Trash

It was cold and rainy when you stepped out of the SUV, West Washington tends to be that way, relentless drizzle blurring the edges of the world, the scent of wet pine heavy in the air. The BAU Team had been send to help local authorities with a series of strange suicides; all middle-aged women with good husbands and children who jumped into their deaths. Three. Until now.

After spending most of the day interviewing witnesses and family members, your muscles ached from tension and the endless note taking, you finally got a moment to rest.

The weight of the case pressed down on everyone, thick and suffocating like the damp air outside.

Since Jack had a “new” member added to the team, you had to cut out budges, which meant sharing shitty motel rooms down by the road. Will Graham was still an incognita to you; he was smart, really smart, brilliant detective but with some unusual methods, but after all, unstable. What he did to the crime scene today was amazing. It was like he was there himself, inducing that poor woman to dive into forever sleep like an demon on her ear. But the aftershock came quickly for him, a strong migraine that had him rushing out to the car, pale and shaking.

The picked motel was an interesting choice Batez Motel. You scuffed at Jim for being the one who suggested, turned out, they only had a few rooms left and the team would have to share it. Of course, Jack Crawford was the one to choose the room with only one bed to remain alone, and left you to decide your own roommates.

“I’m already at Bates Motel, I rather not sleep with Norman” Jim said, looking back at Will.

“Cut it off.” Katz said. Her dark eyes also darting to his direction.

“Maybe we should let luck decide. Here.” Brian said picking up a used hashi from the lunch you shared earlier. He broke the wooden stick in 4 pieces and spread them carefully behind his fingers. “Whoever gets the shorter shared a room with Psycho”

“Gimme that.” You said, slapping his hand and watching as the four little sticks fell to the floor. “I’ll share with him. You assholes.”

You gathered your things and left them discussing whatever argument they had going on and crossed the patio towards Will, who was sitting at a bench petting the owner’s dog.

“Looks like we’re roomies.”

“You picked the shorter stick?” He asked with a low voice.

You shrugged, trying to mask the flicker of sympathy you felt for him. Maybe he knew, maybe he overheard, or used his abnormal power of profiling and imagination or maybe he was just making a usual joke. But deep in your heart you knew he feared ending up sleeping alone, not because he wouldn’t have any company but because others wouldn’t want his company.

You liked Will, you really did. But he was ever so distance you could barely remember the last long conversation you had with him, or being alone with him for that matter.

“Come on. Let’s go inside”.

You opened the door nº505 with a squeaky sound; the cramped room smelled like a forgotten lavender scented sachet and humid wood. The walls were painted a muted dark green, the curtains heavy and drawn, matching the worn fabric of the two twin beds that sat awkwardly close together. A small table with two mismatched chairs occupied one corner, while a tiny TV perched silently on a dresser, its screen flickering softly; and a bedside table with a battered lampshade. You and Will shared a glance of conformity and he closed the door behind you.

“I’ll take the first shower, if you don’t mind…” You said, opening the door to your left.

Will shook his head and went over to one of the beds, the one closer to the window, left his bag there and sat at the table, hiding his face between his hands. You wondered, not for the first time, if he was always this quiet, or if he just chose to be quiet around you. Maybe he preferred silence with most people, or maybe silence was simply his refuge. You didn’t mind thought, silence feels nice with him, natural, not uncomfortable or weird, just…normal.

Entering the small bathroom you stepped out of your boots and let your hair down, feeling your sore muscles as you stretched a bit. Opening the shower, you swore under your breath, the water was cold as ice, you decided to let it running for a few minutes, hoping it’d warm up. You stared at your reflection in the mirror; dark circles shadowed your eyes, your face pale and worn from too many restless nights. The kind of exhaustion that comes from chasing a career you dreamed of since you were a kid.

“So… our guy, he just convinces them to kill themselves? How? What do the victims have in common?” You asked, more to fill the silence, with the only subject you and Will ever talked about: work.

Will answers calmly and methodically.

But his voice is low, like your hearing from far away, you cannot make out the words as they seemed to blend in to the sound of the running water.

“I can’t hear you, I left the water running. Come closer” You said, rustling around your bag to find your shampoo.

There was a faint shuffle as Will got up from his chair and padded quietly down the narrow corridor. He hesitated just outside the bathroom door, leaning against the wall with a slight awkwardness, trying not to seem like a creep. You opened the door just a crack, the steam starting to thicker inside the room.

“I said that”, he cleared his throat and raised his voice “those types of manipulators often choose people disconnected from support, like isolated cult members. He preys on their vulnerabilities, breaks them down until they see no other way.”

“Ok. But how does he chooses, them? I doubt those women were ever on a cult.”

Will shift his head to the site, his eyes heavy and unfocused, he scratch them for a while.

