#Fiancée Observation Record

[parthenopiadoodles]

Reincarnation Series wip

currently just a sketch but i hope i'll have energy to finish this till the end, i'm thinking a lot of thoughts of them interacting with each other ever since deciding the characters to draw for this... i don't know anyone who has read all these same stories

4 of them are villainesses...

[kahixxi]

he is for her eyes only

[animemakeblog]

“Jishou Akuyaku Reijou na Konyakusha no Kansatsu Kiroku.” The Light Novel For Gets TV Anime in 2026

The publishing company AlphaPolis unveiled a teaser image for the television anime adaptation of Shiki's Jishou Akuyaku Reijou na Konyakusha no Kansatsu Kiroku. (Observation Records of My Fiancée: The Misadventures of a Self-Proclaimed Villainess) light novel. In 2026, the anime is expected to debut.

[mikyapixie]

𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜é𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐕𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐓𝐕 𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝.

𝐀 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝐀𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

[knightoflodis]

“Ah, also, my earlier advice regarding her “diet,” which included strength training, may have influenced her. I suggested that she tone down her exercise regimen since a muscular Crown Princess could be somewhat awkward.”

Fuck you! Let your fiancé be muscular!

That alone makes me want to read a story with muscular ladies as a palate cleanser.

[mrs-delaney]

Teleport 2 Me

Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 4.4k and some change

Request: I was wondering to get a Joe burrow imagine where his fiancé is planning a surprise with kid cudi for their wedding. Whether it is kid cudi singing their first dance song or singing her down the aisle towards to Joe. But she had to turn off her location so the surprise can work because Joe would see where she at if she was taking forever to come home.

Author's Note: I loved the concept of this request immediately! The idea of trying to coordinate one of Joe's favs like Kid Cudi while keeping it from someone as observant as he is? Pure disaster potential. I chose the first dance route with "Teleport 2 Me" because the lyrics about wanting to be close despite distance felt perfect for them.

Thanks to the anon who requested this - hope it lived up to what you were imagining! 🤍 I'm slowly but surely working through them I promise.

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

You pulled into the driveway at 10:47 PM, which was later than you'd told Joe you'd be home. Again. Every light in the house was on—porch lights, upstairs lights, the whole first floor lit up. Joe's way of letting you know he was awake and waiting without saying it.

Probably watching film. 

Your phone buzzed with a text from Cudi's manager: Rehearsal tomorrow at 2. Can you make it?

Tomorrow Joe had meetings with his agent until 4, which meant you could easily make it and be home before he was. You typed back: I'll be there.

The front door opened before you could reach it.

"Long day?" Joe asked, stepping aside to let you in. His voice was casual, but you caught the way his eyes scanned your face, looking for something. Clues.

"The Kroger campaign is killing me," you said, which wasn't technically a lie. The Kroger campaign was killing you—it just wasn't why you'd been gone for twelve hours. "Sorry I'm so late."

Joe nodded, following you into the kitchen. "You eat?"

"Grabbed something at the office." Another lie. You'd eaten takeout at the recording studio while listening to Kid Cudi run through "Teleport 2 Me" for the third time, making sure it would be perfect for your first dance.

"You've never had to work Sundays before."

The comment was light, conversational, but you knew Joe well enough to hear the edge underneath. He was starting to notice patterns. Starting to ask the questions you'd been dreading.

"It's just until the wedding," you said, hating how easily the deflection came. "Then everything calms down."

Joe's laptop was open on the counter, some defensive scheme paused mid-play. He'd been waiting for you to get home. Had been waiting for hours.

"Come here," he said quietly.

You stepped closer, letting him pull you between his knees where he sat on the barstool. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs brushing against the fabric of your shirt.

"You sure you're okay? You've been..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Pulling away lately."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Three weeks of this secret had you jumping at shadows, and Joe's ability to read people like a book wasn't making it any easier.

"I'm not pulling away," you said quickly, reaching up to touch his face. "I'm just stressed about work and the wedding and trying to get everything perfect for us. I love you. I can't wait to marry you. It's just... a lot right now."

That got a small smile out of him, but his eyes stayed concerned.

"3 more days," he said, like he was trying to convince himself everything was normal.

* * *

You'd been at the venue for three hours, watching Kid Cudi run through the acoustic arrangement of "Teleport 2 Me" while his sound engineer adjusted levels for the reception space. Your phone had been buzzing periodically with texts from Joe, but you'd kept it on silent, location services turned off. The last thing you needed was him seeing you were at the wedding venue when you'd told him you were staying late at the office.

How's the Kroger campaign going?

Want me to pick up dinner?

Call me when you're wrapping up

Each message made your stomach twist a little tighter. Five days until the wedding, and you were running out of believable excuses for these long absences.

"I think we've got it," Cudi said, setting down his guitar. "The acoustic version's going to be perfect for the first dance."

You smiled, finally allowing yourself to feel excited instead of anxious. "He's going to lose his mind. He has no clue."

"Good. That's what we're going for." He grinned. "Man, I can't wait to see his reaction. This is gonna be special." He stood up, stretching. "Same time tomorrow for final soundcheck?"

Tomorrow's rehearsal was scheduled for 2 PM again, right when Joe would be at his final suit fitting. Another narrow window to coordinate around his schedule.

"I'll be there."

The drive home felt longer than usual, your mind already crafting explanations for why you'd been unreachable for the past hour. Traffic. Difficult client. Phone on silent during a presentation. All technically possible, none of them true.

Joe's car was in the garage when you pulled in.

"Hey," you called as you walked in, dropping your purse on the counter. "Sorry, that meeting ran forever."

Joe looked up from his laptop, where he appeared to be reviewing some kind of contract. "No problem. How'd it go?"

"Good. Finally got the creative approved." The lie came easily now, which should have bothered you more than it did. "What time did you get home?"

"Around six." He closed the laptop, giving you his full attention. "Your location's been off all day."

The statement was casual, conversational, but something in his tone made you freeze. You forced yourself to look confused, pulling out your phone.

"What? Let me check..." You tapped through to settings, pretending to investigate while your heart hammered. "That's weird."

Joe was already pulling up his phone, fingers moving across the screen with practiced ease. "It's back on now," he said, turning the screen toward you. There you were, a little dot on the map in your kitchen.

You stared at it for a beat too long before responding. "Huh. That's weird. I didn't turn it off. Must be a glitch."

"Must be," Joe agreed, but his eyes stayed on your face.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken questions. Joe had always been good at reading tells—it's what made him great at his position, the ability to see what defenses were really doing beneath the surface. And right now, you felt completely transparent.

"I'm going to shower," you said finally, needing to escape his analytical gaze.

"Yeah, okay." He reopened his laptop, but you could feel him watching as you headed toward the stairs.

In the bathroom, you leaned against the closed door and exhaled slowly. That had been close.  Joe wasn't stupid, and he definitely wasn't the type to let inconsistencies slide without eventually asking direct questions.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Cudi's manager: Tomorrow's rehearsal moved to 1 PM. Still work for you?

You typed back quickly: Perfect. See you then.

One more day. One more lie. And then Joe would understand why you'd been so secretive, why you'd been pulling away, why you'd been turning your location off and coming home exhausted from "work meetings" that made no sense.

When you came back downstairs twenty minutes later, Joe was still at the counter, but his laptop was closed again. He looked up as you entered the kitchen, and something in his expression had shifted.

"Everything okay?" you asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to hear the answer.

"Yeah," he said, but his tone suggested otherwise. "Just thinking."

About what, you wanted to ask, but didn't. Because you were pretty sure you already knew.

Joe stood, moving toward you with that measured way he approached everything when he was processing information. His hands found your waist, thumbs brushing against your sides.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" he said quietly. "If something's going on, if you're stressed about the wedding or work or... if you're having second thoughts, we can cancel everything right now and just do something you and me. Whatever you need."  The sincerity in his voice almost broke you. Here he was, offering you an out, a chance to come clean, and all you could do was lie to his face again.

"I know," you said, reaching up to touch his jaw. "I want this wedding, Joe. I want to marry you in front of everyone. It's just work stuff - I've been putting in extra hours because of all the time we're taking off for the honeymoon. I promise it'll calm down once we're back."

Joe nodded, but you could see he wasn't entirely convinced. His quarterback brain was filing away details, building a case, waiting for more evidence before making his move.

"Okay," he said simply, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I trust you."

The words hit like a punch to the chest. He trusted you, and you were lying to him 2 days before your wedding. For a good reason, but still lying.

"I love you," you said, meaning it more than you'd ever meant anything.

"I love you too."

But as he held you in the quiet kitchen, you could feel something shifting between you. A small crack in the foundation of trust you'd built together, one that you hoped would heal completely when he finally understood what you'd been doing.

2 more days. You just had to make it 2 more days.

* * *

You were running out of believable excuses, and Joe was running out of patience.

"I can come with you," he'd said that morning when you mentioned needing to run wedding errands. "Help carry stuff, keep you company."

The offer was sweet and completely normal, which made lying about it feel even worse.

"I'm just getting my nails done baby" you'd said quickly. "Rumi is coming with me. Girl time, you know?"

Joe had nodded, but something in his expression suggested he was filing that information away with all the other inconsistencies he'd been cataloging.

Now you were pulling into the driveway after three and a half hours at the venue, coordinating final details with Kid Cudi and his team. Your phone showed two missed texts from Joe:

Nails taking forever?

You good?

You'd responded with vague reassurances about the salon being busy, but as you walked toward the front door, you realized your hands looked exactly the same as when you'd left that morning.

Joe was in the kitchen when you walked in, laptop closed in front of him, arms crossed. The posture of someone who'd been thinking.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"Good. They were super busy, but Rumi and I got to catch up." The lie felt heavier each time you told one. "Sorry it took so long."

Joe's eyes dropped to your hands, taking in your unchanged manicure with the same analytical precision he used to read defensive formations.

"It doesn't take three and a half hours to get your fucking nails done."

The statement hung between you, sharp and pointed. You looked down at your hands, realizing too late that your excuse had fallen apart before you'd even made it through the door.

"They were really backed up," you said weakly. "And we grabbed lunch after."

"Your nails look exactly the same as they did this morning."

There was frustration in his voice, that quiet anger that meant he was putting pieces together and didn't like what he was finding. You could practically see him building his case, the same way he processed information on the field.

Your phone rang before you could respond, Kid Cudi's manager's name flashing on the screen. The timing couldn't have been worse.

"I should take this," you said, already moving toward the sliding door to the backyard.

"At 8 PM? The night before our wedding?"

You were already outside, pressing accept before Joe could ask any more questions.

"Hey, Dennis," you said quietly, glancing back toward the house. Joe was still visible through the glass, watching.

"Just wanted to confirm timing for tomorrow," Dennis said. "Cudi will be there at six for final sound check. We've got the acoustic guitar ready, and he knows to stay hidden until the DJ calls him out."

"Perfect," you whispered, turning away from the house. "And he remembers—"

"Make sure Joe can't know until the moment, yeah. We've kept it secret this long, we're not blowing it now."

Relief flooded through you. Tomorrow night, all of this secrecy would finally make sense. Joe would understand why you'd been pulling away, why you'd been lying, why you'd been—

The sliding door opened behind you.

"I have to go," you said quickly, ending the call.

Joe was standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable in the dim porch light.

"Work call?" he asked as you walked back inside.

"Yeah, just... client thing."

"At eight PM. The night before our wedding." His voice was still level, but you could hear the edge creeping in. "About someone who can't know what?"

Your stomach dropped. "What?"

"I heard you. 'Make sure he can't know until...' and something about keeping secrets." Joe closed the sliding door behind you, his movements deliberate. "Who is 'he'? And what have you been keeping secret?"

The kitchen suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in as Joe's pale blue eyes stayed fixed on your face. This was it. The moment you'd been dreading for three weeks.

"It's not what you think—"

"Then tell me what it is." He stepped closer, and you could see the hurt starting to break through his controlled exterior. "Because from where I'm standing, my fiancée has been lying to me for weeks. Disappearing for hours, turning her location off, taking mysterious calls about keeping secrets from some guy."

"Joe—"

"You said you were getting your nails done, but they look exactly the same. You've been 'working late' every night for two weeks. Your location's been off more times than I can count." His voice was getting quieter, more controlled, which somehow made it worse. "So help me understand what I'm missing here."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Every instinct screamed to tell him the truth, to end this nightmare and explain everything. But tomorrow was your wedding day. Tomorrow night, when Kid Cudi walked out with his guitar, Joe would understand. You just had to make it eighteen more hours.

"I can't," you said finally.

"You can't." Joe repeated the words like he was testing how they sounded. "You can't tell your fiancé what you've been doing or who you've been talking to."

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" The hurt was fully visible now, cutting through his usual composure. "Because I'm running out of explanations that don't involve you seeing someone else."

The accusation hit like a physical blow. "How can you say that? How can you think that about me?"

"What am I supposed to think?" Joe's voice cracked slightly. "You disappear for hours with bullshit excuses. You're taking secret calls about some guy who can't know something. You won't tell me what's going on." He ran a hand through his hair, the first sign of his legendary control slipping. "If you're having second thoughts about us, about the wedding, just tell me. Don't... don't do this."

