidden love, i can handle it — just let me know!!! anyways, enjoy, my darlings and i’m seven/twenty-four open to your imagination!!! kiss, kiss!!! ♡
It was supposed to be a normal night for you. You were all dolled up and looking lovelier than ever for the invitation to a spectacular opera performance in the Gotham Opera House amidst October days.
As Bruce’s young and beloved wife, you were the one who represented your husband’s last name. Bruce was extraordinarily busy in the cave for the last six hours, working on something when you earned a sweet kiss from his lips. He was sharpening his detective skills in the last two weeks, too busy to heed the social nights of Gotham. He preferred you to go enjoy his service of privileges while he enjoyed you mainly after the patrols exhaustedly and in the warm, cuddly mornings. Nevertheless, here you were, in your midnight-blue velvet dress with your diamond earrings under his last name for the night.
It was quite thrilling for you; as you loved to relish the art, literature, and music which Bruce’s privileges blessed you in that sense. You were in your private box, watching the stage with great interest as some peculiarity in the air was unknown to you. Honestly, it was unknown to anyone in the theatre, but still. You remember your brief gaze, in the middle of the extraordinary performance, on the greenery around the intricate corner of the stage in those brief seconds. They looked so alive and glowing with color, which made you wonder how they were made to seem too alive for an item. Your eyes stayed on them before returning to the performer on the stage.
The reason why the ivies were carved in your mind heavily was that the next moments occurred. Your lovely eyes under the dim light caught the bizarre scene of the performer’s sudden hiatus with his hazy-looking eyes. For the minutes, he was quiet, and then instantly his legs gave away to the floor.
Everyone, including you, was stunned at the moment, wondering if this was part of the performance or if there was an actual emergency. As the scene on the stage progressed, the performer started to call someone’s name with a clogged-throaty voice — very lasciviously. The audience was left with gasps and confusion as you tried to make sense. The man on the stage was looking high and mad in something, constantly exhaling and calling out for a person named ‘Oliver’. He started to crawl on his knees towards the audience, his eyes blinking through the haze he was in to search for the person he was howling for. For the well-extended seconds of this peculiar chaos, the guards of the theatre appeared to fetch him. But, what happened as the highlight of the night, occurred after the security arrived at the stage.
You recall the moments undoubtedly, another lustful voice amidst the crowd. Everyone was flabbergasted for seconds, in the semi-dark covered auditorium. You were on your feet, hands gripping the wooden balustrade under your palms with your timid eyes on the scene under your box. The hall was hysterical, with guards trying to prevent the performer from howling and crawling and another socialite in the obscured corner was frenzied just like the performer in your stare. You still do not know how she appeared — from where, but as soon as you heard her voice, except for the frenzied people, there was a silence.
“Oh my,” Her voice came from the edge of the obscured hall along in the next seconds with her form. “What a wonderful performance for the night.”
Your stare found her elegant gait from the darkness to the light, revealing her red, voluminous hair detailed with her green ivies — the glowing greenery you saw intricately around the stage urging itself to reach her like she was Mother Nature herself. She was so pretty, beaming with her honey-dripped wickedness in her small suit as she strode with her ivies.
You had heard about her and her delirious reputation from the news of Gotham and your Bruce. But you had never seen her with your bare eyes until that night. She was hectic as they preached about with her lively, wild weeds.
“I really wish to stay but I need a gentleman from the crowd,” she spoke in the stunned silence. Her weed started to crawl through every inch of the hall, including your box like the vineyard. You hastily pulled your hands to yourself, your apprehensive eyes returning to her form. “Just give him to me and maybe, I can let some of you go.”
“Don’t move!”
One of the security guards shouted as he aimed his gun at her along with his teammates. There were three of them, nonetheless, they seemed inexperienced in the field. Since when has any freak of Gotham dared to intrude on the highest? Gothamite elites were a different breed when it came to money and power — the majority of them under the siege of the Owls. So, it was understandable that the only guards of the Opera were there for formalities or small actions.
Ivy let out a surprised laugh which was laced with slight irritation. Anyone who could pay heavy attention can distinguish that she was in a urgency to get who she wanted. As if she were slightly more anxious than you, yet still vexed in her motives. No one could judge her, especially when the Bat was in the nights of Gotham. But, no one paid attention and she did what she was good at the moment.
A few bullets were sent through the air in an amateur way which encountered the thick ivies to protect their mother. From the instant gunshots, the crowd was frenzied and petrified again that everyone started to run and find an escape. You remember the instant of backing away unconsciously to the small part of the box where it was linked to the stairs and then to the corridor.