“No. But maybe, cult-like activities, the most common one of them: Church.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Brilliant.

He hesitated, his voice dropping to almost a whisper now. “Faith can isolate as much as it can comfort. When beliefs become rigid cages, they cut people off from reason, from outside help.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his insight settle between you. It wonders you how easily he can understand others mind, especially without even meeting them; it’s like magic. But it’s also frighten how he manages to see so much darkness and still be…genuine.

“He’s leading them to salvation.” You said, more than a guess than a real statement.

You looked over to Will from behind your shoulder, wondering if he could read you as he reads murderers. Will’s gaze met yours for a moment, brief, searching, before he turned his eyes to the floor again.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

Sighing, you pull out your shirt in one quick motion, letting it fall to the floor. The warm air of the steam kissing you skin; it calmed down the cold. You’ve always been cold, ever since you remembered; grew up in California, golden coast and sparkling summers, until your parents divorced and you moved to wet and humid Virginia. Been cold ever since.

You hair falling into pieces at you back caught Will of guard, darting his eyes away from your figure, but something whitin him couldn’t bare looking at another thing if not you; But his gaze kept pulling back, magnetic and relentless. The curve of your spine and the porcelain skin of your back; your dedicated hands unclasping your bra, following your shirt to the floor.

“You think this could turn into Jonestown?” You asked, nonchalant.

He felt a sting into his heart, you knew he was staring, and you didn’t care.

“No.” He responded, voice as quiet as a step in the dead of night, “I don’t think so. He just..He really belives he’s saving those women.”

“Saving from what?”

He wanted to say more. Wanted to explain how he believed in the darkness those women were trapped in, how the man convincing them truly thought he was saving them. But the words caught in his throat, swallowed by the heaviness of watching you, feeling both anchored and adrift in the moment.

The sound of your zipper being opened wore louder than your voice, or at least that’s what if felt like to Will.

“I don’t know…Yet.”

“Uhm.”

You slid the jeans down your legs, easily kicking them to the corner.

The final tug to his clasping reality as he looked away, turning his head to the ceiling, closing his eyes and wishing this was real and not just another trick from his twisted mind.

You finally stepped into the shower, the hot water burning where it fell down your skin, only your silhouette could be seeing from behind the tainted glass; Will stretched out his arm to close the door, when your voice cut trough his running wild mind.

“Promise I won’t use all the hot water” it sounded more shy than you wanted it to be.

The next day went down like a train wreck.

You sat in the back of the SUV, the hum of the engine a dull, meaningless sound against the pounding in your ears. Blood speckled your cheeks and collar, not your own.

Martha O’Neil. Forty-one years old, mother of two, wife to a man who still called her “sweetheart” after twenty years, a teacher who stayed late to help struggling kids. She died because you couldn’t save her.

You’d been the one Jack sent to talk her down. She was standing on the roof’s edge, her fingers white-knuckled around the railing, the wind whipping her hair into her tear-streaked face. You didn’t even remember exactly what you’d said, the words had come out of you in a rush, raw and desperate. But something worked. Martha’s eyes softened, her foot stepped back, and she reached for you. You took her hand. She was safe.

Until a bullet split the air.

The sound was sharp, almost surgical. Martha’s body jerked in your grip, her blood spraying warm across your cheek. Her head slumped forward before her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the wet concrete at your feet.

Another shot rang out, this one whistling past your ear. You ducked behind the rusted metal door, pressing yourself into the cold wall, the rain soaking through your jacket. Martha lay sprawled in the open, the rain pooling in her hair, mixing red with black.

Voices blurred in your earpiece, Jack barking orders, boots hitting pavement, but they didn’t cut through the ringing in your head.

By the time paramedics reached the roof, you were shaking, adrenaline eating away at the edges of your control. They guided you down the stairwell and into the back of an ambulance. The heat inside made you nauseous. One of them pressed a blanket over your shoulders and checked you for wounds. You weren’t injured, but you felt like you should be.That didn’t stop the hollow ache in your chest.

“She was right there,” you said, your voice barely audible over the siren. “She was safe. I had her. I—” Your throat tightened. You couldn’t finish.

Jack appeared at the doors, rain dripping from the brim of his coat. His eyes were sharp, but there was something softer underneath. “It wasn’t your fault. We’ll get him.”

The killer was still on the loose. That truth was more grounding than anything else.

When the search closed in on an industrial park three blocks away, you left the ambulance before anyone could stop you. Your weapon felt heavier than usual, but your grip didn’t falter.

You found him in a narrow alley, holding a woman in front of him like a shield. She was crying, her hands clawing at his arm, his pistol pressed to her temple. He was backing toward the street, scanning for an exit. You watched the scene from behind, the Team were all poiting theis guns ate him

“Federal Agents. Put the gun down!” you heard Katz’s voice cut through the rain.