"I'm not having second thoughts." The words came out fierce, desperate. "I love you. I want to marry you tomorrow more than I've ever wanted anything."

"Then tell me what's going on."

You stared at him, this man you loved more than breathing, watching him break apart because of your lies. Every fiber of your being wanted to explain, to take away the pain in his eyes, to make him understand that everything you'd done was for him.

"I can't," you whispered again.

Something shifted in Joe's expression then, shutting down like a computer going into safe mode. The hurt was still there, but buried under layers of protection.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I guess I'll figure it out eventually."

He moved past you toward the stairs, his shoulder brushing yours in the narrow space.

"Joe, wait—"

"I'm sleeping in the guest room tonight," he said without turning around. "And if there's someone else... if that's what this is... don't make me stand up there tomorrow. Just tell me now."

You listened to his footsteps on the stairs, heard the guest room door close with a soft click. The kitchen fell silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of your heart breaking.

Eighteen more hours. You just had to survive eighteen more hours, and then he'd understand. Then he'd know that every lie, every secret, every moment of distance had been because you loved him so much you were willing to risk everything to give him something perfect.

* * *

You didn't see Joe until you were walking down the aisle.

The morning had been a whirlwind of hair and makeup and your sister fussing over the bustle of your dress, everyone too busy to notice that you kept checking your phone for updates from Kid Cudi's team. The ceremony was at four, reception at six, and Cudi had already done his sound check that morning while you were getting ready. Everything was falling into place exactly as you'd planned for three weeks.

But first, you had to marry Joe.

When the music started and the doors opened, revealing the intimate garden ceremony you'd dreamed about, your breath caught. There he was, standing at the altar in his perfectly tailored navy suit, hands clasped in front of him, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine. But it was his face that made your chest tighten.

The moment he saw you, everything shifted. The careful distance from this morning, the hurt from last night—all of it dissolved as his expression transformed into something soft and wondering. This was the Joe you'd fallen in love with, the one who looked at you like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

Your dad squeezed your arm as you reached the altar. "He's a good one," he whispered, placing your hand in Joe's.

"Hi," Joe said quietly, just for you, that slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Hi," you whispered back, and suddenly everything else faded away.

The ceremony passed in a blur of joy and laughter and tears. When it came time for vows, Joe's voice was steady and sure as he promised to love you through everything life threw at you, to be your constant in an unpredictable world, to choose you every single day for the rest of his life.

When you promised to be his safe place, his teammate, his biggest supporter, you meant every word. Even if you'd been lying to him for three weeks, even if he'd questioned everything last night, this moment was pure truth.

"You may kiss your bride."

Joe's hands framed your face as he kissed you, soft and reverent, and the small crowd erupted in cheers. When you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.

"We did it," he murmured.

"We did it," you agreed, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

"I love you so much," he whispered, just for you, his voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too," you whispered back, and he kissed you again, softer this time.

The cocktail hour flew by in a haze of congratulations and photos and champagne. You caught Joe watching you during pictures, that little furrow between his brows that meant he was thinking.

"You okay?" you asked during a brief moment alone while the photographer adjusted lighting.

"Yeah," he said, reaching for your hand. "About last night—"

"After," you said quickly, squeezing his fingers. "Let's just enjoy this, okay? We'll talk about everything after."

Joe studied your face for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But we are going to talk."

"I know. I promise."

Dinner passed in a blur of toasts and laughter and the best food you'd ever tasted. Joe seemed more relaxed as the evening went on, falling back into his usual rhythm of dry jokes and quiet observations that made you laugh until your sides hurt. This was your husband now. Your husband, who had no idea what was coming.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the DJ's voice cut through the gentle chatter of your sixty guests, "it's time for our newlyweds' first dance."

This was it.

Joe stood immediately, extending his hand with that easy confidence that made everything look effortless. "Ready, Mrs. Burrow?"

The name still sent a thrill through you. "I'm ready, Mr. Burrow."

He led you to the center of the dance floor, his hand finding its familiar place at the small of your back, the other intertwining your fingers. Around you, chairs scraped as guests turned to watch, phones already appearing to capture the moment.

"Just like we practiced," Joe murmured, that slight smile playing at his lips. "Try not to step on my feet."

"That was one time," you protested, laughing despite your nerves.

"It was more than three," he corrected, grinning. 

The familiar banter steadied you, reminded you why this surprise would be perfect. Joe had no idea that his favorite artist was about to walk out and perform the song that had gotten you both through so many late nights and long separations.

"Before we begin," the DJ announced, "the bride has a very special surprise for her new husband."

Joe's hand tightened reflexively around yours, confusion flickering across his features. "What—"

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Kid Cudi."

The words seemed to hang in the air for a split second before Joe's expression shifted from confusion to complete shock. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, his eyes widening as he stared at you like you'd just performed actual magic.

From the side of the reception space, Kid Cudi emerged with an acoustic guitar, moving toward the simple stool and microphone setup that had appeared during dinner. The intimate crowd erupted in surprised murmurs and scattered applause, but Joe didn't seem to hear any of it.

He was staring at you like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"You didn't," he breathed, voice barely audible over the growing excitement from your guests.

"I did," you whispered, watching his face cycle through shock, understanding, and something that looked close to tears.

Kid Cudi settled onto the stool, adjusting the guitar across his lap. When he spoke into the microphone, his voice was warm and genuine: "This is for Joe and his beautiful wife Y/N. Congratulations, man."

Joe's composure—that legendary calm that stayed intact under fourth-quarter pressure—finally cracked. His jaw worked for a moment like he was trying to find words that didn't exist, his hand squeezing yours tighter like he needed to feel something real.

"All those late nights," he said slowly, pieces clicking into place with almost audible precision. "The meetings that didn't make sense. Your location being off."

You nodded, thumb tracing over his knuckles. "I really hated lying to you."

"All those meetings." His voice carried that quiet amazement he got when he finally understood how a play was designed to work. "You were planning this with him."

"For weeks," you confirmed. "Planning this. Making sure it was perfect."

The opening guitar notes of "Teleport 2 Me" filled the space, gentle and acoustic and impossibly intimate. When Cudi's voice joined the melody, singing the words that had meant everything to you both —

Gettin in from the airport

You're gettin in from your study group

The only thing missing at this point is bonafide chillin time with you

Joe's carefully controlled expression finally shattered completely.

"Baby," he managed, voice thick with emotion. "You brought him here. For us."

"Don't cry at our wedding," you whispered, reaching up to catch the tear before it fell, even though your own eyes were burning.

He laughed, the sound watery and incredulous. "Don't cry? You coordinated with Kid Cudi to sing our song at our wedding. I think crying is pretty reasonable right now."

You started to sway as the music swelled, Joe pulling you closer than you'd practiced, needing you against him while he processed the magnitude of what you'd done. Cudi's voice wrapped around you: 

I want you girl and I need your body right here

Won't you teleport to me

I want you girl and I need your body right here

Won't you teleport to me

"This song," Joe murmured against your temple, "when I first played it for you..."

"When you were in Miami for a game," you finished. "And you said you wished you could just teleport home to me."

"I can't believe you remembered that. I can't believe you did this."

"I remember everything about you, Joe Burrow."

As the song continued, Joe caught sight of your families watching. His mom was crying, his dad had that proud smile he wore during big games. Your parents looked stunned and delighted. But mostly, he was aware of this moment—of Cudi singing —

A moment of loneliness and I can't close my eyes

Without you by my side

While he held his wife, finally understanding why you'd been so stressed, so secretive, so careful about keeping this surprise intact.

"I thought..." Joe started, then stopped, jaw tightening slightly.

"What?" you asked, pulling back to see his face properly.

"Last night, I thought you were..." He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't even say the words out loud now that he knew the truth.

Your heart broke a little. "Joe, no. Never. This—" you gestured subtly toward Cudi, toward the impossibility of what you'd pulled off "—this is how much I love you."

When the song reached its emotional peak—

Hey, hey 

Teleport to me

Right here

Won't you teleport to me baby

Joe spun you gently, bringing you back against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said into your ear, voice rough with emotion. "I'm so sorry I doubted you."

"You had every reason to," you replied. "I was being shady as hell."

"For this," he said, like he still couldn't quite believe it. "You were being shady to surprise me with Kid Cudi at our wedding."

"Worth it?" you asked as the song began to wind down.

Joe's answer was the way he kissed you—soft, grateful, overwhelmed—while their families and friends exploded into applause around them.

"So worth it," he murmured against your lips. "Best surprise of my life."

As the guitar notes faded into silence, Joe looked toward Kid Cudi, who was standing from the stool. Without hesitation, Joe crossed the few steps to him, pulling him into a genuine embrace.

"Thank you," Joe said, and everyone close enough could hear the emotion in his voice. "That was... thank you."

"Your wife's pretty special," Cudi replied, grinning. "She's been planning this for months. Wouldn't let me mess up a single detail."

Joe looked back at you, still standing in the middle of the dance floor, watching him with that soft smile that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.

"Yeah," he said, voice carrying that quiet certainty that defined everything important in his life. "She really is."

[coriihanniee]

THE ENGAGEMENT GAME - enhypen smau

𓍯𓂃⭑.ᐟ SYNOPSIS : Forced to enroll in an elite school and bound by an arranged engagement, you must uncover which of the Seven Heirs is your fiancé before the school year ends—or face a life you didn’t choose. As rumors spread and secrets unravel across campus, the boys turn your struggle into a game, but the lines between truth and desire blur, leaving you to question everything, including your own heart. Will you uncover the truth before it’s too late? And what happens when you start falling for the person you least expected?

CHAPTER 21 : public property

The Hongdae district buzzes with afternoon energy as you weave through crowds of street vendors and university students. What had started as a casual group outing to explore the weekend markets has somehow devolved into chaos.

Jake and Niki disappeared into a vintage gaming arcade twenty minutes ago, Sunoo dragged Heeseung toward a skincare pop-up store, and Jay vanished after spotting a limited edition vinyl record stall.

Which leaves you wandering the crowded streets with only Jungwon for company.

"They're terrible at group activities," he observes with fond exasperation, checking his phone for the third time. "Sunghoon said he'd meet us at the bubble tea place, but that was an hour ago."

You adjust your baseball cap, pulling it lower over your eyes. Ever since the engagement announcement broke, your face has been plastered across gossip blogs with increasingly invasive headlines. The Hanseong Tea Page seems to have made you their personal project, somehow managing to capture photos every time you're spotted with any of the Seven Heirs.

"Maybe we should head back," you suggest, scanning the crowd nervously. "It's getting crowded."

Jungwon follows your gaze, noting the way you unconsciously shrink into yourself when too many people pass by. His expression softens with understanding. "Hey, are you okay? You've seemed on edge all day."

You want to explain that constant media attention feels like living under a microscope, that your parents have been fielding calls from reporters all week, that you can't even buy coffee anymore without someone recognizing you from blurry paparazzi photos. Instead, you force a smile.

"Just tired, I guess."

He doesn't look convinced, but before he can press further, excited whispers ripple through the crowd nearby.

"Isn't that—"

"Oh my god, it's her! The girl from the ice rink!"

"Where? Take a picture!"

Your blood runs cold. Through the sea of people, you catch the glint of camera lenses, phones already pointed in your direction. You recognize this pattern by now—the Hanseong Tea Page's anonymous photographers, always ready to capture another "candid" moment between you and whichever heir you happen to be near.

"Yang Jungwon from Hanseong Academy—"

"Are they dating?"

"This is huge—"

"Y/N," Jungwon's voice cuts through your rising panic. His hand finds yours, grip firm and reassuring. "This way. Now."

He pulls you away from the main thoroughfare, navigating through side alleys with surprising familiarity. Behind you, the crowd grows larger, phones flashing as people attempt to follow. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you struggle to keep pace with Jungwon's longer strides.

"There!" someone shouts. "Down that alley!"

Jungwon's jaw tightens. Without warning, he yanks you sideways into a narrow passage between two buildings, pressing you both against a loading dock tucked behind a small restaurant. The space is cramped, barely wide enough for both of you, and you find yourself trapped between Jungwon's chest and the brick wall.

"Stay quiet," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear.

The sound of running footsteps echoes past your hiding spot, accompanied by frustrated voices.

"Where did they go?"

"Check the next street!"

"Did anyone get a good shot?"

You press your face against Jungwon's shoulder, trying to slow your breathing. The familiar scent of his cologne helps ground you as the voices gradually fade into the distance.

Several minutes pass in tense silence before Jungwon carefully peers around the corner.

"I think they're gone," he murmurs, but doesn't immediately step away.

The dam that's been holding back weeks of frustration finally breaks. Your shoulders shake as hot tears spill down your cheeks, months of accumulated stress pouring out in the safety of this hidden space.

"I can't do this anymore," you whisper, voice cracking. "I can't even exist without it becoming a headline. Ever since this engagement thing started, my parents are constantly fielding calls from reporters, the school keeps having meetings about 'managing the situation,' and that damn Hanseong Tea Page follows me everywhere. I can't even grab lunch without people whispering."

Your words dissolve into sobs. It's humiliating, breaking down in front of Jungwon like this, but you can't seem to stop. The weight of constant scrutiny, of being reduced to entertainment for strangers, proves too much to bear.