You did not see Ivy and her ferocious skills when you were trying to find guidance to escape the hall along with the other guests. Poison Ivy had easily taken down the few security guards and was now looking for the person she was there in the first place. The small number of the crowd escaped but the majority of you were stuck in the hall due to the heavy, weird-smelling, toxin-filled weed gluing to the entrance to prevent any getaway or vice versa.
“I said I’m looking for a gentleman.” she clicked her tongue, her green eyes looking through the crowd in the dim light. “So, give him to me. I won't repeat my words.”
You were in the obscured corner near the door that was linked to the stairs you descended from your box. Your petrified mind was wandering over and over again to find a way to escape or another way of contacting — your husband. The crowd was dead silent at the example of how Ivy treated the people who tried to defy her wish — one poor man intoxicated was on the floor, fainted from the unfulfilled sinful yearning, and the other poor security guards were on the floor as well. Ivy did not have any tolerance for the actions aimed at her and now, she was seething in a calm way.
She tried to utter any word before he appeared. One lightning speed of Batrang flew from the darkness and cut her thin weed on the floor, causing her to hiss in pain. Your eyes along with the crowd of elites found his form in the semi-dark corner as he was there in his glory and power.
You still don’t know where he came from to the hall that night, when the antique walls were covered in concrete under the tints, and the main door was covered with Ivy’s weeds.
He was silent as he watched the scene in front of him. Ivy’s denser weeds flew to catch him but he was experienced in the actions to avoid them. You stared at how Batman deftly evaded the thick greens in the next few seconds, trying to tarnish them prominently. As he tore them with his Batrangs, Ivy let out the sounds of hissing or wailing as her beloved children were damaged by the Bat.
“You fool!” she howled at the injuries, her skin flushed with the peculiar color and sweat. His motives must have injured and infuriated her more and more as Bruce did what he was good at. He was too good at that it jinxed him as he was almost there to corner her.
Almost.
Your fearful eyes caught his form enwrapped by the weeds in the last seconds. You could’ve sworn you had felt your thudding heart was almost about to break your ribcage as the ivies surrounded him. Your heart was beating excessively at the scene, as if it were beating in your ears, too, to deter you from hearing any voice but your thudding heart and Batman slicing the plants.
Batman was observant in those seconds as he assessed his next move from the weeds. He somehow successfully attempted to evade one thick weed as it flew to him but he missed the other one from behind. The crowd was crazy as you watched how the only hope of getting out of this madness was strangled by the green for a few seconds before the weed let him to his feet.
Then, the strangeness had happened right in the velocity. The weed did not usher to wrap itself fully and withdraw itself after the seconds of choking him. Batman held himself for the momentum before he started to limp oddly and fell on his knees with gritted teeth. You were speechless like everyone else, your thudding heart and your Bruce in the weirdest way.
“You are a hell of a ride,” Ivy muttered irritated and maimed as she watched the calmed Bat. As well as she was injured, she was still on her feet despite your Bruce. “But I came prepared from the last time we met.” she added with the wicked hint in her tone.
Your eyes were on Bruce who was breathing heavily as you could clearly see how he was trying to suppress his exhilaration. His head was bowed toward the floor, hands on the sides of his thighs to be pressed to the material for support but to no avail. The sensation was burning but quite a familiar sense in his veins as his blood rushed rashly, leaving him breathless and dizzy with something. He started to feel the hardness of his length forming in his suit as the symptoms of poison, forcing him to be needy second by second. He slightly raised his head to the semi-dark hall with the people gaping at him with fear and concern, his concealed blue eyes narrowed to find.
To find.
“Hmm,” Ivy drawled her voice as she tried to come closer to him but she halted when she saw how the Bat was focused on one spot after the desperate urgency in his eyes to find his dearest in the sombre corner. Everyone in the auditorium was concentrated on him but he was only looking at the exact spot you were on.
You were stunned by his cowl-covered, angled face. You couldn't see his eyes in those moments but you could easily tell by how he was tensing his jaw, his sharp jawline was detailed by the usual small vein under his ear. You two stared at each other before he couldn't keep himself anymore and attempted to stand up. It was struggling for him but he managed since his Sun was there. Your breath caught in your throat as he stumbled to the corner you were at. You did not know why he was in this state, unaware of the fact to Ivy’s aphrodisiac weeds. But you were no fool that he was on something to be in this state.
Everyone watched the seconds of how he stumbled in his steps with helpless self-restraint and you all watched how he couldn't dare to stand face to face with you when he was closer enough, as he went on his knees right in front of you. Your bewildered lovely eyes that Bruce adored insanely were on him while his face was angled up at you. You felt his hands around your waist instantly as he pulled you to him, burying his face in your stomach. He kept half of his face there, suit-covered arms tight around you as if he was terrified that you’d be an illusion. As if his beloved girl would be the trick of his mind since the beginning.