His eyes flicked to the back of the alley, missing you in the shadows, a cold, calculating assessment, and then back to the street. He tightened his hold on the woman, shifting her between him and the team.

You stepped sideways, slow, patient, closing the distance. One mistake, one twitch, and she’d be dead.

He was shouting something now, threats, demands, but you weren’t listening. You saw the angle. The line. The back of his head…

You fired once.

The impact was immediate. His body went slack, the woman wrenching free and stumbling toward safety. He hit the pavement face-first, the rain quickly swallowing the last of the red pooling beneath him.

Your hands didn’t shake. Not this time.

It’s weird to keep remembering something that happened just a few hours ago, but in the way back to the Motel it just wouldn’t slip your mind. Martha’s eyes, glimmering with hope as her shaking hand took yours, and just them it was gone, she fell to the ground. You failed her. The stains on your white shirt were the proof of it.

Shaking, you took Jack’s hand as he helped you out of the vehicle, leading you to your room with ease, telling you some reassuring words your brain didn’t wrapped around, your own thoughts were too loud for that.

“Are you okay, Agent? Would you like to talk to Dr. Bloom?” He suggested.

“No. No…I’m – I just need a shower”

You were too much aware of the drying blood over your skin. Jack nodded, resting a hand on your shoulder as opening the door do you.

Will was already inside, pacing around the tiny space between the beds, his glasses falling to the tip of his nose like a little kid’s. He look over to you and his eyes softened.

“I let the water running. Almost boiling now, actually” He said, voice calm and almost boyish.

“Thanks” you said, dropping your thing onto the table. “I’ll go in a minute”

“Take your time.” He eased, sitting at his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know.” You thought about sitting in the old chair, but it was so cold and Will seemed to be so warm in his plaid shirt and worn out jeans. You sat beside him, mattress shaking to adjust to both of your weight. “I guess you would know”

“Yeah” His voice came out as a raspy laugh. “I would know”

His shoulder brushed yours, his hand coming to caress your back awkwardly.

“Was this how you felt when you shot Garret Jacob Hobbs?” You both felt the heaviness of the question and you regretted it instantly. “I’m sorry”

“It’s okay.” He said.

He didn’t look at you for long, but you could feel his gaze, reluctant, searching, as if he wanted to know whether you were going to crumble, or whether you’d already decided never to.

“Martha O’neil wasn’t your fault” He said, his hands drawing circles to the small of your back. “Don’t overthink. It’ll kill you”

“I know. But I can’t get her eyes out of my head…And when I convinced her, she seemed so…grateful”.

Tears burned hot at the corners of your eyes before you could stop them, and you let yourself lean into Will’s side. His body was solid, grounded, like leaning against a wall that might just hold you up when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

“You’re so warm,” you slipped, not caring if it sounded strange. It was true. He felt like a fireplace in the winter.

Will gave a soft laugh, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“I’m burning up a fever,” he said, then added quickly, almost self-conscious, “But it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

His hand came up to your hair, fingers combing through gently, like he was afraid to tangle or pull. The motion was soothing, the kind of touch that made it hard to tell whether he was comforting you, or himself.

You lost track of how many minutes you stayed liked that, but the ache in your bones was restless, and the hot water seemed more than inviting.

The water hissed in the bathroom, a steady curtain of sound that blurred the edges of the motel room into something smaller, quieter. Steam seeped under the door in faint wisps, curling into the air like smoke. Will sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, glasses slipping low on the bridge of his nose.

He told himself he was just giving you space. Letting you rinse off the day — the blood, the rain, the weight of what you’d seen. But his mind wouldn’t stay in neutral.

You’d walked into the bathroom without a backward glance, stripping off the blood-stiff clothes that still lay in a crumpled heap near the door. He could almost hear the drops hitting your skin, imagined the way your muscles might finally loosen under the heat. The image was intrusive, uninvited, and yet it stayed.

He hadn’t realized, not really, until now, until seeing you hunched in the SUV, shaking from more than the cold , how much he noticed you. Not just the way you worked a case, or the little quirks in your voice when you were tired, but the way you carried things you didn’t deserve to carry. How much it hurt him to watch you break under something that wasn’t your fault.

It was that fragility — not weakness, never weakness — that caught him off guard. Like it was pulling some thread in him he hadn’t felt in years, a thread that, if he kept tugging, would unravel everything he thought he’d neatly tied up inside himself.

The shower kept running, a soft roar. He wondered if you were leaning your forehead against the tile, eyes closed, breathing through the heat. He wondered if you were crying where no one could see.