Jungwon's arms come around you without hesitation, one hand smoothing over your hair while the other rubs gentle circles against your back.

"Hey," he says softly. "It's okay. You're okay."

"No, I'm not," you protest against his chest. "Nothing about this is okay. I didn't ask to be engaged to someone I don't even know. I didn't ask for my every interaction to be analyzed and photographed. I just wanted to finish school normally, and now my entire life is—"

"Public property," he finishes grimly. "I know. I'm sorry."

Something in his tone makes you pull back slightly to look at him. Jungwon's usual bright demeanor has been replaced by something darker, more serious than you've ever seen from him.

"This is our fault," he continues, jaw clenched. "The seven of us—we should have protected you better. Should have known this would happen."

You shake your head. "It's not your responsibility to—"

"It is, though." His eyes flash with genuine anger. "You got dragged into our world because of that ridiculous engagement, we forced you into our stupid bet, and now you're paying the price for something you never chose."

The way he says that ridiculous engagement sends a chill through you. There's something almost...guilty in his expression, as if he knows more than he's letting on.

"Jungwon," you begin carefully, "what aren't you telling me?"

For a moment, his mask slips entirely. You could almost see some kind of vulnerability in his eyes, protectiveness, perhaps? But also what might be regret. Or longing. It's gone so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

"Nothing," he says, but his voice lacks its usual conviction. "I just... I hate seeing you hurt because of our world. Because of expectations that were placed on you without your consent."

He reaches up to cup your face, thumb gently wiping away the tears still clinging to your cheeks. The gesture is tender, intimate in a way that makes your breath catch.

"I wish I could fix this for you," he admits quietly. "I'd tell your parents to back off, tell the media to leave you alone, tell everyone to just—stop. If I could."

"If you could?" you echo, searching his face.

Before you could say anything further, he steps back slightly to create distance between you.

"I mean, if I had that kind of influence," he clarifies, but the explanation feels hollow. "Come on, we should find the others before they send out a search party."

As he leads you out of the alley through a different route, you can't shake the feeling that you've missed something crucial. The way Jungwon had protected you, comforted you, spoken about your engagement with such personal investment, it felt like more than friendship. More than the casual concern of someone tangentially involved in your situation.

I'd tell your parents to back off.

The words replay in your mind as you walk. Not 'someone should tell them' or 'I wish someone would.' He'd said I'd tell them, as if he had the right. As if he had a reason to interfere in your family's expectations.

You glance sideways at Jungwon, noting the tension still present in his shoulders, the way his eyes continuously scan for potential threats. The boy who comforted you in that alley wasn't just a concerned friend—he'd been protective in a way that felt almost... possessive.

A new suspicion begins to take root. Could Jungwon be your mysterious fiancé? The timing of his concern, his insider knowledge about the engagement's impact on your life, his promise to shield you from consequences—it all feels too personal for someone who's merely an observer to your situation.

But he's Yang Jungwon—the mediator who smooths over conflicts and keeps the group together. Could someone so fundamentally kind be capable of orchestrating the elaborate game that's been torturing you for months?

As you rejoin the others at the bubble tea shop, accepting concerned questions about your red-rimmed eyes with mumbled excuses about allergies, you find yourself studying Jungwon with new intensity.

When Sunoo asks where you disappeared to, Jungwon smoothly deflects. When Jake notices your subdued mood, Jungwon quietly ensures you get the corner seat, away from the window. When Heeseung mentions the latest gossip blog post about you, Jungwon's expression darkens almost imperceptibly.

Every small gesture feels loaded with new meaning, every glance weighted with possibility. By the time you part ways that evening, your suspicion has crystallized into something approaching certainty.

Yang Jungwon knows more about your engagement than he's admitting. Whether he's your actual fiancé or simply more invested in the outcome than he should be, his role in this elaborate charade is far more significant than he wants you to believe.

The question now is whether you're brave enough to confront him about it, or if you'll continue playing along with his carefully constructed facade of innocent concern.

As you walk home through the quieter streets, Jungwon's words echo in your memory:

I wish I could fix this for you.

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@coriihanniee 💌

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[thollandneedy]

T-shirt- Tom Holland

A/N: I've been trying to come up with new ideas, but i think next week i'll have more ideas.

Summary: Tom is super tired from work, but seeing you wearing his shirt may make him awake.

Warnings: None actually, just a soft moment

Don’t forget to share, like, comment and leave your ideas here

After a long day of recording, Thomas could only think of his bed and how deliciously inviting it was after spending hours on his feet, moving around and having to remember a thousand and one lines so he could leave early. With the key to his apartment in hand, the brunette put the key in the handle and opened the door with his backpack on his back. His house was dark, with only the lights in his bedroom on, where his fiancée Y/n was.

The dark-haired man left his shoes in the doorway, took them off with his own feet, carried his backpack in his hands and headed for his bedroom.

“Y/n?” Tom headed towards the bedroom.

“Yes, love?” The woman's voice caused a satisfied smile to appear on the brunette's face.

Without paying much attention to his fiancée, he simply removes his black denim jacket and falls into the double bed with its soft white sheets, grunting:

“I think I'm so tired I could sleep for seven months straight.” The brunette's muffled voice said.

“Oh, Tommy.” Y/n laughs, crawling closer to her fiancé, who has his face immersed in the comforter. “Do you want me to make you something?” The woman asks, putting her book on the night stand next to the bed.

“Tell the cast I'm going into hibernation for seven months, and then I'll show up to finish my recordings.” The brunette turned on his side, lying in a fetal position in the middle of the king-size bed, while listening to the sounds of cars passing by on the street outside his apartment.

“You need to take a shower, that's for sure.” The woman runs her hands through the actor's curly hair, who responds like a child throwing a tantrum.

“I don't want to, I want to sleep.”

“Thomas…” Y/n gets out of bed, puts her warm feet on the cold floor, and heads for the black bag containing the belongings her fiancé usually took to the set while he was away for the day. The girl takes out a cell phone charger from the side pocket of the bag, then takes the cell phone out of the bag and puts it to charge on the side where her fiancé was sleeping. “Let's go” The woman sits down next to Thomas, who was trying to stay awake, but failing in his mission.

“Bathe me in bed” Thomas says as if that were a possible option.

As soon as his eyes opened, they were met with the toned legs of his fiancée. For a moment, all his sleep dissipated, causing him to quickly sit up in bed to observe what was in front of him.

“Y/n…” Thomas looked down at his fiancée, who was wearing thin white stockings and an oversized band shirt, showing off her legs and a bit of her ass if she decided to raise her torso a little.

Thomas's eyes followed the outline of her body like a cat intrigued by a red laser point on the wall, unable to put into words what his mind was thinking.

“What, you idiot?” The girl frowned, placing both hands on his waist.

“You look… so hot.” Thomas takes one of her hands, bringing it to his lips and distributing small kisses.

“You've seen me like this a million times, stop making fun.” Y/n takes his hand for her own, but Thomas approaches once again with his eyes focused on her body, causing a twinge of shyness to appear on her red cheeks.

“So why are you red, darling?" Thomas runs one of his hands through his messy hair.

“Shut up,” the girl mumbles, looking down at her thighs.

“With pleasure.” He approaches his fiancée's tempting lips, cupping her cheek with both hands as he moves the kiss in sync.

“I thought you were too tired for that.” She replies, moving closer to her fiancé, until his hands are straight holding his own weight while his body is almost lying on the bed.

“For you? Never,” he replies with a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. “Especially wearing my clothes.” He kisses her lips again. “I can't believe I get to see you like this for the rest of my life.”

“And that's the only reason you're happy?” Y/n retorts seductively.

“Of course, it's certainly the only reason.” Thomas joins in the fun, tipping his fiancée's body onto the bed and climbing on top of her without allowing the full weight to fall on her. “I love you.”

Y/n smiles with her eyes “I love you too, but you smell like a bad lemon so get in the shower.”

“Ugh” Thomas collapses next to his fiancée, causing her to laugh out loud.

[ottpopfic]

Leo does a lot better with sleeping now long into the safety of the Way Station and Jason guarding the door, but he can be quick to rouse when tucked in with their goddaughter. He's said that it’s less like the panic he developed from sleeping under bridges, more that he feels extra protective with their kid in his arms and that instinct snaps him awake. Jason gets that, their puppy pulls things like that out of him too

He wakes like that now; tencing in the shoulders, a sharp inhale through his nose, arms tightening around their girl and eyes bursting open to see who's gotten close enough to his child for him to notice. The second he recognizes Jason’s silhouetted in the dim light of the open door he relaxes

“Sorry” Jason whispers, coming closer so he can hear him in the quiet “didn't know you had the puppy”

“‘Nother bad dream” Leo whispers back, already nestling back down now that he knows whos disturbed them, the slightest Texana accent hanging on his consonants from sleep “Come t’ bed”

“Gonna change first” Jason tells him, he gets a sleepy hum in reply

Jason showers fast, working with Fornax always makes him sweaty, but he's in and out in record time. Then its just teeth and sleep pants before he's padding over as quietly as he can

Leo stirs again when Jason joins them even with how careful he tries to be lifting the covers, but he probably never really went back to sleep. It's less trying not to disturb his fiancee and more about keeping Katie as tucked in as possible, she can be hard to resettle when her dreams get to her, quiet and spooked like Leo used to be. If he pulls up the blankets all at once the little furnace the two of them make together in the sheets will go suddenly cold, and that wakes her every time. Better to inch his way under before rolling into the bubble of toasty content family

Katie shifts a little as Jason burrows close, but she doesn't rouse. It lets him plant a kiss into her hair, then he strains over her little head to press a kiss to his fiancee’s face

“Glad you're home” his Leo tells him, all soft and quiet

Jason's arms are long enough he can hold them both at the same time, he uses that to his advantage to reach over to Leo and pull them both close “Me too”

Leo falls back asleep in that quick heavy way he does now when Jason joins him. It's such a hard won thing, his fiancée’s rest. Out of the two of them Leo tends to get the worst nightmares, in the three years before they shared a bed it was a common occurrence for Jason to be woken up in the middle of the night to his Leo screaming bloody murder. And even before that on the Argo II, when Leo would only find rest curled tight in so hidden corner of the engine room

Its an honor to be the one to let his Leo sleep like this, to put himself between the love of his life and the door. And even more now, to have their puppy safe and tucked in here too.

Katie is so little, and she has been through so much. They are all still picking little bits of her past out of her drawings and what her therapist has been able to observe, but even with where Nico found her out in that swamp is enough to do a number on any eight-year-old. She's plagued with nightmares that she can't explain to then, traumatized to silence from surviving.

But she always comes to them, whichever adult she trusts is closest she will climb in bed with them and burrow down. To be one of the people Katie finds comfort in, to keep the monsters at bay for her, it makes Jason’s heart swell in a way he hasn't found the words for yet

Or not people words, not spoken words. ‘Puppy’ is the closest, small and young and learning. Puppies need to be protected and guided, they are the whole pack's responsibility to raise. But a puppy will always be its parents, adopted like Jason was or not, and Katie is theirs. Jason and Leo share her with the di Solace’s, but the ‘god’ part of goddaughter is just a legality.

She's here enough to be theirs, and Jason knows in his heart of hearts if Nico hadn't gotten his shit together about keeping her Jason would have gone and gotten Katie back from camp himself. He also knows without asking that Leo would have done the same

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 8 - Je N'en Connais Pas La Fin

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: tiny dash of spice… making out, hands wandering. Light angst, emotions, late-night confessions.

Word Count: 2.3k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Please don't be mad at me about this - I could not go with the cliche of wedding night. These idiots just need one more night to get their sh*t together. Sorry, and yes, as penance, Chapter 9 will be posted very soon. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Montivilliers (just outside Le Havre), September 1939 

A nervous energy ripples through your limbs as the four others leave, traipsing across the garden to the neighbouring cottage, leaving you and your new husband alone. Still waving awkwardly from the patio as they all disappear from view. A chill passes through you, just noticing how cold the night air is, autumn drawing in and without the warmth of Benedict holding you in some way, as he has been the past few hours. You startle slightly as he interrupts your reverie by chivalrously wrapping the faux fur stole around your shoulders.

“It’s my something borrowed,” you blurt, unsure what else to say.

“Eloise?”

You just nod, too nervous all of a sudden to look up at him.

“Let’s get inside,” he suggests, observing even the extra layer does not halt your shiver, gesturing to the kitchen door.

You walk awkwardly past, catching a whiff of his delicious scent that you woke up to this morning, the involuntary urge to sway into him intense.

You drift to the living room, Benedict wandering to the gramophone, putting on a mellow jazz record before taking a seat; part of you sad he chooses the armchair, not the sofa beside you. 

“Well… that was a day,” he understates in his usual affable manner.

“I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” you respond earnestly, looking down at the simple band on your finger by reflex. “It’s all thanks to you that I have a chance to escape while I still can.”

“You would have done the same for me,” he demures with a quiet certainty that makes you yearn to touch him. 

Instead, you exchange slightly awkward smiles, the mantlepiece clock ticking sounding so loud, even with the music playing.

“And I'm sure you will get home one day,” he assures. “Your family, I'm certain, miss you… and... And your fiancee,” the reluctance in his words evident.