You felt his tense breathing as he stayed just like that, shocking everyone that why Batman was on his knees for someone else’s wife.
Bruce Wayne’s wife.
“My love,” he muttered to the fabric unwillingly, letting his voice slightly thin into your husband’s from the symptoms of toxin in the dead silence. “My darling.” he went on as he swallowed his control, his throat dry but his heart too full.
The fear and confusion were in your reeling mind as he was in that position, inhaling you in through the thin layer of your midnight-blue dress. You saw how he was still muttering his endearments, just how he was utterly restraining himself from doing something outlandish and uncovering his identity. Your beautiful eyes found his masked eyes once again as he solely gazed up at you as declaring you his sole deity — his beloved Goddess. You couldn’t bear it anymore before your hands went around his shoulders to soothe him down.
He sighed like a man in love — that he was — as your palm was pressed to the back of his cowl to keep him buried to you. He softly kissed your stomach then, letting his face concealed as he mumbled your name to the cloth. As long as his devoted motives made your chest bloom wholly, it was still a hazard to both of you. You did not know what to think, to bring him to the state of his normal mind. If he was in this weak state, you were supposed to do something. You’d never let him be unaccompanied by your support in every sense, now including this one. You composed yourself and carefully created a sight for all spectators, that you were just clueless about the strange motives of the Bat.
“Oh my,” said Ivy delightfully but awestruck just as everyone else. “Look what we have here. Are we witnessing a confession?”
Bruce was just drawing breath heedlessly, his hazy mind was covered in hunger and you, to mind Ivy’s taunting. Your eyes found Ivy’s glinting green eyes on you, along with the crowd. You kept your innocent facade as you painted like you had no idea about what was going on in every sense. But you were so sure that you caught some suspicion in her gaze. Ivy stared at you for more than the minutes, then muttered your name.
“Mrs. Wayne,” she let her weeds slowly reach for you. You unconsciously pressed Bruce to yourself like shielding him as he was heavy on his knees to make any attempt to fight against. The ivies were around you but they never had time to touch you as they did to Bruce, dangerously close. You were so frightened at the indication of her ivies enclosing you, that they could unleash something so severe.
“The Batman?—”
Fortunately for you and your lovefool Bat, the instant hits on the ivy-covered entrance door interrupted her vision.
“Open the door!”
“GCPD!”
The muffled voices of the police officers and familiar Commissioner Gordon were behind the door to your and everyone’s rescue. Ivy cursed under her breath and withdrew her trailing plants immediately for her own escape but not fully until she broke the one ceiling window to leave the scene. You reminisce about those seconds just like pure chaos as the majority of all were uproar to finally leave the madhouse while a small part of them was focused on Batman.
You didn't care about their gazes on you, hastily angling his face to look at you. “You need to leave.” you told him, ushering him to his feet. But Bruce must have been heavily intoxicated to dare to leave you, even for the mere minutes. He was looking up at you without uttering any word that made you apprehensive since if GCPD saw him in that state, they could capture him right there — even though Gordon was on Bruce’s side. The GCPD was not relishing in Batman and that was enough to hinder Gordon from aiding him.
You struggled in his wrapped, hefty arms but managed to get on your knees, your skin against his suit-covered thighs to be close to his face. He watched you with an unreadable expression on his masked face but oh, how he wished you’d see his deliriousness from the closeness of you.
“You need to leave, Batman.”
You were so lovely in the somber light — so breathtaking, so flushed and so sweet as you were ushering him. Your opal eyes were glinting just as your diamonds, your perfume all over the air he gladly breathed. He was speechless, tensing his jaw from the heavy urge to kiss you, devour you right there as your lovely eyes pleaded with him.
“Please,” you whispered, your heart thudding madly as the door was practically opened by the help of a furious mass, the fear and nervousness at the moment.
“Please, go. They’ll catch you.”
Your hands on his shoulders barely pushed him as you ushered him. He saw the desperation in your lovely face, the same desperation in his veins to have you to himself right in those seconds. You felt the smallest angling of his face towards you before you pushed yourself back instantly. And when the breaking of the heavy, wooden door startled your apprehensive form, you pushed him this time heavily.
“Go home.” you said finally with a great force to unwrap yourself from his bruising arms. He could be in this odd condition, but he was still your Bruce and the man of discipline. You knew your Bruce, trusted him blindly that he’d do what it was needed to be done even in that state when you ushered him. That was the most you could do as you the GCPD was almost there.
“Go to your home, Batman.” you repeated earnestly one more word forcing your lovesick Bat unwillingly to leave you and the scene as he drew his grapple gun from his yellow utility belt and disappear in the next seconds. Your worried eyes caught his leaving before turning your attention to the bustling chaos.
