sukuna's sweetheart!reader gf accidentally gets high for the first time..
wc: 1.7k
meet sweetheart!reader
you had smoked weed once before this, if you could call that smoking. it was at one of tojis infamous parties, you were wasted and curled up against sukuna on the battered couch of the frat house. sukuna had been smoking the blunt, his eyes drooping with each puff.
you turned to him, drunk and giggly, "sukuna can i try?"
he side eyed you and grunted, "no. shits bad for you"
"but you're doing it" you attempted puppy dog eyes, desperately wanting to know what it would be like.
he had let out a rough sigh before taking a hit and grabbing your face kissing you and exhaling into your mouth. he smirked a bit when you coughed and spluttered.
"you okay baby?" he watched as you slumped back against him further, eyes dilated and limbs heavy.
you mumbled a faint response before closing your eyes against him chest.
and that was it. you never felt like smoking again, and sukuna was very against you doing anything to harm your virgin lungs.
until...
you were at geto's birthday party. sukuna would be a bit late because he was getting a last minute birthday gift for suguru (despite you telling him multiple times in the past week to go get him something).
you had offered to come help him pick one out but sukuna insisted you go to the party and give suguru the gift you had gotten (which you were so proud of).
while sukuna didn't like the idea of you alone at a party, he entrusted toji to be on lookout duty and take care of you, at least for the first hour before sukuna got there.
you entered the party with shoko and utahime, your pretty white dress sliding up your thighs slightly when you trot over to suguru to give him his birthday wishes and gift.
he had happily taken your perfectly wrapped gift and in exchange pushed a drink into your hand and sent you on your merry way.
you were on your way back to shoko and utahime when you spotted brownies laying tantalisingly on a plate. you were hungry and the night was going to be long so you grabbed 4 brownies, one for each of your friends and you wandered back to them.
plopping down on the couch next to yuki, you offered her one, to which she denied giving you an incredulous look. which was strange because, were they not just regular brownies?
both utahime and shoko denied, shoko saying she'll stick to smoking.
weird.
thats how you found yourself eating 4 brownies. after the first one you had stumbled your way around to try and offer the other brownies to any takers.
you were nibbling on the second one when you spotted choso. "hey cho! do you want a brownie?"
his half lidded eyes met yours, "no thanks i already had one, and i made them so i can have them any time."
"i guess i have to eat these four then.." you sighed
"i don't think that's a good idea.." choso trailed off.
"huh" you mumble already on the third one. before he can clarify you're gone.
having swayed your way back to the couch, you slump, really feeling the effects. "sho i feel weird..." and you're reaching for the 4th brownie.
only you realise thats not shoko, it's toji.
"oh hey toji" you mumble, mouth full with the remnants of the 4th brownie.
the drink he was sporting is now resting on the table as he turns to look at you. slumped, eyes dilated, red rimmed, drooping lids, pouted glossy lips.
fuck. hes so incredibly fucked.
"angel how many of those fucking brownies did you have?"
you giggle at his seriousness. putting up 4 fingers you shove them in his face.
he drags a hand down his face.
"sukuna is going to fucking kill me"
toji’s already hauling you up by your elbows before you can slump any further into the couch
“c’mon, angel. up.”
“mmm no…” you whine softly, your head tipping back dramatically, “i’m sitting…”
“yeah? you’re also gone,” he mutters, half to himself, half to whatever higher power is about to watch him get murdered by sukuna
you don’t really register moving
just that suddenly you’re somewhere quieter—some random bedroom upstairs, the bass of the party muffled through the walls, your body melting into the mattress like it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched
“toji,” you mumble, blinking slowly at the ceiling, “i feel like… floaty”
“yeah. no shit,” he snorts, dragging a chair over so he can keep an eye on you
“am i dying?”
he pauses. looks at you.
“…no. you’re just high out of your mind”
“toji,” you say again, very serious, “my arms feel weird”
“that’s because you ate four edibles,” he says flatly
you blink at him
“…what’s an edible?”
he actually laughs at that. like a short, disbelieving huff
“you’ve gotta be kidding me”
when sukuna arrives, he throws the poorly bagged gift onto the pile of gifts and immediately seeks you out.
he goes to the couch, where you would normally be. can't see you. he goes to shoko who's smoking outside. she hasn't seen you. he goes to yuki and choso who were all over eachother. they haven't seen you. he even goes to that idiot gojo with his stupid fucking amazing eyes. he hasn't seen you.
he starts to flip his shit. he opens every room of the fucking house, before he reaches a bedroom where he sees you laying on a bed, with toji in a chair taking a sip of a drink.
he inspects you. spread out on the bed, glassy-eyed, cheeks flushed, blinking at him like he’s just walked out of a dream
his expression drops instantly
“what the fuck happened.”
toji raises his hands immediately “not my fault. she ate the brownies”
“what brownies.”
“the ones choso made”
silence. then, slowly “…how many”
toji points at you “ask your girl”
sukuna’s gaze snaps back to you
he crosses the room in two steps, crouching in front of the bed, one hand coming up to cup your face, turning your head toward him
“hey,” his voice is lower now, rough but controlled, “look at me”
you do. and then you smile: soft, dopey, completely gone.
“hi ‘kuna…”
something in his expression softens for half a second before snapping back. “how many did you eat.”
you hold up your hand proudly. four fingers.
he stares “…you’re joking”
you shake your head, very serious again. “they were really good”
toji barks out a laugh from the corner “i told you. she inhaled them”
“get out,” sukuna says immediately.
“gladly” and he’s gone in seconds.
traitor.
the door shuts and suddenly it’s just you and sukuna. his hands are still on your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes as he studies you. your pupils are huge. your breathing is slow. you lean into his touch without thinking
“you’re late,” you mumble
his jaw tightens, “yeah. i know”
then your hand lifts, clumsy, grabbing at his sleeve “i missed you”
that hits him harder than anything else tonight, his grip on you softens immediately
“yeah?”
you nod, then squint at him “…your face is moving”
he huffs, almost a laugh, shaking his head, “course it is”
“you’re not allowed to eat random shit at parties anymore,” he mutters into your hair
“i didn’t know…” you mumble defensively
“i know”
he sighs, pressing his cheek briefly to the top of your head “…i know, sweetheart”
you readjust so you're on top of him, swaying slightly on your way up. before your head lulls forward and plops on his chest. you’re fully draped across sukuna at this point. not even sitting properly. just sprawled half on his lap, half against his chest.
he’s got one arm locked around your waist to keep you from sliding off the bed
“…you good?” he asks, low and unimpressed
you tilt your head up to look at him very slowly, very seriously.
“…you have two faces”
he rolls his eyes “…i have what”
you squint, lifting a hand and poking his cheek but missing spectacularly and instead landing on his chin.
“…they’re like… overlapping” he grabs your wrist before you can poke his eye out. “that’s called being high, genius”
you gasp “don’t call me that”
“…genius?”
“yeah” you mumble, offended, immediately melting back into him, “be nice to me…”
he rolls his eyes but his grip tightens slightly around you anyway “i am being nice. you’re lucky i don't drag you downstairs and grab myself a blunt so i don't have to deal with your bullshit”
you go very still then slowly lift your head again.
“…you would never do that”
he doesn’t answer immediately, just stares at you for a second.
“…yeah,” he mutters finally, quieter, “no. i wouldn’t”
you grin like you’ve just won something then immediately get distracted by your own hand.
“…my fingers feel fake”
you wiggle them in front of your face, completely fascinated
“‘kuna… look”
“i see them”
“no like… look”
you grab his face this time, turning it toward your hand and he lets you.
because apparently this is his life now
“…they’re moving when i tell them to,” you whisper, awestruck
“that’s usually how it works”
“that’s crazy”
he huffs out a laugh through his nose shaking his head.
“…don’t go anywhere” you mumble
his expression shifts again. softens, just slightly “not going anywhere,” he mutters
you hum, satisfied. then after a second, “…‘kuna?”
“what.”
“…if i was a dog…”
he already looks tired “no”
“just listen”
he sighs “…fine. what”
you look up at him, dead serious again “…would you adopt me?”
there’s a pause. then he actually laughs. low, surprised, real “you’re so fucking stupid,” he mutters, shaking his head but his hand comes up anyway, brushing your hair back from your face. gentler than his words.
“…yeah,” he says after a second “i would”
you beam like that’s the best answer you could’ve gotten then immediately tuck your face back into his chest completely content.
and sukuna just sits there one arm around you, hand absently rubbing slow circles into your back, waiting it out, making sure you’re okay, even if you’re the most ridiculous thing he’s ever had to deal with.
clark kent x female!sweetheart!reader — "i don't like superman."
clark learns this about you three weeks into working together.
it happens over coffee. one of your coworkers is rambling excitedly about another rescue on the news, smiling as they point toward the television mounted in the corner of the bullpen.
"...and then superman just caught the entire train before it hit the bridge." someone else laughs. "he's unbelievable." "i swear, metropolis would fall apart without him."
everyone nods. everyone except you. you take a sip of your coffee. "i don't really likesuperman."
the newsroom goes strangely quiet. clark nearly chokes. "you don't?" jimmy blurts out.
you shrug. "not really."
clark blinks. "why?"
your answer comes so easily it almost hurts. "i just don't."
the conversation follows him for the rest of the day. you don't like superman. it's such a bizarre sentence that he keeps replaying it in his head. most people love superman, or admire him. or at the very least appreciate him. but you... you genuinely don't seem to.
over the next few weeks, clark starts paying attention. every time someone brings up superman, you smile politely before changing the subject. when kids run around pretending to fly, you smile at them, never the hero they're pretending to be. you never buy into the hype. you never roll your eyes either. it's just... indifference.
eventually he asks carefully. you're walking back from lunch together. "can i ask you something?"