You stepped out in a motel-white robe, cinched loose at the waist, hair dripping wet down your shoulders in dark, lazy strands. The faint scent of soap and heat trailed behind you, replacing the sharp metallic tang of blood that had hung in the air earlier.

“You look…” Will started, then stopped. His eyes flicked away, a shy half-smile tugging at his mouth. “…less like an extra from a horror scene.”

You snorted, running a towel over your hair. “Well, we’re in Batez Motel after all”

“I’m saying the absence of blood really works for you.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “So you’re saying the blood didn’t work for me?”

“Not unless you were going for… a kind of Carrie-at-prom look,” he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You laughed, it was quite morbid, but it neither of you seemed to mind.

You tossed the towel onto the chair and flopped back against the pillows, robe loosening slightly at the collar. Will was still sitting on the edge of the other bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching you like he was still working something out in his head.

After a long beat, he asked quietly, “Do you think I’m weird?”

You turned your head toward him, one eyebrow lifting. “Yeah. But so what? Everybody’s weird.”

He shook his head just a little, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re not weird.”

You laughed, a short, surprised sound. “I study mutilated bodies for a living, Will.”

His smirk grew into something almost boyish. “Yeah… but you make it seem normal.”

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment or something that should worry you, but either way, it made your chest feel a little lighter.

The rest of the night was filled with conversation. Conversations you never thought of having with Will; he seemed to be so calm tonight, so well cantered. You ate pizza and drank an unknown brand of Tennessee Whisky that was forgotten inside the minifridge. Will told you about his dogs, about fishing and Dr. Lecter, his ability and his unimaginable sympathy.

Right now, it was almost 1am, you were both sitting on the floor, trying to fill up the crosswords from the local newspaper.

“Alright…Another word for”, you squint at the tiny print, pen poised, “‘subdue’?”

Will leans over the paper, breath warm against your ear. He’s close enough that you can feel the slight tremor in his shoulder when he laughs softly. “Quell,” he offers, voice low. “Or ‘suppress’ if you want something longer.”

You write QUELL underneath and grin at him. “You always make it sound like a lecture.”

He looks up, something like embarrassment flaring and dying on his face. “I don’t mean to. I just… used to it by now.”

“I never been to one of your classes…Maybe I should.”

“Maybe” he agrees.

You sip the cheap Tennessee whiskey, feeling it burn in a way that makes you smile. “Okay, Professor Graham,” you tease, nudging his knee with your foot, “try this one: three letters, clued ‘not alive’.”

Will’s eyes slide to the clue, then to you. His brow knits. “Dead?” He says it as if testing the sound of it in his mouth. The word hangs there, absurd and heavy in the small room.

“Yep.” You tap the D into the grid. “Simple and honest.”

He studies the paper as if it’s a crime scene, looking for patterns. “You make it sound less clinical,” he says after a moment, then almost immediately, quieter, “Thank you.”

You bump your shoulder against his. “Weird compliment.”

He gives the faintest, embarrassed smile. “I can do weird compliments.”

Another pause. Outside, rain ticks its steady tempo against the window. Inside, the motel light hums low and safe. You both lean over the crossword, shoulders touching.

“OK,” you say, handing the pen to him. “You get the ending down. One word: ‘one who understands criminals’.”

Will blinks, the phrase settling in like a puzzle piece. He taps his lip with the pen, thoughtful. “Profiler?” he guesses finally, then laughs at himself. “That’s too on the nose.”

“Put it in anyway,” you say. “On the nose is where we live.”

He writes it down.

“There,” he says, pleased with himself. “Done.”

You both sit back, the crossword nearly complete, and for a few beats neither of you speaks. Will’s hand hovers near yours, inches away, as if waiting for permission.

The clock ticks heavily and both of you glare at its direction. 1:15. It´s late.

“Time flies, uh?” He says, putting the paper away. “Wanna call it a night?”

“No. Not really, I…I’m afraid that, if I fall asleep I’l see her again.” You admit, timidly bracing yourself.

“It’s okay. I rather not sleep either.” He says, hand finally pressing over yours.

“And what would you rather do, Professor Graham? Or do you prefer Special Agent Graham?”

He laughs to himself, leaning in towards you like a magnet, some strays of your hair already scratching his face.

“I’ll think of something we can do…”

His breath is warm against your face, his big brown eyes staring down at you half lined.

“Yeah?” You ask, almost out of breath.

He nods, while bringing his face impossible closer to yours. The way he’s looking at you now is different, not guarded, not distant, but like he’s fighting himself over something.

His hand is still over yours, warm and steady, but you feel the faintest flex in his fingers, like he’s testing whether he can pull you closer. Will leans in a fraction, then stops, eyes flicking between yours as if he’s measuring every breath you take.

“Will?” you murmur, and even to your own ears it sounds unsteady.