“I’m not sure a married woman can have a fiancé anymore,” you remark; the lash of guilt every time Stanley’s name is invoked lessening with every moment you spend alone with Benedict.

“You can once you are a single woman again, as soon as you are safe,” he counters softly, so altruistic in his manner your throat almost itching with unspent words—a want to yell. No! Fight for me! I want you more than I ever will want him!!

“You yourself said on the train that perhaps there is something better out there for me,” you respond cautiously. “The longer this adventure runs, the more certain I am of that.”

His mien is profound as you finally raise your eyes to his, wanting so much to say more but feeling too tongue-tied and cowardly to be that selfish, to declare he is what you want. 

He shakes himself a little and leans back into the armchair as if resetting himself and the line of conversation. Like he senses the mutual danger lurking there.

“Tomorrow, when we sail… they will likely notice the date on our marriage certificate,” Benedict counsels gently. “That may raise flags about the authenticity of our union.”

“What can we do to assuage them?”

“Come up with a plausible story. Be physically affectionate. They may ask no questions, or they may ask as many as they wish,” he warns, “especially of you. They may ask you about…” Benedict pauses, his face flushing a little, “… intimate matters. They have every right to ask if the marriage has been consummated.”

You feel yourself flashing hot as he says it. “I should lie?” you whisper.

“You should say whatever you think will make them believe we are a real couple,” he obfuscates.

“I’m a terrible liar…” you confess, blushing when you realise your words could be interpreted as an invitation to be intimate. And on this, your wedding night. 

His gaze is heavy. “You can do it y/n. Your freedom and safety may depend on your ability to convince them you love me... And I you.”

I think I might, your mind screams.

“I know… I… think I can do it,” you falter, replaying every kiss you have shared. “We seem to have done a great job convincing Jerome and Marie…”

“They are not looking to see artifice,” he counters. “British soldiers will be.”

“Sh… should we practice?” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it, champagne again taking your tongue, a deep flush spreading over your skin as you realise it.

“Y… yes, I think maybe we should,” he agrees very quickly. 

He stands somewhat awkward, peeling off his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves, leaving his waistcoat. You find yourself again mesmerised by him, as you were that night in Paris, wanting to run your hands over the flex in his arm muscles. In fact, you are so distracted you don’t even realise he is proffering you a hand out of the chair. You spring up to your feet without his help, the idea of touching him right now entirely too distracting, which seems to amuse him briefly before his expression turns sincere.

“We have kissed, but not as lovers, as married people would. We... we may need to do so, casually, of course, within sight of those allowing boarding,” he opines, even as your heart speeds up, realising what he is saying.

“You think we need to… practice more kissing? Now?” you are mildly annoyed by how stupefied you sound.

“Yes,” he confirms, drawing closer, “passionate, real kissing.”

You are looking up into blue eyes and a gorgeous face as fingertips loop around your wrist as if checking your pulse.

“Grab my wrist if you want me to stop,” he tutors softly, so gentlemanly in his approach, even as you fret that he can feel your heart rate hammering hard in your veins.

Once again, time is in slow motion as his lips descend. At first, the kiss is breathtaking but still chaste, like previously. But then there is a noise in the back of his throat that makes the hairs on the nape of your neck stand on end; his lips part yours, a wave of damp heat as the kiss deepens. His tongue swipes yours tentatively, a tease before you mirror his moves. He tastes of champagne and something else that is entirely him, an impulse to bite the inside of his cheek. And then it’s abruptly fervent, wanton - like a dam has broken - his hands gripping the crest of your hip bones, each finger an insistent dig into your flesh.

Finally, given the permission, you don't hold back. Pushing into him, one hand grasping the buckled loop at the back of his waistcoat that cinches it to his slim form, the other winding around his sturdy neck, encouraging him to lean down further, take from you. The kiss seems never-ending, a rolling wave of to and fro, a dance not unlike the one in the square just last night. Those fireworks still explode, but this time, it feels like those ones that are so powerful they knock a punch to your solar plexus, a ricochet you feel physically,

His hands slide up your back, a sensual drag that makes you moan into his mouth, a noise he greedily swallows. But he stops as they reach the faux fur wrapped around your shoulders and reluctantly breaks the kiss.

“Please, take this off,” he implores, “I cannot do this with you wearing my sister's clothing,” he points out with a cringe that creases his face charmingly.

Your responding giggle causes him to break into a lopsided grin, and wordlessly, you untie it as he watches, pupils blown. When you push it back off your shoulders, it hits the rug behind you with a soft whump, and your instinct takes over, rocking onto your tiptoes, one hand sliding into the lush hair at the back of his head and bringing his face back to yours. 

The minute your mouth opens to his, you are heavy and weightless all at once, not unlike that wooden roller coaster on Coney Island that made you see stars. Your nails flex on his scalp as his hands slide over your dress, looping low around your hips, tugging you snugly into his body as your tongues tangle. 

This.

This must be what the girls whisper about—a tart metallic boiling in your blood, a heavy tug deep inside your pelvis that needs relief. A wanting so physical it almost hurts, a hunger that makes you feel reckless, liable to behaviour you could never justify, a pure carnal caprice. But all too soon, he is pulling back, a need to breathe, even as he does so inches from your face, his eyes locked on yours as they flutter open.

“Again,” you murmur, uncaring how gossamer thin your excuse is, just wanting more. 

His eyes are glittering as he complies. Kissing like a wild storm now, hands hot through the thin, cool silk fabric. And you cannot stop the noises you make, shameless and breathy, right into his open, wet, questing mouth. Pressing hard against his body, a solid warmth in his trousers promising things you need so badly you crave to curl around him, open yourself to him. 

You have never felt this before. A tingle under your scalp that vibrates all the way down to your toes. A want to take and be taken. To bite and be bitten. To ride and be ridden. For him to rip your dress from your body and throw you onto the sofa—a yen that feels not entirely human and definitely not civilised.

It's like he senses your thoughts have slid somewhere wild, or perhaps his have too, as when he pulls back, he is panting, and there is a quaking in his entire being like he is crackling with energy.

“Please. Go.” His voice is ragged, deep, almost wrecked. “Please. I… I can’t do this anymore,” his voice cracks a look that is at once hungry, aching, and barely contained restraint.

Please don't be a gentleman now, Benedict. Please. No. God. Not now. Don’t.

“I’m s…sorry,” you stutter, feeling guilty you have pushed it too far but utterly unmoored by the searing passion and the sting of his rejection, albeit reluctant. 

Even you can see the war in his being, physical desire being muzzled by the gentleman he was clearly raised to be. Knowing if you stand here much longer, something will happen that one or both of you will regret. Your wedding ring seems to burn your skin as you turn around and shrink away, leaving the room, not daring to look back, knowing he has also turned away with ragged breaths.

As you climb the stairs, feet feeling leaden, your body in utter turmoil, you hear the discordant scratch of the gramophone being halted. You undress in a daze, swearing you can still feel the heat of his handprints through the silk of your dress. Climbing into the bed approaching numb, champagne swirling unease in your gut with all the rich foods, an oily disquiet that means it takes ages to settle.  

You lay there fitfully for what feels like hours, tossing and turning, picking over the minutiae of every moment with Benedict - tonight and all the nights and days before. Seeing possible signs that make your heart clench. 

Could it be that he is not doing this all for show? 

It's a seizing thought that catalyses your body: it has you up on your feet and rushing down the stairs in your nightgown, breathless and stumbling. But when you round the corner into the living room, all your courage to declare it is sapped by the sight of Benedict sleeping, curled slightly, looking smaller somehow, his back turned to you, face buried into the back cushion of the sofa.

Instead, you back away, padding to the kitchen to take a glass of water, hoping the hydration will stave off the worst of a hangover; the water is a relief to the tumultuous, racing feeling as you stand on the large slab of earthen tile gleaming in the moonlight, cold underfoot. You pour another glass for him without thought.

Tiptoeing back into the living room, careful not to wake him, you crouch beside him to leave the glass of water within easy sight and reach should he stir. But you find yourself unable to leave without saying something. The temptation to confess to his unconscious self is impossible to resist, the grip on your own glass so tight.

“I’ll never be able to repay you,” you murmur to his back, fingers itching to trace over the bare skin of his shoulder blades where they peak out of the blanket. “For this unbelievable act of kindness and generosity. And yet… god, this is so selfish,” you flick your eyes up to the ceiling to stem a tear you feel gathering, “… still I’m greedy. Always wanting more. Wanting…. Wanting to never return to my old life. Wanting to run away. Wanting this… Wanting this to be real.” 

The last phrase is barely audible, but still, you are instantly horrified that you confessed it out loud, even to his unconscious, sleeping frame. And you know you must leave.

God, what is wrong with me? What is this? Temporary insanity? Too much alcohol, a fake wedding and an impending war are not a good recipe…

It’s a silent internal lament as you stand up and withdraw, self-chastisement echoing so loud in your head. And yet, you can't resist a parting sentence from the doorway.

“Goodnight, Benedict, you are truly the very best of men...”

—

What you don’t see as you slowly climb back up the creaking wooden stairs is Benedict’s eyes blazing open, a look of utter astonishment claiming his face as he twists around and stares at the doorway you left by, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

He was never asleep.

And he heard every single word.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[caffedrine]

Rio Ortiz - The The Boundary of Touch(ing) - Event Summary

A big thank you to @candied-boys for providing a recording of the event.

This is a quick and dirty summary - if any other summary is made that contradicts this, they’re probably right and I’m wrong. But it’s still a fun ride.

One afternoon Emma and Rio are on break and are taking a moment to relax side by side. Suddenly, Rio takes out a small box and opens the lid. While he was out on inspections this morning, he had the chance to visit the cake shop Emma likes and bought their newest creation. Emma is excited and thanks Rio.

Oh, how cute is she? Rio wishes he was trained as a painter and could capture this moment. This is a loss on the national, nay, global scale.

Emma laughs, Rio is always dramatic. Besides, while she is happy for the cake, doesn’t she always smile for him?

Well, yes, but each of her smiles are unique and special! Right now, this smile is sweet and fluffy like the cake before them, and Rio feels like melting as he watches her. But, this morning, her smile was lively as the rising sun and . . .

Embarrassed, Emma cuts Rio off and thanks him for his praise. Oh, but this new expression is cute too . . . but yes, they should take a break and eat the cake. Rio begins to brew some tea leaves, and the aroma leaves Emma swooning. She praises Rio’s tea brewing skills, and Rio marvels over how she continues to make him happy.

The moment is interrupted by Silvio demanding Rio fix that creepy expression on his face. Emma jumps a little at his voice and when she looks at him, she sees Silvio looks worn out.

Rio complains about Silvio interrupting him, but Silvio continues; Rio has a guest to entertain.

Earlier, when Rio had accompanied Silvio on a business negotiation, he and Silvio’s client had hit it off over some strange topics. And now said client wants to speak with Rio again and is waiting patiently in the guest salon.

(Actually, this kind of sounds like a Silvio problem, not a Rio one)

Emma assures Rio that she understands, and besides, work is important. She is a little worried that Rio’s break time was interrupted, but she also wants to support him in his work.

Rio takes Emma’s hand and presses something into it before kissing its back. He tells her that this should go well with the tea, and leaves. Emma opens her hand to find a very cute rose-shaped sugar candy. She smiles at Rio’s thoughtfulness as Silvio sighs.

Silvio complains that Emma is now grinning like a lunatic. Diplomatically Emma apologizes and offers to pour Silvio a cup of the tea Rio brewed. Silvio accepts and after swallowing, admits that the tea is not absolutely terrible. Which, in Silvio speak, is high praise.

Emma notes that Rio is amazing at brewing tea, he has spent a lot of time doing it just the way she likes, like the perfect, nice, fiancé that he-

Silvio cuts her off, listening to her is making the tea taste bad. In fact, he’s surprised that she’s been able to endure Rio all this long, he’s been even more annoying than normal recently.

Emma disagrees, if anything, she feels lucky to be with Rio.

Silvio points out that everyone has boundaries, and excessive attention, even from someone you love, can be a nuisance. Not that he’s telling her how to feel, but this is a general observation.

But, hasn’t there been a time when Emma was tired and Rio fussed over her too much, making her even more tired?

Come to think of it . . .

*Flashback time*

Rio gushes over Emma’s body, noting that every part of it is beautiful. But, he thinks he found a tense spot and asks if he could help Emma with it. He begins to massage Emma’s neck, and she marvels over how skilled he is.

Rio praises Emma for working so hard and promises to help her relax. Emma thanks him but asks if this isn’t too much and if Rio isn’t tired as well.

Rio insists that he is fine, just touching her makes him feel good. Besides, he loves touching her, all over her cute body.

*Flashback End*

Thinking about it now, Rio just doesn’t convey his feelings, he conveys them in a way that supports her. Oh, no, has she just been taking advantage of him all this time?

Silvio groans, he’s had enough and will go back to work. Later he’ll properly thank her for the ‘not horrible’ tea. Standing up, he leaves the room.

Left alone, Emma sips the tea Rio brewed for her and eats the cake Rio bought for her, lost in thought.

She is confident that she knows Rio better than anyone else, just as he understands her. But can she convey her love just as supportive as Rio can? But if she could, Rio would be so happy!