"of course."
"why don't you like superman?"
you look at him. "you really wanna know?"
"yeah."
you think for a second. "i think people rely on him too much."
"how?"
"whenever something goes wrong, everyone just says, 'superman will fix it.'" you gesture toward the city around you. "i don't know." "it feels..." you search for the right word. "...unhealthy." clark stays quiet so you continue. "i'm grateful for what he does. i really am but i don't think one person should have to carry the weight of an entire city."
his steps slow. "what do you mean?"
you shrug. "he's still... someone. people act like he isn't. everyone expects him to save them. every single time."
clark completely forgets how to walk. that's not what he expected. he thought you'd call him arrogant. instead... you feel sorry for him.
after that, something changes. clark starts noticing the little things. every time the news praises superman for another impossible rescue... you don't smile. you just quietly say, "i hope he's okay."
when people complain that superman wasn't fast enough... you immediately defend him. "he can't be everywhere."
when a headline reads SUPERMAN FAILS TO PREVENT BUILDING COLLAPSE you're the first person to look annoyed. "he still saved everyone inside."
"you said you didn't like him." clark points out one afternoon.
you nod. "i don't. but i don't think people are fair to him. those are different things."
he stares. "how?"
you laugh. "clark. you can dislike someone and still think they deserve kindness." his heart melts a little.
he tries. god, he tries. he starts smiling more during rescues. waves at crowds. lets little kids take pictures. helps old ladies cross the street. returns lost dogs. anything. anything that might make you like superman just a little more.
one evening he lands after stopping a robbery. the police thank him. reporters surround him. he answers a few questions. then—
"superman?" he turns. it's you. walking home with groceries tucked against your hip.
his entire face lights up. "...hi."
you blink."hi."
he tries not to smile too much but fails immediately. "everything okay?"
"yeah." you glance toward the reporters. "just wanted to say..." he waits. "...thanks."
his chest warms. "...for what?"
"my neighbor works in that bank. you saved her."
he ducks his head. "a-anyone would've."
"...no." you shake your head. "they couldn't have." there's a brief silence. then you add, "...still don't like you very much, though."
clark's face falls so fast it's almost comical. "oh."
you have to bite your lip. he looks disappointed, like a puppy who just got told he couldn't come inside.
"sorry." he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "guess i've... got some work to do." before you can answer, he smiles politely and takes off into the sky.
that night you're still thinking about his face. not offended. not annoyed. he looked like he'd actually wanted your approval.
a week later you're eating lunch with clark. he's absentmindedly stirring sugar into his coffee. "can i ask you something?"
he looks up. "sure."
"does superman..." you hesitate. "always look that... disappointed?"
clark nearly spits out his drink. "what?"
"last week." you fiddle with your napkin. "when i told him i didn't like him he looked..." you sigh. "really sad."
clark has to look away before he starts smiling. "well..." he says carefully. "maybe.. he just wanted you to like him?"
you laugh. "why?"
he shrugs. "maybe he likes making people happy. i guess."
"if you ever see him." you smile sheepishly. "tell him i don't dislike him as much anymore."
"really?"
"yeah." you laugh quietly. "he's growing on me." clark's grin is so impossibly wide that you stop mid-sentence. "what?"
"nothing." he clears his throat. "just..." he can't help it. "i think he'd be really happy to hear that."
you smile. "you think?"
clark nods immediately. "more than you know."
and later that evening, when superman rescues a cat from a tree despite the owner insisting it wasn't necessary... he's smiling so brightly the entire city notices.
nobody understands why. except one very flustered reporter sitting at her apartment window, looking up at the streak of blue across the sunset. "he really is kind of adorable."
high above the city, clark hears it and nearly flies straight into a billboard.
4 times hotch acts like a father figure and the 1 time he most definitely does not.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader
warnings: fem!reader, slow burn, age gap (reader is 20s, hotch is late 40s, iktr), dbf!hotch, power imbalance, boss/subordinate dynamic, mutual pining, daddy issues (reader... prob also hotch), fluff, hurt/comfort, touch starved reader, garcia sending dirty texts!!, reader having dirty thoughts!!, reader sending hotch a suggestive pic by accident whoops!!, they are sooooo down bad for each other
wc: 6.8k (shewww stfu already gurl)
1 THE NUCLEAR OPTION
Aaron Hotchner looks very, very out of place standing in your bedroom.
Not inappropriate. You want to be very clear about that. You are two fully grown adults with fully operational frontal lobes and a respectable understand of professional decorum.
There is nothing scandalous happening here beyond your own imagination, briefly supplying an image of him against your headboard before you swatted it away like a cat attempting to push a glass from a countertop.
It’s just… visually disorienting.
He’s all severity and slate-gray composure now in a room rendered in blush and cream and the kind of girlish optimism that suggests you refuse to let your job bleach the color out of you.
He doesn’t fit, to put it plainly. Not physically (the man has shoulders like a structural beam) and definitely not symbolically.
Despite this, he takes his time as he scans the space with a clinical neutrality that feels less like judgment per se and more like being positioned beneath an unforgiving forensic lamp, dusted for prints you didn’t realize you’d left behind.
Is he analyzing this? Is he building a psychological profile right now based on the chipped mug of pens beside your bed and the stuffed bear you can’t seem to get rid of? The half-burnt vanilla candle on your nightstand that, yes, you absolutely lit knowing he was coming — all of it suddenly looks childish.
Embarrassing. Juvenile.
This is how people die.
Not from shame, exactly, though that’s certainly trying its best, but from being comprehensively, devastatingly perceived by a man whose entire job is to see through facades.
He offered to wait by the door. Kindly. Considerably. With that quiet, unfussy courtesy that makes you sure, in the fullest sense of the word, he holds elevators open and always returns his shopping cart with solemn civic pride.
You should’ve let him. Really.
But no, instead of choosing the sensible option like someone who understands the boundaries of time, space, and self-preservation, you made a mistake. A fatal, irredeemable mistake.
You waved him in.
And now, instead of standing respectfully beside your umbrella stand and politely pretending that driving you to the airport isn’t already a favor beyond what his job requires, Aaron Hotchner is in your bedroom.
What did you offer in exchange for this selfless act of transportation? Not coffee or gas money. Oh, just full unfiltered access to the inner circle of your private life.
You shove another sweater into your suitcase.
“I promise I usually plan better than this,” you say, “but I got caught on a call with my landlord trying to determine whether my oven is gas or electric, which I apparently never clarified in three years of tenancy.”
You hesitate, already regretting the admission, because he is a man who knows the make and model of every government-issued vehicle he’s ever driven.
“In my defense,” you tack on quickly, “it functions. I press a button, it produces heat. We’ve maintained a very mutual, low-communication relationship.”
One of his eyebrow lifts, just enough to suggest that he has several thoughts and is choosing the kindest one.
“That’s the sort of thing you really should know,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of dry humor threaded through the words, as if he’s allowing himself a single inch of amusement. “I can take a look when we get back.”
You let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like nervous air leaking from a balloon you’ve been gripping too tightly.
“That’s — you don’t have to — you really don’t have to do that,” you rush out, tripping over your own politeness. “You are not responsible for my… appliance literacy. Or the alarming gaps within it.” You gesture helplessly at the room, at the half-packed suitcase. “You’re already doing so much. If I start assigning you household infrastructure, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as abuse of power.” You pause. “Not that I have any. Power, I mean. Very famously not in possession of that.”
He doesn’t bother disguising that same for of amusement this time that touches now his mouth.
“I’ve done worse favors.”
You squint at him.
“I feel like that says more about your life than it does about me.” You study him for a moment, then let your shoulders ease despite your best efforts. “Still. Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
The words come out sincere, and for half a second the eye contact holds in a way that feels less professional and more… something else.
Which is your cue to flee into safer territory.
“Anyway, I am really excited about this conference. The keynote speaker is incredible. I’ve read three of her papers, and the case studies she’s presenting are the kind of things I used to read in grad school like they were campfire ghost stories.” You pause, reconsider. “More academic ghost stories. Less paranormal. Still pretty grim, though. Just… fascinating grim.”
He lets your excitement taper off unanswered, glancing down into your suitcase before lifting his eyes back to you.
“It’s going to be cold.”
You frown at derailment of the conversation. “...Yes?”
“You need a coat.”
“I have a coat,” you reply, pointing to the quilted white thing draped over your desk chair.
It has gold buttons. It is elegant. It is, admittedly, constructed with more outer-appearance than insulation.
“A real coat.”
“It is real,” you insist, because it exists, and you have worn it outside, and therefore it satisfies the basic criteria of outerwear under the laws of physics.
“You’ll freeze.”
You want to keep arguing.
You want to explain that the coat you chose is mostly warm, that it performs adequately under reasonable atmospheric conditions, that packing the bulky, government-issued tundra shield he likely considers appropriate would have required sacrificing something essential.
Like your backup flats, the only pair that doesn’t turn conference halls into endurance trials, or your travel straightener, which is less about aesthetics and more about appearing competent in harsh lighting.
But the look he gives you — so mild on the surface, so pointed beneath — drains the rebellion right out of your lungs.