He nods once, slow. “Yeah.”

There’s a pull now; magnetic, undeniable. You don’t remember leaning toward him, but suddenly the space between you is thin, too thin, his knee brushing yours, the edge of his plaid shirt grazing your arm. His breath fans over your cheek, warm, carrying the faint burn of whiskey. You feel the ghost of his nose brushing yours before his lips even touch you.

For a heartbeat, he just hovers there, as if giving you the chance to move away. But you don’t. You can’t.

Then his lips are on yours; barely there, the kind of kiss that could still be mistaken for an accident if one of you decided to pull away.

You inhale sharply, feeling his hesitation like a wire stretched tight between you. The scent of him — rain, soap, and that faint trace of whiskey — wraps around you, and before you even think, your mouth moves against his in answer.

That’s all it takes for something in him to snap.

The careful Will, the measured Will, vanishes.

His hands come alive, sliding from your jaw to the curve of your neck, then lower; one broad palm spanning your waist, the other pressing into the small of your back as if he’s afraid you might dissolve into smoke. He pulls you closer as possible as he can, the kiss deepening with a hunger that feels long-buried, unpractised, almost desperate.

Your fingers find his hair, damp at the ends from his earlier shower, and you curl them into it. The soft curls slip between your knuckles, and you tug just enough to hear the quiet sound he makes into your mouth, something low and almost pained.

He breathes hard between kisses, his nose brushing yours, thumbs drawing restless patterns at your sides. It’s not neat, not choreographed. It’s searching, hands roaming over your hips, up your spine, over your shoulder blades.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, you see him: eyes darker now, lips parted, chest rising like he’s been running. His gaze drops to your mouth again and then back up to your eyes, and you know he’s already falling forward to claim you again.

Bruised lips crashing into yours, even harder, hungrier, needy.

He shifts his weight, guiding you back until your spine meets the motel wooden floor, the crossword puzzle crushed somewhere beneath you both. Will hovers over you only for a second before his mouth is back on yours, insistent, relentless.

You break just enough to breathe, whispering against his lips, “You’re… a good kisser”

The smile that flickers over his mouth is wicked and fleeting before he dives back in, kissing you so deeply it makes your toes curl. “Not good,” he mutters between kisses, his voice rough, “just… starving.”

Then his mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your throat. He bites, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, and then soothes the sting with a slow, wet pull of his lips. He lingers there, sucking lightly at the soft skin, marking you in ways he doesn’t seem to care about hiding.

Your hands grip tighter in his hair, pulling him closer, and he lets out a low growl, shifting his body fully over yours. The heat of him, the weight of him, pins you in the most intoxicating way. His lips find yours again, and this time it’s not tentative or careful; it’s raw, carnal, the kiss of a man who’s gone too long without touch and doesn’t want to stop now that he’s found it.

His body presses flush against yours, heat radiating through the layers of clothes, chasing away the chill clinging to your skin. He’s solid, unyielding, every muscle coiled tight like he’s holding back from something that wants to rip free.

Your legs shift beneath him, knees brushing his hips, and the movement draws a sharp breath from him; a sound almost too raw to be human. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, the air between you seems to vanish completely. His hips settle lower, and you can feel him through the hard line in his jeans, proof of just how much this is undoing him.

The kiss turns messier, wetter, his mouth claiming yours over and over as if each one is the only one he’ll ever get. His stubble rasps against your skin, his teeth catching your lower lip before he draws it into his mouth, sucking until you sigh against him. That sound — your sound — makes him chase more of it, more of you, like a predator following the scent.

Your hands slip from his hair to his shoulders, fingers spreading against the tense heat under his shirt. He’s warmer than you expected, almost fever-hot compared to the coolness of your own skin, and every inch of him that presses closer seems to sink deeper into you.

When his mouth leaves yours again, it’s to find the hollow of your throat. He noses into the spot like an animal scenting his territory, breath hot and uneven, lips dragging slowly before fastening in a deep kiss against your pulse. The weight of him is everywhere now: across your ribs, over your hips, caging you in.

The motel light hums overhead, the rain patters outside, but all you can register is him: the heavy, deliberate way he breathes against your skin, the almost feral sound low in his chest when you arch into him, and the insistent, undeniable hardness pressed against you, reminding you of the tension he’s barely keeping contained.

When he lifts his head again, his lips are flushed, damp, parted. His gaze catches yours as your hands slips under his shirt, fingers digging into his skin; it sends a shiver down his spine.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, dipping to kiss along your jaw again.

“I’m always freezing” you said, and you’re well aware you voice doesn’t sound as controlled as his.

Then he’s kissing you again, harder than before, heat and hunger and the steady, unrelenting weight of him driving the cold from your bones.