When you were back in Manor, your mind was dizzy and lulled by the exhaustion. “Where is he?” you asked Alfred when he greeted you in the doorway as you took off your rain-soaked coat. You had been questioned with a few inquiries by GCPD before rushing to run into your home in a taxi. Normally, Alfred was supposed to get you but you knew by heart that he was overly busy on the comms to get Bruce into a rational idea about his serenade for you in front of the whole Gothamite nobility. The same Gothamites that Bruce prowled them in his first months as Caped Crusader, scaring the hell out of them on one fateful night.
“He’s not at home, Madam and he is not answering my calls, either.” he replied worriedly. You followed him to the Batcave, to the comms to reach out to him. The Batmobile’s signal was near Gotham East Docks — 45 minutes away from the Opera House but your gaze caught the latest confirmed time of his signal. It was twenty minutes behind the current time as you and Alfred saw.
“I last contacted him when he was in the Opera House. Since then, I have been following only his signal.”
God, where was he?
Bruce had developed a system that was connected to his gadgets, thus it was unlikely that you would not know where he could be. However, he could also close his system off when it was necessary. You and Alfred waited for more than fifteen mintues to see if the time would be fixed but it was futile. The signal was still on the docks and the last registration time was now thirty-three minutes before.
You were curled up on his seat, as your eyes were on the giant screen of the Batcomputer to see any updates. Alfred left you to prepare a hot drink for you since you were soaked up from the rain and now covering yourself with your arms like a kitten from the cold. The Batcave was already chill in from absence of Bruce as you were desperately waiting for his whereabouts. It was not rational to be in the city in that state and it was draining you that he was in the city.
As you shivered in your waiting, you couldn't do it anymore and reached for the comms before leaving the cave for warm clothes. You pressed the button of a specific device for communication and only met with steady static on the line.
“Bruce,” you sighed in apprehension, “Baby, please be safe and come home.”
You met with the same statistics and closed off the device to leave the cave. In the next twenty-five minutes, you were under the hot water to mend the chill in your bones. As you left the bathroom connected to the bedroom in your cotton nightgown, the room was dark, yet he was there. You froze in the doorway as your weary eyes caught his silhouette sitting on the bed through the glint of the bathroom’s light.
“Bruce?” You crossed the distance in three strides to find yourself between his legs. He instantly welcomed you into his arms as you welcomed him, wrapping them around your waist while you drew him to yourself by his neck. He sighed when he pressed his face to your belly, just like he did for the second time in the night, in the darkness of your holy room. Your fingers went through his dark, thick hair to reassure yourself that he was real in those seconds, your precious Bruce right there in your arms safely. He was peaceful, inhaling the air and your post-shower scent radiating from you with no struggle as he did in the Opera House.
“Baby?” you muttered, ushering him to talk to you. “Are you alright?” you barely murmured as your thumb caressed his temple while his face stayed buried on your cotton nightgown. He just hummed at your word, then pressed his lips on your fabric. He kissed your belly a few times before looking up at you with his hooded, blue eyes. You could see his gorgeous, still needy but serene eyes in the dull-covered room, the only light coming inside through the ajar door of the bathroom.
Your warm palm went to his cheek, his pale skin cool on your skin. You lovingly brushed his cheek while he closed his eyes at your tenderness. Your thumb caressed the darkness under his eyes, then his thick lashes as he closed his eyes.
“I.. I don't know—”
“It’s okay.” you muttered, grazing the skin under your fingertip. “It’s okay.” you whispered once as your hands went around his neck at your next move. He was exhausted, you could sense it from the tone of his voice, as you went on his level, positioning yourself in his lap. He sighed as he took you into his arms fully, letting you straddle him in your softest little nightgown and the skin still scorching after the shower. Your closeness already made him dizzy while the familiar ache started to rush through his blood. He could smell your scent fifty times more skillfully as the toxin blessed him, the same reason why he had caught you in the darkened corner when you were out of sight. He had spent his days and nights in your body to recognize you blindly — addicted to you more than anyone.
He pressed his face to your throat, inhaling you heavily. God, he sensed the heaven in your scent, it hazying and luring him to dive into you more and more. When you felt his lips, his chapped lips you loved to kiss, you pulled him more to you by the end of his hair. He groaned barely before prepping kisses to your skin.
He left gentle kisses at first, then halted his lips under your jaw to breathe in you. “I love you.” he muttered before continuing to kiss your skin, drawling as he kissed and licked.
“I love you more.” you whispered, diving your fingers into his hair. He pressed you more against his bulge in his sweatpants by your thigh, making you softly sigh as the hem of your nightgown rode up slightly. “More than I?” he asked while his mouth worked for hickeys before he pressed a kiss to the spot.