Suddenly, it’s not about fashion or function. It’s about the existential need to not disappoint him.
You cannot afford to lose even a sliver of the regard he has chosen to extend to you.
You hoard his approval the way a crow gathers bright scraps of tin and glass, tucking them into the hollow spaces inside you, convinced that if you collect enough of it, it might one day harden into something sturdy enough to stand on.
So you sigh, equal parts petulance and submission, and turn back toward the closet in search of something thicker.
You sift through your wardrobe and grab a soft navy peacoat. You smooth your palm over the fabric as if presentation alone might improve its chances, then hold it up with the careful hesitation of someone submitting evidence to the court.
You don’t speak, but your eyes ask the question plainly: Is this acceptable? Does this restore confidence? Does this prove I can anticipate basic survival?
He studies it for no more than a second before the verdict arrives in the form of a single shake of his head.
You exhale slowly, already holding a small, private funeral for your pride, and reach into the back of the closet for the final option.
The nuclear choice.
The coat you swore would remain undisturbed unless meteorologists began using phrases like “artic blast” or “polar vortex.”
It’s fleece-lined. Excessively practical. It is also deeply, almost maliciously unattractive.
It swallows you whole, reduces your silhouette to an amorphous mass, and renders you less woman-on-business-trip and more sentient sleeping bag with ambition.
He nods, once. “Atta girl.”
You hate how effortlessly those two words melt down the structural integrity of your independence liquefying into dopamine-slush.
He’s an asshole, you decide.
Because you are entirely certain he knows what it does to you, how his approval lands like a controlled substance you never consented to trying, let alone craving.
Sometimes you suspect he enjoys it, just a little, watching you attempt to maintain dignity while your internal self is spinning barefoot through a field of daisies, drunk on validation.
You duck your head quickly, hiding the smile that threatens to surface, and shove the coat into your suitcase as if you can compress the feeling along with it.
“You always this stubborn?”
You wrinkle your nose.
“I prefer the word… determined,” you say, keeping your tone light, flippant even. Then you exhale. “But yes. Probably.”
“I don’t want you getting sick.”
You freeze for a second before looking at him. He’s already watching you with that stupidly hot expression that means something, but never tells you what.
Your throat tightens around something inconvenient. “Okay.”
He nods once, satisfied, like the matter has been properly resolved.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “Wear it on the plane.”
You huff a small breath through your nose.
“You’re surprisingly bossy for someone who isn’t technically supervising me right now.”
“Think of it as preventative strategy.”
You shake your head, but the smallest smile slips through despite yourself as you reach for the coat anyway. Because if his concern is the motive, then anything else suddenly feels… unnecessary.
And maybe a little unkind.
2 FORTY-TWO AND FORTY-THREE
The hotel is… not what you prepared for. You’d braced yourself for something sensible. Industrial carpet in a shade of brown that exists solely to forgive stains. The smell of disinfectant doing its honest, blue-collar best to mask a thousand anonymous overnights. Clean sheets, sure. Functional plumbing, ideally.
Maybe a little plant in the lobby that some waters too enthusiastically out of obligation rather than love.
Instead, there’s marble everywhere. Gold accents. Furniture that looks as though someone fluffs it between guests on a strict hourly rotation.
It’s almost funny, the budgetary whiplash between “active serial killer in rural nowhere” and “please observe our institutional excellence.”
Apparently, when the FBI wants to project competence, it does so in chandeliers and imported stone.
“Did you manage to sleep on the flight?” you ask, hoping it sounds completely normal coming from your overextended mouth.
Which you are, to set the record straight. Normal. Very normal. A model of composure. The very portrait of workplace appropriateness.
Not, for example, someone who, five minutes ago at the front desk, briefly entertained the likelihood of an overbooking error and the subsequent moral dilemma of one room, one bed, and a shared look of well, this is unfortunate.
You did not, under any circumstances, imagine saying something graceful like, “Oh, I don’t mind the couch,” while secretly hoping there wasn’t one.
You are a rational human being, after all.
If your thoughts briefly detoured into logistical fantasy, that is simply narrative conditioning from too many romance novels dog-earred on your nightstand teaching you that proximity plus tension equals destiny.
It is not a reflection of your character.
Probably.
Although the fact that your first instinct in a crisis is self-sacrifice for the sake of optics is… interesting. Something to unpack later. Preferably never.
“Enough,” he answers. “I wanted to make sure you did.”
Your pulse somersaults. You can’t figure out why.
“Oh. I did,” you assure him.
“Good.” He inclines his head slightly. “Long day tomorrow.”
“Right,” you nod. “Can’t have me falling asleep mid-panel and drooling on a nationally recognized criminologist. That would be deeply damaging to the Bureau’s image.”
You tuck your hands into your coat pockets, hiding the nervous flex of your fingers, and lengthen your stride to keep pace with him.
He manages to walk with such an unrushed confidence that somehow never looks like an effort, and you fall into step beside him like you’ve been trained to it.
The hallway stretches ahead in muted tones and hotel anonymity, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sharp click of your heels as though it understands the value of discretion.
“I’ve reviewed your grad work,” he says calmly. “You’re more likely to correct the panel than fall asleep during it.”
You freeze.
“You have?”
It comes out before you can moderate the enthusiasm.
Of course he has, you remind yourself quickly. He does not tolerate blind spots. You are an allocation of federal resources, and he is meticulous about ensuring his investments are strategically sound.
Still, the idea of him reading your thesis — your painstakingly footnoted, cross-referenced, over-edited labor of love — feels intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
You remember the nights you folded yourself around your laptop, hair twisted up, rereading paragraphs until the words blurred, muttering about theoretical frameworks and definitional clarity like they were moral obligations.
You rewrote the introduction twelve times because it didn’t sound authoritative enough. You panicked over whether your sources were recent enough. Influential enough. Impressive enough.
Did he think it was disciplined? Did he see how hard you worked to make it unimpeachable? Did he notice where you rushed the methodology section because the deadline was breathing down your neck? Did he recognize the case study you were secretly proud of, the one you worried might read as ambition masquerading as competence?
“Yes.”
He looks at you, and for one breathless, precarious second you’re convinced he’s going to add something more. A descriptor. An evaluation. Something you could cradle later in private.
A word like “impressive,” perhaps. Or even “solid.”
You’d take solid. Solid is dependable. Solid can be examined from every angle at midnight while you’re brushing your teeth, replayed and replayed until it wears smooth.
But he offers nothing else. He simply holds your gaze, and the silence lengthens until it becomes reflective, until you can see yourself inside it.
The flicker of expectation you tried to mute, the hopeful tilt of your expression, the subtle widening that betrays how badly you wanted confirmation.
You’re suddenly hyperaware of how readable you must be, how clearly you hunger for the thing he chose not to give.
He looks away first and keeps walking, and you’re left wondering whether the silence is mercy, sparing you from overinvestment, or leverage, something he’ll deploy when it serves him best.
You quicken your pace regardless, because composure feels optional and you are, inconveniently, invested in every unsaid thing.
You close the gap between you more quickly than necessary, nearly brushing his shoulder when he stops in front of two identical doors.
Forty-two and forty-three.
Twin thresholds to separate, responsibly partitioned realities, as if a number on a plaque is enough to define distance.
“Any preferences?” you ask, gesturing between the rooms.
As if you aren’t very intune with the fact that whichever number you take situates him precisely one wall away, separated by drywall, wiring, and the thinnest possible illusion of propriety.
“Take this one,” he says, already extending the keycard. Forty-three.
“Okay,” you say instantly, because apparently your default setting when he gives you direction is cheerful compliance.
Pavlov would have had a field day.
You glance toward his door, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Should I be concerned you’re assigning yourself the superior territory? Is it the presidential suite? Hidden minibar advantage?”
He nearly smiles, but it never quite materializes.
“Yours faces the main corridor and the elevators. Mine faces the exterior exit.”
You blink at him, confused by the specificity.
“If something happens,” he continues, “I want you between both access points. That gives me visibility from either direction.”
“You’re planning for something?”
“I always plan for something.”
“I suppose that shouldn’t shock me.”
And it doesn’t, not really, because this is a man who could probably draft a contingency plan for a power outage in a room full of generators, who once paused outside a crime scene long enough to reroute you around a thin patch of ice you hadn’t seen, hand hovering near your elbow, just in case gravity decided to make an example of you.
Planning is his default state, his resting pulse, his love language if he had one he’d admit to.
But you’ve started noticing, and you wish you hadn’t, how the calculations seem to grow sharper when you’re involved, how his posture adjusts if you’re nearest to a door, how he subtly corrals space so you’re buffered from whatever could go wrong.
It’s probably subconscious. It has to be subconscious. You are not the axis around which his vigilance rotates. You are a member of the team. A junior one at that. This is leadership, not preference. Protocol, not protectiveness.
“No,” he agrees calmly. “It shouldn’t.”
You lift the keycard toward the reader, already angling yourself toward the door, but he moves a half-step ahead of you. His hand closes around the handle before yours can, body stepping between you.
You look up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
He says it like the answer should have been self-evident, like you’re the one lagging behind for needing clarification, and then he’s stepping into your room before you are.
You watch as he moves through the space.
The deadbolt is tested. The chain latch examined. He leans in to inspect the peephole alignment, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes the doorframe, and you have the deeply inconvenient thought that this is what intimacy apparently looks like in your life — a man assessing sightlines and entry points.
His gaze tracks the ceiling corners next, scanning for blind spots. The bathroom door opens, lights flick on, the shower curtain is drawn back in one motion. Closet doors slide open and closed.