Will’s hands slid down your sides with a slow, deliberate hunger, fingers tracing the edges of your nightgown. His touch was feather-light at first, then firmer, as if he needed to confirm you were real, tangible beneath him.

With a sharp, almost desperate tug, he pulled the thin strap off your shoulder, and you shivered, the cool air rushing in where warmth had been trapped. He caught the bare skin, lips grazing your collarbone before dipping lower. His mouth trailed hot, possessive kisses along your chest, and you felt the weight of his gaze like a physical force. His hands gripped the hem, fingers curling into the delicate fabric, and with one swift motion, he peeled it up over your breasts, revealing your skin to the cool room air. The chill made the sharp rise and fall of your chest all the more apparent, and his lips found one nipple, teasing and sucking until you gasped beneath him.

His other hand roamed lower, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, tracing the sensitive curve of your hip. The hardness pressing against you was impossible to ignore, an urgent reminder of the need pulsing through him: fierce, primal, undeniable. And yet, he is driven to your ache first, to trace the line of your wetness trough the thin fabric.

You hissed as he bite down your breast, easing the sting with a kiss before drawling his lips lower. Lower. Lower; deliberate and unhurried. Down your ribs, across the curve of your waist, until he found the wetness pooling beneath the thin fabric of your underwear; your core aching and begging for his attention. Will nudged at your covered heat, his nose hitting a soft spot that made you lose your breath.

“You’re so pretty” He says, opening your legs wider, resting his face on your inner tight as he glazed within hunter eyes towards your cunt. “So pretty for me”

“Will…Please” you ask, hips involuntarily swaying in his direction.

A wicked smile passes through his features, bringing his hands to slowly remove your panties, tossing them aside. He used both hands to spread you open, exposing you completely to his hungry eyes. The quiet room held only the sound of your breaths mingling, the rain pattering softly beyond the window, and the steady beat of your hearts racing together.

He offered one quick kiss to your pussy lips, savouring the traces of your arousal; his breath warm and slightly ragged as his index finger traced slow, deliberate patterns along your folds while his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made you shiver. You whined, helpless to the sensations flooding your body.

“Shhh. I’ll take care of you now” he smooths.

You were about to beg for more, to plead for him, when he dove into your core with an urgency that stole your words. Your mouth fell open, breaths hitching, as your hips bucked hard against his mouth, craving more of the wild, desperate hunger you found there. Will’s tongue moved expertly: up, down, swirling; coating every inch of your wetness with deliberate, skilful devotion. Then his lips closed over your clit, biting gently but possessively, pulling it between them. The sting made your head fall back, eyes fluttering closed as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

“Will!” you moaned, hands tangling in his rebellious curls, desperate to anchor yourself to him. “Fuck…”

His eyes squeezed shut as he steadied you with his arms, curling around your thighs and pulling your hips higher, pressing you flush against his relentless mouth. The grip of his fingers around your skin was firm and grounding, tethering you to the moment, to him, to the unbearable heat between your bodies. Your breath hitched and your entire body trembled under his touch, every nerve ignited with want and need.

You clung harder to his curls, fingers threading desperately through the damp strands, urging him on.

“You’re so fucking good at this…” you said, eyes closed with trembling emotion.

You can swear you feel his smirk pressing against your burning skin; that seems to only intensify his actions, every flick of his tongue it’s like a calculated brush of painting on a masterpiece.

The coil of tension inside you tightened, a slow but inevitable build toward release, like a wave rising just before it crashes. But Will knew exactly when to pull away.

His lips left your core reluctantly, wet and swollen, trailing a path upward with soft, teasing kisses that made your pulse race anew. He nipped gently at your hipbone, the slight sting sharpening the delicious ache coiling tight inside you.

“Why’d you stop?” You ask, breathless.

He didn’t answer immediately. Rising from beneath you, he steadied himself with one arm braced beside your head, his gaze flickering down to the glistening traces of your wetness clinging to his beard and lips. A raw, intimate mark that seemed to belong to him alone. It suited him perfectly.

“Want you to cum somewhere else first…” He whispers.

Will’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and burning with need, and the room seemed to shrink until there was nothing but the heat between you. His hand slid down from your hip, sliding beneath your thighs to grip them firmly, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush.

You moved now, lifting your upper body to meet his, crashing a hard, messy kiss onto his swollen lips. The taste of yourself lingered there, sharp and intoxicating. Your teeth met his in a fierce collision, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

“You’re not the only one who’s hungry,” you whispered into his ear, lips trailing hot kisses down his neck as your hands hurriedly undid the bottoms of his shirt.

“You’re making me crazy,” Will grunted, tasting his own blood, the metallic tang spurring his growing need.

His heart thundered like a wild engine, every button you freed sending a new pulse of desire through him, his cock pressing harder against you, aching and impatient. Your nails raked down his back, sharp and electrifying, making him curse softly as the sting spread over his skin.