“More than I?” he asked you once more, catching your lips in the needy kiss. You let him kiss you as much as he wanted, half-sweetly, half-rushingly melt you in his mouth as you were holding him tightly with your arms around his neck. Your kisses were fervent as the seconds ran, Bruce chasing you while you were barely grinding on his hardness. He was breaking the kisses as you were breathless just as him, then kissing you again so earnestly while you were practically burning under his hands that were holding your thighs.
Ivy’s aphrodisiac had a clouding effect, since he instantly knew when you were around. It was hazying his mind with nothing but you — anything related to his lover girl. He kissed and sucked your throat, your bare shoulders detailed with the straps of your little nightgown, and your neck — his favorite place when he wanted you so close to feel or nestle other than your scorching pussy — like he couldn’t bear to stay away from you any other second.
You were just sighing at his fervour, your lashes fluttering while you were grinding on him, getting wet between your thighs. You felt his lips on your chest where it was merely covered by the fabric. He just pecked the spot over your breasts before coming back at your lips. You two kissed again, this time a bit rushed since his patience was wearing thin when you were flushed, wet in your lacy white panties and so his in his hands.
After you broke the kiss for a breath, you led him. You pressed your lips to any place you did reach at the moment — his lips, the corner of them, his chin, and then his jaw, the places that he ached for more of your lips. You kissed his throat where his Adam’s apple was, then nuzzled there with your closed eyes.
“What will we do about… him?” you murmured to his skin. He sighed, brushing a kiss on your face. “I’ll handle it.” he said, his thumb grazing under the hem of your rode-up nightgown. You opened your eyes to the semi-dark room and pressed your forehead against his.
“Would— Would you really.. kiss me there?” You brushed the words to his lips as you reminisced about the exact seconds of his face angling toward yours briefly. He kissed you longingly as a response, softening you in his tongue. Your fingers went from the back of his neck to his bare upper back, finding the scars there to linen as you two shared a kiss. They were detailed, some of them he hated ferociously until you caressed them or kissed them to show how much you adored him. He would be quiet afterwards then.
When you were breathless against each other’s lips, you whispered a “Lay down.” to him after gaining your breath. He pecked your lips before getting you two comfortable on your expensive sheets as you straddled him. His head hit the pillow while his handsome face was obscured by the darkness. Your hand went to the bedside lamp on his drawer, switching it on to see him.
The light made you flutter your lashes and him to narrow his eyes before you two gained your eyesight on each other. Your eyes found his softened but needy gaze up at your lovely face. You felt shy all of a sudden at his lovefool stare, giving him a tender smile. Bruce could’ve sworn he had never felt this in love with someone, the specific crinkling of your eyes when you smiled beautifully at him carving in his mind. His hand on your thigh went through your locks, running them between before his warm palm found your cheek. His thumb caressed your flushed skin as your eyes fluttered with your bashful smile on your lips.
You angled your face slightly to kiss his palm, then nuzzled there for seconds. You came back to Bruce’s handsome face for a few pecks on his lips, later you pressed a few more kisses on his jaw and throat. His hand found your waist as you were bent to kiss his skin. You prepped wet kisses on his neck, dragging them over and over again to get him drunk on you. He groaned when your lips found his chest. You kissed each small scar, your hands on either side of his waist. You sighed to his skin when his hand on your waist went under your thigh just like the other.
You were wet already, your nightgown was suffocating you as it clung to your scorching skin with its falling straps from your shoulders. You were flushed, warm, and your fluffy hair was creating a vision for Bruce’s half-lidded eyes as you were needy. You were just his beloved goddess at some point, so unaware of the haze you were creating in his mind in your drenched state.
You did not wait for any second before you angled the position of your thighs. You were already rubbing yourself on his pants to the point that there was a moist stain from your panties on his pants. You mewled when you withdrew yourself from the spot so sweet against your clothed pussy but easily freed him from his boxers.
He was hard already, you just guessed he must have been like this for at least more than an hour. You had only seen his bulge once just in this state — throbbing with a need and continuously swollen until you had taken care of it — when you were on your period and he had no time to touch you in between the patrols.
Your thumb slightly brushed his pre-cum stained tip as you tried to soothe him. He swallowed with a groan, unable to hold himself. His pale cheeks were all flushed like yours, the sweat dripping from restraining himself for the whole fucking night. You did not wish to torture him more as your hand went to the waistband of the lacy, soaked panties of yours to pull them off your legs. You let them fall near your bed before you straddle to take your Bruce’s throbbing cock.
God, it felt amazing.
Your sighs filled the air of the dim room as you took him inch by inch inside you, your head inclining slightly to the side from the sensation of his thickness. Bruce was more ecstatic than you as your pussy was wrapped around him too perfectly that he couldn't help but let a groan as his hand on your thigh went to his face.