You hover near the entrance with your arms folded loosely, doing your absolute best impression of a person who is not secretly going, wow, okay, so this is what it looks like when a man is competent and terrifying and also, unfortunately, really, really attractive while doing the least romantic task imaginable.
You need to get a grip.
“It’s not exactly a cartel safehouse,” you offer.
“No,” he agrees evenly, checking the window latch. “But it’s still a point of vulnerability.”
He presses the window once more.
Satisfied with the resistance, he steps aside only then, as if you’ve been waiting for clearance.
“You can go in.”
You tilt your head. “Permission granted?”
“Recommendation,” he corrects.
“Right.”
He turns toward the hallway.
“Call me if you need me.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You could call him for a hundred legitimate reasons. You could call him because the lock jams. Because the heater rattles. Because the hallway feels too quiet.
You could call him for none at all, just to hear his voice confirm that the wall between you is only drywall and not distance.
3 EFFICIENT ENERGY ALLOCATION
You know something is wrong the second you open your hotel door. Or, fine, not something. Someone. More specifically, him. Hotch.
There are two small lines gathering between his eyebrows, deepening incrementally the longer he looks at you, like he’s sketching blueprints for a cathedral of disapproval.
You know that look. You’ve built a secret mental archive of his face, categorized and cross-referenced with devotion, the way other people collect vintage wine or heirloom china.
This particular arrangement means he’s thinking too hard. Which is either excellent or catastrophic, and with him, the margin between those two things is gossamer-thin.
It’s a tell, though he would sooner walk into oncoming traffic than admit he has any.
And you would never correct him on it. You are not nearly foolish enough to forfeit your single, fragile advantage in this — whatever this is.
Because in the market of Hotch, he is always running four moves ahead on a chessboard you're still trying to locate.
And the longer he stares, the more your confidence begins to dissolve like sugar melting into coffee until you can’t even remember it once existed in defined, crystalline pieces.
Your body, traitor that it is, moves to compensate: spine straightening without permission, vertebrae aligning themselves one by one, chin tipping upward a fraction as though the geometry of good posture might function as armor.
Your hand finds your hair. Smooths it back over your shoulder. Corrects, with careful fingers, a flaw that was not there a moment ago. That would not exist at all, actually, if his eyes hadn’t passed over you and invented it.
“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that,” you ask, attempting breezy and landing somewhere closer to ambitious intern pleading her case before a tribunal, “should I be concerned?”
He doesn’t answer right away and the silence manages to gather density. It pools in the corridor between you, thickening by the second, and you hold out for what feels like a respectable amount of time before your mouth makes a unilateral decision.
“Did something smudge? I knew I blinked weird during mascara and I made a judgment call that it was probably fine and I think we're both seeing how that turned out. This is what I get for rushing.”
For a second, something almost like disbelief crosses his features, there and gone, a brief constitutional crisis behind his eyes, as though he’s carefully sorting through his available responses and selecting the least inflammatory one.
“Your mascara is fine,” he says finally, and the economy of it, the complete lack of reassurance beyond the bare clinical fact, is so extraordinarily him that you almost want to write it down.
His eyes move downward again before finding yours again, the crease between his brows intact and now, you think, accompanied by a friend.
“I’m trying to determine,” he continues, “whether you were aware of the temperature outside when you selected that outfit.” He looks toward the end of the hallway. “It’s fourteen degrees.”
You frown and glance down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of every seam and hem. Pencil skirt. Tailored, modest, entirely appropriate. Blouse tucked in neatly, sleeves buttoned to the wrist.
Tights, which are admittedly optimized somewhat more for aesthetic cohesion than for any serious confrontation with polar endurance, but which are nonetheless indisputably, demonstrably present.
And the jacket he chose. You draw it closed around yourself now, pulling the lapels together with both hands, turning just slightly toward him. Here. Look. Proof. You followed the parameters. You incorporated the feedback. You are, in this moment, the living embodiment of a person who listens and learns and shows up correctly dressed, and you would like that acknowledged, please.
“I was aware.”
“Then I’m concerned about your definition of the word.”
“I’m wearing layers.”
His brown eyes drop once again. Slow with the unhurried certainty of a man who has never once been rushed by another person’s discomfort, and comes to rest at the hem of your skirt, right where it grazes your thighs, and simply remains.
Every hair on your body stands at full attention, a physiological standing ovation for the specific quality of being looked at by him. Your hands want to move — to the hem, to the lapels, to anything that might constitute a defensive action — and you refuse them, one by one, with great effort and limited success.
No. Absolutely not. You will not flinch. You will not fidget. You will not give him the satisfaction of watching you fold, because the moment you reach for that hem is the moment you've lost, and you are already losing enough in this conversation.
He exhales slowly, the kind of exhale that has a whole paragraph in it, before he speaks. “The skirt is short.”
“It’s not —” you begin, warmth rushing up your neck before you can determine whether it’s indignation or something more humiliatingly self-conscious steering the ship.
“It’s appropriate,” he says, and his voice has shifted, gone quieter, the hard edge filed down like he's recognized he's overshot and is now carefully correcting course. “I’m not criticizing it. That’s not —” He stops. Starts over. “You look exactly as you should.” He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes for just a moment. “I’d just prefer you not be miserable on the walk over.”
You stare at him, running a rapid internal audit of your available emotional responses and finding the inventory deeply unhelpful. Mortification is one option. Gratitude is another. They are not, as far as you can tell, mutually exclusive, which is its own problem entirely.
You shouldn’t have to feel both things simultaneously before eight in the morning, that seems like a violation of something, some basic covenant between a person and their day.
You are going to need significantly more caffeine before you can be expected to feel things correctly.
“I am aware of how temperature works,” you reply, gently defensive but not sharp, “and I do, in fact, possess the ability to identify discomfort before it becomes life-threatening.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to recognize discomfort,” he says. “I doubt your inclination to admit it when you’re experiencing it.” The brow tightens, just slightly, just enough. “You have a habit of tolerating more than you need to.”
There's nothing wrong with what he said.
That's the problem with what he said. You recognize yourself in it with the specific, sinking clarity of someone who has just been handed a mirror they weren't expecting.
You reach for your smile. The reliable one, the soft, deflecting smile you've been deploying since approximately the third grade, and let it do what it's always done. Cover the crack. Keep the walls presentable. Move things along before anyone gets a good look at the load-bearing ones.
“I wouldn’t call it a habit,” you reply carefully. “More like… efficient energy allocation.”
“Is that what we’re calling it.” It isn’t a question. A hint of dry amusement surfaces in his expression, not a smile exactly, just the suggestion of one, the ghost of one haunting the corner of his mouth, as he relents. “All right.” His tone softens. “I’ll defer to your… methodology.”
You beam at him with a brightness that is frankly disproportionate to the exchange. Wildly, embarrassingly disproportionate. You don't care even a little.
“Great. Perfect. Wonderful.”
He is, unfortunately, completely correct.
Fifteen minutes later, the wind finds you like it has a personal grievance, carving straight through your layered confidence, making a thorough and public mockery of your efficient energy allocation.
You keep your chin up and your expression neutral because you would genuinely rather fossilize in place than give him the satisfaction.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t point, doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t deploy a single syllable of the told-you-so he has absolutely, irrefutably earned.
He simply pauses mid-stride, unwinds the scarf from his own neck and wraps it around you with both hands.
You try not to kiss him.
4 HIS FLOOR OR YOURS
The conference has been going on for three hours and forty minutes, which feels less like a span of time and more like a psychological experiment designed to test how long a human being can remain upright while their soul quietly slips through their ears. Two hours and forty minutes beyond what your attention span contractually agreed to when you walked in with your notebook.
During the break, Hotch had taken one look at you, at the restless rotation of plastic between your hands, at the brittle way you were holding yourself together, and said, in the tone of a man who had already made the decision and was merely informing you of it rather than requesting your input, come on.
So now you’re walking to get lunch, which would have been entirely pleasant, almost restorative, even, sunlight, fresh air, the gentle reward of carbohydrates after too much bureaucratic endurance, if Garcia hadn’t chosen this exact moment to text you something that demands both your full visual attention and the majority of your remaining cognitive function.
The text reads, in its entirety:
how’s the conference bestie!!!!! followed immediately, without waiting by: and before you say “informative” or productive” or any other word that means you’re reflecting… i want to know about the OTHER curriculum. the one where it’s just you and hotch and a hotel and no rossi chaperoning.
Your face heats to 380 degrees, a temperature at which most metals would begin to warp. You type with your thumb as you walk, squinting against the glare on your screen.
garcia.
A breath.
GARCIA.
You delete that. Too much.
the conference is going fine, there is no other curriculum, we are colleagues attending a professional development event and i would like you to reflect on what you've said.
You pause. Add:
also rossi wasn't chaperoning he was just. present. there's a difference.
You read it back. Delete it because now you sound like someone with something to prove. Add it back because you do, in fact, have something to prove. Mainly your innocence. Allegedly.
Hotch shifts slightly closer to navigate a narrow patch of sidewalk and you physically rotate your entire torso away from him like a sunflower turning from the light, except the opposite of that, and hit send.
The response comes through in the time it takes you to exhale.
there's a difference !!! yeah the difference is whether or not you end up on his floor or your floor tonight babe
You read it twice. You read it twice because the first time your brain just skips, like a record catching on something, and the second time it processes it fully and that is infinitely worse.