Will is like a living furnace, a thin line of sweat graces his features, pink coloured cheeks and heavy breathing. All because of you.

Finally reaching his throbbing erection, you palm him eagerly, undoing his belt.

“See what you do to me, uh?” He says, his nose buried into your hair, his eyes watching every move of your hands.

Will kicks his pants and underwear away, standing bare on top of you.

Your mouth watered at the sight of him: hard, red-tipped, desperate, aching for release. You stroked his length a few times, eliciting a whine from deep in his throat, different from any sound he’d made before, raw and pleading.

“I…” He started, voice faltering as he fought with himself.

“What?” you asked, lifting your gaze from his cock to his eyes. His forehead pressed against yours in a moment of fragile confession.

You gave him a hard, teasing pump, making him squint against the pleasure, sighing heavily.

“I want to use you,” he said, almost ashamed, voice low and rough.

“Use me, then,” you answered, planting a deliberately innocent kiss on his chin, eyes dark with challenge.

That broke the dam. Will pushed you down, capturing both of your hands above your head in a single motion, pinning you completely beneath his heat and weight. Your breath hitched as you felt the tip of him teasing your dripping folds, pressing insistently against your entrance.

Will barely holds himself together, his breath ragged, eyes dark with a desperate hunger. The moment fractures like lightning. He doesn’t give you any warning, no gentle build-up, just a fierce, primal drive that shatters all hesitation.

With a sharp, urgent thrust, he slips fully inside you, filling you completely. You both freeze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the sudden, exquisite intensity of connection; the raw heat, the slick pressure, the way your bodies fit together perfectly, impossibly tight.

Will collapses onto you, his weight settling heavy and warm. His face buries into the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged, mixing with the quickening pulse beneath your skin.

Your nails find their way into the tense muscles of his back, digging in hard, grounding yourself against the overwhelming flood of sensation crashing through you. The sharp press of your claws makes him shudder against you, a low, guttural sound vibrating from deep inside his throat.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this; neither of you speaks.

You fell his cock buried deep inside of you in a way you never imagined to be possible, you feel him fighting back the urge to move his hips against yours, but he knows you need to adjust to him first, he doesn’t wanna hurt you.

“’S so tight. Fuck. You’re so tight” He whisper.

“Move” You plea, eyes closed. “Use me.”

He moans, weighting himself on top of you again. He traces his hips back, sliding out of your pussy almost completely before sliding back in. It’s raw. It ignites a shared cry between you two.

He tries again. Will’s breath hitches as he pulls back, just barely, then slams forward with a harshness that steals the air from your lungs. His hips pound into yours, relentless and fierce, every thrust heavy and unyielding like a storm breaking loose.

“So fucking tight… so fucking perfect.”

You grip his shoulders, nails digging in, matching his intensity. You gasp, voice trembling with need.

He’s moving slow, his hips stuttering, hesitation flickering in his eyes. His breath hitches, voice low and rough with uncertainty.

“Harder.” You plead.

He shook his head, trying to regain control of his own actions, trying to win over the primal lust that seems to have a hold of him.

You cup his face gently, your fingers tracing the tense line of his jaw. Your voice is steady but firm, laced with both encouragement and desire.

“Fuck me harder”

He answers with a sharp grunt, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, pulling you closer, deeper, like he’s desperate to bury himself inside you completely.

“I’m gonna lose it,” he warns, voice raw, eyes dark with hunger. “You feel that? You’re driving me insane. Take it.”

Your body arches, meeting every savage thrust, every growl, every whispered claim. The room echoes with the sounds of skin slapping skin, your breaths ragged and mingling.

He tightens his grip, thrusting harder, faster, as if trying to etch the moment into your very soul. Will’s movements grow more erratic, your cunt is pulsing so good around him, so warm and so tight. Your moans are loud, you can’t help it, not when he’s using you like this.

Your body is arching into him as his thumb brushes over your hardened nipple, sending sparks of fire through your body. His mouth finds your neck again, biting lightly while his hand continues its intimate exploration, rolling and squeezing with a fierce tenderness that contrasts with the harsh rhythm of his hips. The sensation of his lips sucking on your nipples is enough to make your eyes loose focus, darting up to the ceiling, which is nothing but a blurred grey sky.

“Fuck,” he growls from between your breasts, voice rough and broken, “You feel so damn good. So fucking perfect.”

You tighten around him, your body responding to his intensity, craving more.

“Taking it so good for me.”

His other hand roams from your breast to your back, fingers digging in as he pulls you impossibly closer, seeking every inch of you with an insatiable hunger. Your nails rake down his spine, anchoring you both to this storm of sensation.