“Fuck,” he breathed out as you moaned softly when you sank on him. “F-fuck, baby.” he cursed as you were breathing on top of him as he was buried inside of you utterly, your hands on his chest for support. You just mewled at his words and started to move your hips.
For the first few minutes, you were left breathless with trying to get used to this thickness since he had not stretched you out. Not that you minded since you were dripping for him more than a few mintues but still. Your moans were soft in the air as you were fucking yourself on his cock just in a slow pace you liked at the moment. His hand on his face went under your thigh again as he tried to balance you in your moves.
Bruce gladly watched you from his hazy gaze as you were pleasuring yourself and him, your obscene vision and your own scent keeping him aroused as you rode him. You were so pretty, God, so fucking pretty that he had never wanted to leave that bed of yours ever again. Your fingers were digging into his rib cage from pleasure as you moved in and out on his cock with your lovely lashes fluttering.
Bruce caught the shadows of your hair strands as you moved, your inclined head to the side, his stains on your bare shoulders as the straps moved in inches, the way your nightgown was ruffled on your thighs, or your sweet sounds fell from your kiss-bruised lips as you rode him.
Everything.
He caught every inch of you in that light, in those minutes as he gripped your thighs to satisfy his touch-starvation. Your soft sounds of his name occasionally or your “baby”s were the only things left on your mouth as if you knew no word other than them.
The pleasure was so perfect for you that it left you panting not much longer than when you started to ride him. He felt so perfect in you, just as always as you did not waste any of his length, taking him and hitting your sweetest spots over and over again as he taught you in his deft hands multiple times. Your pussy knew him well enough to clench around him in your rocking, utterly accepting him as she knew who you belonged to truly.
Your pace was slower at first but now as the familiar ache formed in your belly, your riding was messy; not that he minded. It was too hot for you in your little, skin-tight nightgown as it was wrapped around your body so perfectly, your messy straps around your shoulders, and your erect nipples under the fabric were something that made Bruce curse under his breath as you were chasing you two’s pleasures.
“B-Baby—”
“I know, baby, I know. Go for it.”
He indeed knew from the way your pussy was clenching around him, your digging nails into his pale skin to create reddish marks. He had fucked you day and night to know blindly that when you were close to being a mess in his arms.
“Are— Are you c-close?” you breathed out the words when he inclined your hips to help you on one spot. He sighed with a soft ‘yes’ as his hands guided you from now on.
Bruce knew his girl so well that you’d be pliant in his arms after you came, so he helped you through it. He helped you to ride yourself on him as you were trying to get him to the spot first. He could sense your eagerness to help him out in his intoxicated state, so he let you. His thick brows were knotted to push himself before he let the back of his head be buried on his pillow as he let go.
Bruce let out a groan at the feeling, his hands gripping the back of your thigh and waist as he came for the first time in the night. He was tensing his jaw unconsciously, for the next seconds breathing the air in and out for the sweetness of euphoria. He had been holding himself for too long, specifically when the toxin filled his veins, and now he had what he yearned for?
Your need-blurred eyes caught his seconds as you barely slowed down your hips before feeling him fill you so full. Your soft moans and the movement of your hips continued to chase your own high as he was still buried in you, while his seed was dripping from your folds as you rode him. Gladly, you were in protection since Bruce and you were too young for a baby.
You rode him with your cloudy eyes as he was running his hand over his face until your hips bucked instantly. He immediately caught your hip when you couldn't hold back anymore and came with a strained gasp on your throat. You just remember the feeling so tense and instant but well enough to leave you so perfect after you came. Bruce’s hand went to your waist to rub his thumb both balance you and soothe you as you were breathing heavily in your bliss. He pulled you to himself as you gladly accepted his move, lying down on his chest for your next minutes.
You nestled into his neck as he ran his fingers through your hair to calm you down. He then dipped his face to kiss your temple and cheek with a whisper of “That’s my good girl.”.
For the next minutes, you two were silent. You stayed in each other’s arms before you came to your senses. He was quietly playing with your hair, occasionally brushing his lips on your skin. He was content in you and your scent, loving every second of you. You were about to unwrap yourself from him before you realized.
He was still hard inside you. Well, he had come in you with no struggle but to be instantly rock-hard again? You pecked the skin of his neck, then angled your face to hover over him to kiss him. That slightly caught him off guard but he did not mind.
Not at all.
You did not need to tell him your motives and he realized what you were trying to do. You two shared kisses over and over again just like the first time until you two were breathless. His hand came to your cheek, pulling you more as you backed for a breath to his lips. His other hand on your thigh went under your ruffled nightgown to find your hipbone to caress as he was busy with your lips.