Because now you’re thinking about it. Now the thought has a foothold and it is making itself at home, spreading out, getting comfortable, putting its feet up, and your imagination, which we’ve already covered is your most disloyal organ, starts filling in details you did not ask for.
Carpet burn. His chest pressed flat against your back, his rough breath against your ear, telling you what to do, how to do it, what to feel.
You guillotine the thought before it can finish forming. You do. You absolutely do. You are doing it right now.
You type back one handed, the response dissolving and reforming as your fingers fumble, something about how Garcia is clinically unwell and should be investigated by her own team, your attention fractured by the screen and the pavement you assume will continue existing beneath your feet.
You don’t see the curb.
You don’t see the car.
You don’t see anything at all until Hotch’s hand finds your arm and the world snaps back into focus all at once, as the vehicle tears through the space you’d been about to occupy.
The wind of it grazes your knees.
You look up at him because you don't know what else to do and immediately wish you'd looked literally anywhere else.
His eyes darken and move over your face with the rapid, assessing quality of someone running a systems check.
Pupils. Color. Responsiveness.
And when he’s satisfied that you are intact and present and not currently dying, something shifts.
Hotch doesn’t soften exactly, that’s not the right word for it, more like reconfiguration. A rearrangement of something that had gone momentarily, dangerously loose. The aftermath of relief rather than relief itself.
His thumb moves once against your arm. Small. Probably involuntary.
“Are you all right.” Once again not quite a question. The tone of a man who needs confirmation of a thing he's already determined to be true.
“Yes,” you say, which comes out smaller than you intended.
His hand finally releases your arm.
“Put your phone away.”
You do as you're told. Immediately, without deliberation, without the small internal debate you’d normally stage on principle.
It disappears into your pocket with the speed of someone who has just been reminded that the universe has consequences.
Garcia can wait. Garcia, in fact, has forfeited her right to immediacy, because Garcia and her terrible timing almost got you killed, and she is going to receive a text later when you are safe and stationary and no longer shaking slightly in a way you hope isn’t visible.
“You sound like my fa —” you start, because apparently you are constitutionally incapable of letting a silence exist peacefully, and then your brain catches up to your mouth approximately three words too late and the sentence just stops.
You don't finish it. You can't finish it, actually, because finishing it would require you to say out loud the thing you were about to say out loud, which was to compare hotch to your father, which you were apparently fully prepared to do two seconds ago and are now prepared to die before doing.
You swallow the rest of it. Redirect your gaze to the middle distance, to some fixed and blameless point that isn't his face, and devote every remaining resource you have to convincing your expression to do literally anything other than what it's currently doing, which is, you are fairly certain, everything.
You feel him look at you. There’s a particular quality of his attention when he’s already understood something and is giving you the grace of not saying it out loud.
He knows. He absolutely knows.
Neither of you says anything. You keep walking.
+1 FOR SCIENCE
The scolding had gone well, you think. You’d communicated the full extent of your feelings about Garcia’s role in the near-death-by-crosswalk incident with clarity, and she had said okay you’re right i’m sorry in the sincere tone she reserves for when she actually means it, and that should have been the end of it.
That was the natural ending. But then, approximately four seconds later, as if the apology had simply been a brief administrative detour:
but do you even own any lingerie just in case… this is a completely unrelated question, purely for science.
And somehow, through a conversational sequence that had felt, step by step, almost reasonable, that is how you have arrived at this.
Hotel bed. Nearly eleven. Cross-legged in your white lace pajames with your hair loose and your phone held aloft at an angle you’ve adjusted three times now, trying to produce a photograph that communicates see, I have perfectly good taste, this is both comfortable AND attractive for the benefit of a woman who treats every piece of information she receives as a potential future weapon.
Garcia had said prove it with the energy of someone issuing a formal declaration of war and you had, apparently, accepted the terms without reading them.
The fourth attempt is the one.
You know it immediately. The angle is right, the light is doing exactly what you wanted it to do, the lace sits exactly as it should and you look, if you’re being objective about it, genuinely pretty.
Soft and warm and settled in yourself in a way that doesn't always come naturally, in a way you don't always feel entitled to, and something about the photograph catches it, holds it still, makes it documentable.
You open the conversation. Tap the photo. Hit send. Set the phone face down on the duvet with the kind of pleased energy of someone closing a chapter, pouring yourself a glass of water from the sink, taking a sip, allowing yourself eight whole seconds of serenity.
Then you pick the phone back up because Garcia hasn't responded and this is wrong, this is factually incorrect behavior for Garcia, who has never in the entire history of your friendship allowed more than thirty seconds to pass without a reply, whose response time is frankly less a reflection of effort than of some innate physiological gift, and you look at the screen and —
The background of the conversation is wrong.
The contact picture is wrong.
Something is wrong with the name at the top of the conversation in a way that your brain, in an act of profound self-protection, declines to process for three full seconds.
Sits there cycling through increasingly implausible alternatives, searching for any exit ramp from the conclusion that is, despite everything, the only one available.
And then it arrives. All at once, the way bad things do, complete and total and horribly clear.
Hotch.
Garcia.
Recent conversations, right next to each other, because they would be, because why wouldn't they be, because the universe has a personal investment in your suffering and an excellent sense of comedic structure.
The photo is delivered.
For science sits beneath it.
And you sent it to your boss.
You make a sound that has no letter equivalent, something that exists purely in the register of visceral horror, and you are off the bed before the sound has finished leaving you.
Think, you need to think.
Option one: he's asleep. It's late. Hotch is a disciplined, regimented person who almost certainly has a consistent sleep schedule because of course he does, because he is Hotch, and maybe, maybe, he'd put his phone on silent and gone to bed and hasn't seen it and won't see it until morning at which point you will have already faked your own death and started a new life somewhere without extradition.
Option two: his phone. You could get to his phone. His room is right beside yours. You could be there in twenty-two seconds, and hotel door locks are — okay you don't actually know how to pick a hotel door lock but you could figure it out, probably, under sufficient duress, and this qualifies as sufficient duress —
A knock sounds at your door.
You stand in the center of the hotel room and you do not move, do not breathe, do not produce any sound or evidence of biological function whatsoever, because if you are very still and very quiet then perhaps the universe will lose interest and move on to someone else.
Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's housekeeping, at eleven at night, which, yes, is not when housekeeping comes, but hotels are unpredictable, stranger things have happened, you are not ruling anything out.
Maybe it's the person in the next room who miscounted doors, maybe it's someone who has the wrong floor entirely, maybe it's — your phone screen lights up.
Open the door.
You stare at it. It stares back.
You open the door and immediately wish with every fiber of your being that you hadn’t.
Not because of the expression on his face, though that’s — that’s a lot, that’s an entire situation, his jaw tight and his eyes doing something you’ve never seen them do before, moving over you in a way that starts at your face and doesn’t stay there and snaps back up with the control of a man making a conscious decision.
Not even because of the grey t-shirt. The sweatpants. The fact that Hotch, your Unit Chief, apparently exists in soft cotton after hours like a normal person, which is information you are placing in a box, sealing the box, and sliding the box to the very back of a shelf you will not be visiting tonight.
No. It’s the silence that does it.
He just looks at you. Says absolutely nothing, makes no move to explain himself or fill the space or give you anything to work with. It presses on you with considerable force.
“It was an accident.” The words come out before you've decided to produce them, falling over each other with the graceless urgency of someone trying to outrun a consequence. “I love this job. I'm good at it, I mean, I think I'm good at it, I hope you think I’m good at it, and I know this looks insane, it is insane, but please — please don't make this into something that ends my career, I was just trying to win an argument with Garcia about whether I owned ling — Uh, nice pajamas and —”
“Garcia,” he interrupts.
You blink. “What?”
“The argument.” His words are careful. Doing a great deal of structural work beneath the surface. “It was with Garcia.”
“Yes,” you say. “About whether I — yes.”
“About the pajamas.”
“About whether I owned any.” You are aware you’re not improving the situation. “Nice ones. She implied I didn’t and I — it was a matter of principle.”
He looks at you for long enough that you become acutely, specifically, inventory-level aware of every square inch of white lace currently within his line of sight.
And the awareness moves over you in real time, square inch by square inch, because he is. He is doing exactly that. Looking at the neckline and the hem and everything the light is enthusiastically illuminating and then looking at more of it, and you stand very still in the doorway of your hotel room and breathe very carefully and wait for him to say something, and he doesn't, and the looking continues, and it has a temperature.
“You’re not losing your job,” he says. His voice has done something you can't quite name. The professional remove still present but thinner somehow, like fabric that's been washed too many times. “That was never —” He stops. Edits. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I really am sorry,” you say, which is true, which is entirely true, which is also complicated by the fact that he’s standing in your doorway and you have now run out of layers to hide behind, literally and figuratively.
“I know.” He says. “I came because I wanted to make sure you were —” a pause, brief and loaded, “ — all right.”
“I’m glad you did,” you say, which comes out quieter and more honest than you intended, stripped of the deflection you’d normally wrap around something like that. “Come, I mean. I’m glad you came.”
You become very interested in a point just past his shoulder and then make yourself look back.
“For the record,” he says, “you won the argument.”
“Hotch —” His name comes out barely a whisper.
“You did.”
“That’s not —” you start, “I don’t need you to —”
“I know you don’t need me to,” he says. “That’s not why I said it.”
“Why did you say it?”
He moves first.
Or maybe you do.
Or the wanting does, finally, after months of being firmly managed.