That’s it! She just needs to find a way, and doubtlessly Rio would be happier than ever.

Though she should take Silvio’s warnings into account, Rio has his own boundaries, and she honestly has no idea what they could be. She needs to figure out what is safe and what crosses the line.

Later, after they both finished their work, Rio and Emma are lying side by side in bed, chatting happily. Emma thanks Rio for the tea and cake, they were perfect. Rio is happy that Emma enjoyed it, and thanks to the time spent with her earlier, the impromptu meeting with Silvio’s ‘guest’ went well.

Of course, Rio had been kept busy up until now, and Emma can imagine how tired he is. This is an opportunity for her to help relieve his fatigue. She gently takes Rio’s hand in both of hers, and he asks what she’s doing.

Emma explains that she loves it when Rio does this to her, so if she does it to him, he should like it too. After working all day today, she wants to heal him.

Oh, but just seeing her heals Rio. If she goes much farther, he’s going to have enough energy to run over a hundred laps around the castle. Emma laughs and tells Rio to lay down on his stomach, she wants to massage him next.

Of course Rio is happy with attention, but isn’t Emma tired too? Wouldn’t she rather he massage her? Rio recalls mentioning before that just touching her heals him.

No, Emma wants to do this for him. Plus, she enjoys touching him too.

Oh, that loving smile is the end of Rio. They should find a way to bottle it up, it’s the perfect panacea for any ailment, and they’d be the best doctors on the continent.

Okay, but before that, the massage. Sitting up, Emma guides Rio face down and gently touches him, working at easing the tension in his neck.

Wow, Emma’s massage is enough for Rio to float up to heaven. But if he went there, he’d miss out on this massage, and wouldn’t be able to taste this happiness. No, he should stay on earth if only to savor this sensation further.

Emma laughs, Rio is as dramatic as ever. But he is also very tense, and she thanks Rio for working as hard.

As far as boundaries go, Rio seems happy, so this massage is on her checklist as ‘safe’.

Emma begins to praise Rio, while she loves it when they can work together, she wants to brag about how amazing he is when he performs higher tasks.

Oh, now she’s done it. Rio is so energized, forget about running around the castle, he wants to dive into the sea and swim laps around the continent.

Okay, so praise is safe. To wrap it up, Emma leans down and kisses the nape of Rio’s now relaxed neck. Rio gasps and shoots up, and Emma is taken aback. She apologizes, explaining that she was trying to express her affection and didn’t mean to go too far.

Rio hugs her tightly and then pushes her down on the bed. There was nothing Emma could do to him that he wouldn’t like. He was just a little overstimulated with that kiss, but he did like it.

Okay, how about she massage other areas and finish with a kiss? Rio looks happy, and Emma adds that she was very careful not to leave behind a kiss mark, but since the rest of his body would normally be covered by clothes, she could leave a mark there.

A kiss mark? Oh, but if only Rio could figure out a way to make such a mark permanent.

Probably impossible. Well, Rio should take off his clothes so Emma can get at him. Hiding her embarrassment, she helps Rio undress before guiding him back to lie down on the bed. She works on his arms, his shoulders, and his waist. As promised, she leaves behind a prominent kiss mark. It’s embarrassing to do it, but Rio seems happy.

Afterward, Rio lets out a long thin breath. Emma asks if it feels good, and Rio admits that it does, but he must now apologize. Rio pulls her down, pinning her to the bed, and apologizes for not being able to hold back any longer.

Emma is happy enough with the turn of events, and admits that she was worried that being this bold would be a bother to him. Gazing into Rio’s eyes, she initiates a kiss.

Rio’s response is an intense, deep kiss that Emma grows lost in. Her consciousness blurs into white and she can think of nothing other than Rio.

Rio tells her that there’s nothing that she can do to him that he wouldn’t love. Everything she does heals something inside him. He then covers her in a storm of kisses.

The next morning finds them on a holiday together, and Emma takes the opportunity to visit the town with Rio.

Emma marvels over how beautiful Rio’s hair is, sparkling under the sun. With Rio’s permission, Emma strokes it, feeling its smoothness. Rio assures Emma that right now, her smile is far more radiant than his hair could be. It’s beautiful and precious, almost otherworldly.

Emma points out a nearby shop that she wants to visit. She and Rio are fine with holding hands, but how do they handle linking arms?

Rio is delighted with this closeness, and his feelings make the town even more beautiful.

They share a parfait, and the dog-shaped cookie reminds Emma of Rio, so she kisses it. Rio moans that they should hurry back to the castle so he can kiss her for real.

Emma tried a variety of things throughout the day, and thinks she was successful at making Rio happy. At the end of their date, Rio thanks Emma for the day, and Emma is delighted.

She also considers Rio – she has yet to figure out his boundaries. If there aren’t any when he’s tired or when they’re in public, then where are they? Or maybe Rio has no boundaries when it comes to her? But still, Emma decides to experiment until she is satisfied.

Days pass, and one day, Rio has to go to a distant town and stay the night.

The day without Rio is tough, and the next day has Emma waiting for him while sitting on his bed, picturing his smile.  She imagines Rio must feel the same way, and would probably let her do anything she wanted to him. Today would not be a fruitful day for exploring his boundaries.

Just as she considers it, Rio opens the door to his room, and cheers at the sight of Emma waiting for him. They hug each other and admit to thinking about each other the entire day. Rio admits that he was starting to hallucinate seeing Emma, but they held no candle to the real one. Emma didn’t go so far as to hallucinate, but she did miss Rio a bunch and wants him now.

Emma kisses Rio, who enthusiastically responds. Soon Rio has Emma under him on the bed, but before they go further, Rio wants to talk. He’s noticed that she’s been experimenting with him, touching him then staring at him to see his reaction.

Of course, Rio approves of this scientific method.

Emma finally admits and explains that she’s trying to figure out their boundaries. Yep, that makes sense, but unfortunately, when it comes to Emma, Rio has no boundaries. He wants anything and everything she gives him.

Then again, Emma did come close to a different kind of boundary. Rio thought she was testing the limits of his sanity, how far she could push him before he snapped and went feral for her. But, at the time, Emma didn’t seem to want to have sex, so Rio was desperately holding himself back. Well, admittedly he did slip up a couple of times.

And that last time, when Emma told him she wanted him . . .

Rio buries his face in Emma’s neck, kissing her bare skin again and again. Rio is done holding back, and doesn’t think she’ll get any sleep tonight.

Well, this experiment hasn’t been a total wash. Besides, Emma learned how far she can push Rio, and how she can take away his sense of reason. As Rio begins to slide off her clothes, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close enough to kiss.

Rio slides his hand down her and into her, until Emma is at her limit. Then Rio begins to merge their bodies together. Emma tells him that the more he gives her, the more she wants to take.

The next morning, Emma sleeps in and then enjoys tea and baked goods with Rio. Now that they’re both feeling saner, Rio is wondering what prompted Emma’s series of tests.

Well, it started with Silvio . . .

After hearing the story, Rio complains that Silvio is always stirring shit. Emma defends him, after all, he gave her the idea to switch up how she expresses her love to Rio.

Oh, but he’s not consciously switching up the way he expresses his love. He just thinks of something he wants to do and does it without holding back.

Huh, that makes sense. And on that note, Emma decides that she shouldn’t hold back either. Rio groans, he could die from this cuteness.

Silvio may have said that there were limits to expressing love, but for Emma and Rio, their love is limitless.

[lovingrosewho]

Framed

Hello there! It’s been a while since I’ve written anything but I recently began watching Criminal Minds again and fell in love with Aaron Hotchner all over again as well, so I just had to write this, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it :) This is my first Criminal Minds (published) fanfic, and the first Hotch x Reader I’ve written ever! (also the first nsfw)

ONE SHOT (but who knows, it may even have a part 2 on a future maybe not-so-near but not-so-far-away either)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Cis!fem!reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 3467

Summary: reader has been accused of murdering her older, rich ex-fiancé (of course I took my inspo for this piece of fanfiction from Brooke Whyndam, of the movie “Legally blonde”, also, the line “then show them a picture of his dick” is from that movie).

Warnings: NSFW content (innuendo, sex, curse words, age gap - reader is in her mid twenties, Hotch is in his early/mid forties)

“I didn’t do it!” you scream one last time slamming your fist on the table, on the edge of tears.

It had passed around 8 hours already with you in custody, accused of the murder of your ex-fiancé, a (quite older) man, CEO of a big company in town, and as if that wasn’t enough, the best friend of the sheriff.

SSA Aaron Hotchner rubs his face, tired, after observing Prentiss and Morgan’s attempts to get you to confess. It’s almost 3am.

“Sheriff, with all due respect, I think she’s telling the truth” he tells him with a soft voice after a deep sigh.

“And with all due respect, you profiled that the suspect would be a female in her mid twenties, who we’d have to get the information out of her”.

“And we also profiled she’d be seeking for attention and validation which we don’t see it happening do we?” Aaron retorts rolling his eyes discreetly.

The sheriff gives SSA Aaron Hotchner one last glance before grabbing the doorknob of the interrogation room and storming in, Hotch follows close behind, seeing how the sheriff turns off the videocamera recording what happens inside the interrogation room, knowing no good can come from asking the same questions over and over again when everybody is also tired and fed up with trying to get a false confession out of you, which, from your behavior, Hotch knows it’s impossible.

“That’s it!” the sheriff yells “You killed my best friend! Either you confess or I’ll let you rot in here the rest of the 72 hours we can have you legally detained!”

“For the last time, I. Didn’t. Do it!” you yell back.

The BAU team exchanges glances between each other.

“What judge is going to believe you huh? You were engaged to a successful man in his mid fifties! And then he goes and marries someone even younger than you!”

“That was over two years ago!” you talk back.

“You had motive and opportunity, no judge nor jury is going to understand any other reason for you to be with him that is not for the money”.

“Then show them a picture of his dick! That might clear a few things up” you finally bark at him. The sheriff looks at you in astonishment. Morgan disguises a snicker as a cough, Prentiss bites down her lower lip to suppress a laugh, and Hotchner… Hotchner just stands impassive at you.

The sheriff leaves the room enraged, and everyone else follows, not before giving you an apologetic look. Hotchner is the last one to stay. You see the slightest doubt on his eyes and the subtle twist his lips make. You know he’s thinking about letting you go, but he then lowers his stare and gets out of the room, just like everybody else.

You sigh, drained out of energy after all the interrogations. This can’t be happening to you.

You knew since the moment you met John, that just his pure acquaintance could ruin your life. He had many enemies, and even more groupies who belonged to social circles that if you hadn’t met him, you would have never even imagined they existed, but what you had never imagined either, was that after all the heartbreak, loss and pain of what you thought in that moment to be the love of your life, you’d be reliving all those feelings, cause of some stupid cop negligence.

You lay your head slowly on the table, feeling the coldness of the metal surface on your cheek, and close your eyes for just a couple of minutes. You can’t sleep, not until this nightmare is all over, but at least, you get to have a few moments of peace and quiet before some other agent enters the room and begins yet another interrogation, demanding new information. Information you don’t have.

Outside the gray room, where you can’t hear nor see anything, the BAU team argues with the sheriff about your freedom.

“We’ve gotten out of her everything we’re going to get, I’m telling you, she didn’t do it” Morgan tries to reason with him.

“An unsub who planned a homicide this calculated would be equally calculated both on his answers and his behavior, this girl was in shock when we started showing her the case photos and couldn’t get a single cohesive phrase out. You can’t pin this murder on her” Emily backs up Morgan.

The sheriff looks at both of them, puffs a sigh and places his hands on his hips before discussing.

“Look, I get it, you profilers or whatever think you’re better than all of us, but this is still my county, and while I can have her in custody, I will. Who knows? She might even give up a confession or at least some new information. Goodnight gentlemen. And lady” he starts to walk to the exit without giving any of them any chance to convince him “I suggest you too get some rest. It’s been a long day and there’s one even longer ahead of us. Lock up when you get out”.

With that last statement, the sheriff ends the discussion and exits the precinct. Morgan and Prentiss move their heads in disagreement, proceeding to look back at Hotch, who is frowning at the door the sheriff just left through.

“What now?” both the BAU members look at the unit chief.

“Sheriff is right in one thing: you should get some rest. I’ll stay here with (Y/N), keep her company and see if there’s something we missed” he declares “Call Reid, Rossi and JJ, head back to the hotel, I’ll catch up with you in a few hours”.

“Hotch she’s not our unsub” Morgan defends you again “I mean we could, let her go right?”

“I’m afraid not. If we step ahead of the local officers, we might make things worse by getting ourselves kicked out of the investigation. It’ll be of more use the sooner we find something, anything, that might help (Y/N) clear her name and get her out of here” Hotch answers, he’s looking at Morgan but directs his orders to both of them, he knows his team too well to not know for a fact that Emily is the one who’s more inclined to let you go. They both nod silently.

“All right” Emily surrenders, not just because she’s too tired to continue arguing, but because she also knows that perhaps getting back to the hotel and going over some of the facts and scenes with Reid or JJ, might be more useful “Do you want me to stay with you? I mean the precinct is completely empty. You’ll be here all by yourself”.