You let out sighs into his mouth as his tongue entered your mouth. His zealous kissing and touch-starved brushing of his fingers on your hipbone were enough for you that he still wanted to be inside you.
You felt Bruce’s hand go to your hair again as he let you breathe after his French kiss. He did not waste any time when you were exhaling and dipped his face into your neck for kisses. He pressed a few more kisses before he murmured.
“Lay down, pretty girl.”
You did as he said. He helped you to take him off you before you lay down. But before you did, he kissed your neck with “Just like that, baby.”.
He led your back against his chest, his lips never leaving your neck. You tilted your neck barely to let him and he started to kiss every inch of your skin as his hand went to your nightgown. You were slightly pressed against him, somehow sitting on his thighs when he took off your delicate piece.
His hands were warm against your already burning skin as he effortlessly took it off from you, leaving you bare just for him. His hands went to your hip bones as his face nestled into your neck again for a few kisses before he lay you down on your stomach. You nuzzled into his pillow with your sigh while he discarded his sleep pants to be back nestled to you behind.
When he was back against you, his one arm went around your belly to press you himself more as if you weren’t his already and the other one went to your hips. You felt him, still hard as the first time in the night, behind your thighs. You moaned softly when his throbbing cock was pressed against you while he kissed the back of your neck.
“Let me, sweetheart.” he mumbled while his lips brushed your shoulder blades as he angled your hips to be buried in your viscous walls again. You let out the faintest sounds to the pillow as you took him again, easier than before. He was steady and gentle in his motives, never rushing until your walls welcomed him inch by inch again. He stayed buried in you for a few seconds, his nose pressed against your shoulder blades as he breathed your scent.
“Bruce..”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured to your skin for making you wait, his face coming back to your neck. “So sorry. Gonna’ take care of you now.”
You loved it when his Gotham accent rolled out of his tongue when he was hard and you loved it when he spoke so sweet to you in your bed. Bruce rolled his hips to move in you slowly at first while his lips were busy with his messy kisses on your neck. He was pressed against you as you two were one, his arm around your belly was slightly deterring him crushing you as he moved. His other hand on your hip went under your pillow to keep himself steady as he fucked you, moving in and out of your cunt at a steady pace.
You were so adorable under him, your hair messy on your pillow as your lovely face was nuzzled to the pillow with your sweet sounds. He was thrusting and kissing your jaw simultaneously, basically making love to you. You were so perfect in his embrace as he couldn't get enough of you over and over again, hitting your favorite spots skillfully. Your eyes were fluttering as he fucked you deeper with every thrust, your fingers gripping the hem of your pillow or the sheets between your other hand.
“B-Baby..” you were moaning into your pillow as he was cursing or kissing your back with no issue. He’d kiss your bare shoulder, your hickey-bloomed neck, or your upper back as he enjoyed every inch of you.
“Fuck — I’m right there, sweetheart.”
You felt his mouth on your spine, kissing or biting the skin to leave spots on it. He was gripping the sheets under your pillow to keep himself steady without hurting you as he thrust into you. He had been thinking about the whole vision of you just so sweetly like this since the intoxication and now he had got you where he wanted, he was trying not to overwhelm you.
Bruce had fucked you well-extended minutes, more than the first. You just remember how it was to the constant rocking of his hips in and out of your pussy, your mewls against the pillow as you gripped it and his lips to kiss your skin or groan against you — just so good to be perfect. He just made you come again in those moments, let you relish in your euphoria before chasing you one more time for the night.
“I-It’s too m-much,” you told him as he was panting against your jaw. He kissed your skin, as he heard your words, for relief.
“No, come on.” he said while his hand was around your belly lowered as he found your clit. You let out a broken sound when you were sensitive from the second orgasm before. He tried to be gentle as he preassured your spot over and over again with his deft fingers which made you desperate for a release as he was thrusting into you simultaneously. You were a mess in his arms during those seconds, with your sweet sounds just like he wanted you to be — to enjoy the aftermath of his actions.
You just let out a strangled moan against your pillow when you orgasmed for the last time. Your already sensitive body was chasing it heavily and when Bruce made you see the stars, you were satisfied fully and exhausted in his embrace. “That’s my girl.” he muttered as you were still in the aftershocks of your orgasm, brushing his lips over your temple, over the lashes of your half-lidded eyes.
Bruce was suppressing himself from the first time you made him come and when you came, he followed you after a few more deep thrusts and saw the stars himself. He was panting against your hair, his face pressed on your head with his closed eyes as he filled you. You felt him thick and hot in you as his seed was buried in you to the point that it’d come out of you after he pulled out.
As he orgasmed, he was mindful of not crushing you under himself, balancing himself on his elbows which later when he was alright, he lay down slightly next to you — still pressed to you like a man in love.