Later you might look for the beginning and find only that the distance was there and then wasn’t. His hand comes up to your face with that steadiness, that particular Hotch steadiness that you have been watching without permission since the day you met him, the kind that says I have considered this and I am not afraid of it, tilting your chin up.
And then his mouth is on yours.
And here is what you were not prepared for: that it would feel like being returned to you. Not given, returned.
Like something you’d been missing your whole life without knowing what it was called, without having a word for the specific absence of it.
Your father’s approval delivered at arm’s length, your college boyfriend who never quite saw you, every authority figure you’ve ever rearranged yourself for in hopes that this time, this time, it would be enough.
And Hotch, who has been watching you with those eyes for months, who has noticed the necklace-tugging and the over-apologizing and the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking, who has known, who has known —
It is nothing like what your imagination built. Your imagination was not working with sufficient information.
It is exactly like the thing you've been most terrified of wanting, because wanting things this much has historically been the setup for not getting them, and you are so tired of not getting them, and for a moment, for this moment, there is only his mouth and yours and the feeling moving through you in waves you can’t name and don’t need to.
Finally.
You lean into it with everything you have. Every feeling you've filed under inadvisable. Every careful professional distance you've maintained. Every time you looked away first. You stop looking away. You give him all of it, and he makes a sound low in his throat, vibrating through you.
Then he stops.
Goes still first, and then pulls back by degrees. Slow, almost reluctant, like something being peeled away rather than removed.
His forehead drops to yours just for a moment, his eyes closed and his breath uneven and his hand still at your jaw.
You don't move. You barely breathe. You are terrified of breaking it and equally terrified of what exists on the other side of it, and so you stay very still in the small sacred space of his forehead against yours and try not to want more than you're being given.
What comes next is his eyes opening. Finding yours. And in them, underneath the want that he’s no longer quite managing to conceal, something older settling back into place like sediment after a disturbance.
You can see it.
Something that was always going to come back. Responsibility settling through him like silt after a tremor, like a tide reasserting itself, the accumulated weight of everything he is and everything he thinks you deserve and every reason he has been filing this under don't from the very beginning.
You can see exactly where it lives. In the careful way his jaw sets. In the incremental straightening of his posture, degree by degree, a man rebuilding his architecture in real time, becoming your Unit Chief again by visible effort.
His hand leaves your face last.
“I’m sorry.” His voice has gone hard again, a professional distance reassembling itself word by word. “That wasn’t —” a pause in which several things clearly occur to him and are discarded — “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It's okay,” you say, which is both completely true and completely insufficient. “I'm — please don't apologize, I —” you hear yourself, recalibrate, attempt something in the vicinity of normal. "I'm sorry too. For the photo. For all of —” another vague gesture, this one encompassing roughly the last hour of your life — “this.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Okay,” you say, because what else is there.
You both stand in it for a moment that lasts too long.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally.
“Yeah.” Your voice is remarkably steady. You’re proud of it. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
You stand in the doorway until the corridor is empty and then you close the door and press your back against it and stare at the ceiling of a hotel room that feels entirely different than it did an hour ago.
summary: after his release from prison, spencer returns to a life that no longer feels like his own. haunted by what he’s endured, he doesn’t expect kindness, least of all from you. yet, little by little, spencer learns how to trust again… and it all starts with you.
pairing: spencer reid x sweetheart!reader
content warnings: small age gap, maeve arc doesn't exist / never existed (sorry !!), spencer's trauma from prison is constantly mentioned
a/n: hai lovelies !! i'm so sorry for this long ( unplanned ) hiatus, but i'm back with a series and i really hope you like it !! <3 i'm going to try my best to update it weekly, but no promises can be made as most chapters still need to be edited.
You were the vanilla to Sarah Cameron’s spice. The calm to her storm. The designated driver to her reckless abandon, figuratively speaking, of course, since you barely had your license and drove five miles under the speed limit.
You were Sarah’s "sweet" friend. The one parents loved. The one who wore eyelet lace while the other Kooks wore bikinis as tops. You were soft-spoken, terrified of confrontation, and had never touched a drop of alcohol in your life.
"Please, please, please," Sarah begged, dragging you by the arm toward the looming entrance of Topper Thornton’s massive estate. "I can’t deal with Topper alone tonight. He’s being clingy. I need a buffer. I need you."
"Sarah," you whined, clutching your purse like a life preserver. "I don't fit in at these things. It’s loud, it smells like body spray and bad decisions, and Rafe is going to be there."
Sarah stopped, rolling her eyes. "Rafe won't bother you. He barely acknowledges anyone unless he’s yelling at them. Besides, he likes you. You’re the only person he doesn't look at like he wants to punch them."
"That’s a low bar."
"Come on. One hour. Then we go back to my place, watch movies, and eat cookie dough. I promise."
You sighed, the sound lost in the thumping bass vibrating through the walls of the house. You could never say no to her. "One hour."
Thirty minutes later, Sarah had vanished.
One minute she was standing next to you by the keg, and the next, she had been pulled away by Topper, leaving you stranded in a sea of pastel polo shirts and boat shoes.
You were overwhelmed. The humidity was suffocating, sticky with the scent of beer and salt air. You had retreated to the kitchen, leaning against the marble island, trying to look like you belonged.
"Hey! You're Sarah's friend, right?"
A guy you vaguely recognized, Kelce, maybe?, slid a red solo cup toward you. "You look thirsty. Loosen up."
"Oh, I don't—"
"Just try it. It’s mostly fruit punch," he lied, grinning before disappearing back into the crowd.
You stared at the cup. You were hot, anxious, and Sarah was gone. Maybe a sip wouldn't hurt. Just to take the edge off. Just to make the pounding music stop giving you a headache.
You took a sip. It tasted like gasoline masked by hawaiian punch. You coughed, your throat burning.
Gross, you thought. I'll just hold it.
But then someone bumped into you, jarring your nerves, and you took another sip out of reflex. And another. The sugar rushed to your head first, followed quickly by the vodka.
Because it was your first time, you had zero tolerance. Absolutely none.
By the time forty minutes had passed, the kitchen island wasn't just a piece of furniture; it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. The room had taken on a soft, hazy quality. The lights were trailing like shooting stars.
You giggled. You didn't know why, but the pattern on the floor tiles was suddenly hilarious.
“Y/N?"
The voice was sharp. Deep. It cut through the fuzz in your brain like a knife.
You turned around, swaying heavily. The room tilted dangerously to the left. You reached out to grab the counter, but your hand missed.
A large, firm hand caught your upper arm, steadying you before you could hit the floor.
You looked up. And up.
Rafe Cameron was staring down at you. He looked… intense. He always looked intense, with his buzzed hair and that jawline that looked like it could cut glass, but tonight he looked irritated. His blue polo was unbuttoned at the top, and he smelled like expensive cologne and smoke.
"Hi, Rafe," you beamed. Your voice sounded bubbly and far away. "You're really tall."
Rafe’s brows knitted together. He looked from your glassy eyes to the nearly empty red cup in your hand. His grip on your arm tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you upright.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low. He scanned the room, a scowl deepening on his face. "Where is Sarah?"
"She went… poof!" You made an exploding motion with your free hand, splashing a little bit of purple liquid onto Rafe’s expensive loafers.
Rafe looked down at his shoes, then back at you. He snatched the cup from your hand and slammed it onto the counter with enough force that people nearby jumped.
"Who gave you this?" he demanded.
"Kelce. Or… someone who looked like Kelce. It’s fruit punch!"
"It is not fruit punch, Y/N. It’s jungle juice. It’s basically pure grain alcohol." Rafe grabbed your chin gently, tilting your face up to check your pupils. "Christ. How much did you drink?"
"Just one cup!" you defended, pouting. "Is the floor moving for you? It feels like we’re on a boat."
Rafe let out a sharp exhale through his nose. He looked around the party with disdain. He was usually the one leading the chaos, the one starting fights or doing keg stands, but seeing you, Sarah’s innocent, wide-eyed shadow, completely wasted made something protective and ugly flare up in his chest.
You didn't belong here. You belonged in a library, or a garden. Not here, surrounded by sharks who would take advantage of how out of it you were.
"Okay," Rafe muttered, stepping into your personal space. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. "We’re leaving."
"But I have to wait for Sarah!"
"Sarah is busy being an idiot," Rafe growled. "Come on."
He practically marched you through the house. You stumbled, your legs feeling like jelly, but Rafe was like a solid wall. He took the brunt of the crowd, shoving people out of the way with his shoulder.
"Move," he barked at a freshman blocking the hallway. "Move, or I'll make you move."
The kid scrambled. Rafe Cameron was terrifying on a good day. Tonight, he looked lethal.
He navigated you up the stairs, away from the noise.
"Where are we going?" you slurred, leaning your head against his shoulder. His shirt was soft. "I feel dizzy, Rafe."
"I know. Hold on."
He kicked open the door to one of the guest bathrooms, dragged you inside, and locked the door behind him. The sudden silence was jarring. The bathroom was massive, all white marble and gold fixtures.
Rafe maneuvered you over to the toilet. "Sit. Before you fall."
You sat on the closed lid, clutching the edges. "I don't feel good anymore."
"Yeah, that happens," Rafe said. He was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, watching you closely. His eyes were scanning you for injuries, for anything wrong. "You're a lightweight. Note to self."
You looked up at him, tears welling in your eyes. Everything was spinning too fast. "I want to go home."