“It’s okay. You and Morgan. Hotel. Rest. We’ll gather first thing in the morning and go through everything we have so far” he assures and doesn’t wait for a reply, beginning to walk back to the interrogation room, hearing the exit door of the precinct close behind him and the key turning.

When he enters again, he finds you on the same position you were trying to rest, your cheek against the now warm table, your hair falling on it and covering parts of your face.

“I’m not asleep” you mutter softly “I just needed to clear my head, breath and relax for a bit”.

Hotch lets out an almost imperceptible sigh, but everything is so quiet, that you get to hear it.

“(Y/N) I know you didn’t do it” he pronounces just as softly as you.

“Really?” you frown and shift your position, sitting back on the chair, looking at him “Then… can I go?”

He presses his lips into a straight line, and lets out a firm, but still tender “no”. A single tear escapes your right eye and you wipe it off quickly, not quite giving in to the emotions just yet. Hotch notices and comes to stand right next to you, laying on the edge of the table.

“If I’d let you go, the local authorities would not let us continue the investigation and they’d pin that murder on you. Trust me, the best we can do right now is wait a few hours until everyone has cooled down and come back with fresh eyes” he guarantees you, his features relaxing as he tells you this “Everything’s gonna be fine”.

“Everything’s gonna be fine” you repeat his words slowly, then look up at him. Damn it. He’s handsome. It’s no secret to anyone you have a thing for older men, but did that trait really have to emerge right now? You can’t help but to laugh out loud at the thought, it’s absurd to you that you could be thinking of that when you’re being accused of murder.

“What’s so funny?” he asks confused, and distances himself ever so slightly from you, without leaving his place on the table.

“Nothing, just…” you start, in an attempt to explain yourself and don’t end up looking crazy “God, if I had met you under any other circumstances, I’d probably be all over you right now”.

SSA Aaron Hotchner does not move, nor his face changes towards you, but you can see the most subtle blush on his cheeks, and his fists tightening. His lips finally crack up a light smile, finding the situation absurd as well, he quickly remembers the videocamera is off.

“You do realize you could be facing murder charges, right?” he asks playfully, kinda mocking you, keeping the volume of his voice down.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry” you apologize “It’s just so late, I’m tired, and well, you’re smoking hot” you confess with an apologetic, but also mischievous, look. Hotch finally lets out a laugh. Get a hold of yourself, Hotchner, he thinks to himself, takes a deep breath and goes back to his serious stare.

“(Y/N), I understand it’s been a long day in which you’ve been under a lot of pressure, but for me to keep up this game would be not only unprofessional, but also unethical. Your mind is probably just making up this crush for you to pass the time and distract yourself from what is happening. You’ll get over me” he explains sweetly.

“I wish I could get under you instead…” your witty retort catches him off guard, he swallows hard and starts coughing. He’s not used to women flirting with him anymore, not for a long time, let alone women almost half his age.

“I’ll see you in a few hours” he says standing up and reaching towards the door, not really uncomfortable by your approaches, but more by his increasing boner.

“No, okay I’m sorry, please stay with me” you beg him, standing up as well “I was just joking. Well, not really, but just… please keep me company, stay?”

He turns back at you not realizing how close you are, less than a couple steps behind him and he almost crashes into you, but he prevents the two of you from tripping by stabilizing himself grabbing your hips, but his hands can’t get to let go afterwards. You breath heavily, feeling the arousal and heat from the proximity suffocating you.

“Please fuck me” you half ask, half beg, admitting to yourself that what you need right now is precisely what agent Hotchner said: relieving some stress and distraction.

SSA Aaron Hotchner can’t help himself.

Ugh, fuck it, he thinks. It’s the sheriff’s fault for turning off the videocamera in an attempt to scare you and try and trick you into making a confession.

Without any further notice, he grabs your ass and the highest part of the back of your thighs to lift you. Your legs instinctively wrap around his back and your arms around his neck, not breaking eye contact as you let him carry you to the table. He places you on the table with tenderness, caressing your back as he does so. You bring your dominant hand to grab his tie and pull him in for a long, wet, controlled kiss, running your other hand along his arm and chest, ending the trace on his cheek, allowing your thumb to move back and forth on his skin.

Quite to be honest, Aaron doesn’t know how well he’ll be able to perform. It’s been a while since he’s last had sex, and his mind is always either on his job, or his family. He’ll probably won’t last more than a few minutes. But he can try and make it up to you.

He begins to deviate his trace of wet kisses from your mouth, to you jaw, your neck, and slowly your chest, discovering little by little the skin under your clothes, while his hands drop by the side of your waist, hips and legs, exploring you under the midi skirt you’re wearing. His right hand finds the slit between your legs, covered by your panties, and starts caressing it through the fabric. He listens to you moan and brings his other hand to cover your mouth with endearment, letting you know you’ve got to keep quiet.

He moves your panties to the side and traces one finger along your slick, inserting it inside of you. You have to suppress an even louder moan. He moves that one finger up and down, hitting your G spot, inserting another finger when you’re ready.

“Please” you beg once again. Aaron chuckles, grabbing you and getting you closer to the edge of the table, proceeding to get down on his knees and sucking all your juices without any type of heads up. You can’t but let out a loud moan. He looks up at you, and even though his eyes demand silence, you can tell there’s the slightest grin on his lips, before he continues sucking and licking your folds and clit. Your back drops to the table, unable to keep yourself steady so you can watch him. You’re trembling with desire and lust “Agent Hotchner, please” you beg once again. Hearing you call him ‘agent Hotchner’ does something to him. He stands up, wiping a little bit of your juices off his mouth and kissing you afterwards, his hands resting on either side of you on the table, one of them coming to grab each of your nipples one at a time.

“How much do you want this?” he asks softly.

“I need you” you answer “Please, fill me”.

His eyes meet yours and he nods slowly. His mouth comes to encircle one of your nipples as he pulls down your underwear and hides it in his suit pocket, and undoes his belt and trousers, without taking any clothes off. You come up from your laying position to support yourself with your elbows on the table, not wanting to miss how the special agent from the FBI takes his cock out to give it to you.

When he’s got it out and ready for you, he pumps it up and down a couple of times before lifting entirely your skirt and positioning himself in your entrance. He enters slowly, letting you take him all in, allowing you to accustom to his size, and for the love of him, he feels like he could explode any second. He breathes deeply and clears his mind, his ego not letting him end up looking like a teenager having his first time.

“Let me ride you” you ask after a few slow thrusts, needing more of him. He looks at you and nods.

God, what is he doing? At least you’re innocent. Are you? Right? You’ve gotta be. The profile doesn’t fit. But they’ve been wrong before haven’t they?

You exchange positions so he’s laying on the table, you get on top of him and guide his cock back into you again. You part your lips in a moan when you come down on him and begin moving your hips, his hands moving alongside them. You lower yourself without stopping so you can kiss him, rubbing your whole torso on his, your sweat making your skin slip on his skin. He grabs your breasts so he can bring them to his mouth, nibbling them.

Meanwhile, you’re wondering if this might just be another trick for you to let your guard down. But what could you say that might incriminate you? You know you’re innocent. What if he’s not even a real agent?

You’re so close that you can’t give yourself permission to sink into those thoughts, instead, you start riding Hotch faster and stronger, your clit rubbing against his pelvis as you do so.

“Aaron, Aaron…” you moan lowly. You don’t know if it’s okay that you’re on a first name basis already, but it just seems weird to you if you call him ‘Hotch’ like his colleagues.

It seems like he’s perfectly fine with it, as he digs his fingertips on your hips, encouraging you to keep going, feeling how your walls tense around him as your orgasm hits you.

You moan uncontrollably as you come, not being able to keep those in, digging your nails in Aaron’s shoulder suit sleeves. Afterwards, you lay slowly on his chest, until you start feeling like he’s pulling himself out.

“Wait” you gather and pull yourself up again, with him still inside of you “What are you doing? Don’t you wanna finish too?”

He looks at you in disbelief.

“Well I thought you may wanna rest or…” he begins explaining. You laugh and look fondly at him, lowering yourself again to murmur “don’t stop” in his ear.

Of course, he remembers. Twenties.

That’s everything he needs to start thrusting into you with everything he’s got left.

“(Y/N) I’m not-“ he tries to phrase “I’m not going to last longer, I’m- is it okay if I…?”

“Come inside me” you order “It’s okay, don’t worry, I’m on contraceptives”.

He decides to believe you, for his sake, and fastens his pace until it becomes sloppy, spilling inside of you just like you asked for, his cum filling you and showing between your folds as he brings himself out.

“Oh my god” he breathes out as he brings you down to his chest, securing his arms around your back, bringing you even closer to him “I’ll put you in handcuffs myself if it turns out you’re not innocent”.

You chuckle, tracing circles on his chest through the fabric of his shirt.

“I am. But still, you can put me in handcuffs any time you want”. He laughs alongside you, still feeling a bit like a teenager. A teenager who just did something very very wrong and that nobody should find out about. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a few seconds before his cellphone starts ringing, he answers almost immediately.

“Hotchner” he says calmly “Yes I’m still here. No, everything’s fine, she’s… behaved. Prints don’t match? Well of course they don’t, was García able to tell whose are they then? Right. Well, tell her to keep digging. I’ll see you in a bit”.

After he hangs up he turns to you with a playful look.

“You never touched the gun that was in your purse, did you?” you shake your head.

“Guns and, weapons of any type really, give me the creeps, I just left it there thinking it was someone’s idea of pranking me or something”.

“Well that may have just made your case. You’re free to go. Whoever was trying to frame you did a lousy job not guessing you weren’t going to grab the gun” he tells you arching his brows at you. You stare perplexed at him.

“You’re serious? Oh my god Aaron! Thank you!” you exclaim kissing him.

“Yes, and we should get dressed and get out of here before anything else happens” he affirms gently, helping you stand up so you both can fix your clothes.

“Well, agent Hotchner, it’s been a pleasure. Truly” you tell him when the two of you are walking out of the interrogation room towards the exit.

“Pleasure is all mine, (Y/N)” he says, winking an eye at you “I’d like you to know… I don’t usually do this. I don’t…”

“Aaron” you interrupt sweetly, one of your hands coming to grab his forearm to stop him “I know. I can tell. It’s okay. I know that if I hadn’t initiated it or followed up you would have never even considered it, I get it… but now, can we please do it again?”

He chuckles.

“You know where we’re staying and the number of my hotel room, sweetheart. And I also recall reading on some case file that you’re from Virginia and were just visiting your home town?”

You smile widely at him as you nod, pulling him in from his tie for one last kiss. Or who knows, it might not even be the last one.

MASTERLIST

[jtargaryen18]

Under His Skin ~ Chapter 2

Series Masterlist

Words: 3.9k

Pairing: Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow (Nolanverse Batman) x F Reader

Warnings: Stalking, sabotage, gaslighting, head games...

Jonathan escalates his quiet sabotage of Ares, manipulating patient records, schedules, and staff perception to undermine his authority without detection. As Ares begins to fray under the pressure, he grows increasingly distracted by Ares’s fiancée. He realizes his obsession has shifted: Ares is no longer the target—she is. Torn between eliminating her as a threat or drawing her in, he begins crafting a new strategy, seeing her not just as collateral… but as part of his design.

Disclaimer:The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

On Monday, a new nurse, fresh from orientation, was scheduled to shadow Ares during rounds. She showed up early. Too early.

Jonathan found her first. “Oh,” he said, clipboard in hand. “Rounds have been pushed to eleven. Dr. Katsaros asked me to let you know.”

She thanked him, her smile quick and tight.

He could feel her discomfort, the way her hand twitched nervously over her badge. Her body angled slightly away from him even as she stood still. It wasn't overt, but it was there. A primal instinct.

Fear, he thought, with a flicker of satisfaction. The appropriate response. That subtle unease, that instinctive recoil people carried when he got too close. It wasn’t personal, but natural. A quiet biological alarm bell, ringing under the surface. He’d spent years cultivating that edge. The way he spoke, the words he didn’t say. The way he observed without blinking too often.

It worked. It always worked. Except…

Her, his variable. Not the nurse. The fiancée. The smile-in-her-voice girl with green paint on her sleeve. He remembered the way her eyes had met his and stayed there. Curious, but unshaken. She should have felt it too, that static under the skin, the sense of wrongness people always picked up on. But she hadn’t. And that--that--wasn’t natural.

Returning to the moment, he thought of Ares, unaware the nurse arrived, waiting in the patient wing for fifteen minutes before leaving, irritated and embarrassed.

The nurse apologized to him once they found each other. Ares brushed it off, but later, Jonathan overheard him double-checking his calendar by reading it aloud. His voice was just a little too sharp.

On Tuesday, Jonathan altered a patient’s medication log by a single digit. Nothing that would cause harm, but just enough to create confusion. He submitted the paperwork for Ares’s signature, then flagged it himself a day later as a “possible discrepancy.” 

When Ares was called to clarify, he couldn’t remember authorizing the change. “I’ll look into it,” Ares said, tension easy to read in his face. “I must’ve been distracted.”

Jonathan nodded, sympathetic. “We all are, sometimes.”

He walked away as Ares rubbed his temple, confusion clouding his expression. Another clean incision with no blood.

And yet, his thoughts slid sideways.