You two stayed in that position for a long time. You two were out of energy, just you and him in the dim light as you were skin to skin. He was breathing the air and your scent quietly, sometimes his lips on your temple while you were sleepily snuggled to your pillow. When he realized that he was drowsy just like you, he pulled himself out of you gently and pulled the covers over you two. His action caught your sleepy mind before he switched off the light and nuzzled into your neck.
“Hi,” you whispered into the darkness as your fingers found his damp, messy hair. He smiled against you before murming a “Hi, baby.” to your skin.
“How do you feel?” you murmured with your eyes getting heavy.
“Good.” he answered. “I’m good.”
“Okay.”
“We can shower together in the morning, yeah? I’ll clean you up.” he said, his hands tightening around your waist as if cleaning the mess between your thighs was a huge problem. You smiled at his words before answering.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
So who would have known that a mere aphrodisiac would leave your Bruce in this state, specifically when he was the Dark Knight? It was a few days later that you were met by the whispers of Batman’s obsessive admiration for you on his knees which was something Gotham nobles would carry out forevermore.
♡
thank you so much for reading! ♡
here is the “masterlist” and “pieces on the way” if you would like to see! ♡
tbh clark would love being called kal-el by those closest to him. obviously my brain goes to poly!superbat, though.
warnings- smut 18+ only, unprotected p in v sex, rimming (m receiving), oral (f and m receiving)
rosy cheeks every time it slipped from your mouth. most often in these moments,
early mornings where he was still half-asleep. skin warm with lines from the blankets etched into his skin. sleepy eyes and hands always pulling himself towards you or bruce. he’d sigh in content, feeling the most at home he’s ever felt.
when he jolts awake from a nightmare with frantic eyes and a heaving chest. his first thought is to not wake either of you up. to go to the living room and just deal with it alone. but he regains his senses and ends up waking either you or bruce up, seeking comfort. without fail, whoever he leaves sleeping ends up waking up from all the movement anyways. you both tuck him in between you, if he isn’t already, and soothe him with gentle touches and reassuring words. whispers of his birth name and promises of your boundless love eventually lull him back to sleep. two sets of arms wrapped around his form. two hands that stroke his soft skin. two sets of lips that press long kisses to his hair, neck, shoulders, cheeks… everywhere.
while he’s cooking for you and bruce in the kitchen. either in his apartment or at the manor with alfred shoo’ed away. he moves with ease, flipping bacon and pancakes before either have time to burn, because when it’s his turn to cook it’s always breakfast for dinner. he has an apron on, likely a frilly “kiss the cook!” one that was definitely made to fit your size, not his. tongue between his teeth and whispering measurements to himself. every time, without fail, either you or bruce sneak up behind him to wrap you arms around his waist and sneak bites of food. you’ll nuzzle your face against his shoulder with a hum, “mmm, thanks kal-el”
you’re all getting ready for another gala. bruce goes to help clark tie his tie while you finish your hair. although clark has tied his own tie a million times, he shows no objection to letting bruce do the job for him. bruce takes time to run his fingers along the tie underneath clark’s collar to “make sure it’s not flipped”. the contact would have clark a little flustered already. but after he’s all set, bruce kisses him and whispers “you look so handsome, kal-el.”, and it renders him speechless.
when he’s hurt, his powers stripped from kryptonite or his body aches from a brutal combat. either in the hospital or the medical corner of the cave. you hover over him with tears in your eyes, hands shaky and lip wobbling. “kal-el.. honey, please.” you’d whimper. your hands move from his arms to his chest, up to his face, wherever you can touch him as if the feeling would suddenly heal him. bruce is just as unwell, but more quiet. in a nearby chair with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
but moooooooooost definitely in the bedroom. sorry i’m a horndog 4ever. lemme share some thoughts
-bruce railing clark while he eats you out. both of you telling him how good he is, how he’s such a sweetheart, “so good for us, kal-el..”
-you & bruce worshipping clark’s cock. “such a pretty cock, kal-el… so fucking hard for us.. look at you..” while he whines and squirms.
-missionary where clark is just fucking the life out of you while bruce watches. “oh- fuck! mm- kal! fuck, kal-el.. right there.”
-bruce rimming him while you suck him off. “taste so fucking good, kal. mmm.. this ass is fuckin’ mine, kal-el.”
-him and bruce DP’ing you. “bruce.. kal… shit, oh fuck you’re so deep.”
and finally, when he’s a little bit floaty and in subspace. shaky breathing and heavy eyes while you and bruce clean him up. “so good for us, kal-el..” “kal-el.. so perfect. all ours, hmm?” and sweet murmurs of his name while you hold him in the hot bath after 🤌🏼