Rafe’s expression softened. He pushed off the sink and crouched down in front of you so he was at eye level.
"I'm gonna take you home," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But first, you need to drink water. And you need to not puke in my car."
He reached over, turned on the tap, and filled a glass cup. He handed it to you.
You took it with shaking hands. You took a sip, but your coordination was shot. Water trickled down your chin.
"Jesus," Rafe muttered. He took the glass back. "Here."
He held the glass to your lips, tipping it slowly. "Drink. Slowly."
You obeyed, gulping down the cool water. Rafe watched you with laser focus. His hand came up, his thumb brushing away the water that had spilled on your chin. His skin was rough, calloused from the dirt bikes and the weights, but his touch was feather-light.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little," you whispered. You looked at him, really looked at him. Up close, you could see the faint freckles on his nose, the stress lines between his eyebrows. "You have pretty eyes Rafe."
Rafe froze. He blinked, pulling back slightly. "You're wasted."
"No, I mean it," you insisted, your filter completely dissolved by the alcohol. You reached out, your soft fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You always look so angry. But you're nice. You're taking care of me."
Rafe stopped breathing for a second. He was used to people fearing him. He was used to people wanting him for his money or his status. He was used to his dad looking at him with disappointment.
He wasn't used to… this. Pure, unadulterated sweetness.
He caught your hand in his, stopping you from touching his face, but he didn't let go. He held your hand in his much larger one.
"I'm not nice," Rafe said, his voice raspy. "You don't know me."
"I know you," you mumbled, your eyelids drooping. "You're Sarah's brother. You saved me from the spinning floor."
Rafe stared at you for a long moment. A complex mix of emotions crossed his face, guilt, longing, and a desperate need to keep you this pure, to keep the ugliness of his world from touching you.
"Okay," he said abruptly, standing up and pulling you with him. "Let's go. Before someone comes up here and asks why I'm locked in his bathroom with you."
He guided you out of the bathroom. Instead of going back down into the party, he led you down the back stairs that led to the garage.
"Wait," you stumbled on the last step. "My shoes hurt."
Rafe sighed, looking at your strappy sandals. Without a word, he bent down.
"Rafe, what are you—"
"Hop on," he said, turning his back to you.
"What?"
"Get on my back. I'm not carrying you bridal style, it looks stupid. Get on."
You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck. He hooked his arms under your knees and hoisted you up effortlessly. He was warm and solid, and he smelled really, really good.
He carried you out of the garage, past the throngs of drunk teenagers who stared in shock as Rafe Cameron, the Rafe Cameron, carried Sarah’s sweet best friend like she was precious cargo.
He walked to his car, unlocked it, opened the passenger door, and deposited you gently onto the leather seat.
He leaned in to buckle your seatbelt. His face was inches from yours. You could feel his breath on your cheek.
"Stay," he commanded softly.
"I'm buckled, silly," you murmured, closing your eyes.
Rafe lingered for a second, staring at your peaceful face, before slamming the door shut and rounding the car.
The drive to your house was quiet. Rafe drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping anxiously on the gear shift. He kept glancing over at you. You had fallen asleep, your head lolling against the window.
He turned the radio down low. He drove slower than he ever had in his life.
When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark. Your parents were asleep.
"Hey," Rafe said, nudging your shoulder. "Princess. Wake up."
You groaned, shifting. "Nooo."
"You're home. Come on."
Rafe got out and walked around to your side. He opened the door. You blinked up at him, disoriented.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"Maybe."
You swung your legs out. You stood up, wobbled, and immediately tipped forward. Rafe caught you against his chest.
"Nope," he said. "Okay."
He scooped you up again, this time in his arms, bridal style, contradicting his earlier statement. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. It was beating fast.
He carried you to the front door. He fished your keys out of your purse for you, unlocked the door, and carried you inside.
"Which room?" he whispered in the dark hallway.
"Upstairs," you whispered back. "First on the left."
He carried you up the stairs, the floorboards creaking slightly under his weight. He pushed your bedroom door open with his foot.
Your room was exactly like you. Soft colors, fairy lights, stuffed animals. It smelled like vanilla and fresh laundry. Rafe felt like an intruder. He felt dirty standing in the middle of it.
He set you down on the edge of your bed.
"Okay," he said, stepping back, putting distance between you. "You're safe. Drink more water. Take two aspirin before you sleep or you'll hate yourself tomorrow."
You kicked off your sandals and looked up at him. The alcohol was fading into sleepy exhaustion.
"Thank you, Rafe," you said softly.
Rafe shoved his hands into his pockets, looking uncomfortable. "Yeah. Whatever. Don't tell anyone."
"Tell anyone what? That you have a heart?"
Rafe scoffed, a dark smirk tugging at his lips. "That I played babysitter. It ruins my rep."
He turned to leave. He made it to the doorway before he stopped. He didn't turn around, his hand gripping the doorframe.
"And Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't drink that shit again," he said, his voice dropping low, almost threatening in its intensity. "And don't take cups from guys like Kelce. If you want a drink... you come find me. Only me. Got it?"
A shiver went down your spine. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was something electric.
"I got it," you whispered.
Rafe nodded once. "Goodnight."
He pulled the door shut, leaving you in the safety of your room.
Downstairs, Rafe got back into his car. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared up at your window, watching as the light turned on, then off.
He let out a shaky breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
He was a mess. His life was a mess. His head was a mess. But for the last hour, taking care of you, he had felt... grounded. He had felt useful.
He revved the engine, the aggressive roar tearing through the quiet suburban street, and peeled out of the driveway. But as he drove back, he couldn't get the smell of vanilla or the feeling of your small hand on his face out of his mind.
WARNINGS ⭑.ᐟ first time sex, superrr soft sex, praising, light swearing, fingering, basically a word dump lol
NOTES ⭑.ᐟ slightly longer fic than usual! you’re responsible for the content you consume.
WORD COUNT ⭑.ᐟ 1.0k
AUTHOR’S NOTE ⭑.ᐟ likes, reblogs, and requests are appreciated and encouraged 🐆
the line of friendship between you and rafe was blurry.
it started with a lingering touch on your thigh. which turned into you sitting on his lap. which turned into you being with him at all times. which turned into him kissing you when he felt like it.
you still referred to him as your best friend, even if you acted like his girlfriend and even if he treated you like you were his. which is why you felt comfortable telling him how dry your love life was— and why he felt comfortable enough to ‘help’ you.
his lips moved softly over yours, his palm roaming over the soft skin of your thigh, his nose brushing against yours with every press of his lips on yours. “s’this okay?” he mumbled softly, palming at your inner thigh.
your gave a shaky nod, not trusting your voice not to crack, the heat in your cheeks almost unbearable. s’not that you’ve never kissed a boy or did anything romantic— s’the fact that you’re a virgin, with a crush on her best friend like every other girl on the island. he’d barely gotten your shirt off without you squirming underneath him, letting out a breathy chuckle against your sternum.
his fingers dipped lower, lower, lower— sly fingers untying your pajama bottoms effortlessly and tugging them down your thighs, easing you onto your back with a soft kiss against your neck. you keened at the touch, your hips bucking against his palm out of instinct, heat flooding your stomach even more at the smug grin rested on his lips.
“y’warm as hell, baby.” he mumbled, littering kisses against your stomach and across your chest. “barely got your panties off, yet you’re buckin’ into me like i’m inside you.”
you let out a groan, a pout tugging at your lips as your eyes flickered to his. “just— take them off, c’mon.”
your voice was whiny, needy even— your fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties alongside his, attempting to rush them down your thighs, feeling the gusset stick to your center.
he tossed the fabric aside, fingers moving to his boxers, tugging them off hastily as he groaned— trying not to look at the needy expression on your face, trying to reel himself in. the fabric hit the floor, revealing the thick length of him, the tip red and pearly, pre-cum pooled at the top.
“s’this okay?” his voice was quiet, muffled against the soft skin of your inner thigh, rubbing over your entrance with thick fingertips. you gave a shaky nod of your head, barely able to hear him through the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, your thighs twitching when he eased them in, a soft squeak of a moan leaving your lips, eyes squeezing shut.
his touch was gentle, almost too gentle for hands that were buried beneath car parts all day, for hands that pumped your gas for you, hands that build the same bookshelf his body was concealing from your view. the pads of his fingers drug over your walls, easing out to swipe through your folds, circling your clit with a quiet hum.
“rafe,” your voice was small, heavy with arousal and need that he caused, your fingers wrapping around the thick muscle of his arms. “need you inside me, please—“
you barely finished your sentence before he was leaning back up, tearing open the condom packet on your dresser, sliding the latex onto his dick with a practiced ease, planting a free hand next to your torso as he lined himself up.
he hooked your legs over his shoulders, the thickness of him between your legs making your vision almost cloudy, a ragged exhale leaving you when he pushed in, slow— till he was fully inside of you, till you felt like you couldn’t breathe.
“you’re so fuckin’— shit,” he groaned, rolling his hips into you with a quiet huff of air, pressing a kiss against your ankle, holding onto you by the crook of your knee. “so fuckin’ tight f’me, baby.”
your fingers wrapped around his arm like a vice, quiet moans of his name muffled behind your palm, that honeyed voice murmuring— “i know, baby, i know.”
“rafe—“ you started, your thighs twitching instinctively as your hips bucked upward. “m’gonna cum—“
he was already there, the rough pad of his thumb on your clit making you squirm, his free hand rubbing against your torso in an attempt to calm you down. his lips pressed into yours, before peppering small kisses over your cheeks, your forehead, your nose— anywhere he could reach.