“God, you’re mine,” he murmurs fiercely against your skin, voice trembling with need.

You don’t know where this sudden possessiveness came from, but it’s something that just snaps inside of your brain like a match that lights up a dark room.

“Am I?” You ask, hands dancing in his chest, leaving red trails from where your nails digs his skin.

His gaze sharpens at your challenge, a dangerous glint sparking in those storm-dark eyes. The air between you thickens, charged with something deeper than lust; something primal, claiming.

“Yes,” he repeats, slower this time, each syllable like the strike of a hammer, “You’re mine.”

You smirk, the defiance in your eyes a deliberate flame meant to test him. “Maybe,” you murmur, tilting your head, pretending like you’re not falling apart at this hands.

He stops. Will presses his cock inside of you as much as he can, punching the air out of your lungs. He stops there, letting you feel it.

His hand leaves your back, trailing upward, fingers curling around the delicate column of your throat. The pressure is firm: not enough to cut off your breath, but enough to make your pulse drum against his palm, to remind you of the control he’s taking.

Your moan catches in your throat, your body shuddering under the heady mix of restraint and hunger. His thumb strokes lazily along your jaw, a mockery of gentleness that only highlights the rough, relentless rhythm of his hips from a few moments ago.

“You will be.” His voice is low, dangerous, each word vibrating through your chest where his body cages yours. “I’ll make sure you feel me every time you close your eyes.”

Your lips part, but no words come out: only a gasp when he pulls out completely off your aching cunt, just to buries himself to the hilt again, fingers tightening fractionally on your throat, pinning your gaze to his.

Your nails dig into his bicep as your head falls down into the floor, a low scream leaving your body as he starts to set a slow but harder pace: each thrust is like a lightning that strikes your body. Your body starts to quake beneath him, the tension that’s been coiling in your core snapping all at once. Pleasure floods through you in violent, shuddering waves, your cunt clenching tight around him.

“Will…faster!” you manage to gasp, voice breaking with urgency. “Please, oh my God.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His grip on your throat loosens just enough for you to drag in a ragged breath before his hand slides back to your hip, holding you still as he pounds into you. The change is immediate, his pace brutal, each thrust driving you further into the floor, making your whole body jolt with the force.

You’re still coming, your orgasm stretching out under the relentless assault, every nerve screaming with overstimulation, but Will doesn’t slow. He’s using the grip on your body to take exactly what he needs, chasing his own release with single-minded focus. His jaw is tight, teeth bared, sweat dripping from his temple onto your chest as he fucks you through every aftershock.

“Fuck—” his voice cracks, deep and strained, “Where… do you want it?” His thrusts are losing rhythm, growing desperate. “Tell me.”

You meet his eyes, your breath hitching. The answer comes out without hesitation, almost a plea:

“Inside.”

For a second, his expression darkens, something between hunger and surrender. “You sure?” he rasps, hips still slamming into yours, barely holding together.

You don’t answer, simply pulling him impossibly closer by the shoulder while lacing his low back with your legs, caging him inside of you.

His control shatters. He drives into you harder, deeper, each thrust reckless and final, as if he’s trying to bury himself inside you forever. His groan is guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, and you can feel the hot rush of his cum spilling into you as his body locks tight against yours.

Even then, he doesn’t stop right away, grinding, pulsing inside you like he needs to make sure every drop stays exactly where you told him you wanted it.

You’re not sure what happened next. It’s all a blur, a burning sensation that irradiates through your whole body.

After a few moments, you seem to regain conscience.

Will is still on top of you, still buried in you. His hand finds your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he’s memorizing it, sealing something unspoken in the space between your pounding hearts.

“You sure did find something for us to do” You joke.

He smiles, but there’s a softness in it now, something almost reverent. He dips his head, pressing a slow kiss to your temple before leaning back just enough to look at you fully.

“You make it too easy,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with warmth. His fingers trail from your cheek, down the line of your jaw, then over the column of your throat as if he’s savouring the feel of you: every breath, every shiver.

Your legs are still wrapped loosely around him, and you can feel the steady weight of him between them. There’s a comfortable stillness, his hand slides down to your side, palm flattening over your hip, thumb sweeping lazy circles there.

“I could stay here all night,” he admits, and it doesn’t sound like a throwaway line. It’s quiet, almost vulnerable. His other hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

The air between you feels heavier now, not from lust, but from the gravity of whatever you’ve just stepped into together. You don’t know if you want to break it, or if you even could.

“Then stay,” you say simply, and the way his expression shifts.

He leans down again, mouth finding yours in a slower kiss this time, his movements unhurried, almost tender, as if you’re both learning the shape of something neither of you had planned for.

You break the kiss in a laugh.

“Just not on the floor, please. My back is killing me”