She came by that day, as usual. Right on schedule at twelve-thirteen PM. Jonathan saw her cross the corridor, paper bag in hand. She offered a polite smile when their eyes met. But it was thin and distracted. The kind of smile people wear when their mind is already somewhere else.

She didn't stop, didn't speak. Just kept walking toward Ares’s office with her shoulders a little higher than normal, like she was bracing for something.

Jonathan stood by the file cabinet, watching her reflection in the glass. She was worried, that much was obvious. 

And the reason? Ares.

Jonathan should’ve been satisfied. He’d pushed Ares just enough off balance to spill into his personal life, and now she was feeling the ripple.

But there was something off about the way she looked past him. Like he wasn’t part of the equation. Like he was just another hallway shadow in her periphery.

She’s reacting. But not to me.

That thought settled low in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He couldn’t tell if he was pleased she was feeling it, or irritated that she hadn’t connected the feeling to him.

I orchestrated the fracture. Shouldn’t she be looking at me when it hurts?

Thursday morning was smooth. Ares arrived looking hollowed-out. His shirt wasn't pressed as usual, shadows hung behing his eyes, and yes, he used a clipped tone with the nurse who asked about the Jonas file. He kept tapping a pen against his clipboard without realizing it. Jonathan noted it.

Another clean incision. Another piece in place. 

But at twelve-thirteen PM, the hallway outside his office remained quiet. Jonathan glanced up from his notes.

Nothing.

By twelve-fifteen, the elevator still hadn’t dinged. By twelve-twenty, he found himself standing, no clear reason, and moving to the door just as another staff member passed.

No bag in her hand. No footsteps he recognized. No her. She didn’t come. She wasn't late or distracted. She wasn't there. 

He sat back down, but it wasn't the same. His pen stilled. His mind should’ve been on the afternoon reports, the next patient file he’d alter, the junior staffer he’d quietly correct.

But his thoughts circled like vultures.

Why didn’t she come? Is she sick? Busy? Angry?

No. That wasn’t the pattern.

Jonathan had watched her for weeks. She was consistent, reliable. He'd built part of the rhythm of his day around the certainty of her appearance. Not because he needed it. But because he counted on it. And now? The pattern was broken without his permission.

It shouldn't have mattered. He told himself that three times before the hour was over. But still, he opened his desk drawer and removed the envelope. Looked down at the heart-shaped pendant and broken chain resting against the bottom of it.

“You’re late,” he whispered. Then, after a beat: “Or you’re not coming back at all.”

The second thought stayed with him longer. And this time, it didn’t feel like control. It felt like lack. 

By Friday, Jonathan’s smile was the one people trusted in Arkham Asylum.

And Ares? He was still standing, still functioning. But there was a new edge in his voice when he asked for his own reports. A tightness in his smile when someone mentioned a task he didn’t remember assigning. A crease between his brows that hadn’t been there a couple of weeks ago.

Jonathan saw it all. Logged and catalogued every instance. He felt good about the progress of his plan, a perfect way to end a week. Until twelve-thirteen arrived and she didn't.

She arrived at twelve forty-seven. Thirty-four minutes behind her usual time.

Jonathan noticed the second the elevator chimed. He didn’t look up, but listened. Slower steps than normal and heavier. A pause at the security checkpoint she normally breezed through. She walked past his office without glancing inside.

No smile or polite nod. No eye contact. Just air.

She looked… off.

Her hair wasn't styled the way she normally wore it. No makeup today and boots and jeans instead of dresses with flats. Her shirt was wrinkled near the hem like she’d changed it in a hurry. She carried the paper bag, barely. More like she was holding something she forgot she picked up.

This time she didn’t wait for Ares at the door like usual. Just knocked once and stepped in.

Jonathan stared at the closed door for a long time.

She came back, but not to him.

He should’ve been relieved because the pattern was reestablishing. The interruption seemed to be resolving itself. But it wasn’t the same. She was late and different. And more than that, she didn’t look at him. Not even once.

Opening the desk drawer again, he fished out the envelope. Looked at the necklace, still curled in its place like a confession.

What changed?

Jonathan tried to focus. There were three staff meetings on his calendar. A follow-up call with administration. A patient transfer to oversee.

But all he could think about was the fact that he was practically invisible to her now. It vexed him.  

You noticed me before. Why not now?

You didn’t mean to be late.

You woke up late. The alarm didn’t go off, or maybe you’d turned it off in your sleep. You pulled on the first clean thing you could find, didn't bother with your hair. You grabbed yesterday’s paper bag lunch from the fridge, and made it halfway to Arkham before realizing you hadn’t put on makeup.

You didn’t go back. It didn’t matter. You weren’t there to look put-together. Not today.

The gallery felt different this week, like your focus was slipping, like all the colors faded. You’d snapped at one of the artists during install on Wednesday, then spent the rest of the day apologizing.

You weren't the only one having a bad week. Ares hadn't himself all week. Actually, it had been going on longer than that.

Not in a dramatic way, like he was angry or erratic. But off, in a slow, creeping, hard-to-define way that made your chest feel tight without knowing why. He forgot to call you back Monday night. Texted you 'good morning' Wednesday at 1:04 PM. Thursday, he didn’t respond to your message at all. 

You thought about not going in Friday. Just skipping the visit altogether. You'd let him catch his breath. 

But the truth was... You missed him. Or maybe you missed who he was before this week started unraveling. 

Stepping into the lobby of Arkham Asylum, you felt the building settle around you like it normally did. But it was different too, walls too thick, lighting too flat, air too still.

You passed Dr. Crane’s office without looking in, though you felt him before you saw him. There was always a cold awareness to him. It didn't feel threatening and Ares told you the man was clinical. Maybe that was it. Like he noticed everything and judged nothing.

You kept moving, knocked once on Ares’s door, and slipped inside. He smiled when he saw you. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Crazy week.”

He looked thinner somehow, drawn around the eyes. You knew he wasn't sleeping and you hadn't spent any time together this week. Whatever weight he was carrying had started to show. His smile was the same, but it felt like a mask now. One that didn’t quite fit right anymore.

“Are you okay?” you had to ask. 

He nodded. “Just tired. Too much paperwork.”

You hesitated. “I thought Dr. Crane was helping with that. Didn’t you say he’d streamlined the reporting process?”

Ares blinked, just a second too long. “Yeah,” he said. “He did. It’s just… different now. I don’t know.”

She handed him the bag. “You forgot your lunch yesterday.”

“Did I?”

He honestly didn’t remember. That wasn’t like him. Ares didn’t “I don’t know.” He solved and led. He remembered things.

You reached out and rested a hand on his arm. “Hey,” you said gently. “It’s me.”

He gave a soft smile then. He just looked so tired and defeated. And for a moment, you thought maybe he’d let the walls drop. That he’d tell you what was actually going on.

But instead, he pulled his arm away to sort through the contents of the bag you brought, like it never happened. Like you hadn’t happened.

What could you do? Your emotions were all over the place when you left his office. You could think you'd done something wrong, that maybe he was falling out of love with you. But that didn't feel right. So what was happening? He'd been Chief Administrator over Arkham for six years. He'd never had problems like this. Was the workload heavier? 

Was he ill?

You almost didn’t do it. You reached the door of Crane's office and stood there for nearly a minute, trying to come up with a reason not to knock. But logic had its limits, and you were running out of answers. Ares had been off for weeks now and it was getting worse. 

Crane was a psychology professor, his credentials exceeded Ares. He worked beside Ares every day. He had to have seen something.

So you knocked.

He looked up from his desk when you stepped in. His face was unreadable, his posture precise. Crane didn't appear surprised, like he already knew you were coming. There was something unsettling in his stillness. Maybe Ares was right. It wasn't cold exactly, but too quiet. Like he wasn’t just listening, he was recording. Those pale eyes of his didn’t connect, they calculated, as if you were something to be documented, not understood.

“Miss,” he said with a polite nod. “Is everything alright?”

No. Not even a little. "Could I ask you something?”

He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. You didn’t take it.

“I’m worried about Ares,” you said. “He’s been… different. I don’t know if it’s the stress, or the work, or something else. You see him more than I do these days. Has he said anything to you?”

Crane studied you in silence. The pause stretched too long. When he spoke, with his hands folded on the desk in front of him, he finally said. “He’s… functioning.”

You blinked. “Functioning?”

He gave a slight nod, expression unchanged. “He’s managing his responsibilities. That’s what matters, professionally.”

Professionally.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t cruelty, it wasn’t even dismissiveness. It was actually something worse. Complete detachment. Like he was describing a machine or a file. Something clinical and expendable.

He's managing his responsibilities.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and suddenly wondered what kind of man could say that without blinking when someone was falling apart right in front of him.

Your vision blurred, tears were coming on. 

No. No. You would not cry in front of this man.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, voice catching. “That’s all I needed.”

You turned before he could see your face and walked out fast, heart pounding, your breath tight in your chest like something trapped. You didn’t let go until you reached your car, didn’t breathe or blink. And then you climbed into the driver’s seat, keys forgotten in your hand, sobbing quietly into your palms. Just for a moment. Just long enough to try and pull yourself back together.

She didn’t slam the door when she left. She was too composed for that, too careful. But he could still hear her footsteps -- fast and clipped as they retreated. And then, silence.

Jonathan sat perfectly still in his chair, watching the space she’d just occupied. His fingers rested on the arm of the chair. The faintest twitch at the knuckle.

She almost cried.

He hadn’t meant for that to happen. But now that it had, he felt… disappointed. Because he wanted her tears. He didn't care about sympathy or connection. He'd wanted them because they would've meant he mattered. That she felt something, and he was the reason for it. Instead, she turned and fled before he could see what he’d done.

She broke, but she didn’t let me witness it. And that, somehow, was worse.

She'd surprised him when she came in asking about Ares. About changes she was seeing, concerns she had. It was the kind of conversation that would have most people softening, empathic. Most people would've offered comfort, reassurance, some lie designed to stabilize.

He had merely offered the truth. He’s functioning. Because it was accurate. It was both clinical and measurable.  And yet it wasn’t what she needed. That mattered more than he wanted it to.

Jonathan reached for the drawer, the envelope. The necklace was still there, almost coiled in a perfect little spiral, like a thin, golden question mark.

You almost broke.

And it wasn’t the kind of break he saw every day. This wasn’t fear nor submission. This was personal.

Jonathan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He’d accomplished what he set out to do with Ares: confusion, doubt, stress. The man was coming apart. His credibility was strained and his focus slipping. One of the biggest side effects Jonathan was now seeing was the dulling of the man's instincts.

He'd intended to push harder this week, to deepen the manipulation. Accelerate the decline. But now…

Now she was part of the equation. If Ares fell too fast, she’d turn away from him completely. But if he suffered just enough, just visibly, she'd stay concerned, connected.

Jonathan slowly opened his eyes, his gaze shifting with a newfound clarity. Ares was no longer the target of his obsession. He’d already positioned himself to take over the moment Ares finally fell. The man’s reputation, his authority, his title -- it was all within reach. But that was no longer enough. The man’s career wasn’t the only thing he wanted.

She had become the fixation. Not because she resisted him. Not because she feared him.

But because she didn’t.

She looked at him like she saw something human beneath the cold. And that he wouldn't tolerate. She made him feel real.  And now he needed to control how.

She wasn’t just an observer anymore. She was part of the system now, inside it, unknowingly entangled in the very design he’d built to break someone else.

This time, he wasn’t going to let the variable walk away.

She was sitting under a tree when he saw her again, now in their senior year of high school. 

Jonathan had cut across campus to avoid a cluster of students outside the back of the building. It was warmer than usual for late October. The leaves hadn’t finished falling yet.

She was reading. That same girl, still perfectly still. Her hair was a braid down her back. Paint smudged the sleeve of her cardigan. She always smelled faintly of turpentine and citrus, he remembered that clearly. He remembered everything.

He didn’t speak to her. He stood behind a tree at the edge of the path, out of view. Watched her tuck her feet beneath her and tilt her head when she turned a page. There were headphones in her lap, but she wasn’t using them. Just… listening to the world. Present.

She didn’t look around and didn't scan for threats. She never acted like someone who’d ever looked at the world through fear.

How?

He hadn’t spoken to her in nearly four years. They hadn’t shared a class since middle school chemistry. But he remembered the way she made him feel, the absence of rejection. The weightless calm of being seen without being dissected. It had never happened before. It hadn’t happened since.

Jonathan watched her for twelve minutes and forty-two seconds. Then she laughed. Not loudly or theatrically. Just a single breath of sound, hidden behind the book’s spine.

And that was the moment he knew.

She was the only one who who sees me… without shrinking. And I need to understand why.

Jonathan didn’t work the rest of the afternoon. Oh, he looked busy. There were papers stacked neatly, notes scribbled with precision, reports reviewed and re-sorted. But none of it registered and not a single bit of it mattered.

She’d walked out of his office on the edge of tears, and he didn’t like it. Not because he cared, he didn’t. Not in the way people meant when they said it. He wasn’t moved by emotion. He didn’t comfort and he didn’t feel in the ordinary sense.

But he felt... cheated. She'd almost broken. And he hadn’t been able to observe the result. She had the audacity to hold it together just long enough to escape him. To keep that vulnerability to herself. There'd been no opportunity to see them, analyze anything. It that bothered him more than he expected.