“i know, baby,” he cooed quietly, pressing featherlight kisses against your cheek. “jus’ let go f’me, baby, hold my hand.”
his fingers laced with yours, holding your hand when your eyes squeezed, groaning when you came around him with a muffled cry of his name, your pussy squeezing around his dick like you couldn’t let him go, his own voice wrecked when he let go.
your chest was heaving when he pulled out, tying off the condom and throwing it away, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
An - Hi! I’m going to try to write some more blurbs so I can post more often and not disappear for weeks (sorry!!) But let me know if you prefer the blurbs or the longer posts🤍
Weekends were for sleepovers and lazy mornings. They were supposed to be relaxing,but, it seems that a house full of rowdy boys never really understood that.
This was particularly proven on a chilly Saturday morning, Garrett laying on top of you as your own personal heater, his bare chest pressed to your won that was wrapped in one of his old hoodies he got at a tournament.
The two of you hadn’t been awake for long, basking in the muffled sounds of showers running and tucker busying himself in the kitchen. Your hands were in Garrett’s hair as he pressed light lingering on your neck, always much too suggestive considering the house full of other people.
The door flew open before either of you could even process the sound of footsteps outside Garrett’s bedroom door, Dean standing shirtless with nothing but a towel around his waist.
“Your hair is in the drain,” the words were muffled around his toothbrush as he tipped his head toward you, running a hand through his own dripping hair.
Garrett dropped his head to your shoulder and groaned, fully sinking into your body as you giggled at his dramatics, “Go away, bro.”
“What’s going on?” Logan was at the door now, his face pink from what you could only assume was the cold outside.
“Deans mad at my hair in the drain.” You playfully rolled your eyes, trying you get out from under Garrett.
Logan let out a hum of acknowledgement, “Yo, G, You’re gonna need a whole new part, I can’t fix that stupid jeep by myself.”
“Alright.” Garrett gabbed your hips, pulling you back under him as he looked over his shoulder to nod at Logan.
“And-“ Logan was cut off by another sound of protest from Garrett.
“Go. Away.” He was glaring over his his shoulder, trying and failing to look Intimidating to the other boys as he snuggled closer to you.
“Why’s G so pissy?” Tucker was standing in the overcrowded door now too, holding a plate of what seemed to be bacon.
Before anyone could say a word, Garrett piped up, “Oh my god, everyone get out of my room.”
Dean held a hand to his chest in mock offence, “I thought we were a happy family in this house.”
“No, Dean. You three are getting in my way of creating my own happy family.” Garrett sat up now, seeming to not even realize the look gasp you let out and the harsh smack you landed on his back.
The boys all let out sounds of disgust, finally leaving the room, Logan making sure to securely shut the door behind him.
Garrett leaned back over, running a hand up your side, “Now, where were we?”
You laughed, holding a hand to his chest as to stop him from getting any closer, “Well, you just ruined any possibility of a fun morning by saying that. So, I’m going downstairs for breakfast.”
Garrett shot up again, watching you move around his room as you searched for a pair of pants, “No, baby. Stay.”
You just looked at him as he patted the spot next to him, “I thought you wanted everyone out, though?”
He let out another loud groan, covering his face with his hands as he flopped back down, “ everyone in this house is out to get me.”
You just laughed, shutting the door and making your way down the stairs.
You’d been 3 months into your relationship when Toji Fushiguro finally realized that you, for some odd reason, loved letting idiots fuck you.
It must’ve been where that very minuscule masochism kink came from. Had to be.
He’d noticed the way you’d get shocked when he went to pay for— well- everything. Didn’t matter if he lost a shit ton from gambling and losing that day, didn’t matter if you went over your own set budget, didn’t matter that you didn’t ask because you didn’t want to look money hungry or if you quickly pulled out your card and paid. He’s sending $300 to you to make up for it. The man. Was going. To pay.
Toji also noticed the way you’d shy away when you realized he was actually listening to the words that came out of your mouth. Informing you that he hated that coworker of Sherl just a little bit more than you did. Plainly telling you ‘no’, he didn’t just want to see just your hair bone straight- he wanted to see your curly hair that framed your face (when you wanted to of course) and that he thought you would look good with any hair color not just the jet black. Or when you only went to make food that he liked,
“But this is what my ex-“
“—Mama, what do you really wanna eat? Tell me or we’ll both starve tonight.”
Truthfully, it irritated the fuck out of the man.
He didn’t get it, how someone so precious got treated like shit on multiple occasions. He kept reminding himself that you weren’t the problem, those fucking dick wads were.
But the irritation jumped back out when you rode him. He knew after that first time (just a week ago) that those fucking idiots didn’t know what the fuck to do with you. He’d cock his eyebrow up at you because he simply couldn’t hide the vexation of it all.
“You don’t like it Toj?” Your voice was hoarse, curls falling over your face, a pout forming.
It was clear the way you moved your hips back and forth, held yourself and didn’t use him for leverage, you rode your ex’s to get them off and nothing more.
More sins against God.
There had to be a scripture about it somewhere, “Never let thou spouse ride-ith you in cowgirl without her cumming.” Or something— the man didn’t know. He knew for a fact, only a bitch would never let a woman cum while she’s riding him.
“Toji? ‘M sorry, it must not be good.” You let out a shaky breath, trying to relax, not be too touchy. “ ‘S just harder cause you’re so… so big. ‘Nd I- fuck- mmm- don’t think I’ve ever had time to relax like this. I must be takin too long.”
Shit, you frowned, big brown puppy eyes looking down at the green eyed monster and his heart ached. He nuzzled his head in the crook of your neck, his poor pretty baby. Sweet doll, don’t you worry your little head. Your Toji would fix this little problem tonight.
And when you two were done, he’d beat the fucking breaks out of each and every single one your exes.
It would cleanse the soul.
“ ‘S okay baby, yer doin good. Need you to relax f’me. Want you to take a little bit more though, hm? You can take it, right? You’re a good girl.”
You bit your lip, nodding in agreement.
Such a good girl. Toji’s sweet ‘nd good girl.
Tojis hands pulled you closer. “How do I get ya to relax then? Can you tell me?” You felt your cheeks heat up, shaking your head and attempting to hide yourself in his neck. But Toji kept you still, playfully bumping your foreheads together with a chuckle.
“Let’s find out then,” His hands wandered, up and down your sides, then one staying at the small of your back, the other making its way to your pretty tit in his hand. Slowly massaging it in his palm. “Maybe you like it here?”
You whimpered in his mouth and Tojis scar moved upward in amusement, green eyes low. He left a trail of kiss from your cute cheeks, down to your jaw. “Or here?” Down to your neck, taking a few nibblies here and there. “Or here?”
You let out a soft moan, finally nodding your head.
“Words, mama.” He was stern but you felt the grin against your neck.
“T-there feels— feels so nice Toj.” The man hummed at your words, being sure to praise you with an array of kisses and hickeys for the world to see tomorrow on your neck.
“I-I can move now?” You asked. You felt so full with what he was giving you, but you felt so good with every little kiss the aching tip and veins of his member gave to your walls.
“Course doll.” He enterwinted your fingers, “Gotta take it nice ‘nd slow baby, don’t gotta go fast.”
You gulped, gradually lifting yourself up and down and rocking your hips back and forth, then repeating the motion. Your hands left his large ones, starting to use his shoulders as leverage, “There you go ma, there you fuckin go.”
He hissed, you were a god damn waterfall down there. Toji didn’t even know how the fuck you were still managing to keep him insider everytime you’d move up so just the tip was in, and slamming back down. When you tried to go faster a large calloused hand came down to your ass.
“B-but Tojiii,” you whined, slowly swiveling your hips one time to get a curse out of him. “Wanna make you feel good too.”
“ ‘Nd I ‘ppreciate Doll, I do. You feel so fuckin good too ma, but it’s not about me tonight, ‘s about you. Need you to really feel it deep in your pretty pussy.” He gave you a few thrusts, matching your rhythm creating the most beautiful smack smack smack your bedroom has ever heard.
“Take what you need babygirl.”
Toji had a way with words, he’d gotten a pornographic moan from it alone. Your nails dug into his shoulders, the meat of your thighs jiggling every time you came down. Slick drenching Toji’s cock, your thighs were burning but you kept moving. Chasing your high with every bounce on his fat fuck.
“Goooood girl, now you got it doll.”
“I can— I can take more Toji.” You stammered out.
“I’d loooove that sweetheart— shit ma- but not tonight. Ngh— This is just enough.”
“But—“
“-Aht,” he grumbled, helping you move your hips as you got just a tad too slow for his liking, “don’t bite more than you can chew. Come on, you can make yourself and your boyfriend cum, can’t you?”
He didn’t have to tell you twice, you were grinding and slamming yourself down what you could take as hard as ever getting a loud from Toji. You were such a good and fast leaner, the man would have to keep you. Train you to do other things, soon enough you’d be able to take all of him. You were fucking pulsing like a over worked heartbeat around him as a wave of emotions smacked you over the head, a string of fuck fuck fuck and Toji Toji Toji leaving your mouth.
The man growled, giving your ass a few harsh smacks as he rapidly thrust into you. You never knew when you were cumming so you never vocalized it.
You’d work on that too.
Quickly pulling out, spurts of his cum hit your stomach. You both were panting messes, Toji’s pink lips meeting your temple, then your soft full lips.