Her distress had stayed with him longer than he expected. Tugged at something unclassified.

You almost cried. And it was because of me. Because I gave you nothing at all.

The envelope with her necklace still laid on his desk and he fished the broken chain and pendant out. The gold heart caught the light from his lamp, glinting like it remembered her skin. He turned it over once between his fingers. Then again before setting it down.

She was supposed to look at me. Not break in front of me and disappear. Not walk away like I wasn’t even part of the story.

Jonathan needed her to return to the narrative. Not as a spectator but a full participant.

Ares was serving his purpose. The doubt was seeded, the staff had started whispering. But if the man collapsed too soon, she’d pull away completely and distance herself from the fallout.

Jonathan couldn’t risk that. He needed to stabilize. Briefly. Ares needed to appear to recover. Just long enough for her to relax, let her guard down. To need a tether.

And Jonathan would be that tether. Or...

He stood and crossed to the cabinet by the window. Inside, behind folders and staff files, he pulled out a second binder. This one labeled with a single, bold word: ADMINISTRATIVE. He flipped to the page marked “Succession Protocol.” 

Chief Administrator must display psychological stability, leadership continuity, and staff confidence.

Jonathan smiled faintly. He already had two of the three. The third was a matter of time. But Arkham didn’t need a leader. It needed an architect. It’s structure was designed to contain madness…By people who don’t understand it. They catalog symptoms. He understands causes. They sedate. He cures. 

Becoming Chief Administrator wasn’t about prestige or politics. It was about environmental control. Turning Arkham into a space where his methodology, the exploration of fear, the dismantling of illusion, the transformation of identity, could thrive without restriction.

His research had cost him everything once. Administering his fear compound on live human subjects had gotten him dismissed from the university. Labeled unethical and dangerous. They called it a breach of protocol.

He called it progress.

Arkham wasn’t just a facility. It was freedom. A closed system with a captive audience. A place where fear could be weaponized and studied without interference. This time with no board or oversight. No leash. Here, he could build the perfect test bed for his work -- and the perfect mask to carry it out.

I don’t want to work for Arkham. I want Arkham to become what I am.

And she didn’t fit into that vision. She wasn’t like the others -- staff who played by rules, patients he could study, administrators who feared liability more than truth. She was the unpredictable wild card. Unafraid. Worse, she felt things deeply, loved too hard, trusted too easily. Even now.

She wasn't in the system, but she moved through it, untouched by its weight. And somehow, that gives her power I can’t quantify.

That made her a threat. Because when Ares fell, and it was only a matter of time, she could still remain. Asking questions. Looking way too closely at the fractures he so carefully crafted. If she started pulling at the seams, the illusion would tear. And this only worked if everyone believed it happened on its own.

Her grief could raise suspicious. Her insights could make her dangerous to his plans. Her presence alone could slow down what Arkham needed to become.

Arkham must reflect me. And she? She reflects something else entirely. Warmth. Memory. Balance. The last human thread.

He didn’t know whether to erase that…Or claim it. Jonathan had two options. 

Erase her and remove the variable. That eliminated the unpredictability. It was clean and logical.

Or he could claim her as he was claiming her fiance's career. Draw her closer, control the outcome, and let her grief fold into something he could shape.

Erasing her protected his plan. Claiming her made it personal. She didn’t fit into his vision either way.

But he wasn’t ready to lose her either.

His decision was made. Returning to his chair, he took a seat and reached for a blank form. Not for a patient record or a report, but a plain piece of paper. At the top, he wrote her name -- Observation/Engagement Strategy

Below it, in his best handwriting, he outlined the plan:

Minimize visible stressors on Ares -- 10-day stabilization period

1. Introduce neutral conversation with subject (off-premises recommended)

2. Identify shared emotional language

3. Establish controlled emotional connection

4. Observe: grief response, protectiveness, trust tendency

5. Adjust role in narrative accordingly

At the bottom of the page, he paused. Then added one last line.

What would it take for her to trust me?

[junktastic]

I had a drawing months back that went kinda viral I guess, and it getting out of my normal sphere of followers meant that I got to observe how folks far outside of my twitter sphere interact with twitter and others. For reference, I am talking about this image:

The context, besides getting to draw my friend Jenny, was that I saw a picture that was of an anime girl that said "lets be in our early 30s together" and I was like "haha, I will make my own version of this." Part of it was also that I think aging is fine, and we need to stop stressing so much over staying young. "Lets be in our mid-thirties together" is not a joke, I sincerely wanted this image to be warm and inviting, to maybe give people hope that there will be friends and people who love you once you get to that age. I never thought I was going to make it to 30, and I just turned 35 this year, and I'm the happiest I've ever been.

Some responses were obviously teens/early 20s people saying they don't want to get that old, which is whatever. When you're that young the dirty thirty sounds so ugly. No one cool is in their 30s! Well, if you ignore the people who make all the things they like. These responses I waved these off.

I saw the typical twitter experience replies of "this doesn't apply to me?" Ok bitch! Go make your own like I did! And show me when you do, I'd love to see it!

There was a handful of people who were saying "retweet to scare a twink" which I felt was kind of rude. Not to me, but to the twinks out there. Aging doesn't make you less of a twink.

Lots of people were sending it to their significant others or saying they hope to find someone to be in their mid-thirties with, which I love. :3 It makes me happy!

The one kind of response which is what I made this post for and I'm so sorry that I've been rambling, that I found weird was the people who will reply to just you. The OP. As if they are replying to everyone in the thread. I'm not talking about in QRTs, just straight in the replies. "Don't forget how tired she looks in this." Brother I drew the picture. I know. And ever since then I feel like, as someone who loves to read the replies on other people's tweets, I notice this a lot more often. Who are they talking to? Is this what people are referring to when they say "Main Character Syndrome?" Or should I be lumping these together with the "why isn't this about my exact personal life situation" people?

My fiancé says I'm thinking about this too hard (I got engaged last month btw), and he's probably right. I can't help but be curious about how other people choose to interact with the internet and images and people on it. And, I guess, am I supposed to reply? How should I feel about these. I guess I have to decide that on my own.

For the record, you are all very normal/understandable when it comes to what you guys tag my stuff with. That you love the girls (same!), that they're very gender (love this), or wow is this [insert fetish](not my intention but that's the internet). I feel like the slime girls get the "gender" comment the most and you are all so right for that. Every time I see people reblog my ocs I think "Thank you for loving [name]."

That's all! This was a pointless post but I'm unemployed right now so I have too much time to overthink things for no reason. How do YOU feel about how people interact with your posts? Are they weird? Or are they normal about it.

[hades-in-bloom]

‘Till Death Do Us Part, Pt. 1

Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

summary: Leon is late to his own wedding, albeit he seems to have a solid excuse. Sequel

contents & warnings: assumed older Leon, assumed age gap, no mentions of y/n, a tad of angst, everything’s about Leon, the Redfield siblings stepping in, reader’s POV

a/n: there’ll be plenty of Leon himself in the follow up, i pinky promise; as always, barely proofread, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

***

When the Redfields barge into your room uninvited, you immediately think of the worst.

“Where is he?” you jump out of your chair, dragging a hem of your wedding dress with you towards the siblings. Your patience is wearing thin before Chris takes a deep breath, and Claire speaks up. You can imagine these two play rock-paper-scissor behind the door on who is going to be a bearer of the bad news, although right now you are not sure who wins at the end.

“He is late,” Claire’s gaze pleads you to stay calm. She has way too much faith, though, and she definitely asks too much of you, when Leon is late to his own wedding; and as the Redfields are here, you are convinced that things are a tad more serious than your fiancé being stuck in one of New York’s terrible traffic jams.

Somehow Chris reads your mind.

“He is going to be here soon,” Redfield vows, although you don’t think that he is in a position to. Leon S. Kennedy should’ve been the only man to vow anything to you today.

“Where is he?” you ask again, this time with a specific accent at beginning of the sentence, and the more you eye both Claire and Chris with a searching glance the heavier the air. Claire gives her brother a dirty look, and only then Chris admits:

“Leon was called to work last night,” Redfield confesses. You blink once, feeling sick. This would mean that last night Leon lied to you. Chris seems to notice your thought process again. “He didn’t want to worry you. He was supposed to be quick.”

“He was supposed to be at his bachelor’s party,” you object. You can’t blame Chris for Leon’s assignment, but right now you have to blame someone. Redfield understands.

Claire makes a step forward, touching your shoulder, and then hugs you. You freeze for a second, but then hug her back, and Claire holds you tight.

There is still hope that he shows up. Sooner or later, and better late than never. Observing Leon for the past months, you are afraid of “never” being a real possibility even without his stupid job intervening. After all, he didn’t have a great track record of committed relationships, and he wasn’t himself since you’ve started talking about your engagement.

You pull away from Redfield after some time and take a deep breath, collecting yourself.

“He is worth the wait,” Claire says gently, and you show her a weak, but sincere smile in reply.

“He is,” you mumble. He is worth it indeed. This man is a walking problem, but you care about him too much to give up on him that easily. Also, he is lucky to be pretty.

So you ask the Redfield siblings for a favour, – to take care of the guests, – and you wait.

You just need him to get back to you alive. The rest is easy, no matter how hard the conversation is going to be.

***

Your wedding banquet is sacrificed in an attempt to make it up to the people who showed up for the wedding that has never happened. Leon is not just late – he is too late at this point, and your faith is running thin. Also, you are painfully sober for the sake of staying sane by the time he’s back.

He has to get back.

Chris, on the other hand, is a half way into the bottle of whiskey, although, considering his constitution, he needs a lot more alcohol to get drunk. You think that you’ve made a right decision sending him to entertain the guests.

Later you take it as a bad omen when Redfield approaches you with a concerned look at his face.

“His operator says that he’s off the grid,” Chris sees your confusion. He is quick to explain. “Leon isn’t responding.”

Redfield doesn’t like how your eyes widen, and he adds in the last detail; the one he would pay a pretty penny for not to say it out loud at your wedding.

“He was declared missing ten minutes ago,” Chris places his wide palm on your shoulder, but you resent his pity. “I am so sorry.”

You don’t respond, and it takes you a moment to decide on the course of your actions.

You attract everyone’s attention with the loud clink of an exquisitely looking silver knife on a thin champagne glass.

Then your voice breaks for the first time.

“The wedding is cancelled.”

[evil-duchess]

Fanfiction about Ciel and Lizzy

By me

A Moonlit Dance: A Ciel and Lizzy Romance✨🌑

---

The moon cast a silvery glow over the grand estate of the Phantomhive manor, its light filtering through the tall, arched windows of the ballroom. Inside, the room was empty save for two figures, a young man and a woman, standing at the center. Ciel Phantomhive, the Earl of the manor, with his distinctive eyepatch and reserved demeanor, and his fiancée, Elizabeth "Lizzy" Midford, whose bright spirit and determination shone through her every movement.

The day had been long and filled with the usual duties and business that weighed heavily on Ciel's shoulders. But tonight, Sebastian, his ever-faithful butler, had managed to carve out a small window of peace for the young Earl and his fiancée.

Lizzy, sensing Ciel's weariness, had suggested a dance to lift his spirits. Ciel, reluctant at first, couldn't deny the hopeful glint in Lizzy's eyes. With a sigh that turned into a soft smile, he extended his hand to her.

"May I have this dance, my lady?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Lizzy's face lit up with joy, and she placed her hand in his. "I thought you'd never ask, Ciel."

Sebastian, ever the discreet observer, positioned himself by the phonograph and started the record. A sweet, melodic waltz filled the room, its notes echoing through the high ceilings.

As the music played, Ciel and Lizzy moved in harmony, their steps perfectly in sync. Ciel, though not a natural dancer, found himself guided by Lizzy's enthusiasm and grace. She led him effortlessly, her laughter a soothing balm to his troubled mind.

"You know, Ciel," Lizzy said softly as they twirled, "you don't always have to be so serious. It's okay to find joy in the little things."

Ciel looked down at her, his expression softening. "I suppose you're right, Lizzy. I just… it's difficult sometimes."

"I know," she replied, her voice filled with understanding. "But I'm here with you, always. And I want to see you smile more."

As the music swelled, Lizzy spun away from Ciel, her dress fanning out around her. She laughed, the sound like a tinkling bell, and Ciel couldn't help but be drawn to her. He pulled her back into his arms, closer this time, their faces just inches apart.

Thank you, Lizzy," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "For being my light in the darkness."

Lizzy's eyes sparkled with unshed tears, touched by his rare display of vulnerability. "And thank you, Ciel, for letting me in."

The waltz continued, and for a moment, it felt as if time itself had paused. There were no burdens, no duties, no expectations. Just the two of them, lost in each other's eyes, moving as one under the moon's gentle gaze.

As the final notes of the waltz faded into silence, Ciel leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to Lizzy's forehead. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, feeling the warmth of his affection.

"I love you, Ciel," she whispered.

"I love you too, Lizzy," he replied, his voice filled with a quiet conviction.

In the moonlit ballroom, surrounded by the echoes of their dance, Ciel and Lizzy stood together, their hearts beating in perfect harmony, bound by love and the promise of a future shared.

Goodnight, and may your dreams be filled with romance and moonlit dances.💤🎆